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

Oncoming

Drums beat
Drums roll

War on the horizon
The Seas roar
The Skies furore
the Ground shatters
the Wind clatters

The walls of the Fort shake
The heart of the Warrior shatters.

The might of the Oncoming,
The courage in Their stride.
The sharpness of Their eye
Their habit to inflict.


Nothing to stop them;
An endless deluge
Nothing to stop them.

Swords and stones
Bows and Bones;
Helpless, they tremble.

The Land taken,
The Waters in turmoil,
The Skies darken,
The Wind, runs away in foil.

Moment by moment,
Closer and closer,
The walk is not for much longer.

The Kid Saved the World!

"Kids are funny little things, eh?"

Indeed, friend of mine, they are!

Who else can be so, so... kidlike?! So, amazingly kidlike!

It was an unusual day, considering how 'outings' had been going; or how they hadn't been going. It was the first outing in weeks! Although, for some reason, which I am absolutely sure of, I did not feel like going out. I ended up going out, anyway.

There was a nagging feeling at the back of my head: a constant worry that I was not able to place my finger on. Three of my best friends were my company and yet, peaceful thought and cheerful smiles seemed to be distant. Not unreachable, just distant!

That evening, there were doughnuts and pasta and Vada Pavs; if you leave the pasta out, the other two should have lessened the distance by a lot! That belief seemed like a mirage. The constant worry persisted, undaunted, unaffected.

We walked to this shop, nearby. It was a tiny shop selling toys, stationary and plastics. While the three of them looked at the things to buy, I walked to a side and looked at all the toys in the basket. I recognized some of them- remade and given a more modern design and effect. There were days when I played with their prototype models. Those were the days when constant worries were about toys, ice-creams and chocolates that would only reach me if the parents nodded their heads up and down. That day, the constant worry was about something I didn't even know. The mysteries of time? The strangeness of foreign lands? The unfamiliarity of new faces? No idea!

The other three had begun to walk out of the shop; they bought a bottle. As I turned, a kid, no more than three or four years ran into the shop and stopped right in front of me. He looked this way and that and it seemed like he had found what he was looking for. The kid was like the glow of a firefly, serene and graceful! He looked right into my eyes and threw his hands up. I understood this gesture, picked him up and held him in my hand. As soon as he got into my arms, he looked away. His eyes turned towards the thing he was looking for: that squeaky ball in a basket he was not able to reach. I took him closer to the basket. He took a ball into his hand and observed it like a miner observing a freshly unearthed gem. The kid had no worries.

His mother came along, seconds later and she saw him in my arms, holding a ball in his hand. She laughed and asked the kid to say thank you. The kid replied "thnkoo" without even bothering to look at me. His eyes were made for the ball. Then, his mother said, "Put him down. There is no other way he is going to get off" and smiled at him. I put him down and walked away, with a smile.

The worries were now distant and the smiles were hugging me. The kid had shown me something I had never observed, before. He showed me innocence in ignorance and arrogance. He told me that the world would end if he did not look at the ball the way he did. I heard what I had to. 

There was innocence in his ignorance and arrogance. The world would have ended, that day, if the kid had not looked at the ball the way he did.    

Inkblot

Poor beginning, poor childhood,
Poor learning, poor adulthood.

This is the life of our Typist. He never had much at any time in his life. His childhood was a car made of plastic bottles and their plastic caps, his teenage was a fictitious movie made from a movie poster and his adulthood was a tiny, dark house and an old typewriter. His earning, on the best of days, was 50 rupees.

For years, our Typist sat outside the post office with his life, his typewriter, typing letters in Hindi, for ten hours a day. English was a luxury he could not afford. His life was upto his typewriter. His typewriter was heavy, and so was his life. The cost of "life" was a heavy burden. He typed his own life's story everytime he pushed a bead. At 65, he still authors his own life.
After years of having that spot outside the post office as his sheet of paper, it didn't look like he needed some place else to go. The neighbourhood knew that there was an old Typist who sat outside the Post Office, who would write a letter for them whenever they wanted.
I can't say if he was happy with the story he had written for himself. But, he did the same job, everyday, in that same place, without saying a word. Grief and despair don't come to you when life is being harsh. Grief and despair come to you when there is nothing left to call it, "life." One day, there came a time when he felt grief.
It was a Sunny day with the regular bustle of the street outside the post office. The Typist was sitting there, looking around, nothing to type. Maybe, it was one of those really bad days. What day isn't so bad when you can't keep up with society? Or when society doesn't let you keep up with it? It was the same neighbourhood, the same people who recognised the Typist and whom the Typist recognised, but, without a greeting or a smile. Years and years of sitting there like a statue and no one cares. Does he? I don't know.
Years of having people he recognised around him couldn't prevent what happened, that day.
A man clad in khakhee, stars on his shoulders, badge on his chest, neatly combed hair and a better life than our Typist, stood tall in front of him. Hoping for a customer, the Typist looked up eagerly, with a tinge of hope that it is just not someone who needs directions. His mouth was open and he had an expression of humility on his wrinkled face. His eyes glistened with something only a person in the most desperate situations can show. He waited for the man to say something.
"What are you doing on this street?," asked the man, with pride and high-handedness.
The Typist replied, "I type letters, Saab."
The man asked, "Do you have permission to do it?"
What permission was he referring to? No one had asked him that since the time he started typing. "It's time to close shop. Go home," said the man with force and threat.
The Typist stared at him with doubt, disbelief and shock. Words did not come out of the man, this time. He pushed the Typist away from where he was sitting and, with a stroke of his hand, pushed the Typist's life off the stone, onto the road.
The Typist took a second or two to digest what was going on. He ran to the man and begged him to stop. He made for his feet, but, only ended up getting hit by the man's hard, black boots. The rock hid his typewriter. But, it did not hide the man who continued to crush it under his boots, like it was a soft-drink can. What's a soft drink can to one is a source of life to another. And our Typist's source of life was the man's soft-drink can. The last thing our Typist could do was join his hands and beg someone so much younger to him to stop doing whatever he did.
The Typist's paper, suddenly, wasn't the same. In a span of ten minutes, everything his life stood for was alien to him. He looked over the rock and saw his life lying there, broken. More broken than it ever was. The strings of the typewriter were torn. But, for him, the strings of life that played his tune were forever broken. The typewriter's casing broke, the belt was torn apart, nothing seemed the same. He left his sheet of paper there, without any weight on it. He took his broken life to the only other place he could call, "home."
The wind blew and the sheet of paper flew away and told the Typist's story to all the right people. The man was taken care of. The Typist received two new typewriters.
How does it matter anymore? A broken life could not be stitched back with this thread. The Typist accepted these typewriters because his life, even if it was broken, could not afford to stay on a busy road. It would be crushed. He had to push himself to a side and wait for someone to place him somewhere safer, if not better. 
He went back to that place where it all happened. There was no paper. Whatever was left was only an inkblot.