Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

A Lifetime Of Memories

Memories are tricky. To only think of all the memories that this place gave me; makes me so happy, that you can only imagine it must have been a joyride. But it is not easy, to reproduce meaning of how these memories matter to me, these tiny little scraps of paper coming out of everywhere at the most mundane of moments, reminding me of why they were written in the first place.

I have been packing these memories away in boxes now. Not only tiny little pieces of paper in actual light-weight cardboard boxes to save space around the room, but making up these boxes to be stored in tiny little corners of my mind too. Memories. A lifetime of them.

And then they begin to disappear. It scares you, but you were the one who started to store them away anyway, didn’t you? To make space for more. And you think they’ve disappeared until this one moment, you listen to this song, the same ol’ one that you sang again and again and again much to the annoyance of those who never understood how four people could never get bored of the same song despite singing it again and again and again. And there it is - a blast from the past - the cliché, but it hits you so real nonetheless.

You think of the old times and you decide you don’t want to add meaning but just to think of them the way they were meant to be.

The good old times, yes.

Like the very first time we ever walked into the Wine And Beer Shop and the sense of know-it-all-ness with which Ritika asked for ‘3 pint tuborg aur ek bada RS dena’ while Pragya and I waited with as much a petrified look on our faces as the ‘menfolk’ in the shop had. Haha, can you ever get over that feeling?

Or the night spent shivering at the beach, waiting as each minute went by, for the sun to rise. *Chal, aaj sunrise dekhte hain* was the plan, and what we did was sleep under those twinkling stars, some of us. While the rest of them built sand castles. Sand castles, soon to be swept away by those deep, dark waves, whose music you could hear while you slept. And the sun did rise, as we stood mesmerized with our feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand, taking the wind in, pausing life, and when we got back, we gave each other the longest smiles that ever existed in the face of the earth. We knew what meaning that moment bore, for each other and for ourselves.

Of the timeless moments spent in the lawns outside the very red brick walls, with Shubi making Freudian analogies on plucking grass, the countless slip-of-tongues Pragya made. (The multiples of which I did too) Of spending all the free time we had making practicals, cursing practicals yet making them with utmost care. Of when Group B stood by each other, personifying integrity by refusing to make entertainment of another’s life. (Remember that, Andy?) – Of learning how multiple relationships change our attachment style, and not necessarily distort it. Of bearing through the most generalized statements with a heavy heart and yet holding on to what we believed in.

One open cardboard box leads to the other and you find yourself staring at more images from the past. Images you thought had been washed away in time, but have managed to linger on in the midst of the storm.

Like that of the busiest morning, where I managed to sneak out of the most important department gathering to celebrate a birthday. It was difficult to weigh, the priorities but I knew my arrival was awaited by people to whom I meant something. Happy Birthday Kusum, we sang, cake in my mouth, my mind split into the thousand other things that were happening around me. Celebrations are the easiest to forget and the easiest to recall. Be it the numerous celebrations we had as a department or the ones Suversha Ma’am gave us an excuse to have. I am like your Grandmother, she said, and this is my gift to you - A gift I still hold on to dearly, the memory of a day well spent. And of course, then there are bit of papers about the everydays of life. The journals from Karuna ma’am’s class, we all resented back then, we all love to peek into now. How time changes the value of something for us! The support stories from Diana ma’am’s lectures. Her own stories. The breaking of archetypes. The breaking of stereotypes. The whole new world like it was supposed to be. And of course, fearing every moment that you entered late into your Political Sc. class, and still sleeping through it with your eyes open, LIKE A BOSS. Turning into countries to understand IR better, I was THE China, no, if I am not wrong? And Fatimah Russia and Jaya something else. Pragya the facilitator. Funnily enough, things you think you will remember better have faded memories you’re holding onto with both your hands dearly.

The tiny little things. The conversations you had. The unending evenings with Kranti at the Hostel. (Read: Pseudo-home). Trying to hug Shibani every chance you get, apologizing thereafter. The cooking food and cooking up stories with Pragya at HER apartment. (Read: Pseudo – conquered home) Studying for exams together but no not really, rather sleeping through most of it. Watching mundane episodes of The BBT and laughing our heads off. Our affinity to end up in the reference section despite our hate for it. Our first night stay and the conversations we need not remember because what matters is that we had them. Stalking people endlessly. (Baaaani, remember this?) The unplanned for, frivolous train travel and dirty feet at the end of it. Cribbing through PMS, cribbing after PMS. Cribbing all the time. And yet being the joyful lot. Being frontbenchers, being hated by the back ones for it. Clicking pictures ALL THE TIME. (Ishti, we made a deal!)

