To those we loved, and never lost. 

What They Understood of Feminism.

I often refrain from offering critiques on philosophical and literary theories. The reason is simple, everybody can have a point of explanation about what they understand of an Existentialism or a Surrealism or a Cubism. We all can draw numerous interpretations about how we connect to these or vice versa.

However, today I just feel like talking about Feminism. And largely, not in its favor. For one, I'm the least of a feminist. Yes, I promote gender parity at most platforms; but I refuse to discount another person's importance as an individual only because he belongs to the opposite gender. This warrants for a lot of reaction, mostly. And I like it. Because mostly women, largely identifying themselves as feminists do the following -

1. Write extensively about exploitation of women - sexually, mentally or physically. About women being victorious over men. About women rights and legal status that prevailed in ages far beyond their own birth date.

2. Write the above mentioned on visible social media platform, provoking other women and sometimes, men who are probably not that articulate. So that the latter join hands with them and acknowledge (read like or retweet) the same.

3. Share facebook pages created for the woman's cause. And they do so far more rapidly than you can blink. Ask them what and when was the First Wave Feminist Movement and ...

4. Discuss harassment incidents that flashed on news channels last night. It is the intellectual subject matter to quibble about at social gatherings.

5. Fight about the state of security in the city and seek out to claim the city by its streets. This, they do on news channels and everywhere else.

I know this is probably the most generic and as the purists might put it, nonsensical explanation for feminism. But this is perhaps how the concept is understood by the masses.

So basically, it is an arm chair philosophy. You sit, talk over coffee and move on to shop at a fancy mall. And then you critisize men for not vacating seats in general compartments of the Metro after gobbling a whole god damn coach. It might even seem blasphemous to call it a dysfunctional idea, feminism. In the wake of rising incidents of rapes and sexual harassments, even more. That does not mean I don't feel for those victims. But merely talking and preaching is highly hypocritical.

Case rested. 

Seven Reasons Why Winters are Wondrous.

Winter is the best time of the year. The best. Needless to say it is my favourite season of the year. I won't even try and sound like the English and say how much I appreciate the Fall, because come on, there is no such thing as Fall in the Indian seasons. It's a good thing to accept your indigenous happenings. So yes, winters. It is that time of the year when mornings are chilly and evenings are chillier. And afternoons are sun-soaked. But that would be like stating the obvious, wouldn't it. That's not why winters are kickass.

Some say these cold months are so romantic. Perfect for an evening date and so on. Well, probably. I cannot picture myself wearing something glamorous in the teeth-clattering night just for a date. I'd rather layer-up to enjoy. Some have even criticised the season for causing them discomfort - they have to wake up in the morning and go for work in the cold. Yeah, as if the rest of the year, your files and projects were shipped at your doorstep by a valet. Come on, work is work. Summer is too hot, monsoon is too wet and winter is too cold. Excusitis might be the cause, rather than the season.

Anyhow, winters are awesome. I got my reasons in place.
One, it's the best time to gorge maximum. Food gives energy and keeps you warm. I'm giving you scientific backing for it. What else can you ask for.
Two, you don't gain as much weight by eating extra. I read this somewhere that the body uses those calories to beat the chill. Science, eh.
Three, Christmas and New Year's fall in winter. Peak time for celebration and more food.
Four, there is so much to shop for. Mufflers, sneakers, jackets, pullovers and accessories to match. Girls, be happy !
Five, winter is equated to wedding times in India. Every day, every week there is somebody getting married. More food, more shopping, more celebration.
Six, It's Old Monk time for alcohol lovers. They swear by it.
Seven, nights are longer during winter. That means, MORE SLEEP. This ones the best, is it not?

In literature, winter is equated to death and endings. Where life withers and things come to an end. But it seems like a carnival time here, man ! Everybody is drunk with joy and celebration; there never is a dull moment. That's how it is for me.

Word.

"Karma is a cutie."

I read this somewhere, and I couldn't help but smile. And smile more.

There is so much to share and smile about
So much to rejoice about. Happenings that are beyond the politics of the politik. Beyond the grim hustle that consumes us, rather hypocritically. We critisize only because we are at a comfortable spot.

Appreciate and be grateful. No life-science preaching, this. When you will go around happy, it will come around to you !

She Lives. She Loves.

