[ Alright. This is the last one, for now. Yet again, for those who haven't read parts 1 and 2, they aren't linked. Or rather, they are linked too deeply. So you can read it. :) ]
She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me…
The last petal fell from my hand before I could continue playing this stupid game.
She loves me. That’s where it stopped.
I kicked a nearby bottle in anger.
It was so weird.
My house reminded me of her.
My girlfriend reminded me of her.
Childhood reminded me of her.
Being online, reminded me of her.
Everything, reminded me of her.
As if she was walking beside me all through.
Why?
I recalled the last time I ever spoke to her. Ages ago.
She had sent me a patch up mail.
I’d agreed, but wasn’t ever able to do it. I couldn’t patch up.
Those eyes. Her.
They were the most difficult things in my life.
She was the most difficult part of my life.
I remember how my girlfriend had fought with her, for me. I didn’t know what to do.
My heart went out for both of them.
Yet I was being forced to choose one.
Or rather, I wasn’t being given a choice at all.
Everything changed after that.
Her silence accused me of betrayal. Betrayal I couldn’t face.
We stopped talking.
But she never went out of my mind. Not for a second.
I wondered why, as I switched off my room’s light.
My phone beeped.
‘Hey! Good night!’ it said. My girlfriend.
I stared at the phone.
And for the fifteenth time that night, I switched on the light, went to my balcony and plucked another rose. Red rose. That one’s for love, they say…
And I sat down.
‘I love her, I love her not. I love her, I love her not…’
Fifteen minutes later, it stopped at ‘I love her not’.
I smirked, and then laughed helplessly.
I did it for my girlfriend.
I thought about doing the same for her.
But I stopped. I didn’t want to know.
And this stupid game was turning out to be too truthful, anyway.
I went back to my bed and closed my eyes.
Ignorance is bliss.
[Once again, if you find resemblances, they are intended. Else, they arent. Ciao.]
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Other Woman - II
[ You can read it, even if you haven't read the first part. Just, if you have, you'll understand better. And, both are from different perspectives.]
My eyes never really had to be forced to do this. They automatically found their way. To her. And although I often pretended to look away, and act oblivious to her presence, my eyes darted around for her face, every damn day.
I saw her from the corner of my eye.
She was sitting there, all by herself, licking an ice cream.
She had a bloodshot, painful look in her eyes. And she was looking at ME. Staring, rather.
Carmel feast.
As my friends pranced around me, and played some stupid game with their ice creams, my mind wondered why she sat there alone. Her friends? She had few, but they were gems.
She still continued to stare, as I looked everywhere else except toward her.
Those eyes. I couldn’t look at them. They made me feel guilty. Of something.
I laughed, faking it, lest someone saw through my eyes.
She sighed, and I felt relieved that she hadn’t seen through it.
I still remember.
Oh god. Did I do wrong?
Her weeping face crossed my eyes, and those words rang in my mind.
“If you think that you can take him away, just forget about it!” I had said those.
But I’m not guilty of that.
He was mine. He still is. Yeah.
She, how was I to know whether it was love?
And could it be love?
They were so different.
And they didn’t even know each other.
But that look in her eye. It answered all my questions.
It was anger. It was passion. It was hatred. It was love.
Love for him.
Love with him.
Love for someone, who was mine.
I saw her throw her ice cream and walk away.
My heart skipped a beat, as my ice cream fell from my hand.
Wrong. Right. Wrong. Right.
I turned away, and laughed boisterously. I was glad my friends were around. To hide.
And I tried to lose myself in that noise.
Noise, that kept me miles away from that deadening silence of hers.
Silence, that told me harsh reality.
Silence, that shouted of love.
Love, I couldn’t understand.
Love, I didn’t want to understand.
He was mine.
My eyes never really had to be forced to do this. They automatically found their way. To her. And although I often pretended to look away, and act oblivious to her presence, my eyes darted around for her face, every damn day.
I saw her from the corner of my eye.
She was sitting there, all by herself, licking an ice cream.
She had a bloodshot, painful look in her eyes. And she was looking at ME. Staring, rather.
Carmel feast.
As my friends pranced around me, and played some stupid game with their ice creams, my mind wondered why she sat there alone. Her friends? She had few, but they were gems.
She still continued to stare, as I looked everywhere else except toward her.
Those eyes. I couldn’t look at them. They made me feel guilty. Of something.
I laughed, faking it, lest someone saw through my eyes.
She sighed, and I felt relieved that she hadn’t seen through it.
I still remember.
Oh god. Did I do wrong?
