When I come to you, broken

Stop.

I know how that goes.

I know how that ends.

I have written that story a thousand times

I have spoken those same words again and again.

Stop.

I don’t need you to tell me I am strong.

I know where I have been,

I know all that I have done.

I know strength brought me here.

I don’t need you to tell me how much more I can take.

I know better than anyone,

How much I can grasp and mould.

So you can stop.

I don’t need to hear reassurances.

Those words have been my mantra.

I don’t need you to whisper them back at me.

When I need it most, I know where to find it.

Stop.

I know what distance will do.

I know how to forget.

I am a pro at missing people.

I have had years of experience –

Years to teach myself how to convince myself

Lost people don’t come back.

Stop.

I have made peace with death.

But I will not make peace with the dead.

If my anger, my questions fade away,

Will I not lose the last piece of them?

Don’t,

Tell me, to forgive and forget.

You don’t know how I have expanded my heart

To hold all my hurt.

 

When I come to you, broken.

Please don’t be inclined to put me back together.

You won’t know how I build myself,

So you will probably build me wrong.

And I will have to undo all your hard work.

When I come to you, broken,

I Just want you to know –

That’s how comfortable I feel to fall apart in front of you.

I trust you won’t take a piece of my soul

For your own benefit.

I trust you won’t use my broken shards

To wound me.

I trust you to see me at my worst.

Stop.

I don’t need your pity.

I don’t need empty words.

I don’t even need you to hold me.

When I come to you, broken

Just let me be broken for a while.

All I need is a respite, a little breather.

All I need is a stopping place.

I will pick after myself,

So just find me a place to remain shattered until I am ready.

When I come to you, broken

Show me your brokenness too.

Tell me of the places you’ve been.

Tell me what you have had to do.

Tell me how you’ve been strong

And how you wish you didn’t have to be.

Stop.

I don’t need you to be strong for me.

I am not going to use your strength to stand.

When I come to you, broken,

I am not trying to break you as well.

Know,

I have never let myself down.

I am my own champion,

I am my own warrior.

When I come to you, broken,

I just need to take off my armour,

Lift the weight off my shoulder, for a while.

And there is no one I would trust more than you,

To see me with my defenses down.

 

The Way I Love

I know people are not places. We can’t build our home in other people’s city and then complain when we get evicted. I know people are not possessions. We can’t ever own someone’s essence and merge it with ours. I know people are not anchors. We can’t sink the very things we love, hoping it would hold us steady. I know all that so well.

So believe me when I tell you this. When I love you I will not make you my destination. I will not make you a detour. I will not make you my home. I have left far too many places behind. And I am never going to leave you. I will carry you the way I carry my demons mixed together with my sadness, the way my skin clings to my very bones, holding my heart, my aloneness in place. You will never be just a forgotten place.

When I love you I will belong to you as much as I belong to myself. I will love you with as much courage as I can muster. I will not put you back together to make sense of your mess. I will not let you piece me back together. We are not possessions and we don’t have to be pretty. I will love the chaos you bring, and I will love the calmness we will create. I will not be afraid to call you mine.

When I love you, you will not tie me down. I will not settle for you, or settle to be with you. I will love you like the tide, the ebb and flow, the high and low. I will love like the ocean itself.

So if you come near me intending to pull me apart brick by brick, be warned. You can’t break apart a dam and complain when you get flooded by water. I will not love you by the shallow measures of this world. I will love you with the depth, the vastness of my soul. When I love you I will pour myself into you. I will not be scared that loving you will leave me empty.

Spell it out for me

Strength

They say what doesn’t kill you, makes your stronger. I don’t know why people think that is a good thing. Strength is not about winning against death. It means you were on the brink of dying in the first place and for whatever reason you came through. It means you have been through hell.

Fighting against demons don’t make you stronger. Fighting demons gives you scars that don’t often heal. Fighting drains your energy and shows you the worst version of yourself. Fighting your demons, makes you a little of what you have been fighting. Or else, how could you win?

To all the people I love, I do not wish you strength. I wish you contentment with the direction your life takes you. I wish you dreams to carry you through your darkest nights. I wish you compassion, and passion and all things good. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. Strength comes from struggle and sacrifice. And I wish the harshness of the world never seeps into who you are. I don’t wish you a steel backbone to carry the world’s burdens. Too often they make you bitter. I don’t wish your shoulders to be concrete, nor your heart to turn to titanium. Strength sometimes can make you cold. And you are nothing but warmth, bones and muscle and love. I wish you to hold onto the brightness you carry within you.

I wish a world where you wouldn’t need strength. I wish you a world that wouldn’t scorn you when you cry, or force you up before you are ready. Being human means breaking down every now and then. Being human means you heal. So I would never wish you strength that turns the best of you into something so much less than that.

