Lost and Wasted

It’s Monday night, you finish a novel you started reading just three hours ago and you end up crying. Not because the story made you feel sad but because you don’t know whether you’ll ever get your happy ending.  And you don’t know how to define “happy” here because what made you happy three years ago doesn’t make you happy anymore. You have moved on from the phase where a Taylor Swift song defined your life, you have tried a lot many bands but none seems to describe what you feel. Finding a meaning to your life through a song feels like a foolish thing to do, yet you keep on looking for quotations, last words of famous people, for coming of age movies, for those books that will change your life forever but none seems to help. You keep on waiting for that one moment which would divide your lifetime into two parts, for that point where your story would turn into a beautiful tale you always wanted to live but that never happens, the wait never seems to end. And you wonder whether all your dreams are nothing but a labyrinth that is too complicated to escape. You feel paralyzed by your own thoughts, thoughts that are too many to handle, and you look out for that one person who would ever understand you, who would know that you aren’t strong just because you act to be so, and that you aren’t weak just because you show your love, your vulnerability. What would you do if you find out that you are the only person that understands you? What would you do if you realize that you are your own hero and that no one is going to save you, except you? Would you be happy or would you be sad? Would you live or would you die?

As for me, I would put on my earphones and listen to,

“Remember when we were lost at sea?
We would look at the bright night sky
Thinking of, what we could be

What we could be
How to spend our lives
Remember when we had nothing left?
We were strung out in the cold
Holding on, trying to save our breath
Trying to save our breath
We would not let go
Through the good, through the bad and ugly
We’ll conquer anything
One day we’re gonna come back
And laugh at it all
One day we’re look at the past
With love, love
One day we’re gonna come back
And relive those thoughts
One day we’re look at the past
With love, love
With love, love… “

(American Authors: Love)

Life Is Like A Painting

We are all given an empty canvas when we are born. As we grow up, we add colors to it:

Yellow and orange for every moment of joy and happiness, for that race in high school that we won, for the nights we spent with incredible friends dancing or gossiping about nothing in particular;

Blue for the days when we were down and low, for all those Mondays we hated going to work;

Pink for the moments when our crush looked back at us, when our hearts skipped a beat, when we held a little baby in our arms for the first time;

Grey for the days when we were too bored to go out and face the world, when we sat in our pajamas watching reruns of our favorite series;

Green for those people who sometimes made us feel small and for those days when our future looked bleak as compared to others;

Red for all those incredible moments of passion or rage, when we fell in love, when it didn’t work out, when we wanted nothing but to win;

White for the peaceful days we spent at home, for the innocence we had in childhood; and black for the moments we spent in fear, anger or mourning.

We keep adding all these colors to our empty canvas, one over another, thinking that there is no meaning to it, that life is nothing but a blur, though in the end when we look back at it, the empty canvas turns into a beautiful painting, capturing the story of our life, giving meaning to every single moment that ever happened.

painting 1

Moms And Their Superpowers

I have a bad habit of biting my nails whenever I sit down to study. I never realise I am doing it until someone points it out to me. So this morning when I was sitting in my room, lost in my newspaper, my mother shouted from the kitchen, “Stop biting your nails”. Very steadily I removed my thumb from my mouth and shouted back, “How do you know that I am biting my nails? You are in the kitchen”.  And my mom replied, “Because I have a third eye which has magical powers”. And trust me this mystical third eye is not fake, it’s definitely a real thing. This special power of my mom to locate every single thing I have ever lost in my lifetime has helped me a lot: my specs every time I remove them for bathing or washing my face, that small almost-invisible-to-my-eyes button I lost from my shirt, that important document I kept carefully some time back but forgot where I kept it when it was actually required, my slippers, my camera, my books, my socks, you name it!

But the third eye has its drawbacks too. Back in childhood every mischief of ours was caught by our mother. By some sixth sense, she came to know that my brother took a round in the roller-coaster in spite of her warnings of no to do so, that my sister stole two rupees from my father’s pocket, that I myself signed my test papers instead of showing them to her.  You see, the three of us never left any witness or evidences but she always caught us red handed. It is her clever investigative techniques that I have nicknamed her CID. This power of hers in not limited by distance, even when I am miles away from her, she can always sense my sadness, pain or discomfort. I actually check my room to see whether she has secretly installed a camera somewhere or not.

