Monday, 26 September 2016

Bridge the gap

All we had
Was a gentle stream
Flowing between us

Strange how it compelled us
To arrive at the shore
Despite the marshy land
Despite the saw-edged pebbles

So one fine day,
You said let's build a bridge
I was apprehensive
So you built one on your own-

A rickety one; a flimsy one,
A rocky one; a shaky one

Perhaps to alter our inconvenience
But today I rack my brains thinking-

Was that your strength?
Was that your incapacity?

Maybe you "bridged" the gap
Quite literally.

~Poem 32

I fretted, but I made it too,
You didn't even step forward, and claimed you had the flu.
(Picture credits: unknown; Source: We heart it)

Monday, 19 September 2016

Interview: International Relations by Adele Archer

Recently I got the golden opportunity of having a discussion with the debutant authoress Adele Archer, in regard to her book titled 'International Relations.' And no, her book is not about globalisation, or maybe it is...*giggles*

Here is how our conversation went:

For starters, could you tell us what your trilogy is about?
Arghh! I am so bad at blurbs and synopses…synopsis…sin…summaries of the book. Well, I hate to call it a romance, and yet it is. But an offbeat romance with a difference. It’s an amusing, yet adventurous tale of two seemingly opposing people’s struggle to be together. However, life conspires to force them apart at every turn. See? I’m rubbish at synopses. I’d suggest you read the blurbs instead, I slaved hours over those babies.

According to your website your inclination towards writing came from your late sister, but where does the inspiration of the two main characters, Milo and Dee come from?
I remember being bored by fictional women in novels and TV when I was growing up. They weren’t the women I knew. I wanted to portray a female character that was multidimensional – like real women. Dee, I suppose, is a little bit of me. But me without any filters. And with more bad life choices. Milo is the archetypal brooding, enigmatic male protagonist – yet fragile and troubled. Actually, my husband absolutely loathes Milo. I had to point out that characters a bit like him are littered all throughout literature. He just responded that all women must like ‘bad boys’ (he actually used a different ‘b’ word, but I’m trying to be polite). And in a way, we do. But I would never personally choose one in real life, though. I’m too practical. And I think too much of myself.

What challenges did you face while writing and publishing your books?
Well…children, having a day job, having to actually talk to people. I know, I had a lot of hurdles and crosses to bear. Up to now, though, I’ve never found writing itself a struggle. What I do find challenging is allowing myself to sit down and write, when I feel guilty about neglecting everything else. I don’t suppose I’m alone in that.

What piece of advice would you like to share with aspiring writers?

I’ve said this before, but I think it’s difficult to be a young writer. When I was young, I believed that to be considered a proficient writer, you had to fit into a certain way of doing things. It was only when I matured that I realised I had to be 100% myself, or it was never going to work. It seems completely obvious now, but I just had to stop pretending, and do my own thing. Even if everybody else hates what I do. Because ‘me’ was the only thing I had that was unique. So that’s what I’d suggest, be yourself. You will certainly have a quirk that is all your own. Use it.

Could you give us a fun fact about your work?
How about three?
A) ‘International Relations’ (which went through a number of titles) was originally called, ‘And After That’ (rubbish, ay?). My husband thought up its final title. I never much cared for it!
B) In ‘American Cousins’, Kirby the cat isn’t fictitious, she’s my actual cat.
C) In ‘American Cousins’, the sheep joke happened in real life (sorry if you haven’t read ‘American Cousins’ but now you have a reason to)!

What can readers expect from the second and third parts of your book?
I’ve got to tell you - things get a little dark as the story progresses. I didn’t do that as some kind of ploy, it was purely timing. I was going through a bereavement during the latter stages, and I suppose that was where my head was at. Life isn’t rainbows and lollipops. There are times when I just had to let the story go its own way, even though ‘escapist me’ wanted to put a jollier spin on everything. But the narrative had a mind of its own and dictated that I couldn’t. People think it’s odd when I say that, because it was up to me, right? I wrote it. But it’s true. The story sometimes wrote itself.

Are you working on any other projects other than your series?
No. I’m a ‘starter-completer’ (it’s a thing). I can’t move on until something is finished. Other than my blog, working on Book III is all I am doing right now.

Would you like to venture into other genres apart from romance?
Yes! I’d like to think I will never write another romance novel again (but I can’t promise). My favourite genres are fantasy and murder-mystery, but I’m nervous that I don’t have an aptitude for writing them. But you never know until you try. One book I have no choice but to write will not be fiction at all. I will probably be writing the story of my childhood (which I won’t enjoy writing a single bit as I didn’t have a very happy childhood). But I imagine I won’t write it until I’m an old lady – don’t want to offend anyone, you see.

What is your favourite book from the classic era and from the contemporary era?
‘Jane Eyre’ would certainly be my favourite book from the classical era – I love the brooding Mr Rochester. Hmm, he sounds familiar… Closely followed by ‘Pride and Prejudice’ (of course) when I’m in a more frivolous mood. From the modern era, I’d have to go for ‘The Game of Thrones’ saga. I read them all. Murder, romance, intrigue, war, politics. There just isn’t anything out there quite like it.

What was the most fun part and the most difficult part while painting your fictional story?
The most fun part was seeing what had been rattling around my head for years actually taking form on paper. The most difficult part was bringing the saga to a close. Those characters had been with me since my teens (when I originally came up with the story). It was hard to say goodbye - they’d almost become real people for me. But I’ve definitely said goodbye.

