Smriti says about herself- 
If I had to describe myself in one word, the word would be 'writer', because there's no other part to my soul. I have grown up with my pen, and shall live with it.


 The sun’s soft gaze is falling on our eyes, we’re sitting on the wet grass in our backyard, holding a mug of warm coffee in our hands. 

Sun has peeked from the foggy sky for the first time since winter commenced, there are other things hiding behind a fog, and no matter how hard I try, they refuse to peek outside, but today is different, today is a sunny day, for the first time in a long time.
 He places his coffee mug on the grass, and wraps his arm around me. It feels warm, but I’m cold.

 “When I was little”, he begins talking. My mind begins to wander around. It is everywhere, but not in the summer of 99 when he fell off a tree at his grandfather’s farm house, from where he got that scar behind his left ear. I let out a soft giggle, softer than the gaze of sun that is falling on our eyes.
“The scars on my left knee and right foot, they tattooed themselves on me when I was seven. It was a stormy evening, and I was playing with my cousins, when I tripped over. My elder brother carried me all the way back home.” I begin talking to myself.

There is a flood of words echoing around in the walls of my brain, but there’s no way to get them out. The walls are too high. Why are we talking about scars? Scars that don’t hurt anymore, but they’re there, shining brighter than diamonds, announcing that once upon a time, we were all damsels in distress.
“…And that is how this little baby on my elbow came into existence.” He finishes off his sentence. I still don’t know how or when did he get that tiny mark shaped like Harry Potter’s scar on his elbow. All I know is it is there, and it does not hurt anymore, but it is there. I begin looking for five things I can see, the sky, our house, birds, a door, him. A door, but there are no doors inside me, no windows, no peek holes, just a long and high stretch of wall, beyond which lies a world unexplored. He is looking for a door too, a door to my soul, but I have kept him waiting outside. I immediately begin looking for four things I can touch. Coffee mugs, grass, our shoes, him. I can touch him, but why am I so far away. How? I close my eyes and trace my fingers over his face, his forehead, his nose, his lips, him. “Bring me closer, please.” I scream, but not loud enough for him to hear. I realize I need to continue, and I begin looking for three things I can hear. A building under construction in the neighbourhood, a car honk, him. He is still talking about scars. Why can’t he stop? My scars are refusing to leave me, and no, they’re not harmless. They shout and scream into my ears, that once upon a time, I was hurt, and I can be hurt again. They ask me to run as fast as I can, into a huge black hole, to never return again, but he is guarding my walls, and I know I am safe, but these scars push me deep into anticipation of a deadly future.
Quick, two things I can smell. The coffee, and him. They smell vaguely similar, two things I am very fond of. Why is the smell drifting away? I push myself closer to him, to trap that scent with me forever. But beyond my walls, no flower lives on to see the sunshine of the day. I see the vapours rising from the coffee mugs, and disappearing into nothingness. I need to stop them, I need them, I need him. One thing I can taste, him. He leans in for a kiss. For the first time in a while, I am feeling like I’ve reached home. But when he pulls his lips away, I find myself lost again, in the labyrinth that I’ve built, the labyrinth that he’s trying to find a way in, the labyrinth that has made him seem far away, even when he’s beside me, holding my hand, promising to never let go.

My father taught me this trick. Grounding, when the thoughts kick in. Think of five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste, it connects you with the environment, the connect which you otherwise seem to be losing. It connects me with him, the connect which I otherwise seem to be losing.


मील के पत्थर

जब तक आदमी का होना प्रासंगिक है कविता भी प्रासंगिक है - कुमार मुकुल

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