there's a memory keeping me warm this night. 

a memory of a cup of coffee, a kiss and a song.
here - it's in my head now, like a song i only half know - i can see it: a windy night and a lazy moon, warm coffee and a stolen glance, half a song and a lingering kiss. i can hear you sing to me if i strain to listen, but i forget what song it was.

i could have stayed there, being warm with you, wondering if it was really was raining all over the world. 


on some days i like to do silly things

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"SLAM," said the door.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"That'll be fifteen rupees," said the shop-keeper.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"GURGLE," said the water fountain.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"OOPS," said the empty bottle of water.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"That'll be sixty rupees," said the guy at the restaurant.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"BOO," said the ghost.

"I'd like a glass of water," he said.

"Here you go!," said the friendly neighbour.


"Every character should want something. Even if it's just a glass of water."
- Kurt Vonnegut.


A bout de souffle

I just bought a copy of the herald tribune in PARIS!!

More later.



jack in a box.

i'm going to travel. and see the world. and take pretty pictures. and sing loudly. and everything's going to be new. and with every second that passes i'm going to move farther. and farther. and farther. away from the person you used to know.

every once in a while i'll visit me when i was you. i'll reminisce over little things. and season it with the bitter things. and tell myself i've seen the world. so i don't have to live in a box.



in moments of sheer, utter panic and much hopelessness, one is thankful for:

1. having a blog to vent to.
2. mother dairy's new fruit yoghurts. especially blueberry.
3. friends on speed dial.
4. friends who clearly believe in me more than i do.
5. shel silverstein.
6. facebook's 24 hour wait for reactivation. (because otherwise, i'd cheat all the time!)
7. the beatles.

okay, got to get back to writing.


some people have two faces

a mirror can lie to you, you know.

it'll tell you you're fat
when you're really okay;
it'll tell you you're right
when you're really to the left.

it'll show you your scars
when you cover them up;
it'll show you your make up
when you hide it all.

it'll tell you to your face
when you're showing it your back;
it'll tell you you're right
when you're really just not.

but some people have two faces, you know.

and they can lie to mirrors, just so.



i always miss my camera when it rains.

but the skies are like winter, it smells like rain, the grass is wet and overgrown. there are sparrows on the wall, i can hear them chirping all the way here. two kites are being fought, one red and one white.

and tom waits is singing,
i feel much cleaner, after it rains.


day by numbers.

11th day.
7th month.
25th year.
22341 words.
2 panic attacks.
3 days to go.
1 mile.
36 minutes. (!)
5 kilos this way.
5 kilos that way.
3 chocolates.
1 unopened bottle of wine.
0 club memberships. 
0 plans for the future.

have a great bloody day on me, everybody!



It was around two years ago that I first tried explaining to someone the joy of having a girlfriend. You can tell them anything, I explained. And by "anything", I honestly didn't mean sex or masturbation. These are sort of given, I'm sure men do that with their male friends too; and I don't think there is a true girlfriend if she doesn't know how and when you last made out with someone. I meant the little things, like what annoys you about purple post-its, or the travails of finding the perfect risotto, or obsessing about a side character in the last book you read.

Obviously, there is some physical intimacy. Most women I know aren't okay with being completely naked in front of other women. Especially if you live with them, whether in a flat or in a hostel, these lines become exceedingly clear. I find that most women have all sorts of crazy rules about who should see them naked and how, whether they're okay with being completely naked in front of other women, public showers, sleeve lengths, trouser lengths, skirt lengths, fits of pants, I could go on and on. 

The nature of physical intimacy with a girlfriend is completely different from any other kind of physical intimacy I know. I've shared a bed with two women for different periods of time in a year. On some mornings, we'd wake up absolutely tangled up in each other. On some nights, we'd cuddle into one or the other. On most nights, because we'd all have different sleep cycles, we'd all have the bed to ourselves because the room would be otherwise empty. There is a kind of physical comfort that comes with having girlfriends, sharing spaces, menstruation cycles, bags, clothes, shoes, food, shampoos, sanitary napkins, tampons, deodorants, stuff. I don't think I know of really any other relationship that gives me this kind of comfort.

