You, You and I

With you two by my side,

everything seems alright

at least for a little while.

You: You are my sunshine.

Protecting me from the cold-

The cold that is biting me from outside

and eating me up on the inside.

I don’t know what I would do without you.

Click better selfies, I said.

But none of those will matter, I never said.

You are always there when I need you,

Did I tell you how much I love you?

 

You: You are my…

You are my ‘you’.

When we’re together-

our hands intertwined,

moving to the untuned rhythm of our hearts,

(close-far-scared-confused-loved)

Nothing else seems to matter at all.

The delicate patterns you draw with your finger,

my hands wish to turn into a canvas

hoping to save those masterpieces.

Like the famous works of artists.

To the world: senseless

To me: layers beneath layers

waiting to be unraveled.

When you look at me like that,

I fall in love a little more with myself.

And feel proud about every part,

that has gone into the making:

Of my body and my heart.

But I only realize it,

when you look at me like that.

 

And I: I am me.

Alone on this scary journey-

Break ups with friends and courses.

Heartaches and laughs.

Uncertainties and insecurities.

The journey is not easy.

Neither is it hard.

Just, unpredictable.

But-

With you two by my side,

everything seems alright

at least for a little while.

Angel

I will let my angel out.

Let it fly to you,

let it kiss you,

let it whisper ‘I love you’.

I will let my angel out.

To protect you;

not because you’re incapable

of doing it yourself.

But because my angel

wants to do it for you.

I will let my angel out.

To smile with you,

dance with you,

sing with you,

and just, be with you.

I will let my angel out.

Because now,

it refuses to stay in me.

But let me tell you,

I never contained it.

I will let my angel out

because I didn’t even know it existed

Until I met you.

This angel of mine?

It’s mine but it’s all you.

I will let my angel out.

I will let it fly.

Let it go,

wherever it wants to go.

I will let my angel out.

but secretly worry about it,

like an immature parent.

Not quite ready to let go of her child-

a child she never gave birth to.

I will let my angel out.

because it deserves happiness

and the warmth of belonging,

in someone other than me.

I will let my angel out.

Will you let it in?

A Dreamer

Dear sister,
The world is a weird place,
weird is my favourite word
and I love you.
I love you for who you are
and not what you do
I am younger.  I am a dreamer.
The MBTI test says so too.
I like being a dreamer.
People might say I’m not practical,
that I know nothing that can actually
make a difference in the world
But I know, that I can.
Because I’m dumb.
I know that and I love that.
Being dumb means being a learner,
all your life.
Life.
I don’t know what it actually is.
Family? Friends? Love?
A little of this and a little of that?
Maybe.
What do you want sister?
Happiness.
Happiness?
I think there’s nothing as happiness.
Tell me what you want!
Happiness is the signature you put on the register
when you receive what you order.
So tell me what you really want.
Love.
Love?
Now that comes in different sizes and packages too.
Which one do YOU want sister?
Please tell me.
I Love You.
I want you to have love.
Will you sign the register now?
What are you waiting for?
.

.

.

What are you waiting for sister?
Sister?
Where are you?
But…
She was with me right now!
I promise she was here.
I can’t lose you!

“I’m here, can’t you see?”
I need to find her.
“But I’m right here! Stop kidding around!”
Um, what is she like?
She…. She’s like her.
I don’t know how to explain.
She’s just she.
I want my sister back!
“Okay. Stop this nonsense. It isn’t funny anymore
She… is beautiful.
And smart.
And caring.
And a hard worker.
“What? You really think so?”
I never told her all of this
I should have, na?
My sister is strong.
She cries sometimes.
I cry sometimes too.
But we are both strong.
We cry because we love too much.
Each other and the world.
“Would you even look at me now?”
People look at us and say we are different.
I say, they don’t look deeper.
“But we are different. You do all that you want to. I don’t
People love me.
For who I am. The dreamer.
The MBTI test remember?
I like to go places.
Places I don’t know I am going.
I like going and then finding a place.
Not finding a place and then going.
“See? You live your dreams. I can’t
I… I listen to everybody.
But do what I will do anyway.
No matter what price I have to pay for it.
I cannot be contained. Let go.
“After a point, you are bound. Against your will”
I believe I am strong.
I also believe I am weak.
But all for myself.
I never want to be strong or weak for anyone else.
Too full of myself, huh?
“Um..Hello? Have you stopped looking for me?”
I like spreading love.
But for that, I need a bigger space.
I need to embrace more people.
Spread more love.
And some more.
“Am I left on my own now? Find me!”
Because dreamers don’t hold on to one dream.
They may. If they remember what it is.
I never remember mine.
I think it’s for the best.
Because I cannot stick to one anyway.
More dreams, more to look forward to.
“Who will find me if you leave? Wait! Wai..”
I cannot hold on to anything.
I need to fly.
And fall.
And fly back.
Because
I am a dreamer,
just like her.

