I fell down a rabbit hole, 

My long dress barely fit inside the small abode,

My giant head hit the ceiling and bruised,

I cried for some time as I was utterly confused.

My eyes darted towards a weird marshmallow,

So tiny it was, the place suddenly felt so shallow 

But I ate it all anyway,

And I shrank in size of a tiny doorway!

I opened the door to a weird blue room,

There were books all around, surrounded by a ghostly gloom

Oh what have I ever done to end up here?

This must be a nightmare; he must wake me up now, my dear!

Two years passed, Mad Hatter never came,

I was stuck inside a hell hole, a world so mundane.

I read all the books that surrounded me 

And watched the warrior within die inside of me

This wasn't meant to be; I'm supposed to be a fighter,

I was shown my own destiny but here I am; writing on this electric typewriter.

The Red Queen must be laughing, looking down at me

She must know that I too am laughing, at my antithetical destiny

I am lost, I really am, and there's no Cheshire Cat to turn to

Because here it does matter which road to take, 

Even when you don't know where to go to

I hate how the rain soaks my clothes; I hate the sound of thunder

Why in the world am I here, I'm forever left to wonder.

The Mad Hatter never came and that’s how the story goes,

But Alice still hopes to see her Wonderland once again and she will – this her inward spirit knows. 

Psychology 101

I've learned that it is easy to blame other people, especially in times when we are displeased. So we cover up our mistakes (which could’ve been avoided) and cover up the poor judgment on our part by using anger as a defence mechanism; victimizing ourselves to the point where we feel attacked by the other person.

You feel indignant, distraught, disrespected and even assaulted, so you sulk. But in the moment you want anything but to feel helpless and guilty, so you react fervently by screaming and shouting; blaming the other person. And it does not resolve anything, neither does it diminish anything, it only escalates the problem so that it can be picked up from where it was left off. The cycle goes on.

It is terribly unfair you'll say, that you don't deserve the criticism - this is how you cover up, so that you can feel less bad about yourself. Indignation masks your reality so that helplessness can't take its toll on you.

Safeguarding your fragile emotions under your veil of anger is easy and it seems like the only choice, by habit, because such delicate emotions are not easy to bear.

To admit to these emotions might be difficult, especially when your ego doesn't allow you to do so, which makes confessing hard as it requires you to unmask your anger and hence become vulnerable - guilty, helpless, and unwise - which requires a very strong ego and a good understanding of your emotions.

And yet this is not exactly the talk of a conflict, not exactly. It is probably the kind of conflict where only one person has to face the blame to resolve the conflict, meaning that he has to admit to his mistakes. But since he doesn’t, he ends up in a real conflict.

Another kind of conflict is the one which is abetted by beliefs, something which can’t be avoided. It is a clash between indigenous beliefs and values which I, for a fact, never held so dearly to my heart, in fact, not at all. 

So to speak, the latter is the one I get into the most. More often than I would like to admit. It has been the case since childhood.

And at times I find myself just out of my depth because I know that only a negotiation or a compromise can resolve such conflict. And I can compromise too, but up to what degree, I do not know.

But I find this to be utterly unfair. Only because I am battling against something that I didn’t even choose, I’m being hurt over something I don’t want to associate myself with and yet I can’t be left without.

I find myself to be vulnerable. Tears they come so easily! And I am a so called “strong woman”.

Still I’m trying to understand the logic behind this horrible loop of conflicts for my beliefs and my way of life - where I consider myself a person with strong morals.

I wonder, when no solution can be dictated, and negotiation becomes a necessity, who shall incur the most loss?

La montagne de l'âme.

I want to walk again, barefoot, on wet stones, see them glisten under the heat of the sun and watch them go glassy as it drizzles. I want to feel the wind in my hair, feel the rain on my cheeks, and feel the tenderness, the warmth come upon me imperceptibly slowly. There won't be no rush, no anxiousness, I know that the world will be out of my reach as red, blue, orange and green cloud my mind, yet it will be at my disposal. I want to watch my dreams and aspirations extend without them becoming distant, I want all profound and pointless questions to leave me, as if they never existed before. I want to try and reach for that child in me, for clarity, for honesty and for purity. 

