So I have an ancient laptop which is old enough to be thrown into the dumps but still a few years shy of being called vintage, hence it takes forever to start which I normally hate but today particularly so because I am bursting up with emotions I need to vent out and don't even want to waste a moment afraid that the words bubbling inside me would somehow fizzle out and I would be left with a dreary choice of words which would pale in comparison to what I had been feeling at the moment just because I was not able to find the right words to express my emotions. Have you loved a fictional character so much that they seemed more real to you than anything or anyone else you had in real life? Now some would say no, and the others who read books would know what I am trying to say. As I have grown older this feeling has hit me lesser and lesser but today as I sat down to read Turtles All The Way Down by John Green I was hit with that familiar old feeling, where the story remains with you long long after the story has ended. It's a beautiful sensation, feeling so overwhelmingly for someone who doesn't even exist. But perhaps we love them so much because they exist in us, as parts of us that we sometimes choose not to address, or simply ignore trying too hard to fit in a normal world. But then sometimes we read a book and we discover a character we fall in love with, simply because it made us rediscover who we had buried deep inside of us. I don't even know if I make sense right now and I don't intend for anyone to ever read it, and perhaps no one would really, but on this Christmas eve, I am thankful for stories; and for the various versions of us we can find and rediscover and even live simply by being a part of a story, whether by reading or even writing one. As John Green writes, the world is a billion of years old, and life is a product of nucleotide mutation and everything. But the world is also the stories we tell about it.

Forgetting you

I tell my friends I am over you
But yesterday when our 'mutual friend' mentioned your name
My heart skipped a beat
And it was all I could do
To not turn my mouth
Like I had just tasted blood again
I go out with eight different guys
Seven days of the week
And keep my schedule chalked to the T
I do all the things I love
Just so I don't have the time to think
How I love them a little lesser
Now that you aren't here anymore
I tell myself I have forgotten you
Yet sometimes
My fingers type your phone number on their own
As if they had their own mind
Which refused to forget
Exactly how your touch felt
And how perfectly your fingers
Filled the spaces between mine
No matter how many more fingers
They entwined with
No matter how many more
Lips they touch.

REALITIES

Ever since I was a little girl
I have an image etched in my memory,
A huge temple
A larger crowd
And a sea of people in front of me.
But all I was curious about
was a man with a tattered jacket and
only one shoe,
His gaze was faraway and when he smiled
his mouth revealed a missing tooth.
That man sat there gazing
to a place faraway in another land
He was so engrossed and completely lost
he didn't even notice he was holding up a queue.
"Who is that?" I asked my dad,
I was only five.
"A lunatic." He replied.
But he looked so happy in his game
making phone calls,writing mails
His phone was a broken comb
and in thin air he typed
A loonatic?
Fancy! I replied.
At age ten, in the same spot I sat again
watching him
He looked just the same.
the same "Macbook air"
legs folded neatly without a care.
When eighteen, I crossed paths with him again.
Is he absolutely crazy or the only one who's sane?
What is real and what is not
Who is to tell, who knows
It's an insanely thin line as far as sanity goes.
But today, as I sit here across from you,
and you cup my small hand
under your warm palm
you quell all my tornadoes.
And I know now
if there is ever something close to real,
close to the truth;
It is you.
It is you.
It is you.

A case for letting you go

Oh baby,
I know the blanket
seems too warm to step out
Into a world unknown
and terrifying
And honey,
I know my arms are a good place to hide
from things untypical
and mystifying
And darling,
why you've got to step out anyway
and take that long flight
To foreign lands
and strange looking people
Who make you feel
like a fish out of the sea
and fumble and stumble at
a language you can't even read
Oh sugar,
why do you have to do the things
that make your heart pound
and your palms sweat
When things here seem
Perfect
Flawless
Pristine
Just fine
Normal
Uninspiring
Routine
Smothering
Oh baby,
I know my embrace is
a good place to hide
But let this be the last one tonight
For tomorrow, you go see the world
and eat that Thai curry with the coconut
Which will make your tongue burn
and get cheated by a conman
pretending to be a guide
And get lost
in the various
twists
and turns
and narrow alleys
and dead ends
In a city you don't know
like the back of your hand
And maybe,
you stumble upon a little corner
that feels like home 
in a foreign land
Oh baby,
this blanket might seem warm
But don't let it chain you
From all the adventures
You have to get on. ❤

