Guest Post: Shakti Shetty.

January 3, 2014 § 8 Comments


If you can write 25 lines without feeling a hint of discomfort in your knuckles, you’re awesome. Your handwriting—good or worse—be damned! No joke. There’s a reason to it too. You haven’t been destroyed by QWERTY. Yet. And that should be a matter of pride even if you’re not Murakami or Rowling or Pamuk. You see, over the past few years, our literal realities have been going through a paradigm shift. As a result of which, desktop has become a common noun and typing, commoner. Pen doesn’t seem as mighty as it once used to. Keys have taken its place; at least in the urban scenario.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Nowadays, i barely let a pen point attempt paragraphs on paper. It’s usually words or short sentences, if not plain signatures.  With such a discouraging backdrop, what happens to the good old custom of writing long epistles? With telegram honorably extinct, what’s the future of exchanging hand-written letters? Cultivating pen pals while we are it? Postcards, someone? Love letters, huh? Will they survive? By any measure of chance, yes is the answer. The real question is a bit different though: what about you? It’s not like the whole world has suddenly turned against the poor postman. The street dogs continue to chase him while people in the neighbourhood can’t wait to welcome him without offering a glass of water. So things aren’t evolving THAT phenomenally. People exchange e-mails and everything is more or less fine. After all, everybody appears proud to have the same print-perfect handwriting.

So, the question keeps coming back to you. Your skills and your personal touch. When was the last time you wrote someone a letter filled with cancellations and food marks? Whom are you planning to send one in spite of having each other’s e-mail IDs? Holding a page with words meant for you can certainly beat a lot of in its category. Besides, it’s never too late. Yes, Gandhi was right. Our handwriting and gymnastics indeed stay with us forever. But it’s OK. You’re not writing a medical prescription. The person on the other end will get what you’re trying to say. Hopefully.

Perhaps it’s not about the choice available but about doing something which we once used to. Before technology made time invaluable and emotions, redundant. If you sit down to quantify the amount of time one invests in browsing and posting comments on social media that will never be responded with a reply, it becomes stark obvious that we’re simply wasting the power of fingertips. Shouldn’t that be diverted towards those who’d be happy to really ‘hear’ from you… for a change? By any yardstick, that’d be better than having an imaginary friend/acquaintance who never writes back to you.

About the Author:

Shakti is this really great guy i know from Twitter. He does amazing wordplay. And ladies if you thought that foreplay is better than wordplay, that’s because you haven’t read him yet. No exaggeration meant, whatsoever.

Go read his blog. And i challenge you, you won’t regret it a bit.

Guest Post: Tanzila.

December 28, 2013 § 9 Comments


I met a goddess when I went walking around today. I saw her sitting all pensive and looking at people around her with sadness. I asked her why. She said she didn’t want to be a goddess anymore. It was too much responsibility.


I asked her about the fun she would have with so many people worshiping her. Didn’t it give her a high to have people revere her?


She scoffed at me and said no one asked her before making her a goddess. No one asked her if she ever wanted to sin but just repeated that she was pure. She wanted love and passion, all she got was piety


She said she was tired of the bells in her temple. Because they awakened her from her slumber and she liked to sleep late in the morning. But the people, they came calling with a prayer on their lips.


No one came and told her about their escapades. They always came and told her how sad they were that they had sinned. They did not know how lucky they were to lead a normal life.


She wished she hid behind a tree holding hands with someone and felt the nervousness of first love. She wished she could dress up and try to be herself.


All she got was shiny trashy tacky garb every festival, so not her style. But then goddesses have an image to upkeep she was told. She wished she could take a hammer and break that image along with the priest’s head who looked at her curves with lust when he thought no one was looking.


She told me she didn’t want flowers at her feet or marigold garlands around her neck. She wanted a bed of jasmine and roses and she wanted to lay there with someone. That was the worship she wanted.


Then she giggled and said she wouldn’t mind her toes being sucked. She had heard it was a new age sexy thing. Better than worshippers falling at her feet.


I was running late so she told me that maybe some other day she could tell the world about the fantasies in her head. Till then I could tell the world that she was an imperfect goddess.


(goddess name withheld on request)


About the author:

Tanzila is this amazing person i know from Twitter. We share a lot more than our ideologies when we talk. Not only is she an amazing poetess and writer, she has the best food sense!

You’ll fall in love with her works. Go read ’em here.


Guest Post: Mohita Raghav.

December 18, 2013 § 3 Comments

Etched in Aeons

In life, we always find that one person; who makes that moment of discovery seem like
a dream. They are like the surreal aspect of our forbidden dreams come to life. The
moment they enter our realm, they spread their surreality into every aspect of our

We have seen them. We have known them from eons; from the beginning of time. We
have touched them with our dream fingers. We have laid bare our souls to them already;
in an inexplicable realm of which we were the masters. We created them for ourselves in
moments, wherein we thought that we were destined to die alone. We invoked them in
rituals of our carnal fantasies. We have already slept a hundred nights in their arms and
have woken up on their spectral kisses. We have spent a million tender and vulnerable
moments with them already.

It has become hard to pinpoint that dividing line between them and reality. It has
become hard to tell whether we created them in a magical bout of imagination or they
came as an idea destined to strike us. It is nearly impossible to delineate whether we
morphed them according to our whims or we metamorphosed according to them; to
become their’s.

Lines smudged a long time back.

We committed ourselves to the fantasy and damned ourselves to a long phase of
hermit-like searching until we realized the futility of it all. We, then, pulled ourselves
together and consoled ourselves that such people only existed in fantasies…
Until they walk into our real lives; in flesh and blood, better than we sculpted them in

What, then, can be done?

I could not decide. I was transfixed, looking at him with a mindfloating upon
numbness like a water-baby.

He was sitting alone on a table; with a half-finished sandwich, coffee mug and an
open pocket-diary. He was bent over his laptop, his long fingers flying over the

I stood upon the threshold of disbelief and panic. Already vulnerable to him.
Defenceless. Thrilled and flabbergasted altogether. I wanted to run away. I wanted
to run to him. I wanted to brand him with a kiss. I wanted to hide. In a bout of
seemingly sane self-defense, I even wanted to kill him.

It was at this moment when, prompted by something palpable but unseen, he raised
his eyes to look at me. And smiled a knowing smile. As if he had been waiting too. As
if he knew we will meet.

It was at this moment that all avenues of escape closed faster than they’d

And I was lost.

About the Author:

Mohita is a wonderful person I know from Twitter. She writes stuff that you ave to read more than once, so you can grasp it. So you can absorb it.

Read her blog here. I insist.


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.

On prose.

May 15, 2013 § 10 Comments

Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.

When a surging wave of inexplicable words takes over you.
When you are ready to look yourself in the eye without revealing yourself to the seer.
When you wish to drown in your thoughts and accept them, for once.
When you open your heart out to the reader and yet not let him read you.
When you cannot contain the depth of your depths.
When her golden brown hair leave a trail of desire on your bare chest.
When the ink from the pen spills even when you’re not writing.
When his naked skin touches your naked skin and sends shivers down your spine.
When the infinity of the sky is as meager as the abyss within which you dwell.
When the mere thought of him makes you soar.
When the wetness of words combined with your erect emotions makes you cum.

Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.

For Abhishek.

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