If strength is bouncing back from rock bottom, then I wish you never hit that low in life. Because no matter what they say, when you fall that down, that fast, it chips something essential of you away. And yes, that hurts like hell. And yes you might come back stronger than before, but what they don’t tell you is, that strength comes from replacing what you have lost with something foreign. Fall too often, and there wouldn’t be enough left of you in you anymore.

Who am I meant to be?

I am making and remaking myself, hoping one day I’ll find who I am meant to be.

I am the girl with the purple hair. Once, the very thought, would have given my entire family palpitations. But now, they are okay with me trying to see, if this is who I want to be. The girl with the purple hair sounds brave, and may be a little brash. Brash is good, right?

I am the girl with the nose piercing. Not the rebellious kind, but the kind of piercing that is culturally accepted from where I come. I like wearing my nose ring, even in places where I am not allowed. It is part of my tradition, my roots and it is about me honoring them.

I am the girl with red ombré now. Because I didn’t like the girl with purple hair. She made stupid choices and she was too brave for her own good. May be the girl with red hair would be more cautious. I like to think my hair is red like Erza. But just the other day my baby sister compared it to Ariel’s hair. I don’t mind the comparison, because may be like Ariel I will learn to walk in a new land, on my next journey.

I am the girl with henna. I have never much cared for tattoos, but henna smells of home. It smells of hope, and celebrations and dreams.  It’s intricate patterns, pattern of color – all hold memories of past and thoughts of future. And I like that it is transitory. I can change it, redo it. It’s not set in stone like mistakes. Henna is forgiving. I think I am forgiving.

I am the girl switching from glasses to contacts and hating it. I love how my glasses feel, but I also want to experience how it feels to not have them on me. I am not sure which one I want more, though. It’s still an on going debate in my mind. But it’s okay. I don’t have to decide everything all at once.

I am making and remaking myself, hoping I’ll find something I can stick with. I am not sure I like who I am right now. But the good thing is, I am always changing. Every day I am a little different, than who I was the day before. I am hoping I’ll have it all figured out by the end. And I like that I am a process. As long I am a process, I can always morph into something more.

And I definitely want to be something more, much more than just this.

Castles

I know all about being an island. I know why walls exists, why fortresses becomes stronger with time. I have built those all my life, so how can I not know?

But I have never been on the other side, staring at a wall that wouldn’t cave in. I don’t know how to climb walls, or how to break barriers or build bridges to that island. I do not know how to make people trust me. You see, in order to breach your castle, I would have to break free from mine. I don’t know, if I am strong enough, brave enough to do that.

It’s been so long since I have let my walls collapse, that I don’t feel safe out there anymore. I am scared of getting hurt. I am scared I will get used to the presence of those who would leave. I am scared that I have to return to this castle all by myself. I am scared I will be lonely here, once I come back.

So I am battling my fears, and I am fighting to break down your walls. And I don’t know if I will ever succeed in doing either, or both or none. I don’t even know how or where to begin from. All I know is  – I am trying with all I have. Because for the first time, there is something worth more than perhaps this fear of mine.

Brave

I am not brave in most occasions.

I like the shades and edges of my corner. I like how it supports my shoulders, holds me in place. But I think I have the potential to be brave when the situation demands it. I may not be brave at will or by choice, but I can muster bravery when there is no other choice but to be brave.

My bravery comes when I am forced to dessert my corner. It spurts forward and envelops me like an armor. It spews over my system, crawls under my skin, and grows around me like a barrier. It is not a like war song – loud and boisterous. My bravery is the quiet whisper inside my head. It’s the force that allows me to stand even when I stand alone or apart.

I am not brave by daylight. My bravery creeps in least when I expect it. I get comforted by it; sometimes I even get surprised. Other times I can’t help but wish I could wield it like a sword – cutting, strong and sharp. But my bravery is the water instead. Smooth, adjustable and mundane.

It’s not special to garner any attention. I am not brave by classification and categorization. But often I don’t have to be either. The thing about water is that it’s essential to maintain life. The thing about my kind of bravery is that it’s essential to maintain life.

I am not brave at the top of my voice. I am not brave in my actions every day. Bravery needs to be stored, contained so that when I reach for it, it’s there for me. My bravery is a well. It goes deep into my root and and plunges out part of me I don’t think I have. My bravery is like the river, bending in and out until it flows into something bigger.

I am brave when it counts. I am brave alone. I am brave, not by other’s definition. I am brave by my own.

The Letter You Couldn’t Write (Part I)

I know the lure of friendship. I know you are thinking it means we open our lives to the people we call our friends. But sometimes it happens like this. We open our lives, our smiles, but close the doors to changes in perception.

I’ll always be your hero. The one with all the answers, so I didn’t have the heart to tell you that I was haunted by questions too. It not that I didn’t trust our friendship or think you wouldn’t be able to understand my problems, I just didn’t know how to word out my restlessness.

