Scarred, not scared

Shards of mirror everywhere, some stained with blood

She is wounded again, in places she can’t see

But the pain no longer induces tears

She knows she would heal, eventually.

Scars one too many. Scared? Not at all

She wears those marks with pride

Keeps a count, like a child with marbles

At night, some of these glow.

She knows hers is a different story

Unlike the ones you usually see on Insta

But wavers not as she turns the page
For another perilous adventure.

Tomorrow again...

The spiral staircase that leads to the terrace
is the distance I cover every day to meet you
Even when the planes drop bombs and the smoke fills the air
I can see you across the road flying your kite, the one that waves its long tail at me
You promised to teach me to make one when we meet by the lake behind the park

The park, they told me, is grey and dry, the lake smells of blood and urine
Do u remember what day it was when we first kissed under the mahagony tree?
They must have burnt it down by now
But a new one would grow there, i am told, the one that would bear purple flowers
You promised to make a wreath for me when we meet by the lake behind the park

The letters that I couldn't send u are tucked in my diary, hidden under the staircase
When they come to get me, I will tell the slightly kinder one to bury it in the park
When the new comes and the old is gone,
someone will find it and give it to you
You promised to weave a story out of it when we meet by the lake behind the park

White noise, empty room

You, you and you, I want you all to find your bottle of favourite whiskey and down it with your sorrows and miseries to become tipsily happy or happily tipsy.

I want you all to find your door to escape pain, while I stay back in the room, arranging on the wooden racks all those spasms and pangs you have left behind.

You, especially you, I want you to take giant strides toward your new life, where a warm hug could heal all those wounds I have inflicted on you.

And also you, who did not find peace with me, I want you to smile from ear to ear when you take a picture with your newfound joy.

O, and you, you should be able to see new places, write new stories and dance merrily on a Saturday night, just like you had always wanted to.

All of you, I will lock the door, once u leave and make sure nothing gets out.
The cats and elephants would stay with me, till I die.

Her story...

She was a happy, starry-eyed girl
Crooning songs of serendipity
The breeze flirted with her locks
as she sat by the window side

One afternoon, life crept into her bed
through the window
Sucking music out of her vocal chords
Suffocating her dreams with pillows

Her puerile soul crumbled into a thousand pieces
Some pricked her between the legs
She bled on the floor, feet now chained to her fate
Life looked at her wistfully as she writhed in pain

And then it rained, washing away the blood
The smudged kohl glistened again
She lifted the broken pieces to put them back together
Some of them had stains on it

The sun peeked over the horizon
Her nimble fingers ran through the sand
And picked up a fistful to build a castle
One that had a large window by the bedside

Taking my chances

Somewhere in between sunrises and sunsets,
The skies and the seas,
I am where I should be,
walking on a wooden bridge, tied loosely to a trunk.

My thoughts forge the planks that I step on,
My tears melt into the setting sun,
Creating a blurry vision,
And a hope that there is life beyond the haze

Somewhere, in between, I stop,
And look back at what could have been.
The boatman still rests by the cliff,
and croons excuses and broken promises

I chose to walk a wobbly bridge,
Featherbeds are not for me.
The fear of heights, the sound of your heartbeat,
They are all one and the same now

Somewhere, in a faraway place,
Where the trees made music for men,
I see a tiny hut with a broken window;
It sings my name and sighs aloud.

There I shall be, if I cross the bridge.
The rusty nail just cut my skin open,
But I will take my chances in the unknown,
Till the planks fall and the rope gives way.

Thy name is Destiny

She walks up the mountains to touch the moon
And paint a constellation with the blinking stars that rest on clouds
The wind caresses her hair gently
She sings a lullaby for the puerile

She dances on the tall waves that ride the stormy seas
And makes merry with the seahorse that kisses her feet
The rickety spirit bundles up under a faraway tree
She sings a swan song to ease his pain

For the rest of the night, she weaves a dream
And colours it with hues of myriad emotions
The city that sleeps now tosses and turns
She wraps the dream around the jaded mortals

At the break of the dawn, she flies high and takes the veil off sun
Then sinks to the bottom of the sea to write a new fable
The egoist rises and so does the naive
Destiny smiles and waits for the inevitable

That day...

It was one of those moments when you have so much to say but the words jumble up in your head. You fumble, eat your words, and fail to sequence your thoughts.

Nine years. A very long time indeed. It is not that she never imagined this moment. On occasions, she even rehearsed her lines in front of the large Venetian mirror in her bedroom. And now, when he was there right in front of him, she knew not what to say. It was nothing like what she had prepared for.

Memories flooded back, one after another. She lived those five years in less than five minutes. The wound is still fresh.

It took her a minute longer to compose herself. He sat there still, perplexed.
"Shall we start?" she asked. "aah... yes, sure," he stuttered.
"So, why should we hire you?" she said, adjusting her gold-rimmed spectacles on her pointed nose. A wry smile flickered across her face

Memories galore

Having met all the deadlines the night before, I knew I could have the morning to myself. After a cuppa and a brief chat with a friend over phone, I pulled a book out of the wooden shelf to read.

As I flipped through its pages, I came across this one picture tucked between pages 31 and 32. The picture, taken some two decades back, brought back a melange of memories --- some happy ones and some not-so-happy ones.

It was one such winter morning 20 years ago, when I, along with the other kids from the neighbourhood, waited on the deck of the launch to bid our fathers goodbye before walking down to the cabin below. It was a customary habit, you could say. However, it wasn't just another day to school. 

