An unnecessarily guilty glance

I  am waiting outside the juice shop, thirsty and tired, putting an enormous amount of expectation on a tiny glass of sugarcane juice that is yet to be served. My face is smeared  in pink and yellow and some other weird combinations. My arms are still tingling from what could have been a regretful sunburn after a long celebratory drive back to our city, to this shop.Despite the brutal tanning and dehydration, I can’t help but feel elated. And why not? I am drenched in festivity! How I adore this festival of hues! This craziness!

I am at my usual lost-in-thought state when I feel a light tug on my elbow – ‘Behen O Behen! Le Lona’

Annoyed, I turn around. A little girl is trying to sell Gulal to me.

I look at the packets of colours in her hands and I know I shouldn’t buy them. Those are the kinds of colours that should be kept away from your skin at all cost unless you happen to like rashes.I am tempted anyway. It’s Holi after all! Everyone needs to celebrate today! But before I could know it, I have dropped the idea again – Nahi, bacche, nahi chahiye. No child, I don’t want it.

Lelona. Please? – She requests again.

You can call her a beautiful child if you look at her carefully; Her brown eyes, that goes with her brown complexion, her perfectly aligned teeth, her straight thin nose and the innocence in her voice.I have come down to my knees. My fingers are now fondling with colours inside the packet I have. No, I can’t buy the so-called Gulal from her and I won’t. It is against my easily adaptable principles. But I paint both her cheeks green and greet her a happy Holi.

She is surprised. A smile brightens up her face. Suddenly, she forgets why she is even here! I offer her my cheek. She dips her small fingers in my packet and slather the colour over my face. Now, I am heavily dusted in green as well. Her smile has broadened. No one has ever seemed so happy just with these small gestures before.

I am smiling too. I try to feed in the details of her happy face in my head.You,little girl,are such a delightful lovely poem that I can’t even pen you down. Maybe someday when I am worth and capable of putting your beauty in words, I will. But for now, I still can’t buy these packets of pity from you that you still hold in your hands, that you are still going to try to sell to other prospective buyers a few minutes from now. And though you are still smiling at me and you don’t even want my money anymore, I just find myself letting out an inaudible and invisible murmur  – ‘I am sorry’.I know that you are not asking for my apology. You don’t want it. Actually, it’s I who really needs it – as a futile attempt to pacify my own confused conscience. I am sorry because I don’t think you deserve this. I am sorry because I can’t help you escape the circumstances you have been born in. I can’t save you from your parents making you sell these packets. I can’t send you to school and I can’t teach you either. And neither can I ever take responsibility for your better childhood or better future. Not that there is no way for achieving any of this, it’s just that I am lazy and I am running short of efforts to uplift my own life. Looking at you, I raise those never-to-be-answered questions to my fate again. Why you? Why me? They aren’t answered of course. As usual, they turn their backs on me. And then I turn my back on you after one last cheerful, apologetic and perhaps an unnecessarily guilty glance.

Advertisements

The one about the smoker 

​I wouldn’t be surprised if I forget you tomorrow but by continuing to write this I am contradicting the very first statement. Anyway, you know what – I am not a smoker but you might be the reason I might want to turn into one. Of course, you as a reason, aren’t strong enough but in this moment,  I can give you that at least. Not that I am falling in love; I ,  being stereotypical and secretly judgemental as hell as always need a ground breaking, sky falling reason to fall in love with any person and you! Well, you drive trucks for a living so… I am sorry that I am biased and I can’t respect you. I am sorry since you might not even be remotely close to the person I am assuming you to be but I can’t change my mind. Hence  all this – I disrespecting you and be amazed by you at the same time is quite puzzling. 

On a closer inspection though I realize that I don’t even remember your face or even the colour of your shirt ( Was it red?). I am not even curious. However, what preoccupies my head is –  those threads of smoke dancing in the air, carelessly gliding, flowing and bending through the curves of your lips. What preoccupies my head is how into the air they went, out of your mouth; soft mesmerizing disappearing bunch of white directionless trajectories.  You seemed like a sorcerer – blowing fog out of your mouth that incredible way! It was beautiful. Aren’t all dangerous things are? 

