Tweeterature

   I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said Twitter has changed my life. Though there was a stage of disillusionment, when I proceeded to delete my account, I came right back to it; an addict.
   Day after day, I witness streams of brilliance, profundity, honesty, vanity, meanness, and sometimes plain stupidity. It is human nature, joy and misery at its best. And oh, art. Achingly beautiful art. One thing I thank Twitter a lot for, is the portal of beautiful words it has opened up for me. And people capable of such beauty. Sifting through several thousand tweets, I've chanced upon people who never cease to please. It is a joyride of poetry, stories, little victories and losses, love, wisdom, laughter and fleeting yet firm friendships. A place of endless amusement, discovery and ego-massages, and, sadly, my only excuse of a social life.
   But what I owe to Twitter the most is, what I call, Tweeterature. Laugh if you will, but I find this corny coinage a very fitting tribute to this tireless factory that produces Twitter literature. This seemingly restricting140-character limit extracts the most intense, insane kind of beauty a poet or a writer is capable of. After experimenting with micropoetry, I landed this wonderful spot called microfiction, whereby I attempted to create complete stories in a line or two. It was good, but I was left wanting. Soon I chanced upon two of my wonderful author friends on Twitter (@ramyaranee and @indianerotica) collaborating on my timeline, and conjuring up the most wonderful kind of stories, one tweet at a time. I wanted to do it too. That jugalbandi looked like so much fun. I waited for someone to follow my lead. And someone did.
     One fine morning, when I was throwing random lines at my timeline, like I usually do, a follower (who has since become a friend) called @tishman responded with a tweet that connected. I tweeted back with a third line in sequence and over the next few hours, we tweeted back and forth, and wove what became my first story collaboration on Twitter. It was exhilarating! I gathered each of our story tweets carefully later that day, and put it up on my blog. I think I was as proud and happy as the day Jishnu was born! :)
   It became something of a ritual. Each morning he or I would throw an opening line to the other, and a story would be created. We wrote 'Snatches of a Dream', 'Another time for love' and 'The raw deal'. I had never before experienced such creative challenges. It's like trying to drive a car that has two steering wheels and two drivers, who often steer in the opposite direction. Sometimes, you read each other's mind, follow a plot with a telepathic agreement, and sometimes, take off in a direction that completely stumps the other person. But not knowing what the next line of your story will be, is exciting, to say the least.
   Others caught whiff of the exhilaration, and I got my next enthusiastic co-author in @red_devil22. He slipped into the co-writer's seat with equal ease, and has been consistently writing stories with me. We have churned out a sizable number of stories yet, that include 'Knot in love', 'Crushed', 'Green love', 'A train to forever after,' 'Lovesick' and 'The reunion.' We seem to show no signs of tiring, and I hope there will be many more such wonderful collaborations. A couple of other Twitter friends played along too, and with @ShwetaKaushik was born 'Saviours', and as a deviation, @pranavvk and I co-wrote a poem called 'A change of heart'.
   Each piece of Tweeterature has come with its share of exultation and grrr. As with everything else in life, collaborative story writing is about getting your way. You are happy when your co-author follows your lead, understands your pre-set plot and plays along. When they veer off your chosen track, you, well, don't like it. But that's also where the wonderful challenge is. You then try to match up to the unexpected step, and continue with the story without losing the plot. Sometimes, just for fun, or as a mild act of vengeance, you throw them off track too. But it is these crests and troughs that make the writing experience so amazing.
   Another interesting facet is the gender of the co-author. Most of these stories have inadvertently focused on man-woman encounters/relationships, and I hate to admit that this is one classic space for stereotypes. While my repertoire of, and experience with, co-authors is really little, two things have leapt out at me. One: the men love sex; two: the women love love. I know it isn't news. But I've never before seen such a frank display of preferences. It's a place for writing out fantasies, in the shadow of characters. It is about giving vent to disappointments and expressing joy. It is about meeting our innate narcissistic needs. It's amazing really, how in writing fiction, we let out facts.

