Rules!

Don’t walk in if you don’t intend to stay.

Don’t write the same story twice.

Don’t ask if you really don’t want to know.

Don’t ask and then vanish without receiving an answer.

Don’t be cryptic about what you want.

Don’t be selfish about the time you give.

Don’t build the sand castle and viciously kick it down.

Don’t light fires if you don’t plan on feeding them.

Don’t bury the pieces if you plan to put them together.

Don’t begin stories if you don’t plan on ending them.

Wish you were here

I wish you could see how I feel about you. I wish you saw it two summers ago. I don't know how I managed to hide it, cos every time you talked to me, showed me more of who you are, told me your story, every time I touched you, every time we kissed, I could feel my heart overflow. I don't know if it's love. I don't know if I loved you, or if I am still in love with you, but I wish you were here. And I don't know if you really didn't see through my masks or if you did and you pretended like nothing exists, but I know you would like it here.

Making of a murderer

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to take a human life? I dreamt of it last night.

In my dream, I was riding him hard until at the very last minute,

I ran a knife right through his throat and watched calmly,

As a red blood spurted on my face and my hands

And he gasped and spluttered for breath

Holding on to his throat

Willing the air to stay in his lungs

Knowing that his struggle was going to end in a few seconds

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Yes, it is clichéd but it was the most satisfying dream I had in a long time! The satisfaction was palpable.

The scene changed

This time I stood before him,

With a hand gun that seemed like it was made for me.

Cold metal sleekly fit into the palm of my hand.

I raised my gun and gripped it tightly with both hands,

I could smell his fear

And his feeble cries for mercy

Sounded like music to my ears.

I squeeze the trigger

BAM!

Down he goes,

Blood on the walls.

I sniff the smoke hissing out of the gun, 

Pungent gunpowder

My heart racing and my ears ringing

My blood boiling

My heart swells with joy and excitement.

I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins

As I bend over him

And see the light leave his eyes.

I have never been so angry ever in my life. I was unaware that I am capable of murder. But I think I am and I think I will be very good at it. 

Cornell University, Ithaca, NY- A retrospective

There is something delicious about the cold morning air in upstate New York. You probably won't really notice it after living there for a few days, and positively hate it when it turns from "cold" to "can potentially murder you". Still visiting Ithaca this weekend was a like the afterglow of eating a good meal: you savour every moment and every flavor, you taste the vestiges of the meal in your mouth and revel in it, you feel satisfied and yet you miss it but you also know that it can't last forever. I suppose investing a part of yourself in any place by leaving behind a mixed bag of memories, some good and some terrible, would do that you.

For me it used to be Manipal: even after my trip there in 2014 where I realized that it was not as how I remembered it because most of the people that made it special were gone (except a few dear friends), I still think about it fondly from time to time, pictures and places and faces playing out in my head as if cloaked by an Instagram filter inspired by Joy from Inside Out, bathed by a warm yellow glow, all fuzzy around the edges. Needless to say that Cornell and I share a much more antagonistic relationship. But maybe that was because I barely had the time to find a foothold. Just as I was finally accepting the reality of being surrounded by remarkable people who are way more brilliant than I, and being comfortable with that and exploring more of the town and the campus detached from my insecurities, it was time to leave. Of course, everyone I knew went through the same thing. Perhaps I am more susceptible to emotional instability than the rest. There was no time to make peace or complete the journey from vitriolic hatred and fear to joyful wonder and acceptance. Even now I am happier about my childhood dream of living in New York City coming true, than my childhood dream of attending an Ivy League University coming true.

But after this weekend, I can make peace with the fact that even though I under performed and under achieved while I was there, even though I should have done thrice as much and expected half as much happiness, I am a tiny part of Cornell's 150 year old part history and Cornell will be a large part of me. I am grateful for the one year that has given me the identity I crave and the strength to keep holding on and to dig my claws into the bare-rock face of the gorges even as the cold and the wind and the disillusionment threatened to knock me over. Even though I am ashamed about not living up the Cornell name I am happy that at least I got the chance to belong.

Night fall in Ithaca is completely distinct from New York. Here, the metros rumble past my apartment all day, unflinchingly, even at 3 AM carrying the last batch of drunk night owls back to their tiny apartments. Even a introspective solo smoke session is interrupted by the chug-chug of the trains crashing along every few minutes of so. But in Ithaca, at 1 AM, everything is quiet. It is just you, your cigarette and your thoughts, accompanied by the dim humming of silence and the lights glowing and flickering in the valley below. As the snowflakes drift slowly from the ink-black sky, like little glass panes, catching the light, you can be at peace with yourself and with the world. So until next time, Cornell and Ithaca, be that little bubble of stillness in this mad world, and go easy on the kids this winter.

500 miles

You realize that you have been living in a haze.
Actually,
You already knew that.
You lose track of time,
Of how long you have been clutching at straws,
How many times you have wandered down the same road,
How many times you have felt that strange deja vu,
Of seeing the mile marker:
500 miles to freedom

Maybe it has been three years,
Or maybe seven!
The fog makes everything seem flat.
Grey oceans of thick,wet fog,
Rolling in ominously.
You walk in circles
And you see the mile marker
Again and again:
500 miles to paradise

You can't remember the last time you enjoyed doing something!
Solving a problem,
Creating art,
Working till your bones creaked,
Or your brain hurt.
All you can remember is grey.
A tuning fork humming steadily in the background,
An eternal note,
Echoing softly with clarity
In the fog,
As you stumble by the mile marker:
500 miles to life

You know you have walked thousands of miles.
Surely, this can't be right?
Despite the tired bones and the numb legs
You know you kept walking.
You never stopped.
Despite the nasty, cold, clammy mist against your cheek
Like dead fish,
You kept going.
Surely, "there" isn't that far?
But somehow you know,
As you trudge along, summoning all your energy,
As the mile marker comes up by the edge of the road,
Sitting innocently,
Barely visible through the fog,
You know it's going to say:
500 miles to home.

A case study of time and change

Time flies.
Time drips.
Time inches like a snail,
Leaving a sodden, slimy, trail in its wake.
Time flits,
Time lingers languidly,
Time flutters like a dancing snowflake,
There and then forever lost!

Four years, five years, six years.

We hope to change,
Grow, stronger and wiser like an oak tree.
I hold on to the broken pieces,
To the emotions of memories forgotten.

I have forgotten, but I cannot forgive.

Time grinds by,
Like a great wheel,
Crushing innocence and naïve dreams
I embrace the zest of the unknown,
And yet hang on to the murky past.
Perhaps, that will be the best it will ever be!

Time slips by,
Like a rich, satin cloth,
So smooth that we don’t notice it!
People, friends all seem to float along with it.
Time taking them to new journeys
Or destinations.
I hold fast to the creases on this sheet,
Desperately stalling the inevitable,
Holding on to any traces of having been human.
To have loved,
To have lost.

I wish I could say I have changed, but that’s a lie.

Time flows like a great river,
Meandering then furiously crashing,
A crescendo of angry froth.
Holding on to a piece of driftwood,
I try to swim against the current.
To validate my unfounded rage,
While the answer, I know, is to let go.

I will never let go.

Purge

In the beginning, there were bells and violins; the smouldering coals of passion and lust, increasingly frequently occluded by the the clouds of potential romance. In the end, there was the delicious saltiness of purging tears. Pain made her clean again.