Monday, June 6, 2016

The Mowgli Girl

These hazel coloured sockets can scare even a werewolf in pitch dark, that sun-kissed skin seems as if hiding many burns within, and greasy-hair that wants to shine even if the light cancels itself... she is like any other aspiring girl which in many ways she isn't. And what she isn't is what defines and defies her.

Her last name is Gandhi. Alas! Her traits are all antithetical. On any given day, she can run behind a dog, match its pace, fight with it, scare it, and steal its bone without breaking into much sweat; and the very next day, she narrates you that story in such an animated way… as if she is Didi and you are meant to be her Dexter. With so much passion she narrates her stories  that sometimes you just sit and wonder… what her life would be without stories... and if... stories had any life without her! Stories are so much a part of her life… such… that together they seem like a pair of conjoined twins, and might forever bury the ‘art of story-telling’ with her demise.   

She may not have given a thought to the purpose of her life… but may be… just may be… it is her destiny to transcribe stories of nature, sing songs of a perishable yet fruitful life, dance on the face of despair or a fair, and gather all the scattered happiness and throw it in air without any wrinkle on her brow.

She has a unique gift of switching between talking sense and nonsense; with such effortless ease that at times it is tricky to distinguish in which state she is in. And the real trick is not to guess it. Rather just flow with it.

But all said and done… she’s the girl-next-door for one and all… however… sometimes people love to negate her. Assuming she didn't have a vocal chord... she might have as well come across as an animal. Such is her Mowglish connect with these creatures sometimes… that she can any time demonstrate the audacity of lifting up a piglet sucking its mother’s nipple; put her finger into a yawning Alsatian’s mouth, bite a kitten’s earlobe and even sit on a crocodile and demand a ride.

Phewwwww… it’s hard to close-end her personality type… and this piece is getting boring anyways. But then you know whom to put the blame on.    

Friday, April 17, 2015


“As we grow in life, our happiness quotient becomes low” those were his last words before he left her. Forever. As if, their togetherness was an old English word which had now ceased to exist.

For all the happiness she had brought in his life, all the respect she had given him, all the miseries she got into his life that made him strong, the years that she spent with him selflessly, the eternal vows that she took with him, he had nothing more to offer than just a few mere words. Just. Words.

He did not slam the door behind him when he left. But there was a puff of air which got exploded while the door got closed. It was, as if, a mine blew-up in the room, killing every feeling and leaving behind a body which was neither dead nor alive. Just trapped in that moment. Unmoved. Expressionless. Camouflaged with a motionless setting. Like an underprivileged family which gets merged with their deprived living. Like, when two things stay with each other for years, they start looking like each other. But what happens when two becomes one, and it has to be cut in half. How can a meticulously woven tapestry which has lasted for years and got intertwined into an unfathomable bond can suddenly one day has to part in two separate ways. And if so, how can either one exist without the other. How can such a loss be defined.

Just before she took her last breath, she took to few words. 

“I struggled, lost, and screamed in pain
like a block, I couldn’t move
my thoughts, not living anymore
A loss undefined.”

Tuesday, January 27, 2015


The dance of the cursor on the white page. I fear.
The written pages of novels. Bring me dyslexia. 
The silence of words. Haunt me.
Some unwritten piece. Want me.
Smile hates me. Hate smiles at me.
What if I unplug in oblivion? Who will rear my words?
My babies they are. I cry when they get hurt.
But the flute of death is already playing on me.
The words inside me are playing it.
I am in a white hole. I can see that black hole.
I am that ill. That I want to sleep.