I Express

I went to my terrace this evening after a short but heavy rainfall and my eyes fell on a crow, who stood at the same place for an unusually long time. My mind wondered what it must be thinking or does it even have awareness of its consciousness? Every time its head moved, the feathers jumped a little, just half an inch. I tried counting but it was not a straight rhythm. Sometimes the head turned slightly and the feather didn't move but the feather jumped high whenever the head moved with a usual jerk. I decided to stay back and witness its journey, I thought I'd leave only when it decided to take flight.  Perhaps it was seeking its tribe, that might have flown off far midst the rain. Perhaps it was awaiting its love, the one who promised to meet at my terrace. Perhaps it was seeking sympathy, but ignored it whenever a flock sat around it. Perhaps it was seeking answers about why I was starting at it constantly. Perhaps it was lost since its flock flew to this area recently. Per

This feeling of being buried; under the sofa, the bed, the cold tiles I crave to experience being unseen, but I already am locked out of the cloud of creativity, the chained hands  yearn to play the balance of music, but the urge to live the life I had envisioned such year, succumbed by the heat is just a mere excuse to sulk at the fate, that I was gifted all limbs and a mind capable to innovate, yet I rather scroll the void, chasing the attention of the unknown, hoping for it to make me feel like home, one that shines  already in the rustling leaves of the pine trees; but is one injecting me with enough shame to express it poetically. This is a sign that I need to be overwhelmed with grief, let the silence of solitude help me satiate the breeze that brings within it the hope of the unbridled and unseen charm exhibited by another matrix version of navreen

 I miss my Daada, my grandfather, I miss him so much. It's been more than 12 years since he passed away but I can still feel his presence. I was in school back then and I didn't realize how huge that loss was. He used to pick me up after school. He had retired but used to go to office at times and came to pick me up in his car during his lunch time. I used to ask him for 10 Rupees to buy a packet of Chips. He happily gave it to me and I munched it on our way back. I always used to offer him one piece of chip and ate 2 myself, and we used to have a lovely journey back home.  I wish I could talk to him, I do feel his presence but I would really like to talk to him. I long to hear his voice.  One time, back when there were nokia phones, the button to cancel the call was broken on his phone. He had accidentally dialed someone and I was laughing so hard when he couldn't cut the call. He let me have a hearty laugh and didn't scold me about it.  He used to wake me up in the mo

When I quit being a Lawyer, it was an obvious assumption that my parents would never support this decision. These hard-working, middle-class parents took a loan and spent lakhs on my college education, and I decided to play and teach Guitar instead?! To be honest, I didn't hold on to any hope or support. It was a heavy risk, one where I just went with the flow of doing what I loved, while feeling incredibly guilty.  . Living independently in Delhi was a crucial and a necessary decision. More than my family, I wanted to prove it to myself that I can make a living out of just music.  'Making it' holds a different definition for everyone. For me, it was always about spreading the joy of music -  be it by performing or teaching or social media. The platform didn't matter as far as the message was passed across. . I look back and I wonder, was I really that alone in the journey? There were several things that I was never permitted since I was brought up in a small town, bu

I had forgotten about the existence of this Blog. . My student shared a really vulnerable writing of hers' that I happened to read, and it inspired me so much that I hungrily started searching for the time I used to write like that. Shamelessly, honestly, vulnerably.  Read here how she named her Guitar . I read a couple of my old posts and I am in awe! I have fiction-ed stories that never happened and I completely forgot about the existence of this side of my mind. I do journal my real emotions every now and then, but weaving stories that are hardly related to any real life moment - how did I do that? And why did I ever stop? I guess social media has a part to play - the need for instant validation. This was indeed a beautiful world I was building and I was probably not even expecting someone to read it, it was my own little bubble. I am confused because writing like this was a grand escape that I let go . I did write a poem a few days ago that felt liberating, and this poem was al

"It isn't that dark," I made my way to the door before my mom could stop me, "I'll be back soon" I could faintly hear her crib as I shut the gate behind me. The weather was too good to avoid a stroll. The roads were still damp and the fragrance was amorous. I saw a girl who was fidgeting with her phone under a tree. Our eyes met. She opened her mouth to say something but then hesitated. I removed my earphone, "Sorry, do you need help?" "I don't know the way out, this is embarrasing," her voice was bold. "Hey, don't worry about it. Tag along" I initiated the conversation, "Been living here for a year but I still get confused" "And there are no street lights," she was frustrated, "plus my GPS gave up" "We'll be out of here in 10," I assured her. We both, surprisingly had the same stature but she was more lean. We connected almost instnatly. Within 6 minutes, we