Tag Archives: bestfriends

Of Missing People

The little cafe downtown Larris Road, bears a deserted look. Even though the fog has still not cleared and cold winds brush past every now and then, people don’t stop by for a coffee. She doesn’t want to, as well.

But somehow, she does.

He is there.

The mist has settled on the window panes, painting a rather distorted image of the world outside. Beyond the window, people in their buttoned-up coats and tight scarfs, walk past. She wants to retrace her steps and go back to being one of those busy people trudging down the street, but she’s already inside the warm, little cafe and it feels good there.

With heavy steps, she walks to one of those corner tables and takes a seat.

Her face pulls up of pretence of carelessness. Inside, there is a storm raining down on her heart.

Her lips quiver as she hears a pair of sneakers squeaking down the hallway. A second later, he stands in front of her.

“What would you like-” he pauses awhile. “Ma’am?”

His words sting her. Yet taking a deep breath, she manages to look up at him.

His button-down black shirt is sticking to one side and his dark hair glows under the flickering lights in the cafe. His shoes are worn out, yet he wears them with so much pride.

He is not looking at her. Instead, his eyes are focused on the blank page of the notepad.

“Two coffee, please,” she mutters, with too much care.

He quickly turns around and walks to the counter, without bothering to ask her if she needs something else. It’s as if she has ceased to exist for him.

When he arrives with the two cups of coffee, carefully balanced on the tray, she doesn’t know how to ask him to stay.

As if he can read her mind, setting down the tray before her, he carefully pulls out a chair and takes a seat.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Her fingers curl around the cup, and she breathes out a slow sigh as the warmth of it trickles down her skin. Bringing the cup to her lips, she gives it a slight blow.

“I miss people,” she manages to say.

Her fingers jerk tighter around the steaming cup as her eyes start to sting. She rubs at the them at the same stupid pretext that he’s grown accustomed to.

He pretends like he didn’t hear her.

Emptiness wafts around them. She can no longer hear the brisk footsteps of people outside. She can no longer hear the slight squeaking of shoes near the counter. It’s as if the whole world has stopped and is somehow looking right at them, waiting in anticipation to hear the next word uttered.

At the corner of her eye, she can see him fiddling with his cup, his head bent down, probably watching her the same way as she is watching him.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

At that moment, she bites back her lip to hold the swell of emotion waiting to burst out.

“I miss you,” she finally says. “I miss people when they drift away. These days, it feels so empty. There are people around me, yet, I feel lonely.”

A drop of tear trickles down and she looks up to meet his eyes.

“Why can’t you just let go of things. Why do you have to cater your ego? Why can’t we just go back to being the friends we were?”

“Look-,” he starts to say.

“No,I’m not staying here to hear you push me away. It’s tough to live through everyday, knowing that the people you thought would be there with you forever, are no longer there! I miss you so much! Yet every time I pick up my phone to call you up, I’m afraid that you’d just push me away. I want to go back to the time where things were not so complicated!”

He places a hand on her shoulder, as if trying to calm her down, but it is not working.

“Think of the world we could build! With memories so beautiful! We could go back to being friends again! We could go back to the same old routine of meeting here for coffee everyday! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” her voice breaks.

Inside, his heart breaks into a million pieces on seeing her cry. He wants to hug her, console her and hold her till an eternity, but he knows that the scars will remain. That, things will never be the same between them as they were.

“We can still meet each other,” he says. “Look, here we are now. Everything will be fine again.”

She shakes her head and stands up.

“You don’t miss me. You don’t miss me like I do. And I know you are lying. You are lying when you say that everything will be fine again. For nothing will ever be,” she says and a moment later, she’s gone.

Through the misted glass, he watches her walk past hurrying people. A while later, she’s gone. Her shadow’s merged into the crowd.

He picks up the two cups, places them on his tray and stands up. For a second, he lingers there.

“I miss you too,” he finally says.

Only, she’s not around.

Somewhere, down the street, the girl stops and leaning against the metal lamp-post, slipping to the ground, she cries.

