"He wasn't scared that day, even though he knew he was gonna die.", he always started his stories two sips into the tea and from the middle. I used to love these small little veranda tales. Maybe these were the best memory I had of my father. He just had a talent for storytelling.

But then I grew up and he grew old. His baritone was now in question. His throat hurting every time he sipped or spoke.
Sitting beside his deathbed, I was crying and losing a fit but then I saw him. "He wasn't scared that day, even though he knew he was gonna die."

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While the rest enjoyed rain dances and chai out in the open,
We grabbed the few kisses and snuggled inside that small blanket watching the rain drops trickle down the window.

-

A beginner's guide on "How not to move on in just Three steps":

*Zone out into random sadness and cry your heart out in the middle of the day.

**Try and find a way to relate each topic back to her.

***Keep on repeating the following words; "you won't feel that happy ever again!".

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*Okay Google*
Set an alarm for 7 a.m.

*Set label*
You can only live the present if you remember the dark past.
You can only predict the future by looking at today.

*Maybe this time I won't end up crying in the morning!*

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I came back home and fell on my bed still inside my rain soaked tshirt.

*Mental note*
1. Do not go out in the rain.
2. Do not go out in the rain with her.
3. Do not look at her drenched hair, in the rain.
4. Do not look at her in the rain and ask about her boyfriend.

You know why? Because it hurts!

-

I learnt something ages ago,
That some roads demand silence,
And some situations just expect seriousness!
But some tunnels, want you to lower down that window and howl as you reach the light!

-

Working in an ER was stressful. Late nights, long shifts, unseen situations and most of all, still maintaining a social life after watching people die on the table. But he still made it to the terrace, of the most romantic restaurant in the vicinity with great food and wine. Sitting across his soon to be fiance he smiled, and passed over her favourite champagne. With the ring in it.

Working as a journalist was tough in the town. Constantly waiting for the next big story in the most stressful environment. But still, she managed to run at the right time to get to her date almost gasping for air, after the quick run around the block from her office. She chugged the champagne he gave her. She choked with the ring in her throat.


*The ER room saw another death that day and the newsroom saw another shocking news.*

-

He lathered his face with the shaving cream and realised the undeniable truth.. No matter how comfortable he felt in the white of the cream; the sense of purity, a sense of calm and a sense of loneliness - that he can't wear that regardless the fact that he just lost someone!

-

Suddenly all the anecdotes and teachings fade away. The idea again becomes just your work. The contributions stop, and the writing, again becomes a solitary sport.

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And slowly all the lipstick and the mascara starts to drip rolling down your skin, with just a single splash and reveals the true bruised and beaten skin.

The room maybe full of the rainbow flags and body image posters but the society still sees you as a Degenerate. A mistake! They find your true sexuality still a mess.

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