one of those

Dear alter ego

even though I am not yours you still remain my only alter ego but then sometimes...and these days this sometimes has turned into more often than not...I have started wondering what that actually means...to confer someone with that title and not long after...snatch your words back like you never offered them.

dear...it's not about you...the other day when I told you about not getting along well with people...you could see how much I was at loss with words...and it had so much to do with their infidelity with words...and fickleness with time. but then people are mortal ain't they...they are supposed to be perishable ...words????

I had believed even before you enlightened me about how words are the most treasured asset one can offer another...and it's almost a debate in my mind that what it is in the right sequence...words define ur time or they define who u r? sometimes I feel that it's a fusion of both...subject to changes at all times depending on so many things and sometimes not depending on anything at all. do even words come with an expiry date?????

mortality of my own being doesn't scare me quite like the mortality of words does. people sometimes choose them so loosely they don't even realise what they have done to the other. and I can tell you...to realise that they were mere fency cliché offered to you in a beautiful face of delusion is a mighty cruel truth to swallow. it breaks you like few other catastrophe do.

It's pretty evident that my letter is in lieu of the fact that I am hurt...but that's not because I feel wronged when I shouldn't have been but because I find it hard to vomit out words that people once offered me to swallow saying they will mean it forever. I have learned how forevers built on the palace of virtual world are the quickest one's to scatter. and they need no reason. what is It that virtual needs not to be real....nothing...!! mohit told me this the other day.

I have defined people more by the words they chose in the difficult times of their lives and they are the only ones I had relied upon. the only spectacle I saw people through was how sane can they be when freaking out is easy and generous can they be when being obnoxiously rude is the easiest road to walk...but now....there is this third more admissible spectacle got added up....on how rude and apathetic you can be when being humble and sane isn't hard to be. and almost everyone....let's me down. fewer stood by it.

there are people who tell me to call bitch a bitch because nice guys in this world just end up nowhere...they say...but I forgive them...perhaps they never got my eyes to see what I did....

Is it wrong to stand by who you have always been. is it foul to protect ur very identity. or is it as they call...being practical to put on a rude I DON'T GIVE A FUCKKKKK face on your skin and just don't care at all when inside...the moment you are alone...only you know what you go through. being practical is just overrated I have learned. and moving on is a concept almost everyone except the newborn preaches about when they least know a thing about it. I think there is this shell that everyone of us builds for ourself in which only we see the raw skin clowned over our skin...and it's the one we hide ourself in the moment we are vulnerable....in a way only we know and one that we never admit before the world...going long way to conceal it...

there is always a pillow under which we cry on the nights we don't forgive ourselves. or the world. but we don't look to who we have been. we all die by the soul we live by dear. this is what I will live by. this is what you will live by. and the words...well they are just ....words.

you understand right???

Memoirs of a Heart Break Queen

        MEMOIRS OF A HEARTBREAK QUEEN

Forever ago I met a girl. And she was a heart break queen.
Until I had met her, I was of the opinion that breaking someone’s heart was a sin. It was after I met her that I realised that it was a talent. It was a hobby some people have been marvelling over the ages. They grew old revering it. It was absolutely fine for her and this wasn’t the worst thing about her.
The worst was that she was beautiful. Utter beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes quite a big deal about itself. The kind of beautiful that fails to go unnoticed, that poets and writers over the ages have been writing about fooling people around the world that it was not so much about the beauty but about the heartbreak. Now here is a truth. It is actually about the heartbreak. And I say this because I have been a writer and I have gone through a heartbreak. I can so bet my life for it and vouch for it. It is not about the beauty.
We were like poles apart and we did not attract each other because we were unlike. We did because when all things that were repellently unlike in us were exhausted, there was this one thing that was left. Reading. Our shared love for literature. We were stuck amidst the sonnets of Shakespeare and the literary classics of Leo Tolstoy and Charles Dickens. We travelled through Hemingway and Orwell and Bronte. And it was like two diverse rivers that fell in the ocean. Some day she introduced me to Rumi and the other days I took her for a stroll in the corridors of Mir Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Someday she acquainted me with the contemporary romanticism of not so acclaimed Nicolas sparks and John Green, the other days I took her into the simpleton world of Khalid Hosseini and Haruki Murakami. And as the reader in her reverently remarked the writer in me “bask in the afterglow of the beauty of reading” and that “writing is a wiser daughter of reading”
I wanted to know more of her. And she would bluntly deny. Not that she purposely kept me away. She was just like that to the world. Too old school to socialise too quickly. And then she believed “it takes a lifetime to know a person inside out” and when I would complain about her lack of socialising she would unapologetically defend “I could socialise more people were books”
But not all that glitters is gold. It could be fire as well. And she wasn’t any less of an inferno. She was the volcano that engulfed the whole of me in a manner that when she was done with it, all that remained of me was ash. I was a total wreck. A wreck that had no meaning in today’s world. But I wouldn’t blame her for this. It was my own faulty. It was my own doomsday that was written forever ago. We all have someone who ruins us in a manner that no home can recover us from. All rehabs fail to help. Some are ruined by situations, some by subjects they don’t understand, some by the love that their loved ones don’t understand and some by a calamity. I was ruined by a beauty and then Milton says a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Irony.
I have never met her. So I can only imagine what she would be like. Or who she exactly is. I wish to meet her. Not to settle scores. But just to see her. We all deserve to have a fair look at what made us who we are. I don’t wish to have a nice conversation on the bank of a river or a sea shore or something like that. Just….. If only words could suffice.
I perhaps some day before the sun in my life sets down beyond all the mountains in my life, I would like my moon to occur, what if it’s an eclipse. I wish to be doomed again. By the same moon. By the same calamity. By the same beauty. To bask in the afterglow of her existence.
Till then, my earth waits for the return of its Saturn.

