Journey so far

Posted in Uncategorized on March 11, 2017 by roseash20

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post. What was I doing? Even I don’t know. I was lost in smoke, in novels, in love, crazy about life, to be precise. Now, it no longer matters. I have left that world and gearing to be a part of the workforce. How how beautiful it all used to be when I was young and my only problem was to find love in my life. 
Today, I am very different and also disappointed. With myself. I should have left the dream world earlier. There was no one to stop me. Am I suffering now? No, no. I am doing okay. This is only because I want to do okay, I want to be fine. And if this shitty place is world, then I will conquer your shitty place also. Because survival is my destiny. 



Posted in Uncategorized on September 24, 2012 by roseash20

Dear Reader,

I have constantly thought about the question of being nothing. What is nothingness after all? Does it exist? Is it real? Is it imaginary? Do not be intrigued, my dear reader. These are mere rhetorical questions which you need not answer. I do not expect you to answer them since I do not know you. I do not know how you eat, how you drink, how you talk and most importantly, how you think. But I can tell you how I think. Am I in a privileged position then> Yes, in a way. But no; since I am shouldering an unsaid responsibility to help you become better acquainted with my words and their effect on your mind and heart.

I fully understand that you might not like what I have written till now. I think it is scary. Questions are scary when we do not have an answer to silence and conquer the questioner. But, my only intention was not to confuse you or baffle you or scare you. I only want you as my dear reader and I blindly trust you regarding that matter.

Now, let us overcome the boundaries between us. I would like you to become a part of one of my million experiences. As the first paragraph implicitly indicates, this experience is about nothingness. The only way to truly become a part of my experience is to enter into that particular channel of perspective in my mind through which I saw the event that just happened to me. You are right, I am writing with my hopeless pen on a soiled paper full of paint marks with painted fingers. I assume, as I believe in the intellect of my Reader and I can challenge any one who thinks otherwise, that the Reader would have by now guessed that the event and its experience that I am talking about is the exercise of painting. I know you have already realised that I have left my painting mid-way to write what I have to tell you. I am suddenly reminded that I did exactly this when I was younger. I left my interest in painting mid-way to realise my bigger interest of writing. Anyways, it does not matter and I should revert back to my main topic.

Reader, straighten your right arm in your mind. Trust me. Do what I say. It is the best way to realise the extent of my experience and its following horror. Straighten your right arm and reach out for that camel-hair paint brush lying on the old table. Hold it with your tiny beautiful fingers. Bend your arm a little and allow your brush to fall into that red round repulsive receptacle filled
with plain water lying on that same old table. Pick up the brush slowly and carefully. Beware of those little droplets of water that made their way on the brush stick when it splashed into that same cold callous conjuring container. Water is sticky. Why will you want your sweet small splendid fingers to get sticked with water?

Now, do you see that open yellow color bottle lying nearby? Yes, you got it right. That yellow bottle. Now Reader, move your hand a little and put the paintbrush into that bottle. Allow the brush to swallow some yellow paint in its hair. Take it out now. Do you not think that the color is too thick and you need to dilute it? Just dip the camel hair of the paintbrush a little into the water container.

Reader, I did exactly in real what you did in your mind. I do not know about you, but imagine my horror when I saw how the yellow paint moved from the brush hair to form a small irregular circular layer on the water surface. Imagine my horror when that layer in due course of time melted itself into the water of that container. My thick paint reduced to being a layer. My layer then dissolved into oblivion. Everything suddenly became nothing.

Tell me Reader, is this not the perfect feeling of nothingness? Does this not mean being reduced to nothingness? Reader, do you also think that I am mad? Whatever may your opinion be, I remain,

Your obedient Servant.
The Writer


On Rivers

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on January 3, 2012 by roseash20

I have been trying so hard to find the correct words to describe to you, Dear Reader, about the way sparkling water makes its way through the brown earth. People say I am a creative writer but I fail so bad to depict the way miraculous and rhythmically noisy water cleaves the brown earth into two parts. Hence, there must be some truth when they say that you cannot be accurate about something you have not experienced and I have never seen a natural river. So, my image of an aesthetic far off place lying at the foothills of some enormous mountain, completely devoid of human contact could be surreal and phantasmagoric. The vision of a highly titillating river, victimized by the lush weeds on its banks, is thus dreamlike since I have not seen it with my own eyes. Therefore Reader, you must understand how desperate I am to see flowing rivers. It is highly possible that on seeing a river some day it might fail to impress me. My ideal and the realistic image might not match. The cruel moment might itself take away its importance by reminding me of various painful personal everyday encounters. I am extremely delightful that this thought might have entered the illuminated minds of my mute audience. But tell me, Dear Reader, will not this urge to see always remain specifically special to me? Will not I always cherish and nurture my great desire? I hope that you agree because I particularly live for this urge.

