Letter To Dead Friend

Dear Dead Friend, 

The other day someone asked me about the moments in my life when I was calm and relaxed, and my heart couldn’t help remembering you. Hope you are doing well. I am sorry, this wasn’t an appropriate way to ask about your well being. It’s been a while since we talked, and I miss talking to you. I remember you often and sometimes mention you to people, I tell them you are dead. What I don’t tell them is I killed you. But I am not a murderer, I didn’t plan to murder you. It was a slow death caused by ignorance, detachment, impassive behaviour. If I tell you I am sorry, will you believe me? Will you forgive me? Before you decide to forgive me or not, give me a chance to justify my act of ignorance. 

Believe me I was the happiest when I found you some sixteen years back. Some might say I created you but I was too naïve to create something like you. I was limited to scribbling on the back side of notebooks, emailing my friends some random thoughts. Then a friend suggested I should create you. And you were born with the name “Confessions”. I was naïve and barely had an idea on how blogs work, forget finding a nice name! With you I discovered a freedom that I didn’t know existed. I was unapologetically myself and you never complained. I nurtured you with utmost attention. I was a regular blogger back then. Weekly posts were like a mandatory to do thing on my list. I didn’t care what the world thought about our conversations. I obviously enjoyed it when people popped in to listen to our conversation. And I didn’t mind when they didn’t. I was that writer who wrote for herself. I was content with what we had. I remember those nights when I would click the post button and share the link with a close circle of friends and anxiously wait for their comments though I didn’t bother about their opinion at all. But it gave me a sense of satisfaction that there are people out there who can spare some time out of their busy schedule to read a piece of my heart. I can’t imagine there was a time when I had the time to type at least 1000-2000 words every week and there were people who had the time to read those posts. With time the weekly posts became monthly. Slowly I started losing the readers as well. We didn’t have the time to keep you active. I did not have the time to write, and they didn’t have the time to read. Most of the readers were my batchmates who could spare some time till the end of their college life to read my posts. I agree we also connected with so many strangers who could relate to every word we spoke. Remember how it made us happy? Gradually, the readers and the world around me changed. The naïve blogger was open to suggestions from readers. “Your posts are raw, people want drama, people want polished stuff with pictures. There is so much scope for improvement. Write for the readers and not for yourself, else how will it sell?” The list of suggestions kept increasing. I started incorporating couple of suggestions. But it didn’t feel like I was writing for myself anymore. It felt like I was slowly losing the essence of words, it was more about presentation and how some random person wanted to enjoy it. 

I am sorry, I let you down. I understand how annoying it must have been for you when you were left untouched for days, months and then years. Did you miss me? I got busy with life and stopped doing things that made me feel alive. And if I had to write for myself, I would jot it down on my phone’s notes. Gradually, the concept of tiny tales evolved. Nobody wanted to read, they wanted just few words to catch their eye. I followed the race, and I will be honest with you I enjoyed it in the beginning. Few words, yet so impactful! But then the crowd didn’t want to use their eyes in reading words, they were open to listening to a 30 seconds narration. And those 30 seconds narration can take us some 30 days to write, edit, narrate, create a video! People barely listened to it or even understood. People stopped reading long formats, they preferred watching random people preaching on YouTube but reading was tiresome and out of fashion maybe..Suggestions kept pouring in on how to reach more views, while I felt I kept losing out on “readers”, people who savoured a piece of writing. Basically, nobody popped in to listen to our conversation. 

I forgot the reason why the seven year old me had started writing, purely for the love of it. She didn’t bother about who read, who didn’t, who understood and who misunderstood. It was a whole different era when I wrote solely for myself. The times when I could just pour out my heart, about anything and everything without anyone judging it or finding it offensive, or finding it too happy or too sad. It is never enough. Perhaps I lost my way in the process of finding it. I do hope you forgive me for not being able to keep you alive as I was busy trying to survive in a world where readers are gradually dying! 

Can we please keep in touch for old times sake?

Sincerely,

The Lost Murderer                                                                                                                                                                                                    
 

Scribble You Fool, Just Scribble!

