from a hidden alleyway, agony peers at a man like his divorced wife accusing him of adultery, which she forgot to define before she left their together constructed street spilling 'cheater' on every wall as if wanting the neighbours to encage their proprietorial wives before the flawless families reek of white lilies, not the one born out of wedlock but ones who sounds like the inadvertent dirge in ears of helpless children who lock themselves every night when they see patriarchy coming home as the tipsy sorceress and lying befuddled in arms of anarchy
on the sidewalk,sits an aged lady holding arms of her wheelchair tight, chanting the name of god disguised as her once seen innocent child who she bought from the grave of her husband who left her silently after writing hundreds of poems on how love is all about second chances but god of death rejected his plea saying that the pitcher of his uncommitted sins has filled upto the brim and if he lets him breathe for another second than the earth will topple because of snowballing lechery
years later, a girl blooms womanhood wanting to get her newly born forelsket published after which her father thrusts her into orphanage where she carries her poems as only pennies left to buy subsistence, there she meets a boy in her dream murmuring like Hitler guilty of letting rage of his father beating him turning into a brother bullying her sister unknowingly
one disastrous night, girl walks back to the streets where once she called four walls a home, suddenly a star in the sky enters her ears as distressed voice of his grandfather- "I'm the root of your burgenoning dysfunctional family" _______________________________
Like the leaves of forest where summer is frozen, there lay the sinner seeking remission of his sins plummeting from the black tongue that outstretched when for the first time he placed his heart in the boiling water.
The idols in the temple develop cracks every moment he chops off a heart ruthlessly and inscribes 'I'll become sinless' on the winds headed towards the wavering sky of forever, travelling on a flying carpet weaved with fragile threads of nows.
Tomorrow is a tired sunset, rises from the withered and strewn soil as the Europe written by Lord Byron fleshed with opaque love affairs in hope to see lazaurus syndrome bring colourful Europe back from the grave which breathed its last the moment it wore the blind spectacles of upcoming future.
Gamblers find their way through the throng of yet to appear profits and losses, sit together placing their gluttonous fingers on every passing minute on the clock before its onomatopoeia rattles like the faded history of regrets.
Tick tock. Tick tock. The clock rings a bell, and a man abandons his plans of uitwaaein, picks up a banner in his hands with a sentence written on it 'Forever is culmination of nows' and strolls streets screaming- "Wake up before it's too late." _____________________________
When hailstones fall on your head, do you even know how it feels? When the sky above showers endless winter on you like psychological thunderstorms where you keep rotating until your mind forgets to connect its wires to present and you feel like a flaneur inside your own body, Have you ever felt something similar?
I was a girl with tender dreams in my palms and deluge of love inside my naive heart. You're too good to be real, were the words of a man who made my sculpture and washed it with blood everyday. With every passing year, he climbed up the ladder and pushed me deeper into the pithole where I found self love torn and withered.
Depression found my home, and I backpacked around a circle. Everyone who visited me named it as the wheel of failure and placed sympathy on my shoulder like a boulder dismantling my valour and I chundered words under a note 'Dear Diary' filling empty drawers in corner of a room.
Now my mirror calls me a woman, and every city I left calls me a stranger. Quietly, I gulp down my truth as a mystery laden with empathy protecting herself. How can you be so cold? A question hangs from every silent goodbye I leave behind. And I vanish into thin air with my aching heart which refuses to let the world know how every faded footprint still inhales colours inside it.
Through the streets of life I pedal, slowly, solicitous, seizing silence from every moment which imprisons bare truths that wait for me at every impending intersection.
Optimism rings the bell of a house lying haunted from years, in hope of acceptance. Batalvi sits outside his home, and for the first time, the sound of his flute doesn't settle on my eyelids as water, separated.
Dreams pinned to the open dangling strands of sky gaze at the earth, like a laconic parable being written on the lines of my palm. Garrulous thoughts dip their lips into the pyramid of self awareness books.
Love flutters around my walls like a butterfly growing wings after her fields were set on fire for never to be replenished. My burnt fingers traverse ashes, and doodle a phoenix on my the top of my hand.
