Nidhi Katoch blog

Hey all,  Some of you might have noticed that I'm not posting regularly these days. Again I would say it's a writing block. Getting rid of this slump is so difficult. Distraction is my friend these days. I'm not here to cry over this today. Leaving all behind, I'm here to share a poem that I'd written ( okay, I admit, typed) while sitting on the bench of one of those old dusty crowded roads where I visit again and again with the promise to never visit back. I'm here leaving you and the year 2021 with this poem. We'll meet again with new story and a new year.  Happy New Year With Love Nidhi These dusty streets,  small shops,  Vendors of sweets,  all are selling hopes.  They promise that it will transform you,  You'll not miss out and will be able to woo every one with your charm,  And there's no harm in hiding your soul when you can easily play the role of happy go lucky man,  works as much as you can.  They sell dreams we are the buyers  There's

I tried to write few verses or sentences but words didn't pop in my head. I wanted to write and tell so many things but words didn't form a understandable and socially acceptable sentence. It felt like the ink in my pen had been frozen. To add to the gloom sun wasn't up. If someone asks me what I don't like about winters, I would say rising of sun after 8 or 9 in the morning. I knew that I won't be able to write this morning again. So, I decided to leave my diary at peace. I walked out of the house nearly 11 of the morning. I came out of the gate and a stray cat ran inside another gate. 'There are so many cats here',I heard myself saying. I walked across the park saw two boys playing badminton in purely wrong way. 'Those teenagers might be brothers. ', I said in my head while observing their facial similarities.  I crossed the park and move ahead to road. Don't know for how many times I'd passed through this road. I walked in fast pace, which

I was sitting on the bench, not knowing what thoughts I was lost in, a voice from behind caught my attention.  When I looked back, a lady was asking me about trendy shoes nowadays. She was an elderly lady with walking stick in her one hand. I'm not a person of small talk. I usually respond with smile. With the mask on, it has become difficult to respond.  Well, that happy lady left me soon to buy herself shoes. But she made sure to tell me that she's only 65 years young. And she was more young than me and the fellows of my age. I went to bookstore just to come out empty handed. I bought myself a coffee, made myself comfortable again on same bench and started to look around. When you're hanging out alone people tend to come to you to talk more often.  An old man or woman offers you a candy or nut, a random person asks you about book you're reading. How can I forget an old man/ woman's political thoughts! It's better to stay silent and let them talk, nod in agreem

In winter the dew settles on window panes and starts to slide down slowly to settle on the window sill. The first ray of sun has kissed the dew on window panes and I've started to think of you.  Sometimes I like to pretend that you're sitting beside me and we're talking to each other. I know you're just a call away but imagination is the best way to pour your heart out.  I'll ask questions and we both will agree on the same conclusion. Today I'll talk, cry and laugh then I'll leave everything according to your advice. I know you're always worried about my habit of not saying hello to my neighbor, or not meeting any relative or friend. We might not agree on an issue as I used to before. Today I'll assure you I'm still the same old me for you and for every friend who's silently supporting me. With the passage of time, I might have changed but you're still my comfort. I still think of you whenever I feel lonely. I'll assure you I'm n

When we reached the restaurant, it was pretty empty. We decided to take seat on their terrace. 'The sweater season is here.', I remarked to which my sister asked, 'Which season isn't sweater season here? ' She's right in hills you only need couple of hours of rain.  It was sunny today. A perfect weather to uplift my mood. I decided to soak the sun and have little walk on the roof as there was enough space. In one corner a couple was chatting. I glanced at their side for few seconds, there were two glasses on their table and half filled bottle of beer.  I stop by the edge of roof and took the stand of railing, facing toward north. Below there were few vehicles, localites were moving to and fro for their day to day work. There was an occasional honking of horn. When I looked straight there were mountains.Clouds had covered the upper range. 'Mountains from where I always try to run away.', I thought.  'Why on earth food isn't coming? What's taki

'I've seen the ghost of Aruna', said my neighbor to his friends. I have been hearing these rumors for the last six months. I know these are just rumors, not the truth because the way they describe the ghost they've seen is vague. Neither I've been of slender figure nor I like the white color. People give my description as a ghost that resides in their heads.  The first two days were difficult to accept the fact I'm not a living person anymore. What they've done to my body, I don't know. Neither I'm interested to know. After living my life alone for long 45 years, one day I felt a pain in my chest. I don't think I need to tell you what happened after that. All I know is now people can't see me. Those who say they've seen are either lying or are too much afraid of ghosts. Women who had lived alone their whole life always remained an issue of discussion for people of her eccentric nature, her sudden death (although natural) is enough for the

