On being circumstantially left out

In the course of our lifetime “feeling” is something we never cease to do. Behaviors change but realizations or the road which a person seeks in its course, seldom does. However, most of the feelings we feel are only the giants of the industry, namely, joy, grief, guilt, relief, content, excited and so forth. And like in any industrial setting the giants of our mind often supersede the little ones; takeover and mergers are common here as well. One such feeling that I realized I walk past every now and then is the feeling of being left out. We tend to confuse feeling left out as missing out, feeling blue and ending up with one of the leaders in the business, sadness. But I guess its a little more than that. We feel left out more often than we actually think we do, from situations which range from office parties to someone else’s life. And although mostly we blame it on ourselves, for something we might have done or had someone react to. There is one other kind as well. Being circumstantially left out.

Yes! Circumstances, course of events, fate or just because its not meant to be at that particular period of time. I think that this feeling of being circumstantially left out should be playing the majors in the emotion league as well. Here is how i feel it turns out to be. Although to start with, the situations that propel this particular feeling do not appear to be major threats, they usually turn out of events that assure your inclusion in a distant time period and thus give you the illusion of the most “not ok” thought of all—-“its ok”. You go about with it accepting the situation as it is when suddenly two very easy words join together to form one of the most difficult phrases to tackle, “what” and “if”. And that’s when it hits you, and it hits you hard. You start to think of what you would have done and how you would have done it, had you been there. It strikes you that the moment or the people involved want you to be their but your circumstances force them to leave you out of it. And no matter how you try , no matter how much you tell yourself , Its NOT OK. It never will be. Events which act as a stimulus to this sudden “katrina” in your mind may be anything, it might be a quiz that your old partner might be participating in and for the first time you are not their to fight with him for the answer, your parents anniversary with you being away, a friends live show and you missing it, it can be the most simplest yet most intrinsic of subjects. Your mind starts to wonder, you close your eyes and picture yourself sitting beside, holding the camera or standing in the front row and smiling up to the stage and the illusion of a merry event never saddens you more. And things are made worse by the best of efforts; when the people on the other side try their best to make you feel “being there”. The photos, the videos, the memoirs. You know that’s the best you can get, the best they can give you, the best your circumstance can offer, but the war is tough and you almost never win it. You end up beating yourself up, mauling your situation, hating your imagination for not being real. In short, you lose it for a while only for it to come back again.

But not all is dull and I believe in fairy tails, thus happy endings are kind of a natural. I feel this circumstances no matter how much you hate them, no matter how much I hate them, do bear a promise as well, it is because the word circumstance, in itself bears a temporal sense i.e. it bears the promise of change and that bit is something you can control. Its effect is huge but only for the moment. You are left out but not left behind, and that right there is my silver lining. You are in a race, the situations that you so want to be a part ,although might be ahead of you in this laps, but you can always catch if you have your eye set on the finish line. The quiz you might have missed, you could have it again, just turn your situation towards the same quiz club, the anniversary you missed, take the oath of making it bigger and being there the next time, the performance that might have gone on without you make sure it does not start without you the next time those lights flash and that sound check occurs. Because the best part is the people who sadly form the subject of you feeling left out are the ones who want you to be a part of it the most, and believe it or not that’s your sword and armor. The moment you start believing in this abstract reality, you know you have just picked up a nitrous and your wheels will be above the road in no time. Then what ? Finish the race off in style and show your circumstances the finger and salute them off to the horizon of the past.

Sadly enough though , I do not have any solution or advice to help you with it, because clearly I am scraping through the same pavement as you are, otherwise I would not have been writing this post. I wish you find your boost and find it soon enough, again, again and again till it works.


P.S. I know there are people out their who are really good at making such situations work, which makes this post sound kind of personal. Well, then, I guess it is. lo


A letter of fiction

I recently came across a post on terribly tiny tales, which started with “Dear long distance lover”. And thus it made me think. We all talk, see, hear and live through love in forms more than one but how does distance really factor in “love”. Well although I ended up pretty much turning round a blind curve every now and  then, there are two more reasons as to why i decided on writing about it on my own terms.

