Forgiveness

He was tired of staring up at the sky and looking for a purpose. The romanticizing glares of the twinkling, wish-granting stars seemed to be mocking him.

Why do I feel like I did something wrong?

Why won’t she speak?

Speak up woman!

But she seemed to have stopped hearing him a long time ago.

 

First, she looked at her feet, then she looked at his face but her eyes looked lost. They, he knew, were travelling in another galaxy. Her mind was in transit, always swinging back and forth between anxiety and indulgence, future and present, death.. and death.

Her eyes began to look misty before he realised it was his eyes screaming for comfort, not hers.

Her hands reached her face, carefully stroking the strands of hair that had been covering her eyes for the past eternal minute.

Dressed for a perfectly cold winter evening in Delhi, she had her jacket zipped up like always. But today, she seemed cold.

His mind was slowly running out of possible reasons. Before his coherence could tread further, her squeak took over his presence-

“Can you please forgive me?”

He didn't choke.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't feel the dying need to beg or even answer.

His heart didn't break into a gazillion pieces like they did in the romance novels.

He breathed like an old man who had just been informed about a disease he had long anticipated; slowly he turned around and walked away.

No.

But I can keep quiet for the rest of my life and that’s pretty much the same thing.

Ten heavy steps later, he could still feel her icy warmth.

Closed Doors

I was told, and told often,

“Oh Dear you’ll have to walk,

Alone.” I shivered, gulped, stumbled,

And thought, “I’ll wave galaxies with

A swing of my hand, and whisper my will.

But how am I supposed to be happy

When I’m alone, atop my magnificent hill?”

My palm in their hands, they said,

“Remember to keep your stars

Quite close.” I let go, the lies, they told

For sometimes your stars are the ones

Keeping your doors closed.

For My Daughter

Something lovely I found online that I'd like to repost here!

FOR MY DAUGHTER

By Sarah McMane

“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes --
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.

Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women --
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.

Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.

Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.

Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress --
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.

Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Battle Scars

Oh, Mother.

How can I say things to you without sounding like I am crying out my words?

Oh Mother,

I cannot tell you about that night 9 years ago

When your husband found me hiding my tears in between the soft fabric of my comfort blanket which didn’t exactly feel comfortable that night.

How do I explain to you the nasty bruised mark it left in invisible ink around my ankle

Which I drag along with me

Every day I go, everywhere I go.

Oh, Mother.

How do I tell you that your voice now hurts my ears every time you yell after coming home at night because it stopped hurting my feelings a long time ago.

Oh, Mother.

How do I kiss you goodnight when I haven’t had a goodnight’s sleep in a year and a half since that night you locked me in my room, thinking I am asleep, and did not return till sunrise.

I lay there, mother, just waiting for your car to return to the parking lot.

But you took my night’s sleep that night and haven’t returned it ever since.

Oh, Mother.

How do I reminisce when my memories don’t involve a bustling house of food and family on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the summer of 2008.

My memories are sharp and I have coloured them with the black crayon I stole from my kindergarten teacher’s cabinet when she wasn’t looking.

Oh, Mother.

How do I tell you that you have been strong like ice and soft like fire because it does make me proud to see how you got through it even though you knew it would mean ending up alone.

Mother,

Can I say these things to you without making you feel guilty?

These insidious facts are less about me and more about your battle scars.

But, mother, how do I explain that to you after all?

Semblance

I wake up

To days that begin with laughter

And joy of being around people.

I fall asleep

To moments of desire

To moments of wanting to not be accepted 

To moments of being the quiet force of hidden jubilancy.

To moments I know I'll always dream of

Because I did not have the courage.

Do I always wake up from that dream

Where I'm camouflaging 

With the very next crowning

Of symbols and serenity

Hiding behind that semblance

Of majesty and malevolence?

I don't. Want to.

Addict

Hello. I’m an addict.

No Please don’t take that step back that you are about to. It’s not contagious, I’m sure you know that. Then what do you fear?

My anticipated cry for help? Or the reproachful glances of the society when they find out who you’ve been talking to?

I can see you standing with that trembling posture.

You don’t know how grateful I am that you didn’t step back, yet I can see by the back-and-forth movement of your toes that you’re unwilling to take a step ahead.

It’s okay.

I’m used to it.

I can feel that pity in your handshake but it makes me happy.

I can see that look of curiosity in your eyes.

I want to answer it and I know you want me to unravel the mystery for you, too.

But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Most of you don’t understand.

You consider it to be a disgrace, of sorts.

But you want to know anyway.

Okay, I’ll tell you.

No, I have a perfectly stable family life. I am not the rich brat who sleeps in manifestations of wealth and dreams of absentee parents.

No, it’s not peer pressure. You see, I don’t exactly have many friends left, do I?

No, it’s not the television or the uncensored media you blame. I know I am stronger than that, even if you don’t believe me as I say it.

No it’s not because I’m depressed. Although, I do fear slipping into that dungeon someday in my life. But when I do, I know I won’t need any of this because that darkness will itself be more commanding.

