atziganespeaks - Tumblr blog

[atziganespeaks]

Eulogy

Does time heal all wounds? Really?

I’m yet to find that out.

So, we both were school-time sweethearts. He was my confidante, my telepathic-pal, my cornerstone and all fancy words to best describe the person who’d be your first and last resort in every situation. Basically, he was my lobster. (FRIENDS fan can give me a cheer.)We were absolute suckers for chai, street food and that basically explains, our long evening hang outs. PDA was always a part of our timeline, since it was always full of pictures of us, every now and then. And we gave a few people “couple goals” even when this internet jargon was yet to be included into the urban dictionary. Yeah, we were kids. We were naïve. But we were so much into each other.

24th May, morning around 8am, regional news covered a footage of an accident in a dam, wherein 4 students, who just appeared their intermediate exams, drowned. No one survived. Heart-breaking, isn’t it? Barely 18, just breathing in the vacation aura a day back, and now, no more. My lobster was one of the four.

The footages were heart-wrenching, and so was the aftermath. I still remember, how desperately I tried shutting everything out but all of it sledgehammering my not-so-sane-head and already shattered heart. I remember how, re-reading our old texts or listening to call recordings used to put me to ease for a while only to break me down the next moment. I have been through nights where I stared and negative space, and keep staring till I doze off after what feels like forever. It hurts to think that I may go a day without pausing to remember him, because Mom told me that time heals all pain. Time heals? Does it?

Maybe time helped me get acquainted with the harsh reality that I lost someone close. Time taught me how to be strong, and death of a close one taught me that few things are inevitable.

But here I am today, functioning right in the face of tragedy, because somehow I learnt the language of grief. It’s been 4 years now and although, it hurts a little less it won’t evade completely.

I have a defence mechanism here. I resort to writing whenever I felt I was losing my grip. I chose to write about him then. I choose to write about him now. Beyond layers of figment and fictions, I write about him because I know, years down the lane, I would search for a tiny space of belongingness every now and then. The illegible, hammed in scribbles are blank verses of those picture-perfect memories I shared with him. He’s the character born out of remnants, curled up on my tongue but never said loud. And behind every clichéd line or metaphor I wrote about him, I only realize that there’s more than what language can name itself.

Someday when my skin would be too wrinkled, eyesight too weak, I’d run my weak, trembling fingers along the scribbles and summon upon those buried memories.

Truth being told, Yes, people came in after him, they left as well. And I realize that the void still remains. There are times, I remember him a little less. But then at times, I want the whole world to come closing in.

At times, I accept that it’s normal to ponder over memories of a lover, long lost, But then, at times “normal” acts like a blanket too short for me when the night is awfully cold.

Most of the times, I function normally and seldom, remember him. But only to realize, I’m damn good at lying.

I don’t know how many baby steps I would take to be finally whole again, or how much sanity would be required to sink in harsh reality – But one thing I know, is that I won’t let anything go uninked, untold.

I won’t eulogize a person, so kind and charming and of course, who’s my guardian angel now, in any short essay or poem or figment. I have lived my loss and love in reminiscent and half-written diary entries. All of what I have written, and all that I’m yet to write – All of them, combined on my tombstone, would be an eulogy to the star shining brighter than usual, each night.

Love,

D.

[atziganespeaks]

Vagabond

I love that dog.

The one, roaming around the streets, hungry eyes. Searching for love. Food, maybe. But love - all the more.

Shooed on the streets, looking hitherto for scrapes.

I'm one vagabond. Not in search for place.

In search of drapes,

And scrapes too.

The sky being my safe haven, car dust enveloping me while I drift to sleep.

No comfort as such, no shoulders to weep,

Even if I get lost, in search of place or drape or scrape!

I'm a vagabond, much alike the dog.

One thin line making the difference gape,

I love the dog.

And I wish it could talk, cause I feel love when it wags,

but how I'd love to have someone to look beyond my rags,

Someone to not shoo away the shabby, disheveled vagabond,

Cause I just sit on that foothill of your hotel, not invading the space, or peace,

Don't shoo me or the dog away,

Cause I'm not here to stay,

I shall have my meal and alike my name,

go astray.

Hey,

I'm one vagabond. Not in search of a place.

