My New Beginnings And Other Banalities.

Side stepping from my regular style of blogging, this post is going to be about one albeit usual but magical day in my life.

As I type this out to the world, the gravity of what has just passed hits me with all its force. For a single exhalation I feel everything slip out of my hands and I start losing my nerve. Only to be calmed by the thought that if I am here writing about it, it can’t turn out to be so bad. It just can not.
All I can tell myself at this point is that no good thing ever came without being headstrong and risking everything for the one portion of chance you know you can’t afford but also know is worth all the pain and trouble and uncertainty in the world.

If my memory is not playing tricks on me, roughly one month back I added a Countdown date to my Blog’s widgets. Many people inquired what this landmark day was. Most, out of the pointless curiosity that often paves way to gossip and has become a way of life with people now. A select few, out of genuine concern and interest.
For the latter, I write this today.

With a shameless disregard for modesty, let me say this. I was born with a gift to have my hand in multiple things at one time and do well at all of them. Unlike other people my age who were behind on studies the minute they took up an activity outside the defined syllabus, I could do fairly well both at school exams and at extra-curricular activities. Athletics, Music, Drama, Debate, Dance, Sports, Cooking, Volunteer work. You name it, I’ve done it. Sometimes, all of it packed into one school year.  I was not the geek who always topped the class or the person with fingers that could create heaven on a paper or the person people stopped dead in their tracks to hear talking. I’d say I was a bit of all of those people. “Jack of all trades, Master of some” would be me put in a simple compound sentence. My modest self would say a wonderful combination of genes from a genius mother and a go-getter father are to thank.  And she would not be wrong entirely.

So When in the December of one year that seems so far away now, I did exceptionally well at something I was a novice at and thought a herculean task before, I credited that achievement to my innate ability of taking on new things with a certain ease as. Even the in-suppressible urge to do nothing but this particular task was shunned away without much thought. Only when I froze in the face of performance at the same task a year later did I realize, this is what I am meant to do. And that nothing but this can give me true contentment in life. Not happiness. Not fame. Not Money. But contentment that none of those things and more often than not very insignificant and banal things can bring.

Today I have put three years of complete dedication and hard-work towards my parents’ dream behind me to give myself entirely to this one thing that has robbed me of sleep many a nights. It has been my own personal (and until now, secret) love interest. Like any good, masala Bollywood flick would guarantee, we have a horde of vamps and villains chasing us around 24×7.  They’re planning covert plots to do us apart and we are reciting sweet nothings every second complete to the till-death-d0-us-apart/s.
Like any good heroine would, I have put my trust in him without a speck of doubt. Now it is for all to see and time to tell where he takes me. A battered old house with no supplies? A mansion with all riches and comforts? I know not. And neither do I care to find out. Wherever he takes me, our love will be enough to quench my thirst and our mutual admiration enough to fill my stomach. And could one ask for more? Austere living is the mantra here.

As I left home in a hurry with a less than modest breakfast of 3 Marie biscuits and Green Tea in me, I moved with a certain purpose. My gait was not slow and relaxed. I was not looking at every inanimate object and observing (but never judging) every moving person. I walked like people with important things to look to do. Like a tiger stealthily moves to grab the night’s dinner. Like a business person trots away with another poor man to rob today and another yet tomorrow. Like a person with a purpose

The metro was surprisingly full for a Sunday. I noticed that people will do anything in the name of fashion. A girl sitting on the opposite seat was wearing blue corduroy pants and knee-high suede boots. This is Delhi. Some 35 degrees and very sunny. I was sweating just looking at her.

I took an auto to the destination. The first auto-waalle-bhaiya refused to go by the meter. The second one agreed.
One expects a good crowd on such a day. But I guess when they come, they come in small groups. It is when they leave that big mad rush happens. And it did.
I had to walk a kilometer, maybe more, to get an auto back to the metro station. The ratio of auto to people who wanted to hire them must have been 1:50. So when I saw an old woman expectantly look in the direction of the auto I had just hired and then sighing in disappointment at the site of me sitting in the back seat I asked her where she wanted to go. It turned out she wanted to go the same metro station as me. I suggested we share the auto. And, after much thought(I think she was working out the odds of  a 19 year old girl that looks like I do being a terrorist or something) she agreed.

