The Silence of My Voice

Hello. It's Day One. So this year I've decided to talk to people I know who've influenced my life, or the changes in them and take something from them to write about. It could be something I share with them, or something that has affected them or impelled them to undergo a reform. I start this one with Vami, for whom looking within has begun to mean a lot more. In a city where everyone pencils in their day around local train timings, everyone is living in a playlist they created for themselves. Only, most of us forgot to uncheck the repeat button. We wake up everyday, with either alacrity or bitterness, and rerun through the loop. We, though, don't wake up to ourselves.  Struggles come in a lot of different forms for everybody. And this is something that keeps most of us up in the middle of the night. Work, money, love, drugs - name it. And there are some of us attempting to run away from ourselves to avert any confabulation about the same. But I figure abscondi...

Hey. It's Day Two! For the harshness that creeps into the weather this time of the year, there's also a softness you feel. It's as if you can wrap a part of winter around your hand and drag it back home with you. There's something malleable about it, something human. That's what winters are. They're slightly human. Humans are like mosaics - whatever they're a mixture of, somehow all of them end up looking pleasing to the eyes. Winters too, are beautiful to look at, but so grim to be in. And that is most people in life. The only consolation is that summer will arrive. And that's also the hope most of us carry with us. That, there'll always be more people. And amidst that one simple belief, there'll always be things keeping you up at night. I could never quiet my mind. There was always something going on. Restlessness has always been my shadow. As it must be, for most people in different ways. As if there are people who dance, and people wh...

Hello. It's Day Seven. People after people, bogie after bogie, I sit on the punctured steel bench, far from being reminiscent, Of the hefty and rooted stone parenting the dusky oak ledge, Always smelling of musk, it veritably was crafted, Keeping in mind humans as humans, and not luggage, I somehow settle my derrière, which is also quite disapproving,  On the gruesome bench, There are now wires, and with each added filament, Would be fracturing of a roof so mile-high, fit which it would  All the male ego you would see, floating heavily Along with the dark vapour of the coal, And the smell of the smoke, glamorise which it would, The idea of the handsome smile you wish, You could descry across the platform, I see them daub inch by inch further away,  Wanting more expanse, while gobbling more turf, "We'll make them grand", they said, "They'll look modern", they said, And amidst all their gloat bubbles in the air, stif...

Hello. It's Day Four. I saw a girl who made coffee. Hunched over the notebook, her hand sifted through her hair. The other one wound disturbingly rigid over her pen -  a gesture so simple, and mindless and yet, exuded such great possession, as if she was scribbling God's secret plan for harmony, and wanted to hide His tool, lest everyone found the power behind it. The reflection of the snow on the glass drew stories on her compact stature, and relaxed fingers, both of which that gave nothing away. The primal, worn leather of her notebook, and the rusty and stained tip of her fountain pen, her foot tapping every time Sinatra came on, the heavy cream in her coffee, and the now, very decimated chocolate muffin screamed sonnets about her reservation of belonging to the old world. Yet, the threads of her torn jeans, the scuff on her boots, the red strap of her bra playing peek-a-boo with her cardigan, stood testament of a woman delivered mistakenly by the stork, who was born ...

The cigarettes let out a bulky quilt against the air that inflated his chest, and he dextrously created stories between them, as he slapped the air for a ghost-less vision. And each time he sauntered through the heavy walnut opening, his past seemed to catch up with its bells high on. The stink of rye, and the stains of scotch. The burn of Cuban spices with the heaviness of the citrus cleanser. The pale, alabaster skin of her derrière, and the impulsive flare of his parchment. The moss of the lamps reminded him of the unripeness of the bedroom doors he squirrelled behind, each night, when the clock struck ten, and his old man in turn struck any visible hide he could find on her body. He'd kill her and bring her back from the white light, time and again. Time and again, he'd push her, praise her, need her. He'd destruct her piece by piece, and make her whole again, until both were gasping for breaths. He'd seen the old man's welts across her back, his...

Have you ever known, what coming home is like? How would you,  When all you've done, is wander, Through every lane, searching, For truths, fighting them with lies, Pulling your own strings apart, Heartbeat by heartbeat, You will never know, What coming home is like. Have you ever known, The warmth of another soul, The comfort of the company, Of another's silence? When all you've done, Is run away, Thinking of everyone as crowd, Selling your heart out, On cheap street take-outs, While only gathering the lonesomeness, Others had on offer, You will never know, The warmth of another soul. Have you ever known, The disgrace of two parted lovers? How would you, When you believed you two, Could survive apart, But what for, really? Because all you did, Was be terrified, but awed, You will never know, The disgrace, the ache, the abomination, Of two parted lovers. I miss this space a hell more often now....

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...

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...

A week! =D You can check about the routine  here . So the confession for the day is DREAMS.   EVERYONE has that one fulfilled, unfulfilled dream, or a quest for the same.    Confess it! [FACEBOOK PEOPLE YOU CAN JOIN IN TOO] You can write your confessions on your respective blogs, mail the links for the same at akanksha1293@gmail.com. OR, if you don't want to reveal your identity, and think your story might embarrass you, no problemó! You can mail your confessions to me, and I, and only I would be witnessing your confessions. They would only be posted on my blog - no identity revealed. I'd be your confession box. Tawang . Switzerland of India. High end waterfalls, all year round snow, limitless tranquility. A place so silent, you almost feel you're touching the sky. That's where I want to be. The post will be updated late night. You can even have the morning to yourself, if you wish. On the verge of....oh whatever, Ak.