I can't write any more. Or even talk. Because when I try to do either, the words I go to great lengths to find simply melt away. And I'm left behind, lashing out blindly, trying to chase words that won't wait for me to catch up. Ideas clutter my head, thoughts float about, but the words continue to elude me.

Circles

So we sit there by the water's edge, watching the stream run its course, the hurried flow of the water, breaking here and there on the sharp, jagged rocks. And suddenly, from nowhere, there's a hint of colour; we cheer as we witness the colourful circles ripple and change hues, from red to orange to blue, working their way through all the seven colours of the rainbow. They dance in tandem with the ripples, almost beckoning us to forget all else and jump into the depths of the stream. Do we? No, because you hold me back and say, stop.

You'd always tell me to stop. But I cannot bend to the will of another. I cannot remain static and unfeeling. I shift and change, just like those many-hued circles in the water that we saw the other day. They are me.

I wonder just how good is "good enough".

Random

It's funny how fate arranges things so that everything falls apart at the same time, like a house of cards crumbling in on itself, disturbed by just the light touch of a careless hand.

It's also funny how living, breathing people morph into limp, two-dimensional figures overnight, losing everything that once defined their character.

Last of all, it's funny how winter mornings are amazing.

Stagnancy

It has been a while.

The monotonous routine of school has done me in. I have begun with the cruel task of overworking myself, ignoring the chilling screams of my rational mind as it pleads for rest, for sleep. I have stopped thinking, planning, analyzing. I simply attack each day as it approaches. I have started trying to get rid of those seemingly unimportant thoughts that have often clouded my ability to concentrate. I have also noticed that I do not spend as much time engaging in conversation as I used to.

And I am missing out on the simple pleasures that life and its many facets have to offer. I miss how I could gently turn the pages of a book with my fingertips and permit myself to be transported to fantastic worlds. I miss the warmth and happiness that comes with wielding a pen and allowing it to flow freely, spewing out my thoughts through the words it traces. I miss bursting into song. I miss being able to stand in the rain, letting it pour down on me and enjoy the feel of the wind lightly tousling my hair. I miss being able to stand on the balcony with hundreds of chirruping birds for company and stare at the setting sun.

I wish I could stare at this picture forever and forget about everything else.

Temper Tantrums

Sometimes you just have to be angry.

I usually keep my temper under control, locking it away in a heavily-guarded vault somewhere in my head, because custom dictates that we converse politely with other people as far as possible. But there are times when the door of the vault gives way, and most of the frustration and the venom rushes out with all its ferocity. And as the old memories come back to haunt you, faithfully recalled by your over-efficient brain, you just have to let yourself loose.

I guess you deserved it.

At some point in life, your perception of the world undergoes a sea change and you begin to rethink your priorities. What used to be dreadfully important to you doesn't command even a fraction of your energy now. A deep-rooted dislike for a certain thing miraculously gives way to tolerance. Prejudice, bias, the preconceived notions that have been drilled into your skull right from the time when you were born seem baseless.

You change. You mature and take life into your own hands, refusing to believe the barrage of half-truths being thrust upon you by almost every person you happen to be acquainted with. The world can be cruel sometimes. It can gnaw at you, feeding on your darkest fears, consuming you like a parasite, until one day, there is nothing left inside you. Or it can deal fatal blow after fatal blow and knock you out cold in an instant. It can shove worthless advice into your face, in the hope that you make the mistake of believing it all and proceeding to your doom.

But sometimes, you survive. And once you look back on it all and laugh, you know that you've reached there. There are much more important things to worry about. Much greater losses to mourn.

And you charge ahead, like the brave warrior on his chariot staring straight ahead, not daring to look back. The winding path in front of you is uncertain. You have no map with you. No guide. Only yourself. And, in spite of all this newfound bravado, you can't help but feel a tad insecure. Apprehensive.

You have no idea how long you have. Or where you will end up.

Static

It was yet another rainy day. Cold, bitter and cruel.