It had been a long day. I was tired, thirsty and very hungry. Remember the scrumptious breakfast I had mentioned earlier? It was 6 o’clock in the evening now. And nothing else had found its way into my mouth since. But I was in a hurry to get back home and could not afford to kill time buying a bottle of water, let alone eating something. Just when the image of ice-cold water from my fridge trickling down my throat and some of it spilling on me was plastered on my mind, the woman sitting next to me dished out a bottle of water from her bag and drank mouthfuls. She did not offer. I guess after all the cases of strangers drugging people and running away with their valuables even decent people dare not offer a drink or a snack to a stranger. And I was a young woman in this infamous city. This reminds me of the time when I was a kid and we would journey very long distances in trains. Other than eating train food that was just about doable and pointless banter with my shy sibling and constant warnings from my mother (Bebo, don’t stick your head of the compartment. Bebo, don’t run around in the gallery. Bebo, don’t drink the tap water when you brush your teeth. Bebo, don’t climb the top berth every 5 minutes. BEBO! STOP HITTING YOUR BROTHER WITH THAT DOLL RIGHT NOW!), the thing I miss the most is meeting new people on trains. I am sure every Indian family has that one friend they met on a train and instantly clicked off with. My Nanaji recently attended one such friend’s daughter’s wedding (they met on a train some 30 years back). It is sad to live with the fact that no such train friends will attend my daughter’s wedding. Because today, trusting someone you meet on a train is nothing if not insane. It really pains me to know that trust does not flow freely even in blood relations now, let alone strangers.

My clock tells me that this has been stretched far too long than was desired. I was telling a friend just today that I never know how and when to end something I write. Endings are just awkward for me.
But I guess here it will suffice to say that today I start my new life as The person I always was but never could be.
Today, I wrote an exam for admission into my dream college for Journalism.
Today, I drowned a perfect career opportunity in medicine.
Today, I paved way for maybe not a perfect but a regret and blame free future.
Today, I gave my dreams a chance.

And I must have you know, I have never felt better. It like being born again. New things to learn. New lives to live. New places to explore. New people to run into. And New dreams to decorate on soft pillows.
Here is one to Dreams, the kind that don’t let you sleep 🙂



I always thought I would start with a sigh and it would take off from there. I thought you would create yourself. I thought it would bleed from me on a sunny monday morning. You would argue about my choice of weather had you been here today. It has to be a sunny monday morning. A cold winter night? Not a chance. All of those are wasted away in your oversized sweat-shirt reading books I dont like. Why dont I stop reading? Because they are your books. Even a sliver of hope of finding a dry, yellowing tear drop staining the pages of grief is enough to pull me through those nights of dying moons and ashen dreams. Now I doubt my choice of words. Were such nights wasted afterall?
A gloomy saturday evening while raindrops race eachother down the window glass, perhaps? The words would wash away. Do you remember how you would drag me outside to get drenched? You wanted to shoo away my childhood fear of getting lice in my hair from playing in the rain. I have overcome most fears now. And those days are, rightfully, spent walking on wet grass. Am I secretly clinging on to the idea that someday you will see me braving the let down of sad clouds and be proud of how “grown up” I am?
It has to be a sunny monday morning.
And it is.

It has been 4 years to that day.

Your voice on the other end of the phone. Calculated. Each pause exactly where it should be. Each word just where it belongs. Not a break less nor a sound more. As if you were reading from a script you’ve mastered over frequent recitals. Yet so fresh. As if the words were uttered for the very first time. Like the laughter of a newborn. Unheard of. Like the tray after tray and batch after batch of muffins you would bake when things seemed squally in your head. Each one perfect but not same as another.
As opposed to what?
Someone called me. The smell of jasmine in a bottle carelessly left uncapped in the wind, Wafting without a direction. The last drop of juice left inside the carton, struggling to be let out but never trying hard enough. The two words stitched on to the end of a sentence, not necessary but changing the meaning irreversibly.
Not a perfect match. But not half bad either. If we ever spoke of such matters you’d laugh it off with the same words each time. “Your father has a lot money and I, a decent brain. Think of things we can do with that. Could a match get any more perfect?” Gullible as I am, I would accept that you loved me for my father’s fortune, albeit momentarily.

And today, you changed my mind again. The ease with which I expected this transition turned to be a struggle. An unbearable, excruciatingly painful process.

Something on the television, as I aimlessly flicked its channels, reminded me of that song you used to sing to me on the phone. But the song did not start playing in my head. I could not even remember the lyrics. Or what the song was about. Was it a sad song? But why would you sing a sad song to me? When I could not hear you singing it into my ears, my fingers started shaking. This could not be. I panicked. How could I forget your voice? How could I not imagine you singing to me instantaneously, at will? A few hours and a lot of struggle later I found the original song on the internet. I heard the entire track for the very first time. And it just did not sound right. You were supposed to be singing it. Not with all those fancy instruments playing in the background. Only the bleak sound of your guitar streaming in through the phone. And your voice. Your voice. You. And you singing every single word like you meant it. You made it seem that the song was written by you for me and could never be sung to another. But here he was. This strange man singing your song, our song, to the entire world. It is just not right.
I can bear standing alone in the rain. Wet from head to toe.
I can suffer cold winter nights and live through gloomy autumn afternoons. Alone and suffocating myself in your essence.
But this. This I am not far enough to brave.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. Or the week, month, year after that. Never.

