Mental peace. 

Mental peace. 

The book shut close, as though the entire life of a person had come to an end. The cup of coffee untouched as though betrayed. She left.  I glared as she moved from the café towards the subway. My eyes were stuck. My senses revived as I lost her amidst the busy crowd of people or rather programmed robots who happened to be in a pursuit with time. She seemed unusual though, with that carefree nature, not bothered about how the world moved. She intrigued me, as she moved slowly through the hustle bustle of the city.   

Those few months, after my encounter with her, were more of a mental torture. I was restless. My mental peace was lost. I was in a trance. Everything seemed mind boggling.

 People say time heals everything. I thought so as well.  With time she left my mind. I felt, more to say, secure. Anxiousness just happened to have bid goodbye and a long lost acquaintance had just been found, the one you call sleep. But this friend of mine was not for long to stay. You know what they say, “The sun only sets, it never dies.” She happened again. But this time in a way someone could never imagine would happen.


Breaking childhood.

Breaking childhood.

I stood there, stealing glimpses of you; my face, being caressed by the coarseness of the cemented pillar; you walked past me, etching an image of red in my mind; the “lal teep” and your saree stripped in red, adding a contrast to your dark and pale skin, your lips chapped and faded. Your footsteps falling against the ground which lay ornamented with the dry twigs left a monotonous sound; you walked only to leave my ears with a different muse. 

That night, I found myself reliving the memory of you, only wishing I could’ve found a name I could christen you with. Drowning in lust, my hands found their way unentangling the knot of the “dhoti”, moving further down under. I could only imagine your face as my manliness felt the rigor form of my fisted hand. My body was virgin to the sensation I was going through, I was foreign to the feeling; I felt elated. Ecstacy was soon over taken by the feeling of guilt. I felt terrible; my childhood was broken. 



The lot to which I belong, the lot being the writers, were a curious and an observant bunch. In my case, the observant part of my brain was overtly dominant, that too to an extent that even a thread lying on the floor wouldn’t escape my eyes. The apartment seemed to have musky aroma, the curtains holding back the light of the city as though a canopy holding back sunlight. The rooms were painted grey with an unarranged bed. The bed sheet and the blanket happened to be white, creased, with stains of coffee and paint. I was, however, grasped with certainty that she had an obsession of white and grey. It was mind boggling though; a bit of an oxymoron as to why a person with such a colorful or rather to say a vibrant personality have such a subtle taste of colors for her surrounding. As my eyes wandered around, I caught on to a few things, which to me, were stubbornly scattered. There lay a white mug on the rugged brown carpet, with traces of coffee I reckon seemed days old. The ashtray by the side of the bed held burnt out cigarettes; Marlboro Hard, few burnt to the bud and few left undone. The sweet smell of stale smoke that still lingered in the room however, made me nostalgic. I could remember flashes of my times in London; I remember the dorm, which shared the same smell of stale smoke and burnt cigarettes, I remember as I made my way through each novel I read. The nostalgia was broken as she called out my name.



Like the sleep full of nightmares

I wish to see every night;

Entangled in the depth of lies,

You are the truth I want to find.

Like the darkness before the light,

I see fear in me ignite.

The nearer I feel I am, 

The farther you seem to be;

Always too close but yet too far.

Living under the harmony of the thought of what was;

 The lust for breath… 

That never more will be.

Like the agony in joy,

The anxiety to find what never existed;

You are the nightmare mistaken for a dream.



The unspoken truth of love:

Uttered yet unheard;

Was too deep;

Drowning every single soul,

In its melancholy.

Dark as the cave;

Creating hallucinations

With its words unseen;

On its verge to enchant the very existence of one’s being.

Spell binding every thought alive

With its excruciating ecstasy

And its confusing complacence;

Never to be understood by man;

 Not ever to be.

Cold Blood.  

Cold Blood.  

Cold blood,

I watched it slither through your veins;

Seducing with warmth,

Killing with patience,

I could feel the deal;

As your lips brushed against mine;

I could feel the sweetness

And sense the poison passing through.

You were welcome,

With all your intentions;

As warm as the snow!

You were intriguing like never before,

Sending chills down my spine.

Not to forget the intoxication

With which you bound me.

You killed me;

Slowly, yet enchanting me.

Your voice like the knell;

The fear;

 I could feel in my bones.

So lovely was the feeling

To be dying with such ecstatic pain;

At the hands of a cold blood.



And then as I turned around, there she was across the street completely engrossed in what happened to be a Dylan Spark, flipping the pages as if they were made of glass. Intensity building in her eyes, as though the next page would shatter her into pieces. She was keeping it as casual as it could have been; in blue. A blue dress it was. All that was worth, happened to be between the book and her; as the coffee lay cold, craving for attention, like an ignored child.  I stood there awestruck by what I did not know. Of how much I wanted to walk over and say a word, there was something that froze me. I could not move, not even a finger. All I saw was dark black hair, ignorant brown eyes and lips which were moving as though chanting a prayer.  As her lips moved, I caught on to a few words.  “You deserve better”, she read.  That few seconds felt like an eternity, more like those cliché moments in every romantic movie.  Time had slowed down only to stop, as though it had decided to halt at a particular moment and never start again.  I was only to imagine what she might have sounded like as she read those lines.  It repeated itself, that moment, in my mind, like an echo in a cave.  I felt myself in a melancholy in knowing that it was just a momentary satisfaction that I was going through looking at her. Even what was left of the satisfaction was soon overtaken by a feeling of despair. It began to hurt. “Looking at her hurt.”