Pens and Pages

I have always believed that Love and Relationships are different things, often misunderstood to be the same. If love is a feeling, an emotion, you can love anyone you wish to, and from a distance too. You do not expect anything in return so whatever you receive is a gift, a bonus, a dessert for your meal. Love inherently is unconditional and non-judgmental. Something close to divine and inexplicable. Can you think of how you love your friends and never judge them to be anything less than perfect no matter how they are and how different they are from you or your other friends? And then comes infatuation. Oh, that feeling when your mind is on Cloud Nine! The start of a heady love-affair. The butterflies in your stomach. How you think of them almost all the time. How all the love songs suddenly make sense. And how, even if it is the umpteenth time you have a crush, you can't help but see your crush as no less than human embodiment of perfection. Sometimes, we love this feeling of infa...

 I am a public private person. It means although I am sharing so much on social media and gatherings, I still manage to retain my privacy on things I want to. A friend of mine who probably knows me the best amongst all my friends said to me on how even when he knows so much about me, he just knows only 20% of me. You are mysterious that way, he says. Another friend had said that although I keep in touch and we hang out he hardly knows what's going on in my life. Nobody actually does. I am comfortable with this style of living. I always have been.  Until I found out the term- Comfortable Distance last year in December during my Foundation classes. "Are you using Comfortable Distance to limit you?" was the question, I look back at my life and wonder. I wasn't always like this. I had my best friends and boy friends who knew everything about me and somehow those things didn't work out. I ended up becoming more mature, setting boundaries, releasing the need to have bes...

Your thoughts, your feelings, The emotions you’re perceiving- What are they, if not fragments of beauty? Epitome of beauty be that mind of yours, That heart that loves simplicity, The beauty you see around- Invisible to busy eyes, Incomprehensible to worried minds. How do you pen a poem then Of the beauty you see From that heart of yours? Do you break sentences? Do you rhyme words? Or do you just read, And, after every four seconds, pause? How would you express your heart? With long words from a heavy lexicon? How long should each word be, Sitting on someone’s dictionary? And if all you want is to gently read, Write the poem a broken heart would need, Not simple meanings behind words too-long, Write your heart out to a simple song. Write the word that makes you believe Not the one that looks good on paper. Choose the word that weighs more No matter the length be nine or four. Ask yourself, what would make you believe, C...

"You'll always be late for the previous train, a nd always on time for the next.”  ― Piet Hein I rejoice whenever I get a window seat on Indian trains whenever it’s a chair car (otherwise Upper Berth would be my spot), more so when it is the last seat near the door, usually marked 4. There’s always more legroom for those who get the last seat. The TTE (Train Ticket Examiner) sits in the same seat on the other column, marked 1, which feels quite safe for a single woman traveller. When I need to leave my seat for a short break, it’s the TT (in short for TTE) who would watch over my luggage. When I need to ask how delayed the train was, it was again the TT, my neighbour for the journey. However, sitting near the TT comes with other experiences too apart from the sense of security. There would be travellers without a ticket, looking for a vacant seat, who would sit on the TT’s seat itself pretending it’s theirs and later being laughed at, when busted. There would be peop...

Write like no one’s reading . The thought came to me on a train journey I hadn’t expected much from. It was always about taking a nap and snoring the distance away for me, avoiding eating anything from the mobile vendors selling dubious tea and untrustworthy coffee. I’d forcefully close my eyes, plug in my earphones, till the point a part of my brain would give up and turn itself off. It’s different this time- I find myself on a comfortable seat, near the window, with enough leg room to keep both my bags and still not feel suffocated. I couldn’t sleep so I read; I couldn’t read any more so I drifted away in my thoughts- a practice I had left years ago. Like encountering an old friend on a strange road that somehow feels familiar when you see the friend smile, my thoughts embrace me back. I allow myself the freedom to let them fly away as far as they wish to. I allow myself to steal my waking time to do nothing, instead of occupying myself with thoughtless texting or data anal...

My car moved when I typed 1 It stopped at each 0 I type 1 and the lights were on, At every 0, it was dark again... I look away from the perfect screen Through a glass window covered with dirt, And I see beyond the translucence A dimly lit house on the hillside, A broken door left ajar, A worn out roof that'd still let A few raindrops seep in, A man limping his way home the way he would have run if he could. I see the imperfections  Of the enormous tree Under which a child could still be drenched- One drop at a time. I see a half-torn ten dollar bill, Lying near some worm-ridden mangoes The owner of the tree couldn't pluck on time, Useless as both could be, the way A writer would think away his time, Without words to put on the paper. I come home late at night Another day of programming  LEDS and wheels of the tiny robot car, Coding 1 or 0, I kill my day, Only to find my night dimly lit Like the house on the ...

My favorite color is the shade of your cheeks wet with drops from the salty sea of your eyes when you are guilty of making an innocent mistake like writing "writed" for "wrote" doubting if you can still write a good quote, calling yourself not a writer even when the pages of your diary are filled with a million notes, even when you die everyday but wake up to write for a theme called Hope.

Words engulf him The way he gulps his scotch One glass after another. He grabs his pen And writes down his love Pages after pages. He passes a smile at me At times when he isn't bothered About how he looks When his teeth is shown, When his hair is uncombed And she passes him by. He writes a note for her Without reading The stories I've to tell. He asks me, sometimes, As he drops his note In her old letterbox. His thick eyelashes flutter, A gulp in his throat, Drops of sweat  On his forehead, He fumbles as he utters, "Have you written anything new?"

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy; What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes, some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes? Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago? Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow? Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever? Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write. Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"? What is this insouciance called? Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold? Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored? Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas ...

