Fighting the looming clouds

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Placebo Effect.”

One of my family members committed suicide a few days ago. She was really good in some ways, always jovial, always forgetting the silly things in life. She was someone you could get to know easily, and never forget. And now, well, she is gone, for better or for worse…

The deal about depression, about sadness, about the melancholy of the soul is, it consumes you from the inside. it becomes greater than the person you are, it becomes greater than anything that you have ever gone through. And it does it because we have to allow it to do so. Because no matter how much we fight them, our demons look better than the demons the people send to us. The hatred, the words, the scoldings, the beatings, all of that is worse when compared to this melancholy we hold. When we are depressed, we feel less, or perhaps we feel the most of all.

But, God I do not want to talk of depression now. Depression is done for, everything that kept me depressed is going away and that is good in some way or the other. And maybe I won’t ever have to deal with that sort of thing again. But, then I would like to have a cure for it when it does happen you know?

Yes, I may sound selfish.

“You wish to cure depression when cancer and AIDS are killing so many people every single day?”

Yes, I do.

The deal is, humankind would find a cure for cancer and AIDS, we are resilient enough for that. But, what about this disease which is eating us from inside? What about this disease that makes us a vegetable before our time has come?

We need to cure this, God we need to…


On Writing a Novella

This break from the blog was essentially because I was writing a novella for submissions to a contest. And therefore, I was quite busy on all fronts. I was trying to measure up my thoughts, and give them a way to express themselves out in the stage. Believe me when I say it is more difficult than it sounds and I am trying to put through my original experience here.

It is heartbreaking to finish a story no matter how small or big it turns out to be. It takes away a chunk of you as you write and you hope for God’s sake that it ends up being better. Yet, it is a hopeless journey and you make it alone at the end of the day. There is no one to be seen from the perch you sit on, there is no one to be seen at the end of the road either. Yet, you hold on because you do have a story to tell, even if it is not a story that would be read widely enough. And that is the feeling that drives you into this frenzy, this madness that tears you apart with its teeth.

I write like that, I write because I have to write, because there is no other escape for people like me who are stuck there.

And then, I have finished it

A salute to the drunkard

I was lonely at the end of the year, going to year-end lists just because I felt that it would be the only redemption. Then, I found this man staring me in the eye, crooning his own brand of music.

“Punk rock didn’t live up to what it was meant to be”

The words came out of the speaker and for once I leaned back, and I let the tears take me. The songs took me and broke me across the walls made of glass, it made me bleed like a little boy. I felt the pain take me as I listened to my life depicted through the songs of an English boy I had never met.

Frank TurnerThen that was it, Frank turner has changed me immensely this year, to the point I started talking to people about him. Might be he is not the best singer out there but, when he sings about the things he has done with pride, when he sings about his friend dying and about how the life is affecting his relationships.

I guess when this guy talks about how his revolutions have failed, I imagine me being the rebel, being the one who talked of honesty and ethics and had a fall out. I do not hold out that high order of ideals anymore, I am flowing in the stream of political correctness too.

But, this guy is out there. A drunk man, a smoker, a person who sings of his vices as well his virtues and of all the friends he has lost.

That’s my gift to you then, Frank Turner.

Merry Christmas people

You’d know wouldn’t you?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Santa.”

I opened up the messaging feature in my old utility phone a few days back, I checked the inbox trying to find something that would move me. And there it was, something from a group of friends I made last year, a message about self harm, and countless others about how they showed their concern. It broke me, I spent the larger part of the day huddled up and remembering. This year, they gifted me a diary, pen and ink and to be honest I really haven’t given the bunch anything back.

I guess that is a a part of me, I rarely give anything back to those who care too much about me. I have this bad habit of ignoring them at the end of the year. Even now I sit with the letter addressed to one of them, which has still not been mailed, and I feel terrible about the same. I know I should be a better person but, then, that is hard for me.

So, what should I give them?

Well, for the youngest one, I probably reserve poetry, letters and love. I shall gift her with movies too, some of the movies that changed my life.
For one of the strongest women I know, I should probably give her something strange  a trinket to remember me by.
To the woman who has become more of an elder sister, I give a book, that is torn from the middle, and has trod upon by the feet of all the human beings that have read it before
To the weird woman with the heart of gold, I give chocolate, because everything else wouldn’t really do. I would probably give her a packet of toys too.
To the two elder brothers, I probably should just send books that have impacted me so. I do not know what though, perhaps something that is purely mine. Something from Keats may be? Or would Neruda be true-er? I really do not know for sure.
For the girl who knows to have a lot of fun and carries a personal philosophy with herself, I reserve a bottle of wine, and a meet up in a quaint little shed by the beach.
And to this other sister, who I do not see as much, I would probably give this pair of earrings that smell of home.

I do not have a lot of money but, someday I might be able to gift them. Till then, these posts would probably have to do. Maybe poetry is the poor man’s diamond ring, who knows?


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “To Be Resolved.”

I do not keep clear cut resolutions but, I do have hope as I start the new years. I have hopes for a better tomorrow and a few things that I always think that I would do.