Every time a bullet is fired, a war crops up and leaves behind silent pain. I succumb to the aftermath and surrender to edged needles but my poems snowball like wildflowers grow in all places, with head high and difficult to be tamed. _____________________________
Me and my core self talk at cross purposes, I launch a movement 'Quit My Past' under the historic August movement, but my conscience stands in opposition to it, following words of Savarkar- 'You can't win by disobedience'
I write about me being Iceland, securing the title of most peaceful country on Global Peace Index since its launch, trying to trust what a wise man once said that past is the nothing but the amalgamation of words you say to yourself in future, But when I read my own words, they resonate with Taiwan, deranged by military activities of my despotic emotions, reflecting unbending China
My heart has become Catalonia, it asks for secession from me, not able to stop itself from beating for a dead man, I declare it inadmissible repeating words of Spanish government, and suppress its voice by passing a Black Act replicating the act of callousness of Britishers towards Indians in history
These days when I take a peek out the window, I see world undergoing electric cremation after being hit by a horrific disease, And when I look inside myself, I find spectre of a scabulous woman who has been already cremated
I'm tired of the city calling my name, My name to me seems as a tourist lost while shaking hands with dubiety I board a train to south, but I reach north, I carry my introduction in my luggage, stammering at every station, but when the destination arrives, they tell me that I've reached the wrong place
Days wake up to moonlight and night screeches of revising same chapter over and over again, Every chapter is a book, Every book is nothing but a reprint of the Great Bengal Famine, even then the reader wants to read it, he wants to get teleported to the grave of millions, he wants to feel how a loved one helplessly weeps for his loss, he wants to be him, he wants to tell the writer that he has visited the same place when he secretly wishes he never does
The city reeks of lies outstretching into truth, passengers wait to witness the metamorphosis, because they love magic, they yearn to see words breaking their eyes with an unseen hammer, they are pulled towards mystery, and writers are mysterious, Every night an exhibition is held in the city where writers stand naked revealing their stories, and spectators applaud their scars, and sing their praises, The city shines with colours, and homeless streets paint themselves with verses till they are called beautiful and adorable
I'm tired of living as the world sees me, I'm tired of living in my own city
Today I accidentally placed my eyes on your picture, So I wanted to ask you, Did it rain there?
I wrote sonnets, yearning for the divine, sitting in my balcony Tell me, Did you see a halo around your head this evening, when you held a mirror in your hand?
Sun at my place reached zenith with rage,this afternoon and I walked barefoot on the burning floor of memories, Did you see a boy on the road banging his head against the utility pole until 'I miss you's' wrapped arms around his neck, today?
I drew a bird on a crippled sky, it flew and sat on my shoulder, poked my skin and wrote ' Silent love wants to be a martyr now' So, my love, will you purposely place your eyes on my picture and set me free from this birth?
His poetry, his smile, his songs, his vibes, you miss every thing. Don't you? I know you want to jump back to past and drag him to your present but this is life, and you don't get every pearl you demand. I know you feel this connection with him which may never be defined in words, like how he always looked like you twin soul, but see you just can operate your core self like he said, and universe isn't bound to act upon your advice. I know your heart is in pieces and it was never easy to let him go but darling sometimes some people are meant to stay in your heart but not your life. I know this thing worries you about his mental and physical health, you want to know about his well being, but even if things aren't fine with him, what can you do from umpteen miles away? He might be a story which you don't want the protagonist to end even if he wants to write another one with different characters. See you can't force the protagonist to mould his story to fit in your dreams but you can create poems where your breaths are still intermingled with your beloved. You can hold his hand tight, and exchange smiles with him in your metaphors.
I know love sounded like cliche before he came into your life. Everyone you met were merely an ephemeral sand ring that faded with time, but he still encircles your finger to exist in another birth with you. Many if's and but's cross your mind, you sit with a heavy head falling on both sides with heterogenous thoughts. But listen for a moment breathe, let this moment sink in. Maybe someday you'll sit beside him, leaning on his shoulder under the stars, writing a song of rebirth for your love. Maybe this will happen or maybe this won't, but these uncertainties can not stop you from breathing this moment. See this is life, a yarn of roses and thorns. I know you expect only roses, but darling they come together in the same packet. So just sit quietly and take a deep breathe, and on count of three exhale your grief. Stretch your lips, and bow your head with gratitude for the fact that you are till alive. I know now you'll say you wish to die, but see you can never read the end page of your story until the story writer completes his book on you. So why even waste time in self pity when you know that it does nothing but stifle your breathe. Doors might be locked with dust and curse, but acceptance is the key to the door of every uncertainty. There is a power above you, stronger than you, guiding you at every step, and taking care of you. So before you again sing the song of loneliness and heartbreak, for once look in the mirror, and put that lose strand behind your ear. I am sure life will meet you again one night like a traveller just like you met him once.