No, I am not heartbroken and living every moment in the self-deprecating shadows of a boy who forgot to pay attention to me.

No, I don’t hide in my bathroom and shed midnight tears as I watch the numbing red streams of fluid trickle down by thighs.

No, I was not a teen who tripped over the wrong rock and has been unable to get back ever since.

No, I do not how all of you come up with such guesses but I do know that you are wrong.

I am where I am because I want to be here. Or rather, there’s some place else I’d rather not be. Somewhere in my darkness I feel scared. And I would do anything to stay away.

I do this on order to avoid myself.

Which is ironic because in the process of this, it’s the people around me, like you, who start avoiding me; while I am just left there to face myself and a love I know I’ll never receive.

My Mother

7 a.m.

The sun had started to show rather beautifully. The aching rays of sunlight fell profusely on his skin as I stood there naked, burning with indecisiveness and desire both at once. His face, an epitome of innocence perfectly hid the charring that he had tried to cover up all night by attempting to go back to sleep every hour. It had been four hours and here I was, still romanticizing him in my head.

I had been awake for quite a while, making myself some light breakfast as I hid my shame in a towel I found hanging behind his bathroom door.  I had watched him shift from the side of the bed towards the centre. His devouring occupancy made me realize my fleeting grasp on his life. I had owned his presence for one night. For one night, it was mine to hold and exploit as he lay there unaware of light years of pain that he had initiated. I knew, better than anyone, to expect nothing more but were my senses defeating me?

6.30 a.m.

For the most part, I am a deep sleeper. I used to sleep a lot when I was small. What I didn’t know was that I was only that carefree and comfortable with myself.

Nights like these, nights with girls, hardly delivered any sleep. I kept waking up every hour to the smell of the respective sweet feminine perfume, which always smelt like my mother’s.  I’d let it gush into me as I watched my lungs cringe and throw the scent out of my system almost instantly. Sometimes I would even lie in bed just contemplating about who was beside me and what she might say when I told her what haunted me. It was only to while away my time. Fruitless.

Tonight was the same.

I was not surprised.

However, I’m awake right now.  As I lie on my stomach, I don’t see her here. Maybe she’s gone.

I shift towards the centre of the bed. Here it is.

Maybe now I can sleep.  I lie on my back, for reasons of convenience, adjusting myself to the lukewarm temperature of the bed sheet which essentially means she hasn’t been gone long.

My eyes shuffle around in search of some sign of belonging. I can’t see anything.

Thank goodness.

I do speak an awful lot when drunk.

3 a.m.

He is asleep. Or at least he appears to be. His eyes are a little swollen and I can still experience the taste of his evasive alcohol in my mouth. I’m enjoying it. I’m running through his description in my head. As usual, it’s all so poetic and battered. There is a kind of unfathomable damage in poetry itself and I can’t seem to get rid of it.

Those bashful eyelashes, unusually unkempt hair, his obsession with being lousy and his dignified need for being alone; all of it appearing so dynamic in my head. It could be the middle-of-night syndrome where when you have nothing to do; you resort to glorifying the first object your eyes rest on.

When I caught him staring at the marks on my thighs, I knew this was a mistake. He was not conscious enough to treat me with ignorant courtliness and he didn’t.

“Hey, my mom did that to herself too!” he cheered. “In front of me.”

There I was, stripped of my vicious thoughts and shame, dressed in nothing but bland flesh and pretentious valiance and this purposeless one night stand had managed to make me loathe myself for one more night.

I was, suddenly, famished of company and glad that for one night I could wallow in regret with an unconscious stranger, since he had fallen on the bed immediately after, lying next to me.

I was alone, not lonely.

I had a bloodless hand to hold.

I had an insignificant moment.

I had had a crass confrontation.

I was not alone.

2.50 a.m.

What have I done? Why did I say that?

My eyes are closed and my face is dug into the pillow but I can feel the mortifying silence fill the room like a call of death.

Why did she do this to me, My Mother.

Some stories never end

Only when I think

Back, and realise what is gone.

How situations changed

And feelings altered,

Because I'm left rather alone.

How I did not embrace the absence,

Nor let it go.

I slithered into a nutshell,

Careful and slow.

I filled the void

With the omnipresent air,

I left papers 

Some crumpled

All blank,

Only to stare. 

I dug out my eyes,

Watched them blossom

Like a cherry tree.

I thought I was flying,

In solitude and free. 

But what did this bird

Know, apart from the cage.

It was only taught:

All the world's a stage.

One Sentence. One Want.

Thank you everyone for taking a minute out of your preoccupied days and answering in one sentence, what you want. It means a lot to me. 

This was a small project I did for myself. And it was indeed a successful one. 

I had the Gen Y be a part of it for two reasons. 