Somewhere, at the back of the coffee shop, against the rising vapours of the coffee mug, he sits and sighs.

Theirs could have been wonderful stories.

Stories that could have been..but never were.

Of Incomplete Stories Of Our Own

It’s rather strange.. one day, you are talking with a person like there’s no tomorrow, trusting him/her with your secrets, throwing your head back and laughing, unaware of the uncertainties that the future holds. That day, you are telling him/her about how much they mean to you and of how you’ll remain friends forever, ignoring the very existence of irrational forevers. That day, the sunset doesn’t matter, for you know you will meet him/her again. But the next day, the person is gone. Just like that.

There are no more pages to be flipped open. There are no more chapters. The story is over. The book is closed with a rather quiet sound. The lamp beside your bed flickers as you remember your cherished laughter. A cool breeze brushes past your face, drawing two lines against your scarlet cheeks.

You learn never to trust forevers. You learn that fairy tales are never real. You learn that people will leave – leave you more broken than ever.

Every next day, you wake up with a fear of losing someone else. Your lip quivers every time you think about the people who left you. And yet again, on rainy days, you remember them and smile. They hold a piece of your heart.

Now that they are gone, you know, it will never be the same again. Just like that.

The story is over. There’s no one to write it further.

And the book sits on your dusty shelf, drowning in memories of its own.

The story is over. Just like that.

Of Blog Tours And More

It seems like I’ve had the busiest week! Phew! Now that there’s a moment of respite, I’d love to invite you all to join my blog tour which is going to be the grandest event, coming to your town, this May! So gear up, people… Okay, let’s get serious. I had been kidding all the while!

I want to thank Rob from The V-Pub for inviting me to this blog tour. I couldn’t wait to get started after I happened to receive the very notification.

Let’s start with the Rules: Pass the tour on up to four other bloggers. Give them the rules and a specific Monday to post. Answer four questions about your creative process that lets other bloggers and visitors know what inspires you to do what you do.Compose a one-time post on a specific Monday (date given by your nominator).

1. What I’m working on at the moment?

To be honest, nothing. Everything around me is starting to feel like a giant black hole that is sucking away every thought and dream of mine. I want to pick up my pen and write something, but I have absolutely nothing in my mind. Apart from that, I’m sitting in front of my Mathematics books and trying to focus on a sum, but everything seems to jumble up. Probably, I’m studying too much.

2. How does my work differ from others in my genre?

I don’t have a genre! My works range from dreams to God to family to hope to random everyday things! I have heard people stress on the need to be “different”, but I believe that, no, you can be one from the crowd and yet inspire the people around you. You don’t need to do different things in order to be “different”. You can be you, ’cause that is “different”.

3. How does my writing and creative process work?

Almost everything that I write is based on personal experiences. I believe that simplicity is all that matters. You don’t need to have a genius brain to write a million dollar article. Sometimes, the best of stories are written with the littlest, most insignificant ideas. Why, you may write about the beauty of a drop of dew on the pale, crunchy, withering autumn leaves! You may write about the old man you happen to see everyday on your way to work. You may write about the little ant that crawls up the sugar cube and tries to drag it along. Each one of these instances has a tremendous beauty hidden. But we come across it everyday, and so, we think that it is not worth writing about. We don’t dig deeper. We don’t see the irony. We don’t see the pain. We don’t see their smiles. We don’t feel what they feel. And that is what makes these instances so enthralling! There’s so much scope to write more and more and beyond about these little things around us.

My brother and I happen to have many interesting conversations throughout the day, and whenever a conversation keeps replaying itself, I make sure to put it down on the paper. This way, I remember – the person and the story.

So basically, I start from nothing. At least, I start.

4. Why do I write and create what do I do?

I love writing. With a pen and a few sheets of paper, I can write about so many things. I can paint a picture without any colours. I can build a castle with words. I can make people come alive in my stories. That is why I write. It lets me dream. It lets me express myself. For me, writing is like a ‘horegallu’.

