Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Its the ability to compromise that makes a man noble.

I disagree.

This line comes from Braveheart. When Robert the Bruce's father tells his son,why they must not join in full force with William Wallace, this is the line that he uses. He cites how this line has enabled 16 generations of Bruce's to rule and survive, to the point that they can stake claim to the throne of Scotland.

So this ability to compromise, this ability to find a balance, this ability to find Plato's Golden Mean (I think its Plato atleast?), this is what truly makes a man great. Look at all the people around the world. These people have mastered [compromising], [balancing] and [managing] their lives to have moderation. It is the sign of maturity and ensures that a person doesn't burn out. It enables them to survive and still perform to the level that they can hit the highest echelons of executive-hood. It is deplorable.

 There is more to life than a a certain number in your bank account per year. There is more to life than simply surviving and managing long enough to be trusted with the running of a corporation.

These people are not to be admired but to be despised. They have taken the passion out of our existence and fed it to the dogs of corporate success. These are not visionaries, they are bookkeepers.

They are not passionate, they are efficient. They are the people who could organise their study schedule to maximize their learning for a CAT or GMAT exam. They are the people who doom our world to not advancing in leaps but rather managing what we have.

What the fuck happened to passion? What happened to believing in something no matter the odds. What happened to loving something so much that it became the sole focus of your life?

 Passion cannot be abated. Passion in unbridled and it is not a job.
 It is a lifestyle.

 Infact, it IS life.

 I cannot agree with people telling me that I am too much of an extremist and that I need to learn moderation.

 I cannot, in fact, I will not.

 I love the fact that when I am working, I can work for hours straight, of course I complain but I get the job done.  If I play, I play long past when my fingers give up and I write long past making any sense; I drink till I'm almost bordering alcohol to poison in my body and inviting death. but then that's just me.

I refuse to believe in the doctrine of balance and defy the concept of balance. It is not balance but rather raw passion that has driven us in leaps -  beyond our ability as civilization and even if I don't do that, atleast I can claim to have lived.

To live, to feel, to give myself to what is truly me.
We should be ashamed of selling this formula of "success" to our brightest minds.
We should be ashamed of drafting our intelligentsia into an army of managers and book keepers.
We should be ashamed of not having the courage to take a chance.

We should be ashamed of telling someone that it is the ability to compromise that makes a man noble.

Monday, June 8, 2015

There, I said it too.

They tell you your 20s are for finding yourself. They, westerners with a certain amount of privilege, say the decade in your 20s is enough time to make all of your best mistakes. Your 20s are for dancing wildly into the night. They’re for quitting jobs, dating hairy jerks, and falling on your face. This delayed adolescence results in deeper knowing. Your 20s are a secular Rumspringa. On your 30th birthday, you’ll awake and know yourself. You’ll be better. You’ll be clearer. You’ll have figured things out. No one tells you there’s always something left to fix.
No one tells you you’re basically the same.
I’m 25 years old, single, and unattached. I’m on the D train, crossing the Manhattan Bridge. I’m exiting Manhattan, my back is facing Brooklyn, but I’m suspended on the bridge due to train traffic ahead. The Lower East Side is on display. Just shy of the river there is a tangled mess of buildings, all jostling for prominence among the crowd. From my place on the bridge, I see people in their homes. I spy a woman folding sheets, pressing the linen against her body as if this cloth was made of gold. She holds the sheet against herself as if her insides might fall out.
For some reason, I fight the urge to cry.
My theory is that we’re all just trying to keep it together. We duct tape our personal pain, put concealer on our fears, and turn a blind eye toward the suffering around us. This is how we move through the world. We weave around strangers, careful not to get too close. We try to remain stalwart in the face of things that scare us. We avoid eye contact and we’re careful not to touch. Many of us smile just enough to keep from seeming rude. We sit on trains, shoulder to shoulder, never saying a word, never knowing how deeply we’re connected.
At any given moment, people are making love—their bodies tangled in passion that might look like aggression. Others might be watching their opportunity go by. People are being wheeled into and out of surgery. A resident intern is learning how to deal with death. There are women giving birth, while others are mourning lost loved ones. Someone is preparing to go to war, while somewhere else, someone else is having the best day of her life. We all have this moment in common. We’re all inhabitants of the same space. Somewhere people are touching hands and feeling sparks for the first time. It’s both night and day depending on where your feet are planted. Everything that can possibly happen is happening right now, and, incredibly, we are all surviving. We don’t always have to be happy about that fact. Sometimes surviving is magical enough.
In these moments when I’m smacked by my own emotions, I’m reminded of a quote by Pema Chodron, “To be fully alive, fully human and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to always be in no-man’s-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again.” What would it mean to step forward into our own pain? What would it mean to be broken?
We are all perpetually split open by the expansiveness of life, but no one ever told us it was okay to be broken. No one told us that sometimes crying is the best way to proceed. No one gives us permission to keep asking big questions: How can we move closer to one another in a world that moves so fast? Centrifugal force can make hermits of us all. They don’t tell us the biggest truth: If we’re not broken open by all the beauty and pain that surrounds us, we’re probably not living most fully.
There will always be a reason to stop and catch your breath. There is always something of which to be in awe. If no one has told you, allow me to be the first: it’s okay to be present with what’s broken in your life. It’s okay to breathe into what you’d rather avoid. It’s okay to befriend the unpleasantness. You’re not the only person who’s felt hurt. It’s okay to not know exactly where you’re headed next. It’s okay to be so unhappy that you can’t get out of bed. You’re not alone. Let these words curl up beside you and help you cope. It’s okay to feel stagnant, to know where you’d like to go, but deeply question your next move. We all get where we’re going in due time. It’s okay to sometimes feel trapped by the life you’ve made; even if it’s a life you love. It’s okay to avoid old friends because you can’t tell them the truth—that your life isn’t as perfect as Facebook posts make it seem. None of us have easy solutions. We are all nursing some form of our own brokenness.
We’re all simply wounded healers, doing the best we can.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

there isn’t much to say
get out of here
 go read someone else
 who’s actually doing something productive
 and has important things to say
 and knows how to say them well
 someone who isn’t stuck in the same place
 spinning in endless useless circles
 I feel a template update coming on getting sick of seeing that hand outstretched
 it means too much of the same thing I say
 Much louder than I intend
 But it sounds good to hear my own voice
 louder than normal
 without me flying through the air
as if it has some kind of intention
other than to hurt someone else
which is what I hope it will do


 I say I mean this all as explanation
 I mean to say that I don’t want to be your Fascination
 that I can deal with being Enigmatic
 that you can label me in any way you choose
 and make suppositions about my life based on the way I part my hair
 the way I whisper when I’m afraid or tired or because when we met I was sitting on a park bench reading a book written by an unpopular communist leader
 but don’t tell me I’m that
 because fascinations are things we attach to pop artists shoe styles video DJs
 and other things that expire faster than dairy products

 Fascination is what you have for the cute Starbucks barista with brilliant green eyes who always remembers your drink order and winks when arrive to take it away –
like there’s some secret only the two of you know.

That’s it.
Because you’ll be sad the day you go in and he isn’t there.
Replaced by some skinny girl with a ponytail – who won’t even notice that you come in every day. But you’ll still get your coffee, and you’ll probably forget about those green eyes before you’re finished drinking it.

 I am not take-away meant to be consumed after a late night binge at the club and forgotten

Sunday, May 4, 2014

"You need to curl out and fly away"

Lots of weird things have happened to me recently in conversations with different people.

 A friend told me that . . .

  1. something I had written made him feel aroused and dirty. 
  2. if I ever wanted to seduce someone, I could do it with that voice (we were talking over the phone). He promptly asked me to stop talking that way.
  3. I talk a lot but say nothing. 
  4. he couldn’t have sex with some girl, because he was thinking of me 
  5. of course -- there was no doubt in his mind that I wore the sexiest underwear in our group of friends
  6. he didn’t like it when I said the phrase e-driven-mindfuck 
  7. it’s impossible for women to masturbate.
  8. I have a strange geographically indefinable accent.
  9. that I seem to be one of those girls who have been physically abused and emotionally destroyed by lovers.
  10.  he had other motives for getting me drunk the other day. 

 I wonder if I’ll ever be able to escape these feelings.  - The urgent desire to scream until my lungs explode.
Maybe this is what it feels like to want to create violence. To be the spark that sets off the fire.

Because there are these brief moments of insanity when I’m convinced that crushing myself against something concrete and unforgiving until it hurt might just be better than this.
Momentary enough to recognize the images immediately upon surfacing as internal manifestations of my own unexpressed fear, hurt, anger, outrage, animosity, indifference . . .. So I push it away in order to keep moving.
But the pressure remains.
Making it difficult to draw breath.
To see colors with my eyes closed.
To imagine what it would feel like to not feel like this.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

I wonder, most times, if I’m the kind of woman you’d fuck without first taking off all your clothes.
If you’d fuck me, even though you wouldn’t kiss me full on the mouth.
If I’m that woman you’d call late at night – when you’re drunk or desperate or both.
When there isn’t anyone else.
Even if you don’t love me.
Even after you’ve said as much.