Nowadays I find it difficult to get my thoughts down on paper. I am not reading much. Maybe sometimes it's better not to pay attention, to do nothing. Just sit for a while and feel the joy of nothingness. Although I have written a few bits and pieces. So, Today's blog is again raw and unedited slice of my nothingness on your plate.  With the rotation of earth the sky turns black to blue, sometimes it's grey,  sometimes there's red hue.  With the revolution of earth changes the year, world, countries,  Life changes and fate brings Happiness, mystery or adversaries.  While sitting here I'm witnessing  the game of defeat and victory,  With the changing  TV screen There's someone losing war,  Someone is changing course of history. It's the matter of few seconds,  It's matter of luck,  Some are moving ahead,  Some are stuck.  With the rotation of earth I become blind, deaf and dumb It's the matter of time Sometimes full of life and Sometimes I'm n

So, Tell me how do you feel when you see me smiling?  They think that I'm happy,  maverick, spoiled, beguiling.  Do you think the same, when you hear my name?  You know me since the day we gained consciousness,  I was looking for sun rays in my cloudy trodden shed,  And you were bathing  under the sun And Having fun!  When I took out my  old white sheet of paper  filled it with my choice of colors,  Because I wasn't allowed to enjoy the summer. You know me since inception You know my tears, fears and how I faced deception.  Tell me, Do you  really want to put yourself in my shoe? Tell me...

Short stories have there own charm. One can read them again and again. Whenever I reread a story, I often go back to the time when I'd read it before, I start to remember the day, silence, chirrup of birds, etc etc etc....  I've read numerous short stories. Some of them are really close to my heart. So today I'm going to recommend some of my favorite short stories. 1. The last leaf (O. Henry)  Many of us have read this short story in our NCERT English text books. I still remember I used to bring old english to hindi translation guide of cousins (who are 4 years older than me) to home and read those stories 4 year before reaching that particular standard. Apart from my ramblings, this is a story of two young artists Johnsy and Sue. Johnsy has pneumonia and has lost the will of living. She has started to believe that with the fall of last leaf on ivy creeper she will die. Will she survive or not? To know this you will have to read this story.  2. यही सच है (Manu Bhandar

These empty rainwashed streets, occasionally running late night cars with wild speed, blinking street lights now and then, happily sleeping people in their cozy bedrooms, on lights of tenants' rooms, the random puff of laughter of any family from far place... Don't know why am I thinking about the people living in these block shaped buildings. Standing by the window, I can feel the freshness  in the air after a whole day of rain. Now even moon has prevailed. The cold wind that blows almost the whole year at home has arrived here today. It has the dampness of mountains. Why am I not liking this breeze while everyone surrounding me are enjoying this? How mountains are capable of holding so much coldness? I'm not going to spoil another article with my sadness. When others are getting relief from this hot-chilly summer who am I to spoil their days. (As if I'm going to tell them how do I feel.)  A car just passed through the street and it has left shaken window panes of ever

The fan swirling on the ceiling, the clock showing the wrong time and the closed window are all causing suffocation in me. In the stillness of night sky is numb, only clouds are weeping silently. Tonight even clouds don't want to be heard or seen. They just want to cry, cry alone, without any distrubance. Perhaps that's why clouds have decided to rain during night when there's no one in the street, who can curse them or feel happy for rain. 'Am I really child of this universe? Do I really belong to this world? There's something constantly breaking inside me.' How many times we've asked these questions from ourselves. When we don't find any answer, we crave for escape. This escape sometimes (in my case many times) flows from our eyes. Like these clouds outside. The positivity that lies in the chore of our hearts sometimes clashes with negativity which clouded  our mind, body and soul. There raises battle cry and lightening which illuminates our path. But

I'm weaving a story. The number of hitting backspace has surpassed the number of words written. I'm agitated, I think. I'm thinking, thinking hard but there's hardly any scenario I can remember. I usually twist real life incidents by my imagination and give them shape of fiction. Sometimes my writings are just rage or disappointment. Disappointment usually takes the shape of rage. I hate this word Rage. I hate the word Hate. I don't like these words but still practice them in real life.  Again I hit the backspace, this time I hit it so hard that whatever I wrote get erased. It seems that weaver needs rest. But why? When are we ever allowed to rest? How hard we might try to present our progressive mindset but the reality is we don't ever leave our backward thinking. By backward, I mean we judge others through the lenses of prejudice. What our family/ societal environment inculcate in us, it's hard to get rid of that. We want to be modest, or atleast want them

I'm wandering from place to place,  High hills and dales,  deep on ground and like a boat sails in the sea, a cotton swab or pappus travel long distances in their search.  I'm looking for someone important  who was near and dear to me,  Diverged roads, slant path and thorns had pricked my feet and knees.  I run and run  and sit near the lake,  where water is stagnant and stale. When I looked inside it I could see nothing,  no one has ever told me if you ever lose  yourself, you will never be free.  My search is still incomplete,  It's getting harder and harder to conceal my thirst, my misery, my infelicity I'm a green eyed demon,  And mouth is hard to seal.  Neither I can see,  Nor I can seek help.  I have to find once again,  Myself. 

