A Mortal On An Immortal Bridge.

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“Is this your first breath there, or is it your last here?

Who has written your story? Do you know your story? “

I’ll put on a coat now, I’ll tell you stories now.

You could walk with me if you like or turn away

Either way is just fine.

Beneath my coat you won’t find a dress,

Because I’m a perfect mess.

My sweater and my jeans comfort me. Keep me warm.

On the banks of the river, I shall walk.

The trees are giving away,

The leaves now grow old, gracefully.

Red, as though the lord had put in a little bit of fire in them.

They shall burn, they shall give light.

All before they let go.

Of themselves, of forgetting their names.

Someone will take over, they have to.

The bridge will still stand, strong. People will walk.

The benches and public phones will stay.

They’ll always lead to the Eiffel.

Like the bridges in our life. They’ll lead us to where we belong.

Sit under that tree, oh! It’s beautiful.

“Linden”; It’s name.

Every step on that path shouts love and purity.

That’s how our lives should feel.

You, your loved one(s)

Happiness. Purity.

Beauty. Eternal love.

Sit on that bench,

Upon your head will you see, the tree smiling at you

Guarding you, protecting you

Like your innocence, and childhood.

As though it’s blessing you.

Its leaves the shape of a heart.

God’s the best writer,

You don’t have to have a private plane,

And you don’t have to have a grand wedding.

It’s all there.

Nature has it all, laid out for you.

Life’s not a burden, it’s not a game.

He sent you down, to be a part of him.

To marvel at his works of perfection,

The one we, mortals would never create.

Sit there, look at that river

Breathe.

Breathe the air that brings life

Not the one that causes cancer.

He may not be your soul mate,

He may not be your brother,

Not even your father.

She may not be your sister,

Maybe not your mother,

But embrace them,

Embrace them all.

Those who stand by you, hold their hand.

Take a while,

Walk with them.

Not in metro’s, not in the office, not on Skype

But in real life.

Feel the touch of human skin,

The supple creation, designed to comfort.

How does it feel?

To know you have the warmth on the cold winter night?

Maybe that’s why this road was made,

Probably why it was never the same.

Maybe the leaf of the tree over your head will eventually fall,

And tree will one day have new leaves,

But it will always.

Life goes on.

And it’s okay to sit there, pamper yourself

Let the tree and its leaves heal you,

To hold the hand of those you love,

Before your journey ends,

Till you reach your destination.

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A Contrasting Malaise

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The smoke fills the air in the house, the ‘havan’ has just finished. It’s supposed to be a religious ceremony where all the negative energies in the house are collected, the god’s and goddesses are prayed to. They say that, during this ceremony there is even a time when they descend down for the ceremony’s completion and sent back. Where are they?

I want to see them. I want to see the negative energies in the house and in myself and I want to see them go. I want to see god take away all these negative energies. I want him to see that everybody is a mess.

Despite the circumstances, the beautiful colours, clothes, faces, exchanges of gifts and money; what really lies?

I want him to see.

I’ll hum a tune, and you’ll never know what song it is.

I’ll wait, wait till you’re done. So you’ll come back and smile.

But you won’t.

For that I have to let you go.

I’ll walk here, and you’ll walk there. I’ll smile.

They’ll tell me, it’s a beautiful smile. Is it now?

The one that can’t reach my eyes. The pain is strong, intoxicating almost. When it’s a part of you, it hurts. But slowly, like the stream of water seeping into something, It gets into every cell of my bloodstream.

Sometimes, rushes too!

Like poison in a mortals body, as though it’s counting seconds and longing to finally turn into a vampire because otherwise, it’s just painful. Then the remorse hits you. You howl, plead and scream. Hope. Hope that this seeping pain will either go away or fill itself completely. And slowly, it fills you. It fills you like a glass being filled by a jug. It has too much to give and you, too little to take. There are shivers at first, and then comes numbness. The wonderful gift, better than alcohol or anything else. The numbness loves you, and you love it.

Pain, hurts you. Numbness, calms you.