Back in olden times, in villages, there used to be stone benches called horegallus, below big, bushy, banyan trees where a tired traveller or two would stop by on sunny afternoons. There, they would sit and wait for someone to stop by. When another person would join them, they would talk about their worries – of how the summer parched their lands; of how they had to sell their cattle; of how they struggle each passing day. They would talk like they’ve known each other forever, when in reality, they would be strangers. When the sun would finally go down, they’d stand up and walk separate ways, feeling a little lighter and a little happier. Whoever said, sorrow shared is sorrow halved, sure did know right. The ‘horegallu’ was like a drop of rain in the desert. Strangers met. Strangers left. The horegallu was left with stories to tell.

Writing feels like an escape. That is what I do on rainy days. I write about my darkest fears and sorrows and feel a little lighter. I write about hope and feel hopeful. I write about happiness and feel a little happier.

Now, I’d like to nominate following fellow bloggers:

Walking After Midnight

PastelTessa

Run Wright

Ruined In All The Right Ways

If you wish to participate, and I hope that you do, please answer the 4 questions listed about that I’ve answered. You can answer them anytime that you’d like as I don’t have a certain Monday in mind. Have a great day!

To The Best Friend Who Wasn’t

Only recently, I happened to come across a notification on Wattpad where the wonderful Rup had tagged me for a 30-day letter writing challenge. Now, I don’t really write a lot of letters. In a world where most of our time is spent on chatting and social networking, it’s not much of a surprise that the trend of writing letters is slowly vanishing into the abyss of nothingness. I love writing letters, though. Someday, I’ll send those letters to the people they are meant for. So for the first challenge, I had to write a letter to my best friend which reads something like this:

Dear Best Friend or rather the best friend I never had,

Has anybody ever told you that you are perfect? No? Then, hear me now, you are. I’ve never seen a person as strong and determined as you. I’ve never met a person who knows how to put things back together; it’s almost like you have some crazy magic tricks up your sleeve! I’ve never come across a person as intelligent as you or as beautiful. You present yourself like the complete package.

I remember the sleepless nights we spent fangirl-ing over some Hollywood celebrity. We’d add too many ‘a’s to their names or too many ‘e’s. At times, we would be lovesick over virtual anime guys, already talking about future plans in case we happen to meet someone like them in real life. I still hold a hope that in some undiscovered dimension, anime people exist and someday, they are going to come on earth and meet us. We’ve been sending them way too many crazy brain signals and someone told me that hard work never goes into waste.

Then some days, we’d talk about books.

On cold evenings, we’d argue over trivial matters. Though they seemed heated, they had a tendency to cool down too soon. I never wanted to lose you to some silly argument and perhaps, you didn’t want that too.

I tell you, I don’t remember when we started drifting apart from each other.

Someone had told me that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I still don’t find any truth in it. Of all the instances that have happened in my life, the first lesson I’ve learnt is that, absence makes things worse. Time is a culprit and it makes every precious memory fade away. I have only managed to have grasp a handful of memories and store it somewhere safe in my memory vault.

Sometimes, I feel that I was the only person who considered you my best friend. There was never any reciprocation from your side and it breaks my heart whenever I think of it. There are some things in life which you can’t have, no matter how much you strive for it. As for me, I’ve always struggled when it comes to making a best friend. It’s like a game of playing cards, which I’ve never been good at.

Whenever I see two bubbly girls walking on the streets, laughing to something, I tell myself that that could have been us.

But the right moment has gone by. No matter how much I try now, no matter how much you do, some things between us will never be the same again.

We do talk a lot these days, but do you notice that we hide a lot too many things?

We do laugh a lot, but those smiles are not true.

We do try and pretend that things had never gone wrong between us, but the truth lingers somewhere in the background – the very fact that some things have changed between us. We have changed. Our interests have changed. Our social circles have changed. Back in those high school days, you used to be the social bee and I used to be the shy, little girl in a corner of the class. I had always, desperately wished to be like you. We talked back then. But I thought that if I could somehow fit into your group, we could become best friends.

