penning down the mind

I reek of you

2017-02-05T23:25:00.000+05:30

At the edge of the rock,
as I sat with my legs suspended in air,
I harked back to sitting by the pool,
when late at night,
legs submerged in water then;
I spoke with someone,
of distance and hope

Can I help but wonder,
how we did not align,
just like the things we talked of

Reek of us the towns of time
as they watch me go by
just as silently as artists of mime

Witness us in separation,
does the sand sneaking under our feet,
while stealing some of us,
to hand out, at every sea’s greet

So, under the cover of stars,
philosophizes the man,
who has now known
the greatest longing that there is,
of him who has remained invested
in all the rights, at all the wrongs

Thus by the river, the wind blows
a fierce rhythm as it speaks to me,
and speaks of what, I know not,
as I travel to the one who knew her odds

Who hushing words into my ear,
like the old winds did,
made me feel alive once,
the way a tickle inside did

And suddenly, I see,
the pages of my diary

that have been blank so long
are all filled out at once
in remembrance of the forgone.

Grandma!

2016-12-11T22:56:00.000+05:30

Hurried, rushed past
and before I could catch hold of a few,
they had watered down me,
washed me over

Brimmed in an empty cabin,
the old rusty gates had flung open again,
and the crystal paperweights
reeked of nostalgia,
nostalgia long forgotten they say

As I speak of reeking,
I speak of the pickle,
and of the sweet dish
only she could make,
my grandmother long gone,
would make my funny bone tickle

An agony aunt,
an ally in disguise,
we crossed roads,
on and off it alike

My smuggler was she,
her smuggler, I,
we made a team to last forever,
yes, I fell for this lie

Because a day she sang,
the next she coughed,
and amidst gentlemen dressed in white,
was my last sight of her

Adorned with tubes,
her eyelids didn’t flutter,
and as her heart rate fell,
voices inside me began to stutter

Within hours, her possessions were left behind,
in a jar of pickles
and a bottle of stories,
clothes that smelled of her,
were our years full of her memories

Since then,
I have draped her in my heart,
as my eyes share the brim,
and while a little always pops over,
there’s a raging sea inside to swim

Love is not lukewarm

2016-11-13T21:04:00.001+05:30

In the brokenness of your being,

when the wind holds you a second longer,
and the night speaks to you,
telling tales of the dark,
you know you have known love

Like a silent conversation,
like comfort in the crowd;
Love that is teenage,

and love that is senile

Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
but also counting pebbles by the shore

Love that is not the perfect letter;
instead the hundred discarded drafts in the bin,
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
instead the shared coyness when fingers graze

Let love not be known by the anxiety during falling out,
let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with

Let love be the last lap of your race,
let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
let love be the song you made your symphonies for

And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
regret the hesitance you took to,
repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you

Because love is to dive into the waves,

and to fly into the valleys,
it is not a step back,
it is a kiss later
because love, my friend, is not lukewarm;
Love is intense,
love is a poem in conflict,
a poem by the sea in fury.

Return

2016-11-05T23:32:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.

The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own

With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places

Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears

For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return

For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return

To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home

When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 13.

And I'd wonder again

2016-07-10T12:06:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains,

I want to sit by the window sill,

And read her my favourite book,

And watch her wonder at the rain drops

But before there were rains,

There had been a summer,

Never the same, but this,

Not quite like any other

Sure not like her first

When she’d crawl more and walk less,

Garble more and talk less,

Yet each time her lips parted,

She brought me a feeling uncharted.

A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed

She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed

In summers to follow,

She’d put on her school dress,

Wave out to me

Like a sun in her prowess,

Then there was a period when she sketched,

That was also the time she started caring for her tress

Season changed, and cold was common again,

To give her company, I too would feign a pain,

She had started dancing now,

Sometimes I’d shake a leg too,

Solving her math problems,

I’d learn some math too

But there were lessons,

A little few on hope too

Because that’s how I kept up,

I could’ve given up too

And then came the last summer,

The one that was unlike none,

We drove around a lot,

And stopovers for lemonades were fun

Last summer, our car broke down a lot too,

Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to

Soon, she took to a habit,

That of me fixing it for her,

So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit,

She said, my daddy would fix me sir

Who was to say what Daddy could do?

He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to

The hope that he had taught her,

Today was Daddy’s test,

One he couldn’t falter

So that’s what I have been telling you,

Now you tell me something too,

Sometimes one of these days when it rains,

Should I not want to sit by the window sill?

And read her my favourite book?

Should I or should I not?

Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.

