Blue Seas

I dream of many things. I remember the pale, yellow sun, washing my face. I dream that I can see the sun again, perched up in the sky. I dream of the blue, transparent waters of the sea. The white sand slipping from under my feet with every fresh, frothy wave. I dream of the cold wind hitting my red, frostbitten nose. I dream of the feeling of my boots trudging on the fresh, flaky snow before it turns to ice. I dream of crowded concert halls. I dream of icy aisles in supermarkets. I dream of coffee and its painfully bitter taste on my tongue. Milk, no sugar. Left out on the kitchen table long enough to become room temperature. I dream of stained glass windows in churches. I dream of diving into a pool on a hot, summer day. I dream of bonfires and marshmallows. I dream of sitting outside, with chocolate fondue, the sea breeze whipping my hair. I dream of doing something worthwhile, accomplishing something, saving the world. I dream.  Because that is all I can do. ...

The deepest, darkest Levels of the sea get no Sunlight. Monsters live.

Don’t fall in love with me. I drink tea without sugar. And I marathon Jurassic Park when I’m feeling down. I make jokes exclusively in bad puns. I count the hours every day till the sun sets. Don’t fall in love with me. I talk to strangers in banks and at airports. I can’t have blended whisky anymore. I let my dog sit on my lap and occasionally kick me off the bed. And I always lose at Monopoly. Don’t fall in love with me. I leave plastic wine glasses with lipstick marks on the dresser. I wear jeans and t-shirts and boots every day. I am a little intimidated by beautiful girls. And I drink coffee with two espresso shots in them. Don’t fall in love with me. I will say exactly what I think of you without pausing to think If it will cause you hurt I’m too short and I will have to stand on tiptoe around you And you will always have to hold my umbrella in the rain. Don’t fall in love with me. I’m too tired in the mornings. I gent...

I knew I was going to die, Long before I did. I could feel it in my bones. I could feel it in the dark, bottomless pit of pain That I could no longer give a name. I knew I was going to die, Long before the bullet left your gun. Before it missed my heart, as it has always been your intention, And shattered my collarbone instead. Before the wisp of smoke momentarily clouded your face. Before the burn and residue from the .38 caliber GSW singed my skin. I knew I was going to die, Before I crumpled to the ground, ageless and graceless,  Like my life before me had been. Before the adrenalin and shock prevented the pain to settle in. Before the dark blood surged out and pooled around my neck. I knew I was going to die, Because I had never really been alive. And when you finally pulled that trigger, I briefly saw my life flash before my eyes. None of it mattered, until this very moment now, The moment I had been born for. 

I am a light sleeper. Always have been. The slightest noise wakes me up. It was no different tonight. I became aware of her stirring in her sleep. She was lying facing away from me. She twitched. Here eyeballs moved once, twice, thrice underneath her closed eyelids. Then, without warning, her arms flailed. She whimpered, and then began to sob. Hot, fresh tears coated her cheeks. I half sat up, shaking her shoulder. "Wake up. Wake up, baby, you're having another one." Her eyes flew open. She was still crying, her sobs getting caught in her throat. "What happened baby? What was this one about?" I ask softly. She shakes her head, trembling. Her voice comes out in small sobs and gasps, "I can't...I can't..." "Shh, it's gonna be okay. I got you. I'm right here." I encase her in my arms, running a free hand through her hair and then down her back. "Do you want some water?" I ask. She shakes her head in the...

His twisted, contorted face crumpled in agony. He dug his long nails into my shoulder, shaking me, rattling my teeth. My hair swung in front of my face. He let out a howl of fury. I tried to close my eyes, tried to hide my face away. But I couldn't stop looking. My mouth hung open in an ill-formed 'o' and my eyes, wide open with horror took in his face, twisted, contorted in grief and anger. "And if it doesn't rain? If it doesn't? What then? Have you thought about that?" he yelled. I watched him in morbid fascination. My shoulders were numb and I had lost the feeling in my arms where his fingers clawed at my skin. "I…" I tried to stammer. His face was dark, as dark as the clouds that gathered and grumbled everyday with the promise of rain. They never delivered. His eyes flashed with the light of a hundred thousand volt lightning that lit up the sky every night, and led to nothing. He is not human , I remind myself. His voice rumble...