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. Where are the stories, where are the rhymes? Though we look into each other's eyes for hours From one sunset to another sunrise. He says 'tis not love if we await another day. Where are the words you and I didn't say? He says 'tis not about my daydreams. He says we don't hold hands very often. For the world is filled with contemporary poets, He says mine don't fit this world of substance. Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks. A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last. A minute longer that doesn't stay, 'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say. A floating second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

She swirls around the same old swing, Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze, The same park where benches lay adorned, The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn... A gentle drizzle that comes every eve, Does make her not smile nor blink. She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

How nonchalantly we made promises of a love eternal And in the quest for eternity We forgot how to not forget each other, I had forgotten how it felt like To be in his presence, How he would talk of the faraway stars As we sit under the moonlit sky... I had forgotten his perfume And he had forgotten How my cheeks turn red Every time I caught a glance of him. In the quest for eternity I wrote a million poems, Letters I would not share... We had forgotten how it felt like To live in the "reality" people created. We left things unsaid Like we see in the movies written on ideas created by Shakespeare... I would cut my wrists, Drink wine to remember And recite Bukowski and Plath In the quest for the eternity they derived... But most of the pages life did unfold, Were nothing like the books he read, Or the poems I wrote... Life moved on, One memory after another... We kept forgetting Each moment we thought we'd cherish. Yesterday, I saw him again His picture on my ...

( Because everyone around us pretends to be someone they are not and, maybe, so do we.  Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself. ) I hope it's you The face you show me every morning, For I have torn masks before, I have detached pretty pink masks from dark red faces, I have burned those wooden masks so that they can Reflect the faces they hide. They don't. They veil a different anatomy altogether, A face that only a mother could truly love, A face that would push me to trauma for a few months, A face that brings along depression and loneliness. I have fancied those faces would one day turn white, Or a lighter shade of grey or blue. They don't. They bathe with blood every night I kiss them goodnight. They have bathed in the blood they stole from someone else alike. Every time I pull out such masks Stuck to their skin Knowing not the thin boundaries For they have, over the time, erased, ...

Source: Levo.com I set them on fire, The pillars of withered leaves Like promises long broken. The bridge collapses On a sea of grief. I set them on fire Like there was no yesterday Looking at this morning With remorse and a hidden pain. Ages have elapsed Like a strand of hair That loses its identity over time, Turning pallid painlessly. I set them on fire- The long tresses you so loved once, Touching my neck, And down my spine, Once or twice, a gentle peck. I have burnt bridges, More times than I have lit a cigar Or held you in my arms. Today I pin them down, I collect the ashes- Another bridge to build With grey pillars of Infidelity and torture. Love, they call it While I prepare for it to kindle.

The thing about promises is that they can be broken. I was almost on the verge of breaking a promise before I sat to write this saviour blog-post of mine. Courtesy: LinkedIn The promise or the goal was that I’d ignore the negativity around me and write about the positive things, the little acts of kindness, love and hope on my blog this year. Two and a half months have elapsed and I haven’t written a word. In my defense, I was busy writing hatke marketing-related articles for Marketing Buzzar (You can find them here ). So like I promised in the month of January that I will write about people who help me restore my faith on humanity in this world of today, the person I pick today to write about is Suruchi Gupta, a fellow student at MDI, and her “The Umbrella” incident. It so happened that we, the members of the Counseling Cell of MDI Gurgaon, were at a meeting discussing future plans for the college and also, our individual career paths when one of our seniors ment...

So that was it, Stepping on broken pieces of glass, bare feet till your toes too bleed, Splinters that pierce the skin, that flow within you like blood, never to be found again... Where darkness ended, another night began... And that was the way things were for them When they lived in different cities... Five years later when they were united They expected the world to turn all rosy, The pain to go away And happiness to stay. So when they met, they made promises to keep. To live in the same city. But that was the way things were in that city. They now live in different families

Where does the serpentine road lead? To the hill's top and beyond. A tiny hut resides at the end of the road, The road ends where people do not go. There rests in peace my muse and love Within a coffin made of soil and leaves. Sometimes, she sits atop the mountains people do not see, Touching the clouds, she smiles in glee. And when the wars will end and birds will sing. She will turn the serpentine road around, For a new world to lead.

Someday you will tell them your story. But darling, do not think that they'll listen to it. They will hush you up. "Pretend that it never happened," They will tell this as they avert their eyes. They will not pat your back. They will not see how brave you were. They will only see the scars and not the wounds. All they will wish for is those scars to disappear. But dear, when you have born those wounds With all your heart and might, Dare you not lose the scars. Scars that define who you are now, Scars that will tell your story When the world will shut their ears, Scars that will pat your back And remind you of the courage you had shown, For, darling, you will need to be brave Again And again.

Broken bones and a bruised face, He checked the mirror- The nightmare's back again. Palms that bled and fingers without nails. An empty heart and a blank page. He feeds himself on the frozen salad- Last year's leftovers, he did not forget. He could let go of sleep Or he could sit and bleed. He chooses to embrace the red So, within the four walls, he stayed. Why stay when you can leave? But all of this has happened before, Not a curse, it's a habit, he said.

Somewhere far, In another constellation of stars, Maybe you're right And maybe I'm wrong, And maybe I'm not as sick and frail and unsound, And maybe you stay Like the darkest of nights that didn't leave today. A thousand years would go by, Only to let in a thousand more. Maybe we smile There Lying beneath the countless clouds of a faraway sky. Maybe time stands still For it no longer matters Or maybe it gently passes by Like the breeze from a land we visited once. Once, Twice or thrice, maybe we shed tears too On the wounds of distant scars Slowly healing The way rainbows disappear. Maybe we smear dirt On each other's faces Like children play With their eyes closed But hearts open, And maybe we no longer deny That there still exists true love Somewhere far Beneath the same sky we look at tonight, Love that overpowers eternity, Oblivion and destiny. Love, when it is just you and me.