Just b-e-l-i-e-v-e!

Red-green-yellow. Lights. Lights off. Silence. The night and owl stories. Lust. Loneliness. He called up. Late in the night and remained silent until he could sleep. She listened to his silence and the monster who wanted to drink blood, not rain. He was not in love. He was honest enough to tell her. She was happy to read him, blindly. The script was being written. She read many... many more.... At times, she prayed to be saved. At times, she got tangled. Then he held her hand, showed her love... She searched for keys. Hastily. Gasping. Pressing. Backspace. DEL. Esc.

August is sinister I would not call it a month of green love and blessings it brings night to a sunny day and who cares for those houses that swim away it was only yesterday August had not come, I would feel joy under their cheeks swelled up cautiously and sleep on eye brow for peaceful days and dreams of green green meadow where are they? where are the happy days? this havoc, the flood of pain, is the same water, you rejoiced in and prayed for days after days Summer was better they all said, sighed and hoped for another season to dawn. hope, once and ever, we only have to have.

The day I will be dying And few days before that What I will feel Is what I have already felt before my wedding.

I don't know whether the blotches, cut marks, pockmarks and spots were by birth on his face. But his face looked slightly uneven. Though I am not the niggler who would just sit back and pass petty remarks on people's beauty and behavior. But still if you believe me, it was hard to look at him and then look again at him. Since I was the headmistress of this small town's very own small school, I asked his class teacher about him. And what I found was a little sad fact, indeed. When he was very young, about two years, he was running with older kids and accidentally fell over an iron fence in his farm. And, thus he lost all his beauty. Yes, he was born a very beautiful baby. The most beautiful among his relations. And so, it spread in the whole town that there is definitely somebody who did something upon him when he was born. Later, they all said, it was an 'evil eye'. So he was put up with stark black kohl in his eyes and a black thread around his neck always, in

These nights, when you go to bed thinking, what if you had another reality. The cozy blanket comforts her memories. Memories of the things that never happened. She repeats her name in half-sleep : Rhea... Rhea. She talks to him in her imagination. A smile makes her lips a crescent moon. She sees him before her closed eyes. He was sitting like a little child, fixing his eyes on his goal and his goal was to troubleshoot. She didn't disturb him, though she put her head on his lap and slept . When she woke up next day, she made lunch for her eight year old boy. Breakfast for everyone. Juice for mother-in-law. Washed dishes in the sink and did a little dusting around the house. It was not a big house and she was relieved that it was not. She liked its small size, coziness and flat-like appearance. On an ordinary day, she would hear birds talk, the shrill voice of horns, vendors howling on the street and servants coming and going out of the house. On such days, her memories are shrou

When I write I become undiscovered lands You - a mad traveler. You take my words for map - to be lost in me - You seem to find a new World.

At present - I am culling mustard seeds rolling in a plate creating - different shapes - On each slide - a different art. And this means nothing to anybody, to them Who keep asking me - What do you do?

Her name was Siyana Jad. She rose to honor by people of her clan during her early twenties. And why not! she had  sacrificed big things in her life for her clan. But if you ask her, what was that? She would mock it off saying, 'may be I was Possessed.' Initially, she laughed off her sacrifices. She did not take them seriously. But the nature of psychology is going from simple to complex. People, in their minds, in their whispers, in their evening meetings regarded her sacrifices as something unusual. Before she knew, she rose to become a Demi-God for her clan. People, actually, worshipped her. Though, it is a different thing, those who respect you, worship you for your sacrifices, expect for even more sacrifices. More discipline. Chastity. More restraints . She went through all drama (leela) unattached. But on the lonesome days, she would feel deep in her heart that unknowingly, she chose heaven, while she was born for hell. If tasting life in all flavors meant Hell, then it

Sea-Green Waters Snow covered mountain Roses A house wearing green leaves Floral frocks Real smiles Stories I scroll up and down and I sink low - lower where Life is (not) absent

The words I did not speak had become a fine powder. Crimson. This is only about me. I am sorry. The naked 'maang' stares in the mirror, in my day-visions. I will act like a lover and this will be over. But then, I learnt to cook, I fancied each afternoon, that 'someone' would come and I will arrange all things perfectly. A round table decorated with blue pottery, vases of fresh flowers, handmade pickles and chutneys in tiny clay jars, food along with desserts. That, you feel being in Paris. I wanted to design a heaven for 'someone'. A garden for happy souls. You said, "You are weird." I thought, "You were talking to my dreams."

