Cemented

 

I held my head high as I strutted down the path, cane in hand and hat tilted just right. The early morning sun bounced off my bronze-painted face, casting glints of light as I moved. Birds chirped curiously from above, perhaps baffled to see a statue walking through the park with such confidence.

I puffed on my imaginary cigar, savoring the illusion. My cane clicked rhythmically against the cobbled path, keeping time with my theatrical steps. I waved at a passerby whose jaw dropped in shock. Poor boy must’ve just woken up to see a bronze statue wave at him. Reactions like that? It's always worth it.

As a live statue, I’m used to awe and wonder. It comes with the act. But today, something nudged me to explore—maybe the crispness of the morning or the feeling that the city still held secrets. My feet led me to a place I had never entered before: the old cemetery on the edge of downtown.

I’d been in this city for almost a year, performing on sidewalks and street corners, but I had never walked through this overgrown place. The gate was rusted open, groaning softly in the breeze. I stepped inside. The ground was cracked, tombstones tilted, and covered in crawling ivy. The deeper I walked, the more silent the world became like the birds and breeze held their breath.

The cemetery was ancient. Crumbling stone angels loomed with eyeless sockets, and moss blanketed the graves like a thick shroud. Still, I crossed through, figuring it was a shortcut. Eventually, I reached the other side and merged with the morning crowd on the city sidewalk.

Soon, I found my spot on the corner, stepped up on my pedestal, and struck my pose. Today, I was Sherlock Holmes—magnifying glass in hand, trench coat stiff with bronze paint. Last week, I was Apollo, and before that, Iron Man. The characters changed, but the show stayed the same. People laughed, gasped, took pictures, and dropped bills into my tin. A group of tourists gathered; I subtly shifted my posture. Tourists meant cash.

The day passed in a blur of flashes, footsteps, and faint applause. By sunset, my joints ached, my skin burned under layers of stiff paint, and my smile faded beneath the mask. I counted my earnings, packed my things, and started to walk back to my apartment.

The sky had soured, turning gray and heavy. The humidity made the paint crack and flake on my arms. Then, the rain came. Thunder boomed like a drumbeat from the heavens. Lightning danced above the rooftops.

I pulled my coat tighter and looked for shelter. That’s when I noticed the cemetery gate again. I must’ve taken a wrong turn. Still, it struck me that this was the quickest path home. With little hesitation, I stepped inside.

The air grew colder almost instantly. The drizzle barely made it through the twisted, skeletal trees. The path slouched beneath my weight, the moss squelching like wet fabric. My heart thudded louder with each step.

Lightning flashed—brief, brilliant, and terrible.

That’s when I saw it.

A statue. Not a grave angel or mourning woman, but... a man. Bronze. Frozen mid-step, one arm outstretched as if waving. His face twisted in terror.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

I recognized that pose.

It was Tim—Old Tim, the wizard performer from the main boulevard. He hadn't been around for weeks. We’d all thought he moved to another city. But there he was, immortalized in horror.

My eyes darted around as another flash hit the sky.

More statues.

A woman in a ballerina pose, eyes wide with fear. A man mid-bow, his hands gripping a now-cracked violin. One with a hawk mask, half-shattered, revealing cemented teeth underneath.

They were all live performers. Artists. People I knew.

The realization hit me like ice: they hadn’t left—they’d become part of this place.

I turned to run. My feet skidded on the wet stone. Another bolt of lightning seared the sky. My pulse pounded like a war drum.

And then... movement.

The statues were no longer frozen. Slowly, they shifted. Heads turned. Eyes locked on me. A dozen unmoving faces somehow twisted into silent screams, and their arms began to rise.

“Stop,” I whispered to no one, stumbling backward. The shadows twisted, stretching like claws. With every step I took, the statues seemed closer—closing in, surrounding me like a ritual circle.

I slipped. Fell hard. Pain bloomed in my elbow, but adrenaline kept me going. I scrambled to my feet—only to feel it.

Cold.

Crawling up my legs. Cement. Hardening.

I looked down—my feet were turning to stone. The paint on my skin bubbled and hissed. My scream caught in my throat. I was being sealed, slowly and cruelly.

One final lightning bolt lit up the sky—and I saw my reflection in a puddle.

Half of my face was already stone.

---

I woke up gasping.

Sweat drenched my sheets. My feet ached. My back throbbed. But I was in my apartment, safe.

I staggered to the bathroom. My face was pale. There was no paint, no stone, no signs of the storm. Just me, shaken and alive.

I rinsed my face and looked up into the mirror.

And froze.