Now, the roles have changed. I play the part of the social bee and you tend to stay in the shadows.

Still, we are not best friends. Perhaps, we never were. I was just crazy and a little too desperate.

But I don’t regret it. I wanted you and only you to be my best friend. Who wouldn’t want a girl as perfect as you as their best friend!

But I guess, I forgot to take in consideration the fact that may be nobody wanted me as their best friend.

So, as I write this, I am still best-friend-less.

I wonder of the things we could have done as best friends. We could have those girls happily running down the streets. We could have been those girls spending hours in a mall. We could have those girls who never had any secrets. We could have been so many things. Only, we aren’t.

But we’ve come a long way without being best friends and a few more miles doesn’t really matter anymore.

Time may be a culprit, but it heals wounds, doesn’t it?

Sincerely,

The Best Friend Who Never Was.

Of What We Actually Mean

For most of my life, I’ve wanted to be alone – far away from the drone of noises crying excitement; away from the blaring horns of buses and cars; away from the busyness that surrounds life.

At times, I’d wish the ground would open up and swallow me inside into a world of maddening oblivion. In those times, everything felt hazy. Every step I took made me feel immensely tired. Yet I wanted to run away to some place where nobody could find me.

“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when they’d coax me to attend their parties.

“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when I’d be fighting the adamant tears from escaping.

“I want to be alone,” I’d tell them when they’d ask me if I were okay.

“I want to be alone,” and they’d quickly scurry off in a desperate attempt to give me some space. They’d always respect my decision and desire and wouldn’t bother to ring me up until I did so.

Now that I think of those times, I find myself wondering if I really wanted to be alone.

No.

When I told them I wanted to be alone, a part of me feverishly craved for someone to stay behind an offer me a shoulder to cry on.

When I told them I wanted to be alone, I wanted someone to stay behind and hear me out.

When I told them I wanted to be alone, I wanted them not to leave.

When I told them I wanted to be alone, I meant, I didn’t want to be.

I agree we have complicated notions. Complicated emotions.When we are, in fact, bubbling with so much to say, we cut short with a simple ‘Nothing’. When tears prick our eyes, we blink them back and smile. When we are hurting deep inside, we still manage to pick ourselves up and walk.

It is about knowing what those sweet nothings hold. It is about knowing what those smiles hide. It is about knowing that no matter how strong a person pretends to be, they still have a vulnerable side.

And how I wish, back then, each time I’d uttered, “I want to be alone,” someone would have pulled me into a hug and whispered, “No. I know you don’t want to be.”

Perhaps that would have solved half of the problems of the world…

Of What I Never Told My Friends

I’m travelling in a crowded bus as I write this. And no, it isn’t like they always describe – sweltering heat and grumbling people – in fact, though it isn’t that great an experience, it isn’t that bad, either.

Sandwiched between the metal rods of the window and a heavy woman who is reading a Stephen King book, I watch the group of teenagers in front of me. One of them, a short girl with raven black locks, in her pair of faded jeans a loose shirt, is busy pulling away the earphones from a boy who is probably one of her friends. Beside them, there is another girl who is talking feverishly with the girl who sits cuddled in the furthest corner, pressed against the window. She is hearing but her eyes are trained on the duo who are arguing over the earphones. An occasional smile lights up her pale face, causing her friend to smack her on the head and demand her to listen.

I quietly turn away from them and look outside the window where the scenes are gradually fading from ordinary reality of the town to infinite possibilities.

The crisp late February air hits my face, almost numbing my senses, but I can still hear their voices, loud and clear. Though I can’t figure out what they are talking about, the one thing that is clear is, they are happy.

It reminds me of those days when school had been a daily affair. I find myself remembering that perhaps the only reason I used to wake up with so much enthusiasm on winter mornings was because of my friends. Each day, after returning from school, I’d wait eagerly for the next day so that I could get to meet my friends again. Though very little things happened in a span of six hours, at school, I found myself talking with my friends for long, discussing every insignificant detail of the day. It was strange – of how we always used to have something to talk about, no matter what.