[atziganespeaks]

[atziganespeaks]

A LOST BATTLE :

Let’s talk about a word - “No”. Because here we are, Living in a world where consent is anything, but it’s very meaning. Here, where the outside world strips its girl, To nothing but bare essentials – Shame, maybe. I know we failed as a race. We failed as a race, when we distinguished, No, not on the basis of gender but something more than that, For what lies between the legs – Like that’s the yardstick to distinguish. We failed as a race when, When sordid vagabonds tried to make home, In the temple named WOMAN. We failed as a society, Because here rape is a call for attention and The victims should be shushed. We failed as a society, When patriarchy keeps raising its head, Every now and then, And cohesive, resilient women struck down, Even before they can raise theirs. We failed as a society, When we opted to be the silent spectators Of a girl being raped, Because why not, Maybe she asked for it. Again, we ask them “not to be raped”. Take in a moment and applaud for yourselves, Because we live in a world where rape culture is normal. Pardon me for my naivete, if you may, But how is this sadistic celebration of manliness normal? We failed as humans, big time, Because here we are, sitting back in our comfortable couches, Eyes glued to the news headlines of how an 8 year old life was crushed, lost to fulfil lecherous needs of maybe satan, himself. (Use of “satan” being intentional for those village quacks Masquerading as pagan of good times.) We failed as a society when We lost battle to gaudy lust and barbarous advances. When we didn’t learn from the innumerable incidents, That swallowed the feminine gender whole, And in case of few – Kill them bit by bit. We failed as human-kind, And here we are hanging down from the noose of our own conscience, because no matter how woebegone we appear, no amount of candle march – can light the house of the girl, who was pitilessly raped and killed. No amount of tears that we shed, Are ever going to be at parity, For the parents who lost their girl. No matter how sorry we feel, And accuse the system, Here’s the truth - This is a lost battle, Because I repeat, Patriarchy keeps raising its head, Every now and then, And cohesive, resilient women struck down, Even before they can raise theirs. Congratulations for losing a battle here, Hope your conscience wins a due funeral. ©Divya_Nayak

[atziganespeaks]

I Celebrate Myself.

For once, I won't adorn that invisibility cloak, just because scrutinizing eyes keep crawling past every inch of my skin, mouthing and at times screaming "excess". I need to make this clear and it might come across as vinegar to your sweet-tooth charade, but yes, I celebrate myself. When I ignore those distant eyes traveling way down south, starting from my eyes and settling at the flabs of my body, I don't think I understand your disgust. True that, I don't fall into the silicone-barbie-doll frames that are your personal dose of morphine. But news flash - More of me, beneath my skin, means more of me to love. I don't wait for you to point out my least favorite part and cringe at the bounteous details on my body. I so want you to take this - I'm the jardiniere of compassion; colossal and ample. That's what the world needs right now. Yes, I celebrate myself. True, I sweat bullets when I think that my stretch marks contribute towards the suppressed revulsion in your eyes. But society, why? We all belong to the same crumbling theatre, filled with fun house mirrors all around. Reality check - Mirrors reflect you. Fat. Skinny. Tall. Short. Fair. Cinnamon. You. No shame. No regret. Fine. My hips take too much space on that bus or cab, and that makes you trace a road, not less than that of a trekker's track with exaggerated curves and slopes every now and then. But society, aren't you tired of that trekking now? How can an inch more of my thighs, butt, tummy or cheeks be bothersome? You don't expect a steep hill here, when I'm the Grand Canyon! Yes, I celebrate myself. And I will grab a packet of M&M's after I'm done stringing in coherent sentences to let you know that, I stand out from your standard dichotomy of Worthy or Unworthy. I chuckle when you lecture about the types of clothes, that would subtly cover my flabs, or maybe I should just tuck in my tummy as I walk around , hardly breathing. Yes, I did that too. But today when I look in the mirror, I don't wince at how my love handles protrude out, or my tummy jiggles. Maybe my waist, arms, thighs or butt aren't of the right size, But I can still walk into a room, chin up and command attention because I'm huge. And being huge, means I have more to offer. More sane-headed monologues, maybe! I celebrate myself. Today and every day. Because the society's perception of HOT isn't my fetish. You say, I'm full? Yes, I am ! I'm too full to be half-loved. P. S I just had melted marshmallows with hot chocolate.Tastes heavenly! Carbs? IDGAF! ©Divya_Nayak

[atziganespeaks]

