Pens and Pages

There's a thing about firsts. Your first friend at school, your first job, your first kiss, your first relationship, your first heartbreak, every first matters in life, except when it comes to writing. I was some 6 years old when I wrote my first script for a movie and submitted it to Dad, asking him to make a movie out of it (Dad was working on an Assamese film at that time), only to be utterly dejected to find out I was just a child with a far-from-perfect film script demanding that it be produced. I was upset for days and forgot about it soon until I wrote my next short-story at the age of 7 and gifted it to him, in the hope that he would get the hint that I wanted a film out of this one too. None of the works ever got converted to movies (well, of course), but I learned over time that our first work of writing, no matter how special they are to us, would always be horribly imperfect. My first poem was fine though. It was an assignment for the class to write a poem in Hindi wher...

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...

He slicks his dark black hair back with his fingers. Outside, it was broad daylight, offering his dark brown eyes a view of the western part of the city. The neighboring tall buildings remind him he is on the 22 nd floor of his workplace. He finishes off the remnants of his black coffee, already cold by now. The half-smoked cigarette burns out on the ashtray. He pulls the ropes of his French window and his cabin is no longer reminded of the world outside.  He turns his swivel chair with the support of his desk to face a laptop in front of him that wastes no time in taking him to another world altogether. The white striped shirt he is wearing with his dark grey tie match the colors on the back of his laptop that flaunt the initials “S. R.”. * An unexpected knock on her door wakes Sheena up from her siesta. She reaches for the yellow dupatta lying carelessly on the other side of the bed, as if it was equally tired from the previous day’s work. She wears the dupatta aro...

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 ...

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?"

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.

It's been thirteen long days since I wished my family a happy new year while forgetting to wish my blog the same. Nor did I celebrate its fourth birthday on 26th December 2015. Often a times, I feel like one of those ruthless mothers who do not know how to take care of one's child or those fair weather friends who refuse to acknowledge their friends in need. So when I am all busy and preoccupied, my poor blog is out of my mind. The reason might not entirely be the way I presented it to be for I did wait for something great to happen so that I could feel the pages of my dear blog with some food for thought. But sometimes great things happen every day or they do not at all, so that you do not get a chance to fathom it.  Studying in a B school implies very less time for old friends and old habits. Blogging does take a back seat. But when every term I get to read so much about human behaviour, blogging seldom leaves my mind. I come across so many people every day ...

I hope you still write her letters, I hope tears still fall from her eyes, Reading those letters she never found. And when you look at the letters you never sent, I hope it's her eyes that see the love wrapped, For they no longer need to know the words. But even when words fail to work magic, I hope you still believe in your letters... I hope you still write her letters But I hope you send the letters you wrote..

I was just going through my diary to find out what happened the same time last year. Here's what I found worth sharing. Food for thought for me. What about you? * "It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with a destination unknown. You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach. And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh. But sooner or later they get down. Because it's your journey, you're the traveler and they just accompany you for some distances. An...

I'm far from being a romantic person. Loving? Not at all. I giggle at the wrong time. My laugh is too loud. I dance weirdly. I often find myself away from people or I find a way to push them away. But I giggle, laugh and dance anyway. And whenever I find myself alone, I sing, I think and I write. That's the closest to love that I can ever be. And when I hug the trees and kiss the sunset, when I admire the birds fly and I dance on the beach, that's the closest to romance that I can ever be. I make poems in my head. I make them all the time. I have always been in love. I'm still in love. I pour all my love to the notepad I write on. I romance the pen. The poems that are still lingering in my head, they say I'm incurably romantic. I still keep my poems. I live more in my imaginations than in reality. And if that's not love, I don't know what else is. I don't need a him or a her. I'm in love with love itself. I'm a story in another story. I'...

You're all words, When it is your death. For people by then Would have forgotten How to love you, again. They would remember You not, for your deeds Were forgotten too soon. You lived on the smell Of ephemeral cigarettes, On the taste of bitter beer And the whiskey that burns Your guts as it vanishes. What is it that you'll leave behind? Your beauty was forgotten When you succumbed To the wrinkles of aging. Your smile is no longer charming When you hide the gum That misses a tooth. So what is that you'll leave behind? Probably, those words, Never spoken, Only written down, On the bark of a tree To be read by strangers Who know nothing about your struggle. And when the tree dies, And the soil embraces your words, Probably it is then That your soul will rest As your words will finally leave love For the soil, That you couldn't.

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

Of years of solitude And a final downpour, Of dreams broken And all the pieces ashore, I wondered where went that river Of all the possibilities. The pen was lying dead On a blank paper; The ink overflown Drenched my soul; I wondered if I could ever make right The massacre I left behind. I wondered if I could Ever do what's right. They told me I was a writer And that made my life.

I think of the words I would like to say Of love, of separation and your brief stay. I think of you as I walk the town On lonely evenings on the nearby lawn. You quietly follow me on a gentle morning, I turn around and you're no longer near. I write the words on a piece of paper. I write a poem; I write you a letter. You touch my hand and I cease to write, I turn around and I see you fade away. I think you're gone and I need to move on. I swallow the words, I bury it all. I tear the paper; I let you go While you stand there, mutely watching it all.

 My child of grief! Hurt you must have been, Inevitable, crying may seem, But dear, whenever you're sad, Just look at yourself, And ask if it's necessary, Weep, if you must,  If you really really must, But do not forget To ask yourself, "Why not write a poem, instead?"

It was either for the scorching sunrise that hurt her eyes or the cold breeze that blew scratching the fresh wounds on her arms, but Disha could tell that her friend had tears in her eyes for some reason or the other. “Nothing,” Razia said, when confronted by Disha, hiding her eyes as she wiped her tears with her hands. “Got paid?” Disha enquired. “Yes.” Lied Razia while walking towards the place she has been calling home from the past couple of years. She headed for the bathroom as she entered her room where two girls were sitting, one smoking a cigarette while the other wearing make-up in front of the broken mirror in the room. Razia cleaned her skirt that was smeared with her blood. She wasn’t prepared for it. After all it was that 14- year old’s first time. Not the first time that she had been “ridden” by men, nor the first time that she bled while bearing the intolerable pain the men gave her, but for the first time that she painlessly bled indicating a cycle o...