When I cut myself one day, I saw how the blood easily filled the gap made by my piece of glass on my brown skin. It was titillating to observe the sparkling blood just rush miraculously in its own noisy way to fill the cleft I made with the glass piece on my arm. This indeed was wish fulfillment. I applaud the intelligent minds again. Yes Reader, I finally saw my natural river.

Note :- The italicized words are emphasized. The readers might follow these while reading.

Another segment of thoughts

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on January 1, 2012 by roseash20

Life is a masquerade night. You wear a mask all the time and keep on
changing it as well. Bright yellow, violent blue, sparkly red, dusty
brown, lustful black; they are all there. But what happens when the
simple string of the mask starts hurting your skin? Remove it and you
find yourself all alone.
The day you stop following the rules; solitude becomes your lover. The
world either condemns you or leaves you alone to brood in your place.
You may go crazy understanding the departure of fake friends and
loveless lovers. But time, the great god, makes you come into an
agreement with it. Solitude enters your skin. And you reach a stage
when you embrace it totally.
How can words express this state of mind? How can words express the
dialectics of solitude? How can you convince that in this world full
of people you really have no one to call? It feels like being a lonely
fish. Small, tender but outcaste.

The end pages

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on December 25, 2011 by roseash20


At the end of this novel, my dear author has left some blank pages. I think he wants me to write. I stare at one such blank page, as blank as my mind at times. I wonder if a blank page can ever be filled.

If it can be filled, won’t the overflowing thoughts ruin the page itself and steal its thunder and profoundness?

Can a blank page ever be filled? Though I say it is full and over and no space is left but dear reader, what about those spaces between the lines, between two adjacent words and between the alphabets of every written word?

Aren’t those seemingly small spaces the most difficult to be filled?


Instances of Thoughts : Episode 2

Posted in Uncategorized on December 25, 2011 by roseash20

Episode 2



It seems as if this sari will never end just like the perennial fountains. Gather up courage, little girl. Quickly drink your valueless tears and move on. Take one edge of the sari, no not the upper end border side, the other lower end side. Measure the width of the sari according to your height and tuck in the rest inside your underskirt. Do it somewhat near the right of the navel. Be sure the underskirt is tight around your waist. The threads might hurt and leave the skin of your waist crinkled and brutally marked, but do not care about it. Then take the rest of the sari around yourself once. Now, make 7 pleats, each of equal width. Draw the pleats together and neatly tuck them in. The pleats should be even and straight. Now drape the remaining sari around yourself once more covering your hips and bringing the fabric to the front in this process. Now raise the sari under the right arm and over the left shoulder making an elegant pallu. And I am ready. Today, I won’t do any make up. No, it would be just my plain pale self. There is a bindi stuck to the mirror. I’d just pull it out and stick it in the middle of my forehead, between the eyebrows. I’d just comb my hair and let them loose tonight. Where is the comb? Oh yes, here it is. Now, I am going to swiftly do my hair! And yes, I am done! Dear Husband, what do you think now? I can pull off a sari too. You better keep your hateful gaze to yourself and shower me with praises to get some action later tonight. Now, I can flaunt my pretty self much to your disdain. Little vanity will not hurt me. You route my thoughts to such a disgusting alley where I had never ever thought of treading.



My lady is suddenly absorbed in her thoughts and actions. That is quite unbecoming of her, but it is a welcome change. There is something about her ordinary yet glittery eyes. What is making them sparkle? Is it this faint powerful light or is it a mirror to her inner self? She works on her sari with her tender hands. Her fingers are completely veiled by the sari’s fabric, hiding all except the knuckles. She tucks the upper edge of her sari inside her petticoat. As she is doing the sari, her hands suddenly block her navel from my sight. Oh dear! Take away those hands and reveal what I want to see. Don’t be too tight with the petticoat’s thread. I don’t like marks on your body, especially your waist. My girl, heedless to my silent prayers, goes on working with her pleats. One, two, three… Ah! She makes seven! Why seven? Is she reminding me of the night we moved around the holy fire seven times? Is this mockery or is this a false commitment? She adjusts her pleats with grace. She has adjusted in my life too but that was not gracefully done. All those fighting nights are a testimony to that. Now, she drapes around the sari another time around her and ends up with a beautiful pallu. I don’t think she’d do make up tonight. It’d be her plain pale self. But that is great for me. Who likes unnatural faces? Reality fearers cover themselves with white powder. That is not my taste. She puts on her red bindi. These stickers are such a menace! She puts them up anywhere! Sometimes they are on the mirror, sometimes the bathroom walls and sometimes on the bedside table. Now, she is doing her hair. She looks lovely with loose hair. She does. Should I tell her so? Will she reward my praise in bed later at night?



