HIM (A Poem)

The first time when I saw him,

His eyes pierced my wriggling soul, 

As if I was his very goal. 

And the touch of his hand,

It was the melting snow on a winter morning,

Cold but warm. 

Whenever he breathed out, his fragrance
Clung to my radiance.
A fragrance, I now smell, feeling him near me.
Beside me. Like it had happened on that cold wintry day.   

When we walked together till the skies turned grey. 

But little did I know that his touch would become a smoke,

Escaping from my soul, making my skin choke. 

And the holes that he fabricated in my wriggling soul

Would soon start aching. 

Creating the cracks; forcing it into breaking. 

I believed his eyes, and the melting snow,
But little did I know that even the eyes can lie,
Eventually making the heart cry. 

And now I sit, in between the four walls,
Unable to walk and only crawl. 

The heart stings with pain, 

Invisible and vain. 

Nobody knows the agony,
Questioning the extent of my sanity, 

But now I know, that this is just a state,
And soon it will pass away. 

The Watchman

Each day the night fell upon him, engulfing him, calling him out with a loud shriek. And each night he would surrender himself to the sumptuous hours of darkness with a post in his hand, strong as the darkest hours and a thin muffler swaddled around his thin lips covering his long curled moustaches. 

"Darkness." He would whisper every time, trying to let go of the fear in his heart. 

The word was like a muse for his power and strength, with which he walked the streets lit by the streetlights trying to keep up to his duty.

Daily he would walk silently, pounding the post till 3:35 AM. Although he made no sound it was his mind that raged with a fire of thoughts, burning regularly. And it was those thoughts that kept him going throughout the hours of darkness. 

Thoughts of getting his wage at the end of the month and watch his family smile out of destitution. A conviction of running away from the night someday in order to work in the daylight, letting the bright rays of the Sun pierce through the pores of his skin. 

While his mind was a battlefield, each night, he tried acquainting himself with the Darkness with a belief of surviving it someday. He tried talking to her, blew into her ears, told her stories that he borrowed from his childhood, touched her face - peering into her eyes, touching her lips. But nothing worked. It continued to scare him, constantly. His efforts - all in vain. 

But that night, things were different. 

He came out letting out huge steps. He walked with a bounce while he had the same post in his same sulky hands. 

That night the moment he stepped out and started walking, he didn't strike the wooden post, instead he first glanced at the muffin like clouds stitched to the clear sky and smiled.

Maybe it was his new strategy of acquainting himself with the night. And thus, after he did as if it were a ceremonial activity, he started pounding his post. 

While his hands and post did its work, his eyes twinkled the stars he delightfully gazed at. 

He then searched for the Moon waiting for the clouds to move. 

"Voila." He cried softly and a tear fell from his eyes the moment he located the Moon. He wanted no more to work in the daylight. He was already in love with the night and the night couldn't love him less. 

It was then he realized that it was not only the night that demanded his love but the treasures that she owned and daily carried with her, that needed him. 

That morning he went his home and told his kids the story, borrowed from the night. 

WORDS (A Poem)

I wonder how words can pierce
the core of our hearts.
Maybe it is these hollow words which
resonate with the hollow heart.

Each day, each night the ocean grows deeper
The emptiness is scratched and dug,
With bogus oaths leaving us in an appalling dusk.

Is it easier said than done?
Then why do I find saying, the most difficult?
Maybe it is this murk that turns people into a cynical.

It is only action that can heal
As for the words- they break,
Raping us, of all our zeal.

It is all pretense and lies in a misty guise,
As the words know no wisdom,
It is the meaning that does.
They are empty; they are worthless.
Exactly like the sound of 'word' itself,
Lacking in firmness. 

Catharsis (A Poem)

What I write is the pain I endure,

With each trickling tear it is my soul that gets torn.

People read the syllables I write,
Each day and each night which is not so bright.

Nobody knows that all I want is for them to feel the pain,

That I have endured time and again.

But maybe, it is not the pain. 

It is just a cathartic experience that I gain,

After each word is spilled onto some paper that is plain. 

Therefore, I hope to exist in what I write,
So that I can feel the catharsis and then look at the sky.
Wishing to write this prodigious world,
With each word that I have ever loved.

Happily Depart (A Poem)

Each morning I want to wake up by your side
And feel your warm body against mine. 

Then look into your hazel eyes
And brush those soft hair aside. 

I want to savour the taste of your morning mouth
And sink into the demons inside your soul. 