There is something about some people you come across. Something unusual. They might not be your closest friends but you know they are there. Their presence is inevitably known to everyone in that space. In some way, they just have to be known by everyone around them.

I had one such girl during my graduation. We weren't the kind of friends who would share our problems or secrets the way girls do. Or maybe I never did. Her presence just made me happy. Whenever she was around, I expected a stream of laughter to start echoing in minutes of our interaction. She was always ready with a story to tell. And her story, a rather simple one, drew people towards her. She loved narrating them in fact.

In a span of three years, I had become privy to so many stories about her life, that I felt I was close to knowing her well. From how she smoked her way to college in an auto, to how she passed days in her depressing convent school, to how she danced all slutty at the party last night and rushed for a morning lecture. She was a favorite at the cafeteria. Sipping iced tea even on the coldest mornings, she carried a bag with no books, a wallet flooded with loose money and a story. I never saw her tell a sobbing story though. It was as if in her mind, she was a celebrity being chased by the paparazzi of the city.

Initially, I hardly spoke to her. In fact it took me time to understand her sometimes-blunt responses. To the ones she loved, she loved immensely. To the ones she disliked, well. The heaviness of English Literature was whisked away in her humor and lines we made jokes of. It's not like she didn't face problems or was never broke or didn't have a fight. It's just that she was the way she was. Always on a high.

I'm glad to have spent my days of graduation with her. I don't remember not recalling any incident that she shared with me, and not laughing. I don't think I came across anyone like her again. I'm at a loss of words when people ask how was she so different. I'm just glad I met her.

To you, pole. I wanted to write this much earlier. 

The Man and The Photograph.

Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.

He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.

New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.

Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.

The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.

But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.

After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.

He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.

Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.

The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.

Ten Reasons Why My Dad is Awesome.

I wrote about fathers and daughters some time back. And their relationship as it usually is. For some unknown reason, I like talking about that relationship. It makes me gleeful. Not that mom's are any less loved, or I'm not fond of my mom, or whatever. I love her immensely.

Somehow, talking about fathers is special. It could be due to whatever Freud said about the Oedipal Complex (and let me know, if I repeat myself, again).

Or perhaps, mine is such a flamboyant and benign soul that I cannot stop gushing about him. Some days, it's like I have suddenly woken up to my dad's good looks or sense of dressing or way of talking or handling people who seem annoying to the others.

For one, I think he is the best dressed person in my family. Relatives older or younger watch and ape him. He loves to shop for himself, right from cufflinks to bandgala jackets, belts and watches. And thus, he understands why one would need so many pairs of shoes.
Two, he has the most amazing collection of perfumes. And he lets me steal them quite generously. (Yeah, some perfumes are kickass for everybody to use.)
Three, he never scolds me. Ever. It's always cool between us.
Four, he has amazing people skills. He manages the most sticky people with a grin and the next minute, you wouldn't know if someone tried to test his patience.
Five, he doesn't ask how much money I need. Just gives. And being the nice person I am, I don't take advantage of that. It's true.
Six, he loves travelling far and wide.
Seven, my girl-friends had a crush on him when I was younger. And he starts smiling funnily whenever I tell him that.
Eight, he has enormous amount of patience. I mean, people can come and borrow some patience from him, it's so much in abundance.
Nine, he is the one who distracts mom and me from having heated arguements.
Ten, well, he's awesome. Period.  

Outgrow The Years.

Simpler things these days are a rarity. It's as if everyone's running into complexities of existence. Blame it to our lifestyles? Or technology. Or whatsapp's last seen. Or parties and after parties. Or money. Everything is made into a complex gumball that we stick to ourselves and move around as programmed complex creatures.Wow, that's one term. Anyway, so yeah. We sit on our window sill, on rainy afternoons, dipping into nostalgia or deep thought- wondering how simple our past years were. So on and so forth.

The other day, I stumbled upon some old pictures. Not that old, though. They were pictures of friends whom I was not really in touch with now. Maybe we think of each other time and again, but never really met as we used to. I laughed over how each year we had one big fight, that involved a lot drama. How we used each other's names as excuses to meet a whole bunch of other people, rather discreetly. How we spent that long span of time just among ourselves.

