Showing posts from 2017


I don't particularly like these, but they got written, so...

The Road I stayed up all night, started at five For the road was long and dark But my pack was light and my hopes were high When I started on my walk.
And you know that I loved you I was true when I kissed you And you know that I’ll never look back.
I stopped at a crossroad, the people were friendly And my legs had begun to ache Got used to the warm bed and the meal that came timely And before I knew I was caught.
And you know that I loved you I was true when I kissed you And you know that I’ll never look back . The walk got lonely, the air got cold, The path got high and steep I posed to be strong and brave and bold For the fall was way too deep.
And I know that you loved me You were true when you kissed me And may be one day I’ll come back.

Broken I wish I could recall The memories of the rain But all that I have Are the damp and the pain.
And what is the weight of emptiness, you ask? Enough to crush your soul beneath the smiling mask.
I wish I cou…

Festive Times

To many more years of clashing dates and running late, of torn shoe straps and dreaded traffic traps, pink dresses and letdown tresses, missing friends and catching trends: I raise a margarita with a straw!

We were in class 11 when we started going out pandalhopping together. The first year, I wasn't in the city during Durga Pujo, so my turn came next year, when we were in class 12. I remember the frenzied planning involved- renting a car, chipping in the money, deciding a place to eat (and eventually not finding seats there), picking the outfits and so on. I remember trying to apply nail polish the day before and making a mess and frantically calling up friends (on the landline) for help. I remember people losing their ways on the perfectly straight road between Carmel High and JU Gate 4. And I remember the miles and miles of walking, in spite of the car, and getting foot sore from all the new fancy shoes and having to shop for bandaid in between pandals. I remember the group-hun…

To Those Who Hate- An Open Letter

When I see your comments on online threads, when I read and hear about the atrocities you commit in the name of your faith, in the name of the God you say you love, when I see the images of the aftermath, my mouth fills with bile and my heart with disgust. I feel anger. I feel outrage. But increasingly nowadays, I also feel weariness. Where does this end? And above all, I feel an utter incomprehensibility. How do you kill a little boy? How do you rape little girls? How do you destroy millions of lives without thinking that they are people, just like you? If you cannot love the human beings that you claim your God created, how can you possibly love God? People are real, they are born, they suffer, smile, love, feel anger, pain and joy- just like you. God, if S/He exists, is intangible. If your heart can’t comprehend the tangible, how can it hold love for the One who is Limitless and beyond definitions? And I wonder how utterly empty inside you need to be to have so much hatred inside y…


The other evening as I was returning home from work, the twilight sky was awash with a strange neon blue. The street lamps held their own- bright and fluorescent. The sound of evening news and movie songs mingled with the tinkling bells of bicycles, the revving engines of auto-rickshaws, the honking of horns, the friction of rubber wheels against the uneven pitch of the road and disjointed conversations. The wind was cool against my tired face as it rushed past the auto back into time. And all of it crystallized in this one undefinable moment, and I was suddenly aware that Pujo was coming. It was an ordinary road, broken, shabby, lined by ordinary shops, filled with tired, ordinary people going home. There was no symmetry in the crooked street lamps, no beauty in the dust, but somewhere far from that busy road was a field full of kashphool where children ran in the golden light of sunset; and at that moment, the soul of the road and the soul of the field was one, touched by the same…

Tomorrow night

Tomorrow night if the dreams come along I shall catch them all and spin up a song. And there’ll be no more pain and no more brine. No scars, nor taste of sour wine. Sweet Lady Death, give me tomorrow night, I swear to you I’ll make things all right.

The sands are slipping, give me a little while The stars are dipping and I don’t wanna die. Give me a month, a week, a day, I’m yet to build my castle of clay. Let the clock stop ticking, let the flame be bright, A few more tries and I'll make things right.

Tomorrow night I’ll catch the train, Retrace my steps or begin again. I’ll pay my debts give me another chance- I had never flown or learnt to dance. A year, a month or just one more night Give me tomorrow night to make things all right.

Tomorrow night I’ll call them back- The unsaid words that have gone off-track And broken hearts

The Flow

The other day I came across a photograph on my Facebook newsfeed. It was a photograph of a river. It should have been a perfectly ordinary experience, after all, people post scenic photographs all the time on social media. But it wasn't one of those photos. This one was special. It was a photo of the Ganga as seen from Baghbazar, Kolkata, the same city I name whenever I need to mention my postal code. Here's why it was so stirring- I had forgotten that there was a river in my city. And that unexpected recollection filled me with wonder.

A few nights later I had a dream in which I was going back to college as a student again, riding the metro- except that in my dream it was a cross between a metro and a tram and it used the streets as its path. But dreams are always a little meddled, aren't they? But during my journey, my streetcar crossed Baghbazar and I saw the river again, a little muddy, but calm, serene and yet flowing in a definite direction. I had forgotten about the …

Once upon a nowhere...

