(The Stolen Diary) Flashback 2
Months passed. The Boy Next Door became increasingly elusive. Gradually, the Random Girl tried to let go of the unrest in her head. But she wondered. Why? How? It just would not add up- she wanted to believe there was a reason.
In a while she would travel back home and finally he would meet her. She wanted to unpack her play things. Play their old games. Like old play times. She smiled. He was worried. That there was not enough space in his world for all her playthings and their play times and the happy games they played.
She let him be. And he did not ask for otherwise.
(The Stolen Diary) Flashback.
The random Little Girl eventually met the Boy Next Door. It was a happy day. Just a day. And then she could no longer find him. Again. She had to take the train to some where. And he would not promise to see her again.
(The Stolen Diary) Eventually.
Part 1:
Eventually.Eventually, what would happen? What would have she expected? "Eventually, is perhaps a term," she thought, "one would use when they would like to express something that occured in due course of time; after a long delay; wait; happened finally". In this context, could she? Well in due course, yes, after a long wait, yes. But did it eventually convey a sense of relief, joy?
The Random li'l Girl was a little grown up now. The Boy Next Door, had been to a bigger and better school, miles away, and back. During that time, ironically, even miles away they remained pen pals. Chatting their hearts out. They would catch up on play and fights when the Boy Next Door would visit. Sometimes they went grumpy with each other and then one day the Random li'l Girl went to visit the Boy Next Door at his school. And they laughed and played and romped about, teaming together, having fun and all seemed happy.
But the li'l Girl was quite quite silly. She found joys at odd things and thought it would last forever. Little did she know.
Part 2:
When the Boy Next Door came home, the li'l Girl had to go away to a far off land. She had to learn to be own her own and finish her own homework and help herself. She felt lonely and sad because she had no friends and they made her work very hard. The Boy Next Door, was looking to learn something new too. He was growing up after all and had to show what he had learnt at the big school. But they still some times wrote letters, exchanged wishes, smiles, joy and tears.
There was this one thing that bothered the li'l Girl; for days, she wouldn't hear from the Boy Next Door. And she was not able to tell him something if she wanted to. She would go to work, work through the day and come home and set her home right, have her dinner; but through it all she waited and waited for the Boy Next Door. It seemed cruel to her that he would ignore her so and not miss their play. But she was very fond of him. She would smile again each morning and look forward to going home. She even got nice little gifts for him- play things she knew he would like.
But it would hurt her. So she would tell him many a times how she felt. But he seemed to get annoyed some times. Some times, he would listen, but forgot anyway, to write to her. He remembered on days, but so often he would forget. Snd so often she would sit alone and cry and some times hide her tears.
One day, while she was looking for him, he was not to be found. He wouldn't check the letters in his letter box or their play phone ringing. He quite forgot her. She tried so hard to talk to him; then after a week he wrote back, telling her that there were too many things he had to do and he had not time to think of play and may be he was selfish, but may be the bad time would go away. She cried. Because she knew, that they would soon have to go off, many many many miles apart if he didn't tell his other play mates that she was his best friend and he wanted to play with her everyday. They would build play houses and sand castles and sit little dolls in the castles and play fight some more, while a prince charming doll would take their little doll away.
She told him. But he said, he never said he wouldn't play with her. And then again she would hear no more from him. She would be sad and cry and wondered and wondered if the playmates would no longer play again, if they would never talk again or laugh together and chase rainbows.
Eventually, may be, this is what was going to happen. Eventually, may be, this was the inevitable. Little did she know.
Or may be she did. Eventually.
(The Stolen Diary) After the Busyness
So she cried after two days;
two days after the careless words;
two days of being busy,
two days of exhaustion over work-
important and routine.
And the random Li'l girl stared
at her play things.
And peacefully, packed them-
the favourite ones- away.
And the Boy Next Door who cried at nothing-
(everything, actually)
well, what about him?
What about him.
And she began to finish her homework.
