I write. on days when it is a sea of storms, on days I cannot go to the sea that storms I write. So I could still put it all down whether I am 3 or 30, a way of reaching Dad whether I speak of him or not. Grandad keeps circling my mind, the way my dad used to a melancholy hum on day to day Life will always be bittersweet once you are away from home. My mother used to handle it well even if they weren't taught what it meant when one spoke of depths hidden and deep. She still let me be In places she couldn't reach Sitting there watching sky While I crawled back to her slowly whether I am 30 or 3 Loneliness haunts me Whether I am 30 or 3 It is not an extension I got from my mother my father or thee I have honed it inside me when I created those world(s) inside me while I was trying to escape from the reality Some days the act of creating tragedies of my day disgust me to my core some days I still resort to it to soothe my soul happiness always felt a bit difficult to swallow but...
Krithika, my school best friend once gave me a gift I still carry in my heart. On one of my birthdays, when we were still in school, she calculated exactly how many years, months, days, hours, and minutes I had been by then. I remember her sitting so patiently beside me, doing every calculation by hand behind the notebook, fully focused. It felt less like math and more like love expressed in numbers. It's been many years since then. She now lives in another city, and life has quietly drifted into something unrecognizable from those days when we hid fiction books inside our textbooks, hearts racing, pretending to study while actually escaping into other worlds, praying the teacher wouldn't notice. And somewhere along the way, I’ve understood something I wish I had known earlier, life only gets weirder. And it is often the very things that happened in childhood that, years later, helps one find their way back to oneself again. Yet somewhere in between, we lose them, only to re...