I am empty. From within and beyond. To search what helps me sustain is now a task. I smile, always. My heart, not so often. I don’t know what pains it. There is so much going at once. Moments of laughter do disrupt my cry, once which was loud now seems oblivious to everyone around. I try to sit down with pen and paper and write. All those stories that need telling and all those poems that need listening. And then I ask them, plead them to listen it more closely. And then I tell them that this is what I have become, help me before it kills me slowly. But like the night that has closed upon its door on the sun, like that very night when the sun refused to lend a hand to the moon, like that very night where robbers did not value life more than money, like these very nights there is no one to hear my story. I refuse to bury the time gone by, I refuse to bury my heart and I refuse to cry. I smile and I smile and I smile. Even when things aren’t as good as they seem, even when people refuse to see me through my eyes, specially then, I smile. To hide behind a smile is the most pleasant gift to the society, and maybe someday it won’t ever need a hiding. Maybe someday when I will smile, it will be because I meant it. Maybe someday when I will try to hide, right people will know exactly the right thing to tell me. Maybe someday, when all is not over and there is still energy left in me to do it all again, I will smile like no one else has ever seen and I will smile like no one else will ever know. 

I am empty. From across and above. To believe that there is some hope is all that I have. And sometimes when the fading sun snatches away this too, there is no sorrow or remorse, it is so dark that what it is even I do not know. To wait and see if it is not the end is a herculean task. The patience to carry on sometimes is lost. I move back to memories and things my loved ones said. I move back to words that still held the power to sway. I move back to everything that could not ever prove me wrong. I move back so much that still I would have never moved at all. And there the night passes under the starless sky. The more I think what hope I have, more hopeless I become. The more I think what it is to be hopeless, my strength does return. To live a life of sorrow is still better than one without hope. For hope is mischievous, it plays exactly where it needs to and hides in plain sight. Without it there can be no motive, no reason to sustain. Without it we are the dead breathing to death all our way. And one day at the end of all, when I shall see the light return. And one day at the end of all, I shall redeem myself at last. Then no words, no songs, no melody will have the power to tell, of the night that passed by and all alone, all that I had was some conversations, memories and my hope that refused to go away. 


Songs of the Sun

The sun rises, hiding behind the clouds. The rays dressing our bodies in shades of red and orange and yellow. I can hear it sing. The wind brings it to me. A lament. For the people who were defeated last night. An ode to the courage of those who were able to linger. All at once. I can hear it sing. The leaves tell me of it. They see their days renewed. They hustle. Autumn is yet to come, but it matters not. Matters not for death is no end to them. Paths change, the journey continues. 

I can hear it sing. The birds and all the beasts. They tell me of the lost days and uncompromised egos. The king and the subjects. The urgency of life for life. Weighing one in terms of the other. Plain and simple, yet with so much sorrow. Death is an usual business, lightly taken until at its edge we all stand. The sun is shining bright but my days don’t compare. Hope is what I seek in it. 

Every morning, sometimes disturbed by rain and shadow, I wake to it. Some days are brighter than others. But the songs are equally sweet. Each day. Soured only by my vision. One that I seldom forsake for convenience or one that my life has made forget. 

On the edge of the dusk, I see it all coming together. On the edge of the dusk, I stand defeated. I wasn’t always lost. I wasn’t always drunk. I wasn’t always drowning. That fading song I can still hear.  It is telling me to come back. I have a choice. Mine it is to choose. I can drown like the sun into darkness. Or I can stay into memories. One that for million years can guide lost souls into hope. 


That which was unspoken has found its way to the universe,                              The wind carries the word, the broken trying to gather.                                          The waves wash the shore over and over again,                                                    If a moment there was, it was fleeting and now lost. 

As the nature dances in its might, the air whispers a tale.                                      The clouds that gather are fast flowing, The sunlight teases the land of the free, They are still close to my heart,                In wordlessness, I find the most beautiful thought. 

