Nitin K. Ravi

Nitin K. Ravi Lives in Mumbai, Maharashtra, India

A Buddying Writer

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और जो हाथ मिले थे, वो एक दिन बिछड़ गए... ©Nitin K. Ravi

Nothing is permanent, everything fades, so the memories.... #Broken💔Heart #BreakUp #Love #SAD

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Ecoes of Life... When he was born, some remarked that he bore a striking resemblance to his maternal grandfather. However, they pondered over the mystery of his complexion, as everyone else in the family had fair skin, unlike his darker tone. At the age of 3½, he ventured into the realm of schooling. Teachers often praised his intellect but urged him to rein in his mischievous tendencies. During a visit from a relative, concerns were raised about his underweight stature, prompting his mother to embark on a mission to fortify him with daily doses of milk and eggs, which he reluctantly accepted. His first dalliance with love occurred at 17, only to find that the girl of his affection was already committed with someone. At 22, he faced failure in his second year of B.Com due to his perpetual struggle with accounting. Despite his inclination towards the arts, he remained unable to articulate his desires when questioned by his parents. At 25, another failed romantic pursuit ensued. Eventually, at 27, he found himself betrothed through a matrimonial arrangement facilitated by a WhatsApp group, tying the knot at 28. At thirty-nine, his son mirrored his academic struggles, leading to murmurs of 'like father, like son.' His demanding job burdened him with tasks beyond his capabilities, contributing to his growing sense of discontent. Discord lingering from past conflicts strained his marital harmony, further exacerbating his personal turmoil. As he reached seventy-three, his once-lustrous hair began to wane, and forgetfulness crept in. Family members advised him to embrace the limitations of old age. At seventy-nine, the joy of becoming a grandfather for the second time was tempered by concerns over his health, as fears of diabetes loomed. Suggestions to refrain from excessive physical exertion due to age-related vulnerabilities left him feeling self-conscious and toothless. Finally, at eighty-three, the specter of mortality loomed large as he sensed the presence of the inevitable 'Yamdoots' at his doorstep. He is accompanied by his son, who is disappointed for leaving the business meeting. Outside the ventilator, his wife wept, gazing upon him. As he closed his eyes for the last time, he wondered if in death, he might find respite from the regrets of a life. It was too late when he realised all the things he regret and all the things he wanted and never got , it all happened because he listened to everyone except his own self ©Nitin K. Ravi

Ever wondered about the echoes of conformity in your own life? #SAD #Life #sad_feeling #SadLife #Love

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#sad_feeling #Broken #Pain #ishq #Dard Unspoken Bond "I've always fancied girls who can make me feel young, both physically and emotionally. So, someone around 19-25 will do. Can I have one?" he pondered aloud in the dimly lit brothel. "I've hardly seen men going for immature ones," the Madamé retorted, to which he remained silent. "Bhagat, get him Celine," she instructed the man standing behind her. Bhagat motioned for him to follow, leading him through a passage to a room where Celine awaited. She appeared young, likely in her twenties, with dark hair, parted in the middle, big, dark, kohl-lined eyes, and a dimple on her left cheek. Tall with fair complexion, she wore a purple top, her lips as red as roses with cherry-like lip gloss. As they arrived, he noticed Bhagat and Celine exchanging glances before he was ushered in. Upon entering the room, he was struck by a painting on the wall, triggering a flood of memories. Shaking off the sensation, he found Celine sitting on the bed, legs parted, inviting him. After some awkward glances, she began to undress. "Let's break some walls today," he interjected before she could fully undress. "Sir, we are whores, and whores are not allowed to build walls around them, so there are no walls to break," she responded firmly. "But I see many," he countered, locking eyes with her. "We aren't allowed to make peace, do what you have come here for, and leave, mister," she insisted. He smiled, lighting a cigarette, and remarked, "I've been with many prostitutes, but you are different." "Everyone says the same," she laughed. "But not everyone makes you feel the same," he replied instantly. "Sir, prostitutes are not allowed to fall in love," she stated, meeting his gaze. "But men are allowed to fall in love with prostitutes," he reasoned. "There is hardly anyone left to fall in love with." A heavy silence enveloped the room until she finally spoke. "The walls of this room have witnessed enough chaos, tranquility, and different shades of skin" "We're more alike than you think," he admitted after a moment's reflection. "Have you also sold your body?" she inquired softly. "No, but I once fell in love with someone," he confessed tearfully and after a pause continued "She was fond of buying portraits. She had the same painting that hangs on the wall of this room. I've been to this brothel many times, but I've never seen the painting before. When I did, it reminded me of her." She grasped his hand tightly, offering solace. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he asked, "Don't you dream of being free?" "Dreaming is pleasant until it clashes with reality," she replied, turning away to reveal belt marks on her back, remnants of a failed escape attempt. "People usually come here for a little fun after work, to feel loved, or to satisfy their lust," she continued after a pause. "Everyone wants to love and be loved," he remarked. "Not everyone. We're not even allowed to mention that word, let alone wish for it," she asserted. "It's ironic how someone who makes others feel loved isn't allowed to dream of it," he mused. "Shall we proceed with why we're here?" she interrupted the silence, to which he responded, "No, I don't feel like having sex with you." "Then what do you feel?" she inquired. "I feel like I need love, not sex," he confessed and kept 3000 ₹ on bed. "Sir, I think you're in the wrong place. You can leave now," she insisted, returning the money he had left on the bed. "Let's hope we won't meet again," she added, turning away without meeting his gaze. "Why?" he asked. "Because it would be painful for you, and peaceful for me," she replied. "We'll meet again, in a world where there's fear but also courage. Selling your skin takes courage. Standing up for yourself takes even more." Saying that, he placed the money in a drawer near the door and exited the room. ©Nitin K. Ravi

Unspoken Bond #sad_feeling #Broken #ishq #Dard #Pain #SAD

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#Quotes #Home #SAD Home, typically a haven, can unexpectedly morph into a battleground of conflicting emotions. The once reassuring familiarity starts feeling stifling, and the cozy nooks become charged with thousands of thoughts. Laughter that used to reverberate now carries an undertone of discord. It's not a rejection of the concept of home, but a profound yearning for a different tranquility. In these moments, the heart craves a refuge that harmonizes with its evolving rhythm. Home becomes a paradox—both grounding and disquieting—a space where emotions intertwine in a intricate dance, compelling us to explore the nuanced journey of finding solace within the ever-changing contours of our own existence. ©Nitin K. Ravi

Definitely at times, home is not the place where you can go... #Life #Home #SAD #Love

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#sad_feeling #Emotional Some dates are unforgettable, No matter how many years have passed but that date will always remind you about the memories that actually never fades 08/11/---- ©Nitin K. Ravi

Some dates... #sad_feeling #Emotional

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#sad_feeling #BreakUp #Zindagi

Prem ya Jeevan #BreakUp #Zindagi #sad_feeling

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