Friday, 28 June 2013

You. With Me.

Let's learn to count for once,
Not notes, but heartbeats.
Let's realise the mistakes,
Of not us, but of people around.
Let's not be bothered,
Not by our own taunts, but the people.
Let's learn rejection,
Of not the easy love, but of difficulties.
Let's not show our backs in bed,
But hold each other in our dreams.
Let's not talk about the holiday missed,
But of the entire night that lies ahead of us.
Let's not cry over the money not earned,
But on the babies we didn't make. 
Let's forget walking in the rain,
But remember the autumn where the trees were the sky.
Let's not think up of how to not let each other go,
But of how to give each other a new reason to stay each day.
Let's not think of how our destinies were entwined,
But how our hearts were stitched up to only love each other. 
Let's not think of walking the same bridge,
But of balancing together on separate roads, with a pinky hold.
Let's not pillow talk sweet nothings,
But travel to the darker side to have yet another night.
Let's not see how different this can turn out to be,
But how similar we can grow to be together.
Let's not degrade ourselves in the mind of our mess,
But become a better judge of one another.
Let's not fight, and shout, and break things,
But give each other the scars of happiness.
Let's not try explaining ourselves,
But open up ourselves to read each other's soul.
Let's not go on long drives singing together,
But comprehend how silence is our language.
Let's not cringe at how normal people are,
But know it a language solely ours.
Let's not see ourselves in different mirrors,
Because we're better seen off as each other's.
Let's not exchange our music,
But create one that's truly ours.
Let's not pray to our angels,
For our demons are perfectly compatible.

Still out, 

Thursday, 27 June 2013


You can sometimes do with not so much love in your life. Anybody can. A lot of us have done it for almost their entire life till now. It's the harmony you can't do without. It's logic, isn't it? It's like balance. In nature, in your two legs that you need, in the thumb that goes with the fingers. In exactly the fucking manner of someone with you. There is no single soul not messed up by the nuisances of life. Everyone is messed in their own secret ways. Some get killed either by aloofness, insecurity, lust, love, or whatever the fuck it comes out to be. None of anybody's business. It's the point to realise that you're messed up - within or beyond repair, doesn't matter. You straighten your life out for yourself the moment you accept this. Damaged good, as they say. Not so damaged when you know which defect to exactly hide. 

Life doesn't stay much empty if you have just that one person who gets you completely and believes in you when you don't happen to be enough for yourself. And just having that one person beats having an entire fucking clan of a family, with fake relatives. Someone whom you can meet on the dark side of the moon. So basically, your life doesn't make sense if you haven't had a girlfriend to discuss all your teenage mistakes with (Moni, Jag, Appy), or had a guy best friend to call to pick you up when you're sloshed and out in some secluded corner(Abhay), or a guy whom you have long broken up with but still call him to cry about almost everything (Aabhaas), or just someone to talk to you till sunrise (Pixie). Lovel people in life. Fuck the goddamn shit out of the world. 
The thing is, I've been called fucking damaged and beyond repair in life. And it had hurt, yeah! I didn't need some stupid whore who has a face like my shit to tell me I'm fucking wasted. No. I don't. I know me. And I know what I'm fucking made of. And I don't hang around to hear constant bullshit all over again. So excuse me if I don't fall for that again. 
Whatever said, the point is, if you don't have someone you think can understand you, run immediately in the direction of someone who's been the most patient with you. Because for every person who's ruined another, there's always another who'll glue them back too. Period.
Period as in emphasising on repeating the essence of the entire statement wala period, and not period period. Whatever.

I'm drunk so don't pay attention to my shit. So you can go to bed like good boys and girls and fuck off yourself to sleep. Bye!

Ak. Lalalalaalala.

Wednesday, 26 June 2013

I Am Your Canvas

"I hunger for your sleek laugh, and your hands the colour of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty."

She still sat by her window on the granite slab. That was where she always sat when she commenced writing something new each time. The deadline was around the weekend and she hadn't started her new piece at all. She'd been one of those lightening delights since the first day she'd entered office. And her columns were a treat for both the magazine and the readers. She was any editor's dream writer. Anything she wrote had to bring a smile to even the most disinterested creature on the planet. Writing always came naturally to her. But she felt lost today. Distracted. All she could think of was..

"A man who prides himself on never committing the sin, has never met a woman with brains." 

