Nidhi Katoch blog

I know how you always used to find happiness in the jingles of bangles. I'm wearing those bangles now, and it seems they are sobbing, humming a sad song. Yesterday, someone crossed by myside, wearing your perfume, it's weird I still remember how you used to smell. When I look at these new faces for a long time, their faces start to dissolve into one, Among all the faces, I only want to see yours, among all the voices, I only want to hear yours. When night drapes itself in moonlight, I start to think about you, just another damned full moon. Fetal position, The broken alarm clock, shattered pieces of glass and drops of blood. Absent-mindedly I hurt myself. I carry a photograph of you in my wallet, the old one. I'm afraid of looking back to those memories, those crazy stories. How I used to sneak out, wearing your cardigans and now I don't even touch them. Unconsciously your name slips out, your number is dialled. I hate to be loved. With love, you need to love others bac

 Dear Aman,  As I picked up the pen last night, to write another letter to you, I started to wonder if you ever read these or not. The last time when I met you were trying to remove the mole on your cheek. You were so adamant about erasing the memories. I tried my best to make you realize that you can't run away from yourself.  I've seen it, dead do breathe. They might not respond, but when they are covered up in sheets, one can sense they're breathing. Well, death has life. I know it doesn't make sense to you. But it has. It is bound to come to everyone like the different people who come to us at different phases of our lives. It might have emotions too. Acceptance is the hardest thing one can ever do. But when it does, peace comes along with it.  Everyone is living with guilt. Even I'm. Sometimes I feel guilty about sensing the insecurities of people and weaving stories around them. I know our times under the shades of pines are over. And we both have zero hope of

Death has a smell, a weird smell, which keeps you following wherever you go. When I opened the doors of that house, it felt like time hadn't moved a bit here. Except there's the skeleton of a rat and a spider's web. The good old neighbour came to ask if I needed anything. I politely smiled and asked her to sit with me for a while. It was an attempt to make my house smile, our chitchat. She and her lovely son always ring me to ask how I am doing. There's a thing: in villages or small towns, people may be nosey but some of them genuinely care. I was asking about everything and behaved like the same old person, which once I was. I opened the shoe rack, and my boots fell. Her eyes fell on them. She asked me about the last time I went on the ride. 'It's been a while.' She started to reminisce about the crazy adventures her son and I used to go on. How much our coming home late used to annoy them all? Now, there's no one to annoy, no one to scold, no one to te

So finally, after so many months, I again picked up my guitar. I always have had a love-hate relationship with music. It's probably because I sing for a few people. I can hear your interpretation in every song. I heard your voice, sweet and lovely, a faint folk tune. I'm afraid I'm losing touch. Who cares anyway?  My fingers unconsciously started to play a folk tune you used to sing more often. Your life among the woods, stories you used to intricate in your songs. In January days, when time stopped due to winter, our talks were never-ending. I jokingly used to call you a storyteller.  Yesterday your friend called! Her accent had a hint of home. To make her comfortable, I started to talk in pahadi . She was talking about your adventures, your songs and stories, and your first love. I think, I was never the first in your life; that's why you left with your first one. Your romantic nature, despite the toxicity and cruelty around you, still surprises me. You've always

January morning, Foggy winter lanes, three of us Walking in the Garden, Hide and seek of sun, kicking sand over each other's shoes. Planning to eat another unhealthy meal, maybe 2-3 more coffees. Clicking pictures of stranded old buildings, watching peacocks trying to impress their partners, me complaining about why men don't put this much effort, obviously to offend my two friends. That was the day of Lohri, none of us at home. It was the shared feeling of loneliness that brought us together. But none of us wanted to accept it. We decided to hang around the city, on bikes. I lay my head over my friend's back, as it was too cold to open my eyes and I was so high on caffeine after crying for 13 hours, the previous night. Lying on the floor, lonely nights, the language close to your heart but you have no one to speak to, you have to embrace another language like you've been speaking it your whole life, your phone rings a lot, probably every other second, there's someo

It was March night, I watched the snow falling silently, settling on the roof, branches, wherever it could fill the space. I watched people enjoying a bonfire, from the window. After travelling for 7 hours, I was in no mood to meet new people and have conversations. I dropped the idea of going out and asked for food in my room. The owner of the stay generously offered me his company for the next day which I politely refused, as I wasn't sure about my next day’s plan. He left the room, asking me to tell him if I changed my mind. Cute guy! I found myself speaking.  After having food, I made myself comfortable in the chair. You were sitting in front of me. What a surprise! You came here too! You are like becoming like these mountains, No matter how much I run away from mountains, fate always pushes me toward them. After all, I’m a Himalayan child, how long can I live away from my home? To defy your stare, I tried to stare back. But I was afraid you're going to see what’s in my hea

At midnight when I let my emotions run, a call from an old friend is being ignored. Listening to the rain, a long night did not end at all. Moths surrounded the lamp, and one of them sat on my hand. Tonight I was wondering to whom I was trying to write. I've been running from myself for so long, that now my existence is a mirage to me. The familiar scent, a familiar face, my fingers were trying to touch those wrinkles, I tried to find the sparkle and shine of those two eyes in the shade of this dim lamp. I opened the gallery from your phone and saw our pictures. It's funny one day I'll be old and grey and you will always be the the same, young and charming.  The peacock feather in my book, which I've been trying to read for so long, is staring at me. Raindrops are falling on the unwrinkled side of the bed through the open window. For some reason, I don't want to close the window. When your whole world flies out through the window and reaches the stars, you never dar

 I stared at the phone screen just in the hope that today might be the day when you'll call. I hated when you were on the verge of losing your voice, but today I can pay anything to listen to that weekling voice of yours. Songs, Incomplete. Dance steps on the cold floor of winter. It was due to your phone call that I witnessed my first snowfall. The space left by you has been covered by snow. I have no energy left to pick up the snow rake. What's the need when it's just a void?  On that doomed night, even the moon was eclipsed. how was I supposed to see the light? Alas! I can't even blame anyone. The paddy fields in the mountains, that jamun tree, and eating sugarcane while relaxing on lychee branches have become a long-lost dream. The flowing stream seems to call out your name.  I still need to move the book and glasses from your bedside table. I fill your water bottle every morning and empty it every night. With you gone, words have left me too, like shade and shadow.