Her weeping face crossed my eyes, and those words rang in my mind.
“If you think that you can take him away, just forget about it!” I had said those.
But I’m not guilty of that.
He was mine. He still is. Yeah.
She, how was I to know whether it was love?
And could it be love?
They were so different.
And they didn’t even know each other.
But that look in her eye. It answered all my questions.
It was anger. It was passion. It was hatred. It was love.
Love for him.
Love with him.
Love for someone, who was mine.
I saw her throw her ice cream and walk away.
My heart skipped a beat, as my ice cream fell from my hand.
Wrong. Right. Wrong. Right.
I turned away, and laughed boisterously. I was glad my friends were around. To hide.
And I tried to lose myself in that noise.
Noise, that kept me miles away from that deadening silence of hers.
Silence, that told me harsh reality.
Silence, that shouted of love.
Love, I couldn’t understand.
Love, I didn’t want to understand.
He was mine.
[Simple funda: If you find resemblances, then they are intended. If you don't, they aren't. And guys, I love writing this series. It's rather close to my heart. Please tell me I can continue!]
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The First Lesson
The sky was clear,
The sun had risen.
I prepared for flight
Distressed, shattered and broken.
I knew nothing about life,
But wanted to, at any cost.
However, scared and perplexed,
I was timid; half the battle was lost…
I shivered as I took one leap,
I shrieked as my eyes prepared for the fall,
My wings refused to budge at all;
I seemed petrified, a creature so small!
Then my mother gave me a push,
As if she too was fed up of me,
She caressed my head and pushed me off
Farewell, for a future so bleak?
My wings opened in a majestic way,
I rose from my home, into the sky.
I soared higher than the almighty perhaps,
I smiled, as my fears, drifted by…
My mother stared at me with love,
Her life seemed complete, all in all;
Her job was over, done well at that,
My life was hers, after all…
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The journey so far...
A feeble step on the vast ground,
The bougainvillea seemed an outright danger,
A heavy bag, stacked with books
To Carmel, I was a stranger…
A nervous wimp, a geek, a nerd,
I buried myself into copies and books,
I knew deep down this will never work…
But it was a lot better than the world with nooks.
I was scared to open up,
Afraid that people would jeer,
Under confident, weak and unnoticed,
I was a coward; it was established, and clear.
Six years later, a lot seems different,
I have a say, and I always say;
Arrogance, pride and selfishness,
These words are a part of my life everyday…
Friends, enemies, life changed for me,
People are to blame for what I am today.
But why, I am a happy soul this way,
And these traits with me will forever stay…
I don’t feel scared looking into the mirror,
This is me, and perfect like this…
I don’t know who to thank or blame,
For nothing at all, from the past, do I miss….
But one thing’s certain,
Carmel made all the difference,
I grew, I evolved. I changed, I became…
To this school, I owe my reverence…
The bougainvillea seemed an outright danger,
A heavy bag, stacked with books
To Carmel, I was a stranger…
A nervous wimp, a geek, a nerd,
I buried myself into copies and books,
I knew deep down this will never work…
But it was a lot better than the world with nooks.
I was scared to open up,
Afraid that people would jeer,
Under confident, weak and unnoticed,
I was a coward; it was established, and clear.
Six years later, a lot seems different,
I have a say, and I always say;
Arrogance, pride and selfishness,
These words are a part of my life everyday…
Friends, enemies, life changed for me,
People are to blame for what I am today.
But why, I am a happy soul this way,
And these traits with me will forever stay…
I don’t feel scared looking into the mirror,
This is me, and perfect like this…
I don’t know who to thank or blame,
For nothing at all, from the past, do I miss….
But one thing’s certain,
Carmel made all the difference,
I grew, I evolved. I changed, I became…
To this school, I owe my reverence…
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Flyover
Every day I woke up with just one purpose. To see it. To relish every bit of it. To enjoy the mystery that surrounded it. To imagine the truth behind it.
I enjoyed my mornings. They were bliss in my opinion, lunacy in others’. I spent every second of my morning staring at it, as the winds gushed past me.
You see, I just had mornings for this sacred job.
Afternoons, I spent doing something I hated doing, but had to.
Evenings, playing; which was a job in itself now, took my time. I had to do it, else I’d be proclaimed a loser. And I just couldn’t stand it. Especially, in front of it.
And nights, I just couldn’t afford to look at such a beauty in darkness. Never. Never ever.
I was a street urchin, in the common man’s language. I lived, well, in the common man’s language, on the roads. When the day came to its close, I returned back to what many wouldn’t like to call a home. Because there wasn't any. It was a mere roof.