And what makes me that way?
The late night faceless conduit to satisfaction rather than the emotional or intellectual bridge to the same.
There has to be someone out there who will not define me and my worth only by my sexuality.

And so I say ...
To love you feels like the remembered scent of lilacs.
The sickening sweet aroma that burns the nose.
The back of the throat.
Something that evokes a sneeze.
Like the sun after times of darkness. Your voice – a vessel of madness, that flicks the tongue and curls the toes.
Words like magic spells that cut me down to size, hold me prisoner within the gap between your teeth, weaving imaginary realities about the way it might feel to love you.
Like the remembered taste of desire. Caught like a cold.A mistaken temporary ache in the bones.

To love you feels like a choice I couldn’t make.

A failed attempt to obliterate a memory.

 "The story one has to tell won't be anything important. So one can just as well write it down. Take the edge off this incurable propensity for writing, simply by giving in to it without taking it seriously. If the trick works, one is saved for the time being. I close my eyes and what do I see in my mind? Nothing important, as I said, and you can tell it's not important because it comes of its own accord, effortlessly, without being forced, no pattern, no significance. A page is torn from a notebook; once again the work schedule isn't followed and you make no progress in the grammar book. A few titles scribbled down, tentatively, as they come, something already worked out in the head, as it turns out, little stories, for later. When, if not now?"    -- The Quest for Christa T., Christa Wolf

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Fading away

i'm beginning to forget the names of things
. the street where we lived when we were in love once, a million miles from here. i don't miss their faces. 
old haunts.
 the burning smell of regret at the thought of the touch of a tie. 
or a plastic hanger. 
Or the old thrift-store alarm-clock tiles tick. tick. tick. 
your memories are the weight of my palm on a new day when it is below zero and the air is too cold to breathe and the world resolves itself into moments when i am alive and a love and leaving you. these are the dog cold days of dying youth when my brain cells swell. 
and all that is left is nothing of you. 
no last dregs in the bottom of wine glasses or beer steins or the soles of shoes. 
i've given you away in handfuls and tea cups and fist-fulls of tantrums. 
i am so glad for you. 
this garland of names.

Friday, December 20, 2013

"What is the difference between worse and worst?"

"I used to tell you that things may get more worse between us.
But at this time this is the absolute worst that can be.
Got it?"

Friday, December 6, 2013

The back of necks.

Do I use too many words?
 I’m not the best person to ask
 No what?
 No I don’t think so
 What’s this about?

 Emotional break down
 Those suck
 You alright?
 Wanna talk about it
 Feel like crying?
 Do it
 Do it
 Wanna tell me to fuck off?
 That usually makes you feel better
 Fuck off, then
 Say it with feeling at least
 That’s more like it

 Why do you get off on me swearing at you?
 Feeling bad?
 The worst?
 Shit Whatcha gonna do?
 Dunno really
 Gotta picture in your head?
 What do you mean?
 Do you have a picture in your head?

 You’re alright then
 I mean it
 Okay Now you’re a fucker

 I’m alright
 I know
 I love you
 I know
 I miss you
 I know

 You don’t use too many words with me, but I already know all your stories. They’re my stories, now. And I like that. I need that. I need you. There’s not much that could shake you out of my pocket. Not miles. Not relationships. Not sin or misdirection. There will always be you and me and those memories are mostly filled with silences. You know how to use silences. Like rain, ya know? Like what’s missing sometimes. Then you know it’s hitting the window and you can sleep better at night. 

Mmmmm I always feel like I mess things up.
I’m toxic rain.
Toxic Avenger
I always tell you it’s the image in your own mind that’s important. Not what other people say about that image and not what other people try to do with it. But you never listen.

I do listen And I hear all of it
So I’m like Hamlet, ya know?
That’s great. Hamlet waited too long and died and stuff.
Well, not exactly. Othello.
Now there’s a man of action.
 Oh good comparison.
 He was manipulated by all of his strongest characteristics into killing his wife. Then he offed himself.
Yeah, they both ended up dead, ennit?
Yeah Both men, too Yeah guess we shouldn’t mess with Shakespeare Indeed

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Dont inspire yourself with cliches!

They tell you to find yourself as if you are missing.

People say life’s all about finding yourself, and that therein lies some sort of cathartic enlightenment- and not only this, but that there is an existential methodology behind it all. life is made out to be some holy journey that only comes to ‘true’ fruition when we travel to an X amount of places, when we ‘let go’ of X amount of things, and when we fulfill a set of abstract criteria like ‘letting love become us’ or ‘dispersing light’ or something similarly esoteric (and beautiful, in principle).

One would think this modern credo would yield a greater quantity of happier youth, seeing as how positive psychology and an ascended phenomenology would, apparently, equip us with a better understanding of how to live a little better. ‘that’s what it’s about’, they say. but what is ‘that’, and what is ‘it’? happiness? peace? life itself, as a spiritual awakening of sorts?

The thing is if we do take certain life-formulas to be true, such as positively-imbued semantic postulations like ‘see the glass as half full, not empty’ or something equally as mystic, then of course the good life seems a pretty simple task (as long as we think we understand how to live it). but this too is as false and detrimental as the cynic’s fatalistic view (perhaps) that anything bad which can happen will happen.

The deceit in all of this Hope is not that it is wrong to hope, or dream, or to strive and journey for things that we want which are yet out of our reach; it is that this Hope mutates beyond a simple guiding goal into a kind of panic-struck phenomenon, an added pressure to embody that hope without bumps. take travel, for example.

 Augustine of hippo once said ‘the world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page’. travel is associated with open-mindedness, that to travel far equates to widening the horizons of the mind, and henceforth manifesting in the individual who partakes in this activity. however there is a difference between the normative suggestion for travel as an activity which might benefit the traveler, and the righteous advocacy of travel as the ONLY activity which might benefit the traveler (in terms of open-mindedness, or something similar). One does not have to ‘go big’ or travel far to learn about the inner workings of their given community and make a difference (so to speak). Travel may be a consequence of certain good intentions, but they are not a predicate to the actions of every well-meaning intention.

It is easy to do something big, that is all.
It’s more romantic, more obvious, more of a big fat Duh when it comes to realizing the purposes of oneself.
It achieves the same thing that we might achieve by repeating positive mantras as ‘I am beautiful no matter what’ as an allegedly strong fight against the narrow trends of beauty that make the forerunners of public media and other platforms.
That means- yes, by all means utilize strength to feel strong in face of adversity, to counteract self-diminishing obstacles, etc. but no- one does not need to do what everybody says is most obvious to, you know, live well. well-being, purpose, and all these alchemical life-goals have no need to be standardized or institutionalized into little modern cults of the privileged soul-seekers.

When we constantly try to PROVE to the world (maybe to ourselves) that we are on the ‘right path’, via displays of calculated deeds, ‘cool’ ‘nice’ actions, and whatnot, we are only creating more anxiety.

 The truth is no matter how with it we make ourselves out to be, fighting against ignorance, bigotry, patriarchy, racism, homophobia, etc etc. we will also always suffer from lapses of judgment (some more frequent or less frequent), and this does not make us failed people. Attaching success to a hypothetical principle is what makes us feel that we have failed, it is not failure itself that rips open our hearts and sits itself there which makes us ‘fail’.

That my life is simple and unremarkable, for example, does not mean I don’t have goals, or that there aren’t good things I want to do. 

For the last two years my life mostly consisted of eating and writing and socializing and reading sometimes and lots of sex and not much else, quite frankly. and many, many, many times, i have felt the guilt, I have felt demonized and looked down upon for how not obvious my achievements are. and this has left me in a state of stasis- this has left me with thoughts of ‘I’m good for nothing’ ‘I don’t have what it takes’ etc. and this is completely useless.

 I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, to make something pragmatic of life, it might do to just, treat mistakes and unfulfilled goals as just that- mistakes and unfulfilled goals. they are not fatal blows to some goldmine of wisdom which are inaccessible without some perfect following of behaviour that make us the flashiest candidates for the ‘lived life’.

If you can’t travel, then do the next best thing. don’t get caught up in the fact that you can’t do something which you think you are meant to do. just do the next best thing. do what you CAN do, which is the next best thing.

 You don’t have to love all people. you don’t have to make your life exciting in the way books and tv and films make of ‘exciting’.

You don’t have to look like anything specific to be valuable. you don’t have to follow any of your peers’ or community’s counsel on how to ‘find yourself’.

You are already found because you are yourself. this is not a matter which need be complicated through extraneous rituals. you do not need to find anything more about yourself than what you already know of yourself. explore, learn, experiment, do whatever you want to do, but realize that regardless of how well you can do any of the aforementioned, it is not like you are any less of yourself because you didn’t do certain things. of course when one is constantly told to ‘find oneself’ one will feel that there is something missing which must be attained. but there isn’t. everything is there, everything is here. ordinary or unremarkable as it is (or beyond), it’s there.

Sunday, June 16, 2013


Had a real long conversation with my favorite senior from college,  she was an ideal mix of everything. topper. tom boy, geeky, beautiful. everything.

