June 26, 2011

Past, Be Past!

Learn about your connection with the past.

My horoscope for the day.


Yesterday was the past. Two years before was the past. This night, tomorrow, will be the past. 

I have a strange relationship with my past. It is more like a marriage- where you put up with your spouse because you know that under that quirky, annoying behavior there is that person you married. When the sun will come out tomorrow, this same person becomes that guy you fell in love with. 

The thing is- marriage is questionable these days. 

It is almost over three years that I have left behind the past of what all had been. It is nights like these when I don't find anything to write that I dig up the backyard and search for the remnants of a parallel life. 

When I was eighteen, I was swept with a wave of energy- the freedom of knowing that I could tame this world, that everything I could ever do, I could do right now. 

At 23, I feel I am still too naive. I don't know and probably never will what they mean when they say, you always know when to choose right. 

Things, if they turn out well, that means, we have chosen right. At least, that is what I have learnt. Because, no matter how hard you try to make sense of the mistakes that have happened to you, they always escape logic.  

Those explanations are like God. One day, you trust in them. The other day, you hate them with the intense vigor that you never knew was present in you. 

I am not hateful of my past. Those are still the very days I reminisce with fond memories. Of course, that comes with leaving out the bad parts. 

The one thing, you will always be thankful of, is knowing that no matter how dark the night was back then, you could see the sun rise today. It is only complimentary- losing something for gaining something. Better or worse, you could only know later. 

I struggle at times, containing myself within the threshold of my present, my future because those days, my past is overbearing and powerful. 

Those are the exact days when the hurt and the pain surrounds and takes me down. But, then there are days when you want to say, "F*** the past."

Those are the days when you know you have taken another step towards freedom, towards happiness. 

My connection with my past is to propel myself forward. 

It is to make myself a better person. 

After all, it is not what your past makes of you, it is what you make of your past.

June 24, 2011

Life: TRDC Meme

The Red Dress Club asked us to write a flash fiction of about 300 words on a topic inspired by the word "Life". 


Sam stood by the kitchen window. 

Her tiny feet wrestling with one another to reach a better view of the outside. Her curls tossed in quick movements stealing from her the ease of observation. 

Beating against the window were the numerous spirits of the season- trying a chance at what all could have been. And, though their sounds had been hushed with the blinding snow, they were present as silent as the  water in a block of ice, as invisible as the breathing air. 

The weather hadn't changed any better since the day before. It was another cold, dreary morning, laced with snow and winds racing against the human race. 

The lights from the distant houses- from the kitchen windows, the bedrooms, from the dimly-lit halls were spread over in an unevenness.    

Life, it seemed had never evolved.

Sam watched it snow with a sullen mood- the thick of the winter chilling her being, stunting the length  of her inspiration. 

She drew the curtains over the window and walked to the potted plant in one corner.

Poinsettia.

Bright Christmas red.

She smiled. 

June 20, 2011

The First Time: RemembeRED

This week at the RemembeRED meme from TRDC, we had to write about our own prompt starting with The first time I ______ -ed after ______ -ing.

So, here we go.

The first time I walked alone the day after the alleged breakup... 

It was just another of those days when all the brightness somehow fell short.

The breakup was meant to be.

I had had that feeling of inhibition tearing me apart from the inside for a long time. I had known it before but I never could know when I had become comfortable with it.

What surprised me was that we could push past seven months. What surprised me was that I could let a man bring me to my feet, make me feel bad about myself, and question my upbringing. 

So, when that April day began and I had to step into the world again, I was scared. 

The sun was bright, there was a newness in the air. The months of domination, the months of being under someone had just got bigger. 

It is not that the man you thought you loved, called you a bitch or a slut that hurts, it is just that the man, you thought who was never capable of doing such a thing just did it, without any second thoughts.

I walked all the way not even wary of the traffic, not even wary of the time. 

Fearful. Like all eyes were on me.

Like somehow the last ugly conversation between the two of us had broken open into the world.

Like the world believed everything that he had said.

And, I didn't matter.

It was fear of a new kind- where I did not know safety anymore, where I did not know an understanding friend, where I did not know what they meant when they said "we are still friends."

I didn't know any of that. 

I feared for my life. I feared for the ugliness in all of it and what the relationship had become. I feared for the unknown, things that were yet to happen. And through it all, I feared myself.

