Over the rainbow so high

Up in the sky I go again today.
Will it be too selfish of me to wish 
never to set foot on ground ever again?

It's a lovely fall day. The colors around me are way too pretty.
Maybe the reasons I think of are just simply petty.

Sigh ! Life... why must it even go on?
Up in the sky, again I am on.

Into each life some rain must fall.

It was raining heavily the day he was to leave.

It wasn't meant to. But it did. Just like how he wasn't supposed to. But he did.

Look, the sky is pouring out my tears. I guess it is also as sad as I am that you are leaving.

He did not look my way. But he sure sent his reply my way.

No. Those are the tears of my joy falling from the sky. Because I am leaving.

He had an answer. For everything. Except me.

Roses are red and Violets are blue.

Scarlet - Some words are beautiful just because of the way they sound.

I read 'Gone with the wind' when I was too young, way younger than I would prefer to admit.
But amazingly, it made sense to me. Even then. Maybe that is why I got drawn to this illusion called love - Fool's paradise.
Paradise maybe. But a fool nevertheless.

Early 90's. He used to visit our apartment once a month. With a bundle of sorts. Folded 5 yards of fabric in every color and material.

Installment Velu - that's what the women in the complex called him.

Tugging the heavy bundle, he would make his way to the open area beside the entrance. Velu's saree mela, I had named it. To myself.

I didn't think he would take a 8 year old seriously, even if she went up to him and offered to buy a saree.

'Scarlet velu anna. Do you have a saree in scarlet color?'

I was too young to explain to him what the color was. 
He was not educated enough to figure out what it meant.

From then, we had our parade.

He would try to bring a different shade each time since then. A new shade neither him nor I had seen.
'Is this your scarlet little one?'

I always replied in the negative. I had no idea if it was or not. But I knew that saying yes would put an end to this new game in my life. And my new friendship.

His reply had always been the same 'If we don't find your color now, I promise you it will be my wedding gift to you ok little one. You will wear it on that day.'

Now I know what scarlet looks like. It's been many years. 

I have seen plenty of 5 yards of beautifully woven, intricately worked fabric of that color in the gazillion retail outlets. But I could never bring myself to buy any of them. I wanted the scarlet saree an old friend would have gifted to the 8 year old.

I was supposed to walk down the aisle in my scarlet saree. He never gifted me one for that, when I walked down it for the first time. Maybe the walk was never supposed to have been. Maybe it was all jinxed from the start. A jinx I put on when I was 8.

I should have bought a scarlet saree after all. Maybe my life would have been different.

Dream your dreams with your eyes closed.....

....but live them with your eyes open.

Dream catcher.

That's what he told me it was. Comes in any color I may want.

Hang it above your head when you go to sleep. It will filter your dreams. The mesh won't let the bad dreams come to you. Only the good ones can reach you. It will be like living a fantasy.

I smile at him. Seeing his enthusiasm in trying to get me to buy one.

It isn't rocket science to figure out that I am a sucker for anything which sounds even remotely fantasy.

I don't have any bad dreams when I am asleep. I have to live through them when I am awake. Do you have anything to filter those? I ask him.

Now he smiles back at me. I guess he has understood why I am in the 'fantasy' aisle now. 

Or rather - Do you have a dream catcher I can use to filter somebody else's dreams? As the name goes, shouldn't it be something I can use to catch another person's dream? I would most certainly need one in that case. I desperately need to get into somebody's mind. A one somebody who didn't want me to be in his mind.

He moves on to the next customer.

I really must stop talking to strangers !

I love you. Thank you.

I knew I would be ridiculed for this. For a very long time to come. But I also knew, I couldn't stand one more day without knowing it. It was too much to take. I knew my side of the story. I had to know his. And I wasn't going to wait around for him to do it.

I realized I would be breaking every rule in the book by taking the first step. But it was easier to justify my conscience than a group of jobless people who came up with a silly rule book in the first place.

Ever so gingerly, I finally took the initiative. Without much drama, I summarized my life's biggest truth. To him. In just 3 beautiful words. I Love You.

I was expecting a Yes. Or a No. Or even a Maybe. But I was not prepared for a Thank You.

Where does one go from here now?

