Here goes my weird story 2016 edition:

So not long ago and for the first time in nearly ten years, we saw a mouse in our house, and my mother was completely frantic about it because she wouldn't even let a mosquito in. And I, as usual, didn't care about it at all.

As long as it didn't cross my path, I remained undisturbed and unbothered by the mayhem my mom was causing because of the mouse and of course, the other way around too.

But it wasn't until I saw the mouse in my room, near the window AC which is fitted just two feet above the ground. And mind you, during the winters we don't use the AC, so I found out that the mouse was practically living inside the AC, going in and out of a little hole by the side of the AC. And it can't possibly climb two feet up the ground so it would climb up the curtains and there it goes inside the AC.

Every day it would travel from the AC to my bookshelf, and from the bookshelf it would move out of the room. I had gotten so used to its routine that I knew what places it’s going to go to once it’s in my room. And my eyes would always follow it, distracting me from doing my work. 

But soon I got annoyed, as intriguing as it was to watch it move from place to place, the 4 A.M nocturnal behaviour of the mouse was definitely not music to my ears. And we did try to catch it, many times! And we did manage to get it out of the house, after chasing it in a locked room at midnight for about 2 hours with me going almost under the bed and my mother at the other end of the bed, with a broom in her hand. It went into the balcony.

We had an inkling that it could come back so I suggested an idea - to let it off of the balcony by using a broom. But then another thought followed the idea, of how it could possibly die by falling from the second floor, so I hurriedly shook the idea off my mind. 

And guess what? It came back in the morning by gnawing a little hole in the balcony door. After that drooping chase!

When my mother told me about it, I had already fallen on the bed with a huge sigh because I saw the mouse in my room that very morning, inside the temple which has been kept in my room. I've heard that mice are very territorial and like to claim certain areas as their own. In this case, unfortunately, it was my room.

"Holly Hell!"

"Hello!"

So, my mother finally having had enough of all this bought a glue mat to trap it. We had never used a glue mat before so didn't know exactly what it could do. We thought, with me knowing the mouse's routine, we could place the mat once it's in the room and when it would get onto the mat, it'd get stuck and then we can free it somewhere in the park. 

Patently, it came in the room again later that evening; I put the mat near my bedroom door, knowing it would again move out in seconds as I had pulled up the curtains so it could not go inside the AC. And exactly that happened; it started moving towards the mat.

It got stuck on the mat. But something unimaginable happened; it sorely got stuck in the glue and started making all kinds of noises. It could not move an inch and I started crying. We tried to get it off the mat but the glue was too strong for it. I thought it was going to die and I just couldn't stop crying at the sight of it struggling. My mother not being as helpless as me, took the mat outside, put a paper wherever the glue was so it would not get more stuck and then started pulling the mouse off of it by using a polythene bag and started removing the glue by using water. 

By the time she was done, I was in my room, upset and in tears. My mother came back and told me that she had freed the mouse and it was now in one of her plants, though in a fragile state. I didn't believe her. I thought she was just saying that to make me feel better. So she forced me to come out of my room and see for myself. And I did, I saw it picking up bread pieces just beside the plant, with the glue stuck on its hairs. It looked kind of funny, I felt guilty, for having put the mouse in that condition. 

But well, we thought that that was it, that it would not come in now. 

And I was pretty bummed for a very weird reason. I liked to chase it, and watch it move effortlessly in the house, slipping out of our fingers every goddamn time. I also named it - Chuhi. That's just something which came out of my mouth at some point during the chase. Very appropriate, I know. 

And I shared my feelings with my mother, she just laughed. She knows for how long I have been asking for a pet dog, especially after losing both of my dogs, Jimmy (4yrs) and Daisy (10yrs). Well that's another story. They were technically mine but we sent them off to my grandparents after they'd turned 2. So yes, I think she understood.

But guess what happened after two days? 

Yes. It was Chuhi, near the AC, in my room, in a very good condition indeed.  

My first reaction - Laughter (of joy!) 

My second reaction - Not you again!

We swore to never use the trap again; in fact, we thought about just letting it stay, they only live for two years anyway. 

And it was not because we were languid in our chasing but because we just didn’t want to trouble it anymore. But my mother said that she can't let that happen, she just found an unorthodox way. So once it was in my room again, near the bookshelf (from where it always followed one path to move out of the room) my mother got a garbage bag. I was sure she could not catch it, because there were a lot of times she let it slip away and when it was so easy to catch it! 

There stood my mother near the door with a garbage bag. There I was, urging the mouse to go towards it. And in a flick of a moment, swoosh- In the bag or not?

I had no idea where it went, but then we heard something move inside the garbage bag. 

My laughter- I couldn't believe it, after all this time...finally! Now we had to leave the mouse outside the house, I begged my mother for she had a weird notion that some bird will come and eat it once the mouse is outside the house. Thankfully I didn't have that thought so I urged her to leave it on the ground floor. I went with her and together we freed Chuhi on the ground floor, to become somebody else's trouble, probably. 

It's weird, I know. But life is so fragile, when you see someone or something struggling with it, you know for a fact that it is. But I'm glad that the mouse got its second chance.

