The right of me, that went wrong

The right of me, that went wrong.

We have this particular notion of being right, perceiving right, knowing the truth and abiding by every little aspect that is engaged on righteousness. But how do or when do we decide what is at what point a right thing. And if the right goes wrong, who is responsible for that wrong? I am certainly not sure about what I do or what I read.
I am certainly not aware of what productivity means to the world and to what extent this world would accept my productivity and would find me useful. I think the area under which you accept being able to indulge into experience, assuming things, failing on account of very basic issues that has to do with being productive. Otherwise the entire story of who fails and wins has nothing to do with the people around but the actually person on spot. I am not a grateful person nor I take anything for granted. I just have this typical old fashioned way of dealing with every day and looking back as to how the week went by.

Love doesn’t give you memories it gives you challenges and forces you to believe that the scenes you are building up right now are the ones that will be missed. But this is less than half of the picture you’re looking at. It gives you challenges to control your anger , your escape, your discomfort, your disasters your traumatic pain of love, your thoughts on being suffered and yet to hug and dance along the streets imagining the world of beauty and love. Well, it has nothing to do witn whom you have fallen in, as your genetic family system is that first roof under which you try and understand the matter of love and Bonding. And at times it’s tough!

I don’t understand why to be grateful? And what to do with being grateful? When the kind of pleasure you can get by diving into a pool or making yourself a delicate candy and adore your beauty all day. And what about if the greatness that’s being offered to you is a total waste? When it just bounces back off into the wild grasslands! I feel the same way, I choose to go a certain way and I’m struggling hard to get that then why do I feel sorry about not being thankful or why do I think for being one! I am not a hopeless calculative ass that would not consider your efforts, but trust me do not come with your flattering words that say you have done it all.!

However I still believe in the connection of coincidences, but here I must say, my plans have failed, My life is changing every way possible and I am all an unknown anxious middle aged soul that has seen good deeds going drained. At this junction of my life don’t make me deal with the right and wrong, or the orders that balance a life in great probability, just give me my area to live and let me know what’s next that goes wrong!
– Isha Mridul

Hey hope! You could have stayed more

Hey, hope you could have stayed more!

I walked down the streets of the most busy cities and bought all kinds of paints and diaries and clothes that were not of regular use . They gave me alot of things to carry but nothing to feel burdened about. I walked fast and slow wanting to be waved by faces that were new and foreign in a language that would give me another chance to study and decode the most interesting thing about life. About the gesture that brings together so much of other tasks and I would willingly feel and focus about things that made me smile. I don’t have enough to do with this city but I walk, I walk to roads, main streets, under the sunshine or crossing the bus signal, I want to know where does this come from and where do they go. And when did you decide to flip back, slap hard and never come back. If you thought I was feeling less you would have stayed to atleast make me feel to hate you and then spin me to a melody that could bring out tears. I don’t remember where is the address of the clock that ticks, saftey, concern or wait for me, because now it’s just the wooden doors being shut and locked and church bells that rings echoing in my head, making me wake up to a minute of absolute holy spirit. My fears walk before I even manage to get my skin back to normal after the rough scratches that happen deep dark last night. I don’t want to be taken away but to be escorted to a place where flowers bloom deliberately and I could embrace them fall every evening. This should be reiterated, in sequences where I choose to kill a person in my head that pushes me into so much of sufferings. I was sleeping with a face dipped in the pillow and mourning sharp to offer my tears for demise soul of hope that got knocked down in the accident today morning when I was running against the signals, just an attempt to enter the terminal and to feel caught. It emanate my thoughts and I freaked out, stamping my feet hard and weeping down on the pavement. I laid there, and no one took any interest of me breaking down. I checked on and started running, running to all streets I know, the backyards, crossing major churches and came back running in the house. I flipped back, and my face was warmer than the usual temperature. This was suffocation . My walls have no picture and the window has curtains drawn. There is no wonder why life doesn’t come in here, and I covered myself for a next deep sleep. Why is it that I have to hope for a life that is actually easily available? I sang, I sang hard opened every possible opening, tap, showers, drawers, refrigerator, myself and laughed! Gradually grunting and coughing hard, I just wanted myself to believe in the meantime and to react more deeply. For a life that was happening, grunting, panting, panicky inside while something was just making me numb and helpless for the reality I knew.
-isha mridul

