The shiny happy

I’m tired of the hand me downs.

Give me somebody unbroken to love. I am tired of stitching up old wounds left by other lives and loves. Give me someone whole,  someone  with no excess baggage, someone who can travel with just a squishy carry on bag. I am too old, tired and fed up of having to play nurse.

Where is the shiny happy? A life set to slow jazz? Where I run home to someone who is covered in crumbs from baking me some foccacia? That and smiles, as  he says to me- You must be tired. Dig in.

Heal your wounds.  Shut it tight in an iron box, throw away the rusty key, and bury it with the past. Do not come to me before that, because I will not be able to help you.

I’m sorry- but maybe I’m not. Not  sorry for you anymore.

Maybe I am broken enough without having loved at all.

I am only just getting started on my journey. I’m looking at the stars, and not the slush beneath. Maybe you  can do that too?










It’s not them, it’s you. 

Something to think about.

 Own your life story.

 Stop playing the victim. 

Go out there and fix it, or die trying. 
It’s time for the tough lovin’. 

Ship of Theseus


It scared her, how much she wanted to talk to him.


She wanted to share every thought with him. Maybe it was because she missed him so, or maybe she hoped one of these strange and beautiful thoughts would be the one to pull on those heartstrings, that one of these notes would finally strike that fortuitous chord in his heart.


Set lists of bands she loved, photos of cherished memories, obscure trivia, unfulfilled dreams, weather reports of home, nothing was off the table.


Sometimes, she worried the excess would flood him, drain him of his patience.

How much could one person listen to, after all?

He had a whole and full life outside of her, and Hemmingway’s sun also sets someday, although people don’t like to talk about inevitable endings too much.


Helpless, she took her stories and feelings and scattered them across the internet, that virtual playground of the world.

A trail of breadcrumbs that Andersen would’ve approved of.

Like deconstructed dessert or Frank Gehry buildings.

Horcruxes of her past.

A puzzle broken into bits and littered around, no key in plain sight, waiting for someone to chance upon it, and care enough to put the pieces together.

Song of the mo’ – No Room in Frame

Postcard Promises

Long distance anything = total sucko.


Sure, it can seem like a challenge worth rising to, and even seem like a romantic notion worth pursuing, if you’re deluded enough at the moment. You can console yourself with the idea that your relationship or friendship is so strong it can transcend all seven seas, but in the end, that is all it  might remain, a lone idea in your lonely head.

Of course there are bonds that survive, that even grow stronger with  time like the finest of wine, but for every story that lasts, a hundred more are crushed to fine sparkly dust, and all the glitter from your story lines the path to relationship oblivion.

Cheery, non?

Well, I’m not a poet, at least not right now. So I will let someone worthy do the talking for me.

Saray Kay, everyone.


If you’re in the mood to read, here’s a transcript of the genius that is  this piece of slam poetry.


“I had already fallen in love with far too many postage stamps.

When you appeared on my doorstep wearing nothing but a postcard promise.

No, appear is the wrong word. Is there a word for sucker punching someone in the heart?

Is there word for when you’re sitting at the bottom of a roller coaster and you realize that the climb is coming, that you know what the climb means, that you can already feel the flip in your stomach from the fall before you’ve even moved?

Is there a word for that?

There should be.

You can only fit so many words in a postcard.

Only so many in a phone call, only so many into space before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness.

It is hard to build a body out of words – I have tried.

We have both tried.

Instead of lying your head against my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me.

Who stays up all night long practicing his drum set.

The neighbors have complained. They have busy days tomorrow, but he keeps on thumping through the night convinced, I think, that practice makes perfect.

Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about the sandwich you made for lunch today.

How the pickles fit so perfectly against the lettuce. Practice does not make perfect.

Practice makes permanent.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer to Carnage Hall, even I know that.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer! You never get any closer.

Is there a word for the moment you win tug of war?

When the weight gives and all that extra rope comes tumbling towards you.

How even though you’ve won you still wind up with muddy knees and scratches on your hands.

Is there a word for that? I wish there was.

I would have said it.

When we were finally alone together on your couch, neither one of us with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space.

Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems.

That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you

“There is a girl who still writes you. She doesn’t know how not to.



Song for the mo’- Everybody Hurts 

Great barrier reefs, and other things that grew between us. 

I watched the waves beat against the reefs as a brown skinned boy of nine. 

Watched as the water almost  leapt to lap at my heels, as if to snatch me away.

Away, back. Away, to home. A home I had left behind unwillingly.

The word had felt weird when it rolled my tongue, sharp like  the salt of these foreign waters, and nothing like the dust of my barren homelands.  

This word was powerful enough to buy me a new life, but not enough to bridge the chasm that was setting in between me and life as I had known it. 
And it grew, feeding upon my sense of self. I grew too. I grew up, I grew old, I grew apart.

Today, it is many years since we last met, and I stand behind these treacherous barriers and gaze at your distant shores,  watching the reefs and other things that grew between us. 

Dear Dad

31 Oct, 2o08.


Dear Dad,
It is very difficult for me to write a letter, not just to you,but to anyone in this world…and I think part of it is because I am impulsive.I think impulsively – no wait, scratch that out, because impulses hardly ever go hand in hand with thought, do they?
I suppose I act, react,f eel and express at an alarmingly quick rate, so much so that sometimes, emotions tumble over. Musings that brew at the very back of my mind come out,all in a stutter. Petty spite and short lived resentment flare up and burn some fragile threads of conversation, and sometimes these threads can never be reattached.
I am too scared to lose the people who are a part of my world, and this prevents me from being downright frank and genuine with them. Hence  the long silences.