But more significant than the physical intimacy, is a sort of emotional and social intimacy that one has with one's girlfriends. I consider myself quite lucky to have several girlfriends, all of whom share their lives with me most intimately. (Some of them share them too intimately for my comfort. For the record, if you are going to talk to me from the bathroom, may be you can let me know after you flush.) I know about aunties in offices who steal their lunch everyday, I know about the dress they really want to fit into if only they managed to lose some weight, I know about stuff strangers have said to them passingly that have changed the way they see themselves. 

Most of my girlfriends live in a different city, continent, timezone, whatever, right now; so I've had email threads spanning several hundreds about mundane things and important things. I receive ten emails a day on an average, about puppies on roads or the food they're eating or the weather in their city. I've sent tons and tons of emails about similarly random stuff, and these really make our day. "Reply All" really is a default setting on gmail for most of us. We may not be clued in to our work crap, or issues we're having with our partners, but we definitely know what the others are having for lunch. We all throw tantrums and bicker and bitch and love and hate, all on international conference phone calls or skype or google chat. (Really, google chat changed our lives.)

And with all this, they're the most indispensable part of my life!

Here's to having girl friends. :)



(this has become my permanent state of mind, and really my only thought. singular.
but to compensate, here's a pretty instagram-y picture of my new stationery!)



and get some ice cream.


alone in the clouds all blue

we promised we'd stay

and we'd have conversations
(real or imaginary)
with clowns and lions
(red nosed or reindeered)
and laugh at all the right places
(i'll tip my hat and gape at your head)
and pretend we're singing
(off key and melodiously)

but here i am
(alone in the night)
counting the floaters in my eyes
(purple and blue and wily white)
listening to footsteps
(there's a ghost upstairs)
and waiting for sleep to come.


(title from flaming, pink floyd again - yippee, you can't see me, but i can, you.)



"so how's your dissertation going?"

"i'm writing @ 3 words per day. on most days, the words are 'i hate writing.' "


yes, i've turned this blog into a bitching station because really i don't want to work and i'm feeling extremely lazy and just reading three pages makes me want to go take a nap and what's worse is that i actually do take that nap. (of course that doesn't stop me from reading three books of fiction over two days - one on saturday morning, one on saturday night and one on sunday. but obviously my clever brain knows when i'm feeding it dissertation reading, and promptly goes off to sleep right then. bah!)



being hip is just TOO much work.



(if it doesn't pass
if it doesn't change
if it doesn't turn
may be it's not
just a phase?)


on intellectual curiosity

i would like to think
that the world is mostly
an experiment conducted
by white mice.

you, me, your neighbor's best friend
we could all just be
tiny pieces of jigsaw
lost from different boxes.

is the colour you see
the colour that i see,
and is the mountain we know
a molehill for someone else?

if my life is indeed
written on a palm leaf,
does it say in BIG BOLD LETTERS
"don't panic"?

most importantly,
is the object of my
intllectual curiosity
curious at all

about me?


rain = win

1. mirchi bajjis, you, me, sitting in the terrace and staring at tank bund. philosophising, talking about politics, bitching, fighting, making up.

2. sitting on the swing in my porch. staring at the rain in my lawn. reading whatever i'm reading that day. a cup of tea. popcorn.

3. long drives, whiskey, oddly shaped clouds, colours, kissing you.

4. heaters, cocoa, wet socks, freezing toes, sheets of white ice on green grass, ice on my tongue, rahman music, 2 am. showing tanay how not to be scared of the strange rain. 

5. there's no rain like the rain at home. (but the rain here is pretty nice too.)


on living in delhi

if you've been in enough earthquakes, you know that the first thing you ought to watch out for is the noise. it has a deep boom that you can feel while the ground shakes and the windows rattle. 

smaller earthquakes just feel like mild disorientation. like how sometimes you're sitting on a sofa and staring into space, and when you tune in, right at that moment, you feel like everything moved just a little bit. 

the slightly bigger earthquakes are much, much louder. the doors and windows rattle, the steel almirahs dance on their already unstable legs, the floor vibrates, and every other piece of furniture is moving like there's a drill underneath. 

obviously, i haven't been in really really big earthquakes or i wouldn't be writing this, but i suspect they're louder than anything else, and it's not just the doors and windows and furniture that are moving or threatening to fall down.

anyway, the point of writing this was to provide context to a conversation i just had.

"earthquake aaya kya abhi?"

"huh? no."

"okay, the AC was making a noise then."


a lot like love

you're the digestive biscuit base to my cheesecake.


notes from this weekend

1. next time you want banoffee pie sitoo, just go to khan market. please don't try it at home. again.