And with that being the last sentence of the chapter, she bookmarked the page and placed the book carefully aside on the tiny circumference metal table. She notice her toes clinking together through the intricately designed holes in the table top. As she lifted her coffee and dipped in her eyes on the freshly brewing froth of her cappuccino, she dwelled in the freshness and the sudden caffeine hit of it. She gently pulled out her box of cigaretters and took one out to light. She smirked as she held one between her lush, tinted lips, recalling herself five years back. Who would have thought the big glasses wearing nerd would turn out to be a smoker, and potentially hot too. She liked to think that she was now considerably good to look at because she felt every bit of it. No matter how slow or bad a day, she would pick out a new shade of lipstick and play with her eye shades to feel up. And it always worked for her. Throwing the lighter carelessly across the table, she heard a voice calling for the waiter. A voice that was smooth, and every bit as dark and ostentatious. A voice that did something to her, and she was compelled to look up to find somebody sitting right in her direction. She saw him using his hands as he flipped through the menu card, his fingers articulately making out with the thick glossy pages. She saw him lick his lower lip and turn it in his mouth like a surrender of a want to the need. He might do it often whilst thinking, she reckoned, because his eyes scanned every detail of the page, like she was scanning his every crusade. She was accustoming herself to his every custom like a cruciality to herself. If anything, she only felt more vulnerable sitting right there in front of him. Not that he'd noticed her, and not that she'd wanted him to. He would know that she'd been gaping at him with an open mouth. She lowered her gaze and nibbled her lower lip. She felt her blood warming through her veins. The lustful sights she threw his way made her wish he wasn't so much of a god damned eye candy. And as slowly as she could finish her cigarette, she stubbed it in the ash tray and looked up as she gathered her book for her handbag to gulp it. She looked up again, reassuring herself for last time's sake. And her breath caught in her throat. He was staring right back at her, was grinning. A smile that said, that she was exactly where he wanted her to be. She could have sworn that if they'd been any place else, they'd both be stripping off each other's clothes. She shook her head like a wet puppy and faked one of the most brilliant smiles to show courtesy. 

"There is no fulfillment that's not made sweeter for the prolonging of the desire.

She smiled into nothingness. Her friends kept telling her, but she understood what lust actually meant. For her, it was the difference between two people you might want to marry and one you might want to make love with. She stared into the bright screen, in the dimly lit room, started writing, "A man who's never lusted, has never known beauty........"

Retrospecting, still,

Sunday, 23 June 2013


Hello, The-Pretty-Guy-At-Breakfast,

I'd spotted you at the buffet this morning. You were sipping from a mug steaming something, coffee or tea, I don't know. Well, I'll like you even more if you assure it was coffee. Yeah, I liked you. No first glances thing. Maybe observing you through your breakfast did it. You were even there beside me as you ordered the chef the way you wanted your omelette. Sans cheese, sans onions, lots of chilles. Quite contrary to the one I like. Not that I'm going to tell you how. I'll leave it to you to figure it out. It was funny how you like your breads toasted only on one side. You folded your omelette appropriately and places it on your half toasted bread, and sliced the grilled tomatoes and ham into quarters and further loaded them onto the omelette. And you picked it up like a pizza slice and nibbled it down to nothing. Speaking of, your perfectly sculpted lips making out with your food for each bite pulled me further closer to you. There's definitely an intimacy I never realised before existed in watching someone eat. With each progressive bite they take, you get familiar with how their face and pace changes. And I think you ordered for something to drink and I noticed the waiter refilling your mug with black coffee. Coffee, it was then. Yes, I definitely like you more now. 

I wanted to stay to see you finish your meal, but my personal nutjob time was running out. I crossed over to the fabulous garden the hotel possessed after a long shower. My eyes glided towards the pool where I detected bikini clad bodies and some obscure beauties. I wouldn't really label them obscure. No, absolutely not. Forgive me if you find my understanding of the word obscure weirdly different, for it is. I wouldn't deny that. Well, coming back to the garden, of course, you would have noticed the not-so-high weeds, the tiny part where the ground lay comfortably under a blanket of flowers of as many colours as I seem to remember. But I headed for the way where there were piled up rocks. I have been sitting there a lot since the past two days that I've been residing here. The place over looks a tiny lake with an area successive of a land with sky high grass. It's beautiful. I've been spending some considerable time here. You should come by some time. If I'm assuming you to be the nutjob that you are, you'll like it. I was sitting there, as usual, and there you were. Tall, tanned, with an undefinable hairstyle, a small grin. That was obscure. Because it was deep, and dark, because it churned things inside me that shouldn't be. Without providing me any heed, you climbed the rock, and sat beside me. Your pinky held mine. Without uttering any word, we gaped at the beauty that was there in front of us in silence. There was no real need to talk. Words would have ruined it. All I want to say is thank you, for five days of the same beautiful moment. 

