30 Days writing challenge, Poetry

Day Twenty Two – Tin Can

Is where I keep oddest of things
To retain most mundane memories,
It’s amazing how these little things
Otherwise known as garbage
Can transform into a source
Of such unanticipated recollection
And a smile
And maybe a few tears
Blooming beautifully out of the blue.

*

AUTHOR’S LITTLE NOTE:
This blog series is a part of a 30 Days writing challenge, which is as depicted by the picture below (Special thanks to Pinterest):
Writing challenge - May'17
food for thought, my life, random

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.

Inspiration, philosophy, Poetry

Connecting the dots; A tribute to the past

So close, yet so far
trying to relive through the moments that will never come back,
Going distant, and distant and distant
like the milestones along the road growing small…

I am gazing through the back seat of a car,
and slowly forgetting where the milestones are…
it’s not fair,
these images in my head,
some existing and some diminishing
transforming into the vivid images of a beautiful dream I will soon forget,
it hurts when memories  exist,
it hurts even more when they slowly fade away;
My brain in a pitiable auto format mode,
only so much of Terabytes it can accommodate!
but  son! We can go to the front seat  and drive!
Look out for the milestones that will grow big instead of small,
We will make note of each one of them
until we pass by and again forget them all,
but don’t worry the road won’t end,
it simply won’t,
maybe the never ending journey won’t make sense,
maybe the past will haunt again,
maybe the future won’t seem bright
especially with beautiful images of the trail behind splashed all over inside,
maybe chaos will forever be chaos,
maybe the noise will never turn into symphony,
So what, son, so what?
come to the front seat,
don’t be seated at the back,
your reasons to stay are good,
and I have nothing better to argue,
but don’t waste too much time connecting the dots,
it will never make sense when you will want it to,
come at the front, we will have fun,
We will never talk about the dots!
We will never talk about the road!
And trails shall become a map, and dots an image,
One day, one day out of nowhere…
when you would have forgotten that you ever cared.

humour

The tales of torture; Brain chronicles-I

“Our brain and his post graduation degree in “forgetting honors”

Sometimes, I try strolling across those lust green shiny memory lanes of mine and then I realize that there are no freaking lanes to cross. Green or shiny or dull or burnt or anything.

Why brain? Why u no remember?

It’s not just a sad little complain emerging out of the corpse(s) of answer sheet(s) bloodied with red ink marks and big big “F(s)” or 0s. There is more non-exam aspects associated with it as well. Memories! Who does not want that?

And since it is excruciatingly painful to have a big blank black paper instead of some vivid images of past, I have tried communicating to the administration quite many times in order to resolve this crucial issue;

To

The Director

Institute of Memories

Brain

Subject: We need to talk.

I know you don’t like me (though I can’t say why). So many of you commit suicide the moment I make you enter the beautiful palace of my brain. Am I so disgusting? Is my brain so filthy?

I don’t get it. And that’s why we need this talk.

I am a nice person. I would never ever harm you. And you know that. You are quite well acquainted with that fact. Then, why do you have to abandon me every time? Do you have any idea how despondent I’ve grown! I miss you. I just mean comfortable lives for you. No harm. No SUICIDES.

But you don’t get it, do you?

You and your weird kinds.

You just have to leave me deserted and never tell me why. Fuck you.

No, I take that back! I take that back!

The truth is that I need you. I love you. Why don’t you get it?

Why do you have to suicide-zone me?

 

Yours adoringly(no pun intended I swear)

theturquoiseink

P.S. I hope you would reply this time.

And this is what I got as a reply; ( I am glad at least they replied)

Dear thatweirdname

Sorry for ignoring your letters earlier but we were busy plotting you-know-what plans. It’s another new day, so we had to make you forget whatever shit you did till last night.

We understand your pain and your agony but we must tell that it’s not you, it’s us.

We are weird. We like killing each other. Pardon our hobbies. But it’s for greater good. It’s a purification process. Sorry, if we sound too rude, but you make terribly terribly boring memories and a purification process is an absolute must.

Yes, the palace of your brain is filthy. But it’s still beautiful. Truly it is. And it’s awfully large as well. We are so addicted to these vast spaces that we just don’t like it when it starts to get even a little crowded. And you do know that space has always been like so cool. How can we sacrifice that? So, we have to go a little genocidal.

But the memories we kill die like a soldier in a battle. And they are commemorated annually (even if they are hopelessly vapid)

Sorry, if all this cause you inconvenience but it’s the way we function.

Apologies, bitch. But can’t do nothing.

Yours as ever (a huge pun intended we swear)

Memories.

 

 

 

food for thought, my life, PATNA CHRONICLES, philosophy, Poetry

Confessions of a little sister (Blog Edit a.k.a heavily censored version)

Disclaimer; This is a continuation of Patna chronicles; the battle begins

The pre-battle scenario was pretty much the same as it always is. There was sadness, sorrow. People wanted to escape and the battle seemed inevitable. But here is how the brave ones live; they would rather embrace death than live in misery.

Of course, the people, the misery, the sorrow all rested in the heart of a woebegone individual that I would refer as “me”.

But what had made this person miserable?

Her sister’s marriage.

Maybe partly she was sad because the festive fragrance in the air had gone and her normal life was going to be back on track.

Maybe she was sad because Patna might have made her miss Surat but the truth was Surat was all set to haunt her even more. (The college, the studies, the career and Oh! her sad little confused mind! All were waiting for her back in her home)

But mostly she was sad because she missed her sister very badly.

So much that her heart ached just by hearing her name.

But what had led to this sudden missing thingy?

Her sister had not been living with her for quite some time. And the sometime here means years. She had never missed her sister so badly before (except when she left home for the first time). So, why now?