(The Stolen Diary) December Eighteenth
"I was blabbering some crap in my head. And I just wanted to get it out of my system. So I spoke out. To someone. Anyone. I imagined someone was listening. You. When I finished, I suddenly thought of my old dictaphone. And the little cassettes. And I thought, "Why, I could have recorded that!". And then do what with it? Send the cassette to you? Even my phones these days have a recorder. May be I could save it up and send it to you. May be you could listen. But then you would be busy. And then you'd forget. Much the way you forget most things, more often than not. And then I'd ask some time, every now and then if you'd heard. And end up feeling unheard all the same. Perhaps, I can still record it again. But then again, that would remain unheard. It's somehow infinitely better if you are heard. Listened to. At times if only by the walls in a closet."
The Random Li'l Girl, was suddenly interrupted by some passing thought, some very important, unnecessary distraction, as she was reading from "Opposites"; she turned to the last page. They were unfinished. She wondered why; and quickly turned her attention to the remaining piece of work.
At some point she thought of the old - what was that, that something that played you music records- those black discs..
She switched on some music; and read a little more..
".. In stead, I prefer to listen to some favourite old songs. Some of them uncannily remind me of some of the songs that were playing in my room, one evening while we were in some dreamy, faraway land; and I was tapping my foot to it, turning as I did so towards you. I had been thinking- "Why not?", and I was going to hold out my hand to you and ask you to teach me to dance like you had said you would like to the other day. You interrupted me before that- "That's not how you dance to this number". And I quit grooving..".
The Random Li'l Girl looked at the date on her desk calender and shut the book.
(The Stolen Diary) The Random L'il Girl, stashed up in her bed, wonders
Many many months ago, the Random Li'l Girl had wondered, what if she had met the Boy Next Door, when they were littler, many many years ago. Well, she doesn't really know, even to this day. But what if things were different? Perhaps, when you are littler, you forgive little things way more easily. Forgetting, is merely second nature. Once the elders conspire and raise you into being not so little any longer, life changes. You might still be comfortable doing what you do, but you no longer feel that careless happiness; that reckless smile, that need to be content because you just are. That carefree peacefulness that lets life takes its own twists and turns. That need to live, and just that.
"Life is strange", she thinks to herself, at random times. "Life was much nicer then", he thinks to himself, at similar random times.
Yet they don't agree. Or do they simply not understand, that what they are saying are simply put, the absolute same things? Perhaps, he wants to go back to the little times; and she wants to feel that bliss in now. And if that's all the disagreement, can they not agree to disagree?
[And oddly enough, suddenly the lines of a song, sift through the train of thoughts in her mind and disrupt them- "And I think to myself, What a wonderful world...."]
She sighs. Deeply. And thinks of where she might hide this diary. May be, with all the other unsent letters. Or may be elsewhere. Somewhere, where the Boy next Door wouldn't really think of looking, but would be able to look if he wanted to; may be it would be the easiest first place he'd think of. If he thinks of it, that is.
The other day she had shown him a secret hiding place, where she locks up the unsent letters. And he was not happy, that she had never sent them. But then she used to. Once, long long ago, until he no longer looked forward to it, until he received and read them with a tediousness of habit, he wasn't aware of himself.
Much similarly, now she no longer feels the need to find out if he means it, when he says, he didn't hide her playthings. At times, she finishes her lunch and afternoon homework, for she has to wait for their play time and then he no longer shows up; she used to be so upset that he would play with others and he'd insist he had too much homework. Now she no longer gets so upset. Perhaps a little. But what does it matter if it was homework or playmates. He didn't want to play with her. He forgot she waits. In fact, he didn't even know she does, or why. And isn't that what really matters?
At times, when he would express his reasons of being upset, he would say that what mattered, was that she thought he was away playing at the other neighbourhood park; so it mattered little if he was finishing homework or punished for the prank he played on her.
He would also complain that play time was no longer so much fun with her; he didn't like it when she made her Humpty Dumpty sad-smiley face; or when she would repeatedly want those old playthings. He just wanted to play with her today. Like earlier on. And make her smile. And everytime she wouldn't, he would go finding people whom he could make smile.
He couldn't understand why those broken toys were so important to her. What he didn't know was that, it was the broken toys, that he brought her, that she so loved. Broken, they might be, but hey were special all the same.
