Saturday, 13 December 2014


I could see his hair jump up in attention the moment his fingers touched the craggy, cross-grained externality of the canvas. He was close enough, and his eyes closer enough for comfort. I saw the derrière of the cloth arch out when the pulp of his fingers pressed down the cloth, smudging the charcoal. His eyes roamed over my calves, and I could see his pupils expatiating on the nudging bone and the soft sinuosity backing it up.  Working his way up the softness of my legs, he made me feel unashamed of myself. He looked at my legs, but he saw me.
 I heard his breathing hitch and mature like a wildfire when his eyes dived along the convexity of my buttocks and the sudden concavity of my belly. He squinted his eyes on approaching my navel, and sighed loudly on seeing the ring there. A desolate smirk worked its way up his mouth as he transited his attention back to the canvas. He took in all of my ass in a glance, but he saw me.
His eyes licked their way around my waist, but he saw me. I could see his hesitation as his eyes started to escalate, his mouth fell open, and his tongue wetted the dryness of air on it. He curled his lower lip inwards as if protesting against what it wanted to do. I knew my udders stood up in attention his gaze, wanting the same as his lips. He stared at my bosom, but he saw me. 
His eyes were a golden brown against my chartreuse. Never did his eyes left mine, while his gawping prolonged, and his hands constantly torturing the canvas. He stared into my eyes, but he saw me. I knew it had ended the moment his deftly fingers halted the rasping between the charcoal and paint together. I covered up and all that hung between us was the heavy odourlessness of the acrylics. In a room full of leaping tints, he placed my carefully a notch up, darker than forever. 
I turned the money laden envelope on my way out, and unmanned its folds. I could smell rose from the petal left in there; the sepal the only colour between us today, and the only note to ever come. 

"You're the only one I've ever slathered rayless."

Fly! by Carne Griffiths (UK)

Things when you're in love with what doesn't live. 

Friday, 5 December 2014

Winter, Won't Be All Over Me

Twelve flavours
Twelve lovers
Twelve dates
Twelve places 
Twelve kisses
Twelve beds
Twelve breakfasts
Twelve flowers
Twelve coffees
Twelve teas
Twelve omelettes
Twelve sunny side ups
Twelve walks
Twelve restaurants
Twelve pasts
Twelve presents
Twelve futures
Twelve projects
Twelve jobs
Twelve cities
Twelve foods
Twelve eyes
Twelve voices
Twelve poems
Twelve stories
Twelve songs
Twelve genres
Twelve exes
Twelve, more to come
Twelve t-shirts
Twelve shirts
Twelve sweaters
Twelve bras
Twelve blankets
Twelve days
Twelve nights
Twelve weeks
Twelve months
The past year
And the next to come.

Happier this time, 

Wednesday, 22 October 2014


Why, peter out from labelling my opaque coffee so sinister, when it's your breaths that constantly obscure its fidelity to me. Same breaths, your husky breaths, which wrote stories like Braille over my shoulders I still read. And stop secreting behind the book when you clearly are thinking about licking the wetness that has cascaded down my throat and is snuggly leaning off my cleavage - which would still blush of you. And my chest would swell from the slightest prompting of your voice. Stop rummaging hands through your hair! They're tethering my heart and lungs in multitudes of knots inside my chest. I remember the time my hands shuddered from tugging at your hair as they perused through all your apprehensions. Did you just scrutinise me why I think you did? I know. I remember this song, too. It's the one you raged out on my throat to dampen the fire in it, which smouldered with a flame, but no smoke. And your foxy eyes, are always a different colour - darker, whenever you look at me like that, shining and brimming with entreaties I've come to agnize and join like a puzzle. A conundrum that your divine - no, pulchritudinous -  body plays with me every time I'm sprawled over those velvets you splurged on, for me. With you looking unequivocally comely next to me, with your rough skin brushing against........
 Get back to your book, for heaven's sake! I can't breathe with you looking at me like that!

