White hair.

Life flashes before my eyes, I can smell her hair that are now white. It had always been my definition of beauty. That scent.                                                                                       Over the years,it had become a part of me and yet I was never fulfilled. It still came from her, and I always lingered. The hunger still remained. I wish I could could take it with me. I can’t remember how many years we have been together, how many arguments we’ve had, the jewellery and clothes she owns but I do remember the first time she glanced at me, how she looked into my eyes with hers. When her curls spilled  themselves across her face and she took her hand to remove them.  Between her hair, through our eyes, our souls had caught on fire.

I lay in her lap, my life at her disposition, her toes touching my hair every now and then. I realised this is where I truly belonged. She was my goddess and I was here at her feet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              I was breathing my last breaths they exclaimed, don’t crowd him they said. I wanted to be there, at her feet. With the whole world in haziness and only her insight. Her, me, us and our memories. After all the phases, positions and places in our lives, I had found where I belonged. It took me my death bed to find that out. I wanted my last breaths to be taken away by her, her kisses had always made me breathless. Only because she was so passionate and so divine.

She asked me- “Shall I get up and lay you on the bed?”
Her white hair reflected the light from the tube and her wrinkled hands shivered as she said. I smirked and she smiled. we both knew the answer. A translucent layer of tears brimmed her eyes as she gleamed in sadness and happiness.
We both knew,
The night would come and a day anew
People would eventually scatter,
Go to their respective homes and chatter,
Come back to check on me in the morning,
There would be tears and a lot of mourning,
But we’ll be here smiling,
As our bodies will lay, side by side
Like the water with its tide.
In heaven we’ll meet as the world tells stories of our love; I’ll take her scent and she my touch.

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A Parallel World Of Rape- Part 1

imagesIndia is growing, from a developing country to something.

The ministers and politicians say it’s towards a developed country, like the States perhaps? What has the States got that we don’t?

 Is showing the country’s progress on sheet of paper our only aim?

Is the rise in GDP all we can ever think about?

 

‘Every drop in the ocean counts.’ Today I shall prove how. It all starts from a single entity, from one drop. One Indian.

That’s all it takes to mess up an entire nation. Yes, I am criticising. From the time an Indian is born in today’s date all he/she ever looks around to find is struggle . Struggle my friend, Is great. It makes you a better person, teaches you to stand on your own feet. But wait, what are we learning from the struggle?

We’re learning how to cheat, we’re learning that numbers and figures on a piece of paper is more important than our values, dignity and purpose. From childhood, all a child sees is wrecked houses, unorganized system, bad roads. The only feeling he grows up with is hunger instead of love.

Then he is put into a school. A school that runs on donations and the MP of the state. He shall be given free education , so to say. Hey! The country has to improve its literacy rate doesn’t it? So there he goes into school where the teachers are dominated by the principal , the principal by the chairman, the chairman by the management and the management? If you can guess, A Politician.

That’s how, one little child who’s mind is bubbling with creativity and imagination,  The hands that are capable of creating wonders and reaching the sky beyond the rules made by the selfish mortals called ‘Adults’ are suppressed. His hands are tied and his mouth incapable of expressing opinion. Oh, did I mention we have the ‘Right to Speech?’

So this little child learns his math ( Whatever is prescribed by the board and whatever the teachers are asked to complete within a given time period).

He also has to learn political science, geography and history of the country, he ‘learns’ , he tries.  His fertile imagination allows him to think of what the badly printed text has to read…”Non violence, lush green fields, democracy…”

He’s lost.

Why? Because every time he looks out of books he sees murders, guns , trash everywhere and corruption.

So this little child looks back into his books imagines the India he reads about.

That is his version of a fairy tale. A good dream, one he’s never had.

Then of course comes, ‘Language’. His mother tongue, great poets, writers print their stories. He reads but doesn’t understand. The teacher shouts at him, the exams are approaching! He’s scared, and so he leaves the text book as a whole turns to a guide and the ‘questions at the back’ .

“Learn the marked ones, she said they are important!” He learns them, goes to the examination hall.  Realizing his friend was right, jots down all that he had learnt and there,  a perfect score!

His mother is happy, his father gifts him a pen his grandfather had once owned, in the ‘British days’. The society calls him ‘Intelligent’, he’s achieved what he had to.

Twelfth pass, ninety percent. Bravo!

The little boy who now sits deep somewhere in his soul is still eager, he wonders, imagines, thinks, analyses and wants.

The ‘intelligent boy’ took over the ‘little boy’.

He learnt his ‘political science’ so now he sits in air conditioned office taking bribes.

He learnt his language well and so he is  now the speaker in the parliament and abuses anyone who raises a voice against him.

He’s great, he’s successful!

But is that him?

Because the little boy still sits, wondering, hoping, scared because his powers had been subdued and abused.

That, is rape.

P.s – This is just one kind.

So far from Innocent – Neurotic Writer’s Diary – Page 4

A few seconds turn into minutes, hours; gradually into days and months. Often we wait, for someone, something in all those moments that make life. We wait.

