Samya's Space

I hope with all my heart that I showed you the real me. That I didn't pretend I had it all together, or that life was not hard. I hope I gave you the belief of you, in your core. That I loved you enough, albeit messily, to code a blueprint for life. To show you what love should look like. And I hope I let you see me break, so you could understand, it is not an ending, rather a step. And it's vital... Dear Daughter, I could not possibly have gotten everything right, and perhaps, that's the best thing I have given you. That knowledge. No one gets it right. We are not here to be perfect, we are here to love, to grow stronger and more bright with every generation. Grow brighter my love, brighter than me. As it very much should be. And when I can no longer be with you, remember, my cells live within you. You cannot, ever, lose me. Not really. We are a deal, a two for one, a team. For life. And everything after that. - Donna Ashworth ( Wild Hope )

     ©The National, PWB's ' Fleabag '. I feel what it is to be an adult means to be mortally wounded and hurt inside but getting on with day-to-day mundane tasks with an air of normalcy - lest they smell or detect your hurt. If that is what it is like to be an adult, then I believe, I am now a fully-fledged adult. All my personal fairy tales have fallen apart and left me disenchanted, and my self-proclaimed prophecies of grandeur have proven humiliatingly false. What is left now, but to live? And to live as if nothing has broken inside of me, as if nothing has abandoned me, deceived me, insulted me, censured me, abused me, let me down, given me false hope, and left me utterly, terribly, alone. It is a tall order, but all adults are demanded that this impossible task be done impeccably. Some fail and seek out help to stabilize their deteriorating emotional state, and some go on pretending that nothing is wrong, until it is all too much, and decide to end the pain. Either w...

Don't tell me it's not like me The self-destructive ways, the abhorrence of the ordinary And the craving for all things that I cannot have Don't deny my own nature to me, it had happened before, it's in my blood and you kept it from me. It's in my blood to revolt, to be in the extremes, to be volatile, and to take my own life. Be it poison or be it a knife or be it in the dimples or the long curly mane, the inheritance from bloodline. This death wish runs in my blood You thought I'll never find out.

So how are you progressing Vidya? I have gone 2 squares up! What squares have you conquered? I got the heirs to two oldest families of the island pinned down. Excellent feat young lady!  That fine complexion must’ve surely helped, but not so bad at all for 23! And how did you to Melanie? I am stuck at the same square,  neither is my purse plump enough, nor my name long enough Oh well, Melanie you must get a move on!  The clock is ticking by. I know, the clock hands just reached 28! 28! Oh no, no, hurry up Melanie before you dry up completely! How about you abandon that square of no hope, and go down to square 15? What? To a single-story house and no car? Yes, but there must be some compromise… ( at this age ) A PHD is no good without looks and some dough, you know? Poor Melanie! Ah, it’s Anita! So tell us how are you getting along? Wonderfully well! He and I are so much in love,  we’ve scheduled our wedding at Ibiza this June! Oh, nice,...

I can't remember why I gave up writing for pleasure altogether. I think it was after I realized that I could not voice the thoughts exactly as nuanced as they were in my head, when I thought of them. I would at times talk to my friend and speak with her about this irresistible premise for a short story that I entertained for sometime in my mind. I would discuss of the suitability and credibility of such a premise, and be highly encouraged by her positive feedback. But when after months and months of my usual tarrying, I did sit down and write something along those lines, it turned out to be hideously miserable; only a feeble impersonation of what I had in my mind. But what was worse, was the fact that I felt, the fault was not in my feeble powers of articulation, but in my mind itself. I felt it had run out of all creative intellect, and become numb to detailed idiosyncrasies and emotions that pervade human nature, of which I was very astutue, back when I wrote my first prope...

"Pratiksha" (Waiting/Expecting) by Harivansh Rai Bachchan Whenever I think of this beautiful poem, my mind wanders off to that one evening when I had to give the oral test for my Hindi Diploma. Being my favourite poem which I knew by heart, I wanted to recite this poem as part of the test, when they would ask us to recite or sing something of our choice. I was eagerly waiting till the white-haired Indian examiner asked me to do the same, so that I can impress him with my passion for such beaitiful verses penned by Harivansh Rai Bachchan Ji. However, in the anticlimax of reality, he was at best nonchalant, staring at me coolly, while I rambled on with a horribly out of pitch recitation of these expressive words. On a lighter note, I did pass the exam, and this poem remained my favourite.  And how I got to know of the existence of this wonderful poem is not through a textbook, or a poetry compilation of the poet, but weirdly from a Kathak dance recital of Sharvar...

