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May 22, 2012

Wet, Wash, Dry.......Repeat

You tell me you are leaving me
Over coffee and finger food
It’s the time of the year when
Everything is cold and wet and white
And then we stop seeing each other and I spend most of my time being sad
I try to be invisible
Keep out of your way
While you roam the streets with your arms around the chubby waist
Of a pretty girl with an obnoxious voice and
Straight brown hair with little waves at the end
You look happy but she doesn’t seem your type
Maybe she smells nice
I run into you over
The coffee shop
Where you’re laughing
With your pretty but loud new girlfriend
Wearing you navy blue shirt
And I’m still wearing my midnight blueness
Smile awkwardly at you and leave
And go to a bar and drink
Loading shots one after the other
Till my feet are wobbly and I can’t fake my accent anymore
You call me a few days later
On a Friday night
Your voice guilt ridden
The radio plays a familiar tune
You have split up with that stupid girl
With straight brown hair and waves at the end
For reasons you quote are ‘mutual’
But I know you’re just bored of
Her once intriguing suburban ways
And you ask me to meet
Over coffee and finger food
But it’s the beer that brings you to my place
And we know it is a bad idea
But we’re too drunk to acknowledge it
And we laugh and laugh and laugh
And as I breathe your deceitful breathe,
I wait for three more months
Cause the same story unfolds before me,
Wet, Wash, Dry….Repeat.

(Sorry guys! I know I haven't been writing much. I'll try to be more regular from now on. And I'll catch up with your blogs soon. Missed you'll a lot..! Cheers!)

November 18, 2011

A toast!

I raise a toast,

To the ones who defied all,

The ones, who soared, altered, inspired,

Themselves, others,

To the ones who struck stone against stone,

With the hope to create some warmth,

To the ones who looked at the never-ending seas,

And believed that there was something out there,

To the woman who started a rebellion,

Because she was mistreated,

To the man who stated a revolution,

Because he was a prey to racism,

To the men who were mocked,

But yet soared higher than the clouds,

To the little master, who raised his bat,

And the standards of a gentleman’s game

To the people who fought for what is right,

And hid the Jews during the annihilation,

To the ones who believed,

That the stars were not far away,

To the ones who saw into the future,

Where colour of the skin meant nothing,

I raise a toast, to the ones,

Who dreamed to dare and dared to dream,

Their names are engraved in the pages of history,

Their work, immortal!

So, have you dreamed today?

October 15, 2011

Last Ride Home

Hey guys!! Last Ride Home is my younger brother's band! 

LAST RIDE HOME is a 4 piece alternative metal band formed in November 2009. 
They have performed and won many college festivals such as Umang 10', Grand Exito 10', Viva 10' and a few more. 
They have also played a few gigs at Not Just Jazz By The Bay, Irish Pub, and at other college festivals.
They are inspired by bands like Three Days Grace, System of a Down, Limp Bizkit, Blessthefall, Avenged Sevenfold and many many more. 

Our line up: 
Deep Rk- Lead vocals and Bass guitar 
Dev Rk - Back vocals and drums 
Shubham - Lead guitars 
Yashish - Rhythm guitars

They have got this wonderful opportunity to participate in the WORME Fest'11 with Vh1 that is being held all over India.
So guys listen.
I'm pasting the link of the event page.
All you have to do is click on it, scroll down to the comments section. Search for "Last Ride Home" and like the comment.

Please do vote... We really need your support.
Thank you so much!!
You can listen to their song on the widget on my left sidebar..

October 5, 2011

To my brothers...