Firstly, because we are constantly criticised for being extremely materialistic in all aspects of our life. How we're always busy on our Smartphones and pay no heed to the small yet important things in life. How money is the only thing we desire and would do anything to get it.  (However, this is a very controversial statement. All of you who answered my question are, mostly, still in school or (junior) college. Therefore, it is quite obvious that money is not our first concern and we possess the freedom to contemplate other dimensions of life. Taking this into consideration would completely kill the purpose of my project so I'd like to ignore it.)

Secondly, I just wanted to know what people's spontaneous responses would be. 

What I noticed is that most of you did not give materialistic responses. Which, frankly, surprised me because I used to think I'm the only one who doesn't know what she wants when it comes to tangible valuables. In fact, the answers sound rather mature once you read them. 

Is our generation maturing faster? Yes, it is. 

Also, I hardly got any ambitious answers. 

I want to be a journalist but I, myself, would never answer this question with 'I want' to be a journalist. Which is funny because when we start going to school, we are made to write 'FIVE SENTENCES ON MYSELF' at some point. And, if I'm not wrong, "I want to be a Fashion Designer, Engineer, Doctor etc." is always one of the sentences. 

But then, why not now? 

I think it's because overtime we have lost the significance for it. Making a career out of our lives is not something we 'want' any more, rather it's something we know we 'have' to. 

Attend school since the age of 3, get marks, get into a good college, get a job, be rich. We have accepted this to be a system and maybe that's why we don't think of it as something far-off  that we desire.
Nevertheless, this is open to a lot of arguments beyond my thoughts.

A lot of you asked me what I wanted.

I couldn't answer because a new want kept coming to my mind every time I read someone else's answer.

By the end of it, I wanted a lot of things. But I'm going to stick to the first thing that came to my mind. I have incorporated it below because I want to retain absolute anonymity. 

Thank you again for being a part of this. It means a lot to me. If anyone is uncomfortable with their answer then let me know. I'll remove it. Also, don't judge any of the answers. :)
Enjoy reading.

Perfection in all things.

I want to be happy.

I want eternal love.

At least once in my life I want to travel to some place far off all alone.

Happiness without fear.

I really want to be an independent woman in the future.

I really don't know.

I just want to be happy all my life. If I'm happy I wouldn't want anything.

I want to find hope.

No jealousy, only love. 

I want loyalty and trust from everyone I know.

I want the whole world.

I really want to be, what I potentially can be.

I want a political backing and this one girl.

I want to give it all up. 

Knowledge and Peace of Mind.

The engaging cacophony of vibrant enterprise, the sweat and blood of building value, the honour of public service and the the unbridled love of a good woman. 

Freedom. Independence.

I want to learn how to hold on to people.

A Blu-Ray Disc player.

I want fame.

Freedom.

I want to be independent from my worries and feel free from social obligations.

Tattoo.

I really want my Hogwarts acceptance letter because Muggle life is too mediocre; but I would be satiated with one from Oxford too.

Peace of Mind.

A day when I wake up and I feel like not running away, not caring about tomorrow and finally being content.

I want to make my parents proud and find true love. 

Peace of mind, freedom of thoughts, being understood while being me.

Somebody I can open up to.

I really want my leg to be fine so that I can play football again.

I really want love.

A penthouse apartment.

I want abs.

The ability to let go off things that haunt me.

I was reading Harry Potter, so yeah I want a wand.

To travel from the peak of Mt. Everest to the bottom of the Pacific.

I want to know Myself.

I really want to get out of my art block.

I want to know what I want to do in life.

Midnight thoughts

I wanted to pull out pieces of me and burn alive.

I wanted to pierce this silence so that it would grow quieter.

I wanted to laugh at this absurdity till my hopes were famished. 

I wanted to scar someone till they were delicate enough to understand the world.

I wanted to scream for acceptance as an act of rebellion.

I wanted the music to make me fall asleep for more than just a night.

I wanted to tell people I pushed them because I didn't know how to hold on.

I wanted to walk into oceans to fill myself up.

I wanted to desire things.

I wanted to not be so complacent.

I wanted a sentence that could shred my insides repeatedly.

I wanted the swirling galaxies inside me to prove themselves.

I wanted the magnitude of fear to exceed its limit. Then explode.

I wanted the selfish to remain selfish.

I wanted undercover happiness and relentless euphoria.

I wanted clarity of distance.

I wanted a hopeless conversation.

I wanted assurance that we were all going to die.

I wanted green grass at 7 a.m on a sneaky Sunday morning.

I wanted a sun kissed act of poetry.

I wanted my black desires to sleep soundlessly.

I wanted my inadequacy to stop haunting even though I called out to it every night. 

Obscure

Those pen marks

That keep you up

Through nights are just a cure

For when you thought 

They knocked and opened

And barged in through your door. 

You feel lofty and lost

And so obscure,

That it fills you up with beauty

You end up carving on your own.

You never ask

You never tell

You're a byline 

Underneath, unread.

Maybe that's why

When they were scared

They called for help

Didn't hear you yelp

No, no, no.