For Kritika Goenka What do you do when life becomes scary? When your heart grows fond And your mind grows weary? When your soul is caught between the two, Tell me, friend, what are you expected to do? Since when have you been preparing for this? What do you know? You’ve spent your life in bliss. And now you have to wake up and see This is not how your life was meant to be. You thought your path ahead was clear. You couldn’t be more wrong. I feel sorry for you, dear. There’s only so much you can plan, so much you can follow. What do you do when you’re overtaken by sorrow? You can wait, and cry, and wait some more. You can scream and shout; You can lie on the floor. I don’t know, perhaps that’s as bad as it gets. In real life, there are no placing bets. Or, maybe you should get up and keep going. I know life is scary, There’s no denying. See, you’re expected to fall, but I want you to stay. It’s just a bump in the road, love,...

The caretaker shuffled his feet uneasily, looking at the floor. I sighed and tucked a loose curl behind my left ear. I looked unhappily around the hall. It was dark and dusty as if no one had opened the windows in a very long time. Sunlight hadn't streamed in through the ornate grill pattern. The winds had not whistled through the boarded window slits. "This used to be my house," I said more to myself more than anyone in particular. "Perhaps, memsahib. But this house belongs to them now," he said uncertainly, pointing to the wall behind. I turn around around to the wall. It is lined with framed pictures of laughing children. Young girls and boys, playing and smiling and posing for the camera. In another world, at another time, I would have screamed and thrown a rock at the wall. I would have smashed each and every last framed photograph. I would have shattered the glass and ripped out each and every picture and gouged out the eyes of every last smilin...

The leaves wither and fall. The sun fades. The snow melts and turns into annoying, slippery, icy patches. Winter turns into spring. And I am revisited by the same dream. The haze of colours, unknown people. A house I have never seen before, but I know for sure that I have been there, even lived there. The same staircase, the high ceiling, the painting by the landing. The mosaic stone floor, the french windows, those faceless people. Mere bodies, shuffling. What are their names? So many images. Crowded streets, umbrellas, traffic noises. The house. A feeling that this was somebody's home once. And yet again, one sinking feeling keeps coming back to me. Every time I make yet another new acquaintance, every time I discover yet another face to politely smile at. I remember. That one person who I would rather see than any one else in the world. My dreams are not haunted. They are invaded by unwanted feelings and images, unknown and foreign to me, yet achingly familiar. Through all ...

I waited for you. Long after you were gone, I stood by the window Overlooking the trees And the white cross On the steeple of the Local church. The dark grey clouds Came and thundered And it rained. Then the storm cleared, And you didn't come back. I waited for you. I knew it was foolish, Everyone said so. How I wished They were wrong, For once. I left the window And the house With the wooden floors And creaky stairs, And sought my fortunes Elsewhere. You didn't come. I should have known. Nobody comes back. They promise, And they leave. And then the storm clears, And the sun comes out, And you think you see them On the horizon. But it's empty. They have gone. And you're left alone. My new life is mine. It's in a land far away. Sometimes I think That you will find that house, And the window Overlooking the trees And the white cross On the steeple of the Local church, And think to yourself, "Why did I let her go?" But I know you ...

Katie sat down on the sofa and frowned unhappily at the side stitch marks on her thighs made by her skin-tight jeans. She poured a little bit of Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion in her cupped palm and began rubbing them onto her legs.  Paula turned her head to look behind her and then continued to stare down the balcony. Yesterday, in a fit to get into the holiday spirit, the girls had strung little fairy lights along the balcony railings. They were gleaming red and yellow and blue and orange and green in an alternating fashion now. Paula sighed. Alexa looked up from the floor where she was sitting and cleaning out her DSLR lenses.  "What's wrong Paulie?" she asked good-naturedly. "Nothing." said Paula absentmindedly, still staring out from the balcony which overlooked a street below. It was empty. "OOH YE-AH..." Music blasted in from the kitchen where Sandrine was cooking. She stuck her head out from the kitchen door, 'I'm making a...

The stove goes click-click-burn under Juanita's fingers as she turns on the electric fire. A frying pan is placed on the stove.  Out comes the cutting board.  Outside, the clouds began to gather and rumble. Juanita pays no attention to it. She slams the vegetables on the cutting board and looks for the knife.  The knife is nowhere to be found.  She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and instead pours a cap full of oil into the pan, followed by a pinch of cumin. The oil starts to hiss and the cumin starts to pop. Juanita steps back a little. The spicy, acrid smell of cumin and heat from the angry, hissing oil combined with the humidity from the cloud-covered sky infused another throb to her already paining forehead. Juanita turns to hunt for the knife again.  This time she finds it, in the same place she had looked minutes ago. She begins to dice the beans and carrots in quick, alternating hand movements, her knife smacking the wooden cutting board, mak...

