An ode to you, the 365th day of the year.

First.
Au Revoir 2013.
2014, here I am saying a heartfelt hi to you.

New year's eve seems like
a perfect time to display some
narcissistic love:)

Largely, across the globe, all over the universe, you are worshipped, celebrated and looked up to. You are a steady diet of hundreds of songs, thousands of sitcom episodes, gazillions of movies. Millions of bloggers publish a post on you. You are the reason people, dress up, get high, loose their lives, fill their hearts with 'resolutions'. Earlier this time of the year, you were welcomed expectedly, with open arms like a pregnant mother awaiting to celebrate the delivery of the cocoon that harvested in her womb for 9 months and just like that, soon you too like a grown up child who is all set to face the wrath and thunder of the world, bid all of us goodbye.You fill the eyes of people with hope, urgency and a kind of demand that is hard to brush off easily. Millions, push their sorrows away and let a brave grin dance on their face, because they consider you legendary, something that needs to be welcomed with extraordinary affection and warmth. For some you were like a breath of fresh air, giving them immense happiness, love and satisfaction and for some you were like the hopeless hurricane that refuses to leave the grounds of earth inspite of everyone's earnest payers. You are optimism. You are pessimism. You are nostalgia. You are melancholy.You are heaps and tonnes of shady adjectives all rolled into one. Hard to believe that you will leave all of us in a lurch today. You will be buried in that coffin whose tombstone some might feel like visiting and some might be not.
To me, you weren't the one who would be worth to cherish for. The amount of percentage of good was humongously low than bad. But you gave me some people, some wonderful souls whom I'd like to be in touch with for eternity. You gave me this unexplained kind of power that I never thought I even possess. I've grown 'that-little-bit-more'. So, for that I will thank you. With bottom base corner of my heart, I am bidding you Sayonara, forgetting the bad as an unpleasant memory and the good as a beautiful one.
2014, is the turning point of my life. This is where my quest begins, where it all starts, this is where I am supposed to say, "Bring it on, baby!"
And I am beginning it with these two beauties. The loves of my life.

I wish I could make this man my
soulmate. Well he is, in my dreams. His presence is mystical.
Murakami. You are a god. To me, atleast.

Come on!
Who on earth doesn't like a nirvana-full
bite of my favorite red velvet?

A happy and an eventful new year to all the people who read this blog.

Much Love,
R.


p.s- 2014, be nice to me, please?

So much me.

“What are you going to do with your life?" In one way or another it seemed that people had been asking her this forever; teachers, her parents, friends at three in the morning, but the question had never seemed this pressing and still she was no nearer an answer... "Live each day as if it's your last', that was the conventional advice, but really, who had the energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to be good and courageous and bold and to make difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance.” 

- David Nicholls, One day.

These past couple of months have been like a whiplash for me. Introspections, Intospections, Introspections. (Double that) There was a mammoth of turmoil that had been infesting on my heart, sucking up all the flavours, gulping it down with immense satisfaction. More than that, when I was questioned by my friends that why do I look so spooked these days, I just shrugged and said, "feeling..umm..a bit empty".

I am 17, I am that stage of my life where with each step I am writing the destiny that lies ahead of me. And to tell you the truth I am clueless trying to figure everything and everyone out. Every day has something different to offer, every one changes overnight. I miss so many things right now. Like so so so many things. Growing up sucks. I miss Rocky- my cheeky 'elder-brother' of a dog. He would've have been 18 this year, if he was here; fooling around with me. I miss my Grandad. What a man!
Liberal, funny, kind, loving.
Probably he's the only person who would set everything alright with giving me just the required piece of advice. He knew me inside out. He's the one who inculcated in me, the habits of reading and writing as a kid. By the time I had reached class 5, I had already taken a liking towards Robert Frost and Khalil Gibran, while children my age were busy toying around with pokemon (don't blame them though; always been a bit of a weirdo) And the best part with him was that he was always eager to learn everything new. I still remember, teaching him how to eat wontons. He was one cool man.
Won't talk about him much. Thinking that he's not with me anymore saddens the misery out of me. But, I sure as hell know, that he's watching over me from his place in Orion, with a Sidney Sheldon book in his hand. And he were alive right now, we both would probably be hotly debating about India's take on homosexuality. Capital offence? seriously?
Miss you, Dadu. A lot.
I had my exams recently, and I spent much of November locked up in my room, only coming out by Dad's-"Time for Lunch, beta" and Mom's- "Are you alive, in there?" Saying books and music are helping me going through these weird phases lately, is an understatement. They help me miraculously. Anoushka shankar, lana del rey, John Mayer, Broken bells, Ynidi halda, lots of books and sleep have been amazingly helpful.
God, I am sounding like a person who's been asked to join the Al-Qaeda and can't make up her mind!
Nevermind. I know this post is nothing but a summing up of what's been happening all this while. And I am here to assure you, that I'll have a few post's of fiction coming right up. This was just a little part of me screaming out a bit of self-assurance that- I am going to be just fine:)

