Midnight awakenings.

The blood to her heart pumped in an uninterrupted motion. The day's chores were done, vessels were washed, curtains were drawn, night lamps glinted dimly and it was time to retire to bed. Her eyes refused to close, thanks to her unwarranted evening nap. Her faithful phone lay next to her nudging her with flickering notification lights, eventually seducing her despaired mind. She picked it up in one mindless scoop.

She surfed from pages to sites, profiles to channels, opened Apps after Apps; her burgeoning mind didn't seem to catch a break. At one particular point she became mindful when a video of two friends conversing alerted her. It was a Q&A on fashion blogging. Her forehead narrowed with interest, and her hearing grew powerful as the video played along. The jist of the conversation was this: One friend asked the other how she managed to make her blog popular. Her friend answered that she would stay up till 3:00 am to edit the pictures from the photo shoot and would learn other skills needed to run a blog. She said she does not like to be dependent on anybody for her work and prefers to do everything by herself. Since she was passionate she could stay motivated and push harder everyday.

<Grammar screw up alert: No more third person. That She is I. Moving along in first person>

I abruptly stopped the video. I felt inspired. It was not news which I didn't know. If anything, I knew working hard has its rewards. But working and working with passion are two different things. Passion is the payoff ingredient and that really struck a chord with me. I could feel my heart beginning to pump a gallon of blood. I could feel my heart soar at that moment. The time was 2:15 am. It reminded me of my plan and the aspirations of my heart. The things I ever so excitedly talk about it, but words mean nothing when there is no passionate work? 

I straightened myself and grabbed my notebook. I looked for my favorite pen in a frenzy. I was heavily inspired to document the revelation of the last couple of moments. I couldn't find the pen. I frantically looked for it and was getting increasingly peeved. And suddenly it dawned on me; my moment of clarity. I could see the mess in the maze of my plan. I could see how I get put off and discouraged for the smallest things. I do have a vision but I operate like a robot. I am not open or flexible, though I claim that I am. I guess I am lying to myself. I need perseverance. I need to be willing to take new directions even if it is ambiguous. Above all I need to work my tail off.

One of my fears had been that I am not ready to make it in the big world. I need to be at a certain level to become successful. This has been the torturous voice in my head for as long as I can remember. But today I knocked down that mirage that had me trapped all these years. I don't have to be ready, I just have to be unapologetically me!. Borrowing the words of Elizabeth Gilbert to summarize, "An imperfect plan executed now is better than a meticulous plan executed never." Our time is now. Believe and act away!

I live and die for days like this.

17:08 pm, 11 August 2017

She sensed there were only few seconds before a downpour. Her heart beamed with ecstacy as steady bursts of chilly winds rummaged her hair making her face itchy.

It appeared to her that her entire being declared to her with one sound voice, 'this is the life. This is the life you wanted. This is the life that serves you well.' She could feel her writing speed up as she heard voices and footsteps in the background running for shelter. She reckoned the first drops had landed somewhere.

She looked back at the blackening skies for one more time, her lips curved in a frigid smile. Her heart leaped in a jolly. Her weariness melted away. She found hope. She felt joyful again.

It was tea time.

The end.

17:11 pm, 11 August 2017

#ChennaiMonsoons

Vysh, how I miss you! (1/2)

It was 1:00 am. I laid awake on my bed, staring at a pointed red light indicating to me my AC was running. I couldn't contain my thoughts, it was a raging night. I I tried to stay calm, I had an unamusing day, so I wanted to create my own muse by travelling through the labyrinth of my mind. I cannot recollect what catapulted my attention to Vaishnavi (Vysh), but that moment marked the beginning of a long night that was to unfold.

The serendipity

Most girls I went to school with do not know Vysh and I were good friends; damn it, we were close friends. It doesn't appear silly to me that they didn't know it, because we didn't speak much in school, we didn't have lunch together and we were not paired in any team or called out to be a part of any event. However, we existed in the same school. 

