Soliloquy.

Soliloquy.

Friday, 8 April 2016

The world is your circus.


The world is your circus. You live amongst lions, wolves, trampolines, gymnasts, ballet dancers, jokers, and of course, magicians. 

And at one point of time, you will begin to dream. You will dream of something phenomenal, because that's what dreams are for. At least it will feel extraordinary to you. Maybe it will look like magic and maybe, you will believe, that this time you can make it become.
People won't believe you. People will bring science into the picture. They will say, "oh you poor thing, look at all the odds. I know you wish for magic, but is that thing real? I know you think that you will change the world. But how much can you do?" They will exclaim how convention, dear God, is one treacherous scum. It can make the world bigger, and at the same time a lot more smaller. "Why are you here?", they will ask, with that outrageously anxious face. "Nobody comes here, and everyone goes there, and yet, here you are. Be practical.  Play it safe, you idiot. It's a dangerous place, where you are and you will regret what you're doing.  Oh, I tell you! Nothing good can ever come from this."

Oh, the irony. Science and a circus.

You are brave.

And grey is your color. The other day, you saw the world in black and white, and it felt so wrong. You told yourself, science is cruel. You've been there ever since. And maybe you, almost, for the very first time got up to do your thing, to start your show and the audience told you to stop. They gave you a map. "Follow the map", they said. "Where is that everyday thing? We don't know if this will work, but We're sure as hell that will." And they will make history dance right in front of your dreamy eyes. "Wake up! Wake up!" History will scream and that trance, as they like to call it, will break. You will plummet back from magic to repulsion, from heart to mind, and from reverie, to rationale.

So you'll do what they say. You will jump and you will crawl on the same trampoline. You will fall from a wall tumble down a slippery surface and the audience loves it. You wanted to do that flip in the air and touch the top today, but they gave you science.
You follow the map. And then you did your everyday thing. They were happy. You were okay.

They were happy. You were okay.

Until you weren't.


That day, no matter what they said, you did your thing. There was a map like always and you saw it. It didn't make sense to you anymore. So you threw it  and walked away just like you wanted to. You flipped through the air touched the ceiling and maybe you fell. They told you about how they told you about this. We warned you, they said. Science, they said. Odds, they said. Oh, history, they said. But you were happy. The show was over, they talked about you for a while. And then they moved on.

You were happy.

You were the girl, who broke the line and you liked it. And in spite of what they said you became the person you wanted to.


Some of them couldn't take it, they were disappointed. What a pity to see something like this, they told themselves. She isn't one of us, they claimed. They labeled you. She is a rebel. She isn't black, she isn't white, there is something wrong with her.
But, you were, a bird. And weren't they built to fly? They didn't open the cage for you, so you broke it. 

And finally, one of those days you made it. You touched the ceiling and as you flipped, you left the world in awe. They forgot what they said and they stood up to applaud what you did. When they went home that day, you became another way to be. They told their kids, you can do it like her. Do it like she did. You were grey, and they made you one of the blacks and the whites. Again and again and again. 

If only they understood. If only they told their kids, go ahead. Be the grey. Blacks and whites are too mainstream. Keep the dreams in a porcelain jar, just like that sunlight you once thought you secured when you were 7. And don't let them fade. 

And for a long, long time in forever, it will feel like magic.

-Meha.


Sunday, 28 February 2016

This is not an open letter. No.

I really don't know where to start. I've lost count of all the days, I have spent trying to convince myself that maybe, I should start writing for the world again. Not that it will make much of a difference. But the last few days, or maybe months I must say, has just been me putting in a bunch of efforts to try and write something that is not a piece of me from my personal life. Unfortunately, that results in to another pile of passages, eventually, centered around the different catastrophes I have been in. 

This is one of those rare passages. As a writer (Yes. I dare to call myself that.) , I have never liked putting any shade of my personal life in my work. I once read this stereotype about writers tending to over exaggerate things that happen to them in their pieces, and it hit me harder than it should have. As a result, it has costed me, a few months, trying to search for something I can actually write about, and not end up worrying about the fact that somehow people will judge me for putting my personal life on social media. I need to admit, judgmental people are the only people who intimidate, and piss me off at the same time. And sometimes, what scares me, is I just might be one of them. Coming back to the point. I'm not saying that I've given up writing. That is a very drastic statement to make in the first place. In fact I could safely say it is a false statement. Because I have not. I have been writing a lot. More than I used to in the past few months, of my existence. But I haven't shared a single one of the pieces I wrote, out of the mere worry, that it may include, some part of me, that the world would not like to see.

Until today.