It didn't even had to be told that I had become a different person. Numb, mechanical, mostly injurious.  

Another thing, I knew was that I was alone. I had to solve this mess, sort things out, wash that load of laundry, take my semester exams, pretend that everything was alright to my parents. It was too much work.
  
For a moment, love was bullshit.

In that day, the day I walked into the world fearing it, was born a new person.

For someone whom tears meant weakness, for whom love meant coldness, for whom nothingness felt whole.

Little by little, turning every emotion into cynicism. Every belief into paradox.

Luckily, love still made a way.

June 14, 2011

To Live By

I have a little happiness in me.

It came with the rain. Opening up the heart and seamlessly. I stood there with my skirt in one hand and the other hand trying to catch hold of the rain. 

With depression, I had a sudden nerve-tingling fear- it was the fear of being wet, the fear of feeling closed up. Tonight, I forwarded myself, trying to let go of the fear, trying to let myself feel the power of the rain. 

I stood there as a mother too. I watched the plants soak in the falling rain, beautifully, lively. Among them stood my baby plant- the one that I had nurtured, the one I had watered. 

It was a tiny little plant-ling. Halfhearted, dull, and hanging. Just about a feet tall, it just was an insignificant little thing. 

Almost dying. 

Now, six months later, I stand as a proud mother alongside this five feet long plant- my baby. 

I have talked to it everyday, kissed it, shaded it from the scorching sun, sang to it. 

Tonight, as I stood there, I watched it stand tall, green and vibrant- in a small plastic pot. 

I thought to myself, if I move out, she is coming with me- my baby. If ever there comes a day when she will not be here, I know, I will cry. 

With this rain, I have learnt what I feel on the inside. It is a plain love, one that lingers within the heart throughout the day without much words. 

Every time, I come back home, I walk by it, planting a kiss on the plant, the mere innocence driving me to know that I can find happiness in little things. 

In that dark phase of my life, where depression was what I saw and knew, I feared forgetting how to show love. I feared rejection, feared the mere thought of loving, feared the work that love needs. 

So, now I know, I can still love and nurture. I can still be what my heart feels to be. 

In just under the fifteen minutes that the downpour continued, I renewed. 

As I am writing this, I can still hear the sound of the thunder, the meeting of the rain and the earth and my heart is swell with happiness. 

Peace.

Content. 

Love

The only things to live by. 

June 13, 2011

Affection RemembeRED

This week from the TRDC RemembeRED prompt is to write about how the show of affection has played a part in your memory. 

So, here we go. 



The fog danced in the morning light.

The cold of February wasn't cold. It was pleasant. There was always a sun, shining, hinting at the early plays of the Spring. 

Evenly wet roads, the smoke coming out of chimneys, the braying and mooing of the bovines, the short flight of birds, the slow honks, and the endless winds- seizing the moment, seizing the winter. 

That is where I grew up.    

I had turned five that morning. My daddy had come to pick me up from school- me a smart, quick learner, already in my last year of pre-school.   
I was always my daddy's favorite for no other reason than being the first born. I resembled him- his curly hairs copied onto my head, my face just a replica of his being. I was adamant, that kid that wants everything for herself, that kid that excelled in everything she did, that kid that made her daddy proud. 

Mother always said no. Daddy was a bit more generous. 

Mother always took my sister's side. Daddy was mine. 

On the day I had turned five, I was with my dad. We were on his bicycle- the only luxury ride that I knew of. I was on the baby seat while he strode along side holding me with one hand. 

That was the time when he told me it was my birthday, that I had turned five today. 

There was more pride in me, thinking I had achieved something big, something no one else could achieve. I was five and I was growing. 

It must have been pride too that my father would have felt, knowing I was growing. His baby who started walking well ahead of nine months, who had curly hairs just like him, who topped her pre-school years was growing into a girl. Five years today. 

I have carried on with this memory, this part of a father-daughter moment when all other events faded into the mysteries of teenage. 

Eighteen years later when daddy turned fifty, I was witnessing him. 

He has the same old gait which I had rote into my memory. Those curly hairs have turned silver, along the line a staunch, the grumpiness of a middle-aged man, that coy smile of a father among daughters who are in their twenties. 

That bicycle has become a car, that five-yr-old a 23-yr-old, and those winter days still there. 