Death Notice.

The unacclaimed corpse found on the doorsteps of gate number 13-West of the  National Library in Rio is learnt to be of an old man speculated to be in his ninetees.

The first witnesses said that the old man was found lifeless with his face burried in a mid 19th century classic fiction Lolita.

A bag containing the handcrafted diary that constituted memoirs from the life of the old man was also found in his mortal possession beside a bottle of old Russian vodka and 0.5L inkpot and a rusty old fountain pen. The alleged memoir is supposedly the only source of information about the old man although the handwriting seems rather illegible to be read. Experts claimed that he was either too poor with it or too stoned to realise that he was writing.

His possessions  were sent to professional analysers to detect the DNA or any other source of identity about the who’s who of the old man.

It seemed that the last book that the old man was allegedly reading had just enough amount of pages to exhaust the remaining breathes sustaining in his lungs. Meanwhile the memoir speaks of the life left behind by the old man that included his mortally struggling state until the age of 24 post which he decided to ascend towards the woods with his literary collection.

It was also stated from the verified sources that the old man had no social contact with his friends and family post a certain age which after he only roamed around unknown places to fathom the anonymity behind the aim of our mortal existence.

Also the old man has in his memoirs a mention of as countable as 4 friends which he named as FATAL 4 about whom he wrote just as voraciously as he wrote about an unknown girl that he supposedly wrote hundreds of unposted letters too which were found attached folded amid the pages of his diary.

The last mention of his meeting someone in person was at the botanical garden metro station in new Delhi India which is three oceans and two continents away from where breathed his last.

“Everything kills everything else in some ways” happens to be the only text scribbled in the inscription form on his left arm.

It is easy to claim that the old man will soon be forgotten as he should…for not giving away anything about who he was and what became of him post the 24th season of his life. The possession found from his old school bagpack was a literary collections of Vladimir nobokov, Ernest Hemingway, Rumi and Paulo Coelho besides his self scribbled largely illegible thoughts in the paperback form along with a heap of unposted letters tugged along.

His mortal remains were buried in the Central Cemetery of Rio  with his possessions beside the grave number 1313 as mentioned in the concluding pages of his memoir. The final inscriptions on his grave owing to his subtle identity were as following

“The old man we knew nothing about”

Until we meet....!!

Aparently the author writes it on the night before meeting the personified and humane version of imagination that forms the very soul of his work.

Dear,
To say that it's tough to swallow the fact that we are meeting tomorrow would be agonisingly an understatement. This is the emptiest that I have felt in a long long time. There is this inevitable hype about meeting you. It does beget goosebumps irresistibly but it's still such a different taste. It's not like meeting any other exciting stranger or befriending just another person who is a literary nerd. To be honest it's not actually about a stranger. I mean you were never one...were you?
I am as eloquent to you as I am with my skin and bones.

