It’s been a long time since I have written in complete sentences. In wholesome and plausible paragraphs about something relevant.
I don’t know why I do things I do. Why I pick ways, stick to them unnecessarily and then one day, drop them.
Life today is good. Not very indulging, not very aimless.
Yet I don’t know why I keep writing about it and nothing else.
Doesn’t anything else matter?
Some days back I was reading an article on Narmada by Arundhati Roy.
It was fact based. But was written with so much of passion.
Her passion gleamed through the words.
And I thought to myself…..
“ Poor little writer girl…. Trying to save the world in red and blue tights”
I wondered if saving a human settlement around a river would ever give me sleepless nights!
If 50 million displaced, homeless people ever mattered.
Will nuclear armament be as relevant as losing my virginity. Though the former could kill us all, and the latter a harmless progression in emotional and sexual life.

You know one of the most difficult things in the world is to come to terms with your own self. Both your greatness and your weakness. And sometimes when you cannot feel enough, just because it doesn’t hurt you.


I read it once, I read it twice.
I tried to memorise it in a way I had never done to any of my history lessons.
Then I gave up.

I tried to reason with my self. I tried to rebel with it.
I questioned in a way I never had to any of my lovers.
I gave up on it too.

I realised that both, being me and loving the things that I love are beyond my keeping and knowing..

Now, this moment, I am tying words… and my favourite song is playing in the background.

And may be this is far less than being able to do things.. but it does suffice.
It does suffice.


Love God For The Poor Soul

“ I don’t like too many things hanging on the wall, I don’t think its fancy.
I would hate it if ever my home had those kind of walls...”
“ Besides I keep wondering from time to time why so many artistes have sung
Leaving on a Jet Plane in their voices again and again. Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell so many of them. It gives me the creeps, why cant they leave Denver’s alone?”

Harry spoke while he ate his subway. His fingers digging into the sandwich and spilling the contents. The sauces were all over his face and on the napkins which were supposed to be used to wipe and clean.

So you made love to a blue coloured woman with waist long hair and ten hands? I asked.
Like I told you, he said.
I looked at him, watched him eat.

He ate his sandwich. Ate every bit of it, in slow and in love. He bit off the crust and the sides first and kept the centre for the next bite.

And…As he ate the olives, he closed his eyes.