Redhya

I hadn't ever seen death being peaceful. My dog was dying. My mother comfortably laid him at his favourite spot that was beside the shoe rack in the verandah. I watched him taking his last breaths. I remembered his early years when he was such a pain in the arse. He'd gnaw everything that smelt like feet: socks, slippers, and shoes. I didn't hate him when he chewed down my white crocs even though I liked them. I got him chewy bones a couple of times. He'd do "grrrrrrr" when I tried to reach a bone in his mouth. Lying on a tattered rug, he opened his eyes; they were filled with tears. My mother was crying. I felt nothing as if I were lifeless. I looked at him slowly crawling towards us. When he reached my mother's feet, he looked at her. Putting his head on her feet, he collapsed and didn't wake up after that. *** buy my books on amazon -  redhya

Incessant rhythmic tremors vibrate a nearly empty martini glass kept on a table; I’m desperate to see it leisurely falling off and shattering into pieces so as to know who takes care of a broken object and a fucking stolid life. Colourful ambient lights! Drooping eyelids and swaying bodies, underneath a disco ball, are imitating vibrating, deafening beat drops. I’m at a high-end nightclub in Mumbai, letting life slip away as always. Tick, tock, tick, tock! Through the hammered crowd dancing on the floor, a young man sitting across gazes at me. Damn! He looks so foreign. The blue jacket on his torso complements his buffed carcass. He’s sitting at the bar, whereas I’m sitting at the dance floor. Perhaps, he has been looking at me for a long time. Glancing away for a few seconds, I look back at him for a fleeting moment. Man! He has everything that stands him out from the berserk crowd. Messy hair, cute spectacles, a golden watch, short pants, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors. He gesture...

The journey to Redhya was extremely long, for I took approximately 23 years to reach there. Hi! My name is Dheeraj Preet , and I’m an author. When I was fairly young, I somewhat disliked my name. The reason behind my irrational dislike was that I’d find the name, Dheeraj , ordinary. No, truth be told, I hated it, and, on top of that, people shortened it to Dheeru . Wow! It’d have taken me ages to think this as my pet name. I’d be pissed off when someone called me Dheeru except my family . It felt like they wanted me to take my thumb out of my mouth when they addressed me as Dheeru . Dheeraj means patience. I couldn’t name myself Patience. I thought that it would be so weird if someone said, “ Oye Patience Preet! Idhar aa. ” I certainly needed a cool name. As a result, I thought about Dherya . It’s a Sanskrit version of the words: patience and calmness. Later, I thought – If I am putting this much effort into finding a cool name, then why not I think a little more. In childhoo...

It's sad when people can't conclude whether they are being strong or they are just dying slowly. I was hurt; there was nothing I could do. Thus, I accepted the things the way they were, not because I was weak, but because I would have ruined everything if I had done anything. Putting on the façade of being unhurt, I accidentally cut off the bridge between me and some traumatized parts of my cerebrum. Surely, it was just a phase, but I was shaken to the core. Eventually, time took its course of action, and the phase passed by. I wish "sorry" could be enough to mend the broken bridge. Unfortunately, any amount of repentance couldn't repair me. Now, I feel strong, but I know that I'm just dead *** buy my books on amazon -  redhya

I was incessantly looking at the scabs on my elbow when, all of a sudden, a few images of my recent past flashed in front of my eyes. The images were vivid; it felt like yesterday although it happened yesterday. I could smell those pictures; I saw blood on my elbow dripping onto a white cotton carpet sluggishly. I had punctured my elbow with my sister’s divider. She hated that thing, for she didn’t know how to use it. I counted the wounds; I had struck myself five times. Now the wounds were healing, and I felt like itching one. Impatiently, I scratched off one scab; the skin got ruptured, and a little drop of blood emerged from the wound. Just like the stained white cotton carpet, pages on my table are stained with my thoughts. Without an opening, I couldn’t have stained the white carpet, and it’d have remained white except being a comfortable place for dust and mites. Likewise, the scattered pages on my table need to be stained. Without a cut, I can’t stain those premium white pages t...

i’m between the page numbers 71 and 72 of the poetry book where you hid the red rose from your hot-headed brothers. funny, they never liked me. i’m the love letter that your mother torn into pieces. taping the torn pieces together, you kept it under your pillow. that night, you cried a lot, reading the taped page again and again. i was broken when I shattered the snow globe which you gave me on my 23rd birthday. i didn’t like you talking with other guys. i’m on the rusty bench of the park where you slapped me gently for not caring about us. i’m sorry for taking you for granted. i’m a soft kiss on your forehead that your lover gives you every night. i asked him not to break your heart as i did. *** buy my books on amazon -  redhya

i see my life confined to smoke rings, attempting to make a perfect one, dense and round, a bad trip consumes me one by one i start losing every sense of mine it begins since i can’t feel the roach between my fingers as though I were born with a cigarette between the index and middle dwelling inside my head, all of a sudden, voices from my past come alive sitting by myself in a room, i scream - stop screaming! i hear a voice, “these cracked walls have nothing to say.” my burnt lips taste like bitterness spread over frustration and restlessness. the room reeks of heaven and hell it smells like dead bodies burning and angels gyrating looking through white clouds, i see everything fading away the trip seizes my soul and drops me in a scary place where i find myself surrounded by the ghosts of my dead dreams *** buy my books on amazon -  redhya