I am gonna tell you how it's like. It's like meeting your lost child if so to say. The child that you lost long ago in a war of midnight with the moon after which all the light that the life received was black in colour. Even in the dark you were born pale, pure and vulnerable.
That I had been deprived of looking into your ocean like eyes- deep and unfathomable, only barred me from finding you in the crowded settlements of my work. And that I could not for once hear you cry only kept me foreign and alienated from your mortal expressions of joy and sorrow. Perhaps these are perks of nurturing someone in the blessings of your imagination alone.
I have often contemplated how your silence echoes, how long does it take for your moist eyes to dispatch that heavy teardrop to run down the periphery of your eyes. I sort of wonder if you even visit your scars once in a blue moon. Or you just let them decay you. I have spent ages trying to decipher what part of a classic leaves you gasping or the ones that you stare blankly at thinking god knows what. Has any book cluchted you so hard you couldn't even move further for quite some time?  What did you think all that while?  Or did you just move on.
I haven't known any nomad as of this day who settles. Perhaps you didn't as well.

There are days darling when I sort of shudder when I think if what I had been imagining about you would ever be something real or if the saga ends where my book ends. What if you did not get my book to read. I would so want all the books in the world to vanish for a day just so you could read traces of your own soul compiled in paperback. That's my harshest imagination- purely a reflection of desperate obsession to be acknowledged by you. I mean what would a world without books be to you. That would be like barring you from your home. You are surely an orphan in a world without books.

Also I wonder if I should imagine about your looks. I sort of try not to think if you look ugly or ineffably adorable.  But then I wonder how does the moon attract the calmest of oceans even with an infinity of distance between them and how does the moonlight forms the charismatic catalyst for every romanticised literary  compositions. And you are lying if you don't know the moon's got a blot right in the face. So what? What attracts, attracts. Nothing else matters.

You are so the moon of my life. And all my life I had been waiting for this very night so you could show up on my land. All these stars around you will only tell you how you are the actual light of my life. Everything else just twinkles.

Until we meet, I remain in dark. Let your light kiss my cursed skin.

Yours with timeless admiration
:)

On the art of moving on

On more occasions than one I have attempted to recluse myself in this customised space of mine to scribble my thoughts on this certain title. Lying by my side are;like lifeless corpse enveloped in dust these blank sheets of paper. The evenly spread dust will vouch for how rarely I visit this space. My last few visits here (relying on the loyalty of my memory) have all left the same blank sheets on the table. I could only draw a blank each time I sat down to pen. The reasons why i am allured to this place are driven and indispensable. But if there is one presence common in all those visits, it is the spontaneity of innocense. I could never write about things I did not experience in person..or did not hear about from people in form of thier stories. (That perhaps explains my fondness for seeking stories in people) Ofcourse this idea is easy to be rediculed for you do not need to attempt a murder or be an eye witness to it to write crime fiction. but that is how it has been for me.

 one writer that i follow ardently writes "we dont get to choose if we are hurt in this world, but we do have a say in who hurts us". It is something about pain that stays. May be its that prick..that sting...the relentlessly ever killing sting. And we, we on our part dont help it either. We only prolong it. Sometimes we are so much into it, we start feeling like we aint suffering but treauring it. But people, pain is no treasure. God knows no body has ever availed any good by accumulating it. And there is nothing heroic about suffering. Some people think it is beautiful to suffer and absorb all the pain that is inflicted upon us undeservingly. They think it is classy or that it makes their story worthwhile. But lets face it. It does not. It never did. And it never will.

So what is moving on actually like...? Trust me, my blog is no guide for it. Its not a counselling cetre for the wounded ones. I wish to reflect my version of it. I think moving on is an aftermath. and unlike most people (atleast most of who I have known) think..it is not a decision of the helpless one. its not the accepatance of the battle lost.

I have known people who have resisted moving on until a part of them died in them completely; a part of them which they so adored for its resilience and resistance and how they believed that it was the one that had kept holding them together and intact during the reign of solitude. I have known people who optimistically vouched that moving on is like quitting on what was entirely yours. I know people who believe moving on is like not being loyal anymore.
Yes, I do not wish to take you in a parallel universe with an atmosphere of perfection and cakewalks as metaphor of life. Lets get this clear. Adversity is inevitable. there comes a time in life..and this one comes in the life of each one of us; none spared and no exceptions, when we feel we are doomed. This seems to be the epilogue of the life. It looks like relatable to the last chapter of the novel penned by our own being or the full stop that reminds us of the end of the sentence epitomising our own being. There are only empty pages to follow. Or may be; just may be., that is just a part (and never the whole) of what we think about it.

