Tag Archives: life


Your haughty arrogance, and your sharp demeanor would render everyone insipid. Your sharp edges, and your pointed looks, your unshaken spirit, and your straight, unsmiling lips are masks they wish to bare open. They look at your dark patches and wish to scribble colour into them.

Unbeknownst to you, they try to scratch your surface and tear open barely healed wounds. They scar you and scare you. They make a spectacle out of your polished quite, and push you believing it a grand joke you’ve orchestrated. Seemingly unhurt, you try to retreat, but they have chained you with expectations you’re now honourbound to fulfill.

They don’t know you, darling. The struggle to open your eyes in the morning, and brace yourself. They don’t know you’re hardened against the tide of uncertainty, and hopelessness. They don’t know the scars you hide underneath your fancy suits, or the crescent moon on both your beautiful wrists. They don’t know that your laughter once meant joy and life, not just obligations, and pretence. They don’t know that you’re drowning and you’re shattering, and your greatest struggle is to load the dishwasher, and doing your laundry, and driving to work, and not deciphering stock values, or doing that extra credit assignment, or writing codes for the most complex programs.

Because to them you’re playing the hard-to-get game till they have drawn you out. But, they don’t know that your dark patches came from an amalgamation of different hues, drawn over and over and over.


On belief and karma

Dear Universe,

Hi. What’s up? It feels like I haven’t talked to you in a while. Everything okay? Seems like you’re taking offence in my calloused way of living life. Like the listlessness oozing out of my pores is running in my blood. But you know what? It’s about as real as Trump’s intelligence. 

When you gave me blow number one, I was fine with it. It wasn’t terrible. I had a great run for the past year, so one isn’t going to bring me down. Then you gave me blow number two, and that was rough. It was huge, it was hard, it was not mellow. But I got through it, because, hey, I still have things left to worry about. So I displaced the anxiety and turned it inwards, and helped myself grow. The blow was just fading out, when you gave me blow number three. Oh well, I should have seen it coming. All the signs were there, if I had looked a bit clearly; if I had thought it were possible, if I hadn’t thought myself immune. It stared right into my face and yet, it was a blow. And then there was the breaking down. I cried so much. I wish it would all stop and I get to go forward in my life where uncertainty didn’t rule. I wished for something happier- a white dove, instead of the messenger pigeon. Come on, about time that something good happened right? So I kept a low profile.

Then came blow four. And oh man! I wanted to jump off the six floors of that building, as I texted everyone how much everything sucks. And it did. It did so much. I wish there were enough alcohol in the world to numb that pain, but of course I’m too broke for that. 

I wish this were all a dream, a nightmare. But I know it isn’t. But I’ve also not woken up from this dream. It still doesn’t feel real. It feels like it’s going to go away, and the sun will shine down and it will be a beautiful day. It feels like there is a light at the end of the tunnel and I just have to scrape till I reach that point. But shit. How to scrape? 

And what if there’s no light? What if there’s more chaos, and deep shit? What if this is only the beginning and a lot more crap is to come before the actual light? What if it takes months, nay, years, before the light presents itself? What if friends don’t want to stay friends? What if I’m not smart enough to rely on my brain? What if I’m not empathetic enough to rely on my emotion? What if I go dark into the abyss and that’s it? 

Dear Universe, I believe in you. I believe in good things and good people and I believe that everything will be okay. I believe in happy endings and making my own happy ending. Please don’t take this belief away from me. It’s been a terribly crappy month and I have never felt this much anxiety for such a long time. Just stop?

Saving You: Part 1.

Inspired by The Keeper by Lang Leav.

You were like a dream,
I wish I hadn’t
Slept through.

Within it I fell deeper,
Than your heart would
Care to let you.

I thought you were a keeper,
I wish I could
Have kept you.

Lang Leav.

Once, when I was 15, this boy told me how my words could hurt anyone who ever read them, and I didn’t believe him. I went on writing, because of the cathartic release, and I forgot about the boy till I was 18, freshly out of a disastrous affair, broken and mending. The boy, let’s call him Fred, had just given up the love of his life to move to a new city, albiet in the vicinity, and opened his heart to me, and I wrote about his grand sadness, for the world to see, but hidden from him. I wrote about his healing heart, and made him love my broken heart in my stories, and prompted him till he let me see his wounds. The world loved our stories, and told us to be together. I laughed at them, and their silliness. Us? Together? Pfuit.

We talked and talked and talked, about love, about books, about soulmates, about heartaches, and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, unbeknownst to my broken hearted muse. He said, “I like how you are not falling for me, even though I’ve bared my soul to you,” and I said, “Ditto,” with a stomach drop, years of reading about which wasn’t a cue enough for me.

In the years we spent talking, and drinking coffee, and singing songs, I fell for him, slowly, the cut deeper than a melody, and the word “Ditto” ringing in my ears. I wanted to stop the madness, and call it all off. But he said, “I love how you’re not falling for me, even though I’ve bared all my troubles to you,” and I wanted to prove him right. And because no one else does denial as well as I do. And because the boy told me my words are sharper than the knife, getting more polished with the years, and one day, I could kill him with my words, and I don’t know if he chooses to ignore it, or he’s a fool, but he doesn’t see that I’m in love with him, and even though all he wants is a conversation over coffee and cigarettes, I’m ready for more: for hot water baths in the cold winter mornings, and holding hands on hospital beds, and fighting over vacations and flight tickets, and arguing about baby names, and solar panels. I’m ready for the plunge with him, without knowing if we’d ever come back, and not just wading through clear water spring.

He tells me, “Let’s get out of this town, and no one will ever know,” and my heart sinks knowing that it’s the smallness of humankind that he’s talking about, and not running away to the wonderland where no one would separate us. “Fred,” I tell him, “We can’t ever run away, because a screen separates us, and binds us, and we’ll post a selfie the moment we see a beautiful sunset,” and he nods along.

I see him grow to his twenties, forgotten about the love of his life, sharing stories about one night stands and propositions, and I feel like we’ve come a long way, and I tell him about my work, and my promotions, and we go out for lunches and drinks, with our friends, and pose for pictures with the latest hashtagging trends. We smile a lot at each other, and tag the other in posts we each think the other will like, and debate about politics, and society, and poetry, and music. He tells me his dreams, and I tell him mine, and we laugh at our silliness, and the stillness of our souls. And that’s when I realise that I’m just a friend, and he’s only just a dream. And maybe, maybe after all these years, I’ll never get over him, not truly.