Have you seen or felt woman supporting a woman?
Yes, I know it is the most beautifully expensive and poetic thought of bringing out quotations like supporting same gender, lifting women, empowering women but how strongly do we follow it? Well on living life on a very minute level, I have very bad experiences of the way life writes it’s quotes. Why is it so difficult for other women to understand the loss of life they bring by being just a casual title or a care taker or a home maker . Or just a usual home maker, as if they have this insurance of life that is dependent on how smoothly you choose to adjust and scrap out your life! The idea of compromising and complying to control the wish to wish more is such a stunning crime over here. Why don’t we understand thar anyone on this planet has to live life on terms and conditions that will be unwanted, undesirable and unpredictable in the near future, why do we then force to abide by certain presets of living a life that costs my peace? . I truly hate this concept of being with parents and at times more disturbing is of having a mother who has already churned up her life, and without even realizing the insane amount of loss, negativity and depression she carries she happily passes it on to the next young woman. I mean do you even consider my life as a something to be an individual? It’s not an amalgamation of your virtues, fantasy and dreams of being alive in a certain way. But I also feel pity for these women who are touring their own self by happily adjusting to any other thing they are forced into, they somehow have lost their sense of being alive as an individual. There is no fundamental explanation for their efforts , or no articles about their rights., it’s just a long emotional core of conceiving babies, singing lullabies, changing diapers and of course setting the table. And fun fact, this goes on , on and on at times wishful and at times on demand, till your last breath says, “hey bitch I have to leave now” what else can I expect from such freakish decoupled soul and mind ? I have managed and synchronised my senses of getting no support for my dreams from my family, though I have one immediate woman in my family. But the thing and the journey turns out to be even worse or absurd when non familiar women boasts about being supportive of you, and seeking out help, skips them off to some hours, days and then mood of getting formally active. Like in straight words, there are publicity stunts and stories that has women being supportive but trust me the phone call or meeting calls turns up to a level that creates a competition in their heads. And before being a woman, they certainly change to being a formal corporate worker who is very particular about conducting and following up rules. Hey listen I know everybody has to deal with all kinds of black, white, grey and red, but take this advice don’t advertise your support, be supportive that makes you one. Choose one, only one, and try and help out that bitch harder no matter how restlessness competitive she turns out to be. I mean try that way! If not, stop playing femininity in a scale where you create hopeful eyes, aspiring artists or whatever turn up to you seeking help, and they step down cursing their own destiny. It’s long lost battle, and game change overnight, stop being the curator of playing safe and being victimized. That’s certainly not what feminism looks like. And certainly not a cool time to say and believe in good mental health!
-isha mridul

From the last chapter

From the last chapter.

