A place we called ‘home’.

“The lights were still flickering, and the sun was about to set. I wasn’t sure if I was going the right way. Not that I didn’t know the directions. I knew every lane, every nook and cranny of this city with which I had memories attached that could certainly last a lifetime. It was just that I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing by going where I was going. I turned left from the traffic signal which had still not been repaired. It’s an irony that nothing here had changed, while my whole life had changed in the past 2 years. As I approached the house at the end of the lane my hands and feet already felt nervous, and I felt like bursting. I don’t know if I was desperate or curious but I was surely hesitant. My heart and ears were thumping with the sound of my heart beat and the butterflies started slam dancing in my stomach.

I finally reached there, to the same old bungalow I had grown to call my home two years ago. 

Everything around it was the same, but the house had changed. There had been a big lawn outside the house, with all the types of flowers  one had ever seen. She was fond of them. Too fond. She believed that flowers could bring all the positivity and fragrance in the house. Now, they were gone. Anybody who saw this place for the first time now, would never believe that this land was beautiful some time. The colour of the walls had faded along with the colours in our lives, and the doors had turned wobbly and lose. I entered through the door and my eye caught sight of a photograph, hanging in the centre of the room. The dust had settled on the glass frame rendering the picture unclear to the eye. But my heart knew, that it was our picture, clicked on our first anniversary. My fingers went for the photograph, wiped the dust and there I saw her smile while I held her hand and looked her in the eye. My eyes felt a little sensation and I knew that tears would soon start rolling down my cheeks. The thoughts of regret started clouding my mind. Maybe I had been wrong to come here. At the same time, I wondered that while shifting, how did I forget to take off that picture from the wall? Maybe I wanted to leave something as a mark, or I don’t know. 
I went to the bedroom and accidently stepped on a piece of glass, one of the bits of the broken night lamp that fallen on the ground. The windows were open and so, the lamp may have tumbled from the air coming in. The view from the windows was nothing like it used to be. One of the many reasons she had liked the house so much was because of the view from the windows that one could see in the evening. There was a field where small children used to play football in their school uniforms in the evening and their mothers used to drag them to their homes when it got dark. She used to talk to those little boys and once even invited them for dinner. That day, she told me that as a child she did not have a family like those children had and she felt deprived of all that love and now, looking at the children, she felt that they deserved all the love and care that one could give. Now that I think of it, it isn’t too shocking that even after marrying her I felt like loving her more and more each day. Today, there were no children to be seen, but only a warehouse of a company where once existed the field.

I moved to the other room, that I rememeber as the room where she had kept a small temple. She would pray to God everyday. She was spiritual in every sense. She prayed for everyone, anyone, even for a stranger who had trouble crossing the road, or the children begging. She would forget to wish me luck for the rest of the day when I started off for my workplace, but never would she forget to pray while I have been a person who’s just never really believed in the existence of God. I still wonder what she saw in me. And I still question God’s presence because of the fate we’ve suffered. Maybe she prayed for everyone but forgot to pray for us. I had not taken the furniture with me, because their place was in the house she had loved. They ought to remain here. I looked at the dining table. “It’s sesame”, she had screamed when they delivered it. The sofa was still intact, just in front of the tv. It had been my favourite piece of furniture. Every sunday, we used to watch a movie together at home, mostly horror movies that didn’t scare her a bit but I was mostly a victim to them. To pretend that she was scared too, she would hug me tightly, and would not leave me until the movie was over. I still don’t know if that didn’t mean happiness, then what does. 

I decided that it had been a lot to handle in a day. I looked outside the window and saw that the sun had already set and it was time that I leave. The sleeves of my shirt had been wet by that time as I was repeatedly trying to dry my tears up before they became prominent. I went to the main door, turned to close it and there I found the golden bracelet, that I had brought her, hanging on the knob. I tried to remember if I had seen it too when I had come. It had been there maybe, and I may have overlooked it.  And suddenly, I was struck with a thought that not only chilled my vein but seemed impossible. My legs felt hard to maintain a balance, and soon I fell to the ground with nothing but sobs. It’s just amazingly beautiful and yet so tragic. We had been sync even when apart, and she had felt the same pain as I was feeling. My mind kept struggling to reconcile with the memories of the past, and searching for any hints that would prove my imagination to be true. And I turned to the photograph hanging on the wall, yes it had been true. The windows were open because someone had opened them. The bracelet was there for a reason. The reason was that she had continued to love me just like I still love her. I realised that she had been here too. She had been here too before she died.”


We came. We read. We conquered.

