See You Soon.

"But don't answer that In a bullet-prove vest, 
With the windows all closed I'll be doing my best and I'll see you soon."

It's been a while, I've been a little aloof, and the fictions were dreamy too, yes. But perhaps University exams do that to you, or maybe it was my annual pre winters blue. But hey, I'm back now only to be gone again. Elaboration being; my end sem exams are done with and I have literally nothing to do for the next month and a half except dance in two big fat family weddings, read lots of books, go all out with jams and chill with my favourite human beings AND write some serious fiction. Which is fine, it's the one thought that I'd been binging on all this while that my exams were on. 
I was in Bombay, a week back. I'm in Calcutta now. I'll be in Delhi in four days. I'll be in Pune in about two weeks.
Needless to say, I'm going to be all over the place and as much as I promise writing like a lover all of December, I can't promise if they'll be typed beyond the pages of my big fat leather diary. Simply because the whole month of December is going to be so fly. But I'll try, for sure. Otherwise... Bonne chance with the Fiction/ Poetry OD in January!

But Calcutta has made me write some. Like always. It's the one place I've always been inspired to come up with some tale out of some crooked thought. I have a feeling this month of December is going to give me a lot to write for, it's a good feeling. It's been a while since I wrote my heart out, I miss that feeling of fulfilment when I am able to pen down exactly what's in my head and put it to paper. So here's hoping that feeling comes home soon, and here's a picture from today. 

Piyushsterr & Nilsterrr meet in another city. 

I don't feel like talking much today, so I think I'll get back to my book now. I'll try to be around, but if I'm not, see you soon. :)

-Much love,
Nil. 

If irony were a hint, I'd be in trouble.

It's been a strange night, not a quiet one in particular, not a silent night. A usual night, with every prerequisite element of normalcy. Except an epiphany; 


If irony were a hint, I'd be in trouble. 


What do you do when a realization of sort awaits you, like a person walking quietly to your door and is about to knock; what do you do when that realization is something you'd want to be hit with later, in future, in good time and when you're a few more days older?
That realization's waiting outside, it's presence has been realized by you, for you can see the hovering shadow of its dense existence outside the door of your acceptance. 
You've had thousands of people nudge you, to think, to consider; some even spelled it out for you-- but you let it go. Why? Because the subject of that realization had dismissed its rationality. It's proof. It's...being.
And you let it go, you asked a valid fact to scoot away, so life would be easy and pleasant for the two of you, without troublesome shenanigans and you'd still be at that safe harbor, with nothing to risk, and everything gained. Almost, every thing gained.


Now, what do you do.....when the very subject of that realization nudges you to rewind and realize in the past, but doesn't ask you to alter the present and yet promises a future?


What do you do, when the only answer whispered through that door is simple; What is meant to be, will be...
While somebody, is waiting, beyond that door?

-Nil. 

When anger fueled her war within.

And as slowly the acoustics of Bibi Sanam Janem started playing, she launched herself into ink and paper. Writing whatever found her vocabulary, all the stories that found her, unleashing the story teller in her... morphing non-ficiton into fiction, once again.
She was angry, she was so angry that the impressions of her writing pressed harder and harder on the back of the parchment. But they took it well, because in all her anger, in all her state of being intimidated and overwhelmed by everything around her, what she wrote thundered with power like an angry ghost, like a reining knight, like the torchbearer of a war within, like a hope that was fighting to be discovered by the blind mortals running in the rat race of emotion.
Beads of sweat slowly appeared on her creased forehead, shy in the beginning, but gathering out finally, stark naked and boldly transparent, acting alibis to the unfair turmoil that built with greater vigour every time, with every word she scratched out, with every full stop she defined. She always knew madness let her write. She always vented everything out while she wrote, and labelled it a fiction, owning up to denial, for her own good.

She wrote every story that hit her. She spoke of every person who managed to catch the attention of a subconscious mind that was floating around the world, gathering bits and pieces of the thousand stories that met the horizon of her storytelling lips every day.
Tonight, she was going to write. And no body was going to stop her.
She felt angry- so angry at the outside world for edging her away, and she yelled back at her parchment- the one faithful listener she always had.

"She expresses best when she writes" ; the world said.

And tonight, she was going to prove them right, and appal them to the violence that fought in her.
Tonight, she was going to fight a battle which was claimed to be lost, but tonight, she'd either win it, or let the bloody night take over her corpses. The corpses of a fighter.

-Nil.