A dream to remember

Friday, 21 July 2017

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

                               

My world was spinning. I wanted to scream. The pain in my neck was becoming more and more unbearable, my insides were burning. It felt like I was on fire.

In front of me, hung a huge mirror, in which I could perfectly see myself. My eyes brimmed with tears, tears which then burned my cheeks. My face had grown pale and my hazel eyes, red. My evanescent brown hair had never looked darker. I felt the blood pulling away from my skin as I stared at my impaled neck. 

It was night, I had gone out to get groceries when I was attacked and dragged into a dark alley. I remember being hit on the head and fainting. I woke up to find myself tied to a wooden chair in a dimly lit room, guarded by a woman who sat across from me on a similar chair. 

I tried to speak, but couldn’t. The pain will soon kill me, I thought. 

"This was meant to happen, Serra" The Woman across from me spoke in a stentorian voice. 

How does she know my name? Who is she? 

I furrowed my eyebrows at her, at her petty remark on my fate. I couldn't make sense of it all, whereas I knew what this was. I'd always heard about it and knew it was true, but never thought that I'd be chosen next. And suddenly, she emerged from the darkness of the corner of the room. My breathing became erratic, my skin grew paler.

It was my mother.

"..How..." It was a word without any sound. I wondered if this was a prank, if this was all planned. But the deterioration of my physical health held no resemblance to my thoughts. 

My mother had conspired this. 

"Why?" I managed to say.

"We are god's men, Serra." She said

So, she's one of them. 

"Vampires are not gods" I seethed.

"The goddess chose you, Serra. Since you’ve always been so weak, don't you see the silver lining? You will be agile - you'll have the strength of 30 men. You will be alluring and young, forever; your beauty will be eternal, envied by most. You-"

"STOP!" I screamed. 

The door to the room flew open; Inevitable, he came in with his varlets. He was so tall. I could barely see him with his hood covering his face. He stopped right in front of me and stood there for what seemed like centuries, and then lifted off his hood. 

These indecipherable blue eyes are here to take me, to complete the transition.

He kneeled down and whispered my name. The throbbing pain pervaded every single cell in my body. My mother was standing in the farthest corner of the room, weeping. The man spoke from across the space between us.

"Thee've been chosen
hark to mine own sweet voice
and surrend'r to the goddess"

The dream ends. Do I become a Vampire, then? It seems so. I also like the name Serra or maybe it could’ve been Furiosa. Tempting!

But I was a Vampire fanatic, since it was the trendiest pop-fiction topic back then and something which put a dark and mysterious spin on a romantic story. Jam a stake through my heart! But I would always have dreams about Vampires, after binge watching Vampire shows and reading young adult novels about them. I'm glad that it was just a phase, though I'm not guilty! 

Pic credits: Google.


Moth to a flame

Friday, 14 July 2017

I wish it didn't have to be so different, 

I wish you could stay the same person who is brave enough to rule against his fears.
I wish you didn't forsake me when I asked you of your rationale behind the change.

If only I could show you clarity in your doubts
If only I could trace you order and meaning in the chaos
If only you could see beyond your shattered dreams,
How someone has it worse than you
And gather strength, rather than pity.

But you already know everything, 
Yet you continue on being a moth to a flame
You're attracted towards everything that burns bright.

You've been burnt twice since then,
    And yet you never learn.


Fear of the dark.