Elope

Didn’t you ever

Hear the Saints of Night

The way they lingered and whispered

And took away all our fright.

That one brusque evening

You looked into eyes

Stars spelled wisdom

And burned away sins

All the skies.

Akin to my demons

My fears spelled the plight

Of virtue and forgiveness

How did you make it all right?

Drunk in a café

Under the beach house

At night.

You smiled like it could

Last and that is why I sighed

With hope that this moment

Could freeze but you turn

To tell me: it’s over,

The hard part has begun.

We danced on shattered glass

As our feet bled to bone

But happy, oh, I was

I didn’t have to be alone.

The moonlight shone brightly

And razed all my homes

Of free falls and train wrecks

The silence choked me more.

It stung, the common sight

Of being apart and far off

The shore.

I swore I could plunge in

Deep and let go.

It purged me of essentials

To let my memories

Out the door.

But conviction that held me

Urged me to get off

The floor.

The friend that I needed

Was killed in a war

Of preposterous vulnerability

That I couldn’t evade

Even now.

I searched and I failed

Till one night I saw

I didn’t need my friend

Or an image for someone

To draw.

I slipped into a rabbit hole

That I knew held the key

To a place if I entered

I would not flee.

There you stood with shoulders

So broad and so sure

If I was in a crisis

You’d do more than just cure.

Now we’re back to the Café

The beach house

At night.

It’s stormy and ravenous

Of destruction tonight.

You’re talking and slowly

Your breath means more

Than the humor that escapes

Your perpetuating aura-

Let’s elope.

The Lost Woods

Sometimes when I stop
And stare, at the quick and easy.
I question rather repeatedly,
The direction of the wind so breezy.
An entrapment of original ideas,
Which makes no one want to flee.
But then I think that maybe,
The woods are lost, not me.

The Front Row Seat

He raised his hand and jerked it upwards, trying to pull back the inconvenient yet somehow majestic sleeve of his dark grey blazer. The intercom rang and he sighed as he heard the ever-so-bland voice of his assistant reciting to him some appointment she thought he had forgotten.

But he hadn’t.

He simply chose not to remember it.

Nevertheless, he uttered “Send him in ten.”

“Certainly, sir.” came the response.

 

He needed these ten minutes. Not to prepare himself or clear the mess from his already compartmentalized desk. It was a gesture. A rather passive one meant to make the person sitting on the opposite chair subside with irrational inferiority.  

But in reality, he felt bored. He was like a teenager in the body of a 35 year old. What he really wanted to do was walk out that door and greet the gentleman waiting outside. After all, time was precious to all and wasting it, in his opinion, was a sort of cosmic crime in the moral books of the universe.

 

The Murano Glass lamp on the table camouflaged just perfectly with the ethereal air of the room. The Swarovski pen lying next to his laptop displayed wealth and stature gorgeously. Handmade Egyptian artifacts on the wall behind him never failed to have an arresting effect on anyone who entered that door for the first time.

Overall, his office appeared magnificently gregarious. Although to him it felt like an entrapment.

His feelings were jostled into a tunnel of his mind with the buzzer painfully piercing through his ear.

“Sir?”

“Send him.”

 

For the next two hours he was immersed in the one-to-one symposium with his colleague. Cups of coffee were refilled, the AC temperature adjusted and papers signed. Constant activity left no room for any Awkward. There was neither a casual breath nor a worried silence. There were talks in jargon and numbers not meant for the layman to understand.

Finally, the enfranchising words were let out, “It was a pleasure doing business with you Mr. Manhotra.” Accompanied by a quick nod, they were both good to go.

 

He felt consumed. One would presume from his ecstatic smile that he was now a comfortable part of that life style. But nobody knew that it was a result of those forceful braces back in eighth grade which gave way to an inkling far from the truth.

 

There was still time before he would be expected to reach home. Even though he felt like rushing out, he had to fight himself. It was, supposedly, ‘a thing’ to come home late from work when you were the Vice President of a large firm.

And then they said money would make life easy.

 

 

But the money never pinched him. He had seen enough of the callosity that prevailed in the lives of those that lived on the tattered streets of Mumbai. He had come to realize that Money was a dictator. A cruel one at that. And though silent and seemingly powerless, it would inevitably withdraw certain privileges from your life. He was more than aware of the criticism that would stab him in the back like friend; he was ready to serve as the martyr in the war field of this corporate world if it meant giving his family a quality life.

 

One of his many untold struggles involved this 44^th floor office. The grand glass window that gave him a view from the top. The fear of falling was so secure that he had forgotten what it felt like to look up.

It was like being the topper of your class in school; full of innocent joy and pride. Until one fine morning you woke up and found the redundant happiness smothered by vacillating colours of insecurity. He knew there was no going back. At least for him.

But he hoped. He wished this was not what true success felt like. He dreamt dreams that manifested escapades involving his disappearance into someplace else. His awakening would bring to him a reminiscent shame. This moment was once upon a time his dream, too.

