Solitude.

Oftentimes solitude fails at making conversations with us.

It lurks behind our backs hoping we'd notice it.

But as we move one from one phase of our life to the other, waltzing from moments of euphoria to awful times of melancholia, it wishes we spot its presence.

It sits along with us on a park bench, trying to lure us into its gifted world of beauty.

In the darkness, when we run and hide from the world, it tries to befriend us.

In the bright light, as we stroll in the sidewalks, with our hands in the pockets, it extends us its hand.

Too lost in the humdrum routines of the world, we never hold it back.  

But there comes a time when we meet solitude eye to eye, and there's no going back after that.

It showers us with meaningful conversations and beautiful introspections.

As we gather our thoughts and experiences, solitude makes us realize that the greatest company a man can ever have is his own mind.

And that, my friend, is when you truly understand you have earned a true friend in yourself.

But, Are We Just Pretty Faces?

This morning, when I was looking at my image in the mirror, I vividly remembered my school days when my mother would cajole me into using an acne cream. Let's get you a facial. Use this cream. Moisture more. Keep moisturising. Your skin does not seem so radiant anymore. I've heard this all from her and when I looked into the mirror this morning, I totally knew that I transformed -- from the girl who barely used a moisturiser to a girl who carefully goes over its ingredients before buying one. I have changed while running from high school to filing college applications, maybe somewhere between falling in love and out, while seeking validation and not caring for it, I have changed so much. From the girl who would shyly use a lip balm to the woman who effortlessly smears a red lipstick, gosh, I've changed. For better or worse, I have.

This change is not a bad phase, though. It surely isn't a sweet smelling Shea butter stage that will wean away soon. I reckon, the amount of time I spend looking at my reflection in the mirror could be quite unhealthy. Is it just me or does it happen to you too? The filthy thing about looks is that we all crave it, but we do not want to be known for it. "Am I just a pretty face? Why don't people think I am more than just that?" We are all slaves to emotions like this. And there is no way you could get yourself out of this. It is just like a roller coaster. It does not matter even if you're standing at a distance, staring at it, the roller coaster is still scary. But when you get on it, you love it. You get hooked. Taking care of your looks and basking in its sunshine is just that.

When we read books and come across characters that are beautiful, nay, not good looking, we are amazed. My favourite fictional characters of all time, Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester, were never portrayed as immensely good looking ones. To be fair, Jane was a plain Jane. But they both had interesting minds and spoke those minds to each other. Similarly, our beloved Sherlock Holmes was not dearly known for his looks until Benedict Cumberbatch glorified his character with his looks and high cheekbones. When I was a child, I hated 'The Ugly Duckling'. My mother still teases me that I cried every time someone narrated this story to me and even when the ugly duckling transformed into a beautiful swan, I wasn't okay with it.

In an era where we carefully photoshop the acne on our face and take a million selfies to perfect the art of pouting, I shudder to think that I haven't just joined this bandwagon, I've also endorsed it many times. Of course there is nothing wrong with it, we got to change with changing times, but how often do we think that there is an interesting story, a real person behind a pretty face. I have this friend who is so handsome that, sometimes, it pains to look at his face and wonder how every facial feature is so beautifully carved. But when I went beyond his looks and understood him, there was more beauty to him. It was innate, but it was truer.

This is what happens when we know people for their true selves. Maybe then, we would pick our friends and partners based on their virtues. Because relationships between people are not based on grandiosity. But despite it, and despite it only.

However, I'll still use the moisturiser. Keep moisturising. In the end, we all have to listen to our mothers, don't we?

A Summer Night Rhapsody

My obsession with nights and the urge to stay awake till the wee hours of mornings began at a very tender age. Be it studying for the next day’s test or to derive pleasure from reading comics, I liked to do them in the solitude of night. The fact that nights are so serene and beautiful, with a sky full of stars enticed me into doing a lot of things, albeit making me an anti-social human.

I don’t know what kept me hooked on to the night. Maybe it was the joy of creating something at 12 A.M. Maybe it was the first poem that I have written at 2 A.M. Or maybe it was the flow of thoughts that walk with a panache into my head after 11 A.M. Nights have always been perfect.