1. Because I needed to break down the block I was going through

2. The title was just too good !!

And thus,

Dear long distance lover,

How’ve you been ? Well I choose to ask you this rather cliched opening question because I figured there might be a few things that you might have missed out or chosen to skip in those numerous whatsapp texts and skype sessions that we have shared. I have been fine, I have been well and more so i have been loved. And yes while I attribute a lot of it to you sadly enough I have to share that bit with my parents and siblings too.

The best part about being in love and sharing a huge distance is that we have so much to talk about, its like we have two different worlds that come together through the header, “you know what happened today?”. We smile, we cry, we complaint, we fight but there is a screen that separates us through all of it. Now that’s just sad , as all those moments just make me wish even more, a wish that can come true with time and time only and you know how impatient I can get. He he !! Yes you know me , don’t you ? I think you are THE “farthest” person who knows me so much better even than those who appear “near”. Well i guess not all ironies are morose. That’s hope you have right there.

Do you remember the first time we met ? It was a blessed dusk, the birds flew over the big lake in the south of our city creating rippled shadows like dots on a canvas waiting to be joined into a piece of art. We were nervous weren’t we ? I remember rehearsing all those words in my mind all the while on what to say next but all I could manage was an occasional jittery giggle or a rather nervous “Ok. acha ok”. I remember you wore that white kurti that day, the one you proudly proclaimed to be a fabric from Lucknow, I had no idea what you were talking about but all I believed was that it was one lucky piece of fabric to get the opportunity to be wrapped around you like that ! I remember a lot more than that too, i guess. I think the farther you get , the more you realize on how important memories are and that they are actually made everyday from the faintest and simplest of incidents.

The windchime still makes that light tingle of a sound, the one you had gifted me on “our” day telling me no matter how far we stay the tings and tongs would always be as sweet as our conversations. Infact , I am wearing that t-shirt you sent me over because once I happened to say on how I missed your smell,however it just gives the illusion of your fragrance now. I blame the detergents !! There is one more thing i figured about being distantly in love, and that is, we talk a lot more about what will happen than what is happening, the future is a much believable perspective than the present and if you ask me i would tell you that its just the tricks of the trade.

You know there is yet another thing that i discovered, Distance runs in cycles. It neither stays nor leaves your back that easy. Its been 70 years of me being in love with you of which you were or should i say have been, away for 40 of it. We did get to the future we spoke about all the time, the one where we would stay together, have a family, make people around us so happy and keep each other in each other’s arms but we missed this bit out and I blame you. You knew I was an Epicurean and you being the Plato should have reminded me of it. You should have told me that just like the job offer after your masters degree , life would come calling and once again this relationship had to live off “long distance” and that too a really long one. That one day you would leave without leaving me your whatsapp contact, without giving your skype id, that one day that couch will be all mine to lie down in and I would no longer have to fight with you for a cushion and most of all ,without even giving me a hint. This hit me hard until the day you called me from behind the screen of night and told me that you were doing fine, that your “flat mates” were good people, that you missed me and looked forward to seeing me soon. It was skype all over again just the screen was much bigger than my laptop’s. I have learnt to live with it just like when we started dating, here is how i spend my days now. My eyes open to your smile lying within a frame on my desk, I drink my milk, I kiss our grand children off to school!! They have turned out as good kids you see. Who am I kidding, ofcourse you do!. I come back and read through the newspaper as I am called on for lunch, after lunch I sit with some of our photos and letters from our days, scroll through whatsapp, I never manage to go real far up as my fingers start to hurt, then I lie down and skype you once again. At night I put the kids off to bed, come into my room , change the kurta and wear your tshirt and go off to sleep.

But like any other long distance relationship, its getting a bit difficult these days, age seems like a linchpin in the dominoes when it comes to maintaining a long distance relationship. Just yesterday I had to go through an emergency album viewing session. Lately, I remember all my memories but the faces are getting blur. And that scared me so much. It still does. I had a long skype session with you a couple of days back, our daughter said that they got scared, I was given a very comfortable bed in a hospital for that session, and I could swear I felt your palm on mine. After that day I am not really sad anymore, although I doubt our children know something about me that i don’t. I think they know that its time I moved. I know it makes them sad but to be honest it makes me really happy because they have all their promises left to keep and they must do so, on the other hand I have just one more left and the feeling that its going to happen soon fills me with calm, the promise of our “pincodes and timezones being same”, once and for all.

Signing off and see you really soon.

With love

Your long distance lover.


