Gloriously me

I am rusty. I haven’t written in two years. I was busy working I guess. Do you know what is glorified helplessness? Do you know what does it mean when I gloriously let go of what’s perceived petty and choose to rise above. When I say, let it be. It means that I can not do anything but to let it be. So I have to let it be. Because there is no other way.. I cannot not let it be. I am not capable of not letting it be, of changing it.  I am stuck with it. Because there is nowhere else to go.

Logic says, you always have somewhere else to go. People who care about you say that too. It’s all in your mind. Well of course it is. Oh the fighting back! It can not be in my elbow or in my knees. So this has to be in my mind. Do you keep thoughts elsewhere, because I for one keep them in my mind. So if I am happy or sad or angry or gigantically raged by my helplessness, of course it is in my mind. There is no other place. The swearing between teeth! 

Heart or soul or whatever, they can’t undermine my mind. My mind is important to me. Is yours not, to you? I cannot shut my mind and live on. Stupid idea to begin with. And even if, even.. if… it is not so stupid after all, to switch off your mind for once and connect with higher so and so, know that it will shut down all of it. Do you even know what I mean. I can not shut off that one single pick of feeling that makes you uncomfortable. Or the one thing that you don’t like about me. If I close my mind to the helplessness or the anger or oh the competition, remember that the loyalty goes with it, the will to persist goes with it, the desire to belong even… goes with it. Shutting down one’s mind is not a pick and choose from a catalog of feelings. It’s all or nothing. Can you live with a nothing me? Isn’t that what happened?

Switching off of mind. Of thoughts that are way too twisted to handle. Standing on a high point and looking over the steep icy slope. All the way and still not finding a ground. Starting to roll down anyway. Switching off. Letting it be. Accepting. Helplessly. Gloriously.


Our DNA is special my brother reminded me. But why is mine special? You were the special one. I was mediocre. I had no big dreams. No big hopes. No wish to be any celebrated. I was the practical one. I was realist. Ah I was the realist.

I had nothing cooking inside. Nothing packed in. I had nothing to let out. I had nothing to melt away. No stories. No poems. I loved to hear. I loved to listen when he talked. I loved to believe in his logics. His philosophy. His theories. They were relieving. They were so free. They were beyond the doubts of true and false. Of right and wrong. Of DOs and DONTs.

So much I loved to share his dreams. To believe that all his dreams will come true. I loved to be spectator if he could be on the stage. I did not dream of stage for myself. I did not dream utopian. I was the realist.

I was the realist. Oh so selfish!

I was a parasite. I lived on to his dreams. Portraying the realist oh so well. I was a liar. I loved those dreams. Every bit of it. To death. But I was coward to take the hit. I was as coward as I am today. I feared the hurt of broken dreams. I feared the pain of struggles. I feared the judgements. I was too coward to be the one dreaming. I just sucked on to his dreams. Portraying the supportive sister. Portraying the perfect confidant.

Time and again, I convinced him, begged him to never stop believing. To not give up on his dreams. I did not even realize I was begging for my freedom to dream. I was begging for my utopia. He was just playing the character, the story, it was all mine.


To share the secrets closest to heart, or the ones that render most pain, one chooses a stranger. I was pretty young when I first read this. Took many years for me process. It was a whole new world of no best friends and no confidants when I did. A whole new world where strangers are who you choose to open up when you can’t share it with a best friend.

I was a stranger. I did not know a thing about you. And you did not know a thing about me. You had no responsibility towards me. To make me feel good. To rescue me from getting hurt. To care about what I do when I am not listening to you. You had no concerns. No concerns for my thoughts and emotions and validations and anything that might make you know me. Or make me know you. You were free. You were at ease. The most you could be, when you were with me. You could open your heart without fearing to break mine. For it did not matter to me – at least in your eyes. And it did not matter to you – more importantly. You could speak. As much. As long. As anything.

And then I spoke up. One day. No matter how much I regret to have spoken up. Truth is I did speak up one day. Making you know me. Making you care. Dragging me mercilessly out of the pool of strangers and putting me into acquaintances, friends, ah confidants. I was happy. Foolishly happy. It was a part of your world I hadn’t seen before. It was like a dream but awake. Oh I was so happy. Till I realized. Now you care. Till I realized, now I am a friend and confidant in a world of no friends and no confidants. Till I realized. I am no more the stranger you chose to open your heart to.

Can you hear that? My heart

Life is slow. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s still. Sometimes you look back and see so much of it has passed in a split second.  When you walk by the road, when you see the gulmohar leaves and yellow light peeking through them. On the traffic lights, or in the arms of three balcony walls, when it’s all so damn still, life passes by. Did you see it just passed by. Did you see the passing by light… did you hear the hush of speed. did you hear the bubbles of turbulence.

Did you hear the calm. did you hear the hum of stagnant. Can you hear that…?

Life skips a beat sometimes. Sometimes it collects an extra one. Steals a moment, selfishly. That moment… the ‘not destined for you’ one. It steals beauty where is finds. It steals love sometimes. Sometimes it gives it all away so generously. Sometimes giving is not generous. It’s selfish. It’s needed sometimes. Craved for. Like a heartbeat. My heartbeat. The only connection to the wild stretch of space.

The only hold… only grip of life. Loosening. Draining. Dizzy. Drowsy. Dampened. My life. My heart…

Life waits sometimes. sometimes it rushes off. It opens itself sometimes. It moves. It travels. A dull but constant journey. You can’t even see when it leaves you behind. like sands between the fingers… it runs off… off the fingers. Off the limits. and other times, it waits. For something. It closes itself to open some time. It holds itself hard and it waits. Keeps waiting. Still. Numb. With a thin wire like breathe.