His Girl

2016-06-09T22:50:00.001+05:30

We will be 9 again,
she will play the bride again,
Again, he will don the groom,
I, again, will pronounce them man and wife,
and there would be an omen this time,
one to announce a doom

Like the one not around,
when she ran through the gates,
Ran into his arms,
told tales of her days,
or whine about her grades,
or of setting her hair straight,
he'll make things alright,
slip her a candy,
sometimes take her to the trades

And soon I'll see,
how things are meant to be
Because while she spoke of stars,
he only spoke of her,
and as she fell asleep,
he only fell for her

So next there had to be season of the rains,
just like that, summers and winters too came,
but what didn't spring was an omen to tell
how mad and fierce
in love he fell

She'd still run to him,
and tell tales of her days,
only days were dates now,
of course he had to be at bay

I would question his ways,
curious, what made him stay?
He'd just smile and say,
there have been reasons each day

Then one night she sought him out,
Amidst black clouds asked questions all grey,
whether to marry or not was one of many,
though not for him to answer, but for her date to elate

Still, his eyes didn't budge,
his heart stayed the place
To watch over her dreams,
his own could wait

Yet, all I could tell him was,
how some things are meant to be
And you know what he said?
What is not meant to be, will never be,
So what if we can have our way
Can we not pretend just another day?

Through waters too troubled,
my heart weeps at the shore,
but he was a man,
a man more than the most

As he let go what wasn't his to keep,
I wondered how much more his heart could dare to hold
He, who played her groom once,
today stood broken at his very core,
while walking her down the aisle,
his girl wasn't his anymore.

The Forgotten Storyteller!

2015-12-20T18:31:00.002+05:30

Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,

stood a three-legged stool,

the refuge of an 8-year-old,

who holds a worn pencil,

and a torn notebook,

like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,

and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,

to a decade back,

when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,

camouflaged as books,

finished, unfinished,

and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite,

but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,

I must not enter again,

for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,

I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,

tip-toeing in my dreams,

queried and complained,

why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?

That lay beside them,

a tiny little shelf too?

Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,

just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while,

the one promise I have kept,

the promise is of betrayal,

that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,

and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.

These 6 short stories will make your Teachers' Day

2015-09-05T21:32:00.001+05:30

From what started in a classroom was no longer limited to one. Across time and over periods, life moved on and so did we, falling, rising, crawling, running and at times flying too.

Here's to all who help us along, in their own solemn ways, to make a leaf in our book in the making.

Happy Teachers' Day.

Source: Penning down the mind

Between the hops!

2015-06-27T21:09:00.001+05:30

One tall tower to the next,

one country touch, a hop to the next,

region to region,

landscapes alike,

he gazed like an eagle,

at what still remained at bay,

much like me,

a guarding shore, I say,

which soaked in a bit of what lay in between his hops

For I vowed,

he'd climb the stairs,

and I'd count them,

he'd sing to his tune,

and I'd record them

In the milieu,

that is today,

and was then,

with the falling leaves and flowing winds,

some compressed feelings,
a burgeoning heart,

mine, not his,

for he only saw a silhouette,

and one tall tower

I took to the silhouette too,

for that won't change,

much, I wish,

but my heart still wrinkles,

still crinkles,

at the very thought,

of,
what if,

my world is that of an adverse scenario

But he'd move on,

and so would I,

to see what lies beyond the tallest tower,

may be me?,
the stretched heart's calling,
not floating to the surface,

but just beneath,

waiting,

awaiting

So when he'll be atop the tallest tower,

I'll take him back,

I'll have him back,

through a journey,

to a journey,

to a land,

where,

he was,

I was,

and wasn't there,

hop step trance.

That monsoon, those rains!

2015-06-14T01:54:00.002+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.

Because one day, this dancing would stop,
or maybe the instinct will die, you had said,
and you couldn't be more right than that night,
when the terrace became a witness,
to the world of many firsts we were to enter.

Of witnesses,
there was that tree too,
under the shade of which,
I gave you letters,
hand written and kiss sealed.

What about that shop with downed shutter,
two streets away,
where we met as lovers, reunited and love, rejuvenated,
and sipped tea in the enraging monsoons under the cover of howling clouds,
Oh, who'd forget the drops falling in our tea cups,
and I, falling in a bit of you, wishing you'd fall in a bit of me too.

And running for cover in that downpour,
was the maverick painter,
his canvas falling apart as he runs,
and I run too,
I chase,
for the fear of him not returning ever.

He has 'us' painted,
though only in half,
before the rain came down,
and that half is you,
and I'll realize,
only years later,
how the unfinished painting was indicative of a future so true.

And that day has come, I reminisce,
when the rain would happen but dance won't,
when you would happen and us won't,
and I wish you had said something else,
if that night had to be the one God heard your wish bells.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 12.

