You can never be Indian just to pretend to be Who are you an Indian or Pakistani first? Orange or green? which one are you? 'Red' my heart screamed.
Outside the house my practice is to respond the prejudices about my religion or the colour my heart belongs to.
It breaks my heart to read about the principle of 'secularism' and to be questioned about my identity at the same. It breaks my heart to read about.
Which part of a skin shall I tear with my own hands to show the love that runs in my veins for the country I belong to? I wear love for my country and I wish this garment could have been naked!
I chant 'National anthem' to the wind. I do 'wuzoo' from the water of this land. My forefathers wrote their name on the soil fighting the kargil war. But it seems, the wind is a bad listener, the water is a bad carrier to my emotion, and the soil does not remember names.
I want to go away from the people who would later call me ' anti-nationalist.' They call me this. It's a word they use for my existence. My heart is a tree heavy-laden with the love for it's country, for it's roots would never be shaken. It's a metaphor I use for my existence in this country I belong to.
Love to me was always defined as endowing things with their unique qualities. It's like a fragrance in the nostrils, a taste which excites the palate, a texture which is a joy to cares, a melody which touches the heart. To come close to love is an everlasting garden of brilliant colours and delicate fragrances. Love is like, to hear a music that one might wish it's enchantment to last forever.
Later did I realize, love exists not in vacuum. if love crowns you with all the tenderness, if love wipes all the pain and vain, if love makes you grow into a better person, if love makes you sleep with joy and you wake up at the dawn with a happy heart. It shall crucify you too, It shall prune your growth and prick your heart too. It shall take all the tenderness with itself.
The U - turn love takes, your bones get fermented, your rib sinks down to the stomach. Every day becomes a nightmares with the memories it brings. It crushes down every little thing to despair, without any hope of repair. And then you stand on the ashes of who you used to be!
Nobody goes into peace without sorrow, not without a wound in the spirit. // Depression engulfs you with it's wing so hard that coming out of it seems impossible, and even if you try to, the sword hidden amidst it's pinion would kill you. / And then you REST IN PEACE! // Depression has become a pet word for people defining sadness. / People throw the word "depressed" around like as if it's oxygen. // Though nothing should be called depression untill it makes you quiver even in the sun. / Untill it makes you choke to almost death, even if you are standing on the shore line of an ocean. / Until the death sails the dream. / Until it knots your tongue and seals your lip to talk about it. //
People don't lose a chance to ask if I'm you are mentally ill. / People don't lose a chance to tag you as an emotionally cold human, if you fail to react. / People don't lose a chance to call you morbid. / People don't lose a chance to humiliate you about your depression publicly, calling it either 'nautanki' or an an 'attention seeking' behaviour. / People don't lose a chance to criticize you about your taste in things. / People don't lose any damn chance to descend to yours roots and shake it to scatter your spirit into pieces. // And then people don't even lose a chance to be kind on their social media posts about depression, hypocrisy and Irony at it's best! //
Wherever, I'm with you Through & through. Oh, your eyes with depth of emotions, I want to drown in right through. Oh, your sullen lips, I want to sink in, into Wherever, I'm with you Through & through.
Don't you feel black and blue, Even if I'm not in your lovers queue I'm with you through & through. I've known your deepest and darkest secrets. Dost thou understand? I'll always love you. Wherever, I'm with you Through & through.
I am, when I'm with you. Thou made me realize, Love is pure and true And, Even if I'm not in your lovers queue I'll still love you Through & through.
When you fail tryin', When happiness turns into crying, and your head needs a shoulder for laying. Just come through, Feel free to do. Wherever, I'm with you, Through & through. I'm with you, Through & through....
It was 3 am. It's always 3 am, when I find myself searching for the torn pages of my diary on the line of whose words were written in the blue colour of the ink. The time I wrote this, this blue colour didn't bring sadness to my heart, but rather clarity, for I was a writer who wrote truths, not the kind of lies which gave false hope to the people who depend on me for showing a path to them.
