Instances of being


Oh ! the great perils of romance are that you get it at the worst times in your life. And then you savour it for the brief time you have it for. Relationships are weird and convoluted always, but on some dark days, they are your getaway car for escaping out of a war zone.


Instances 3/50, instances of just being.

Instances of letting go


Breakups are least to say difficult. But what’s worse are encountering them in unexpected places. This is a little instance where time ended up playing tricks on me and let me collide literally with my past.

Instances 2/50

Instances of dread


A lot has happened in the last year after I stopped writing. I was a melting pot for some victories, a Lil’ of chronic depression and a lot of yo-yo-ing in life where nothing seemed right. While there is a deep pain in suffering, there are words in this too. These next 50 days I’ll write to you all that small instances which were chinks in my armour, the holes in the fortress that seemed so strong. I don’t know if they would always be my vulnerabilities, but I know that saying them out loud might after all help me.

Heres the first one, the instance of dread I feel, more so when I am forced to interact with people unknown for prospective relationships that I can actually forgo.



Life begins before you’re born,
A steady rise of hopes,
A castle of dreams,
A body form to live upto these.

“You’re a gem” he says,
making him the artisan,
Taming the rough edges,
Polishing the surface of your flaws.

“You’re my pride” he says,
and the gem glows
like slow embers inside a dark hollow.
“You’re my joy” he says,
Fuelling those flames, inside a shell.

“You’re my treasure” he says,
I can’t let you go,
For falling into the wrong hands,
My end may follow.

“You’re my glory” he says,
Putting you on a pedestal,
But why are you so precious,
He would not know.

“Free me of these binds” you ask once,
To the shock of most,
“Perhaps soon” he says,
Binding you with hope.

“Let me shine” you ask,
For love knows no binds,
“You’re a treasure, my love and your value is infinite”.

“Unshackle me, for these gold binds are no freedom”
“You’re my crown, my darling” he says
“A responsibility -”
“I can’t let you be”
“I can only unburden you off me.”

Distorted Images


Over the years I have refrained from talking about the people who mean something to me, not because I don’t value their presence in my life but mostly because the need to validate a relationship that is taken for granted on all levels seemed futile. That and I’m not a subscriber to the worldwide-declaration-of-random-days that are mostly there to sell over priced cards and flowers. I like things to be more nuanced and subtle, maybe.

I can confess that my flair for the dramatics comes from my mother and so does the hate for it. It’s hard to imagine an adult who is confused when you are a kid, but right now,  I  experience it day by day as to how confusing the choices of  adulthood can be. My mother and I both fit in the same shoes now, metaphorically and literally and yet somehow my world selfishly revolves around my needs and aspirations and her world selfishly anchors itself onto mine. She complains that giving me freedom has spoiled me and I argue back that it is not freedom but more like permission if it is meant to be given or taken. The talk of fighting patriarchy is a new term for an old pair of shoes in our household. There are instances that I look back to in my childhood and it amazes me as to how easier the world was made for me by her. For unlike me she did not fight the ingrained Indian system of girls-cannot-do-these-things in the rebellious and strong-headed way that I do but instead she coaxed out an understanding with the people who subscribe to such mannerisms with patience. Did it take time and copious amount of wearing out patience ? Of-course, but it also ensured that the same people did not question her ever again.

We are always at war for the silly things such as  why is it essential to get married (I question it,she merely goes with ‘you are an idiot’ line)  or why one should not vocalize disagreements ( I hate confrontations, she thrives by them) or why trusting people isn’t easy( lets just say she finds people far easier than I ). As we both grew older, she taught me the need to soothe down my temper and I explained to her the world of complicated modern dating relationships. We taught each other about our belief systems and why being an atheist was as essential to me as it was for her to believe that the goodness in this world works on karma.

It is often easy for me to forget that she was just a kid of 21 when she had a daughter to raise . It is also convenient for me to take it for granted the privilege of a nomadic lifestyle that I take pride in, where she at my age did not know what it felt like to live in a place alone. Although  I  do suspect that she vicariously lives it through me and my constant restlessness. Once after a few glasses of wine she told me that her mother would have expected a lot more of her; she’d have wanted her to be more generous ,more ruthless and more successful. Then again, I guess mothers are made that way no matter what generation we are in , expecting you to conquer the world but at the same time nagging you to smile graciously, treat others kindly, never let anybody know how much they effect your life in any way and perpetually yelling at you to keep your room clean and your bed cleaner.

PS: This picture often reminds me of how much we’ve grown to look-alike despite our best efforts not to. It is also a proof of how both of us are hideously happy when we are drunk on multiple glasses of Chardonnay and trying to figure who’s better suited to be responsible more level-headed mother (obviously me).

Destruction in Four parts.


Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.

Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.

Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.

Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Breathing, smiling,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
once again.

I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that  the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

Confessions : Of Mistakes


This is my last confession. Not because I’ve been absolved, but because I think it is time to move on with exciting new things to write about. However, this series definitely wasn’t one of the mistakes. I’ve run out of old sketchbooks to extract writings from my past and I might as well begin conjuring up some words for my future self to ponder upon.



This is a part of confession series. Written in old sketchbooks,  brought to life here.