The written autobiography of a writer

I have seen many come, and many go and many stay on forever. I have seen fictions being made, imaginations been drawn, dreams come true and also those that remained so. I have built people and i have built lives, i have gone on for days to come to an abrupt stop. I am a persons identity at time, character at others. I have witnessed the life that one wished for and the life they wished they never had and it all came down from my brain fluid. I am a pen.

Some people smirk when they open me from a packed box that say “with love, aunt Sarah” and poor aunt Sarah gets nothing more than an ignorant and obligatory smile simply because i am not something interesting, i do not fly neither do i create virtual worlds for my holder to seek refuge in, i just write and thus i am boring. While i have seen such kids i have also met people who quiver about getting me in newer forms every now them, i have names that appeal to them like the name of a bottle of scotch to an alcoholic. To them i am a collectible, a piece of emerald in their gold clad chest and something they boast about. Though i cant say that they use me to my satisfaction but at the same time i cannot deny that i do not enjoy the attention on strange palms. I can feel their pulse as they look down at me and wave me in the air to mimic their signatures, i can see the diamond reflect in their pupils as they look to the one on my head through the glass doors of my cage. I feel proud, oh yes i do! But happy ? well…….i guess the “well” says it all.

Like every breed of bird is divided into two sects so is our society, the one behind the gold cage and the other on the dusty branch of an amazonian forest. And thus comes the third kind of people in the freckled fingers of whom my life finds its true meaning. The ape men in the dense forest of words. They make me work, they scratch with me, make me bite trough lines, makes me write them and sometimes in a manner i write things that hold the meaning of what actually is unwritten. They show me my world and i play, swirve, read, mark and write my way through it. I see the world in so may forms on so many sheets of flattened wood that they call paper (well he too has a story to tell, but that’s for some other time because as of now he is “digitally”busy from being written on to by my “digital”form). A life grows through me. Rivalries are born and i give birth to them, and then end them just like that, with a few unique movements. I am there in the proof of the first cry to the proof of the last breath and i smile and cry as much as the ones who use me then. I see smiles coming on the beholders face as he writes a passage of happiness and i know it when they are blue because sometimes my letter get blurred by a sudden drop of a salty liquid on them. I have seen love grow through my tips and seen them being shattered to bits from the same. I have written true stories that appear a fiction and fictions that actually are true. I have drawn pictures of maidens of dreams,to the maidens who made them dream, to crooks and criminals whom i helped to put behind bars.The most powerful symbol of this world of ours is also built by me-a signature. The signature that can give one the power to win on worlds and the same same signature that defines that one has lost it all, from their money, their home to their wives who even a day ago he loved with his might. Oh how have i seen and known the mortal being, how have i felt what they felt exactly the same and ten times more!! I have see them struggle ,when I found those fingers decked up tightly on my head, the tip stuck on the paper and not a sound was made, sorry, not a word was made. I have trembled with their fear as they wrote with me their last words while the rope hung behind them from the roof and perhaps that’s one of the moments i felt most helpless for not being able to speak my own. I lay their as a moment later i was covered by the shadow of his dangling feet. I have been broken in many forms , its their friustration that broke me. But the morose is not all that there is. As much as i have felt their nerves i have felt their hearts to.I have felt them write as if they were talking to someone about their feelings. I have seen them smile as they wrote letters of home coming and numerous other events like christmas, new year, hanukkah and many more. I have felt them sing as they wrote in rhyme and i have seen them blush as they drew her in words. I have had two hands on my tip sometimes, a big one over a little one, a hand so little that even i was bigger than the arm on whose tip it was, managing a difficult A B C as others looked on. I have witnessed that hand transit from a little soft ball of tissue writing its letters, to a playful hand doing its homework, to a matured one writing to his “her” for the first time, to a dutiful one writing his thesis, to a weak and skinny one writing his will. I have seen and been through everything and everywhere.

I have given this world a way into their own world and a way to build one of their own outside their own.I help this world decide whats right and whats wrong, i help it decide what should be and what should be not, i am the creator of the creator and i am the sheild of their glory. And yes i am mightier than the sword!! I do not fight i write and a scar vanishes over time, but a word even though can be rubbed can never be deleted. For my “ink” might stay on paper but its born in the mind. I do wish sometimes that i could have spoken, but then again feel like its fine because if i would have , you would have been speechless (are you now? ), so its fine.

