Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Storyline 2

What if 'to be continued' was actually the end? The end of the story. What if there was no more? Like the way we go to sleep one night thinking there is a 'to be continued' subtitle to life, that our story continues to next day. What if we don't wake up?

If. If. IF. Everything somehow rotated around this phantom of hope. I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to be able to hope that somehow magically, if I closed my eyes, the pain, the aches, the broken pieces, everything would somehow float up and away, along with my soul, and that when the cold morning light finally broke, I wouldn't wake up. The catch was that I had given up on hope and somehow hope just stuck to me irritably; a pesky piece of Velcro that no matter how much I shook it, it would detach only to stick again only stronger, and the more I fought it, the more I clung onto the hope that hope would let me go.

It stuck to me almost noticeably. I was exhausted with fighting it. If I ventured out, I was self-consciously certain that everyone was stare at the big swollen hope that had made itself at home on me, like a parasite - how could they miss it? I couldn't cover it up. If I tried to sit on it, I found myself floating on this balloon of hope, if I tried to stick it under my sweater, I looked like I was pregnant. Pregnant with hope.

How was it possible to be accompanied with hope and be so firmly entrenched in the deepest pits of despair? The irony did not escape me even when I was holding myself close, recounting ways of escaping life itself. Hope was a reminder. It let everything in the crack in the window, and suddenly it was frigid inside, everything frozen and everything so immeasurably brittle that all it took was one breath, and everything was breaking, everything was falling, everything was shattered. Hope just kept stabbing at you and making your wounds open and reopen, and wouldn't let you heal. Wasn't hope supposed to be healing?

I wanted to heal, I didn't want to heal. I didn't want to want. I wanted to be so completely numb that I couldn't tell if I was numb or not. I wanted to be the brittle ice that was ready to break and never come together again. I was that already, but why was I able to feel every single shard of myself even as far it had fallen off from me?

I didn't want to feel. I didn't want to be. I didn't want to. Life was all a stage. We were all pretending anyway. No matter how much we felt things from our hearts, or felt that life was a journey that was joyous or full of hope, we were all pretending. From the time we were children, isn't this what we learnt? Playing cops and robbers, doctor-patient, indians and cowboys. We were all conditioned to pretend, to grow up and keep pretending. We were all just an army of moving mouths, an elaborate play with our scripts coming to mind from a playwright unseen. You either know your part or you don't. When you forget your lines - then what?

Tuesday, December 04, 2012


I'd wanted to be alone. So, I lost myself in the crowds. I wanted to forget. Forget who I was, forget the deafening silence of cold nights, curled up,  voices and memories hammering on my head. Forget the pain and exhaustion. The hole inside of me.

I didn't want to go back to the usual hangouts. They were burnt out memories. Ruination.  I did a quick search, and in the silence of the quiet night that shrieked at me like nails on chalkboards, I readied myself to join the crowds. I'd stopped looking in mirrors. Avoiding the emptiness reflected at me. Avoiding the spectre that reminded me that I was still alive. Alive for what?

As I slipped into the crowded room, the noise came at me like a soothing shadow on a hot day. Here was a place where I couldn't hear myself think. Here was a place where I was a stranger, where no one knew me, and where I didn't have to care. If I didn't care, I didn't hurt. It was strange, I thought to myself, as I slid into a seat, how I needed a place where I couldn't even feel I existed. Stranger yet how I wanted to be alone in a place where I was surrounded with people.

Slowly, people took notice of me. They asked me to dance. I didn't want to. I wanted to remain unnoticed, unseen. Someone took a seat nearby and pulled me into a conversation, and a bubble of kindness overpowered my resistance. I didn't want this.

I ran out in a panic. What was I doing? What was the point in anything anymore? Against a cold brick wall, I cried as the rain came down on me. The lamposts flickered dimly and I wandered through the night, another night without sleep, until I reached my door and crashed on my bed as the sun began its ascent.

The next night, inexplicably I found myself back at the new place. Despair was too strong a toxic substance that if its presence was all I had for company, I would submit to its addiction. What was so bad in that? A bubble of resentment pulled at me and I felt like screaming. I looked around me, surrounded by mouths. Moving mouths, smiling mouths, smirking mouths, mouths imbibing in drinks, mouths with shiny gloss, mouths all moving for some purpose. What purpose could there be in an army of moving mouths that threatened to conquer sanity?

Sanity was a notion I considered as if it were an alien unknown but theoretical. Was I so bereft of everything that I couldn't locate my identification for sanity? I patted myself down and found that I no longer knew who I was. The thought brought me comfort, and for the first time in a long time, somehow, I smiled.

To my horror I found that someone was smiling back at me. He approached and sat himself down and proceeded to speak. I was riveted by my horror at having a moving mouth directed straight at me. I needed to throw up. I was being pulled by that humanistic tendency to socialize and I was ready to die.

Death was something I was not stranger to. I'd considered various methods of dying. When moving mouths were too loud, and the mute button wouldn't work, I found that death was a welcome channel. Jumping from the highway overpass, walking into the flooded winter rivers, sitting in the subzero rain, ingesting toxic substances.

