Saturday, 24 November 2012

To lose yourself

To lose yourself is easy. To find yourself back...

Take two steps ahead. Then four. Glance over your shoulder.

(Whom do you see?)

Steps become a sprint. Sprint becomes flight.

But the you before those steps, before the very first step was taken is gone, gone.

(Tread back and I will be fine.)

But that's not how it works. The steps that you retrace no longer feel like yours.

A place to go back. A restart button. Not there, not there.

(So tread carefully, friend.) 

Don't look back. Don't step back. You don't have to. It will all still be OK.

Keep running.

(Just keep flying.)

Monday, 8 October 2012


Our only linkage to each other was two calls twice in the year, in the two consecutive months of October and November. For us being friends was perhaps difficult, but being enemies was hardly a possibility (you said you had tried some nonsense like that), thus we remained as we were.

I can no longer recollect most of the moments spent with you. I am sure you had forgotten them too, the trivial every-days of so many years ago. But you still exist (a halo of what you looked like, sound of voice, devil may care attitude especially wherever exams were concerned).Your presence exists, your absence, even more so.

Our only connect to each other was two calls twice in the year in the two consecutive months of October and November. Adequate or inadequate as it may have been, it was something of a pact. Nothing more or nothing less seemed to be agreeable. I never came to find out what would have come of the pact being broken because we both kept our ends (I suspect I would have been more vengeful than you, not by much, just a little).

Now the pact is disturbed by reasons beyond me and you. There are still so many things to tell you. Ridiculousness remains part and parcel of my life. You would have surely found humour in how I make my own storms and crib about getting drenched. I talk about you now and then. It is not a forced action and it does not cause pain or sorrow. I talk about you like I always did when I was aware of you living somewhere and doing OK.

I always knew you would be doing OK.

Wherever you would go, whoever you meet or whatever you would choose to do. For some reason, it was natural for me to believe so (I am sure it was not just me).  And I was content. You doing OK somewhere, I had ceased to be a part of that world, but I was still plenty content.

These days I get mighty uneasy if somebody doesn’t answer the phone – this habit I am going to attribute it to you, unfair as it might be. It’s probably going to stay like that for a while, but I will try to improve.  I have also probably started worrying twice as more, trying to improve on that as well.

Another year passed. We grew older – yes you still have about a month and some fifteen-twenty odd days, but I took the liberty of putting you in the same bracket as me. The day went normally well, as I would have told you about, as you might know if you are watching from somewhere.

I wished myself a happy birthday from you.

The pact still remains binding.

Thursday, 30 August 2012

An ordinary everyday

Things that make up an ordinary everyday.

( Moments, moments. )

Smiles, frowns, boredom, laughter.

( More moments.)

A cup of chai/coffee, strong or weak. Bickering, cribbing. Rain, sunshine, birds, trees, flowers, wind rushing by.

( Moments which fly. )

Whispered promises which echo in the head - the dream of tomorrow, the dream of the tomorrow after tomorrow and then after. Dreaming and day dreaming. 

( O fleeting moment, can I catch you? Where are you going in such a hurry?)

Stories, stories. 

'Did you know...?' - 'Did you hear...' - 'You won't believe what happened...'


( O fleeting moment, won't you stay for a bit longer? )

Darkness falls. Stars twinkle. 

( Silly child, even if I am gone, I'm yours already. Yours to remember, yours to replay over and over. )

Sometimes there is a smile before sleep, or a drop rolls from lashes onto pillow and dries away. Or sleep claims without much deeper thought.

And moment becomes a memory.

Monday, 16 July 2012


Deep, deep, deep, the flame burns, the flame scorches.

Deep, deep it runs as deep as her blood. What you see is her smile; the sweet voice you hear is misleading. Because soon she will engulf you, all that is you, every bit of you in fire, everything that is you has to be hers.

For you are to be the Sun in her sky – if you are him, you’ll embrace those flames with arms wide open.

Else you’ll simply reduce to ashes.

Monday, 2 July 2012

A reason

The reason why she breathes is because that's how its supposed to work. She has tried holding her breath before, and the world threatens to end if she does so. Its a stifling feeling; she doesn't want the world to end yet, and breathe she must.

The reason why she does a job is because that's how it's supposed to be. She doesn't know how else to structure her time. Or she feels she will die of boredom. She is restless, and she cannot stay that way for long, and work she must.

The reason she paints is because that's how she can see the pictures in her head. Its a curiosity that has to be satiated, lest the image stay in her mind and trouble her, so paint she must.

The reason why she laughs is because is because that's how she feels alive. It is important to feel alive when one is supposed to be living; the other ways are not known to her, and laugh she must.

