But then, a little won’t hurt, would it?

As Taransh held the baby in his arms, caressing his fragile temples and softly tussling his soft, sparse and silky sprouting hairshoots…he saw what a spitting image of Roshni the baby was.

The bulbous eyes, the bushy eyelashes, the groovy philtrum… they were all her genetic bequeathal to the baby.

In that moment, Taransh was overwhelmed by the enormity of his mishap. Of loving Rosh’s baby like his own….like the one he never had. Of loving Roshni..


The unfailing friends

With every passing day, his curiosity grew manifold. He was eager to unravel the mystery she enveloped herself in, a shield of thoughts that was impossible to break into.

As she gleaned every word in her mind, locking it in her breath and letting it linger as she read along, he did the same. Albeit, he held his breath and gaze in amazement. At how she sank in dutifully, willingly..and even subserviently to THEIR commands.

The softest of their whispers, the slightest of their rants.. she sensed them all with a perfection that seemed congenital.

There was something about THEM that made her pledge her unflinching fealty to them. She found the ethereal joy in these friends who had ever-so-furtively yet substantially accreted to become a part of her life. The part called FRIENDS.

She hated when her friends were time and again reduced to *PERSONIFICATION* , by the so called doyens of the literary construct….

But her friends never complained, the very antithesis of Personification…

Episode 2

*How many best friends do you have?* The question pealed, chimed and reverberated loud in the little child’s ears.

Quelling the sounds in her head, she stepped into her little alcove. The one that offered her the most solace.

Today, she went back to the same place, to her best friends who loved her unflinchingly. She smiled at them, hugged them fondly.

Just that they couldn’t hug her back. Because BOOKS have minds and souls but not garlanding arms!!

Episode 3

Apart from the amicable mortals she’d known, here are few treasures which meant a lot more to her, unfathomably more than what best friends could ever be…

Corruscating yet balmy Books, Soulful Music, the Eerily comforting silences of sleepless nights, the invigorating rays of breaking dawn, and all those miniscule yet majestic moments of memorabilia!

Tangible in form, intangible in the pleasures they elicited. Such were her unfailing friends – unflinchingly loving, inevitably desirable, silently fidel and eternally stoic.


It’s surprising how we tend to take our sensory stimuli and receptions so lightly, despite knowing that we are driven by them all, at all times. We may have come closer virtually, that’s an incongruent substitute for all the things we yearn for. Can a virtual *HUG* lend the warmth of two arms garlanding you to solace? But yes, it’s better to have a virtual *HUG* over the absolute lack of contact 🙂 So, this post, is for the one who has inspired me the most to write. Propelled me into motion and infused me with energy like never-before. Stirring up my literary archives and blending them with my thoughts, breaking the shackles that stymied my emotions from meeting the pen and the pen from the sheet. The obstacles to do what we all love doing the most, like we all know, are MANY. But an inspiration can change it all.

So, let’s inspire. Seek inspiration that can lend suffrage to our thoughts. And alongside, thrive and strive to make lives better by being an inspiration. The latter, of course is very objective and obscure in its meaning. Nevertheless, let expressions flow 🙂

*Hard it seems, to persuade them
my fingers, that tell a story of their own..
they sit by ,grazing our montages alone
Each has its enigmatic quest
Each awaits its tryst , to rest
in the warmth that your fingers invoke
Our fingers too are embraced in hope…
Their yearning is a subaltern
of what constitutes my being,
yet ,each writes along with the rest
the lines that call for my living…
Each of them was created for the other,
to rise in unison when the prayer beckons..
All they pray for, every breath, every moment
is the connubial bliss of your fingers’ consent..
They know they’re made for yours, just like you and I…
They divisively still love more than what I try.*

To the CREATOR 🙂

The butterfly called *Happiness*

Giving out a sly smile, she slid the diary into her satchel. She’d stuck his letter onto one of the pages of her diary, ensuring that its edges didn’t outspread the dimensions of the diary page.

Like a muezzin calls out his cherished verse, letting the recital and cadence match in connubial bliss with the liturgy.. she read his letter, word by word, soaking in the vicariousness of his penned emotions.

The beauty in loving the same thing over and over was something that she’d begun to experience lately. The rationalist in her couldn’t help but question the premise of this feeling. Like an anatomy class, she began to dissect her thoughts in a bid to seek answers for what made her happy

The Ship of Theseus came back sailing… slowly into the horizon of her mindscape… until she could think of happiness again…

The unsaid

Awash, with a sense of longing

Lurked beneath a strange beckoning

Of a feeling, not too nascent

Of a fear, plain and dormant

For fear and love rest in obverse

She still dreaded the former, the worse

Perhaps the love harbinger

Also set out the knell ringer

Then, her epitaph read, etched in marbles

Which got him on his knees, what began in wobbles

*For the fear of loss may die with death

But the power of our love blooms even in the wreath*


There it stood, the grinning spectre

Revelling in my agony

While I struggled to tell apart

Neurosis from monotony,

Following me to places

Where never a thought could seep.