My reckless soul has found its way to the sea,                                                          Endless is what it seems, in its waters I still try to search for new territories.      I bundle hope, my eyes tirelessly navigate,                                                       I try to see reason where there is none.

Of those who never found their shore, Their poems still linger.                            In its soundlessness, my body shivers. Death is a friend who has his way with life,                                                                I will be eternal but the last words will never see light.  

The horizon offers me the infinite,          I dissolve slowly in its charm and give myself to what it seems to have become.                                                        I wake up to a dream,                                The words are finally here.                      No one to speak to, no one to hear.       

And still I go on walking,                          For I still don’t see an end.                        And I will keep on walking,                      For there is a lifetime still and million words to comprehend. 

The Embrace

Like the equanimity of heart on a cool breezy night,

Like the stillness of the water that mirrors life,

Like the weariness after a hard day labor,

Like the twee rythm that reminds of the days past,

Her souls stirs mine into an illusionary benign evening. 

Like the fragrance of the incense sticks that diffuse into the air,

Like the prayers that echo the wall of the temple halls,

Like the embrace of two souls deep in love,

Like the fading voice of a goodbye,

Her lips merge into mine. 

Like the hazy summer sun that blinds,

Like the muslin veil on her face invoking mystery,

Like the collyrium that blankets evil,

Like time that shutters our past in the dark,

She enshrouds my heart. 

And just like that, like nothing,

Into the void of my life,

Into nothingness,

Like something that had never happened and may never happen,

We fell in love. 

Guilt: A Tryst with the Conscience

There was fire in the wind that night when the time had brought upon us an abrupt closure. My heart paced upon the idea of falling apart with the one thing that seemed so dear to me. It was going to take time and thought I knew I hadn’t any I could do nothing but wait. It was the first in many years. Helpless and anxious. Selfish. Colored in the tones of blue and grey I stood. She was a fighter. Fierce. I had that in me too, but that day I wasn’t. Because her fight was with death, my was with my guilt. Strange thing it is, guilt. It lies there in our subconscious mind, patiently awaiting the right hour to strike when the iron is hot. Our crimes stay with us. And while it slowly withers our soul, testing our ground and vacating our energies, we stand forbidden from a life that we had envisaged. The nature of crime could be logically justified and I may have been capable of fooling my heart to believe the same. But then we can’t keep fooling oursleves, can we? Maybe yes. Can we live with it? Maybe yes. Can we forgive oursleves? Maybe yes. Can we ever forget what was forgiven and forgive our heart who was entrusted to forget? Definitely no. 

I hadn’t seen her so feeble. Her voice dying out like an crisp echo at the edge of the night. She could have dealt with it only she didn’t seem willing to. Maa had been the superwoman in disguise and this time I need her without the veil. I was always her favorite. Even as a kid. Despite all the trouble I had caused. I was. My little brother would try to compare  and while she always consoled him by saying that she loved him more, in that lie I could hear her truth. I didn’t know bad times lay ahead and I couldn’t have done anything about it, for time has never been a comforting friend and destiny never a promising possibility. For reasons unclear I was admitted to a boarding school. Slowly the definition of home started changing and distances that couldn’t be measured became impossible to cover. I did wait for the vacations. But I always returned school a week or two ahead. She hated it. And I hated that she didn’t ask me to stay. I didn’t ask her before I decided to move to Zürich for further studies. It was over lunch that I sneaked it in our conversation. She didn’t say anything. I thought she would, but she didn’t. Best of luck she said as she got up. She didn’t look back. I never did either. In all the 7 years, I yearned to see her. I did write to her a couple of time. I got the same half hearted reply. I stopped. My younger brother had grown a strong dislike for me for he thought I was to blame. But I was clear about that part until recently. I was not to blame for something I didn’t know. 

