How was your day?

How was your day

You complain

I never ask

You narrate the top headlines

The unruly maid

The unkempt help

The untimely call

The unnecessary gossip

The untidy laundry

The unhappy husband

The unseen sorrow

The unwell joys

The undoing of your mind

And if time permits

The tidings of the neighbors

Of siblings, cousins and nephews

Of promises broken and words unkept

Of those long lost

And the silent goodbyes

In my mind

I narrate the same

With words

Punctuated by silence

And then you complain

I never speak

Who teaches you to come back?

Travel—it’s a common theme these days. So many of the inspirational posts doing the rounds these days are about letting go of the vagaries of life and travelling.

Travel to your heart’s content. Travel until your feet can’t move anymore. Travel until your heart expands to fit the whole world in. And then, travel some more, they say.

It’s a beautiful concept. And travel one must.

But who will teach you to come back home?

Home with it’s chores and daily schedules. Who will remind you of their urgencies and the reason why you withstood the painpoints?

Home with it’s shackles and binds, heating your skin up that was, until a split second ago, cold from the breeze blowing against you on the tall cliff.

Home with it’s dull grey skies and polluted city centres, where only the young and foolish think they’re free. Wasn’t it not too long ago until you were one of those?

Home, where the parties have come to an end and the after-parties only rise and ebb in the chorus of the sonorous snores.

Home, where the 5.00 am alarm rings you, and you don’t jump out, excited about chasing the sun rise from the east. No, instead you drag your feet to the bathroom and drape yourself in the anonymity of dreary clothes.

Where all texts you get are from colleagues and a handful of friends left in the drainage pipe, ready to ride away the time train. Not, from friends made a few minutes back, making excited plans to discover a pristine hidden beach or get up close to a tall mountain peak.

No. How do you get back?

When all you’re faced with is the list of compromises you made to stabilize reality. When you have to relive the decisions—the friends cut off, the people you retain; the habits newly formed at the behest of old ones gone. Everything that formed the new skin you sew for yourself over time, shedding bits and pieces of the old one again and again, minutes and hours at a time.

Will you agree with each of those?

Would you take the time to mourn what you left behind long before you travelled? But adhere to what’s left?

Or will you rethink your life, change the compromise that’s no more comfortable, and chase after what you decided to leave behind?

How do you answer all your questions about yourself, the people and the world around you, when all you’re expected to do is be normal…again?

And so, you escape. You relive your travels again and again in your mind, avoiding the realities unfolding before your eyes. You forget the life you’re living, and love the past, holding onto it with a desperate vigour, all the while being painfully aware that those memories are fading.

Going, going…. Gone.

There. Now you’re back to reality.

Or are you?

Who do you want to be?

‘Who are you?’ and more importantly, ‘Who do you want to be?’ and ‘Can you change who you are and instead, be who you want to be?’

Who am I?

All my life, I’ve been plagued by this question. I remember, even as a child of 6 or 7, I used to stand in a corner, look up at the sky and have a conversation with an invisible entity I thought was God. Those conversations were a lot about who I was.

These days, though, the question is followed by another, almost like those after quakes that continue to wreak havoc after a big earthquake—Who do I want to be?

And instead of finding the answer to either or both, I end up gauging and valuing the merit and weight of one question against the other.

Let me give you some context—it’ll explain the connection with Friendship’s Day (celebrated in India on the first Sunday of August)


After 5 long years, I changed my job in April. For me, a lot of my identity is associated with my work. Not my designation or job profile, mind you. I am talking about my work. It consumes me, enthrals me, excites me and fulfils me in a way that few understand. It is one of the most important aspects of my life. And I realised its importance in life only until recently when I reached a cross-point.

Until then, I was a writer, an editor and then, a content strategist—someone who understands content, comes up with ideas, and a plan of action for delivery. But, I was a writer first. It was part of my identity. Words mattered a lot to me. Naturally, my blog too flourished during such a time.

Recently, it’s been a change of sorts. Am I in content? Yes. But is that all I do? No. Is that all I want to do? Am I still a writer first? I don’t know.

I am learning so many things far beyond the purview of ‘content’ or ‘writing’. I am learning so many new facets of my own being. And it’s oh-so-fulfilling!

To learn is to live. To learn and apply is to live an enriching life. To do all this with enough freedom and space is the highlight of my very existence. And luckily for me, I am in an environment that allows me to thrive.

In a lot of ways, it’s completely incomparable to the previous 5 years. Yes, I learnt and learnt and grew over the years. But did I push myself? Only to meet time-bound deadlines and deliveries. What I learnt came naturally to me. It was organic a growth.

Today, though, I completely (and have the thirst to) deep-dive into a world that is fairly alien to me. I want to learn and grow far beyond what I can imagine. And thus, I push—I push myself every day to learn more, do more and grow more. In more ways than one, it’s not organic.

So, I made a conscious choice to keep my social life at bay. I made the choice to have a single-point focus on learning and working. Anything else—dance, music, arts, parties, celebrations—can wait until I emerge from this cocoon, hopefully as a caterpillar-turned-into-a-butterfly.

