Sunday, August 17, 2014

Guess who.

I think I am dying. In fact, I know I’m dying. I have never been anybody’s destination, only the most essential accessory of their journey. My appropriation has only been done by poets across the planet. Those, for who I am of high value, have made me a part of their religion. I have existed alongside jealousy, anger and sorrow. You will find me at the cusp of love and fear.

-  Hope

Friday, August 15, 2014

The hopelessness of logical dreams

I don’t fly up high in my dreams anymore. I don’t get to have coffee with Bollywood stars; no playing with snakes. Not even making love to others’ boyfriends! Since a few nights my dreams have started becoming logical. They have started making sense, linking one scenario to another, sliding smoothly from one frame to another. This is just sad. My visions include convincing my parents for something that I stand for, receiving appreciation for some crap that wasn't even worth it, handling rejection for the work I actually gave my best to and getting my feeling crushed by someone I feel deeply for. What is this? Why am I seeing reality in my dreams? Why is life stalking me when I close my eyes, ready to be transported to another world of colours, beauty, humour and horror?

This is downright unfair. I have started to dream increasingly infrequently of people I have lost in real life. How do I make life understand that I can’t lose the sight of these people in my thoughts? Why is it depriving me of their dark yet comforting company? My mind at night becomes the site for perfectly written scripts from end to end, like that film-maker who is afraid to risk his narrative with open endings. I have to say it- the imaginations of my mind have become utterly boring. I used to be a bold heroic character in the romantic imaginings of the night- confessing my love in the most poetic manner, daringly staring into his eyes while he blushes and then laughs at my audacity. And now,I feel a tangible desperation to say it but simultaneously nudged by a sensible silence to stop. Damn! I hate this! I miss the magical times. I do not wish to dream anymore and real life has too many self-proclaimed ‘rationals’. I feel hopeless. Wish my visions would return. 

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Does it matter?

Being human was never as complicated. In a world with fluctuating moralities, humanity has worn a thousand gowns. But I don't wonder about that any more. I wonder about 'being' more than human. What are we? Who are we? The first question is probably easy to answer, courtesy evolutionary science. The second is what captures my imagination. Are we just a body with our brain as our God and brain as our Devil? Who owns our soul? Who defines us? How do we interpret our own selves? Are we how the society views us? Or how we view ourselves? And even in the society, how different people classify us, based on their own experiences and their interpretations by the others. These questions form a mesh in my mind- overlapping, knotting and tearing each other apart.  And then I realise- I am only a human, with a mind that is still awaiting the ultimate truth. So I move on to the only important question in life that, according to me, we ever need to think about- 'Does it matter'?

Friday, June 27, 2014

An Untitled Blogpost

Sweetness is alluring. Like the innocence of a rabbit leading you to a dark forest. That pitch dark space where everything leaves you, even your shadow. Happiness isn’t exciting unless it is holding a dagger behind your back and you know about it. Love doesn’t feel passionate unless it is on a deadline. Sorrow is not responsible for any of it. It is the joy that creates all the fear, the inhibitions and its conventions. You don’t feel happy in life unless it wrongs you in some way, you keep feeling there is something wrong. And ultimately when something bad does happen, you love to be the one saying, “I knew it! I knew life would screw me over” and then take pride in the fact that you predicted something negative (which was bound to happen at some damn point later). Why?

The answer lies sometimes in our own insecurities, and other times in the intense philosophies which poets around the world offer time and again as a part of a race to establish themselves as the greatest lovers. They keep giving us yardsticks we cannot match up to. I blame them for making tragedy an integral part of romance; not only that but a necessary and unfortunately, a sufficient condition for some. Now we feel incomplete even when aren’t particularly aware of what is missing, thanks to the instilled poetic insecurities. I blame our own minds too, to always want to see what we cannot see, to feel what only are words out of someone’s cruel mind. We all search only and only for pain, under the garb of seeking happiness. We search solely for chaos while claiming to seek solace. We want only the things we have lost- not the ones we have and certainly not the ones we might be blessed with in the future. Hypocrisy is more a part of us than we would like to admit.

Monday, April 21, 2014

The Beguiling Love That Never Was (Part-I)

The whistle-blower of love is silent tonight. He had quite a lot of his favourite scotch. His arguments from the evening sounded hollow to his own self now. He never discarded the cynics; instead, he was the one to welcome their views with such acceptance that they were impressed with his sense of communicative justice. Freedom of expression, he said, is what makes you know more about people and that’s the way there would be less hatred and more love. He never needed to word it all out- his calm persona did that for him. It was a stifling formality of attending a party that night; he had to concede to the repeated requests of a dear friend. He thought he’d wear his blue shirt which was gifted to him by a woman who he had helped long ago. His friends thought she liked him, but he would never know and she would never show. Or maybe she did. Heck, he just decided to wear the white casual shirt and headed out for what was going to be quite an eventful evening. Life-altering would be a more appropriate term, perhaps.

