Monday, 30 December 2013

Allegory of Defeat

"But they never warned me",
You retaliated,
Your voices screeched, your heart breached,
You wriggle and slither,
Skulk and scuttle, 
You prostrate yourself, just to hold on to it,
Like a man edging on the valley, 
Rasping, and scraping to live,
With each hope fracturing,
Every dream fragmented,
You still endure to tussle and brawl,
"Help me", you plead,
"Save me", you weep,
And she simply laughed, "Why, but?"
Lightly seizing the end of her robe,
From your those once strong hands,
Now frantic, deplorable, wretched,
You mislay her,
And there he was, 
Hiding under the heavy embroidery of the drapes,
Smiling, laughing, reminiscing,
Think of it, of the alerts,
He did warn you,
"I'm Greed, I'll take what I give."
And he stood behind the curtain, still,
Belting yet another name off the list.

I just breathed.

So long, 

Monday, 23 December 2013

'Cause L Can Mean Anything

I was standing in this book shop, peacefully trying to find something interesting to read, as everyone does. I mean what else do you go to a book shop for? And there he was, this annoying, bloody superlatively annoying kid, disrupting the silence and shouting! It made me want to hit him so hard! Two kid-oriented annoyances in a day. Oh, the first one? It was at IHC where while interviewing the band L For Vendetta, we had kids around pricking balloons just for the sheer exasperating sound of that shit bursting, by what grace of God is enjoyable, only they know. Everyone had hilarious, different reactions to it [Read: Abhilasha]. And amidst the bothersome children going gaga (And LFV hates Lady Gaga, just by the way) over balloons, all I could see was how different and enticing each person in the band is.

Y'all have known by now how unsociable I am at times, especially with strangers. And trust me, interviewing them for almost 4-5 hours was one of the best experiences I've ever had. They are all so so distinct, it ain't even funny. [I'm just saving the better things in my mind for the magazine.]

Abhilasha - One of the most hilarious. Comes across as very opinionated, determined, knows where to draw the line and utterly entertaining. 

Moses - One of the men behind LFV's birth, he's the man behind the band's words. Ultimate, truly. 

Gavin - Another character. Equally fun to be with, he's extremely witty.

Param - Okay, firstly, he's very sensitive. And he's way too sweet to not mind the band, or you taking his case. He's just sensitive. Okay, I'm not going to be anymore mean, he's I think is what the sweet element is to every group.

Reuben - You're funny. And I don't say that to a lot of people. And LFV is surely lucky you're not tone-deaf.

And as amazing these people are, so this their music. Check it out. 
Would put up some posts soon
And watch out for them, and us (Modules Magazine), to be out soon.

Till then,

Bridges Set To FIre 
My favourite.

Sunday, 1 December 2013


Trying to make sense of it all,
How really were eternities in a moment,
Walking down the freezing night,
Smelling December in the wind, 
The fallen leaves ask,
The dimming moon doubts,
With everything around questionable,
Yet unanswered,
Fighting the cold, 
Stuffing your hands in the years old jacket,
Lathered in dust, 
And that's how you've liked it, just because,
You feel a crunch,
You hold on tight to it,
And tighter to your heart,
Maybe, just maybe, you know what it is,
You hope for it,
You've been looking for it ever since, again just because,
You take it out, glare at it, turn it around,
And feel the familiarity of the words warming through you,
And you crunch it along the same folds,
And put it back,
You know now, where your survival trick lies,
You know now, felt it again,
Eternities in a moment.

By Tom French


Sunday, 24 November 2013

Let's Everything.

And then from top of the Eiffel Tower,
The Moon kept screaming,
To never again, see the face of the day,
To never share that nanosecond with the Sun,
Where they could be one,
Where they could see each other, eye to eye,
Kept screeching,
To never be selfless enough again,
And hide in the stark clarity of the Sun,
And the Moon called out to the sky,
And said,
Let's walk, let's hide, let's weep, let's sulk, let's everything.