I fold pain press gently its crevices, I keep it in wardrobe, fresh, fragrant. But in a couple of days, it is again hung outside, in gallery for people to see what it looks like ; what color pain, I have ; what size big it is... I fold it again, again and again, till it is no more a pain in itself.

Don't complicate Let chapati be a chapati Your moon be a moon Of late, I have been disliking the taste of moon. It sticks to the ceiling of mouth and bites dead teeth and eats cavity. It doesn't leave my mouth easily. Now Don't be that moon please! Darling We are already good chapatis.

I had you on dinner I served you all dishes and waited by your side ; at one point, I gazed like Rose, standing at the deck of Titanic, into the deep blue waters of Atlantic. Not sure why! though I gazed and in a hazy memory I remember we drifted apart, in that very moment.

The nod. The flame goes high. I burnt my hand, almost. Last week, it was my neck. and I have burnt marks all over yet, I come, as if I am hypnotized by this flame.

The night, like monster with hundred faces, comes. A lone candle burnt ... continues to burn...       A moth, an old friend, came ... began to be burnt. Slowly. The candle needed the moth, to stay far, to stay alive. He preferred to die, she lived, with a harder fate of a lone wood in a forest. Choices in love are onerous. Though, It is an old story, now. You read it, love. I read it, loss.

We are corrupted. some virus entered - it hanged our fate all of a sudden. Shall we restart?

Tomorrow I may die of a sudden heart-attack or I may get a couple of month's warning if diagnosed with cancer. Or just suppose if I die out of blue in suicide bombing attacks and there are no chances that I can come back to tell you How I liked you? How you made my life beautiful? In that case, while I am still alive I want to Love and not let love be a feeling that subsides and not let love stick to a stereotype and not let love be bound or bind to a name I will let it be only Love.

Why do I look in the mirror, When you are not here? Somebody lingers around is that, you call fear? We are women, all same we survive, fighting tear Do you hate me, more? As I say, I will choose to bear I know, they ignore our voices 'Anu' we must write to make them hear

May was the month of writing microtales. As I chose to write each day in one specific genre. Here are some of my favorite microtales -

In the middle of the night out of a broken sleep I felt I am a body and my body craved for you - your sensuous touch. s uddenly then, I saw, my body split up in million hideous insects who roamed in the room everywhere - to eat the tiny vulgar scrapes of one's own mind. I didn't mind my body, your touch, the insects, even vulgarity, only the disturbed peaceful sleep - wanted for another tiresome day.

And then everybody talked about, how fishes feel 'safe and happy', in the tiny rectangular of aquarium. Though I protested, "No, they feel tied up and suffocated." They said with humanely pride, "they could have died in the ocean, or must have been caught up in net to meet their brutal fate." I said nothing only glared in the eyes of wiggling black and white fish - their skins glowing under conditioning. They made me feel, fishes in the aquarium are girls of our type.

I am not Moon I am a naked metal lying in the chest of moon, yearning for the touch of fire, rubbing, her conscience with stones who reveal her the true history of their kinds. Stone to metal. Metal to her nakedness - that, this bare is much better than the veil of moonshine.

fill me crimson

One by one my photos have descended from frames, the color of my wall has changed, my old crayon box has been given away to a needy kid, my clothes, which could stay behind me as a remembrance, are sent to my new house, my books, old greeting cards, cds, old letters, folders must have become heavy on cupboards, or expanded, for they are given away to me, as well. No, I don't mean to make you feel the other way. Nobody wants you to feel a scrapped piece, I know. Yet, I wonder, "is this a home feels like." where you stop yourself from going to.