And how, we barely meet now. I don't even remember when did we speak on the phone. There is no speck of animosity between us. But then, one day, I read somewhere that sometimes we outgrow certain people. And I could not understand whether I agreed to this, or otherwise. How do you outgrow people? Does moving forward in life imply ougrowing people who made your past worthy? Then, I also thought of some possibilites. What if I had met all those people, now. In the state of life I am curently. When I have a better understanding of things. Would we make better friends now? What if the settings in which we sustained our relationships were different? Would I have been the same person, if I did not have their influence on my life back then?

So I came to a conclusion that outgrowing people isn't the best idea to stick to. Probably it doesn't work for me. Maybe it does for you. I wouldn't know. Sudden realizations of a lost friendship did not embark my mind, no. But it definitely reminded me of the good days that were. Days that were spent with people I liked being around. And I'm quite sure, that would not change if I meet the same people again. Eventually, I came up with my own version of that phrase - You outgrow the time, not the people you spent that time with.

Just let certain things be simple.

Resolutions Are Meant To Be Broken. Are They.

We all make New Year resolutions. To improve ourselves, our surroundings. Begin with a bang, slow down mid way and probably by year end just laugh over how resolutions are meant to be broken. January's promises become December's jokes over New Year Eve's dinners. Of course, it's enjoyable. We laugh on ourselves - about how we resolved to wake up early and do yoga, complete the pending treatment at the Dentist, learn driving, be more honest, spend more time with the family, quit smoking or reduce procrastincation.

But what if we ditched the New Year's time to make such promises to ourselves. No, this isn't a self help post that will awaken your you from the shackles of your grey existence and bounce back ! Or maybe it will. It's only a thought that struck me when I reminisced over the resolutions I made and achieved, half baked. Yeah, so why choose New Year's to make resolutions. What's up with New Year's? Just because you begin the year are you bound to load it with self uplifiting moral promises. You have the whole year for it, man. Or is it the air of resolutions and promises that float around you on New Year's Eve, where there is a whole range of resolutions to choose from. Your best friend's or boyfriend/girlfriend's list. So many options, is it? 

Well, I have been noticing this for two years now and have realized the futility of making New Year's resolutions. Not because they don't survive. But because when I'm celebrating and partying, who cares about waking up early for yoga, going to the Dentist for root canal, or improving my driving and so on. (I don't smoke, so that's one respite from resolutions already.) I will make a resolution when I want to. I don't feel like making it public; or maybe those self improving tips don't hit my mind when I'm partying. And since I won't make my resolutions on a December-January cusp, there won't be an obligation to fulfil and guilt to ignore them. Maybe one made some where between the year, will work better for me.

PS: Also, I read Robin Sharma say somewhere, that it takes any person about 30 days to get used to a new habit. The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari wasn't the most intriguing book I read, though. Just saying. I'm trusting you with this one, Robin ! 

How We Spent Our Days.

I had a girl in my neighbourhood once. We lived adjacent to each other. We also went to the same school, in the same school bus. Each afternoon we returned home together, and in the evening went out to ride our respective bicycles together. Nothing was surprising in that occuring.

We were friends, but we weren't too fond of us each other. In fact on several occassions I would come home and complain to my mom about how she tried to act smarter, or cheated in games, or stole my hairclips in the school bus. And each time, mom would diligently calm my juvenile worries. She probably did the same to her mom, when she fell down the bicycle and I rode ahead, instead of helping her get up. We often played these petty wicked revenge games with each other.

And then one day I came to know that she was shifting from the neighbourhood. Her dad had been transferred to another city. She was to leave in a week's time. Each day that week, we would be trucks being loaded with packed belongings. The house was bustling with shifting activities; the door was mostly open, with boys rushing in and out carrying carton boxes and what not.

She barely came out to play in that week. Her bicycle had been transported along with other belongings. One day, when I knew she wasn't at home, I peeped in through the rot iron door- the house was vacant. All belongings had been shifted, except ones of bare necessity. The slightest of voice would echo in such a house. That afternoon I realised, how much I was fond of her. I was missing her already. Thinking of how she wouldn't be accompanying me in the school bus now, or ride along on the bicycle in evenings almost made me cry. She was my closest friend. We fought each day, only to meet again next morning and go to school together.

I went home. And no matter how clichéd it might sound now, made a card for her. I even scribbled something that probably was an emotional outburst. Went to her place in the evening and gave it. She was happy to receive it. Her mom fed us with biscuits.

