Recycling, Reusing and Repurposing

Nostalgia. I remember when I was in school, a few days before the seeming freedom a friend of mine dropped all his friends a text. A few days before the final exam, the message read, “Coming to School tomorrow?” And in that instant, the reality of the situation hit our bellies like a wrecking ball. The bittersweet aftertaste, matured for 12 years had finally indeed hit our heads. Intoxicating us.

Today as I write this seemingly absurd contemplation, I am reminded of the same. Nostalgia.

Nostalgia for the blog I began and reshaped so many times. Nostalgia for the similar yet ever evolving *tap-tap-tap* of the keyboards I have used. Nostalgia for the flat that I am in. Where I shall be in sweet solitude for . . , let’s say, a while now. Nostalgia for my parents, with whom I lived for so long! And nostalgia for myself and what has become of me.

I can’t write a lot as of now. I have to pick the minds of the greatest weavers of the history. (Much more than you have you eat mine!) But all that I can say right now is, I am recycling this. I am going to reuse this website.
And this will be repurposed, yet again.

For at this very moment, on the 5th of July 2017, 2:51 am I sit half-naked, under a fan in a nearly empty flat. Feeling nostalgic and cathartic.

But at this moment the tonic is not matured for 12 years, but 20.

To your good health!


Excuse me …

Rosaline has been sitting at the table with her friends for more than an hour now. Laughing and sharing stories with her friends. It was the birthday of Sarah, her best friend and this was her treat, despite the fact that Sarah had already thrown a party. This was how she was though. Segregation was her habit and she felt that it was necessary to classify her friends as well by giving her “friends” a party and her “special friends” a treat afterward the party in the café for a coffee. But to be honest, Rosaline was never like this.

For her things has always been simple. It’s either a friend or not. She was never one to judge others or even classify them as a “special friends” and “friends”. She always found joy in the simplicity of her relationships and cherished every person the same. That was how Rosaline was. Despite the fact that Sarah was so judgemental, Rosaline was still her friend and I guess that is what the old lore of “Opposites Attract” is all about.

Rosaline was sitting right next to her best friend, who so strikingly opposite to her that people often wondered how are they even friends. Sarah was plump and stout and Rosaline was tall and thin. Sarah was the strange one, with her baritone voice and all floral and bright clothing whereas Rosaline was the one with a feeble voice and darker clothing. They were the Laurel and Hardy of the school, just blown up to an excessively large level. And here they were. Sarah drinking her Americano and Rosaline already high and buzzing on her espresso.

Rosaline was lost in her laughter, induced by a joke a friend of Sarah cracked when she felt a tap on her shoulder. The group at once fell silent and when she recovered herself and recollected her senses, she saw that even the smirk of some of the people around the desk has been wiped off.

She turned to find a boy, maybe a little over her age with his hair a tad too long for him to carry properly, His hair seemed as if they had all the freedom in the world and yet like an undisciplined class trying to not make a sound at the arrival of a teacher, his hair seemed to be fixed in a hurry. His eyes were black and his blue jeans were dirty. He wore a black sweatshirt and matching canvas shoes.

“Excuse me,” he said to her and she could feel the tension rising in the air.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I did not mean to irrupt you and your friends here and I am really sorry for that but I just entered the cafe and I could not stop me from coming over here and telling you something which I think that you should be aware of and you clearly are not. You see I would not have disturbed you but I couldn’t help but notice that Julia Roberts looks exactly like you” he said in a single breath and acted as if nothing happened. He stood there and looked at her with an expectant expression but she did not know what he wanted. And in confusion and irritation, she turned to Sarah.

“Do I look anywhere near like Julia Roberts?” she asked but before Sarah could reply, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry but you look like yourself. She looks like you. People will always say to you the other way around but the truth, in fact, is what I just said. Can I have a cup of coffee with you?”

Sarah might have judged him. She might have shouted at him or ridiculed him. She might even have used her pepper spray or called the security. But there was something about that boy that made her feel, weird! Something peculiar. Something which was his own. Unique. Unprecedented. And while Sarah would not have gone for a coffee with him, she found herself collecting her things and leaving her things.

P.s. Happy Valentines Day.

See You See Me

Work. Work. Work. Work.


I should have known that what am I getting myself into when I signed up for this Master of Surgery program. There is hardly any time left and all I can see around by me is just more and more work load and more and more projects, assignments, vivas! Load. Overloaded with work.

Coffee! I need a cold coffee. I look up above my papers and find a glass of chilled coffee, precipitating but thankfully kept on a coaster to keep my papers dry. I took a sip from it and let the caffeine wash over me. If someone was to say to me a few years ago that I will be drinking coffee at 3 a.m. I would probably behind the bars. And yet, here I am doing what I am doing.

