Train Journey: A Reflection.

A Stream of Consciousness: You have been warned.

Music. It calls to my mortal soul. I sit, as the world around me sleeps, listening to the sounds of music that mean different things to different people in different parts of the world at different times.
The dead of the night as towns, nameless, pass by my window in a whirl of lights and cement structures. The lights comes and goes like a flickering bulb, a firefly in the dark. I can see a washed out moon trough the haze and pollution that makes the sky. Its hard not to reflect on the supernatural, to contemplate the existence of vampires, werewolves, possession and spirits. Harder yet to keep the emotions at bay. The emotions, the feelings suppressed during the day. The love that’s been kept aside for a spell. The longing that’s hidden from the world. The emptiness left when a someone special no longer resides in that void. The joy, of making new friends accompanied by the awkwardness of new beginnings.
Speaking of which, I met with two colonels today, don’t know their names. Never will see them again. Yet, we shared a whole train ride, majority of which was spent in attempting to ignore the snores of the asleep. We shared these moments and when this train arrives at New Delhi Railway station, we will part ways, never to meet again. Yet, united forever in that shared experience, a common factor. Two men. From the same world, which such differing attitudes. Can there really be such a situation.
Paradise. An untouched world. An unspoilt memory. A place where all our dreams come true.
My Romeo, who is currently in possession of my paradise, is so far away. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, rivalled by ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ Which one to believe? The pain of being so far away. ‘Close your eyes, escape this town for a little while.’ What town? This state of mind. ‘You were everything to me and I was begging you please don’t go’. How to stop those who must leave? How to move on? I don’t want to move on. I want to stay suspended in that reality forever. And just where do I come off, calling this state of mind a reality?
Realism, I must write 2000 words on realism. How do you decide? What’s real and what’s not? What’s real to me, that blue light over the door, the rhythmic swaying of this train, the loud snoring of my neighbour that I can not drown out with the music… can you, dear reader, grasp this? Feel its reality like I am at this moment. Can I once again revisit this reality when I read this again? Can I recreate the soreness in my knee from sitting cross legged? Feel the irritation at the snoring? Recall the physical effort it is taking me to suppress the longing, the tears that are sure to come if I for one minute stop and think of him so far away.
I was asked today, ‘How do you know when to stop brushing your teeth? When it hurts? Or after you have spit twice, thrice?” Its relative to each person, just like reality. All though making brushing your teeth a metaphor for reality may be a little too far fetched, even for my emotion-ridden brain.
‘Thunder only happens when it’s raining’. Stevie Nicks got it right. She claims “when the rain washes you clean you’ll know.” I love rain. Although ironically, I have to bathe after prancing about in the rain. What world is this where the rain can wash you clean? And why am I not a part of it? The pollution and the deceit of the world is brought down by the rain, you bathe in the stale dust of a thousand wrongs and very few rights.
A sliver of light is filtering through the curtains, I can see the dust, its beautiful. I spy my emotion, chocking it. Until it is nothing more than just yellow light. The voice in my head is asking me what on earth I am doing randomly writing what is filtering through my subconscious into my conscious. She, I like to believe that it is a she, wants to know what I hope to achieve through this and all I have to tell her is that I don’t know.
When you’re young, which I still am, you are not at liberty to really know anything. You’re too young, you haven’t experienced the world. And chances are you won’t be allowed to. You’re way too young to. So where does that leave you? You’re too in experienced to know and too young to experience. Where does that leave you?
I know I have done nothing but pose a bunch of questions and barely talk off a train journey, I know is infuriating. In this game, I take no prisoners, only casualties. I’m not old enough to know the answers, or to know anything really.
Love, so far away, separated from me by oceans. I love you and that’s all I really know. Magnified by this reflecting, solidified by this writing, brought to light by this train journey. I am swayed and I move, conform, to the jerks, the swinging. I cope, my muscles working together, to the best of my ability.

