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Jester’s Tears


There was a sickening ball lurching and churning in the pit of her stomach. She nervously twitched and compulsively swallowed spit. Nothing helped in diverting her attention from the dreadful doom that hovered at the back of her mind. She was alone.

This lonely girl pitied herself as she had no alternative. Whether she was in her office or her bedroom, inside or outside, when she ate, drank, shit, pissed, laughed, screamed, or sobbed, the echoes just bounced off the walls and mocked the emptiness.

If this silly girl accepted this as her life and tried to comprehend how she could possibly make it better, she was guilty. If she’d stay stuck in the moment and wait for a miracle to happen, she was guilty. If she tried to get her act together and dared to be content, she was guilty. If she led a life at her own pace in her own direction, she was guilty. If she obeyed others, she was guilty. If she was optimistic, she was guilty. If she was pessimistic, she was guilty. Not only was she lonely, but she was guiltily alone.

This foolish girl believed that a person has the ability to makes others happy. Even if she knew she couldn’t please everyone, she didn’t want to hurt or cause displeasure to someone because of herself. She tried so hard to be as harmless as she could, sometimes at the cost of her ego, ever since she realized that ego was a self construed idea that submitted only to one’s own selfish desires.

This idiotic girl surrounded herself with drawn faces and painted colors; a drawn illusion of belonging. Little did she know that every man is for himself and no one belongs to the other. I guess she was afraid of the daunting reality of her loneliness and desperately compensated for it. Because even if it was for a spare moment, she wanted to believe that everything was alright and life didn’t have to be a platter of shit handed to her by fate.

This impudent girl juggled between her own happiness and the desire to see others happy, at least with her. She liked to make people smile and laugh. What a farce! As soon as the show was over, everyone left their seats and went their way. She was left alone with her jester’s tears in the middle of a Shakespearean stage.


Un… Amber


“You spell your name wrong,” said the plump aged man with the protuding beer belly, who claimed to be my dead father’s eldest brother with such atrocious pride. “It should be spelled Unber (the sky). Otherwise Amber is like the reminiscent burning ashes.”

“That’s exactly what I want it to be.”

Meda Bhara Saeen (My Master Brother)


Oh hey there you fancy moustache-d burly young man in the fine boski ki shalwar kameez and kherri! What kind of animal are you hunting today; a deer, a swine or a whore from diamond market? Don’t worry, I won’t tell Papa Jaani. He already knows because that’s how genetics work. He passed on his honor with his semen into Ammi jee who screamed in agony as she pushed you out in to this big, bad world. But don’t you fret! You have those black ray ban sunglasses that you bought for 500 rupees (after bargaining and reducing the price from 800) from that adolescent Pathan downtown. They will save you from the UV rays of the evil eye, I am sure!

Walk with me, Bhai Jaan. Oh that strut of yours, you dandy peacock! Your stride is kingly; proud and erect as if you own this town (you sorta do). All the girls will be smitten when you push your sunglasses up your nose to conceal your brooding gaze and twirl your moustache with your fingers. They’ll gasp at the misconception of your vaguely reciprocated semi-grin. Then they’ll giggle and whisper mischievous conspiracies after they’re done dreamily gazing at you from behind the curtain of their balcony window until you disappear on your royal Honda City. Which reminds me maybe you could borrow Papa Jaani’s Reborn for that wedding we’re going to tonight? After all, society demands vanity, my brother! We must display it. It is in our blood. How else shall the common people know? When Daadi Jaan was feeding us from a golden spoon, Daada jaan was signing fancy paper work on his death bed and gift wrapping a whole village full of land to you.

The society (particularly the population who are related to us directly and/or indirectly) is so unfair to expect so much from you though. Accept my condolences that you were born with what is not only between your legs but also enclosed in your skull. It is a phallic tumor that is malignant, spreading inside out and rotting your mind to the core. I understand that this is exactly why some days you just don’t want to be the righteous Hatam Taai. What if you just want to be a shadow of Tyrion Lannister? Someone who is royal yet not bothered by the family (unless you have to pay a debt), always to be found in the brothel fucking prostitutes, drinking wine till you pass out and then ultimately waking up next morning to a horrid hangover and optimistic amnesia. But you won’t read books like Tyrion.

What would you with that rubbish? Build a career out of it? No, dear no. We shall not burden you with the responsibility of actually making an important decision about your life all on your own! We’ll leave your decision-making skills at the designer attire or branded shoe store.

