The Incomplete Bridge

The little girl stood on her platform with a small earthen lamp in her hands. The Aatman. It fit into her tiny cupped palms perfectly and emitted a feeble flame. She wore a shift that had once been bright yellow in colour, but was now ragged with burn marks and streaking dirt. She was barefoot. Her eyes were compelling, shining, darkness, the exact shade of a moonlit night, rounded and tilted at the corners. Those unforgettable eyes were also deeply and sadly adult. With her pointed ears and frail frame, they gave her shades of an elven ancestry.

Her shoulders were hunched as if carrying a great weight and she held the Aatman close to her body so it wouldn't die out in the relentless wind.

She faced the path ahead with more than a little trepidation. She had been standing there apprehensively for a while now, gingerly shifting from foot to foot, slowly gathering courage to make the walk across.

The frail silver bridge stretched out in front of her. It looked about as secure as a cobweb, as glowingly intricate as a filigree necklace spun from stalactites. It faded into nothingness just a few feet ahead of her. But she knew it was much longer than it appeared. It had to be.

She shuddered when she thought of the alternative. Her eyes focused onto the sides of the bridge where endless darkness stretched its hands out to her. It looked like nothing at first sight. Just black. But then the hands crept into the eyes. Impersonal hands, seeking, menacing, frightening, grasping, tearing, moaning, hungry, imploring hands. Insinuating fingers of disease in the mind.

First came the physical oppression. The heaviness that seemed to press into her like a crushing pile driver, from every direction, hunching her thin shoulders over the tiny Aatman she was protecting. After that came the depression, a sweeping sadness that sucked in every happy thought with a satisfied burp and begged for more. Third came the unbearable stench.

The darkness had a smell. An overpowering stench of hate and bone deep disease that rotted flesh and bred vultures. The smell of a dead animal left around for too long. The advancing decomposition that was beyond death.. The decay that was the closest stage back to the elements in the cycle of life. Centuries of grief stricken madness slavered there, carefully salvaged into a ghastly parody parade. It smelled of longing and an unquenchable sadness, from a place that had never seen love in any of its myriad forms. It beckoned to her, the darkness

Give ...in ... Give ... up ... Give ... it ... up ... give... give ...

She stared frightened, entranced, as they whispered in her ear, chanting, enchanting. She extended her palms out together slowly, in unconscious obedience of the voice, even as her nose wrinkled involuntarily at the scent. The scent of everlasting carrion. It seemed to expand into her, until it would become the only smell she would ever know. It would become the smell of normal.

The voices whispered on, relentless, hypnotic, hopeful...

Give ...in ... Give ... up ... Give ... it ... up ... give... give ...

She was about to fling the pitiful Aatman at the void when other noises joined the darkness. Other hands. That waved her away desperately

Walk away little girl. Only death lies here. Walk ... away... Walk ... away

Her trance broke abruptly and she blinked, searching for the other voices. Perhaps she could help them. The darkness leered back at her unabated, reaching out hands that looked like helping hands, only their palms did not supplicate, but curled into faintly clawed talons of a desolate evil that deluded itself, an evil that defeated itself

The little girl shrank back as the hands came towards her, turned and started walking blindly across the bridge. Her hands clutched the Aatman as close as she dared without burning herself.

Her eyes that had slowly become accustomed to the darkened scenes that preyed on either side of the bridge, now focused on the bridge itself with a burning concentration, blissfully blinded by the silvery light that led nowhere. But she could not afford to be afraid of the incomplete bridge any longer. The darkness laved too close for comfort. The bridge had to lead somewhere, she repeated to herself, after all it was suspended...

Was it her imagination or did the oppression recede slightly as she set foot on the bridge?

And the voices grew louder. Heartrending cries of guilt and pain flooded her mind. Envy and hatred. A marrow deep sadness that had never seen the light of day. Never hoped to. Never wanted to. The little girl's eyes prickled with involuntary tears as her heart tried to comprehend the magnitude of the pain that flowed there. But she looked ahead steadily all the same. She could see no bridge inside the darkness. No bridge away. No way out. Just an unending abyss. A sorrowful cul-de-sac.

Her first step on the bridge felt of cool metal, untouched, uncaring, but rock steady. Perhaps it would hold after all. As she set her other foot on it, it sagged, and she pitched forward crazily. From the darkness, the voices and hands went berserk with joy,

Please ... Please... Please ... Fall ...Please ... Please ... Give ... Give ...

The voices came alive with elation and the hands grasped, closer and closer, swishing coldly against her heels. Sheer fright made her regain her balance with a few hasty steps forward, and she clutched the Aatman to her chest now, regardless of its scorching heat.

The darkness receded sulkily. She understood now. While it could beg and plead and charm and urge, it couldn’t snatch the puny lamp away from her by force. She extended the Aatman towards the seeking dark hands experimentally, wraithed hands reached out to take it, but stopped short of snatching it out of her hands,

Give ...in ... Give ... up ... Give ... it ... up ... give... give ...