Name three or more things you cannot write without.

A laptop (I hate writing at a desktop computer). Coffee (sorry, obvious). Google (‘nuff said).

Is there anything else you would like to say to your readers?
The story is nearly at a close (well it certainly is for me, since I’m just editing Book III). ‘International Relations’ might not change your life, but it might just take you away from the stresses of yours. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Adele is currently working on the third and final part of her saga. You can meanwhile purchase the first two parts of her book from Amazon. (Currently, hardcopies are only available in US and UK )
You can even subscribe to her website- Adele Archer or her blog- Adele Archer Writes if you would like to know more about her.

P.S You can see my review of the book here. I highly recommend reading it!

Monday, 12 September 2016

At war

Our wedding bells rung
Like every other couple's
Except ours was a commencement
Of a forthcoming battle.

She was alerted beforehand
That setting me off
Meant putting everything at stake
But surrendering isn't an option.

Unlike me, her only armaments
Are her dangling ornaments
That jingle as she marches
And what the enemy clan is eyeing.

As for allies
She just has her neighbours
Who again might switch sides
As part of a strategy.

She could fall prey
To their constant scheming
But I know she will rise
Like she was never pinned down.

And even if the God of War
Descends on the battlefield
To declare a truce
Victory will still prevail.

Every second of her survival
Is a tussle in itself
Because our probabilities
Can turn out to be inaccurate.

She could just be out in the garden
Watering her white roses
When the bulletin would be updated
With blood stained reports from the warfare.

She could be slipping a postcard
Through the mouth of a mailbox
When my lifeless body
Would pass her shadow.

Once the news breaks out
It will hit her like a grenade
And though she would shield herself
She'd still thrive as a worthy opponent.

If there would be a series
Of missiles shot to honour me
Give her a tribute there and then
Because she is the real warrior.

And if at all an epitaph
Would be laid in my name,
Have her sacrifices engraved too
For she is the one at war.

~Poem 31

Glorify her risks
(Picture credits: Gunduz Agayev)

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Entwined in swirls

For a person with absolutely
No sense of rhythm,
But only blues,
You sure have cast quite a spell.

From bearing two left feet
To those awkward hand movements,
I have come across a long way
As now I am both tamed and free.

Look at me Honey,
See how I am dancing,
The general audience isn't bothering me,
But I am in accordance with everything natural.

The grass is getting tickled,
The sun is beaming from arc to arc,
The wind is blowing in my favour,
While you're in awe of your own creation.

So tell me who requires mirror walls,
When one has a muse like you?
And tell me who needs a pair of bellies,
When one is being propped up in your arms?

~Poem 30

A feeling of freedom like never before
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Pinterest)

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Give my love to...her

As I lay here, on my death bed, I would like to share my last wish with you. It's no surprise that my body will soon wither away, just like the bunch of roses you offered me to take to the grave as a farewell present. So I request you to pick one of the finest roses in the lot and keep it in your shirt pocket, while everyone else is busy with the formalities.
After all the rituals are over, and you head back home, I want you to cry your eyes out. I will not stop you from spilling your emotions because just like the spell of rain ends, so will your grief. As soon as your heart begins to feel better, let your mind take charge of your actions. Change the bed sheets and your pillow covers, and open the curtains. Take a shower, and put on some fresh clothes. You can channel all your thoughts towards your heart right after you do this.
Seems easy, right? I hate to break it to you, but this is only 50% of the task that I have asked you to carry out for my dying soul. You might feel reluctant at first and you have every right to deny my request, but I have valid reasons to still put it forward. Besides, I won't even be alive to see your bitter reaction. *Inserts tongue out emoticon here*
I suppose you're all set to go to work. Well, Don't. You will, however, need to step out to fulfil my desire. Don't use your car, honey. Go on foot. And don't forget to carry the rose I told you to pick. It is alright if it has wilted because it will hold more significance this way. You'll know how shortly.
Now head towards the market area, and turn right after three blocks.
There. I don't think I need to guide you further. You know which door to knock.
Don't be afraid. She will let you come in. There is no need to inform her about my demise. The news would have reached her anyway. Once you both are done with the awkward exchanges, I will need you to offer that very same rose to her.
Look, she might get mad at first, but she will cool down too. Don't let her series of insults get to your heart. Those are just bottled up emotions flowing out. But whatever her decision may be, make sure she does accept the rose. That will give her something to think about.
You must be wondering why I asked you to go to her and not move on instead. You see dear, I know she still cares for you, even though you drifted apart. You were high school sweethearts, and it was only misunderstandings that sent you along different paths.
We both were connected, but we didn't have the luck.
You both had a spark, and now you're getting another chance to rekindle it.
And as funny as this may sound- I trust her. I trust her because poetry runs in her veins too, and misjudging a writer's heart is completely out of the question. I know she still has a drawer somewhere in the corner of her house that is devoted to you, even though it might be jammed due to brushed off thoughts. And I also refuse to believe that she is embarrassed by those cheesy couplets she wrote for you back then.
Now that I've stated my reasons, please be patient. She will respond. And your love will blossom again, just like old times.
In a few minutes from now, my heart won't be here to get hurt by your choice, but my soul will ache if it sees yours wandering alone.
Go back to your old lover, my dear. Cherish her. Say you'll marry her, and mean it this time.
Basically, give her my share of your love.

