Love works in all ways :)

He had deep black eyes. I loved to look right into those eyes, and try to not blink. But every time my eyes would water and I’d blink, letting my tears flow. He was twelve and I were nine. It seemed like day and night, the age difference, then. He lived across my street, we were neighbours, and our parents were best of friends. So it was just plain natural that we literally grew up together.

Every morning I’d wake up and get ready for school. And at sharp 7.30 am, he would come over to my place, catch a bite to eat and then take me along. We would walk to the bus stop. He treated me like  a silly kid, which I absolutely detested. I would tag along shamelessly wherever he went. You see, it felt cool for a fourth grade kid to be friends with a seventh grader. I would go on and on about my cool stints with him, to my friends. They would look at me in awe, and I would feel like a princess. And always, he was my Prince.

Time passed by. I got heartbroken that time when he asked me to pass on a love note to a pretty ninth grade girl, who rode the school bus with us. I was hurt, tears welled up in my eyes. But I refused to acknowledge it to him and I offered to do it for him. She tore his letter into shreds in front of me, and I could not bear it. Whack! I hit her. He came running over and dragged me away, while I cursed at her! No one hurts him. No one. I muttered to myself and I felt pleased to see the girl whimper in pain. I expected accolades and appreciation, but all I got was bitter scoldings, for spoiling his “chance”. I was hurt. I was heart-broken. I didn’t share my cookies with him anymore. I didn’t tag along to his football matches; nor did I let him carry my bag anymore. He tried to coax out of me what went wrong. I gave out nothing. And slowly, that tiny distance grew. The time sped by, and we grew apart.

He was seventeen, and I had turned fourteen. I was late and I ran breathless, to the bus stop. The bus had left, I realized, for there was none around. I did not know what was to be done and I couldn’t afford to miss the exam to be held that day. Tears spilled along my cheeks as I turned to walk back home to get money for the cab. It was then that I saw someone coming towards me. I blinked my tears away, and there he stood! My relief knew no bounds. His eyes dipped to mine, as he wiped away my tears. He had waited. I looked into his eyes, and I knew I was wrong; always had been wrong.

.

.

It was July 24th, 2006. Seven years had passed since that day at the bus stop. We were still together. Childhood sweethearts. I was still his favorite kid, whom he loved to spoil rotten. And I would cling onto him like the very same nine-year old. Despite the long distance, we were hopelessly in love. It was as though we were meant to be.  I had gotten back from college early. He was coming home for the Summers. It had been more than three years since I had seen him last. Everyone seemed excited. My mom and his, seemed to be fighting over what dishes were to be made; while the dads argued over what graduation gift to be given! I could not stop smiling.

I decided to stay at home rather than venture out  to the airport to pick him up. The wait seemed endless. I did not know what to do; I had my heart in my stomach. I seemed to be a nervous wreck. Time seemed stuck. And then, I heard a cab pull over across the street. I ran out of  the gate, and I saw him. He took out the baggage and paid the cab driver. I felt my heart would melt, as our gaze met. I felt myself slip into those big eyes. He grinned his all too familiar grin, and I could not help but smile. He called out to me, teasing me. I pouted, from the other side of the road. He guffawed at me, and started to walk over to me.

Crash!

I heard a screeching cry; and then nothing more;  I felt nothing. He laid drenched in pools of blood. His blue shirt had turned red, and there was nothing that seemed like him. Bits and pieces scattered all over. I ran over, and held onto  him. I held his bleeding face in my arms. His eyes were drooping close. I heard no cries, I heard none around me.  In a moment, we were at the hospital. I held his hands in mine, waiting for his eyes to open. Waiting to see those black eyes once more; to hear him call my name; to see his smile that would melt my heart all over again. I waited seamlessly, as though looking into our eternity.

And then he opened his eyes. Tears of relief spread through me. I had faith that we could pull it off. I told him so, repeatedly. He tried to smile, but his face was beyond ruins to even move. It hurt to watch him try, try so hard.I held onto his hand, urging him on, and on. His eyes seemed to tell me a million things. I could see myself all over him. I could see our little joys, silly tussles and endless dreams embossed in his eyes. I prayed so hard, that it was not to be the last time I would look into his eyes, or hold him close to me.

