Story #40: An Anonymous Note (The Anonymous Anecdotes Project)

Dear you,

I know you are suffering in your own, unique way. I know you have a story, a history and something that gives you pain. I know you have happy moments that you never account for, and sad moments you never forget. I know sometimes you hide your pain and mask your insecurities.
Because I do, too.
But I want you to know that you’re the writer of your own story. All the characters, living or dead, are the people you chose to be with, at that moment. Every episode you experience is influenced by the words you say and the things you do. Just like every turn adds on to you successfully getting to your destination, every choice adds onto making what your life is or will be.
That being said, I don’t want to turn this into a sermon. We all know our choices make or break, but still, sometimes we end up saying and doing things that we shouldn’t have. Negativity fills us up. Things go bad one after the other, repeatedly, and everyone you’ve ever come to love seems to either not care, or be there for you.
But in times like this, I want you to know that you have the power to change your situation. You always have the power to change the situation. I want you to believe that you do.
Two years ago I had reached the lowest point in my life. I fell, hard; everything in my life seemed to be going wrong. I was sad, and I was sad all alone. To be honest, I still am. I haven’t recovered from it, but I’ve stopped thinking about it. I’ve learnt to focus my energy onto better things. I’ve learned to give into my emotions, but not too much. I’ve learned that emotions make you weak, and love makes you vulnerable. So I have tried to keep them both as far from myself as possible. I’ve come to know that I am alone, and that no matter what, friendship is, in the end, a beautiful illusion we distract ourselves with. Years spent in school together, times spent laughing, and sleepovers: they all dissolve into ego, selfishness and stop to exist. So I’ve just come to terms with the fact that no matter how much I may love people, they will never love me back as much. I will never be enough for anyone, and that is okay because people always have expectations, and expectations always lead to disappointments. 

This may appear to be a very pessimistic view of life, but I swear, I’m a very happy person and a self proclaimed optimist. Although, I believe now I’m turning into a realist. A realist who knows her flaws well; a little too well to hate them. A realist who for quite a long time didn’t look into the mirror because she hated the sight of her face. Anyway, I’m telling you this because I want you to know how I feel better about myself. 

I try to spread happiness. Try to. There’s something very satisfying in seeing someone smile; more so when I’m the reason behind it. So I don’t really care if its over something silly, or a story I just concocted. I just want to make people laugh. Maybe, I think, making someone happy is my way of making myself happy, because I never seem to be able to do it directly. Also, random acts of kindness. You have no idea how wonderful they make you feel. Wish the person who guards your front gate, buy the balloons from the little boy selling them at the red light, compliment your friend who’s insecure about her looks that she is beautiful, tell your parents you love them; there are so, so many little things that you can do that can literally brighten up someone’s day. They feel good, you feel good: it’s a win-win situation!

I know this because these are the things that no one ever told me. I also know this because I know it works. I wish someone would’ve been kind to me back at a time when I felt weak. I was still in school. I’d been crying for last thirty-five minutes in the toilet; that’s how I used to spend my lunch breaks. I’d stopped washing my sore, red eyes because I knew nobody cared enough to ask me what was wrong. This happened again, and again over different time periods in my life so far (I’m big on public crying, lol.) I’ve had multiple panic attacks inside fully crammed metros, and not one person has had the guts to ask me what was wrong. My point here is, in situations like this, people are afraid of being kind. Why? I don’t know. I just hope the people who are reading this aren’t the ones to turn their heads away when something like this happens. 

I want you to do one more thing. If you absolutely hate your existence, or you’ve just been experiencing bad things one after the other, do this: when you lie down at night, close your eyes and just say thank you to the universe for everything that exists in it for you, or rather facilitates your existence. Start with twenty things. The list will expand, day after day and you will realise the thousands of things that you need to be thankful for. I do this exercise at times when I feel that nothing is working out for me anymore, and it just makes me feel that I have way, way more things than I account for, and that my existence is magnanimous. 

