Winter.

The days get shorter as the reign of Night becomes stronger. Waking up in the mornings, leaving the warmth of your thick blanket and stepping on the cold floor, leaving your beloved, cosy bed, becomes the hardest thing that you’re forced to do every day.
The sun too, rises lazily, doing very little to lessen the cold. Fog greets the mornings and decides to avail their hospitality till early noon. The sky turns a whitish arctic, as solid and serene as ever. A strange but familiar silence spreads like ripples. The frogs have gone into hibernation, the insects and snakes have retreated to their burrows and apart from the occasional chirp of the crickets, silence prevails.

Early in the morning, a yellow school bus comes, to pick the children up. The mothers hurriedly fix their kids’ mufflers and button up their sweaters. As the bus leaves, they wave a quick goodbye and then fold their hands tightly, close to their body, to keep warm. Those who leave for their offices in the morning, have now started to take their cars instead of their bikes. The few who have not, wrap themselves up, with scarves and gloves and drive off.

Every day, the newspapers print the highest and lowest temperatures of the previous day and the expected ones of that day. These lead to ample discussions, especially between the grandpas and the dads. The grandpas often go through the nostalgia streets, as they tell everyone about the winters decades ago. From a particular winter suit that some famous actor wore in a certain film which apparently became very popular, to the extreme temperature range because of rising global warming, all topics are covered, though the discussions always start and end with speculations about how cold it has become.
The grannies on the other hand, become busy knitting woollens and worrying about their grandchildren catching a cold.
Vogue’s winter collection makes its appearance, and becomes the ladies’ 'hot topic'. Ironic isn’t it! And well, for the kids, it’s all about counting the days to Christmas and vacations.

For the Northern Hemisphere residents, winter sets the dominoes falling towards new year. December, the last month of the year always seems to have arrived months before it should have. Once again, we wonder how time flew. And well, December displays its super speed too, as it flies away with winter shopping, Christmas decorations and New Year planning.

But, in this raspy cold, some memories keep us warm to the core. Building snowmans, eating ice cream, though shivering with cold, snowfights, late night movies-wrapped up in blankets, waking up late, cycling on Sunday mornings, the cool air wheezing and the sun shining gently- all burn a light that glows.
There are memories, that are even more special. They are, the reason, why many of us (including me) have fallen in love with winter. Wearing the jacket of a special someone, hands in the woolly pockets and hoodie on the head, that’s all the winter love you need. A canvas and shades of blue, that’s all the winter art you need. Mum’s hot chocolate, in a huge cup with a giant book to read, a fluffy, warm stuffed toy by the side and a snug, comfortable rug, that’s all you need for a perfect winter day.

Some haven’t, as yet, fallen in love with the cold. For some, it’s just an acquaintance. Winter for some, is a foe, an uninvited guest that unabashedly makes it periodic appearance every year. But for some, it’s one of their first love.


(Do you love winter? Tell us why, or why not?)

Have a super cool, super lovely, super cosy Winter!

As the lights fade...

You wave your hand and the heads and hands popping out of the taxi wave back. The taxi turns round a corner and you can’t see it anymore. Slowly you put your hand down and having said goodbye, turn around. You walk up the stairs, back to your apartment and open the door. A strange silence greets you. The house is a mess. The packets of Rangoli, now almost over, lie in one corner, and the diyas, all burnt out, line the window sills. The wax has burned away and empty aluminium holders are all that remain of the beautiful candles.

The pillows on the sofa look terrible and need to be fluffed. A couple of packs of cards repose on the carpet. You pick them up and put them in a drawer. The boxes of sweets, chocolates and dry fruits, some half eaten, some unopened, lie in a couple of stacks on the dining table. You see their beautiful wrappings, some a bit torn, some crumpled, but some as good as new next to them. You walk into the gallery and look outside. Hundreds of pieces of red and white paper, from the crackers, litter the road and an emptiness lingers in the air around. You walk back in and take a look around once again. 

One by one, you pick up the diyas, throw the burnt wicks and oil away and put the diyas in a box that will now remain closed till next year. You fill the dry fruits in jars and throw away the empty packets. With the chocolates in the fridge, wrappers neatly folded, the dining table already looks neater. You go to your bedroom and see your stunning dress lying on the bed with a couple of necklaces and a pair of earrings next to it. Carefully, you fold the dress and keep it in the wardrobe properly, wondering if you’re going to get a chance to wear it again. The necklaces and earrings go in a velvet lined violet box and are lulled to sleep. On the other side of the bed, lie a few colourful envelopes and some gifts. You stow the envelopes in a shelf. You’re in no mood to organise the gifts so you stash all of them in a bag, promising to take a look at them later.

The house looks much better after cleaning a bit more. But nowhere does it match how it looked the night before. Bright, radiant and glowing with laughter. You plump on the sofa and close your eyes. You’re tired. The festival has taken up your stash of energy but it was totally worth it. The fun you had with your family, talking to everyone, eating excellent food, lighting diyas, playing cards late into the night, the game of dumb charades, watching the sky light up, all bring a smile on your face. You wonder how fast time flies. The holidays have come to an end though it seems like it was yesterday, when you came home, excited, looking forward to a week of joy.

Diwali has gone away, as fast as it had come. In no more than a day, the strange silence will become normal. You will go about your work and get back into your routine.

The sun has set,  and it’s slowly turning dark. As you turn on the lights, you accidentally turn on the lantern in your gallery and you realise that you’ve forgotten to take it off. You go out, with all intentions to unhook it, but you don’t. Instead, you gaze at it. Behind it, you can see the city that has lit up. It looks beautiful and so does the lantern. Its warm glow brings a fresh wave of Diwali memories. Not just this one. You remember the first time you burst a cracker, the fear and excitement, the time you realised that crackers harm the environment and didn’t let anyone in your family burst crackers. You remember the time you’d painted diyas with your mum and the time your dad had taught you to put the Diwali lights on. A faint smile gilds your face and you decide to let the lantern be. 

The lantern continues to illuminate its surroundings, spreading a warm glow, no lesser than the joy the festival had brought. 

Rejected to Reinvigorated...