Above my brow was a jagged, gray streak of cement blending into my hairline.

My fingers trembled as I touched it.

It was real.

A part of me was no longer mine.

A part of me was cemented—forever.

 

Mistaken for a Mission

Spring was finally settling into a super long summer. And I sure was excited about it. Yes, summer is tiring and endless, but I admire its consistency. Also, you can have countless ice creams, go for a swim, wear pretty dresses, enjoy longer days, and have so much energy the entire day to go on adventures.

I was blissfully making summer plans when the heat made me suffocate. It was an ordinary afternoon, a bit hotter than yesterday. Also, the rise in humidity had made staying indoors insufferable, so I trotted outside for an afternoon walk.

 

I stood under the shade of the big tree in the backyard and looked at how it had shed so many leaves to welcome the season of growth. I was walking on a blanket of dead, crunchy leaves. Suddenly, I spotted something sparkle in the mass of brown; I bent down to pick it up. It was a weird coin; its notation was blurred out and not visible clearly.

 

It started to sparkle brighter and grow warm in my hand. I felt myself being pulled towards it until the pull became too strong. I tried to keep my feet on the ground, but the coin whisked me off it, and I fell into a black abyss.

 

I soon landed back on my feet and looked down at myself, and my jaw dropped; my clothes had transformed; I was wearing a fabulous black jumpsuit just like in those incredible spy movies, and looking about, I realized that I had teleported right on the set of one.

It was a big dark room illuminated with neon lighting. And big screen all around. Weird gadgets and tech stuff stood on the walls, and many other people were in the room, too. All the girls were wearing black suits like mine, and the men had white costumes, which were a bit out of place, but who could stand against the costume designers? Before I could tell someone I was on set by mistake and had no script, the screens around the room flickered to life.

 

An older woman, dressed meticulously in a black suit, her grey hair in a pristine bun on her head, peered over us with her round spectacles before announcing, “Agents, your next mission is essential for all of us; you need to get through it or die trying. All the best.” The screens blacked out, and the lights shut, but somehow, no one screamed, not even a single hoot, not even from me.

I waited for the director’s cut because I couldn’t have come on a mission. Could I? Especially the one involving death, shouldn’t my first mission be stealing something from the house of a weak and old villain with just two bodyguards?

 

Well, the coin in my hand had its other plan, and like any weird sci-fi film, I had transported to my next location, defying the fundamentals of physics.

Air flew out of my lungs as I saw where I was. It was dry ground with gravel stretched about, and the trees grew heavily. It seemed like we had arrived in a forest clearing. The extreme humidity and heat suggested it was a rainforest. But as I turned around, I saw we were at the bottom of a mountain with smoking on top.

Can we pause for a minute? Is that an active volcano? Why are we at an active volcano? I don’t like this at all.

 

But to add to my discomfort, I saw people emerge from the woods in the clearing. My teammates and I were being corned, and then chaos broke through. Everyone went to fight the bad guys, with kicks and punches flying about. Pocket knife slashing through and gunshots being fired.

I valiantly ducked behind a bolder. My head was spinning, my stomach churned horribly, and my chest was constricting with a panic attack. I tried to get my bearings, but I still couldn’t understand why I was mistaken for this mission; I wasn’t cut out for this stress level. I looked at the coin still in my palm and tried to read the words on it.

‘The chosen one,’ it read. This was an extreme level of a fiction adventure story. I can’t be the chosen one. I didn’t feel special at all, but my teammates were falling. I saw all the white men fall. We were going to lose if I didn’t spring into action.

 

I walked out of my hiding spot and tried to concentrate to bring out my inner Hulk, but I managed to freeze on the spot and be tied up with the remaining agents. So, much for walking out of the safe place, I acted like a stupid horror movie actress, the one who would probably die before the interval.

 

We were loaded onto the jeep that started to make its way up the mountain. I tried to concentrate on my surroundings, but the noises seemed muffled, and the lights seemed sharp to my eyes as my head was still throbbing painfully. The extreme heat was choking me, and my throat felt like sandpaper. We reached the top and were forced out near the crater's edge. Heat blew in my face, and my body broke into a sweat; I squirmed in my bounds with discomfort.

 

I could hear them discuss a ritual and blood; I didn’t like the idea of blood and ritual together. Instead, I was happy to be left free to walk away. But being chosen comes with the perks of being the first to be placed on the platform.

 

When they were coming for me with the syringe, I knew this was my cue for breaking free from the ropes tying me up and hitting the crazy guy in front of me with a solid round kick, flipping back and pulling out my two draggers and getting into my better than Black Widow spy mode to knock all of them up.