Sleeping every night with little dreams, hopes and rules for the next day to come and sometimes not sleeping at all. Just a cup of coffee, a pen to write and memories to recall or decisions to make. Tasks of the material world divert our hearts and souls from things we would like to keep close… They come back. Often.

To think of an end of an era is scary.

Maybe because we’re scared we’ll never live the past again. Nights of despair , lost thoughts and tears and yes, nights of good writing!

The beginning of the night is scary, the end painful! Like a mother holding her child to her bosom and giving it in the hands of a stranger.

When did I grow old?

How and why did I agree to give up my innocence? When did the sparkle in our eyes go away? Since when have we become selfish manipulative beings?

The desperation to be makes us crazy. And in the craziness we forget.

To spend nights being lost, engrossed in ourselves.

In making decisions for time is man made and so is society.

Grow up as you. Passion often takes away innocence

But living in the past only gives you tears of remembrance.

 

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.

 

Smokes of Love From A Toxic Stick

ImageFrom the wrecked dirty window of her room she gazed at the slightly blackened building with spots of green. As though the grey clouds full of anger had left their marks on the once perfectly pretty structure.

She loved pondering, wondering. Stuff…

Smoke surrounded her, it had become a habit now, rather a part of her, just inhaling that toxic stick of pleasure.

“Maybe, I’m like the building. I was beautiful wasn’t I?”She asked the little gap of clean glass on her window that reflected her fragile face.

As she did, her eyes fixed upon the packet of Marlboro Gold. It reminded her of the cold winter night when she had first picked up that source of warmth ( the cigarette) . She was glad in a way, her shivering body did not need a man  and her red lipstick had found it’s place. Or so she thought.

A  creak from the door was left unheard. She wanted to be alone with some peace, she thought.

He traveled across the room buttoning his shirt as he walked up to her holding her waist from the back. He immediately  fitted his head on her cold shoulder and said, “Last night was amazing babe.” She smirked to herself and gradually tilted her head to acknowledge his compliment.

He turned her around and glided his hands across her arms, picking out the cigarette from between her fingers  and throwing it. He kissed her forehead and told her, “Don’t smoke?” She into his eyes like a homeless puppy. There was a mystery about her that  he could never solve.

He wanted to just hang there, in her closeness. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. But she, was ice. He wondered when she’d really open up to him. He stroked her cascade of hair, pulled her closer and kissed her. Every time he did, he wished to see the love he wanted to. The one he had seen in her pictures…

“Stop smoking? For me?”He said, she simply smiled. He knew she liked him, but for her  it wasn’t love.

She did not want to hurt him, she had even said that in her dreams.

She had fallen in love (or whatever that was) with too many people. Obsession maybe.

They all told her words of love, kisses, compliments, and yes, promises.

Promises of true love, of being mates for life. What was it after all?

She tried hard, every day, in and out, to recall one, just one relationship! That was true and lasting. If it’s true it ought to last right? Not in her case.

‘She forgot to give a chance,

got too lost in the egoistic dance.’

There he was waiting, in the same apartment. Yet she dreamed of a villa instead. She waited outside her window when he stood right there.

She lay her head on his chest as she heard his heartbeat when it occurred to her that she was lost in the smoky cloud of obsessions; and yes the building was like her. ‘Beautiful’. Alas, It was just her wrecked ‘dirty’ window that disillusioned her and made her lose her faith.

She smiled, dragged her head close to his cheek and silently thanked him. Somehow even in the silence he understood her acceptance and embraced her, this time forever.

‘Mine’, he thought. ‘So that’s what love is’, she smiled.

Open-ess.( Neurotic Writer’s Diary- Page 2)

“Redefining open minds
And if you ask me
The feeling that I’m feeling is overjoyed
And it’s golden, it goes to show then” – Jason Mraz

The world wants to know and read because they absolutely love gossip. Tell me if I’m wrong!

There are days when I wish I was quite, just numb, silent. Moments where it’s just our scents, closeness, and breathes talking.

I cherish those moments, they make me feel good. Like a cup of coffee or a smoke as you write, it  seems to enhance everything… but, in my general character I’m open.

A lot of people tell me it’s a great thing, I think that too but let’s not mistake it for availability because that’s just plain wrong.

Sorry but like many other dumb girls when my idea of ‘right’ comes into my life , I fall for it. My mind is a story book, my version of awesomeness.  I’m wrong at times, so ? At least I have a life to look back to. I’ve grown up reading fairy tales and watching movies where it’s okay to be yourself.

If I really had to look around and follow other’s way of living, my first kiss would have been in Grade 1 ( I was in International school of Paris) and by the time I got to my age,  I would have been screwed.

Or if I followed the systems of Dubai, I would have chosen to shy away from any boy and yet fantasize in my head.

So I chose to stick to the way I am, me. Open, open to truth, to friendship, love, experience and people!

My judgement about you is probably based on an incidence or two. A gossip maybe, but in the end we all  are right.

‘ Right, according to our principle of life.’

My right is open-ess. and freedom. The right to do what the moment begs you to before it goes away.

