Goodbye

444 and counting.
Retired Hurt.
Can't stop.

On another note, dead.

Caught up in an old world

I can see it happening now. I am sorry Ma-Baba. After everything, and all that I have lost or given up, this probably was the way to go. Portrayed by the stories and riddled with a stone heart I wish this was just a nightmare. But, then, for me, nightmares do come true, every one of them.

The penultimate step

Deleted. After 8 months and 10 days of the dump.

I thought I was sleeping. Having my usual shot of nightmares. I checked up with the clock. It told me last night I slept 2.5 hours. A long time to have a dream, a nightmare. Almost every morning as I wake up, I find myself covered in sweat and the shirt sleeves wet. But this wasn't in sleep. It was real. It was true.

Almost all my nightmares have come true now. I have some duties to perform. I have some responsibilities to tend to. I have nothing else, fortunately.

And when I have lost everything, when the worst has been realized, when the last nail has been plugged with a sound tending to a finality, when I am dead without being dead, I realize why I cross the road running everyday and wait an extra half second in the middle of the road looking at the approaching automobile, why I try to plug my feet on a treacherous slope and slip and fall and have a chronic hurting back and never tell anyone about it, why I need something to sleep every night, why I walk on the outside of the pavement with a palm stretched backward,  why I am always faking and lying to everybody around me, why I am so impervious to every thing else and nothing affects me other than one person, why I sometimes call out a name in sleep, why I am perfecting the art of shutting down.

I have had a Dumbledoresque vision of Love being the real solution, of sticking it out, never dumping the other one. It wasn't insecurity, my dear. It was about being the only one. I am sorry I was wrong. It works in the magic realm, not the earthly communion.

Ruined inside. Cold outside.

The final step is due someday. Hopefully I will never have to write about it.

I was married. I don't have any papers.
I am divorced. I don't have the 'proof' for that either.
I would have, someday, been the father of your child.
I will not have my Arya. Maybe you will have yours.

Ar parchi na.
Ar parchi na ami.
Oi din er opekkhae boshe,
Jedin ar parbo na.

Jebhabe drishyo anek gilchhe amay roj,

Sebhabei aaral pele bhangchhi ami, hochchhi je nikhonj ||

Jekhane daak pathale mrito-deher bhire

Sekhane tulchhi chhobi, tolchhi neshaay, aaschhi abar phire ||

Ei bujhi phaskalo haat, aar kalo raat kore samay gelo ayojone,

Pratyekdin bhoy pawa sab ichchhe gulo anek jhorer shabdo shone  ||

Aaj seshmesh nei, tor keu nei, keu nei...

I want you to want me.
The way I want you.
The way it should be.

But then, it never is the way it should be.

You know your futile desperate position when you run out of matchsticks and end up lighting smokes from the butt of the previous one in the late night dark while getting wet from the gentle rain sitting on the stairs and suddenly realizing it is morning and you don't know how time passed you by while you were weeping by the red sky.

Waif in a limbo.

Confessions of a procrastinator

It has been a long time since I have written something of substance. Maybe, that is the best indicator of what I have become. A procrastinator.

I think this is something I will do and end up postponing it. I am stuck up in a job which gives me no time for myself. But with all my contradictory mind I get the feeling if I had early evenings home, I would have ended up wasting them. There is so much to do. I have, or (for the currently over lethargic me) had so many ideas. I don't follow up on them. I think of studying up for something which throws me into utter confusion about what to do with my career. I think of teaching the under privileged with the ever pugnacious thoughts of the forced-workaholic me working behind the scenes in the mind. I think of playing/practising the guitar with 'tomorrow' coming to the rescue of my un-acting self. I think everyday I will work on some fitness, go for a run early in the morning only to do it once and then forget it for the next 45 days and keep up the encouragement for my increasing bulge. Probably the only thing I actually end up doing the way I want to is talking to/with D.

Honestly, I pity myself for what I have become.

If I still don't act, all I will end up with is blaming myself and getting caught up in the blamegame with myself.

Buckle up buddy, before it is too late...

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler"
 - Albert Einstein

" Himmat se jo koi chale,

  Dharti hile kadmo taley,

  Kya dooriyan kya faasle,

  Manzil lagey aake galey "

The question is, Am I good enough?

Tough Asks, Tough efforts.

Saawan Beeto Jaye Peharwa
Mann Mera Ghabraye
Aeso Gaye Pardes Piya Tum
Cheyn Humein Nahin Aye

Mora Saiyaan Moh Sey Bolay Na
Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Tu Jo Nahin to Aisay Piya hum
Jaisay Soona Aanganaa
Nain Tehaari Raah Neeharey
Nainnan Ko Tarsao Na

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain
Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay
Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa
Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na
Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Yearning...

Its been raining outside continuously, anonymously. The drizzly silhouette of a couple under an umbrella behind the smoke of the raindrops is what I can make out. Someday, I would like us to walk in this drizzle, at this time of the night, anonymously, chippering and chattering along, with the sides of our shirts getting wet, escaping the large puddle formed in the road crater and swearing at the car which just went by, splashing the dirt flowered water soiling our wet feet. And then we would have a corn cheese sandwich and walk back lusting for some hot tea, and then stopping at a tea stall, and sitting on the wooden planks, more rotten than wet and shivering slightly and smiling lightly. And then, we would walk back the same way, and we would again get wet in the rain which is now something more than just a drizzle. And you would feel warm in just the way I would hold you and walk.

Once more you open the door...

" I realized that despite the fear and the bruises of life, one has to keep on fighting for one's dream." - Paulo Coelho

An unsent letter

Now,
I am a blasphemy.
Mayhem rules me.

I was.
Once upon a time,
I was the one who every country big and small desired to be.
Again, twice upon a time,
I was the one who became the plasma for creation.
Again, thrice upon a time,
I was worshipped for my tenacity and struggle and fight for independence.

And now,
I think,
I was.
I had pots of sculpted gold.
I had hands scripting delicacies.
I had grey matter innovating.
I had.

Why is it I am veering towards the past?
Why is it I am using the past participle to evoke that emotion?
I am in the present, yet I was?

I am independent. I need you all to rise up. I need you all to start saying the right things. I know you are, already. But now, I need you to stop saying those right things, and start working. Words catalyze, actions sustain the reaction.

I have reached the bottom of this bottomless pit. You have to accept this. I have no able administration. I am just a couple of doors behind absolute anarchy. I have been able to redefine the boundaries of corruption. But all is not lost, and that is, because, you are there. It's time.

Why are you all staring around? Have you not been able to understand it's you who I am talking to? Yes you, and you, and you...

It is only when you all will account yourself to yourself with the same intensity as you blame the other rascal, that I will be what I was again. The future beckons. For the first time, I have referred to future. Don't disappoint me. You have to stick it out. We have to stick it out.

I will be where I was.


For now,
I am India.