Ever thought how unfortunate the person is
who cannot express his feelings?
a person incapable of expressing pain?

When every vessel in the heart is being torn apart,
with daggers and swords,
each tissue crying, screaming
in pain of infinite agony.

In times when every thought fails you and all sanity has abandoned you.
Have you felt the relentless pain
that you can do nothing about
but only scream?

When tears fail you,
and all that is evoked from your heart
is laughter?

When your heart feigns ignorance of efforts
of kinder hearts commiserating you…

When all your heart does
is drink the pain in,
and radiates smiles and laughter and cheer?

When the heart feels
like a balloon on a thorn
and all you can muster
is but a benign smile.

The innards feel crushed,
rotten, with a heart failing to burst
When the face fails you
and you wish truly for a tear.

Ever felt how that feels?
I do.


Episodic Short Story, My First

The lights fluttered. He kept looking into the infinite darkness spreading before his eyes growing gradually, with a demonic consistency, engulfing any traces of his sane self. A lone candle kept shimmering alone; while others kept dying in rapid succession. A small flickering in a huge room, like a small trace of hope, too small and useless but nevertheless still alive with life.

He kept rocking the chair. Back and forth. In slow and deliberate thought. Musing. A poison stick between his fingers. Smoking himself with thoughts. Thoughts to himself. Thoughts about himself. Thought for himself. Thoughts.

He rocked. More slowly and with increasing deliberation. He kept rocking. A lot of the cake was still left. He turned 25 today. Feigning sick he had skipped eating it. He accepted though with much better ease, the champagne his friends brought him for his latest success in his venture. He quickly emptied glasses of russian water with the troubled ease of a habitual drunkard. It was the only method through which he could accept his pain and the succeeding readiness to showcase his vulnerability for his green-eyed 'friends' helped him stay connected. It made them contended. Happy and deeply respectful of their own insignificant lives.

He was a teetotaller. He loved being a teetotaller. Like a connoiseur the glass clinkled with the clear liquid that flowed into them; he accepted every glass raised in his toast; he drank in the acid, burning his innards contended to know that he was still capable of pain; he was still human. With the ease of a habitual smoker, he put the stick to his lips, taking in deep huge breaths of smoke, deep into the lungs, fully accepting the choking smoke, with each and every poison pill stuck to his grieving lungs, blackening them a little more. He observed himself smoke. He loved watching himself. Like he had done all his life. Observing how he behaved when he was in public, when he was alone, when he was with her.

Life had changed a lot in the years that had followed. He had grown successful. With each passing moment he grew more lonely, he kept himself busy. He had to keep himself busy. The effort showed. In the form of promotions coming up every alternate semester. Gossip mills working overtime to find a convincing reason for his incredible success. Reasons kind enough to convince the mind-crippled of their non-existing adequacies trampled by a power-sucking egoist. Speculations grew rife, about his lonely life, his sucking up to his bosses, male and female. The bosses loved him. He was one who believed he owned the company. He was one who lived for the company, his only existent conversations, while meetings, and whose gossip at the water machine consisting of a quick analysis of the quarterly results.

But night changed many things. It gave him time to think. About himself. Days of physical strain, left him tired and happy at the knowledge of his incapability to think anymore; to question, to answer himself, to face the truth. But days as this, the weekends, the mornings spent on friends, brought him dread. The nights made his sane. He feared, the power of sanity; the insanity; the ruthless cruelty that followed; he feared them. And tonight he rocked the chair.

Alone he rocked. The eyes followed the silhouette hoisted on the wall. Aeons ago, he had siddled up to the silhouette, full of life, out of the frame, breathing life and love. His eyes following from the frame, as his eyes remained transfixed to the frame, bobbing up and down the room. Small elegant frame, bright and full of life with a single lonely flower brightened by a face lit with a twinkle in eye and mischief in the smile. A frame that had not existed before. A frame he wished did not exist now.

Every passing moment was a punishement in itself. Every passing moment brought thoughts, futile questions. Ifs, buts and what ifs. An exercise in thought. An exercise in pain. Life had never been the same for him. Every person was something to him. Everyone brought a part of him. He took from each of them but never borrowed. He changed for every one of them.

A regular shave. A weird smelling cologne to go with that daily shave. His favorite movies he didnt like watching now, she never liked them anyways. Or a regular bath. Uncomfortable formal wear at home. Or a pc that was now just a tool only, she had resented it. He resented himself now. For he wasnt exactly to her specifications. He feared himself now. He resented his brains now. He resented his existence. Profainities he had stopped uttering long ago. Every word he spoke, he measured; unsure if it hurt.