Sam walked through the alley, cursing all the way. For the umpteenth time had he been rejected for a role in a movie. The last six auditions, he’d walked in, ready to play absolutely any role, but not one had he got.

"This is just not my thing", he muttered, as he had finally begun to consider giving up. He flung his drooping backpack back onto his shoulder and resumed griping about the bad auditions, the doltish casting directors, the actors and well the film industry. The alley opened into the main road and Sam stopped at the crossing, now cursing the traffic. 

A taxi driver caught his attention. The yellow car was parked on the side and the driver stood against it, talking to someone on his phone. Well, not talking exactly, because he was shouting on the phone, continuously, leaving no window for the person on the other end to reply. 

Sam couldn’t help but overhear. It seemed that the driver had just taken somebody famous,  apparently David Hadflyd, a screenplay writer, to the studio.
"That’s good for him! What’s he shouting for ?", Sam wondered. He listened to the driver intently and got to know that the writer had forgotten his briefcase in the taxi and had left the studio before the driver had gone to return it. The briefcase had a very important script, a new one that the writer had just started. 

The driver, whose tone had now softened, looked worried and was asking the person on the phone to help him find Mr. Hadflyd. Suddenly, Sam got an idea, "Genius Sam!", he exclaimed to himself and walked over to the taxi driver who had just got off the phone. "I’m sorry, I’m not driving anyone right now.", the driver said as soon as he saw Sam. "Oh no. I don’t want to go anywhere.", Sam said. The driver looked confused. "I couldn’t help overhearing you, about umm David Hadflyd’s briefcase. Looks like you need some help. I’m Sam by the way." For a second, his eyes light up but then he looked at Sam suspiciously. "I’m Travis. Do you know Mr. Hadflyd?", he enquired.
"I don’t know him personally...but I’ve been auditioning for a lot of roles recently and I was wondering if I could get a role by...you know, getting Mr. Hadflyd his script." Sam replied.

Travis was eager to get the script’s responsibility off his shoulders. Besides, Sam looked like a decent fellow. "Ok. So will you find Mr. Hadflyd and return this briefcase to him?", he asked Sam. "You can count on it", Sam assured him and walked away with his backpack and the briefcase.

Sam was tired, but a new trickle of hope had perked him up. He wandered around for a while, thinking about how he was going to get to David Hadflyd. His first cogitation lead him to the studio where Travis had dropped Mr. Hadflyd. Sam decided to walk as it wasn’t much farther.
But, when he reached the studio, he found it closed and the guard asked him to come tomorrow.

Tired and annoyed, Sam walked into what looked like a shop that was being renovated and sat down on a small carton. Cans of paints and brushes, bottles of glue and wood planks littered the floor which was covered with newspaper. Sam looked around and decided to leave in a few minutes. He was deciding where to go next when a girl entered the shop. He assumed that she hadn’t seen him from outside because she almost jumped when she saw him. As she jumped, she slipped over some spilt paint and gripped a lever on the wall to gain her balance. Unluckily for Sam, as soon as she left it, a loud bang made both of them jump and to his horror, he saw the shutter of the shop fall and a soft click told him that they were locked.

The girl froze and stared at Sam. Sam froze and stared at the shutter. How was he going to get the briefcase to Mr. David Hadflyd? He looked at the girl and saw her staring at him."I’m not going to hurt you or something...you know?", he told her tentatively. Without a word she turned around and sat on the carton closest to the shutter. Sam walked over to the shutter and the girl looked away. He banged it hard and shouted for help but no one seemed to have heard him. His phone wouldn’t work because of no network. Defeated, he went over and sat down and looked around again. He saw nothing that would help him get out and realised that he was stuck there till someone opened the shutter which didn’t seem very probable till the next morning. He looked at the girl. "What’s your name?", he asked, but did not get a reply.

Sam opened the briefcase and took the script. The girl looked at him again, now with eyes wide with surprise. She didn’t say anything to justify that look so Sam drew his attention back to the script. He opened the first page and began to read.
It was about a young boy who wanted to become an actor. He had faced many rejections but was determined to get a role. After many more rejections though, he was on the verge of giving up when-
-"When what?", Sam said, for the script was incomplete and ended with the word 'when'. The girl looked at him and he realised that he had said it out loud. "Sorry", he said quickly and the girl looked away.

Instinctively, Sam fished out a pen from his backpack and began completing the story. It was quite simple actually, because it was his story and words came to him as easily music to a young bird. He wrote about his childhood...his life was quite a story. All night, he wrote the script, not pausing for a single minute. He wrote about the protagonist, his first audition, his boundless efforts that had all gone in vain, everything. He wrote right up to his last audition, meeting Travis and being locked inside a renovating shop.

The golden red rays of dawn entered the room through a small opening in a wall. Sam looked at the script he had written with disbelief. He hadn’t given it an ending because he couldn’t think of one. The girl was still sitting near the shutter, leaning against the wall.
Sam was about to put the script back into the briefcase when he heard hurried footsteps growing louder and louder. Then, he heard the same clicking sound he had heard the night before. Someone lifted the shutter and a tall man in a brown suit rushed in. He hugged the girl and asked her if she was alright. "I’m fine Dad" she said and then whispered something in his ear. The man turned towards Sam and it was Sam’s turn to stare now.

His eyes wide with surprise, Sam found himself looking directly at David Hadflyd. "Holy Cricket!" Sam thought. He tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. As Mr. Hadflyd took a step towards him, eyeing his briefcase and the script in Sam’s hand, Sam found his voice and said, "Sir, actually I got the briefcase and I was going to give it to you. But I got stuck here and I’m really really sorry, but I wrote the rest of the script. I didn’t mean to...I mean-"
Mr Hadflyd asked for the script before Sam could finish and Sam obliged. He looked at Sam and then opened the script and began to read. The girl, Mr. Hadflyd’s daughter looked at Sam and then her Dad   ,Sam again and her Dad again and kept doing this once every few minutes. Sam stood there, looking at a famous screenwriter reading his script for what seemed to him and eternity. When he reached the last page Sam muttered, "I couldn’t think of an end" and looked away quickly.
Mr Hadflyd asked him for a pen and Sam quickly gave him one. He scribbled something on the next page and gave it to Sam. It read

  The script was just the beginning. 

