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A wreck read.

3 Jun




We know how important it is to communicate.

Schmoozing with people is good fortune. We all have common listeners. Spoken words however, haven’t been the best milieu for me. I don’t possess the best vocabulary and expressions to elucidate what’s meant to be delivered. Moreover, I am terrified by endings. The curt one. The ones that leave you in awe, that allows you to decide what I meant. You know how dreadful an incomplete misunderstood sentence can be? It’s edged arm.

So I decided to dwell on thoughts. Things that had been in serpentine motion and haven’t exactly traced the dots that I managed to join.  A comprehensive narration of everything that occupied my head. I realized a few things, felt useless for lodging on others and felt inane to linger on to a few. Wrecked, the right word. I know it happens with most of us. We break down, we collapse, regret, wish, pray and long for a way out. Some of us speak out and are good at that, a few of us aren’t confident enough to let words help us out.

But then there are things I am sure about. Things that I realize are meant to be said or else, we can scale the destruction. A decision that carves multiple lives, A truth that can blow the dust away. For occasions like that, we unlock our secret strength. A vigor that is blind and careless and powers us to say, it’s my turn.

It’s important to divulge that. I know we’re weak but silence in such situations will cost us more. Gather positivism, power and will to just say it.

And here I go. To all the bad experiences!

I deny to dis-remember you. I don’t think that you particularly deserve my memory, nor do I be-slave myself into believing that you return my sense of vague wistfulness. There is no part of me that wants to return to the limbo I existed in for so long, or even the often-imagined parallel universe in which you reciprocated my feelings to the letter.

I do, however, want to remember what it feels like to be hurt, to want, to need something so desperately only to find out that your life is perfectly fine without it. As much as the little scar on my knee will always remind me to watch out when I am running, yours on my heart will teach me to be kind.



29 Mar

We’re not special beautiful snowflakes. We’re mundane raindrops. Indifferent and ordinary.

There is this thing about uniqueness, It decays. Something superior is always there to be a replacement. The ordinary however, stays.

And our struggle is to stay. It’s about adding value to the lives and lacunae around us. It’s not only our skin that dies and regenerates to remain plump, it’s not only our soul and body that dies for once – we on a whole choose which part of us has to perish and which lump has to rejuvenate. Decline, anyhow is a requisite.

So we remodel. This process in our personal capacity often takes us to a moment when everything which was glorious suddenly becomes ash. Our elucidation of success changes and there are monsters that we want to cage to be called meritorious. We exert and battle ourselves, kill our weaknesses and wage a contest against odds that pull us down to get to our new goal. And when we get there, it’s not enough.

Many a times we save our selves for the grand finale. And suddenly, it’s not grand anymore.

I urge you to fell the stillness in accepting that the race will never be over and when you begin to hurt yourselves too much to shine – choose to be the audience instead. Just sleep! and before you do, just take the time to gaze up at the night sky. Bask in the silence, take deep breaths, and just marvel at this universe.

You’ll never know what you may see up there. And trust me, it’s going to be every bit as beautiful. Because by that time, you’ll learn the beauty of being ordinary.






14 Sep



‘How come they have alphabets in mathematics?’ – I uttered.

I sneaked through the tall window repeatedly to confirm my soon to be planned allegation.

Laughing – naive to the concept of Algebra. Ironically, I was on ice that I was right and I could have launched a campaign on ORKUT about how absurd the teacher of class VI D was.

Walked back to my classroom to be seated on that wooden chair where desks had our scribbled FLAME game, the famous crushes with a icky heart emoji in the middle, the value of Pi that was too volatile to remember and never the less, the ‘Da Vinci’ sketches of each other and our teachers. The joy of calling ‘ASALAMUALIKUM AUNTY’ in chorus and the merriment of achieving a star on the title page of chapters. That life was nonpareil.

That phase ended.

I delightfully welcomed the teenage hood. A chapter where you eventually learn the meaning of the word privacy. The urge and turmoil suppressed the innocence or allow me to call it, ignorance of childhood and I discovered my self in detail.

That phase ended too.

And here I am today. At the brim of mature-hood, yet an ephemeral period. Remote to what I should be doing. Every single moment of reclusiveness makes me experience nostalgia of school and college days. Of people who’re no more, of opportunities which use to shine, the immortal ‘ifs’ and the withering present. I am miles away from satisfaction. Prisma, snap chat, Instagram, Facebook, twitter, whats-app – yet forsaken.

Sad no? it is. Interludes romances past more than future. It is how desperate I am to shrink and be 12 again. Arcing under expectations, wasted by grades and levels, hunting for people to talk without acting – the voids are expanding. Absences penetrate through me, like thread through a needle, everything I feel is stitched with its color. I am still not able to express what I need. There is a fire within us, no body pauses to swelter themselves at it. They pass by only seeing a wisp of smoke.

Give us time, give us a pleasing present. As much as I miss school and college, my childhood and teenage life – this phase should be no different. This age, is only a number. Painfully visible and entirely ignored. Give us space, permission to make mistakes and apologize, a lacuna to be better some other time. Don’t ask us to be best TODAY.

The most incommunicable piece I’ve ever written, comes to an end.



A Note To Myself.

12 Aug

Dear Me,


I know you’re fetching all the elfin thoughts in your mind, putting your neurons at work. Unpaid jobs are seldom sane. I can feel that right now (Bleak laugh). My brain demands steep wages once in a while. This time, the rumination is a little different.

