Knocking on Heaven's Door

“Token no. 89330011294297667?”

The guard with a very silly wreath on his head stares at me, as I hand him over the torn parchment with my token on it. It was generated, as soon as I died.

“Child, we are still at numbers starting with 3…, are you sure this is correct?”

Ask your Daddy dearest – His queue machine gave me that, I say in my head. I nod at him again, reminding myself my sarcasm would get me into trouble here.

“You will have to wait till the numbers before you are done – the machine must have malfunctioned. No worries, see that park there? Go wait out – you will love the place, your transcript says you love nature and painting. You will have plenty to keep yourself busy.”

For an angel, he is quite chatty, and I hate his plastic smile. I take my parchment back and glide over to the park.

I am not exactly surprised that my number isn’t up. I take a nice deep breath in – the cherry trees are in full blossom, in January nonetheless. The grass crunches beneath my feet as I find my spot beside the smooth steel sheet of water in the lake.  There is already an aisle, some sheets and paints waiting for me. The perk of being dead, I think to myself, is that you no longer need payment gateways.

The other people, or souls that come after me, wave at me at times, or simply trudge through the gate to Heaven, after handing over the token to the guard. I feel pity for him, quite a boring gig. He would have done well as a model for Vogue.

“Your brush strokes are lovely Mia. You must be so talented.”

I nod. I smile. I know the drill. I did that when I was alive as well. I check the ornate calendar hanging on the wall by Raffe’s station. For an angel, his name seemed cool. He had hideous choice of wall décor though.

One month, 24 days since I died.

“Your friends miss you - Tanya and Yvonne. Even Jay. Such a pretty boy he is.”

I wish he would stop talking to me. I have never responded back. I guess nonverbal communication is just as sucky here as on Earth. Tanya has a son now. She won’t miss me. Yvonne is busy with her dreams, she couldn’t make time for my funeral.

And Jay. Dear Jay. He had all the time in the world to fall in love with me, but would only realize that as I lay in my coffin.

They were all waiting for me to be happy, and getting tired of it. I was too. My death was well timed I think.

I sigh and check the pile of books beside me. New books have already been added overnight. I clap my hands at the dragon shaped bookmark fashioned out of steel.

Two months, twelve days.

I look at the meandering queue in front of me, and their tokens still starting with 4. I think how their lives have been – sad, happy, triumphant, pathetic. Atleast death was seamless. No waiting around in the park and sharpening your hobbies for them. This anomaly had happened only twice before me, since the birth of man.

Ain’t I lucky?

Four months, five days.

The sky always changes colours here, blue, inky black, purple, red. The Powers-to-be gifted me a husky last week, who is always around. Nipping at my feet, licking my face. I love Hugo. And I know, my wait has just been extended.

I am used to waiting, I tell myself. I nod, smile and wave as I should. Raffe gets promoted to some other post, as I don’t see him anymore. As the year turns, he is replaced by Amy. She is nice and quiet, and would sometimes come sit with me by the lake and watch the earth go around the sun, ever so slow and consistent in its pace.

I see my room being used by new tenants in our old house. The appointment letter from Ogilvy was thrown away in the dumpster. It had arrived a day after my accident.

I see Jay getting married. I hear his sad monologue by my grave. I don’t feel a thing. He isn’t the one who had to live without being loved back.

Yvonne and Tanya have become best friends. That didn’t irk me. I had always felt like a filler with them. Tragedies seem to bring people closer.

The huge oak trees in my neighbourhood are cut down, despite my initiative to save them. I guess, whatever I did when I was alive, crumbled down miserably at the end. I laugh to myself. I realize, the larger part of my thirty years of existence was spent in waiting for things to happen. For the reader, this must sound sad. Why didn’t you make things happen?

I did. I went to Europe. I worked at an animal shelter. I rescued a bird.  I tried dating apps, gave it my all. I read so much. I loved Jay like Icharus loved the sun. I created five different resumes. I lighted candles in the church. I studied products, and business, and marketing. I cooked. Painted a lot. Danced.

And then I waited.

Enough efforts, and effort to be enough are two different animals altogether. And somewhere in between, I was stuck in limbo, counting down or up, I never seemed to know.

One year, twenty days.

