But you didn't

I'm a fan of poetry. Not in an explicit way. I like my type of poems. If you ask me as to what I mean by my type, I don't have an answer. There have been instances when poems that others have raved about haven't really appealed to me. But there have also been instances when I've liked poems that others did not think much of. That's the beauty of poetry. It's very personal. You can enjoy them and only you'd know the reason why a particular poem appeals to you. I have tried my hand at poetry from time to time. I don't claim to be any good at it, but even as a self-critic, I know there are atleast a couple of works that I can be proud of. I'm not generalizing when I say this, but for me, I can write a poem only when I am in a certain state of mind. In other words, there is certain truth in the theory that it takes some amount of personal experience to bring out the same emotions in your poems.

Talking about poems, here's something that I read today. I felt that it was so touching. You may not feel the same way about it. Or maybe, you would. Here you go:

BUT YOU DIDN’T

Remember the day I borrowed your brand
new car and dented it?
I thought you'd kill me, but you didn't.

And remember the time I dragged you to the beach,
and you said it would rain, and it did?
I thought you'd say, "I told you so." But you didn't.

Do you remember the time I flirted with all
the guys to make you jealous, and you were?
I thought you'd leave, but you didn't.

Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie
all over your car rug?
I thought you'd hit me, but you didn't.

And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance
was formal and you showed up in jeans?
I thought you'd drop me, but you didn't.

Yes, there were lots of things you didn't do.

But you put up with me, and loved me, and protected me.

There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you
when you returned from Vietnam.

But you didn't.

 

The origin of the poem: 

An  American family of two members - mother and daughter -  lived together.  The father was enlisted in the army and he went to the Vietnam war, when the daughter was just 4 years old.   Unfortunately, he never returned. He died on the battlefield. The mother didn't remarry and lived to a ripe age of 80. When she died, her daughter found a letter in her mother's things, on which was a  poem titled "But you didn't".

(Source: Quora)

So touching, isn't it? The part about the origin of the poem adds to the appeal. That's one of the prime reasons why I felt the poem to be so touching. You may agree or disagree.  Like I said, when it comes to poems, to each one his/her own.

Poetry makes life beautiful!

 

The Lost Diaries

This is not my diary.

Ramya noticed the change. 

Oh no! Whose diary is this then? 

She opened it. The name read: ASHWANTH SANTHOSH

How come? Coincidence?

 She could not remember but by some strange coincidence, his diary had landed up on her hands. 

Curiosity got the better of her and she started reading it.

“…..Ramya Ramesh – how can I forget her? … the only love I have felt in my life … keep thinking of her every single day… why doesn’t she understands me? … I don’t expect anything from her. I like her the way she is… with all her flaws… she’s perfect in her imperfections … I got angry with her … she kept ignoring me… I felt so… not knowing the truth… if only she understands my love… I am prepared to bring the world for her… she may not be the most beautiful or most intelligent or most charming… but she is everything to me…my angel… my Rums… I wish I had not fought with her… it was because of jealousy, envy, possessiveness or whatever… I realize that I am wrong… if only she talks to me again… I’ll tell her the truth…how much I love her…how much she means to me … it’s been a month since she spoke to me… or messaged me or had any contacts with me …I am alive with life…life on the outside… but I know…that I am dead inside… faking my smile… and happiness…when I know…that true happiness is when I am with her… when I talk to her… when I see her smile…she may or may not like me… I have no idea…she has many male friends now…but all I pray for…is for just another chance, a small meet … where I could just tell her… how much I love her… she may not like it…she may just brush it aside… but I must say how much I love her… love you Ramya….then, now and forever.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her eyes were wet. 

Somewhere else, someone was reading a diary.

“…Ashwanth… how I wish he understands…I like him… have always liked him…smart, intelligent… if only he had loved me …and understood my love…I can’t talk to him always…I won’t be able to…wish he understands…I may not talk to him…doesn’t mean that I don’t think about him… I think of him every day… I loved him a lot then… he was focused on his exams…I could not tell him… he would not have listened…he liked me later…I wasn’t ready then…he helped me a lot… he got me a lot of things… many songs… many books…he substituted for me… I knew he liked me then…I wasn’t sure… but I guess he liked me…but he could not say it…I was glad…I wasn’t ready… I’d have hurt him… then he grew fond of me…messaged me a lot… I liked it… but the frequency increased…he probably missed me…I don’t know for sure…but the messages were too much to handle…then the fights happened… he grew angry… I have never seen him that way…he was acting crazy… he wasn’t the Ashwanth I knew… was he growing jealous that I was talking to other boys… probably…boys are a bit possessive…probably, he felt the same way…I’d never know…I should have waited… but I lost my patience…I retaliated…I fought with him…told him not to talk to me…or contact me… in any way… he was devastated… he pleaded for forgiveness…but no…I had a stronger ego…I was not going to give in… felt sorry… but no…I am not going to yield… I may have shunned him…somewhere in my mind …I have this thought that I can’t have him… I still don’t think he loves me…he’s popular…he has many girls as friends… he probably loves someone…I’d never know… that’s why he hasn’t told anything to me…about his love…or maybe not…I don’t know…I haven’t spoken to him…for over a month now…I don’t talk to him.. doesn’t mean I don’t think about him…I think about him…every single day…how I wish… I could muster the courage… to tell him…how I love him…or how I secretly wish…that he’d tell me… the same… but I know this for sure…I love Ashwanth…yes, I do…”