Snowflakes in summer.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.                

Her eyes whispering the thoughts of fading immortality.                      

Arms loose with burden of the scanty flesh.

The bitter reason behind those unpainted nails.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.

A jute bag that hung lightly on those incumbent shoulders.

She didn't complain though.

Somehow she perceived the brunt as pleasure.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.

Her dampened hair beating the fury of Medusa's.

A voice with a glint of sharpness.

That short-lived sharpness plunging into the bed of seas.

Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with a stupor that no one else could pull off.
Call her Alice, Call her Athena.
Paint her crimson, drench her in black.
Because she believes that no colors could be put in the box called 'favorites'.
Each had their poise, each infused with a breath of life.
Yes, she spoke a million untold stories.

She walked with stupor that no one else could pull off.
Her shaggy coat, her vivid smile.
Her auburn face, her wretched cries.
Her brilliant fingers, her futile tries.
She would probably take a subway or board a bus.
Taking the window seat, her eyes gazing outside.
And there she is, amidst the herd.
Her mind brewing a chain of thoughts.
Remember?
She told a million untold stories?

p.s- the poem is open-ended.
p.p.s- No, this blog is not dying a natural death.
p.p.p.s- I'll post more often.
Okay Ta-ta & good night!:)

We almost had it all.

And I heard Rolling in the deep, AGAIN! god! Adlele! everytime I hear her singing, a shiver runs down my spine. She makes everything overwhelming. The lyrics just make too much sense these days.

That tall sharpened pencil that keeps stumbling and rolling on your study table, the one that you put behind your ears or use it to keep your hair tightly wrapped around in a bun, carelessly slide it in your lips and drift away to a whirlwind of thoughts, if's & buts and possibilities.
That tip, that very tip. It's filled with so much power.
We see our dreams, our future, who we want to be right with our eyes wide opened. We live to see. See to live. Our aims, aspirations, goals. We want them bad. We want them soon. We want them now. But however we end up convincing our nerve cells to give it some time, wait for it and then bask in the after glory when it has been achieved. Without thinking we hatch a conspiracy about our future, we want them filled with every kind of object, person, situation, or melo-drama. Yeah, we become greedy, selfish and demanding. We become everything that we shouldn't.

And then all of a sudden, that tall pencil rolls by, falls down and you're left there. Naked, exposed, vulnerable and incomplete. Your dreams get shattered, your hopes get twisted and lips stop to twitch.
You pick the broken lead, take a good long glance at it. Clasp them within your fingers and throw it away with a heavy heart. As if those dreams crashed right at that precise moment when the tip touched the ground. And you're left there all alone, with your dreams to mend and hearts to look after. You look away at another direction, take a deep breath while closing your eyes, turn your head around and there, you're left murmuring, - Almost had it all.

Apologies.

Holaaa!

I know, I know It'' been a LONG time that something was posted up here. Partly because of being busy with school, partly because of some bizzare theories that keeps humming in my mind and partly because I am a nutcase. Well, life's been good this far. Mornings are pleasant, with friends by your side, you are bound with strings of laughter and memories. Afternoons go bland and poetic. Nights, well nights, I find intriguing and still trying to figure what it wants for me. I completed reading four books, 'Far from the maddening crowd'- Thomas Hardy ( It's a Hardy, man! what more can I say?), 'Six yards of silk'- Mallika Krishnamoorthy( plain storyline with beautiful and vivid descriptions), 'One Day'-David Nicholls( Delight for the romantic idiots), 'Sons & Lovers'- D.H Lawrence ( Hard to believe.). I've been doing my portfolio and there are couple of write-ups in them that I am particularly fond of. Also, there's Psychology. A period where I marry unicorns with pheonix'es. Where I think about dating a cocker-spaniel, give creepy looks to my equally creepy chapati-faced teacher, where my imagination meets the wilderness of the amazons. And my mind wanders off. Sometimes these fantasies keep going on and sometimes I am productive and write poetry and stories.

