Category: Fiction

A few deaths

Some dreams just don’t fade like the reality; they don’t glare in either, but creeps in and freaks you out. Some dreams about a few I knew haunt me. Some are dead, some alive. Some in a trance, some in a deep despair and some like in the dream I dreamt the other day about an elderly- good- woman-friend of him. She was naked and looked pale like a pearly white ghost. Her body glowed like the moon on a starless night. Her breasts were full and looked sagged. Her stomach showed her youth replaced with folds of fat. She looked heavenly with a calmness that only the blessed-dead could have. I felt happy for her, but all the while guilty for having imagined her that way. I wonder why I dreamed her death, for she is the still-healthy living woman.

Deaths have always scared the day lights out of me. I was scared, haunted, rather to an extent possessed by death all through my growing up days. I have more wondered about death, as where people would go after life. How someone who lived all their life could, just disappear to nowhere after death.

The first death I saw was that of my neighbour uncle, who died of a heart-attack, I still remember how shocked and frozen, I was when I saw him first with his head tied with a white cloth and cotton filled in his nostrils. Will that be done to me once when I die? It disturbed me to know that people would be taken to heaven that way. I ran from the place and went to my bedroom and hid under the cot, thinking that I could evade death. I remember how I hid under the blankets on my bed and peeped out of the window to see him been taken to the heavenly abode.

Deaths scared me only, till I hadn’t met it. The first death for which I cried was for Tiger, a faithful dog of mine. She died having lived her life; it was the first stab of pain for a ten year old. I couldn’t understand what it would be then for me, to be a ten year old and to cry and grieve for the loss of a loved one. All I knew then and now was; it hurts. I look back from then till now, I learnt that with every death, a part of me inevitably dies, I bury a part of myself and it creates a vacuum in me. An emptiness that turns to a scar in me, a wound that I wish time heals, knowing otherwise that, Till death do us apart.

As I grew up, I understood one thing; death is a great-leveller of life. It teaches us love and humility, and with every death I have learnt to love more and be more humble. I have learnt to love everyone around for they may not be alive to be loved tomorrow or I may not be alive to hate them today. It has humbled me, for I have learnt the value of life through death. How I wish I could trade in these lessons for the life of a dead-few.

The scene of her lying clad in her angelic white bride wear in her coffin, ever smiling her sweet smile to the world of her loved ones. I wish God could have understood the value of love, if then He wouldn’t have taken her with him, the scene of a middle-aged mother, knowing well that her orphaned-son had no-one to love and to be loved, the death of a grand-father who gave away his old age to the pain of cocktails of radiation and chemotherapy rather than the loving company of his grandchildren, the death of a brother whose youthful life was wasted in drugs. It is the way life is learnt through a few deaths.

Life is when you know that death doesn’t stop things, it doesn’t end a relationship, but how the cursed few learn to carry the life of the dead in them. Life is when it sharply pains at the stab of a twinge of a remembrance of the long-gone-loved one and a tear or two is dropped and you brush it aside with your finger and turn aside, Smile gently and offer the prayer. I Love You.

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;


A letter you will never read

I lay here on the sofa in my drawing room awake to the sense of being alive in the thoughts of my dead mother. There are times, when I wished she was here with me in this very home where we loved to hate each other and lived a life of lies. Lost in the oblivion, I sat looking at the fan in the ceiling, my mind swirls to certain moments in my life, I feel bad to know that I had been worse to her, there is a painful lump in my throat, my heart gnaws in pain at the very thought of those days. I wish I could ease this numbing pain. I wish I can get rid of this guiltiness of nothing and the nothingness of the guilt that this life had for me to offer.

Dear Mom,

Wish I had written this letter a few years ago, when you could have possibly read this to know that your son loves you, no matter what happened between us. Remember the first letter I wrote in my fourth standard summer vacation camp, rather that was the last letter too. I know I have wronged you, I had never been a son to you, never loved you, never let you love me. but honestly you have never known your son. What happened in our life, which made us hate each other in such vehement hostility? Have you ever wondered how difficult it was for me to live under one roof and still pass each other day as strangers?

You never had time to think about these things, you had your son, who was the world to you. What did I do in life? what was wrong in a nine-year old boy to expect his dad and mom live together? I don’t understand this mom, well for that matter I don’t understand anything you did in your life, How can you stand to see dad with another woman? you let him live a life with another woman, when you know very well that he cheated you and walk out of the family abandoning the two kids? And more of that, you and him being that good friends even after divorce. I honestly wonder, did you expect your nine year kid to make sense out of all this and then realize that one plus one, not only makes two, but also something that is not one, but actually two. It took me time to understand things and more importantly to put them in perspectives and understand that my mom and dad are divorced, but still love each other.

