Of wants.

I wanted pretty lilacs and orchids I

Could sway away in lakes but

You wanted big red roses with

Thorns that paint my hands

In the colours of deep crimson reds.

I wanted exquisite nets, and chiffons

And silks, but you

Like polyesters and cottons and threads

Entwined with golds and beads in steps.

I wanted a dark maroon, or a

Beautiful mauve, yet you gave me

Peaches and lime and a kind of

Green I could never really explain.

I wanted grapes and mangoes

We could eat on a hot summer’s day but

You gave me melons

And pears that were far too big for

My fragile hands to hold and share.

When I wanted you, and solely you

You gave me everything else instead.


Everything’s messy anyway.

Time is going to lapse away. It keeps slipping- years, deaths, births, sorrow, burials, debris. Everything is changing, it’s fast, it’s dizzy, it’s making my head spin. But the fastness couldn’t matter, it couldn’t falter the beauty of it. Everything’s messy in a way; everything’s messy anyway.

Dear Diary, I’m dead.

Dear Diary,
I sit here counting minutes, counting seconds, counting moments, and I know my count wouldn’t reach to triple digits. I do not possess the power to stop the slipping sand, the changing shadows, and the intricacies of time.
I have swallowed 16 sleeping pills diary, in full attendance and it is a conscious decision. A conscious decision I might begin to regret some seconds later, but I should not, because regret is just that- regret, and it can never reverse such big impromptu decisions.
I’ve understood life diary (isn’t it funny how I call you, an inanimate writing tool ‘diary’, as if you were a real person). Nearly all my life I have heard people- old and young, stupid and wise, alive and alive- describing life, trying to decipher this code that a certain God (which one?!!) has designed. I’ve had reassurances, stupid remarks, and unbearable taunts being directed towards Him, the Almighty. Wise men say do something worthwhile with your life. Funny ones say laugh and keep others happy. Workaholics say work; teachers say teach; artists say discover; doctors say save; and wretched ones like me say loot. Loot whatever you find, for you really wouldn’t find much, and the things you do find, are really yours to keep.
Anyway, back to how I’ve understood life, and why I’ve decided to end mine, at 52 years of age.
I cannot do everything. I am a mere spectacle, a pawn that he very cleverly designed, to play whatever shit role I’m supposed to play and then go away. Shakespeare said that the world is a stage, and all men must play their parts, and he was darn right in saying so; but I refuse. My dignity has refused to play the part of a lonely old man; I do not want a second childhood to my story.
Do you know, diary, that more than flowers, I like the initial stage of blooming buds? They give a weird sense of hope and joy to me, because I can’t see them as approaching their end, but rather striking a beginning and it makes me very mad when those buds grow up into those big wards of petals that make me sneeze and attract those disastrous insects.
I cannot do everything, diary. As I feel the effect of 16 pumps of poison slowly oozing and mixing into my blood, and see my handwriting getting messier, I really do feel that I cannot do everything, and so I cannot do anything.
I refuse to be part of a big film, the biggest film actually, that some director has chosen for me. My ego is much bigger than those who think they are ‘destined’ for their characters. I want to leave this world with my integrity intact, with my hopes high and I want people to say, “Mr. Jones chose to take his life away”. Chose to.
I will be the element that fails His Big Master Plan, that dissolves this Grand Play into nothingness, and it makes me happy.
I finally can do something. Something big enough to change everything and I die a solemn

(I think it is safe to say that Mr. Jones dies before completing his entry and also to say that this purely a work of fiction. I am very much happy with God, and my part in His master plan. Mr. Jones, a lonely man, dies an even lonelier and sadder death. Don’t consider yourself a mere spectacle; you are the hero to your film.)

Of Observations.

“I only observe” I’ll inform you. You’ll think it’s a funny habit. Then you’ll shyly ask what I observed about you .I’ll say nothing. I’ll try to distract you by entwining and twisting my fingers, or I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear you. When I see an expectant look still plastered to your face, I’ll resign. “Nothing” I’ll say simply.

And then a year later, when we are walking on the beach all alone, you’ll catch me looking at you and you’ll ask “what did you observe about me,” I will just shake my head. When we are angry with each other, you’ll see a look of deep remorse etched onto my face, and my wide open eyes gazing intently at yours, you’ll think I am observing you. You’ll smile deep inside, and moments later it will creep onto your face, because you are still waiting. Waiting for the compliment I’ll never give you. Waiting to discover something new, but you never will. At least not from me.

The thing is, I do observe keenly. I have scrutinized everything about you. But my eyes won’t decipher beauty the way yours can do. My brain isn’t accustomed to look and marvel for long periods of time. It works, perhaps way more than necessary, and it keeps working. Then it moves on to the next fascinating thing you have to offer. It’s like a machine working overtime, with an inbuilt sense of urgency. And when it has completely scanned you, and seen you, and perceived you, it will stop. You’ll be reduced to a mere object it has already viewed, already judged, and already moved on from.

Five years from now, when we are sitting at your front porch sipping our evening tea, and I’ll have that look on my face again and I haven’t spoken in an hour, you’ll ask me. I’ll still not know how to answer you. I don’t really realize what I’m doing, until I am finally done with it. So I say yes. Yes I’m observing.

“What have you observed about me?” This time you won’t be shy. Your voice will be sharp, and your tone will be accusing, and your face will be expressionless. You’ve asked me this question a million times and I’ve contemplated the answer a million times. I look away, and you know I have avoided the question again. I have never told you what I saw, what I see, and even though you kept asking me, I was pretty sure I never will.

