There's nothing.

I've been writing for days

about you

about us

about everything I struggled

to say

hoping my words will

move you

because I've heard that

words can melt rocks and hills

but after all these days

I realize

there's nothing that can truly

make you listen

to me,

really,

there's nothing

and now, I am out of

words too,

really,

I've nothing left to

say.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejG2NwA5Crg

Letter to My 18-Year-Old Self.

Dear 18-year-old self,

As the clock strikes 12, you'll find your phone buzzing with texts wishing you a happy birthday. Most of them are strangers, but they'll turn into a family you cannot cut ties with even if they are continents apart. You have an exam tomorrow and it's the first of the many you'll give, this semester. You must have turned 18 now and you must be thrilled, but listen, you're still not an adult. Take it from your 26-year-old self, you'll always be a child to your family. Your grandfather still frets if you don't return home by 7 PM.

Let me tell you a good story now. Right now, you're pretty psyched about future. You must be planning on giving your CAT in three years and settle for whatever pay you the most. You are hoping you'll graduate with a great job offer on hand. Somewhere between working as an intern at several places and hanging out with your friends discussing your dreams, something will snap inside of you. You'll sense a weariness, a strange restlessness settling at the pit of your stomach. You'll never understand where it began and why it has, and the worst part? You'll not even know if it will ever end. You'll grow to call this anxiety your own and you'll give it its own space in your home.

You are so shy it makes me wonder that I was you. So, yeah, heads up: You'll change. God, you'll change so much that you'll probably not recognize yourself if you wake up at 25 now. You will experience colossal losses, which unfortunately will push you in becoming an adult overnight. Don't freak out. You can handle it.

You'll learn to travel, you'll learn to make the best of your finances. Even if it means you overdo shopping. You'll learn to live without regrets, and you'll learn to let go of people and things that aren't meant for you. Maybe grudgingly so, but you will. You'll learn to step out of your comfort zone, and you'll be surprised at the number of times and how constantly you'll do it. Girl, it'll be chaotic, but it'll be worth it. You'll tell stories and write many. More importantly, you'll live them.

Let me tell you the bad things now. Your selfishness might still remain as intact. You'll find pathetic reasons to hurt the ones who love you and you'll also be hurt by people you care deeply for. Learn not to put people on a pedestal. Accept the fact that they're not perfect even if your love for them makes you don rose-tinted glasses when looking at them. They're flawed and broken and in their battle against themselves, you'll end up being a collateral damage. Be kind to them, but never at the cost of losing yourself. Maybe you won't find what you're searching for and your thoughts will definitely be sullied by that very thing. But hey, it's going to be okay. Everything you lose and fail at will only prepare you for the beautiful mess you'll learn to embrace in the years to come.

You will rise and fall, maybe falling more often than rising, and that's okay. Your life won't be a cakewalk, but let me tell you, it will never be boring. There will be something new each day and you'll not have it any other way. You'll breathe, live, and do everything you'll dream of. Don't let anything bog you down because that's not what you are made for.

Learn, please learn to tell better stories and be a good story for others to tell.

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlBIeZi3Ko4

INCOHERENT.

I blink as a blank sheet of paper looks at me, impassively. I look straight back at it as if it would help me conjure some words. Any words. Just any string of words that form meaningful sentences. In fact, I am fine with sentences that bear no meaning too. How can I expect a meaning from nothingness?

Coffee, may be a cup of coffee will push me, invoke my senses, and help me put some words on paper. But hello, how can I do absolutely anything when my mind is soaking in a deluge of thoughts? Thoughts that are strong. Thoughts that are mundane. Thoughts that are half-baked. Thoughts that ache. Thoughts that put me to an ease. And thoughts that don't. If all nooks and corners of mind are occupied with bits and pieces of everything, how can I find a room for eloquence? But I try because that's what I do.

I'm starting to think that a lot of beginnings are paved with endings. And that sunsets signify a life wasted over beauty and charm. What's worth living if you don't witness a sunrise in the hills, over beaches, and in cities that break you down? I'm starting to wonder if you can call your best kiss the first kiss? And if you can leave little notes of goodness each time you leave a coffee shop? I'm trying to figure out if there's more to life than love and loss, and how success is a parameter of achievement! I'm beginning to imagine if there's life somewhere else. And what if nights weren't really made for sleeping? What would we do then? Bare our souls out?