Writing Makes Me Happy.

The writer in me. When I say I don’t like acknowledging the writer in me, I no way mean I don’t like being one. All the times I got awkward when you (and the others) called me one? It’s because, I never want it to be hyped- my writingBy hyped, (for lack of a better word) I mean something that goes up and up and people forget how it got there. I want the writer in me to be grounded. I believe every person who can think, can write. Writing is like thinking to yourself and moving your fingers. Just that. And that is also why I don’t like writing with rules (and formats and citations and a thousand other things). Plainly because they take you away from the joy of writing. When you start thinking about how to write rather than what to, I think it loses heart. Um, ‘it’ being the writer in you, me, and everyone. 

When people say “Oh, I don’t write”, I magically hear “Oh, I don’t think”. That is also why I don’t consider writing as a “professional” profession. I don’t think someone can decide to write just for the sake of it and then write. Or maybe they can. I can’t. My grandpa and dad and sister and I-donno-who-all want me to become a writer. I’m still trying to figure that one out. How can people become writers? Isn’t everybody already one? Or am I the only creepy one who thinks to herself all the time, chalking out stories inside the head?

A little flashback at this point would help: So, I sent in this story for an All- India writing competition. A story very close to my heart. Maybe because it was my first (and only?) ‘piece of writing’. And… I won! Whoa. I still tweak a little inside when I think about it.

And that victory (sounds big, huh?) taught me something. A huge lesson I must say. It said to me: Hey little girl, there were so many entries from all around the country, but I decide to choose you as the winner because I think you can take this forward. Don’t let this be just an addition to your pile of certificates. Don’t let people tell you that you are writer. Because come on! You always were. You don’t need a certificate to say it for you. But, I wish to come to you because I need to tell you something you don’t know. You, my dear, write from the heart. And I want you to know that. And I want you to keep writing. From the heart. You should also know that once you get out of here, and I tag along with you, people are going to talk. They are going to push you. To write. Don’t take the pressure, okay? You write when you write. I had to come to you because otherwise you might’ve never known. And you might’ve never written. Now that is scary.

I’m just trying to say that the ‘award received from Ruskin Bond’ is my biggest achievement so far but also the most difficult one to carry. I’m not very proud of it. Simply because I think there was nothing in my ‘writing’ that won me the competition. It was the story. The story that touched. And I can’t do it again and again because I can’t force stories out of me. I know it’ll be completely unfair if I crush the ones that do come to me. The ones I really want to tell to the world. But it is also unfair to keep writing just because I’m a ‘good’ writer. I cannot do that.

I know so many people with fascinating stories that simply connect. Make you feel good while you read them. I want these people to share their stories. Grammar and syntax are the last things someone should be worried about. You can always learn and practice them (only if you want to). But the feeeeeeeeeeel. That is something which comes from life. Beautiful lives. Beautiful memories.

I really think writing should be an open space: where people are not already pressurized by thousands of ‘authors’ who have made their mark. It should be a choice. Like people decide what they want to do with it. Share it? Keep it to themselves? Share but only with a few? Publish it for the world? All a choice.

I don’t know what my choice is. Someone close to me said I take pleasure when I write and I seem content. I don’t know how that person figured it out, but it’s true. I don’t know if I’ll write more or less. On a daily basis or rarely. For someone or everybody. I just know I will write. Because writing makes me happy.

INTERSTELLAR

In the little time that they were together,

No one knew how they got closer.

He- protected. She- loved.

They- Daada and Daughter.

Everyone could see why.

Roads, rivers, nights and oh, their car- that was all they needed.

So many memories- interlaced.

Till destiny played its cards. Now they were far. Now, they were closer.

Earth to Saturn? India to America? Distance never distanced them.

Leaving was tough. “I’m coming back”, he promised.

“When?”, her tears demanded.

Love is the one thing that transcends space and time. It will grow to reach from you to me and me to you. Isn’t that amazing?

Amazing, it was. She could see love grow. Sometimes she stumbled, but then

Reminded herself that they were together. Always.

Hid Goldu. Her Ghost. 

And the interstellar dust keeping their love afloat.

 

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