The shape.

I've changed the shape of

my heart

far too many times to fit it

in your palms

like how black coffee

twirls and whirls

in cups and mugs

of different shapes and textures,

each time with a new form,

each time with a new aroma,

and yet

remains

strong.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erywPdFfORE

Us.

"Would you like more coffee?"

"No, but should I order you another cup?"

"Not really, I'm done for the day."

"As in?"

"I've had enough coffee for the day."

"Hmm, what about a slice of carrot cake?"

"No, I'm just fine. Feel free to get yourself one, though."

"Okay, let's just sit in silence then."

"If that's what you want."

"No, that's what you want."

"Do we really have to eat to talk?"

"Well, it at least creates clamour. The table gets too tight-lipped without the clatter of cutlery and slurps of coffee."

"So?"

"What so? It's overwhelming...at least for me."

"Hmm, if you say so."

"Do you ever look at me in a different light?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what exactly I mean."

"Like sunlight?"

"No, idiot."

"Then what?"

"Do you see this going somewhere...anywhere?"

"What is 'this'?"

"Us. I am talking about us. You and me. Do you see us in a different light? Do you picture something else for us? Do you think our life can imitate art?"

"If it should imitate art, then there should be no 'us', but hey, it's going to be okay."

"What’s going to be okay?"

"You'll know."

"Hmm."

"Should we get that carrot cake now?"

Song for tonight: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDJPpG8e4n4

Time.

We occupied a center table at a coffee shop we'd never visit again.

Just like the colours of the coffee shop, he was in white and I was in bright orange.

Several cups of coffee were served at our table and cleared too, but our conversations never ceased.

Time never stalled for us.

Everything around us was moving at a quick pace, dusk turned into a tender night, and the people around us were in a haste to leave.

But we were stuck in a moment when everything moved in a slow motion.

We were stuck in a place where time did not count.

Rain.

The windows on the fourth floor were slowly unbolted,

The speeding car on the street leisurely came to a halt,

The child in red and his mother huddled under a black umbrella,

The cats were nowhere to be seen but the dogs were frisky,

The streets were almost desolate and looked spotlessly clean,

The trees looked greener and the flowers were dangling up above,

And as I stood on my balcony with a cup of coffee in my hand,

It looked like everyone was savouring the first rush of rain.

Words Versus Silence.

Words come easy to me.

But when I'm with you, I don't fill the silence with words.

As we sit at the corner of a coffee shop away from the world,

The darkness of the place, the pretty lights dangling up above,

Everything is perfect, but I don't try to fill the silence with words.

We laugh over the things that remain unsaid, we smile over the

thoughts that run in our heads.

You ask me to spill them out loud, but I don't feel the need to fill the

silence with words.

As I circle my fingers over a cup of coffee, I know your eyes are on me.

You look like you mean to say something but your lips twitch into a smile instead.

Neither do you fill the silence with words nor do I.

Words do come easy to me.

But when I'm with you, it's mostly silence that engulfs me.

Of Mundane Things and Changes.

Often we have days in our lives when we are overwhelmed with infinite emotions and think so much is happening. On days like this, time seems to run. Right now, though I am surrounded by myriad thoughts and emotions, but it looks like time is moving slowly, strangely walking beside me and moving at the pace of a snail. I've read three books this week. I've written like a mad person. I have met friends, and I have managed to find some time for watching a movie too. I'm telling you, time doesn't seem to rush or push.

On the 16th, I've completed a year at my workplace. As work anniversary isn't really a thing, no one wished me. No one got me a red velvet cupcake with buttercream frosting. And even when I sulked about it, my friends only pulled my leg. A year ago, these people were absolute strangers. I mean, you know, what I mean? Now, I exercise the liberty to cry, fight and narrate even the most rudimentary bits and pieces of my life to them. I still find it unbelievable that so much has changed in a year.

Something that hasn't changed much is how well I manage to sprain my leg time and again. I might have spent the evening of my work anniversary over lattes at a beautiful coffee shop, but the sprain in my leg reminded me that there are very few things in life that never change. Like coffee, meaningful conversations, great friends, and good music. They all come with their vices and pleasures.

You Do Not Know Me.

You do not know me. You think you do.

Between the tall glasses of milkshakes and cups of coffee,

You think you've figured out the whisper behind my smile.

As you look into my eyes and I into yours,

You think you know the story behind my brown eyes.

You do not know me. You only think you do.

Our laughter beyond the sound of music,

Between your rolling secrets and my hidden candor,

You think you've read me like a book that never

belonged to you.

But you do not know me. You only think you do.

