February to February


I believe writing can break you;
yet we write the best when we are the most broken.

I believe writing can shake you;
yet we write the best when we are the most shaken.

I believe words can mend broken hearts.
I believe words have the ability to drag you
from that pit of darkness
and into the beginning of new dawns.
Some like them in songs;
some like them in psalms.

A close friend of mine once said to me, “you know, I don’t really have to worry about you, wherever you are. I know that you have the strength and courage to come out of whatever you face and promise me that you’ll keep writing because that’s how you heal.” But I broke that promise; somewhere between fighting for lost causes and holding onto beautiful relationships, I broke that promise, and eventually, I broke myself. But I don’t think it’s ever too late because breaking is just the beginning of another process of healing. It’s just another cycle from which you need to come out stronger than ever.

You need to find that light at the end of the tunnel and work your way to it. But just this one time, I decided to change my healing process. I realised that I don’t always have to lose something to find myself. Sometimes, the thing that gives you the most amount of pain is also the thing that gives you the most amount of happiness. It’s really your choice if you want to let both go or heal in such a way that you can keep the happiness. I had almost always inadvertently chosen to heal by letting both go; but not this time. This time, I opted to heal in such a way that I can retain the happiness. At the end of the day, pain and pleasure are but two sides of the same coin and healing is nothing but realising that this coin is not for you to be flip and await the probability of getting pleasure. It is realising that pain or pleasure actually come to you when the coin goes up in the air and takes one full circle before it comes back to you. Healing is about that, healing is about those full circles and realising that at the end of it, you can begin all over again.

And this one time, since I’m healing differently, I also thought of documenting it differently. I’m done writing those stories of crash and burn. This time, I got the idea to start a page called ‘February to February’ (naming the page so because of very personal reasons), wherein I, with the help of a few of my ever supportive friends, will curate a set of poems, stories, songs and basically just words that come full circle  – just the kind of one the coin takes before it comes back to you; just the kind of one the earth takes from one February to another. These are words of wisdom, words of love, words of loss, words hurt, words of heart break and most of all, we will make sure these are always about words that make you heal and realise that you can begin again. These are words by you, words by me, words by your mother, words by Rumi or words by Floyd; these could be words by anybody and we will publish them on February to February if they can even create an iota of hope in you and empower your being.




Cold Stone

'Poetry arrived in search of me'

On the grass across the road

lay a rubble of stones.

In the moist rains they rejoiced,

in the cold winters they moaned.

A numb stone lay amid the rubble,

quiescent, like a distant admirer,

until the day an ambitious stone moved,

finding its way to the fallow.

They stuck together

through changing seasons;

Scrapping each other,

lighting a great fire.

All the others watched in awe

at the scrapping stones-

bringing warmth in the cold

of the late December afternoons.

The ambitious stone left one day,

without extinguishing the fire.

The numb stone felt at a loss,

it did not want the fire to go off.

In search of the ambitious stone,

it reached another rubble.

“Come back, help me keep the fire alive,”

the numb stone cried out.

“I don’t want to help you,”

the ambitious stone replied.

“Why did you light this fire then?”

the numb stone demanded.

“I couldn’t have lit your fire,

I’m just a cold stone.”

A ‘cold stone’, the numb stone wondered

In incomprehensible horror.

A year went by

and the winters were here again.

The numb stone was still emanating the fire,

now larger than prior.

The ambitious stone didn’t return.

“How could a cold stone light this fire,

make me a guiding light with ever burning desire,”

the numb stone yelled.

Maybe it was me,

maybe I am volcanic stone,

it dawned on the numb stone,

pulling it out of self loathing.

“A volcanic stone,”

it was feeling amused,

self-assured and satisfied

in years after its formation.

A volcanic stone without its ground,

without its cold stone;

Set afire, forever alone;

There was a mercurial dip in its mood.

Suddenly, it hit itself against its rubble,

breaking into tiny pieces, perishing,

scrapping, lighting other stones,

spreading warmth in the late December afternoon.