The incoherent ripples of child-dom.

We've all been part of the same sweet game. 

Often, if not, always, when abundance of emotions prevail, and situations run high and dry,

like the demystifying eyes, that flutter across your troubled brows,

that are often shriveled, like the ripples that we made in the lake, in the days of yore.

When often, life was defined by the shoe-clad wriggly feet,

that were often pointed to the stars in the wavering nights of child-dom.

Oh, how often, if not always, my thoughts go back to the same incoherent folk-tales.

When the Maharajah extended his strong hands to the erstwhile princess, and how we blushed,

at the prospective love that was deemed to happen.

You and I looked into each other's eyes, and we realized that love is not what is spoken about, only. Love can exist, sporadically, insignificantly. And having made our compelling discovery, receded into the the same child-dom of blooming happiness.

When you and I were a little different. 

A bit more silent, a bit less coherent, slightly more eloquent.

Touch-me-not plants had a role to play.

Summers are not what they used to be.
When a pony-tailed girl with a punch serenaded in shorts, wildly running in a beaver of touch-me-not plants.
When mangoes did not induce pimples.
Summers were different then.
I remember, in the old fort, when time was consumed by idyllic banter, and when evenings receded into unpretentious excitement.
When buses were red, and so were telephone booths.
When taxis were royalty,
And share autos amusing.
And the baby seats, that you were so reluctantly made to sit on, even more so.
When cinema meant whistles in single-screen theaters.
And the beach was where, your mother never let you be tempted by the water, lest you drown.
And a coke placated your empty heart.
When running around in a towel was pardonable.
I think the touch-me-not plants had a role to play.
Their importance only grew, not in the mere presence of it, but it in mind.
They slowly meandered into the summery afternoons.
While the pony-tailed girl, stood confused, and bewildered.
Change took place.  

Everything is clearer when you're in love- Lennon.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,

Tomorrow I'll miss you;

Remember I'll always be true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you.

I'll pretend That I'm missing 

the lips I am missing

And hope that my dreams will come true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you.

All my loving I will send to you.

All my loving, darling I'll be true.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,

Tomorrow I'll miss you:

Remember I'll always be true.

And then while I'm away,

I'll write home every day,

And I'll send all my loving to you

To the love of music, that has just sprung up, almost in sync with the lovely weather outside.

My perfection.

Sometimes, amidst my ideas of perfection and its antonym, I'm often left to believe, if what I live is along my ideas of anything adept. If utopia is just a word, and never to be achieved. If ever the thousands of flaws i see in myself can be over-looked, by not just me, but by the world alike. Sometimes, I'm often found in quest for all that is beautiful inside me.
Ever so often, the naked me feels vulnerable.
I do not recall if as a child, there were these questions of perfection in my head. But then, back then, these things didn't matter. It all looms large, as you grow up, and when you assume greater importance in your scheme of things, that the real you makes you feel uncomfortable. How your face is not pretty enough, and how sometimes, if not always, you will be subject to some sort of inferiority. Having said that...


Me is not perfect, but me has its spectacles.
The real me, wakes up from sleep in a disheveled manner. With the hair bedraggled, the eyes all puffy. No, she does not wake up to look like the beautiful women on television. Perfect, she's totally not. Externally, that is.
She takes a lot of time in choosing the right outfit for the right occasion, and always finds herself falling short in the end.
She wished she had larger eyes, and prettier hair, and looks, that only movies boast of.


Frankly, the real me, has stopped caring about all that quite some time back. 


She assumes her share of importance when she catches hold of her favourite pen, and her favourite notebook, that contain her little tit bits of wisdom.
She sings with joy, when she instantly recognizes one of her most favourite songs being played in the distance. Yes, she secretly sings the song in her heart, and wishes she could strum the guitar as well as some of them do. 
She secretly chuckles at how funny her hair looks, on a bad hair day.
She secretly blushes at compliments, and pats herself for her deservedness on her back, though she might put up a straight face and nod in humility. Having done that, she congratulates herself once again for pulling off the straight face act.
She will never, and I repeat, never will she lose count of the niceties led to her. 
She doesn't look at herself when she passes by in a mirror.
For her, she makes a hell lot of sense, more than to anybody else she ever will.

I might say i don't care

Silently enough to sham myself,

only that i don't succeed,

all the more hoping if only things were a little better.

Sometimes, laconic complaints will surface, 

and external beauty will be searched for,

but the night will eventually give in to the day

and as the sun rays seep in,

I will be more relevant.

More extensive.

More beautiful, 'cause my inner courage will transpire,

and lead me on to eloquent beginnings, 

and satisfying ends.

The complaints will die a natural death,

and not much attention will be given to the hair,

The nuances will be looked up to,

and applauded to bring in the natural flare,

yes, the real me is a beautifully, innocent thing to be.




-Me.

So, the real beauty in me, has to be the ability to look beyond my imperfections. To nag about them, yet feel comfortable in my own little space I call world. That's 'cause loving oneself for what you are has to be the greatest form of contentment.



PS : I have posted this story under the topic "What does Real Beauty mean to you?" for Yahoo! Real Beauty.
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A bout of grief.