The red message

  

   She had been awake for a while; but her eyes refused to open. She enjoyed the light beyond her eyes and the darkness behind them. She was drowsy, and pleasantly disoriented. Like the times when you are not sure which side of the bed your head is on. She could lie there forever. But there was a nasty throbbing somewhere. Her hand... her fingers... yes, her index finger of her right hand.
   She opened her eyes, irritated. There was a deepish cut; now clotted. The pillow had patterns of blood on it. Ugly caked red, but pretty bloody designs. The blood had gotten on her hair. It was matted in places. She'd have to shower & put a tape on her finger. She had no recollection of how and where she had got cut. All she cared about was her hair; and oh, the designs. Like mysterious divinations.
    She dragged herself out of the bed, one leaden step at a time and stood in front of the mirror, groggy yet intensely aware... There were messages she had to hear, to interpret. 'I wish I could cut and frame the blood-stained sheet,' she thought. The thought didn't leave her all day, as she went about her work, carrying her wounded finger like a curious trophy. She got home, carefully cut out the section of the pillow case and got it framed. She hung the frame on the wall opposite her fireplace. She would sit on her rocking chair and look at it. The designs would tell a story some day.

(With inputs from Satish Lakshman @tishman and Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22 )

Another time for love

   'It's been a hell of a long while,' he thought, as he lay under the cooling shade of the tree. 'How much longer?' It felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. Maybe minutes. The cool shade didn't feel so cool now. The waiting was burning his insides. Yet he could not leave. She had a promise to keep.
   A promise that she had made back when they had planted this very tree. Not exactly planted it. Spat out the seeds rather. They had been feasting on sweet tangerines that day, under an orange sky. It seemed like yesterday... As a

matter of fact, it WAS yesterday. 'This tree has grown rather fast... in a day. A few more hours for the tree to start bearing fruit,' chugged his train of thought. 

   His reverie broke with a flash of something. WHAT WAS THAT? A torch? A strong, almost cruel white ray shone into his eyes. She was here. Again, after years. Again, after yesterday. Time seemed warped.

   'I hope she's brought sandwiches,' he thought to himself, as she switched off what seemed like fog lights. 'Why would she use them in the day?' he wondered. Actually he didn't. She was never like the other women he knew. "What's life without a little drama?" she'd say. Even now, as she walked toward him with the picnic basket, she seemed to be performing. A surreal stage; her feet one, perhaps two feet above the ground.

   She hadn't aged a day since yesterday, or from a few years ago. With her quick, light steps she walked over to him, and held out the basket. He could see the Chardonnay wrapped in a towel. Wine there had to be. They needed it to lose themselves, to find each other. The real world wasn't for them. He whipped out his Burmese army knife and expertly popped the cork. Some birds took wing, protesting loudly at the sudden sound. She could hear music even in the angry chirping of the birds. His presence made everything beautiful. They raised a toast, drank and nibbled at the sandwiches. It would be a lovely day...

   They sat content for a while, then she leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his sweat mildly intoxicating her. A kiss, a touch, a caress, an embrace. The summer morning would ripen their bodies again with heat and lust. Love would have to wait. A gentle breeze blew, tousling strands of his long, raven black hair across his face. "The markets open in an hour" she said. The urgency hit him in the gut. She had these gentle-cruel reminders of forevers that end.

   They made fast, furious love, squeezing in a million pleasures every moment. Time was little. Tomorrow might come years later. Bodies entwined in a slow serpentine dance under the double suns. Sweat poured as they rolled in the throes of manic ecstasy. Time stood still. Time flew. The clock tower in the market warned them ten times. The lovers would have to go. Wait for interminable centuries... until tomorrow.

   "Reports say Earth will be habitable again in a less than a year," she said, as she slipped into her little, lacy red panties. Then she dissolved into the light, as dramatically as she had arrived. They weren't fog lights. He walked to the market, basket in hand; the leftover Chardonnay still cold. He reached the market, sat in his little curio shop - the quaint little spaceship model always by his side. 'Wonder if she'll bring sandwiches tomorrow,' he thought, as he slipped back into a patient slumber.

