Friday, January 9, 2015


I'm Indian, dude. There's straight up only one thing I can be in life: Wife.
- IISuperwomanII (youtuber and goddess of cool )

Here's the deal; I like playing big sister. If criminals can play at running India as politicians, I can definitely play big sister- I am the eldest and hence highly qualified for the part.

I'm also the kind that wants to imbue the younglings with my feminist ideals. Even the boys. Of course, you can have penises and still be feminists. Get out from under the right-wing rock you've been living under.

Considering my sibling domination dreams, when I found out lil sis' appreciation for the BBC series Sherlock (OhMG Sherlock- mwaaaahhhh, I wanna die. He's zzzoooooo cuuuuuuuuteee), I was over the moon.

Together we were moping about how we'd have to wait for 2016  (excluding the 2015 Christmas special) for season 4 to air and get our fill of not-cumbersome-at-all-on-our eyes Cumberbatch at his socially awkward genius best.

That's when my 16-year old diva sprung what she believes and expects to be, a life fact on me.

"Well, I'll have less competition vis a vis Cumbercutiepiebatch."
Innocent, idealistic doofus (Me): How?
"You'll be nearing 25 and hence married fo' shizzle by then. Elementary, duh. "

I was hoping for "you'll be working for a respectable, longstanding publication abroad, traipsing around the world and being too famous and successful to bother with Cumberhottiebatch of 2016.".

But never mind, she'll watch and learn that that's how it's going to be and it's an option for her too, because in Sherlock's words: "there is nothing like first-hand evidence

Sunday, December 29, 2013


A.S.- This is being written at work.Oh, for the uninformed- yes, I've entered the working world. But I’ve been slogging my arse off for two months without pay or necessary appreciation, so god help me, but a redirection of my creative energies to my own pursuits is deserved by this publication. I could do worse in retaliation but I’m not.

Have you ever had that feeling? The one where you’re really, really hungry because you’re supposed to be fed by someone who isn’t doing it but is very inconsiderately carrying food to others behind you (because you’re sitting with your back facing them) and your stomach’s growling. Growling because the smells wafting around, yummy food smells has triggered the hunger centers in your brain which have in turn activated the acid refluxes of your stomach? Because at this point your stomach is co-relating the smell to expecting a sizeable amount of food to reach it via your gullet. But it isn’t getting any (pun unintended) so the corrosive acids eat away at the tender cell lining of your stomach and you feel like, well, shite. That’s irony at its best. Excretion without any ingestion.
By this point of the post if you haven’t realized that I was biology whizz at school then honey, you need to stop reading. RIGHT NOW. There's not even a sliver of a chance that you’re not going to understand any of the below jokes then.

Now I haven’t reached that pathetic plummeting level of food craze yet. I will soon, if I keep following in the footsteps of Liz(goddess) Lemon of 30 Rock. All that graphic food description was an analogy. Now depending on what kind of a reader you are, the kind of ironic dry humour you prefer and whether you have the patience at this particular moment of your reading (you could be wrestling cerelac into a 2 year old toddler’s mouth for all I know) you’re either pissed, or your nodding your head in complete agreement going ‘like yes man, we’ve totally been there , we totes get you amazeballs, whatevs.’

Without beating around the bush anymore what I’m talking about is money. So you now replace food with money, eating with paying /being paid (like editors say, use your discretion or like I would say common sense) and just retain the feeling shite part. Apparently, money retains that quality of grub even if it isn’t edible.

Now after you’ve done substituting and your brains overworked from zillions of angry bird/ temple run games and reality television shows (I know what you do every evening because I do it too) has processed the final outcome and if you still feel ‘like yes man, we’ve totally been there , we totes get you amazeballs, whatevs’ then go ahead, nod that head, feel my pain and join me in cursing the revival of colonialism.

That’s a whole nother post.


Tuesday, June 18, 2013


Twisted words, simple meanings overlap.
As tiredness laps up dreams.
Lugubrious, weighing down, inexplicable
Burning eyes;
Red rimmed, hot, shut up against all tangible reason.

Against reality
Of you, that is not to be.
Blankets drawn to the chin-
Blanketing out sound, sight and smell.
Except those that breed under the
Inky shroud
Of sleep.

Twisted memories,simple meanings,
As slumber inches its way in, lapping
everything in its wake.
Awake? Not yet.
Asleep? Not yet.

Monday, December 31, 2012

All’s Well That Ends Well

There is a war in Syria, Congo, problems in Iran and Spain and between China and Japan, the Middle East is messier than a plate of food in a one-year old’s hand and the European Union has become the butt of a lot of new jokes.

Meanwhile there are terms like ‘cuts’, ‘silhouettes’; materials like brocade, felt and trends like the peplum and spikes and studs when you write about fashion. They do matter and make a difference. Duhh.

Incidents world over have proved that having a pair of ovaries and mammary glands each aren’t your best assets. The Anglican Church doesn’t want Bishops with them and drunk, sleazy vagabonds in India apparently aren’t getting enough of them.

