The Unforgettable Desire

 I am probably saying this one last time: Bad things happen, life is unfair. People describe their experiences of suffering from anxiety that make it feel like a collective experience. Just that, they don’t stop a certain section of their life, they aren’t paralysed from shock, unable to comprehend their life. Their hearts race, my heart felt like it’d stop any moment, as if I was physically dying from the inside. Now I tend to not speak about it, all the place-time displacements, and actions based on made-up scenarios in my head. Sometimes I miss the multiple voices having a roundtable conference inside my head, afraid that I lost my ability to express, to write, when I killed them. I often wondered in the year gone by, was it my madness that brought me stories? I spent months in silence, looking for words that used to flow like blood through my veins. I did the only thing I could do then, in my search for words, I read. What is the point of reading so much? I don’t read so mu...

Once upon a time (not so) long ago on an uneventful night I decided to talk to a friend in something roughly resembling poetry . He, being the poet that he is, obliged in response. I ended up saying something I was toying with for a long time, that we have imprisoned ourselves in clocks only to say, time is running out. I know the argument often is that irrespective of clocks, the sun sets and rises, time passes. Yet, it is a human construct, isn’t it? A construct made for our convenience, mostly? My relationship with time isn’t a smooth one. I didn’t understand in class 1 why the year 2000 was being called 21 st century. Where was the 1 in 2000? Why did the new class teacher keep saying so? Should it not be 20 th ? It didn’t get better. I disliked history because I couldn’t remember the dates and years of so many wars. Even now it boggles me that Mughals reigned right before Britishers, like 200 years ago. Are not they supposed to be ancient history? How does 16 th century not fee...

You write or share a post about depression. A couple of people ask, Are you alright? Yes, you say. You add a few more lines just to assure them. You find it difficult to lie even to a stranger until they ask, How are you? The answer is a lie you’ve excelled at. It often makes you wonder that you certainly need help but you cannot accept it from most people. You need to have a history with them, a history free of hurt, a history full of belief and faith. You need to know that they understand what it is that you’re going through, you need to know that they have done their research before providing help. Many people, family and friends, have offered help. You are grateful. But you have no patience to explain them what you’re going through. You perform a one hour stand up act, making them laugh at your experiences, lessons and inability to move on. You say it in a way that they are dumbstruck. All they ask in the end is, Are you sure you aren’t feeling this because you have read too...

It’s a Saturday morning. I sit at home and exist on all days of the week. For the most part, I forget to keep a track of the days that pass by. It’s only Saturday that I check up on. I was once told that I shouldn’t start anything new on a Saturday. It’s inauspicious, the work would never be complete. Given I have been said what (not) to do, I look forward to begin everything on Saturday. I do not plan it, but find myself motivated. Perhaps the sinking realization that yet another week had passed by doing nothing did the trick. So, if it hasn’t settled in your head – It’s a Saturday morning. My alarm went off at 5 o’ clock in the morning. I woke up at 5.30am. I decided that I should restart my morning walks, but not till another 30 minutes. I woke up an hour later. Light was peeping inside my dark room from the corner of the curtains. I looked up at the soothing light that would pierce my eyes in a few hours. I looked up and thought, “I have always taken pride in being alone bu...