Tag Archives: expectations

Saudade

14 Sep

 

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‘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.

 

 

Tales.

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.

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“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.

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