Featured: http://blog.blogadda.com/2016/12/31/spicy-saturday-picks-poems-stories :)

About time, Dear Zindagi

I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda

Dear Zindagi, 

I know I haven't even reached a quarter of a century in age yet. But this I can say, it has been one hell of a ride. And this moment right now I have been compelled to look back on all those wonderful moments which you've given me, opportunities you've showered me with, kindness you’ve showed me and all the wonderful people you’ve had me come across. No matter how little or big the problems were and no matter how bad the times were, there was always something to be thankful for at the end of each day. 

It's difficult to comprehend all the little details of the concatenation of things which make me thankful. But it's deeply felt; the gratitude. You’re indecipherable yet simple; your intricacies enthral me every day. There must be some twisted logic behind all that follows a good day- that smile, the laughter, the wind, the dogs, the butterflies, the leaden sky, the shore, the eyes of your lover, the touch, soft bed-sheets, rain- which is never ending. I know it’s entirely arbitrary and this isn't even the apotheosis of you.

But I am thankful for all the sublime moments and I am thankful for all that you've taught me in my abject moments. As overwhelmed as I might have been, as "unlucky" and as deranged as I might have felt, I've always gathered the strength you've somehow instilled into me, to get back up to you again. And in those moments, I believe that I've lived you before I even existed. I guess such is your magic. To just know, when to do the right thing, when to escape from a dangerous place, when to say hello to someone, when to look in time to catch them looking at you, when to stop talking or when to go to loo. You’re an austere grandeur, unique in all your exquisiteness. Mine, yet connected to hundreds and hundreds to come.

And from being completely clueless and having no idea as to where you were “going”, to finding the patience to connect the dots, I’ve learnt to live you pristinely, genuinely. And now as I cascade though my elusive thoughts, I could almost discern a fact about you, a fact which always seemed to have whizzed past me in moments of utter confusion and indignation – that you were never complicated. That you were as easy to live as you were to rewind, that you were as chaotic as I made you out to be. So, I’m sorry. I’ve always had some twisted idea of perfection about you, that you should be orderly and neat, easy and sweet, all the time. But they say that you don’t come with instructions and that we’ve got to make our own. You’re laughing, right? I guess you must. You only know what sorts of instructions you’ve hidden in a cryptext somewhere.

But I love you. I love every little feeling, every blush and every touch, every dance and every song, and how you’ve managed to interconnect delicately and gradually, with everything and everyone. Remember, not even a quarter, but oh so many subtle and good times. And I don’t know which the right way to live is or if I’ll ever know or if there even exists a right way; but I know I’ll be as true to you as I possibly can, until the very last day you’re with me. The love I feel is strong, what I show to you is just a mere reflection of my exterior, so I’m sorry if I show too little and if I am dingy too often. And thank you for loving me right back, no matter what. 

Thank you. Love you.  

Yours truly

  Dear Zindagi Take 1: Life Is A Game | Teaser | Alia Bhatt, Shah Rukh Khan | Releasing Nov 25

Blue October

Still undecided. Still flailing, falling, hurting. Confusion. Iffy personality. Agitation. Thousand and one nightmares. Suddenly the water spills and everything you know of yourself to be true, disintegrates. Tears. Blood. Doubts. Everything shrunken. Unsettling. Every bad feeling seeps in, how, it always finds a way. Stupid. Dumb. Careless. Thoughts come and go, without any progress. Knowledge floats. Stammering, struggling to speak. Stupid. Back to being a child. Annoying, irritating, moody, crazy. Back to being an adult. Hate. Love. Disrespect. Judgment. Temporary happiness. Laughter hurts the ears, silence kills everything. Right. Wrong. Does it matter? They want to be right, you want them to be wrong. Fighting, fighting over things that don't matter, flipping out. Now its 3 A.M, you're fighting your trivial battles, making life seem like its less than what it really is, crying over spilled milk. Always. Just stop. Unloved. Unimportant. Unknown. Worthless. Graceless. Detached- now go, leave. Crawl. Walk. Run. Take off that pale blue gown, light a cigarette. So they say, there's fire at one end of the cigarette and fool at the other. You’re a fool, to have fought for nothing, to have lost everything; for nothing. Now you're running. For nothing. But to where? How can I help, when your mind refuses to see beyond the lies you've been told. I know it hurts, for everyone has got their own demon of destruction. But come out. Screaming. Crying. Bleeding. You're almost yourself. This isn't the end. This wasn't your only chance; for there isn't an end to possibilities in a universe so great and vast. 

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I probably read this question somewhere on the internet some time back and it hasn't left me ever since. I have an uncanny urge to ask this question outright to everyone I know, both young and old. Not that I am a purveyor of moral values or even consider myself to be one, it's probably an inexorable curiosity which seems to be reaching out for the past. Or maybe it's because I can probably guess at what the answers are going to be, so my cognition is abetted by my curiosity. I know grief when I see it; I feel it myself too, it deftly amalgamates into my subconscious, while happiness and love ooze out and rarely need explanation; grief always does.

And I know, every time I ask this question to you, you'd go back to that exact moment where you could've gathered a little more courage to dignify what you had back then, to have it now in all its glory. Mistakes. Regrets. You're always under the haunting shadow of them all. And you'd give anything to get rid of the reminder of it all which is your age. Rewind, pause, rectify and replay or perish. If only it didn't slip away. If only you were...Edward Cullen? Forever young. The mere thought of it is exhilarating, isn't it? But then your life would always be at stake (pun intended). 

