Nirmala's Writings Part II

Intense emotions

Love has so many shades to it.  From fleeting butterfly kisses to raging infernos that are poised to consume you.

If love can be that intense, hate seems so akin to two peas in a pod.  Almost a negative and a positive.  Both need to be there to generate that electricity that compels you to experience the heights of a deep loving emotion.  At the same time the corrosive, explosive feelings of hate that can rip your insides and shred your equilibrium.

I think everyone has these feelings.  Some sew-saw through the journey, while others experience it depending on the circumstances.

If you visualise the two emotions I would say it seems like a fluffy teddy bear being strangled by an anaconda.

It all depends on the personality of the individual.  The choice you make to explore, encourage and nurture love or let hate become the overwhelming factor. 

Both have far reaching consequences.  Love can clothe you like frosting.  It settles on your face, decking a smile, showing the joy that twinkles from eyes that peep right out of  your soul, proving to be windows of the heart. 

Hate on the other hand shrouds you in darkness.  It twists your thoughts, pours acid into your soul, while you sew random boughts of viciousness.

Most often it happens in different scenarios, but the challenge is when both collide and concern one person.

When love struggles to keep treading water, while hate is just over the invisible border.

Hate seems to be more powerful, it wreathes, jostles, pummels and tries its best to be the stronger contender in the ring of life.  The person who looks with eyes of love, most often sees beyond the horrific circumstances that most often encircle the situation.

Which one would I choose when life comes to that cross road.  I think love has the power to slay hate and cut it at the knees before it can stand up and take its place in the ring.

Love conquers all while hate forces you to stand alone.

 By Nirmala Paiva

13, January, 2012

My Point of view

I lay relaxed on the side of Raymond’s desk by the window. His study was cosy.  I gazed out and saw the Na tree stretching in the morning sun. I admired her leaves, a blushing pink to maroon, tender green and boughs of darker green. Na always stood out flaunting her array of colourful leaves. I wondered what would happen to her when it was time to make room for another like her.  Would she be used for furniture or would she hold up the roof in some ones home.

I thought of the time I stood on the fringes of the Singharaja.  My satin streaked belly was always in great demand.  I knew my siblings had all been used for elegant cabinets turned out in Moratuwa.  I was special an HB2 pencil.

Raymond my boss was an architect.  I was the one who helped him to draw to life those nuggets deep in his mind into major projects.  I would have to wait patiently as he first flipped me this way, then that way, dragging my face across a white hard sheet of paper. I enjoyed being in his capable hands. I didn’t mind the doodling.  This went on for days.  Then he would drop me with a thud and ouch how come he did not realize it hurt.  I have my feelings.  I needed some care. I did not want to chip my point.  Did he not know I like certain types of textures.  I performed best on hand made or dung paper.

Did I actually say that disgusting word?  But I could see a pile of pink edged mauve paper with petals pressed into her corners.  Dungo was very elegant. Handmade I overheard him saying.  He used that pack only for special occasions when he wrote to female clients about the description of his plans.

I had this secret longing to feel Dungo’s  presence. I eyed her quietly sprawled in the bottom tray.  Did she not know that I wanted her to come out?  I wanted to trace her uneven lines and the petals softly folded on the edge.  I sighed.  When will this day come?

The sharp breeze from the window pushed me and I quickly rolled over to her side.

Would she see me? I came to rest by the tray with a click. Did I look alright?  Was my shiny blue and black attire appealing to her?

The lamp shade sniggered down at me.  He had a light in his head so everything was obviously clear to him.  I could feel him looking down at me disdainfully.

Then suddenly a gust of wind as Raymond’s son abruptly opened the door and dashed over to his Dad’s desk.  He was on his mobile.  “Hold on let me grab a bit of paper and jot the message down.”  He riffled through the trays and gosh he pulled out one of Dungo’s swaths of paper.  I held my breath.  I hoped my telepathic thoughts would get to him. “Come on I can do it for you.” Yes yes, he picked me up and then as he held me over Dungo I knew that moment had come.  He held me firmly and wrote in swift strokes.  “Tell her that my point of view is far more effective and should drop the other option.”

I finally knew what she felt like.  She was perfumed in a sort of Jasmine.  I drowned.  My face rubbed against her and she felt kind of skinny because it was not petals but onion skins.  She still felt good.  She had a sort of mystery because she was not even, but all full of nodules and streaks.