I want to align my chaos with yours 
And try to bring order into the world of ours. 

I wish to feel the rhythm of your heart 
And want my heart to follow its path. 

And then, if ever we fall part

I will have the order speak its command,
Set you free and let myself happily depart. 

To the Unnamed

And you are back again like the coolest breeze that you contain in your soul, to haunt me for days. I thought, it will be a little late this time. The October didn't contain much of you. But I guess, I was too naive to understand your fallacy. And the fact that nothing can stop you, scares me. I wonder if you will still act dark and mean like you did the last year? Did you change? Or are you still the same? Will you cage me again in your scary sights, sleepless and wintry nights? Please be a little lenient this time! Please be a little calm. Let the river of happiness flow through the walls of my soul and let rest of the things suspend in a little corner. 

Don't allow melancholy to flow in with you. Please ask the cottony snow to be merciful. Ask it not to conquer the city of my heart.
Let the moon and the stars breathe along with the vast clouds that you bring with yourself. Don't suffocate the surroundings with the cold and depressing puff of air.
The leaves, they fall as they hear you come. The birds, they start strengthening their nest out of the fear you induce. Me, I sit here, pleading you to be soft and humble.
I wonder why can't you just freeze where you are! why cannot you just stop melting and flowing aimlessly?
But not everything you wonder turns out to be true. It is all an illusion and that is why they are called the wonders. 
But again, at least I can request you! I don't hate you. Hatred kills us from within. It just puts me at unrest. It appears stormy, cold and dark.
So please, let me savour you this year and I will savour you forever.
Let me cuddle the wind and nuzzle the snowflakes. Let me hold you, gently and live with you, so that the next time when you come, neither of us feel alone.

Paradoxes

"This life, this month, this day, I am never going to forget. Not because so many things happened but because so many things became a memory. You know, it is good for a moment to pass and turn into a memory. It makes sure that you don't face the same thing again until you consciously travel in your conscious." she wrote her mind and pressed the enter button after considering what she had written. For a while, pondering over the fact that he don't care. That he would never care. In this life, at-least no.

He received the text, immediately. Swiping down the notification panel, he further swiped the notification, not pressing it but elongating it in order to read it then and there so that he can ignore the words that might pierce him. He read, focusing, manipulating and interpreting each word.
It was difficult for him to resist a reply, after all it was 'her' message that he had received. He thought, pressurizing his neurons to think and stir a reply.

"I am glad that it turned into a memory for you. But don't forget that I am still alive, if not with you then at-least in your memory that you would avoid reaching out to. But how paradoxical it all seems. 'Never going to forget' and then 'travel in your conscious' to unravel it. How forgetting is linked with remembering a memory, which is already forgotten the moment it has passed. All I want is you to be happy and do whatever makes you happy." he typed and sent without thinking even once about what he had written. "People leaving often makes you happy, and today I am the happiest. And I always did the 'whatever' that will make me happy. Like letting you go and more than that, finding a reason that makes you leave." she replied in a tone too careless for him to handle. That was not what he has expected; for her to not care.

They were just two paradoxes who tried to live together but eventually repelled each other.

A Reader In Solace

Sometimes I wish if someone could just walk and ask me about the books I wish to read, the wisdom I long to gulp. I hope that there will be a day when I would wake up to my favorite books and smell the words and hug the colors they would offer. Nothing tempts me more than the paperbacks and hardcovers with yellow pages printed in black. I reside where the books are! And simultaneously reside inside the books I read. And therefore, it is not just one life that I live, it is the life of the books that I read and live. Sometimes I wonder about how crazily one can fall in love with so many lives and cherish them altogether.

Books are so much better than humans, making you cry but making you better with each silently moving tear. Hurting you but eventually loving you too, unlike humans.
I am the words I read, the books I love and the silence I breathe.
People call books, a fantastical world, aloof from the reality it is the best bitter picture of the reality.
I didn't experience much and yet I experienced so much at the same time, joining them from star to star and making a constellation.
I lost myself when people had left, feel dejected umpteen times but words etched in the books always paved the way towards harmony after each page I read. I was not born reading but I definitely intend to die while reading. A reader in solace.
And if ever you fail to find me, search at the places where the books are, search in the places where meaningful words lie, in between the curves of the words and the spaces that connect them and you would find me in a position, better for everyone.

Stoic Calm

"Life itself is unhappy", this is what I heard in the middle of a lecture while my mind wandered in the outside world, searching for stillness. 