2. jab we met is my most favoritest movie. second only to dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge and tied with godavari.

3. getting drunk after six months of annoying soberness with great company is good. the hangover isn't. also i love white wine. that's the essential bottomline.

4. stop looking at your wonderfully pedicured feet. also, next time, get purple.



creeping bougainvilleas in my house:
so wrapped up in each other,
you can't tell one from the other. 

this only leads me to wonder:
how do trees fall in love?
what do they do when they get lonely?



All this morning, a wriggling worm of doubt has been digging around in my head.

Take a pen. Standard, blue Reynolds with a white body and blue cap. You can have lost the cap a week ago for authenticity, because nobody in the real world owns Reynolds pens with their caps on. Except may be shop owners. Don’t bother with red pens, only strict teachers own those kinds. The black pens, well you and I both know the kind that writes with black pens, right?

Find a piece of paper. Personally, I prefer ruled paper without margins, preferably in a spiral pad notebook. The very kind you were never allowed to take to school, yes. If it’s paper that’s torn out of a notebook or even A4 sized paper that was lying around your table that you don’t really know anything about may be it used to be an airplane ticket may be it used to be something else it’s not consequential not really anyhow, it doesn’t matter.

Now write on it.

That’s the first pit stop. Think carefully. It’s always tricky to find something neutral to say, in case someone peeks into your notebook tomorrow and judges your innermost thoughts and psyche from it.

It’s even trickier if you get swallowed by a time warp or the monster living behind your book shelf, and nobody wants to admit that these things happen in the real world, so they pretend mundane things like ‘she ran away’ or ‘she’s caught in a mystery novel.’ So they peek in your notebook for clues.

‘Abbey Road’

“Okay”, they’ll say. “Clearly it has something to do with the poster in her room. Check it for something that’s strange, no? Apart from the barefoot guy in the suit? Oh wait! She’s a Beatles fan, may be there’s a bigger clue in that. Colonel Mustard with a silver hammer in the kitchen? Nah, that was just Cluedo.”


“Wait, that’s useless,” they’ll think. “It’s just her name. Perhaps she was doodling in her notebook before the mysterious event occurred. It seems to me like it’s not pertinent to this story investigation.” But they’ll be wrong. You know this now, so I hope you’re thinking carefully about what you’re about to write on the previously irrelevant piece of paper you’re holding on to right now.

‘Gatorade Sports Drink for Sports People Who Can Drink Fancy Sports Drinks’

“Check the bottle on the table! May be that green drink is poisonous! May be the mystery shrouded individual responsible added something to it!” They squeal these things in the tone of excitement in one’s head as one is reading mystery novels which are making headway into the investigation. They might be right, of course, but not in the way they think they are. Because, you see, green drinks are terribly wily indicators of something strange and suspicious, especially when monsters in bottom drawers in kitchens are concerned.

‘Raju is a good boy.’

“AHA!” Now they think they know who it is. Needless to say, um, it’s needless to say.

‘I love chocolate.’

“Wait, what? Does the bar of blue exotic looking chocolate have anything to do with this story investigation? Because I just ate it!”

HAHA, thinks the monster making a slurpy noise with its lips and tongue.
Chocolate works, everytime.



i reached out and grabbed
a bit of my dream
from last night.

(no, i wasn't dreaming
about anybody's
private parts.)

i opened my fist
only to see
nothing at all.

dreams aren't real,

so go back to sleep.



word of the day


(the way you can pick 
stupid, irritating people
whose smiles can turn them
into something you want
desperately to love)


bucket list

ladies and gentlemen who read this blog,

i have told most of you what item #3 on my bucket list is - see the aurora borealis before it dies out. for the past few days, i have been reading about a large plasma cloud that was going to make the aurora spectacular last night.

well, it did. and apparently, it was visible even as far as the UK and the US.

i could bloody well just cry.
so who's going with me to sweden this summer?




i feel like writing a story, but i don't have one to tell.


on a rooftop yesterday: the beer was a bit flat and the end of my fingers were numb from the cold. the fog was thick, and i couldn't see much of my feet. the hum of the double bass was in my hair, and the groove of the sax was in my knees, and i don't know about you but i didn't have nothin' but the blues.


it's been a long time
since you've given me
(i miss them.
they miss you.)