He became one of the best writers I’ve ever known. 

From the diaries...

In sixth grade, we had a chapter that included extracts from the diary of the author. While introducing  the chapter, the teacher asked us "Who writes a diary?" and my hand shot straight up. She made me stand up and tell the class about my diary- Since when do I write one? What do I write? Do I write regularly? Do I share what I’ve written with anyone...and stuff like that.

Well, my answers were to the point. I have been writing a diary since first grade and then, I used to write about what happened everyday. I used to make a fuss of keeping it a secret and I remember wanting nothing more than a diary with a lock for some time...I did get the dairy and I’ve still kept it.

I remember going to Venus (that’s the name of a really really cool stationery franchise) every year on the 31st of December to buy a diary and some coloured papers and 3-D outliners to decorate it. And I still go buy a diary every new year. But, last year, I bought a couple of 360 pages notebooks...really nice notebooks instead and decided to write in them. 

Now turning 15 and being in 10th grade does funny things to you. For starters, diary isn’t the word you’d want to use anymore. Journal is. But I didn’t care much so much about what my notebook was to be called as long as I could write whatever I want in it. Also, I didn’t want my writing to be secret. In fact, I wanted people to read it (and I still do). I took it to school one day, not with an intention to show it to people but to complete a few entries. 

My friend was sitting next to me and she started reading it. I was very happy to find out that she wanted to read more of my journal and that she found it interesting. I let her and a few others read. Of course, not everyone found it interesting but most did and that motivated me to work harder on writing. A few days ago, when my first term exams got over,  I cleaned my room, putting away the term 1 books and worksheets, arranging books and I saw my old diaries...about 5 or 6 of them and began to read. 

"I was so naive", I thought to myself after reading some of the entries though I’m sure I’m going to say the same thing when I read my recent writings a few years later. But some entries, I really liked and I couldn’t believe that little me had written it. Nevertheless, I had fun and although I had written my 'deepest darkest' secrets in the diaries then, they seem funny now and I don’t mind sharing them.

I decided to go through my diaries of 2015 and 2016 and see if I could find anything worth putting on my blog and I did. Yay! So I picked up from my diaries, little epiphanies, extempore poems and sometimes stories, loads of terribly tiny tales and well just little write ups. Here are eleven of those...

The sun shining bright

On a cold summer day

Bouncing off the snow

All along the way

With death waiting 

Forth the open door,

For you to step inside.

With life waiting behind

The closed door

For you to step inside.

Wearing a necklace of tears

On a string of smiles.


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She closed her eyes
He smiled.
She opened her eyes
And the smile was
Just a memory.


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Not the grave but the sky,
Not to die my friend, But to fly


--------------------------------------------------------------------


I look at you
And you look back
You’re so far...
But I’ll burn if I come close



Dear Star


-----------------------------------------------------------------------


You wield your sword,
I’ll wield my pen
Red my ink will become,
I hope you’ll understand then.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------


People will never forgive you for something you did.
They won’t forgive you for not forgiving them for the same mistake they didn’t forgive you for.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


I look back upon life.
I wish I hadn’t made the mistakes I did.
But I know I need the lessons I learnt.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------


To choose between him and her daughter was to choose one of her wings.
But sadly, she needed both to fly.


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Strangers they were.
Started building a card castle together.
Were almost at the last layer.
Blew a wind, the castle fell
But with the fall, stood something that’d never break.
Friendship it was
That’d never break.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With dawn she rose
And dusk she faded
With love she was born
With hatred she met death.

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 The most subtle things in this world are, in my opinion
Subtleties.


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Growing Up...

When you start to understand words that once didn’t make sense,

When you start to complicate the things that once were simple,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the calls to your dad become shorter, and

The calls to your friends become longer,

You know, You’re growing up.

When you start to comb your own hair, scream

"Mum don’t mess my hair!",

You know, You’re growing up.

When you shut the door of your room, In which

You were once locked, cause you didn’t know how to unlock,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the spot on the wall, you once drew pictures on

You cover with posters of your favourite band,

You know, You’re growing up.

When the notebooks you once kept in order,

Are randomly spread on your bed, and in your bag

You know, You’re growing up.

When you turn from Gooooodddd Morrrrnnning Teeaaacheer,

To Good morning teacher to Morning Ma’am,

You know, You’re growing up.

When your bed is littered with clothes, books and headphones,

And mum doesn’t even bother to tell you to clean up,

You know, You’re growing up.

When you don’t buy a book, and save the money instead,

When you start carrying money when you go out,

You know, You’re growing up.

When mum’s "Don’t open the door if anyone knocks", 

To "Don’t forget the keys if you go out", changes

You know. You’re growing up.

When you can’t wait to be independent,

When you don’t take permissions anymore,

You know, You’re growing up.

But when you look back into the past,

And all you want,

Is to be a child again,

You know, You’ve grown up.

Freedom and Flight...

Her mother rushed down the stairs, without bothering to wait for the elevator. She was just hoping that she’d not be too late. After all, she had seen her little girl standing on top of the jungle gym, with her arms spread, ready to jump. She ran through the lobby, straight past the park gate but, she was too late. Her little girl was sitting on the ground, with blood all over her face, two front teeth missing and tears flowing down her chubby cheeks.

She picked up and hugged her daughter."Don’t cry Lilly. You’re all right. Now tell me where does it hurt?", Mother asked tenderly. Lilly did not reply, but looked at her mother’s face for a moment and then said, "I couldn’t fly like a birdie. I want to be free like a birdie!Where are my wings?" Her mother, taken aback looked at daughter who had, to her great surprise associated flying with freedom. Where, was she supposed tell Lilly, that her wings were? She smiled at her and said, "You’re still a baby birdie, Lilly. You’ll grow wings when you grow up." The little girl looked at her mother, deciding whether her mother was telling the truth. "OK", she replied, taking her mother’s word.

