Here goes nothing.

A little something I wrote recently, entitled:

"The Intruder"

We’d always visit the same derelict café, on the corner of first and Amistad- Siobhan, Alexei, Donatello and I. We’d sit for hours, sipping our cinnamon lattes, ruminating over the world’s bizarre humor that it brought our quartet together.

Maybe it was a combination of my pennilessness and search for purpose in life that made me do what I did- it was also my profession. One dusky morning at the café, Siobhan strode towards us, seemingly purposeful and positively effervescent. She said- “Here’s the POA, guys.” I looked at her quizzically- there was never an agenda. Siobhan had invites for an exclusive gallery opening at the Opasnyh Studio. None of us were contemporary art aficionados but the exclusivity of it all made it the most coveted event of the entire year. Secretly we all hoped to have our faces printed in the local newspaper so we’d finally have something to write home about. So that night, we set out for the opening with a colleague of mine. Like the meaning of her Vietnamese name, Bian was a rather secretive girl- as her occupation demanded. On our way to the opening, Bian received calls from Diabolos, the domineering boss of the Izmaylovskaya gang of the Russian Mafia whom as spies, we were in the process of declaring a truce with. As his final request, Diabolos wanted Bian and I to annihilate everybody present at the opening.

As I surveyed the gallery, I saw Bian inconspicuously signaling to a man in a grey suit and a tie the colour of amethyst- Diabolos. He had that unmistakable magnesium powder burn on the side of his neck, embossed with his signature stare. His words from our last encounter stung like the icy Siberian wind- “Building relationships will only weaken your objectivity, you should always be an impostor- the phoenix must burn to emerge”. But I was no phoenix and my friends didn’t deserve to die. I whipped out my pistol and shot Diabolos in the chest. But there was one thing that he was right about- I must remain the impostor. And with that thought in mind, I escaped through the backdoor to another city of starry-eyed idealism. I’d be someplace different, sipping coffee with an alternative quartet. A new beginning but once again, I was the intruder.

x---x

Delhi, O Delhi

English assignment. 'Nuff said.

Delhi. It is a riveting amalgam of the old and new, the borrowed and the original, the traditional and the offbeat. But what is Delhi beyond crumbling bureaucratic edifices, infamous traffic jams and the occasional whiff of roadside ‘dhaba’ fare? It is continually surging, growing and morphing into a city of tomorrow. With a burgeoning populace pouring in from nearly every corner of our nation, calling Delhi an urban settlement is an underestimation of its true magnitude and potential. It is the iconic post-colonial city of India, preserving our national heritage. While at the same time, Delhi serves as a home for outward-looking people and acts as a platform for the blossoming of ‘Youngistaan’- the so-called new generation. Today’s Delhi reflects an ethos of dynamism and exuberance, constantly embracing new ideas with verve and vitality. This cosmopolitan prowess comes from its inhabitants. From the opulence of prosperous businessmen, diplomats and expatriates to humble refugees and the quintessential middle-class masses- a varied mix of people all thrown into an area of 1483 square miles. But ofcourse, every metropolis comes with its fair share of the good, the bad and the downright ugly. In the convoluted, inextricable labyrinth that is the conurbation of Delhi, they may be the very same thing. For example, the introduction of the Delhi Metro at long last, greatly simplifies commuting. On the other hand, it eats into the open space, or lack thereof, and is a blatant eyesore as the ‘Under Construction’ fences gradually adhere to the existing milieu of skyscrapers alongside slums.

A megalopolis of contrasts, to live in the city of Delhi is to make a tryst with a perplexing patchwork of cultures and ethnicities and firm convention co-existing with unremitting innovation. It always presents a cornucopia of experiences to delve into and challenges to face. Despite shortcomings on a number of fronts, it epitomizes the undying Indian spirit. Lastly, to sum up the city of Delhi in a handful of words- a work in progress- much like every living organism, constantly developing and evolving.

x---x

Feel free to comment :)

[Please do NOT plagiarize. I will find out and hunt you down]

x

-Aarohi Narain

Akiko

Akiko was an autumn child. It was always the same for her when autumn finally came around. Every afternoon when the sky was ruby-tinged and the breeze blew just the right way; she’d settle herself under a canopy of copper leaves with a warm, comforting mug of apple cider. She’d inhale the silvery scent of hawthorn blossoms, abundant with plump, poisonous berries. She’d yearn to pick them from their snug little boughs at the mere thought of their juicy redness dying her tongue scarlet just as autumn enveloped the apple orchards in crimson fruit. Her almost unnaturally auburn hair would blend with the woods as they donned a cloak of chestnut and terracotta. Her rosebud lips would stain the periwinkle sea cochineal. She would meticulously rake every last leaf on the ground into a neat heap only to jump into her perfect pile. Scattered leaves floated to the ground in a vermillion ballet, as she’d sing a mellifluous tune for them…

Her voice cracked as she softly spoke the last word. The creases in her forehead eased out as she saw the tranquil expression on her daughter’s face. It was time.

Akiko’s coffin slid into the oven. Eighty minutes later, on a ceramic platform lay her bones. With a pair of chopsticks, her mother daintily picked them up and placed them in a delicately painted urn. Lastly, she carefully laid a charred autumn leaf inside.

For Akiko was an autumn child and always would be.

x---------x

Suggestions, comments, critiques, anything really, lemme know. :-)

An experimental piece.

