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  • iamjass 5d

    To Jasmine,

    Letter 1 :

    You are under a lilac sky, a gleaming night sky which barely overlooks the remnants of your whims and calls, aren't you? Now you wonder Jasmine, how I do know all this, don't you? I know myself and that's why I can say, you wonder. And at this time, you are frowning and digging every possible souvenir out to connect the dots. But you fail. And now you are just going to see the name of sender. Don't do that for now. Let me say who I am. I'm, you, Jasmine. I am the twenty years old you, writing these letters to you, my nine years old self. I'm twenty now and I have so many "could've been" and "would've been", in other words, regrets. There are some things, I would like to tell you before you keep your feet on the thorns like I did eleven years ago.
    I know you would believe me. I was as simple as a mirror back then. As fresh as first rain of monsoon. As soothing as the first sakura of April.
    Here are some letters. And at the end of each letter I have mentioned exactly when you are supposed to read the next letter. Please do as I say. I know you will. I was obedient back then.
    You may read the next letter right now.

    Letter 2 :

    Jasmine, if you are reading this, then I assume you have read the first letter with your rapt attention. In few weeks you are about to have your final exams of KG school. I know you are morose. You abhor goodbyes. You hate showing back. Then it will be the day of result outing. You, along with your classmates, would make a promise to themselves that you all would be coming for the ultimate goodbye. A proper, goodbye. Don't make that promise. Your closet friend would make that promise too. And you would expect him coming. Don't do so. Here the sun of questionnaires would be rising deep inside your heart. But as I can't fumble the curtains wholly, only I can say this. That day, you would be meeting your first heartache ever. The very first crack on the ground of your heart. And the root is that promise. Don't make it. Please.
    You will be moving to a next town. So get prepared for new air. New sighs. New classmates. New. New and everything new. Only the blood in your veins and your bloodline would be the same. And nothing more.
    You should read the next letter before you join your new school.

    Letter 3 :

    Here, you have made two letters, imprinted on your mind. Well done Jasmine. Here is something very important. I need you to listen to this. Very carefully. With every ounce of yours. Father will be willing to put you for your drawing classes. Don't join the class. Don't! The classes would be on Sundays. You love painting. And back then I was pretty good on that. You have a good choice of colours and canvases. You have been adoring hues for so long. The crimson twilight, the blue winter. The orange and your favourite back then, the summer rose. Here, at my twentieth step, things are unbearably grey. Mundane. Don't join the class. Save yourself. Save jasmine. Father would listen to you. He loves you.

    You will be leading the top position in your class. But you pushed yourself very hard. Well, precisely saying, I pushed. You don't do that. Perhaps Mum would love you a little less, perhaps Dad would be less proud but hey, it's gonna be okay. Things would tend to better-ness than bitterness.

    After the summer vacation, you would skip school for one day. Don't do that. Go to school. Successively. No matter what and how. You would be refraining someone from doing something notorious. Something fatal. And this way you would be able to save both of you.

    Make some good friends. By the word "Good", I meant, the friends who would be by your side no matter what. You will get one, your best friend. Don't let him go away, in any cost. He really cares. With him things would be little bit more bearable. He really would be meaningful to you with the passage of time. He would be shy or perhaps a slap of introverted self. But he will be doing things for you silently. So each time he would be making you smile, don't forget to thank him. He would be overwhelmed. He would be smiling.

    You must read the next letter before 2013

    Letter 4 :

    By this time, you have embraced your puberty. Now you know about hormones and feelings, chemistry and all the statics. You are struggling to untangle the knots left, I assume. And I really hope you did as I said and now having a serene smile on your face. The most important thing, in fact the main tornado of your life is, Love. Next year, you would be falling in love. I can not say, don't fall. This is something words cannot control. This is beyond all. Rather I would say not to go out on 15th March. Stay at home. For the entire day. Read as much as you can. Don't go outside. From here things would be pretty much awkward. Love is something, that was never in my basket. To me it has always been a cigarette, passionate enough to kill all the butterflies of my very stomach. If people wanna abandon you, let them. People are breeze Jasmine, they are just to touch your face and leave.

    Perhaps life there, has been changed a bit or maybe a lot. And I hope that's for good. Maybe you have found someone who is apt to cherish your heart. If not then don't hurry. Just don't fall for the wrong autumn. The spring would mourn. Just wallow over the canvas and wait for the sky to fall upon.

    You may read the next letter after your 10th board.

    Letter 5 :

    I know you have done very well in your 10th board. Congratulations. But you are not so happy, well, I know myself. It's gonna be okay. Don't worry.

