She wanted to read me. She always demanded me to write a story. She was intrigued by the elemental constituents of fables. 

“History is short-lived and delusionary. Fables are the essence of humanity, living to the eternity,” she would argue. She believed that everyone and everything has a story and all of them, without exception, fade into each other like rivers fade into oceans and oceans fade into land and land into deserts then into mountains and maybe again into river. She would cite breathtaking instances of the complex cobwebs, that, just two stories could form.

“Everything effects everything…if a butterfly flaps its wings at just the right time and just the right place, it can cause a hurricane a thousands of miles away, weeks later,” she often produced the metaphorical chaos theory butterfly to strengthen her case, and no doubt the butterfly had taken her imagination far.

She was as good with stories, lies, dares, diplomatic nods, as she was with reading people. She was a parchment, with smell and weathering of time, with a story on it that was fading from her face but heart kept it veiled from the overt weathering. But she was mysterious! The parchment was burning and every eye gazing to catch a word from it eventually burned. It was ironic that she wore reading frames because she always read better with her eyes closed. 

I wore glasses too. I wonder how both of never explored each other’s eyes thanks to the two glass walls mounted on our noses like a man’s ego over his head. Is there a point reading and repenting the bygones?

 She was less of a speaker. All the sounds she often produced were squeaks, a sigh or any other sound that has no name in the English Dictionary. She was onomatopoeic. Her replies started with an onomatopoeic sound followed by mocking on the sound and then putting forth the ideas from her mind that hardly emancipated itself from the fantasyland. 

“Wow! This is heaven!”  She was very excited when I once guided her to a room that resembled Dumbledore’s office, only better. She was jumping a little on the carpet covered in dust. All of the books and antiquities seemed to tickle her desires to have them.  In the three minutes that we spent there, she almost imagined every minute detail that resembled Dumbledore’s. Paleontology, astrology, astronomy, Astrophysics, botany, mathematics, various chemistries and other section that made up the first floor meant sections like herbology, advanced wizardry, quiddich etc to her. She had a library in her house. 

I clearly remember the last time I saw her. Things had taken such a turn that I expected that to be our last, but probably she hadn’t. She, I suppose, wanted our story to end at the same place where it made its inception. She had made a wish to be buried on the day the heaven was crying. She is granted! It is raining! I am at liberty to cry for my loss, the rain would cover my ‘man’s ego’, but I don’t want to. All I want is to let the rain drain over me and soak my soul that is hurt but contended for the gloomy, yet satisfying ending that we have reached.

“Break the monotony!” Her guiding principle. “Live fast, die soon, before you are somebody’s or somebody is your liability!” I always disagreed to her at this statement. I argued, ‘Liabilities walk behind people, try holding someone’s hand and walk together, just a few steps.” She would smile and never refute.

Her ideologies for life sometimes hurt my heart that was so in love with her. I never told her, lest I might lose her, given, she was a different one, like a sketch by an average child in endeavors to excel. The strokes on her life were haphazardly intermitted but as a whole, the sketch surely was a masterpiece.

She was graceful to everyone and in love with none, never! It did pain when I saw this standing in my shoes, but if I were to observe us as a third person, say, perched on the sky, yes she cared for me the most in the world and her principles clearly seemed to be on knees. She did reciprocate my sentiments, silently, when the world and I were sleeping together tired by the puzzling jigsaw of life with missing pieces! She did!

She was sad sometimes, when she was alone. I wondered if it was me who she was missing, but clearly I was giving myself a bit of extra importance. She was sad when I wasn’t looking at her. She would sleep on the floor of her library most of the nights. “I want to smell like the old books.” “I want my smell to speak my age.” She said. Other nights, when I was at her place, she would gently slide herself under my blanket after I was asleep, or at least she thought I was. She would leave before I woke up and lie back on her library floor. She clearly needed love and attention but something stopped her from demanding it. I wanted more of her but was scared to lose even the wee bit of what I had. I kept mute!

She played violin. “Why violin?” I was always inquisitive. She never told. She happened to choose the questions she would answer and oversee others. Some nights, lit well by the moon, she would sit on the terrace and play the sad instrument for hours and hours and I would sit on the rails watching her moonlit face behind the veils of her open straight hair, like looking at moon light filter through the leaves of an old tree.
The times we made love were the moments of extreme ecstasy for her, apparently. She would be pleased and all warm, lost in my arms, humming some lost melodies. She was beautiful. Her thighs had some healed cut wounds. “Yes, I paint too!” She had told me, all smiles. She made superficial cuts on her body, like the thighs when the gloom and pangs in her heart became unbearable. Blood was her drug! It relieved her of all the pains. The miserable thighs bore the allegories of the unbearable agony, from the unknown source that she had. She smiled when I kissed them. “Your lips kiss my pain away.”

She was different. She, perhaps, needed a doctor. I thought at times that she had bipolar disorder. But I liked her the way she was; aloof from society, with all her desires naked. Perhaps she was just different. Perhaps all of us need a doctor.  She was waiting to kill herself before her diseases did. She wanted the books of her library to have the only things they were missing, blood stains; old dry bloodstains. 