 

Reviving the dead isn’t easy, its impossible right? Same goes for a dead blog. It’s been almost 5 years since I posted something. Did I stop writing? I did not, but I have not been writing much as well. Blame it on timing issues, corporate life, people’s opinion, writer’s block or merely procrastination. I have a dump of write ups that I feel isn’t good enough to be shared. Then there are drafts that are still waiting to be completed.

Few months back I came across a small notebook named as AK’s Stories with ugly duckling picture as the cover page. The seven year old me wrote a story book. I read all the six seven stories that were written by me. I couldn’t help noticing the change in handwriting with every story, from round shaped letters to cursive. I wrote about people I never met, places I never visited, kings and paupers, weather, food and intoxicating drinks as well. So I believe I was a smart kid capable of imagining anything. I didn’t have had to go to Japan to write about cherry blossoms in details or get drunk to explain the effect of alcohol. I wonder how I could write about things I had never seen, felt or experienced before. Any wild guesses? Right, I was an avid reader. I devoured stories. This is exactly how my journey with writing started. I was a very irritating, unmanageable kid when it came to feeding me with food. Eating was a task. Feed me with stories, then only my mouth would open for a morsel of food. My grandmother did her best and came up with stories of all kinds, mostly animal stories. But for someone who took an hour or two to finish her lunch, one story per day was not enough. With time she ran out of stories, but repetition was not allowed. I could easily remember if a story was being repeated. I wanted new stories everyday. She started reading children’s books as well. But nothing was enough. I just wanted fresh new stories every day, and mostly about rabbits. I was so obsessed with rabbit stories. Then came the stage where the stories were manipulated. One day the rabbit ran to the moon, other day flew to the moon and somedays rabbit didn’t bother about the moon. My grandmother started weaving stories. First part of the story would be extracted from Monday story, second part from Tuesday and ending from Thursday and I will have a new story on Saturday. She did a good job with mixing up stories to fool me with a new one. But I was able to figure out what she did. Finally, when everyone was tired of my daily new stories tantrum, I think Dad asked me to start reading new stories on my own rather than driving my Grandmother nuts. Then came a stage, no book was enough. I mean I was not exactly reading comics, but I started with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Finally, at the age of nine I was given three books to complete, three fat books. My experiments with truth, Sherlock Holmes and Tales from O. Henry and of course a dictionary to help me read these. For a pretty long time I didn’t ask for new books, I found it difficult to read these. Though years later I totally believe O. Henry was the best thing that happened to me back then I still do read O. Henry! I gave up on My experiments with truth, glad I did. Sherlock is sherlock anyway! At the age of 10 I had access to the school library, then started the journey of Jane Austen, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, The Famous Five, Sweet Valley twins, Sidney Sheldon and so on.

At the age of seven I started writing random stories. I continued writing for a year or more, poetry (that had to rhyme anyhow, not anymore), stories and essays. Gradually amidst school homework and reading new books I stopped writing for myself. But I had definitely learnt the art of weaving new tales by mixing up old ones. My write ups were then limited to school work or maybe to the last pages of my notebooks. I have lost many drafts, stories, poems because of scribbling them on the last page of my notebooks. At times I shared it with couple of close friends via email. A friend suggested I should start writing it all on a blog page. At 12^th grade I started blogging. Initially I started off with simple posts and poems. I didn’t bother who read and who didn’t, I just had this group of close knit friends who definitely read it and that’s what mattered. With time I got more readers. The write ups which most people didn’t understand would be categorized as the best ones. Complicated words and metaphors made good reads. But imagine I see a dark tunnel and some see a black hole? A school senior who is also a writer asked me to try different genres and to think from the reader’s perspective. I started trying different writing styles and different genres. And perhaps stopped using heavy words. Then I got suggestions on editing the drafts multiple number of times before posting. And frankly with time I got too many over loaded suggestions on how to write something to present it to readers. Somedays I felt I wasn’t writing for myself. The weekly posts became monthly and then gradually once in a blue moon I could manage to post something. Because ten years later I didn’t like posting any raw draft blindly. And then the blog died. The shift then moved to tiny tales, poems and short stories. The type which you can just read off while scrolling down your Instagram page. We really don’t have time to sit and read long posts, or books. We are all busy. I also got into writing tiny tales and quotes. But amidst that I wrote for anthologies and got published. Did that make me happy? Of course, it should, but it felt like being given a topic for school writing contest and then winning the same. What about the stories I really wanted to tell? Most of them are in drafts waiting to be alive. Somedays my thoughts wander around, they don’t stick to one place. I stare at the blank doc page for hours. I type less and use the backspace more. Other days it feels like I am not good enough. And sometimes it is a loop. And somedays right in the middle of a warm shower you strike the right chord, the right word but not at the right time. Nevertheless you hope someday right in the middle of nowhere you will find the perfect ending to all the flawed drafts.