You might want to know what happened to the fear, I have been carrying for almost two months. Some miracle, maybe? Miracles happen to writers, don't they? You must think. Or maybe, you might not be thinking anything at all. (See? I told you I might be one of those judgmental pricks.) Doesn't matter, whatever thought crosses your mind. I'll just let you know that no miracle, or magic has touched my life. No feeling, has overwhelmed me enough to start writing this piece, and actually publishing it. I am still scared to death to share any piece that might reveal a side of my personality that is other than what I choose to show. But today, I've realized that I don't think I'll ever be able to publish any piece if that thought comes in the way. And believe me when I say, that thought somehow, is scarier than any other fear that I have. 

Which brings me to my point. A point that is so simple, yet hard to believe. Ever heard that quote? "The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off." I'm not sure if it's exactly that quote, but if it is, let me warn all the writers reading this. This might piss you off. 

So here it is. *Drumrolls*

Dear writers, there is always, (and I cannot emphasize on how important the word 'always' is in this sentence) going to be a piece of you in your writings. Unless you're not writing something you love, and that too will show, as apathy in your article, which perhaps, is another piece of you. You cannot help it. It is something that is out of your control. Writing is maybe one of the few, areas where I think it helps that your personal and professional lives collide. (Unless, of course, you're writing for a newspaper. You really don't want to read this article, if you do that.) Maybe you will exaggerate what happened to you, but that is only to make people feel, what you are feeling, and not distort the truth. This is especially, for those people who like dark writing. ( I don't know if that's what it's called.) But there is something about tragedy, that makes it beautiful to write about. So it is fine if you let down what you feel on a piece of paper, and share it with the world. They are people too. And this is just a guess, but I'm hoping so many people means, that we can use a little bit of empathy, and we can share a little bit of our feelings. Especially, when you're a writer, who doesn't like eye contact and personal interactions, who would rather spend time in one corner of her room, with maybe one, at the most two, friends. More than that, is something that freaks her out. Or even better, alone. It's way better than attending a party that another hundred people will be going to. Might be the talk of the town, but doesn't enthuse you. Writing, is the only way you will be able to feel free.

Lastly, this article, is mostly, for me more than it is for the rest of the world. This is actually, me sitting in one corner of my room, and explaining to myself, why publishing this article might be a good Idea. I'm still scared of publishing the others. Obviously. That should explain why I haven't shared them yet. But I'll take my time. 

Publishing this has taken a lot of time. Writing this however, has not.

Also, I never thought I would write something like this. Sometimes, I don't even know what I'm doing. 
Thanks,
- Meha.


 









Tuesday, 8 December 2015

APARAJITA.

DISCLAIMER: This ain't real. I make up stories, this is one of those made up ones. So don't get hurt, or offended. Because I am not responsible, if you do. I however, will feel sorry for you. I could have made mistakes factually. I apologize for the mistakes i made, before you even tell me what they are. I hope you appreciate the story if it is worth any appreciation, and overlook those factual mistakes in the story. I hope you criticize the story, and not it's factual details, or the person who wrote it. I also hope you've had a good day. And if you like my work, I was hoping that you would click on the "Join this site" button to your right. Lastly, I hope you have the patience to read the whole thing, and appreciate the time you are giving to do so. Thanks in advance.


Picture courtesy: Sharmistha Dutta Photography.

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    This morning, she woke up to a sky full of promises. She has been like this for a month and two days today. Most of it had been hard, but she has sustained through most of it. Most of it, being the struggle of trying to make herself the person she was before she became, whatever she became.

   She counts each day as if it were to bring her a day closer to all the light that she has lost somewhere, while living life through it's different shades.

   There is a lot life taught her, but most importantly she has learnt that 62 days are enough to change a person so drastically, that you will barely recognize who that person was before. And as much as she hates to admit , this phase of her life, has made her grow into an individual she never thought she would be, before the catastrophe hit. But we learn with the passing chapters of life, and this is one lesson she will always hold on to, for life.

   It took me a while to realize that Aparajita was going through a great deal of mental trauma since the sudden death of her son at the battlefield. I have known her for seven years, and she has always occurred to me as one of those women with a heart of stone. What I failed to understand is that, every once in a while the weight of all that heart has ever been, occurs to the carrier as a potential burden, and you still have to carry it, without making a sound. Life was not easy, and it certainly had not been easy on this woman, so I am definitely kidding myself if I think she was okay. But there is a difference, between not being okay, and being extremely apathetic, and the latter, was not really a pretty thing to be.

   I first saw her in this state, at the park, when we met after a long time. It was our first non-digital conversation in a long while, and not a very great one at that. She did seem like she wanted to tell me something, but then again, she hesitated. Constantly playing with her fingers, and getting worked up too easily, she sat next to me in the park, making me realize she isn't in a pretty place. I asked her, if she was okay, and she told me that she was. I wondered if she really thought that I would believe that. But evidently she didn't care, if I knew that she wasn't okay. All she wanted to do was leave our conversation.