What else can I do?
I need you to be with me. And years of waiting tell me that you just wont come back.
I pull the trigger and wait till you bleed from me.

A Letter To My Ex- II

Dear Ex,

I’ll skip the explanation for writing this letter to you. Because it is not you that I write to. This letter is merely adressed to you but is, in fact, meant for all my innocent and meek girlfriends who have, fortunately, not come across any “you” yet. As I now know, unfortunately, without experience or a first hand warning-like this one- it is impossible to tell you from any other guy that may truely deserve them. You do camouflage rather well.

Let me start by reminding you who you are. You are a smart, handsome, popular, over achieving, well to do guy. Every single girl’s dream. A knight in shining armour. Only till the armour comes off to reveal the cruel, calculative, cunning and heartless bastard that you really are. I wont take away the credit of your good looks, wealth or popularity from you. But that is exactly where you end. At superficial achievments. In your case, the water runs no deeper. There isn’t a kind human being or a genuinely warm person inside that shell of fake smiles and cleverly scripted lies. Everything to you is a profit or loss equation. Every person only an object to use to get to something or someone else.
My neighbour’s cat has more emotion and love than you. And my neighbour’s cat is pretty much cold and emotionless, to put it kindly. Sometimes I think she is secretly devising a plan to nuke the earth. But then, she is still more humane than you are.
What amazes me and is also sad is the fact that in spite of your character being nothing but grey and patches of dark, you have too many admirers and friends to validate it. Perhaps it is true that we value material wealth, physical appearance and surface achievements over kindness, honesty and loyalty.

Before people form the mental image of a scored ex girlfriend (that would be me) of a downright amazing and admirable you, Let me jump straight to our “Break Up”.
Why did we break up?
Because, over a cup of coffee with a new friend I was informed of a person who looked exactly like you, went by your name, lived in your house, was taking the course you were but was in a “committed” relationship with this new friend of mine. Strange, right? Strange still is, she met you through another friend you were previously dating. But as it turns out, “previously” means “presently” in your dictionary. A little background research and stalking later, another invisible ghost floated up to the surface. You prepositioned a girl on a recent tennis tour.
What did I do? I tried to confront you. Yes, I was still open to “talking things out”. Yes, after realizing that you were not two, not three but four timing me. I hoped against all hope that I will wake up one day and have someone tell me it was all a bad dream and now its over. I wanted, more than anything else for that someone to be you. The things love does to a person!
What did you do?
You ran away. You stopped taking my calls. You would not reply to e-mails. When you moved to a new place for college, you did not give me your new number. And then, you fell off the radar. You wiped all traces of your existence from the face of earth. “Us” became a beautiful dream that never really happened. And “now”, an ugly truth I was left to deal with every day.

It was not always like this. There was a time, which seems eons away from me now, when you held my hand through a dark tunnel of loneliness and despair. First, as a friend. Then, as a companion. There was a time when we held between us the self proclaimed world record for talking on the phone for the longest time, 20 hours to be exact, without a drop. I was alone at home and even a dead twig fluttering in the wind outside my window would have me quivering in fear. You told me a hundred times that you are always by my side that day. I almost believed you were. I can still hear you singing “Hey There Delilah” to me. You said there were songs to describe all things in the world and this song described us. On my 16th birthday you said “It took my mother 16 years to make me gentle and it took you 16 seconds to make me mental.” You gave me a story book romance. And I guess a story book ending as well.

All that wiseassery of being one relationship old and armed with deep knowledge and great insight boiled down to nothing. I was back to square one. Back to wasting tears and filling page after page with sad poetry. But this time around, the tears dried up relatively quicker. When I finally dug my head out of a concoction of tears, heartache and unkept hair there was one good thing I learned.. I realised that there is no immunity shot or vaccination to a broken heart. Each time you have your little pacemaker stepped on, irrespective of how many times it has been stepped on already, it will hurt equally as much. Sometimes, only more. No heartbreak or bad relationship renders you less vulnerable to another heartbreak or bad relationship. The only wise thing to carry with you is acceptance. You have to accept that people will hurt you. You have to accept that you will hurt people as well. You have to accept that nothing truly lasts forever. You have to accept that all good things in life come with a price. You have to accept that not falling in love is not a solution to not having heart broken again. You have to accept that what once was love can turn to sour hatred, like the yellow plastered walls of an old house- cracking and ugly. You have to accept that its alright to hate some people without a speck of guilt. You have to accept that life goes on. Above all, you have to accept and not regret.

