Wednesday, June 27, 2012


Stretches of Greens, Unknown Place, Switzerland
I am holding the pen too tightly. I can’t loosen the grip. I have to choose my words carefully. It is not easy, you can trust me. But, I have been practicing it for a last few days. Each time I held the pen earlier, words would make a mess on the paper. As if, they were waiting on the tip of the pen. A gentle push and gravity would do the rest.

This time, I moved towards the pen rather slowly. Casually. I took the pen in my hands but did not put it on paper straight away. The pen jerked for a while. It shrieked a little too. I could see the words, almost dangling, trying to stretch their arms to feel the smoothness of the paper. But, left midway, after some time, deprived of the touch of the wood, they slowly faded and died a slow death and finally vanished into thin air. Then I slowly slipped the paper below. And then I carefully chose those pretty false words to adorn the paper.

I have to be vigilant at all times. For the words have a way of coming back from the dead. And they usually do. Making life difficult for all of us. Honest life, yes, but difficult all the same. Honest and Difficult. Ha!, Sounds so ideal. I am trying hard to suffocate that ideal in the bleak atmosphere. When that happens, all ideals will perish. No Truth. And when there is no truth, nothing can be a lie. It just is. A life of comfort in an atmosphere of deceit.

In this race against the words, I have to fail them first, before words fail me.

I will rest in my armchair. I will watch in peace, everything I stood for once, crumble to pieces.

Will I ever wonder, how did I end up like this? Perhaps. But, I am emotionally strong. Which just means, I can hide them better.

And one day, I will drop dead under the weight of a heavy heart beat, which I failed to listen a long time ago.

An empty bottle of ink will be my staggering testimony to all my beautiful wasted efforts.

I am forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high
They reach the sky
And like my dreams they fade and die 
          ( these lines from GREEN STREET HOOLIGANS)

Saturday, June 23, 2012

A Good Disturbance

View of Lake Thun, Switzerland
 It looked so far from here that it almost looked like a star. But, it wasn’t as bright or shiny. The images, though inviting, were blurry for a long time. And when it came to view, it looked like a heavy piece of stone. A piece of star perhaps. They call it a meteor, I think. My eyes followed the path of the stone as it descended towards the earth. I expected it to burn and fade away with a last spark in the air.

The stone did hit the air. But nothing burned. Because there was no stone anymore. Instead, a feather was floating. I couldn’t tell the color of the feather from down here, but the way it gently swam in thin air, I could tell, it came from a bird that lived happily and died happier. The motion of feather was like poetry in the air. If words of a poem could dance, they would dance like this. Unrestrained. Perhaps, looking for those perfect lips on which the words would happily rest forever. The gentle air took the feather in all the directions. As if two inseparable friends have decided to walk forever. The feather slowly descended. A lake of pure blue was waiting for it.

Before the feather could kiss the water, a bubble sat atop peacefully over the surface of water. Still. Their thin watery edges touched, rubbing, but not resisting each other. The bubble gently burst, as if whispering its favorite word in the ear of the lake. The air trapped inside, heavy like the stone and having the color of feather, flew away. What remained was no different than water itself. The two parts, the one from distant space, and one from eternal earth embraced each other and walked together as a single stream.  Resembling lovers of timeless beauty.

The calm surface of water was gently disturbed with a hint of a ripple. The ripple spread across the surface of water. Like a smile growing wider and wider. Soon, it touched the shore. The colorful flowers on the shore swayed softly as if nodding their approval for the union of heaven and earth. 
‘And then? What happened then?’, she asked eagerly as if the best part of story has been deliberately kept away from her.

‘And then’, he added, ‘we sat with our legs knee dip in the blue water and I took some of those flowers from the shore and gave it to you. When you smelled them, they left a scent of happiness on your body’.

She saw her image in his eyes.
She asked, ‘You know why the images were blurry?’.
‘Either I was too close to them. Or too far.’
‘Yes. Either that or you had love in your eyes. Acknowledge it and everything will become clear.

He said nothing. She saw the flowers in her lap and smiled.