Saturday, 1 July 2017




A jaunty walk in an eerie park,
Where an empty swing-set keeps swinging
A distant whisper, to raise suspicion,
Induce a haunting curiosity which proved numbing.
Leaf-less trees emulate the spooky tree from potter,
Where fallen leaves create swirling patterns with the wind
Wishing that I was Wendell and Monica Wilkins’s daughter,
Who is fearless and effulgent, no matter how scary the night is, and no matter how grim.
Suddenly out of nowhere, a voice called out, that sounded just like my mothers’
I chastised myself for coming out for a walk, in the eerie park all by myself.
Because I had a feeling of something evil hovering, just above my head,
I wondered if it wanted to hurt me, or hug me or just wanted to talk instead.
But my fear abated, as thoughts percolated
As it all reminded me of the Canterville ghost from the Oscar Wilde plot
I smiled at my memory of it and embraced the now sweetened fear, consummately.
The melancholic ghost could never hurt me, I thought.
I came out into the light, bolder than Hermione Granger (not quite)
I became friends with all the voices inside (and outside?) my head and embraced their incomprehensibility
I learnt that even when it’s not dark, such whimsical energy does environ me
So it’s just the fear of the dark and of the unimaginable, only because it is unimaginable.

It all depends on what you imagine, and then, who/what you imagine yourself to be.

Hence, I learnt that fear is a part of life; all you do is learn to accommodate it. 


Her

Thursday, 22 June 2017

She says, that
It is easy to fall in love with her,
Once you seek her out
But so very difficult to stay in love with her,
As you begin to connect the dots

Her, who is hunched over a worn-out book in the university library, with her long hair hanging over the sides of her shoulder, she who appears so still and stolid that you begin to wonder with a puerile curiosity, about what is so riveting about those pages that she seldom lifts up her face, and does so only to push her spectacles up on her nose.

Her, who is embarrassed at you being fascinated by her, who doesn’t want you to decipher her, or to tug at the seams of a mystery which is so intricately stitched to her being that she will come apart with one single pull, if you were to try so hard.

Her, who suddenly wears such a solemn and tired expression on her face that you feel guilty; you're an idiot, to look at her in a way an inquisitive child would look at something.

Her, who nervously started tugging at the hem of her top, displaying a gaucherie that yet again riveted your attention towards her and this realization, made her flush. So much so, that she closed her book and got up.

Her, on whose face you saw indifference, whose mellow eyes suddenly, seemed so piercing, testimony to the fact that you had been an oaf.  Her, who you had gotten paranoid, uncomfortable and flustered- all these things, that being her friend, you weren’t supposed to make her feel.

So this was her, who realized that you were falling in love with her. Because who else deciphers a person that way, than a guy who is in love with you, she’d said. 

Her, who stopped being a friend to you long ago, who’d bullshit her way out so effortlessly, making you the villain, and cried when she did so. Her, who didn’t want to jeopardize “our” friendship of one year, who said you haven’t know her “long enough”, then there was you, who’d have it no other way, who no longer wanted to be her nice friend.

She'd said, that
It is easy to fall in love with her,
Once you seek her out
But so very difficult to stay in love with her,
As you begin to connect the dots

You asked her, what does she mean, so she smiled her stupid smile and leaned in – to say nothing.

So it hurts. To remember her, her, whose sound of voice you long to hear, after a tired, long and hard day. And distinctly  remember her sweet cadence, her sincerity in her words, her wide eyed gaze over something that you said, her concentration, her cheerfulness, her energy- just like a dream, it all appears before your eyes, all of her- void of her.

Her, whose ramblings you can’t live without, whose logic of doing things a certain way always eluded you and, her, who always made you see things in a new light. Her immaculate and dramatic expressions, her unusual behaviour, her passion, her stupid grin, her long hair and her short hair- How is it; that you irrevocably came in close contact with her, only to be captivated by her and then relinquished, by her. She must be ok, you think. So you call up the next girl you could think of.

She writes in her diary, crying profusely. She calls it future.

So he complains that she is just not the same.
She chuckles; it’s always the same line with every nice guy she meets.
They always try to figure things out,
Always try to use them as a weapon against her.
And she being so passionate, it always ends on a bitter note.

So they always get over her, before it actually ever begins.

But had she known you were different, that you were not just fascinated, that you would have loved her unconditionally, had you understood her when she said to you, “long enough” or, had you been a little more patient, she would’ve definitely pursued you. But you let her slip away and, she you. 