Somehow nothing that anyone says matters and you want to smile because you’re a mess but so is the world. You realized that sooner, much sooner that your friends have or they will.

I wish I could say, but hey who’ll listen? They all say they will.

They don’t.

If you’re reading this then you already know what pain is. It’s a happy high or a constant stab in the stomach. I want to look at my foot and touch it, feel it because I know it hurts.

I know that the car that ran over it, was heavy, I know that the tier as it rolled over my gentle skin of my foot hurt me.

But I won’t look at it, because it’ll make me realize; the stabbing pain.

 

The suffering that our body goes through. These unhealed wounds, incomplete desires of beauty, cuts, aches, and fractures are they anything compared to how really hurt we are or we have been?

Do you want me to tell you? I will, I promise to write them in flowery words or just plain reality. Will you cry and sympathise or leave it to say- “How unhappy.”

I Am. I’m unhappy. Discontented. Unsatisfied.

I wanted to be, now I’m crippled. Not permanently, temporarily. I don’t like how my sickness restricts me. The fact that I’m scared of going out or that everywhere I go, I look at every man and wonder if he’d manipulate, lie and rape.

 

So as these smokes, slowly creep into the molecules of the air

The ‘havan’

I’ll ask god to take away my pain too; this suffering and maybe he’ll listen.

With it maybe, he’ll also steal away the cause of this all.

 

Amen. 

 

The Peace I Choose.

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If you were to hear,

If you were to listen,

Only if you’d excuse yourself and give an ear;

To the birds chirping you’d hear them cry,

 about the sky,

They’ll tell you how they choke as they fly

how you ruined their home making yours.

How the clear blue sky is dusty black,

How the wars have ruined everybody.

 

We’ll build houses and villas,

We’ll go countries and cities,

To find an escape.

 

Escape from the monotony of life and the purposelessness of it all.

Will you bury the money with you when you’re gone?

Will your platinum card or vip treatment open the gates of heaven for you?

 

Let’s dream about a day,

A clear morning, the sun shines bright,

You wake up and pick up the morning newspaper.

You read about the beautiful girls that have been welcomed on earth,

and the ministers going to people and talking.

No guns, no fighting, no votes, no elections, no marketing.

Just talking.

Sweet words of love and a breeze of flowers swish past you,

 as you sit in the open yard of your house.

House, the one you can call home.

 

Your daughter walks to school, fearless.

They teach her to nurture and make life, a fruitful one.

Men in the society are just men, not monsters of molestation.

The grass is actually green, and not artificially planted.

 

 

In such a world,

Mother earth, rejoices and blesses.

There are no floods, no tsunamis.

Rain, not acidic.

Just rain, pure and fresh straight from heaven,

And It doesn’t drop down on streets,

But on the ground, on earth. ‘Bhoomi’

Where it belongs, where it nurtures and brings new life.

 

The day the cycle of life, comes back

The day we all are one.

The day there is no money, no currency, no exchanges

That day will be “peace”,

Quiet. Tranquillity. Stillness.

 

 

That very day mankind will learn humanity.

 

 

 

 

Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson

Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson

it is our light not our darkness that most frightens us

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other

people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

—Marianne Williamson

Your sounds, in her anklets.

 

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The one for who she has longed,

To whom her soul belongs, where are you?

Her kajal complete the eyes,

You’re the kajal to her eyes,

Go get her now.

Somewhere the complexity of the henna,

Your name is embedded deep within.

Go find her now,

She longs for you.

Where are you?

You told her In those casual meetings,

You’d never leave her.

Go get her now.

She awaits you,

The earings that you once gave her, shine in her ears.

She’ll never tell anyone that.

The secrets , the smiles.

She’ll never tell anyone,

But you.

That innocent face, is now the bride.

One who’s hair’s adorned with flowers,

Who’s lips shine with colour and gloss,

The jewels studded in every part of her,

She now wears bangles and not bracelets,

The anklets still echo,

The smile still dimples,

Her heart still races,

There’s still a house to make a home,

It’s just not yours.

