Pens and Pages

I wrote your name in a million letters, On the pillars of love, On the walls of heart, But as each day passes by, I love you a little less, And that might be the thing about love, That today you remember my name and I forgot yours...

When I packed my bags to shift to Hyderabad for my job, I was eager to meet new people and gain new experiences since it was the first time I was moving out of my home-town, Guwahati. I, indeed, met some really great personalities, made some great friends; I learned about their hardships and I told them mine. But in the short period of time that I was there, I failed to make friends with a few; one of them is Nirbhaya [ name changed ]. As soon as I reached Hyderabad, I rummaged for a PG near my office. I found a two-seater room, adjacent to two other rooms where four more girls stayed. The next day I checked out from the Hotel I stayed the previous night, to begin my stay in the PG. In my hurried search for a PG, I failed to notice the fact that the road that led to the PG I selected is always dark and deserted and hence, unsafe. I decided to move out the succeeding month itself. Those were the days when our training at office had just begun and we, the freshers, were

My alarm rang And I woke up mad. I tried to unwind the clock; Alas! It stopped. I got up from my bed And, into two, it broke. I stood up and sighed; I called it bad luck’s stroke. I walked to the nearest store; “Out of bread,” the old man told. To the next store, I walked a mile; Shut was the door; “closed” said the sign. I walked farther And my heels broke off. I called out for a cab, “No,” he said with a scoff. I came back home Only to realize That I lost the keys, The spare remained inside. And I cried all day Till the fall of the dusk; I heaved a sigh And called it just my luck.

There had to be a reason why he is today the way he is. He'd either stand out in a crowd or he'd be like an invisible gush of air that passes by which no one cares to notice. But nevertheless, he'd always be alone, away in his own thoughts.  They say everyone has a story to tell yet there are stories we never get to hear. Stories of pain, of grief, of trauma. And these stories would make you wonder if they are true. And then these stories would tell you that it matters not if you do not have a good job, a good love life, or social life or a good career. Because when we talk of death, nothing else seems to make sense, nothing else seems to matter. He'd always talk of things that would seldom make sense, if at all. And what he couldn't say, he would write. He had to write. There was no other way. For the only one who'd listen to him had left him far behind. And she went not to a place where he could meet her, even if for a day. She went to an abo