I knew mom, you were more understanding with dad, you loved him so much that you didn’t really mind him, loving another woman. I was the one who didn’t understand you and dad. There were times, when you had plainly ignored me and my pain of being the left-over of the love you shared with him. I understood that he was that good friend for you and the husband who felt it was more important for him to bring down his family to ruins, and then expect his kid to understand that it was man enough on his part to part his family. But mom, where you ever there for me to hold me, to ease my pain, help me grow up, ease my adolescent agonies, help me come up with my teen-aches.

Yet I lived life on my own terms, had a dad for name-sake, who felt it was important for me to have a constant male-companion, he was there in my greater-part of life as an unwanted mute spectator, who felt me as a mere awkward acquaintance, who made it a point to be just there in all occasions. I never had a proper father-son conversation with him in all this years. Let me tell you one thing, I just cannot accept him as my father in my life, knowing very well that he had shattered you and your life by a gross betrayal which I cannot just forget or forgive. Also I found it hard to accept you as a mother who would just willfully accept her husband’s decision to live with other woman. I lived in a fuss of constant anger, frustration, despair, solitude and a constant longing for love and a quest to know what made my dad and mom decide to part ways and bring to ruins a decade of wedded bliss.

I remember that august evening, when you were about to leave to delhi. I was late from dad’s place. I totally forgot that you had your flight at 1 AM, I came home around 11. The first thing you asked me as usual was whether I had dinner. I answered a usual I-don’t-care-a-damn-why-you-bother-me NO. I didn’t expect that you would take pain to fix up a dinner for me at the last minute. It rather irritated me, knowing that you still care for me and I just couldn’t bring myself either to love you or feel grateful to you. And worst of all, you choosing to make rotis then, When you served rotis to me, you very well understand me, by my mere flinching reaction. And still you decided your luck with idlies and chutney.

I came to the kitchen frustrated, to find you cooking when you were already late for the air-port. I shouted at you for no reason. I was rather wild, came behind the counter and threw the vegetable board down, knowing very well that would make you hurt your fingers with the knife. I saw the blood staining the floor, I took the first-aid kit and got the gauze cloth and cotton to bandage you. I tried to hold your hand and help you, you reluctantly got out of my hold and turned to me with tears welled up in your eyes. When I tried to comfort you, you shrinked away from me and sat down the counter and started crying. You drifted away and sobbed heavily into your lap, I wish I could hold you and make up for every wrong I did. I wished you would take me in your arms and let me drown in your love and ease my life out of the hell I made. But you didn’t. Instead You again left me. In a minute you sprang up and left the kitchen. I sat there dumbfounded. I sat there still, watching you move inside the house to get ready for your flight. I heard a distant sound of the screeching of the reversing of the car.

Three days later, I awoke to a phone call from Neethu aunty to know that you passed away in your sleep. It was a massive cardiac-arrest. You appeared calmer and prettier than ever. I couldn’t forgive myself for our last day. I still keep asking bobo whether you spoke anything about me after you left to delhi. He maintains that You spoke nothing. I wish you had spoken something about me. What did we achieve in our life with all this hatredness? I wish I can shout aloud and tell the world that my mom loves me. Never once in your life, you told me that you loved me or made me feel warm and important. But why mom?

All that I have in memory of our lives is the sight of dad playing with little leila, you in kitchen cooking, either singing or humming a favorite tune of yours, the smell of dad’s old spice lotion and the smell of cuticura talcum on you, me sitting in your lap when you read from those tattered books, or when you and dad going for those long walks, me holding each of yours hand. Till Today when ever I see the couch, all I could remember is the sight of you lying dreamily across and reading a book. You’re so much in me mom, that I hate to admit that you’re no more with us and that I never loved you.

PS ***A Draft of a story that i’m experimenting with***

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

A new beginning

My Sixth day of staying at home. 
I felt different, for all other times, I had been home. It was just the company of three dogs, a few dozen books, my Ghazal collection, a few friends hanging by home and the otherly men stuff. This time it was all different. Dad called me up, before I left to home. This was our conversation.

Me: Hello dad,

Him: yup febi, how are you?

Me: I didn’t want to make it difficult for him, so I chose to speak for what he had called me in the first place. “fine, I got your mail.”

Him: “I’m sorry about it, hope you don’t mind.” I did sense his hesitation. 

Me: I really mind dad, I just cannot entertain them. (though I felt like shouting those words at him. I didn’t) Instead, “Fine by me, dad”

Him: Thanks Sonny, I appreciate that.

Me: Not a problem, dad….

Him: hmmm… what?

