Nidhi Katoch blog

 Last night, when I sat by the window, talking to you, through the moon, I knew someone was listening to me. I pretended not to notice, because someone won't understand a word of it. Who had ever understood what the romantics said? I touched the windowsill; the wood reminded me of your last days. Weak but warm. I accidentally got a splinter in my finger. It started to remind me of the blood you vomited on my hand, and I kept the brave face; you kept the smile, following the silent agreement that we won't talk about it, and we didn't till your final days.  I so much envy this full moon; it took all the light from my sun, leaving me in the dark. It shines so bright. Oh, my love, if I could ever hold your hand once more, I would sing the song again, the song of your childhood. I met your friend last month, and he talked about all the happy things that happened between you both, how there was a jungle behind the valley, and your cows were friends, grazing all over the jungle. H...

 The day you left, I travelled alone at night for the first time in my life. I saw the moon floating from the car window. The mist in my eyes, half a can of soft drink, and the cigarette reached to my lips. My hands were shaking while I tried to light the cigarette. My head started to feel relaxed, my shoulders loosened, and my body felt lighter. Along with the rising smoke, I closed my eyes.  I'm standing outside the old, trodden house, which was once home but is now just a building. The only person who seems to be happy to see me is the caretaker. Funny! Those who were supposed to be satisfied have closed the doors of their hearts a long time ago. Happiness is temporary, so subjective; we can't really be happy for others, we always listen and believe whatever suits our thinking. Our idea of truth is only ours. My truth can never be your truth. Is there any space where this word happiness truly exists? For societal validation, is this idea of so-called sacrifice essential? Es...

I stared at the half-finished coffee; the mug had my lipstick stains on it. At first, I had the urge to remove them with tissue, but I didn't know what made me stop.  I sat on the verandah to watch the rain fall. A little kitten came and curled up on my lap. Earlier, when you were here, I was just another person for it. But now it also tries to find you in the sound of rain, in the droplets, in the petrichor. We both listened to the rain falling on the slate roof and slid down with heavy downpours. We had never bonded before, but now this kitten never leaves me alone whenever I'm at this place. How peacefully it was sleeping on my lap!  I had no idea how I would be able to leave it alone here. But this kitten is made for the wild. Whenever it misses you, it sits by your door and leaves. You can't cage a wild bird like I couldn't cage you forever. Even the mental pictures are blurred. You know it had been a long time since I had sung a song. I started to hum with the rai...

I was roaming on the rooftop at night blowing rings of smoke. Oh, these late hours when I can't make up my mind if should I sleep or wait for morning to see the sun. I checked the call logs. Not a single call was there. There's not going to be any.  I scrolled the internet only to throw away my phone. I swore loudly. What a relief! The full moon scattered its light all over the place. I could see those rings rising clearly in that light. I kind of felt bad for smoking again. I stubbed my cigarette under the shoe. I tried to enjoy nature like I used to before. But inspiration wasn't there. I've been travelling a lot for the past few years. And those shards again renew my wound the moment I return to my place again. Why doesn't the sky ever become black here? I cursed the place again. But who was I to blame? I'd chosen to come here. Now I'd to collect the mess I'd made of myself. Isn't it the fun of making your decision, that you own your mistakes with...

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...

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...

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 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.

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  

  '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...

After being fed on silver spoon you talk about state of mind,  But do you ever realise the person out there can't even afford that?  The heaps of gold you waste  on your trash, and tag it as diamond,  I want to ask you when will you remove this humbug from your soul?  You say you own the light,   Oh thief you're the one who stole it  from the moth who flies around it during night.   You vaunt about your privileged fights,   but you're merely robbers  who rob the  fragile flower's   pride and rights.   

Myriad memories of the  dark past come at once,  I tried hard to obliterate, everytime it hurts.  Under the ashen skies I seek refuge,  Only the downpour is my friend to hide this remorse huge.  Someone far away in hills saying the eulogy,  Today is the funeral of an innocent dream, I'm the sinner of this cruelty. 

People buy sadness from diamond and gold,  A person who sells happiness has no hold; The sellers of sorrow get  all the name and the fame,  by simply selling the pain of the person who is of same profession as theirs; The only difference is  he sells smiles,  And when the time flies, We realise his value,  But, now there's nothing you can do,  Nothing I can do,  Nothing We Can Do! 

I keep looking outside whether it's day or night,  feel the stagnation and a constant freight,  of losing the invisible race,  which my heart is running without any probable fate.  Now it is out of breath and  wants to sit and relax  and to melt down,   the Time has been elapsed.   

On the day of my fiasco  I cried with pain, Damp face and red eyes Hidden in the winter's rain. Walking through the road without any clue, sunless sky full of gloom. No one could hear the  wailing of my grieved heart,   On tranquil mountains the stroke of lightening storm had left it's deep mark. Even after such a long time  this thorn still pricks my soul, Not only I lamented  but my world as whole. The vestiges are still there speak in a deep cry, to remind me I haven't done anything, My sun is yet to rise.