Monday, June 18, 2012

A Piece of Sky

Layers of Different Colors, Chandrashila Peak, 13000 ft, Garhwal, Uttarakhand

They say I own a house. I say I own a piece of sky. Or rather different pieces of sky seen from different parts of the house. A patch here. A patch there. Though, the sky as vast as it is, tries its best to fool me in believing that the parts are the same. By making me the see the same stars over and over again. All a small part of something big. Something more generous. But, the sky fails to convince me. I do not need the generosity of the sky. I need to see the sky. The whole of it. The blue and black, the all of it.

I look at the house from inside. A piece of your memory there. A part of your laughter trapped in this room at the expense of my stupid jokes. My two constant companions - Patient walls and Your face. Now, both lost in this fast, but ultimately futile race. I have an uncanny ability to turn everything I touch into dust. Coupled with an unenviable quality to disappoint everyone I meet. A sorry wouldn’t do. It never does.

I search every corner of the house to retrieve as much of you as possible. But, there is so much of you. And, I am a mere mortal. And, I wonder, if this is all I am looking for. I wouldn’t have complained. But, for this sky which mocks at me. A view of something else would have soothed me. A view of the moon. But, the piece of sky allocated to me does not have that gift. I have looked for the moon in every hour of the night in every season. I have been desperate. For the Moon. Just as I worked to treasure everything associated with you. Even the broken things. Especially the broken things. The sky is unforgiving. And so are the walls of the empty house.

It was never going to work. That is why we needed to work on it. I sit quietly in another desolate corner which seems too vast for me. No, do not see in my eyes. I will burn. I request your face, present only inside me, to look away from me, so that I continue my story. This skin you see is a palimpsest*. I have to say it all, before this too turns into dust.  Please stay. May be, if you stay a bit longer, I will tell you my story. The whole of it. To compensate for the incomplete sky. For the absence of the moon. Just may be!

P.S - I neither own a house nor a piece of sky. Goes without saying- Another abstract fiction.

*A parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text.

                                                                  - HAUSLE BULAND

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

A Confession to the Rain

Night view from the room, which was my abode for almost an year. Zurich, Switzerland

The premise is simple. To put it mildly or to put it honestly? I could never decide. Not then. Not now. I can try, but it would be impossible to define what I have or what I had once in a single essence. If I can define exactly everything how or what I feel, then may be I am not feeling enough. I always liked riddles. It was about time, I turned into one myself. Even if my shadow betrays me in the dark, a fact would accompany me till the end. I miss your presence.

I could live without the sunshine all this time, but I did not want to miss the first rain since words abandoned us at the same time. You always loved the clouds. ‘They are like jewels, orange, white, grey, black adorning the infinite blue’, you said. When you left, the jewels left too. And I see them again today, after what feels like an eternity. With a few drops from your eyes, that was the last I saw of rain. Until now. I came out, because I could smell the rain in the air. There were few scraps of sin and pride hiding somewhere. In the corners, where I couldn’t reach, the pearly drops of rain would wash them away.  

And there was the breeze. Every touch of the fierce wind on my face left an image in my eyes. The breeze which blew brought with it the memories, from the other side of the horizon. Your face, as fresh as ever, not separated by distance, but by time. And the same words – My patience was my crime. When you had closed your eyes to protect it from the blazing sun, I stole a harmless kiss from them (in my mind). And when you leaned in closer to hear my whisper, you left a gentle wish on my lips.

I recreated the memories over and over again. And since, the rain has come today, may be, my penance has completed. Or is it waiting for my final act? A confession to the rain. That I meant everything I did not say. That I felt everything that I denied. That I hid everything that I should have revealed. That…

My rough hands tightly hold the promise of a dying whisper. Protecting it from everything. But today, I am opening my hands. Slowly. The fingers have grown into each other. It takes an enormous effort, but it opens. Like the petals of a lotus. And, when a butterfly escapes my palms, fluttering its wings and singing in the rain, I know, you have found happiness. The color of the wings is those of the clouds – white, grey, black and a shade of orange. I stay in the rain.  And by staying at the same place for so long, I walk farther than most.

Off suffocating nights and scorching days,
Off blinding lights and piercing rays,
In the Rain, I am alive today. But,
Yes, I have died in numerous ways.

                                         - HAUSLE BULAND

P.S - Work of Fiction.