Category Archives: Of Stories

Shooting Stars.

​When I was little, I used to wish on stars that I wanted to become like one of those humans discovering they are bestowed with magical powers and they could change the map if they wanted, like they showed on TV. Or, meet a guardian angel (literally) who’d help me win a competition and write an exam. Wishes then were simple, you see. I spent my whole childhood wishing this. But, time passed, grades declined, talent faded but nothing really happened. It was all a facade of lies and make-belief stories. It was life-shattering to me. And, then, life happened. How sad! 

Break-ups, family problems, career indecisions and whatnot. There was no angel to help me live through each day. I struggled to get up on my feet and hold my tears back. Why? Because, you don’t want anyone to know how excruciatingly it is hurting. You know they’ll strike more on it. In it. Become the pain, who knows! 

How often have you clutched your bedsheet and put your hands on the mouth for silencing your noise of misery? How often have you sat dumb-founded on your bed and thought of nothing but that one thing someone said? How often has the rain spoken to you more profoundly than any other verbose human being? 

But, you know what keeps us going? The fact that we had survived yesterday without fail. We are past the time when eating the pill seemed easier than carrying the burden throughout the night. We have overcome what should have been and accepted what is. We are what we are today and what we were yesterday was just another person trying to hold us down. We demanded a trial by combat with it and after all, won!

Of Nightmares

​And where was all the love when you turned your back on me and silently walked through the door I opened just for you? Did you realise that had you turned your head for once, the one thing that was about to get shattered in me would have found its way back? No, you didn’t. I clearly got my answer when my knees hit the floor, just like yours did, when you had proposed to me. But, this time around it was different. When mine touched the mosaic floor, the bits and pieces broke down so well inside me that I can hardly recollect whether it was my heart breaking or my knees making the sound. 

Did your tongue not burn a little when you said I was being too much? When I lay there, you on top of me, letting you feed on my body, bit by bit, dodging away the uncanny feeling trading inside me from you, that wasn’t too much for you though. 

Did your eyes not hurt a little when you watched me shed tears from pleading eyes that were too gentle to look into the steamy glance that your face threw? When I dressed up the way you liked, all covered up, my skin caged like a prisoner, that was a treat to your eyes though. 
And just like that, you had emptied me. From the faith that drove my instincts and hope. From the love that enclosed my heart to keep it safe. From the fear to let go of something that I loved so dearly. From the stars I had treasured from the night sky. From the sun that saved me from the nightmares. And, just like that, the person I used to call after a nightmare had turned into one. Just like that.

Of A Painting

Ah, I haven’t been around here since what feels like an eternity. With exams catching up and newer avenues at college, I had little time to spare for the blog. But here, I’m back again! And this is a little poem that I wrote during the so-called break that I took. It’s an attempt at poetry after a long time. I’m looking forward to some feedback.

“an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
instead he could paint galaxies
on her sallow skin,
hurdled by a tone or two of olive,
caressing a silent picture of radiant starbeams
pressed against the little window.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
as her eyelids fluttered open to reveal harlot eyes,
soaking in his reflection in its translucence,
no dreams for the day,
only snapshots of wrinkled eyes and
a masterpiece underneath.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
so he rolled over to a corner which was darker;
quivering fingers pulled out a canvas,
and in a hurried stance,
overthrew the paint cans and brushes;
azure spread across the starbeams
gazing down on the floor.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
he gulped,
as he picked up a brush,
and stretched a stroke,
like Hunter’s belt across the eclipsed sky,
and watched her watch him with awe,
and his fingers ran over the board,
combusting.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
drawing stars and skin,
against hushed moans,
as her body arched
under his fingertips,
revealing a hint of crimson string
from under white, warped sheets,
and he pulled away for a second,
to capture her lips,
drifting closer to the shivering skin down her throat,
needing, wanting;
more.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
he saw the orange spreading across the purple sky,
and he heard her scintillating cries,
as her nails scraped against his hot skin,
breaths hitching, mingling, floating away,
and his hands found their way back to the masterpiece.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
yet he captured every word un-uttered, unsaid,
in the medley of iridescent colours
trickling down his brushes, slow and hesitant;
and beside him,
she gasped,
glimmering eyes staring into a rather colourful reflection,
and sighed.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
he knew she’d be gone by the dawn;
wrapped in white,
she dragged herself across the room,
and stood next to the window;
a silhouette of voluptuous curves and beauty,
with tangled locks of hair shining grey,
and lips parting,
to say goodbye.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
only nodded,
pushing the canvas further into the darkness,
beads of sweat clinging to the ends of his hair,
hesitance painted across his face;
and she walked to him,
and knelt down,
nails clawing across his bare thighs,
and stole a lingering, last kiss.

an artist,
he couldn’t speak,
he’d saved a shade a disastrous black;
when morning knocked and she was gone,
he pulled out the painting from mangled shadows,
and overturned the can of black paint
over the painting, once colourful and blue and grey,
and smiled.”

