Happy Holidays Readers! Have a good one.  

WHY I? WHY HERE? WHY NOW?

My English Sir once gave us a special thinking task which made me sleepless and confused for quite some time. The task was only three simple questions, or as I call, the three Ws – Why I? Why Here? Why Now?

Why I – Why was I born? Why couldn't it be someone else? Why am I born to my parent? Why couldn't it be someone else?

Why Here – Why was I born here? Why wasn't I born in America or Somalia? Why wasn't I born as a human and not as a bird? Why here, in this solar system, in this universe. Is there another version of me in the parallel universe that is asking the same question or has found the answers to these questions?

Why Now - Why was I born at this period of time? Why wasn't I born during the Stone Age or the ice age? Will I be born again in the future where the world is awaiting for its last generation?

I spent that entire night looking for the answer. I didn't dare touch the internet as I knew I would just end up searching for movie names. Sir also told us that these are the questions we have to ask ourselves every day until we find an answer. And I think I have found an explanation which I am satisfied with.

Maybe we all are born in this period, the twenty first century where mankind is ruled by technology, to serve a purpose. If Stephen Hawking had born in the Stone Age or ice age, would he have contributed to physics as he has done and is doing now? We all are born to do something meaningful, something that has a purpose, and something that has an effect on someone else. The place where we are living is the place that will be affected by our actions. The time period in which we live will be affected by our actions. In short, whatever we do, it is all affected by the world. We all are born to serve a purpose. For some, that purpose has passed, for some that purpose is yet to come. All we have to do is stay, find the purpose and do it perfectly. So every day, ask the three Ws. Why I, Why here, Why now.

This is just merely my opinion and my answer. No answer can satisfy a mind unless the answer rises from ones own mind. So every day, ask the three Ws. Why I, Why here, Why now. I'm sure that the answer will give your life a new meaning. 

FROM ONE HUMAN TO ANOTHER

Dear reader,

This week, I’m not posting a short story or a poem. This week, I’m not sharing my imagination. This week, I’m sharing my thoughts with you. It is with great pain yet with determination I write these words, not only for me, but for you all.

Nearly hundred and fifty dreams crushed, stopped smiling, and faced real fear. We share not only a border with them, but our souls, as we stand united and see this terrible phase. The incident that occurred in Pakistan recently itself writes a new chapter in the history. This incident itself rises as a question mark for the whole world, is Islam really cruel and ruthless?

I for one, disagree with this as I have my own reasons. Maybe the ones behind this incident didn't follow their Holy Book after all. Maybe they all did this in the name of ‘Sacrifice for God’. But was it all necessary? Mothers cried, blood was shed, screams roared around everywhere. But was it worth the idea of ‘sacrifice’?

In this tough time, I pray for the souls that left us. Be it Pakistani or Indian, we all are humans and this division was created by us, and we ourselves are destroying everything. Remember, everything around us is not ours. We are just invaders of a planet that support life. We own nothing. So, we have no right to destroy anything, let alone a human life.

There is still time for a change. As Mahatma Gandhi said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” So stand united, forget religion and all barriers fight against this, and pray for the lost soul.

Yours Faithfully,

A human being.

P.S: If I have hurt anyone’s feelings, I kindly apologise. 

THE FINAL ACT.

Title by: Achyuth.

This is the time of your life
This is the night where you shine
Beneath the dais of the royals
Before the ones of your kind.

This is your doomsday
This is your final act
Shed out your fears, hold in your tears
Act out your heart, like a normal day.

Run off the stage, into the hands
Of the ones that raised you
Escape the town, your love and your home
Into the darkness, the hands of strangers.

Hold out your palms
Catch your fate
For fate is a ruthless monster
Live, if you like it
Leave, if you love it.

 BEFORE YOU GO

From my heart, to yours. Enjoy. 

Thee shall slip into the moonlight

Thee shall hold your loved ones close

For this night be the last one

Or the beginning of a new era.

Thee shall gaze into the midnight

Thee shall count the stars

For this might be your last sight

Of the infinite world.

Thee shall speak out the words

That clings on to your tongue

For this might be your last speech

That the world might ever hear.

Thee shall let go of your fears

Thee shall lash out your tears

For this might be your last ever chance

To let go of everything you have 

THE LAST LEAP

The man behind the title, as usual, Achyuth. No words can describe how grateful I am. :) 

In the darkness of the night
By the lone water side
She held her head high
Holding a book
That earned some looks
From the ones that were uncouth

Under the gleam of the night sky
beneath the mankind
She held her book high
Showing it to the lost souls
The ones that were well read

Beside the shore
Feeling the rage
She glanced at the river
Who gazed back with regret
Knowing what it awaited in a moment

Binding the book with love
promises and what not,
she leaped to the right
where the river shed tears
catching another soul
Prey to the society
Gift for the heavens. 

