Saturday, May 11, 2013

Everyday is My Mother's Day..!

9th May(Actual Date Of Writing)

Heaven doesn't exist. Mothers do. They are and shall always be the purest form of love. Perhaps love was discovered by a mother as her heart wears no boundary. Besides, nobody knows you better than your mother. And there's no point in asking her whether she's proud of you. She is and will always be, no matter how great a douchebag you've become. He keeps telling her "Some day you'll be proud of me!" to which she smiles—as mothers usually do. As selfless as her mind
The poor mother looks at her son in amazement and wonders where has her innocent lil' boy disappeared. This was the very kid who used to point at her tummy whenever someone asked him "Where are you from?". To him, his mother has grown old now whereas to her, he remains a newborn. From a very young age, he knew we belonged to our mothers more than anything else. Birth might have separated him from her but a child actually never leaves the mother's body. As tranquil as her lap. You appreciate her more when she's gone. For more details, get in touch with those who've lost her. 
No matter how short the barber crops your hair, she will always find them long. To her, you are the most eligible bachelor. For good or worse, an Indian mother loves reminding you that she's your mother and there's a bigger chance of her inquiring "What?" instead of "Who's that lucky girl?" when you mention your marital intentions. As intrusive as her concerns. Once you settle down, you'll realize that she is present in your behaviour too. Turns out the risky habit of telling everything to your wife is cultivated during those years spent close to dear mama.
As nourishing as her hands. Single or married, the burden on a woman pretty much remains the same. Kitchen often becomes her coveted part of home. In there, she works harder than the exhaust fan. Well, she deserves air-conditioned kitchen with no noise or steam to deal with. Almonds are good for her provided you have them. She cares for you as if her life depended on it. A mother straightaway fetches her children a glass of water whereas they ask her whether she needs a glass of water. Difference. 
Why are they the way they are and why aren't we the way we're supposed to be? As unblemished as her intentions. Worrying is their favourite pastime. She laughs at the lil' boy's jokes, not because they were always funny, but because she thinks she's responsible for his happiness. He may turn out to be a crappy stand-up someday but it's OK for the time being. In an ideal world, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day on a daily basis. Coz Mom, I may not be too blunt about how much I love you..  but I value, respect and owe you for being that ONLY figure in my life, whose never shown her back on me, even when you were taken for granted a several times. I Love You Maa.. Happy Mothers Day.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Jog

In the evening when I am back from college, its been happening for past 2 days now. I pull up my socks, wear my running shoes, pick my headphones and I am off. Off to the locality park. The sun's set and only half of the lamps in the park are on. The headphones play "chasing cars" and even though the tempo of the song doesn't match my jogging speed it's somehow relaxing. This is the time I am at perfect ease. It's pretty dark and no one sees each other's face except where they cross the dimly lit patches. This is my "me" time.

Because sometimes the path is the greatest listener.
I usually think about the day, my actions and have the deepest introspection.

This is the time when I am aware of my every step and life seems bearable even lovable to most extent. At other times I use the aid of music to get away from people, situations and also my own self and thoughts. But this stretch of time is different. Here the music isn't a means to be oblivious to the world around me rather it makes me more aware.

And in that time I wonder maybe all this adds up to something. The long hours of jog, the useless days of exam preparation which im flunking for sure, the hours of writing drafts in my blog, the senseless chats on my phone, the never ending questions of sex and the existence of a God, the meaningless jokes, the decisions as to whether I should bathe, or shave or not, quoting lyrics in a conversation, My narcissistic approach towards everything, My ignorance revenge to people's ignorance towards me, impatience, Tight hugs and the small peck on the cheek. Maybe all this is who I am. And this is the time when I happen to love who I am, and for people to accept, how I am.

Monday, April 8, 2013


Lessons learnt over the past two months:

# Failures hit you in the face when you least expect it.
# Sometimes your hundred per cent is nature's fifty.
# You might know you are better, smarter and more confident than everybody in your vicinity but you don't need to show and flaunt that 24x7.
# Sometimes acting gawaar is the only way to survive.
# Your channel of thought makes you who you are.
# Most of the times people you trust the most let you down.
# Sometimes people may mean everything to you yet they can't replace the one's who were important to you before also YOUR FAMILY.
# Writing a blog on someone's request is a bad idea, when you dont have time.
# What people think and what people say they think are two different things.
# Never confess anything without cross questioning yourself atleast a thousand times about its consequences
# A hug and a chai solve every problem in this world.
# You have clothes, you have food and you have shelter. If there is a God he needs to be thanked every bloody day.
# dont throw " I love you's " at someone, if that someone is pushed away by it
# Nobody waits for you, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, one day everyone is going to move on.
# The no. of friends on facebook is inversely proportional to the no. of friends you have in real life.
# The most intriguing question you can ask yourself is "Why the fuck ME?"
# The definition of happiness varies from person to person.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013


There was a farmer known as Manu who had everything he ever wanted in life. A good family, good friends, a pet named Moti and a photoshopped image of Aniket Mahamunkar(The Tramp) kissing Morgan Freeman. The only problem being, he suffered from incessant headaches. Headaches that would plague his thoughts, which would make him uncomfortable at all times and which would prevent him from completely doing any farming work that he was expected to do. He tried on and off to analyze his aches and wondered what could be their source. One day while farming he hit upon the reason and ran to his wife, pausing every 20 seconds to make sure the blood doesn’t not rush too much into his head. He reached his wife panting, and she co-incidentally was painting.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I have found the source of the aches” he said frowning.


“Well my headaches are related to my farming”


“They are My-Grains”.

His wife stabbed him to death with her paintbrush after that. No more headaches recorded ever since.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Let Him Smoke!!

The coldest January of my life, the coldest of all and yet, I step out, with the Jacket.
take the cigarette out and light it like I light the pyre of sorrows within. Walking on the foggy street, careful enough to not fall down, careless enough to inhale the slow poison, seeking warmth from the night lamps, gazing in to the darkness,

how I enjoy the liberation I receive with each puff that blows in the air. A man of my calibre, a slave to a pack of cigarettes and sometimes, to something as miniature as a matchstick!

How I gave her up for the unconditional, non-reciprocating, paid affection that I share with this absolute fixation.

We were happy in college, we were happy amongst our friends, we were happy we screwed around.. but we weren’t happy together. She loved me she said, I loved her I said, but in between these spoken words there was a silence we did not expect.

That silence made me light my first. I built a smoke screen to conceal what I wished to speak.

Here I am walking by accompanying in my hand... what I have merited from that relationship.

This cold night, the chill breeze that makes me want to hold the cigarette for longer, closer, and inhale stronger, the craving for her presence, her body is diminishing sooner than I thought.

And THEN, I spotted a drunken old man ..
I made my way to him, I saw an expensive lighter in his humble abode. He caught the gaze, smirked and held it loose in his hands. His hands were rough, dirty, charred, with brittle nails. I could see all his life written in those brittle fingers, which had the marks of burnt cigarettes. I stepped back. He made a gesture, inviting me to sit. I did.

“This lighter, my woman gave this to me when I married her at the age of nineteen. She fell in love with the way I smoked, the way I held her loose like I held my cigarette. We grew, we grew fonder.
But indeed, I grew fonder to the ash I collected in my lungs.
One day, she pleaded me to quit for her baby couldn’t breathe in her.
It was a cold day like this. I set the house on fire with this lighter.
. . .
You see son, no woman is worth coming between a man and his smoke!"

The man spoke with no emotion. I nodded.

I stood up, walked towards the platform, turned around one last time to see him inhale his last puff, and crush it on the ground barefoot.