Magical Things

Years had gone by since they first met. If I remember correctly, they met in College. Or High School. Either way, in the bigger picture, it only adds to how much they loved each other. Years had gone by and they were going to get married to each other.

He was on his way to College, one day; the last days of his College life. Him and his friend were riding a bike. From what I remember, he loved those bike rides with his friend. I don't know what happened, exactly. I don't know if his friend was riding the bike at rash speeds. Or if he was. Or if neither of them were. I don't know how the weather was. I don't know where exactly they were. All I know is that a truck hit them. He took a serious blow to his head. I don't know what happened to his friend. He didn't survive the accident.

Three grief-stricken hearts stood next to his photo, at home- The mother, the father and  her. Tears left their eyes, one after another. There was silence in the house. Everyone who had come to offer condolences were silent, too. He was loved and cherished by all. Nobody had any words to offer. People came and people left. Nobody left anything but their tears. Hours later, a kid walked in with his mother.

If I remember correctly, my English teacher from 9th grade once told us that kids don't really understand the gravity of the situation. They are always lost in themselves and reality doesn't quite bother them as it bothers grown-ups. It is true. I think it makes them lanterns of joy.

The kid walked into his aunt's house. He didn't know why he was there. He didn't know why there were so many people there. He barely knew the person in the photograph. His mother instructed him to behave properly. He had to. But, it was getting late. His patience was wearing thin. He wasn't able to watch his favourite cartoons, all day. He wasn't allowed to play with the toys he usually played with at his aunt's place. He couldn't talk to the aunt or the uncle. He didn't know her, the third Woman sitting there. But, he was sure he couldn't talk to her, either. Or was it so?

She went to the kitchen to make something for all the "guests." He stood by the door and peeped into the kitchen, curiously. He stared at her and what she was doing. A spoon of this from one dabba and two of that from another. His gaze shifted onto her, entirely. "Who is this?" As he kept asking himself that question, she turned towards the door and saw an innocent, curious face staring at her. In the few hours that he had been there, that was the first time he had seen someone smile. She was still crying. But, she smiled and knelt down. "Hello," she said. He replied with a childish, "hello!" She asked him his name. He replied. He asked her what her name was. She replied. She asked him who he was. He gestured towards his mother. But, before she could tell him who she was, she went to answer a call. Their brief meeting ended. The kid, who didn't understand things entirely, went back and sat next to his mother. He thought he saw a friend in her. "The only fun person, here."

Towards the end of the day, as the people in the room lessened in number, he started insisting that they left, too. The mother, obviously, wouldn't do that. It was a time for her to think about somebody else and not the kid. She noticed this. And so, the fun person walked to the kid and asked him if he wanted to play. Why would he refuse? They went to the terrace and thought about what they could play in an open area filled with incomplete pillars  poking out of the ground. He decided to play Hide and Seek.

She turned towards the wall and waited for him to hide. And so he did. She looked everywhere for him before she walked to the pillar she already knew he was hiding behind. He let out a hearty giggle. Probably the first giggle that house heard in some time. This time, he counted and she went to hide. She willingly let her leg slip out into the open so that he could find her. And so he did. More giggles and more laughter. It was a silent house no more. She laughed. He laughed. I really don't know how the aunt, uncle, mother or father felt about the kid laughing that way.

As the sun set and the mosquitoes came out, the kid and her went back into the house. He no longer saw a friend in her. He made friends with her. The kid and the woman were friends! So, he decided to do something for her. Standing before the Aunt, Uncle and his parents, he told her, "I will sing you a song." She smiled and asked him to sing. It was a song he had only started learning at Kindergarten. He turned to his left to look at her and started:

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

I'll always love you and make you happy,
If you will only say the same." 

It has been 15 years since that happened. Everybody who was there in the room remembers that. The Aunt always believed that her son's spirit was in the kid. I don't know what it meant to the woman. But, even today, she remembers it exactly like how he sang it that day. She recollects it with the widest grin. The kidman, however, did not remember that he once sang a song that might have made somebody's day until he was told about it when he grew up. He only remembers the Hide and Seek he played and the friend he made, that day.

He told me that a few months ago that when he last met her, he wasn't in a very good mental state; what with being overworked, stressed and burnt up, physically, mentally and emotionally. He felt confused, lost and cluttered about what his life should be. He then said that her daughter, barely around the same age as him when he had first met her, told him that she would sing him a song. She sang:

"Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Mother Nature's recipes
That brings the bare necessities of life."

 Kids really do have some magic in their ability to understand things just sufficiently.

Monotonous Mumbling

I walk out of this Guest House every morning. I notice that the softy-shop at the corner is closed.
I come back every evening and notice that the shop is open. Its owner stands right next to the freezer. He wears his spectacles and stares into his old phone. Occasionally, he fits ice-cream scoops into a cone.

The same watchman welcomes me into the office every morning. He gives me the same keys to open the same door as I do, almost every other day. An empty office invites me in.

I walk out of my Office and the tea shop at the corner is brewing tea. The hotel behind it has a man standing at the door. The same man whom I see everyday. The same man in the hotel shows me to my seat.