Funny how you're encumbered by homesickness for so much!
Well, for now,

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

Fall II

And this time there's clamor in the silence,
Clamor, people christen as deafening, for they,
Perpetually dwindle from hearing the clamor,
But that's what average people do, don't they?
Because the universe is bereft of your actuality, but you,
Know, of the universe's survivals,
And the air has eaten the cinnamon from the froth of the tea,
Not because it seems frosty now,
But the air is itself flushed with the pong,
Which prompts you of oblivious reminiscence, 
The unprecedented warmth of two sets of pearls against,
Freezing cheeks, somehow vanquishing,
Because no matter why you think the sunlight's dusty,
It barely parades the dance, of the sole wit why they shed, 
Is they're indomitable in their way of thought for blemishing you, 
When is it, will you understand,
How colourful a death can seem?

Until next,

Friday, 5 September 2014


"जब से तुम्हारे नाम की मिशरी होंठ लगाई है,
मीठा सा ग़म है, और मीठी सी तनहाई है।"

Salt, chilli, mint, cumin, different colours, labelled boxes,
Damn it, but where was the damn sugar,
Weren't her mornings bitter enough to ingest an obscure coffee,
Thanks Dad, she chanted in her breath again,
Thanks for marrying a bird to a somnolent vulture,
No wait! Make that ostrich, a very bald ostrich,
Who screamed like a hooker, and scratched like a dog,
Who's the woman, him or me?!
Can't easily recall if he ever gave an orgasm to me,
Oh, and don't come about talking to me of kids,
Maybe if I had a diaper wearing ass running around the lobbies,
Who knows, I might have felt better to be wedded to a set of balls of three,
None of which seem to devoid of sex, and sperm free,

And who was that woman from next door who told me when I was five,
That rich men, and four houses are enough for a lifetime?
Stupid man, what was the point,
When he couldn't even come to the cocktail practices,
Ha! Fought with me the other day about love,
Now since when did ostriches start falling in love?!
There he goes, again! Thanks, Dad!
Thanks for marrying me to this,
Gastronomically enriched farting piece of ostrich
Sometimes the gardener is better to look at,
Wait! Where's the gardener?!!

"लट बिखराए, चुनरिया बिछाए,
बैठी हूँ मैं तेरे लिए।"
She thinks I have stomach ulcers,
And there he stood looking at himself in the life-sized mirror again,
I'll see the day she loses her hair, how long does she live in this bathroom,
Her stupid father promised me a lively free bird,
Bird? What bird? Where's the bird?!
Has been growing serpents on her head with all my money,
A decade of burning my money like fuel,
And did it ignite? Didn't even have some passion in sex,
Keeps calling me an ostrich,
Now when was the last time she knew how to kiss,
What does she know, how many videos I have to go through to tolerate her in bed,
She thinks I haven't seen the way she lurks around that penniless gardener,
Like a dewy-eyed puppy, begging for orgasms,
What was my father thinking when he told me in college,
That a lot of money and four houses will keep any woman happy?
I hope he's turning in his grave knowing how this one is doing!
And how dare she call me an impotent,
Did anybody inform her there's a right time to conceive?
Shouted at me to have my balls checked! MY BALLS!
Haven't I paid enough already to grow my hair for her,
Now she wants me going about having elaborate tests,
Neither have my hair grown back, neither is my sperm attacking her eggs,

Wait! Hair. Pills. Where's the damn manual?!
*May result in impotency. Consult with Physician*
Goddamn it, my sperms!

Pfft. Marriages.
Happy to be back,

Monday, 7 July 2014


The hard muscled shoulders were broad in keeping with his height, but it was more the overall virility of the man was so disturbing. And attractive. And definitely scary. She tried to concentrate, she really did, but she was acutely aware of a hard male thigh against hers, the 5 o'clock stubble on his chin, which accentuated his brand of aggressive masculinity tenfold, and, not least, the bigness of him. 
And she was startled back to reality as the conductor shouted out the next stop. Luck, it seemed, had never befriended her.


It wasn't love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons - two legitimate, one bastard - and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them.
Time, was no more a friend of his.


