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Night Tales…

Every night was a story for me, with or without stars.

I remember how the night has always been my refuge; how even during my darkest times it illuminated my soul. I still remember the days when I used to stand still while staring into the nothingness of sky for hours. It used to calm me even when I wasn’t even aware of the feeling of having a ball of fire inside. I always thought this darkness has all the answers which I wanted to know.

Every night was a story for me, with or without stars. Even those twinkling little lights never took away my attention. I enjoyed the night even when it was filled with darkness or bathed in the white light. The only thing remains constant that still during my hard times, I don’t want a night to end.

I still remember during my childhood, I used to frame stories in my head while staring at the windows of every house around me. I still do it often. It feels like by writing my version of their story, I get connected to them more than I would have done by interacting. It is weird though. I love staring at those dimly lit windows in the night. It just gives my imagination a feather which I suppose will never get when everything is precise and clear.

In the night, the sky looks more happier and serene to me. It intensifies the beauty. Even the darkness glows more in the night. It has a place for everyone. It accepts everyone and let them be their own versions. There is no need to pretend and put the mask to get fit into this world. It will accept you in your purest form and even let you discover your darker self.

I love looking at the deserted places and abandoned buildings as if they are waiting for my presence. Sometimes, I feel these nights wants to tell me a story that no one has ever heard. Still today, whenever I feel my thoughts are confiscating me, I let myself dwell into the darkness of night. I let myself sink into the music it offers. And then I exactly know what I want from this life.I want to wake up and face every day, I will fight all the battles for these beautiful nights.

Maybe, then things will change..

Maybe..
this time we will feel closer without proximity.

Maybe this is what we needed..
A halt in this life..
Silence in between the uproar.
Maybe this is what we wanted..
To spend an afternoon while watching the trees shedding their leaves,
And twirling its branches in a fine Spring afternoon.
But, this is different.

Yet,
we all are here..
We are being quarantined from the world…
Caged in our own homes,
Afraid to even breathe in the same air.
It is terrifying.
Some of us are alone more than ever.
Watching sunrise and sunsets from the balcony..
And praying while one more day ends.

Maybe this phase was destined for all of us.
To find the lost compassion inside us.
To find ourselves more ever than before.
Maybe
The whole world is praying and healing together..
More ever than before.

Maybe..
This time will restore our faith in the world we have..
Maybe..
this time we will feel closer without proximity.
Maybe..
This time we will find ourselves in between the distances.
And
Maybe, then things will change.

An ideal world..?

And it is not the idea of the world they wanted

With each passing day, it is growing stronger…
But last night..
there was numbness…
Unsure about everything..
A feeling that you despise from years..
Is it now on the verge of bringing hurricanes of emotions?

Cried harder..
Shrieking with pain..
while watching thousands of faces and stories which you want to stay hidden?
It makes you uncomfortable…
It changes your idea of this world..
It questions everything….
And every ideal story you’ve heard.

But,You can’t change this world.
Can you?
You can’t shake the truth.
Can you?
So you lost yourself in the facade of fake happiness.
But despite everything it does hurt you?
Isn’t it?

Sometimes..
you do get connected with those lifeless faces..
You try to find stories in their eyes..
And then you hesitate to expose your emotions..
You wanted to be the part of their life.

But..
You are trapped inside your own darkness.
A dark side which you wanted to stay hidden.
Because it makes them uncomfortable..
And it is not the idea of the world they wanted.

कुछ टूटते कुछ सम्हलते..मेरे सपने।

काश! उन सपनों को बचा लिया होता..

दम तोड़ते हुए उनकी कराह तो सुनी होती..

पीछे पलट कर जब देखा तो कुछ सपने पड़े थे,
वास्तविकता में कहीं अपना दम तोड़ चुके थे।

आज भी मन के किसी कोने से आवाज आती है..

काश! उन सपनों को बचा लिया होता..

दम तोड़ते हुए उनकी कराह तो सुनी होती..

आखिर मेरे ही सपने थे..

मुझसे जन्मे थे…

मेरी ही आकांक्षाओं से प्रेरित थे।

न जाने क्यों ये सपने दुगनी गति से बढ़ते जा रहे हैं..

इनसे कौन कहे अब कि टूटते तो तुम हो पर कराहते हम हैं।

इनका क्या..न इनकी कोई सीमा ही तय है,

न ही हम इंसानों की तरह किसी सरहद के बंधन में बंधे हैं।

ये तो बस अपनी मस्त-सी चाल में पूरे ब्रह्मांड को नापने तक की योजना बनाते रहते हैं।

और हम इंसान भी मजबूर है इनके हाथों की कठपुतली बने रहने के लिए..

क्योंकि यही तो है,हमारे अस्तित्व का रहस्य।

धीरे-धीरे ही सही..

पर मैं भी अब इनके लय में बंध चुकी हूँ..

इनके ताल से ताल मिला कर..

कभी इस छोर पर विचर रही हूँ..

कभी उस छोर पर …

हाथों में टूटे हुए सपनों की गठरी सम्हाले..

नए सपनो की राह ढूंढ रही हूँ..

आखिर मुझे ‘मुझसे’ जो मिलना है।

How hard it is to write…

How hard it is to open the door
of a buried casket of your own..

How hard it is to write..
A story about the life!
A story which is unheard,
Safely kept inside your heart!

How hard it is to open the door
of a buried casket of your own..
A casket of the past.
And a memoir of the battles you’ve won.

How hard is to sunken words in the memory you despise,
How hard is to capture the feeling and time that flies,
How hard it is to pour feeling into the words.
At which your body and its soul begird.

How hard it is to write a story
A story of your own.
A story which is unheard,
And the story you mourn.

Into the small cottage..

It is her refuge from this existential world,
A place which sews her tattered soul.

Into the small cottage,where her world resides.
Where each cell of her body feel free and alive.
A place which is ordinary but different like her.
A place which share her dreams and defines her.

It is not a house merely of four-cornered walls,
But a magical castle which ignites her whole.
It is her refuge from this existential world,
A place which sews her tattered soul.

She shares a secret with every brick of the house,
They tell her a story when the wind blows.
At times, she sings with a gloomy heart,
they listen when her emotions flows.

She never knew, this day will come.
When she will breathe freely,
While holding a cup of coffee and diving within fantasies,
Into the small cottage of her own.

That day she didn’t fight…

Her body was beaming with anger..
And eyes were flushing out the pain.

That day she didn’t fight.
Her hands were clutched,
Her mouth was shut.
Her body was beaming with anger..
And eyes were flushing out the pain.

That day she didn’t speak,
She lost all her words.
She silently watched, while her soul died.
And what left now is empty and void.