Free writing

Sometimes, I am really glad that this blog is not too popular. I can come here once in a while, and write what I feel like without any worry. No one will really judge me. In the present world, the concept of space is fading. With social media becoming an important part of our live, there is nothing that is really private. Ironically, this blog post is far from private.

I miss my Dad, so much that some days I feel my heart might just burst holding those kind of tears. I have not cried in a very long time, and even if I am in some situation, the tears just show up and never fall. I am on the verge of making an important decision, and today I felt that what if dad was here. He would have guided me and said to go ahead without any fear, and that he will always have my back.

I called up my mom, and she is not too aware about these things. She told me that end of the day, it is my call.

And at that point, I felt this yearn to hear my dad’s voice. After a point when your decisions are not taking you anywhere, your confidence to take decisions continues to reduce. There are days when I have tried to not let this misery consume me. I have been successful and on days like these, I have again hid myself behind my words.

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Free writing-Dad

I have built you a grave in my words and art. I know if you can see me from up there, you will want me to visit you more often. Maybe mould you in different words or sketch you in different ways. Even if I am not able to do that, your thoughts never leave me alone. They are like still air in my mind. Sometimes, they transition into a breeze and my eyes water.

When you were taken away from me and when I wrote my T.Y.B.A essay on your demise, I thought after that essay, I will not have anything more to say. That will be me putting flowers on your grave and moving on. But, that never happened. I kept revisiting you in various ways and all the time, the pain of you going away would show me some wisdom, which the previous time I missed.

When your memories flow over to my shores, even if I am in the worst of my moods, for that time, I pause. I soak it all in. I give myself the privilege of tearing up for that short while. Considering with you, my ability to cry for hours also passed away.

With you, a part of me passed away. That girl with whom you had fun, with whom you watched movies, with whom you discussed DDLJ in great detail, with whom you watched movies for an entire week in the theater, with whom you guffawed over meals…That girl is long gone with you. I don’t think she will ever return. I might see her memory in glimpses, but I will never see her again. She left your memory with me. Organic and whole. But for that, she had to go in entirety. For, she cannot exist with the memory of you dying. Your death was a growing up call for her. To get me into this world, you took her along with yourself. I can see her leaving with you. Wearing a cream frock, holding on to you and leaving with you

Thoughts of you are enough to add chaos to an already chaotic mind. Especially during the peak days of the month. I go on that thinking trail and then somewhere, work suffers.

I tell myself that it will be fine the next time, but somehow, I always screw up.

When you passed away, there was so much anger within me. And as the days passed, your memory remained intact and somewhere all that anger faded away. Now when I think of it, that anger had kept me together. Those extremities had held me from falling apart. In the present day, the memory of you is enough to crumble me. I keep doing so many things. I zentangle, teach, write and I also joined an initiative of mentoring a street child, but still the depth of the void in my heart created by your absence is directly proportional to all of this.

After you have gone, I have got this habit of affirming what I already know is right. It has got me into trouble so many times. People often think that I have low self-confidence and low self-esteem, which is quite true. No matter how I camouflage it, people are able to see through it.

This brings me to my two years in advertising. They started off well. I actually thought that maybe this is what I can do and should do, but boy! I was wrong or what. There are so many worlds within us, which we hide with such efficiency. If you have confidence issues, then be assured, nobody will even have an inkling of the amazing person you can be. My time in advertising probably hid my worlds to such a depth that recovering them now might need some archaeological excavation.

In this jibber jabber of the digital world, I often think what all have I missed. I forgot to ask you some important questions. The one that comes to my mind immediately right now is about your fear. What did you fear? What made you want to hold on something so tight that you never ever want to let go again? I never realised that even you could be scared of something. I always thought that nothing can scare superheroes, but maybe something did give you nightmares.

I remember watching you at Daddy’s funeral. If my memory has not ditched me, he was 83 when he passed away. Your eyes were starting to brim with tears. I remember asking you that were you ok. I had still not realised the gravity of the situation. You lost your father. I had you. I did not know what it felt like to have your blanket snatched from you. Even though daddy was 83, I am certain he must be your superhero.

Closures are so important. Last words stay on the mind all the time. In our case, I’d say screams. I will narrate your tale in different ways, but six years don’t seem like six years. There are times when I miss you so much that I’d just want myself to be split open and sometimes the pain is such that my fingers find order on the keyboard, hoping that the sound of the keys is enough to outdo the noise of the chaos. My mind still goes back to that day, when you were ill and you wanted to go to the movies and I told you that once you were fine, we will go. But, that never happened.

When I start to write, I want to say so many things, but coming till this point feels as if I have fought countless dementors’ kisses. Maybe, this is why I can speak of you in different ways all the time. Because, I am never done. I’m never over. There are so many things to say that even time runs out of its allocated time for these conversations between you and I.