This is me, signing off from your love.

Be her immortal now
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Monday, 5 September 2016

On paper and life

Like a fresh page of a notebook,
you begin writing your story,
you have the option of ink and graphite,
and likewise that of a whitener or an eraser,
but you could always tear the page off!

By the time you reach the middle,
you're equally trained and drained,
while the binding- the two staple pins,
now lay bare in front of you,
as you've exhausted your free trials from page one.

You're already familiar with the last page,
as it's the sole witness to your aspirations
like random doodles and scraps of poetry,
and even those endless scribbles,
that were drawn to taste the future.

A few pages come stuck,
some arrive as a misfit,
and many bear missing margins,
but they all become a hurdle,
only and only if you let it.

It's totally up to you-
to either take down notes
just for your existence,
 make paper planes and paper boats,
or maybe balance out the two.

The ink is fading and so are the memories,
the lessons, however, will remain in your archives,
for you now know you mustn't give in
to paper cuts and loose leaves, and most of all-
that life is but an eulogy for death.

~Poem 29

Book of Life
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Saturday, 6 August 2016


Old pal,
I believe that you're caught up in the greys of life,
So much that when black enters, it never feels out of the blue,
You seem to be aiming for white, which fades away too soon,
However, you fail to realise that even in blues,
There exist magnificent hues
Now what you need to do is view life as a blank page,
And then create an abstract image
But don't settle for what's made of wax,
Trust me, it's a hoax in the form of a box,
Pick up the set of pastels instead,
And I guarantee-
There will be reds and carmine too,
There will be greens and jade too,
There will be yellows and ochre too,
You could be inclusive of orange and purple too,
And you may even find room for pink and brown too
Now, if you still choose to stick with monochrome
Then there is no hope for you
Recall how you art teacher would insist
On your filling in the white gaps as much as possible
And apply the same rule to your life
Only then will you truly appreciate the light
That falls in naturally.

~Poem 28

Don't block your hope by romanticising dark hours
(Picture credits: Grant Haffner)

Friday, 22 July 2016

Broken-heart surgery

To peel a broken heart,
You do not require a pair of sterile gloves,
But only a string of words,
Uttered without a second thought.

To feel a broken heart,
You do not require any special tool,
Glance at the victim in the eye,
And be on the lookout for the telltale spark.

To heal a broken heart,
You do not require another heart,
Wire your brain in such a manner,
That it always gains the upper hand.

To seal a broken heart,
You do not require a dozen stitches,
Just put on the suit of the Tin Man,
Without his bizarre wish of course.

~Poem 27

Your ideal broken heart
(Picture credits: Emma Parker)

Friday, 15 July 2016

Just once more (Part 2)

She opened the door with the most spectacular smile pasted on her lovely face. Her wet ringlets nuzzled her shoulders, while her body-con dress hugged her supple skin. She wrapped me in her embrace, letting her perfume spray onto my shirt. She then took my hand and ushered me into her house.
"Why don't you freshen up while I prepare dinner? You probably had a long day!" She suggested while readjusting her place.
I responded with a smile and headed towards the washroom with my clothes. The tiring day was worth the soothing shower. It took me quite a while to realise that I was putting in extra efforts to groom my body.
The aroma of all my favourite dishes hit me as soon as I stepped out.
"Oh! That was quick. Come sit down. I will serve you."
She took the seat that was diagonal to me and then tried to engage me in small talk. She asked me about my day, the people I talked to and everything else she could think of.
Maybe she was just as nervous as I was. I dusted that thought at once and shifted my attention to the remaining portion on my plate.
'Just one spoon left now. Then she's all yours.' The devil inside me was now lurking around. However, I managed to cover it with an overly sweet mask. I took charge of clearing the table and volunteered to help with the dishes as well.
Once everything was done, she suddenly got this urge to dance with me. I also gave into her odd request, owing to the fact that the music she had selected was pretty sensual.
'Relax dude. You'll get to lay your hands on her skin sooner this way,' I assured myself while swaying her around the room. But amidst all of that movement, I found myself stuck there in the moment. I was enjoying it.
I let her spin again, but she didn't return to me this time. Instead, she proceeded towards the bathroom, leaving me with wild guesses. Without giving it a second thought, I entered her bedroom and yanked my t-shirt.
I sprawled on her bed and awaited her presence next to me.
My waiting came to an abrupt halt as she climbed onto the bed and threw her arms around me.
But something felt odd. We weren't skin to skin. Something was obstructing our friction.
It was her clothes- a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants; to be more accurate. While I was trying to process the reason as to why she had her clothes on, she buried her face beside my chest. I couldn't tame my heartbeats, but her eyelids managed to catch up to its rhythm as if it were some sort of lullaby.
Now we were just lying. Lying together. In total darkness, but with kindling souls. Perhaps only God knew the science behind our blaring yet resting bodies.
All I could comprehend was that my days would always end with wanting to sleep with her again. And again.

"And folks, that's how she turned into my ex-girlfriend," I concluded while raising a toast with one hand and claiming her with the other.