Me: “Drive safe”, I don’t know why I spoke those words.. I never ever remotely spoke to him, liked I cared, in all these years. 

It was a week back.  Dad came home and left. I am here, with his family. It sounds strange to know that my dad has a family, to which I don’t claim to be a member. It was a thorough discomfort to be put up under the same roof, I did felt bad for me, for them and then for us.


I chose to be myself, slept and woke up at my own. She had been not so pushy, but made sure that I was looked after. She got milk to the bed in the morning, prepared vegetable/fruit salads in the noon, got curd and rice for dinner. All through her stay, she avoided rotis, which I’m sure dad would have informed her about my hatredness for roti and aloo. It kind of made me difficult to be at home, for all that she had been to me, I never had a kind word or smile for reciprocation. 

It was good to see a new warmth-filled touch to home, which only a woman-mother can give, the sight of kids at home, running around, keeping Tuffy, leila and Yoppy busy all through the day. They were a bunch of never-tiring-souls. Seeing them in action made me feel good. I remember one noon, when I was about to leave somewhere, I saw the younger one, compelling her mom to take her out to the nearby lake, to which she was blatantly refusing. As I walked by, the little one, shouted, “Can’t chetta take us out in his bike?” 

I noticed that the girl spoke to her mom in Hindi. Till then, I had been in an illusion that she was a Malayalee. She spoke a perfect malayalam. Then I remembered dad, asking me to help her with anything, if she wants, as she was not so fluent with the local language. 

The girl, then  burst into tears and sobbed into her mom’s lap. I looked at her mom, she gave me a embarrassed smile. I went to her and patted the little girl and asked her if she wants to accompany me to the lake. She was all smiles. Before I could turn around, there was the other kid, who ran up to me and held my hand. And she had this beautiful pleading smile on her face, with which all my defense melt away. I suddenly felt like that big bro, whose only duty was to love and give. 

As I kicked my engine and veered off to the gate, the kids were waving frantically at their mom, I saw her, wiping her eyes with the corner of her pallu. It was the first time, I noticed the similarity.  She always wore a cotton Saree. 

I was mad at her, the second day, when I saw her getting out of the master bedroom. I Know it was no business of mine, where she stays, what she does at the house, which ceased to be a home for me. I was frowned up  and I snapped at her the full day for no reasons. I felt bad. I know that I cannot go to her and make it up for my rudeness. 

I had been waiting to grab a chance and these kids made it. 

we returned around five in the evening, with the kids dresses fully wet and smudged with mud. They were holding a bag full of chocolates, cakes and other fruits picked from our woods nearby and started to tell their tales. All through the time of the kid’s narrative excitement, she was looking at me. I could sense the gratitude in her glance. Then I realized how much grounded the kids would have felt, being put up at home. 

Next day morning the kids came to my bed to wake me up. It was nothing new. It would be either yoppy/leila/tuffy who would be doing that every day and wake me up from my paradise-sleep. They woke me up and urged me to get ready, soon they were in the bed, playing and three dogs took turns to lick me out of sleep. I could only choose to get up. 

They took me out that day and wanted me to play with them. I felt awkward first, then felt the child leashing out of me. We were playing football and Yoppy out of no-where brought the water-hose. That handsome-brute loves to get spoiled in water. All through the time, we were playing in the garden, their mom was watching us from the porch. It was the same what my mom did when I played with friends and my kid bro.

That day evening,  I got down to stay in the porch for a while, as it was a moonlit night.  She was sitting at the porch. She greeted me, with her warm smile. I sat beside her. We spoke for the first time.  It was quite a natural conversation. It wonders me to know that she knows a lot about me more than my dad could have ever bothered to know about me. 

It felt good. She thanked me for taking the kids out and playing with them, telling me that they really liked being in my company. I told her that I felt really good and more alive in their company. Then I saw the book  in her lap, “One hundred years of solitude” by Marquez. It was a surprise for me to know that she is a reader. I had seen her other times, either in the kitchen cooking with music plugged in, working in the garden, playing with the dogs, attending her kids, knitting, painting, All these days, I had never seen her hooked to the TV, not even a second.  Something that I had seen only in my mom. 

Could it be that, my dad fell for the same woman in her too as how he fell for a woman thirty years back in my mom ?

For one-thing I never realized that I started considering her mom. And I don’t want to do what I did to my own mom- To hate, for all that she had been to me. It is quite complex to explain everything. The way I loved my mom and the way I wanted my dad and my mom to be together. I didn’t understand them or their love. All I had been was rude and arrogant. I never showed a inkling of love and care to my own mom all through her living years. For all the time I cried every-night, with her next to my room, and never showing my love. My one act of Kindness would have made it easy for both of us, would have healed our bitter-past. Yet I didn’t. 