For a moment, I felt someone consoling me, telling me that it is okay to be lost, to be sad about something that happened days ago, but life is really an unhappy one and we are constantly consoling ourselves with the lie of how beautiful it is. 

I then woke up from the arms of the Morpheus, this time concentrating on what my lecturer had to say [she knew that I was depressed, she knew that something was bothering me, and I know this because she questioned me about what was disturbing me so much]. 

Sometimes all we need is someone to randomly ask us about our state of mind and she did that. Her question soothed me; she cared. 

And it was then that I got to know about what she was teaching. 

                                                                                   Riya Jain ©

'Acceptance of the fact that life is unhappy resulting in ones indifference towards joy and dejection.'

It was called the Stoic philosophy. Where "the Stoics taught that destructive emotions resulted from errors in judgement, and that a sage, or a person of "moral and intellectual perfection", would not suffer such emotions... that the best indication of an individual's philosophy was not what a person said but how that person behaved." 

And then I realized that how important it was for me to be a Stoic. Life would be so much better when you stare at the moon and it makes you feel nothing. When you walk on the road and don't feel the need of having someone to walk with. When you could just be detached, disinterested and neutral. 

And when it seems hard to forget something, it is these little philosophies that reincarnate you into a better self, a stronger self. 

“Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.” 

-  Markus Zusak 

Shrunken Human

"Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are

I had to find you
Tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart"

- Coldplay

You are the world, shrunk into a human. 
Why do you have to search for smiles outside yourself then?
Don't get consumed by what other people do to you, be your own consumption. 
You are enough for me, so let your little heart dream, of not the man who kissed you yesterday but the self who has been with you since years and will be there tomorrow. Don't let that self, bend down. 

You are a survivor; you can survive anything and everything. Rise above the love that hurts you, the hatred that stops you and makes your mind wander hopelessly amongst the flocculent clouds. Walk out of the mind corralled with the thoughts of someone who does not care, of something that splinters your spirit. 
You are a map, find the empty spaces and fill it with the happiness not given by the 'other'. Perfuse the ocean with the echos of your soul. Occlude the States not with the bright light that blinds you like the darkness, but the sunlight that fuses life into the body each morning. 
Yesterday he held your hand and he felt good, he kissed your neck, your ear and his heartbeats escalated. Today, hold your hand and make yourself feel better, turn your head away and don't let the scars of his kiss remain. 
Walking away is difficult, but it is not impossible either. Leaving memories behind is harrowing but they will fade with time. 
Work on yourself and let the love, love you; let the care, care for you; let the brokenness surface you in a way that it heals you. 
Be your purest self and I will love you the way I loved him yesterday, the way I carried his heart in mine, the way I took care of the new book I bought; the way, I take care of the words I write. 

You are the world shrunk into a human and a single person cannot break this world down.

She Was Alive, Beside Me

And again I stood outside the same cafe, where I saw her, sipping from her mug of coffee with her long fingers wrapped around the mug, as if warming her cold hands on a freezing wintry day.
Wait? Do you know me? No.
We never met.
Hi! myself, Kabir Malhotra, a Literature student, by fate.
So, let me begin again.
I stood outside the same cafe, where I saw her, sipping from her mug of coffee with her long fingers wrapped around the mug, as if warming her cold hands on a freezing wintry day.
She looked weird, distorted, her features - sharp, her fingers - long, her hands - slim. The word 'slender' would describe her better.
And a point to be noted: SHE WAS NOT COLORFUL.
Had I known that I would fall in love with HER, I would not have thought of her as weird and bizarre. But a person's hypothesis should not be ignored and I am a person, a human. And my mind is more of a person than I am, as a whole.
I miss her.
Offbeat? Yeah.

I miss her like the desert misses the rain and when it rains, the desert regrets about missing it so much.
We often make a perspective about someone which is wrong and only I know how broken she was. She was a havoc in herself. A black chaos, waiting to be resolved.
Her silvery eyes mirrored her spirit. How strong she was!
The burlywood colored smile adhering on her lips spoke so much about what always remain unsaid.
I liked it when she tied her ash brown hair into a bun and the auburn brown colored curls hung near the edges of her ear.
And a point to be noted: THE TAPED BOOKS SHE READ.
The different colored books she read spoke so much about her. The black words she had underlined told so much about her mind and heart. It was as if she always carried them in her reddish heart.
Her white silence always comforted me. Whenever I heard her breathe under the blue web of an immortal silence, I thanked god for she was alive, living  beside me, with me.
She loved only a few people, others were just a herd for her. And I am glad that for one minute part of my life she loved me too. She enjoyed staying around me. Her words tasted like cannabis, taking toll over me everytime she spoke.
And then she was no more.
I put color into her because I saw her colorless. Dark and pale. She didn't love plenty of them and maybe, after her reincarnation, she would love them a little more and appear colorful.
Colors - most of them she hated.
Colors - here I fill into her.
One fine day - daffodil smile - 'I am alright, Kabir' - pale eyes and a soul to lose.  

