The Silence of My Voice

The hard muscled shoulders were broad in keeping with his height, but it was more the overall virility of the man was so disturbing. And attractive. And definitely scary.  She tried to concentrate, she really did, but she was acutely aware of a hard male thigh against hers, the 5 o'clock stubble on his chin, which accentuated his brand of aggressive masculinity tenfold, and, not least, the bigness of him.  And she was startled back to reality as the conductor shouted out the next stop. Luck, it seemed, had never befriended her. *** It wasn't love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons - two legitimate, one bastard - and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them. Time, was no more a friend of his....

Overly sweet coffee, and the underestimated bland tea, Broken spines of a book, and fallen leaves of the gingery tree, Boisterous silences, and the straining piano notes, Broken phone networks, and prudently hearted notes, Loquacious senses, and sardonic tongues, Unknown ignorances, and methodical glances, Stolen truths, and concealing lies, Surreptitious smiles, and reluctant cries, Starry nights, and tacitly retired drives, Solitary overhauls, and conjoined cautions, Supervised footsteps, and the agreeable wind chimes, Blistering softness, and the disquieting light, Fleeting sheets, and dented bolsters, Desiccated  throats, and clammily sultry bodies, Unkempt love, and the copious confessions, The incessant denials, and the fate's laughter in your face.  Oh, the inevitability of things. Reminiscent, Ak.  

And then the window illuminated with goldenness, The curtain danced all shades of orange, Sometimes, changing the colour of my sheets, And at other times, the tint of my tresses, Sliding deeper in the quilt, But just enough to treat my eyes, With the love light made with my room,  Its warmth felling through under the window,  Spreading in the room, and me, Which tingles my toes,  And tickles my waist, Warming my hair,  Like the hands of a lover holding your head, Revel in it, soak in it, take it all in, Like a breath of you,  Under the brown autumn sky. The laziness to abandon the cosy crippling you, And the doorbells constantly ringing for milk, But lay there for another while, just, As I will, For how many mornings have you created, When you woke up for yourself, And took the sunrise in for yourself, For how many nights have you survived through, To sleep only to those few moments of dawn, Like a mother, sw...

A few innocent footings, When was it,  That you held grip of you? The you, which was merely ready, The you, which never knew the use of tongue, The you, still hiding behind your mother, Awaken hard by destiny,  You wept, and swept, and crippled,  But still went strong, Like an iron grip of a baby's hand,  On the slender fingers of her mother, Smiling, laughing,  The blows,  Working their way like potions, Raising her, bit by bit, Piece by piece, With each time her growing up,  It kept taking something from her, Sometimes, the strength, Sometimes, the courage,  Sometimes, the will, And here, I sit beseeching My hands folded in obligation to Thee   Take you may whatever, But do spare her, her heart, For it's only the heart, It's pristine goodness, and fondness, That had her from going. Buckets full of love. Always there, Ak.

Can you take me someplace else? Where my diary isn't the one, Whom I tell things, I used to tell you,  Somewhere,  That's not home, A place you're homesick for,  A world, not to be found, But to get lost in, Where there's no tax on coffee,  And people live to read, Somewhere,  Where the freshness of the cakes, Is the only intoxication to resort to, Where the wine is shared with only those you love,  And not to forget them, Somewhere, That is untouched by profit, That is virgin in its most spectacular manner, Somewhere,  Where you can talk to stars, And instead of guiding you, they hear you, For a change? Where the moon is unblemished, And the sun shines only until, Your warm skin shines to make you stand out, Do you know of a place like this? Take me to that place, Where you're the only person I tell things, And my diary is the only one to tell things, I can't tell you.  In hunge...

What am I doing here? What is everybody doing here? What if I'm the only actual human and the rest are my mind's projections? What if the world doesn't exist? What if we were manufactured out of a machine and hoisted upon a matrix mind device right after the machines spit us out? Okay, moment-of-crisis over. I keep wondering all the time if what I'm studying for, isn't what I'm supposed to be in life.What if I'm supposed to be a writer, and should've pursued English(Hons.), and spent my life writing and drinking coffee with a cigarette in my mouth, carrying expensive hand-crafted diaries with fountain pens holding onto its cover? What if I was destined to be a secret agent? Or, maybe a guitarist?  They say, we're born with a purpose to pursue, and it's up to us to figure it out. Often we're faced with multiple choices in life, and narrowing them down to one, when you love all of them, is a soul-crushing act. Well, Sanya once told me that...

"Revelling in the resonance of gushing wind through his ears, he stood at the city's brow, yet again, second time in a decade. As the effusion gradually numbed his mind, his ear still hammered from the noises of yesterday, "Magic, is only your imagination. But what you choose to do with that imagination is up to you." He sometimes wished his imagination had a lot more power than he could muster out of it. Uncoiling his brains, sorting each memory into their worthy cabinets, he plucked his favourite one which had grown completely ripe, protected in the heat of his helixes. His sister smiling at him as she lit the very first candles of the refugee camp. He remembered her being very, very positive. Sometimes he felt that the light in her eyes provided for the hope missing in the people. Leading him to believe in the whites, she taught him the appreciation of the obscurity, as well.  He opened his eyes, holding in his hand the power of his imagination, looking to...

