Echoes of Eyes

He said, "I'm here for you,"  

His voice warm and sure.  

But now, though he’s near,  

He feels so far away,  

Like a whisper lost in the wind.  

Once, his presence filled the room,  

A comfort she could hold.  

Now, it’s a shadow,  

A memory fading in the dark.  

She reaches for him,  

But grasps only emptiness,  

Feeling his absence  

More than his touch.  

He’s there, but not really,  

A ghost of the man he used to be.  

And she stands alone,  

In the space he left behind.  

The Heist of the Dusty Chair

 

In a cozy alley, Jake's eyes were fixed on an antique shop, where a charming old chair in the window called out to him.

Approaching with a sly smile, he cooked up a plan to get the chair without the shopkeeper catching on. Entering the store, Jake pretended to be just another customer, casually perusing the items. His memory from a prior visit steered him to the cherished chair tucked away in a corner. While scanning the store, Jake spotted a crow in a cage, its eyes hinting at hidden knowledge. Ignoring the oddity, he continued his act, striking up a conversation with the shopkeeper about vintage appliances.

Seizing the right moment, he dropped a carrot on the floor, diverting the shopkeeper's attention and allowing Jake to snag the chair without detection. Elated with his success, Jake's joy was short-lived when he faced a sudden dilemma—he couldn't tolerate filthy things. The chair's dusty surface triggered his aversion.

Panicking, Jake scrambled to find a solution, attempting to clean the chair with a handkerchief but inadvertently making an even bigger mess. As he grappled with the dusty chair, a tiger-striped car screeched to a halt nearby. The driver, adorned with shiny rings, stepped out and questioned Jake about the attempted chair heist. Caught in a web of deceit, Jake feared the situation might explode into something far worse than he had initially anticipated.

SMILE, because it’s easier than explaining what’s killing you inside

 

You see I do not do this because I like it or I have a passion for killing in cold blood. I do this because humans were born hunters. Only with time, they decided to mould themselves up and be all this shaped up to live together in so-called communities. But all of this is just a mask." |Lights up a cigarette| "But you can't be a mask forever. Can you? It is time to put it down, be your natural self, and kill out there — Hunt for blood. Do you think we always hunted animals? Oh, you think some God came down and told the rude man that you can kill animals but not humans? You have to sacrifice to move ahead. -

 I never got drunk before I carved up someone's heart out. I was totally sane. Calm. Well, dressed. Clear in my head. Hell, you wouldn't have ever found me unless I made a phone call to tell you that I am your Jack the Ripper. And you came straight in alone. Thinking you have a weapon on yourself and you were too arrogant thinking that little thing is what's going to save you." |Bottoms up the glass of whiskey and breaks it while putting down in the table. Cleaning up the blood on His palm carefully with a tissue| "You see, the Joker always said it is the moment before death that people show you who they really are. And that is what Heath did. Before his death, he showed the world the insanity that he had buried inside him.

The insanity which he unmasked and set the world on fire and you clapped with your clumsy hands thinking deep down how his portrayal of insanity gave you goosebumps. Don't you think I am right? Come, come here. Come closer" |Holding the guy by his neck with a knife to his heart| "Now I am going to carve out your nerves with precision — one by one. I am not going to kill you until you feel pain from every part of your body, and I will let you see how I pour a glass of your blood and water the plants from it. Can you see death in my eyes? The darkness beyond? Let's see how death brings out the truth in humanity." |As the knife starts piercing the skin, the guy screams and tries to reach for the gun on the floor. Shoots through his face| "Now, now. See?"

Look how it turned out, see everyone is afraid of death and no one is a exception and you are too[points the gun towards the bartender] his face pales and cold sweat rolls down, hahhahaha how funny to see everyones fears me, places the gun to the holster and leaves the bar[bartender stares at the mad man and shivers and thought finally the ancestor left] but suddenly a gunshot sounded across the bar and bartenders head burst in pieces 

The Street of Stories

On a bustling evening on Church Street in Bangalore, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from nearby cafes and the cacophony of street vendors filled the air, there stood a modest bookseller named Anand. His stall, though small, was a treasure trove of literature from around the world, offering everything from classic novels to contemporary bestsellers. Anand, a bespectacled man in his late forties with a warm smile, was a true bibliophile.

One fine day, a middle-aged man named Arjun approached Anand's stall. Arjun was the quintessential middle-class Indian, dressed in crisp shirt and well-worn trousers. He had a knack for negotiation and was known in the area for his shrewd bargaining skills. As he began to browse Anand's collection, his eyes fell upon a beautifully bound leather edition of "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"How much for this?" Arjun asked, his voice measured.

Anand, who had been running his book stall for years, replied with a friendly tone, "Ah, 'The Great Gatsby,' a classic choice, sir. This edition is a special one, and I usually sell it for 600 rupees. However, for someone who appreciates fine literature like yourself, I can offer it for 500 rupees."

Arjun raised an eyebrow, examining the book closely. "500 rupees, you say? That is a bit steep for a book, isn't it?"

Anand knew he had to tread carefully with Arjun's style of negotiation. "Sir, this edition is leather-bound, and it's in excellent condition. Plus, consider the literary value it holds. It's a collector's item."

Arjun remained unfazed. "I'm willing to pay 350 rupees for it, no more."

Anand, maintaining his composure, smiled. "I appreciate your offer, sir, but you're truly getting a steal at 500 rupees. How about we compromise at 450 rupees?"