Summers at my grandparents’ place were quite lively when I was a child. My cousins and I would exchange stories on paranormal activities, and most of the times we made them up. I still remember those nights when we would sit up on the terrace, often jumping on the water tank, and just talk. Those were the nights when even the fireflies participated in our conversations-brightening the dark night time and again. I still cannot fathom why even the most mundane things seemed interesting during those nights, because the entire magic of our conversations would vanish into thin air in the mornings. Now that I think of it, most of my cousins are highly reluctant to stay up late now. Quite funnily, even I find it atrocious to sacrifice my nights over them. But who stays awake in the nights? Apart from musicians trying to compose their best tunes, writers trying to put words on paper, lovers mending their broken hearts, watchmen witnessing stories of their lifetime (or not), burglars, and animals.

I know, that's a lot of people.

Anyway.

Some nights could be quite eventful. Even when they are absolutely simple. It is said that beauty lies in little and the simplest of things. 

Tonight, as I stood in the balcony talking to a friend, it started raining. Instead of running into my room, I stood there, letting my senses soak in the aroma, and closing my eyes for a moment. As I opened my eyes, I saw the dog in my colony cuddle with two cats under one roof; I could see a girl cooking in the kitchen and tasting piping hot food right from the bowl, a child pillion riding and tugging on to her father closely.

It does not matter even if all these things have happened in a flash of a moment, it does not matter if they were just fleeting moments. They reminded me how much I loved and adored the nights, again.

And on days like these, only nights will have their say, making me stand by the window a little longer than the usual.

The Storyteller Ring.

It was just another typical day for me. It began the usual way, but I shone a little less bright than every day. That was when I noticed him. He cupped his palms together, and rushed into the store, tugging his jacket closer to his body to keep himself warm. A look at him told me that he must have walked here in the brutal rain. He walked from one end of the store to the other, gasping and sighing in between. He took his own sweet time before he set his eyes on me. It was love at first sight. I could tell. He took me into his arms, caressed me softly, and said, “Pack this for me.” As he counted the notes of denominations 100, and few coins, I wanted to urge the manager to give a lavish discount on me, but I couldn't. A little later, he collected the amount. It looked like he could afford me. It looked like he saved up for me. I still remember the candid tone of his voice when he said, “I am going to propose to my girlfriend. This ring is perfect." I was the perfect ring. I loved that I was going to be a part of a journey which would begin with me. I walked out of the store snuggling in the cozy corner of his pocket. With a pride in his heart and a glint in his eye, he talked a great deal about me with his friends. A week later, he got down on his knees and proposed to her. I still remember the tears that trickled out of her eyes. I still remember how well I fit on her finger as if I was cut to beautify her finger. It was blissful. It was funny how the initial years passed in a fleeting moment. The nights they stayed up late sharing the deepest of the secrets, or the walks they took clasping each other's arms, and the mornings they spent making coffee together have soon become a part of my life. I began to take pride in the fact that I bound them together. Even in the moments of despair, she tugged me closer to her heart. Seldom I would lend her my ear, hearing a tale or two about her day. In due course, I realized things were changing. I realized I was held by fingers that weren't his. I realized I was inhaling the scent of a different man. I realized this man did not touch the contours of my body, neither did he kiss me when he kissed her. I realized I meant nothing to this man. I tugged even closer to her, trying to remind her of the moments she spent with him, trying hard to make her understand that she was meant to be with him. I tried, but everything went in vain. Every evening, as I returned home with her, I felt like a culprit. I felt like I was hiding a gory secret deep down my chest. One morning when she left me on his bedside table and walked out of the room leaving behind void and distress, I could not fathom how many days he and I spent in utter darkness wallowing ourselves in sorrow and loneliness. 12 monsoon seasons later, he walked into a store to pawn me for something useful. This store did not look as swanky as the one I was built in, it did not even feel as warm as the home I lived in, but it felt safe here. And as he walked out of the store, he set his eyes on me for one last time. I could tell, that he would never choose another ring over me.