To me, you will always be that girl, the one who had all these amazing stories inside of her. That little girl who meticulously collected Barbies, whose parents indulged her childish whims. You will always be the girl afraid of loud noises, fights and confrontation. I still see you sitting in the balcony holding your hands to your ears, because of fight next door. You were to be protected from all the harshness in the world. So even now, it is hard for me to bring darkness in your life.

To me, you will always be the girl who had to grow up all too fast. You were the girl whose dreams came true, all at the wrong times and turned her life into a nightmare. You were the girl who did everything right and yet her ending got all screwed up. So even now, I don’t have the strength to tell you that I am about to hand you another tragedy to add to your life. I can’t tell you, over the phone, you did everything right, yet I am about to die.

I would tell you though, you will go through it and come out on the other end – alive. Because that’s who you are. You don’t know any other way to live. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I had that in me. Sometimes though, it’s not enough. Being alive and living are two different things and I don’t know how to do one without the other. So don’t think of me as if I am dying. Whenever you think of me, think of all those times we have lived. Remember the laughter that keeps ringing in my ears, even now as I sit down to write. Remember the long rickshaw rides, the setting sun and the promise of friendship we have made to each other. Remember to call my mother, especially because she wouldn’t expect any calls from me. Tell her all the things you would have told me. Fine, if not all that, tell her stories of the past. Tell her the stories inside of you. Tell her about me. I know she would never forget, neither would you. But speak of me, because every time my name falls from your lips, I’ll live a little longer again.

Don’t peek into the past in search for reasons. Do not color our childhood, our memories trying to decipher the point from where it all went downhill. Don’t blame yourself, live in guilt or shame or pain. I wouldn’t want you to do that to yourself. Don’t beat yourself up thinking what you could have said to alter this course of my life. I would never give you this burden. So live. Live enough for the both of us.

Because the true lure of friendship is promises. Promise me, you’ll be okay, you will get through this and keep on holding on to me. Promise me, you will be a friend enough to know when to let go. Once, you had said to me that I was your anchor. I guess it didn’t occur to you that anchors have to sink all the way to the bottom, before it can hold anything else in place. I promise, even as I go down, I’ll keep anchoring you on.

The Realms Dividing

Sometimes I think if I could hold myself a certain way, I could make myself disappear. If I turn out the lights one by one, tiptoe a little more softly across the room, if I could only stop taking up space and time, stop leaving myself in memories, may be I’ll grow inwards. May be then I’ll get to go to that place where you are.

I have heard tales where they say, death is life in another realm. The only way to cross realms is to stop being in one of them. Isn’t that how you left? You came into this life, taking your time, and then just eroded away into nothing. Nobody noticed the time when you stopped being here, until the day you were physically gone. In my mind, this is how I picture it all the time: it’s not that you disappeared suddenly one day. You left bit by bit, siphoning off pieces of your dream, your pain, your restlessness. May be if I start doing the same, we can meet again.

If I could fold myself neatly into nothing, may be I can go in search of that realm, find out that place where you have chosen to live again. If I could wrap my smiles in boxes, pack my tears into ice, if only I could learn to live in sighs, may be this wouldn’t be any harder. Sometimes when I am running fast and my heart beat thunders, I will it to cease it’s presence from being known. Only if the ebb and flow of blood stops, the rise and fall of breath ceases, may be you would come to see me again.

I tell myself, if I could be a little close to where you are, I’ll pull you right back into this life. I will trade you my dreams, shed all your bitterness and I’ll chain my soul to yours, if that is what it takes. Perhaps that’s why you never come. You know, as the tale goes, once you cross the realms no one can bring you back. The only thing I could do is follow.

So you erase the ifs, put a lock on time, and put so much distance between us, that even my soul can’t travel. You leave this life, leaving me with memories alone, making me question all the time: were you even real? Was my life where I have known you more real, than this life without you?

Sometimes, more often than not these days, I tell myself a story. It’s a story of little boy who lived next door. He loved climbing trees, photography and music. There weren’t that many things to his life, but before he died he changed the life of a little girl next door. He left her with a piece of paper, asking her to write reasons to be happy. She has not filled up that page yet. She figures that is what he wanted her to do with her life – find reasons to be happy. So she holds onto his words sprawled over that paper as proof that he existed.

Though her heart tells her to just stop, she takes a deep lung full of breath. She is not done living, unless she covers that entire page with reasons enough for the both of them to be happy. His legacy was his friendship in her life, and she couldn’t just leave without passing it someone else. So she lets herself breathe without holding her breath in. She lets her heart race, her dreams fly, her hopes crash. She walks with footsteps that echo all the way across the hall, she cries as the pain pierces her soul; she even laughs. Someday, she will though, walk through the realms and he would be there for her.

Because that’s what friends do, don’t they?

