The Aisle of Valyria

It can sometimes be quoted as a coincidence, when Cupid silently follows you tip-toed, as a silent spectator, scribbling down excerpts of your conversations, as you walk with the man you find innocent but worthy. You feel all this time, someone’s keeping an eye on you. Still, he keeps you engrossed. You forget to look back and search for those probing, beady eyes. You enjoy it. Even I did. I never thought, I would be standing at such a juncture of life. When I desperately want to retrace back my steps on this cursed path, and resume the same journey on ‘The Road Not Taken’. Frost’s poem was simply an extra chapter in the literature book. It was never meant to be felt. He and I, both feared the outcome of this commitment. Probably, I loved him more. I couldn’t simply sit and watch him, being frisked away by some other girl, in front of my own eyes. I could sense the mirth that poured from his heart. Yet, I couldn’t fathom the depth of the abyss I was already falling into. The ...

Dear stranger, By the time you read this, I will be long gone. Gone, not with the wind, but with the fear of oblivion. I am not shedding tears as I use a pen for the last time. I am shedding blood. Blood that flows free, from the wound that my heart has borne all this while. I am a living corpse of shame. Shame that shrouds like skin, refusing to wear off. The mountains of Leh can’t dilute my sorrow. It was February the 8 th , a year before. The hues of sunset filtering through the glass panes that line the walls adjoining the staircases, failed to enchant me as I walked down. I was dazed and disoriented, for the schedule at my new college had started weighing down on me. Books in my hand, and music filled my ears. I saw a boy of my age, with spectacles like Potter’s, nose-deep in a book sitting on the bench. His face was obscured by the cover of the book, probably a Sheldon. Through the glasses, and over the book edge, he returned my gaze, as our eyes met for the first time....

It was a cold noon, with the sun’s rays not shining through the leaves and cascading onto the staircase that flanked my room. My phone screen on the side desk blared up. ‘On a vacation trying to escape the harsh realities of life?’ was what she had asked. Not my girlfriend. But my girl. The girl who had been, through the ebbs and tides of time. The soft duvet swooned me, trying to lull me back into sleep. Getting up, I walk in a half-asleep trance onto the door, adjacent to the balcony. As I unlatched the door, a reinvigorating gust hit me hard on my face. I didn’t feel the gust, I simply melted into it, just like butter on barbeque. What met my eyes, was an absolute panorama of beauty, encased in serenity. Rain had lashed down some moments back, infusing that green look to whatever seemed lifeless and barren, until now. I was holidaying in Manali, the Switzerland of India. Rightly so, for the scene in front of me was breathtaking. An inn of two storeys, was my refuge. Standing in ...

A mist, cave-dark, obscures the dream. Caged behind bars, put up by conscience. Reminiscing the trapped demon, sends a ghastly chill. Burning down the spine, It’s memory mars, But treasure it forever, I will. Ornate rays emanating, Beautify the horizon. Lullabies of tiny beaks, Squeaks of newborn puppies, And the laugh of a little child, mirrored by his father. The environs, pulchritudinous, With picturesque grandeur teems. Trod through the lush countryside, the dyad together. In the blink of an eye, Rusty sky raises its hood. Fusillade of bullets tear, Pervading hearts and heads alike, As the reflection in the brook waters, turns blood red. Steps, running with worry, Failing to echo in mayhem, As ghosts abandon, yet lonesome silhouettes hide in rustic shade. Fires of hell searing, Bird and birch alike, mutilated. Echoes on a face, so young, Sad eyes, tear-brimming. As raindrops of ash, slither down cracks in glass panes. Ruin...

Moments of silence, shroud long conversations. Love, a word so alien, Spills from the inked quill, Onto the torn parchment. Moments of regret, Chisel into the heart caverns. Mind, an alcove so disturbed, Rummages through memory lanes, In search of solace. Moments of solitude, Murder the unkempt conscience. Belief, a silhouette mirrored, Shatters into shards umpteen, Hit by a vehement bullet. Moments of happiness, Lose their worth, In the blink of an eye, Brimming with red tears. Heart, sorry and forlorn, Wanders along the parched rivulet, In the guise of a dilettante, In the desert of lost love. Waiting to die, Killed by and by.

A vivid picture of his dark past, breathes into life. Loitering in the grey foliage of the dim street lamp, He, often takes a scuba dive into the chasm of thoughts. Always to be in the menu platter of a lucky handful, Is love so costly to afford for a commoner, inclusive of if’s and but’s? The thorns which drape the rose stem materialize as pricks of poison, Fail to numb the half-choked windpipe, freezing the air within. Guilt and Grief, cross swords to murder the conscience. The remnants shred as tears, which refuse to be coaxed out, dyed with sin. She, remains oblivious in her own world, without a pinch of regret, Stabbing with arrows of ignorance at will. Hers is a distant memory today, he comprehends. Annihilated and torn apart, the fabric of her memories, no longer kill. Life takes a drastic turn, as smog lifts revealing the moon. His eyes, transverse through the long path of eighteen years, Contemplating the turn of events, a smile settles do...