I may forgive you but I can never forget what you did. At least I wont have to invent the wheel every day. I can simply learn from past mistakes and gather all the broken pieces and start afresh.

Do I hate you? Yes. Do I regret falling for you? No. Given a chance to live again, there is not one thing I would change.

Today, you’re at a very good place in life and I am happy for you. I’ll hope you prove right the quote “Every sinner has a future and every saint, a past”
I’ll hope you remember me.

Much( not so much) love,

The Things You Left Behind.

I was looking
For the perfect dress to wear.
I looked
In the old box, It found me there.

rolled down my eyes.
back all your memories
All your clever lies.

I picked it up
It stared back at me.
I unwrapped it,
It barely responded
like a new born baby.

I bring it close to my face,
Hold it in a warm embrace.
It does not
Smell of you anymore.

I drown myself
in it, again.
Like I used to bury
in your arms
my face.

Only now I see how
it really is.
I can’t trace your smell now
Or the way I’d miss
You, every breath.

It has been so long.
Can I even, in one go,
sing the lines to our song?
And In my head will you still hum along?

One last time I’ll
dance with it.
And I guess
I’ll forget you
bit for bit.

Not today, certainly
But someday I’ll laugh
About you and me.

It brought back to me
All your forgotten self.
And I’ll hope it finds me again sometime.
To show me, how you were mine.

For now,
I’ll fold it in neatly.
And put back your plain white T.
I wonder,
Do you ever think of me?

This poem was not written in the best state of mind, as is evident from the rough edges. That said, it has come out exactly the way I wanted it. Rough. Disturbed. Raw. Emotional.

“Love that imperfect person…

Because, He is perfect for you”


I have not scribbled a word or rhymed a line all week. Personal turmoil and professional pressures are my excuse for this sudden absence. My apologies to the handful of wonderful people who actually take the time to read this blog and look forward to my posts. Now, I am back and I am back here to stay.
For being the supportive and loving people that you are, the least I can do is fix you an explanation. So here goes,
I had an exam on the 1st of this month, yes, on a Sunday. Evidently, my entire weekend was consumed in revising the syllabi and preparing myself for this exam the best I could. When D-day did come, a stroke of bad luck tagged along. From burning my tongue with hot coffee to risking any chances of qualifying this exam because of a silly mistake. Everything thing that could possibly go wrong, did so indeed.
By the time the I left the examination centre my spirits were so down I could lower them into a murky well and fetch myself a pail of obscurity, of non-existence or of death. To top that up, my parents decided to be their unreasonable best and pester me incessantly about the result of the said exam. Just when I was up to my neck in anger, frustration, remorse, guilt, tears and sweat (yes, the summer is here in India) someone I look upto for advice, help, love and support decided to provide none of it. Instead, we faught. Verbal fighting, ofcourse. The entire day we called eachother rude names and brawled like a set of 5 year olds would over a new toy that they end up breaking.
And that made me realise how much time can change about people. Not essentially who they are. But what you want them to be. The things I used to love about this someone at one point in time are the things I now detest. They distance me from him to a point of no return. What scares me is, someday I’ll wake up to a world where he does not feature as an important person in my life anymore. A world where those minor lapses in communication have created such a big vent that its difficult to cross over. A world where I’ve been walking away for so long that I can not trace my footsteps back home, to him.
And even the thought of it truly scares me. That itself is an indication that I have some residual love for him and there still is hope for our relationship. So I will make sure I cling onto the last bare threads holding up our friendship. I will not let go.

Which brings me to the thought this post started with. This was a status message I had put on my facebook page and someone thought it should be shared on my blog as a post.

“It is very easy to love the thought of a person or the way you fantasied them to be but equally difficult to love the real deal sans a constant effort to change it for the better; to love that petty person with his own insecurities, flaws, shortcomings and peculiarities. But the fact that they love you back inspite of your insecurities, flaws, shortcomings and peculiarities should be reason enough to continue loving them”

Have you ever been in a similar spot? Would you give a love or a friendship that is fading to a dull shade of over-fimilarity another splash of colorful hope and life? Or would you let things take their own course?
A river to run dry for precious stones to reveal?
What would it be?


But here I am Yours, Unloved.

