It breaks my heart, As the thoughts just run by, Those days when I smiled, now just seem to rather peirce as bearers, Those unkempt moments, rather feel like being hit by the stone of the sorcerer. Days go of, Then the smile fades, Then tears break open, 'Ola! Comes the new year!
Those harrowed times,
With the wind blowing cold,
Passing through the strands of her hair,
Reaching the cage housing her cold avenue.
Every time a petal seemed to reach the avenue,
Did it struck,
It didn't let the petal but broke the strand into pieces, pieces to particles, to the smallest unit known.
But then came a broken piece,
His avenue as cold, but darker,
Did they bloom together,
Into a flower, black in colour,
Appreciated not by many,
But made for each other.
Tell me what you feel about my writing these days, maybe this insecure soul would gain some bit of hope. Good or bad all are welcome, but fake truths aren't. If its shitty tell me on my face, which I tell you, it is perhaps as usual *shitty*
It was a dark, creepy looking bus. After long hours she was walking back home. Her head was pounding. She hadn't slept well for the past week and here it was a Saturday. Weekend, break. And she saw a bus. With a weird looking guy in the bus who didn't well look like a passenger. But a carer rather.
That bus was creepy, in literal sense. It had become obvious that it was pretty old, with rusted corners and worn off tires.
It looked like the Nirbhaya case bus. With the creepy looking carer to mention. She was scared, her hands were shaking and she began her daily prayer as she took her EarPods out.
She began walking in a faster pace. She walked faster. She tried to navigate the pepper spray she had, she tried to recollect every book that she'd read till now about self defence.
And she walked even faster, and the bus still was behind her. getting faster as she paced. She walked through. In the light street, in a residential area.
She remembered as she was walking the Netflix series Delhi Crime and how disturbing it was just to watch.
She looked behind.
She heard nothing.
Nothing even came grabbing her front front.
It was her mind. It all was in her mind. Her day of verdict she remembered when she hit her raper with her pair of heels, and now women killed the raper in court.
But still fear persists.
Her thoughts blind in the nocturnal caused,
As the flower ceased that day,
The bruised tampered face,
Blood in the inside of her thighs,
How she walked in pain,
How she wiped the blood all by herself,
How she pained, cried and cried.
Darkness, the blood, the pain, the depression, and the mind's play of memories
And the women who continually say,
Was she wearing clothes quite inappropriate.
I see your eyes.
As you look at me.
Pure, and wide as you see,
Brighter and happy that I appear,
You say you fall deeper for me.
You say I'm cute, I look nice, I'm smart wise and witty,
I see as you take small opportunities to talk daily.
In those small embraces, I get your vibe,
Continually so, thinking that it is me but wrong,
But as your black dark eyes look towards me,
I question myself,
How could you fall for your bully?
Your heart so pure, or you too naïve,
How could you fall for your bully?
Hypocrisy. I have encountered enough of these to last me a lifetime. We often hear the older generation blame the youth of many things. And one of them is mistrust. Well, what I have usually come across are situations wherein the elders tell us to do something and we have a counter question ready for it. "Why should I do this?" The blame is quite right, but it is severely misplaced. The situation has been wrongly interpreted by the elders (generation gap....you see). They think that it is mistrust because of which we tend to question things, but it is not at all the case. We tend to question stuff because we have been taught to do so. Right from our childhood. Yes, we are taught to not blindly follow or believe what is being said. We are taught to think on our own and formulate our own opinions regarding the matter. We are taught to question things. And the irony....We are taught by the very same set of mentors who blame us about it. I have a lot of questions regarding the so called "rituals" that we follow and all kinds of "pujas" that we perform. What is the meaning of a "graha shaanti pooja" or a "mangal nivaaran puja"? Why should I sit at hours length before a bonfire and listen to mantras that I don't even know the meaning of? What is the purpose of the entire thing? What is the meaning of the thousands of shlokas that we hear? And when I go asking about It, all I get is a frown. And then they have the nerve to say that the new generation has gone berserk. They frown upon the questions that we ask about religion because they simply cannot answer them. Today's generation is aware and time conscious. We don't want to waste a single minute on something that we dont deem worthy of our precious time. If you want us to indulge in the "religiousness" of yours, then you need to educate us on that. Explain us the meaning of every kind of strange things that we are forced to do. If we don't get the crux of a thing we won't do it. It's as simple as that. It is not mistrust that we foster, but curiosity that lives in the hearts of the youth. We are taught to nurture and preserve our culture, but isn't it stupid to tell us to do so if we are not taught about the meaning of our culture? And then we are blamed of going "all western" and not valuing our culture and tradition. Well...make us value it. Teach us about it. Show us the positive side of our culture and not just the negative aspects of it.
Being hypocritic is easy, but being rational and bearing the responsibility of answering questions about things you believe is difficult.
I took myself to the park The one where I left my childhood Every tree, every bird, every blade of grass Holds a bittersweet memory Love, laughter, blissful naivete Why does it look so much smaller? I guess now I m just taller Most of my memories Are retold to me But they all sound Like the life of someone else Someone I used to know so well Someone I only remember in my dreams But I know her here I remember her here I can feel her laughter here I feel the love she felt and I m home.