There is a book that lies on one of my bookshelves that I will never open again.
The yellow cover will only become yellower.
Dust will settle on the edges of the paper and stay there.
This is the only change it will see.
Soon it will smell differently,
But I will never know this,
Because I will never smell it again.
There is a book that lies on one of my bookshelves that I will never open again.
Its spine will never see a crease.

I never finished reading it to you.


Tell me your dreams

Let’s start at the very beginning today, because I have a lot to say (I almost always do) although I’ll still try to be coherent (something I’m not quite feeling tonight).

I am a complicated girl. Not just the normal complications that come with being a human being, but many added confetti-pouring, darkness-dripping paradoxical facets that the maker thought would be extremely funny to throw on me. Which is fine, I like being this person even though it makes me want to beg for tranquilisers a lot.
I like creating things. Yesterday I went through our whole collection of photographs and saw that about 90% of the moments of leisure in my toddlerhood involved sitting down with a pen and a notebook and writing down, what I must have thought, Tennyson-like poetry (which infact was mostly curly-wurlies). So needless to say, this (and I am waving my hands over all the notebooks and pens and poetry strewn around me on the bed) was kind of inevitable.
I am a science student. I scored 9.8 on my 10th grade CGPA. I took up core science for my 11th and 12th grades. I scored 93.5% in my finals. I took up science again for my bachelor’s degree (RIDICULOUSLY analytical statistics). The catch? I never wanted to.

Two years into my degree and I am officially a mediocre student. Actually, that is being stupidly optimistic. By Indian standards, I am a bad student.
For the past one year I have attended classes everyday (barring health issues) and every single day I have felt stupid. And I wish I was exaggerating and I wish all of this was a big fat hyperbole, but it’s not. This year, all of it overwhelmed me enough to make me cry (the number of times I have cried in the past 4 years can be counted on one hand) and this academia-induced crying last happened in 12th grade with, no points for guessing, physics, after which I had sworn to myself that this won’t happen again. It did. Hurrah.
So what happened? Am I stupid? No. Not because I scored a 93.5% in my finals in 12th grade because that happened after almost murdering my entire soul and hence doesn’t count. But because I know what I can do, and I do them all pretty damn well. I have and will have great stories to tell if you’ll let me. Is it my fault that none of them are bound in calculus and normal distributions and projectile motions? Science is a beautiful world. But it is just not my world.
I work with words. And people. And ideas.
I am working with numbers.
And it is killing me.

I am not blaming anyone anymore. Firstly, I am too exhausted and do not have any modicum of energy to spare for blame, but more importantly, I know I now have a longer, ridiculously winding path ahead to do something that is remotely connected to what I want. Because even though all I feel is despair, I cannot give in to cynicism. It’s the last straw I have left and I’m not going to let anyone take that away as well.

So my dear fellow countrymen with your ever-growing obsessions that ruin lives – when a little girl or a little boy goes up to you and inevitably asks you the wide-eyed, hopeful question, “Can I be anything I want to be when I grow up?”, don’t, please don’t say, “Yes”. Because in 15 years you will completely forget that pact you made with a 5 year old and you will be sending yet another person down the road where they no longer know what to do. Not because they never knew what to do.

Rather they always did. But you took it away.

A Firefly and a Butterfly

Where do you go with your broken heart in tow?

Legend had it that they were of the same soul. She would have missed her, even if she hadn’t met her.

What do you do with the left over you?

They had pulled apart each vestigial plaster and only they knew how the other looked beneath it all, each mark of a bad day etched like constellations on their skins.

Where does the good go, where does the good go?

But then with the music turned up, they danced; she, at one end of the city, she, at another. They both knew, always, without a word exchanged.

Look me in the heart and tell me you won’t go.

After all it had all started there – two whispers piercing towards each other in a crowded room. They could always complete each other’s whispers.

Look me in the heart and unbreak broken.

“Be okay”
*Be okay*

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.


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?