Few things September left in me:

Oversharing kills me but I met some cute weirdos who doesn’t make me feel bad about it.

My anxiousness has an expiry date. Until it returns with a new, refined one.

I’d be shrinking down and curling up in my bed all day log and yet be keeping hope near the pillow to win in life.

Nothing beats the sleep with a book hugging your chest. (Ofcourse after Ma’s lap)

Hobbies help you escape/overcome heartache.

Hurt can feel very personal sometimes. Big or small, doesn’t matter.

The softness of my voice can make someone’s day instead of screaming my pain out without realising what they are going through.

Capture/watch as much of Sunrises and Sunsets as possible. They cure you.

Family, friends, Bangtan truly have helped me get over toughest of times. I would work really hard to give it back to all of them.


Immature Impulsion

Did you see my immature impulsion?
Did you see me swiftly jumping into
conversations to save you behind your back?
Did you notice my urge to drape a
Saree instead of a short skirt
because you folded that page in a magazine?
Did you see me stopping mid-meal
when your tongue folded my name nicely?
Did you see me tremble under a single umbrella
and your gaze drizzling on my body?
Did you see me smiling at a stranger
because their hand movements matched yours?
If you did then tell me,
why am I cold in summer?
Why do I fall in spring?
Why does it rain heavily at night?

I did it all. Must you be so cruel in spite of all?
Did you see me getting adjusted in the
back of your car now, just to be with you?
Did you see my nails painted white, a cry for help?
Did you see me layering shimmer
when the glow was gone?
Did you see me walking confidently
towards you when my ground was shaking?

Did you see me how immaturely and
insanely I was in love with you?
I am growing up. Be more mature now.
And I’ll love in sanity and moderation.
That’s the worst kind of love for me.


I love how old fashioned you are!

Reading your favourite quote or poetry to them.

Feeding a morsel to them.

Sing in your voice to cheer them up.

Making trinkets/souvenir from the scratch.

A personal message on their birthdays.

Walking them to the door at the end of evening.

Leaving little notes around.

Suprising them with a hand-made dish.

Knowing how to keep a promise.

I’m a carousel girl

I am a carousel girl
I pass by
cat steps.
You might not notice.
I revolve around
circling in your thoughts.
My dreams reduced
Carnival, waltz and you.
I push
around you
looking like someone in love
in a white shirt and a red beret.
And I chase colors,
I played
You played
Time moved on
My address stamped.
20th July,
carnival evening, 6:30.
Yes, I still live there
cat steps
I pass by.
I will pass by
one day.
But till then
Must I go round and round
and yet be fixated in one memory?


Being responsible ain’t easy

There is only so much a person can do. It’s not your fault. You are just a responsible person.

Responsibility in itself sounds a heavy word that shrieks of an unannounced oath of putting others before you. But what if I say this feeling is growing unhealthily for you, in you. It has become so imperative for you to keep them protected that you have forgotten you need protection too. You need to be loved too.

Being responsible is really hard. You are sure everything is lying on your shoulders. You can’t catch a break. You can’t afford to commit mistakes but are expected to ignore other’s. You are always the one looking out for others whether those are younger or older to you. People slack around you knowing you’d handle everything. That is flattering only to a point when it’s not draining you out anymore. When you ignore these signs you put yourself under unnecessary burdens and stress. You can never fully relax. Your routines, priorities, organising things for others, piking up other’s shit can make you forget your own dreams and aspirations.

All I wanna say is take it easy. Don’t lose sleep over it. It’s gonna be okay. You are going to go through it so don’t kill yourself over it. Let others take up some of your burden. Start to share. Let them learn by their mistakes. Be there for them, just don’t spoon-feed. Otherwise there would be lot of unsaid resentment that will make you bitter and your energy around. Take help when it’s offered. Ask if there is none. Don’t be shy. Make time for your dreams. Do activities you like doing. Be responsible, trustworthy but surround yourself with people who’d have your back too. Find a balance between duties and living a life.
You are doing enough. You are enough.

*That cozy space at home*

If you are an introvert and moreover, a bit of a reader like me, then you are always looking for the comfiest spot for your low key therapeutic sessions with yourself. By now you must have chosen and marked your territory; becoming Sheldon Cooper of your house and announcing “This is my spot” and the dangers of ignoring the red flags if ever this is occupied by anyone else. You make sure you keep the place clean and lay the softest mattress fairly won after having a tiff with your mother because for her, things like these must be kept only for guests. With fairy lights or few scented candles decorating the corner you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling while your mom rolled her eyes looking at your silly face but not uttering a word against as she knows someone is busy carving their own world, tiny as much so, but closest to the soul.

It could be a corner in your balcony absorbing the fresh sunlight or a nook far from the snuggly bed where you curl up in restless nights. You laugh, you cry, you enjoy pouring rains through the place, and before you know it becomes your tea/coffee partner. When you come and sit there you feel you’re almost with a friend, someone who calms your mind without having a word uttered.

You spend all your positive energy to fill that space with your own passion which resonates strongly as your alter self to help you read, write, think, or be lazy around the clock. With incessant encounters, that place becomes your pal. One that knows you from your mischievous acts of rummaging through the kitchen cabinets at 3 in the morning and eating the stuff before your sibling does, to the one who encountered your raw emotions mourning for either the real people or over the fictional characters. But someone in whose arms you tend to get asleep faster than intentionally trying to sleep on your comfortable bed.

You long to get to that place after the day’s hustle because its where your inner self unfurls, sheds all the masks off or the pretentious laughs, and finally be yourself. Where your heart decides if it needs a quick hibernation or a hardcore reboot, where your loud silence isn’t misjudged or poked repeatedly to use ‘I am fine’ words.

Sometimes you just sit there and nonchalantly look around. Once there were posters on these walls, medals from juvenile competitions now nicely tucked away in the glass cupboard. You look at those from that spot wondering when did you grow up so fast. Accessing deepest of the emotions you now understood, not only yours but of everyone living or sharing a life with you. How they carry their lives after they are broken as if nothing ever happened to them. How those smiles aren’t genuine but a lot more compassionate to avoid bad mood influence around. It’s where you face the truest of moments and that spot is no less than a regal palace for you.

What is being soft mean?

Making breakfast in bed for your people, sending little wishes to them before their big day, choosing to watch a movie they want instead of your fav one, saying a genuine thank you exactly when it’s needed,
Donating your fav stuff, encouraging strangers in a random comment section, smiling at a kid, respecting and appreciating waiters, janitors, cleaners for their hardwork, placing water bowls for the birds in summer, sending songs in a voice note to uplift their mood, carrying the heavy things yourself while shopping with them, listening to grandparent’s stories, do chores before anyone asks, bringing water without being requested, taking care of the plants and at times even if those aren’t yours, gifting a greeting’s card with a personal message inside instead of a printed one, helping an elderly with a smile, giving your people a tight & much needed hug, motivating others, reminding them how much you love them.

If you have been doing this then it tells you are a good person. Your softness is a strength. Thanks for existing.

We, the writers

I’ve written about love while being heartbroken
I’ve written about loyalty when backstabbed
I’ve written about freedom while it was suffocating.
I’ve written about loss when it wasn’t personal.
This is how I see my journey as a writer.

Writers are driven by emotions.
Emotions that we experience,
Emotions that others go through.
And we write about both.

We are quick to notice
the loner, the outcast, the black sheep, the non-comformist, the shy ones.
And we instantly feel what they are going through,
how torturous it is not being able to speak up
And then we write about them.

That, my friend
is a blessing and a curse.