Deyasini Thinks

O Henry wrote a very romantic story, The Gift Of The Magi  in the 1900s. It was about this young poor couple who don't have enough enough to buy presents for their partners.  So, each other them decides to sell off their most prized possession to raise money for a gift. Jim sells his golden watch to buy a ribbon for Della's long red hair while Della trades her hair to buy a chain for Jim's watch. At the outset, it seems to be a perfect love story with both protagonists showing acts of unconditional love. Visit the same couple twenty five years later, O Henry might had gotten shocked to see the blatant bitterness that eventually overrides love and reduces lovers to perfect strangers. It is said loves knows no reason and lovers make no sense; so, when reason actually comes knocking at the door, love escapes the first or maybe, just evaporates leaving behind a residue of sheer bitterness, resentment and thorough regrets. Regrets for choosing relationships over careers, partner...

Clay Jensen completely loses himself. A lot of people find out who they really are and maybe, they are not the best of what they thought they’ll turn out to be. These Liberty kids have gone through a significant lot in their high school. They’ve lost friendships, love and they all have secrets. And its been far too long that they’ve been watching each others’ backs trying to keep their ‘friends’ safe. But, enough is enough and one can only take so much. In this season of a show which used to be really good in its first season, the creators swim in an ocean of disoriented content to give an apt ending. They fail, miserably. There is essentially no development in either the story or the characters in this season anymore. Almost everybody’s coping mechanism here seems to be talking to dead people. Clay sees dead people everywhere and even, talks to Bryce and Monty. Jess and Alex talk to Bryce. And Winston dances with and kisses Monty. Clay, being Clay tries as hard as he can to save...

This year’s totally been one hell of a one. There’s been this never ending pandemic situation which was locked all of us up in our homes disrupting all sorts of daily activities and normal lifestyles. Then there were cyclones: super cyclone Amphan which is the worst of the kind seen since 1999 and Nisarga which again has broken all records in the history of storms and cyclones. There are earthquakes shaking the country, people are getting killed for their skin color(know more here ), communalism is being forced into every last thing existing on this planet(even killing elephants is a communal debate ) and just today morning, a massive oil spill in Siberia has coerced the Russia government to declare a state of emergency. Moral of the story? The world isn’t really the most ideal place to be in and in the most recent times, its been a little too worse and not always can everybody help even if they want to and that inability to help sometimes more than often gives rise to a...

It’s a strange world we live in. We stay with people we don’t want to be with, love the people we know we can never have, make love to the ones who broke our hearts and deceive the ones who’d take a bullet for us. In all its entirety, it’s not an ideal place but I shall not believe that it can’t be made bearable with a little attempt on our part. A mistake can be a moment longer but it’s a complete lie when you keep making the same mistake over and over and over again. Is that what you think? That you deserve to be treated that way? Like the dirt under your feet? I find it so unbelievable to see people all around me with so little self-esteem that they cannot walk away from things that are clearly destroying them. They call it love. It’s not loving. I promise you, it’s not because if you actually love somebody, you set them free. You let them be who they want to be and with the person they want to be even if that means you are to stay alone; even if that means that you won’t be by thei...

Mr Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night on the outskirts of the hill station of Shimla. The school was conducted on English public school lines and the boys - most of them from well-to-do Indian families - wore blazers, caps and ties. "Life" magazine, in a feature on India, had once called this school the Eton of the East . Mr Oliver had been teaching in this school for several years. He's no longer there. The Shimla Bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about two miles from the school; and Mr Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through a pine forest. When there was a strong wind, the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch - and on the night I write of, its pale gleam, the batteries were running down - moved fitfully over the narrow for...

Why do we trust so many people? Why do we so care? How many faces of a single soul do we see in in one single year? How much of pain do you supress in your heart? How soon will the Sun set over your eyes? When will the light stop dazzling you? How much of distress when piled in a load is enough to let you have a meltdown? What are you to me that you expect you deserve an explanation to all my decisions? You’re at least a wrongturn in the road of my life Sunken, shrunken and dirty on all sides Atmost you’re my night old muse My next poem is bout how you touched my soul Either way, you’re so shortlived my love I’ll forget you existed by the very next noon Shouting we’re all in the same doomed ship We’re not, we’re alone and waiting singly for our doomsdays Cause despite how far the bird flies from its nest When the Sun goes down, the bird’s only welcome in her nest.

A few days ago, I was watching The Haunting Of Hill House and one of the characters in it said that a ghost is a wish. I thought it was bullshit back then because it was not only irrelevant but also insanely insensible and stupid. It was like comparing two oddly dissimilar things together, things where a comparison is not just highly unlikely but also highly absurd. How can a ghost be a wish? What kind of wish is it? Is it fulfilled or unfulfilled? But then, how would a fulfilled wish still be called a wish? A week later into a strange mourning, I understand better. I realize how less dramatic Life is compared to all those daily soaps we grew up watching which dramatized pain beyond feasibility, use recurring characters, doppelgangers or amnesia to dress up Death as a break from the monotonicity of Life, like one week of a vacation. But Death is everything but a vacation. It's a surprise (shocking) one way trip to oblivion; something one can't forget or escape or procrastin...