Savour me , enjoy me, write with me and never stop at the end of a refill, just get one and help me define you in every form of its meaning. I am tired now , so i would like my testimony to end like this

“remember remember the days of forever

the paintings, the poems ,the plot

and i will remember and shall forget never

all the words that you ever thought”

  And so i began, and thus i end.

“Signing” off

Yours faithfully

A pen

P.S. try to not chew my head when you are tensed or rotate me round the same, the spit makes me gooey and the turn makes me dizzy.!!

The thing about love.

Original post date on blogspot : 22/02/2016


The thing behind the first word. The thing about the first smile. The thing about the first miracle. The thing about the first sight. The thing about the first fight . The thing around the first wink. The thing about the first letter. The thing behind the first secret, the thing behind sharing it the first time. The thing about the first tear, the thing behind the first palm to wipe it away. The thing about pulling through. The thing about the first walk to the park, the first walk through the park. The thing about the first flower and the first wilt. The thing about holding a finger, to holding a hand, to wrapping round a palm and also joining ones both in a prayer. The thing about knowing that it almost never ends up to be the “first” of everything every time, In short, the thing, about love.

Love is that miracle that helps us be. The feeling behind our first breath, the feeling behind our first cry and also the feeling on our mothers little finger, tight, for the very first time, It brings us this world of ours, helps us grow with it, through it , while it enjoys a seat in the bench and only comes in as the super sub when we cry for help (and not everytime is it heard). A parents love knows no bound, it is biased, loud, tough and binds us like a cloud round the summer sun , it gets denser, the more it burns and then drains itself out , only to put it to rest for a while. We learn our first words and use the rest on them, they smile. We bring down all our wrath on them, they soothe. We cry our sorrows out to them, they strengthen while breaking down inside. They lay their palms with petals of roses for us to walk on and have them pierced by as much thorns as they can. The thing about love to them is sacrifice —- with a smile.

The love of a sibling is perhaps the most confusing of all. They begin as arch enemies, and come to think of it , they prefer to stay that way. They will drag each other to the corner of the cliff but will still not let go. Even if they fall they fall together. Its the fear that counts. Hairs are pulled, notes are misplaced, study sessions are disrupted, slaps are thrown and even then the smallest of jokes are shared, the smallest of pancakes are eaten half, the biggest of hearts belong to the other, the strongest of supports are what they are to each other. A sibling always knows when the other is in trouble and draws out every possible hay from the stack to look for the needle and remove it. The elder one holds the hand of the little one forever and pulls him through no matter what. When the news of a heartbreak comes they are the first to quip, “i had told you so!!”, but the only one to sit beside and tell, “come on! as long as you are into people, everything is going out fine”, and the best part is, perhaps the only person in the world who means it. The first wake up call, the last goodnight wish, the first career solution and the first relationship mockery, they see it all, but the best part, they see you through it all.  Love of a sibling is unbearably unbearable yet a predilect without which your life remains a forever half portion.

Love for that special one  ( from a guys stand point) . It is something new, something unprecedented, something that hits you out of nowhere although you might have seen it coming and wanted it but you relish the mystery and suddenness of it. The first time you learn that seeing a person can actually give you goosebumps and make you want to be stupid by choice. The first time you know that the feeling of being complete is actually incomplete until you meet that very stranger you becomes your own to fulfill your own. The dream giver, she turns out to be the dew on the pebble that every bare feet looks for in the early morning field. The first time you feel like taking up a pen rather than your voice. The first time you stare without having the least bit of idea why you are doing so. The paradox of strange insight gulps you down and by the time you realize it you are deep in the abyss of “everythingness”. She becomes a part of you as much as you never were to yourself. You begin hitting the backspace more than the spacebar just to get those words out perfectly for her, to her and still feel like you should have gone for a “feel” check. She smiles anyway and that not just makes your day but gives you the arm to hold (or atleast dream of holding round, but that’s another story. lets not dim the lights) to make your entire world around it.

God claims all, sees all, loves all and yes seeks the love of all that ever was, ever is and ever will be. Love of God is a miracle, a miracle to show us light in forms old and new, in pictures, statues and shadows, in mysteries one would never see the end of, in arguments one would never wind and most of all in ways one would never measure. So we pray and we promise what we fail to often realize is nothing, not a stone turns out of a plan, and so our thoughts, they never really are our own, they are verses from names unknown, from places unknown just making their were through our heart to our actions.