(Co-authored with Satish Lakshman - @tishman) 

   

 

   

   

Snatches of a dream

She probably sounded a little too happy.
   "I'd like a shot of whatever it is you are drinking," he says, mischievously. "I'm drinking joy," she says equally playfully and passes him the cup.
    He accepts it, and takes a deep gulp of the viscous fluid. It runs down his throat, engulfing it in its warm embrace, and despite himself, he begins to feel 'nice'. The warmth of the liquid spreads its tentacles around his body...a gentle tingling at first. The tingle soon spread to his extremities. Hands, feet, then brain. Pushing him towards who knew where.

   The window... a gentle breeze enticing him towards it. He stepped up, leaned forth and drew draughts of air that seemed intoxicating in their freshness. Suddenly something caught his eye...
   "It couldn't be!" Could it??? After nearly 2 decades... "Could it be her?" he says to himself. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. Her hair was the same, if a little thinner. Her gait was the same, if a little heavier. Then he noticed that derrière... Oh! That derrière... He could never forget it. It HAD to be her!
   The headiness of the liquid was now being replaced by another. Of a distant time. Of passionate memories. Should he turn back time?
   But here he was with the woman, who had given him the drink, the one person he would be slave to, in the entire world.
   The woman in the room smiled; blushed. She was still holding the cup. She let it drop. It was time to break the dream.
   Shattering into a 1000 pieces, the earthen cup spilled its contents on the floor. He looked up at the face of the woman...
   The woman started to fade; an apparition all along. Her lips curled in a smile, disappeared slowly. His heart felt heavy and light.

  But the shattered earthen pot on the floor... the fluid splashed across his Guccis.
  Evidences of a parallel universe, perhaps. Today had been a confluence of her world and his. Something had opened the portal...   
   He could still smell her around him. That strange odour, that he could only explain as HER! He smiled to himself, thinking how strange it would be if someone walked into the room and saw him buck naked in just his Guccis.
   He had chased his dream indeed. He missed her already. But there were important things to get done.

(A dream sequence co-authored by @tishman)

The Phase - part 3

I know myself well enough to have foreseen that The Phase would be just that. I'm growing out of it. Poetry arrived, we danced and it now leaves. As all good things must. From The Phase - Part 2, where I graduated from micropoetry to microfiction, this third phase was about exploring the many fun WOTD (word of the day) games people play on Twitter. What lovely kindred spirits I have found in this journey. People, who've shown me that beauty is a mission, competition and sometimes, just love. This last compilation here marks the end of my romance with Twitter poetry, albeit only on my blog. I'll continue to write them on Twitter when inspiration grabs me by the throat, and stories and thoughts and things that may or may not touch you. But a lot of my heart is in these. 

121. Behind closed doors/ inside fantastic wardrobes/ she wears an alias; then another/ casts them off like used lovers/ remorselessly.

122. Am I glad ~ Am I not ~ That you are you ~ That you are not ~ a subservient slave ~ I better be ~ to this place of illusions

123. He runs by me/ a bit of memory/ quiet, like a droplet/ a slow flow down my back/ making me aware, he is there/ yet not

124. He held her left arm supinate, locked her right arm in his. And offset the cold satin on her belly, with his warm breaths on her back.

125. He says nothing for a moment/ she says nothing for two/ titillating pauses talk/ making erotic silent stories

126. Her arched back, a crossbow ~ his arm holding it, an arrow ~ and passion in the wings ~ waiting to strike them down

127. "Oh, do away" / she said, "with so much mush."/ "I might need galoshes/ to walk all over you." 

128. Don't leave; not yet, darling/ paper cuts are yet to be/ as I hold sharp sheets to my throat/ coaxing my voice, to write what it won't say

129. But they never looked at her nails. Just her unusually brave face, that awaited the news of a catastrophe, with a strange calm.

130. She seemed fine. Only those mercilessly chewed-upon nails could give her fears away. With news of war each day, she prayed and chewed.

131. There stands a pot of dye/ and here stand I/ and what stands between us/ is an acknowledgement of age.

132. Camera in hand, he waited for an efficacious light. One day, two days and ten. Meanwhile, the muse, bored of waiting, grew fat on fries.