Good, that you are not aware that I am staring at you. Good that you would never know my name or be aware of my existence – we don’t need to acknowledge these mundane things after all. And to be brutally honest, I don’t care if you live or die – we are,after all, still strangers. But may I just interject that I think that you were born to smoke? I know it sounds stupid or maybe even offensive but you do it so beautifully! Effortlessly! There’s no performance! There’s no smugness! There’s no compulsion to appear cool. You don’t care if you are being watched at all! And as I watch you pass by, slowly and yet swiftly out of the frames of the window of my seat, I nail your images in the walls of my head shamelessly extolling the beauty of your shameless addiction even though you never asked for any of this. I have no clue why you caught the fancy of my head at all! But I had to capture you somewhere other than my feeble unreliable memory. I don’t get why it’s a necessity but my attention or admiration doesn’t seek any kind of qualifications – just a mild touch of oddity, that’s all. In that way, you are perfectly qualified.

You seem to be entangled in your own trail of thoughts. You are not looking anywhere or at anyone or anything. Your eyes are just pointed towards a direction of indifference.  It’s nothing extraordinary I guess but I am amazed since it makes you a perfect picture. And your mouth is a cryogen! As if a scientist made special arrangements in his lab just to place you there. As if an artist spent months just to paint that white cloud coming out of your mouth beautifully diffusing around your face.

I might never see you again by the way. I am grateful for that. And even if I do I wouldn’t recognize you at all or go speak to you – that being way out of my comfort zone. But then still, these few seconds of catching your glimpse are precious. How do I explain it? I don’t understand it myself. You, the smoke, the cryogenics, the magic, the cloud, the fog – all but a puff of beedi…!!

And there at a distance, a  crazy writer, is sitting in the bus, lauding your possibly  worst habit to incomprehensibly impossible heights. 

How do I explain this? I just know that I can’t deny the sad, remarkable, abnormal beauty of this perfect picture.Of your perfect picture. 

Just a sucker for conversations

Conversations, we are having it over tea, maybe over a puff of Marlboro, maybe over coffee, maybe over that dinner which I am too busy to eat because I am listening to you. Conversations, maybe the reason why I accepted your friend request or swiped you right or went on all those dates or made that first remark about the weather piercing through our awkward silence.Conversations, the ones that happen over moons, over  rainy days, over crazy dreams, over out of the blue topics, over craziest ideas, over craziest people whom we might or might not even know. Conversations, when I have lent you my full attention even when you are talking about things that I do not really understand. Conversations, when you make no sense at all and yet I am amazed by your expressions and by the passionate way you try to explain. Conversations,when you leave me in awe with your knowledge of things that I never knew existed. Conversations, when you tell me those anecdotes that couldn’t have happened even in movies. Conversations, when you say something funny and I can’t stop laughing. Conversations, when it is a perfectly scary night to share horror stories. Conversations when you weave the words just the right way and I suddenly fall madly in love with you. Conversations, at odd hours when eventually I watch you fall asleep in my lap. Conversations, when we argue about trivial things and I am laughing inside at our stupidity. Conversations, about things that I will tell noone but you. Conversations, when I can look in your eyes and see no judgement attached whatsoever. Conversations, when you try to mend my broken heart. Conversations, when your words inspire me and give me hope to begin again. Conversations, when in the middle, out of nowhere, it hits me how special you are. Conversations, when in your idiosyncrasy, I find my own identity. Conversations, when in your weirdness, I find a connection that I can’t let go of.

Conversations, the ones I wish I never had. Conversations, where you twist the one right word the wrong way and I am drenched in fury. Conversations, overshadowed by expectations, those that are too heavy to rescue me from hatred and unnecessary pain. Conversations, appropriately clever ones, the ones that manipulate me into doing something wrong without I being aware of it (until it’s too late) Conversations, that reek of my lost self esteem. Conversations, when I am conned, when I am disgusted, when I resolve to never talk to you again. Conversations, where you seem so brilliant that I jump out of sanity and drown myself in jealousy. Conversations, the ones I have never had and I would regret that throughout my life. Conversations, the ones I should have but I am too stupid and young to realize that. Conversations, which are precious but I might never know. Conversations which are non existent and utterly useless and yet they have my head occupied. Conversations, which kill dreams and aspirations and I let them. Conversations, which I am dying to have but I can’t form the sentences right. Conversations that draw you so close to me and those that throw you thousands of miles away.

