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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?

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.”


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.

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.

I just scrounged up this piece I’d written when I was in Mumbai during summer interning at PepsiCo. Not sure why I didn’t hit “publish”, but here goes. By the by, the crazy folks are headed to Singapore for winter! I just booked tickets for Honey Singh’s concert, because the Uncle wants to have some Bollywood fun. Raahat, Jagjit Singh, Sonu Nigam, Atif, Strings, Akon, Eric Clapton, Rihanna, David Guetta – they all came and went, and I didn’t bother. And now, I will deck up like a babe to boogie to…Honey Singh. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this winter is going to be magical. Because no artist save for Honey Singh cares to fill my red stocking.

I trudged back home with a splitting head last night, and looked expectantly at my little cousin.

Migi: NO I’m NOT giving you a massage again!

I sigh in defeat and withdraw to my room and shut out the piercing lights. I lie in the dark, alone and aching. For a long time. And then, suddenly, I get up and go outside. And I see my aunts, uncle, and my little baby niece and her nanny and Migi all sitting around, laughing. They easily make space and I plonk down with all the pomp of a stressed working girl who’s out there braving it all.

I inadvertently begin to press my temples with my fingers..and that sparks off a riot.

Aunt 1: Get her something to drink.
Aunt 2: Begins to press my head.
Uncle: Want the nanny to give you a head massage?
Aunt 2: The nanny will do it.
Migi: My feet are aching too!
Aunt 1: Just get a head massage! Do you want a tablet?

As I persistently shake my head through all of this, I suddenly yell out for everyone to calm down. At which point, the nanny mimics me and nudges me over and begins to massage my head. Because if she doesn’t, a guilt so voluminous will impregnate her maternal mind that she won’t sleep for nights. I go into a spell as she effortlessly eases up all the locked up tension.

But the pain does not go away.

And so, Migi and I strike a wager. He wants to go down for a walk. He offers a massage in exchange. And he happily finds the right veins, hits the right spots and massages my pain away. For once, I discard all distractions and be with my brother. We go down and sing songs and play games and run around, and when we’re back – he’s still not letting go. And so, he implores me to check out his car collection on his ipad. And he teaches me how to play a few games. And we design cars. And its 1 am, but he still won’t let me sleep. And so we stay up till as long as he pleases.

In a house where the people don’t let other people stay in peace, you never have to lie alone, in the dark or otherwise. Especially for people like me whose insides shrivel up and die a slow death in a vapid milieu.

Thank god for little brats, noisy aunts and overexcited uncles.

The mother has been massively cleaning and doing up the house for Christmas and New Year. You’d think it was the usual ceremonial routine – changing curtains, cushion covers, carpets, adding little trinkets and showpieces, putting up new paintings and wall decor and hanging up those blinking lights all over the place.

But No. That’s not where the mother stops. She trots into my room, strips naked all my care bears and soft toys and throws them into domestic purgatory.

The next day, I find them slain. Merry Christmas, indeed.

photo (6)

She’s a curious little creature really, the mother. She’s a woman of the Victorian era; a woman prepossessing of a genteel and loving heart, of good education and well endowed with mannerisms of a cultured society. She alone could cook up a magnificent feast for fifty men and still be resplendently graceful by the end of it. Oh and she paints, stitches and seamlessly spurns yarns of wool into little somethings. The painting atop the chairs in the picture above is her attempt after 20 years.

She’s recently taken to Facebook though..on a jazzy little phone. It doesn’t quite match up to her demeanour. Hell to the 21st century.

The best friend, being an absolute nincompoop that she is, insists I lend literacy to the post below.

So folks,

She’s a brilliant writer. She spurns lovely little stories from her twisted, talented mind. She also does critiques on music and movies, paintings and artists and what not. For those of you with delicate interests, hop over to the blog (linked in the post below). If you do, don’t just stay there – come back here as well. She’s so good I’m afraid I’ll lose you readers.

Boring and straightforwardly and a little more pamperingly yours. (ye happy now?)

By the way, those of you done and dusted with my little pieces of nothings and want a little more of a tease; visit

She writes about oranges and aeroplane windows. That ought to make you come crawling back here.

p.s. Don’t read her other posts on meaningless topics like music, art and her collection of original short stories.

A certain man of refined tastes, as he postulates, stood tall before me without a trace of guilt on his carefully crafted features. Fuming, I bore my partially disfigured (but once perfectly aligned, I tell you) teeth and sunk it into his opulent skin, scathing him till his thick full blooded lips parted in pain. I also stripped him of the facade of fabrics baring his smooth, feminine waist for the world to see though I could find not a fault with his broad, strong shoulders and angular jaw that ruled his thick neck which held within it the most prominent protruding sign of manhood; the apple I wish I could puncture and spit out the seeds of, soaked in my torrid breath. Oh, how I wish I could claw out those big, beady eyes that could not bare to behold the beast that is my beauty!

He blinked quietly, taking in my large forehead, my bulging brown eyes (of which one is slightly bigger than the other) while my nose flared out at him, as if almost daring him to point out its pudgy demeanor. My thick, unruly curls could have whipped his boyishly handsome face red and raw.

His crime? He gave me a 7.5/10 for “prettiness”. 

But why him alone? Why, there is also the dark, dark man with layers of lipids and holes of darkness etched deep below the sockets that bear his smarting eyes. And of course, the scrawny short man with the most unforgiving features and no wealth of charms to commend him to the womenfolk lest he open his educated mouth.

They gave me 6.5/10.

Imagine what I’d do to them. Proverbially, of course.