My ideas, my ideals.

My stories, my grief.

My tears, my promises.

My darkness, my pleasures.

You think you know it all like your ecstasy.

You think you've touched every layer of my soul.

But you haven’t.

For you, I am always a mystery.

One that never unfurls for you.

For you, I am always a mystery.

A Table For One!

It is a common misconception that I am a people person. Maybe I am. Maybe I am not.

But if I am gifted the opportunity of choosing my solitude over the company of people for at least 10 days a month, I would gladly accept it, and quite graciously at that.

Of course, I love people, I love listening to their stories and to their tales on hope and endless possibilities of attaining something totally unattainable. But I also like to sit in peace, and read fascinating stories of the same people in the form of words and metaphors.

I guess I really like to oscillate between the two worlds - the one brimming with people, and the other filled with silence.

I would not call myself a recluse, but, there are moments when I prefer to do things alone - You know, like shopping, traveling, and eating out.

While one can do most of the things alone, the problem occurs only when you are trying to eat out alone.

This happens with me most of the times, and it is quite funny. I walk into a certain restaurant and ask for a table for one, and I find the waiter giving me a really sympathetic look, and much to my horror, I am given a table right in the center of the room.

I don’t know, does the waiter think I am all by myself (Read desperately alone) and hence, I need to sit in the middle of bantering people and chaos?

I am not sure.

Because when I ask for a corner table, the waiter gives me a once-over and asks, “Are you sure, ma’m?” And for reasons I cannot fathom, I earn the wrath of either a bad table or really pesky, overly helpful service.

You have no clue how many times I control my urge to tell them that I am here, only to enjoy good food while I am reading, and to remind them, that nothing is wrong with me.

There are a lot of people who ask if my solitude benefits me, and I tell them that it does in many million ways.

For one thing, it increases my productivity. The fact that I am able to read or write without any human contact, or my mobile phone constantly giving me constant notifications about mundane things is an achievement in its own league, if I might say.

A person who appreciates his solitude would appreciate the company of people even more. His attachment with nature and self increases leaps and bounds.

Okay, that was deep yet stupid stuff.

But let me admit, the whole point of writing this post is, this - dear waiters, let me devour my pasta in peace. No, I do not need sangria to wipe my tears away, and I definitely do not need several helpings of cheese to lead myself to the Prince Charming.

I am pretty complacent with whatever I have, and doing right now.

However, if there is something that I would really love, it is this - a corner table in a coffee shop adorned with fairy lights, a copy of Italo Calvino’s Difficult Loves, the aroma of coffee and a cup of coffee in my hand, good music playing rather faintly in the background, and people sitting in a distance talking about love and literature, and laughing at humourous things that tickle them.

Because that would be the perfect end to a solitary day at my table for one.

Your Splendour And Uncertainties!

I've written you notes and letters,

On things that mattered, and things that did not.

I've scribbled on the pages of my journal,

With stories about you and your idiosyncrasies.

I was surprised to see how I fell in love with you.

Because I fell in love with you while running from silence to chaos,

Because I fell in love with you between your quirks and my mood swings,

Because I fell in love with you even when you were miles away from me.

But it did not matter at all.

Because I fell in love with your smile in the darkness,

Because I fell in love with you by looking at the contours of your face,

Because I fell in love with you between stealing glances at you and my phone,

But none of it really mattered.

Because I fell in love with you even when words ceased to matter,

And even when you were sipping your coffee or singing to yourself,

I fell in love with you even when you were doing just nothing.

I thought I knew it all. I thought nothing mattered at all.

Oblivious to the effect you had on me, I let you go.

But when you filled me with an intoxication and left scars at places I never knew existed,

I completely knew I was willing to drown myself in all your splendour and uncertainties.

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.

Something About My City!

Perhaps I have built my memories like landmarks all around the city.

To talk about Hyderabad and its countless issues, I have always taken them seriously at several phases of my life.

From “I want to move to Bangalore” to “I want to study in Calcutta” to “I would settle down in Vizag”, this city has seen it all.

This city makes me erratic. It makes me want to yell at people. It makes me want to knock some sense into the auto drivers. This city and its traffic makes me sigh louder than ever. This city makes me restless, it gives me sleepless nights. But, it does not stop right there.

It makes me run away from it. For all intents and purposes.

I have always believed that I hated Hyderabad, but the joy I experienced when I looked at the city lights looming playfully over Hussain Sagar after a trip to Vizag, I have totally realized how much I loved this city. More than anything else. The unsettling feeling at the pit of my stomach every time I travel to a different city is not beyond my comprehension anymore.