The moving mouth was offering me some substance. I blinked at the kindness and shook my head. Unspeakably, I found my mouth moving and I had uttered two polite words. The fish grabbed the bait and ran with it, and I was trapped into the world of moving mouths, enslaved to the phenomenon of small talk. Like a fish who'd gone without water for too long, I gasped and found that words were like a welcome drink. A drink I partook of too much for my own good. Within the night's end, I was made not only an acquaintance but a friend.

I didn't want to get close to anyone again. Ever. I was riddled with bullet holes and racked with agony from the electric shocks that had run through my body again and again. Years of mental despair that had eroded too much.

Every night, I found myself pretending to be someone I was not. I was somehow the one who made everyone laugh, who talked energetically, and, worst of all, smiled incessantly. Soon, I was hit by the realization that this was not what I came here for. That despite the luxury accorded to me for the few hours I was here, everything was just the same, if not worse. I was living a lie. 

To be continued.

Friday, November 30, 2012


There is something to be said about loneliness. That, in itself, allows us to somehow be ourselves. Not that we're not us when we aren't alone. But the remoteness, somehow it allows us to hear ourselves, not just our thoughts, but even our own heartbeats. In that moment when we are alone, that is when the isolation changes into a mirror to reflect the scope of our mind's eye beyond the horizon and deep out into the stars. We step forward into that portal which opens out into so many doorways, a plethora of options that lead into futility, trauma, anguish, serenity, hope...a spectrum beyond our capacity to understand.

Love, was it just an emotion? Not only just an emotion, but one that opens into many. It could be no surprise then, once we open ourselves to the state that we sign away our sanity. The inability of the word, the state, the function, the purpose, to be defined, how then could we be able to trace the ways it controls us and exploits us, turns our emotions inside out. We become vulnerable. Was it then such a far stretch that it would crash over our heads with so many emotions? Anger, distress, hurt, ecstasy, contentment, hope.

And so it is we step back into the other side of the mirror; where did it all start and where does it end?

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Hallows Eve

Cold blustery nights, with the leaves sweeping the streets, wet, damp. Tendrils of hazy clouds floating along the muted glow of the watchful moon.

Voices wafting through the dark streets, sounds of childhood, a hush of excitement. Approaching footsteps, the echo of a knock. The screams of souls and loud sinister laughter. The flicker of candles and yawning orange grins. 

Memories run through the streets, and crash through ghosts with sneakers, unbeknownst. They run up front drives and twirl through bushes, they peer through hedges, blinking and winking at the ghouls that pass by.

And the door opens. Trick or Treat? The chorus came. Opened satchels, and eager smiles. Memories peer over  shoulders,  watching, reminiscing.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Mirror Mirror

Sometimes, no matter what, you realize that when it's the end of the day, no matter how much you try to fool yourself otherwise, you realize you're still very much alone. No matter how many times you cut yourself up in pieces trying to please everyone else. When you try to have a voice of your own, it's silenced. There's a world that's full of sorrow, and we're all looking around in the chaos for that one glimpse that someone understands. Only when the glass shatters in millions of pieces, as the shards pierce us through our hearts, do we learn that we can only find it in ourself. No one else.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012


I have memories. They're stacked in my closet, hidden under my bed, lining the bookshelves, peeking from their secret spots all tucked away behind the curtains. They climb up my walls, and peek down at me while I lay in the dark. When I walk, I see them. They follow me when noone else is looking, but I sense them, sometime. Sometimes I know they're right there, and even when I stare at them they pretend that I haven't noticed. Or when I'm seated at my desk, I can feel the scurry of little feet underneath.

I smell them on a wet evening, while the winds are blowing and the trees are swaying in the dark. Or when I walk up the stairs of an old building, and each step takes me closer, creaking. They gather like dust, in dust, and think it's a camouflage. They perch on the windowsills, watching. 

Sometimes they think they are still alive. I don't know what to do with that knowledge. Do I tell them or should I not? When I open a door, I hear them run around for their hiding spots. But if I take a seat, and sit long enough, they creep close and sit by my side. They tell me things, but they don't have voices. When they speak, I hear them as if it is myself, reading another's letters in my own voice. 

They want to live on. Can you blame them? Sometimes they're broken, and missing parts. Sometimes, they keep walking in a direction that doesn't exist. When they tumble out from between pages, I fear for touching them, lest they crumble so aged and delicate they may be. Sometimes, I can feel them asking me questions. They want to know if they lived for a reason. I don't know how to tell them that I don't know. I tell them I think they did. They did not exist without purpose. 

There are little ones, they pull on the hems of my jacket. They curl themselves around my knees. They want me to meet their friends, who belong to others. Not mine. I know them, somehow. Sometimes they all look alike. And sometimes it hurts to look at others. Even though I may only have met them, it feels like I've known them forever. They want reassurance, even as they creep back into their hiding spots, they want to know if I will forget them? How do I tell them that I don't know if I can, even if I tried?