It’s waiting. It’s still waiting there for you to open…

All my fears…

(smallest and most useless of all my writings… really not for you to read)


All my fears, Writing them on thin papers.

Guilt and mistakes and confessions.

Throwing them in water so the ink melts.

Tearing them so small that no two letters end up on the same piece.


Fear to be seen.

Or may be too much courage.

For today I don’t have the courage to write to tear and melt and throw away.

I don’t have courage to talk to myself.

And I have no courage to think to myself.

They look at me from inside.

All my fears.

Let’s play a game…

Let’s play this game… Oh let’s play this game too…


You decide the rules, you just say it and I’ll play. For I once promised I’ll play along… against you and yet by your side and for that’s all I wanna do. For you are all the smiles and you are all the wins… for you are all the tears and all the defeats too. For it’s just you and me. Let’s play this game together.


Let’s have you play foul left n’ right n’ center and I’ll still play. Let’s play it your way… Let’s have you winning all the time… and I’ll still play. Let’s have you defeat me times and again… oh let’s have you defeat me without a match and I’ll still play. Let me surrender… times and again… and yet again I’ll play.


I’ll play along. I’ll play how you like. You want me to stand by your side… I’ll do. You want me to cheer you winning over me.. I’ll do. You want me to be you… ah I will. You want there be no two sides and still your side to win… I’ll make that happen. Crazy wishes aren’t they… for you I’ll make them true.


Come… let’s play this game too…

Walking away from Mirages

God… I so much wanted to have a post with the title Mirages… since the inception. Only I knew nothing of the message I was trying to convey with the name. Or more like I did not have a message to convey. But that’s past… anyway…

So someone recently told me, not really to me, not in the context, not related even… but told he rightly… When you see a mirage, pause, turn around and walk away.

But I don’t do that. Do I? We don’t do that… we take pleasure in running for a mirage, not finding nothing, getting to see more mirages, running more, dying more, wishing more, writing more, crying more. Ah we! For if there are no mirages there are no stories. Stories are about mirages. Oh they are the best mirages in the world, aren’t they?

Stories are your ‘self’ that doesn’t get to live, the mirage that your inexistent self doesn’t get to find. Stories are mirages that never be, yet you see them, invariably, consistently, faithfully. I love fiction. Fiction that never comes true. Everyone loves that. Don’t you. It’s all in its never coming true that makes it so special. I use to love writing stories as a kid. Though most of them made no sense. They lied somewhere under the beds, tight, waiting to make sense someday.  Only they knew very well all along, they never would make sense. Those are the best kinds. Utopian. So unrealistic that you can’t get drifted from real. You never lose the sense of their being unreal. You never leave the sense of their being a mirage and not even a tiny drop of water.

Oh it’s all sun. Shining sun. and Mirages. And no drops of any waters. Here… in a bunch of old stories in my hand. From under the cushions. It’s all fiction in here, strange unrealistic stories of strange unrealistic people… Karan… Antara… Kabir… Bella… Jon… they don’t exist. They never did. They never would. Other than in here. I Can’t let them go, a part of my heart says. But you let them go, for writings might be, stories might be, but life is not about mirages. In life when you see a mirage, you pause, you turn around and you walk away… silently. For that’s all you could do.

One of Those Days…

For they never stop being.

No matter how much you promise yourself

Never to write that title again.

No matter how far you run away.


For they are days beyond you

And you can’t plan them you can only watch

You can love or hate them.

You can cry too only they won’t listen.


For they weren’t there for you

They were just there alongside and they will be

Once in a while to fade back again

In dejavus without your permission.

Or no melancholy…

I walk lost… kicking no dust,

I avoid it unknowingly and careful

They deserve to not get kicked… as if


I walk on the footpath…  alone

Holding care, holding knowing-ness

Holding breath sometimes… unknowingly


Sometimes I hold tears… in eyes

Not to hide sadness, but waiting on smile

To stretch, to push eyes close, to scatter a few drops


In the dead of night… I wake up

I fix water tapping meaninglessly,

I fix a dirty little doormat by the door… carefully


I see the peach moist walls

They are not so disgusting after all,

The wooden swing in my balcony, I stand by it, sometimes


Hold a feeling of being me

Forgotten… long lost me, just seen

In a huge bucket of lost and founds… as if


The city growing on me…

I’ve learnt to laugh the thought off

It doesn’t grow, I’ve known this city for a while now


With things out of place

I am at peace, easy, unconcerned

The moist rejection, the anguish feels gone blur


Holding a thin smile in eyes

I walk alone, away from the cosmos

Connected yet… to me… more than ever before.


I walk, kick the empty can,

Crumpled and broken

Lying harmless on the footpath


I kick in the muddy road

Lazy lofty heavy lying dumb

Leaves a little stain on my boot


Kick the small dirty foot mat

In front of my door

Kick every time, without a look


Peach moist walls of my room

Continuous showers

The wooden swing in balcony


I kick the mess of wires

Under my office desk

I kick hard the connections


I think of you sometimes

Times when I felt for once

The city was growing on me


I kick away things as they stand

Those once made sense

And then ceased to, forever


I stand at door coming back

I think of you if at all

On the other side of the door


The keys slip through my fingers

I ring the doorbell

For no one to hear


Bend down to pick up the keys

I kick away the keys

Waiting to be picked up


I enter the empty house

With moist smell of rejection

Kicking me hard on forehead.