Where did you go? 

P.s- Inspired by the song – Ye Kabira 🙂

 

Search.

We’re all a little too tired, a little too naive.

Searching, roaming,running, hunting. For something, somewhere.

But where and who?

All of us carrying gadgets and headphones. There are so many means to connect and yet no connection?

In the latest ringtones, in the lyrics of our favourite songs, in text messages, on facebook, in each laughter and tear. We search.

In pain too… especially in pain.

Who will cross paths? Who’ll come and never go?

We’re searching, I’m searching.

Till our last breath.

For something.

A bond, a somebody or something that’ll cure us from a disease; Unknown.

From this constant tiredness of living. In the midst of it all, we’re searching.

Something that will give us an abnormal feeling, some feeling that can’t be written or said.

Beyond jealousy, beyond trust , beyond crappy.

we search.

Maybe it’s a word the world hasn’t created. Maybe it’s bliss.

Maybe it’s just a search.

Lego’s And Chocó’s – Motherhood with PCOD.

( This story is about a girl who was diagnosed with poly cystic ovarian disease (PCOD). She made her way through it and is now blessed with a son. 10% women fight this disease silently starting from teen age till 60. Spreading the message and acknowledging is the least men and woman can do, and those fighting it; ‘You can!’)

 

 

Unused fire places now replaced with electric heaters, pity, she thought. As she did, she stared at the perfectly carpeted floor with sprinkles of Chocó’s dropped by the 3-year-old that brightens her every morning with his dimples.

2 bedrooms were enough. Enough, for infinite love to reside, for growth to enhance, and to make a house, a home.

He coloured as a true artist would, he allotted one colour to every segment of his work. Action man’s and super heroes mostly.

“I’m hungry mama”; there he goes, his commandment for evening snacks, she smiled standing in the corner of her the hall. As she walked across the room, she wondered Chocó’s with cold milk or nutri-bar with Tropicana juice? He would point at either one.

Simplicity of food, thought, innocence and life.Lesser the choices, lesser the drama.

She watched him eat as he made way for a pile of Chocó’s in a large spoon into his still very tiny mouth.

“Chocó’s it is.”

The dim-lit room shines with his eyes and the monotony of the winter days fulfilled by his Lego’s. She looked at him, proud. Proud of his acts, his priceless beauty, his plum cheeks, mesmerizing eyes and subtle lips.

The fact, that he was growing every minute. That he was a part of her. It felt like just a day before that she had given birth to this little being, and today he was chewing on soggy Chocó’s.

The whole thing was magic to her; it fascinated her. She was, just happy.

She loved this, motherhood, womanhood. Life-hood? She wanted to take in everything life had to offer now that she was in the most beautiful city, Paris.

And with her, she wanted her little one to experience every bit of it too. To make him believe he was blessed, like she was. It’s wonderful isn’t it? Just having all of that you ever wanted?

She picked him up as he smiled through his father inherited dimples and bunny teeth. ‘Sleepy baby?’ she whispered to him seeing his eyes droop with sleep. He nodded.  ‘Just as I thought!’ There was something miraculous about being a mother, she knew everything!

She could smell the milk from his mouth, his baby powder, the slight hint of his father’s perfume. Being in the aura of that scent  was bliss for her.

She laid him in his blue coloured carriage and kissed him on his forehead.

7 p.m. she looked at the clock, she blushed.  6 years of marriage and yet, every day when he came back she would get butterflies in her stomach.

Perfect marriage?

She made her way downstairs; she could smell the fresh breeze as she wrapped her jacket tighter. ‘Lovely’.  She greeted the chef’s that made pizzas. Olives, tomatoes, chicken, the sauce, all put together for the perfect pizza.

As she walked, the baker she knew smiled at her through the large window of her shop. The baguette and croissants, in heart of Paris… What more could you want?

She walked in as the shop’s little bell tinkered.

“Bonjour mademoiselle”; the baker said with utmost joy.

“Bonjour madam”; She replied.

“Un, baguette?”(One baguette?)