.

.

I felt as though someone had nudged me awake. I had dozed off on my chair. The sheets of paper were scattered everywhere. “Hey Mrs. big-shot-author, done with your story, yet? I have been waiting for a long time now!” he said, helping me pile up the sheets into a set.  Sheepishly, I gave him my all-apologetic-grin. He chuckled and said ”Yeah, yeah, this sure works every time.” “I sure hope so! Else I’d be in grave trouble”, I replied.I leaned in and we kissed. My eyes closed for a moment, and I thanked all the heavens for giving me my life back.

“Sone ka irada hai ki nahin madam?,” he asked in his ridiculously sweet-broken-hindi. It always made me laugh! “Haanji, chale?“, I asked.  I pushed his wheelchair back to the bedroom, listening to his laughter fill my life up! Sometimes, even the gravest of tragedies can be turned to the best of our blessings. All that matters is how much you want it to be, in life. Everything else just falls into place. There is nothing more I could have asked for, than to wake up to his twinkling eyes every morning. Nothing else matters. And I have never been this happy, ever. Touch-wood.

As I always say, love works in all ways.

A letter to the beloved

” It hurts me to watch. Watch you droop and wilt. Nothing ever matters more to me, than you, and I know, you know it too. Each time I look into that brown eyes of yours, I am lost. I see myself slip, I know I would give in. I know I would regret that I did, later. But your charm always makes me fall head over heels for you. I let you be. I let you hurt yourself. And my heart breaks to watch.

You often say, it is just a smoke, one fag, once in a while. I wish I could think alike. I truly wish I had known people who smoke, a brother or a friend who smoked around me. But unfortunately, I don’t. Maybe if I had had someone dear, who smoked, I would have cared less, gotten accustomed to the sickening habit that you have. Maybe, if you had given me a hint, all along, I might have trained myself to live with, to overcome my aversion. But alas, you never let me come to terms. And now, I am left with a hollow ache, that prods itself harder and harder each day, gnawing deeper. And the wound widens, each time, and every time.

I wish you would be unkind, hurtful, just so that I can have a reason, a reason to love you a little less. Care a tad less about the nicotine flowing through your veins, killing you, slow, but steady. I wish you’d not love me like you do. I wish you’d argue and be rude. I wish you would not promise to try, and fail. Each time, every time. It hurts me as I watch you, make excuses, try cover up, blow up your anger, misdirected. I wish I couldn’t see right through you. I wish I could just not know. I wish you’d know to lie, and then I dread for wishing so. Sigh, I wish you’d know, how much it matters to me, for you to be healthy, sane. Not just for now, for the rest of the eighty odd years we plan to live together, love together!

Every cigarette you make love to, snatches away three precious minutes of the life, that you and I could have. Being a medico, I cannot but think of the dissection classes I’ve been to. I cannot but remember the scarred lungs tissues we’ve been shown, the quick easy way to differentiate between a smoker and a non-smoker – cut open his lungs, and watch the black pulp that killed, could have killed (had he got a little time more) , or ought to have (luck favours the undeserving too, sometimes). Statistics say, 2 in every 3 smokers, die of this habit. Half the world dies of cancers and tobacco just helps your way to it. I know everyone knows the stats, so do you. But you have not watched them die, like I have. You’ve not watched the pain, the regret that I’ve seen in their eyes, waiting by the hospital bed, knowing their time is close to nil. Knowing the pain, feeling it hurt you, and hurt your dear ones a lot more. You have not ventured to even sit back, and think. You always try to play the risks down, to cover up, to hood-wink yourself and me. But it never works that way. It never does.

I want to sit with you every evening, on the wooden bench at the park, even when we are eighty. I want to laugh with you all night, even when our teeth have gone missing, and most of our memory too! I want us to walk to the grocery mart across the lane, buy our month’s ration and treat us to some steaming chaai and samosas on the walk back home. I want us to watch our kids grow old, and yet be silly as only kids can be! I want you to tell our story to our grand kids, and make them laugh, the way you make me laugh! I want oh-so-much! I want every fond memory my heart can possibly hold in. And most importantly, I want you in each of it.