Dear self,  When you wake up to the new day, dreading the early morning blues, pause and remind yourself that you're witnessing a new dawn. Don't let anything outshine that substance in you. I want you not to souse yourself in mediocrity today. Don't you dare set your butt in that chair for long and ponder over skindeep stuffs.  Let your silly self go off the hook. Visit the memory lane to see the 10-year old naive girl, hoofing it in polka-dotted frock and yes, how she manages to remain unabashed about the crooked tooth that's apparent whenever she cackled. Now when I am scribbling this down, all set in that real quick flashback, I'm smiling big and wide. Oops, I realize, I have got this crooked tooth. My smile fall between cracks. You're maybe aching for some attention right at this very moment and I know you can run up to your favourite fictional character from one of your innumerable holy books. But if you're still in need of more love, I hope you don't need to seek it anywhere else. Seek for love in the one-of-a-kind creation - your very own heart. Here is a gentle reminder.  You're capable of weaving words to orchestrate a soul-stirring poetry.  You're capable of watching the horizon, and marvel at the cosmic night sky and watch the rain drops racing down the window pane without losing interest. You're capable of pouring yourself into this mould of "unconditional love" and it stays the same. You're capable of continuing a silent struggle between two creatures of the very same stardust.  You're capable of rooting for yourself, Because that's what I'm doing now - Rooting for myself with everything I have. You deserve to know that you're growing no matter what. And you're not meant for a mundane, stagnant life. Dear self, I'd love to see you slow down and relax for a while. You don't have to do it all, and do it all now. Pause. Breathe. The world won't stop spinning if you pause to catch up some breath.  For now, you can worry about whether you'll get the dessert after dinner or not.  You can worry about who is the most loved kid in your family; you or your brother. You can surely be a kid again (without the polka-dotted frock, of course). I don't want you to mature up further where this whole "life" thing becomes overwhelming.  Appreciate. One day at a time.  Root for that one day.  Root for one love - Self love. Love. ©divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

“Don’t judge too harshly, for if your weaknesses were to be placed under your footsteps, most likely you would stumble and fall as well.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich

Perhaps you read this quotation above, and scrolled through, without even pausing to know the sole purpose of it being written at the first place. Right now no one knows our thoughts, but inside our mind we can always wonder and ponder. Wonder about the things that we “young people do” and ponder over the mistakes that we “young people did”. Before clubbing together into “we”, I can crop up to a point where I take responsibilities of “myself” – one self and my mistakes. Mistakes are inevitable. And I fancy that you guys completely agree with the statement. Well, when something is this obvious, why people judge others on that basis? And how do we hold our assumptions about others are true? All I know is that my mind cannot alienate the idea of learning from my own mistakes and that’s what I dig for. Pubescent as we are, we learn to tame our thoughts. We learn that we aren’t born perfect and we can’t be perfect either. We learn to balance our otherwise nonchalant aims. We learn that the adrenaline rush we boast about, sometimes lands us in trouble. Inch-meal, we learn that our mistakes don’t really define us if we learn from them and unless we don’t fuss about judgmental back-fence talks. But you can’t deny this – Even if accustomed, being judged for the person you were once, or for the mistakes you did in the past does affect you. It maybe for a jiffy, but it does. This is, umm, kind of an open letter to people who judge - Judge other people because of their past mistakes. Sure as hell, you’re no shipshape. For once, I want you all to read this. No. Not to laugh it off, but because your “two cent’s worth” can sometime affect a person who is trying to efface the blotch of their past. Negative judgmental assumptions can haunt a person for years together and trust me, that’s too much a price they pay for some over-and-done mistake. Perhaps, for once if you stop slandering about the shortcomings of a person, maybe then you can openly welcome their offsetting qualities. People with a dark past try to compensate, discreet as they may be. I know this, because I have been at the receiving end. I write this, because I felt it. “I’m not without faults. But I’m not without goodness either.”

[atziganespeaks]

How do I word this properly? I follow a destructive lead here. Yeah, I'm in this constant state of worrying, Being on the edge of irrational fears, Of irrelevant conclusions and offhand scurrying. How do I word this properly? I follow a quite destructive lead here. At times, I'm all about nervous out-of-one's skull fumbles, Hem and haw with words, and phrases, And odds and ends. Thereabouts, incapable of proper coherent speech, Gulping down tumblers of anxiety, and paving way to stumbles. How do I word this properly? I follow a very destructive lead here. Because I'm the girl with the sweaty palms and a racing heart, Drunk on the idea of hopeless romance. No. I'm not an introvert. But avoiding every possible human interaction when there's a book in the proximity. Because why not? Fictional characters over pair of uninterested eyes, A happy quotation over a heartless rejection. How do I word this properly? I follow this very, very destructive lead here. ©Divya Nayak

[atziganespeaks]