A roof like no other. A roof so plane and rugged. A roof no ‘house’ can have. A roof no person would ever want. A roof, like the flyover.
Afternoons were dreaded. More for the humiliation they got along with them. Who would like people shouting at them, refusing to buy something as cheap as flowers? But I had to succumb, as there was no other way. I had to fill my belly, in addition to my mother and father’s as well. I had to live, I had to survive. I couldn’t stand the thought of living without looking at it – the flyover.
The flyover was perhaps the only memory I had of what is called childhood, in the common man’s language. Well, if you omit out memories of a bickering mother, and a seemingly non-existent father. And I loved it more than anything else in the world. It was vast, expansive, and majestic in all its views. What, in the world could be more beautiful than this? With cars driving, zooming around. With a never ending blue sky above it. This is what I could call salvation. I wished I was a flyover, at times.
My mother said it led to some huge city. When I had asked what a city meant, she had shouted at me for asking too many questions. I knew why she was angry. Not because I asked too many questions, but because I asked too many questions about the flyover.
You see, no one liked the flyover. Infact, they detested it, and cursed it.
I had often heard my mother whispering to my father about how this wretched thing should be broken down, as they weren’t able to see stars. Whispering, as they couldn’t say it aloud, when I was around.
I was very defensive about it. I didn't have any particular reason for it, though. I did, actually, but not in the common man’s language.
I spent my mornings staring at the huge structure. It gave me peace, it made me feel serene. It was so much better than kicking around a tattered football. So much better than selling flowers. So much better than hearing nonsense from nonsensical people. So much better than, well, life.
I often wondered what life was, beyond the flyover, in what they call the ‘city’, in the common man’s language. What was a city? A place better than this? A place that gave joy? Joy, greater than staring at this wonder? Or just another word for problems, tensions, and trouble? I wished someone from those speeding cars would stop by, look at my innocent eight-year old face, in the common man’s language, and take me to the city.
I wanted to go there. You see, the flyover taught me to be positive. Maybe, the city was all about joys and happiness.
Life under the flyover, however was mine. Well, at least mornings were. So what if I couldn’t see the sky at night? At least there was place to lie down. So what if it was just a few inches, and it smelled gross? At least I had a bed sheet to cover my nose with. So what if it was a tattered, torn one, that was hardly of any use? At least it gave me hope that there was something better in the world.
You see, the flyover taught me to be positive.
At least I had food to eat. So what if it was partly stale, leftover food that I hated to gobble down? At least someone, anyone made a point to offer it to me.
You see, the flyover taught me to believe there was someone, up there. God, in the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
I wasn't a commoner. No.
No commoner thinks of a flyover as his life.
No commoner thinks of a filthy, dirty and wretched life, as a good one.
No commoner has a flyover to teach them stuff, when they need to learn.
No commoner has such an unusual, mute, and lifeless sibling as a flyover.
But then, who wants to be common?
I enjoyed my mornings. They were bliss in my opinion, lunacy in others’. I spent every second of my morning staring at it, as the winds gushed past me.
You see, I just had mornings for this sacred job.
Afternoons, I spent doing something I hated doing, but had to.
Evenings, playing; which was a job in itself now, took my time. I had to do it, else I’d be proclaimed a loser. And I just couldn’t stand it. Especially, in front of it.
And nights, I just couldn’t afford to look at such a beauty in darkness. Never. Never ever.
I was a street urchin, in the common man’s language. I lived, well, in the common man’s language, on the roads. When the day came to its close, I returned back to what many wouldn’t like to call a home. Because there wasn't any. It was a mere roof.
A roof like no other. A roof so plane and rugged. A roof no ‘house’ can have. A roof no person would ever want. A roof, like the flyover.
Afternoons were dreaded. More for the humiliation they got along with them. Who would like people shouting at them, refusing to buy something as cheap as flowers? But I had to succumb, as there was no other way. I had to fill my belly, in addition to my mother and father’s as well. I had to live, I had to survive. I couldn’t stand the thought of living without looking at it – the flyover.
The flyover was perhaps the only memory I had of what is called childhood, in the common man’s language. Well, if you omit out memories of a bickering mother, and a seemingly non-existent father. And I loved it more than anything else in the world. It was vast, expansive, and majestic in all its views. What, in the world could be more beautiful than this? With cars driving, zooming around. With a never ending blue sky above it. This is what I could call salvation. I wished I was a flyover, at times.