Only today, I can find pride in him, that appreciation that I didn't know before when I was five. He is not anyone unique, not different from many dads, but he is there. 

The affection between us lacks words, lacks gestures, but it is there. 

Like the evenly wet roads, the smoke coming out of chimneys, the braying and mooing of the bovines, the short flight of birds, the slow honks, and the endless winds. 

    

June 9, 2011

The Endless: TRDC Meme

Hi ya ladies, 

This week's theme from the TRDC is to write a piece which includes a happy ending. 

My writers' block is at peak. So, bear with me and this fiction piece. 

Happy weekend. 

The air within the room is thick. 

The night is unlike any other but it has a tendency to resemble many a night before. More or less, this night could have been a sweet one- the kind where a family gathers around dinner, laughing off the day's silliness, chuckling at flat one-liners, where the kids could yell and still not offend, where the father could smile and yet not show, and where the mother could indulge her kids and yet not overdo. 

But some families don't have that luck. Mine neither. 

My father was yelling. All I could see was the way his lips were moving, his eyes dancing along. I don't know why he is angry. He is always like that- angry at something. Something, I will never know. 

Maybe, life has been too hard on him. Maybe, he was not married right. Maybe, he couldn't get to do what he wanted to do. Like really wanted to do. 

My mother is less intense than my father. She is of her own kind. She is those moms who think they are already doing so much for their children- when they aren't. 

We are good kids- my brother and I. I mean, sometimes my brother is irritating but overall, he is good. At least, he is not like father. My brother and I, we don't have any special relationship. 

But, we are the only ones normal in this house. Our parents are the weird ones here. 

Tonight, it started over the electricity bills. 

I never knew something so nothing could cause something so big. We all hated each other, hated each other' presence, hated knowing that this had begun again- the endless. We all stood, looking at one another- no body knowing, who was angry on who.

We fight. That is all we ever do together as a family

When all the yelling is over, my father heads out and my mother locks herself in her room.

It is so quiet now like nothing ever happened. Like there was no yelling, no cussing, no sobbing. This is the part of the fight I like. This strange calmness that descends on our house which is so unique every single time. 

Every time, one of my parents loses it, we all stand together as a family. We hold the threads of forced eternity and hang onto it. And of a sudden all that hatred, all that anger vanishes, changing everything back to the way it was. 

I know, we are not perfect, we are not even close. But, this will be the closest we will ever be.   

I have seen this family rock apart and come back together every single time. And, I don't feel much for it because I don't know anything different. 

In the end, it has always turned out to be fine. 

The night is unlike any other but it has a tendency to resemble many a night before.

June 6, 2011

Breathe, Breathe, Breathe Again

Every once in a while, I lose my senses.

I lose my courage, my will.

I wrote in my journal tonight as every other night. There I try to be honest, baring my soul, my dreams, my fears.

I have feared a lot lately. I have feared for the littlest of things- things which cannot even stand in the sunlight. I have feared the change of plans, the wetness in my soul, the questions I come up with.

Something has changed within me. I can sense its wings spreading open, trying to find a place for its existence. And, every time I do nothing about it but fear, it grabs hold of me firmer.

Tonight was one such night. I chose to write what I fear. And, for no apparent reason, I filled three pages of my journal.

Clear as a crystal.

Furthering into the night, I am still stuck with the magnanimity of the things that tend to wobble me from the inside. There is losing the dreams I am working on, there is the mystery of being unwanted, and above all, losing myself to an eternity of nothingness.

I breathe. I try to bring myself to a standstill. To think of all the things I am blessed with, the things that I will always have, and the things I will have if I want to.

I breathe again.

I try precedent. I try to remember the time when I was brave. I look for an instance where I leapt with faith as  my parachute, where the water beneath would hold me no matter how I land.

I breathe for a third time.

I pray to God. I seek his kindness, his rarity, his magic.

I know all those moments when God was with me.

I breathe again.

I might have to fake happiness. It is a tough thing to do. But, I will have to. Fake it till I make it. I know the world doesn't work as per my wishes. It does not even sense my presence.

But, there is the universe waiting. I let my breath transfer from within me to the universe and hoping somehow I will be heard. That tomorrow when I think of walking, I will see that I can.

Good night.

Magic maybe unreal but blessings are true.