Craving For The Rewind Button

I remember you,
twenty, thirty, forty times in a moment,
I remember who you were,
and who you are now.
I remember how the hair on your head grew curly,
how the laugh lines grew more evident on your face,
I remember how your eyes grew sadder,
how your smile grew rare,
something that was saved for the right occasion.

I remember the first time I noticed your existence;
and I remember that I loved you from that moment on.
I remember you with all the love I can afford to give you,
that is all that I have to offer.
I remember her too,
you know who I’m talking about.
I remember her,
and I remember you,
so much,
that I forget myself.

When I’m lying down on my bed in the dark,
all alone, with my ear phones plugged in,
with the music loud, and the word echoing everywhere,
you and her are on my mind.
I don’t realise it,
but there are tears in my eyes,
staining my pillow,
and I don’t realise it,
but I’m sobbing.
I wish I could stop,
I wish I could be as strong as you see me,
as she used to see me.
I wish I could press the rewind button,
go back to that classroom,
where you would be sitting besides me,
we would be laughing,
and in the distance,
she would walk by,
would look at the two of us,
and smile.

The Fat Failure

After I woke up at 11:30 am, 
(that was after I slept at four in the morning);
after I woke up at 11:30 am,
after I brushed my teeth,
I began to set up breakfast.

I took four slices of bread,
tried to make this thing I saw on Facebook,
where I fried two cheese filled sandwiches in butter.

I was still hungry.

I ate a pear, a banana, an apple, a bunch of a variety of biscuits, tried weird stuff with sauces and dips…

By then it was 1 pm.

I had lunch, with rice, and curry, and chapati, and vegetable, and salad, and curd. And that spicy mango pickle, which dripped with oil.

While washing my hands after that, I paused, turned off the tap, and stared at the mirror.

There was no one I hated more than that bitch who was looking back at me. 
I silently swore at her, glared at her, wished she would die.
And then I noticed, she felt the same about me.
That criticism I wasn’t strong enough to take.

I sat in front of that mirror in front of my bed,
this agony blooming in my heart,
and I mentally yelled at the reflection I had painfully accepted,
yelled at her for backing out of going to the gym everyday,
yelled at her for eating all those biscuits, using up all that butter, eating all that junk…
yelled at her for being fat,
yelled at her for being a failure.

—-

After eating another sandwich because I was too mad at myself,
because I just wanted to disappear, but couldn’t afford to,
I switched on the tap to get the water running,
so that I could bathe in peace.

In that bedroom, 
there were three mirrors,
four, counting the bathroom mirror.
I din’t look at any of them,
or, rather, I tried. 
I tried to not look at them.
But as I removed my clothes,
I broke and looked at myself,
and I felt that rage take over me.

I clenched my fists,
stared at the dump that was my body.

"That’s why they called you man-mountain,
that’s why they laughed at you.
That’s why you’ll never get a boyfriend,
that’s why you’ll be alone.
You’re too fat,
you’re too broken,
there is nothing you can do right.
You’re a failure,
that’s why.”

—-

I was lying in bed,
nobody could see the tears,
but I was crying.
Silently crying, and staring at the ceiling.

I din’t know how to end it,
all that eating, and that yelling,
I din’t know how to convince myself,
that failures can be something,
they can overcome,
they can succeed,
and hence no longer be failures.

That part within me which broke,
from all those times I heard people call me “Fatty”,
from all those times I hid because I looked too fat,
from all those times they laughed at me,
because of my arms,
my thighs,
my legs,
everything.
That part began to hurt once more.

I sat up, 
got on my feet,
walked to the cabinet,
and ate the first food item I found,
and the next,
and the next…

And I waited,
waited till the pain faded away.
Into the distance…
somewhere far from myself,
far from my mind,
far from that girl who keeps calling me a failure…

Once I couldn’t hear her anymore,
I went back to bed,
avoiding each and every mirror on the way…

Acidic Reflection

Today, I couldn’t breathe,
was walking on the main road,
and all of those people,
they were staring at me,
that is what I saw.
And I prayed to be back home,
to my bed,
hugging my knees in that corner,
trying to breathe again.