I speak to her once a year or 8 months, when I want to be reminded of how I really was, where I am coming from and what are the things that kept me apart from everyone. She is one of those few people I take seriously.

she reminded me how in the first year I came with a bang and how everyone thought I am the next big thing but how everyone warned me that I will change alot in 5 years.

she told me how when good things happen in life, all the negative elements start walking away. How if you are standing on someone elses feet you never have a base and you can fall anytime.
How she had tears in her eyes when she was in the U.S last month because the campus life for a post graduate is so overwhelming that she is happy that I have got admissions at the best places.

we talked about how 5 years of law school shrinked our brains, how our perpective was limited to the course material, how we stopped reading books, stopped indulging in conversations with people, talked about the same things with the same people everyday, how we were never valued.

she told me how in the last 3 years her life has become what she wanted it to be, that new sense of freedom, the undying passion to learn more, that passion is back .

That its ok that in the last 5 years I felt lost, because I never really belonged there.

it wasnt just an ego boosting conversation with someone 3 years older than me trying to tell me life is all good ahead and how she understands that 5 years around miniscule level intellgence only did more bad than good. But it was also a reality check of what I wanted.

she reminded me I have that same warmth and that I am the only person she knows who would never hurt anyone. 

but most of all she reminded me

that I dont learn from books
I dont learn from movies
or people
or my own mistakes

I just learn from life, from things people do and I will never do. 
that its time I build my foundation and stand on it, because thats the only thing that will always be mine.

Monday, April 15, 2013

spinning. words.

sometimes I can make thoughts move
like people do
with my words across wires
perhaps not to quench
but to sustain until those moments come
when lips and hands and eyelashes
can fall down amongst us like rain.

If I said that I know the way
you can make thoughts move
or that mine haven't stopped since
the first time
you touched my hand
touched like our voices do
through these wires
letting everything else disappear:
this might be the first time in my life
that I wished I could write poetry.

But I'm thinking about daisy chains
how I'd like to make a crown of them
and words
for your head
or mine
run through tall grass
our holding hands

Right now
I think it might rain
and if so -- under those drops
like soft silent fingertips
dancing on my skin 

I'll go
close my eyes
and wait.

Monday, March 18, 2013


He won't understand just like he never understands that I write in patterns like the female orgasm that my logic builds on itself turning and turning in ever increasing circles often requiring pressure and attention to bring the whole act to fruition and even though the journey takes slightly over 40 pages.

I have to use my hands and lips eyes and tongue to get to the point where you can finish.

 I get you there building and building until you want to scream into my ear your satisfaction at the spiral I wrapped you up in to some sweet release.

There's nothing left to say or do.
 Roll your name over again on my tongue like wringing hands of a prayer.
Palms pressing teeth.
Lips silent open.
Wrapping myself in the flesh of your name like sheets of skin.
 The sting of pain dulled by this collection of letters hiding held like a lemon drop under the tongue. The new name of you intersecting the chords of my throat.
Tucked like the pressure of a palm in the bend of the knee. Like lips caught in the shadow of a collar bone. Auricle tongue.

The static of you plaits my hair. Reduces my mouth phonetic--your name pressed out.

I come home
clutch my coffee mug
sip and sip my way back
instead .

Friday, March 15, 2013


March brought my voice for the first time
something written on a cold day while waiting for him and then later read into a recorder with deliberation – without thought to recompense
numb fingers gripping a pen
to save those words that just wouldn’t stop
like the smile
from listening to his song
the way every note taught different pieces of my body yet undiscovered words for combustion
captured onto any stray scrap of paper to be found
the margins of a schedule.

Maybe he never knew that what it really meant was that I’d never recover from the moment  that deep inhalation of breath in a space between chords maybe he never knew that i wouldn’t stop listening.

Something happens in the span of time between making music and hearing music
the laws of space and time that allow one hand striking a chord—even a million miles away—to produce an actual physical response in the body of someone else. touching without touching.

These moments when we hear.
When we listen long enough.

What he said
from me:

maybe it’s a conversation
two voices saying
i don’t want you to go.
but I have to go.

over and over again
until the disjunction reforms
mixing into a unification.

and he breathes at just the right spot
when the dissonance between
metal and metal
metal and flesh
becomes clear
and the separateness returns
the plucking of chords
into words
into sounds that need no other name

Thursday, March 7, 2013

conversations with Superman

yesterday, with my head pressed firmly against the far left cushion, close to sleep, still following the moving pictures on the television with my eyes, sounds filtering, nonsensical into my ears, i realized the fabric of my couch is hero blue. god, damn, i muttered to no one in particular.
I've always loved Superman.

"I am there" he whispered.

 "sitting on the far right back seat that you just quite but almost can't see. I'm in your right front pants pocket. At that spot on the inside of your left wrist where the blood might have been pumping under a watch face, if you wore one. I am the sound of compression breaks., The slow dull voice over-head calling out stops. all the way home. I am the familiar scent you always find at the same time foreign and familiar when you fold back the sheets and climb into bed. I am--each and every-- morning"
I told him how I'm folding in on myself. these days. trying to lose significance between the crisp holy pages of books. unsatisfied with the attempt -- unable to break the surfaces. Head empty or perhaps too full up. I sit for long moments and think about the smell of the ocean just after a rain. or my grandfather's  garage filled with the scent of car oils and perpetually decaying wood. I wander around this city in which i live. searching for something that i just can't quite remember. all the corners have lost their edges. and i'm numb to the sound.

and I just told him how I want to be his hippie dream.

All long haired twin braids and just the right amount of too many hemp necklaces and bracelets. Peasant blouses with skirts. The perfectly broken in pair of sandals. I'd always smell something like incense and tapioca pudding. And I'd be lovely without any makeup. Memories of me would make him think of daisies and sunshine and the smell of new rain.

 Not kitsch. Just right.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

But then....

I am so in love with you. 
My head spins and the world shifts.
And there is nothing but wrinkled sheets and bare feet and the aftermath of long quiet afternoons. 

Only now there are cats crying. Plumbing problems. Interventions (of all sort).

 I've started losing my accent and using punctuation. Ignoring the constant longing for small letters. Things left unsaid. When I was so in love with you you were a window that I always opened and closed. Found at the ends of my fingertips. When I wanted. It's how things go. Now you are here and there and the cat cries and eats and wants to come in and go out and we are closing all the windows up tight, on the house. I can see my breath, sometimes, in the early mornings. When you are real and I am too.

i'm looking for the ins and outs. the ways that words used to feel streaming and alive from my fingertips. this might be the end of them. for days. and days. and days. of waiting. the doldrums. the fantastical ways that the days can. really. end up being the rhythm that you were looking for to begin with when you first started this whole thing. all that fucking stuff that you can't even see now. for looking.

oh my god
he says
and she says

rolls her eyes in the way that annoying teenagers do in movies and in real life when they know that someone is watching.

it's a real important question
she protests
about something that probably doesn't matter anyway

it's like trying to swallow my own tongue. thoughts of the memory of your hair ring my insides dumb. like an unstruck bell. and if i could, reduce the life we lead into pocket-sized picture postcards. i would. shrink you into something more manageable. less loud. and i could fill us up with nonsense words. mail them off to foreign lovers. and strangers. 

cherry bowls and nightmare hummingbird kitchens and radiator death cab rides.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

She says...

Earlier today I wondered about distinctions made between honesty and neediness. Perhaps the distinction can be derived in the motivation – people viewing themselves as victims fall prey to neediness and people viewing themselves as survivors are just being honest?

That sounds a bit more self-serving than I intended. I shouldn’t probably even be worrying over these concepts. I’ve got good friends that I can trust and depend on.

An integral distinction exists between survival and strength. Although the two terms are in many ways interdependent, they are certainly not synonymous. I survive. It’s what I know how to do. But strength is another matter that seems to be intricately balanced with weakness. It has to do with the ability to exercise voice and logic, and I lack that capability far too often.

This kind of honesty leaves me feeling stained like fingertips from the print of yesterday’s cheap newspaper. It’s what can keep me at a distance from the people I care about. Because when you tell these kinds of stories, you become something other than who you are – who they thought you were. When you say all the things I could say – some of which I’ve said here – you become the subject of a raised eyebrow – the hushed voices upon your approach. Ultimately, you become the unhealthy. The broken. And nobody wants to be with that person. People with problems, even in the past, don’t make good friends or lovers. It’s a stigma that keeps me from participating in too much self-revelation. People only believe they want to know you, then mostly there is judgement followed by self-immolation.

Mostly, I wonder in these situations if people can recognize the difference between honesty and neediness. I’ve certainly never been looking for someone to fix me. Having never viewed myself as broken to begin with.

Thoughts like these are what simultaneously hold me here and keep me running. They provide me with the realization that I’ve made it through worse times, but making it through those times taints my future possibilities as well.

I like who I am.
Even my flaws and inconsistencies.
I am that person as a result of everything that has come before.
I do not regret, therefore, any of my experiences.
And I don’t think I’m so fucked up –
Not any more or less than people who’ve lead relatively normal lives, I guess.

"Tere honthon ke kisi kone mein, hansi ke tarah, main mehfuz hoon 
Teri aankhon ke chipe dard mein Aansoo ki tarah, main mehfuz hoon"

Monday, August 20, 2012

I love me.

