We Seem To Often Complain That Life Seems Strange. Well, Life IS Strange. There Is Really Nothing We

The cozy space

My granny used to tell me this story all the time. When I was a kid and used to get upset, I would go hide in the cupboard where she kept all the blankets and cry. That seemed the coziest space of all. I was known to be the cry baby, otherwise nicknamed the sensitive one.

Growing up, every time I had a fight with my older brother I cried at night sleeping between my parents, without them having even the slightest idea of what I was doing. My pillows were heavy each morning and not a single soul knew.

Teenage years, filled with loneliness made me associate emotions with things. While that small piece of the broken cup, and the earring my best friend gave and I lost one. The school uniform, the English textbooks which had stories that made me love reading, everything seemed to be a part of something big.

Having had to live with other people in college, the shower became that cozy space, where I cried while the water ran through my face, while I looked radiant; no one knew what was happening.

Moving cities I continued carrying the same pillow everywhere, it seemed to have known all sides of me and all stories of mine. While the pillow turned heavy, it also seemed to be the only thing to hold on to

These days, sunsets are the cozy space, evenings filled with some music and leading to nights I can look forward to. The time with myself along with some tea I make, mostly disastrous. I seemed to have found my cozy space. The corners at buildings and the empty roads seem to have grown to be cozy spaces.

Image by: Razia @a-small-startup

Vikram from the coffee shop

I was new in town then, had not known what to do and where to go on a boring Sunday afternoon. I took my bike and went to the mall and the first shop that my eyes fell on was the book store. I went in brought “The Girl on the Train” by Paula Hawkins. Well, a lot of people had suggested that book to me and finally when my eyes fell on the book I couldn’t resist it. I brought the book and headed to CCD. I don’t know whether it was because of Sunday, or because everyone was bored, the coffee shop was crowded like never before. Thankfully I got a table for two, went in, sat down, ordered a cup of hot cappuccino and started reading the book. Just when I finished the third of fourth page, a guy came in and distracted me. I get very annoyed when someone disturbs me in the middle of reading. I looked up,

“Is this seat taken? The café is crowed and literally there is no other seat available so do you mind?“

A tall guy with great physique and just amazing eyes, a guy to whom you could never say no

“Sure, no one is going to come here”

“Thank you”

Well, I continued with my book and he got into his business. Surprisingly he too had a Paula Hawkins’ book in hand. “One Minute to Midnight” I was about to ask him whether he had read mine, when he noticed the book in my hand.

“That’s a good book, I very recently read that and trust me the suspense is good”

“Oh! I was about to ask you the same. Actually this is the first book of the author that I am trying and I have no idea how it’s going to be. I have heard great review about it from friends and so thought would give it a try.”

“Well, you won’t be disappointed, trust me. Even I started with that book of the author and this is my third. I just am not able to stop”

“That’s nice to know. Well if its reader certified then I am sure it would be worth it.”

In no time I realized that we had both closed our books which is quite unusual about me because I never stop reading and talk, otherwise I am very talkative but when I have books I just am absorbed in it. But this guy had a different charisma; he just made me do the unthinkable. We talked about a lot of stuff like books, other authors, how Indian authors have developed in the past few years, criticized a lot of authors and surprisingly both of us agreed on a lot of things. Normally my taste of books is bizarre, I don’t completely follow any author or genre, I just like to experiment new authors, genres and different styles. And when I say this to people everybody thinks I am weird but he was just like that. It was amazing to find a person like that. I had associated and connected to a complete stranger in no time.

We had talked for hours and after a long time I realized that I had to go. I did not want to leave him and go anywhere but I had to.

"It was great talking to you, but I have to go now, so see you again if possible”

“Oh yes even I need to be somewhere I just dint realize how time passed. It was great meeting you too.”

“Bye”

“Hey, I’m Vikram, by the way”

He extended his hand.

“I’m Razia” I replied and we both shook hands and parted our ways.

That was when I realized that we had talked for hours and dint even bothers to ask each other’s name. It’s been a year and a half now since this incident. Whenever I see that book I remember him, but even though I had been back to the coffee shop again a couple of times I dint meet him.