My favourite cliche one liner of all those that made the world go crazy for SRK was "like all the movies..even our life settles at the twilight. and if doesnt then its not the really the end my dear friend". such is the thing with life.

Whats the way out?

Look for signs. They are always around us only screaming for our attention and acknowledgement like the almond-like eyes of a certain one I remember from schooldays. Remeber there will always be a sun no matter how long the night was. And light, my friend, was always more guiding than darkness will ever be. Perhaps that is why there is always a sun in the sky as long as it is day but you may not have a moon always in the night. Infact we seek moon and stars for the mere reason that they emit light when there is darkness in our part of the world.

I always wanted these people to know how moving on is more about you than about the other people or the memories. And I always wanted them to acknowledge that moving on isn't like accepting that you lost it. Because sometimes it is really ok to cry and feel hurt and remorse and curse the world for the undeserving ordeal that you have been subjected to. But then as they say, you can not have rainbows without the rain.

 Moving on is when when you choose your smile over the ignorance that you had been living with. Its more like ditching solitude and accompanying the alone you. The strongest one liner i ever read as a piece of sage advice was "let go of what has served its purpose" One monk like hero of mine said this to me. Set everything that isnt worth you free.

Go for endless walks with your own company. if you dont think the world isnt quite as awesome as you are, trust me no one else in the world is going to believe that either. Brew your own coffee when you feel sleepy. Visit book stores. Read classics. Read stories that were written long before we knew about the age of time. Go for movies all by yourself. Gulp down a drink when you want to feel tipsy and sink in the fondness of all that you have been. Sing until the lungs get sour and dance like piyakkad baaraatees. This world my friend has so much beauty to absorb that lettting go of what was shit isnt anything but a favour. So much around you screams to treasure you and celebrate life with you. There will always be a beginning waiting for you to nod YES. There will always be doors for you to push open and take you to roads your eyes could never travel. There will always be so much of light to suck up all the darkness you had been soaking in. ALWAYS.

Take a walk with life, with your eyes open to see what you deprived them of all this while. No angel is going to come seeking you to fetch you out of it. We are our own healer. Only we can allow ourself to be healed in just the manner that only we can allow ourself to be hurt.

So when the page ends, please turn over. Seek what is next. when the full stop is marked, write ahead whatever your heart lets out. And when you are broken, and hurt and doomed.,let go of the wounds. let time take care of the healings. dont get stuck up. move on.

Rendezvous

                                                                            

Ever imagined how a meeting between two people of complimentary characters would look like. The first thought of it reminds me of a concept of barter system from my economics lectures of class 10 which is a condition in which you exactly have the same thing that I am in need of and vice versa, and so we readily exchange our commodities to make life better for both of us. So this is all the theory section of what I chose to write this Saturday night, and a practical life of this sort would be more than just ecstatically beautiful to imagine if not to see..!! But  guess what, I just saw one :P

There is a guy I know and we have been friends since always. I have known him for half my life span (that is exactly for how long I have known myself to the core)  and so in a corner of my mind I believe no one on earth knows him better than I do. There are no life savoring moments attached with both of us in a frame, there is no meeting that I would recall when I grow old and there is no incident of tormenting pain in his life that I pulled him out of. But having said that, I still believe there is no one whom I know better than him. I haven't followed him like his shadows and still for reasons that will stand illogical to this rational universe, i have known him just as much as you know your self.

He is a writer and that is first of the many reasons he appeals attention. Al l that I have known of the art of writing and reading and of all the literature that I have read, is credited to him and him alone. Also all the stereotype conclusions that I have framed in my mind about writers are to his credit as well. The introvert nature, self sufficed, keeping up to yourself, spending time thinking as trash as nothing and all of a sudden making a worldly sense out of it, the admiration for nature, all the old school habits of an orthodox writer, and waiting for that one perfect idea to strike your mind and waiting for it as much as a photographer waits for a perfect shot near that sea shore untill dusk, reading in your dark room under the light of candle, finding solace in dark and being friends with your singularity (loneliness sounds unhappy) This is him but I have always assumed that’s how every writer in the world is, no offence, he just came across so natural that way, he never looked like a freak to me, or may be I haven't met any other writer in the world.