They’ll always be people against it, people who’ll pull you back and say be ‘normal’. That’s when I think, honestly what’s fun about normal?  I would probably suicide if I compared myself to normal.

Right and wrong are relative. You are the only one who is allowed to choose. If your inner conscience says it’s right, Believe it. Let go of the dogma, the trauma, of it being right and wrong and if nothing ? Stop judging others versions of it. 

P.s. This is a note to self. I’m extremely judgmental of my own acts. 

My soul’s only muse.

You’re my soul’s only muse.

The years sprint through time as I hide my inner voice. “Don’t be crazy”; I say. My soul listens patiently. It whispers back to me,” Your heart that loves other men is only muscles contracting they will cease to beat eventually and your body that lusts will wrinkle you silly!”

I ignore like I always do. We have to enjoy life don’t we?

 ‘But I’m eternal, I belong to someone who’s a part of thee.’

 

You’re my souls only muse.

When my mind says it’s okay, and my heart approves, my soul denies. It doesn’t belong to me. Words like love at first sight, imprinting and soul mates sound insane in today’s day.

Yet, two souls belong, and people fall in love. Not the world’s love, the true love.

Soul’s love.

It can match no physical relation,

And no touching sensation,

When even miles away you know he’s yours to be.

Like your world revolves around only he.

When you’re tailor made for a reason,

To stick around every season…

I’m a dreamer and I won’t deny

You’re my soul’s only muse, I can’t lie.

Maybe I’m a bit too cheesy and a crazy romantic, but you bring light through the spectrum of life. I’ll  probably never be yours, yet I’ll always be.

You’re the prism of my soul, turn the white monotonousness into seven colours of life. My only source of light. I don’t want to make you mine, I’m already a part of you.  Sometimes it isn’t gravity it’s you other soul holding you.

God descends in many forms, for me it’s you. ‘Like my personal brand of heroine.’

Cared for me like my father would,

Held my hand like a friend should,

Blessed me as god could.

 

My muse. 🙂 

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.            

 

  

I Found Paradise In the Crippled Utopian World- I found god.

Image The vastness of the blue bodies, randomly painted with colours of green and white here are there.  My planet seems perfect.  A Utopian world of god, paradise.

Now anger rules the innocent heart, she hates herself for who she’s become. For who she’s turned into. Anger blames people around her but is that really the cause…?

 

Where every word is care, every hand held is faith, every feeling is love! The place where the trees don’t bow in weakness, birds don’t lie on the ground dead, the clouds are not black and water’s not purple.

(Colours are good, if they belong in the right place.)

 

Lot’s of doctor’s appointments, tests and medications. They say, symptoms of this and that.  She’s deaf to the words now.  Lot’s of research on what could be, but even the internet doesn’t answer anything for free. Lost.  Scared. Shattered. Where  should she really be?

 

In that world there are no curses, no devils, no hell.   For tell me who defines good and bad, who really chooses right and wrong?  It’s all relativity.

Where love resides,  all is good. Where faith stands, all is well.  Where I live, is heaven.  That  utopian world, is my home.

 

She often wants to run from her in capabilities ,  for the lost  strength, for the fear gained. Her outer shell is too egoistic, too self centered , too small, and too naïve. She curses herself day and night.

Now, outgrown for her mother’s lap

Distant from her father’s embrace

Stuck.  In the middle of nothing but a gamble of discouraging thoughts.

 

Man can now fly in the air like a bird, swim under the ocean like a fish, he can burrow into the ground like a mole. Now if only he could walk the earth like a man, this would be paradise.”

She weeps, with everything she see’s. Hatred, remorse , guilt, for no one but herself. There are help lines for all kinds of abuse but self abuse is probably the worst form. One part of her curses herself  for all the failures and the other consoles her. HA!  Nature’s ways…she thinks.

That world would be great, that world would fulfill dreams, everyone would live, laugh , play.. At the end of the day it would be nature’s way and say. Cascades of waterfalls, , winds, trees, grace, love, friendship, beauty, grass, birds, clouds, sun, thoughts, everything just everything perfect! And most of all smiles, lot’s and lot’s of smiles.

On the verge of the end, she decided she just couldn’t and wouldn’t stand in front of the world and it’s people because she wasn’t beautiful, because she was unworthy and selfish.

Because jealousy had taken it’s toll. Convinced with the fact that her fairy tale was just an ugly mess, she took a bottle of morphine…

 

Rays of light streamed into the corner where she sat.

Someone held her, tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked up and she knew some part of her longed for him.

(Bible :Isaiah 43:1  “Fear not: for I have redeemed you, I have called you by your name; you are mine”.)

Staring into his divine eyes, she knew she had found herself.

Giving her the comfort of a father

The lap of her mother

The hand of a friend

The love of a lover

Jesus stood, holding his child.

He whispered, this is your fairy tale, this is paradise, this is it.

From that day on she knew, that she had found her paradise in this crippled Utopian World, She had found God.

( Bible :John 3:16 “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him  should not perish but have eternal life”)