The ones who love us never truly leave us.

I don’t believe in ghosts.
What I do believe in is people leaving behind bits of themselves wherever they go. Bits that build up slowly,surely, bits that gather like dust creeping softly on windowpanes. And they accumulate as time ticks on by,bits of a person’s soul lingering in the things they love best, till one cannot be seen without thinking of the other. Footprints being left behind on the sands of our lives and hearts.
More often than not, we take this for granted. We see this process, but don’t notice it,per se. We don’t consciously realise it’s happening.
Until the person leaves, and suddenly, they are everywhere. In their inhaler lying on the table and the coffee stains on their embroidered tablecloth and their usual spot and their shirts lying ironed, untouched on the bed. In the echoing emptiness of their favourite room and the creases of their blanket and their spectacles lying in their usual place. We don’t realise how much a person defines certain things, and how much they are reflected in those very things. And when we finally do, it’s only because of the awful wrongness of everything, as the balance of our universe is kicked out of place. Because you may say things are just things, but when you associate something with someone, it’s hard to separate the two again.
I believe in the essence that lingers long after a person leaves; in the memories of the people he leaves behind. In the countless little reminders they leave in infinitesimal, insignificant things that you would never have noticed otherwise. In remembered conversations that seemed so inconsequential at the time, but now you would bleed to relive them,just once more.
I believe in living hearts clinging desperately onto ones that stopped beating a long time ago.
I believe in humans holding on to phantoms of hope that the separation that ripped their heart apart was only temporary, that it was all just some horrible, twisted dream; when deep down, they knew that it really, truly wasn’t.
I believe in people finding ways to cope with loss and pain, and trying to find something that somehow, miraculously,dulls the ache. And we build up ideas and thought processes that make the loss hurt a little less. And i guess, in the end, that is all the construct of the afterlife and the idea of souls leaving fragile bodies to find eternal bliss boil down to; they are what help humans cope with the agony of losing a loved one. And if they give pained hearts some peace and relief, so be it.
Because, in the end, I also believe in the resilience of human hearts.


In loving memory of both the best, most beautiful grandfathers and men to have lived. We’ll always miss and love you.



You can look at it this way; we’re all just sacks of blood and skin on the surface of a rock, floating endlessly through an infinite vacuum. Minute, diminutive, insignificant specks in the face of gaping infinity.
Or you could look at the miracle of it all. We’re living, breathing, with a heart that beats ceaselessly, tirelessly all our lives in its cage of bone. We have blood and sinew and organs and all these tiny little pieces that fit somehow and make up these imperfect, but amazing bodies. And we’re not just hollow marionettes; we have a mind and a soul and a conscience; that niggling little voice in our head.
We feel so much more than what such a small,fist sized, beating heart could ever encompass, we think beyond our fragile yet resilient bodies and restless souls and seek, seek, endlessly seek- whether it’s salvation, or answers, or revenge or ecstasy, everything is a quest. We’ve taken time as it is, colossal and vast and infinite, and have broken it up,into hours and minutes and seconds, days, years and decades, and measured it using sand and the sun and the little ticking hands of a clock.
We fall and we break, and feel ourselves shatter into irreparable shards. And then, oh then, hope blossoms through like stars blooming on a dark sky, and we pick our little selves up, and glue those infinitesimal pieces back together. We crash and burn, and rise from the ashes to soar again and again. The sky could crumble over our heads and the earth could rumble under our feet; mountains could fall and the sea could swirl about the places we loved and we would still find a way to survive, the human would trudge on somehow. Because even with tears streaming down our cheeks, even with torn hearts and a crushed soul and a broken body, we march on. Survive. That’s what we’ve done since we  discovered fire and invented the wheel, and made our way up to travel among the stars and set foot on the moon. We’ve battled plague and pestilence, faced famine and flood, spilled blood in wars and revolution, and still found a way to grow.
Because that is the way we are made. Bodies and hearts concentrated with experiences and memories that last beyond the span of our brief lives, bottled up with a spectrum of feelings, and a universe of thought. Stories and songs and poems that transcend the barriers of time, loves eternal and fleeting.
We stumble and make mistakes, we are stubborn, angry, wistful and longing; we lust after impossible dreams, chasing our fantasies long after we should have given up. We have faith enough to change the course of history itself; we cling on to even phantoms of hope, ghosts and echoes: tendrils of smoke curling up from the final gasps of a dying fire. And we dream. We dream of things far beyond our reach, and shed our blood and sweat and work our way to the top of the summit, defying the very concept of impossibility.
For that is the miracle of mankind.