Today, my thoughts were hurting me,
they were burning my head and scalding my hair,
they were turning into acid and flowing down my throat,
they were setting my stomach on fire,
and were freezing my limbs,
and once again I couldn’t breathe,
and I sat down on the floor,
gasping for air,
which seemed like smoke,
every time I inhaled.

Today, I began to sob,
my arms and legs were shaking,
there were tears in my eyes,
and my voice was stuck within.
I dug my nails into my arms,
I cried for mercy, for relief,
I yelled and yelled soundlessly,
and lay down, shivering,
like it was a cold day in Hell,
and the oxygen content was minimum.

Today, I woke up,
looked into the mirror,
and wondered;
when I couldn’t breathe,
when my thought were becoming vile,
when my body wouldn’t listen to my anymore,
when all of that was happening inside me,
when I was being torn apart from within,
here I was,
staring at the mirror,
not being able to see a scratch from that agony
that I was feeling.

Blades Cutting Into The Yellow Glow

I see her scars,
tattooed onto her skin;
behind her hundred-watt smile,
I hear those screams, the silent howling,
I see the tear stain, though invisible,
running down her cheeks,
and on the floor around her,
I see the blood she thinks is not there.
It pools around her feet in a puddle,
her clothes dripping in blood,
and in the puddle,
I see my reflection,
I see it for what I possibly am.
I see the scars I wish I had,
the blades deep in my skin.

She sits there,
smiling at me,
her face glowing white,
her teeth that crooked way;
she laughs,
and every time she does,
I see a scar disappear from the blood mirror,
i see a spark light on and off,
I see life where I don’t think there is any.
She is clad in yellow,
and she is laughing at me,
she is saying my name.
I inch towards her,
slowly,
steadily,
and I finally face her,
tears running down my face,
my hand just a little above her shoulder,
almost there,
just close enough to breathe a touch,
when she fades,
like my touch triggered an alarm,
and as suddenly as she was there,
she was gone.

I turn around to look at her,
confused.
Sobs stuck in my throat.
Forming a red line with all the blood,
she walks forward,
as I search for her,
shaking like when I heard of what had become of her
She holds my hand, rests her head on my shoulder,
and now the sobs flow easily,
the tears run freely,
and I hope,
that my tears,
will wash all the blood away.

Broken Pieces of Silica

Glass shards everywhere.
Broken pieces all over the floor,
drops of blood adding to the picture,
a picture right in front of me.
Scraps of bend and broken metal,
are at my feet,
right under my toes,
under the cuts and wounds;
I can feel the gash on my forehead bleeding more,
from the inside of my brain,
from where something worse than a glass bottle hit me.
The glass bottle, broken and shattered,
it looks a lot like me;
blood stained silica lying on the floor,
with the metal right above it…

I smashed that glass bottle,
right there,
in front of me,
and, right then,
so many other things were wiped out,
things I just did not want to hold onto,
things that…just hurt.

All that anger,
it was something else.
I could feel the the blood evaporating,
and heating my nerves;
like acid was poured on my skin,
but I just couldn’t see the burns.
I wanted to throw a punch at her,
watch my fist bruise the side of her face,
hear her jaw crack from the strain.
And if she din’t stop talking,
I wanted to pick her up and throw her down on the floor,
secretly hoping that she might crack and shatter,
like the glass on the floor.

But I din’t.
Because as much as I wanted to,
I din’t want to wake up from my hypnosis,
after all that,
and realise that I din’t want that after all.
As much as she deserved it.

I din’t want to see her in the same place as the glass bottle,
she, who is from where I am,
who shares the same blood as me,
who I watched grow up as a child,
till we are seven,
but many more years apart.
With that smashed bottle,
I smashed years of agony,
years of deceit,
years of soaking in all the pain,
that began the moment she was born,
the moment I saw her face from the bundle in my father’s arms,
I was just a kid,
happy from not being an only-one.

I smashed that glass bottle,
smashing all reasons,
all relations,
everything I thought I had to fight for.