    In my world, I write. Precisely I'm a scribbler. And I find my euphoria here, in the lines, voids and metaphors. I started writing to lift up the burden, to set the world free from upon my shoulders, from the heart. If you have done accordingly as I said and if there life had been changed for a betterment, still you can hold a pen. Still you can sniff the aroma of ink soaked paper. There are zillions of hues that you can paint with black and white, in poetry.

    Above all, I would say, if you can, Write. Write for the goods. Write for the summer rose. Write for the sufferings and sufferers. For the survives. For the fighters. For zeal. For nature. For the these letters. For mum. And above all, for yourself.

    And on this pathway, in the poetic exodus of unspoken and metaphors, you may fall for amalgamation of words but don't fall for the hands who write it. Poetry is better than a person. Fall for a poetry but never for a person. Not now. Be sane.

    You may read the next letter.

    Letter 6 :

    This is the ultimate letter. From me to the junior me. Now I wonder whether I could reach you with these words. How are you now? I wonder. But asking a question would be a vain. You can't answer. But someday if you see a dandelion dancing in rain, wave your hands towards that. Do so. 'cause that would be me.

    You may think, I am happy, dancing at my edges as I told you some alterations and now I, here, would be breathing in a fresh air. But no. Jasmine.

    I can never change future by writing letters to bygone. Here, I would be the same as I was. And somehow I have accepted it. By altering the bygone, in your world, you would be creating a parallel world, different from mine where you would live, breathe in a fresh air. The letters cannot be back to me. So you may keep them.

    I always wanted to save myself. But each time, I failed. I stretched my back to save else's sake. I always have been doing so. But at the end of the day, I am fallen all alone, like a culprit. And here I'm, a culprit for decade. Whenever I see a kid, cold, standing, or is about to jump into the world of blue, I shiver. I urge to save the kid.

    Nobody said this to me. Even when I needed to hear it the most. And if nobody has said this earlier then let me say now, to you,
    "it's okay, you will be just fine. I'm here."

    So I wrote the letters. To save you. I know not how far I have come out victorious. But I guess, the world there, the parallel one would be a bit more bearable than it. The wind here, it blows from land to sea, dried and hot. I hope the wind there would be blowing backward, from sea to land, full of moisture and heartthrobing. I hope I saved you. And not me, in this world, but you, would be smiling Jasmine.
    Somewhere, somehow. Beautifully. Perhaps more beautifully.

    Be happy. A bit. Smile, a bit more.


    ©iamjass | 2019

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    The Backward Wind

    So I wrote the letters. To save you. I know not how far I have come out victorious. But I guess, the world there, the parallel one would be a bit more bearable than it. The wind here, it blows from land to sea, dried and hot. I hope the wind there would be blowing backward, from sea to land, full of moisture and heartthrobing. I hope I saved you. And not me, in this world, but you there, would be smiling Jasmine.
    Somewhere, somehow.
    Beautifully. Perhaps more beautifully.



  • iamjass 2w

    warming up my pen.

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    From eyes to eyes, I had searched for home. Or perhaps just a rusty cottage to survive the ultramarine rainy nights. But failed.

    Like a refugee, like a shepherd, like a lonesome seaman or maybe as an exhausted solivagant ;
    I wondered. I wandered. A dream of Home, that I never had in my nights. Until I found amalgamation of words. In earth, they are called Poetry.
    There, I found a hut.

    And now I smile for lingering beside you a little longer on that monsoon. For now I'm fortunate as whenever I close my eyes
    I can picture you one more time.

    Amidst the amalgamation of words.
    Where I live. I breathe. I let go.


  • iamjass 2w


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    Lately she came to know that she has nothing to do with this outerworld. The tornado, breathing inside, breaking into her private vaults, is meant to be there.

    The aromatic whiff of summer will be turned into roars of snow. The raindrops will be frozen. The orange autumn will be white and dull. Grey and mundane. The spring has nothing to do with it. The ice inside the soul, it's meant to be there. For a long time. A very long time.

    She knows why the ice exists. The black clot. The cobwebs. She knows all. But she is just a bit exhausted to dive into, again. I asked her once that how old she is. She was unconscious. She answered me, eleven.
    Perhaps she didn't know when she was turned into an adult. It was a hurry perhaps. It was a jolt. Or perhaps someone snatched her childhood. I wonder whether she used to have nightmares. But I was afraid to ask. Sorry.

    And then she came to know that she died. She died.
    A long time ago. A very long time.