Also it is his taste that struck me to the core. He writes romance, and the only kind of romance he writes is the unrequited one. There is no heartbreaking story attached to him and I am not aware of any hint of tormenting past to his credit, and so I safely assume that’s the only air he breathes. May be that is just the kind of genre that comforts him- the kinds in which you are the guy all sinked in love with a girl even when you know  no path in her world will ever walk her to your door and that she would never find any of those uncounted letters you never posted, letters  about confessing how she has been all over your mind since the first sight and how world was a better place even with the longing that wouldn’t end even if for once the world does. And so I reckon it is only because now you are friends with that ignorance that  you dare to collect the audacity to encrypt those three magical words on the back of your notebook when no one is watching you. You just don’t tend to quit. Actually quit isnt the word, for you aint fighting a battle, you are in love…unrequited though, but that’s still love.  --- this is the kind of characters he loves portraying with his pen. Make no mistake, he is not the guy who is wounded off a heartbreak, he is not a guy left alone because she likes someone else,its just that the character he pens down is  just in love with no *conditions apply* written in the clause already. He has only loved and never looked beyond it for outcomes and there are no qualms in loving them enough even when you know they don’t love you back. Its not painful, its beautiful. Ask him. Or the character in his story. He is probably more happy than you are with your girlfriend, because he knows she wont hurt her, not anymore. HE is the kind of love you pray for when you sight a shooting star, this is the only form of love you wish to get back in return of all the prayers you made.  He is the kinds why people want to fall for a writer- such is the taste of his characters. ( yes, differentiating “him” and “his characters” is annoyingly temptingly)

And then there is a girl in the picture too…!! Yes, and a heartbroken girl, who probably never knew what it is to be loved or being wanted. Of all the love she shovered on his guy, the only guy in his entire world, all that she got back was ignorance. No one ever made efforts to make her feel special, not because she wasn’t beautiful or lacked looks to die on. Indeed every girl is beautiful, in her own ways, only that they don’t get the right guy to acknowledge it without any foul intention. Sometimes staying up in a relation and ripping yourself apart on the worth of your esteem isnt justified, but the other times, expecting to be loved back for loving your heart out to someone even after accepting ruthless ignorance for an eternity  isnt wrong either. Everyone in the world wants to be loved, everyone. Even a criminal wants to be felt wanted, no? but when your eyes are used to looking moistured and rheumatic, it is the darkness that you choose to embrace because then that happens to be the only place where your wounds find solace probably because that’s where know one knows you are still in tears and shattered. There is a reason why ignorance and darkness are best friends, and not always adorable. It is only fair to people tormented by the pain of love to be more eloquent to darkness. The only reason why she sucked air in and breathed out was for that little hint of her guy to see through her heart and come back to whisper in her ears, “I love you back”. If only he could acknowledge how much she loved him, what on earth wasnt inevitable for fate.

 And then..one day life decides to turn generous to both of them…HIM and HER. One day she decides to speak her heart out in form of a social media status and the very same day it comes into his notice. No wonder it was appealing and so the next thing he does is find her, stalks her enough for days, read stuffs about her and then finally decides to interact with her. Every interaction only makes it look like its been ages since their last meeting, and so just like a get together after a long gap, things unfold with no holds barred. No one knows when both of them believs the other one knows them better than the world knew them.  They finally plan a meeting online and its more like a rendezvous planned just to get to know wach other clear because enough is being conveyed without words, conclusions made up and impressions imprinted clear enough never to fade as long as pigs start flying. There is a thrashold that’s yet to be crossed, impressions framed about each other yet to be verified and acknowledged, binding heap of emotions to be cross checked, yet to be unfolded, and a subtle dream or say hope, you know about what yet to breathe life. And after it ends, he only feels gifted to have found her. There is no limit to that ecstacy and cloud 9 never felt so small to use for words of conquering delight, because it is only  epic for a writer to find  a life that only personifies all that he penned down in his compositions. This is just as delightful as a painter finding a face that resembles his painting.  It was basically a rendezvous planned with no prescribed dialogues and of the few moments in life where silence is more eloquent than any other form of expression, this was one.  He was the listener and she was the one who spoke her heart out to him, first time to someone other than the darkness around her. She was honest enough to confess, she was never loved back. And trust me, for someone who has loved a certain someone more than a life, it is the toughest thing to admit. When you are a fight till you die or win, a defeat is way more torturing than death would ever be, and such was her confession. Sympathy isnt the word to strike, agony is. There is nothing adorable about her ex, nothing impressive and no reason to sense why she held on, except one, that she loved her. Fair enough? He almost feels like she is leaned onto his shoulders and for a reason unknown to him, he feels equally tormented by the pain in her life. A part of him, that composed those unrequited characters wants to introspect the conscience if his characters ever felt the same when never loved back again. A part of him wants to break off that *conditions appply* clause that barred him to never encounter these emotions. She is also more eloquent because he is probably the first one who ever cared to listen him through the night.  And that night, he was like the first drop of rain for someone whose life in a word was desert.  And this is the kind of night you never want to meet the dawn.