I decided to come back. To see her. My anger hadn’t died but neither had my love.  I was forced out of the family and I may never be a part of it again, but as I stand here, I know that somethings you can never let go of. I was never hers. I was a part of her heart, but I was a token of betrayal. She loved me more than she could ever allow herself, but she hated me more than she thought she would. And then it all came in front of me. The loose ends were tied and I shied away from acknowledging the knots. She called me in. With all those pipes in and out of her body, she could barely speak. She lifted her hands and reached out to me. Tears trickled down her wrinkles as they followed a path aged with sorrow. They may have taken that course a million times, but this was the last. Life had come to a full circle and it was time to rebegin. I kissed her forehead and smiled. She was reassured of my position. And though I had a long way before the guilt could be drowned, I saw her drown in her content. She had paid the price of something she never wanted in her life and still she had the courage to admit to me that in her half hearted love towards me, she didn’t compromise. Whatever little affection I was shown over the years was pure and untainted. 

I decided to take a walk back to my house.  Flashes. Memories. They kept coming back to me. And then I realized that I never was her favorite. That truth that I heard when she said to my younger brother that she loved him more was the belief I had carried with me for too long. I have no complains. It was time for me to bid goodbye to all. I wasn’t coming back. I don’t have anything to come back to. I am glad that she buried her guilt before she was lost to the universe. I hope my guilt will find liberation too. And maybe guilt, it isn’t such a strange thing after all!

The Story and the Tune that wasn’t

The moonlit sky sang of a familiar tale,

In the void I left behind my paths,

It’s gone and there is solitude. 

There was no tone to that story, there never will be.

There she stood waiting for her moment, 

Her skin sparkled like the morning dews, 

Her eyes had the charm of the moon.

Beautiful she was and so was her soul,

There was no tone to this story, there will be no need anymore. 

Heartbeats and heavy breaths fill the vacuum,

We speak through eyes, 

And onto each other they entice the promise,

Without any words, they bind the impossible.

The story didn’t offer any end, the start was hard to find. 

The story was still without a tone, the attempts dissuaded by time. 

She didn’t had wings but I saw her fly, 

The clouds did trace her path but my heart refused to try, 

For long as it takes to forget, I have tried. 

For long enough I have now known-

Never forgotten are the things destined to die.

The story which never had a tone still has a part of my soul. 

The Choice

Over the past days, I have made multiple attempts to write this. Either the time wasn’t right or I still hadn’t found the closure for the events that had been going on. 

I do not want to mention the events and what followed, but things may be obvious as I discuss at length my opinions on the topic. And while I am not the best person to make comment on such a sensitive topic, I would ask my readers to forgive me if I have misinterpreted the meaning and the consequences thereforth. 

We live in a world which is pacing faster than it can sustain. There is a lot that goes around, a lot more than we can process. Emotions have more varieties of emoticon to describe than words. And people who try to stop for a breath are said to be lost and the breathless is declared alive. We have created for ourselves such high standards of goals and dreams but have left no space to breathe. We are exhausted. Tired. And sometimes confused about where the race tracks are leading. But we continue to race, for winning is more important to us than living. And while everyone seems a call away, a text away, we are alone. In the maze that the social media has woven, we are stranded in the middle of nowhere, nowhere to go and be and nowhere to belong. We are alone. And while we always keep finding the private space, the fact is that we are so private that there no longer is any conversation open and honest. Within the confines of our mind everything stays and there is where we make it linger. 