And then seldom were the moments, when,
The Sun missed those moments,
Redundant, superfluous, 
For the Moon, the Sun thought,
For there wasn't a set of eyes now,
Which transfixed on her, as she danced out of bed,
Never bothering of the pin-pricking brightness,
And She wept, and swore,
Never to shine again, and never to bring light again,
And She ran and hid behind the clouds,
Destructing everything in water,
And said,
Let's walk, let's hide, let's weep, let's sulk, let's everything.

This space does end up taking a lot from me. 

As always,

Thursday, 7 November 2013


Stale beers, never old,
The brazen bitterness, never enough,
The warmth of two sets of pearls against freezing cheeks,
The slight torture in stepping down a large flight,
The dusty sunlight, and the smell of cinnamon tea,
The torn spine of that bulk of a book,
The crossing of same face every morning,
The time,
Of lonesomeness, and then again,
Warming up to a soul,
The tinted nature against the dry coolness,
And all you see is,
The brightening and paling of patinas,
When is it, will you understand,
How colourful a death can seem?

Until next time.


Tuesday, 22 October 2013

A Breath Of You.

And then the window illuminated with goldenness,
The curtain danced all shades of orange,
Sometimes, changing the colour of my sheets,
And at other times, the tint of my tresses,
Sliding deeper in the quilt,
But just enough to treat my eyes,
With the love light made with my room, 
Its warmth felling through under the window, 
Spreading in the room, and me,
Which tingles my toes, 
And tickles my waist,
Warming my hair, 
Like the hands of a lover holding your head,
Revel in it, soak in it, take it all in,
Like a breath of you, 
Under the brown autumn sky.

The laziness to abandon the cosy crippling you,
And the doorbells constantly ringing for milk,
But lay there for another while, just,
As I will,
For how many mornings have you created,
When you woke up for yourself,
And took the sunrise in for yourself,
For how many nights have you survived through,
To sleep only to those few moments of dawn,
Like a mother, sweet, lullabying her baby to sleep,
Oh, throw away that newspaper, for God's sake,
Which doesn't feature Calvin and Hobbes anymore,
And throw away that abomination you call an alarm,
It's ruining the sound of morning cracking in,
Throw away, throw yourself,
Like a woman, blindingly, running into a man's arms,
Revel in it, soak in it, take it all in,
Like a breath of you,
Under the brown autumn sky.

Procrastinating through submissions. Brilliant!

Lazed out,

Sunday, 20 October 2013

Keep It

A few innocent footings,
When was it, 
That you held grip of you?
The you, which was merely ready,
The you, which never knew the use of tongue,
The you, still hiding behind your mother,
Awaken hard by destiny, 
You wept, and swept, and crippled, 
But still went strong,
Like an iron grip of a baby's hand, 
On the slender fingers of her mother,
Smiling, laughing, 
The blows, 
Working their way like potions,
Raising her, bit by bit,
Piece by piece,
With each time her growing up, 
It kept taking something from her,
Sometimes, the strength,
Sometimes, the courage, 
Sometimes, the will,
And here, I sit beseeching
My hands folded in obligation to Thee  
Take you may whatever,
But do spare her, her heart,
For it's only the heart,
It's pristine goodness, and fondness,
That had her from going.

Buckets full of love.

Always there,

Sunday, 13 October 2013

Ghosts Of My Past

Haunt me,
Unlike the ways of spirits,
Imprinting my soul by yours,
Haunt me,
Leaving your scent unto me,
Like a room filled out by baked apples,
Haunt me, 
Until I start hallucinating,
And haunt me,
As if you truly follow me,
Haunt me,
By the sweet tones of your piano,
Whereby I sat watching you play,
Haunt me, 
With the bitterness of the morning coffee,
With the torn pages of the book,
You could never read to me,
Haunt me, again,
With all the singularly eyed jokes,
And the laughter that followed,
Haunt me, still,
Through the seconds,
When you helped me replace my guitar strings,
Haunt me, 
Haunt me, till I hum the tunes you made,
Haunt me, until the edge of madness,
And haunt me, 
Till I bleed of you.

