I have always believed

I have always believed that the rains around me grew up as I did.

Look at them now, giving it back just like they received.
Rebellious and idealistic, they were also in my teens.

I have always believed that the rains around me grew up as I did.

Moody flings, we now have, with multiple seasons,
Experienced and fickle, sometimes
Fickle and naive, the others.

Dreading what our world has in store
Polluting others, sometimes
Contaminated by them, the others.

I have always believed that the rains around me grew up as I did.

Sweetly, we’d talk
The same aura, we had,
fresh and lively, in the morning
noisy and bright.

Now, full of fumes,
gray and stale,
We disappear in the crowd, all too hale.

Appearances, we keep,
Drowning our skies in colours abound, sometimes,
Drowning others in overflowing garbage, the others.

I have always believed that the rains around me grew up and apart, as I did.

On brighter days, I live a little more
green leaves, soggy paper boats, I prefer not anymore.

I have always believed that the rains around me grew up and apart, as I did.

Like sisters married:
Stale conversations,
the same explanations.

But once, every charming midnight,
we go back in time,
on my favourite adventure,
in the balcony, out the window rails,
we seek out each other,
Spreading hands wide,
We talk, we reconcile
Age and I.


Why am I an unsuitable candidate for a given position?

For as long as I can remember, I used to maintain a journal – noting down bits and pieces, now and then. Today, it has become more than difficult to even write a sentence. I often go back and question myself whether I am even capable of writing anything anymore – whether I ever was. I wonder why my friends want me to help them with their essays – especially, when corporates and schools easily shortlist theirs and mine get boxed in piles of rejects. How does one proceed when characters stop talking and fingers cannot move anymore? Paper parchments remain dry save for that blot of ink, which never really shaped any letters. My mind keeps questioning. And my heart, it keeps droning – it will come back, all of that talent that people praised me for and that one thing, I had one day, long ago thought, I was good for. Now, I judge my plot lines to be broken, characters to be shallow and sentences too long. How do I go on like this? Sorrow should inspire me to write, and joy should bring out the mirth in my stories. I can spin no more yarns, for they all end up in knots. Look how lazy I am. To bring accolades, I write about my laziness.

I have browsed through my Facebook feed, checked Whatsapp twice. Can anyone believe that it is after one am? I still expect people to be constantly going about their social media activities, while they should be sleeping. I do have all the excuses. How does one go on like this? So, I am an internet addict who does not post anything on social media but does keep checking all her accounts constantly.

In school, I was a devoted student, reading not just my text books but others as well. College converted me so much that all I read is random shizz on the internet. Newspapers, often remain unturned and classes unattended. Very few professors knew me by name and by the end of the final year I never even made the effort. Do you see how the tone of this piece (if we can call it that) has changed? I told you, after a point of being fruitless, I leave everything to nothing. Also, like I mentioned before – nobody hired me and nobody enrolled me.

Creativity is definitely not my forte and I have a difficult time wracking my brain to be original. If you want me to give you my introduction, I’ll probably tell you my name. And everybody knows how boring that is! And if you want to just talk, I have a few topics – weather, places to eat at and how to screw up conversations. See?

For example, I wanted to take up running. I did run between a few sport stores to find running shoes and then, zilch. I thought I would take up yoga – puked on the yoga mats three days into the program, and never saw the hall again. So, right now I cannot be called a fit person. I boast of ugly double chin, open pores on my dull skin and a paunch, which precedes me every time I enter a room.

Going ahead for me is like going two steps backward – every time. I do not want to edit and I definitely do not want to write. I want to sleep all day, roll on my bed, put my feet above my head, watch YouTube videos, not interact, eat chicken and prawns all day long, and did I say sleep? I am not editing this and I am not finishing this. Lazy, I told you so and the utter procrastinator!

A/N – This is to all the statement of purpose I have ever written and wondered what it would be like to write the opposite.


