of malice

At first I decided not to write about this; to not tell you what happened tonight. But I’ve come to depend on this sharing. When I can’t figure out how I’m feeling, writing to you seems to be my only way out. So here goes.

Much against Mister’s advice, I went out dancing, alone. We fought about it – he was concerned about my safety and I was concerned about my mental health. I haven’t done anything other than work-sleep-work for the last two weeks and I’ve had it. My life is a fucking nightclub, and I’m starting to feel out of place. Again.

I’d have let it go, but today was one of those days when I just couldn’t bear being indoors anymore; I couldn’t bear being the. weaker sex. It felt like I was dissolving into the shadows little by little – becoming nothing in his absence. Like I didn’t exist as an individual. Who says good girls can’t go dancing alone?

So I went to that club to sit in that stool by the bar. And secretly, to see if A. was going to be there. I hadn’t met him since he told me he was in love with me. After what happened last time, would he even acknowledge my presence?

Maybe not. But somehow, I needed to know tonight – I needed to know that I owned his heart. It’s not like I wanted to act on it, but I have been attracted to him for a long time, and I needed to know he was still in love with me. Does that make sense?

To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to go in, so I stood outside for a few minutes, trying to make up my mind.

Another couple that frequents the place dragged me inside, and A. was the first thing I saw.

But he was wrapped in a pair of arms – and those arms belonged to someone I know intimately. Someone who knows about my history with A and how I feel about him. They were swaying to a song. My song. And when I asked Giggles to meet me today, she told me she was busy with work.

How long has she been lying to me for?

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of mourning

I sat in the dark tonight, staring at the keyboard for ten minutes before the first sentence slipped out.

The baby’s gone. Smaller than the palm of my hand. Gone. I can’t even bring myself to say dead. It is painful, gut-wrenchingly painful to say the baby is dead. Continue reading of mourning

of leaving

The sky gets all teary-eyed as you pack. Tired, heavy drops fall on your windowsill.

Anuradha Patel glides from one corner of the screen to another looking like she has cancer or something. So do you, gathering sundry items still lying in the dresser and putting them in a Zipouch.

Aadhe sookhe aadhe geele, sookha to main le aayi thi

Geela man shaayad bistar ke paas pada ho, woh bhijwa do, mera woh saamaan lauta do

Memories of a monsoon evening, Continue reading of leaving

of wanting more

One dull day

at the heels of another.

Months pass.

Come September, and you know.

You want more of everything

I love you said less often

but meant just a little more;

lilies bought;

phone calls made for no reason,

breakfasts made before you wake.

Each of your thousand expressions captured

in pictures all over the wall –

smiles and frowns and questions alike.

More memories of closeness,

and a baby’s kick beneath your hand.

You deserve all this, and more.