Feeble sunlight streamed through the windows as soon as she retired to bed. Murmuring the tasks she had set upon herself for the day, she snuggled down with her blanket; in the hopes that she falls asleep before her dog comes gamboling into her bedroom, or of course her mother. 

She fell asleep in minutes, entering a world entirely her own. And how bizarre a world she enters; just like a puzzle whose pieces are hastily put together. All of her thoughts during the day, misunderstood by her own conscience. You see, she's not a good Quidditch player. 

The strong smell of Jasmine and Rose agarbati woke her up. Shocked to see 11 am on the clock, she rolled out of her bed instantly, and fell down. Her mother who now stood in the doorway, laughed. 

"This smell gets up my nose." Kaya complained as she lay down on the cold floor, not bothering to pull herself up. 

"Here, have a Jasmine, fresh from the garden." And her mother dropped a bunch of Jasmines near Kaya's face. She got up, seeing her dog come running towards her to eat up all the Jasmine flowers. 

Kaya sat back down on her bed, and told her mother of her night's adventures.

"Get some sleep! Only warlocks work at 5 am!" Her mother billowed as she looked down at her daughter.

"I'd prefer witch." Kaya mumbled.

"Well, you do look like a witch. Look at you, you've become so gaunt!" Her mother said, frowning,

"Ma, I was reading a book on Mata Hari." Kaya said, her eyes now accustoming to the brightly lit room. 

"What about her?" She asked, sounding interested.

Kaya sat up straight on her bed, and recited the story of the lascivious Mata Hari, cogently. Her mother gasped as Kaya told the tales of Mata Haris' dances, her libidinousness, her freedom, and her unfair execution. 

"What freedom is there in being lascivious?" Kaya's mother asked disparagingly.

"Mother, it is more about our choices, and them being respected. People fear women who are free, in every sense of the word. People fear women who are just human, so much so that they retaliate with assault." Kaya replied tritely, fearing her mother won't understand otherwise. 

"What kind of freedom do you want?" Her mother asked, inquisitively. 

Remembering the dream she'd had just hours before, Kaya smiled her widest, and said, "Freedom to be whoever I want to be, Ma, without being put on a pedestal." 

"You want to be average at everything?" Her mother inquired.

Kaya knew her mother would say that, because that was the truth. We tend to move from one thing to the other, paving our way to what we believe is the much cleaner and greener pasture, because we see everything that's within our reach, forgoing happiness and satisfaction, as doable. But for Kaya, these weren't entirely her choices; rather they were handed down to her, in pity when she wasn't even drowning. Her choices weren’t respected.

Yet Kaya knew that it ill behooved her to drop the baggage of blame, which in actuality kept her afloat, it attested to her an important mission- to save herself.

"I'll be on the cusp of everything, until the day I decide to let go of the person I'm not. But you see then it will be my decision, since I'd have gained my freedom." Kaya articulated, feeling a sense of pride in living an ambiguous life, led by the dictum of the sun shining on the righteous.

"You have the freedom." Her mother said dismissively. 

Kaya laughed, almost derisively, and said, "Not yet, Ma. When I'll have it, you'll know. Because then, I'll glow, I'll laugh more, I'll love more, and I won't be gaunt anymore!" She threw her hands up in the air and fell back on the bed, closing her eyes to the upsurge of emotions that made her heart beat fast.

Her mother never understood. Maybe the subtle derision to her freedom was too subtle and recondite for her mother to understand. Or maybe, ignorance is bliss. Any which way, Kaya couldn’t help but respect Mata Hari, for her boldness and her pride.

"Be whoever you want to be" and with that, her mother left the room, chanting “Om” as she went to offer the few left Jasmines to the deity.

Kaya opened her eyes as soon as her mother left the room, and once again, she was dreaming. If only it was that simple, she thought. She wondered what price she will have to pay for her freedom. And soon, her thoughts were swimming, in the uncharted vastness of her mind. Whereas, dreams, real and unreal, danced upon the ship that remained painfully still. 

Of inheritance and her definition of love.

