Monday, 31 August 2015

She Was Alive, Beside Me

And again I stood outside the same cafe, where I saw her, sipping from her mug of coffee with her long fingers wrapped around the mug, as if warming her cold hands on a freezing wintry day.
Wait? Do you know me? No.
We never met.
Hi! myself, Kabir Malhotra, a Literature student, by fate.
So, let me begin again.
I stood outside the same cafe, where I saw her, sipping from her mug of coffee with her long fingers wrapped around the mug, as if warming her cold hands on a freezing wintry day.
She looked weird, distorted, her features - sharp, her fingers - long, her hands - slim. The word 'slender' would describe her better.
And a point to be noted: SHE WAS NOT COLORFUL.
Had I known that I would fall in love with HER, I would not have thought of her as weird and bizarre. But a person's hypothesis should not be ignored and I am a person, a human. And my mind is more of a person than I am, as a whole.
I miss her.
Offbeat? Yeah.

I miss her like the desert misses the rain and when it rains, the desert regrets about missing it so much.
We often make a perspective about someone which is wrong and only I know how broken she was. She was a havoc in herself. A black chaos, waiting to be resolved.
Her silvery eyes mirrored her spirit. How strong she was!
The burlywood colored smile adhering on her lips spoke so much about what always remain unsaid.
I liked it when she tied her ash brown hair into a bun and the auburn brown colored curls hung near the edges of her ear.
And a point to be noted: THE TAPED BOOKS SHE READ.
The different colored books she read spoke so much about her. The black words she had underlined told so much about her mind and heart. It was as if she always carried them in her reddish heart.
Her white silence always comforted me. Whenever I heard her breathe under the blue web of an immortal silence, I thanked god for she was alive, living  beside me, with me.
She loved only a few people, others were just a herd for her. And I am glad that for one minute part of my life she loved me too. She enjoyed staying around me. Her words tasted like cannabis, taking toll over me everytime she spoke.
And then she was no more.
I put color into her because I saw her colorless. Dark and pale. She didn't love plenty of them and maybe, after her reincarnation, she would love them a little more and appear colorful.
Colors - most of them she hated.
Colors - here I fill into her.
One fine day - daffodil smile - 'I am alright, Kabir' - pale eyes and a soul to lose.  

Sunday, 30 August 2015

Survival Of A Facade

Often I think about the word 'survival'. A word too complicated and delicate. 
"It is the fittest who survives"- they say.
But it is the deceiver who survives. It is the person who lies that survive. Someone jeopardizing others, survive - I say.  
Everyone is fit for everything, it is just that the person who bears the vibrating strings of deception cutting into his soul, fails. 
While walking down the memory lane, I meet so many people again and they all seem so new to me because, maybe, I just saw their color and not the shades of it.
Shades which I see now, while walking down the dull, dark and real memory lane. 
You see, memories can be realistic containing REALizations.

A friendship often starts with a "hi", leads to "friends forever" and ends at a "goodbye", silent or loud, that doesn't matter.
A lover's relationship with his beloved often starts with a "hi", leads to "I like you" further leading it to "I love you" and then one fine day they realize that this "hi", "like" and "love" never happened to them. *VOILA!*

A facade, I would call it. 
And therefore, this world intensely scares me. 
Whenever I look around I see people sowing the seeds of lie, sharpening their tools for undermining the cavity of damage, nourishing themselves for injustice they do, knowingly or unknowingly. 
I fear this world like I fear the word I met recently, without a dictionary in my hand, like a whining sentence waiting for me to construe it while I am in my deepest slumber. 
This fear, this horror, time and again makes me want to stay at bay with what is going on out there. I, then result in alienating myself, because sometimes people appear too monstrous to me and a few felonious words just are not in my dictionary. I constructed a new one for myself while I was E-I-G-H-T-E-E-N. 