There was a time the only word I cringed at more than cursing was saying Love. this was way back in the 90s.
that sudden exposure to english movies and songs and westlife and boyzone also did not change the fact that I could just not say the word love.
I could easily say fuck or chutiya or I wouldnt say I love you, downside I started losing friends. Hell yes I did. Because being expressive it just the basic thumb rule of keeping friends close, sharing your tiffin and buying them an icecream is not. You gotta say it. Maybe I was the one screwed up, because for me words were never and are still not enough, I used on them what I wanted to be used on me.
I could not understand how could I love friends, mostly because I felt I love you is proceeded by kissing and all that jazz.
Obviously I was wrong, so yeah some way or the other I would find myself not saying it ever.
I switched to Love you.
much better than I love you. further away from kissing, closer to friend zoning.
but then things dont happen as you want them to.

Hormones started acting up and boys could not always just be friend zoned all the time, some overused love, some abused it, eventually it lost meaning and I became cool enough to use it frequently. for friends, family, tv shows, Shahrukh Khan, cake and mostly myself.

But I couldnt help but respond awkwardly whenever someone said it to me.
 there has been a minute silence.
a sorry but I love him
a as friends , right?
a , are you fuckin insane?
a do you want free beer or something?
a, but I dont. 

I have disappointed for thrills , I have never been disappointed.

Until that doomed night, when I said I love you and he said, " Thanks"

My heart thumped, I could hear the earth crack and I could hear the demon calling out my name and I could just see so many broken hearts around me.

Well, I could not do much but think and I did think, oh when I think its just another task all together, I give up everything and dedicate time for thinking,  and realised, well he should be thankful, loving someone cannot be so ungrateful and thankless and unacknowledged all the time, right?

 It has to involve some sense of being obliged, of all this love wrapped in a huge heart in so many ways all coming from one person.
Its not easy.
I should be glad.

Incidentally he is the same guy who has repeatedly told me that I love myself more than anything else and I have raised my own bars for anyone else to ever meet my unrealistic expectations.

Love is strange and all that, its also indivisible perhaps , and I am just happy I have someone who is thankful.

Monday, December 12, 2011


very soon I want to delete this, I anyway mostly write here

And yes, noone has ever had access to it. If I compare both these places, I always find that place is literarily more enriching, maybe because its exactly what I feel. Here I write what I think and sometimes snippets of feelings. knowing , certain specific people *will* read it, knowing they *will* judge me.

Also, over the last few months it seems like I'm being to made to believe that after all I'm not that positive a person I project to be.
I'm in fact always looking for some unhappiness in the happiest of the things, some pain in pleasure.
That I love hurting myself.

Don't know how to deal with this one, but this too shall pass.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

tired of being tired

I’m tired of receiving messages from boys that begin –
I’ve been unfair to you . . .
or other vain attempts at apology
or redemption
and of the ways in which I allow that to be good enough for me
every fucking time.
because I already know that I’ll respond to say –
it’s okay
all emotional responses are valid
I value you and your feelings.

Even after mine have been disregarded, mangled, and/or misconstrued.

because I am tired of being tired.

I’m tired of all of these
responses to my images.
of being the wrong [anything] at [any time]
of laundry lists of my inefficacy
and this is the end.
I’m sick of living a life
in deference to
in consequence of
dependant upon

strange moments of joy occur

I was pushed from the slowly moving car at approximately 5:30 in the morning. He had been driving with my torn body in the passenger seat for what felt like hours. Slowly muttering to himself in a language that I could no longer understand. The trail of blood that ran down my chest - my legs - grew still as my nose occasionally dripped, and I dabbed at the ache with the sleeve of my jacket. The clothes underneath told another story, and I wound that coat around. For the warmth and for the comfort my own arms contained.

My throat was dry and parched from several hours of screaming at and for no one. Until I lost my voice, and there was just the desire to scream - the frustration that comes with unwanted silence. Leaving only the methodical - thump, thump, thump - of the table hitting the wall. Of my thighs hitting the table.cracking under feet. The occasional fist into skin.

Caked with blood and barely able to see beneath my two black eyes, I hit the pavement. He only used one huge hand to set me free. It rained, and I remained in the street with an open mouth - felt the cuts on my lips split as each drop fell down. Kept my eyes open as long as I could. The world was suddenly covered in Vaseline.

It took another hour to figure out what to do. Wandering the semi-light downtown streets with the junkies, pushers, and whores. Without money or identification. Waited for a bus, but the driver took one look at me and wouldn't let me on without the fare. The air from the door stung when he closed it in my face. I did not yet know what I looked like. Commuters were already filing in. And I stood in front of humiliated, begging for change to make a phone call. One woman stopped, finally, to give me a rupee. She looked sad as she passed it into my palm. As if she knew something I didn't. Get off the streets, she muttered while turning to walk away. She didn't look back.

I called him then. Had to wake him up. Barely audible through the downtown traffic and straining to use my abused vocal chords. I'm fucking in trouble, I whispered. And that was enough. He arrived around 7:00 am. The immediate reaction was simple. Horrified. Things must be worse than I even imagined. He didn't take any measures to hide it, and the fifteen minutes it took to get back to his house were filled with questions that I would never completely answer -- What the fuck happened to you? -- What the hell is going on? He was hysterical and sobbing.

He spent the next few weeks clinging to my bruises. Holding me upright in the shower. Applying peroxides and creams. Bandages and medications. Holding me together. It was during those days that I forgot how to speak. When I began to rely on my hands. Realized the safety of silence.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Yeah you got it easy dude!

Me: I started learning riding.
A: What?
Me : A bike.
A: its a great way to meet rugged men
Me:its a great way to meet rugged men and hot girls. I love this life.
A: Hot girls haha really are you including yourself, because that doesn't count.
Me: I'm not in the hot league ya I'm more like, unaware. uselessly careless.
A: no its a biased opinion that's why
Me: I've never felt hot , never been told so either.
A: i cant call myself anything either you need external validation in today's world
Me: external validation can come up at the pop of slight cleavage.
A: haan thats my point
Me: and in your case I don't know, men don't even have a cleavage
A: yeah money i think money should work
Me: their hotness is so hidden and mischievous
money pagal ho kya
A: okay disposable money
and i disagree on male cleavage
Me: why do you think then hotness is always portrayed as torn jeans, unkept hair, open shirt. Thats not what an ideal rich man would be.
A: we have people like that John Abraham dude running on beaches like an idiot
Me: and that Raymonds ad. How can you forget that.
A: what about james bond
Me: james bond is a douche
A: yeah but you have a point
Me: he just has cars and swank.
A: to women he becomes hot. Only after his necktie and suit are torn
Me: see, so money isn't what makes them hot enough.
A: i agree
Me: its all moh maya, gehra jaal hai. gehri psychoanalysis hai.
A: so its basically not taking a bath and wearing old clothes
Me: THAT is hot btw.
A: dude men have it quite easy
Me: see, they do.
A: i never figured this
Me: thank me later, im good.
A: haha

Men, do have it easy.
f you're a guy, the simplest decision to go to a certain place late at night doesn't need more than a moment's consideration. For women, though, there's a lot to think about--is it safe, do they need an escort, and is it worth going there at all?
Men can burp and its just normal.
You have no idea how painful waxing can be unless you've tried it.
Men have lesser clothes to be bought.
[ok, now you'll say women buy too many out of choice and you don't then listen - shoes don't go with indian clothes and chappals don't go with dresses and heels don't go with every day stuff, BY DEFAULT there has to has to be a huge list on that. Got it?]

Im not even going on child birth and PMSing and all the social stigma of flirting, studding, casanovas , being a slut..da da blah blah. and what not and this not.
Also I promise I shall write soon why men don't have easy. Its not a one sided opinion. I am myself quite a North Indian man as a friend once said.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

what I've learnt...

or NOT.

I'm no relationship expert, but ive been in a few. The consuming deeply in love, one way traffic love - the stalker love - the har ladke ko dekhke bolna , yahi mera sacha pyaar hai- love.
The happy love.
The love love.
and then, whenever I got sick of it, I'd look in the mirror and tell myself ,
" kya cheez cut piece "
yes, I do that very often its called loving yourself.

So many a things people teach us, not much we take ahead and apply... here you go,

. Some people deserve a place at Madam Tussauds not your heart!
. To be able to say I love you , you need to learn to say the I.
. Nothing is made in heaven, nothing - its just all around us, its how much we take out of it. how much we make out of it.
. In the end, the love you take is NOT equal to the love you make.
. love is not friendship.
. every person is different, what you learn from one, if applied on the other -is more often than not a recipe for disaster.
. there are no rules, except exclusivity.
. noone changes, its just the worse bargain you get into to change a person and then love.
. its ok to wear your heart on your sleeves and get it trampled at times.
. if a boy is chasing a girl, its the most romantic thing, if a girl does that - she's just plain desperate.
. we are all hypocrites.
. words are just for that moment, actions remain marked.
. nobody is fearless.
. there's always one person dominating it from the brain, the other uses the heart.
. If someone is not doing something they claim to do, it can be assumed as -
.They just don't want to.
.they could have if they *really* wanted to.
.or they want to, but are incapable of doing so, blame stupidity.
The lesson learned here is - how stupid we are to base things on assumptions, or then how stupid we are to not take it at the face value. its a vicious circle [ you learn nothing here, its just a fact, how it is ]

and things I will never learn ..