SEE YOU SOON.

I have been everywhere

 On the face of the kind

 On the face of the blind

 I help people let go of their feelings

By making myself roll down their chin

I have been up there all day

Waiting to come down

 and meet my loved ones

As I sway down I meet them

Strangers of mine

But the same kind as mine

 We talk for some time

 And finally reaches the land

Some of us part ways

But some of us stick together

 We flow through path and soil,

 Sticks and stones, dirt and bones

 I still hold onto my loved one

 As we flow down the hill

Then I see a place

Where we have to part our ways

 I prepare myself to say goodbye

 Hoping to meet again.

And to feel that joy again.

To enjoy the feeling of holding hands,

 and sneaking a mere glance.

A death note.

I have never heard silence

In this mansion before

Shattering of glasses

Plates and vases

“Look at her! That lucky girl”

They all said, but

They never knew, what happened

Within that four walls of prison.

Inside one cell, lived a woman

Strands of white hair, maybe into her forty’s

She sews a white cloth, with tears

Down her cheeks, streaming without a break

In the other, lived a girl in her 20’s

A stack of books, and a roll of paper

She glances afar, reaching her hands out

To snatch her dream from the treacherous man

Within the four walls in the corner

Is a girl in her teenage

Dusty books and crumpled papers

She never looks up from

That pamphlet she holds onto

A death note perhaps.

He comes in, the traitor

The man who trapped his family

For his mere pleasure

He looks into the cell

His once beloved life, now his sole enemy.

He gets satisfied, seeing

Her wrinkles and her tears

He then looks into the next

And curses her for

Chasing her dreams, dreams

She once had.

He goes to the next, his youngest daughter

He spits into the cell

Smiling his heart out.

He pours something in

With pungent smell and

Warning sigh. He lights a match

And throws it in.

He laughs aloud, while

The others wept.

A mother who lost her penny

A Sister who lost her diary.

THE PITIFUL DESTINY

This story is the one that was mentioned in "Before the Summer". Hope you all will enjoy :) . 

I would have woken up early in the morning if I hadn’t taken my goddamn medicine. And again, I missed my bus today. I slowly scanned the room and saw the clock glaring at me. It read 10:45 am. ‘Wow’, I told myself. I have never been this late ever before. Kicking my bed sheet off lazily and rubbing my eyes vigorously, I got up from my bed and headed straight toward the shower.

After washing and rinsing myself for about 30 minutes, I headed downstairs to greet my mother.

“Do this again and I will take you to the doctor again”, she said, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in other.

“Sorry Ma”, I said, not wanting to argue early in the morning.

“So when did you sleep last night?” My dad asked, as he came out of his office room, holding an envelope. He is a teacher, who taught Physics.

“12:45 am”, I said, pouring a cup of coffee for me.

“Wow, what were you doing?” Mom asked in an alert tone. I guessed that the interrogation has just started.

“I was reading a novel”, I said as I sat down on a chair with my breakfast, 2 idlis and some sambhar.

“This got in for you this morning”, my dad said, pushing the envelope towards me. It had my name written in bold letters. I knew where it came from; The Hindu office, one of the biggest news corporation in India. I set it aside for later and finished my idlis. I knew what was in that envelope though, another rejection letter for the article I wrote recently about the overloading in buses. The Times of India sent their letter yesterday and I pretty much knew that this would be another article that would end up in my old file that held all my scripts. Another one that will never see the light, I told myself.

I washed up the plates and headed to my room, where my laptop was eagerly waiting for me. I sat down on a chair that belonged to my grandpa. I opened the letter and read it, and as I predicted, it was yet another rejection letter. I made a small paper plane out of it and made itself fly its way towards the dust bin. I reached out for the blue-black box I kept for my medicine and popped in some. After few seconds, I found myself relaxing, enjoying each and every moment around me. I got up from my bed and surfed on the browser for some time. I logged into my G Mail account and saw more rejection letters, and deleted them all.

I should introduce myself now. I’m Krithika Ram, a 10^th grade student who hates going to school not because of the lectures, but because of the drama going on there. I love writing and have written some stories along with articles that have never seen the light and might never will. But I am not giving up yet. One day, I will become a writer and will change the world through my words.

