Psychedelic Slippers

25 is a funny age to be. Especially when it just turns the tables and you know nothing that you knew any more. Everything has changed. You tell yourself, “It has changed for Good”. And you define good in your head. Yet in your weakest of moments you transport yourself to the safety of two arms, that are now just in your head, but they tell you it will be okay. That your world is what it was. That you aren't a homeless wanderer, that there is a home, there is a pair of arms. They tell you and you believe them. And you sleep off in their comfort, only to wake up the next day and Break your heart all over. It’s the price of freedom, you tell yourself. This feeling of homeless, you have to live with it. And that searing pain you feel, you wonder if its regret or hope. But you hope it’s neither. Where is freedom you scream, and then you run. Yet nothing moves, and you wish you could run in time instead and days would fly forward, or fly back. That you could transport yourself to

"When you drop a glass or a plate to the ground it makes a loud crashing sound. When a window shatters a table leg breaks or when a picture falls off the wall it makes a noise. But as for your heart when that breaks it s completely silent. You would think as it s so important it would make the loudest noise in the whole world or even have some ... Read Moresort of ceremonious sound like the gong of a cymbal or the ringing of a bell. But it s silent and you almost wish there was a noise to distract you from the pain. If there is a noise it s internal. It screams and no one can hear it but you. It screams so loud your ears ring and your head aches. It trashes around in your chest like a great white shark caught in the sea it roars like a mother bear whose cub has been taken. That s what it looks like and that s what it sounds like a trashing panicking trapped great big beast roaring like a prisoner to its own emotions. But that s the thing about love no one is untouchable." 

I don't remember how old I was then, could have been 6-7 or 8. There were these bunch of play mates i had, who would always bully me, and I would rush crying home every evening. I would keep cribbing i don't have friends. ( I have always been obsessed with that word i presume) , so one fine evening, dad picks up a story book, puts it in my 3" palms and says, "Here, books are your best friends, they will never let you down". I don't know if it was my blind faith in everything that dad said, that i took the words so much to heart. But from then on till date, they've stayed by my side. Faithfully. Through thick and thin, time and again, i've found solace in books, from adventures in the magic faraway tree, to Santiago's (ref. Alchemist) desert odyssey. They have advised me, in the most exquisite ways. They have taught me to fight, love and empathize. They have always opened my heart for this one other perspective, that one can always accommodate.

Finally laid my hands on this classic. The book's a fine read. After years i finished a book over a weekend. The book is about 2 kids coming to terms with things around them. Through Jem and Scout the author paints the world through the children's eyes. Where everything is black or white, and there are no shades of grey. This conversation between Jem and Scout , i feel , is the crux of this book. "Jem kicked off his shoes and swung his feet to the bed. He propped himself against a pillow and switched on the reading light. 'You know something, Scout? I've got it all figured out, now. I've thought about it a lot lately and I've got it figured out. There;s four kinds of folks in the world. There's the ordinary kind like us and the neighbours, there's the kind like the Cunninghams out in the woods, the kind like the Ewells down at the dump, and the Negroes.' 'What about the Chinese, and the Cajuns down yonder in Baldwin County?" &#

How to come to terms with your past? It’s a question that probably haunts many of us and we choose our own ways. It was a crazy night, last one. We sat talking through it. Whether there was a real need, m not sure, but then it had to be done. I was supposed to start, I wasn’t sure how to, I placed a question. And he drifted ten years back for answers. His journey was detailed, steady, slow. He remembered the good, the bad. He wept. When we build relationships, and when we fight for them, for a long time, the roots go deep. I was smiling. May be I wanted him to feel where those roots are. But he prefers to dump those thoughts away and move on. I am smiling. My story is haphazard. There’s no start or end. I pick up stories from memory and tell him. I am not sad. I can only smile at the pure joy in those moments. I can only smile at his innocence, and feel happy for it. That it was a part of my life, once. I can’t remember the fights, the quibbles. I can remember they happen

I like to think that we’ve met before. That there was a whiff of you when you passed by there.. and there was a second glance. That there was a point in time and space where our paths first met where you held my a gaze a millisecond longer that I felt it and you did too... I like to believe it started then, there. When our fates first met, and chose to twine I like to believe its more than just coincidence You, me, the stars, they were meant to be!

Once in a lifetime, you have to raise your hand, stand up and say “It’s done with”! It’s hard. Its hard to accept the need to do so, in the first place, its harder to raise your hand and make yourself stand, its even harder to find your voice when on your feet. But for that once, you have to do it. You have to do it for that tiny feeble voice that says ‘go on, you are right’.There are no reasons, just gut feelings, which tell you what should and shouldn’t be done. It hurts. Its like pulling off the cable and saying game over, when the other is probably enjoying the game. Sometimes you see it coming, sometimes you don’t. Love can make you believe the impossible. Love can make you do things and not do things. Love can drive you crazy. It’s all a matter of choice. Whether you choose to let love rule your life and run it, or whether you are adamant to get a grip on the reins. Whether you are content with the happiness in someone’s eyes or whether you need to feel it in your heart to

  Photo Courtesy: www.petermichael.com “Fear is a bad thing and unworthy of you” - Jawaharlal Nehru (in a letter to his daughter) I am not a feminist. I am an avowed tomboy. I have been pondering for the past half an hour, over what it means today to be a woman, and my head is now a clutter of thoughts flowing in all directions, and I have to write, to help it settle down in my head.  We all are raised by a set of beliefs, the word belief here not restricted to a certain sect or religion (one could be raised with a belief that one is a princess for that matter) and these beliefs shape the course of our lives. So one is raised to believe that one is a woman, and the other is raised to believe that one is a man and then they both are bogged down by societal definitions of what one should or should not be. Well the differentiation by nature into a man and a woman is purely functional. Something nature chose to do to prevent over abundance for all you care. Like if there

The alarm beeps. Meera looks at the time, 5 to 12. She hears the kitchen door squeak. She has been aware of the cautious movements outside, the hushed hustle of 2 pairs of feet; one trailing the other in puffed bedroom slippers. She puts the pen down, pushes the papers aside. The desk is a clutter, and she has long given up on keeping it neat. There is just enough open space to keep a journal and write in it. She picks up the pen to put it in the pen stand, one of the numerous mugs that that were now used to house stationery, there are paper clips in one, paintbrushes in another, and lazing between them all is ‘that’ old paper cup with hearts, brimming with coins. She turns towards the door. A minute to go, “should I barge in on their preps, or wait patiently pretending to be busy and forgetful”, she thinks as she turns out the lights. The clock strikes 12, “Mummaaaa” a gay voice fills the room and her thoughts. She smiles and picks up the 3 feet bundle of demands, kissing h

"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command or faith a dictum. I am my own God. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. We are here to read these words from all these wise men and women who will tell us that we are here for different reasons and the same reason." Charles Bukowski Original article: The meaning of life

Its been a hell of a time since i wrote something... well so here now we are... Writing is almost like puking for me. You wait till it gets to the brim, and you cant contain it within you any more, and have to pour it out. (okay skip this line if you find it gross) Before my fingers start battling against smileys let me get straight to where we began from. To read, run and laugh. We all have this something in us that we have to keep doing, something that keeps us senile, something that helps us retain that delicate balance of mind. I read. I read to absorb all that I can. Its a therapy of sorts. I love to get lost in the worlds of words. I could probably push myself to reading anything but i cannot laze on bed whole day, and do nothing but stare at words and ponder over them. When I read, I absorb, to ponder I need to walk. I need to walk and stare at things relative to me. I have to see things move to propel my thoughts. I have to walk to keep pace with my thoughts. My thou