Because madness lets me write

"Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason."

^That was something I read in a friend's status update on Facebook, a day back. And I swear, I haven't stopped thinking since then. It was almost like everything I thought about the way I write and my inspiration was put neatly into  14 words. There, done.


I write. I write a lot, of course you guys would know, you guys have been the most faithful readers of my rants ever. 
I'm someone who is extremely opinionated, instantaneous, out going and crazy. I like to think different, or think commons differently. I like to jot everything that hits my neurons, even if it's something as random as "A guided success" [this one came to me recently]. When an idea hits me, I have to write. Not cause I'll forget it, but cause I know I can best describe it only then, when those feelings are intense and nascent. I vent out when I write. I put my laughs, my sarcasm, my hate,disbelieves,and my believes into words. Those words reflect naked the facts or the essence of a shy truth that creaked into my thoughts somewhere,somehow. I write about fiction. Or so I'd like people to think at times.. I write when I imagine myself in someone's shoes. 
I write, all the time.
But what really hit me was the fact that madness inspires me to write. I say this because my being is nothing but madness proved [no chuckles, please] and I couldn't be happier about that fact. 
Being mad helps you grow.  Being mad helps you see the world a little better, perhaps quite differently.
Being mad helped me to resign to insanity. Insanity helped me with a lot of blots of ink on my paper, with a few paragraphs that somehow managed to be sane enough to help someone out there in the world. To help that person find his insanity again, and thus resign to happiness, which he found. 

My madness surely has a reason.

and that reason, I've learned the hard way. That reason echoes me, and myself. That reason helped me realize that madness has lead to greatness. Not in green notes, but in being remembered.

That reason helped me mold myself  into a person of preaching originality. That reason taught me that giving up yourself for the world was just not worth it, because you constitute a part of the world :)

And hence, my writings have a reason. A reason inspired my madness.

And hence, writing is the most beautiful art to me, ever. Because it's lead me to lead a life of choices that I create. Choices, which aren't in the mercy of sane people ;)

Madness is good. 

-Nil. 

The Birthday.

The Birthday.

And she was celebrated,

celebrated with the fanciest of decors,

the dessert, the frocks,the violins,

the people, the Mayor himself.

To the town men,

an invite was a luxury.

The cab men waited for rides to be hired,

just to get a glimpse of the illuminated pride- The House.

The grandeur of the entrance,

never so splendid,

boomed with the compositions of notes running high and low on the chellos

The handsome guards,

with the silent smiles of a good feast,

and all the ladies and gentlemen grooming out of their coats of diamonds and pride.

Yes, 

it was quite an impressive celebration.

The firecrackers fired high into the starless night,

as she was carried in soft satin.

Carefully tucked in, inch by inch into the mother's bossom,

yes she was costly.

She looked around to what looked like day light,

so many lights, so many silky curtains flaunting the dome above.. 

She looked around, 

at the Mother - 

who smiled, but saw silence in her eyes when the Father looked,

the nervous smile,

the pretense of gold,

was this really ... A birthday?




-Nil. 

Boom boom boom para! :)

It's 1:14am in the morning, and no I'm not sleepy at all. I was listening to Shaam- the song, from Aisha. Please listen to it, it's one of those songs that make you smile.

I was reading this other blog..where a girl was describing her birthday, and how her mum used to bake pies for her, and she used to run around the house, waiting to cut that and blow the candles..
And it took me back to my thirteenth birthday...and the birthdays before that..
Oh they used to be parties, alright! The whole house used to be brimming with kids, of all sizes :P Short, tall, skinny, healthy.
I used to be in my special birthday girl outfit which used to be either very blue, or pink, or white. :) Getting ready for my "birthday party" used to be a task! All my girlfriends and I used to be locked into my parent's bedroom, dressing up, and putting lip gloss which used to be such an accessory back then :P
hehe.. and once the party started, oh boy the dancing! My friend Asmita used to always get the hit songs, [god our obsession with "All rise" and "one love" haha!]. And we used to have the craziest of games, with the widest of grins, sweaty red faces cause of all the dancing. Oh the picture sessions mom and dad used to do... come up to our terrace party and click pictures of all of us, and we'd all learnt the "Yo" sign [which later, I realized after 2 years meant "Devil's horns :P], so we used to pose with that in maximum of the pictures.. and all my friends would want to stand next to me, just cause I was the birthday girl :)
After the long hours of dancing and games that involved mud and water [yes, I'm serious :) ], my mom would finally come and announce dinner. The whole family would join, and the feast would begin!
The food was usually lots of Bengali stuff.. my friends absolutely adored the menu.. most of them were non-bengalis, so for them, mustard fish was heaven :P
And once our dinner was over, we'd all sit around in a circle, and chat. Chat about the most important things in the world, about what the other teacher in the XYZ section said to the ABC kid. And how the last birthday party in Mc.Donalds was so much. And how all of us had "grown up" so much..... :P
And then we'd quickly shift to the topic of return gifts :D (yes, we were grown up 11 year olds..) .... After hugging all my friends goodnight, as they left, I'd look at my sister with a naughty smile, andddd.......

Gifts!!!!!!! 


Hahaha.. my sister and I would sit in my parent's bedroom, and open up all my presents, and go Oooohh and Aaaah on the goodies.. God, the excitement was crazy!
My sister is about 9 years older to me. That never mattered,though. She used to be equally excited, and we'd both decide what I'd do with which gift.
And I used to look forward to her gift the most.......and till date, her gifts are still the best ones I've ever received. :)

As I grew up, my ways of celebrations changed. Now my birthdays don't usually have a crazy party with tiny motu kids and parents running around the house. Now we usually go out to eat like crazy, and have a nice time with pizzas/coffees/whatever. It's still a lot of fun.
But this 16th birthday reminded me a lot of how my birthdays used to be originally.. and nothing can beat that :)
There was so much innocence in the way we in our 11 year old selves danced to "Bunty or bubbly" the hit then, or all of us shoulder to shoulder going right and left on "All rise". Those memories are old.. those memories are so much of baby fat!... and those memories are, and always will be the ones that would find me when I'm listening to happy songs, for these are the memories that are a series of sepia colored photographs in the album of my mind. And they're always going to nudge me whenever something turns up infront of me, that somehow, somewhere joins hands with those memories.
And oh these somethings are everything around us-- songs, chessboards, the telephone, that crumpled letter that lies in the back of your wardrobe, the scribbles in the back of your notebook, the people around you, and yourself :)

make a memory today :) 




-nil. 

I remember this girl..

I remember this little girl.. this girl with pigtails and fringes falling on her forehead. With cute little frocks, and an evergreen mischievous smile.

I remember this tomboy.. arm wrestling with the boys of the class, scaring each and every soul as the "Gundi" of our class.

I remember this rebel... fighting with all the teachers and putting fried cockroaches with me in our particular rival's English book.. almost dying in fits of laughter when our mission was accomplished, looking at that girl scream her lungs out in class. Yes,nobody messed with Us.

But alas,
I only have a memory. A memory of what she used to be. A memory of someone I used to know.
That little girl hasn't come back, for quite a while. She hasn't come back, home. 

I remember this girl smiling at me with childlike innocence and mischief glinting in her eyes.. Those eyes are now bloodshot with alcohol screaming in them, and that girl... that girl is now soiled under short dresses and high heels.


(A post, for a lost someone)

-Nil.