‘It all happens inside before it comes out to be a crime’ ,one anonymous quote printed on the t-shirt that she holds, like one of the favourite and engages herself to things that distracts the idea of being alone. Because before she felt alive, the excitement of falling to death comes first than being pinched or cursed by someone who promises to make her love. On the gas stove, stands a saucepan that was put on to bring out a recipe for the day time but the whole end, through the garnishing turned out till mid day noon, little more early than the orange, red hues to take over. Reading makes her realise how compelling it is to see your protagonist wake up to a place that demands so much changes and equally spaced unilateral ways of stop being lifelike with it. The protagonist from the hidden book story is a person who does love in a mess , she evidently knows that she hates being surrounded by men, but prefers to be one top rated woman icon, an eye candy, yet making no seductive sense of any of her characters. The world around her is a mud house of expression that is already set to collapse in a minute or two, but stands like some damn 70 storeyd building who can beat the hell out of everyone.
She uncovers the book as the cover of the book had a bad art lady that made her feel ashamed of the features she carried, as recently she prayed for a deep curve body that would atleast attract the attention of men around who would honestly wish to see, and feel her, but refuses to utter the truth of love. The exact composition of something that the protagonist went playing off. Before turning to the last chapter of the book, she admits and admires her own self down the skin and body line that cuts down to clitoris but the little half silk- cotton night ware slips over each time she gathers the courage to make pleasure with this dermal mask. Goosebumps all over, and again the matter of life which compliments and questions straight away as to is this the honesty of being self aware or a truth of being self consciously destructive? Isn’t it strange that the eyes stick on to the most ridiculous definition of being loved on the edge of the body that is especially, initially scratched out on the counts of being intimate?
She opens her hair and unties her nightgown, walks all the way to the kitchen, feeling comfortable in the skin that was habitually taken off out from the cloth cover, nervously murmuring the best modern song that could push and create a rebound with curiosity and certainly being comfortably alive with the skin that was covered every time, but now was amazingly open .
She turned the lights off, and switched the fan on, little suspicious about her own reactions , and slipped into the reactions that was supposedly to begin with truth and would lead with honesty, clinged on her shoulders . She laid straight on her bed without addressing the covers, or the uncovers and shifting uncomfortable reactions to stretch out on the undressed surfaces and just then she remembers the open book kept on the couch and the ladt chapter, where probably the protagonist makes her critical, dramatic move . It was this paraphrase that could validate her truths. Without much of a delay, she quickly gets up, walks to the couch, turns the page over, and reads out the sentences loudly to herself, with the intention of getting the best truth .
She reads out the honesty of her protagonist in an open ended letter to her readers that, clearly mentions her in a house of white and black marble were bodies had the best stitched linen clothes and perfumes and flowers, gold and diamonds but the truth was to lay down in the bathtub, with all jewellery that was honestly the best of all, but the truth of the body was that it drowned to death being crowned by the surroundings that just had herself and no love.
“And so I hereby put my thankyou into words for the girls who wish to suck in their belly bags, or grab up their breasts curves, its true that the beauty is technically more than the idea you know about it, but honestly it’s the most awful thing under the roof, all alone.”
She turned down the book slowly and imagined being sinking into the waves where she could reach out to truth, honestly believing in the life that would come after she opens up.

-isha mridul

Stopping freedom from the window

Stopping freedom from the window.

Though telephone calls are not a frequent issue in my presence but, this time I was impatient about the waiting that was holding me to an extent where I choose blabber and wishper and talk loudly with myself to feel acquainted with. My drawers were shut open and the misfixed latches of the doors and windows that were oxidized to hell and were making sounds to be changed to something revolutionary. The rusted metal and locks were kept under the darker side of opened drawer as according to the good luck vibes the articles that were rugged and rotten and rough on lifestyle designs should be avoided, as they range out a negative response to any actions we take. She was busy boasting abot her past accomplishments and the acceptance of insecurities that made her read psychological drama at age where people choose to settle in with an underrated personality choices, hobbies that monetize in the pass time and taking life decisions that were under huge barcodes and had an offer that could be redeemed within ceramic days.
The pattern went on, and the mirror that was hung straight away in the middle of her bedroom, which consists of a study corner and a vintage lamp with five chic ink pens. To the centre was a heavy flow bed and right wall with a 6 x 6 fiberglass wall that made morning melting and nights fall down to the surface of scars. Cupboards all empty, as she decided to change her fashionable attire everyday and that PJs was not at all the look she wanted while screaming and yelling how freedom and the open skylight was metaphorically a same thing! The lamp light always turned up to a warmer tome that made her realise the appearance of the dramatic saga that is being live and is being lost unrecorded.

Psychology gave her new chapters and characters to learn from, but the 6×6 fiberglass wall always questioned her about the reason and the inability to stay confined to room that made her experiment and experience the characters and the consequences of what all the freedom was.
What happens at the end of a mind that drills in a space which is made up of modernism stuck on the walls while there are two major openings that leads to something different and other from the cube she struggles to be in. The psychological point is that fiberglass wall that is entitled to be a gracious good morning but also adopts the idea of fearing in the midnight exploring the phobias at , while the gate next to the study corner is hide behind the light shadow from the lamp. It’s hard for her to wish for a skylight light that dribbles everyday through a frame that’s fragile yet chemically visible or to blow away with the open wide air and leaves behind the warmer tones and ink and papers an that mirror in the middle.
She doesn’t feel the greed to jump outside while the same systematically arranged life makes her talk alot about the lousy reality.