My Version Of Fairy Tale

For me, fairy-tales weren’t mere escapes from reality as a child, They were my only reality. But only to realize now, The silver linings they talked about were actually bloody linings. Think of the evilness, the wicked witches with crooked nose, The evil ogresses or the hungry beasts in black hooded cape, They somehow obliquely segregate good and the bad - The standard to distinguish between fairy-godmother and the mad enchantress, The boy destined to be a prince and the flesh-hungry ghoul. But is it really how it’s supposed to be, now? 2017, and my version of fairy-tale seems to be anything but rampant reality of stereotype. Let me tell you how! Growing up, fairy-tales were my reality, Where good guys always won over bad guys, Where evil is always banished to some dark forest; And merry carols signify a grand happily-ever-after. I was befooled. I was befooled when I thought I can live in some enchanted fortress, Or my life can be sorted if I get to kiss a frog! Well, now that I know, I know what exactly I have to do! Back home I have my crazy little sister, Who’s one splitting image of how I used to be. Eyes peeled, glued to that screen every time a fairy tale is aired, Or how merry her cackles get when, She reads aloud the story of the Sleeping Beauty. I want her to rethink her fairy tales. Maybe, fuse the ethics of those folklores,  And weave her very own fairytale! Cause, you see, Bad guys aren’t easy to spot, They don’t have a dress code, Or the black-cape to sport! Prince charming won’t always have that chiseled smile, Or perfect locks, And sometimes to find one, You may have to kiss a few frogs. I will tell her that Cinderella’s guy didn’t just hold back those glass sandals, He even held her back. And snow-white may not be that fair, She could be brown, cinnamon and exotic, And still hold the purest heart. And happily-ever-afters don’t necessarily mean that you just settle once, Cause, girl, you are supposed to have numerous happily-ever-afters.  And still never settle. I won’t let her get devoured by fantasy, Maybe give her enough credit to distinguish, And let her choose for herself, Let her choose – what frightens her the most, Tell her that the world won’t stop if she sleeps for a day, Or year or whatsoever, Or that whenever one Prince Charming ever has the audacity to come, And say, “ My girl, just don���t go yet.  I’m the only one for you.  We will have our happy ending”, Her version would be – “ I take that as one offensive, refraining remark, And your charm did nothing to redress the flapdoodle. Although I will ignore your kind metaphor, Since that’s how it has been out casted, The ethics although rooted deep, I won’t settle. I won’t settle till I find my own happy ending, And that necessarily doesn’t involve any dominating, dictating, skirt-chasing Lothario. No, if you’d excuse me, please!" ©Divya Nayak

[atziganespeaks]

Embrace the diversity.

You look at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection, right there, in front of you. But you somehow fail to acknowledge it. Why would you? It’s the constant, you know, THE CONSTANT. You wake up and hop along with yet another hectic day, You pass by that mirror, and there you were, streaks of hair strands beautifully resting on your cheekbones, but hey, you can’t stop. Can you? So you brush them off and hop along with your hectic day. Did you forget the evening party you need to attend? But how will you? You have pending projects. “Screw the party, I need this job” is what you whispered. And I get it. I do. But did you? Did you look at yourself in the mirror? The mirror in your wardrobe or the elevator in the office or any random mirror in the mall? No. You just wipe off the sweat, brush your stray strands off, and hop along with your hectic life. You stopped by the rear view mirror of the car parked in the lot, you look around to ensure you’re alone and then touch your patched skin- somewhere dark toned and somewhere white, uneven all along. Is this why you avoid the mirror? Or people? Or wait, is this why you avoid your identity? Back home, when you make yourself a cup of coffee and sit idly on that couch, you remember something. Didn’t you? “Chin up, you are beautiful .” - Those were not the words from a father who was too afraid to let his child out into a world, all alone, on her own; but a father who was already proud of who his child is yet to become. You got a call. It’s him. “It’s must have been a hectic day. But, Chin up. You are beautiful. You’re strong. Embrace, don’t forsake that. ”

You smile. You move back to the hall, pass by the same mirror. You look at yourself. You don’t tie your hair into a bun, just let them be. No. You don’t tuck them back behind you ears either. You smile again. And, I did the same too.

VITILIGO doesn’t make you go unnoticed. For a fact, it snaps right back at the standard definition of beautiful. Embrace your diversity. And hey, didn’t I tell you already? - You’re beautiful.

©divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

Let me know.

How did it feel? Tell me you didn't see those eyes? - The pair of unwavering eyes staring at some randomly arranged symphony of words. Tell me you aren't intrigued a bit by those big, hazelnut eyes that shoot up glances at anything or anyone who obstructs her grand entry in to her Cinderella story, In to her Wonderland, Neverland or whatsoever, but just tell me, you didn't fight this urge to get up from you chair, and move next to her, and sit. No! Not to waver her concentration. Just sit and look. Look and wonder. Wonder and smile. Smile for how she has lost herself in a land of fictional characters and well, who have accepted her wholeheartedly. Tell me now, you didn't see those big, hazelnut eyes? ©divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

Unapologetic.

