I see faces…

People leave homes behind. They move away. I wonder if their stories ever do.

I wonder if, as much as we believe, have we ever been powerful enough to rip memories off the walls that boast them.

Or, is it just an illusion, yet another desperate attempt at gaining power over time?

Will we ever know? Do we even care?

I believe when homes are abandoned, they aren’t really left alone. They are left behind with tales, hiding underneath the faces that dwell in the random patterns of their marble floors.

They are left behind with faces, with eyes full of questions, and mouths too numb to answer.

And, each time you feel like someone’s following you, it’s often just an old memory, trapped in a plain white wall somewhere, waiting to be lived again.

We are back home!

I started my blogging journey with the name ‘From The Quill’. The name was really close to my heart. It took me months to come up with this, and honestly, I couldn’t have wished for a better name for my website. In June 2019, I decided to move to the next level and buy a custom domain for the same name.

For some reason or another, the domain wasn’t available and that broke my heart. I knew I had to move away from an identity that had really fuelled my love for my blog and it pained me. Eventually, I came up with a new name- Life In Yellows and I loved that too. But, it just didn’t feel right. Something felt off and I don’t know if that was my attachment to the last name or simply overthinking, the new name had me spiraling down into an unforeseen writer’s block.

It was a rut I couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried.

So, over the last weekend, I began debating the idea of changing my website’s name yet again. The choice this time was rather clearer, I chose to go with the name I kept for my podcast and my YouTube channel- Yet Unheard.

But then, I don’t know why, but I had an intuitive nudge to check the availability of my first ever choice, and that is when the universe blessed me with the happiest miracle of my life. I jumped with joy when I found out that the domain was back in the market.

So, ladies and gentlemen, here we are… back to the basics, to the roots. http://www.lifeinyellows.com is now http://www.fromthequill.com

Honestly, nothing has ever made me happier than this change… and now, I hope to bring the spirit of my blog back to you. The raw and authentic Gauri, writing her heart out. I am honestly so excited about this.

Thank you so much for choosing to be a part of my journey. You people don’t even know how much that means to me. Forever grateful. Much love!

Rare. Rarer

It’s rare to find people who smile when roses wilt, not because they despise its beauty, but because they can’t wait for it to rise from the neath again. If you have the eye of a sorcerer, everything has the soul of a phoenix.

Why do endings hurt as much as they do? Why do beginnings scare us? Why is it that the roads bring us peace but not the place it is taking us to? Do places mean us more harm than journeys can?

It is rare to ask more questions when all your life you have only learned to answer the ones that already exist. Rarer to knit flags that boast your curiosity instead of weaving drapes that cloak it away from the world.

Why do we rush to put an end to contrast as soon as we encounter it? What is this obsession we have for symmetry? Where does it come from? When did we fall in love with indifference?

Aren’t warriors born under the storm-stirred skies? Doesn’t the revolution begin when the heart feels a need to end what exists? Then why fear chaos when it’s nothing but the birthing ground for the new? Or, do we fear what is yet to come more than what has long fallen?

It is rare to love falling. Rarer to love rising again, because it’s difficult to fall in love with the pain of building a new home away every time the former collapses… and if you can, then did you ever fall in love with the last one?

Travelers are conflicted. Lost. They run to lose their identity away in the crowds and then find a deranged new face from the paradoxes of life.

Every evening when they camp on the side of the road, their new face pricks against their skin and all the tears that they kept locked away in a casket come running to them at the dawn of their pause.

Why would they like pausing then? Why won’t they run forever and pray that the Sun never sets on their day? But, in the hind of their futile wishes, they know they can’t control fate. Sun sets; they pause, and they yearn to run again.

But, it is rare for a traveler to choose to pause for a forever one day and so it is rarer to find peace in the silence of the now.

-Gauri Walecha

The Leap

The Sun is shining down upon your brow, making it gleam until it shines enough to deserve your glory. 

The grass under your feet is tender- as tender as this newborn beginning of your life-long journey. Tender enough to be cradled to the glee of their greens. 

The path ahead is unbiased, unforked- leading you to your paradise, to the sweet victory, to sweeter smiles. 

The path lies unbiased, across the edges of deep darkness. 

Should the need of leaping across a deep dark abyss hold you back from reaching out for your dreams?

Should your disbelief in the power of keeping faith hold you back from believing in the strength your heart carries?

If you crowned your fear and chose to never take that first step, would you have given your destiny a fair chance?