She wonders, if it really has stopped mattering to her where those toys are or whom he has gone to play with. Because, when he says, he wants to be elsewhere, play other fun games that they play in the next neighbourhood, that is all that is important.
He no longer wants to play with the old play things; the old play mates; the old play fights; ....
(The Stolen Diary) The Gift
So the Random Li'l girl said to the Boy next Door who cried at nothing.. "You have often been unhappy that you cannot always speak your mind to me,cause I would react to it,or be hurt,or upset, or complain; or that sometimes I amn't there to speak to.So at all such times, you can talk to her.She would listen patiently and never never ever complain;or be hurt;or even react.And you can just take her along wherever you might travel to,for work or study or play.Or simply sneak her out of the wardrobe in the dead of the night.She will always always smile.And when you're angry,you can complain,or be rude or shake her hard.She'd still smile a mile wide!
"And she's got a little button stitched onto her pink dress; a button from one of my favourite frocks when I was little,to set her apart from any other you might chance upon.And though it won't last ages, she also has a little bit of my Burberry sprayed on. She responds when you address her like you did me, and is mighty silly too! And she'll forever be there (if you don't want to throw her away),whether or not I can be.."
(The Stolen Diary) Stolen thoughts
There is a strange blankness. A lulling quietness, with an occasional whimper. The Random Little Girl and the Boy Next Door, are. They just are. She would have had a lot of things to say to him. But mostly silent phrases; without a form, without a meaning, without a reason. Or perhaps, with form and meaning and reason- but all in the realm of dreams, juxtaposed by the world that exists in reality and both superimposed upon, by some odd article, called practicality. Practicality, you see, is a craft; that human beings have conjured out of thin air. Causes and Effects that exist in a mind. A mind. Not every mind. Paragraphs, whole stories and novels, cast in his or her own world of 'kitsch', where everything that is unacceptable, is made purposely invisible, is left out of this 'practical world' and is therefore the sanest and most plausible explanation to leave out or behind, everything that refuses to shed its unacceptability.
Odd.
Communication, as a matter of an occurence, is few and far between, for such odd people. Somewhere down the line the Random Little Girl knows properly, that the Boy Next Door, might be incorrigibly mischievous, but he is merely Lucifer, not Satan. Somewhere down the line that idiot of the Boy Next Door knows, that although he might love to hate the Random Little Girl, she is probably a really good playmate, albeit, crank. Somewhere down the line, they both know, they will never admit certain things beyond their sense of practicality, beyond their sense of the disgusting kitsch, that they so adore, and because of every sane reason known to mankind.
X wants to speak. Perhaps Y does too. Neither will. Little children are difficult beings. They can be very unreasonable when they do not find the toys they so love. At which point of time, they will never see your perspective, no matter how obvious it might seem.
Because an upset grudge, arising out of a state of having been let down (primarily for reasons of assumptions, based on the aforesaid, kitsch), between difficult friends, is an unlikely article to wish away; therefore.
(The Stolen Diary) (Over songs and mindlessness)
And then one day X got very angry with Y and she would not say. Y asked. Assumed. That she was upset. She was hurt. She wouldn't speak of it. But when Y smiled, she smiled along. And the smile hurt, as smiles often do; and the smiled veiled. As always.
X wanted to believe in those smiles. X wanted to smile a smile that wouldn't hurt. X prayed for a miracle. X wished for a genie. But genies don't come in little bottles, as genies often don't. X looked elsewhere too. Everywhere. She couldn't find the genie who could get her an appointment with the boy next door who cried at nothing, whom the random little girl might have known many years ago or many years hence.
X wished to say. She decided she would let her heart speak her mind. She left a note for Y. Y allowed an appointment. X could no longer speak her heart, for her little heart only choked her while she stifled its voice. The random little girl could demand to speak to the little boy next door anytime. She had the right to do so. He could cry at nothing before her when his heart permitted. But X didn't know Y. Y was another boy, perhaps living next door, whom she could never read out her heart to.