Found but here I am
lost again.
Healed but here I am
in pain.
Begun but here I am
at the end.
Real but here I
Read but here I am
Tall but here I am
Safe but here I am
Stable but here I am
Sane but here I am
Owned but here I am
Crowned but here I am
Believer but here I am
Brimming but here I am
Filled but here I am
Ripe but here I am
Confessed but here I am
in denial.
Accepted but here I am
Sorted but here I am
Bound but here I am
Flowing but here I am
Expected but here I am
turned away.

Unloved, but here I am yours.

A Letter To My Ex.

Dear Ex,

I am sure you’re wondering why I write to you years after our romance culminated in silent but strong friendship, after a lot of hating ofcourse. I seem to have hit a road block with love and it is imperative I say everything I have always wanted to say to let go and move on.

You were my first. My first butterflies-in-the-stomach. My first walk home from school deliberately stretched long. My first all night call on the phone. My first love letter sneaked in when no one was looking. My first rose pressed dry in a novel. My first shameless smile on a busy school day. My first double check in the mirror to make sure I look good. My first time holding hands. You were my first in every sense of the word.

We were 14. And that, perhaps, is both the funniest and the saddest part.
Funny because,
Our idea of a date was sneaking out on our bicycles to unexplored and isolated parts of the small town we then lived in, making sure we avoided running into either our parents or friends. How difficult it was to act normal and say sane things when we did run into a friend of your mother on a narrow lane very late at night once. How innocent and easy love was, with you. It was in such unpretentious things. Love was The first letter you wrote to me with red hearts sketched into the empty spaces. Love was The reply I sent on pink paper with a flowery watermark. Love was The first rose you got me and had the hardest time actually delivering in the presence of your best friend and sister. Love was The hurried note you left with clover before leaving for your cousin’s wedding to tell me how beautiful I looked at the party the previous night. You asked me to wish everyone the best of luck for their exams on your behalf in that note. To this day I can not forget how important and loved that made me feel. Love was The secret call you made from your cousin’s cellphone to tell me that you miss me. Remember how scary it was when your mother caught you talking on the phone at 4 in the morning? I swear my heart stopped beating for an entire minute. Love was The names we called eachother that no one knows till date.

And then It ended. Just like that. You, in your typical poetic style, left a note with a friend. A note! You broke a 14 year old’s heart with a note? You should have at least taken the pain to look me in the eye and tell me it was over. The way you told me when it all began. How many sleepless nights I spent asking myself pointless questions like What went wrong? Why would he do this to me?

Which brings me to why it was Sad.
We were 14. And when you are 14 and madly in love, you do not know what is right and what is wrong. There is only one thing you know and that is loving and wanting the person before everything else. You do not understand patience and space and rationality and reality. When you are 14, you do not understand that the least you must do when breaking a girl’s heart is tell her so yourself. When you are 14, you do not understand that a guy would not know so or care to find out. When you are 14, you can fall in love but you can never know how much it is going to hurt when you fall out of it.

When “we” went back to being you and me, a period of undying awkwardness set in. Bitter backtalking, half baked story telling and trying to prove self right. You had your version floating under. I had mine. But oh! Life is so unfair. You were,afterall, a guy. And me a girl. So any version had to backfire at me. It ended in me being accepted for a teenage bitch who dated and then dumped guys. Even dating was taboo where we lived, remember? So you can imagine the treatment a girl gets after she has dated AND dumped. Someone who later went on to become a really good friend actually told me the kind of things people used to say about me. I wasted so many tears on public opinion I otherwise din’t care for.
You broke the first barrier of innocence down, Trust.
To this day I doubt it has mended itself.

But this is not to say that I regret it. I do not have an ounce of regret for loving you or for spending tears crying for you. You taught me so much. You made me realise the importance and power of the letter. My first poem was for you, to you, about you. Had it not been for you, I doubt I would have ever picked up a pen to write. And now that time has passed and I am who I am today, I know that you gave me the biggest happiness in bargain for all that sorrow. You gave me poetry.
That and happiness. All those hours spent crying and waiting and wanting and longing can not take away from me the happiness my first love gave me. At one point in life, you were all I could ask for and I will always respect that.

Today we are at a stage where we can talk without wanting to either kill or kiss eachother. I’d say we’re friends. We’re also in the same city again for the first time, 5 years after our break up. And this one is not a small prejudiced town. Maybe we can meet for coffee as friend someday? Or ride our bicycles to unexplored places?

Much (First)Love,

As the days go by.