You Are My Lost Story!

As I think of the day we spent together, I try to put them into words.

I am not living in the past, I assure you.

But I am still fascinated by the beauty of those moments.

I still remember that day.

When I was in pink, and you were in blue.

With your dimples and the hair not so tamed, I still managed to find you debonair.

With my haircut disaster and a grin too long, you still managed to find me beautiful.

The conversations we had over the breakfast turned out to be our inside secrets.

All the kisses and hugs just remained as scars on my body.

I am not living in the past, I assure you.

But I still remember that afternoon.

When I crashed by your side, while watching TV.

And I still remember that evening.

When you stood by my side, as I was tying my hair up.

I guess I still remember that night when you dropped me home.

And when you sent me a message, “It was an amazing day.”

I remember all of it. Bits and pieces. Tiny shreds.

But I am not living in the past, I assure you.

The beauty of that day is still fresh in my mind.

The charm of those moments is preserved in my heart.

And your smile haunted me for days and weeks.

Maybe your aroma still engulfs me sometimes.

I admit you will be remembered.

But let me also confess this.

Someday, you will just remain as a lost story.

In the torn pages of an old journal.

Just Saying Hello!

What is happening to all the time? Is it just flying past me?

That is a million dollar question that troubles my mind time and again.

I mean, seriously. The last time I checked, it was still the beginning of March, and the month has come to an end already.

A lot of things have been happening  lately. And some come along with a silver lining.

I think I have graduated to be a world class jerk for a few things that went out of my control. I shall reserve that story for some other day. 

I have started taking criticism from anonymous people in my own stride. It is absolutely ludicrous how people could be so rude to you, and what's more fascinating is the fact that there are a lot of people who come to your support when things like that happen to you.

For instance, this is my first article on Women's Web, and this is what happened: What happened?

Or when the same person (I assume) tried to do this on my blog: Dreaming Under The Starlit Sky!

Thank you. Things like this just keep me going forward. 

I have been to Deccan Trails along with my friends for my best friend's birthday, and had one of the most beautiful nights.

The long drive to Vikarabad was absolutely lovely. The conversations were totally humourous. The starlit sky was beyond beautiful.

Nights like these remind me that beauty lies in the little things. It lies in the spark of your friend's eye when she cuts the cake, in a certain friend's gibberish when he is high, in the talking minion of another friend (I almost stole it), in the short walks with your friend, in the meaningless conversations, and in the long drives with Eminem's music blaring out loud.

Apart from all the beauty I am surrounded with, a lot of things have been happening at my workplace too. 

The only thing I hear myself wondering (But not saying out loud) during my lunch break is, I am in the right place.

Who knew I would be able to have fun at work? 

I guess I will write a little more from now. If not here, at other places. 

By the way, hello! 

It was the Moon

He looked up at the sky,

Losing himself in the millions of illuminating
stars,

While he was bewitched by their beauty and

glory,

It was the Moon and its austerity that held his heart.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Source of the picture: Star Girl Diaries

Memories In Time

“I don't feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.

"There there," said Piglet. "I'll bring you tea and honey until you do.” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Perhaps only love can heal love.

Cannot figure out how? Let me explain.

When I was in twelfth, I had to shift to Vizag due to some unforeseen circumstances. A change in the college, a change in the city, and miles away from home - with too many changes and uncertainties, I was terribly homesick.

I missed my parents. I missed home. 

It was the first time I stayed away from my parents, and being with my grandparents was fun, but it did not help much. I had regular bouts of home, and Hyderabad.

People who know me well, also know how much I adore Vizag. I keep saying it - it is the place to be. But I grew out of it back then. Even before I realized it, I fell in love with the city again.

I have probably written a lot about my friends in places and spaces I cannot recollect any longer, however, I have never written about the four girls who made my stay in Vizag more than wonderful, and made me fall in love with it again. With one step at a time though.

Anjani, Anuja, Niharika, and Prasanthi - you girls have contributed a lot to my happiness and bitter sadness. 

As we step into the eighth year of our friendship, I felt a testimonial to all that we cherished together had to happen.