Survival Of A Facade

Often I think about the word 'survival'. A word too complicated and delicate. 

"It is the fittest who survives"- they say.
But it is the deceiver who survives. It is the person who lies that survive. Someone jeopardizing others, survive - I say.  

Everyone is fit for everything, it is just that the person who bears the vibrating strings of deception cutting into his soul, fails. 

While walking down the memory lane, I meet so many people again and they all seem so new to me because, maybe, I just saw their color and not the shades of it.
Shades which I see now, while walking down the dull, dark and real memory lane. 

You see, memories can be realistic containing REALizations.

A friendship often starts with a "hi", leads to "friends forever" and ends at a "goodbye", silent or loud, that doesn't matter.
A lover's relationship with his beloved often starts with a "hi", leads to "I like you" further leading it to "I love you" and then one fine day they realize that this "hi", "like" and "love" never happened to them. *VOILA!*

A facade, I would call it. 

And therefore, this world intensely scares me. 

Whenever I look around I see people sowing the seeds of lie, sharpening their tools for undermining the cavity of damage, nourishing themselves for injustice they do, knowingly or unknowingly. 

I fear this world like I fear the word I met recently, without a dictionary in my hand, like a whining sentence waiting for me to construe it while I am in my deepest slumber. 

This fear, this horror, time and again makes me want to stay at bay with what is going on out there. I, then result in alienating myself, because sometimes people appear too monstrous to me and a few felonious words just are not in my dictionary. I constructed a new one for myself while I was E-I-G-H-T-E-E-N. 

Beauty (what it is to me)

It was the Tuesday moon shining in the dimly lit sky, with clouds shaped like fur balls and vanilla scoops hovering around it, teasing it.
I was in a deep slumber, noticing the manoeuvre with which the nature played its game, inviting the darkness to fall upon the day. Nothing could distract my firm gaze tied with an invisible rope but my phone! It rang. I could feel the vibrations in my pocket.
I hardly received any message at that time of the day, therefore, the vibrations elevated my eagerness to know what it was that made 'someone' text me!
The message read "What is beauty?". 
I, for a certain set of seconds kept on staring about what to reply when the the phone vibrated again. The next message read "Does it really matter?"
I don't know why, but THIS message made me smile.
I mean, someone asked a not-so-good-looking person, about beauty! Something about which I myself don't know. Something that is not with me, I guess because people often called me a misfit, a nerd.
*smirks*.
Well! I am here to put what beauty means TO ME!
*Drum rolls*

Have you seen the landscape with which I started my blog? Well! you must have, and if you didn't then please search for the clouds shaped like fur balls and vanilla scoops teasing the whimsical moon. You will know what beauty means to me!
They say, you look prettier when the sun shines or under the moonlight. Well! You are BOUND to look like 'beauty' then, because, it is not the mascaras, liners, blushes, and lipsticks ruling your face. It is that evergreen immortal nature invading into the empty jungle of facial expressions.
Beauty is darkness! Because soft and humane hearts live behind those darkness. They crave for light and their craving is as pure as the third rain of the rainy season.
Beauty for me is when the sunflower changes its position with the sun, when the stone make ripples in the water, the lively bubbles created when the fish breathes.
It lies in his unspoken words and his unseen anger.
It is in your heart that is beating, making you feel alive, each second.
It is the wrinkles on your face that describe how hard or happy your life have been.
And yes, beauty like this do matter TO ME. This immutable and unfading beauty matters to me.
One day! we all will die. We all will die the same death, just in different ways. And what then will matter is how 'beautiful' your heart has been, your vision has been, your mind has been, throughout your life.
That is beauty, TO ME! 