But all I could do was let out a pathetic scream as the scringe was plunged into me. I thought scraping my knee was painful, or getting bit by a wasp was actual pain, or falling from the scooter was horrible. But giving out three bottles of blood was agony metamorphized. It was hell rationalized.

I grew weak, and my knees clacked as I slid on the ground. I felt my hands and feet clammy, and my steady and strong BP fell. I saw black spots flash before my eyes, bile rose in my throat, and my stomach felt queasy, trying to heave out the bits of food it had.

But I was too drained even to breathe correctly; my eyes began to shut. All I could feel was the scorching heat from the ground and my body trying to breathe. The ground felt good, though a bit soft but secure, and its heat made me break into a cold sweat.

 

I opened my eyes; I was back in my room; the bedside table held the set of next pills and a glass of water that I used for my parched throat. I stretched, my head no longer spinning, and it seemed I was back to normal temperature. I got up and decided to complete some college assignments. Viral fever will take some days to recover, which meant the mission was still on.

The Last Question

The pouring rain hit my ears, and I took a minute to register that it was my alarm clock blaring. I grappled with the sheets to reach out for my phone. I silenced the cheerful rain sounds and silently crashed the room as the phone's light made me squint my eyes. 2 am read the screen. I groaned and spent 15 minutes wondering why getting up was worthwhile. Honestly, Midterms have started to haunt me. Thankfully, it’s the last time today.

 

I threw off my comforter and slid off my bed with heavy steps. I reached my desk and opened my laptop. The dark room lit up with the laptop’s screen light. My bloodshot eyes were far more adjusted to read like vampires than work under full lighting. I opened my notebook, clicked on my pen, and started to write down the question. The scratching and shuffling of sheets filled the room as I absorbed the task. I was obsessed with studying at this time. It’s when many people give up on learning, or the ones on all-nighters take a slagging, but I start afresh now. It was practically my time to rule over the entire world. I felt like the king of the world.

 

I finished the question and looked at the answer bank. Of course, it matched; it was meant to match. I turned the page to the next question. The air of darkness felt cold and heavy on my shoulders, but I didn’t care about anything. The wind blew outside my window, and the moon covered its face with the blankets of clouds. My laptop remains the sole source of light now.

 

 I heard the door knob rattle; I paused and looked at the door. I was annoyed by someone breaking my meditation. But the door remained silent, and I chalked it off as a play of wind. I kept solving my problems as time ticked away.

 

After an hour, the doorknob rattled again, but I was too engaged in my question to notice it. I was finally on the last problem, and I finally reached the end of it. Smirking I turned to the answer key, and my eyes widened in shock as I saw that my answer was wrong. I took the pen and swiftly turned up a new page, my breath shallow as I tried to undo the error. Twenty minutes later, I still had solved it wrong. I threw my pen aside and gripped my head in frustration.

I know nothing; I am going to fail today. Thoughts of failure started blurring my mind, and I became anxious and annoyed. In all the chaos the door banged open. I jumped in fright. The cool wind hit my face, and I turned in shock to see the open door. No one stood on the opposite end. I got up; my heart was beating rapidly, but I was more annoyed at my stupidity than afraid of this mysterious occurrence. How could I have forgotten to lock the doorknob? Anyone could have come walking in and stole valuable stuff like my excellent notes, and I would have been peacefully slumbering. I shut the door and turned the lock. I sat back on the chair and noticed that my laptop had switched to power-saving mode. Well, I will get up again when it dies.

 

I started to solve that problem again. The air inside had turned stiller, and the temperature seemed to have dropped even though it was supposed to be a clear night. The howling wind outside signaled a noticeable change in plan. I rubbed my eyes as I got it wrong again.

A chuckle echoed in the room. I looked up. It still hung over my dorm like the impending doom. My mind slugged over the concept. Did I imagine a chuckle? It was possible; maybe it was all in my head. Distracted, I scolded myself and returned to solving the question.

My hands were shaking, and I mumbled at the increasing cold. The laptop’s screen started to fade more as the battery leaked out. I was on my last 10 percent.

I sighed and my sigh echoed back. I froze.

I felt watched.

I looked through my laptop’s screen, but all I could see was my ghost-pale reflection and darkness behind me. Something seemed unnatural about the way darkness gathered behind me. As if it was all centered right behind me. It looked like someone was sitting on my bed hiding in the shadows.

I shook my head. I was irrational. This was a trick of my mind not to study. I had to keep pushing on. The battery lowered by another percent, and the wind outside increased slightly.

