Flowers For A Grave

We never did say goodbye.

That’s what gets to me. Everything about this feels wrong.

Especially the fact that I’m counting on this piece to tell you what I can’t bring myself to.

It’s ironic how it went from when I could hit you up with anything just a month ago to this blankness.

This gaping void that widens the more I consider crossing it.


Just a month. What ever did happen?


I did get busy.

I got as busy as I could to hide. Conveniently.

I needed the space to stop thinking about how I was betraying you.

If having feelings is a perfectly natural instinct that people cannot avoid, so must be not reciprocating.

And I can’t.

This shouldn’t have to be this hard. Read more


There’s a blessing to your eyes

With a dainty face, the opposite of shy

The wispy flyaways, long lashes

Flutter just so slightly,

Graceful like a Knightley

In an Oscar nominated film

She wouldn’t watch.


The peace on her face, the expression lacking

Everything, it’s so easy to fall for her-

You should, it’s a treat to see

A sleep-struck friend. My sleep-struck friend.


Olive blanket, pale glow of fair skin

Speckled with red pimples, but you’ll still love her

Closed eyes that you instinctively know are pretty,

Thick hair scattered over an olive pillow.

Awake, it’s a whole new scenario.


You still want to be her friend though,

it’s still a treat to behold a pretty face and figure,

This time, the face is rife with irritation

And amusement and teasing glints

As she tries not at all to be cool


Authenticity suits her, just like her clothes

Custom made and perfectly fitted

The colours complementing her personality,

Equally vivid and mesmerizing

Carried effortlessly.


You want to be her friend- she’s a perfect catch

Moody and lazy and pretty and kind

Caring, funny, manipulative, short fused

It’s a joy to behold her, a tall task to keep her

But you’re gonna wanna try.



As hard as she can test your nerves

As hard as her games hit you

As hard as your elation can fall,

It’s an improvement to not knowing her

It’s a privilege to know her

It’s worth taking all those pictures,

Not being in any one,

It’s a far cry from misery, it’s worth a picture credit

At least.

And her company.


But when you see her pretty, blank face

Sleeping soundly, the pride lost

You will wonder what changes

When the delicate eyes flutter open.

(Almost fiction, inspired by the truly unique CP. 🙂 )

Visit to discover Indian blogs

On Writing

Writing, I personally think, is for the haughty.

Those who believe in their values, that their opinions are justifiable, that they can withstand criticism, who claim responsibility and ownership, even demand credit over the fruits of their mind. People with statements to defend, with battles to win against a better equipped enemy, and words to weave into a legacy. These people, I’m truly jealous of. They spin tales of pretentious awareness, write for an audience that believes in the author’s competence just a little less than the author themselves, write pitiful real life tales with happy endings for social media to fawn over, publish articles that make one believe they are the refugees unable to seek asylum rather than first world softies they really are (probably).


I write, though because I cannot be bothered to express otherwise.

Because I don’t like to.

Because I don’t know how to.

Because there’s not always an audience to receive.

Because there are some things you just cannot speak out.

Because everything sounds like poetry when I read it silently, the eloquence that’s often missing in speech.

And because it’s the quietest show of power there could be.

The power of the words to make harmonious comprehension, the power of an idea that could potentially change lives and the power of permanence in the fluid world of text.


I’ve never found more satisfaction in expression than I have whilst writing. Sadly, however, I have lost my touch, the talent that is better in memory than it probably was when I believe I had it. Hence, as a project to help my words flow, my fingers type with a hundred mistakes a minute and an effort to be accountable to the skill I think I lost, is this blog, whose story you do not know (nor wish to, presumably).

Writing here, I think, has given me more than a legitimate excuse to procrastinate from all that burdens me. It gives me an ambition to write more and for more eyes than my two, it gives me tangible goals to set (and yes, break), and a sense of propriety for what I choose to express. Thank a higher power for the internet that makes this possible.


Let’s also not talk about me for a change.

Except everything I write is more representative of me than what I could ever tell you. I write like people use pictures on Instagram- to tell a tale indirectly, to prove to the world they really do exist and in a more curated manner than IRL.

I couldn’t flood you with a barrage of words like I will in a particularly interesting (for me) blogpost. I couldn’t wait to find someone with the patience to listen to me rant about the most mundane, wacky, pedestrian subjects ever. Like my writing about writing.

Like how I would craft very imaginary, fictitious worlds in my head over the years but never bothered to pen the numerous stories that could be down because I was scared of how they would be received. Think Gossip Girl meets real life characters like you or me. Think pushing the limits of fanfiction.


All the teasers aside, writing is seriously integral to my identity now, a mirror into my small imagination that was once a labyrinth of possibilities. I intend to write till I can produce that content I like to read (or that I remember me writing), or I die.

Whichever comes first.

The Least Important Questions Ever.


Well, these questions keep persistently irritating me (hell, I wish they did, frankly) which is why I thought I’d answer them for a quick post (you really needn’t read this if you wish):



  • What am I even doing? Short answer, typing out a post that should have gone up by now. (Long answer, I can’t wait to bore you with: here).
  • Do you ever sleep? My parents would answer in the affirmative, my dark circles would prove otherwise.
  • Do you have any friends? I’d like to think so- a grand total of 367 when I left Facebook.
  • No, really? I don’t know how to maintain too many simultaneously so I have a handful of friends everywhere I go, but only just few. Acquaintances, numerous.


  • How are you so tall? I actually stretch myself really, really well each morning- like taffy- so it adds a foot to my frame everyday. Oh, and Horlicks. And swimming. And cycling. And living long enough to grow.
  • How are you so funny? I just try really, really hard.                                                                Oh, what? That was sarcasm..?
  • Where do you find your vast library of music from? Hours of consistent digging on the internet, following the most obscure leads and suggestions and keeping an open mind. And it used to also stem from internet torrent downloads, but no more. That’s illegal and unfair (and banned from the hostel LAN connection).


   (Quick suggestion: Listen to this here.)


  • Why are you so interested in everything? Au contraire, I never liked football and most other sports.
  • Don’t you feel weird and ugly/bad/insecure being around more attractive and beautiful people? (PS. Legit question I got asked.) I never thought others saw my features and body as ugly and detestable till that point, but it explains a lot. Short version of my answer: It depends on what’s expected of me in a situation- I can cope with almost everything except sitting still and looking pretty and making conversation- so I’m sorted most of the times. Long answer: There is none. There’s only nuances.
  • Rate your life out of a 10: I’d honestly have to say 6.5.
  • Will you ever stop boring me? Sincerely, yes- when my objective is achieved- and even more sincerely, thank you for even being here.



*Waving hand emoji*