-excerpt from the diary of a 14 year-old who thought she knew heartbreak enough to write about it, in ways she hadn’t experienced.


i’m older now. but heartbreak is still my favourite vice to write about.
after all,
isn’t heartbreak our generation’s particular brand of poison? 

but the fact is, this world isn’t all smiles and it isn’t all heartbreak. there’s room for every shade of grey and black and white and red and purple and blue and maroon and turquoise and and and.. until you run out of breath. and start again. and again. and again.
till your throat hurts, your voice cracks up, and you stumble on your words.
in a way, the all-encompassing nature of pain and heartbreak isn’t all that different from the world around us.
i guess, everything can be called the same if we can draw it all down to the perfect scale. perhaps that’s why poets are still carving their emotions in the folds of so many, many, many metaphors. we are living in a world where no matter how many colours have been named, there’s still room for more, no matter how many metaphors have slipped past a poet’s sword, there’s still room for more.
heartbreak, in its essence, is also like that. no matter how much you’ve been hurt before, no matter how much pain you’re in, there’s always room for more.
black or white or anything in between,
our world, and our hearts, always have room for more.
and that’s okay. to be heartbroken, is essentially, to be painted in one of the many, many hues that this world has to offer.
you laugh and you cry, you break and write sad poems out to no one in particular, and then there are days with more laughter and less crying and before you know it you’re happier than you’ve been in ages. but you cry again and start to wonder how, how, how are you back here after all those hours you spent keeping yourself happy because you believed happiness is an inside job? and then before you know it, it’s morning and you can’t quite remember what was the last song in your playlist you’d been listening to before you fell asleep, and the darkness has retreated, from your heart and from the sky, and it doesn’t hurt so much anymore as the teardrops on your pillow have dried up so it’s okay, you’ll be okay because you are a fighter and if there’s any glory left, it’s in fighting and you’ll be damned before you stop and you may not like this battle against these dark forces as you know not where they come from, but hey, you’d wage this war for ages, because oh god, happiness? happiness is like tasting the stars and you are thirsty,
thirsty for the heavens.
so if you need to fight for your happiness, you’d do it, because pain and heartbreak and all those demons?
they’re just words filling in the gaps between the ‘ands’ in every sentence that you weave for your story.
in the two years hence, if there’s something that’s made me the wiser, it’s the realisation that you can never know when it’s all over. the blackness of things fades, and with time you start to feel your numb muscles, but it’s all fleeting. nothing is temporary, not the pain, the heartbreak or the happiness.
the dark forces retreat, but they’re always there in the background, waiting for your weaker moments. and they will come, and you’ll stumble again. happiness IS an inside job, but hey, who doesn’t take a day, or a month, off?
the only constant, is the fight, sometimes to not be defeated, and sometimes, to stay undefeated.
nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

-excerpt from the desk of a sixteen-year-old who’s learning that hurting, healing, living, none of this is linear. 



It was always your way to disappear as I fell into a slumber,

In your wake lay wisps of smoke and I, beginning to wonder.

Were you my fascinating reality or a terrible dream?

Either way, I could never confine you within my realm.

It was always with you I thought of taking flight,

But as morning came, you left with the night.

Come back someday, won’t you?

And take me away too.

Here I am, but the dreams won’t come true,

Not even you.


Versatile Blogger Award

A big, big, big thank you to Mike Evans for nominating me for this award. I never thought I’d actually get nominated, and this means a lot. And I’d also like to mention that I absolutely love his blog.

I was extremely surprised about the nomination as I haven’t added a lot of posts. But I’m determined to become a regular at blogging, and this comes as an excellent source of inspiration!

Now, the rules.wp-1473745747215

1. Thank the person who nominated you.

2. Share the award on your blog.

3. Share seven random facts about yourself.

4. Tag 10 other bloggers with less than 1000 followers and let them know they’ve been nominated.

Okay, seven random facts about me.

1. I’m in ninth grade.

2. I’m from India.

3. The first reading marathon I ever went through consisted of about 20 illustrated classics (I was six) and six of the Famous Five books.

4. My glasses are a consequence of spending hours in bed reading Harry Potter, laying in uncomfortable positions but never letting the book go.

5. My top two favourite bands are Coldplay and Arctic Monkeys, and I’m absolutely and incontestably in love with Alex Turner.