Yesterday you broke your heart again, writing one poem after another for the deceitful wind. Probably the sun must have been too warm to handle for you yesterday. Mayhaps it would have ignited your sleeping wounds. I could see how you were quiet and yet bawling in your mind for help. I could see how your anxiety didn't even let you sit straight in your chair for long. Probably the antigens on your skin turned alien yesterday and you were searching for antibodies in your dark attic. I saw how your fingers asked you to take a pause, for they were hungry, and wanted to take an afternoon nap after that, but you held them by their nape and made them carry the jute bags of your emotions. By the way I wanted to ask did that chocolate on your table ignited your smile as always? Or did it also made you travel back to the horrified past? I am sure you wouldn't have watered the sunflowers in your garden yesterday. I saw their dropped shoulders looking for their owner. And did crying for hours at night helped? Did it feel better to stand before the mirror and break down like a poem on the paper? I saw how you started writing a threnody for your past but ended up writing the song of rebirth. See words can only write truth, they may turn disguised but 'Satyamev Jayate' runs in their veins like blood. I saw how you were trying so hard to write about a parallel universe, and the mirage of your happiness, but ended up making your fingers ache with poems of yearning. I know how hard it is for you right now to hold yourself together amid the absence of haunted dreams and the deceitful winds. But can't you just hold yourself for a day? For a life is nothing but just the amalgamation of races whose track is just of twenty four hours. Obviously it extends day after day, but who knows when your breath will be transported to your pyre. I know you hold these worries about future, and endless questions about your past, but for a minute look at the rainbow of gratitude. I know, I know you see it once in a blue moon, and right now it is not even raining, but you can create your own rainbow also. Hold a paper and a pen. Then pick up the red of self love that you abandoned while growing as an adult, and slowly dig your heart, and collect other colours, that are hiding behind the facade, to save themselves from the brutal world. Mix them all on a paper, and this time write a love letter addressed to yourself. For you are love even if you sulk into pangs of hatred quickly. For you are peace even if you expand into tornadoes on every other day. For you are one who has a purpose to fulfill until your last breathe. So hold yourself together just for a day. For life isn't about years or months or weeks, it is the journey of just one day.
I happened to log in back for some reason and couldn't help scribbling after reading your recent post. You are doing a great job. Sending you tons of love and blessings. And I did not read this after writing so pardon me for mistakes and errors. And I will be back soon.
It was about 7pm when the ICAI screen flashed the results were out. my Fingers trembled, my consciousness quaked, my beats pulsated with discordant rhythm. The embarassment hoovered upon me and next step was to run and isolate myself in a room and cry for hours. The daily 16 hours study schedule, the only focus I had all through the year, my efforts went futile. Yes, i failed my CA final exam!
Failure is such a simple word yet when faced it's more like a jump-scare; its force is more insidious and paralyzing. All through my prepration I made thousands of flowcharts. But not even a single flowchart was 'what if I failed?' I was lost. Ever in my foreseeable future, I never thought I could fail. Being a topper with a merit ranker it was a usual to get nervous but results were always the dreamy eyed ones. From a crazy high to a bout of valley deep fall, A ever so bright student was now submerged under desolated waves. I tried to gather my regurgitated confidence and resumed my studies but altogether with a different approach. My greed, my pride, my life, everything revolved around that one word 'success'. I held that word like a solitary rock, in between the storm filled ocean. Such a wrong approach of life I had set for myself. Yet studied with a fallacy approach all through the dying summer. By october, I was a new found self. A loser, a underconfident, a success hound girl. My innocent leaves had fallen with the autumn huff. I was bare and shamelessly running towards success. I attempted my exams in November and in january, the very start of the new year, I got a tight slap to my new found attitude ' a second fail'
My agony did not stop here. My friends who were average in studies cleared ( a usual humanly feeling xD) I was burried under monologues of my own self doubt. This time I was drowning at the bottom of the ocean. I no longer had audacity to look myself in my own eyes. Depression was the struggle. The worried faces of my parents were visible but never reached my refractories. Because I was my new found obsession.