 

 

He loosened his tie a little. His thoughts sometimes possessed the ability to physically smolder him.

Breaking away, he glanced at his Rolex.

It was time to go home. A schoolboy-like excitement welled up inside him even before he could begin to hide the injuries from his reopened wounds.

 

They don’t tell you that success, just like funerals, is all about others and nothing about you. They don’t, he thought.

 

 

Old Leg

My veranda smelled like old dust and the rusted chairs added to the ambience of lethargy. I had wrinkled through, and out of my glory days. This weak tea and sugar-free biscuits comprised my morning and evenings. The sun set; birds flew back home. 

My predicament lay static.

Every minute detail appeared emphatic.

Like young-age stilettos, nostalgia clicked, at every corner of my memories. A blasted entourage of vanishing mirth and laughter. They said, body aches were the beginning of a new journey. Or sadly so, an end. This old leg was proving to be a bit of a trouble lately. Like a horrible dream, I’d shake the pain off for just a bit.

How fruitful is the physical pain,

That can take over the memory lane.

An empty cup; cue for the execution of the next activity.

Not wanting to hurry, I sat there an extra few minutes just so I could sigh in my solitude and feel like I had achieved it all in life.

But no one could achieve it ‘all’. No achievement ever topped the list. My own seemed so shallow and worthless in front of this Behemoth made up of loneliness and fears alone.

City lights, and a fake smile;

Sacrificing, to be enough and agile.

A premonition made its way through like a serpent towards its first bite. I had sat there for much more than time permitted. I gently placed my right hand on my knee, took a little support of the arm rest and there I was, on my feet. Ready to gawk around at whatever my eyes would find. Mundane takes time to get used to. It certainly does.

The doorbell rang. A few shrunken jolts of a childlike excitement built up in my body as I moved out of my veranda and into the seclusion of my room. Upon reaching the door I figured it must be the neighbour. Asking for sugar, chilli or something of the sorts they use in newly married houses.

All I had to give,

Was experience in a wrap.

But everyone’s more concerned,

With looking for the Map.

To my surprise, my neighbour’s one year old daughter stood at the door. Her wide eyes looked up at my crooked nose like I’d done the work of a Genie for her. They sparkled in a distinct manner, much more rident than mine would have ever looked. That toothless smile spilled sugar in my mouth and that’s when I caught myself smiling. How could I not? There

she was, an oblivious little child gazing at me with a gigantic, inexplicable awe. Like I had completed the world’s most impossible task by opening the door.

Achievements. The real ones.

It would be hard to explain this feeling. It was a scintillating vibe of satisfaction and my chest swelled up with a tender joy. All because of that one look in her eyes.

“Aunty, could I have today’s newspaper? He has just came home and I cannot recall where I kept it.”

Sigh. Their sugar and chilli.

Death and Found

As I am brushed aside due to ‘more important’ work, I realise the fatality of my existence. My survival has killed many and yet my survival is what keeps them alive.

I’d rather not play the game of ‘Who Am I?’ You can use several distinct words to describe me but my subjectivity is so versatile that not even the Oxford Dictionary, so profoundly hailed, can explain me to you. Call me Passion, Creativity, Hunger, Art, Talent or even a Waste of Time. I am pretty much all of them and not once have I considered myself to be punitive. Why should I, for I have fed more hearts than those charitable dispositions and quenched more thirsts than you can imagine.

And even so, Gratitude never found me and here I am waiting for a call that often comes late, but never too late.

Sitting here, ignored and perpetually passive, I have come to observe a lot about myself in other people, but mostly, about other people only. Like for instance, consider Mrs. Verma here, who basically tossed me into an uninhabited corner of her mind where the darkness will probably chew me down to bits that she will never again be able to discover. But I don’t blame her. That poor lady is trapped. She’s trapped in a water body where she resembles the fish as well as the bait. But how can that be possible? Well, Man has been known to do the impossible for far too long, hasn’t he?

If my memory still serves me right, I remember Mrs. Verma used to be an extraordinary artist in her days. Too cliché? I guess so, but clichés are called so for a reason.

Having completed her Bachelor’s and Master’s degree successfully, she lived the victorious life of an independent working woman in the 80s, until she got married. And maybe Fate would have it so, because her mother-in-law wanted things to be ‘like they were supposed to be’. Mrs. Verma was doomed to be a Housewife.

Here’s when I come in. Mrs. Verma’s abundant love for beads and diyas and paints could never really get her anywhere in life, according to her mother. Under the influence of such whims, Mrs. Verma was condemned to a life of hell where she would forever function behind the dreams of her children and husband. A mother’s words have such scintillating effect; I cannot even begin to explain. Mrs. Verma slowly and steadily let go off her desires to stay up all night and create masterpieces out of scraps she’d discover lying around. Unlike the ordinary assumption, she was not forced to do so. But she was made to believe that it was necessary to do so. And that, my friends, is what I have always found to be even more dangerous. The difference between the two is the same fine line that separates a misanthrope and a hermit. In both cases, the alternatives are misunderstood to mean exactly the same.