There is a need to talk, to confide your insecurites and vices. To present the true person to someone and not to be ashamed about yourself. But this is all that we have already talked about. About the social media that has made its way into places where words and sounds are more than just science. About how we are hiding behind our fake self. About these and many other things that stop us from being the way we were supposed to be, true to oneself. What is more important today is to realize though everything makes perfect sense to our mind and heart, we find ourselves lost into situations. And it is not every time that we escape from the quick sand and snatch our lives from its grab. Not all people are able to make it. The weight sometimes is too heavy and they find their escape in death. People will directly and outrightly state it as an act of cowardice. I will disagree and I will let you know why. Because you could never put yourself in that state of mind and think what was the next best thing to do. Because it is always impossible to determine the amount of courage it would have taken for the person to find his escape, whatsoever it may be. Because it wasn’t easy for him/her, it wasn’t convenient, it was the best they could do to find freedom. I won’t say it is right but I wouldn’t say it was easy. I wont’t say it was brave but I wouldn’t say it was an act of cowardice. It is just about that moment and how everything came together. It could have been avoided, maybe or infact we can take for surety that there are better escapes, but maybe it wasn’t so appealing. Maybe it just gave a false hope. Maybe there wasn’t any hope left. Maybe we could have saved them.  Maybe there are still lot of them to save. Maybe we just don’t have the time to observe. Maybe after all our doings too, things won’t change. Maybe it will. In all these unanswered questions, the most important is Did we TRY? And for most of us the answer is a plain and simple no. Because as a community we have failed to serve the basic commitment to humanity. 

There are ways we can come out of this mess that we have created for ourselves. Life is more valuable than what we put it to be. It is better than we think it is. Happier and complete most of the times. And if we ever find ourselves drowning, there is always a hand to hold. If your innerself fails you, there is nothing wrong to reach out for help. Keep adding fuel to your hope, for without it we are helpless. Without it there is no meaning to life and death. Without it we think it all was a waste. But it wasn’t. It never will be a waste. Because life and death have their own course to run and the disruptions are only superficial. Because there will always be a chance to find escape, but not always to return back. Because not everyone has a choice to decide, but everyone has the power to keep going.

The InkStained Soul

The living room was filled with dust and the fan screamed of its woe, while jiwe sat sipping our tea and occasionally talking. The breaks weren’t awkward. They weren’t happy either. My head did move back into time, reminiscing the past and remembering the wooden chair that had now grown dull and broken. She used to sit there. A pen in her hand and a notebook whose pages were filled with her soul. The Inkstained Soul. Each word romanced her thoughts and matched it tunes into a beautiful poetry. Somehow I could see through time and feel the amazing energy. Somehow I felt that things too share a part of our identity and even in her absence, the chair did keep reminding me of the wonderful person she was and what great time we had spent. 

We were ready to leave. “Bhaiya, can you stay for a day longer? She would come back by evening.”,said Siya. “I wish I could. Convey my regards to her”, I replied with an awkward smile. Siya knew that I wanted to stay, but she couldn’t stop me either. It was too late. Everything seemed to have changed but things that were too familiar were trying to resurface the hidden constant. I was the same, even after all these years. I wished it was the same for her. There wasn’t much left there and there may never had been anything for me in those paths. But still there always was my reckless hope and I kept myself hidden under it’s garb. I had removed the veil after long hard years and I couldn’t agree to go back to a place where every breath reminds you of the breathlessness of your soul. You wander. Keep wandering in the dark. You see light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel knows no end. 

I was to leave the very next day. I went to the local library. Books were my escape. The Lost Key by Varya Segal. I sat down and started to read it. I hadn’t read any of her books. My hope fed me her stories. Without hope, it were words that could quell my hunger. The second page read, ‘To the long lost Friend who hasn’t found his peace’. I knew what it meant. She did remember and maybe she did acknowledge the events that led us to set our paths apart. I kept reading. The words spoke of neither of us. It told the tale we wanted to live, but neither of us could. It found the answers, but the questions still remained unanswered in our ignorance. And of all things that she wrote, the end seemed to bring it all together. And then everything changed. It became ugly, just like our lives. I understood what she intended to. If not then, eventually things would have turn bitter. There is nothing wrong in relationships turning sour, it runs it course and with time and people constantly changing, we cannot expect their dimensions to stay put. What is wrong is to forget what those years meant for you. It is clever to stay away from deep waters if you don’t know how to swim, but it is wise to ace the art of swimming for it is in the unexpected that we find ourselves in the troubled waters. 

We may have failed. But she was right, like she always was. I had woven dreams that pulled me down. And without efforts, I drowned. She had reached the shores long ago. And it is only after hallucinating for so long that I have realized that all dreams don’t make sense, the ones that do are not under the garb of hope. They show what it is to be brave. They remove our insecurities, polish our skills and make us achieve what we always wanted to be- carefree. 