Last Saturday, as I was going home from work, while listening to Ilayaraja’s music, I realized I cannot do without Hyderabad. This city is imperfect in all its dimensions, but it is beautiful. You know, just the way some broken things hold a mysteriously beautiful aura?

Yes, that!

This city proves that it is worth all the sleepless nights. It flaunts its old world charm and its contemporary style with a panache. This city bears its mad rush and agonizingly dark nights with a delight. 

This city does not care what I do, it pushes me towards meeting better people every time; it makes me believe that pretty things come in tiny packages.

And much to my chagrin, this city ended up being my favourite over all the places I have ever lived in. It has applauded my first success, and berated my first step of arrogance. It has embraced my first failure by hushing me into tranquillity. It has seen my first love, my first heartbreak, and many of my firsts, that simply went unnoticed. It has made me experience seething love and fleeting jealousy. It has drowned me with solitude and words. 

As I wake up to my morning coffee with yet another round of Venkateswara Suprabhatam playing at home, I know this city has engulfed me with a sense of belonging.

It makes me feel like I am home. Even when I am lost.

***

Picture Courtesy: Sugumar Solomon

Understanding The Real ME!

“The real question is, can you love the real me? Not the perfect person you want me to be, not that image you had of me, but who I really am.” 

― Christine Feehan

Over the past few days, I have been trying to come to terms with the real me—the trouble-seeking woman with a flair at weaving stories (Maybe?!), and an antisocial creature who has an entirely different online persona. People assume I am just the way the online persona but the real me is probably a little more subtle but I am also known to bite heads off even at the slightest provocation!

During one of the classes with my professor, I was told, or rather reprimanded for being too nice. Since when did being nice become a problem?

“You are a writer, you are meant to write, you have no time for emotions or moping around,” he said to me. 

Actually, fair enough!

Ever since that incident, I have been trying to come to terms with that as well. Do I have a dual personality? Or should I just hold on to the emotionless reclusive personality, like in school? But the real question here is, can my loved ones actually handle the real me? You know the recluse who doesn't want to make any human conversations and can go on for longer periods of time without craving any company!

With just a few exceptions!

While I am coming to terms with the real me, I have also realized that I really do not have time for emotions. I already feel worse admitting to it, so yes, you get the drift. As much as I try to act like a cold, ice-queen (which I am sometimes), I falter to be so. 

The real me wants to create something beautiful—something that could be remembered for ages; the real me does not want to write books under the pretext of calling them literature. Pretentious pieces of literature we find these days, I tell you! The real me wants to write something so remarkable that it has to be nominated for Man Booker Prize, sure it does not have to win it. (My dreams are too far-fetching, eh? While I am at it, I might as well aim for the stars. Feel free to roll your eyes at my expense.)

The real me just wants to engulf herself with words and solitude and timely cups of coffee. 

Now, the question is—would the real me actually find time for emotions? Or would the real me just break herself from her reverie of grand thoughts and step into the world far apart from literature and face utter disappointment with the reality?

P.S. The real me does not believe in serendipity. 

No Internet. Just a Getaway.

“We refuse to turn off our computers, turn off our phone, log off Facebook, and just sit in silence, because in those moments we might actually have to face up to who we really are.” 

― Jefferson Bethke

What happens over the weekend stays with the weekend.

I've always wanted to say lines like these when I was a teenager, but even as a teenager, I was a pretty normal (Actually, boring) person who really chose books over anything.

This weekend, I've tried doing things a little differently. For starters, I traveled to a place I love a lot. And I've survived two whole days without my phone and laptop. 

I would not call the experience overwhelming. But it was a much coveted break from my otherwise monotonic weekend.

I read, ate, consumed copious amounts of coffee, watched TV (Actual TV. I do not know when was the last time I actually enjoyed watching TV), played Scrabble on board all by myself. I did all these things without taking pictures for Instagram, or tweeting lame stuff like, "Coffee time!"

Of course, things like eating ice-cream go unsaid. Because I just cannot do without it.

I watched the sunrise and the sunset without any filter. I scribbled a lot of things in my notebook, and read a magazine without any interruption from WhatsApp. 

I made real time conversations with people. I have decided, no more WhatsApp for me. If I want to make conversations with people, it has to be in person. If people want to make conversations with me, it has to be in person or over a call.

Perhaps a year ago, I met this man who suggested me to try not using WhatsApp, but I mocked him in his face, and I still remember he was a laughing stock for my group of friends and me for at least a week. He did not have a Facebook profile or WhatsApp account.