 

Soon, the oak tree by the window tapped on the pane as if warning me. The relentless thump thump matched my heartbeat. I heard my bed creek. They were getting up now and were coming to get me.

My rationale screamed at me to look back and face my fear, but suddenly I felt like losing control. It was as if facing the worst nightmare.

A problem in the dark. I hated that; I liked to get in the face of mystery, but I was too timid today. I grabbed my pen and returned to the question. I must keep working, it's all in my head, and nothing is behind me.

Shivers ran down my spine as I felt icy breath exhale over my shoulder. They were standing just an inch away from me. I had to solve this question. It was the last one left; it would all be okay if I solved it.

My pen scratched relentlessly, the battery dropped, and the doorknob rattled as the oak beat away. Their cold breath on my shoulder kept me on edge; I gulped as I reached the last step. It still seemed off, and I made an error again.

 

The laptop was screaming alerts at me saying just 5% remaining. Tears fell on my notebook as I restarted the question, their breath quickened as they realized I was failing. They were basking in my failure, feeding off my distress. The battery dropped to last one percent, and I dropped my pen. I can’t do this. I close my eyes and feel darkness consume me.

 

The pouring rain hit my ears, and I took a minute to register that it was my alarm clock blaring. I grappled with the sheets to reach out for my phone. I silenced the cheerful rain sounds and silently crashed the room as the phone's light made me squint my eyes. 2 am read the screen. I groaned and spent 15 minutes wondering why getting up was worth the effort. Honestly, Midterms have started to haunt me. I really hope that it will be the last time today.

In Love

It's that time of the year when love is confessed. I know I am a day late, but my signature date is the 15^th, so any confession I ever make will happen on this date.

I am clumsy about offline confessions, but I believe I hold some charm when writing about my feelings.

So, here in this blog, I confess my feelings to you (it would be sad if you didn’t read it, though). But even if you didn’t read or didn’t understand, it's alright. I believe in destiny, and all things will come to a settlement.

So, here it goes…

 

As a little kid, my definition of love consisted of my love for toys, my favorite food, and my parents. Love was something I believed I couldn’t live without. Love made me happy.

Then, my younger brother was born, and I learned love was a responsibility. It was looking after and caring for someone.

When I made friends in school, I realized love was laughing at the silliest things, being carefree and unaware of all the troubles and problems.

When my best friend moved away in 5^th grade with tears in my eyes, I found out that love was letting go sometimes.

Then the High school Era rolled in, meaning meaner kids and messier hormones. It made me fall in love with living alone.

Corona helped me detach from people my age, and with screens between our conversations, I lost the concept of love altogether. I was in my golden era of ‘eh, who cares’ or cringing at lovey-dovey movie scenes.

Self-love reached a peak somewhere around that time. And let's say that, loving myself, I realized what a problematic girlfriend I am. I felt glad to save many boys.

Loving yourself is exhausting; sometimes, you look in the mirror and go, ‘Ugh.’ Being in a pre-college exam-burdened relationship was challenging. It was strained with accusations, blames, and words of cajole. I know one should not be harsh on oneself and all. But try dating yourself someday. It's exhausting. It's like fighting a grave battle in your head. That’s when I realized love is fighting for a better future, struggling to make it all work.

And it did turn out great. I made it to my college and was ready for all the adventures. During my first semester at the hostel, I realized love was the longing to return home. Love was leaving the hardships and rushing to embrace joy. I didn’t notice many things in the first semester; I put my naive nature to blame. Moreover, my plate was overfilled with things to figure out, from fitting in a new place to making friends, attending classes, and packing to go home every weekend. I barely had time to find out more about Love.

 

The second semester brought me to a realization: I saw the season of love unravel in front of me. And no, I am not talking about the blooming flowers and butterflies coming out in spring. I was introduced to the concept of college couples. How did I take this in? Well, I had my days. Some days, I was in a hopelessly romantic mood and found every gesture cute; others, I felt like an 80-year-old granny with frizzled hair and just annoyed by this childish PDA.

Most of the time, I was just plain awkward. Like this time when I just wanted to walk to my class and instead saw some scenes in a public hallway. Or I just came to write an article in the library. I didn’t want to be sandwiched between 2 pairs of couples, one madly in love and the other angry in love. Or the countless times in elevators. Yes, I thank God for the power of phone scrolling to escape those situations.

All this made me realize love was awkward and weird, too. And I was happy to be a single girlie.

 

One summer break later with my new haircut and a better-adjusted wardrobe. Entering my second year, I realized that this was the summer I turned pretty… delusional.

3^rd semester was wild, from classes that made no sense to people who stopped making sense.