Sunday, September 23, 2012

On the Road with Hope

Driving past a lonely apartment, a face in a window gazing out, one window of hundreds with the gummy residue in the shape of a heart. Scratched off, removed. It gave me an automatic smile, a straying  thought,a line for a poem. There’s a place where hope for love thrives. Absently my mind flipped it around, like a burger on the grill, a roti on the stove. There’s a place where love for hope thrives.
Was it the grey of the bleak morning, that faint chill that skimmed the caresses of breeze, that beckoned to the multitude of thoughts that seemed to waft alongside? Or the light brushstrokes of lemon sunshine that intermingled sparingly with the tumultuous clouds that tugged and pulled this way and that. It wasn’t absolute, the state of being. Was this melancholy or was this contentment?
A lonesome building, stripped of its identity. Where were the hopes of the people who once occupied it?  Ghosts of the past and future intermingled furiously, leaving behind sentiments that puzzle the bystander of today. Absolute emptiness, a void to be filled in. Fill in the blanks, complete this picture.  Nature abhors a vacuum. Neglecting a dimension that occupied time past, reality negated because it was not your reality. Your reality is today, not what was, but perception, what you choose to see. Do you see the crushed hopes left behind, or the enchantment of hope coming true, being found elsewhere?
Red light, 83 people crushed together on a bus. Where are they going so early on a Sunday morning? Were we all seeking some solace in the regularity of prayer? On the right, Home for Long Term Care. Visiting relatives put away into the care of strangers, a weekly chore of cheek to cheek kisses and murmured sentiments about the weather until fulfillment of obligatory time has lapsed. A sprawling empty parking lot with locked doors to the shopping mall. Leaving behind sleeping children early in the dawn to trudge out again for another day’s work at minimum wage. So many people, so many strangers, and all with their own story to tell. They all get off and get on at some point.
The strains of a song came to mind, We found love in a hopeless place. So much stronger was fulfillment when it outraced struggle. The irony of living was that we wanted things but we didn’t want it all too easily. In sorrow we raise our eyes wishing for our anguish to end and happiness to be showered on us, yet in happiness we hold our breaths, disbelieving. Was positivity a note too high? A summoning of extra energy that we could not hold on to for too long. Not that we cannot, but that we don’t wish to. Or was this simply a mirage that was indeed real – a reality that we could not believe in because we feared for its loss.
So many little things that we forget is beauty. We’ve given up on hope because we continually forget that there are more reasons to be thankful than not. Out of the clouds in the horizon, speeding ahead on the freeway with a horizon before us, a sprinkle of rain that comes out of nowhere. When the sun comes out, shall we dance?  

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


"My friend is a stranger, someone I do not know.
A stranger far, far away
For his sake my heart is full of disquiet
Because he is not with me…
Who are you who so fill my heart with your absence?"

By the power of serendipity I found this poem, and it touched me to the depths of my heart, resonating in the very strings of yearning that have throbbed, hummed, inspired, and moved me for years and years. Today of all days, to be able to discover such lines, after the tumult of emotions that have crashed on the shores like a battleground, is serenity.

A stranger far, far away

And yet so close. Almost as if, in a space unfilled, the vacancy was one of the eye alone, and not of the heart, at times it were as if someone, somehow was there at my side, and a faint lingering of scent would catch me unaware and I would freeze, assimilating and seeking out the answer to why I knew this unknown scent, why I knew the familiar comfort of this unfamiliar presence.

Who are you who so fill my heart with your absence?

Haunted by years of unspoken question, I begin to understand the answer. Incredible how so powerful an absence can fill the void of absence itself and instill a sense of closeness. A closeness to what, I've always wondered. Somehow in the tiny folds of time that interspersed every moment, I found recollections of a memory that had yet still to happen. How was this possible, my mind questioned my heart.

Tuesday, August 07, 2012

Some Walks You Have To Take Alone

Part of me has died today. There is that panic as I search and search my mind anxiously seeking the answer, and that panic of not being able to answer, because there are no words. I don't know, I don't know. All I know is the pain. Inability to explain because I am drowning and I can't open my mouth to tell you lest the water floods through and I'm struggling to hold my head up and all I need is a hand but you keep your feet dry. I open my mouth, and I am sinking. The water drains away, and I blink my eyes to hold them back. The creaking of the door as it sways in the gusts of emotion, and hoping that that someone will fix it and let the light in. Instead, it slams shut, and in the darkness there is no hope for light. As much as I pull and pull, it's stuck. In the depths of black, I hear the soft sound of water dropping. It's filling up again and flooding. Up to my knees, up to my chin, and I am suffocating. I hear a sound at the door, and I try to call for help, and it leaves me. I swallow the hurt, and I choke. I diminish in the darkness. In the darkness there is no left and no right and no wrong. Who can tell when in the darkness I am all alone. Everything hurts, but I am alive. But part of me has died today. Part of me has died.