So for the love of all there is to love and for the love of life lets not lose out on love and let love never lose out on us for its there from the cot we breath out first, to the laps and arms we breathe through and the shoulders on which we breathe our last..

Cheers !!

Vellore Days…..

Original Post date on Blogspot :20/02/2016


It happened within a few months. I was a typical “calcatian” enjoying my time out on the lanes and the ghats in the city that has never failed to give me anything a hint less than joy. Coffee house, Baghbazar, college canteen, a metro station south of the city and the vendor cabin of the last train from sealdah on thursdays were my rotating addresses. Home was just a refuge. Addas were my forte, the people my stage and Kolkata was my oyester. I am still not sure about it, but i thought like the city was it for me, it was the place that would have all the chapters of my life written on it , and i was nothing less than glad to be a character in its ever so marvellous novel, be it of a broken heart, joined hands or the bits and pieces of the lips that joined together to make the smile of my life. And thus all of a sudden came the unprecedented “but” in my life and like the whirl of a hot wind in a summer afternoon , brought me to the very next page of my story via the kharagpur villupuram express one fine june morning. And vellore said “Vanakkam.”

Lets be honest, i loathed it since day one. A strict institute in a sub urban part of the southernmost tip of our country was never the place i thought i would end up in. Yes, to the society i had achieved, won a medal round my neck , but to me, i was lost. I was sad, i was homesick and i quickly adjusted to the depressed side of my being , of which i learned after i landed at katpadi junction, Home was a dream and to wake up every morning and walk down to the department in the picturesque campus a nightmare. I had changed my residence from coffee house to the coffee in a steel cup at the college canteen. Though it tasted better but it did not taste like it. The air was cooler in the evenings but it did not smell the same, it smelled of sambar and not of the ghoti gorom at the baghbazar ghat. Department to hostel and back to the department the next morning, life had become a routine with the last train, tea in a clay pot and shyambazar five point crossing all off to sleep clad by the blanket of my memories. The only known faces were the two of my best friends who had apparently had the same ill luck as to get selected here, but all they could help me with were a couple of words from the tongue gifted by my loving mother. I became calm. And trust me, that is not an attribute i look up to.

They say time heals all, but what they don’t is that time also builds all. And just like the sapling on a pot my life started growing around the so far so loathed place. I started to know the people, taste the food, make friends out of corners and yes received with smiles. The smiles, chats, occasional hellos and the wave of hands made me realize that even though I knew how much i hated it here but at the same time CMC and vellore knew exactly how to make me feel loved. And riding on the saddle of the hour glass I had changed and once again started to live by the meaning of it. I started enjoying the hectic department hours sitting in front of the huge list of numbers that meant so much, my mates at the department started owning my secrets and won over the right to make me laugh. Most of them even though do not know the language i speak in but speak much more to me than i ever could wish for. A stroll down the dusty tree clad campus lanes meant meeting hordes of wonderful people just waiting for the opportunity to wave, smile and say “hi” in the most adorable of manners. Smiles came in packets of banana chips and courtyard dances of diwali celebrations,moves of vijay & Jr NTR and the smiles of the people in Adukambarae Kattupadi who fed us till our stomachs burst open even though they had known me for just a day or two.And it was just when i started feeling homely in the bounds of the bagayam campus that home came to me in the form of elder brothers and friends from my land, who did not spare a second before laying their arms on my shoulders. Vellore was slow but it emerged strong. Changes came through “it seems”, “river only”,”thek ache”, rumba chicken, visit to VIT and trips to the fish market , chennai and bangalore,tensions of journal review sessions , birthday celebrations and chicken tikka masala.

As i was returning today through the empty late night vellore roads to my campus, my head laid softly in the seat of the car,with a WB number plate with smiles old and new, a bengali song making its way through my ears, and the sky passed over my eye lashes, i would be a fool if not to accept the fact that i failed to realize that all the time i was nowhere but home. Home is an emotion, a feeling of belongingness and that ever so dark road from thorapadi to the college campus is where i belong now and never did it hesitate to make me a part , it was me who was stupid enough to deny it time and time again. I know vellore is just a chapter and its not forever but it is forever now and i am glad i landed here, to learn a lot so as to teach a bit in the coming few pages.I still miss home, still miss the bed, still miss the lanes but the only difference now is that it does not stop me from enjoying the rusty hostel cot, the beautiful college campus and my wonderful life here in the district of vellore in the southern most state of Tamil Nadu.