The tragedies I wrote often touched people more than humor. But with it came a truckload of assumptions, I am depressed, my heart got broken, I lost someone, I had a break up, I got raped, I am already dead and my ghost is communicating, basically. It’s the stereotypical Bollywood movies that tell you an artist can only be born post a devastating heartbreak. Jordan never could be a Rockstar had he not been in love or got his heart broken. Sigh! In “The Forty Rules of Love” Shams of Tabriz left Rumi so that the pain of separation could make him a poet. You become a better artist if you can romanticize pain and create work of art out of it. Maybe singers do sing happy songs without jamming guitar in frustration and we do hear that kind of music but we don’t really listen to it. Maybe poets write about sparkling streams, blue skies, red roses, and forever after love stories that we read but don’t remember. Maybe it is not pain that makes a creative person a better artist, performer or a poet. Maybe it is the reader or listener’s ability to connect and relate to pain better that makes the tragedies more realistic than humor. It’s grief that connects people better than happiness, maybe because it is universal. While happiness is a relative term. Our definition of happiness might vary. But loss, pain, heartbreak is common to everyone. Yet people asked me how it is possible you could write about it unless you experience it, well the seven year old me hadn’t tasted alcohol till she turned eighteen but could manage to write a story centered around alcohol. The dark contents were often misunderstood, the tragedies were appreciated with a sympathy as if I am going through it and the happy content were just read.

And then there are days you write just like that, basically you scribble but not on the last page of notebook. You don’t care about the readers, you don’t care about the words, how they resonate, you don’t bother about genre or interpretation. You scribble just to breath some oxygen into the dead, just like this post.

Monki+Masala Chai= Monki Masala Chai

Some days things just go wrong. Your sparkling coach might turn into a pumpkin and your prince charming into a toad. It is not always possible to have a magical wand and reverse it all. A bad day at office or a fight with your close ones, it all pulls you down.  Well don’t worry, don’t cry, drink vodka and fly.  :P  ahan, well I would rather say grab a masala chai and fly to a world that is entirely yours. Sometimes you just feel like escaping or maybe you need a beach therapy. But you never know a masala chai can also be a saviour.

It was in the year 2010 that I first stepped into Oxford Cha Bar at Bhubaneswar. It was a lively Sunday evening. The place was pretty much crowded. After all it was Friendship Day. They say that the first impression is the last, though I don’t firmly believe in this statement.  But definitely Oxford Cha Bar did cast a spell on me right on my first visit that later resulted in innumerable visits and memories. A place where you get both Chai and books has to be heaven.

Coming back to my first evening at the Cha bar, I really didn’t get a chance to go through the books. But I discovered a gem that evening, the Masala Chai. The Chai is normally served in small glasses attached to monkey holders. And hence the Chai became Monki Masala Chai for me. This is the place where I was actually introduced to the world of good Chai. The aroma of the Masala Chai is strong and heavenly, the kind of aroma that creates a peaceful sensation in your nerves. I could actually feel the flavours of ginger, cloves, cardamom in every sip. Now as I type down these words I realize Chai is a feeling. Later I tried the Bollywood Masala Chai and the Truck drivers Chai and I could not really find any difference between any of these except for the fancy names, they all tasted the same. So I preferred sticking to my good old Masala Chai. And this Masala Chai is something I would recommend everyone to taste at least once. They have an exotic tea collection on their menu from cutting chai, Nilgiri and Darjeeling tea to ayurvedic and herbal teas. I am not a fan of iced tea. Still I did try Ice tea twice here and I didn’t really like it. The Sandwiches, Pakoras, cookies, muffins and apple pie are something you can have with your tea or coffee while you indulge in a book. I would never suggest the hot chocolate but yes you can try coffee including spiced cappuccino.