6. ‘I want to hold your hand’ is the first Beatles song I ever listened to.

7. As a rule, I don’t watch the movies that make me cry more than once.

And finally, here are my nominations. Check out their awesome blogs.











Lastly, I’d like to thank everyone who liked or commented on my posts or followed my blog. It has encouraged me to keep writing. I soon plan on writing about other things I’m passionate about. I’ll always appreciate constructive criticism, and hope all of you will bear with me for the time being.



It’s a plain picture. Just another grey day, and me, still waiting to burst into flames.

I always imagined how me bursting into flames might actually look. Whether I’d be a myriad of colours, or just another sketch in shades of grey.

It’s a plain day. The books are strewn across my bed, waiting to burst into flames too, probably. I’m waiting for inspiration to come knocking, as I always have. But like always, it’s still not here. I’m waiting for something to catch my eye, or whip me up in a frenzy, but being surprised is a privilege I seem to no longer have.

I’m looking around and seeing these things, but they seem to be in another dimension. And I’m waiting to be let in, as if it’s one of those exclusive parties with long queues outside them.

I’m dying of thirst. I don’t mean the thirst for adventure, I mean actual, genuine thirst for water. Like the type where you are thirsty even though you drank five seconds ago.

It’s a normal day, and I’m still waiting to feel normal. But that’s a word that lost its meaning a while ago. To me, anyway.

I remember being asked a question. “How can any human ever be anything as plain as normal?”

I know a poet. Or a friend who writes poetry, anyway.

‘But in a world where everyone aims for extraordinary,

Maybe normal’s not something bad to be.’

Maybe he’s right, or maybe I’m just too willing to jeopardise every belief I’ve ever held. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m addicted to ‘maybes’.

I’m the same as any other day, thinking in metaphors that don’t make complete sense to me. But they’re more familiar than this solitude, so I let them haunt me anyway.


Exploited colony to largest democracy,

And still fighting off illiteracy.

Robbed and ruined, but never lost our soul,

In world history we’ve always played our role.

Calculate our economy in whatever currency,

We created the decimal system as well as geometry.

Worldwide our army’s the third largest,

And in diversity we leave no room for contest.

No longer a land of snake-charmers and fire-breathing,

We love our culture and values more than anything.

Texture of land is not the only thing here that changes;

We also have the most number of post offices.

Our scientists and engineers outnumber all countries but one,

Even had a scientist for President – APJ Abdul Kalam.

Guess who invented chess,

But never invaded another country in all its years?

We have our faults and shortcomings,

But the world is still turning,

And so, even at the strike of dawn,

I’ll be proud to be an Indian.


(I initially wrote this for a school project, but figured this is a nice place to have it as well.)


My chest is heavy with the sediments of yesterday’s storm.

This wind tears me down. It shatters my bones. I fall apart, one piece at a time.

This wind is too strong. The remnants promise a dazzling fire. Ashes are all that’s left.

This wind hides them well.

Midnight secret.

The bruises were my midnight secret.

They came to me in the darkness of the night, after I had put our children to sleep. They etched patterns on my self from the broken bits of the empty bottle. The bottles you had emptied.

They came as I tried to put you back in bed, much like I did with our children. They left the marks of the cigarette that had once died on your lips.

They came as the night came, dark and all-consuming. They left with the morning, as our kids left for school and you, in search of new methods to drown us.

The bruises were my midnight secret. I took them to the grave.

I’m in heaven now. But you will burn in hell for all of eternity. 





Across the fence.

This invisible line between us,

The line we say we won’t cross.

The line we draw between black and white,

This side is wrong, the other one right.

Do you believe in it’s existence,

This line that acts like a fence?

But this fence keeps you at bay,

So here I’ll stay.

On the side of right, 

From the break of dawn until midnight. 

A prophecy from the past.

We live in maybes and almosts, and tell ourselves no is for the forlorn,

Love’s around the corner, we won’t always be alone. 

We wear our hearts on our sleeves, but never soak them dry,

From the tears of days gone by.

Once, broken, I asked,

‘There are crystal hearts just waiting to be smashed,

And out to break them are the ones that never last’

– Truth, or just a prophecy from the past?


In response to : Prophecy.