in-between-sound-and-silence

A few years back I wrote prose and poems and posted it to an online magazine. Most of them can be found here:

http://www.boloji.com/writers/triptachandola.htm

and let me add that most of them do not qualify any engagement. They were self-indulgent and half baked efforts only to evoke instant attention and emotion from those for whom these were directed. Needless to say, no emotions were evoked and no responses were heartfelt.

Though I am sort of embarrassed by these poems and prose, I do not intend to erase them. I would like to learn something from these.

The poems follow.
(Since the time of writing them I have called them, this, that, and the other over a period of time. So, for the moment, not attributing any name to any of the poem).

This story is close to my being on two accounts.

A) It was with this story that I managed to finish a work of fiction, finally.

B) I was inspired for this story from my research interactions and insights at Nehru Place and Govindpuri. Through this story, I was able to give new meanings to my subsequent engagements with the space(s).

P.S. Needless to say, editing is crucially required in this text.

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The story
a simple one

The story hangs on, staring at your
face day and night. Looking into you
not letting you look away. Forcing you
to cry and curb. The bread crumbs and crumbling
homes. It starts growing in proportions taking
shapes beyond imagination. With million eyes, all yours,
and many more tentacles it starts to embrace you. At first, softly
and smoothly. Caressing and cuddling. The grip begins to
tighten. Smoothly
and softly. Lost in its clutches, warm and welcome, you forget never
once has it said anything. You crave for the voice and whisper. When it
turns around and
whispers.
`hello. Are you done? I am’.
The head in the furnace and climbing down the
building with a
pot crashing at a distant
floor.