Growing Up #3: Age is just a number?

Age is just a number, they say.

Maybe they are right, it’s an arbitrary measure of how long you have lived chronologically.  But only if life could be lived in the simple timelines that come ahead. Some days I am 10 years behind, like a kid that I always am. Some days I function like an adult, apt for the time. Some other days I am a toddler, whose insatiable demands leave me heart broken. Some other days I am a philosopher trying her tiny hands at solving problems that may appear 10 years from now.

It does seem age is just a number. Like a river that splits into tributaries that visits different landscapes as it journeys through time, twisted and turned. A part of me lies in the pristine mountains, some other submerged in the waters of the South. Perhaps it would be best to let the streams unwind on their own and be washed into the sea.

No number could ever justify the depth that we have seen amalgamated into one.


Growing Up – a series on well, growing up. Every Saturday because Saturdays are perfect for overthinking.

Word by Word

Have you met someone
just like you,
not by age, or by style,
nor by choice, or by chance,
but word by word.

Word by word,
to come to light,
to discover the rough edges
of the sentences
and the pauses in between.
Word by word,
to realize how you’re
just the same.

Word by word
you’ll build your world,
and then world by world
you’ll come to find
that not all words are the same
even through they may
carry the same aim.

Word by word
you’ll dream,
clinging unto quarter realities
and half imaginations,
engulfing you
more than the air you breathe,
but shall they always remain?

Word by word
you’ll drift apart
from the world
that was.

Word by word
ripping itself
will be your heart,
for all the words
that did not come.

Word by word
time shall pass
filling lines and pages,
and years in between,
stuffed inside
black and blue ink
and all that has been.

Word by word
we’ll rise up again,
word by word.

Have you met someone
just like you,
not by age, or by style,
nor by choice, or by chance,
but word by word.

C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S | A Poem

Your finger tips know
very well to scroll up and down,
tap right and right
and only right.

Oh! something appears:
Started School at XYZ.
Type congratulations!
Type it now,
because this post won’t appear later.
15 seconds and it will be gone
in the oceans of algorithms.
You’ll look mean and
rude and jealous,
so type fast, C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S!

A big glass of juice,
chocos dipped in milk,
because you love chocolate,
and yet you can’t let go of
the sight of the screen.

Let’s see:
Started Job At The Best Company In The
Whole Wide World.
Fast type: congratulations
because you do not mean to be rude,
even if your accounts have run dry,
this is not the time to
question the unconventional path
you’ve decided to walk on.

Type, type.
Because you are indeed proud of
that someone,
and wish nothing but
great things for the other.

Yet, you cannot stop wondering,
if the roads ahead
amount to anything.

Lying on the bed
close to mid-night,
the scrolling game in dim light.
The tech lights
might damage your sight,
but wait:
Engaged to DEF!
Fast, type: Congratulations,
even if you know this post will pop again,
type it fast.
Now’s not the time to worry about
your broken heart, your insecure mind
that tells you you’ve been doing something wrong
by being all by yourself
all this time.
Type: C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S!
Congratulations.

You do not mean ill will,
you do not mean disaster,
you are not the sour devil.
Even if you have to think twice
to type
congratulations!

Dried up appetites,
surviving on self doubts,
where do we belong?

Wait:
A proud father?
You look at yourself,
your body so fragile
unable to complete
what you’ve started
how and when will you ever think of a child?
Still type: Congratulations! 

Type type,
don’t be such a miser!
Wish a wish,
maybe it’ll come back to you.

Here’s a better idea:
let’s get out of this myopia.
Throw away the screen
and silence the voices in your head,
that tell you
you are not enough. 

Listen. Do not see.
Just listen.
You are E-N-O-U-G-H. 

Now write to yourself:
CONGRATULATIONS!


For everyone who feels everybody knows the path but yourself: No one does. No one. 
Pink Floyd was right:

“We’re just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl
Year after year”

Feet | Poetry

My feet run
only as long as
day light remains.

They run fast and
they are hard,
strong as steel,
made of the finest iron,
one of those things
that are really real.

They’ve crossed mountains
and streams
and valleys
of all kinds.
They’ve conquered kingdoms
and knights
and weapons
known to humankind.

But when night falls
and the lights run out,
they cripple,
devoid of it’s origins.

They run
to somewhere
where no demon should
reach, else it be consumed.

They do not have strength
in them,
it’s been sucked out.

It’s like drowning
in deep waters,
with your foot tied to an anchor.

Lend me a hand,
will you?
Because I cannot escape it alone.

Neither can you.