So there is this deal in my school: you can go there even if you are late if you have a legitimate excuse and I sure had one, mind you. I overslept. Since all I can do today is sit around doing nothing but surfing more on the internet and get bored, I got into my school uniform and took my backpack along with my article. When I went downstairs, I saw mom holding the keys. She grinned and said, “I knew you would come around.”

“This place is too over rated Ma”, I said, shifting from one leg to another. She laughed and headed towards the car.

“Wow, this article is good, like really good”, my friend Keerthana, holding the paper that had my article. Keerthana, Aditya, Anagha and I were really good friends and these were the only folks who read my inscriptions.

“The Hindu authorities are stupid enough to send a rejection letter”, Anagha said, snatching the paper from Keerthana. They both glared at each other for few seconds and burst out into laughter.

“They really are stupid”, Aditya said, snatching paper from Anagha. We were all standing on a corner of the corridor and soon enough, the bell rand, making us move toward our classes for another lecture. But I didn’t really listen to them. All I would do was grab my note and write something, which will become an article.

After class, I went home like a happy kid holding an article in one hand. I went straight to my dad’s office room and gave him the article. This was the first one he was ever going to read, which was written by me.

“You call this an article?!” he yelled, tearing the paper to bits. “Oh, and also found this file of your in your room today”, he said, pointing towards a pile of ashes. “If you don’t know how to write, then don’t. If you dare write another story or whatever, I will break your knuckles”, he said, holding the door open for me to get out of his office. “You are destined to become an architect. I talked to some of my friends in Singapore and you got admission there. We will be leaving in 2 months.”

His words hit me like a bullet, but I didn’t shed a tear. I collected that tears and rage and converted them to yet another article, which I sent to TOI through G Mail. Then I headed for the bed, and laid down there. I wondered why my life turned out like this. All I want to do is become a writer and rewrite the world for better. I wanted to follow my dreams like any other kid, and now I’m being hurt for that. Life is not fair, and it will never be. I tried to remember the hundreds of pages that was in that file, stories, articles, poems, everything. It contained a part of my life, and now he has burnt it.

I slowly reached out for my medicine box and popped in 8 pills, 8 times my usual dose. Soon enough, everything felt warm and calm around me. Silence, except the sound of my heart beating violently. I felt the hands of God wrapping around me to take my life away, and I was ready. The last thing I heard before I left this angry world was my father’s words. It might be an illusion, but it felt real. “Krithika, TOI just sent me a mail. They took in your article and want you to be a part time writer there.” A smile rushed down my face, and then I saw it. A bright light, which almost blinded me, then took me in. I reached my hand towards it and I felt the force pulling me in and I never bothered to look back to take a glance again. 

BEFORE THE SUMMER

Thanks to Achyuth for this beautiful title. Like this story, this title has so many meanings. Hope you, my dear reader, will figure it out. Enjoy. 

 Danyal splashed some more paint on his canvas. He stopped for a moment and stepped away from his work, holding a paint brush in one hand and a mug of coffee in other. He let his imagination wander to the wilderness of his mind. ‘What am I feeling?’ he asked himself. Not romantic, not fear, not lonely. Was it regret?

He stared at the painting for some more time. Then he looked at the stack of pamphlets that had college details. His father wanted him to be an architect.

“What will I do when there is no more place to build?” Danyal had asked his father a week ago.

“What nosense! Rajesh’s son is an architect and he is living happily with money in his pocket!” Danyal’s father had shouted that night.

“Rajesh’s son is doing what he likes Pa! I love painting!” Danyal remembered the words he said that horrible day. His father had turned his back and walked away like he always did.

Anger. That was what he was feeling. He dipped his paint on black, thrashing out the anger in his mind and putting it onto his work. Then, like a mother patting her baby, Danyal caressed the brush at the end of the canvas, signing his name.

Danyal took his new artwork and placed it in his secret gallery. His room was big and he had asked his father last year to install a small room within his room for his closet. But he made it his gallery, locking it up every night and keeping the key under his pillow where he slept safe and sound.

“Is this art?!” Danyal’s father, Hameed, asked him when he saw the gallery for the first time. “This is not art! This is pure waste of money!” Hameed said as he unhooked each canvas and poured over some kerosene over it. In a flash of second, history was crumpled into ashes. That day, Danyal cried until blood came pouring out. Next day, he didn’t sleep, instead stayed up all night painting his anger out.

