So it’s not you.
You’re not the one I’m going to curl up with under the blankets on the slow Sunday mornings.

You’re not the one that will dance around that oh-so messy apartment in some part of I-still-don’t-know-where-in-the-world with me, dressed in our work clothes.

You won’t bicker with me as we decide on how much sugar is just right for the spicy masala chai that we plan on drinking as we watch the rain.

You will never be the person who gets along with my best friend almost as much as I do (funny, because you are the one whose glasses she wants to punch off at the moment).

You won’t be the one to stay, even when I push against my walls, trying not to let them collapse, trying not to let you in.

You just won’t be the one I bring home to the dyfunctional mess I call a family.

So, for now, I’ll just repeat the words I always tell everyone, the words that have been echoed so much that I forgot whether they were true or not, the words that you took for face value, not bothering to check if they were true or not.
It’s fine.


The Dancer and The Writer: 2


He speaks to me

Smiling an honest smile

And I know then

That he is different.

I invite him into my life

But cannot let him in

Farther than the outer boundaries.

The world has given me

Nothing but hurt

And why would he be any different?

I muse.

And yet, even if only a little,

I let him in.


I speak and she listens.

I talk of my travels

Of the worlds I have been to

Of the people who shared my path

If even for a short time,

And she listens.

She does not speak much

She does not talk of her path

But I know.

I see the path she has travelled

In her eyes.

I see the walls around her heart

And I vow then and there

That I will break them down.

Of Love


When they speak, they spout the wonders,

They speak of the magnificence, prattle on about how wonderful it is.

A deadly flame, but whose licks to your flesh rival none

In the morose delight it gives.

I have seen the face of love and survived

I am yet to see these blazes they speak of.

I do not see the beauty, nor the inexpressible joy,

Not even the roses and the sunny days.

The face that I saw,

The face of what you call love,

Is my own face, dulled in passivity,

Staring back at me.

Fickle face with its fickle intentions.

The lure at first was tempting, I agree,

But when I peeled back the layers,

All I could see was the true face.

But look at me now,

I am the broken shards that lay in your path,

But though it tempts me to say I will stay broken,

It is not so.

I have fallen,

But I have the power in me to rise.

One push will not keep me down,

Nor will it weaken my resolve.

I say to love, I am not your slave,

I am mine.

And though my nightmares are yet to be bereft

Of the face I give to the name of love,

I will not be bereft of my freedom.

For it is by falling that you learn to walk,

And I am now prepared to fall again.


With each click of the “Like”,
And each tap on the little heart,
Social media helped her
Take one little significant step
Away from her stubbornness,
From childhood insecurities,
And teenage grudges.
Contrary to what everyone said,
Facebook and Instagram
Are what helped her grow up.


She kisses me,

At the warm junction of my neck and shoulder.

There, she buries her face,

Hiding it from the world.

I feel her scalding tears,

Falling, tangling in her hair,

Burning a trail on my skin.

Hands come up frantically,

Grasping me,

Grasping at straws.

In that one embrace,

Lay every sunny afternoon,

Every coffee-laced kiss,

Every impromptu wandering,

Everything she was,

Everything she made me.


Barefoot, you move through
The corridors of that house
Where dust dances a duet with dusk.
You make no sound,
And your sober clothes
Shout at me a story
Of a lifetime of subdued emotions.
Wispy strands of grey hair
Fall over your spectacles,
Like the paradox that is you.
You smile,
Laughlines and all,
And speak to me about
Distant lands and clever people
And I hear, but don’t listen;
I am too busy searching in you
For the story of the person
Who painted you in black and white
When you were made to be in colour.


You had such an ordinary name.
I still hear the world
Whispering it to me,
Sometimes through the flashing screen,
Across the world,
And sometimes as a fading moment
Stolen out of a stranger’s life.
Every time I come across
Your name like this,
When my guard is down,
A breath is drawn in,
Trying to quench
The suddenly roaring fire
That blooms unfailingly, every time,
Inside me.


If I could
I would shout
With my loudest voice
So that every soul still innocent
Can hear me.
Do not fall into the inviting abyss.
The exhilaration of the free fall
Only lasts for but a moment
And the impact will break you.
After that, no matter how many times
You shake off the dust and trod on,
Every subsequent fall
Will never truly be a fall.
You will never give yourself completely away again.
Your eyes will never be completely dry again.

Across the Water

Today I found your clothes
Buried deep in the mess of motions
My life has become.
I wore your shirt
And on its sleeve
Was still lingering
The smell of air conditioned trains,
With a hint of that horrible coffee,
And tears and the sun and you.
What can I do?
I put an ocean between us
And still you can reach me across the water,
And across time.

An Apology

This is an apology written, not in my usual style. If this were a story, I’d rate it for language.

I know we mess up.
You mess up.
I mess up.
We’re both shitty people,
And all that.
But we’re human. Right?
We’re only human.
So I get it.
Even if you don’t feel apologetic
For not keeping in contact much,
Or even if I don’t feel guilty
And say sorry for being
A total bitch from time to time,
Whatever the fuck happens,
Even if I’m not yours,
You’re my best friend.
The thing is,
I only let a definite number of people
Close to me.
And I don’t want that number
To go to negative.
I love you.
And even if, after today,
We speak only after like fifty years or something,
We’ll still be best friends then.