Saturday, July 21, 2012


What is it, in separation, that draws the heart closer to that which it has not? To want, and to have. To seek, and attain. The vacancy that exists, the adornment of emptiness, an inner instinct to fill that vacancy because…

Because, what? Just because it is possible? Is this instinct the primitive instinct built not of a force of heart, but of force of nature? That which we have, we do not want, we wish to progress, and to progress we seek the fulfillment of more.

It could not be just this. The heart, in separation, denies that any force but that which is truest to heart could be fuel to such yearning. That vacancy, however small, for the mere flicker of breath, immeasurable between the clicks that signify a second, but it is there, however infinitesimal it may have been, it spreads and grows and consumes all matter and mind, it glides from the shadows of subconscious, penetrates the farthest realms of consciousness and plunges into the vast depths of the unknown. Where it belongs; because is it after all only born of the unknown?

The unknown and unexplored. The further the attempt to untangle the beginning and the end, the more the entanglement becomes. To try to smoothen out the knots and loops, the bond intensifies, weakens, or breaks.

Why is there such a pull in separation? Separation from that which completes us, so utterly and thoroughly, and thus to be separated is to be apart from that which is already ourselves. We resist, we struggle, and we torment ourselves with the agony of losing a part of ourselves.

Perhaps that is why we seek when we had it not. When we have instinctively always felt that there was some salvation of the vacant heart that sought to surrender its artifacts at the altar of its prayer. We have built a home within for that which should belong, and waited. We have waited through storms and riptides, through the eyes of storms, and through the aftermath of them. The heart has waited even when we have given up on waiting. Because without, the heart ceases from purpose. To beat, yes, but to keep time to what?

Like a ship to its truest north, the zenith of our soul’s journey, a magnetic gravitation towards completion. A legend that is told infinitely, to last eternally.

Everytime I find myself in this cocoon of isolation, somehow kept disparate from what I am missing by a glass wall that frustrates me because, yes, I cannot attain that realm of fulfillment, I lose myself. A song hums behind scenes silently as I lash out with words, lost in thought, as if in reaching with the mind, with all my heart, I reach that destination. Despite the inability of my words to do them justice, in surrendering to the thoughts, I somehow do.
Special thanks, once again, to Nadaan Parinde from Rockstar.

Thursday, June 28, 2012


It's been a long time since I stayed awake all night long, unable to sleep, for all those thoughts that keep coming and rolling off the mind.

There is something about change, that stirs up everything and makes it difficult to feel that solid ground again beneath your own two feet. There exists a resistance to change, akin to clinging onto your bedpost when the whole world is a hurricane.

Sometimes, nothing really happens, and yet it's all inside. Why it's there and how it got there in the first place bewilders the mind. You seek and in seeking, get lost in the maze of your own mind. Unable to retrace those steps because already your mind has left the ground and gone to the moon and back. In a flicker of an eyelash, you've gone through decades, seen tides and tsunamis, sands and thunderstorms.

In change, there is grief. A tearing apart of one thing to become another. From destruction of that which was, to acceptance of that which is now. Change can be good, but even in good there can be sorrow. How does anything make sense when sense itself is not present? And yet, it's beyond even sense, it's a flood of sensations.

We become mired in that state wherein we yearn. In wanting, the further our feet sink. It then should be understandable that when the day arrives when all comes to pass, it becomes so hard to pull out of that quagmire within we've been cemented without some semblance of pain. In attaining pleasure, we endure pain.

Only when we become an island can we learn to control our tides. With less interaction from within the heart of ourselves, it becomes easier to attain serenity. A serenity that belies the underlying currents. Those currents that seek to intertwine with similar currents. To feel a newness in sharing and merging and becoming all the more greater. For an unfamiliarity that is even more so familiar.

A confluence of two currents couldn't be calm. Only after time, when both have become so enjoined do they become relatively steady.

Likewise, the mind's ability to recompense the before and after becomes a tumultuous clashing. All the more so when it is presented with the disparity and must readjust.

Life is about change. Resistance is nature. All the acceptance in the world does not negate the need to adapt.  Sometimes we need to pull our own self out of the mud, and sometimes we get pulled out by putting out that hand and getting pulled out by that which we help pull out.

Sometimes, you lose a night's sleep so that you can watch a day begin anew.

Friday, June 08, 2012


There exists a time wherein I have felt suspended, as if in a bubble within which solitude was never more emphasized. I have yearned and dreamt, searched and sought, and in solitude, I have spent many a teardrop.

Solitude being the one constant from the farthest corner of memory, presenting comfort, like a blanket one clings to as a baby, as toddler and as a child. Solitude, like so much that we hold close, that becomes repugnant, instilled by a sense of dissatisfaction, by that stagnation which accompanies comfort over time, the inducement of yearning.

What is desire but seeking to complete that which is incomplete, that without which we recognize we are incomplete, that which we subconsciously understand must belong to us, that must finish what is unfinished.

What we have we do not want, yet we hold onto it all the more simply because we have it. 

When we venture out of our comfort zone into that territory we had always wished to walk upon, how is it then that it becomes so difficult to return?