Been long gone, eh?
Some inspiration it took, this one.


Sunday, 6 October 2013


Average people don't understand you and me. They don't have that ability. The ability to understand and perceive the world differently. Of course we have our dumbfuck moments. But they don't define us.

I told you once that I remember everything you say. I wasn't lying, I do. Whatever you've ever said, done, how you've laughed, your expressions at almost every next thing - I remember it all. And somewhere in the darkness of my mind, I always will. You see, there's a point in everyone's life when they finally understand why they can't have a certain somebody in their lives. I've seen some not having been able to come to that point ever and perish over just that one person they could never have. Because sometimes people allow themselves to be reckoned pathetic when all they could have done instead was said let it be. 

I miss you. I've wanted to tell you this everyday, without fail. It's hard missing you. But one thing I'm glad about is that I have someone worth missing. Life was indistinct. It had been for a very long time. Until you came in and reset the focus a bit. I've to thank you, for finding me to myself. 

I'm not asking you to reciprocate my affection. All I'm asking of is for you to remember, that somewhere inside, I'll be that girl from the other night. Have you ever thought? What if you never said the first hi? What if you never talked or would have said just one more thing that you didn't? What if you could turn time back to just that one night? What if you had just two more minutes? What if you would have said ILoveYou just one more time, or never said anything at all? How different could it have been? There a lot of people who can move on. A lot of people who scream, cry and get done with it. But me, I'm not sure. I don't want to forget. It wasn't something that was broken. Just something that simply happened. I'm just finding ways of respecting and remembering it, while still trying to get along with it. 

There are moments in life when you simply behold and take a deep breath, and try holding onto it for as long as possible, because for those three seconds, everything seems fine, easy, fightable. You were that long, deep breath. You're like my early morning cup of coffee; delicious, strong, and its bitterness getting me through the day. There's always a lush insight we have in a selective few. The numerous insights I've had into you has only showed me that beyond layers and layers of thick velvety curtains, there is a window where the moon is never out, and the light just appropriately bright. 

I've loved you in a thousand different ways. Like a child, like a friend. I've loved you even when you didn't, when you were too distant from me and your fingers away from my skin. I've loved you in silence, and I've loved you when you're not there. I still have that controlling sort of side to and it still doesn't work around you. I wasn't trying to change you, never wanted to. I think that's the worst form of fear one can instil in a person. Which I clearly did. And probably you were right to leave. 

This is my last Stoner post. There's only so much one can hold onto, and still not want to give up. So I'm not going to give up. Just let the hold lose. Even if we're not in each other's life, doesn't mean you can't exist in me. I think of you before falling asleep. Always. Even though we know each other better than a lot of heads, we're still absolute strangers. I don't know who you are, but I dream about you every single night. 

There's always so much I want to say to you, but can't back it up with words. You've always had that effect on me. You've to know, that no matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I'll always have a place in my life and heart that's entirely yours. It's been there since the first day we met. Everyone has a summer they'll always remember. This was mine. You're precisely the poem I wanted to write. 


Love, always and always,

Wednesday, 2 October 2013


You and I, we weren't made of love, 
Or poems, or destiny,
We just happened, cluelessly, blindly,
All that made us up was faith,
In giving, in talking, in sharing,
Without even the blink of an eye,
Such happenstances,
Don't happen too often.

In this world,
That's often cold and dark,
I find warmth in the thoughts of you,
The fire to heat me, 
To ignite me,
Read me,
Before the words fade away,
In my pages,
Read me,
Before I take those pages,
And light the faltering fire.

Possibilities are a funny thing, sure.
I wrote the second part at a time when things were new, changing. Ten parts later, things are still new, changing. And you're still the reason for them. Possibilities. 