‘There is more to life than what we have seen. The day school ends, we shall all cross a threshold. That day, a door shall forever be closed upon us. And the privileged ones will all leave behind their naivety because that is what the other side of the door requires of us.’  Words she had spoken and words, which could not have been truer. In an attempt to be courageous, she might as well have found the secret of life or at least that of survival.
She is jerked back to the present as the car drives over yet another speed breaker on the state highway. She is enveloped in the night’s darkness. The road sky is bereft of street lights and the velvety night sky is barren. She cannot see anyone. No one can see her. She realises that her i-pod which she had been listening to, is still playing. She switches it off. That she gauges is another light being put out. She hunts for the earphones, she had plugged into her ear at the beginning of the journey but had lost them in her bouts of dozes and preoccupation. Strangely, she does not know where the car is. She smiles wryly, wondering what is new about that. She seems to lose way frequently nowadays. And in her search and chagrin, she loses grip on her music player as well.
The car lurches forward again. This time, it is over an unexpected pothole in the road. She jolts forward and falls on the luggage. She had not realised how cramped she had been, sitting for six hours in the back of the car until it had been too late. She was stuffed along with luggage – suitcases, cartons and with loose bags thrown somewhere. She is petite and everybody thinks it is easier for her to fit in – convenient. For whom, she wonders?  She hears others in the front seat, telling the driver to take it slow. She does not make a sound – cramped and sore, though she is. She just assembles herself back in the small seat as if she were but a piece of broken machinery. Well broken, isn’t she?
As impossible as it sounds, she goes back to her quest of finding her travel companions – the player and the ear plugs. She realises that they are not on the seat. They are probably lost in the crowd of other inanimates. She tries to search for them with her hands but she cannot find them. The rhythm of the silent drive is broken yet again. Abandoning her search, accepting the inaccessibility of it, she resumes her seat.
Her inability and realisation of failure together with all her bouts of preoccupation and her epiphanies attack her.  An incoherent sob escapes her, choking her. She tries to muffle it. She knows that this is yet another sign of a failure about to greet her. She gives up. She does what she has been doing for a while now. She buries her head in her arms and buries her self in herself. She cries – silent but loud sobs. She cries. Nobody listens to her. Her world, however, echoes with them and her spirit suffers yet another fissure from the incoherency.
The honking of a truck and slamming of doors wake her up from a fitful and sob induced sleep. She feels the salty tracks of tears and kohl  lining down her cheeks. Quickly trying to rub them off with her hands, she flutters her eyes to clear the haze. A sharp piercing light, a light so bright that it initially hurts. She tries to escape it: bury her eyes deep down in the sockets, guard them with eyelids. And she would if she could. Slowly, however, she brings herself to face it. Then, the door sounds and is opened. All the bags, cartons and cases are removed – noisily, slowly but efficiently, bringing in light to her darkened corner.
She realises that they have reached. She  will also reach her destination. She contemplates bidding her time as she gets off the car. This probably is the first stop in a long journey to find words, which will string together answers that she has been looking for forever.

Last Minute Rush!

As somebody who is at quite a few lasts in her life at the moment, I don’t think I could have come up with a better title for my never-as-late-as-ever post.

Sitting in my version of cupboard under the stairs, I truly have better things to do –

  1. Study for my last semester exams, which begin on Wednesday
  2. Look for a place to intern at beginning next month
  3. Look for a new place to stay in, hopefully, in the same city come July
  4. Study for entrances, which I have to take next month
  5. Pack up the last three years in boxes, cartons, luggage and ship them home
  6. Say goodbye!

But here I am, writing this blog hoping to do this for at least the next three months while I look for a purpose in life.

To be honest, all the exams that I have taken through eighteen years of my academic life I have had the same desire: go to sleep and don’t wake up until they are over. This time, it is different. My marks are going to be a mess – internals have already proven as much. I haven’t studied for the horrible subject that Taxation is and I might as well not go and not take it. I have, however, no desire to go to sleep. If it were up to me, I would keep awake and savour this month – learn, catch up and not say goodbye.

What is really astonishing to me is I did not feel this way when I left school, left home and came to a new city for my undergraduate! Nope..there was excitement and relief to have left all that behind. Right now, I don’t think I would like anything more but to box everything and a few special ones around me. Maybe, it is just the fear of the real world.

Moving on from exams, I have to intern this summer or go home. I am torn. I haven’t home for more than 4 days in the last one and a half years and that was twice. At the same time, I need to up my ability to get a job by interning somewhere before I start postgrad.

And did I tell you, I have given my shitty ass landlord notice without actually finding a place to live? So, I have exactly 21 days to move my ass and get a new room somewhere!

I don’t think I am in a position to talk about packing. I have unending books lying on my study table waiting for me to pick them up and read. Alas! I shall have to put them in cartons and send them home.