The reason she thinks of you is because that's how she dreams. For her it is another existence, out of the realms of what is real. Breathing air which doesn't exist, laughing without laughing. Living with her eyes closed, she finds it more thrilling than life itself, and think of you, she must.

The reason why she wakes up, is because she wants to. Dream as she does, the images are fuzzy, they get fuzzier with every passing day, and she knows she has to make it all real for her to be able to dream once again. Because it goes hand in hand. She cannot dream without waking up, and wake up she must.

So she gets up, she works, she smiles, and she keeps her curiosity, unanswered questions, poking them one a time, many at a time, as she can handle it - keeping some pieces of you with her, and looking for many  more which she needs.

Because live, she must.

Thursday, 15 March 2012

Free bird

She cannot live in a place where her wings are clipped.

To her, living is flying.

There is also another kind of living that many around her do. They stare upwards, look for a while, and then look at the ground again. And then they go back in the cage.

They call it living; she calls its existing. She still longs to fly.

The child version of her used to stare up, keep staring at blue.  It was not just the blue that she looked at. The blue was dotted with black. Kites soaring in the sky, higher and higher and higher.

/Does the sky have a ceiling? Like the one in the house?/

Her wings have been clipped before. The funny thing is that they grow back. Whether they were supposed to grow back, she does not know.

/The cage beckons./

The cage is not all that bad, they say. Yours is made of silver and gold, studded with diamonds and pearls and emeralds. Its very pretty, they tell her. It'll keep you safe, safe. She will be protected from all that is evil.

/So go back in that cage, child. The cage especially for you./

She does ponder. But her wings have grown too big, too hard, too strong. They can no longer be clipped even.

/No way back, to that once safe haven./

There are two things that frighten her now. The sky is huge. In the endless void, she will keep soaring, and she will not feel like coming back.

The second thing is the knowledge that she can actually fly. With those wings of hers.

But fly she must. Because for her, this is not the place, not the place.

So fly, she does.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

To forget

Days pass and become weeks, weeks become months, and the months will someday, give way and become a year. Many such years will also pass.

Pieces of you will fade, they will disappear from my memory. Some of them might already have. Or sometimes I wonder. Maybe they haven't. Maybe I have just locked them away, in a place unreachable, because I do not feel like seeing them, touching them, sifting through them.

No hate remains, and certainly, it isn't love. So that what remains - I wonder what it is?

Fragmented memories which lose color and become transparent. Fragmented feelings who have little clue of they mean.

But something does remain. Like a line set in stone after the river has dried up. Meaningless, irrelevant but it doesn't disappear. Seeking to speak but sealed in absolute silence.

It remains. It remains.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

Life, or something like it

"A demon of our own making. "

That is, in his own opinion,  a very absurd opinion of life, "Why does it have to be a demon?" he asks, gently, lightly, going against what is called as common sense. She is a woman. Leave her be. Who knows what they are thinking anyway.

"Because that is what it is." She speaks with the sweetest smile.

He doesn't know what kind if reaction is appropriate in this situation. Should he laugh? Should he chide? Or should he just agree? "Elaborate?" Again, he goes against his common sense.

The sweet smile gives way to a soft sigh, "What do you see in her?"

"...! Why are we talking about that?" He is flustered. This and that are completely different things!

"Just answer."

Silence. Staring. More silence. A gaze that pierces, a gaze which already knows the answer keeps staring at him. And again, a lack of answer.

"She doesn't love you."

No answer.

"She'll never come to love you. " She shoots one arrow after another in a soft voice.

He smiles. Wryly, wistfully, "Maybe I should just fall for you. " he chuckles.

But you won't.

A demon you choose. You nurture it, care for it, and let it grow.

"Maybe you should. " She gets up with a skip in her step. "Get me something. I'm hungry. "

"Nobody said anything about feeding you!" He protests, but he knows he will be paying anyway. The pain that she had stirred in him subsides when she giggles.

The demons have subdued, but not disappeared.

And tomorrow they shall fight the same demons, together.

Sunday, 29 January 2012

Dream a dream

What if you were dreaming someone else's dream?

Dreams are not simply seen only when sleeping. You see them all the time, more or less. Crazy, crazy things. Sometimes they are seen when awake - what one calls as daydreaming. And sometimes they are felt, experienced. Lived.

These are the dreams where the eyes are not closed. Its a whirlwind feeling, a rush to the head, too much giddy happiness which goes to the head. Like a roller coaster ride.

It feels so real, because in that moment, it is all happening. Facts and fiction mix together, and make it happen. So tangible.