Sunday, 29 September 2013

Bolt Away

What is really to be free?
To be boundless?
To fly away,
Like Harry on Firebolt,
With the free air, 
And endless sun,
With the inexpensive walks,
And the solitude,
With chanced meetings, 
And forgotten memories,
What is it that you give away from yourself,
To be free?
The hidden, uncaged remains,
Of your soul?
What is that place in your heart you have,
That nobody else does?
Everyone always find an excuse,
To excuse their life somehow,
Don't let slip pass that second,
When it'll be all you need,
To squander your remaining life,
The dissipation of selves,
Sometimes is all required,
To be free.

There's a lot of collateral damage your freedom costs.


Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Never Mine

How terrifyingly sincere are those words,
Which never left your mouth,
The words, that still exist only on the tip of your tongue,
Those words, igniting fire inside of you,
Fire, most people won't get near to,
Fire, that's only seeming smoke to others,
Your own words, having the courage to destroy you, 
Purposelessly, of course,
Like a child eager to play, throwing toys at you,
Only, that he doesn't intend harm,
Words, unspoken of, 
Words, mentioned of only,
 In the darkest corners of your mind,
Words, stringing along forming a dangerous story,
Story, all yours,
Words, still yours,
Why so then, do they seem foreign?
Why do they put up like a tenant, in a place,
That's all theirs?
Why do they run and hide in the coils of our mind,
Each time we wish to spit them out?
Words, that are horrified, 
Of being rejected by the hearer,
Words, that are born by those few,
Who know where to press the right nerves,
Or, the wrong ones, maybe?
Words, that were never ours,
Words, that are all yours,
Words, that obstruct the potential,
Only for being rendered unspoken,
Words, that'll always be so terrifyingly sincere,
Words, that are innocent,
Words, ostentatious.

Funny things, words.


Saturday, 21 September 2013


Have you ever known,
what coming home is like?
How would you, 
When all you've done, is wander,
Through every lane, searching,
For truths, fighting them with lies,
Pulling your own strings apart,
Heartbeat by heartbeat,
You will never know,
What coming home is like.

Have you ever known,
The warmth of another soul,
The comfort of the company,
Of another's silence?
When all you've done,
Is run away,
Thinking of everyone as crowd,
Selling your heart out,
On cheap street take-outs,
While only gathering the lonesomeness,
Others had on offer,
You will never know,
The warmth of another soul.

Have you ever known,
The disgrace of two parted lovers?
How would you,
When you believed you two,
Could survive apart,
But what for, really?
Because all you did,
Was be terrified, but awed,
You will never know,
The disgrace, the ache, the abomination,
Of two parted lovers.

I miss this space a hell more often now.


Saturday, 14 September 2013


Can you take me someplace else?
Where my diary isn't the one,
Whom I tell things, I used to tell you, 
That's not home,
A place you're homesick for, 
A world, not to be found,
But to get lost in,
Where there's no tax on coffee, 
And people live to read,
Where the freshness of the cakes,
Is the only intoxication to resort to,
Where the wine is shared with only those you love, 
And not to forget them,
That is untouched by profit,
That is virgin in its most spectacular manner,
Where you can talk to stars,
And instead of guiding you, they hear you,
For a change?
Where the moon is unblemished,
And the sun shines only until,
Your warm skin shines to make you stand out,
Do you know of a place like this?
Take me to that place,
Where you're the only person I tell things,
And my diary is the only one to tell things,
I can't tell you. 

In hunger of someplace.