I don’t want to do the same to her, my mom. My sister’s mom. I don’t want to hurt her anymore. I don’t want to destroy the family as How I brought my own home to ruins. I want to love them. I want to love my dad, love my mom, more than my own mom, as I understand that’s the only way I can seek my mom’s forgiveness. 

I’m tired of a life without a family around. I Hope my dad lets me into his family. 

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

A memory called Mano anna

This is a story, I wrote for my friend’s blog. With his permission, I present the same here. Hope you like this… 

Recounting memories of someone is a tiring process, yet there are certain memories, when cherished creates rainbows of myriad hues with subtle shades of different emotions in the mind. It gives the true delight of life, which soothingly embraces the soul. One such memory is Mano anna.

There was no one in the street who didn’t know him, the mechanic Manoharan. Everyone calls him, ‘dey mechanic’. Dad and mom call him ‘mano thambi’. To me, he is mano anna, my mano anna. 

I met him when I was six or seven years old. He was six years elder than me.

I am the only child at home. I can be spotted either roaming in the street, fighting with older boys, or in the mechanic shed after my school hours. There were at least a dozen kids and it was natural for us to squabble one thousand times each day. Though I got along well with everyone, I spend most of my time in Mano anna’s mechanic shop. At 15 he was the owner of this shop. Mano anna, unlike me doesn’t speak much. 

He is very soft spoken, who never loses him when dealing with people. He can be always seen working, with those grease stains all over him. All he knew in his life was his mechanic shop, his motor bike, his Bible, his harmonica, his volley ball and his few friends. He had an elder sister, who was studying in Chennai then. He earned and spent everything for her. And Whatever he is, to me, Mano anna is my good friend, a brother and my first male companion. 

I spent my childhood days in his company and grew up with him. My parents never objected or had problems with this. My grand-ma didn’t like me spending time with mano anna. There were times when she was rude and shouted at him for no reasons. I appreciated my parent’s efforts to pacify her, but every time they fail miserably in their mission. I had no problems over anything. I hate my grand-ma for her constant surveillance on me and her endless preaching on how-to-be-a-girl. I remember her constantly telling me that it is not good for a girl to have friendships with boys. I can very well understand my grand-ma. To her, her views and perceptions were right and hence she was reasonable. But I never personally believed in all that she told me.

I passed out of the school and took admission in the college. When I was in second year, mano anna got his sister married off .Things changed between us. He didn’t like me spending much time in the shop, rather never encouraged me. But he and our relationship remained the same. He will come to our home once in a while to help my dad and my mom in their usual chores. There was this one thing that I always wonder about him. He never went further our sitting room in our home and even when my mom insisted on eating with us on any festivals, he never accepted the invitation. He would always excuse himself and get the feast packed to eat in the shop with other workers.

And my mom for every Easter and Christmas would specially cook spice stuffed oil brinjal, puliogare, drumstick curry and pappads for him. I could only smile pitifully for him at the very thought of seeing him miss all the wonderful non-vegetarian feasts. I loved my mom more for what she has been to him in all those years. 

When I was in Mumbai, I got his wedding invitation. I couldn’t attend his marriage for some reasons. I met Mano anna lastly in my marriage. He was there with his wife and his girl child. It felt good to see him after a long time. His child was six years old. He had named her, ‘Avantika’. I remembered my childhood days with mano anna. I met him, first when I was six years old. 

I couldn’t help but smile with tears for all that Mano anna had given me in my life- including my name for his daughter 

Now, two decades of life went turning me forty five. Life blessed me with two boys and a girl. Whenever I see my eldest son and daughter together, I’m reminded of Mano anna and me. I can now tell my grand-ma that my relationship with mano anna gave me a healthy view of men and women relationships. It helped me to trust men and understand that they are different and not bad. He taught me how important it is for women to be courageous in life. And I teach my kids responsibility for I’ve seen what it is to be responsible even in one’s young age.

I remember those days of my life, when I’m in the mechanic shop with mano anna, busy in his work. The only emotion I remember of Mano anna is how I cried softly when I first listened to his harmonicas magic. The only memory that lingers in my mind is the expression in Mano Anna’s face as he wipes the grease in his face with the back of his hand.