Every minute that passes is
a minute we never get back.
you can’t relive the moments
that mean the most to you.

but you can remember,
you can smile laugh or cry,
and you learn and try,
you love and hate as the
days go by.

the pendulum keeps swinging,
the days, they count away,
through honesty and lies,
no one but you knows the way.

its beautiful and ugly,
warm and cold in this
erratic life, we don’t always have a hold,
we should listen its up to us to do as we’re told.

and in the misery we live,
and in the happiness of life,
we do not know where we’re heading,
through the heartache and the strife.

mistakes seem to rule us,
and we change as we grow,
the ironic contradictions,
No one seems to know.

but you can remember,
you can smile laugh or cry,
and you learn and try,
you love and hate as the
days go by.

Of Stars, Love and Promises.


Two bodies sprawled on the grass, one soul by night. Wriggling wet earth with their toes. Unscrupulous enough to invade the defenseless worm’s habitat. And they call themselves lovers. Such blasphemy!
But they’re watching the sky. And thats evidence enough for insanity. Insanity which for the lesser world translates to love.
Star gazing is their little secret. Watching them twinkle yet never really move. She is convinced they’ll move for her someday, like a million little fire flies. And when they do, He will pinch them off the big dark blanket and weave them in her hair. So she grows them longer still. Thats a lot of stars albeit the possibilities.

Her eyes hurt from all this dreaming and no living. From carrying the burden of a vast black emptiness for which she is to blame and a girl who has stars braided in her hair.
She must dream on.
She will be his only fire. The lighthouse guiding him ashore were he to ever forget the way home after a long walk for more stars to catch. He’ll narrate tweaked tales of his adventures on the skyship and she’ll never fail to act surprised, never letting slip that he told the same story the week before the last.

When they will put their heads on the grass again some night, there will be no dancing fireflies and no dreams of a girl who wove stars in her long hair weighing down her pretty lashes. And what else will cease to be?
That eagerness to wait for the night sky, wriggling wet earth with their toes impatiently. That hope of a distinctive star winking at them and orchestrating their private and exclusive show, her favorite dance on his favorite music.
And yes, Promises. There wont be promises he hasn’t kept and the glow in her smile that says he will.
The waiting, the hope, the dreams, the daring, the love, the lies, the blasphemies.
All lost in a single stroke of contentment.
Stagnation is morbid, if only they knew.

That is how love is. It wraps you in a warm cozy blanket and then it puts you in a very hot place. You, inevitably, throw the blanket over. Your foresight blinded by the illusion, The Oz of Love.
And then, like it always does, bitter winter sets in. Harsh and unforgiving. An indiscriminate killer. Why could it spare those enveloped in a sea of fake promises and comforting illusions? Not after they’ve rid themselves of the blanket of individuality, of freedom, of self. It is a test you can not choose to skip. Its not a ladder to something higher, its the journey of your desire and you can not miss this destination.
You can hold eachother close with the blush on her cheek and the fire in his bellly for warmth. Or you can be lost forever. Alone in an abmysal hollow. With no courage to break the ice.
And If the former it came to, when in some world that once was yours a bird sings, you’ll know its time.. for new promises to be written on the grass with the sratching of your feet.
Of a home on some high cloud, perhaps.

You and She.

You put me on a shelf.
You kept me to yourself.
I am yours
You are mine.
And Together we can walk miles.
Now you are here
and I am there.
Those house long streets
That you walk,
That’s where I belong
And you belong here.

You put me on a line
You hung me out to dry.
Now you are lost,
And we are here
I am yours
Coz you were mine.
And those deep brown eyes
that you flaunt,
That’s where I belong
And you belong to here.

I can write a page
Or a thousand then
And spread them here
To lose myself.
And those lovely dreams
that you live,
That’s where I belong
And you belong here.

Now you are lost
But we will be found.
Swallowed in the sea.
And those arms that caress
your salty tears,
That’s where I belong
And you belong here.

I could write a song
A hundred miles long.
Just spread it around
To drown myself.
Now you are lost
in the summer sweat.
Now we here
but no where.
But we will be found
Not swallowed in the sea.

You cut me down to size
And opened my eyes.
That cozy chair that
you’ve laid,
That’s where I belong
And you belong here.

Now you are lost
And we are here.
But one day you’ll
be found.
Alas! Inside this heart.
And that lonely walk
that you take,
That’s where I belong
And you belong here..
With the girl you love,
With her.

And I belong to solitude.

Have thoughts, Will Rhyme.

I am often asked questions on the lines of:

“What were you thinking when you wrote that?”
“Did you just make that whole post up in the Anatomy lecture?”
“Where did that thought even come from?”

