A Million Dreams

It's been exactly seven days since I last saw him in the crooked roads, his unkept beige hair running wild in the winds, those lost eyes as if searching for forever, the cheek I touched every now and then, the lips I kissed a thousand times over, and the smile.  The smile which made my day, my night, that smile which was my sun my centre of the universe, my weakness, my love. I remember every small detail about him, his habits - how he clicked random pictures without any meaning or story and how he used to keep my photograph in his purse, how he used to call me by the nickname only he was allowed to use, how he used to squish my cheeks with his rough but caring hands, how he used to look at me as if there's no tomorrow, as if today is the last that we are meeting, and me, seeing his face for the last time. Who'd known that one day all these metaphors would take the fate in their favour and turn out to be bitter but true ? Certainly, neither of us, but that's when ou

Here I am, standing lone not so proud but vigil, dying seventeen minutes a time yet to figure out life if it's beautiful or bowed down moribund at dusk, dreary at dawn. It's been a while since I left not some other mortal but myself has anyone seen my will to live ? but it's okay, there are more corpses like me breathing. With another revolution round the giant star of faith' n hope embedded in my name burning slow, seeking happiness in misery, finding chords at chaos, telling myself when am still sane it's not a good time to sink. but with the vigil refusing to die the head to bow, heart to cease, I'll be walking lone, maybe ? without you someday, to find reason if not the will maybe? Someday I'll be there, free. Free. 

My brother and I have a sweet and sour relationship like all brothers do. We usually don't fight that much, but whenever we do we make sure it's for that last piece of cookie. I think WWIII would be fought because these companies pack an odd number of cookies in each packet. I'm two years older than my brother and I have absolutely no shame admitting that I just can't give away my share that easy. Last night my father returned from Kolkata and brought some confectioneries he got during his last meeting. My brother was asleep then and I had seen where my mother hid the packet of our favourite cookies. She does that all the time because snacks don't last long in our house. I woke up this morning and my mother told she had some work to do so she had already cooked the lunch and gave me some of the most definitely difficult tasks ever. I noted them down one by one as I knew I would forget most of them if I didn't. To Do. • Take the milk, boil it. • Give dirty

// Some stories are better left, unsaid. Some people, unloved. // When you'll be reading this, I'll be probably trying my best to murder my feelings. The world is filled with two kinds of people, dangerous and beautiful - this was my point of view till I met you. Beautiful, because what you are. I know the fact that a broken heart seeks love, and mine is like a jar of sand, somehow kept inside that thin mortal glass. Maybe, am the most unloved soul you'll ever find, maybe there's someone worse but that's not the point, am a broken piece of shit, That is. Am just another broken dream, out of a million beats, out of a billion faces, am just another book which wants to be reread, to be pampered, to be cured. The last reader tore a lot of pages, keeping the roots attached,  scratched my skin, etched her name deep inside me. Then replaced me when she finished her favourite chapters, but never turned the unread. I don't know why am writing, maybe because

Why is the soil from a prostitute's home used during Durga Puja? It  is perhaps one of the most hypocrital traditions of modern Indian society. While throughout the year, the prostitutes are shunned, looked down upon, insulted and ill-treated, come Navratri or Durga Puja and suddenly, they are revered and in demand. The reason? The idol of Goddess Durga is partially made from the soil collected from outside a prostitutes’ home. The soil known as “Punya Maati” comes from the nishiddho palli or the forbidden territories. The priest making the idol and conducting the puja must beg for the soil from a prostitute. Quite a quirk of fate but why exactly is the soil from a prostitute’s house used? Unfortunately, there are no concrete answers. Many priests of today just shroud it under the cloud of tradition. “It has been happening so since centuries. Why do we suddenly question tradition? Also, the first ever Durga idol made was made from the soil outside a prostitute’s house”, were

Hurting sentiments and hurling abuses, since childhood were taught the wrongs. Not treating it as just a tone, what we learnt, I know life's not fair, neither am I. Yes, the tone of my skin is not pearl-ish, It's rugged and tanned, has burns and scars. Some cuts which embraces the brown, between the midst of white dermis. Life would be much beautiful and carefree if the people were blind, blind enough to peep into souls and not faces. Blind enough, not to judge people. People preach promises, but they care a fig. Teaching wrong lessons about the skin. Why can't all the colours be considered pretty ? Why can't we stand by what we are ? White is beautiful, but when black is the colour of the soul, It doesn't matter, which poison you apply. Can't we be fearless enough ? Strong and rigid to say, to shout, to scream ? Yes, am a proud brown with a hint of colour, but am not less beautiful than you're, All you do, is enjoy demise and mis