In a way, I have been a pretty decent tomboy since, like forever, but with my growing delusions, I sometimes started to feel pretty girlie. And blushing in delusion is certainly not healthy. But it helped me realize that maybe love was an illusion or a magical delusion.

 

Now that I have spelled your name in this article at least 7 times in the pattern you can find. I think it's time to talk about the current semester.

 

Sometimes, I get a giddy feeling in my stomach from something you say or do. Do I label it as a childish crush? It's not childish cause I am aware of what is at stake now. But now is not the time to confess, at least not for me. I am an ardent believer in all the love stories; I cherish all their twists and turns. I want to have my happily ever after, but waiting and hoping is also romantic.

Till then, I can post love notes and songs. I am sorry, dear reader, for not giving an explicit name. But love is confusing and puzzling; you drop hints for the most obvious things.

 

But I don’t hold back on celebrating the season of love. Single or paired, I think we can all do something lovely each day. A little exchange of smiles can help ease someone’s trouble. Be the flicker of sunlight in someone’s life by being nice. Spreading joy is like finding love.

 

This weekend, I third-wheeled my parents’ date, and looking at them, I realized that love is trusting someone to be there for you. So, I wait for that level of trust.

 

Until then, I would love to write my thoughts, post some songs, and take you to witness Lots of Tales Amongst US.

A Roll of Die

The stout Real Estate agent huffed as he climbed the tiny stairs to the second floor. I hoped he would not roll down on me. The place already felt charged with negative energy without adding my spirit to the pool.

The landing was small, and a single door stood at the top with a shiny lock that appeared to have been installed recently. The key slid in smoothly and opened with the first turn as if the apartment was beckoning me in.

“Here we are, mister, a nice, snug home.” the retailer entered and flicked on the lights. The lights fluttered a bit, and I was sure I saw him standing near the sofa, but he was gone in the blink of an eye. I

 shook my head; no, it can’t be true; there is no one. My heart thudded horribly, and my palms grew sweaty. I forced them to shut into fists and looked up at the agent, who gave me suspicious looks.

I tried to plaster a smile as I said, “Looks good, can you show me around?”

Within 5 minutes, the tour was over, and we were back at the front door. I handed him the check, though my hand shook a bit, thinking about how my account would now be down to its last penny. I would have to work hard for the next month's rent if only things didn’t turn out this way. I was good at shutting my thoughts.

 

I sat on the couch, and it creaked under my weight. The cheapness of the flat was ticking me off each second. My fingers etched for the TV remote, but I knew it was now a novelty I couldn’t earn.

Sitting desolate, my eyes fell on an old box under the table. Strange, maybe the previous owner left it behind. I picked it up, and outside the black box carved in the corner were the words, ‘Just a roll.’

 

A shiver ran down my spine. I knew what it was; the box slid from my shaking hands and fell on the table. I could hear his laughter. I clamped my ears shut. Trying to keep him out of my head to forget all the memories. I stood and backed away from the table.

I walked into the small kitchen and tried to fill a glass of water to calm my nerves. My phone rang, and I made a small jump. Then, I clumsily took it out of my pocket.

Her name popped on the screen. A single name would well up so many emotions inside me; the biggest was guilt. I picked up the call, and the voice I fell in love with 3 years ago spoke, “We need to talk.”

“Please don’t,” I replied.

I know I messed up with this reply, but being left in the cold for 3 days, I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to apologize, but words failed me.

I came up with the lamest response, “I am sorry.”

She sighed, “I am coming to you with the papers and your stuff.”

I tried another attempt, “Please don’t leave.”

But she had already hung up.

Shock surged through my body, and then he came; he finally came. He wore a decent suit, crisp as always; his dark eyes stared deeply as he gave his signature smile. A smile that said, ‘I got your back.’

Anger surged through my veins. I threw my phone at him, but he caught it and placed it calmly on the table.

He said, “Now, Josh, why are you throwing a tantrum.”

“You left me there; I lost everything.”

“Yeah, it's true you lost your cars, business, house, and now even your marriage.” He smirked.

His mockery made me angrier, “It's all because of you; I won’t fall for it; just go, just go, go.” I started to mutter repeatedly.

The anger had faded quite quickly, and depression was clouding my mind; all I could see was darkness everywhere.

His words, as always, broke the gloom.

“You can have it all back, my friend, just a roll to turn it all.”

 

I shouldn’t have risen from the ground and walked to the coffee table to open the box. It was like that ill-fated day when my feet guided themselves. I went to the big building with sparkling marble and golden lights. It's a posh place with high stakes. I always won here. They knew it from long ago. My wife Lucia didn’t; she got angry about finding out. She should stop crying; this place is why she could afford everything at any store.