“I don’t stay in the world you live in. Well not anymore. I don’t know if its the smell or the coarse touch of the pages that attracts my nerves and gets my blood going fast in the vessels. But I’ve long left the world where people exist for things. For now, I’ve entered into a world where we exist for stories, stories from the time of yore and stories still meant to be written. This world doesn’t have a shape, doesn’t have a time, unlike the world you live in. This world exists on caffeine and languid faces. The air that we breathe here is not filled with the smoke of hideousness of our thoughts but is the assemblage of words, loud and clear. They are loud not in their intensity, not in volume but in the impact they cause. I am talking about the words that find a place in our minds and stay, the words that help germinate ideas and embrace feelings. These words are bound in cases, as beautiful as a painter’s canvas. Mind you, these cases are hard to unlock, and these words, hard to decipher. But this world will allow you to fail and fall until you stand up. This world will allow you to let your tears flow until you know how to make paragraphs of words out of them. But once you have the key, this world here will give you all the compassion, all the serenity that you’ll need, to escape from the other world. 
This world, the world of books of words, wit and wonder will become a door, an exit to a world where thoughts cannot find a way to your mouth, and an entrance to a world where your hands would work on their own on paper, and your mind will constantly bring you discoveries of your own soul. This world here, merges magic with reality. I know I am drowning into it, but this water, entering into my lungs just doesn’t make me uneasy for I know that this same water, this same world has given me the power to fly without even leaving the ground. This world here, can be the world in your bedroom, beneath the tree, the field you sit in everyday, your car or wherever you want it to be. 


So, where shall we meet this time then? In the library maybe?”

So long. So lost.

​”It just comes to me in bits and pieces. It just returns when I see you, we make eye contact and just there, our eyes turn to the other side. It just comes back to me when I see you going out with people, laughing at those inside jokes which I was a part of once. I’m still hung there, still standing behind the door I just closed on your face.

It still comes back to me. The ache.”

They say that people leave, it’s normal, it’s okay, just get over that. Well, you’ve gotten over somebody. But what if I strike up a topic that involves them too? Will your ears not widen themselves? Will you be able to stop your thoughts from verbalising themselves? 

So let me just put it this way. Don’t get over people. Simply because you can’t. Just accept that they are not there anymore, not in the stories you’ll be writing now, not in the call logs, messages, no where in your life. Stop pretending to not care when you know that they are going to affect you, even if you get successful in pretending that they don’t. Stop pretending that people’s stories come to an end as soon as they leave your life. Their stories continue, the new chapters of which are deprived of your presence. Accept that it’ll always be one of the things that’ll come to your mind when someone asks you ‘what is the one thing you wish didn’t happen?’ Accept that there will be days when you’ll find it hard to not send a text after spending an hour trying to convince yourself that a simple ‘hi’ couldn’t do any harm. Well, because then and there you’ll also know that this ‘simple hi’ will be followed by so many ‘not simple’ things. Accept that there will be days when the memories, feelings will come creeping up your skin. Accept that even if it’s 3 in the morning, and they call you asking for help, you won’t be able to sleep for a while after refusing to do so. Accept that you just can’t ‘get over’ people. You can only accept the fact that they are some where, just not here anymore. Simple as that.

Call me ‘his’.

The sky was almost red, and the sun, on the verge of hiding behind the mountains. 

“You know, the sunset, the mountains, the breeze that makes crisp leaves rub against each other, and us, sitting here looking at everything around, it all seems just like they show it in the movies.”

“It does. She brought me to this place for the first time, and that was the day I knew that this place would always become the crib whenever the kid inside me would cry.”

“So that’s why you’ve been coming here for months now. Tell me, what will you do if she appears in front of you just now? Do you still feel the same for her?”

His face twitched. And he said, “I’ll do nothing. And I’ll feel nothing.”
I turned my face away from him, dissatisfied by the answer he gave. Because somewhere deep down we both knew that he was lying. 
After a pause, he said, “I’m sorry but I don’t know what I’ll be doing. I don’t know what I’ll be feeling. But it won’t ever be nothing. I have to be honest with you. I’ve moved on from her and the hopes of us being together. I’ve stopped dreaming of building my world with her as an inseparable part of it. My aspirations and ambitions are the same. I’m still my old self, strong, merry and confident, working as hard as I can to make a difference in this world. With her, I had started imagining that amidst everything that I want in life, she’s there too. In fact, I had started believing that she was the most important of them all. And moving on for me is, removing her from the list. But yet, if she comes to me, I won’t ever be able to feel nothing for her. I won’t love her, ofcourse. I can’t hate her too. But there surely be a burst of emotions, a myriad of memories that’ll come flashing back, an ache in the heart, maybe just for a milisecond, but it’ll be there. I know. And those emotions that would last for a split of the second, would be strong and would cost me my senses. I don’t know how it’ll pass, but it will. After all, our hearts are fidgets, trying to open themselves while you lock them from the people you gave their keys to, once. After all, you cannot just stop feeling something for people you once felt a lot for.”