She runs towards the fiberglass wall, and sticks herself, her breath her fingers and the prints that sharpens more when the day turns gloomy and the thunders knocks from the outside, yelling and challenging the way freedom smells and moves like, while she sits in a corner poised like a narrator under a warm yellow light, building doubts and characters that psychology offers , diluting the choices of the moment as the basic philosophy, hearing the wind blowing and declining each time to open the hair.

– isha mridul

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Survive with peace feathers

I just shared my plans with someone genetically close to me and I faced an intense feeling of being robbed by them . I could see anxiety hitting me straight away and yet I was yelling out the logic behind this project and why it should be accepted the way I conveyed. The conversation was in the beginning of the loop where they managed to scrap out innumerable holes and my hopes where striving out a way from it. It just turned up from a sourceful share to a ridiculous argument where I was the one who chose to be a moron. Believe me my worth of standing there and confessing with my breathing that I still have to play alive was vanished and I was doubting my originality. Why am I not comprehensive enough to make it a sure shot idea! That this is my space and something like this is so naturally favourite here so I wish to be a certain way. I know and I care about the process of your concern towards me but ,shouldn’t this phase of energy revert back the same way!? Why was I supposed to transfer my thinking about Rainbow to be a dramatic one? Why can’t I just get into the idea of being one, when all the physics lab was carrying a prism by the way. This entire toil and act of disguised discouragement is actually a poetry compilation in my life and someone has just forgotten to rhyme with me while I, at the same time have skipped alot of words and no brain exercise is helping me do well with it. I don’t think I am weak or wrong but the real instinct is making much worse than the crime scene depicted in novels that I have been reading , and so I am planning murderers against them that will protect my sanity of being vibrantly aware of what it looks like when someone snatches it away from you. I have totally lost this chance of being nice and alive at the same time when all I am turning into is a pack of stupidity that answers and questions in it’s own space and is constantly being affected by the talking around. I am just not able to feed my cells what peace, harmony or happiness look like so I am developing a foreplay for this that communicates opposite of my mental well being. I feel jealous several times in a day, I feel like catching down a bird, tear it feathers apart and ask about what is your will at this particular time. Would you not hurt me with your nails or maybe just bite me hard with your beak if I wish to have a walking friend made of hollow body and a beauty just like dove? Wouldn’t I be thrown out of this affirmation game where I choose to wish at the cost of someone’s life!?
Would you be granted a sinful creature or would that be rewarded as an act of defence, and oh please just utter it “yes” loudly enough so that it could allow you to breathe throughout in my hand . I would love to push you in infinite sea of horizons expecting to be gifted the same side in return.! Fluttering my rudeness, bluntness to an act of complete allowance where I am not a victim pleading, convincing my feathers but just to well versed with the things I have, maybe crafting peace with a body looked dead.
-isha mridul

