Wednesday, 19 July 2017


And we would meet again in meaninglessness and futility.
Our brains crumbling due to sun-damage and moon-carnage.
And then there is the place.
The distorted fort.
Tattered and in shambles.
Like my childhood slippers.
Who hated my screaming pair of shoes.
Immortalised in a dark, gothic wall-hanger.
I could see the two blue horizons meet from different directions.
I see you.
Through the corners of my eyes.
The sun hurt.
The beer helped.

And the quaint afternoon shack in the corner of the Church Lane in Morjim.
The siesta was sort of, short, wasn't it?
It's funny how I saw the place in dreams, my whole life.
And how I imagined you there, with me, when you never existed.
We'll revisit when you're real again.

I also have the stone from the fort, tucked in the battery compartment of my camera case.
But hey, I came back.
With pictures, without you.

Have I ever told you?
And I have made cream of all the roses that I have received in the past.
Of different shades.
They have nourished my lips enough to fill the cracks from the salty brines, bloodless clenches, and sandy smoke.
Even your papery kisses at times.
And now I have begun to not mind them.

What a way to use wither from stopping one.
This is all wrong.
Life, like these words, should have started in reverse.

Friday, 22 January 2016

Between Meals

This is the first time I am trying to speak without braces. I always needed a support for my teeth to speak. This is the first time I am speaking on my own. My braces have been like parents to me. They supported me, helped me when I needed to chew. They also made sure, I find love. 

I was in High school. People often thought I was a shy kid, when in fact; I was embarrassed because of my braces, which stuck with me, not unlike clingy parents. She was a transfer student from a neighbouring city and it seemed like the whole class had fallen in love with her; including me. I just wished she never talks to me or notices my braces.

14th  March 1999

It was raining that day and most of the students hadn't come because of the waterlogged streets. I came in hope that I’ll see her. I was not disappointed. She was soaked, in spite of the umbrella; yet she made it. I sat down with my lunch near my secret haunt; the dilapidated mulberry tree, near the primary section where seniors rarely came. I saw her feeding a kid; perhaps her sister. I thought of leaving, in case she sees me. The next thing I know, she was walking towards me. She sat down near me and without speaking, tore a piece of French-toast and dipped it in the ketchup and started eating. I had no idea till that point that she had realized, I existed. Clearly she had. I was short of words, and she was in no hurry to speak. In fact we didn't speak at all.

15th  March 1999

Today, she came again and after feeding her sister, came and sat beside me and kept her lunch-box in between. She was looking straight at the swings at the front. We never even made eye contact. In retrospect, I am glad we didn't, because many things, including eye-contact is overrated when you are in love.

Love is not meant to make sense. Nor does it have a set of set symptoms like O.C.D. where everyone follows a pre-diagnosed pattern of washing hands, keeping things in symmetry and checking locks. No. She was looking at the front and I kept on taking bites off my vegetable wrap. At one point I kept the wrap inside the lunch-box to take a sip of water. She simply extended her slender hands and picked the wrap up; took a bite and kept it back. She waited till I finished my lunch and as I was packing, she left. She never opened her lunch-box, the whole time. Perhaps she hoped I will do the same, but I didn't and her lunch-box was left untouched.

16th  March 1999

I got two sandwiches today; one for her and one for me (I had lied to my mother about one sandwich being too less for me). Of course I loved when she ate from my share, but I wanted her to eat well. She didn't touch the other sandwich till I had started with it. She never looked at me, this whole time.


12th  February 2011

It was seven oh clock and I made some fried eggs with toast. I came up to the table and took the first bite and pushed the plate. She took the toast and took a bite and resumed with her crossword. After finishing with our breakfast, I stood up to take the plate to the sink. She stood up. Looked at my eyes and landed a hard kiss on my forehead, holding both of my ears with her aquiline hands. I took my keys, she, hers.

13th  February 2011

It was yesterday. Today I sat beside her, while she was having her cereal with milk reading the daily comic-strips. I was thinking about the meeting I had with the publisher who lived in the neighbouring town. Suddenly the bell rang and she went to open the door. She saw the wooden box where I was lying, still. I could see her stumble and holding on to the door. She came and sat where she was sitting before, and noticed, that I had finished all the cereal, save the two that were floating on the milk.

