Teri Chhoti Si Ek Bhul

We was always amused by the incongruity of it all. Why was we looked at like so? When we thought about myself, we couldn't find anything that was interesting, or that we had done wrong. When I went to the wall to merge into it, to get whitewashed, the same fabric as all, we found that somehow the brush never brushed us. How strange! Though I forced myself to stick as close to the wall as possible, we never found a particle sticking to me. I saw a girl and all of us love her, but it's so strange that while each gets his measure, I never do. I told you, it won't work, but it was you who goaded me to her. Now who will bear the blame? Not I, all of you can, not I. And I will continue to love her.
We wonder when is that we am getting the sun as all of you get, we wonder when is that we am going new places of which all of you tire of so soon, we wonder when is that this earth is inherited by me and not you, no not you...

She makes his coffee

Why does she do it? Not for love always, not for desperation always, not for masochistic pleasure certainly, then why? To me, it's the most cruel sight on earth - the flower herself bearing the brunt of routine, chore, drudgery, drill, and contempt.

It's a woman's nature, too often, to bear slights from her man, to worship her man as the highest ideal on this earth even though he might be a drunkard and wifebeater, to run through his bruises and her life with a sigh and not with a complaint (complaint to whom?), to love only once and romanticise everything connected to that man even if he be a blackguard; yet, modern education, exposure to pleasures which only men used to anticipate, greater independent upbringing, a diversity of ideals and idols to follow, and increasing ways of access to that attribute, power, which a woman is so fond of - all that is changing the very nature of a woman. But, is the nature getting only subverted to a certain degree, retaining yet the same elements?

Throughout my life, I have been amazed by the strength required of a woman to perform some of the roles expected of her - wife, mother, prostitute. Even to elope with someone just on his word, or to jilt one for another - so much mental calculations in most cases, or a wanton abandonment to one's instincts in others. Yet, such a mental strength! When you don't care for the world, for anybody's word except what you think is right. There's no room for anyone else in that photoframe. Either the woman is in that frame, or the glass lies shattered. The strength of sacrifice, even! And, herein lies sometimes my thread of thought - though the sight of sacrifice by a woman is somehow very difficult to bear, is that strength itself ebbing away now from women? Is only the physical now the difference between a man and a woman?

Kariya, I Love You

A fresh breath of air, and the journey continues on that. The sun smiles again, and my will waits for the moon yet again. I can pack my trunks now much more relaxed - the weary baggage is hidden out of sight, and much of it is tarnished beyond recognition. Again, the desire burns to kiss a girl; again, new hues, that I had always missed, are found. The question of "for how long?" is banished for the time being into oblivion - fearlessness is new, and no ground is left for old moulds to fume.
The gray cells pop up again - with a vengeance they ask me, why had you forsaken us? There's no answer - there's no reason. Cowardliness? Yes, but why? How come in a rebel? And of whom? But all such questions, even as they come, are brushed aside - I am too busy building castles in air to brush the cobwebs off. And for once they look to be of substance - at least, now. For once, there is the smell of past burns - and the anger to turn away from it. For once, there is disdain - to all the world; and for once, there is love - to all the world.

There are desires now - other than death, far removed from death, not of death. There is the world now - my possession.