Welcome to ‘The Pocket Diaries’ a global platform for every talent, a suburb for passions palpitating beneath the thick layers of necessities and indeed an initiative to unfold innumerable hidden talents forth you. 

A peculiar concept to bring your dreams to existence by providing you the very platform you always dreamt off. An opportunity to publish your works worldwide and indeed an
endeavour to provide you a ‘mysa’ in this contemporary incessant world.

Quill

An Apology

So today, I am sorry. I am sorry that even today, after all this ‘progress’, I am scared. I am scared, that when I hug my male relatives, they will interpret it in a way that would leave me somewhere, mangled and torn. I am afraid, when I stand in an elevator with two unknown men. Everyday, when I leave the house, with all the safety that there can be, I am still terrified. This is the level of fear that has been ingrained in me and every other girl in our country. And most of all, everyday there is this fear, somewhere, deep in my bones that there is no limit to all the tortures that another 16 year old girl may be enduring somewhere. When I sit in my father’s arms at night, I feel guilty. Guilty that another girl might be caged in the prison of her rapist’s arms, slowly dying every second. Today, when pictures of Dr. Priyanka Reddy’s charred body flash on my phone, I give up. I don’t have the strength to tell my father that he worries too much, when he tells me to be alert and call him when I get to class. I can’t fight anymore. I don’t want to be another daughter whose honour India failed to uphold. I don’t want to be that girl whose body is found in a sack in a street trashcan, and whose pictures are splashed across the media. I don’t want my sister to know that I am scared, and I don’t want my parents to tell the world that I died fighting.
To Jyoti Singh, I can’t be fearless. To Dr. Priyanka Reddy, I can’t burn for my country to rise from the ashes.
To all my sisters, whose voices haven’t been heard, I am sorry. I am sorry that I am alive, and you are gone. I am sorry, that today, I think that being a rape survivor is a better fate than dying.
I am sorry that I want to live.

Poetry, Quill

I’m Happy

And patiently I write what I’ve held in my heart,
For in sadness, I tend to forget times like these,
When the air smells sweet, my arms beneath my chin,
I’m smiling in the winter morning breeze,
It’s hard to remember the times like these.

It should be cold under a few degrees,
But I’m warm for my heart saw you smile at me,
The fog from my breath floats away at dawn,
And the warm fuzzy hoodies that remind you of me,
I hope I remember the times like these.

I’m happy and sadness seems miles away,
The world itself hums a melodious tune,
I blush for the sweet life in front of me,
There’s order, yet a beautiful entropy,
I want to remember the times like these.

And whence comes dusk unexpectedly,
As I sulk away in my balcony,
Sadness caresses my face, calm and composed,
I’ll open this page and read it again,
To make sure, I remember the times like these.

Quill, Write Ups

But I Became The Change I Wished to See

You surely would have heard of this phrase before at least once if not often. And honestly irrespective of the resistance you showed towards its genuineness and credibility in the ‘modern world’ yet, just like me, just like us, you too accepted it.

And just like me, you too had nothing to answer back when your parents slammed this rhetoric straight into your face, “saari duniya shudaaran da theka tu lita hoya hai?”

Just like me, you too accepted it. But, I did become the change I wished to see in this world, and maybe so did you.

From targeting the most subtle forms that stemmed this plight of the modern woman to directly addressing them, I did it all.

“Teri maa ka”

“Teri behan ki”

Sounds like just another day at school, that is how firmly these slurs (now adjective cum fillers) have inculcated into our language and hence our lives. I eliminated them completely from my vocabulary for I realised nothing would change, surely not the nation until we, the intellectual millennials, keep on promoting raping our own sisters and mothers after every couple of words we speak, in every joke we crack, in every sentence we form. I realised that it wasn’t funny and surely not casual when even my best friend used this filler for me. And I stood my ground firmly irrespective of how many times I’ve been told that I am overreacting upon this ‘just friendly cussing.’ Yet the only thing I felt was a feeling of alienation whenever I stood among/in the groups, my friends, for I didn’t ‘behave’ as normal teen friends do, as I did. “You have changed” that is what I got, because I changed?

Do you feel the same? Have you changed yet?

I put forward stats of how there were only 280 rapes in 30 years when mutilation, stoning to death, or hanging were the three options to chose from when caught guilty of raping in medieval English midlands. How only 63 rapes, all martial, were recorded in 5 years in Viking Scandinavia when beheading was the only punishment.