I've placed my study table in front of the window so that I can spend my morning hours there. Sometimes I brood over past, think about future or just live in the present without any thought. Today when I sat writing my words, my hand started to tremble. The sky was clouded, dark clouds, it was going to rain soon. I got up to take my blanket and covered my self completely before sitting on chair again. I tried to write two- three sentences but words were not coming to me. Neither I forced them to come. I started to look outside. Mother brought me a cup of tea and placed it on the window sill. A bird who usually sings from the clump of the vine in front of neighbor's fence was also silent today. Only faint cries of crickets were there. 'Soon there will be rain and everything will be washed. Every potholes will be filled. But it's temporary. When sun rises every broken thing filled by rain becomes empty. Sun is the source who tells us these potholes needed to be repair, th

I've read 56 new books this year so far and two were rereads. For few people it might be a crazy amount and for others it's nothing. Well, reading less or more doesn't matter if you enjoy reading. I told you in June that I might share what am I reading. Deciding between 56 books is really difficult. Here are some of my recommendations: 1. The Last Queen by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni The Last Queen is the story of Maharani Jindan Kaur, youngest wife of Maharaja Ranjit Singh (of Punjab). Book is written by the perspective of queen Jindan, born as a daughter of a dog trainer, how she became queen of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, how she faced all the conspiracies against her, most importantly her transition from a little girl to strong women has been written in detailed and beautiful manner. She is not portrayed flawless. You will see many mistakes done by her turning in to blunders. At some point book might felt like drag. If you've already read the Palace of Illusion by same

We were sitting inside the cafe, facing the door. The rain drops were sliding down the glass door. We both were silent or one can say I wasn't in mood of making conversation. Someone entered through that door and also brought the gust of humid air.  'So monsoon has arrived here.', you said in casual tone. I only smiled. The thought of rain itself annoys me. I was born in rainy season. So I'm supposed to love it. But on the contrary I hate it. Although it wasn't the case in childhood. Well today I'll not bore my readers with my childhood stories. 'Why are you so agitated, Nily? The way you are staring outside the door is really scary.' I almost fell from the chair while laughing. 'Now my sudden laugh will make the situation more scary.' I replied with cheerfulness.  'Your ways of suddenly falling silent and suddenly  breaking in to talk makes me scare sometimes. I keep on wondering what's going on inside your head.'  'It's been

I keep on scribbling now and then, here and there. I know these can't be considered as full story or poem but I think sometimes it's okay to post them raw, as they've been written, flawed, incomplete. I'm leaving you with this kind of piece, hope you'll like it. With Love.  As I enter the room door I feel someone shuts the door behind me Whenever I turn back to see There's no one How could that possible if I feel the presence  of someone, presence of human But where is he! or she...  Unknown arms embrace me  so hard I start to suffocate  I wish to cry  Try to ask for help But my voice deceives me  My hands fall numb  Feet are paralyzed Sun has reached the horizon The unknown arms aren't ready to leave me I've stopped trying  It's ease now  I'm enjoying it  Soon with slumber  will come to me with fairies  and take me to the clouds on hthe higher world.

 I was lying under the winter sun on a charpai (cot/ traditional bed). Thinking about random things my eyes suddenly met with spotted owlet who was also staring back with full intensity. Earlier I used to think it lives alone here. But after witnessing the pair once or twice I came to believe that no one can survive here alone. It's the rule of nature.  But the stare of owlet felt spooky even in broad daylight. Bamboos were dancing with the wind true to their nature making an occasionally loud noise. And here this owlet instead of looking for its food was staring at me.  Being a person who can easily avoid eye contact with anyone was feeling difficult to avoid those round black eyes. They seemed like two black dots on yellow balls. 'Why is it staring at me? I haven't intruded into its personal space. Is it the same owlet whom I hit with a small pebble when I was 8? How come I remember this detail? Is it possible that these eyes are hypnotizing me to remember everything? Sho

The deserted land once dreamt about having flowers where the water flows  Birds fly up and below Alas! No one goes near  the estranged place Scorching heat  burnt face When the mist of sand settles down Oasis is a mirage Humans are mere dolls and clowns The night spreads its gown Temperature descends Damned place  will swallow everything soon When the day of doom arrives dolls and clowns Rise Down  