A fractured syntax is better than writing nothing

Friday, 9 June 2017

I've been struggling to write, hitting the backspace key more often than I would like in these past few days. Scribbling one word over another on my notepad until the ink imprints itself on the next page. And it is not because I can't figure out what to think about anything but just because my thoughts and views are profuse. Sometimes I can't find the right words, nothing seems to satisfy me. Nothing fits my discernment no matter how clearly I seem to have perceived it. And I end up writing nothing.

Nothing- it is a melee of shattered glass. With every word you fail to put in its right place, a seemingly good sentence shatters itself into a million tiny pieces and before you know it, there's a pile of it on the prescient paper which knew the fate of your words before you even picked up the pen. And I can either believe all of it, or none of it. But I am a believer when I'm writing. I have to be. Otherwise I'm as good as a blank paper. 

But a blank page is one I can't do without, a blank screen is one I sit in front of, to mull over an event which led me to another event which led me to a "spiritual epiphany"; and then I start to write, but  I find it hard to write without a syntax which conveys the sense of each word without seeming deceptive. And for my wanting a clearer meaning for my otherwise confusing syntax, I ultimately end up writing nothing again. 

But I've come to find that nothingness is seductive, as it has meaning without words. But then again, if that was the case, I've got only nothingness in my mind.

This bulwark of protection has to be broken down since I don't want to be consumed by nothingness under the impression that it is something after all. Because it isn't; it is just a chimera.

So you let the rejected words dry, you let the shattered pieces heal. For afterwards, they become something of their own. You believe that they do. And that you must forego the ambition of writing nothing. And that you must accept everything, as it is. 

Because at the end of the day, a fractured syntax isn't as bad as it may seem. :)


A storm is coming...

Remember me

Saturday, 3 June 2017

Do you remember me? 

An eternity after I met you, your voice still lingers in my mind. Your music plays in the background in a loop while I dwell on the memories. I acquired some of your habits too, both good and bad. 

How I wish I could un-meet the iridescent soul of yours. 

I remember the day you bought your first Marlboro pack on a whim. I was shocked, at how unpredictable you were. And maybe that is when I should have known. 

I wish I could rewind back to the moment I laid my eyes on you. And leave it at that. I should've known it, the minute I saw your tattooed sleeve. I should've known that you were a bad idea. 

I should have known the moment you made me rethink, when you complicated the most simplest of things.

And how could I have failed to see beyond your smile, which with time has been the most difficult thing to efface from my mind. 

I was never allowed in the world you sequestered yourself to and I always believed it to be ordinary. I should have known better.

He leaves the letter for her beside the red roses and closes his eyes; the image of her blood spurting from her artery makes him nauseous. He leaves the cemetery. 




Settled.

The pages are turned to figure out what happens next. 

Another page was turned recently, of a book that was put to the shelf. Dust settled. So did I.

But I picked it up sooner than when I had initially planned to pick it up; which was never.

Minds change. Mine got corrupted. 

You won't get the context because it's not important. Let's just say that I settled for something else.

Yes, settled. It's funny, since I am not that woman. 

The future is now crystal clear. 

I'm semi intoxicated. No, not high yet. I could be. But I won't be, on anything, on anyone. 

I've already settled for something much worse. 

Anyway, I'm craving Lychee juice. Abjured meat a long time ago, don't crave it. Don't know why. 

I guess I settled for a life without it. For ethical reasons, you see.

Don't know if you'll call that a settlement. 

They offered beer. I tell them that they could buy a meal for someone hungry with that money. 

Now they're settled with a feeling of guilt. I'm happy. 

There's no need to be sanguine. You're free, as settling is complete opposite of it. 

I took a quiz. The results were baffling. I'm a histrionic. 

I settled for it. And my mind has been corrupted. 




I'm Alice in reverse!

Thursday, 11 May 2017


I fell down a rabbit hole, 
My long dress barely fit inside the small abode,
My giant head hit the ceiling and bruised,
I cried for some time as I was utterly confused.