And after that,
I sighed a sigh of relief,
and gazed at the glass shards
feeling free after so long.

To Never Be Continued…

Incomplete stories.
With the words half written,
in all those books.
The books with all those ink stains,
from when my pen dried up during the most important part,
of that unfinished story.
All those pages with pencil marks,
of the poems on all those people,
who I just cannot remember.
All those loopholes
in all my imaginary best sellers,
the ones with the imaginary cover pages I imagined,
with the names of all those people,
who make it impossible to publish the imaginary unfinished stories.
Incomplete pieces of my mind,
recorded on the ruled sheets,
with the coffee stains and the chewing gum marks,
their presence making the history and agony of the paper obvious.
In those incomplete stories,
is a child with dreams in her eyes,
a teenager discovering the true joy of writing,
someone holding a lantern of hope in a dark place,
looking around for familiarity,
and finding the true joy
that is writing.

There is half a story on the pages of my books,
all having the same roots:
the crayon marks on the walls of the house,
with alphabets everywhere,
a baby knowing, writing,
to sitting under a banyan tree,
staring at the evening sky,
with all those clouds which are too spectacular to be described further,
sipping on coffee and writing on paper with the once crayon-stained hands.
All the thoughts, too many at once,
causing passionate but frantic writing,
digressing from the topic of incomplete stories,
on the nearly torn sheets of paper,
with the coffee stains and chewing gum marks,
with the ink stains on all those books,
with all those words,
with the letters painting a picture,
to that which is,
a story which can go no further,
stuck in time, free from rules,
a story with no end,
a story which cannot have an end,
as the idea has moved on for another day,
a story, none the less,
an unfinished, incomplete story,
in every sense.

Slush Puddles

You know it when love feels real;
it’s like that warmth in your heart,
like those tears in your eyes are actually worth it.

You can see yourself in his eyes,
and you feel at home.
It’s like everything is in place, you know?
Even when you’re standing in the pouring rain,
the rain drops are like warm tears of sunlight,
and that is when you see him walking out of class,
or walking past you in the cafeteria,
or sitting besides you,
not knowing any of this.

The fights are like hell.
You’re in the balcony, hanging up,
and sobbing so badly you can’t breathe.
Your shoulders and shaking,
the tears just won’t stop,
and then you hear your phone ring;
you know it’s him.
He knows you’re crying,
by the way you talk,
and he tells you to be happy.
The next day he walks past you
and you smile,
because all is forgotten.
Forgotten, when he held your hand
and you leaned your head on his shoulder,
all in one dream.

You know when love feels real,
when you see him from far far away and still smile;
when casually going through Facebook posts and see his picture, and still smile.
When going somewhere, you’re walking besides him,
it begins to rain,
you both race for shelter,
and both fall into a huge puddle of slush.
You’re lying in the rain besides him,
his eyes are closed, and he won’t stop laughing.
Your clothes are a mess,
your face is a mess,
you hair is a mess,
your thoughts are a mess,
your life is a mess;
then you see him, lying with you in the puddle, laughing like there is no tomorrow,
and you still smile.

Based On A True Life Story

You never know the true value of something until you don’t have it anymore.

Malala Yousafzai expressed such sentiments about education in one of many of her priceless interviews, and I agree. Many people have no idea how much something is worth, until it is taken away from them through various.

People lose many thing almost every day, it can vary from a certain object to their very own lives. And somewhere, even a person’s sanity is involved.

Doctors suggest that I suffer from a psychological disorder, nothing the lay man would consider too serious; however I guess that I ended up with what I have because of loss. Loss after loss in different ways. Loss of courage, loss of trust, loss of dignity, loss of love. I’m sure every human being on Earth is touched by loss somewhere in life, there is no way that someone can avoid loss.

When you’re bullied, you lose a lot of self esteem. You feel like you just don’t have it in you to fight back, and when you do, it just may never be enough. I have read the words of many who have been bullied, and I can empathise. To some extent, a few friends and I have been bullied, all of us have sat there while being ridiculed. I don’t know how my friends handled it but as mild as it what, the bullying broke me down. It made me lose faith in what I thought was right. Though now I am really good friends with those who had bullied me, sometimes what is lost may never be found. I never realised how confused I was until I was in a situation which involved my beliefs.