Last time I ate countless cashews, was next day of Festival. We waited for guests but when nobody came until late, to fill the gap, we pretended ourselves to be guests. We smiled, roared, laughed, chatted and ate lots of cashews, pistachios, roasted almonds, walnuts. We tasted them after a hell, whole year. We savored them, although the excitement killed some taste. But it was fine. And after festival, we saw at the residues, looking at us from the air-tight container, as if they pitied us for being hopelessly rigid.

If I have all riches in the world, If all my wishes come true, If I could travel back in time and fix my errors, If I could know my past lives and get answers of my questions, If I could have you, to love me till eternity, Yet I know, I would have been broken and beautiful a light, flickering too much.

She is a woman, who sees herself as a tradition, a ritual, a repetition. You met her, loved, called her, your own. She loved you back. called you, her own. ... deep down her self, she makes you angry, forces you to leave her... Just, when you have made up your mind, she grips you tight. And the pain from her eyes, drips over your lips, She lets you taste her bitter side. You want to bite her pain, she escapes, like the shadow of your own dark side. Until you know, what is this, I should tell you, It is too late, my dear ! You are in love with a sadomasochistic

Start. Start in normal mode. Refresh refresh refresh. All your memories are stored in X drive. Typed - Conversations. Search in All Drives. There is no folder named : Conversations. Hang hang hang... Restart. [Things will be repeated .]

Suppose, in another reality, You are not you, You are me, and imagine pain bites you in million stings, fear clutches you in its jaws.               you wake up in the middle of a nightmare, perspiring heavy, You find yourself, all fine, - Me, dead. Once more. Suppose, in another reality, I am you, Not dead, free - yet, not free. Dark teeth biting light within. Silent, still. Peace, no more.               I wake up in the middle of some lines, confused hell, I find everything okay - You, away. Once more.

I think about distance in :       kilometers                     miles                          cities                                states                        or may be                    one day,       countries.    Then, I think about distance in :             mind                  thoughts                             words                                   poems                           heart                 soul and      feelings Still, you are closest to reach.

My wings are heavy My heart, heavier Looking into my heart His own reflection, the sky stepped down and took me over his shoulders I fly to vastness My dreams belong to a different world.

of pain is sometimes death... Absence of love, at one point is, another beginning... Absence of grief is not, always happiness... Absence - there is - still some presence.

of pain is sometimes death... Absence of love, at one point is, another beginning... Absence of grief is not, always happiness... Absence - there is - still some presence.

I resist, looking into          the penetrating eyes of mobile, I escape,          it's alluring ways of making me familiar with those who too escape.     I resist, using mobile, to watch         the paint blue sky devouring         all other pretty bright colors on the horizon. The blue eats up all, (a bad masculine habit) I paint those cheerful colors ;            Yellow, Orange, Pink, back into my mobile. Escape of another kind.

I understand you, the way a bird understands a withered tree. (The bird and the tree) She sits on a rugged and dried branch of the tree, She sings a folk song, And waits, Waits and flies away. She is young now She knows less about trees. But she comes back, Seeing, wondering, what makes the tree stands alert, through the summer afternoons. She comes back. She sings. She sings about hope, dreams and life. She sings about empathy and a rare bond. [Connection we feel by our deepest emotions.] ... And I want to tell you now, (before it is too late) I understand you the way, a bird understands a withered tree.

In another story I will meet you then, we will be neither wrong nor right. Just between the parentheses, we will be a little underlined reality. We will not shy away from boundaries, customs, taboos and do-nots. We will be written, in *bold letters* - let their eyes feel strained. I will meet you somewhere before the next... Or in the blurred memories of past births. We are connected - This my poems will remind you. My stories will take action, meanwhile.