Of course,losing people is something I’ve become used to.It’s almost routine now.
I always hated your job,Dad. Yessir, living out of the suitcase for months together can douse the wanderlust in anyone. Moving to a new place every three years ,fitting into a cozy group of your own only to abruptly leave again, and always having to learn to love  a different house, a different school, a different identity is something I cannot, and probably will not ever understand. That’s just the problem though,isn’t it?
I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that it wasn’t all just about me. I did not even meander around the possibility that there probably are bigger losses in the picture. Deeper disappointments, stronger regrets, or more wistful expectations that float around in your mind.

And yet, you haver never let me remain with a frown on my forehead for too long.  With hot cups of cheerful coffee(with the chef’s special ingredient:double pyaar), sincere apologies, earnest promises, warm smiles,and even more warm words, you wipe away my tears, and bring in a little more hope, a little more light.
You are the best pick me up ever, and I will always be glad that I was picked to be your daughter.

I know that like you,all Dads, try to be the ideal “man”, completely involved in dressing others’ wounds, while their own blood trickles unnoticed. I admit that I sometimes took this for granted, secure in the thought that there was always one person whom I could fall back on, my cushion, my infallible barrier from all things that are big and bad, cold and cruel.


I remember, in a flash, a conversation we once had, back when the world was a happy riot of colour. You said to me:”Always be with the people in your life. You can buy everything in the market,heck even hearts, but not people.” Only,I’ve never had the need to reflect upon these words, until now.

However,I’ve opened my eyes to the fact that barriers shatter too.
Mighty oaks sway, houses of brick start to shake, and the bravest of hearts shudder.

And that is when the willows sway too,trying in vain to block the oaks from the gusty fiends. That is when the humble powdery cement tapes the red bricks onto the foundation, and that is when little hands soothe the hurt,pieces of brave hearts.
If prayers can move mountains, then surely prayers can carry my heartfelt sentiments across the borders to you, Papa.

My father.My hero…
I pray for your  strength and well being.

May the angels watch over you.

Your loving daughter.

A Careless Whisper


I wonder how people know HOW to be in love for everyone to see.

To be able to talk about it,share it,sing about it,hold each other’s hands in public, y’know,  all that jazz.

It takes courage to be in love.The sort I know I’ll never have.

I never thought I’d fall in love with you. It happened. I dunno when, although I think it was  long ago.

But I will never know how to be with you.

Instead, I will settle.

In the dead of the night, when I think no one is listening, I will quietly whisper your name.

And the moonlight will reveal a girl in shadows, smiling a little, crying a little, paying her little tribute to love.

A careless whisper.


Song of the mo’ – Creep – Daniela Andrade’s cover

Of Beauty and Such.

Preface – I’ve been moving some of my older writings ( the ones that are relatively less embarrassing to claim) onto this blog. Just for keeps. These, of course, were penned by a partly emo, nineteen something kid studying engineering for her undergrad in India. I hope this context helps measure the level of boredom and repression that surrounded me as I penned some of this, so  don’t look askance at me for the maudlin overtones you will surely detect.

Go forth!


of beauty and such

Jul 11,2010


Forms are many and beauty is one.

Beauty that is eternal,perfect even when undone.

We all crave beauty,so much it is true,

For whoever wrote a sonnet for a bad tempered shrew?

Or a twenty page thesis on badly written prose?

Who turns away from beauty that is tangible,that is close?


Helpless in our addiction to perfection are we.

I admit I like,in my garden , a well pruned tree.

Yes,I revel in writing under unruly oaks,mostly,

But putting that in my backyard’s quite a task,don’t you see?


Pictures of orphaned kids doth make the heart bleed.

Whose pictures do you Like though,who’s tweeting up your feed?

We all enjoy bouts of temporary divinity,

Then resort we must to normal comforting insanity.


Quite the liar I am when I preach.

Damn.I even want my verse in sizes of four lines each.

Who isn’t guilty of liking beauty? Why talk of blame?

Beauty is the drug,quite the rule of the game.


Like every other thing I’ve embarked on in my four and twenty years, I abandoned La Belle Vee a year or so ago, in favor of more important pursuits ( working late, netflixing and endless happy hours).

Sitting in the biting cold in a beautiful coffee shop at midnight, with no one but my mocha for company, however, does the trick for us  prodigals apparently. Or maybe it was because I linked a new friend to my blog, and realized it has practically nothing on it.

I have returned. I’m hoping for  a new beginning.  This might be a one night stand though, so don’t hold your breath.

I’m sitting by Lake Austin. It is the dead of night, but other sleepless souls at Mozart’s Cofee, and what feels like all of the city’s christmas lights, are keeping me warm.

I do not spare too much time studying the waters or the people though. I’m intent on this square of white on my screen where I am bidding an old friend goodbye.


Rdio, ever welcoming music den, beloved serenader of my lonely hours, is biting the dust as we speak. I have come to love consuming music on this website, and it is with heavy heart that I move my staples onto Spotify. There’s an indescribable sadness that a website shutting down may not merit, but it just is that way. It’s a measure of time, like most other chapters. Winter 2014-15. An eventful year, a year with Rdio chronicling the background of my life.


I’m trying to fix my errant ways. It’s easier said than done, and I have tried. I can try harder, but the last few weeks have been a comfortable denial, and I’m beginning to think I may not snap of it anytime soon.


Surely there is a way to be good again?

I’m hoping writing again will throw me a lifeline.

Song of the mo’ – Rivers and Roads by The Head and the Heart





Beautiful People

Beautiful people roam this earth. You never see them,because they tread lightly,and not at all,if they can help it,for they can float.And do all sorts of other magical things.Like being invisible to you until they go away forever. And then you know.