Nidhi Katoch blog

वहाँ कौन है तेरा मुसाफिर जाएगा कहाँ  ( Loose translation : Who is out there for you oh traveler! where will you go?) is being played in the neighborhood. Sunrays fall over my face. The refined heat passes through the window pane. I can see the shadow vapors rising through my hair drenched in dew. Soaking my hands and feet in my share of sunlight. I wish my thoughts could transpire like this dew on this window sill or could merge with other drops to become a coherent thought. A lot happens but nothing happens. When nothing happens a lot happens inside your mind. दम ले ले घड़ी भर ये छइयाँ पाएगा कहाँ ( better take a breath here where will you find this cool shade again) I want to convey this to my thoughts and ask them to take some rest. Lucky are those who can ask their brain to not think anything at a moment. I don't know if this thing even exists. If exists, it must be in the transcendent state. Even if I might be able to put my thoughts on hold, where is my cool shade? I

The body dissolved in the air, skies cried, A little kitten came here looking for her, But she doesn't  live here anymore. Blurry view, Misty vision. They say she is free now like the flow of the river  They forget even the  the flow of the river can be directed  to another direction  with the force for some time. It's impossible to stop those  who reach the clouds  through the medium of fire. Now only fireflies hover over  night blooming jasmine.

 Hey readers, It's been a while since I posted something here. I have a lot to tell but I can't find the courage and words to express myself. Life has been very cruel for the past few years to me. It still is. But as they say, Show must Go on. I'm moving. Moving or trying to adjust to the blow of winds and the flow of streams in the realm of life. Because of these circumstances neither I read something nor wrote something. Today while sitting under the sun I scribbled a few words on my notepad which I'm sharing today. Hope you'll enjoy this. I'm not sure if I really want anybody to enjoy this piece. But here we are... I try to find your image by looking into the mirror  I'm not your copy neither like you Why? What's wrong if I want to see a glimpse of you  in my face? I try to find you in the mist I'm jealous of mist's capability to hug each and everything  Mist can reach to you It can become a cloud and might be dissolved in you to become rain.

Who is with Aman? Whenever something bad happens Aman reminds himself that he can rise like a Phoenix. But for how long could he hold his tears? That child in him did not cry when he was left alone to deal with the world. That child in him didn't cry when suddenly all his choices depleted and he had to make peace with whatever was left in his little pockets. Aman has seen turning rainbows into ashes. But he never cried. Never. Aman was that abandoned child whose foster parents had once promised to always keep their blessings on him but now they've turned their faces. All his life Aman thought that he has their back.  But, in reality, he was just a way to pacify the ego of his foster parents. Aman's achievements were not making them proud but only satisfying them that their money is not wasted as they did waste on their children and their greedy relatives. After all other's kids could never become their own. Aman thought that one of them surely loves him. Thought or told

'I went on a date with my diary.' This is a cliche I use whenever I go out alone. I was sipping my latte, some old Hollywood melody was playing in the background. Whenever I have not heard of any English song I simply call it Hollywood. It doesn't matter to me.  I took out my diary and pen and tried to scribble a bit. Scribbling when turned into doodling, doodling when turned into pricking pages, pricking when turned into tearing down the page I didn't even realise. When you have suffered from lifelong feelings of you are not allowed to be loved it often becomes hard to love people around you. First, we ignore this feeling like we don't care. It doesn't matter but somewhere, deep down in our hearts, this feeling starts to prick up. Pricking becomes digging and leaves a hole which becomes almost impossible to fill up.  Whenever I sit alone or lie on my bed every night, I ask myself what have I done wrong. I asked myself this question again. How badly I want to no

नदी के बहाव सी,  ठण्डी बयार सी बहती, अंतर्मन में मरूस्थल से उठते तूफान को  को अनसुना करती, बरसात में इकट्ठे पानी पर कागज़ की कश्ती सी झूमती, सांझ को सूखे पेड़ की टहनी पर बैठे सूर्यास्त होने की प्रतीक्षा करते पक्षी की भांति, अपनों के चेहरे पर खोई हुई मुस्कुराहट ढूंढती मैं... English translation As there flows a river, As there blows a cool breeze, Like the desert's storm there's turmoil in my heart, I'm ignoring everything And flowing like the paper boat  in rainwater  Like a bird waiting for sunset while sitting on old tree I'm looking for smile of my loved one which has been lost somewhere.  

