Pseudo Writer

I woke up today, in the world of my own,  with seeds of my future, that were already sown. I stood up and lived through another set of hours,  the seeds of my past that had now become flowers. Half-heartedly, I watered them with the bottle of my time, hoping that my heart would be happy with their shine. But I couldn't understand, why they still seemed dull to me, was it my lack of effort, or was it something I couldn't see? I sat on the grass with these musings in my mind, and opened the newspaper to see a world void of kind. But between all the negativity, I finally found that column, the one that I read every week, the one I found solemn. It was written by a girl, someone I had known for a while, we shared a common dream, and yet she was further a mile.  And in this world I had lived, which was ever so steep, even centimetres of altitude was a worthy goal to seek. She narrated her journey, of her peaks and pitfalls, of the doors that opened for her, of how she faced th...

If you were to ask of me, "Narrate an interesting story from your childhood", I would probably behave all secretive and try to change the topic. Now you may think that I am doing this because I am hiding something, but the truth is I find it hard to find things from my life that are interesting to others. I could probably tell the story of how the behaviour of teachers changed after I got good marks in mathematics in ninth standard, or the story of how I disappointed my physics teacher in the JEE coaching and you would look at me with the expression of I-asked-for-interesting-bro. And I don't blame you. For the most part of my life, I have found my joys in things that weren't very common among my peers. While I loved Beyblades and Ben 10 aliens as much as the next kid, the most enjoyable times that I spent would be with my sharpeners and erasers as characters of a hero's journey with a pen as a villain, who would often get a power upgrade when a scale was attached...

This has been repeated time and time again, and it probably doesn’t matter what I am going to talk about because you already know it. But still, I am going to talk about it. Because I want to. This may be about songs. Their beauty. How much they can mean to someone, how much they can hide behind them. The depth of the lyrics, the soothing rhythms, and the anxiously calming silences that follow. All of it. But no. I will not keep it that general. This is a very specific quality that I want to discuss. The way songs hide memories inside them. So it's been about 6 months since I came back from college to home. To be honest, I was missing it a little but not really thinking about it much. But now, after listening to a 6 songs long playlist, everything is fresh in my memory. Everything. Every walk I took with these songs in my ears. Every place I visited for the first time. The people who suggested me these songs, how I met these people for the first time, the bus journeys on which I he...

All of it seems well and good, until when its not. When the dread you were avoiding, comes crawling, creating a sense of security, as it creeps upon your fate. And then you realize you weren’t ready, how could you be? You never considered it a threat, being intentionally blind. But now you can’t turn your back, it’s someone you know. There’s not a lot you can do now, except face it. With an unsteady hold on yourself, now you fight. I don’t blame you dear friend, at least not now. You just made one mistake; you believed that if it was too far, it could never happen to you. and as you closed your eyes, you were out of reach of everything; With all courage I can muster, I ask, how did that work out for you?                     -Sushant Kumar Das

This place where I have lived for twenty years of my life, trust me, it has a beautiful soul. I remember it as an old man, sitting at the corner of my street, with eyes full of warmth and wisdom, that follow my existence to this day. I very often used to complain to him, why he preferred brown and dirty soil, when the new kids were adopting grey. I shouted at him, for every time I fell on the soil and got dirty while playing. Smiling at me, he often entertained my arguments and laughed at my tantrums. But he never said what he wanted to, he would just use his calloused hands, and remove the dust from my knees. I would go home dirty, but never hurt. He left the corner of my street years ago, and some new kid lives there now. But I still find him hiding among clouds, looking at the new kid who levelled all that he had worked hard to preserve, under layers and layers of grey. He understands the world doesn’t stop, but still when it rains and the grey hides, he hopes to see those little pa...

Swings had welcomed her bright eyes, and allowed her to fly into the skies. This is before she found her wings; but people never understood, why she loved the swings. The rusty chains, the croaking tenor, was noise to many, but a melody to her. She learnt that even metal sings; but people never understood, why she loved the swings. It's an artifact, from her world very old, but she still loves it for the stories it told. Bit by bit, nostalgia it brings; but people still don't understand, why she loves the swings.                  -Sushant Kumar Das

Very vividly, I remember that day. You understand, right? The first time when you step out, in the cold and terrifying world, and then realize it might not be as nice as you pictured in your head? Yeah, I speak of that moment. The moment you step out of your home, and take a last look towards it. And the gravity of the next few steps makes you want to just stop and sit. You remember the feeling, don’t you? You want to sit and never let go, for the road ahead seems way too hard. And the underestimated comfort of home seems like a much more appealing card. But it is not all fear and anxiety. For at the same moment you remember, that there was a reason you stepped out. This comfort may all be so soothing for you, but eventually you will have to jump out. So finally it all comes to an end. You power through the moment of doubt, for there is nothing else you can do. You cannot afford to lose this internal battle, for you’ve got something important to prove. Please remember dear, that this m...