Lemme know what you think! :)

It was all an emerald blur. She was running so fast that the entire green landscape merged into one seamless stretch. Thorns ripped at her flesh. Rough stones chafed her feet. Her white dress was in tatters. She ran until she was sure she’d lost him somewhere in the dense foliage. She pictured his face twisted in a look of horror, resting in a ravine. Just then, large hands wrapped around her shoulders and yanked her backwards. She fell and hit her head. Her vision was momentarily blotted out with ugly inky spots. But even then, she knew it was him. It was the same pair of hands that had held onto hers when she was learning to ride a bicycle. It was the same face that smiled with pride at her first solo harp performance. But now his hands were rough and his mouth turned into a snarl.

He eyed her white dress. “You’ll look pretty in red, don’t you think?” He grimaced, positioning his gun. Without wasting a second, he pulled the trigger.

Eruve launched out of bed, struggling with the duvet. Her matted hair stuck to her forehead. She looked around her bedroom and everything looked normal.

“Just a nightmare.” She murmured to herself and went back to sleep.

She awoke the next morning, fully recovered from the horrible nightmare. She saw her father reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, dear. I thought I’d let you sleep in on your birthday. But since you’re awake, why don’t you go and try on your special birthday gown!” He smiled.

As Eruve excitedly walked into her parents’ room, she saw it lying on the dresser.

Her father called out from the next room, “You’ll look pretty in red, don’t you think?”

x---------x

Untitled

“But mom! I don’t want to put on that white dress! Why can’t I wear my purple one? It’s so much brighter and prettier!” She whined.

“Angie, you must wear white to a Chinese funeral.” Her mother said firmly.

“I’m not going to keep this Feng Shui bracelet or wear that dull and lifeless white dress! I wish you’d left all this Chinese business back in China. We’re in New York City now, mom. You can just go to Uncle Lee’s funeral with dad and Jerry.” She said, turning her nose up defiantly.

...

I’m Angela Kwan and I work as a journalist with the New York Herald in Manhattan. When I was younger, I tried my hardest to disassociate myself with anything Chinese. Of course, that was hard to do considering my poker-straight ebony hair, sky-rocketing cheekbones and most notably, Asian eyes. Every Chinese New Year, my family would have such lavish celebrations that they could rival Christmas! I was forced into learning to read and write Mandarin and as much as they promised it would grow on me eventually, green tea and stinky beancurd repulsed me. With time, I accepted my ethnicity. But somehow, I never did make it to a Chinese funeral donning a completely white outfit. I’ve heard stories of how I fetched my felt-pens and paints to cover my pristine white ballet uniform in splashes of colour. Another time, I invited all my friends over and we stood up the whole night filling in every corner of the walls in crayon- all because I couldn’t stand the pallid white.

It’s the day before my wedding ceremony. American weddings are known world over for their brides traditionally dressed in (yes, you guessed it) white. But my wedding gown is every colour of the spectrum except the dreaded white. As much as I wanted to fit in like a jigsaw piece as a teenager, there’ll always be one part of me back home, in China, timeless.

...

“I’m feeling kind of hungry…” She said trailing off.

“Chinese takeout from Uncle Lee’s?” He asked, knowing fully well what was coming next.

“You got it.” She chuckled.

When it comes down to it, blood is thicker than water.

And dark soy sauce is even thicker than blood.

:)

Fire-dancer

You try.

You try so hard to keep our flame alive.

But we falter.

We falter each time our flame flickers in my frosty whispers.

And you say those blazing words.

Sweltering with passion.

Save it.

For we burnt out the very moment my steely gaze doused your scorching fires.

Yet you persist.

Plummeting deeper into the murky chasm of my heart.

Until you see hope.

Sparks glowing- not within me.

And now it is no less than an inferno.

I'll fondly remember that autumn day.

The copper leaves incandescent.

The pumpkin patch aflame.

Places live.

They breathe memories.

While all I do is survive on the embers you left behind...

Here's something I wrote for school. (it's one of 'em things I don't find all that pointless)

:P

Half an hour after the car had been driven away, the garage owner made a startling discovery. He rushed to the telephone and quickly dialled the emergency number.

"Hello? Yes, 112 Ocean Avenue. There's been a car theft." He spoke worriedly into the receiver.

Within minutes, there was a police official at his door. There was something strange about the way he coolly made his way across the room. As the police officer finished interrogating him concerning the stolen car, he began to inspect the garage. There was a strong odor of burnt rubber. Skid marks ran right across the vinyl floor. Placed next to a 1980’s Cadillac was a small black, nondescript backpack.

“Is this yours?” asked the police officer, calm and distant.

“No, sir.” Said the garage owner, increasingly perturbed by the night’s incidents.

The police officer mumbled something to himself in a foreign tongue. Carefully, he lifted the backpack in one hand, examining it closely. There was nothing unusual about it on the outside. He began unzipping it. Out came a knife, glinting under the flash of the torchlight. The knife was nothing like anything the garage owner had ever seen but it was unmistakable that the peculiar police officer recognized it. The intensity with which he looked at it was as though he knew of the secrets the knife held in its well-crafted folds of carbon-steel. Before the garage owner could comprehend what was happening, the police officer lashed out with the knife and slit his throat in one swift movement, with ninja-like skill.

Unruffled by the crime he’d just committed, the police officer shed his uniform to reveal a shiny, sharkskin suit underneath. He quickly checked the hidden pockets of the bag and nodded- everything was there, just as he'd hoped. He slung the backpack across his shoulder and in his right hand gripped the deadly knife, just in case he might need it again. Having severed his left little finger for the boss as an indication that he'd completed a task, he was having a little trouble with the cell phone. When he was finally able to take it out, he smiled smugly, punching in the number.

“Yeah. I got the bag with the weapons. The diversion worked fabulously!

The garage owner? Oh he won’t be divulging any information,” he sniggered.

“I told you I’d make a great Yakuza.”

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