There isn’t a lot of difference between Indian and British politics. The colonial connection is as clear as day. It’s crazy.

In other news it remains to be seen if it’s Kim Kardashian or Kate Middleton who’ll have the glitziest, most media hyped delivery.

The world hasn’t ended. Ha! In your face, Mayans. But for a few millions of Indians the world has come crashing down- God has stepped down from One day Internationals. I’m on the lookout for a new religion. Ideas, folks?

To have or not to have? The debate on guns is as enlightening as the chicken and egg conundrum. In Manchester two cops died for lack of them and in the U.S innocent children and temple goers died because some random psycho did.

Journalism is on the cusp of change. Or so they say. BBC/Jimmy Saville scandal, The Leveson Inquiry report etc etc etc. As long as I get a job…

On the personal front,
In London, Autumn isn’t a riot of colours, and winters aren’t COLD. I’m too scared to hope about spring. It rains here and that’s wonderful because it’s clean. And I have constant access to hot chocolate.

Ballet is… an experience. I highly recommend it. As is living on your own.

Writing about things because you HAVE to, is an exercise in procrastination and performing under pressure. There are ways to make it rewarding too. I still need to hunt for a few apart from positive feedback and comments from professors.

Once a literature student, always a literature student.

Writing. Snorts, sniggers. Just one word- blog archives.

Oh yeah, the Bombayite (yes, I like calling it Bombay, sue me) is now on her way to becoming a Londoner and a journalist.  It’s not always easy; it’s mostly fun, and yayiee? This still has to sink in.

Dear 2013, please replicate the pleasant surprises of 2012, let news writing involve more happy things and less of war, deaths, rapes, murders, scams and quoting The 88 “give me some more time in a dream, give me the hope to run out of steam”.

Here’s to the beginning of another 12 years before we’re flooded with a new swarm of apocalyptic scares and funny/stupid/catchy adverts like this one. 


PS: Happy New Year :D

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Up above the world so high

To and fro. To and fro.

The never ending, velvety blanket of inky black stretching above. The same blue-black around, beside and behind.

The wind atop a mountain at night.... Ever heard it? An invisible, ginormous millstone at work- that’s what it sounds like.  No breezes and zephyrs here. Just the wind, and laughter.
Hearing nothing, but the whoosh of the wind rushing into your ears; past you ; after you ; with you - a whispering, stalking presence.  

And the scale of the rocks: immense, towering, two hundred times your girth and three hundred times your height. Big, so big that everyone feels little. The mammoth summit looking down in disdain at the diminutive person’s antics; at it sparring with the wind; at.... the wind.
You can almost hear it grumble affectionately at the wind. The wind with all its wily ways.


I see a carpet of fairy lights spread out beneath me, whirlwind in my tummy.

The impenetrable cloak of the firmament.

The wind is a live wire let loose: rattling, isolating, accommodating and dictating. No wonder the mountain’s fond of it.  Thank God for huge metal clamps that hold on with a tenacity equal to the gusty element’s.
The eye of my heart is stretched out below, glimmering; twinkling; pulsating with light, the grey asphalt arteries calm and quiet. Now, a womb to the sleeping alive who are dead asleep.

How  h                    can I go?
                                                   A spinning top in my stomach.

Everything is slave to the wind. Even the formidable mountain, whose winding paths are full of curvy secrets and secret hairpin curves.
Seduced by its murmurs moving in sway to its rhythm I see with my watery eyes

Blue lights
                       Yellow lights
White lights
                        Red lights.

Will my hair touch the ground if I bend backwards and my feet the sky?
Now, I’m moving parallel to a silken black shroud.  Albeit, one covering the alive.

Unlike my heart’s eye, nothing’s verdant here. Every available bit of moisture, every bit of life is drawn out to fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind......
Sparse spindly vegetation sporadically adorning the bare rocks exposed to the wicked wind.  Oh, how keenly they must feel it slicing at them relentlessly; their varied contours and forms evidence of its artful cruelty.

That one looks like a crocodile.
                                                      That one there, a lot like a human face.

I smile, wincing as my chapped lips stretch. I feel it keenly too. Its icy cold touch as it loops, whirls, dips and twirls around us. fuel the invisible furnaces of the wind and to infuse my hair with existence.  My medusa’s locks, newfound companions to the wind, together they defy gravity, each personifying the other.
Churning, spinning, heaving, flitting......

With a vitality of its own.
The wind pushing us: the swing and me

Whirling in my tummy,  so I screw my eyes shut and squeal with glee.  Can’t see anything except the patina of warm yellow.
Now I only hear. And feel

Toes scraping the ground.
Laughter in the background-maybe, there’s an age limit to do this.

Twisting the chains to spin faster than the wind. Perhaps, I've spun back in time. Maybe the velocious, hypersonic wind  and isolated mountains create an insular realm impervious to time.
Perhaps, I’m just giddy. Giddy but happy.  


Creaking chains.
 I’m flying. I am the wind-powerful, frisky and bursting with energy. Also, closer to heavenly territories.  If I jump off before the swing stops will I land there?