It doesn’t  take time for both of them to realise that suddenly they are habitual to each other. He is all that she lacked in her life, a dimension that she was always in need of and never got.  All her tears are replaced by the blushing cheeks, rheumatic eyes are replaced by a mascara that doesn’t fade in the night because reasons to cry have started to seize, “why me’s” have been replaced by “feeling special with you” and ‘life is hell’ is now of late being erased from her fb wall. It’s a “found a new life and ‘em luvin it” trending now. It’s  a world that she was never offered and she never imagined life to be so generous to her.  And for him, she was a face to all that he had composed in his works late in those solitary dark nights. There is a colossal sense of telepathy that develops when you meet someone who is a picture on canvass to all the thoughts you build up for a certain someone, and so before you say things, you know that they have acknowledged the unspoken words. But still what isnt done is crossing that threshold, the one that has binded them to their past, he with his works and she with the torture of a breakup aftermath. Not every perfect thing that looks adorable is that easy to accept, not atleast if the last experience of the same kind shattered you in pieces. So every time she thinks she is driven towards her inexplicably, she decides to hold her breathes tight, sometimes she is reminded of the time she had spent collecting all the broken pieces of her. There is still that flavour of the lost love in it, but she wants to move on. There is a hope she has found, and may be forcibly, but she wants to move on. Yes now..!! And a thought of this new guy makes pain go away like it never was. But she doesn’t resist it for too long and decides to let loose on him and tells him all that she has started to feel. God knows if she is honest or emotionally driven, but to him, its like a dream longingly awaited and it was inevitablew for him to accept it. This is how life happens to the most of us. It takes turn when you almost believe it is screwed up like it was for the girl. This is still a virtual conversation though where they are still to look at each other eye to eye in the physical world. As time travels on its wheels, things seems to be going a pinch more perfect than one could imagine in the fairy tales. But this wasn’t to be, because perfection and romance doesn’t click together too often.

If your life can take a turn once in a while and take you to cloud 9, do not expect it to let you stay there or that it can not take a turn again…because, actually, it does. One of those evening, she finds the guy who broke her heart on his knees pleading her to come back to his life. Reasons are unknown, it might be the introspection, or missing what used to be there for granted or simply missing the privileged action that he was getting back then. For a tenacious boyfriend you broke up with, its too easy to convince his ex, atleast if he was her first love. No matter how much he has acted foul with her, no matter how unfair he had been, no matter how much hatred he deserves and no matter if she moved on with the better guy, he doesn’t fail to convince her….and?

And what? She decides to go back to him. Without giving a second thought, to the second life she began in a\n almost perfection fashion, to the new life that just began with no trace of tears in it even when what is offered to her would be full of it again, and to all that she was subjected to when the last time she made his ex his choice. But this is the thing with love, this has always been, it is the imperfect ion that flavors love, it is the tragedy that adds leurels to love. Even if its not ideally adorable but this is what happens. I don’t know who said it, but he was very apt quoting ‘life is a great leveller my friends, if there is something bad you went through, you will have your share of good time too…..and vice versa as well.

She again goes back to the life she was in for the recent past of her life. Not that it is quite a fairy tale now, or that her ex has found ways to keep her smiling now, it isnt magical to feel for her, its still the ignorance that she embraces in the night and sleeps and wakes up with moistured eyes, nothing has changed. But she still wants to stay there, why? Is she blind or numb? God knows, but what I am sure of, is she is still in love, blindly yes, foolishly, yess…but still in love. she is still in the hope, because above all the torture and denials and ignorance you face in your relationship, you know your imperfect guy is the only thing that holds the way to your life savoring smile.. This is perhaps the only reason I find behind people not moving on even when they have a better world offered to them, even when they have a better guy waiting for them, and even when they could choose perfection.

