Tangent

 

The sun outside has taken shelter behind a thick sheet of dark grey clouds. It's raining like it hasn't rained all year. What am I doing? I am here, staring out of the window, reminiscing about my today's physics class, thinking about a lot of things-the jokes, inertia, test, and most of all-mud.

Yes, I am spending my Saturday night thinking and writing about mud. Mud, something we often dislike. Who likes mud after all except little kids who find it soft and like to jump on it with their friends to stain each other's clothes.

Kids are brighter than us. Mud isn't all bad.

I look as the wheels of the cars cause water to splash at the passer-bys and the other people on two-wheelers. I can see them annoyed by the mud and water. But is it the mud's fault?

When the car drives over the mud, the mud wants to get attached to the wheel. And the wheel also wants the mud to get stuck with it. So, it tries, and there is a centripetal force of attraction acting on the mud from the wheel that allows it to stay connected with the wheel for a while.

But that's it. It's just for a while.

The wheel tries but has no other option than to let go.

So, it does.

The mud flies in a straight line, tangent, towards whatever there is in front of it. And we curse at it. But it's not its fault. It just wanted to stay with the wheel. And the wheel just wanted to stay with it. But they couldn't stay together, the pull wasn't strong enough to let them. And the mud flies towards us.

Just like some people in our lives with baggage. We find them like that and blame them, but is it their fault? Perhaps their wheel was a person, a thing, a hobby, anything.

It's not the mud's fault.

Nor is it the wheel's fault.

But then, whose fault is it?

The World Through the Eyes of a Teen

 

As a child, I had a taste for historical serials, depicting the medieval ages. There’s a crossing near where I live, which was on one of the roads we used the most whenever we went somewhere. The trains passed a lot, and I would jump in excitement inside the car, my tiny brain stunned by a vehicle so long and fast, and overjoyed by the sound of its whistle. At the same time, I would notice people trying to make their way past the crossing, risking getting hurt, only to save a minute or two. And then, as soon as the train would pass, and the crossing would open, the people would drive the vehicles as fast as possible as if their life depended on it.

It reminded me of when I saw medieval wars on television. The soldiers waiting for their commander’s word to fight their enemy. The people would start their engines, right before the crossing’s opened, as if preparing their weapons, and as if the commander has said “Attack!”, they would break out like a whole line of warriors. Except the warriors fought for something more literal and meaningful than time. People said time is money, however, money isn’t literal; it’s a mere way to get through life, and life’s something that one should enjoy, not ‘get through’.

The sight of people, waiting impatiently for the crossing to open terrified me. It seemed as though they would kill if another second of their time would be wasted. A couple days ago, I was passing a signal, when I saw the people waiting for their side to open, turning on their engines and it reminded me of how the young me used to think when the same happened at the crossing. Chuckling at the memory, I corrected my younger self. They weren’t like soldiers, they were like dispersed wolves, ready to tear down anything that came in their way. And it still terrified me.

~Janushi Raichura

Author of eight books

Her Last Wish, My Biggest Regret

 

I looked around the house for my seven-year-old daughter Allyson. She wasn’t in her bedroom or in her toy room or in her study room. I had searched everywhere in the house. The kitchen, the first hall, the second hall, the living room, everywhere, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Then I thought of one last place, somewhere she never went to her mother’s room. I walked inside her mother’s room, to find her crying silently in the middle of her mother’s bed. She had her head buried in her knees, which were folded against her chest.

‘Ally!” I called out to her. ‘What are you doing, honey?’

‘The kids at school bully me. I never want to go to school again.’ I climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged beside her.

‘Are you sure you never want to go to school again?” I asked her.

‘Nope!’ She puffed her cheeks.

‘Well, I just got a phone from the school that they are hosting an art exhibition tomorrow.’

‘Really?’ her eyes shined with excitement.

‘Yeah. Too bad you don’t wanna go to the school.’

‘On second thoughts,” she got up. “I think I will go to school tomorrow.’

‘Your choice.’

‘But daddy…’ she sat back again. “The kids will bully me.’

‘Well, then you have to fight them, right?’

‘How? They are so much stronger than me.’

‘You want to hear a story?’

‘I thought you just told me yesterday that you had told me every story you knew.”

‘Well, there is one more. You want to hear it or not?’

‘Which story?’

‘The story of your mother, Catalina.’ Her eyes sparkled with excitement. And so, I began. ‘It happened about five years ago. I couldn’t find Catalina. She was supposed to meet me at three outside the gate of our house. But she wasn’t there when I came to pick her. I called out her name and after waiting for few minutes she finally came running outside.

