Already done.


The trees are all bent,
The wind is howling over,
The storm is yet to come,
But the damage is already done.

I offer you peace but you give me conflict,
I bleed my heart out, but yours is running dry,
The battle cry hasn’t been given yet,
But your guard is already up.

The soldiers are ready,
The Cavalry is on guard,
The war hasn’t started yet,
But the bloodshed is already done.

Darling, I never meant to start a war.
But now I’m going to end it.

Two packages

Artist: Xavieralopez

I came back home

Tired and defeated,

With two packages in hand,

My heart and my bruised ego.

The ego was my doing,

The heart I gave to you for safe keeping.

It slipped from your beautiful fingers several times,

But this time it broke before you could grasp it.

So that’s that.

I came home with two packages in hand.

One was my doing.

The other was yours.

Angry girl.


Artist Libby VanderPloeg: . Instagram:

Dear You,


The problem is not that you get angry at how unjust things around you are.

Every single woman, at some point of her life must have been subjected to something sexist. Something that seemed trivial, something that was said in passing, as a joke, just as an “honest question” ( whatever that means).

Sometimes, people ask you to smile, sometimes they ask you to smile more. On some occasions you’re asked to calm down, for some people you’re too loud, too boisterous. Very un-ladylike.

Sometimes, they don’t take you seriously at work.

There are boxes and if you don’t fit in them, you’re an anomaly.

The problem is not that you get angry,
The problem is that you don’t stay angry long enough.
Rage, rage.

Things you should know.


By MarkovManiac,

It always left me unsettled, these short romances that somehow seemed to find me,
Sometimes in cafés of a new city as the rain grew steady,
On rare occasions in streets of a strange land.
Sometimes in the midst of a stormy heartbreak,
When I was desperately trying to hold on to a sinking boat and out of
no where a hand pulled me safely to the shore.

All these loves brought me to life, but eventually tore me apart.
They expected a complete picture, a landscape of bright blue skies,
of flowers and happiness,
That right there was the problem,
Because I was just an abstract piece of art.

What happened when I left.



I was scared to say your name, I didn’t even want to whisper it.
I worried that the moment it left my lips it would vanish,
like a wisp of smoke and with it, I knew you would too.
So I let it sit, heavy on my lips that you refused to touch.

I longed for you, but the rain never came.
There were clouds, dark and heavy, but it didn’t pour.
Not even a drizzle to quench my ever-increasing thirst.
I told myself that it was okay, there have been droughts,
Most people perished, but many survived it too.

One day I  walked far and unknowingly stepped into the rain,
Suddenly everything came alive.
Death gave way to life.

That day, I took a deep breath…
And slowly uttered your name.

Things we need to talk about. 

I never liked empty spaces, hearts or homes.
So I started filling them both.
A couch here, a person there, a coffee table where it wasn’t needed,
a lover when there was space for none.

In hindsight it wasn’t the room full of things that bothered me.
Rooms could be filled and emptied, things could be bought and sold.

But people… people were the problem.
They came at their will sometimes, and that was all right.
It was their leaving that I  never recovered from.

Not the new girl


“How did I get here?”

I’ve asked myself this question a thousand times and just like every time, I remember the answer now, too: I got here after I sent my resume and that’s how I got selected for this job.

‘Trainee sub-editor’ — that’s what I was hired as. Fun fact: My id card, even after four years and nine months reads the same. That brings me to the next point — it has been four years and nine months since I joined this newspaper organisation!

“Four years and nine months is a long time,” I told myself. “Babies are born and they grow, well, four years and nine months older. Sigh. People fall in and out of love, people move away, get sad and get happy. Some get strong, some get weak,” I added trying to convince myself.

So, a few weeks ago, I took twenty deep breaths before I could press the ‘send’ button (on an email informing my bosses of my resignation). When twenty didn’t work, I took seven more and pressed the damn button. The ‘Undo’ option kept blinking at me, but this time I knew better than ‘undoing’ it.

After 41,610 hours spent  chasing deadlines — well, not all the hours were spent doing that… but most of them were — I turned the sand timer upside down and finally quit my first job.

I felt all sorts of emotions: regret, anger, annoyance and sadness… deep sadness. I couldn’t believe that what I have been doing since the last few years will all come to an end in the next  few days.

