DNA

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.

Strangers

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.

Paranoia.

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.