Chocolate Ice Cream

2015-04-05T15:33:00.002+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 53; the fifty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

I passed by the old streets,
swallowing nostalgia through my throat,
as I walked down the school building,
and our lovable ice-cream uncle again,

He stood by his cycle,
even today, like those days,
quenching the thirsts of many, like us the other day,
when rain wasn't too heavy,
the lightning not too frightening.

Long before we were strangers, you asked me for things,
Chocolate ice cream, the most treasured,
And often he smiled, gave it for free,
before I could even ask, and perhaps tell,
for he knew money was a prized possession.

You talked the whole world,
and I saw the sun go down in your eyes,
half forgetting the ice cream, half forgetting the cosmos around.

His inquisitive eyes scan me today,
searching for you (I think not able to grow you out),
he asks me,
jogging back to his glory days,
you seem to be a traveller from distant lands,
and I ask him for chocolate ice creams,
one not two I say,
and we share a hug as also a tear,
Two ice creams indeed seems like a time long ago,
long before we were strangers.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 11

Beyond meeting the eye

2015-01-04T20:53:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 50; the fiftieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

She rushed to the mirror to check if the eye liner was put up properly. Meticulous. She ran back to the door grabbing her stole on the way. Running downstairs, she slowed herself down to regain composure as she strolled into the living area. Overlooking her was a life size poster of a God her family fervently worshipped. Escaping her mother's vigil, she threw a flying kiss to the poster. No wonder, she was euphoric.

She came from an orthodox family which liked to keep it strictly conventional. She sat at the breakfast table tapping her feet in a haphazard manner. The disordered manner in which she ate her breakfast was evident and discreetly pointed out by her mother repeatedly. The hormonal rush made it difficult to conceal her rocketing excitement. She fumbled putting on her heels before she finally set out as her mother nodded behind her.

Tanya, a very shy girl hardly ever let her hair loose. She was a strong, level-headed individual who would never cut slack on the task at hand. However, during the hardly fought last week at work, she found a shoulder to lay down with all her stress.

Flashback, 6 days back:
A stack of papers lay dishevelled on the table inside one of the coveted cabins. A couple of empty coffee mugs lay alongside loosely placed on the coasters. Those were late hours in office and lights were out, except inside the cabin. Lay leaning on the lower cupboards was a distressed Tanya holding her head between her hands. A few thunderstorms and a few phone calls later, she was found comforted and warmly wrapped in Anubhav's arms.

Back today:
Tanya looked out the bus window. A smile escaped her lips as she thought how she was held in a weak and vulnerable moment. Anubhav, her classmate from school, one she didn't even remember when they met after a long gap of 10 years, secretly admired her then and quietly loved her today. Last week, after they accomplished a near impossible task, Anubhav kissed her at midnight and that she didn't resist meant it was a pool they fell into without having to ask each other.

Today was an elongated celebration of a rushed moment they never intended to rush into. She was elegantly dressed in white as he zeroed down to a black shirt after possibly annoying a hypothetically personified mirror. As she got down from the bus, he waited with a box of Swiss chocolates, besides the letterbox they leaned on while being on their ice cream breaks during work hours.

Her eyes were adorned with tears as she moved towards him with shaky footsteps. He hugged her tightly to dissolve her apprehensions. They moved to the adjoining park where they set out there quilt to soak in a bit of sunlight and more of each other.

Meanwhile, Sumay's phone beeped with a text message. Sumay was Anubhav's closest buddy. He chuckled as he read Anubhav:

"She can't be dated? Guess, who's winning the bet now?"

Back in the mowed grass, they lay across looking in each other's eyes. While Tanya searched a soulmate, Anubhav rejoiced a challenge won.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 10

The Inverted Universe

2014-10-23T13:16:00.001+05:30

It was an interesting conversation I always used to have with this one particular professor, about an inverted universe. He said that in each moment, an alter ego living in another universe was behaving in an exactly opposite manner. So, a feeling of rage was complemented by utmost serenity, a longing for love found its own in a burning hatred and so on.

It always amazed me how he imparted an innovative dimension to thinking. I used to go to his lab and we sat through hours
thinking about the complements, which encompassed domains behavioral, physical, mental et al. I promised to keep in touch with him when I was leaving but he asked me to take it back. His line of thought was to hold a balance between the two personalities we have in two universes. I barely fathomed his nuances in those miscellaneous moments.

After having sleepless nights thinking about the inverted universe, I emailed him yesterday about it and asked if it sometimes disturbed him.

He replied, "He doesn't even care for you. Furthermore, You are controlling him. You got to realize it. Take more control and tell the world, our world, what you've seen through months of focussed meditation controlled travel. They will not believe you. And then tell them the inverted universe is the one of the God's. You'll have your way. Good luck."

Aye Aye Professor!