Why would you not like that? Everything is being handed to you in a platter. You were always taught to do as you were told otherwise you would be considered a good-for-nothing son (that you are) who doesn’t give a shit about his parents (that you aren’t). But you are an obedient son and were a loyal grandson till the timely demise of Daadi Jaan – the first time you cried. So you are usually busy buying 3 kilos mutton, 1 kilo boneless chicken, yoghurt, tomatoes, onions, eggplant and not to forget 1 and ½ liter bottle of coca cola and sprite respectively. This is your gesture of affection for your 5 ft 1, soft spoken, perfectionist housewife Ammi jee who shall reward you with subtle tokens mostly in the form of food. Unlike Daadi Jaan she does not have the edge to defend you in front of Papa Jaani. I know you miss her.

Now the verdict’s been declared! You shall become an engineer or get a degree in Commerce or something related to computers. Then we shall hand you a ticket to some place in the Middle East with a 14 year old virgin girl handpicked from the family. Worst case scenario, you’ll end up majoring in Humanities at whatever Godforsaken ABC institute that will accept you with your grades in the gutter. In high school, you were too busy inhaling the perfumed smoke from sheesha in your friend’s attic or getting the hook of cigarettes because addictions are cool! You know what? Fuck that shit altogether! You’re not going to pass anyway so you should spend your whole day at Papa Jaani’s main market shop and spend every weekend at the Farmhouse surrounded by people who smell of cow shit and gold leaf cigarettes. (You’ll still get the preteen virgin nonetheless)

All day you’d scratch your crotch, spit on the road, befriend the owner of the shop that is neither a book shop nor a general store and maybe hold a grudge against the guy who reeks of supari and nicotine at the 2nd hand T-shirt shop across the street. You’d watch crude humorous stage dramas on a small TV set in upper corner of the shop right in front of your counter then regurgitate third class jokes to your new friends and laugh like drooling hyenas. Sometimes you might casually get together with a selective bunch of your old friends in an attempt to remember the young boy who wanted to become a pilot since 6th grade; once dreaming of flying far away from here to unknown lands and worlds. Instead you’d go out to secretly gulp down bottles of booze smuggled at your friend’s “extra” house, or the farmhouse of a friend’s friend, smoke a few joints and hazily whirl to the beats of loud bollywood music. Thus letting your days turn to nights and nights to days fading away moment by moment.

This fusion of peculiar interests you’d adapt at the prime of your youth drowns the worry of a prospective future in this world. You do not need to contemplate over the possibilities and opportunities you should seize. You believe in pre-destined fate, right Bhai Jaan? It was all written, carved in stone from the moment you took a blow to the buttocks from the mid-wife and with your first breath you cried for your unfortunate life. That is why at every Friday prayer you bow your head in oblivion and pray for the power to tolerate your fate. What are we but puppets in the hands of God, brother?

So with these bottles of red colored cheap energy drinks, let’s raise a toast to you and your life that shall be a spitting image of your forefathers! Here’s to a meaningless and miserable life! Cheers, brother!

Worlds Apart – II


In case you haven’t read it before, I’d recommend you to read the first part of this poem Worlds Apart – I and then continue here. Happy Reading and Writing! x


The aroma of brewing coffee sensuously filled her morning
She woke up with a smile though she had another yearning
Groggily walking out of the room her eyes fixed on a sight
Living glory although not the sun yet still shining so bright

Bed-head hair, ruffled beard, furrowed brows and a crooked grin
Handing her the perfect cup of coffee was no one other than him
The one she once looked down on and sneered with such despise
Now stood there as her beloved with reprised love in his eyes

For he could see her beauty even when she could not
For she could heal his pain even when he was distraught
For he could understand and know even the words unsaid
For she could climb up his walls to know what’s in his head

This began to unfold the day his gaze fell on a book
A birthday gift from a sibling he’d initially overlook
As he eagerly turned the pages, his interest would invest
Unaware of the writer, he was keen to know the rest

At the end of the book, awestruck, he gaped at the picture of a lady
He had once known was now a writer who inspired him, maybe
In the spur of the moment, many calls were being made
Immersed in the memory of someone he did not want to fade

After three days and four hours in vain, to a call he woke
“I have kept an eye on you,” in a low, soft voice she spoke
“How passionately you’d work away your days and your nights,
Through the blinding darkness, I could see your house’s lights”

On and on they went, for days and hours, for months and weeks
Unveiling their layered depths to find what one always seeks
They learned to live and love regardless differences stark
Even when their lives were parallel; orbiting worlds apart

© Rosh Von Amber 2014