The Evolution of Friendship

We were taught a lot about friendship as we grew up
Friendship meant relentless support.
It meant eternal commitment and faith to each other.
It meant, hey let’s share all our toys!
Then let’s plan our futures,
As adults!
The world is ours.
The world will be ours.
Then things changed.
Friendship had to adapt to social media.
A strange divide yet closeness became part of the dynamic,
Friendship meant social media profiles,
It meant likes, shares and witty comments,
It meant drama, relationships and sorting out lovely, silly problems,
Just like the movies!
The world is ours.
The world will be ours.
Further down the lane…
Friendship matured.
It meant emotional support.
It meant calling each other out and finding wisdom,
Vulnerability, hopelessness, fears – it meant endless discussions on life,
Sometimes difficult choices,
Harsh words and silences – if required.
Adventure! And a ton of mistakes.
Friendship did the groundwork,
For what was to come next.
Friendship faced reality.
Stripped bare naked, down to the bones,
The world is not what we expected,
Friendship was at a loss. And then - a power emerged,
More potent, more valuable than ever before.
A silent, deep understanding of pain. A quiet energy exchanged,
The power to forge ahead. No matter what.
With the solemn promise of
The world is ours.
The world will be ours.

The Idiot Writer

There’s an idiot writer in our society.

I shan’t take names,

They’re few, and in many forms but they’re everywhere.

The idiot writer has a pen in one hand and pessimism in the other.

On their head lies a gold crown of pride.

Sharp, equipped, goal driven – the idiot writer is smart,

And tells you what you need to know.

Somehow, although you don’t really agree,

No-no they insist. This is the reality.

With great power comes great responsibility.

(I’m sorry but Tobey Maguire is the only true Spiderman)

I wouldn’t call their power ‘great’ – but it’s power, nonetheless.

Power that could be harnessed for the better.

The idiot writer crusades around town,

Playing judge and calling out people for their crimes,

(Or perhaps the real idiot is quietly playing with string puppets)

Even a child can spot that – dal me kuch kaala hai.

But the idiot writer thinks his eyes are the clearest,

Let’s give him a broomstick and a dustpan to clear some of the mess

Shall we?

That’s not my job! He huffs and walks away

Did I say their pockets were empty?

Not all – some have the cunning to stick their palms out in the right places

Words, unfortunately as beautiful as they are,

Can be twisted and turned to misrepresent the truth.

They’re not all idiots, of course!

But if you’re given a box of paint pots and all you see is black,

Then you, my friend (lol jk), are one of them.

This piece, some time back, would have been an ode to the idiot writer,

Thankfully, life has a way of knocking you out of your delusions.

Itchy Fingers

I have a curious case of itchy fingers.
Nothing to say - yet my fingers itch to speak.
Writing has always been my first love - a constant.
Every time I wrote, I had purpose.
I needed to vent, I needed to create, I needed to impress, I had an end goal in mind.
I wanted readers to feel a certain way. 
There was an...energy that I intended my words to carry.
You read words, but in my head, I was writing a song.
For the first time - I really don't know what I'm doing here.
7 years back it came so easy - teenage angst makes for great writing material.
The angst is still there - its learnt to be a little quieter.
From a world of reckless, fun and careless drama, my theater suddenly turned into...an unnecessarily serious and high on consequences type of drama.
Perhaps I don't have the confidence to face reactions to a complete tell-all. (or do I?)
Isn't disillusionment supposed to bring relief?
This is really not a tale of tragedy,
Just some uninspired writing.
But - my fingers are still itchy.

Googly

When Google isn't big enough to answer your questions anymore- now that's when life gets interesting!

Vishesh Tippani

They're all hell-bent on teaching
Can't we compare notes instead?

Last Match

The ball's in your court
Either fix things or fuck it up for good
I'm done playing games.

This is the final match, love.
Use it to ignite warmth, light
Or let the stick burn-
And never look back.

The Difference

If it's love- if it's true love

It will be infectious, all-encompassing, 

It won't be trapped between the two of you-

It will flood our souls too.

Don't bore me with another tale of Aashiqui 2.

Bid Goodbye

Go on now love-
It is well past time
Surpanaka and Shakuni will find another couch to crash on.

The Real Sting

A man sat at the far end of the berth, all by his lonesome, the regular ‘tak tak’ sound of the wheels on the tracks giving rhythm to the ride. The train was moving at speeds befitting trains of its kind. How that poor dazed little bee managed to spiral wildly into the train, desperately looking for direction was beyond any of its passengers. Panic starting to seep into its round fuzzy body…was this its end? Nervous arms reached out and shoved the already petrified bee away as it tried to find escape.

Insanity slowly replaced sense and the bee zipped straight towards the solo rider and stung him hard on his forearm, determined to leave its mark on this unforgiving world before it breathed its last. The spotlight now moved from the bee to the injured gent. The poor man yelped and hugged his throbbing arm. Red blotches began to appear around the sting site and a gradual itchy sensation joined the throb to form a couplet that would sing for quite some time. 

There were no doctors on this train; nobody anticipated bees to feature on the ride and so there were no healing ointments available. All said and done, the pain was not too bad. Bearable, he decided and tried to distract himself by looking outside the train, reading a book, engaging himself in self-conversation, checking his phone. He was restless, as was to be expected- after all these were only methods to distract, not alleviate.

Eyes from all around watched the man, some pitying eyes, some curious, some watching for the sake of watching. None of this attention helped- all he wanted was to focus on distracting himself from the pain. Instead, he felt more self-conscious than ever- and began trying to go back to his former role as a regular unaffected passenger. Angry and irritated at the useless attention that only added insult to his injury, his face curled into a frown. A young woman, a little older than the man, moved towards him from a corner of the carriage, having heard the story from a worried mother standing near the restroom. Her features resembled that of the man, and concern flooded her face.

“Does it hurt?” she asked him kindly. The man looked up. Well, here was his sister. He did not have to blend in for her; he did not have to pretend to be strong or unfeeling. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, a thin film of tears coating his eyes. “Well, there’s not much you can do right now, seeing as there’s no doctors on this train. You may as well be pleasant,” she suggested.

The man was dumbfounded. The passengers in the coach continued to stare at him.

Word

My body is made of curves, of little sticks, of odd little quirks. I leave behind a trail that is sometimes halted, unsure…sometimes wide and inviting. I may crawl across your vision like vines interlocked in an embrace or hop with hurried, sharp steps. I come with little spots and dashes in just the right places that wake you from your spellbound gaze. 

I am powerful enough to stand alone. Paired with the right members of my family, I can spread a smile across your face or pull tears from your eyes. I spill easily into the crevices of my usual haunt and dance in wonderful glory. Just one of me can fill an entire empty space and yet, several of me will occupy the same quite comfortably if distributed cleverly enough. 

I have a unique soul, sometimes I have more than two. I am the reason you exist the way you do. The continuity of your species would be impossible without me. I define power and growth. 

Our relationship is as deep as your spirit is. I only offer you what you want to discover. My purposes constantly change and I'm faithful to each of them. My troupe of brothers and sisters are spread across the world. A few you might be familiar with, most you are not. 

I am your teacher, your best friend, a result of your memories. I am your counsellor- I relieve you without revealing your pain. I understand you. I am you. 

I am A Word.