X was not angry with Y. X was not hurt. X was not indifferent. X wished away stray thoughts strewn all across the day. Because X did not have the required permissions in Y's mind; X was not the random little girl to Y. And then, X couldn't find the boy next door who cried at nothing.
P.S.: (Over songs and mindlessness) "Bas itni si / Tum se guzaarish hai / .. Yeh jo baarish hai, dekho na / Yeh jo baarish hai / Iss mein teri baahon mein marr jaaun / Bas itni si, chhoti si / Ik khwaish hai"
A Letter to my Superhero
I saw your smiling face on a Saturday that began gloomy. There were no words spoken as none were possible. But there were expressions. Communication. Joy. On either side. The clock struck 11 and I walked out somewhat relieved and harked a taxi that would care to drop me home. Relief is misleading; and the following Saturday, you were gone. You went away without so much as a Good bye. When I think back now, I did not have any emotions back then. Perhaps I didn't think. Perhaps I didn't want to think. A few tears were shed over choked words that no one heard. But you know, don't you? Did you have to go away this way? Was I not always your favourite?"..Did you ever know that you're my hero,and everything I would like to be?I can fly higher than an eagle,'cause you are the wind beneath my wings...."Did you know that? Did I ever tell you? Did I have to tell you? Did you ever know that you were the one who could hear my unspoken words? Did you know that you're the one who taught me how to be- to be me, to be someone, to dare to not be in a someone's shadow? Did you know that you taught me to carve my own path, to tread a walk I could justify to none except my soul? Did you know.. all that and everything else that I can never list? And did you know that from you, I learnt, I did not not have to be divine- it is alright to be a mere human? And so, I have tears in my eyes..And now when there are times, when I can't speak my heart, when I can't express, when I mess up my words, you know I miss you, don't you? I miss you, knowing that I could be myself before you, without the fear of being judged, without the apprehension of being rejected, without the need to be proper. They say you spoilt me rotten. Did you? Did you ever tell them that you loved me so impossibly unconditionally? Did you tell them, that if I couldn't learn to fly as high as an eagle, you'd still love me like crazy? Did they ever know?Do you also know, that I have a thousand million myriad phrases within, that I wish I could have said to you? But then I guess, you knew anyway; you knew always that I loved you so. Or may be, it never mattered, whether or not I loved you back. Can I now post this letter to you? Will it reach you? Will I ever find your address? Will the postman find the way?You will be there to guide me, won't you? ..Till I walk to a place where there would be nowhere else left to go.. and even beyond..? You would be with us, will you not, Grandpa?P.S.: Is it alright to cry now?
(The Stolen Diary) [Untitled]
The boy who cries at nothing asked the random little girl to pretty much disappear.
(The Stolen Diary) The Boy next door who cried at Nothing
I often wonder what it would have been like to have known the Boy next door when I was another Random little girl. I also wonder about how it might have been had I known him long long back, once upon a time. I wonder then, if I would still know him many more years down the line. I also wonder what would have been if the Boy next door cried at Nothing and the Random little girl watched.
Let's give him a name, shall we? What can we call him? What can anyone call an insignificant little boy down the road, distinguised perhaps only by his ability to cry at nothing? Let's call him Y. Hmm. So what then shall we name the Random little girl in question? .. X, of course! So there then, we have a Y and an X.
Y can be very strong. Or he can pretend strong. He can lie to you about the silliest of things, because the truth would make him weak. He can conceal the truth about a childish mischief, while his chocolaty brown glassy eyes, mirrors his heart right out. He can be brave enough to confess every forbidden thing that he dared to do, fully expecting you to admonish and walk off disgusted; and then when you don't, he can pretend surprise and lose his heart right away. Y can also be a grown up and tell you no matter what temptations you ask him to try, you cannot addict him to any. And then he can plesantly surprise you, when he fails to resist with closed eyes and confesses you are in fact getting him addicted. You see, no kid is ever really a grown up. And pretences fall apart when you inadvertently drop your childish defences for those rare split seconds. Y, like a little boy, enjoys attention and care. Y, like a grown up, can also give you attention and care. Y, like a human being, with flaws can seem menacingly similar to someone close to you (let's call the someone X's friend, Z, who can make X smile when she's crying); similar, if not a carbon copy.