Looking for the right questions

Ever since Radha got a hold of her senses, she remembers being asked questions. She remembers being five, and being made to stand in a living room, a hoarde of friends and family surrounding her, throwing in one question after the other. "Radhu, what comes after D beta?", "Baby who is the Prime Minister of India", " tell me quickly what is 2+2?" Confused and bewildered with all those eyes watching her keenly she used to wade through all the questions, looking intently at the reactions of people around her. Her mummy's eyes sparkled with pride each time she got it right. Daddy laughed, clapping for her. And Bomkish Dadu even gave her candies. Knowing answers was important it seemed.
As Radha grew bigger, so did the seemingly never ending questions and the expectations of her getting them right. "What is metamorphosis?", "What did Robert Frost mean when he said he took the road not taken and that has made all the difference", "what do you want to be when you grow older", "Where do you see yourself in five years?". How? When? Why? What? Nonetheless, Radha tried as hard as she could to get them right. After all, how could she miss the chance of seeing mummy's eyes sparkle, and daddy laughing with pride. The clapping didn't happen anymore, and forget about the candy. After all she wasn't a baby anymore, was she?
But the harder she tried to get the right answers, the more she felt like she was failing. The backgrounds changed. From the living room to the classroom to the Dean's office to the boardroom, but Radha still felt like that five year old trapped in a 5 feet 4 inch 40 pound body; struggling to wade through, flailing around in a sea of questions. Until one day, she realised, while she was busy answering, she had forgotten to ask. Why does five come after four? Why isn't a rose called a lily? Do I need to choose between science and commerce? Why can't I do both? Or none of them if that's possible?  Why do I have to decide what to do in the future? What about what I want to do now? But most important of all questions, is the question that why do we need to know answers of all questions? And if we know those answers, are the questions good enough?

Vanilla Twilight

You know, those memories of childhood?
The ones which feel make believe?
Well, mine involved orange skies and
the sun eaten up by the seas
A football net and ducks waddling on the shore
It's funny how well we remember such intricate details
about the places we haven't even been to before.
I close my eyes and I am back
to that beach that has no name
And it seems like it is the only place
I can truly call home
A gentle breeze grazes my cheek
And I smile
For it's a day that perhaps didn't actually happen
which is the favorite day of my life.
I open my eyes and can't stop smiling
for I see the those orange skies reflecting back
in yours
And  somehow I am sure
I have a real favorite memorythis time
finally a real home.

SAFE HAVEN

I opened the door and quietly sneaked in.

And was immediately hit by the familiar scent of what was the only thing that felt like home lately. The room is dimly lit, almost dark, but for the flickering bulb refusing to die just yet. Had it not been for the ricketing excuse of a fan; hanging on a wire (literally), it would have been so quiet you could even hear your eyes blink. Well, the fan, and Raj Anna. Raj Anna is gently snoring in the corner, perched comfortably on his worn out rocking chair;the only perk of working in this hundred year old library, as he often tells me. And I always disagree, for each page of the gazillion books sitting gracefully on the shelf tops offer you infinitesimal reasons of spending hours, even days over here. I tiptoe to my corner of the dusty books filled with yellowing pages and tattered jackets. Battered and torn and used and abused, much like me. But also loved and cherished and still useful, perhaps like me. 

"What is it going to be today, miss?" I ask myself as I take one. The title has almost faded from the spine and the front jacket is covered with an inch of dust. "The perfect canvas." I muse, tracing flowers and stars over the dusty jacket. The corner has perhaps been eaten up by moths so all I can read is Pride and Preju-. Well who cares about the corners anyway. A little something written in blue calligraphy peeps at me from the torn corner.
"Dear Jeeru,
I don't know if it was pride that kept me away from you all this time, or my prejudice of the odds always being against us. But I guess

that doesn't matter anymore, for what is Mr. Darcy save for his Liz. (Saved by her too.)
Always.
Ajay."
I smile as a treacherous tear goes astray. Atleast some always would stand the test of time, even if only between the pages of the book, I think, as I open one more door and quietly sneak in.

Dear stranger I am in love with

Dear stranger I am in love with
You don't know me, and how would you; for every time I muster the courage to go and say hello to you my knees buckle and my stomach threatens to lurch and don't even ask about the speed with which my heart begins to race, like it's in the final lapse of the F1. Thank god for my rib cage, otherwise I am pretty sure I wouldn't have a heart anymore. At least now you would know the reason for the constricted face I make when you smile at me when we pass each other in the corridors. I promise I am not acting like a bitch, I am just worried my heart doesn't jump out of my throat while doing somersaults. I am not sure if you are a stranger to me now, for I have seen all your pictures; from when you were a little boy dressed as a joker for fancy dress, to the time you rescued Ram Laddu (He sounds more like a halwai than a dog by the way), all the way to your graduation pictures. I remember all your statuses like they were asked in my board exams and have religiously browsed the comment section in each of your posts like it's relevant in national interest. It would be safe to say I tread on dangerous waters for you while stalking your instagram from 67 weeks ago. So we are not strangers anymore, at least not for me. I have already imagined all the possible circumstances life might put us in, how I might stumble on you sitting in a quaint cafe reading Murakami, when I am more confident and prettier and can finally call out your name casually like it's no big deal and even be bold enough to strike a conversation about why I think Norwegian Wood sells you short. And then we start dating and I can finally get to tell you how dreams actually come true sometimes.
But until then I can only gawk from afar and seethe with envy as the hot popular girls flirt with you like it's no big deal. Waiting for you to say hello, and praying for my tongue to not close in on me again.