When you lose trust in another, it can be hard. Somehow everything you thought was real will all appear the opposite, and you feel like nothing will be the same again. A few years ago, when on a school trip, I told a newly made friend almost all my secrets. I trusted that person so much it hurt. When I came back from the trip and went to school the next day, my entire class had heard all my secrets, and for the next two I never heard the end of it. From then on I always trusted knowing that everybody will eventually find out, and lost trust in trust.

The worst form of loss is death. Especially death with no closure. I lost my best friend a few months ago. She disappeared slowly from everyone’s lives so silently that no one could detect the sickness was that horrible. Losing someone you love is like losing yourself. I came to believe that she and I had both died at the same time, because there was nothing I could think of that would prove otherwise. Eventually you learn to believe that that person is now in a better place, and you learn to move on and be happy. You might trip and fall on the way, but that will only make you stronger. I never realised her worth until the day I found out I will never hear her voice again.

I am now here, telling all of you my story. Even if I don’t believe so, I want to say that in any situation it gets better. Sometimes you feel that life is full of shit, but you get to prove everyone wrong if you refuse to give up and stand up again when they all knock you down. Malala Yousafzai is a hero. She stood up for what she believed in even if it meant that she would be shot in the head. And even then she came back fighting. She proved to us that no matter how small or big life’s problems are, as long as you have faith in what you believe in, trust yourself completely, and remember that everyone you love is always with you, no matter what. No matter how bad, this too shall pass.

Auto Rickshaw

Is there really a Happily-Ever-After?
Or is that something you made up?
I see it,
in your honey coloured eyes.
You manage to convince me all the time,
from the moment I walked down those stairs
and noticed you there,
sitting on the sofa
with that checked shirt,
and the ruffled hair.

Just recently,
sitting in the auto rickshaw which took us from place to place,
with our legs dangling out the back,
honey met mahogany,
and my heart began to miss a few beats every now and then.
No. No this is real for me,
and I know I am not imagining it.

I am not doing this to admit
that somewhere I walked down a path,
where I met you,
and was convinced I knew what love was.
No.
I am not creating this
to realise that the only form of affection I will get from you
is fleeting looks, only at certain times.
No.
I am not saying all this,
to say that I love you;
because there is a difference between attraction and love.
And I don’t know love.
No.
I am doing this,
I am creating this,
I am saying all this,
to remember that even though I have never met love in the true sense.
You may never give me what I want from you,
you may never be there for me.
But I know,
somehow,
somewhere,
someday,
a person will turn up,
and sit beside me in the auto,
will dance with me as I walk across the room,
and every time we hug,
I will know what it is like to love.

Cold Pavement

If you’re going insane,
You can sense the Earth’s core without digging with only a shovel.
You head hurts with the agony of confusion,
mixed with a pinch of reality.
You feel sick just as you recovered to full health,
and were just about to walk out of the hospital,
free from pestilence.
You realise that you took a few hundred wrong paths,
and now you’re walking in circles,
in the middle of Nobody Knows Where.
You can feel the tears burning your eyes
like you consumed acid for breakfast that morning,
and your muscles freeze,
telling you that there is no control on your part.
You listen and you help,
you listen to the miseries to those close to your heart,
and out of affection you pick them up when you’re down;
the mattress they fall down on when they have been shot,
that is who you are.
Somehow when you fall 
the cold pavement of the footpath outside your building
is all you can feel when your arms snaps into two.
After work you get home,
and when lying in bed you remember that one true love,
that one dead friend,
that one person who makes you wish you were never born,
and then you go to the reason you are still fighting;
it doesn’t come to you.
You body aches,
your skin burns,
your eyes are the shade of ruby.
You look out the window,
just as you did as a child,
and see all the people on the street,
going on with their lives;
you conclude,
how that is something that your life 
just might never be a part of.

