"When the dream is gone"

It is not often that one's thoughts serenade into those mystical spaces, that otherwise exist, but for us, just in the mind.
But her's did, always.
She called it, yearning for a life, altogether different.
I called it being untamed.
She was definitely not one of us. 

The lights of ecstasy.

We're not dissecting age-old norms here.
Nor will we talk about how it was wrong for her to have gone out that night. How it wasn't appropriate for her to step out of her periphery of custody.
But the want for freedom sometimes, beguiles the most careful of them, eyes.
And I have, always, silently appreciated her wavering attitude to stability. I somewhere, saw my unwavering soul in it. The one that has always dreamed of quenching her faltering thirst, but has never been able to take the first few baby steps. I was in awe of her. But that was a feeling that I solely kept inside of me, and thus, forever, sealed my lips.
Well, so coming back to the spunk of it all, she silently averted our attention that night, and made way, to the acropolis where royalty waited for her with baited and nervous breath.
I have never been  able to duly comprehend the love that existed between them, but then, she once silently whispered to me that love was not to be understood, either way.
And as she made way to his ready-to-embrace arms, she saw the lights that had forbidden her all along. The lights of pure ecstasy.

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.