Aman has gotten a friend. A friend stays with him all time. There is a saying that a true friend is the one who not only sympathises with you in all the pain but also stays in the moments of happiness. And his friend does that all the time. Friend calls Aman when he wakes up every morning. Aman's nights are sleepless and he often spends his nights talking to his friend.  When a person stays with you all the time, he starts to look like you, he takes up your all habits and so do you. But this friend looks exactly like Aman. At first, when Aman saw him he became frightened. But the lack of friends and attachments made Aman befriend him. One thing Aman can not comprehend is how his friend reaches him every time, out of nowhere.  A strange thing happened today. When Aman met Sarah, his friend didn't reach there. How is it possible? Friend is always keen to know what is happening in his life but today when he was talking to Sarah there was no sign of Friend anywhere.  Sarah felt lik

The mist spread and covered the view, Touching the tips of trees and embracing them. The whole town, down the hill, seems to be drowned in mist. Mist comes more forward, passes throw my skin and moves ahead of me to the far place. Today is Wednesday, not many people come here on weekdays. When I reached here and sat on the bench there was only one older man who was sitting here, who might be contemplating his life.  I've taken out my phone, to write something. Thanks to modern technology. You can't carry a notepad or a diary with you in public spaces or with family and friends, everyone starts to get interested in your diary. But when there is a phone in your hand they'll simply assume you are chatting with someone. Cool! Isn't it? You can also pretend you have a lot of friends to chat with ( just a stupid way to see things). I know I'm not a very interesting person to chat with.  I've hardly typed a few sentences because a weird thought is bothering me that I m

'I'm here! in the balcony.', I answered back to my mother. She asked me if I'd slept last night and I answered her again with yes. It seemed more like yelling than answering. The whole street would have heard us. It was a cold Sunday morning. The sun had just risen and was spreading its calm hue on the dull street. I'd always liked to welcome the morning sun with a cup of Chai. It had always cheered me up. But now, everything has changed. Or I've changed? Who knows? How will anybody know? I'm the one who built so high walls around myself, that nobody would ever be able to cross them.  I tried to bore my head in the book but in vain. I looked down below the street, a granny was taking her twin grandchildren for a walk. The kids were in the cradle. Unaware of the world, in their realm. A pair of sparrows were flocking around. A teenager was going to the temple, as it was his board year. I saw my mother feeding the neighbour's dog who is now her morning wal

 Dear reader, I'm taking a break from reading and writing. But I've already saved drafts of future posts here. So, the blog will get updated here from time to time. I have no idea what lies ahead, how and when will I get peace. I'm not going to bore you with my stupid rant here. Here's a poem I penned a few days ago while traveling back home. Blue skies are  no longer blue, The waters are rough, cold and of grey hue. Clouds shadowed my soul Destiny is playing foul Worms have covered my body Fairy has turned into a ghoul. I can't stop asking  for forgiveness Even when I'm already being forgiven. I don't know to whom should I turn my faith My cries, my prayers  everything seems to fade. Shall I ever get to touch  my share of rainbow and sun This non-stop rush still, noises are shunned.

Contemplating on the fact that what he has become? The traffic lights blind him, he can not hear the honking of horns. Every night when he tries to sleep, he feels that darkness has engulfed him. A child prodigy once, now non-existential. Aman tries to forget what had happened to him in past and focus on the work which is supposed to give him happiness. But where's that happiness? Last month Aman went on two trips. One with his friends and another solo. Because he had heard that travelling can give you happiness. Each time he came back empty-handed. The first time he lost his money to friends another to pickpockets. Neither his pocket filled with happiness nor money. Aman thinks that the pursuit of happiness ended long ago. Aman is not sure what is he chasing. The only thing he knows is he's running and running behind something. Aman is so invested in his job, but is it worth it? He often wonders if this is the conclusion if this is his destiny. He knows that neither he was a g