Our weekly tests had begun and each of us had notes and books in hand. As the helmsman steered the launch, we descended to the cabin below and took our seats. Although I could hear the navigator, Keshav da, shouting his lungs out, giving directions to the helmsman, he could do little to waver my concentration from the last chapter of the history book. It was only when my friend, Ritu, sitting next to me, started panicking, I took note of the situation. 

As I craned my neck out to see where we have reached, a cold breeze brushed past my face and a chill ran down my spine. We were in the midst of nowhere. A think blanket of fog had enveloped us and everything around looked fuzzy. The helmsman looked puzzled just as we did and with no rescue in sight, we huddled up in one corner of the cabin.

Mobile phones were unheard of in those days and we knew not how to get help. After much coaxing by some of my friends and Keshav da, the helmsman set sail again. The risks were not too many, just that a bigger vessel could have hit us at any point of time. After wandering around aimlessly for about half-an-hour, the launch came to a still with a sudden thud.

The moments of silence that followed were unnerving. It was only when Keshav da broke into peals of laughter, we rushed to the deck to find out the launch has traced its steps back to the starting point. We heaved a sigh of relief but the feeling did not last long as we were terribly late for school. Surprisingly, dad and uncles were still waiting at the jetty. The little ones among us were teary-eyed and the older ones looked anxious. Just to cheer them up, one of the uncles, a photographer by passion, brought out his analog camera and asked us to smile for him, as if we had achieved a feat.

Thankfully, our school made an exception and we were allowed 15 minutes grace to complete our paper.

That was just one day framed of the 14 winters of my life that I spent crossing the river, sometimes calm and at other times rough, to reach school.

To think of it, so much has changed since then. The uncle who made us smile that morning is no longer there, friends have gone places and I don't remember the last time I visited the jetty. But the memories have stayed with each one of us, I believe. That is what counts!

Losing a loved one

When I sat next to my four-year-old nephew to explain death, I knew not where to begin from. It took me some time to gather myself before I could get on with it. Nevertheless, it was important. None of us would get to see the grand old man again, including him, and for one last time I wanted him to touch dadu's feet or bid him goodbye, if I can put it that way.

But for obvious reasons, he looked at me with disbelief at first! Where is God's abode and how far is it from our place, he asked me. I wish I knew all that.

Distinct memories of the day will remain etched in the memory forever. "He has been suffering for long, good for him he won't have to put up with pain and discomfort any longer," Maa said even as tears rolled down her cheeks. My grandma spoke little. For years, I have seen the couple weathering odds even as they engaged in regular altercations. My uncles tried their best to hold themselves together but I could still see them wiping their glasses on several occasions.

Dadu was loved by one and all and at 93, he was probably the eldest one in the neighbourhood. Needless to say, people poured in as soon as the news spread.

I didn't know how to react at first. I was restless, trying to keep myself busy with little chores like fetching money from the bank for his last rites and buying medicines for my aggrieved-and-ailing family members. In between, however, I took time to sit by Dadu stroking his benumbed hands. I tried hard to control my emotions but the thought that he would no longer wake up from the slumber to ask about my next newspaper article was too hard to come to terms with. I too broke down.

As he set on his final journey, I held him tight one last time. Much was left unsaid. And even though I shrug off stories about life after death and spirits, for once I wished they were real. I wished he could be there by me in whatever form he chooses to.

Hopes refuse to die

It still affects me, mom. I lied. It still does. Because I still can't get used to it. Hopes, maa, they refuse to die. And even after so much, I still hope for a better tomorrow. I do not know, how much more I will have to put up with, but am trying, maa... trying to do away with the expectations that I have from life, trust me. Every single day, I make efforts to convince myself that it's all over, but hopes refuse to die

Why, maa? why does it have to be this way always? why can't things change for better? Know what, I am writing this after long. Not because, I don't have time, not because I am short of words, just that I am too tired of venting out my feelings here. I was waiting to post a happy incident or two but the wait has been too long. So, yeah! here I am with my endless rants!

Have I really done something to deserve this? Why can't I move on, like others do! You know, maa...even if happiness comes and knocks my door now, I might not recognize it or even if I do, I wonder if it would still hold any significance. Don't remember the last time I have had a goodnight's sleep.
Do u still pray, maa? I don't.

I have been walking through this dark tunnel braving the chills and the heat for too long now. I am tired, maa. I still don't see any light at the end of it. Forgive me, if i give up midway. I do not wish to disappoint you. but I know not, how far can I go. 

And with that another day ends. Right now it is 1.06 am in the morning, and I am still at office waiting for my cab to take me home. It was an usual day for me. Like any other day, I woke up late, had my breakfast after much coaxing by Maa and spent half the morning in idle pursuits, scolding myself for not churning out anything constructive, and at the same time making a promise of trying  something meaningful the very next day!!

Unlike most of you, my office hours start in the evening. No, I don't work for a BPO. I am a subeditor with the Times Of India. It was difficult dragging myself to the office today, like most other days. And once I was in, I was told about the pile of work that I will have to take care of! When in college, we were told that ours is a thankless job. We are the unsung heroes of the press! Well, now I know what it means!

 I dread seeing myself in the mirror at the end of the day. My hairstyle has gone awry and my eyes must have sunk in deep sockets. Anyway, what bothers me most at this hour is that I have wasted another day! There is nothing that I have done today that makes me feel good except drafting this blog post.