The park seems just like my life sometimes. Frozen, beautiful on the outside. Perfect in its dimensions. Glowing with adulation. But you delve deeper, and you see no life of its own. It is as it should be to each waiting soul. A library to some, a jogging track to others. To me a park.

Five years, three months, two days.

You would think with the number of deaths in the world, my turn would have come eventually. I’m sure it will. As I’m sure you always had a plan for me.

But with the stated arguments above, or rather with the detailed journaled case that I have sketched for you, I reject your offer of being admitted to heaven.

When I died more than a year back, I had thought I would be at peace, just silent, as always, but above tears, and heartbreak, and the hopeless chasm of living. But the offer came with an additional burden of replicating what I had seen as I was alive, and that doesn’t suit me anymore. I understand that no soul can just drift around to survive on its own.

But sir, let me take that chance. As I am done waiting the chance to come to me. I don’t want chances anymore. I just want to separate myself from the rut of the so-called competition for jobs, for love, for entry to heaven to rest in peace. I lose either way, alive or dead.

I’m rather tired. Even after dying.

Hence, please accept this as a formal letter of rejection.

Raffe and Amy are brilliant soldiers of your cause, and they have been good friends to me. I leave this letter with the parchment token with her, respectfully declining to be a part of your games. As unnoticed as I have been all my life, I hardly think, my absence would cause any inconvenience.

I would make sure, though, that you are aware of my location – I won’t make things dramatic by completely disappearing.  My postcards would be with Amy. I apologise, but I will take Hugo with me as well.

I hope we meet some day, over tea and cupcakes, and discuss about life, worlds, origins and everything.

But I am not waiting for that.

Respectfully,

Soul no.: 89330011294297667

More or Less

As a kid, there would always be someone, be it parents, role model, the neighbour’s cool kid or your teacher, who told you to be more. More than just an average Joe, more than a good student, or a passable singer. More than just a good human being, more than loving. You always needed to be more than where you were, or what you were. Success, would be scaled on how many mores you climbed, or how many such levels you crossed. Social, academics, spiritual or emotional. Hence, growing up, you never rested with just 90% in your grades, or just one friend or a degree. There was so much more outside your window.

However, after 27 years of being alive in a world full of mores, I have realised how we forget to tell our children to draw the line somewhere. That sometimes, being lesser works for the best. Works better for him. We don’t tell him that with all the mores that you accumulate in your hat, you are pushed farther away from others and from the normality defined by our skewed society. We don’t teach him how to separate the mores that are accepted by people as good, wanted, and those that just make him weird or too much to handle.

You cannot be too good, too sweet. You cannot be too open or too strong. Too talented, or an over achiever. Not to the extent that people around you feel uncomfortable. For being normal, in the banal definition of the world, the standards of more are defined as well, and the moment we exceed that, the red lights of “Outlier” flashes on our heads.

We don’t tell him that somewhere down the line, in 20 years, people with lesser range of emotions, lesser range of achievements, somehow end up happier. Content. We don’t tell him that at the end, being happy is all that matters.

So, after a mindless struggle of conforming to nonsensical rules, and being torn apart by others’ expectations and our own responsibilities and desire, we reach at a point to wonder, was it worth it at all? It isn’t enough to be more. It isn’t enough to want to know more, be more, and learn more. Explore or feel more. You have to eventually garner the strength to tolerate isolation. As this is the breed that is never satisfied with the mundane normal levels. They look up to the sky and feel the need to fly. To travel to a thousand worlds on an imaginary ship made of shells. Or paint pictures of the sea on the sand with a permanent dye. Intensity and passion is what their blood is made of. Their minds are beyond cages of normalcy. Yet, such a thing is dangerous. So many levels, so many layers to a person is exhausting, it is a thing of fear. It doesn’t excite people to take the pleasure of peeling such layers off that person, to know a different version every day, every night.

To know that today she is the lamb, tomorrow the vixen.

That today, he is my saviour, and tomorrow my destruction.

In a world that is over simplified with science and technology, with intelligence and detachment, why would such a wondrous task not fill us with enthusiasm, the joy to look forward to learn of more such dimensions, to tear through till we reach the core, and hold his/her beating heart on our skin to warm our own. What is the point of extending our reach to more than just three dimensions in reality, if, in life, all we are up for is dealing with one dimensional humanity?