(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Friday, 8 July 2016

Just once more (Part 1)

When it came to flirting with girls, I was never behind in the race. I would usually engage in healthy and casual chats. None of my previous girlfriends approved of this behaviour of mine and of course, it was reasonable from their perspective. It's not like they were winter girlfriends to me. I pretty much felt that they would last. My intention was never to hurt them or appear disloyal, as I did put in efforts to maintain those relationships. However, all my attempts would go in vain. They all left me, but that didn't put a stop to what I enjoyed doing. Not even when I met a gullible and feeble girl, who felt everything with depth, that the person in front of her would melt down completely. I was a somewhat exception to this aura of hers, and somewhere I felt that in the end, she would turn out to be another future ex-girlfriend of mine.
She was well acquainted with my playful nature and seldom complained about the same. From what I can recall, she did touch the topic once briefly, and after noticing that I brushed it off, she chose to stay quiet.
She had more or less realised that it was a part of who I was. We had lasted for about four years. But everything came to a stop when my folks felt that I should settle down, but not with that girl. It was her docile nature that was working against her.
I agreed to their wish, but what bothered me was breaking the news to her. Her heart was too delicate to listen to something of this sort. I loved her immensely, but I couldn't put her above my family.
A week later I decided to update her with what was going on, on my side. She didn't accept it at first, but when it finally sunk in her head, she started sobbing. I touched her shoulder as a gesture to pacify her, but she twitched, letting my hand hover in the air. After about five minutes of having a breakdown she wiped her face thoroughly and cleared her throat and proceeded to say something.
"Okay. I won't force you to marry me, but can I ask one small thing from you?"
"Of course. What is it?" I replied with the most laid back tone.
"Umm, will you sleep with me just once?"
I was startled by her request, as it wasn't something that she would want to get herself into. Maybe she just wasn't in her senses due to my decision. So I decided to do a quick recheck.
"You mean like a one night stand?"
"Yeah." She responded with an expressionless face.
I again asked her if she was sure, to which she simply nodded.
"Okay then. As you wish."
We quickly planned out the day and timings and everything else that was required for us to be together for that one night. It was scheduled for the next evening at her place.
The day at the office seemed longer than usual, and when the clock finally struck 5, I didn't waste even a second in any other errand. I grabbed my car keys, my laptop bag and another bag that contained the rest of my belongings while experiencing an adrenaline rush.
My heart resisted calming down even as I approached the porch. I rang the doorbell, and that alone was enough to increase my anxiousness.
The air felt scented; the sun smiled; the dried leaves added to the mysterious commotion- all in awe of her appearance.

<To be continued...>

Sleep with me
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Sunday, 3 July 2016


What if I named you Rose,
Not a yellow or a peach rose,
But just a plain rose,

Would you quit behaving like a chameleon on the loose? 

What if I labelled you as Rose,
Not a wilted or a blooming rose,
But just a simple rose,

Would you let go of your habit of cherry-picking?

What if I called you Rose,
Not a summer or a winter rose,
But a good old rose,

You would still find a degree of comparison, wouldn't you?

~Poem 26

Or am I making assumptions?
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Sunday, 12 June 2016

Make me cry

In a white flowy dress,
On an evergreen hilltop,
Under the lovely tree top,
And beside the spilling stream,
I look on, as nature absorbs my uneasiness.


I feel too light and free,
Like a strand of bougainvillea flowers,
Peeking over the other side of the fence,
To observe the lotus all by itself,
And so, nature's gloominess sinks in my mind.

Just then,

He turns up in his flannel shirt,
So warm and heavenly scented,
Its checks amount to the depth of his heart,
And its cuffs romance his wrists,
While his corduroy jeans trace the grass.

And suddenly,

My heart feels just about right,
As I find home, in his embrace,
Where I fit in, so snugly,
That my necklace hooks onto his buttons,
And his breaths sync with my grief.


Please make me cry,
Be that typical society,
Be that ruthless critique,
As someone is glaring at you with disgust
Just for even considering my request.

~Poem 25

Pretty please? <3
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Wednesday, 13 April 2016


Here in cityscapes
I just want the delicate breeze
To lend me a butterfly kiss
And carry away the gloom from the afternoon.

These cloudscapes are way too tempting

They make me want to float with them
But I am doomed with logic and limits
And left with mediocre alternatives.

Then I step into streetscapes

Out of my midday discomfort
I trace the graffiti and picturesque walls
Searching for signs of paradise, but I fail miserably.

I sprint across moonscapes

They aren't appeasing, they don't suffice
In letting me witness how a moonbow is casted
Or providing a guiding light towards home.

So I rely on dreamscapes

To dream within a dream may not be
A random act of escapism after all
At least I get to adjust what I envision.

~Poem 24

Midday gloom
(Picture credits: Solve Sundsbo)

Sunday, 10 April 2016

A phased out bond

Never did a man fancy
Ribbons or bows
Till a tiny tot
Tugged at his toes.

Promptly, but not intentionally
I snatched the place of his lady love-
And she was now bound to be on
Either side of my glove.

Everything he bought for her
Now came in a pair of two
But somehow the reverse
Was barely ever true.

It was never a matter of shame
To serve him by pulling out his socks
And he could be the one
To get me into frocks.

Our bond was a fresh example of faith
As when he would fling me up in the sky
Even a perfect couple remained curious
For when I would let out a cry.

As time flew by
Puberty struck me
Mild touches turned awkward
Not even with the exception of a bruised knee.

Tantrums no longer worked in my favour
Nor could I argue that red wasn't close to pink
Instead he was ready with a cane
Somehow that was enough to loosen our link.