I'm wondering if my curiosity will do me more harm than good like it killed the cat. And how will I know that if I'm not curious? Fudge!

Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cs1e0fRyI18

A Gleeful Farewell to 2016.

With the impending end of 2016, I'm so full of questions and thoughts. Sometimes, they are interfering with my inner peace, the other times, they are only providing a decent amount of fodder for squandering my time.

When I was writing a year-ender post last year, I had so much to tell that I literally cut down many paragraphs but this year, right from the time December arrived, I was fretting about what I have to write. Not because I have to write (which I have to), but also because these posts serve as reminders to all that I was in that particular year. Looking at the way 2016 panned out, it should obviously be the year that set its standards high for beating even the worst. But as a lot of people say...this is how life works. So, between being tangled and untangled, 2016 is a year where life happened to me. It was cruel. It made me vulnerable, but it also made me realize that a human being can be truly surprised what he can live with.

Every time I hit a rock bottom and overcome it, the survivor in me assumes that she is equipped for the worst. Another disaster, another victory, another bravado. But with every disaster, I fall flat and weep into the wee hours of the nights and try to hide my distressed eyes with copious amounts of eyeliner and mascara, the next morning. No matter how much and how well prepared I am for every disaster, I have my own share of fears and insecurities. However, like everyone, I also have an inner voice and in my case, it is a small girl who reminds me of the survivor that I am and urges me to show up. At any cost. And I do. And then, things get better. And then...life happens again.

I remember this time in high school when I wanted to walk into a room and own it; to make conversations with absolute strangers. I wanted to be heard, understood, and more importantly, known. Despite having such strong wishes, I was meek and often too shy to even respond to the questions I was asked. As I grew old, it changed in bits and pieces, but in time, I developed an unhealthy relationship with my own self. To tame my thoughts and incoherency while building a deep connection with myself, I decided to start a blog one night around 5 years ago. I think this worked out well for me. It made me discover my voice, inner strengths and offered me a humble platform to speak. Sure, I still do not walk into a room and own it, but hey, I am getting there. As we speak, I am in the process of checking it off my list too.

This brings me to another vital factor - reading.

I always thought I'd measure my years with the amazing books that I read, but 2016 made me go nuts for one book very particularly - Daytripper by Fábio Moon and Gabriel Bá. Despite reading 75 books this year, discovering new writers and rediscovering many old favourites, I think Daytripper is something that left its mark on me. I'm totally holding on to this like I held on to The Great Expectations.

Talking about someone in past tense is annoyingly excruciating. Even more so, if it is your mother. After losing my mother in August, I've lost my wits and a sense of security. A lot of people say that I've changed a great deal, while the others comment that I have stopped sounding like myself. I was a carefree spirit in my mother's presence, but something has definitely changed inside of me after her death. I don't know what it is, and I will not try hard to put it into words, but a part of me is entirely convinced that at any point of time, anything can happen, and we're not in control of it. It is such an unfortunate truth, isn't it? We mask it by saying it's the beauty of life. But to me, there is nothing beautiful about loss. It changes and molds you in so many patterns that you probably don't recognize yourself when you look into the mirror one day. Harsh truth - it shouldn't change you for bad. The sense of security can be lost and regained, but if you lose the core essence of yourself, it's hard to gain control over it. First-hand experience, please do take it from me!

A lot of things that happened this year made me form stronger bonds with my family. I'm so grateful for that! I make it a point to take time for them now. Earlier, my friends and family always complained that I don't return calls or stay in touch, but I have taken a new leap in that too. I'm guessing they now complain that I am always texting or calling.

Sometimes, even a little amount of unwavering faith takes you a long way. I probably didn't realize that when I started seeing this boy almost a year ago, but in time, it makes me wonder about love. I've written and talked so often about it (Thanks to my unhealthy obsession with romantic comedies and dramas) and as it turns out so much of it is false because love neither comes in fancy packaging nor with tons of confetti. It probably comes in a pretty average but sturdy packaging. Or in the form of a boy who picks your battles like they're his own. I certainly don't have a knight in the shining armour and I don't ask for one. Because what I have is a living, breathing person who shields me like an armour. Sometimes, that's all I ask for. And an unwavering faith!

As I come to an end of this post and 2016, I totally know that I contradicted what I've said in the beginning - that I had nothing to talk or write about. But when I actually sat down to write, there was no stopping. So yes, here's to a slightly depressing but a great deal of learning that 2016 endowed on me. I'm not asking for a fabulous 2017, but I surely won't mind one that comes with pleasant surprises and goodness my way.

