Nidhi Katoch blog

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