Sink

Ever felt like your feet were chained to a boulder and you were flung, sent crashing into ice cold waters?

Exactly how I feel, every single day, at work during weekdays, post work timings on weekdays and weekends.

I try to make a checklist and get things off my to-do list, magically something gets skipped it and all comes tumbling down. The time that I spend staring at the laptop screen, I’m consumed by work. Off the laptop screen and I still can’t shut my brain.

I’m sinking, drowning, grappling for air.

Books that would be devoured within 2 days of arrival, have been collecting dust since three weeks. I’ve stopped replying to messages, taking calls in general. The intense urge to blow off steam by screaming and venting out is met by a competition. Of who has been working how hard, whose work is tougher, who is more pained.

Any and all conversations invariably go down the work route, at this point I’m tempted to run away to a forest, sit next to a brook, drown my phone and laptop in that very brook preferably and be able to read 10 pages of a book and savor a cup of coffee for half an hour.

Which is why when I’m not cooped up in a corner at office, I’m trying to catch up on sleep, watch phone calls go unanswered and put conversations on mute in whatsapp. Safe to say my social life is in the dumps, most recently last Saturday I went to a friend’s place for an apparent girl’s night out, spent the night eating and watching porn (cause the human body has needs and well this need not be justified). Which is how after a long time I felt ‘normal’, and could drag myself to face the Monday morning blues.

Monday should be declared a holiday, all Mondays irrespective of month/ profession/ country. If there aren’t any Mondays to get out of bed, there would be no Monday morning blues! And we could do this rotation every few years, taking it to Tuesday morning blues and back to when it rounds up to Monday, henceforth the cycle continues.

Honestly enough I’m tired. Sometimes I just fall into a day dream of rolling over and taking a nap for a few hours. Funny thing being that I almost have a love hate relationship with what I’m doing right now. I love that the work is interesting but hate that I’m tired and I positively have dark circles, I’m reminded on an almost weekly basis on the ‘oh relationships are great’ motto by everyone who’s either committed or getting married, really behind on my reading schedule, have my poster paints and brushes dry and wither and take up a teeny nook on my shelf.

At this point if I were given a million dollars, the only people I could call would probably be my parents and a heart to heart conversation with my dog on how many dentasticks and chews he’d be rewarded with, for just being there.

I have been showing terrible restraint to not walk over and buy a bottle of vodka and ice cream, slump into the sofa, tie my hair into a bun, wear loose pyjamas, prop my legs up and watch mindless television.

Well that pretty much looks like what I’m going to spend one entire day of my next weekend doing. Care to join?

Point of no return

I have written a thousand words for you, stringing memories.

Of how the sun streamed in through the blue curtains, bright smiles, sipping chai in red cups, listening to the rain patter in the balcony, letting our feet dangle from the grills and arms stretched out wide.

I have waited, endlessly.

For your calls, to listen to your voice, to look at you, just once. The chance to make one last memory, a less painful one. To go back in time, apologize another time, weld, mend, and correct all those mistakes.

I have been strong, or so I hope.

For the pain to fade, tears to stop. To resist the urge to scream and shout, beg and fall, holding you responsible for all the broken pieces of my heart, crumbling into a heap. Trying to stop myself from going back to you, wandering in familiar lanes, tracing your fingertips on all that you touched.

I have left counting time, fervidly.

Days, months, years, since clocks haven’t ticked, the slow whirring of time disappearing. I hoped everything would stop, pause for a moment, acknowledge the death of my love. But neither have the hours halted, nor has the heart stopped beating.

I have learnt, agonizingly.

No two hearts beat to the same rhythm, no two kinds of love are the same. That I’ll still love you, eternally, some days fierce, and on others, you’ll make your presence felt.

You were gone, but you were always there.

20 seconds

It is said that all it takes is 20 seconds of insane courage, literally 20 seconds of just embarrassing bravery to turn the tide.