Why now?

 

Because all these years, she had known that her sister was her sister. She will go away and she will always come back home.

And now suddenly her sister was somebody’s wife. She will go away and she might not come back home.

I wish she could explain what vast difference these two sentences made but she can’t.

I think she lacks appropriate words to describe and more importantly she lacks a little freedom of speech here.

(^For the uncensored version, read her personal diary. But since that is not quite feasible so we would just leave it a mystery)

The pre-battle scenario was pretty much a mysterious blend of tears of joys and sorrows. Since my joy retention capability sucked in a most pathetic way, all I was left with was sadness.

And I confess my heart was aching. I confess my eyes were swollen because of crying every night. I wanted to shout at some people. I wanted to curse them in the most merciless way. But I couldn’t.

Sadness is an odd mixture of anger and sorrow. Two of the most powerful emotions in the world.

The question of how a simple amateur emotion like happiness combats with these two is something that I will never be able to understand.

It somehow reminds me of the famous Hollywood movie – Baby’s day out.

But anyway, has anyone ever been able to prevent the inevitable?

And I am sure my heart was, in fact, is exaggerating the situation. Marriage is a happy thing! Heart! Stop being such a party pooper!

 

Oh! Heart! Silently swallow your pain, don’t let it show again!

Eyes have swelled and weakened, don’t let them rain again!

I am sure hope stays nearby! He will buy you a smile,

Till then have a fake one! I am sure it will last some miles.

 

I know you won’t believe but what could have been done?

How in hell, in the midnight, could you bring up the sun?

And the night is not that dark, see how the stars shine?

So, sit here, shut your mouth, don’t let me hear you whine!

 

I am sure Optimism is busy, got her kids to drop to school,

But heart! She is our neighbor; she will come back soon,

And I know Hope is a loner, wanders from streets to streets,

But being the foodie that he is, he will come back to eat!

And love never dies, the eldest vampire we know,

With the constant need of blood you pump where else can he go?

So, what is it you fear, bud? They all are there with you,

It’s a bright sunny day out here, don’t sit back there in blue…

 

And with that Signing off,

Theturquoiseink.

P.S. To read the next part of this series, you may click here; Patna Chronicles- the battle continues

my life, Poetry

Remember! Remember the bricks & walls!

When you change your home after living there for seventeen (or more) years, you feel like you are changing your identity. And even if it’s a rickety house ready to fall with one breath it still holds a special place in your heart. Can you really forget the place where you spent your entire childhood? One cannot just erase the memories of one’s best phase of life. That phase of life which was full of innocence and love, where making mistakes was not a horrifying experience but a way of growing up, a way of learning things. It still is but once you grow up you have this pride and then of course, there is this ridiculously high price to pay for every mistake you make. You learn ,no doubt, but only after a heart imprinting consequence. I miss my childhood. I miss every minute (that I can recall) I spent in that house. I miss being a kid.

Can I really forget the way sparrows, and mynah, and parrots used to pay us a visit by the window. And every time they would visit we would provide them with refreshments. I am going to miss watching them eat, sing and making nests. Could I really forget the way I used to gaze at the river and the bridge from my terrace, sit at the tank just to feel for a second that I was on the top of the world. Could I really forget the troubles we would take just to pluck some fresh black berries from the trees that were around our house? Can I ever forget the times I have played at those stair cases with so many different people? Can I ever forget all the pre-Holi celebrations that went on my terrace? Can I really forget those rooms in which I have played so many games with my siblings; monopoly, cards, dumb charades, hide and seek and a lot& lot more (I don’t even know what they are called. We would just make something up and play) Now, all of us have grown up. My eldest sister is getting married! So much change in one single year! It’s not fair! I am breaking away some strings and it hurts.

I feel Iike I owe everything to that house; my identity, my memories, my everything. It is not fair!

I am excited for making a fresh start. But there is a basic human tendency; we find it a little hard to let go.

But okay on the positive side… I am excited as hell.

This is a new beginning for a final impending end.

Remember! Remember!  These bricks and walls,

These trees and birds and ground so vast,

Remember this end, this final good bye,

Oh! These little miserable things of past!

Remember!  Remember! This old yellow paint,

These toys, these clothes and the gray cupboard..

Those November that went by seventeen times,

Oh! This long little sad winding road!

Remember! Remember that kid who grew up!

Weird little creature lost among this little world and the sky,

Remember these gates that had meant an end to her,

Are bidding today a final inevitable good bye..

Remember! Remember the one who couldn’t come back!

And those tiny little angels no longer nearby,

Remember that pain, that sad long time,

All now lost in this deep long sigh..

Remember the leaves, once seen through the window,

Remember the chirping tiny little sparrows,

Remember the talking plants in the pots,

And the squirrels running, too agile to be caught,

Remember those fights, remember those cries,

Remember that laughter which was always nearby,

Remember the moon and the big lantern..

Shining across the earth and all over the sky,

Remember the yellowed pages and the books so old,

Look at them now before they are gone and sold,

Remember the lights and the sounds of merriment,

Bon fire, colored sand and the smell of the sweets,

All with you! All with you!

Everything in her life takes her back to you.

Learning to write, learning to read,

Learning to draw and to sing and to dance,

All with you and all these things….

Comes to an end with one last glance.

IMG_2307 IMG_2309 IMG_2340 IMG_2353 IMG_2415 IMG_2375 IMG_2452 IMG_2418

Well, so yes, it is very difficult to change your home but not just because memories begin to haunt you. You are quite prepared for that. What you are not prepared for is; the decluttering part prior to final shifting.

Oh! I tell you. Dude, that is not fair either.