“Oi” (sure/yes); said the baker handing her the crispiest baguette off the lot.

‘Mademoiselle’ (Used for an unmarried girl); I wonder why she calls me that even though she knows I’m a mother.

What she did not know was that her beautiful, fragile face hardly made her look old. She was simple, devoted, and innocent and filled with love. ‘Divine’.

‘5 months I’d guess.’ She said looking at a woman with a baby in her. Placing her hand on her own stomach, she was reminded of the struggles, the pain, and the lifelong medicines, all for one gift. The one gift she treasured, her only son.

She’d love to have another baby, a beautiful girl maybe, someone to play with her son, but she knew that would be a   dream.Having him was a miracle in its self.

She walked back, holding the paper covered baguette, she loved bread, but her diet restricted her. Sweets, soft drinks, rice all of it.

PCOD. The name had haunted her since she was 16.  Pills, embarrassment, comments, excess weight. Even her dating life had sucked.

She looked at the carriage; there he lay peaceful and asleep. She walked home happy and filled with gratitude for him and her son.

She lived each moment, surgeries and doctor’s appointment had taught her that. Her pregnancy was a complete risk, with PCOD, it’s hardly possible. She risked it and fought it because she wanted to give birth to someone as perfect as her husband.

As she made her way back, she saw her beloved. The one she loved, more than god. He stood by her day in and day out. Loved her unconditionally for her strengths and weaknesses.

Weakness.PCOD. The one she made her strength.

He smiled at her, ‘Ready with dinner?’ ‘Always’, she replied, looking at her husband, kissing ‘their’ son.

She loved the two men in her life;she loved PCOD for making her so strong.

P.S. This is a fictional story.Hope it becomes reality for the many fighting through.

 

Let’s Get To Work! Let’s Write!

Pick up a pen my love,

If you’re up for some fancy writing,

Let the fountain pen flow it’s way down the hand made paper.

The happiness is something to savor 

A fat old yellow paged book,

It’ll get you to a hook.

Ah, the longing of being in another era.

Read slowly, capture moments of every race,

Turn the pages, solve the mystery ! You must find a trace.

Let’s get to work.

Put on your glasses that make you look so fine.

Grab your over coats , who cares what is the time?

Walk around and embrace the midnight beauty 

 Let go of all the ambiguity! 

Dusk or dawn maybe? 

Let’s get to work.

Spray paints here and there.

Look, watch, observe.

Feel.

All you can!

Fill yourself with knowledge and observance.

Rejoice it and it shall make all the sense! 

Let’s get to work.

When you’re just too happy and overjoyed.

When the world just doesn’t get any better,

When you’re cold and you need a sweater.

When you’re depressed,

When you’re fatigue and life’s a complete mess.

Get to work.

Pick up a pen.

Ball, gel, black, blue.

Pencils  too.

A spiral diary, 

A keyboard fiery!

 

Write. Write for the immortality of words.

Write for the joy is splendid.

Forget the world, this joy is it. 

 

 

The Neurotic Writer’s Diary- Page 1

The Neurotic Writer's Diary- Page 1

Most people prefer to keep secrets, big and small. Some like to discuss it with their friends far and close. And some like me? We tend to experience what we want to write (Not a very productive thing to do.)

I wouldn’t really call myself a writer but I’m on the path of it and that’s pretty evident. Upon great observation I came to realize that my life and it’s events and directly proportional to what I would write in the near future. This has, in fact landed me in deep trouble a couple of times.

I’m plain crazy, and that’s probably what gives me the ability to write. I recently saw this movie, even though her writing was just a part of the movie, it did really strike me.

The problem with our category of people or maybe everyone else too, ( not too sure) is that no matter what, whether we are extremely happy, an emotional wreck or just anything, we want to write it.

Why is that? Well, my fingers itch to write it down, and I’m not satisfied till a brilliant piece( my standards) is achieved.

I’d like to give narrate an extract from the movie;  This lady has almost fallen in love with this man and he too feels for her. With a very true heart he exclaims- ‘you’re a woman to love.’