Every action reminded a person. The person changed him. A small word in his vocabulary he heard from her for the first time. A small mannerism he made his own. Every place they had visited reminded him of his lone self now. Nothing remained the same. They had ceased long ago. He stopped going to meet friends, it required effort. Every action. Every smile. Every laugh. Every memoir required an effort. They left him emacipated.

He sat through the night looking at the white stick in his fingers. The stick grew thick luscious tresses of smoke, bouncing effortlessly away from the stick, rising lovingly towards him, but the wind kept pushing them away. They fought for his affection, to kiss him sleepily between his lips, grow inside him, filling him with themselves. They grew, they flew up to him, they tried reaching him, but couldnt stop rising, they grew till they were thin. Thin remnants of smoke, white, like a silky shroud tried hard to stick together; but couldnt. They had to split. They were never destined to be together. They were never meant to be one. Formless, without boundaries, dissolving into each other, dissolving away from one another. They flowed out of the stick like a foaming gushing river till the invisible rocks in the little breeze broke the odyssey. Small boulders around which they came around, embracing again. Huge invisible boulders broke their flow, their form. They persisted. Finally they reached the top, the helm. But by that time, they had already vanished. They had already lost one another. They had lost themselves.

He was not much different.

*Any persons living or dead is purely non-intentional*

ep3 strikes!

Very moody am i….hmmmmmmmmm……

“What Star Wars Character Are You?”

You are a Jedi Consular. [kiamundu – jedi consular]

You are wise, have a way with people and are more of a diplomat than a fighter. Your mind is your greatest asset. Fill it with more knowledge and your power will increase. Share your knowledge with others as an instructor or mentor to help them grow as individuals.

Your wisdom is a gift to be shared with the world.

“What Star Wars Character Are You?”

Anakin Skywalker
Watch out for your temper…it could get you into trouble the way it did Anakin. You have enormous potential to be a great Jedi, but stress has made the dark side seem that much more inviting…


Uncertainty is inevitable, but worrying is optional.
Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.
Growing older is inevitable, growing up is optional.

To divide anything into what should be and what is, is the most deceptive way of dealing with life.

Battle is a choice, and it is the choice of the powerful to choose not to battle.

*something, which i come to understand and respect*

Mystic River

Do we have words for this?

Its the midnight. 12 to be exact. Its the time when i almost finished writing my diary…almost. Its already been 15 minutes when it started raining. Being the busy bug, a rain is not something you want, that would mess with your schedule. And then the busy schedule comes to an abrupt end with the power cut.

With nothing better to do, i come out. Sit under the dark. Stretch my legs and just sit. Its the rain that you miss when you are on your way back from home. Its the same rain, that you get stuck in, when you are planning to go out to meet the special someone. Its the same rain. But something about this is different. Its the calm, the loneliness, that pines in me to find a mate, a friend.

Is it the time? When the whole world is sleeping, you are only one wide awake. The senses are vigilant. In general, you are no more an observer trying not to get wet. But now you are one of it. At that time in the night, you are a part of it. Alone. Its a wonderful feeling. The tiny drops falling five feet away. And you are sitting under the portico. The tiny drops float to the ground and break into a thousand droplets, each droplet tiny, weightless, but significant enough to feel their existence.The tiny droplets engulf you in a drizzle, but small enough to never to get you wet. Its the cool breeze like a cool coat that you dont want to take off.

The lightning strikes in a distance…far far away; never disturbing you from your wide awake slumber. The senses see it all, feels it all, but never registers it. The nature lets out a muffled shriek to wake you, but that never ever reaches you. Houses, trees and other features shine up for an instant, fighting for your recognition. You see them for an instant, trying to figure out where they fit when you saw them in the morning, but they disappear as soon as they had showed up to you.

Its totally normal to be awed by the power of nature when you see the huge rocks on your trek up the tirumalai or to feel completely empowered sitting atop of the Chapora Fort of Goa glancing at the wide expanse of water. But when despite all the difference between nature and us, if i feeling as itself, as a part of it, recognising yourself in it, its a definitely different experience.

Its just a dream sequence that comes alive. You know you would never be able to feel it again. Atleast not in the same way you felt. Next time its to be different. Never with the same sense of oneness, never with the same sense of self-indulgent awe. Never with that of a kid allowed to play in the mud. Of a kid allowed to all his sweetmeats.