I smiled at her.  My voice came out in a gush, “you have such an interesting skin.”

I suddenly felt unsure of myself. Just a pencil.  She was sophisticated.  Then I heard her say a voice that did not match my expectations, “that may be your point of view but your blunt approach is not acceptable.”

Take your face off mine, I prefer Parker his expressions are in quink and he cannot be altered like you. Whenever a bit of rubber falls over you, you willingly change, that makes you the fickle type.”

“No sir, get off my page.”

I heard the lampshade snigger and my world went black.

By Nirmala Paiva

12^th March, 2012

This World is for Geeks

It’s a new language. Wi-Fi, wireless,  iPad and iPhone were never in our oxford dictionaries.  Yesterday we knew a mouse that ate just cheese, but in a flash the game changed through cyber space and the future today is obsolete.

Technology has linked people, bringing communication to such a peak that a catastrophe on one side of the globe is worldwide news within a few minutes.

How come this has not been reflected on all those who use these millions of gadgets that have been produced in a billion dollar world.

Though communication brings us all closer and closer, the human race seems to grow further and further apart.

Sit at a coffee shop and you will find lovers filled with excitement over a new iPhone.

Eyes aglow from the reflection of a screen rather than from heated emotions. Fingers swiping rather than clinging together, music throbbing instead of a thumping heart, while the ring tone is calypso. So close and yet, the information highway is the invisible dividing gulf.

An SMS seems quicker than raising your head and telling your colleague sitting next to you that there is a meeting scheduled for the next day. A cold text message now takes precedence over the warmth of a human voice.

Our techy world brings isolation and loneliness which in turns breeds depression.

Love affairs in chat rooms with faces that float through face book, but actually don’t resemble the actual person behind those keys.

How can one discern the truth?  Yesterdays chat with an exciting young man, was after all a transvestite who is over 60.

Now technology has its menacing side to it.  You could fall into the clutches of a child molester or a human trafficker.

New task forces are being formed that train cyber police to catch the hacker and the man who leaks out confidential information to the world.

Nothing is secret or predicatable anymore.

An executive sits at her computer and strikes a hit, rediscovering a boy friend she had during her school days.  An exciting tirade of messages float across the oceans, slicing through insurmountable barriers. An innocent friendship spirals into an illicit romance.

They are both in their late 50’s.  Excitement mounts as skype messages and SMS get entangled in reminiscing and coy moments of yesterday.

Meanwhile on the other side of the globe a hacker creeps into that very same page.

The hacker now has valuable but explosive material in his hand.  The power is all his as he makes that fatal call to the old boyfriend’s wife in the drama.  He tantalizers the furious wife with proof of a torrid relationship.  He bates her and demands a US$ 1,000 for the incriminating material.  Money changes hands and the e-mails describing the emotions evoked as they walked down memory lane are now in the hands of the cheated wife.

Confrontation. Denials. Arguments. Bitter venom. A 23 year old marriage lies in shambles.  Grown children watch with horror and disgust as their parents tumble into yet another statistic of failed relationships.  The marriage is no more.  The fabric of life is torn asunder.

The ragged boyfriend sits in front of his skype.  Her name is wiped off his screen but the episode is scorched across his heart.  A cyber explosion.  He turned into a mouse, while he sits alone in the glow of his iPad, minus a spouse.

Are you a victim of technology or a high tech communicator?

                                                                                                                        By Nirmala Paiva

Nirmala's writings

Hey guys! This is I am posting some excellent work on behalf of Nirmala, hope you enjoy its :)


