The Mundane Artist

"What? Are you serious? But I really have to get to school! Argh, fine." Harleen sighed. She locked her door, and stomped, rather than walked downstairs. She was so angry. Her driver ditched her at the last moment. She would've been very understanding if only this last moment of cancellation hadn't occurred before. She started her journey from her house towards school. The school was closed for the winter, but a few diligent teachers wanted to take some tests, classes and get students to submit their due assignments. But Harleen was a smart kid. She wasn't going to school for any of that. After all, she studied well, and her assignments were submitted on or before the due dates. She was going to school for her applications to be filled by the teachers for college. College. Graduation. She detested these two words. And these two words had been revolving around her from the past few months, and future few too, it seemed. This added to the apathetic behaviour of...

"Familial bonds are not created through the transfer of information. They are forged through experience over time. They are the sum of Potty Training times Sick Days, of Nights Spent Sleeping in the Same Bed times Knee Scrapes Kissed in Playgrounds. The intimacy of parenting and children is not based on data as much as it is on proximity." - Paul Allen, The Good Father .  

I was supposed to be a little boy,  Who went to school,  Who frolicked around outdoors,  And who slept peacefully in the arms of my mama.  I wanted to grow up and be a doctor To help all these whimpering bodies To clear this stream of blood;  I am afraid.  I was asleep one night, peacefully.  I dreamed of a land where everyone smiled Where instead of a stream of blood,  There was a stream of pristine water.  I was asleep one night, happily.  I dreamed of mama and papa and me,  Having a hearty dinner,  That filled our stomachs and our faces, with a smile.  I was asleep one night, unknowing.  Then something fell, and I felt nothing.  Then something else fell, and,  Darkness.  *** I saw the sun, and I cried for my mama.  I saw the sky, and I cried for my papa.  Then I saw a man carrying me; But he wasn't my papa.  They lay me ...

"If we lived in a State where virtue was profitable, common sense would make us good, and greed would make us saintly. And we'd live like animals or angels in the happy land that needs no heroes. But since in fact we see that avarice, anger, envy, pride, sloth, lust and stupidity commonly profit far beyond humility, chastity, fortitude, justice and thought, and have to choose, to be human at all . . . why then perhaps we must stand fast a little - even at the risk of being heroes." - Sir Thomas More, Act 2, A Man For All Seasons. 

She sat on the steps with an aesthetic book on her lap. She seemed to stare at nothingness. That's when it happened, he saw her. Her eyes seemed to be seeping into someones soul, trying to cleanse it. He laughed, and thought "How can someone clean a soul?" Pragmatic was his middle name. He didn't care. But there was something unsettling about this girl sitting on the steps, eyes as deep as the ocean, trying to reach a soul. He was mesmerised, but at the same time, his pragmatical self intruded, and he shrugged it off. The next day, he saw her again. This time he noticed her even more carefully. Glimmer in her eyes, and wonder on her face. She turned to him and smiled. But, he didn't smile back. He just turned his head away. Why did he feel intimidated? He turned back to see her, but she was gone.  That night he thought of her. She was so peculiar. "Could she be one of Miss Peregrine's peculiar children?" he laughed. He was so intimidated by ...

I want to live...  Not to be killed in the womb,  But to be embraced by the hands of many.  I want to live...  Not to be looked at in disgrace,  But to appreciate my grace.  I want to live...  Not to be locked in a house,  But to be educated.  I want to live...  Not to be married off at a tender age to a strange man,  But to be married whenever I want to, to the man I love.  I want to live...  Not as a burden,  But as one who can carry the burdens as he.  I want to live...  Not to watch others play,  But to play myself.  I want to live...  Not to be raped,  But to be loved.  I want to live...  Not in danger,  But in safety.  I want to live...  Not because my place belongs in the kitchen,  But because my place belongs in this world.  ...

On the 10th of October every year, the World Health Organisation recognizes the day as World Mental Health Day. Every year, they have a theme, and this year's theme is "Psychological First-Aid and the Support people can provide." So I would like to take this opportunity and write further on the same. It is not unknown that nowadays everyone is engaging in spreading awareness about mental health, and identifying the importance of mental health. Schools, certain organisations, celebrities, to name a few, are conveying the importance of the same. Yet, despite everything, why is it that mental health is still held as a stigma? Why is it that there are so many more people who still don't get the required help? Where are we going wrong? The thing is that when we spread awareness about Mental Health a lot of people just become aware about it. And then claim that they KNOW things. But the truth is that they don't. Being aware about it, and not doing anything when...