Danyal sat on his bed for a moment, looking at his fingers that still had paint on it. He loved it, and embraced every moment he had whenever he was alone or was painting. The clock on the bedpost read 3:30am and Danyal didn’t care about it. Day comes, day goes, but not a day goes without it screwing you.

He felt his phone vibrate on his bed. It showed Anjana Krishnan’s name with her photo. A tan girl with eyes as brown as brown could be and black hair framed her face just right.  He picked up the phone with such a care that only he could gave, and answered.

“It’s 3:30. Aren’t you tucked in with your laptop and a stack of books?” Danyal asked.

“I am tucked in,” Anjana said with a smile that he could feel even through a gadget. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I just completed another one,” Danyal said.

“Elaborate?”

“It’s a painting of a boy sitting on his lawn... at the midst of night. He’s gazing far... as if he is... you know, waiting for someone or something.”

“Sleepless Nights.”

“Sounds perfect,” Danyal said, hearing the title of his new work that will be seen by nobody except him and his friends. “So, what did you write?”

“The usual short stories. The ones with a terrible fate that I might face some day. I called this one ‘A Pitiful Destiny’.”

“That sounds pitiful,” Danyal joked. “Will I be honoured enough to get a glance of those words?”

“See the whole one in your inbox Dan,” Anjana said. “I sent you a copy thirty minutes ago. I didn’t get a reply, that’s why I called.”

“This is going to be a sleepless night for me then,” Danyal said, smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

The room went silent, except for the sound of Danyal’s heart beating, each beat eager for the words of his beloved. Anjana and Danyal have been together for two years and their parents disapproved of it not because they hated the idea, but because Anjana's parents hated the fact that Danyal wasn't of their same religion. Danyal’s parents hated the fact that Anjana wasn’t white like the girls in the commercials. Danyal admitted. Anjana wasn’t one of the girls in the commercials. She isn't fake and she speaks only the truth.

His eyes pondered among the lines that had a new spark in each word. His eyes scanned the monitor, looking for the story that was behind it, and he knew he was so close to knowing it. At the end, he realised that the protagonist was her and the destiny that is pitiful, is also hers. Danyal wanted to grab his coat and his motorcycle keys and scram through the crowd to hold her hand and tell her that the destiny she believes she has is fake and there is something more that is waiting for her.

Danyal wanted to do it, but the problem was his father Hameed. He knew that his father’s eyes would flare up with rage and burn the house down. Hameed loved playing with fire, or maybe he was the fire.

As he rested on a corner of his bed, he tried to forget everything and go for a long sleep where his dreams were peaceful and warm. But the story came back to his mind, oh how hard it would've been to find the perfect word to show her emotion. With his mind, his sleep too wandered away.

                                                                       ****

The sleep that Danyal chased for hours was disturbed by his little brother, who knocked at the door at first, then pounded on it. After sometime, Danyal opened the door and all he could hear was his little brother scream “Danny is in trouble! Danny is in trouble!” Danyal didn’t care for he knew that his father had gone for work where he would fight with his employees and scare away the customers.

The cold floor of the shower made Danyal realise that a new day has come. He didn’t have anywhere to go as he hasn’t chosen where to apply for a degree that he didn’t care about. The hot water ran smoothly through his thick black short curly hair and back to the spine that never failed to stand up straight. He then put on a black polo t shirt and blue faded jeans. He had to wash the newly bought jeans 5 times to make its colour fade.

“I saw light in your room at 4. What were you doing?” Danyal’s mother, Nadiya, asked him as he sat down for his breakfast. Nadiya tossed some vellayappam to his plate and some vegetable curry.

“Painting,” Danyal said as he munched on his breakfast.

“At 4?”

“Yeah, I completed by 3 30, then read a story and then went to sleep,” Danyal said, standing up from the counter where he was eating and washed his mouth. “I’m going out.”

“Only one vellayappam? What, is it not good?” Nadiya asked, tearing a piece from the one she made.

“It’s good, but I’m not hungry. I have some work to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“At Casa,” Danyal said, climbing up the flight of stairs to his room. He found his backpack ready with a box of paint, some chocolate bar, 6 cans of 7 up and his headset.

“I’ll be back by evening ma,” Danyal said, giving his mother a warm hug.

“If your father finds about the casa, then you know what is going to happen. So just be safe and keep contact with me,” Nadiya said, patting her son’s back with love and affection.

Danyal loved his mom. Nadiya supported his artwork and had always said to follow what he likes to do. She even approved of Anjana, saying that her looks or her religion doesn’t matter, the reason why he loves her matters. Casa was a secret hideout where Danyal and his friends hung out every weekend. It was basically a marquee which had everything they wanted.