"Welcome"

He inhaled the cold air, able to smell the snow. He, as well, could taste it. 
The chills traveled to his brain, numbing it, snatching away his capability to think. He looked like a corpse with his lips turning blue and eyes losing the white color. It was as if the death fell in love with him, changing him, COMPLETELY. Often love changes people and he was changing like the full moon losing its brightness. 
The open windows let in the cool gush of air, moving the curtains fiercely, forcing itself into his body, freezing everything that laid inside him. The pages of the book that laid open on the table, shivered, trying to turn themselves but the paperweight controlled the motion. The sound of the clock was bold and loud making the surrounding feel its presence as if giving an alarming evil grin, alerting things about the arrival of THE DEATH.

Time and death appear to befriend each other, none of them stops, none of them heals, none of them tells about the place it will take you to. The soul escaped, piercing his head, lifting itself lightly, disappearing into the thin air and the bells rung "Welcome".

Similar Stories

After The Story

“You know, I am never going to leave you”- this is what it started with. We thought that our stories are same. But sometimes similar stories does not have a similar end. Some ends with a betrayal and some with an unchanging faith.

He was gone and my eyes were still dry. A smile enduring on my lips.
And that was the moment when I thought of it as a dream. I was at the threshold of giving up yet I stood, patiently, trying to gulp the soar words that the message had to offer.

A diary dipped in coffee spilled on the coffee table, the look in his eyes – confused, his lips stretched – not a smile, his hands – searching for that paper. I, lost in the labyrinth, somewhere far from where I already was.

There was a sudden silence, or maybe, there was too much noise for me to get affected. And then! My hands started trembling and then the rain droplets, one by one devouring me. My stomach churned, maybe, the butterflies I once experienced were dying due to suffocation.

A walk, the exchange of glances, the beaming look on his face and his hair – flowing with the wind, hands – clutching the paper he had found from under the table. I, lost in the labyrinth, somewhere far from where I already was.

The pain inducing cold started paving its way through my legs, shaking them to the core. My brain, it became a wreck and I broke. With invisible tears running down my face I walked, aimlessly. All I knew was how to get back home and my room where I could shut everything down. I walked.

“So you write?”
“Gross” I replied.
“Don’t say that.”
I smiled.

The latch seemed heavy as if the door was bolted from the inside. I struggled and ran up the stairs and then, into my room. Collapsing on the ground, my heart let out a loud cry.

Forever.

I wondered what forever meant. I slept where I was. 

_________________________________________

I am glad he was gone. He gave me another chance for myself. I am free, not a caged bird feeling sorry for her wings. Now when I look back, I smile. How everything was just a lesson. How trust is just a conjecture. Nothing stays and forever is a lie.

Sometimes we don’t want to move on, we fear the pain and yet we live with it. We are so much addicted to the memories that we start living with the false hopes of things getting better. And then nothing helps but the Utopian world existing in our mind.

But we need to stand up, dress our injuries and come out of the storm. The scars will remain but memories will fade. Soon, it will start appearing as dream. 

So, walk on the thorns, gaze at your crushes wishing for just one more look, and don’t let the blues turn your life into a dark pothole.

Sometimes similar stories does not have a similar end.

My Indescribable Infinity

A few days ago, someone asked me to describe you and immediately a smile lingered on my lips. I was speechless; I didn't know how to put you in words.
I could then see your silhouette as I walked away with your scent straggling with me. The words you had said played around my mind, repeating themselves, but I was unable to narrate it. I ran out of the combination of syllables.
It was so much difficult to describe you in merely a few collections of words, phrases or paragraphs.
You are so much more than just words.
But I tried! You told me, always to try even when it seems impossible. And I did, but all I could come up with was "my infinity" while you are so much more than just the infinity.

I wonder how could someone ask a person to describe you? Someone who is the winter's warmth, a bright sky, a deep ocean, my thought process, the magic I behold in my eyes, the comforting silence, a sweet lullaby. Indescribable.
But maybe, I don't want to describe you at all! I want to wander around all our memories.
I want to echo in your soul.
I will walk miles in search of you like a musk deer in search of the musk.
And then after discovering you, I will show you to the world and let them know that you were ineffable. And all they would do is NOD! 

Eerie Solitude [stating Charles Bukowski]

The impending fear of being alone or being left alone guards every soul. Solitude is glorious, but not always because sometimes it wrecks you. It breaks you in a way that you wander hopelessly trying to find meaning, trying to find the worth of it all. And these are the days, where I find solitude a bit eerie. It no more soothes me or makes me feel better. It feeds on me like a bacteria feeding on a dead body, helping it decompose and mix into the soil. But this morning I woke up to this quote, which is now the main subject matter of this post. 