  King of the chase

 Stepping of the curb my hand firmly in a commanding gesture to those little kings who ride in their metal roller coasters. A ninety degree turn in mid stream and the metal trap screeched to a halt in front of me. Four hundred he says to Welawatte, I vigorously beat him down. I thought I had won the bargain when he suddenly threatened to pull away which would have stranded me on the side of Duplication road. Hurriedly I get in clutching to the metal pole as he zooms off in to the thick traffic. While buses and cars tower over us we chase one head light after another only to come to a standstill at the next traffic light. By now I have swallowed great clouds of dust mixed with carbon monoxide. Go says the indicator but the metal can refuses to move. The lorry driver behind us stands on his horn, a Benz car looks down disdainfully from behind. We don’t seem to be able to start off. I am alarmed when the driver turns around and unceremoniously stretches his hand to a little valve where I am trying hard to sit lady like in my short skirt. He grins and tells me he needs to tinker with the knob. I don’t have much of a choice. He fiddles, heaves on his starter and we are off. This time we are ahead of the Benz and weaving in and out like a drunkard ice skater. He now over takes on the wrong side of the car. Electronic shutters come down and the chauffer glares, his mouth moves in an ugly movement and then we are off again. Narrowly missing the young lady under a pink umbrella on the pedestrian crossing. I should have known those yellow stripes were the starting lines for a dash to hell. The next traffic light and this time we are not that lucky. It was a “Hells angel” dressed all in black on his powerful purple metallic 1000 cc motor bike. I shoot instructions to turn right. It was inevitable. The metal can misjudged the space between the lamp post, jay walker and “Hells angel.” Bang! I felt my neck being wrenched and then I was on the outside of the three wheeler which lay down flat with its wheels spinning crazily on it’s side. Its black plastic shell crumpled. The driver yelling, the pedestrian getting up and suruptiously slinking away quickly while the motor cyclist yelled at the top of his lungs. Mayhem. An audience gathered like ants to honey. The show was on. But the driver simply continued to berate the angel from hell, he just pushed his metal jalopy back on to its wheels and smiled sheepishly at me and we were off on the road once again. Since we had missed the turning, he just reversed at full throttle. After all we were still on the one way moving the other way. The streets of Colombo were an adventure to the courageous heart. Another said it taught him to pray harder than he had ever done before. I just know it is such a wonderful part of the life of Sri Lankans. How boring the city would be if we had orderly lanes of traffic all adhering to the uni-flow.

By Nirmala Paiva



  19th October, 2011 Pregnant wind 

 “We are late; let’s hurry up before the rain comes down.” Benji was concerned that his brand new vehicle would get wet. They were at a vantage point overlooking the village. The mountain loomed behind them, solid like it had been for the past century. She could feel the coolness of the laden wind swiftly moving up and inland. Ruki seemed rooted to the spot. It was like everything was being carried on the silken strands of mist. Strange why could not others see it? Could they not hear the air was static with sound? Breath deep and you could smell it and close your eyes and you could feel it. The sudden gust brought with it grit and a flurry of dried leaves from the mango tree. “Oh gosh my eyes feel like it’s got a mango seed in it.” Tears oozed unchecked. “Stand still let me see if I can clean it out.” He took out his soft handkerchief and tenderly wiped her eye. “There just a tiny speck of dirt ah now it’s gone.” Comforted she continued to lift her face to the wind. It spoke of the sounds of a wailing wife. She cowered in a room, a welt across her face. Her hiccups subsiding. The sounds of a hammer while a laborer put the finishing touch to a gate. A horn blared in the distance while the mournful low of the cow walking to ease her load of milk at the shed nearby. “Can you smell it Benji?” “Smell what?” The wind is like a channel of a slice of life. “I know someone is cooking on an open fire, because the wood smoke is wrapping itself around me like a warm sari.” “She’s cooking garlic and ginger right now, its left its foot print in this swath of air” “Come on, garlic and ginger only makes me think of your chicken back home.” Another eddy of wind and a giant hand bent the tall grass one way and then the next. “I can feel it calling.” “Now don’t be daft, you’re getting glassy eyed again and there is no time for that now.” Her half hearted move towards the car did nothing to take away the fact that she knew. The wind had a way of conveying all that was happening close at hand. How come others never seemed to be aware of the special inbuilt antennas that we all had. Some just did not know how to use them. She savored the smell that she knew was coming from the hut close by. It spoke of love and warmth. It told her of a difficult teenage son, who had just lit up a cigarette he should never have. It told her that the mother was in anguish because her husband had still not come home, which meant another violent abusive night. She heard the radio been tuned and re-tuned as a young girl got the right hindi station. She could hear the joy in her young voice as her feet slapped on the floor, trying to keep to the rhythm of drums and tambourines. She could taste the pungent spices cooking as it hung in the air like an oriental curtain. The wind was now bringing with it beads of moisture which flung itself against the mountain and shrouded her body. The sun was slipping on a greased yellow ribbon on its way to bed. Her eyes feasted on the burst of yellow, pale pink, magenta and finally black. The wind carried treasures to each of us, if only we would be on the alert to recognize it. Almost leaving a gift at our feet. As it said, did you see, did you feel, smell, taste and hear it?