Wednesday, 11 September 2013


She sat by the same window, stirring her coffee. Looking out - thinking - nothingness. The comprehension of the most simplest activities of the human mind stayed well beyond her reach. She came here often to be astray in the smoke from the chimneys that preceded the green lake. Through the cloud of the smoke, she kept her attention out for the water. Water that seemed misty from the chimney smoke. Water that was true. Water, that was imperviously solid. Water, that reflected everything for what it was. She smirked, thinking funnily, how the haze from the steam of her coffee, was just so essential for her to obstruct the distractions the world was ready to serve on a plate, each time that she was here. Alike the steam of her coffee blanketed her when she rendered herself most vulnerable, the smoke of the chimneys, never let anyone see the true face of the water. She often thought to herself, how unfair for the water to be abandoned out there naked. Oh, how she could understand the shame of it! But, she thought, the foliage must be burying the hatchet for it by imparting its avocado to the water. Is that why the water is green? Is that why it was so hard to look inside of it? She wanted to dive deep down in it and fish out secrets the water curtained from the rest of the world. And as her coffee came down to the bottom, she hurriedly closed her diary, paid the bill and took off, lest anyone caught her at her most open moments, when there was no coffee steam to envelop her flaws and weaknesses, when the caffeine started to drain out from her veins. She took off. To another place, in search to unravel the opacity of something else, something new, where she'd find more coffee, more steam, and lesser probabilities of having the taste of her own medicine. 

Inspirations are a funny thing. 

Worked up,

Sunday, 8 September 2013


It's hard to not be deafened by its inconspicuous screams. Shrill, hard, hurtful. When it touches someone, it ceases the soul. It renders, the unfortunate, inhumanly vulnerable. And sometimes, only sometimes, allows the white light to peep in. Imparting its only emotion to the one it strikes on, it never leaves. It sucks them out, feeds itself off them. Its presence starts to be felt in the gut, rising to your heart, increasing its beats, reaching out for your throat to squash it, wrangle it, and choke all your strengths and happiness down the drain. Those people with a frown on their heads, a doubt in their eyes, and a silent scream in their slightly opened mouth? Yes, them. They're the ones helplessness has been feeding off of. Nibbling at their coils, it spreads like termites in your body. You'll feel it. When immobility will dictate over you, and thinking of a way out will only burn those extra cells in your brain, you'll know it. You'll know what hit you, you'll know what's eating at you. 
The paralyzing emotion. The fear of fearlessness. The ripping away of things you're used to. The drifting gravity. 

A recent picture, this.

Craved up,

Thursday, 5 September 2013


I keep thinking constantly how sickening it is to be hanging in the middle of loving and forgetting someone. And by sickening, I don't mean morbid, but more like an illness. It starts affecting you bit by bit like cold, sores your throat, numbs your ears, and then gradually as the virus spreads, you take to bed. The situation is somewhat similar. You never know how, and when it'll get its hands on you eventually, and suck you dry. And all you're left with are unanswerable questions. I don't assume they're as unanswerable, as much questionable they can be. 

WHen you suck a person dry, you'll never realise how much of them you've taken away from the person. Because not everyone is courageous enough to trust, and not everyone is brave enough to move over the pain. If you couldn't fuel their beliefs, do not give them further reason to not trust again. Do not make them as cold as you. Give them answers. Even if they're angelic enough to not question anything, reason out. Give them solid facts to believe. Give them the truth. You always owe a person who became a part of your life at least this much. Do not give them reasons to reckon that it's their fault, even if it isn't. You never know how much a person has to part with to keep you in their life. 

We all always have stories nobody knows. Stories that hurt us, humiliate our feelings, break us apart. Stories that are the sole witness of our destruction. Everyone has a such story. Do not be a part of that story. We assume that our truths might hurt the person. True, they do. But it's the ultimate thing to help them out of you. If you really want to, that is. And if you don't wish to, tell them. If you're unsure, if you think you might go back, you tell them to fucking wait because you want to be there, just not yet. 

And, no. You'll never be a part of that story for me. That story was long shut. You're just an incomplete secret story. My secret, my story. And that, I'm not going to let you take away from me. Because you'll always be my number one. 


