November 2016

It’s a metaphor 

“The work of the eyes is done.Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

I sit in front of him watching him like the painting that hangs in a dark cornered room of his place, admiring as the sun sets on his face and traces every inch of his perfectly aligned face, highlighting that dark scar under his eye like the water sparkles with the touch of a sun ray. The orange light emitting out of the sun slides slowly as the sun drops, drops to his chest where his beating heart resides. The white of his t-shirt reminds me of the white of the sky before dawn and the sunlight tracing his face reminds me of the pink hue of the sky after dusk.

The movement of his lips register in my head like never to be forgotten, the laughter touches the inside of my heart, waking it from a deep slumber. He doesn’t know how I create music from the strings of him still dangling from the insides of my heart. 

He has Braille written on him, waiting to be touched and read, when touched with tenderness his beating heart warms my cold hands and the warmth reaches deep within. The wind blows and brushes his hair as though wanting to continue a long lost conversation.

He turns around and starts walking and his feet with each step reach a mile in my heart. The brown in his eyes turns golden when the faded sunlight enters, he walks away into the darkness with abundace of light in his body, lighting up the whole darkness. His arms call out for poetry to be written on them, my hands reach out for his to write sonnets on them and serenade them when he walks away.

As the sun sets finally with its last light emitting, his silhouette appears against the black backdrop. He works his way towards the darkness, clutching the light tight in his fist. He stops midway, opens his fist to emptiness.


There’s only darkness now. 


A Memory

“Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free?”

 – John Keats


I haven’t really figured out yet how memory works. How suddenly our brain decides to show us couple of events that happened some time ago. How it lets us live those moments all over again. No matter how brutal or how happy things were, it forces us to let those memories seek something deep within us that we thought was long forgotten.

Now, I don’t really know how the brain functions, but I do know that a touch, a smell, a kiss once registered cannot be forgotten no matter how hard one tries. How beautiful and brutal at the same time it is to be able to relive any moment.

Hands clutching the hair, legs intertwined, fingers running along the spine, lips caressing the soft collar bones, the synchronized moving of the chest, the silence in between doing all the taking and the brain preserving all of this as it happens.

For a long time I’ve wondered whether it is possible to completely forget someone. Or if it is easier to push away the thoughts of that person when they haunt you or let them destroy you inch by inch.

I wonder if the traces that they leave on your body or your heart ever leave you, the taste of their lips or the touch of their warm hands on your cheeks or the hands making their way from the neck to the collar bones to where the heart beats.

Memory is a tricky thing when it comes to wanting to forget someone. You could be standing at the kitchen counter at 2 pm and it all comes back rushing to you and there is nothing that you can do to stop it from destroying you. There is nothing one is able to do except for letting it devour you bit by bit. One can stand up against the power of the memories but doesn’t stand a chance to defeat it for it never yields.

Our life if we see is one constant battle of collecting and adjusting memories. One moment you’re living the moment the next you find yourself reminiscing about the moment. Once you’ve entered this trance that the memories put you in, it is nearly impossible to come out of it same as before. Whether it destroys you or it makes you strong enough to fight back. The latter does not happen quite often because of the human tendency of treasuring every bit of life in a box, locking it and then never looking at the box again. The box remains untouched unless triggered and once triggered pours out against every possible levee. These memories make a home inside, working as both poison and an elixir. With one drop it fills you up with euphoria and with another mourning of the moment that has already happened and now exists in this weird world which is beyond reach.

So, we keep these memories close to our heart expecting it to warm the cold and lonely nights, only to leave us cold and deserted.

Thats what a memory does to you. It rips your apart with its bare hands, leaves you on the floor with your insides flooding, breaking and making you. And now without your notice, your life reeks of all those memories.

Are You Happy?

I cannot even imagine the number of times I’ve been asked this question in the 22 years of my life. And I haven’t had the chance to actually sit and contemplate what this question really means.

Does it ask me whether i am happy in general or in that moment or just this neurotic person who is insanely bright beam of happiness that lights the lives of people.

Well, if you were to ask me if i was happy, I assure you that the answer would be, “No”.

You know why, because just being happy is not satisfying enough. Striving for something that is way beyond your reach or fixing the broken pieces of someone who is beyond repair, making a melody out of their broken shards, painting their monochromes to colour, living as life comes to you, raw and undone, that is what counts for living and not just searching for happiness in this meek  world.