While driving home from office, her mind filled up with such chaotic and penetrating thoughts that she thought it was going to explode. She was failing, scattering behind the pusillanimous display of bravura, the irony of her life. Her father’s aspirations for her, her “love” life, her own aspirations and failures, all lined up for the dance of death.

Her father has been drinking again, leaving her alone with the weight of inheritance, which was proving to be more of a curse than a blessing. Money is not easy to come. What an asshole he is, she thought. Leaving her without the choice to heal and achieve something significant.

And just recently, her “love” asked her out for dinner, she had felt first happiness, only to be replaced by a frown. Maybe he was the reason why every other problem of hers seemed so solemn. She had had a passing thought over oh so many years of friendship that maybe he was the kind of man she would fall in love with, followed immediately by the thought that maybe...maybe...romance is an inheritance too. And even the kind of romance or a relationship that she would want is something that she was to inevitably and imperceptibly adapt from her culture without even questioning it.

She became irritated, and in vexation, slammed the brakes of her car near an isolated spot. She threw her head back, remembering herself. What an ardent romantic she was, how much she thought of romance as something which was inevitable, and more so imminent.

But is there a chance, a fragment of light
at the end of the tunnel, a reason to fight?

God, she didn’t even know if they were friends anymore. She’d never thought that love would be as disempowering as this. Though every atom in her body craved love, she was beginning to be so very skeptical that it was just an oblique idea for her. She’d told him she couldn’t come for dinner, wanting to achieve something with her free time. He didn't pursue her thereafter, she stopped letting the conversations consume her.

Oh fuck it; she breathed a sigh of relief. 

If there is love, it has to be bigger than this. It has to be stronger than this. It should let her put herself first. And maybe this kind of love doesn’t really exist. But she knew one thing for sure, that she didn’t have to inherit the kind of love that the world loves. She smiled, and said “It will be my solipsistic love”.

Pieces of me

I said everything,

Yet it wasn’t enough,

As my words betrayed me,

The corners came untucked,

Your words grew to hurt me,

I tore myself apart,

On the road I once traveled,

I lost pieces of my heart.

Every rose grew its thorn,

As I concealed my fears from you,

I wasn’t supposed to mirror you,

Look at me now; and the life I once knew.

I took your advice, took my fall,

Guilt is the gift of defiance so I took a call,

To serve you with my reliance,

I gave my all.

The difference was what had made us,

Yet, you left me without a choice,

The innocence that has left me,

Will soon find my voice.

So, the child in me hates her, as the girl in me says, “Hold on”

Don’t get corrupted by the evil that men do, else it'll live on.

Have I experienced something that could not be logically explained?

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

This is such a good question. Partly because I'm a fool, and as much as Elon Musk says that engineering is magic, I agree to disagree. You know, even if you trick your brain into believing otherwise, your heart just denies it. It fazes me, my heart.  

And if somebody were to come and tell me that they truly understand me, I’d feel elated. Because it is not as if they have got the algorithm for my heart off of the internet, or copied the algorithm from somebody else, or that a teacher has come and taught them it. There’re no scientific explanations which apply to each and every person, right? We’re different, and that’s the only explanation. Unconditional love, understanding someone, is what makes my heart flutter.

Heart, is where all logic fails. So, I’m opening the curtains wide, and diving for those desires and feelings which just can’t be explained! Nothing explains this dreadful feeling of the imminent prospect of taking exams, when I have been reading Harry Potter all this time. Have I been in denial? Because harry has said, “What good is theoretical knowledge in the real world, anyway?” so, more like inspired, right? But he doesn’t exist. Why don’t I get inspired by my teachers?

Nothing explains this fervent desire for the day to just end, so that I can wash the dirt off my body. Why? Why is my heart so set on future activities yet at the same time fearful of it?

And love? What kind of twisted game is that? What are these feelings, and why don’t they just go away? Why do I feel bad about something as great as love? Why do I feel guilty?

The blinding sunlight cast the city in a dizzying and gloomy look, it was sweltering hot. The whitish look of the sky made Rue keep her head down. Moving through the crowd, she came to a halt. She found shelter under the shadow of a tree and kept looking at her watch. Her phone rang, she picked it up.