And for HIM, nothing is changed. He is still the guy I know, with no drastic change in his life. I wonder if he is in pain and just hiding it behind his subtle profile, or just rejoicing because it happened. I guess the later one.  In fact his life’s got a ring to it now, I told you his flavor was unrequited romance, and when life gives you a experience of it first hand, you can not be enough thankful to it. There is a difference between imagining unrequited romance and experiencing it. With the experience, it will only add beauty to his works to follow. And now that he has been a character from his works, he is bound not to love what he writes.  Remember, sufferings are to a writer what rain is to people in love.  And I am still a fan of the writer. I know him better, better than anyone else.  No sympathies, I am just eager to know what he writes next, because it is inevitable that he will find his reflection I the next thing he writes.

Fingers crossed..!!

The Nostalgia..!!

Its 3 in the night right now and i am not even close to a sleep. People around are sleeping since ages.. and snoring iritatingly too. There has to be a reason why I am serving myself to these mosquitoes and 

am not in the blanket. I have to finalise things for the time to come-for the career to opt, if you comprehend that way.

Life has been a little harsh for an year though but I am not up for taking myself as a cry baby. 

And all that while I have been equally stupid too, making things worse for me and for people around. But there still is breathing a taste for living and the moment to sink in is longingly awaited.

These are closest in the literal form of words for what is going in my mind when I am sitting under my table and thinking what has gone wrong with and whats not, and I can confess- thoughts begin and end with that 

place...(K O T A)

I feel something similar to the heartbeats pumping in the slight left of my chest and perhaps I am a little alive again. That happens even at a whisper of the name of this place.. and a smile is almost inevitable.

The place has changed me. The place has changed so much in life. It has been an year to me leaving the station with a heavyheart but even now looks like that was a thing of last evening. But thats the thing 

with life, you so much as hell yearn for those GOOD OLD DAYS in your tough times wondering THOSE WERE THE DAYS and then the eyes blink, you are no more there. Ok that makes me feel like 

my granny speaking HAMAARA BHI EK ZAMAANA THA and I am not too old.

But..but lets just go back to that place again, have a trip, what if just in my thoughts, lets go back to those lanes, not as a tourist though for iIam no guide or the information brochure. Let this one be a stroll 

through those memory lanes, lets just call this an invited NOSTALGIA

......

......

For those who have never been there, this place is known as the coaching hub, more because its where the maximum number of highschool numericals of physics chemistry and maths are solved in a day, this is where 

there are more of greek symbols and chemical equations and never ending list of formulae to be mugged up all floating in that intense vibe. Pupil discussing about the taste of these numericals and equations 

more cheerfully than the taste of your food at dinner or lunch. And last but never the least, where the vagaries of competition and expectations in the form of, "at times fatal" depression is a sheer 

understatement to be called a pre requisite.

But amongst this haphazard, there exist a better half of life (not the fairer counterpart alone)  

 a piece of which exist in that late night strolls when there is absolute silence all around though not most of the guys in the rooms sleepy.

The "never off" lights and fan tells u somethingz cooking in, that might be a battle with the numericals, xploitatn of the night calling pack that you just got to speak to your girl or a midnight birthbday bash 

awaited, awaited because its silence or may be..just may be, someone sitting under his table like me and

Wondering what has life done to him or vice versa. This place has a reverse routine to life, that starts to smoke up after 10 in the night. Thats the beauty of this place. I m not sure if delhi and mumbai are as 

alive as this place is for this perticular interval of time-10 in the night till 5 in the morning.

 Infact this 2nd half of our lives here (first being the class routines), and probably the more soothing one is actualy when we find ourselves doing things out of our skins. Someone gets his socks up to fight 

just another battle with the homework, someone will go into the garden in front of her gal's balcony to be on his knees to confess hez gaga over her, someone has just ordered maggi and sandwiches and 

fried rice with manchurian or chilly paneer because what mess gave tonight wasnt food to say.

And some of those who arent in love with these heavyweight books have just been delivered their fantasy or fiction romance novels and they have decided to dedicate the following night to be engrossed in 

them. All arrangements done, stage's set to  lit on fire, life starts actually when it tickles 10 and we are onn.. It only gets better with the passage of time, you are getting that taste in the numericals, some 

other one in a durjoy dutta romance fiction. Ever Starved ones like me have got their recipee delivered just before passing out, and someone on a stroll on the empty roads has found peace in life. One has 

annoyed his gal, one never could dare to say it aloud and confessed on the MY KOTA CONFESSIONS PAGE and the other has just got one, worth it when you are on your knees at 2 in the night.