I went to the table where the game was laid. It is luck, they say, that’s how I win. I won because of him, but he didn’t come that day, and I lost.

I am sitting in my broken apartment in front of the game like I was that day. He gave me a screwed smile. “It’s your turn.” And I picked the dice to win him back.

As the game progressed, my head started to clear. The doctor's visit helped little compared to this. The doctor just informed me and told me he was not there. But he is; he comes every time, trains me, and then we become winners in all the games outside. I felt a smile tug on my lips as I started to gain up on him; I would win.

 

I grabbed the dice excitedly but heard a knock on the door. Julia knocked again, shouting, “John, open the door.” I looked at him sheepishly, and he shrugged and gestured to open the door. I opened the door and stood in the frame to prevent her from seeing him.

She stared at me, as beautiful as ever, and I complimented her, “You look good.”

“You look rough.”

After an awkward pause, I looked at the two bags at her feet.

“Julia, please let's talk about this.”

“Here are the papers; just sign them, and no court will be involved.”

I gaped at her like a goldfish. She was turning away, probably to wait in her car until I signed this up.

In sheer panic, I opened the door and said, “Please wait inside.”

She sighed but agreed. As soon as I crossed the threshold, her body froze, and I felt like a fool as he was still sitting there, smiling his sly smile.

She started to shout, “You said you stopped; you said you won’t do it.”

“Julia, please hear me out.”

She was getting delirious, “You are an addict; what else are you lying about?”

“Julia, calm down!”

Julia stood and shouted; he watched, amused.

I looked at him as he stood, straightened his jacket, and said, “Well, looks like the show is over; we can count the points.”

 

“No,” I shouted.

Julia stopped and looked at where I was pointing at him.

I said, “The game is not over yet; I am still left to roll this dice.”

“You have gone crazy.” She started to back out of the flat.

I reached and held her hand, “Listen, I know I lost, but this die will win it all back. He said it will.”

She replied aghast, “There is no one here.” And then walked out.

I grabbed her on the edge of the stairs, but she was not in the right state of mind as she wrestled with me. I didn’t push her, but she fell, even the die flew out of my hand.

The die rolled down with her screams. I rushed after them.

Her breathing was shallow as she weakly called for help. But I cried from pain as I lost the game, and his laughter filled my head, and this time, I couldn’t shut my brain.

End of a Decade

Here I was blowing off candles on my 20^th Birthday cake.

 

No longer a kid, no longer a teen;

Still not an adult, just plain ol’ me …

 

Poetry aside, looking back on my 2 decades I sure have changed in many aspects. A decade ago, I couldn’t have imagined myself writing this blog. At 10, writing was an unknown domain for me. Though 10-year-old me was still a bookworm and would love to learn that one day I would be creating books on my own.

A decade ago, I was learning to dance not realizing I stood no chance there. Now I am trying to strum the guitar strings to a certain 10-minute-long song; who knows another decade past I laugh at this attempt too.

Not much changed about me in a decade. From afar I am still the short-haired, pale, and clumsy girl. Surely, I am taller now and I hope to think have got a glow-up to make the little me proud. I would love to flex in front of her that I am in love with swimming now, a sport she didn’t know anything about.

 

Or maybe 10-year-old me would frown when I tell her how I forgot to do a handstand or I am no longer reckless.

Did I grow up to be a wise mature woman? No, I am still somewhat stuck in my teenage tantrum era. My years through high school and three college semesters have surely made me academically wiser than the 10-year-old version of me. And gave me a glimpse of a real hard life. Sometimes the Peter Pan syndrome hits and I just want to be under 20. It's easy and simple being a kid.

So, what if I had a bedtime back then, now I miss my bed during exam time. It's tough living in a hostel, managing yourself, taking pills on your own if you fall sick, going down to feed yourself, setting up your things.

 

I am finally getting a taste of being independent and honestly, I would just tell the teenage me that it is not worth fighting for. Earlier, I was stopped by my parents sometimes, but now I have to say no on my behalf.

 

It’s a bittersweet moment looking back at my teenage years, I think about going back sometimes but I know that I would not truly be happy.

 

I have lived the last decade through the dark days and the sunny ones, the slow boring ones, and the wild ride ones. What excites me more is the wonder of my 20s. I know it's all going to be tougher now. But so am I, I am a lot stronger and tougher now and want to experience it all.

All the things left to do will be explored in this decade. And of course, I know one thing for sure. I want to keep writing for decades to come. And it would be wonderful if you keep coming along on my journey. (Drop a smiley reaction if you read till here).