I have actually come to a conclusion that the moment a woman becomes a mother, God gifts her with an extra sense: a connection with her child that is time proof, distance proof, and age proof. I witnessed this extra-sense-granting-ceremony exactly two years back when my sister gave birth to her son. The moment the little baby arrived, everyone was excited to see him while my mother was more eager to see her daughter, she couldn’t calm down till the doctors brought my sister out of the operation theatre. Every time the baby made a little noise my sister’s heartbeats shot up and the alarm of the monitor started ringing. Hearing the alarm, my own mother’s blood pressure increased. It was worrisome yet surreal: the mamta (maternal affection) of two mothers. I don’t think there is anything as unique as a mother’s love in this universe and this love is the reason our mothers know us better than anyone. This third eye of a mom always protects her child from any misfortune that could happen to him/her. This bond and mamta attributes them to be our saviour, our spies, and our life guards. And this is what makes them special…

Care to share any superpower your mom possess… do comment below. :)

What Else But Love…

It’s been three years since I started blogging, but I hardly ever wrote about you here. And what a shame it is! You are the only person that figures permanently in my ever changing life. You are, my love, the sole revolution of my life, the reason I’ve deceived and lied to my friends, my family and the entire world. There have been thousands of ups and downs in our relationship, but the thing that matters is that we never gave up. We always held onto that last string of hope, to sustain this love we have, to make it work, even in those times when it hurt us.

Every time I talked about you, I told people how unromantic and dumb you were, how settled you were in life, with no big dreams or ambitions, and how boring it was for someone like me to put up with you. I always criticized you, and rarely told people how good you were as a person. I never told them how you never tried to own my life, how deeply you cared for me, how you never forced me to do anything against my wishes, how you gave wings to my free spirited soul and how selflessly you loved me.

Just yesterday my mother remarked that I am not a girl who can ever love anyone, if at all, I can be kind to people. So, it is kindness when I wake up at night to check if she’s fine, it is kindness when I run to close the windows of her room when it rains, and it is kindness when a (kaamchor) girl like me makes her tea. It’s just not my mom who has told me this, I have been told this by a hell lot of people. And maybe, they are all right or may be their definition of love slightly differs from mine.  I don’t know what love is, I just know that you have given me immense happiness as well as grief in the last five years. You are the reason I know what it feels like to be really alive, and also what it would feel to live a soulless life. You have made me smile by writing as silly poems as a five year old can write and cry, by not answering my calls when I really needed you. You are the one who learnt to cook my favorite meal because my mom (owing to her disability), couldn’t cook it anymore.  You are someone because of whom I know that life has ups and downs and highs and lows and love is nothing but to endure these changes together.

I hope you know that I love you, despite all the fights I have put up with you. I hope we surpass this difficult time that we are presently facing. I can’t see you in pain and I never thought I could ever say this to someone but I wish it was me suffering instead of you. (And I know you would laugh reading this and ask me to stop my dialogue delivery).

Get well soon.

“ Tumhe ishq ke siwa or koi bimaari suit nahi karti…hehe.” (Ab tum kahoge ki kuch jyada hi khatarnak dialogue ho gaya)

That Thing Called Marriage

This February when I got the news of my best friend from high school giving birth to a baby girl, I looked at the disheveled pile of notebooks lying on my chair, the cobwebs adorning the corners of my study table, the always-ready-to-fall-down clothes in my cupboard and asked my roommate, how is it possible that people my age are taking out an entire human being out of their bodies and taking care of it while I am barely able to take care of myself! When I asked a mutual friend of ours the same question she texted me this,

Mujhe lag rha hai logon ke bachche bhi ho gye, bas mai hi peeche reh gayi, meri shadi bhi nhi hui ab tak. Kab basaungi mai apna ghar?

I was perplexed by her thoughts. Was I the only one who thought we were too young? I mean we are just in the 24-26 age group, what’s the hurry? But apparently everyone is in a hurry as is evident by the constant wedding updates on my Facebook feed. It’s like everyone I know is getting married. That innocent girl from secondary school who never talked to anyone, the Punjabi sherni from high school, all my south Indian classmates from college, almost every day I wish someone on Facebook  to have a happy married life!!!  And then I go into this deep depression mode… yaar hum itne bade kab ho gye? Seriously, I can’t imagine myself getting married.

Falling in love – OK

Having a boyfriend – OK

Live-in – OK

But Shadi- Kaise yaar!!!

There is this thing in our community where as soon as the bride reaches her sasural, she has to dance or show how to play a dholak, or both. No one considers that she has come there after spending hours, even days in those torturous wedding rituals. Everyone is interested to see her dance or sing. Every time I think of marriage, this dancing scene comes into my mind.  She is going to be a wife, not a reality show contestant yaar!!!