. jo bhaaw khata hai usko bhaaw milta hai.
. giving space.
. the benefit of doubt.
. how to unlove.

all said and done, I need to learn to forgive my soul, only I can do it for myself.

"aadatan tumne kardiye waade,
aadatan humne aitbaar karlia..."

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

somedays I feel like froth.

Ive spent the last few hours with two people who have seen me since that phase when you are ugly, like man brows. The coolest I got back then was to wear black sports shoes with anklet socks and a stud metal bracelet. ( and yeah, back then this was damn COOL btw)
they've always seen me happy. Never seen me drunk, except for the first time, - these girls got me drunk on frooti and vodka and I stood under the shower with clothes on for 10 minutes. 5 years back.
they've seen me fall in and out of love with men, and tell them that " yaar but wo mera sacha pyaar tha"
they perhaps know me the best, would love me the most, have seen me happy the most. have seen me go from size 8 to size 12.
they saw me in tears last night for no reason. For just telling them that I have hidden more than I shared, that this smile and the jokes, they all have a serious side , that I do have strong believes and rigid notions about people, about life, (which they have always rubbished as immaturity) which, I am very sure they will soon realise why I have them.

I feel I am cheating most people around me.
I have the facts,
I have the feelings,
I have the thoughts,

and they have all just been mine.
Call it selfish, protected, masked, or even a cheat.
but for me to reveal all of them ...even to myself, and being in peace with everything I am - means being out there on a display. The highest bidder of patience and responsive listening wins.

Till then, I shall laugh.

To the people, who are my friends - I'll always be around.
and to the people I called lovers - you don't know me.

to myself - I need a drink. that huge mug of coffee. ya, that giant one!

Sunday, August 21, 2011

ok fine, go!

nice dress , he says
I say, huh?
I’ve been chasing those polka-dots for a block and a half, he says
I say, oh?

the summer dress
my pig-tails
this lollipop

what flavor is that? he asks, stupidly matching his own steps to mine down the street past the stadium and heading toward the overpass that will take me home.
i pull the sucker out of my mouth; make a sound with my lips, and say plainly, flatly, orange.

sun makes people stupid

the ball of sugar sweet candy screams bright under the sun
it’s the same color as my hair

no it isn’t, he smiles, wryly, shaking his head.

he thinks I’m flirting. I’m not.

why is your mouth blue then?

I’ve never taken out my head phones: if i tell you will you go away?

he laughs and it sounds like that background noise on animal shows when they’re in the midst of way too many monkeys closed behind too many glass partitions.

I say, because I’m an alien?

why did you say it was orange?

and i’ve no idea why i’ve said what i have, instead i’m thinking about the word wildfire and all the stupid things i’ve ever done in my life. i think about the way i'm in love with the curves of my calves. i wonder if i’m combustible and if i’m only one match short of proving the point.

i say, orange is the color of encouragement and the stimulation of knowledge. it’s the color of the brave. it’s the sun. power. life.

no mention of destruction.

where are you rushing off to? he asks inappropriately as a stranger encroaching on my solitary walk after a long day.
i say, my boyfriend is waiting for me at home.

it’s not really a lie. not one i’ll ever feel guilty over.

we step still and i say, raspberry?
but why did you say it was orange?
i pause and take the hard end out of my mouth, hold it out to him and say, i was hoping the contradiction would make you go away.

and he does.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Not home yet!

As I see people around me making phone calls which mostly say
" Yes I am leaving in 5..see you"
I know its those people who have someone wait for them once they are out of this three floored corporate dunk. Yes I call it that because it is that at most levels.
These twenty something goodlooking intelligent people, somehow have chosen a difficult path for themselves, the initial years right after 5 or 6 years of law school - should have been their time to enjoy the bundles of money they earn , I say bundles because of the place I am at currently.
And all they have is the green, barely time to spend it , barely people to share it with.
Best part is that they don't complain or maybe this is the worst.

Cut to my situation, I am a mere intern with some "more than average sense of intellect " (which is the best complement my boss could give me and has made my day) on occasions and mostly a chimpanzee who has learnt how to type (yes, I get that often thanks to my lack of patience to format.
So my work is to do the menial research work at most times, sometimes its research which has been created to just give it off so I stop nagging that I dont have any work, however - the last week I have been working on something important. At most certainty the piece of work will be enacted as a law soon.
Downside - its credit less hardwork. And something I can't complain or ask for , infact just feel happy that I was given such work!

The next half hour will be wasted in ordering dinner. The next forty in having it.
But then that is how they maximize their work.

The same guy just called up again and said .." Honey 5 more minutes"
She is waiting for you dumbass, either cancel the plan or be honest with the time you're going to take!

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Right from wrong!

“This is wrong.”

I thought I had purged my mind of my mother’s voice, yet her strident tones still echoed through my brain, muffled but not silenced. .

Brush your teeth, clean your room, go to bed, and other orders ingrained in my head during my childhood had ceased to resound through my skull, yet one phrase remained, preserved.

“This is wrong.”

Wrong means bad. Wrong means red X’s scattered across your test like confetti. Wrong means the hellfires of damnation, which I stopped believing in (along with God and heaven), but which still have the power to frighten me, like the chainsaw-wielding villain I saw on TV when I was six, who I knew wasn’t real, but was really cackling manically before me every time I shut my eyes.

“This is wrong.”

Off late, a whole new set of rights and wrongs are coming my way.
This time the choice isn't simple enough.
The concept of right and wrong was taught to us as kids, and was supposed to be kept in the mind before taking all decisions in life. A very simple thing, but i never knew while growing up i will forget the importance of asking myself if something do is the right thing to do or I'm doing it just because i want to do it.

A gradual change, imperceptible to the unperceptive, a change in lilt, in tone, in meaning.

A silenced tongue is wrong, not the feelings it might expound if freed.

A bound body is wrong, not the movements it may make unshackled.

Cloaking an atheist in the robes of a sister is wrong.

Hurting someone who loves you is wrong.

Giving up your self respect for anyone or anything, no matter how precious or "loved", is ..uhmm, well.. wrong!

The words have not changed; my conscience is preserved, the influence destroyed.

This is right.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

rinse. repeat

This won't go easy, nothing ever did.
It's weird when I sit here and see the rain, the drops on the window, the surrealism, the poetic streak rain carries with itself, et al...and thinking how much it is a relief from the heat.
It has no effect on me.

People are always apprehensive of what will happen in their future, I on the other hand know my life cycle works in accordance with seasons, I wish I didn't know myself and the cycle so well.

This summer, is truly no different than any other.
I just fear what's yet to come.

"Tu ja bhi chuka phir bhi maen tanha nahin ab tak..
suraj ke doobtay hi andhera nahin hota..."

Thursday, May 12, 2011


A week back

T : Khana khaya?
Me : Haan, whats there to ask have u seen my size you think I can live without food?

T : did you sleep well?
Me: ofcourse I did, I love sleeping I can't sacrifice it for anything on this planet.

T : please study priya, abhi fir internet fir facebook, shut it and study.
Me: Whats your problem? har hamesha daant.

T : switch on your car headlights you will bang your car some day.
Me : I know I had to do that I was just about to.


Me : Shit yaar, I want someone to ask me if I had food or I slept well or I studied. most random of them I want to tell someone that I woke up and I could see some guy from the window hanging outside to paint the walls. Noone wants to know my randomness.

J : tu pagal ho gayi hai? why would you want to tell all this to anyone, why would anyone even want to know?

Me: kyunki aadat hai yaar, batane ki.

J: haan, kuchh aur karle. Will call you in a bit.

2 hours later.

J : mann shaant hua?
Me : Haan I made pasta and had it.
J : your solution to every problem is food , right?
Me: yes, isnt that cute?
J: huh? why would that be cute.
Me : oh shit, wahi na tabhi toh I am feeling unknown..*he* used to find it cute, now I am a nobody. Unperson me!

This is the problem with people who stay in a relationship too long, they become random! They like talking about random things, after the few months of knowing each other and no more to it, its about thrills from randomness, surprisingly they enjoy it about each other and its the highlight of the day to know the most randomest thing about someone elses day;
and No matter how much I miss it ; this is it.

Time to indulge in more meaningful conversations eh?

*shoot me in the head*

Monday, May 9, 2011


"I betrayed you," she said baldly.

"I betrayed you," he said.

She gave him another quick look of dislike.

"Sometimes," she said, "they threaten you with something—something you can't stand up to, can't even think about. And then you say, 'Don't do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.' And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there's no other way of saving yourself and you're quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.

"All you care about is yourself," he echoed.

"And after that, you don't feel the same toward the other person any longer."

"No," he said, "you don't feel the same."

Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me—

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


for long I complained, I belong to a time where is no mass struggle, no massive change, nothing that could make history enough for text books 100 years hence.
How wrong.
India won the worldcup!
The much useless royal wedding.

and voila...! They killed Osama!