In love, we don't owe anything to each other. But ours is a different thing. I owe you a story. (Because what you gave me was a few words wrapped up in purest belief. I healed, magically.) But I will not give it back to you. {I don't want to end this all - the mess we are in.} I want to remain your debtor, forever. So that, we meet in another life, In another time, again, In another story.

From each letter of your unsaid words trickles a sense of disillusionment, as if each letter, if it could fly and reach me over a millisecond, it would sit on my phone screen and peep into my eyes to check if I am really not deceiving you. {But I am not.} And the other day your letter asked, in a way of complaining, 'you don't text anymore', I just said, 'I don't.         Because                         I                           Write                                     To                                          You                                                 In                                                    Different                                                                    Way.'

One day If you ask me, "Why... Why did you want to leave?" I would say, "I don't know... May be, there were too many reasons." And One day If I meet you, and you ask, "Why... Why did you leave?" I would say, "I could not help myself..." I would not ask a nyone of you, "Why?" for anything that happened or that didn't, I don't seek answers. I seek peace within.

Out of the habit of talking I became a theist. I began talking to my God and found that incidents were not incidents, they were miracles. Dreams were not merely dreams, they were signs. Thus, gradually, I became a devotee. Out of the habit of talking, I made him a lover. I imagined him, taking care of me and loving me back. [Illusions after illusions, maze after maze, turned me into an another being.] Illusions became truth. Maze will become the way to infinity. Now, I am someone else, who is a believer. But who I am, or who I will be. There is no end to turning us into another. We are never truly ourselves. We are who we will be.

Bring me the dazzling stars, shimmering above the water, which your eyes beheld last night, on the beach we could never went together. Bring me the white sand which your feet touched, which kissed your back, which held your breath, whole night. Bring me the promises, which you kept away amidst our favourite book, thinking I won't come this weekend and I could really not. Bring me your smile, which you don't give to those who look arrogant and show off  pretty faces behind their big glares. I am not a stranger. Or am I, now? Bring me a song, I have never heard or a drawing, I look at with awed eyes. Or even an idea that makes me laugh till I have last breath. I want all, you think hear, see, do... Bring me, Me. I want one - who has been lost. But I have heard, innocence never comes back, once... lost.

Some fears are born with us. They grow day by day week by week and year by year, Like our own body parts. When we try to get rid of them as with nails and unwanted hairs, they grow more and become an essential part of our existence. As if, we should not live in pure sunshine. I don't remember. Things I have been afraid of, are too many to count. But there are three, you must know, before it is too late... I am afraid, I am going to lose my eyes first. I am afraid of pain that lives in the old age and eats up the body, slow like termites - I was afraid. Happy endings are not true.  Only in stories, we can have all we need to survive. Life - is but a rehearsal for those stories. Good things come to an end. Though, stories never.

You see, I am busy in arrangements of another program : (there will be one more Dance before one last dance) Invitations are to be sent, Guests are to be arrived, Dinner is to be arranged, We will show up - all well at last, and will get ready for another event. Tireless people. There will have another day, When I will breathe and watch an orange sky, sipping my regular tea with my favorite biscuit, I will see a red moon and count stars again, I will stay up late, missing you and watch time crawl slow like a toddler... Then, one day, I will prepare a dance - a dance of soul that takes me slowly away from all the drama before the curtain falls.

The dangers (of being perfect) Tall Fair Gorgeous Well dressed The girls ; who are ravishing, and look taller than they are, gorgeous than they are, they dress up smarter than one can think of. Boys go after these girls, bosses prefer who are : taller, gorgeous, well dressed. But, one day, out of no where, burst out the anger. They came up on the streets of web world. There was written in bold letters : Dark is beautiful. We discreetly edited our imagination. Somewhere shouted a little band of girls from another world, "#Kutoo" It began to flash on screens. Heels were abandoned. Short is sweet, isn't it? Fed up of labels and show-off, Normcore became a new fashion statement, for people around the globe. Weird. "I don't want to be perfect", twittered a celebrity. It became a wide-movement of new era. Unaware of the modern dangers, school girls still steal the lipsticks from their mother's rooms.

