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On Writing

In the dead of the night or in the sunlit skies, solitude is a friend. Silence envelops you and you nestle in the embrace as you would succumb in the presence of a lover. In that silence, words haunt you. Your fingers shiver and the shivering only gets worse as the fingers get hold of the pen and the paper. The fingers won't hold steady so you seek recluse in the keypad. Your fingers tiptoe for a while and your mind is a clean slate again.

Your feet drag you to your safe haven. Only that it isn't your safe haven anymore. The cheer of the festivities surround you not. The mundane rings of the bells on the cycle populates your world. A hint of the childhood innocence peeks through in that moment clad in the urban cacophony of grime. Oh the disgust of adulthood. You drag yourself back and the words that made sense to you a little while ago do not make sense anymore.

Backspace. And you start over.

The door of the wardrobe is half shut. The books peek through. You heart sinks in y…

I have a lot to write

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White

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11:09 am
a clumsy Saturday morning
edges of the book sitting in one corner of my bed
several others piling in batches on the floor
groggy eyes trying hard to adjust to unusual brightness of the day
nothing.

2:32 pm
one pack of fries and several chicken wings later
the site has gotten clumsier
the bright sky is now gloomy
the window panes are not reflecting the light
but yet, nothing.

7:44 pm
tiny tendrils of a succulent overflowing on a black pot
lush: green or yellow, I cannot tell
fiddling with a camera
focusing: in and out; out and in
and nothing

10:56 pm
a lonely night in the company of a humble cigarette
couples kissing each other goodbye
wires creeping on the walls like parasites
unevenly lit, muddy, crusty roads
But. Nothing.

Shenanigans.

fingers trembling and dried roses sitting in a corner by the window in a crystal vase only if you could move closer, would you notice the fine lines around her mouth  or the chip right in the middle of that perfect bulge on the edge of her writing table the innocent smile peeking through the grey tones in the picture oh, the riot of colours it was when her unruly curls fell on her face while she laughed!
the yellow dress that fell perfectly around her petite body  and her head swinging in perfect rhythm as the music filled the doors of the sunny cafe the piping hot cappuccino in the cup grew cold on the side she could hear no more than the beats  the afternoon sun melted away in the evening sky 
little Abigail had heard of stories of grandma Helen and tonight when she was the saddest, she held her picture close to her chest eyes with a light pink tinge on the edges and she unbuttoned the last four buttons of her shirt  tying it across her slender waist, she pretended that a pretty yellow dress tra…

Cliched

That odd moment when the warmth and softness of another hand fits right into yours through the small loop between your awkwardly bent elbow and the concave curve of your waist.
That odd moment when his head hangs halfway in the air because your shoulders are too tiny for him.  That odd moment of realisation when your bodies hug and your limbs are twisted but you do not realise that your back has gone stiff until next morning.

Or is it when that flock of pigeons sitting on the terrace of a concrete jungle shudder with the eagle barging in the middle of nowhere. Or is it when he drinks the coffee you made in a beer mug. Or when he dips his rusk biscuits in your cup of tea. Or is it when he is concerned because you have been way too long in the bathroom getting your hair to look perfect.

Oh, I know it. Its his sleepy, morning voice. Its the way his cold hands slide on your back but you still pull him closer. It is how his shirt is too big for you but you wear it anyway.

My eyelids are w…

A Letter to a Grieving Soulmate

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Rumor has it that I am not the most positive person. I falter more often than you if not at every damn step. Every time I accidentally stumble on that odd piece of chair in the hallway, I curse until the pain goes away. But the other day, I noticed how remotely smallest things evoke nothing but sadness in you and how the pain in your eyes were much deeper than the physical pain my stupidity had inflicted on me. I mean, of course, its just me doing that to myself but hey, what's up with you?
Trust me, when I say I have your best intentions in mind. It took me a while to understand that my real power are the words I write and not the words I speak. The gentlest whisper shall never be as soothing as the words I offer in writing. So here. Read this. Me, I can only hope that you find this when your heart is aching the most and my words shine like a tiny flicker at the end of the dark tunnel. I know, I know you said thanks and the fact that the battle is yours! But you know, I will be ri…

Book Review: Wonder, R.J. Palaccio

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Once in a while it is fair enough to be reminded of the sheer kindness about life; that nothing in life is as complicated as we have made it today and that the true joy of life remains in savouring the mundane, non-chalant moments. Life may be difficult, but life is kind too.
August Pullman is a ten-year old living with his parents and sister in Upper Manhattan. His understanding of life is simple. He is a wonder but he is conscious of himself. A series of operations over the last decade has left scars on his face. Home-schooled all these years, his parents want him to go out and live his life. Hence the decision of getting him into a school. After all, how long do you think can he not accept himself. Little Auggie is resisting this change. His friends have not shown up too many times since they have left the neighbourhood. They have moved on, so must he. But somewhere in his head, it is a rigmarole of the same bunch of events. We know it isn’t going to be easy to shift gears and stand…