I see your innocence mirror my skepticism in those deep black eyes of yours. It brings a tear to mine. 
Where did I go wrong? How did I end up being the antithesis to your smile?
 I was once like you. I believed in nobility. I believed that there was good without a “catch”. 
How did I come to this stage?
I envy you. You find your happiness in a slice of pizza, a Tom and Jerry episode, you’ll wrestling with each other. 
I smile. But its fleeting. 
I laugh. But my laughter is adulterated with melancholy. 
I find myself surrounded by unexplained cynicism. I’m sure your life isn't perfect. But you really do make it seem like it is.
I wait with bated breath for the day you find your purpose. I’m still looking for mine and trust me, it isn’t easy. 
Every moment of my existence is laden with questions. Where am I? What do I do?  How do I make my existence mean something to you? For you know dear, I’m nothing if not living for you. 
My happiness is in your silly grin, your curly top. 
My serenity is in your bear hug, the music you make. 
My hope is watching you do something dynamic. 
My hopelessness is in your tears. 
My dread is in your insecurity. 
My pride is in your achievements. 
As much as I envy you, your immaturity and innocence, I love you with every fiber of my being. 
I just hope one day you see how much you guys mean to me. 
For now I’ll settle for late-night Green Day and Linkin Park concert marathons, football matches and pop-corn, random kicking and fighting for that last piece of cake and the last scoop of ice-cream and kicking you out of my room coz you’re playing football in it.

**Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do.**

September 22, 2011


‘Beautiful’ she says, as she puts her delicate finger under my chin.
I try my best to battle the fast forming tears in my eyes….tears I thought I was never capable of.
‘Those eyes you have, just like your fathers’ she smiles.

I’ve seen my grandmother dress up a million times and take the effort to look her best, and yet she has never looked lovelier than she looks now, on this bed. I guess it was the feeling of satisfaction that was wrapped around her.

I watch her drift in and out of her sleep and I taste my own salty tears. And suddenly, I blurt out “I love you. I love you very much”. And a wave of regret follows. Why haven’t I said this to her often? Why haven’t I thanked her for all that she’s done for me?  All those afternoons spent listening to old music. All those times I was too busy doing something else, making other plans.

She smiles. Enthusiastically, even now.

I try hard not to fall asleep. Coz I don’t want to miss a single moment. The past few days have been hazy. Everyone has been taking turns to be by gran’s side. It’s like having a baby. But it’s the opposite end of the story.
Tons of novels, answering calls, caffeine overdose pretty much make up for last week. Optimism was the theme for everyone. Not that we were living in denial. We just wanted to evade the bitterness. In these final moments, I wanted the love to remain, to overcome the sadness and the bitterness.

My gran, she likes me a lot.
My mom, I know she wishes I was more lady-like and that I kept my room clean. My dad, he most likely wishes that I was more……..well, just more. My friends, they wish I was less random and don’t get stressed out too much.
But they all love me. All of them. But love isn’t the same as liking, is it? And I don’t know how complex love can be, so I settle for liking and acceptance. More than anything, my gran, she makes me feel like a real person. And honestly, I do know how difficult that can be. But it came so naturally to her.

I miss her already. Her soft hands, her sweet smelling Cuticura powder, her favorite word ‘beautiful’ , the sound of her voice singing songs, her lovely and genuine smile,  all those small things made my gran the woman I loved so dearly. The woman whom I won’t hear hum while making food or play scrabble with and lose badly.

In her sickness, our family became closer than ever (see, she did good even in her final days). The awkward glances we gave each other all saying the same things, that we’ll cherish her forever. We all look for the right words to say. Some of us mentally prepare for what we’re going to say later at the condolence meet.

Although the million people’s lives she has touched, dare not put her in just a few words, I think I’ll need just one. Her favorite one as always. ‘Beautiful’.

August 22, 2011


Heart, thumping like a conga drum,
From the flight of stairs I climb,
Two steps at a time,
Head still tipsy from
That last deceitful drop
Of caffeine, gone cold at the bottom of the mug,
The flavor of solitude and desolation,
The smell of an open door
Shuffling feet and settling,
Sound of the slow fan, its bent blade,
My spiritless symphony,
The wait is over. It’s my turn.
Tearing my eyes out of the waiting room magazines,
Goodbye half brained beauties,
Dragging my feet,
Blurry letters and continuous questioning,
I find it difficult to breathe sometimes, I say,
She hides my face with a picture of a house,
Bricked walls and red roof,
My chins on a plastic machine,
A prescription for fake tears,
At the price of two fags,
She places a glass in front of my eye,
I look like a freak show clown,
In a carnival, during off-season,

She asks me,
Do you see a home?
Its red roof and brick walls,
I say I see a house,
Am I blind?
Please say yes.