My deflated picture

So it was the same room where I completely lost my patience and couldn’t make a single move on anything. It happened because I was totally convinced by the fact that nothing great will appear on this side and I had to believe in this fear which was out of the box and straight on my face. The chanting of something that was similar to a tiny sense of mine where I wanted to settle into the abundance of vacuum and it should be more vacant than ever before so that I could embrace the idea that I have a body which holds me. A substantial substance of whatever it takes to be me ,be it my sins, sorrows or that graduation day in the college where I had an opportunity to celebrate something that was ending . Standing still, straight infront of the door, which encourages only moving forward and sliding back would only make me weak, and academically I have an attempt to make it just better than what is supposed to be failed. I wish for that one time being a group that counts me worth and important in a headcount, because last year picnic pictures don’t have me.
I was lost for a moment and I couldn’t feel my need. The photograph turned pretty well, and I did make a divine impression on the floor as my water bottle was rolling down somewhere and a thirsty throat and an approaching hand managed to hunt it out. Emptying bottle and it’s uselessness tied hand in hand to my identity while some sort of teaching popped up saying that “one should be thankful and should value little gifts and gestures of life”.
As per quoted, mislead, misheard or might be mistakenly heard some happy head from it’s happy mouth called for my name, wondering to find the owner of this bottle, and at the time of this reward I was lost. Dribbling a football, and cheering up for a match that was about to finish with it’s obvious winner and probably the only one , clapping and glitters that were on it’s way to shower on me, My brain heard something similar to the name that echoes like me and the challenge was to stop the tournament, lose this winning round and turn back to a life that actually for the first time wants me. Genuinely ,at this frame where I am at the most ridiculously fortunate edge to stop and turn back smiling expecting a face, a friend that still remembers me before I turn into yellow shaded memory! I kicked the ball, it rolls on, I stayed back watching it rolling, and the voice comes closer as I could feel victory and wanting preceding at the same time, while one thing changed it’s side and skips to my permanent misfortune mission. I turned back, my classmate running ,panicked, and all disgusted ,panting loudly and screaming something that ends up in consistently crushing concern into cry for my wage chase. The ball must have reached the court, I might be a winner this season, or maybe I just skipped a toss and life stays unconventionally same for me.
It was deflated!
And I was left with a bottle with no water, a deflated ball that was thrown and ordered a picnic photograph that didn’t click me.
-isha mridul

In the eyes

Last time when I entered this room it was way more energizing and exuberant . The empty, hall, wall and the galleries were reverberating words and idea that I ever dreamt of. The photo frames were happy and stairs all lit up . That left corner from the front gate had a huge flower vase and lilly was the smell that clings to me all over. The little lamp, the green carpet, newspapers on the floor and the huge cup of tea that smokes out aroma of ginger, tulsi and cardamom. A perfect blend and substitute for healthy life. From the right side two steps before the balcony gate, is a room. A black door and golden lock, some music and murmuring could be heard and a knock! This left unanswered and I slowly unlock the door, peeping in the stories and melodies of me time of my love. Turning back, and locking the door, infront of me was a choice of abandonment, a long lost relationship of leaving everything behind when everyone involved in corners also wanted to combine with my sweat. The skin smell, a flavour of home than just the dust of ceramics or brittle bonds with glass panels.
The shady curtains that were hives in hide and seek, to the center of the room where I created a valley with wax crayons. Like exactly here below the night light, all golden and my blue, yellow, green crayons drew a rigged triangular series of hills and mountains all in the same range, and from middle of those dribbles down a very deep blue water wave. I couldn’t complete the scenic template where the sun did rise up or settle in . It was just a waterfall through the gaps of five series mountain ,no clouds, no rain, no Rainbow. I wish I could have tried and cried for my turn, from the people standing infront who gifted me this set of 14 was crayons. For this instance, my wish was overpowered by the stance of the fake whitewashed walls. I remember I the days after every day went on to depress my heart, chop done my choices and re examined each bit of biological responses to a planned witty show. I was cruel, filthy and guilt of this glitch was some random evil from the next door. The framework outside the dry garden and these empty galleries were more empathetic to me, my humanity and sanity was given a chance here. Behind the photographs of happy festivities. No interactions between us, me and my moronic friends in loneliness .
I know why I didn’t shout about the thoughts that make me feel better, but every time I turning more stubborn. This was all alot subtle until and unless I went sobbing and panting ,hiccups and my entire space chocked up. There were faces in my head, voices in my ears and rigorously continued conversations, asking and quoting my every worth of my shades to hair fall this day. I smashed up all in a little area of my conscious body and walked out, somewhere into some random death of hope.
Here I come back, to the same face, with some immeasurable pile of compunction, on the alternative street, same city and a three storey building that allotted me a room and I could commemorate the visit of abandonment again. I recollect the chained memory and my muted response to them. My eyes were shut open and all the grieve that were caught inside, stamping an impression of my gratitude that were crushed down to failure, helplessness and anxieties of all times.
-isha mridul