Legs pumping the air, kicking the wind out of it, and laughing; because I have been right from the start.


Up above the world so high

Diamonds at my feet. Not in the sky.

On the mountain tops,
Swinging it in style.


Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Exam Time Musings

Every time I appear for an exam I’m always appalled by how much information the human brain manages to cram and retain.

That’s something worth mentioning because I’ve been studying for the last 17 years and with an average of 4 exams, give and take, in an academic year I must have attempted at least 68 of them. Not to mention the competitive exams which don’t come under the ambit of the above mentioned school and college exams. So with a minimum of 100 exams and a maximum of many more, that’s quite a lot of torture I’ve undergone.

Every year, my brain compresses humungous text books, reams of Xeroxed sheets, material from millions of websites, piles of notebooks painstakingly filled with handwritten notes and snatches of my lecturers’ explanations in class. I’m sure that in the course of my primary and secondary education I must have easily read at least 1000 books from page to page.

I’m in awe of my temporal lobe. Under the stressful conditions of an exam hall it has the ability to retrieve information word to word, random lines that have been branded into my frontal lobe with just one reading -O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo”. With the next question it’s geared up and visualizes the page long answer on Dryden’s life history and zooms in on the particular line on the left side in the 3rd or 4th paragraph highlighting the names of the poems  “Annus Mirabilis”, “The Hind and the Panther”, “Absalom and Achitophel”. Points about Baudrillard’s theory of simulacrum and hyperreality flow from the temporal lobe through the millions of motor neurons, with their many neurotransmitters and electrical  and chemical impulses directing my finger muscles to clutch the pen as if my very life depended on its functioning and scratch away on sheets of paper trying to fill in as many lines as possible. This is as much of 10th grade biology that my hippocampus has decided is important enough to remember. And the fact that all this scientific jazz happens within seconds, that too, with the fluidity of an orchestra practising a symphony for the nth time stuns me.

Not during the exam, of course, as that would mean going blank and freezing midway through the paper, unable to right a single alphabet, let alone a word. Somehow whenever I see numbers or anything remotely mathematical on a question paper the neurons decide to stay what in scientific lingo is known as the “resting state”. There is, I think, an automatic sublimation of all the neurochemicals from my nervous system and my body enters a state of partial paralysis.

Thank God, the Universities and the many jobless souls who run them for language based subjects like literature for people like me who have a right hemisphere that is more evolved and developed that the left one. Also, I happened to find out the reason for my under developed left brain and the subsequent mathlexia today. My mom very gingerly revealed my having rolled off the bed and crashed headfirst on to the floor when I was 6 months old. She describes it as having sounded like “the cracking of a coconut”. Sigh... Like my Prof. says, all parents have their deep, dark secrets about having dropped us on our heads someplace, sometime. 

Until the next set of exams I’ll go back to taking my brain and nervous system for granted.


Friday, January 20, 2012

Starting Over

If you thought I gave up writing and blogging altogether, I'm glad to announce that you're wrong :D.

I just had some pressing matters to deal with before they'd press me into a quicksand of problems.

If anyone likes this or is intrigued enough by it, please suggest a better name/title. Lets see if an entire year of doing poetry has rubbed off  or should be rubbed off :P

Starting Over

Sometimes she finds it very difficult to write.
When she puts pen to paper,
Thoughts fracture into vapour
Gliding past her, away from her,

Floating above:  clouds that seem
Touchable if only you could tiptoe a little higher.
Like the memory of something, a taste 
devoid of a name to chew on; eyes that gleam
Open into frozen, depthless hollows.

They stand impassive: a twin watching the other.
Not to assist but to scoff, “You think we are
Worth a fraction of eternity, of someone’s precious
 Moment in time?  Relics that gather
Human ken amassed over a million years,

In a concentrated heartbeat?”  She mutters
“Maybe....” and it dies in their face of incredulity.
Resonance of trepidation in her voice, she flutters
Between a yes and a no. “Why not?” with renewed
courage she enquires. They announce

“Look at our construct. Tasteful phrases, sophistication
Of design, erudite allusions: are these the terms you would
Outfit us in?” “Perhaps....” “And yet, uncertainty
Colours your utterances.”, cutting off her contention
Into shards of probing silence.

“I trust in your merit above mine. I do”. They contort
Into a leer. “We are a likeness, a shade, a shadow,
A silhouette without essence, reflecting you. Only as 
Credible, as you are. You us I me they we, better not
To be. No questioning our ineffectuality."

Came the rejoinder echoing, debilitating the hope that
Nourished her dreams.  Empty, unending, vacuous, void. Until,
She traced her course back to the beginning-parchments
From the past inked with wit, crossed anew with faith  ,
And smudged with feeling, pregnant with possibilities,

Giving birth to a chuckle, the ghost of a smile
Somewhere. “Beauty is as beauty does, and you are stirred
Up from tranquil passion, making you me us
Shoring these fragments of hope against her ruins, she sighs and starts again.