I met my love in my later years
But he couldn't perceive my emotions
Instead he disapproved with a ridiculous explanation
And subsequently cited what I felt as notions.

He appeared to be friendly
Yet failed at being a friend
Because when I required support
He seemed preoccupied even on the weekend.

Gone were those days
Of not being tied down by restrictions
But now when he comes home late
My heart develops a series of intuitions.

His fragile arm sticks out
From his flannel shirt
Aimlessly flicking through channels
As I stretch my little skirt.

He passes the salad bowl
From across the table
And mashes up his food to
Cover his worry of my being stable.

~Poem 23

Some bonds are magical
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Tuesday, 5 April 2016


Thrice upon a time,
I chose the glossy finished wood
It seemed like a dime,
From where I stood.

An ounce of forgiveness,
Along with a downpour of the holy river
Has only caused me to be a mess
And a walking wound generator.

Even the banyan tree shakes its head,
And lowers its prop roots further
To say I don't deserve even a death bed,
Let alone being pardoned by a mother.

Throughout the path,
I subconsciously got tangled in ivy
Assuming I wouldn't require a calamine bath,
And brush everything off slyly.

Now I sit here by the lake,
All alone on a slimy wooden log
For my own goodness' sake,
Passing the buck on the fog.

I can easily ask for a third second chance,
And after yet another repeated sigh
I will vow not to call it a happenstance,
But the real doubt is- Will I?

Oh! How foolish was I to think,
That because counting deeds is a sin
Draining my misdeeds in the sink,
Would mean they'd flow into the mouth of a bin.

A day will come when I will stop my search,
For a u-turn in a one way
But, my soul will continue to lurch,
As that day will be doomsday.

~Poem 22

Searching for a U-turn in a one way
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Friday, 1 April 2016

Park bench sayings

An evil eye spots them
It sees them canoodling
Its eyes bleed the colour of blood

And its face catches that of fungi.

Chapter 1
Back in the days,
When love wasn't synonymous
With the act of treachery
Two lovebirds came and perched on my lap.

One was the girl next door
The other a charming lad
She would hesitate while lifting her lashes
While he couldn't resist peeking from beneath.

With a little mischiefs here and there
They quarrelled for the space
That belonged right under the tree shade
Or the one far from the water spout.

Chapter 2

His excuse was to collect her tidbits
Hers was to take a stroll
Soon, they became frequent visitors
And I a constant medium for the same.

Out of all my guests

They happened to be my dearest
As I got to witness and devour
The purest emotion of all.

In order to serve them

With the best of my potential
I would fan myself diligently
When the rain showed no mercy on me.

Chapter 3
Once she was sobbing
Draining all of her energy
Just then he came along
And entwined his breaths with hers.

On the contrary,

She poked his wounds,
Even when they'd turned into scabs
For the scars still remained.

It was never to trigger him
Or fiddle with his emotions
But it was to make him feel;
Make him feel how it is to feel.

Chapter 4- Plot twist

Everything was going smoothly
And a lover's tiff was usual
Until a garden wall full of creepers
Popped right out of the blue.

It was a third party

That couldn't stand them as one
So it ignited a fire around the two
And pretended to be the extinguisher!

The plan worked accordingly
To what the extra human had in mind
And despite my sincere plea
They sought the path of destruction.

Chapter 5
Everything had changed
As their egos turned into a new sense organ
Thus, they could no longer see the tolerance
Between the butterflies and the bees.

Now when her tears were evident

He looked past it, and when he did showcase
A decent amount of concern
It came out a bit ruthlessly.

Whereas for me it was like losing a leg
And being in a perpetual state of disequilibrium
Where winters occurred 365 days a year
And the fate of a rusted swing.

They lived happily never after.

Alternate Ending
They returned one fine evening
To collect what they had misplaced,
In the first place-
Their unsaid oaths of love.

The End

~Poem 21

Sincerely, a park bench
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Monday, 28 March 2016

Jane and Alaska

Jane was busy doing a blog tour to find some inspiration from a fellow blogger. She had done such tours before, but always failed in finding a blog that was similar to her niche- a creative blog. And when she would succeed in doing so, the blog author would be on a hiatus or would've shifted from the blogosphere.
However, that day turned out to be her lucky day! She stumbled upon something really unique- an igloo on a beach! Her blog's lucidity and breathtaking photographs got Jane hooked to it.
Jane instantly felt connected to its author and decided to initiate a chat with its owner; a trendy eskimo named Alaska.
Now any visitor of such a beautiful site would've found the owner easy to talk to and fairly approachable and Jane also concluded the same. After a few months of discovering that same blog, Jane attempted to strike a conversation with Alaska on of her blog posts.
Alaska seemed natural, but somewhere Jane felt that that she wasn't that interested in speaking to her. Or maybe her trait of not being able to make friends came in the way of an almost blossoming friendship. Jane didn't give up though. She still continued being her genuine self and made efforts to come in her notice.
Alaska would text her once in awhile and then disappear into her shell. She would say she's busy, but deep down Jane felt that maybe she wasn't worthy enough to be a friend to Alaska.
This exchange of messages went on for about ten months, and on one particular day their talks didn't seem to end. It went on and on, and much to Jane's surprise, Alaska gave her email address, so they could contact more frequently and conveniently. At that moment, Jane felt delighted that someone had put enough faith in her to give away such details.
Alaska was young and full of life, and some of her positivity rubbed off on her. It made Jane realise that someone younger could definitely be wiser, and provide one with a valuable lesson of life.
Their path of friendship sought quite a few phases like keeping in touch, building trust and eventually confiding in each other. They came across nearly every possible topic to discuss on, and even now they don't run out of any!
With just a matter of time and a sincere struggle to create a bond, Jane had finally located her Alaska.

