My First Time

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50 Words Story

The dead silence in the room started to fade away with darkness’s long moans. His whispering sounds stirred with my racing heartbeats. His slow steps ordered the moonlight to enter through the cracked window and cleave our shadows. My first time with my ghost unfolded the meaning of beautiful melancholy.

– Kritika Vashist

Late Night Thoughts- Wanderer

 

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When I packed my bag and headed for a journey, to a place unknown, by destiny undecided, with the flow, that turned all roads and each step into an adventure, one that I am going to live till the end, one that adds meaning to the script of life I have been writing for a long time now.                                                                                                                                            Photo taken at Elephanta Caves, Maharashtra, India

 

You go from one place to another to free yourself from wearisome schedules and reasons to not hear the calling , stepping out from the confinements, which exist only until you realize that there weren’t any. Breaking the walls stifled by the fumes of burning clocks and deafening tick-tick of the time, you stuff your bag with hopes of finding a part of you in a place that awaits you and leaving behind another as a souvenir, when you only know it like a tune you heard from a distance.

The sun, even though of the same sky looks different, and so does everything else. The usual becomes unusual. A gentle stroke of the wind takes away the heaviness you had carried for long. A step on the soil turns into a memory in the heart. Unspoken words write themselves down on the smile on your face. A song at the shore, a little dance on the side of the road.

The place makes you feel more like a friend than a friend who always pretend to know you. And one day you, that place becomes an experience you waited long to live.
A journey turned into an adventure.

Never having an idea about how much of a place you will carry with yourself, you get ready to rove around another. Nostalgia for that place follows you wherever you go, and you relent in the intricate loneliness while remembering every bit of the life you lived then and there; the kind of loneliness one feels being among the people who know you as much as a man assert to know God.

While you continue to whirl in the eddy of memories, the same place embraces another wanderer in its warmth.

– Kritika Vashist

What’s for Lunch?

2:00 PM on the clock.
The project report book was kept aside.
The computer screen was turned off.
She picked something from her bag, and colleagues around asked in anticipation;
“What’s for lunch?”
“Poetic and soft sunshine of the morning, and the road I traveled today,” she replied.

Kritika Vashist

Late Night Thoughts – (The Puzzle)

My life always has been perplexing; perhaps, a jigsaw puzzle, and I am trying to put different pieces into right places, sometimes to give it some sense, and sometimes to see what it turns out to be. However, putting a piece in its right place isn’t as easy as everybody around me told. There were nights when I struggled to give my fatigued eyes some rest, because my thoughts refused to sleep. However, a night of absolute persuasiveness came by, and I could let the bleak thoughts slip away in the pure silence of the night. I realized that the pieces of my puzzle are not at one place, that they never were, but they are always around me.

I continued to move my pen over the plain white sheet, and did not regret if a line bended between or the ink clogged. For some reason, I always believe that I’ll make something out of it, and that a mistake might lead to a much beautiful piece of art that couldn’t have been possible without unintentional clogs or bends.

I finished my piece without doubting my ideas and capabilities only to realize that I will only be able to pick the pieces of puzzle if I keep walking, as far as I can, as long as I can, and if I happen to pick wrong pieces, not once but many times, I should not worry and keep moving. Instead of thinking about the wrong pieces that I mistakenly took hold of, and that I failed at finding the right ones, I must look at the puzzle with careful fore-thoughtful planning.

The next morning I showed my art work to a friend who fairly appreciated, unknown of the hidden imprints of clogs and bends under the artistic lines. That’s how life is.

-Kritika Vashist

Musical Narration of the Ramayana

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The Ramayana is a Sanskrit epic poem ascribed to the Hindu sage and Sanskrit poet Valmiki. It is regarded as one of the two great works of Indian literature, along with the Mahabharata.The Ramayana also plays an important role in Hindu literature.
Indians must be knowing about the value attached to the Ramayana both in literature and in religion. To my Non-Indian friends, you may know more about the Ramayana by clicking here.

The Ramayana may appear to some as a story, but it always have been more than a story of a man (Rama) whose wife (Sita) has been abducted by the king of Lanka (now known as Sri Lanka). The Ramayan not only teaches about the power of truth, but also about duties, responsibilities, sacrifice, faith, and love.

There have been quite a number of TV serials and movies made on the story of the Ramayana. Ever year near Dussehra (Vijayadashami), plays are organized narrating the story of the courage and victory of truth.

The gist of briefing you about the Ramayana is that few days back I came across a song ‘Ramayan’ by a band named “Silemukh”; Silemukh is the name of an arrow.
Plays, movies and serials are common medium to know about the Ramayana; however, this song has an excellent narration and amazing music. After listening to this song, I thought of sharing it with you.

Click on Facebook to follow them
Click on Youtube  to listen to more songs by them.
Click here for their website.

