STREAM OF MY CONSCIOUSNESS

When Man becomes Stone...

2015-08-10T15:00:00.002-07:00

When Planets are retrograde, Life moves backwards,

People become Places, and Places become Memories,

Sinners become Saints, and Saints become Ordinary.

When Grave becomes Cradle and,

Babies go back to Unborn,

Lovers-holding-hands become Strangers and,

Stranger becomes Unnamed

Life goes backwards...

When Conversations become Text and,

Text become no-beep

Phones do not ring a bell any more,

,Paragraph becomes Punctuation and,

Punctuation become the unspoken,

The Unspoken becomes Silence and

Silence, the Abandoned Words,

When too much of Light becomes Darkness,
Darkness becomes blind,

And, Love becomes the Lovelessnes,

of one lifetime

WE become the STATUE,

Yes, the weather- stricken Statue,

With Softness over stone,

And Lovelessness of Love

Unable to move...

Repulsion

2015-05-18T11:07:00.003-07:00

He religiously counted all the money and saved it in different lockers. She surprisingly found a five hundred rupee note from her old purse and felt happy. He ate his supper from the hotel and delivered exact change to the old waiter, who lost his son. She walked into to her favorite Dhaba restaurant and mercifully forgotten the balance money to be collected from the waiter. He noted down in his monthly planner, the exact day and time of his outings and returned home early before the darkness of 8.p.m. She aimlessly walked on to malls, mountains and streets, most often planning her trips after hitting the road. He ate timely food and avoided conversations. She drank untimely coffees and enjoyed the weather.He protected his vehicle inside the garage aware of the hike in fuel rates.She drove to the countryside to cherish the mangoes fallen on desolated roads. He believed none and distanced himself from all. She got acquainted to all and got the best friendship of one lifetime.

He referred to various editions of 'The Economist' and framed his life style. She read her favourite author up till 2.a.m.’s and wept out like a baby for the loss of characters. He visited Church every Sundays to attend the Mass. She walked into the church whenever she felt to talk to her God. He routinely recorded his accounts and expenses on his diary every night before sleep. She smiled back to her own image on the mirror and wrote out her heart on the favourite diary made of handmade texture. He set reminders to give missed call to his mother at 9 a.m.’s of every Saturdays. She rang up her mother every now and then, sharing her excitements over change of weather. He religiously searched for Divinity in his structure and schedules. She was wild and found the Divinity in her creative wilderness. He was Religion. She was spirituality. Both knew the other existed in some other part of the earth under the same wide open sky. And they never longed to meet...

Daughter

2015-01-03T02:35:00.002-08:00

These are the days she is at home but she spends most of her time in her room. I have never seen her downstairs. If I ask, she reasons that she is held up with work. God knows what she does in there. Is life all about writing those things nobody is going to read? Life is about being like a normal girl. Why can’t she come down and learn some works in the kitchen? Why can’t she go to garden and do some watering? Not even combing her hair some days. And those unfolded clothes with safety pins not removed. Unwashed coffee mugs and left over of eatables. Not working hard or clearing some competitive exams. She is not coming out of the hole that she lives in. I think she is under some meditation to madness. She doesn’t know to cook or wash or any house hold. I fear what her future would head to.

She doesn’t even return to the calls of her relatives or grandparents. And if asked she says that time just slips out of her hand and it is not her fault. The music is played so soft that sometimes I have to trek up to the stairs to her room to see if she is alive or in comma. The talkative girl who was always hovering around me at once turned out be the most clueless stranger in home. To my hundreds of “Come down and have lunch baby”, there would not be any response. Sometimes there would be a whisper, “Send it up ma...Please”

And if ever I push her door open, I see her staring out of the balcony. God knows what she finds there. There is nothing worth seeing to that side of the house except a railway track. I doubt if she is counting the number of bogies of train.

In monsoon the creepers and branches of tree climb up to her room and no matter what, she would not let me do anything to them. Even if I threaten her that the snakes would find its way up, she never bothers. She can only see and hear the things, she wants to. She has always done that. And only when I shout, “Come down..Daddy has come. Let us have dinner”, she would honor the ground floor for a visit.

Sometimes she would be pushing her bed to the window side and scribbling things into her diary, staring into the dark sky. I never asked what she sees there.

I don’t know where she will end up. I fear the consequences of her life. May be in the way she lives, she finds those answers to those questions. The answers that I could never find in my life.

The silence after rain

2014-10-11T22:58:00.003-07:00

Clouds withered in some rainy lamentations. Universe draining out its stories in every water molecules of the earth, the evening appeared to be more meditative than before. The silence after rain. It reminded me that I am on the lap of a woman, whom I lusted to every pore of her body. Lusted. But never loved. The woman, whose words were little profound than her thoughts.

There was a divine silence after her every speech. That fine interval between her thought process and utterance. In the silence after her words, I found the intensity of Universe. I found the Heaven and Earth, the continents floating in between Oceans, the woods leading to dry lands, the cities turning graveyards and all its philosophical burials. The glory and lamentation of one whole generation, it contained.

There was a kind of insanity she placed in between every spell of her speeches. Sometimes it was sudden and rigorous. Other times, it was slow and uneven. The beautiful gap between her words. In that space, I found myself. The insane me. My prejudices. My ego and attitude. Everything was within them. I was the man who chased her to the psychiatric chambers to discover peace. The prison bars from where she mastered this art of speaking in silence of words. Her words might be silver but her silence was always golden. She loved me. And I never did.

But sooner, I knew that I was falling for her silence. It never felt to be like a love. I liked it when she kept quite. Without uttering any word. Just keeping her 'other part of the self' deeply immersed in my thoughts. Her gaze. The silence thrown out from the beautiful corners of her eye and the first tear droplet, it produced. The intensity of its molecules. The senseless words and the deep evocative meanings it made in silence. Everything was beautiful. Life made more meaning in its intervals.

She waited for the day I fell for her fully with all my senses and soul. I lusted to her words. I loved its silence. My lust was never a full blown love. I fell for her silence but never her speech. She continued waiting. And I continued my lust. But, never a ~~full blown love~~. And, one fine afternoon in the silence of an unexpected rain when she stopped all the talking and stayed calm in her eternal silence, I fell for her completely. Wit the feelings of one lifetime into a love ‘full blown love’ as I said it always, I became her. Her eloquent silence. I never heard her after that. Where will she be now??

Alter-Ego

2014-10-04T13:07:00.001-07:00

And when the two women had fallen for the same man, the world called them rivals. Those were not mere fascinations but close to perfect affairs. Everyone around asked, if it happened simultaneously. But who can say a ‘no’? The two women believed and disbelieved it be so. When ‘X’ believed, the ‘Y’ disbelieved. And when ‘Y’ believed, the poor ‘X’ had plenty of disbelief. However, man being in the center of field was attracted to both the unlike poles like a bar magnet. There was only a thin line of boundary between being in love, disagreements, heart aches, patch ups, reunion and love makings to both the women. Both thought that they ruled his heart. But his heart had attained freedom beyond the boundaries of their rules. They governed him. And he ungoverned. So sometimes, the three; two women and their man in between formed a perfect triangle.