Like a camel’s hump, he had his own depository of the things that were vital for him- his memories. A laborious walk down the memory lane was the last thing on his mind when she walked in. This woman resembled someone he knew, but he couldn't remember who. He looked at her with suspicion, narrowing his brows, stiffening his lips, trying to place her, but failed. He was not in a mood to think much about it and dismissed it as just another déjà vu moment. The party was taking the form of a classroom, where groups had formed and topics of discussions were fixed. None of the intense discussions seemed inviting to him. Cars, gadgets, gossip, food, pay packages, wannabe junkie narrations and horror stories! The party indeed was a compressed world in itself. He decided to retire early for the night and moved from his chair to look for his friend. The host friend was busy talking to the same woman he had seen earlier. Fifteen minutes later, he learnt that she was a banker, hailed from Bengal, living with two flatmates in the city and that her pet dog was suffering from an upset stomach. As she was talking about her life, he was wondering how to process those bits of unnecessary information. She seemed quite pleased to find company in a noisy surrounding though; perhaps she was as lost. There was nothing particularly striking about her, she was quite ordinary, he thought. Ordinary, but sweet. And kind too, he made a mental note, while she helped a young drunk lady get up on her feet, took her to the ladies’ room and helped her clean up.

He could feel his head becoming lighter now. He offered to go along with her when she declared that she was going to drop the young lady home. He had no idea why he said that and was even more surprised when she gladly agreed to his proposition. It would be nice to have some company on my way back, she said. It was quite a fearless and kind offer that she had made to the host, considering nobody wanted to take the pain of taking care of an ‘irresponsible young woman’ who ‘should have known better’. He seemed more interested in her words now, solely because he thought she deserved a good conversation, at the least. Talking to strangers about conjugal relationships has been a favourite past-time for all of us at some point or the other. He was no different but she brought it up first. No, my wife is not waiting for me at home, nor is my girlfriend, so we could go back to the party if you want, he uttered in response to her first question. Did he really say that? Was he really considering going back to the party he wanted to run away from? But the words were out of his mouth before he could think them over, damn the scotch!

Friday, March 21, 2014

Sense...and a little madness.

‘Nothing worse than living in
A loveless place’; the words of you,
How they laugh at me now.

Countless conversations,
With no promises made;
How conveniently beautiful,
The words of you.

I’d rather be a wild fowl
Than a sparrow of gold;
Ah, the words of you;
How they’ve spoilt me rotten.

Such pride ignited by love,
So much vanity in vain,
Good lord, these words from you,
Of my beauty and your pain.

‘Almost possessive about you,
Like the lyrics of my favourite song.
Tenderness needs protection’, dazzling lies;
The words of you.

Now I’m sitting in a corner, by that
Lakeside nobody’s ever trodden,
Lamenting a future loss, hearing the
Last few words from you.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

बैक टू स्क्वेर वन.

"दिमाग़ी पागलपन एक बीमारी है". प्रतिदिन हम सैकड़ों सवाल पूछते हैं. हर परम्परा, चलन, रूढ़ीगत मान्यता की खोज-बीन करके उसे आधुनिकता के मापदंडों पर परखते हैं. फिर पागलपन के साथ इस तरह का भेद भाव? मानवीय संवेदनायें बदल रही हैं. हम सब तनाव-ग्रस्त हैं. अकेलेपन में न जाने क्या ढूँढ रहे हैं. बड़ी अपेक्षायें हैं इस एकांत से. आशा है ये हमें अपने आप से मिलवाएगा. पर उनका क्या जिन्हें ऐसी स्थिति सिर्फ़ अंधकार की ओर धकेलती है? ये एकांत जब खाने को दौड़ने लगे, तो कौन जवाबदेह होना चाहिए? इतनी गहराई में जाने से तो अच्छा है कि आँखें मूंदकर मान लिया जाए- "दिमाग़ी पागलपन एक बीमारी है".

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Midnight Musings.


How do you do that?
Having just the right amount
Of emotions, no more no less?
And I'm just here collecting
My thoughts, saving them
Before they spill out.


Your love is like grammar-
It just HAS to be a certain way.
Or maybe we just speak 
Different languages now. 


You say you're a non-conformist,
I believe you.
But those meaningless words?
Day after day?
Hour after hour?
I believed them too.


It scares me that I still see you,
Beyond the infinite gap between us.
Sadly, your memories aren't 
As evasive as you.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Solitude and I.

Enjoying solitude is one of the luxuries one enjoys. I wonder if the previous generation could afford this. It has almost become fashionable to glorify not wanting anyone in our life who loves us. People are quite boastful about the fact that they are pretty indifferent to the ones who love them- even if they are family. There is a certain pride they hold in being alone- with no one to care about. I wonder why that is. What sort of a fad is this? Maybe this is some new-age defence mechanism or a fashionable trait which seems so irresistible to fall for.

This hypocrisy has its origins in cynicism, which in turn has its roots in idealism. Why does others' solitude seem so attractive? Is it because you feel your attraction might change it? Is it because we derive a kick out of the fact that someone is sharing thoughts about his/ her solitude with us? What is so attractive about a person who just wants to be left alone? More over, are they this way out of choice or out of sheer tiredness of having to try once again? 

Just like we expect too much out of a relationship, there can be inadvertently high suppositions about solitude too. Solitude disappoints us more often than we'd like to admit but letting anyone in on this secret will mean that you aren't happy with your current state and nobody wants to confess that, do they? It is not that people who enjoy being alone are lying. I, in no way, am against their choices, but it is tempting to point out that even when they do get tired of their desolation, they hesitate to acknowledge it. That is what I have an issue with. 

Your solitude is your own wilderness, your own world where you and you alone define the rules but all I suggest is- should you ever feel that ought to be changed, should you want a loved one to enter into that world of yours, don't hesitate to speak your mind. Love makes life worthwhile, desolation is just a selfish temptress, an experience to be remembered but not to live your life for!