Wednesday, 23 October 2013


'S*** you, man!' he expressed his feelings.
'No need to,' I told him, 'I already have been.'
'F***!' he swore.

A long time ago, a boy stood on a chair, looped his vest on to the bamboo rafter of the ceiling in his room, and tied it around his neck. Then he kicked the chair and hung there for a brief second. The sweat-eaten cotton of his vest gave way and he fell hard on the floor below, narrowly escaping the edges of the fallen wooden chair.

But he got a rather painful bum that made him weep without opening his mouth. When he got through it after a while, he cursed rather bitterly. There was no rope he could use.

The pain lasted the following couple of days.

Then a day came when he drank out of a toilet cistern. 'Shit!' he cursed after letting his stomach cool down a bit. He had no money to buy water in the concrete jungle, and there was no friend.

The next day, he had no money to pay for the books even though the exams were just around the corner. He could not prepare himself to have them taken. He said quit. Then he cursed again.

Then the next day, he went to mix concrete with a shovel. The landlord made him dig a big seven feet deep hole in the ground after the work hours were already over. No extra payments. He got drenched in the end, and when he got out of the hell-hole his legs felt shaky, and his back ached. He cursed himself this time, and did not say a word.

After that, he got a series of electric shocks so much so that he now could sense it in his fingers even though it was not there. He got thrown from a standing drum while chipping the walls and fitting wires, catching one of his fingers between the metal rim and his own weight. The finger went numb that evening. Then it swelled like a sausage. The hand felt like fire the next morning. Then he got a fever that evening, and needed to swallow the bitter-tasting paracetamol tablets.

It did not stop!

The nail turned blue, still feeling like a red hot ember and then after about three days the pain subsided a little. Then the nail went dead.

'Damn! He cursed just the same.

The nail took three months to fall off like a dead leaf in winter.

Then the devil came; once, twice, many times over. And there was no money to buy the medicine that could have lead it to another path. He nearly went mad.

It was just about the time when one of his friends committed suicide, hanging by a shoe-lace from a window railing.

'F***!' He cursed that evening.

But it stopped by itself, appearing only once or twice a year; but when it came it came with blood all the same. Bright red streaks that hurt, and the sight of it frightened him a lot.

Then one day, it felt like it was too much. He had read a book before, but this time it meant for real. He swallowed ten tablets with water, there being no money to buy a drink that would have made it easier.

That evening his head started to buzz like a hive of bees. His ears went crazy like hell, buzzing things all the time into his head.

Night buzzed, and the sleep buzzed. Morning buzzed, afternoon buzzed, and the evening buzzed, too. His heart pounded and slowed a little, but did not stop. 'Shit!' He cursed from time to time, in his hazy sleeps as well as his foggy mornings and afternoons.

The buzzing took away hunger and he did not feel like eating a thing. It continued for more than a week. And then it left only a horrible experience behind.

 'Shit! Shit!' He continued cursing.

The buzzing would just as appear and disappear from time to time over the rest of his life. And he would keep cursing.

'I don't believe you,' he said.
'You don't need to,' I told him. 'What happened, just happened.'
'Damn!' he retorted his disbelief again in the end.

Friday, 11 October 2013

Midnight's Allegory

[This blog-post is completely personal and has been taken from my own experience. It does not in any way indicate to any relationship with any person, living or dead, except that it is completely an allegory used to express my own personal experiences. Friends from my ever-growing circle have also appreciated my poetic compositions rather sincerely and I have been unable to refrain from giving them a taste from a completely different corner of my heart. Part of an on-going work of poetic expressions/compositions, I hope I shall be able to bring this piece together with others out in a book-like format, probably on amazon/kindle as it is my only platform/option of choice. Yes, heartache has been a rather genuine and wonderful fertilizer for creative outlets in my life's experience. My support for all of you stands in that wild river of bitterness you have experienced. See, whether mine is in confluence...]

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Talk about bliss, a burden you have always felt like.
O wild weed, of life, what pleasure are you?
Thrice I had hung on the edge; thrice you shied away.
O friend among friends, what measure are you?

A Guest of Love, you can’t be shunned away; you can’t be sold!
O dark net of miracles, what treasure are you?
Felt like fire from hell, you have, felt like a poisoned arrow.
Far, far deep you have cut; what razor are you?

Of joy you haven’t carved a line: so blank a book, what eraser are you?
The meadow that might have been isn’t any green today; what grazer are you?

No turning back, no running away! What game of chance, what wager are you?

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You can read another allegory, of beauty and of love this time, at

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[This composition was actually done during the midnight hours of the 9th of October, 2013. I could not sleep that night. There was a visit from the Devil for the second time in the last 3 months, and I just remained tossing and turning in my bed. It was too much to bear. I sketched these lines and the morning I got out of bed, I was drenched in sweat as if I had taken a shower! It really felt painful, and horrible... As this is a part of my life's experiences, the work is copyright protected. Midnight's Allegory is actually a series of on-going compositions by the author. © 2013, Subarna Prasad Acharya. Reviews need to be accompanied by references to the author.]