So, that's what I am posting right now. A story that I wrote a couple of classes back.

Here it goes.

                                                     

     

                                                                 ~July Despised~

Maya sat up from the rocking chair. Not her's. Her Grandad's. A beautiful rosewood piece whose armrests had traces of Madhubani paintings engraved on it. Her ears finding solace in the rich, velvety-soft voices of Agnetha and Anni singing Mamma Mia. 'The antonyms of life!' she thought and chuckled to herself. The black-rimmed spectacles with high-powered bifocal lenses were still kept on the study, without any hindrance. And her Grandpa's room still smelled of him. A stale stench of sandalwood and furniture, which she didn't find appealing anymore. She walked up to change the 'abba' vinyl playing in the radiogram. But instead she just stopped, right in the middle. Her white face which seemed like a corpse now. And in that pale yellow room with now muted lights, she imagined her Bhilai man dancing with her. Whose presence still lingered in their old little house. 

       It was an astonishing discovery to find him pale, like that. His cheeks, had lost their glow and grace. He sat there motionless still fast asleep in his beloved rocking chair. Eyes closed with spectacles still covering them, and a copy of 'The Godfather' tightly clutched around his pot-bellied tummy. It was Maya, who found him like that. Not her parents."Dadu, get up It's getting late. I've told you earlier too, right? you HAVE to STOP reading after midnight. Get Up!" she yelled, rolling up the curtains, opening the windows. 

But he didn't get up. His last breath was ensnared within that four-walled maze.

He had died. 

And took away with him a piece of Maya's heart, which she was desperately trying to find. 

   And there she was standing right in the middle of her Dadu's room. Trying to reason with herself.

Now there'd be no one who would take her hand right into his and calm her down. No one, with whom she could debate Frost and Wordsworth with. No one would gaze into her eyes and story-tell her. Now, who would ask her to go Shimla just because that was a place that helped him get through tough times and he believed, that it would cure her Granddaughter's problems too. There was no one now, with whom she could talk about the beauty of chinese food. He won't see her off to college nor would he smile, his deep-dimpled smile. He won't give her talks about the Frenchmen and Jacobian's nor would he sigh and boast about his daily meetings with his friends- the chain-smokers of the Calcutta Coffee House. There won't be a prickly hand wrapped around her's when she walked on her terrace, spotting the constellations. She had to do that all by herself now. 

She was alone. 

   A few months after July, she could hardly talk. Let alone eat and sleep. That'd take up all her energy. She just sat on the bamboo 'jhula'  hugging her Gran's spectacles. It seemed as if, her body got accustomed it. To not eating or drinking much. Grapes and water was the only thing she consumed. Her collar bones tearing apart her skin, her shoulder blades now seemed as bird's wings flapping vigourously whenever she moved her limbs. And her cheek had sunken. She had cut her short right at the day of the funeral. And buried them in their garden and planted a Neem sapling on it. 

She did that for her Bhilai man. Her Grandpa. Her cherished pal.

  And as these thoughts kept flushing her mind right in the middle of her buddy's room. She walked closer towards the oddly-coloured ochre almirah. Opened it and found a box. A big blue-coloured box. She opened it hurriedly and all of a sudden, her eyes which hadn't been moist for the past 9 months, were stinging with pearl-sized tear drops. The eyes that had forgotten the feel of kohl were suddenly filled with tears which now justified there presence. 

   In that box lay a beautiful, purple-crimson windchime. The same windchime she had lusted for when she last went shopping with him. It had flowers, wines, birds and several other charms embodied on the silver strings. And tiny little bells that made a lovely sound when anyone touched them. "How I wished I had one of those!" she had said with a glint of sadness. Gramps had just smiled and they walked forward, hand in hand. With nothing much to talk about.

    He had bought that for her. Maybe for her birthday. Maybe he just knew, she needed the warmth of his presence and his smell dangling even after he was gone.

   Taking her gift, to her bedroom she hung it right near the window, facing the balcony. And everytime it made a sound, a smile that had abandoned her would return to grace her face. She ran her fingers over her oversized tee, brushed her hair and drifted away thinking that she was not alone after all. Tonight she would hop on to her terrace and talk to the brightest star that shined under the blankets of the thick skies and would quietly whisper, " You're still here. Aren't you?" 