 The child in me is swaying in the breeze,

For her the skies stay forevermore out of reach.

She is gazing into the realm of mountains,

The distance to which she soon starts counting.

She sat herself on a big wet rock,

Not caring a bit about her frail blue frock.

She smiles and rests her chin in her hands,

She sighs and talks to the birds about her plans.

The pink parasol lies beside her,

It's the most cherished present given to her by her mother

She then remembers her face and remembers why she ran away

It's because her irrefutable father asked her not to laugh so loud, ever again! 

She frowns, picks up a stone and throws it in the river,

If only she was big enough, she'd stay gone forever. 

She'd stay beside the mountains and beside the river,

She'd laugh however and dance whenever.

"But only if I was big enough, I'd stay here forever." She mumbles and falls asleep on the big wet rock. 

I yearn for that child in me, who once sat beside the river. I yearn for the girl who knew nothing about indifference, who got piqued by others asking her to grow up. And I wish I didn't listen to them, I wish I didn't grow so old with them so young.

Here people are standing in their balconies, enjoying the rains. That's as far as anyone seems to get in these "metropolitan cities" and I am no different than them. The weather's dark, the wind is making the leaves dance, mocking our languid posture. And all I can think about is the mountain of my soul, all I want is this surge of sustained noise to die down and the smell of wet soil to permeate my very heart, so that it pushes me towards a totality of innocence, towards that laugh which knew no boundaries, towards that senselessness which never separated itself from others no matter how condescending they got and towards those glowing cheeks on which even my tears smiled. 

Shift + Delete.

Delete.Delete.Delete. Delete.

Delete the thousand grumpy pictures, and the thousand happy ones

Forget the promises, forget the one

Take off your thick framed glasses, come undone

Blurred visions- Trepidations –Twisted tongue

Concentrate. Don’t extrapolate.

The phone call, the mail, the messages – all yet to be erased

The pink perfume bottle - yet to be emptied

And the strawberry scent- yet to be wiped off.

Delete.Delete.Delete.

Ring.Ring.Ring.

Stop psychoanalysing everything!

Missed call – now it flashes in red

Now the anxiety! Now the dreading! What if the phone screams again?

Delete.Delete.Delete.

I can pretend that it never existed, to lessen the pain

I can pretend to be an amateur at this game.

Pretend.Pretend.Pretend.

Pretend not to care, pretend that it’ll be alright, and pretend to be stone cold

But still shiver every time it touches my soul.

I pick up the phone, 15 seconds - I regret, I cherish, I love.

Bad.Bad.Bad.

Connecting the dots again- the hugs and kisses, the laughter, the cheery gullible fool and the guilt!

Delete again. But it all goes down the memory chute!

It isn’t Shift + Delete after all.

Intermittently deleting equals permanently saving which equals memories which equals emotions.

Just what I was afraid of!

I wish I could do Shift + Delete – to some instance at least

The murky details, the goodbyes or the guilt

But it all goes down the memory chute, again and again.

A hush falls,

The choice is still the same – to pretend at this very fine game. 

Silence...

Certain words created a certain kind of silence. Certain innocuous sentences sometimes drove the conversation into a cul-de-sac, where there’s no way to carry the conversation forward and no way to rewind the conversation after it had run into that ditch. That much is the weight of those certain words. But as long as silence persists, even when there’s cessation of complete attention, that which is unspeakable still finds a way to be communicated.

All it needs is a sign.

A whole different world can be created in the ocean of silence, as long as it is left unexplained, because that is what makes it so unique, a different song for every set of ears, where different possibilities environ what may, sometimes, seem like the fact. 