Different religions. Different nationalities. Different languages. Different customs. Different eras. Different rules. Different tastes. Different colours. And all for that green card.
Love is blind, they said. 
Barely did she realise that he suffered from Daltonism.


"So, what d'you think?", she asked, as she adorned yet another beautifully amalgamated, crisp set of crepe and brocade. She held up her curls in a nonchalant bun, and twirled around to show off the abbreviated back of the dress. 
He carefully looked up from his spreadsheet and quirked a half smile, "It's nice."
And then people wondered why did she lack the bridal glow all along.


Little nothings out of my closet diaries.

Thursday, 19 June 2014


Amidst the breathless blabber of shares and finances floating over the massive oak slab, blanketed shamelessly by a traffic of ceramics with mouthwatering, pocket-unfriendly food, he gawped powerlessly toward her face. She had a 50s hairstyle, with her hair mysteriously covering the left side of her face. The opaque ringlets of her frenetic tuft made the coiffure look almost uncouth. Only, it didn't look rude on her - somehow, the lush gloom flowing from her crown flattered the grainy freckles around her nose. He was certain, it was fishy the way she'd styled her hair. He watched her move, table to table, with an insouciance that wasn't, in the least, shoddy. She wasn't beautiful, or pretty; well, not in the literal sense of it. He wanted her to wait at his table, wanted to see her up close. He wanted to notice her freckles, if they crowded just her nose or were they lightly sprinkled all over her face. Unable to tame his resistance any further, he asked for a refill for water. As soon as she tracked the origin of the request voiced, she came walking towards him. Even as she refilled his glass, and the others', his eyes stayed secured on her every manoeuvre. By the time she'd revolved around the entire counter, he noticed. He noticed. When the glut of her hair moved in rhythm as she was returning, he noticed. He noticed the deep pink weal, trekking right across her left cheek before it dived beneath its jawline. He saw her growing uncomfortable, he saw herself being noticed. He could sense her discomfort. He diverted his gaze, he didn't want her to think of himself as another of those eerie people who might have ever looked at her with any indifference. He saw. He saw, as she moved away. He saw her turn around to look back at him. It wasn't a smile, no. It wasn't the curve that he had been eyeing all through his meal. It wasn't the professional gesture she'd been flashing while waiting through the restaurant. It was a trivial uplift. Like an approval. 

Scars. Funny thing.

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Breathe. Inhale. Feel.

It poured, that day,
Not the kind that puncture,
Your skin, slightly,
Like the injuries, in the shower,
You trace, after you make love.
But, the ones that,
Fall indolently, nonchalantly,
Like a quick kiss, inaudible,
Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills,
The ones, in funny places,
On your head, feel cooler.

Wind blew that day,
Not the kind that jumble,
Your hair, wildly,
Like a tree, in autumn,
Dancing riotously, before its death.
But, the ones that, 
Whooshes blindly, drunkenly,
Like that beautiful, you saw,
On the grass that was rather yellower,
Wallowing, laughingly, lazily,
In the dress which shone brighter than her smile.

He smiled that day,
Not the kind that spin,
Your head, magically,
Like the tresses, under the sun,
Of that woman, in the red dress.
But, the one that,
Was slight, and effortless,
Like the way, you breathed,
From across that table,
When his eyes, from his coffee,
Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly,
In the light which was carnally dreamier than ever.


Sunday, 25 May 2014

The Chronicles of April Levesque...VIII

So. Much long gone. And so was April. More than a year since I last wrote her. Quite literally. And yes, Raj, you were right to point out April in my last post about all the special women in my life. April is definitely one of them. You can read the previous parts here. Just scroll from the bottom up to read in order. 

People set alarms on their phones. April's own body was like the bird that cuckooed every next hour. With the killer headache, she rose at four in the morning. Habits, she thought. Staring at the ceiling with a hangover that made her decide instantly in a matter of less than a second, that she'll never let alcohol in her vicinity, she felt a warmth beside her. An alien feeling clamped onto her heart. Last night's nuances played like a reel in her head. She'd allowed him access to something, she never had to any man before. Ever.
And now, she had to play safe. She was much too aware of the condition she'd been kidnapped into. And much too aware of the sweet virginal pain that didn't hinder her for even a single moment since the five minutes she'd been up, about the pleasure he'd given her last night. Pleasure, and the insult. Ha, she laughed on herself, so much for giving yourself to man, who let alone honour, couldn't even respect you. She was sure she'll live to regret it. Her senses instructed her to call Chief right away, and spread out an escape plan. From Duardo, and from the hideous deal of their marriage on the expense of her true identity. 