A decade passed, without any more flying attempts and Lilly grew to be a beautiful, intelligent and thoughtful girl. The jungle gym incident was a memory she remembered very clearly and one she often thought about. She still did want to fly and for her, flying was being free. But she knew her wings weren’t strong enough yet. Her mother, her confidante understood her. She admired Lilly’s understanding of freedom and independence but, at the same time, she knew how easy it was to become reckless from free and arrogant from independent. But, for now, she knew that her 14-year old girl was far from both.

A couple of years later, Lilly won a national writing competition. She had written an essay on 'Freedom’, something that had always intrigued her. She had written honestly, what she believed freedom was.
"Freedom to me, isn’t the liberty to speak our minds, or the liberty to use public property. It isn’t just something that the constitution guarantees us. It is the liberty of choice. It is the freedom to choose what we become. It is what enables us to embrace our purpose and it is what makes us independent. Our freedom is our identity.", her essay read.

Her mother, proud of her daughter’s perception saw how Lilly’s wings had become stronger. She knew that Lilly wasn’t truly independent yet. She hadn’t had to choose or sacrifice. Though she had comprehended freedom and independence, she had not, so far seen the responsibility, the duty and the sacrifice that were a part of it. But, her mother knew that she would, really soon. And so did she.

A day dawned when Lilly’s wings were ready for flight. But this time, she needed her freedom. To become independent, she had to make a choice and take responsibility for it. The consequences that would follow her decision would be her own to deal with. This time, the resolution was hers.
She went to her mother, nervous because of what she valued most. Freedom. It was powerful and something to fear if not valued. With the power of choice, came the responsibility of consequences, the duty of its moeurs and sacrifice. Was she ready for this, Lilly asked herself. But her mother knew that she was. Now had she truly understood freedom.

As Lilly made her choice, embraced her freedom along with its encumbrance, she flew. Her mother with joy looked at her daughter who had, from a four year old who had jumped from the jungle gym to fly like a birdie, become a free bird.

This one’s for you.

There are, in my opinion two things that language fails to do justice to. Love and Friendship. And today, the world celebrates one of these. What I am going to do today, is to try and put into words, what friendship is to me and tell my friends how much they mean to me.

I was first introduced to the word 'friend' when I was around two and a half years old. I went to 'Tiny Tots', which was a small school near my house. Our teacher said to me one day, when I guess I was angry on a boy from our class, for solving my jig-saw puzzle, "Come one now, he is your friend right? Shake hands and solve the puzzle together".
A year later, my mum’s friends or my relatives generally asked me who my 'best friend' was after they had finished interrogating me about my name, school, etc. Around the same time, we were allowed to sit with our 'best friends' in school and there were little quarrels among us about exactly who was whose 'best friend'. I had a friend, whom I used to sit with, spend all my time with, eat lunch with and go home with. I realised, he was my, what they called, 'best friend'. But, he left school and went to another country. I’m happy to say, that hasn’t made much difference to our friendship.

As I went to first grade, I got to know my other classmates, whom I hadn’t known much about earlier.   Little did I know that four of these were going to become the most important people in my life. Growing up, I read many books about friendship, lessons about friendship from our English textbook, wrote essays on 'My Best Friend' and 'A Friend in need is a friend indeed' and saw movies which highlighted friendship. By the time I was in fifth grade, I had understood that friendship was a really really important part of our lives. Friends were the family we could choose. But, in sixth standard, I experienced the importance of friendship. I developed a close amity with a friend with whom I hadn’t talked much for the past three years. We used to fight a lot, quarrel every single day but somewhere between that bickering, we became friends and not just the so called 'friends' whom you say hi to everyday. Not the kind of friends that just hung out together. We trusted each other, understood each other and well, had loads of fun together. At the same time, my bond with two crazy girls whom I known since first grade deepened. They probably realised that I was as crazy as them, if not more. But I still had a friend who was more special than the rest.
Sixth grade was the best school year of my life. Weekends were torture because I couldn’t meet my three amigos then. Spending time with them made me happy and spending time without them sucked.  They would be there when I needed them, to make everything seem all right and they would be there when I didn’t need them, to annoy me...well I don’t think there was a second when we didn’t need one another. We started understanding each other so well that we could lip read each other and communicate from two corners of the class without letting anyone else know. We completed each other’s sentences and most of the times, looks were enough to convey everything. That’s when I realised how beautiful friendship was. I started appreciating and being grateful for my friends and it was then that I truly understood what friendship meant.

Friendship is beguiling. It is as close to magic as it can get. Friends are, at times, more than family. They don’t judge you, they don’t pick your flaws, they understand you, they trust you, they’re faithful and well, they are friends.

For you, who’s reading this, I wish you a very Happy Friendship Day! Tell your friends how much they mean to you and thank them for being there. Friendship is priceless and well, it’s something to be grateful for. Remember, a real friend is someone who makes you realise how beautiful friendship is...

Priceless.

"I’m coming to India in December.", she said. "Really!", I asked, hoping that this wasn’t some stupid joke. She laughed and nodded and I realised that it was true. I had not seen my best friend for over a year and a half, as she had shifted to Japan and I couldn’t wait to see her again.

"Why did you have to tell me now?", I asked her crossly. "Couldn’t you wait till November? Five months! That’s forever.", I rebuked as I had begun to realise how long these five months were now going to be. They’d never pass. I looked at her, peeved.
"I know right!", she said angrily, and all my anger melted away. I knew that December seemed ages away to her too. "Give me your address.", she said suddenly. "Huh?"I asked. My brain had begun to make a list of the things to do when she came here in December. 'Give me your address' had disturbed the brilliant wave of ideas that my brain had been working on. "Your address!, she repeated, slowly, as if I was someone who had a difficulty understanding English.
I gave her a 'seriously-dude?' look and asked her why she wanted my address right now. After all, she was going to come eons later. "Come on", she said. "The last time we talked was about 4 months ago. Who knows when we’ll get to talk next. Just give it to me. " Laughing, I told her my address as she wrote it down somewhere in her book.