Pieces

And I promise the broken pieces assemble just right
Take the time to put me back together
And this heart of mine can still love
But first love me to show me that I can be loved again.
I can’t dream with my eyes open
So give me a reason to close my eyes in front of you,
And if I can trust myself to stand still
I may find myself dreaming of you.
But don’t expect me to tell you I hurt.
Too many times I have been stabbed
When I have let my defense down.
I may be broken,
But I won’t surrender my sanity just yet
There is enough breath in me left to build myself again.
So walk away if you think you can’t handle me this way
I’ll start all over again.
If you choose to stay then, choose to love every piece of me
Even if all the pieces don’t fit like they used to anymore,
And I’ll promise to do the same.

You did not die that day

The first time you forget his death in days,

Don’t berate yourself for taking a moment for yourself,

After all you did not die that day.

When you laugh, the first laughter of joy,

Don’t pull the sorrow of your heart to your eyes,

It’s okay to find reasons to smile,

For you did not die.

And when you hear a song that reminds you of him,

Do not rush to numb that ache in your throat.

It’s okay to hurt when you come across pieces of him

Without really expecting to,

It’s okay to feel melancholy sing through your veins,

After all you did not die that day.

When his name comes up in conversations,

It’s okay to not want to say his name out loud.

It’s okay to get angry when people get their facts misplaced,

It’s okay to stand up and defend actions you still do not understand.

He knew you would champion him,

So he left this fight to you.

If this is your fight, then imagine what his fight must have been.

Allow yourself room to doubt your ability to fight this,

But remember his trust in you.

It’s okay to feel helpless, sometimes,

Because you didn’t die that day.

And as long as you shall live

You’ll have to take turns to be happy and be hurt

You cannot close yourself to the pain or the pleasure,

He wouldn’t want you to do either;

You did not die that day, he would whisper.

Fear What We Love

I have been thinking these days, more often than not, what I am truly seeking. What am I heading off to do and most importantly where did I start? Once there was definite sense of what I wanted from life. But the more I ponder, the more I realize I won’t ever get those things because a part of me is actually blocking me from it.

I want love, the kind of love they write about in books. I want friendship to guide me all my life. I want a family and a home to belong in. I want to have purpose, the fulfillment of a life lived to the fullest. But the more I want, the more I close myself in my own sphere. A part of me fears these wants of mine. What if they don’t come true? What if I don’t find the fulfillment I expect from them? What if I am left with a broken heart or worse – a broken trust? Isn’t it easier to just imagine a world where everything neatly falls into place? Isn’t it harder to actually go and make it happen?

May be it is just me or may be not. May be everyone I meet has this one thing they want above all others and yet their fear is stopping them from reaching for it. May be we all go around pretending we are not bothered by how much that fear controls us. But do any of us truly know how to let that fear go?

Everyday Fairytales

We have been taught

That fairy tales aren’t true.

And don’t get me wrong;

They probably aren’t

Not the way you have been taught to think,

Especially if you have been looking

Through the spectroscope  of the world.

Nobody gets to sleep a hundred years,

Or wear glass slippers.

And princess do not marry paupers,

Neither do princes, for the record.

May be that’s all there is to fairy tale, for you.

But what about the time,

When you disobey the rule

And reach for something that makes you happy?

What about when you go

Out of the society for a while,

To live in peace?

And you stand next to people you love,

Stand for them against the odds?

When you have the power to do some good,

Aren’t these fairy tales that do come true?

I won’t tell you what to believe,

Believe what you will,

But I hope someday you find,

Everyday fairy tales to make you smile.

Let’s Talk About Suicide

Suicide.

Yes, I want to talk about it. Too long we have hidden as a country, as a culture under its shadows, afraid to question it. Suicide is not a stigma, and it is time we open our worlds, our conversations and our minds to it. Doing the opposite is what gets people killed usually.

Throughout history we have seen people distance themselves from things they do not understand. As if by not talking about it, they would miraculously make it disappear. Too often we stamp labels when faced with our incapability to accept something out of the norm. Not too long ago, it was sex, tobacco, alcohol, drugs that we considered taboo. Someone had to once break those unutterable s to educate people. If we don’t know what we are fighting against, how can we hope to win?

Our adamant stance in avoiding it, is unhinging our youth today. Looking away is not stopping it from happening. Keeping razor blades and pills locked in a cabinet is not stopping them. Assuming they do not have access to guns, or ropes or rooftops or ceiling fans is not keeping them safe. Telling them to stay away from the water, is not saving them. Putting them in a box is not freeing them from the bondage of their thoughts. And if we have been failing, that must mean we are doing something very wrong. So yes, I do think we need to break away from those silences and talk about it.

When someone dies of suicide, it is not their death alone that we mourn. We mourn our failures as a society from preventing it from happening. We mourn our inability in sighting those signs. We mourn not knowing the right things to say, the people to reach out to. We mourn knowing we erred and someone innocent, brave paid the ultimate price for our mistakes.

Too often we brush suicides aside saying, the people who killed themselves were weak. It is the explanation that absolves our part in it. But think about it – weakness is not an attribute that would encourage them to bleed the life out of them. It takes a lot of courage to do the unthinkable. And it takes a long way to reach that unthinkable conclusion. People suffer a lot to reach the tipping point. But our uneducated eyes do not follow their path.