X, for obvious reasons, is from Venus. Martians don't understand that. Venutians return the favour. X when you see her, is arrogant. She can be boring. She can also discuss boring grown up topics with Z over a late lunch. She can refuse to cry; publicly, that is. X can play kitchen with fervour and want to grow up to be like her Mommy. X can be serious and a tad scary. But then, X can always find a hidden spot to hide her tears. She can be giggly to the point of irritating, when you catch her off guard. She can differentiate between the way two identical teddy bears smile at her. She can also have a secret collection of stupid Enid Blyton books. X also knows, she will never be as beautiful as her gorgeous Mommy. She can cry like a leaking tank if Mommy is sad. Her head can routinely lose battles with her heart. And she can routinely fail to learn from past mistakes. X, is a girl; preferably complicated. Serious by choice. Assumed intelligent, by accident.
X, generally dislikes Y, hides from him and fights the tempatation to say nasty made-up things about him. Y, doesnt know that and lends a helping hand to X, trying to be a grown up gentleman. X returns the courtesy (because well, that's all she can do). They blabber. Endlessly. And smile together.
But X can also be a kid and do weird things. Like be silly and offend Y. Y in turn can also be a kid and stop talking to X. But then X can act weirder in her own way in trying to to make Y smile. And he obliges and they are playmates once more. Isn't that what li'l kids do?
But then like li'l playmates, X and Y also want things thier own way. So they argue. Over play, over work, over grey cells and favourites. They mock each other's weird preferences of cricket bats and dolls. And then, just like that, they can help each other in shopping for gifts. Well, that is what li'l kids do.
But the Boy next door who cries at Nothing can be adamant and irrational. The Random little girl can be critical and nagging. They can both have a mind of their own; minds enough to want to stop quarelling forever. And then after some more adamant words, some more criticising and some lengthy moments of a childishly crafted uncomfortable quietness, they decide they should consider a treaty. Hmm. Li'l kids would do that, I guess.
If X knew Y long long back, it wouldn't have been very different I guess. Many years down the line, X and Y would still possibly continue being the same little kids, albeit, with more Acts and many scenes to the silly old drama. And if the Random little girl watched the Boy next door who cried at Nothing, actually cry, she'd probably miss Z and cry along like she would, as a little girl. And the rest, as they say, is etcetera.
(The Stolen Diary) A Random Thought about a Random Fictional Character
People should be able to love you for the infinite things that you might have been and chose not to be, rather than hate you for the ridiculously finite number of things that you could have easily been and are not.
A Random Thought....
When you ask me not to seek you where you know I wouldn't like you as who you are, I always would have one thing to ask: let me see who you are at your best and my imagined worst and let me decide if I can accept you; for if I cannot, then neither should you accept me.
On a grey Thursday in office
I envy them that live their lives without a care of the tomorrow;I envy them that smile today ignorant of what yesterday taught.I envy those that can do as they wish, that can be deaf to mundane cautions.I envy those who dare to live their own way; not the way that seems proper.I dislike them who refuse to listen to the reasons of the world-Perhaps because I know I shall never be courageous enough.I dislike the darkness because I cannot attain the silence in it,The silence that I so incessantly desire, but fathom not in myself.I wish myself an indifference which I be blissfully engulfed by.I pretend that wish has come true, until I can believe in a lie no more.And then I look up at the blue with a longing jealousy in my eyesTo behold the bird who whispers as it flies across-"The infinite is black, but did you know?"
Random Ramblings
Once in a while things tend to get on your nerves. Once in a while you wonder what you are doing at the place you are in; you could be doing a million other things at a greater number of places. But you are here. Stuck; as stuck could be. You are irritated. You wanna do something. Shout. Scream perhaps. Brandish your file in front of someone's face. Throw things. May be your personal computer out of the window. Or create a scene. Basically you want to make a point. But you don't do any of those. You don't want to. Perhaps 'cause it would be out of place and uncalled for. But more because you know your point is not going to be made. You know, there are always those tyrannical species descended from the likes of a certain man whose name rhymes with Hitler.. err.. whatever that means!