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;

His morning trail…

The midnight drizzle made the grass glisten with the early morning dewdrops. The smell of the wet earth wafting through the wind was utterly soul-soothing. The state of being soul-fully static in the vastness of nature was better than the unholy travel through the murky, narrow lanes of human mind, which tired him more than he could ever grow tired of. It was good being out early in the morning. The freshness that life had to offer was an invite, tempting enough to traverse back into life. He looked at the sight before his eyes. It would be an exact place for a loner, a coward and a solitude lover like him to fall in love with. There was something mystic about the place, the place where he can truly unbelong to (Courtesy Acknowledged). He turned back to look at the lush of green woods. It was as if life decided to be a bit merciful to him. His soul rested in peace. A sudden sacred silence engrossed his whole being. His eyes welled up in tears. He felt the need to cry.

All those thoughts that he had long suppressed in him came flooding back. He sat on the nearby patch of the grass and leaned onto the tree. Misfortunes never come single.So does the bad memories. Memories that he had kept in check, memories that he made sure, wouldn’t overwhelm him/his life.

But today, He let in everything to let out everything.

He accepted his cowardice, his sheer defeat in life, his loneliness, his state of being mis-fit, his failed relation-ships, his parent’s divorce, his sister’s death, his long-lost friend, his mentor’s death, his meaning-less life, his robbed off childhood, his addictions, his insecurities, his first-Her, the friend he never had, the haunting memories, the very fact that he had nobody in life, the recurring suicidal thoughts and the struggle to come out of everything. With all this, he accepted him and his life. His acceptance left him in peace with a pain full numbness.

His thoughts were scattered, yet focused. His mind wandered from the extremities of the universe to the people in his life. He tried to remember the pain and hurt he went through. His life was no more the kaleidoscopic view, but a maze of puzzledness. He was tired of moving on, living a life like a nomad soul. He wanted to rest down and watch life around him. His thoughts reeled back to death. He wondered how death can be painful after having lived life? If life is a journey, death should be the ultimate destiny. Then he had rightfully embarked on a journey to his destiny. After all, death is a great leveller of life.

The distant roaring of the falling water brought out the curiosity in him. when he got up to walk towards the waters, he felt a tugging at his feet. The canvas lace got struck to the thin rootlet. As he bend down to pull out the lace, he saw the withered wood he was leaned onto. The majestic appearance of the trunk gave him the realization of having found a friend in the tree, the place/person who was a sole-soul witness to what a wrecked up mess his life was. He touched the tree, he felt the coarse patch of the wood surrounded by the dried up bark. He rather felt love at the touch. A sense of complete fullness with utmost security that a child feels when being held close by a parent, a friend’s reassuring touch, the pat from a brother. He smiled at the tree. The tree swayed gently to the warm breeze leaving him in a shower of reciprocated love with the tree’s treasured raindrops.

He walked towards the sound of the roaring water. He was momentarily held back with the view of nature’s seamless artwork. The lake ended near the rocky layers of ground and extended beneath the surface with another large piece of rock. There was a cliff at the end which steeped down to the muddy ground and in turn surrounded by small rocks with a fine lining of the grass along the shore’s edge. The romance of the water with the rocks was purely platonic. He sat in total awe to look at what the nature offered for this Solitude’s favorite child, whose life was a beautiful alchemy of fate and destiny. Suddenly all the melancholy disappeared. He was alive to what he was witnessing around him.

The chirping of the birds, the cry of the peacock, the whisperings of the wind, the mooing of the cows, the falling of the gentle drizzle on the eyelids, the fragnance of the flowers, the soft caressing sweet-nothings of the chill breeze, the noisy rumbling of the falling water, the stillness of the lake, the rumbustious ambiance of the nature and the everything of now made sense to him. He felt he was the cherubic child of nature, an another Mowgli.

His rumination was disturbed by a soft caress on his cheeks by a silky material. For a minute he was blinded with a myriad hues of blackness. He had never seen a peacock so close. The peacock was graciously dancing in the gentle drizzle with a magnificent display of God’s handiwork.

Nothing in life is as worthy as witnessing the miracles of nature and to let yourself into the nature’s ways of healing people.

It was time to leave, to leave, so as to live the remaining of his life. The life, waiting dutifully at his door, to step in, to take him out of his cocoon and to let him into the harsh reality of the world. He is ready to step out and let in the reality to glare at him. Nature leads to the understanding of the real philosophy of life, “When Life happens, Let it just happen.”

On his way back, he saw a younger peacock. He couldn’t stop wondering at the small wonder before him. As he tried to near him, the other peacock quickly flew its way and landed between him and the the little one. The peacock which was graceful all the while turned ferocious at the sight of an intruder. The peacock covered the scared younger one with his feathers. He just stood still, till the two went out of sight.

He understood the need for the reassurance and the need for someone. What he yearns more in his life: A purpose and A meaning

Her Nights…

Yet another beautiful night, the place where she really belongs to. The night belongs to the ghastly creatures called men. In a way, she belongs to them. She had been sleepless all her nights. Now she is lying next to someone stranger, but familiar.

Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to sleep. She was tired from the day, cleaning up the house, those-to-be-done-but-still-undone chores. She got up from her bed to check; whether the doors locked, dog and birds fed, lights out. She stopped before her mirror, tidied up her hair, cleansed her mouth, applied little of her perfumed-moisturising lotion, her ways of warming up before getting into bed with someone. She spent few minutes looking at the birds in the cage, which reminded her of her own life: An Illuminated Illusion.

She climbed back to her bed. Somehow she found it strange to be with him, The one who came often to her house to just crash into sleep. She got reminded of those other men she met in her nights. Those fiery animals, who were lustfully less concerned that she was a human. Those men to whom the very act was a mere ritual. They came, They performed, They went. Those shy individuals, who always wanted lights out/doors closed because they were orthodox. Those who get turned off at any sort of signs of love in her maneuvers. She smiled her usual mocking smile at the ‘down to earth’ men-folk. She sat in her bed, staring at nothing, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She sobbed silently in the night, with the moon outside, the sole witness to a soul’s unsung sorrow.

The friendly someone pulled her close to his side. It was a touch, an act of assurance, not out of affront or wantful lust. She looked at him sleeping beside her. She listened to the breathing, that was not disgusting, but amusing. She was more amazed at how, she could cherish the sight which was like that of her sleeping pet.

She kissed him on his eyelids and snuggled closer to him. She felt the warmth of masculinity in his abated breath. The room was silent except for the uneven breathing of two tired souls. Sometimes She does belong to him. Him alone.

Recycled Post 3: Musings of My Mate

Dear loving you,
It was good knowing you, all I do is look at you, when you are busy working. When you finish your writing and close me down, I take a look at your writings. I read them. I know what happens in your everyday life. I can see how you would have been in those moments that you have described in me. I have no greater purpose in life, than listening to what you say and taking them in me. My life is beautiful in its own way and thanks for making it beautiful. You have been a good friend. But have you ever wondered what it is to be a diary? What it is to be a sole-secretive place, where people pour them in you? I am not complainig about my life. I’ve known everything that life has to offer.
Every night you pen down before you sleep, I have never slept in my life, I don’t know what it is to sleep, to live, for that matter anything. I know only to be there for you, whenever you need me. I love when you read me often and cherish your memories. I can understand very well, for you greatly beleive that, “Words are all that are remembered long after one is gone.” I know that I have a noble purpose in life, to take in whatever you write in me. I know what it is to live a life like you. You have the best of people in your life. I knew everyone though I haven’t met them. I never wanted anything more in my life than to be with you, listen to whatever you tell and just witness the blooming of your life with a watchful apartness, till yesterday.

For the first time, I felt like talking to you. I just couldn’t see you crying yesterday night. I know how it pains, when it hurts, for I’m a paper. I had been through struggles in my life before becoming this beautiful diary of yours. Remember this in life, “This too shall pass, Choco!”

Yours in love,
Inspired by the post. Can You hear Me?

My Little Princess

It’s nearly 4 AM and I’m wide awake. Tossing and turning for nearly an hour after crawling into my bed, I gave up my efforts to sleep. Now I’m sitting at the desk, near my window to get a view of the early-morning-world. I look wistfully at the mid-august sky outside. The night is painted with little stains of silver specks.

I turn around to look at the little figure sleeping peacefully in my bed. The hazel-brown eyes, dark hair, charming smile and the angelic looks must be the handiwork of my wife’s genes.

It is about to dawn. The moon had come and gone. The chillness in the air promises an early winter. I feel like a poet who is about to resolve life’s little mysteries. My life for the past seven years has taught me nothing. I know it is no more in me to be alive to the wonders around me, yet it is life’s little things that make me wonder life beyond amazement.

Yesterday when I was on my way home, my heart tightened at the sight of the little girl reaching for her mother’s hand. That was a painful awakening in me. I lean over the window sill and try to pour my soul into the night, where I rightfully belong. I can never forget the lullabies that the night sings for this insomniac child. I hear a distant rumbling of a thunder. When I see the bright flash of lightning, my heart melts with an unfair longing. I’m at loss of words to tell what I’m missing.

I stood there for unknown minutes of my life, till I felt a gentle tugging at my shirt. I turned around to see my little princess standing with puffed up sleepy eyes and disheveled hair. It seems she had not been awake for more than a few minutes.

“Good morning. Puppin”
“Papa, Can I have Hershey’s?”