To be honest in a way it is good because maybe it won’t be the same if we meet again, because that one day that I had spent with him was wonderful. It was nice and I don’t want to ruin it with another meeting. Sometimes it’s just good with one meeting alone. If that person come back in your life and takes a permanent place it might not be the same.

I do... do I... ??

Yesterday I went shopping with my granny and aunt. For a change, I was wearing a sari. a black sari with bronze border. I was looking pretty good.

The idea of going with them was not a good one. I was damn bored. I was gazing around the shop looking at things that I would never buy. What else to do...

I was standing there looing at some dress, when an old lady came next to me and asked "Your sari is amazing. Where did you buy that from dear?"

"Its from Kerala aunty"

(I am now in Chennai. TN)

"Oh! its beautiful. I was shopping for my granddaughter and she loves black. she is almost your age and looks like you too. could you please help me select one for her. My taste you see is quite old"

"sure aunty"

I was happy that she asked for my help. Now at least I will be looking around with some purpose. Now, there is certainly one thing about old people. they are damn inquisitive... In no time they pull out every detail about you. So was this lady, she was asking me all sorts of questions, I did not want to be rude so I answered with patience and moreover she was very sweet.

After a while I picked out a black sari with pink and green border. It was a beauty. she seemed satisfied too... as I was helping her with a billing she insisted on getting me something too. now that's too much. I politely declined. She finally gave up and suddenly out of nowhere a guy called her.

"Where were you? I was looking all around the place for you"

"You were bored weren't you. This young girl helped me pick a sari for your sister"

"Thank you so much. I'm Ram"

"Hey. I'm Razia"

A tall handsome young guy. A beard, tall, husky voice. Just amazing. I never used to believe in love at first sight. "Bullshit" was my synonym for it. But yesterday when I saw him I got butterflies in my stomach. I just couldn't take my eyes off him.

But that's it. I get that feeling for the first time and that too towards a person I will never meet again. 

God wasn't that cruel too. that aunty was so happy with me helping her that she too out a small piece of paper, wrote her name, address and her grandson's no. she told me to call him if I get any confusions with the address as I am new in town.

I have that paper right in front of me. I do lie him. but do I? I can call him should I? questions unanswered I sit her perplexed. I don't now. maybe as I always say, there isn't love at first sight, it always a crush and he would also pile up in my little list of crushes.  

I don't express love in the right way

I don't say the right thing at the right time

But I have never been fake

Nor has my love been a hoax.

.

Just because I'm not like the rest of the world in being all sweet and cheesy

Doesn't mean I care less

.

I AM THIS WAY

I'm Adamant, Loud, Curious, Sentimental, but that doesn't mean my soul is bumbling.

.

These are traits in my character that are not so good maybe, but look there are other "good" ones too.

.

If my adamance is bothering you

Let it be.

.

If me having an opinion is smothering you

Then you are suffocating by your own thoughts.

.

I may not be the apple of your eye

Or the centre of you're world.

Guess what

I don't want to be.

But how can my mere presence bother you

Just because we hold a past

.

I'm not agitated just with you,

But by a lot of people around me.

How can you judge me so easily even after knowing me.

You're so wrong with your calculations coz your decisions aren't always the right.

.

If you still say I have a problem, then be it

Coz my problem isn't that big a deal

All I do is care too much and love too much all the wrong people at the wrong time to whom I have never been significant. Ever.

.

I'm glad your smile is above my scar.

I'm really glad.

As mothers, she held her close,

Trying to feed by milking her blood

She was more than happy, a little more confused

Euphoria maybe or post pregnancy hormones

She was scared to let go, the baby was so tiny and fragile…

 .

He came in, a little late, hurried to see if his beloved was okay

Yes he was happy, but more worried I guess

He held her close, and apologized

Asked her whether she was happy or not

 .

They both looked at the baby, happy and content

This seemed to be a moment that could be captured

 .

It’s been years since then, I look up at the picture

My mom telling me what that day meant

I have heard this story a hundred times, but each time she says it a different way

 .

Sometimes I see her telling me that story with so much happiness that I wish he was around

And yet other times there is so much hatred I am glad they aren’t together…

 .

And yet, when he tells me the story I see pain as to not having spent enough time with me

 .

