Earth, calling Lucille!

There have been a million times I have felt guilty for letting this blog stay dormant, for the pages to stay barren, for my thoughts – yearning for a chance to be penned down- die a slow, painful, silent death.

What’s my excuse to be away from the one thing that truly drives me?

Busyness. (eeks!)

Maybe the intensity of my desire to write wasn’t strong enough to draw me here.
But today, something, or rather – someone did.

I’m back, and I’m here to stay.

Hello, Lucille!
Welcome back :)
You have been missed, terribly.

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Haunted

You?
You’re like a gust of cool wind, that kisses my cheek on a warm, sunny day. 

bird-singing

You’re like the birdsong I love waking up to.
Like that tune I’ve got stuck in my head, for more than a week now.
That won’t go away even after I’ve heard a million more. 

You.
You’re like a ear worm.
Sticking around.
Playing on loop, in my head, all day. 

Like someone said,
is it ok to be haunted by someone who is still alive?

You.
You’re my most favourite memory.

Hooked up with Pain! 

This feels all too familiar.
I’ve been through this before.

The way you creeped into my heart slowly
Tearing down the brick walls around it with your bare hands.
Peeling every complex layer that I’d added over the years.
Tears stinging the eyes, no one seems to mind.

The sound of something being unlocked.
My heart gives you a corner to take refuge.
You find a spot. Get comfortable.
Get me comfortable.
Get me to open up.

I take my time.
It’s easier to assume the worst.
I’m careful. Watchful.
Guarding my heart.

Until I get tired. Allow myself to feel.
Not fearing the pain anymore.
The prospect of pain can’t keep me from living my life, loving with all my heart.

And then that day arrives.
It did not take you long.
That familiar pain is back.
Stinging my eyes. Piercing my heart.

You played me. So well.
I was yours: hook, line and sinker.
I was a bait. Or your catch.
Whatever you preferred to call it.
Lying helpless.
Waiting for you to completely destroy me.
There was nothing left of my old self anyway.

I will not cry.
How can I!
I do not feel anymore.

Ah, that familiar pain is back.
This is all I recognise now.
This is what I’ve come to be.

I am pain.
And it does not hurt anymore.

Hello Nana. Goodbye Nana.

18.11.1991

My favourite Grandmother’s birthday. (Well, I did not get to meet my other grandmother (Nana Lucy),
so Nana Ivy was a clear winner!)

This was also the day I saw her for the last time.

My 6 year old heart broke into a million pieces. I couldn’t fathom why she had to leave us.
Where did she go? Did she really have to leave?

Lucky Ali’s ‘ O Sanam’ played on loop.
“Milke bichadna toh dastoor ho gaya”
Those words stayed with me.

My dad tried to soothe me by telling me to write letters to Nana in heaven.
And I did that. Almost everyday I had something to share with her.
Tell her what happened during the day. Bring home the chocolates I got at school.
Ask her to protect me from the mean world and their jibes.

I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
And never ever got a reply.
I was even more heartbroken then.

Everyone spoke about her dying on the same day as her birthday.
All the time. Like it was something so fascinating.

I wondered. How could something like that happen?
Could it happen to me too?

27.04.1992
Everyone was in the living room, for my birthday party.
I’d turned 7. But there were no kisses from Nana.
No extra gifts. Not even a letter from her.

Was she angry with me? Did she deliberately leave?
Why would she do that?

I wanted to meet her so bad.
When no one was looking, I took the knife I was supposed to cut my cake with,
neatly decorated with a ribbon, and sneaked away into the bedroom.

I’d seen enough Hindi movies to know that slitting your wrist is painless,
and that you die almost instantly. (Sigh, movies and their lies).

I’d just placed the knife on my wrist, and was getting ready to say hi to Nana,
when mom & dad called out to me. The candles on my cake were dying out.

“Come & cut your cake, darling! We are all waiting for you!”

That brought me back to reality.

18.11.2014
The memories came rushing back.

Miss you, Nana!
xoxo

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Wishing over bridges…

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Travelling over bridges delights me.

It reminds me of the time when my dad would encourage me to take a coin, make a silent wish, kiss it, and throw it nice and far… so that it would reach the water.

And then, no matter how much I was dying to tell him what I asked for, he would never let tell him about it. “It’s bad luck, and your wish may not come true”, he would say.

————————-

We had just broken up, and we were in the “I’m not talking to you, yet I will stare creepily at you” zone. Coincidently, we were in the same volunteer group and were heading towards an old age home that day. Amidst the ‘ignoring’ and subtle glances, he did manage to see me struggle to get to the other side of the bus to throw my coin before the bridge ended. He extended his hand towards me and volunteered to throw the coin for me. I kissed it and passed it on to him.

This was the only time I hoped the coin didn’t make it to the waters.
But he made sure it did. He really wanted my wish to come true.

The guilt was killing me.
I’d wished for us to move on.

The Other One!

I don’t usually use this word for people, but this one’s an exception.

I hate her.
There I said it.

Why do I hate her?
cos she’s so dumb.
Yet she thinks she’s so smart.

Psuedo-intellectual.
That’s what I’d like to call her.

I can’t hold a conversation with her before I start mentally making a note of my to-do list for work the next day.
Which I actually find the most boring thing in the whole wide world!

She’s opinionated, but they don’t sound like hers. They sound ‘textbook’.

She’s so petty. So fragile.
So clingy. So needy.
Such a damsel in distress.

The only distress I see is the one she puts him through.

But the thing is… he seems to enjoy being her rescuer.

Which is when the ‘her’ turns out to be me.

I hate her = I hate me.
That I was dumb enough to fall for someone dumb enough to fall for someone as dumb as her.

If it were meant to be…

I grabbed a bunch of my besties and arrived at the most awaited event of the year- our annual college festival.

The crowd was massive.
The rule was simple.
If we get lost, we meet where we are right now: the basketball court.

The events were interesting, and scattered across the campus.
Getting lost was inevitable.

Young. Reckless. Carefree. Impulsive.
I let this side of me take over.

Self-defence. Dream Analysis. Salsa.
Workshops that caught my attention and drew me into those classrooms.

I decided to search for my friends later. I wanted to enjoy these moments all by myself.

A blue-eyed boy – shy, soft-spoken and fragile; was assigned to me in the self defence class.

I was eager to learn. Aggressive. Pushy. And kept asking for all the demos to be conducted on him… so that I could learn better. I laughed at his plight. He threw daggers my way- playful ones. He enjoyed the attention we were getting too.

Before we knew it, the workshop was over. We stood outside the class, wondering what to do next. He grabbed my hand and led me to another classroom.

Salsa.
I always wanted to learn salsa.

We were warming up for the session when he leaned in and whispered softly in my ears, “by the way, I have a black belt in Karate”

I turned red, unable to fathom how he played me.

It was his turn to lead.
With a wry smile, he coaxed me onto the floor, and I enjoyed the warmth of his arms for the next 45 minutes… amazed at this conniving yet charming blue-eyed boy.

The session concluded.
We walked out, silently.

My friends were so relieved to find me, they closed in on me, asking me a billion questions about my disappearance.

I saw him walking away.
He turned one last time, and smiled at me. That impish smile I’d grown to recognise.
There were so many things I wanted to say to him.
So many things I wanted to know about him.

Damn, how could we forget to exchange numbers?