At the crossroads.

The "Plan" was always to do brilliantly well in my boards, shock everyone I know with my sheer genius and ability to multi task, get into St. Stephens and then...
...
That's right.
I have no "and then..."
Nothing to complete the sentence with.
Its weird, I never thought I would say this, but being exactly where you want to be, isn't all that great.
I am EXACTLY where I planned to be today.
Today, I do not know what to do with myself, I have no goals, no ambition.

I leave the house, take a walk, meet my friends and come home.
I sit on my chair... and I wait...
I wait...
I wait for inspiration to strike, for an objective to materialize.
I scan the horizon for purpose and reason.
I wait.
I wait at the crossroads.

'Things that make you go hmm...' : and I say Hmmm..

"My head can be pretty messed up!
u know how i go from thought to thought in a matter of a few seconds..?"
-Abeer Saha

True to his word, the brilliant boy did not finish his thought.
Though he did leave quite a turbulent storm in my mind.
Jumping from thought to thought, i thought about how messed up his mind really might be. Then I thought how messed up my head might be and in the long run how messed up every ones head is.

What am I doing?

I am multi tasking.
Its what the "youth" is brilliant at.
I'm talking to said brilliant boy, discussing passwords.
"take these broken wings and learnt to fly again"
Random song playing on the radio.

What am I doing?

Didn't it start with messed up heads? Thoughts. they flicker and fade in and out of oblivion.
A completed thought.
what a treat.

What AM I doing here?
More importantly, Why am I still here?

I ask and ask.
I am answered by a volley of shouts in my messed up head.
I am surrounded by an answering silence.

Anonymous No More.

I love to write. I don't know if it's any good but I love it.
I write Anonymously though. Never needed the credit. Never thought I was good enough.
Who the hell defines "good enough".
I write.
That is "good enough"

Anonymous no more.

Name: Rhea.
It means the art of reaching perfection. But then there is nothing perfect about me.

Im real. Im flawed. Im alive.

Age:17
Im just graduation school. The plan? college. English at Stephens, DU.
Like I said, I love to write. I love to read. I love literature.

Sex: Female.
Though I assumed that bit was obvious.

Country/Nationality: India/Indian
Born and brought up. Indian from the heart to the outside. No, I don't walk around in a sari or tout my religion. Im proud of my country, my heritage and my roots. I am Indian.

Objective: Read and to be Read.
"let me light up the sky, Light it up for you."

Summary: Rhea, 17 year old female from India. Loves reading and writing. Real, Flawed and Alive.

Anonymous no more.

Alone/Someone

I'm alone.
all alone in this world.
Alone to deal with my pain.
Alone to deal with my situation.
all alone.

Everyone thinks those words once maybe twice in a week, month or year. if they are lucky, in a lifetime. So how alone are you?
On one level, its just you against the world. you are facing it alone. No one will feel it like you do. No one is in the situation as you are in, the position you are.
On another level, look around. if you cant find a single person waiting to catch you. Problem. But the probability of that is pretty low. In that case you are driving people away and need some serious help.
No?
don't think your driving them away?
Cant see anyone?
Are you sure?
Look harder.
yeah.
Right there.
There's someone.
and another.
Oh LORD! Do I really see a third? It seems I do.
Most of the time, your not looking hard enough. Someone is ALWAYS there.Someone might not get how to deal with the situation. Someone might not know what to say or do. But that someone is still there, by your side or a little way behind.. Someone might just be waiting for you to need again. To confront the issue and say "Yeah, i can't deal with this, I need support." Someone is praying that you turn around and see that they will be there, all you have to do is pick up the phone and call, pick up a pen and write, switch on a computer and type. Anything. Sometimes, just talking about it helps. Sometimes just knowing that someones there is enough. Sometimes nothing is. That's when you sit down and count the stars that shine on you. Even if it is only one. Even if the only good thing is that there is a someone. When you see that Someone you will find that it is Someone who loves you and always will. Someone who may not know how to be there but will try if you just let them, show them, tell them how. Someone who's waiting for you to reach out. Someone ready to catch you.
You'll find that someone is me.