You tried to change, didn't you? You tried to throw away that invisibility cloak, and maybe, grab on the rope for the lost? Tried to open up, when you knew it was yet another foolish attempt at leap of faith! Tried to pacify with a world that's, anyway, pacifying with it's own selfish needs? Tried to find home? Well, child. People aren't home. People are transient, Ever-changing. Home isn't. So now that you've tried it all, Maybe, just maybe, You want to try a bit more? Try a bit more to find home in your sheer awesome existence? A bit more to relish the fact, that you need no one but yourself to guide you back through that dense masquerade party of people disguised as home. And I wish you luck, just so you find the home that lies right in your heart. Your flawed, yet unapologetic heart.

[atziganespeaks]

Our Song

A bitter sweet song I struggle with. A bitter sweet song I try to hum. My thoughts, run as wild as the untameable stream, My heart, a bundle of all those links and nodes are more like a home, A home where each room smells of you. Where each picture frame has your snap. Where the curtains are all shades of purple and olive and black, All those upholsteries have your touch, Your smell on few. All those memories, still afresh but painfully stuffed into stacks. Painful yet suitably fine. There’s room for your memories. But none for you.

©Divya Nayak

[atziganespeaks]

My Kind of Love.

Didn't we just stop? Stop it way back, cause we promised we won't resort to self-destruction? Well, I did. I stopped chasing wild butterflies. I stopped wishing on wishing stars. Let me tell you why. In the dead of the night, when the fireflies glowed auburn and bid farewell to darkness, I didn't listen to the honey whispers; I didn't follow that mystic mist, luring me into a cannibalistic hole. For once I believed in the stardust I am made up of and let it seep out through my skin, Nonplussed, I stood, watching how the dust wrote down my wishes only to seep back into my being again. Nonplussed, I stood, assimilating the ingress of a new kind of love; self-love. That's the day, I stopped chasing wild butterflies, cause I adorned new wings now, and waited for the first flutter. I stopped wishing on wishing stars, Cause now I belonged to the sky. ©divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

The Truth.

I know about your half-written letter. That letter which you scribbled fiercely, but only to crush it and toss it away. I know about that incomplete mural, your hands splashing paint on it, only to blotch it with raven black the next moment. I know about that veiled portrait, the one you marvel at secretly, but only to drink throughout the night, pondering over their absence. I know about that secret diary, which holds all your scribbles so very dearly each sane night, but only to be thrown across in the attic when rage engulfs you. Trust me, It's funny because it seems like I know you in and out, Only to glance at the mirror the very next moment until realization strikes me. The "you" is "me". ©️divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

The Reader's Muse

You ask me why I read? Well. I don't think I can suitably answer this question because some way or the other, I will vaguely stick to this one line - I am a voracious reader and I feed on words; words that are oh-so-well weaved and plots which aren't just backdrops but are my secret escape to wonderland. I read because I can relate to the nitty-gritty of characters, and no, that doesn't mean books make me pretentious. Instead, they mould me into the stencils; stencils of innumerable characters, personality and ofcourse, charm! I read because, alike matilda, they pacify with each blunt phase of my life and remind me that I am not alone. I read because, alike Bilbo Baggins, I can wait for my senility to be as rocking as ever and I wait for that adventure. I read because at times I need a gentle reminder that there's a world out there, out of my comfort zone which awaits (though silently as it might seem) ; awaits this little spark of life, a little shine of a reader. Because trust me, when I read, I know how occults are being told, how the magic works on my mind as I give free reign to my imagination. And when I read, I feel how the plot is in a stride and I can play the scene in my mind. Here's the gospel truth of all, Now that you know, I feed on words and characters and stories and scenes, On the tinge of sarcasm, even the cliffhangers, On poetry and the rhyming schemes, Take my word - Read. Be a reader. It's beautiful. ©️Divya_nayak

[atziganespeaks]

Maybe

Maybe this time around we will let the fire burn auburn and let the windows open, not get disturbed by the gushing winds or the slamming doors. Maybe this time around, we won’t stick to that one particular country song, switch it off instead and sing like no one’s listening; baring the unembarrassed soul that we are. Maybe this time around we will not try to control the aura around, and just sit there, manifesting the magic. Maybe this time around we will master the art of forgetting back-fence talks and believe in peace of mind, Peace of soul. A sane mind and a sane soul. And just maybe, maybe, we will dare to bare our unembarrassed soul. ©️divya_nayak