In solitude, we sing with all our heart for the dreams that come into being and take form out of the silence that enshrouds.  No silence surrounds us more than in solitude wherein we hear our thoughts as loud as our own breath and our emotions as loud as heartbeat. Whether the star attraction, or the one everyone turns to for help, whether the one with the loudest laugh, or the widest smile; whether the one with the most friends, or the one alone lost in thought while everyone walks ahead, no matter where we are or where we go, it is with solitude. It is solitude that whispers to us: there is always something missing.

What we have we do not want, yet even when we let it go, it remains because it has always been ours.

When there are so many hearts who seek the same comfort, another soul to somehow share that solitude, how does it then become so hard to let go of it? We come to the crossroad of deciding whether to hold onto one or the other - solitude, and therefore security, or the fulfillment that comes with togetherness.

We learn that when we must make this decision with conscious thought, no sooner it exists than it dissipates, and we plunge again into that from which we emerged. With how hard we fall each time, we sink further into the abyss, and the harder it becomes to remove the doubt that we will ever escape.

But what is it that we wish to escape? That which we want most has always been with us. In solitude we learn to crave that which we understand we lack, and yet with the essence of every need, the essence of every dream, the essence of every dream that shattered and broke, out of the essence that has accompanied us through each waking moment and every dream we have dreamt, the purpose for which we have been seeking, that in itself has been part of who we are, who we have been and who we will become.

Fulfillment is not in the dispatch of solitude. When we realize that it is ours, it is as if it has always been. Everything we have always dreamt of becomes so enmeshed with the essence of being that even when you walk away from it, it belongs to you. It is an existence wherein there is no start; it merges and intertwines so naturally that it becomes impossible to know where and how it began and impossible to measure how much it quantifies, all you know is that is incontrovertibly a part of you and all that you are.

It defies explanation yet is understood. It escapes the grasp of words, and yet, in solitude, I have tried.

There is a fulfillment that belongs to us. Sometime over the horizon, or behind the clouds. Sometimes it is is your teardrop that has fallen on their head as rain. It is in solitude that you miss it, crave it, and in that absence, it has always been with you.

Thursday, June 07, 2012


There is nothing left for me to say. Everything has changed.

 The light turns red. The bird stops in mid-flight to land on a lamp post. The queue of vehicles empty out of the lane, traffic whizzes by. The light turns green. How can it all go on? How can it be the same anymore?

 Words. They are only words. Finished exams, instructions manual. How to save the world. Words to stop wars. Words that start peace. Words that rip you, piece by piece. What is unsaid remains unsaid, but how can you make words unsaid?

 Hit the delete button. Cross it all out. Rip it to shreds. Shoot out your brains, forget it all. Become forgotten. Sit on the back bench of a crowded bus and watch the world go by. Become so invisible you forget your own name. I am no more, therefore I cannot think. 

Hit a bump and the ink scrawls across the page, an unfinished word. Hi, I said to a face forgotten. Stop being you because you are a problem. You have no words that need to be said, nor words to be written nor words to be read. You have no voice, no reason to speak out. Stop being whoever you think you once were, silence yourself. Be gone. And the reflection faded.

 The light turned red. There was no queue, explained by the flutter of yellow tape. The light turned green. There was no traffic. The light turned red. No longer lost in the midst of a crowd that now looked on. The light turned green, there was no birdsong that could out-sing the wail of the siren. There upon the winds a cascade of pages flying free. The light turned red. There was not a word that remained, there was nothing left to say.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Illusion ̶E̶p̶i̶p̶h̶a̶n̶y̶

kaaga re kaaga re mori itni araj tujhse chun chun khaiyo maans
khaiyo na tu naina more, khaiyo na tu naina mohe piya ke milan ki aas..

You are walking the path you have been walking and suddenly you are bowled over. All of a sudden, you are frozen, stuck, in a quagmire, uncertain what it is that has happened to you, that is happening to you. You are rooted to one place, almost holding your breath because suddenly everything has become loose. The world has gone tipsy turvy, upside down, inside out, you feel as if suddenly you've lost ground and fallen out into the stars. You're at the shores where waves wildly, violently crash millions of miles high and you're in a desert where the sands gust with moaning winds. You're in the pitch black of a cold blustery night and on top of a mountain on a morning on a meadow where all you hear is your heartbeat.

sau dard badan pe phaile hain, har karam ke kapde maile hai

You're drowning in emotions and you don't know if you're happy or sad, but all of a sudden you're choking back the feelings that suddenly pour out of you and you cry. You cry and don't know how or why. It is beyond your control, the ability to think and reason all left behind. You're pulled into a seizure of epiphany and yet you're left at a loss. You're coming apart even while you're finally filled with that sense of calm and attainment. The capacity to be happy and sorrowful merge into one and suddenly all the emotions you've held inside, all that you've experienced and yet to experience, refuse to be held.

kaate chahe jitna paron se hawa ko, khud se na bach payega tu
tod aasmanon ko phoonk de jahanon ko, khud ko chhhupa na payega tu