No, don’t get me wrong. I have no objections to simplicity – in liking just one flavour of ice cream, or just one movie. Having read just one book end to end. Or being simply nice. Or completely evil. I am not advocating to complicate your life just for the sake of it. For the sake of being more. The thin line separating those two existences, of why we don’t fully grasp the concept of accepting it as it is, worries me. Simple. Complicated. Circle. Square. Hideous. Fresh. Straight. Jumbled. It just is.

So, I would tell my children, that it isn’t enough being more. That there is a clear choice in being different and being accepted. I would tell her to have the strength in order to be a misfit. In order to be complicated. If she likes both blue and green, it presents a problem to the concept of simplicity. If she wants to be nice and slutty. If she enjoys parties and her isolation. These questions, these mere thoughts cause confusion, a hassle to people, as loving her would be exhausting, and require so much efforts to just know her all. I would tell her, to be prepared to be alone, or to bear the pain of breaking her bones to fit in the box. I would tell her to not look beyond the simply sweet girl for a friend, to only be reliant on make-up hobbies but not to cherish a monster truck fetish along with it as well. I will tell her to reduce the number of dimensions she adds to herself, as it makes her exotic – a thing worthy of a 10 minute discussion, or jealous whispers, but never a cherished possession, or wanted company. Very few would dare to delve into her depths, or find joy in the layers she adds to the diurnal mundane walks of life. I will tell her, not to be too much. Too much to be herself and be rejected. Or be rejected, and yet find that happy bubble of self-worth to keep her life afloat, even when I am not around anymore. I will tell her, the world is only ready to walk on moon, and understand the core of the earth. That the world wants to fight over God and be moved when animals are slaughtered. But they are yet to understand their own need for acceptance, an insane desire of being a part of the society when most of them are misfits. They are yet to overcome the fear of isolation, of being associated with that weird kid in their class. Of being responsible of understanding and embracing the many layers within them and others.

Simplicity is a treasure to enjoy, and cherish. Of course. But were we made to be simple, at all? With 206 bones, and the inexplicable lines on our palms, with the grey and white matter both, and an appendix that can be removed with no visible harm to the body functions. If nature designed us to be a complex jumble of sweat, blood and bones, of emotions and wisdom, why do we settle for lesser, why do we force unwilling participants to join an abysmal race of normality? Where is this book of normality anyway? Who wrote it? Why do we adhere to it with such fear and vigour?

Why do we always aim to fit in the box, when we could fly to the stars and conquer our dreams? Why reduce the purpose of being alive to commit to the rote of monotone, when it was to enjoy and bask in the wonders of the world? Until our wings fall off, or we are burnt away to cinders. Until there is so much love connecting us, that no one is left alone. Until we stop defining the mores and lessers.

For the love of Thira

If I were to sum up 2015 in a few words – I would say, a crappy year. That’s it. But, then, I will take a pause, breath in and let my mind astray into the closed box of memories that I keep away from the reach of my monsters. And there, by the end of the lane, where the bulb in the lamp post flickers incessantly, while the rest of the area is plunged in darkness, I arrive at my hidden portal. It houses those bits of happy places that still warm me, when the cold outside is biting or the heat is intolerable.

Amongst the sheaf of memories is my Christmas of 2015. Amongst those very heaps is my new year of 2016. That snowy night, counting down to midnight in a small club by the road, hidden from view by more of those pretty houses and the rocky roads. A shot each, with best of friends. Music thumping in our ears. Pretty, pretty Fira. You stole our hearts, locked it away for good in your mystic enthralling air.

A note here for the people who plan to visit Thira – everything is closed on January 1. We walked on for endless miles in search of highly reviewed eateries, only to be disappointed. Not even the towns, or churches were open. But that’s the catch, as, dear traveller, I cannot begin to tell you what that does to you. That you are there. In the cradle of that unsurpassable beauty, alone. With no sounds of modernity, the din of human intervention. You are there, alone, to absorb in all of that intoxicating aura, undisturbed. That your voice echoes through the small steps leading up to a blue domed church. Pine cones litter the streets, and you walk on them to reach this place, where, as the sun spreads its splendour in the horizon, the colours brewing in front of you make you feel small and yet so lucky.