I have no clue why I am writing this but I am going to do the same thing for the next three months because this blog – though un-updated and unfollowed has been a constant for four years now.

If only I could switch on my yellow lights, GA episodes and be the ostrich, I dream to be.




Wilted || Chapter One: Hot Pink Rubber Ties

Chapter One: Hot Pink Rubber Ties


‘I have life, I have love, I have faith and it’s enough.’ – Nepal Photo Project

To-do                                                                                                                            1st November, 2014

  1. Give away last week quiz grades in IV-B; Reminders about fountain pens;
  2. Start talking to III-A about doctors and nurses; Introduce Florence Nightingale;
  3. Pick-up Post-its and refills for red and black pens; Chocolates too!
  4. Talk to the administration;
  5. Work on essays and read up.

Making to-do lists and striking through them was a habit she had acquired in college. Now, as Roshni Sharma stared dejectedly at that day’s, she wondered if she could get through this one. Keeping her little black diary back inside her black faux leather satchel, she got up from the window seat and walked to the front of the city-bus. As she waited for the bus to stop, she pulled out her Moto G to check for texts or calls. There were none unless you counted group texts on the ‘Staff at Grahams’ group.  With a humourless chuckle, she carefully got off the bus.

The sky had already turned a dark hue of pink at five. With the slight chill in the air, it was obvious that winter was not far behind. Roshni adjusted her silk scarf over her mauve kurta and walked towards the noisy and loud market on the other side of the road.

As a primary school teacher, she learnt a lot everyday – mostly re-learnt lessons which needed to be taught whether about characters in history book or just tiny basic life lessons. Like every other day, there had been kids with birthdays that day as well. Tiny little girls with brand new hair ribbons and pretty dolls or boys with a new car, they had left behind at home. For them, it was about chocolates, new stationery and more hugs and kisses from everybody. When she shook hands with them and took the chocolates from the trays, she wanted to be them. A nice birthday lunch and loads of cuddling! As she walked into the general store, she spotted the candy aisle and with a gleam in her eyes walked towards it. Chocolates and Stationery! She smiled at that. After all, wasn’t the day the same for her as well? And who cared about birthdays, really?

Every age and every birthday is supposed to be a new beginning of sorts. A beginning where one refuses to allow themselves to be sucked into the spasm of the past, make merry in the present and look forward to the responsibilities, joys and senility of older age. Having said that, dear readers – what if the present is bleaker than the past? How do you live then? Well, growing up isn’t easy. It is difficult to make choices and take responsibilities for them. But then, life isn’t always pretty but it is always beautiful!

There was something about Cheesecakes that pulled her to the bakery. Ironically, it did not serve any cheesecake. The owner, Mrs. Wadhwa said that names were always overrated. It was a small establishment with rich wood floorboards and warm yellow lighting. It was probably one of those places in the town, which reminded Roshni of its old charm, one that only small towns on hill tops have. The place did not have a huge seating arrangement – just enough for one to feel cosy and cuddled in the cushioned chairs. That is exactly how she felt, once she was settled on her corner table waiting for her piece of cake, while sipping her warm peach tea. On any other day, she would spend a few hours there, reading a book, simply correcting papers or just preparing her next lesson. Today, however, her mind went off to the conversation she’d had with her parents before school.

When her phone had rung at seven, she had picked it up hesitantly almost whispering the customary Hello.

So, what is the plan today?’ Her mom had asked.

I have school.’ The answer had been obvious to her on a weekday.

Catch the afternoon bus and come home,’ Her father had interrupted her as if she had never spoken. ‘We can have a birthday dinner with everybody.’

‘Maa, I cannot miss school. We have the cultural programme coming up,’ She had chosen to address her mom and decline the invitation.

You did not even come home for Diwali, Roshu,’ Her mother had whined. ‘Do you also have a guy tucked in there like Rhea? In the name of this awful job, I don’t understand why you would waste such good education like this.’

‘Sunita!’ Her father’s reprimanding tone had followed.

Roshni had tuned out the rest of the conversation as it went downhill like so many others. Maa would talk about hope and useless jobs at the same time. And then, Roshni could no longer endure a longer conversation. It was not just her mother – it was everybody. That reflected in the number of wishes, she had received that day.