133. An acapella rings out ~ sweet sounds of doubt ~ he loves me ~ he loves me not

134. Nurture it with waters cold/ tender with lessons of old/ but the little tinder will grow bold/ make fire; for it was born to burn

135. Glory be to the mother/ a Yashoda unsung/ and stories of her tears/ that went uncelebrated

136. His head on Rukmini's lap ~ repose playing coy ~ the peacock feathered brow ~ lets the universe rest on it

137. The battlefield reeked of death. The Parthasarathi breathed in. Equanimity. As if it were no different from the happy place by the Yamuna.

138. Radhika's skies ~ forever a blue ~ tinted days and nights ~ in her Shyam's hue.

139. "But, can I lose no more battles? Can I not run away again?" lamented the Ranchhod. Only one folly was no fair allowance to his human form.

140. And he left her behind/ with his flute for solace/ "Why the need, dear Krishna/ when you take away the music?"

141. The apple of her eye ~ charms another ~ she glows and burns ~ the mother, Yashoda

142. As it stuck to plants/ the curses stuck to him/ 'But where will I go?'/ asks the hapless aphid

143. Hush, my friend/ silences are not naught/ there are loud latent meanings/ if you

144. I call it the Urge Montage. Here, you see hunger, here, ambition, here murder, here, escape, here, a scream, here, a dream.

145. I recall the scent/ of that moment when/ pinned against a wall/ I awaited your kiss/ joys imploding in me

146. The air up here, silent normally/ dares today, to see what it can be/ to stretch its boundaries/ with some sibilant slicing of the night sky

147. Summer dreams in a winter's night/ rain thirsty, summer-parched minds/ a nice, dry corner, want the damp spirits/ our lives, forever wanting

148. Sibilant waves. Thrashing, sloshing, rushing, pushing, gnashing, splashing, lashing, crashing. And washing my woes away. 

149. Relief is seeping in now. Life is seeping out. She lets go her last breath too. Her revenge complete.

150. There was so much rage. She sits over his body, savours his lifeless face. Celebrates his decomposition. The blood on the floor, now brown.

151. He kept turning around, saying "Shoo!" and their wonder kept increasing.

152. He seemed odd. And more people walked along, driven by their curiosities. The man, who was different, in being himself, was branded messiah.

153. Lower your eyes; they make me tremble/ they make buckle, under passion/ lower your eyes, for I think vice/ Oh won't you, lower your eyes?

154. In the swell of her breasts ~ and the curve of her hips ~ and the flaming red of her lips ~ inscribed, her artful lover's name

155. He shows me, he loves me/ in quaint little ways / when he gets up and dances/ two left feet and his heart

156. Then he said, "There is news..." #sixwords

157. Sweet memories of a virgin night ~ when your maladroit fingers ~ earnest to love me right ~ found the man and woman in us

158. The spaces between us/ frozen solid/ won't let leave/ won't let love

159. Cakes and ale, and ring and aisle/ were the beginning of a promise/ we've smiled and cried and grown since then/ into man and wife and one

160. Proving my love to you/ is a blade walk/ I'd rather not do/ you don't want blood/ on your hands too

161. I hold still, as this soporific day/ slithers, stops, slithers; upon my very face/ I blink not, afraid/ its languorous yawn will claim me

162. An ancient practice, among practitioners of sophism, needs them to ride vicious cycles, in pointless circles.

163. There's a little coffee at the bottom of the mug. And there's some ash. Some chewed gum. Hair. Tissue used to wipe whatnot. A story too.

164. A room laden with the unsaid/ putrid fumes of silence/ a war of vile stares/ warriors armed with tacit 

165. He waited, ring in hand/ on his knees, heart on sleeve/ She took too long, to get her makeup on/ his kneecaps hurt, and he left. 

166. I see you are back; bags and all / Love is back too, I presume / Shall we talk now, start again / Or live in tacit silence?

167. Strangers, made lovers/ for a short while, on a small walk/ cried when the path forked/ for they could hold hands, no longer

168. Come, let's talk you out of that xenophobia. Let's tell you how, beneath their layers, are smiles and tears, just like yours.

