A Confession In Isolation

...It still interests me, to flip through the pages of your diary in your absence. I slyly open it with sheer curiosity,just as i would do when we were togehter (metaphorically togehter)...but this time, to find myself absent from the pages of your life. I am fading out of your world and how strange and ironical it is that you don't even realise this,that your thoughts do not even acknowledge my last days in your life....that my going away makes no impact anywhere deep down in your heart. There is so much more...... I feel the void between us. Things have changed drastically.. Its all about your friends...new...more new....and some nascent ones again. I read quietly...absorbing it. Maybe thats how life is...the more you care about somebody,the closer you are to lose him.

They say that stagnation fills the air of a long lived relationship and staying together ruins it all the more. The face of the other gets on your nerves...you no more try to find goodness in him, all his vices roar the loudest to be hated.you love the other no more..... Maybe a cliched thought, an untrue word, a baseless fact...the world finds it true but i absolutely throw it away...its untrue...FOR ME ITS JUST NOT THAT WAYS!

I am made too se the dismantling of a dream that I cherished. I sit there...watch it breaking...vanishing...dying....i cry over it each day...i plead to the good God...i sit alone...cry out my heart...and then in this silent room console my own self...But the pyre of this relation just keeps burning and simmering ruins burn every bit of my existence.But for once i want that faith of yours which was my pride, i care...i care to the fullest, only if you for once try to deflect from that murky perspective of yours and see what the truth is. We have less time...we were here to strenthen our bond and not ruin it at the hands of this world unknown. The world will not suffer if we diverge... we'll die out...we'll pain ourselves...we'll lose. I wish you could understand.


And as i drown myself in the depth of our long forgotten past, a memento of the bygone days intervenes and i hear a faded euphony which as if tries to kindle hopes within my barren heart...."....tere jaisa yaar kahan...kahaan aisa yaarana...yaad karegi duniya....tera mera afsaanaa............"

A COLLEGE OUTCASTE

“No ... absolutely not what I had expected! Mom...I somehow hate college...!”. I wrote in the first mail to mom after 8 long months of coming to Delhi. No! I never posted her mails. My phone calls always said that the college was good. It was Miranda after all, something which was too big for a small Towner like me. I never considered myself able enough to afford the hype Miranda, the name itself had.
To all my acquaintances around I was a lucky intelligent girl, born out of an intelligent parentage. My parents back in the home town were the proud parents of an able girl, basking under the attention of the inquisitive neighbours, who were all praise for me. Petty things like how I helped them manage the community’s kids at their baby’s birthday party to how my yearly school notes were helpful for their daughter; all would be counted...as if such incidents formed the stepping stone to where I was today. For my kith and kin, the achievement was great and I was still a favourite despite turning my back to the clichéd professional options of medicine or engineering. All was great....so where did the problem lie????
The problem lay in me....and it still does. College still seems to be an illusion, a black dark veil which would soon be lifted and I’d be in a better world which has place for me. The ‘better world’ is unknown to me. It’s not my school, not my home, not a place I have ever visited. I don’t miss school. I don’t crave to contact my long lost friends. I don’t long to visit the school corridor and church. I don’t desire to have another forty minutes of lecturing on “modest girls” from my favourite teacher. But again....I want the old me back.
College...I struggle here to be noticed. The girls around are con artists who claim to be the closest friends ever on face and at the same time hide the notes under their t-shirts so that one may not catch a glimpse of that extra luck that has been bestowed by the seniors upon them. I talk about men and listen to the gibberish about their weekly crushes, even though that’s the thing I greatly loathe(those puky boyfreind experiences they tell me)..!! Going to the library each time would be stupid. I don’t want to be tagged ‘a nerd’ when I am not one. So I have to survive here in this loathly environment where nothing interests me. One and all around are the same....men, food and cell phones make their world. Maybe, I have something different that composes my being...something else that defines me......and I am still searching.
“.....I know mom, you’ll call up tomorrow and tell me that I must concentrate on my studies, pay no heed to the friends who affect me adversely, find ways to keep me busy.......and I will tell you that I am fine...my college is great. This mail was nothing but a mood swing. I have great friends, nice teachers, good studies........ And so much more...”
But Mom...only if you knew what that ‘so much more’ was..............

A GLASS FULL OF NOSTALGIA....

It’s the most unbiased, I think when I stand five feet some inches tall in front of my mirror. A bushy black mane, a few inches of forehead, two chequered holes on either side of a flat-compressed nose, lips somewhat in shape and a protruded chin- I scan myself. It is this sheet of truth that introduces me to myself.
How would i know myself, identify what I looked like had I not met myself through this silver screen. Observing myself in the age old mirror in my room, I fall back to the days of yore. Those dust coated lipstick marks on the wooden frame of the mirror take me back to the age of three when I had inscribed my first ABC’s with mom’s lipstick on the mirror and its frame. It still wears the ripped stickers of my then cartoon friends, all yellowed with time. It still captures my anger in the form of scribble marks after i had the first quarrel with my parents as a teenager, it knows about those fits of self admiration when I would pose as a model...Mom’s high heels complimenting my feet...they would raise me up to a woman’s stature. It holds fast to the panic of the first pimple on my forehead and it also nets the moment of that juvenile maturity when I saw myself draped in a sari for the first time on the day of my farewell, the day I adored myself as a woman for the first time. I kept moving on with the wheel of time, but my mirror stood still all through the years, telling me the truth each time I approached it.
Personalities change, people come, perform their respective roles in the play of life and fade away...but the mirror remains unchanged, unbiased...telling them all the true tales of their lives. My mirror is that unidentified friend in front of whom I stand still, gazing at it for hours when in distress, and it understands my entire tale without me letting out a word to it. It captures every moment of mine when I had questions with my identity. Ask my mirror...it knows much about me than my memory holds. My tongue might slip a truth...but my mirror will always speak what I really am.
At times, I sit and wonder if humans ever tried to adapt the attributes of a mirror.....then either the world would have become Utopia or a gruesome murdering ground where the play of truth decided the fate of life.