“Sorry, I am late. Your daughter is a complete tantrum maker!” she was holding you, daughter in her arms.

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“And you?”

“As fine as I can ever be.” She spoke in a low voice. “So, where are we going?”

“We were going to the movies but you are late so, plan cancelled.”

“So what are we doing now?”

“Whatever you say. This is your day after all.” She could hear the shakiness in my voice and she somehow figured out that I was going to cry.

“Don’t tell me you are going to cry again, you promised me you won’t!”

“Yeah, well I am breaking my promise.” She gave me a hug, and I hugged her back. “You’re dying, and I know nothing of your past, Cat.”

“Past’s past, Caspian. Now, I have you, and we’ll be together, forever. So, who cares about the past?” She put up that brave face, she always did in hard situations. I never knew how she managed to keep up that smile even in the most difficult situations. It was like magic, how courageous she was. I had never met anyone stronger.

“Let’s go to Jardin du Luxembourg.” I suggested. It was where I had proposed. She seemed to like the sound of that, and so she agreed.

It had that smell of rain in the air and cold breeze whistling through the trees. The birds were chirping and there were very less people there. We danced like eighteen-year-olds near a water fountain in an ankle length pool of water.

She was happy, I was happy, it was perfect. But we both knew it wasn’t going to last.

“Cas, when it happens, I want to be with you two.”

“Can we not talk about it?” she nodded, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“I want to be with Ally too.” She requested. Honestly, I didn’t want to share my last day with her, with anyone. But she wanted to, and so, I was left with no choice. But before we could get home, she started having breathing problems. Despite her refusing, I drove her to the hospital.

The doctors said it was time. She barely had minutes. And I could not go home and get you. There was no time for it. And you know what I hated the most? That she put up a brave smile, just like always, like nothing was wrong. Like she wasn’t dying. But she was, and nothing could change that.

She wasn’t even mad at me for not driving her home.

“I love you…” She spoke softly and held on to my hand, and I watched as the light left her eyes, hating myself for keeping her away from you.

And to this day, I am mad at myself for doing that. And you know, you’re her daughter, Ally. And you’re so much like her, more than you can imagine. And you’re strong, strong enough to have lived without your mother. And I love you, Ally. I wish I had managed to say that to her before she…

But I won’t make the same mistake again. Ally, you are my daughter, and I love you with every fibre of my being. And those bullies at school, they need you to tell them to back off. You’re so strong for a seven-year-old girl, you need to show it to them. Show them you’re a fighter.’

We both were crying. For a seven-year-old, she understood things very deeply. ‘I love you too, daddy.’

‘I know…’

‘And I will show those bullies that I am my mother’s daughter.’

‘That’s my girl!’

‘Daddy, will I ever see mom again?’ she asked innocently, tilting her head,

‘Someday, we both will.” We spent the evening going through Catalina’s photos. We laughed at some, cried at some. I even showed Ally some of her mother’s paintings, and she was just too happy to know that she was like Cataline.

Today, I closed my eyes, hoping I would see Catalina again.

Two are never sole, neither is ever alone

 

I pulled up the sheets, trying to get some sleep. Holidays sucked, right? Well, they did for me. Christmas and New Year, are the worst time of year. I tried sleeping, but over-joyed children were far from sleeping. They were out on the ground, playing with each other. I sighed, deciding to get up. Now you must be thinking that, hey Carol, why do you hate Christmas?

Well, the answer's simple. Christmas is like a huge reminder of the fact that I was alone. Without any family. And looking at moms baking cookies, and kids playing, just made me long for a life like that. The life I never had...

I turned on the radio, hoping for something good to be wrong. Boy, was I wrong...

How does it feel to

Be alone on Christmas...

Is it lonely?

Is it upsetting?

The quiet, is it unsettling?

You should be with your family

You should be with your friends...

You got none?

Well, there's a bar right up front!

But don't be...

Alone on...

Chr-i-i-stmas....

I turned it off. The singer was stupid. It's easy to sing about not being alone. It's harder to follow. I hated Christmas carols, and the fact my name was Carol, was just the biggest irony of all time. 

I had asked my boss if I could come to work, but he was going to San Francisco, so the office was closed. I passed the morning and the afternoon trying to keep my distracted with work and Netflix. By evening, the streets had gone quiet. And came the worst part of Christmas. The smell of delicious baked goods filled the air, and the sound of families laughing rang through my ears, and just like every Christmas, I started crying. How easy was it for those people...