So, before we start, even the idea, that I can describe Santorini and pen down an experiential treatise, is laughable. This can only be a mechanical journal of the places we covered. Because, to write down, what that experience actually did to our minds, is an impossible feat for mere mortals like me. So, just take my word, save up a little and take that trip that you have been planning unconsciously, when those blue domes and white walled pictures creep up on your social media pages. Nothing can do justice to what you behold when you are there. The caldera, the calm sea waters and standing aimlessly at the Ammoudi Bay. That is exactly what I did. Stared.

And I walked. Walked in those narrow lanes of white walls, looking over the sea, and a hint of sunlight bouncing off the bluest of domes, and that stationary windmill. I heard my heart race, and my breath mist in front me, swirling into shapeless forms, dissipating in the chilly winds, and the shallow snow. I was blinded, breathless, almost as if my soul, at that moment left my body to fly over that mesmerising sight. Oia, that little village of those ethereal pictures captured by travellers. And I stood in its narrow lane, trying to memorise every particle of that moment in my air, my taste buds. The magic of the gods and humans to create such a thing of pure joy and wonder. The touch of two shades blending in with nature to burst in your eyes into a plethora of all things good. And finding that little book shop, tucked in its corner, a smiling cat and a happy dog.

A slice of heaven, is what I would say if someone were to ask me to describe that moment. For it is a place where colours come to life and dance mysteriously to hypnotise you. Where rocks, water, trees and earth twist and turn to make you wonder at how such beauty is even possible. The red sea, the black sea, the meandering passages of those little towns of Firostefani and Immerovigli, the village of Pyrgos. I don’t think I can ever cease this list of the secrets of Thira. The secrets that you unravel with your stay, the little moments of pure awe and then a feeling of thanking your stars for this moment in your life, where nothing sad, no misery can touch you. Thira makes you feel special, beautiful, it makes you embrace all the happy parts in you and hug yourself in joy. You don’t want to leave. You don’t really want to leave.  

It was, in a way, truly fortunate, that we chose to visit at a time, when Santorini isn’t crowded. At all. It almost felt like we were the only people there, basking in all of that majesty. Summers would definitely have a lot of holidaying crowd. But I am told, early December, is an ideal time to visit this breath taking Greek island as well. Although, if you were like me, you would have fallen in love with the isolation, and the feeling of getting lost in those pine shaded roads, or the white washed little homes, the majestic volcano view and the bright and riveting Aegean Sea. No man can return from Santorini without realising what true beauty is, without being awed to the marrow of his bones. Without wanting more, a slice, a morsel of that, forever in his blood. Without leaving his heart behind, to mesh in with the air.

Somewhere down the line, I would like to hope that petty money matters will cease to be the purpose of my life and, marriage and children wouldn’t be the sole destination of my existence. No, they aren’t unimportant. Don’t start bickering with me on that. But a 21^st century female participant of the rat race, is hardly a master of her destiny. All I say is for hungry souls like mine, for thirsty eyes like I have, for taste buds that want to forever churn the salt and sugar of wonders and fear, for ears that yearn for the sounds of magic and the tinkle of fairy dust from the church bells, for brains whose nature is too volatile to be contained in jars of jobs and happy homes – that we take that one way ticket, get a job in the bakery round the street in Fira square, right next to the music store and never come back. Till the senses have had their fill, till the art in your veins have flooded the air, and you have soaked in all the glory of the place. To be lost to something of worth, of dreams. Just once, for a while.

Istanbul's invisible magic

I have often wondered about déjà vu. How some things would suddenly feel like a part of you, like they have always been under the skin – running through your veins quietly. How you have been here before, maybe aeons ago. Or many lives ago.

Istanbul. Having read so much about it, to prepare for the dream tour, and, more so in one of my comfort fantasy novels, nothing could have prepared me for the pulse in that city. Like one of those echoes that sometimes rings through your soul. The ones that go unnoticed. The regular day job of living, leaves no scope of listening to those unnerving sighs from within your heart. It just doesn’t.

But Christmas 2015 was like a trip to the boulevards of my mind. Istanbul, you have made me more than the usual invisible wreath of bittersweet blossoms that I paint myself to be. More than the whining winds that rattle in my head. There is a place between the mysteries of the times past, and the fast paced modernity of the present – a place where time stops at wonders, smooths over rough patches and flows on effortlessly. Yes, Malachi had it correct in his words. Istanbul calls out to your soul.