Funnily, neither of us felt the awkwardness of how we disliked each other, in absence of the other. While together, we were normal. As if nothing had happened. Probably nobody thinks of awkwardness or discomfort at that age. Emotional outbursts are momentary. We get over things faster. She went away. We grew up. Though we hardly kept in touch on a regular basis, I heard about her family occassionally from my parents.

And each time I thought of her, I smiled at the sheer simplicity of our childhood.

Because one rainy afternoon, with no particular reason, Love beckoned. Dramatic, eh.

When.

Once in a while, when I ran out of thoughts.

When you ran into love.
When we explored dreams that lay with-in and with-out.
When cold winter showers chilled our bones, and we craved for the fireplace.
When I wrote like you once did. When I write like you were talking.
When you taught me to dream the dream. And the dream danced in my head all this while.
When we sneaked through mental escapdes.
When you spoke and I blabbered.
When I fancied chilled strawberry shakes and vanilla cupcakes.
When we lay under stars that seemed yellow with dust.
When iced lemonade soothed the scorch of the sun.
When I stole mom's pearl trinkets for the party. When you smiled at my supposed cleverness.
When we talked wise till the sun arose.
When you let me play pranks on you only to laugh about them later.
When you bitched about the girl who left you.When you warned me to not be fooled by love.
When we laughed at how bad we fared during math exams.
When you wore bright checks shirts and denims for the Sunday brunch.
When I stole caramel crunchies from your travel bags.
When I told you about previous night's dream.
When only I knew where you were hiding.

When I ran out of thoughts. 

What The Sea Brought.

There must be a beach-post. After a beach holiday there must be a beach post.

With so much food and rain and water and people. With shorter clothes and cooler breeze. With coconut and goan curry. With shacks and tiny colourful bottle. With beer and alcohol all over (no takers for it, sadly.) With chatter and laughter and ghost stories in the night. With sea shells and para gliding and salt water filling up right though your lungs.

The beach will always have a special place in my heart. A beach wedding would be dreamy and rather cinematic. A beach house would solve all holiday qualms. Water coming in, going out. Endlessly. White foam gathering on the sandy shores bringing tiny broken shells. Empty bottles and broken sand castles. Beach lovers. Walking hand in hand. Laughing to each other.

The sea never slept. It swayed tirelessly each night. Playing with the winds, battling with ships and cargos. It cradled little boats who thrived in to catch some fish for the night meals. It ran deep down to the core of the earth, still brimming with life.

Its fondness would never die. It would only grow deeper. For it's eternal. Its existence, ethereal.

For Days We Spent With Clarissa.

For bamboo room, winter afternoons, coffee and Post-War London. And the sheer love.

"Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt"
- Clarissa Dalloway.

The Yellow Chair

It was sunset. Perfect for a writer's tale to commence. Perfect for an artist's canvas to illustrate. Perfect for poems rhymes and lullabies. There was calm in the chirping of birds, mild motion in the river stirring by. The world was at bay, peaceful in its routine. To retire after the toil. Submerge in sleep.

And there stayed, the brown golden cottage, outlived by a inhabitants for decades now. Rustic yet strong. Laden with canes and beams that held it up. Its drooping shelter bowed by benign canopies of trees, old hay that glossed during noon. It was perfect in its existence. Neither too small for a crowd, nor too big for the lonesome. It was welcoming, comforting and warm by the fire that burned all night. It smelled of vegetable stock and spices that brewed in the kitchen, a blessing on rainy evenings. 

But there was something that made the cottage even more special than it could possibly be. It was the existence of that yellow chair. 

The yellow chair. Neither too bright, nor too haggard, but yellow. Wooden, sturdy. It rocked if you cared to rock it. It comforted if you sat. It lulled to sleep if you stretched your arms and let loose yourself. The yellow-ness of it emitted radiance, charm that felt pernnial. It made one feel a sense of never dying belongingness. The yellow somehow made it special. 

It was magical. Allowed for fancy dreams to be visualized. Of dragons and lilies. Of sunshine in rain. Of possibilites and joy and candour that was so everlasting! It made imagination and dreaming the most loveable past time, during short afternoon naps.

The yellow chair was special. More special than being at the cottage. More special than being yellow. The chair was special because it belonged to my grandmother. She was too fond of it. She treated it like an extension of herself. Her lifeline. 