Danyal sat on his motorcycle for a moment, the one Hameed bought him when he turned nineteen. It was just a year ago, the same year he dropped out from CET. Something was bothering his mind that made him go somewhere else before he went to casa. He knew what was holding up his mind, it was the pitiful story that Anjana sent him. He wanted to talk to her about it, and moreover tell her that her life won’t end like the one in her story.

Danyal took his cell phone from his pocket and texted Anjana, asking her to meet him at Strangers’ Park, where they first met.

Danyal rode his motorcycle to Strangers’ Park, reminiscing on the moment when he met Anjana Krishnan for the first time in his life.

2012, CHANGING SCALES OF LIFE

“What are you painting Danny?” Neha asked him, seeing him going bonkers over his drawing book.

“I have no idea!” Danyal said laughing, still trying to figure out what he was doing.

“That seems legit,” David said. David, Neha, Ag and Rob were Danyal’s best friends.

“So the chord goes from here,” Rob said, strumming his guitar. “And to here,” he said, playing another note. The group were having a quite sunny evening at a round table on Strangers’ Park, which seemed strange to strangers. “So it goes like this,” Rob said, playing a music which gave more ideas for Danyal to paint.

“The G-sharp tone needs to go a bit more higher,” a stranger told Rob. Rob lifted his eyes from the guitar and saw a girl in her late teens, wearing a grey t shirt and blue jeans. Rob raised the note higher to see her reaction. “Now that’s more like it,” she said smiling.

“You play music?” Rob asked.

“No, but I listen to music,” the stranger said. “I’m Anjana Krishnan,” she extended her hand for a shake.

“Robert Jones,” Rob said, giving her hand a shake. “This is Neha,” Rob pointed his finger to a girl with dark hair who looked like the younger one. “She plays guitar too. And this is Ag,” Rob said pointing to a girl in front of a wireless piano, who was inscribing something on a notebook.  “She plays piano and sings. And this is Danyal. He’s an artist,” Rob said, pointing at a mad man going crazy over a book.

“Nice meeting you all,” Anjana said, taking a seat nearby. “So you guys play a lot?”

“Just covers,” Neha said. “We don’t have any lyricist... so yeah. Anyway, what do you do?”

“I write a lot, but I’m applying for some dumb course in some dull university.”

“Wait...” Ag said. “You write? Like lyrics and poem?” Anjana nodded. “You could join with us, and write some music and we could play it.”

“That sounds fun,” Anjana said. Danyal finally completed his work and looked up from his book to see who the new girl was.

“Sorry about that. Danyal Hameed,” Danyal said extending his hand.

“It’s fine. Nice meeting you too,” Anjana said smiling. Danyal saw something in Anjana, something only he could see. He saw pain in her eyes, pain due to a loss of dream or a beloved. And from that moment, Danyal’s heart beat not only for him, but also for the girl who he met at Strangers’ Park.

“Hey,” Anjana said, seeing Danyal sitting on the same bench where his eyes first met hers. “Why here? I thought we were meeting at the casa.”

“I needed to talk to you about the story you sent me last night,” Danyal said.

“What’s with it? Grammatical errors?” Anjana asked, taking a seat nearby.

“Me pointing out grammatical errors will be like me pointing out flaws in a Van Gogh painting,” Danyal said smiling. “You wrote about your life in it, didn’t you?”

Anjana fell silent. How did he figure that out? I changed all the character names, Anjana thought.

“I’ve known you long enough. The story was great. But you do know that the end in the story is not how your life is going to end right?” Danyal asked.

Anjana smiled. “Of course I know that, you idiot,” Anjana lied. She knew how her life was going to end. Just like how her life ended in her own story. Just like how great people predicted their own death. “Is that why you asked me to come here Dan?”

“Yeah, I just... please, please don’t kill yourself and leave me alone in this world.”

“I’ll think about it,” Anjana said. “Now let’s go to casa. Neha and others are waiting there.”

That was it. Danyal knew Anjana didn’t want to talk about it; otherwise she wouldn’t have changed the topic to casa. Danyal got on his motorcycle and Anjana behind him.

                                ****

“Hooch here has an amazing plan!” Rob announced as Anjana and Danyal entered the casa. Rob was working on his guitar, playing tunes and goofing around with electronic devices.

“What plan?” Danyal asked as he sat down on the couch.

“Hooch! Tell us about the plan!” Rob said, strumming his guitar.