We don't realize it often that what's passed is past. Moments come and go; all you can do is reflect upon them and keep on moving forward. And perhaps age is nothing but a number and all you ever do is stop, rewind and reflect. That's how I've always felt about it, age is a disconnection from all that I could be or could've been; a jagged edge to my otherwise unruffled exterior which cuts bits and pieces of me every time I go back. And then I have to hide the bleeding, hide the pain. It's self-annihilation at its best. But some people have the remarkable resilience to embrace age with grace, some whose point of view is anything but awry. 

So I probably can't answer this question astutely. I know I am a child if I claim to know everything but know nothing at all. I know I am mature if I am wise and have a high emotional intelligence to make life-changing decisions. And that's how I can be as old and as young as I want to be.

But still, tell me, I’m intrigued- How old would you be? Would you go back to being 5 and experience watching the rainbow for the first time? Because that’d be breathtaking. 

Flowers at the doorstep

 This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

“Tomorrow is your birthday, I am sure you have made a list of things you want, ranked by priority? Is it five pages long yet?” Chris said with a smile on his face, a genuinely amused one, it’s nothing rare for me as I’ve gotten used to it by now. Seeing him almost every day at work had brought us closer.

I wanted to roll my eyes at him or shake my head but ended up articulately staring at him, with a smile on my face, heart palpitating like a sleeping volcano, at the unexplored possibilities, at the percolating realizations. Anything I might have wanted- a new dress, an iPod or art supplies even - seemed to be vacuous. I’ve far long stopped caring about the materialistic things, they were nothing compared to the one thing I wanted the most.

“No,” I said. “There isn’t any list.”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head, his hair falling on his eyes, dishevelled as always. Also, he had a habit of running his hands through his hair every now and then, making them more messy. His hair was black, like mine, but not nearly as light. Mine looked brown at times. He runs his fingers through his hair, only to have them fall on his forehead again.

“There must be something you really want; otherwise it’s going to be a boring birthday.”

If he knew nearly as much as I knew, it would have been a different conversation. But if there is one thing, it’d be the freedom; freedom to love who I wanted and freedom to make my own choices.

“Let it be.” I said instead.

He stayed silent, studying me like he was trying to remember something, trying to find something; I tried not to give myself away and started working instead. I was aware that he was looking at me still and I know before he stops looking, he’ll shake his head, laugh through his nose and get back to his work.

It was why we connected the way we did, in spite of the five-year gap in our ages. I’d fallen for him last December. It has been a year. I met him during one of the coffee breaks which I took that day. I’d never seen him in the office before; he was in the canteen, running towards his colleagues when the Marlboro pack fell out of his pants. I almost didn’t care, but something unusual caught my attention and I had to pick up the Marlboro pack. There was a note attached to it which said: 'You know you want it, Chris'. And I don’t know if he was trying to stop smoking or trying to kill himself. It amused me and I went up to him to return the pack, attached a note to it which said: 'Why would you drop me? Don’t you want me now?' Humph. The rest is history.

“I know that every girl has a predilection for flowers, you need not hide it.” He said

“Don’t you have work, Mr. Sexist?” I said without glancing at him.

In a not-so-obvious way to change the subject, he said “Need to make a call, don’t miss me.” I rolled my eyes at him.

At almost seven in the evening, we left the office. I reached my flat in about twenty minutes. Surprised at what my eyes were seeing. Because at the doorstep, were roses. I hastened to pick them up, they were beautiful, immaculate red colour glittered under the yellow light, the smell was intoxicating. There was a note attached to them, I opened it up and read it aloud: See, girls do have a predilection for flowers.

Credits: Google.

I laughed, looked around me to make sure no one was there to catch me smiling like a fool or to point out how red my cheeks have had become. Fool. He is. And here is another sublime moment to cherish, I may have never had a predilection for flowers before but I certainly do now. 

Best friends forever?

“How would you like your coffee, ma’am?” the dreary waiter asked.

“Hot.” She replies without paying attention to his face.

But she likes the coffee cold. In fact, her favourite coffee is the Devil’s Own with Vanilla Ice-cream on top.  Somehow it’s not a great day for her to be indulging in something that she loves and every choice she makes today would be a forlorn attempt to escape that. It’s going to be hard for her to be herself today, she thinks. And to aggravate her misery, a hot coffee sits right in front of her. She picks it up and dejectedly takes a sip; just then a haze of steam covers her spectacles. She laughs, shaking her head, remembering the time when a certain someone laughed at the same site like a little child.

Somebody she used to know, in fact, still knows. But she also knows where the reality lies, nobody ever stays the same. Even though you might have known a person dearest to you for years, suddenly they change, suddenly there’s a void, between you and them and it’s like you don’t know them anymore. Maybe time sweeps them away from you, maybe distance doesn’t necessarily strengthen bonds or maybe some friendships aren’t supposed to last long.

                          Cause nothing lasts forever and we both know hearts can change.