Thursday, 27 August 2015

Beauty (what it is to me)

It was the Tuesday moon shining in the dimly lit sky, with clouds shaped like fur balls and vanilla scoops hovering around it, teasing it.
I was in a deep slumber, noticing the manoeuvre with which the nature played its game, inviting the darkness to fall upon the day. Nothing could distract my firm gaze tied with an invisible rope but my phone! It rang. I could feel the vibrations in my pocket.
I hardly received any message at that time of the day, therefore, the vibrations elevated my eagerness to know what it was that made 'someone' text me!
The message read "What is beauty?". 
I, for a certain set of seconds kept on staring about what to reply when the the phone vibrated again. The next message read "Does it really matter?"
I don't know why, but THIS message made me smile.
I mean, someone asked a not-so-good-looking person, about beauty! Something about which I myself don't know. Something that is not with me, I guess because people often called me a misfit, a nerd.
Well! I am here to put what beauty means TO ME!
*Drum rolls*

Have you seen the landscape with which I started my blog? Well! you must have, and if you didn't then please search for the clouds shaped like fur balls and vanilla scoops teasing the whimsical moon. You will know what beauty means to me!
They say, you look prettier when the sun shines or under the moonlight. Well! You are BOUND to look like 'beauty' then, because, it is not the mascaras, liners, blushes, and lipsticks ruling your face. It is that evergreen immortal nature invading into the empty jungle of facial expressions.
Beauty is darkness! Because soft and humane hearts live behind those darkness. They crave for light and their craving is as pure as the third rain of the rainy season.
Beauty for me is when the sunflower changes its position with the sun, when the stone make ripples in the water, the lively bubbles created when the fish breathes.
It lies in his unspoken words and his unseen anger.
It is in your heart that is beating, making you feel alive, each second.
It is the wrinkles on your face that describe how hard or happy your life have been.
And yes, beauty like this do matter TO ME. This immutable and unfading beauty matters to me.
One day! we all will die. We all will die the same death, just in different ways. And what then will matter is how 'beautiful' your heart has been, your vision has been, your mind has been, throughout your life.
That is beauty, TO ME! 

Saturday, 22 August 2015


He inhaled the cold air, able to smell the snow. He, as well, could taste it. 
The chills traveled to his brain, numbing it, snatching away his capability to think. He looked like a corpse with his lips turning blue and eyes losing the white color. It was as if the death fell in love with him, changing him, COMPLETELY. Often love changes people and he was changing like the full moon losing its brightness. 
The open windows let in the cool gush of air, moving the curtains fiercely, forcing itself into his body, freezing everything that laid inside him. The pages of the book that laid open on the table, shivered, trying to turn themselves but the paperweight controlled the motion. The sound of the clock was bold and loud making the surrounding feel its presence as if giving an alarming evil grin, alerting things about the arrival of THE DEATH.

Time and death appear to befriend each other, none of them stops, none of them heals, none of them tells about the place it will take you to. The soul escaped, piercing his head, lifting itself lightly, disappearing into the thin air and the bells rung "Welcome".

Friday, 21 August 2015

Similar Stories

After The Story

“You know, I am never going to leave you”- this is what it started with. We thought that our stories are same. But sometimes similar stories does not have a similar end. Some ends with a betrayal and some with an unchanging faith.
He was gone and my eyes were still dry. A smile enduring on my lips.
And that was the moment when I thought of it as a dream. I was at the threshold of giving up yet I stood, patiently, trying to gulp the soar words that the message had to offer.

A diary dipped in coffee spilled on the coffee table, the look in his eyes – confused, his lips stretched – not a smile, his hands – searching for that paper. I, lost in the labyrinth, somewhere far from where I already was.

There was a sudden silence, or maybe, there was too much noise for me to get affected. And then! My hands started trembling and then the rain droplets, one by one devouring me. My stomach churned, maybe, the butterflies I once experienced were dying due to suffocation.

