The Silence of My Voice

Let's learn to count for once, Not notes, but heartbeats. Let's realise the mistakes, Of not us, but of people around. Let's not be bothered, Not by our own taunts, but the people. Let's learn rejection, Of not the easy love, but of difficulties. Let's not show our backs in bed, But hold each other in our dreams. Let's not talk about the holiday missed, But of the entire night that lies ahead of us. Let's not cry over the money not earned, But on the babies we didn't make.  Let's forget walking in the rain, But remember the autumn where the trees were the sky. Let's not think up of how to not let each other go, But of how to give each other a new reason to stay each day. Let's not think of how our destinies were entwined, But how our hearts were stitched up to only love each other.  Let's not think of walking the same bridge, But of balancing together on separate roads, with a pinky hold. Let's not pillow talk s...

You can sometimes do with not so much love in your life. Anybody can. A lot of us have done it for almost their entire life till now. It's the harmony you can't do without. It's logic, isn't it? It's like balance. In nature, in your two legs that you need, in the thumb that goes with the fingers. In exactly the fucking manner of someone with you. There is no single soul not messed up by the nuisances of life. Everyone is messed in their own secret ways. Some get killed either by aloofness, insecurity, lust, love, or whatever the fuck it comes out to be. None of anybody's business. It's the point to realise that you're messed up - within or beyond repair, doesn't matter. You straighten your life out for yourself the moment you accept this. Damaged good, as they say. Not so damaged when you know which defect to exactly hide.  Life doesn't stay much empty if you have just that one person who gets you completely and believes in you when you don...

"I hunger for your sleek laugh, and your hands the colour of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty." She still sat by her window on the granite slab. That was where she always sat when she commenced writing something new each time. The deadline was around the weekend and she hadn't started her new piece at all. She'd been one of those lightening delights since the first day she'd entered office. And her columns were a treat for both the magazine and the readers. She was any editor's dream writer. Anything she wrote had to bring a smile to even the most disinterested creature on the planet. Writing always came naturally to her. But she felt lost today. Distracted. All she could think of was.. "A man who prides himself on never committing the sin, has never met a woman with brains."   And with that being the last sentence of the chapter, she bookmarked the page and placed the book carefully aside on the tiny circu...

Hello, The-Pretty-Guy-At-Breakfast, I'd spotted you at the buffet this morning. You were sipping from a mug steaming something, coffee or tea, I don't know. Well, I'll like you even more if you assure it was coffee. Yeah, I liked you. No first glances thing. Maybe observing you through your breakfast did it. You were even there beside me as you ordered the chef the way you wanted your omelette. Sans cheese, sans onions, lots of chilles. Quite contrary to the one I like. Not that I'm going to tell you how. I'll leave it to you to figure it out. It was funny how you like your breads toasted only on one side. You folded your omelette appropriately and places it on your half toasted bread, and sliced the grilled tomatoes and ham into quarters and further  loaded them onto the omelette. And you picked it up like a pizza slice and nibbled it down to nothing. Speaking of, your perfectly sculpted lips making out with your food for each bite pulled me further closer to yo...

There went, each four minutes, a train from Andheri to Panvel. He boarded this train everyday from Vileparle at 10:12 am. Although a 10:08 am train would suit him best considering how much of a crowd can form up at the station in four minutes, he still took the one after. Even among the horrid broadcasts, he could hear her wire thin silver anklets which had a bundle of three little music cases hanging each side. She would never coil her hair up, no matter how sultry the climate. Her hair though of typical length, they were a vicious curl of darkness. They gleamed a tan each time the sun hit her head through the inched openings of the aluminium roof. She always had bangles irrespectively contradicting to the colour of her kurti . He could never understand her colours. Only that they complemented her honey dew skin. She wasn't fair. But she had a flawless skin. She had small, murky eyes. And the first time when he'd seen her, he'd discerned a remarkable difference in her fro...

The previous part is  here. It is one's conviction that permits them to do everything in life. And it was the same conviction that had coerced Wazir to grab Farida's hand and pull her out of the blues. Wazir had taken to Farida the first time itself when he'd seen her. Her brazen honesty had shocked him like no other. He'd expected her to inquire him about his life and work till now. But her confession about being pregnant was the first thing that blurted out of her mouth, and he was completely taken aback. And he knew he had to, wanted to do something for her, marry her. He knew he had been in love with her, and her child, from the first moment on. Their first meeting. It all came flickering like a wispy life before death. The sound of Maya had never been so grave.  The hour hand moved half an inch as the clock struck 5:30. Maya should have been there. Wazir was starting to worry now thinking she might not have been caught over-speeding again. And he heard the s...

Holaaaa!  Such coolness! 100th post, companèros.  And like  PeaBee , I envisaged I should go down the memory lane. Er, BlogLane. El Comienzo!   This was where I started writing. How, why, when. All there. I'm Not Sad .   Yeah, a lot of people assumed it to be some kind of a ranting post. It wasn't. First fictional post. Of All The Women In My Life... . Well, my first blog post is technically the first non-fiction. But let's just say for extras' sake. First non-fiction blog post. The Chronicles of April Levesque . APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! Writing and creating April has become an inseparable part of my writing and me. It's almost like she's right there, evident in every sense. Longest fictional series. Stoner (I, II, III) . This is what is closest to my heart. Stoner came directly out from the best of me which I didn't realise until now existed. You know like when the happenstance of a lot of minute things with someone reveals to you a lot a...

Being speechless is a phenomenon. It means a lot more than how shallow the statement actually sounds, or rather how shallow people have made it sound over time. It clearly defines one's power over the other to render them bound. A power that compels them to talk in silence rather than words. As much as I wanted to believe the contrary, I'm not a powerful woman at that. My words say a lot more for me than I actually feel. And that certainly has left people speechlessly confused, because they read something and see something. Not that they never have had an unwanted impact, they did. And that's where the hard part lies. Actions are amendable, words aren't. The wounds they cause run much deeper. However hard tried, you can never say just the appropriate amount of things with an equal measure of appropriate words required to support your feelings. We either under-say or over-say, but we just can't say. A lot we say depends on our impulse, something that we can perfectl...

Like their usual Friday evenings after college, they hopped on to their conventional café for their share of evening coffee and gossip. Occupying the same corner aligned with the picture window, that overlooked the sunset every summer evening sharp at 7:05 pm, was always reserved for them each weekend without fail. Ria, Sid and Om. They weren't exactly the three musketeers every college had, but they surely were the couple and the best friend trio that was. Coiled against the bend of the couch, Ria looked out towards the sunset as her toes clinked with each other in a settled rhythm. This was always the favourite part of his week. Sid had always loved the colour of her black hair, which gleamed a bronze sometimes. The inflamed sunset light bouncing off her flawless honey dew skin was what had left him breathless the first time he'd seen her in college. Taking in the colours that her petite dignitary put at play, he realised Ria was staring back at him.  Meanwh...