How many times we refrain ourselves from saying our mind! Sometimes we don't want to displease others, sometimes we feel so bitter or sad about the thought that we just keep it in our hearts because we don't want to transmit our discomforts , anxieties in to others. I sometimes feel disturbed that what if someone get to read my personal  stuff, we all does (what if they read our minds, what if they control and manipulate our thinking). When someone asks, we stop ourselves from writing/saying the original words and come up with the new sentence which have the same meaning to us but different to others. What a relief... But we may feel occasionally we have betrayed ourselves. We crave for truthfulness and feel helpless. This little poem addresses the same feeling which we all share mutually yet isolatedly...  I want to write the exact thoughts  come to me, but I can't All fights I fought The times I cried like infant.  Pen stops working Mind shuts it's door Broken all the

After a long day of discussion about where should we go, we finally decided to go to Rose Garden, always a favorite place to hang out. It was the time of early summer. I was afraid that my white Kurti might get dirty from sitting on the ground. But still, you convinced me to sit there. You brought two ice creams from the nearby booth. We chatted for hours or one can say you were doing the whole talk and I was making hilarious remarks about that.  We have never been a relationship between flowers and chocolates. Even I like flowers more on plants than on bouquets. I don't know what came over you and you plucked a few blades of grass and place them behind my ear like hair accessories.  'Who needs flowers when you can wear grass', I said laughingly. I started brooding over our negligence toward the grass, we never romanticize it like roses. Still, we can't imagine a garden without it. I was about to think and write a whole thesis on our inattentiveness toward the grass, yo

  I'm sitting alone in this living room.  It's nearly 11:15 pm. Fan is on and I can hear it's mechanical sound. I'm sitting on red couch with coffee on its edge and a book which I'm currently reading. The wedding invitation (which I didn't attend obviously) card placed on the table fly for few seconds by blow of fan and has been finally settled on floor.  I get up to place card again on table and use sanitizer bottle as paper weight.  My imagination has really stopped working. All I can see when I open or close my  eyes is this sanitizer bottle. I don't want to write about these masks and sanitizers but for how long can I keep them away from my writings. How hard it has become to think about the life before masks! How much hard... When you can't even pretend your are happy. Even imagination has been spoiled now. Let's just not think about this. May be I'll read my book and drink another cup (don't think I'm caffeine addict). I can drink c

Bus is on fast pace. It has left the plain scenery behind and entered in hilly landscape. Trees and buildings seem to run. Running far from me, like everyone-everything else. What if flying hand comes and fall on my lap without its body! What a silly thought! I pushed this thought aside immediately. My attention is caught sometimes by terrace fields, sometimes by noise of the people, sometimes by height of mountains. With the change of scenery my thoughts are also changing. Also, thanks to roads, I'm bouncing from one thought to another like a rubber ball.  Snow clad mountains don't fascinate me anymore. I don't like the cold, fresh air, serenity and calmness. I think it's my heart which is cold. Why did I decide to come back here? I'm regretting my decision now. What else can I do now? I just have to move with flow or with bus! And here comes the rain. Now it will become very cold here. I hate cold that's why I decided to come in summers. But these are mountain

My head is throbbing like anything. I don't know what it is. I'm not even trying to know. I'm too busy to think about this headache. I'm supposed to complete this task before tomorrow 10 Am. But I'm not sure whether I will be able to do or not? What's the point of doing this? It's not bringing me happiness.  When will I ever get the peace in this house? I'm tired of this constant strife, this dispute which has given me nothing but hatred. And I'm not so happy with growing hate inside me. I have to leave it immediately. But how can I?  'Stop! Focus on your work. Just finish this task before the dusk and then you'll not have to sacrifice your sleep.', I said to myself. The most difficult task is to bring thoughts in alignment.  Children are having fun these days. Just take your bicycle and go for a ride. I wonder do they ever miss their school or mates? Obviously they do. How couldn't they? One of them is singing a famous Punjabi song o

  'I have never been a good friend, never gave my time to them. But what about the time I needed for me? I have always respected my personal space. Perhaps more than others! Why do I never feel like sharing my personal life with them? Why do I not ask for favour in trouble? Why? After talking about their sadness they felt relaxed but when I needed the mental support where were they? Oh yes, I never told them! I tried my best to keep them but how can I let others violate my priorities, my personal space, where no one is allowed, except me. Shall I ever be able to find that friend? Probably never.' I was fussing over this when I lost my hold on my diary and it fell down. The old and dry rose petals, bookmark and some torn pieces of paper. 'Is this diary or some old treasure that is coming out so much?' I laughed over my own joke. I gathered everything up and placed them on their places. Torn paper in dustbin, bookmark in some random book and rose petals went back to diary