From a nutjob to a nutjob, I just like extra onions and pepperoni instead of ham on my omelette and no sugar at all in my coffee. 

The-woman-who-sat-beside-you-on-breakfast-table (Wifey)


Friday, 21 June 2013

Platform No. 3

There went, each four minutes, a train from Andheri to Panvel. He boarded this train everyday from Vileparle at 10:12 am. Although a 10:08 am train would suit him best considering how much of a crowd can form up at the station in four minutes, he still took the one after. Even among the horrid broadcasts, he could hear her wire thin silver anklets which had a bundle of three little music cases hanging each side. She would never coil her hair up, no matter how sultry the climate. Her hair though of typical length, they were a vicious curl of darkness. They gleamed a tan each time the sun hit her head through the inched openings of the aluminium roof. She always had bangles irrespectively contradicting to the colour of her kurti. He could never understand her colours. Only that they complemented her honey dew skin. She wasn't fair. But she had a flawless skin. She had small, murky eyes. And the first time when he'd seen her, he'd discerned a remarkable difference in her from other women he saw; she never wore kohl. And two years of constantly seeing her at the same time, same station, same platform, boarding the same train everyday, he never noticed any sign of kohl. But today he did. She had used kohl. Her eyes seemed more obscure than usual. Even that slight queue of kohl made her simple face look made up. But she seemed happier. There was a flair in her walk he hadn't noticed before. Had she found someone?, he thought. He knew it didn't make sense, but that one question was biting his mind. It wasn't any of his business. And like everyday, he saw her board the train in an orderly fashion. Only that this time, this time...
She peeped out, still holding the handle which helped her climb the train. He knew she was looking straight at him. She freed her other hand and was pushed a bit inside by the oncoming mob of women. But he could still see her face. He could spot her face anywhere. And she smiled. She smiled, blinked and moved in with the mass. 


Tuesday, 18 June 2013

मैं उसे जानता हूँ, फिर भी मैं उसे नहीं जानता..... II

The previous part is here.

It is one's conviction that permits them to do everything in life. And it was the same conviction that had coerced Wazir to grab Farida's hand and pull her out of the blues. Wazir had taken to Farida the first time itself when he'd seen her. Her brazen honesty had shocked him like no other. He'd expected her to inquire him about his life and work till now. But her confession about being pregnant was the first thing that blurted out of her mouth, and he was completely taken aback. And he knew he had to, wanted to do something for her, marry her. He knew he had been in love with her, and her child, from the first moment on. Their first meeting. It all came flickering like a wispy life before death. The sound of Maya had never been so grave.  The hour hand moved half an inch as the clock struck 5:30. Maya should have been there. Wazir was starting to worry now thinking she might not have been caught over-speeding again. And he heard the stones in the driveway scrunched against each other as Maya spaced her car. 

It had taken Maya's all strength, and even more to come up here. She wanted to refrain from going inside, wanted to believe all this to be a nightmare. Too young to have lost her parents, Maya's grandparents had been her parents since then. She could already smell the citrusy essence of the tea Wazir always made. 

"Baba.", Maya went through the tiny kitchen and hugged him.
As they seated themselves on the table, and poured tea, Wazir envisaged there was no point in delaying a conversation which would evidently have to happen. 
"Maya, please understand. Your father was unaware of this too. Not that we wanted to keep him in dark, but we feared if he wanted to go out looking for his real father, Farida would have lost him. And hurting her, after all she'd been through, I could not have afforded for that to happen."
Maya smiled. He knew she was mocking him, his statement rather. 
"Baba, have you ever realised that you both were actually my parents, when my real ones died? Don't you think that makes me feel like I haven't known my real father?"
Wazir felt like he was punched hard in the chest, creating a void in his heart. But Maya continued.
"I do not mean to hurt you. I love and respect you, and all that you've ever done to raise me. But I need to.."
"You want to meet him, Maya. Isn't it, meri bachchi?"
"You do know who and where he is, don't you?"

To be continued.

Saturday, 8 June 2013

Aye! Who's Got The Century Now!

Such coolness! 100th post, companèros. 
And like PeaBee, I envisaged I should go down the memory lane. Er, BlogLane.

El Comienzo! This was where I started writing. How, why, when. All there.

I'm Not Sad. Yeah, a lot of people assumed it to be some kind of a ranting post. It wasn't. First fictional post.

Of All The Women In My Life.... Well, my first blog post is technically the first non-fiction. But let's just say for extras' sake. First non-fiction blog post.