I knelt down, gave a tired smile and nodded a sleepy yes in return for a small peck. I pointed to the bathroom, “Get ready and brush your hair.” I went to the kitchen to fix up a cup of coffee and her favorite Hershey drink. By the time I finished with my kitchen work, she got dressed and made it to the table.

I took a sip of coffee, and looked at her. She resembled her mom in every bit of her table manners, she didn’t just drink directly from her mug, took it in her hand, looked at it, gently ran her fingers along the rim of the cup. Then took a sip and closed her eyes for a few seconds in appreciation. When she looked at me, I smiled tentatively at her.

She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, an expression so much like her mom. She took another sip. I thought she will close her eyes, but instead looked into my eyes and asked, “Do you miss mummy?” I stopped fidgeting with my mug and set it aside, then slipped an arm around her, “Yes I do.”
“Do you think about her, papa?”

Without knowing where the conversation is heeding, I answered, “All my life.” She continued with her drink and we sat in a long silence. I looked away and tried blinking back the tears formed in my eyes. She slowly asked me, “Do you feel sad?” I pulled her closer, kissed her on cheeks, “I try not to-”

I trailed off and tried a smile. “Do you think about mom?” She nodded and gave an yes
“Does that make you sad?”
“Sometimes. And when I feel sad, I think about you papa,”
I kissed her and snuggled her close to my heart. She felt soft and gentle in my arms. I ran my hands through her hair which smelled of her favorite shampoo. I held her in my hands and kept patting her shoulder, till she felt asleep.

I carried her to the bedroom, then put her in the bed, pulled the covers up, sat on the bed with a magazine. She looked so fragile. I ran my rand through her hair, bent down, ruffled her soft hair and whispered, “I love you, my little Princess”.

P.S. I dedicate this post to My Princess

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Recycled Post: Life as a series of yet another day.

Well. Am sorry that I kept my blog unattended for a long time. Couldnt helpt it, honestly. So just republished a old post of mine, If you have read, “Thirty One days in february” if not, this is that. Thanks Anu for tagging me, well that’s the next one, for I have to complete my project soon. Sorry Guys, promise to be regular once i’m done with that.

My alarm went wailing like a mad banshee. It was two in the morning. I should rather sleep now for I’m tired, even tired of being tired too. Its bit weird that I set my alarm to sleep. For waking up to the sound of an alarm is a next-to-impossible deed. I just couldn’t stop resisting the urge to throw it away when it rings.

I was on the whole not pleased with my day. I took a sip of my lemon flavored ice tea and felt heavenly. Lemon does that wonder to the senses. I love tea, it rejuvenates myself, (rather I feel rejuvenated) and also am a coffee freak too. It is quite strange for others to know or rather accept that I love tea and coffee equally. I remember my girl friend (girl as a friend) fighting with me for having made this statement. It is the nature of girls. Also she sometimes kind of gets strange when I talk to other girls. (the girlish pangs???)

For I never seen tea getting jealous (or ???) even when I longingly look at some one’s cup of coffee. But this is the exact opposite in the company of a girl, well one-not-so-intended look at someone opposite you. I promise. Its gonna be a war of words!

I remember another incident. It was my friend’s (again a girl) birthday. I was first to wish her and even got her a recent novel of her favorite author. Still she was hurt for having not complemented about her new dress (even it was me, who accompanied her to all the shops in Cross cut road to get that) And again this guy friend of mine, who was offended when I just commented on his new khadhi kurta (honestly his warbrode doesn’t know anything other than tees and jeans) and not on his Hayabooza. I drained the last sip of my tea and went inside my library. I was wondering, how different it is to be a girl and a boy. I was casually taking a look at the books. The answer came to me in the form of the book, “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus”. How True!

I thought about my sleep and went to my bedroom. I saw my little bro, sleeping among the layers of blanket. He needs at least a dozen pillows and half a dozen blankets to sleep. Under normal conditions, he would have smiled and greeted me and cracked a good number of his poor jokes. I suppose even he had a bad day. When I spoke to him in the evening, he answered in his usual don’t-bother-me tone and glanced his mind-your-business look. Well Bro! I got the clue.
Now seeing him snuggled cosily in his bed among his pile of books, clothes, CDs, MP3 Player, mobile and what not. It looked more like an ancient excavation site where anything you name, from Oliver Twist to latest Cine-Blitz to Apple ipod can be unearthed. He loves to call it, “A Beautiful Mess of an orderly mind” He looks totally exhausted, his tousled long hair spread unevenly over the pillow, his hand over his head, a drool of dried saliva in the corner of his mouth, the new thin sprouting trail of beard on his cheeks, his favorite red crocodile tee, blankets thrown around his waist, his leg slightly out of his blanket. He looks calm and peaceful in his sleep, I prefer to call him a live pandemonium, when he is awake and at home for i couldn’t match his restlessness, rightly called ‘his bubbling with energy’ state and his never-tiring attitude.