This is one place I have been going to all these years. This is one perfect place to spend some “me” time alone amidst books in an afternoon. I always opt for the table that overlooks the road. It’s a beautiful feeling to simply sit there on a rainy afternoon with a book, chai and pakoras. If you are someone who likes to spend some time alone reading, writing or simply looking at the busy road while you sip a good tea then this is the place for you. Now that I am away from Bhubaneswar I know the next time I go there I will definitely visit this place for my favourite Monki Masala Chai. In fact this is somewhere we friends go to at least once when we all meet. The ambience is calm and soothing as well. Oxford Cha Bar is one place where you can find people belonging to almost every age group, school kids, uncles, aunties, love sick couples and people like me who just love the tea, the books and the place. Sometimes you might find writers typing hard on their laptops or scribbling down something, or readers with books piled up on their tables. And then you might also find stupid people you could observe smile and laugh at silently.  They always play slow music, slow good music.

 The book collection is not that great. And now you find loads of fancy gift items being sold. The service is not that good. At times you might have to knock at the kitchen door hoping that the waiter would listen to you. And there might even be times when they might say no to every dish you order, like everything on the menu will be unavailable. But Monki Masala Chai is always available :D   Life can’t be always perfect but there can be perfect moments. One such perfect moment is inhaling the vapours coming out of the monki masala chai, the feel of it when the hot liquid rushes down your throat. And for these perfect moments I visit this place again and again.

Rating:

Ambience: 4.5

Food: 3.5

Tea: 5

Service: 3

And I Melted In His Mouth Like Never Before...

“What if I don’t find you here tomorrow morning? What if they hide you?” He said sadly.

“Sir, I sincerely believe I am not the right one for you. I see the hunger you have for me. I forbid you to touch me.” I replied sternly.

He seemed hurt. His eyes that were so full of lust few seconds back now looked sad.

He closed the door. Five minutes later, the door opened again. It was him.

I felt his warm finger on my cold dark skin. I was a bit scared. How could I let him have me? This was not right. I screamed out loud “leave me.”

Quietly he removed his hand and let go off me. He was disheartened. I could see it. He sat there holding the door and looking at me with longing. I ignored his gaze.

“You don’t want me to have you only because I am old? You are just meant for young people? You think only these young people deserve you? That is unfair.” He shouted at me.

“Sir, it’s for your own good. Your body doesn’t permit this.” I replied softly. No matter what, I was determined not to let him have me. Even if he cries or begs saying it is for the last time (like he did last night) I would not allow him.

He closed the door. I sat thinking about the old man. It was not just lust; I knew he loved me more than anybody else. 

The door opened again. He smiled and said “You know what? If I happen to die tonight my only last wish would be you. And I am serious.”

I had already started melting a bit (what could have I done? If he kept opening the door and tried wooing me? Poor me!!)

Before I could even respond, I felt his wet tongue on me and I melted peacefully in his mouth. This was the befitting end to my life. Nobody loved and wanted the last piece of chocolate more than this eighty year old diabetic patient. 

The Three Musketeers

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow sat together one night. It was one of those rare nights, as they couldn’t be together at the same place and time. It was against their law. But almost every day somewhere at some point of time the three were forced to meet. Sometimes they liked it and sometimes they didn’t. It wasn’t really in their hands.  

This time they were connected by her. That night as she slept the three of them sat looking at her.

Yesterday raised a toast and boasted “She again came back to me..I affect her so much. I have the power to pull her back towards me any time any day!”

Today spoke sadly “One day she will stop visiting you. She would start seeing me; she would realize I exist only for her.”

Tomorrow sat silently looking at her. Finally it broke its silence and asked “why is she so scared of me?”

Yesterday laughed and said “It’s because I haven’t been kind to her.”

“But what about me? I am kind to her. But she ignores me. “ Today was disturbed.

Yesterday mocked and said “it’s a power game my friend. I own her. She lives in the past not in the present. I am more powerful than you.”

“I don’t know about power game. I simply wish she wasn’t this scared of me” Tomorrow sighed.

Today interrupted “But none of you are her present.  And none of us own her. She owns us. Yesterday is her past, I am her present and you will be her future. She owns each of us at some point of time. What makes me sad is she isn’t giving me a chance. She doesn’t realize I am there for her."