We put life above everything. But imagine the hurt, the pain it would take for someone to put death above that. They are not scared of dying, but rather of living. And that is our failure. It’s not that we couldn’t instill the value of life in them, but rather we did nothing to stop the value of life from falling in their eyes.

People who commit suicide go through immense depression over a long period of time. We need stop laughing at depression. It is fatal, considering some people end up killing themselves from it. Instead of making fun, or ignoring people who suffer from depression, we need to acknowledge their pain. Making light of the matter, makes  them eventually think they do not matter. But we all know that everybody matters. If we cannot communicate that small information to them, then we need to learn how to communicate better.

When someone close dies of suicide, our society pressures us not to ask why. They say the why does not matter. It will not bring them back, will not give them peace. Forgive and forget. But we need to ask why. Why did we let them down? Why did they think death was better than life? Why did we miss the signs? Why did they feel no one would care? Or think they had no one to confide in? Without asking the why we will never figure out where we went wrong. We won’t be able to save the next person. The why may not bring our loved ones back, but it surely will put a stop to someone else’s loved one from following that path.

We have been taught through religion, through social beliefs and customs to ostracize people who commit suicide. We have been taught to say they would not go to heaven or suffer for eternity. We need to stop preaching that bullshit. Instead of putting punishment and fear in the hearts of people, we need to open our eyes and ears. Because obviously those antiquated words are not helping everybody. Obviously some people are falling through the cracks. And since we are so bent in ostracizing suicide, nobody is willing to be associated with it anymore.

When we talk about suicide we are not condoning it, but we are giving a chance to those who suffer to speak up. We are giving them the opportunity to talk to us, to ask for help. We are giving them hope.

So let’s break the taboo. Let’s burn the stigma. Let’s talk about suicide.

The Eternal Chase

Sometimes I think I am running out of breath chasing the unattainable. No one and nothing can guarantee that I will ever reach there: that elusive happiness, that stability, that peace. But I just can’t stop myself from going after it. Even if there is a tiny possibility of me achieving even a little of what I want, I would go looking after it. That’s the eternal chase I have signed up for.

There are hurdles in my way, people, circumstances, responsibilities that keep me from going after it. But I have a feeling once I cross everything and reach that happiness, all will be worth it.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen one day when I run out of energy, the will power to go after it? Would I spend the rest of my life lamenting that I never reached that Utopia? Or would I finally find patience and the ability to embrace whatever I have been granted? Will I even know until I reach that end point?

They say it would be worth it. The sacrifices, the tears, the endless struggle would all be worth the prize. The Ultimate Happiness. And I want to believe in it so much. But sometimes I can’t help but question, is it? Really? Worth it? Can any one thing be worth so much agony?

But even with questions I forge ahead. Because that one questionable goal is the only thing I have to go after. And I hope with all my heart, that it would pay off.

And then I can’t help but think if one day I realize it wasn’t, will I be able to live with myself?

To My Forever Friend

You have always defined friendship in my life. You were the first kid, the one next door, who I played with. I have heard of all these funny stories of you and me, about how I would sit in front your door if you went anywhere and didn’t play with me. But my memories of you do not begin there. I do not remember much of those days. Except a flash here and there.

Remember how every evening our mothers would sit with their feet resting on the front porch railing and drink tea? We would pretend we were under a bridge. My memories of you begin in Road 19. Years later, I recall telling you one day I would buy the apartment I used to live in. Those were carefree days indeed. Do you remember you had said to me that you would buy the apartment next door? I was foolish because I believed we would both live to see that day.

I did not know how to make friends, but I never felt the need to either. You were all the friend I needed. Even when we moved apart, no longer being next door neighbors, studying in different schools – you remained my friend, my first friend ever.

My childhood begins with you. What I understand of friendship begins with you. I have never been the one to make phone calls. You, on the other hand, never failed to keep in touch. When I left and came abroad you gave me a card, written in every corner you could, about how you saw our friendship. You gave me a paper painted blue and purple with water color and told me to write down the things that made me happy. You said it was for my blue days. I wish I had given something to you as well.

Your words carried me through the most heartbreaking period of my life and then when you came here, you brought pieces of my life long gone with you. You dealt with my complains, my tears and never failed to show up every time I needed you. I, on the other hand, thought you knew I was there. But you were always protecting me, weren’t you? Protecting me even from your pains? I am not that weak, you know? I could have handled it. But don’t you worry now, I still got your back.

Please be careful. Don’t walk to close to the water. Don’t think you have no one – I wish you could read minds, so that you would know these are my thoughts. I wish right now, I could capture all my memories and put them on paper, so that nothing can take it away from me.