Both the women must have been similar somehow, somewhere. They might be certainly different. The two repulsive poles, those were made attractive because of the single magnet. But each time he gets to both, there must be certain common traits that pull him close. The woman, ‘X’ was so submissive inside while the woman ‘Y’ was much dominant. ‘X’ was very much feminine in beauty while ‘Y’ appealed him with her nature of character. But once undressed, both the women appeared to be same. They behaved alike on bed. Both aroused him.The same softness, bouncy pounds of skin, the thin line between the breasts and waist, the artistic curves of their hips. Sometimes the hugging arms. Other times, the resting shoulders. Both lusted to his soul but neither could reach that point. He switched his roles between the two women. He loved both and unloved them. The colorless chameleon, he was. Sometimes, a male chauvinist...

Sometimes the middle of the triangle disappeared. The man. It was like, he was there but he was not there. And the triangle became a well defined straight line. A diminishing point. Blurred out, it was. And when the man vanished, X and Y lusted for each other. The truth bites bitter. Both never loved the man. The fonder they grew upon the man, the stronger they loved each other. Both flaunted to get the attention of each other through man as the center point. Sometimes they were second-self. Sometimes they were alter-egos. Sometimes they were bad omens. But most of the times, they were in love - may be lesbians or something similar to that sort.

The Murder of the Murderer

2014-06-15T01:45:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when,

A song of the murder

Becomes the murder of the murderer

It was a day before; I saw him and her,

Running on the streets,

Laughing out and screaming aloud,

He never forgot to kiss her hair,

While, it was playing with the breeze.

So alive it felt like and

They owned the world; I thought-

A love breaking all the clichés and rewriting epics

Then, there was an elegy of slowness

An elegy of fathomless infidelity.

Heard it, echoing from a distance

Wondering with her eyes like a child,

She asked him what it is of.

And he told her with a lovely smile,

"It is the song of our love

Somebody will write one day"

The vibrations in the thick air began to roar,

The cool breeze becoming wild storm

But only an apple fell down the tree.

Empty words sprung with no meaning,

Blue lights of the red streets,

Dead souls, stunned faces

Life torn apart by life,

The street that went pitiless,

Till the end of times.

A society that destroyed itself,

While daughters of Eve in search of the apple.

The humans repeated their mistakes again and again,

Yet, the world moved on.

And then, the love that made mountains

Began to crumble down back to the soil.

The doom, the terror, the blood.

Stabbed him! Yes, she stabbed him.

And bathed her hands in his blood,

She knew that he loved her more than anyone,

And also that he was ready to die for her.

So she did it again. Stabbed!

She drowned him. Tied him up to her chest,

And drowned him in the flood of blood, a river.

Seconds that will never return;

Time inevitable, Existence’s shortness.

He was stabbed but she was dead.

And when he was dead,

She was already in the coffin,

Covered with in some impure whites,

Waiting for the Judgment.

She asked me, why am I dead?

And I told her in a low voice,

You were not you, but you were him.

You stabbed and left him wounds but death is yours,

He bleeds and the pain is yours.

She gave me a smile

And returned to her coffin

Covering up herself in some dirty whites.

Uttering his name in the quiet of its dark,

And here at the end of all things,

To him, who got stabbed and not died,

I want to say,

She has left you but I am here.

And I love you so much more than her and

will write you a story

But before that,

Come to me, a second time

Upon words and promises,

Let’s own something

Others will never understand

And for a last time, lay with me on the ground

Under the trees where we made love,

And kiss me while you have tears still falling in your eyes

Hold me tight for one last time

Give me your ears to whisper

And I want to tell there a ‘sorry’

Because I am not me

I am her, the remains of her

The woman who is already in the coffin...

Gut Feelings

2014-03-06T13:02:00.001-08:00

When you feel all the happiness of the world inside a small group and know that there are still souls who can read volumes from your eyes, all you have to do is to hold on....

When you understand that the world contains liars, deceivers, hypocrites and the man, who doesn’t even utter your name in his sleep, don’t drive confused. Just hold on...

When you have twenty five poems in your mind, but the ink bottles are clear and all the papers of the world are burnt off, what would you do?? Do nothing. But hold on...

When you have secrets to brood over at 3.a.m and some drops of tears to fall down from your pretty eyes, just hold on...

When you have the appetite to drink two bottles of beer, several glasses of wine and still can look into their eyes, hold on....

When you have a sense to feel the presence of souls and spirits of other world in your one -member room, hold on.

When you have a half read novel in front of you with some unfolded clothes, unwashed coffee mugs and half-eaten snacks of yesterday - and still when you can see and sense the life inside your room, hold on....

When the phone doesn’t ring and letters aren’t written, don’t pack your bags and go back .Just stay and hold on...

When you're the last one to leave the party, and you feel a feeling that feels like you'll never forget it, hold on....

When you have the guts to lie down upon the center of earth and feel her pulse, stay happy and hold on..

Others may think, you are dead. But you know, you are not....

Keep holding on, because gut feelings hit you just once...

Adieu 2013

2013-12-31T10:24:00.002-08:00

It is like...

the last page of my diary,

the final chapter of a great book which is never looked back,

the action of turning a page,

of ending a chapter,

of shutting a book..

Can we forget the last day of summer, the leaves fall, some goodbyes and the year 2013???

It is that time of the year again. It is the time of the year which I love the most. It is the time to sit back and smile down to those old memories while waiting for the new ones. As much as I disliked endings, today I believe in happy endings. Something or other has to end for the rest of things to remain happy.

While the year 2013 moves beside and paves way for 2014, I foresee not the end but the happiness after it ends. Every end is not an end. It is a new beginning to keep you, me and them happy. We may sigh, we may regret and a little part of us may ache too. But still we manage to smile...

To me 2013 was all about waiting. I submitted my 411 pages of Doctoral Dissertation on January 28^th of 2013 and since now, I have been waiting for my viva. In fact, for the first time in my life, I began to earn and start working as a Lecturer in my own home department of our University. Of course, that matters lot to me. I got a set of students whom I can call as friends and I got a set of colleagues with whom I can comfortably work as they are my own teachers. And above all, I mastered that art...that very art of wearing sarees and I am crazy about collecting them.

And indeed, it was the year

of forgetting some dreams which are not worthy to be dreamt,

of distorting some faces which are not worthy to be remembered,

of pursuing goals which are worthier than life, of believing in them fully,

of doing what I really love,

of overcoming the fear of failure,

of colours, glitters and broken bangles,

of geometric designed sarees and matching blouses,

of eyeliners smudged and tears

of gloominess, hair colours and nail polishes

of coffee mugs, chilled bottles and dim lighted bars

Yes, I know that I am weird. But I can’t help it. I have a tendency to dress up utmost on the day I am utmost gloomy. I handle classes with utmost spirit on the day I am utmost stressed. It is mysterious. I laugh out at the peak of my voice during mornings and I weep out my heart like a baby on that very evening. I wonder how EVERYTHING can fall right and fall apart within fraction of seconds.