The Chronicles of April Levesque. APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! APRIL! Writing and creating April has become an inseparable part of my writing and me. It's almost like she's right there, evident in every sense. Longest fictional series.

Stoner (I, II, III). This is what is closest to my heart. Stoner came directly out from the best of me which I didn't realise until now existed. You know like when the happenstance of a lot of minute things with someone reveals to you a lot about yourself which you never wanted to access? Yeah, that. Longest non-fictional series.

You Know Me Better Than That. When I'd started writing this, all I tried to see was what one's life would be like if the most important part of them, the best part left. This is one post which clearly took a lot out of me. And that's why probably this is my no.1 Personal Favourite Blog post.
Hey You! Yes, You! You Brought The Twinkle Back In My Eyes...Again. This was a plea. For someone who happened to you, to make them see what they exactly mean to you. Fictional though, I could relate to it word by word. This is my no.2 Personal Favourite
 मैं उसे जानता हूँ, फिर भी मैं उसे नहीं जानता...... Family secrets can sometimes get ugly. And the successive parts to this will be coming up soon. My no.3 Personal Favourite.
Chitti Chitti Bang Bang!. You know the time when you crack a joke and laugh out loud yourself too along with others? Yeah, that. No.4 Personal Favourite.
The Acerbic Of Me..... This was a part of the routine Mindblowing May. A lot of non-bloggers too read it. A lot of appreciation this one got me. No.5 Personal Favourite
 It's What You Do To Me. This one I'm a little biased for. I wrote it for my best friend Monika who wanted to read something like this. Again a lot of accolades it got me from non-blogger friends. No.6 Personal Favourite.

End Already Now! 1088 Pageviews, bitches. Yeah. Most Popular Post No.1.
Spin-A-Yarn[The Introduntion] - The Journals II. Spin-A-Yarn was a routine by a fellow Blogger. In here you start a story and leave it on an incomplete note and someone else picks it up and writes again. Exactly how the name of the routine puts it. Most popular no.2.
Spin-A-Yarn[The Introduction] - The Journals VII. Yep, I did this routine twice. Most Popular no.3   
You Take Me The Way I'm. Just another ranting post which got me straight 145 pageviews. Bleh. Most Popular no.4
You Know Me Better Than That. Yeah, already discussed this up there! Most Popular no.5

Listen. Stay. Out. Of. My. Business. Wokayyyy! This one takes it for being the bitchiest post EVER! 

In all, writing has become an integral part of me. Almost a year and a half of writing. And boy, is it addictive! Like I said in the last post. I'm not a very powerful woman at expressions. But my words make me believe more in myself than anything else I'll ever do. They're the only voice I have. 
And as for ALL of you lovely people out there. Especially Ajay, Raj, NG, Diwita who awarded me and encouraged me to write better. Thank you, really. 


Friday, 7 June 2013

Stoner 3

Being speechless is a phenomenon. It means a lot more than how shallow the statement actually sounds, or rather how shallow people have made it sound over time. It clearly defines one's power over the other to render them bound. A power that compels them to talk in silence rather than words. As much as I wanted to believe the contrary, I'm not a powerful woman at that. My words say a lot more for me than I actually feel. And that certainly has left people speechlessly confused, because they read something and see something. Not that they never have had an unwanted impact, they did. And that's where the hard part lies. Actions are amendable, words aren't. The wounds they cause run much deeper. However hard tried, you can never say just the appropriate amount of things with an equal measure of appropriate words required to support your feelings. We either under-say or over-say, but we just can't say. A lot we say depends on our impulse, something that we can perfectly control. Rather, the only things we can completely control in life. Happy impulse, sad impulse, angry impulse. We've all had it all. I've said millions of horrible things to people, things of which not even a word I meant. But that doesn't make me a horrible person, does it? There have been times when I've felt being a miserable person. So, I start keeping shut. Hard way, but some way where I wouldn't possibly hurt people and feel miserable about it later. On the contrary, not speaking was as much of a torture to people as me talking in anger was. It doesn't matter what all you say in front of whom. If they get you, they'll get why you are talking or not, maybe. The ones who don't, well you'll know. Words are as important between people as silence is. I don't say it's necessary to explain yourself to everyone. No. There's no point to it, entirely. We can be silent with anyone on this planet. But a silence which will never need words thereafter for a blatant explanation, those are the ones worth it.