Was I biased to the streets and monuments that I had read about numerous times? Istanbul was a place, where angels fell in love. How could I not be? Just with the vibe. The air. The music. An almost physical presence that I could, if I wanted to, reach out and hold for a beating second.

I don’t think words would be enough to summarise my three day visit to the magical city. I don’t think it can be summarised in three days. I would take a week to just walk around in Sultanahmet – the old roads, the tram routes, just walk past the shops, the little cafes, the road signs to different cities of the world. Walk aimlessly. The food that you see through the glass, or the thick black coffee.
Hard bread and cheese. So much cheese.
And you stand near the Hippodrome, surrounded by the majestic architectural wonders of Topkapi, Blue Mosque or Aya Sofia. And you breathe in the old air, with the cackling electricity of life's secret - the way all religions had been churned together to create such glory.
So, all you can do is walk and soak in. The summer air, the winter chills. Not too cold. Not hot at all. The buzz. The talks.

The incessant sounds of the Grand Bazaar. The colours. The vibrant, seducing colours. Some muted, or incandescent. Shining bright from the glass shards in the lamps in consecutive shops. Or the flavoured teas, so many, calling out to us tea lovers. A cacophony of life, music and joy.
I don’t want to pen down a travelogue, about the mystical Aya Sofia, or the Galata tower. And the effervescence of Istiklal. The ancient charm that still kissed some parts of the city, yet the present times meandering through Beyoglu. I would rather talk about that constant presence of something, a spirit, a whisper, in the streets there. A mix of everything that I can think of to define life. Of sometimes a glimpse of the misery. Of people in love. Trying to escape. Just being. Different colours. Tongues. Of a fleeting moment of joy in finding a Bengali trying to refill her Istanbulkart. Of the man by a restaurant balancing 5 wine glasses on his head, in tune with the street musicians. There was never a moment vacant. Of not wanting to explore more. To stop.

There was nothing empty there.

Could these be the rantings of a tourist? Yes of course. But as I stood there, staring at the cavernous, magnificent Underground Palace, wishing a little wish, watching the fishes swim past the coins, I would always be filled with awe for that moment. That breathtakingly, still moment of my life, where I was a character of history, fantasy and dreams. Out from the book, looking at the normal people. Basking in the magic. I almost had wings. Or maybe fins. Red horns. Maybe a blue beak. And feline eyes. A mythic creature, in a mythic land. And then again shape shift into a human to melt into the streets of the bazaar, the city.

This article wasn’t meant to be a journal to point out what you should definitely try, or the tops 10 things to do in Istanbul. It was more on what you would feel. Just beyond the horizons of beauty, the wonder and the city itself, the realism of the brick and the roads, is that realm of magic that you would feel inside you.  I hope that you do. Atleast once. No pictures, or pen would do justice to what the city is.

Istanbul, you chimera. You have bewitched me. And I would crave for that magic in every turn of my life. And I would suck on the spirit that I borrowed from you to imbue in mine. And carry that charm, in my blood henceforth.

An awestruck, hungry-for-more tourist, signing off.

Soulmate

Soul. That diseased, ignored fragment of life within her. Tearing her apart with its words. Making her whole with its love.

That white, glowing floating entity, remember? That part of her attending the judgement call, after her body is turned to dust. Her soul peeked in from the heavens and laughed when her friends recalled memories, and cried when her father held on to her sweater and cried. Each night.

Whoever said that her soul was just one? She was comprised of tiny bits of those white incandescent things. They floated around in her body, free, bouncing off one another, filling her with light. That day when this journey started, her mind was filled with their babble. All of hers in a chaotic tunnel.

They talked to one another, giggled when her tongue was tied as that tall geeky guy said hi. They wanted her to flirt, to change her social media status so that he thought she was so cool.

They poked at her, when she thought about ways to exact revenge on the bitch who flirted with him, some of them at least, the rest of those bits gave her a thumbs up. “You don’t always have to be an angel”, they said. And when her friend in the adjoining cubicle jumped into conspiring further about how to swap her compact with chalk powder, those tiny “soul” bits in her revered her, and did the hula dance. Soulmate, her friend was – hating the same bunch of god awful pretentious women. Bitching, hating, sassing was only ever fun with company. And that girl next to her cubicle was the perfect piece to this dimension in her. She even liked the same boys. She found what she was missing – that one other who understood the illusions of life, the charm of music and the liberation in dance. 