 “I love you.”  The voice at the other end said

“What?” She said, completely shocked at the confession. 

“I really do. I have been trying to reach you since morning. I was worried. And it made me want to wish I’d said it sooner.”

“I...what?  You’re so weird. I’m the most imperfect girl in your universe.”

What is imperfection anyway? Are the things that pertain to imperfection to one, perfection to another? Or do they accept these imperfections? Or they don’t care and just ignore them? How does it work?

Maybe the answers lie in some psychological jargon, maybe you’ll say that if you love somebody, it doesn’t matter. Then why does it matter to the other person?

You know, sometimes even scientific information becomes unreliable because we don’t understand it.  Is it the same with people when we look at them with bleary eyes? Because I do that a lot, but I’m also always right about my judgement, but that is just probability, right?

Oh, love! I should be studying. Signals. Just theory. What explains my lack of imagination in one sphere of life and abundance in another?

This is never ending. You get the point.

Spring: A paroxysm of celebration within my heart

The extreme satisfaction, security, and love that I derive from the weather, the trees, and the empty roads, is something that probably no other love will attain. The spring is the catalyst to the bounce in my step. Yet I feel most grounded but free and unbounded. My heart swells up, as I awaken to the cold breeze after a long sleep, from within myself. Every masquerade is dropped, shellacked. There is romance, there is laughter, and there is kindness- all within myself. The indifference and disappointment of every-day life that limits such emotions, unties and unfurls, and I can see, beyond that reality to what is actually real, for me.

Isn’t it lovely, I wonder how all the good memories are played in your mind as the wind sweeps your hair, and you move into it, smiling. There is no one who would interrupt, no one who would distort the images in your head; just good daydreams in the blooming passion that is spring.

This is not how I clicked it, but pictured it.

“I hope life only goes uphill from here!” I said to myself.

But even in the atmosphere, nothing stays the same. Nothing is constant. We live in the troposphere, where temperature falls as we go up. And as soon as the troposphere ends, and stratosphere begins, temperature increases as we go up. There is no spring in space, only blackness. Life is weird, and unlike science, there’re no explanations about why we feel the way feel, or why what happened happened.

Oh, I was talking about spring. My mind drifted to another layer of the atmosphere. But it’s certain, that nothing is set in stone, right?

So when spring comes, embrace it. I hope one day I can find ways to enjoy a sweltering hot weather too. Until then, spring will be my respite; winters will be my pause. And summers, my rush!

Yes, I change with the weather, capricious, and susceptible to the glow of the bright moon, the dark colours of the sky, and the chill in the air. And clinging; to every bit of what anything that is good

The most important question

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

Why is choosing a road less traveled poetic in theory but baleful in reality? Why do I have to straighten up my upper lip every time I’m out alone? Why is going to the gym my only strength when I’m mentally strong too? Why isn’t that enough? Why do boys always stare at you? What is my body and why does it even exist as another entity altogether? What are my legs if they’re not walking away from threat? Constant vigilance, Professor Mad-Eye Moody would say.

These are the questions that young adult women like me have today; among many others. The one most important answer to these questions is that my life lacks a million characters of a good fiction book, and so it is not.

It is so easy to lose all temptation to acquire knowledge, to settle for vapid frivolities, to bury the hatchet of curiosity; and live forever, in the transient paradise of defiance. Chill, relax, they say. Look up at the sky, why is it serene to look at the color blue but then it is associated with depression and sadness? What is the fracture point in the stress-strain graph of a human mind? When did you last stop believing in the existence of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? What makes you, you? What makes your heart flutter, and your chest swollen with pride?

We had a plethora of questions while growing up; we looked up to adults for the know-it-all giants they were to us. Who is god and where do we go when we die? Why is learning tables more important than the diorama of a kitchen set? Why are some things, and some people, placed at a higher value than the rest? Why do I have to be of that age, to do that? Who gave love a bad name? Why do we fight wars?

I wonder what would be the answer to these questions, if they were asked by a kid. But then again, kids are very smart these days, most of them are. Innocence is a rare gift; it shouldn’t be exploited with half-assed truths. But as we grow up, we glean information. We open several tabs. We clear our histories. We become aware. We satisfy our curiosities and begin to consolidate answers for ourselves.