Through a straight lane,
this side stands my feet,
and fists that catch hold every lifeless leaves, from a tree
that last year shared and packed seeds and flavours of tangy tantrums
Where I jumped to fetch the most unrealistic amount of them.
My share of win
and wooden attempt to fall back failed
just to bring out buds along.
The ignorant idea of nurturing a sapling or building a mud house,
flowers and bees that thankfully settled around the next fenced area , and,
I freaked out to caterpillars that curles in,
Exactly here, below the shade basking with the right amount of sun.
With all my intentions to walk by freely,
I invite so much of vacuous voices that puzzles to me daring my deathbed
with a clueless crime along with a strong sense of being pathetically lost!
While this conquered my left hemisphere of brain
and the right limbs refuse to obey it’s orders,
it scripts some cinematic shots of me
in my right hemisphere of brain
and prints out a picture with specific sutures and stature
that willingly victimized my presence .
A little wave ,
and it tangles branches of the this giant tree ,
the inner circle of my skirt flutters in laugh, uniting in like some comical dispute.
No, I don’t have any other issues apart from the injury that once left me moved to a change,
tousled and tossed with an underrated pair of hands and fingers that keeps moulding minimalistic monotone.
An arch and an arch again!
Dabbling every inch of skin to love,
attracting cheers to the agony,
With a synchronized steps of learning how to lose the tight ends of dreaming.
For a moment,
this face starts looking into the most deferred passage of making arch,
from the archives that carves out an artistic architecture of astonishingly stupid geometry of heart in love.
A misleading question and answer about the process that leaks from the edges of the delusional design,
taken into consideration for a bluff and used for an excuse to cover up the corrupt conscience .
Like a gradual inclination for memories that walks in, with its evanescing escapes, exits,
yet leaves behind remnants of a recurring solitary
with vague and bemused habits of life .
-isha mridul

My uncertain femininity

My uncertain femininity

Behind the curtain and locked up doors
fused bulbs and dark times gear up more,
I wish to be quite and wishper some chants
that uninvited guest followed me to the corner ,
just a few step away
and a hand distance apart,
some dirty talk and flirt surrounds my fear. No the scene had some cinematic moments,
flowers with roses and hand weaved raisins,
chocolates, perfumes and laces pinned on gifts,
hand in hand and wine to be sipped.
Soft spoken words and honey kissed hours,
red, pink, violet and pearls to offer the spark .
My half waxed leg and maxy dress,
quarter slit open and some shimmering glamour ,
sleeves chopped off and sliver breast top, padded bras and Clive Christian drops.
I have no answer what makes me roll out,
sex appeal was never for shout,
looking pretty maybe was a choice this time,
but lot of cover ups to merge with the shine,
the dress drolls down below the knee, Charmeuse plates , and ribbon flowers,
a sexy bow and floaty stars .
Just then we moved away,
chairs, and glasses and my consent had changed it’s way,
it spills down and drives to a corner,
liquid makes it way while kissing the sloppy hover.
I refused to be kept in a room,
bit away just absorbing the presence of love that collides
The talk went on and on chest I heard a beat,
little painful one.
What makes you worried for being undressed here,
waxing and maxy was here to be on an easy gear.
Just slide this out from your left arm shoulder once,
and all of our skin will bond in with sequence.
Oh! the love of emotions and feel,
lust and burst into the colour of romantic ideals.
I pushed myself with my panting pulse,
the love of life was creating a panicky thunder,
I lost the seductive soul within,
some shadows shivers and
all pierced my pale yellow skin.
The touch the words and the aroma died,
I cursed my senses that dreamt of a sweetheart.
The whole picture throws me to a barren land ,
though I came here with buds of intimate bent.
I doubt, I doubt what stopped me and scared my spine,
the closed doors doesn’t seem to speak but wants to remind,
a long drop story of hairy hand, dark big curtains and on dusky den,
I do have watched many naked names,
but this femininity is now a corrupted shame.
-isha mridul