I grabbed my purse and slammed the main door shut behind me. I was done being alone. The only people out in the café were the ones who were alone. And if two alone people were together, they weren't truly lonely, were they?

It's been ten years, and it's Christmas today. And I assure you, I ain't alone. I am happy I went to café that day. One makes solace, two make the company, and Christmas makes families. 

I am Perfect

 I am perfect, am I not? Are you telling me I am not? On what basis? Wait, firstly, what is perfect? Is it not the being precise in each and every prospect? What is precise then?

Honestly, I am not going to lie here and say I don't think I am perfect. I actually do think that. But don't mistake that for ego, no. Over the course of my short life, I have come to a conclusion that a belief in a specific thing or person is what helps them soar higher. Now, I won't say that a lot of people believe in me, cause they don't. They want perfection. And honestly, I believe in myself a lot. So much, that it compensates for the lack of belief in me by others. It's not overconfidence nor is it arrogance. It's just, "For me, this is perfect. If it's not for you, well not my problem." Sure, I listen to their advice and guidance, but at the end of the day, the fact that I am perfect sticks with me. 

I am tired of striving for perfection. Who defines perfection? Who has the right to define perfection? And who says who has the right to define perfection. All my life, I have tried to be perfect. For my parents, my sister, my friends, my relatives, well, not anymore. I do something, I believe it's perfect, then it's perfect for me. No, I don't want full marks. If ninety per cent is perfect for me, it matters not that it's not a hundred per cent. Because first prize doesn't matter to me anymore. What matters, is I fulfil my expectations from myself. 

Only I have the right to tear up a piece of writing if I don't like it. Because it doesn't meet my standards. Only I set my standards, which I see to it, are high enough to be hard to achieve. I am tired and sick of people defining their perfect and sticking it up on my forehead. It's their definition of perfection, not mine. I am perfect just as I am to you, and to me, I have a goal to reach. And then maybe, I'll be perfect to myself too.

So, if you think I am not perfect, well too bad I don't care. For me, I am a version of myself that can be bettered. My goal is not to be perfect to others. My goal is to be perfect to myself. To be what I want to be, to get everything I have dreamt in my life, and to achieve all I wish to achieve. 

My best efforts in being perfect for others have gone in vain. Because someone wants me to be something, and someone else wants me to be something else. How can I be everything? And only then, shall I be perfect? Perfect isn't a tag you can put on people, perfect is a desire for flawlessness. Because whatever you'll do, you will always have a flaw. But you will be perfect if you at least try not to have one. Everything has a fault, all that matters is how you try to overcome it. 

If I am not perfect to you, then it does not mean that I am a problem. And if you think, I am not perfect, do you think you are?

Fantasy For Friday

 

Fantasy.

You know, I personally hate it when people criticize fantasy. I am often told to read and write about the real world, the social life. They say I am just too lost in my “inexistent, imaginary, unreal” world. They say that people like to read about what’s real, about society. And that fantasy doesn’t exist, you have to be real.
It makes me wonder, that a thousand years ago, this world would’ve felt like a fantasy, does that make this world unreal? Philosophy, something, which is just as real as it gets, even it says that fantasy can be real. Under metaphysics, subjective possibilities, branch epistemic possibility, it is clearly stated we do not know whether something is true or not (no one has come up with proof yet); so it is (epistemically) possible that it is true and it is (epistemically) possible that it is false. But if it is, in fact, probably true (as it may be, for all we know), then it would have to be (subjunctively) necessarily true; what being provable means is that it would not be (logically) possible for it to be false.

It means that we might know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is not raining outside—but that would hardly mean that it is (subjunctively) impossible for it to rain. 
So fantasy can be real for all we know. And why do we read social articles? Aren’t we having enough social problems in our life, that we should go read someone else’s (likely an “unreal” character’s) problems? Or so we seek solutions to our problems? Well, guess what, it’s a fiction world. The only one with the solution to your problems is you. Social articles ain’t getting you anywhere. They are, in fact, “fiction” too. Fantasy. You see, most writers hate giving sad endings. They just “imagine” a good ending and put it in a book, and everyone just loves it.

At least when we write about fantasy and unreal stuff, we kind of admit we are writing about it. We don’t put it under the name “social” to increase our readership. You see, fantasy is imagination, and so, every fiction book, is, as a matter of fact, fantasy. It is imagination. Non-fiction, I got nothing against it. But fantasy broadens the mind, perspective. If humans didn’t imagine that we could go to space, we could not have gone to space. If everyone just turns their back to fantasy and becomes close-minded, narrow-minded, we humans are getting nowhere.