 

Presently I find it hard to digest whether I am 20. I still feel like how I felt a month ago. Does a date grow us up? Or is it particular instances, like being remembered by just close friends on your birthday that make you 20? Or is it sleeping late and still getting up early because you have last-minute assignments? Or being 20 is being emotional at everything your parents do for you and getting that uncanny urge to repay them but then hitting the ultimate realization that their efforts are priceless.

 

Every year I grow up and look back I see how I have changed remotely on the outside. It's like wearing a new outfit but inside I am still as I was as a 5-year-old, at 10, at 12, and entering my teens. However, I hoped that I would face all the drama as depicted in teenage fiction novels or Disney shows. But surprisingly college held far more of those troubles.

Well, better late than never.

 

I still believe in a lot of things I did a decade ago. May it be Hogwarts, Narnia, or the fairytales. For me, they all exist. After all, the Multiverse is a concept we know frighteningly little about.

 

Who knows authors and writers are nothing but multiverse travellers penning down stories of a different world and selling them in a separate world. (Well, about time for me to go picking ideas from the multiverse)

 

Finally, I come out of my thoughts to look at my friends gathered around the cake, even though the circle has shrunk substantially, I know quality always precedes quantity. Before I could spring out a heartfelt gratitude speech to my friends, they attacked my face with cake and I had to do the cakewalk to the washroom.

 

Wiping my face clean, I look in the mirror and I catch a glimpse of 10 years old me. She has a playful look in her eyes as she winks at me. I know she will forever be cuter but deep down I know she hopes that each decade I will grow prettier, stronger, wiser, and more unique.

 

So, I smile back at her and learn to accept myself because I am her hero. I am the future for my past and being happy today will make my future smile.

 

It's indeed the end of a decade but the start of an age for me. And, I thank you for walking along with me on this journey.

Decoration credits to my dear roomies: Shine and Ashu

HitchHiked

                                                  

I am honestly not the kind of girl who would be standing on the side of a deserted country road, wearing a sequel studded party dress with dumb borrowed heels and a stolen, broken-down car. And yes, as bad luck goes, there is no signal to call for help. Not that I am super hyped to call up my dad…who happens to be a cop and would find each statement proof of me committing a fatal crime.

 

I felt angry at my ‘friends’ for lying about this being a birthday party at just one of their homes. Seeing the club and the people in it, I realized they wanted me to be a designated driver, and yes, I decided to ditch them all early. I planned on driving to their home, returning their car, and returning to my place, but then here I was with a broken plan and a broken car.

 

Just when I contemplated sleeping inside the car for the rest of the night, a pair of headlights shone off the opposite side of the road. A big black car pulled up right next to me, the windows rolled down, and there was the high school jock, the athletic and sandy-haired cool boy with a heart-melting smile, but for me, he would always remain a curly-haired spectacle hidden timid boy who was once my best friend.

 

George Melson flashed me his perfect smile and said, “Want a ride, fair maiden.” I rolled my eyes, decided to let go of my anger, and agreed to sit. After all, we were neighbors, and even though his actions from a year ago annoyed me, he could not be the worst person to hitchhike with.

 

Settling in the car, I felt instant warmth from the heater, and all the initial mistrust melted away. George started the car, “To be honest, the party was a bit boring; I left early, too.” Boring was not what I would define it as; I preferred being in less crowded places, so yes, it was painful. But of course, I just nodded at him.

 

The awkwardness in the car settled in even more solid than the fog flowing outside the window. My mind was racing madly with all the flashbacks, and I was counting the minutes to be out of it.

 

George cleared his throat, “See, I just wanted to talk to you…”

“I don’t,” I replied tartly.

He sighed, “It was totally out of place for me to…”

I interrupted, “Can this conversation not even occur? It doesn’t matter; I don’t care what you thought or did.”

He replied, “But I wanted to apologize.”

“Well, it’s too late for it.”

I ignored him completely; I knew I was rude. It was his car, and he practically saved me from a frostbite and death sentence from my father, but hey, he hurt me, and I hurt him; it is as fair as the world goes.

 

But somehow, he would not give up, “Amy, please, I know that you are not creepy; I just said it impulsively.”

“You didn’t; it was not a joke.”

“No, I really…”

“Everyone already thinks of me as a super weird person. I just had one friend, and I know you hung out with me cause your mother forced you to. But it has been years since I have been using my mom's card, and there is no more card to keep you as a friend. I can very well enjoy myself.”

“That’s not true; I liked being your friend.”