Yesterday laughed and said “I don’t let her give you a chance. She is haunted by me. She replaces Today with Yesterday. I enjoy that.”

Tomorrow sighed “I wish she would look forward to me. I am not that scary, am I? Yet she is scared of me. She never looks forward to her future, while I sit here waiting for her.”

Few days later the three of them sat together again. Today tried its best to make sure she noticed her present. Tomorrow was hopeful that one day she would look forward to her future. Yesterday sat mocking at them.

It was a fine summer morning. She got up and didn’t really feel anything, she was numb. The past didn’t haunt her. It didn’t matter or affect her. She decided to be the queen of her life and re arranged her tiara. She realized there was nothing she could do about her past. She had her present to live and a future to make. And she could do it without her past.

As she walked out of her room that day, she was a lady holding Today’s hand. Tomorrow stood outside the door smiling and opening it for her.

Tomorrow looked back at Yesterday’s disappointed face and said “She looks forward to me and maybe she would have remembered you if you had been kind to her.”

As she held Today’s hand firmly, he couldn’t help saying “She might have loved Yesterday the way she loves me now if Yesterday had not been this cruel to her.”

Yesterday faded into a corner as the three walked away.

Society Di Maa Di!

A Sunday morning walk is tiring. It shouldn’t be tiring, but for lazy people like me it indeed is. I was with a friend who was on a weight loss mission. I simply wanted to do something new hence for a change had accompanied her by sacrificing my beloved morning sleep. The only thing I wanted was a good breakfast and then run back home to make up for the lost sleep. But my friend was in no mood to get back home. Given an option she wouldn’t have returned back home that day. And the reason was pretty weird. She told me her Bua (aunty) had come for a few days and she cannot stand her. She gets on her nerves and drives her crazy. When I looked at her face I could know something was actually disturbing her.

“Dude, what happened?” I asked her. She nodded her head twice and then said “She is weird. Everytime she comes she makes my life hell. I am 25 and I am still unmarried and it is a crime according to her. She says there is something wrong with me hence I am not married. The other day she even told dad that he shouldn’t have let me do MBA after engineering, the more you educate a girl the more tough it is to find a guy. Can you believe that? She keeps finding faults in me and reasons why I am not yet married. She says something is definitely wrong with me.” “Well, something is definitely wrong with your Bua, not you,” I said.   

Something was seriously wrong with her thinking process. I wondered how she could even say that. My friend, who is well educated, works in a very good company, has a good sense of fashion, very much chilled out and a transparent person and most importantly was ready to get married. She was ready for a relationship but that doesn’t mean she would blindly rush and settle down for any tom dick and harry. I absolutely didn’t find anything wrong with her. She seemed way more normal than me. But she was termed defective only because she isn’t yet married. Hello she is just 25!! But then you cannot really have a control over your aunties and uncles. It’s like the sole objective of their lives to make your life hell. Is our society that sick? Are we supposed to judge someone on the basis of their relationship status? But apparently it is something very big and important. After a certain point of time it isn’t just the jobless relatives or your parents but your friends also start worrying about your relationship status. They might try to hook you up with someone or the other and mostly fail miserably. And you might be blamed for being choosy or setting really high standards. But then you don’t really settle down with anybody just for the sake of settling down, right? Just because someone desires you doesn’t mean they value you. It is totally okay not to rush into a relationship. But your friends are way better in dealing with your relationship status than your horrible relatives. They want you to be with someone for your sake unlike the stupid people you encounter at family gatherings mentally harassing you with “when will you get married?” This section of people has no idea about you or your life. They never have a positive contribution in your life, they are least interested in the real you but highly concerned about your marriage. These are the people who make you anti social in every family function. The next time you meet such a person tell them you are gay, and ask them to find you a partner. Watch their reaction, laugh and run away. I don’t think they will ask you to get married ever again.

Someone told me relationships are like a hit and trial process. You have to keep hitting and trying till you click with the right person. And I don’t give chance to guys. I am basically stupid or my standards are high. Chance? Is this CA exams? Chalo koi naa is time na sahi agli baar fir try karenge. I wonder how people have time and energy for a hit and trial process. I don’t believe in catching up a sunset with someone who wouldn’t be around to view the sunrise with me. It is a matter of personal choice. And sadly we never believe in respecting other people’s choices. We all have our right to choose the way we want to live, with whom we want to live and nobody has the right to judge us for being us. It is pretty reasonable, isn’t it?