Real, real.

And just like that, it ends. Without warning, without conclusion even. So abrupt.

What is left is fragments of fleeting moments, the reality that never came to be, and a prayer.

May the next dream be sweeter.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

Of friends and acquaintances

"So, are you friends now?"

"Acquaintances. " Comes her answer.

"You are kidding me! I saw you two talking the other day. "

"So?" Her eyes flutter, long lashes nearly casting a shadow on pale cheeks.

"I thought you guys had bounced back or something."

It is met with her silence.

"I mean, it looked good there..."

Her eyes flutter shut. It probably did. Great couple. So cute together! So happy for you. Well wishers. Voices unneeded now.

They had always looked good together, she figured, even when just standing next to each other and being amiable.

She tucks a strand of brown behind her ear, "Its not like that. " Its hardly so simple. So easy.

"Do you hate him?"


"Do you love him then?"

"No... " The answer comes after a wait, longer, in a voice, softer. "We are just... talking. " Just awkward greetings upon bumping into each other. Small chit chat. That is hardly friendship in her books. She smiles wryly, "What are friends anyway?"

"Uhh, lemme check. It says, a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations."

She rolls her eyes, "Forget I asked..." She hadn't intended for the literal use of the cell phone's browsing facilities. It was a rhetorical question.

"Then let me look up acquaintances. A person one knows slightly, but who is not a close friend. "

"Oh shut it. " she sighs.

"You guys can't be acquaintances."

"We can't be friends. " She murmurs.

"So what are you?"

Just two people who got too close to each other and drifted apart too quickly.

She does not oblige with an answer.

Sunday, 15 January 2012


Want it but don't wish for it. Wish it but don't want it.

Tiny wishes, she collects them and keeps them in a silver box. Precious, precious wishes. Each wish is a light feather. If she suddenly opens the box, they'll fly with the wind, and be lost forever. That is why she decides she'll never open the box.

It is kept locked, locked. That all too important lock on that all too important box.

She wonders why none of them come true. 

Saturday, 14 January 2012


'Its a game.' She whispers.

'Do you want to play it?'


'So why are you playing it?'

'Because I can't stop!' Its much more than a whisper now.

'Why not?'

She doesn't answer.

'Its easy.' It should be. You just don't have to play, the answer is simple enough.

'You are wrong.' She sighs. 'If it was so easy...'

'You ' A puff of smoke, goes up, and then another, '...don't want to.' Stop.

Her eyes widen, 'That's a lie...' She plays because she has to, not because she wants to.

'Then...' Ashes fall to the floor, cold from the descent.

'Then?' Her voice is all innocence, the curiosity of a child.

'Why are you so good at it?' the cigarette is extinguished.

She has no answer. What possibly comes close to it is an upturned curve of rosy lips.

The game is up.

Friday, 13 January 2012


What do your hands say?

A big hand, with long fingers, slightly clammy, she thought when she held his hand for the first time. Bitten nails which gave away a possible nervous demeanor, a habit which got him some chiding; his hand might have spoken more than he did.

Not that he wasn't a talker - that he was. His hands just told more things.

A tight grip, a friendly tug on the cheek, fingers interlocking, they all spoke.

Today, she forgot who held the hand first. Her hand slips away, he catches it. Silence, the occasional words, and more silence. On a dull evening, with nothing out of the ordinary, they walk, hand in hand.

His hand slips away once, twice. Her fingers find it back. The third time that it slips, they don't. The destination approaches. His hand finds hers again and squeezes. 

Instead of speaking, they seem to be screaming; the conversation is almost too much to keep up with. 

The destination arrives, palms rub together as her slips away for the last time, fingers having the last say as the touch dies

An imprint of their hand is left on each others. The conversation is over.

And the bits and pieces that she could put together tell her that they would probably not be holding hands again.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012


Its like... the spell has been broken.

She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

The setting is familiar. The place is similar, if not the same to what she is used to. The person is, most definitely the same.

He smiles. She smiles back.

Her body is racked with a thousand shivers. No, not quite shivers ( and probably not a thousand of them either). More like palpitations?

/Heart, calm down./

"How are you?"

"I'm well..." she answers. A pause lingers, "How about you?" it has to be broken.

"Yeah, I'm good. Um, so much coming up ..." Small talk. The words don't really hold so much meaning. His voice, it does but, the feeling...

/Its not the same./

The palpitations keep on rising and subduing in a rhythm of their own.

"That's great. Good luck. See you around. " She flashes another bright smile.

/A little too bright maybe./

Off she goes.

The spell has, indeed, been broken.