For another hour or so, we talked about what we’d do when she’d come here in December. We decided how we would surprise all our other friends, how we’d spend the first weekend and then the second, and all the stuff we’d do together. Just talking about it made us happy and by the time we had finished discussing the plans, we had started cursing August, October and November that stood in the way of December and July. September was an exception because her birthday is in September and so is my other best friend’s. We talked a bit more and then, realising how much time had passed, said goodbye.

After I closed Hangouts, I went to the living room and danced around, singing 'Vasumati is coming'
to a random tune. Now that I think of it, my brother and grandparents’ something-is-seriously-wrong with-her-looks were totally justified.

Last Thursday, Vasumati messaged me again. "What time are you free tomorrow", it said. I had a whole load of homework to do and notebooks to complete. Friday was a holiday and so, the teachers had given as much homework as they possibly could. "It’s a long weekend. You must study and complete everything.", all of them had said. I told this to Vasumati and also asked her if she had wanted to video call. When she said yes, I told her that we could do it around 4, India time. I wasn’t going to study the whole day anyway and talking to her would be excellent.

The next day, as usual, I did absolutely nothing according to plan. By afternoon, I had watched Masterchef Australia, Schindler’s List, read a book, made a sketch and had not even opened a school book. It was almost four and owing to the fact that I had done nothing, I decided to tell Vasumati to skip the call and do it later, maybe on Sunday.
I closed the book I was reading, and got up. I looked around my room; it was pretty much what you can call a mess. Guests were to come for dinner, but I was the least interested in cleaning up. The bell rang while I was opening my email to send a message to Vasumati. I thought that the guests had most probably decided to come early, but, I’ve never been more wrong. Mum rushed to my room and asked me if I was ready. "Why would I be-"I began to say, but stopped mid-sentence.

A girl, who looked exactly like Vasumati entered my room and sat on my bed, like it belonged to her, at 4 o’ clock. I stared at her for a couple of seconds, blinked...I seriously did. Then, I got up and hugged her tightly, pulled back, looked at her, blinked a couple more times and then hugged her again.

She laughed, probably because of the look of absolute disbelief on my face. I realised quite later that I had been muttering "No Way...No Way...Whoa", over and over again. I laughed, with almost tears in my eyes and she did too.
It was crazy and amazing. I can’t put into words how happy I was, seeing her and how extremely truly bloody surprised I was.

For the next ten minutes, I tried to convince myself that this was real. This girl had really come to India from Japan and she had, given me a wonderful shock, more than a surprise. She told me how she had hidden from a couple of boys in our school who lived near her house to make sure that I didn’t find out she was here. She told me how the whole plan would have failed if I had picked up the phone to let her in the building instead of my mum. We talked, we laughed, took loads of pictures and had fun. She stayed at my place for the weekend and honestly, it was one of the best of my life.

The fact that someone would do this for me left me ecstatic. The joy that I felt when she, instead of her call came at 4 is priceless and something that I will, without a doubt, never forget.

Yet to Discover...

People say that you can find a bit of the writer’s story in whatever he writes. A poem reflects what the poet feels. Many writers, have, in fact admitted to this. For instance, J.K Rowling, the author of the famous Harry Potter series said, in an interview that the story was greatly influenced by her hardships. Characters died when she was angry or in great grief, the dementors -one of the foulest creatures on Earth, who glory in decay and despair, drain hope and happiness from the air around them- were, to quote her, "based on her experience of depression".

I feel that it is quite easy to write about things we have felt, as compared to things we’re yet to discover.  I therefore think that a writer’s true test lies, not in making the reader feel what they have felt, but to take readers to places where the author has never been. Many of the readers might have been there already, many might have not. To engulf those who have, in his/her version, to make the undiscovered feel familiar, here lies the author’s trial. If your work keeps your secret, doesn’t let anyone know that what you’ve written is purely imagination, you know you’ve succeeded. 

That is what I’m going to try to do today. I’m 15 and most of the fifteen year olds I know write brilliantly, about stuff you’d expect, without a doubt, from teenagers. Love and broken hearts, backstabbing and fights, friends and crushes, well, isn’t that what we think teenage is all about? I have a wee bit different views on this, though I’ll have plenty of time to write about them later. So today, I’m going to try to write something, something I have never tried to write before, something that I’m yet to discover and something that I’m going to have to trust, my reading and my imagination will do justice to.

So here it is:

...

Don’t let me go, he screams

But words fail him

He is broken inside

But tears fail him

He takes a step back

Tries to turn around 

And walk away,

But I hold his hand in mine

I don’t let him go

"I heard you scream",

"I saw your tears", I say

"But I wasn’t the one walking away.

I scream, but this time,

Words fail me.

I’m broken inside,

But tears now, fail me.

"I know" he says,

And I know he heard my scream

I know he saw the tears, he says

"You’re all I need to stay"

Then, he holds my hand in his

Doesn’t, this time, walk away

And now, I know

He’ll never let me go.

Stoked.

Sipping a cup of hot coffee, I sat on a table, right next to the door in McDonald’s. It was raining heavily and the air conditioning on my wet clothes, hair and socks was making my nose runny. I wrapped my palms around the cup, sucking all its warmth. I sipped on, clocking the commotion outside. Amidst the muddle, a little boy, less than a year old caught my eye.

He crawled away as a girl, around 14 years old carried him back again and again to a tree under which stood a small crowd. The way she looked at him protectively and firmly told him to stay put , I guessed he was her little brother.

She wore a worn, old, red top with a dirty green skirt. Her curly hair was tied clumsily into a knot, falling all over her face. Broken slippers barely protected her feet. She looked at her brother with exasperation as he crawled into the muddy puddle again. I laughed as she scooped him up and brought him under the tree again, though it wasn’t of any use. He was already wet, from crawling in the puddle and she was too, from bringing him back for the hundredth time.
The few people standing there, who weren’t busy with their phones, watched these two kids quaintly; some, with interest, some with distaste. I wondered why the little boy wouldn’t listen to his sister. He crawled out again and this time, the sister did not bring him back. She just looked at him warily and let him crawl in the mud.