 Hey Readers, I'm sitting here in the cafe, sipping my coffee. A lot had happened in the past week. It was taking a toll on my peace of mind.  If you're sad, no matter how much you try to avoid that feeling, your body starts to give you signals like headache, body ache, fast heartbeat or whatever it is. It's different for different people. I think I shouldn't carry this load on my chest anymore and move on, so here I'm leaving you with the poem I penned a night before. I'm posting the first draft, don't want to make any changes to it today.  Hope you'll like it. With Love. How can the stars burn down to ashes there were twinkling laughs once, now just memory flashes Those so-called mentors turn you down Faith in the universe too drown Hands that are always over my head why God why it feels like they are about to shed like those leaves from this  old broken tree who is bounded by the roots never going to be free There's no forgiveness in my heart and

Sometimes we just want to sit and cry. I know I'm being a pessimist here but isn't it true? And we want our problems or sadness to go away with the tears cascading from our eyes. Sometimes I too like to cry. We all do. Whether men or women. But not everyone wants to accept in public. There could be any reason. I'm not gonna bother my readers but I've penned down the following poem while sitting by the condensed window. I'm still carrying the curse on my weighed down shoulders, All the wounds I've nursed again become open cuts and colder. Trapped inside the circle of time Morning-Noon-Night Never-ending is this climb, Don't know what is hurting more pain in my heart or shoe bite? Surrounded by the beauty which I can't see They say they want to be like me while I've never been me. Darkness arises  flows like a river in my veins They talk about advise As if they're the only ones with shattered dreams. Have I left people or have people left me? Am I

"Yes! It does cause pain when they insert the syringe into the arm. But now it doesn't matter anymore. I'm just used to it. ", I heard a girl talking to a bunch of ladies. She is younger than me, might be a teenager! She is telling it so casually that people like me can never comprehend the pain she must have gone through, that she doesn't feel it anymore.  "And why are you crying so badly, little stranger? Are you afraid? Have you already sensed the pain you're about to go through? How can fate be so cruel to you? How can it be so cruel to anybody? I wish I could take your pain away. But how can I? Your parents are almost my age. Why on earth they're destined to suffer when they decided to start a family." This so-called healing place! I have to admit that healing places witness more suffering than anywhere else in the world. "Ah! I admire that you want me to have a seat, Dear Sir. But, I can't have it. In a place where people are suppo

After a long day of labour, Uma stood with her group while waiting for bus. The smell of sweat could be felt from their group if someone passed by them. Carrying baby on her one side and empty food box on another, her feet were not supporting her properly. Wasn't body ache enough that her baby started to cry? She had built up tolerance to it after few initial setbacks. She used to lose her momentum earlier, but now she couldn't care less. Babies cry, it's their job! She was told. She put up a careless face now,  but what was going on in her head, nobody knew. What had this baby brought in her life? Pain! Another mouth to feed! She had to go to work within a week. Still she carried her baby everywhere. She wanted to lie down for a bit. She eventually did. She saw a beautiful house, full of colors, clothes like those Seths in their Kothis (rich people). She was smiling and was content. Her soul flied away, breaking the gates of material houses. There lay her body, with gleam

Hey all,  It's raining here for third or fourth day or centuries. This made me sit down and write blog, while sipping my masala chai (as friends from West say Chai Latte). It works wonders if you've cold. I had talked about my writing slump in one of the previous posts. There are numerous incomplete draft. Today I've tried to come out of this.  Here's a raw piece of poetry, which I'd scribbled in the early hours of morning. I hope you'll like it. The humidity in the air shirts cling to bodies,  moving for their dears from dark potholes to bright lobbies. How the color of skin changes with path, place, time When shadows come out of the wall, leap over to hymn,  to the temple of lost dreams. Clouds are gathering moving in circular motion,  rain will fall over the ashes,  will lead to the corrosion.  But how much one can damage the already damaged iron. None of the ointment are going to work Neither can carry the disappointment nor can pull off the smirk. 