2014-09-13T00:33:00.000+05:30

I stood on the podium in front of vacant benches forming steps and aligned in a semicircular fashion. In full capacity, the room housed around 200 students. And that was the sight I procured maximum utility from. On other days, I'll talk to the students, scribble on the huge green-board, think of multiple worlds together and push our thoughts to attain 0% cohesion. I always thought they had much more to teach me than I could teach them, after all there were 200 minds against one of mine. But whatever statistics lead to, the pin drop silence when I spoke always testified that my students thought otherwise.

This place has had me for 3 months now. During the day, the academic block is one of place most frequented in a university. Though my cabin is on the other side of the campus, so I have to take a long walk to reach here except the times when I flex my thigh muscles on a bicycle. I begin my lectures by talking about the thing that held a little more than an ounce of my attention en route the academic building. To see their mouths gap in amazement made me wonder how many different ways can the same pair of eyes see the same campus?

Today, however, is different. This vacant classroom induces a strange void in me. Absence can be very conducive to change. For the first time in my career, I wrote more than I spoke. The green-board became witness to a story I put down after a long long time. It took a lot of other paraphernalia to reach the corners of the board which usually went uncharted. However, at the end of it, the board had no more room and it took a fair share of my classroom time to read through it. That ensured my students wouldn't have a class wasted if I didn't turn up in my next lecture. Half the time would be spent reading the story, rest half in amazement and amusement of watching the board scribbled all over.

I wrote about a guy who enjoyed his sports and played violin until he realized that his calling lay in wandering and learning about folks who lived in the other part of the world. This was a euphemistic account of what I was. And this was the maximum I talked about myself in a decade. The story was anonymous, firstly, because I was writing about myself and secondly, because people form perceptions based on the past.

Amidst my intertwining thoughts and sense of wonder, the bell boy rang the bell. I am sure he knew there were going to be no classes today. Not many people in this world like changes. And that's what I try to do - subject them to changes. Next time when this batch of 200 enters the classroom, they're going to experience this.

There's gonna come a time when they'll realize changes are good. That's the most inspirational thing someone's ever said on a deathbed. My mother had the heart to make me look forward in the face of adversities. I came a long way since she fueled me moments before her final call came.

Though not all changes are good and my moist eyes are a testimony to that, not all changes are good.

Two tales of love!

2014-08-09T21:13:00.000+05:30

We grow up thinking that when we find our special ones, the moment would be the one made in heaven. These two tales goes out to all who have had weird proposals but appear extremely adorable in hindsight.

#1
Every time I told her I hated something, she'd gift me that the very next day. It flustered me. My room is stuffed with things I detested at one point in time. Today when I look back, I understand what she was doing all this while. Not gifts, but lessons.

I don't dislike those things as much. Give time and everything, inadvertently, starts to make sense. All a part of a big puzzle. Sometimes people ask me how did I reciprocate?

Well, I told her, long back, that I hated her. Today, my eyes well up when I see our kids play with those 'detested' things as she recites to them, one of the most unique proposals.

#2
Every night I'd write a story on a piece of paper and slide it across to the balcony adjoining her room and she would return the paper continuing the story on the reverse side of the page.
Every night, I used to make up the love story and she tried to break it until one day when she could no longer make it fall apart.

Today they ask me what did I have to do to marry her?
And I tell them - 365 days of toiling through circumstances which I know would never happen.

Out in the field!

2014-07-01T23:58:00.000+05:30

He exuded over-confidence like a brimming swimming pool. Much to everyone's annoyance though, but he had the licence. The world had him labelled as drop-dead genius. He awe-inspired me. But when I let him have ounces of my thoughts, it rang constantly in my head that he didn't even know me. Who was I? A girl in the crowd. Perhaps, someone who wanted to know him, someone who wanted to uncover the million layers he pretended to own.

He was a strange person. You'd often see him set himself up against the best of people. As speculation would have it, that was his mechanism of avoiding complacency. I remember the only encounter
I had with him. He pushed me back getting uncomfortably close. His perfume, a top notch one, had the fragrance you'd die for. He whispered, "I don't talk to you everyday but when I do, I want to walk away thinking you're worth passing by again!"

I wrestled to release myself which could only happen when he was done talking against my contorted facial expressions. When he let go of me, the first thing I managed to do was to hate him, a few abuses inclusive. He was weird, in a very weird manner. I did not know what to think of him. I resented him for those few moments until I saw him walk down in the setting sun.

He stopped for a moment. I thought he was about to turn around but he didn't. He continued walking forward, he wasn't one of those guys who could have given a glance back. I pondered over what just happened. If he would have thought it, I was making him not get complacent. That was a wonderful way to feel happy about an obnoxious experience. Realizing how sprinklers of optimism are placed in lawn we tread everyday, I stepped out in the dusk. Irony as one may say, my day begun with a sunset.