There are days when you hate your job, hate your boss, that nosy colleague, that whirlpool of an unrequited love, of the inability to resist the tub of chocolate ice cream resting on the top berth of the fridge, a sudden torrential downpour, the traffic, everything and anything.

Stop. Pause. Breathe. Listen.

Listen to that one tiny voice inside, one that doesn’t need words. Listen to what your heart craves, makes your soul dance, lets light into the tiny cracks of your heart, and makes you go giddy with joy like a five year old in a candy store.

Chase. Follow. Run. Jump.

When did we grow so old that we stopped dreaming? Dreaming about opening a tiny chai shop atop the mountains; having conversations with forgotten old friends over endless cups of coffee and steaming hot maggi; scribbling roads with crayons, blue, pink and purple; of the freedom of jumping into trains and exploring less traveled roads; the cold gush of wind at the top of a hill after hours of trekking; dipping your fingers in bottles of paint and creating masterpieces; bottling fireflies and chasing butterflies and rainbows; dancing in the rain.

Somewhere along the way as we grew up, all of us seem to have made a pact with the devil. Exchange our soul in return for practicality. Of technicolour dreams for sitting in a cubicle, crunching numbers on computers and calculators.

We build CVs but burn bridges; stare at our phones, tablets, kindles but forget the feel and smell of a second hand book; Collect travel magazines but don’t have the time to explore your own city, its forgotten lanes, abandoned buildings, old walls with pink bougainvillea.

20 seconds is all it takes.

To decide to set your soul free from the shackles of the daily grind, the same old job, dust those forgotten ambitions that have been shoved in some corner of your heart collecting cobwebs.

To ease the pain of your heart by burning those unsent letters to a love long lost, deleting them from your life, and let time heal your wounds. Bare your scars and let your heart fall in love, again.

To use your weekends for rediscovering abandoned hobbies, be it cooking up a storm and burning down the kitchen, let your palms bear ink stains of your words, strum your out of tune guitar, delve your city till you are left with purple shoe bites, dance, swirl and twirl.

Stumble. Grumble. Tumble. Crumple.

The first step is always the hardest. Listening to your heart is no doubt a herculean task, after drowning its voice for so many years amidst comparison with the lives of others, pay packages, jealousy, you may be unsure if it still talks to you. Have faith, for every ounce of sadness, there is happiness and dreams are lurking just around the bend. Start small, baby steps.

Fall. Break. Crib. Try.

This year be more, do more. Let the race be for the rats. Laugh a little louder, take absurd risks, do batshit crazy things, wake up with the most insane hangover, lug your own problems, stop and help another with a shoulder or an empathetic ear.

So take that leap of faith, or squeeze your eyes shut, be insanely brave for 20 seconds and jump into your dreams, and who knows of what wings you’ll grow and soar into the skies.


This is an article I had written for an online magazine, rose alley. Here you’ll find articles about love, life, its colors and flavors, some pertinent to women, others that will open your eyes. It’s an open platform to share your ideas by contributing articles, do check it out!

 

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.

Time Travel

They say time travel isn’t possible, but have you ever lost yourself in a familiar book or on a familiar street, only to find a dog eared page or an ink stain that you forgot to revisit. A little jasmine plant craning out of a thatched window or the cycle bell of the ice cream vendor.

Sometimes in your old toys and dusty painting books, over conversations with childhood friends, in the bite of the season’s first mango, forgotten class test papers of first grade, or the memory of a bejewelled pink clip that I lost on my last swing ride.

You travel through years of memories, some happy, some sad, weaving a fuzzy quilt out of them to settle in on difficult days. Other days as a shield, a few lessons, for goosebumps, as conversation starters and a few laughs and giggles.

But no matter how far you travel back in time, with some things you never remember your firsts.

The first time that the arms of your lover felt like home, the first words you spoke, the first time you told your parents that you loved them, the first time you tasted chocolate, or the first time you fought with your siblings.

Some things feel like they have been there forever, feelings that you were born with, that were yours even before you knew them.