    She didn't know protecting herself was more vulnerable than protecting others. For her, It was too late to protect her back. I'm sorry. But it was late.

    Why? When? How? Whom? What? Really? Maybe? Please? No! Perhaps?
    ~these are the poems. Each word one poem. These are what she read. That goes on inside her mind. So she read other words. That doesn't need to sound good or mean something epic. She just reads. I remember her saying, she likes any kind of books.
    Or someday she watches. Mobile images. Slow. Fast. Faster. Even faster. And voice?
    Loud. Louder. Louder than the thoughts. Than the blisters. Than possibly everyone and everything,
    in this human earth.

    Then at a moment, she feels tired of seeing, believing, consuming, gulping down. So she rests. She often writes how the battle was and how she is gonna rest. The writes sound like a poetry. So some people call her poet. But she denies. And smiles. Some admire her smile.
    And she smiles more.

    But some days, she doesn't linger around. Doesn't write. Read. Watch. Or anything.
    Some days it doesn't even rain.

    I wonder what she's upto.


  • iamjass 3w

    Dedicated to 2018
    Kaname is none but the personified 2018.

    #thecomebackpost #writersnetwork

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    We met when you were a stubborn kid, Kaname. Always spacing out, breaking into my lawn of realm and crushing the bonsai of joy.

    It was a canvas of firework where we met and this winter was the witness. Then we recited a poem of three-sixty-five syllables that would perhaps slowly converge into some era. In some block of time,
    back to some memory lanes.

    Kaname, you were a novel of twelve parts that I loved in my lonesome noon, feared twilight and ultramarine nights. A sonnet of twelve lines and the clinching couplets were my both eyes from where I sang melodies, silently, drop by drop. Each time. Everyday.

    You were harsh, Kaname. Peeling off my emotional skin, scratching the chest you proved, you proved your appearance. Vivid. Rare. Like a blue moon. You weren’t nice to me at all. I was a refugee. Walking barefoot, looking back frequently, to my sanguineous footsteps, waiting for my favourite mourner, my lover to call my name. Loud. Louder. Louder enough to break the spell of nightmares. But Kaname, you dug the mountains out and made the stones fall on me. One by one.

    From the canvas of fireworks, colourful ; to the landscape of blisters, grey and dull. This is how my summer rose, my monsoon united with petrichor, my autumn fell and winter arrived. And now you ask me about the spring, Kaname. Well that would loiter around my grave, I assume. On some day of April, the Sakura would lead you to my epitaph which would read thanking you, Kaname.

    But don’t you weep. Don’t you.
    As I adored you, Kaname.

    From seeing the droplets dying on floor to sniffing the florial aroma amidst cracked up asphalts. From lonesome meadows to a chaotic room inside my anatomy. From screaming at the back of my throat to laughing at the peak of faking. From the undying love to a faded one. From the favourite room to the cobwebs. Somewhere I adored you. More then I should.
    And so, don’t you weep.

    As you were an anguish that made me fall for blue and solitudes, shards and photographs and lastly, pages and verses. You were a friend, Kaname, someday. Some days, you were a lover, a hallucination on afternoon, a dream I could never have, on nights. You were a teacher. You were a sin, a game, a belief. Or perhaps you were a verse I still am writing. The first lines are cold, icy, frozen and the couplets would be so, I guess.
    As you never knew to be nice.

    You made me learn the truth of Forever and myths of Moments. You were important, Kaname. You are. So I wish you joy, peace and touch of poetry. Even if I did abhor you but I wanted to fall for you, for the blue you carry. I don’t want to hold it back. I want to love you. Just the way you are. I want.
    But sayonara. Sayonara, Kaname.

    I wish you have sprinkles of warmth. I wish your today falls for your tomorrow. I wish you to be nice to posterity. I wish you learn to smile. To live and let live.
    I wish you Love, again.

    And in near future, I hope to meet you again, Kaname. I would sing. Say you would listen, and when
    I would smile, say, you would smile back.

    Thank you for everything, Kaname.



  • iamjass 3w

    From one Dandelion to another.
    I promise I will remember


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    There would be crystallised sunlight
    After this rain

    One day, perhaps

    I know I would look up
    The sky would love me and I too
    Twilight would be so far
    for the breeze to be faded away

    It will be sunlight too
    after this rain
    Mopping the grey out, a blue
    A blue that resembles smile

    Flickering nostalgia and I
    We would giggle at balcony
    Afar away after horizon
    Someone would sing, I love
    But sayonara

    I would look up perhaps
    As someday, somewhere
    you would fall in love again
    with someone but me and I,
    I know I would smile


  • iamjass 4w

    I love the Love of 365 syllables,
    slowly converging to an era.