Father and Daughter!

2014-05-26T01:22:00.001+05:30

I sat there holding my drink. My legs hung between the railings from the 12th of a 16 storey apartment. In the backdrop of a city with all the glitterati, lay a few common men who embraced night as it came. I pulled the glass close to my mouth and inverted it all at once. It was time for the next drink. I made my way inside the 3BHK flat which was as lavish and spacious as you'd get in this city. Before I made myself the drink, I swiftly checked upon my 6 year old daughter if she was well asleep and comfortable. She had finally slept. I took her small little hands in mine and kissed them.

My eyes, flooded, glistened as I immediately rushed to the balcony. My legs hung and a shimmer of the city to my company again.

Myra, my daughter was running high fever when she returned from school today. It sent shivers down my spine as mercury in the thermometer rose up to indicate 103 on the scale. Worse was the conversation that followed, something I had avoided all these years.

"Daddy, who is my mamma, where is she?"

"Myra?"

"Tell me Daddy, where does she live?"

She had always been an obedient daughter but today was something different. I looked into her eyes and at that very instant I knew I'd be drinking tonight. I was blankly staring at her when she shot a few more of those.

"How does she look like? Does she know me? Does she live far off from here?"

I had no answers. Today, I even failed to make her eat one bit. Very reluctantly and perhaps too hit by fever, she agreed to her father asking to take medicines. Moments after I put her to bed, I felt a sensation on my lap. I turned my gaze and it was Myra, completely drenched in tears, "Is she my mamma, Daddy?", she pointed towards the laptop screen. I went lifeless for an instant.

"Happy Mother's day Daddy". The root cause of her illness was unearthed. And for the first time, Myra saw her Daddy crying as I pulled her close to my chest. I hugged her, almost forever. She was all the life I had.

"They said their Mamma make them food and go shopping with them and take them to fairs and give them sarees to wear and dress them up like princess and hand them the cosmetics and wash their hands before having food," she continued with those as long as her breath allowed. Each part of the sentence killed me. My little angel had her first encounter with the bitter reality.

My drink proved no help today. Each time I saw Myra, I could see Aisha, my wife, who left me to give our Myra. Aisha was my queen and Myra, my princess. Today she slept crying and looks like I would too, as her words reverberate in my head.

"Happy Mother's day Daddy."

Between the lines

2014-05-04T00:03:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 46; the forty-sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

TODAY

I had 10 tabs open on the browser and 15 windows opened on the screen. Beneath this chaotic congregation, lay a picture of us. I shuffled between windows to see the desktop background once in a while as I continued to ace the parallel worlds which shared my attention. The table too, was cluttered with papers, pen, paperweights, water bottle and coffee mug which regularly injected me with caffeinated blood. The small fluorescent table lamp highlighted a man fighting it out with all the might he had.

At 1:00 am, a small window could manage to make it's way as it popped up with a dew drop like sound. I was focussed as a hawk but couldn't resist a smile at that. A friend from a distant location had dropped in to catch up. I reclined back and exercised my neck. The chat window glared out to me. "A month more, my friend". My heart broke a little more as I closed it and stole a glance at the picture.

February, 2012

I tried another tie, third one this. They said it looked alright. I was not convinced though. Nonetheless, I adjusted it and prepared myself to face perhaps the biggest interview of my life. Only later that I'd realize life has challenges tailor made for each situation and there is no such thing as biggest-ever.

I gulped another glass of water. My legs in continuous motion. The red tie made me a little conscious too. I was to go next. Some of my friends tried soothing me down. And then my name was called out. At that, all voices came to a halt. That scared me. It indicated of a doomed fate. She held my hand and told me something that almost everyone you'd meet, says. Everything will be alright and all that.

They interviewed me and a day later told me that I was not suitable. I went jobless when everyone else bagged one, some had more than one. It was a blow to me. I wasn't that bad to be honest, may be just a little distracted, a little easy going.

February, 2013

I cancelled the flight tickets and the hotel bookings. Always the one to keep his cool, today it went a bit too far. She screamed, shouted and cried. I saw her through it and told her what she told me all the time. Everything will be alright. She didn't bother today. Her boyfriend was a jobless man. What else matters?

A little while later she called with temper flaring, and shouted again. This time for the cancellation. Not that she wanted to holiday with me but a jobless man made a choice without asking her. Today, I didn't try to please her. In my heart, I knew we were done. I knew it.

December 2014

She gave me her wedding card. She sent it online too and then came over at my place. It only made things worse. I was still jobless. I said she shouldn't have come. She said the same. I was talking about her coming to my place and she, about me coming into her life. I knew it. Didn't have to ask her spell it out but she did and that was a brutal murder of all the good times we had spent. I wished her luck and asked her to leave.

