In The House Of The Dead Man.

I grab the tissue box next to me as I weep, while she says she was there just for him and doesn't tell him how much she loves him, because she loves him to let go. I cry. While he says the wrong name at the alter I cry because that's not who he's meant to be with and I cry.

My phone beeps, it's the reminder telling me to write. I close my laptop grab my notebook and stare at the empty page.

I think of what makes me cry, as that's what I'm supposed to write about and I have no clue what makes me cry.

I think of my abusive father, the assaults I've faced, and nothing brings a tear. I think of my first love and how he cheated on me, and go on to think of all the love I've lost and still not a tear.

I stare at the empty page, thinking of lost love and lost childhood, and nothing makes me sad. I've grown hostile to them all.

I give up. Close the book, and that's when I hear the Azan at the distant corner, along with the prayer announcing the Eid tomorrow.

It's been 8 years since I've been home for Eid, I search for my prayer mat and dust the Quran. I'm not religious at all, but the only time I pray is just twice a year, that's the least I can do for some biriyani, and moving out, that's the closest I have felt to home. The azan is what makes me home, it reminds me how my granny rushes to go pray as soon as she hears it; it reminds me of the eagerness I and my little brother used to have during Ramzan to break the fast. It's the closest I feel to home because the only part of childhood I remember till today is my grandpa coming to pick me up from my school, and going to the mosque nearby to pray. It still is my grandpa's mosque to me while he is now buried there, it has become his. The wait to pray tomorrow is what makes me drop a tear, and that's when I realize, the Azan giving me the distant memory of home is what makes me cry.

I set the room for prayer, grab that notebook with the empty page, start writing with tears filling my page and go back to sleep.

Image from @a-small-startup

Bon Appétit

I haven't tumbled here in a while. I haven't written a story in a while. Not only that, but I look at old poems and think of storing them somewhere. I look at the ways in which I have narrated stories and I save them to watch later. I look at the scribblings at the back of my notebook, but before I could finish reading them, the to-do list from the front pages start haunting me. Furthermore, I open my laptop to look for some inspiration to write, you see I haven't written in a while. But then I lose the confidence to write. The “Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ju nu” notes my roommate sings for the kids of her classical dance class rings in my head as I try to find a subject to write about. The tabs open in my laptop reminds me of the work I have to finish before the dawn of tomorrow, because Human Resources has asked me to finish tasks and have a new reporting format. But then I want to write. I want to write the same way Julia cooks in the film Julie and Julia; or is it Julia and Julie. It's my favourite film, and yet I keep forgetting the name.

I try to play a film in the background, some music that plays through my phone, Excel sheets and presentation decks, phone calls and emails. I'm multitasking, I tell myself. I've been multitasking for so many years, that somewhere I forgot how to perform just one task at a time.

I'm making tea and there's an episode of some random show playing in the background. I'm doing the laundry and there is music playing from my room. I'm bathing and in-between shampoo getting into my eyes and trying to balance on one foot I hear Sheldon Cooper explaining the theory of asymmetry.

I'm also a mental health professional, while I keep telling my clients to not google their symptoms, I struggle to restrain myself from self diagnosing.

The phone chimes and I know it's my best friend from miles away telling me her day went equally bad and at the end of the day we'll video call each other just to say “Life sucks (Exclamation point)”

I know I'm deviating from what I started writing about, I have no idea what I'm writing about. I think of sending the link to my partner once I finish posting this, but then there is a voice in the corner of my head that says I'll not post this, that I'll do Ctrl+A and click delete.

I know I shouldn't. It's after ages I decide to write, why shouldn't the world see it. At this point, you would be wondering why did I break into a new paragraph, do I have something to say? Am I changing the subject? Maybe yes. Because as I write this, I think of the first post I made somewhere in October 2017, and I can see the spelling and grammatical errors on that post. Not saying there aren't any now. By this time, all the above paragraphs have 5+ errors. The multiple grammar tools on my windows have come up, shooting red lines on the error. I ignore it for now. I can proofread much later.

So, what am I writing? I'm writing about not writing. I'm writing about having hated the urge to get my writing validated from strangers online, who have now become acquaintances. I'm writing about how my Instagram page is now non-existent and my Tumblr page had long died. But I will still shout to the world and tell them that I have gone back to writing, that I will write on a random day after a random period of time.

Adiós reader!

what’s in a name

You call me by my name all the time

And it used to feel great to hear it from you

I loved the sound you used make

And how you use a lot of different tones

I get your mood by the way you call,

But Daddy

It has all changed nowadays

You used to do all these things

And made me feel I was your princess

But

Then I realized that

Whenever you call brother

Its always a different tone

Infact, you never call him by his name

But rather all different adjectives

Sometimes its ‘champ’ otherwise ‘buddy’

Yet other times you call him

‘your darling son’

And the only tone that you use the days

The way you call my name

These days brings horror in me

Don’t call me by my name Daddy

Coz’ it makes me scared

That you’ll scold me again

Don’t call me by my name Daddy

Coz’ it makes my entire body shiver

Don’t call me by my name

Don’t call me by my name Daddy….