It was the year 2003, the dreaded 10th std. board exams were over and the good, better and the best bunch in school made it., yup we were in higher secondary, ya'll! We were on top of the food chain. We were the ultimate seniors! We were bitchin'. Wow, how unabashedly happy we were :D

On the first day after summer, when the school re-opened, the girls were summoned to classes based on the groups they had chosen. The class was full of familiar faces.  Faces we had seen over the years of middle school and high school. As clueless teenagers who like to act out like know-it-alls, we teamed up with girls we were already friends with. Finding your bench farther from the black board and making sure you have in the same row and in the adjacent benches all the girls you liked, was pivotal to excelling in school; or so we thought. 

And there was me. I was a wonder to many. People didn't know who I was friends with; they have all seen me at some point in time but they didn't know me. They didn't know if I was a dull or bright student, whether I was friendly or weird., who I sat in lunch with (that shit mattered a lot you guys). It was all a puzzle. Some still identified me as the "new admission" though it was five years before that I was new to the school. I don't blame them, middle school was not the best years of my life. They were however the years that shaped my expectation in relationships. The struggle was real. Deep stuff right? May be I will share later what went down in those years. Re-routing to Vysh: Kris and I were friends in high school and so it was a natural choice for us to sit together. Kris and Vysh were friends from elementary school, so Vysh was also in the same row with me.

Thinking back, Kris was too tall to be sitting in the second row, I wonder if the girls behind us complained. Anyway, we were in class, sitting in second row, doing calculus, understanding nothing but trying to prove the damn LHS to RHS. We sat through together pretty much for all classes. We enjoyed each others company, we still were just friends, we didn't talk about personal things or family affairs. We simply liked and cared for each other and probably, subconsciously chose each other more than others in class because we kinda were destined to be great friends.

The heartbreak

It was not even a good 3 months into 11th std, we were in class. It was between periods, which was obviously the best times. The classroom was a scene of riot, all kinds of gossips were being told and received. Jokes were cracked about classmates and teachers, the class monitor was trying to settle us down and we obviously had to make fun of her. I mean, common! Vysh and I were also playing the fool, I remember having a pencil in my hand and when I turned to tell her something, I poked her with the flat side of the pencil on her hind arm. She was a fair and good looking girl, her skin was of a yellow tone. The pencil caused a blood clot immediately and it was strange to see a beaming reddish mark form against her pale, sunny skin for such a small tug. 

It was the next day, we were in class, doing integrals, and I noticed the blood clot and it hadn't faded. I asked her about it, she evaded my question. I think there had been other symptoms and she was already seeing a doctor. She did not discuss about her health situation, may be she was embarrassed, may be she didn't want to make a big deal of it. Knowing her, I think that she didn't want to believe that something is going wrong in her body and she didn't want to talk about it because she didn't want to give her ailment the attention that it was demanding of her that was breaking her will and bruising her body.

To be continued...

11 Reasons why I do not suck at writing.

I always have room for food, hence the spoon. Stop judging.

The last time I posted here was on Jan 30th. It has been 5 friggin’ months since I’ve published anything here. But look at my title - talk about hypocrisy! <insert grin face emoji>.

I have five or six unfinished drafts lying around. Last night I was going through them, and it kept me awake. It was painful to comprehend my reasons for lack of execution, however it was fun to discover what really is the problem. Here are my top reasons why I don’t publish often but why I have no trouble writing.


1. I have many thoughts, many. Oh so many. You will relate better if you’re a woman. We enjoy dwelling in hypothetical situations, don’t we?

2. I can sound rhetorical, like directly from a self-help book. I don’t make an effort to write that way, I guess my thoughts are quite classic (see what I did there, winky face ;))

3. My words come out preachy, at least that’s how I feel sometimes reading through my prose.

4. I don’t think like the people around me, my views are generally surprising and interesting to my peers. It fuels me to write them down simply because they are unfamiliar.

5. I say ‘I’ way too many times, I really don’t know of other ways to start my sentences. I need help with that.

6. I try to keep at par with my vision of the article and then begin to question the reading pleasure associated with it.

7. I try to keep at par with the reading pleasure of the article and then begin to question if I have stayed true to its vision.