169. Looks like we let them win/ looks like time and space walked in/ to the sacred space between us/ looks like we drifted

170. How unfair, sweet lover/ that you should look away/ while I look for you/ in the fragments of an old love

171. A surfeit of charm ~ in the charming rogue ~ was the undoing of the rogue ~ with a roguish charm

172. You wouldn't know that little Pied Piper's favourite teddy bear was eaten up by mice.

173. Sudden death ~ a cruel kindness ~ no time for goodbyes ~ no need for them

174. Little girls, holding kite string wheels. Wait in hope, that they will be allowed to fly. Wait till they learn some important lessons.

175. A broken warehouse ~ happy times in clogged wheels ~ an unkind verisimilitude ~ to the owner's life

176. A séance ~ to call forth her own soul ~ to check if ~ she was living or dead

177. Give not all and stop not all/ for wasn't it when/ He clipped his wings/ that archangel turned archenemy?

178. I could hear them clash ~ steely swords of ego ~ father, son and Oedipus ~ demanding pieces of me

179. He sought a slavegirl. A perfect ebony. To hold still and be laden with treasures. "For what is more luscious than gold on black?" he'd say.

180. Unlearn the wheel some day ~ feel your feet again ~ stand still for a while ~ and talk to your roots.

181. When you won't stay, I hold your apparition hostage. Force my love on it, force it to love me. Dance with it, as one, until you come back.

182. Trapped. She found two exit doors. One on the ceiling, one on the floor. It was a nightmare, because she was chained to the walls. Trapped.

183. I'm tearing pages, I'm tearing pages/ doing away with my rages/ forgetting songs of heartbreak/ and laughing because I once cried

184. The room stank of stale perfume and all things faux. Pearls, labels, hair, breasts. The reporter's winning story: The Death of a Drag Queen

185. I remember a stranger from many winters ago. I remember only his lips. Trembling, shivering lips. Perhaps in need for warmth. Inside out.

186. How sad this world/ that needs a loss/ to unite/ and not love

187. How beautiful is that unbending spirit of a child, luminous with self-belief, untouched by self-doubt.

188. A bottomless well. An endless spiral staircase. A very dark darkness. A tearing temptation to climb down to see where it ends, if it does.

189. Chocolate. Dark. Passion. Molten. Sweet. Bitter-sweet. Lips. Swirl. Fulfill. Trickle. Lick. Dance. Tongue. Smooth. Languor. Bitten. Smitten.

190. In the flash of his glistening axe/ the soldier saw beauty/ a nobler call for duty/ towards that of his own heart

191. I have a wooden box/ empty and not/ for it holds life stories/ of the soil, and tree and man

192. There's a step to choose/ while you're at the fringe/ into or away from/ the wilderness called loneliness

193. The mind ~ an illusionist ~ a contortionist ~ an escape artist too

194. His father's shoes, his razor, his shirt. "Try not to fit into them so soon, my son. They have untold miles and blood and sweat in them."

195. Truth rasps ~ like a breathless fish ~ in a sea of wrongs ~ that soak our gills

196. Mild, but then/ a battleground it is/ motherhood has, but/ valour medals in smiles

197. It's a crack in the night sky ~ that travels, grows and shrinks ~ they say it's the moon ~ I say it's a piece of the next day

198. Place caution on a winnow/ throw it to the winds/ let them scatter, make small/ and do what you will

199. A checkered path ~ one black step ~ after a white ~ if you choose ~ to walk straight

200. A love born of my womb/ whence I see you sleep/ feel a love that makes me strong/ and a love that makes me weak

201. One wrong held aloft ~ among a hundred rights, trivialised ~ to shine like a beacon ~ to be spat upon

202. The wine glass stood empty/ Save for some drops of memory/ An echo of sweet nothings/ and savoured, fermented grape juice

203. Somedays, words on a deathbed lie/ but then comes a horse, muse astride/ wrings my heart with passion/ love children born of my pen