This years, these goals were –

  • Polishing up my first novel
  • Losing weight
  • Becoming and keeping more happy

Let me get this out first, I did not actually revise the first novel fully. I did start out on it but, then the move came and I was stuck in a different space with no way to continue. Yet, that novel remains in the works.
I did lose a lot of weight leaving to my hostel (which coincidentally is the abandoned hospital in the title of my blog). The things turned up pretty well there, the world went about on its own axis, and we made it through.

However, the last one.
See, I feel ashamed to say this, but, I messed up on staying happy. Heck, I wouldn’t be alive right now if a little angel didn’t help me through those months. And I know that i should commend my own courage for getting out of being suicidal, but, I cannot praise myself after sitting before a cup of bleach and drinking through it, just because I had not made it through to a medical school.
I am
I was.. I was crappy, a very dark, person who was going on a train ride to the bottom of a cliff. And the whole metal body, my body was pulling me towards to ground.

When, the results came back, I was staring out at the railway lines and if my mother had not called right at the moment, I would have probably walked towards it.

I tell this to N a lot, I tell her that I shouldn’t be alive, and that isn’t a good thing to say to a person you respect. But, I am telling the truth. A whole bunch of Paracetamols taken one night on an impulse the thoughts of death driving it home.

So, yes, that is what I carry forward. This year is ending on a higher note, am happier, and I ought to be more happy next year. I would lose more weight, and perhaps, publish that one novel.

To forgive

“I cannot ever forgive you, but, that doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

Some times when I look back into childhood, I do not see the good things anymore. I see the darkness and the blackness that huddled around me. Much like the lover who plays only the break up scenes in their mind after it all has been put on shelf.

My father smokes, my father smokes like a chimney. He is addicted and that is something I have lived with for the whole of my life. And when I was a child he came to me once smelling of smoke. I was much more self-righteous then, I was hopeful for a  better future, and I told him to quit, told him that it was bad for his health and his response was.

“I am tensed about you.”

For those not familiar with smokers, tension is one of the easiest excuses to give for us (I am two days clean by the way).
That broke me, the fact that I was the cause, the fact that I was the reason he was destroying himself. Heck, the situation was not under my control. I had broken my leg, I was always suffering, I had lost most of my friends, I was probably never going to play in the fields again and then this gem from my father.

I am in a hostel and I do not even talk to him now, but, some part of me has forgiven him for his transgressions then, perhaps because I intend to be a better man.

But, more so because I cannot afford to be a poorer father. I do care for him more but, I talk lesser and lesser to him each day, because I have moved farther away from my childhood days. Every day he still lights his cigarettes and I watch him, and I sigh, I do not protest anymore. Every man must have his poison.

But, then today is about forgiveness, and this time around I didn’t stop him, and this vacation at least I talked to him about the thing. Not forcing, just a silent wish for him to lay off the smoke.

“This post is a part of Project 365 program at We post daily. Prompt for today was “Share a story where it was very difficult for you to forgive the perpetrator for wronging you, but you did it — you forgave them.”

Kids, and a tinge of sadness

One of my friends is having a baby, and it is supposed to be a happy occasion.
However, yesterday, having a conversation with someone I should henceforth call N, we revisited the topic of kids and it became a bit sad again.

See, there are two things you feel very deeply once you realize you prefer men, there is the feeling of fear as you see prosecution, and there is this paranoia about what the future is to bring.
Cut back to 2012, I was talking with a teacher that changed my life then, and he told me that he wanted a child. However, he was gay, and adoption laws there had not created that window for him. He wished and wished that somehow he’d get through, somehow he’d have this little bundle of joy who would call him “Papa”, but, it was not to be.
I lost contact with him after that, and after having a tumultuous few years, here I am blogging.

You see, we are not equipped to have children. And there is a fair chance that these dreams of having a child of my own will never come to fruition. Sure, N might see this post and tell me to be hopeful, because she is exactly that kind of a girl, but, then I am a skeptic at heart.

You know what I felt when I heard that my friend was having  a baby?

I felt jealous.

And I felt sorry for myself.

I know that is not a social behavior but, I couldn’t help it. I wanted to have a child and a partner by the time I was 30, I wanted to have a small flat where I could just play and teach her things and raise her up better.

You see, there is this compulsion we carry, of being better parents, being more inclusive parents and teaching our children better than we have been taught. And that is something I have within me. Heck, I had quit smoking because I didn’t want to turn out like my pops who is forever covered by a blanket of smoke over his features.
But, this is it then, having a child was something that I really wished for.

God, can you imagine the little hand closing in on your finger, those half spoken sentences and those whispers you can’t make a sense of? I do that with my nephew now, and whenever I keep playing with him my cousins tell me something crass like “He is not your girlfriend man”


But, that’s not the point. He’s a kid. With him I do not have to meet this obligatory social regulations. He does not care if my elbows are on the table when I eat, he certainly does not care if I speak to myself at the end of the day. He is just, well, a little bundle of joy (except when he hits me hard with the pillow because that does hurt).

But, there is this deal.

I make my want of children into a joke, I joke about how I would be a terrible dad, because am a terrible person. I joke about about the fetus is going to gestate in a box, and I am scared about surrogacy.

But, I want to be a father, not because I claim to be mature, and certainly not because I somehow am capable. But, because for once, I want to be with someone who is innocent, someone who has dreams in their eyes, and I want to give them a world that accepts those dreams instead of turning them away, and I know it’s not going to happen soon but, I wish it would.

Current Listen – Bon Jovi