“You could never finish your food, could you?
” She said.

Monday, 7 December 2015

The Hiding Place

Rodney would never have realised that the gun was with me all this time. I know that it was driving him mad. He had looked everywhere except the place where I had hidden it.

The phone rang and Rodney went towards it, but then decided against it and started searching for the gun again. After 8 rings, Frank finally picked up the phone.

“What is it?” he hissed.

“I told you not to call here.”- “If they catch me I will be in trouble. I don’t care if it was urgent and he is dead. If I were you I would throw him in the toilet for a swirlie.”-

“Listen, bosses are about to come and I can’t betray their trust. I need the cash, okay?”- “I’ll see you”.

He kept the phone with a loud clank. I was listening to their conversation from under the bed. It was then I realised, why Rodney was looking for his gun.

What he didn’t know... that I had hidden it.
It had been with me for the past 3 hours... hidden in my diaper.

(P.S. It was sad how Frank, our babysitter, was rude to his girlfriend even after knowing that her fish, Gubble, had died).

Thursday, 21 May 2015


When you settle for something,
Giving excuses as to how amazing this new thing is.
It is a Placebo.
Of course it works.
It should work.
Why wouldn’t it?
Your mind is driven by its effects,
And your body listens to your mind.
Have you thought, that if the pretense of the placebo didn’t exist,
How brilliant it would have been?
You would have been able to give all the credit to your mind.
And not some other element who/which becomes famous,
By your tongue, when it doesn’t deserve it.
It is you.
Everything is in your hands.
If you make it happen,
It is you.
If you couldn’t, you are a peddler,
Of drug-like dreams.
The liquid ones. Salty liquids,
Not the powdered ones.
Powders are still substances when liquids have spilled a long time ago,
And have evaporated without a trace.
The powdered ones stick to your teeth.

And you don’t brush,
Because the powder feels like heaven,
Days after you have taken  it.
Powdered emotions are pounded,
With a pestle, without a mortar.
Without a support.
Without a container.
Just bashed in rhythm which makes you ecstatic.
Rhythms are always good.
They follow patters.
Shut up!
Signs are just a bunch of hokum.
Everything is random.
All things,
All acts,
All people,
All flowers,
All smells.
Random combinations.
But unlike a placebo, they have effects.
A placebo is just a placebo.
Without a reason,
Without a logic.
Just , like god.
You believe it, because you need it.
You fucking want it.
There is no proof, no logic behind it.
So appreciate the beauty of it, just because it’s there.
The patterns so symmetric are special,
Because they are not created.
They are there.
Nothing special is going to happen, unless, something happens in your life.
You don’t have to feel bad or good about it.
It is special only because it has happened, and you were there.
By chance.
No pattern there.
A pattern is just a placebo.
A placebo on a place, bored to death.
Which is random again.
Out of habit.
Which is not a pattern.
It is a reoccurrence of random occurrences.  
Standing again, because of the random factors.
Again, for the existence of the same factors.
Meaning to appear.
Like a video playing again and again and again.
Because of the chance existence of Electricity,
A Visual Display unit.
And most importantly, a being.
Because without you…
Nothing occurs.

Saturday, 16 May 2015

Stored Stories of Silence

Sitting in the garage, she was staring at the puddle which was settling, creating rims in the water. She was wondering, what was it that made the rims of water different from the water itself. The occasional drop in the water from the roof was giving life to the ripples, just when they were almost about to die/fading away/just becoming quiet, depending on the way you look at finality.

This made her think, 14 minutes ago when she was playing penalty shootout, that involved kicking the ball on the wall which had been marked as a goalpost (was more of the size of an ice-hockey goalpost due to the confined space).

Just a few minutes ago she was dodging imaginary players and making her way to the goalpost kicking the ball and now she was sitting still watching the puddle.  The metamorphosis was quite contrasting. Mindless physical exercise at one point and body resting while the mind doing the running, in the next.

As a kid, she didn’t make paper boats. Paper boats can’t be broken, but they can be decimated to pulp by water. As a kid she always felt sad when the paper boats sank. So she started something else. She would put drops of food colouring in the puddle and then put a drop of shampoo and with delight and surprise the puddle would turn into a vivid show of colours. Her personal rainbow.