Few months back a lady called my mom. Her nephew is really handsome. And her current job is to find a “nice girl” for him. Someone had mentioned to her that I am pretty, fair and slim. Hence she was hoping I would marry her handsome nephew. So this was the definition of nice girl? Someone who doesn’t even know me, has never seen me in her whole life believes me to be nice on the basis of the above factors that she heard from some other person. So basically she was searching a nice girl who would last till 30. I have been told and I have heard that our generation doesn’t understand relationships. But what about the generation, that defines a nice girl on the basis of her looks? We do understand that looks won’t last forever. Still why do people term a good looking girl and an educated guy as nice? Is it the criteria for finding a partner? Anyway my mother made some excuse and hung up the phone. But I found it really weird. The lady didn’t say anything bad, but she flaunted about the fact that the guy earns so much with an MBA from US and he is so good looking and he belongs to a rich family as well, and hence his family doesn’t care if the girl is doing anything in life or not so far as she is good looking. They just want a perfect match, a doll basically for their perfect son. This would be an insult to any normal woman. A woman is not just about the way she looks, she is so much more than that. I am not being a feminist over here. I do agree even a man isn’t all about his IIT, IIM degrees or a NRI status, he is so much more than that. I believe the most important criteria for finding a partner should be compatibility and understanding. There will be ups and downs in every marriage and you can only stick to each other if you have that compatibility and understanding. But again I belong to a generation who have no understanding about a relationship or marriage. Yes, I agree we are impatient, we don’t compromise much. We easily move out of a relationship and term it as being practical. We are scared of commitment mostly. Honestly, many of us don’t believe in the institution of marriage. But then it is a personal choice. My dad once told me that our generation doesn’t believe marriage to be a religious institution anymore. The reason was the alarmingly increased rate of divorce cases. I agree relationships don’t come with a guarantee to last forever. It is uncertain. But then if you really want to be with a person forever, it will work out or atleast you will give your 100% to make it work. But it would happen only if you want it to happen. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people marry because they want to be married and not because the society wants them to marry or just for the sake of getting married? And when someone isn’t happy in a relationship and wants to walk out of, it is their decision and they have every right to decide what is good for them. Maybe today’s generation isn’t much bothered about “log kya kahenge” or the so called judgemental society and they tend to do what they feel is right for them. I am not supporting divorce but this might be a reason why it’s easy for us and not for the previous generation.

The worst part about our society is that they harass you with “how much did you score?” throughout your childhood and then when you grow up they kill you with “why aren’t you married?” The only people who get affected are our parents. We don’t bother about it but our parents do.” People ask, people talk, we are tired of answering, we live in a society, we have to answer them.” Age plays an important part. There is supposed to be an apt age for everything. Sorry? Sure we should draw timelines for everything. There is an age for education and there is an age for marriage. Who decided this age? There is an apt age, it is pre written. My maggi noodle hasn’t till date cooked in 2 minutes whereas it is written all over the packet that it cooks in 2 minutes. Then how do you expect me to get married as per your pre written apt age? And lastly do you have an apt age for death as well? No right? I mean yes, it is pre written indeed, but not by the society. Then who gave our society the right to define us by our relationship status? Age shouldn’t be criteria to estimate a person’s maturity. One should marry when one is ready for a relationship and marriage. One should marry when one wants to. It doesn’t matter if the person is 21, 25, 32 or 45. It is a personal choice. Then comes the problem of not finding a nice guy or girl, because all the good ones will be taken.  But what is the guarantee of finding the right man or woman if you marry early? The other day a friend of mine called me up and shouted over the phone “Men are dogs!!sorry dogs are loyal.. I didn’t mean to insult dogs..”  I thought maybe her boyfriend cheated on her. Then I remembered she was single.  And then she told me the whole story. A guy who was pretty senior to us was so called in love with her long time back. My friend never even talked to him. And the guy is now happily married and is blessed with a baby. As per every social networking site he has a happily married life. But our hero isn’t perhaps satisfied with his wife and baby. He has been calling up my friend all the time and sending cheesy messages. And once he ended up standing near her house the whole night.  My friend did remind him many times that he is married and is a father as well. But he replied “so what? I married for the sake of my parents and many other people who wanted me to. That doesn’t change the fact that I love you or that doesn’t change my feelings for you. I am always concerned about you.” My friend replied “keep your concern inside your pants, and F**K OFF!”  Apparently his concern is too deep.  We both were sad for his wife and his baby and wished he hadn’t married anyone at all. But like he said he had to, for the sake of people around him.

