4 A.M

And some days the silence around gets heavier,

It seems strange as to how something like silence could weigh,

Before you know, the air gets colder and people appear farther,

An anguished cry lost, travelling through time, space and people,

Feels like I’m screaming into a vacant abyss,

Where no matter how loud I shout, you can’t hear a thing,

Unsaid words and thoughts swirl, rising a storm in my heart.

Sometimes when the doorbell rings, I pause and hesitate,

Half wondering if my thoughts pulled you to my doorstep.

Pondering if you miss me the way I crave for you,

Or if I have met a petty death in your heart.

Days when I wish that you would reach out, say a word, or call and sigh,

To run my fingers through everywhere you have been, wrap my fingers around your scent,

Rather to take bliss in ignorance,

Let my heart be the fool, take the blame and crumble.


Find your way home

The place where you can prance around in your pajamas, tie your hair in a bun and drag yourself off the floor.
Where you can slump into the couch and watch reruns for hours while immersing your sorrow in a tub of chocolate ice cream.

When breakfast can be had at 1, lunch at 5, dinner at 12 and a piece of dense chocolate cake at 3 in the morning, cause it ain’t never to late to have dessert.

But is that what a home is supposed to mean?

So, go out.

Meet new people, even if you want to stay holed up in your pillows and quilt.
Stand in the sun, and feel the warmth on your face though all that you feel within is damp, cold.

Talk, laugh and smile, practice. And with time the lump in your throat when someone asks about him, the stabbing pain will get pushed away, deep down, somewhere. That is all what you need for now and let time work its way out.

Home is a place to rest.
We are too young to be this sad, tired and worn out, no?

Treasure trove

Some memories smell of honey, ginger, cinnamon, mango, coconut, neem and love, fortunately such a sweet exotic memory belongs to my grandmother. Today after eons I thought about her, there are some things that change you, forever. Her death sort of switched off a light in some corner of my heart, haven’t visited my native since then.

I still remember how we sisters huddled around her every night to listen to fairy tales and not once did we cheer for the prince, it was always the princesses or the minister’s wife or the queens who rescued the prince and kings from the ogres and brought law and order back to the kingdom.

Now that I think about her, she was funny in her own way. Her superstitions, when she would chide us if we jumped over her leg while she stretched and would ask us to jump back in the opposite direction otherwise it would amount to bad luck. And us being us, we would jump over her leg and run away, she would then chase us and make us jump over her leg again!

But nonetheless, she was wise. I remember something that she had told me a long time back, I didn’t understand this when I was little and though I still don’t understand most of it, its something that I hold close.

We come into this world with a quota of happiness, sadness, love, betrayal, laughter and tears. To know that if you have had struggle in your life, comfort is bound to bestow upon you. And if you have had a fairly simple life, you must give it back as struggles later on.

That we meet many people, some help us at times when we don’t know ourselves and others drag us down, some we love with all our heart yet they remain oblivious. These are the results of our past doings, something that we have no control upon.

So, we live life, part cautious, not understanding why some people do somethings but hoping that things get better, and do more, for our own selfish reasons and at times to repay the debts of others that we had borne in some life.

4 letters, 5 words

Fear, Like, Love, Hate and Hide.

Most of our life revolves around them, little boxes that are branded with these words and tucked in corners of the maze in our heads and hearts.

Funnily enough sometimes they form a cycle and run after each other.

It starts with the little things that go unnoticed, how that one unruly strand of her hair always sets itself free and swishes past her face, the tense eyebrows while she reads a line, over and over again, a misplaced snort at the end of her long laugh, or the way she shuts her eyes when she bumps into someone, unwilling to face their angry eyes.

Like then turns into love, actually a concoction of love and fear. You bare your heart out to them, and hand it over. It’s theirs to keep, in return all you ask for is a piece of their heart and a place in their lives.
Is it too much to ask? A fair bargain indeed!

But with love stems fear, what if they stop loving you one day, pack their bags and leave?
How could they, you ask.
But love was never an agreement, only a promise to love. Not a cage or a prison to keep someone in. Nor a lost suit to pay damages in tears and curses.

After all the one who wins in a loss has lost, too.

With love out of the window and fear sitting drenched and cornered, hate brings its bags along to stay. Eating at you, one bit at a time. Blaming you for listening to love.
‘Look how easily love left!’, it chides. Mocks. Laughs.

You clutch hate and it reassures you that it would never leave you, never let you forget what love has done.

Let’s get revenge, it roars. Fear, too timid to raise its voice agrees along. You foster hate, feed it, watch it grow. Stalk, gossip, investigate and burn. Bewildered at how someone who has caused you pain can stay happy.
How is it fair?

Hate builds its bridges, towns and palaces in your heart. You fill each room with one person, the ones who wouldn’t give you their hearts, the cheats who took yours. Every hurt, every pain is allotted rooms, one at a time.

Time passes, the palaces become old, some tear down, new constructions take place and the hurt gets pushed away, still lurking in a corner. But now you have befriended hide.

Hide tells you to hide, your heart, your feelings, your secrets, your life, your pain, your love. You camouflage love with friendship, buy enough masks for the number of people you meet and smile, a practiced one, not too happy nor too sad.