Away. It is my favourite place to be. Away can sometimes be far enough from your current state, creating differences with it, while even saturating certain gorges. Away can be anywhere, and howsoever far you wish for it to be. It can even be the simple(or complex) expanse of the two verges of your bed, or even as far as the void between rapture and inferno. The more recurrent your stopovers at away, the better. You don't find your aways. You always know it deep down where it actually is, how the map to that place is stretched out. You have yourself at utter disposal there to what the world has got to offer to you. Remote from pandemonium. Such is the power of away that it makes you hallucinate it to be an abyss. An abyss you want to fall prey to, and not because it's enticing. But, because it's beautiful - not in it's own prospect, but the entirety of it. It'll show you only what you can feel. It's distant from the mere grasp of out our delectably fragile paws....

"You pretty nicely seem to have forgotten your manners. Do not raise your voice in front of me like that again!", another of Natasha's if-you're-younger-be-nice toned scream came out. The maid silently cleared the bed of the quilts she was setting for the night, and marched out of the room realising this was not going to be good. "I am not a child anymore, Nata. Stop telling all the time what to do.", Samantha screamed back. Natasha, dazed, stared at her little sister. Only that she wasn't little anymore. She had transformed into a woman, and a fierce one at that.  "Then stop acting like one.", Natasha countered.  Samantha kept glaring back with such fury that she was burning inside. Ashamed on talking in an unruly manner with her sister, she looked away, and she breathed down some sobs. Natasha, unable to see her sister cry, took a step towards her to comfort her. As she raised her hand in a gesture to stroke her face, Samantha retreated...

Nature is a wonderful cure. However upset you might grow one day, there's nothing about nature that'll not make you happy. I remember feeling low each time as a kid when I would be unable to create an inspiration for myself to write anything. And at the best and worst of times, nature was always there at the disposal. Get out in the night, walk on the dewy weeds, take in the light breeze dancing through your hair, listen to the fireflies hum and sway on that swing you spent your childhood on. There is nothing that can be solved in the world with those few minutes of serenity.  Happily, Ak.

Hola! Awesomeness be bestowed. Bleh. I've been making no sense in life, not that I'm superlatively vella.  Ajay  and  Diwita , both awarded me with Liebster Award. Yay! And I'm sorry for posting about it late, because well, you know, college is over, so I didn't assume a reason to check my mails. Ha! Selfish ass, you. Anyhoo!  Diwita's Ajay's                            Such lovelies! :* Ajay's. 1. Thank the bloggers and link back. Done. 2. Okay, so since he didn't ask questions, I'm going to act lazy and act like there isn't anything to do. But no, really. You're one of my most loyal followers, and you've really help me better. Thank you. Diwita's. 1. Thanked the blogger. 2. Diwita's questions.  1. Because it seemed to be the right place to vent my feelings, whatsoever they maybe. 2. Batman and Ironman. 3. I tripped over on a staircase in front of ...

Things we do not expect happen more often than we wish. Anticipation of something that's never going to happen in your hopeful possibilities is the worst form of human torture. Ask a dying man his last wish. Seldom would you find one asking for nothing. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? Someone dying with all their wishes fulfilled. And that's where the crux of it all lies. The entire gist of it comes down to letting go. We, humans, take immense pride in embracing what mutilates us. We're nurtured with the notion to endeavour whatever it is that we want till our last breath, and if we don't achieve it, die trying. I'm sure the grass is always greener on the other side, and when I reach there, I can see the weeds up close. Until then, I'll try watering my own premature grass. You'll be told to attempt harder, but none will appreciate if you find your own America. We are used to seeing results, but the effort is what we ignore. We brand those strong who try to...

Okay! I is back. And the trip be awesome!  It was crazy, and random, and nice. Yeah, these are our signatures now. Lots of work, pretty random shit, serious shit, cute shit, Akanksha-has-turned-into-a-girl shit, and etceteras shit. AND loads of FOOD. Good Gujarati food. Loads to update, loads to share. And yessss! I'll be back with the Confessions routine in a few days.  Things are shitty. I have a half fractured leg almost healed, a wounded right hand, and loads of work till the end of the next month. Too much happiness, eh? Doesn't matter. The trip gave me s much singular happiness that it'll run for life. Well until the next year's trip. It's normal to feel out of place once your shell breaks. Of course, you wouldn't expect a butterfly to befriend a bee. But then they both wander over flowers. You can always adjust. You should be enough for yourself. Stick to what you've chosen. Stick to your decision. Stick to yourself. Don't listen if you think it...