I doodled on this green page. It is ink green. So, my graphite doodle is not much visible. In addition to this tragedy are the marked horizontal lines running from east to west on this page. My doodle lies all marked, brutally slaughtered by these ink black parallels of latitude just the way the sun’s rays are intercepted by the man-made imaginary parallels of latitude on the earth. They say these lines help to locate your position. Can they help me out to locate the position of my inner spirit or am I mixing man and nature in my vanity and for just an article? My doodle is a small flower. I gave beautiful curves to its petals, to its stem and to its leaves. I did not draw the roots. I am unaware of my roots. Hence who the fuck am I to give roots to this flower? I admire my flower with an exhaled breath, a sigh. I am overwhelmed. I rush to the washroom with my flower. I block the draining holes of the bathroom sink with a huge sponge and let the tap run till the water collects to the brim. I dip this ink green sheet in the sink. I wait impatiently for sixty seconds. But holy fuck! My flower does not grow! Then I pull out this wet sheet from the sink and rush to my balcony. I allow the blowing air to give wind to my flower. I wait for one hundred and twenty seconds this time. The sheet’s water stains my right foot and my hands in the meantime. But holy fuck! My flower fails to grow again! Yes sir, I gave it water. Yes sir, I gave it air. Indeed sir, I gave it love. But this fucker does not grow! Is there anyone to account for my worthy efforts? Would my flower never grow, just like love in a marriage?


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Instances of Thoughts : Episode 1

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on December 25, 2011 by roseash20

Episode 1



It is getting so late. Sitting in his comfortable chair, my husband is staring at me with an irritated eye. I am still in my blouse and underskirt in front of the mirror. The underskirt got a bit stained one night. I am sure it will not be visible after draping the sari. It is 10.00 p.m. already and I don’t know how to wear this sari! It is such a messy business. Oh mother, why didn’t you teach me? You could have, you should have. This sari is so lovely and pretty. In fact, it is too beautiful to be worn by someone as plain as I am. I remember the day when I bought it. The body of the sari is made up of beguiling red brocade fabric. It is shuttle-woven and richly decorated with Victorian motifs made of golden silk threads. The black border is intricately hand-woven with pregnant golden flowers. I could not take my eyes off it when I saw it the first time in that dusty shop of bygone era. My husband laughed at me for buying this ‘old fashioned thing.’ Nevertheless, I smiled and promised myself to wear it someday with panache. Today is that day. But now, I am totally lost! How do I go about it? I look at myself in the mirror. Can I wear it? Do I want to wear it? Do I have to wear it? And would more blood be spilled if I fail to do so?



I stare at my wife. Right now she is standing in front of the mirror, in her blouse and underskirt. Her blouse is as lovely as her bosom. Its sleeves reach her elbow. I can see her dainty dusky hands emerging out of the sleeves. Her fingers are absolutely intermingled in her sari as they are in my hair, on good days. What type of pervert can wear this drastically old fashioned thing at a party? But there she is, worried and preoccupied in her thoughts, since she does not even know how to wear this correctly. Her petticoat is a bit stained. The lower part is blotted by blood at certain places. Why did she wear this filth? This psycho is taunting me for the first night I made her bleed. But the very act is bloody when it is done the first time. So, how can I be blamed for the act that everyone does. She was reluctant, I know that, but I am the righteous husband. My will shall prevail, at least in those matters! My dusky is beautiful but not smart. We are getting so late. Now, I have to hear things because of her. Since the day we got married, she has made a lot of mistakes. And who has to still vouch for her, in spite of those horrific murderous mistakes? Her wheedled husband, me! Now, should I urge her to be quick? Would she take that kindly or retort with a bloody snarl?




Nights are e’er long and lucrative, just like this Sobranie. The feather touch of this winged yet silent smoke instills my heart with a simpleness of a loving nature. I wonder about marriages. But my thoughts are bedimmed. What can a bachelor say about marriage? Is it an oath or a performance? Would four walls sealed with a lock unlock to become the universe, when a woman and a man are brought together inside them? Would it to lead to love or hate, if we lose the key to the walls forever? Or does there exist a diabolic way out of this complexity? I do not know, but I am intrigued. The man and the woman are as common as living air. They lack the distinctive dimensions just like the animated air. Love, marriage, hate; everything is ordinary and artless here. This is no scientific theory to save the masses, no social work to help the masses and no theory of living to educate the masses. Indeed they are amongst the masses, but do they define the masses? They are just a married couple facing their problems just like everybody else. The woman still wears the sari and the man remains raring. So, do I need to watch them? Do I really need to understand them? I can try but would that be of any use? Tolerant people would get a brilliant or sickening piece of article to read, but what would I get, except losing my peace of mind?


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