It was not 2013 but it was the edge of my life. I was happy and sad. I laughed and cried. I loved and at the same time hated. I decided and undecided. I began and ended. I obeyed and disobeyed. I taught my students and at the same time, I misguided them. I was beautiful and I was not so beautiful. I was honest and I was dishonest. I wrote pages of love and burned it all in fire. I created and I murdered.

That in the end, the year 2013 taught me how to be immune to everything and to adopt my own set of defense mechanisms. Yes, it taught me how to survive with and without everything. And, I have mastered the art beautifully...I see my facebook timeline of the year 2013. It has been tiresome but it has been equally fruitful. It is freaky.

Yes, the very I...Ashitha became a person of mesmerising paradox. I sworn and lied at the same time. I did so because I do not want anyone to understand me. I do not want to be that story which you read, enjoy and forget. But I want to be that story which you start thinking about after you close down the book...

So here I pledge to LIVE-2014.

A very Happy New Year to all you beautiful people !

Two years ago...

2013-10-15T23:18:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, there was someone in me who had given me the insight that I can write words which are unstated, unheard and unwanted...Two years ago, there was someone in me who introduced me to the beautiful atmosphere of blogosphere...

Two years ago, there was someone in me who made me realize that I have a pen which can weave magic through words...

Two years ago, there was someone in me who told me that I have the ability to create a blog by my own and design its header and template by myself...

Two years ago, there was that someone in me

But, today she has become someone else...

I miss that someone and sometimes I miss being me

Two years ago, I started making the most amazing friends...

Two years ago, this day October 15th that wonderful thing happened to me..

Yes....this blog.

Today,

it crossed 44,581 page views, 76 followers, 57 posts, 5 Tangy Tuesday picks by Blogadda, 3 blogger awards and one notable newbie award, I know numbers do matters. Still there are some things which are beyond those numbers. You just can’t limit it always.

When I am here, I know I am at the most comfortable corner of my life next to home. It still can lift up my spirits when I am down. It can keep up my sanity and insanity. It can make me shed tears and smile at the same time. It can put me in chaos as well as peace. It can let me experience love as well as hatred. It can make me what I am and also someone else. It is a sentimental milestone and I am just crossing it over. Now I know, I can get obsessed not only with people...but also those objects and some corners. And my blog is definitely one among them. I love this feeling because it just helps me to be at myself. No matter how good or bad I am, some things make sense and the rest just don’t...

Happy Birthday my dear ‘Stream of my Consciousness’. Happy Blogoversary...

You have just turned two . My baby is growing up. Love you.

A big and heartfelt thank you to all my readers, followers and my dearest pet cat who is on the right hand corner of my blog.. chakki :-)

Many more smiles and love to my dearest and ever supportive facebook friends and followers.

Thank You dears....

Love

Peace

Hugs

Come along with me..Let's get out of the town...

2013-10-04T16:36:00.002-07:00

Come along with me. Let’s get out of this town and move away from the crowd. Sit beside me and we'll look out at all the new landscapes, the rain and sunsets with a smile. Within a few more hours we will be there. Yes, that beautiful countryside where we can saunter along the river and scribble our story on the good old green trees. Let’s photograph those statues and people who can’t recognize us.Let it be a land where we deserve to be fearless of our love. I want to wander with you and see the new things, we had never seen before. I want to walk next to you down roads we've never walked on before.

Let's go for long walks and spend some time near those desolated paths covered of green leaves. And when I sing back to cuckoo’s song holding your hands; don’t forget to say that you love me more. Take me to the sunlight and admire the purple color of my hair. So come and sit on the top of rocks along with me. Show me the palm trees I love and get me the flowers to decorate my hair. We will have ‘open eyes’, lots of music in our playist and a handful of walnuts to munch along. Let us feel the grass beneath our feet and see the sky overhead tasting the coffee made by someone else. When you take me to the old stone church, let us light together the candles to perceive truths and beauty that we could not perceive before. And while we return to our stay, point it out to me the distant lanterns hanging in front of small huts and say, there is so much of love and life in the breeze.

Take me to the top of building and show me the stars. Then, we will dance in the moonlight and sit back for a glass of wine. We know, lots of nights – foreign and new are waiting for us. When we are done with our fill of music, wine and conversation with strangers, we will come back to our tiny beds and fresh sheets. Make love with me crazily out there, feel every inch and curve of my body that let my soul meet and merge with your soul. And when you do that, a tear drop may sprung up on the edges of eyes, wipe it off and whisper in my ears that you love me much more than before.Allow me to sleep inside your arms like a baby at my utmost state of sanity.We’ll sleep knowing there will be breakfast and coffee in the morning, and I just want to explore with you.

We travel lot and, let us stop at the tea stalls and have few words with truck drivers who have miles to go. We will stop at every nook and corner to cherish the beauty of everything we pass. Let us be lovers, companions, adventurers, pioneers and witnesses of God. We won't talk. We won't touch. We'll just be there. There will be so much of divinity in that silence. And there will be lot of love around.

Come do all these with me, you and I, for time is short and short is the time. . I want to walk next to you down roads we’ve never walked on before and hear words we’ve never heard spoken before. Let’s remember to forget and forget to remember. Let’s touch the sky and kiss the ground and weep while we laugh because you mean so much while the world can mean so little. Ultimately, leave some space between You and I that let heavens come and fill it off...

Peace,

Contentment,
Love,
and much more....

Senseless....

2013-06-11T05:33:00.000-07:00

Of all the men around, the eyes of him were the ones mine caught. His voice, it was transiting me to another world...a world which existed only in reveries. It still wonders, why did I remember the voice so distinctly? I have heard tales of fires in the wettest forest. I was always in love with the phenomenon of attracting opposites – always thinking of what couldn’t be. Was the heart beating fast with some unknown feeling? Or was it just an overreaction? Strange were the ways.Yet I smiled to myself...

I spoke less words and he took away all the meaning. Earth seemed to be little brighter than before. I began to see volumes of stories in the changing shades of sky. I wanted to compile everything and write as an epic, which never ends...I saw unwashed portraits in the sand – under those salty waters which washed my feet. The portrait was none. But its blankness had a kick. And I stared it again and again...

He was those meaningless symbols I found in each and everything. He was the moon in my blackest coffee. We were those white cigarettes turning into ashes. There was lot of silence. There was lot of colourlessness. But I knew the fire was burning inside and there was light. We flirted like fingers changing the swirly path of smoke without any barriers to cross, thinking that it would never be intrusive. Still, the smoke was all in the air and ashes were accumulated to the fingertips...