I’ve babbled for quite a while now. I just want you to know that your life will go on; you are a unique, wonderful human being who is here for a purpose. I want you to know that right now is all you have. Smile. You’re allowed to cry. Let it out. Love. You will find love, inevitably, but for once try letting love find you? Everything good that is meant for you will come to you in good time. 

I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. 
I wish you well.


P.S: I listened to this song when I was going through a very low point in my life. It made me cry, a lot, but I also felt really better. I want to add it on here, because, I don’t know, maybe if you too are going through something bad, this could help. I hope it does. 

A Little Too Much (Shawn Mendes)

I cannot believe this is the last time I writing this after-note!

We all at some point feel exactly like the writer has described in the episodes of their life. Sadness, dejection, disappointment and what not. But really, true happiness lies in making others happy- be it through lame jokes (if you’re like me) or acts of kindness. These words have really struck a chord in my heart, and I think I will come back to this story, again. I hope the words have resonated with you just like they did with me. 

On that note, I declare The Anonymous Anecdotes Project as closed! I’m so thankful to everyone who’s contributed and/or read the stories; be it one, two or all forty.

Loads of love!


Any opinions, comments or ideas that you may want to put forward to the writer of this story can be mailed to me at Positive feedbacks and constructive criticisms are more than welcome. 

(The Anonymous Anecdotes is a project under which anyone can send me a memory, a story or an experience from their life that had a profound impact on them. It requires people to write their respective experience along with the way it changed them or their perception of life. According to the project, these stories are being published anonymously, with the intent of spreading a positive message and a hope that anyone who reads, relates or learns.)



Story #12: I’m Not Real (The Anonymous Anecdotes Project)

I’m Not Real
They say that psychologically it takes 3-4 months to know a person.
But I believe that you know people
The very first time you meet them.
The kind of words they choose
After all those permutations and combinations of all the 26 letters of the English language.
The kind of look they give you,
Despite of being unable to maintain an eye contact for more than 5 seconds.
The way in which they sit a bit aloof
Just to maintain “the space”
Without risking the fact that you might just know everything about them.
People say that eyes don’t lie,
I believe it’s a lie
Because the only thing in human body that doesn’t lie
Is this patch of terribly tiny mountains on your flesh.
But according to behaviourists,
Children observe and learn.
So when I was a child, I learned that truth is never rewarded.
That human beings have multiple layers of flesh
To hide away their goosebumps.
So you know,
I became black-listed.
For people who too often searched for compliments.
For those whom I told they weren’t in love with me
That love isn’t a feeling that can be summed up in 3 words.
That the color of love is translucent and not red.
So that we could see each other
Destroying one another.
On the days I’m myself
I climb stairs of sophistication.
And stumble and fall down
Whenever I have someone to hold onto.
You see,
My hands do not quiver the moment I start reciting my poems.
Because I know I’m pretentious
And they are all broken pieces of different stories
Joined together.
And in their gaps,
I hide myself.
That artists are nothing but clowns in disguise.
We paint our face white
With peace, paradoxical to the cyclones we could never survive.
We apply an extra layer of red lipstick to our smiles
So that we get an extra syrup of attention
Over the icecreams we binge eat out of loneliness.
Because you know,
Deserts have been my first love,
And stayed.
And I just giggle about the way
People change the topics
As if they are standing at the sea shore
And I’m the tide.
They say that phobia is an irrational fear of something
And that it’s ok for me to cry in public.
But whenever I try,
My eyes get stoned.
The windows and doors of my house close down
As if there is an automatic alarm warning me of an intruder.
And I’m the biggest miser of them all,
For I cannot shed my possessions.
And I solemnly admit that I’m not real.
I fake my Hello’s.
I fake that I’m contended when I’m just holes
Into which people pour love
And suck it whenever they find a better place to invest it in.
I fake that I’m strong
When I have these tiny mountains growing bigger and conical
Underneath the layers of flesh
That are like the chihuahua barking over a terrorist.
I fake that I’m a child in this body of a 20 year old
Tired of people trespassing the line of control
Saying that they are refugees
And my empathy is a shelter for them.
I fake that I’m fake
Whenever I mistakenly behave as the truest version of myself.
So, agreed. I’m not real.
Just as you all aren’t!