My cousin, younger to me had cleared that attempt, came forward and asked me to join a marathon training. I laughed at him for offering me a pity hand. But did join eventually. There i could not run 1km amongst the athlete's and I cursed myself, affirming "I am a loser". Slowly, the runs made me realised that roads does get rough but you do reach your abode if you are consistent. I understood compitition is with my ownself. I was not bothered what other runners did because the real fight was within myself. That year I ran 21kms. My exams followed and to be very honest very first time my results did not matter to me. By then I had joined a company and was earning well with my experience. Irrespective of pass or fail, I was happy and satiated. Result, for which I wasted important years of my life was now just a piece of paper, a mere affirmation, a stamp and a degree attached to my bio. Because I had won much before, on the day I ran for myself. My heart danced in liberosis, which was once saddled with peoples expectation The struggle was hard but here I am writing about it, No more with a pinch of salt but as a proud runner!!
// Success is never about whether you cleared or failed. Success is all about how much you tried with determination and dedication// _______________________++++++++++++_______________
ICAI - Institute of chartered accountants of India
"Anurag, do you want me to set you up with one of my girls?", my editor laughed. Editors can be a pain in the ass, but mine was amazing. She had edited one best-seller of mine, in the last three years. We were like best friends now, with no feelings from either side, for sure. "Absolutely, not!", I said and laughed. "What's wrong with you, dude? You've been in the UK since the last five years, I've never seen you go out on a date!", she said, with a sense of trolling, like best friends usually do. "Dating is not my cup of tea", I said and took a sip from my coffee. "Are you sure, that you're not homosexual?", she said, before bursting out into laughter. "Of course, not.", I said, with a weird expression. "Then why don't you get yourself a girl?", she asked. I didn't say anything, to which she understood, that I have a story behind that. "There's a story, isn't it?", she enquired. "Maybe", I laughed. "I guess, the third best-seller!", she laughed and added, "Come on, start the story". "Okay fine, if you insist. I'm not telling you this because I'm going to write about this, so listen to the story as my friend, not as my editor", I said and started narrating the story.
"I had finally got admitted into an Estonian University. I had longed to get selected there. It was 29th August 2017, I remember. I had to get a flight that day. My dad told me to take the car to the airport and that someone else would take care of it from the parking. Taking my parents wishes and after hugging them, I left in my car. It was quite late. 12 or 1 at night, I suppose. It was amazing weather. The cool breeze didn't let me shut my windows. I always loved the road to the airport, with such a great drive and cool breeze, it felt like a perfect night. With my favourite songs playing, I was feeling so amazing, that I could die at the very moment. The trees, the wind, the song, the road, the car, the future, all seemed in my favour. What does a man want more? As I drove to the airport, I could see the lighting everywhere on the road, as if it's welcoming me to what the future holds for me. But little did I know about it.", I said. She was completely in the story as if she was imagining everything. After sipping my coffee, I continued.
"Then came a song. Give me love, by Ed Sheeran. He was at his prime, even then. But this song of his was one of my favourites. It brought back all the memories, of this girl. The girl I hadn't seen much, just a couple of times, I guess but she had me whipped, since the moment I saw her. I was so much smitten by her, that even my first Shakespearean poem, was written for her. Of course, she didn't get to read it anywhere. Even if she would've read it, she couldn't know that the poem was by me, because of my pen name, nor that it was for her, as I didn't know her name to mention. She had perfect eyes, hair, and everything. She was an angel, descended from heaven. I saw her a total of four times, but never got the courage to talk to her. I was even unsure if she had noticed me in the first place. But with the love in my heart, I kept it to myself. And I couldn't give my heart to any girl, as she already stole it.", I stopped, leaning backwards. She was laying her head, on the table, deep into the story.
"As I reached the airport, IGI, which was chosen as the best airport in the world, I took the road to Terminal 3. After parking my car, and getting into the building, I got my boarding pass, only to know that weather had got stormy now, to delay my flight. It was to depart at 6 in the morning. It was merely 2. I had to wait for another couple of hours, for the security check to start. It was the time when I was writing my second novel, so I opted to go to Starbucks. Taking my sip of the coffee", I abruptly stopped to take a sip, "So taking my sip of the coffee, I took out my laptop and started writing. Suddenly, I moved my face to see someone. That, someone, was the girl that I had thought about while coming there. She didn't see me, as I expected, and moved straight to the security section. Suddenly I realised, that it was my time to go to the security section as well. I paid the bill and left. With my bag, on my shoulders, and headphones, on my ears, I was in another world, after seeing her. I didn't want to call it Love, but more of an attraction.", I said, to make her smile. She got up and took a sip herself, only to realise it was stone-cold and we laughed about her getting lost into the story.