He slept and I sat watching. Was he dreaming? Was I anywhere in it? The happiness was all in wait and knowing that was the happiness.Inside the bag, there laid my diary and blue ink pen. But I poured the ink drops inside a glass of water. And when it began to float inside, he woke up from his slumber.I wanted to feel the moonlight dancing on our skin on a cold night. His breath must tickle my nape and I wanted to get lost. I felt, happiness was not anything more than those voiceless laughs and whispers. Or was it an illusion? The comfort was nothing other than his shadow, wherever I fall...

Dreamy corner of nature, the murmuring river, the illuminated sky, matured night,smiling full moon, yellowness, candle light , two long curvy glasses,you, me and a bottle of red wine with love and much more...

Clothes – Does it make sense?

Once upon a time, she loved the sea and it loved her back...

2013-05-22T05:10:00.000-07:00

P.S : There is a beautiful story, 'Kodathividhikkappuram' written by my favourite writer, P.Padmarajan which gave me the insight to plot this post.In the story, there is a male chauvinist who murders the heroine each time she tries to rise up. Here the words 'murder', 'stabbing' doesn't have a literal meaning but it means figuratively...

A strengthening breeze parted the clouds, allowing the moonlight to glint over the sea. And there on the ground, she was lying with her stabbed wounds bleeding profusely. Swirling around in pain with the blood all over her body, when a breeze touched her so tenderly, she began to feel herself better. After sixty minutes of time, she brought her head up sharply and opened her eyes wide to get a clear vision of the surroundings and of the man. Slowly she began to rise up. She looked straight, there she saw him standing on the edge, watching the waves of the sea washing off the shore. She looked above and saw the same moonlight, yes that same moonlight under which they had their first kiss.

Fluttering away the hurts he had caused in the sea breeze, smiling to the beautiful memories, he had given her, she called his name with all the affections and love once again in her lightest voice, "Raj......................." Yes, it echoed! The search light touched the shore. The breeze was moving cool and careless. Still with those uncured wounds reminding her pain each and every second, but forgetting that it is he who stabbed her, forgetting that it is he who gave her that worst-est pain, she expressed her love for one more time.

Turning behind to her call, he moved her side,pulled her inside his arms, kissed her on the forehead and uttered those finest words, "What Honey...!! Does it pain? I am sorry dear. I still love you... ". As if awaken to a reverie,she hugged him tight, tightly to her soul, holding on to him with all the physical pain of her body which was long enough to convey him that she has forgiven him.

And now
The sea was calm...
And so was her heart.
But again...,

...even before the next breeze has reached its direction, even before that beautiful smile has blown off from her cheeks, he pushed her aside,quite heartlessly and aggressively. With tears rolling down her eyes, she fell down on the shore. And, before she was trying to rise up, he reached her with a heart breaking voice, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed and repeatedly stabbed. The wounds were bleeding in her arms, her abdomen like a river, unknowing its destination. Knowing that, his next direction will be on to her chest, she wanted to get up and run away..With roaring pain bleeding so deep through her body, she got up from the ground trying to run away from the place but again the devil in him had chased her.

However far she had gone, her distance was very less. She moved but could not move on.And he realized it well, however he ill-treat her or threaten her, she always surrender before him. And every time she tried to get up, he stabbed her with his sharp edged knife. Finally, his destination has reached..yes,her chest - he stabbed her wildly, furiously without pulling out the knife from her body. He kept it fixed on her chest. He wanted it to be. Thus leaving the knife to be blunt on her chest forever, he walked away...out of her sight...out of her life.

Her chest felt its sharp edges. She wanted to be cured. But she was unable to pull the knife outside her chest,or push it inside. Because she knew pushing it inside will cause her more injuries but pulling it out will be her death.So she left it to rest on her chest ever and forever. She knew, it was his knife...his touch, his finger prints rest on it...

And from then, she remained to lie on the ground bleeding, with her senses filled with taste of bile, that sickening smell of the blood and the burning flesh. Still, she could not let him out of her mind and body. She still felt the sweet smell of his Arabian perfume which the breeze had brought to her, despite of her intolerable pain... She lied down there , right there without moving her body an inch,waiting and hoping for the waves to wash her from the shore.

Years passed, many sunsets had gone by, many sunrises had come,

the waves came, the waves went.
But she still lies there, facing the sea,

her body sculpted on the shore with her beautiful curves,
projecting tall and wide
facing the sea, like a mermaid
but towered as a mountain,
burying her pains in the sea, with her salty tears along with the salty waves

on the shore.
but as the sea

Here she still lies as the mountain facing the sea, tall, dark yet as beautiful as she was...
Because once upon a time she loved the sea and it loved her back..

The Universal Truth

2013-05-11T15:01:00.001-07:00

There is a woman at every home who anxiously waits near the doorstep for the safe return of you whenever you step out. There is also a woman who skips her breakfasts and runs behind that last bus to reach her office after packing up the lunch boxes for everyone of you . And you know, there is another woman who says “I don’t feel hungry” and skips her food whenever there is a shortage of stuffs during those dinner times just because she wants you to be full...

Meanwhile, I cannot forget the skinny woman who begs inside the railway compartment, wanders on streets, eat from the bins, sleeps under the bridges unsafe but still shows the strength to cuddle up her little one who is swapped around her hip. And I also remember that pet cat of our house which had once fought with stray dogs to protect her little kittens and seen dead on the porch, the next day morning.

Yes, you got it...
Mother!

She lives everywhere; in every nuke and corner of existence.
She can't hide or run away.
No matter what, she continues to love us all
And that's why we call her, Mother...

...Mother Earth...Mother Nature..Mother India..
Maa, Amma, Maatha, Mamma, Thaai
The one and only Universal Truth
Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mothers,

especially to that one awesome lady who gave space for me in her womb for those ten months and brought me to a wonderful world, where I belong....

They are Wordless..

2013-05-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

Since a while she has been trying to find a word to that feeling her heart has been talking about -that indefinable emotion where the words cannot bring into feelings.

Helplessness?

Madness?

Love in excess?

Over secretion of sebum?

Psychic? Emotional? Or obsessed?

No matter if the hormones work or not, when someone talks about 'feelings', she knew that it dwells in her. Only tears could let it her out sometimes. Nothing could be drawn to relate her feelings better.And when the emotion overrules, the words became wordless.

And yes, they are these...

..that feeling of how your heart strikes a chord when you hear the acoustic guitar version of a favourite song....that feeling which rushes to mind when you see a firefly in midst of darkness. And it is exactly the feeling you sense when you see a distant lantern hanging before a house which you crossed in a train journey. That lantern gives a feeling. Isn’t it? When you see a mother crossing the road with her little one, how do you feel? You don’t think. But you just feel....the charming dream which you remember waking up from an afternoon sleep. And you feel a feel. Don’t you?

Getting up to that lazy monsoon morning, listening to the beats of rain outside and sipping the warmth of hot steaming coffee given by your mom. It just simply feel, ‘wow!’ The comfort,coziness..which you cannot define however advanced the Longman's dictionary is...Yes, that feeling to a book which you kept unfinished just because you want to read it on midnight in the coziness of a dim lit light. Many of you do this often...Don’t you? By the way, how about that unforgettable escape to an hilltop with your loved one on a summer day? And when he takes you out on evening for that long walk and spent hours together near the lakeside, you just go blind...