Then you tend to get tired. Exhausted by your extremely unobvious and well disguised irritation. Perhaps it is before lunch and you walk off to get your fill. For what? For some god-forbiddenly disgusting concoction of.. God knows what! The chicken has more bones than meat. They put spices of varieties and amounts that would make you throw up. They sprinkle some weird garnishings that look suspiciously similar to something you have seen at some point of time; only you cannot quite remember what that something is. The spread tastes menacingly of some garbage your regular roadside vendor serves better varieties of. In short, you hate this stuff!
You get back and finally remember that you are at the office. Some work is pending; some stupid work you could very well do without. You try fixing that and they suddenly ask you to fix something else which requires an urgency of manner that disallows you to attend to your prior engagements. You go about working on that and voila! You get an entirely new set of irritating news.
By now you positively want to hit out at someone. Or would kicking be a better option? Hmmmm. You wonder. And decide against it. You must be a moron. To be stuck here and remain stuck and to let people and situations get on your nerves; and to not have the same nerve to put your foot down and give a good, hard shake to all those concerned, just so they know that things are getting on your nerves and they are at fault!
If only life was all that simple.
I shall not say I have never contemplated a get away. As in literally. For always. Or for a very very long time at any rate. Escapist. Yes, probably. But sometimes you get a little selfish. You get a little less brave. You get a little more nervy. And anyway, things aren't all that sunshiny always. So go ahead; curse. Only that acheives nothing.
So I continue being stuck. Here, and now. Without a clue in the world as to why.
The K word.
A certain Ms. Kapoor.
This post should have come a long time back. When she attended Karan's Coffee Talk. I flinched at the idea of watching the episode. Grrr. I mean, K... up close and personal...oh please, spare me! Interestingly enough, I went through the ordeal... decided upon it at any rate. Why? Perhaps 'cause I had nothing else to do. And voila!
Ordeal? What ordeal? The lady was refreshingly witty. And what's more. She never for once said her work was worthy of critical acclaim.... she did it cause people watched it. It's what she does. For a living. (Come to think of it, the profession is kinda better than, umm... what our rulers do. If you know what I mean.) I don't know if the lady has a 2-digit IQ, but if she does, she sure faked quite the reverse and darned well at that. Hmm. Don't judge a book by it's cover. Problem is, even judging by it's contents sorta went wrong. Or so it seemed. And that's what most people who have respectable amounts of grey cell thought as well.
The K word, might not be such a bad word after all. I mean, looking at it from a differnt perspective, it's a business and a certain executive knows how to run it. I mean run it for the Awe-lympics, not the Aww-lympics as I initially presumed.
Okay, so the products scream disgusting taste. However, the make isn't so bad when you consider that there are too many people out there, (whether with or without grey cells, I leave to the imagination of the reader) who actually buy those products, and heck, probably even need them. I mean that lady can't play computer games. Or read a magazine that would last the length of one episode. Or digest a whole newspaper. Boring, they might be, but people nevertheless. And since her husband(or whoever) so likes that garish makeover inspired by those products, she is really better off giving the Missy her money!
Go figure.
But however few grey cells the missy might have, they are quite enough to make her a living. And it isn't a crime to earn your livelihood legally. And she even pays a good amount of taxes...although more out of necessity than duty. Business, ladies and gentlemen, is quite simple once you figure it out. Only once you figure it out. Hence, the coffee was brewed well.
.