When we talk about stories or anecdotes, we rarely contemplate them in poetic forms. But here is a version of someone’s reality, so unique and laid out in this beautiful verse. 

I can’t summarize or enlist my learning from this poem because I know each read has lead me on to a different interpretation, a different conclusion. But that’s what poems are. Open for interpretation.

So all I’ll say is this: how many of us are ‘real’ anymore? Every day, we’re going farther away from who we are. Tell me then, how do we learn to love, and be at peace with our real selves?


(The Anonymous Anecdotes is a project under which anyone can send me a memory, a story or an experience from their life that had a profound impact on them. It requires people to write their respective experience along with the way it changed them or their perception of life. According to the project, these stories are being published anonymously, with the intent of spreading a positive message and a hope that anyone who reads, relates or learns. If you’re interested, you can send me your story at

The Open Book

If this world is a library, and its people books,
then I am the forgotten volume of heavy words and complicated phrases-
covered in dust, with my yellowing pages,
tucked at the back,
where nobody goes.
You will only be able to find me,
if you look for me-
it might be hard, searching for me,
setting me apart from my likeness,
but I hope you don’t give up.
When you do find me,
I hope the long paragraphs of my history do not bore you;
I hope you don’t put me down.
I hope you turn my pages, with hands as delicate as those tending to a bleeding wound.
I hope you read between my lines.
I hope you discover me, word by word, to be the one to fit your liking;
And if I don’t fit, I hope you don’t read me on halfheartedly-
I hope you don’t continue to hold onto me with the intention of putting me down.
I hope the words that span my existence interest you, and paint pictures inside of your head, the place where I now want to be.
I hope you devour me, with every syllable that I silently serve.
I hope you find yourself completely obsessed with me, unable to put me down,
and so we spend days and nights together,
because although you want to take it slow,
you want to get to know me just as fast.
I hope that when you know you’re inching towards the end,
you slacken your pace just a little, so the both of us have time
to adjust to the loss, that we will have amassed,
as you toss me aside and go looking for another
rhyme that doesn’t end as tragically as this one;
look how my ability to find love is so
abysmal, despite my dilapidated state and spine,
reckless poetic verses and metaphors,
darling, I still failed to make you mine.
“You see now, my love?
I’ve never really been a secret diary-
All this while,
I’ve been the open book,
that no one is willing to read.”



A Flimsy Piece of Clay: Truth


The truth, is such an unfortunate piece of clay:
pure, but so terribly flimsy that
a slight twist of hand
could alter its entire shape;
people built spheres and squares
out of it ruthlessly;
and if you ask me
I never really intended
to tamper with its original state;
it’s just that
my hands shake a little too much
and my calloused fingers have touched
far too many lies;
so my unsure touch etches
so many prints upon this piece of clay,
that I forget what it originally was,
failing myself
as always.

Love (User Discretion Advised)

I will never understand how
people let the word love 
cascade down their lips like
a meaningless sound,
blurted out in responses that
could have done without the indulgence.
The casual air around
a feeling that can potentially either
disarm you of your sanity for the length of it,
or rob you of the knowledge that the universe extends beyond their aura,
deserves to be destroyed.
Love should be used with caution,
like an imported good that carries instruction:
think before you jump into it;
don’t let it consume you, and the like.
Love should be treated
like a delicate relic that must exist in protection
from the eyes of all those who may want to rob you off of it.
Rehearse it like the sound you exude in happy sighs,
But don’t make it as easy as exhaling.
Let love belong to the conventional corridors it once lived in;
Let it announce itself with the fragrance of roses pressed between Bukowski’s poems;
Let it manifest in whispers and handwritten notes exchanged under the table.
Save this combination of four alphabets for an occasion where
it becomes the one last piece of the jigsaw you make to win her over;
Use it to make up for the unsaid words;
and when you know all the pieces of the puzzle fitting together
need just one more to complete the picture,
that’s when you tell her;
I love you.