He was looking at me for quite sometime now. I didn’t know what to do. Did he want to ask me something? Did he want to talk to me? After all, this was not the first time that he was looking at me. Should I go up to him and ask if he wants something or not? He was new so maybe he needed something.

He smiled.

Did he really? I thought he did.

He smiled again.

I smiled back.

He got up from his seat and started walking towards me. He is surely going to ask me my name. Or does he already know?

“Hi”.

“Hi”.

“May I sit here?”

“Yes”

“Didn’t you bring your tiffin?”

“I did. And it’s finished.”

“Belated Happy Birthday”.

I was taken aback.

“Thanks. But that was last week.”

“Yes, I know. I saw you in your new frock. I am new in class and I don’t know you well. I couldn’t say anything that day.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Here.”

He pulled out a package from his pocket. I opened it. Inside were seven candles.

“You are seven years old now, aren’t you? I heard your mom telling our painting ma’am that day. Mom had put eleven candles on my cake two months back. But I didn’t have enough pocket money to buy the cake. Will you be my friend? I’ll give you candles every year.”

Yesterday, he gave me seventy-six candles.

Another year gone and another year added to my monotonous and perhaps meaningless existence. Wished by everyone to have a great and exciting year ahead, I would perhaps sit down to reflect how to make it happen. It is never too easy to let go, especially when you have been thinking in terms of a lifetime. You need to have a certain amount of disdain to disassociate yourself from the object. Or else cultivate it to be able to free yourself from the cobwebs. So this is what I am reduced to now – teaching myself to hate. And hating myself for it. Looking ahead to another year with trepidation and hoping against hope that it would be somehow different. After all, things can’t get any worse than they already are.

( Dunno why do I have to make my posts so personal. I might as well have kept a diary. But my blogs don’t have much of a readership, so I guess its okay. Next time, I’ll write something sweet and mushy, something that I would want to happen to me. Till then, Ciao!! )

Cloudy morning, a cold sun.
Sound of murky water swiveling down the ducts.
Cry of a stray waking the straggler. Paper cups
Trodden and a cracked glass trying to
Make its presence known through
The vapor from a kettle.
My Dawn.


Silent walls hidden in the shadows
of street lamps. The chip under my slipper
on the dark terrace floor. The tangled strands
I pull from the comb. The wait for a
Beep on my cell phone.
My Night.

From atop a crest of distress,
I gaze down into the dale of love.
Yearning to take the plunge
Yet uncertain so that I may drown, or worse,
Be carried headlong by the cataracts
Towards a sea of death,
Of my mind and soul.
Will there be hands to pull me back?
I know not, and yet I leap,
As End is better than an infinite wait.

Since my examinations got over, I was faced with a small, seemingly harmless question, “NOW WHAT?” But the question was nothing less than a tiny bullet ripping through my mind and body, with every intention of shattering them. I am now expected to take confident, bold strides into the world, well-equipped as I am with a bunch of papers proclaiming my intelligence and capability of being of some service to society (and also if I can somehow manage to keep myself up on my own two feet, of being served in future as well). They are supposed to be my armour in times of need. It seems that apart from me everybody else is a lot more interested in knowing that what exactly am I going to do with my life – in other words – what exactly will I be doing to make my contribution to the annual GDP, and of course, how much will I be contributing. But shouldn’t that be my concern alone? I can very well manage for myself with an odd job here and an odd job there, or I may suddenly feel very idealistic and start working for free in an NGO, or better still what if I choose to do nothing at all? It’s true that life on earth is not to be wasted. But who decides what “waste” is? I do want to be able to do something for my folks, something to make them proud of me. But will it be a criminal offence if I do not feel that way? Can’t I live just for myself? Or just because a lot has been invested on me, can’t I work just that much so that I repay everything, and detach myself from everyone and everything. I am supposed to be a rational, independent human being. So that I can be free to live life on my own terms. And yet, why am I faced with a question in every turn of my life? After all, which duty is greater - the duty to others or the duty to oneself? And if I consider Myself more rightful of gaining my affections, then will I be tagged “selfish”? What’s wrong in living for oneself? It isn’t easy living a life of contradictions, and here I am constantly in search of that one element which I hope will add a wee bit of meaning to my existence. Questions haunt me, but one of these days I hope to find the proper answers. And until I don’t, I wish myself luck, and dream on…

Today is my rising day.
The red lips of Doom have kissed my forehead.
I’ll carry his mark wherever I’ll go,
And bask in the glare of envious eyes.
For they do not know,
Whether they’re dead or alive.
They pant and strive,
Contending their past misgivings.
And here I know that I can smile
As I commit the sins
Shorn of deceit and guile,
Blissful, and contently living.

LOST...

I stood by the window, overlooking the sea,

I looked at the setting sun, as it called out to me.

My passions spread across the sky,

Me a little bird, with no one nearby.

I looked down, my eyes dazzled and watering,

And already my traces had started disappearing.

I wondered, will I ever be able to pay back a visit?

I never knew, ‘cause as I stood there watching,

It went, and took myself with it…