The little boy was having fun. He laughed as he splashed around, much to the annoyance of the drove. I smiled as I saw the sister keeping a watchful eye on her little brother. She looked responsible and matured. Her impecuniosity had perhaps shaped her older than her age.
The little boy, though wasn’t aware of any such thing. He was an innocent kid, without a clue of the hardships of his family. His little blue pants were all wet and he looked really happy as he sat in the mud and sloshed his teeny fingers in the mire.

He stopped abruptly for a second and then did something that, judging from her expression, his sister hadn’t expected. I watched with wonder as the little boy tried to stand up. He slowly got onto one knee, and then the next and tried to stand up. He couldn’t though. He fell down, head first into the plash. I was concerned for a moment until he sat back, his face now all muddy. He looked at his sister and then, laughed. She smiled with relief and I don’t know why, but so did I.

He tried again, fell again, tried again and fell again but this little boy, I knew, wasn’t going to stop till he’d stand up, all on his own. Finally, after loads of endeavours, he stood up on his little feet. He shifted his feet as he tried to balance himself but tumbled over again. This time, he didn’t laugh. With renewed confidence, now that he had stood up once, he got up again but couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. After a couple of more attempts, he finally stood up, steady. He looked proud of himself and so did his sister. I felt glad but that wasn’t all that day had for me.

As his sister smiled at him, he tried to take a step ahead. Anticipation replaced her smile in a fleet of time but her little brother did not disappoint her. He took his first step, towards her and then his second. Slowly he walked over to her. She beamed with joy and the melancholy in her eyes, too old for her age vanished. She jumped around, clapping, encouraging her brother.

I was overjoyed. I knew I had nothing to do with the two kids but I had seen someone’s first steps. I was euphoric. Someone’s first steps! That was intimidating. The joy and pride in the sister’s eyes, the sense of accomplishment in the little boy’s who had just taken his first steps left me in awe. 

And there, sitting in a McDonald’s, sipping a cup of hot coffee, cold, with rain pouring outside I had seen something I’ll never forget. I was stoked.

Meant to Fly

I am a free bird,

Don’t cage me.

I’m meant to fly,

Don’t chain me.

In the shackles of expectation,

Don’t make me leave behind

What I truly am.

For I will beat my wings

Against this cage,

I’ll tear them apart

Striving to break free.

I won’t stop trying

For the sky sets no limits,

Expectations will fail to bind me,

As freedom will find me.

I’m a bird

And I’m meant to fly

               In this effort to be free,

Don’t let me die.

Rain.

The air cools down rapidly and the earthly petrichor brings waves of nostalgia. The roads, that have turned into a darker shade of grey, reflect the street lights and headlights and shine all the way. Every time tires cut through the puddles, small splashes make the pedestrians’ shoes soggy.  Curses and screams rally over the roads, muffled under the sound of car horns and the steady pour. The footpath floods with umbrellas and two wheeler drivers line beneath the large trees to stay dry.
After a long wait, months of drought, Pune greets rain.

It isn't raining cats and dogs. It's rather raining butterflies, which makes it even more beautiful. I look at the road, all the vehicles lined up round the crossroads. Their wipers sway continuously and for a long time, I gawk at them, lost. I forget everything else as I gaze at the windscreens. The rain drops fall, gracefully and then race down to the bottom. All of a sudden, I am a little girl again, cheering the drops to victory, guessing which one will reach the bonnet first.
Sitting in my very own paper boat, sailing with my best friend through an angry sea, I laugh. With play swords in our hands, we challenge the other paper boats and race to the shore, very much like the raindrops. As I come out of my ship, all wet, tired and covered in mud, it magically turns back into a paper boat, the shore, into a pavement. The sea that merged into the sky is now just a titchy puddle.

Drenched in the rain, we walk back home and promise each other to come back in a jiffy. I dash home and change into a fresh, dry pair of clothes, collect some food-sandwiches, chocolates and steaming hot onion bhajis and sprint downstairs. She arrives a second later with two cups of hot chocolate and napkins. A silent agreement passes and we walk to our favourite spot, together without a word. We wriggle through a hole in the wall. On the other side, we see our tree. It’s been there ever since we were born. We keep our stuff on a branch that is quiet high, but offers a really comfortable and veiled place to sit. The groove is just right for everything we need. We climb the tree and rest comfortably on the damp branch, enjoying our hot chocolate and sandwiches.
I love the tree. It is our secret place and I remember how proud we were the day we found it. It was ages ago. Now, we’ve grown up.

As my thoughts wander through the nostalgia streets, I don’t realise that I’ve been staring, rather curiously at the windscreens. My friend snaps her fingers, right in front of my face and I’m pulled back, rather unwillingly, to the present. The rain is still pouring and now all I want to do is go down and without a worry in the world, play in the rain. So, that’s what I do.

As the drops splatter over my face, joy rushes through my body. I am cold, very but that just makes me even more zippy. It isn’t rainy season unless it has rained and well, here it is, rain.
The beginning of months of joy, mom’s "Don’t get wet, you’ll catch a cold" and "no pani puri from the hawker round the corner from now.", headlines all about rain and storms, traffic jams and chaos, hoping it rains plenty for the school to give us a holiday, playing football, barefoot in the rain, the joy of the fields and nectar of all, the festival of paper boats, here comes Rain.

Rush or Relief ?

After a week of onerous studying, sleeping for not more than a couple of hours every night...I have to admit I did feel relieved for one full minute after I submitted my last FA 1 paper. But like I said, or rather wrote, only for one minute. Before I start writing about this temporary relief that I felt, let me tell you a bit more about tenth grade exams of a CBSE school.

To begin with, we start our term in April. Granted that it gives us an extra month for completing the syllabus and revision, for us-students, it means a ton of homework and project work for the summer holidays. Then again, it means that we will have our first FA within the first fortnight of June, just when school reopens.
FA stands for Formative Assessment ( I had to check if both the 'ss' of assessment are doubles :P ). We have 4 of these every year. Each FA includes a thirty mark pen-paper test for each subject, an individual project of each subject and a group project for each subject.
Then, we have two SAs. SA stands for Summative Assessment ( I didn’t have to check the 'ss' this time ). SA consists of a ninety mark paper for each subject, apart from English (we have a seventy marks paper and a twenty marks assessment of speaking and listening skills), a practical examination and an ICT exam. Also, we have to make a project on disaster management, art, skill development and work education. We have loads of other stuff during the year as well but I guess that covers the exams.