'Because I could not stop for Death –  He kindly stopped for me – ' Emily Dickinson On the second or the third day of being in dengue hemorrhagic state, I woke up abruptly from a very uncomfortable snooze (the urine catheter and all the tubes and IV lines preventing any sort of movement). I found him sitting on the side of my bed. You must know that Death really doesn't look scary. He stroked my hair and said, "you must be tired." I indeed was, even to nod. He took my right hand with the bloody canula and asked, "how much more blood will they draw", then took my left, connected to a blood bag, slowly administering deep scarlet drops into my veins and asked, "how much more blood will they give." Everything was silent. The ECG beeped in reply, "more, more, more." He came closer to me and gently touched the blood pressure cuff that was cutting into my skin. I winced. 'Hurts, doesn't it?" he asked sympathetica...

Candy floss came first. I LOVED it! Don't we all love candy floss? It was very sweet, satisfying and everything I wanted. I couldn't dream of anything better, so much so that, tasting it, I was in heaven. But as you can imagine, with time it began tasting bland, grew blander and blander till I got quite sick of the sweetness. It stopped tasting sweet and began tasting bitter by the day. So one day I got tired of all that bitterness and dropped it and ran away. I won't say that I didn't stop quite a few times and looked back and even retraced my steps and picked it up and gave it one more taste. It was actually very slow and gradual- my final realization that candy floss made me feel sick. The first taste I loved was bad for me. I walked on till I saw something that took my breath away...A four-door fridge! I don't know about you, but I had never seen a four-door fridge before. so I looked at it from afar. I looked and looked and looked so hard that from that di...

I hold on to his shoulder. He puts his fingers through the fingers of my right hand. We straighten our bodies to the correct postures and he softly places his free hand on my waist. And we are all ready to start the dance. He dances so swiftly, never missing a beat. If I ever keep the wrong foot forward, he adjusts his footwork to match mine. It was almost involuntary, dancing with each other. He knows the beat inside my heart and I know his and we dance to that. We go on swirling, swaying, spinning, laughing, dancing till the crac k of dawn, till our shoes are quite worn and it leaves us out of breath. Once our tired feet are relieved from the shoes and soothed by the light breeze, I gently rest my head against his warm, beating chest and listen to its song of pure love. He puts his arms around me. I put mine around him. He kisses the top of my head. We hold on to each other for long. Then we pick up our shoes and walk on our naked soles down the star-lit country road in its glo...

(Wed, 22nd February 2017) To he-who-must-not-be-named, Today, I went really close to your house. I couldn't muster up the courage to walk down that little lane which you said leads to your house. I think it was because somewhere deep down in my heart, I knew that if I go down that road, there's no coming back. Literally and figuratively. Lately, I've been recalling how close we used to be, so much so that you even knew which dimple was deeper than the other. So can I say we were once intimate? Yes, I suppose I can claim that much without any doubt. You stil haven't divulged and I still do not know the exact reason for the two of us having to part ways in such a painful manner. But I must tell you that the pain is starting to ebb away and so are the memories. The last time I talked to you, I was talking alone. You had once more given up on talking to me. But I remember that you said 'I desire to see you', but I think that was just curiosity. Maybe you...

I must keep writing for it liberates me.  Lord Buddha preached to not make promises while you're happy and to not take decisions while you're sad. Contemplating this, I can only think of the way too many instances where I have done quite the opposite. Almost all my promises were given with a smile and the major decisions of life taken with a heart filled with unspeakable grief or anguish.  THE IRONY of it is sad actually.

Do not seek here love that knows no boundaries glistening in my eyes looking into yours Do not seek here the sweet waiting that filled my heart  with each one of your promises Do not seek here the worry I felt seeing you unhappy and caught up in your fears Do not seek here the warmth of my touch as I clasped and wrapped your hand in mine Do not seek here the tears that flowed down as my heart broke inside me, quietly But do seek here a flower wilted and dying, shuddering  as you pick up another blooming flower.

