Posted in Letters

Dead Letter

25th December, 2014

Subject: A Dear John letter

Dear Man-at-arms, 
Hahaha; got you! Guess your eyes just popped out at the sight of that highlighted subject. (I have an evil grin on). I was just returning the favour from your last mail. Alright, alright, stop fuming already, papers are inflammable. Save it for the battlefield. Besides, I have Major (pun intended) stuff to gossip about.
Both Angel and Fairy are dressed in their new chestnut coloured outfits, which have sparkly sequins. They just won’t stop springing up and down the stairs. “Daddy is coming! Daddy is coming! Daddy will bring us dolls!” Well, that’s the background music for me, and this is better than music to your ears, I suppose. And listen no dolls this year. This is a punishment for you, not for them. The Matryoshka addition can wait till you learn who’s Angel and who’s Fairy, okay? 
So Mr. Field Marshal, at what time shall I collect you from the station? Erase your sceptical expression. You thought you’ll receive your medal of valour and I wouldn’t come to know? I have my own spies young man. And by the way, who is Jenny? Better keep her at arm’s length or else! Yes, I’m sending an inch tape along. I swear I’m saying this with my arms akimbo and left foot tapping simultaneously. I know you are snickering at my bottle green face right now, but you better not take my warning lightly.
Come on, don’t give me that innocent look of yours. I’m not going to get coaxed into believing you. I am not going to…Fine. I’m letting you off the hook only because of the way you puckered your lips. Oh! Why are you so irresistible even in missives? I’m sure this is what you get paid for!
You know, I miss you. I miss you a lot. I never realised this simple sentence would ever carry so much of weight one day. The walls have turned starker than ever. Even the glitter and shimmer of Yuletide couldn’t shadow the presence of your absence. Our fir trees didn’t hum this time, nor did they bear any sign of merriment. The scrumptious looking cake and turkey tasted worse than sawdust.
I visit the station sometimes, to recollect the moment you left me with two gifts at once. The way I rammed into your embrace and how my feet swept off makes this platform a paradise for me. However, it’s a bit of sorrow too. It first makes me smile like an idiot and then creates a heap of wipes too. Sorry for this wretched handwriting…this fountain pen…is so irksome at times. Don’t nod your head like that. My tears dripped off and fused with its ink. You know I can’t even tell a white lie properly.
Please, don’t even think of quitting. Just shush that thought away now. Your pride is what makes me proud, and it’s indeed an honour for me to state at social gatherings that my Man, is at Arms.
My only source of happiness is the carefree laughter of these two munchkins. When I’m not able to pull myself up, and on the verge of an outburst, they say the silliest of things, which cheer me up and at the same time irritate me. Your daughters, aren’t they? You’re smiling now, aren’t you? Yes that’s the one I wanted; a dimpled one.
I apologise for that joke. I may have said it in humour, but there’s no way I’m ever going to love anyone more than you.
Come soon honey. I haven’t removed the mistletoe from the doorway yet. 


Jane (apparently)

And it got stamped with…

Posted in Short Stories, Stories

The third heart

The staccato accent of my pencil heels made quite a few heads turn towards my direction while I was hunting for something exotic. I was attired in a deep purple silken shift and accessorised with various trinkets, that manifested the apex of my career.
Haughty, snobbish and obnoxious were a few of my tailor-made nicknames, but it hardly mattered to me. The piece I longed for, wasn’t meant for any particular occasion but to be added to my wardrobe. Yes, a wardrobe is what I possessed, not a meagre cupboard.
I marched around the aisles of the most luxurious mall, in search of my desired outfit, but remained unsuccessful for a while till I got captivated by a dazzling piece of clothing. Before anyone could even think of suggesting something better, I jolted up to the person, who well looked like a salesman.
“Good evening ma’am. How can I help you?” His careful wording reflected his excellent training in the field of marketing strategy. I simply responded by pointing out to a figure made out of wax, which wore the dressing material I craved for. The tag on it read,”Priceless.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, you can’t have this,” proclaimed the courteous man. However, I didn’t pay any heed to whatever he stated and just went on scrutinising each and every pocket of my purse. I fished out a bunch of crisp notes and shoved it in his face.
The man gaped at my gesture and then swiftly put on a stern face. “Ma’am my sincere apologies. Actually, this piece has already been booked by someone else,” he said still trying to invoke a sense of chivalry in his voice. I was so habitual to a world that revolved around my whims and fancies, that this refusal nearly shrunk me to bits of my own self!
This short event agitated and aggravated me at the same time. I clenched my fists, dug my nails in my palms and stormed out of the store. As I stomped out, a quarter part of my body constantly held its gaze at the magnificent piece.
My limbs made a hasty about-turn and my fingers gripped the glass wall that showcased my yearned apparel. I slid my fingers up and down, in the hope of seizing it. The distal phalanges of my fingers smeared the glass wall, and while doing so I slowly sank to the floor. From a distance, it appeared as if I were performing a mime!
As I plonked myself, I could see the reflections of passers-by on the glossy ceramic tiles sneering and making a mockery out of me. I certainly wasn’t in a state to care enough for their attitude towards me. I kept gawking at my wish. No matter how hard I tried, the figure in front of me couldn’t belong to me. It was booked by someone else; someone who stood right next to it, holding its hand with immense love. They were two mannequins, namely Heart One and Heart Two.
I spread out both of my hands and used my thumbs and index fingers to form the shape of a triangle; a Devil’s Triangle. To my puzzlement, my left and right forefingers connected with ease, but my right thumb simply refused to adhere with the left one. The reason for the same was simple. Heart One and Heart Two had an ‘equal to’ sign between them, whereas what I had formed was just a broken instrument, called triangle.
I was head over heels in love with Heart One, but the gap that bridged us signified that all I could be was Heart Three. Heart One was clad in blue, and Heart Two in red.
And then there’s me, in purple, with nothing but bruises of being the third heart.

Three Dimensional Love
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Piccsy)
Posted in Micropoetry, Poetry

The Burning Leaf

A vermilion flame ignites,
Promising to grasp the petiole
While sailing wings grow allergic,
To the blossoms that surround
It sways and sways,
Hoping to bury the scars
The rain reminds it again,
Only to befriend the weeds
She came in with a bent stinger,
Begging and pleading for bail
The rashes had spread by then,
Ashamed by her damage,
From ruptured veins and bald sepals,
She’d maimed the heart of the leaf.

~Poem 6

Ego obsession
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Mobogenie)