The Pseudo Identities of a Writer!

She could have managed alone, like she eventually did. But still, one does expect a sign of care from the person who claims to love her. She had no issues walking back alone through a secluded lane at an odd hour but it mattered to her whether that person would show concern for her safety, for it would have meant he considered her to be his as much as she wanted to be his. She was hardly bothered about her safety, nothing wrong could have possibly happened but it was HIS indifference to it which pricked her as it in a way signified a small defeat: she had failed to get him express concern for her well-being. However hard she may have tried convincing him that she can walk back herself, deep inside her heart she wanted him to care enough to not let her go, to accompany her till the end, if not bragging as a strong protector but maybe just to get more time to spend with her. She was unsuccessful in creating a want in him to be with her. She obviously wouldn’t have voiced it out, for it was something one shouldn’t be told about. Yes! She was just in one of her emotional high and the rush of emotions weren’t helping her be objective. It might appear inconsequential a thing if she would think back about it, but for the moment it made a huge difference what he would say. Finally walking back alone, she did feel a little childish expecting a trifling little thing from him and getting disappointed about such a trivial thing, but disappointment was disappointment.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.

The Imperfect Beauty

She considered herself to be ugly. She cribbed saying she had the most unattractive mix of the most unprepossessing features. To her, her hair was unmanageable, she had hideously small (‘chinki’) eyes which were disproportionate to her bloated up face with never-going dark circles and for the unpleasantly bony figure that she had, she detested the chubby cheeks she had (I mean, how could have God so menacingly dislocated the placement of the adipose flabs) And to add to all of that, her lips weren’t even pink and she didn’t posses the perfect set of teeth which she could flash in every photo. I was taken aback at her description of herself. I was seeing her in new light for I had never noticed any of the “imperfections” she just claimed to have. But even then, noticing her I couldn’t help but notice that she was pretty. Talking of features, how could she have forgotten the cute dimples she got whenever she smiled? And to mention her eyes, I agree they were small but very cutely so. There is no way you could call such a pair of gleaming eyes plain. They had the sparkle that could just bewitch many with just a glance. And the thick set of eyelashes made the eyes look prettier still. Such wonderfully long eyelashes she had that they actually got reflected in her own jet-black eye-balls when you looked deeper in there. And for the dark-circles, Oh! I always thought that she used to brush her eyes up everyday with a wonderful shade of eye-colour! Her high-cheek bones were in no way chubby and even if they were, it gave her such a lovely heart-shaped face-cut which so beautifully defined how she is as it was a manifestation of her heart glowing right there at you. Yes her lips weren’t pink but thankfully so. The deep crimson shade she naturally had didn’t require a coat of lip-gloss everyday. My heart used to skip a beat when her lips looked so succulently pretty even when she was least aware of it. She would be happily eating some oily junk-food at some roadside chat-point and even the rancid oil would appear as the best lip-gloss one could have. And the smile, such a bright innocent smile she possessed, it was just too difficult to fathom that she would think an imperfect set of teeth will make even slightest of difference to that. And then I loved how her curls would occasionally fall on her face which she complained to be unmanageable. And not just the face, the puny bony figure she wasn’t in favour of gave her the prettiest jewellery to accessorize herself with: her eye-catching collar bone! To me, she was pretty and that was how I had known her. Listening to her grumbling criticism, I couldn’t help but notice that YES! Right in front of me, there was the biggest of the flaws which even she, an observant scrutinizing critic of pulchritude had failed to notice: Her MINDSET. That was the biggest (and actually the only) wrong I could see. And this flaw made everything else look so negligibly pretty. This flaw had taken her breath-taking smile away without which the dimples ceased to appear, the magnificent sparkle from her eyes and actually made her what she never wanted herself to be. Yes, it was only her image of herself as ugly which made her helplessly so!




PS- One more thing that came into my mind. The "smiley" faced emoticons. If you think of it even they are a combination of ugly featues. ROUND face with a sick pale shade of the colour of poop! And yet they are the cutest thing you use to express yourself with! AND why? because their smile makes so much of a difference making them soooo pleasant! In the end, they are the cooolest andthe happiest thing!

The wait!

Oh! I wish I wasn’t hopelessly in love with you,
For I don’t even know if you love me too,
All I can manage now is to let you know
That you mean a lot to me, even if I don’t let it show.

I can’t make you fall in love with me,
But neither can I just let it be,
I just keep hoping that you feel the same,
Or at least grow a liking for me suddenly.

I don’t know how to take it further on the way,
Tell you directly or wait for you to say,
I don’t really mind waiting, if you don’t want to hurry,
You can take all the time you want without any worry.

I will keep all this to myself if you want it so,
But please don’t ask me to forget you and let it go,
Because it is not that I haven’t tried giving up the hope,
But for what I do, I just can’t help but let the feeling grow.

I don’t know where exactly am I going wrong,
For you haven’t realized that I have been liking you all along,
Is it that it’s not worth trying for,
Or is there somebody else who likes you more?

If the options are keeping you confused,
And it’s really hard for you to choose,
You feel that there is somebody better you can find,
Let go off me, I am just ordinary, I won’t mind.

But if at all, there comes a day when you feel blue,
I will give you all the comfort you need to pull you through,
When you need support, I will hold your hand,
And when you need time for yourself I will understand.

Oh! I wish I wasn’t hopelessly in love with you,
For I don’t even know if you love me too.
And these uncertainties keep me puzzled,
I really am left answerless to what I am holding on to.

Love is questionable!

I have tried countless times to express myself
Though still never found it reciprocated
I tried breaking open from my inhibited shell
And yet love has always kept me isolated.

Love has made itself seem like a fantasy
Something that doesn’t happen in real
Something that I am yet to see,
Believe in and feel deep inside me.

I am clueless how I can make someone fall in love with me
Or fall in love with someone who showers me with love,
For till now, love has never “just” happened unknowingly,
And yet knowing that it is how it is supposed to be.

I make myself believe that I am in love with someone,
And whole-heartedly that is what I try to do,
Until one day, I am forced to see my belief undone
For I hardly matter to him and I want him to love me too.

Sometimes, by the time I let my feelings out,
I realise that he waited for long and now I am late,
Sometimes, just to make sure that doesn’t happen,
I let it out fast and am considered desperate.

And then how am I not supposed to be excessively careful,
In making sure that he is truly the one for me.
Not analyse but feel the love that is so magically wonderful
When such wonders never materialise into reality?