A letter to my 1st love

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So this goes for the 1st love of my life.

Dear love,
Sometimes I wish I were the comfy quilt in the chilled winter night so that you would have embraced me like you never really did. Or sometimes I wish I were the little puppy of yours that sometimes cries when it hurts and you hold her in your caressing arms, not letting her cry unlike me.

Do you remember the nights I begged you to let me sleep but you didn’t just to finish a useless conversation or the times when the precious pearls couldn’t stop themselves from coming out over the late night call? Oh, how on earth I could forget or you either the time when the knives, sadly three were there but all blunt, held my hand the way no one ever did? Or that 12 am Tuesday night when you kept on calling and bound me to receive them or the time when the first day of my period came and I was screaming in pain but all you wanted was to meet, you cared about yourself not me.

Don’t you miss the smiles, the giggles, the laughter, the pink lower lips, the bright glow of eyes, that wink, the shiny hair, that plaited one, and the innocent face of your baby?

Don’t you miss the child inside an 18 years old girl whom you turned into a frail 5 years old kid who cries because of every little thing?

Don’t you miss the girl whose lips never got tired of taking your name? Don’t you miss the girl whom you used to call with baby, babu, shona, nimona…..endless cute little names?

Sometimes I wish I would not be this much talkative then probably that “BHAIYA” would never be changed into “GADHA.” And sometimes I wish I wouldn’t have entered in your life or you in mine, life would have been much easier to live.

~From the writer whose words hate you still write of you.

– of him

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We named love,
A-L-W-A-Y-S.

Every time I would ask,
“There?”
he replied-
“Always”,
as if it were a TFIOS scene.
“Okay?”
“Okay! ”

His lips were on mine that day, licking, and the one you call lip lock made me all nervous and the flashbacks of past- those vivid pictures, kept flashing in front of my eyes.
.
“Hey, are you fine?
always, you know.”
“Always.”

*I smiled.*

Give me a broad smile, he said.
I did smile and he kissed my tears and started smiling even broader.

I looked myself in the mirror
to see that smiling face of mine, my mind almost forgot how it looked like.

He hugged me from behind,
but instead of kissing,
we looked at each other; smiling in the mirror,
we captured memories in our eyes rather than clicking pictures.
We wove moments in hours.

We made love,
instead of him lifting me up in his arms
I lifted him in mine.

And he smiled, laughed, giggled,
after 7 years.
I too did.
-A.A.

I fear people

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i fear people
for the fear
of getting judged
by them
never leaves.

i fear people
because the replies
i get for not replying
to their
“hi”
and
“hello”
messages funckin’ kills me.

i fear people,
for i lack the art
of choosing
right ones
and sometimes
they choose
the wrong person
in me.

i fear people
because i’ve hurt,
many,
and they left
like they
never existed.

i fear people
because
they never understand
that some people
are still learning.

i fear people
because
most of them
don’t appreciate
the tiny effort
one put in making an art.

i fear people
and the society
we have made
as I too belong
to this big society
i fuckin’ fear myself
for i know
somewhere
someone
thinks the same
about me too.

i fear people,
i really do.
-A.A.

A letter to my dad

caring

Dear daddy,

8 years right? It has been eight years since the black and white columns and rows accompanied with soldiers, kings, queens and much more still stare at me in a very strange way and ask me, “Do you remember the last time you played with us?”
Oh! My king still irritates me with the same question time and again that why I won just one time?

Sometimes in anger or out of frustration maybe, I throw away all of them and scream at the top of my voice but sadly with no sound. I end up crying like hell and then a picture, tugged right in front of the wall I supported myself with while crying, stares at me, maybe with anger like the players of the game, they call chess do. I hold that picture close to my heart and feel as if hugging the one, I call daddy.

I don’t really miss you.
Yeah, I don’t.
Please don’t stare me like this.
I don’t miss you.
.
.
I told you I don’t.
.
.
Ok. Fine. I do M-I-S-S you. Now happy?

Sometimes the flood of tears I shed, even makes fun of me saying “ye lo phir suru ho gyi, kabhi to has liya kr” and I’m like, “Will you shut the fuck up?”

I don’t give anyone the permission to make fun of me, Right daddy? Only you owned that right but hell yeah, you parted your ways away from me and didn’t even think of dropping in sometimes taking permission from God.

I wish there would have been a “LEAVE DAY” as jobs have then probably by sparing a thought for your little angel you would have come to see the scars given by the people of this fucking world.
Or maybe be then you would have hugged your daughter like you did when you first held her in your hands.
Oh! freak it may sound some sorts of ‘pagalpan’ as you will say when I will tell, you guys, that I sometimes feel his presence, when for sure my breathe isn’t heavy but the wind surrounding me is.

Those days of depression I went through, at the tiny age of…ummm…15 maybe, that wasn’t a joke actually. The time when all I wished for, was those arms to hold me that had covered me when I first fell down the staircase.

Oh! daddy do visit sometimes, come even in my dreams, please. All I want is to see you and want to touch your feet whenever I accomplish something and cry remembering the only man of my life.

Don’t worry I don’t cry so much, see 8 years and I’m still living and fighting like a girl.
Love ya.
From,
Yours pagali.