The glory of being expresses itself in the glory to feel where suddenly the body refuses to adhere to the constraints of physicality and the mind by rational, the heart continues to beat and yet somehow has ceased. The heart has burst into all that it represents and every possibility that lines the spectrum of emotion becomes one. Every failure merges with every success, hardship merges with every fortune, affliction merges with consolation, loss merges with gain.There is a pain that radiates throughout the and suddenly it loses its meaning as the way pleasure loses measure. Words fail to explain as no language compares to that which is universal; every moment of yearning is magnified and simultaneously dispelled by fulfillment and the breath stops even as it breathes a prayer, for prayer itself is left behind as just the means for that which already consumes your being entirely.

koi bhi le rasta, tu hai tu bebasta, apne hi ghar aayega tu

Music thrums and dissipates even as it fills completely with silence, and darkness surrounds even as light bursts out, radiating to blind, for that which is felt could not be explained nor seen. To that force which I surrender, that force which is called love.

O naadaan parindey
ghar aa jaa..

Friday, May 04, 2012


This is hope.

The endurance and the struggle. The belief that there is something that makes everything that is not presently good worth it. The silent voice that tells you to perservere because if you give up now, you're going to regret it. If you turn around and walk away, you'll never have seen what might have been yours just around the corner.

This is Spring.

The fortitude and the perseverance. The capacity to create, life from death. The willpower to fuel the courage against the hardships that the world inflicts. The softly hummed melody that invigorates the fallen to rise up and embrace that same world again, because the darkness that was lasts only as long as you allow it.

When the world gives us the template to understand the dynamics of nature, how can we turn away and refuse to comprehend? For each leaf that had fallen, a new leaf is restored. For every seed buried, an entire tree grows tall. When the world itself gets buried under the hard and frozen ice, it endures patiently. There is a vitality and a will that spreads through the roots of barren trees, and seeps into the branches to the twigs, and flourishes.

Why do we then give up so easily and let go so soon of the things that should endure? And hold on tight to the poisons that should be dispelled? Why do we give up hope when all it takes it the belief that one day it will be worth it.

Because we don't understand that it is. It will be. The darkest days and coldest winds restore faith in the goodness of sunshine. If we can look forward to the brighter days, it is only because we appreciate it because of our experience without. If we can learn to love the good, it is because we have known the bad. Duality exists for our own survival, and when we come to understand that, we realize the days we celebrate, we only do so because we have moved beyond days that we have cried.

Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.

Tuesday, May 01, 2012


There's a transcendent beauty that just seems to radiate from the very idea of May. A nurturing force that brims with life, and a whisper in the breeze that just allures you with the promise, the scent, the hint of warmer days to come. That tingle of raw elements of nature, the tremulous courtship between the sun and the rain that borders on antagonism, the battle to overcome, to overpower, to conquer and surrender. To witness and understand that it isn't the battle but the experience that instills awe, amazement and reaffirms a belief in the beauty of life.

Saturday, March 17, 2012


At the moment, I thought I could just relay the thoughts directly to the one it's meant for, but I realized the thought itself was part of the artwork that underlies most of what I put forward in my blogs, so here I am.

I'm not sure how to describe it; that delicate fragile beauty that represents the aura of a moment or, not just A moment, but the little things that contribute to reaching that moment. For the reason itself that I am here writing this is a combination of being lost in thought while listening and watching a beautiful song and being reminded of another thought I had some time ago, and the thought of wanting to share that fragile moment for what was represented by what I heard and what I saw, and most importantly what I felt because of the first two. That, along with then being asked randomly a question that related so entirely to that fragile thought and those feelings, and tying in to the thoughts that had stemmed from the reminder of previous thoughts.

I was thinking tonight, I'm not sure which song it was, I feel it must have been just all of the songs that had been playing, yet I wasn't entirely there. My mind was miles away and thinking, I'm not sure what exactly, it was just out there lost and somehow at peace, daydreaming. I think one must know the songs that induced the mood to understand the mood; tu jaane na, kaisi yeh judai hai, tadap tadap, dil de diya hai, kal ho na ho instrumental.. and well, I'm not sure but I thought many thoughts and one main thought came out as a result of all the churning my mind did.

I was thinking, before, there was darkness. Tanhai. The empty echoes of what lonely meant, of solitude, of yearning but never having, of waiting, of settling for the state of being alone. Settling, yet still aching. And I was thinking, how back when there was that serendipity of meeting someone who understood, shared, empathized and can I explain it, but like being able to finish sentences..but rather, be able to conclude feelings with that same feeling, because they knew, and knew on such a frequency it was like finding yourself in another - when there was just that chance encounter, the opportunity to be able to fill just however many more moments with being with that reflection of the self was enough, - it was enough and yet you admit you craved more and wanted more but you settled for what you got because it was enough - and it was enough because, all of a sudden, it meant not being alone.

And that realization was like a sudden spread of contentment in my soul, of some magic feeling just filling my heart. Because I realized that no matter how many storms, or lightning bolts, or whatever we threw at one another, no matter how often emotions turned off and got angry or hurt, it was sharing, feeling and thus living and...and it meant not being alone.

