Category Archives: Anecdotes

Her Skin is Not Who She Is

Before you judge a woman for her colour or her scars, maybe you must remember the skin of your own mother, her love, her smile, her wounds, her cries, her sacrifices, her surrendering moments were all so vast that probably for most of us, she’s the first woman who was perfect in her flaws.
The girl you judge might be for you a moment, a passage of time, a life that doesn’t matter but the same girl, the same girl cried several nights trying to find her own soul and check whether it has a light or it too is a lie.
The same girl let the tap in the basin make louder noise than the cries of her heart just because she was scared of being judged a little more.
The same girl might have fought unknown battles against something she deserved to fall in love with.
Before you judge a girl for her skin or her face, would you not like to fall in love with the thought that her face had galaxies resting upon it, maybe she knows it and maybe she doesn’t.
Would you not like to fall in love with the thought that she too might break every nerve visible through her skin into laughter one day when serenity touches her and sets her a little more free.
Would you not like to fall in love with the thought that despite her flaws, she too is a journey through her own valleys and rivers, she too is a map to somewhere inside her soul.
Would you not like to fall in love with a thought that when each one of us stop looking at just a face, we would start reading the wholeness of a soul beneath it.

~ There’s a lot more than you can see on the surface


At the centre of the storm

I spent a few hours standing at the centre of my rooftop, observing the thunderstorm that hit me from right and left, sometimes with an unprecedented anguish and sometimes how desperate love touches; childlike. I stood there letting my skin soak whatever it could- of the rain that has made my heart half sentimental, as it is.

Nobody ever taught me that when it rains, I would feel good, I would feel nostalgic. Some of my bruises would come alive and some would be washed off. I just fell in love with the rain in the most conventional manner. I gazed at it, I felt it and I couldn’t make sense of the blooming earth without a few drops of rain dancing around it.

Maybe, I am trying to say that in that thunderstorm, observing it, soaking it and believing in it- I realised it was a lot of my life. A lull and a song, paralleled, flowing in various directions​ but just for the same purpose: to be a life, a love, a freedom.

Some days the sunbeam fails me

Love is only a sunbeam gifted to us too briefly.

Sometimes I can smell eternity in this light, so deep that it makes home in the core of my stomach turning me into a silent bubble floating around the world. Bleeding away the wounds and healing like I own the secrets of the universe. Above the ground, somewhere in the middle of the air taking no space, numbed with a sense of euphoria.

And other times I cannot even look at the light. Neither within nor in the whisks of the fruity air around me. It fails to remind me of flowers and mandalas and poems that otherwise fill me up with life songs. I feel I dissolve in the backdrop of my life. I become one of these lonely things around like a balloon or a dried old tree or a noisy wall hanging. Some days the sunbeam fails me.

Curves of my body

When did any of our body part become a commodity to be compared to or felt conscious about? All those scoundrel eyes that judge,  rape, harass or humiliate, I’ve seen women coiling all of it around their bodies and as if years after years they have detached completely from it. As if their soul and their flesh are two different people. As if it’s their mistake.
Why? Why do we forget to make love to our own hands and feet. Why can’t we sit in front of the mirrors making faces and loving every inch of our skin with devotion so overwhelming.  Why can’t we decorate our bodies with our touch and fragrance like our home. Imagine what heaven would it be to feel this body as the only cover that uplifts its bird, the soul inside. Why can’t we touch ourselves up to toe and feel like we’re butterflies out of our cocoons. Why can’t we dance with our flesh in the air drooling and swaying like lunatics and never feel the need to hold someone else’s hand or waist to feel complete. Why can’t we make love to ourselves drunk over our own bodies so much that it’s unnecessary to think of other’s flesh.

Photo by Kansuke Yamamoto


There has always been a part of me detached from this world. The more I hear people talk more I want to stay shut. Silence. They don’t talk to share. To make my heart feel what their heart would have felt in that instance. They talk to tell. Sometimes they’d even do some things just to be able to narrate it to people later. It makes me upset and honestly, sometimes it drives me crazy. How could they do it? Corrupt everything about a moment in their lives so much that they weren’t even living in there while they made it happen. As if even their illusions are corrupt because they never live the illusions in the first place. The labels they use, the grandeur of their falsehood feeding their hearts makes me shut. And when once in a while I see a man or a woman talk like they’ve ripped their heart open without prejudices, opinions or judgments, I fail to believe the rarity of it. I want to listen more but that’s the tragedy you know, the raw ones, they know when to stop. That’s the thing about people and their talks. The ugliness of definitions, labels and lies and the beauty of unaltered honesty, both would affect you deeply in life.