Arjun hesitated; his eyes still fixed on the book. He knew Anand's reputation for quality and genuine love for books. After a moment, he nodded. "Alright, 450 rupees it is. But I hope you'll throw in a bookmark as well."

Anand chuckled and retrieved a bookmark with a famous literary quote from his display. "Of course, sir. Here is a bookmark with a quote from 'The Great Gatsby' itself."

As Arjun counted out the bills and handed them to Anand, a sense of satisfaction filled the air. The transaction was not just about buying a book; it was a connection between two people who shared a deep love for literature. Anand watched as Arjun walked away, clutching the precious leather-bound edition of "The Great Gatsby."

As the evening sun bathed Church Street in golden light, Anand could not help but smile. Another book had found its way into the hands of someone who would treasure it, thanks to the age-old dance of negotiation and the appreciation of literature. In the heart of Bangalore, Church Street continued to be a place where stories unfolded, where books brought people together, and where the magic of literature lived on. 

Abhi Na Jao Chhod Kar!

My eyes open to the blinding lights entering from the parted pink & green floral curtains. Sun rays hit the white linen of your side of the bed. Empty. Cold.

Your pillow stares back at me with a frosty look, incomplete without your messy bed head decorated diligently on it.

For a millisecond there, I thought I actually saw you — your sleepy face, a haircut long overdue.

I'm broken out of the psychedelic trance by the ringing doorbell, your abandoned bed, it's the milkman at the door. Why was I hoping it'd be you?

"Abhi na jao chhod kar,"

Two long years of making coffee with extra cream & sugar. Three long years of knotting your tie as we fussed over a decent breakfast of eggs and toast.
Two long years of you giving me the last bite of your toast.
Apparently, it was enough for you. For me? My longings tell me otherwise.

"Ke dil abhi bhara nahi,"

Sometimes, the situation perplexes me. You said that it wasn't working and that we would move on, that it wasn't a very long time. Well, I guess time is a relative concept because you got that wrong. It was a long time for me, boo.
It took three months to fall in love with you, two years to love you, and it's been seven weeks since you left.
And right now, it feels like I'll be over us only two decades from now. I don't know.

What I know is that it'll only take me 3 seconds to spring to my feet and come running to open the door for you. Why am I still hoping for that? I don't know if it's the pills I take to make me sleep as my tears dry or just my messed-up brain. I guess 'hope' can be both a good thing and a bad thing. I'll just have to wait and see.

"Abhi na jao chhod kar,
Ke dil abhi bhara nahi."

Balancing Rage and Calm

 

In the intricate world of emotions, women often find themselves walking a tightrope between rage and calmness. The struggle to express authentic feelings while adhering to societal expectations can be particularly challenging. Exploring this emotional balancing act and why simplicity remains elusive for many women.

Emotions are like a rollercoaster, and for women, this ride often includes a blend of rage and calmness. These conflicting feelings can be confusing, as societal norms have historically expected women to be primarily calm and composed. The pressure to conform can make it difficult for women to express their true emotional states.

Society has long prescribed how women should behave and feel. The traditional image of a serene and composed woman has been ingrained in cultural expectations. This societal pressure often forces women to suppress their anger, leading to an internal struggle between what is expected and what is felt.

In a world that often oversimplifies emotions, women find themselves grappling with the complexity of their feelings. The expectation to maintain an outward calmness clashes with the internal turmoil of unexpressed rage. This struggle for simplicity becomes a daily challenge as women seek to reconcile their genuine emotions with societal norms.

Despite the obstacles, many women are forging their path toward emotional balance. Breaking free from outdated expectations, they are embracing both their rage and calmness. This journey involves acknowledging and accepting the duality of emotions, and fostering an environment where women can express themselves authentically.

The emotional journey for women is an ongoing exploration of navigating the delicate balance between rage and calmness. As societal norms evolve, there is a growing recognition of the need to embrace the complexity of emotions. In supporting women on this journey, we contribute to creating a world where authenticity is valued, and the pursuit of simplicity becomes a shared endeavor.

 

LIKHE JO KHAT TUJHE WOH TERI YAAD MEIN!

  

The A4 sheets of words I wrote to you lie in the farthest corner of my bookshelf, hidden from the light. Those neatly folded letters, gingerly enveloped in soft pastels, peek from the minuscule gap between the dictionary and my favourite coffee mug-modified-pen stand, both into my eyes and into my soul.

You pulled me out from living on a chessboard to riding over rainbows, made my world "seven more colours" colourful.

Jab raat aayi toh, sitaare ban gaye,'

And I probably will. Soon. Until then, I'll let my pen control both me & my emotions.

'Likhe jo khat tujhe, woh teri yaad mein,'

It's hard to admit that this scribbling which began as a way to fill in your absence, to embrace your reminiscence, became a habit sooner than expected, in fact, almost unexpectedly.

'Hazaaron rang ke nazaare ban gaye,'

It's been a heaven of a ride with you and no, I'm not using the wrong phrase. It's been nothing less than wonderful.

'Savera jab hua, toh phool ban gaye,

Writing, to you, my love made my days lovelier and my nights a little less lonely. I talk to the stars & the wind, which surprisingly makes more sense than writing unsent letters to you.

The yellow corners of the envelopes tell me that maybe, just maybe, it's time to let go. The letters inside, definitely yellower, tell me to move on.

'Likhe jo khat tujhe…'