Skip to main content

Giving too much a little

Really excited and pumped with enthusiasm, I ran into the kitchen screaming, "It's going to be birthday again !!"
Waving my hands in the air as a sign of desperation, I hinted my mom that I was probably to high with my aging or the happiness of all the upcoming gifts was just not sinking in. What was it about my birthday that I would start behaving like a maniac two months in advance, was never to easy to understand. However, this time of the year, I was beginning to feel different. Different, such that there was no change.

It's not like i don't move things around me just so they would look different. It's not like I am afraid to change. For most parts, I have changed so fast, the person in the mirror seems totally new to me now. I have started doing new things at a rate I cannot even keep track of. I am working at home, I am cooking. Ogh, I give advice on cooking, for someone like me who can't make a decent tea, this is quite a feat! This is just the homey part, where people point out that its the age that does it, you know - girl of this marriageable age and blah blah. But that's not it! I read more, I write more, I am doing numbers, I run my own errands, I oil my hair and I actually make an effort to comb my hair twice at the least.

In the black diary of my hidden thoughts, I failed to mention that all my life I was independent, of other people's considerations, thoughts, opinions, and judgments. It worked well for me in some cases. To that effect, I lost something very precious sometime back, and struggling to find it, I have grabbed every strand in the chain of humanity to work for me.

However, just to come off this one day this year, my birthday, I will make change once again. When the whole of my nation is screaming for collective change, I do my bit too.

I love my new self!
:)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Block by Block

OVERCOMING THE SO-CALLED 'WRITER'S BLOCK ' Writing is a measure of emotional intelligence. Why would i say that? Maybe because the first-time writing experience din't last long enough. It was moving. It grew with time. & then faded away in the memory of glory. Where does it come from? True to the heart, even rubbish sentences & word salads sound great when they're penned down by deep-seeded need to explore the long lost aspects of the self. Its been 2 years I havnt written anything meaningful. Did something stop me? No. Dint anything motivate me? Countless things did. Then what went wrong? Its the process. Words flew around in circles & giant tornadoes. Sentences kept forming as words settled into their positions. An idea was born. However, it was soul less. Becoming who you are, finding the one thing you really like, and then the disturbing thoughts of having to let it go. Save the heart. Save the soul. Save the words.

Glass house and the Nerdy Dreamer.

Stop thinking. Will you ever do that, given the fact that someone asked you to do it? You’d probably ‘think’, and then ask that person, ‘…and do what? And what do I get in return, if it’s an experiment? And why me? …’ If you belong here, I shall tell you my story. Before that, are you one of those people, who get loved by others, and then are left to their own, only to know that they should wait for someone better in life, because they deserve better? Each one of us, we, 6 billion people on this earth, has a story. One that talks about us. One that is unique in more than one way. 6 billion stories that is. But do we ever think about it. No, no one really cares. No one does. I have my own work, my problems, my people, my dreams, my nightmares… Everyone has a story. I have one too. One that’s worth telling. One that’s worth listening. I am a girl of no problems. I live in my own little world I prefer calling … ‘the world’. And by that you guessed it right, I hate to think, be it naming m...

Shelf of unread books

'Where to mister?" she yelled at me from a distance, loud enough for everyone to notice.  "Hey, I'm not some kind of a thief, just looking around, grabbing a book to read. That's what they're meant for, right?" "Yea, if you pay for it!" "Of course, here." I paid for the stack of papers bound together in knots of tiny rounds, filled with words that were about to change my life. As I walked home, I was beaming with a sense of refreshment. I hadn't read a book in months, and calling myself an avid reader wasn't true anymore. It was a cold Saturday afternoon, and I was dreaming about a warm coffee in my balcony with my book. However, my footsteps had a different afternoon planned for me. "No, sir. Dalal Street is where I want to go. Could you help me?" I heard an unfamiliar accent from the corner of the street. "Seedha rasta hai" "What?" "It's straight from this turn, approximat...