                                                                 ~The end~

                                          (As I sit writing this post, Sia sings 'I go to sleep' to me)

                                                          

For the best men of our lives.

To, my dearest father.


For the man, with a one-dimpled smile.

For the man with a selfless kind of love.

For the strongest and bravest man I know.

For the man who taught me to be courageous and straight-forward.

For the man who'd always take a note of my words and take me seriously.

For the man who'd always have telepathic eye-contact with dogs.

The best'est' butter-chicken and chicken malai tikka cook ever.

The man whom I get my temper from.

The man with the biggest and cleanest heart.

The man who brims with an immense knowledge.

The man who yawns no less than a African lion.

The man who'd watch Bear Grylls eating grilled snakes without blinking his eyes.

A protector. A saviour.


Ah! Dad that's you. Wait! that would be too mainstream.
My Phantom. My Robin. My Tom. My Batman.

Happy Father's Day, Papa.
For everything said and done, you of all the people deserve the best of life.

Much Love,
Nimi.

Dad and Rocky.

                                                                  

Love to you, Zombie:)

Midori. Midori Kobayashi. 
She's a character from Haruki Murakami's ' Norwegian Wood'. She funny, she's pretty. She's outgoing yet she has her own set of hardships. She's quirky and full of life yet within her she keeps on unfolding little mysteries. Yet she's so different.  Yet she's so amazing.

I've got a buddy who resembles a lot like her. So, I've got my own Midori Kobayashi.
It's funny how you meet certain people and they bring out an unexplored side of yours. The part of yourself that still remains a mystery to you. They push in some kind of miraculous strength into your system. They give you that respite that you really need. Seeing their faces fills you with ceaseless laughter.

I like the way the two of us have become. When we walk down the corridors of school intently buried in our conversations that are so different. The talks on the Third world and what according to us are 'Normal' people. It doesn't have to be words always, right? what do friends do? steal glances, throw a shy smile, look deep into one another's eyes and, viola! they get what's going on in each others minds. I still regret teaching her Madonna's- Like a virgin (and C'mon let's get candid,YOU CAN'T SING! & stop with that 'keep bleeding love'! it's depressing!) . Just like any other set of girlfriends we talk about hot guys (Bradley Cooper, for instance!) and how we are Brangelina's long lost daughters. (yeah! we know we are super-creepy but by saying that it gives us a weird sense of self-assurance). The kind of hogger that'd put Joey Tribbiani to shame. And never give away your dabba's to her, I am warning you, people!

And she has the kind of laughter which spreads like an epidemic. Her smile is to-die-for and of course she is blessed with gorgeous raven black hair. But more than anything else, she listens to me with all ears. She is one of the few people who don't twist their words, bend the tone of their voices and believe in giving a straight advises. If I cry over my petty agonies she'll help me get out of it speaking just the right words. I am not one of those people who let people seek through them ( and I don't regard this as a quality, AT ALL). It takes a while for me to let them see through me, but you Y, you're different. I don't recall how we became friends but I'm sure it must've been because of two dirty-minds clinking together like broken glass pieces;)

And I am so proud of her. She knows what pain is. She has seen misery and loss. The way she has coped with her grief and the way she still manages to stifle out a chuckle isn't anybody's cup of tea. Sometimes she has her days. Like every other girl, she faces non-PMS days when she finds every single thing around her annoying and all she wants is to be left alone, with her thoughts fluttering in her mind. She is so strong and worthy. She instilled the value of 'not- giving- a- damn' and giving the world a hard time.

Though she says that nobody will know her completely, that no one will know what keeps on tinkling in her heart, but I think I am coming to know what kind of beautiful soul she is. And I know what I'll discover at the end.

A little piece of advise to you,Y- Stay happy and amazing. Give those jerks 'on-your-face' with your snappy comments and spread the love that resides in your heart for the wonderful ones you meet .
That's it!
And did I ever mention it before? she's my hideous YET adrenaline loving zombie who believes that lifting her legs while walking is too mainstream. A serious sufferer of two left feet, I tell you! ;)

Thanks Midori!
Thank you so much, Y for making my life so brilliant.You have no idea how strong you've made me. Yet you bring out that terrible child in me. With you, conquering the world is gonna be so much fun.

Let's say- "Bring It On", Shall we?