Wrinkles...

Dear Friend,

I was very angry with you. But not anymore. I realise, the incidents that happened in the past few months, broke something between us. I never thought I would not feel hurt, or be ok with this loss. But, I guess, it must be the age. The thing is, after I realised we were no more the same, I did not have the energy and you didn't seem to have the time (maybe even the inclination) to repair things between us. I shouldn't be harsh on you. Perhaps, you never realised things between us are broken. But even so, I have in my heart let you go. I don't think about you anymore and what's happening in your life, and I don't find myself angry at you for not including me in your life anymore. At one time I would have called you and been very angry at you for being left out from your life like this. No updates? Don't call me ever again I would have yelled. But I do pray that  wherever you are, you are good and that whatever is happening in your life, it brings you happiness. I had hoped for great things for our friendship. I wanted to be a "forever" friend to you :) It's sad that it will not be so. And maybe one day if we meet, I am sure we shall be happy to see each other again, and we'll have hundred and one questions to ask each other and we'll look at each other fondly and wonder...what happened, all the while knowing what happened. And maybe even, if we don't speak for very long now, we might call each other and ask how we are doing. You have been a good friend to me, even when I did not really deserve your kindness. Thank you. It was really good knowing you.


Much love.

Sun Come Up...

"It's not the load that breaks you down, it's the way you carry it."

A Hideout...

There are some similarities between a novel and a city. A novel, of course, is not merely a book, a physical object of pages and covers, but a particular kind of mental space, a place of exploration, of investigation into human nature. Likewise, a city is not only an agglomeration of buildings and streets. It is also a mental space, a field of dreams and contention. Within both entities, people, individuals, imaginary or real, struggle for their "right to self-realisation". Let me repeat – the novel as a literary form was born out of curiosity about and respect for the individual. Its traditions impel it towards pluralism, openness, a sympathetic desire to inhabit the minds of others. There is no man, woman or child, Israeli or Palestinian, or from any other background, whose mind the novel cannot lovingly reconstruct. The novel is instinctively democratic.

Ian McEwan on winning the Jerusalem prize

A Lemon Tree Grew Between Them...

Friendship is not about just lending an ear, but also, sharing your miseries and joys.

It's a two way street. You can't always just give, you have to also need the other person. 

Uninhibited...

As I sit by the window and dream, as I inwardly fashion my life, I am struck with the same feeling of doubt. Same uncertainty that has plagued me since forever. My heart follows the same pattern, oscillating between choices...this...that....this.

Possibilities.

Probabilities.

Realities.

I confuse myself, I lose the thread of thought and find myself frustrated. Enough I tell myself.

This.

This is what I want. Good or bad. Possible or not. This is what my mind will model henceforth and this is what I shall dream of.

And I stick to it. And now I add details. 

Brick Lane...

Feminism is not hating men, it is women having the freedom and choice to do what they want to. 

Still Wobbling In Love...

(From this blog)

Though the song is based on the 2004 Madrid train bombings, it still makes sense otherwise.

If I were prettier and smarter
If I were special; if I looked like a model
I might have the courage to cross the carriage
And ask you who you are.


You sit in front and do not even notice
That I am wearing my special skirt for you
And on seeing me you heave a yawn at the window pane.
My eyes well up.


Suddenly you look at me, I look at you and you sigh.
I close my eyes, you look away.
I hardly breathe; I feel small
And I begin to tremble.

And thus pass the days from Monday to Friday
Like the swallows from the poem by Bécquer.
From station to station, in front of you and me
The silence comes and goes.

Suddenly you look at me, I look at you and you sigh.
I close my eyes, you look away.
I hardly breathe; I feel small
And I begin to tremble.

And then it happens, my lips wake up
Stuttering your name.
I assume that you are thinking “What a silly girl!”
And I want to die

But then time stops and you move closer saying
“I do not even know you and I already miss you.
Every morning I skip the non-stop one
And take this train”

As we are about to arrive, my life has changed.
A special day, this eleventh of March
You take my hand, we arrive at a tunnel
And it goes dark.

I find your face with my hands.
I gather courage and kiss you on the lips.
You say that you love me and I give you
The last faint beat of my heart.