My mother said it led to some huge city. When I had asked what a city meant, she had shouted at me for asking too many questions. I knew why she was angry. Not because I asked too many questions, but because I asked too many questions about the flyover.
You see, no one liked the flyover. Infact, they detested it, and cursed it.
I had often heard my mother whispering to my father about how this wretched thing should be broken down, as they weren’t able to see stars. Whispering, as they couldn’t say it aloud, when I was around.
I was very defensive about it. I didn't have any particular reason for it, though. I did, actually, but not in the common man’s language.
I spent my mornings staring at the huge structure. It gave me peace, it made me feel serene. It was so much better than kicking around a tattered football. So much better than selling flowers. So much better than hearing nonsense from nonsensical people. So much better than, well, life.
I often wondered what life was, beyond the flyover, in what they call the ‘city’, in the common man’s language. What was a city? A place better than this? A place that gave joy? Joy, greater than staring at this wonder? Or just another word for problems, tensions, and trouble? I wished someone from those speeding cars would stop by, look at my innocent eight-year old face, in the common man’s language, and take me to the city.
I wanted to go there. You see, the flyover taught me to be positive. Maybe, the city was all about joys and happiness.
Life under the flyover, however was mine. Well, at least mornings were. So what if I couldn’t see the sky at night? At least there was place to lie down. So what if it was just a few inches, and it smelled gross? At least I had a bed sheet to cover my nose with. So what if it was a tattered, torn one, that was hardly of any use? At least it gave me hope that there was something better in the world.
You see, the flyover taught me to be positive.
At least I had food to eat. So what if it was partly stale, leftover food that I hated to gobble down? At least someone, anyone made a point to offer it to me.
You see, the flyover taught me to believe there was someone, up there. God, in the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
I wasn't a commoner. No.
No commoner thinks of a flyover as his life.
No commoner thinks of a filthy, dirty and wretched life, as a good one.
No commoner has a flyover to teach them stuff, when they need to learn.
No commoner has such an unusual, mute, and lifeless sibling as a flyover.
But then, who wants to be common?
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Other Woman
As I sat in one remote corner of my school, munching and relishing my ice cream, my mind thought…
Carmel feast.
She was downstairs, I could see her. I couldn’t exactly decide whether she had seen me or not. But my heart said she had. She stood there with her clan of friends, an ice cream in each hand. She seemed happy. Or maybe she was faking it. She perhaps just wanted me to feel jealous of her happiness.
I sighed.
No one noticed. I was alone in the corridors. Or maybe I was alone anyhow, just alone…
I could recall, remember. Or perhaps I hadn't forgotten it at all. It was difficult to forget, anyway.
She had shouted with anger, “If you think that you can take him away, just forget about it!”
I had stared at her, open mouthed. Maybe she was right, I had thought about it.
But surely, I hadn't thought about making it work.
Bitter as it was, it hurt. I shouted back at her, weakly though. I had no strength left. She had left me shattered. He had left me shattered.
As if coping with the fact that he didn't love me, and had chosen her over me wasn't enough.
It seemed as if she was laughing at me, as she ate her ice cream. I very well knew the reason behind that glint in her eye. She seemed evil.
I threw my ice cream and walked away.
Carmel feast.
She was downstairs, I could see her. I couldn’t exactly decide whether she had seen me or not. But my heart said she had. She stood there with her clan of friends, an ice cream in each hand. She seemed happy. Or maybe she was faking it. She perhaps just wanted me to feel jealous of her happiness.
I sighed.
No one noticed. I was alone in the corridors. Or maybe I was alone anyhow, just alone…
I could recall, remember. Or perhaps I hadn't forgotten it at all. It was difficult to forget, anyway.
She had shouted with anger, “If you think that you can take him away, just forget about it!”
I had stared at her, open mouthed. Maybe she was right, I had thought about it.
But surely, I hadn't thought about making it work.
Bitter as it was, it hurt. I shouted back at her, weakly though. I had no strength left. She had left me shattered. He had left me shattered.
As if coping with the fact that he didn't love me, and had chosen her over me wasn't enough.
It seemed as if she was laughing at me, as she ate her ice cream. I very well knew the reason behind that glint in her eye. She seemed evil.
I threw my ice cream and walked away.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Time for self
I love being the centre of repulsion. I love to spend time with myself. I love the silence of an eerie night. I love to remember disasters. I love to experience things out of the way. I love the wind blowing past me. The sound of silence. The music of loneliness. The happiness of failure. I love to innovate. Think, at times. I love doing nothing. I love dressing up for no reason at all. I love to refuse invites to parties. I love to be the maniac that I am. Sleeping. Dreaming. Feeling lost.
