You’ve got mail

I have my feet resting on the opposite chair, half slouched on a cane chair with a bowl of chocolate ice cream along with a glass of espresso vodka right next to me and mooning over this movie.

There are some people you meet, completely out of chance, to think of it everyone we meet is out of chance. Out of the 7.2 billion people here, there must be a stroke of luck for us to meet. I wonder at times if we would talk to each other the way we talk now, over mails, twice a year phone calls, messages, or 3am calls, if we were to be passing each other on a street, or if we were standing in a line at the supermarket.

Would you glance, turn around, walk up to me and say hi?

Strangers are nice, maybe or maybe not. At times they remind me of lilies, slender, long green stalks with delicate white petals, or like a cup of coffee with warm cake, or lights in a wine glass. At times not some nice people too walk in, with motives, intentions, books of lessons to be learnt.

Like long walks on a sandy beach, licking popsicles, blue orange green, though the sad part is that there are no beaches where I live. Or sitting on a bench in a park listening to songs while the world walks by. Wolfing down the cheesiest pizzas topping them up with brownies at a shop around the bend. Soaking sun on a cold morning, like the smell of a second hand book, rediscovered.

I started writing which I now discover gave rise to this blog after watching this movie. The prospect of chancing upon a stranger, long random conversations, no specifics, about life, stars, winding roads, ferris wheels, fields of daisies and colours of the sky. Riding on a bike in Kashmir, relearning how to ride a cycle, dance without a care in the world and sing loudly even with a tone deaf voice.

To the stranger reading this, you won’t find me in pubs, bars or parties, on facebook or tinder, instead you may chance upon me in a café around the corner, nose stuck in a book, munching on crumbly Osmania biscuits with strong sweet chai at a makeshift shop, or mail me at awanderingstorytellerwp@gmail.com

Advertisements

Happy Birthday to Me

Its 2 in the night, or the morning, somedays time seems to lose all of its vague significance. People say don’t waste time, that time flies, yet there are days that pass like years and others when you fall into such a grind that all days seem the same. Time loses its effort of being put into boxes of seconds, minutes and years, all muddled.

In the arms of a lover, seconds feel like centuries, that heartbeat was one that lasted for ages, witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms, the birth of stars, yet never is enough. You could lie wrapped in those arms for years, and that wouldn’t still be enough.

Why all these thoughts?

It’s my birthday today. Another year passes and I can feel my soul getting older, or younger, wanting to be nestled in a blanket, listening to Janacek Sinfonietta, and also being buried in an avalanche of balloons. Or wolf down two big bowls of chocolate ice cream, this for all you know maybe the ice cream high talking.

Another year and still the same relationships. I try to not let things mean too much, some things can’t be fixed, maybe they aren’t broken that requires mending, maybe that is the way that they are supposed to be.

Called my twin sister to wish her, all that she did was cut the call. Well still better to acknowledge my call instead of pretending that I don’t exist.

The funny thing being that I hate telling people that it is my birthday, or those 12am calls. Like an old bird, I prefer a warm hug, long conversations, mails or letters and chocolates, instead of a HBD (height of being lazy) on whatsapp or a forcible facebook wish, one that refuses to step down the top of the notification bar.

This year I make no promises of being strong, being better, getting over people, building/burning bridges. This year I want to breathe, and feel free. Do nothing, let the waves push past me, leave those chains of ambition and walk on the grass, let problems and confusion tie themselves in a knot and be undone on their own, not bother, take a hot bath and let my thoughts flow.

Let Me Go

Let Me Go

Love as much mends, breaks.

Breaks hearts, habits, fills cracks, and creates more, hurricane of happiness and cyclone of sadness.

We could sit and fight on whose fault it was that things ended,

Mine, Yours or Circumstances?

 

Let Me Go

For I have learnt many a lesson, broken trust, shards of glass that still manage to hurt,

And so I have learnt to breathe, again. To take one day at a time.