A man lived alone beneath a mountain on a little island. All around him was the ocean. The man didn’t know there was anywhere beyond it. For him, the world was a little island with a mountain, ringed by the water. Perhaps the seas ended somewhere and fell into the sky. That was his world, and he was happy. There were times however when he felt a strange unwillingness to move, or hunt or do any of things that made up his daily routine. At night, he would watch the stars for hours, telling himself stories that he had made up about them. But they were the same stories and on some nights he would get tired of them. On those nights, he would pick up rocks and smash them against trees till his muscles ached and his fingers blistered. He got quite good at throwing rocks. But on the whole, perhaps he was happy in his little world. Then one day a boat came to his island. The man had never seen a boat before, or another man, so he was astonished. “Do you live in the lands under the sea or did…

A Sky Full of Sun and Stars

Before the beginning was the night. And the night was without boundaries and the night was without end. In the beginning was time. The relentless beat in which things could happen, in which everything could become, dust could coalesce, matter could exist. In that coming together, the universe was possible, all versions of it. In it, people could dream and die. In it, stars burned and flared and went out. -      Neil Gaiman, Overture-04, A Madness of Stars
Where did we come from? I remember once watching a documentary about circles. It began somewhere in Venice, with children skipping with circles they use in the circus. Taking that circle as a starting point, film proceeded to increase the diameter of the circle tenfolds. And so with each increase, the circle held Venice, and Europe, and Earth. Within a few leaps, it had reached the boundaries of the known universe. Then there was a reverse trip as the circles got smaller and smaller till we went inside molescules and atoms and encountered…

A Walk Till the End

Imagine endless night, and a sleeping world, in which you are the only one awake. You decide to take a walk. It is an imaginary situation, so there are no killers or rapists or drunken drivers waiting out there for you, no kangaroo court to make an example thoroguh you of their twisted, perverted ideologies. Everyone is asleep, save you. you walk past quiet shadowy houses and tall, silent  trees that line the path like sentires. Each house is a microcosm of illusions, a multitude of stories we tell each other in order to breathe. Each tree is a whisper from the Yggdrasil.
Slumbering dogs raise their heads as you pass, sniff the air with eyes unseeing, and then return to their canine dreams. And then you note the slippery edges of the strange light of night that settles like a blanket upon the soul of the world and the only things that matter are you and the contours of the road that stretches endlessly, emptily before you. And so you keep walking through the years and eons of night, …

Words and Silences

“LET ME PUT FORWARD ANOTHER SUGGESTION: THAT YOU ARE NOTHING MORE THAN A LUCKY SPECIES OF APE THAT IS TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THE COMPLEXITIES OF CREATION VIA A LANGUAGE THAT EVOLVED IN ORDER TO TELL ONE ANOTHER WHERE THE RIPE FRUIT WAS?” -Terry PratchettDeath and What Comes NextSometimes I walk on edges, weighing my words, considering, rethinking, then not using them at all. There are rules we follow inside our heads- what to say, what not to say, who to speak to, what not to hear. When to smile and bury the anger. When to go off-stage so no one hears you. Relationships are built on silences, on things unsaid- for words are like that wisp of wind that tangles the curtain and breaks the glass menagerie into a billion thousand shards that you can no longer piece together, so sharp that they will cut you. Language is beauty. Language is art. Language is a lie, a tool that sometimes works by not working at all. So many words that we speak inside our heads that never meet the air waves! Th…


16th July. Feast Day. Within thy hallowed portals Carmel dear…Colour dress, food, music and dancing. My first year, when I was still new, I turned up wearing my best frock, and found the fashion sense of the rest of the school far evolved than me. Honestly though, I liked frocks- still do. You pick one thing, and you’re done. No need to find the right blouse or where in the name of Narnian cupboards did the dupatta or salwar disappear to? Anyway, I think I wore salwar suits for the next two feast days. As absurd as it now sounds, not every girl wore jeans those days, and I didn’t have any till I got to Class 10. I owe my fellow Carmelites for my first exposure to fashion, and for being able to conceive the thought that I could wear jeans too. And so on Feast Day in Class 10, I wore my first pair of bare denims with a pale pink tee. One of my friends kept trying to get me to dance but I couldn’t dance back then and I can’t dance now. Sorry, Mr. Darcy, you’ll always be my first love, bu…

Fragments of Delirium

* Dedicated to the youngest of the Endless, who was once called Delight
A city is never one city but a haphazard collection of many cities, each with their own  This part, for instance- red brick buildings, imposing architecture, a page from a different decade. And a road full of yellow taxis- bulky and bright and defiantly old-fashioned. And for the tiniest slice of time, the city is a stranger. The clouds gather. ~ Say thank you. Be polite. Smile. Or type a colon and close a bracket on the secret. Make cheerful plans. It is easy to hide if you know the words, or the signs, to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet[i]… The windows are shut. What of the weather? ~ And cold iron chains my dreaming soul and bars the door to faerie… ~ Sometimes reading is like an inevitable goodbye, for you know the story must end somewhere. Or stop, at any rate. And you want to cling on to it, knowing that your life have changed irrevocably forever by these hosts of imaginary people and that you can ne…

To Stories that touch the heart, and Monsoon, My Old Love

Some stories are clever. They strike with their ingenuity and execution and they hold your attention. Some stories are well-plotted- all the pieces fitting together neatly in the end like a jigsaw puzzle. Some stories however hold your heart with their authenticity and the ones in Julie Orringer’s collection titled How To Breathe Under Water belong to this category. Orringer's writing is beautiful- raw, lyrical and honest. They break your heart and choke you and you, immersed in these other lives, don't even notice you're holding your breath. And you realize why it is so- it's because Orringer draws you out from your own time and space and immerses you in with her characters who are all submerged, in the process of drowning, and you drown with them. Perhaps if we reach the end of the book, we shall become adept by then to breathe underwater. I sincerely hope that the people in the books did- the pilgrim children, the sixth-grader dancer, the drug-addict aunt... I hope …