July 25, 2011

But I married words..

“But I married words” said the widow.
I found this line scrawled on the last page of my diary, which until not very long ago, I used to write in.
And now, I fail to recollect if these lines were mine or borrowed. Google search does not yield me any results. If you are reading these lines, tell me whether you’ve read them somewhere else. And if they’re all mine then this is me, haunted by my own brainchild.

Aren’t we all??

July 1, 2011


Take a proper look at yourself.
So, what do you see?
What the hell do you see?

Do you enjoy what you see?
Do you trust your perception?
Does it make you feel insecure?
You know something, don’t answer the last question. I know the answer already.

Go on. Tell the world that you feel awesome.
We all know that’s shit.
What troubles me is how much uncertainty actually lies beneath your skin.
Is it probable that you’ve actually stopped existing?

Ok. So my words of wisdom aren’t going to open your mind.
It isn’t going to make you introspect and find yourself.
You’d probably read this and question my sanity.
Honestly, I myself don’t know where I am.

So, where were you yesterday??
Why did you buy your Aviators?
So you really love Absinthe?
Are you happy with your life??

Oh great! You’re shaking.
But you aren’t doing the Jazz Hands this time, are you?
Screw your fear. Drink some beer.
Maybe the shaking will stop.

Airheads affirming uniqueness.
Look at me! Look me in the eyeball!
You don’t want them to bring out the big guns, do you?
Believe me. You don’t want that.

We are all plebeians. Yet we’re all one of a kind.
Embrace the loser in you.
Exonerate yourself.
Feel this great feeling.
Cross over to my side.

We have cookies!

June 21, 2011


And thus, it begins.
Out of the blue, like passing a homeless person on a street who doesn’t ask you for your money.
Arising from the spaces linking our fingers, where we conceal all our secrets.
It draws me in deep. Then it immediately pushes me away.
The frosty winds came too early, this year.
Plenty of birds dying in their nests.
We gazed at stars and peeked at fireflies.
Everything was painted the colour of silence.

She licks her lips again, slowly this time. The droplets of sweat that were present are now the salt on her tongue. My eyes are glued to the ebb and fall of the dice she wore around her delicate neck.
Her eyes blinked to the beat of leaves falling from the tress, becoming one with the earth.

She doesn’t utter a word. Not a single one. Just keeps me waiting.
Testing my patience.
Please say something. Anything.
Cross me off that list of yours and name this our last kiss, I say.
She laughs out loud. Bloody hell.

I turn around and walk away to find a new her.
I leave because she is too gorgeous.
More than anything, I leave because I love words too much.

And it is tough to be in love with a mute.

June 19, 2011


So, here I am playing the stare game with my laptop thinking that it’s been really long since I’ve written a post. And I still have nothing to write. So just like any self indulgent person, I am going to write about something that I know very well – me! It’s not a very appealing topic. And, in my defense, I did state the words 'self indulging'.

So, where do I begin? As a child I spent so much time on a collection of certain ideas about life, love, existence and well, the most over-rated actor – Salman Khan. But then, I grew up. Salman however, didn't.

I believed that growing up and becoming an adult would mean inconceivable freedom. It would mean finally being cool and famous and surrounded by happy people. I guess this was the case of most of you guys. But hey, I never said that I’m special.

Time as a youngster was spent eating Maggi noodles in front of the television, literally one foot away from the screen watching Small Wonder and I Dream of Jeannie. I remember playing cricket in the living room with my bro. And my clothes, oh dear god. I ranged from looking like a princess to a street gangster. Rangeela, KKHH and Gulaam were my fashion guides. And the pictures are never going to see the light of day.