She called me all sorts of things before she left. She cared no more.

February 2015

Not having a job in this world is tough. Everything was lost but my father told me it's never so. I asked him what can be worse than being jobless. He had no answer, he understood my predicament. So, we looked for a couple of jobs online. Nothing suited my interests but he still stayed awake with me, the entire night.
He went to work next day, half awake and slogged for 14 hours. Came back and helped me search again.
Between the lines, he was telling me what working hard meant for him. I had never been a hard worker. Atmost someone who can slog when it gets too bad to not care.

His search for finding me a job was relentless. 54 year old, hadn't slept for two days, worked 14 hours each day and still going stronger than me at the search. He didn't deserve such a fate. I tried to get grips with my tears as two of them rolled down cheeks. I told him to go and sleep.

February 2016 - Today

It was this day a year back in time when my father shared my tears. Since that day, I went incognito and worked hard. It is amazing how life unfolds a new page everyday. I never thought I'd be here. In a month's time is my first release. My first product is going to go on the floor.

But for another month, I'll have to keep working like an ant, remain under the cover and tell my father, "Everything will be alright".

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From the eyes of an introvert

2014-03-30T01:26:00.002+05:30

I gestured towards her to lower the pitch as she entered the library. She bit her tongue as realization dawned upon her. She mocked a thank you. I smiled and returned to reading my favourite author, Mitch Albom. From the corner of my eye, I saw her disappearing to the other corner. One could see the lapses in concentration of a voracious reader. Her voice loomed large on me as I learned she is again in vicinity. I looked up to steal a glance. She was at the counter, issuing a book which was hard bound in maroon. It looked like a course book. The cooler nearby blew her air for the little time she undid her bun. That sight nearly killed me.
In between my glances, her eyes met mine and I almost felt being caught red handed for a robbery. I immediately dug deep into Mitch Albom's classic. The next I saw of her was as a swanky figure vanishing, out there in the sun.

Strangely, I still felt guilty of stealing glances at her. I should have just gone and spoken instead. That's the problem with introverts. We think a lot. We create our own world. We lose the moment sometimes, like the one that went by and then again keep thinking about it. I put a red light to my thoughts and raced to attend a lecture.

Adding to the plight of an introvert, thoughts exhibit that excessive desire for transition to actions. Often, we act out of frustration caused by over thinking, so much so that we are almost awkward. So, I messaged her that evening and I swear that was weird and I wouldn't have done that any other day. Surprisingly, she dealt with ease, the awkwardness I had smeared all around. We chatted for a while and I almost felt acquitted of my act and being caught red handed.

From that day on, we accidentally used to encounter each other. While she was poignant and exuded panache, I felt a lot of unease even in exchanging a greeting. Trust me; I had a lot of attraction and affection to mask. That's again a problem with us, the introverts. We think the world's judging us. Meanwhile, we continued messaging all this while. There I seemed to do alright until one day when I thought I should just let her know what her flowing hair and her mellifluous voice are doing to me. That how her smile casts a spell and how I have begun believing in magic.

But there was a problem; I didn't know how to do it. Just like all the introverts, the very first idea that came to my mind was writing it out to her. We are good at writing, somehow, most of us. Though I was tempted, I let go off the idea. I knew I would get lost in getting too poetic and too metaphorical in saying things which only need two words from the soul. Life of an introvert is not easy.

I picked up the phone and dialled her. My heart was pounding, probably more than the speed of light. Not that it was any less insane after she picked up the phone but the ring had me killed, well, almost. Breaking the ice, we blabbered about a plethora of things. Simultaneously, in my head, I kept thinking about the right way to put my heart in front of her. As I was in the middle of my world, I realized she has stopped speaking. The silence seemed very awkward and I thought I'd end the call before it got too bad.

As I was done with the final greets before disconnecting, she held me back and said that I was an adorable idiot and that she has fallen for the uncouth demeanour I have on display when we meet. Also that she loved how I felt guilty being caught stealing glances at her and how I struggled to keep inside my happiness when she held my hand the other day. Long story short, she loved how the raw side of me was unabashedly out there in a crucified world.

I kept down the phone and for the first time, the world that I had imagined coincided with what exists. She made me realize there is no right time for love. And also that, life of an introvert is not all that bad, after all.

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

The Push we need...

2014-03-09T01:35:00.003+05:30

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I know not the rules but I'll play the game being pushed against the walls and the cuboid converging with each passing second. But you know what is the most fantastic thing about this game?

Everyone has to play it.

It tries, tests, suffocates, blows you off but doesn't kill you. And that is something scary.
People often accept death over adversities. Never have that kind of attitude because the attribute you take inside that room is what you come out with, only to be amplified.