  That weekend I visited her. Of course, she wasn't really happy to see me. But she let me in anyways. I noticed the hints Aparajita was giving me, that I am not wanted here, and that I should probably leave.

  But I stayed. This woman took care of me when I was grieving, and it was my responsibility to be there for her now. So I was just going around the house, picking up the mess that her home had become, ignoring all those looks aparajita was constantly giving me, to make me leave.

And then, I entered her room.

   That's when I saw, all that Aparajita had become in the last two months. There were canvases with paintings of all that she had felt in these 62 days. And they were beautiful. As if a grieving mother had put all her grief into those pictures and felt them in each shade her pain had made. There were paintings of her son, in different colors, blue, green, orange, and other colors, all over the place. And so accurately replicated, it felt like he was there.

He was there.

   That was the point, I thought, of all this. To be able to feel, the presence of her son in all of these paintings, so much so that, that is what she'd rather do, for the rest of her life.

   "You're wrong". She said.
     Me: "Me? I didn't quite..."
   
   She looked at the paintings with blank eyes, and said, "You're wrong, whatever you think this is. I don't do this because I miss him. I can't say I don't miss him, He was my son, and I cannot explain, how my veins ache at the very thought of his death. I curse myself for being so brave enough to send him to the war, and trust me, there is not a moment when I do not think of him. But, you're wrong, I don't paint these canvases because I miss him."

   There was silence for a long while after that, mainly, because I did not want to ask her why she drew them. I preferred to let it be, because if there was something she wanted to say to me, I would not have to ask for it. Such was our friendship, uncomplicated, and settling.

   She said, "Last summer, when Arijit came back from war, I was making those coconut barfi's for him, a day before he was leaving. He loves those. Always told me, "Maa, can't get enough of those Barfi's you make, can't get enough." And every time, he came back, I made a box full of those for him. 3 months ago, which was also our last conversation by the way, when he called me to tell me he was coming, he said he'd come only for two days. And all I could think of, is, I need to make him those sweets beforehand then. Yes, I thought about those sweets."

   She continued, "And I made them, I still have them lying there in that cupboard. I don't think I want to throw them away for now. Not anytime soon." She sighed.

I didn't say anything.

"Do you want to know what was the last thing he told me, that day?", She asked me.

I kept quiet.

   She knew what I wanted, so she continued, "He told me the mission he was going on this time was one of the toughest ones he had ever been to. So I asked him, "What makes you go there, anyway?” And he told me about this lesson he learnt in school when he was little, about how there was a girl named brave who carried a canvas, and every time something bad happened to her, she gave it a color, and she put it on that canvas, and then she tried to change it's color to something she wanted it to be, by applying another set of colors. That, she said, gave her power over the situation." That's what I'm doing", he said. "Which color is this mission, then?", I asked him. And he said, "Red, sounds really like it. So I'll put a little yellow, and we'll make it orange.”,Then there was a moment of silence after that on the phone, after which he said,
"Ma?"
"Yes, Jaan."
"Be Brave.""

   There was silence for approximately five minutes after what Aparajita said to me. We both had our moments.

"Those were his last words."She sighed.

"I know what you're going to say, but I need you to be frank to me, do you think I'm losing it? Not that I care, but I'm really trying here. You understand what I'm doing here, don't you?"

"I do. You're not crazy. You're not anything of that sorts. But there is something odd about this, something maybe none of us will understand, and you shouldn't care about that either. Because if I were your son, I would."

Her eyes welled up, "What is it?", She whispered.

"Aparajita, you aren't crazy."

"They won't understand it, but let me tell you, You, Aparajita, are immensely brave."

-Meha.



Saturday, 15 August 2015

Fierce.

"It's okay." She said. She knew it wasn't, but she said it, anyways. The elevator wasn't working and her office was on the fifth floor.  "That's fine", she told herself, as she ran up the stairs panting. Her husband called her on the way and they had another argument for the next five minutes, so they could decide who picked up Claire from preschool, after which they concluded it would be her. Fine, she told herself. Martha, the secretary came in, told her that she had to meet some new clients at six o' clock. She described the situation as 'urgent' and warned her not to miss it. That's okay, she said. Fixed a meeting with her doctor at seven so she reached home by eight, one hour being enough to make some dinner for the family. Everything's great, and into place, she told herself. Doctor calls at five, tells her to come at eight, something major, it seems. "Okay Doctor" she says. Eight o'clock doctor tells her that she may have malignant brain tumor. Need an operation. Cannot say how long. She doesn't say a word this time.
Doctor: "Ma'am?"
She: "Yeah."
Doctor: "I'm sorry."
She: "Well, It's okay."
She walks out of the hospital goes home, makes the family some dinner. And goes into her room. Looks into me as she sees herself, smiles, and at the same time cries, as she makes herself believe, that everything that is happening to her is okay. I see her whisper, those two words to her self again, and again and again, till she believes them. One blow, and I will break into pieces below someone's feet. But this woman, she won't budge. If I could tell her, how strong and proud I feel only with her reflection on me.  I feel like her. But mirrors can't speak. I am glass, but she?
She, my god, is diamond.
-Meha.