Perfection is a long lost concept. It's not possible to have it anywhere in life, even if it's your work. The only concept that actually works is understanding. Everything ends out with time. Temporary is the only permanent thing in life. The movie, Perks of Being a Wallflower? They said, we accept the love we think we deserve. Partly true. Part is what the other decides to give us, ultimately which is what we deserve. Unconditional loving is superficial. It doesn't exist. But the point is to give in, completely, patiently. When the other person deserves so much more out of you unexpectedly, you deserve more automatically. It isn't ever about what one deserves. It never should be. It's about where you decide never to give up, and where you find utter comfort and happiness. Everything comes to an end, unquestionably. But the end can actually be a beginning we've been fearing to see. The only thing we need to understand is there was one long way that led to the beginning, and then there's still time to an end. Forevers don't work. They never do. But that's never a reason to not start off on the road which might lead to an eventual beginning. Then that's an individual choice if the way till the end has to be worked upon alone or together. Love and care just does not disappear, only fizzes out, like bubbles when you blow out air in water. And those bubbles can be made again, if only you remember to blow out air again. We find it convenient to isolate our feelings when we see fit. And we forget that the same habit of isolation interferes when we want to crack up. 

It's in human nature. No matter how hard we try to be and do good, along the way we always drop our guard and do something bad. But you don't give up. Not even when the object of your affection begs you to. All is a lie. Everything's a faux pas. The only thing that stays real is you and that one person who swifts along and holds your pinky finger with theirs, no matter how fragile that hold is. You can't always protect yourself, so hand over the guard to someone who's read to. Trust me, you'll find them doing a better job at it. Let people be when they want to be at your side. Because when you reach the end, you don't want that one person who's been there the whole way through, to be the one who wouldn't be in your life anymore. 

Till later,

Tuesday, 4 June 2013

It's What You Do To Me

Like their usual Friday evenings after college, they hopped on to their conventional café for their share of evening coffee and gossip. Occupying the same corner aligned with the picture window, that overlooked the sunset every summer evening sharp at 7:05 pm, was always reserved for them each weekend without fail. Ria, Sid and Om. They weren't exactly the three musketeers every college had, but they surely were the couple and the best friend trio that was. Coiled against the bend of the couch, Ria looked out towards the sunset as her toes clinked with each other in a settled rhythm. This was always the favourite part of his week. Sid had always loved the colour of her black hair, which gleamed a bronze sometimes. The inflamed sunset light bouncing off her flawless honey dew skin was what had left him breathless the first time he'd seen her in college. Taking in the colours that her petite dignitary put at play, he realised Ria was staring back at him. 
Meanwhile, Om came along carrying his taller than reality frame, and thumping on the couch beside Ria as he dropped a kiss on her cheek, and threw the bill of their order on the table in a fashion that Ria and Sid had grown used to seeing. Sitting there, talking, laughing and singing their favourite songs that would play along. 

"Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl, tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Times Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true"

This was a routine every weekend to which even the café was now habitual. Two years since they first came to college, two years of being best friends, a year of Ria and Om dating, and six months of Sid and Ria......
There was nothing to define what they had. Tremendous though, it wasn't enough to cease the love that existed between Ria and Om. Sid's brother wedding, drunk night, just a look at each other and that was it. Being with Om was potentially one of the best things that had happened to her. Although being totally crazy about each other, there was a distance between them. A distance she felt in herself, one which she couldn't map. A distance Sid mapped for her. 

"Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice, it's my disguise
I'm by your side"

Through time, Sid and Ria had grown inseparably close as friends, or so Om thought. And Om was fairly normal with it considering they'd become friends around same time he and Sid did. But there was always something about the way Sid looked at her, took care of her, talked to and about her. He assumed at times that Sid too might have fallen for her. But it wasn't love that he saw. A possessiveness that encircled his mind each time Ria was near. 

"Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me"

It was yet another Friday evening coming to an end. Another Friday when they'd drop Om off at the tube. Another Friday when Sid and Ria would get off, bid their goodbyes and Sid would grab hold of her and kiss her. Ria knew Sid wasn't amongst the ones who'd open doors and pull chairs, but he could kiss passionately. And that was chivalrous enough for her. And that's where Om lacked. However immensely Ria knew he loved her, he'd never let his passion out right. The fire was put out much before it was ignited. She realised Sid didn't love her. And she'd accepted it. And she'd also accepted she couldn't possibly leave Om either, because Sid wouldn't want that. Ria never considered herself to be in a dilemma. She knew what she had to do to keep them all together. But she also knew what she wanted and had accepted it the way it had come to her. Love, lust, who knew? 

"A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
And we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way
Delilah I can promise you
That by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame"