Chronicles of Heartbeats unheard...

50th day:

Dear diary,


I have always been bad at introductions.

And I have never tried to talk to an inanimate object before.

So excuse me for any loss of etiquettes when I talk to you.

When I had asked you to be brought to me this morning, I was half unsure of what I was doing, or wanted to do… if it were up to me, I wouldn’t have made an effort to move my bum, and try to build up a social life with you by sharing things I myself fear to admit.

But she forced me into it.

My mother.

She gets all worked up and sad these days seeing me.

I hate her for doing that. But then, she’s the only one I have in times like these… I would be ready to give whatever left of me, if tomorrow she decided to stop doing that. She is to me, what a beam of light is to a dying, ignored plant in a closed empty room.


I wait, with unrest…

For something to happen,

That spark to ignite,

And blow away,

This insouciant thirst,

Of end.

I wrote it the other day. Sounds tad depressing, right…

I was about to scratch it away. But then found the exercise too boring…

I’ll let it lie there. Just a foul reminder of foulest stuff in my life.

Yes, past 50 days of my life have been the worst I have seen.

Days tarred black, indelible black. Of knowing yourself to be a loser… incorrigible loser.

I don’t understand why I am complaining. What had to be done has already been done. 50 wasteful days have passed, and left me at the mercy of a lifetime of days like them. Then what does it matter why and what happened. It had to happen. It did.

Oh I am so tired. I crave for something more than the four walls of my room. I crave for the freedom of just running into your future, not caring about how far it is.

I am going to sleep.

51st day:

Hey you,

This one sounds better. More informal… without the walls of ice all niceties have.

Today seems to be good. Today is a good number. I don’t like even count. Perfect figures. They make me feel uneasy. Life is so irregular. Perfect figures jar its whole synchronicity.

50 is cliché. I hate cliché’s. 51 is irregular… just like life…

51 started well too.

I woke up this morning with a throbbing pain.

I liked it.

I forgot sedatives last night, and the sleep was beautiful. Just as soon as I woke, I impulsively jotted this down;

Images flash across,

In a wild, insipid rush,

And heart moans,

While the mind concentrates, on that one single point,

And I pant in exhaustion,

As hands jerk off,

And keep going on…

While somewhere, they sift through memories,

And seek solace in pain, and happiness…

My mind leaps… as the heartbeats soar…

I know I am reaching there, and I do.

For one moment, a blank solitude covers my soul.

In secret fornication, a moment of bliss takes birth.

And next second, I face the starkness,

Of zilch and ennui.

For ten whole minutes my hands kept on writing, knowing not what the words meant. Only after I read, I understood. And fell down again on the bed, as that curious emptiness filled inside me.

And I went to sleep again.


The bell was ringing wildly. Like the cry of a hunted gazelle. I didn’t knew how long I was asleep, but my body seemed to be infested with deep lethargy. For a timeless moment, I lay there, half asleep, staring at the fan blades slicing the air, watching its slow, sensual motion. Then, when the bell was ringing too often and too alarmingly, I tried to get up.

I failed at first two instances.

I was pretty shocked about it till I remembered I had no legs.

The surprise was so awesome, that unknowingly, without even feeling it, a drop of tear slid off my cheeks.

And then keys jingled and someone threw open the door. I heard my mother talking to someone.

While I was lying there, helpless, teary eyed, crippled beyond the capacity to even open doors.

I watched the slow, sickly love of fan blades and wind. Each movement seemed to slice off yet another second from my time…

Like sand dunes shifting their destinies…

Heck! I am so bloody poetic! Its disgusting to see oneself romance so much. Specially when ones life is a comedy of tragic errors!!!

I closed my eyes when I heard my mother calling out my name. She came inside with somebody, and seeing me asleep, closed the door and went away.

I did not sleep for rest of the night.

55th day:


You know what, I think I have realized where I go wrong.

I think I try too hard. I keep on frustrating myself by trying to chide myself into action, while my mind is embroiled into deep stupor.

I am a self-professed writer. While it’s pretty romantic and feel-good to consider yourself that, in reality, I am just an ineffable flirt with words, who is not really capable of writing, yet who constantly attempts to hide behind the garb of a writer’s hood, to escape the harsh guilt of inefficiency.

I can just play with words, tease them here and there, try to do a poetic justice to their abuse, frame it with some nice sounds, and then hurriedly falter in an attempt to make a story. In the end, I land up with a mish-mash of emotions adulterated with jargons and biased feelings of loneliness. The result; I turn out to be a spite throwing, tantrum spitting loser.

Dammit! I think too much.

Fuck off. Fuck the world. Fuck what people think. Fuck you. Fuck everybody making judgments about me.