Skullcandy banging in her ears, she wallows in a misery so tenacious that she knows will grow into something splendid as the day advanced, to lift off the penumbra of confusion, to reveal the shame. After all, she was the one who let go; the one who relinquished. In retrospect, it was a bond which would’ve kept on blossoming with love, unbroken and enigmatic, emancipated and glorious. A bond which would’ve reminded the world of its voracity, mend the broken bones of the damaged soul, revive memories of lost love, eradicate the abject misery from the minds of young and give hope to the bodies which have been famished into despondency.

But the conversations started to wane, the charm lifted off and the bond broke from places which undermined the impertinence, held her back from being the happiest girl and relegated her to her worst. Maybe it was all a matter of losing interest. She still wonders why she could never bring herself to share the most exciting happenings of the day with her best friend and more so, how she was always scared to talk to her when she was happy. It seemed to her, that her best friend wasn’t interested anymore. And soon, she could say the same for herself.

She’d be incandescent, she felt lonely and belittled. She knew that it has started to fall apart. Broken beyond repair now, fallen into decrepitude, gracelessly, ahead of its time. And if the bond persists for any longer, it’ll become the cause of annihilation of two beautiful souls. Forever had come to end.

And it was a million times worse than any of her break-ups in the past, letting go of a best friend, the other half of a complete idiot, a soul sister. Now what is left is the plethora of bittersweet memories, laughter, jokes, photographs, letters, gifts and old messages. Her best friend had defined her and will never cease to do so. Maybe that is why they call it what they call it, BFF. Maybe they’ll meet halfway, on their way back home. But for now, it has come to an end, no more walking in the dark.

She sighs in relief as she takes the last sip of her coffee. Steps out of the cafe, the sun is indifferent towards her and shines like it would on any other hot afternoon. The world doesn’t stop. Because the world doesn’t know that a best friend has been lost.

FUCKWITTAGE!

It makes me wonder if I really have reached the culmination of singleton or if I really should start counting my calorie intake or start smoking 28 cigarettes a day.

Have I been fraudulently flirted with? Yes.

Have I psychopathically stared at my phone and waited for it to ring? Yes.

Have I been barraged with questions on my singleton? Hell yes.

Ah, but I’m not thirty. I don’t even have a boss who is unnervingly sexy or is fraudulently flirting with me over the telephone. I don’t need to worry about my social network which consists of merely six people. Bridget has set the record and I mustn’t break it. But I do wonder, when I am thirty, will I fancy my singleton the way I do now? Will I be able to survive without silk cut or without turning my blood into alcohol every time things went haywire?  Will I be obsessed about my weight and worry incessantly about a man!?

I’ll probably be a diffident thirty something who survives on a platonic friendship and fruits and hopefully is too much of a health/fitness freak to smoke a fag and die of a spasmodic cough by choking up on her own saliva. The obscure reality of the thirties is still very attainable, which makes the whole thing much scarier. It’s the reality of dealing with a fuckwittage or becoming one, which is worse.  It’s the reality of dragging your arse to boring and over-frenzied office parties and having to go though the complexity of choosing an outfit which makes you look like a floating angel. It’s the reality of rolling your eyes at the man who called you frigid and malign and old, because it just warms the cockles of your heart. It’s the reality of falling over and over again for a man who’s a tease (I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.). It’s the reality of your friends slinking off the minute you’re crestfallen. It’s the reality where you’re merely an achiever in a family full of over-achievers or vice-versa. And it’s the reality where your relatives and family friends just cannot give you a fucking break.

What’s good?

The good is that the good always stays the same. No matter what age you are.

The heart gives the same lurch whenever you fall for someone new. The Ice-creams never seem to go out of style for late-night trysts. Your girlfriends are always by your side, it’s the same old jokes, the same old laugh. It’s the same old theory and the same old list of reasons about why you’re still single. It’s the same old happy single time being enjoyed over a glass of red wine but now you just have to hold your breath because your friend is lighting a fag. And you’re still preserving the self-annihilating habits. Well, so far so good. That’s not my thirties talking anyway, or is it?

Picked for "Tangy Tuesday Picks" by BlogAdda: http://blog.blogadda.com/2016/08/30/tangy-tuesday-picks-august-30-2016-best-creative-stories-by-indian-bloggers :) 

Almost

Oh, the insolent voice in me cries. The cruelty oozes out and everything I touch miserably dies, turns to dust. A silent wind blows, an implacable evocation proliferates. The eyes they search, for love, in the tumult of lies, in the desolate abode of past lovers. The heart flounders in the ocean of possibilities, the mind remains indignant at the uncertainty. Lies. A Long lost autumnal passion, now an evanescent memory. Now an impudent unreality masks an elusive reality, a reality which is vulnerable to the past, incongruent with the present, with itself. A stagnant confidence crumbles and obliterates at one touch, one touch to the heart. The body slumps and falls numb, easy to break now. A languid cadence fills the space; the cronies recite the poetry on the intransigent woman with a heart of gold, stuck in the labyrinth of her contradicting reality, furiously confused and timid. Lies, again. Indignation grows. The body twists and turns, tears they fall on the floor, enchant the abode with their purity. There’s the reality, in hurt, in tribulations. There’re the cronies, there’s that one person, but not in reality. They welcome you and love you, in the pestilential unreality, in the universe of nostalgia, in corruption and in lies.

