Sunday, 26 October 2014

Combing through...

Combing through my wet hair,
I pause.
Broken strands fall
onto my hands,
my nape, my back,
and onto the bare, swept floor.

Once a part of me,
Now, loose, dead, scattered.

I know this is what happens
when the comb of years runs through
the thin strands of memories
in the partitions of my mind and my soul.

No matter how much I resist
the comb of years will tug at them, hard.
Slicing through these memories,
like apples sliced into half,
and their core discarded.
Remembrances will break, snap, slip and fall.

Once a part of all that I was
No longer a part of all I could be.

And my heart, losing their cherished weight
will become heavier still!

Oh, the irony!

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Unfinished Stories

I keep coming back to all the random, left at half, unfinished pieces of prose and poetry I have crafted.
They lie scattered in notebooks, diaries, journals, and memos of all hues and textures. Hastily scribbled once, with a twinkle and sparkle in my eyes, and a deep, unquenched thirst and a mad penchant for those words, they now lie abandoned in favor of other thoughts, other ideas, other dreams, other stories that somehow seemed more promising, more just, more relatable, more remarkable at that time.

I am a writer.
And, writers do that sometimes.

Letting stories stay incomplete, hoping, someday, to be able to weave a magic that is hidden, reluctant to reveal itself for the time being.
And, then I remember.
You are a writer, too.

Is that why you have allowed our story to pause? Letting it hover between us in the silence that keeps cropping up in the middle of our conversations? Letting it drift, until it fades, like the last, fleeting, faint remnants of the melody from your favorite song? Letting it be? And hoping it transforms into a prayer that He hears, and answers favorably?

I hope so.

But then, we should not forget this simple truth.
He pens down destinies, letting some stay unfinished.

Writers, they do that sometimes J

Friday, 17 October 2014


They could be the muddy brown reminders of the splash of rain water on your crisp white cotton shirt. They could be the sticky yellow remnants of the last night’s supper of sizzling chana dal. They could be the wet, greasy greens on the knees of your jeans, with a small sprinkling of the grass from your neighbourhood lawns where you were playing. They could be the creamy, sugary spots of icing from your birthday cake, a nasty spill of tomato ketchup on your brand new kurti, a colourful evidence of a raucous food fight with your buddies in the college canteen, or a glaring blue-black patch of ink on your school uniform from a faulty, cheap pen. They could be a gateway to memories.
Stains. No. I am not the only lunatic romanticizing the disturbing spots of imperfection on your presentable, meticulously laundered clothes. Surf Excel does that too. Remember the cheesy “Daag Acche Hain” campaign. None of us can deny the simplicity of the smiles which appeared on our faces post watching those ads.

That is what stains do. They interrupt. And in a life marked by the constant pace of ‘progress’ and ‘advancement’, stains remind us that not everything can be picture perfect. No matter how mechanized our lives become, or how far we move towards attaining invincibility in all spheres, a humble stain shows us our true place, our inherent nature to err, to make mistakes; it thrusts in our face, our very own imperfect human-ness.

It is an excellent metaphor that depicts that not everything is in our hands. And that it is okay to make mistakes, as long as we learn from them. If we leave a stain unattended for too long, it seeps inside the skin of the fabric and refuses to leave. Similarly, if we refuse to acknowledge our mistakes and assume responsibility for our actions, this negative trait encroaches upon a space in our being, corrupting us, making us arrogant and vain.

Stains serve to portray that life is not good at all times and the road to success is dotted with speed breakers and potholes and puddles of rotten luck. They teach us that if we navigate through these storms without losing our patience and perseverance, then life will reward us with cherished prizes and memorable experiences.

Stains can be removed, as non-stop TV commercials for miraculous detergents will never let you forget!
Next time you stain your clothes, watch your reaction. Observe quietly how your forehead furrows with lines of worry, how your lips mould themselves in an expression of disgust, how your eyes narrow down and how you frown, complaining that life is unfair and what a klutz you are or somebody else (who inflicted the devious stain on your precious attire) is!

Then, remember that stains can be washed. Recall that stains are good. Recall that mistakes can be corrected. Recall that forgiveness can be sought. Recall that you are nowhere near perfect. Recall that you are human. Recall and smile.

Friday, 10 October 2014


I soak in the warm sunshine of your smile.
I am drenched in the rains of joy through your eyes.
You are the wind to my open wings,
Through you I glimpse the rainbows of my skies.
The seasons change, so do days and nights,
You are the only constant, alive.
You are my open window to the world,
My escape, my respite.
The bright ray of hope that lights up my life.

Sunday, 5 October 2014


His were the eyes which spoke. 
She was gifted at reading them all.
What lacked in speech and sound, was more than made up for in sight.
The unsaid needed a conversation that words could not enkindle! 

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

The Friend I Am

I wish you were the friend I am.

I wish you did not need Face Book to remember my birthday. I wish you would call. Because that is exactly what I have done for you always, on your special day. I wish you cared.

I wish you would sometimes read what I write, because I have always listened to your stories, even if it meant staying up all night.

I wish you would stop by in the corridor to say hello and stay for a little longer during the lunch break. Because I have greeted you every morning and wished you sweet dreams every night.

I wish you would initiate conversations sometimes, instead of always replying to my questions as if you were doing me a favour by answering them.

I wish you would come up and smile and hug me tight when you saw me waving from across the ground. I wish you did not stop at waving back. I wish you did not turn away, and walked in the opposite direction.

I wish friendship was not a formality but a cherished blessing.

I wish you could stand up for me and vouch for my honesty. Because I have always defended you, except when you have been utterly wrong. I thought that is what friends do. Try and make their friends better people.

I wish I could tell you everything on my mind, without feeling those piercing gaps and chasms and divides. I wish you would listen for one day, instead of interrupting me with something.

I wish I could count on you, like you have counted on me.

I wish I could say to everyone that you are my friend in need, just like I have been yours.

I wish I knew the real you. I wish I were a little selfish, a little less sensitive, a lot stronger, and maybe a bit unfeeling. So this would have hurt less.

I wish I knew that you took me for granted. That I was being used. That reciprocation was never your strength. That my love for you was not matched by your love for me. That you were never what the world hopes to call a friend.

I wish I knew.

But more than that, I wish I had a friend like me! And I wish that this friend were you.