Last night curled up in a ball, I felt your hands trying to lift me, Oh how much I wish, That touch to be my reality, not another dream or nightmare. You know I went to that place again, the little cat still comes and waits for you. Alone, day and night, in the hope that one day you will open the door and call her Feluda. Feluda, the famous detective, the name I suggested. I'm so jealous of the little cat, her undying hope, in her sad little eyes.  The colours of the walls have faded. The longing that you had in your eyes when you touched and admired those walls haunts me. Why fill the place with colours when I was supposed to see only blue in future?  A few weeks ago, your friend called. I don't know how many times she has told me the same things about you. The excitement in her voice never made me stop her. I listened and again tried to imagine how was aspect of your life that I never got to live with you.  The alarm went off! Another night has passed! I'm just afraid tha

Sitting in the same old cafe, chipped paint, smell of books. Reminiscing the time when the last time I was here. I was fighting with mixed feelings after spitting out the facts. In the turmoil and chaos, choosing between the ways of the world or me, I chose myself. I'm wondering over time, how we sit on our couch and the next moment we are on a plane, how we just graduated high school and at the next moment we entered in the late twenties. How happily we come home from school, hug our loved ones and the next day empty house welcome us. How once I used to sleep like a baby and now the goddess of sleep is angry with me. Time… writing this piece, eating my cake, and suddenly I'm in some other city, with new people. Just now I made friends and then left them; just now the city felt like mine and then it became a stranger again. If stars are watching over us, I want to ask them where I belong. In the darkness when the shadow leaves us whose hand am I supposed to hold? There are so m

After tossing for a long time in bed I removed the curtains of the window. The star-studded sky welcomed me. I can gaze at the stars and moon for the whole night. The movement of the moon, playing hide-seek behind the clouds, I imagine that the moon has a face. I know a whole community of science enthusiasts is gonna hate me for this. But there is a thing in me that still doesn't let me kill my inner child. Life happens in such a way that sometimes all the logic and reasoning just don't make sense. I don't know whether time is powerful or cruel or both, I know one thing, for life, these timezones have no meaning.  Tonight, again Jasmine has bloomed. I've always loved its fragrance. This fragrance brings back a myriad of memories. Memories come and go like a gust. Scatter themselves on the floor, in the sky, and everywhere that it becomes impossible for me to catch and put them in the box. Rain also made a grand entrance. It's the fun of living in the mountains, rain

It was the time of dusk, the time for birds to go back. The time of arrival of darkness. I met my old friend, a little blackbird. He was looking at me quizzingly as if questioning my presence there but soon came toward me perched by my window.  He repeated, “Even death has a heart.” to me.  [*The Book Thief (Markus Zusak) ] This quote stayed with me forever ever since I had read this book. But one thing is for sure people don't have one. There are a few elements in this world who just know how to take advantage of others. Either through crocodile tears vanilla-coated lies, or victim cards.  Even snakes shed their skin after a time but these people can never. For them, grapes are always sour. Instead of being contended with themselves, they choose bad-mouthing over the chest of the dead. After all, graves don't cry they can say whatever they want.  My little blackbird flapped his wings as if laughing over their pettiness.  He looked at the red-grey sky and asked me to embrace th

I was again on a solo trip without telling anyone, I picked up my backpack and just took the bus. I wanted to escape from situations, people around and most importantly me. I couldn't get the window seat, so the only option left for me was to either stare at people or scroll the internet. I decided to do both, according to the need of time. I checked my backpack again if I'd packed everything in a hurry. Funny how my bag is always packed. But something was missing, I couldn't remember what. I think I escape a lot. Or maybe it's just my way to feel relaxed. It's not easy to live with constant uneasiness. But whom should I tell? It's a web, puzzle, mirage, maze. And there seems to be no end to it. How am I supposed to share when even I couldn't comprehend this?  While thinking about all of this sleep overcomes my brain. When I woke up I was at my station. Now I knew I needed an extra jacket otherwise I would have shivered all the time. Himalayas are always unp

 Last night, Aman couldn't sleep. He prayed so badly to the God of slumber to embrace him but at this time even sleep had left him. He usually reminisces about the time, when the moment he hit the pillow he used to fall asleep. It brings a smile to his face. That time after all holds good memories.  After turning and tossing in the bed he got up and turned the lights on. He looked at himself in the mirror. He touched the mole on his unshaven, left cheek as if there was someone else in the mirror. That evening, when Aman was out with his friends they told him he had lost the twinkle in his eyes. He asked Sarah, his confidant if this was true. And she nodded approvingly.  Aman tried to read his own eyes through the reflection. They stared back at him and asked him how long he was going to live like this. When he looked again he felt like they so badly wanted to break the mirror and see outside the window. When life happens it gives no warning, it has no fixed time limit. But the prol