But you told her, there was something still missing.

Those tiny soul bits would explode with joy when she headed back and found her roommate waiting up for her, with a hot meal. Talk about the day. The intolerable boss. Those never-ending spreadsheets. They hated her boyfriend who was too perfect to be true. They even made you think what was so special about her. But, some of those bits in her fell in love with her roommate each day, when she braided her hair. And when she smiled in ecstasy as she gave her a head massage in return. She found in her the peace of home, away from home.

You told her, don’t you see how incomplete you are?

Some of those bits fluttered with joy, when after ages, that boy, who she helped cheat in college exams, who watched all those super hero movies with her, fought with her over who got the Wonder Woman figurine, called and chatted for over an hour. He asked, did she know about the Suicide Squad movie? No one understood the importance of graphic novels like he did. Who would get, why Batman could beat Superman, and why Jean Grey died so many times, if not him? She felt alive, talking about those movies, and that series, which she couldn’t make head or tail of, and he would calmly explain what DDOS in Mr. Robot meant. Those tiny soul bits in her, shared an immense tub of popcorn with similar bits of him and laughed till they gagged while watching Shutter. It was a funny ghost movie, wasn’t it? She found the wings to her imagination, the endless watchlist of movies and the perfect partner to duel with about the same.

You pointed out, that she had to realise what was missing, what still wasn’t complete.

Some of those bits in her rejoiced at the sight of fried chicken, and the others revolted, and put up banners of, “Eat Healthy, will you?”

She found reprieve in eating till she burst with her friend. She hated her thick thighs, and those soul bits made her sigh when a skinny female walked past her. She found serenity in exercising, for just a week, with another one of her best buds. Those soul bits made her head ache. To eat or not to eat?

Those bits in her found solace in the girl next door, heart broken, suffering alone and a lover of wine. Twin sisters. Her bits and yours wiped each other’s tears and hoped for a better tomorrow. Her friends wouldn’t know how to stitch up a broken heart. But she did. The girl always in black and three piercings, shy smile. She would look at her and tell her in no words, that somethings never really lasted in reality, but it was okay to try and make them last in your mind till as long as you wanted. It was okay to remain wounded till you wanted to heal.

She burst into tears when her brother came back from the city with a bundle of books. And when the both of them read to each other, stories of war, history, myths and magic till the sun came upon them. Her soul bits loved the sound of his voice. She would never have known the wonder of reading if not for him. That little escape window. That little treasure hunt for the deepest secrets of life. A Book. All her soul bits would wait till the weekend, to go huddle in the café shop, and wait for her brother and for the next story. She thought she found her missing pieces every time she read.

They found home when she picked up the paint brush and followed the strokes of her father on the empty canvas. Her mind rode free, found a new light in the myriad of colours, in the crinkled eyes of her father when he smiled. Life seemed complete.

Was it, you asked.

Those bits glowed more with pride, as she successfully closed a big deal. Added another certificate, and a small medal to her cubicle. They made her think, how lucky she was, educated, smart and going places. What else would she need?

Are you sure, you asked her again.

You asked, and you questioned, and filled her head with an absurd idea of completeness- a wholeness that clung to our eyelashes during our last dream of the night. In the sighs after reading a fairy tale. Your questions gradually silenced those glowy bits in her.

And then she had to grab all those pieces and glue them together. Hold them all in her hands at once, even as some slipped away, fell off, spilled over, never to be collected. That thing she made, as the pieces were stuck together, never thought freely again. Never watched a movie without thinking of spreadsheets. Never ate with a smile. Never found the time to read. She hoped that those pieces would together find a match, who would give her all – the highs and the lows, the warmth and the cream from his coffee cup. The words and the colours. That's what you were hinting at all along, weren't you?

You made her stitch them together, and match with something, someone who would make her complete. Whole. Surely, there was someone, she thought, ecstatic – who would fulfil all that she had found and more.

