My Bones Were Right.

My bones were right.

You wait for me,

was the plan.

I saw you standing,

so I ran.

I could not believe,

people stay.

Warm promises still spur,

come what may.

-Vanshika Singh

Someone: How many times do you tend to turn the most trivial matters into elaborated, heart wrenching poetries and end up having no significant story behind them?

Me: Yes

We live in a non-friendly locality. A typical urban setting with dominating anonymity. We greet people often, out of courtesy to show that we come from a good family. Nothing like the silent pact, that states 'reach out to me if you are in problem'.

An old man, in his late seventies, just shifted from his village, after his wife died to live with his son, who lives in the same locality as us. He was a breath of fresh air. He greeted everybody who walked past him, not because of courtesy, but because he really cared. If he did not see us, or our car parked outside our home, he would bang his walking stick on our door, and call out to us. When we would reach the door, he would only ask us if we are all fine. And us being fine, washed his face with relief. As if he was a blood relative who shared with us, something redder than blood. Only that he was a man, distant both in age and origin geography.

Initially, i thought it was just us. The urban mentality of thinking yourself as morally higher than others, made me think, we were kind and that is what made him attached to us. But then I witnessed his conversations with other people, and I was amazed at his communication skills. The man had a heart, for sure.

What made me write a space for him, is his actions few days ago. I was out of my doors, with my bag pack, ready to leave for an examination. He was walking past our home, and I greeted him with an endearment I used for my own grandfather. He only nodded seemingly in hurry, and asked me where I was off to, early in the morning. I told him I had an exam and he replied with a, 'Go succeed'.

The very same evening, he banged his walking stick on our door and when my mother came out, she asked about my whereabouts. My mother called me, and I went to greet him for the second time that day. He regretfully said that he was in a hurry in the morning because he had received a call that some close friend of his, back in the village had succumbed to death.

When we expressed our apology he said it's high time they leave. But that was not his main concern. His main concern was my examination and that he could not bless me with a abhimantrit aparajita (a flower from a creeper, that is considered holy in India, and the one that brings good luck). He made a promise pact with me, that whenever I have an examination, I'd inform him a day before, so he could bring one for me the day of the exam.

So many things baffle me everyday. The good and the bad. I condemn myself of thinking too much of the world and picking out meaning in everything. But this was something else. The fact that good people exist, is fine. We have accepted it long back that they do. The fact that good people feel it is their responsibility to keep the good thriving is what made my day.

I do not look forward for my examination day, or that abhimantrit aparajita. I look forward to the expression of satisfaction he would wear, the day he fulfills his self assumed responsibility.

-An excerpt from an autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.

Title- Aparajita

In some way, it was simpler,

to walk around all lonely.

To not have to look around the world,

and search for a place to be.

But now when I am here,

where mortals give and take.

I'd have to pretend I like it,

with a smile, that's a little too fake.

-Vanshika Singh

I just can't get enough of the feeling of being perceived as just me. Me, the entity, the present me, the me that you see right now, at this very moment. Not the me at my worst, or the me at my best. When I am seen exactly where I stand, what I am at this moment. When they take me in right now. Remind me this is my reality. And not the one where I am busy fighting with my past regrets of doing things wrong, or future fears of messing things up. But somewhere in the middle where I know I am not alone, no matter what mess I make.

-An excerpt from the autobiography I will never write, Vanshika.