So, we can just spend our time worrying about tomorrow, or we can literally create our tomorrow. A fantastic tomorrow. Fantasy starts where reality ends, but is itself endless. Nothing beyond fantasy exists, it is infinite. But I can assure you, that even, by any chance, the fantasy ends, humans will cease to exist.

Announcing My Next Release

 

Divulging Facade

 

As I laid with my head on the pillow,

Staring at the fiery sun, and the beautiful willow,

With mugged up thoughts crammed inside my mind,

And Lucifer whispering at my side,

One after the other, fell my dreams like petals from a flower,

And the tears escaped the cage of my lashes, making my sweet mouth sour.

Self-told words had now proven to be lies,

And the fake façade had come with a price.

No longer could I make believe,

No longer could I just live.

Bounds were unbreakable,

But my imagination had turned out to be killable.

And as it took its dying breath,

It planted one last seed in my head,

Told me it wasn’t the boundaries,

The true Devil was the lies.

It wasn’t bound by any line,

Imagination wasn’t made to falsify.

I rose and fell,

Over the chime of bell.

I had trouble standing,

But was it the costume I wore that led to my crash-landing?

Soon, the Angel reappeared at my shoulder,

And I felt a little less colder.

The realization hit, the illusion divulged,

The mask dropped,

And I saw my face,

Just as pretty, but no longer hidden behind a veil.

The Forgotten

 Legends often become myths. But one good thing about them is that even as myths they are remembered. In storms, earthquakes, calamities, the working class is usually forgotten. The working class means the class of poor people. It doesn’t just comprise of one, two or a dozen people. Around 54% of India comprises of working-class, that is, the poor people. Shocked? Now imagine, them all being forgotten.

Scientifically, people are born, they grow old and they die. No spirits, no reincarnation, nothing. Then how do we live after we die? Most of us would be “forgotten” a hundred years from now. What happens after that? We are the forgotten. Burned and just simply, forgotten. Why? Because we are have not made an impact. Paint a piece of metal. After years, it will wear off, and then one day, it will seem as though it was never there. Forgotten. But now, make a big dent on a piece of metal. It will stay there, no matter how much you try to undo it, it will stay there, forever. Like a legend. That song, Legends Never Die, what does it mean? It obviously does not mean that the people in legends would live forever, or does it mean that. Maybe. Yes. It does mean that. Physically, everyone dies. But their soul lives through words written by them, for them, forever. Einstein. Existed 150 years ago, we still know him. Didn’t he accomplish the purpose of living? I mean, what is the purpose of living if you are just gonna be forgotten after a hundred years or maybe less?

We are born, we grow old and then we die. But what if, we can live even after dying. Through people’s heart, their minds, through words. We could live forever. Then why not live forever? Then why not do something, that makes us remembered? Then why not make a dent on metal than paint it? You know death does not scare me, but being forgotten really does. Some people think that it is superstition, that it is impossible, but maybe it isn’t. I mean we remember the ancient kings and queens and them all.  Why can’t we make ourselves remembered like them?

There are rich people owing big factories and all that. But even most of them would be forgotten. Because being rich does not ensure your placement in everybody’s memory, being something does that. Then why don’t we set the goal of our life to be remembered for at least 50 more years than we are most likely to?

Emotion Morphosis

 

Emotion Morphosis. This is the suitable title to this article, at least according to me. Now, after does some experiments on myself, I have come to a conclusion that emotion morphosis can be of two types.

So, now, I would like to take lemonade as an example to explain emotion morphosis, since it is the easiest thing to make, and most of you would know how to make. When you meet someone, your emotions for them are as clear as water. Neutral. Now, in this example think of lemonade as a bitter feelings for someone you love/loved. It is a bitter lemonade. Lemon is sour, but it is exciting, and here it stands for drama. Everyone has their own choice of lemonade, I personally like the lemonade more sweet and less sour. Sweetness here, crystals of sugar, stand for love. And salt, well, salt is the blender here. The secret behind the taste of lemonade, without which, the lemonade’s not the same good.

