The Red Bag Of Dreams

Its too brown here. Nothing bright, nothing pretty. My red kurti is the brightest object in this dull, dreary place.
In places its green. And beige. Hideous. It smells funny here. Like body odor, and air freshner, and medicine, and humans hating their work, and feeling like failures.

Its blue outside. Blue, and sunny, with bright greens, and black and yellow rickshaws that loot innocent Mumbaikars.
Its pretty slow today, this otherwise noisy, bustling city. Its a Saturday. A small part of the working crowd, makes its way to work, knowing that they'll leave early, work very little, and relax a lot. The weekend is here.

But I'm not allowed outside. I'm stuck in this brown box. Unsure of what the weekend will bring to me. Unsure if I'll even have a weekend. I want to rush outside. Stand in the sun, feel my skin burn, and the wind rush through my hair. Then worry about how I'm going to brush the knots out of my waist length hair. I'll fantasize about going crazy and chopping it off. And wearing it in a crazy pixie hairstyle. With red highlights. But I'll know in my heart, I could never cut it off. I want to run on the beach and hold your hand and watch the waves. And feel sand in between my toes. I want to feel the waves crash against my legs, and wet my jeans.
I want freedom. To do what I want. To be who I want, and speak how I want. I don't want to be forced into this brown and green box. I don't want to come here, fighting against my will, and what my heart begs for.
I don't want to cry.
I want to go on a long long walk, with my dog. And watch her huff and puff and chase me. I want to go shopping with my mother, and get ready for the festive season. Navratri is coming. I want to swap books and authors with Dad. And tease for how slow he is. I want to tuck my feet under me, and read all day.

Far away. Where the blue sky stretches endlessly. Where the grass is green everywhere. Where work is fun, and my mind at peace.


The Romantic Cynic.
:)

The Ragged Coastline, Of A Sun-Warmed Mind

"I'll show you how much my shit stinks, and ask you what you think, coz your thoughts and words are powerful."- Kimya Dawson

I was struck with a thought today. Everyday, every hour, every minute for that matter, we make decisions. Some that we aren't even conscious of. We make them automatically, with a barely a thought given.
There are so many decisions I've made I regret. From small decisions like giving in to a food craving, that makes me obsess about my weight, to major decisions like choice of my career option. They've been spur of the moment, not-really-thinking, decisions. And if I had the choice I'd go back and change them.
Why though? Why do we make such decisions? When its up to us, to choose, why do we still choose wrong? I can blame no one for the wrong decisions I made. No one forced me, I was given the choice. What is it about our human nature, to make decisions we regret later?
Are we really so hasty, that we don't stop to think? Or are we so near-sighted as to not see the possibilities?
What happens when you make a life-altering decision, and it happens to be the wrong one? Do you get a chance to correct it? Or are you stuck coz you chose wrong? Who do you blame, when you mess up? When you're the only one at fault? Coz its human nature to put the blame on someone. So should we blame God? God, when you gave me the good sense of being able to think for myself, and make my choices, why didn't you give me the good sense to choose right? Its all your fault. You're supposed to be looking out for me.
When our actions are the cause for our pain, why do we get angry with Him? Why do we take our temper out on God, and stay mad at him?
We find it so easy to forgive those humans we love, who err, then why do we not forgive Him who gave us a chance to love? Is it coz we believe Him omnipotent? He's all knowing, all powerful, so he shouldn't go wrong? But humans are faulty, naïve, they can mess up?
I make a decision today. To take responsibility for all my actions. When I make a choice, solely my own, I shall not blame God, or my family, or my boyfriend and friends. I will accept that I was wrong, and blame no one.
I also decide that from now on, I will think till the end of my thinking capacity before I choose something.
For I believe, today, that a delayed decision, is better than a wrong one.
This life is my own, I want to die knowing I chose what was best for me. And without regrets.
I don't usually think so deep. But I did today. And I thought it should be written. Coz my thoughts and words are powerful.
I'm sitting in a rickshaw, with a cigarette burning in my right hand, stuck in crazy traffic. I could curse Mumbai, and the heat. However, I write.
For the choice to write too, is my own.

The Romantic Cynic.