Sometimes I just want to pick this book up and throw it on the floor with all my might. But it’s all for the cute and adorable boy who happens to be my boyfriend that I go through this torment of burden of surgery. Silly Al dreams of me performing an open heart surgery!


O no I totally forgot! Al! We were to eat dinner at 12! I got so engrossed in my study that I missed out on food!

I look frantically here and there and find Al in a position that just melt my heart makes me blush as deep a crimson as beetroot. Al sat on a chair opposite to me. The back of the chair was towards me and so was his face. He had crossed his arms and rested his cheek on it in such a manner that his head was tilted parallel to the Earth. His eyes transfixed on me. Admiring me as if he got the chance to see Sistine Chapel being painted live.

“I love the way you work!”, silly Al says in a raspy voice which makes him appear even more adorable.

My Al. He and his fanatics, both beyond this world.

The Blank Page

I sit here and stare at the blank page. I may be his arch enemy who he has to face everyday as I am the person who is consistently after his existence. As soon as I lay my hands on one of them, I make them not so blank anymore.

But sitting here i front of the blank page right now just gives me a thought. What if he was a real person? Taking the limits of grammar beyond the capabilities it has, I think that the blank paper is something I would love to personify. Quite, literally.

He’s the quietest person you’ll ever met and adapt everything you are and incorporate his existence into the work you’re doing. The blank page is the mute commuter who says nothing but still is so visibly understanding that his silence  becomes his answer.

The blank page is divine! The poor little creature stay behind me, beneath me, around  me and about me. Not just me. Us. Everywhere around us. I am decimating 13 of his kind everyday. If I sit down to write my draft, it would increase in exponential of 1000s. And still here it sits in front of me. Staring me in the eye and challenging me to a duel.

“Let’s see who is the stronger, keener and faster. My existence or your creativity?”

Everyday I draw my guns out and destroy his existence and still the divine white paper, comes up in front of me defiantly and challenges.

Hail him.


Unbeknownst to me,

She was the tale I carried between my heart

Trapped between my lips

And at the tip of my tongue.

Unbeknownst to her,

I was the eccentric silent speaker

Who spoke with his mouth shut

And read the words unsaid.

Returning Home

You know that feeling? That warm fuzzy feeling in your stomach as if you swallowed a pint of butterflies? When you are at the door of the airplane with a parachute on your back and you’re about to leap off of it?

That emotion you feel when you held your newborn in your arms for the first time? That sensation when you are about to go on the podium to recieve an award for the  work you worked hard for, for the first time? The sensation which bathes all over you when you run with the ball, unchallenged to score the game winning basket with just seconds to spare and you know that now you can’t be stopped?

That dream like state when you run a victory lap despite the fact that you’re totally spent and exhausted but your legs cannot stop from running just one more lap? That emotion you feel when you’re on the stage and your arms and legs hurt so much from drumming so hard but the adrenaline keeps pumping and pumping and you feel euphoric?

That emotion when you look at your opponent and instead of looking at you with jealousy, he looks at you with admiration and pride and nothing short of respect and a sense of deserving for you and pride for himself that he gave the best against you?

You know that feeling right? When you peer over a height from your parents arms and you know that you won’t fall down as long as they are holding you. When you’re sitting behind your best friend on a two wheeler and he speeds faster and faster and  snakes through the traffic despite all your requests to slow down but you know that nothing will happen to you? That warm fire inside you when you see your pet come running at you after a long day at work?

That emotion you feel when you’ve been away from home for a long time and you return home and you open the door and step inside, keep the key where you’ve been keeping it for years and look around your home where you’ve been living for what seems like ages?

That warm fuzzy feeling burried deep inside your stomach, which warms you from the inside and all of a sudden you are no lonher tired or fatigued or upset or overjoyed. That emotion when you have a sense of pride of existing and you enjoy living. The moment when you actually carpe diem.

That is how I feel when I look at you.

Vibrant Love In Black and White

Our vibrant love is in black and white.

I write you letters in times of email.

I play you guitar in times of iPod.

I read you books in times of audiobooks.

I make us waltz in times of hip hop.

I play you piano in times of dubstep.

Sometimes, I wonder if you’d like to be in Eastman Colour.

But then you’d blush after my teasing,

flush red when I touch your cheeks.

Hold my hand while walking

and smile and dance with me in the rain falling.

Count the birds in the sunset

and find shapes in the clouds.

Yes I am sure.

Our spectacular love is black and white.