She would say some super serious things like these and then laugh them off. I was confused until this morning when I went to her place and I found her dead, with violin in one hand. The wrists were slit and the blood drained into a pile of books heaped close to her. The room was decorated with Christmas lights and a lot of eatables that she had probably cooked herself. She was all bloody in her favorite wedding gown.
Thanks for reading,  go ahead suggest a title for this story! 



In the cold room

Dear Prashant<>,

I’m writing to you again. It may be a bit impulsive to mail you but if you are reading this…

The floor, yes! I’m sitting on the floor. The room is cold. The lights are switched off. The speakers are singing beautiful melancholic lyrics interweaved with the sound of a sad mouthorgan. It’s not what nonsense the voices are saying but what the voices are feeling. And true! The voices are sad. The cold room itself is lamenting its misery by touching me on the floor. It has a painfully cold story. I want to get up but somehow I feel connected, I might be gifting it equal amount of cold stinging stories back. I’m sad.

“Try distracting yourself!” She had suggested the other day. “When I’m sad, I sketch!”  She holds an important place in me. Thankfully I never told her.

Not that I have never tried it but my hands are sad too. They resist being bothered. All I can do is, write, but that as well is not helping. Books? No! Walk? No! Music? No! Movies? No! Please no! Nothing’s helping!

I want someone to hear me. But I am unbearably alone. Trust issues! I have trust issues. I am slightly paranoiac as well. I don’t want anyone to enter my shell, still, I am human, and I’m alive, I breath and something in me surely beats. It yearns to be heard.

“Pain demands to be felt.”

Try visualizing me! A man in a dark room, kept like a heap of flesh on the floor, dead face wearing a macabre expression, scribbling the diary in the only light seeping into the room through the curtains, some sad artist singing ‘blues’ with mouthorgan and violin in the background.

 So many contacts on my phone! I have scrolled it thrice but have called none. I’m sure no one would want to hear me, more importantly; I do not want to talk to anyone. Often it comes to me as a sudden realization that I am surrounded by loads of people and yet I am alone. Am I sounding needy, vulnerable and desperate? Oh yes! I am! 

“You are so vulnerable in your writings! How can anyone share his vulnerability?” She would say.

I did not reply her, so here goes the truth. My pen is naked! It is justified for it to be a slut and to let go off its wildest dirtiest fantasies in the most shameless way. It does sing the melody of my vulnerability at times, and I let it, for I know; it does lie at times, but never pretends. 

Yours truly,


I was Flying

Aren’t bridges wings? Why has man thrown logs over streaming brooks? Why has he erected columns to pave way for humanity? Yes, they are bridges, they are wings! You fly over the land, only that you have your feet on the concrete. You feel the smell of air of the heights. You are born to fly. The ones on the ground, don’t they feel the desire to stand where you stand? Don’t they envy you for being at a height? Yes, you certainly fly, coz you are born to. Bridges are wings!

The other day, I was standing on a bridge. I was flying in the breeze, which fingered gingerly through my hair, and, like an old passionate lovelorn lover, seduced me to loosen up my clothes to feel her running with every hair, every goose bump of my body. It gently pecked marks of love over my body parched by the sunny days of lost childhood and fake adult rationale and hypocrisy. Yes, I was in love with the wind again, with myself and our solitude love making. I was flying again; naked I was, having stripped off my clothes of materialism, shrewdness, skewness and hatred. 

I was looking westward, to the setting sun. The horizon transitioned through thousands of psychedelic shades of amber, as the earth kissed the sun. The sun blushed and the whole sky, the whole of my bosom’s universe felt the tinge of love.

The river, the Ganga, that tore the horizon of nothingness filled wilderness into two, like a flying bird rips off the heart of the heaven into two, was wavering and returning back the blush to the sky. The boatmen down into the river carrying young couples pulled their boats in the stream. They are blessed people, they make some of the most mesmerizing and cherishable moments for people. They trouble their hands pulling oars to let people capture the spectacle into their hearts. They see numerous stories beginning and ending before them. On one hand they look at people starting their lives anew and on the other hand they turn their heads to the far back to look smoke rising from the cremation grounds.

I smiled at the brutally paradoxical irony. I pulled on my hood and flew away! Smiling! Waiting to fly over the scene again someday…in solitude…

I might survive this pang, I might survive the next pang, might survive  yet another fit…

But how many times do I survive, till I survive?

The Lovely Summer-girl 

Beneath the night sky, with summer heat high; lay two souls, bound in a roll;

In the tide of stars and blooming crescent, they lay embraced arm in arm; the cool breeze and her velvet hair danced over his face ,  her lips chirped stories of her age , which he did not listen but heared without any damage;

At times prevailed silence , it felt like night sky; still and full of feeling like the stars, where the blazing moon of their embrace cooled their heart’s pending scars;

The boy felt like rain, in his tiny brain; when she told him a thousands of stories and hundreds of her friend’s mysteries; he lay there on her arm, caressed her cheeks with his hands not so strong, and stole glance in her eyes which danced as her talks went high.

Never did he leave her alone, searched for her eyes all day long, she looked forward along; every morning he woke up in her arms, ‘Ah! this is the best morning.’ he thought.

But his best summer came to a halt, before he named what he felt in his heart; like a mesmerising dream he held her in him.

He bore his summer girl, deep down his bosom; and loved to play his tune when alone;

Some words he should have said remained unspoken. he let her go, for it was his first crush, and he savoured the unsaid intimacy he had with her.