Blue

Blue

Blue.
Class 10.
Biology.
Chapter 18.
Heart and Circulatory System.
Last second bench.

School’s a blur to me.
But sometimes memories come to me
like sea weeds with tides on a full moon night.
It is too overwhelming but in almost an instant
it goes back like ebbs.

This particular memory stayed.
Unwanted.
Unimportant.
Like scars of a lost battle.
Like answer to a rhetorical question.

Arteries and Veins.
Arteries are red.
Veins are blue.
Red is pure.
Blue is not.

Class 10.
4 PM.
Biology Class.
Last second bench.

She had blue eyes.
It always reminded me of the smell of salty air,
under the skies and above the ocean.

As my hand touched her unintentionally (intentionally)
she’d look right back at me.
And I swear I was least interested in touching her
or smelling her or feeling her.
You see, I was still unadulterated.
The rust of the world hadn’t quite touched me yet.
All I ever wanted was her to look at me.
And I would stare.

In awe.
In amusement.
In happiness.
In melancholy.
In surprise.

In the past.

I guess I just wanted to take it all in while I could.
I just wanted to look a little bit longer to figure of what they wanted to say
and what shade of blue that was.

Sky. Navy. Indigo. Cobalt. Ocean. Azure.
Cerulean. Lapis. Sapphire. Arctic. Teal.

There was too much to say and too many colours to choose from.
And I was late.

Wait, is it a full moon night today?
The memories are flooding in again.
*gulp* We used to send letters to each other.
She used a fountain pen. Blue.
Blots of ink spread on paper
like the things that never got out of her.
There were ink stains on the side of palm
when I met her for the last time,
20 hours after the last letter.
2 words.
“Good Bye”

Arteries and Veins.
Red is pure.
Blue is not.

When I look at the veins on my wrist;
From between the scars left by kisses of a blade,
They are still blue.
I smile.
Not quite the colour.

I swear if I ever come across morpheus,
I will grab that blue pill.
Look at it closely.
Pick a happy memory.
Compare it with her eyes.
I am pretty sure,
Not quite the colour.

Stare at the skies.
8 AM.
11 AM.
3 PM.
5 PM.
9 PM.
11 PM.
Not quite the colour.

I will visit every ocean.
River. Lake. Place.
All that ever has been called blue.

Where will I start?

Zihuatanejo.
I heard of it in a movie.
As blue as it gets.
“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things,
And no good thing ever dies.”
Same movie.

I travel now.
Click photographs for a living.
I am searching for that shade of blue.
On streets.
Doors.
Walls.
People.
Post boxes.
Letters.

Hoping that one day I will find that shade.
And stare it.
Till all my red is blue.

Arteries and Veins.
Both blue.
Red was pain,
Blue is not.

 

 

 

Featured Image is painted by this talented artist @nosugainmycoffee
To see more of her work, follow the hashtag #blueinmyframe on Instagram

The world is deceiving you
Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

The world is deceiving you

by Aditya Mankad 3 Comments

The world is deceiving you about the sense of entitlement.
You,
the earth, fire, water, air bundled up in a packet like M&Ms.
You,
the batter of ideas and dreams,
ambitions and beliefs.
You,
the vessel that ages, withers and dies,

Let me tell you this,
They lied.

They lied about the things that you deserve.
No. Nyet. Nahi. Negative.

You are NOT entitled to anything.
Not Freedom.

The years of struggle,
Sands that lay beneath you;
which carries the screams ,blood, sweat and tears.
tears of fear and pity,
of sadness and joy,
they scream every now and then,
more frequently now a days,
that you…
YOU don’t deserve freedom.

Not Love.

That girl in 11th grade.
Yes, the one whose eyelashes struck you like arrows of cupid.
Yes, the one who would touch the chords in your heart that you didn’t even know existed.

It was just a stroke of luck that you got a chance at love.

*sigh*
yes, that was a once in a lifetime thing that you thought will last a lifetime…
ended in 6 months.

Not even a future.

Graduation at 22.
Job at 23.
Masters at 25.
Marriage at 27.
Kids at 30.
Happily ever after later on.

NO.

2 days to your 24th.
NH-48.
GJ AL 2906.
Shards of glass.

You were in the newspaper next day.
The only time you will ever make headlines.

No, you’re not even entitled to be famous.

They are lying when they tell you that you deserve to be happy.

Lies.
Lies.
LIES.

They keep on feeding you sugar coated cyanide.
And you suck it.
Like honeybees.
Like children sucking on their ice-cream.

And it will lead you to the only thing you are entitled to.

Death.

Artwork by Megha Sharma

Pseudologia Fantastica

Pseudologia Fantastica

by Aditya Mankad 0 Comments

Pseudologia Fantastica.
Pseudo.
PSEUDO.
Where have I heard it before?
oh yes,
Here’s an interesting story.
It was class 5 or 6.
“Amoeba is a pseudopod”.
I got into an accident in class 5.
Cut my calf with a glass.
It was almost in two halves.
I got stitches. 7 or 9.
It is right beneath these jeans.
I often slept to the thought that it was to me
what that scar was to harry.
given to me by one who must not be named.
Because,
I don’t know his name.
Fantastic story no?
Fffantassticc..
Fantasica.
Where have I heard this before?
Here’s an interesting story…

do you know what’s the another name of pseudologia fantastica?
Pathological lying.
That story that I just fed you,
was a lie.
well, not all of it.
I was in class 5 once.
Indeed amoeba is a pseudopod.
and someone might have cut their calf.
And I did get the stitches.
on my forehead. class 2. because I was dumb.

What?
It’s a habit.
Didn’t you know?
That those are difficult to lose.
Habits.
Like how I wake up everyday at 5 and jog for an hour.
50 pushups. 40 crunches.
30 lunges. 20 squats.
It doesn’t show, I know.
I fell sick last summer.