I welcome you to the world of women, Half population of this ever enchanting world, I am your host, your guide, your friend here sir, I would show you the best and beautiful, the glittering hearts of mermaids of our world. But before that, would you please like to have something? We have 'I love you' of different kinds : plain truth, lie, naked truth, embellished lie or a mixture of truth and lie, confused i love you or seeker i love you... We have as many 'i love you' as many women we have. As many as, roles they play. As many as, men they meet. As many as, years they live. "What do you want sir?" "What? Nothing?" "Please take 'i love you' for granted sir, please visit again. And have a lucky day sir."

Night after night, Man after man, I learned to be romantic, to be charming, to be talkative, enough to pour out my secrets, to be fearless, to be ruthless, less or more or artfully, to be myself. Then, I met you, my Muse, who inspired my hell gates to bear fire and yet learn to resurrect myself when completely ashed away. I am yours , my muse, and this is my love for you. I don't love another way.

Let us begin with a poem, again Do not wait till dawn, and that I will take your hand and laugh till my eyes freeze, Do not wait till I write another piece and you try to hold me against my swears you call my facade pieces, with love, poems. Do not wait for my message, I have begun to forget things again, we have not spoken since weeks, but I know we are busy spending our days. Oh ! and if you are too busy typing commands and solving errors, buying sweets for your family, making your kid sleep, cleaning dust off your cupboards, meeting with your old friends to sip chilled beer, I will wait till the dawn of another life.

Harassed. frustrated. bored. Tired. The two brothers left home after a usual homely fight. They planned a short vacation. They looked out for nearby places on internet. They thought about an estimate. They gathered courage to think about going out of the town. The fight was forgotten. They were home. Next day, they were back to work.

There was nothing left to do. Tea was made. Dishes were washed. She had taken a bath. Since she had fast today, she did not have to cook food before late afternoon. She came out in every two minutes to see if women have arrived at the temple to worship Dasha maa and lord Shiva. But there were hardly four - five elderly women around five in the morning. "Aah! they all wake up late these days. Earlier, there used to be a long queue at this hour," she muttered to herself. Today was a big day for women of this particular region of Rajasthan. Dasha mata was celebrated for the betterment of the condition of households. Women observe fast, worship Dasha Maa and pray for the better days to come. By seven in the morning, women begun to arrive at the temple. Dammu bai had begun to snore while sitting at the ajar gate of her little one room and kitchen house. With an intuitive jerk, she opened her eyes to see a huge crowd of women struggling hard to worship first. She got happy like

I am really tired of attempting to write a story. I wanted to write about you because this is the way we talk, isn't it? I thought of letting you know that I keep thinking about you. Then, I chose to stay quiet. A lot of things find meaning in silence, only if you are eager to listen. So, yes, I tried to write a very silly fiction in the form of letter. I thought instead of addressing it to you, I would address it to a friend. Although, you were also a friend. Here I attach the incomplete fiction. I think, it wasn't even worth sharing. But you know, I could never even throw a worst line without showing it to you. I wish only once I could tell you (even in fiction) what you are to me. Goodbye. --- A Fictional Letter (Flash-fiction) Dear friend, I know you do not expect a letter from me, now when you have estranged yourself from everyone in our group. But I had to write you. I have been thinking about you lately and that how life has cheated on you badly. I k

"Of all the truths in the world, I regret one, that I can't own you." "... how can you think of owning me, Abhay? I am not someone to be owned." "... offo . .. why do you mind words. All I want is to have you in my life." " Why do I mind words, because they tell more truth about people than they propagate themselves. " ... Most conversations fade into fluorescent light of their mobiles during midnight. Perhaps they never meant to be a part of this universe. And it all happens because ... whenever she begins to think of truths and lies she lands upon a myriad combinations of magical words, which better know how to hide both under its glamorous veil. ... After so many broken conversations, one day she got to know that Abhay has been promoted and leaving India in a couple of months. The fact about a distance relationship is you are never sure whether the distance would diminish or the relationship. But she knew a few things in life a