And hopes turned brittle with time, as the pieces were eroded by the storm, and none could escape. Stuck together in a two dimensional form, stored in an obvious visible alcove of her heart – that entity was robbed over and over in a journey that, in reality would never have a destination. Which in fact, never had to be a journey at all. Maybe, if they were free, some would have escaped, some survived to preserve a semblance of her in the  book of life. A memory of her laughing, crying or maybe just reading. A blush on her face as he stroked her chin. And then let her fly on the wings of her imagined beast with three horns. Maybe if they were free, he wouldn’t have left her, because she was too much.

Why don’t you ask now, if that was complete?

As her body turned to dust, those bits in her exploded within. They weren’t meant to be together, you know. They weren’t meant to be for just one person to trap her. She was a phoenix of the tales, a butterfly emerging from the caterpillar. Sometimes that brooding owl as well. Her separate forms were what made her a wonder. A spell. How could just one be a supposed soul mate? Your idea of the perfect wholeness ripped her apart, while gluing those bits together forcefully. Those bits in her found their mates in that boy who smiled, in that friend who she shopped with, in her brother’s voice, in her father’s eyes. Even the stranger who played online quizzes with her. Until you forced her to hold those pieces together. All in the quest for something that could never be. A person that wasn’t possible. Could you be so many things to another? Would you want so many things from another?

Was that fair? Was it needed?
How many lost souls would be bartered for your idea?
She was stranded on a lonely road, as slowly those bits lost their light. Gradually, the spark diminished in the thirst for the match.
How many such stories would you see, running in time loops?
Do you not see, that the farce you created was like a mirage in the desert, like the belief that a fairy sat on our shoulders guiding our paths, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Generations ruined, dreams buried, lives burnt in the search of one answer, when there were several, waiting to be embraced. All those bits that made her, deserved to live. Each could be loved.
All the glowing embers of the fire within her. All the stars on her body. All her forms. All her souls. 

So, she asks you, did her soul, have to, have to be just one?

The Perfect Matrimony Pic

To Future Husband,

That picture you have of me- The gums are visible, you see, in it. The smile gets ruined, they say – makes me look too enthusiastic. And too happy.

That’s not right. Why should I look too happy in the picture? I’m only having fun with my friends in the pub. And damn, those legs are visible too. I know your paternal uncle, the one who visits you once in every two years would really dislike such a shameless woman to be included in the family.

Would you not drool at my exposed back? But then so would the 150 men liking my picture on Facebook. I mean, come on! How can a girl from a respectable family, unmarried, independent, working, educated, smart and funny at that, even think of doing that?

As for me, it would make me proud when I think of the things you have done, of your degrees and achievements. Of the people who look up to you. That the family adores you, mine and yours. That no matter what, they’ll know you are around. I’d smile, (with my gums visible, mind you!) and show off, that I’m so lucky to have you in my life. That you didn't judge me by the fact that I like clubbing, and that it isn't boring that I don’t drink or smoke. That I have had boyfriends before. That I’m hilarious, and talented, and always interesting to be around. That you like the corners I keep painting about, that I dance while I make tea. And I sing. A lot. And the house is strewn with papers with poems and stories scribbled on it.

That was the reason, wasn't it?

And you would know more of me, when you step away from the typecast pinned up in your mind, and put in an effort.

Let the reason not be the fact that I can feed you, and your friends and family. I don’t mind doing that. But it isn't my job description. That when you saw my picture I was thinner, I had lost weight, just for that purpose. And if you do turn me down, please let it be not because I don’t laugh at all your jokes, and that I can conjure better comebacks. 

That I love my long hair, faded grey tee and shorts. And I hate make-up.

That there can be things in the world that I would know more about than you.

I would choose you as you wouldn't stereotype me as a feminist when I refuse to be responsible for the evening tea every day. I would choose you because you can talk about Wilde, Dexter, the Avengers, F1 racing and books. For at least an hour. And that time wouldn't matter when I’m with you, just talking.  

I would choose you because you wouldn't be worried if I knew more about sex. Or have questions about it. Or that the fact that I can initiate a conversation doesn't mean I’m over smart. And that I can be interested in football too. And have an opinion and not be afraid to express it. I would choose you because you would respect my space, my crazy artsy space. And I would understand your deadline chasing, jock jokes world. I care about family, so do you. I like having fun, so do you. I like books, and you like your evening jog. And this would carry on too, and life wouldn't be just about settling bills and buying groceries. And that’s our world put together with the scraps of our imagination. Not with one picture of what you or others painted in your mind revolving around your world.