He came back to me. Eventually. But his answer was still a Thank You.

Does one say Thank you after making love? I wish I did. To him. After our first time. 

Because now, there is no other way to make him understand how I feel.

When a heart breaks, it never breaks even.

I must stop writing about him.
Maybe the next time.
so here again, I simply try to skim
with just about anything to rhyme.

I try to make stories of people whose only offense,
was to have come in my line of vision.
But when that fascination ceased to make any sense,
I realize, I still never refrain from indecision.

I have spent hours watching my mobile,
willing it to ring.
Most often, it's just the time digits beneath the label
changing with a sting.

So I've broken words and hearts of course,
with absolutely no remorse.
But now I stand on the curb side, much worse
with a tearing pain I wish I could outsource.

I have clearly abandoned any misconceptions
about this illusion called love.
For it definitely comes with no directions,
and is just the beginning to be the end of.

so who says a rhyme should always rhyme,
Can't it just be about a bad time?
Even though the beauty of the night is still sublime,
I really must stop writing about him !!!

Ps: Note to myself - I suck at poetry !

I want to wake up where you are....

They had recently moved in to the house next door. I overheard people say that she was a young widow. I was too young to understand what that meant. I was maybe 7 or 8. Too young to fathom heart breaks or the loss of a husband/lover. But I knew she cried a lot. I saw it in her eyes every time I ran into her. They were always red and puffy. She tried her best to smile at me, but somehow the smile never reached her eyes. Her smile always left me more uncomfortable than her teary eyes.

She was young. Too young to spend her days behind a shut door. She was lonely. I think she sensed my loneliness too. We had nothing in common. But she left her doors open for me. I would sit and sip the warm cup of milk she made for me, while she would be lost in her thoughts. She would reheat her cup of tea atleast 5 times, but before I left, I could see her pour down the still full cold cup of tea down the drain. I can count the number of words we had exchanged, but I think the presence of another living person in the room gave her a sense of comfort. A reassurance. Or maybe it is the innocence of my non-judgmental age that she preferred.

For a change, I saw her smile one evening. It was amazing how that one smile of hers managed to put an even brighter one on my face. Excited, I hurried to her house. She had laid out the table with quite a spread. She told me it was all his favorites. It was his birthday.

I was his favorite too, she said. He liked it that I didn't hurt his young wife. So he had wanted me to keep her company on his special day. His 2 special ladies, she told me. And ever so lightly, she gave a laugh. The first one in months. Or maybe years. I had no idea.

For the first time since I had known her, my little mind was curious to hear more about him. This person, who had been her life and whom she still missed so dearly. Or so I thought. She denied it. She still has conversations with him, she tells me. He is still around, she knows it. She hugs a sweater tightly. She can still smell him, she tells me.

She wants to tell me more, I know. But then she knew I was too young to understand. Now I wish she had told me more.

Definitely not in the stars..or in this lifetime.

The place was not on my way. I had to take a big detour if I even had to see it's signboard. But atleast thrice a week, on my way home from work, I try to make it through that area.

By dusk, she turns on the neon lights. It doesn't look welcoming at all. The entire place had a very aloof look about it. Despite being in a busy neighborhood, the house stood empty, forlorn..almost forgotten.

I had discovered it by accident. I was on a house hunt and had to drive through the community. It's been over a month now since I first saw the place. I could never muster the courage to go up the pathway and open the door. I feared of what lay inside.

But today, I had to keep myself occupied. I needed to divert my attention. So on my way back, I took the detour and instead of driving past it as had been habit, I parked beside and walked up. I knew that if I hesitated even for a second, I might not want to step inside. So I walked in as fast as I could, making the cold fall evening my excuse.

I was expecting to see a multi-colored, dingy, ill lit, scary place. Instead I saw a very cozy and quaint living room. Seated on a teak wood desk by the side of the room, I saw her.

'Where's your crystal ball' - I ask her even before any introductions.

She had the sweetest laugh.

She beckoned for me to take my seat. I obliged. And repeated my question.

'I don't have a crystal ball. But I read from the cards and your hands' - She answered.

'So then you are not a psych.Psychic readings should be from the crystal ball' - I was my stubborn self. Even to a complete stranger.