So even though I prepare myself, to say good bye to the job I loved a lot, I know this:
After chasing deadlines for “four years and nine months”… I chase no more.
At least for now.

Arriving late.


That’s how you drive a car. Mastering the side-eye look since the ’90s.

Of all the things I’ve achieved so far (that would be two things, not being awkward at one party is the first) learning to drive a car is the one I cherish the most.

I started trying to drive when I was three. At least, I posed like I was, inside the Fiat Padmini that my dad first bought. I knew back then that I was born to be a badass driver. But, I didn’t know that the road to being badass, would be paved with extremely disgusting drivers, bucket loads of tears and getting yelled at by mean people.

When I turned 18, I didn’t have too many aspirations, I only wanted to master straightening my hair. Since most of my time was spent doing that, I never had much left to learn driving.

But after a lot of coaxing by mum, I enrolled into a driving school and that episode scarred me for life. The teacher would grunt, spit outside the moving car, dig his nose, scratch his crotch and would also manage to ask me to drive. I was so grossed out by him that I never concentrated on driving.

My second teacher was a kind man, with a red beard and paan-stained lips. He taught me how to drive and never yelled at me. We drove around the city, by that I mean, I pretended to turn the steering wheel, while he controlled the car. He would make me stop at paan shops so that he could buy a paan for himself.
I really liked him. He would abuse people on the road, drive through the ditches and laugh at men who used to get scared of my driving. In many ways, he was a lot like me.
I finally got my license, thanks to him.

But I never ventured out in a car on my own. My family never pestered me to get married, on second thoughts I wish they did. Instead, they badgered me about driving. Sometimes my father wouldn’t bug me, I think he felt the world was safer without me as a driver.

One day, my mother bullied my father into letting me drive his car, under his supervision. That was the second worst mistake of her life, the first was giving birth to my brother.
It was early on a Sunday morning. I left home sleepy, but returned bawling my eyes out. What was mummy thinking?  I rammed into a bike, hit a passerby (he was walking on the road), wailed on a beautiful stretch of road because my father couldn’t stop scolding me and returned home a failed warrior.

After that, I stuck to autorickshaws.
But one bright day, I woke up with a new plan. I was going to buy a car. Yes, I still couldn’t drive but I wanted a car. Being a self-sustained, strong and independent woman, one who couldn’t afford to buy a Mini Cooper, I settled for an adorable Swift.

But what good was a car that wasn’t being driven?
My car sat in the basement for three months before the battery died and then, once again I burst into tears.
This time, I woke up with another life-altering plan…
For three months, a new driver patiently taught me how to drive to and from work.

Everything was rosy again: I had nice shiny tyres (thank you, daddy) a car that smelt of plastic heaven, a stereo that played some sweet music and a cute face that made sexist oafs ask me if my father bought me my car.

It’s been three years now since I started driving. I was no 18-year-old who was excited to get to places, I was a 20-something, who was tired of arguing with autorickshaw drivers and a little tired of relying on people to pick me up from work.

For now, I have many more miles to go… because I just refueled my car.

Some days

On some days the sun will shine brighter, or it will rain a little longer, if that’s what makes you smile.
The birds will be a little more chirpier and will sing you the song of their kind.
Some days you’ll get lucky: You’ll get extra fries, a stranger will smile at you or a puppy will tug at your laces and your heart,
Some days might end way better than you expected, so what if it had a bad start?
Some days your hair will be perfect, you’ll reach work on time and that cutie will say hi,
You will find happiness embrace you and sadness will be hard to come by,
Sometimes those days might not be easy to come, some days it’ll take time,
But I hope they happen often to you and when they don’t, I hope you can hold on.
May the rainbow be extra colourful on your rainy day,
May the thorns disappear along your way.
May everything good happen to you,
And may you find happiness and peace in every single thing you do.



You are not your father.
You are not your mother.
And for better or worse, you will never become them.

You are your own. You might have their laugh, their smile, their ability to make people feel special. Your eyes might look like your theirs, the way you squeak when you laugh might just be like what they do.
You can be like them, but you will never be them.

You should never allow things to damage you.
Not anger, not love and definitely not people.

You are not your father.
You are not your mother.
You are completely, wholly, flawfully, wonderfully you.