3:03am

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So, I cried. Remembering all the people who have left me, so easily, when I was just trying to open myself up to them, slowly. Thinking that they might understand my pace, just like I did theirs. Trying to sew their damage, secretly hoping that they do it too when I come undone. I can’t breathe. Crying blocks my nose, I choke, making me cry more. It hurts. Just when I was thinking that it has gotten better. It is a constant dilemma; I know I’m happy being who I am, I just feel that I wish someone else did that too. Or someone elses. I’m not seeking for approval. I just…
I wish it wasn’t this easy for people to leave when someone just say, “don’t talk to me anymore” . Or, when someone simply starts to ignore, no reason is asked, the relationship shared, is just over. How? How? I might feel sad or shy or angry to bring that topic up, but you too?? Did I mean nothing to you, at all?

This isn’t a ….. Boy girl relationship heartbreak cry. This is, for those friends, who thought, it was ok to leave, even after all the moments shared.
It starts with, less talking, then less humour sharing, till the point where you are the only one continuing the ritual, when suddenly you realise, that you are the only one continuing the ritual. And then it strikes you. That they are gone. You can’t even get mad because you know the reason. You knew something like this would happen. But… There was no warning. The withdrawal symptoms are the worst. It hits you just when you muster up your strength.

I was slowly warming up to you, being a friend, trying not to repeat what I did with my previous ones because I still think that it’s my fault even though I felt like a fool initiating all the conversations. And when I stopped, it stopped. It was almost as if i was bothering you. And I didn’t want to.
Its harming me. But how would you know?
You just left.

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last 5 minutes.

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I can barely grasp the idea that this is the last minutes of your 50 years. We have had more rainy days with loud thunderstorms and less clear skies. I wouldn’t lie that i have not hated growing up before age. I blame Alzheimer more than I blame you. I have had my lows when my alter ego wanted to escape from you, from the me with you. The only inspiration to push one day in to another was your smile at the sound of my name.

Alzheimer couldn’t handcuff a mother’s love, of course. Mighty disease, they say. I sit with your hand in mine and we both know this might be the last time, I holding freckled, wrinkly hand. 

She smiles, her familiar one. She would remember me to the next world too, you see, Alzheimer ?

The Raven Mail

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My Aunt said my Grandma visited her
every fine morning of Tuesday in a Raven’s body.

She would sit by the window pane and call her for dearest of dear

“she craved some affection in form of food”

I looked & looked at their traditional transition

I looked &  looked & stood

for me it made no sense

but just the game of fools.

On a tuesday morning

as she perched again in the customary place with the customary call

I waited and waited for someone to listen

silence the cry or wail or plead

but none were to be found.

some moments later when she called again,

I dropped my pen out of frustration,

walked to the window to place a slice of bread

I watched her prick the slice with her beak

and finally satiated, she flew away.

An uncanny satisfaction washed over me, 

I became a part of this fools’ game

but then you can’t explain everything you see.
How often do you find solace in doing things your mind doesn’t approve of ?

Artwork by : Smruti Ranjan Maharatha

When we are no more young.

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​Will you remember me in rusted woods who sing the song of love and decay ?

Will you remember me in withered leaves that have written the poetry of you and me ?

When we are no more young, with the petals of our love fallen and faded , will you remember me in the pages of your dairy?

Not So Perfect.

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​Not so perfect.

.

.

I have been told stories

To grow up to become someone’s perfect bride 

Sadly, for my mom has a lot of taming to do 

to keeping slick  long hair to learning how to cook

In a month and three days I would be twenty three

And I still struggle with the ink stains in my laundry

I lay lazy all sunday afternoon with wafers by my side

Also, run with half eaten sandwiches in my hand

pacing for class with each stride

Sleeping all day to fumbling all night

With hips of papers placed uneventfully by my side. 

Then I look at my mom through her mother’s words

How she bugged and buzzed , grandma would only sigh

From being lost at gazing at the airplane to handling a family of 10

Even if I am twenty two and 11 months and 30 days old

And I am still figuring out what to do 

With so much ahead and so much behind

Walking no where near the lane of perfection

Maybe I am just my mom’s reflection. 

Everyday thing.

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The alarm buzzes the morning glory. “Fuck you !”, she cursed under her breath , her voice still humming the traces of her sleep. The chaos of the hair were the first to peep out of the white quilt. The eye lids still stubbornly hugging her bronze skin, one pastel, lean hand darted fiercely to shut the alarm . 

After a while, when the snooze persisted, she finally gave up. The torse rose upward, making her sit clumsily erect, head tilted to the left, resting upon her small shoulder ,  to show that she still lingered in her nightmares.  The slippers waiting beside the bed welcomed her, she skid her right leg first, then the left, the scar upon the upper part of her foot flickered a memory, prodding it away, she sulked into the bathroom splashing some water upon her face.

Like every other dream.

Like every other day.

A Toast

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~It’s just another day.

What day?

~Birthday. It’s just another day. A reason for people to just go out to eat junk food at the cost of one person.

What’s wrong?

~I have never loved the obsession with a particular date of an year and ignoring the presence of the person concerned for the rest of the year.

Ah. Truer words have never been spoken.

~Thanks. Atleast I found another birthday hater.

But, as much as I agree with today’s modernistic approach of birthdays , it is quite a significant day.

~Oh please. We just established on how stupid that day is.

Just hear me out, okay? See, we could have been anything. An amoeba, a platypus, a measly cockroach. Instead, we are the remnants of our ancestors. We belong to the species, who have fought for survival, waged wars, the ones who make others understand about others. And that’s possible only because we are the most intelligent species on earth who actually know how to use their brains, distinguish between right and wrong.
Isn’t it amazing, how the same stardust that makes up planets and stars and what not in the universe, makes us, us? That’s a miracle in itself.
So that day is an ode to everything. You could have been dead, or simply , not born. But, you are here. Now. Hale and hearty. Having a debate with a sound mind.
So that phone call that you get on the day you think is absurd to celebrate, that is a toast to your entire existence.

Celebrate a little and just go with the flow.