27 May 2015

Do the small things have any Gods at all?

Every day, his small steps slowed down at the wrought iron gates.
Every day, his little feet involuntarily led him towards it.
Every day, his big, brown eyes framed by a dirty mop of hair peeked through the unrelenting iron bars, his itty-bitty callused fingers curling around them.

26 May 2015


NAKED WOMEN. Do I have your complete and undivided attention now? Thank you.
Sorry to burst your bubbling bubble but I have some preaching to do. Bear with me.

I came up with a pretty funny blogpost idea (even if I say so myself) and I was typing it out (at work, as always) when this guy walks up to me and proceeds to rent a gaping hole in the delicate chantilly lace of my world.

22 May 2015

The Book Meme aka Bookporn

Science Fiction, Fantasy or Horror? 

Surprisingly, horror. Surprising because I, quite literally, hide under the covers during the entirety of a horror movie. That is only if someone emotionally blackmails me into watching one. Reading horror though, right up my alley.

20 May 2015


As her teeth trailed down the taut skin of his neck, she could feel his jagged pulse beating to the conga of his heart. Her hapless brain registered that her thirst for him was mirrored by his, even as he straddled her intimately against the window.

19 May 2015


I wasn’t going to post today, I was going to work on collating the 300 lists that I have made for 25-by-25, 30-by-30, and 101-by-1001 which I started writing probably a year ago. But the overdose of poop/potty-related posts in and around the blogger world (I read four poop-related posts in two days, gotta be a record of some sort) and an incident in the office washroom have prodded me to posting this.

18 May 2015

Monday Musings #1

I must confess (if you haven't heard me harp about it yet) that I hate Mondays. So considering how foul-mouthed and foul-mooded and foul-just-about-everything I am on Mondays, I thought getting some perspective would be good for the soul. Starting this, what will hopefully be, a series on the blog.

16 May 2015

Don't Date a Girl....

…...who is smitten by wanderlust, you will find yourself pulled into a whirlwind of places and plans and sand and sun and long treks in the middle of nowhere and tea from roadside dhabas of questionable sanitary standards and mountain peak views in the early morn and dirty socks and unpacked luggage that is always ready to accompany the both of you on the next adventure. You will never have a meal on time or a made bed.

14 May 2015


She bathed him lovingly.

She warmed a bit of silky oil between her palms. A leg was flailing in the air, she caught hold of it and rubbed the oil in, starting from his fleshy thigh to the tips of his pink toes. Her hands flattened against his cute, round tummy as she worked her way up to his tiny shoulder blades and then to the tips of his tiny fingers. She caught hold of one finger and put it in her mouth, so soft, so succulent. She looked into his eyes while the baby looked back at his mother, his big, round, midnight blue eyes staring back at her with vague recognition.

She stuck her elbow in the bath water to check the temperature and opened the tap a wee bit to cool it off. Then she slid him into the bath, she got lucky with this one, he loved the water. He proceeded to spend three quarters of the next hour splashing his bathwater around and gurgling with happiness while his mother soaped up a lather on his little body and shampooed his downy hair… she worked away till he was squeaky clean, and then some.

It was just as she was reached for the warm Turkish towel that she felt the clouds blacken. It sent her into a tizzy of panic. Her husband was away, her mother had gone back home and the neighbors were at work – soshe prayed… first for strength, then for mercy. She wrapped him up and laid him down on the bed – he was not too pleased at being taken out of the bath but welcomed the warmth.

The clouds gathered some more, blackened some more till her motor skills were impaired by the hate she felt. The Chinese dagger they bought from the curio shops near the Great Wall reminded her of a memory, a happy memory, a memory unmarred by......bawling filth. A memory in which she was the centre of her husband’s world, second to none. A memory in which she didn't have to share him with anything. Especially not this... thing.

Then it became simply convenient to slowly sink the dagger into its soft flesh, piercing skin layer by layer, one swift yet soft movement. It cried out at first in shock. Then, when the blade was deep enough, only gurgles flowed out of its mouth. She laughed, so different from mocking laughs from you were in the tub, aren’t they? 

As another memory broke through the clouds flitting in and out of her mind, she remembered the first time she had nursed him. But by then the bright vermilion of blood had already left a stain on the sheets that wouldn't be easy to wash away.

What have I done?


P.S: Postpartum psychosis is very real. Get help.
P.P.S: Linking to Three Word Wednesday

7 May 2015


The hauntingly compeling memories of her swirl around me.

We grew up together - neighbours at five, friends at ten, lovers at fifteen, and soul mates at twenty five. With her by my side, I never needed much else. Struggles and sadness came and went, but nothing seemed too much to handle, for at the end of the day, I had her to go back home to. Friends flitted in and out of our lives, family was constant but distant, other suitors few and far between. Everything started and ended in the other, for us.