That time will never heal wounds, you learn to live with the pain,

Until it becomes a part of you, nestled right under your skin.

 

Let Me Go

And despite what has happened, I still love you,

Some part of me, in some corner of my heart.

But in a different way, one I can’t explain.

You see, love can’t just be stopped,

Like energy, it can neither be created nor destroyed, all it does is take another form.

 

Let Me Go

I feel like I’m not the same person I knew a year ago,

All changed, yet the same,

Like one day I woke up and remembered you, us as two people in a separate lifetime.

 

Let Me Go

Sleepless nights, tear stained pillows and cheeks,

All in 23 years, I have cried maybe a handful times, such was my strength.

This time something broke, and here I was alone, grappling in a flood of emotions,

On the surface, to this day no matter how bad the pain, I manage a smile.

It’s strange that I miss the sound of my laugh, that loud carefree one.

 

Let Me Go

Funny thing sadness is, it makes you kinder,

Capable of listening to others, truly listening to their problems.

Forces you to feel, unlock that Pandora’s Box,

Enough of being an escape artist, it coaxes.

 

Let Me Go

With you some part of me got lost, broke, withered and died,

Even after the lies, indifference, hurt,

Maybe the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Dreams

I dream of having a forest in my backyard,

Laden with tall pine trees and jasmine plants.

Whenever I walk and run through, its after scent hinges onto me,

For Days. Months. Years.

To build a swing with ropes and tie it to a high branch,

Feel my feet rise above the ground and my hair sway with the wind,

In a lush green open field, scattered with daisies, white and yellow.

Sleep under the stars, clear dark skies and dazzling twinkling stars,

Paint all the beautiful lines that have ever been written,

Across walls, on the streets,

Writing love, one word at a time.

Dangle my feet from a high rise, sitting on the parapet,

With a glass of rum with ice clinking,

Trying to grow my wings and fly away…

Wind and Words.

Wall

I lay on the bed, and stare at the dilapidated wall, parts of the paint scrape, fall and bleed.
A myriad of craters, cracks and colors.

Fading pinks, concrete, dirty green moss and the burnt red bricks.

Strangely it reminds me of you, of how we were. Like a fresh coat of glistening paint, it brought out the best in us. Sparkling eyes brimming with dreams, the madness of love, a heart filled with the hope of new beginnings.

With time, the novelty wore off, life tends to do that.
New mountains to scale, pretty faces and a hundred roads to explore.

Insecurities and desire seeped in, with the occasional bout of jealousy and a twang of regret. Water had done its damage on the wall, parts of it peeled, exposing the hard cement underneath and an unwarranted growth of moss.

Do you recollect that day?
Remember how when I asked you if we should try and mend it, you  brushed away my concerns.
The wall is strong enough to withstand a few tragedies and it is just a wall, you scowled, gritting your teeth.

You see my love, like the peeling paint, I knew you had gone. Albeit not completely, one painful step after another, away from me.

As you left, I asked you one last time, was there anything that we could do to save us, a fresh coat of paint maybe?
All you did was pound your fist on the wall, and complain that no amount of paint could make up for the troubled surface.

Here I am, staring at the wall, again.
Makes me appreciate the wonder of ruins, scars, stories and the secret maps to one’s heart.

Scheherazade

In a million years, parallel universes and multiple lives,
I envision what you and I could be.
Two strangers staring at bright screens at the opposite ends of the world,
Or lovers, hopeless, intoxicated and drunk on love.
Some days I feel like you are the sun and I’m the moon,
I am, because you are.
Other days I think of us as joy and sorrow,
One not fully appreciable without the other.
Like Scheherazade, I spin and weave tales of us,
Two brilliant burning stars in the vast whirlpool of galaxies,
Gravitating and falling towards each other,
Magnetic attraction, bounded by a constellation.
And yet, even if I could, I wouldn’t stop at a thousand stories of us,
Because the heart never stops to love, its pain, bottomless.