I hope you enjoyed the song. 🙂

– Kritika Vashist

To The One Who Continues to Live In Our Hearts

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My eyes were fixed on the roaring waves that late evening. I was standing on the land, where my most admired person ever belonged to. The sky was almost dark as the gloomy dark clouds almost enveloped the sky. The waves were high and their roar was easily heard.
The sight wasn’t pleasant, it was scary and chilling. My heart was already beating faster, for my life was hanging on a cliff with uncertainties.
I walked towards my mother to sit beside her, and I could make out from her face that something was wrong and that she was avoiding to tell me.
I kept quiet and did not ask her anything. We got into the car to drive back to the place. Throughout the journey I kept glancing at her, she wouldn’t notice me, which she otherwise does. 
We reached the guest house and switched on the TV. I was trying to look okay, since later that evening I had already gulped down a bad news.
The news flashed on the TV screen about death of APJ Abdul Kalam sir. I was numb and shocked. My mother then broke the silence by saying, “I got to know about the news when you were at the beach.”  On asking why she did not tell me about it then, she replied that she did not know how to give me another bad news.
Tears started to roll down, and my hands inked in black color of the smudged kohl. God rained grief all over me that day and I wonder if he is really kind to me.

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I was in Chennai and I wanted to go to Rameshwaram ( where Abdul Sir was born and raised in) but life is cruel sometimes, and I couldn’t go. 24 hours round trip was impossible then.

The reality hasn’t sunk in yet; however, his loss is replaceable. He was a benevolent human being who died doing what he wanted to- Delivering a lecture at one of the top engineering institutes in India.
There can never be another APJ Abdul KalamPeople’s President, Missile Man, the man with wings of fire, and the one who read and respected both Hinduism and Islam.

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I remember when he was just a distant away from where I was standing during a conference. I was blessed to have a glance of him, to hear his words of wisdom and to be a part of his audience. I still remember each story of his life that inspired countless people.
His words still echo inside my head.

“Where there is righteousness in the heart, there is beauty in the character.
Where there is beauty in the character, there is harmony in the home.
When there is harmony in the home, there is order in the Nation.
When there is order in the Nation, there is peace in the World.
-APJ Abdul Kalam”
Today, former President A.P.J. Abdul Kalam’s mortal remains would finally be put to rest. My Akhari Salaam to Kalam Sir.

All the love, respect and admiration that I have always carried for him shall stay for eternity.
I pray that his soul rest in peace.

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You will be terribly missed, Sir.

Reborn

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What was real blindness like? I wondered while lying down on the floor staring at the roof of the room whose only furniture was darkness. Is it in the inability to see the light? Or is it in the inability to see the facades they wear?

On further introspection, I realized that I never fathom out that behind a facade there is no light, so how can they ever think good for me? I wanted to know who I am, I wanted to see if my skin was still breathing or the darkness had occluded all the pores.

I ran my fingers along my face, and when my fingers reached the end of the forehead, it felt as a shore to the sea of black hair that had captured the whirlwind of realism, ready to sweep away the pseudo.

The window of the room howled in the darkness, and the glass cracked with the force of the wind that blew outside. I stood up with a slightly loosen hair bun and eagerness in my eyes to look outside the window.

The moonlight entered through the crack, and gave birth to my shadow, the part of me that got lost amidst the darkness.

The wind permeated the room, wiping out their villainous smell, and flew through my loosen bun, unfolding each strand full of power with its tenderness.

The moonlight seeped through my veins, bestirring the blood to flow smoothly with a hope.

The veil of blindness was peeled off by the songs of the wind, the dance of the moonlight, poetry of the stars and silence of the soul. The pores breathed again, and I was reborn.

– Kritika Vashist

(Painting my Madison Moore)

Swallowed


Walking the road that was familiar with our steps,
you looked at the sun that was shining vibrantly.
You glanced at me, held my hand, softly, to convey
the message, to answer the question that was never asked;
Love is like the sun, sometimes it soothes you and
sometimes it burns you, leaving temporary scars on the skin,
that are permanent to the heart and in memories.”

My lips were glued, yet the words, a reciprocation of
your stated fact, choked the throat; I tried enough to
gulp them down, but the moisture in my eyes, I believed,
did speak about how your words mixed with the echoes
of the goodbye, goodbye that you thought would heal
the burns on your skin, you believed my love gave you.
Your hand on mine and the truthfulness of your words;
I never doubted them, I never unlearned them.

The silence kept walking with us until we reached the turn
of your happiness to the left, of my despair to the right.
Slowly and slowly, the voice of your footsteps reduced to nothing.
Seeing a blurry image of the sun, my pained heart questioned it,
“How come the story has ended and you are still up there?”

My footsteps didn’t stop, for I was afraid to come in to the
consciousness of knowing that the gloomy clouds have
veiled the sun that once shined, and the one that had drawn
the silhouettes of our togetherness, on canvas of the earth.
I was numb enough to listen to the sound of my footsteps
that walked towards the sea, when the sun was near the horizon.

