Honest Lies

We sit across from each other at the coffee table – two souls who once conjured up a world of their own and now, just aliens from different spheres.

I don’t steal glances at you every now and then. I don’t notice the craters around your eyes or the hollows in your cheeks. The sight of your sleep deprived face does not bother me nor does the cigarette that seems to have found its way back to between your dexterous long fingers. It does not bother me that you have lost weight or that you lose a few curls every time you rake your hand through your hair. I do not heed the modest dimples on your forehead that seem to have left your cheeks to bridge your eyebrows. I do not hear the emptiness in your laugh or catch the sparkles that have gone amiss in your eyes.

I am not upset that we talk so little when there is so much to say. It does not affect me when you tell me how your life has changed. I do not secretly wonder if you have met someone else. And I do not feel relieved when you show me pictures of new friends none of whom are women. When its finally time to bid goodbye, I am not overwhelmed by the warmth in your hugs or hope that has begun to engulf me.


Written in response to the The Daily Post’s Prompt.

Inspired by Vidisha who writes at Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues.

The ‘What if’ People

Have you ever looked back at life and wondered about some people you crossed paths with? I am not referring to the people whom you have grown apart from or become closer to.

I am referring to the people who left you or whom you chose to let go.

I am a Cancerian and true to the nature of most of my species, I carry my fair share of baggage too. I drag around the burden of the ‘what ifs’.

I often think of the people who exit my life and those others whom I shut the door on. And every time I wonder “What if I had done something different? What if I had put in a little extra effort? Would things have turned out differently? Would I have been happier?”

Maybe. I don’t know the answer. And it is this answer that evades me and haunts me every time.

I’m not complaining. I’m just thinking out loud. Rhetorically.

In fact, given the option I don’t think I would even want to know the answer. Why you ask? Because deep down I think the answer would bring my way a basketful of disappointment.

Why write?

How many times have we all answered the question “Why do you write?”

The answer is supposed to get easier over time. But I find that things turn complicated when I try to simplify the answer.

Its probably got to do with the fact that a lot of indescribable emotions and thoughts cloud my mind, making expression difficult. Tell me something.. How do you explain  to someone what goes through your mind when you eat your favourite dish? How do you put a thought or feeling across and ensure that the other person comprehends or experiences it in its entirety? Because I don’t know.

Maybe this sounds a little lame. Maybe this sounds like another futile attempt to describe a writer’s inner dilemma without really answering the question.

Maybe that is what it is.

I could sit here all day writing poetic lines about how every alphabet in the English language is a friend. And maybe I would mess that up too.

But, that’s okay.

I don’t write because I want a thousand people to read what I write. I don’t want to become famous or get quoted. I don’t even think I want to write a book.

All I know is I want to write for myself. I write for all those moments in my life when I want to pen down and immortalise what goes on my mind. It could be a moment when I feel like a poet, or one when it rains and the world is painted red when I look around. Maybe it could be after I have had the shittiest day at work and I just want to distract myself from reality. It could be when I look around and see some beautiful stories dressed up as people going about their lives. It could be this and infinite other things.

That’s what it is. I want to write because writing is a journey and a destination by itself. I love how music takes me places while I sit here in my corner and words paint pictures effortlessly. Oh.. and another beautiful thing about songs? Those words were once written by somebody who felt something deeply too..

Right.. So that’s been fifteen minutes of free-writing a.k.a release of inner turmoil. I obviously haven’t re-organised my thoughts as this was written in response to the prompt shared by the Blogging University Team as part of Finding Everyday Inspiration.

Now that you have patiently read my piece of writing, let me know what makes you write in the comments below. Oh yeah! Thank you for reading. 🙂

A Clown’s Tale


I always loved magic.

Like a rabbit out of a hat,

You popped into my life.

Entranced, I awed and cheered

As you turned my life into a circus.

You became the master, I the clown.

Every time you shut me up

In a box and split me into pieces,

Except you needed no sword, just words.

After what seemed like endless stunts

And performances, you end the show

With a disappearing act.

Onlookers gasp and applaud,

While I just stand here with bated breath.


Lend me your hand

Come hold my hand.
When the worst times tide over us,
And when the world seems bleak
With no ray of hope,
Let our smiles disperse in our lives
a thousand splendid colors.
I know a time may come,
When your hand shall
No longer clasp mine.
When your life shall
Not remain interwoven with mine.
But today, let me be.
Allow me some time,
To cherish you, to embrace you.
To thank my stars, for
Bringing me to you.
As we stand wondering
What tomorrow may bring,
As we seek answers hiding cleverly
From all our questions,
Stand by my side.
Come hold my hand.

Scribbles #7

You were always an artist.

From the music that flowed when you spoke to me,

To the dreams of a future you painted

On the canvas that was my life.

Now, all I hear is a melancholy – your voice

Playing in my mind.

Sleep is today, but a distant dream.