Its incomprehensibility is fascinating. It's fascinating how revealing silence can be, how heavy some words can seem, so much so that you have to come to a halt and put yourself into a reverie so that you may have a few minutes to yourself, to get back in a time where the past now stood improbable then. And no amount of scintillating wit can outshine this kind of silence. It isn’t necessarily sad but it’s much more than that; it’s evocative. It's bittersweet. If you try to add another layer to it, it might be lethal.

This kind of silence is special. Not only to the person who's responsible for its inception, but also to the other person who tries to develop it into something comprehensible so that they could caper with its various possibilities. 

Most of the times, there’s no way to know what it’s trying to suppress or erase. So there’s a curiosity, an implacable need, to just know, to make the other person divulge to quench your own thirst. But it seldom happens, so you oddly stay connected to them. And that is what it creates. A connection.

What do they know, right? You probably know all that they try so hard not to show, but you can’t solicit for their validation because one can never be too sure about someone else’s feelings. They know that too. Here, all direct communication fails to hold the fort. This kind of silence is clever. 

But in your own mind, away from their thoughts or feelings, you’ve already created your patchy story which doesn't have an ending, and they're probably wondering how you're doing that. And you do too. So you might worry, that the picture you've painted might be too grotesque than what it really is, or too humdrum than how it really is. 

Sometimes you wonder if they really know that you know, and it is all that you search for in their eyes. A simple smile may reveal that they cherish it, a certain clairvoyant look may tell you how much they regret it; how much they wish to never have stumbled upon those words, how much they wish now that they could start the conversation all over again and feel a little less, how much they wish to learn to let go instead or...how much they wish that they could talk to you about it. But will you be interested? What if it's too much for you? What if you get disappointed to hear that it was just a first world problem? What if it was "just nothing"? What if...

This kind of silence is a perpetual interval, it's an empty space. A pause. A time left unexplained. It's a hole in the history; for both of you. So, how do you bring someone back from such silence? 

Do you simply touch their hand and gently squeeze it?

Do you keep looking at them, placidly deciphering, and watching all the small movements of their body until after it's over?

Do you just keep listening for a sigh and then say "Anyway..."?

Do you just nod your head and then look down and then up again?

Do you smile or do you feel sorry?

Do you laugh or do you frown?

Do you never say anything, do you never do anything?

And without saying anything, how do you end the silence which has now become part of the conversation itself, the conversation which amalgamated into this silence so effortlessly?  

And without saying anything, or on having missed the sign,

How do you tell them...that you understand?

And how do you know, that they know that you understand...

Cataclysmic.

2010

In times of despair, 

The feelings she wished to have shared-

With the one that understood, as authentically as he ever could;

It was all she ever wanted.

And she'd be so incandescent, at the brilliant description of lonely nights

Given by people who loathed it, but who are too afraid to admit.

But this lonesome woman still cries, no matter how bright the moon shines.

No matter how satisfying being alone felt,

The love the other woman received from their loved "one", 

Repressed all love she has ever received from her loved ones.

Now there isn't a dearth of love in her life, and neither of importance.

But still, why does she feel unloved? And unwanted?

And why is that she stands alone, not one name to call her own.

Not one love to be proud of, not one love to boast. 

And how has this managed to relegate her to her worst? 

She is certainly Cinderella in reverse, but then she hasn't ever been mistreated. 

Surely, these twisted set of questions intermittently seduce her into its chimera.

In them she finds - a hand to hold, eyes to search.

She finds a voice, a name - and the universe of unreality which they have to offer. 

She obtains nothing more and nothing less; and nothing as satisfying as the reality. 

So, frustratingly and curiously, at the far end of the rainbow, she flounders with the questions,

That only he could answer. 

But before the end, she meets him in the middle.

He says - You're the best I've ever known, you've been brought to me so that I can call you my own.

She cries.

But at the end, he isn't there, so she slumps to the floor,

And persists to cry. 

Mice and Women: They do get second chances.

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 :)