Image Credits- Internet

Of Some Days and Others

..some days, she wants to fly. higher and away. beyond the skies. she wants to stand atop a hill, surrounded by gushing waterfalls and pink and purple sunsets and take flight and fly beyond several moons and suns. to a world of radiance. to a world of bright and happy. to a world so majestic and so beautiful. on days like those, she’s happy; a smile teases her face every now and then, curling her lips only slightly and yet, inside, she’s as happy as the world. she wants to soar. beyond and far. higher and away. and discover. some days, she feels like she’s invincible. some days, she feels like doing a little twirl and laughing out loud. some days, she’s filled with hope.

and some days, she feels sick and dead. tired. almost as if the the last drop of energy has been taken away from her and she’s cold and helpless. on days like those, she doesn’t want to fly. the sunsets and mirages don’t appeal to her. nor does the mosaic sky. she wants to curl up next to her window, covered in her blanket and drown a little deeper into the darkness of the day. by the solitary candle, she cries and lets the lone tear hide her wry smile and breaking heart. she feels like a person on the road, surrounded by buzzing landscapes of cars zooming right across her, and she stops and kneels down on the gravel and screams and yet, the world just walks by. some days, she’s broken. some days, she sits next to misted windows and talks to nobody. some days, she’s hopeless..to a point where she doesn’t want to keep going.

only, some days.

Picture Credits – Siddharth Mohanty

Of Heavy Hearts

He was long gone before she could know. She had moved on with her life. Why wouldn’t she? Their break-up was mutual. They decided to remain in touch but even though she tried to, he couldn’t. 
The two souls, who once thought they were tied for life, were now so far apart, moving in asymptotic paths that even the tiniest possibility of them coming back together seemed impossible.

But they did. I’m sorry they didn’t get back together but they did meet. The universe probably wanted to prove someone wrong. Only to end up knowing that their asymptotes were perfectly made.

She held her new born baby in one hand and a shopping bag in another. They crossed paths. She noticed a familiar face and with a little bit of dither called out for him.

“Hey!”

“How have you been?”, she asked.

“I’m good. Doing well. What about you? Who’s this little angel?”

“Ah, she’s Celia. My daughter. She’s just five months”

“Oh, my God. She’s so cute!”

“Yeah, she is. So, you’re staying here? Working?”

“Yes. Tour. I roam around. Nowhere in particular actually. It’s been two weeks since I’m staying here”

“Oh, I live here too. Down this street”

“Great!”

With a little bit of hesitation, she formed the words she wanted to ask since the very beginning of the conversation. “And your wife? I mean, you’re married right?”

“Haha. Do I look like one?”

She didn’t know what to say. It’s been a long time since they broke up. Why isn’t he still married? 
He noticed her expressions, her face fading. He wanted her to know that she wasn’t just a relationship to him that went bad. She was more than that. More than she could imagine. And that, seeing her happy made him happy. He held no grudges. He had no reason to. He couldn’t fake it though. He had to say it.

“I cannot marry”

“But why?”

“Because the girl I loved, I could love is not meant to be my wife”

“But we broke up, Adam. We discussed that we weren’t possible.

“But does that mean it’s possible with someone else? Not for me, Jen”

“But why?”, she asked hopelessly.

“Because the girl I loved? She wasn’t just a star to me. She was my whole damn sky”

“Adam..”

“It’s okay. You take care of yourself and this little angel”, he could manage a grin and walked away.

But, she couldn’t. Maybe, she was faking it all along. Now, it seemed like the one who actually didn’t “move on” was Jennifer.

Of Almosts

..pulling her hand, to the tune of the rustling autumn breeze, he runs to the crooked, little wooden bench and they both sit. smelling the enticing taste of roasted apples that waltz past them. he almost says it, almost. the words are right at the tip. and almost out there. slowly slipping off the edge. staying a while. threatening to spill.

she tugs at his shirt and his eyes burn into hers as she looks up at him. her dark pupils gleam with curiosity as he studies her, gulping, lingering a while and slowly breathing out.

as the noises come closer, his breaths become more frantic. he pushes past the words threatening to flow out, dreams glistening in his radiant blue eyes that never fail to amaze her. they hold a sincerity, so profound that she can feel herself live the stories that his eyes hold.