I guess now I really ought to go out in the world and look for a friend. But let me sit with these thoughts a while longer. You see, I have never been very good with goodbyes. I once read something of Sarah Dessen’s that goes like this, But I’d long ago learned not to be picky in farewells. They weren’t guaranteed or promised. You were lucky, more than blessed, if you got a good-bye at all. 

So I am not waiting for your letter, of a moment where I can hold proof you were thinking of me. Because if I can never say goodbye to you, then how can you do that same? You will always be my forever friend. May be not a phone call away anymore, may be not in this world anymore, but in every memory, every thought, every boy who has your name, you would be there. Years into the future, when I get my apartment, you would be the boy next door. Every time I have something to share, you would be the first name on my lips. Because goodbyes were really never my forte.

I am still smiling; You are finally at peace, aren’t you?

The Proposal

Some time ago, while conversing with friends, the topic about the ideal proposal arose. They all wanted to know the details of how, when and where each of them wanted to be proposed. After all, if the future proposers needed pointers, who would they turn to if not friends?

When the questions reached me, I realized to the utter dismay of everyone present, that I had never given those thoughts much time. Did I want diamonds or emeralds? Did he need to go down on one knee or write me song? Did he need to take me out on a vacation somewhere beautiful and serene or did I prefer a place that held some sentimental value for me. What about presents? Or grand gestures? That day, I had no answers for them. To them, I was the odd one out because unlike them I didn’t spend a huge portion of my childhood planning my perfect proposal. How could I give specifics to which I had never squandered much thought?

Ever since then I had not stopped thinking about it, though not about the hows, wheres and whens, like they called it. Now that I think back, it was only natural that I harbored no such thoughts. After all those weren’t the questions I was concerned with.

It didn’t matter as much to how I was being proposed as it did to who was proposing to me. However romantic a proposal was, it hardly mattered coming from the wrong person. Who would really care if I was proposed in a beach or in Paris, if the one who asked for my hand wasn’t someone I wanted to marry? So in my estimation, even in the best location with perfect timing, wouldn’t guarantee the satisfaction of a beautiful proposal if I ended up saying no. No matter the perfectness of the the proposal itself, it wouldn’t be mine. Years down the road, that would not be the story that I would tell to others. Ideal proposals only sounded nice when the right person did the proposing.

As for the how of the question, to me, the greater import was the why. What would I do with a perfect ring and a princess proposal if I was being proposed for all the wrong reasons? Would it really give me the pleasure, the utter fulfillment knowing that what would follow the proposal would never live up to the commitment it would make?

So it wasn’t that I didn’t have answers that time, talking to my friends. It’s just that, they were asking all the wrong questions. True, I didn’t know then, just the way I don’t know now, what my favorite stone would be in a few years. I didn’t know the location, the time of the day or things I wanted. All I did know was that I wanted to be proposed by the right man for the right reasons. As for the rest? I leave that to the discretion of the proposer. Alas there’s not a single person who doesn’t like to be surprised, right?

Box of feelings

Someone teach us to free our feelings, because we do not know how to live like that. We do not know how to word our feelings out, or express them through action. We are stuck wanting someone to read our silences. But silences are unreadable. We do not know how to think positive, because really, what is truly positive? We know that the negatives accompany every good thing and we are afraid. We are so afraid to let our hopes soar. It doesn’t take that long to fly, but we know when hopes crash, everything breaks into pieces.

Call us cynical if you must, but what can we really say? We do not use cynicism as our armor. Please don’t think so. It is but our savior. As long as we know something will go wrong we will not end up shattered. We call it the reality.

So we need someone to teach us how to let go. We need to learn to love, to dream, to be an optimist. But optimism is not something that we are familiar with. We need to trust in something so bad. We do not know how to let all our thoughts show. Instead we pack them in boxes, wrap them in fairy tales and tuck them away.

Now that box is lost and we need help to find it again. Someone please help us find it again. That box holds so much of us. But we do not how to ask for help. We do not know how to say that we need support. We do not understand how we can find someone who sees us, even without the box of feelings in our hands.

So please. We know, it is hard to find people you cannot see, hear them when they don’t speak. But our eyes are speaking, our hands are speaking. We are asking for help. Will you help us to find ourselves again?

World’s Away

It feels funny to realize that all the people I once grew up with are forever going to be world’s apart from me. I wish it was just the physical distance. But in reality they are a world of opportunities away, possibilities, lifestyles and choices away.

I’ll never grow up to think like them again. I’ll never see the world through their perspective. I’ll never walk the same path as them. Even if I end up in the same room, I would still be different. They would only be responsible for their happiness. But people here rely on me for their happiness. Their responsibility is to study, dream and accomplish something in life. My responsibility is to earn for my education, dream only within my abilities and keep swimming until I sink. I hope to reach stability before I sink. They get to be only twenty. I am already twenty and sometimes it’s hard to catch the irony.

There are times I am so jealous of them; there are times I am so proud of myself. And then there are these times when I stop to compare myself to them. Just because we started at the same place, doesn’t mean we will end up that way. So I close my eyes and pray that someday these differences be worth nothing.