Conversations. Self destructive as it may be but I am just a sucker for conversations.

To April, among other things

It’s hot now. I smell dust and deodorant covered sweat in the air. I smell cigarettes and mint. I smell tea and something sad in the irrelevant office gossips & back bitching. I smell my own selfishness and stupidity. My heart stinks. My safety shoes stink as well and so do my feet. My office Canteen has a distinct smell of its own. Anyway, it’s chole again. I smell Aluzinc in my hands, so I wash them. Now, they reek of dettol. Also,Quarter one has  ended, it smells of missed targets and unacheived goals. But anyway, Second quarter has begun and it smells of April!
April?
We get that your olfactory senses have heightened tremendously turquoise ink, but what does April smell like?

April. Well, April reeks of nostalgia, of the fresh pages of my new textbooks,
of the benches of my new class, of the perfume of my new class teacher, of the shining new brown cover of my notebooks, of new pens and pencils, of ink, of erasers with perfect edges, of my polished shining shoes, of fresh cut grass of the playground, of my friend’s lunchboxes that I had longed for almost a month now, of my own lunchboxes, of the beautiful blooming trees of Amaltas and Gulmohar, of mangoes, of my newly stitched Prussian blue skirt and clean ironed white shirt, of lame April fool jokes, of my new crush, of the fevicol we use in SUPW class which never happens again through out the rest of the year, of recess, of the carpet of my music class, of my new sketchbook, of my class’s notice board that needs to be decorated with new works of art, of my perfect little alum crystals, of the first poem of Hindi textbook and the first English story by Ruskin Bond, of the excitement running through my arteries that I am trying not to show too much and my unsuccessful desire to make the new year go perfectly.

That’s how April smells to me. Oddly and sadly perfect.

Claustrophobia

Author’s stupid note ( or rather a trailer of what the poem that follows below is all about) :

There’s a line in Kane and Abel (the famous novel by Jefferey Archer) that I find really interesting; Sometimes it’s an advantage to be disadvantaged.
So,does this line also imply that sometimes it’s a disadvantage to be advantaged?

My answer:-

My six by six feet life,
the lines I wouldn’t cross,
the space confined by the mirrors…
dripping with advantages,
I wonder if I even deserve it, I wail at it’s irrelevance,
Sometimes I am envious of a heart with a hole, or a dysfunctional brain;
Such a shame is this perfect life, such a waste is it’s existence!

Guilt engulfs me in its suffocating arms, these foolish foolish words…
“Take that back! Take that back!” its voice resonates unheard.

My six by six feet life,
a blade or hammer or a knife,
An odd series of optimistic roles are assigned here,
Especially with the cynic voice complaining inside,
I guess I can rip myself out of this beloved trap,
maybe break myself through,
Sometimes I am glad that I am mortal, for immortality is a curse…
You will breath and breath and breath and one day you will want yourself to submerge!

Guilt engulfs me in its suffocating arms, these foolish foolish words…
“Take that back! Take that back!” its voice resonates unheard.

My six by six feet life;
The air inside is toxic,
the nerve is less and dreams are big
And most of the time, I am cursing the bricks…
What else to do I am hitting them all,
Again and again… never wanting to cease,
Blast!
At last,the walls explode!
Finding sudden enthusiasm and a hope for freedom,
I fly away, every piece of mine runs in different dimensions,
It’s all fallen down, the voice has fallen mute,
Peace and calmness,
Happiness and hues,
And along comes running the same old blues…

Here’s my new six by six feet life,
Such a shame is this depressing world…

“Take that back! Take that back!” the voice resonates unheard.