The dull, grey skies were of no interest to the thousands of people who crawled the earth below, each preoccupied with his own worries; his own joys; his own grief. Some worried about their futures. Some worried about their jobs. And some worried about the next day's meal.

I could hear shouting. Loud, harsh voices. Shoving, pushing carelessly, they made their way through the crowd to their destination. And there was chatter. Incessant, unnecessary chatter. A sea of voices, waiting to be heard; wanting to be understood. The cars behind us honked. The rain lashed the earth with renewed ferocity, the wind threatening to uproot the trees that lined the street.

But then, you were there. And for that split second, the rain, the people, the voices, the cars, all of them disappeared into oblivion, leaving behind a lull of calm. A whisper of silence.

For that brief moment when time stood still, we were us once again.

Nocturnal

The clouds in the sky begin to take on mysterious forms as night approaches. I love watching them with my head leaning against the cold steel of the jaali in my bedroom window. Not a soul is in sight, and the only sounds that reach my ears are the whirring of the ceiling fan, the occasional car smoothly negotiating the road outside, the unrestrained howling of the wind, and the soft whispering of the trees in the garden. The trees are eerie enough to prompt me to glance furtively around my room at the slightest sound or movement, for their crooked branches and broad leaves silhouetted against the silver gleam of the moon cast bizarre shadows on the walls.


The night air and the silence do wonders for the headaches I suffer from on a regular basis. The shadows of the jaali paint dark patterns on my skin, contrasting with the pallor of the moonlight. I pause to puzzle over what the shadowy figure walking past the gate could possibly be doing at 2 AM. I could sit here forever, but my eyes and brain eventually succumb to the tempting allure of sleep, and I drift away, not with a basket full of worries and a bevy of worthless thoughts cluttering my head with their unnecessary static, but with a delightful sense of peace and tranquility.


Never mind that I stayed up half the night to do this, and I will probably grumble my way through school the next day. At any rate, neend eludes me these days, unless I stay awake until the clock strikes an ungodly hour.

What do you do when the things you dread the most start happening in front of your very eyes? What do you do when, all in a flash, the hopes and dreams that you've been building right from the time you were able to think are washed away? When the rose-tinted glasses with which you viewed the world are shattered?

What do you do when the accumulated bitterness of several long years finally breaks the restraining forces of reason? When the truth gives you a slap in the face, forcing you to see things as they are, disbelieving the little voice in your head that eternally screams optimism?

What do you do when you're forced to hate they very people who've brought you up because of what they've put you through?

Empty Promises

Happy 63rd, India.

Another Independence Day is upon us. I remember how we used to look forward to the 15th of August every single year when we were kids. We were taught to wear our patriotism on our sleeves, quite literally. And we'd believe every word they said about 'progress', 'liberty', 'tolerance', 'equality'. Words that showed up every now and then in our year four Social Studies textbooks. Words that we were required to learn and write down in tests, but never quite understood.

And then, we grew up. And opened our eyes to the world in front of us. We learned to tell the good from the bad. And the bad from the ugly. And we began to wonder, what do we have to be proud about?

India is burning. Nearly every corner of the country is in flames. We're nothing more than a tangle of differences, our unity waiting to collapse, the common fabric that makes us Hindustani ready to tear into a million pieces, at the slightest provocation. Whatever happened to unity in diversity?

We say we're proud of being the largest democracy in the world. And yet, we refuse to do something as simple as casting a vote. Last April was a mess. Where were you, Bombay? Where was all your anger? With all the enthusiasm you were building up before D-Day, all you could manage was a measly 42% voter turnout?

We talk about non-violence. Of tolerance. Of human rights and equality. Justice. And yet, we calmly instruct our army jawans to take innocent lives. We shield serial offenders from the normal course of the law. We deny our own citizens the process of justice.

We watch, unaffected, as the corrupt politicians who run the country make mistake after mistake. Fatal blunder after fatal blunder. We turn away from their incompetence. We'd rather stay blind than take action.