Seated on that yellow chair she envisioned the beautiful life she lived, with the ones she loved. She smiled on the peace that surrounded her now. Beckoned the settlement she had attained. Sedated, as she rocked the chair midly, she gently laughed at how she carried out her chores rather slowly now, and how her little grand daughter played with her silver hair. 

The yellow chair is a recollection of my grand mother. Of how she is the most beautiful person at heart. Of how her beauty rests in her experience and unending love. 

Much love to the yellow chair. Much love to grandma. Happy Birthday. 

Becoming Of The Dream.

How far do you trust your dreams? Can you pinpoint at them in darkness?
Can you talk of them if you're woken up in the middle of the night? Do you practice dream construction, so that perhaps your dreams look a certain way they should? Do you ever feel the power of those dreams deciding the channel of your life?

No, not out of a motivation book do these questions arise.

Breathe your dreams, like its air. Let it be the most obvious thing that will happen to you. Dream as if there was no way out. Wear your dreams on your sleeve. Work magic up.

Dream on.

The Boy.

That boy, who?

Under the sun. Smoking the dying stubs of a cigarette. With aviators on. Striped shirts and loose linen pants. An air of calm bestowed upon his countenence. A composure derived from complacence. Of control over past clouds and future torrents. An effervenscence in his smile. Sly, as it were. It caught the passing glimpses passed at him. Beckoned them.

He walked down the yellow street. With dangling strings of his guitar. His hat twisted. His hair awry. His pace lazy. Coins jingling in his pocket as walked. Entered the blue walled town. Rustic in its appearance. Welcoming however. He walked down further. Passed vendors selling tribal beads. Passed artists painting the landscape of a drowing Sun. Passed the canal.

Reached the obscure little settlement. Brown tents laid with mud. Canopies of bougainvilleas weighing down at every nook. And met the little boy. Scrouging for coins in a torn pouch his mother gave. Called him a name, and brought him aside. Asked him what would he buy with those coins. Nothing, said the boy. I'll make music with it. Music, he thought to himself. Patted him and asked him to fetch him some ale. When the boy returned, he found none. But the guitar, and a few more coins. And a note that he could not decipher.

It read, 'Never doth the coin depart from thee. In you it foundeth solace. In you the ultimate of music.'

Story through the glass.

Through the glass window. Everything is calm and orderly. Everything crude is crushed. Everything beautiful is restored. In place, the greenery, the lights. In order, the food, the coffee mugs. In position, the woman and his man.

The glass window bestills all. Mutes the chaos that interrupts the art. The transparent veil on to the world.
It soothes with peace and traquility. It soothes the mind. 

What If ?

what if i tell you your dreams tonight? and enchant you with your own creations.

would you let me travel through them?

what if i sing the song you hum each night? and spread your wings in the whiff of air.

would you dance the dance of illusions?

what if we sat all day, under the glistening sunshade? and gorged on cheesecakes, and played on shadows the tree threw on the ground?

would you recall how our childhood passed by?

what if we gaze at stars all night? and marvel how they glitter.

would you distract me with ghost stories?

what if we splashed paints on white bedsheets? and pour the hues in the backyard lawns.

would you complain if i splash some color on you too?

what if i tell you my dreams then? and smile upon each of them.

would you travel through them with me?

To Whom.

To the ramblings of a procrastinating mind.
To the beauty of lazy dreams.
To unending peace and palpable joy.
To the silence of a cellphone laid to rest.
To the world shut out from chaos.
To a seeming victory over lesser mortals.

To brewing romance.
To past times.
To leisure and everything orderly.
To the summer breeze.
To calmed sensibities.
To joy.
To you.
To me.

The Woman.

It's the scent of that woman that you'll remember.
It's the wind that whisked through her hair that you'll recall.
And when she passed the twists and turns, playing under the beam of the fading sunlight.
In the drinks she spilled over leftover conversations.
In the smell of coffee that brewed across her favorite bistro.
Her broken trinkets in the corners of your window sill.

And how she talked of faraway castles, dreams of treading unknown lands with her lover.
You'll fondly remember her for her unendling flowing drapes.
How she jumped at the thought of trading through bazaars.
You'll reminisce her chain of advices, pumped at times when you dipped low
For all that she did or said, that flashed joy across your countenance
For all that she was, that make you think of her
Between hours, odd or fair

Because she made you feel what it was to feel
She made you run through your own emotions that ran deep down
Because she appeared in the brightness of the day, to make it brighter than it could
Because she made you fall in love. 