Probably I wouldn't have put on even a little (Read a lot) weight if Niha wasn't there to feed me cake every single day. I wouldn't have known the joy in sharing food if not for Anjani and Anuja, and perhaps, I would have never taken all the critical feedback in good humour had Anjani never thrown sarcastic remarks on my face.

Maybe my walks in the rain would not have been this memorable if Niha wasn't there. Maybe I would not have bunked practicals if not for Anjani, and maybe I would have never picked fights with any friend if not for Anuja.

Maybe I wouldn't have laughed so much even when I was going through the worse days if not for these girls; and maybe I wouldn't have savoured street food so much if not for Anjani. Shopping with these girls was awfully great, and sharing our deepest secrets in the darkest of the days let me talk about things I would have never imagined I'd talk.

I have also learned how to lie most conveniently. I mean, I always had a good story to tell our principal each time we bunked a practical or a weekend exam. You see how they helped me? I started writing stories to protect me and my friends from drastic situations. I will give it you straight - my lies were an epic fail. No one ever believed me.

Vizag is a beautiful place. In many million ways, it is so simple. I wouldn't know a perfect weekend had I not watched a movie at Jagadamba, and go for a stroll at the RK beach, and make my friend walk miles in pursuit of reaching Tenneti Park. 

I would trade my place with anything to be in Vizag doing a writing job, and staying closer to my grandparents and family. 

Any day. I mean it.

If not for these girls, I might have never realized the beauty of this city, and how closely it held me during the nights I missed home

It is a home away from home, and these girls are totally family away from family. 

Like an old warm quilt.

Journal Entry 537.

“When you're on your own, you look for signs. Sometimes you make them up, sometimes they're actually there, but most of the time you can't tell the difference from the two.” 

― Cecelia Ahern

January 4, 2015

I sat up whole night musing over time and how days are simply passing by. I am worried. I do not want to be the one standing alone looking at time pass.

I went over the details of my day, grimacing over the ones that were highly unpleasant, and smiling at the ones I've spent thinking about us.

I've had a terrible day, you know?

I did not just miss my deadlines, I missed my morning bus too. What if this turns into a compulsive habit? Also, did I tell you how incorrigible my new editor is? I blame you for this. If not for you, I would have just remained as a closet writer.

I have lost the track of the world around me.

And you, your thoughts never seem to go away from me.

The tears too have dried out but I haven't lose the count of the days ever since you left.

537 days. I am still counting.

Of course, there is no looking back. You told me that. But have I ever paid heed to your advice? I should have, you know? When you were still around!

Our pet has grown older, and ferocious. I can tell you, he misses you. He looks for you in every stranger. Your mother longs to treat you with the chocolate cake you loved as a child. Your father hopes you would magically appear at our doorstep every morning. No one can fill your void at his chess table.

And I? I wish I could tell you I am brave enough to wait forever but I miss my morning sunshine, waking up to your lazy smile and sleepy voice asking for a cup of coffee, and your warm breath at the nape of my neck.

I wish you were still here.

To experience more of my words and its enigma, flowers and their enticing fragrance, dandelion seeds and their sly quirks, sky and its endless hope. I want you to just remember that I have started loving the beauty of the world only after I fell in love with you.

Even the sapling we first planted together has grown into a giant tree bearing sweet smelling fruit.

I wish you stayed. I wish you weren't gone already.

The Great Expectations: The Teacher & His Book

“There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can't move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.” 

― Robert Frost

This post was meant to be updated during Teachers Day but it was lingering in my head since a long time. It got delayed. Nevertheless, I am out with it.

You remember all those amazing school days? The incredibly pure days when a bar of chocolate, or a game of Uno with your friends in the colony gave you happiness that a pair of Charles & Keith shoes too cannot.

So, as a child, I had to hop from one city to another, one school to another quite often owing to my father's career. I hated it. I was always the new girl in the school, and there were times I felt like an outsider. Right from my language, to food, everything was different. I was always that weird, and probably geeky South Indian who could not connect well with the East Indians. I was always that strange child who preferred math over socializing with fellow classmates.