"After clearing the security, I headed towards the plane. I was still in a world unknown. The world of dreams and wildest fantasies. It was she, ruling my mind. Every song that played on the phone, seemed like it was being played for me. It was an amazing feeling. As I entered the cabin, to air hostess to welcome me, and started searching for my seat. 20B it was, I remember. As I moved towards my seat, I saw a girl on the same row, at the window seat, of probably my age, reading my first novel, so indulgently that it was flattering. You know the best part? It was her.", I said and took the last sip of the coffee.
"What next?", she asked. I could see that she was getting restless. "Well, I went to my seat, which was next to her. Though I did notice her passing a smile to me while I was walking on the aisle of the plane, I didn't get the courage to talk to her. We had some stolen eye-contacts while sitting. I don't know what was she thinking, but I was in such a dilemma if she knows me. I was so flattered to know that she had noticed me all along. I didn't think that a girl like her, with such a gifted beauty, knew my presence. For the first hour, we didn't say anything, except our stealings for each other's smile. I had a thousand things to talk about, with her, though. I considered my personality as a confident one, but while sitting there, next to her, I felt so helpless that I could just jump off the plane.", I said, and we both laughed.
"Then?", she enquired. "Sorry dear, my coffee is done, and so is my story", I replied. She gave me a funny look as if she's going to cut my throat off. "Waiter!", she called and ordered two coffees. By the time coffee came, she asked me about her appearance once again, to which I said, "The most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I never use the word Beautiful for someone I don't know, cause the word covers both inside out, but with her? Dude, she had cast a spell on me. From the moment I saw her, I knew that she's an amazing person, even inside, in her soul.". She adored the way, I was speaking, like girls usually do when they see or hear something cute, I guess. In the meantime, the waiter brought us our respective coffees. From the first sip, I knew that there's no sugar in it, nor we were provided with sugar cubes but I wanted to see if she can judge that. And I resumed my story.
"After feeling so helpless, I greeted her. She replied with the same enthusiasm, at least that's what I think. I asked her about her name, to which she said Prachi and asked about mine, and I told her about my name as Anurag. I didn't remember that she was reading my book, under a pen name. I asked her about her destination, to which she said Moscow. Then I asked her if she liked the book, to which she, kind of, flattered me, by saying that she wanted to meet the novelist and hug him for penning down her feelings. I started feeling weirdly embarrassed, which she did notice and asked me about the matter. And I told her, I'm the same novelist about whom we are talking. At first, she didn't believe me at all. Then I showed her my library of writings on my phone after which, it was her turn to get embarrassed. We just laughed it out. We shared our experiences, past, present and our future ambitions. It was an amazing feeling. I asked her about feelings when she first saw me, back in High School. I still laugh at this question of mine. Like an hour before, I couldn't even gather the courage to speak to her, and now I was asking her straight questions. But her answer, literally, made me feel butterflies in my stomach. She said that after we passed by she did me again, by turning her head back and smiled, to which I admitted about doing the same and we laughed again, and this time, her hand was in my hand.", I said and all the moments flashed in my mind and a smile came across my face. She could see me blushing and smiled at that. And then I told her, about the sugarless coffee of ours to which we laughed as I did in the plane with Prachi, not with her hand in my hand though.
"So shall we chuck the coffee now?", I asked her. "Only if you're willing to tell me the whole story", bursting out in laughter. We paid the bill and bailed out of the café. It was the bustling afternoon of London city. We opted to walk, rather than taking a taxi on our way back. It was a three kilometres walk, so it gave me plenty of time to continue my story. "Between our talks about the deep, sensitive topics, about which I usually never talk about, we didn't realise that we had been flying since last six hours, and our talks got interrupted by an announcement, about the plane's arrival in Moscow. I could see in her eyes, that she wasn't willing to go anywhere. But she had to. She had to work in some, kind of, artistic workshop. She was an artist, studying Leonardo Di Vinci' artistic style. Yet, her smile glowed more than Mona Lisa, herself. That smile of hers, oh what a smile. For the last five hours, I had been talking to God's most beautiful creation, her. I didn't want her to leave me and get off in Moscow, so I got down with her, at last, I didn't tell her where I was going in the first place."