I know, you have your own counter arguments. I know the high incidence of Road Traffic Accidents, that kills many a so. I know the prevalence of the umpteen diseases that could kill. I know the alarming rates of violence, suicides and everything else that could kill. I know, there is a high chance that I could die of small cell lung carcinoma, despite of not having had a smoke, ever in life. I know the odds. I know the uncertainty of life. Yet, I know something else. I do not need a reason to be angry at you, for throwing away everything we could have had, in our perfect live, for the sake of something that you always knew could turn dangerous. If not today, some day. I do not need a reason to be angry at our beautiful yesterdays. I do not need a reason to resent you, not for a moment. Not ever. Everything else I can live through, except this. The hurt and disappointment, the anger and resentment, that you never tried, when you could have.

I know you want to, and you are trying to cut down. From what I have heard, you have gone from a few per day, to one in 3 days! I wish I could pat your back and cheer you up. But I cannot. I cannot bring myself to. For in my eyes, one cigar, the one you are smoking right now, could be the one. The one that shatters my dreams, our dreams. I wish I could help. I wish I could be more supportive. But all I see is the future, and without you, there is nothing but darkness ahead!

I wish I could tell you every word of this and everything else that makes my heart ache. But I know I can not. And I know nor do you want me to. Somethings are better left unsaid, as long as it can be read between the lines. Some times our silence holds more strength than our words. And I pray, my prayers have more power than my anger or my tears.  And I pray, you read through me, my soul, as you do, each time and every time. Wishful I still am, of growing old together…”

.

.

.

This is something I have been wanting to write, for a very long time. SMOKING KILLS. IF NOT YOU, IT KILLS THOSE LIVING FOR YOU. IT KILLS THOSE WHO LOVE YOU, HAVING TO WATCH YOU KILL YOURSELF. There is nothing more hurtful than inflicting pain on your loved ones, I believe. Many a time people ignore the conflicting minds of one’s family and friends, while indulging in habits like smoking, alcohol or drug abuse. It is often the family that suffers more, for they have to live with the fear of losing their kin. It is this hurt that breaks them down, and that hollow ache never dies. It kills them each day, for the rest of their lives. Here on my little space,  I request all the smokers to think about the lives you leave behind, when you no longer live; and the hurt you leave behind.

Bring me a smile, would you?

Some days, I remember you
with a tinge of blush,
adding reds to the sunset.
Thinking of those stolen kisses
that could have been,
and conversations in silence
flowing through you
into me, I stay by the old oak tree,
waiting.
As the night slips in, stealthily,
I turn back, and across the winding stoneway
I walk, not stopping by
to smell the daisies, in slumber.

(It aches to. Ouch)

Some days it doesn’t matter,
being apart.
Days like those, I get the good old
self back, and the music too.
I waltz through the day, daisy in my hair
and a song in my soul.
And at dusk, the tune melts in
like a silken melody,
and glides into my dream,
and a smoky you is all that remains.
And I wake up, hollow
and the sun-drops burn my skin,
and scarred, my soul screams,
a muted symphony.

(It aches too.)

Sigh! When would the clouds move away?
When would you rain my soul, again?
Oh, when would you be back,
and bring me a smile, would you?
Walked out, mine seems to have,
with you.

Awarded :)

I’ve been putting this on hold since a couple of days I guess! Finally, now seems like the best time to do it – acknowledge and be grateful too!! Thank you Tito for both the awards – One Lovely Blog Award and The Sunshine Award

• Proud badge here – One Lovely Blog Award

• The Sunshine Award

This one has got some questions to be answered. So here goes 

Favourite colors: Black, Red, Silver, Gold, Purple.

Favourite Animal: Hmmm… not an animal lover, I hate to admit. But if I had to pick one, I’d pick dogs

Favourite number: 9

Favourite non-alchoholic drink:  Water. Simply the best

Facebook or Twitter: Facebook.

