10 years…

and yet every time my heart gives a tug I find myself here..reading my own stories…sliding into my own hide.

Every crosspoint reveals a conflict..not of right and wrong anymore, but of right and real.

You can get a great recipe, meticulously measure the ingredients, follow each and every instruction  and orchestrate a great meal – you can’t really go wrong here. It’s tried, tested and reviewed – it works. If you make a mistake, you can try again – the recipe doesn’t change and you’re bound to eventually get it right.

Getting it right is just so important; making the perfect meal, winning every competition, planning every moment with the vision of being the girl that everybody is clapping for – the laurels, the praises.

I spent 10 days with a family who doesn’t care about always getting it right. I cooked without a recipe, with a woman who threw in the spices, doused herself in wine and music, and whipped up a feast without a fuss. Meanwhile, I scampered around – maniacally trying to get everything right – my face scrunched up, my forehead creased and my frown creeping into the flavors I was trying to find. My sauces boiled, crackled and shot angrily out of the pots while hers simmered warmly, blending in with her ease and moving with her music.

While she’d just buy something that she’d like, I’d spend hours researching all options and making sure I choose the best one with the highest value per unit of cost.

The funny thing? She’d get it right anyway.

I wonder if I’ve become a little performing monkey. It’s tough to entertain the thought of failure, even tougher to accept being average.

Average isn’t so bad perhaps?  Sometimes, being real is better than getting it perfectly right, non? Sometimes, just being there is better than being the best…?



Oh my god I am 25. This blog started when I was 19.
If you haven’t figured out 80% of who you are by now, you’re as annoying as flat beer.

I wrote this a year ago, and stopped at beer. 🙂

Right now, I’m 26. In fact, this year I turn 27.

And, I’m worse than flat beer – I’m wine left open for days with opaqueness so deep you can’t tell it’s rotten unless you take a sip and let the aftertaste gag you.

You can never really figure out who you are, what layers you hold, how long before fresh, bubbling thoughts turn stale and cloudy. The constant state of flux is invigorating at best, and tiring at worst.

I’ve in fact come to peace with the fact that you might never figure out who you are – and you never should. Being certain of what you want is like winding a time bomb – a situation shows up and all your thoughts, beliefs, ideals explode into shards – and the only person they hit is yourself.

Figuring out who you are is indulging in a cream of vanity. Giving yourself so much importance  – standing in front of a pretty ivory mirror, asking yourself testing questions, trying to search for answers in your own eyes, and in the end being answerable to yourself.

I say flat beer and stale wine are much safer. You have a number of finely sealed fresh bottles, and you take a while before you pick. The rotten stuff – you throw out without thinking twice.

Perhaps easier to know what you don’t believe in, rather than what you believe in. Perhaps easier to pretend to know nothing than pretend to know everything.

Hello there.

Nervousness pokes ever so gently in the deep of the night.

I’m always so sure that I never am.

Such bold streaks

Such thin shields.

Walk the walk of shame with a victory concealed.

Of blunt swords

and bare chests

A fissure bursts

The soul rests,

For a war that mustn’t end,

The end is never nigh

No horizon can be ever high.

A won war is a

war lost.

How then, do we fight?

Sweet child, come anon.

One by one, we’ll conquer them all.

In victory, lies the greatest deceit

Why then, do we fight?

A Monsoonal Mind.

They say “after a storm, comes a calm”.

As if to suppose that the calm is infinitely more superior to the storm. As if it’s more desirable. Of anarchy, emerges the greatest reform?

The calm is dreadful; it disallows one to introspect. It’s most intrusive in that it truly invades, pervades and proliferates within you so much so that you’re left vacant and hunting. It bears no adventure, bodes no excitement. It is bleak, bare and barren and it swallows you whole. Calm is order, discipline, routine. Calm is comfortable. Calm is still water that does not offend. Calm is indifferent. It doesn’t seek to evoke any emotion, except the lack of the same.

The storm, on the other hand, is passionately and wildly in love with you. It aggressively pursues you and keeps you fighting for survival. It hurts you, hurls you and leaves you hapless. It chills your bones. It tests you. Every moment. It is eclectic and erratic; thunder, rain, lightning – the storm bares it all. It gives you hope for the future, determination for the present. It’s too overpowering for the past. The storm is uncontrollable. And It looms indefinitely. It affects you.

“They sicken of the calm, those who know the storm.”


I am.

What are beliefs but the most ductile of microcosms that germinate in fertile lands and yet once aridity ensues, they drearily die or perhaps you could even murder them through a mishap that is your very own manifestation? Or if they do manage to stay, they morph and mould and merge at the mercy of our minds.

We rear them, we care for them and we nurse them strongly in our guarded bosoms with a ferocity that could never fray, perhaps because we know just how vulnerable they are. Imagine if one’s beliefs were constantly threatened, constantly rebuked – not by his or her own actions but by the lives others lead right in front of them that violates everything they stand for – would they not question? Is that how today we have a generation so lost and yet united in a grand confusion common to them all?

Somehow, somewhere I feel the dignity is gone. The dignity of individuality, that is. Everyone seems to be in a psychedelic daze with a fettered gait yet a strong-headedness that makes me dizzy. And I walk along, wondering if I am one of them..or just how much am I not. I could single out perhaps 4 or 5 people who really glow in their own being – unaffected and untouched by the world around them and I love to see them live – it restores hope and faith, and a promise, of a kind. (I hope you stay like that, and copulate only with your equals and ensure a progeny that is so prudish that they’d put a saint to shame).

True beauty lies in the self. A default destination.

Sneaky Struggles.

Dear Pot-Bellied Uncle,

You really played a cheap shot today. As if the perennial attacks on my sensory organs were not enough, you decided you’ll cover more ground. Every morning, the smell of freshly made breakfast most unbecomingly bursts into my nose while my ears bare painful testimony to the mother strategizing with the aunt on how best to get everyone to finish off the giant cauldron of choley she made along with Migi screaming for more omelette and toast and what not. This is of course heavily peppered with constant screams of my name which I assume you believe will rouse my behemoth body from its heavy state of sleep. As I painstakingly shut out all of this and remind myself to not slip into the nightmares, in some of which, mind you, behind my half-closed eyes, I behead people and get chased by sword brandishing mobs, you sit and make nasty schemes to sneakily send Migi to snuggle into me and use his younger sibling cuteness to wake me up. And when that fails, you, of course, take upon the mammoth task yourself. You quietly approach a girl rendered roomless by your kin, tucked in on a bed that is just not as soft as her own, and you send cold, heavy drops of water crashing down through the halo onto her angelic sleepy face. And when she shirked it all off with a surprised little smile, and simply drifted back to sleep good humouredly, you tsunami-ed her head. You wait. Dawn beckons. As does revenge.

And you really think you won, did you?

Your innocent little niece who slugged off to a room and slept soundly for another hour.


Dear You,

Hundreds of dollars worth of pure agony and regret would have by now taught you to never, ever even consider going for a concert simply because there’s nothing else to do despite barely knowing the celebrity and having an idea that it would suck. Staying cooped up at home would have been more fun, and less scarring. Not to mention the old creepy lady that would not stop dancing with and courting your poor, unsuspecting mother. Why, why would you put yourself through such traumatic cacophony? Even babies bawling in planes sound more tolerably in sync with some semblance of a rhythm.

Just don’t do it again, not even “just like that”.

Admittedly, for the first time ever,
Woman without brains.