I don’t know whether to hate them both or love them

Either way I seem caught in an endless cycle

I'm glad I got to read the script first before the world could..

https://youtu.be/dQsjAbZDx-4

I love this song. So one day I was thinking of the lyrics and saw potential for a short story. Here it goes:

On he went. The snow was hard to distinguish from his hair. The steps were exhausting, each one. But still, it was a special day. He was almost there. Crosses and more crosses. It was hard to find a specific one, since they all looked the same. But it wasn’t his first time. He knew the way.

There it was. The flowers of last year had disappeared. The dog tag was still there. Fernando. What a war freak. He asked for all of it. To be buried with soldiers. To have nothing but a wooden cross. For the tag to hang on it. But not for the visits. That was on him. But how could he not? The whole war, and the fact the he came out alive, he owned it to him. To his bravery. To the hero he was.

“Hello Fernando? Enjoying not going gray, you lucky bastard? Here, I brought you your favorite.”

As he said that, he put down a red label bottle. How many memories. How many times they had fought for the last shot of one of those. Youth well spent.

But there was more. There was the war. And no one, in the whole world, was as proud to have defended freedom as Fernando. He had convinced everyone he could to join. He had fought until his last breath. Still, at the end, he survived. His smile was probably the largest on the night they celebrated the victory. They had to go on with their ordinary lives, but Fernando was forever a soldier. He died speaking about the honor of being a soldier.

Yet, not one person would remember him as a Nazi killer, but as the most inspiring, amusing and friendly figure to ever live. Except for that one soldier friend, visiting his soldier grave, to pay him a friend honor.

“Do you remember that night Fernando? The fireworks, the drinks, the women? How did we enjoy being young, being heroes, even though we would never touch a rifle again. Guess that’s what it’s all about, Fernando. Having the one story to be told on the grave.”

He laughed, far too much for the state of his lungs, until he coughed. Blood.

“Oh, my Fernando. Looks like I’ll be joining you quite soon”

It all happens, but he doesnt know...

I see you everyday, when you come in the same train. Sit right opposite me everyday. And you dont even notice me. I work in your same building one floor down but never have you noticed me. I sip coffee everyday sitting far away noticing your charm and wondering will it ever happen. But not once have you known my existence.

I reached home late, and there you were making dinner for us. After I had freshened up we both sat down in the balcony table and had the wonderful dinner under the moon light. I was lost in your arms and spellbound by your gaze. Your one touch makes me go numb, your one kiss melted me completely.

I wake up to find out its all a dream. A dream I wait to see everynight. An universe opposite to reality I had made up.

I see you again in the train and in the coffee shop waiting to go and sleep so I can fall in your arms and feel your love in the parallel universe I have made for myself. The romance there never dilutes, never vanishes. I love you. And will always do...

You can't mess with my head and then say I was wrong. You can't tell me I'm amazing and then stop talking to me.

Behind every sucessful man there is a woman, but behind every unsuccesful there are two.

the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” is actually not the full phrase it actually is “curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back” so don’t let anyone tell you not to be a curious little baby okay go and be interested in the world uwu

I miss the feeling of being home.. I miss mommy and the comfort of being around her. I miss the two little brothers I have around whom I feel so responsible. I miss the food, the late night long talks about everyone I know and don't know in the distant family, I miss being so comfortable in a place though I can't be myself.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss having a place called home.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss waking up to the aroma of coffee that's so delicious coz it's never the same elsewhere. I miss the chaos over what's for lunch and deciding on something silly yet so delicious.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss having to greet all the guests who come home, asking the same things over and over again, trying to remember how I know them, only to realize I have never met them.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss feeling needed, important and worthy somewhere at some point of time, my granny so proud of what I'm doing that she keeps boasting about it to someone I don't remember meeting, over the phone.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss having to wake up early coz it's the last day home as my train leaves that night to a city I call mine, having to go back mommy wants me to spend some time with her.

I miss the feeling of home.

I miss the clutter clatter in the kitchen, packing food for me for the night journey, and pickles and snacks to last the next six months. The confusion of what to take and what not to take, to decide between food and cloths in my luggage. I miss the questions my brothers ask as to why I need to leave early as I just came a week before, the constant nagging of when it'll all get over and I'll always be home. I miss the smell of home, the feeling of sitting in that couch and the aroma of that morning coffee.

I miss the feeling of home

I miss having a place called home

I miss the feeling of home.