To everyone who made this year amazing and got me cupcakes, thank you. To everyone who did not, you all can have a happy New Year too!

P.S. Thank you for reading this unavoidably long post.

The Beginning, In-between, and Ending.

Page no 319,

there was a forgotten coffee shop in the bylanes of a street that was used only for evening walks,

every evening, it was adorned with lights and its brown bricked walls held paintings of exotic places,

candles were lit on every table,

the visitors were few, but it was a secret getaway for a lot of people.

Most of the evenings, he walked in with her but today was different,

they walked in and out separately.

Page no 14,

there was always a new place in this part of the town,

sometimes a cafe, sometimes a night club,

people bonded over coffee and fell in love with each other over dances and music that'll be remembered for years.

She walked into one such new place, after taking a last look at herself in the mirror,

Dressed in white and blue, he stood on his feet as soon as he saw her.

A lot wasn't spoken on that day, the music was too loud and they were too shy,

the first flush of love, I remember, is always like that.

Page no 249,

happiness isn't the only prominent story of our lives,

melancholy and joy come in equal parts,

unfortunately, we fail to welcome them both in similar fashions.

We question sadness but accept happiness without any iota of doubt,

but together, he and she revelled in joy and got through sadness.

Page no 457,

a room that overlooked gigantic snowy mountains and a sunset that spread its oranges and yellows across the sky,

cups of tea were strewn across the table where they put their feet up,

it was cold but the setting sun's warmth and their intimacy did all that a thick blanket couldn't.

Stuck in a moment of love amidst nature was a dream they dreamt together, many nights ago.

Page no 75,

the drive to the unknown roads between brown hills was long,

but the longing to reach there was stronger than anything.

In between the setting sun and the music they carefully chose for the drive, they stared at the city they left behind,

there was a lot of silence and no words involved,

but there were bits and pieces of everything people new to romance ever wanted.

The beginning, middle, and the ending - we imagine all stories must have them.

We imagine our lives must have them and we do.

But not necessarily in the same order.

When we are all brewing stories of our own, just remember not to measure it in the scales of beginnings, middles, and endings.

Things Running In My Head.

The common cold is a common occurrence for me. During Winters, we practically meet and greet every morning. While I can say it's the only constant in my life, during sickness and health (because hey, I've learned to live with it), I despise it for very strong reasons like - sounding like a mouse during important meetings and having a red nose. But when I see people around me, who are prone to such things, I feel glad, because I'm not the only one with this petty sickness and with so many of them around me, nothing can truly bog me down. I revel in such things.

This afternoon, as I was watching the return of Gilmore Girls while dabbing tins of Vicks, I was called into the living room. My father had to introduce me to our really sweet landlord, who was sorry about the loss of my mother. He talked about the pain he went through when he lost his father, and when his wife lost her's at a very tender age. This brings me to a strange thought - Do we feel better when we know that we are surrounded with people who experience similar forms of pain and confusion like us? Does it make us feel that we aren't alone in this and that at every junction of life, we'll meet people who have overcome the struggles and losses of their life?

Most of the times, we crave the company of people when we are truly happy or when we want to celebrate our victories or promotions. In sadness, we claim that we want to be left alone. However, whenever we come across stories of loss that happen to people we know, hear of, or even fictional heroes, we understand that pain and loss are a part and parcel of everything we do. It certainly is comforting to know that we're not alone in this, even when we say we are.

So what is it? Do we basically feel secure when people around us are going through similar stuff that we are experiencing? Or are we just selfish even in the pursuit of this whole thing?

I guess I'll keep looking for a finite answer.

The Cookie Tin.

Throughout my childhood, we had a cookie tin at home. It was made of steel and was sturdy. My fingers still remember how its nooky edges and torn label made it stand out from the rest of the tins. My mother had a habit of putting all the best cookies in this particular tin, mostly because its lid was tight. Tight enough for me to struggle opening it. I guess I was never into Marie biscuits even at the age when I couldn't spot the visible difference between biscuits and cookies. That, however, did not stop me from reaching out to that cookie jar. Because I knew it held something that I longed for.

