Yeah, Me !!!

Words, Passionate, Books, Kohl eyes, Dreamer, Poet, Beaches, Rumi, Blogs, Winter Nights, Thinker, Smell of Rain, Cecilia Ahern, Diaries, Snickers, Wind chimes, Scrapbooks, Fresh air, Nail Art, Personalized gifts, Chunk Jewelry, Humour, Reality Dance shows, Hoarder, How I met your Mother, Soft toys, Colours, Restless, Silence, Smiles… Me !!!

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Friday Fictioneers - The Sewing Machine

Samar dreaded whenever Sandra would begin dusting the house. She would come to clean his study room which would trigger another argument about giving away this rusted sewing machine. He couldn’t make Sandra understand that it was precious. It was this machine on which his mother had sewn garments all her life to bring him up after his father left. Whatever Samar was today, he owed it to this machine and his mother’s deft hands on it. But for Sandra it was a blot on pricey interior decoration. He sighed and prepared for another exhausting discussion with his wife.




Written for the photo prompt for this week's Friday Fictioneers

Sunday, 28 August 2016

Terrible to be me

It has rained since morning. Or probably since last night. I woke up to a hazy Sunday afternoon. Distilled and quiet. The balcony is inviting. Shades of green around. My morning (afternoon?) cuppa beside me. I sit with a book, losing my sense of time. Glancing up occasionally at the beauty that only the combination of rain and silence can bring. The contradiction and yet the truth of this.

I choke almost. At something rising within my chest. A longing. A memory so fierce. For someone. Someone familiar? Maybe. Maybe not. Of wrapped arms and intertwined fingers. Of disillusioned realities and opaque dreams.
A longing that could pin you down for hours, or is it days? Who knows. I have already lost my sense of time, remember? Smoked out my rationality. The kind that brings a twinkle in your eyes so bright it could make the stars looks bland. All you hear is silence and your heartbeats. So loud that you fear he can hear them from where he is. Far far away from you. In every sense of the word.
And then maybe he would know what it is like to be me. But let me tell you darling. It is terrible, terrible to be me.


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.

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