While all this was happening, I sipped on some more tang.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Friday, August 6, 2010


All I can hear is fingers struggling with keyboards.
and even in this silent, surreal vacuum...I don't feel alone and creepy.

Maybe, some people...just belong to themselves. Period.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

. And

I dream about drowning.
Not the choke to sputter darkness or the slow drift into light, But the kind of swim sparkle sun floating madness one gets from lulling in a hand-me-down seventies unheated water-bed.
I dream aboutliving in a place that always rains.
And the grey skies are all my sunshine days.
And now, under big comic blue skies and neverending grass fields and foreign tongues like spies- I long for landscape. And drizzle.
I long for the slow rocking madness of those moments in flight where I drifted and sucked water to breathe like oxygen.

I wanted to write something gently soft about the way life feels these days. But everything comes out always hard A's and concrete retaining walls. If ever I was lonely or alone things might be different. But this is a different kind of new. And everything that ever was like the way to spell the word color or the shape of my own face feels foreign. daunting. irresolvable. like public school maths. And the weight and consequence of my own tongue.

Dear Don Williams, stop singing Broken Hearts in your deep voice in my tiny head, cause then, first thing in the morning that I do...is start missing you! :(

Friday, June 18, 2010

Coffee Black and Cigarettes...

Bitterness is sweet.
Jumbles are addictive.
Circles are trippy.

.. roses are red, violets are blue?
Oh! yeah, yeah, we heard that. We done that. We have that, we don't.
You do?
I don't.
You pity?
I proud.
You sense?
I non sense.
You see?
I close my fuckin eyes!

Pictures are blind.
eyes are black and white.
water in the desert?
No, its a mirage!
That is fuckin scientific, that word - Mirage!..
You see beauty? I see pain.
You see that?
I see this!

Wherever you go...THERE you are.
Yes, There...It's always there!

Numb. Cold. Heavy. Hollow.
words are alphabets.

Oh, and I see the sunrise sometimes, but the sun doesn't rise, the earth revolves.
That was 2nd grade science? Or my ideas are fucked up?

Then, Then, Then,
and Now , Now, Now.
You see non sense?
I see meaning.
In what?
In nothingness.
Tap. Tap. Dance!

Sunday, June 6, 2010

My Maniac and I!

and if it comes to the rain, just be glad...
because so many ...
because so few...
because so ....
it happens!..

The ghosts who broke their heart before they met each other, lingered in their mind, their pictures perfectly framed in black ebony wood, maybe ..
they were sorry, their sorries stayed.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Oil Spill!

Everything always turns out this way. I've forgotten you. Again. Like you were dead or I'd been drinking a lot.

Sometimes, it doesn't.

If love were inexplicable like shotgun shells and the way your eyelashes feel against my spine late nights then I've been seeing someone else;

No!. Again. That's no way to begin.

Then,fuck! can't you fuckin see. YOU!

and maybe I've been drunk enough
let down enough
cried stupid and dry more than enough
maybe this is the end;

Used to believe we were a valid excuses for a relationship!

If you can see. what I mean.
I desperately wanted to have something to say; but my tongue feels like navy knots. and the only words i can think of are oil spill.

"...Yeh zindagi jo hai naachti toh;
Kyon bediyon mein hai tere paaon..."

That guy, Hitesh; Idiol - MU 32104, Nagpur just made me smile :)

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Love's Bull Shit!

When you love someone, you open yourself up to suffering – that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, or maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the risks. You see two people and you think, "they belong together," but nothing happens. The thought of losing so much control over personal happiness is unbearable. That's the burden. Like wings, they have weight. We feel that weight on our backs but they are a burden that lifts us.

Uh, .. bull shit!

When you love someone, its just an incessant desire to be with the person, or have them feel the same for you. If they don't you chase them, if they do, you make them chase you. If you're being loved, in most certainty you are honest only till you get an opportunity to be otherwise, then you cheat. Maybe with one, maybe two, maybe more. Someone might know you're cheating them and accept cause they chose to "understand" or their desire to keep loving is more than the disgust of being just an opportunity, in some they don't know they're just one of them, cause they get love in every form, mental , emotional, physical, economical.
Yes its getting complicated now; because that's how love is made to be. We chose to lie, hate, curse, swear, or worst; numb ourselves.
And then we blame age, distance, convenience, or the lack of it - and they become excuses for not rising in love, we call it falling love. The incapability to see, the fear of a lonely night, forces us to succumb to that desire.

This was true? No. Fuckin bull shit!

In reality, its just an emotion. What is more important is to be compassionate. Wanting love just gets in the way of losing compassion.
Oh and complications?
In any given situation, if its love - there will always be amply good reasons or none enough to not grab any opportunity ; there will be amply more to slip, to fall; to fall out of love - reasons being, again convenience.
When its love, the former always has a heavy say.

Ahh, perhaps more fuckin retard bull shit!

Its actually, A burden that allows us to fly! :)

Monday, March 8, 2010

Nothing that is complete, breathes!

Perhaps it gets worst only when its getting better.

They say unfinished business at the time of death, brings back the dead. Aaah. Now that I am looking forward to!

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


She knows that real people. reel. go on becoming and that life isn't
strictly about pixelations
like hair styles
over lines
but the way life moves
the geography of meaning

oh now that's good
s something we all regret the point and shoot of our lives
to fill picture books with
that won't hold the still that we worked out 10 years later
onto sticky pages
to ruin the print
but not the memory of the fumes
that made it all
make sense inside your

Sometimes special words apply themselves to being gone. The act of flying away some moment of palliation meant to lay hands and heal. To honor lost things. To forget everything you keep on remembering in the locality of your space. Your place. The jagged fragments of a life caught in the gaps between the teeth.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

You hot me chocolate!

...and one thing which for sure, more than you wait for the sun, three times. Love me two or drench me down with that smile till my cheeks hurt. People like me love celebrating alone, no not with alcohol or drugs or that cakes and milk shakes poem; BUT BUT BUT! Its just simple you see, try whisteling on a mirror in winter, it makes haze...it goes away; and thats when it started.
Ya ya, I fancied a life like this a few years from now,thinking, dreaming, oping, preaching that in the end eventually everything settles and its going to be perfect.

Well, this is it. The few years have gone by since the last time I got this thought. Everyday is that day I wanted in the past, and this concept is going to take me away from being a cynic. But it god damn fuckin is.

Tata for now.
The happiest post in ages?

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Day 1

Like Jake Sully said,
"since you thing you are the strongest; who would attack you? you would never look up!"

A 7/10 only because, politically, demographically, visually it was appealing!
Oh and there was something very cheezy about the movie, for the rest of it, I had Pulkit grinning like an idiot

Perhaps, we all make this mistake.
Once again.
Once more?
And, the cycle will continue?

Friday, December 18, 2009

Such is life or what?!

Damn me, the Atomic County and Guitar picture from the right column, have gone!
Cause O.C was a teenage obsession (how ancient I sound when I say that, despite being asked to stop behaving 13!!)
And, The guitar cartoon, well...past is past! :)
So, Things , people, events, places, songs, even foods to eat - become insignificant after some time!
When a person like me, couldn't survive without a frooti a day, just can't stand that sweetness, wonder if its just time. Things once liked will always be liked, maybe a time span of boredom comes in way; and then you get back to it. - that is how people do it.
I, on the other hand, OVERDO it at the first place, and when I shut. I shut it up. Forever, is not JUST a very long time. It's just... well, forever.

"Fuck fuck fuck for the sake of a fuckin life, mara lo salon , pathhar padenge kisi din, "

People are so fuckin strange, bloody all of the kinds who would suck up to you , when they WANT something, emotional, mental, physical (If I may say) and then, in the end. You stand in the corner, fuckin feeling like a doormat! Derogatory eh? a doormat? NO, thats not how I fuckin feel about myself, that how Im gonna make "them" feel. Oh no, not a doormat, a bloody wasted good for nothing, vegetable!
And then one day, when you bump into me...at lets say a coffee place? I'll smile, and crunch your stone heart into a tiny pebble, because I can crush stones you see. I am strong and
Such is life!

And when 5 years hence, you wrinkle, and old and your godforsaken marriage sucks, cause your life sucks and wife doesn't; oh she does! she does! she does the cute gym friend she has, cause you'r of course growing old, working 18 hours a day and doing the junior in office! I will point all fuckin fingers at you , and the thumbs down! YES! haaa!
Such is life!

And When that topper screams of "I dont cheat and I get 5% more than you, and I top and your'r just another 70 per-center" I will, rip the happiness apart from that sly face of yours, cause my dear friend, you aim for the sky, my aims are a million fuckin times beyond it, and when you behave you know it all and snob it all, I do it for the love of it! You hide your fuckin sheet with ten times effort; wherein it was me fifteen minutes back outside the exam hall, telling you HOW to make sure you do NOT fail.
But such is life!