MBA, and a prior engineer, with a plethora of hobbies, working as a consultant. I have crazy work hours like you. Isn't it perfect that I would actually sympathize with your work schedules as well? And I wouldn't complain when you forget dates, as, hell, I would too.

So before you go any further, take a good look, I’m imperfect with that too enthusiastic smile, having fun at a beach, with a tan. I’m 26, and not waiting for my knight. I prefer being my own knight. I even prefer being the wild horse running across the sun kissed sands of the same beach. Not worrying that my hair is out of place, that I’m not always surrounded by gawking men who think I’m way too hot.

I want you because you would love living with me.

I’m me. I commit for life. I love unconditionally. I come with my burden of mistakes and joys.

I respect you and what you stand for. And that’s what I ask in return.

I don’t mind the millions of pints of beer you had, or that you enjoy staring at beauty. I do too. Only human. Doesn’t have to do anything with the chromosomes we have. But at the end of the day, there’s nothing more I’d love than to share a tub of popcorn with you over an action flick, or just share coffee and go back to our monotony of work, sitting beside each other.

With love,

The prospective Bride.

Lucifer Lost

I say, have you seen my cat Lucifer around?

She is never late, annoyingly  too time bound

I tell myself I don’t like your piggy eyes

They dart about, windows to your soul of ice

I know, I am sure, I sent Lucifer to you

As I saw you alone on your porch, weak and blue

Lucifer could cheer up zombies, did you know

I was sure, she would get you out of your low.

And now I search for her everywhere

In the streets, greener fields and those too bare

Don’t you tell me, she would be back eventually

Who knows if she is hurt, or dying in a dark alley

You've had your fill, I scowl and say

And now, of course you wouldn't care.

She is afraid of the dark, of the voices in the wild

A heart of gold, a soul so mild

Didn't you laugh when she rolled over and back?

And made you smile as she toppled on the books’ stack

Did you fondle her fur of satin, the blacks of midnight?

And tap her pink nose, as you held her tight.

Look at you now, happy and singing all the tunes

Your voice makes me want to scream and run to the dunes

Do you not care, she was here a while before?

What if she never comes back anymore?

Alone and hurt, in the darkest of lands

No footprints of hers left on my garden sands

People chasing her away, as she hunts for dead mice

I sigh, and think, couldn't just some of them be nice?

I look at you and my heart writhes in rage

Foolish you, I know you never had the courage

You would lose her, maim her or worse

Not even care, although she did but nurse

Your evil, your tears, your horrid dreams

And even shared with you her cookie and cream

Have her heart torn out if you wanted it ever

Made you smile at her tricks so clever

And now, I search the high and low

“Lucifer! Lucifer!” I bellow

I cry as no one would bring her back home

I wouldn't see her gleeful, chasing the gnomes

Or purring near my feet, content with her meal

And playing with my paints, the reds and the teal

In those night like corners, her eyes would dim

Slave to the fear, the devil’s whim.

Broken bones, and the lost smile

Would she be looking for me all this while?

How could you lose her, when you swore?

That the joy she gave lessened the burden you bore

That her pink nose would glow when you laughed

That she would jump for you and try to catch the draft

That you would hold her close and fill in your love

Sigh! All she did was never really enough

For you, your love or your selfish heart

And now, driven away, as she was done with her part

A stray cat somewhere, hurt and angry

Hated by people, loveless and hungry

Would she hit back, scratch and spit?

Would she weep silently, on her destiny’s writ?

I shed a tear, as I know for sure that I have lost

The tiny beacon of bliss, the winds of the coast

I still look for her in the high and the low,

Singing about the cruel, breathing seconds of her lore.

No, as the night comes, she wouldn't

be home

Buried in bones, lost in the loam

Whisper to the air, of the spirit she had

Of the fate of men, in her mewling ballad

Know that the sounds would haunt your sleep

Breach the locked doors of your safe keep

Though you may escape from the gallows of men

That song would seek you, find you and when

You cover your eyes, and block out the tears

The pink nose would grin, clap and roll and cheer

To say, “Here’s to you, my friend!”