From 7 in the morning to 10 in the night, I am consumed by work. It’s not always a hectic schedule at work. But I am still inhaling and exhaling work during those slow hours. Weekends go by thinking, planning and number-crunching data (another new-found love!)

The last one week has been a little bit of a break of sorts. And the vortex that used to be my brain thanks to work has turned into a calm sea—the kinds you’d gaze at for hours trying to decipher its depth and meaning. Ergo, the introspection.

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

Do I really want to be the person who refuses to balance life and work? Who meets friends once in a month or two and turns into a recluse? If being solitary comes so naturally to me, was I always the extroverted social person who enjoyed going out?

What if this is all just a phase? What if my loved ones turn bitter and a huge chasm develops that I can never bridge? What if I come to regret the loss of friendships over the years?

One part of my mind says those who love you have already been through your cycles. They know you and accept you irrespective of your infrequent disappearances.

The other part of my mind says that it’s not just acceptance. It’s consistency that keeps a relationship alive—the shared experiences that thicken a bond over time.

And all this hits a peak at a time when I see friends and family share Friendship Day messages around me.

I can’t bring myself to wish anyone or thank them for their friendship—not when I am aware of how I pushed all this away in the past two-three months; certainly not when I plan to continue doing so for the next few months too. But all said, the pangs strike—to reach out, hug, and convey just how much my loved ones mean to me. Especially when they hold on and continue to love me despite my distance.


Amidst all this, I realise just how much writing has and used to help me.

Earlier, I had built strong, fortified walls around me that stopped me from communicating my heart’s deepest desires. Writing, then, helped me observe, process, and convey what I thought and felt.

Today, I seem to have evolved thanks to the unending conversations with few of my closest peoples (yes, peoples. Plural. They belong to different groups). Today, it’s a lot more ok for me to observe, communicate and rationalise what I feel—verbally, and not in writing. Ergo, I rarely take to writing.

This makes me wonder—was I ever a writer? Was writing merely an outlet? Or did I write because it was who I was—as a person?

Does it mean I am no longer a writer?

Who was I?

Who am I?

And most importantly: Do I want to be that person who is a writer?

Thank the butterflies

Many years back, I watched this movie called The Butterfly Effect. It was quite captivating. The premise of the movie is that, the smallest of the changes in time can cause cascading effects. Many movies and books have dealt with this aspect of time travel.

And every day, I wonder what my actions have led to or what actions of others has led to the reality as I lived it. It’s quite fascinating. I wonder if some alien is looking at the myriad permutations and combinations of events like the scene in Men In Black 3.

Of course, even if there is one, it could very well be a figment of my imagination. But what I have noticed are things that may not have happened if the event preceding hadn’t shaped up the way it was.

And boy were there many such combinations of coincidences that happened during my trip.

For example: Had my flight to Brussels not been delayed by 4 hours, I wouldn’t have been so tired in the first few days of my trip.

This tiredness got carried forward to my second stop in San Sebastian. Then, I wouldn’t have been laid back on the first evening.

As a result, I may not have bumped into two lovely ladies from UK or spent the night chatting away to glory. Nor would they have told me about the lovely free city walking tour. And had I not gone on it, my day may not have turned out the way it did—long, tiring but fulfilling.

Then, I may have woken up earlier the next morning and not faced a series of delays and missed buses/trains as I toured across the Basque County.

And if I had not missed the buses, I may not have seen as much of the county as I really did. I certainly would not have taken the bus that took the coastal route and went through many small towns and villages. The beautiful video I did capture wouldn’t have happened. Thank God!

(YouTube link here: https://youtu.be/8_lsphOCub0)

Neither would I have gone to the end of this cliff:

Oh, this series continues forward.I may have then reached the Picos earlier in the night or been less tired.

Thus, I may have woken up earlier the next morning in Picos de Europa. I may have then taken the longer trail over the Carres George as I had intended too, instead of the smaller one I took.

And I would have never met the lovely Australian gentleman, who’s now turned into a beloved pen pal (through email, though).

Barcelona would have been a different experience too, without the debilitating knee injury caused by the hike. But then, I would’ve exerted and roamed around more—making the trip more hectic.

Instead, the series of misadventures helped me slow down and take easier breaths. Quality, thus, trumped quantity.

Similarly, when I got to know Sierra Nevada would be deserted, I had to make a choice of staying back or moving on to another location. I chose to stay back.

That one decision opened the door to meeting and learning from this lovely Barista, who was originally from Morocco.

I spent the next two days with the lady. She opened up to me about her story, teaching me so many lessons about life and living. Not to mention, the wonderful hospitality that she offered.

On the second day, she directed me to another branch for better food. There, I met this beautiful Swedish couple and a German cyclist.

One thing led to another, and the next day, I found myself with the Swedish couple heading to Costa del Sol, which was my next destination. Thanks to them, I saw one extra city, got to see more of the sunny coast AND reached much earlier than I otherwise would have.

Lovely, isn’t it?!

Many such coincidences happened over the course of my travels. Not all of them were palatable. Many were most definitely not great. I’m sure quite a few people would’ve let these ruin their mood or given up.

