Yeah, Me !!!

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Monday, 15 August 2016

Cigarette Memories

Night sky burning with my vulnerabilities
I see my being rising up in flares
Slow at first
And then it sets ablaze
As I inhale 
Your words that meant a lot
And my naivety as an afterthought

The smoke of our moments inside my mouth
I clench them together
Till my eyes begin to sting
And mist begins to form in their crevice
As I try, I try
To imprison the hazy memories inside my lungs
They smolder me incapable
To breathe, to exist

A bond that ‘once’ was
Begins to seethe
And I choke on my gullibility
And your latent abilities

While I finally release you from me
Trailing behind is the ashen taste
Of bluntness that could nip associations

A bond that was envy of the town
Which now
Has slowly died a slow death

How I wish
Terminal worries too could be exhaled in thin air
Right there one moment
Becoming invisible the next one

A bond that was an intoxication
Left behind a bitter aftertaste
That scuffled with other senses
Blinding, effacing, burning
A ‘me’ a ‘you’ and maybe an ‘us’ too!

Sunday, 7 August 2016

And the sky bled purple

And the sky bled purple like her heart. Probably it weighed like her heart too. Maybe the sky was attached to earth. Somewhere, maybe, they mirrored each other. Somewhere, far away, in the corners of earth and near the expanse of the sky, they were alike. Maybe they were cold and withdrawn on the outside but warm in their insides. May be they were a collection of pieces from the same broken vase. Scattered far away from each other but they knew their connection. Maybe her heart was the sky. Scattered and shattered but was aware of its connections.

P.S. – The pictures above were clicked by me a few days ago. They are a bit hazy and do no justice to the breathtakingly beautiful riot of colours that day coz they have been clicked from my stupid phone camera.

Sunday, 31 July 2016

Coffee date. With Myself and some untold stories

Wooden flooring. Wooden furniture. Muted colours and yellow lights. Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.
Father and son in the diagonal corner. Quiet middle aged son and a cranky looking father. Giving life advices. Maybe finding faults in the way he has been working on his finances.

A newly married couple on their right. Their dewy eyes. The way her mehndi clad hands brush against his. Unknowingly. Or rather knowingly. The eagerness in him to see her eyes smile.
On the next. A college group of four. Too busy in their own selves. The only worry is attendance in the college enough to let them appear for the exam. Crushes. On friends. And teachers too. An overwhelming age. When everything seems possible. When your friends are your therapists and relationship experts.
Four friends again on the next table. Girl gang. Women who hold you at the time of your first heartbreak and also save you from your fashion disasters. Women who share the same impulse of buying shoes. May be bags too. Of choosing wrong guys as well? May be.
Farthest corner. Strangers. I can guess from the stiffness in their body language and also from the regular hot cappuccinos on the table. A chain marketing effort. There are pens and notepads. Ferocious scribbling. ‘For example, if you invest …’ a voice from that table.
Exactly opposite. An occasional look around the room. An occasional longing to hear what others are saying. But mostly in his own self. With his laptop and headphones. Like me. Probably a loner. Like me.
The place smells of coffee. And of untold stories. Only if you are keen to smell. The smell of brewing strong family bonds, of fizzy new love, of warm friendships, of promising business opportunities and of being complete in oneself.
Sunday. Coffee date. With myself. And some untold stories.

Sunday, 24 July 2016

I am my Heartbreaks

I am a collection of my heartbreaks. There is no single tragedy that has been strong enough to break me. It has been a series. Persistent and deep. One after another. Each one different from its predecessor. Each one teaching a harsher lesson than the earlier. Each one burying me deeper in my own self. Each one teaching me about my own strengths.
Image Courtesy: Google search

There was no pattern in this series of heartbreaks. Nothing was consistent. Except Me. I was the pattern and I was the one consistent.

I played it with all my heart. Every single time. There is nothing called moderate in my dictionary. The passion that can scare even my own self. Still I do not learn. Still I do not relent.