Crumpled paper, You found a design.  Amidst the grass, I laid injured.  Instead of a rose,  you kept me inside. Inside a diary,  A diary of amore.  I was your most precious,  I was your first,  You decorated me, as your love.  Soon you were proud,  So you kept me in a frame,  For people to see, and for you to claim. Little did you know, your love had faded.  From personal, to public, It had all changed.  But you denied, you lied!  You left me in light, in dark.  Did you not think twice, what's in my heart?  I gave you something to love,  And you gave me pride.  Then a day came,  The frame fell.  You tried to catch me,  But i escaped.  It still pains me to think,  How it all changed; The day you removed me from your diary, You and I, died. 

The house was booming, With the screams of one and the cries of another,  On an auspicious day.  A ruffle of the hair,  A slap on the back,  A push from the side.  A woman and a man stood in a corner,  Shouting something cryptic, In vain everything went.  A few minutes later,  The celebrations commenced.  The screamer and the crier entered.  The crier was forced to stand in front of the screamer ,  The last thing she wanted Was to see his abhorrent face.  She picked up a thread,  From the decorative plate, And tied it hard, for it to pinch.  They reluctantly looked at each other,  A sarcastic smile on the crier ,  A glorifying smile on the screamer .  The crier turned to put the plate down,  The screamer held a box wrapped in colourful paper,  She turned and, a smile crept up.  They hugged and everything was merry,...

We stood face-to-face, And I could read her, see her,  But she couldn't.  She jumped in puddles, and wore torn clothes.  When asked her what she wanted, she asked for her parents.  I jumped away from the puddles, and wore the finest clothes.  When asked what I wanted, I am sure my parents weren't part of my wish.  But this doesn't mean, that she didn't want the glitz and glamour and comfort that I had.  But this doesn't mean, that I didn't love my parents.  Then, what does it mean?  She walked around bare feet, and slept on cold stone.  I walked around in my Stilettos, and slept with red duvets.  But this doesn't mean, that she wasn't comfortable.  But this doesn't mean, that I am comfortable.  Then, what does it mean?  She played with twigs and stones.  I played with Barbie Dolls, and pink everything.  But this doesn't mean, that she never enjoyed it.  ...

School trips are something that are looked forward to. After the monotonous way of life, you suddenly get an opportunity to visit a place with your friends. All the hotel gossips, the fights, the places, the pictures, every single thing stays with you till the day you die. My trip was just the same, yet different. I joined the German-Oman Exchange Program 2016-2017 with only the thought of meeting new people and getting to know another culture. None of my close friends were going for it, but yet, I was determined to go. Which, let me be honest, wasn’t a bad thing at all. I got introduced to so many new and wonderful souls, all with different talents and backgrounds, and got closer to the known. The country, of course, was beautiful, and the people, just as beautiful. Warm, hospitable, and understanding, is how anyone who has been a part of this Exchange Program through the years, will describe them. Their curiosity about our culture, and our curiosity about their cultur...

I left home at midnight. I walked alone in the cool, dark night.  A rustle of leaves here; A step on twigs there,  I stopped and turned around to see if anyone was there.  You would imagine I would be afraid.  For the night was dark, and I was a lonesome girl without a destination.  They showed themselves after a few seconds, The ghosts of the night. "Where are you headed?" asked one ghost to my surprise,  "Nowhere in particular." said I.  "How do you think you'll get through this night? Aren't you afraid of the dark?"  I smiled, looked up, and said, "The stars." Before the dumbfounded ghosts could say anything,  I turned and continued my journey to somewhere.  *** "Don't go in there," a whisper I heard.  "Why not?" I asked. "It's a snarl!" urgency noted.  I smiled, and I entered. Oh so dark! I was blind with eyes.  I walked; I knew something...

