On “Loss”…

It is not always about when you lose something. It’s about when you realize you’ve lost it. And are never going to get it back. It’s hard to tell whether each loss adds a burden to your existence or creates a void within you. May be, both. Who would have thought that voids could make you feel heavy? Ironical.

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Sting for Space

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Artwork by: Paula M.

 

I compared our love to steady mountains and perennial brooks.

I thought it was as deep as oceans and Hosseini’s books

As dreamy as the stars, as unique as the moon,

Beautiful like this life and reassuring as “I’ll see you soon”.

But I was wrong, in ways more than one.

For out of these, our love was none.

It wasn’t as mighty or poetic or eternal as I thought it to be.

But just like a stack of movies overcrowding internal disks D and E.

Collected and preserved with a promise to savor

But a new movie allegedly receiving the favor

Never deleting them, just not letting them go

But to make way, Honey, I’ve got to clear the snow!

So I ripped off the Band-Aid; Quick and Painless.

LOL. Just quick, I was kidding about the “painless”.

Exchange the sting for space, and you’ve got a heavenly deal!

For the world is way too much to fit in our tiny ordeal.

An Assortment of Stories

An assortment of stories – that is precisely what your life is at this very moment. At every other moment too, for that matter. Your present is nothing but terrible and not-so-terrible tiny tales woven intricately around time. But that’s not even half as fascinating as the following question. Years from now, when you look back in time, which of these stories will make an impact deep enough for you to remember it first (or before the others)? If you could answer that, you’d be living a right life. But if you could answer that, you wouldn’t be living life right. So, you try and answer and sometimes, you won’t fail. Not everything in life can be about perfection. Some things are better left existential. Like this blog post.

A Letter to my Unborn Child

My dear unborn child,

I am writing this letter to you almost a decade before I can even think of conceiving you. I am writing this, to let you know, that I am never letting you come into this world. I have always been scared of the process of delivering a baby. However, my concerns are far greater than that pain today. And hence, my reasons, stronger.

Let me tell you that this world isn’t as beautiful as it seems on the outside. That being said, neither does everyone know how to survive in this not-so-beautiful world. What if you, my dear child, turn out to be one of such individuals?

What if you’re a boy? What if you turn out to be the kind of boy who breaks the heart of an innocent girl? What if you are disrespectful enough to flaunt an imaginary list of real girls who would sleep with you? What if you’re coward enough to not have any principles? What if you’re irresponsible enough to not call me back as soon as you see my missed call? What if you’re careless enough to make choices about your life that would affect your closed ones? What if you drink like you breathe and are dumb enough to live on weed? What if, before I die, you, the love of my life, cease to exist?

And what if you’re a girl? What if you never learn to stand up for your rights? What if you are a submissive girlfriend? What if you’re crazy enough to think that sleeping with a guy will make him like you? What if someone tries to pinch your butt? What if you do not have the guts to slap the shit out of the guy who pinches your butt? What if you’re incapable enough to sort the priorities in your life? What if you’re foolish enough to let a guy fuck you without a condom? What if you’re scared enough to never make mistakes or stupid enough to repeat them? What if you drink like you breathe and are dumb enough to live on weed? What if, before I die, you, the love of my life, cease to exist?

What if you’re neither born a girl, nor a boy, but a Chutiya instead who makes one or more of these “What ifs” come to life? And what if, (sigh) What if I change my mind and let you come to this world and you don’t come to me and promise to be a worthy child after I’ve let you read this letter?

Baby, I can be the mother who hands you your first drink or buys you your first condom. I can ask your father to tell you which site has better porn to offer. I can let you cry on my lap after you’re first breakup and rejoice with you on your first kiss. I can embrace you if you come out of the closet. But I can’t have you not question yourself when someone says to you “Maa-Baap ne yahi sikhaya hai?” I can’t let you breathe life into my innumerable fears. And I can’t, I just can’t let you out in this world if you choose succumb your choices irrespective of their consequences.

Love always,

Your loving but scared mother-to-be.

On ‘shadows’…

There will be moments in your life when you will be in deep deep shit, in a deep deep pit. You would cry for help. You would struggle to catch a breath. You would run out of hope after faith has deserted you. You would long for light and a helping hand. But all you get is shadows. Silhouettes of people standing above and laughing at you. Here’s a thing about shadows: if you befriend them, light won’t speak to you and if you move past them, light embraces you. So you can try and figure out who those shadows belong to or leave them all behind and rise above them all. Cause in the end, you either die following  or you die being followed.

55 Word Story: Making Love

“I want you.”

The three words reverberated in her ears. She knew love. She knew lust. But she never knew the two separately. This, however, was different. This was sinful indulgence. These words were not backed by promises. Only desire. And so, she indulged.

Next morning, she put her wedding ring back on and left.

The Last Dance

“Dad?”

“Yes, Jane?”

“Why don’t you dance?”

“Just like that”

“Aunt Betty tells me you used to dance all the time before Mum died. Why don’t you dance now?”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“Because I kinda have this feeling that it has something to do with Mum. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“Sigh. Alright. I don’t dance because the last dance I had was with your mother and it was very special.”

“That’s when you proposed her, right? You took her to this cliff on the Southern Island and swirled her about the edge as you popped up the question? What if she had said no, Dad? You wouldn’t have thrown her off the cliff, would you?”

“Ha Ha! If I wasn’t sure that she would say yes, I would have swirled her about my bed and asked her to marry me. But that’s not the dance I was referring to.”

“Then?”

“After about two years of our marriage, we went to this amazing roof-top restaurant downtown. It was a really romantic place with just the two of us on the terrace past midnight. As we were dancing on The Way You Look Tonight, she told me that we were about to have a baby; we were about to have you.”

Jane had tears in her eyes. “So you’ll never dance again?”

“Not unless I am happier than I was then.”

_ _ _

Eight years later, after Peter walked Jane down the aisle, the happy father waltzed around the Reception hall with his daughter.