I know that the past few months have been frenzied. The details are edgy and skittish and there is less of philosophy that can spill it out into words. Don’t induce anything, don’t compel yourself to look for ways to lessen the load. Just let it be. Your horoscopes are silent. This stage can be fugitive or eternal.

You’ve had friends darkening your moonlight. It’s okay. That’s one color of life. You’ve had expectations undergoing apoptosis. That’s okay too. They have that engraved in perfect literature. Don’t expect and be happy. You’ve had days when you were beyond your swing of pessimism and was sure that the light was on it’s way, for real. I can’t count times when I’ve seen this much consistency in your will. Thumbs up for that.

Eventually, Overthinking slayed it all. I now believe that it’s not a choice that you’ve made. It’s how you’ve been wired. This waveform that you ride by is crazy. At the Peak, you’re determined to put things into right place, and then you fall to the crest where picking up bits seems impossible. Don’t wait for this to end. The eclipse will be followed by a deathly sunset and you’ll be too inhuman to feel what it’s like to stand still and static. Nature has its fixed rules you know.

You should be glad that you gave yourself an unusual siesta, try and stretch its span in future. The fact that this is your last academic year as a typical student in an institute is provoking you to experience all the bliss that you should’ve sensed in the past 17 years. It’s too much for one year, but an overload of happiness should never return rejected. Go for it, embrace it. The odds will remain. The hitches will be painful, but this time of life will never come back!

Let this light come to you. Don’t wait for all the negativity to fly away. Monsters will visit you any how. If you’re waiting until you feel talented enough to make it, you’ll never make it.



26 Jul

Fancy fantasies with speculations, In quest of solace, arranging all the behaved books in the dimmed romantic shelf, forging the menace to the tiny hopes that reside in our eyes – we move. They tell us, that’s life. It’s no different. Hopes and expectations are not naive, history absorbs greatness of people who’ve had beyond the tiny fence of their eyes. Crediting luck, family support, hard work and all those good things. History never talks about those who were weak, yet good. Those who’ve had there first fall with no one to lift, Those who were agonizingly wounded, and although their hopes never died, they could never rise. At such moments, they don’t expect miracles. They certainly don’t. Sadly, I haven’t known words enough to describe what they wish. For now, It’s just ‘someone’.

And when they don’t see it coming, all those lessons of positivism and rosiness, collapse. In the end of the battle, you either settle with what you have burying what you’ve always wanted, with a smile because everyone repeats the old rotten lessons of bitter experiences. Accepting what you never wished for and stay happily ever after. Inclusive of the word ‘ pretend’ in spirit and latter. The ending remains the same, the story changes.


“I start to see that I surround myself with broken people; more broken than me. Ah, yes, let me count your cracks. Let’s see, one hundred, two… yes, you’ll do nicely. A cracked companion makes me look more whole, gives me something outside myself to care for. When I’m with whole, healed people I feel my own cracks, the shatters, the insanities of dislocation in myself.”

When no one hears, someone reads. Even the burned stale bits are read as manuscripts. Is the tale of broken expectations and hopes worth enough to be read? That’s on readers. Everyone don’t wear there grief on sleeves.

I own it, Do I?

15 May


Early teenage years entertain it’s own perks, At 16, I was sure that I am made for something in the world. My life constantly planned encounters with people who would lift my morals, who’d encourage me to seek for a spark that is restless to ignite, own it, change it. And I bloomed in that cloud, high.I thought that I owned this beautiful world, I have the right to speak, fight, change, alter, recommend, make anything that I think is best for humanity. I Looked for opportunities, grabbed them utilized them. Making the best out of my life. It was wonderful, wonderful indeed.


Then I grew up. Teenage ended. And I came across, what I now call, the stubby truth.

There is nothing that I own completely. I am not an origin for any horizon. I am not a harbor for any ship that sails in infinity. There is nothing that welcomes my label, there is absolutely nothing that accepts to remain within the constraints of my fence. I know it, I’ve always known it. Then why was I always stupid enough that I kept trying? Hoping? and even hating the world for not being under control? I was silly, that I thought that if stars can be named after people, I’d have something too. It’s nothing. Nothing.

Having accepted that, I have silenced many questions. Questions like, Do I deserve what I got? thoughts like, People should make efforts to accept me, comfort me. That’s all a fat fantasy. It never happens.

It will never happen.

I am living in someone else’s world and I have to follow all the rules. Without questioning. It hurts, I wish someone would have explained me all of this earlier, but I guess, it’s synchronization of life.



27 Feb

Things run parallel in life. Hatred, with an inch of love. Failure, with a touch of success and likewise, plenty opposite virtues tend to streak along, as we stroll around the edges, closing and opening new chapters. Life goes on, the niche stands.

What’s immensely amazing is how we brew ourselves as we approach the poles of change. Our transitions from teenage to adulthood, from colleges and schools to universities, promotions in our relationships, new jobs, surrendering and losing a life in the face of death, acceptance and denial, all these latitudes seek for flexibility in one’s virtues and personality, and surprisingly, it’s not a different  ‘one’ confronting these phases of life, it’s just one US with the art and science of blending in.

It has it’s unique solitary flavor. Exploring new opportunities to learn and embrace our 24 hours distributed with equity to mankind. The swift mutation in our perspectives, our routines, likes and dislikes, they don’t set reminders. No bells ring, and we don’t get to know that we’re changing, blending. Rules are not beautiful, this one is an exception.

Some people call it a compromise. I’d say, it’s just mixing.

Happy Blending.


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