Happy birthday, Ragini!

Monday, 14 March 2016

Classic Novel

They do not know, what it is
To be inked down by heaven
Especially in typewriter font,
Be romanticised alongside
Novels, logs and even more novels,
In a ridiculously fragile binding,
That has been marred by an iron grill
Tainted with tea stains
And yellowed by an overdose of spring.
Our words may be missing,
Our insides may be stuck,
Our edges may be cut
We never miscommunicate
We overcome those hindrances
We don't let a page number define our togetherness.
They call our papery pages
Grey, gray and boring
When they are just a wilted rose
That travels through each chapter
Without grasping anything,
When they are just a postage stamp
That guarantees to send our message across
Without knowing its contents.
Darling, they'll probably never figure out
That we are a classic novel
Getting published as we go on.

~Poem 20

Classic Novel
(PIcture credits: Unknown; Source: We Heart it)

Wednesday, 9 March 2016

Retold for Waliyha (Part 3)

"I...I...ran away. I am lost, betrayed," she said peeping over the lady's shoulder, "and hungry." Waliyha fumbled as she started her explanation, but then blurted the rest out in a rush. After a few minutes, she realised that she had given away her dignity along with her story. The woman in front of her, in spite of being old and poor now had the power to label her.
However, when the lady grabbed her into a hug, every nerve of her brain remained perplexed. She took Waliyha inside and treated her as if she was her own child. She served her with whatever she had and made sure that she drank the whole glass of water.
Being from a small household, the lady had to seek permission from her man to let Waliyha stay in their house for some time. The man didn't show any trace of objection, but when Waliyha stated that her parents had strong connections, the couple got a little worried, for the whole matter would definitely involve the police. And at the back of her mind, even Waliyha knew that her plan would have backfired and the police would be on the lookout for her.
Waliyha felt guilty seeing them tensed, and out of that guilt constructed another lie. She gave them a false address, and without questioning her much, they dropped her off there, not knowing that Waliyha was leading herself up the garden path!
Waliyha looked on, as the couple proceeded towards their home, and as soon as they were out of sight, she took an about turn, and made herself get lost in the town. She walked in circles, trying to find herself in all that chaos. Just then, a taxi driver pulled in front of her, assuming that she needed a ride. At first, she thought of asking him to drop her at the sea, but then she changed her mind by reviving some hope. By now the bunch of cash had turned into a few noisy coins. So, she asked him the directions to the nearest PCO.
He didn't pick up.
'Well that was obvious,' She tried to reason with herself.
As she continued to walk, she felt someone follow her. She felt it was just her imagination, but when she felt a tap on her shoulder she began weeping, as a result of her reflexes going all haywire. She turned around and saw that it was a boy, but it wasn't him.
"You've run away from home, right?" He asked exactly what was obvious to him.
"What's it to you? Mind your own business!" Waliyha rebuked at him.
He didn't take her bitter words too seriously, and said, "I have some work for you."
Waliyha looked up with a spark in her eye, but swiftly looked down, realising his intentions.
She ran from that spot, and found herself in front of a school. She begged the guard to let her in.
He noted that she was about to pass out, and then agreed to keep her in. He took her to the servant's quarter, gave her a glass of water and an apple that he had bought for himself, and told her that the principal would come and talk to her in a few minutes.
Later, a lady entered that room, leaving Waliyha surprised. It was her aunt, and only her aunt who had come to pick her up. She presumed that her parents had disowned her.
Waliyha and her aunt both cried a puddle of tears as they gazed at each other.
Her aunt accompanied her till her doorway, and then let her face the consequences by herself. Waliyha stared at her parent's feet, while walking in with baby steps. But her dad ran towards her and held her in his arms, without speaking a word. Her mother also burst out in tears, with a billion emotions filling her heart.
They didn't question her, but the police had to do their duty. They began their interrogation, but Waliyha didn't have the heart to get the boy in trouble, even after knowing that she had been blamed for the whole matter. What bothered her was his motives. She just wanted an answer as to why he did what he did. But she couldn't, as now her phone was being tracked every moment.
Today, all her parents want from her is that she should be able to stand on her feet, with her head held high.
A random stranger's door had opened for her, the door she had locked, still welcomed her with open arms, and moreover, she had unlocked the door of her parent's hearts.

*This was based on a true story. Names and other information were altered for privacy reasons.