As I grew old and joined high school, I was still adamant about eating out of that tin. My mother soon began to store more than just best cookies in that tin, but I still believed that it consisted of the things I was forced to eat in a limit. That tin survived my many maneuvers for several years, it traveled with us every time we moved from one city to another and boy, we did move a lot! It became an integral part of our kitchen and I was warned to steer clear of it.

I don't certainly remember when we lost that tin, but I haven't noticed it for years now. Especially this morning when I was storing cookies in a different tin that bore no resemblance to the lost one. I am beginning to think if life is a lot like this. No, I am serious. Did it ever happen to you? You hold on to something - a plan, a work item, a piece of clothing, a book or what the hell, the idea of doing something amazing in your mind and try your best to gain control over it. Over time, it either comes easily to you after a lot of struggle from your end or becomes a part of your existence that you lose track of it. Did it ever happen to you? That in time, you lose the purpose of the thing (or the idea) you once strongly believed in? It is kind of annoying if you actually perceive it in that fashion. Nevertheless, it does not alter the truth. We lose the purpose of myriad important things in our life. Our dreams, our ambitions, our desperate plans to achieve meaning of life - we lose it all.

Sure, the tin might be replaced with another tin that has no stains or uneven edges, but not everything can turn obsolete.

And it shouldn't. Because life does not offer another cookie tin when we lose sight of a purpose or ambition.

Mother's Daughter.

I guess I was a four-year-old child when I first imagined being a mother was ultimately cool. When I was forcefully sent to school by my mother, I always assumed that all she did was stay home, watch TV, play with toys and basically have a gala time while I suffered at school. As I grew older, I understood and witnessed the amount of work my mother did with an ease that only she could pull off. It has been fourteen days since I’ve lost her and four days since I've started doing the household work along with my younger sister only to realize that stepping into the shoes of my mother is not just difficult, but also very stressful. I realized this as I had a breakdown in my office parking lot, today. However, as a four-year-old, I was still correct about the fact that being a mother is cool. I mean, who else can multitask so effortlessly?

I've been told that the loss of your mother practically paralyzes you for days and then, you are on your own, navigating the big mean world without a survival kit. Though I partly agree with it, I do not think a loss like that ends after a while. Colossal losses like this come in waves, overwhelming and drowning you every time they reach your shore. As a person who has been spoilt rotten by my folks, I find it rather impossible to waltz into the footsteps of a responsible adult overnight. Even more so, when I am dealing with pain and confusion. But then, I cannot refuse the change, can I? Such is the nature of human life. Despite losing a major chunk of your heart, you are constantly encouraged to move on with your life. To smile. To fight hard. To stay strong. My mother too was deeply strong. She had a way with her words and she used them only for good. Her joys were sedate ones too: filter coffee, a blooming rose in our garden, Telugu literature, and conversations with her youngest brother. But the problem with my mother was that she set an example too nice to even try and follow. She was never lackadaisical about anything. As a teacher, she carefully crafted and inspired many young minds and she was always particular about working hard and earning a true value for that work.

So when people are asking me if I really have the need to go back to work and attend work calls, I frankly have no better answer than this: She isn't here anymore but her dreams and her ambitions for me are here to stay. I am solely responsible for carrying them out, now and forever. This is an intensely fresh beginning for me and I am still figuring out how to be cool like her. But you know, I will figure it out eventually. Because I am my mother's daughter, after all.

Greed.

We are all greedy people.

We are barely content with the things we have. We always run behind the things that seem attractive. Momentarily, but not forever.

The should haves, the could haves, the would haves -- we talk about them with such a desire in our eyes failing to notice the beauty in the things that we already own.

Why do we never appreciate what we have? Why do we go blind about the wonderful people in our lives?

And more importantly, why do we lose sight of the shore while mourning over a fleeting glimpse of a distant land that will never shelter us?

Long Gone.

It was a warm Summer afternoon. She stretched her aching feet on the tender grass by a stream. She chose this spot to write letters to him. She always chose this spot, to write him long letters of love; to write him mundane letters that hid her pain.

She wrote to him about the hens in their courtyard and about the persistent water scarcity in their village. She wrote to him about a strange sweet smelling fruit she had every morning and how she cannot wait for him to come back. She wrote to him describing the injury on her right elbow and how she missed holding his hand. She wrote to him about the beautiful, orange sunsets and how she would do everything to be closer to him in that moment.

She wrote to him about the Sun and the Moon. About the endless blue sky and twinkling stars.

She just wrote to him about everything.

Not knowing he was long gone.