Why am I telling you guys all this..? Damn I should have thought of it before writing all this shit. I don’t want to delete it now because, face it; nothing is scarier than a blinking cursor.

As a child I believed that life just happened. People fell in love. People stayed in love. Damn I wish my parents took some videos of me as a child. I would have at least something to look at whenever I cry that I’m growing up too fast and that I miss my childhood days.

I believe kids of today are too aware and too snobbish and too self absorbed. Even more than me. And believe me, I am really self absorbed. I feel sad that they do not get to enjoy Parle Poppins, Goti Soda, Rola Cola and Jolly Jelly (If I don’t get a single comment concerning this, I swear I’ll change my name to Anna Ramdev)

My shrink tells me to be open and honest with people. He tells me to share stuff. I love to keep everything to myself. I don’t see anything wrong with doing that. But, I’m the one on the chair and he’s the one with the degree. So here I go. And hey I’d be completing Chocolate Lover’s tag in the process.

*Each tagged person must post ten things about themselves*
*You have to choose and tag ten people*
*Go to their blogs and tell them you tagged them*
*No tags back*
*Have fun*

  1. I never knew how to dance properly until I was 15. I looked like a person doing the Robot dance and the Chicken dance simultaneously.
  2. Cockroaches petrify me. I literally freeze and almost pass out when I see one.
  3. I tend to classify people as those better than me and people I’m better than. Hardly do I ever find an equal. I guess that’s because I don’t know where I stand. Don’t ask me where you stand. I won’t tell. And stop thinking about it.
  4. I have freakishly long fingers and toes. I think I belong to another species.
  5. I have read all the books in the Princess Diaries series, Harry Potter series and the Twilight series.
  6. I would love to believe people like Edward Cullen and secret worlds like in Harry Potter exist. I’ve tried my best. And then I feel stupid.
  7. I feel stupid most of the time.
  8. I crack jokes when I’m nervous. I’m not funny. I just want to fill awkward silences.
  9. I’m really bad at Maths, Physics and Statistics. I literally suck.
  10. I really really really love Mc. Donald’s potato wedges. But everytime I finish overeating them, I hate myself.

And…I would like to tag---

Scribbling Gal
Blasphemous Aesthete
C'est Moi

June 5, 2011

Dead Poets Society

"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.
‘Souvenirs’, he called them. 
Souvenirs that mocked him. 
Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.
His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot. 
Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.

Blood and ink, wasted.

All in the view that he had no words…

May 24, 2011

For you, ma....

You haven’t seen me cry, ma,
Not because tears were never my thing,
I’ve never let you realize, ma,
I’ll never let you know.

I’ve seen people sell hope in metal cans, ma
And some rolled up in smoking papers,
But is that truly hope, ma?
What makes them end all hope?

I survive in a world without any color, ma,
My colorblindness makes me conceited,
I always see illusions, ma
Cause, my reflection is a dreamlike haze to me.

I watched you go down the street, ma,
And buy wilted flowers for twice as much,
But they still smell sweet, ma,
As long as they smell like you.

It’s been ages, ma,
Since you’ve cuddled me to sleep,
Am I too big for your lap, ma,
Or did I wander away?

I remember you used to sing to me, ma,
On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
You sang about time healing everything, ma,
Are you still waiting?

I’ve harbored misery, ma,
And dejection’s been a close friend,
But nothing reassures me like you, ma,
With you, I never pretend.

I wore scarlet tinted sunglasses, ma,
To validate my complacence,
But they dropped and got smashed, ma,
Under a cart full of authenticity,

I’ll lie one day in a coffin, ma,
And your tears won’t blemish my body anymore,
I’ll perish in a plastic basket, ma,
Frosty, pale and sore.

It’ll rain hope someday, ma,
And it will nurture your rebellious wounds,
I’ll drain the clouds dry, ma,
I’ll make it shower on you.

You’ll never see me cry, ma,
Not in a million years,
I’ll fade away slowly, ma,
Leaving behind all those unseen tears,

For you, ma..... for you...