"Hush! Don't cry..." The mother clasped the child to her body. Whatever little space remained between them was closed. The child buried his face in the mother's neck and howled. His tears smothered, drowned over the mother's reassuring words of kindness. The pangs of hunger. The sense of disappointment. The feeling of unhappiness and failure and grief that was seeping into it, through its skin. The child couldn't take it any more. A fresh wave of tears washed over him. He was lying on the floor. Curled up in a foetal position. Crying. The mother came, tried to embrace the defeated being. Crooned soft, calming words. The child's body shook. The mother stroked his head and murmured, "Don't cry." The child sobbed loudly in reply. The mother sighed and said with finality, "Don't cry. For there is no end to this grief."

She hides. Who do you hide from? The morning rays catches the tinted windows. The curtains rustle softly in the wind. Wait, did I just hear a windchime?  So many things she's seen. She knows what the real world is like. She's not a child anymore. She was never a child. The flurry of activity down the hall. The buzz of conversation and amused laughter. The pitter-patter of flip-flopped feet against the kitchen tiles. The sizzle and smell of pancakes. I try to draw her out of the shell. She's so shy! I would have never thought when I first met her. The others smile. The kettle whistles. Coffee is ready, almost. She's still hiding. This is getting annoying. What is she so desperate to hide from anyway? My eyes sweep over the hall. Magazines strewn over the coffee table. A spaghetti stain on the ottoman. The bottle and glasses from last night, propped on the sideboard. Signs of the people who live here. She's hiding from herself. Breakfast is ready. I yawn,...

I looked down. From where we were sitting, forty storeys above the road, every car and bus that whizzed past looked like the size of a toy. Every tiny walking human being looked like an ant. My vision blurred momentarily and the bright Sunday lights of the city looked like a golden haze. I yawned and turned my attention to my dangling feet. I was wearing the same dark-blue, skinny jeans, the ones you helped me pick out last summer. It was too hot for jeans. It was always too hot. But I was wearing them anyway. My nails were painted with my favourite nail-polish, the bright, dark pink one which glitters. And the single silver toe-ring twinkled back. You were sitting next to me. Your sneaker-and-jeans-clad legs drawn towards you, not dangling from the fortieth storey terrace like mine. The two glass bottles lay abandoned next to us, unfinished. "Why don't you write something? It might cheer you up," you suggested half-heartedly. I thought about that thing. And t...

What's worse than an alcoholic room mate? A sober room mate undergoing withdrawal symptoms from alcohol. True story.

Now that you are gone, I have no reason to write.  I'm waiting, and hoping, not for you to come back. No. But for something else to come along. So that once again I have a reason to fall asleep at night while praying. Once again I have a reason to smile suddenly in the middle of a crowded classroom. So that once again I will have a reason to close my eyes as I look out the window. Something else will come along. Till then, I have no reason to write.

Every time I've had a little too much to drink, Or some extra time to think. Or some stupid, inappropriate song is playing in the background -  I think of you. And I shouldn't be, Because you're gone. I'm done, and so are you. We've ended. But then I have a little too much to drink, And some extra time to think And that stupid song refuses to stop playing And all I can think of is you. This has to stop, I tell you.

আমি মানব একাকি ভ্রমি বিষ্যয়, ভ্রমি বিষ্যয়। I am the anti-original. I come here to break the myth or originality. I come here to redefine originality. বিরহিনি চাহিয়া আছে আকাশে। Maybe, I'm not special. No. I'm quite certain that I'm not special. I'm just different. So its useless trying to classify me. তুমি সদা যার হৃদে বিরাজ, দুখ জ্বালার সেই পাষরে, ওগ দুখ জ্বালার সেই পাষরে। I am weird, and twisted. I like coffee, রবীন্দ্রসঙ্গীত, game theory and shopping for shoes. My X-Y correlation scatter plot graph is very random. যা না চাইবার তাই আযি চাইগো, যা না পাইবার তাই কোথা পাই গো। You better be quicker than my fleeting interests to catch me.

"I can hear the sound of violins, long before it begins." And when you're somewhere nearby, my heart starts to pound inside my chest, involuntarily, even if I can't yet see you. "Makes me feel as only you know how, sway me smooth, sway me now." Yes, so much so, that just for this once, I'd pick you over Richard Gere. (My due respects to Michael Buble, of course.)