It was bizarre, how they had sworn not to lose touch and be there for each other. Nobody had stayed. Everybody had moved on and so, had she – away from the light of her dreams. Maybe, Mrs Wadhwa was correct. Names are overrated.

Then her piece of Death By Chocolate pastry arrived with a rainbow magic candle she had not ordered, a plastic knife and a roll of hot pink rubber-ties. She looked up from the tray into the warm brown eyes of the beholder.

‘Happy Birthday Roshni!

Wilted | Prologue


Stuck in my head for a long time, this story has seen as many ups and downs as my life for the past few years. In a moment of gloom, it was born. I knew not then that I will not be able to abandon it like so many things in my life; from friendships to half written journals. Wilted, till now, has survived it all.


Only in moments of despair, do we crave for the harmony of monotony.

In the harshness of the Sun, the winter breeze is welcome.

But when lonely, loneliness engulfs you so hard,

You forget the warmth of a friendly hug.


The granite had never felt as cold as it did in that moment. She wanted to sleep, a dreamless peaceful slumber which would engulf her until morning. When had life been so accommodating? She wanted the hatred to consume her and take her through to the end of the journey. She wanted to stop huddling like a foetus and stop crying like a food-deprived baby. She wanted to lie down on the turquoise tiles, let the iciness embrace her and be lost in oblivion. Ironically, her cotton pyjamas were drenched in sweat. She could feel the beads in the swell of her breasts. More tears rolled down her cheeks, allowing a feeling of self-loath and chagrin settle over. She closed her eyes tight in an attempt to savour the moment. Red-rimmed, she opened them the next moment and asked nobody in general if it would ever be over; that feeling of incomplete acceptance.

She laughed, hollow, loud and crass.

To have such heavy a weight resting on her shoulder and she was only twenty-two.

To have surrounded herself with so much of darkness, it was absurd when she was light.



Food, I have always believed is the cure of all grief. To strengthen it further, homemade snacks in a hostel far away from home had really helped me make friends. Bribe, though it might be called but dear reader, believe me when I helped. One evening, I took a Tupperware container full of crispy mathris around the hostel floor and without afterthought climbed down the stairs to go visit friends on lower floor. I remember as if it were just this evening – the sound of unending cries and howls echoing the corridor. Like someone was in immense pain and the grief would not go away with her squeaking sobs. I approached the door, eavesdropping – indecisive whether I wanted to enter the almost strangers room. I knew I shouldn’t but I could not leave. I could hear some softer interruption and consolation. A friend or perhaps the roommate, I didn’t know. Intruder that I was, I knocked, went in and made a complete fool of myself and embarrassed her.

Ironically, she ended up helping me instead of the other way round. I am sure I would never have talked to her again had she not texted me and apologized. I have never understood what she was apologising for. Since then however, she has remained until now. It hasn’t been a very long time – just a year and a half, but she has been always there. Like my knight in shining armour, she takes care of me. She listens to me rant about doing creepy things and tells me of creepier things, she’s done. She ends a long lecture with ‘it is nothing to worry about.’ Though she teases me about being short, she’s very fierce about protecting me when I have a bad day.

Today, I won’t have a nice month until I have sent her weird quotes and shared weird travel plans with her or she hasn’t given me her much-needed tips. Once upon a time, a very dear friend had sent me a dream catcher to ward away nightmares and make all my dreams come true. This one person is like that – making sure that she helps me carve my wishes true anyway that she can.

She is my wingman, as she defines it and I agree. She’ll shoo away anybody who gives me grief and I never want her to stop – wouldn’t want her to disappear like just anyone in life. With her drama, her dreams and our travel plans – she’s here to stay. Sometimes, when she is in one of her ranting stupors, I interrupt her to start one of mine – one on the social issues, the Marwari issues and issues in general. She, however, listens again in rapt attention. She comes up with simple solutions for the general ones, calling the Marwari incorrigible. In those moments, I cannot express how thankful I am that she was born and I met her.

She has dreams of her own, which will enchant you, dear reader. She is a paradox. Sometimes, she’ll talk about chugging bottles of beer and other times, she’ll talk about taking control of the administration. For all her five feet and flaws, she takes up responsibilities like a woman on a mission. She is unsure and panics as well. She is but human.
On this day, to that human, I wish her new jobs, better colleagues, no cold feet about getting old and dreams fulfilled. Happy Birthday!