YOu know you and I are a part of this dream and it keeps coming again and again. I can't help it from happening you know. It's disturbing at times, at times it just reminds me that I am still me. It's a Sunday morning and I wake up to a mild cold breeze grazing my face, it is somewhat cold. your side of the bed is empty, my eyes are hardly open. It must have been like dawn or before that, like 5:30 or sumthin. I see the creases on the sheet, it feels silken as I wipe my hand over it. And then I wake up, like become more conscious. Wrapping a cover around me, I walk into the patio, to see you lean on the railing, looking down. Thirteenth floor. You're smoking. I stand next to you and you give me a cursory glance. I smile and look away. Then I lean on you and you hold me from my waist.. And both of us look at the sky, waiting for sun-rise. Reddish and quiet. The mild cold breeze is still there, brushing my hair, our faces. And then time freezes.

You and I meet again, to part and then meet again. this dream stays

Just Friends

Platonic is too idealistic a word, she said. No relationship can be entirely platonic. At some point of time every woman keeps the guy she's with in that special place in her heart, tries to figure out if he fits. If he doesn't, best thing ever. If he does, things get screwed. But probably, I never made it to that place in her heart, the tipping point. I must have stopped an inch behind it. And even if I did reach it, I must've been a bad fit, and she wouldn't tell me how badly I had failed. To add to my string of failures, another. She knew, I could never fit, I wasn't made to fit. She respected that, silently. I understood her, was vocal about it a lot.

Unable to contain my frustrations anymore, I quit college the year before I would've graduated. She got that degree, got married. I dropped-out to pursue art. Never married, not yet. We lost touch.

But all her man-woman theories took us, her and I, as an out-lier, an exception. She classified the men in her life into two water-tight chambers, the ones she was friends with, the rest she could ever be romantically inclined to. The former category was obviously for the ones like me, who failed the test or the ones who could never sit for it. We got to see her worst, see her for real. The ones she was romantically inclined to, the ones who always only saw her suave, coy, never stayed beyond a time. Even then, there wasn't any porosity allowed between the two chambers. She got scared if a friend flirted, and that scared me hell-lot. Not that I was possessive of her, or afraid that we would lose each other, but just that she had become a habit, a part of my day. And with the oscillations my psyche was victim to, it felt comforting to have one companion that would stay.

I never exactly got to figure out her perception of me though. I never asked, our conversations, strangely never took us on those lanes. Provided the stretch of time, it now appears impossible, but happen it did.

The day, I was leaving, she helped me pack. She had two more terms of college, all to herself. I wondered if all that was between us, could ever happen again, to either of us, separately in life. She looked me in the eye and said, It hurts to say that no man will know me the way you do. I stayed shut.

But yeah, it hurts. Still does


I am not the girl next door, you have fallen for. Your perception of me, makes me feel that I have been lying to you, all this time. It fills me a little guilt, and more fear, what when you realize who I am. Will you stay?

I am the one who doesn't get the silliest of jokes, yet yearns to be beyond the last blue of horizon. I am the one who is older than her age, yet the kid around. The one is almost always sorrowful, yet bursts out laughing, once aloud, and then her laughter keeps returning after undefined intervals of time, many don't understand why.

Inside me, two contradicting theories meet, and fight, to relentlessly disprove each other, and highlight my insanity and deviation from normalcy with an augmented obviousness. You wouldn't get me!

I am your antithesis. We have only one in a zillion similarities. I am aware of this, and what strikes me most is that you don't have the slightest idea!

I am a lot more things, you don't know. And I would rather not show.

And everyday, there is a moment when you charm me, and I realize that there is a person in you I don't know. I would rather not know.

It must be true that opposites attract. It must be true that mystery keeps people hung on each other. But for how long is the more pertinent question!?

Feminist-I am not!

I know some men who are scared of age. Age is not as scary as it seems. Sometimes a strand or two of grey hair is more sexy than it could imagined to be. Age is experience, age is maturity. Age says, I've been there, done that. Age is a calm smile, age is nerves of steel, patience. Age is a just fine.

But some men don't want to grow up. They hate thirties. Oh! I love thirties. To console themselves, they flirt around with eighteen-year-olds. It's pathetic.Argh! It's frustrating, their desperate attempts. What kind of paedophilia is that now!

Also, it is another side of the same story that super-confused eighteen-year-old females find solace in the arms of the middle aged, sometimes. They could be, super-tired of the guys their age, who know hardly anything except for vital statistics. And for the old men, these chicks are a good bargain, aren't they? Poor chicks think, it's not the chic that their grey admirers are after, but have a quest of their inner beauty. Bleh! That kind of a thing, is beyond the comprehension of all the men on this planet. Men, irrespective of their age, are all the same.


idle afternoon.she sat on the chair made of cane, closing her eyes, breathing in large gulps, trying to take all the smells in. one faintly made its way to her nostrils, that of dried lilies from the garden. she followed it and stared out of the iron grille, her garden looked grey in the shade of the setting sun. all noise had settled down into a quiet siesta. she pushed the gate open, tip-toed over the thirsty land, barefeet.

the creaking sound the gate made when pushed, she was immune to. the distant sounds of a couple birds, lost in the golden sky, she was immune to. about the truck that nearly grazed her compound wall, she would never know, she never heard it.

she watched her sleeping cat, in the corner of the garage, and rolled the garden tap open. scanty drops of water made their way out, she had to roll it further. she dragged the hose to the tap, that could wake the cat she feared, all the noise that must have made..

waiting for the water to emerge from the other end of the hose, she looked at her toe-nails, it sure was time for a fresh coat of paint, probably crimson, probably purple, whichever she liked.

as the water lazily gurgled out of the hosepipe, she filled it into the cracks in the thirsty land, the dust that arose choked her. then she moved to her dried lilies, she sprinkled them one by one, wanting to bring each back to life..

as the smell of the earth rose, all the other smells too came alive. she stood there in the middle of her grey garden, trying to take in as many smells as she could, as many smells as there were. from the world that had so intentionally muted itself to her ears..


