My Vow

I remember sitting on the pavement outside my school on my last day, with my friend saying something I don’t remember at all.
I was doing something else.
I was saying goodbye.

Not to my school, not to my friends, not to my parents or the house. I was saying goodbye to everything. To every bit of life as I had known till then. There was a different conviction then in my mind, maybe from more than six hundred and fifty days of bit by bit losing myself.
It probably took losing my faith to gain it, properly.
But I had forgotten this.
In the past few days, months, I had forgotten that day, that air of farewell and most importantly that conviction.
I don’t know how I remember it again, so I am writing this down. I am writing this down to every self of mine from this time on because my seventeen year old self had a little courage to then let go and move.
That little bit of courage should be remembered.

I have gone through life mostly trying to please everybody. It is sickening and against my very principle but there is a core inside of me which is simply and utterly scared.
Of what? I don’t know.
But it is scared. This made me never realise who I really am. And I had promised to change that.
I forgot. I am sorry. I got pulled back.
The air smells like that day, of the farewell that I need again. I am going to try once more to break myself and dissolve because goodbye is not leaving, it is not escaping.
It is letting go.

People will always try to engineer your thoughts and tell you that the loftiness of wishes inside your mind is useless. They will try and make your dreams smell funny. But remember how you once looked yourself into the mirror and asked yourself, what have you done that matters?
And then told yourself that one day you’ll answer that question without the slightest hesitation.

When I meet my maker,
(I don’t know what that means but something made me),
I know the question I will be asked – Why was it so imperative that you existed?
Why indeed.

I remember sitting on the pavement outside my school on my last day and although I don’t remember many things, I remember the conviction. I thought I was sucked of every last bit of fighting strength that I had, simply because I had to please others (you see, I am always scared). But I wasn’t. And that was one day that my core felt a little less scared, because maybe it takes losing a lot to gain your own self and do something.

It is imperative that I exist.
I will tell you why very soon.





Someone told me that through restlessness is born creation.
I have a restless heart and soul. (You knew that. You saw that.)
I’ve always had, and the only way I can make sense of this world is through words.
We’re all waiting to be heard. Open mics, a breezy veranda, echoing classrooms.
But you,
You listened.

Our poetry was different. It was quiet. It was brimming with dreams. Our dreams.

With you, everything made sense.
You’re the only word I’ve ever needed.

There is now a permanency in the absence of that word,
And I try not to cave in, but I know I will sometimes.
I’m doing my best.
I’ll see you soon.

Your loving granddaughter


She was always used to strange dreams. Dark, morbid, heart-wrenching dreams which would leave behind their vestiges in her mind for days as if she didn’t merely dream them. She was used to them, and yet never quite used to the impact they had on her. Nobody understood that the dreams had long ceased to be a fragment of fantasy; they had each become an experience as real as anything else.

But this? This was different. She felt an overwhelming emotion that she could not explain for quite some time until, like a wave, it hit her. It was as if it had all happened to her in a century long past. It wasn’t deja vu, she knew how that felt. This was as if she was reminiscing a night in her life so far back in her past that she couldn’t trace it.

This was nostalgia. But how could that be?

She was as old as she knew herself to be now, but she knew this was a different world. Everything looked new. It was a world she didn’t recognise at first glance, but somehow something told her it was home.

She was angry with him, and such a familiar rage that she felt certain was her own; but she knew it would die. Not just because he was the love of her life, but more because she despised remaining angry. As he pulled her close, the two others, a boy and a girl, smiled. They were together again, the four friends, and time ceased to exist from that moment. This was forever.

So they ran, as the sun disappeared, to the hill and laid down, waiting for the red and golden fireworks. They knew the world would soon invite the wicked like it always did. They knew everybody else would keep hurrying, for although time didn’t exist, clocks did. But they didn’t care, for theirs was to laugh in unreal moments of freedom, live in unbearable moments of lightness, and love; simply, extraordinarily.

And she knew this wasn’t a dream. This was a memory.


P.S. What if I say that this is not fiction?

Ah those two syllables

My friend and I, sitting on the stairs right outside our college canteen in a wonderfully breezy weather, were exchanging epiphanies, because isn’t that what we young-adults do best! (I have a problem with calling myself an adult, more on that some other day). I had dressed myself in a magenta kurti, jeggings and black pumps which were quite definitely not pain-free. But I liked them, a lot in fact. She said I looked pretty, and teased me about it. That’s when we hit upon this conclusion at the same time – we have never, ever dressed for a guy in our lives.

Maybe that has something to do with the fact that both of us are single. Maybe not, really. But one thing is for certain, we have never dressed with the objective of impressing a guy. And I am saying this because I see girls all around me brimming with insecurity, not because they don’t consider themselves to be pretty, but because a guy (or in general, guys) doesn’t consider her to be pretty.

I won’t lie to you, I did give it all a thought. Rather lots and lots of thoughts. Because, frankly, I was curious – am I, just like so many of my friends, insecure about my self? And I realised, not so much. It’s not that I never feet bad about my body, or that I never complain about how thin my hair is. It’s just that I don’t cry over it.

And the reason I have never mourned about it is because I have never felt that silly need to look pretty. Not that I don’t like to look pretty, don’t get me wrong, because I do. I have only come to that place where I know I can’t change the way I look, and even though sometimes my face looks all bloated and double-chinned with a forehead full of acne, it is OKAY. I still look quite nice.

The point I am trying to make is, I wasn’t born to simply look pretty. But that does not immediately become equivalent to not caring about how I look.

And hence what follows is that whichever day I plan to suddenly dress with a bit more care and time, I do it just for myself. I look into the mirror and feel good because I like it, not because I think someone else might like it. Life is already way too complicated without adding the lengthy predictions about another human being’s opinions about your attire.

I guess it’s the feminist in me talking. I do hate it when self-proclaimed feminist frown upon well-dressed women. I don’t believe that feminism is suddenly not caring about how you look or leaving behind every desire to wear a really beautiful dress or feel a bit girly. Rather it is not feel an unearthly urge to do it all for someone whose opinion won’t change your life around one bit. Go wear makeup and a cocktail dress, just do it because you want to.