Nidhi Katoch blog

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,