'Are you expecting any miracles' - Her question was as abrupt as my indignant query on the crystal ball.

I guess my silence was good enough an answer for her.
From the extended deck of cards, I hastily picked out one for her.

'I saw it in your eyes the moment you walked in. I have seen very few people with this aura. Do you want to hear it?' - I guess it is the beauty of her profession. To talk in riddles.

I know I have to pay her either case. So I decided to hear her out.

'In the olden days, we would have called it a gypsy curse. I don't know if you modern folks would like to believe it or not. But you have that curse. You are cursed when it comes to the matters of your heart. You are cursed to be loved by people you can never love back. And the love of your life will never love you back'.

Like I had to pay her 10 dollars to hear what I have known all my life ! So much for wanting a distraction from the killing pain in my heart. Period.

I am done crying.. for today. Tomorrow is yet to dawn.

For a girl, I am quite stuck up. In fact, maybe even arrogant.

So when I finally let my tears gush, I regret the fact that it had to be in front of him.

I hate to admit that he had his victory. And he loved the fact that he relished my defeat.

As reluctant as I am, I always let him come back to me.

But for someone as detached as him, turning back was never difficult.

In the end, it is always my broken self left alone to loathe in self pity.

And yet one more time, I disguise it all over again as my arrogance.

Maybe, for a girl, I am a good actor too.

Miserably ever after ???

Well,I had seen this one coming. After being repeatedly questioned on this. I decided to make it a note to my next post.

Why are all my posts sad/about broken hearts/lost love/depressing topics. Why can't I write about happier stuff?


So..here's my answer to it. Misery likes company. I have never heard of any such phrase when it comes to happiness. And it's not like all my posts are tear jerking or nerve wrecking. I like to think that my writing is a queer mix of humor, sarcasm and the occasional pain or numbness. Well mostly sarcasm? I find no joy in writing about how happy I am. I am sure I won't have anything to write on that topic for more than a day ! I am thankful for all the blessings in my life, but again who wants to read about that either.

My regular day is very average. So I have no new awesome topics to explore. Hence I stick to the ordinary and easily relatable areas of human emotions which I am sure every person would have experienced atleast once in this lifetime.

And oh if it helps, maybe this one poem I had memorized as a kid might be a better answer to the question.

“Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child born on the Sabbath Day,
Is fair and wise and good and gay. “

When I had read this for the first time in my life, I guess I was around 8 or 9. And even though my mom knew my date of birth and the year of birth and even the time of birth, she had absolutely no clue which day of the week it was. So the optimist in me preferred to believe that the fateful day was a Sunday. For a long time I grew up with that firm belief. But eventually I did find out the day of the week. Any guesses?

The day I let you go

Have you ever met somebody and felt that the person was absolutely perfect?

So inspite of my friends advising me that going for his wedding was a terrible mistake, I still had to.

He was my Mr.Perfect. 
I had to make sure his wedding would be too. Also his bride.

I could have been the most beautiful girl at the venue and he still would have never given me a second look.

I saw the perfect love in his eyes. For his perfect bride. In her perfect finery.
I saw them share that perfect smile. That one moment of solitude which was just theirs even amidst the sea of people around them.
I saw the way he used every opportunity he could, to hold her hands.
I saw him desperately try to get her to give him one more look, each time.
I saw him perfectly happy. For the new life he had chosen.
I saw he couldn't wait for tomorrow to dawn. To wake up beside his perfect wife.
To start his perfect new life.

This sinking feeling I have in my heart, maybe it's the perfect pain? Self inflicted. Because it was too perfect to let go of. No matter how hard it hurts.

Break the heart into a zillion pieces a hundred times and the idiot still refuses to let go of it's optimism. Maybe that is it's way of being perfect.

So I give one last look at the one person who wanted to be in my world no more and I walk out into the perfect night. A night which neither him nor I will ever forget. 
Him for finding his love and........ me, for seeing mine with his.

That perfect evening... One I hope I never have to live through again.

No affair can ever start with an 'I Love You'.

It was too good to be true. From the very beginning.

I had never felt so happy ever before. I had never known such contentment before.
I never knew I could care for someone the way I felt for you.