A Palate of Blame

Who do we blame when everything goes wrong? Do we, or not, blame anybody at all? What is the true basis of that blame and who is the true recipient of it all? Haven’t we ever wondered how we are all stuck at this endless cycle of blame and mistrust?

We pass blame onto each other at every chance we get. Whenever a situation arises that didn’t go as planned, we find a scapegoat to take the fall.  There are times the blame doesn’t justify, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Something went wrong, so someone has to get the brunt of it. But isn’t the system all too unfair? Some circumstances are beyond the control of anyone or anything. Call it destiny, or just pure bad luck! So why do we put so much time and effort to hold someone responsible?

The truth is, when we are blaming someone else… we are not blaming ourselves. We often try to outrun the wrong we have committed or the part we’ve played in that wrong. All we want to do is cut all association with it and the fastest way to do that is by passing the blame to someone else. That way we are not responsible for it. This distance makes it possible for us to think objectively about it; we can pass judgement, measure the degree of that wrong and weigh the best way to counter it.

This society of ours is so divided. Nobody likes to consider that we are also a part of the society that wronged. Rather we like to distance the culprit in any way we can and not take any responsibilities for our misdeeds. The truth, however, stands that the culprit was once raised in our society, by our standards and morals and through the system we created. What a narcissistic bunch of people we are, aren’t we?

We adopt a simple policy to hold the illusion of perfection alive in our hearts. Our motto remains, ‘When everything goes wrong – Blame and outcast.’ But is it fair? Fair to those who were once a part if our society? Fair to those who will be born and raised in it? Fair to the ones who make the decisions at all?

The palate of blame is a composition of the darkest color of human nature. The only way we can prevent this cycle from going on is by not giving in, not passing it on. We shouldn’t give ourselves the opportunity to rub our darkness out of ourselves and ruin the few stuck at the center of it. In time, we may not alone be able to fade the darkness of it all. But one less darkness is one shade less dark on the palate..

Home

Some people say home is a house. To some its a place or person. And some believe its a sanctuary. I don’t really know what the word home means to me either. All I know is, I want to go there so badly.

I don’t want just a roof sheltering me at the darkest time of the night or from the midday sun burning my skin off. I don’t want four walls to protect me or imprison me. What I truly want is a world. A world where other people’s concern wouldn’t leave me restless, where hurtful words wouldn’t dare enter, where the worst part of the story is in the middle and the ending is always the best. I want a world where I can close my eyes and fall asleep, where waking up feels just right. Where I don’t have to be obligated to others for letting me stay on. I want my space.

Someday I think, I will earn a lot of money and I will move into my own apartment and that will be my home. But can money truly buy what I seek? Is it even possible to achieve it? Alas, who can answer it, but me?

If I ever get to that home of mine, I may find the peace that’s been hiding from me for so long. Or may be I won’t. But at the end, is the search even worth it?

Living

And because I had once told you I could do it, I lifted my head, arched my back and I tried once again: to live.

It shouldn’t really take that much of an effort, right? At least, that’s what I used to believe. You don’t have to make an effort, to keep the steady rhythm of breathing in and out. But living is something altogether different, isn’t it? You knew that then. Is that why you smiled at me when I said that? That I could live with or without you?

And you know the strange part, for a while I did live and breath simultaneously. As I left your hand, without a backward glance and sat on that airplane that flew me thousands of miles away from you, it didn’t really feel like my heart had stopped beating. In fact, everything was too vivid, too bright and the prospect of landing on the other side of the world made me feel alive. A part of me wished that you could be here to share that joy and wonder. But it was either stopping with you or stepping ahead of you. It took me a long time to stop wishing for a third way out and I chose to step up to the occasion.

It never once felt like I was choosing to leave you behind. After all, I could always fly back to see you and we would still be together. But now that enigmatic smile of yours haunt me. You knew then, didn’t you, that it was a good-bye-in-making? You knew the distance would catch up to us. You knew I chose this over you.

Sometimes I wonder, could I have been really that naive to think you would be where I had left you, even though I had moved forward? Just because you didn’t move a step forward in the direction I had chosen, didn’t really mean you hadn’t taken a step in another direction. I think a part of me knew, but just couldn’t accept that I was the one who walked out on us.

Ever since I have been here, I have lived, just like I told you I would. I woke up up every morning, went to work, went to school, made dinner each night and slept a solid six – seven hours. Living is comprised of all that, right? So why does time seem to have stopped?

There are these times when I am reading a book, and I get lost looking at a page, and a hundred thoughts sweep through my mind. And when I do come back to the reality of this world, not more then a few minutes seemed to have passed. And when I am flipping the channels on the television and nothing comes on, it seems like forevers are cramped in every one of those minutes that ticks by. I pick up my cell phone at random times, to tell you all the things that keeps happening to me, and I realize how you might be busy or sleeping and I abruptly close my phone not wanting to disturb you.