Getting back to my tale, as Mrs. Verma’s life progressed, her Youth met with the fury of Avarice, the Greed accompanied by Need for money. And gradually, I became a manifestation of her childhood.

I’ll admit I felt a little left out. But I’ll also admit that this wasn’t the first time.

I would say I felt bad for her and honesty would prevail. But I would rather empathise because of the Pity I feel. It saddened me not, to see that I would never again collide with Mrs. Verma, but rather she would never collide with me.

This was all said and done; her fate was sealed till the time of her grandiloquent marriage and her expected first child. And the second.

Both now fully grown, Mrs. Verma found herself in a vacuum filled with the laughter of her kids and the smiles of her raconteur husband. But what was she doing apart from feeding others’ dreams and pacifying herself? Absolutely nothing.

I had died within her. An absence she took quite a while to realise.

It was the calm before the storm. So natural. So strong.

The storm was vigorous and her quest stung hard. She was faced with several of her Inconsistencies that left indelible memories hanging from the loose ends of her thoughts.

Let me tell you that I have been proud many a times in life, and maybe that’s why I wasn’t exceptionally joyed when her cold fingers found me somewhere in the shadows of Timidity.  But I could breathe and she could breathe and that’s always been enough for me. I would never satisfy her because if I did then I wasn’t really enough. But that was my one strength, that no one could ever possess enough of me.

She found me.

The challenge was to not let me die a second death.

And that’s something I’ve always envied in humans. At least they die only once. Because every time I die, a huge chunk of me goes unfound. So what’s all this fuss about wanting to be immortal?

Mrs. Verma is still sitting here, and she snubs me every now and then for some other ‘more important’ work. Sometimes she returns, most of the times she doesn’t. Sometimes I imagine the Grim Reaper beckoning me once again and I will admit, it makes my environment a little lugubrious.

I know that I may never be ‘more important’ or even ‘important’, for that matter. But I am something else. I am Essential.

And that might just be another description of me that Humans are yet to discover. 

Words that Fly

1. Good Deeds

Trespassing a memory,
Behind the rident shadows of joys
We forget how good deeds haunt
In the silent symphony of our voice.

______________


2. Pretense

Watching the sun pity the moon,
I've lived all life like a summer,
Of Aprils, Mays and Junes.

______________

3. Plastic Daggers

The casual vacancy of his words hit me hard as always. Plastic Daggers, but daggers nonetheless.

______________

4. Keys

Through her midlife crisis,
She laughs at jokes,
But Please.
Think her not a hypocrite,
For she has only lost,
Her Keys.

_______________

Spoiler Alert!

THE BOOK THIEF-MARKUS ZUSAK

After all the stuff I had read about words saving the girl’s life, I really considered the insinuation to be on a more philosophical note. But I was proved wrong to a great extent. To my surprise, words LITERALLY saved her life!

‘The Book Thief’ written by Markus Zusak is not just a book about words feeding the soul, or the horrific consequences of Nazi-Germany or the morbidity of it all. It’s a lot more than that.

Published for the first time in 2005 in Australia as an Adult novel, the book begins on a rather phlegmatic note, contrary to the kind of beginning one would expect considering the story is set against the backdrop of Nazi Germany. The narration is calm and serene throughout the book. The narrator is none other than the omnipresent Death.

Death narrates the entire plot, giving us a rather humour-filled yet dark perspective of things. It contradicts the common belief of Death and War being friends. Death claims to be commiserating, empathetic and unabashedly sick of his job.

I would say that the author has done a brilliant job with the narration. It is a unique concept, and the words chosen could not have been more perfect. This book definitely impressed me because I don’t normally praise books so wholeheartedly. The scene of a war-enveloped country melts the heart of the reader with immense sympathy and pathos.

The book revolves around the main character Liesel Meminger, who has just had to leave her Communist mother being taken away and watch her brother die in a train on the way to her foster parents’ home i.e Hans and Rosa Hubermann. She refers to them as Papa and Mama throughout. She develops an interest in reading and words after the first time she steals a book, and Papa waters this interest of her by helping her read each night. The book stealing continues as she finds herself guided by nothing but words from every possible direction.

In the first few days of her new life she gets acquainted with Rudy Stiener and they go on to become best friends. The end of which is heartbreaking.

Eventually, we are introduced to a Jew-in-hiding, Max Vandunberg who seeks shelter in the Hubermann’s basement. Liesel and Max’s relationship develops a strong bond, a testimony of how love sees no barrier of race, religion etc.

The end of the book is shattering. In a melancholic Hubermann house devoid of Max, Liesel sits in the basement crafting her own words. Meanwhile Molching is bombed by the enemy and everyone surrenders to Death’s ambulant arms.

All but Max. Because had been caught by the Nazis.