While going through the shelves of bookstore, I stopped at Hindi section. You were sitting there on stool waiting for me to pick up some books for you. How much you trust my choice! I decided to pick few books by Amrita Pritam. This was when you asked me to not buy her books, not of any Indian woman author.  'Why?', I asked casually. But I could sense your unease at the prospect of someone bringing your own experience in front of your eyes. When someone writes about pain, loneliness, atrocities, molestation, oppression, exploitation and so on, at a certain point we all start to see those writings as our own experience, our own life. I've seen them through my eyes. My thoughts, my behavior are products of those experiences. When I came through you I knew I'm destined to these experiences. Little girl in me was gone long ago. Unnecessarily before. Do you really think I'm not aware of your uneasiness? I'm. I always was. Ps. Reader might want to know whether we boug

  "The mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and brings out surprises of beauty.", I found myself muttering these words of Rabindranath Tagore while we were sipping our tea. It was nearly 6 in the evening when we reached Gadegal Homestay . I listened to the conversation between our host and my friend. Conversation in Hindi with the pinch of pahadi dialect. Melodious in its own way. The mist was hovering over the cedars in front of our balcony. One or two vehicles were passing occasionally through the empty road below. We fixed our gaze toward the view and tried to relax after the long day in Shimla . The cool breeze of Narkanda kissed our skins. One could easily sense the hint of snow in them.  Sometimes I can't understand the kind of paradox I'm. I always brag about not being a nature person. How much I love the monuments of concrete. And again I found myself there, in the mountains, so close to the nature. In between the play of mist and clouds, night

I'm sitting in this corner of the room, unaware of my own self. The curtains on the window are staring at me. Every piece of this room is giving me questionable glances, without moving from their place. When I look at the vase, it asks me about the flowers I'd promised to bring. Bookshelf asks me to go through some pages and that fountain pen on the table pleads with me to refill it, to colour the whole stack of paper blue. I don't want to look at anything present here. Each and everything is asking me to move for them as if I'm the odd one here, a human who isn't supposed to choose their corner. How much I wish to become a thing, non-living, a commodity which people wouldn't notice when they enter here. I wish I could mix my skin with these walls, my eyes on the glass of the window. Stoic-Detached-Devoid. I try to gather all those drafts lying around me, but my heart wants me to tear all these into pieces. I can't bear the sight of this stack I've been

It was a summer night of June. I was walking on the terrace. A shower of rain had made the night humid as well. My whole body was smeared with petrichor. I wished for once everything would stop. These constantly moving vehicles on the lane below and those irritating sounds of fifteen second videos which were coming from the terrace of another building attached to ours. Sometimes I start to hate these videos serving us the entertainment we don't even ask for, we don't really want (and definitely I don't really need). Like every other person, I'm also guilty of recording and binge watching these videos. It's hard to ignore them as much as it's hard to stop inhaling the pollutants of the environment. The only way I could think of peace was to turn on my headphones. But music wasn't able to put me at ease. I failed to find something interesting to read on my phone. Then I decided to let the thoughts come to me and go. Whenever I can't control the situations

A little sparrow came to my window today. It's been a while since I've seen a bird so closely or maybe it's me who has stopped noticing these little delights around me. These house sparrows are so rare to find in cities, after watching this bird I started to miss home. However, even there now their number has reduced. How easy it has become for me to ignore things around me! Now I mostly forget to observe strangers. I don't like to talk. I'm just running wild (obviously in my mind). And this running is leading me nowhere.  This little sparrow felt like a message to look around, to hear the music around me, to feel the morning sun and enjoy the summer blooms. When I opened the window, it flew away. Happy and free in the vast sky of endless possibilities.  

I saw the white Bougainvillea vine on the rear gate of someone's  house and ran toward it to click a photograph. This is what we, the slaves of technology do. We first click the picture and then praise the beauty around us. Yeah! I'm ranting like those people who constantly nag about the cons of technology and can't live without it for a moment. After all, it's this internet access which has allowed me to share my thoughts with people all around the world. Then I started  to ask my friend to try different angles to get a perfect picture of me with that vine. Yet the best picture was the one with my back on camera, which I'll share under the hashtag of summer aesthetic. Flowers have always been the part of our lives. From literature to temples, from greetings to the gift to loved ones, from our birth to doom, flowers walk with us. These little petals of colors fill our lives with colors. We compare the smile of our love with the blooming flower and our sorrow with un

All three of us were having coffee in the cafe and were laughing at something. But my eyes were only following you. I looked at your face, 'How happy you are today!' I thought to myself, as if trying to convey my message through my mind.  I knew that the day after tomorrow you'd be home and I would remain here. Stagnant! Oh! How much I wanted to follow you like I used to do when I was a child. I had never felt so jealous of kids, the way I felt today. Kids can cry anywhere, at any moment, while we adults are supposed to behave. I wanted to hold you but I didn't. I knew you would get to know my feelings even with my single touch. This could make you sad, more than me. I didn't want to take that risk. After all, You're Mother! Far more experienced and smart than me.  I turned my gaze to my twin. I wondered if she was thinking the same! Our eyes met and she nodded with a small smile. I nodded back and became a part of the conversation again.