Now the blue ink brings nothing but sadness. Maybe that's why, I try to search for those pages, to feel the same ink, trace my fingers through the page and feel the exact thing I felt in that time. People say as you grow older, you attain maturity in thoughts. But to me it seems like, I'm finding myself in more twisted and tangled threads of uncertainty and confusion, where I can't write clearly. Because I myself am not clear. I'm becoming devoid of things which brought me happiness, of my truths.
I filled myself with these lies. And every 3 am, reminds me of the day I wrote the first piece without even knowing I was writing. It was a rant. A diary entry. I was small, innocent, someone who made a lot of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, but more importantly, I was true. Now I feel like I cheat my pieces, the only thing that was my escape from this world, is now trapping me in a world of it's own who's creator is me. I weaved it with a web of lies.
Suddenly I remembered today, that those pages of my diary were torn and thrown away by the part of me which forgot the other part of myself. I threw the torn pieces from the same place where I found myself standing a few moments ago. The edge of the skyscraper.
And just then, I mumble these lines to myself, "On days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers," I try to go on, the true part of me is pushing me to go on. And I go on, mindlessly yet being mindful at the same time, a beautiful irony enveloping me. I go on and say, "I find my truth in conflict with my lies, and they are in war as I stand at the edge of this skyscraper."
It suddenly hit me. The lines I just said, rhymed. They had a part of me in them. I rushed down, blinked my tears away and took out my old diary from which I had torn pages. It broke my heart little to see only five of the pages being there, but I pushed the little heartbreak away, and I wrote. I wrote these lines.
For the first time, in what seems like a lifetime, I found that the blue ink of the pen doesn't bring me pain anymore. It brings me redemption. As I write each and every word, I entangle every thread of the web of lies I created. I find the pages. I cannot touch them, but I know what was written. I remember the texture of the page, I remember the words, I remember the ink that brought me happiness.
I had started writing in pencils, because I didn't have the courage to use pens. But today I used a blue coloured pen. It brought clarity. It felt good.
It felt free.
And as I'm crying and smiling at the same time, I'll just end with the same first two lines I mumbled on the edge of skyscraper.
On days of cotton candy skies, And nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers I find my truth disentangle my lies And the war which started at the skyscraper, ended at the skyscraper.
This piece is inspired from a write up written by @_guts_ whose title is the same as mine.
The two lines, "On the days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers" does not belong to me. It was written by @_guts_ Rutvi, you write amazingly. And I always wanted to write something on these two lines. Also, surprise.
The numbing darkness was spelled all over the heavens, the westwind was blowing too swift carrying all my wishes apart in the elysian sky. Evoking awful nightmares and disillusioned wishes, my hope was turning into black ash smoke from a dying smoker's lung. Now, the phantom voice sends a chill down my spine. I yearn to tear myself from this reality, this chimera, and rise up like a cloud, float away into the colossal universe or dissolve myself somewhere too far from this actuality.
/The air of expectancies has an attitude of prophylactic that inhibits all your hopes and fantasies to be fulfilled./
Perhaps we humans are bounded with fresh optimism and sanguinity that prevents ourselves from enduring despondency. The irony that day and night can never be together, now in a fleeting moment, both were burning like a brilliant orange hue. And from this glorious sunset a beacon of hope bloomed inside my bleak soul swinging like daisies in bucolic surrounding. I stood gazing at the peculiar stillness, listening to the universe that offered me absolute silence. In a flash, the scintillating stars plunge out from the above sky to let my wish to not fade like a miraculous tale that seldomly transpire into anecdotes. A contended feeling of perfectly placed optimism and blissful moments rushed through my nerves and I smiled back at those enigmatic stars.
/And maybe stars are deific entity meant to do wonders in our hapless lives./
As I long for you in the dark, in the brown jaded eyes of mine, I see your soul, naked, you smile, captivating me endlessly. As I long for you, in these forlorn nights, in my yearning Little heart, I see your being, Indeed paradisiac, calling me, engulfing me, beguiling me. As I long, eternally, You are gone, for an eternity.