In my quest for you, there have been many a hiccups. Scared to death, sometimes delighted by the wrong moves I made, I wondered whether I will ever find you. But at the end of it all, all I realize is that, I had you with me, all through. You and I together looked for you in this journey. You held my hand every moment. I found you at every turn, yet failed to realize that it was you. This time, that has been consumed, my patience that has been tested till its verge of extinction, is the cost of my failure in recognizing you.

On an entirely different note, something rather queer happened to me lately. As a child I read Khushwant Singh. Yeah, as a child you read Enid Blyton, I read Khushwant Singh.And I read him, the same books, every once in a while. So I was going through a story that I had read a couple of years ago. I felt like that story had happened to me. A certain portion of my life, did justice to the story, moment by moment. The one character was me, the other was a certain person. The similarity was so striking, it held me in awe. We had undergone the same feelings, we had uttered the same words, in the same tone. The reason behind the story was the same as mine. I was so flabbergasted that I shut the book, and gaped at the roof for sometime. How could this happen, I asked myself.

In life, I am not looking for these characters out of books and their stories. I am looking for something in flesh and blood, something as real as could be. Something like the thing that has nurtured between us. Someone like you. You.


I am smiling when I ought not to
When I am a bag of illness

Sore organs, out of their way
Crazyly beating away
like unruly children

I am standing still
When I ought to crumble
Into unrecognizable pieces of me

All of a sudden
Out of the blue
I made possible out of the impossible

I am alive, when I ought to be dead

Because, you're holding my hand
I am standing through this

I know, beyond this dark night
Is a tomorrow,
A tomorrow with us in it
Our tomorrow..


Happyness walks in to my room, unannounced. At 1:30 in  the night, wakes me up to ask me if I was sleeping.

I never write about the trifle good things that happen to me. I am so possessive of them. I am scared of sharing them with another soul. I am afraid of losing them so much. And I believe that if I speak of them, then the happyness leaves me. It happens that way, call me superstitious. I choose only the sorrow to write about. It's aplenty. It's easy to write down about. But writing about happyness is different, no matter what words you use, they mostly fall short of encapsulating the magic. The magic, the feeling of not being able to breathe, out of all the joy you can't contain anymore.

But I am writing this because I keep record. Yeah, record you know. So that I don't forget. People marry because they want to have a witness to their lives. And if I never marry this blog is gonna be my witness. ;)

I have written about happyness previously too, yeah, I remember distinctly. But I ended up losing it, reason very much to add to my fear. But why am I doing it again? May be because, a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. And because I think now I am hard enough to take it. To stand and watch like a mute spectator, the object of affection being snatched away from me by a brute whose face I can't see.

But now I am happy. This moment I am. And writing this down here is totally worth it. Well, I guess.

Happyness just walked in to my room, unannounced. At 1:30 in  the night, woke me up to ask me if I was sleeping. And I screamed with eyes wide open, "Hell Naah!!"

Remnants of a Temptress

Between her characteristic timed pauses, she would often bring her mother into our conversations. And she would knowingly relapse into those vibrant hues of her childhood, something she thought she never had. Breaking into irrepressible laughter, moments when only she understood what was so funny, were not uncommon either.

Often she would talk about how she looked at life, the way she should, and found that nothing was worth what we deemed its worth to be. I would strive hard to bring her back to our tiny world where in everything was worth much more than what we thought it was worth. Sometimes I was successful, mostly not. All the time, she made me feel like she was caged in my love, in the life we were trying to both create. My love couldn't paralyze her mind, could it? So I just let her be, the person she was.

Thosedays, after she left my room, it would smell of sometime lavender, sometime sandalwood. Of her shampoos and oils. Mostly of her. I couldn't make out what it was distinctly, what made her entice my nostrils and my mind, the way she did. It was like she had one of those smells, very typical to her. Even after long when she left me, those aromas remained in my room. Those are her remnants, I would treasure for the rest of time. Mostly they remained inside my mind. They would very often make me nauseous, that I would long for her, badly.

One morning, after a shower, when she stood before the mirror, gazing at herself, apparently lost, most probably lost, I stood very close to her, intoxicated. Wet ends of her hair, curled, hung loosely, tempted me. To shake her awake, I kissed her neck, placed my head on her shoulder. Our faces side by side, I looked at our image in the mirror, us.

And I asked her what she was thinking.


I am a semi-fictional character created by me.
Semi is read as sem-ahy, and not as sem-ee. 
Sometimes, I have a problem believing that I exist.
I am beyond my own belief. Post twenty-too years of existence, I am not sure if I am for real.
I don't know if you would pinch me, and I would squirm ouch! 

The person I am, is a character from an unending dream.
But this dream, they say, has ended. 
As is natural with creators, they murder the protagonists of the fiction they create, when their story ends.
But mine didn't. 
My murder was missed out on, fortunately forgotten.
Or was I cleverly excluded from the obvious?!

I exist, because I was chosen to
I exist, because you imagine I do


I can't take my eyes off you..
Let me hold on
a moment more,
and the one after that
Let me look at you
let me drink from your thoughts
listen to your muted voices
I can't take my mind off you..

Let me come a li'l

There is something 'bout shedding your emotions, one by one, before the one you love. Just like shedding your clothes, one by one. It could be as cathartic as sex could be sometimes. That feeling of being emotionally naked before him, sharing all the dirty secret. The intimacy of being one, with him. The feel of being Closer, than Closer could be..