No one ever tells you that its okay to brood, sit down and cry, like the way the 5 years old you would wail when you scraped your knee. All this hiding, hating, liking, loving is a painful cycle.

So why don’t we just love?
Love those who love us and the ones who do not. Love and watch them pack their bags and walk right out of our hearts, never pulling down the shutters but keeping them open for more love to walk in. To not try and mend those cracks, let them stand to commemorate all that we had once had.

Forgive ourselves, for all the failure and the heartbreak, for the pain and the misjudgment.

Because you are all that you have, forever and always.


For as long as I can remember, I have loved the winters, with passion.

Most people look at me with questioning eyes and tilted faces, on how I could love winters more than the rains and summer. That’s just how it has always been, I answer.

Come mid-November and you can feel the air around get heavier, colder. The trees don’t maniacally sway, a gentle breeze flows and the leaves shiver. Most often in the mornings, I find myself walking on golden leaves that have withered away, admiring pink and white bougainvilleas that creep over old worn out walls, picking up one or two flowers that have been shed during the night for keepsakes.

The nights set in earlier and I find myself sitting on the terrace, watching the sky turn from a mild lilac, to a light shade of pink, blazing oranges to fade into darkness. Occasionally sighting a star, I sit amidst the distant honking of vehicles, the buzzing mosquitoes and use my palms to warm my arms and feet, to watch the sun set.

But off late I haven’t been able to write, no matter what, the words don’t spill out and the ink runs dry. There was a time when I bled words onto the paper, my mind clear as I recall memories.

I could find myself standing right at the moment, watching the events unfold, the way light seeped in through the blue curtains, the smell of chai brewing, his distinctive laugh, high pitched noise of the doorbell, every little detail.

With time though and come winter, my senses seem to have dulled. I can’t recollect his face, it comes to me in bits and pieces, like a puzzle that I have to put together, things that would take seconds to recall now take hours.

Nights though are the worst, without notice I drift away to the last time that I saw him, on the railway station’s platform. It’s remarkable how little details that would have gone unnoticed come rushing to me, the hawker’s cry, a make shift shop selling books and magazines, the red coat coolies running after the train, my his face is still blurry in my memory, I can see his hand waving at me and then him standing at the steps of the train as it picks up speed.

A warped sense of time leads me to believe that this happening to me at present, reality and dreams get muddled. I wake up with a start, unable to go through the pain, over and over again. A wave of sadness sweeps me across and pushes me right into an ocean, breathless, sinking and drowning, at all once.

So I wander, make myself a cup of coffee, pick up a book, build a castle of pillows and blankets and look outside my window. Hoping and wondering if things are ever going to get better.

Bloggers, Struggles and a whole new life

It is surreal how when you look at the blue sea, a vast green field sprinkled with daisies, out in the open under the scattered clouds on a sunny day or beneath the many million stars at night that you realize how insignificant you are.

About how tiny your problems may seem in comparison to the boundlessness of the sky, the infinite depth of the sea and the mystery of the unknown.

But for people who don’t get to go out there and lay under the star studded skies or travel to faraway lands, getting a glimpse of people’s lives serve to be the perfect support that you need during these times.

Out of the many bloggers that I have met here, though from conversations and reading about their posts, it gives me a peak into their lives but I have realized now that there is this entire story to their struggles, things that tick and push them, which I don’t have a clue about.

Very recently a friend , Jithin had written a book about his life, his journey to being who he is now and reading it gave me a start. I always assumed that people unlike me knew where they had to go and how to go about the same, like everyone managed to get hold of a manual or figured out what to do with life early on.

And that I knew him well. But now that I have read about his life, it feels almost unreal, like being privy to someone’s life. How often do you get to have that?

There are probably many reasons why you should read his book, but a few things that it is not.

It’s not a guide to life, it doesn’t tell you as to how to be a traveler, or how to figure things out. If you’re looking at a happy ending where the protagonist gets the girl and turns into a millionaire, this isn’t it.

The book talks about one person’s struggle through life, the ups and downs of it, a journey towards self-discovery, the pain of love, of how to conquer your fears.

And there is a sense of peace that you get after reading the book, of how tiny your hurdles in comparison to what someone has already faced and emerged out of it, scathed maybe but stronger.

I believe that there is probably one reason why you should buy this book after reading this insanely long paragraph that someone in some corner of the world is writing, it is because the more you give, the more love you throw into the universe, you are bound to receive it back, one way or the other.

Kindle versions are as below –

From amazon.inFrom amazon.com , Paperback version


There is something melodramatic about bridges.

An uneven path, strewn with red gulmohars, overlooking a stream.

At times a meeting point for lovers, midway through.

Each taking their fair share of compromise, of going the distance, finishing each other’s sentences.

Sometimes we reluctantly build bridges.

Someone, somewhere extends you their hand, arm, a sympathetic ear and if you’re lucky, their heart.

But what happens when you are left stranded on the bridge that you built with someone.

A broken heart.

A tragic separation.

Do you continue to stand on the bridge, alone, stranded?

Waiting for their return.

Wait for time to heal wounds, provide answers, or just run?

To burn those bridges that cause nothing but pain.

But, wouldn’t it be better if we stood on those very bridges with ourselves,

Relished the breeze, soaked in the view and counted the stars.