As she tried to slither from the weight of his strong hands, he stirred in his sleep. "Lo bella? Lo siento mucho por lo que te hice.", she heard him talk in his tongue, figuring he was apologising, before falling deeper in slumber. 

She moved away, and ran to the balcony after dialling to Chief. 
"Hey, Kiddo! Everything all right? Having fun?", the kiddo again.
She took a deep sigh, and that was enough to tell him that there was trouble.
"Hey, are you all right? Did Duardo hurt you in any way?", concern dripping like cold blood from a sword, in his voice.
"What? How'd you...." She thought she was going to faint. 
"You knew all along! You knew everything! You lied to me. After all these years. After everything I did for you. You lied! God, is there anyone I can trust?", she was out of control.

Gulping every harsh word she threw at him for the next vile ten minutes, he stopped her up short, "You need a life, April. A life where you can't be killed. Where you can have something you never did; you can have a family. Your father never wanted this for you. I don't want this for you anymore..."
"Do not compel me to calm down by taking my father's name, and do not fake your concern! I'm an adult, and the kind of life I want is my decision. You betrayed my trust. You set me up!"

"Do not mock my concern for you, child. Even you father wasn't like your father."
For a second, she couldn't understand what he meant. But when she did.....
"Now listen to me, very very carefully, April. We don't know anything about your real parents, child. Jason had found you on the streets and picked you up out of sheer compassion. You were about three months old, as far as any doctor could have guessed. Your father was friends with Duardo's. He'd made him promise to look after you, should anything happen to him while he was away at his job. But Duardo's father couldn't have done anything because I chose to look after you. I wanted you for my daughter. And he let me have you only on the condition that when you come of age, and when Duardo feels ready for a marriage, you have to be married to him. He felt it too important to look after you one way or another, father or son, to honour his promise to your father. I'm sorry to have hidden all this from you, child. But you had to know the truth sometime. Hello? April, are you still there? Hello? April...."

"And did you for even a second think that my safety might be at stake if I ever appear in media as Duardo's wife? Are you not aware of the flashy life he lives? And what about the deal of keeping my identity and marrying him? Was this all part of the plan? You knew about all of this?"
Chief let out a regretful sigh, and confirmed his allegiance towards Duardo in all of this.
"April, we've made up your identity as his wife and changed your information in all databases all over the world. Past, present, future - everything. And people have lookalikes. The security staff Duardo has, are my people. You'll be completely safe."
"I can take my own care very well. Rather than you. What do you expect me to do? Be thankful for wiping out my existence like that, giving me a husband who doesn't care for me in the least, and compel me to leave what I love, what I was born and trained for?"
After a long silence, Chief spoke up, "One day, you'll thank me, April. I'm sorry to have hurt you like this. But this is what's best for you..."
When he couldn't even hear her breathing across the receiver, he prompted her name again. Unable to hear anymore further, April hung up.

She traced her footsteps backwards, and crashed into the garden chair that complemented the small space. 
Her world had rocked on its axis. For the first time in her life, she was clueless. What was she supposed to do, play husband-wife, and be content with it? She held her head on her hands for what seemed like ages. She knew the sun was rising. She could feel the slight warmth tingling her right hand. Her father wasn't her father. Chief wasn't her father. She never knew of her mother. She was a charity case. Did her real parents, or mother or father leave her there? Or, was she orphan? Or kidnapped as a baby? Were her real parents still alive, searching for her?