“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck job, rub my balls, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!”  
– Charles Bukowski. 

And now I guess, it sums up the present state of my mind.

The Silenced Girl

She wanted someone to lend their ears to her silenced words because forcing a curve on her lips was difficult than it seemed. Her heart welled up with grief every time her stillness was demanded. Tired of everything around her, she felt suicidal, vulnerable by death. She sat muted on a couch trying to figure things out but minute after minute and hour after hour she felt unwanted thoughts brooding her mind adding glumness to her air. Silence is not always peaceful sometimes it kills. 
Silence kills!

Things buried inside the heart eats the soul making impossible for it to stay in the close room of the body. Still, everyone demanded silence and caring was just a hypothetical theory. If silence was wise and great then why did god make words? Just to make a human realize about the existence of binaries? But then he made binaries too! 
Sometimes everything is confusing and killing. 
It leads to depression which is deeper than the injuries received and her scars were the demanded silence and the absence of care.

A Letter To My Mother

Maa, I don't know when I called you 'Mumma' but I did, she knows that. I don't know, how it was for you to see me move, walk, hold and talk, but I know you were happy. I was the one you nourished in your womb for 8 months. The hazy memories remind me of you sacrificing every bits and piece for me. Sacrifice is painful but for you, it was always an honour because it was done for me. You are still selfless as ever. You are my home and you are my heart. 

People call their brothers, boyfriends and husbands their soul-mates, but for me, you are my soul-mate. I took birth from you. I am here because of you.
But there is something that scares me. And that something is this horrific cycle of life, where you would leave and I will be left alone. You always say "I will die one day" and all I then wish is for you to never say that again. I am scared of losing you. Whenever I see you sleep all I pray is for you to wake up the next day. The world resides in your eyes and the star shines when you smile. The sun seems dull when you are happy. You are my world, you will always be my world like it was when you first conceived me. But do you feel the same for me?

Crying Purges You

Today was supposed to be a day where he would learn lessons and Dushyant was a twelve-year-old boy innocent to the fallacies of the world.
The school was a place he loved with a great deal. He enjoyed the journey towards the school and then meeting his bunch of friends after reaching that long awaited destination. An eighteen years old would label Dushyant's days as monotonous, but those days were exactly what he loved. 
But today was supposed to be a crucial lesson; a lesson that would bring him out of his little cubicle. After the school had ended, he forced his feet towards the school van, reluctant to go back home. What made him reluctant? Was it the catastrophe waiting for him at home? Or was it because he was getting separated from his friends? Nobody knew. 
As soon as Dushyant reached his school van he saw Ashira crying. 
Ashira was a nineteen years old girl studying in the twelfth standard. Ashira was someone closed to Dushyant's heart because 1. she cared for him 2. Dushyant and Ashira would get off at the same stop and the same stop made them wait for the van together- 3. 
Dushyant ran to Ashira shaking her hand, clamouring and asking Ashira about what had happened. Dushyant's innocence and stubbornness kept him stuck with his beloved sister. 
And Ashira broken and despondent ignored him like elders always did with Dushyant. 
But Dushyant was obstinate and his behaviour finally made Ashira break her silence. 
She murmured "It's a heartbreak Dushyant. I got cheated. I loved him, but he didn't bother."
Dushyant was confused, he didn't utter a word. He knew that something was wrong. He knew that people cry when maligning.He sat silently beside Ashira during his whole journey, holding her hand in a hope that he will be able to calm her pain down. 
He kept quiet between all that time and bid Ashira a goodbye as they got off the van. Dushyant ran towards his dad after he saw his dad waiting for him. 

