On Griefs & Mourning

You lose something or someone. You grieve?

Losses are temporary. At times permanent. And then there are those that are momentary.

Who decides which ones are to be mourned and which ones are to be not? Why do they?

It is my grief, my loss. Don’t judge my tears or lack of them. I may not show, but maybe my insides are cracking. You don’t hear them. Do you?

You mock me when I wail, but do you see those tears that silently trickle down my eyes when I am in the dark? I am mourning, please let me. Don’t stop me. Don’t mock me. I won’t stop you, I promise.

You curse me when I don’t cry, but can you feel how shaken my insides are? My tears don’t roll out doesn’t mean I don’t grieve. They are my sorrows. I don’t wish to set them on a silver platter and show them to the world. They embrace me from the insides.

You can’t see them. Don’t try. You can only if I wish to. And yet my sorrows don’t listen to me. I am not their master. They come upon me as they please. I don’t want the losses.

I don’t want the losses. But they are mine nevertheless.

So, I mourn or maybe not. What you see, may be true, may not be. But, whatever it be, just let me grieve.

एक और कहानी

उस कमरे में एक अरसे से रात ठहरी थी

वो कही नहीं जाती

बस वहीं एक कोने में सिमट के पड़ी थी

बिखरी सी सिमटी थी

माँ जैसे करीने से कपड़ो की तह लगाती थी

वैसे ही उसका आँचल पड़ा था

रात का आँचल ओढ़े वो रौशनी की सेंध लगाती थी

एक अरसे से रौशनी को ढूंढते

उसने उस ठहरी रात से दोस्ती कर ली ।

Shadows

shadows
i see them moving
running, walking
but they don’t see me
they ignore me
they leave me and walk away
they change their colors
they laugh when i cry
they mock
they jest at my
expressionless face
they, who bear no face
of their own.

Crossroads!

These days I feel like screaming at people. I want to scream my rage out at those whom I have never screamed at. People, who come scream at me whenever they want, who dump all their rage on me and go away. All I do is listen to them silently, speak to them softly with a hope that may be, may be my calmness would help me ward off their rage, may be it will help them calm down too and understand what I feel. I understand their concerns, I understand their anxieties. But are they even trying to understand me?

I have a lot to say. But I am not able to. I thought maybe I’ll write it all down here. But this place isn’t safe anymore too. And it saddens me. I dunno whom to blame. I feel like running away from everyone. Probably end myself so that it can be end of all my miseries. But I will not do that. I can’t give up this time. I want to live. All I want is I want to live it the way I want to and not in someone else’s way. I need strength. I have a lot of fight to put up. I am breaking every moment. But I can’t afford to. I may cry right now. I am trying hard to hold back my tears from escaping my eyes.


I am having trouble accepting the fact that I cannot keep everyone happy. But am I wrong to expect that maybe I can convince them and in the end all be happy? I don’t want to harm them. I love them a lot. But they think I don’t, just because a chose a different lifestyle for myself. Oh God! Why is it all so difficult? Cant I just fast forward my life and see what is going to happen? The anxiety is killing me.

…and to be loved.

Trying to find a voice, that would perhaps floor anyone who reads me. I wish I had a complex head. Which could spurt surreal. I try to imagine, but all that this mind conjures is what they call ‘cliched’. 

Where do I fit? A bit too much at times. At times so less that I fade away without a hint. For moments I’ll be the violet and the indigo and then I’ll turn grey.

Easy I am? I don’t want to be. I want to be incomprehensible, the vague, the juxtaposed. A puzzle. Let me be a dark poetry. One with lot of twisted images, grotesqueness. I’d rather be that than be beautiful. I want to be loved too. Loved because I am exquisitely ugly. Touch of my withered skin would bring them joy. Their pleasure be my cries. Their elixir be my blood.

Living in a form like that of a shapeless dark shadow, I want to be that for whom the sound of nails scratching on the surface of slate be music. My wails be their songs. My pain, my ache  be their source of mirthful bellows of laughter.

What a pretty ugly picture! One that makes your nerves cringe, one that makes the blood in your veins freeze. A picture with grey, chapped lips. A picture with a dark scarred face. A beauty of its own. I want to be that.

I want to be that and be loved.

"Would you want me when I am Not Myself?"

I am not happy.
And I wish to stay 
in this state for a while.
I am somehow hating my smile.
Somehow hating my every 
smiling pic ever taken.
I deleted all the smiling pics 
that were stored in my phone.
I want to get rid of this sweetness.
Its nauseating.
Its utterly nauseating.
I feel like scratching my face off.
Just stay blank.
People will question me.
They will not like it.
They will ask me “why”.
And I’ll remain quiet.
Because for now 
I can’t.
If I smile I would be faking it.
And I don’t want to be a fake
for other’s sake.
So let me be not happy for a while.
And here I ask the question
my favourite question of all times
“Would you want me when I am Not Myself?”