When that superly hot looking girl in the class, tells you "Kolapuris in winters?" and yes oh, oh, she is wearing leg warmers in Delhi heat! Your friends call him a bitch, you turn around and don't care, cause a smoke is keeping you warm and 10 minutes to go for an exam, I know you will lose your hair because of so much ironing (haha, credit : Sanya) we, love our curly days, and straight days, and good days and bad. Because you are thin, you are not fuckin pretty! Because you wear leg warmers, you look STUPID, you will spend life in front of the mirror, when we will have so much worthwhile, you will have botox and super loads of Estee Lauder, whereas we had apples and we ran to fuckin feel we have feet ! Your eyes will be mascara and kajal and that oh, what do you call it, the shade thing, Ours... will have stories to tell ! and when you lose it all, cause you'll just be a 40 year old, trying to compete with your own 18 year old girl, we will be making huge money, cause we had the brains. And then of course, I will tell you such is life. At least I didn't get fucked by every man coming my way for cheap thrills, and oh that mastercard bought love!

Small things, events, actions, thoughts, can just lead to so much more, or are coming from so much. Over analyzing and all that jazz? Hell, NO! ... Such is life!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A little complex

Duality- equations, understandings, answers and existence everything is effected by it. If not by it then by multiplicity. So what remains is uncertain in certain terms or shall we look into it as if it is certain in uncertain terms. But, there is nothing new in this "rant", we all know this. So why does it exist?? If we know for certain that duality is there then it is not there because then there is no uncertainty.
Thinking about it.... isn't it that we intuitively understand that every event has a cause and itself causes something. Then why is that we are uncertain. Simple reason is that inertia of thought that suspends interpreting the effect of a cause until the effect is already there.
This "rant" is an example of every fallacy or observation that it itself talks of.

My choice is what I choose to do and if I'm causing no harm it shouldn't bother you;
Your choice is who you choose to be and if your causin' no harm then you're alright with me
- Ben Harper

Sunday, December 13, 2009

I , Me , Mine

I have my feet up on the dashboard as you drive down the expressway. The Beatles are singing on the radio and the sun is slowly setting in the clear, vast sky. You look
amazing in your aviator sunglasses and plain white tee. The one I remember waking up in last Friday. You have your arm out the window and the wind is running through your short cut mocha hair.

You smile as I sing along with George Harrison and chuckle when I sing off key. Sitting in my lap is a notebook. My sketchbook actually. You hate it when I draw you. But I couldn’t help it when I saw how inspiring you looked as we left the city limits. :)

Now I have my feet up on the dashboard of your Corvette, and I’m sketching your arm gently rested on the steering wheel. I smile thinking to myself that you have no idea I’m doing this. I look my window every so often pretending I’m drawling the mountains. You won’t have any idea. You won’t because I don’t look at you as much as I want to.

You told me this morning that we should take a road trip. When I asked where you said anywhere. For a second I looked at you as I laid in our bed. But then I just nodded my head and smiled. Because I’ll follow you anywhere.

You just stopped and got me icecream, and I know you hate sharing yours but I still threw mine out the window. You tell me you wont give me yours, and I turn and look away , like I always do.
Then suddenly, you grab my hand tight ; like you'd never let me go, and ask if I want a bite. I look up from my sketchbook at your puppy dog eyes I sigh and nod my head.

That was then.
Today you want your own time, I asked you if you were mine, and you couldn't help but grin.
I took my second last attempt to make you better, you snapped.
I took my last to sing for you, because Its that one thing I'm the most shy to do; and you kill that last one too.

But then No-one's frightened of playing it, and everyone's saying it.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

"Kehne ki baat hai ki wo paraaye hain...

dil toh unke siva kisi ko apna maanta hi nahi "

The world seems to be getting smaller, and no definitely not closer!
There is so much I still haven't seen, not read, not heard. Perhaps there is no end to it; maybe the easier way out was to reach back to the shores; well no not me, told you I am the lioness! :D

They say broken hearts write the best poetry; and write it best all their lives! For that purpose, Im ready to get mine broken beyond repair; and further down :)

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Jalal ad-Din Rumi

Ouch! And Shahram Shiva's translated work makes me want to forget everything else and read. And read. And read, till the mind cant absorb more, and then add a ting of that black toxic cup of bean and water which laces the mind with a line of intoxication, and read through the night!
Uhmmm, yes its too much 'love' and gets on the nerves, but then thats when the audios work!

“When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you're not here, I can't go to sleep.

Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.”

- Rumi

Saturday, October 31, 2009

" If I were any braver...

...I'd be a lioness...
And You look cuter than Rishi Kapoor! Sachheee! :) "

I've just come back from a silent , live music assisted dinner followed by an even silent visit to the Bangla Sahib and I'm sitting in my corner having my last bite of the weekend Blueberry Cheese Cake! My culinary skills are getting better by the day ;)

Coming to the point, the back of my mind didn't miss what I wasn't doing, (which happens very rare) perhaps that's why I am already drowsy for a peaceful night's sleep. and its just 11:40!
Everything needs a closure, sometimes it is said out loud, more often in case of people a time or place is reached where , saying/not saying , howling , crying , anything and everything in fact doesn't make any difference whatsoever.
Ruchir says I am a stone, well maybe I am. and I love being one, but to think of it; if I really was a stone, I wouldn't be thinking of things like these and those and so much more! Its a curse maybe.
They have all changed a lot is how I've been putting it since the past few months and I've been blaming so many people, just because they have all found other people, their own someone to spend a lot of time with, and that is no doubts making me very uncomfortable and lonely. How it is seen is that since I am not "dating" someone or in a "relationship" is why I am cynical and unsupportive, lol.
Hell !

Saw too many documentaries on Indira Gandhi today, as well as that 32 grand Chanel wallet, now this is what I call getting inspired to earn it! :D

"Aise toh na dekho,
ki humko nasha ho jaaye "

Tuesday, October 13, 2009


There would have been so many insignificant tears I wouldn't have shed, so many things not known, so many things not felt, stayed in the dark about so many, never felt betrayed by so many, saved so much time, slept early perhaps, not been jealous , not felt things are missing, not wanted to do things, go to places, eat those things, wear those clothes, seen the smiling faces and felt like puking; so many arguments without a reason, a few people never met, a few stories untold, an ego hike on default or edited potraits and the shallow "muahs" and "<3" not received.
see those pictures and bursted out; crying, laughing, disgusted, cheated.

If only there was no Facebook.
Ah, what a denial that would have been.

Monday, September 28, 2009

So the culprit is insomnia

Simply because not being hopeful gives a net to the fall, doesn't really stop the fall.

Why *again* ?
Because it's a tendency people have, the same kind of trouble attracts a person again and again and again.

Why the introspection ?
It gives alot of momentary humor if nothing else ;)

If this sleep issue could be solved, so much would be out of my life, so many unnecessary people, conversations, thoughts, etc etc etc !

Oh and lesser phone bills, lesser calorie intake (comfort foods are fattening !! ) and I can't believe I actually included that last bit about the fattening thing, finally the treadmill's getting its due :)

This Gurbaksh Chahal guy is HAWT!

Thank you myself for making me non-hopeful about everything.

And why do stars fall ?
So , we make wishes and an idiot of ourselves.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

10 in 95

Found :)

It was just there, being ignored and abused for years altogether in the name of greed and convenience and needs.
Wonder what took me so long, but finally ... :)

There is still a long long way to go, the damage is too much to be sorted by just a thought, actions ; yeah !
Why did you take so long ?
Running , not away but to you !
Cheers ! For the better part of your existence !

This song is stuck.

"Jaata kya tera hai , manga jo mera hai;
maine konsi tujhse jannat maangli "

And then all I want tonight is a falling star to make a wish! :)

Friday, August 28, 2009


My throat is tight from the
Snickering cold wind that waltzes
around us
In spite, we push against its
Wingtipped shoes and cherry blossom corsages
freckled grass and tan oak trees are humming along
to this icy orchestration
Are we the only ones who hear the syncopation
of a thousand curling cumuli
or a million bursting moons?
This deafening lull is what binds our
quivering legs and willowed arms to these silent screams

...We cry

And yet only I...

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Damien Rice will sing for us every night !

One day, I will run away. Seems quite fancy to say so. Like the kinds, oh I am going to run away and live in peace, cause the world never treated me right, and "they" never understood me, cause I was so ahead of my times/or I should have been 16 when Sanjay and Maneka eloped.
Ya quite alot on these lines, cause then atleast I never wanted the conventionals !