The Only One In Hell Is You

Why can’t I be who I am?
Why is it so hard to please you?
So I like watching the real action instead of the movie scenes.
So I like painting on the walls and ceilings.
So I prefer one type out of the other.
Why can’t I just stay that way?

I just want to type my story,
whether or not it is the middle of the night.
I just want to play my music forever,
even if there are more important things to do.
You don’t have to tell me twice, 
I’m a child and a half,
just waiting for the gun to be shot,
so that I can finally run to the finish line, free.

I don’t want to live up to your thoughts of me,
even if you are the reason I exist.
Let me find my way,
let me do that for just once.
I want to watch that part of that moment in peace,
even if the little girl is seated just besides me.
I want to wear those clothes for that occasion,
even if people say I look like a slut.
I want to be who I believe I am,
even if the world says it’s impossible.

Call me insane,
retarded,
gay,
unrealistic,
forever horny,
a porn addict,
anything,
but you have just got to understand,
the only person who is in hell right now,
is you with all your unease towards me.
I am who I am, 
whatever I am,
don’t try to change that.

Remember

You have to remember that moment in time where you fought…

You have to remember how you took in all his bullshit everyday; you lay there when he punched you so that you live to see the next day. You shouted at your kids to go to sleep early so that the memory of their father won’t be of him coming home drunk to a helpless wife who he beats and rapes everyday. You used that make-up perfectly to hide to purple bruises and used the best excuses for all those cuts and burns. You learned to smile so happily that every other couple envied you. 

You must remember how you fought, that night when he came home the most drunk you have ever seen him. It was that night when your children were the ones being targeted, as he arrived home much earlier than expected. Remember how you realised living a lie wasn’t the way to do it; you grabbed that cricket bat your husband bought for the son he was strangling right then and hit him on the head with all you got. When he din’t get knocked out, remember how you kicked and punched and fought because you refused to drown. You gave him what he asked for, and then you left him with dignity, knowing you did the right thing. Now, everyday. you can smile as your children take your side, as your scars and cuts have healed, as you walk a free woman, away from misery.

You have to remember that moment in time where you din’t give up…

They refused to hear your pleads and cries. They held you by the neck to the wall, tearing your clothes apart. They beat you up so badly, and made it hurt when you walked everyday. The blackmailing, the constant molestation, all their chides and taunts about how you were of loose morals, about the cruel things they did to you. They made you so scared that you preferred to get out of class by jumping out the window. They made you wear huge jackets and big hats to just get out of their sight.

Then you wouldn’t take it anymore. You fought back, punching the guy who raped your virginity away the very first time, kicking the guy who made it hard for you to sit down; you bit the guy who stole all that money from you and said that he earned it by giving you a ‘great time’. You roared at the top of your voice, and people came. They came to rescue you, seeing all those guys trying to get inside you even though you were fighting that badly. You fought till the moment they were pulled off you, you watched as they were taken away, and you were finally left alone for good.

You have to remember that moment when you will finally be happy again…

All those mental disorders they speak to you about must really suck. The constant urges to jump off the roof, the need to cut the blood right off your arm, all that must drive you crazy.

But hear this: what would suck even more would be to listen to that voice in your head which says all those thoughts are actually worth it. That dying, that cutting, that hurting not only yourself, but a million others, is all worth it. All that shouting inside and outside your head will go away when your eyes close for the last time, that is what you will hear. 

But no matter how badly you slice into your skin, no matter how high it is from where you are standing to level ground; that happiness, when you are able to smile after all sorrow, like how a grieving soul manages to give you a smile after all those years of mourning, that happiness is worth it. No matter how many times you consider a life of death over the life you got; that joy, when your mother hugs you, or when your sibling laughs with you, or when your child smiles at you, that joy is worth it.

Sadness is like all those dark grey clouds you see in the sky right now, and pain is the rain that will hurt you after. But one must remember, there is always a beautiful sun behind all that sadness and pain just waiting to make your day.

Cradle To Grave

Have you ever lost someone?

