Leave, Before You Can’t

Part 2

Leave before the seawater starts seeping out of your pores, and they stop believing you when you tell them you’re called Ocean.

Leave before Love arrives at your doorstep and you’re unable to slam that door on the cheat’s face, because you were taught to be polite.

Leave before the words you painted on your bedroom walls, Misfit- Degraded- Dying become your reality and you’re left forgotten, locked into those words.

Leave before your heart starts listening to someone else’s commands and you have no control over your own body.

Leave before this air, this water, the pink flowers on your way home and those molecules in your breath and electricity, just become stuff and substance with no meaning. 

Leave, before the girl in the mirror whom you hate becomes tangible and you become a lie- a fantasy.

Two Truths And A Lie

Part 1

I try to forget me too.

It takes guts to spill out my heart on the pavement so that he can walk all over it. I don’t have any guts left.

Icicles are magic, and I thought so when they were melting upon the blue bruises that he gifted me so lovingly.


Assignment- Rudyard Kipling

“I love the fun and riot of writing. And there are times when it is just a comfort and delight to let out the pen and ink as long as it doesn’t do anyone any moral harm.” wrote Kipling to a friend in 1896.

Well known poet, author and journalist who traveled extensively and wrote as a correspondent for The Pioneer for many years. Rudyard Joseph Kipling (30 December 1865- 18 January 1936) 70, was a lover of words. He experimented in different writing styles and how each affected the reader. As a journalist, he had his own views on how to write and polish his work so as to achieve the best of results. His works, because of their finesse and Kipling’s fascination with words, were often called as “too continuously brilliant” by his fellow writers.

When he left India in March 1890, The Pioneer commissioned him to write a series of letter from America that described it in a vigorous and uninhibited way. His inquisitive nature and zest to know all gave him tremendous material for what he wrote which was not all liked by America.

Kipling was a traveler at heart, and his visits to Mussoorie, as he wrote about them in many of his works, were much suspected. His travels were confirmed however with the photographs found along with his unpublished papers at the Library Of Congress. It included two of the Charleville Hotel, Mussoorie, where he had spent the summer of 1888.

Ruskin Bond, the author who has lived in Mussoorie for over 50 years  says, “He came up the bridle path which was known as Kipling Road for many years, though it was never its official name,”

Rudyard Kipling was a writer through and through, his experiments with colors and perfumes of words is easily depicted in his work as a journalist, where he spoke of both of the East as well as the West with equal respect and awe.

Snippet #24

Time zones are fascinating. Different places dwelling in different times. This room for instance, I looked around and could swear the time zone here is like the fluttering pages of a book in the wind. Words and wishes captured in four years flashing past as if it’s a slideshow, named college. Another room, the one where time was born and where it died. Where it was both, frozen and dripping fast as we joined our hands and begged Him to spare my mother’s breaths, the waiting room at the hospital. Another place, where times zones didn’t mean anything, just touches of innocent hands and our heartbeats, his backyard. The one time where Time was all the seconds ever, was when he was down on his knee with love in his heart, asking for a promise to be his, till death do us part.

Snippet #23

I used to love chocolates. Then you entered the stage that is my life from the left wing. And three years later, I pulled my bag filled with scars and torn pieces of my heart out of your apartment with my bitter tongue stinging and my sweet tooth left in your belly button.

Snippet #22

Daydreaming about what-ifs and what could’ve been became my first love. Stumbling in panic and insecurity, I couldn’t handle The One. Now, months late, I still wonder if I made a mistake. What could have happenned if I’d took a chance and trusted him to be my happy place. 

Snippet #21

It was a dark alley promise made between warm bodies and sweet tears. The adrenaline tasted like elixir in our veins and I vowed to write you a hundred letters, each ending with the shadow of my promise, an imprint you could use to bring me back if I ever forgot myself in you.

The Nod

I have organized all your nods in the crevices of my mind. Your pauses, all uh-um-actually, dropped in between your sentences like confetti, in rhythm with the blinking and unmade eye contacts with me.

It’s simple enough to understand but I still give you a second chance to speak, nodding reassuringly, incessantly evoking words to spill out of your mouth and paint a different mural. Strong in their resolve and foundation just like always when you talk to someone else. Your broken sentences that the writer in me can’t help but find wrong, something fishy is going on and I won’t fool myself for your sake any long.

So, hurry up and cover your steps, lay down some more bullshit in a plate and serve it to me, so that you can say you tried not to hurt my feelings. Because what you served smelled like roses and chocolates and friendship and clicked selfies, of your perfect pouts but always my insecurities, instead of what it really was- pointed thorns dripping with black poison, that soaked through my tongue and dissolved into my blood.

The smoke that rose, curled out of my mouth in exceptional swirls and I smiled at you and nodded my acceptance. Don’t be fooled. It’s not a nod for your performance being on point, you were skittish remember? You were worried about saving face when you twisted excuses of not wanting me with you anymore until they sounded like haiku poems about gold dust, moonlight and truth, but I’m a writer remember?

Your poems don’t fool me dear, because I’ve written better than you all along. The nod I gave you when you told me how it was better if I didn’t come along, when how last Tuesday you didn’t even bother doing that and didn’t wait around to see my nod.

This nod, says, I’m done.

Snippet #20

All the words ever spoken and all the words left,
In the distance between those infinities, the feelings remained bereft.

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