High

My poison of choice, you ask?

I hate beer- people, stop pretending you love it.

Vodka, not really- although it puts me to sleep gracefully.

Rum, no- though I like it in Pina Colada.

Come on, let's face it- wine is disgusting.

Ink it is, now that I think of it. Writing gets me high.

Red Flags

"You aren't good for me."
"Oh! You mean 'good enough' for you?"
"Hahaha! No, just 'not good' for me."
"What should we do now?"
"Nothing. I wish people came with a warning, like statutory warnings on cigarette packets. 'This person shall be the death of you.' That would deter some people."
"Or thrill some others, suicidal ones."
"I am more of a wanting-to-live kind of a person!"
"Yet you are still here, looking at me like that, teary eyed."

*silence*

- Inspired from a quote I happened to read. "When you look at someone with rose-colored glasses, all the red flags look like... just flags."

Bookmarks

Between us, it is different.
It has always been different actually.

It was about splashing mud on one another's raincoats, about vindictive way in which we ruined one another's notebooks with pointless scribbles, about pulling hair in quarrels and shouting cuss words just for the thrill of it and also about sharing punishments and secretly getting the other one out of troubles we caused together.

Yet even after years, even after we happened to just grow up, even after it became all about splashing the dirt of accusations, ruining one another's peace of mind by hurling careless words, playing blame games and causing trouble for one another-

We still keep bumping into one another.
And whenever we do, it's always about 'Remember when...?'

We carry bookmarks to our childhoods. Me, hers and she, mine.

Makeup

One after the other, I wear my masks, plaster the plastic smirk on my lips. I maintain a list of lies I tell so as to not lose track of them and hide the disappointments in the folds of my sleeves, the darkness of my soul in my steely eyes.

Ready.

I laugh slyly when people fall for my pretense.

I count my victories greedily and boast about them later.
One... two... three... thirteen...
I don't bat an eyelash while I lie.
I shun the well wishers who make sense.
I avoid encounters with the righteousness.
I rub shoulders with sanctimony and hypocrisy.

The paint on my face doesn't wash off in the innocence of the rain. Waterproof. Smudge-proof. Honesty-proof.

Nothing scares me, nothing hurts me. Except when I look into the mirror and the sad reflection asks,

'Who are you?'

'Fourteen.' I count.

Welcome

Gulmohor in front yard sheds a few more petals to weave a red carpet for you. Sly green Champa sprinkles perfume in the air from behind green leaves. Curious Madhumalati in backyard wakes up from slumber and cranes its neck. Palms rustle and whisper animatedly. Fan whirls dutifully in the lazy afternoons like these, ice cubes melt quicker than usual in beer mug. My house of cards is almost complete, I have kept two last cards for you to arrange. Creases on the bed-sheets have straightened themselves.

Come home, will you? Everything awaits.

Preacher

'Don't drink so much. Please!'
'What would I do with the life so long otherwise?'
'Die quickly if you want to die. Why die a slow death like this?'
'Tell me a good way to die then.'
'Simple. Make sure the cause of your death is Life.'
'Hahaha! Such a preacher you are! Aren't you dying a slow death too?'
'Oh please. How?'
'You are in love with me, aren't you? That's how.'

*Silence*

Loving the Unlovable

Dust settles down on everything, like a wayward youth coming to rest. Air is still and dry. Afternoons are lazy, punctuated only by the whirring of the fans. Nights are restless and humid. Bahava trees shade their leaves, wearing long yellow strings of flowers like dangling earrings. Gulmohor petals smear the vacant roads in vermilion red.

No cliched romanticism of the rains and no festive cheerfulness of the winter, I love summers for sheer absence of pretense.

Bribe

I wake up to the cold bed-side, where you used to curl up, to the shrill alarm that you would generally switch off, just to wake me up with your sleepy 'good mornings'.

Your fragrance is wearing off that blue shirt now as inconspicuously as a lover falling out of love.

Silence screams in my house ever since you have left.

Dust is settling down on my guitar, melodies forgotten.

I have dinner in the hall, bits of stale pizza strew the floor. (Haven't you always hated that?)

I lay awake in spidery shadows of ceiling fan blades and end up at my study table, holding your favourite pen and a notebook. Forlorn words sneak out like nocturnal creatures crawling around paper.

And then late into the night (when I've 'got to' sleep), I bribe my eyes with the prospects of your dreams, to put them to sleep.

- Inspired by a really beautiful tweet I happened to stumble onto.

"बड़ी मुश्किल से सुलाया है मेने इन आँखों को

तेरे ख्वाबो की लालच देकर" - @friendlii_ghost

Baggage

She walked away, indignantly.
Her eyes were bloodshot.

She packed her bags and walked away.

Her dress was billowing around her ankles.

She didn't even look back and walked away.

Her last sob was clearly audible.

She turned on her heels and walked away.

Her hands fumbled at the door handle shakily.

She didn't stop to hear a goodbye and walked away.

Her cheeks were stained with tears.

She hasn't packed it all though.

So forgetful she is, as always.

Her perfume is still in our sheets.
Her earrings that oscillated as she spoke lay at the bedside table.
And her warm breath on the back of my neck while I played a melody for her.
Yes, her loving gaze as she fed me with her hands.
Not to forget, her tinkling laugh when she kissed me.
Oh, the taste of her lips!
Touch of her fingertips when she buttoned my shirt.
Sound of her scolding still rings my ears, she left that too.

So forgetful she is, as always.

Where do they sell the bags big enough to accommodate all these?

Refuge

Playful salty winds from the Arabian Sea fill air in deflated lungs of the colorful parachutes. Distant boats float idly in the sea, oscillating ominously with an occasional shake of a wave. Sun is melting gradually, making jade water glitter gold. Shore is just a faraway stretch of silver land drinking in molten gold from the west avidly.

I am soaring high above the sea.
All my worries are afloat below.
All unfulfilled dreams are being flown away by the gush of exuberant wind.
All my fears are cast away at the shore that is nowhere to be seen.

Yes.

I promise I will return to the ocean when things blow up beyond help.
Just to realize how tiny every problem is.

Rebuild

Sand tickles as it slips out from the bottom of her feet. Countless waves lap towards her with open arms as if to embrace an old friend, synchronizing the roar of the ocean with her heartbeats. Waves fight their way through huge black rocks, leftover water lashes towards shore to fill a stretch of marsh around wild spiny bushes of Kevada. Small crabs washed up on the shore find their way back determinedly.

She stands facing the sea, her hair billowing in the air, listening to its warmly familiar music.

She closes her eyes at the touch of each wave as it rises enthusiastically only to die down passively, nevertheless rising again with a whole new might.

'Now what?' The Small Voice Inside Her Head asks her.

'Next...?' She shrugs at a new wave materializing in distance, taking in the salty air in her lungs happily.

'Next.' The Small Voice Inside Her Head repeats serenely, 'Hope is a wave in the ocean called life.'

Distress Call

'Hmmmm... I understand.'
'Oh God, what are you going to do now?'
'You see??? I TOLD you!'
'How could you do this?'
'Chill. It's ok.'
'You should go out.'
'You have made a mistake! Didn't I warn you?'

In the pool of reactions, she seeks only one-

'Are you okay?'

April Fool

She joins the laughter of everyone who is tricking her today, on the April Fool's day.

As smug as they are, having fooled her, little do they know that there exist-

March Fool
February Fool
January Fool
December Fool
and so on.

And she has been all of them already.