204. Waves. Thick and fast,/ the black soporific/ engulf and drown/ the blank eyed ruse of wakefulness.

205. A silent knife/ a skillful carver/ a restless heart/ an effortless groove.

206. He stripped them of colour/ To make blacks black, and whites white/ A frame of truth/ Bared for beauty

207. To watch a hurricane go by/ shreds of life in its wake/ death dotting street sides/ simple pleasures of a lensman

208. Only the lights danced/ only the shadows moved/ created intimate, intricate patterns/ with two perfect strangers

209. Rinsed of its history/ a short-lived romance/ blank pages/ want ink again

210. A hapless mother/ a mother no less/ a broken heart in a wicker basket/ a Moses or a Karna

211. Lingering old love/ like the musty after-rain smell/ in my clothes, in my hair/ a mud patch in my heart

212. You sound familiar. The sound of words I've never uttered. Sometimes, I feel I'm on both ends of the telephone.

213. Intertwined destinies/ like vines of different leaf/ distinct, but fused/ a source of life to each other

214. Been a while since I looked/ young hands are old now/ but they hold on still/ marking lines in the other's palm.

215. Peace, over wine glasses/ shattered by the mundane/ pick up the pieces, start again/ an ordinary Monday in a briefcase

216. Just because I let you be/ unfettered, without curtains/ you let my secrets out/ O vile, wicked window!

217. A new set of numbers/ two zero one one/ perhaps have meanings for some/ perhaps they have none.

218. Buttons, unbuttoned. Zips, unzipped. Hooks, unhooked. Mixed breaths and unintended confessions. A few reds had caught them off guard.

219. New year eve stories: A loner | A performer | An early sleeper | A drinker | A doctor | A TV watcher | A bouncer | A wannabe | A granny.

220. A word of love, ignites another/ falling in line, in rhyme/ one heart's tune, a melody then/ making music of the soul together

221. You got no place/ for a soul out cold/ in your hearth or your heart/ and you demand a warm obituary?

222. A shiny trajectory/ your space, your time, your pace/ a happy little place/ the moment you stand in/ the finish line and the start.

223. There are darknesses to touch too. That smooth quiet of after dusk. That velvet peace of night. That silken sleep. Feel all, fall free.

224. Pour all lovers in a mosh pit. Let their bodies mingle. With the mud, the blood and the lust. Let the names be gone. Let only passion play.

225. Despite the silk of her scarf and the svelte black dress, worked a fervent fantasy. An aquiline nose. And a cosmetic surgeon's address.

226. Behind that jinx, is perhaps a benevolence. Clad in failure of your intent. Perhaps you're not meant to get there yet. And learn to wait.

227. How terrifying the gift of foresight is/ to not make a mistake, cold and perfect/ to not fall and laugh/ to not want to play with fire.

228. Crows feet and mellowed tempers/ laugh lines and stretch marks/ little badges of honour/ for being a sport about passing time.

229. A famous seer. He could tell all. Because he knew all. Because he studied all. Because he wanted to defeat fate. Because he was born blind.

230. Her hand slid up his jacket sleeve. Felt the silk lining, a scar and her life. A healed gunshot wound. One he had shielded her from.

231. One hot-blooded encounter. Then silence. Like a heavy, inconspicuous layer of cream. On a forgotten cup of coffee by the bedside.

232. The prisoner laughed at them mockingly. So they erased his past and then set him free. Consigned him thus, to a life of no memory.

233. Place me in a place I know not/ tell me a tale of anonymous passion/ pry open my lids to some irony/ force upon me a vicissitude.

234. Disjointed fragments of reality/ a phantasmagoric world, spun/ around truths and make-believes/ he chooses to live in his personal cliché.

235. Mystic byroads in a mundane life/ lit up and drew me in/ when Hafiz spoke and Rumi sang/ my dervish soul twirled and followed

236. I ask to stand tall ~ my head in the clouds ~ yet feet on the ground ~ an impossibly beautiful flux ~ of humility and grandeur.

237. I am really a child, a happy child. And I got a toy box full of big, bright words. I play some, I strew some, I chew some. Then I go to bed.

238. Armed with a slingshot/ over a field of dreams/ hurtling verses at naysayers/ she defended with poesy.

239. "My heart's not dark," says he/ "My mind isn't dark," says he/ "My words aren't dark," says he/ "It's that dust on the bloody window."

240. His beauty, she beheld/ was rendered a glassy-eyed fool/ begged him to set her free/ by shattering her dreams with vanity.