Monday, 2 September 2013


What you are and what I am, is not very different. 
Each time I open up this space to write to/about you, I end up at a shortage of words to put to my feelings, where what I'm feeling inside is a calamity. You've always had that effect on me. What you are is no one. I still, to date, think where I went wrong. Sure, you stated otherwise, insisting on taking the blame for the entire hoola-hoop. But you have to understand, that what you felt, was a consequence of my doing.

When I think of all the times I spent talking to you all day and night, it seems like a different time altogether. The velvet of your voice, our laughs, arguments, Skype conversations. It's almost like I can smell your perfume from the last time we met. 

I'm lost. Effin-motherfucking-lost.
You were my new poem. 

Fragmented love, 

Saturday, 24 August 2013


"You are, at once, both the quiet and the confusion of my heart."

– Franz Kafka

I had to only close my eyes, and listen to the waves galore. The raised wall, separated me from the quaint water, as I walked the other side, mapping the circumference. The whiff of damp sand, and the salty water kick me back to the times when this used to be my home.  I remember the nights I've spent beside you, adoring your beauty, your sound as you convulsed a million times in your own folds, deep in sleep. I'd walk by you. You'd laugh as I scribbled on you. You always let it stay. You'd never smudge my identity, you let me be. Sometimes I'd sketch you, but you'd never stay still, always laughing, making strange faces. I wrote you numerous letters while being apart. I don't know if you ever received them. I never forgot you. My nights which have passed beside you are etched in my memory. Out of all the places I've been to, to make memories, you're my favourite of all. And sometimes, we'd just fill our empty stomachs from the smell of the cakes that Parsi Aunty baked next door. I'll be back. Sooner, this time. A part of me lies in your vicious folds, giving away the shadows of the sun. Sometimes you're the sky, and sometimes the sun itself. 

Bombay's my birthplace. And the love of my life. 


Monday, 19 August 2013


What am I doing here? What is everybody doing here? What if I'm the only actual human and the rest are my mind's projections? What if the world doesn't exist? What if we were manufactured out of a machine and hoisted upon a matrix mind device right after the machines spit us out?

Okay, moment-of-crisis over. I keep wondering all the time if what I'm studying for, isn't what I'm supposed to be in life.What if I'm supposed to be a writer, and should've pursued English(Hons.), and spent my life writing and drinking coffee with a cigarette in my mouth, carrying expensive hand-crafted diaries with fountain pens holding onto its cover? What if I was destined to be a secret agent? Or, maybe a guitarist? 

They say, we're born with a purpose to pursue, and it's up to us to figure it out. Often we're faced with multiple choices in life, and narrowing them down to one, when you love all of them, is a soul-crushing act. Well, Sanya once told me that the choice between right and wrong is easy; what's tough is the choice between two rights. It's never a straight way out when you know that everything you have a choice to make from is right for you, and will potentially make you happy in the future. What's more, is that you're good at every one of them. Which is why I guess the person who created the concept of the existence of a hobby was a genius. The world is an amazing place to be in. It contains so much in its folds, it's bound to drive you endlessly crazy. Sure, there's a lot to love; but you can't love everything. The possibility of the likeness for something always throws us over the edge. 

It's easy. Keep your hobby, a hobby. Don't mask it in the colours of passion and run with it for the rest of your life. I still think I'd probably make a better writer than an architect. But my constant urge to make something lasting, and effortlessly noticeable outcasts my needs for writing. Yes, writing has its own perks, and happiness. But I've it clear in my mind that my blogposts are only my feelings, my need to be a different character every time I sketch them out in my head. I might want to resort to writing as I grow old, sure, but I don't see that as my career. 

There's never anything as right or wrong. The choice is always between two rights - the only difference is there's one that's right for now, and the latter will be right for some other time. The only thing you need to identify is what feels better than the other one for now, be it two lovers, two books, two stories to write, two designs of tatoos, two routes to somewhere, two holiday destinations, or two radio stations. You only get to make decisions once, so do it right.