White or black. No colour in your becoming.

How do you manage being so utilitarian at all times. You think of the need, the utility, the outcome. It’s charted, marked at every hour. You give no scope to create, reinvent, explore. No scope for words to mould dreams, or the other way round. There’s no walking in-between the black and white contours of your thought process. In fact, there is no thought process. Because the route is marked.

What happens to my dreams then? What becomes of those I dreamt in the day, under the bright light of the Sun. Under the gushing winds of a summer afternoon, that took me to places you couldn’t even think of? 

Because there is no thought process for you.  Of any form.You don’t weave dreams or steal ideas. Is it so badly programmed in your routine? There are no changes, no impulses. No last minute reactions, or calling back to reflect what you thought could be different. So, is that to say, there are no mistakes? That it’s a fool-proof plan?

Because mine is laden with errors. I stumble upon them almost every morning. I reflect on them at the hour when your protocols are being called out. I make changes, I alter routes. I walk on my impulses, not thinking whether it’d evoke judgment. Yet, I am able to walk between the black and the white. And those contours are rather colorful. Because, there is a thought process. At all times. 

Notes to the cribbers in town:

1.Stop writing talking expressing about anything that's gloomy or melancholic. 
2.No, your grumpy status messages don't extract the sympathy from my heart to reach out and comfort you.   Maybe a whack in time, could've shaken and stirred the normalcy in you.
3.You're not allowed to be crybabies after the age of four, even mommy won't entertain your fits. 
4.It's not fair to consume all the philosophical and profound chatter provided, all by yourself; other cribbers get insecure and might cause deeper problems.
5.You can't be exploiting the limited time of beauty at hand of those poor, seemingly considerate youths. You don't care about your own depleting charm, you're allowed to let it perish. 
6.Last, please please stop using public platforms to wash your dirty linen. Get a life, move beyond  Facebook. 

Too social, are we?

Every platform of social networking is going to be one of the causes for this world to end. If at all the world ends. December, last year, was quite disappointing, you know. I mean, come on, the entire year last year, most of us were ranting about what would be our last wishes, if the world was to end. Not dying single was the most common, by the way. People would tweet updates, maybe five per hour, then there would be updates on Facebook; with pictures uploaded with their respective loved ones, gathering a hundred 'likes'. If only, the world ended.

It's amusing, no? Our lives seem to revolve around different profiles we own on different social networking handles. Many of us, walk an extra mile for it too. The worst explanation for it that I heard from someone once was, that human beings are social animals. I couldn't help but laugh on his face. I'm not a fan of such social hubs anyway. However, I don't deny being a part of the ruckus to an extent. Nonetheless, I made a few deductions from the buzz that seems to have topped the priority charts for many of us.

The first has to be our photographs. Oh lord. Girls and boys, men and women. Travelling to the best or worst parts of the world, only care about the right photographs that must be clicked. Swearing by their profile pictures and the attention it garners, they go to bed hoping that everyone will love their latest pictures on their profile. Everyone loves attention, agreed. But then, these poser's frenzy is scary!

Second, status updates. These are interesting. Maybe annoying, at times. But very very informative. More than news channels. As soon as you login, you'll know who shopped for what at the discount sale, who attended the candle light march, who's upset because her boyfriend is ignoring her on Whatsapp, who's angry about the corruption level in the country. Hell yeah! It's not even funny. It becomes a vicious circle, cos everyone wants to know everything that's happening in other's lives all the time. Since we're social animals.

Third. And this being my favorite. I call it the like-dislike syndrome. As if a hundred updates weren't enough, there are people who go upto others and them ask them to like, comment, retweet their status messages, photos, existing comments and other such things. Couples fighting over why he didn't like her picture, even when he was online. Or why he liked her picture, but didn't talk to her the next day. I'm not even making all this up.

I don't think most of us would survive if, even for a day, our accounts on all these sites becomes dysfunctional  Addiction is maybe a small word. The power of such virtual social interaction controls us to such a grave extent, that we're willing to switch our real selves with what might be socially, virtually acceptable. To fit in, has become the protocol. Surprisingly, the quality of real-time interaction goes on to remain the same, or even deteriorate for some.

Well, yeah. Since human being is a social animal. Maybe I should quote him somewhere on my Facebook or Twitter account. 

Magic Being.