I love to feel weird about doing a particular job. It tells me I’m different. I love being different. I love hot food, minus the onions. I love to play scrabble endlessly. I love to dream of a time when I’ll have time. I love to watch television, more because it makes me forget. I love to forget things, faces, names, people…
I love sad endings, in books, stories, films. I love to be someone else. I love to analyze myself. I love myself. I love those stereotypical soaps on TV. I love to correlate. I love the feeling of being protected. I love to be cared for. I love to talk, sometimes. I love to just laugh off life till tears squeeze out. I love the irony in my laugh. I love the word – depressed. I love words. I love to write. I love the computer. I love to sit and stare out into the night. I love to talk to the moon. I love to feel the presence of God.
Miracles. Black magic. Life after death. Sun signs. Horoscopes. Future.
I love the thought of running away. I love to bicker, fight and shout, when I’m angry. I love to fantasize. I love to live in a dream world. I love to not admit, and face reality. I love the idea of schizophrenia. I love to understand emotions, intricately. I love the feeling of love. I love that thumping heart beat. I love the red in my cheeks. I love to think about stuff of MY choice. I love life, MY way. Lazing around. Sleeping for eternity. The air conditioner. My bed. My house. The coziness. The food. Momos.
Pizzas. Simple rice. Those dinner conversations. The feeling of being required.
I love looking at the dark side of things. I love to have few people around me. I love to think of old jokes, and still find them funny. I love to preserve what I write. I love to see photographs, observe. I love to think of people. I love to judge. I love being partial. I love crying at night. I love to wake up late. I love postponing. I love to never do some things. I love the feeling of carrying an empty bag to school. I love to go to school for a particular reason a particular day. I love to show people who care, I care. I love to spend time lavishly. I love being pampered. I love the luxury of a day all for myself. I love being online. I love to compete with my own messaging speed. I love games. I love to read HT City over a cup of brewing, hot, self made coffee. I love to taste food. I love to stand in my balcony. I love to doze off in my car.
I love to feel incomplete, as it helps me live on.
I love to live life MY way – THIS way.
P.S. : People, I don't have much to say, really. But I'm SO glad that I'm finally posting!! I mean, I've been breaking my head over this computer for the past two days, so you know...
Relief!
I love to feel weird about doing a particular job. It tells me I’m different. I love being different. I love hot food, minus the onions. I love to play scrabble endlessly. I love to dream of a time when I’ll have time. I love to watch television, more because it makes me forget. I love to forget things, faces, names, people…
I love sad endings, in books, stories, films. I love to be someone else. I love to analyze myself. I love myself. I love those stereotypical soaps on TV. I love to correlate. I love the feeling of being protected. I love to be cared for. I love to talk, sometimes. I love to just laugh off life till tears squeeze out. I love the irony in my laugh. I love the word – depressed. I love words. I love to write. I love the computer. I love to sit and stare out into the night. I love to talk to the moon. I love to feel the presence of God.
Miracles. Black magic. Life after death. Sun signs. Horoscopes. Future.
I love the thought of running away. I love to bicker, fight and shout, when I’m angry. I love to fantasize. I love to live in a dream world. I love to not admit, and face reality. I love the idea of schizophrenia. I love to understand emotions, intricately. I love the feeling of love. I love that thumping heart beat. I love the red in my cheeks. I love to think about stuff of MY choice. I love life, MY way. Lazing around. Sleeping for eternity. The air conditioner. My bed. My house. The coziness. The food. Momos.
Pizzas. Simple rice. Those dinner conversations. The feeling of being required.
I love looking at the dark side of things. I love to have few people around me. I love to think of old jokes, and still find them funny. I love to preserve what I write. I love to see photographs, observe. I love to think of people. I love to judge. I love being partial. I love crying at night. I love to wake up late. I love postponing. I love to never do some things. I love the feeling of carrying an empty bag to school. I love to go to school for a particular reason a particular day. I love to show people who care, I care. I love to spend time lavishly. I love being pampered. I love the luxury of a day all for myself. I love being online. I love to compete with my own messaging speed. I love games. I love to read HT City over a cup of brewing, hot, self made coffee. I love to taste food. I love to stand in my balcony. I love to doze off in my car.
I love to feel incomplete, as it helps me live on.
I love to live life MY way – THIS way.
P.S. : People, I don't have much to say, really. But I'm SO glad that I'm finally posting!! I mean, I've been breaking my head over this computer for the past two days, so you know...
Relief!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)