But then, I am also glad that I hopped from one school to another. Because, I have made many friends, and have a fair understanding of various languages now.

My family and I shifted to Hyderabad when I was a twelve year old girl. Surprisingly, I was still an outsider, here. As a person who could not decipher or write Telugu, I had a tough time making friends, and explaining people that I was a South Indian. I was. I just grew up in different places. As days went on, I made friends and all that, but you know what my problem was with the school? It had no library, it had no physical activity sessions. It was an utterly boring place to be in, and while my grades were always high, I was never happy with any of it.

The next year, I had this absolutely brilliant teacher for English called Murthy. At first sight, you might take him as just another grumpy old man who would strangle you to death if you were a naughty child, but he was anything but grumpy. He was happier than any of us; he dreamt higher than any of us. He always dressed in black and white, and on odd days, we would see him in blues and greens. He was fairly old. Say around, 70 years? I am not sure. But I still remember that I didn't want to miss any of his classes. Ever. I loved his lectures beyond anything. He had an aura that spoke volumes of his experience; and his flair at weaving and narrating stories was beautiful.

He taught us The Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. This is one book I go back to, time and again. I have lived with this book ever since ever, and let alone talking about it, I do not even like sharing the lines from it with anyone because I am so possessive about it that I feel like I am sharing a part of myself with them. You can call it ridiculous, but that is how this book has always worked with me.

With Murthy sir, this book was treated with an entirely different perspective. A story, that I would like to save for later.

There were many teachers before him, and there have been many teachers after him. Teachers I do not remember, teachers I doted on, teachers that made me hate Physics, teachers that ended up late for every session-basically, teachers who didn't leave a mark in my life like Murthy sir did.

I do not know if my stay in the school would have been the same without him; I do not know if my love for Literature would have been this strong without his stories; I am not sure if I would have written anything at all after my seventh grade if he stopped nudging me. Relentlessly. I would have been clueless about the beauty of words, and the sorcery of Ruskin Bond's work. I would have been just a person who took no interest in art, and I shudder to think of a life like that. And much to my chagrin, my Grammar would have been pretty horrible if he wasn't there in school, explaining me the difference between its and it's, patiently, and sometimes, quite impatiently.

I wouldn't even know if I would have read all the classics if he wasn't my teacher for his classes were always about great stories, good Literature, dreams, and many more.

I do not know where he is now, what he is reading now. I do not know who is being admonished by him right now. But if I really could, I wish I could sit down with him, and talk to him about all the grammar issues he found with the teenagers, I would love to ask him if the teenagers are getting any better. I would love to ask him, if he has ever considered writing down the stories of his adventures.

If only I could see him and tell him that he is loved, and whatever I am right now, I'd owe a major part of it to him. Bits and pieces, and everything!

Guess Who Has A Typewriter Now?

“You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads... may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”
― Ray Bradbury

Oh God! 

Take a look at my typewriter. Isn't it a beauty?

I have been lusting for a typewriter ever since ever. And a vintage one, at that.

And look what I got this birthday? A beautiful typewriter. My joy knew no bounds when I saw it. 

As I sit in front of the typewriter and try to write, I couldn't fathom the number of typographical errors I was making. Little did I know Ms Word was making my job a lot easier. 

While technology has been making (and will make) our jobs feasible and more easier, the joy of holding on to the old fashioned methods of writing - the good old typewriters, a paper and a pen, and the smell of ink will drift you into a whole new world.

The best part is it reduces your typographical and grammatical errors too. More focus, eh?

Now, let us go back and look at that picture. Isn't it a beauty? 

http://site.xavier.edu/polt/typewriters/typers.html

Of Lost Love, Forgotten Emotions!

“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.” 

― George R.R. Martin

Sometimes, in a world full of a million people and their zillion dreams, we all drift into a moment where simple things mattered. The moments where we had boundless love, memories that were actually moments, sweet sense of joy, and bitter sadness that held us together.

Lost love. Forgotten emotions. Bittersweet memories. Nostalgia.