Sunday, 6 October 2013

A Look Inside Daughter of a Watermill

[brief analysis of a portion together with an excerpt] 

I found out that I had eaten the forbidden but it cannot be undone now. I am growing older day by day and the events, the occurrences, about and around me foretell that I do not have much to live. Not that I am that old though, or am suffering from a disease or malady of the general sense, but perhaps because having eaten the forbidden. And that may be the worst one can ever suffer; far more and far worse than a life-threatening disease... Ask why, the culture in which I was born and brought up does not believe otherwise.
Because of that one act, the forbidden has assimilated into my system, inside out, outside in. Part of me now, and my tale, I have dedicated a poem to the whole thing in repentance and for forgiveness, with a firm belief that perhaps I would be spared all the torments sooner or even, as an option of kindness, my sufferings would get lessened. But it still continues.
Read More Here
I am unable to get a proper sleep, my days are being haunted. I am finding myself dead every night, every snippet of sleep stealing into me. I am leaning more and more towards the divine and raise the inner arms of my soul in supplication for mercy, and for forgiveness. Perhaps a little merit I garner from the process would make me deserving to ask for a little reduction when the final verdict is delivered to me….. (Note: The pronoun "I" used here is not indicative of person, but rather it signifies a character. It is used to describe the experiences of the character concerned. The story in concern may not necessarily be in first-person narrative.)

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Sabitri noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned, noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile. Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday.
‘You know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed a skin.’
‘Is that a good enough reason to smile along? Well, perhaps it is. After all it’s living its life, and life’s a rather precious thing. Don’t mind.’ He sat down on the small mat, his shoes taken off at some distance, towards his back. ‘So you’ve seen an insect moult, aye?’
‘I also noticed a seedling,’ she added, not answering his question of surprise or that of curiosity if that was one. Her husband sometimes asked too many questions like an innocent child as if he knew nothing. And she liked him more for that. He was learned also, and possibly wise too, but not with cunning as was natural to most men. He was her artless husband and she sometimes loved to play with his simplicity even if she hardly knew to read or write her own name.
‘What seedling?’ he asked, startled. ‘I mean, in this cold of winter?’
‘Probably an orange pip has germinated, or a lime seed, in the flower pot. It’s so small, it’s difficult to know which one it is.’
‘It’s orange. I know it’s orange. I’d thrown all the seeds from an orange into that pot last time. Which pot was it?’
How can he be so sure it’s orange. Sabitri questioned to herself. The pots are moved from this side to that side, placed and replaced and exchanged. It all depends upon his moods, the full moon, the no moon... ‘It’s on this side of the doorway—’
‘Which side?’ he quickly asked.
‘This side, ké, this side. The one in which there was aloe before.’
‘Leave it, leave it. Maybe it’s lime, or orange...’ his cheerfulness vanished now that he could not be sure and certain, but it returned once again. ‘So you saw a seedling on the pot? Hhhmmmmm!’ The aloe had already been re-potted in another because the previous pot had looked rather small for its size and now there were few empty pots as well. Empty of any specific plant, that is, and anything could germinate and grow in them. But neither orange nor lime. The pot would be too small for either of them when they grew. Had they germinated in open soil, they would keep growing, produce branches, flower, and fruit. A gift of heaven... Aye, wait! Adhikari had a flash. He hurriedly finished eating and left the empty box for his wife to take back home. ‘Beginning to feel a bit hungry these afternoons,’ he reminded her.
‘In winter it’s always so; one feels more hungry because of the cold.’ She reminded him of  the fact.
‘Could you make some rotis and prepare potatoes? Something like the sort?’ he asked.
Sabitri sensed he was up at something again, nodded in affirmation, and left with the empty lunchbox. He couldn’t be dating a damsel at this grey age of his, could he?
Read More Here
Were it a mango... he continued thinking, a banana or a papaya seedling. Anyway, a seed has germinated, sprouted out, pierced the earth and emerged itself into the air, the sky, the light of the heavens. It doesn’t matter what plant or tree it gives rise to, or has the potential. Were it in soil—not in the pot, that is—it would grow, spread branches, produce buds, flower, fruit. And it would cast a shade. Adhikari quickly grabbed a sheet and scribbled lines in it. After finishing, he went through the lines again and again in amazement and chuckled gleefully. Some came so smooth and so easily while others turned you into a different man altogether before they were readable. In ten minutes, for example, this seed-germination-life poem was finished without much effort. In comparison, the buffalo poem had taken three days completely, and disturbed his nights’ sleeps as well. Ah, poetry; poetry! He went through the lines again and satisfied, folded it and shoved it into his pocket; there were now two in it. Adhikari smiled within himself, his gladness visible on his face that has appeared to be brighter. He knew well that there was no end, no finis, to a composition or a creativity of words; the revisions through time could become endless but for the time being two had been done well and they could be filed or trans-written onto his third poetry note-book and read from time to time, to feast himself, to relax his eyes and mind, and for possible improvements. The loose pages and sheets of paper that were now in his pocket could, after they were copied over with dates, then be burnt or shredded, disposed of one way or the other. Adhikari brightened up and became cheerful; he was happy now, at least for the time being.

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(This material, as always, is provided free on the internet. But as always, it is copyrighted.)