But there’s the enchanted reality, beyond the bounds of possibilities and memories, in hurt, in instant happiness, in rain and under the scorching sun. In reality, the trembling confidence tardily grows without ever being pointed out or scolded. It grows, with the truest of souls. And a touch to the face would placate the indignation forever as reality discerns itself from unreality.

But almost, a hand reaches out to the face. Almost. And I’m by myself, in my enchanting reality, forever. 

Pulchritude

Fire, lights, moon, stars, sun, sky, mountains, breeze, roads and an unbridled lust to stay a hundred more days in a place where the mind ripens and the eyes rejoice at the site of the dawning sun every morning! 

Lights in the room where I stayed. 

Rain: Harbinger of a better tomorrow

The sky painted itself in a shimmering silver colour today. It was beautiful. The trees moved in a funny way too. It had to be the calm wind which blew through them. I enjoyed how everything looked sparkling and new and how sudden the transformation had been. The shiny crystals fell like shards of glass from the skies.

All of it achingly reminded me of the place I’d just left. Suddenly, I’m guilty of having left it. The rain flares up memories which burned in my mind for too long, long enough to make me realize just how foolishly brave I was. Fool.  

And suddenly I miss it all just a little too much. I miss those walks at night. I miss the sudden plans. I miss travelling in local trains. I miss the coffee and the chai. I miss the knock at the door. I miss the garden. I miss the Nescafe station. I miss the cats. I miss the laughter. I miss the tears. I miss the races. I miss the sleepy mornings.  I miss the sweaty afternoons. I miss the pavement. I miss the staircase. I miss the dates in CCD. I miss the dates in McD.

And the worst part about it all is not the pain or the suffering, but the emptiness; an emptiness which keeps on getting bigger with every person who asks me to let go of what I’m holding onto because then it makes me realize that they’re asking me to let go of something which at the end of the day, defines me. After all, it’s easy to move on and let go. And whatever happens happens for a reason. It's what I've always been told. But isn't it obvious? Life is all about connections. When one thing happens, good or bad, it's followed by another set of things which instantly makes you connect it to what happened right before. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you have or that you must forget. Forgetfulness is addictive. I don’t want to forget, neither do I want to regret. I want to cherish, with all that I am and all that I could be. 

Oh I am just selfish today. Maybe it’s the rain. Because I wanted to sit under the bubbling water and play with the air around it. Thinking if I sat under it, it’d change me too. Like the sky. Change my colours, maybe. Paint me in its enchanting silver-ness, even if it’s just for a jiffy. Thinking I’d experience the same calm underneath when a million thoughts ran inside my mind, my body, chained in my memories, but only if those chains were replaced by threads of raindrops, soft on my skin, mixed with the saltiness from my tears, faintly holding my memories together for me.

And just like that, whenever it may rain, I’ll remember and I’ll cherish the memories, wear them proudly, maybe without an ache in my heart. Just maybe.

Disconnectedly disconnecting to connect again

I wouldn't blame myself for being taciturn but I rarely pick up the phone when it rings, sometimes I leave it on silent so that I'm not aware of it ringing, I'm not guilty, I'm free.

At times I do the same with texts, see the preview of it and leave it at that. Get rid of the notification, even if it is from a certain someone that I love. Then tell them that I’ve been out and that I’ll call as soon as I can. (When I’m ready to?)  

It’s not that I want to ignore the person because I can’t. I wouldn’t label myself as an ignorant person, for the most part. And it’s not that I don’t want to talk to them either. It’s not as if I’m too busy to talk to them yet I’m hesitant to get into a conversation.

I might be an introverted extrovert, reluctant and self-centred. I might make other people suffer with my mood swings. And they do suffer as a multitude of texts reach them when I’m happy, late night prank calls and my uncontrollable laughter helps me gain an image of an evil mortal. Though at other times when I’m over my head, I simply can’t bring myself to connect with anyone. The world outside of my own seems unbearable. Heavy. Almost wishing I didn’t have to talk to anyone at all, explain myself or ping them up with the bullshit I make up in my head.

It’s a strange contradiction, a two sided story, an irony, a misunderstanding. Where I may not want to bother someone when I’m down, the other person might get offended. Where I just can’t seem to explain to them how nothing is wrong but how everything is. Where I’m afraid I’ll be asked to get over it when I’m just not ready. Where I can’t bring myself to be involved in someone else’s happiness, the achievements they’re telling me about. I almost feel unworthy and unmerited for such tête-à-tête.

Most of the times it’s me spending an inordinate amount of time being alone, spending more time in taking a bath than usual, cancelling the incipient plans and those dinner dates just so I could be alone and watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Go to the coffee shop alone, with just a book in hand, never feeling the need to invite a friend. Ignoring the first knock at the door and timorously hoping there isn’t a second knock. On seeing an acquaintance in a crowd I turn around to change my direction, just so I could avoid small talk. It makes me sick now that I acknowledge how cowardly and self-centred I am. But I’ve unwholesomely gotten used to it, thinking of time as a precious commodity that I’ll ever own. So here I am, avoiding the outpour of emotions from a different being other than me, avoiding the misunderstandings, avoiding the heartaches, avoiding the 20 questions, avoiding the awkward silence between conversations, avoiding the unfriendliness, avoiding the tension of whether they like me or not, avoiding the hate and avoiding the loss.