But that’s the thing. What seems negative may just be so on the face of it. For all you know, it could be a blessing in disguise. It could be the reason you ended up with the happy opportunities. Who knows.

What I do know is this: I don’t jump the moment something seems to go off. Think, there could be another way. And this could just be an opportunity in the making.

Like the little butterfly that has to suffer and break through the shell of her cocoon to strength her muscles.

My friend calls this the Chaos theory. I call it my secret ingredient for happines. It’s easier to live and love the moment when it’s not a means to an end.

When it’s just a single moment, and you can bind many such moments to form a beautiful necklace of the jewels of memory.

When the sun stops shining

Can you imagine how tiring it is to shine constantly? To be the beacon of hope; the bringer of life.

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Can you imagine how tiring it is to be the sun? The world may fall asleep, then rise, go about their day’s work, and then sink into bed again. But the sun, no, it never sleeps. It never stops shining. At every given second, there’s one part of the world covered in its golden hues.

But can you imagine how tiring it is to shine constantly? To be the beacon of hope; the bringer of life.

And that’s probably why, sometimes, it dulls down. Otherwise, how could a few clouds manage to dim the great ball of fire; it’s magnificence unparalleled? Neither could a puny moon eclipse the solar god into dusk, right?

No, the sun sometimes gets tired of producing one yellow stream of thought after another; another golden ray that sets another life alight. And so, it lets the monsoon play for a while; or allow the dust winds to gear into action small tornadoes that make everything seem brown. Sometimes, the sun even drapes a shroud of cold, dull smog—a small win for the polluting mankind.

But only for a short time.

Because its very soul is fire; sheer flames with the potential to burn everything down in its path.

So, after a short break, the sun gets up like a dog or cat from its nap; shrugs the dust of comfort and compliance; yawns to shake away the misery of drudgery, and then, trots towards its feisty spirits that wait in patience, slowly gathering pace.

Sometimes, it’s assisted by cheery friends called seasons. They swoop by and supply the necessary dose of energy, bringing with them loud noises that shatters cars’ windowpanes. Other times, they materialise in silence and simply exist in tandem.

And then, just like the sun, your soul breaks from its dull reverie and shines like the fiery spirit it is.

Loneliness lies between your fingers

The loneliness lies in the invisible nooks and crevices of your life. An inevitable stamp that coats every fibre of your being, separating you from the world.

Loneliness lies in the crevices between your fingers that were once filled. It’s like the skin there is marked with the knowledge and remembrance. And it now calls to relive the experience of another skin. Of your friend, your child or your parent. Or maybe even the distant lover who refuses to leave that deep set corner of your mind.

Loneliness, it sometimes is in the invisible outline of a hand at the small of your back. It’s in the memory of a time in another lifetime of being held and maybe even loved. And sometimes, it’s in the caresses showered on your body, when your thighs rested against his. When your chest lined her back as support. Or in the nape where their shoulder met their neck, the place where your cheeks and nose rested in love. And in the laugh-lined crinkle of your eyes that were once alive with joy. Or in the fullness of your lips that their tongue once explored.

Loneliness lies in the warmth that once coated your body, and has now seeped into your soul. A warmth that oddly now leaves you cold and shivering on a balmy night.

And sometimes, loneliness stares back at you from the dark ceiling of your room, on a starry sleepless night. And if you decide to go for a stroll, it reflects in the night’s moon and the stars, which once held all the hopes and dreams of a happy future, but now seem distant and lifeless. And when the day’s tiredness slowly pulls your lids shut, the loneliness falls from the ceiling to softly drape over you and the empty space next to you. It’s the thick warm quilt you snuggle under.

Loneliness, my friend, is not in the solitude. It’s in the company, or lack thereof. It’s in the outside world. And in the memories that line the inside of your mind, like a million movies playing continuously non-stop. Or in the gaps and spaces in your heart.

Loneliness lies in the very nerve endings of your skin, that’s now exposed to their absence, perhaps for ever.

Silence

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Silences.

There are many kinds of silences witnessed in our world.

The silence of peace and quietude;
The silence of indifference;
The silence of death, war and destruction;
The silence of pain, sorrow and grief;
Even the silence of love and romance, as lovers stare into each others eyes;
The silence of observation;
The silence of a mental conversation;
The silence of quiet contemplation and deep thought;
Or even the silence of the moment of decision-making;
Then there’s the silence of companionship;
The silence of expectations—often called a pregnant pause;
The silence of nature, confident of its own ways and whims;
The silence of vacuum;
The silence of mutual understanding;
Even the silence of focus and concentration, the likes of which you see in exam halls, each to their own;
There’s the silence of meditation and spirituality;
The silence of emotions when words fall short of doing true justice to feelings;
The silence full of unsaid words and meanings;
The silence of shock,
And there’s the silence that fills you in solitude.

But there’s a silence like whiplash; if words can hurt, then this can sting, in ways unimaginable.

And that is silence that follows a death of a relationship, when two people suddenly run out of things to speak about, a blinding contrast to times when words overflew and toppled over one another like waterfall. The silence that follows then is remarkable. That, more than anything else, can break your heart into pieces.