By Nirmala Paiva



 7th November, 2011 Moody sky It was the Australian Outback. 

 The advertisement read, “Join at your own risk.” The tour operators knew how to capture the interest of nature lovers who wanted to see the Never Never as it is called by the rough riders of the planes. Traversing thousands of kilometers through the red hot dessert gave me the experience of varied weather in diverse locations. It was deep in the Northern Territory. Hot, sweaty, filthy and grimy the tailor made bus finally came to bone shaking stand still. Thirty five of us tumbled out. We longed for a bubbling river and a hot meal. The heat like a furnace put an end scorching our longings. The desert stretched endlessly to the horizon. There was not a tree in sight but I could see the heavens arch over the globe. The semi circular slope giving you the impression that you could just step off the earth and walk right into the clouds. What struck me most was the deep silence all around. It compelled us to all speak in whispers. Dotted all over the gritty ground were clumps of spinifax grass. We all sat around on our collapsible stools as the camp cook got out his gear. It was close to supper time. The quietness was what gripped me. Then the atmosphere completely changed. The placid sky did not look gentle anymore. The clouds rushed around like they were getting ready for some grand atmospheric show down. The air became heavy and then the forks of lightening ripped the sky into fragments. The sky turned purple and in some places a navy blue. The sky rolled angrily, the clouds bellowed and collided. The charged air was electric. We all held our breath. There was something ominous about the buildup. Then the electricity was almost palpable. We could not see it, but feel it we did. A rush of air commanded the hair on our hands and body to stand up straight. A gush of air and the hair on our heads were filled with static and I could hear and feel it crackle. We were all a bit apprehensive. Sitting hushed, while it seemed like a tormented sky rebelled as it shook and tore into fragments. The absence of sound was now almost frightening. There were sudden gusts of blistering sand thrown up into our faces accompanied by a deep stillness in a lonely empty place. You could suddenly see bundles of dead grass being tumbled by the wind, rolling one way and then the other way. They were called the wily nillies. They rushed furiously towards us and giddily crashed against our legs. Someone yelled “electric storm take cover.” We rushed into the bus. It seemed the wind came right out of hell. It scooped out great mountains of sand and flung it with all its strength against the only object in that vast open landscape. It crashed against the bus like a sledge hammer. We lay on the floor with our hands over our ears with our eyes tightly shut. The sand found its way in. It trickled in through the chink in the window, through the space in the door and the tiny perforations that no eye would have found. The sand got into every part of us. A thin red dust streaked with white powder. Strange , no sound, no rain, no thunder. Just a giant hand that swept away a blue day and brought in a blanked of static which simply gripped your heart with fear. The wind dropped, the air suddenly felt lighter. It seemed like it drove its self over the horizon as quickly as it had crashed into our little arena. We were safe. Just powdered all over, while our mouths were filled with grit.

 By Nirmala Paiva

Murder Mystery

Hi all - its Amrita. I thought I would try this blog out. I wrote a small murder mystery (its still a work in progress) but I am not sure whether it will work with our 'color' theme for April. Let me know what you think.

***
He shifted his feet, the signal was supposed to be an hour ago. Why was it taking so long? He felt uneasy, as he watched the alleyway from his black Sedan. The full moon gazed at him from her perch with a silver glow, that seemed to make all the shadows come alive. He quickly looked at the alley again, it shouldn’t take this long. Jerry said he would be back soon, should he call and call the job off?

He felt more uncomfortable because this was his old hunting grounds, the place he used to call home. But that was a long time ago, and he is a different person now. He fingered the darkened scar on his feet, hearing the voices of his friends from a different lifetime. Wait, was that a ball, his breath quickened as he saw a red ball being bounced against the walls down the passage. At this time of night, he wondered, who would be playing outside.

It reminded of him of when he was young and with his best friend John. John and him were inseperable, John always brought his red ball and they would bounce it up and down, if they threw it hard enough, Ms. McDouglas on the 4th floor would stick her head out of the window, her curlers furiously shaking as she would use choice language at them. John’s mother would rush out, scream obscenities back at her and the two kids would sheepishly go inside the house, as John’s mother made them hot chocolate and muttered about what a silly witch Ms. McDouglas was. Of course, this exercise was repeated quite often but each time it would seem like time stood still... Like now..

