.a written note.

That’s the thing with time. One day you’re sitting doing your everyday mundane activity and it hits you. The truth behind this whole thing called life hits you and it hits you hard. All those sayings and philosophies about making the best of your life, enjoying every bit of it and making the fullest of everything — it stands no meaning in this particular moment. It’s a mundane activity with the sound of a prayer from a distant dargah . The typical dark night of 8pm. The time comes to you authoritatively, telling you one day, one day it would all be over. That slowly everything will fade out. The people near you at this moment, you can hear them talking but suddenly it’s all in slow motion. There’s going to come a day they’ll no longer be there. You’re going to wish you made the fullest, that you lived the moment fully, as long as they were there, while they were there. One day as a matter of fact even you’re going to die. The reality hits you. Whatever you have in this v...

It happens. How you have that one part inside you filled with, rather, overflowing things to tell, to reveal but when you really gather courage to walk there and open the shutters, they hide away, somewhere round the corners of your subconscious. I have been there where people wonder how did I manage getting over. Over incidents and people. Some of them chose to opine that I am stone-hearted, with overloaded strangeness. It aches to remember, somehow. I try day and night to remember everything, to connect the dots but in the end, I fail. What kind of failure is this, I wonder. I ask her, Prajakta, reasons as to why am I unable to behave like I'm supposed to. Had it been any other person, they'd have done everything that I am supposed to. It is bad to differ. One must always fit in. I hate how I could never learn playing safe.  One must cry if one's hurt. One must dance if one's overjoyed. But I do feel like dancing when I feel happy. But saudade , I tell you. I ...