Incorrupt by the ways of the world he went back to home sweet home with daddy. 
Later that evening after he had completed his homework, he went into his mother's room and spotted her sitting and sobbing near the corner table of the room. As soon as he saw her, he darted towards his mother and asked "who cheated on you? who broke your heart?"
All Dushyant got to know that day was that people cry because they are heartbroken or being cheated. His mother pecked him with a kiss on his forehead and told him that she was not well. But Dushyant's intractable nature dragged him to his dad. He went to him with his head low, almost dragging himself to his dad. 
"You made mom cry? you didn't care, right?" he spilled out the words with great disdain. 
"Who told you that a person cries when he is not cared for?" asked his dad. 
"Ashira di. She too was crying today. Someone broke her heart and cheated on her. I know, you did that to mom. You made her cry" replied the sad Dushyant fiercely. 
"Dushyant, come here" called his dad, waving his hand in the air. Dushyant went near him and sat on his lap as if all his anger was lost. 
"Beta, A person cries. But it is not necessary that only heartbreaks and cheatings are the reason behind it. There are various other reasons that can make a person cry. You fall in love, you cry. You lose something, you cry. Deaths, separations, failures and even success can make you cry." explained the father. 
"But dad, how? why would a person cry due to all these things?" he questioned. 
"Crying purges you of all the emotions, Dushyant. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel fresh. Crying makes you stronger. What do you do when you lose your toy? you cry. Same is with people out there. 
Dear, love is a wonderful feeling, it is as if you fly in the air and everything appears beautiful. Now, if the person you love hurts you, you cry. The separation is the termite that eats you up and crying protects you from getting digested. And if not cheating and hurting others, death; death can separate two lovers. But the difficulty caused due to separation during both these times are same because the memories are no less that the termite. It is the wood on which the termite feeds. Also, never confuse lovers with just a boy and girl in love. Lovers can be anyone. You and mom. You and me. You and god. You and Ashira di. You and a girl with whom you would imagine your future. Also, one should never hurt a person, one claims to love. It leaves them shattered and useless. It handicaps them from all the pleasures that are there at the present." replied the father, teaching his son about the ways of the world. 
"But dad what happened to maa then? Why would she cry? She said she is sick." asked Dushyant. 
"Dear, today she failed. As I told you that failure too can make you cry. She failed to provide you with a companion." replied the father trying to save himself from a breakdown, unable to explain his son about the miscarriage his wife had had this morning after Dushyant left for school. 
"I don't need a companion Paa. I have you and mom. That is enough for me." replied Dushyant.
Although his father's previous reply made less sense to him but he thought of pondering upon what his father had said. All he knew was that there was something wrong that made his mother cry. But that day was a day for lessons to be learned and Dushyant got one of the most crucial lessons of his life.

You Will Be Alright

She peacefully laid in her bed, dreaming of black roses and unsharpened thorns, with windows shut and curtains drawn neatly with a little flower pot beside the border of the curtain. No light could enter the room unless someone bothered to change the cold setting of it.
The door knocked once, she didn't wake up. It knocked twice, this time sharp, nothing happened. 

*knock* *knock* *knock*, large thumps this time and she woke up dazzled as if a child was asked to step out of the idiot box and enter into his books.
She stepped out of the bed, letting her soft feet touch the cold floor. Dragging herself till the lock, she murmured "it must be him. I will dance with him. I love him". 

She opened the door, sceptical about the person standing behind the door. And the moment the door laid open she ran towards her husband,"daddy! daddy! oh, you are here. I was dreaming about you", she lied. 

The man, drained and despondent cupped her face in his palms, expecting her to recognise him.

"So, my lovely lady was sleeping. Did you sleep well? Any trouble?" he enquired, expecting not another verbal blow from her side.
"Yes, yes! I slept well, Love. Oops, daddy!" she mumbled, correcting herself.  

The man closed the door behind him, picking up the glass of water from the corner table and a medicine box. "Eat them, honey, you will be alright" he muttered confused and clueless.
"I ate them. They were sweet, They tasted like a dark chocolate" she responded, justifying herself, making no sense. 

"Okay!" he continued "then get back into the bed and sleep. Buzz the bell if in demand of anything, goodnight."

Checking the state of the room, he went near the curtain wanting to check that the plant wasn't dry. And there it was daubed on the thin wall lining, the medicine. 

"Jack," she said.
He turned around excitingly as she recognised him, "uh! what?" he reflected back.
"Nothing daddy! I was asking Jack to sleep" she replied and closed her eyes, behind the door.

A Book: His or Hers?

And years later, he sat on the floor surfing the bed drawer. He opened it and sat, surfing it, fiddling with the things that came across his hands until a book given by her caught his eyes. It was "The Essential Rumi"; he recalled how she was so consistent on making him read the poetry written by Rumi. He opened it, the book still smelled of her, the cologne that she sprinkled herself with. It was as if someone had sprayed the cologne minutes back all over the book. He opened it, feeling the pages she must have turned in anticipation of finishing the book so that she can make him read that. He thought about how she would have underlined the lines with the highlighter that now were under his sight.
He smiled. He missed her. He really did. He felt the pages that she once held. Touching the stains of oil that she must have left while eating and reading at the same time.