I do close my eyes for a minute when my phone illuminates with a new text, a call or an invitation. There’s a risk I don’t take. There’re the messages I don’t choose to read. I simply wait for the screen to darken. I play it safe. I play it dumb.

But then I open my eyes, thinking why someone would ever want to talk with me, share with me, their sorrows and happiness, their achievements and failures. And the way they’d laugh with me on the silliest things. Thinking why I’d over think such an innocent connection to ever exist. And when at times I’m downhearted, a text from them is the only thing which lifts up my soul. Makes me crack up and shake my head at how utterly insane they are and how utterly lucky I’m to have them in my life. And when I talk with them, I never want the conversations to end. And how stumbling upon them in a coffee shop turned out to be the best thing to have happened to me that day.

I do worry though, about the transience of what exists in form and shape, scared of referring to someone as somebody that I used to know, scared of the everlasting connection, scared of the memories, scared of love so I'm always seeking for a forever in the brevity of a moment. (How selfish, yet again.) And at 2 A.M, more awake than asleep, the question lingers in my mind – Is it worth the risk? I guess I’ll know with time, as I disclose my feelings, feel the frown turn upside down as my phone illuminates and feel the smoothness of the screen upon my fingers as I reply. Feel the warmth radiated from the phone as I talk to them. Feel guiltless when my phone goes untouched for days and ecstatic when I still find them at the other end of the phone. For those people, I surely think it’s worth the risk.

Ineluctable facts of my life

The feelings have percolated to the surface. Here I am, face to face with the ineluctable facts about myself which I’ve refrained from acknowledging hitherto, for the fear of being too much or being too little.

I am an unpredictable person with different sides. It’s always an inadvertent revelation. What is it going to be? Which side of me are you going to see?

Most of the people believe that I am always chirpy, gloomy, incredibly shy and lost. They know me as the girl who gives evasive answers or someone who doesn’t answer at all, who is scared and light-hearted, doesn’t get attached to anyone and shrugs, feigning indifference. I seem to have a personality which can be easily defined in the first meeting if there's never a second meeting and I am almost never taken seriously.

These are the labels which have been put on me but they have only hindered my approach at other things in life, at other labels. And I’ve accepted them as the harsh reality of my life, never raising my hand to question them but nodding whenever someone told me who I am. And not correcting them was the only thing which oddly invigorated me, gave me a sense of superiority over them.

But it’s true that I am a capricious being where the real me continually vacillates between the several different sides of my being and cannot handle not being taken seriously. I fall from grace with a loud thud and I take pleasure in depriving myself of happiness but overburden myself with it at other times. I make audacious attempts and I am courageous enough to start all over again at any point of time in life and dedicated enough to keep on going even after being told it’s not worth it. I am crazy, reckless, and indecisive. I'll love you and I'll hate you at the same time. I am North and South in one. I am the monsoon and the drought, all in one. I am not renowned for my loquacity but sit with me over for a third cup of coffee and I’ll tell you. I wallow in silence but also know how to pull myself out of it.

There are layers which are slowly peeled off with time, by those who are willing to do so. And I am aware of how some people may dislike me because of these baffling sides of me, people who’ll end up defining me with different adjectives. 

I wish I could bring out the real me, utter my real feelings as instantly as I was put face to face with someone. But most of the conversations happen inside my brain, with the real me. Who is witty and charming, caring and comprehends every sentence said to her. I try though, but she just shrivels back inside when showed the slightest of movement from the other side, never persists but leaves me striving for it. 

Only if there weren’t any people around or if there was only that one person around, she would break free and see the world herself, as she wants to see it and free from any sort of labels. 

Venice of the East

Nature

A memory which still remains vivid inside my heart

I've been told that I walk with an expression on my face which expresses precisely nothing and I couldn’t agree more. I wear an expression on my face which only accentuates my inner void, hiding my lucid flow of thoughts. I tend to cut through the razor sharp gaze of people with grace, something that I’d honed for myself, over the past few years. I choose to roam the most loneliest and scenic roads where the trees usually catch my undivided attention, as I am deluged by the beauty of things which live without words. Fearlessly existing, growing, in a world full of preconceived notions where wisdom is just fidelity on paper.

I have found a companion in nature and I have bared my all to it. I could be whoever I wanted to be in its presence. Also, in a way it was my solitude which became my companion in the vast presence of nature. It sounds utterly imbecile, right? I guess it is. But it’s only then did I realise, how small I really am, just existing as a mere collection of paradoxes in the transience of life. It was the realization which only invigorated me and however trivial and alone I had ever felt in a room full of people, nature always made me feel like a queen who was worthy of its every leaf and every drop of rain, so I connected to its unspoken words and drifted away from those who couldn’t understand it. Partly because I was of the ‘nature’ people didn’t understand, so how would they understand the nature? They couldn’t understand the silence but were confident in their convictions about what I do and what I am. Even though I did meet a few people along the way, people who surprised me, so I tried connecting with them. I took a few steps into their world before I let them come into mine, shared a thought or two, let the minds collide carelessly. But then I always found myself taking two steps back into my own cosy void. I guess I am too scared, too scared of something so ephemeral, unlike my own conscientiousness and nature. 