I know that being happy is a choice but sometimes life makes you stand at a cross-road wondering which to choose, the one that will lead you to your happiness or the one that will lead you to something beyond the mere concept of being happy.

If you take this world and remove the happy from it, all there remains is realness. All the people without the masks of pretense. That’s what happiness has come to in this world, a false belief that a person has to have a smile on his face to survive.

No, the world was not built by bunch of people smiling, it was built by survivors. And how do you think people survive in this world? By smiling? No, by finding it in them to face this masked world with their bare, scarred faces.

It does not mean that i don’t have my moments or i don’t enjoy being alive and being around the people that make my heart flutter, it just means that my life shall not be a journey towards something which is not and will never be a destination.

Happiness cannot be termed as a destination which one has to work towards in his life, instead happiness is this trifling moment that passes us by so quickly that we cannot even hold on to it.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t have anything against happiness or people who’re genuinely happy in their lives, I just feel that this word has been given so much importance that when faced with any minute hitch the person loses the ability to believe in it.

So, if you ask me whether I am happy, the answer shall always be a no because, happiness is never that ever-shining bright star, it’s that meteor that occurs rarely but is worth the wait.

For Better or For Worse

When I entered my teens I was sure there was something wrong with me, being a geeky kid with big glasses and a fat body, I knew people were not going to look at me the same way they did at other girls of my age. I was shy, awkward and tried too hard to fit in. So, when every high-on-hormones teen was getting a boyfriend or a girlfriend to spend their time with, I was either busy with a book or lying on the dirty ground surrounded by three to four stray dogs.

I was the girl who was always found squealing at the sight of a dog, any dog, rather than getting excited over what was the latest fad. I would pet any stray that i found without worrying about how dirty he might be or what diseases he might carry, I would just look at those eyes and would get fixated. I would gladly sit beside them, feed them off my hands and let them have their fun with me. I would stop my vehicle to pet a dog and to talk to the person walking it.

People often asked me the reason for this crazy love for dogs and not any other animal. The reason was quite simple.

I was a kid who wasn’t allowed to have a pet in the house because of the mess they create. My dad wouldn’t let me bring any stray inside the house for a simple reason that I might get too attached and it would hurt me when it would leave us. Well, not having one by my side everyday hurt anyway.

There were times when my hands craved to hold the soft, tiny and magical paws which people said have healing powers, to be able to cup his face in my hands as he licked my face, to come home to a wagging tail, to tell stories to people of how he threw up on my assignment and i had to make it all over again, to be able to look at him and smile like an insane person because of how full of love I was. To be able to watch him do nothing but lie with me and make you me as if the whole world was mine  to conquer.

There were times when at night I would lie in my bed, alone, thinking about something bad that had happened that day and no one to just sit and share that silence with me. There were times when i would come home from college in a dire need of a hug and would find my room empty. There were times when people exhausted me and I needed some escape. There were weeks that went by without even smiling, but just the sight of one dog would brighten my day as the first ray of sunlight falling on the ocean, like the moonlight lighting up a dark alley.

These were time times that i needed those magical paws by my side to help me realize that there is still some good left in this world.

For a girl who hasn’t had the chance to own a dog or to fall in can’t-eat-can’t-breathe-around-him-can’t-stop-thinking-about-him love, the mere sight of one dog on the road or in the college campus would fill up with such inexplicable joy , joy that people have never been able to understand, joy that brought a huge smile on the face along with some tears to the eyes. Joy that would remain in her heart for days.

Now, I am a 22 year old and I still don’t own a dog. Coming home to no guy doesn’t hurt as much as coming home to no dog, trust me.But I’ve made my peace with the fact that I was not made to own just one dog, i was made to have as many dogs as my house can hold. I was made to fill my house with these rainbow pooping creatures who’ve made a very unhappy girl, ecstatic time and again.

And there will come a time when I will own the biggest dog-petting zoo, where kids like me who never got the chance to own a dog, will be able to spend hours with the dogs and their pups, playing, laughing and calling them all their own.

I will help in forgetting for a little while that this world is a broken place to live in, especially without a dog. And also, that nothing fixes a broken soul better than a dog. Or lots of dogs.

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