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.



i tip-toe into the corner of your room
pretend to drink coffee,
pretend to look at the display board
while watching you work,

you're tapping your feet under your table
to a song you're not meant to like
to a beat you're not meant to feel
while pretending to work,

i turn around and walk away
avoiding grins that are pulling at my face
avoiding conversations i don't want to make
while i'm in love,


and meanwhile back

Will you come with me to Penny Lane?

Of course we'll stop and say hello to the barber there. As usual, he'll show us photographs and tell us about the heads he's had the pleasure to know. Knowingly, we'll look at the fireman and say 'God save the Queen, eh?" and he'll laugh awkwardly and scuttle away. From a distance, we'll watch the banker and wonder if today is the day they'll all rush in in the pouring rain. We'll muse about everything, shake our heads, laugh and say very strange. 

I'll buy you strawberry ice on a stick, and we can sit across the barber shop and talk about everything in the world. We can lie on our backs and watch the clouds go by, there, beneath the blue suburban skies. We can hear the trumpets at the roundabout and smell the poppies on the tray. 

We'll smile at everyone, even the woman with the frosty stare and the kid who wants our ice lolly. 

When we leave we'll know that we'll probably never find our way back. It'll be that special place we stumbled into, but never found again. We'll tell our friends about it years later with a faraway look on our faces. Penny Lane, we'll say, oh Penny Lane is in your ears and in your eyes. There, beneath the blue suburban skies we'll sit and meanwhile back in Penny Lane..


1. all the lyrics in italics are meant to be sung (aloud or in your head, whatever).
2. i've tried many, many times, to write about Penny Lane. i don't know if i like this, but i'm posting it because i feel like it's a Penny Lane sort of day today.


in my dreams,

i lose my toothbrush. every night.