Yash Soni

Dear You, My hands tremble as I write this to you because I feel too shy to talk to you directly. Even though I have written so much about you, talking to you directly still gets butterflies in my stomach. You have always had this magical impact on me. It's unreal. But there are still a few things I'd like to talk to you about on this drunken night. Turning you into poetry is probably the stupidest thing I have done. Please don't get me wrong, this is not about whether you deserved it or not. It's just that I have romanticized you as a muse for so long that every other person I meet now seems so ordinary and worthless. I keep finding pieces of you in others. Someone smiles a bit like you; someone is finicky about timing as you were and so on. But no one is even close to what you have been…and that's so wrong, isn't it? I don't even know if this is real or not. The lines between reality and fiction have blurred in my head to the extent that I keep quest

The first week of college; New place, new faces, awkward first conversations, silent observations. We were asked to register for something called 'The most promising fresher.' Our seniors judged us on our communication skills and talent. In the first round of the screening process, I was asked to give a creative introduction about myself followed by a talent round. A lot of people sang, danced and even beatboxed. I wasn't that kind of a person who'd enter a room and boom their greetings. I finished my short intro. "What's your talent?" someone from the judges asked. "I can write," I replied. They didn't seem impressed. I was interrupted, "Can you narrate a story?" "My stories are kind of big, but I'll try to be brief..." I was interrupted again, "We don't have much time, do you have any other talents?" "No," I replied. "Thank you. Who's next?" I felt dejected. The list of students

The air feels too heavy right now. There are unsaid goodbyes and dreams suspended here. One side there is a chorus of cries and songs being sung for their bravery. Another side there is a deafening silence. Emptiness, grief, pain, and loss collide with each other. Nothing happy is born out of this tragedy, just the remnants of bodies and blood! There are no winners or survivors here. This is a plain cesspool of tragedies. Somewhere in the background, a distinct war cry can be heard. A six-year daughter was waiting for her dad to come home and sing for him the national anthem that she learned in her music class. Somewhere at a home, a mother cradles photographs and memories of her son. She remembers singing him brave songs as lullabies and reminisces fighting with him to come back home. Somewhere a newlywed wife instead of draping sindoor wears white but all she can see is blood and loss. There is a red rose pinned to her dupatta. She places it gently on what remains of him. It

You still cry about someone who left you for someone else, Who doesn't think of you anymore. It's been a year that he broke your heart. But you still couldn't talk about it; you tremble when someone enquires about it, You little girl, you dared to push someone out of your life whom you loved with all your heart. You didn't give him the chance to destroy you anymore emotionally. You're wise enough to sense that he is not the one for you even if you've loved him for a few years now. You deserve someone who will treat you the way you treat every important person in your life. Someone who will travel half the world just to see your eyes. You deserve someone who loves books as much as you do, Who plays tennis as much you do, Who will be ready to travel 20 kms at 1 am to drink masala chai with you. You deserve someone who won't give excuses or beg for second chances. You deserve a man who calls you his queen and not a guy who keeps switching betwee

When you hate the most constant characteristic aspect of the world change. Daily survival becomes tough, When things change the way you love, it becomes tougher. Unfortunately, when you're an intense observant and even small tiny behaviors of ones around you agitate your sensitivity and spikes your level of anger out of space that it turns down like tears. You're stuck in a broken bridge between the past and present of the same person, poisoned to silent killing by the way they were and the way they are. To the extent that you're sad for no reason, but ultimately the reason is embedded within you which could never be expressed because you've lost acceptance over it. Being so emotionally composed, at least that's how others recognize you. The only option of expressing your grief is also now vanished. Putting on those professional fake smiles losing your individuality drop by drop, you cannot fix or mend yourself, neither scream for help. In reality, the o

A part of being human is facing a constant crisis of existence. I often feel inadequate. Wonder who I truly am. Wonder about my very human self, all the quirks & imperfections, whether they make sense, whether I make sense. What am I made of? Probably lots of naked Nutella waffles. And lemonade. Mushroom cheese caps. CHEESE. Nerd? Geek? Loner? Maybe an uneven combination. A bit of "All the bright places." Archie comics. The Hardy Boys. Matilda. Batman. Amanda Hocking. Do you realize that we are so invested in the big picture that we forget about the little things that matter? Little things that make you 'you.' Little things that make me 'me.' Long baths. The color pink. Pajamas. Love for the rains and thunderstorms. Yellow balloons. My bed. Egg bhurji. Meg Cabot's Airhead. 'Modern Family.' My bookshelf. I often fall into bottomless dark pits; I'd understand if you do too. Little things keep me hanging. Things that keep me sane.

I am one of them, in almost every aspect. Just that when it comes to love, I'm a little different from my friends. It's surprising how love is found, made and how all these emotions are expressed, all over texts. All I have done is write letters, some 10 of them, and kept them with me. (Even my best doesn't know.) Every morning in a hall filled with closed eyes, I keep mine open, to look at you, peacefully. Don't even ask me about the number of times I stroll, near the stairs, in that corridor, or near the field, hoping to see you. Just once, maybe. I can never understand how without even thinking about it, they randomly mention each other on social media. I don't remember the number of times I have typed your name, long pressed the backspace key, afraid, overthinking, before tagging you. You know, they meet almost every day, click tons of pictures too, in uncountable poses. The occasions we meet are a few birthday parties. And pictures? I hav