Now an open book
(Picture credits: Unknown; found on We heart it)

Thursday, 3 March 2016

Retold for Waliyha (Part 2)

The note
Waliyha waited, waited and simply waited. She was certain that he would come to receive her. But, what toggled with her mind was the fact that her mother would panic on not finding her and would subsequently begin searching for her.
Her brain was quick to come up with a plan to stop that from happening. She fished out a pen from her bag while clutching onto her mobile with her free hand and then shoved her bag behind the bushes, taking care to make it as undetectable as possible. Then, she sprinted through several dark alleys that happened to be a shortcut to her home. Her mother was still oblivious of her whereabouts, as the lights were still off. The only thing that surprised her was her Dad's car parked in the driveway. Maybe he had arrived just to go back to another foreign trip. She swiftly bolted the door, and then looked around for a scrap of paper. Once she found a doable piece, she scribbled down a message that read out her not wanting to be found or contacted.
She took a long sigh, tossed the note through the window of the dining area and made a beeline for the park. She kept a slow pace while going back, as her mind was at ease. In fact she was so relaxed that when she reached, her upper lashes fell gently over lower ones, lulling her to sleep. Her body was exhausted from all the inner commotion, but felt light like a feather. Soon enough, Waliyha was in a dream world, full of flowers, meadows and hearts.
Meanwhile, Waliyha's mother got a typical womanly intuition that something was wrong. She got off her bed, and proceeded to check on her daughter for a change.
Little did she know that this move of hers would have a negative outcome. Waliyha's absence shattered her completely. Her heart sunk, and so did the lower part of her body. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to control a vomit of tears. Panicking wasn't the solution, and it took Waliyha's mother quite a few minutes to realise that. She alerted Waliyha's father about the same. Contrary to her reaction, Waliyha's father chose to maintain his calm. He thought she would have been at a friend's place. But then his eyes caught the crumpled up note left by Waliyha. He tried his best to keep his calm even at this point and look for solutions. However, when they headed to do the needful, they realised that they had been locked in.
It was five in the morning, when Waliyha's parents had received some help. At the same time, the morning rays stroke Waliyha's cheeks and she woke up only to find no sign of the boy. She checked her phone again and again, even though it wasn't on silent mode. Her battery was dying and so were her hopes for a happier and better future. But she still continued to dial his number, while walking towards nowhere. She had no idea where she was going. Her legs were shaking, but she still stuck to the path of being lost, till a bus had come to her rescue. She requested the driver to drop her at a chapel, where she could stay safely. The driver agreed very kindly, and drove her down in a matter of few minutes. Several people ogled at her as she entered the home of God.
Now that Waliyha's parents were free, they began searching for her in nearby places, but failed miserably. They then decided to report this matter in the police station. They tried to trace her sim, and instantly got suspicious of the number that was dialled repeatedly. The police officials called him up and interrogated him about the matter. But, he denied even knowing her! And when they threatened him further, he finally revealed everything, except for the truth. His version of the story turned Waliyha into the culprit.
The assigned policemen had managed to find a social media profile of Waliyha, and before they could gain access to her account, the boy crept into it and deleted every possible evidence.
Just as Waliyha had made peace with her safe zone, the caretakers of the chapel asked her to leave as they had to clean the place. Waliyha moved at once, thinking that if she didn't they would inform the police. Her eyes were shielded with tears, as she walked towards a playground that was being used by a bunch of carefree children. Returning home wasn't an option for her, as she felt that her parents would never forgive her, and staying outside meant a struggle for survival.
She perched on the stairway and noticed an old lady cleaning her front yard. Waliyha held her stomach, wishing that her hunger and thirst would miraculously disappear. She walked up to the lady and asked her for a glass of water. The lady stared at Waliyha and then her suitcase alternatively with a look of scepticism.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?!" She questioned Waliyha sternly. Waliyha was tensed. For a moment she forgot who she was and what was going on with her. The woman preserved her firm look while a thousand and one thoughts crossed Waliyha's mind.
She gulped down the little saliva that circulated around her mouth, and finally uttered, "I..."

<To be continued...>

Somewhere, but nowhere
(Picture credits: Eleanor Hardwick; found on Google)

Thursday, 25 February 2016

Retold for Waliyha (Part 1)

We all have secrets; some we bury, some we burn, some we confide and some just linger on until we find an antidote for the venom it spreads. And so was the case with Waliyha. She was a regular girl, like you and me. But fate couldn't disagree more.
Waliyha belonged to a well-off family, and with that being said, time was a major factor in her life. Well, her time waited unlike that of her kin. Her mother would go to work and her dad focused on his trips abroad, while she would stay at a daycare centre. She didn't realise that she was "promptly dumped" till her friends pointed it out.
"Hey, Waliyha! How come your parents never pay a visit?"
"Don't they love you?"
"Are they really your family?"
These questions would haunt her even in broad daylight. However, this series of having to bear such uncomfortable questions came to a halt once she found her love. Yes, of course, there was a catch. It wasn't the love she was craving for, but it indeed succeeded as an alternative.
It was a charming boy she had stumbled upon while roaming about the mall with her friends. And it was he who had made the first move. They exchanged numbers in no time and soon drove along the lane of a relationship.
Even though Waliyha had turned eighteen, she had been pulled into the hits and trials of life again. The lad was a radio jockey and a newscaster. And in spite of belonging to an upper-class family, Waliyha still had to live up to his fancies. He wanted money, and Waliyha took it as his need. Nobody knew for what. She didn't bother to question him either. She simply opened her mother's safe, grabbed her jewellery and sold it off, to meet his supposed needs.
Her friends would suggest her to pamper him with gifts and treats, and she readily borrowed the idea.
That wasn't enough for him. He wanted more entertainment in his life. He began asking for inappropriate pictures of her, to which she gave in.
And when it came to eloping with him, she didn't have a second thought about it.
"Would you run away for me?" He asked one night, making sure that he serenaded her while asking.
"Just say it once, and you'll see."
Mr Radio Jockey took the hint and replied by saying, "Now. Do it now."
That's all it took to convince Waliyha. She packed her belongings in a jiffy and held her cell phone and a bunch of cash in her clammy hands.
It was past midnight when Waliyha was all set to leave. She ran out and headed for the park where they would have their usual meetups.
Her running awoke the spirit of the stray dogs. They chased her down till a few cars diverted their attention.
It had been an hour by this time. All the commotion had drained her completely, so she decided to sit on a bench and wait for her love.
Tring Tring. Tring Tring. Tring Tring.
The phone sang while her heart got drenched with sweat from the inside. There was no answer. And after another try, his phone wasn't reachable.
She thought of it as a network problem. The naive Waliyha remained heedless of the fact that she was asked to run for him, and not with him.