At the same time, in different cities, they were thinking about each other. He wished, she was in Florida with him. Spring was prismic in Florida and Fall had surprising cathartic effect. He missed her so much. He would often think about her when, walking over the autumn leaves they crackle under the feet. He knew if she had been with him, every single moment would have become a poetry. Every scene would have been scintillating. Every flower of his garden would bear a name. While she, in India, wondered what he must be doing with all the colors of Spring. And that, what Summer has lost this year in India. It is quiet and usual afternoon when windows are drowsy and curtains refuse to tell the secrets. When no one is awake in the house, she goes on the terrace and draws a picture of spring in her mind. The cool breeze kisses her bosom . The color begins to fill her heart with love. With a sudden drift, the coarse hands of Summer, gripped her tight, they made her crave. And she forgot

The man you see strolling around the war memorial there, is a faceless man of my country. He has taken a pledge to light a candle every night in the memory of those who never die in any war. The brave men ; who stick to tv during war and watch our soldiers march like thunder, carry a sting in their hearts and bitter taste in mouths. There : this man has grown grey hairs, who had only five feet of height. Every morning he applies his dream as a butter to his bread and eats last night's stale chapati in lunch. After his dreadful job gets over, in the night, he walks like a corpse to the war memorial and lights a candle in the name of those who want to die for our country. But I know he is courageous, He keeps on living with hope.

No... it does not seem nice... I need to use more concrete imagery and add detailing... "Are you talking to yourself?" "Yes I think so." "This new writing app has made you insane." "I don't think so because playing PUBG hasn't  yet turned you into a schizophrenic." Together our sense of humor turns into a bad joke. We stopped conversing and slept at our different times. The sun was full bright in the morning like a cheerful adolescent kid. My morning begins with basking in the sun, watering plants and making a rough plan of the day in my mind. I feel so complete in the morning. Rest of the day till midnight, I feel like a single mother. The last night's unfinished poem keeps me occupied for the whole day. This kind of incomplete is so fulfilling because at the end I know I can complete it. Rishabh comes late in the night. Not so tired, but he seeks 'me time' too. After dinner he goes for a long walk, when he returns, o

Saying 'I love you' in a marriage is the most underrated thing. Helping out in chores, you mind, is often ignored and mocked at. Planning a surprise gift, I think, is another disaster, which we never even thought of. What I can afford for you is A fresh poem - written only for you Which, I know, you will receive with a tilted smile and a thanking hug... Though 'unread' it remains, Always Like ourselves.

When he was a young boy, he began to dislike the color red. It all happened due to an incident. Once some of his school boys molested him badly and he got minor injuries which later turned into the hatred for the red color itself. But he needed to grow up as a bold man as he was the son of late Major Pratap Singh. He became a soldier. He was destined to. His first posting was in Rajouri, Jammu. The place was now serene, unlike years ago when it was a hub of terrorists. One could see the snow white mountains in the background and valleys wearing different shades in each season. He noticed that the place evokes a vague feeling of emptiness and sometimes a guilt in soldiers, mostly who were bachelors in their early 20s. Today was the Valentine's day. Last year, on the same day he was posted here, so romantically he had thought Rajouri to be his Valentine. Though he never had a valentine in his life. He belonged to a remote village in UP where even today girls were engaged befo

Among friends, I do talk effortlessly, crack poor jokes And somewhere, for a moment ; Just when my hot chocolate has arrived, I taste aloneness. Long I had awaited for hot chocolate and one glass is so scanty, The bitter - sweet chocolate flavor is my first love Just as I like being alone Anytime, Anywhere.

He looks into the mirror again. He scans every change minutely. He looks at the white strands of his hairs, loosened skin and his eyes. The color of his eyes was changing continuously over past years. It had changed from brown to a light blue color : that of the sky. Looking himself at so close was surreal. Like he met somebody else in the mirror. Somebody who has faced depression to the extent of killing himself in his every thought. That somebody in the mirror cherished the thought of suicide as if it was the only decision one could take freely for one's life. But he did not die. Death is not always an easy choice. January has passed away. Giving way to a hope that new colors will arrive soon and paint our blank eyes. The color of his eyes are changing constantly. His biggest fear now is Death. Which would rather come slowly, making him realize the different shades of the color, life is.