The red ball continued to bounce towards him, now rolling towards the Sedan. Should he get out, he wondered. He looked up at the sky, the moon teased him between the clouds, urging him, go on, see what’s there. He got down, his black polished shoes glistening in the moonlight. He couldn’t see inside the alley now, the lights must have burnt out somehow. He threw the ball back into the alley, maybe that kid would take it and go home. Jerry still hasn’t signalled, what’s taking the job so long? He watched in amazement as the ball bounced back. He walked into the alley, not noticing the silver blade that came behind him and the red river that flowed back towards the black Sedan.
***
“Coffee or doughnuts?” Mary shoved a box under my nose. It was too early to see hot pink donuts and the coffee smelt a couple of days old, but how could I refuse a blond. I picked a donut and gave her my best smile, even though my stomach rumbled in disgust. My desk was full of paperwork and I knew the Sargent would give me a hard time about it, but what can I do if the suspects in the last case refused to cooperate and give a proper confession? I sighed and sat back to nibble on the pastry, watching Mary as she ran between the cramped desks in the station, her black uniform a few sizes too tight, but it flattered her youthful figure. “Give it a few years in this place, she’ll be the size of ol’ Bertha over there” whispered Ivan as he nudged me with a smile. “Until then, let me enjoy the view” I replied.

The phone rang “Good morning, West Hartford Station, how can I help you?” Ivan replied as he answered the phone with a bored look on his face. “Yes, yes, straight away” Ivan replied quickly as the phone squeaked out a series of directions and his face turned white. He quickly put down the phone and grabbed me, “Lets go”. While I grabbed my coat, he explained “There’s been a body found at West 45th and 3rd.” We quickly got into my patrol car and he drove for once. West 45th and 3rd was my old neighbourhood, I reminisced. Ivan nodded as he put on the siran as he manuvered through the heavy traffic of morning traffic.

I remember there used to be two boys who always played there – Jerry and... I always forget the other boy’s name. Jerry was a sweet kid, always helpful and his mother was the neighbourhood mother to all us kids who had broken homes. She always made cookies and made us feel so welcome, even if we couldn’t go back to our homes. But that other kid always made me worry. I later heard he got into some bad company and I remember one of our witnesses in the Ramsey murder case describing the person very similar to him. “What happened to Jerry?” asked Ivan. I remember I was the first on the scene when Jerry’s body was found. His red ball was beside him and his little corpse was decorated with knife marks. It was an initiation killing – one of the gang’s had recently initiated a new member and to harden the boy, they had instructed him to kill a young boy. I remember looking at the red ball floating in a red ocean of blood. Jerry’s friend was suspected at the time, but there was not enough evidence so he was dismissed. We arrived at the scene. The other police officers had cordoned off the area so it was easy to get to. “There was a black Sedan, we took it to the impound. There was no prints inside but we suspect the victim drove here and went out to the alley” one of the police offcers said as we walked into the alley.

It looks so different now, Ms. McDouglas’s flat is replaced by an Indian restaurant. The smell of curry made my stomach rumble, its definitely too early for spices.

“Didn’t anyone see anything, there was enough of light last night with the street lights and moonlight yesterday” Ivan yelled at one of the policemen, Barry I think was his name. Barry shrugged, “There was a power surge yesterday and the lights had gone out and the killer had somehow been very quiet”. We reached the body, “That’s Jerry’s friend” I exclaimed. He looked older now, obviously. I had not seen him in years. His hair was shorter and he looked more muscular. His black clothes were soaked in blood, and his body echoed Jerry’s, with similar knife work. Ivan looked at me and laughed “Old man, you are seeing things. Maybe its the work of Jerry’s ghost”. I know I have been haunted by that death for a long time.

“He was killed between midnight and 2 in the morning, but it looked like a serated blade. I will; know more at the lab” said Caroline, as she prepared the body to be taken to the ME’s office. None of the police officers had found any weapon but I told them to keep looking. “Well, its time for more paperwork” Ivan said and we got back into the car. I looked back in the rear view mirror, and was that a red ball bouncing onto the street?