Month: March 2015

Small Places

I like small places. Places with low ceilings, faded rugs, round coffee tables, colored cushions and early morning rays of sun through open windows. Where you could sit at a corner, detached from the world and yet feel connected to everyone in the crowded room who is here to have breakfast, drink coffee, or read a book. Where you could meet your friends or the person you love and show them the secrets this world holds through that window from where the sun shines. Where you could listen to everyone’s voices and whispers and could tell the language they speak—of love, goodness and beauty—but not be able to tell what they might be thinking. Where you could marvel at the people and the life that exists outside that small coffee shop, like a silent movie, without judging their motives unlike those of big places and high ceilings.

Big places with high ceilings and glass floors and high tables make me anxious. They hold mysteries and secrets people are not sure to reveal. Big places give refuge to high pitched laughter which doesn’t reach the eye and to people who are more concerned about what purpose you bring them than whether you would like to have tea or coffee—they wouldn’t care if you like to have both. It’s difficult to gauge their feelings. So I choose small places with big hearts. Small places with memories of seeing each other the first time. Small places and dog-eared books. And paragraphs you’ve read a hundred times and still cannot get over them.

Small places and Sunday mornings and Friday nights, when you have all the time in the world to discuss with them, how time flies and why days change.

Small places where no one cares whether the wooden table is newly polished or why the rug still has coffee stains.

I choose small places because they make me realize of the connection I have with the things that are still alive, and with people who still believe in the magic of faith, truth, love and beauty.



Life, as it turns out is everything that you don’t expect it out to be, do not want it turn out as, and try as hard as you might want to but it has and will take its own course—disappoint you, break your heart, maybe mend your heart too (though it hasn’t happened to me yet) or crush it into further pieces until you don’t have the ability to collect all the pieces together so you just give up.

Who would want a confused, tangled life that reveals nothing, twists itself into further knots every time you listen to your heart and take a risk? But it has the ability to surprise you, turn you down, and push you off the cliff and into the water when you don’t know how to swim. But it doesn’t end here. This thing called life won’t let you drown either. It will choke you, strangle you and suffocate you until you no longer have the will to live. And then a small lifeline would arrive. A tiny support that will give you a hand, take you out of water so that you could see the sunshine again and breathe. But you in your ecstasy of surviving again would look at the sustenance as your chance to live. You will find rainbows in that sunshine while it might just be snowing out there. Congratulations, life has succeeded in playing another trick on you.

The life support given to you was just to show you, yes rainbows are a phenomenon however, sorry they are not for you. It makes you feel good even on the prospect of the illusion of rainbows and butterflies. But really, it’s a pity. And life doesn’t even take a pity on you. It keeps testing you until you fail by a mark and whisper, ‘just one last time’ or ‘this was close’. But life does not plan on getting you through.

They are right when they say Illusion is better than reality.


Old songs and farewells. Bomb blasts and taking exams. Hangings and burning alive, cheers and whistles, cries and screams—which ones are happy, which ones, sad. Giving love and taking life, giving life and breaking hearts—this is life? I don’t understand.

Firing for celebration, firing for vengeance—what is the difference, they say, when at the end of the end a mother cries, a child sobs, a lover dies, a story untold.

Life is unfair.

It’s complicated.

Life happens.

Go screw yourself—Because that’s not what a child grows up for.

For the dreams to shatter,

For a heart to break,

For his hero to die,

For the cars to crash,

And his wounds to be told that they’ll never heal?

Devise a new strategy. Tell them they won’t get a new toy if they break this one. Hide his father and tell him he’s dead. Break his heart at an early age so that when it breaks again, it doesn’t break him all over again. Tell him he will never make a pilot, a doctor, an astronaut because you know, he might never will. Why train him to be stupid? Isn’t it what life is?


Words. Yes we play with words. We play with words to ruin lives. Kill, slay, slaughter, hang, destroy, demolish and raze people and their hearts. And then we play with hearts to compensate.

But hearts are where God lives. And God you see, has not been happy for a long time.

Epilogue: It’s been days since I’ve tried to form words. But they refuse to come out. There has been chaos around and my heart is a mess. It has just become too hard to cope with all the bloodbath around, people trying to find fault in order to hurt you, and breaking people’s hearts has become the easiest thing to do.  

I’ve tried to word my feelings in the easiest possible way. It has not been easy but I had to let them out.