Home

I grew up in a small house, in the middle of a market brimming with people and set in a street surrounded by other age old houses and flats. The ground floor is isolated except the corner of it is occupied by a shrine, whereas the first floor is occupied by my Uncle, Aunt and their two kids. And a terrace full of memories, where the rays of the moon would always seem to reach profoundly, makes a well roof for the house.  

I visit the house for the first time in a very long time, climb up the stairs with an ache in my bones, afraid of what my eyes will perceive and feel the fear creep in my veins which I thought only lived in some remote part of my brain. Held on to the railing for my dear life, only to be reminded of the time I slipped on them. The fear and trepidation kept growing upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to the door. The same door which was banged uncountable times now stands more ragged as ever.

Surprisingly, as I enter the door, It was not the terror which crept upon me but the dawn of a more exciting hope which engulfed me and I began to watch with a strange interest, myself. I saw myself playing in the hallway, screaming, crying and laughing, picking myself up from the ground and brushing off the dust from my frock, the same frock worn every third day, torn and stitched and torn again. I would move from one place to the other, picking up one thing and dropping the other. And as adventurous as I believed myself to be, I'd climb up the terrace in search for treasures. I'd always find a pebble or a paper and sometimes if I was lucky, I'd find a kite. At times I’d bring my tricycle and ride it. 

The further I step inside the house, the further I connect with myself. The emotions I seemed to have forgotten were now bared to a place where I first felt them. I felt love, for the ones who carried me when I was hurt. I felt hatred, for the ones who scared me at night. I felt jealousy, of the ones who were loved more than me. I felt hurt, when I lost a loved one. I felt anger, of a murder done in the park in front of the house. I felt scared, of the witches who ran in the streets at night. I felt anguish, when we had to leave it. And I knew what nostalgia was when I came back to it again. 

I came back to it again for the sole purpose of recollecting the pieces I’d left there, pieces of me. I came back for the memories. Now if someday that house turns to rubble or is washed away by the rains, I'd still be overwhelmed with the same emotions because nothing can wash away the intangibility of it. I'd know when I stand there, that this is the place where I have known courage, hurt and betrayal. This is the place where I have been nurtured, a land I have been rooted to. This is my place, my memory. This is my home.

What my teenage soul would say to me now

“Laugh a little quietly.” My irrefutable father would say to me and my cousin as we would frolic in the backseat of the car, laughing, looking at each other's faces. We were seven and everything was funny to us back then, the way our parents talked, the way people walked with their stern faces and suitcases in hand, the way the wind blew the hair in our faces and the times while playing cricket, I would always lose the ball by hitting it far off into the nowhere lands of our neighbors. Well, not so funny to the brothers playing with us but still.

I was thirteen and would visit my grandmother quite a lot of times in a year. It was my happy place. A place where you could clearly see the stars at night, hear the birds chirping at dawn, the wolves howling at night and watch as the emulating fireflies flutter up towards the sky, to compete with the stars.

I was fourteen, needless to say, I loved exploring. Me and my cousins would run off into the fields, watch the scarecrows scare the crows away, watch the people bathe in the cold water that came directly from the wells then curiously enter the well house to stare down the dark abyss and take a step back, just in case.

“Smile, Laugh more. Go out” My father says to me now.

Over the years a lot has happened and a lot has changed. I've been blessed with the gift of a wonderful life but overwhelmed with it at the same time. I've always narrowly tried to keep up with its fast pace, stumbling my way into its new challenges every now and then. And I wonder, what would that little girl say to me now?

She would say:

When you’re a teenager, a lot of people would call you a rebel if you told them that you love to travel and explore. They’d ask you to grow the fuck up, to stop playing with water, to stop laughing too hard, to stop running and start walking lightly on the ground.

They’ll throw words like ‘Indecent’, ‘Immoral’ and ‘Invincible’ at you. What a shame they’d say. When you’re fifteen, you’ll have problems you won’t be able to share and things you won’t be able to say because of how the society perceives it. 

And Reading books is a waste of time and playing guitar is just a hobby. Keep that in mind.

They’ll throw a big word called ‘career’ at you. And for some time you’ll juggle with it, not knowing what to do with it, but eventually you’ll be able to handle it. There will be a lot of people to help you through it with IQ tests, Aptitude tests, Creative ability tests and all, what’ll then generate a list of careers you could go for.

There’ll be times when you’ll fail. Fail your parents. Get rejected by the colleges. Fail an exam. And you’ll cry but you’ll get over it, eventually.

So, you hang on.

What I would say to my teenage soul now

I would ask my teenage soul to laugh as loudly as possible, to think as wisely as possible. If you make mistakes, do not be disheartened and do not drown in a pool of guilt of what could have been and how differently you could've approached the problems because there is only so much damage you can manage to control when you’re small and your hands reach out only as far as to those few people who are willing to take it. Do not abstain from life when you’re let down by it. Discover what your talents are, what your obsessions are, what drives you and what brings you down. There's no amount of IQ tests out there which could tell you what you feel in your heart about a subject, how your fingers stumble upon all the right words that you need to write for your history paper or how prodigiously you figured out all the notes played in the song you just heard.