So when one turns twenty, rather regretfully because of those small little unfulfilled wishes,the year ahead starts getting frustrating. And, no I don't believe in content and self happiness and jazz, if you do ; go read Shiv Khera, here it is different story altogether.
Getting back to the fascination with running away, it doesn't necessarily have to be 'alone' Infact, it doesn't have to be alone at all. It has to be with him. For which the search can never end, considering how Sethi put it last night, I have weird 'fundas' ; aisa hoga toh aisa hona chahiye and waise hoga toh ye karna padega and the never ending permutation combinations.
Well, sadly enough, this happens to be very true. Too many fundas, the downside of this is that those combinations cannot exist in a single person ; hence the innumerable heartbreaks . Ouch! The brighter side ; put them all together, and voila; even Megan Fox would die to be at my place ! ;)
Now yes, every single person has a well crafted image of their real one in their minds. Pulkit has his Simran, and I have my Raj too (though the name could be changed for a stronger one) oh and the hairstyle too, and the lack of ambition too, but yes we can keep the madness. So the madness of Raj , the flamboyance to be able to carry those Nehru jackets and cufflinks which would make every man burn , red ties ! (thats like a must ) , doesn't have to be too goodlooking or too tall or too fair or too dark, but one look should make me go weak on my knees !
No sense oh humour? Chalega; but his smile should make me look good !
I mean I really don't need a laughter dose or too much of it, my own is disastrous and dose enough for me!
Yes, I have mentioned about the bolero and the jaat boys, and the typical ladne-marne type attitude; time and again, without which ; it would be totally impossible.
Has to be older than me, again that needs no mention, haha. How else are we going to elope midway of my law degree ;)
Oh and the cufflinks, yes they have been mentioned, the super eatable sweat and perfume mixed smell which give tingles to the senses,should buy me flowers even when I insist they are a waste of money, oh and click my pictures when I am with him, more when he thinks I don't know; and I know he thinks so , but I still pretend that he thinks I don't know I am being clicked, wooo! the list is never ending.

I told him once I was waiting for December, hot coffee and full throttling music in our car; and December never came for us.

Bloody, that's another downside, these plans need to be harmoniously construed with somebody elses. ( Harmoniously construed : New word, courtesy attentive listening in Constitution law class )

Yes there are a series of heartbreaks, damn these combinations, damn the digits will be forgotten now, it could never reach 'us' so they will be forgotten soon too.

How I thank myself for not being hopeful, and for that little cynic in me;
" Dude! no matter what, no matter how good a person is, a man is honest till he gets an opportunity to be otherwise"
Damn you Anoopam, the according-to-you dhaba place, is one of my favorites and makes me say best things I ever have ! :)

Yes, I would base it just on the concept of us, dependability and acceptance. But for the part of life I know, for sure Its too much to ask for, the custom made Raj (yeah I know, I have to think of a better name) will do good.
How much it makes me happy that I know for a fact relationships end.

What? I am cynical? Why! Thank you ever much,atleast I am not a dumb fuck retard.

"There is something in the way you look at me,
Its as if my heart knows, you are the missing piece "

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Three Kings

What's the most important thing in life?
Too dependent on other people.

What, love?
A little Disneyland, isn't it?

God's will?

What is it then?

As in?
As in people do what is most necessary to them at any given moment.

Friday, June 12, 2009


This is one of those days when the mind just doesn't work. Yeah. MY MIND just doesn't work. Has to be a big deal .. right?
Courtesy - a head spin which is perhaps faster than the fastest rotating wheel, I don't know which one is it, cant find it either -despite the new improvisation on research skills at work.
Sitting here at my desk ( yeah it sounds fancy, but not as fancy as it can be ) when I see the city below me, and those tall buildings across the road, suddenly passing through the tiny cars and the even tynier humans ; the world seems a distant reality.
This is one thing about work which gives me the most joy perhaps, the disconnect. Nothing has ever felt or can feel better, than a high which is generated by just constant work!
coming back to the head spin, apart from the fact its killing my tolerance to pain; the nerves can be felt now, the words spoken are generating a kind of vibration which the cheeks can sense. Like a hot iron rod is being passed through the veins it is flowing through my face into the head. This much and more, is how much the head hurts.

These are times when one feels ... dizzy? But I m here, on the 7th floor. Looking through the window from one eye, being vigilant about not being noticed on blogger with the other, while it still balances the fact that I dont type wrong. Ha! My fingers are behaving good though, well tamed as they are on the keyboard. :)

They are making a metro line ; connecting delhi and NCR. WOnder how it will be then, this window will show the metro and that speed will be much better than the buses and cars and their reflection on the glass of one of those tall DLF towers.

They don't realize. They never will. Even I haven't infact till now,will I?

But its all temporary, most of it, everything in fact;
can I call it Temporary Death?

Friday, May 8, 2009

I envy you!

Today the moon looks beautiful; its not always that I appreciate nature and natural things per se, like the flowers or mountains or the moon. But today ; it just IS beautiful. Not like the oh-you are so pretty -beautiful. But the oh- you're so beautiful that I don't wanna keep looking at you, or else tomorrow I'll miss you much!

That spark I had; is getting lost; somewhere in between people, pretense, people, arrogance, spite, anger and myself.

I wish I could drive to the moon tonight.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Your Skin

The cool breeze sifts through my limbs, slipping and sliding through unexplored parts. For a moment the rest of the world slips away, scrubbed clean and absolved by the waves. I’d like to dive into that ocean, feel the water crash down on me, suppress me, remind me that I’m not the only thing that matters. But I can’t. Not now. Not yet. I should be here when you wake up, because that was the one sincere promise I made you.

I don’t even want to try leaving right now – not when it was you who looked at me in that way that taught me what it was to feel the ground beneath my feet disappear. Tiny rivulets of water slither down your temple, and I’m tempted to brush them away. I hold back, remembering what you told me:
“The one you mark is the one you keep.” And I don’t want to mark you because I’m not sure if I’ll keep you. I’m not sure if I’ll keep you, and I’m even less sure about whether you’d survive it. Maybe it’s because I know you feel me slipping away despite your clutching, like the grains of sand you held so tightly in your palm not two hours ago. Or was it years? It doesn’t matter.

The past has passed, and what’s left of it except a few recollections that’ll be buried beneath a surface of newer memories? Maybe you don’t feel the same way, and you’ll wake believing that the past is the segue to our future. Oh, what I wouldn’t give so that you’d wake to think about your next encounter instead. A part of me – the part that wishes this would never end – wants to convince me that I should stay, because you’re too bruised and too vulnerable and too fragile to do this on your own. The part of me that knows it’ll just be later rather than sooner overpowers the other.

The sand shifts slightly and, without looking, I know you’re reaching out for me. I bite down on my tongue gently, forcibly swallowing a groan of frustration. Against my better judgment, I offer you my hand and feel yours slip into it, entwining and tangling. Your hand is as familiar to me as my own, the leathery feel of your skin and long-dried salt strangely comforting. How could it not be, when I can recount thousands of paths traced upon the lines of my face with the wandering pads of your thumbs? Every trail embedded on your palm tells of every secret meeting we’ve had, all testaments to our fairy-tale story.

Fleetingly, I wonder if I’ll have the courage to stay when the silvery tones are replaced by glowing warmth. Then you stir again and it’s not hard for me to remember why I can’t stay within fields of golden scenery and humid, still air.

You exhale and I inhale. The moon is bright, illuminating the sky and shining like a large quarter in the expanse of navy blue above us. I tilt my head and glance at you, carelessly sprawled out. Surely you wouldn’t be so nonchalant if you knew. Your sunset skin and long limbs make me think of our summer, brightness and oceans bursting behind my eyelids. Your face is all angles and planes, like a high school geometry lesson. You’re squirming again, and I know that it’ll be only a matter of minutes before you wake.

“You’re leaving?” Your voice is rough with sleep, but somehow it’s still like warm molasses.

“Well, you’re awake now,” I say neutrally. It’s not a direct answer, and I know you hate it.

Your hand slips from mine and you rub your eyes, so blue they put the spring sky to shame. “Are we ever going to talk?”

“There’s nothing to say.” I shrug and promptly wince, remembering why I hate the sun. My shoulders are red and achy, sensitive even against the thin fabric of my shirt.

“Okay.” You nod slowly. “Okay.” We’re quiet for a few moments before you reach out and brush a strand of hair from my face. I know there’s more to this. “Things get lost without anyone noticing on the way, you know.” Your tone is quiet. Not angry. Not sad. Quiet.

“We’re a mistake we knew we were making,” I reply. “Four weeks isn’t enough to make something real. It’s not like we could have had forever.”

“Love that’s real doesn’t need to have forever,” you say, just as quietly.

I contemplate my words carefully. In the end, honesty wins over tact.
“This isn’t real.”

It takes another long, steady moment before you decide to speak again. When you do, I sigh with weariness.

“You were the loneliest place I’ve ever been in.”

“And you thought you could fix that?”

“I wish I could have.”

We are both looking up at the sky, wondering why the stars aren’t out. Maybe they’re hiding behind a veil of thin clouds. Your arm is barely brushing mine, almost inconceivably. I think of how many times I pictured this moment, this ending point. It’s nothing like the dramatic scene in my mind. It’s almost as if the strings connecting us had been snapping one by one, softening the final blow.

I’ll miss you, your broad smile and loud laughter. I can close my eyes and almost picture you strumming random notes on your guitar. I’ll miss the days we spent on the dock, playing that stupid game where we name the passing boats. I’ll miss your black leather jacket that always smelled of humid afternoons and sunshine. I'll miss the way you moan about how much your feet hurts after a long day. I'll miss your voice. I’ll miss the birthmark right below your left shoulder blade, the one shaped like Italy. I’ll miss your camera. I'll miss your phone. I'll miss your clothes. I’ll miss your room. I’ll miss your car.
I'll miss your skin.
I'll miss you.

Somehow, despite all of this, I still say, “See you around.”