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    All we have is, this moment. The moment, perhaps we are about to kiss, share a deepest secret or maybe to see the most hideous yet adorable scar of each other. Yes, this moment. All we have.

    As, soon enough, it won't rain again. The booze would evaporate. The morning would break the spell. The smoke would wake me up. I won't see you beside me. You will be on your own. Somewhere, afar. Perhaps sniffing my aroma around your collarbone.

    It would rain again, someday. I wonder whether you would recall me 'cause the souvenirs of today would touch my bare soul. I'm a motel.
    I wander tiptoe.
    I would be searching for home if it rains.

    I would be searching for you.
    I would be writing poetry.
    And I would be calling it Love.


  • iamjass 4w

    A note, to dear Takumi

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    And no other arm has the strength as poetry's,
    to hold me when I wail, for hours.

    That's why I write, Takumi.


  • iamjass 5w

    She bleeds. She gets stronger, month by month.

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    Dark Jeans

    These are "those" days, aren't they, Tara?
    So you must put on a dark jeans.

    You might bleed much. You are in pain. I can see the labyrinth floating. You eyes are shining. Not because of your zeal that I die to taste but the agony we are embracing.

    "You are a woman, Tara. The pain is inevitable."
    I heard they said. The pain is your pride, I say.

    Few days, every month, you embrace the pain. You bleed. You scream at the back of your throat. You get stronger. You cherish maternity. I respect you. We all do, don't we?

    But I see, when your finger bleeds out or your left leg or perhaps your hand ; they nurture your pain. They pat your head. They calm you down. They run for fundamentals. They care.

    But the secret between your legs is a forbidden one, I assume. There I observe too, when the secret bleeds, screaming out the reason, your very existence ; they frown. They cease to care. They whisper.
    They roll their eyes, don't they Tara?

    The red stain, I find it adorable. I cherish it.
    That sings on behalf of the future mother,
    you would become someday.

    But tell me what your mother says.

    They might see the stains, in case of your extreme bleeding. They would talk. They would squint. And you shouldn't talk about it.

    These are "those" days.
    So you put on a dark jeans.


  • iamjass 6w

    Takumi, you said so I came.

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    The Blue Rose

    Takumi, I visited a school yesterday.
    The inspection purpose, you know.

    I saw a tiny girl. Her pinkish cheeks and lilac lips. Two adorable ponytails. She smelt like shampoo. Her eyes big, wondering and wandering alone, digging into the core truth of world. But alone, scribbling the vague face of her favourite cartoon character onto the wooden desk, making papar planes. And later let them die inside her backpack. There she befriended paper and her origami, her solitude.

    She was a blue rose among the tulips, rare, alone. I guess she had dimples. But she didn't smile. There was chaos, giggles and tickles. But she was afar. Takumi, I watched. I watched her eyes, badly wanting to jump into the vague piles of glee. But nobody held her hand. Nobody said her hello. Later, a car came. She headed into. The door was closed before me and the glass panel too. I saw her going alone with her solitude, burying her desires deep inside her chest, sighing. Her yells died outside the car, with the air. Her parents weren't with her. I wonder who would feed her at home. I wonder Takumi. I wonder.

    Takumi, today I saw her again. With the last ray of dusk she lingered. She was making her own sandcastle, afar away from other kids. I smiled. She said I was prettier than a doll. She never had a doll. She never smiled enough, enough to cause ache to her stomach. She whispered me not to be different as world would leave me behind. An icy breeze ran throughout my backbone.

    She was cold Takumi. I'm scared. She was too cold. Her heart was being frozen. Her eyes seemed tired. Her hands and mouth moved slowly, like the trees nodding their heads after hurricanes.

    But she gave me a kiss on my left cheek and smiled. She said she would never forget me as she never had a doll to play with. The kiss, there was a warmth, Takumi. The smile, there was a child. She gave me a ribbon, a token of company, togetherness.

    I badly want to save her, Takumi. I want to save her from being an icy corpse. I want to see her. Sing with her.
    I wanna save her.

    Now you ask me why.

    'cause I couldn't save myself Takumi. I couldn't. And if I can save her, see her smiling, I would see me, smiling ; through her.


  • iamjass 6w

    "So Takumi, what happened to Jasmine?
    She seems not in form these days"

    - don't worry, she would be, soon.

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    Someday I want to get lost in the alley
    where once I saw the happy faces