Sunday Schizophrenia

Ah, the Pink City, I said. It’s peach actually, she replied. We all know that girls see more shades than boys. I wanted to say, “it’s sandstone-ish brick red, that looks pink in the summer sky,” but I did not. An argument on colours with a girl is a foregone defeat for a boy. I agreed with her, and let it lie. It’s sandstone red, that looks pink in the summer sky, I confirmed with myself, and lived in a blissful state. It just so happens, that she is so sweet, it is difficult to argue with her. She can hold her own, mind you, it was just that we were in the pink city having fun; a shady argument was just not worth it.


Facebook has an option, when you choose a relationship. One of the option is: “It’s Complicated.” I think Facebook should do away with that option. Relationships are never complicated. The number of ways we look at a relationship, are. People take so much of effort to enter a relationship. When it comes to exiting, it becomes complicated. Not because it is complicated.  There are words and methods to say I love you. No greeting card in this world has the right way to say, I need out. I learnt this, listening to someone for three hours. I am reminded of Abhimanyu. I know how to get in, no idea how to get out.


How old were you when… is a good question as far as perspective is concerned. Never judge a person’s knowledge based on the year that person was born. I was stupefied tonight with a young man’s conversation. Reality was hovering around me, and towards the end of the evening it kicked me you-know-where.


I am not modest. In some way, I am vain, in fact. I know how far I can reach. I do not compare my work with the work of others. I think, however, I know enough to say, if my work is good. Others may like my work and they will say as much. I have to be my critic. Because only I know what I have set to achieve, and if I have achieved it. When you compliment me, and I shrug that compliment off; it’s not a statement about you. It is a statement about me. When I shrug off your compliment, I do not intend to demean your sense of appreciation. I just mean to say, I could have done better.


Love is timeless. It knows no boundaries or limits. I am happy, I am in love.


The Persistent Witness

I refused to even look at him. Those piercing eyes. That gaze that could see through, and within me. I’ve known him for a long time. He has been a constant companion. An intimate companion, I may add. More than anyone else. As I say this, I feel, I may be misrepresenting. He is not “out” there. Not outside of me. He is within. I do not know when, but I stopped listening to him. Stopped talking to him.

Towards the Sky

He is my witness. But, I don’t want him to see. I have become so good at hiding it from others. How do I make him not see? I’ll drop thick drapes between us. I’ll hide in rooms, behind locked doors. Big locks. Magnetic. Electronic. Yet, he is here, right in front of me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I wonder if it is mine. I am me, he is reflection. Then, there is no escaping. When I dine alone, when I drive alone, there’s that presence. His. Chatterbox. Talks of all that I do not care to listen, or even hear.

Yackity yackity yack. Yada yada yada. And for good measure; blah, blah, blah!

But, welcome back old friend, even if I have no use for you anymore. I will not turn you away.

Just stay out of my mind and away from my mirror.

Love, Actually

No. The title of this post is not original. It’s the title of a movie that I love. Actually. If you haven’t guessed it as yet, the title is Love, Actually.

I am blessed to have been in love. And I have been loved back. Not always, but a couple of times. And I don’t use the word “couple” in a general way. Just twice. Couple. I think. Two. But it’s not about how many times I have been loved back that matters. What matters is how much I have loved. We get so involved and concerned if at all we are loved back, we forget how much we love.

Spread the Love

For a while, I got lost in the same trap. I wanted to be loved. Being loved, is so transactional, come to think of it. I forgot what it means to love. And I have this new-found sense. I like being in love; I care less if I am loved. That’s a leap for me, but it works.

It’s a statement of being in peace. A happy place where nothing else matters. Love is not give-and-take. Love is neither giving nor taking.

Love is be-ing. I like be-ing in love with you.

No forevers are guaranteed, but there is a forever with you.

Deep End

It’s dark

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Scientifically (perhaps the proper word is: technically) you cannot see through the tar of darkness. But there is a sense. There are hands that come down and reach out to you. In the black tar pit. And as soon as you reach out to them, they disappear. And you float in the dark tar with your hands reaching out. It’s black. All that tar.

But black is never it. You think it’s all black, but all the colour of life is splashed around you. You could just stand up and say – “that’s my colour!” And just grab it!

But you are unable. Your arms don’t move. Legs are still. Wanting to grab that colour, but no action. There’s a sense of wanting movement – but there is paralysis. Heart, mind, soul is all action, but the body doesn’t move. Just a lazy fold of legs on a sofa. Unmoving.

And then the time comes. Deep dive, through the corridors of the known. Standing straight in the Hall of the Unknown. It’s still dark. Standing there with every limb dead. Seeing, perceiving, but helpless. Imagining that flight to the top of the mountain is possible – but unable to spread wings. There’s comfort in being comfortable. It helps, it scratches.

I have to walk out of it all, in the end.