 Marriage happens to be the greatest responsibility of parents. The whole family and the extended family would sit and convince you the need of a marriage. I am sorry I don’t mean to offend or insult anyone but there are more important things that you need to talk and discuss with your children. Have you asked them if they are ready for a relationship? For a marriage? Do they believe in relationships? Do they actually want to settle down? Do they want to have kids? Have you ever asked them what they want to do with their life? Where they see themselves few years from now? No, I am not talking just about career objectives, but life objectives as well. Do you know how many times did they get their hearts broken? Were they ever abused? Are they straight? Did they ever see a counsellor? 

The most important thing in life is to be a decent human being. It doesn’t matter if someone is single, divorced or even gay so far as they are decent human beings.

 It is important to understand that a woman doesn’t need a man’s surname to validate her existence. She needs to be somebody in life, not somebody’s. It is high time to come out of the fairy tale world. A prince wouldn’t come to your door holding a shoe that you lost, nobody is ever going to love you the way you want them to, nobody is going to read your mind every moment and bring the moon or stars from the sky. You have to learn to love yourself first. We all need to understand it first. Maybe it is a greater responsibility, to give a woman the wings that she deserves, than just marrying her off.  Spend some time in making your son learn to respect women. He should know when he is marrying someone, he is marrying an equal. He isn’t getting himself a cook or a house maid; he is getting himself a wife. Sadly patriarchy tells men that women are inferior. 

So dear society there is so much more to do than just waiting to marry off people and increase India’s population. Live and let others live.

Someone asked me “aren’t you scared of ending up all alone?” I said “I am more scared that I would end up with someone out of the fear of dying alone. I would like to end up with someone because I want to live with him, not because I am scared of dying alone.” And even Cinderella just wanted a night out and a good dress and the prince just happened.  ;) 

A Closed Chapter..,??

She still gets lost in an unknown world, burns her lips and drops down the cup. But she doesn’t miss him anymore.  All these years she had missed him, she had been in pain. But one fine morning she got up and realized it doesn’t hurt anymore. She didn’t feel anymore. She had moved on. She has moved on in a way that she remembers him, but doesn’t miss him. She remembers him everytime it rains, she wonders if it’s raining where he is. She wonders if he still smokes in the rain. Sometimes she thinks about him late at night while looking at the stars. She remembers him in a way that makes her smile. She still talks about him like he is the most prized treasure she ever had. But she knew she had moved on. Her heart doesn’t ache anymore. Maybe that is what moving on is all about, you never really forget the person, you simply stop getting affected by them. She thought she didn’t miss him, true she didn’t. You never miss someone who is always there within you. He was very much alive in every story she wrote. It has always been about him. But she knew she was just another of those cigarettes that he burnt daily. And he was a forest fire.

 “I shall stop missing you little by little.”

His room still resembled a smoke house. The clock had stopped working years back and he never got it repaired.  He never tried to mend things, what was broken was supposed to remain broken. He remembered how she used to break down the cups. The broken cups could never be mended. He still smokes when it rains. The number of cigarettes he smoked daily had increased over the years.  He wonders if she still lets her hair loose and chases the passing clouds. He wonders if she thinks about him. He doesn’t miss her either. Everytime he thinks about her his ego stops him. He was okay with it. He didn’t like missing her or thinking about her. It confused him; it forced him to feel what he has been running away from. And his ego protected him from that feeling that made him weak. That feeling that reflected in all his paintings. All his paintings were about her. She was alive in his colours. But he knew he was just another cup that would be broken by her. She was a forest fire. 

“I shall stop loving you little by little.”

They moved on but never got over each other...