A boring magical afternoon

As you sit in a cafe, sipping on to your warm delicious watery tea, very bored, looking around dryly, you wonder. What are you bored of? You look at people walking, and going on about their daily lives, very mechanically. What is it? What do you expect them to do? Sing and dance? Kiss and smile? Fly? When all that you do is sit there in your corner with sloth-like eyes, looking like you have given up on everything, tolerating everything for the heck of it. You bloody hypocrite, what do you expect?

You hear words, and watch actions. And you wonder again. About the temporary words spoken, and the meaningless, momentary actions performed. Why speak those words, and do something, when it’s for that moment, just for that moment? You keep on wondering. As words and actions bludgeon your senses, you wonder if they are sane, or if you are sane. Could there be a grey area, where both of you could be sane, or insane, co-existing? You do not want any strength from soft and sweet vocabularies. You do not want strength from hugs and kisses, because those things are not meant for you, those are meant for the doer, who moves on when she is bored of you, and comes back when she wants comfort in comforting you. You seek strength from the nature around, that nature who does not give a fuck about others’ businesses, and keeps doing what she has to everyday. Like a selfish child, you cling on to her.

To keep your sanity, or insanity, intact, you write. And wonder a little more. Is there any magic? Do you need to see actual sparks or go to magic shows to see what magic is? Where is it? People say – hey dumbo, get your grades straight, apply for a job, that’s what life is.

You see people having sex for pleasure, and marrying for emotional security. You wonder why sex is not so much related to love in this world, as much as marriage is. You keep wondering some more. Are you alive because you are in denial that there is no magic, or is it because you know there is magic, when others have given up. You vain you, and you smile smugly. If people think you are wearing rose-tinted glasses, you are crazy enough to tell them, that you will carry those glasses to your grave.

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle” – Albert Einstein.

Heart full of jellies, and kidney full of beans

Heart full of jellies, and kidney full of beans

I think of had-beens, I think of would-have-beens

Bus bumping on a winding road, making you hungry and thirsty

Ferris wheels and beer and carousels, making you dizzy

Photographs etched and lost, of crazy laughter and meaningful touches

Whispering your songs into ears, and laughing some more

As you lay on grass, and talk about quinces and stars and old relationships

And then you see the stars again, this time with eyes closed

Finding ways on winding roads, once again, you say your goodbyes

Topsy-turvy, smiling-hiding, sweet nothings

Sweet smell of a dark bedroom, a bedroom dark deliberately

Hands inside hands, warm and cozy

Stars in the sky, made of bears, small and big bears

More goodbyes, more hiding, touching hearts, or may be, a heart?

For the final goodbye should not be there ever

But if it is, will she ever know? Or will she lose the firefly, forever?

The fever raises to a high pitch

And culminates as a gentle sneeze

Sillily, jellies and beans thought of this afternoon

It takes courage…

It takes courage to write an unassuming, beautiful story. To write it without the fear of judgement. It takes so much courage to write such a story, that when you have that courage, and that story with you, you don’t even need the courage anymore.

It also takes courage to read such a story, or watch it. It takes immense courage. You make a promise to the author, that you are going to give your 100% to the story. That you are not going to get distracted. That you are not going to mix it with any other story. That you are not going to be lazy, or careless. That you are not going to relate it to your life, because it’s a new story, and not your story. On that note, you might think that you are sailing in the same ship as many other people. But no, you are sailing alone, as every one else. Talk less, and listen more, and you will know that his story is his, and yours, yours to keep. Your story can never be the same as his, even if you plagiarize, or live vicariously.

Coming back on track, it takes courage to read a new story. I lack that courage now. I cannot make a promise, that my heart won’t flutter out of the window permanently if I read it. I can’t promise, that I will not relate the story to my life. I cannot promise, that I will cry more, or laugh more, than I would otherwise have. I don’t possess the courage today, to read a new story. So I pick my favourite story, that I have read so many times before, and start reading it. I don’t have to make any promises to the author, though the author, like always, promises that the story will shake the ground off my feet. It will make me smile, and make me cry like a fool in the end. It’s a story that I know so well, and so I pick it up once again. But I do not keep my promise. I stop reading it for some reason.

PS: Unsaid promises, when broken, break you the most.

PPS: You have been successful reading a story if you have cried for the STORY,  and not for yourself.

How she laughed at him

The boy had devil’s horns. Everyone saw them. She saw them too, and laughed in her head. She saw that what was on his head was plastic. Plastic devil’s tiara. The cheap one. She laughed, and called him a fool. In her head.

He tucked in his wings. Pristine, real wings. He hid them well from the world. She laughed in her head. He was careful about how he hid the wings, but teeny tufts of feathers peeped out, that only she saw. She laughed, and called him a fool. In her head.

He acted as if he did not care. He shrugged his shoulders loudly every time he did not care. At the same time, he curved his lips to make an inverse U, to show that he did not care. But deep inside he blamed himself for everything. He walked away to shrug off the blames, with a heavy heart. She laughed, and called him a fool. In her head.

Everytime he failed, she fell a little more, and she laughed a little more.

It did not matter to her anymore, if she was only imagining the plastic horns, the real wings, the heavy heart, that he carried with him. She had never imagined such beauty before. She had never felt this way before. She had never felt the pain of sweet wounds, that would probably never heal. He had destroyed everything for her, by building a new universe inside her. Her imagination was the purest, and the truest thing ever.

Just another day

I walk down the serene lane…the busy lane…

The wind blows, trying hard to push away the hood on my head, but fails. When I think that it’s about to succeed, I cheat it, I start walking backwards.

The sun shines upon faces, tiny faces of the kids running around, beautiful faces of girls and boys looking for the right direction, an old man stooping with the world’s weight weighing down his tired shoulders. He halts many times, to give way to the kids, the youngsters. Hardly anyone notices him, and his torn jacket.

I walk down the lane, with an untold story in my head, songs playing in my ears without any earphones, words dancing on the tip of my tongue, protected by unmoving lips.

I walk with tiny steps, with giant leaps.

I reach home, make myself some tea, drink it as I stare outside my window, looking at the serene, busy lane.

It’s just another beautiful day.

Love waits…patiently

You hold on to the cold railings that join storeys

And love waits patiently…in the webs of your fingers

You sit in a bus, with the wheels that won’t stop moving on hard tar

And love waits patiently…in your stares, inside the window, outside the window

You look at all the moving hands of the wall clock

And love waits patiently…at the hinge that joins all the clock’s hands, as an unmoving dot

You look at the sky, at the sun, the moon, the stars, the changing seasons

And love waits patiently…blinking as a star you had once pointed at, a hidden star

Love waits…patiently…