Imagine you grow up with this one person. The both of you swear on your lives you will never abandon each other. Turns back to help you up when running a race. Hugs you when you begin to cry. Calls you up when you’re sick to tell you what happened that day. Laughs at you making it so obvious when your crush walks by. Makes jokes to make heartbreak easy for you.

That is what that person does for you. And life just goes on, most of the time because that person is always there for you. So when you are lying in bed with depression, that person comes over to tickle you just to make you laugh. You want to scream your lungs out at someone and that person holds your hand as you yell and yell and yell. When you lying in a hospital bed because you got the knife too close to your wrist, that person is the only person who doesn’t treat you like a nuclear weapon which could blow up any second now. 

That person sacrifices everything for you. When you are crying because people just won’t give you a break, that person puts an arm around you to calm you down, but ignores to mention how there is so much you need to hear from the other end. Sometimes, just because you are laughing that hard after all those days, that bullying incident in art class is not mentioned. You fail to see the make up near the eye one day because sometimes you are too ignorant to realise such things.

Wouldn’t that person be worth the whole world to you?

Could you live knowing that the next day that person will not be there to smile and wave at you? Will you be able walk past those places where the both of you sat and had a good laugh once? When you realise that there were bullying incidents, and that pain, and that sorrow; when you realise that it was far too late, will you be able to live with yourself for not trying harder to help?

How difficult it must be, run to the phone everyday, dial that very number, wait for that familiar voice,  and then realise that it was a waste of time.

The Dividing Line Between The Saviour And The Lover

Do you have that one person who means the world to you?

That one person who saved your life a thousand times, who pull you back up when you were falling off the cliff, the one who caught your hand and swam you to shore when you were drowning, the one who held you while you were crying so badly the next moment seemed so far away, how much could a person like that mean to you?

I know a story of a person lost in a storm who was saved by a stranger she thought she would never come across. She gave up, when her ship sank, and, tired from kicking to stay alive, she stopped. She stared at the blue sky till her eyes grew redder than before, and she might have been crying, but she couldn’t make out. Her eyes began to close and a wave of exhaustion hit her. There were other people in their vessels around her, seeing her and feeling helpless, or not seeing her at all. Then someone suddenly jumped into the sea and pulled her onto a boat. The boat reached land and she was taken care of, till she could walk again. Every morning she opens her eyes and she can see herself in the sea, and she almost screams before the memory completes itself and the person who saved her appears in her vision, diving into the sea to save her.

It’s like a baby walking for the first time, a child learning how to cycle for the first time, doing something for the first time ever. You turn back to look at that person and smile with all you’ve got to see the pride in those eyes, and you laugh because that is what you wanted.

How much could you love a person?  It could vary from it being a small idea in your head, to you seeing it everywhere. You could love another as the mother, father, brother, sister, friend you never had. But could you fall in love with a person who means the world to you? You could be scared, holding his hand so that you won’t fall again. But if you fall in love with him, you have to let his hand go and walk yourself, so that the next time you hold his hand, the moment is more precious than ever.

When The Sky Is Taken Over By A Thunderstorm

Why does the lone boy sit alone? When I kissed him last, there was a rosiness in his cheeks, and a smile on his face. His laugh was full of light, and it felt like fine sand under your feet, with no rocks to hurt them. His eyes were like stars on a fair surface, with innocence bleeding out of them. When he walked, there was amazement in every step, and it looked like the world was a little bit more happier when he took each step. Such was his beauty when I kissed his cheek last.

The beauty seemed to burst into flames as his naivety got tainted. The soft clouds that were his eyes seemed to freeze into diamonds, cold and distant. Somewhere his hands and feet got cuts and burns, and his eyes bled red. His laugh blew out like a candle, the sandy beach now a memory, maybe a dream. To replace it came a demonic sound, showing traces of pain and agony.

Do I love him? I loved the boy, whose feet he din’t have to drag everyday, whose heart wasn’t full of pain, when there was a smile on his face. I loved that boy.

Why does the lone man sit alone, who turns back just in time to see a boy disappear around the corner.