Tag Archives: wattpad

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

Advertisements

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!

Of Finding A Piece Of Yourself

Have you ever noticed a person closely? Yes, they do look different; they have different tastes; a myriad mindsets… but look closer.

Inside, their souls, you’ll find yourself.

They are running scared; fighting for a place; living through each day, smiling and crying all the same. Inside, they are confused. Every time they find themselves lost amidst a crowd, they panic. They have dark days. They have brighter ones as well.

And look at you! Amidst the chaos of the city and dwindling light, you sit and watch the world go by. You are looking for your world. You are looking forward to a day when you’ll own the stage and the spotlight will be on you. When you have dark days, you are not afraid to cry. And when the sun shines bright, you rejoice.

You have goals like them. You have dreams gleaming in your eyes. You are as beautiful as the merging colours of the sky. You are looking for your moment to shine; they are looking for theirs!

Amidst the crowds that buzz past you, you take a breath and look at every person closely. You are blurring more and more into the crowd. And they are blurring more and more into you.

And as the sun drowns against the city line casting silhouettes across the horizon, you take a deep breath and stand up. Indeed, you looked closer and what did you find? That there’s a piece of you in those blurring faces in the crowd.

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 The Stories We Tell

I have grown up listening to stories. Fairytales. Stories of war. Stories from Grandma. Stories of returning soldiers. And so many more. So have you all, probably.

I believe that the stories I have heard have the greatest contribution in making me the person I am, today.

The best part of a story, in my opinion is the essence of the tale – the pain or the sorrow it delivers or the bundle of joy that hits us after reading the same. The characters do play a significant role, but in the end, the story is what we are left with – the one that stays with us forever.

Sometimes, I like to miss my regular train and wait awhile at the station, because I have this (strange) habit of observing people. Each random face that I come across leaves a distinct impression on my mind. At times, I forget them. Then some days, when the weather is cold and I’m sitting by the window, watching the mist settle down from the mountains, I remember them – those people who had once graced a scene along with me. The crowded places mesmerize me, actually. Instead of the maddening chaos, what I find are melodious synchrony of people from various spheres, backgrounds and families. Each one of them tells me a story. Their eyes tell me of the conquests from their pasts. Their sighing and frowning tells me of the regrets they have. Each time, they bend down to kiss their children, they tell me of their love stories.

Often, I find myself looking at the lone man at the far end of the train. He holds a newspaper and squints as the old light flickers terribly in the compartment. He wants to know what is happening around him – what is happening in the world! Or perhaps, he wants to take his mind off certain things. So he hides his tired face with those sheets of paper. Does he have a family, I wonder. I think of his wife waiting for him, staying up late so that she can see her husband before the end of yet another day. The children have been put to bed and now, she sits at the dinner table, staring at the clock, having a hundred apprehensions run in her mind.

As the station draws closer, the man folds his newspaper and tucks it underneath his coat. His shoulders fall as he breathes out a sigh of relief. He has made it past another day. Isn’t that quite an achievement in itself?

After he gets down at his stop, I see a young girl board the compartment.

She is dressed in a rich red dress that exposes a lot of skin. The few women beside me frown in disappointment on seeing her attire. She is probably headed for a party. Every few minutes, she stands up from her seat and checks herself in the reflecting windows, making sure not a strand of her hair is out of its place. She wants to look as gorgeous as her friends do. She is seeking delusional perfection.

I have the urge to go to her and tell her that she looks beautiful. However, I want to know her entire story. Why a late night party? When is she going to return?

The woman sitting beside me keeps looking at her. Is she in awe of the dress she is wearing? Does she envy the fact that the girl is young and bold and the woman sees her youth in her? Or does she disapprove her clothes? Doesn’t she see the story that the girl is telling? Is she so busy doing a character study that she forgets to enjoy the story?

The train jerks to a stop and I have to get down. The stories remain incomplete. My questions remain unanswered.

As I get out and stand on the platform to watch the train leave, I see their silhouettes against the window. They are moving, going far away. I do not get to know the other stories they carry and it frustrates me to no end. I wish to meet them again – somewhere on the road, maybe on the same train again.

A cold wind caresses my skin and I realize the train has gone and it is time for me to leave as well. As I walk down the street, under the canopy of stars, I find myself thinking about the man. Did he reach his home safely? Is he having dinner with his wife and telling her about his day? Has the girl reached the party? Are her friends complimenting her on her dress? What about the woman? Has she gotten home, yet? Is she sitting with her daughter and reliving her own youth?

Under the faint moonlight, in the silence of the night, their stories haunt me. In some parallel universe, each one of us is a story. We hold tales of remorse, pain and joy and losses. Those tales are what we present to the world. Our stories are immortal. They are as infinite as the universe that traps us in its care. And these stories continue to live beyond time and space, presenting wonderful vignettes to lost travellers.

Of Growing Up

When we were kids, things were simpler.

Be it our first steps or our first strokes on a paper or our first ride on a bicycle, there was always someone who had our back. If we happened to stumble, someone lent a hand. If our strokes were bent, someone taught us how to do it right. If we fell off the bike, someone picked us up and wiped our tears.

So we were not afraid to fall. We were not afraid to fail.

Our smiles were simpler.