She undid the knot, that she had been grasping onto her bosom so tight, all along. As she did, the mere cruelty of everything that life has had to offer her, struck her very bad. An impending sadness, almost akin to the one when Ram died, hit her in an instant. The eyes, that had tried to instill a picture of a promising future[and a picture it will remain, she thought to herself] in her daughter's life, could not betray her emotions any longer. How much were she to act? How much were she to hide?
When was she to let out her pain in the open? And when was she to express her dying emotions?

Meanwhile, Swati was busy making herself comfortable on her berth. Train rides have barely happened to her in her not so great childhood, and she was visibly excited. She could not stop beaming in anticipation of the candy-man that was to come at Remunda, something for which her mother lent her extra coins. Calcutta would arrive in a day's play, and after that a great future was awaiting her. She was sure, that all the liberties that have eluded her and her younger sister this long, would now happen. She looked at her baby sister, contently coo-cooing and she smiled to herself, thinking that there was no way Ramya would live the life she herself has lived all along. With her sister's income, Ramya will be educated, and an amazing life awaits her, in the not so distant future.

Ramya was bothered by the heat. It was too much suffocation for the young body to take in, she let out a cry or two here and there. Her mother swiftly led her to her bosom to keep her from crying. She sat close to her sister, and she sat on a funny seat in a funny enclosure, that was definitely not home. But, she had seen its picture somewhere? Somewhere, she can't recall. Where was it?

"Here, some money, and a few coins extra for the candy, like I promised". Swati's earnest blush broke her heart, but she continued, "Also, when you meet the man, Ram Kumar, is his name, do not give the money to him. Keep it for yourself, he will take you to a house, full of women, so you need not worry. I'm sure, you will be looked after very well. " She was choking now, so she chose to remain quiet.
The train let out its life-changing, soul-stirring, heart-breaking whistle to move. And moved, she did, with Ramya in her arms, and a lump in her throat, and hatred in her heart towards herself, for doing what she is, and towards the society, for every atrocity in her life.
Swati's smile, slowly changed into a sudden bout of sadness. The excitement levels had silently died now, as the wheels made their first movement. Somehow, impending grief, seemed more closer than soon-to-happen happiness. She looked outside the window at her mother, who was now crying inconsolably and her sister, wailing loudly, under the influence.
But it was too late to get down the train. Swati's life took its way to destruction, forever. 

What do we do about the girl in the train?

With the future seeming blurred, and the past, so much more pain consuming, she took her seat. The vividness of the unknown, or should I say the lack of it, was eating her inside out. Though she tried, unsuccessfully, to not let it show. The pain, of course. Unsuccessfully. The tears that lingered at the corner of her eyes, gave her away.
The rain started beating down on the earth, against the window pane, on the green fields leaving the leaves wet, ruffled and awakened. That feeling of being animated, of viability, she ached for. Something inside her had died that night. The will to live, the will to smile, the will to love, not even herself. She did not stand alone, tall and proud anymore. She sat defeated, purposeless.
If I may ask, how does love give you away so easily? Rules are broken, and the resolute often bow down, often intimidated, often losing to spite the necessary ego. Please don't answer. I'm just asking. As I look at the girl, bereaved and alone, I cannot help but question some uncertain emotions. Now, don't look at me like that. Love is pretty uncertain, with all the unanswered questions, and the unspoken promises, along with the broken bonds. Trust is pretty over-rated, over-used, and mostly so, over-abused anyway. But what do we do about the girl in the train?
Whose face clings to the window pane.
The tears roll down, giving her away, only more so.
The nose turns a cheeky red, trying to sniff in the loneliness.
Who tightens her grasp around herself even more tightly, suddenly realizing that she is all that is there, for her.
Who clenches her fist and loosens it, uncertain of her life.
Who not once looks out of the window, trying to grasp in the surroundings, the beauty of the perfect amalgamation of rain and water.
Does she realize how bereaved and lost she might be, that she's gotten onto the uncertain train, as well?
Oh, what do we do about the girl in the train?
Do, we let her pain heal itself? Or do we leave her alone, to wither, and to be re-born again?
Oh, let the girl in the train be. Let them all in love, be.

Unreturned.

Like everyday, I see, 
you coming out of your sweet agony.
Your pain, 
makes my love for you abounding. 
As I stare at you
through the narrow recesses of the gleaming window,
the sunlight filling my eyes with joy.
Oh no, its not the sun to blame.
The world seems fine, with your smiles, 
and that twinkling laughter of yours.
Do you know my feelings, 
or me at best?
I guess not.
Does that hurt?
It fills my whole self with profuse pain.
But I still manage a smile,
or a silent blush,
when I see you sitting outside the door,
talking to your folks,
not once staring at the gleaming window;
where fluttering eyes stay. 
One of these days,
you'll be well.
Not anymore will you sit outside the door,
not anymore.
Not once have you seen up at me,
now, not anymore.
You will ride your bikes,
come back late in the night.
Or not return at all.
You will smoke joint with them guys,
in the alleys, that I cannot venture within.
My eyes still search for you through the gleaming windows,
for your signs, your laughter,
or your music. 
My love is still growing,
but it aches for your presence.
One day, it might grow,
to exalted heights of agony,
and will let me wither and die in this pain,
that love alone can give.