Desert Rose

What was I even thinking? Some days you just can't stop wondering about this. Some soups we get ourselves into, leave us questioning our own self over and over again. Some people we choose make us wonder about our capacity to analyze or make choices. Some of these situations are such a mess that though we make ourselves believe that we have moved on, very often we keep going back trying to understand why it took that path.  Whoever it may be or whatever situation it was, we definitely knew what we were feeling. But then - what were we thinking? Or, did we think at all? In some way or the other way, most of us are trying to sort something like this at all points.  A couple of days after me and my friend spoke about this aspect, I happened to read a note I'd written to myself in one of my older notebooks.  "What was I thinking? - I clearly wasn't thinking. Why wasn't I thinking? - Because I was busy feeling and I guess some aspect of it was good at that moment."...

She woke up every morning convincing herself that it is a good time to be. After all, most things come to her doorstep without her having to go out and get exhausted; There was enough content to watch on digital platforms – so much that she spent more time on the decision than actually watching; Education was taking interesting turns with alternative learning systems to beat the conventional ones – so now we’d see more kids on the block who crack life better than we did apparently; Innovation in design and technology blew her mind with every aspect of daily life getting so much easier; Equality, empowerment, tolerance and what not – everything is in the air or at least on social media; Medicine is developing at a good pace to deal with all the increasing sickness in this world; Mental health is being taken seriously and therapists are all over the place - so obviously happier people with sorted life; People are making conscious shifts to organic products, sustainab...

Some days I hear that voice. The unpretending harmony. But so rare are such days. Most days it is all about the pretentious. Isn’t that proof enough that she’s been missing something. She spends her mornings and nights in faith; submitting every bit of her to that omnipresent power. It is like she waits everyday for her greatest self to come and rescue her. When will she realize that she must go to her? You’re sincerely being nice to us and everyone. When will you be nice to yourself, woman? You breathing thing. That’s how life works – being a home to new life while being a memory to many. I am letting you be because without a shattered heart, you may not find the strength to build a life better that before. Oh but I am not letting you be forever. Let me whisper this into your ears. "You’re worth everything. Loving deeply and living fully. Because you’re here today and alive. That’s all the proof you need."   "It must be possible to s...

Some days we get it all wrong. Sometimes we just have one of those days, where things happen to you over and over again, as if someone up above is testing to see if you really want to have a good day. At least I do. A little something that's been brewing up inside my head leads to everything else. And then even before I realize, I just want to run and close myself in a room. I sit down and go through every scene of my 'bad day'. What all did I do? What did not go too well? Why did I say it or do it? I try to justify myself as much as I can ; as hard as I can. I repeat great lines to my own brains - " It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case you fail by default." or shorter ones like - "Life is tough darling, but so are you.". I deceive myself like I'm going to fix myself and look for options for distraction and engagement. It keeps going for a w...

The dream catcher slowly shifting. The curtain slightly swaying. The night sky all lit yet dark. You are the silent type. Aren’t you? The thoughts in my head. The memories from all around. The dreams in all its glory and power. I am not too silent. Am I? So why don’t you speak too. Or even shout. It just takes a thunder or a storm after all. In that kind of night, you can dissolve my voice. And then maybe we can have a dance.

The kind of situations we encounter while going up and down. Ah! These elevators will have so many stories to their credit. The earliest memory was when I was about 7 years. Yes, I wasn't too sure of what to do inside an elevator then. So on reaching the floor, my parents and a couple of others on board moved out and the door closed before I could get out. Since someone had already pressed the buttons from the ground floor, the panicked me was on my way down. In the meantime, my dad like every little girl's superhero chased the stairs down. But me on reaching down thought I will stay indoors and go up to find my parents. So I stayed in and told the uncle in the elevator where I wanted to go. Yea my dad missed me again. He then climbed the stairs back to find me coming out of the elevator. The first thing he did was take me back inside and teach me exactly what to do.  #childhoodmemories Then there was this one time after watching a movie. We were headed back...

When I graduated, I was all set to pursue masters and do all the stuff that I was 'supposed' to. A year later, somewhere I felt I was not sure if I wanted to. And I began enjoying all the little big things I was up to. And then on it has been multiple things I engage myself in everyday which began to feel fulfilling. But there are those days where I am sent into this state of shock thinking about the questions I'm asked. So what's your plan? ( Earlier it was about my further studies alone but now it is also about my reproduction chart)  Am I not running this race fast enough?                                                                                                                Image so...

“Sending letters and cards have been a part of us for as long as I can remember. Texting, social media and phone calls all work out just fine but there's this electric, yet very soothing energy that revolves around the art of writing the same down on paper, digging up an envelope, throwing in som e stamps, lick-sealing it (Kidding, don't go there  #papercut ), seeing that beautiful red box, slipping it in, praying to all the Indian Post Gods ‘thou not leteth them goeth astray', hearing the khakhi attired person ring the cycle bell, see them walk in the gate, 'Sukumaretta, kathundo?' (‘Do I have letter?’), to which he'll nod. Your loved ones would run to the door, wind in their hair and take the letter to find a random LIC letter.”  Quoting Flynn George coz I couldn’t put this any better. Writing letters is fun, therapeutic, and has a much deeper meaning to the recipient than anything else. For that matter my husband proposed to me over a letter and I sai...