The bruised purplish glow intermingled with the loud orange
color of the sunlight, like the scent of our skins blended once.
Taking support of my arm, I made my frangible body to relax
on the land sprinkled with the sand of hope, of memories, of grief.
The wet sand, only thing that was stick to me willingly, I dusted off
from my hand, only to realize that the imprints of yours
were still lingering and crossing the lines etched into it.

The wave at the shore broke all the time, just to meet her again,
the shore didn’t make noises, neither did the wave, but each time
the wave took something of the shore, each time the shore
welcomed something from the dark treasure of the wave , gracefully;
or the mesmerizing shore pulled the wave to herself so seductively
that the wave kissed her with all his passion every time making a soft
sound the sky heard, and every time losing himself in her, completely?
I wondered, and I wondered, what else this nature would have done to me?

The chirping birds flew back to their homes, telling me, it was time.
Watching the sky, hearing the sound of waves, I had forgotten
the road to my home, I had forgotten to realize that some people
who loved me were waiting for me, but I couldn’t have moved a bit
unless the stain of melancholy from my eyes, have been wiped out.
The strong wind blew through my already messed up hair only
to shake off the thoughts that had penetrated my mind,
and I doubt, if any space in my mind and body was left untouched
and undestroyed by the storm of yours long or never ‘see you later.

I looked at the sun, almost under the horizon, almost inside the sea.
The color of the sky changed, less light and more dark, like my own life.
Wait, wait, wait. Don’t go, please. Don’t do this, for the heaven’s sake.”
My mouth finally uttered few words, the throat still fighting for the breath.
I stood there helplessly with burning tears in my eyes of an irreplaceable loss;
I couldn’t cross the distance, I couldn’t save the sun, the sea swallowed it.

 -Kritika Vashist

SPACE

“I’ve some news for you.”

“Yeah?”

“So, I got selected for the project.”

“Oh my God! That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah! Finally, I’ll get some space.

“Oh, I see. You wanted to be an astronaut so that you can make a boring pun to your girlfriend like a loser.”

“Well, maybe.”

“But wouldn’t that be too much space for too long?”

“Never more than the space between our hearts; never longer than our love.”

– Kritika Vashist

Subtle Drilling Of Life

Can You Hear Me NOW rev

Today, like every day is weird and special in its ways. The constant voices in my head and the annoying noises outside has already stormed my brain, yet, for some unknown reason I feel like tapping the keyboard with all the energy I have, and to scribble this note with all those words that have been speaking loud in my head since morning. I want you to read, because I am sure this isn’t just happening with me.

Perplexed by my own thoughts, I went to my mother to ask a plain yet intricate question. Our mothers have always been better than Google and wise than any book. I asked her, “Is life a problem or life has problems?” Without much thinking she answered positively saying that, “How can life ever be a problem? Don’t you see yourself as a life? How can you be a problem? Life has obstacles, and there always will be, in some or the other way, so that you learn about the opportunities.” After she cleared my thoughts about life and problem she asked me, “What are you up to now?” Like always, I replied, “You know my tiny brain over thinks, everyday.” To this she said nothing. She is a mother after all. She knows it all.

So, today around 11 in the morning, the constant and ear bleeding noise from the drill machine not only gave me a headache, but surprisingly some wise thoughts too. (See here, the over thinking part is justified.) Even you would have got furious by the drilling noise during reconstructions. After a headache and temporary deafness, we would say, “I hate this. I hate reconstruction.” But then, everybody wants to reconstruct their houses some point in time; when it is done we would contradict ourselves and say,” Ah, I love the idea of reconstruction. Look, how everything shines and looks beautiful.” This is how we are living our lives as well.

You must have been wearied by the sameness in your life. After this thought, you would have felt exhausted even while doing nothing, and then you decided to change or prioritize few things so that your life gets a direction. But the important thing here is that, does it come easily? Does the work of prioritization that simple? Does moving away from old things to new easy? Does a reconstruction in your life easy? No, it is as painful as much as the noise of that drill machine.

The wall is our life, the one we try to build the way we want throughout our lives. Bricks are like parasites that stick to the wall. Just like the drill machine breaks each brick of the wall, and makes space so that a new wall can be build, the same happens with life. The drill machine is you and all the hardships, obstacles, loss, failure, depression, anxiety, fear, sorrow, incompetent, disappointment, defeat, frustration and weakness are the bricks that build up the negative wall for cowards. The noise that the drill machine produces while breaking down the wall is the pain of our hard work. If we want the drill machine to break all the bricks so that we can build up a new wall and paint it with the color of our choice, we have to bear the noise it produces. Similarly, if we want to grow by defeating all hardships that come in life, we will have to bear the pain of the hard work or else there will only be pain from regrets which are undoubtedly more painful. It wouldn’t be easy at first, maybe not the second time as well, but gradually we’ll become strong enough to break them down. That’s how our new wall will be build. That’s how our life will be what we wanted it to be and how we wanted it to be.

I just know that tomorrow when again I will hear the noise of the drill machine, it will remind me that I have to break down my old wall to build a new one where I can put all my happy pictures.

– Kritika Vashist