Fear of the dark.

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A jaunty walk in an eerie park,

Where an empty swing-set keeps swinging

A distant whisper, to raise suspicion,

Induce a haunting curiosity which proved numbing.

Leaf-less trees emulate the spooky tree from potter,

Where fallen leaves create swirling patterns with the wind

Wishing that I was Wendell and Monica Wilkins’s daughter,

Who is fearless and effulgent, no matter how scary the night is, and no matter how grim.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a voice called out, that sounded just like my mothers’

I chastised myself for coming out for a walk, in the eerie park all by myself.

Because I had a feeling of something evil hovering, just above my head,

I wondered if it wanted to hurt me, or hug me or just wanted to talk instead.

But my fear abated, as thoughts percolated

As it all reminded me of the Canterville ghost from the Oscar Wilde plot

I smiled at my memory of it and embraced the now sweetened fear, consummately.

The melancholic ghost could never hurt me, I thought.

I came out into the light, bolder than Hermione Granger (not quite)

I became friends with all the voices inside (and outside?) my head and embraced their incomprehensibility

I learnt that even when it’s not dark, such whimsical energy does environ me

So it’s just the fear of the dark and of the unimaginable, only because it is unimaginable.

 

It all depends on what you imagine, and then, who/what you imagine yourself to be.

Hence, I learnt that fear is a part of life; all you do is learn to accommodate it.

 

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Her

She says, that

It is easy to fall in love with her,

Once you seek her out

But so very difficult to stay in love with her,

As you begin to connect the dots

Her, who is hunched over a worn-out book in the university library, with her long hair hanging over the sides of her shoulder, she who appears so still and stolid that you begin to wonder with a puerile curiosity, about what is so riveting about those pages that she seldom lifts up her face, and does so only to push her spectacles up on her nose.

Her, who is embarrassed at you being fascinated by her, who doesn’t want you to decipher her, or to tug at the seams of a mystery which is so intricately stitched to her being that she will come apart with one single pull, if you were to try so hard.

Her, who suddenly wears such a solemn and tired expression on her face that you feel guilty; you’re an idiot, to look at her in a way an inquisitive child would look at something.

Her, who nervously started tugging at the hem of her top, displaying a gaucherie that yet again riveted your attention towards her and this realization, made her flush. So much so, that she closed her book and got up.

Her, on whose face you saw indifference, whose mellow eyes suddenly, seemed so piercing, testimony to the fact that you had been an oaf.  Her, who you had gotten paranoid, uncomfortable and flustered- all these things, that being her friend, you weren’t supposed to make her feel.

So this was her, who realized that you were falling in love with her. Because who else deciphers a person that way, than a guy who is in love with you, she’d said.

Her, who stopped being a friend to you long ago, who’d bullshit her way out so effortlessly, making you the villain, and cried when she did so. Her, who didn’t want to jeopardize “our” friendship of one year, who said you haven’t know her “long enough”, then there was you, who’d have it no other way, who no longer wanted to be her nice friend.

She’d said, that

It is easy to fall in love with her,

Once you seek her out

But so very difficult to stay in love with her,

As you begin to connect the dots

 

You asked her, what does she mean, so she smiled her stupid smile and leaned in – to say nothing.

 

So it hurts. To remember her, her, whose sound of voice you long to hear, after a tired, long and hard day. And distinctly  remember her sweet cadence, her sincerity in her words, her wide eyed gaze over something that you said, her concentration, her cheerfulness, her energy- just like a dream, it all appears before your eyes, all of her- void of her.

Her, whose ramblings you can’t live without, whose logic of doing things a certain way always eluded you and, her, who always made you see things in a new light. Her immaculate and dramatic expressions, her unusual behaviour, her passion, her stupid grin, her long hair and her short hair- How is it; that you irrevocably came in close contact with her, only to be captivated by her and then relinquished, by her. She must be ok, you think. So you call up the next girl you could think of.

She writes in her diary, crying profusely. She calls it future.

 

So he complains that she is just not the same.

She chuckles; it’s always the same line with every nice guy she meets.

They always try to figure things out,

Always try to use them as a weapon against her.

And she being so passionate, it always ends on a bitter note.

So they always get over her, before it actually ever begins.

But had she known you were different, that you were not just fascinated, that you would have loved her unconditionally, had you understood her when she said to you, “long enough” or, had you been a little more patient, she would’ve definitely pursued you. But you let her slip away and, she you.

A fractured syntax is better than writing nothing

I’ve been struggling to write, hitting the backspace key more often than I would like in these past few days. Scribbling one word over another on my notepad until the ink imprints itself on the next page. And it is not because I can’t figure out what to think about anything but just because my thoughts and views are profuse. Sometimes I can’t find the right words, nothing seems to satisfy me. Nothing fits my discernment no matter how clearly I seem to have perceived it. And I end up writing nothing.

 

Nothing- it is a melee of shattered glass. With every word you fail to put in its right place, a seemingly good sentence shatters itself into a million tiny pieces and before you know it, there’s a pile of it on the prescient paper which knew the fate of your words before you even picked up the pen. And I can either believe all of it, or none of it. But I am a believer when I’m writing. I have to be. Otherwise I’m as good as a blank paper.