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I put my pen down and reclined back on my chair. Rubbing my eyes, I moved towards the other end of the room pushing aside the curtains & let the dawn set my study room for a new day. My gaze at school kids going to the bus stop was hampered by a knock at the door.

"Did you sleep well yesterday, son?"

"Yes Ma, I did. The new bed is very comfortable"

She asked me for tea to which I said yes. And then she left the room smiling and handing over the newspaper to me. This was something that took place everyday. My mother knew I would sleep in the day after she has left for office. She was one person who understood in soul and flesh what life is, if personified. She understood the black box I had entered and was prepared to let me traverse my way out of it. The last one year had been her struggle too.

She was strong, strong enough to know that her son needed to kneel before he could take a leap.

I went back to my desk and turned back a few pages silently reading something I had written a few nights back..

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At some point in your lives, you are going to be directed towards something you don't like but something you need. It is nasty. But when you swim out the ocean and drive down the mountain, make sure you turn back and thank the person who did you in. God manifests himself in various forms.

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I looked up holding the manuscript as my mom entered the room with tea. She put it on the table as I looked at her with affection and gratitude and she, well, just smiled back knowing that her son was radiating the wisdom she pushed him from the cliff for.

Talking to the heart

2013-12-22T01:25:00.001+05:30

In the peace that night brought with itself, I had started to revel, for that was my only solace in a foreign land. Language was a huge barrier and I was looked upon as being "not amongst them". That hurt. Initially, a bit, then a bit more, then a bit more and a bit more every passing day.

It started with a bedroom, a bathroom, a small kitchen and an equally small balcony. That was out of choice, so every compromise was met with dignity and a smile. I cooked, washed and cleaned. It was all good until a day when I realized that my desires have increased. Seemed alright. Started hunting for a spacious apartment, a cook, a maid.

Two weeks later, I fulfilled my wishes. And I had the night to my company again. Wisdom got to me every night until I fell asleep. 9 out of 10 people I met, I couldn't communicate with; but I can stamp my authority and say that at least 4 out of those 9 liked me because they'd make terrible fun of me and I won't retort. They derived pleasure and I frankly didn't care beyond a point.

As I stand on the verge of my 27th birthday, I couldn't question myself any less. In which moment did I decide that I had to travel thousands of air miles and stay away from my loved ones?
I thought I possessed the attitude of a rebel and that used to give a further push to the adrenaline. Taking this decision then gave me the silhouette of something outrageous, and hence I had to go ahead with it.

Now, I tell myself everyday that this adventure was worth going for, in the hope that I'd be convinced one day.

Who is your angel?

2013-12-16T22:40:00.002+05:30

I had reached a stage of utmost despair. I could feel myself wrecked inside out. Things like why are children shouting so much, had started to get ounces of my attention. Incessant rains started to annoy me no bounds. Inspirational quotes no longer seemed to be anything more than unnecessary philosophy.

In a whirlwind, my life was tumbling down. When I started plummeting into my own, is a question I'm yet to fathom. Every morning, I used to wake up feeling a maniac who hated himself a bit more each moment.

I would take the liberty to say this if nobody hasn't already said it before, "Hiding doesn't mean evading. It just goes on to emphasize how mature you are to explore options when doors are all shut and windows do not open!"

And that's exactly what I did. Hid myself. My phone number gave "switched off" messages all the time. Except my family, no body knew I was out somewhere away from home in a pursuit towards self.

For the first time, I celebrated my birthday alone. A desolate soul in isolation would break anybody. At least that's what I used to believe. It was when my philosophy took a beating that I realized what an irony life itself is. That birthday spent in solitude sent my confidence two notches up and in a very strange manner I felt that the downhill fall had faced some resilience finally.

The instinct in me was coming back. Something was telling me that the journey uphill was challenging and the road discovered was hard earned. What was that voice?
Well, I never pursued an answer to that.

I focused on not losing something that was hard earned. It was time to go back home. While I was coming back, a particular thought kept crossing my mind, time and again. How many people would take the pain of rediscovering themselves by being put to such hostility.

I had my parents who gave me my struggle. Who is your angel?

A transition and a void

2013-12-04T19:40:00.001+05:30

I felt a strange kind of peace that day. Life had been rushed and I hardly found any time to be one with myself. Suddenly, there were no phone calls, my laptop had been on hibernation since 10 hours, no loud music was playing around, a certain sort of void was creeping in. The feeling that you get when staring endlessly into a white board or a black slate. It seems like something is building up but effectively nothing is happening. A phase of life was nearing it's end. I couldn't wait but time would just not pass as if waiting for a light flicker before a final whoosh, out of the book.