A walk, the exchange of glances, the beaming look on his face and his hair – flowing with the wind, hands – clutching the paper he had found from under the table. I, lost in the labyrinth, somewhere far from where I already was.

The pain inducing cold started paving its way through my legs, shaking them to the core. My brain, it became a wreck and I broke. With invisible tears running down my face I walked, aimlessly. All I knew was how to get back home and my room where I could shut everything down. I walked.

“So you write?”
“Gross” I replied.
“Don’t say that.”
I smiled.

The latch seemed heavy as if the door was bolted from the inside. I struggled and ran up the stairs and then, into my room. Collapsing on the ground, my heart let out a loud cry.


I wondered what forever meant. I slept where I was. 


I am glad he was gone. He gave me another chance for myself. I am free, not a caged bird feeling sorry for her wings. Now when I look back, I smile. How everything was just a lesson. How trust is just a conjecture. Nothing stays and forever is a lie.

Sometimes we don’t want to move on, we fear the pain and yet we live with it. We are so much addicted to the memories that we start living with the false hopes of things getting better. And then nothing helps but the Utopian world existing in our mind.
But we need to stand up, dress our injuries and come out of the storm. The scars will remain but memories will fade. Soon, it will start appearing as dream. 

So, walk on the thorns, gaze at your crushes wishing for just one more look, and don’t let the blues turn your life into a dark pothole.

Sometimes similar stories does not have a similar end.

Saturday, 15 August 2015

My Indescribable Infinity

A few days ago, someone asked me to describe you and immediately a smile lingered on my lips. I was speechless; I didn't know how to put you in words.
I could then see your silhouette as I walked away with your scent straggling with me. The words you had said played around my mind, repeating themselves, but I was unable to narrate it. I ran out of the combination of syllables.
It was so much difficult to describe you in merely a few collections of words, phrases or paragraphs.
You are so much more than just words.
But I tried! You told me, always to try even when it seems impossible. And I did, but all I could come up with was "my infinity" while you are so much more than just the infinity.

I wonder how could someone ask a person to describe you? Someone who is the winter's warmth, a bright sky, a deep ocean, my thought process, the magic I behold in my eyes, the comforting silence, a sweet lullaby. Indescribable.
But maybe, I don't want to describe you at all! I want to wander around all our memories.
I want to echo in your soul.
I will walk miles in search of you like a musk deer in search of the musk.
And then after discovering you, I will show you to the world and let them know that you were ineffable. And all they would do is NOD! 

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Eerie Solitude [stating Charles Bukowski]

The impending fear of being alone or being left alone guards every soul. Solitude is glorious, but not always because sometimes it wrecks you. It breaks you in a way that you wander hopelessly trying to find meaning, trying to find the worth of it all. And these are the days, where I find solitude a bit eerie. It no more soothes me or makes me feel better. It feeds on me like a bacteria feeding on a dead body, helping it decompose and mix into the soil. But this morning I woke up to this quote, which is now the main subject matter of this post. 

“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck job, rub my balls, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!”  
– Charles Bukowski. 
And now I guess, it sums up the present state of my mind.

Monday, 10 August 2015

The Silenced Girl

She wanted someone to lend their ears to her silenced words because forcing a curve on her lips was difficult than it seemed. Her heart welled up with grief every time her stillness was demanded. Tired of everything around her, she felt suicidal, vulnerable by death. She sat muted on a couch trying to figure things out but minute after minute and hour after hour she felt unwanted thoughts brooding her mind adding glumness to her air. Silence is not always peaceful sometimes it kills. 
Silence kills!

Things buried inside the heart eats the soul making impossible for it to stay in the close room of the body. Still, everyone demanded silence and caring was just a hypothetical theory. If silence was wise and great then why did god make words? Just to make a human realize about the existence of binaries? But then he made binaries too! 
Sometimes everything is confusing and killing. 
It leads to depression which is deeper than the injuries received and her scars were the demanded silence and the absence of care.