I turn towards him, our eyes looking into each other’s, his filled with helplessness and mine with desperation. I ask “So, I won’t ever be her then?”
He put his hands on mine, smiled and said, “No, you are not like her. And believe me, I’m surviving life on the belief that you won’t ever be her. Because she left while you stayed.”

I smiled.

Stop. Breathe.

“This chaos is deepening. But here I sit, amidst the people running and hustling to create a place of their own in this world. There’s noises here and voices there, but what I see is silence. Silence that lets me sit alone in solitude, silence that has led me to the path of introspection, silence that can be found only in chaos. I wonder if I can ever run as fast as those around me, or speak when nobody is speaking, or keep trying to become a master out of a jack. I don’t know if I can, but at least I can stop, breathe life in and out of my lungs, and then gain my pace steadily, and still be a part of the race. I don’t know if I can, but at least I can spend five minutes of the day looking around, discovering silences in others’ souls that they’ve been overlooking since long. At the end of the day, I can at least proclaim that I did not merely survive a day, but found pleasure in the chaos that came with it.

I’m searching for places in me, still left undiscovered. My soul is promiscuous. So let me just separate and refine the elements I’m made up of. Consider me a secret diary whose pages are yet left to be turned, and whose stories are yet to be written. Do not belittle my expedition and the truths that I hope to unfold, because I’ve seen, I’ve heard and I’ve spoken before. I’ve seen, I’ve heard and I’ve spoken before that the greatest have generally been found at the most hopeless places.”

Will I ever be not ready for it?

“You’ve been such a wonderful writer, you know. It gives me so much happiness when I see you surprised and smiling at the same time to know that I had already liked your blog before you told me you had posted a new one recently. 

Do you never wonder why am I so curious everytime to see what you’ve written lately? Will you ever wonder? 
I still search myself in your words. I still try to find something that is between the lines, something that is just for me, that’s left unseen by evertbody else. You told me that a writer’s work is inspired and influenced by what happens in their lives but they present it in a way that is so different yet so similar to what has happened with them in reality. Well, we’ve had our moments. We’ve had moments when we were standing on the edge our our cliffs, just about to fall into each other. I know we never fell, but the feeling, the  exasperation, the desperation and the tiredness, was it not worth writing about? Well, I still search for mentions about me in your lines, while you are the one who’s just always dominated my pieces. 

I am still standing on the edge of the cliff while you’ve returned. Five years back, I would never have believed in the power of emotions and attachments. But now, I know that a human can feel everything so very deeply, each and every day of their lives for as long as five years (and more).

Since the day I met you for the first time, I’ve been ready for it, ready for us. But will you ever be ready for it?”

Not settling for less. 

They say take heartbreaks as lessons. Remember what your mistakes were and do not repeat them again. Because if you do, then you’ll go through one again. 

And when I heard this for the first time, I misinterpreted it. And many of you would have too. But with time, I’ve understood what it really meant. 
After things with him went downhill, I felt alone. All I learnt from my past was, that I was wrong to trust someone, I was wrong to be the more loving one in the relationship or I should say I was wrong to show what I felt about him thousand times a day, that I was wrong to tell him that I loved him whenever I wanted, that I was wrong. And I was determined that next time, I won’t be wrong. I would let him love me more. I would play hard to get and he’ll have to yearn for my love before I give it to him, because let’s face it, people value those things more that are not easily within their reach. 
But here, I was wrong again. I was wrong because this meant that I had to be someone that I wasn’t. This would mean that I would have to change myself, compress my feelings, let it out only when needed and that too in small amounts. This would mean that I would have to calculate every step before I take it, I would have to think about every word that I’ll utter from my mouth so that he doesn’t take me and my feelings for granted. And yes, I would be wrong again if I go through this, because this would mean killing a flower just because it was not allowed to bloom somewhere. And I’m not ready to do that. I’m not ready to be someone else. I’m not ready to stop being real. 

I’ll make him coffee in the morning whenever I’ll feel like before comparing what he does for me. I’ll still give him surprises because I’ll love him smiling and I’ll say it whenever I see him. I’ll still call to check up on him and make him realise that there’s always someone who cares. 

