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Mehak Dec 2018
Something sad in my bone and winter settles on the marble tiled floor. No one speaks here. Everything is quiet and now quieter because of the cold. And by speaking I mean, that one I admire and that one people fleetingly are fond of. You know those talks one craves, getting it? Then my feet touch that floor and the winter slowly scuffles its way up through my structure. So much that it's upon my sleeve, approaching towards the red turned, gloveless fingertips. Time was passing. But my mind asks the same question everyday and now, " Are you gonna write today?" I sneak out leaving a main door slammed with an enormous wave of wind to gaze at the stars. But there are no stars today. Then I boil some eggs for the old, exhausted , regular looking street dog who wanders around Ramu's chai stall everyday, waiting for some bread crumbs or food leftovers from customers and passersby. But we weren't that kind. We never bothered. Why would we waste a walk to a mad dog over Saturday night plans after juggling between work and home for whole six days? And the dogs are smart, he'll figure. Now suddenly you wanna feed him Mahek. You'll take all the walks it takes . But he is somewhere else today. "He filled the ground he digged. That's where he used to sleep." Ramu showed me. He left. Probably because no one cared. And I'd lost two poetries by now. I dial a friend to meet up over coffee and make up for my wrong doings. She didn't answer. I kept trying. She didn't pick once. I show up at her house, but she abandoned it six months back. No one in family joins my poem recital on the terrace. So I recite to the empty chairs, picturing a sudden yet satisfying eruption of exultant approbation from an imaginary audience.
But the real question was, "What should I write about today? ". The stranger dog who left the city tonight, about the stars that never came , about the family I have always disappointed, about the growing misery that's zilch compared to my blessings or the past that always makes me laugh. About the grief that people call " staged" or a father who works all day for his children . Or a mother who I am thankful for. Or maybe about how all this has long been over.
So, I don't think I should write today. Because this isn't real pain. "Your tears are fake and your actions are staged. You 're too weak. You can't survive in your poetries. You can't create a world of your own because sometime or the other, you'll stumble upon the reality. Just come back , Mahek. There is a sun outside because it's meant to be. Not because it wants to secure you in its warm embrace. Not that. "

But you know, the dog came back.
Mehak May 2018
If you ever pass by the lanes of my mind, you will know that a corner right there gawking at you is home to a vinyl record. And if you go in close, closer;  I know you will be astounded. Yes, one record is playing and the flow is unceasing. I might be surrounded by tens of people but my mind still listens to the voices of those who' left ', these voices are trapped in that flat disc that circulates recklessly day and night and night and day. Basically, all the time. Now, it is exhausted by this perpetual activity and new voices have stacked upon . The broken sounds say that the end to this audio is impending and even though this record is my favorite one, it is falling in the death throes. A sinking; and it is gone. The same corner is filled with ashes , it's a graveyard, it 's deserted.
I yearn for the voices in despondency. I do hear them ; slowly approaching. But this time they come from the tens of people around me with mouthful of smoke that they puff while prattling on. And a faint light in the blackout from the lanterns in the either extremes of my drawing room. Lanterns ; gifted by the last person who 'left' and one of whose voices, just died.
Mehak Mar 2018
Welcome to the mad world where you don't see the madness happening,
Until it havocs you enough to let you see,
The evil things sheathed in the cover of beauty
It won't obviously give you an inkling while you are unwrapping the parcel in wonder
Because you are not your own master anymore; I found you dizzy until
You were hypnotized.
The profoundness of beauty has triumphed over you,
You are another one in the herd; dragged and beaten with scars and scrapes,
Keep walking till you really wish to stop
But if you ever stop remember :
Welcome to the mad world where you didn't see the madness happening.
Mehak Mar 2018
Mom,  you are out there in another city and I am walking across the hall hoping you 'll call. I walk restlessly to your room and back only to reminisce about our talks. You are out for a week though, I don't know why I am crying. I still find you sitting beside but this time you are a beautiful mirage.
P. S.  I love you.
My mom just went for a work in another city and I have an exam tomorrow.  I told her I'd be okay but I am not. So, I thought this might help.
Mehak Feb 2018
Closed eyes, heart not beating. They lay there on a hearse bedecked with flowers. Flowers which smell of them. So we realise their presence for one last time;  as they were near. With every petal 's fragrance waning, they go far and far and far.
Now we know, they are not here. Marvel how a person fades like his scent....
Mehak Feb 2018
I haven't learned how to to drive yet. And people keep wondering why. I am not skeptical about my ability to take the vehicle out and stride about with unknown companions on the road.  Companions; some who ridicule while I take quite some time and place to make a simple right hand turn , some who don't waste words rather blow horns which sound like a perfect coronach in chorus. And that fears me more and I tell mom that I would never go driving again. I will take a cab, ride a bike or walk to the destination but I 'll never really "drive". You see if I don't overcome this aversion, people would perhaps say more. People won't stop. Not when you're dead, not when you 're born, not on your convocation. Actually never.  So,  I went out again on the same road, at the same time. They are still staring and babbling. But this time I am slighlty relieved. I am mocking them too. One at time ,till I take a right hand turn.

And there my driving license was born.
Mehak Jan 2018
I don't need your dark brown eyes
To travel through mine,
Or your words to be riveted
To every wisp of my spine.
Because you are not another
Soul in people I see,
Had I discerned earlier, that
I am you and you are me.
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