The number on the bus I take is the same, everyday. The ticket costs about the same. The time I stay on the bus for is the same, everyday. I get on at point A. I get off at point B. The same points of reference tell me when I need to stand up and go to the door.

I walk back home and the diner next to the bank has the same old ambience. The man at the counter is invisible, as always. A man shows me to my table and takes my order. He is a mellow man. He doesn't smile much but he could light a candle with whatever little he did.

I walk by the shoe store. The same kid who tries to attract customers is standing there. The sweet shop has the same man standing at the counter. The coffee stall on the roadside has the same woman standing there. The stationary shop has the same couple running the box. The same three people keep switching places at the Guest House reception. 

I come back to a room that is exactly the same as how I left it.

It feels like home when everything stays the same till I settle down. The monotony is like home. The monotony is like the song that plays on the car radio every morning; you would feel odd if you missed it.

The other day, the man at the ice cream counter was at the tea stall instead of standing next to the freezer. The man who took my order at the diner was nowhere to be seen. I felt uneasy. He then came to the table. He seemed to have dropped his matchstick smile, somewhere. I felt a bit cold. The bus I took, yesterday was not 102. It was a 11. I got dropped off somewhere else. The same things don't catch my eye. Now, I see a grill roasting chicken out in the open. I have co-interns, now. I don't think the Office bothers to invite me, anymore. I feel unfamiliar- like when you go back home but your mother had your room rearranged. New. Lost. Unsure.

I feel comfortable reading the continuous, plain, disconnected sentences in the same tense, at the top. These other sentences, though? Well, there's too much going on, too, suddenly, isn't there?

"I'm sorry," he said.

He was sitting at the counter with his friend, one day. A girl he was acquainted with approached his friend. She was fair and tall and lively with twinkling eyes. She resembled her. As she spoke to his friend sitting next to him, he saw her talk. For once, he didn't want to know what was being spoken about. His eyes were stuck. He noticed every single gesture her hands made, every single curve in her smile, every single time her eyes rolled and possibly, the thoughts that flowed through her mind in every instance. The girl who came to the counter didn't matter. The girl she reminded him of mattered. She resembled her; in her smile, in the curve of her nose, in her walk, in her skin tone, in the twinkle in her eyes, the calmness on her face, the melody in her voice. Did his mind drop into an eerie? Of course.

'Archived Chats (1),' the label read. It was too valuable to block and too precious to delete. 'Archive' seemed like a safe door to him, back when it all happened. Months down the line, he felt like opening the door to see what was really left when the storm subsided- one broken soul and one that lived in denial of one. Did he have to open the door? Of course. He had put it away for far too long.

The pain he was once deaf to, the pain he was once numb to slowly, in every word they sent to each other, crept into his mind, his heart and then into his conscience. Now, it bore down heavily and there was nothing he could do about it. He knew how she used to feel as she knew how he used to feel, once, about each other- absolute trust, immense faith, reverence, undaunted love and cherished affection. He broke each and every string. He knew what he was doing when he did it. He knew why. To him, it was all justified. Perhaps, even today, if one asked him, he would say it was justified. Or maybe not. Maybe, he would silently walk away on the inside. What they held was like a father's promise to take his 4-year kid to his first airshow; or to that Spider-man movie which the kid absolutely wanted to see. He broke the father's promise and she did what is expected of any kid with a broken promise. In that time, he behaved like a parent caught up with his own life to pay heed to his child's ruckus. Now, he regrets letting her cry making her cry. Did he think it would not come to this? Of course. He was too blind.

A week went by since he saw the girl walk to the counter. Time has no meaning to him, anymore. What is a year could be a month and what is a week could be a month, as well. A week went by. But, the thought of his sin didn't leave him. It only dug deeper. And with every wall it passed, he scrolled upwards. With every scroll, he felt the pain she must have felt then. He read through all the chats he had. He then opened his mail inbox. He read all the mails they sent to each other. He felt each and every message like he did the first time he read them. Treasures don't get old. Did he want to go back to it all? Of course. But, how fair was it? Not at all.

He read all the rainbows, all the storms, all the butterflies and all the worms eating through. He remembered how she said he stayed for the rainbow and left during the storm. After all these months, now, he found himself agreeing to it. He was, of course, "justified."

Happiness, sadness, anger, anxiety, regret, despair, helplessness, bliss, grief, excitement and a lack thereof; from months ago.

After all this time, he accepted it. He was wrong. He had to apologise for what he did. Did he? He can't.

The image was that of  a cheerful, lively, lovely girl when he thought of her, once. But, now, he couldn't help but spot those lonely tears and a glow that vanished. Were they only in his head? He couldn't know. But, he was sure they weren't. Months down, he knew she was better. Could he apologise for what he had done and pull her back into the pit? Could he apologise to one whom he led to believe that there is no such thing as love? Could he apologise to one he gave reason to never break her walls again? No. "Be selfish. Let's see how far you will go," she once taunted, in the aftermath of him letting go. He now realized that being selfish cost him a lot.