PS: Dear John Mayer, I Love You.

The Final Nail

What a weird strange day! She was all happy when she woke up and the day went on smoothly until… Until she saw the pic. 

It was a beautiful pic. A pic where a father held his new born daughter, lovingly looking at her and the mother too looked with all contentment at the two people in her life. They were beautiful together. She saw the pic and slowly a tear trickled out of her eye. A painful smile spread across her face. 

Somehow she felt so less. A lot of her strength had gone into bringing herself to the point where she was. She was finally taking a shot at being happy. She was finally starting to feel that she was not worthless. But at that moment everything failed. The confidence, the courage that she had managed to built seemed to be crumbling. At that moment she wanted to jump off from some high rise building and put an end to the miserable thing that her life was. 

But then she looked at the the smile of the small baby. A new life. A beautiful new life. “And you are jealous of her?” a voice called out. 

“No, I am not jealous of her. How can I be? She is precious.”

“Then what is it? Aren’t you happy?”

“I am happy. I am very happy.”

“You are sad too. You cannot lie to me.”

Silence prevails…

Her eyes once again brim with tears.

“You are sad that he has really moved on? You expected him to be stuck with your thoughts still?”

“No. I just…”

“Or is it some lost hope of past? You wanted to be there right?”

“I had once…”

“It wasn’t for you, dear. Even you know that. You unnecessarily have jostled all this while with the subconscious guilt that you ruined his life. You haven’t ruined his life. Look at him. He is complete now. You paved way for his happiness.”

Tears roll out of her eyes, as she heaves a silent sigh.

“You always tell right, that not everyone is here to stay. Each has a part to play and they do that and then go away. Its the same with both of you too. You always knew you weren’t meant to be. The conviction that you have now, the vision, that strong connect. It was never there.”

“You have unnecessarily bogged yourself all this while for his unhappiness. But the truth is he is happy and the proof of it is alive, breathing and kicking. Look for yourself.”

“Don’t feel that you don’t have that what he has. You are destined for much better. You have your felicity. You have a better horizon to look forward to. A horizon that you can paint with your own colors. A horizon that will be yours and yours alone.”

“I know you are not sad. You are happy. Its bittersweet. It is ok for it to be so. But seriously, today put in the final nail into that coffin. You know that what you have gained is far far far better and more than what you have lost. So now go and live… and love.”

She slowly wipes the tears from her cheeks, pulls out her phone and takes a last look at the pic smiling at it. Then she deletes it, opens a different window and starts typing, “I Love You…”

Bittersweet

If you read this, know that it is for you. For you understand what I dont say.
I write this for your love.
For your desires.
For your whims.
Our crisscrossed paths and our starcrossed destinies, each have a different story to tell. The pull of your heart’s strings. The push of my resistance. And the battle of the two. I don’t know who will win. I will lose, I will win.
You will lose, you will win.
For only you will understand that what is unwritten here. For only you can see my unshed tears.
Of joy and of agony.
Its bittersweet.
What is between you and me.
You would deny and I would agree. I am bound you are free.
This is the beauty.

The Porcelain Doll

Matted white skin,
rose blush pink cheeks,
crimson lips,
shiny black hair,
flawless smile,
patchless dress.
She was once all of this.

People swooned around,
Praises bloomed,
Flashes glared
capturing her face.
Handsome happy lives,
proposed to be their wife
She smiled merrily
blushed fervently
the same all the time.

Then she fell,
down to the ground,
scratched scathe
tarnished taint.
Tattered to crumbs
badgered to pieces.
Hollowness revealed
echoing the silent screams.

No more the sunshine,
no light pierced the dark.
she now lies
in a corner like trash.
Discarded, forgotten,
no more the subject
of pride show for guests,
no more the piece of beauty
like that of a shiny past.

The Silk Scarf

A sigh of relief escaped him as soon as he entered the Metro Station. The heat outside was scorching. It was still March but summer seemed to be at its peak already. The sanctuary of the underground metro station was his escapade from the heat. He pulled out his white kerchief from his pocket, removed his cap and wiped the droplets of sweat which had beaded on his head. Pulling out the water bottle from his back pack, he downed the remaining water in a single gulp as he made his way towards the platform.

3 o’ clock in the afternoon was the worst time his client could have chosen to schedule the meeting. But in his line of work client was God and no one ever said no to them. Grumbling under his breath he continued to move towards the platform. He checked the information panel for the arrival time of his train. There was still 20 minutes left. He mentally calculated that it would take him at least 25 minutes to reach his destination station and 5 minutes walk from there to the client place. He checked his watch. It was still 2 pm. He was well within time. So he looked around for a secluded place and on spotting an abandoned pillar a little further away he went and stood there.