What?
Don’t look at me like that.
I know you believe me.
That’s my superpower.
Lying… is not easy.
Like each piece of a clock,
You have to place facts,
Each tooth of the lies should match with the hollow space of the truth.
That’s how it’s done.
Religion does it.
You believe that, don’t you?

Don’t look into my eyes when I am telling a story.
You will fall for me.
You will not find any missed blinks.
I have been training in it like you have been trained to breathe.
Breath in. Breath out.
Breath in. Breath out.

Here,
Let me tell you a story…

Yesterday,
I got a call at 1500 hours.
My world went dark and the sun was still up.
I went back home at 3:30.
Took a bus.
The ticket was 5 rupees.
The conductor as always refused to give me the ticket.
I went home and slept.
I got a call at 1800 hours.
The cold was seeping in.
Like a spoon in jelly.
Butterflies in my belly.
The sun was down.
So were my hopes.

What’s the point of the story?
Nothing.
It is just a lie, constructed with intricate details.

You see lies,
they are well thought.
Truth can be thrown around like dead fishes on the port.
But lies, they are the horizons you see but never reach and the loch ness monsters that you have heard of but never seen.

Don’t you dare look at me like that.
Don’t feel sorry or disgusted.
We have shared our bed with lies.

Try these pills for a month.
You’ll go from 34 to 32 to 30.
Apply this every morning,
you’ll go from darkest to darker to dark.
Hairfall?
Try this serum.
From lesser to less to many.
Happiness…

I am sorry, I have to.
Happiness would have been just muscles and bones.
Happiness would have been ice-cream-less cones.
Lies are the flesh, the body.
and wow, aren’t we all cannibals!
*inhales*

and the pathological liars?
they have married their demons.
It has become a necessity for them
to weave a story.
They don’t mind being truthful.
But while truth feels like love,
Lies feel like lust.
Tastes like sugar, spice and everything nice.
But it kills. Slowly.
Smells like ammonia.
You adjust to it. Thinking you’ve won.
Only to lose parts of you until you’re all gone.

But sometimes the bullet in your head becomes a part of you.
Sometimes you cannot live without the world that you have created.

Liars will say that they are artists.
Ironically, they are not lying.

Lying…
Feels like a truth.
Until it peels off its mask.
And then it’s ugly.

But so are we.

 

 

 

Featured Image Courtesy: Berlin Artparasites

Nahi Chalta

Nahi Chalta

I cannot explain how important Gender Equality seems to me.

That’s right. I started with cannot.
I remember some English professor telling me that never start a speech or something you want to address to people with a negation.

But I did.
You know why?

Because negation appeals to us.
Let’s face it. As much as we want happiness; we feed on cynicism.

We want to do something about something.
But it’s too much work.

This is not a rant. I don’t want it to be that. But I don’t know if it will end up being that or not.

I have a sister. We’re twins.
I come from a family where gender equality has been a given.

Listen, I am not stating that everything is perfect.
I am saying that it is a little better.

Don’t believe for a second that we didn’t have restrictions.
But it was for both of us.

Maybe that’s why I cringe every time I see acts on the lines of sexism and gender bias.

I remember having this conversation last night while we were having dinner.
Kapil Sharma’s show was on the TV.
He must’ve passed a sexist comment maybe.

And as always,as if in perfect sync,
I squinted my eyes,tilted my head, pursed my lips and my teeth… they pressed against each other like long lost lovers.

I am sorry for dramatizing that whole thing. default setting that.

Yes, I am trying to make a point.

The problem is that gender bias has delved deep into our skins.
And as much as it hurts us, we have managed to make peace with it.

Heh. we’ve made peace with it. such an irony.
You know why I am saying that.

This chalta hai attitude is killing us.
You know what?

“Nahi Chalta”


Consider this as a preface. Over the month I will try talk on some topics which I think are important to be discussed. Let’s talk about them. But let’s not stop there.

There’s a fundraiser that has been started by me.
You all might be aware that Global Citizen India is giving free tickets to the Global Citizen Festival for someone who raises 50K in 30 days for the fundraiser.

Let me tell you, I am not doing this for the tickets. I won them already.
This is about addressing a larger, ongoing issue.

I would appreciate if you can go to my fundraiser at donate.
I donated 200 bucks.
Start small. But start.

Gender Equality is a Necessity. Help me raise fund

Let. Me. Be.

I often act like a child,
short attention spans
and big dreams.
I would run around in circles,
run so fast that my lungs will ache for air,
the same way my mouth waters for jalebis.
and I would fall,
partially hurt I would look around with tears in my eyes,
and then wipe them off if no one’s there to wipe them out for me.

you see,
attention is a catalyst.
Of breakdowns and tantrums,
half meant wails and crocodile tears.
So when I look at you with that melancholic smile,
Don’t give me attention.
Don’t ask me how do I feel.
Don’t pull me close and console me.
Don’t hold my hand and take me out for an ice cream.
Because you will leave.And your scent will not.
I will remember.
the short attention span has exceptions.
I will remember your voice echoing in my ears,
I will remember how I rested my chin on your shoulders.
my empty palm will feel incomplete,
heart’s is another story.you will be that toy to me.
the one for which I would bargain my toy train for.
That toy train by the way,
I used to call it my life.
I would push away the dish of jalebis
and make sulky faces.
It would feel exactly like someone had sucked the air out of my lungs.
But I won’t stop.
that glass window of that store still has my DNA.
I would press my face against it and stare at you.
worship you.
and cry.you don’t get it.
I WANT you.but children never say the right things right.
What I mean is,
I NEED you.
and you don’t.so,
Let
Me
Be.
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