And finally, when years from now, when the look shows up on my face again and you see it too, you don’t bother to ask. You look at me, with part amusement and part loathing, you gaze intently. There’s a certain kind of fire in your eyes.

“I only observe” I proclaim to you, and to the universe.

“I know,” and then you won’t have anything else left to say.

Of successes and failures.

Writing is my love. Each syllable, each paragraph, each essay has been nothing but pure enjoyment. For years now, I have watched a beautiful process through my eyes , my ink making cursive patterns on paper in the dim lights, at the quite of night, evolving into words I eventually tweak at some places, resulting in either a piece I am proud of or I eventually tear.

I have always loved writing, but I recognised it as a passion only in second grade. We were to write an essay on ‘my mother’, a very unoriginal and common topic during the time. I remember writing an unusually long and good essay for a second grader. The teacher liked it so much that she passed it on to many other English teachers of my school, and I was a star at school that day. When my mother read it, she was extremely happy and told about it to everyone who would hear (just one of those embarrassing things that parents do). That was my first success as a writer, my best one, the one I remember most vividly.

When there is success, there is failure too. I was in seventh grade (or was it sixth?) and was required to make a speech on good habits. I prepared the speech one day in advance, considering it to be reasonably good. I was in for a rude shock, when everybody complained that my speech was too ‘simple’ and more ‘complicated’ words were expected of me (yes, someone actually said that to me). “I write for myself”, I proclaimed arrogantly at home. It was true. Every good piece has given me an inner sense of achievement. The poems, the articles, the various thoughts and emotions I myself invented. My words have been alive for me. I have formed them, and I have given them meaning.

But can I say, that now, after so many years, I only do write for myself? A few years ago, I was content with showing my writing to a few close people. Eventually, I became unhappy with myself. What do I write for? Does anyone care about MY words specifically? I knew the answer already. Nobody will ever miss my writing the way I do. People will read it, smile, appreciate and then forget.

One of the many reasons I started this blog was that I want to be motivated to write more, to write better and to be consistent. This, however, gradually becomes hard for me, as proved by experiences in the past.  I am hoping that writing here at WordPress, accepting the criticism of this community and working towards eliminating it, will heal the dissatisfaction embedded deep inside of me.

People still don’t care about my words, but I am working on it. I hope that through this blog, my opinion and my words will matter again, to other people, but most importantly to me.

I do not know how consistent I’ll be with this blog. I do not know how efficiently I can manage my school work and this blog. I do not know if I’ll ever have any loyal followers. But I will try, and hope, and steadily go ahead.

I sometimes wished I had kept a copy of that essay from second grade, or of that disastrous speech, my first success and my first real failure. Many more will come, but these will be my favourites. My first battle scars.


I sometimes wonder
Why I yearn for the ones I loved,
And love, and those I
Pushed away myself.
The ragged troughs
Of my heart have hardened
Over time I’ve seen
That my hurtful words have
Mostly only hurt me.

And why cannot I forgive every
Little and big
Mistake, the crimes
I commit.
Why cannot I forget, the
Dark me, blackening every little
Red heart and crossing
Out every I love you,
And I wonder why cannot
I change, for the ones I love
Why cannot I.

This is just a jumbled up something I wrote under 5 minutes. Not a very substantial poem, agreed. But true enough.

Posted from WordPress for Android

Compliments and Appreciation.

Appreciation got to me in so many ways. So many different times in my life, some fake ones, some heartfelt ones, some forced ones. When recently, someone praised me, I got thinking about its after effect. And I realized, so simply, appreciation is the happy key to life. We live to be appreciated, to prove that we are worth all the space we occupy. Yet we are misers in giving other people a few words of worth.

Don’t get me wrong, I really love a good critique. We all want to be pushed with the hard truth, but deep down we love it when someone loves us. We love it when we matter, when we are the centre of the universe for someone (hence all the love for Shahrukh khan in his movies). All we need are a few words, a few smiles, to slog through the bad times.

And then a pretty deep thought ran across my mind- when was the last time I appreciated a person? I have always been a bit stubborn in giving compliments, probably due to the fact that very few things impress me. I am the in-your-face kind of truthful person, who hates sugar coating the truth for her, because I feel I am strong and stable enough to face it. Yet I cannot deny the effect of compliments on me. The yearning for more and more is additive.

The paradigm against compliments is that they automatically arouse wrong expectations. It doesn’t prepare you for what you will face ahead, it doesn’t prepare you for the shoutings your boss is going to give you. It does not prepare you for the reality of life, which is- it is not as simple as that.  Life is so complicated, that sometimes I feel that I should stop thinking about it, to shut it out of my mind, as there is no use doing so. Whatever I feel I can achieve, I cannot. Whatever I don’t want, I get. Whatever I don’t feel strongly about, I end up regretting not feeling so. So the real question is- why am I even writing this article?

Because life is complicated, and beautifully so.  The world is an intricate web, so delicate yet so strong, that we are bound to be attracted to each and every twist it offers. And that is the beauty of it. We can be dissatisfied, heartbroken and frustrated with the world, but we still want to live. We still want to see what it offers to us, and we are ready to face whatever sadness it directs meanwhile, for those few seconds of euphoria. We matter to ourselves the most, and it would be a lie to say that someone else does.

What I am really trying to say is that, we go through a lot in life, only to experience the happiness we feel so rarely. We need to increase our happiness, and decrease that sadness from our lives. Compliments are very powerful tools, and when used convincingly can elevate a person to different heights, can change a person’s perspective, can motivate them so much that they write their second article at late night, when they should be sleeping( yours truly). Compliments are like drugs, the more you get, the more often you want them.

And just like real drugs, they have a huge price. Working hard (yawn).