One night, a month from the day he saw the girl walk to the counter, he saw the moon, glowing bright- the same moon which he once associated with her. What he once felt very close to his heart was now really that far away. And he wouldn't dare to try and reach. He stared intently at her with an apologetic, regretful face. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry," he cried behind his eye-lids.

He dreamt of her, that night. He woke up twice. He dreamt of her all three times. In the first dream, she was still crying and waiting for him to come back. This time, he did. He held her hand. She cried more and then smiled.

In the second dream, the two of them were going somewhere. They were happy and he truly believed in what was going on. Towards the end, when it really mattered, she left. She drove away and he stood at the crossroads, alone. He felt it.

In the third dream, they were in a bus, holding hands. The bus was going to some place both of them wanted to go to. Or maybe that bus was their forever. And that's all it was. It was going somewhere with both of them smiling at each other. It was a dream he could die in. But, every dream ends and so did this one. Or perhaps, he ended it for himself.

Today, when I asked him about it, he said he hopes to run into her sometime. He hopes for her to talk to him; just so that he could tell her how sorry he is. He said he didn't expect forgiveness; didn't expect anything. He just wanted to tell her how he felt, like the very first time he told her he loves her.


    

Go away, Pigeon.

Flap flap flap.
There is a pigeon stuck in my balcony and
It won't go away.

Flap flap flp.
There is a pigeon stuck in my balcony.
It won't go away.
There is a thought in my head.
There are thoughts in my head.
They just won't go away.

Flap flap flap.
Why won't you stop?!
Why won't you go away!
I want them to stop. Sop, thoughts!
Why can't you freeze?
I find respite in musical notes.
Can they lend me a home?

Flap flap flap.
Flap flap flap.
Flap flap flap!
I feel incomplete!
What should've stayed is gone.
What should go stays.
Between each flap, I question my choices.
Every other flap gives me a different answer.
Pigeon go away!!
I cut the net for you. Fly away!
I'm pushing you out. Fly! Let me be in peace!
I've got other things to worry about.
Flap. Flap. Flap.
I can't leave.
You won't leave.
What do I do?
What would you have me do?
Flap. Flap. Flap.

These Walls are Necessary

We seek thrill and joy in travel. We want to travel around the world to Norway and Netherlands and see the Northern Lights. But, we are always impeded by physical and monetary boundaries; distance, accommodation, affordability etc. We make elaborate plans of travel and accommodation and itinery before we go the distance. Very often, though, these dampen our spirits. More than challenges to the thrill and fun, they seem like walls around us- high walls we need to scale to go all the way. Are these walls evil things?

Say, there is an afterlife.
Say, there is an afterlife where we lose physical form and transcend space and time.
Distance and accommodation, food and time aren't boundaries, anymore. They are non-existant.
Think about it, would it still be that thrilling?
I was thinking about it the other day; isn't a fun picture at all.

Suddenly, everything is before us on a platter. Is there a point? There is no thrill in the chase. Christie would be ashamed.

So, let's not wish for these boundaries to disappear? Let's scale these walls.

Ringing in my Head?

You left me in this corner.
You leave me in this corner, everyday!
Every single day!
Save those few moments you decide you need me.

I want to talk to you.
I want to tell you so much.
I want to tell you what I am made to feel;
What I am made to hear!

I am screaming on the inside.
No, I cannot contain it.
I am screaming out.
Why can't you hear me scream? Or is it
Why won't you hear me scream?

Is this all that I am to you?
Something of the past, a decorative piece in your house?
Am I now just a part of your house and not your home?
Why am I here?

I want to tell you something happy!
I want to tell you that you got your job,
I want to tell you that your brother is married,
I want to tell you that it is raining in the park,
I want to tell you that you won the lottery,
That you're a father,
That your flight tickets have been booked,
You're flying to Norway,
Share your best friend's life with you,
Spread the spicy gossip,
Make you meet your childhood friend from the days long gone,
That he is happy to know I am still with you- are you?

I want to empathise with you!
I want to tell you that your friend lost your gaming console.
I want to tell you that your heart is about to break.
I want to tell you that someone has passed away.
I want to tell you that I won't last for long.
I hope you understand that I am the warm silence amidst this sadness.

I want to scream out that there is a bomb somewhere.
I want you to be careful, darling.
I want you to know that I am here when you are in a puddle.
I'm here when you need to break awkward silences.
I'm here to protect you as much as I can.

I- how don't you remember what I am to you?
How don't you know what you are to me?
You were there to talk to me when I called.
I guess growing up changed you?
You spoke to me when I didn't speak to you first.
Where did you go?

I'm screaming for you. Why don't you answer me?
In the past few minutes, I have been screaming.
Are you listening?
Have I become a constant ring in your head, now?
Something that you're used to? Did you move on?
You no longer say "Hello!"
Where have you gone?
Will you come back?

I miss you picking me up.
Come back to me...
Answer this telephone.