When your heart skip beats hearing the footsteps of your loved one, is it butterflies on stomach or you eat gooseberries? You just feel dizzy. And the same feeling you undergo while noting down the favourite lines on your diary from one of those favourite books... Tuning back to the favourite dialogues of some movies do not give you happiness, it makes you flutter...That feeling you get when you hear your favourite song is playing on FM at the most unexpected hour. And when it fills you with content and awe, can you put down them in words? Impossible...
When the wind play with your hair, you just smile to yourself. But you feel the same when you see soap bubbles in the air. Don’t you?

Ever come close to the feel of rain drops kissing the mud earth outside your window pane?Or Sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching the sun set, and sharing the most comfortable silence of your life with someone you really love? When you go for an outing and come back to your home wet and soaked, you know there was an unexpected rain and u know, that feeling you feel is exactly the same.

....and that is how she feels. No, that is how he makes her feel all the time. Sometimes she can just handle them while other times she just manages to scribble some words...
Is she in love? Everyone asked. But nobody knows..

Today somewhere someone...

2013-04-19T09:44:00.003-07:00

Somewhere, someone woke up today and started his journey to see someone he loves

Somewhere else, someone woke up today and went to kitchen to prepare the favourite lunch for someone she loves

Somewhere, someone woke up today and dressed up herself in pretty pink to meet someone she loves

Somewhere else someone woke up today and kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left to office.

Somewhere someone woke up today and texted to someone he loves “Nearing dear. Only few minutes left to see my girl.”

Somewhere else someone woke up today, kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left to office and said, “I love you”

Somewhere someone woke up today traveled a long distance and finally arrived in the city to meet someone he loves.

Somewhere else someone woke up today and kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left and said, “I love you. I will come early in the evening. I will take you to lakeside and we will talk lot”. And she replied “Love you too... Here is your lunch. It will be a surprise.Have it fully” without forgetting to say, "Drive safe.."

Somewhere someone woke up today hastily crossed road to meet someone he loves with a bouquet of pink roses and a note on top of it.

Somewhere else someone woke up today and dressed up in pink and waited near the bus stop to meet someone she loves.

For the very last time....

Somewhere someone woke up today morning and carried the lunchbox given by someone he loves to office...

Somewhere else someone woke up today morning and traveled a long distance to meet someone he loves...

And today...
Somewhere on the roadside there laid the blood stained roses and the unopened lunch box. Both had a note attached, “I LOVE YOU...”

Somewhere someone woke up today but won't wake up tomorrow..

P.S: Life is too short for tomorrows. Pick up your phone and tell them that there is so much of love...

To a Shabbily Dressed Writer...

2013-04-03T04:48:00.003-07:00

One day I will die. But life will be remembered. I know I will be born again,again on the lips of a story teller who narrates my story standing in the middle of a campfire. In his whisperings around that fire, I will be born again.

Yes...On a cold night, I will come back to earth as an idea born on the fingertip of that writer who is shabbily dressed and uses a black framed spectacle. He will tell you the flashback trying to unveil the mystery. He may write pages about the life I live. He will talk about my friends and lovers. He will talk about my parents and grandparents. He will talk about the places I live and die. He will happily revisit to those places to collect my left overs...

My books and diaries will bring him a smile unknowing that some of its pages are torn. While pondering them over and again, he will know that there are lots of questions left unanswered.Romantic enough to write about my first love, he will beautifully narrate about the kiss happened under that twilight. Photographs may fetch him lots of details and he will have series of them to examine my changes happened over years. He will narrate to you, how my skin tone has changed and how the wrinkles have born. Not once but for a number of times, he will look into my eyes to capture the stories hiding inside them. And he will write it down, "the lady had pretty eyes but they were melancholic".

Writing down all, he tells to his wife once again that women are the weirdest beings on earth. Yet without a pause he will continue with his inquiries of this lady,curiously asking to himself and others, ‘what a woman really wants’. Lonesome nights with lots of beer bottles and cigarette ashes will pass by. His wife will begin to make a lot of noises. She yells. She screams. She murmurs.Yet the man will not stop thinking about me. He will hunt for more frames but everything ends up with rarer details. Lots of men will pass over the story including sinners and saints, criminals and monks. Each woman character he comes over will weave again a new tale within the tale.

On a fine evening, walking to the paper mart to buy more sheets of papers and ink-bottles, he will start thinking of its end and learn to know that he is falling in love with the lady of this story. That night he sits under his dim lit light trying to write but shedding his first drop of tear for a lady,unknown and unseen.Began as an epic, he knows it is going to end up as a myth. When the evidences fail to give him a twist of my tale, he will try to peep in through windows for more.

And then, he will arrive here. Yes, this place where I bury my tears and smiles; accumulate my love and hate; and medicate my hurts and wounds. Keenly sitting down with his beer glass before him, he views these posts written by me one by one and attempting to read between my lines. When the eyes inside the black framed spectacle reach to this corner, he nods his head with a smile reading to what I write. A pain may evolve on his chest but I know he still smiles with a wink because he is born to write.

"My dear shabbily dressed writer, your black spectacle is awesome.
But can you read my story with that?
Can you write the climax?"

Space talks...

2013-03-22T15:09:00.001-07:00

They say even if you are pulled behind, you have to “move on”. Whatever happens, you should remain unaffected as if nothing has happened, as if you will never feel those scars on our hearts again, as if ywill never know the bleeding of its wounds. But, how can I stop feeling him when my diary yells out the words, he had spoken to me once and those crazy times of togetherness? When the blood running through my body is screaming out the love we shared, how can I disconnect his thoughts and stay unaffected?

May be I can walk down those streets all alone passing through the ways which I had walked with him once holding our hands. But can I forget those long conversations and its cosiness we shared further in our life? Believe. When I see hundred couples walking their love on street, I cannot pretend that he is not with me. I cannot stop being emotional. May be I can throw away those good old photographs of us, but I cannot forget the moments we had shared so intimately posing for it.

They know all this.
And still they say, “Move on...”

What are we?

Notes written on sand waiting until the waves wash it away? Or Leaves murmuring in the wind unknowing of its fall arriving in autumn? We are the characters changing roles without knowing the story we are living.

Fine...I will move on. But when the flash lights on my mobile ask me, where are his messages; when the half bitten lunches inquire me, who will steal the rest; when the other side of coffee table searches, why am I alone; when the dried roses start asking, why is he gone - what answers should I give?
When people leave us, the space begins to talk...

What Should I Say??

2013-03-07T21:12:00.002-08:00

Like any other kids of her age her little face brightened up seeing a butterfly, the smile sprung up from her dimples at the very sight of yellow chocolate wrappers. Mother has tied her pony tail with that red favourite ribbon and that was all enough for her to start the day. She would have loved fairies, she would have seen magic, and she would have listened to tales but never thought about a monster, even in those wildest dreams. She was pretty small who still swapped around her mother’s hip.