He was filled with brisk sentiments, being all nostalgic about the times she compelled him to read the book she always wanted to preserve and at the end he kept it with him in a hope of reading it one day, preserving it for her. He thought that had he read the book, they would have had something to talk about in the next meeting, but since he never took that initiative, the book and those imaginary conversations laid shut then and there. He felt the loss of not being with her anymore but only one memory that he had, the book.

Sanctum of a Reader

She was tender but aloof enough from the harsh realities of the world. In a corner of the room, near the window with the sun shining brightly outside it, she sat, calm and composed. The strings of silence vibrating in her soul. With her eyes fixed in her novel which was held in her sleek hands, it became difficult for anybody to spot her. She was neither a nerd nor a bookworm, but a voracious reader trying to gulp all the wisdom, those pages had to offer. She wanted to hide herself, in those books and its pages, trying to relate herself with the story that the author got to narrate.

The mild look in her eyes and the curve of her lips could make anybody guess the nature of the book she was reading; it was as if she reflected the emotions that the writer had penned down, sometimes even letting her tears roll through her soft cheeks. But there was a constant struggle that she had; the fear of ending a book before having another one to read. So, like people ask their friends and family to be there with them always, holding them tight, she piled books by her side near the square lamp with orange light and a jug of water. Those piled up books gave her sense of relaxation, making her feel happy every time she glared at them, knowing that after finishing the book in her hands, she would pick another one. Withdrawn from the world, it was her life and living it that way was her choice. She knew, she was not going to change and nobody can barter with her love for those pale pages, paperbacks and hardcovers. This was the life of a reader and she didn't want anybody to deny her the right of reading

A Room for Improvement

Out of all the things I learned in my school and college life, the main thing that I learned was to relax. It was not to worry about what people think of you; Who wants to be judged and interpreted? Nobody!
But we can still be the writer of ignorance and slacken ourselves. There is always a room for improvement. Imperfection is perfect, everybody feeds on it.
Don't shy away from asking what your mistake is, it will improve you.
People will babble about you for a while, and they all are going to forget you after that 'while'.
Why be a puppet in the hands of people's opinion? When you can be the dancer of your will's eyes?
Walk with head high on the nails of criticism, they will bleed you but also, it will grow the new skin of improvement. Be happy when you fail, you will know what you need to do in the next try.
Trials are the part of life; a lady after her miscarriage takes another chance.
Take that chance, be hopeful and remember, there is always a room for improvement.
Shed away the dried leaves of 'I know it all' and let the bud of 'I know nothing at all' grow.

Kenneth ©

It Is You Who Matters

Again, she sat in the same wooden chair resting her right arm near the laptop's num pad while her left elbow resting faintly on the glass top table, with her wrist, tilted in a way where she can cup her face with her fingers.
She was back, this time with a little pain, a little gain, and a little buoyancy.
Life sometimes kicks you in a way, where you don't move ahead, rather you fall. And that fall is powerful enough to bruise your knees and your ego, for you fell.
She fell, too hard, hard enough to bruise her whole soul because sometimes there are "problems with no name" and you yearn for the solutions but you get entangled in its wittily woven cobweb.
There are times when you need someone to whom you can talk about your messed up life, someone who won't let you fall and will become your exuberant wall.
Her blemished ego didn't approve of people, it was the time when even the idea of talking and fighting with people nauseated her. And the best part of these worst times were nobody came up. People called her, sang the melodious songs of their own troubles and hung up without even asking about her. People text-ed her, told her that they want a pizza and disappeared.
Occasionally, messages like "how are you" sent to a person with whom you talk on the daily basis can do wonder, give it a try.
But nobody did that.
Too much sadness? eh?

Don't worry my friend, she ain't weak. She learned to live with these words.
After seeing her at the distance of few centimeters, all I can say is: "now I understand why parents teach language and not signs to a child of merely 2 years, because they know that those words will befriend the lost psyche of their child".
She now came on the verge of boycotting people, serve those who serve you. Don't believe in I love yous, don't believe in I will be there for you because these are the sweetest lies. Rather believe in someone who makes you feel that. Isn't this life all about emotions and feelings? No. It isn't. It is all about the blend of everything grated with words, letters, sweet messages, and of course! cupcakes.
Let the world blabber about their own adversities, take a break my friend and think about yourself. You are the one who matters, your life is about you, it is your story rest everything is a sub-plot, and hello, I love you. :)
Ok? Bye.