“First of, stop calling me Hooch,” David said, smacking Rob’s head with a file. “And the plan is, we start a band.”

“Ah, brilliant,” Ag said. “Wait I’ve heard that plan before... oh yes, Rob came with that plan last year!” She said, mocking David.

“I wouldn’t call what Rob said as a plan,” David said with a serious tone. “That was just a statement. This is a plan. We have an artist, a vocalist, a pianist, a guitarist and a lyricist.”

“And a stupidist if that is even a word,” Rob completed.

“It’s not a word,” Anjana said to Rob. “And what David is saying is a plan.”

“Thank you,” David said, appreciating Anjana. “The artist could make the album cover, lyricist here can write lyrics, vocalist and others can make music, while I manage the band.”

“It could work,” Neha said. “We could upload videos on YouTube. And then we can go live at some beach or street.”

“Although we are missing one factor...” Ag said.

“What factor?” David asked.

“Money.”

Everyone looked at Danyal all of a sudden. Danyal was rich, so rich he could buy an entire mall within a flick of second.

“Done deal,” Danyal said smiling. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin his friends’ dream.

“We start recording tomorrow,” David announced, picking up a file and entering the data.

****

4 Months Later

“And for the finals...” Danyal said, holding the end of the cloth over the canvas. “Beneath here lies history. Our band... The Caydens,” Danyal said, removing the cloth in one swift motion under the dim yellow light of Casa.

Everyone sat on the couch, looking at the canvas. They were awestruck. Words turned to whispers, breaths turned into gasps, closed mouth fell open. In front of them was a painting that would make the album a success. The gang had been working day and night to make it a success. Their first YouTube video became a major success with a half million viewers.

“This will be the banner for the live show too,” Danyal announced.

“Am I dreaming? I am dreaming,” Rob said.

“Nah you aren’t,” David said rising. “Incredible work Dan. Beyond words. It looks like miracle...”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“So we go live tomorrow, with the release of our new album, Reminiscence. And the name of the band is finalised. It’s ‘Cayden’.”

A loud round of applause filled in the curves of Casa. Their very first dream started in the casa, and it became a success in the casa. Casa was no longer their second home. It became their only home.

“I’ll see you all at Taj tomorrow,” David said, reminding the venue and time.

****

“And here, we have a new band that marked the history 3 months ago! The name itself says it all! Let’s give it up for... The Caydens!”

The crowd fell into applause. Loud of appreciation hit the four corners of the Hall where the band was going to play their first ever live programme.

Ag, Rob and Neha entered the stage that was set for a feast of music. Ag  sat behind the piano she had always dreamed about. Rob patted the guitar that made him who he was. Neha stood behind the microphone with her guitar on one hand, and love for audience in other.

The stage became a floor for festival with music that spoke nothing but truth itself, for there is nothing as great as truth.

“How are you?” Danyal asked Anjana, who was standing next to him by the entrance of the stage, seeing their friends become famous and write history.

“Never been better,” Anjana said with a smile. “I can look at them for years and listen them play their music.”

“You are a part of it too, you know. They are singing your words to the world.”

“Look at David,” Anjana said smiling again. David was standing next to the other entrance, wearing tucked in crisp white shirt and a headphone. “He looks like a real manager.”

“I told you. Your destiny isn’t pitiful,” Danyal said, holding her hand as they stood next to each other.

“Maybe some people’s life story is pitiful,” Anjana said. But ours isn’t, because we conquered our fate and fate itself is crying, looking at us and seeing how happy we are. I mean Dan, look at this wonderful crowd. It’s your dream come true. It’s Neha’s, David’s and Ag’s dream come true. My dream is yet to be fulfilled.”

“What is that dream?” Danyal asked eagerly.

“You’ll see,” Anjana winked.

****

Call her again,” David urged Danyal. Something was wrong, Danyal was sure of that. Anjana would always pick up her phone if it was Danyal. Danyal remembered the conversation he had the night before. Maybe some people’s life story is pitiful, she had said with a smile that touched Danyal’s heart. But ours isn’t, because we conquered our fate and fate itself is crying, looking at us and seeing how happy we are. I mean Dan, look at this wonderful crowd. It’s your dream come true. It’s Neha’s, David’s and Ag’s dream come true. My dream is yet to be fulfilled.

Danyal tried calling her again, and there was no answer. Where in heaven is she!  Danyal asked himself.

“Does anybody know what was the dream she was referring to?!” Danyal yelled out of frustration.

“Danny she might be busy or something,” Neha said, moving towards him, trying to calm him down.