The difficult times. Getting through the difficult times because of sheer love from the people. Samagam. Montage. Trying yet not giving up. Falling down yet holding each other through pieces. That conversation the four of us had sitting in the lower Foyer. Remember that, the day Samagam got over – Anahita, Sandy, Tvish? The Award. The Dilemma. The Sacrifice.

The places. Café. Nescafe. The red-bricked building. The lawns. The mean cats all over the place. 900 photographs. The college Magazine and the Visitor’s Room (What a memory, ah!), The auditorium, room no. 67, the foyers, the empty corridors. The place I used to call home.

The memory of yourself. Careless. Ambitious. With big dangling earrings and a huge purple file. Surrounded by people who loved you to no end. And by people who loved them too.

The memories are too many. Too diverse. All over the place. The cardboard boxes refuse to shut, even when forced. Tiny bits of paper from everywhere, fly around, settle down on your eyelashes. Waiting to be touched again.

In Loving Memory

You know, I believe in afterlife.
If there's one thing I have learnt in the entire course of my life, it is to keep the faith. And faith, I keep.

Even the slightest thought of death is depressing, it cripples me. Is it truly possible to come to terms with the loss of a loved one? I don't want to imagine. I can't live without people I love. There might not be many. I might not always show it. But still. Even a stranger. Or someone you knew distantly. That lady you come across on your way to the college everyday. This boy you met at a party. ANYBODY.

What scares me even more is what people leave behind when they pass away. The glimpses of life, the love shared, and people. Broken hearts. And memories.
This is not easy.

But I also know, that those who love you, they never really leave you. In my honest opinion, they don't. Never.

Have faith.
Put together the pieces of your broken heart again, and you'll find them right there.
Like I said, I believe in afterlife.

P.S. - To one of the bubbliest girls I have come across in this lifetime. Rest In Peace, love.
P.P.S - To people I come across everyday, whose life I don't get a chance to witness - "I am here with you."

Photo Source : http://i204.photobucket.com/albums/bb138/galatea18/black/zz.jpg

Yet.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of a yesterday

Of the changing times, days good and bad

Of the life passed, past killed

And of the memories

Gone, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of love

Of the stranger, met, loved and lived with

Of the kisses, blushes and walks

Of the sweet nothings over the phone

Lost, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of life

Of the life entangled in a permanence of insanity

Of the life filled with divides and fears

And Fairy tales, only dreamt about

Not fulfilled, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of a tomorrow

Of a yesterday repeating itself

The killed past. the saved memories

The dreams, the hopes and reality. And love

Untouched, yet not forgotten.

Snippets

I hate it when you turn your back on me

It makes me sad and cry

my love for you is more than anything

You fail to understand, I don't know why.

I might say things, you don't want to hear

But once I am done

Make sure you rethink, recall every word

Don't cry if I am gone.

All my promises  i keep, a li'l late though

My love for you is never gunna' die

An argument or fight need not matter to me

No love, it is never a goodbye.

Te Amo Muerte

(Pages From My Diary - The 8th of Jan, 2011)

She wonders often, what would have happened had she agreed to stay the night. Stayed for the rest of her life. With Kurt. Her Kurt.

The sea by her window, it bothers her. She is volatile like the sea. Indecisive, Unsteady. Impulsive.

She is an escapist. She doesn’t like things which reflect her self.

Or which bring back memories. The sea, by which they danced. By which he asked. The sea by which they kissed.

No. She doesn’t remember it anymore. She doesn’t want to. She has killed the past and buried the memories.

***

“Will you marry me?” he whispers. They’re dancing. The sound of sea is not far away. “Yes” she whispers back.

She pulls herself awake. Awake from the nightmare she doesn’t want to see. Again.

That is the last time she had seen him. Its been seven years now. Last. Seven.

***

“Stay the night with me. Stay the night Stella.”

“No Kurt, I can’t. I have to go. I love you”.

“I love you Stella”.

She is walking away.

“Stella. Stella.”

There is a road in between the beach and the car park. She has crossed over.

“Stella listen, please Stel…”

Stella turns. “Kurt!”

The car has come and the car has gone. Kurt, he is gone too.

***

No. She doesn’t want to remember what had happened before and after it. The argument before she leaves. The mess after she has.

