How she settles, oh how beautifully, she does.

As she silently settled onto her seat, her eyes vividly began dancing and established themselves on the page that her fingers tried to trace.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.

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.  

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.
To read other entries, click here.
To vote for me, sign into IndiBlogger and promote my post here

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. 

How about a Bucket List?

So I was watching The Bucket List the other night, with even more contemplation than the two times before that. Why? Because I was feeling morose and so I thought, that the energy that's so lying dead inside me would be better concentrated on a movie so subtle, with a profound outlook to impending death.
Death is inevitable, very much like life, in the true sense of it. Very few of us are lucky enough [or not] to be told the time of their death. So, it's better to have a personalized bucket list, eh? Makes living life so much more purposeful, and joy-ful [which is not a word, by the way]. So, yes, caught up in the complex expressions that Morgan Freeman kept displaying every minute, I decided that I'm going to have a bucket list. A very own, personalized bucket list, that will give a deep meaning to my stupid existence on earth. So that, if tomorrow, a totally random person walks up to me, and asks "why-the-hell-don't-you-f***-off-from-the-face-of-this-earth*, I can proudly show him/her my bucket list, which at that moment, would be lying contently in my denim pockets waiting for its bulletins to be ticked off. Get it?
So well, I will not put up wishful and hypothetical things like I want to own a plush sea side bungalow in Goa/ a Volkswagen beetle/ *tada data*.. [read: loads of rich luxury stuff*] in the list, because that will make me look materialistic and blind to the simple pleasures of life. So well, cutting it short- THE LIST.

• I want to have a walk by the sea shore, in a beach that would be enamored by the beautiful colours of sunset, that would be empty of all chaos, save for me and my special someone.
• I want to bungee jump. Yep. Not because I'm an adrenaline junkie or something, but i want to experience the tense moment between me having worn my suit and me, being pushed down [considering there is no way on earth i'd jump down, compulsively].
•  I want to go on a bag pack trip across India, experience my country first hand, eating in road side dhaabas, travelling in crowded buses and trains, asking for lifts from truckwallas, yes, that India has to be the most enriching, not the India trip that some tours&travels organizes for you.
• I want to have a whole library made in my future house. Loads of books to be read, to be learned, and to be smelt. Yes, you read that right. The smell that emanates from a new book, is any reader's delight.
• I want to take loads of photographs in my life. Yes, I have a taste for photography, and I want to adorn the walls of my future house with loads of them.
• I want to make a silent, submissive trip to the backwaters of Kerala. Lets say, a self examining trip. And this is one trip, I wish to make alone, wherein I want to be away from the chaos of city life and experience beauty, serenity and simplicity first hand.
• I want to go to Paris, yes.
• I want to attain contentment, which is something I do not boast of, not right now. But someday, I want to be happy about how life is shaping up, and how there is nothing much to worry about.
• I want to have thousands of followers, but more importantly I want to be appreciated for things that I believe I'm decent in, writing being one of them.
• I want to write a book, or I want to contribute creatively to a very important piece of document.
• I want to sing like crazy in a karaoke bar, yes, the soonest I can. And yes, I can sing pretty decently too.
• I want to learn to play the tabla, so bad. And the guitar too, yep.

This list will keep getting updated in the recent future. You can never expect a person to want to do so less in their life span. Of course. Life is a funny place to live in. Sometimes so subtle, and sometimes, so on your face. It's kinda funny, really. But might as well take it with a pinch of sugar/salt as you may please.

An award has been dropped on my lap!

It feels great, when people think you write well. Most do. But, it feels even better when you're appreciated for it.
Have recently been awarded the Most stylish blogger award by this wonderful blog.

As this is a pass on award, I would like to award some bloggers whose work I exceptionally enjoy reading. Thank you so much for this award.I love all the blogs I follow, but these few are simply my most favourites. :)

There are four duties to perform you have to perform after you have received this award.

1. Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award  :: [DONE]

2.Share 7 things about yourself:

 ---- My name is Meher, and I'm a weird-ass 18 year old.

 ---- I am fixated with poetry, especially the one with blank verse, coz i suck when it comes to rhyming schemes.

 ----I'm very resolute and strong, not the kind of person to be breaking easily. I'm kind of a loner, yet, a very extrovert person.

 ----I'm passionate about my dreams and my ideas, and have etched out the future like I want it to be.

 ----I'm a very creative person, and I welcome criticism if it is rightly given, else, I usually try not to respond to it. Trust me on this, I'm quite a tough nut to crack [pun intended].

 ----(Trust me, its taking me a great deal to think about 7 points about myself) I love reading, and I appreciate good writers. And I believe anyone good in what they do should always get their due, even if they are better than me, which so many are.

 ----I've always been very opinionated about everything around me, but I keep my opinions to myself, unless asked.

3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers :: 

Trust me, this is a very difficult job. But these are the few blogs, that have kept me totally gripped.

A place for my head.

Splatters of Ink

Talking Chapattis

the perfect line

 The Many Colours of Happiness

Such A Cow

A journey Called me

~ sour canvas ~

 "Letters from a College Student"

Sempiternal Scribbles

My Women's Lifestyle Blog

Musings

The Silhouette...

 ..in love with me and life!

Random Indie Artistic Love Child.

There were other notable bloggers who were awarded this award by some other blogs, hence I haven't mentioned them. =)

4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award!

I'm gonna do it soon. =)

The departing

They walked, hand in hand, oblivious to the prying eyes. A young couple deeply rooted in love. They believed in a future together. He tried with all his might, tried to secure his life right, everything around that one girl who meant the world to him. She whispered something. He couldn’t fathom what, not like he cared much. He was too lost in her beauty to grasp any sound. He didn’t want to coz all he cared was her insane touch which created ripples in his heart. What a woman!

She wrote in an almost uninhibited way. A woman, so sensitive, so dear, wrote in a motion, much like her own spirit, which often sought pathways for expressing her emotions. He was drawn to everything about her. He took to the pen to feel closer to her. He took to her words, to her feelings, to her ideas as easily as one takes to life. But wait, she was his life, wasn’t she? Serendipity engulfed them day in and out, and their young love blossomed to dizzying heights.



We make mistakes, often incorrigible ones. The society though identifies our position as individuals, is a mean place to live in sometimes. Our tough exteriors are often mistaken to be the ultimate traits of our personality. Our outward show of violence makes us sinister, cruel, and uncivilized. He was a guy in love. He couldn’t have been dreadful, he couldn’t have been cruel. Just an extreme act of violence to avenge the insult didn’t make him threatening or portentous. As much as she would have wanted to stay by his side, the darn society wouldn’t let her.

The wedding bells reverberating, the whole house was in uproar, he could see, from a near distant, the chaos that had engulfed the house. Finally realizing that future is not meant to be forever. Tears streamed down his face, as those were all he had. But, she was still his life.

He longed for her sight, the beauty that had once encompassed his entire universe. He longed for her sound, that one voice which tingled long lost memories in him. He longed for her touch, the one brush of her hand, the one caress of her fingers on his face, the one embrace that filled him with warmth, the one coddle that soothed his entire self, the one kiss that would remain on his lips forever.

Love never dies, the people do get isolated, to faraway distant places, but the love remains. Death is, but, an end to her physical presence, the end to her breath that he had always felt, despite the distance. The love remained. You see, he was a man disdained in love, but he was in love, nonetheless. Death might take people far away from you, but she never belonged to him anyway. This way, he felt closer to her. He was being waited for. And tis, the only way, the two would unite. Someday for the love to be one.