The crowd at the platform was sparse compared to usual. There were few kids in school uniforms, who stood dwindling their water bottles, their white shirts soiled and crumpled and ties hanging around their throat, displaced carelessly from their designated place. A little distance away, a group of girls stood in red, green, yellow denims and color coordinated tops, their lips smacked with bright red and pink color and eyes lined heavily with all kinds of colors other than black, giggling and chattering among themselves. There were few others like him, dressed in their work formals, their laptop bags uncomfortably perched on their backs, wearing that same heat struck weary look. Then there were the old couple dressed classily, the man almost sending an aura of retired military personnel with similar dignified lines of age and experience on his face with his wife holding a big brown leather bag, wearing a beige trouser and a long white cotton shirt, a lock of grey, neatly blending with the rest of her short straight black hair, with crow feet near her eyes.

His eyes wandered amidst the strange faces of that uninvited party, trying to comprehend a story from all the unspoken messages that their faces reflected. Nobody bothered to even look at the lone body that stood near the pillar, everybody comfortably unaware of the fact that his eyes were carefully canvassing them. And then his eyes came to a stop at a form which he had not noticed before. There huddled close to the other pillar, with its head lowered stood a figure. He was not able to make out at first whether it was a lady or a man. The person was well hidden behind the broad pillar. All he could see was the occasional glimpse of something blue, which peeped from behind the pillar. In a futile attempt to catch a glance of that person he craned himself. 

Curiosity had clouded his reason. He shifted from his resting position steadying himself and started moving towards the other pillar. He moved slowly, careful enough to not attract anybody’s attention. But right then the otherwise peaceful crowd around him erupted into frenzy. His inconspicuous demeanor suddenly disturbed, he was taken aback. Then he realized the cause of this sudden disorder. He could hear the train approaching. He looked at his watch. It was already time. And by the time he could stabilize himself; the train had already reached the platform and halted. The crowd was now moving into the train. He knew he didn’t have time to lose.

Abandoning his quest he started moving in the direction of the train entrance, with the crowd. The train was crowded as usual. And as usual there was no place for him to sit. He somehow managed to find a place to stand, holding one of the yellow hand holders which hung from the rod above.  He had not even steadied himself when the doors closed shut with a hissing sound. He jerked and almost fell on another passenger standing nearby as soon as the train started moving. He pulled himself up and apologized fervently to the person on whom he had fallen. And then from the corner of his eyes he again caught a glimpse of the blue outside the window. His eyes shot in the direction trying to get a clear look to satiate his curiosity. As the train moved out of the station he finally caught sight of the figure that had invoked so much oddity in him.

There near the pillar stood an old lady dressed in black, her head of silver hair covered by the hood of her black jacket and a blue silk scarf loosely tied around her neck, the lone color in her entire ensemble, which freely flowed in the air. Her skin, which was completely frayed and wrinkled, seemed to have aged 100 years old and her eyes, which were sunk in their sockets, were glazed grey. As she caught him staring at her she stretched out a wrinkled hand with dirty long nails and screamed out his name in the scariest sound he had ever heard. He reciprocated her hollow scream and screamed back in agony that had filled his head. Seconds later everything blanked out.

He woke up to find himself in a white room. Everything around him was blurred and hazy. The room was cold and he could hear the monotonous drone of a machine beeping somewhere. He felt groggy as he tried to open his eyes. He tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth were meaningless mumbles. He was confused. He knew not what was happening to him. And then suddenly a face appeared in front of his eyes. The person looked like a doctor.

The doctor checked his pulse and instructed something to the nurse who stood behind him. The nurse handed him an injection which the doctor injected into him. A wave of daze engulfed him and he blanked out again. Hours later when he woke up he, he saw the same doctor again. This time the doctor smiled at him.

“How are you feeling now? You are drugged so you might find difficult to speak so just nod yes or no.”

He nodded a yes.

“You have been in coma since a month. You had already slipped into it when you were brought in. We haven’t been able to figure out a reason for your condition as there seemed nothing wrong with you. Your parents have been informed and they are arriving here soon.” Saying so the doctor smiled.

“By the way would you now leave this scarf? You have held on to it so tightly that it had been impossible for us to take it out of your hands. You have been a curiosity ever since you came in.”

He gave a confused look to the doctor and then looked towards his right hand. There in his fist he held the same blue silk scarf. Memories came flooding back. It was the same scarf that was tied around the neck of that old lady. He looked back at the doctor with a look of horror in his eyes. His head filled with the same scream and agony from that day. He let out a painful scream again. Once again everything blanked out.




PS: Should I title it “The Witch of the Metro Station”?