Our words were easy.

Our eyes glimmered with hope.

If, back then, someone had told us we’d fly if we jump down the terrace, we’d have gladly done that, for we knew no fear.

When we were tucked into our blankets and whispered fairy tales, we believed they were true.

And then…

We grew up.

Smiles were no longer simple. They hid a plethora of emotions.

Each word was carefully uttered, strategically planned in advance.

Our eyes gleamed, not with hope, but with confusion.

Fear resounded in every corner of our minds. The world seemed scary.

We were careful at every step, afraid that we might fall. If our strokes were not perfect, we let them be, for there was no one to teach us. When we fell, no one was around.

And the fairytale we had dreamed of, almost every night, seemed to slip right through our fingers.

What changed in those few years?

Did we?

Of Decisions And Desires

My mom worries a lot… about what others would think. Be it a job or a career choice or clothes, I think she puts others first, instead of herself.
But, it doesn’t always have to be about them, right?
Though we can say that we don’t care about what others think, there will always be a part of us that will have such questions like what will he or she think? Or what will the society think?
And, it’s okay to have them.
But, sometimes, it has to come down to us.
Our decisions must worry us. Each time we take a step, we must stop to think, ‘Does this make me happy?’
If it does, I bet the sun will shine a bit brighter that day!

How I Lost You

“Do not save your loving speeches

For your friends till they are dead;

Do not write them on their tombstones

Speak them rather now instead.” – Anna Cumins

I met her in junior high. We had been those bubbly little girls, always fangirling over some Hollywood character. The memories are hazy. I don’t remember how we looked like, back then. I remember she used to chatter all day long about Brett Lee, often mentioning facts as ridiculous as how many teeth he had lost!

We became quick friends. We used to talk to each other for hours over phone. We used to call dibs on hot anime guys! I was going to be her bridesmaid, she was going to be mine.

Indeed, I have too many happy memories with her.

When and where things went wrong, I don’t remember. I guess, she doesn’t too. Perhaps, it was when I had to leave school due to my Dad’s transfer.

Moving away didn’t seem like a big deal. We had telephones and e-mails and Facebook to remain in contact and I presumed blindly that things wouldn’t change.

Somehow, they did.

Conversations started getting shorter and most of the time, it seemed like we were calling each other just for the sake of old times. Our priorities changed. So did our friends’ circle. We thought that we were still going to remain friends forever, but deep inside our hearts, we knew that the thread was slowly withering away.

Five years of friendship was lost to a year of separation.

Slowly, other people started taking her place and a part of me still holds a profound amount of guilt that I had given up on our friendship so easily.

I used to browse through her pictures on Facebook and see her with her new friends, happier that I’d ever seen her. Though both of us used to be online at the same time, none of us took an effort of dropping a message. Strangely, it didn’t hurt.

At that moment, I knew, I had lost her.

When I returned back, two years later, our friendship remained as messed up as ever. We did talk, but it was no longer the same.

The good, old times remained carved in some forgettable corners of our classrooms.

Perhaps, we grew up. And life moved crazily fast.

Or may be, we never had been friends in the first place.

I went through the darkest phases of my life, alone. There were times when I believed there was no hope. And what hurt me the most was, I had no shoulder to cry on. So I cried, alone.

That period of darkness I went through, convinced me that nothing was permanent in life and that I was going to lose people. It made me numb. And it made me forget about her.

Until a couple of months ago, we started talking again.

Of course, conversations were pretty short and awkward. I used to think a lot before saying her something. I hid certain things from her. She did too.

Nevertheless, we talked.

I waited for her messages. I desperately wished for things to go back to being the same again, just like the olden, golden times. I wanted to meet her and talk and talk and talk about nothing in particular. Yet, I kept all that to myself.

I’m talking to her as I write this. I tell her I’m going to write about her in the next post. She wants to read it. I want her to. But I don’t know where to start.

The happy childhood memories are fading away with each passing second. So are the not-so-good memories. Now, I remember the little arguments we had. I think about the time she threw a water pouch right at my face and burst out laughing, while I stood in the middle of the staircase, absolutely clueless about how I was supposed to react.

I remember the one time something happened between us and I refused to talk to her. She had cried over the phone. Yes, she did. I was the stronger person. But I’m crying as I write this.

The memories are withering away and no matter how frantically I’m trying to hold them close, they are slipping away. The castles I had built are slowly crumbling to pieces and she’s not there to lend a hand.

However, along with the happy memories, the bitter ones are gone too. They are replaced by a set of new memories – of this friendship blooming again. May be we can never go back to being the best friends we had once been, but I’ll try. I don’t know about her.

Looking back, I still can’t figure out where things went downhill. A part of me doesn’t want to.

I had never figured out that writing about her would be so tough. We have our fair share of memories and sorrow. And we’ve been through all that together.

And I owe it to her – she taught me the importance of having friends. She made me realize that some friendships will fall and some will last and some friends will leave and some will keep coming back. They are people who are going to raise a toast at your wedding day and even raise a mop if you want them to. They are people who one writes about. They are people who have the most impact on one’s life.

They are called, friends.

She is mine. She is my friend.

And I believe there will be brighter days.

No, I know there will be even brighter ones.

We’ll see them together.