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Homelessness

They say “home is where the heart is”. Many will go on to the extent of saying home and house are different. House refers to bricks and buildings whereas home contains people- people whom we call our family. This much we all know.

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Essays : Questions not Answers.

Not just a thing on school syllabus or the editorial of a newspaper , I believe essays are not just merely an form of writing or a tool to analyse an topic but as an scope to look to the world, to challenge an idea . The very form of debate with yourself, but you may disagree. Let’s change that, shall we?

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Another Ghost Story

The stare does not stop. I still gaze at the road outside my window crying over that life I dreamt of once. They say “let go”! I still don’t know how that works. I still fall in love, still paint my whole future with that person and somehow the whole thing starts crumbling down!

I can not fall in love without a long shared intimacy. People I have shared my stories with- all the madness of childhood or all those meaningless affairs I had, or the songs I hum, the poems I write- those are the people I fall for. So each time they break my heart, they take away with them pieces of me as well. And I feel lost, I feel like I am not myself anymore.
Yet again, unaware, I start hoping again. Again I fall in love.

This time it will be different. I shall be protective. But I have never known how to love with my guards up. So, without even realising I give the key to the lock of my heart away. They get access to the house. They run and walk through corridors.
Sometimes they come across a blurry portrait of someone I painted long ago. They ask questions about it. And they keep walking. Even though the whole house lies empty they get scared. They get scared by the remnants of the last tenant. I assure them of how the deal is no more. But still fear the ghosts. “Ghosts are here” they keep repeating- proving me to be some crazy woman living with lots of ghosts.

But there are no ghosts…only dead bodies. I know. But I keep silent. I don’t tell them how many times have I died in these same rooms, how many times I got stabbed on the back. They could get scared, I figure.
I open more cabinets, more secret passageways to them still. Sometimes I myself wonder how vast this place really is! Almost like a mansion!

They get a little at ease. But the loud cries come at night. And there are days I sit all day long staring at the window. “Ghosts are here” they think!

They don’t leave yet. They don’t leave yet. They try to figure out this place for some time more. And they fail. Again and again they fail.

We watch my favourite movies together with blankets covering our toes. “This scene is my favourite” ,I tell them. They look at me, trying to see those ghosts in my eyes. They fail. We eat home made popcorns. They don’t hold my hands. Yet we laugh about my favourite scene all the more.
And in that moment, I know. I get to know I am preparing myself for another death.

Spring Waltz

Writing a waltz should have been effortless. The pen should move around the pages as dancers move around the ballroom. Thoughts should come with a fluency of the heart! Then why do I stumble?

Sometimes I wonder if life could be like a waltz! Easygoing, fluent, musical!
Yet at every step I seem to trip, wait, stumble and look around. I see people dancing smoothly through the ballroom of life- effortlessly, rhythmically. Yet I seem to stand there alone. Still waiting for a question- will you dance with me?
Other questions arrive and along come compliments too: what beautiful shoes you have got! Want to have a round with me? You dance really good! But never the same one I search for- will you dance with me?

So I walk around the corner, in my beautiful blue shoes- admiring the cherry trees enveloping us. I realise it is always spring if we start walking…until we get the perfect question and start dancing!


Then only spring of life turns into a spring waltz!