I found it very hard not to notice the irony behind the book’s theme of how all the Germans die whilst the Jew lives. A cruel humour maybe. In ways it also brings out the unprecedented nature of life and how death cannot be prognosticated irrespective of social, cultural and political conditions.

The book, however, does get slow at times. Death’s narration can get a little stretchy but he catches up.

Obviously, these are more of my immediate thoughts about the book rather than a review. Lots of spoilers too. But it’s a book every avid reader should try. I’m not sure about the others though.

Also, a splendid review of the same by John Green:

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/14/books/review/14greenj.html?_r=0

Love, A War

                                                                

Her hand in his, they slowly climbed up the stairs. She was, inherently, overjoyed by the thought of his coming home. Not every woman of her age and stature had that benefit. But she, surprisingly, found herself blissful with just the feeling that the empty shack with memories of young love hung on its door would not remain so empty anymore. Or rather, his existence would fill the indelible void, in pursuit of which she had lost her way. This moment felt unreal and just that should have been a hint enough. But, no, his hopeful eyes always overshadowed her cynical mind, and she walked at a pace so gentle, only for him and because of him.

Her mind, every now and then, sneaked out through the back door and left her fazed with a jigsaw of memories. Some with eroded edges and others simply missing. The past year she had spent burning the midnight oil for him and now, she felt, it was his time to stop her from having to do so. 

But, Present. She needed to stay here with him. She couldn't let him become a figment of her imagination like always. 

It's time, he thought. His eyes dim with fear, a burning anxiety sparked in his gut as his eyes looked at her with an evasive passion. 

He looked down and she felt the butterfly churning in her stomach transform into a breathless fury. The door behind him opened and she knew where he had gotten her. Before his mouth could utter the symbolic words, she hugged him, and began to sob. Not to stop him, for she knew there was no way he could stay, but rather because she could not bear to keep it in for a one more year. He kept whispering, "I love you. I will be back. You have to go now." repeatedly, but the uncertainty of his words struck her worse than the pang of foretold death. Her body clung to him, taking in the sweet scent of his ironed blazer that he so proudly wore. His body felt like comfort even with so many layers on. But it failed to give her strength. She would, if she could, breathe in the claustration of his existence for the rest of her life, than in the mesmerizing air of solidity. 

But time is time, and it was time to go. Again.

As he let go off her, she realised how he had been the one holding on to her, contrary to what she thought.

“Forge Meaning. Build Identity”

So today I was browsing YouTube and I happened to come across the latest TED Talks video featuring Andrew Solomon, a writer on politics, culture and psychology.

Now there’s obviously no need for me to go into the depth of his eloquent flow of words, but the motto or the conclusive message of his 20 minute long talk was “Forge Meaning. Build Identity”.

He stressed it enough, believe me.

We’re all skipping through life and daily monotony in search of some abstract idea of meaning that has been implanted in our heads. We believe in the existence of a coherent answer that lies behind every activity taking place in the universal lap. But that often leaves us confused and fidgety.

So they tell us there are answers but who is going to lead us to the answers? Not the butterflies of Hogwarts for sure! Who, then, will accompany us on this voyage of a particularly vague self-actualization?

I think Andrew Solomon answered it brilliantly. His message in my words, of course.

Throughout the course of our life, series of events, bad and good, tragic and euphoric, take place. And that makes us who we are, undoubtedly. But a lot of us lack the courage to admit this, to take those instances and twist them in our way. We live in the misinterpretations of these episodes and keep seeking some weird revelation, we expect, will change our doomed lives. We get lost in this tangled web of expectations and dreams without realising that we can do something else instead. We can take this situation and create a meaning. The meaning that we want it to be, the message that we want to carry life-long with us.  

All successful men and women have not gone through the societal definition of a ‘rough’ childhood or even adulthood, for that matter. However, they have all gone through something that wasn't smooth and the one similarity they all possess is the message they derived from these rugged paths of life. All those autobiographies in the market can vouch for that!

So, basically, the idea is to grab a situation by its wrist and forge a meaning, a lesson, an understanding of it. We can ‘seek’ ample of ‘meanings’ in life, but what brings better satisfaction than having an Individual Something that brings humongous amount of composure?

What next?

Next is the foretelling of telling these stories. Once we’re at peace with the stories that haunt us, we start to see them in a different light. We see them, not as mistakes, but as the building bricks to the person we are today. We see them as the life we had and not the life we had to suffer. Maybe not necessarily as an opportunity or anything. But something better than the worse we thought we knew.  

And I guess, that’s when we begin to understand ourselves. Not in a very decisive way but in a way that makes us feel like we have an identity that is distinct from what people or anyone has tried to thrust upon us.  An identity that we want to share via the disappointment loaded tales from the creeks of our minds.

It’s obviously not a cake walk as I make it sound, but it’s worth a try. And moreover, it’s a beautiful perspective that Andrew Solomon has given me and it will probably intrigue for a while.

