Friday, November 27, 2015

Apple Of My Eye

She sees the plane flying overhead 
Laughs and calls it a giant butterfly 
She is bright, my little one 
Has her heart in the right place 

Blowing pixie dust my way 
Her giggles are the sweetest sound
Music to my ears, apple of my eye
Grasping dreams tightly in her palms

Ground her in reality
She is bound to end up in trouble 
Just like her mother 
I pay no heed to those careless words

They are born out of spite 
Each time I let the string tying her
Fly a little higher 
Carrying her laughter out loud in the wind 

She wants to be a dragon slayer,
A warrior when she grows up 
I blow kisses her way
There's no stopping her

And today we chase the end of the rainbow together...

Thursday, November 12, 2015

It's Birthday Time!

No, today is not my birthday in case you were wondering. Neither is it my blog's birthday. But yes, Bewitched by Words is turning four in a few days time. On 20th November, to be precise. But since I won't be able to post here then, I thought of wishing my blog a tad early. Happy birthday, my dearest blog! You are turning four soon and I'm as proud as a Mom showing you off to the world :) 

We have come a long way together; the highs and lows, the little things and the big stuff. You have been there with me to share my happiness and also when I was going through major shit in life. So, thanks, for just being there for me. Thank you, my readers. For having faith in me when I didn't myself. For nurturing the writer in me. To the friends I have made on this journey and to the few who have left because what I write here was just not to your liking. To each and everyone of you, thank you! I shall continue to write in all that I believe in, no matter what. 

I have been falling out on the writing front lately. No matter how hard I try, I feel all that I write have been going down the drain. I have some personal stuff going on in life too and I don't want all my negativity being festered here. Yes, I'm doing okay but let's just say I have seen better days. So, I'm thinking of taking a break. Sure, I will continue to write here, this space will never cease to exist, it's way too precious to me for that. I intend on completing 'The Memory Box', a series that I started writing a while back. The first part has been posted and I shall write the rest sometime soon. I don't want it to be half baked and rushed, so I shall complete it giving it my best in my time.

I shall continue to write, just not sure if I shall be publishing it here. Like I said, don't want my blog turning too dark. So, wish me luck and hopefully I shall be back soon with a fresher mind and a lot more of better stories and poems that are bubbling inside me. And once again, Happy birthday, Bewitched by Words! Thank you for making me who I'm today :) 

Saturday, November 7, 2015


When you hold me against my will 
Each time you turn my no into yes
The black and blue eye that you give me 
One that I hide carefully behind makeup
Tied to you eternally by invisible chains
That you lock me with and throw away the key
Deafening silence greets me day and night, stifling my thoughts 

Sophistication I don, a charming smile on my face 
Glossy lips, lustrous hair, a svelte figure
They look at me in envy; she has it all
They don't see the pain behind my smile
The scars on my soul, the bruises on my body
My silence is my armor, the words I form are mute on my lips 
I want to scream my lungs out, but you know that I won't 
For I will always belong to you
Just like another one of your possessions 
Sometimes I curse myself, for it's my desperation too...

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

The Memory Box

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Outside, it is raining. The dense fog mists the locked windows. Like from a faraway world, the rumble of a thunder is heard. The house is covered in pitch black darkness as the electricity goes off. She makes her way to the kitchen and finds a candle by the window sill. Power cuts during the monsoon was common, yet she hovers around the kitchen shelves uncertainly searching for a box of matches. Finding it finally, she lights the candle. In the lick of the golden flame, an unknown feeling grips her heart. A feeling that's as new as the flame she lit and that's as old as the rain pouring outside. She wishes to turn back time and go back to where things were not so complicated; days that would merge into beautiful nights with ease. Nights that were free of guilt and filled with longing. 

With the candle in hand, she makes her way to the attic, climbing the stairs carefully, not losing her grip. The attic lies bathed in a thin film of dust, years of disuse lying around unmasked. There are a child's toys, once loved and now discarded like many other things here. The rocking horse grins maniacally in a corner, the wooden cradle next to it. But her eyes goes to the small cardboard carton that has been sealed and left there for some years now. She had made up her mind long back not to open it, but neither did she have the heart to throw it away. 

Placing the candle on the dusty floor, she sits down next to the box, the memory box, as she likes to call it and unseals the tape after a moment's hesitation. She takes a deep breath as the memories tumble out, one by one, and then flooding her all at once. Smothering, threatening to drown her in its depths. It rises, holding her in its clutches. 

The letters, tied together with a piece of string, the few books that had grown yellow with age. She picks one up. The Mill on the Floss. A book that was a part of her syllabus then. All these years and one would have thought that the memories would have faded with age. Certain memories have a strange quality to them, the harder you try to forget, the sharper it gets, like the pixels of a picture coming together to form a clear focus.

The details of the day comes rushing back to her, pricking her like icy needles. The bright red rose that she had laid down to press in between the pages. 

Would it still be there? Or would it have crumpled to dust like many feelings? The incessant thoughts continue to linger. Well, only one way to find out. 

She opens the book, holding it tenderly, like a new born child. And there it is, the red rose, but no longer red. In muted shades of yellow and a color that was almost black. The petals delicate like a fluttering moth's wings. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth seeing the rose still there. How often we wish to hold on to those things that we know we should let go. Yet, like a stubborn stain that refuses to leave, it stays, lingering in the deep most caverns of your memory. Guarded like a fierce secret. 

Bottles of dried up ink, old notebooks covered in her handwriting, secret messages scribbled hastily on the back, random notes that she had penned whenever something got her fancy, greeting cards... 

Her hand trembles before picking up the tied bunch of letters. Somethings are better left where it is, in the past. No harm in looking, a stubborn voice inside her head nudges her. She unties the string before having second thoughts. Her eyes blur as it roams hungrily on the pages, taking in the beautiful curved writing in ink that has filled it. She takes it along with the candle and sits near the window, holding it close to her so that the occasional raindrops that breezed in through the open window would not smudge those precious words of long ago and begins to read...

... To be continued.   

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