Rainbows. How convenient was it, to become happy in those times. Her happiness (she chuckled at her childish notion of owning a universal, yet a scantily found sentiment).  Why was it that during her introspective time, everything revolves around her? That brought her to the story that she was writing these days.

 “Why does it happen that the story is always based around the main character/characters and not a neutral, insignificant person in the story?  This also raises another question. Who decides the main characters and why do they decide to choose them specifically.”

“There is another thing. No matter how many characters there are in the book, whoever they are or whatever they did (which is actually the soul of the story and our perception towards those characters, places and incidents) is all singular. But while reading, why don’t we realize that everything or anyone that happens in the story is actually a fragment a small piece of the writers mind."

"Whoever the character is, it is actually the writer himself, who is writing about the thoughts or deeds of a person, whether in first person or in the third person; whether it is a male or a female, old or young… and so on; it is because the writer, who makes a specific character, place or incident has awarded the things that he wants the most detailed and important. So much so, that people get caught up with the story, more than the happenings around them.”

She looked up. There was a swallow sitting on the sill.

“What if we look at one of the most insignificant characters in the book, which the writer doesn't care much about, but mentions in the passing? If we are able to look at that insignificant person, we are looking at the most real point of the story. As the writer includes them subconsciously and so, these insignificant characters remain untouched by the writer’s bias.”

“And I just realized. That real person, who isn't a bit significant to the story, is me and the reason why the most insignificant person in the story is writing this, is because she is in madly in love with one of the most important characters, my dear Watson, the most important character! Only in such cases, a person might (rarely, yet possibly) think with someone else’s brain to write; perhaps borrowing the protagonist/antagonist’s brain.”

So she decided to write about the story of Alex and Brittany. She being the most insignificant character, as she loved Alex and he could never imagine about how much she loved him.
She wouldn't be able to write for long. This might be some of her last works. He would understand, why.

She didn't want him to imagine anything that was related to both of them. Whatever there was to imagine, it was she who held the right to. The fact that kept Alex above her was that Alex had choices. She didn't. It would honestly, make her happy to see Alex happy. That’s all there is. What would happen to her, is another matter altogether, now. The fact is that she doesn't know.

She was sure that this time it was love, because the feeling was different. It didn't involve her jealousy and trust issues that had been prominent in the other relationships, because of betrayals. Yes, in plural. This time, she was just happy, that there was a real impression of a person, as dreamlike as Alex. She was just happy that they came in contact with each other in spite of the chaotic world around them. She was just happy, that Alex knew her. This was her last thought on the first day when they met. And this was the same last thought on the last day.

She got startled, by the breaking china, inside. She ran to see what had broken. It was the earthen goblet with the Bonsai plant inside it. She cursed herself for keeping it near the window. She reached up to the window and looked at the swallow soaring up the sky in silence.

Friday, 24 April 2015

Coloured Stones

Every month I come to Kevin’s grave and put some coloured stones on it. I come the next month on the same date, the 30th to find that the stones are gone. I feel relieved to see that the stones are gone, every month. I dread for the day I see the stones on the same place I had kept, on the grave. The thought itself makes me uneasy, for many reasons.

First, because it would mean, no one cares to come and see him. That no one loves him. Second, I feel ashamed that I’m not able to come to see him every day, and third, that I am getting mad and obsessed. The thought of someone coming and removing them, keeps me sane, as there is someone as obsessed as I am. So I am not the only crazy one around.

I had talked to him the day… I—I’m sorry I can’t revisit it. It tears me apart.

“… that you were loved. You made us so proud…”

I saw his service in a video on Facebook. I wasn't invited on his funeral. She was.

His last girlfriend. She came and gave him a proper send-off. But it didn't matter. They were doing all of this for themselves, not for him. He knew what was, and what wasn't.

I was so scared to go to his grave for the first time. Not because it was dusk, or that, someone would still be there, as it was just the fourth night, but because, I would see the expected, but never imagined future, merge with the present, in form of, mortar and marble.

“…From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust…”

When we remember someone, why do we remember the happy times? It is because, it’s important for our sanity. An excellent marble or beautiful granite as a tombstone is to glorify the emotions. Making it lavish, so that we don’t feel bad, and make ourselves believe that they are in a happy place, metaphorical, as imagined, and literal, as constructed. It is all for us. Our comfort.