And I don’t need to prove anything, for now when the punishment begins at 2 years along with the imposition of fine, the stats go to somewhere over 106 rapes per day in India.  

I also tried telling people the problems, I questioned, I studied this predicament, I wrote articles on men, women, and their duties. I fulfilled mine. I became the change I wished to see. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body. Why? Who shall answer me at this juncture? I changed myself for Gandhiji, for ‘mentors’, for ‘well-wishers,’ for those wise ones who told me that doing so would change the society too. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body.

Hey… Knock knock… I know you’re there. You told me to first be the change I wished to see. But I already did that… I don’t see no difference… Hey, I’m talking to you. Have you become the change you wished for? Did anything change?

Am I all by myself, are you still there? When will not me, not you, but we change?

Quill

DEAR CRUSH,

Butterflies, stolen glances, going out of way, doing the silliest things for attention. Dear crush, I don’t even know when I fell for you or why I liked you at the first place. And you don’t even know that I exist, that a girl like me swoons every time you run your fingers through your hair. I swear my heart threatens to burst every time you stand up to make a speech. How can someone be so perfect? And to be honest my friends don’t really understand my liking for you. For them, you are an ordinary guy. For me, you are an unexplainable reason to smile all day long.

-A girl waiting for her dupatta to get stuck to your shirt’s button.

Quill, Write Ups

Peter Pan

Dear peter pan,

Whenever a small version of me woke up in the middle of the night, scared of demons in her dreams, my mum would be right there, ready with a story book and an aura of comfort only she could provide to fill the void of the dark night.

As I lay on my favorite storyteller’s lap, which would always be more homely than my bed, she would read out the title nice and loud:

“Peter Pan, the boy could not grow up.”

And soon I found myself floating in the adventures of a boy too cocky for his own good, a self-centered, bumptious boy who seeks the extremities of his fantasies.

As days passed, there was a constant clash between the beasts who reveled in keeping me awake in the middle of the night and the sweet voice of my mum who lulled a so very pleasant tale of a not so very pleasant boy.

And I started believing in you, started in the Kensington Gardens, started believing in flying, in the wonders of being audacious, in evil and in just a little bit of tinker.

But, above all, I believed in staying young till the very end of eternity.

‘Children have minds that run at speeds; adults could never pace up to.’ Mum used to smile and tell, with a chest filled with pride, to others, to me, to herself.

‘Everything has a price, honey’ she’d say cautiously at times. ‘For Peter must forget all about his adventures and what he learns about the world to stay childlike.’

But as my feet grew, my hands bittered, my tongue dried up and my height rose, so did the expectations of this world.

I remember sitting on the window and waiting for a perpetual sight, bright eyes shining with a hopeful future, a smirk that won’t go away, a sharp red nose, rosy cheeks, viciously pink lips with a melodious voice that would be so pompous that I’d be inspired to leave this worldy mess within seconds.

But, alas, my only company in those lonesome nights would be the scars of the moon; praised by all for it’s beauty.

Have I failed you or you me?

Was I banished to nowhereland without even existing in your team of lost boys?

Why did you give up on me and my escapade before even understanding me?

Maybe I deserved it because of the ridiculous aspirations I had from a boy who could not love for the sake of this undying youth.

When I stand in front of the mirror, I see a lady, a lady in distress, her eyes bloodshot, she waves a bottle of alcohol so as to hypnotize herself to be happy perhaps, she’s covered up in wounds of the past; cleverly hidden underneath tons of makeup.

What has become of the lively adolescent that once stood in her place, the one who was crazy enough to imagine her life as a tiny bud forever, who was moronic enough to imagine that creations lasted and quiet.

My uncanny truth has indeed damaged the very essence of my childhood.

I’ve lost my belief, my dear pan.

Glittery tears, where’s my fairy dust?

Yours truly,

A lost girl you never found.

Quill, Write Ups

Last Words


“The love that moves the Sun and other Stars….” is how Dante Alighieri ends his 100 canto epic, which has rekindled itself throughout history, again and again…and again. Mortality is a “cloud” for Dante, an obscure haze that prevents the truth from being fully seen. Little by little, the Divine Comedy’s events remove the cloud from his vision, preparing him for ever more direct insights into God.