“She always picks up! Maximum four rings and she would pick up so that I could hear her voice say my name!” Danyal said, throwing his phone at the wall, smashing it to pieces.

“Woa, Danny come on. Let’s go to Casa. Maybe she’s waiting there for us and maybe she left her phone home,” Ag said, picking up her car keys. Danyal reached out for his motorcycle’s key but David quickly swapped it.

“You’re going with Ag. I’ll ride your bike,” David said. “If you ride, you will probably end up dead in the street.”

                                     *******

The Casa seemed normal, and Anjana’s ride was outside. Danyal saw the number plate and felt relief rushing through his body. He smiled like a boy who had chocolate chip cookies. Danyal and the gang rushed inside the casa to yell at Anjana for not taking her phone.

“Where is she?” Ag asked, looking inside the Casa and seeing no one except for Anjana’s backpack.

“Her backpack is here,” Neha said, picking it up and leaving it on the table.

“All right, you guys stay here. Ag and I are going to look out. Maybe she’s down the river fetching some water,” David said, waving at Ag to follow him.

Danyal ran his eyes around the casa and saw her bag. He gently opened it and saw a huge folder.

“What’s in that?” Neha asked, sitting down on a chair.

“It’s..” Danyal stumbled on words. He knew what this folder was. Anjana had mentioned this folder on ‘The Pitiful Destiny’. “It’s her works... and the rejection letters.” Danyal kept wading through in the bag and found a red diary. The diary in which Anjana wrote her most impressive works.

“Neha...” Danyal said, realising what was going to happen next. His knees sank on the ground. He couldn’t stand straight up and he couldn’t let his voice come out. Danyal opened the diary and pointed at the latest entry.

“Read it for me...” Danyal asked Neha.

“Danny... it’s personal between you and her...”

“Please. I don’t wanna read. Just read it out for me..” Danyal begged and handed the diary over to Neha.

20^th Aug, 2014

23:16 hours

 Dan,

From Strangers’ Park to The Casa. From being strangers to being story tellers. Dan, if you are reading this, and if you ever read this, I want you to know, that my love for you is eternal, and my eyes will be on you even from hell or heaven. I still haven’t figured that one out.

Remember when I said that my dream is yet to be fulfilled? That dream was me being with you, and us spending a life time of happiness and weirdness. That realisation ran upon me yesterday, with another fascinating fact, that it will never happen. I know I’m being a coward and being a bitch for leaving you like this, but if I stick around longer, then you might lose yourself.

The night at the concert will be a night that will be etched on my heart. Our dreams came true that night. And with that came a great responsibility to me, to tell the story to the world. I was just a mere story teller that tapped on the keyboard only to express the emotions. And to hear that emotions in fine tune... that might be the greatest gift I’ve ever received.

My father found out the hidden stash of stories in my room the night of the concert. His yell didn’t hurt me, his anger didn’t hurt me, but his words did, his words of him blaming you, my dear Dan, for spoiling me and making me a writer. Me writing was my own decision. No one asked me to be a writer, only they encouraged me to go on in life and to jump the fences of difficulties. And now, I’ve reached the highest fence. The one that I cannot jump.

He asked me to choose, between you and between literature. I chose you Dan, I really did. But me without expressing my words is like a man without a heart. It doesn’t exist, and it never will.

I’m stubborn and I will continue to be one. I’ll stick to you and you only, Dan, but the wound will not be healed for it has reached my soul and grabbed it away. Now I’m only a body, and my soul is with the monster within me. And to kill that monster, the only way is to end myself.

Ag, Neha, David, Rob and Dan, I’ll miss you. I leave all the works I’ve written in a folder. Arrange it to something beautiful like a chain that one of you will present to your beloved. Don’t tell the world the story of mine, tell the world the story of a girl who came close to her dream and then turned away.

I don’t think I can go on, and this might be the last work I’ll ever write. Dan, don’t wait for me. Move on, and show the world what you are and who you are. Paint the world with true spirits and show your rage, love and anger through it. Maybe one day we’ll meet again, not in the Strangers’ Park on earth, but at some other park in hell or heaven. I still haven’t figured that out.

                                                                                                      Until we meet again

                                                                                                                   Anjana

“Dan! Dan!” David yelled outside the Casa. Danyal couldn’t hear it. All he heard was the words Anjana spoke to him at the night of the concert, where they held their hands together and admired their gang’s work. Danyal could feel her hands on her shoulder, telling him that they will conquer the world one day. Anjana didn’t conquer the world, she conquered Danyal. And Danyal realised that now it’s his turn to conquer the world and tell everyone the story of a girl, who came close to her dream and then turned away.