Heartbreaks. Where each one longed to be my last. Because it's the last one that gets the credit of breaking a person, isn't it? But there is room for more within me. There will always be room within me.

I am a collection of my heartbreaks. I stand drawing collective strength from my heartbreaks. I am my heartbreaks.

Sunday, 19 June 2016

‘So what does your dad do?’

You know what, it is burdening to lie every single time when somebody asks, ‘Oh, what does your dad do?’ After mumbling a few incomprehensible words, you hope and try and wish that the conversation steers in some other direction. Every single time, it feels as if I have committed a crime and I am hiding every aspect of it, trying to build stories around it and trying to sound as convincing as possible. Most of the times, I fail myself but hey, I haven’t been caught till date.

Today, I wanted to write some fancy poetry. Unfortunately I am bad at poetry and I don’t think I can put it in words what I feel right now. So I am just going with the flow. This entire month, fitness companies, bakeries, online shopping portals and many more have been bombarding my email account with gifts that can be bought for my dad. I go through every email diligently. Except for the fact that I can’t buy anything. I just cannot. Today. Father’s Day. Sunday. I open my Facebook as I do every day after I wake up. My timeline today is full of people uploading their pictures with their fathers, statuses wishing them and thanking them for whatever they have been to them. I close my Facebook after a few minutes. Tears rolling down my eyes don’t let me see it for a long time. I cry in the bathroom. I know if I cry in open, others will too. I also know somewhere they have cried too. So yeah, I cannot wish my dad, a Happy Father’s Day or put a status message or change my picture with him because he isn’t with us anymore. 14 years ago we lost him. To cancer. (Btw, Fuck you Cancer)

I do not remember what it is to have a father. I do not. In spite of the fact that I was 16 when we lost him. Still, I don’t. Except some glimpses of his sternness towards me all the growing up years and his not showing of emotions that he loved his children (Well, mom says he did and I will have to believe her I guess). I do remember his last months though. In the hospital and at home, seeing him get weaker by the day, losing him bit by bit every single hour, awaiting the doom that clawed its way into our lives minute by minute. And most of all, what I remember is hope. Hope that he will be better. He didn’t.

What followed was sympathy. Pretty obvious right? Except for the fact that I wasn’t ready for it. So, just after the first few days, when a close friend’s mother asked me what would happen to my school fees and that she could pay it for me because they do a lot of ‘charity’ as such, I decided there and then that I shall not reveal that my Dad is no more to anyone. And I have followed that till date. Except a few closest of the friends (seven to be precise) nobody knows this. So when I write this today, understand that it has taken immense amount of courage to come out about this.

I do not remember what it is to have a doting figure who will take care of all the things. I do not know what it is to not be worried about what will happen in future. I also do not know how to think that there is somebody at home who will solve all my issues, emotional, financial or anything else. Well, it is said that daughters are way too close to their dads. But. I do not know. That being said, it does not mean my father wouldn’t have done all this while I was young. This just means that I have a bad memory, may be because I was young and may be because I too have inherited his genes of not showing emotions to people around. (I write about them though. Don't know what he did)

I don’t know why I chose to write this post. I think it’s mostly because I haven’t been able to talk to anybody about this all these years and the burden sometimes gets on to me and most importantly I think I got overwhelmed by all the Facebook activity of dads on my timeline. Yeah, Facebook sometimes does that to you!

If you are reading this, here’s one thing I expect out of you. If you know me personally and have just come to know about this, please do not ask me awkward questions the next time you see me and most of all, please do not sympathize at all.

I sometimes think it was a decision taken in childish zest (I was sixteen. What else do you expect) Maybe that woman was really concerned or maybe it was just the tone of her voice that made me want to hide and not see such ‘charitable’ people again. But I stuck to my decision. Left school. Graduation. Post Graduation. Job. Bus friends. Random friends. Blogger friends. Acquaintances. I kept my word to myself. And kept on answering one awkward question after another. ‘So what does your dad do?’ My answer from now might be this, ‘He watches over us. Somewhere from far far above.’ Happy Father’s Day Dad !

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