Burns and Ashes- Spoken Word

Black and burnt hearts fall down to ashes when you aim at them with the cupid’s arrow. If that doesn’t scare you enough against love stories gone rogue, then you may want to grab a glimpse of the poison spat rose pressed in the old and worn pages of a happy love story.

Heartbreaks are like untimely deaths, and the tears that follow are like watered flames of a rain-drenched funeral. Eulogies die under muffled heavy breaths and you sob till the next mourning sun dawns over your moonless night. You face that sun, smelling like stale giggles and sour hugs.

A curse too harsh for the lover inside you!

What happens next? That lover elopes.

You stop seeing the world through pink stained glasses. Your whites don’t preach out peace now, instead, they scream indifference. The yellows don’t sing for joy, but they lie, down and dusted.

Your world is no longer a castle made up of stardust and crystals. Your slippers aren’t glass and you don’t walk around, crowned with flowers. 

Now, you reign the voids and your fires cast shadows of their own. You find comfort in darkness and the Sun burns at your skin.

You sleep to howling wolves and wake up to fighting Ravens. But, regardless, you live; you learn to…

You learn to live, adorning ashes and romancing burnt ruins. You are a lone poet, except, now you aren’t in love with ‘love’.

You bleed in the darkest shade of blue and weave out gospels. But, no matter which storm pulls you into its eye, you write… and you live!

– Gauri Walecha

The One about Rains and Hearts

I spilled colors on a rather blank canvas. They dripped off the edges, down in a puddle of water, giving colors to a rather blank sky… An illusion some people so need.

Rains mark my favorite time of the year. Those few minutes of Earthen fragrances sent afloat by the happy soils… The beauty of the greens hanging in the air and rustling every now and then to sing songs of merriment. Dancing hearts, joyous smiles… I don’t know what could possibly make one hate such raw charm. But then, some people do.

Some hearts who had to let another go in one sad monsoon don’t find their bliss in the rains anymore. All they can think of is the way their heart burnt like a forgotten lamp waiting to die before someone remembers it. All they can hear is the sound of their tears falling into puddles that the rain must have filled. All they can find is the melancholy trapped behind the blue hues of water ridden clouds. All they see, all they smell, all they feel… is bereavement.

Bereavement of the rain washing away the last few marks of the last walk they had with their beloved; of new life growing from the old flowers they had buried underneath; of trees falling and withering away, taking along the marks of their journey; of a traveler traveling farther away from her childhood home.

Separation leaves hollows where once life was, and just like an abandoned crevice, these hollows fill with memories when rains fall, but the water dries away- memories don’t.

They stay behind, adding shades of sepia to the neons of joy. Adding rust to the sheen of gleaming metal. Adding gore to glory and pride to prudence.

They tell stories like a charm and make you forget others like magic. Before you know, that void is like the Sun shining upon your midnight fog. The one you can’t resist following, not once in seven moons.

The one about Butterflies and Hope

Have you ever seen a butterfly grow out of her cocoon? Her wings are the first to greet the first Sun of her new life. 

Do you know why?

It’s a victory ritual. A token to celebrate everything she survived. To celebrate all that made her into who she is now.

The last of the thins of her cocoon break soon. Her struggle to break free ends sooner. The light at the end of the tunnel flows out of her daydreams to bring charms to her reality… A reality she once wanted to run away from. She eventually did… She ran, but only to get closer to who she was. 

Have you ever noticed how often writers sell hope wrapped in this exact same tale?

Have you ever wondered why? 

It’s a peacemaker’s chant. One meant to make you believe in the power of fallen joy. Meant to make you believe that one day you will wake up to realize how you had never fallen prey to the dark but had only been pulled into its embrace till you got stronger to face the world again.

It’s a poet’s favorite metaphor; her favorite choice of weapon to spill beauty in a world that is threatened by it. 

It’s an intricate piece of abstract art, with love spilled all over- a little to see and a lot to feel. 

But mostly, it’s a reminder, a letter speaking about all our lost smiles and addressing them back to us, exactly where we had lost them. 

Have you found yours yet?

Why so scared to live?

You put walls to my valor and then expect me to break them. You give me keys to the same door you locked me behind. You strangle me in my own strengths and call them my weaknesses. You spin my life in a loop of paradoxes and then label me a mess. 

What is so endearing about the sin of holding minds captive? What makes you want to force people to act against their free will? What pride does it bring to you by judging people for what they love? 