Vikram from the coffee shop

I was new in town then, had not known what to do and where to go on a boring Sunday afternoon. I took my bike and went to the mall and the first shop that my eyes fell on was the book store. I went in brought “The Girl on the Train” by Paula Hawkins. Well, a lot of people had suggested that book to me and finally when my eyes fell on the book I couldn’t resist it. I brought the book and headed to CCD. I don’t know whether it was because of Sunday, or because everyone was bored, the coffee shop was crowded like never before. Thankfully I got a table for two, went in, sat down, ordered a cup of hot cappuccino and started reading the book. Just when I finished the third of fourth page, a guy came in and distracted me. I get very annoyed when someone disturbs me in the middle of reading. I looked up,

“Is this seat taken? The café is crowed and literally there is no other seat available so do you mind?“

A tall guy with great physique and just amazing eyes, a guy to whom you could never say no

“Sure, no one is going to come here”

“Thank you”

Well, I continued with my book and he got into his business. Surprisingly he too had a Paula Hawkins’ book in hand. “One Minute to Midnight” I was about to ask him whether he had read mine, when he noticed the book in my hand.

“That’s a good book, I very recently read that and trust me the suspense is good”

“Oh! I was about to ask you the same. Actually this is the first book of the author that I am trying and I have no idea how it’s going to be. I have heard great review about it from friends and so thought would give it a try.”

“Well, you won’t be disappointed, trust me. Even I started with that book of the author and this is my third. I just am not able to stop”

“That’s nice to know. Well if its reader certified then I am sure it would be worth it.”

In no time I realized that we had both closed our books which is quite unusual about me because I never stop reading and talk, otherwise I am very talkative but when I have books I just am absorbed in it. But this guy had a different charisma; he just made me do the unthinkable. We talked about a lot of stuff like books, other authors, how Indian authors have developed in the past few years, criticized a lot of authors and surprisingly both of us agreed on a lot of things. Normally my taste of books is bizarre, I don’t completely follow any author or genre, I just like to experiment new authors, genres and different styles. And when I say this to people everybody thinks I am weird but he was just like that. It was amazing to find a person like that. I had associated and connected to a complete stranger in no time.

We had talked for hours and after a long time I realized that I had to go. I did not want to leave him and go anywhere but I had to.

"It was great talking to you, but I have to go now, so see you again if possible”

“Oh yes even I need to be somewhere I just dint realize how time passed. It was great meeting you too.”

“Bye”

“Hey, I’m Vikram, by the way”

He extended his hand.

“I’m Razia” I replied and we both shook hands and parted our ways.

That was when I realized that we had talked for hours and dint even bothers to ask each other’s name. It’s been a year and a half now since this incident. Whenever I see that book I remember him, but even though I had been back to the coffee shop again a couple of times I dint meet him.

To be honest in a way it is good because maybe it won’t be the same if we meet again, because that one day that I had spent with him was wonderful. It was nice and I don’t want to ruin it with another meeting. Sometimes it’s just good with one meeting alone. If that person come back in your life and takes a permanent place it might not be the same.

For me

What would you do if you wake up tommorow morning and realize that you are not that person anymore. That you have changed overnight. How would you react when you realize that you dont remember anything at all what happened. What would you do if you suddenly found yourself in a time span much much ahead of where you last were.

I dont know either. But somehow, somewhere I feel that I am lost. Lost in my own life. My own vicious cycle of finding myself. Being good to myself. Being the person whom I am expected to be. Whom I expect to be.

I am tired of deciding things in life after analyzing whether I am becoming what they always doubted that I would become. I am tired of the realization that I have lost track of myself.

I want to live for me. Decide for me. And do or dont do things because I want to or dont want to. I dont want to stop doing something just because maybe that is what I am becoming. I am tired of justifying everything I do. I am tired of fulfilling the expectations of others. I am tired of not becoming and sick of living for others.

I want to be me and live for me decide for me and understand me justify me feel happy for me guilty towards me and me me and me no one else.

Yay! Its my birthday

Behind every sucessful man there is a woman, but behind every unsuccesful there are two.

the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” is actually not the full phrase it actually is “curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back” so don’t let anyone tell you not to be a curious little baby okay go and be interested in the world uwu

he thinks he gave me scars,

scratched the old ones.

he has not given me tears, because all he has given me is  happiness beyond words

the intensity of your love is what brings me closer to you, closer to your love and beyond all to life

I know I cried. I know I should not have. 

but that’s what i am. 

tears are my mates and sadness my pal. 

you have not brought them to me, they stayed from before.

I am healed not from what happened today, but I am healed from my old scars, not by time but by your love.

so my love, don’t take the blame, take credit for bringing me back to life,

coz, i owe this to you and your love

It physically hurts me 

to see him, her and them

all laughing together.

To have been a part of it once

and now being a mere spectator.

To have had promises made

and to have them easily broken.

It physically hurts me,

to put myself to sleep every night

crying, weeping and consoling myself.

It haunts me that this separation

day in and day out

will pursue, till everything rather everyone vanish

It’s haunting to not understand the cause,

It physically hurts me

to see people I love hate me so much.

It physically hurts me to see that though a lot of people like me

no one understands what I feel

Being around so many people

no one notices that I weep right under their nose.

It haunts me that ‘

the validation rather the acknowledgement of my presence i seek from people will never be understood,

the need for someone around to lend me a ear and understand me will never be understood

It physically and emotionally hurts me.

it’s haunting to live in a place you hate, around people you hate, doing things you hate.

It’s haunting to tell all of this out loud. It’s hurting me inside out. 

Half hidden, half in the light. My tangled legs wanna leave all this behind and run.

Run towards the light. Towards the peace towards serenity.

But my legs are struck,

they're bound to stay,

no one has locked me in,

but my legs are pulled back

and they are asked to stay.

They are told to finish what I'm doing.

Half in the darkness and half in light, my legs want to run towards the ocean.