You Know Beauty

The sound of cricketts on a silent hill;
The buzz of a cicada basking in the lonely Spring sun;
The feeble sound of lightning and thunder rumbling at a distance;
The chords of the guitar in your favourite song; Hugh Laurie's Jazz;
The thin wail of the violin;
The Hans Zimmer score;
The soundtrack that waltzes with you;
The bark of your dog when it sees you;
The knock at your door you eagerly wait for;
The voice you absolutely lose yourself in;
The wingbeat of a hummingbird buzzing above you;
All of these sounds.

Home; Petrichor;
Biryani; Gasoline;
That person you've absolutely fallen for;
Old libraries, old books and book stores;
Parking basements;
Clothes washed at home;
That person who makes you feel warm and safe;
Your blanket and bed;
Dark Chocolate; tea and coffee;
Archaic buildings and their corners;
Wet flowers and leaves; the berry-mint chap stick;
All of their scents.

Biryani; Dark Chocolate;
Candy canes and cotton candy;
That tea your mother makes;
That coffee your father makes;
Shawarma and falafel;
Cake and ice-cream;
Mango, starfruit and kiwi;
Mud and dusty meshes when you were a kid;
Water at that perfect temperature;
Gatorade when you're thirsty;
Food from your local chat and Chinesewala;
All of these tastes.

Soft, dewy plants;
The cheeks and hands of the person you've absolutely fallen for;
A stray dog's wagging tail at your feet;
The warm embrace of your bed and blanket;
Jelly;
The panaceal touch when you're sick;
Water, at that cold-warm junction;
Warm cup of tea with a leaking nose;
Bubble-wrap and foam paper;
The unexpected smoothness of your pen's nib;
Perfectly fitting clothes;
All of their touch.

The excitement in balloons;
The romanticism in things you don't love;
The feeling of chemistry;
That wide grin on your face and
That faint glow in your heart;
The indulgence in learning;
The excitement in novelty;
The thrill in adventure;
Your imagination of a story told to you;
Any kind, good gesture; someone sharing yum-yum food with you;
The fortitude of friendship and family; somebody's faith in you and vice-versa;
The feeling in all these infinite abstractions.

What is beauty, you ask?
Beauty is in all of this.
Never mind that you can't see.
Beauty is what you imagine it to be.
You know beauty like I can't.
You know beauty without the perversions of reality;
Without the pictures etched into your eyes like stencils.
You know beauty, purely.
And that is all that beauty is- purity in how it makes you feel!

 

A Firefly Flew By

Imagine a crystal ball.
Imagine a dark, foggy crystal ball.
Imagine it on the floor of an empty room-
A tiny room with wooden floors,
Bluish-white lime walls and big, square windows;
Paintings on easels; all shrouded in shadow,

Imagine a tree rustling against the walls,
Imagine its branches spread outside the square windows.
Imagine stars twinkle behind the branches;
A wind-chime tinkling next to a  window;
Bundles of old, dusty letters stacked in a corner,
Pictures of happy memories; all hidden in the dark.

Imagine a crystal ball.
Imagine, inside, your palace.
Imagine your city of spires, myth and magic sprawling around it-
A city made of sandstone and mud or marble and Orichalcum;
Boasting of awe, beauty and fantasy,
Pristine carvings and sculptures; all unseen in the blindness.

Imagine you being sad.
Imagine you being curious.
Imagine you hoping you could see it all.
A desire to live that moment fully.
Being intrigued about every story the room has stored,
Pondering over what you may see.

Imagine that a window was left open.
Imagine that a cool Summer breeze swept into the room-
Imagine the faint petrichor in the late Summer winds-
A firefly coming in through the window.
Briefly then, another. Another. Another. Another and another.
Photon after photon, filling the room- fireflies.

Imagine the faint glow of their tail.
Imagine the tepid bulbs turn the bluish-white walls faintly yellow.
Imagine the dim firelight blazing through the crystal ball-
A golden sun paints the sky- setting behind the towering spires of your city;
Bit by bit, the embers show you the dusty letters in the corner- waiting to be read again; and
Paintings on easels show themselves to be all shades of blue, green and white.

Imagine the pictures looking back at you.
Imagine the pictures had the best;
Imagine they were those that made you happiest-
All the pictures shedding light on your memories like the fireflies and the wall.
Beauty and warmth, petrichor, calm and bliss- fireflies lighting your face up, twinkling in your eyes.
Probably this is what you would have felt if you saw her walk by, today!

A firefly flew by, today.
She left a trail that my thoughts couldn't help but follow.
A firefly flew by, today.
She was beautiful!

Finally Swung This Way

I like to believe that the bigger picture called life is nothing without the finer details called days. I have not blogged in ages; I have not blogged properly in ages. I haven't been in the mood to write. It's not that life was boring. It's not that I had nothing to share. It's just that life didn't swing me this way. I wasn't charged enough to put my thoughts on paper. The bigger painting went gray. But, as I said, days matter. Today was the white of the moon that showed itself  through the veils of grey.

My friends and I were invited to breakfast at Flour Works. It was a nice, quaint place with elegant tables and ambience. Out in the open, it was quite the place one would definitely want to take someone for a date. We had a nice time with the people there. There was live music playing in the background and the singer had an amazing voice! It's funny how we get attracted to things and people we know we won't see, again. It is as if we are fine with the temporary; the things that will end. Are we, though? Or, maybe, this is just another peculiarity of life. We crave permanency but suffice with the temporary. Perhaps, we know for the better.