Anger finally slid into me, “Yeah, that did not stop you from saying I have creepy behavior in front of your ‘new friends.’ What was I, an entry ticket in the cool group? You know what? Just stop the car, and I will walk from here.”

“Amy, please don’t, I just got to…”

“Stop the car.”

“Amy…”

“Look out, you will hit her,” I lunged forward to grab the steering from his hands and steered a sharp turn to the right to avoid hitting the girl. The car spun as George hit the brakes.

 

My head started to spin, and then I blacked out.

 

I woke to my mind still holding that girl’s face; her pale face had strands of her red hair falling as if she had run a marathon, and her eyes were wide with fear as she screamed.

“Amy, Amy…” I shot up to George, shaking me wildly. He hugged me, and I pushed him back, “what happened to her?”

“What happened to whom? “He replied, worry and confusion in his voice.

“There was a girl on the side of the road; you almost hit her.”

“No one was out there; I don’t know why you pulled the steering; I know you hate me, but…”

“It’s not about you,” sighing in frustration, I opened the door and rushed out of the car; walking back, I could see the deserted countryside heavily sheltered in the fog.

The cold, still air was making the back of my neck tingle. George walked behind me; he spoke cautiously, “Amy, I don’t know what you saw; there was no one on the road; please believe me; I promise I won’t talk to you. Let me take you to your home safely; I don’t think you are feeling well.”

I was too shocked to react to his words and let him steer me back to his car. My heart pounded as I remembered that girl in the tiniest details; it was not a play of fog. It was as if something out of my worst nightmares. Everything about my current situation made my heart race miles per hour. The warmth in the car seemed fake now; coldness spread through my heart as a story started to piece together.

 

My father does not tell me the sadness and cruelty of the world he deals with as a policeman, but I am good at overhearing things occasionally. A year ago, a serial killing started in our town; the police have not been able to track them yet, as they are good at hiding their trail. But the victims have been high-school girls, and as much as I can recall, one of them was a red-headed; she was not my friend, but being a cheerleader, she was a part of the cool gang. I could not help piecing more things together as George tinkered with the radio. How long did he start going out to parties? Did he find them boring, or did he…Suddenly, his humming the song to the radio made me jump a little. He gave me a surprised look; I smiled back and looked out the window.

 

Was it the ghost of the girl I saw? What was she telling me? My mind screamed you are going to be next. I thought to clear my head, but dread was overpowering me. Did the police not suspect the getaway vehicle to be a black car? What if he kept the bodies here? Is that why perfume was overpowering the car?

 

A noise in the trunk made my heart skip a beat, “What was that?”

He shrugged, “Probably some tools dad keeps, nothing to worry about.”

The more he said everything was fine, the more wrong I saw. But the survival instinct started to kick in. My dad once gifted me a pocket knife, and I quietly slid it into my palm.

My hunch was based on my being paranoid, but it is better to be safe than sorry. Taking out my phone, I acted as if I was casually scrolling while sending a SOS to Dad. I hope he was on patrol duty nearby.

I kept my eyes on the road, scared of him taking a detour. “How long will it take?”

“It’s a long way back,” he replied casually.

“Didn’t take this long for us to come here. Are you sure we are not lost?”

“Amy, this is the only way.”

It is true he did not take any turns, but what if when I fainted? How long was I blacked out? Being in a moving vehicle was ending my chances of survival.

“Stop the car.”

He looked puzzled, “Amy, please, we have been over this. I won’t ever hurt you again.”

Saying so, he put his hand on my leg, and in a fraction of a second, I placed a sharp cut on his wrist. I did not know what had taken over me, but my body had just gone overdrive.

He pulled back from me, swearing and cursing, cradling his arm; I wrapped my hands around the handbrake, curled up, and held onto my seat. His eyes registered what would happen, but he was too late to act as his head hit the dashboard on the impact.

 

I opened the door and started to run until I saw the red-blue lights of the patrol car.

***

The press had a field day as the town councilor gave the answers that the serial killer had been killed. I sat close to my father, the medal heavy on my chest but lighter the heaviness of my heart.

I remember how the police knocked down George’s home and broke the news to his parents; seeing his mother cry, I felt horrible.

 

I remember asking my dad, “I just want to apologize.”

He said, “Sorry, won’t set it right.”

“Then what will.”

“Nothing, they already lost their son when he became a monster.”

I am a hero; I slayed the monster when he was ranting about killing all those girls and me being the next victim. The weird girl was the popular one now.

But I was devastated, not because I lost my friend and he got maimed, but now that they caught the ‘killer’ I would end up losing my new hobby.