Well, any woman would be delighted to hear that, and she was too. Later when things turned bitter she used the same tag line as her play’s title to narrate her short affair followed by a heart break. Here’s the difference :

For him, it was something that he would have wanted to keep as a little secret, something that was probably just  for them to know. It was equally special for her, except, she wanted to show it to the world. She wanted the world to know that ‘he’ told ‘her’( only and only her!) that.

There lies the problem, people like me want to shout it out to the world and later we are made to realize that’s it’s the wrong thing to do, that’s when my dilemma really begins!

To top it all we want our life to go not like a fairy tale but like a movie, drama, lot’s and lot’s of drama! What’s a love story without it, but what I forget is that, it’s my life! I’m ready to mess it up for a piece of writing in my head? That’s a little too much don’t you think?

I don’t really think there is much I can do about it. All I can do, is accept the fact that I want my life to be a neat movie in my head with well, a perfect ending. Is that too much to ask?

And to all the friends, brothers, boyfriends, crushes, bitches, best friends, sisters and family. Each one of you are really important in the play of my head’s story, you’re doing an amazing job! It’s me who needs to change just a little bit.

Signing off for now,

Will be back soon with another neurotic back stage scene.            

 

  

Mediocre me?

 

Nobody is Perfect, but we love perfection. Our words, thought, smile, hair, and of course grades.  Everyone hates people who crib and yet, I am going to do it.

So here goes, I chose a subject I “thought” I was good at. Eventually, I realized my priorities had 6changed and my perspective towards life as a whole. This obviously did not happen overnight but it did.

Unlike other genius’s who strive for perfect scores, I have always been chilled out about my grades . I would rather experiment, mix acids and write down my own formula than read it in a book and learn it. I had to see it, and of course feel it. I liked math, and so automatically I was the genius! Always two books ahead, not only because it made a lot of sense ( Two things join together make a particular shape and when dispatched made another.) My teacher loved me, and I loved her. She made logic , magic and magic logical ! It all connected and made sense.

But yes, all  good things do come to an end. Just 2 years later I landed up in boarding school where I knew not what a person spoke. Yes, Hindi. So, two years of trying very hard to master my French skills , accent and socializing. I found myself in a place where no one understood me, I thank my smile for getting me through.

It took a lot of tears and hardships to finally “fit” into a group of children who’s families had left them there for various reasons. My parents lived a continent away and so my entire focus was now on how to speak the language they spoke and how learn their ways of tying  hair into neat ponies and braids.

Just when I thought I was getting the heck of the independent ‘girls’ environment, learning pottery and knitting I shifted, yet again! There came another language, ‘Arabic’; Great.

There I  was now, from a cold country to a desert. Fine.  I had learnt to accept this word called ‘destiny’ and this thing which was called ‘mediocre’. No matter where I went, I was mediocre.

There would always be people who have been living in that place for the entire time they have been on earth and there would have been this one or two things they have always been good at. What about me? Who am I? Even today I ask myself.

My brother and sister have shifted relatively less, call it their ‘luck’. Every time I questioned my failures I was made to look around at my siblings, who too had supposedly ‘shifted’.

Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’m just mediocre.

I never really liked ‘creative writing’. It meant juggling around with words and faking up stories. I loathed the idea of it. Eventually when I started writing, I fell in love. Because in the mad ‘shifting’ and emotional wrecks that I had to face only pages stayed with me.

I no more wanted to be mediocre. Just extremes. It turned out that now as I focus on one thing, of the subjects I have chosen ( better said, made to choose) , I see that here too there will always be people doing more than you and you will see that maybe somewhere in another aspect you’ll fail ( My example- math)

So somewhere down the line , in the eyes of the world, in one field you’ll be the king and in the other a mere slavery begging to pass. Or you’ll just be Mediocre

“Nobody remembers mediocre”; Maybe it’s about standing out however you are.

Maybe, it’s about following what your heart says. Maybe being

mediocre to the world, but best of yourself. I don’t know, You tell me!