As the bus moves over a bump, collective groans rise from everyone. The bunch of friends in front of me make dramatic noises, and then burst out laughing at their antics. A smile crosses my lips as I remember the days when I went for picnic trips with my friends. The miles never bothered us. Hours were spent gossiping, singing like badly trained artists, pulling out pranks on each other and laughing on senseless jokes! Before we would know it, the journey would have come to an end.

I see my friends in them. I see us laughing and crying and calling each other at night, discussing boys and homework and what not!

A silly grin lights up my face and I shake my head, remembering the weird conversations we used to have.

Almost immediately, it is replaced by a frown as I remember the bitter memories I’ve had with them – when they broke my trust; when they left me alone.

The bus wobbles slightly and the woman beside me, almost squeezes me into the damp corner, but I don’t mind. I’m too lost in my train of thoughts to know that the bus has come to a halt and the conductor is calling to me.

“Madam?” he shouts in his thick Bengali accent, causing me to snap out of my trance.

“I-I am so so sorry!” I tell him as I pick up my bag and manage to make my way to the exit door.

Before stepping down, however, I turn around and take a look at the bunch of friends and find their eyes trained on my movements. A smile threatens to burst, but I press my lips together tightly and get off the bus. It would’ve been so weird to smile at a bunch of teenagers!

As I walk down the street, the gravel scratching against the sole of my heels, I remind myself never to wear those shoes again.

I cross a nursery school and the little children, loitering around the gate, wave at me and I wave back.

I don’t have schools to look forward to. In a few months, I’ll be heading for college and the entire idea of a new place, of new people, makes me nervous and afraid. Having changed so many schools, I have learnt that distance does make things worse. Your friends will start fading away and then, there will be a day when you meet each other at a shopping mall and there will be no excitement.

As a teenager, I’ve always had a problem in placing my trust on people. It does take a lot of time, because after so many betrayals and the so-called “backbiting”, you know, for a fact that making friends and keeping them is a tough job. There are times when the people you trust the most, will leave you at your darkest times. And their places will be taken by utter strangers who will come to mean something more.

Now that I think about the friends I have who are still my friends, very few faces come to my mind. Along the way, I have lost people – so many beautiful people and my heart breaks in painful realization. A part of me wonders where they are now and if they remember me sometime. Then, I find myself thinking about the friends I’ve lost to numerous rumours and misunderstandings. I hope to find them some day and ask if things can go back to being the same again.

I realize that it’s not like you can protect yourself from getting hurt. Sometimes, unknowingly, you are going to hurt others. And then, there comes a point in everyone’s life, where you sit and think about all these times and what you could have done to keep those people close. Regrets. And that’s all a part of growing up, I presume.

Mom had once told me that friends are not people who will stick by your side always, but they’ll have your back.

Amidst the share of misunderstandings and hurt and happiness, I’ve come to realize that friends not only deserve second chances but also thirds and fourths. At times, we have to take a leap of faith. At times, we have to forgive them for all their mistakes and go back to being friends again. At times, we have to trust them with all our heart.

They will disappoint us.

And once upon a dark day, they will surprise us.

Of Finding The Best

When we are small, we have pre-defined notions in our mind – that, we will grow up to be the best, that we will look beautiful, that we will have the best of best friends and marry the best person in the world.

It’s not wrong to have such desires. It’s not wrong to have expectations. You know, where the real problem lies?

That each one of us wants the best for themselves.

I want someone, because I think he/she is the best for me. Then again, you may want somebody else because you feel he/she is the best for you. Perhaps that is why they call desires of the heart to be dangerous and that they wreck a person. Because, the best for us doesn’t consider us as the best for them.

Of Breaking Chains

All our lives we’ve been asked to be careful. Do this and that, but not that. Our wings have been cut off from a very early age, yet we are asked to find the first worm! We are asked to tread carefully on every path so that we never make mistakes.

But all this, is it worth?

I believe that we have to make mistakes. We can never learn from others’ mistakes; we have to make our own. Sometimes, we need to forget every warning signal that has been issued to us and take a leap. Into the unknown. Into the uncertainty. Because, there is a world out there. And it is different from our world.