Don’t get me wrong, I love weddings- new dresses, shoes, gifts, all the dhama-chaukari. One can actually see me teary eyed while watching those mushy wedding videos they make these days, and what can I say about the magnificent photography (simply wow)! It’s like if I could get married for a day, and then say goodbye to everyone, including the husband.


          A Kumaoni Bride…

I can be in a relationship (much better be single) all my life, but marriage frightens me. I am in love with this guy for five years, and yes we used to talk about marriage and all when we were teenagers (hence stupid), but right now, I just can’t imagine myself in that red bridal dress.

When a childhood friend of mine got married two years ago, I kept staring at her pictures with that big kumaoni nath on her nose and a mangalsutra on her neck, and I was like,

Oh My God!! Why is she wearing a nath? Isn’t that for old people? She is just a kid like me. How can she get married so early? And so on…

I couldn’t get out of the shock of her marriage. I guess this is somehow related to my fear of growing up. I think I was twelve when I came to know that girls have periods upon reaching puberty. From that time, every single day I was scared to be an “adult”. While I heard stories of it from my classmates, I secretly prayed for that “period monster” to never show up. Alas, it knocked on my doors (hehe) when I was fourteen. And me, being an idiot didn’t tell anyone, hid myself and kept crying.

Well, that was the first phase of the process of growing up, upon which I had no control of my own. It was a natural process and it happened. But getting married would be like, aa bail mujhe maar, and I have no intention of doing that. I can’t get married and grow up again, not so soon, and hopefully never.


Pic courtesy: here

Weekly Photo Challenge: Muse


And Finally It rained…


A Purple Affair


Make A Wish…


Paving The Way For A New Day…


Don’t Take My picture Without My Permission…


Home Is Where The Kids Are…

To me, nature is the ultimate muse… the birds perched on trees around our house, the flowers growing in our garden or the beautiful sunset as seen from our rooftop. I find nothing as beautiful and mesmerizing as nature.

Inspired by this week’s photo challenge.

Remembering Bhola…

If there is one gift that I am blessed with, it’s the ability to forget, especially those people or moments that make me sad. I have this tremendous power to isolate bad memories and keep them in a hidden corner of my brain. Those memories become alive only when I want them to, or when similar instances happen.

But today I choose to write about Bhola here, because he deserves a space in my blog, for being a child to my parents when I wasn’t there with them. Those of you who have followed me from my initial days know about him, my companion and friend, Bhola. Well, he is no longer with us. It’s been two months since he left home and never came back. He was almost five years old, and had grown old and physically weak. He had lost one leg, while fighting with a devilish cat in our neighbourhood. That cat was primarily the reason why Bhola suffered in his last days with us. Every time I see that cruel cat, my temper soar sky high and I wish to kill him. But I know that won’t bring my Bhola back.

Bhola and his different shades

Bhola and his different shades

I first saw Bhola when he was a little baby. I had come home for winter holidays and he slept  with me inside my blanket,  and the next morning I found my headphones in bits and pieces as he played with them whole night.

Baby Bhola

Baby Bhola

The only thing Bhola enjoyed eating was flour and eggs. My parents being vegetarian, he never got to eat meat, but that one time when I was home I gave him some chicken bones, and from that day he followed me everywhere I went. That one year when I was at home, he was the only one I talked to about my depression; thankfully he never gave me any advice and just looked at me with his big, thoughtful eyes. Bhola never asked my mom for food, my dad was the one responsible for that, and he never slept in my father’s room, he always liked sleeping near my mother’s pillow. Every time she hears a light sound near the window, she thinks that he has come back.2015-06-231

Bhola’s girlfriend lived across the street. The times he was with her, he would forget each one of us, and would go missing for several days. He had poor hunting skills, given the fact that he was domesticated since a young age. He once brought a live snake inside the house and freaked us all out. He was fond of killing lizards though, I guess they were the easiest prey he could feast upon.

The last time I came home in March, he had lost one of his forelimb. I pitied his helplessness and often cried seeing him like that. He got in a fight with the big cat again and injured himself…seeing him bleed, I secretly wished for him to die. I didn’t know it then, that was actually the last time I saw him. When I finally came home this time, he wasn’t there. Unlike my parents I don’t want to think that he is dead. I have read somewhere that male cats leave home when they grow old, and I sincerely hope that Bhola has somehow gone on a pilgrimage to the forests and is really happy there, enjoying all the things he couldn’t do at home. He lived a great life till the time he was here; I hope he’s honing his hunting skills now.

The Last Picture

                                                                     The Last Picture

We miss him.