We have shifted to another flat. It is almost as big as the last one. The only difference is that the bedroom is comparatively smaller and living room is spacious. When we shifted everything was easily arranged by the guys who helped us with shifting except my corner table. A small white wooden table which used to be in my bedroom. It had only three things on it : a handmade pen stand, a vase for fresh flowers and a pile of four-five books. This space was my escape in the house. The day we shifted, my corner table was being tossed from one room to another. And I kept pleading : please let me have my table in my bedroom. " Mom you don't have any spare corner in your new bedroom." said my elder son. "Yes, you can have it in your kitchen." interrupted my husband. "Why don't you have it in the balcony? We can also use it for study after school." suggested my elder son again. "Mom can I have it in my room? I will make it a super human spacecra

My mother had bought a set of three suitcases for me but she gave only one  on my Bidai. I never asked her, why didn't you give me those two suitcases. Like, I never asked, why didn't she give me many more things when I left her house. She might have forgotten. Or perhaps she never supposed to give. And that's okay. All I want to tell you is, a girl subconsciously thinks about how she left her house and what she left behind. I think about what I brought with me : A broken suitcase. One among two suitcases which I brought with me was slightly broken. I didn't notice at first. But somehow I realized there is something terribly wrong with this ritual of 'Giving'. I tried to care less about what they gave. They cared less too. And therefore that suitcase was neither repaired nor exchanged and was always ignored. Oh did I tell you, I have a lovely daughter who will be getting married soon. I have already begun to  pack things for her. One box is already full

The heart of earth does bear the pain of giving birth to a Rock. But with the passage of time she gives the tremors and let the rock sheds some of its weight. Only the Earth knows In her heart Why she shakes.

I have strange notions About love, Those that might seem Offensive. But I love Dawn, dusk, night And wolf and Satan At different times With different Intensities. ------ We have not changed A bit. From caves, stones And fire, We have moved to Guilt, ego and Aspirations. ---- We are Not Lovers. We are wheels Spinning Of Fate, Who meet in every Lifetime To seem Familiar To each other. --- The winter missed Drizzling nights, The Rain longed for The stillness of Summer afternoons. The vicious circle Of longing Never stops for Anyone alive. ---- That we learn to Fight with our Scariest fears Once more ; I dream of c ities turning to Mad Jungles. --- For some reason I climbed up to the Mountain. I took the river's way, down. Just born Yet Deceptive, Like grown up rivers. That way never found the sea.

I found a mirror in his drawer. It was a round mirror with a very antique design. A very spectacular mirror indeed. I imagined him being inspired from mirror and writing timeless poetry which had been published in many reputed journals. And there was a paper under paperweight. It was a poem. But as I finished reading it, I was blank. It was about me - his wife. Or perhaps, he never imagined me his wife. The poem was was very piercing . I couldn't believe it was on me. That moment was poetic. I broke his mirror. So that he would know wounds are real, not mere words.

The old house situated in the heart of city becomes unusually active on festivals. You would know, if you have ever noticed him stealing glances at mirror shyly on such days. Today is Makar Sakranti and Prerna is busy in making maithi pakoras in breakfast. She serves everyone til papdi with pakoras and tea. Children leave the house after breakfast. The two sons will be enjoying with their friends. Prerna and Mahesh are at home but busy with their mobiles and tvs, they almost forget that today is a festival. The old house, in spite of wearing his best and favorite dress, remain unnoticed. The loud volume from nearby decks challenge his hearing capacity. But he enjoys the noisy morning. Children run in the street. Young boys laugh, crack dirty jokes and fight verbally with their components from terrace. Every once in a while people roar 'Katya re' (we have cut it) when somebody's kite is cut by another group. On hearing the noise, he is lost in a reverie when he

"Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat it three times." "Where I am? Please tell me." Sneha was panicked. The lady doctor told with a calm distance, "You are in hospital." "What happened?" now she was shocked. The silence was prolonged. But then the words seeped into her brain. "You tried to commit suicide." On hearing the truth Sneha became numb with shock.  "No I can't do that." She repeated it to herself. "Sneha you jumped from three storey building but guess it was your lucky day. You got saved. But..." The doctor hesitated for a second, as how to explain her the rarity of her problem. Still she  continued, "... but... Sneha a nerve in frontal lobe of your brain has been severely damaged which means you will be having problems in thinking, moods, problem solving and alike. This also may affect your capacity to accept a situation in real world. And that means you are going to have a hard time accepting th

She had left house. It was a long reared dream to live a secluded life in Himalayas. Was it a calling? How else it would be, if it wasn't. She knew one day she would have to leave. And then came a day when nothing mattered. One by one all the ties got loose. She drifted away from everyone - her parents, her siblings, her in-laws, her husband, her daughter - this was the most difficult part, though. But didn't Siddhartha left his wife and child to the the darkness of eternal night. She forgave him. He was Called. Lost in meditation, she forgets who she was and where she came from. But as soon as she opens her eyes, she hears the voice of Yashi, her daughter. As she lives the macro- seconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days of her dream in the enchanting serenity of nature, she misses the smiles, laughter and tears of her daughter more and more. One day, sitting under that grand tree, she is enlightened to the fact, "I am a mother, prior to 'who am I really'." And

"Yes, we have arrived." Before she could hear anything, the phone from other side was hung down. It was a heavenly town of Uttarakhand, Auli. How she always wanted to go to Uttarakhand. How she always wanted a vacation, a break from monotony. How she wanted to go to a place and stay for some days just to feel the Life. As he would say, "Like with people, to fall in love with a place, you need to spend time." And they were finally there. But the doctor had said a very strange thing. "Go to a hill station but try to stay in the house." So, it was not a vacation but a compulsion, to regain health. "What has really happened to your husband?" somebody had asked her in the resort. She was in a fix for a moment. Even the doctors could not figure out what made him so frail and lost. And that is why they referred him to stay at hill station, she thought. But the disease, she knew, was somewhere in the house. A disease you can not always name. Perhaps it

"Call me Nadia" "Nadia... Hmm Carefree!" he says with a playful smile. "Careful", corrects Nadia with an impressive confidence that penetrated his heart deeply. Nadia seemed to him like a radiant sun. Whenever she smiled, he lost his breath. He was captivated by her daring confidence and 'carefree' laugh. ---- I am sorry. I will have to stop since there is no Nadia here. I love this name. And I was just imagining about her. Here is another part which I wrote and it seemed to be a more authentic part although which is not so romantic like her name. ---- Call me Nadia in this story. Do not over do the story. He never ill treated me or called me names. We always remained on the verge of being good friends. Though I urge you to write in the end : She dies of hunger, a hunger for simple and deep conversations. Yours, .... I found this mail today. I have been thinking about her lately. An impressive intellect who eventually reduced

It was New Year's party. In embellished beige color saree Amrita looked b reathtaking beauty. Even Shekhar couldn't help but steal glances at her. Out of envy, Amrita's friends kept gossiping about her looks, her fashion-sense and her relationship with her husband. Nothing mattered to Amrita, she wanted to run away from this glitter-show. However, after midnight they reached home. "Don't look at me that way.", gasped Amrita, while changing her clothes. "Why!" "I feel Not comfortable." "I am your husband goddammit." "So..?" "Stop that bullshit of your feminism okay... And stop meeting with your writer friends... I hate that group of yours..." "hmmm... I get it..." ... and till late in the bed, she keeps making up a story in her mind. She fixes its title, 'Call me by my name'. And it was about a woman who only felt comfortable looking in the mirror, with the one, who looke