Image by Joe Alison


10:40 pm

I’m sick again. Have you ever met a person in your life who gets sick because of waiting, thinking too much, taking everything way too personally or may be someone who does nothing the whole day, I mean who doesn’t go out to any office or work, doesn’t see the stark sunlight hitting right in the eyes and doesn’t have to taste the mud swirling in the air for no reason and yet gets sick at the end of the day because of waiting for a day. A day. Yes all I know about this day I’m waiting for is that it exists. On a page still left to turn of a calendar, it is written. This one day I’m waiting for. Other than that I don’t know anything. I’m escaping from everything and running mercilessly towards the unknown. Why am I waiting? Because I think something rather everything will change after this one day. And I’m not thinking of any larger than life transformations only: but of smaller ones first. I’ll have money, the air I’ll breathe will be cleaner, the place I’ll live in would be small and decorated as I’d like, no noise of stupid television shows or vendors out in the streets of my colony, I’ll work better, the people will be good, I’ll have things to plan and look up-to, I’ll buy what I like, roam wherever I wish to. This is the deadliest illness of all you might have seen. And I’m suffering from it. I spend my days preparing for this one day when I think my life will get better. Waiting. Waiting so much that it has now become an illness. It pinches in my throat when I gulp my saliva in. My heartbeats are now faster and my body: every space in my body is full of purposeless wants and hopes. I can’t believe. Can you? I was so tired of this life here in this one caged room looking at the worst faces in my life that one opportunity of seeing this one day after sometime has made me a dead body but full of aches. And I have lived enough to tell this tonight that this is the worst of states for any human alive. Dead and aching. While you’re alive and there’s pain, there’s some hope, some satisfaction in being able to survive till another dawn, another morning. And when you’re dead: you’re dead. But these days in life where death and pain sit in the vacuums of my bones, my life is devoid of everything except the pain. Not even agony, anger, tears or those unnamed feelings. Mere pain.
I tried writing again today. More than usual. I ate fine. This house I live in is full of negativity. That’s the truth of all truths. Everyone’s face, when I look at it, I see a stagnation so steep one can’t stand it for a second. Not a single line of love on their foreheads. Not even any want of it. Want of anything actually. I can’t believe my eyes sometimes. That they’re alive. In the middle of all this I want to look for love. Someone who says or does a few little things and I feel the life that has now hidden itself beneath the dead slumbers accumulated in me. But all I can see is even the person you want to love and get loved back, even this person is full of his own fears and pains. Does it even mean anything? To love and expect to be loved back again. Every night saying I love you, does it mean anything after a time? Doesn’t it become a meaningless habit, like life itself.  Am I asking for too much or am I destined to get too less? Why is it so difficult to think and make a day a little better than usual for the people we love? Is it too much to do? A flower, a beautiful long message, a poem to read, a letter, small bit of anything prepared or created only for me, a few hours spent only to think about how this togetherness could be better, a surprise visit, a message that shows how ecstatic my presence makes you feel,  something I would love to talk about other than your work, tests and auditions, a thought you couldn’t forget about me, a song you heard and you couldn’t stop missing me, one night when you wait for me to sleep peacefully, one day when everything fades away and the only thing I see you wanting is me, persistence of giving up on anything but love, you, me. I don’t even want all of this altogether but I guess it’s just a story this paper can hold because in reality life has happened to you like everyone else and it has ruined everything. Everything.

Myself into myself

Why can’t I feel my heart and everything it causes in my body? I fear, I fear the shortness of this life to live these odd hours so numb and rest of my life just dreaming. Those chills through my spine kind of moments, I don’t like the rarity of them. I don’t like the fact that to feel my heart throb inside me I need some settings around me. Only with a man or under a sky full of stars or only with a pen in hand, a poem on lips can I feel that I’m alive. And then I can’t put into words that how does it happen. I swallow myself into myself. Half my breath I curse myself and open my mouth to cry and the other half of the same moment is so lonely , it shuts me and I can’t even cry. Why, I ask why life doesn’t happen as much as we desire? Why is it running so fast and drowning so slow?

Image by Mona Kuhn