My eyes darted towards a weird marshmallow,
So tiny it was, the place suddenly felt so shallow 
But I ate it all anyway,
And I shrank in size of a tiny doorway!

I opened the door to a weird blue room,
There were books all around, surrounded by a ghostly gloom
Oh what have I ever done to end up here?
This must be a nightmare; he must wake me up now, my dear!

Two years passed, Mad Hatter never came,
I was stuck inside a hell hole, a world so mundane.
I read all the books that surrounded me 
And watched the warrior within die inside of me

This wasn't meant to be; I'm supposed to be a fighter,
I was shown my own destiny but here I am; writing on this electric typewriter.
The Red Queen must be laughing, looking down at me
She must know that I too am laughing, at my antithetical destiny

I am lost, I really am, and there's no Cheshire Cat to turn to
Because here it does matter which road to take, 
Even when you don't know where to go to
I hate how the rain soaks my clothes; I hate the sound of thunder
Why in the world am I here, I'm forever left to wonder.

The Mad Hatter never came and that’s how the story goes,
But Alice still hopes to see her Wonderland once again and she will – this her inward spirit knows. 


Psychology 101

Monday, 8 May 2017


I've learned that it is easy to blame other people, especially in times when we are displeased. So we cover up our mistakes (which could’ve been avoided) and cover up the poor judgment on our part by using anger as a defence mechanism; victimizing ourselves to the point where we feel attacked by the other person.

You feel indignant, distraught, disrespected and even assaulted, so you sulk. But in the moment you want anything but to feel helpless and guilty, so you react fervently by screaming and shouting; blaming the other person. And it does not resolve anything, neither does it diminish anything, it only escalates the problem so that it can be picked up from where it was left off. The cycle goes on.

It is terribly unfair you'll say, that you don't deserve the criticism - this is how you cover up, so that you can feel less bad about yourself. Indignation masks your reality so that helplessness can't take its toll on you.

Safeguarding your fragile emotions under your veil of anger is easy and it seems like the only choice, by habit, because such delicate emotions are not easy to bear.

To admit to these emotions might be difficult, especially when your ego doesn't allow you to do so, which makes confessing hard as it requires you to unmask your anger and hence become vulnerable - guilty, helpless, and unwise - which requires a very strong ego and a good understanding of your emotions.

And yet this is not exactly the talk of a conflict, not exactly. It is probably the kind of conflict where only one person has to face the blame to resolve the conflict, meaning that he has to admit to his mistakes. But since he doesn’t, he ends up in a real conflict.

Another kind of conflict is the one which is abetted by beliefs, something which can’t be avoided. It is a clash between indigenous beliefs and values which I, for a fact, never held so dearly to my heart, in fact, not at all. 

So to speak, the latter is the one I get into the most. More often than I would like to admit. It has been the case since childhood.

And at times I find myself just out of my depth because I know that only a negotiation or a compromise can resolve such conflict. And I can compromise too, but up to what degree, I do not know.

But I find this to be utterly unfair. Only because I am battling against something that I didn’t even choose, I’m being hurt over something I don’t want to associate myself with and yet I can’t be left without.

I find myself to be vulnerable. Tears they come so easily! And I am a so called “strong woman”.

Still I’m trying to understand the logic behind this horrible loop of conflicts for my beliefs and my way of life - where I consider myself a person with strong morals.

I wonder, when no solution can be dictated, and negotiation becomes a necessity, who shall incur the most loss?



La montagne de l'âme.

Thursday, 6 April 2017

I want to walk again, barefoot, on wet stones, see them glisten under the heat of the sun and watch them go glassy as it drizzles. I want to feel the wind in my hair, feel the rain on my cheeks, and feel the tenderness, the warmth come upon me imperceptibly slowly. There won't be no rush, no anxiousness, I know that the world will be out of my reach as red, blue, orange and green cloud my mind, yet it will be at my disposal. I want to watch my dreams and aspirations extend without them becoming distant, I want all profound and pointless questions to leave me, as if they never existed before. I want to try and reach for that child in me, for clarity, for honesty and for purity. 