The Aatman glowed peacefully in her palms, callous and unaffected by the blowing winds, the twisting bridge, the beseeching hands. It burned small but remarkably steady in her hands, that sweated and had started a relentless trembling now, under the strain. The voices never stopped chanting to her. A relentless monotone that waited and watched with a frightening optimism.

She turned to look back at the way she had come. The beginning of the bridge had disappeared. She was now suspended on a silver walkway with no visible beginning or end. Immersed in a tiny pocket of reality shrouded in vacuum from all sides. Where time and space shrunk to senseless in the enormity of the emptiness around. She felt very small, helpless and utterly alone.

A new voice now joined the cries from the darkness, extending its hand encouragingly. A deep familiar voice.

Come, darling ... don’t be afraid ... let me help you

She dropped to her knees in wonder and hope, straining into the darkness ...

Appa?

There was a faint cackle, quickly stifled. The deep disembodied voice, spoke again

I will fulfill your every wish, my darling

Her eyes filled with tears

I’m coming Appa

Give ... in ... my ... little ... one... for ... your ... own ... good

She stared in hypnotic fascination as the hand drew closer to hers. It had changed again, from the extended palm, into the hooked grasping claw. The smell grew unbearable and her body heaved and retched involuntarily. Her vomit made no impact on the void, it ceased to exist, the minute it crossed the bridge. Inexplicable unease moved her a step away from the beckoning hand. Would she cease to exist too, if she touched the hand?

Propelled by a suddenly callous iron instinct, she pulled her hand away and screwed her eyes in a vain attempt to shut out the guilt and pain the voices evoked.

The bridge swung again, as if stretched and rocked by unseen hands. The world blurred in front of the girl, and she felt the motion and the smell in her every cell, swelling forth a wave of nausea. She tilted her head in slow motion to try and see it right again. She was no longer sure which way she had been heading. Panic rose in her suddenly dry throat, and she tried to swallow it down, her eyes darted around desperately for some clue, some sign, some way out, any way, even the one she had come...

The Aatman burned on, unconcerned. The icy hands in the darkness prodded intrusive columns through the bridge’s lattice even as they pleaded in their grotesque parody of submission.

The little girl shuddered in revulsion and dragged herself on tiredly. Her head twisted around in a vain attempt to decipher which way she had been heading. She had stopped caring why she was on the bridge in the first place, and merely prayed for deliverance. The apathy of exhaustion shook and drained her.

In a last desperate stand, she gripped the Aatman tight with burnt fingers and ran ahead full tilt. She stumbled and slipped almost immediately and one leg slipped through the lattice of the bridge. She swung there at an odd angle, able to do nothing but hold on for dear life. Icy fingers slowly crept up around her ankle in melancholy menace, slowly, more imagined than felt, caressingly

Come ... darling ... you’re ... home ... now

She screamed in sheer terror, a keening desperate sound, pulled her leg up with the remaining shreds of her strength and ran on.

At some point, she realized there was no longer cold metal lattice underfoot, but sand, soft and grainy, full and yielding. The smell had receded into a balmy breeze. She stop abruptly and looked back and just like that, the bridge was crossed. She was ashore. And in the right direction, by some miracle. She looked back at the whirlpool of eternal sorrow.

It cried and flung curses, like a thousand mad women torn apart by grief. The little girl returned to the edge of the incomplete bridge, drew her right hand back, and in one smooth motion, flung the Aatman at the waiting recriminating hands

She then turned and ran away from the bridge. Behind her the voices shrieked in the ecstatic crescendo of their own destruction. She did not look back. After a few minutes, her heartbeat slowed down to a walk and then a carefree skip. She began to hum a happy tune, as the Aatman reappeared in her cupped palms.

From Rammstein’s Spring (again), with shades (no pun intended :D) of Robert Jordan’s Shadar Logoth

My website

Fokes, due to an acute clinical joblessness condition, I am trying to organize all my blogs at the following location

http://sincadinna.pinkpaper.info/

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Please visit and leave your thoughts/ ruminations/ shopping lists and give me any ideas u always thought would be cool...

A feedback section soon coming up on da site....

In the meantime, I got hold of this ossome blog from Vibra

http://krishashok.wordpress.com/

The guy is simply brrrrillliant!!! Hoo Ha Hoo Ha!

The Emperor's New Clothes

He walked into the marketplace one day. Naked and naively curious. Clean and proud. You see, he had not yet realized that his body was a thing of shame. His eyes darted everywhere around him in wonder as they gazed upon the multicolor humans.

All other humans wore clothes. Clothes that made them look completely different. Clothes to make them look completely different. Like swishing human kaleidoscopes. They would all look the same if they took them off. Like him. He wondered if they wanted to. He wondered if he wanted them to. The only other naked beings in the crowd were a 3-month-old suckling at his mother’s breast, and a dog, licking himself meditatively.

They had gathered around him and stared at him. He felt a curious sensation as they stared at him. Excitement. A little fear. They were all silent as they stared. But restless. They shifted. They averted their eyes. Then their eyes moved back to him as if pulled; back to his naked body. His genitals in particular.