And when you were and are not, how can you not want the storms?

Kaisi ye judai hai, aankh bhar meri aayi hai
Mera dil doob raha, ise bas ab doobne do
Ye pehli bar hua, ye kyu ehsaas hua
Mera dil ab toot raha, ise bas ab tootne do….

Mujhe bas ab rone do,is gam ko behne do
Ye sath jo toot raha, ise aaj bas chhootne do
Kaisi ye judai hai.. aankh bhar meri aayi hai
Mera dil doob raha ise bas ab doobne do

Ek bat satati hai, jab teri yaad aati hai
Kyu mujhse rooth gaya, jaane kyu door gaya
Ye pehli bar hua, ye kyu ehsas hua
Jane anjane kyuu…mujhe tumse pyar hua
Hanste hanste rota hu, rote rote hansta hun
Phir khud se kehta hun…jo hona tha…hoo hi gayaa.

Friday, March 16, 2012


And that's when my heart sank and I knew it was the end to it all.

The last samosa was gone.

I'm not even sure how it happened, I just reached my hand into the brown paper bag, pulled out one and commenced the process of consumptive delectation all the while running the thinking-machine constructively in a wonderful instance of multitasking.

The sun was out and washing itself through the office as I sat there ruminating on some work. It was a Friday morning and there was that quiet hum generated from the meeting of the quiet of my office floor and the bustle of voices down below. The aura was one of contentment, arising from starting the morning off with the one you just woke from dreaming of, being offered breakfast by a certain best friend, meeting another before he drives off to work, and a series of amusing correspondence with a coworker.

Yes, I admit, it was yet early for snacking. But strangely enough, I was hungry. And so it was, my morning contentment shattered when I realized that last samosa I had, was in fact THE last samosa.

The rest of the day was now bereft of any anticipation of samosaheaven. Dun dun dun.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012


If he loves you now, what else matters? He's not perfect. You aren't either. And the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, cause you to think twice, and admits to being human and making mistakes, hold on to him and give him the most you can. He's not going to quote poetry. He's not going to be thinking of you every moment. But he will give you a part of him that he knows you can break. So, don't hurt him. Don't change him. Don't expect more than he can give you. Try not to over-analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad. And miss him, when he's not there.

That's from one year ago, well a year and a few days now. But then it was that magic of possibility and returns again, with a new spring.

Not that it needed to wait for spring to fluorish. It's just that magic of comparing then to now and saying ok yes, some things are the same.

Last evening was one of those brilliant gloomy ones. You feel, smell, sense that revitalizing essence that is spring. I had to get off a train that decided to stop working and I was overwhelmed suddenly by the beauty of the evening. The balmy wind though your hair like a caress, on your face like a lazy kiss. The mist that tingles your visual faculties and blurs everything into a serene mystery.

And that happy feeling of being able to listen to some really good songs after a vacation from good songs. And the magical hum on the airwaves, something that's there on the horizon, or whispering through the breezes, at some times you pick up a note of tu hi arzoo hai tu hi justju hai baaki ab raha kya? or the opening chords of kisi ka sapna lage tu.., somehow there is magic in the air and it comes out curiously and tickles your senses so that it leaves you like a kitten fascinated with a ribbon that keeps eluding yet enticing. You feel like tilting your head to the side like one and yet pouncing into the air with exuberance. Or maybe that's just me.


Saturday, March 10, 2012


For some time now, I'd been doing that thing we all do at times: reminiscing. True, there is hardly anything surprising in this. Not that we all do this at times, but that I have been. I'm guilty of the practise almost every other moment. And one of the products of such a pastime is in comparing today to a year ago. As such, I'd been thinking about how one year ago, there was a new song that fit the mood, the theme of lyrics being applicable to the situation; how much more - one year ago - the intimacy of sharing music and relating was a habit, compared to now where such little things have been put on backburners, where it's not so important to let those important things be voiced - why? When you give so much enthusiastically and its slapped away with a noncommittal reaction, is it so unreasonable that the enthusiasm dies? Then you have to hide the hurt, because hurting itself becomes unreasonable. Straighten your back, care less, hurt less.

So, I'd been thinking it's been so long since I had a song. Emphasis on "A" song; there had been a history of those special songs that just were THE song. Suddenly, the realization that there haven't been any, aren't any anymore came to light. Upon considering the whys and wherefores of this, I had to come to the conclusion that it in fact was attributable to the same enthusiasm-slap reaction. Why put your heart on a platter when the receiver doesn't care to relish the taste.

In any case, it's not about the self, more of accepting. Cutting out parts of yourself to make room for smoother sailing, because those things aren't half as important as the reason for it all. :)

And so yes, today I've got one. It's one of them that just jump out at you, where the lyrics describe and explain it all so accurately.

