Be An Extremist for Once

Love someone so much that when they leave,
you become an empty vessel.
Dance till the time,
your foot starts bleeding.
Laugh until your mouth hurts,
and tears come rolling down your eyes.
Talk until you have exhausted,
all the rumblings of your mind.
Be Silent,
until the urge to speak goes away.
Sing aloud your favorite songs,
up to the time, you only croak.
Run until you start feeling,
the throbbing of your heart in your brain.
Isolate yourself,
until the deepest desire to be among the crowd vanishes.
Write all those hidden stories of your life,
that you fear would be lost, if you are gone this very minute.
Be Vulnerable once in front of someone,
Let them ruin your emotional wellbeing.
Set your mind on a play,
Then, watch your darkest fear getting real in front of you.
Be wild, irrational, stupid and crazy all at once,
Be the best Extremist you could be, just for once.

PS: A long time back when I was 16, I participated in school debate where the topic was “Excess of Everything is Bad,” and I spoke on Aff side. I am someone who loves being in control of oneself and the situations around me. But in past few years I have come to realize that being in control never saves you from catastrophes, life has its own way of taking the key out of your hand. I think its Ok to be wild and crazy, after all who knows what the future holds. So, today I changed by side to Neg side, just for once.


She never forgot

The winds once again have changed their direction, there was certain coldness in it now, signalling the oncoming winter season. She wobbled around in her swollen belly, collecting clothes from the clothesline. She was due in the next fifteen days, but the old ladies of the village said that children are always born before their due date. She doesn’t know much about it, and it’s her first pregnancy. She doesn’t even have any access to books and magazines to help her in this hilly village which is cut out of the city by miles. So everything she knew came from the mouths of other experienced women.

In his last letter, her husband informed her that he would not be able to come during the birth of the child. But he promised that he would visit around March. He asked her to take good care of herself and the child.

Her life took a huge turn, a year and a half ago. She was an educated city girl, now living in a remote village, where you walked miles to get the water. The poetry and the hidden words of wisdom that her books gave her were diminishing. But the entry of the tiny seed inside her womb revived her back to life. It gave meaning to her existence. Now at night, she was no longer alone, there was a companion who was listening to her. She recited all the poetry and the stories she has read all along. She knew the baby was in love with words just like her. They had an invincible bond, making them two burning flames of the same light.

Slowly she stepped on the staircase with the bundle of dry clothes. She lowered her body to sit on the floor and started folding the clothes in a neat pile next to her. It was then that she felt some prickling pain in her abdomen. She tried standing up from the floor, but she couldn’t. The pain was increasing with such intensity that she knew that the time has come.
She cried in pain, calling her aunt in law for help, who was busy setting up the dinner for the family. Before someone could come over for help, she collapsed on the floor. They revived her somehow, and her body was aching all over the place. She was in a different room now, and someone was holding her hands. The saree was taken off from her body, and she could feel a hand touching her genitals. An unknown soft wrinkled faced woman loomed over her. With an old white cotton saree draped on her sagging skin, covering her head which hid the streaks of white hair among the lustrous black, parted from the middle, gave her a wry smile. She knew from that smile that woman was the midwife, who will help her bring the life inside her in the outside world. She was profusely sweating, and she could feel someone’s hand wiping her face again and again. Her cries were getting louder with the passing time, and the voices around her kept asking her to push harder. She pushed hard enough one last time and everything after that was hazy in her mind, now.

It’s been years now, but the memory of that day still haunts her at times. The blue body of her first born child never entered this world, but somehow, it never left her soul. The small warm droplets have started falling from her eyes now. A warm hand wipes up her tears, and she looks up at her daughter’s face, her third born but to the world her second born child. It took her twenty-five years to open her wounded soul to someone. She held her daughter’s hand and said “that’s why I never buy any new thing on Dhanteras” because that day I lost something so precious to my existence that no worldly thing would ever compensate it.

After that day her daughter never asked her mother to celebrate the festival. Years later when her daughter started her own family, she would follow in her mother’s footsteps. Never buying any new thing but never forgetting lighting up a diya in her brother’s name. For the world, she had only one brother, but in her heart, she never forgot that she had another one in another realm.

PS: Today I have completed four years of my Blogging journey on WordPress. So I thought of sharing this true story. Some pieces are hard to write and this one is one such write up. So with lot of shilly-shallying, I bring this story out here for you to read. I hope you guys like it

Happy Blogiversary to me ❤


Here she comes
tiptoeing on the dry land
leaving the warm comfort
of dark clouds
engulfing all other odors
filling the air
with its sweet muddy scent.
The clouds roar
in pain of separation.
Striking lightning
and thunder on nature.
The soaked earth
bears their wrath
without a flinch.
tiny big droplets
in its bosom.
She looks up
at her sad lover,
with a wry smile,
on her moon face.
As if,
concealing some
last secret,
to him.
The earth consoles her,
with a warm hug,
and wise words,
Sometimes to reach
the zenith
you need to pass
through the hell.

