The Present

It was the day she wanted him the most by her side. But he was in a different city. All that could be done was a message. She did. But of course, what holding hands could do, a message or a call, could never do.

This was an year back.

Today she needed him too. But this time she was tired, more. There were allegations on her. And yet she thought things could be good between them. She could only hope.
Yet she knew there was nothing to be good. 

And at the end, she was loosing it all..

The cycle of wrongs

Part 1

She was happy. Standing there among so many people, unknown though. But it didn't matter. She was one of them, and that made her feel ecstatic. He said he was happy too. She believed.
And then when she returned home that night, he told her a truth. 
It changed her, like some words from him had changed her 2 months earlier.
She never could sleep a good night's sleep since then.

Part 2

She had suddenly started talking about him a lot. Her mom said they might end up having a big fight. And then one day before she left, he asked her out. She didn't feel the first time jitters, true. But she felt she was special again.
Yet there was a fear.

Part 3

He was quiet, like always. And she kept on sobbing, and muttering about things had been always wrong about her, them. She felt low.. 
It wasn't her fault. Neither was he wrong. 
There was an uncanny silence, of a future rift coming.

All that's gone

I could guess how agitated you must be.. to read this through..

And that you have every possible attempt to make me hate myself, I still keep looking for restaurants.

Where we could have had meals together. I would have had your favorite dessert.

I still think of the cake wedge, that made you smile on your birthday.

And of the numerous mistakes I made for the metro. That made you feel victorious.

Of You coming from far, smiling, and telling me how gorgeous I looked.

I think of those times.

Just for thought

Reliving old moments.. that's what we call nostalgia.. Like strolling down the old parts of a city.
Like sitting on the crude, mud ridden banks of a river.. And flipping pages of old diaries.

They remind us all of things that were, Some day, some where.

Today we have Heritage walks.
And riverfront developments. 
And newer editions of the sometime told stories.

How do we relive love?

Generalised

The recent surge of activities, left me all tired. 
There has been college work, as usual, and my own dedications too.

Had a freaking Interior Design Jury, for the design of a restaurant.

(modelling and renders in Rhino, furnished by Vitra, Post Processing in Photoshop)

And then moving on to Architectural design has been a weary transition. Another month of mind boggling hard work required for the City Center design to be finished and submitted.

And I am trying for something out of Architecture, Fingers crossed!!
#too scared to blurt it out at this moment.

Will be back soon with a proper Blog post.

Cities and their Lives

And my story today, has become similar to many of those frustrated beings the world holds today. I am inspired by buildings, which are erected in a day or two, and by those which might take ages to be built. Yet the government goes on promising the basics of livelihood to thousands every day/ month/ year..

I like discussing about how cities are, and were always had the perfect stories in all its pathways. I have walked down several roads now... where I may or may not get the patterns of the cobblestone matching themselves..

There are no bedding on those roads.. neither sheets costly.. I pity those sleeping there, come back home and sleep off myself. I tend to relate that slumber with the deteriorating condition of contemporary cities.I and my classmates look at the columns on the opposite building.. But they are not important.. yet we tend to discuss them, how they could have been influential at some time of history..Yet we ignore.. or maybe ignore it deliberately..as we don't have anything to do..

I come back home just write about how we identify ourselves with our cities. There are hundreds of documentaries being made everyday about it. A trial to uphold the undying spirit of every city. A trial to relive the nostalgia of the cities. 

I have seen people make the streets their homes. I tried walking on roads where only cars can move. Its a dictum there. And surprisingly, heard stories of people coming out for merry making in the evenings, on the streets. 

We leave a city, settling in a new. We start imitating people there. Eating what they eat, shopping what they wear. We hate the beggars everywhere. We end up even learning the native language. And try to groom ourselves to be like them, in the new city.

Or, We stick to our egoistical versions of only speaking our language, dressing up our own way, and kind of feeling the being retarded in nature. 

And how do we define all this activity series? 

Obviously enough, a city can't speak. But the people stand for it. And on the people, does the life of a city depend. Our activities contribute to the life of the cities we live in. Its life, its spirit, essence, and its death.

We are, muses for our cities.

The lady in red nail polish getting down from the Audi, to the sweat dripping men hanging from the buses.

The women with explicitly done vermilion on their foreheads, who wear their drapes a way too vulgarly.. and the breasts peeking out of their clothing.. 

The child sleeping on with saliva dripping salmon lips.

The fire on the stove burning nearby...

Fare Thee Well

When few things in life become reasons for sadness.. They should be removed..

Not that this blog has become so.. but my writing is..

Time to leave..

The Yellow Gown

I wore a maroon Indian dress. And I was lost in the crowd.
I was quiet, sitting alone, my heart aching.
I didn't know, what was on the other side. I was never shown..

Now, I am alone again. 

It rained today, reminding me of a rainy evening, an year back.
But its only a memory.
I tried talking. And then couldn't decide, whether to cry or shrug it off.
I could do neither.

I stared. Trying to understand what lies on the other side.
It was never shown.
It always lay apprehensive.

Or may be I couldn't see.

The mediocre moon

Should I really wait?? Is it worth the wait?

Does wearing black makes me resemble the aristocracy of an architect?

Or writing like this, makes me closer to being a future critic?

I thought.. as I normally do.. a lot!

Ending up being a mediocre student, tending towards my final year.

I design really bad. Couldn't make models of my work until the previous semester.

And someone tells that I think beyond my architectural limits.. messing up stuff.

To add, someone says I don't think rational.

May be.. 

People tell me stories, hinting subtly, about their greatness.

I listen and shrug them off, like any other piece of shit, we get to hear nowadays. I like keeping quiet and showing off the little good things, that I think I do. Some notice. Most do not.

That really does not change the way I am. 

I like the solitude thing, that comes along everything. For example, books.

And then there are people, making promises they are not meant to keep.

And people who tend to be bohemian, but there's hardly anything to talk about them.

So many all around.

People, who I think can't talk.

(as I do..)

I do not know if I am better than them all..

But then I mess up stuff, remember?

To be or not to be.. has been a forlorn question..

Even for me.

When it drizzled

My first tryst with you had taught me to wait.
I learnt, and waited. We did meet, after long intervals..
And then we vanished, into our lives of pandemonium. Discretely.

Now do I find you again..
I wait for you, true. We don't vanish into our tranquil nights.
I assume I know you.
We have trysts more often.
Several.

Smooth rides

With cobbled paths, I entered the trance.. 

Whereby flowed the white nets.. deeper did they take me..

To a land where it was good to have sea by your side..

Where red dresses are a girl's pride.
The sun, there, sets with pleasing colors,

And there in a cottage, did the secret lie..

I tip-toed in, with windows and curtains welcoming me,

and then a smell, of known mellow.

The mirror made me beautiful..

And I was overwhelmed..