And then comes the time when you are feeling a little sleepy that someone comes in your room and say she passed him a smile today like "bhai sachhi me, inni badi smile thi aaj usne, m tou wahi feil gaya 

tha bhai.." and you almost jump on your bed "kya baat kar raha hai bhai..phir tou aj sidhhart wale ke parathe khaenge bhai ke sath." If this isnt the case, then it has to be a sallu bhai vs SRK fight.. And three 

years on the traut, uncountable nights we dedicated to this fight vigourously while playing cards (taash) and gulping maggi and sandwich and paratha, watever was delivered as if it was the only thing that 

meant a world to us - the win in that sallu vs srk battle, not paratha nd maggi. Bus, phir kya h, phir 4 bajj jaate hain and party abhi baaki hai. Abi early morning ghoomne bhi tou jana h, roj mummy papa bolte 

the the na when we were kids.

 And we are there, on the road that leads to talwandi choraha where atleast a dozen pohe waale with zalebi and pevar doodh wali chaay to wake us up and cheer for the day to come. Hard to pick a time 

when the day began or the next day came, because things never stop. Us pohe ka maza hi kuch or h, ek 5 rs. Wali plate me 5log chammach maarte h, pet nhi bharta, par mann tou bhar hi jata h.. No need 

to wonder how nasty bhukkhad we guys are, we proudly acknowledge, ab hain tou hain!!

Buss ab thakk gaye yar

And we never knew who said the last words before dozing off... Lights ab bhi onn hain.

Its either lunch time or class timing when someone out of us kicks the others on the ass to wake us up, and though with ample respectfull mc bc wtf, we settle on going for class, i mean class tou jaana hi 

hai, or aaye kyu hain, yahaan pe. but uska bhi schedule hai, inorganic kewal VJ sir ki hi karni h, physics batra sir ke yahaa lagaani hai, organic apne SKM baba, confidence low hai tou AM sir attend karna 

hai, but kuch bhi ho, maths ANNA ki class me nhi ghusna hai. Sometimes, we need to go late because phir saamne baithne ke liye chairs milegi, kabhi time se ek ghanta pehle jaana hai, to get the seat on 

the second row, just behind girls row because  your crush attends that class too and then you want to be the loudest howler when sirji enters the classes.

 The time that after passes with a little more seriousness  on what sir is telling with just a hint of distraction when she just glared eyes on you or stood up for a doubt or just shifted her ponytail on the right 

shoulder from the left one. Bus thode time baad we are oversaturated and its rating time, aj kiska lecture badia tha and which girl looked sexier today- okay more gorgious, more graceful, but then why SKM 

sir shouts aloud to ask UPER SE NEECHE KYA DEKHTE HAIN RE BABA...even after knowing that the answer is SIZE.

Done with the class and just like all the time, we are starving, and there are two stops. Maggi and patties wale bhaiya, or pani puri wale bhaiya. Whatever is decided, bhaiya ki lottery hai, nikal padi i mean. 

Phir shaam ho jaati hain and the rest is same.

Bus sundays thoda or special ho jata hai, breakfast aerodrome circle pe hota hai, get a taste of kota ki special kachori, you'll bite your fingers i bett,

sometimes the next is DAV GROUND for the cricket match, and with handsome money involved, a victory means, pure din ki party. Thats also the only fund raiser event we get. All parties find a common 

destination, either at APD or the CITY MALL. City mall, one, its more of a rehab on the day when he have a periodic test, bcoz paper ke baad saari dukhi aatmaaye yahi bhatakti hai, and agar party ki hai, tou 

party ke baad truth and dare is inevitable.  and to propose the next maal that enters the mall is the most common dare, and for the truth, its always the same first question- tu aarushi ke piche hi kyu baith jata 

h roj.

We are too tired to stand back till its time to go back.

Mummy calls in the evening to ask if we are okay, and if we need anything. But we just say we are fine, even if we are not, bcoz that will worry them.

And in the night, somehow the room mates and pgmates are the guys to go to, for confessing "the depression is getting the hell out of me, papa is worried about the exam scores" and he understands 

because he is in the same shoes but then the third one comes who promised to treat us aalu parathey, and we are on a walk again, with a beginning and dew- darr ke aage jeet h

I smile a little nearing the end of that walk, because i m a little afraid too, it ends. We regret being there when we were there, and we regret not being there when we are not there, rightly we miss it after we 

have missed it. "so jaa beta, 4 baj gaye" mumma says but party tou baaki honi thi na. "pohe jalebi khaane jana hai abhi tou, talwandi chowraahe pe" i want to say but i dont because i am not there anymore. !!