Hang Up the Phone


Hang up the phone,
I’m not that girl anymore
I don’t sit up after the lights are off
Crying anymore
I don’t imagine what love should be like
From the bathroom floor

Hang up the phone,
I’m not that girl anymore
I won’t stay up listening to you talk
When I want to run away instead
I won’t spend hours contemplating
The roads my bare feet tread

Hang up the phone,
I’m not that girl anymore
I still keep all those diaries and letters
Just won’t ever look at them again
I still listen to those old songs
But can no longer feel the pain

Hang up the phone,
I’m not that girl anymore
I’m beginning to love the rain
But I don’t feel the loneliness
I’ve worked hard to make things better
And now I am beyond the mess

Hang up the phone
I’m not that girl anymore
I won’t pick up your broken pieces
Trying to get you back on your feet
I’m walking far ahead on another road
I’m trying to be me

Hang up the phone
I’m not that girl anymore
I am not flying over the city lights
Not following the sight and sound
I’m not tearing up inside, nor hurting out
My feet are firmly on the ground

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Excerpt


A new sob broke from my chest. I was hurting everyone today.
Was there anything I touched that didn’t get spoiled?

I didn’t know why it was hitting me so hard now. It wasn’t
like I hadn’t known this was coming all along. But Jacob had never reacted so
strongly- lost his bold overconfidence and shown the intensity of his pain. The
sound of his agony still cut at me- somewhere deep in my chest. Right beside it
was the other pain. Pain for feeling pain over Jacob. Pain for hurting Edward,
too. For not being able to watch Jacob go with composure, knowing that it was
the right thing, the only way.

I was selfish, I was hurtful. I tortured the ones I loved.

I was like Cathy, like Wuthering Heights, only my options
were so much better than hers, neither one evil, neither one weak. And here I sat,
crying about it, not doing anything productive to make it right. Just like
Cathy.

I couldn’t allow what hurt me to influence my decisions
anymore. It was too little, much too late, but I had to do what was right now.
Maybe it was already done for me. Maybe Edward would not be able to bring him
back. And then I would accept that and get on with my life. Edward would never
see me shed another tear for Jacob Black. There would be no more ears. I wiped
the last of them away with cold fingers now.

But if Edward did return with Jacob, that was it. I had to
tell him to go away and never come back.

Why was that so hard? So very much more difficult than
saying goodbye to my other friends, to Angela, to Mike? Why did that hurt? It
wasn’t right. That shouldn’t be able to hurt me. I had what I wanted. I couldn’t
have them both, because Jacob could not be just my friend. It was time to give
up wishing for that. How ridiculously greedy could any one person be?

A Bad Dream


Let those feelings come out

Don’t bury them deep inside

Your touch is still alive upon me

Fire breathing warm over my closed eyes

 

There is just this one day; one shot

One minute to make a decision in

It is a split second for the rest of your life

You’ll look back upon it as a bad dream

 

And I was riding next to you

But in living I was behind you

Coz you’d done things I never would

Taking steps I never could

 

And so I told you to let your inner demons out

I said I could take it; I lied

But it became easier the longer I tried

Once the thought was lodged in my pride

 

And you were trying to pull away; weren’t you?

I felt abandoned but it was your one choice

Your one chance; otherwise everything was blue

And the rest was just a bad dream

 

Those days got lost in the past

Sandwiched between faults which weren’t mine

And I took the one shot

One minute to make a decision in

Closed my eyes and then

It was all as good as a bad, bad dream

 

 

New Strangeness


Those long nights and all the fights

The fleeting glimpses, that stormy tide

What moved me I cannot explain

But now I deal with all that old pain

 

Should I have stayed subtle, stayed quiet?

Hidden in plain sight like I always had before

Because exquisitely destructive though it was;

All that love still belonged to me

 

Should I have left those unanswered prayers alone?

Not created stories in my head

But let life play along its own tune whilst

All that love still belonged to me

 

Should I have ignored the hand of all that glory?

Beautiful and filling the air all around me

Let make believe be that cosmic reality so that

All that love still belonged to me

 

But maybe your life was running me;

Like the rivers sprouting green

Like that beautifully germinating seed

Like the child growing within a belly-

And maybe that would have been all I had ever lived with-

Not this unsteady race across the continents inside me

 

But all that trust was never just

A joke; but a film playing inside my head

And now those things seem so strange again

Because everything has been said.

How I Got a Live Human Diary and Other Stories


19 February 2007 was the day of my final physics practical
for ninth grade. I had done unbelievably well (considering it was physics) in my
mid-term examination but this time
things were destined to go so horribly wrong that I emerged, at the end
of the class, teary-eyed and inconsolable as though it was the end of the
world. This classmate had tried to help me cheat but I had buckled so
completely under pressure that the paper had become an utter mess and it seemed
like nothing would ever be okay again.

The next day when I returned to class, determined to make
the best of a situation, she was waiting for me with a letter written on
flowery notepad paper filled both sides with an apology and ending in a poem. i
felt it was the sweetest gesture on earth; it suddenly seemed like the world
did contain a few good people too. I returned her gesture with a letter of my
own, tearing the paper out of my notebook and reassuring her in turn that it
was not her fault and thanking her for the letter that had touched my heart.
And we fell into a pattern

We bought diaries; she decorated them with flowers and our
names in fancy calligraphy. We were very girly about the whole thing. I even
scented the pages sometimes and we poured our hearts out into the pages. We
discussed boys we crushed on, girls who gossiped too much and caused drifts,
homework and studies, writing and music.

The highlight of my mornings was made up of entering class
and finding her there, diary in hand. I would dump my bag carelessly on its
seat and turn the pages eagerly, looking for her advice and at the same time,
ready to lend a ear to all she had to say. For nearly two years, that was how
we communicated.

Once we sat together on the bus that took us back home after
extra class (this was grade tenth). Technically we belonged to different
cliques; our ‘actual’ time together was limited but we poured our teenage
hearts out through our letters to one another. I remember feeling a bit awkward
actually sitting next to her after all those months of letters; I don’t believe
we spent much time actually talking. But that day on the bus we talked and we
talked, and later we realized it was kind of nice this way to. It was a strange
relationship we had built, a relationship of letters, of the written word not
the spoken ones. In a way we were pen pals and in another way, well we were
just classmates and friends.

We also devised a system that got us into trouble at school:
we started passing notes in class. Our favourite lessons for this communication
were history and Hindi and sometimes we included other people into this too,
until it became a trend in class. Yes it was a trend we set, the sly passing of
notes under the teacher’s notes until one day she was caught passing a note to
someone else. Once our teachers began to sniff the air, we stopped and returned
to our diary.

I shared my first notebook of stories with her, let her read
some of the poems I had written. We mixed CDs for each other, shared photos and
exchanged books. The Princess Diaries became one of our favourite series to
share at one point of time and I would pretend to be Mia. We would cry over her
story and discuss its finest points.

On her
birthday I wrote her a really long poem entitled, ‘A Princess’. She made me
cards for New Year’s and for my birthday. We
shared loads of trivia.

In short, the three most perfect years of my life…and I am
glad she was a part of them coz we shared uncountable joys and sorrows. This post
is for you Soujata Borbaruah