dum maaro dum

me. "rana daggubati, i say. the guy was single-handedly hotter than deepika padukone AND bipasha basu. although, the theory is that you put a pair of aviators and that much facial hair on anyone, they'll just become hot"

him. "it doesnt work that way is what i'm saying. certain people with facial hair and sunglasses look like masood azhar"


(the real sign of getting back to blogging, btw, is saying 'wait i'm going to put this up on my blog'. :P)



I am a character in a story.

Would you know how that would make me feel? I'm sure you would, because every thought of mine is yours to scrutinize, apparently.

Yesterday I had sex. You know that already. In fact, you also know who I had sex with, whether I used protection, how I like it, that I was thinking about work instead. You know all this, you sick, sick bugger.

What I find most annoying is that something needs to keep happening in my life. There has to be excitement, ugh. After all, who cares about someone who wakes up at 7 every morning, takes the same train to work, does the same boring thing there, eats the same lunch and comes back home at the same time. I wouldn't.

I have to know what the cool music is, I have to speak in obscure literary references, I need to know what the good films are. It's not enough that I'm not living an ordinary life, that I have sheep popping up in hotel rooms and wizards coming out of walls, it's not disturbing that I think my world is flat and rests on the back of four elephants, or that I'm living in the middle of civil war and all I can think about is my books. It's normal that I spent my childhood in a tree with someone with a moon for a face, and completely safe that I spent my summers hunting criminals and getting taken seriously by blundering policemen.

If routine bothered you that much, why do you live it? Why make me someone out of this ordinary of yours? I don't understand why there have to be twists and turns on everything regular. Someone just died, wait, someone killed her. Someone just broke up, wait, she got cheated on. Someone ate a sandwich, wait, it was made of blue cheese. Why can't my life just be plain? Like yours, perhaps? Why do you have to know everything that happens to me?

Now what if I told you that my story was made into a movie?
You'd really like that, wouldn't you.


for S, who was in the mood for a story but had to work instead. Typical.


Word Count

or: How to Effectively Deal with Writer's Block

1. Read. As far and wide as you can. It doesn't matter if you're meaning to write about development policy since Independence, you can still be reading the children's books section on the Guardian. Or re-read an issue of Sandman. I find that this allows you to think in long, coherent, well-punctuated sentences. It also distracts you from the actual writing. Of course, this can only be detrimental if you have a deadline, so it goes without saying that if you have a deadline, read what you're meant to be reading.

2. Talk about it. By "it" I mean both the block and the actual piece of writing you're meaning to do. Everybody has an opinion (on both). Most of these opinions will never help. But at least you can be sure about what you don't want to write by the end of this exposition.

3. Stare. At an empty, white Word document. This does nothing to actually help, but it gives you a sense of impending doom which only pushes you to some more reading. (Or TV watching, but I shall maintain that TV watching does not help writer's blocks.)

4. Have an epiphany. These strike in the shower, or in the middle of reading something else, or while making an elaborate cheese sandwich, or in the middle of class while doodling something complex, multi-layered and made up of more than one kind of writing instrument and colour.


i feel like doing something reckless.

like have sex with a stranger
or jump of a cliff.
or tell you that i love you
and then run away.

i feel like doing something destructive.

like have sex with a stranger
or jump of a cliff.
or tell you that i love you
and then break your heart.


i've forgotten what it's like, conversation that meanders.


Pink Lipstick

My husband loves me to the death. I know this in the way he stares at me sometimes, intensely, as if I am the only person in the room. I blush when his hands brush mine in the bus, or when he leaves the newspaper on the table open with an article for me to read. I like to wait for him to come back home, I like making tea for him, I like cooking for him. Especially lamb, he loves the lamb that I cook. I know that most people don't care these days for the conventional wife, but all I have ever wanted to be is this. For him, I would do anything.


I don't have pink lipstick.
And I have straight black hair.


I first met him when I was in junior college. For all my conservative values, ours was a love marriage. I met him at my friend's sister's wedding. He was dressed in a black sherwani, and the way he kept asking me to speak, the way he laughed at the shiest of my jokes, the way he rubbed his nose with the back of his hands, I was floored. We sat next to each other when it was time to eat. It seemed to me that it was by accident, only much later did I find out that it was by design. His.

By the time I went to college, he had turned me into a poet. I would write for him, about him, my whole world was his world, his thoughts were my thoughts, my dreams were him, I was his. He had bought me a cellphone on which he would call me and text me incessantly. I would bunk college and meet him at the ice-cream parlor at the other end of town, where nobody could see us meet. I would wear my burqa on the roads, so that when I held his hand, nobody would know it was me.

In my second year of college, he was living in Bombay. He would come to meet me every month, and bring me tons of gifts every time. Like all college girls tend to do, I had a huge gang of friends I would hang out with. They knew every little one of my secrets. We never held back anything from each other. They would call me by his name to make fun of me and hoot everytime I got a call from him. They would read out my poems with exaggerated sighs and melodrama, and I would pretend to get very irritated, but secretly, I enjoyed every bit of it.


The blonde hair in his sweater is probably someone on the bus, then.
But what are those pink stains on the back of his neck?


Both of us come from very conservative households. My father was very strict about where I went, when I came back home and who I spoke to, and this is not just accepted, it is understandable. Daughters are the pride of the house, and it is our duty to hold it with the most respect. It helped, for me, that he and I were of the same religion, same caste and even a similar economic background. It also helped that he was earning a very good salary and was soon to be transferred to America. Our wedding day was the happiest day of my life. I couldn't stop blushing, and even though my trousseau was weighing me down, I felt light. I couldn't believe I had just married the man of my dreams. My man.

My love-life hasn't been without problems. I have been in New Jersey for over a year now. And my mother is very proud of the way I'm handling my household. Truth be told, that's all I spend my whole time doing, and I need to keep myself busy, don't I? I see less and less of him these days. Sometimes he comes home at 2 AM when I'm already asleep, smelling of something strange. Even in bed, he is hardly interested, or when he is, he gets very rough. We used to fight a lot in the beginning, but now he hardly even makes conversation. But he has always been the silent type, letting me do the talking.

My mother tells me that all marriages come with their ups-and-downs. The good wife always knows this. After all, he is my love and I need to accept his good and his bad.


I can't wait to show off the new lipstick I bought this morning.
And tell him that I'm pregnant.


i would like to think that i'm someone you like to read in secret. i like to think that everything i write comes from a dark place, a recess that everyone has in their own minds but reach to only when they're behind veils and and grey-tinted windowpanes. why would you like to hear of broken hearts and long walks to bookshops where i spend whole days? do my imagined characters who spend their time thinking about sex and food remind you of yourself? is my escape your escape? i know that i don't write so well, i know that at best, i'm just another one of those blogs in the world, but does reading me feel like the whole world just slowed down, that it's okay to think these thoughts and it's fine to feel as if these little details that make up my world also make up yours? because that's why i like reading myself.