Why must a person hold back from living the life of their dreams? Why is expression a prerequisite to people-pleasing instead of being a vehicle for love? 

Is this how we will eventually lose the art of loving? And then what is to live if it is not to love? 

Oftentimes, at night, I weave thoughts out of my never-ending trail of memories. For a reason or another, it’s often under the deep cloak of darkness when these tales of the past come rushing to me. As if somehow, they know that nights are my safe space when I need to hide away from the world.

But then, why must a safe space be frowned upon? What, in fact, must be despised is the need for one!

We proudly boast of the world as our home and then find hideaways in it. On days when the norms become so heavy, we feel the need to rebel against them, and to do so out in the open isn’t the kind of courage we ever found in ourselves. 

Homes must be safe, shouldn’t they be? It’s sad how they aren’t, but then again, isn’t unusual. 

We appreciate the lack of chaos more than the presence of calm. We celebrate silence over peace. More often than not, we don’t even flinch before raising hell in our hearts just to keep fires from burning around us. 

What good does it serve to deny problems when they actually exist? Why are all of us simply escapists pretending to be seeking solutions? Is the problem too big for the answer too insignificant? What holds us back from letting it all go and diving back in? Why so scared to live?

– Gauri Walecha

*Disclaimer: The artist doesn’t intend to comment upon or speak about any of the current socio-economic or political scenarios through this video or its contents. This is purely a work of literature presented here only for entertainment purposes. Any political or socio-economic inferences drawn from the video or its contents are solely the viewer’s interpretation. The artist is not responsible for any such individual interpretations and doesn’t endorse them either.

To the one who is yet to bloom

To the one who is yet to bloom, 

I see you…You have waited! You stood your ground when the Earth began to shake, you swam through the roughest of waters, you held your home when a storm took everything away… you waited through all yet never yelled a single curse!

I see you… and you are the strongest I have ever seen!

Now you have begun to run out of patience. Little things don’t dawn smiles over you anymore but leave you behind with risen haste. 
You have lost faith. 
You have lost strength. 
You have lost hope. 

The thick skin that you once grew, is now into ruins and you… you know you can’t take the pain anymore. 

So, what do you choose now? Defeat?
I don’t blame you… Neither do I blame the darkness. 

But I do blame something…
I blame those mouths who kept telling you how you must have achieved glory by a certain age. 
I blame those minds who came up with a structure to confine people’s lives. 
I blame those hands that had the audacity to strangle you into these chains.

But you? No, I don’t blame you!

Instead, 
I am standing by your side and cheering for you, making sure that my voice is louder than the taunts yelled at you.
I am waiting for you, on the other side of the finishing line with my arms wide stretched, ready to pull you in an embrace the moment you reach.

Who am I, you ask? 

I am the one meant to show you the right path.
I am here to hold your hand and guide you as you walk.
… and, as long as you follow me, I promise everything will be alright.

Just don’t stop! For me… don’t stop!

With love,
Your heart.

– Gauri Walecha

Midnight Sky

It’s midnight. Dew has settled on its favorite leaves, leaving no room for them to face the bare danger. The street light is a little too yellow, piercing through the dark to find the naked loneliness hiding in each corner. 

It’s too dark for the peace to set in and a little less dark for the things to fall silent, and all of us are simply hanging in the middle of nothing. An empty nothingness. 

Somewhere somehow two hearts are lying in their beds thinking about each other without having ever met. Doesn’t that evoke wonder in you? 

The world is so huge yet so small. Vast yet beautifully knit. Distant yet so close. The world is like a mirage standing in the middle of a desert waiting for you to find its lies and yet it’s like a magnificent castle standing on the top of a hill, far out of your reach. 

How can something be so desirable yet so repelling at the same time? So wondrous yet so ordinary in the same moment? Is this what you call magic? The one that keeps us running around in circles?

Finding answers to the questions we once had, only to find more questions waiting for us. Waking up each morning to wait for the day to end and not being able to sleep in the wait of the next day to rise. 

Life is somehow running by the wheel, and not once do we ever question where it’s going. If at all we do, the possibility of a lack of answers scares us and we go back to doing what we were doing, trying to blur lines between what is and what is not. 

How will we ever know when to finally break the cycle? How will we ever break free and fly away only to land in our very own paradise? Does this place really exist or is it just a whim of theory? 

But the real question is, if the answer was no, would we take it?