The Leprechaun Stole The Colors Of The Rainbow

'You go back to her, and I go back to black.'- Amy Winehouse 

The color blue fades away into grey.
Even that bright pretty shade, can become dull grey, lifeless, devoid of color. Like someone sucked the vitality out of it.
The sky is a dull grey right now. The sky in her world. Out side the sky is a midnight blue.
Butterflies died. Kohl spread from big brown eyes, and down caramel cheeks. The light went out those eyes.
Doors banged shut. Silence crept in.
The curtains fluttered. The still hot night, holding her secrets. Light footsteps somewhere nearby.
She walked silently to her bed, tears streaming down her cheeks.
It wasn't blue anymore, there's no color left behind. It was grey everywhere she looked. Life, had lost the color, she'd been promised it would have.
Even when the sun came out, the shades that had once made her smile, were lost. The faith she had in life, died. She'd live, exist, purely because, she doesn't know better. But, what use is such a life?

She draped on a scarf, to hide her tears, and walked out to face the world.

Of Dreams, And Foolishness

She was crazy. She was normal. She was a little dreamy, and very practical. She was very loving, and hated very strongly. She was very generous, and could be very selfish.
She was a dream. She was his dream. She was the strangest, rarest of women. He'd never met anyone quite like her. She could bare her teeth in anger, and scare people into giving her what she wanted. And yet, she had but, to smile, and she'd charm them, into getting her own way.
She was rude, cutting through people's weaknesses. She was warm, making people feel better about themselves. She was his dream.
She had dark, bright eyes, that gleamed with a temper. Those same eyes, could crinkle up, and blaze love.
A dream. Unattainable, always just out of reach. She was the dream, that never goes away, tantalizes, torments, with its foggy memories.
But she was real. So very real. And so human. With human weaknesses, and human failings. She crumpled under pressure, but was as strong as required, when the ones she loved needed her.
So he dreamed. Dreamed of his dream. And as dreams oft do, made him believe she was his.
Wispy memories. From dreams of last night. She lingers on, somewhere, in the recesses of his mind.


Strangely dreamy,
Cynical Romantic,
(:

'Bhatt, Be Chai Aap!'

Its an unnaturally cold evening. We're sitting side by side, smoking, drinking गरम चाय , wondering what we're doing with our lives. Two insignificant people, in a big city.

You're thinking of all you lost, and how you messed up. I'm thinking of the future, of the challenges I will face, and the tears I will shed and the bridges I will burn.
Chaotic, is the only way to explain our thoughts. Yet, together we look comfortable, happy even. No one notices us, cocooned as we are from the world. Two quiet people in a fast paced city.
Together, we feel fine. I'm your light. Even in the cold, I'm your warmth. When you think of me, you say you think of fire.
 For me, you're, like lying down after a long hard day, and feeling each muscle relax. You're my comfort. That boy, lost in thought, the ever present cigarette, burning red in the dark, the चाय का  cup, with steam rising up. Despite the worries, and the burdens on our young shoulders, I'm  happy.

The cold winter breeze, the smell of smoke, the rickshaws passing by, and the people rushing by. We register everything, and nothing. When we kiss, its like coming home. Something falls in place. When I'll think of you, I'll always remember the Marlboro Hards, and the mint on your breath, and the crazy life we led, and the peace we found instead.

Always,
The Cynical Romantic,
(:

Once Upon A Summer Eve

That summer evening, we stood, a girl and a boy, and the sound of the train, rushing in the background.
I'm still that girl, and there's still those trains. But you're not that boy anymore. You're a man now. Older, smarter, more cynical.
I'm still that girl, naïve, sheltered, ignorant of worldly things. I'm still that girl, with the thought that, the whole world is good and kind. Like you used to be.
You're not that boy. You talk of things, I know nothing of. You look like a man with secrets. Secrets he must never share.
But I'm still that girl. And I still think the world of you. Oli now, now I'm scared of you.
Coz you're not the boy, who said, 'You're a miracle. Will you go out with me?'
No. Now you're the man who says, 'I tried, but I still like you, beyond reason, beyond safety'
But, I'm still that girl, and I don't hear the pain, and hopelessness in your voice. All I hear, is that I'm your choice. Naïve, foolish, misguided, I'm still your choice.
Coz you may not be that boy, of that summer evening. But you're the man, who says,'But you ARE beautiful, there's no questioning that.' And that, is enough for this young girl's heart.
This summer, there will be no boy and girl standing together. There will be a man, with shadowed eyes, and a girl, with stars in hers, and the train rushing in the background.