Limitless, you do NOT have to be of that age, to learn that; though I still think that only prodigies can do that, maybe because of the embedded fear of failure in my mind. But I like to believe the former, and do most of the things based on words sewn together to form my life mantra – I can be whoever I want to be.

Equity, being a jargon in the world of finance is also the part and parcel of life itself. Equity is imperative. Hierarchy is status; order which is relevant, though not permanent. Atheism, feminism, nationalism, patriarchy, all resonated within me in a similar fashion. At times the answers I was being given seemed incongruent with the reality, so much so that I was being propelled by a great desire to just let go of everything. Every little doubt was relinquished for peacefulness. Several tabs were all closed, at once. I felt it to be important that I do not get pummeled for my interest in history, so I hid it. And escaped the chaos it was so famous for brewing. So I did bury the hatchet, did I go back to it? Who knows?

“Dad! Sparkling! Wires!” I screamed at the glow of electricity in the air.

“It’s Sparking, kiddo. Not Sparkling.” He laughed

I remember being upset for being wrong. I was so bad at English; I still am just ok at it. I was disparaged for my English. So I made words my best crony. I asked questions. These questions were nothing, but meaning of the words I found in the texts that I read. And that meaning has been important for me; it has been the driving force for my not so fictitious life.

*Winks*

What is your most important question?

Memoir of an unaccomplished girl

If this 22 year old girl ever wrote a book about her life, it is going to be called “Memoir of an unaccomplished girl”. And if you decide to read further than the title, it is because you’re simply intrigued. Maybe ultimately she has something to offer, something to say. Maybe she has figured everything out to reach to such conclusion. Maybe she has defeated love, or conquered it.

Maybe you will find your unfulfilled wishes in the flickering pages of her book. Maybe you will find the answers to your questions, something which would be pacifying and corroborative. Because we all have things which have been left unaccomplished, dreams that were relinquished, wishes lost to the enduring tides of reality. Ultimately, rendering what could have been to what could not be accomplished.

She will know that there is nothing extraordinary about not accomplishing anything. But being unaccomplished can have myriad of possibilities, it keeps you off the pedestal and mostly free. And even if this girl is an accomplished girl, being unaccomplished gives her life purpose, and more room for exploration.

Why does she have to be labelled as unaccomplished?

She is not validating her life, but simply laying out the facts of a contrite heart.

This girl will write about the boy who kept pulling at her heart strings. She will write about her first crush; and her last. She will tell her readers that everything she writes about should be taken with a pinch of salt. She will write in a haphazard manner, since chronology is weakening and mundane.

In her book, she will introduce sharp and shrewd characters. They will be quick to notice the signs concealed beyond comprehension by destiny. She will severe her ties with the almighty, when in a riotous uproar of events her heart is broken.

From the very first chapter, she will plunge into the beginning of her first regret. She will create madness, propelled by her earliest memories. She will write about the dull, cold months, preparing for exams and finding solace in her imagination. She will write about those warm, soothing summer nights spent reading Harry Potter. And the sick days, spent reading about Katniss Everdeen, when she would imagine herself to be as strong, and standing as tall as her.

She will write about the pungent smell of alcohol in the chapter where she didn’t drink. She will write about the laughter that followed her “No”, which still echoes in the valleys of her mind.

She will write about fate, and possibilities, ignited by those not confined within the four walls of human capacity, lying inside the four walls constructed by our egos.

She will write about writing, about finding solace in the scribbled sentences and ragged blotches on a yellow paper.

Finally, she will write about finding herself, in an alternate universe. Detached from reality, right where she loses herself in the beginning. She will find her old journals there, and rummaging through them, she will find no regrets. They will be brimming with happy memories, full of good people.

She will write about her slow pace in this new world, about tasting every win and defeat.

She will learn that the pace of life is not dictated by how fast or slow you are moving, it is decided by how much you are learning. In the end she will say, “The faster everything moves, the more it hurts."

And with that, she will take a break, and stop writing. Hence, she will be successful, in being a truly unaccomplished girl.