Wednesday, 15 July 2015

The letter.



Dear me,

There are some nights, that I still lay wide awake, almost half dead, and somewhere in the corner of my mind, you arise. I have seen you be human, but i have also seen you become, that monster that I was scared lay under my bed.  And these are the nights, I wonder, just how much could someone change, before, they don't realize the person they have become.
I pick up those tiny glass like pieces, my memory has become, and try to join them, to search for the point where all of you started. I still remember the day you looked into the mirror, and told me, that I wasn't enough. "I need someone", you whispered, as if that was the only thing you ever needed. We often think we need people, that we cannot sustain ourselves alone. Those were one of the days I saw that look in your eyes.  I remember asking you, who was it you needed, with that heavy heart of mine. I warned you, I did. Giving me away piece by piece, is when you started destroying the very foundation, of our existence. But you craved for someone to know you, to understand you, and I wasn't that someone.
I still wonder, if you noticed what you were doing to me. And somehow, the idea that you didn't is more comforting than otherwise. I would have stopped you, but the question is could I? After all, I am merely a fragment of who you are.
So, that is how we reached here, I wonder, with awe, even though this isn't the first time you've crossed my mind. I repeat this cycle of thought every time. And when I reach to this part, I am always left surprised.
You hurt many people, didn't you? Became a monster, to explain those missing pieces of me. If there is anything more dangerous then the aftermath of destruction, it is what it can do to a person.
If this was someone else, you would tell them to stop. That what they were doing, showed lack of self respect, and they should know when to walk away. But that just meant you knew nothing about what they were going through. The full story is more than just a chunk of tarnished self respect.
There are a few things I know you will never forget, and I believe one of them is me. I know that I still cross your mind, on those little coffee breaks that you take while watching the sunset on your terrace. I know that sometimes, you feel a tinge of me left in you, when your eyes well up with tears, and you get goosebumps with the wind hitting your face. For two minutes, you steal a glimpse of what you were before this mess, and I think that it is enough to last you a lifetime. You don't find the whole of me, because I'm bits and pieces scattered at different places. I knew we would reach here, so I did leave an impression of myself, in a little corner of that soul, so that one of these days, you can feel me for a little while.

Maybe someday I will return, but not today. There is still something else you crave for, and I know it isn't me. But maybe someday, you will get up and decide, that you don't require that something. You want it, but you don't need it. I will comeback that day. I sure will.

Till then we will ache in solitude,

You.

-Meha.

Sunday, 12 July 2015

Almost.

I still remember the first time I started writing. All I wanted to do, was make those words rhyme in my first poem, so when I read them again, I feel them. For me words, felt like the bricks to a smaller home which was both safe, and comfortable.

As a child, we see things, that form the silhouette of who we are. Sometimes I wonder if our writings are just words we could not use elsewhere, for if we would have used them, things would've been different. As humans, we ache for completion, and maybe, words gave us just that. Sometimes, all we want is someone who listens, without saying a word, who just hears us out. And I wonder if every person who ever chose to write had that happen to him/her rarely. I think it is the consequence of lack of understanding of reality, that makes us go to this world filled with our own thoughts, words, and artistry.

As a writer, I have seen myself grow and deteriorate, both at the same time. It is ironical, you know, that we as writers, have used the best of our talents, when we have been completely destroyed, or maybe, when we stand at the brink of destruction. And what is even more bizarre is that we hope and pray to stay like this forever. There is something beautiful in words that fill the holes in our souls.

This is a blog full of flaws, and flaws is what will make it beautiful. Flaws are human. I am human. This is me trying to write, as if nobody is reading. This is poetry, prose, diaries, and the other things. This is a blog, for those who almost said something, but then, they could not, so they chose to write, instead. This is a blog, for the clouds, that never rained, like they still ache to say something, they can not. This is a flower that almost bloomed. This blog, is of marshmallows, of unicorns, and of other things. This is about everything, that almost happened, but never did. This is soliloquy.

Welcome to my blog.

In the hopes of writing forever,
-Mia.