A better tomorrow ( chapter-II)

I wake up  to another day,

It is nothing like the past,

I tell myself  yet again,

the delusion is vast.

The mirror smirks,”It’s you again.Isn’t it time that you go?”

“How many times will I see you again and tell you exactly so?”

Of course, if given a chance,

I would lend myself and borrow,

But with whom I do wonder,with whom I ask again!

Who do you think in here, O mirror, has a better tomorrow?

You can read the first part here; A better tomorrow

 

 

 

So, you have googled how to commit suicide…

Disclaimer; It doesn’t mean I am suicidal. Please. I can’t kill an ant.

It’s just that I have been reading about Robin Williams and Kurt Cobain and some other famous dead celebrities who couldn’t make it out of depression and decided to end their misery once for all.

Though I can’t tell what is it to be that depressed but you don’t need to know rocket science to deduce that it must feel terrible. I’ve had on the other hand, my moments of despair ,of course, where I am actually like “Kill me now” (Somebody please?) but then that goes away once the night sets in and then there is sudden transformation to calmness and beauty of dark and illusion of a better tomorrow that makes me forget everything and  I find myself experiencing happiness and contentment.

Nevertheless, that didn’t stop me from googling how to commit suicide. I even got to pick my favorite;

The best way to kill yourself is Carbon monoxide poisoning.

Fun Fact#1; Who died this way?

Sylvia Plath.

The famous writer, sealed herself in kitchen, inserted her head in the oven and died while her children were sleeping in other room.

The thing is actually  it annoys me that some people get to throw away their lives so easily and on the other hand there are some people who fight their way out until their last breath but they are shown no mercy no matter how strong they have been, how hard they have wished for just one other chance to live and then they die.

It’s just sad.

But then depression that fatal is another kind of disease.The fact that you are just physically sound isn’t a good enough reason to live.

So, okay, nature has weird rules.

Anyway, I have googled the methods of Suicide. How vulnerable am I? And is it some sign that my family should take seriously. Or you as a reader, should you freak out?

No, Not in this case.

The fact that I am writing a blog post on it just shows how non-depressed I am. The sole reason that I googled it was because I was curious.

I am sure many of you must have done that as well. Though I can’t tell if that was out of depression or curiosity.

If former then, dude, please don’t die.

If latter, welcome to the club buddy!

The funny part of doing search on suicide is that it’s ironical.

The chances are quite high that you won’t commit suicide after all even after knowing all the methods. Most of the sites that provide you with the answers also offer you the antidote.

And when you are really depressed then I am sure you won’t be googling about suicide but most probably doing any of these:

a) hang from the ceiling fan

b) jump off a building

c) consume a lot sleeping pills.

d) slit your wrists.

(These conventional methods never go out of fashion even if they are so painful. And they are the first ones to pop in your head solely because you knew these even as a kid).

So, by doing a search on how to commit suicide you are actually doing something opposite: driving your depression away. You are distracting yourself.

So, the major effect of all this shit is that you are not depressed anymore. And your curiosity has been quenched. And in my case, you have procrastinated well as well.

Now, coming to carbon Monoxide poisoning and why is it my favorite.

CO poisoning isn’t painful. Till the very end your body is in illusion that it is taking up oxygen so it doesn’t resist. When your body does realize that it has been tricked, it’s too late and you die with a kind of calmness on your face.

The prospect of dying is something that scares shit out of me in reality. I am too young and there are a lot of things to be done. Places to travel. Blogs to write. Songs to listen to. Books to read. Boys to fall in love with. Though I sometimes do find myself wondering what is the purpose of doing all this. I mean universe is so huge and you are so small. And even if you die what difference does that make?

But.

But.

If it doesn’t make a difference whether you live or die, so wouldn’t you rather choose to live?  I mean dying is not cool. Living is. Even if it is utterly unimportant. There are some things you like to do. Do you ever ask yourself what good does it do? You just do it. Same goes with life. You just live it. And you live it well.

If you’ve voted on the third option and if you need someone to talk to, then you know, you can always contact me or someone you are comfortable with.