She's been picked off the streets by a man who was way too compassionate to see a baby die on the roads. A man who meant well. A man whose last wishes had created this havoc around her right now. A man who'd wanted her to have a normal life. A man whose wishes for her, couldn't melt her heart. A man whose wishes for her, she had no strength of revolting against, either. A man she'd loved the most. 
April freed her hands of her heavy head. She stared out at the vast lake in front of her. Last night played, yet again, in her head. And she realised she'd had unprotected sex with a man who was her husband. Husband. The word sent electric shivers down her spine. She could be pregnant for all she knew. That thought brought her undone. 

She wasn't selfless, but she did have honour. An honour that wasn't going to allow her to walk away from this marriage again. An honour that she learnt from her father. An honour she had to keep for her father's last wishes. An honour for the promise her father's friend was still trying to keep. 
She took in the heat of the rising sun. And with that, she took in who she was. She was April Levesque Alvarez. 40 years old. Ex-spy. And maybe pregnant. 

She suddenly heard footsteps, and knew Duardo was up. 
"April. Are you..."
"Good morning, Duardo.", she continued without so much as even paying a heed to his way, "We have a lot to talk about."

To be continued...

Be back sooner this time,

Saturday, 8 March 2014

Them. Always.

"You inspire me, Akanksha. Your willpower is your greatest strength."

"You always have the choice to make your call. Tolerate all this or walk away."

"Babe, there's always a winner and a loser. You know, there's always a pit in which we want to see someone, and then it's you who gets trapped in the pit ultimately. AND, it's you who'll know the way out. So you'll always have to find a way to figure. Don't every be ashamed of falling in love with the wrong person. People aren't ever bad, they're just different."

"I'm here. Always. And I'm not going to let you be miserable for anything. It's important for people to understand that you can need them more than they do."

"Don't try too hard. It's not always necessary. It'll pass. Everything does."

"Don't ever pity yourself. Smile, Pick up your baggage and keep walking. You have to believe you're the right person for everything, and everything will be right for you."

"We can't do anything about what people do to us. We can only decide if it can reach us or not."

These women make my life. 
Damn, have I been too long gone or what!

Back again,

Wednesday, 29 January 2014

Don't Say. Say.

Overly sweet coffee, and the underestimated bland tea,
Broken spines of a book, and fallen leaves of the gingery tree,
Boisterous silences, and the straining piano notes,
Broken phone networks, and prudently hearted notes,
Loquacious senses, and sardonic tongues,
Unknown ignorances, and methodical glances,
Stolen truths, and concealing lies,
Surreptitious smiles, and reluctant cries,
Starry nights, and tacitly retired drives,
Solitary overhauls, and conjoined cautions,
Supervised footsteps, and the agreeable wind chimes,
Blistering softness, and the disquieting light,
Fleeting sheets, and dented bolsters,
Desiccated throats, and clammily sultry bodies,
Unkempt love, and the copious confessions,
The incessant denials, and the fate's laughter in your face. 

Oh, the inevitability of things.


Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Fingers Never Lie

How different were the two?
Like the darkness of a liquor chocolate,
Against the dewy cinnamon bagels?
Or the roaring of the sea,
Against the hidden hushes of an avalanche,
How different were their voices?
Like the inconsistency of your consistent black coffee,
Against the bitter carnality of that cabernet?
Or, the squelchy parcel from the rains,
Against the velvety pats of snow against your face?
How different were their eyes when they looked at you?
Like the ones which gleam simply in desire,
Against the one screaming out to you in need?
Or the way a child clings to his toy,
Against a weeping bride holding onto her father's shoulders?
How different were their hands?
Like the robust hand from the heist of a ravenous man,
Against the hands that devour you under the sheets?
Or the ones whose touch make you whinge,
Against the ones which make you close your eyes in conviction?
How different were their seasons?
Like the sun's fervour fluxing your cream,
Against the schmaltzy letters from the rain written on your feet?
Or like the autumn that brought back the bronze,
Against the snow in your backyard on Christmas?
How different were they? How apart were they?
Yet you chose him,
You chose the immature, and dark,
You chose desire, and lust,
You chose words over untouchable silence,
Only 'cause you know, he'd understand.

By David Gonzales (US)

Longest time.