 

But a blank page is one I can’t do without, a blank screen is one I sit in front of, to mull over an event which led me to another event which led me to a “spiritual epiphany”; and then I start to write, but I find it hard to write without a syntax which conveys the sense of each word without seeming deceptive. And for my wanting a clearer meaning for my otherwise confusing syntax, I ultimately end up writing nothing again.

 

But I’ve come to find that nothingness is seductive, as it has meaning without words. But then again, if that was the case, I’ve got only nothingness in my mind.

This bulwark of protection has to be broken down since I don’t want to be consumed by nothingness under the impression that it is something after all. Because it isn’t; it is just a chimera.

 

So you let the rejected words dry, you let the shattered pieces heal. For afterwards, they become something of their own. You believe that they do. And that you must forego the ambition of writing nothing. And that you must accept everything, as it is.

 

Because at the end of the day, a fractured syntax isn’t as bad as it may seem. 🙂

 

Dharamsala/Mcleodganj/Triund – May 2017

Dharamsala

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Mcleodganj

Namgyal Monastery – Home to the residence of Dalai Lama

Beautiful art on the floor of the monastery

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City shopping

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On my way to church of St. John’s

Entrance

Bird house!

Neo-gothic architecture

Church of St. John’s

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Visiting Cafe Illiterati

My most favorite part of the cafe!

That’s me 🙂
Outside the cafe

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Triund trek!

Mist

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At the top after a three and a half hour trek

The majestic dog!

Moi 🙂

View from the tent

Reflection

The rock!

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The end

All pictures were clicked with an iPhone 6. 🙂

Remember me

Do you remember me? 


An eternity after I met you, your voice still lingers in my mind. Your music plays in the background in a loop while I dwell on the memories. I acquired some of your habits too, both good and bad. 


How I wish I could un-meet the iridescent soul of yours. 


I remember the day you bought your first Marlboro pack on a whim. I was shocked, at how unpredictable you were. And maybe that is when I should have known. 


I wish I could rewind back to the moment I laid my eyes on you. And leave it at that. I should’ve known it, the minute I saw your tattooed sleeve. I should’ve known that you were a bad idea. 


I should have known the moment you made me rethink, when you complicated the most simplest of things.

 

And how could I have failed to see beyond your smile, which with time has been the most difficult thing to efface from my mind. 


I was never allowed in the world you sequestered yourself to and I always believed it to be ordinary. I should have known better.

He leaves the letter for her beside the red roses and closes his eyes; the image of her blood spurting from her artery makes him nauseous. He leaves the cemetery.

Settled.

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The pages are turned to figure out what happens next.

Another page was turned recently, of a book that was put to the shelf. Dust settled. So did I.

But I picked it up sooner than when I had initially planned to pick it up; which was never.

Minds change. Mine got corrupted.

You won’t get the context because it’s not important. Let’s just say that I settled for something else.

Yes, settled. It’s funny, since I am not that woman.

The future is now crystal clear.

I’m semi intoxicated. No, not high yet. I could be. But I won’t be, on anything, on anyone.

I’ve already settled for something much worse.

Anyway, I’m craving Lychee juice. Abjured meat a long time ago, don’t crave it. Don’t know why.

I guess I settled for a life without it. For ethical reasons, you see.

Don’t know if you’ll call that a settlement.

They offered beer. I tell them that they could buy a meal for someone hungry with that money.

Now they’re settled with a feeling of guilt. I’m happy.

There’s no need to be sanguine. You’re free, as settling is complete opposite of it.

I took a quiz. The results were baffling. I’m a histrionic.
I settled for it. And my mind has been corrupted.

 

I’m Alice in reverse!

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I fell down a rabbit hole,

My long dress barely fit inside the small abode,

My giant head hit the ceiling and bruised,

I cried for some time as I was utterly confused.

 

My eyes darted towards a weird marshmallow,

So tiny it was, the place suddenly felt so shallow

But I ate it all anyway,

And I shrank in size of a tiny doorway!

 

I opened the door to a weird blue room,

There were books all around, surrounded by a ghostly gloom

Oh what have I ever done to end up here?

This must be a nightmare; he must wake me up now, my dear!

 

Two years passed, Mad Hatter never came,

I was stuck inside a hell hole, a world so mundane.

I read all the books that surrounded me

And watched the warrior within die inside of me

 

This wasn’t meant to be; I’m supposed to be a fighter,

I was shown my own destiny but here I am; writing on this electric typewriter.

The Red Queen must be laughing, looking down at me

She must know that I too am laughing, at my antithetical destiny

 

I am lost, I really am, and there’s no Cheshire Cat to turn to

Because here it does matter which road to take,

Even when you don’t know where to go to

I hate how the rain soaks my clothes; I hate the sound of thunder

Why in the world am I here, I’m forever left to wonder.

 

The Mad Hatter never came and that’s how the story goes,

But Alice still hopes to see her Wonderland once again and she will – this her inward spirit knows.