“At first I did not love you, Jude; that I own. When I first knew you I merely wanted you to love me. I did not exactly flirt with you; but that inborn craving which undermines some women's morals almost more than unbridled passion--the craving to attract and captivate, regardless of the injury it may do the man--was in me; and when I found I had caught you, I was frightened. And then--I don't know how it was-- I couldn't bear to let you go--possibly to Arabella again--and so I got to love you, Jude. But you see, however fondly it ended, it began in the selfish and cruel wish to make your heart ache for me without letting mine ache for you.”  ―  Thomas Hardy ,  Jude the Obscure

Come here sit down beside me. I don't have much to give you or show you. but i have a stack of books, of very much cherished yet battered books, worn out as i have with years, and just as my soul, still smiles through the discoloured, well-perused pages. so i shall read aloud to you, or you can read to me, and i promise you ill be all ears, my attention will not waver off your voice for a minute. either ill let my voice sweep over you or succumb to your voice bathing me with glorious imagination ensuing from those precious words. this is all i can offer. but this i offer with all my heart. i shall sit there in that little hut in that old rickety chair. but i know you will not come. even today you averted your gaze with contempt from me. as always, moved away as if my presence itself was sore to your eyes. but i wont contradict you or reproach you, never. not because your gestures and actions do not hurt and wound me deeply, prof...

Shades of pink around her feasted eyes Soothing, loving words and every comfort material and otherwise that a mortal ever craves velvet at her feet, spacious luxury motors carry her No one scorned her, or was scorned by her I wake up from my daily nightmares to the real one filled with yells, scoffing and insults And resort to pretence of sleep as no more can I do of any result. Flogged, abused, spurned, dragged I stand forlorn on a crowded street Passing eyes jeer with inquisition, I feel like screaming out of it... Her sweetly admired repertoire of intellectual thought my deranged mind in all a baffled sort Her kind, thoughtful words my depth-less jabber, spoken to impress Her recognition and love my shame and hateful vows I feel like strangling a weeping girl with the hands she'd use to wipe those tears I spit the filthy scoffing back at the world with the lips s...

As a child, I believed, that the Sun was mine and He followed keeping His bright eyes on me sharing the happy warmth with me I felt nothing but haughty But now I know, it is not so, because I got to know the Lady Moon She's the love of Sun's life and in the light of His affection She shines, her face beautiful, reflecting His love showered over Her Yet I noticed each and every dawn and dusk She demurely leaves as He arrives She leaves...He arrives, they never pause Lovely Moon's silent plea was never heard by a soul but me, since one cloudy night she sang to me in her voice of sweet melancholy, "Oh, for true lovers were never united and those united were never true. Dear, such is how true love shall be Now is not too late to learn than never is..."

...so she let the glove mask the pain She sat in that corner the usual he looked, and went on as usual to sit down a bit further away They had to themselves the two darkest spots of the stuffed hall to observe Her expensive muslin the tender milkiness of skin sparkling embedded emeralds around her neck Nay, that wasn't where it lay but in the eyes that remained downcast through every dance unaware of any eyes watching hers Always wondering into the depths  of the seas of faces unknown to her He saw it This last day that he saw her his ears caught a whispered sob escaping her  secured by the wind brushing her wounded soul, a question that hung forever weighing on his mind. She was murmuring to herself ‘Yes, they say they’re only lines on my palm but was it only me who saw two destinies intertwined?’   A sigh escaped him. retreating, he muttered sotto voce, 'I will not have the last dance, afterall.' ...

The Angel...was Black... nondescriptly dressed,  with curly hair,  kind eyes in a plain face that was bruised and bled as she tried to cradle me out  holding tightly on to me after she got me safe out of the rubble and the debris  of the crashed car Can it be true? Were not angels fair and their eyes blue? Sashaying in her dress glittering like the moon? with a face that God only could have drawn? Why did they lie to me? my favourite character in the cartoons was the pretty angel or the fairy because no one could match her superior beauty why didn’t they show me that angels looked just like me…

Have you been there? when everything is blurry and you realize all your attempts to shoo the raw and painful reality is failing. And then it is nausea,  breath itself choking you. W hat irony, then you die from breathing.             It happens... it happens                         believe me. you try so hard to fit in with the people whom you look upto, knowing all the time that it is absurd. haven't you tried to sit or slump or let yourself fall down and stay there, and think that something different is happening with you which is not with others. not.anything.flattering. haven't you thought about all those memories which hit you with full colour in the black & white life? haven't you set aside all moral pursuits just to let your heart have that moment of fantastic happiness...till your mind stings you with a waking call, saying, proving, that none of that was real. and then...