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Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Meray Log.

I miss writing here. I miss when life was easy. I miss when we didn't have to pretend or be scared or live in a constant daze. I miss school, though I never say it. I miss the girl I was because I hate the girl I've become. I look in the mirror and see a stranger stare back at me. I miss a lot. Even when I pretend to have a great day and smile, I do still miss all these things, my things. I miss my staircase and my chhat. I miss running down those steps to a honking red roadways bus, or a blue bike, or a forever bumpy auto, or a white alto, or a worn out zen, or a white santro which was the only for which I could make it in time for mostly and didn't keep waiting. I miss hiding my breakfast in a new place everyday so that I wouldn't be caught by Ma or Papa. I miss walking on those roads to run some errand for mum that I would be lazy about and then buying a packet of maggie, tearing it apart and hiding the packet of masala in my jeans pocket. I miss walking Priyamvada home and then taking that dilapidated road back, texting or on a call all the way back. I miss waking Kartik up. I miss my phone flashing Papa's name, and me pulling away from whatever it was I was immersed in. I miss reading Ma's incessant texts when I went out with friends. I miss going out with Ma to anywhere and everywhere, exploring ways we didn't know and buying things we didn't even need. After yesterday, I doubt so much of it. I feel like every step I ever took in anyone's direction was actually just pushing them away. I miss being the reason someone smiled. I remember flashes of expressions when somebody would become incredibly happy just to see me or hear my voice or read a text. Now maybe that was all a facade. Maybe they weren't really smiles at all. Maybe I don't have the capacity to make someone happy afterall. Maybe Abhinav is right. Maybe I don't really know what it's like to have friends because all my life I have just had douches. Maybe Shail is right too. Maybe I give too much of myself to people in the hope that they won't leave me. Maybe my way to stay attached to people is to go out of my way, so much so that they can't do without me. Maybe my way to earn love is as a charity because clearly nobody could love me for who I am. I miss my mom whispering stories to me at night. Stories in which I was a princess and I too had a happily ever after. Maybe the only people who will ever understand me and accept me for who I am, are my parents. Maybe it is meant to be this way. Maybe all my good deeds were paid back to me with debt in the form of my parents. Maybe my poems were meant to be heard only by my mother as I recited them in the bathroom, under the shower. Maybe my words were just supposed to be read by my father as I scribbled them on paper napkins in restaurants as he taught me how to use the knife and fork.
But I will miss singing my poems to the world.
I will miss writing here, to the people I thought were my world.

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