I remember like it was yesterday, he was strolling so idly in the park, with a resembling grace of sunshine, his eyes a canvas of ambitious spark. A sense of familiarity hung in the air, and I couldn’t stop my urge to ask him, “Have we ever met, oh little boy?” He answered me as if reciting a hymn. “I’m the forsaken path of your present, I’m the one you left behind, sir, I’m the boulevard of beautiful trees, that lost its place in your mind, sir.” “But then why meet me outside, boy, what is it you want to remind me? For my wisdom seems inadequate, boy, be my eyes for what I can’t see.” “I am a figment of your imagination, I appear when you doubt your mind, sir. I symbolize the happiness you could have had, if your choices were a little more kind, sir.” “But at every point in my life, dear boy, I have helped people in any way I can. My whole life has been a struggle, oh boy, to be accepted by people as a kind man.” “I am aware of who you are as a man, your boo...

What will you do, when it all comes back to you? The ones that you hurt and the ones that hurt you too. What will you do, when it all comes back to you? In the rains of July, when the tears would hide, when the heavens will weep for the moments that slide, what will you do? And when light would be dim, and the sun won’t rise. when all your insecurities would splinter your wise, what will you do? What will you do, when it all comes back to you? In the autumns between winds, when spring seems afar, when the people you abandoned find some other favourite star, what will you do? And when the leaves fall, that were once lush green, and you feel them crumble, right beneath your feet, what will you do? What will you do, when it all comes back to you? In the winters without snow, when cold creeps to your feet, when all you wanted to say, you find dying with the heat, what will you do? And when you finally find the courage to say what you want, but the ones who were eag...

"The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race….It would take off on its own, and re-design itself at an ever-increasing rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn't compete, and would be superseded." -Stephen Hawking Meanwhile... "Robot passport checker rejects Asian man’s application because 'eyes are closed'." -New York Post Ah well... I don't think this is what he had in his mind when one of the most brilliant and admired minds of our century made his statement (Or maybe he did. Sir Stephen Hawking had a weirdly cool sense of humour). Since the very inception of the concept of AI, science fiction has, with all due credit and respect, created a rather extravagant image of AI in the minds of common people. This has come to a point where thinking of an AI that is, in any parameter, inferior to a Chitti or a Terminator seems dull to them. Since the incidents that are going to be n...

There are a lot of things that you lose along the way of your life. People, important objects and memories too. But Jojo Rabbit is something that will be etched in my mind forever. It deserves every single strand of brand value that accompanies the Oscar that it received. Through the medium of an innocence that not only survived, but blossomed into something beautiful during the times of war; the fragility and gullibility of a child's mind has been depicted beautifully in this masterpiece. In the times of rising intolerance for differences, maybe what we really need is to regress back into a child-like state of mind, and decide for ourselves who deserves what, rather than believing what the like-minded people around us have to say. When Elsa is introduced in the narrative, and Jojo asks her whether she is a ghost, she replies, "no, you wish. I am something much worse. And you already know it.". With time, the exploration of the so-called mind controlling 'Jews'...

There is a house at the end of the road, I recognise it from the dusty photographs, that my store room bears the burden of. The house is full of rusty metals in dusty sheets, and devoid of the presence of sentient heartbeats. The main gate still carries a burden too heavy, a board that says 'ABANDONED BUILDING'. And the creaking floorboards ensure the perpetuity, of the solitude that is brought forth as an ambiguity. The tree that is at the centre of the backyard, has been leafless for over a decade. Birds around it have stopped the chirping spree, and squirrels have finished the nuts on the tree. A swing hangs from the withered branch, with one end of the rope torn in the middle, children don't sneak-in to have a who-goes-highest, and the adults don't scold them anymore. I often wonder if this house had abandonment issues, and that's why it became something so different, that I cannot even recognise my childhood home. Because that is what a...

For all that I hold dear, I must ask once more, what shall I do, when I can't do it anymore? When days bring despair and nights are still, what shall inspire me, to pretend once more? Over the illuminated sand, I stand once more, my feet are burning, my hands are sore. I love watching the oyster that graces the tides, even though I know it will never reach the shore. So then why do I do it, please tell me once more, what is it that I've forgotten on that shore? And if it was nothing that I ever left behind, then what's this darkness that I never saw before? I have pretended that I always keep the score, and that I am aware of where I stand on this floor, but I am quite clueless as to where this path can lead, and this pretense is just a front for an internal war. So finally as the front breaks, tremors are heard, ground shakes, I would like to ask just once more, what do I do, now that I can't do it anymore?             ...