There are days, when you come across a person, or persons, who completely bowl you over. They make you jump out of the bed, in the earliest hour of the day, and mumble to yourself, "Oh boy! What a being!" Not  that they appear uncommon or extraordinary, not that they speak words that you must have never heard before. They may not even have such an enormous following among peers. But then, they begin to talk of the simplest things, that strike like magic in your head. They may not be your closest friends, yet, they understand what it takes to be understood.
They won't hoard you with advice. In fact, they won't offer a solution at all. They simply talk, of how things have been at their end, or at the world's end. And there you find, a solution shimmering among the clutter!

Count yourself lucky, if you meet someone like that. The joy isn't measurable in words.
I did, and relished it. And still cherish it. 

Oh you'll give me your advice? You want to die?

I still remember this advertisement I saw a few years back, that showed how our society has probably the best advisers in time. Whether you need it or not, whether you know it or not, an expert advice is always hanging around there. All you need is a problem to throw you in that pit, from where experts would rescue you. These people, with kick-ass insight, seem to know everything! Talent, eh.

Well, this might seem like a post-fiasco outburst. But shit happens man. It happens to the best of us. Not all cool things come knocking to your doorstep each morning. In fact, its a good thing to go through such shitty ordeals. I won't explain why, obviously. So yeah, deal with it.

But what is more irksome than such a dose of shit? The endless sighs and sympathies of agony aunts working round the clock around you, trying to choke you with advice  It's friggin' unneeded! Why don't they get it? The 'yeh kar lena, voh kha lena' routines are more disgusting than the soup you're already in. Basic protocol after a bad time is- leave the person alone! (Giving space should be a part of school curriculum, man!)

So aunties, Stop barging and trampling upon that person's space. Give breathing space, to say the least. He or she might require your support, but not your ranting advice.

Talking of advice, makes me wonder at times, is there a place somewhere in India where people are trained to give such profound unneeded expert opinion? Because we have so many people rolling out help at the stroke of the hour. It's probably a successful and respectable career path, that I'm not aware of. Consultancy, if you will. (Bah, since I'm studying management now).

Okay, here's a tiny list of advice topics. It's obviously longer.
a. Boyfriend advice: Girls, rather women of any age, shape or size are capable of providing them. You could go to any.
b. How to lose weight advice: Again, aunties of unimaginable shapes along with uncles who burped on butter chicken the previous night can advice you to have more fresh fruits in your diet. Don't forget flax seeds.
c. How to score marks: These advisers are tricky. They're disguised as lousy teachers who have no life, or the pseudo smart asses of your class. Beware.
d. How to escape group politics: Wear cool shades. Walk past them.
e. How to build a successful career: These are TOO many in number. Well, its also a professional career. But still! Avoid.

The list is longer, as I said. But now, I've vented enough.
All the advisers working for free, caution!

One mask, too many.

And each night, out of nowhere, his shadow emerged. Standing tall in the yellow spotlight. Partly shaken. He would tread along the path, with the yellow beam trailing behind. Flowing, as it were, in solace; the silent darkness his companion.

He would shed the mask he wore the previous day. The mask. Painted, the portrait of his momentary identity, laughing and lively; making the world believe in amusing fables. Bright colors gleaming through the crevices of its masked grin. But then, effortlessly, he let go of it. As if it were unknown. Dropped into the depths, into the half alive remains of numerous such faces.

He stood bare then, then. Unarmed, untouched. Raw. No scratch of paint marking his thoughts. No expressions revealing the world that ran through his mind. His mind, wild unbridled with energy.

For once, he talked to himself, about himself. He danced like a mad man in that space. The rare solitude provided such lofty joy, he could barely explain. What freedom. Calmness cradled him to sleep. Peaceful dreams. Bliss.

But it wasn't too long before the bells of reason seized his composure. He awoke to a pool of masks, waiting to be owned. To be worn. Masks of varied shapes and colors. Demanding duty, compliance.

Without a wink, he slipped into one. A new mask, on a new day. And thus ventured out, like each day. But only to come back each night, to be unmasked.  

Let's start this one real slow.
With no stale thoughts, no old stories.

Let's make colorful formations in the air,
And dance to the blues in the twilight.

Let's walk through wet sand,
With the sun dipping
And cold breeze  hovering all around.

Let's unearth hidden passions,
To etch new dreams, then and now.