Wandering the day with her mother on street under the parching sun, all she wanted was a corner to rest, sometimes it was railway station while other times, it was under bridges. This time it was the verandah of a shop. Had she eaten anything to fill her stomach? Might be few grains of rice or a piece of dosa which somebody had offered...Sleep was their means to escape hunger. Her mind was most contented on those verandahs because that was the place to cuddle up inside her mother’s arms and sleep to her dreams. Her life was full of agonies yet there was lots of innocence, which had left unseen and unnoticed.

Snuggling her mother, she was lost in her dreams playing with angels and butterflies and smiling to them. Yes, that pretty angelic smile she smiled for one last time. You can imagine it. Can’t you? ...that little bundle cuddled up beside her mother with her tiny fingers sucked and smiling to her world of fairies.

When darkness spread its curtain around her world, those Angels disappeared and butterflies flown away... Soon, she started to cry. Not because she was kidnapped, not because she was molested but she has been taken away from her world of butterflies and angels. She cried aloud. But he taped her mouth shut. She opened her tiny eyelids and searched for her mother’s hands around her but there was none. She cried for not seeing her mother, not seeing any of her familiar sights...

And in the middle of an old sloppy room, there was the most frightening face of her life - that man, who relentlessly looked at her with his eyes of lust. But her innocence knew no desires, no lust. So she did not know what was happening... She wanted to reach back her verandah, back inside her mother’s arms. But there was no chance.

Not that he fanaticised or transcended because of drugs. Never! No drug can be as poisonous as his mind. No fantasy can be as brutal as his thoughts. It was not unknowingly but all knowingly beforehand.He knew that she was little. He knew that her organs were fragile. Still he didn’t have any second thoughts. He didn’t have a heart. What the monster wanted was all a body, which belonged to that gender. Yes, the gender which I belong to and she belongs. A female body to drink the blood...

He ripped her clothes apart, the cloth which was put on her body by her mother that morning - her favourite one among those two little frocks. Tears rolled down her cracked cheeks. She didn’t resist. She cried for her mother. She cried for her frock. She cried for her ribbon. She was all alone crying out of the pain of her body. Her soul called out “amma......” But this time her mother didn’t come to save her. He pulled away her tiny little legs and clutched the little body in his hands brutally. The girl shivered in fear. She was molested, she was raped. How could that small body bear so much of pain? God knows...

She was not a woman, she was not a porn star, she was only a little girl of three years old yet he got his pleasure, he fulfilled his greed, he satisfied his lust. All that was left away to throw out was her minuscule body. Next day morning the little one was found abandoned on street with high fever and ants crawling all over her body, but not dead. She was a girl, just a little girl born in the species, woman. Was it a fault?

That small body had undergone two surgeries already while her internal organs got badly injured. All she does now is scare; scared of doctors, scared of nurses, scared of this world itself. Cursing the fate of three year old little daughter, her mother cries in front of the hospital ICU. Her little girl who was sleeping inside her arms one night before is now on the hospital bed...Was it her fault?

Living around a sleepy society with people who are not even ready to spare a 3 year old child for her body, what else should I do on March 8^th – this International Women’s Day? Should I write on my facebook wall that “I am proud to be a Woman?” or should I praise my 26 years of womanhood on my blog? Nothing is going to make any difference. This will continue more badly than ever before. With every passing day, we will hear more number of such stories and incidents and the same criminals will walk on our streets in front of us, a day after or two. Whose fault?

I don’t have anything to say more but to those mothers who are going to give birth, “pray that your baby shall not be a girl...” You do not have to give away your blood for the wolves to drink. Let no daughters be born to trouble on streets, let there be no girls to desire, let there be no woman to give birth and thereby no men to rape them. The world must come to an end. When the entire womanhood perish, there will not be any man to rape your daughters..Put an end. Let the world go back to silence...deep roaring silence...

P.S: I know, I sound quite pessimistic. But there is no better way to act or react. It’s high time to boycott.Isn't it? I don't generalize. Everyone is not bad but everyone is not good either. So here in a melancholic low voice I wish all those women who inspired me and still continues to inspire me..

."Happy Women's Day". Let us stay numb at least till that little one get recovered from the wounds of her body..

Believe it or not...

2013-03-06T02:03:00.003-08:00

Some disaster may happen on your street but it never reaches your tent. A Cobra may lie just beside your foot but it doesn’t stride on you. A lorry out of its brakes may approach to knock you down, but you will save your life in fraction of some seconds. Your foot may strike against a stone but you will never fall down. There may be terrors of night but you will have no fears. A thousand may fall at your side and ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You may think everything is slipping out of your hands but miraculously it stays more secure than ever.

Yes, those lucky escapes which all of us would have experienced at least once in this lifetime. And when it happens, don’t we feel that we are cared to safety by someone? Don’t we believe that there is an invisible power protecting us?

Some days we think we had perished but still we exist; we assume we are in stillness of death but still we breathe; we think that special person has desolated us but still he comes back, we feel we had reached a dead end but yet we discover lots of new doors and windows.

Believe it or not, there is always a “someone” who bends over you and encourages you and whispers into your ear, "grow, grow.."

Know it that, there are things which we do not understand. Some miracles happen in its way which would be too difficult for a human mind to comprehend. We can’t write down everything under the label ‘science’ and escape out the ambiguity. These are things which we don’t understand because they are beyond our brains of logic.

Often in my life I experienced it – a feeling of third person surrounding me.

When that cool breeze caresses my face, when that ripple formed on water glances into my eyes, when that just born dew on a grass smiles to my sadness, when that rain drop fallen on my face wipes off my tears – I knew she was near me. Yes, SHE...

I felt her protection. I experienced her love. I sensed her warmth. I perceived her power. She wakes me up from my bed before the alarm bell rings; she puts me to sleep on her lap when I am sick; she spreads me an umbrella when it rains; she covers my face with her shield when it burns; She holds me tight in my arms, when I walk around, She stays awake at night when I sit to learn, She protects me under her wings when those street vultures stare. I know I am out of all their traps. I don’t fear because I believe…

Whenever I feel sad and nobody cares, I feel her tender touch.She protects me like a mother, embraces me like a sibling and prays for me like an angel. She is here, right near me, smiling to what I write and watching my fingers moving on keyboard with her eyes wide open.

She is sometimes a mother, sometimes a father, sometimes a friend, sometimes a sister, sometimes a guide and sometimes a daughter. However you reject, she still guards you because she is your Guardian Angel. She is born for that. Angels are awesome. All you have to do is to believe blindly that they are near you.

Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers

“Grow, grow”
– The Talmud

Pay attention to her whispers
Give ears to her voices
She is your Guardian Angel...

At the end of a long walk...