I wanted to see if birds still perch at my balcony, if kids outside still play 'Hide n Seek', if TV channels still show the same reality show at 9pm, but I knew what was holding me back. Many of human tragedies have been a result of fear that finds a comfortable cushion in holds of our subconscious. I too had one.

The fear of these small things, those birds not being there, kids not lingering around, TV showing something I was not familiar with. So what it really meant for me if all these things changed?
While I was away making a mark of my own, the world was changing over. The impact I made seems effervescent, already lost in the transformation. I am nascent again. Should I start over again, and what if my world changes again?

May be I know the answers to the why's and what's and how's but still choose not to act. What once started as self-propeller is giving way and treading the easier. How I wish qualities persisted throughout, even when the pursuit is aced. Notwithstanding these, answers are still sought, for the good of me. Me, in a world left behind, but he's catching up. At least, there's a desire.

The Next Big Thing

2013-10-28T00:12:00.000+05:30

The interview was going to be published in the next monthly edition of non-arguably the best-of-the-time magazine "The Next Big Thing". This magazine had shot to fame due to the eccentric nature of their ace interviewer, Rini. She interviewed the recent hot shots, who were being touted as the next big things that were going to happen.

Rini herself was the first person to be interviewed for the magazine after a massively successful stint of four years at radio jockeying where she grabbed the best RJ award twice amongst the plethora of other recognition she had. Soon after she was chosen to be the lead interviewer that threw open the giant fortune gates for the magazine.

An interview in the magazine meant a step closer to hearts of the wide audience it catered to. The concept of the magazine was that people from different avenues like sports, art, theatre etc. who have come up over the last month were hand-picked, shortlisted and interviewed. There was a "Star of the Show" section which was exclusively held for the individual who was the best of the lot to watch out for. Ofcourse, Rini was the interviewer for that section. The questions were direct and could be personal at times. The stars who indulged had to be of great mental strength to divulge themselves in front of thousands of readers.

Zahir couldn't sleep the last night and his eyes had no signs of sleep-deprivation as he stood in front of the office he was going to be interviewed in. Moments after, Zahir was waiting in a cool air-conditioned room, with all the paraphernalia neatly and meticulously placed around him. Rini entered the room and both of them greeted each other warmly. Rini's questions were no stereotype but she made sure her guests shared the comfort she felt inside the room. The interview was kick-started:

Rini: Your debut novel is a major hit. You've already reached households. There has been news of many movie makers trying to get rights of your book. Tell us something non-wikipedic about it.

Zahir: When I was writing this book, there were moments when I felt whether this would be a hit or not, whether this would be received well or not and all such sort of things. I must confess that these were distracting and initially road-blocking. There were numerous occasions when I felt blocked to write anything. I had stopped reading altogether, wasn't even reading newspapers. I think I had written 80 pages when I thought it won't work out and stopped. I got back to my old routine. I read anything that I got, newspapers, online articles, bureaucratic essays etc. It was then that it came to my notice that transcripts from my blog were being stolen and published on numerous sites and those got huge accolades. It pissed me off for a while. But what that also did was gave me the requisite impetus to pick up what I had relinquished. I read all the 80 pages, re-wrote them and further. When I look back today, that act of plagiarism by strangers who somehow had a humongous viewership instilled the lost confidence in me. I believe this book is a result of that. That's how it is.

Rini: Interesting, certainly non-wikipedic. You said that you had stopped reading altogether when you were writing this book. How necessary was it to stop reading?

Zahir: Very much. In the early days of the writing of this book, I did not feel the need to cut myself off. As a result, my writing was very distracted when I later read it. I realized, when I had to sit down and re-write those 80 odd pages, that I was getting far too trivial than what I set out initially. We are impacted by things around us and it is almost natural for us to derive inspiration from whatever we see and experience. Writing a book meant swimming to the depths of characters and a relentless search for diamond in a gold mine. Unfortunately, all these things don't happen in the real world, regularly.

Rini: Diamond in a gold mine! (laughs)

Your Wikipedia page says you were a blogger prior to the release of this book. Did the success of your blog made you get into writing a book?

Zahir: Well, my blog wasn't even a hit to be honest. There were people who read it but the number was very limited. Like many other bloggers, I too faced a problem of viewership. I changed the design of my blog, I started reading many other blogs to establish links but after a point of time, it became too cumbersome to spend so much effort into selling yourself. There were only some countable people, on and off the blogging world who went all out with me to envisage this dream. Their expectations kept me going.

to be continued..

Pursuit.

2013-10-18T22:46:00.000+05:30

A trek inhibited. Prophecy of a landslide owing to disheveling rain. The group was receding in a hope that they be swift enough to escape in time.

En route the narrow passage downhill, slipped she, to what could've been a final fall when he caught her hand...

...to an escapade, a trek and a journey.