The train was about to leave. I stood in front of the travel desk, still trying to understand the goof up in my tickets. Tired of reasoning with the control officer, I left the room in much anger. And then I saw her. Siya must have told her that I was leaving, I thought. We hugged each other. Asked each other about how we were and what was up in our lives. There was nothing left to reconcile. There was nothing left to reconcile, because the reasons of our differences had faded. And time seemed to take a back seat, as I again moved back in time, this time with her and there was nothing to change because there was nothing to fear.

The Magic that it was. The Magic that it always be. 

I waited for a Hogwarts letter to drop by my door, for I was already 6 when I had been introduced to the world of Harry Potter.I hadn’t indulged myself into the books until 14, for till then the reader in me hadn’t come to fore. It was in 2009, when I had gone to Pelling(Sikkim) for a vacation, when I found Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone stacked up in the hotel’s bookcase. 

It took me a night and another to complete the first two parts and once back home I decided to purchase the third installment. My parents were skeptical about getting me one as they doubted if I would actually read it, for I had never shown any serious interest in reading earlier despite their various attempts at it. But I did. J.K.Rowling had opened my doors to the universe of writings and authors and infinite stories. 

One grows up reading Harry Potter. The childish enthusiasm in Philosophers Stone for magic slowly transforms into lessons of friendship and courage in Chamber of Secrets. The virtue of forgiveness comes across beautifully in the Prisoner of Azkaban and one finally learns that the people who really love us never leave us. In Goblet of Fire, our adolescent hearts is amazed by our new found love interest and high school popularity seems more important to us than ever and Dumbledore teaches us that though we come from different places, our hearts does beat the same. The real world knocks upon our doors in Order of Phoenix. The world is not as simple as it seems and politics can get the playing ground very dirty. We learnt how easily our minds can be manipulated, but if we keep faith in ourselves and the relationships that we have built, we will find our way to be back to self. The Half-Blood Prince taught us that one needs courage to unravel the darkness within and we sometimes just need a vile of luck to make our efforts worthwhile. Things change and as we grow from school boys to young adults, we realize that the pace of change is faster than we thought and to keep up with time is a herculian task. In the ultimate book of the series, Rowling beautifully brings all the themes together and blends them into one word- Love. After all heroism, courage, battles and strategies, one thing that keeps everything going is Love. 

Harry Potter is often criticized at being superficial. The way I see it, it is not at all superficial. Magic is just the garment. It is about the more basic human emotions and virtues that JKR talks about in her books, that makes the books truly and unequivocally ‘magical’. It is the undertones that shine the brightest and we all left gasping, hungry for more. 

Obviously, one cannot refuse to acknowledge her creativity. For she moves ahead and back in the books, connecting dots. Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them is a perfect example to bring home this point. There are no coincidences in her book. There is a story behind every character, a history that romances the personality of the character we see today. 

I am 21 now. Old enough to forget it’s charm but young enough to refuse to do so. It will never be about the spells, the magical objects, the theories. Undoubtedly they are a huge factor, but it will always be JKR spinning magic through words that will linger for long. After all, words are in Dumbledore’s humble opinion our most inexhaustible source of magic. 

The Tunes that make up your Song


A word. 

Each letter speaks.

An ode to mankind. 

It is why dreams exist.

The struggle for life is real. 

It makes the battle easier. 

We own our world. 

We are confident.

About us. 



It’s difficult. 

To keep waiting. 

The ability to stay. 

The fight is lost again,

Only to bring you back on.

It is not about time. 

Need to keep going. 

Dreams do change. 

Become real. 



To Rebel. 

An uncommon virtue. 

Stand against the world. 

Change doesn’t come so easily. 

Untreaded roads are difficult to walk. 

The world needs no story. 

You don’t need them. 

Nor their sympathy. 

Fly free.