Don’t beat yourself up, there’s someone out there whose happiness depends on your happiness. Do not wish to have known the person special to you when you needed them the most and how things would have been different if they were there. Be thankful that you know them and how they've made things better and different for you. Remember, wishful thinking is alluring but it’s also a stairway which knows no end and when you’re tired, it’s already a long way from the bottom to reach back to the realities of your life: the present.

Be passionate about what you do, don’t let the need to beat others override your passion to actually be better at it than you were yesterday. Change takes time but it happens as it is not an event but a process. You have to allow yourself to witness the process and not be embarrassed by it, and when someone else changes, for good or for bad, be willing to accept it. But take your time. Speak up, your discernment matters. If it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. But if it does, you've invited other peoples universes to collide with yours. You might spark a fire for a new discussion, you might learn something you've never known and believe me there is no end to the knowledge that you could gain by simply communicating with the mind of the intellect.

Open your heart and mind to new possibilities every day, good or bad. Seek the path to growth by welcoming new adventures, new relationships and places. Let go of any expectations you or anyone else have of you. Develop your powers of concentration, empathy and humility. Your time is too precious for you to indulge in meaningless activities where your mind doesn't grow and life becomes stagnant, your time is too precious to give it to someone. So, choose wisely.

And I probably can’t stress enough on how vital it is to read and to read right. Reading books is not a waste of time but a better fuel to the brain than most people choose to use. Reading might be for escapism but it does not mean you’re actually escaping from your life because you’re not happy about it; you’re escaping because you’re here and there’s a whole Universe out there waiting to be explored. You read because that is the only place where you can’t argue with someone to do things your way or have things done their way. The characters will die, fall in love with wrong people and you won’t be able to do anything about it (kind of like real life). There is something shattering and overwhelming about the restrictions of a story, to know the tragedy, to find yourself connecting with a stranger that it feels like you've known them all your life but you’ll never meet them, to find solace in their words. So, read. And read right.

I am writing this because it's my last year as a teenager and I am allowed a little nostalgia.

I am writing this to my past self yet at the same time starting over with my present self as I find myself culpable for not having known better. I know I am contradicting myself when i say to her, not to drown in the guilt of what could have been but I am not drowning, no, not yet. I am learning to swim, finding serenity in my sins.

This is an ode to my future self. I am starting over, I am starting right now. I am reading again, learning the big words to scare the demons away.

(P.S Guitar is not just a hobby, so play it till your fingers bleed.)

She does know

What is it like to be in love with him? She asked

It’s like being connected to a future which is only possible if the present were not present. Possible only if reality separated itself from what is real; from the present. And one of the many inevitable facts of life is learning that past, present and future are inseparable. The present merely stands on the hopes of the future and exists on the learning’s of the past: the atonements, failures you overcame and achievements you made. Past is the one that you’re drawn to every millisecond, and if you’re lucky, it’s only the good and the bad which reminds you of it and looking back on it, you're met with a thousand different ways you could've ended something or begun something beautiful. 

But coming back to the question, it’s a song which never knows its ending.

It’s the fingers trembling over the guitar when you first start learning it. In the beginning, the chord is strummed harder than you intentionally want to strum it and every note is held tightly until your fingers start to hurt, your hand is stiff, the plectrum is held tightly, you’re struggling and there is only noise to be heard. When you’re not a beginner anymore, the chord is strummed softly and you can hear every note and it sounds beautiful. Your right hand loosens up, it becomes acclimatized to the plectrum and your left hand becomes acclimatized to the fret board.

But why am I comparing Love to learning the Guitar? Because it is so much similar to it, as in the beginning, you’re not sure how to handle it; you’re not even sure about what it is, so you wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re afraid if you don’t hold onto it tightly, the feeling could go away and you might lose all the desire. But when things start getting clearer and you know what it is, you hold onto it faintly, otherwise, you might destroy it (Broken strings, anyone?).

It’s constantly searching the eyes, looking for some kind of revelation. And you stay submerged in them for a while, but the answers never surface the eyes.

It’s like living in a country you don’t know the language of. It’s that eloquent word which you never use in a conversation, because you never get the opportunity.

It’s as if you’ve been given your favourite book to read for one and the last time. So you read between the lines, you hang on to every word and memorize your favourite quotes and before finishing it, you take your time. You take all the time you need. And when you do finish it, you know for a fact that you can’t ever read it again or touch it again. All you have of it is all you’ll ever have of it. The words engraved in your skin, the smell of it at the tip of your nose, the texture of it felt at your fingertips, you have whatever you could take from it but you’ll never have the real thing.

What’s felt in the heart can’t be fathomed into words really. Only if I could somehow show how I feel, you know, like trap my every sensation and every glance I steal in the direction of it, a place where the butterflies like to flutter their wings to.

Like the air, I can only feel it. I can’t touch it.

It’s the dark fervour of a stormy night; it’s the colourful and ceremonious validation of the flowers during spring time.

It’s affection on Monday, confusion on Tuesday, love on Wednesday, hatred on Thursday, hope on Friday, love on Saturday, and confusion on Sunday all over again. It is all or nothing; really, it is a hundred different feelings on Tuesday and emptiness on Thursday. But I know it’s not going anywhere because the feelings keep coming back to me like a Boomerang, felt harder than it did the last time it hit me.

But people fall in love with people they can’t have, all the time. She said

I know.