I knew it was a sin to be this happy.
So I constantly feared what it would take for all this to end.

Apparently, all it took to end it, was for me to tell you 'I Love You'.

Unceremonious harmony

I had always been accused of talking too much. Of being too expressive. Why then did I have countless unsent letters and emails ?  Guess I was just not expressive enough to the right people. Or maybe with the right words. Or probably my expressiveness is what drove them away in the first place.

I am very selfish when it comes to sharing. Especially myself. I know that love leads to pain, so I try to steer clear of that path. Unfortunately, even he believed that too. 
Guess it was simply a cursed union from the beginning itself. 

After all, when 2 selfish hearts decide to try and create a rhythm, it's just a matter of time before the tune falters and the loneliness creeps back in.

To him these were just words, but to me they had become companions - the hurt, the pain, those terrible sleepless nights, the frustration, the sorrow, the longing, the emptiness, the sense of failure.

As easy as it was for him to walk out so unceremoniously from my life, I had no clue how I was supposed to stop loving him. One fine day. 

True, he had never promised me anything. He hadn't cared a damn about me. But love was no bargain or a deal. And so for a long long time, I still continued to love him...even long after he stopped.

I realized how scared I was of loving. Again.

I should have never stopped being selfish. 
Even with him.

Especially with him.

A date with IKEA

So I guess it can be safely concluded by one and all that I am not the kind of girl who keeps my word. I like to talk big. But I am glad that my marathon even reached  8 days. That's generally more than most things which have caught my attention or devotion. So I guess this definitely is a first.

Today as I sit to type this, I have wood splinters in every finger of mine, grazed skin on knees and elbows, black and blue in more than 4 places on myself, nail wounds on my toes, a back I can barely manage to sit upright with and a hand I can hardly move. As much as I would love to claim that I had been to fight for a noble cause, the truth is, I was just simply setting up a house.

The ordeal began last Friday when I stepped into IKEA to buy furniture for my new place. With a list as long as the tresses of Rapunzel, when I reached the self serve floor of IKEA, for a complete ten minutes I stood in the middle of the floor completely helpless and lost. The first box I was supposed to have in my cart was a freaking 56 lbs crate which apparently could be transformed to my bed frame. After much struggling and tugging, I managed to have it sit in the push along cart I had picked up. Finally 2 hours later, I had 4 carts of boxes, a sprained hand and a bump on my forehead where my supposed to have been bookshelf had come tumbling down.

Without even trying to figure out if I wanted to fit them in my car, I simply walked over to the home delivery section and had them send it over.

The fun began on Saturday when I started to unpack each box and assemble them. I had 13 in total. I knew it was going to be a long long week. So I set my mobile at it's loudest and started my work. This was the first time in my life I was holding a screwdriver or a hammer (I guess India literally pampers us when it comes to any kind of manual work !). The first couple of hammer hits, as you might have already guessed, was correctly aimed on my unsuspecting left hand. Even a week later, it's still blue. And my bookshelf still has the dent in it !

I spent hours drilling in nails and trying to hold the shelves in place. I had most of the heavy pieces falling on me every time I moved them around. I lost count of the number of times I had the joints hit my head and the shelves I broke. I didn't bother to wipe the tear stained marks on my completed assemblies. At-least not yet.

Except for one box, every other instruction leaflet in the other boxes clearly indicated the sign to illustrate that this work should not be done by one person.

But hey, I guess I was just out to prove them wrong.

Anyways, one week later, as I sit and look around my new home (The theme was sweet and simple), I feel an overwhelming sense of appreciation for myself. I have never felt so proud ever before. As terrified as I am that the sofa might tumble down if I sit on it or that the bed might crack if I try lying down or that the chair might just give away (because I know exactly what and how it is being held in place and who put it there !) I cannot stop feeling this joy in coming back home every day. To my home. A place I literally built in piece by piece. On my own.

 A new place to have new beginnings probably. Or to completely end any old ones.

The place is now a reminder to me that maybe life doesn't have to be so bleak after all. And that I am not a total failure in getting back up and starting again. Maybe there is hope for me after all. 

And who says you need to be with somebody to be happy. I guess I was too hasty in getting the queen sized cot.