My passion: Poetry. Books. Mr.Pea (not necessarily in that order)

Getting or giving presents: Giving, more

Favourite pattern: Random!

Favourite day of the week.  Friday!!

Favourite flower:  Love Daisies, Roses, Lillies, and the good old mulla-poovu (jasmine)

Thanks for the awards Tito!! You made me smileeeeeee!!

Mourning

Poignant, my silence was judged

to be, falsely so; when all it bled

was a sea of ache.

My eyes were no longer brown

and my hair not jet black,

anymore.

My knees were not scraped red

and my palms not calloused

or burnt.

The physical hurt had died

in the womb,

all that remains is my phantom pain.

Black and white, my life

no longer fixes reds or pinks

when dipped in.

Cataract view and wrinkled reality

I wade through everyday

to my cavern of hopelessness.

The echoes of laughter drowns in me

to flow down my face.

Yet, cry, I can’t.

Depressing, these lights and the rain,

I shudder to see smiling eyes

and pink lips.

I shrink into my shell,

hugging onto my shriveled dreams.

Reality is foggy today

and I might not last till tomorrow.

So I wade through my parched soul

to find a shard

of hope, to survive.

.

.

Darkness. Sleep. Morning. Mourning.

Across the street -1,2

1

I watched them from a safe distance everyday. The freshly painted white cottage and the garden. They had mangoes and litchis and walnuts and peaches every Summer. The terracotta vase on the oak table in the garden always had fresh flowers in them. Did she change them every morning? Or did he? I still don’t know. But it was beautiful, always been. Some mornings, I watched him kissing goodbye to his wife, before leaving for work. Most days he wore crisp suits, mostly browns and blacks. Some times he traded them for freshly pressed shirts in blues and greens with dark trousers. He wore impeccably polished shoes; but his hair was always out-of-place, yet beautifully so. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d not mind waking up early to surprise his wife with breakfast-in-bed or teach his kids how to ride bicycles and how to swim. The handsome man with brown eyes and a smile to die for. The perfect husband. The doting daddy. And I was falling in love with him. Slowly, but surely.

2

She adored him; that much was obvious. Some evenings I saw her at the backyard, tending to her garden. She picked the prettiest daisies, maybe to adorn their bedroom vase. I couldn’t know that for sure. Yet the way she always smiled, it made my heart ache in an envious way. Some mornings, I would find him rush out, late for work. She would watch him drive off from her patio. But no matter how late, he never left without a kiss. Once he was gone, she would close the door smiling. And I would watch their perfect home from a distance.  Every Sunday they went to the church nearby. I would be up early, just to watch them. She always wore a modest skirt and elegant shirt to church. Gucci or Chanel, I would guess. She wore expensive jewellery, but always kept it bare minimal. Her handbags or purses were always brown leather. She was comfortable in her skin. She loved her garden and she loved her barbecues. She made me want to be like her. I was envious, yet I liked her. Everyone would.

The Elevenses Tag

Okay!!! Another tag here. Couldn’t help it Am such a sucker for tags!! Picked this up from Tito‘s! Its called The Elevenses Tag and I enjoyed reading his tag done, so much so that I decided I just had to get mine done – invitation or no invitation

So the rules first :
1. You must post the rules.
2. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post and then create eleven new questions to ask the people you’ve tagged.
3. Tag eleven people and link to them on your post. (Most of those on my blogroll are already tagged for this one. So skipping that part)
4. Let them know you’ve tagged them!

These are the eleven questions Tito has created for me (and everyone else too )

1. What do you think is one adjective that defines you aptly ?
Adorable Why do you think I use the user ID – adorable sashu (Okay now I get another adjective apt for me – Narcissistic )

2. If you were to be famous, what would you be famous for ?
Firstly I wish I’d actually get to be thaaat -famous, I mean. Always wanted to; as a singer in primary school (God! I can hardly hum a tune and I longed to be famous, infact I wanted to be Madonna:P). After that stage passed, I wanted to be famous with a best selling book of fiction. Again self-realization played spoil-sport, and now if you ask me, I’d like to be “known” rather than be famous, preferably in the Radical Drug Research and Development scene! (No harm in dreaming, right? )

3. Cats or Dogs ? Why ?
Neither, really! But if I’m forced to pick one – DOGS, DOGS, DOGS!!! Why? I don’t know. But I feel dogs are more “human”, if you get what I mean!!