And if he’s the one he won’t consider me desperate. For him, this won’t be more than what is needed. It would be just what he had always wanted and always needed. And that’s why he’ll value everything that I’ll give him. Until then, I’ll wait for a person for whom I am not a ‘too much’ or ‘too less’, but just enough.

Letter to best friend. (Part 1)

“I had been searching or a blessing in so many people. I’ve always had the opinion that people stay when you want them to stay, when you do things to make them stay. And in the past years, I did everything I could to make people happy, to make people feel enough, or maybe to make myself feel enough for them. But then, somehow, they always left. I tried not giving them reasons to leave, but they did, no matter what. And after some time, I kind of started blaming myself for it. I started searching faults in myself. 

Four years ago, I met you for the first time. I was the new girl in the class. We did not get along very well in the first few months, but then they rightly say that what’s meant to happen always finds its way. And ever since, I rely upon you with my eyes closed, with my hands holding yours, with my head resting upon your shoulders, and with my life circling yours. I found my blessing when I wasn’t searching for it. Some days I want to sit and cry happy tears the whole day because I’ve started believing that I’ve been one of the luckiest persons on this earth. I had always felt that I’ve done more for people than people would do for me, but with you it’s always the other way round. Anything I do for you seems so less, so minute, in comparison to what you do for me. 

There are days when I am scared of the world, there are days when I put my armour down and on those days, I see you taking the shape of my armour. There are days when I feel frustated of life, there are days when I start doubting myself, and on those days, I hear you telling me that you believe in me. I wouldn’t believe it when someone else says it but when you say it, it does seem to be true. When you say it’s okay, everything gets okay.

I count you as my family, because just like the family that has been with me through thick and thin, you’ve been too. 

I do dream of a family of my own, a house, a good job. But I dream of making them come true with you by my side. I dream of telling our children our stories when we were younger, and I dream of seeing them so enthusiastic and amazed by the bond that’ll still exist between us, that will outgrow everything that’ll come in its way.

I do not really care what the world thinks of me. I’ve learnt that there are too many facades out there, all so loving but underneath them lie their true faces. But your opinion matters to me, because you’ve seen me when I didn’t know how to ride a bicycle, because you’ve been with me when I had got allergy from the peanuts, because you’ve seen me when I’ve cried and laughed, because you’ve been there when the world wasn’t. And I know when you say things, you’ll mean them.

After you entered my life, I’ve realised that a soulmate can be found in anyone, even in a best friend. I still don’t know how you’ve perfected the art of knowing how I feel just by hearing my voice. The random long messges that you send when I’m down reminding me that I can do whatever I want in the world and I deserve the best are what I’ll be grateful for. 

They say you do not say sorry or thankyou in friendships. But let me say it, because I am grateful. Grateful for the way you’ve changed my life, grateful for being a constant reason for my happiness. 

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever say someone that I love them as many times as I say it to you in a day. But then, I do not regret being aapreciative, being thankful. Because sometimes people know that you love them, but it’s okay if they forget it sometimes. It’s okay to remind them.”

P.S : I’ve titled it part 1 because on any day I may feel like writing for her again and any no. of words won’t be able to describe what she is to me.

“The scars of depression are beautiful only if you come out of it alive.”

It’ll be hard. You’ll be gathered around by so many people, constantly reminding you that they are there whenever you need them, and asking you to keep telling them what’s going inside your mind. But you won’t be able to because this is a phase when you’ll be struggling to understand what you feel and what you are. Inside your room, the lights will be switched on, their beam will cast your shadow on the wall behind you but yet all you’ll see will be the dark clouds, spread over your life like a shroud that covers the dead, the lifeless. And at that very moment, the people and the things will seem so immaterial, so worthless. 

We may not even realise when we’ve entered in that very phase of depression. Amidst all these thoughts, the only thought that’ll conquer all the others would be of self harm. Reason, rationality would wither because every dimension that we see this phase through will try to reveal to us that every problem that we face today is because we still have air going inside our lungs, that we are still alive, that we still have a life.

But before you do anything, remember, your scars are not poetic. Your wounds are not beautiful, not until you fight the one who gave you those and come out alive, stronger. Your life is a gift that many still crave for, in heaven and in hell. Your tears won’t create rivers so significant to mankind if you do not know how to make them your history. You are a warrior with a sword called life. You may lose games, and still win consolation prizes, but this my dear, is life where either you win or lose it all. The latter may be easier, but that is not why you were brought to life. You were born to win.