2013-02-28T14:02:00.002-08:00

There were works undone, pages unfilled, hypothesis unstated and my thesis incomplete. I struggled lot. When it was not happening, I believed in miracles but the mountains were not moving; I believed in words but the pen was not writing. When I learned that nothing was falling in order in the way how I wanted it to be, I began my long lonesome walk. I began to walk backward. Back to books, back to Photostats, back to journals and back to those research experiences which I lived once. I knew I had to walk back to move forward. Disconnecting the girl in me from everything I was obsessed with, I walked.

There was fascination but there was fear. Be it the set of pending facebook notifications or a discount sale of attires or dozens of glass bangles or carnival of Mohanlal movies; I didn’t stop my walk. I knew I had to live ten years behind time to jump one year forward. I couldn’t see the sky or feel the breeze yet I didn’t stop my walk. People roared, wept and yelled at me, still I didn’t stop my walk. There were celebrations, there were parties, there were outings; yet I didn’t stop my walk. I was moving behind the train of time to reach those uncovered distances. It was ironical. I walked with measured footsteps, just enough to make sure that I seem to be moving but not too fast or too slow. There were unread messages, unattended calls, unwritten words but I had to walk without break. Many voices reminded me that I am becoming selfish and unfaithful. But I had to because I wanted to be faithful in my walk..

Spiders formed its webs and lizards laid its eggs. I didn’t want to destroy and drag them off from corners while they were the only companions. I knew I was breathing life into my thesis. There were corners. There were walls. Yet, I was walking my thesis. Yes..walking! I walked the same road every day; stopped at the same places, drank from the same cup and ate from the same plate. The walking continued. There were long days and nights. I was weary, I was tired yet I didn’t stop my walk. I was becoming weak. But I knew I have to bring myself down to build upon and grow stronger. I knew, I was travelling to seventees and the youth in me was crying. But I didn't stop walking. There were grey hairs but I left it unnoticed. There were dark circles but I left it uncured. There were wounds but I left it bleeding. Everyday there was same amount of happiness, same amount of desperate, same amount of moronic but I didn’t stop. It gave me a weird pleasure in knowing that I walk like a machine because once upon a time, I was lazy. I smiled at my laziness and continued walking...

After a period of two months, the colors were withering away and lights were diminishing. Slowly life turned 'black and white'. I floated on classics. I pondered over colourlessness. I lived my tribal life. There was history. There was culture. There was language. I found, it was rich and classy. I created that four hundred and eleven pages of epic - my research thesis carved on a hand-made design. It looked old and melancholic, telling tales of deprived. When I began to get a sense of space, I was eventually becoming the path. I stopped my walk because I had become the path... I didn’t continue to walk back or move forward but just stood where I was. And there was a building staying in its heights and glory, bright and tall. I prayed that it must have long-life and I want to look at the world from its balcony...

I began to know the space I walked, and distances I covered. From the location of coffee cup placed on the edge of my table, to my laptop and its keys I typed; from those books and Photostats, to the library shelves from where I nurtured them ; from my experiences and experimentation with tribal children of Attappady, to the pages inside my research diary; from the spider webs and lizards to those invisible voices in Radio FM; from the printing press where I bind my thesis to the desk of my Research Guide where I got it stamped; from the corridors of my University to the balcony where I stand looking at my life;from the day of my thesis submission to the day I write about it...It gives nothing, but dimension of space.

Being here, I don’t know where to go and where not to. One thing is clear. I can the watch luminous sunsets here. I can feel that unexpected breeze here; I can smell the kissing rain and wet earth here; I can feel the love and warmth here. It gives a strong familiarity as if I had lived here for ages. After the end of a long and tiring journey when I need rest, this is the place where I want to keep my teary head; this is the pillow where I want to bury my cozy feelings, this is the place where I want to spend my laziness, this is the corner I want to sit and write, this is the place I have to live my life.. I can’t move a step beyond or a step beneath. I love the space where I am...Rest will be history.

P.s: I finally submitted my 3 and half year old PhD thesis. Many days and nights have been offered up in the process, but the journey has been worth the effect....Thanks for all your love and support.

Word-O-Logy

2012-10-28T11:00:00.006-07:00

It happened recently. Yes, I have discovered a beautiful blog, Coveted Dreams by Tanya Sehgal. Blogosphere has blessed me with a good number of friends and writers. And she is definitely one of them.

I appreciate that she has initiated a word challenge known as , Word-O-logy for the fellow bloggers.

Rules

1. You need to select 10 words from the below given series, comprising 55 words.

2. Add a small post where you associate a word, phrase (not more than 2 words) in front of your chosen words.

3. Link the URL of the post (not the blog) here.

4. You have to submit your entries till Sunday night 12 pm. After that voting would start.

5. Example of the Game, Goa : Holiday, Roadtrip : punture , Sunday : Movies. These are just for exemplifying, you can choose any word from the vast sphere of your thought...

6. You can either post the link or leave the URL in the comment section of Tanya's blog. Please comment as it would be better to track you easily for other!

7. You can write the associated word either in English or Hindi (which ever you think suits best!)

8. It's compulsory too mention Tanya's blog link in every post so that we can spread the word !!

List of 55 words (choose any 10)

1. Rain 2. Friendship 3. Life 4. Money 5. Blogging 6. Love 7. Winters 8. October 9. Time 10. Idol 11. Facebook 12. Door 13. Fashion 14. Morning 15. Book(s) 16. Water 17. Las Vegas 18. India 19. Ego 20. Road Trip 21. Saturday 22. Monsoon 23. Hills 24. Maths 25. School 26. RockStar 27. Angel 28. Newspaper 29. Download 30. Teddies 31. Pink 32. Water 33. Black 34. Women 35. Cell Phone 36. T-Shirt 37. Jeans 38. Cricket 39. Dreams 40.Google 41. Scams 42. Luxury 43. Stress 44. God 45. Wedding 46. Experience 47. Shopping 48.Husband 49. Wife 50. Cynical 51.Criticism 52.Judge 53. Philosophy 54. Sunday 55. Elegance.

Game is always fun. But more than that, (as Tanya mentioned) what matters is dropping comments, keeping in touch with fellow bloggers, meeting creativity and making new friends. I don’t want to stay out of this beautiful circle. While 30 more minutes, left for the contest to get over, here comes my entry

Rain : Wet Earth

Blogging : Catharsis

Road Trip : Tea-stalls

Wedding : Divine Knots

Wife : Bold and Beautiful

Winters : Warmth

School : Irreplaceable

Dreams : Safely Insane

Money : Power

Women : Brains

Support me with your votes here, if you find my entries sound interesting ;-)

On a Vijayadasami Day

2012-10-23T15:49:00.002-07:00

Some places are like that..There may not be anything to see or anyone to meet. But we feel attached to it on some sentimental, emotional level. There would not be anything important waiting for us, other than some deep, close to heart memories. You may feel a true sense of roots, deep connections. And yes,we call it personal because you alone can understand it. Deep within, you know that you belong there. It is not necessary that you have to step inside those premises breathe the air to drive nostalgic. Just the very name of the place is all enough to remind your forgetful memories and connections -

This is Kalakkath Tharavad at Killikkurissimangalam in Lakkidi, near Ottapalam in Gods own Kerala. This is the good old ancestral house of great poet, Kunchan Nambiar.