The singer sang a few songs that were suggested by us- Wildfire, Dancing in a Burning Room- he didn't know Of Monsters and Men enough to sing it. But, god! Whatever he sang was just perfect! There was a steady drizzle, an embracing chill, a warm canopy, lively music and cheerful company. Sundays cannot start better. These are the days one prefers going out to sleeping in.

After the breakfast, we walked down that pretty road from Flour Works. We decided to walk it back home. Doing anything else in that weather would mean that we brought the joke onto ourselves. Grey skies- the sort which makes everything on Earth look vivid and true. Something that reveals the true colours. The perfect ISO-Shutter Speed setting. Heavenly!

Halfway home, it struck us that we could go to Aga Khan Palace. We did. Coincidentally, it was Gandhi Jayanti, as well. We went in. The last time I had been there was with dad, in 2014- when I came to this city for giving my College interviews. Time flies quickly, but memories stay. I don't remember what happened that day. I don't remember what else I did. Time gulps things. But, this, I remember. "One day, we should come here to sit under that tree to read a book," he said, pointing towards a huge banyan tree at the entrance. I couldn't and can't disagree. The orange of the grass and the darkish shadow of the tree are perfect. The palace embodies serenity- old, weathered pillars with stone dusting away, well-maintained orangish green grass, wooden railings, the calmness of a cemetery but the bustling life of visitors. Just the right amounts of everything. I stood against a wooden railing thinking about dad. I was looking at a kid run around a dysfunctional fountain. He stopped and leant over the parapet of the fountain to look into the water. I remember that I used to that once. "Whatever happened as I grew up." The kid's parents were playing with him, around the fountain. I don't know if it is just me or if it is everybody; such sights are rare to come by. People spending time with people- even those they call family. Why, I was spending time with my friends are a long, long time.

I ran into an acquaintance of mine. I know we study in the same college. Similar Course. Different batch. I know where I know her from and where she knows me from. We smile at each other whenever we see each other. We greet each other. We even strike a little conversation every now and then. I don't know her name. I don't think she knows mine. Quirks. Do introductions really matter? I'd love to know who she is, though!

I was with my friends throughout. It was lovely. Catching up with people you call family is ethereal in its own way. What was more ethereal, however, was the sense of solitude I felt despite them being present. I was in my own zone. My head was on a different wavelength, disjoint from this world. I needed that solitude- my wavelengths with little interference with worldly waves. I had that. I felt like I was outside the reach of mortal worries, third world problems, the real struggles. I needed that. To run far, far away from them. I found that today, and I loved it.

At the palace, we decided to just run off to M.G. Road. Catch a bus, run away, forget we have a different life and return later, much later.

Do you notice how impromptu all of it is? A few months ago, I met a girl named Disha Verma. She introduced me to the parts of life I was casually ignorant about. She showed me that my concept of beauty in life extended beyond what I perceived. She made me believe in the impromptu more firmly than I ever did. She also inspired me to do things the beauty of which cannot be explained in words. The impromptu clears your head, trust me. The impromptu is when you break your shackles. Maybe they'll come back to catch you, later on. But, that time when you broke free, when you feel your limbs free of metal and rust, you are the most liberated.

MG Road was our path to hogging our money away. Sweet Corn, Sabudana Vadas, Corn Cobs, Chicken Kebabs, Spring Rolls, Coolers, Pizza- FOOD. Lots of it! Random stops at shops to check out fancy stuff. And choosing not to buy them because food. takes. precedence. always! Always remember! That road, however, is THE BEST PLACE IN THIS CITY! There is so much life everywhere! So much cheer! One place where there is festivity in the absence of festivals? MG Road. That place, in that weather, is a carnival that arrived in your backyard in a jiffy with huge cotton candies, bagpipers, fireworks and colourful streamers all around on a Spring morning! I did not want to leave, at the end of it. Or maybe, I wanted to. But, I just wanted to go watch a movie at Victory Theatre. Good memories lie there! That, may be for some other post.

We caught the first bus going homewards. Somewhere close to home, I ran into the singer from Flour Works. He didn't see me. Or maybe he did and I'm just one of the many faces he had seen that day. I ran into him, again, though. Is 'temporary' an illusory permanence? The Abstract is an interesting dimension, indeed.

Isildur's Bane

One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them all. One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness, bind them!

It was forged by Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom. Isildur cut it off Sauron's hand in war. He took it. The Ring won his desire. Elrond told him to destroy it. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He refused to destroy it after the war. He chose to take it with him. On the way back home, Isildur was ambushed by a pack of orcs. He jumped into the river to run away. But, the Ring wanted to leave him. So, it did. And, he died.

Déagol found the Ring. Smeagol killed him cousin for it. He was shunned away from society. He rotted in deep, dark caves. The Ring left him, there.

The Ring only brought sickness. I found the Ring. It brought me misfortune.

