The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

Soft goodbyes and hard smiles are all that I remember about you. You made it look like talking was hurtful. Like speaking a word would make your mouth bleed. And I loved how surprised you looked after a long conversation with me. I used to smile then. And you would smile back, rustling your hair slightly. You finally gave in. You weren't afraid of seeing me, talking with me, touching me. You said you were the happiest. And I flinched a little. To be responsible for someone's happiness is like holding a beating heart. Even though you look at it with fascination at a point, you have to let it die in your hands. And I was good at letting things die. You never said goodbye. And I said it all the time. You responded with a smile, or a nod, or a weak wave of hands. I wish you did too. You said you could never watch me go. That it breaks your heart a little. I'd tease you for sounding all cheesy. And you would laugh. But you weren't lying. Were you? Everytime we were ap

I hear whispers as I walk to the lake, An ancient story of a girl being dragged, Into the deep waters by two welcoming hands. I turn back to discover the whispering voices, Only to be met by layers of air, reeking of silence. The whispers grow loud, describing the girl now, How her lips used to be so moist in places Where the hot tears fell and How her smile makes people wonder If she had lost her sanity How she used to make people forget their miseries, As they dwell and reminisce in her tragedies. I shush the voices as I near the lake, For I chose stillness over companionship, As something told me only then she'll let me Listen to her voice, her story. The voices continued yet, telling what she did to people She has left people stay isolated in their rooms, She had left them moaning, crawling and crying. It was as if a curse had been lifted and passed on to us, To cry the tears, to indulge in the solitude, to spend sleepless nights, That was promised

The frequent trips to the terrace at night was something to look forward to. The view wasn't marvelous but once you have had  a glance at the night sky, you wouldn't be disappointed. The two apartments opposite our building had few tales to tell in its silence. And for those who were eager to listen, they heard a murmur of wonder, habits and uncertainty.    The man with the cigarette reminded me of two people. My grandfather would always hid his pack of cigarettes from me, although I never really know the reason why. Whenever I find him smoking or discover his secret stash, he would let out a stretched 'ayyo' and has a look of despair and regret on his face. I would scold him childishly. But  I was always confused. Was it the face I made? The one I learned from my mother when she finds dad smoking. The look had grown on me. But the meaning of it hadn't crossed my mind- disappointment? What about the days when she lets him smoke when he has had a rough day? Her

I wake up from what seems like a long sleep. My body is too tired to move. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my hands to reach out to my bedside stand so as to grab my spectacles. It had become a habit almost, not allowing myself to see with my weak vision. It had worsened throughout the years. I can feel how weak I have become. My hands brush past the stand, wait it was a table, unfamiliar texture. I knock down something, which wakes up someone sitting on a chair beside my bed. I open my eyes, I can barely make out my mom from the mirage of her familiarity. She tells me everything is okay which clearly implies that it is not. I ask for my spectacles. She hands them over to me. The first thing I notice is her face. Dried tears. I caress my weak hands over her soft skin. "Why are you crying?" She burst into sobs of tears and fears. She runs out, leaving me alone. Is it right to leave a dying person alone? Dying. It doesn't matter anymore. I  still remember how I sc

I can sense my desire to reach out to you. To delicately wrap my fingers around that one single thread, Keeping my reflexes in control to not make a mistake, One strong pull and I would have you broken, In my arms for a while, I would feel you, Never really knowing how to fix you. So I take my time, and with each touch I murmur my desire to my lips, Reminding myself of why I had to have you. But is that what it takes? Oh is that what it takes. And then it broke, the thin thread stroking my fingers, Lifeless and calm, neither the strong wind nor I could resurrect you, You didn't budge even a little, so I left you there, My heart too weak to try and my hands bleeding, Not a tear fell, not a single heartbeat, not even a tinge of regret, But a thought whizzed by, and echoed indifference. And I knew, This is not what it takes.

After years of struggling, we finally convinced Papa. We were taking driving classes. It was super fun when we had them together. After an exhausting 10 minutes of driving each, we three would come home giggling. The teacher would drop us off at the bakery. Despite the plans we made yesterday night after the heavy dinner, we would drift into bakery with such big smiles. One lime soda, two neiyappam and one undampori . Within seconds, we were devouring it like hungry kids. Someone you were nice to the other day would come to talk to us and you would tuck away the remaining neiyappam back into the plastic bag, struggling to swallow the piece you had in your mouth . Oh god, how much I love her. It's these small moments,you know. You see them doing something as simple as brushing their hair or picking up a flower that you realise you love them. Eventually, we would reach home, sweating, thirsty and utterly tired. We would lie down on the bed. We would compliment Ryan on his

He writes down the name of every girl he has fallen in love with. What a strange thing to do. For people like us, for whom love came like the showers in desert, so rare, using a pen and a paper to remember people was futile. We had them etched in our hearts. Too beautifully sculpted for eternity. I could sense pride in his eyes. I wanted to erase it. I told him there was nothing so precious about his little idea. He calls us rigid, too scared to open up, to fall in love, always worried about the consequences. He was right. I kept my silence, hastily thinking of ways to prove him wrong. He wanted me to talk. Not to listen, but to prove me wrong again and again. And I wanted to talk. But I wanted to listen more. So I ask him about the girls. His stories were exceptional. I didn't want to admit it at first, but I finally gave in. People like him, they gave it all. All of them, whole. The intense desire to prove him wrong turned to faint admiration. And within seconds, I started