Authors Note: Its 2:00 AM at night. My thoughts are jumbled my feeling escalated and confused. This piece is raw and unedited. Its not my best. My point and purpose is simple, convey a message to someone. To that person, I say this, You know who you are. I miss you.

Things that make you go 'Hmmm..' : Contradictions.

26th of march 2008.

Being driven up to kudd, we attempt to overtake a truck carrying like chickens which are soon to be somebodies dinner. We are filled with a sense of remorse for each of those ill fated chickens aware of their bleak and not so distant future. Slowly, we attempt to make our remorse and compassion evident saying things like, "Oh! those poor things", "What bad conditions they are being transported in!" and my forever favourite,"we should all be vegetarians and stop this world wide massacre."
Oh Please! Those poor things were born to be eaten by us. Thus is the food chain. We should "Oh those poor things!" all livestock and for that matter, prey. Are you really willing to challenge the way of the world in the name of human compassion?!?! As for those "bad conditions", well, how well would you keep something on its way to the gallows? Pointless statement... yes?
Vegetarians?! Hm, to the person making this irrational statement, YOU become a vegetarian and leave my habits alone please. Thank you! Do you really think ONE person not eating chicken is going to affect the poultry industry? Here's the bad news, it not going to make any difference.
As practical and heartless (hm, somehow those two always go hand-in-hand) as I may sound, at that particular moment, I must say, my heart did go out to those poor chickens in those 4 inch by 6 inch compartments being transported long distance only to be murdered at the break of dawn and served up with gravy by lunchtime, to say nothing of dinner. The argument I have presented myself with is the one I have stated above. It makes me feel better to say those things. Practicality is my answer to heartache. I am an animal lover and my heart goes out to each poor soul on the street though I have evidently learned to harden my heart over the years. I myself have my own little fetish-s. For one, I will never eat anything that looks like what it did when alive. That is probably why I will never be capable of eating fish. I also refuse to eat anything that I may have kept as a pet [i.e. named as it scampered around under my nose]. Which means, no fish, dog, pigeon, lizard, snail, rabbit or parakeets for me.
As you can see, residing within me is a cynical hypocrite who is so politically correct that he/she can openly be described as politically incorrect.
The same child, who ran home crying because she saw a dead puppy, ate chicken nuggets that night. In fact the only thing that did console her were chicken nuggets.
My dear friend the hypocrite doesn't just restrict itself to views on non vegetarian food but on everything. even vegetarian. I refuse to eat paneer and claim to be repulsed by he very sound of it, but place a plate of special paneer pakoras in front of me from nandini and im at it like a hungry lion at a deer(if you'll excuse the phrase).
Moving on from food, I claim to be perfectly happy with the way I look, and on most days i am. Try putting me in a swimsuit though, you've had it.
I hate politics and shun news about the government and ministers and what not. In school, I run my own little government, state, country, or just a social group of teenagers, take your pick.
I'm not the only one either! Within each of us resides a little monster of contradiction who takes immense amounts of pleasure in ruining our social status and polluting our otherwise pure thoughts with thoughts of the extreme nature.
In essence we are all little contradictions to ourselves, inspired by our actual innermost feelings that we chose to reveal to few.
Our little contradictions have this way of showing up when most unwanted, creating problems and snagging us in self set up snares. But living without these contradictions, is living without knowing yourself.
To know myself, I'm willing to be a a bit of a contradiction, willing to lose a little social status, be a hypocrite. To know myself, that is a price I am willing to pay.

NOTE: the author at the time of committing ideas to paper, was extremely obsessed with the words 'contradiction' and 'hypocrite'. She even went to the extremes of calling the sky a hypocrite as it supports both the sun and moon. shes is known to be absolutely senseless most of the time. To drive that point home, the original title of this piece was Hypocritical Rhyme. Just because.