4. Who is your 2 a.m. friend ? Have you ever made that call ?
I’ve had 2-3 of them, through the timeline. It has been Arjun, since quite a long long time now. Now, I don’t have to make a “call” though; I just need to nudge him awake

5. Do you believe in Love at First Sight ?
No. I’ve heard it works and has some scientific basis too. But it can never work for me. Never ever.

6. How many countries have you visited (transit in an airport doesnt count unless you went sightseeing) ?
Just 4. Wish to make it 40 though

7. What lead you to this blog ? or Who ?
Was blog-hopping! Found your name in one of Usha Pisharody’s post. That got me to yours

8. Which is the one book / movie , you think everyone should see ?
Love in the time of cholera – book and/or movie. It is so very beautifully done!

9. Who is the one celebrity you wish would be struck by lightning ? Why ?
A lot many! Wow, how I wish I could actually get this done. Well the first in my list would be – Santhosh Pandit I’m sure all the Keralite Bloggers would be familiar with this pain-in-the-everywhere-I-can-think-of! Then, Rakhi Sawant comes a close second and Shobha De, a close third. Why? The first guy has to be mentally-ill; yet I cannot offer any sympathy, as long as he publicizes his disorder on screen, and earnestly thinks we enjoy watching him “entertain”! Groans!!! Rakhi Sawant -I can’t bear to watch her pout and booty-shakes; nor can I stand her dramatics! Shobha De? The-know-it-all-pompous-snobbish-fake attitude sure puts me off.

10. What kind of music do you listen to ? What is you favorite track ?
I listen to most of everything. Favorite track? That is the toughest of all questions here! Hmmmmm…I can’t do this! Ummm… am thinking, hard… I love “Another day in paradise” – Phil Collins. I love it even more hearing my Mr.Pea sing it

11. Final Question : How do you want your epitaph to read?”
Here is someone who really L.I.V.E.D!

Shucks! The tag just got over so soon! Sigh! Now to the next part, my set of questions:

My Elevenses Tag for you:

1. What is the first movie you remember watching?
2. If you could be anyone but you, whom would you be? Why?
3. Do you believe matches are made in heaven?
4. What is one exceptional skill of yours?
5. What would you prefer- a heart-break or a fall-out?
6. One big regret?
7. The best day of your life, till date?
8. A personal quirk, you actually like?
9. What does you coffee mug say?
10. Your favorite musical instrument?
11. What is the one thing you can’t have, but desperately want to /wanted to?

Anyone is free to pick up this tag! Hope someone does Enjoy

Its Show Time, Baby!!!

Yup!! Its again that time of the year, the time of awards and tags!!! And oh yeah, I’ve been awarded too – The Versatile Blogger Award –  right here  ( ) Thank You Usha ma’m And without much ado, am going right to the stuff I love – TAGS!!!

To mention the rules for this award : (Directly “lifted” from Usha Pisharody’s Blog …see, am a honest thief :P)

The Versatile Blogger Awardee has to…

1. Thank the award-giver and link back to them in your post.
2. Share 7 things about oneself.
3. Pass this award along to 15 recently discovered blogs you enjoy reading.
4. Contact your chosen bloggers to let them know about the award.

So, here I go! Brace yourselves

1. Thanking the award giver : Done that! Refer to the start of this post (Arrogance? Sheer lazy to add links here )

2. The Seven-Point-Me

• I am complicated. Really am! There would too much going on in my head, be it any time of the day.

• I adore the little little things in life. Sweet nothings can make me burst with the kind of happiness that most things in life cannot offer! A bird’s song, a phone call from a friend I’ve not spoken to for long, a good coffee, an old lady smiling, a beautiful melody, a simple joke…these can make me smile all day!!!

