Shh let’s not say it,

it hurts but why express it.

its killing me and you,

but the roads were different for our blues.

let’s not think it too hard,

because its not approved until its an Archies’ card.


Shh lets wipe off those tears,

it doesn’t matter, those years.

that my shoulder was once your home,

but suddenly its an abandoned zone.

Was my love not enough?

or his or his or ruff?


Shh stop it already,

lest it be known to the wary,

that its as absurd to me as them,

that you left me in absolute mayhem,

without a message or a note,

you left me with a tragic anecdote.


– For Vijoy


Ingredients of Comfort

That time between summer and fall. No I don’t mean monsoon.  Even after monsoon. There is this listlessness and emptiness about it. Everyone is either falling sick or in the process of recovery. We are just longing for that first fallen leaf of autumn, the first symbol of the end of the tyranny of summer. Funny how soon enough we would be waiting for spring and an escape from the harsh cold of winter. Oddly, we are always running from one oppressive reign to another. Our very own Stockholm syndrome. So while in the lull, we pretend. We pretend that the lackluster of our hair is just an issue with our diet. The backache is from working long hours and not because we have had those sleepless uncomfortable nights. Some of us take a hobby, inebriation seems like the latest fad. Basically any form of distraction from reality.

Food has always been my poison. On this listless and particularly depressing saturday morning, I armed myself with a ladle and pan. Butter, pasta, fresh beautiful vegetables and chicken ham. Whats not to love? Did I mention butter? Butttaaahh. Its not good for you they say. But the smell of butter melting in a pan has to be therapeutic. That sweet smell almost like pine trees on the mountain side. I automatically get a smile and a certain tint to my cheeks(few inches to my waist). that reminds me. Have you ever had butter on the hillside? It feels so light and comforting. Hence the logic that no food can be comfort food without butter in it.

I put that along with a beautiful creamy white sauce with some scotch whiskey(I was looking for white wine but i couldn’t reach it being the tiny person I am). I absolutely love putting alcohol in the food. It pretty much compliments every cuisine in one way or the other. Its like this magic potion. It brings softness and moisture while sharpening the flavours a tad bit.

In the end I had this bowl of comforting pasta which would remind you of your mum or grandmum even if they never made pasta. Comfort is a flavour we dont really have a finger on but we know when we have it that this is it. No matter how fancy we go, we are always going to crave for that tiny whiff of comfort. Even if comfort is a facade for oppression..


Painkillers for the Heart

Pain. Doesn’t it hurt. It actually is just pressure. I don’t think neurons go running to the brain screaming youch.
Pain is just a sensation that our bodies can’t take it anymore. What is this mental pain? Too much pressure on the mind? How do you deal with this sort of pain? I don’t know. Unlike physical pain you can’t even diagnose it to accuracy. Imagine a doctor coming in and telling you, you are suffering from the broken heart syndrome or lonelyvitis. You can’t even attribute a cause to it. You can just forget about having a remedy. Psychologists say having somebody to listen helps. But I am sorry 50$ an hour is not listening to me. Unfortunately listening is not a skill for a common milieu. Atleast not the milieu I have been amongst.
Tears have a job similar to blood.  Cleansing. But unlike bleeding, crying does not form a protective scab over the wound. In fact it might open the gates for new vulnerabilities. Sometimes it let’s us be pushed around by someone we care, sometimes it makes us watch as the person we love falls out of love with us, just because we feel too weak to finish the war within to be able to control our environment.
People attribute emotional pain to people. Personally I feel it’s not the person, it’s the situation. It’s not that your best friend is insensitive, it’s your vulnerable condition inflamed by the insensitivity of that moment. Insensitivity in isolation is quite harmless. I don’t know whether letting go is a remedy or whether keeping on trying is. But I wish there were painkillers for the heart for the process in between just as much as I wish people never changed.


Rain me not

Its raining. Toopie and I are looking gloomily at the day outside. It’s all dark and we don’t like dark. We are lovers of the sun and this gloomy wetness does not fare well with us. A naughty burning sun sending heat waves to irritate us or a warm hug from a romantic ray is our idea of a day.

Why does it have to rain? Other than the obvious, precipitation. As a kid, I used to think that rain meant that God is crying because of all the sadness he sees. Thus rain made me very awkward. Soon enough I learnt about the sun and the clouds. However the rain always fell in the awk.


Well here we are staring out of the window, hoping the rain would wash away the old. That the sun would beacon a new day. Not that what we have now is bad. But we have grown out of it. Familiarity is unfamiliar to us. We can’t make a home at these shores. But the rain has made us park here more than we intended to. We feel like sunflowers today.

So God, we hope you get better of your sadness.

Babes will die,

Helpless we’ll lie,

The rain washes away no sin,

Just the stupor we have been in.

Cannot stop,

The road is all we got,

Have to go, have to go, have to go,

With our grief on tow.

Have to go, have to go, have to go,

The sun, we follow.

Have to go, have to go, have to go

Away from these wet blows.

Have to go, have to go, have to go


“I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry.

Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it’s just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.”
― Ray BradburyGreen Shadows, White Whale: A Novel of Ray Bradbury’s Adventures Making Moby Dick with John Huston in Ireland