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.



James sang, ‘Let it go’. And so I am.

I’ve kept this as a draft for too long. This is me letting go.

I can probably come up with a million insults. I can bring in dozens of  references, edgy remarks and sarcasm, but it still wouldn’t be enough.

Truth is, nothing was ever enough with you. My memories of you are far too many and not quite enough. I was torn between preserving your memory and holding you captive on the walls of my mind, and banishing you from sight and mind and never reminding myself of how funny your eyebrows were.

I’d like to think I was in love with you, but truth is, I never was. I know that now.

Loving you was not a John Green novel, but quite the Bruce Lee movie. I did not fall in love with you, I did not walk into it with my eyes open. You were never my  ‘star-crossed’ lover, never my first love, never my significant other. I’m not sure if you were ever mine. I knew I mattered to you, but I was never sure if I did so in the right way. I never knew what it was that we had.

Now I like to pretend that you were just some lover. Or a crush gone too far.

But that’s alright. You gave me perspective. You taught me something about myself, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. You taught me that it’s not easy for everyone to fall in love, or stay that way. You made me realise that we were all wired differently. You taught me I was, too.

I’d like to believe you know what you taught me, but you probably don’t. You’ll never see this – these words.

But these words are something else I’d like to thank you for. I never knew these words before you. These words didn’t come before. But now they do. Initially, they came on Coldplay nights when my vision was too blurry from tears, but now they come like the honey-flavored remarks came to your mouth. Always, and on point.

I began writing about you, but now that I look at you, I’m not too sure if they were ever about you. Now I write because the words come. Now I write not because I’m ‘heartbroken’ (I never have been, I realize now), but because I do not know a better way to let some things go. I write about different things now. And these words feel like the consolation prize for being as messed up as I am.

You’ve changed, so have I. You raised the bar for being a lot of things I’d rather not mention, but I’m no walk in the park either.

I’ve fought with you, given you a piece of my mind, and laughed at you time and again. But now I’d like to thank you.

Thank you for entering my life, and more importantly, for leaving. I know I’m going to see you soon, but this is where, after three years, I kiss your memory goodbye.

Our stories now lie in scribbled conversations and never-rhyming verses in the backs of notebooks, but don’t worry. I promise you I’ll keep them safe, and away from sight.