Nomadic Musings

And then, If I say The novel that I am reading is your story. Trust me, I was sitting under the tree. I was on page no. thirty-three. Suddenly, I realized that story to be true. And that character is, no-one but you. Do you think I am kidding? Think about what you want. You will say, forget it ; but I can't. Because I am attached to that character, And to you too. Isn't that enough to say it's you but no-one. I have related the intensity of attachment, Now it can't be undone.

The curtains closed Of my expectations, On Sunday evening. I realized People care more About their time only. Because all of my plans got canceled. As usual, The thought of Monday morning Haunted me. It all went lazy, as expected. I was late for work All over again. On Tuesday and Wednesday, I had less work. So, I wrote a few verses and kept them in my journal only, As I always do. I ordered food, On Thursday; For lunch. And had it all alone. Because I didn't want to share "The Biryani" Yaay! It was Friday again. Excited all day, I made a to-do-list for the weekend. I watched my favorite TV series till 2 am, On Friday Night. Saturday it was. It all went to bed, almost. And I didn't even tick anything off From my to-do-list. This Sunday, I am not making any plan. I am going to read My favorite novel, All over, again.

The first person I met in hell is one of my old classmates who once killed a butterfly. I told her not to, but she did. Now she sings, Sitting in the chair, alone. Second one is The Pizza maker. Who once put the thinnest mozzarella layer on my favourite pizza. Third is, My Boss. Who always left me in a state of hopeless despair, No matter what. Now everyone yells at him. Fourth one is, That one uncle who always used to Taunt me about my short hair. Now he is the barbour of hell. And the fifth is The shop-owner of the new shop, which replaced my favourite Golgappa place. Now he sells some ugly things over there. You would think, Why am I here? I once wished, all these people should go to hell.

In a farm full of sunflowers, There was a breeze of warmth With no fix direction. Sunflowers were standing strong; in rows and coloums, Just like yellow horizon. They always, somehow surprise me. With their yellowish part, they inspire me to shine, no matter how dark matter I surround. Their "not so bright" middle portion tells Even if  you belong to the brightest side, someday, your that side will be accompanied by the darker one. Sunflowers hold so many stories within themselves. But they always turn their back to darkness; And eyed at sun. Sunflowers ; Deeply rooted in grounds, stand tall and strong. They are an epitome of hope. Even if sunshine goes away, Sunflowers will smell like it.

There is this box in my room on my work table full of blank postcards and sticky notes. Whenever I sit on the chair near that table I feel like Writing letters to everyone regarding their place in my life. I feel like putting all those sticky notes all over my room Not to remind things to myself but to write all the good words that come to my mind So that , I can use them in my poems whenever I want. I really feel like doing this. But the heap of files Kept in front of that box Liquidate my desire Everytime. And there is this box in my room Full of blank postcards and sticky notes Stays there, as it is.

Because that morning, I could not find my favorite novel Near my pillow. Restless, Scared, and with watery eyes; I started searching for it Everywhere. The first tear rolled down my cheeks, With my most favorite quote in my head from it, I sat on my bed, helplessly. Crumbling under the weight of fear of losing that novel, My heart started beating faster. "Big deal! Buy it again." You would say. I know, I can buy it again. But it won't come up with the quotes that are underlined; my musings on page number seventy-five, Sketches were drawn near my favorite incidents ; and with the end that I wrote there, In a way that I wanted; In my own handwriting. And I don't know, If I will be able to complete five hundred and seventy-six pages ; In a day. I really don't know.

Stars follow some patterns, And so do we. Yes! What if I say that We belong there. Everyone of us go up there , and be one of them; once we are dead. Don't laugh! My grannie told me this once; and I trust her. Because now she is one of them, And she shines above my head, every night. She went there to tell me, Why do we go there? I waited for her But she didn't come back. Don't worry. I got my answers; by looking at her. We go there, to find out What went wrong, Throughout our lives. We look down, At other's life; And regret about how and when we did hurt them . We go there, To be a part of constellation, In order to meet people In star form, to whom ; We were supposed to meet In our lives. We go there; To shine. and sometimes; After being a star , We fall down. To fulfill someone's wish. Yes! Everyone of us go there.

That day, Julie was really scared for her results. The burden of so many expectations, restrictions and decisions pushed her wishes and dreams down. But leaving all that behind, she was just waiting for the results. ___ It was 11:30 in the morning. Only 2 hours to go. Her family wanted her to cut the mustard. She knew the kind of result that is going to come up. She had to keep sync between trembling legs, beating heart and  disturbed brain. ___ It was 1:48 and the results were out. 56 out of 100 percent. "Not bad", She convinced herself. "What the hell is that? What this girl is going to do in her life? " Her uncle shouted. She was about to cry with the intensity of his voice but her mother was there. She taught her to be the toughest. ___ Mother took her to the room. " Now Cry! " Mother said. And Julie cried, literally. "Now stop crying! It is completely alright. 56 is not bad." Mother told . . "I know, mother. But what road I ...

Whenever I see an empty bench, I think of you. I remember, How we used to sit together, Not blending our hands but hearts ; there. It brings tears to my eyes. I wish I could unlove you; easily. Everytime; I go to that book shop, Where we met for the first time, I walk around all the shelves, and between rows and coloums. But then I can't see you there. I wish I could unlove you, easily. Above texting, I always used write a letter. Now, everytime I see any page with a pen, I feel like writing paragraphs and verses, To tell you, How much did I love you. Unfortunately, We did something called, Mutual Breakup. I can forgive you but can't forget you. And Yes! I regret it. I wish I could unlove you, easily.