The final cut.

July 26, 2014 § 10 Comments

“It’s fucked up.”

“I want to die.”

“Nothing makes sense to me anymore. Everything seems absurd, like Camus described in The Myth of Sisyphus.”
“It’s the book talking, not you.”

“No really. I’ve lost purpose and reason. And that zeal to live too. That ‘life’ that kept me alive has rusted.”
“What do you want?”

“I want to lie beside him, read books, cook for him, travel with him, be with him. And I want to be loved.”
“There are people who love you!”

“I don’t want them. Barring my immediate family, I don’t want anyone. Anyone, but him.”
“He doesn’t want you.”

“That’s the problem. That’s why all I want to do is drown in this whirlpool of misery and find the black pit that will eat me up.”
“Are you reading too much shit?”

“I haven’t been reading at all. I feel like Sylvia Plath.”


“When I realized that he doesn’t love me the way I want to be loved.”
“So? He isn’t obliged to!”

“I know, but I’m tired of this one-sided non-existent relationship.”
“There will NEVER be one.”

“You realize that this is exactly what’s killing me, right?”
“You gotta face it baby. You’re not his cup of tea.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s cup of tea. I want to be the bed they sleep in every night, or the arms that holds them while the sun goes up every morning.”
“Cliché. Touché. Get over it.”

“I am in love. I can’t.”
“He is that bird who won’t settle down for you.”

“I’m not asking him to settle down. I want to fly with him too.”
“He prefers solitude.”

“I won’t disturb his solitude. Our solitude’s can mate.”
“You’re going to get hurt.”

“Well I am hurt and bruised and broken.”
“Pull yourself together.”

“It’s hard to do.”
“You’re rigid.”

“I’m in love.”
“Fine stay in love. With a man doesn’t care about your existence most days. Who isn’t aware of what you’re going through. Who isn’t with you, but isn’t away from you either. Who would probably beat the life out of you. Who, even if in love, would not step out of his shell to say it out loud. Who is enjoying all the attention and love you’re giving him, without expecting him to give it a name. Who will NEVER EVER love you back the way you love him.

That’s when my heart melted and picked up that knife to make The Final Cut.


December 5, 2013 § 4 Comments

They were in his car, kissing. It was a late August evening. They’d managed to find a secluded place in the otherwise crowded city. Somewhere they could express what was bursting inside them, in the form of hormones or love.

“Do you have any idea what are we doing?”, she asked him as he kissed her nape.

He stopped.
He looked into her eyes and said, “No, but I’m going with the flow. Do you want me to go with the flow?”

That very instant the radio played a Pink Floyd melody.
The next moment, she got naked.


June 19, 2013 § 15 Comments

Be my beloved
Be my winter sun
Be my warm night
And my personal melody.

Be my blue orchid
Be my favourite Floyd song
Be my moment of joy
And the tattoo on my nape.

Be my paranoid jealousy
Be the fragrance of my skin
Be my lingering thought
And the stream of conscious ocean.

Be my everything
Be my nothing
Be my sunburned flesh
And my moment.

Be these words fed to me
And then, fade away
Be the heartbreaker
And don’t come back.

Let me search for my meaning
Search for my self
And discover on my own
That I am my omniverse.


May 30, 2013 § 12 Comments

It was a bright sunny afternoon in Delhi when they met at one of these fancy malls that sell overpriced pints of beer and food that has unpronounceable names.

She was scared. She hadn’t met him before except at the workshop they did together where all they did was exchange pleasantries and later their phone numbers. And she hadn’t gone out with a guy three years younger to her. Ever. But life is all about taking chances. She took her, and fixed a meeting.

One glance at his face, and she knew that things won’t be the same for her. The curly hair on his head and the sly smile on his face made her heart skip a beat. He extended his arm for a hug and she melted.

Three and a half hours later, they’d eaten, bought books, discussed philosophy; he had read poetry to her, made her swoon, introduced her to Pink Floyd and neither of them could fathom how quickly the time passed.

She was right. Her life hasn’t been the same since then. Two and a half years, lots of discussions, pints of beer, more fancy restaurants, packs of cigarettes, all the crazy music, and Buddha happened.

All because they made their choice: the choice to not hold back from the other, the choice to spend time with each other.

Untitled- VI.

April 16, 2013 § 11 Comments

If I open the leaves of my heart

will you browse through the

chapters I have compiled?

Will you scan the font, the

pattern; or just read through

the lines nonchalantly?

Will you accept the begs

of my borrows, and the

loss of tomorrows?

Will you look underneath the

tales of deception and

misconception that I’ve spun?

Will you read me kindly

or act manly and rush

through me?

If I let you peruse the pages

of my life, will you care and

stay the night?

 The Final Cut.

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