This Ashtami, late evening, depressed, I was sitting at a Kali temple. All decked in a maroon saari, the flavors of festivities bright and loud in the atmosphere, I felt a certain loneliness inside. Whether it stemmed from the absence of love, or older, deeper wounds I do not know, but it seared me within. No poems came up, no black writing. I sat there, watching the priest perform the evening rituals, my mind a numb mess of thoughts, cankerous, bleeding. Before my eyes, the Goddess smiled. In her face, I found no sympathy. With the whole city erupting to the staccato beats of the dhak, I searched for wishes, prayers but that evening there came none. I kept staring, my eyes dumb, ignoring the rush of tears that was tearing me inside. I felt like a ghost. Late that night, awake in bed, I searched within me. There was nothing, just a very faint sense of existing. Inbetween questions that asked if I was really so dead inside, I fell asleep. That night I slept without dreams, a little child warming the chill at her breasts. When I see myself in the mirror, I know I’m slowly learning to live the happiest way. Alone.

Its sad the way we keep wishing on wishing stars knowing that wishes have no power. Shooting stars are probably the suicidal ones tired of loving that someone silently, hoping…

Sometimes even true love isn’t TRUE enough.