A Work of Fiction

“It was easy to commiserate. Figuring out others and feeling for them had never been her problem. It was the inexplicable insides of her breathing existence that proved to be the hardest.” She read this line and felt a sudden soulful silence associate with her obvious soundlessness. Each book has that one line that gives you the chills every time you read it. She had found that line in this book. Flipping the page, she tried to go on but her mind kept tracing its way back to that line and finally she decided to close the book and just lie for a while. Her cranium pressed between the pillows but her mind swinging to and forth between the loose ends of that sentence. It was uncanny and a first, how she felt so lost because normally books made her comfortable. The activity of being in someone’s story where you know what’s waiting ahead and where the present has an understandable past had always given her a morbid comfort.

In evidently, she found her thoughts ooze to the root of the cause. It was her, wasn't it? Always drowned in other’s corpulent stories made up of necessary lies, manipulating her way through and reciting it to a third. But she could never fathom herself, and to top it off, she wouldn't let anyone else help her either.

What was she doing this time? What was the point of dangling between two polarized indecisive emotions and not even discussing it with anyone? But that was her. Stupid and fretful and unfair to everyone close to her.

“It was a mistake. It had been a mistake since the first day and he had dragged it so far. Looking back, all he saw was her needy innocence and how her courage stepped back more often than her heart stepped forward.” Some cosmic force in his head made him put down his book and think of that last one. A girl, of course. Not the usual type, different. A good different. He barely ever thought of her, except for those few subdued moments of guilty pleasure when she contacted him. But these lines had described her and forced his heart to concede to the fact that maybe, just maybe, he had on purpose become oblivious to her rainy efforts.

But he was like that, he accepted it. But he didn't. He simply hid his massive self-deprecation behind the covers of bold mean-boy fragility. Something he thought she had almost figured but by then it was time to run past and leave behind some nominal amount of damage. He had mostly been with sycophants. But she wasn't one. She was a big heap of pretentious wisdom hoping to keep her lack of faith in everything and everyone a secret. How well she slept each night beneath the boulder. Just like him.

But he’d been terrified by the thought of her sussing out the reason behind his shadowy walk and lifeless happiness, and so he had to just take it as slow as possible but disappear quickly. Because he was, indubitably, afraid of being loved despite his brittleness. Even though he kind of hoped for it.

And here they were, the two of them, just like the countless many, who may have passed each other on the street, finding a part of themselves in a work of fiction. And yet doing nothing about it because who wants to take risks in the dark?

The Present

So we've heard it a million times by peers, family, teachers or even pets, for those of you who talk to them. That the future is a pointless worry, the past a fruitless land. The present must be dwelled in and the present is all that matters.

That is, to some extent, correct.  Pondering over the atrocities and unfairness that took place in the past is a relentless journey that doesn't end. It hurts us and keeps us from achieving what we are most capable of. It is a downright horror! But, how tempting  the devil’s invitation can be! It’s a part of us, a part that has loose threads of memories hanging from it. Some you want to cut off and the others you want to stitch back. The old cliché says that times heals all wounds and so we gather up a tad bit of that faith and leave the mess on the floors of our heads, hoping for it to fly away with the next stroke of strong breeze.

The Future has its own viruses. It is the land of anxieties having anxieties. Let me put it this way, if we feed on the past then it would be safe to say that the future feeds on us. We keep its non-existence alive by letting it swirl in our heads and mess around. Maybe because we were always taught to think of the brighter future or the bigger picture and stuff like that. What they should have taught us instead was to NOT THINK TOO MUCH ABOUT THE UNCERTAIN FUTURE. Because looking back I just wish someone would have taught me that. But we’re all just slaves to the same old human flaws thrust upon us.

So what does that leave us with? Oh yes, the good old Present which never exactly gets old but it’s a dear constant.

 I don’t think anyone ever points out the dark side of living in the present. There’s the merry boat ride that takes place every day in the present. It begins with us reaching beyond horizons, aiming high, taking chances, believing and it ends with a lot of positive energy, a smile and a tinge of small success leaving us euphoric.

But then there’s the dungeon on the boat where most of us find ourselves in at some point or the other. This dungeon is, regardless to say, dark and dingy with bats and made up monsters that basically look like they’re just there to ruin everything for us. What am I talking about? Why, it’s the obvious day to day fiascoes we come across. Maybe a fight with a friend or the abysmal loneliness that strikes or simply a bad day. They pull you down in the moment and the suction makes it impossible to breathe. The good news, well, it doesn't last that long. So that’s the side we should all be aware of.

It’s a long journey ahead and the past and the future aren't going to leave us that soon, honestly. We’re kind of stuck there. And in that moment of wholesome regrets or worries and no shelter we will run to the present and expect this glorious amount of bright light shining in our faces but that’s not going to happen. The bright light isn't always going to be there and even when it is, it may only be enough to sneak in through the crevices of our insecurities. But that’s when we need to be able to look for it because that is what will save us and not some oblivious escapade we were planning to meet up with.