The carpet of pale leaves is lying on the ground. I'm listening to the rumble of leaves. These old-pale leaves are leaving their place to be filled by new ones. Don't these old leaves feel bad that soon they will be crushed by someone? Don't they realize they are nothing more than trash on these busy roads? Who can understand the cycle of life more than them? Aren't we like these leaves? Doesn't our life resemble the life of these leaves? Useless, detached, thrown when our season ends. Don't know why I'm feeling sad for these leaves. Pessimism doesn't leave us so easily. But I also believe Optimism and pessimism go hand in hand. I should see the positive side, because with the fall of those old leaves I can see more green ones, more space for new unborn leaves. More flowers on trees. After all, March is the month of warmth and flowers. Month of endings and preparation of new beginnings. Maybe I should also shed my grudges, my anger, my overthinking and w

As usual, I'm again sitting idle. This is the most common start of accounts, encounters (or whatever you want to call) which I often share here. Sometimes I feel that you (yes! You, my reader) are definitely bored of this beginning. But still you come here again and again to see what story this idler has to tell.  Oh! yes, story.  I'm an early riser and love to see the sunrise. I was standing on the balcony that morning. The sun was about to rise. Few people were coming out of their houses for morning walk . I was slightly irritated by the constant cooing of pigeons. One stray kitten was busy jumping from wall to wall while another was sitting by my side. In this city, people hire men to wash their cars daily, unlike in my own place, where people usually forget when was the last time their vehicle took a bath. A deliveryman was waiting to deliver a courier outside a house. A guy came out with a toothbrush in his mouth, the deliveryman handed him a bouquet of roses and left.I wi

I was browsing the bookstore when I felt a pang of loneliness. I knew this feeling would leave me soon. After all, I didn't visit the bookstore alone. The noise of people started to irritate me like the buzz of a housefly in my ear. I shut my ear with my hands to block that buzz from coming toward me. Everything stopped but my heartbeat.  Who on earth has ever been successful in deceiving his own heart? I shut my eyes. But still I could see that my heart was increasing in size constantly. It was becoming bigger and bigger and started to pop out of my body. There came a point when it burst into a thousand pieces. Those pieces fell in every direction, some pieces decided to hang in the air. A few people came forward to collect those pieces as if those were some precious metal. Some tried to place them in their voids. Some tried to swallow those.  I was standing there, alive, wondering why they were so greedy? Greedy or needy? I could see a part of me in them.  I felt like every littl

I bought myself coffee and settled on a nearby bench. A lady and a young man were sitting in front of me. They seemed mother and son by their gestures. It was the fifteenth consecutive day that the sun hadn't spread its rays. This is the problem with the plains. When I'm at home, on the hills, I get to witness the sun, even if it is for a few minutes. But in the plains, it seems impossible to get blessings from the Sun God during winter. Some readers might be aware that I'm not a big fan of cloudy days. These grey skies color my heart blue and blue skies make me cheerful. I wanted to push clouds aside and take some warmth from the sun. Obviously, I couldn't do it, so I indulged myself in a favorite habit of mine, observing (one might say snooping in strangers' lives). The scene around me was simple, some were heading to their destination, some were hanging around. A person who makes paid sketches of people was sketching a kid sitting in front of him. It was evident

It's been almost two years when I last talked to my Little Black Bird. He was quite a part of my walks. I really don't know either he has left me or I've changed. Everything has changed except my life which seems quite in motion like river's water but actually stagnant like the rocks lying below the water. Today I'm missing that little black bird a lot. My Black Bird...  Dear black bird!  Why did you left me?  You were the only one who was like me.  I think your struggle has been ended Or you've left the world !  But you neither came for good bye.  We never know which bid is final bye. I wish there would be an scientific invention,  which could tell us  about future,  hidden feelings could be mentioned.  Dear black bird!  Will you ever return  and perch on this tree,  where you tried to solve scruples and made yourself free.  You promised to come back again and again,  with same old questions under different name.  You've forgotten your friend,  It's alr