Breaking my bones to chowder,

While I stifled hard to weep.

(To be continued)

Don’t mind.. It’s just my MIND

The bile began to rise up the throat. A sensation that he was too familiar with. His sane mind reminded him to have the pill but today, he was restless yet determined.

He was done shrouding – the mask he wore to feign normalcy, to put on a face of unconditional glee. He had to take it off.

Not because he sought sympathy. Because he felt the weight of the mask dawn heavily on his self-esteem and spirit of resilience. His stone-like-rigid confidence had begun to develop chinks, thanks to the mask.

Taking a deep breath, he resolved to take the matter in his own hands.

*Come in, Taransh. Take a seat. Have you submitted the CSR reports I had asked for?* retorted Pranav as he closed his cabin door, his prescience telling him that Taransh had perhaps something serious to say.

*Hi Sir. The report is just underway. I shall share it in an hour. But right now, I have something pressing to discuss, Sir* said Taransh, words spilling out of his mouth like a bag of coins albeit slow and measured.

*Yes Taransh. Tell me what it is*

*Sir, this may come across as very silly. But I wish to quit my job here.*

*Hey, what’s gotten into you boy, isn’t is just like a month before you complete 5 years with this company? You know about the impending promotion along your way. Tell me what’s the plan*

*There’s just no plan, Sir. It is a bit hurtful to share, but I am suffering from peak Anxiety and Depression for the past six months. The diagnosis suggests a respite from work for me to be able to bounce back to spirit* said Taransh, his voice bouncing off the glass cabin walls softly, yet dropping sombre.

*C’mon Taransh, there is nothing like Anxiety, you know! A disorder you say. Haha. Probably you are just overreacting. Such things are hyped by the Medical fraternity so that they can make money out of people’s fickle-mindedness. That’s it.*

Biting his lower lip hard in a bid to hold back the tears which had formed and begun to sting his eyes, he softly placed the resignation letter on the desk and deftly walked out the cabin.

Amidst sobs and sweaty palms, he called Roshni.

He knew his Guardian Angel would never give up on him.

( To Be Continued)

Hear between the Pauses..Read between the lines

Roshni sat along the lake, staring into the vast expanse of the mildly starry night. In her head, a few bees of uncertainty and insecurity buzzed and whizzed her into a sense of discomfort. All this while, Aryan sat by, talking animatedly about the things that had fascinated him recently, about a few happenings in a country that she had never bothered knowing much about.

It was perfect. She was lost in her little world of looming trivialities. He, in his ways, was happily loquacious about his fetish. Suddenly, she chose to break the monotony of that moment by asking *Have you ever felt this way? The way I do.. a hundred invisible barbs ripping through my flesh, a zillion spikes of febrile posterity clutching you by the nape of your neck?*

In his characteristic insouciance, he replied *Oh, that’s just a phase. We all go through it. You’ll coast along it. Even I have. And then.. you know in Budapest..*

The talk gave her anything but assurance. She smiled, and chose to overlook the sprouting concern, the one that had been creeping like tendrils at her amygdala. The next day, Taransh picked her up from work. After their routine exchange of the week’s happenings, Taransh could sense something that quietened the otherwise effervescent Roshni.

He halted the car, at the nook of a waning bylane. When Rosh shot him a surprised glance, he wrapped her in his meaty arms , with the cold dial of his wristwatch sending a quick shiver on her sleeveless arm.

*Rosh, speak up. You’ll only feel better*, he said. Deep within, she questioned herself if she should lay her inconsistencies bare, for the fear that they may only be trivial to him and his mountain of dilemmas. As she unleashed her concerns, he held her palms and exclaimed softly * You know, the fact that you think about it so much is what makes you different. It means you care. And you know what happens when you care for something, you end up giving it your best. Just do that. As for the fear, leave it for our drives like these. Agony Aunt banne ka mauka roz thode hi milta hai, woh bhi Query Aunt agar Roshni jaisi ho toh*

In that laughter that ensued, she knew what she wanted. She knew whom she wanted

Not every silence is golden…

As she  carefully outlined the details of Binodini’s fledgling grey shades, of Bihari’s sense of foreboding, of Mahen’s transient and fleeting fealty, of Ashalata’s deplorable gullibleness… He heard her in rapt attention.

*This is Chokher Bali* , she remarked in a tone marked in an undertone of pensive interjection, as  continued to look into her eyes.. 

The words had ceased to flow, but her eyes were weaving a storyline of their own. He awaited the unabridged rendition of *Chokher Bali* that was yet to come…

In the soft, intentionally curated pauses she took while narrating, to whet his curiosity  ; when she locked her gaze with his for a long train of moments unblinking, so as to let his thoughts be imbued with those of the protagonist’s dilemma…