The blood. His hazel eyes. The hair on his face. The ring in his hand.

Her Kurt. Dead and gone.

“I never intended to leave”. She is wiping the hair off his face. “Kurt. Kurt”

Seven years. Lived in a trance. Lived devoid of thoughts, devoid of memories.

Its Kurt’s birthday today.

She has not crossed over. She never will.

“Happy Birthday Kurt…”

Photo Courtesy - Internet http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/295/2/6/in_love_and_death_by_needlesoup-d2wy4oq.jpg

A Letter to the Future - Dear Chloe,.

*I wrote this for my Fresher's competition in LSR. This one's inspired by a post in Tejaswee rao's Blog - I.M.A.O.*

29th Sept, 2010


Dear Chloe,
Weird. Me writing to you even though I know someday I’m gunna read this out anyways.

I’ve always wanted to have you. For the last18 years and three days. Ever since I was born. Or, erm minus a month and three days because I probably wouldn’t have known then what it is like to have a pet dog of your own. =) But, Mum wouldn’t let me have you only.

People say you can’t talk to dogs, or rather bitches like in your case. I know I can. If I can talk to my 300-page dairy (which keeps running out of pages), for the last six years, I can talk to you too.

I plan to have you in six more years. Mum won’t have a problem then. At least she says so. Six years. It’s a target I have like those people in the investment and sales industry do. Get four customers in two days.

*Get a house. A good place to work in. A charm bracelet for my bestie. You.*

So, here you get to know who your future best friend is.

I’m eighteen. Just into college. Still overwhelmed about how I grew up so fast. (I turned into an adult just three days back!). And, out of home. And getting used to how to stay out of it. There’s no going back there again. Permanently. :/

I’m going through a very unexpected phase of life. So unexpected that I’m afraid it might change me a little. Others say it is good for me. I need to be changed. I don’t know.

Circumstances have made me insecure. Sometimes, I’m afraid if I’ll ever be able to have the pleasures of cuddling you. Of watching you sleep with you ear over my feet. Lapping up your milk and licking it on me with your teeny pink tongue. I know, you Beagles can be very cute. A neighbour had one too!

I’m afraid because I’ ve never really had what I’ve wanted. Not that I’m not happy with what I’ve got, but still.

I haven’t got THE badge of the head girl, I haven’t got to go to Columbia, I haven’t got an Honours , I haven’t got the boyfriend I wished I would. Christ! I didn’t even get NSS!
I don’t regret it. It’s just that I’ve been almost there and not had it.
I don’t want to have regrets with you.

I talk A LOT. And write. And take photographs all the time.
Along with you, I want a DSLR too. So that I can click amazing pictures of you and me together and store it in my Album- ‘Memories Forever’. =D

For your information, everyone calls me Pie. Not cutie-pie or sweety-pie or all that stuff. Just Pie. And, I love it. These days, I call myself Pie too. Although Nidhi ain’t all that bad a name.



I might not get everything in the future either but I know I’m gunna have you. And we’ll stay together in my house at Orange County where you’ll have plenty of people to play with, I promise.

I might not be the best person to take care of you. But then trust me, once yours ears get used to me, you’re gunna find it difficult to survive without me. :P

I’m very indecisive, so please don’t bother asking me about what to feed you. I’ll take you into the shop. Choose for yourself.

And, I’m not gunna put all those pinky-pinky dresses on you. I know you’re a bitch and everybody does that. But, No. I’m not everybody. You’ll have to stay my way. You adjust. I adjust.

I promise I’m not going to take you away from your mommy. I know how it feels to be far away. I’ll adopt you Chloe. And, I’ll take care of you like a mommy. Not literally of course. You know what I mean. ;)

Oh, you’ll love Sweta. She’s the one I stole your name from. She’s my best friend. And, she’s gunna be one frequent visitor. You might even get to stay with her. That’s what we planned. Both of us, you and two fish each. And Boyfriends. If needed.
Small Family. Happy Family.

Looking forward to amazing days with you.
Meet you in six years Chloe. If no one is gifting you to me, you are my ‘gifted-to-myself’ 24th birthday gift.
Until then, Lots of love,

Pie.

P. S. - I’m writing this letter for a competition. Yes. But, I’m gunna save a copy of it and make sure you listen to what all I have to say. In six years, I’m sure there’ll be much more to this. Cheers to us.

*Thanks Tejaswee. You're embedded in my memory forever. May your soul rest in peace.*