the rag picker

Today while I was walking my way back from the institute, I saw a child. Someone whose resemblance matched that of the rag picker of my thoughts. I don’t know how old she was. Anyways she is starved enough to look half of her age.

Dark. She had hair that hadn’t been oiled for years. Stunted and small. She wore a green skirt which was too long for her. She walked with a gait that told me that she had never held anyone’s hands. Her tiny feet had no chappals. The road I knew was burning with the afternoon heat. May be that is why they were hurrying away. They- my rag picker and her mentor. She had a man who walked beside her. He hurried her along the way a shepherd leads his sheep.

I tried to keep pace with them. And then they halted. She wanted to see the children of the well-off do karate. That amused her.

Those kids had everything she had always wanted-clothes, food, comfort, love, a future. She didn’t even have a present. She lived on the streets—like an animal.

I waited for her to turn her face. I wanted to see her eyes, pale and small…I wanted to read her mind.

But as I walked away other thoughts meandered into my mind…


My heart doesn’t beat like it did
Tears have stagnated
Emotions are deep asleep
I have become so stoical
I have forgotten to fly
I am myself
Always alone
I am almost dead

before death

i might die in a few minutes. i am having a terrible heartache. if this is a real one, my heart might succumb. and then i was thinking the way i will be burnt. and then of the way, i will be gradually be wiped out of people's memories. of the things that are exclusively mine, like my cell phone, my computer, my bed, and many things alike, what would happen to them? there are many things that would die along with me. things that smell like me, things that have so much of me within them. people would fear my ghost. and who knows this is the last time i am blogging...

on love...

We ended up discussing on what love is. Su, Kasby, Annie, n I.
Su’s and Kasby’s view:
That person has to care for you right from the beginning (without you having any feelings for him). And then when you realize the extra attention he gives you, you begin to reciprocate. An understanding takes birth. And then you begin to trust him. Then love. And then you commit. Then marry. This is when you suppose that love is a two-sided machine. You can’t love someone, who doesn’t love you.

Annie’s and my view:
Love is something more instinctive. An inner call. It is something right from beginning. Neither a process, nor something, which has a thousand intermediate states. It’s a one-sided affair. and irrespective of the other person's feelings. Love is passion. And it’s reasonless. It’s not about commitment and marriage. People can definitely more than once, twice, thrice and so on... It’s not a once and for all kinda affair. And also that love is a rare human feeling that can't be explained. Wotcha tinkin'?

We are girls. We like not to make an issue out of anything. No matter how serious the matter is, we would never let it take up huge proportions. We would like it to die, suppressed. Why? Just because we are girls. We fear being known. Known for having objected to things that were wrong. We are born to shrink our shoulders and dig our eyes into the earth as if we were searching for our feet lost on the floor. We let obvious questions that we should ask this society; die unanswered, in some ghastly corner of our saintly hearts. Let ourselves rise above everything inferior we attach with being female. And all I am asking is why can’t we retaliate?


piya rey, piya rey
thaare bina laage nahin maara jiya rey...


It takes more than just time to heal the wounds of love. It takes hours and days of sitting alone, and staring at the sunset. A thousand silent words of consolation. Which you whisper to yourself. Streams of tears let flow relentlessly. Memories to be left behind. Memories, that gathered here and there, like layers of dust. Pages of confessions of love in that diary, to be burnt alive.

many moods...

Just a few days more,
Then you will be gone, I will be gone.
That tiny speck of time
When we fell in love with each other,
Will become a part of the past now.
Love will be dead forever. Forever.
The things that we shared will
Run for cover…
The road we walked on
Will die barren
The trees beside it
Will never flower again
And for who will the breeze blow?
For who will the moon shine?
When our love will
Sleep forever, die forever?


Today I was thinking about passion in my life. Or rather the lack of it.

My gender is so horrendously outnumbered, that we have very less exposure to everything. We kinda shrink into our own worlds, where there is more of monotony than anything else. Fostering a passion is generally considered abnormal. Being abnormal is considered insane. But you know what? I love being abnormal, because I know I am. I am insane according to healthy human standards. I am frustrated about life in my own kinda way. I am gratified about it in my own ways. Happiness for me a momentary state of mind. Long-term goals are an obvious no-no.

Basically, I am an observer, of things happening around me. Of these co-inhabitant homo sapiens. Yeah! I love to drown myself, observing these people. Whenever I see a new face on the street, all I want myself to be doing is to run to that person and ask him, “ will you tell me your story, your history?” I know that could mean being beaten up. I would also wanna ask, “ will you pose for my camera?, I wanna capture this moment, when I became a witness to the happenings of your life?” I would never get bored/impatient waiting for someone or something at a busstop/cinema/cafĂ©’ shop etc etc. all I do is sit/stand quietly and merge myself with the background, and dissolve myself observing…

So we conclude that “observing” is one of the passions of my life. And I do have other passions like grabbing hold of any readable material. And writing. Off late, blogging. Biting my nails is another. And staring into the dark is next. Plus who doesn’t die to go for long walks (preferably alone)?


Having long tresses like those of shakira would be so sexy, right? Wet and entangled. Hair caressing your waist. Spanking awesome. My hair would show the free spirit I am.

The second thing you notice in Jiah Khan after her long legs, is the hair. Wild hair…not the silky shiny locks they show in shampoo adds. But hair that I ne’er cared to take care of…Hair that has been abandoned. Left to flourish in the vagaries of nature and life. Hair that speaks about the life I spent, about the person I am…

But you know what? Every time I decide to let my hair grow, I end up cutting them shorter. I am afraid; I would end up with no hair someday…

This is yet another of those challenges of modern day living…Long hair, for me, remains locked in the silver screen, or in that niche I carved out for myself in this crazy world of yours. God bless me and my hair.