I was sitting in the park with my friend. I felt something poking against my foot. I looked down and there, I saw it. A Ring embedded into the mud beneath my feet. I picked it up along with the mud in its circumference. I held the Ring against the floodlights. It was copper but gold. It was trivial but precious. It was light but heavy. It wasn't mine but it belonged to me.

My friend told me to throw it away. I couldn't. I didn't want to. I took it home. Misfortune followed.
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I was finally convinced to throw it away. I went back to same park, to the same bench. I stamped it into the ground. I left. I immediately felt lighter. Life got better.

Odd Thoughts

Did you ever notice the tea powder in a boiling pot of decoction?
All of it agglomerates to one point at the surface, collapses into the decoction, dives down deep and circulates back to the surface, into an agglomeration and gone again!

Did you ever notice that this is what your thoughts are, at times? Your thoughts are the tea powder that your mind swallows and spits out almost instantly.

I guess these are the thoughts I have been having in the past few days. The same thoughts coming together and going away, coming together and going away. I don't know when I will be able to empty this pot, because the heat is too much and I want to strain these thoughts away.

I guess, after all of it, I deserve to lay still in a cup and steam away all the heat.
I guess I need to hear that sigh of appreciation and relief to know that it was all worth it.

I guess, I am not going to get any of it; because my thoughts are not tea powder and there is no cup.

Reverse Metamorphosis

I believe that more often than not people fail to see that the one who has broken the promise of a forever feels equally devastated and guilty beyond measure.

Screw that.

6 months is all it took. Today, I'm a different person. I'm the very person I was running away from. Nothing seems to be helping me, now.

Before I had joined College, my Aunt told me something that rocketed me towards the person I wanted to be. She told me, "You are going to College and there are two things that you must keep in mind: Dedication and Discipline. Dedication towards your work and Discipline in your lifestyle." These words struck a bell that kept ringing for months. Then, I guess I eventually gave up. Bit by little bit until now, when I really don't know what's up!

A friend wrote, "...I felt like i had my life figured out." That is exactly how it felt.

Dedication, Discipline and Doctor Who: the three things that taught me to stay independent- happiness was with everyone, but, sadness was within myself, excitement was my own, despair was mine. I expected things from myself and nobody else. As asocial that may be, i was not asocial. I was just expecting more from myself than from others. Thing is, I knew I wouldn't let myself down. That was quite true.What I achieved, that year, was because I believed in myself entirely, without doubt, without fear. I was maneuvering my life at warp-speed in an asteroid belt. I had it in me.

A year later, things began to fall apart. I could still maneuver my life. But, it became very difficult. Doubt found its way in. Fear found its way in. I was just sitting there, like I did not notice these enter. Life became a sequence of denial and acknowledgement. Everytime I denied it, I drove them out. But, every now and then, they came back. The cycle followed.

I became particularly close to this person. Anonymous knew everything about me. Anonymous knew what I believed, what I would say, how I would react, how I would feel. Anonymous was shining bright. And I fell in love with Anonymous. With each passing day, Dedication and Discipline went further away from me. Or perhaps, i went further away from them and they couldn't move without someone carrying them. Eventually, they became memories I would remember when my Aunt asked me what it was she told me. What should have been dedication became obligation and what should have been for the future became dedication. With that, discipline went for a toss. I was still quite independent. Can't deny that. But, little did I realise what I gave up. I began expecting things from Anonymous. Little things like understanding. But, I guess "little" depends on perspective. Either way, that is not what I want to talk about.

I gave a part of myself up. I placed it in the hands of Anonymous. My rainbow ride with Anonymous soon came to an end. By this time, which is right now, I have begun expecting things from people who are not me. It's not a lot of people, but, it's no longer the same. I am no longer independent. And that sucks. My dedication lost its course. It is wandering somewhere I am unable to sail to. My discipline finds itself at staggerheads with Doubt about the dedication I talk to myself about, in my head. Fear fills the empty spaces left by everything that I lost in the past year. Empty spaces after empty spaces, some of them from my own doing and some of them that just happened.

Bright Colours found their home in these spaces, once. It's just shades of Dull Grey or Pale White, now.

My obligations refuse to become things I would dedicate myself to. Fear refuses to move away. I am unable to succeed in a siege over my own self. I am becoming the person I was running away from. And I don't know what I can do. There is nothing likeable about this Reverse Metamorphosis.

For When You Get Here

Dear 18,
I've been needing your letter more than you thought, in the last few weeks. I know you won't like this the same way I am not and maybe even more. But, you need to know that some things change for the worse. I broke them. I broke all of them, perhaps. I had to.
I know that you believed life would be the rosiest if you could make it that way. I know that you were foolish enough to make every promise you did with that in mind. I know that you were too confident that things would be right. 18, you were also very ignorant.
Life is rosy and rainbows. I will never say anything different. But, I think you know, that thunder is a reality. You know what I am talking about. You were there when it happened. You did it because you feared this day would come. Well, it is here. And I broke them.
This letter won't reach you. I don't want it to, either. Because there have been some amazing days. I don't want to risk them by telling you not to make them. But, I will leave this letter in this place, in this time. When you will reach this point, read it. Please understand that you should stop seeing things, about this, in absolution. This does not have diamond absolutes. It's always one ocean overlapping with another. It's both of you and not just one of you. It is not your fault- there were other universes burning. You had to break this one to stop it. You may have been selfish. But, that is what you were left with after giving yourself up. You were breaking apart. Perhaps, I am writing this letter for making myself feel better about it. But, I am definitely writing it for you, when you get here; and when I revisit this.
There's a planet called Venus in me. And it is burning. But, it's not our fault.