• I love to live alone. The privacy, the complacency and the always-in-one’s-own-world-joy of living by yourself makes me adore the concept. And  that is what I miss most about being at Delhi. Sigh! I miss my Apartment so very much. It was my personal heaven!

• I am reclusive by nature. There is a side to me that can never be open to anyone. Leave that to myself, my secret abode, my happy place (not always happy though!)

• When faced with a problem, I break down at first, worry my head off, weep and sob (to myself) and once that is done, I’m done with the mopping around part. Then I turn into the logical-rational-self. And I rough it through, heads high. I am a toughie. I believe that I can survive through most of everything.

• I love kids! Adore their toothless grins and baby fat The naughtier the kid is, the more I loveeeee! Awwww…I miss my li’l cousins n nephews n nieces right now!!

• I never forget. Be that a good deed done to me, or a bad one. I never ever forget. More often than not, I forgive. But I never forget. (Okay I’ve said that enough )

Phew! Done that!

The Stranger’s Lantern

There, far across, I see
a beacon, burning bright.
Tired, my legs could carry me
no more. Crawling, my knees
are now bruised; gritty,
these rocks tell me a tale
of angry vengeance.

I’m a wanderer in this land
yet, victimized, and I know not
why. It has been a while
I’ve lost my way, drifting away
from you. It no longer gnaws,
a maggot nibbling at raw wounds-
No. It doesn’t hurt that bad.

It is now, as night sets in
once again, and the darkness cloaks
my pain, that I see that light.
Across the horizon, a lantern
burns; and I dream of a stranger
Waiting, hoping, to find me
And own me, even if for a night.

I lose the stranger’s lantern
each morn, and I weep, inconsolably.
I crawl and creep through the day,
stones in the road urging me on.
Trance, the night plays its tune
And I stare, longingly, yearning to be
a midnight whore. Your’s.
That much, at least.

The Bubble Gum Pink Eraser

The first odd thing I remember losing was an eraser. Bubble-gum pink, it was a pretty little thing according to my 4-year-old brain. And I had to show it off. And just that, I did. I got all the appreciative glances, occasional jealous looks and a lot of inquiries as to where I got mine from. I smiled, inwardly, glad that there was something coveted, that only I possessed. But alas, the joy of owning a masterpiece was short-lived. The very eve I got home and sat down to get my home work done, I found my eraser missing from the little pink pencil box. I wailed and screamed and wept, inconsolably. My parents tried to pacify me at first, and when I paid no heed, ignored me. Even after an entire week, I was distraught over my loss. My first palpable loss, that I had to bear. But within me, there was this ray of hope, that someday, someday I would find my eraser. Even if a tiny bit of it was all that remained, I would have been ecstatic. But I never did find it.

.

.

Today, as I sit to write this, my tears have dried out; for now. The ache is still raw, and the feelings so confusing. I know it is all over.  But I don’t know why my heart refuses to accept it. It whispers to me a secret, that it is not to be; for how could we, not be?? I long to nod along, listening to what my heart murmurs to me. My brain accedes to the fact that it can no longer be. That I need to pull my socks and move on. It was not meant to be. But I can not. The ache has still to sink in, deep. Despite the tears that flowed down my cheeks; and the tormenting feelings running through my head, I still have hope. Just like that eraser of preschool. And I wish it would be nothing like that.

Arghh… these tears, they never listen. They always come to me, uninvited. Just like now.

.

.

She capped her pen shut. It felt a lot better now. She had something to start with. Her coffee had gone cold. Her feet ached and her neck pained. It was time to sleep, she decided. A sad smile played on her lips. She had finally written a page. After 3 long years, she had let go of herself. She wanted to let it rain out of her system. She wanted him to read he, and know.

She looked at the blades of the fan spinning above her. It felt like a whirlpool, and her past flashed before her eyes. And before she knew, she had slipped into sleep. Calm, and nightmare free, she hoped.

Or rather, I hoped. Wondering who I am? She will write about me, I’m sure. So let her. Till then let me be.