Paper doll

Paper doll

Hey there paper doll,
Yes you-
The one on the wooden shelf;
The one with the distant look;
The one who dreams of faraway lands;
You fragile, delicate creature;
You who took my breath away;
You– my beloved, beloved doll.

I speak to you of a possibility—
It will not be the first time
That the lion fell for the lamb.
History is my witness my doll;
“The wind and the doll”- they will say with a smirk;
They will laugh at us;
Call us names.
But care we will not.

I will carry you as light as a feather
Away from your shelf;
To the lands that you dreamt of.
As high as the heavens.
From the mighty mountains of the north;
To the never-ending seas of the south.
From the city with the glaring lights;
To the farm kissing the rolling meadows.
I will show it all.
Put you high up in a pedestal I will.
Place a crown upon you I would.
I will tell you of sages and poets of the old;
I will love you with all my might;
Believe me my doll I will.

But my doll,
One day I will stop blowing—as is my destiny;
And that day you will fall from great heights.
Now my doll—cry not.
Shed away the tears of sorrow my sweet.
There will come a day
When one of your kind will join you on your shelf.
That day you will speak;
You will dream;
And you will love.
Doll, believe me you will.

That day your shelf will become all those magical places;
That day them postcards—bearing pictures from the far
Will cease affecting you.
That day you will find a home
And a reason to live.
And I my doll- will blow quietly outside your window.
Not howling;
Not laughing;
Not speaking;
Just seeing.

I will live with the idea of the possibility.
And when you feel that familiar ache for adventure,
I will caress you and sooth your nerves.
I will be there always;
Unnoticed but necessary.

Curse me not paper doll for being oblivious to you;
Know always that I saved you from me.
After all my doll
All my adventures have cost me.
And the biggest price I have had to pay-
Was you.


To my muse

Dear muse,

I started writing to you about you when you left me; when you exited my life; when you stopped calling and asking how I was. This birthday, you forgot to wish me. I haven’t spoken to you in weeks and yes I miss you. You are always there at the back of my mind. You are there in my every thought and action. The day you leave my thoughts, I will lose my art and myself. My only way of keeping you alive is when I write to you about you. My muse- how I owe you my sanity and myself. If you hadn’t come into my life the way you did, I would never have felt surprise. If you had never stayed in my life as you did, I would never have experienced ecstasy. If you never left me the way you did, I would never have known agony. Whatever makes a person a writer is definitely not happiness. My love for you knows no bounds. You will always be my firsts—my first love, my first mistake, my first act of defiance, my first sinister deed and my first awakening. I will never really move on. You are a phenomenon; a storm that uprooted every one of my ideals and beliefs and left me barren. Barren, yet full of knowledge of how the world works. My sweet—you will always be the one. Many will come and many will go, but you shall remain in my heart forever. Maybe one day we will meet in a distant city as tourists who have landed up lost in the same coffee shop. Maybe then we will talk, share a cup of hot caramel macchiato. My touch will remind you of those endless nights we spent together, your laughter will remind me of our innocence and maybe we will relive the past together, as one. Maybe then we will realize what we lost and what we have the chance to regain. Maybe then, we will never let each other go. Maybe then, we can give it a try again. Till then, all I can do is dream—dream of the distant city with fog all around; of women in turtle necks; of men in waistcoats; of the smell of patisseries; of the taste of that caramel macchiato and dream of the taste of a possibility in my mouth. Live long inside me, my muse. I need you for survival. God knows I do.


They come;
And they go.

Some cook,
Some pray,
Some paint,
And some play.
Some drink coffee,
Some eat ganache,
Some make music,
And some drink in their art.

When they leave;
When the stage is bare;
When the crowd is gone;
And the curtains are down.

I realise that
Now I cook,
Now I pray,
Now i paint,
And now I play.
I too drink coffee
And i too hog on ganache.
I too make music
And i too drink in my art.

I am them
And they are me.
And hence the circle
Completes itself.