“that’s all you wanted to tell me?” she mumbles, her eyes holding hope. she tastes hope. and anxiety. and fear. sweet and sour and a million things more.

and he almost says it, but doesn’t.

“yes, that’s it. it was nothing.”

isn’t there more? she wants to ask almost. but, doesn’t.

and he turns away and looks at the sun. purple and orange and darker tones. and she looks away and watches the sunset too. a sunset of a million hopes and the one story she was almost sure of. almost.

(Image credits – Siddharth Mohanty)

Of Heartbreaks

It felt cold. Almost numb and unfeeling.
There he stood, chatting away with my friend, staring down at her with a shine in his eyes I’d never seen. And to a corner, I stood, clutching the straps of my bag, biting my lips and looking down at my worn out red sneakers.

I heard them laugh. I watched them hold each other’s hand. And somewhere in that moment, a silent tear slipped down my cheek. Why, wasn’t it the very same guy I had been pining for since the last month, dreaming like a typical teenager, falling trap to his charms. How did I miss out the fact that every time he talked to me, his eyes never met mine, for he kept looking for somebody else? How did I not see the tiny little hints my friend left with me to tell him, and yet I hopelessly fell in love with somebody who could never love me?

Bringing a hand to my cheek, in the pretext of wiping my nose, I wiped away the stray tear and smiled.

“Why are you standing there?” he called, his voice so happy that it made me cringe.

“Yes! Come here, you idiot!” she called too.

A part of me kept breaking and the other part silently picked up the pieces. I felt like turning around and walking away, but I knew I’d cry. So, I walked closer to them and flashed them a grin that hurt me so much to tell.

“See,” she proudly declared, “She is the reason why we both are together now! Had she not helped, I’d have never met an amazing person like you.”

He looked up and laughed, his knees slightly bending and his hands in his pockets. I fell in love with that too.

“Well, there’s always this angel,” he gave me a grateful smile and I smiled back.

With each smile I managed to put up that was not so real, a part of me withered away and I realized it would never be the same.

“Seriously, you’ve been such a great friend to both of us! We can never think of ways to thank you enough,” he said again.

I shook my head and despite myself, I laughed.

“You’re making this so awkward! You both are in love with each other! So, celebrate! I’ll leave you alone now,” I said and the corners of my lips quivered. “I’ll meet you people tomorrow.”

Ten minutes later, I sat on the empty tennis court, clutching my jacket tight and breathing in too deep. It felt numb. I wanted to cry, but I only managed to cough.

Somebody came around and hugged me close.

“How does it feel?”

“Like shattered pieces of glass that can never be put back.”

Of Sad Days

I wanted to write something happy today – something about finding rainbows beyond a cloud; about mirthful summers and early springs; about happiness. I wanted to write happy things and be happy.

But there’s a storm raining down upon my heart. Inside, I’m wrecking; breaking into several pieces. But does anybody realize that? No. I hide it all behind a sheer pretence. I laugh. I giggle. I look around at people. When tears prick at my eyes, I blink away. But on particularly lonely moments, when the streetlights no longer shine brightly, I sit down on the pavement and I cry my heart out.

There’s a storm raining down upon my heart. It’s been long since I saw the sunshine last. I’m waiting for the rays to break through the darkness and enter my house. I want to believe that yes, it’ll be there…soon. I want to write happy things until then – about hope. But there’s a storm razing inside me, shattering every hope of mine. So, until the dawn arrives, I sit and write another sad story about a sad day.

Of Childhood and Notebooks

I remember a time, back when I was barely twelve, and we lived in a small house with breaking mosaic patterned tiles, Mom never bought us those ruled notebooks. Instead, she’d buy us sheets of plain, white paper and stitch them up to make it look like a notebook.

I was always fascinated with those hardbound or paperback notebooks, though, for they had pictures of superheroes and superstars and unicorns on them. But Mom never bought us those. All I had were sheets of bright, crisp paper divided into two halves, with a taut white string holding the pages together.