David, Ag and Rob came inside the casa. David had called Rob when he found Anjana’s body, hanging down a tree near to the river.

Neha passed the letter to them and she ran outside the casa, to shed tears for the friend she held close to her heart.

Danyal didn’t move. He sat on the plain ground, remembering every moment he spent with Anjana Krishnan, the one that altered his life, the one who made a boy who was in a trance to a young man who realised life.

Soon Ag, David and Rob left the Casa, leaving the letter on the table. Danyal felt his hands on each sentence she wrote. A smile ran across his lips, realising that life isn’t under his control, that he was just another player of the universe. He understood what she was feeling. A feeling that yet doesn’t have a name. A feeling that only she and him felt. A feeling that only they will ever feel.

O Sweet Lady! 

Dedicated to all the grandparents that made our childhood memorable.

O Sweet Lady!
With a beautiful smile!
Tender skin, with wrinkly arms
Arms that raised my mother
Arms that fed my soul.

O Sweet Lady!
With magical wisdom!
Taught millions! The language of our progenitor!
Inspired us to raise our arms!
To silence once that are armed.

O Sweet Lady!
With the kindest heart..
Patted my mother
With her mightiest soul
Smile! That shone like thousand stars!
Woe! That was never seen by a passer-by.

O Sweet Lady!
The Guardian Angel!
Come down here!
Bless our souls!
Touch us with your magical arms!
Bear us in your tender heart.

FINDING HOPE

I walked through the heavy downpour, trying to figure out which one was tear and which one was the rain drop. The Railway Station seemed so calm to me that I knew my mind was off the hook. Clutching the red diary that had all the articles and stories I wrote and the rejection letters I got for each one, I walked on the railway tracks, waiting for the light to shine up on me and take the light off my eyes.

I felt numb for a moment, thinking about the exquisite life I had. I had everything I wanted, except for the choice to choose my future. Writers were considered ‘non-artistic’ persons whereas an engineer or doctor was considered as Gods. Indian society has got screwed up because of the poison and the thoughts inside their brain. Then again, all people see are soap operas that show family fights and cuss words. I felt the rain drops falling on me, touching me as it went to the ground, her eternal love.

Suddenly, I felt something on my shoulder. I glanced at it and I saw a wrinkly pale arm, probably of an old lady. I turned back and saw a woman, darkness under her eyes due to lack of sleep and hands that once yielded for love and care. From her looks, I understood that she was homeless and had gone through a lot of pain in her life. She noticed the soggy diary in my hand.

“Tell me my dear child,” her calm soothing voice spoke out. “What makes your life so saddening that you have come to end your life in this extreme way?”

I opened my mouth to speak out, but only air went out. I was wonderstruck and I didn’t know why. I let my eyes speak out the words and held out my book to her.

“Why don’t we go to the platform and read this there?” she said with a smile. I followed her to the platform and made myself comfortable on a rusty chair. She gently took the book from me and tried to read the words that were inscribed in it. From her looks, I knew she was having a hard time and I didn’t want her to have a hard time reading my works. I watched her eyes dance around the sentences, trying to make sense and finding out the points.

She gently closed the book and placed it back in my arms. “Dear,” she said. “I know what you are going through because I am a writer myself. Well, at least I used to be. I wrote truth and nothing else and people hated it. I was criticised by the society and held guilty for my works. I was pressurised to write lies and I didn’t wish to do so. So I quit my job, packed my stuffs and decided to become homeless for I knew, homeless people had some purity and truth in their mind rather than the ones who criticise the homeless. One day, you will become a writer, and by then, the world will be a better place. Your time is yet to come my child. And when it does, if you face what I faced, quit it, write independently and be whoever you want to be. We raised ourselves, not the society. So don’t let others judge and dominate you. Good day dear.” Saying these, she gave me a tight hug and for that moment, hope struck me like a lightning. I believed what she said for she was wiser than me.

I let hope clung on to my mind and made myself home. The rain stopped and the drops that fell met their love and embraced them. Time, like wind, never stopped ticking. I opened the door to my room and found some letters on the table. I opened them with my wet hands and let my eyes wander through the words, picking up the good ones. Hope. It wasn’t a rejection letter like others, it was exact opposite. If that woman had not come to the station to save herself from the downpour, she wouldn’t have met me and saved my life and I would’ve been nothing else but a soul that would wander the world like others, who never got a chance to fight.