It is quite astonishing how the long talks about serendipity, love, heartbreak and the metaphors cannot justify the ethereal feeling of lost love.

While the memories are long gone and the pain has faded, I can still write about the lost love. Fondly!

Love is like a bowl of freshly made ice-cream. An ice-cream that has the best of cream, chocolate chips, and sprinkles. It has an aroma that reminds you of all the best moments in your life.

On a beautiful, rainy day, you sit in your favourite cafe, and savour your bowl of ice-cream. You enjoy it without thinking about anything, and when you finish it, you keep craving for more. Lost love, it ends in a fleeting moment, breaking your heart away, it makes you lose your senses, and after all the pain, you still crave it.

Emotions! So much for being a human.

Lost love, you leave a part of yourself there, and walk out in the storming rain, and this is when you cannot stop thinking about the repercussions, the dire consequences, and oh, the gory future.

You take time. The pain eventually fades. You smile. You are happy.

You take some more time. The pain completely fades. You laugh. You are infectiously happy.

But on odd nights, you hold a glass of whiskey in your hand, and reminisce all the good old moments where simply things made your life beautiful. As you listen to your favourite track by Coldplay, and swoon over Chris Martin's magical voice, you think of all the little moments that made your life alive and pink.

Lost love, amidst all the grandeur and morbid details of life, you made sense. You keep us, the hopeless romantics, emotionally alive. Even when everything makes us numb, the tiny detail of you makes us squeal in the night.

And it is strange how you still make sense in spite of being lost for an eternity!

Should You Sell Your Dreams For A Lucrative Corporate Job?

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

― H. Jackson Brown Jr., P.S. I Love You

You remember how as a child you would dream, dream to do wonderful things, and as you grow up, you cling on to these dreams, hoping one day you will achieve all those innocent dreams you have had as a child.

Sadly, reality comes into the picture when you turn into an adult. The dreams you've had as a child eventually fade and sometimes, you give in to the pressure that is thrusted upon you by your parents, family, extended family, and oh, how can I forget, the neighbours. 

You have mortgages to take care of, bills to pay, and you know, the dream of turning into something awesome takes a back seat. You are confused! Questions like "Painter? What will you earn? Ten cents? Not everyone can become a Pablo Picasso, you know", "Why can't you become an Engineer? Software industry has a better prospect", "Musician? You should get an MBA degree from an Ivy League." become a part of your life. And as much as you want to chide the people who confuse you with questions like this, you cannot help but agree that they are realistic too. Aren't they?

Should you sell your dreams for a lucrative corporate job? is a million dollar question that we twenty somethings face almost everyday. 

Dear parents, we are clueless too. We want to chase our dreams. We want to be a Jane Austen, a Pablo Picasso, a Bruce Springsteen. We want you to understand that we want to stand out and as much as absurd it sounds to you, we do not need riches. Practically, we all need money. Yes, we all do. But we are struggling here, trying to voice our opinions, and yes, we know the repercussions of not taking up a software job. What can we do? Our childhood dreams haunt us. They do not let us sleep in the night. They remind us of what we are and what we can become.

Oh, we totally understand that neighbour aunt's elder son is an investment banker and has a swanky car in his garage. We admit it, we cannot afford it. Not for the next ten years at least. But we are alright with it. 

So the next time you ask us how we would manage our rent, we want to ask you few questions too. When will we find time to travel and gain beautiful experiences? When will we meet intriguing people like us? When, just when can we do major goof-ups and blame our juvenile phase for it? When will we fail majorly and learn all the lessons? When will we fall in love and experience a heartbreak? When will we experience anything, just anything that is remotely different from what we are doing?

Not all of us here are meant to work under corporate honchos, and turn cynical by the time we turn 30. Not all of us here want an Audi. Not all of us here want an insanely ludicrous bank balance. We are happy to live our dreams. We are happy spending our life creating something beautiful. We are infectiously glad doing what we are meant to do. If we spend an eternity living your dreams, when should we live ours? 

We want to take a leap of faith, and is it too much to ask you to believe in our dreams? Because we are wired differently, and we believe in the beauty of our dreams.