My First Love… Delhi

Some days I love Delhi so much that I want to hug every tree, every vehicle in sight… If Delhi were minus any people, it would have been a thousand times better!

The Safe Word…

Alright, so the last post was extremely morbid. From now on… anyone of you can use the Safe Word “Bananahammock” in the comments section if you feel that this blog is headed for literary hell…!

I’ll try to keep the crap to myself!

announcements

We’ll meet again!

Some days, I feel so immensely alone, as if everybody around me had died and I was the sole survivor of a ghastly holocaust.

I have been thinking a great deal about hell. I wonder if it would be any different from the lives we all live. Perhaps a little different. Because in hell, perhaps we die a little everyday… for eternity.

I wonder who are the people who are happy. Maybe those who never expected anything from life. I used to be one of those who believed that life is all about dreams. Well… I have come a long way from that thought. Life is about who can forget the corpses of their dreams the fastest. Yes. Dreams die. And hopes die. And life is not about who survives in the mess of dying hopes and dreams. Life is about who can walk furthest in their own corpse.

Life is about who dies the least. Who doesn’t care about the stench of rotting bodies around them.

It is sad. To grow up full of life… dying everyday, to the point where you just want it to be over with. Some days, a blade starts looking like the only way out. Or perhaps a bottle of phenyl. Or maybe some rat poison. Some days, I feel trapped inside my corpse and try as I might, I cannot break free.

Some days I feel sorry for you. You reading the post, with your dagger in someone’s back, twisting it for your own pleasure, while someone else holds another dagger – this one in your back.

Some days I feel sorry for all of us. We will meet again… this time in Hell.

Hell Life Pain Betrayal Holocaust Lonliness

The Painter Guy…

He touched her face, gently, trying to read all the lines. All the pain that she had had to go through all these years. He took his time, surveying every nook of her body, slowly gently, trying not to upset any joy… any worry that might be nestled in it. Shoulders, elbows, ankles, thighs, breasts… His hands traverse her expanse and stop at her lips.

Alvida…

chupake se kahin, dheeme paanv se
jaane kis taraf, kis ghadi
aage badh gaye hamse raahon mein
par tum toh abhi the yahin
kuchh bhi na suna, kab ka tha gila
kaise keh diya alvida

Silently, with a light step,
I don’t know when, in which direction
You stepped ahead of me leaving me behind
But you were here just a while ago
You chose to hear nothing, when did I offend you?
How could you say goodbye?

Hmmm…

Trivial. A word that I hate. I once knew someone who told me not to lament on trivial issues. And I have ever been wondering… What exactly is trivial. What makes things trivial? I do not have an answer to that, and I don’t ever want an answer to that.

He asks me if I have ever loved a man. He has to know. He says my past doesn’t concern him. Yet when we are together, he wants to know if I ever loved another like i love him. And faces flash in front of my eyes. Should i be ashamed? of having loved recklessly. or having recklessly named lust as love…? I do not know. I am confused. I simply bury my head deeper in his closed arms and nod a small yes.

Merits of Marriage

These days, everyone only talks to me about marriage… the merits of being someone’s wife… the merits of marriage.

My Father. My Mother. My Grandfather. My boss.

A friend of mine, 20 years elder to me, married for 12 years to his girlfriend of 13 years (they were in love since kindergarten). He was diagnosed to have cancer two days ago. His wife left him immediately.

The Merits of Marriage.

Marriage Divorce

New Look

Thought of Brightening this baby up a little!

Apologies

Last night I stayed later than usual in the bathtub. Watching my toes as they got all wrinkly. My hands… wrinkly. My skin… loose folds of flesh. I rub a little and it comes out. I’m sitting and wondering if I could peel out all of it. I want to peel it off. Sometimes it’s too tiring to be me.
To be foolish. And impulsive. To sob over spilt milk. It’s too much. My wrinkled skin. Yearning to be peeled off. It is rejecting me today. And I’m so full of guilt. For I am never unkind. Cruelty makes me guilty. And I’m full of it today. Cruelty… guilt… guilt… cruelty

I wish someone would come and scold me. And then let me weep. So that I learn. To be kinder.
One of those instances when I see the devil on top. He is winning. And I guess this is my penance. This helpless guilt.

Stings and Stabs

Ouch…

The familiar Sting. No she is not hurt. Only surprised. Life surprises her sometimes. She smiles as she sees the boils on her fingertips. They will heal in time. she just could not care less. Sometimes she winces in pain, for her sore wounds. The battles have inflicted many a wounds on her body. But she is soldier. It’s her destiny…

No not a warrior… Just a humble soldier. Toying with her faith, Trying to stick to her karma. Traveling in search of peace. She thought she had found it. But her eyes sometimes play tricks on her. For mirages are quite common in this desert.