Togetherness adds to beauty, be it the Hutch’s little boy and his dog or my lil bro and our ‘gentle-giantess’ German shepherd. Hope the reality won’t treat him harsh when he wakes up to his adulthood. I wish he has enough pain to grow up and grow on. I remember looking at him till my eyes become moist with the yellow light inside. He slightly moved in his sleep. I went round the bed and switched off the Winnie-The-Pooh table lamp. I touched it and felt something stirring inside me. The last gift from my parents, with that, every year it was always two different gifts for any occasion. It was then that life changed for us. When my brotherly instinct took on me, I started being this, from then, what I am to him now.

I looked out of the windows. The street lights are on. The road is empty except for the occasional whoosh of a vehicle. I belong to this time of earth, when I’m truly awake to me and my surroundings for I cease existing in the bustling day-time.

Yet again, the alarm went with a loud buzz. I came to my room, flicked my lighter on and lit my cigarette, and sat on the sofa. My dog sneezed her usual sneeze whenever I smoke. So I extinguished my cigarette with a gentle push on the ash-tray. My dog came and sat between my legs. I heard some muffled movements in the next room. I rested my head against the cushion and was about to give into my growing tiredness. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “Good morning anna!”. I greeted him back with a sleepy smile. “Nightu thoongaliya?” (didn’t you sleep in the night?) I nodded a smiley no in reply. He gave his usual cheering smile and left. As he walked, he turned back and murmured something about tea. I remember drowsing on the sofa, he came back and woke me up with a cup of tea. Then he started rambling about his previous day’s events. I listened sleepily to him with occasional nods and smiles.

And yet another day set in.

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If only I had stopped by the woods once

Sometimes life is hard to understand. Every thing becomes the ‘Why of it’ in life. Why didn’t I do it? Why did I do that? Why should it happen this way? Why didn’t I think that way? Why was I so dumb? (To someone like me). Every time I think that, I had lived my life (till now) without any regrets. There would be something cropping up in my mind to stop this very thought of mine. The phone calls I never made, those phone calls I didn’t return, the unspoken thoughts, those ‘shouldn’t-have-spoken’ words, the letters I didn’t post and other hell of things- one such heavenly thought is, those beautiful eyes.

Two years back, when I was working for a private concern, I’d to travel to the outskirts of the city. I’d get down at a stop and walk some distance into the coconut farms. It was greenery sight with some palatial farm-houses around and a few green campuses of MNC. What I didn’t know was the small building which housed the most wonderful creation of God.

Everyday I saw this girl, she was not all that cute whom people would turn back to look again. Yet there was something beautiful about her (I know that I can’t help it, but I firmly believe that people are beautiful in one way or other) I thought she might be some rich landlord’s daughter/grand-daughter.

It became my habit to look for her in the farm everyday. There were times when I felt bad or disappointed when I didn’t get to see her. She was the kind of person, who looks into your eyes, when she tells you something. The graceful warmth of her dark eyes (eyes that tells you a thousand stories with few words) holds a genial glittering of the genuine smile. When you look at her, she wouldn’t turn back or stare straight at you. You can see her lovely face blossoming into a curvy beautiful smile. God! Wish I could do that rather than turn back embarrassed at every stranger, every time. I knew that I was quite attracted to the addictive twinkling smile of her eyes. What I couldn’t do was- Muster enough courage to talk to her.

One Evening, she waved at me. I just gave a small grin and continued walking when I knew the right thing was to stop and talk to her. My mind kept racing between the two possibilities. Should I stop for a little chat or should I ignore her and walk? I could have better stopped to talk. But what I did was totally stupid. My stupidity heightened to a greater pace, when I heard the honking of the bus horn. I took the bus, though unhappily. It was true- I stood before my mirror for hours together that night practicing the kind of smile that she smiles every time.

Later I shifted my place and availed the company’s cab facility. So I had to take a different route. After a month, when I walked through the familiar trail of trees, I couldn’t get a glimpse of the little angel’s face. I knew that she lived there. But I couldn’t find her. Nobody around there knew anything about her. I felt a painful numbness getting on me. I knew that it wouldn’t be the same or rather I wouldn’t be the same anymore

After a year I came to know about the destitute children’s home (where she lived) near our concern. One of my colleagues was a frequent visitor. He knew the girl. She was adopted by a young couple. All I knew about her till today- her name is Yamuna. She is seven years old. Deep down, I knew that she gave a meaning to someone’s life.

addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;