8. I am a paradox, I enjoy using oxymorons in my work.

9. I am generally not happy after I am done writing – I proof read and edit till my back hurts and I go ballistic.

10. I write everywhere, I don’t have a routine or schedule.

11. My references are unique; they are generally of my life and I seldom run out of it.

Now I have every reason to continue writing because even though the above pointers look like challenges and areas I need help with, I at least know where am slacking and that's a win. Problem identified is problem halved, ain’t it? I am not sure if I came up with that phrase or I had read it earlier. Thanks for stopping by to read, and I will see you soon here.

Did she have it in her?

Yes, this is my journal and no, that is not a vodoo doll.

She thought she knew what she wanted,

And she let herself believe in it.

She worked hard at it

And realised she wasn't going far

She sat back; asking herself,

If she really knew what she wanted

Her heart said it did; and

Her mind acted like a dud

She tried yet again; and this time

She put her mind to it

It looked like she was going to make it work

But her faith kind of faltered 

She looked around for help

A comforting face, a kind smile: None.

She looked within and Alas,

A friend waiting and a passionate soul

She got to her desk again, now feeling different

Not with a plan yet, but with a sure goal

She knew she had herself

And that can sometimes be too much too.

She leaned behind and smiled; Her mind echoed, 

'Life is not as bad as you thought, eh?'

But her heart thundered, ' Life is great.,

Just be willing and always believe'

You are what you work to be..

It has been six months since I published anything here. I have in fact written more than a dozen pieces but couldn't bring myself to publishing it. I kept procrastinating for lack of motivation and satisfaction in the quality of my work. I used to sit down and write every time I had a startling idea or a revelation, but in a couple of lines, I would feel the fire put out. I tried to rekindle it by thinking hard and long to the point of remorse but to no avail. I would roughly put some words together to save face before myself and fend it with few artificially enthused phrases. 

However one thing I did correctly was, I continued to write. I didn't want to stop even though I knew I wouldn't complete it, but isn't trying and failing better than giving up and sulking? 

I sat here writing this post.

This isn't something I can give up. I love writing. I love the feeling of having my thoughts translate into something relatable, enjoyable and powerful to my reader. I yearn the feeling of knowing I encouraged, upheld, caused one to smile through my words. It means a lot to me.  After about a barren time without publishing, here I am in a place of identifying my emotions without ambiguity. All the words I put down come from my heart and mind. I do not sew my words to sound artsy or sly as my intention is to be heard and not to be sold out. The heart is a sanctuary of truth and you don't have to sell the truth. Truth will make itself known. That has been my philosophy, with life and in writing - genuineness. 

Every passionate person is talented and their determination to follow it through makes them an artist. 

Obstacles and challenges are inevitable in the path to great things. A little bit of patience, a whole lot of practice and a great deal of determination is the recipe to realising your dream. It will involve long nights, wavering thoughts, faltering spirit, physical and mental agony but believe in yourself and never fail to work for it. If you have it, you will want it. If you want it, you will pursue it. 

Writing is my therapy.

You know how you have some horrible days when everything goes haywire and you feel you're breathing havoc? Yeah? What does a nominal person do to calm himself down? Take a walk, get in the shower may be, play with a pet, bawl in agony?

Well, I write.

I write not just to make myself feel better but because it helps me anatomize the situation. When I sit to write, thoughts don't flow, it pours. It pours like a mad man screaming from the middle of a street. Some other times I have a brain freeze. I cannot comprehend my own thoughts. I need to pause my wrecking mind in order to think; and because I look forward to penning it down, I think harder. I play my life in slow-mo, never skipping a scene as memory serves.

I continue thinking about what I should have done. I think of the possibilities, I think of my trail of thoughts in that situation. Basically, my need to write is not just an ardent desire but my catalyst for self-examination. Without a doubt every time I have completed writing a piece, I have felt liberated and redeemed. My best friends are my words. I knit them with the song in my heart and tune them to the thoughts in my mind.

Writing is meat to my muscle, cure to my sorrow and joy to my heart.