Coming to my last FA 1 paper, you see there is absolutely no reason to relax after completing all the papers. Instead of making me feel disburdened, the exams freaked me out. As soon as I submitted my last paper, relief flooded my brain but vanished faster than it had come as numbers bursted in my head. I started calculating the number of exams that were to follow, the marks I was most to likely to score and the percentage they would get me.

While I was calculating, I realised that this was my last FA 1 ever. Next year, this time, I’ll be busy with college admissions. I won’t give a test called FA 1 ever again. I wanted to shout "COOOLLL". But I didn’t. The concept of not returning to school next year felt very very odd, highly unlikely, rather impossible and weirdly, funny. I don’t think I’m on terms with it yet. " Last FA 1 ever, I hope you haven’t messed the papers up", I thought to myself and flopped on my bench. Subconsciously, my brain resumed its calculations.

By the time my cerebrum worked out the calculations, the next teacher came in and the little bit of relief that had lingered went away completely. As I opened my textbook, I was all set for the next lesson. As the teacher began reading, I felt my shoulders relaxing. The relief came back and spread through my body. The tension of exams started to fade away. After years of this yearly routine, we have become used to it. I’m sure we’ll not know what to do if we come back home everyday and have no homework to complete, no tests to prepare for and no studies to do. It is something I do enjoy, I admit, very reluctantly though.

Next month and the one after that and the one after that one as well, we’re going to have to give exams. This isn’t going to stop now. The paranoid rush and hours of writing feverishly, pouring everything I’ve ever known on paper, scanning the textbook at the speed of light just before the exam,    doing all sorts of things under the name of  'group studies', the late night calls with absolutely no hesitation because we know no one’s  asleep anyway, wishing one another 'Happy Independence Day' after the last papers is something that I am never going to forget.

Undaunted

It’s eyes were closed. After days of hard work, she had finally broken her egg and hatched. She couldn’t see anything but she felt warm and safe under her mother’s wings. Mother had made this nest for her and her two brothers. She hadn’t seen them yet. In fact, she hadn’t seen the world that she had now become a part of. She couldn’t wait to open her eyes and catch the first glimpse of Earth, her home. She couldn’t wait to see the sky where she would spread out her wings and fly. Eager to see her mother, whose voice she had been listening to inside her egg, excited to fly, she tried to open her eyes. It wasn’t very easy, but she did it.

The first thing she saw was her mother’s wing. Mother had spread her wings over them like a blanket. The quilt of love kept them snug and sound. Her brothers’ eyes were still closed, but as Mother saw her baby’s eyes open, she shifted her wings and looked at her baby tenderly. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled. She named her baby daughter 'Wing'.

As days passed, Wing started moving around in their nest. Slowly, white feathers replaced her pink skin. Wing grew up to be a gorgeous young bird. Every day, she watched her mother take off from their nest in the morning to bring them food and some water. With her white wings glimmering in the sunlight, Mother’s flight radiated freedom. The sky belonged to them. Wing couldn’t wait to fly. She wanted to explore the world. She wanted to see the mountains and the oceans. She wanted to drink water from a flowing river. But "Not yet , Wing", was the only answer she got from Mother when she mentioned flying.

One autumn morning, Mother woke her three little ones early. The sun hadn’t risen yet. Wing and her brothers woke up and looked at Mother quizzically, wondering why she had woken them up so early. Mother smiled, and looked at her little birds who were going to fly today. "It’s time to fly", she told them. Wing felt a rush of excitement. Finally the day had come.

The three little birds stood in a neat line along the edge of the nest. Mother told them about flying. She told them about the sky and the clouds. She told them how the wind helped them sometimes but worked against them on other days. She told them about speed, changing directions and catching prey. After Mother told them about flying, she told them about the dangers of the sky. In the end she, took off, made a circle around their tree and came back. "Ready?", she asked her three little babies who had grown up in no time. They nodded. "Follow me", prompted Mother. She spread her wings and took off for the second time. Two small birds followed her, but one remained in the nest.

As Wing’s brothers and Mother soared in the sky, she looked at them longingly. They called her to join them. "It’s really fun!", her younger brother beamed. But Wing couldn’t get herself to fly. Mother came back to their nest. "Why didn’t you follow us Wing?", she asked her thoughtfully. She didn’t seem angry at her. "I...I was afraid.", Wing replied truthfully. "Why Wing? We’re meant to fly. And for you, more than anyone else, flight has always been fascinating, hasn’t it?" Mother asked.

"Yes, Mother, I’ve always wanted to fly. I couldn’t wait for this day. But now, I’m afraid I’ll fall. And what if I can’t pick myself up again? What if I’m never able to fly?",Wing answered. She was embarrassed. How could she, a bird be afraid to fall? She had wings! But Mother understood her fear.  "Perhaps you’ll want to try again tomorrow?", she asked Wing. "Ok, Mother.", Wing sighed. She didn’t know how her fear would go away in a day. Mother smiled at her and then flew to her brothers who were enjoying their first flight.

As Wing stood alone in the nest, she looked at the sky. The sun was rising. A stretch of gold and red embellished the horizon. Wing wanted to fly. And she understood the reason she was afraid to fall. She was scared that she would never be able to fly if she fell down. She was terrified of never being able to fly. "But this fear, it is not letting me fly anyway.", she thought. Never flying, for her was a risk far greater than falling down was. She wasn’t going to let her fear rule over her. She was a free bird and the sky was hers. She spread her wings and felt the wind brush them. "What if I fall?", she asked herself. "But what if you fly?", a voice inside her head whispered. She was ready.  Ready to fly.

She mustered up her courage and leaped off the nest. She soared high into the sky. Flying was as easy as taking breaths. It came to her naturally. She flew towards the horizon, her white feathers shimmering in the rays of dawn. Mother looked at her with pride and her brothers cheered. Wing was happy. She felt free. That she could ever fall, seemed funny now. Now, she would fly. She sped past mountains and the clouds. She saw the world like she’d never before.