Apart from the utter amazement that people convey by hurling questions at whatever little writing skill I possess..these questions tell me that I must be doing something right. If a reader is intrigued and engaged enough to want to know where the writer is coming from(in terms of thoughts and ideas) and not just swallow a couple of fancy sounding words the writer throws his way, then there is no better justification to your efforts.

That said, I’ll have to agree that sometimes these questions make me doubt myself. It’s difficult to decipher if it’s the quality of your writing responsible for triggering such reactions or that it is hard to digest that you could actually write something “on your own”.
On one such occasion when my Mother called me to say that she really enjoyed reading an article I wrote which was published in my school magazine and it was unbelievably well written, I had to stop her to ask what was unbelievable – The fact that I could write something or that it was REALLY good. Mother just laughed that off and my question remains unanswered.

So when someone I know posted a really reaaallly “surprised” comment on one of my posts on Facebook I instantly recoiled into my shell of self-doubt and zero confidence.
This is the conversation with my oldest friend that followed and made these remarks and ever considering them seem pointless altogether:

“You are not your usual self today. Everything alright?”
“Oh yes! Everything is just fine.”
“Just fine? Seriously? You think you can get me with “Just fine” after 9 years?”
“Alright. I am not fine. Its just something silly. You’ll probably think I am getting senile or PMSing.”
“Get it out. We’ll see it when we see it.”
“X just posted a really weird comment on that note I wrote. I just dont feeling really good about myself after that.”
“Remember what you told your Physics teacher in class 10 when s/he asked you what makes you want to join ’16 days with Shakespeare’ (debating and literature club) instead of ‘Science Club’?”
“Yeah, Vaguely. Why?”
“Bother to repeat it out aloud and hear yourself say it?”
“Nay, as if feeling bad over a Facebook comment is not lame enough.”
“Just do it, A.”
“Uhh. Alright.

Sometimes we hold the answers to all our questions. Maybe we just need to hear ourselves say it.

Gypsy Girl

Image Courtesy: Amohs On dA

In forgotten places and lost memories,
In love I grew out of and extant civilities,
Maybe in that song  you’ll find me.
There I maybe yours
to love.
There I shall be only yours
To keep.

For now I have set this blithe mind free.
And here thy light guides me no more.
How long can I wait for your signal fire?
You take me higher. Just take me higher,
Away from me.
Take me beyond these clefts of desire,
Away from me.

Should I love and care and be loved back
But this spirit just wont rest.
It will stare at the empty bottom of your heart.
It wont fix your faults or plug the hole
You’ve been oozing love from.
Let it flow -to lose its own-
Into this soul, This liquid gypsy soul.

I want you back this instant, now.
But my gypsy soul wont know somehow.
Please dont throw a chain around
This gypsy girl that doesn’t settle down.

A moment alone is a thousand words, Unchained.
Which strung together will never be the same.
For it quite likes wandering to far fields
Please dont give its home a name.

Just stay with it another while
And leave where my thoughts no longer rhyme.
That day, it will be the right time
To return this borrowed soul.
This life I lived was never mine.
For a gypsy soul you can not keep.
It is wind- it will not be caged
In your broken ideas.
And its loud presence
Will drown
The silence of my unsettling thought.
Baby, Gypsy souls can’t be bought.

It is desert sand.
Try to hold and it will slip
Right through your hand.
It is a gypsy, it believes
That is why the gap in your fingers is.
Not to hold a lover’s in her sleep
Or to fill the spaces when lovers kiss
But to let go
Slip unnoticed out
this gypsy soul to go about
To stop where it hears a shout
Of your signal fire, perhaps?

My Two year old Soulmate.

What is a Soulmate really?
If this concept is born out of any conclusive evidence and has some real significance in a person’s life then it must be defined by some words or pictures or just imaginary lines passing through and dissecting nothing in particular. There must be boundaries you can’t cross with it like all other concepts we ever conceived.

Let’s take the existence of a supreme power for instance. We’ve managed to set boundaries for the Almighty as well. Very cleverly we cage his being in hollow words like christian, hindu, muslim, buddhist, karma, destiny, idol worship, scriptures, religions, pilgrimages, offerings, prayers, temples, mosques, churches, monasteries, believers, followers, atheists and if at all there exists an immortal being he is suffocating beneath layer after layer of false idea and storytelling.

So in our mad obsession with putting everything in convenient categories and deflated definitions how did we spare Soulmate? Or is it that difficult for us to put our faith in anything not written about in books, anything men clad in white robes who fancy calling themselves saints do not say out aloud to a room full of unsuspecting people on a sunday morning?

For if there is a line one mustn’t cross or a rule one must follow, then tell me now. Stop me before its too late. Before I cross over to the unacceptable.