I saw her speak as well. I wanted to tell everyone, it was I, not her.

I have a suspicion; she takes all the stones off the tombstones that I put, to make-up for the funeral.

I wish you were alive.


I am in love.

I had been in love with this person, for a long time. I was in love, when he was alive.

I have seen things shatter in front of me. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening. I wish he was alive. It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve kept loving, and he would be loved. He is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime, common crime.

I will see him on the other side.

I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of sanity. For the sake of happiness and sanity, I wish you were alive.

This time, I was late, she was about to come, and I wasn’t done yet.


While coming, I realized that it has been a year. No I didn't remember the date, because I just couldn’t. I saw this old man coming out of the graveyard, with this grey bag. He smiled at me, while passing. It was then, it dawned to me that it might not be her, but it could be some of those boys who dwell in the graveyard or this familiar old man too! For who knows, he removes the stones, because he understood my pain?


She saw me today. I was late. She saw me picking up the stones, and was surprised to see me. She came to me, we were silent. Then I saw her tears flowing, for the first time, ever.

“Why?” she asked.

It is because I couldn't see her in pain. The first time I met her, I had heard from her about Kevin and her relationship. The next time I met her, she was telling me what had happened. Not how she felt, but what had happened, factually. There was a storm inside her. But she didn’t let it come out.

The only emotions I saw were her big beautiful eyes, welled up with tears, but never coming out. I remember telling her, there are two most beautiful aspects of your face. You smiling lips, which deceive many, save a few, yet the sad eyes, which hinted at a lit up past, but now there is always that shimmer, like wax melting out of the candle.

She often said that she forgets things. I know that she forgets because she wanted to. That she couldn’t keep memories that shattered her to fragments. So in order to escape the pain, she forgets, just like I sleep all the time, when I break-up or when mother had passed away.

The reason I was drawn to her was not because, she was beautiful, well that too, but because, she is exactly like how I am. Well, not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Her thoughts come out exactly like mine do.


I did not expect to see him here. I never thought it would be him. I rarely thought about him, yet here he was. It can only mean, he thinks about me, a lot.

I let my emotions out in front of him, because since we had met, he had always had a familiarity about things we talked about. It comes to me now, when I think about it, but he always knew what was going on my mind, yet I failed to see it, because it was natural and came so easily that I didn’t realize, that if there was someone else, in his place, perhaps, things wouldn’t have been so natural.

But he always knew, how I was feeling, just like Kevin did. I now realize, that he behaves, just like me. He feels just like I do, he thinks like I do. How could I not see it?


I am in love.

I am in love with her.

I had been in love her, for a long time. I think I have always been in love with her. I was in love with her, when Kevin was alive. I have seen her shatter in front of me; in her poems and in those rare occasions when we met. She never showed it, but I could see. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening.

I wish he was alive.

It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve loved her, and he would have been loved by her.

Kevin is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime. A crime common to both of us, of loving her, deeply and madly.

When I saw that he was gone, I had cried. I couldn’t sleep for days, because of her, and because of him. I will see him on the other side and tell him about how I failed. I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She is destroying herself. I had made a promise to him that night; that I would take care of her. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me. I my love can’t even begin to compensate, but it can surely make her happy. And him too.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of her sanity. For the sake of her happiness and sanity. I know that she won’t be able to bear looking at the stones she places, more than once. I know that it would break her. So I remove them.

I wish you were alive.

But this time, I was late, she came, and I wasn’t done yet.


Sunday, 7 December 2014

The Beetle that Haunts Me

I can’t see it right now.
But as soon as I switch-off the lights,

It comes to life.
It looks strange in the dark swirls of smoke.
It startles me every time it is visible.
A chill runs up my spine.
Oh it’s nine!

Now it will be dark again.
It was creeping on the walls last night.
Leaving a blur; like a trail of darkness.
There is a colour; or a sign of madness.

I lie on the bed, dreading that it would tread on me.
I hold my breath, and wish for a cold breeze.
What is this sinister creature you ask?

Some call it a Firefly, I call it memories.
It lights up to ignite my thoughts,
And then disappears for a while.

And just when I am used to the darkness...
It lights up again.
The period of the beetle’s extinguished state is
More than its visible.
As if, it knows what I fear when that happens.

It lights up.