<To be continued...>

Finding home
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Tumblr)

Friday, 19 February 2016


But you didn't wave like an idiot to the wayfarer on the opposite lane or even the curious and notorious kid in the adjacent vehicle.
Neither did you act a bit paranoid, when you failed to locate your mate as you peeked behind the pole of a moving coach.
You barely look forward to being stuffed by your grandma.
Your fruity chapstick rolls off the table. You pick it up, inhale the scent, apply it, yet you don't taste it, in spite of the temptation.
The first few pages of your slam book haven't been filled by you.
Your bucket list doesn't include an item from the vintage era.
Even the cat wonders why you didn't challenge it to a stare down.
Random stationery products don't fascinate you.
A broken crayon that belonged to a brand new set, didn't leave you disheartened.
What are you, if you couldn't relate to the above?
And since you seem too busy taking a selfie...
It's time I classified you as A (as pronounced while reciting the alphabet)-

You are a vegetable
(Picture credits: Vanessa Mckeown)

Thursday, 4 February 2016

A Cancerian Perspective

The following piece is a collaboration with the lovely artist Lara A.

Day 1: It's a Friday night, and the Almighty is in his usual creative mode. After shaping his beard several times, he gets up and with the magical touch of his fingers makes one shiny object in the atmosphere, better known as a star. Not being satisfied with the outcome, he cuts me into smaller fragments and creates four other things just like me, making us five in total.
Then, out of boredom he aligns them in a certain way, but takes care not to make it too oblivious to the human eye. He looks like an orchestra conductor while doing so; so poise and mesmerising.

Day 2: Two astronomers are busy setting up their base under the moonlight. After several adjustments with their telescope, they finally focus on me and my brethren. I glimmer with all my might for them to notice me. They jot down a few things on their notepads, putting their stargazing session to a halt. They name me "Cancer."

Day 3: I like my new name. It is pretty catchy, right? Hey! what's happening? Seems like we are witnessing a space quake. I hug my bottom two corners tightly, to avoid drifting away from my siblings, but...I break off from the sky and land on Earth. Lord promptly replaces me with another five-cornered article. It's alright. Someone had to complete our lovely cluster!

Day 4: Amidst my journey to the laps of the human species, I crumple up into tiny particle and land on the beach. And guess what! They have associated me (and my counterparts) to a crab. Is that why I arrived here, of all places?
I stroll on the beach, totally unaware of what's going on. But soon a human flattens me under his foot. He checks the foot he crushed me with by hopping on the other, and then he flicks me away into the sea, instead of welcoming me as stardust.

Day 5: Turning into a minuscule object did give me some amount of advantage. I had made it to the shore, but I was completely drained. The little body that I had got buried in the sand dunes. My soul was free of that ridiculously small body. In spite of being free, I still needed a host.

Day 6: I wandered here, there and everywhere. Not being able to find one gave me an idea. I dived into a soft drink in hope of acquiring a suitable body. I sipped on some of the liquid and helped me grow a bit. And soon enough I turn into a microbe. However, I still wanted some more space and that led to me creeping into another bottle of liquid, which was to be consumed by a human.

Day 7: The human drinks it. He makes his tongue travel along the outline of his lips, relishing the substance. His body now demands more of it, and me as well. Entering his body gave me a bit of relief.

Day 8: My desires have increased now. So, I multiply myself with the help of the buffet I get every day! This is definitely paradise. Wait. Human is feeling dizzy. He collapses on the ground. I am sure it had nothing to do with me. All I wanted was a bit more room in his body. He gains his senses back with the help of a doctor. The doctor injects him and gives him some medicines.

Day 9: No! No! It's not my fault. Please hear me out. I try and reason with the molecules that just entered. They don't listen and instead corner me.
"You! You are the one one who is destroying this human!" Their words sank in my head brutally and I understood what my selfish act had done. My growing demands had spread to him as well. They tear me apart and burn my pieces. But a bit of me remains unnoticed. And in spite of that round of torture, I still strive to survive.

Day 10: What he and other humans can't understand is that I simply can't resist the urge of existing. I want to leave. I want to run away. I cannot stand myself anymore. I am disgusted with my greed. All I ask from the one above is to take me back to heaven; take me back to being just a sun sign.

Lara made the illustration for this project while I wrote the above piece, in hope of taking Cancer back to where it belongs. Maybe we can make a difference by spreading awareness and not being so careless! You might not be interested in making an effort, which is why we chose a creative method in changing your mind. Hope it works!

Artwork by Lara A.  You can follow her for more sketches
and paintings.