Because there is a little man all of two who understands me better than any grown men or women I’ve ever known, even better than my own sibling and parents for that matter. And he is not even biologically my own.
If effortless spontaniety and telepathic capabilities are anything to go by, we are two identities but only one person. If you know someone you are naturally attuned to, you understand what I am trying to say.
I twitch a muscle and he knows. He learns a new word and I know it before he decides to stage a grand scene in front of 20 people, surprise them and then indulge in the applause that follows. He refuses to speak on the phone despite innumerable efforts from both his parents. Surprisingly, my ex has been spending a lot of phone credit on “boy talk” with him. Just yesterday he started sitting the way I do. Legs crossed and hands uncomfortably flinging from one side to another in an odd fashion.
His mother tells me that somedays he wakes up in the middle of the night and all he asks for is me- his aatya (marathi for aunt).
I swear I saw a tint of jealousy flicker across her eyes as she said that. But that doesn’t matter. Because there is a little man she got into this world and I can’t care less if its wrong to say this..He is the other half I was seperated from in some world all those years ago only to be reunited.
And wordly principles can’t touch this and corrupt its pristine self.
Nothing can take away from me My two year old Soulmate.

Amiable Animosity.

Like the tip of a needle stained in blood houses a million units of life. Each unit so stable- unmoving – but so alive. Always in motion. Yet never letting surface the struggle of the positive and the negative within. Only peaceful coexistence for one to see. The opposites, the anti-forces forever trapped in such proximity. Yet never questioning their fate. Ceaselessly working to resort calm and order in all they are part of- The flowers your admirer sent you and the tears you wasted when young, first love walked out and left you a broken heart.
Born out of nothing and vanishing into thin air. Dying without as much as a sigh. They are everything and almost nothing in the same string of reason. They are the way she smells and the skin draped on her body like the most elegant, custom- made pashmina, priceless. They are the words you etch and the many questions unasked, just left unattended – floating in a myriad of other unfulfilled desires. They are the promises you made and the burning scars it stamped on the canvas of her memory. They are the unsettling eyes that haunt your every dream and the ring you slid on her finger – fake, like your many promises- not kept.

Sometimes, I wish we were the cell. You, the matter. I, the anti force. So close that we could be one. But far enough to not repel the other away. Opposites that do not attract. We would work together to never let our struggle be seen. Resolving all conflict without a ripple of disorder on the surface. Our bonds made of thoughts or just thin air. We’ll be in everything and in nothing. Uncared for, like the backbone of life. Taking each other for granted.

But were we to separate, if ever such occasion came..we will melt to nothing but set on fire the entire meaningless universe with us. Destroying, the way we created. Life, this is. Death, this is.

Destiny’s Sister: Serendipity.

What of Destiny?

Were you not planning to offer me your seat on the train I missed helping the old man with directions?
And I was sure we’d meet at the Seven Sisters concert that I bunked to stay cooped up in my room filled with the scent of someone who hasnt been here..all alone but for Sinatra to take me all the way to Paaradise.
Didn’t we cross eachother on the subway just yesterday? But you were with your brigade of friends and I was in the middle of a bad, bad hair day.
Or the week before when you were too preoccupied passionately discussing politics for tea in the cafeteria and me, wrinkling my nose up another sneeze.
I’d bet you frequent that chicken corner we dont eat at. My roommate is Vegan.
When it rained and I wouldn’t dare walk out sans an umbrella. You were waiting for me by the tea stall on the road to dance to that Bollywood song about the thing with love and rains.
You are petrified of blood and needles, aren’t you? And of all the professions in all the worlds, I picked medicine.
On that test, You needed my help on the solitary question I wasn’t sure of.

Or maybe you didn’t.

Just the way I did not look at these signs with enough deliberation.
Sometimes with a tad too much turgid… if your thoughts saw mine, my fantasy would burst right out and undress the many sleepless nights weighing down my eyelids for you to see.
On other days too flaccid…without even a sliver of hope of running into the person with a shameless ball of golden light shining over his left shoulder, the person I am not a fraction, a part of but the whole. Since forever and towards eternity. The person, as some people from some age would know, is a Soulmate.

If my voice swelled with emotion gets caught up in your unkept locks of hair, Come and Find me.
Or make me find you lest its too late. I dont want to end up buying any shoe for the simple excuse that the right pair for me was stacked up too far and too high in the store. Dare you pluck my song out of your hair and send it free in the hope that it finds me someday and brings me home to you. Don’t you leave “us” to Destiny. Trust me, she has no idea what we’re looking for. And you know who she runs with?

That treacherous thing-