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Tuesday, November 20, 2007


I wrote this nearly 2 years ago, one rainy March evening. I forced a lot of friends to read this *ahem* 'literary masterpiece', and most of them have refused to acknowledge my existence ever since. Now you know why I don’t write fiction.

I dream of rain.

The heavens opening and crying out its heart, carrying with it the grief of untold generations. The rain mingling with the tears on her face, flowing down her cheeks as one, to gaze apprehensively at the world below, only to get pushed down over the curve by their successors. The sweet liquid merging with the salt, to wash away the evidence of her broken heart.

The lightning, mirroring those moments when her wrath could destroy worlds. A blast of pure energy that reflects the heat in her eyes when the pain that threatened to overwhelm her transformed into rage. Lightning, blasting him into a million tiny pieces, each one glowing bright as the sun before fading to ash, to dust, fading to the black of oblivion.

And the thunder as loud as only thunder can be, yet, too soft to be heard over her screams. Thunder, shaking the earth, moving continents by its sheer intensity, while her anguish burnt a hole inside her, with no hope of escape.

She looked up at the sky. Black clouds had blotted out the sunshine from her life, hid from her the silvery moonbeams of hope, and shrouded the stars in her eyes. The very Universe was darkened by the shadows in her heart.

And it began to rain. Just a drizzle, and then harder, and harder, until each drop was a boulder. They pelted her face, washing away the signs of her emotion with a vengeance. She stood there, while the tears from heaven cleansed her soul of sorrow. She could feel it, each drop absorbing her grief, washing it away, leaving hopes of a better tomorrow in its place. Soon, joy began to make itself at home, for now her heart was healing, with scars that time would heal.

And a bolt of lightning came forth from the skies.

They found her the next day, a burn mark running down her body, and a smile on her face.

Moral of the story: Seek shelter during thunderstorms.


Sindhu said...

i just finished reading Kapalkundala by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay. and your descriptions of the rage are so much similar to his! love them... but I'd say a lil' modern in some way i cant figure out, maybe its the structure of the language that it flows easily... whereas chatterji's work was translated from Sanskritized Bengali.

Pravin said...

Finally a girl who loves PBS! Rock on!

Moral of the story: A little weed and the protagonist would be writing about purple flying elephants.

Though I abhor the color purple, I think elephants are cute.

Amey said...

Moral of the story: Seek shelter during thunderstorms.

A story with moral? And people didn't like it? What has happened to the taste of people today?

tangled said...

Haha! What violent tendencies!
I take exception to some sentence structures, but I won't say anything about that now... :P

Vinesh said...

talk about sudden twist in story! :-)

Sreejith said...

talk about throwing light on something!

verbose but then i liked it immensely :)

Ady said...

Why did u take two years to write this here? Its good! And I'm sure it deserved better treatment than a wait of two years to see the light of day!

ursjina said...

:)..its a treat to the minds wye

Tys on Ice said...

u do realize tht u need treatment, dont ? :)

lovely writing...the ending clinched it ...hehe

Kalyan said...

lovely reading the lines...the words are so beautiful...wonderfully written!

ToOothlEss WOndeR! said...

I shot rain once:

And me is glad me read this only now.
I suppose in March you appreciate rain a little more that you would in November.

P.S: I love this!