 The child in me is swaying in the breeze,
For her the skies stay forevermore out of reach.
She is gazing into the realm of mountains,
The distance to which she soon starts counting.

She sat herself on a big wet rock,
Not caring a bit about her frail blue frock.
She smiles and rests her chin in her hands,
She sighs and talks to the birds about her plans.

The pink parasol lies beside her,
It's the most cherished present given to her by her mother
She then remembers her face and remembers why she ran away
It's because her irrefutable father asked her not to laugh so loud, ever again! 




She frowns, picks up a stone and throws it in the river,
If only she was big enough, she'd stay gone forever. 
She'd stay beside the mountains and beside the river,
She'd laugh however and dance whenever.

"But only if I was big enough, I'd stay here forever." She mumbles and falls asleep on the big wet rock. 

I yearn for that child in me, who once sat beside the river. I yearn for the girl who knew nothing about indifference, who got piqued by others asking her to grow up. And I wish I didn't listen to them, I wish I didn't grow so old with them so young.

Here people are standing in their balconies, enjoying the rains. That's as far as anyone seems to get in these "metropolitan cities" and I am no different than them. The weather's dark, the wind is making the leaves dance, mocking our languid posture. And all I can think about is the mountain of my soul, all I want is this surge of sustained noise to die down and the smell of wet soil to permeate my very heart, so that it pushes me towards a totality of innocence, towards that laugh which knew no boundaries, towards that senselessness which never separated itself from others no matter how condescending they got and towards those glowing cheeks on which even my tears smiled. 



Shift + Delete.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Delete.Delete.Delete. Delete.

Delete the thousand grumpy pictures, and the thousand happy ones
Forget the promises, forget the one
Take off your thick framed glasses, come undone
Blurred visions- Trepidations –Twisted tongue
Concentrate. Don’t extrapolate.
The phone call, the mail, the messages – all yet to be erased
The pink perfume bottle - yet to be emptied
And the strawberry scent- yet to be wiped off.

Delete.Delete.Delete.

Ring.Ring.Ring.

Stop psychoanalysing everything!
Missed call – now it flashes in red
Now the anxiety! Now the dreading! What if the phone screams again?

Delete.Delete.Delete.

I can pretend that it never existed, to lessen the pain
I can pretend to be an amateur at this game.

Pretend.Pretend.Pretend.

Pretend not to care, pretend that it’ll be alright, and pretend to be stone cold
But still shiver every time it touches my soul.
I pick up the phone, 15 seconds - I regret, I cherish, I love.

Bad.Bad.Bad.

Connecting the dots again- the hugs and kisses, the laughter, the cheery gullible fool and the guilt!

Delete again. But it all goes down the memory chute!

It isn’t Shift + Delete after all.

Intermittently deleting equals permanently saving which equals memories which equals emotions.

Just what I was afraid of!

I wish I could do Shift + Delete – to some instance at least

The murky details, the goodbyes or the guilt

But it all goes down the memory chute, again and again.

A hush falls,

The choice is still the same – to pretend at this very fine game. 


Silence...

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Certain words created a certain kind of silence. Certain innocuous sentences sometimes drove the conversation into a cul-de-sac, where there’s no way to carry the conversation forward and no way to rewind the conversation after it had run into that ditch. That much is the weight of those certain words. But as long as silence persists, even when there’s cessation of complete attention, that which is unspeakable still finds a way to be communicated.

All it needs is a sign.

A whole different world can be created in the ocean of silence, as long as it is left unexplained, because that is what makes it so unique, a different song for every set of ears, where different possibilities environ what may, sometimes, seem like the fact. 