Quill

To AGAR TUM SAATH HO,

I heard you for the first time, in the car. You became my mom’s favourite soon after. At first I thought you were a regular love song, with some nice beats. But, no you were much more than that. You are not about VED and TARA anymore. To be very honest I am not someone who feels think so deeply but I felt the pain in Arjit’s voice, I felt Alka’s longing. You broke my heart. Probably, I think can not even explain in words how I feel hearing this song, and it is kind of weird because you are the song which I will probably hear again when I will be happy in love and sad, heartbroken. I don’t know, I really don’t know.

But I love you, Agar Tum Saath Ho!!

#4yearsoftamasha

Poetry, Quill

Crimson

In the embrace of silence,
There echoed a faint pestilence,
Lurking amongst the moonlit night,
With stars still shining high,
Ironic that it cometh in waves,
Yet never does it go away,
A graveyard graph it so began,
Yet the numbers piling either way,
Sadness sown, sadness shall reap,
Each breath it took,
Three followed close,
As a cycle that never stopped,
A knock on the door,
A thump on the floor,
And a heart that just won’t beat,
It cometh in waves,
When it goes away,
Crimson is all I can breathe,
Murder, IT’S MURDER,
You killed yourself,
And so sweetly you took my god away,
Ironic, such pestilence, it kills itself,
But births three anew in your brain.

Quill, Write Ups

Walking on Water

Allow me tell you all a little, simple, bed-time, teeny story, although I know I have been writing and delivering poorly these days, unlike I once did. Seems the Gods are angry at me, Odin has taken away from me the power of poetry for my inefficient use. But I can’t stop without even giving a fight maybe this would please Odin and you all, maybe this would revive me.

Let’s go by the traditional start.

Once upon a time, during the rule of King Eirik in the petty kingdom of Vestfold there was a beggar. The beggar -he was not a very tall man, thin as a stick, and always carried a frown upon his face despite the love in his pocket. Aah… but the world doesn’t peep into pockets it just picks pockets. (Look at the desperateness of the writer to engage his audience by throwing punches, look how bad he is failing at it) But this was never what made him distinct, there were already a lot of emaciated beggars and the world was pretty much the same with each of them. What made him different was his ambition, his insanity beyond limits yet all ethical and true, his weird arrogance and haughtiness not of some title but of being himself- what beggar calls himself King after all?

He used to speak often of his desire of being influential, powerful, and important and more than he spoke, he worked for it, grind for it. He lost a lot of friends on his way to power, he lost all those playing and drinking hours, he lost family hours, rock bottom became his home, but kept on moving until one day he challenged King Eirik to a duel and familiarized him with his fate. As per the law, the man who beats King becomes King and this case was no different.

Finally, all his efforts, his walk on this lonely road in pelting cold, it all seemed to end. It was now the time to rejoice and celebrate his victory, reminiscent and cheer skol to his ambition and passion that made him King today, that made a beggar King today. Well, but a man can’t change his soul, can he? A beggar stays a beggar and he seemed to forget that. Being King sounded the most beautiful thing ever, being King was a bit different.

Kings walk in grace but stand in pain. You must be an extremely good observer that stands behind a veil. And while you stand there you just listen, unseen and unhear, you just listen to all. Also, what you listen should be important to you but it also must not affect you too for you might (not might) you will hear people hate you just because they ain’t you.

Dying, as in going back to normal and dying in minds of people as if you never existed, it becomes a dream you dream day and night long. You don’t talk of your pain but once you do, still no one relates to it. And you just wonder to yourself while you reminiscence as to how did you even make it in the first place. You wonder, you rather wish you haven’t had left the farm in the first place.

You think, is this what you envisioned, is it really what you wanted?

Fame to the point of imprisonment. You feel like incredible hulk, your back is broken yet you walk. When they see you down, they say they’ll pray for you and you wonder to yourself why would someone who doesn’t even know you pray for you. No one never prayed a couple of years back, was I not the same man then?

And repeat to yourself, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get what you want. And once you get it, it might get back on you ten fold.”

“Kings never die.”

You turn yourself oblivious again and sing,

“I know some shits so hard to swallow
And I just can’t sit back and wallow
In my own sorrow, but I know one fact
I’ll be one tough act to follow
One tough act to follow, copy, one tough act to follow
Here today, gone tomorrow
But you have to walk a thousand miles

In my shoes, just to see
What it’d be like, to be me
I’ll be you, let’s trade shoes
Just to see what I’d be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each other’s mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each other’s eyes

But don’t let ’em say you ain’t beautiful oh
They can all get f*&^$% Just stay true to you.”