Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Diary: Page 5

I have mixed thoughts today. Was it right? Was it wrong? I try to look deeper into myself. But no hints yet.

My mind can jump from one thought to another. Like this.

To that.

To another.

Are you going to read this? Today? Tomorrow? Someday?

If you do, please know, I am sorry.

But I am not sorry.

No actually I am.

You were amazing.

No you were NOT.

You had a good soul. I never saw I guess.

I let you go. I let myself go.

I am sorry.

No I am not sorry.

I am just... here and there.

Someday I hope you know.

Someday I hope you never know.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

So much of me

What stroke you to fall for a woman like me, I often wonder. I don’t write poems of love, long emails about how much you mean to me and how I crave your lips on my neck.

The idea of me was nice perhaps. The idea of me around always was even better. But what you forgot to contemplate of the idea of me with you always, was that poems don’t fall from the sky into your writing book. Passion neither into your blood.

When I miss you, I hug you. When I miss you, I check on you. When I miss you, I come home early. Every day was with you and every night was with you. I am always with you and the love poems are never born neither the emails with passion because there is not possibility of missing each other.

Perhaps I should not have given so much of myself to you. I should not have done so much. Spoke so much. Hugged so much. Kissed so much. So much of anything was not good for ‘us’.

Let it be

I like how you say I am not a liberated soul. I like how you observe this about me.

I often let my soul free. It wanders; sometimes it comes back and sometimes it goes missing and I work mechanically for days at my office desk.

I would say my soul is lost; not liberated. Do you know why? Because lost is the easy way to conclude. Simple and self-explanatory. Like what do you ask a person who is lost – where are you?

My soul is lost and don’t ask me where or when. Just that I am not ashamed to acknowledge this state of me and that is probably why I still keep my blog as ‘a liberated soul’.

Sunday, February 12, 2017


There is no stairway to this man’s heart. His heart has no windows or doors.

I could rip open his heart and make my way, but that will make me a murderer. I don’t want to be a murderer.

And what if his heart is empty. What if I tear out more and see there is nothing for me in his heart?

I don’t want him to be my murderer. 

Art life

'So how is your art life?'

'Don't have one.'

If by art you meant writing, I don't write anymore.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Diary: Page 4

I am tired today. I feel like my little world has stopped revolving. 
I am tired today. Like tired in a way, I don't wish to part the curtains of my bedroom. 
Like I wish not to see the Sun. Or this morning or the stars tonight. 

Why do you do this to me? Why do you act like you don't know?

My heart is in my hands. And where is your heart? I don't even know. Locked away perhaps? Or maybe with someone whom I don't even know.
That's how extremes we are, you see.

I am tired of how you have left me to imagine what could possibly be your thoughts. 
I am tired of everything in short. Even tired of writing this. 

Monday, March 28, 2016

I first met him at a club.

It was the night of Holi and a weekend. Me and a ‘we-look- happy’ but trust us ‘we-are-not-so-happy’ couple decide to hit a Desi club. The couple is a friend and a not-so-familiar husband of her.

The club was filled with unknown faces and cigarette smoke. Crazy, crowded and loud. Typical!

5 rounds of tequila and surprisingly I didn’t feel drunk. I was getting bored and decided to find a partner to dance.My eyes wandered from lonelyguy1 to lonelyguy2 and more and a few more.


But then the DJ played a romantic song with a handful of his usual EDM beats and I danced like a heroine of Bollywood movie. I then wanted a hero. A heroine is never complete without her hero who lets her dance around him and occasionally around a huge tree. I had to find one. And that’s when I first met him. I glanced upon this really attractive man, 6’2 or even more, built with seductive eyes and smile to die for.

Everything so perfect. I walked closer to him, but I was stopped by force totally unexpected. Twists are a big thing in Bollywood you see. Out of nowhere the not-so-familiar husband of my friend was on fire. Jealous and burning he just won’t let me close to Mr. Seductive Eyes.

In reality, my friend’s drunk husband was pain anywhere weird you can think of. The situation was quiet embarrassing. All the more for my friend.

Anyways back to story. The distance between us was only a few steps. I rolled my eyes out of disappointment. But all he did was smile and watch me dance. I frowned, he smiled more to cheer me up.

The rest of the music till 3 am was only for him. All my attention, all my moves and all my kisses went flying to him.

When the music stopped, I walked up to him. We looked at each other with a smile on our lips. And if eyes could speak, I know what he asked me.

‘What’s your story?’