Am I Done With Love?

Each time it happened, it brought a ray of hope

But now it carries with it, just a fear to cope

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

When I look back at what transpired

Sometimes it was them, sometimes me

But whoever be blamed for the failures

In the end I was the loser to be

So when the heart skips a beat again

How can it be a reason to smile?

For I have learnt it the hard way

That this thing is not meant for me.

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

I've always seen myself as a romantic

And this notion has taken my toll

Weaving the dreams just too soon

I have seen them tumbling galore

I want to take a chance again

But know well, that’s not the right way

For each smile that adorns my face today

Will be paid by a drop of tear not far away

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

P.S. - A comment posted on my novelette 'Everyone Has a Cupid Tale to Tell' after a long time brought out this stupid song. So please don’t ask ‘who is she?'

Image Courtesy:
A friend behind another friends's camera

The Face Off

Flaunting the newly learnt Photoshop skills.

And now a GIF image. Click on it to enlarge and see it in action.

For a change, I do not want to comment about the developments around this movement. However, you may read my Op-Ed in The Tribune which got published during the first wave of the movement.

Images Courtesy:
Various sources

Life Within The Four Walls

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 23; the twenty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. The theme for this month is FREE. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. 

Your whole life can be packed in a single room. Within those four walls you can measure expanse of your knowledge, and within those few meters between floor and ceiling, depth in your understanding can be gauged. It is nothing less than incarceration, an imposed limit on your physical space to allow you to wander more freely within your mental space. Even I went through this stage when I decided, like many other brave souls before me, to sit for the civil services examinations.

Immersed in studies within the three dimensions of my room, I soon became oblivious to the fourth dimension of time. The chirping of birds followed by sound of gong emanating from a neighboring boarding school used to intimate me that it is dawn and I should be going to sleep.

My day started with the shouts of my mother followed by incessant thumping on the door to wake me up. The poor creaking door had to go through this ordeal everyday till I finally got up and unlatched it.

In those days, I preferred to stay in my room with innumerable inanimate things accompanying me. The only live things were the lizards on the wall and my reflection in the long mirror on the right corner of the room.

I was envious of the lizards because they could traverse more dimensions within the room. For them the room was infinity, an end in itself, but for me it was just a means to an elusive end.

The 6 by 6-foot bed felt like a mother’s lap since the day it got a new pair of mattresses. They were expensive but were needed to cure the constant pain in my back. Despite many rebukes from my father, I continued lying on the bed to study, while the uncomfortable chair that accompanied the study table stood vacant and listless.

I was very fond of the study table which took up most of the space opposite my bed. It had retained its woody smell despite thick coats of varnish and was the only link to nature in this lifeless room. Though seldom used to study, the books with their different-colored bindings decked on the two shelves of the table, were a constant reminder and motivation to keep studying.

The night lamp on the side table became an innocent accomplice in my contemplations. As my thoughts meandered through the unknown reaches of my consciousness, I kept switching it on and off subconsciously. Every other month its bulb had to be replaced, tormented by my thoughts and actions.

On the far left corner of the room, by the curtained windows, stood my personal computer with all its paraphernalia. The dark monitor of the computer always stared at me with expectant eyes, which were only a reflection of my own eyes, waiting to be switched on. But it had already been replaced by my new laptop which lay regally on one side of my bed. The computer reminded me of those days when gadgets were much larger and the life was much simpler.

My mother had the nagging habit of opening the curtains whenever she got a chance. I somehow felt more secure in the darkness and dampness of the room. The sunlight that came through the window seemed to me as an unnecessary intrusion into my own space. The pale-looking curtains became focal point of this unspoken jostle between me and my mother as we tried to outdo each other every day.

Two years had passed in this room when the result of my second attempt came. Keeping the laptop aside, I looked up at the ceiling with moist eyes.

The worn-out fan was revolving as usual, emitting the ugly noises. There was certain movement in it but there was no displacement.

Then my eyes moved towards far corner of the wall where it met the ceiling. A trapped moth was struggling to get free from the cobwebs that had formed there.

The following day, I took a broom and removed the cobwebs from there.

The following day, I opened the curtains to let the slanting rays onto my bed freely.

The following day, I unlatched the windows to allow fresh air into the deoxygenated corners of the room.

The following day, I decided to let go my ambition and venture out to find some work.

Image Courtesy:
My camera (clicked in November 2007)

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