This is pathetic! Ever since i can remember, I've been working on my coursework and I hate it, especially this semester. Even Mom got exasperated and told me "Stop studying!" Can you believe that? And my friends have actually started counting the days since thay last heard anything from me- and anything includes, hearing anything , even remotely about me from any obscure person. *sigh*
Not to mention, I am tired, and people are behaving funny. Men are funnier still. All men on Earth, including any relative i ever knew-close or not. And when they cannot/do not want to/cannot manage/do not feel up toit/cannot conjure up any excuse for their rather Martian(or of whatever planet) behaviour, thay grunt/cough/yawn/disappear(I'd love to know how they manage it)/sulk/tell you that you are no good/or that they aren't/blah blah. I read this in some pocket-sized book in some bookstore- "men are from earth, women are from earth- deal with it"....... and that "men don't understand women, women don't understand men and they both do not understand that" * yawn *
But I guess it's true and.... oh! what the heck. I'm not even bothered and these books serve me good laughing material. *yawn*
And I am talking rubbish and i owe it completely to my department and the subjects taught therein.
I am copy-pasting materials on "php exception handling" and typing aand now i am tired of typing. Hence, you are spared more torture.
Read Ritz's blog today. Found a few very beautiful poems there. He promised to revive my ailing(read: dead) community on Orkut. Thank you.
Now I am really bored....
Toodles.
Coming Back
It has been a long time. And within that time life has changed. It always does for me; sometimes for good, sometimes otherwise. But either way, it’s always a 180 degrees turn. To make it a full 360, I have to put in double of the effort; because you see, half my work gets undone mid way, due to that odd 180 degrees turn. Making a full 360+180 isn’t always easy. It doesn’t come cheap either. At times, people don’t understand you. Or they do, just that, it isn’t what you would have them understand. At other times, people wouldn’t so much as bother themselves with the pain of trying to understand some alien character, who has moved half way behind; after all, why should anyone care about a loser who wants to be a winner, who wins at times, but ends up losing anyway. Whether it’s battles or people, you have to lose it at one point or the other. Oftentimes, I have walked along those rusty paths that creak out a million shattered dreams under a footfall, as you try in vain to redeem that pair of broken wings that once used to take you higher; and as I have walked, I have only realized again and again that for every feather you find again, you lose a thousand grains of your heart. Well, that will hurt, and you have to choose. Sometimes you just cannot choose. At other times you have to weigh the expenses. Would you rather move 180 degrees forward and cover half the distance that you need to, or would you go back a single foot and let those you love be content? Question is, why should you let someone be so content? ‘Cause you love the person? But then you love yourself as well. Oh, well, the world only always called you selfish, so who cares anyway? You do. Because contrary to what all that’s external to you might think, you do have a heart and would readily allow it to suffer pain, if that would bring a small smile on the faces of those you want to see smile. So there goes- your work increases again. And in any case, it’s just a little more work. How does it matter? It does when all these little things add up, because fortunately or unfortunately, you care too much. Much too much to permit selfishness to take the better of your heart. And so goes on the oddly-crafted story of your 360 degrees…was that, 360+180? Either way, it’s been a mammoth task. And now I am where I should have been. Or at any rate, where I would have wanted to be. Once again, I have a choice; once again, people hail me the winner, not so much because they believe it, as because they have to. Courtesy demands it, you see! But I happened to cease caring about all that goody-goody-ness long back; I care. But not about those who think they care; or so I am led to believe. Right now, I have come full circle. I know, I might have to go back along those lines once again, perhaps once too often, but then this is the circle of life, and I am going to continue this way, no matter how long it takes me…. What was that about Einstein saying something about God not playing dice? Oh well, guess the man would have wanted to put God into some theory as well. But you see, like the man said, “God does not play dice”. God knew what he was doing, and I believe he knows it now as well. Only I wish I could talk to Einstein someday!
LOST
I am lost; lost in this wan desert of dead hopes, dying tomorrows. Abstractions find expression once again, but then abstractions are expressionless. I toil in vain to articulate my naked thoughts that have forgotten the very words that phrase them. Now I am blank, forgetting very often my unspoken wordings of my infinite reasonings. Blatantly I confess to having had no role in the absurd designs of blind fate to throw me down the cliff of zenith into the depths of futility. Now I never pray- save for when I forget that I purport otherwise. Now I never see when I look through my eyes. Now I never feel when something touches me inadvertently. Now nothing I hear is audible anymore. Flowers have no fragrance left in them. Water has no taste – life doesn’t exist. O r perhaps it does. I don’t know anymore.
