You are home.

You are my favourite bookmark
I like coming back to you
maybe a little torn and stained
but well distinguished.

You are like star gazing,
where silence envelopes you
and you don't mind
drowning further,
that.

You are the extra mayo
in my shawarma,
the smell that lingers
of freshly washed hair
on a sunday morning.

You are home.

A letter to the younger me.

Hey, sweetheart.

Hope you are gorging on to those marshmallows because chocolate hasn't really been your thing and nothing much is going to change there.

You are a skinny kid and Mom thinks you look malnourished but things will only be the opposite once your hormones start going crazy and your books pile up by the desk, so ask Mom, to go easy on the ghee, maybe?

Today the teacher taught some really cool craft things and you now want to become a teacher. But when you notice how a Pilot's uniform looks so crisp and gets to fly looking that dapper, you change your mind. Or maybe, when you see people around you fall ill and decide to eradicate all kinds of diseases once and for all or make tiny clothes for your barbie dolls out of the abandoned dupattas and realise your true calling is perhaps, fashion. Even when playing around with your kitchen set, you decide its best to stay home and cook and have umpteen tea parties, know that you are going to be very confused when THAT time actually arrives for you to choose a career and it's going to be none of the beautiful choices from above. (Daamn!)

Make those Enid Blyton, Panchatantra and Nancy Drew books your friends. They are the best kinds. It's okay to indulge in Archies, Supandi, Chacha Chaudary (4g runs faster than chacha's computer dimaag, apparently), Tinkle and the likes.

Sketch the hell out of that colouring book and paint your face and clothes, while you're at it. Dance and oh, please dance and never stop. You love it now and you  will after that too. To all those crazy classes that mother has enrolled you for,  (Karate, singing, painting, skating, creative writing, bharatnatiyam, gymnastics, a class where they teach you to make a camera out of a frooti can (lol) and so many more) don't quit because even though my body is not even close to being flexible today, you can boast about learning all of that (and forgetting half of it) but know that your childhood was pretty awesome. Also, it somehow helps you to have an open mind and never be afraid of trying new things, learning new things.

You are kind of kicking ass in that tender age and I miss feeling that now. You did things without a tint of self-doubt and gave it all that you had, each time because you didn't know any other way of doing it. You made friends without judging and patched up with a 'batti' when things became intense. You would cycle and run around for hours without knowing anything of fatigue. You would forgive easily and love unconditionally. You would flash your asymmetric pearly whites at every stranger and smile some more at the person in the mirror. You loved the person in the mirror.

I hope to meet you someday, very soon. I miss you, you know?

Love galore.

Mind maze.

Be ferocious, be unkind,
they hurt you even when they know it.

Be loathesome if you ought to
you called a spade a spade and not a crooked knife.

Clench your teeth in resentment,
for bad needs to be beaten by worse, most times.

A vein or two may pop out from your head
as a sign of your impending victory.

Be ruthless and unforgiving,
gullibility cannot seek redemption.

Win over your fears and doubts,
just the way it had attacked you
unannounced.

Let it not tear you, devour you to bits
or is that silly mind
messing with you again?

Delayed Success.

Failures have their way of sending you into a dizzy world of your own. All that confidence you were storing up can be deflated in no time. Failures can sink you down to level zero. I mean, jab lagti hai toh, more often than not, zor ki hi lagti hai. This intense feeling of dejection, hopelessness, and disappointment is heightened when everyone around you is moving at an astonishing speed. I mean, there is joy in celebrating someone else’s success but accepting your own failure can be very difficult. It’s not easy to accept, that maybe, just maybe, you lacked in hard work and sincerity and it wasn't just your luck acting out or was it?

Failures have known to mark their presence in your life strongly. You may not remember every little triumph but you surely will remember your downfalls. Optimists talk about turning your down-swings the other way around by learning from them and moving on. But it’s also okay, to brood over it for days and not letting that anger die.

It’s okay to not get out of your bed for days and sport that unkempt hairdo at work. It’s okay to hide yourself behind a book or a bush when an inquisitive aunty sees you. It’s okay to go watch movies alone in this time. It’s okay to sigh loudly. It’s okay to talk to a tree, they listen. It’s okay to open that movie folder in your hard disk and watch endless movies. It’s okay to make huge tubs of ice cream your best friend. It’s okay to not tell your whatsapp status your current mood. It’s okay to stand under the shower and cry. It’s okay to listen to sad songs and cry some more. It’s okay to think you are the biggest loser this mankind has ever witnessed. It’s okay for you to be hurting in your own weird way.

But the next step to this can only be, I mean, ONLY be, recovery. Now or much later, life HAS to get better, whether you want it or not. It’s easier to want it, of course. Failure exists so that the nectar of success feels sweeter.

I may have fallen down many more times than you, dug a deeper hole for myself each time even, cursed the good while the bad just grew each day, lived in the fear of falling down yet again but I promise to try again relentlessly, a little better than before, each time, everyday.

Here’s to bad good times! :)

Oh so cheesy!

The times when we would start our conversations after dinner and it would last right till our mothers woke up to do chores in the morning. 

When pinks and reds made me feel lady like, even in my sneakers and shorts..heart shaped everything symbolised love. 

When letters were written not because any war separated us but cause nothing was conventional about us anyway.  

When I couldn't stop giggling like a moron after a good time spent. 

When the visuals ran in my head in sepia, soon after. 

When I spoke to the clouds and trees and told them about my heart flutterings.

When I'd run my fingers on your hair and mess up the already messed up hairdo. 

When your things became my things. And by then my things were already yours. 

When everything was thought of in a pair. Where every wish was asked in two s. 

When I'd lay my head on your chest, under that canopy of white sheets , this nincompoop of a world made sense. 

When your scent lingered long after you'd gone, seeping into my very conscience. 

When our toes were perfectly entwined in each other's, the winter would envy us. 

When our lips wouldn't depart. 

When we shared a silence so beautiful that words couldn't muster up courage to break it. 

When I couldn't help rising in love with you.

Phool de ke dekho.

Flowers are sinful in a way. They come to you fresh, each second getting closer to their inevitable, early death. In between, they bring that whiff of love that transports you into a better mood, a blithe one. You smell and you smell, the scent lingers on but you can't get enough of this sweet intoxication. The colours maybe as bright as sun or as pale as snow, you can see different hues of it, somewhere missing the intensity and somewhere just delicately touching upon it. You fall in love with the exquisite colour palette, slowly, petal by petal. The uncut, overgrowth of leaves adds that required tint of perfection to this marvel. A little mess is alluring, no? Then ofcourse, the thorns are clipped off or are neatly wrapped around but once in a while it hurts you and you realise, why these things are so beautiful. Everyone deserves this indulgence.