Looks like he wasn't entirely wrong!

Ever since its inception, Internet has been killing our imagination. All I do on the internet is read some good articles (which is a great thing), watch movies or sitcoms, but I waste most of my time on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

And I think, I will stick to enjoying the aroma of coffee rather than posting it on Instagram! (Not all the time, of course.)

I've made a resolution to keep the Internet (My phone and the laptop too) off every weekend; I do not care even if the world is falling apart, I will not waste my time on the Internet on Saturdays or Sundays.

I'd rather live them for the simplest pleasures of life!

P.S. It is Monday. I am on the Internet and I hate it.

A Piece of Cake

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.” 

― Jane Austen

I am not interested in making conversations. 

I make conversations with very few people. 

I am known to be an absolute jerk at work. No, seriously! 

I have been told that I am outright arrogant with fellow workers. In my defence, I'd say that, I do not like making friends at work. I do not like talking with colleagues after I am home. 

If someone from work regards me as their friend, I leave no stone unturned in making it clear to them that there is a lot of difference between being friendly and being friends. I am here to work, and not to make friends.

I might have not done this in my first job, but then, I hardly made 3 friends at my first job too. 

In my new job, a month after I joined, two sane people quit. I turned into an even grumpier person with no one to keep my mood swings in check.

THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION.

People are not that bad, you know? I could be grumpy and all that, but there are people who are actually fine with that. I should probably start behaving well, I reckon? 

Every time I am down, all I need to do is count the number of colleagues who ask me if I am doing well. To think of it, it baffles me that these are the very people who were snubbed by me for calling me their friend. Repeatedly. Every time they uttered the word 'friend.'

It is quite surprising how nice people are. No, not just our colleagues, family, or friends. Just everyone. People apologize to you for things they haven't done. Things will be okay, they say, even when they do not have the slightest clue about what the things are. You are great, good things happen to good people like you, they say, albeit goodness is a trait that I have far forgotten. People will love you, dote on you, get you chocolates when you ignore them. They call you, hover around you to make sure you eat. They'll join you when you unpack your shopping bags, and get you an ice-cream when they end up emptying a mug of coffee on your pants unintentionally. They will do everything, just to make their fellow human being grin like an imp.

This world is a beautiful place. All you need to do is, share your piece of cake with someone. 

Thank You For Stopping By: A Short Story

“There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.” 

― Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember

It was really my fault. I have read too many fairy-tales to actually live and accept the realistic world anymore.

I could still picture that night in my head. I could feel it. Like it was happening in front of my very eyes, over and over again, tearing me apart.

He smelled of strong beer and his signature cologne--my favourite scent in the whole wide world.

As he stormed into our house, the gust of wind and heavy rain entered the house along with him. I rushed to sort the scattered papers and things in place. The wind was wild.

I looked up at him to notice that he was drenched. He did not move an inch, while I was having a tough time battling the papers against the wind. His bloodshot eyes showed no absolute hint of affection for me. I stood, looking at him, wondering what went wrong. Maybe, he is a little too drunk, I said to myself.

"We cannot do this anymore," he said, "I will move out this weekend." It was strange how he uttered those words without even looking at me, and without any iota of guilt in his voice. 

I did not see it coming. 

My three years of wedding fell apart. Life gave me a merciless surprise - a sucker punch that gave me miserable nights and dreadful mornings the following years.

It was that time in my life when I joined school again and was surviving on the funds I've saved earlier. I could not afford the rent had he left. I had loans to pay, and school fee had to be taken care of. I understood it was a wise option for me to walk out of our house, and go back to my parents'. But at that point of time, all I could think of was him! 

I could still imagine the number of questions that were playing a dirty game in my head. 

I could manage a feeble why. 

It was a mistake, he said. I cannot say anything else but sorry, he said.

"How could you do this to me?" I asked as I wept profusely.

"I love you, but we cannot do this," saying, he walked into the bedroom closing the door behind him. That night, he closed every door. He ended everything.

I never found a reason. I never got my closure. 

The weekend arrived with an endless promise of the seasonal torrential rains, and blocked roads. But I knew I had to leave. I packed my essentials, coffee maker, course books, and a box of photographs that were taken over several vacations, and of course, my wedding photographs where he and I were gushing over each other like mere teenagers.

What I left there weren't just memories, I left a part of myself there as I walked out of the apartment that day. I walked in along with him, but I left alone with perpetual distress.

Yet, I made him his favourite breakfast, had my last cup of coffee in the kitchen I loved, and left him a note that read:

Thank you for stopping by!