Ashwanth didn’t know what to say. He was overcome with joy. It brought along tears. Only a while ago, he was worried that he had misplaced his diary and got someone else’s.  He then read the name on the diary. And curiosity got the better of him too as he flipped through its pages.

Was this a coincidence? Or was it a divine blessing that he should get her diary?

How does it matter?

The next day:

Ashwanth got a message from Ramya as soon as he sent one to her.

A few hours later in a coffee shop:

Ashwanth held out a diary to Ramya.

“I believe this is yours”

Ramya was surprised. She then held out a diary. “And I believe this is yours.”

Now it was his turn to look surprised.

They stared at each other’s eyes for a full minute.

“Ramya, I love you!”

The Little Drop

Ram was sitting alone in his room. It was Hostel night in college. There was a party. There would be drinks. There would be music. There would be dance. Ram had no interest in all that. He has been a good boy for so long. His parents were proud of him. All his friends drank. Some of them smoked. He remained a teetotaler, despite being amidst them. It was the final year. This was going to be the last party. 

He heard a knock on his door. It was Ravi. He called Ram for the party. 

“Just be there and have some fun. You needn’t drink.” 

Ram could not refuse. He went to the party. All his friends were drinking. Seeing him, they offered him a drink. He politely refused. Then they insisted. 

“Just have a little drop. Here! It’s hardly anything.”

Ram looked at the minute quantity of alcohol in the glass offered to him. He was caught in two minds. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. Just a little drop. My first and last, he thought. He licked it in.

3 years later:

Ram was working late. He had an office party to attend. His parents had just come to visit him for a couple of days. The clock was ticking. It was past midnight. Still no sign of him. A mobile rang. Ram’s dad picked up the call.

“Sir, your son Ram is lying unconscious here in … He looks heavily drunk…”

The next evening:

Ram was talking to his colleague Ankit. 

“I don’t understand. I have never seen my parents this upset. They left without informing me today. I know I got a little drunk. But what really happened?”

Ankit felt like slapping him. Then he told him.

Drunk. Puke. Road. Unconscious. Police. Station. Dad. Mom. Crying. Pleading. Police Warning. Auto. Coming Home. 

Ram looked at himself in the mirror. He felt devastated. He was a good boy. Why did he become what he had become - a drunkard? What started it?

Then he remembered. 

The Little Drop. 

Supposed to be his last. It never was. It never is.

It all started with that little drop. 

It always starts… with a little drop!!

A New Identity

Anand was depressed. He was just given a memo in his office. What did he do? Nothing! He just wrote from his heart. Who would have thought that his writings would lead him to such trouble? He wrote with all the freedom that a writer could dream of. No holds barred. Unflinchingly straight. Unscrupulously honest. No words minced. Politics, current affairs, daily life, and pretty much everything found its place in his writing. He did not think that someone would get wind of his blog and put word to his boss. His boss did not like the content, for it seemed to criticize him. The boss was annoyed. This was not expected from his employee. He should be taught a lesson. He should know his position and responsibilities. He should be given a memo. And thus a memo was given. 

Anand sat wondering. He did not want to give up writing the stuff that he liked. What could he do now? He switched on the TV. Harry Potter movie. A character on screen wrote ‘TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE’ in the air with his wand. With one flick of the wand, the letters rearranged themselves to become ‘I AM LORD VOLDEMORT’

EUREKA!! An idea struck!

He wrote his name on a piece of paper – ANAND. Shift the first ‘A’ to the last – NANDA. Yess! A new writer called Nanda was born that day.

A couple of months later, he walked into his boss’ cabin. His boss was talking to his PA. “Did you check out this blog? Written by a guy called Nanda. Great stuff!’

Anand smiled to himself. Writer Nanda is popular now.