 Yours lovingly,
19

Another Farewell Letter

Dear PolSci,

I think- if I don't tell you this at least now, at our parting- I would not be doing right by you; I will not be doing justice to what we have become, over time.
I have to be honest with you, I despised you when we first met. I had reason to. You called yourself a science and it felt like you were mocking my beloved Physics. I hated you for a long time. Call it attachment issues, if it will please you. But, nothing takes Physica away, alright? I still love her. I'm just not sure what I feel for you.
Over time, you showed me what you really are. You showed me something about myself that I hadn't realised till then. You showed me that I will love knowledge, in whatever form it comes. Now, don't take this to mean that I LOVE you. I just love you. I LOVE Physica. Understand? Good!
Anyway, I started liking you. You slowly caught my attention with all of your theories which perfectly blended with my thoughts when i tried to study you. I will be honest, that did not always happen with Physica. You read my mind- or perhaps, I read yours. Getting to know you was to see my thoughts look back at me. You showed me that I understand beauty. You showed me a different sort of beautiful. You showed me the mirror that my thoughts are. Life hadn't been the same after that. What, with your individualism and everything? How could it ever be?
And then when I was comfortable with who you are and what you would make me, I tried to introduce you to Science. The real one, alright? It was just beautiful how the two of you get along. That day, I made a promise to myself that one day, I will make sure that you and Science come together; become the best of friends. What's that point of hatred, eh?
More than a year has passed and I see myself looking at you like I looked at Physica when we parted ways- just not that tnostalgically. I will miss you, but I will not cry for you. I will miss making theories about the world and its weird tidings. I will miss you giving me the chance to speak about the musings of the world without stopping me, ever! But, I will not cry for you!
But, if this is the last time, I suppose I might as well say it. PolSci, you're a science!
I bid you a good life. I love you.

Yours Truly.

Burning out

An urge burns the walls of my heart. A fire rages inside. It wants something.
It wants to do something.
It wants me to do something.
It wants something from me?

I let this fire rage and burn.
I let these walls melt and blister.
I let it consume everything and grow into a wildfire, disregarding what it does to me.

I walk, I run, I jump,
I let time while itself away,
I let people brush past,
I hold on to some unlike anything else,
I eat, I starve, I drink endlessly.
I grin with my teeth bare, I laugh my lungs flat.
I love and never hate. I only befriend.
I write things for you, I erase them because you're worth more than just those!
Is this what the fire wants me to do? It's the one question that chases everything I do.
The fire doesn't tell me what it wants. It wants me to understand it. But, well, do I?

I let it burn through. After all this, it stops. It just stops, not out of exhaustion, but out of blankness. The fire stops because it does not know what it wants. It just burns because it has to.
It slowly recedes back into the heart. What does it want? Does it even want anything or am I just that combustible on the inside?

I guess, the heart wants what it wants.

Walks

Cold Nights are what we are.
Gentle breezes with the chill,
Brittle leaves on the window sill and
The warmth of memories.

Cobbled streets are what we are.
Gentle blocks pressed in,
Brittle sounds of our footsteps and
The warmth of their imprint.

Streetlights are what we are.
Gentle fog in their light,
Brittle shade trying to seep in and
The warmth of their yellow light.

Trees are what we are.
Gentle sway of life,
Brittle rustling of their branches and
The warmth of their smell.

Park benches are what we are.
Gentle curves of wood,
Brittle, rusted nails and
The warmth of our embrace.

The Night Sky is what we are.
Gentle movement of the clouds,
Brittle twinkle in the stars and
The warmth in their magic.

A walk is what we are.
Gentle movement of your hand in my hand,
Brittle sparks around us and
The warmth of being what we are.

Crystal Palace

They call it butterflies, they call it butterfingers, they call it tickles, they call it a lot of other things;
none of which fit.

I will call it a crystal which
Carved itself into a Palace.
I will call it a crystal which
Bluffs itself to be a diamond.
I will call it a crystal which
Only You made it to be.
I will call it magic which
Only you cast on me.

Tens & Hundreds of people populate my Life.

Look outside this Palace,
Citadel after Citadel,
They stay there.

Look back inside,
You will find me & You &
Nobody else.

It stand tall, this Palace, all so daunting and all so shimmering. Yet, there is nothing more delicate.

My heart is a Crystal Palace, and
You are its Queen.