PS: The city has been showered with its first rain of the season, subsiding the scorching heat of the summer. And I couldn’t resist my temptation to roll down my words on the piece of parchment.

The Crossover

Sneaking from behind,
the fallen branches,
I saw a beautiful golden deer.
Standing on the other side,
of the old wooden bridge.
A deja-vu moment,
luring me to fall,
in the trap,
of pursuing the stag.
I followed,
in haze,
The deer scent.
The walk,
to heaven,
is what I felt.
Holding the beam,
I crossed,
to the other side.

The other side

I lost myself,
in the beauty,
of that rare deer.
The time,
passed by,
And I heard my name,
from the other side,
I knew,
someone was looking,
for me,
on the other side.
The charm got broken,
when I lifted my eyes,
the deer was gone.
I stood there,
at this side.
I tried turning back,
but an unknown force,
kept me,
glued to the place.
One more time,
I heard my name,
from the other side.
I knew,
I have to go back,
to that side.
With heavy feet,
I dragged my limp body,
to the bridge.
But the walk,
wasn’t the same.
The bridge,
was tangled in algae,
I slip and slip,
bruising my dampen body.
Tell me,
Oh, deer,
How on earth,
do I cross,
from this side,
of dreamy heaven,
to the other side,
of real life.
How do,
I do,
this crossover.


Datsuzoku is a Japanese origin word which means escape from daily routine or monotony of life. You can read more about this word here.
Yesterday while browsing through my social networking sites I came upon this word, and it struck me. As you might have noticed from my recent posts that I am not doing so well emotionally, a bit of low phase where I feel like I am drowning in the sea of my emotions. But what choice do we have other than keep swimming until we reach the deck. To break this chain of monotony, I have decided to do one new thing each day. The motive is to find happiness and light within.

As Pablo Neruda said in his poem:
“Let’s try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing. “

Here I was breaking my morning routine of eating cereal in breakfast. Instead, I decided to go and fetch Upama from a street shop. I have tasted it once before from this same shop, and I loved it then, but every time I landed up at that shop to get it, somehow I always returned empty handed. So today, I decided to go way before the time. And in fact, I was so before the time that the cook was still doing the preparation. I kept watching him while he cooked, and I realized that it’s so long that I haven’t seen anyone prepare food before me. When I was a kid, I used to sit on the kitchen slab while my mother used to cook food. I loved watching her cook, and I feel that’s how my subconscious mind grasped the gist of cooking. There is something very therapeutic about the act of cooking, you just may be the watcher, but somehow it calms you down. I was so immersed in watching him cook that I didn’t even realize how long I was standing there until someone poked me. In fifteen minutes it was ready to go into my tummy. I got it packed and ate at my office desk. Each bite that I took got melted in my mouth, giving me the joy that only good food can provide. Adding to this benefit of a scrumptious meal, I got to know the secret ingredient of this man’s recipe. As they say, each day brings something new with it. Monotony is not all bad, but sometimes it can become a vicious cycle and there comes the need to break it.

Quoting Simone Weil :
“Monotony is the most beautiful or the most atrocious thing. The most beautiful if it is a reflection of eternity–the most atrocious if it is the sign of unvarying perpetuity. It is time surpassed or time sterilized.”

PS: Happy Midweek guys, the weekend is almost here so cheer up 😀

March Madness

March you made me feel seventeen again.
The month started with the trepidation of upcoming days,
Just like then where I feared about my last exams of school life,
This time the fear was different, but the jitters were the same,
I was seventeen again.
This March had tears too,
Just like then where I cried for the end of my school life.
The melody of life was jumbled up, and the future looked blurred,
I felt like a fool for being seventeen again.

I was reading Harry Potter then too,
And I read Harry Potter in this March also,
Cause I was reliving my seventeenth year unbeknownst to myself.

I was trying hard to conceal the darkness inside me
Shoving away the lurking shadows in the boxes of my concealed past.

This March I laughed a bit too, at silly things,
the funny cats and dog memes,

It was the night that brought with it, the stillness of my life.
I craved some moments to last forever,
Even though I knew there is nothing like forever,
But what can I say, after all, I was seventeen again.
The beauty of seventeen is, it has hope packed with layers of disappointment,
Whereas now, I need to search for light within.
This march I felt seventeen again,
With highs as high as hurricane high,
Lows as low as Mariana Trench.
The only difference,
Between then and now is,
The intensity of emotions,
The Mt Kilimanjaro of then became Mt Everest of now.
So this how my march begin,
and will end,
by being seventeen again.