You know that feeling? When you’re just waiting. Waiting to get home. Waiting to get into your room. To close the door, to fall on that bed. And to just let everything out that you kept in all day. That feeling of relief and desperation? Nothing is wrong. But nothing is right either. And you’re tired. Tired of everything. Tired of nothing. And you just want someone to be there, to tell you that it is okay. But no one is going to be there and you know that only you can fix you. But you’re tired of waiting. Tired of having to be the one to fix yourself and everyone else. Tired of being strong. And for once you want it to be easy. To be simple. To be helped. To be saved. You know the chances are slim. You’re still hoping, right? You’re still wishing, isn’t it? You’re staying strong and fighting with tears in your eyes. You’re fighting. Keeping fighting. Write yourself a warrior’s tale.

Disclaimer : If anything from this post relates to you or offends you, please don't be. You know we're talking about the other parents! This aunt I know. Apparently she was this extremely fun woman who believed in breaking the stereotype norms and go far. She lived independently and did a lot apparently. But now years down the lane, her daughter is not allowed to stay out after 8 pm, not allowed to drive because it is too dangerous and a whole lot of not allowed to do things. Fair enough right? My little niece. Oh she be one adorable doll. So her mom had gotten her morning milk ready in a blue sippy cup. She pushed it away and demanded, “I want the pink sippy cup, not the blue!”. My sister’s face whitens and she rushes to get the preferred sippy cup before the baby throws a tantrum. Fail! What are you afraid of sister? I go out shopping with a family friend. Their little boy loves my company (or at least it feels that way with all the fun we have). We are at the...

It was my turn to move away from home. It was time for me, like they say, to go behind my dreams. And I was sure. My entire world was sure that my father would not deal with it well. I knew he wouldn’t wave goodbye without shedding some tears - joyous and anxious. (Somewhere I was proud of it. Proud of being his girl with whom he cannot stay.) And finally that day arrived for me to fly out and as I walked away, I noticed something was different. He didn’t shed tears and his look told me a thousand things that I couldn’t then perceive. Everyone around including my mother said he had prepared himself well for this change and was strong. But somewhere behind my mind that image remained. Tiny details but the most important things seemed different whenever I went home. He didn’t play his usual doze of morning music which was like an energizer to wake up for us all our life. There were not many evenings where movies were discussed to tiny details. Those evening walks where keeping up w...

The sun has almost set and as I stand in my balcony, I feel the city serenading my favorite songs for me.  As the night sets in, somewhere in a multi-storey building I sing back. Is it my never ending thirst to find new shores that brought me here? Or is it the never ending love from my heart only for you? I stand here taking in the unending long view of shining lights. From this shore of love and lust I look up at the sky longing for it to rain on me. I’m here for you in the beautiful night like a shadow of you. I look around to see this city the way you do before I paint my own picture. Each nook of the city smells like cigarette smoke at this hour. With a pint down their throat, the artists walk through the lanes, to capture life. As the city lives on - everyone is looking for something. I sure am. We are all finding something or making something or maybe just being. And suddenly I know, it is time to start something n...

So lately it has been a lot about “You’re Getting Married?!” Well yes. I am getting married soon. No I am not taking a plunge or whatever. I am just getting married.  Obviously, I still don’t know much about “being married” since I am just about to get there. But there are a few things I realized over the last few months and this space works for me. There was an invitation that went viral on social media lately that portrayed a marriage as the most horrific thing to do. And then I just got thinking.  The sense of humour has for long compared a wedding to the end of everything. Phrases like “That’s it man”, “You’re screwed”, “End of freedom” and the like. Of course, no denials! I have been part of such conversations myself. But pondering over it lately, I realized that involuntarily these jokes have contributed in developing a kind resistance to the whole idea in most of our minds. We live in an era where commitment and trust is already the biggest fe...

She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. She set herself on fire each night because it was too dark and chilly in the hell she was living. She dreamt of people falling from the sky, plummeting to their deaths. She woke up with disbelief in her eyes but the nightmare continued.  She pumped her veins with things that can poison her blood; but she continued breathing.  She felt her insides rotting and quite unsure of how her heart still kept throbbing. She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. So she put on her pretty dresses and painted herself in different emotions.  She kept singing aloud as if she knew the right trail.  She kept dancing and swaying as if she knew the right moves. What she knew was that every thorn that caught her at each turn, slicing into her, would just make scratches.  She wouldn’t let a few scratches bleed her dry.   So she kept singing and dancing loud enough while...

Certain creations stand the test of time and still weaves a magic.  I happened to watch ‘Nammukku Parkkan Munthirithoppugal’ on television a few days back. The freshness. The magic. It was all as engaging as it was when I first watched it. Then a few days later I happened to see another master piece. This time while watching it, it hit me that much before Deepa Mehta, there was this legend, Padmarajan. Much before ‘Fire’, there was ‘Deshadanakkili Karayarilla’. Unlike the former where the protagonists probably became lesbians because of their uncaring husbands, Padmarajan made no bones about the fact that his protagonists were probably lesbians. Wasn’t he a genius film maker? I don’t know if this film was a success at the box office. Was it? Then yesterday I happened to watch yet another favourite of mine on telly – ‘Thoovanathumbigal’. It is not always that a cinema becomes immensely intriguing and grows on you each time you watch it – there are probably so many inte...