Then one little girl pointed at his genitals and laughed delightedly. They all joined in as if they had been waiting all their lives for that very thing. The air vibrated with helpless laughter. He smiled broadly too. He felt uplifted. Never in his life had anything sounded so sweet as the happiness of so many people. Together. He felt proud that his genitals could do that to them. He laughed with them too, a deep happy sound that lit up his face.

Slowly their laughter ceased. They went back to staring at him in silence. To his horror, they now started throwing things. Vegetables. Balled up pieces of paper. Wood chips. Stones. Nails. Some missed him. Some didn’t. Some came at him with shrouding pieces of clothing and tried to cover him up. He ducked defensively and tried to back away. There was nowhere to go. They were all around him now, their faces hardened in grim purpose, closing in on him. He pointed to his genitals and forced a laugh. There were no more answering smiles. Even the little girl looked implacable.

He didn’t understand. But he knew. He made a break for the thinnest part of the crowd and ran for it. They all followed, panting in unison at his heels. But he wasn’t hampered by clothing. Or weapons. He outsped them easily. He found an abandoned shack, that had once belonged to a painter. It smelled oily and dusty, but not altogether unpleasant. He crept in and hid in its darkest corner until they stopped looking.

He crouched in the shack, afraid, that whole day. Evening fell slowly, in deep melancholic shadows, as he lay shrunk, in his frightened vigil. From the window of the shack he could see the little pond where animals came to drink at night. He gazed into the rippling reflection of the full moon and wondered how the people’s laughter had turned to hate so suddenly. He wondered what it was he had done to hurt them and make them hurt him. He looked down at his naked body. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to be naked in their world. Or perhaps he was just a naturally bad person who must be hunted and killed for his own good.

He felt acutely unhappy. He would try harder. To make them happy and laughing again. He sought around for some clothes to wear. If his nakedness offended them, then he would cover it. He found a pair of old coveralls and a smock. Spotted with paint and oil. He put them on awkwardly. They were too big for him. But they covered his genitals fully. He checked. They also covered everything else the other people were covering. The next day he walked out again into the marketplace.

He crouched as he walked, so there would be no indication whatsoever, that he even possessed genitals. They almost didn’t recognize him. But the little girl spotted him again, and pointed excitedly to him.

Same naked man. Pretending to be decent.

Some of the earlier crowd gathered again. They attracted new people. The story was retold. Soon they all knew he was there again pretending to blend in. They saw through him. He wasn’t fooling anybody! They started gathering missiles again. He ran for it again. It was harder this time with all the clingy clothes. But he was running for his life and he made it. Back to his shack.

He decided never to go out again. For three days and three nights he crouched there, gagging on his own excrements. Then starvation got the better of him and he had to move out. He went out to the pond and stared at his reflection. Maybe it was his face too. Maybe he had a bad face, that made people hate him. He scooped some wet sand from the river bed and rubbed it on his face. He was more unrecognizable now. But the sun dried the sand in a few minutes and it fell off his face.

Then he saw the paints in the shack that had belonged to the artist. They were multicolored and thick. He dipped his hand in green and rubbed it on his face. He dipped it in purple and covered his hair in it. Then he just splashed whatever colors were left all over himself. Every exposed part of his body and most of his clothes were now covered with yellow, purple, red and green, crisscrossing, blending, dripping. He played with the paint, creating fascinating patterns.

Lovely patterns. He forgot himself momentarily in the patterns. In the sheer joy of swirling and splashing them around. He then went back to the water and looked at his own reflection. His original self was gone. Perhaps the people would like this new self. Perhaps he was a good person now, worthy of love and laughter. And food. He would try.

He shuffled back to the marketplace warily. They all spotted him again immediately and gathered around him. His heart sank in fear and pain and he was just about to grab a bunch of bananas and make a run for it when he realized they hadn’t picked up weapons. They were smiling. They were happy again. He waited for their mood to change. But they stayed the same. Smiling and staring. They didn’t stop staring or move away though. They seemed to expect something. He felt like he had stumbled on some precious secret. He didn’t know what he had done, what he had to do now, but he felt light once more.

He capered around them weakly, waving his hands and feet about in mad unison. They laughed their happy laughs as they watched him. They no longer attacked him. He felt that same euphoria shoot through him. This time it was twice as heady. Because he felt… safe. He hadn’t known what safe meant before. He felt wonderful. He felt inconsolable. Pagliacci was born.


P.G. Wodehouse said "'There are two ways of writing, One of these is 'a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into life and not caring a damn.'"

I want to write both ways. And every way. Hence the weirdness :D

Choices must be made

I sing a carefree song today
Just me and my myriad blades
We spin on instinct, we laugh at knaves
Its neck or nothing, free fall away
Tomorrow, you may be mine,
Mine to hold, to love, to guard
With blinded rights, and blinkered sights
Too close to comfort, too young to scar
Too near the edge, to go too far
When it’s me on judgement night
I stand by every choice I made
When for you I must decide
I stand contrite, I stand effaced
I stand afraid

Fake or real

In the murky world of make believe
Its a struggle always, between fake and real
The darkling dilemma, the damning deceit
Who am I fooling, you or me?