Tempest of life

 To the blunders I create and the blunders I accidentally step in.

Meow Meow 

Being accustomed with reading tragedies at times makes me feel I am living one. One day or the other there will be that final act which will close the curtains. I'm Macbeth,I'm homer, I'm antigone, I'm all those weird names that I got to know in the metro and hostel canteen(and classroom ofc).
The dreary tragedy of life clicked my attention in the most unexpected manner. Sitting in a class whose paper is titled , 'the art of being happy' yours truly was busy thinking of all the tragedies of her life. And surprisingly realised:

The tragedies have turned a year. I know you know.

I'm writing this draft in metro, someone,' kya Rajeev chowk jayegi? Bhaiya par ye ladies coach hai? Jayegi ki nhi jayegi..?' this is the complex paradox of life. Sawal hai kya ye jayegi but the point is you don't belong here.
The voices echo.And I lost my flow again. I think of writing poetry but end up writing prose. There have been multiple days when I thought, oh! I must write about it, but it hardly ever escaped the pages of my diary. The unedited notes, the childish poems and the countless memorable incidents. I live in memories and I know I might be wrong. But I give a lot of importance to dates...tareekh. aaj hi ke din ek saal pehle mai esi thi. And now I'm teary eyed about it. Asmita who thought she was absolutely worthless will be happy to know that so many beautiful things were waiting for her. Only if she trusted herself and her fate. The problem is that there is no problem. It starts in the head and end in the head. But the turmoil in between....but jo beet gyi vo baat gyi.

There was a day when I made a clay pot in a pottery workshop. I was very happy that oh I made something. It had a touch of belongingnes. I shared its picture on my family group. Everyone was very happy. But unfortunately while drying it, it broke from the bottom and I was really sad. I thought is there anything I can do properly? Or am I just an idiot who can never do anything the way it is supposed to be. I went back home. My sister saw it, she loved it. Even though it was broken she adored it. She asked me to color it to make it look beautiful. I realised that I was just focusing on the insecurities. But she was the one looking for making things beautiful. Now when I feel a loss of identity I find peace in Amrita ji's words:

ASMITA

Apr'24