Safety Valve

Dear Future-me,

I think you will remember this day I am going to tell you about. It was February 2nd, 2016. You went flat-hunting! You walked a road which you frequently visited in your first two semesters. Remember that shady road on that chilly night? When you were walking on this road, a thought struck your mind like a clock striking twelve. The needles of space and mind came together, perfectly. You remembered those times in which you used to frequent the road, you remembered everything that happened, everyone you met there- You know, as much as you think your memory is in ruins, as much as you think that nostalgia is a thing of the past to you, it's not true. You know the truth. I think you should accept it (I hope you remember that the very instant you wrote this, you accepted this to be true). Our fanaticism with 'Doctor Who,' perhaps, brought about this thought. I don't know how old you are, right now, but, I am 19, Future-me. We were 17 when we came to this place. One and a half versions of us shared the wind with this place. I am 19, now, and I thought of our 17th and 18th. I thought about everything that had happened in those two years. I went through so much! We went through so much- so much to even comprehend or remember. We went through the tiniest of things as well as cataclysmic happenings. I-we- felt that if I had met 17 or 18, there, he would have simply raised an eyebrow in appreciation, shock and cluelessness.

I don't know how many years after 19 you will read this. Only time will tell how it will shape me. Only you can tell me how it has shaped you. But, I  know that if not straight up, deep down, you are still me. I know that 16, 17, 18 and 19 are not people you will let go. And by some calamity, if you forget what they were, I hope this letter will remind you. Anyway, I know that my future, like every other, is filled with fractures which will distort it. I know that time can alter me. I hope that this letter will remind you of what not to be. Future-me, I want you to remember certain things, because you have stored your soul in them.

I want you to remember that you have made promises to people you hold most dear. I want you to remember every promise that you have made to them. I want you to remember that you must keep them at any cost. I want you to remember that these are not just any promises, but promises on which others have built parts of their future on. You matter to them and you keeping your promise matters to them. Do not forget!

I want you to remember the people in your life: those people who have shaped you. I want you to remember why you are the way you are. At 19, I remember every single person and every single memory I share with them that has made me what I am. Only then will you know where you went wrong, if you did. I want you to remember that people deserve second chances. We know the value of second chances. In case you forgot, remember every black day that ever stopped us in our path and made us realise their worth.

I want you to remember everything that you have accomplished. Being me, being our former selves,  we have accomplished so much. I know that this does not mean much to you. But, think of everything and everyone you have gained. Remember that my last day brought you something so dear that you swore to never let it go; just because it was infinitesimally magical. Remember that 18 lost someone very dear. Remember that you understood that the colours you lost can be remade with the colours you have. Remember that you did things you never thought were doable by our stupid, younger selves. Remember that we trashed doubt.

I want you to remember that your motive in life is to make others feel at home. Remember that you have always wanted to add a bright spark to others' lives. I want you to remember why you wanted to be that.

I want you to remember that your way of life is defined by Geronimo and Allons-Y! Remember that thinking twice before jumping is not you! Remember that you always gave it one thought. Remember that your insanity, quirkiness and childishness are what made you who you are. Oh, also! Don't let go of that Drama Queen! Our friend once told 18 that one of the better parts about him was that he didn't bother about people caring to hear what he said; he just spoke what he wanted to. I falter, now and then, but, I'm working towards not losing that. She was a nice addition to our story, wasn't she?
Remember that the amount of confidence you have in yourself is what you want it to be! Remember that the people you consider most dear will not let you hit the ground! These hands will always catch you!

I want you to remember when you believed that happiness lies in the small things, like the tiny packs of chocolate wrapped in shining foil, kiwis and raindrops, stories and memories and every single thing that you fell in love with. I want you to remember the last Rice Krispie you stored in your cupboard because it meant so much to you!

More than anything, I want you to remember that you have written your story. You have written this letter. You have entrusted my future with me through this letter. I am honoured. Everything said and done, these have been the most memorable parts of your life! When you read this letter, you may become someone I will not recognise. But, you will recognize your old favourites.

I will not say that you will never need a reminder of all this. I bid this to be your safety valve; something that will stop you from returning to being someone we chose not to. But, you know what? I know that my future is in safe hands! Just make sure you don't lose them!

Yours lovingly,
19.

Delicate Things

The 'Always' lingers.

When you fear for its value
When you confide in its tenderness

It is held in butter fingers.

I know it to be perpetual
I know it to be magical

A Palace of priceless worth.

You know it to be true
You know it will go all the way through

The Mute Phonecall

Sleepy eyes heard what you said.
Happy ears saw what I read.

Seconds passed by Minutes.
Minutes passed by Hours.
Hours made those moments,
Moments that are solely ours.

Hate into Love and
Love into Hate,
'Ts all evangelic,
When it's you that says't.

Am I yours, or
Are you mine?
Or does it matter when
The Happiness is yours and mine?

Paralysis or enticement,
It's only you.
Smile or laughter,
It's only you.

No Matter What

Let the blue of the Waters and
The blue of the skies
Mingle and entice!
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you say, it won't go away.

Let the black of Outer Space and
the white of Stars switch places,
Black and White!
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you do, it won't go away.

If Stars fell to become jewels,
That love for you won't go away
No matter what you do, it won't go away