Life is Rumba Nalla Irrekke.

Cheers !!

to all the people who make my life in vellore so filled with life. and to all those who are home away.

A Year Gone By

original post date on blogspot : 11/02/2016


The morning to him appeared the same. Wearing the same outfit, carrying the same smile, watching the same frown on his mothers face because of waking up late- yet again. Watching the same gloated face on the mirror with the toothpaste foam peeking through his lips, which made him feel guilty for having to hide its eventually turning black color. Running his finger through the rim of the tea cup that his mom left him with about an hour ago he sits by in the corridor waiting for the clock to to remind him of beginning yet another day in the year that was in no hurry to pass by. An hour more later , he was out on the streets.

The bag he was carrying around was old, filled with scratches and missing stitches but he perhaps the only piece of fabric that he was fond of wearing along his shoulders and it is not because he was fond of studying or going to college, in short i do not wish to write about it in the very beginning. He made his way through the bustling streets on the heavily crowded , ever the same, crossing. He tried to think as to how writers would find inspiration hidden in the crowd or how generous it was of the sun to shed its light every morning. Because to him, the former was just a huge bag of sweat and litter and the second was, well, just yellow and warm! Yet again he decided to walk to college as obviously the buses declined him a pave to stand and complete his journey through three blocks.College, well it was no different, being late and cajoled by the profs, the ever so same lecture of having no hope in life, “what is life to this man?”, he used to think, just a degree which earned him the eligibility to make his days miserable. The same game of TT in the common room, what began with hours came down to a game a day, he was losing his streak and thus his place as a good competition. Afternoon came and went drawing him out of his comfort with comfort.Evening saw him with a bit of travelling, the best part of the day was yet to come, his girl, his heart would be waiting for him in a distant street, the part of the day that made him wish to live the next. He got down, spent the only hours of the day he felt worth spending on shared phuchkas, shared seats on public transport, shared walks and most of a shared life. Returning home, he loathed every bit of it, complaints of being seen holding “someones hand” out on the streets, no putting in effort to study, lowering indices of report card, pesky relatives, wasting away time on friends and sleep and doing nothing but diving into glowing screens till late night. He was having the worst year ever, oh how he wished it ended, he would change so many things the next one on! He had got it all sorted but he needed the frame to close, the year to pass by and he would have everything, every damn thing in control.

And his wish  was heard!

It started with tests of mind and heart, things started shaking as if they had all been hit by an earthquake, time started flying by, education demanded his attention and so did society and the scales got heavier on both sides. This was his closing year of his college life and he had just realized he need to know a lot more to pass the exams this time, he started spending long hours at the institute and getting late for other arms in his body. And now it started aching. The world spinned around him like a merry go round going in the speed of 80 miles and he could do nothing to stop it, days and nights started passing by as the shadow of a bird on a stone chip, no one even knew of it passing by and it was not long later, that, he lost all grip. Where he went wrong ? The fast passage of time did not bother him, the pace of passage did. He diverted and diverted far, and not long later did he manage to put a scratch on his “share” of life, a call, a call created a difference and he was so engrossed in his sudden business that difference soon turned to anger and anger to deviation and deviation to distance. The hands on the ceiling of sistine in his life shifted further and further away and he did nothing but enlarge the painting in size until a time, tears rolled and stopped and so did the beats of half his life. He got a call and flew out, to a different land , made in zeal but shattered in dreams. A new dawn started in his life just as quickly as the dusk of the past went by ,but this time it stopped to take a breath and he suddenly realized that even though the dawn was new but there was not a drop of dew on the new leaf that had grown out of the bud of the new year, he once so wished for to come. He sat their on the ledge looking at the new sunrise and dreading it for being this different, a new land, a new path to walk down, a new crowd and also a brand new pain, a pain of  being incomplete, a pain from running to fast, and pain from missing out on time, tide and a few ounces of teardrops. He knew that this day held promises , but what it did not hold were the promises he had broken. He had a life now, a new one, one that he desired but it missed one thing, his dreams. He no longer dreamt of a new year to come, he had nightmare from the one in the past. He wakes up now, looks up to the sky and looks on to the road and now he knows. The sun though the same emits a different ray every day, a ray that sometimes relates to hope, sometimes to truth, sometimes to peace , sometimes to warmth, whatever it may be, the time you take to look up and decide om which ray to put your hand on , that’s how you know that every morning in a year is different, every morning is unique and that once gone it never comes back. The crowd is a symbol of ones uniqueness to be his own among a collection of his likes, an inspiration to stand out and also a cohort to look for the right person to wrap his arm around. Now the poets don’t seem that stupid to him. He has learnt to pass his day, pray through it and since the time passed in no longer his apologise to himself hoping vainly that his life might hear once, he knows its a hard deal, but he does it anyway. His year now is filled with hope, promises and prayers instead of frowns, anger and