Sunday Stuff: The Clutter

I do not want mislead you. It’s Tuesday, when I write this. There was a month, when I took up a challenge to write everyday for a month, when I used “Sunday Stuff” to write accumulative posts. (I just discovered, accumulative is a proper word)


This is a forced post. Please wait. All I am doing now, is staring at my keyboard. My brain is processing thoughts and words so fast, that my fingers hovering over the keyboard are paralysed. Go, have a coffee, while I magically adrenalin-ise my fingers.


Love. Let’s talk about love. Nah! Too complicated. Friends? Nope. Work? No way. The world we live in? Don’t even begin. Ah, social media, then? They know, and they want you to shut up. A personal story; that’s endearing? Last time you wrote such a thing, no one bothered to read it. I have a new take on feminism. It doesn’t matter, stuff has already been decided. You are already wrong. Decisions have been made. My city, let me write about my city. Go ahead; as if someone cares. A travel story, perhaps. Now that’s a good idea, when did you travel last?


It seems, that all I have to say is that I have nothing to say. But that is saying something. No? Even when you say that you have nothing to say, you are still saying, right?


Swimming. I can barely swim. I can save myself if the edge of the pool is 2ft away. No, this is not a metaphor. I can swim only 3ft (the best I can do). But, recently I got thrown in the middle of the metaphorical swimming pool. Initially I splashed all around, ready to drown in the next few minutes, yet, I gathered myself and floated with ease. There was a sense of enlightenment. But, I am not retrying it in a pool of real water.


I mean what I say, but I am not what I say. It’s a thought. Not a well-formed thought, I may add. It is work-in-progress. I have always been fascinated by the “maxim” that the map is not the territory. I understand what it means at the level that it wants to make meaning. The conspiratorial mind, in my mind, suspects, there is more to it.  There’s more to “the map is not the territory” than what you see. I am not sure. I am playing with philosophy. So, I say things like: I mean what I say, but I am not what I say.


There is no one universal truth. So to speak. There is one universe; it belongs to you. There is only your universal truth.

So, Smile.

The Mob Within

There are those who wear white. But they didn’t always wear white. And then, there are those who wear black. They didn’t always wear black either. What was white, what was black was never something that was definite.

In the absence of standards, White said, this is how it all should be. Black said, this is how it should not be. Like iron-shavings, around and about a horseshoe magnet, alignment happened. Needless to say, the shavings had no mind of their own.

Whitish emotions aligned with the White end. Blackish emotions, of course, aligned with the Black end. I wonder if it was truly magnetic. Emotions are mercenaries. They will go where they get the most benefit. White camp, Black camp. They’ll adorn their hoods of grey and go to either camp. Emotions have the same basic survival instinct as humans. They will make their choice. Emotions choose to survive. Simple.

White makes a recruitment case, so does Black. We are our emotions. We are choosing camps.

There is darkness in all of us. The “obvious” Black. But the White camp has currency. Black is bleaching their hoods and becoming greyer towards white. Acceptance eats identity for breakfast. The White-hood gangs up. Swords drawn, ready to attack the Black. Black is smart, it fades in the darkness that is its nature. White can’t fight in that arena, it withdraws. Stands tall.

Black is not vanquished. And it never will be. For if Black was to ever disappear, how will White exist. White knows this. It can only push Black to the shadows, but never vanquish it. When and how did White become the vanquisher? Did it borrow from Black? Is a part of White’s identity based on Black?

Then comes the question of the whole. Can it be fully White? Can it be fully Black? Is there a Blackness in White? Is there a Whiteness in Black?

I am White fighter. In between the gunfight, I look over my shoulder, and my coat is grey. A shade I have never seen before. I am Black fighter. In between the gunfight, I look over my shoulder, and my coat is grey. A shade I have never seen before.


I am White and Black, and everything between. I am the total of the Mob that is fighting with each other. I am fighting with me. I am both sides of the Mob. I am White. I am Black. I acknowledge White. I accept Black. I am Whole.

I am the conflict. I am peace.


I was called a storyteller, recently. (Read this first, if you want to make sense of this post)

I acknowledge that I am a storyteller, don’t want to be modest and such. There have been a few times when I have told stories. Some have been good stories, some have been quite lame. But that’s how you get there, you keep at it.

In the post (link above) where I was called a storyteller, I wondered what kind of storyteller I am. I am not C-Bag, and I am grateful for that. I am definitely not Wallace-ish. I am certain, I am not Murakami-ish. But I am someone-ish, perhaps. Which makes me think of this anthem by S&G:

This post is not about the style of stories that are being told. This is about the stories that I cannot tell. Stories of love. Stories of hate dislike. Stories of gain and loss. Stories of depression and ecstasy. No, those stories don’t sell.

The people in the stories do not want these stories to be published.

Some stories will be ours, personal, and secret. They may be beautiful, dreary, shocking, wondrous, or fantastic, but they will be untold. Storytelling is not just the responsibility of the storyteller.

Do not be a passive, patient audience.