At a non-physical, spiritual and emotional level,I feel that I belong here. It gives a sense of bonding, a very strange connection that has a reason. This is the place where I opened my windows to that vast world of knowledge. This is the place where I wrote my first alphabets on that tray of rice grains. Yes, my Vidhyaramabam, happened here, on some 23 years back of now. More than anyone else, the narrow corridors and timbered roofs of his ancestral house would be remembering that beating pulse of little me. When I marked the journey with my little fingers on those tiny grains then, I never knew that I would grow up to a 25 year old ME to blog about the same . I miss that 3 year old innocence, green pattupavadai and dad’s classic Yezdi bike,a ride to Lakkidi.

Despite, having an academically oriented grandmother,a retired teacher who conducted the Ezhuthiniruthu ceremony of all other members of our family ,my parents took me here on that Vijayadasami Day. Irrespective of all the religious inclinations and customary beliefs, they took me here. And I wonder, why?

Every year, I ask them, why they took me there rather than conducting the ceremony at home. And they said Nothing in particular.But deep within I know why? I am happy that I feel connected to this Tharavadu. The place where the letters and alphabets are born and acquired at my fingertips.

Today one more, Vijayadasami Years have passed, God has blessed me abundantly, but when it comes to Knowledge, it feels Inquistive. I want to publish my Dissertation. I want to get a Doctoral Degree. I want to write a book. others .I want to think, feel, imagine, read, write, love and learn forever
And, when I get into my Seventies, I want to visit, Kalakkath Tharavad with my granddaughter (an imagined one) and say,
My alphabets belong to this place

Embracing Heart

2012-10-22T02:15:00.002-07:00

What really exists IS what really NOT. It is is because, once it was not. A thing really exists because there was a state of void, a non-existence or sometimes BECAUSE it has a Counter existence.

Truth exists because there is a mystery. An original exists because there is an unauthentic. Love exists in hatred. Light is darkness. Union exists after a parting. Sanity exists after a madness. Urban exists because there is naive. Romance exists because there is tragedy Humanity exists because there is cruelty. Logic exist in the illogic. .

Each and every creation or phenomena of this world really exists because there is a C factor- the COUNTER factor, its opposite.. The plight or context which your curse today, might turn out as the fortunate situation that would change your whole life, tomorrow. I write because there is an empty file,a blank paper - the whiteness staring at me.

Hence , be thankful to the girl who broke your heart now or a year back, for if you have got a new life today, it is because she had left you, miserably. Forgive the enemy who struck you down few months back , for if you are rising up today, it is because it is the one thing that keeps you going even after the worst fall. Smile to the kid down your street, who called you fat, for if you stay beautiful now it is because she reminded you once, to slim down.. There is no reason to criticize anybody or regret on anything in life; there’s always something to learn from it.

People learn from experience and that’s what makes them who they are. No one is always in control of themselves. No matter how well they were brought up or how high their morals are. Hatred is only an illusion. It only takes time and bundles of understanding to grow to love again. This is what really makes things spiced-up. It begins chill, it moves sweet, it tastes sour,it turns out bitter, it gets hot, it becomes alright and sometimes it just bursts out.

And when hearts do all the talking, the brains can only stare. Never regret for that.It shows that your true love can be your best friend. Your best friend can be your enemy and your enemy can be your lover. Yes, people can switch on roles.. Sometimes family seems to be the best place to stay on, but while other times, it is worst than ever hell can be. Sometimes. you can love them enough and sometimes you just cant love them. Things are really in the way, it is meant to be
There is just no logic in intutions.

Heart talks and brain can only stare ...

I learn it, in life...the girl whom I neglected for showing off has become my closest friend, the female whom I treated as a bitch has become my favorite teacher, the boy whom I was felt once annoying has become my favorite companion, Yes, people can switch on roles; the best friend can become a mother and mother can become a best friend. There is no other way. Everything will pass. World is the only better place to live. Nothing can go too right or too wrong.
It is not about the happy ending,but it is all about the story...
Till then; drink water, fetch woods, and walk the earth.

P.S :

And I followed the light..

2012-09-29T02:39:00.000-07:00

The twilight under which, he kissed me for the first time,

the mysterious fire, I saw in the distance of a mountain,

the red light to which my heart skips a beat, while my phone flashes his name,

the dim light of my cozy room where I sit and play melodies,

the candlelight in the darkest of some hours,
the magic of moonlight on a quiet fathomless night,

the innumerable speck of lights, I passed on a train journey,

the lighthouse beams sweeping across a stormy night sea,

the temple lamps swaying in the darkness,

the fireflies hiding around the sacred tree,

the beam of sunlight on the budding green leaves,

the stars crowded around the virgin night,

the rays of fog light in which, I drove back home on a Saturday evening,

the colorful lights illuminated on a house, night before their daughter’s wedding,

the feel of lights inside a Theater, before the show opens,

the length of green signal, for which, I always wait in the traffic,

the tiny lantern, I saw at the doorstep of a hut,

and the light of my laptop in the midst of darkness

I found it all on the spark of his searching eyes
the man with a lantern

And, when he told , “ I am the light”

I took my bag and followed

some lights are like that
it may be only a beam,
but it contains, billions of promises

Of Love

2012-09-18T01:53:00.001-07:00

You know it all. You are my twelve months of summer, my fine tune, my Sunday song and my Wednesday wish. You are my first thought, when I am up and the last before I sleep. I want to write you letters. of love, of you, of me, of us and of our dreams…the letters that I write at the whim of a blinking cursor, the letters that reach you long after I am gone with the sea. I want to write you a love song, a love sonnet…I want to write and show you, how pretty the things will look when we walk hand in hand, under pouring skies. I want to write about you, about me and about our love, till my hands ever learn , how to stop writing…

They say, unfulfilled love is more romantic. Is it true? Then, stay away from me. Let your distance be my intimacy. I want it to be romantic…more romantic than ever before. With you, I lose my sense of being and at the same time, I am closest to me. I can stand before you…without masks, without hallucinations, without a single thought running in my mind.

But now, Promises lay scattered. And we will have to walk away, pretending that we never knew what we saw …as we never never knew, how we were.. Kidding each other and moving away without looking back or without looking beyond. I fear this because it is the scary truth. It may fade or whither away like a bloom in the rain. Miss me then..For if not in your thoughts, there would be of no reason for my existence.

There may be new dreams.. but deep within, You and I know - when it rains, it will be your warmth I protect inside. And when life bids farewell, it will be your voice that I hear, your tears that mud me to the earth. And then, we would know that we had loved each other, once and a billion more times.

But now, all that I have for you is a word, a quote, a story..and the little smell of some perfume on this tiny bit of paper… nothing less, nothing more…

P.S : The post has been selected for Tangy Tuesday Pick