With time, I learnt to make it look better. I’d paste little stickers on it or cut out pictures from magazines and old newspapers and decorate the front page with them. But no matter how much I tried, the cover page of my notebook was never as glossy or gorgeous as the ones they sold in shops. But I never gave up. I started sketching and drawing on the front page to make it look the way I wanted it to be. Often, somebody in school would stop by, steal a glance at my weird, little notebook and ask me if I had designed it. A part of me would be scared to answer because there’d always be this lingering fear in my mind whether it’d be laughed upon or appreciated. My friends would compliment me and shove their notebooks into my hand and ask me to design one for them.

Over the years, plain notebooks without factory-made cover pages didn’t bother me anymore.

Even when I had a chance to buy myself those notebooks I had once envied, it didn’t feel that great as it was supposed to. Rather, the notebooks felt too ordinary when I pulled them out from my bag and saw the rest of the class of forty students pull out the same kind of notebook too. That is when I realized how beautiful those barren, plain notebooks that Mom brought for us, were. My designs on it were unique. Yes, there was no cellophane covering on it, so whenever it rained, I had to go back home, tear away the cover page and make another one, but it was all worth. For they stood out. Stood out from the rest.

Over the years, many other things changed too. Mom stopped buying us those sheets of paper and instead bought us those hardbound, ruled notebooks. I didn’t draw on them. They looked too perfect already. The cover pages were waterproof. So I didn’t have to bother when it rained. In fact, I never bothered at all. I let them lie on the study table, collecting dust. The other notebooks carried a piece of me in them. I’d keep them locked up in cupboards like they were some hidden treasure. And my heart would swell in pride every time somebody would praise them.

I don’t know why I suddenly remembered about them. The thought arrived like a little flash of memory, bringing along with, a fountain of nostalgia.

Years have gone by. I’ve moved on from those “weird”, little notebooks to factory-made, custom designed notebooks to spiral bound ones and more. But I haven’t moved on from those memories. Be it the awkward squirming on seeing a friend pull out a proper notebook to waiting for the class to look at the teacher so that I could pull out my notebook without becoming a laughing stock to garnering appreciation for the same doodles, it’s been a crazy little ride.

A part of me wants to go back in time and find my treasure cove. I want to call Mom up and ask her if they sell those loose sheets of paper anymore. But I know the answer, they don’t. Just like me, they’ve moved on to better technology and better ways. Mom probably wouldn’t make me those notebooks if I asked her to. She is too busy. Yet, a part of me wants that and only that.

It makes me wonder of how we remember so much about the things we shouldn’t have bothered to remember. Perhaps, it is because though the moment had seemed very insignificant once upon a time, it made us into the person we are today. The miles we’ve come; the miles we’ve yet to conquer, we owe it to these tiny, beautiful memories.

Of Once-Upon-A-Times

She was elated that day. Happy, cheerful with an infectious mirth plastered over her face. She skipped down the stairs, swinging her arms; twirled around on the road, laughing really hard. Nothing could spoil her mood that day, she knew. She couldn’t wait to get back home and pick up her phone and tell people about how happy she was.

She was sad. Utterly, painfully sad. Only barely she kept herself from breaking down in front of the class of sixty students that sat in the little room. Her eyes welled up and her hands shook every time the lump in her throat became too hard to swallow. She couldn’t wait to get back home and find a shoulder to cry on.

She reached home and plopped herself back on her bed, still smiling and picked up her phone. Scrolling through the contacts, she bit her lips as she wondered who to call to. Sure she had a lot of friends in her list. But she wanted to call a particular someone and tell her how happy she was. Her fingers hovered a while above the one name she had tried to forget for the past few months and her lips twisted into a frown. Suddenly, she was no longer happy. An almost sheering pain jolted through her body as the painful realization dawned upon her that she couldn’t call that person up. While one part of her desperately wanted to give it a try and see if things worked out fine, the other part of her was scared. Scared that she would end up as a blocked contact. So, silently wiping the little tear that trickled down her cheek, she put away her phone and sighed.

She reached home and gasped for air. Never in her life had she felt so broken and so disastrous. There was only one person who knew how to calm her down and how to give her the courage to face another dawn. But, were they even talking anymore? Clutching the armrest of her leather couch, she coughed and broke down. A part of her wanted to leave her a message. Just to know if she cared enough to reply back. But what if she didn’t? She didn’t think she could take that kind of pain again, anymore.

Both of them cried to sleep that night, each thinking about the other. They missed the times they laughed over the phone; and ate till they choked. They remembered the times they promised each other how they’d forgive no matter what and how they’ll be friends forever. And oh, how they cried when they realized forever had just been a sincere lie.

Each one of them made a silent wish before they drifted to sleep…to go back to best friends they had once been.

Once upon a time.