Including myself.

Fuck! I am going mad.

Am I?



Give me something… anything… which will make life worth living…

60th day:

Passing days are evaporating my memory. Its kinda good, because it makes me forget the pain. Its kinda bad, because pain is the only inheritance left to me now.

Even my dreams seem to get sharp and clear.

I never had good dreams. They were always hazy and unreal episodes of fantastic experiences.

But past few days, my dreams are DVD quality clear, as smooth, as if being played on a Samsung Flatron.

And most surprisingly, they are direct references from my life.

All of a sudden, I get images of incidents even I had forgotten had happened with me.

Like; there was this dream the other day, which was about my nine year old form kneeling down beside an ancient tree in the valleys of Kashmir.

Yes, valleys of Kashmir.

Agreed we had gone on a trip back then, but I forgot all about the tree, and its temple.

I even heard what I was praying. I heard in my childlike voice;

Mummy says whatever I wish for here, god will grant me. I wish she always stays with me…

And then appeared a face. A face I could not recognize at first but later realized it was of my childhood sweetheart Neha.

Guess that tree-temple did not work, because Neha left for another city a few months after we returned.

Another dream I had; yet again of my childhood was of my school.

I remember we used to have these huge classes of hundreds of kids sitting together in schooldays. During my sixth grade winters we were learning a chapter from Balbharti about a King and his Clown. I vaguely remember it being about clown outsmarting the king, and king getting angry and punishing him, and clown outsmarting king again…

That day, I dreamt of reading this paragraph from that chapter to the class.

“Court Jester: Your Majesty, I understand you punished me. But I fail to understand the reason.

King: Fool! What is there to not understand in it?

Jester: Your highness, I called you a great many names. I called you a plump fat ball of terror. I called you a sword wielding cucumber. I even called you a disgraceful spot on your throne. Yet you got angry only when I said your bald head shines better than the moon! Why sire?

King: {Laughs loudly} You fool! I did not get angry at you because I knew what an idiot you were in calling me those names, and then pleasing me right in the nick of time! I found it funny. But if there is one thing that men do not find funny, it’s the Truth. {unrolls his turban to show a spotless clean head.}”

I find such recollections funny. Really, what debris we fill our lives with, each and every day!


I have kinda started to like this loneliness. It gives me liberty to do a hell lot of things. What better way to express its beauty than a poem;

My pen falters,

Eyes open, look above…

And see a world, so far away…

Spread beyond comprehension.

And lips smile.

Doesn’t make sense…?

I know that…

In the end, what does?

62nd Day:

I got the shock of my life today! Turns out that the person who came home few days ago was Neha! Damn! I wish she would have come a few weeks earlier! I would have been definitely two inches taller than her then! Now…

Sigh… Guess that Tree-side Temple works in its own way…

Hang on, what I am talking about! I must be crazy.

You know, that’s what my problem is. I forget the reality too soon. Dammit, I am a cripple! A cripple should not have the courage to dream in life…

And a cripple should always stay away from beauty… In case he spoils it…

I’ll go to sleep.



I see her talking in light tones with my mother. Their laughter tinkles in the room, while my presence and its tragedy is momentarily forgotten. For a few moments their faces light up, as they drop their masks of pretence and care. And next moment, when they see me, all laughter stops. As if their heart of their felicity was pierced by the bluntness of my handicap.

50 days ago, I would have been very much part of their conversation. People used to share things with me, confess, and converse with me. 50 days ago I was a normal person, with a future as normal as of others. But now I sit here, and look at my world crumbling down each day… like a massive cliff of sandstone by sea. Each day, each blow erodes some part from me, and I am left with the feeling that one day all that would be left of me will be those things that I lost 50 days ago.

Knowledge is a curios thing. People like me, crave for it when they don’t have it, but when they do… they digest it and throw it away like filthy excreta…

I did rather try to live in oblivion… memories are poison for a person who thirsts for it.

65th Day:

The sun has set. I saw it setting down today, under the ocean… Like a big orange candy dissolving into the waters… Funny that’s how I used to describe it even when I was a kid…

I guess, with half my body gone, I have started to go on a reverse expedition, and turn to past, when future seems so improbable…

It’s comforting. I like it this way.

It’s almost dinner time. Ma has still not returned. Damn, I should call the cook.

Heck, the doorbell’s ringing. Hope that good-for-nothing servant boy is not asleep already.

I’ll call him.


It was her.


She dropped by, just to meet me…

Meet me!!!

I saw her smiling! I swear I could see her cheeks turn a little red when she tried to make an excuse for calling in….

She smiled!!!

Somebody stop me from dreaming… I may forget what my reality is…


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