A Chapter of My Life - Just For You.

[Another examination, another essay. This time, edited.]

Rubber Duckies and other such random items. 'Blah' and other such random words. Life and other such random processes. A black box of preserved memories. A notebook in front of me aptly titled, Chapters of My Life. I sat sifting through my memory box.
Letters, notes and bits of papers emerged. Each with its own history, its own story. Letter given to me, letters I never sent, notes passed in class, notes sent home. Scraps of my past all wrapped up in a box. A black box of preserved memories.
I sat documenting my memories. A random thought of the possibility of Alzheimer's and amnesia had induced me to do so. I never wanted to forget my memories and if my internal diary, memory, did fail me, I wanted a back up. A hard copy if you will.
As I finished off with the letters, I came across a pencil with bits of paper wrapped around it attached to an old fading photograph. I stared at the photograph as tears welled up in my eyes and two little girls smiled back at me with muddy faces and dark, gleaming eyes. Mahak and me at age four.
Mahak had been my best friend when I lived in Vasant Kunj, New Delhi. She was my upstairs neighbor, whose balcony I first learned to serenade at the tender age of seven. She lived in the apartment above ours on the first floor and I would climb atop our gate and sing songs to her and she would sing them back. She would always crack first and collapse on the floor of her balcony, laughing and I would fall off the gate and dissolve into fits of giggles.
The picture that was now blurring before my eyes had been taken by her father right after we had tried to eat wet mud because it looked like chocolate, and had been caught. She was squeezing me tight while I stood there, mud clenched in my fist, grinning from ear to ear. When I moved from Vasant Kunj to gurgaon, she gave me the picture as a going away gift with the pencil, which she had wrapped scraps of paper around that had our names as well as the phrase 'friends forever' all over it.
I sat back and thought of the time she rescued me from the puppies. I was and still am a passionate dog lover so when we discovered a litter of puppies in in the bushes by the park, I was naturally ecstatic. I sat down among them and started playing with them. When it was time to leave, I patted them all on the head and trotted off... only to be pulled back. Four of the seven puppies had caught hold of my frock and were pulling me back. Then fifth and a sixth joined in while the seventh sat and watched the show, his head cocked to one side. I did then what I did best at the age of five when faced with danger. I started crying.
My mother, for whom I was wailing passionately, was nowhere to be seen. So my superhero in 'power puff dungarees' decided, with all the goodness in her heart, to take matters into her own hands and rescue me, bless her. Mahak grabbed two puppies and shoved them in the bush and grabbed a third while yelling at me to run. I did just that, dragging three puppies behind me for a good ten-twelve feet. When they let go we ran home and collapsed in the garden outside my house as the stairs to her seemed like Everest to our tired bodies. I had stared at her with awe. Eight months older than me, she sat there, satisfied and calm, a picture of nonchalance as she chewed on a blade of grass. She had saved my life. She was my hero. I had to make it up to her so I offered her my brother. She loved him. He was two years younger and he smelt funny. yet, she loved him as I did.
I laughed at how insane we were. A life for a life. Simple. I smiled and thought of how in her wisdom and generosity she had accepted him with grace and then decided to share him with me knowing I loved him with all my heart.
The good old days. "The golden days, when life was great and pain was all a world away." Lionel Richie sang aptly at that precise moment and the music filled my room and my heart. "We we to school, we learned the rules. trusted in all they had to say. Then life took a turn we all had to learn that we can't go back again."
I missed her, I missed us. We had lost touch and as I put the picture away and wrote down its description and history, I felt nostalgic. Lionel Richie sang on "and my heart is breaking, Just For You, Just For You. And my arms are open, Just For You. Just For You.
I picked up a piece of paper and started to write a letter, "Just For You," I thought. "Just For You."