We continue to live our lives, cosily closeted in luxury, just because we're fortunate enough to have money. We toss around words of sympathy for the victims of the unfortunate disasters that hold our country ransom every now and them. And then, they're forgotten; they remain as long-lost memories in the dark recesses of our minds, gathering dust. We choose not to care. Yahan sab kuch chalta hai. We believe that we're somehow above the process of reforming our motherland. We wait patiently, in the hope that someday, someone who thinks along the same lines that we do arrives to set things right. But that day never comes.

63 years, and we're nothing but a land of empty promises.

I'm counting the days.

Three down.

Seven to go.

The 20th is such a long way off. Sigh.

Testing times

Three weeks to go.

Sigh. As overworked as I am with a barrage of assignments to finish, tests to study for, deadlines to meet, and homework to complete; now there's an added worry. I better start studying.

Considering I don't get nice long breaks in between exams, I always wonder how on earth I manage to pass them, and end up doing pretty decent, too. I have several not-too-happy memories of staying up 'til the wee hours of the night, poring over my monstrous books and solving tricky question after tricky question, and then crawling into bed, and falling asleep instantly without even bothering to take off my glasses. And then giving the exam a few hours later in a horribly sleep-deprived state. After that, get home, bleary-eyed and tired, worrying about the next day's exam. Lather, rinse, and repeat, every day, until it's finally over.

Anyway, my brain is a mess right now, full of assorted, mundane little details, continuously worrying about whether or not I'll get through this year alive. Why is everything so difficult? And, when things fall apart, they always fall apart all at the same time, so that I feel like tearing my hair out.

Khair. Guess I have to be content with cursing the education system. Which needs a major overhaul, by the way.

(image)

Ink on Paper

My hand moves swiftly across the sheet of paper, my long fingers arranged awkwardly around the pen, as they always are. All around me is the soothing calm of solitude; the only audible sounds are the whirring of the ceiling fan, and the scratching of my pen. The words form in my head, and flow out gracefully in the form of long, black strokes on paper. Curves, lines, loops. My slightly slanting writing, with its sweeping Gs and Ys, curled Rs, and abnormally long Ls.


I pause to think of the perfect phrase, and the pen stops moving. The harsh blackness of the ink forms a large blot on the clean, crisp whiteness of the paper. Then the pen moves again. But the blot stays. The sharp tip of the pen strikes out a few words here and there, replacing them; sometimes it omits whole sentences. The whole sheet is now covered in my writing. And punctuated with ugly blots and scratches.


My eyes skim the lines traced by the pen, taking in the words they form. After some more corrections, I'm satisfied. I lay the sheet of paper among many such others, all crisp and white, covered in black lines.


Then I feel a sudden warmth spreading over my entire being, and filling every part of me with calm. Writing, as usual, gives me inexplicable joy. Sometimes, though, I wish I could write out my life. Reduce it to lines of black ink on white paper. And then everything would go according to plan.


(image)

I was once a doll

Has it ever occurred to you that I am a living, breathing human, with feelings of my own? I doubt it. To you, I've always been something akin to a live doll, that walks and talks and breathes, but possesses no capacity to experience emotions of any kind; you were under the impression that you could do whatever you wished, and I'd willingly bend into submission. I was just an experiment. You could dictate nearly every action of mine. My feelings were nothing short of a joke. You could play with them like they were insignificant toys, just the way you played your cruel, harsh game with me, your adorable little doll.

Oh yes, you'd pretend to care on the countless occasions during which I shed tears, but of course you didn't. I was your doll. You could give me even the most blatant of all lies, and if you wished, I'd believe it. I was a plaything. You'd watch carelessly as I stumbled and fell, not caring to help me get on my feet again. I existed for the sole purpose of your happiness. My own had no importance whatsoever. Who cared what happened to me anyway?

And for some silly reason, I let this happen.


 I still continue to be mesmerized by the empty words that escape your lips, accompanied by your cold, pretentious voice.

But I've promised myself that I'll never be the doll again. And I wish you'd fall off a cliff. It'd make my life a whole lot easier; I wouldn't have to experience the longing and pain that ensues whenever you strike up old conversations, day after day.