discordances. He still carries the bag, still filled with scratches and more stitches have opened up but now its filled with memories and less the pride.

He still makes a wish every night, ” how i wished last year had never passed! ”


Well, lets just said, you are granted on one wish in life make sure you put your heart in the right one.

Hopes for losing on an aching heart (and not cheers for this one)

So dare not wish for time to fly by, cause one can never keep up.

A ballad

A ballad

We all speak of love as being something of a fairy tale, a notion that gives our existence a storyline to grab on to. We all eagerly wait on for that very moment when we would feel it unanimously and fall into it at the time when we least expect it to be. But I think its the stories of love that once was are much more interesting than the love that we dream of. Love drawn in the canvas of the past. Our heart never breaks the moment love leaves, but instead it does so when we reminiscence of how it left, in short “you only know you were in love when you let it go”. Two people, complete strangers , hold hands in a moment that they dream of building their lives around. They fight as if all they will ever have to lose is each other. But what they fail to realize is that the fights are much harder in their own backyard than in the neighbourhood ahead. They become so perfect to each other that when the war approaches to their doorstep they find it hard to hold on to their horses. People fall in love all the time, but falling out of it is what it becomes all about. They promise of being with each other no matter how hard the road ahead may be but when the speed breaker approaches beneath their own feet, their hand slide down to the edge of their little fingers. Everything that once was neatly drawn out get draped by a pale of paint thrown recklessly onto it and all of it becomes a monotone. Compatibility, issues, cheats, faith , the objects that suffer the blame but what hides beneath the burkha is nothing but a lie , a lie that no human has ever been able to hide for long, the lie of knowing the other person. Canaries become vultures feeding on each others disappointments. In the crowd of “what”, “when”, “how” and “where” s , loses its way a very quite “why”. A single question that might just have been the perfect solution. They cry, they shout, they blame, they listen but they never ask. Forgiveness becomes a myth and along with it their story. They learn , to change. They force, to not be what they were or simply become what they had always been but had never wanted to be. Career sometimes shows a way out of such situations. Mirrors become their worst enemies, they can hide those drops from everyone but what happens when it comes to themselves ? Some sigh to think as to what went wrong ? Some cry to conventionally null their pains ? Some run, run as fast as they can, but in circles, and then become still with nothing left but a shivering pair of hands. The hands that wrapped around each other when they sat by the river bank and held each other tight failed to hold for one last time to make the other sit and just speak. In the torrential pour of the fights , speaking drenched and drained. Leaving two unknown souls, that knew each other more than they knew themselves in tatters. They say they learned, but did they? They say they stopped dreaming, but did they? What does it mean by moving on ? Where do they move on to ? How far can someone go once they move in into an apartment, called the heart ? Is this actually what it was all about ? The hands that once spread they never draw to a close, but also do not spread even wider. And that is where lies the tiny little thing called irony. To soothe is myth, to forgive is a sin, chances are risks and thus to forget is the only option.
But lets not lose hope. Lets dream of our lives to be like movies, lets keep wishing for the happily ever after ending, lets not lose out on love, not once, not twice not ever. Lets dream of finding it back even if we have lost it forever.
That’s all the optimism that you might find out me through this post.
To all the love in the world,
Wish you find strength to hold on.


P.S. I know this came out pretty dark but hey! no ballads came out of successful love stories. Its the failures that write the sweetest songs.