Its incomprehensibility is fascinating. It's fascinating how revealing silence can be, how heavy some words can seem, so much so that you have to come to a halt and put yourself into a reverie so that you may have a few minutes to yourself, to get back in a time where the past now stood improbable then. And no amount of scintillating wit can outshine this kind of silence. It isn’t necessarily sad but it’s much more than that; it’s evocative. It's bittersweet. If you try to add another layer to it, it might be lethal.

This kind of silence is special. Not only to the person who's responsible for its inception, but also to the other person who tries to develop it into something comprehensible so that they could caper with its various possibilities. 

Most of the times, there’s no way to know what it’s trying to suppress or erase. So there’s a curiosity, an implacable need, to just know, to make the other person divulge to quench your own thirst. But it seldom happens, so you oddly stay connected to them. And that is what it creates. A connection.

What do they know, right? You probably know all that they try so hard not to show, but you can’t solicit for their validation because one can never be too sure about someone else’s feelings. They know that too. Here, all direct communication fails to hold the fort. This kind of silence is clever. 

But in your own mind, away from their thoughts or feelings, you’ve already created your patchy story which doesn't have an ending, and they're probably wondering how you're doing that. And you do too. So you might worry, that the picture you've painted might be too grotesque than what it really is, or too humdrum than how it really is. 

Sometimes you wonder if they really know that you know, and it is all that you search for in their eyes. A simple smile may reveal that they cherish it, a certain clairvoyant look may tell you how much they regret it; how much they wish to never have stumbled upon those words, how much they wish now that they could start the conversation all over again and feel a little less, how much they wish to learn to let go instead or...how much they wish that they could talk to you about it. But will you be interested? What if it's too much for you? What if you get disappointed to hear that it was just a first world problem? What if it was "just nothing"? What if...

This kind of silence is a perpetual interval, it's an empty space. A pause. A time left unexplained. It's a hole in the history; for both of you. So, how do you bring someone back from such silence? 

Do you simply touch their hand and gently squeeze it?
Do you keep looking at them, placidly deciphering, and watching all the small movements of their body until after it's over?
Do you just keep listening for a sigh and then say "Anyway..."?
Do you just nod your head and then look down and then up again?
Do you smile or do you feel sorry?
Do you laugh or do you frown?
Do you never say anything, do you never do anything?


And without saying anything, how do you end the silence which has now become part of the conversation itself, the conversation which amalgamated into this silence so effortlessly?  

And without saying anything, or on having missed the sign,


How do you tell them...that you understand?


And how do you know, that they know that you understand...




Cataclysmic.

Sunday, 1 January 2017

2010

In times of despair, 
The feelings she wished to have shared-
With the one that understood, as authentically as he ever could;
It was all she ever wanted.
And she'd be so incandescent, at the brilliant description of lonely nights
Given by people who loathed it, but who are too afraid to admit.
But this lonesome woman still cries, no matter how bright the moon shines.
No matter how satisfying being alone felt,
The love the other woman received from their loved "one", 
Repressed all love she has ever received from her loved ones.
Now there isn't a dearth of love in her life, and neither of importance.
But still, why does she feel unloved? And unwanted?
And why is that she stands alone, not one name to call her own.
Not one love to be proud of, not one love to boast. 
And how has this managed to relegate her to her worst? 
She is certainly Cinderella in reverse, but then she hasn't ever been mistreated. 
Surely, these twisted set of questions intermittently seduce her into its chimera.
In them she finds - a hand to hold, eyes to search.
She finds a voice, a name - and the universe of unreality which they have to offer. 
She obtains nothing more and nothing less; and nothing as satisfying as the reality. 
So, frustratingly and curiously, at the far end of the rainbow, she flounders with the questions,
That only he could answer. 
But before the end, she meets him in the middle.
He says - You're the best I've ever known, you've been brought to me so that I can call you my own.
She cries.
But at the end, he isn't there, so she slumps to the floor,
And persists to cry. 


 
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