 It was at a time when April was about to come and March was nearing its end. The spring afternoon, we were lazily swinging in the garden under the shade of mango trees. Light gusts of wind were caressing our bodies occasionally. Mango trees were in full bloom. The echo of the cuckoo sitting on a nearby tree, the humming of bees, water pouring over grass and flowers through sprinklers, all were reciting poetry of nature. I had just finished talking about the saga of mango tree in my home yard. How it used to bear sweet fruit and how it stopped bearing after it struck by lighting in previous year's rains.  "You always have story to tell.", You smiled.   "Everyone carries a big lot of stories within oneself, but not everyone has words to express. If few lucky people have words then they won't get listeners or friends who would show interest in these type of silly stories."  We chatted for sometime and there was silence once again, like in the beginning, there

 Sometimes words are angry upon you. They don't come to you easily. The more you approach, the more you try to persuade them, they run away from you like a child turns his face when he is angry upon her mother or like the tantrums of your lover when you tease him.  Sometimes they grow in your mind but when they reach on the gates of Great Paper they give up. They think they aren't ready yet, not fully prepared. They think or we!  Ah! How can you write such a thing? Who on earth is going to like it? And we don't put them even on paper which is our personal space.  Sometimes words come to us when we are on a ride, drive or may be in some shopping mall/ grocery store. We find them interesting and decide to write them, then they fly.  They flew to far land where neither we can reach nor our thoughts. Words, medium to communication but when everything ends we don't need them anymore, not for others, not for us. Then they just float in the air freely, without any arrangement,

 If I could be a child again,  I would dance in rain which I've always hated for no reason sane. I know you would say,  you can do it now, but hey!  you're the also one who love to picked up on me and slay my plans, dreams, I know your dirty plays.  If I could be child again,  I would tell my friend I never hated him/her,  I just had to go ahead,  My decisions were more firm,  than the relationships,  It might be true the strings were loose from my side But there's a lot you did hide.  If I could be child again,  I would tell myself It's okay to be angry, it's okay to cry with the passage of time tears would dry.  If I could be child again,  I would tell her to forgive everyone, who did right or wrong,  Life is all about forgiveness, Thus become a happy song.  I don't know why we have never been taught to forgive others and most importantly ourselves. We're always asked to compete and run. In this race we often start competing with ourselves and then we just

 "We've reached, madam.", said my cabby. I opened my heavy eyelids and look outside but all I could see were the window panes covered with dew. It was a cold January morning. I glanced at my mobile to know the time. It was showing at 7:00 AM. My legs were cold and my feet were numb inside my boots. I had to make the decision, the time had come. I wasn't sure if I was ready for that or not. I didn't know what came to my mind and drew a smiley on the dewy pane. I could see a few figures moving around, Two feminine in red and blue jackets and three masculine in greys and blacks. I also saw a man roaming around and three lambs following him and waging their tails, feeding on wet brown grass. "He must be local", I thought to myself. I asked my driver to have tea from a nearby shop and wait for me until I came back. The only shop whose owner was kind enough to come at this cold hour of the morning to serve many other lost people like me. I carried my backpack

I'm a stone on the road,  Without appreciation and value I have been lying here.  They come to me,  take refuge over me,  Shed their tears here,  and the anger, mean.  Their names written over my head to toe, I carry their drought,  snow and storm.  When they get summer,  spring and rain,  I'm again become a stone lying on road, in vain.  I'm a snag on a path,  Useful to make graveyards  but again not needed,   for this they have their hearts.   I'm not a total waste,   Kids play around me,   sing the birds,   wildflowers smile through my cracks,   I'm a stone,   lying happily on a hill track.     

 Reading is one of my favorite hobby and the situation around the world has contributed more to this hobby. In 2020 I explored more Indian literature. It's always difficult to list favorite books but still here are few recommendations from my side that you should definitely check out if you love reading: 1. Once upon a Curfew by Srishti Chaudhary This book is based on 1970's Delhi. The story revolves around protagonist named Indu who happened to share her real or full name with erstwhile Prime Minister of India, Smt. Indira Gandhi. The book caputres problems faced by Indu to set up a library for women, the constant fight between her emotions for Rana (Indu's romantic interest) and her fiancee (whom she barely knows), declaration of National Emergency, how Rana and his friend Fawad mysteriously disappeared during emergency and Rana's sudden appearance after an year.   Will Indu and Rana be together?  To know all that you have to read this book.   2. Ghachar Ghocha