I was sitting by the lake watching the birds come and go.  At some distance from me a man was looking at the lake lost in his thoughts. I tried to figure out the emotions behind his cold stare. But obviously I can't stare him for long without looking like a creep. So I decided to return to my thoughts. Wind and water were playing with each other. They were making calm music and it seemed birds were taking part in symphony. I wanted to get lost in their world. I imagined myself as light as feather only to fly freely and calmly settle down on earth. From where a child would pick me up, place me in his palm and again blew me in the air.  Never to come back but to float with wind, to play with water and to settle again in someone's palm or in the lap of earth. I looked again at the direction of that man. This time he turned his head to look at me. He waved his hand and I waved back with a smile. And we kept on sitting there, lost in our own thoughts... 

We all are fighting with different kind of fears. Whether it's fear of judgement or fear of facing our own faults, I don't know. It might be fear of losing, losing someone, losing battles, losing our own self. Similar feelings, different matters...  I'll not blabber more here, I've no words today. Lot of things are happening in personal life. I'm leaving you with this poem, which I'd written few hours ago while sitting on my writing desk. When the phone rings in the early hours of morn,  everyone in home gets a feeling of a familiar fear,  We're scared! A questioned stare  we give each other There's a silence we share. One of us volunteers to pick up the phone,  Somewhere aware,  Prepare ourselves to mourn. We should skip this call,  Let's not call back Try to avoid whatever on stake.  There's ring again but we're already prepared to face, even though we're scared. 

' I don't think it'll rain today, 'You said to me. 'Look how the sun is shining.' I didn't make any reply. We kept on walking in that silent corridor. Occasionally one or two people passed by us. For a while I took off the mask to breathe freely and soak my face in fresh air and sunshine. 'There's the scent of old almonds here.', I said to you. But according to you it had a wet earthy scent. Every place carries a different scent. We often associate memories with fragrances. That fragrance was reminding me of an old house made of mud which had been closed for a long time and I had written my name on its wall with coal. The next day was a great spectacle like in every Indian village. Because the owner of the house who had shifted to his new pucca house, had complained at home itself. I got scolded and scolded more for showing my teeth. 'Just because you're now capable of writing your name, it doesn't mean you should show it off everywhe

 "परछाईयाँ रह जाती रह जाती निशानी है ज़िंदगी और कुछ भी नहीं तेरी मेरी कहानी है" (Loose translation: There remains only shadows and memories Life is nothing But story of you and mine. ) These lyrics of an old Hindi song somehow stuck in my head and I was singing them repeatedly. I looked out of the bus window, there was mist rising from the hills above. I stare at the mobile screen of my co-passenger who was sitting a seat ahead of mine. He was busy recording the scenery in his phone. 'Do these gadgets really serve complete justice to the nature's beauty?', I thought to myself. "Life is nothing But a recording of our days and nights our struggles and fights our tears and smiles. " I started to add few more verses and laugh out loud. Few eyes moved toward my direction to make me embarrass enough to shut my mouth. Who the hell am I to alter this beautiful song with my ugly verses! Sometimes I think technology has brought us all under same roof, we all have

 'There's a musty smell here', said my sister. I nodded in agreement. The paint was crumpled from place to place. The damp walls of that old building were the proof that sunlight hardly enters there except through a window on corridor that too only in evening. The whole place was surrounded by pines and monkeys. Since, the hall was filled with people I decided to stand by the window. I walked through the hall pretending I'm on call. I've always been fascinated by windows. No matter whatever the view is! Sunrays were kind enough to fall over my head. I peek outside the window, all I could see was trees, trees and trees. I started to hum and few lines of Sara Teasdale's poem came to my mind- "But why do the pines on mountain's crest Call to me always, "Rest, rest"? " I've a deep relationship with pines. They remind me of my transition from a teenager to an adult. How I fell in love, how I lose friends, how I experienced my first, no sec