For example, after pouring the lemonade, you realize it’s bitter. Cause the drama, was bitter. The fault was in the lemon. So, most of us try to add hatred to the lemonade. But the thing is, it will make it more bitter. And you can’t just drink the bitter one. Nor can you just let it be. It will just make it worse. You can’t throw it away, cause throwing it away won’t blip it out of its existence. It will still exist, you can’t change that. What you can do, is add the right ingredient. You can’t add crystals of sugar (love), cause it will take forever to dilute and by that time, the lemonade might get more bitter. You have to choose the powdered sugar. Positive emotions, like empathy, sympathy, hospitality. You have to decide what should be added. Cause those are your emotions. And instead of spending forever with a bitter lemonade, you can just add a pinch of sugar, and live in peace.

Emotions are like chemicals. Your hatred can change to love, you just have to add the right emotions. Feel the right things. You think you can’t control your feelings? Well, you are wrong. Cause there is one thing more powerful than them, your brain. Which can control your thoughts. Your mind, as they say. It has the leash around its neck. Which you just have to hold. Some believe love doesn’t exist, well, it’s up to your brain. You can make it exist. Emotions are unreal. Abstract nouns. You can only feel them. And you can stop yourself from feeling them.

The other type of emotion morphosis, is adding the lemonade to another drink. Transferring your emotions for X, to Y. You hate X, you don’t want to, you add all that hatred in Y’s cup. You exchange your perspective for X, with your perspective for Y. Your force yourself to feel towards Y, and believe me, once you hate Y, your lemonade X, will itself become less bitter. Because there is a limit till which you can produce any emotion. Your emotions are your guardian dogs, but sometimes, instead of protecting your soul from negative emotions, they can bite you. I am using metaphors to explain my points. Cause it always comes down to you. And you are the only person who can hold the leash and restrain your mind. Thoughts affect emotions. And emotions affect your actions.

New Trilogy-Crime

 

As a theft takes place at Lyric's mother-in-law's place, she must reopen the horrific events of the past and to find the hooded thief. But with spies in and out, the case takes a mysterious turn when someone jeopardizes their traps and all the clues become undependable and Lyric must face her old enemy from the past. When the survivors die and dead turn out to have survived, Lyric is forced to face her past and separate the truths from the lies.

New Book!!

 

The first part of my crime trilogy.

As a theft takes place at Lyric's mother-in-law's place, she must reopen the horrific events of the past to find the hooded thief. But with spies in and out, the case takes a mysterious turn when someone jeopardizes their traps and all the clues become undependable and Lyric must face her old enemy from the past. When the survivors die and the dead turn out to have survived, Lyric is forced to face her past and separate the truths from the lies.

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Not Everything Can Be Fixed

 I have a pair of spectacles. Two pairs, actually. The old one’s broken. So, my mom got me a new one. I would fix the old one again and again, and it would keep breaking. I am very attached to the old ones. So, I can’t actually let them go.

I have a friend. Actually only one friend. After publishing my first book, I started losing my friends. One by one. But that one, I’ll call her Berry here, she was there, always. We would fight, and then I would apologise and fix our friendship, scared to lose my one friend. It happened again and again.

In our chat, I said I would choose her over my other friend, a new friend, the one who I have been talked to only a couple times. Let’s name him Apple. Apple and Berry are enemies. So, I didn’t get too close with Apple. And Berry said I didn’t have to choose. And then she said that she was selfish and that she would choose herself, always. I was confused and then she said that, As long as there a remote part of Apple in her life, she would be screwed. I was taken aback. I asked her if she was breaking our friendship. She said she was.

I think it’s time I put away my old spectacles and try my new ones, and hope that they’ll be different.  

Phoenix

 

Burn me down,

I'll rise from the ashes,

The fire's crown,

Raging over my lashes!!

~Janushi Raichura

Author of the novel series Ventures of Gem Land

Imagination

 

Imagination is the creator of all. It ignites curiosity which is the base of all humankind.

~Janushi Raichura

Our Loved Ones!!

 The fights with our loved ones make us question ourselves more than them, our trust, our love, our dreams!!

~Janushi Raichura

Author of the book series Ventures of Gem Land.

Lonely

 

You all ask me,

'Who am I ?',
Not 'How am I?'.

You just see my face,
Not my hobbies.

With a tear in my eye,
I went to hear,
The chirp of my bird,
Who flew above me,
Ignoring me.

Today I realised,
I was lonely,
I am lonely,
But maybe I can change my future.

Hear everybody,
"You didn't reject me,
I rejected you.
You didn't make me lonely,
I made myself lonely.
You invited me to play at night,
But I stared at the shimmering stars bright.
And we'll see who will be,
how much successful in the future,

And at that time,
You'll all ask me how am I,
Not who am I."

~Janushi Raichura

Author of the book series Ventures of Gem Land