Of Fairies and Godmothers and Princes

Dear Whoever-Is-Reading-This,

There’s a thing about Disney movies. They are real. Fairies, godmothers, princes and mermaids do exist. At the stroke of midnight, somewhere in a forgettable corner of the world, a prince finds a glass slipper. The mermaid finds a man and falls in love. A frozen land is gifted with the magic of sun rays and glistens in gold.

But there’s a thing about us – we are natural pessimists. The dark haunts us instead of the light. Instead of believing that we may fly if we have a million balloons attached to us, we mentally remind ourselves that it is impossible. Who told so? Why do hot air balloons fly then? You’ll say, it’s different. You’ll probably start explaining me Archimedes’ principle.

And this is where we stop believing in miracles and magic. We tell ourselves that real life can never be a Disney movie. So when the prince finds a glass slipper, he starts blinking so hard that he almost loses his vision. When the man sees the mermaid, he suddenly wakes up. And when summer comes, we talk about science.

But what if, what if, all this is magic? You and me? What if we hold magical powers but fail to realize that? What if we can fly but we’ve never tried because we are not willing to take the risk? What if all we see is not real, but all that we dream is? What if the lives we live in the day are a dream, and the ones we spend sleeping is actually our life?

Probably, the biggest difference between us and Cinderella and Snowwhite and Elsa and their fairy tales and our un-fairytales is the fact that they believed in miracles and magic, and we don’t.

Sincerely,

A Lost Little Girl

The Dreams We See

“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.” – Lanton Hughes, American poet.

All my life, I’ve grown up reading stories. So have you, probably, and many other people.

I accept I was a nerd back in high school, though not your typical nerd from out of a teenage novel! I missed my P.E. classes to read books in the library. Though it was clearly against the rules, the grey-haired librarian didn’t seem to mind. Nor did she ever complain to anyone that I spent a half of the school hours hiding in there.

When she didn’t have a class, she’d choose books and give them to me. She even let me borrow two books when we were allowed to take only one!

On a fine autumn day, she asked me if I write stories.

Being only in sixth grade, her question took me by surprise.

“No,” I replied. “I only read.”

“You should try to write a story someday,” she told me.

“But no one will read it,” I stated.

“I will,” she promised.

I never got a chance to give her my story to read. I left school the same year and I didn’t really have a chance to contact her.

How or when I began writing is a memory that has already left my mind. All that I remember is that I used to write secretly. I was afraid of how my piece of writing would be received by an audience. In between classes, in the lunch breaks, I would sit in a lone corner and scribble a poem or two in the last pages of some copy. I knew no teacher bothered to look at the last pages and so, my little secret was safe.

Until one day. My English teacher interrupted a class and asked me to meet her in the staff room during the lunch break.

When I visited her, I found her reading something intently. As I walked closer, I realized that she was going through the little poems I had written.

“You write so beautifully!” she exclaimed.

I really didn’t know how to react. Was I supposed to be scared because she had found out? Or was I supposed to be happy because she felt it was good?

“Don’t ever give up,” she continued. “You have an extraordinary talent. Keep this dream alive and someday you’ll reach there.

She reminded me of my old librarian.

I found a confidence after hearing her. And since then, I’ve always shared my work with people.

People often ask me if I have ever dreamt of becoming a writer. That very question never fails to take me by surprise.

“Yes,” I tell them. “It is my dream to become a writer.”

It is a dream that has been with me for as long as I can remember. While some dreams come and go, this stays with me.

Someday, I’m going to write something for the old librarian to read. I remember her promise.

Someday, I’m going to thank her for igniting my dream.

Someday, I’m going to wake up and live my only dream.

I still remember a couple of lines from the same poem which i had scribbled at the back of my English copy. it reads like this-

“They told you, dreams are important,

That dreams are hidden somewhere in the sky, beneath the golden hue;

They told you to hold on to your dreams,

For sometimes, they find you.