 Ecstatic and enchanted, Wing flew. "What if you fly", whispered the voice again."Then I won’t be afraid. I’ll be undaunted.", she said, and glided along the horizon. 

Why a reader...

As the bell rang, all the students rushed out of their classes, jostling against one another. Stomachs grumbling, they raced to the school canteen. They couldn't wait to share everything that had happened since morning with their friends sitting in the next class, to roam around in the school and pull off a prank or two.

The girls' gossips could be heard all the way to the end of the corridor, but no one listened or cared. Everyone was busy talking, laughing, enjoying their thirty minutes of freedom from the boring lectures they had to attend all day.

The corridor bustled with activity, the classes as quiet as they could be. All the students were outside. But, in one of the classes, sat a girl. She looked outside, a wee bit annoyed with the noise. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled to herself, like this was something that happened everyday. She saw a couple of girls hug their friends, waving and shouting just outside the class. "Yeah, right, the last time you met each other, dinosaurs were alive.", she muttered. Then, for no apparent reason, hit herself on the head. "Don't say that", she told herself.

She took her tiffins from her lunch bag and a giant book from her desk. In just a matter of seconds, the noise would fade out. In no time, she'd not even be here, a place where she was always they odd one out. She would go to a place where she had friends. A place with adventure, love, friendship and magic.

She flipped the pages to the chapter she had been reading a while ago and began to read. She was walking through a beautiful forest. The subtle scent of pines and oak filled the air. The sky was clear, a shade of azure stretched to the horizon. Everything was quiet except for the steady thump of her horse's hooves. He trotted along her and she knew that as long as he was with her, she'd never be alone. She talked to him, told him everything she felt. She told him that she wanted to fly, told him what she would do when the war had ceased. She was grateful to have Aren. His amber crest glinted in the sunlight. He was someone who had accepted her for who she was. He understood her and she understood him. He never kept secrets from her and she didn't either. She smiled as she walked, thinking about what was to come ahead. This could be her last smile. This would be the last time she walked with Aren if she failed.

The sky turned black and suddenly, it became dark, like all the light had been sucked out. She couldn't see anything. "Aren!", she called out. He trotted over to her, though she had no idea how he had the faintest sense of direction. The sound of his hooves calmed her down. She ran her fingers through his mane and tried to feel something, listen to something, anything that would help her find out what had happened. But just then, a voice echoed through the darkness. "I trust you. You won't let me down. I know.", it said. She recognised his voice instantly. Aren nodded his approval. He too knew this voice. It was Mark's. It was full of pain, with no trace of the joy she had heard in it before. She knew he must have gone through a lot of trouble to say this to her. He had sensed her fear and confidence falter. In three simple words, he had given her hope. Mark still did trust her and there was no way she was going to let him down. She would do the right thing, no matter what.
As the darkness slowly merged into light, Aren nudged her shoulders. She sat on his back as he told her to and took a deep breath. "I'm ready." she said, though she didn't know if she was telling this to Aren or herself. She tightened her grip around his neck and he took off, faster than eyes could follow.
As they rode further, the roar of the wind started to fade away, replaced by the chatter of teens.
She looked up from her book. The benches were filling and the corridors became quieter. She closed her book gently and put it back in her desk.

She looked around her class, that was now very noisy. She looked at the girls who were still gossiping in a corner, giving her nasty glances every few seconds. She laughed, much to their astonishment. They just couldn't digest the fact that someone who wasn't a part of their group wasn't working hard to become one. And she found this very amusing. So what if she didn't have friends here? She had her books. She had the very special gift of being a reader. She could go anywhere, any time she wanted. She could be anyone and she didn't have to choose. She had so many friends who'd always be with her. What more would anyone want?
"And that’s why, that's exactly why I love books", she whispered. "That’s why, I'm a reader.", she thought to herself and smiled. :)

Why a writer...

"What do you want to become when you grow up?", they asked. " An astronaut", the little girl replied, without the slightest hint of doubt. The moon and the stars had always amazed her. The working of the universe, its beginning, was an enigma she wanted to solve. 

She would drown herself in books, those of every kind and burrow through the huge pile in no time. Books about stars, books about planets, Grandma's moral stories, books on art and ' 100 things you can make at home' , Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter, she loved them all. They were her best friends who had taught her a great deal. But, she owed it all to her mum and dad who had taught her to read. Her love for stories had ensued from the bedtime stories her mom used to make up, spontaneously while tucking her in bed. Her love for reading, came from her dad whom she had seen devouring his fat books.

Whenever she read a book, her brain buzzed with ideas. Inventions and Aliens, Time Travel and Artificial Intelligence seemed to have bought a house in her head. And every time they left for a walk or late night dinners with photons and quarks, they always forgot to switch the lights off, making sure that she didn't forget them for a jiffy.

As she grew up, the world bewildered her even more. She realised that every person has a story and she loved to get to know it. The world was a beautiful place but its beauty had gone unnoticed by many. The beauty of the human race and the joy of being together had begun to dwindle. The stars looked further away and her dreams were slipping from her grasp, like sand does from your fingers. The world needed a different point of view. Humans needed to know how beautiful their home was and how much life mattered. And she would do so. There were so many who knew this already. But, she felt that their voices were subdued under the selfishness of others. She couldn't do nothing for this now could she? She was a reader, who had the power of words. She was an astronaut who knew just how magnificent this universe was.

Her dream of reaching the stars stopped slipping away. In fact, like Mr. Time Travel, it seemed to like keeping her determined as well. She promised herself she would make her dream come true. But her dream had become much more than exploring space or enabling the survival of life on moon. Her dream now had become much much less selfish. She wanted to share these experiences with everybody. She wanted them perceive all that they had missed. 

"What do you want to be when you grow up?", they asked again. "An astronaut", she replied. She paused and took a deep breath. " An Astronaut who writes, an Astronaut who is a writer.", she said.

"Why a writer", they asked. " Because I want people to see the world from the stars. I want them to see the world once, from my eyes."