"What is it you want?" she cried in despair.  No reply.  "Is it me that you want?"  No reply. "Say something!"  "I already have you," it said.  It had her for years.  And she lived.  Now, it had become stronger, fiercer. And she survived.  She let it wash her over, the wave of pain, Burning and aching her body, it reigned.  She didn't want to survive,  She wanted to live.  Alas, it didn't give her a chance. SHE didn't give herself a chance.  It was thirsty for power, and she let it quench it.  She fell, and one thought.  "Is this the end?"  She came back, and one thought,  "Why isn't it the end?"  But she was strong.  The gale of the disease stronger.  But she was strong,  Just weakened by the reign.  But she was strong,  She fought it with smiles, bruises and pain.  But she was strong,  ...

In the light of recent elections for the Student Council, Prefects, Vice Captains and Captains, I want to throw some light on Leadership. Many of you would have stood for the elections with big dreams. Some of you may have succeeded, whereas some of you may have not. Last year, I stood for the Student Council Elections, and I didn't get in. At this time last year, I was saddened and angry. For someone who wants to nurture their leadership qualities and wants to learn how to properly lead people, such things mean a lot. Then I was pushed to the post of a Prefect. I always heard people talk and ask, and I did the same too,"Why are they throwing me a Prefect Badge? Is it because my fate was bad and they were pitiful?" But later I made myself contemplate the matter. How long was I going to feel bad about the fact that I wasn't part of the student council? Then I understood. If you truly want to be a leader, any post that gives you an opportunity to be a leader, you t...

I was in grade 3 when I joined Indian School Muscat. I remember setting foot in the school for the first time ever for an entrance exam accompanied by my mother. Entering from one way and exiting from another, confused us greatly. I was 8 years old and yet on the first day of school, I was late. Perhaps, I wasn't used to getting up that early in the morning for school (And I still am not, to be very honest!) I was so fascinated by the ACs in my classroom more than anything else. The welcome was warm and the teachers wonderful. It's been 8 years since that day. Now here I am in Grade 12, the last year of schooling. It's fascinating to know how time flew so fast. Just yesterday I was a small girl of 8 and now I am an adolescent aged 17, in the last year of her school! I still can't believe the fact that in another one year I will be done with school. I had never even thought about this, till I bought my books for grade 12.  Even though I still cuss every morning ...

The sky was blue with cumulus clouds scattered around. The sun shone down its divine rays,  The kind where you could feel it seep into you.  A sort of blessing it seems.  She walked alone.  Long hair, as black as coal,  And as shiny as silk,  Hung loosely on her shoulders. Tangled, yet beautiful.  A dress so white, so pure, Hugged her body as the wind blew.  Barefoot, she stepped on the grass. And closed her eyes as she felt the soft earth below her.  Her expression was one of wander.  Her pink lips parted as she took a deep breath.  Slowly, she lay down on the grass,  And stared at the sky.  She turned her head,  And there he was.  Smiling at her.  Oh what a beautiful sight, both thought.  He walked towards her, and lay beside her.  Her eyes full of bursting emotion,  Yet no tear.  "You mesmerize me," he whispered,  And ...

She sat there, reminiscing every memory alive. One memory, a thousand teardrops. She remembered his touch, his voice, his eyes, his smile. And then she looked at the photo, digesting every ounce of anger and hatred and sadness and pain that she felt. She turned her face away from the photo, only to witness another face. A face so swollen, so lost and so broke, A face that showed determination to stay strong, yet failed. A face she loved to see, and now hated for no reason. The serenity of white had all gone. It only reminded her of death. “What have I done to deserve this?” she screamed silently, Wanting an answer so desperately that she felt going through a labyrinth was easier. The sound of his laughter still rang through the house, A last time perhaps, before leaving the house forever and silencing silence. I wondered this dark episode in her life. A contemplation of me in her place. And I die to even think about it, What would I do without ...

Hello! I bid you welcome to my blog. I was introduced to writing by my best friend. Now not mentioning my best friend is not possible, because she was one who persuaded me and helped me through all of this. Even this blog that you see, is because of her guidance. She is a beautiful person, and more so a beautiful writer. When I started to write, I was mesmerized by the power of words. I am an avid reader and when I read a book, it gives me such pleasure to feel the words hit my mind. I think books are the only thing that I actually take seriously. You know how parents complain about how their children don't listen to them but listen to some outsider? For me, books are the outsiders. The thing is, I just love words. Be it written or spoken. The first time I wrote I was scared. Scared about the fact that I am not good enough or what will people think? To be honest, I didn't tell my best friend about writing for 6 months after I started. She was furious when I finally sent h...