Does this constitute as a part of living as well? I don’t know anymore. Those days we were together seemed so much more fuller. I remember spending hours together and yet have so much to say every time I called. Hours were minutes. Weeks were days. Everything just rushed by. That was living too, right?

So why does these two living seem so different, now?

Spheres

I don’t wear contacts.

Small and dainty, a world of its own, I had always seen others wear contacts. But I had never worn them myself. Not of course, because I didn’t want to. Like any other girl my age, which actually refers to my teenage, I had been eagerly steered to the eye specialists’ office for my very first fittings. And then began the probing. I had never known how many types of measurements were required to get contacts, until I sat on that chair.

My parents always referred to me as sensitive. But that day I knew, it was not my mind, or my heart or my even my skin that they spoke about. It was my eyes. For the life of me, I couldn’t tolerate those tiny spheres being put into my eyes. They cajoled, distracted and finally forced my eyes to remain open as they tried to place them. At one point even my father stormed out of the room unable to see my tear stained red eyes. But a few minutes later when I emerged, my expression was anything but what he had expected. I was victorious.

Next week as I picked up my purse, it felt a little heavy, as the prize of my effort weighed down my shoulder. I got my first contacts. Unlike other people, I didn’t flaunt it openly, visible to everybody who looked at my eyes. Instead I carried that small container with me, every where I went. That way I knew any time I wanted to wear them, I could reach for it.

But a strange thing happened. I didn’t open my bag and wear them, not the first day, the second day or even the third day. I had it with me, I had a mirror, but it was something else I lacked. I didn’t have the guts to wear them. The outside world had little to do with it. My battle was my own, inside of me. I feared the pain, the tears that would eventually fall as I would try to put my contacts on. But it didn’t end there. From the moment I put on my contact until I took them off, there was my eyes ached non-stop. I wanted to wear them, I really did. Buy I couldn’t bear the thought of contacts in my eyes.

I had those for an entire year, and yet I remember only wearing it twice or thrice in that time. When the contacts expired, I didn’t feel a loss, as others would expect. In fact I realized how solid, a presence, my glasses had been all my life.

Places

It’s all quiet in here. The walls have once again become bare of memories; this room has once again turned into a four walled shelter. All the pictures and the cards that always decorated these walls have been packed away. All my clothes are now folded, not so neatly, in a suitcase ready to be taken to a new place. My diaries and poems are already on way to where my footsteps would soon lead. Everything is done. And now all I do is wait.

Wait for a new day to begin. I have always hated leaving, because I’ve never known where I was heading. Even with a destination in mind, I have always ended up taking detours I have never planned for. I guess that’s what makes the journey: unexpected turns and stops. But for someone who had always loved control the way I have, this is nothing short of pure agony. I always like plans, well thought out actions. Although so far I have accepted and at times embraced these various detours, a part of me longs for stability. I want to know that the ground beneath my feet is strong enough to hold the weight of my dreams and I want to know where I would go, I can make place for those dreams.

In the new place, I will inhabit another bare room. I will once again paste the cards on my wall, put the photo frame right next to my bed side table. I will once again convert a four wall shelter into my safe haven. That’s what I have always done. And I don’t think I can live without creating some sense of semblance around me. I am not scared of that. All that scares me is the thought that, the place I am heading to is yet another detour I hadn’t plan. It’s not my destination, I don’t know how far my destination is. I know I’ll reach there at some point. But I wonder how much of me or my dreams would be intact by the time I go there.

I have already shed so much of me in all those places I have been. I just can’t keep going through this continual process of breaking myself apart. But I have to. And so I will.

I will close my eyes and when I open them tomorrow, it will be a new day, a new place. And tomorrow I’ll still be a little of what I am today. So I will be okay.

My mother’s hand

As I held my mother’s hand in mine, I realized how small they actually were. All my life I grew up looking at her hand, as she guided our family through all the hoops of life, her strength carrying us onward.  In my mind her hands were big and strong and hard. A rock holding us all together.

But that day as I held her hand, it didn’t complete all the words I used to describe it. Her hands were small and soft. Not soft as in feminine  girlish softness, but a maternal softness. A gentle softness of a mother who knew what it was to hold her children’s hand. Her hands carried her weight, the weight of knowledge she had garnered over the years. It seemed as if her hands, stored the information of how much salt to add as she cooked our favourite meals. Her hands knew not just our phone numbers, but that of our friends, so she could always keep track of us. Her hands knew how her little pat on the head made the future look a little less bleak. And most importantly, her hands knew the exact moment to let go of our hands.

There are marks and scars and callouses all over her palms and fingers. A history of the life she had lived. All these shows the times she had hurt, burned or cut herself doing something for us that would bring even the barest hint of happiness in our faces. These shows a lifetime of sacrifices she has had to make to raise all of us.

Her hands are that of a housewife’s, a mother’s and they are ones that taught me how to show love through actions.