Kehte hain khuda ne is jahan mein sabhi ke liye
Kisi na kisi ko hai banaya har kisi ke liye
Tera milna hai us rab ka ishara maano
Mujhko banaya tere jaise hi kisi ke liye
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta
Kaise hum jaane hume kya pata
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta
Tu humsafar hai, phir kya fikar hai
Jeene ki wajah yahi hai marna isi ke liye
Kehte hain khuda ne iss jahan mein sabhi ke liye
Kisi na kisi ko hai banaya har kisi ke liye

Meherbaani jaate jaate mujh pe kar gaya
Guzarta sa lamha ek daaman bhar gaya
Tere nazara mila, roshan sitara mila
Takdeer ki kashtiyon ko, kinara mila

Sadiyon se tarse hai jaisi zindagi ke liye
Teri sauhbat mein duaayein hain usi ke liye
Tera milna hai us rab ka ishaara
Maano mujhko banaya tere jaise hi kisi ke liye

Kehte hain khuda ne iss jahan mein sabhi ke liye
kisi na kisi ko hai banaya har kisi ke liye
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta
Kaise hum jaane hume kya pata
Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta

Tu humsafar hai, phir kya fikar hai
Jeene ki wajah yahi hai marna issi ke liye
Kehte hain khuda ne iss jahan mein sabhi ke liye
Kisi na kisi ko hai banaya har kisi ke liye


Monday, March 05, 2012


Now that I'm almost fully better (almost being the operative word) I feel that it is necessary to balance the forces by putting forward a somewhat rehabilitated account of things.

It is interesting to observe the correlation between mind and body, or emotional state to physical. As such, I can attest to the functionality with which my dip in physical well-being translates to the emotional state. Whereas I opted to vent the lapse in words as is evident in my last blog submission, I feel it is only justice to be able to return again and also account for the restoration.

The sun's out pretty much in full force today, and while that seems to be something to celebrate, it is in fact accompanied by the bracing, frigid and biting cold that cuts off the instinct to cheer. It's March! Yay for the obvious.

In any case, stepping out while the sun is up and at it is invigorating. The beautiful dove strutting its stuff alongside, another plus. It is Monday, and it is another new day in another new week. When we craved for the light, we cherished it so much more for it's absence. When it creeps up and accompanies us day in and day out, we forget that we missed it.

When all you wanted deep inside was that one thing, the somewhat natural instinct built in us - in the mind? in the heart? - to long for that which would or should complete us, when it becomes ours we work so hard to make it something regular. Regular because, if regular and just as mundane, it would have less tendency to dissipate? Regular because for fear of throwing it up in the air like confetti, the wind might blow it right out of our hands? Regular because it's better to keep it close and accept it because there is no longer any need to place it on an altar to cherish and worship?

Regardless of the many possibilities, we are, as such, creatures of habituation. We acclimatize to changes and we have a bad habit of making the extraordinary ordinary. When we have what we always wanted, so easily we fidget and fuss with that which we have to want even more or something else. And we forget what we have is what we need, else we would not have been given it. Then how can we be such ungrateful beings to turn away in a moment of despair from that which we have, which we wanted, which we need.

Sometimes not everyone could be as lucky to say that, thankfully, that which I need also needs me. And when you turn away from something like that, you can't walk or run too far before that elastic bond has you snapping back. And it in itself is a torment you yearned for, to feel, and feel everything that it instills and begets.

So when the rains come lashing down and the clouds cover everything, it makes it all the more beautiful when the sun comes back out.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012


It's been months since I last wrote. That could be taken in either way, good or bad. Because writing is therapy, an outlet of emotions, something I resort most often when I feel most alone, it could be viewed as a blessing that I haven't had to blog in so long. And yet, could be viewed just as inauspicious by the very fact I am here again writing today. It's not always that I am writing when under the weather, and in fact, I had meant to write many times in the past. It's a measure of both procrastination and being too busy that contributes to the fact that I haven't.

Am I sad? Or am I happy.. so answer this honestly I don't know. I know it is a measure again of both, not in equal quantity, and as such I do know that I am confused. Yesterday when this came about, the word that was so strong in my mind out of nowhere was 'dhoka'. I can't explain this. It wasn't intentional in the wrong way, and was. The fact that it wasn't intentional is what somehow hurts more, that it was natural.

You give yourself entirely and make them a part of everything, and when they don't, the fact you do is suddenly wrong. When it hits you that you're just a part of part of their world, and not everything like you made them. When all the missing pieces suddenly drop and it clicks, that, in fact, there are no real missing pieces, all the things you believed were there behind words unspoken and unexpressed were just figments of imagination stemming from your own hopes and feelings. And you wonder what let you down, who let you down - was it your own heart? It hurts, and still it would make excuses for the one who hurt it. That's the problem with it all.

The sun rose pretty early today, as did I. And all I wanted to do was call in sick and bury myself again under my blankets. Stuffy nose and sore throats are not fun. But still better than self-pity. Outside, watching the sun rise and while alone, the company of my dearly beloved doves. Yes they've returned again for another year!

Ehsaan is the song again. Because sometimes nothing is better than being alone.