We weren’t physically very attached - I didn’t feel the need to intertwine my fingers with her long, sensitive ones, or feel the warmth of her skin, the slightly pepperminty breath she blew my way playfully, or twist the locks of her long tresses absently. I didn’t hug her for a second more than deemed appropriate by propriety, nor did I smile my hungry smiles at her too often. Our long, lingering kisses were always secreted away from the world. Not that we were ashamed of anything, we simply liked the comfortable niche we had made for ourselves, our world within the world where nothing, no one, marred the perfection we perfected from having eternity together.

But our souls - our souls were stitched together. Like I needed her to be able to breathe. Like my presence was her elixir of life. Like we both had one leg each and had to hold on to each other to be able to stand up straight. The benefits of knowing each other through all stages of change, I could complete her sentences and she could predict my impulsive moods. I stocked the fridge with the kale chips she loved, while she picked up Rebecca once every three months from the library, never questioning why I loved the book so much. 

There are couples in love, in relationships, in marriages. And then there was us. 

We argued over something silly - I didn’t like the cats getting inside the bed covers while she wouldn’t stop sneaking them in. For warmth, she said. For cuddles, she said. Voices were raised quickly enough, though. What started as a silly argument ended up as a splatter of questions on the blank white kitchen walls that shook the very foundations of our relationship, of our bond. She blurted out that she felt trapped. I recoiled instantly. That brought pity to her eyes which made me recoil even more. I lost control over my tongue and the words that came out aren’t words that ever will be erased, from my memory or hers. 
A week later, she kissed me one last time before she packed her owl clock and paisley-printed spoon. And she took the long meandering path out of the house, to the bus stop. And onward. 
What I applaud myself and her over, when the pain subsides for a bit, is for having known when to end things, for not having dragged it out. Like the clean swipe of a new knife that severs with medical accuracy. 

Now, I’m walking down the aisle of a church I have never been in before, in a dress that is uncomfortable and unbecoming of me, with people I have never seen before in my life surrounding me, to marry a man I do not love. The memories of her linger in my being, the taste of her full lips, the crook of her heady smile, the stubborn fringe of hair, the quiet little winter snores, the warmth of her fingers, the fart jokes only we could find funny, the love in her eyes. 

The memories lingered in my head as my lips repeated my wedding vows after the minister.

1 May 2015

Wistful Thinking

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep." The pine cones that plop down from the trees crunch under my feet, the delightful mess that is the forest floor smells so familiar, so warm, yet so mysterious. The tall trees cast shadows so melancholic, it is a place that the sun’s rays have managed to only sliver through. But. It is not a sad place, it is a calm place, a place with leaves that always drip from the incessant rains. Not downpours, just showers, showers that are gentle and kind and refreshing, cleansing, even. Just enough to remind you what fresh feels like, smells like.

The indiscernible path meandering through the trees is visible only to the sharpest of eyes. But I pick my way through it easily, for I know every twist, every break, and every turn like the face that stares back at me in the mirror. The forest clears just a bit, a wee bit to make way for the house. A delight crafted over a decade out of wood and love and sweat and laughs and broken nails. I push the door open, the holly you hung last Christmas is still there, still green. That’s what I love most, I think, the suspension of time in this place. Like nothing ever changes, like nothing ever will.

The deliciousness of vanilla fills every nook and cranny, assaulting my senses in the best possible way. You always wonder how, not a cake in the house, yet the warm, pastry-like aura hangs in the air, all.the.time. I know the secret, I smile to myself, I have taken my obsession with it too far – vanilla body wash, vanilla body mist, vanilla body butter… not to mention the vanilla tea lights, the vanilla essence, the vanilla incense. Also, the vanilla sachets hidden under the pillows. And the couch cushions. And the curtains. Haha, you will never know why we always smelling warm, and inviting, and comfortable, and rich, and just. so. damn. yumm.

Ah, the couch. That damn couch will be the undoing of me. Of all my resolutions to get things done. It… envelops me. That’s it! That’s what it does. It envelops me in a warm embrace, that is not too tight to be confining, not too lose to be impersonal, just the right amount of squeeze. I slide into the embrace and tuck my cold toes under myself, the window is open, I like the nip in the air, the petrichor that mingles with my vanilla. And you let me leave it open despite the sniffles because you have noticed the restlessness that creeps over me when it is not.

The soft knit of the coverlet flutters onto my lap, vintage colors, as mellow as freshly-churned butter. My book is right there. My fingers graze the spine, my eyes graze the black and white cover art, my soul smells the timeless fragrance of the pages. The owl bookmark is lifted right out, I’m surprised I finished 200 pages last night before I drifted off. I read a few words, my mind goes back to recall the story, and then cuts out everything else in the world except the warm hand that reaches out from the other couch. Absently, I take the hot chocolate proffered. Absently, I take a sip and let it burn my tongue. Absently, I intertwine my fingers with yours as I lose myself to the delights of Sherlock’s adventures.

P.S: This is where I want to be. May, please take me here. Please?