Angel’s Gone

Seven feet under water
Drowning, the memory of swimming lost.
The sensation of death is calm,
But the joy of living… Ah! What Joy!
Angels exist, albeit as humans
And we humans do err.
Angel of Mercy, how did you pick me?

What are we but stories of our past?
Similar links, telepathic thoughts.
Add! The list of warm smiles.
Endless lines drawn together,
Drafting castles in the air.
Sunset admirers,
Unintentional sunrise viewers.
Midnight philosophers, beliefs taught, fought and shared.
Ah! The times spent dreaming together.
Who cared for forever, when a moment of infinity seemed to suffice?

But lines were drawn; altered course. Erased, elongated and ended.

Demons are humans too.
They feed off you.
Ah! Colloquially; Dementor style!
No! Demons and Angels are not celestials, they are humans all the same.

You Coward! Choices are chosen, circumstances put forward.
Life is your right. When will you realise?

When the life-giver loses hold of Life.
The visage of drowning.
Déjà vu.

Our Dreams are lines too.
They move forward and extend, no matter what.
Some day. Some where. Some how.
With Gatsby’s hope.

The laughter shared, haunting now.
Like the lament of a lover lost,
A friend abandoned,
My Angel’s gone!

The Best Thing.

What is the best thing a friend has ever done for you?


She stood by me.

I had recently shifted. The colony where I shifted was built two years ago, so most of the people already knew each other well and had their own gangs. I went down to play after a week, armed with an Indian-rubber ball; hoping to make a friend. (I surely wasn’t the courageous sort, back then.)

The colony was huge, so it had its own sub-station. A toddlers’ park was opposite the sub-station. I started playing; bouncing the ball of a wall nearby. A gang of girls where playing hiding and seek. The seeker started to count from somewhere and one of the girls hid in the toddlers’ park. The seeker finished counting and searched near the sub-station. She walked up to me and asked if I had seen anyone from here gang around. I asked her back, ‘Isn’t the seeker supposed to find others, on her own?’ She made a face and walked away.

I lost hope of me befriending someone and started walking home. I almost reached my building’s entrance when someone called out. It was the girl from the park.



‘What did that girl ask you?’

‘She asked if I saw any of y’ll.’

‘What did you say?  Because she caught me right after that.’

‘I told her I thought ‘the seeker was supposed to find those hidden on their own.’

She laughed and said, ‘Nice! I’m Soumya by the way. You are?’


‘Want to play?’


‘Come with me.’

She asked me a lot more questions and by the time we reached her gang we realized I lived one floor below her and we both spoke in Tamil at home.

We went where her gang was waiting. Three of them were my age and another was a year younger. Soumya was the eldest, a year older than me. She introduced me to them.

‘This is Nancy. She’s of your age and pointed to three of her gang. She’ll also play with us now .’ She said smiling. ‘Who’s turn is it, to be the seeker?’

‘I’m not playing with her’, said the girl-who-made-a-face.

‘Why ? Because she didn’t help you cheat?’ Soumya asked her right back.

‘She’s not like us! Just look at her!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She is probably not a South Indian!’

‘She’s Tamil, by the way and why does that matter?  What is your problem, really ?’ She asked her again.

‘She’s black!’

I ran; the fastest I remember. Not because I knew what being black meant, but because they were fighting. As far as my experience went, back then; I always got yelled after a fight.

It was dark when I came out of my hiding place. I walked to my building without seeing any of them. But Soumya was standing in the lobby.



‘Where were you?  Sorry about that. She really stupid. I called her dumb.’


‘She likes being called intelligent and smart. Being called dumb, is actually an insult to her.’

I started laughing.

Listen, you are much better than them. Much better than what they ever will be.

Still want to play?  We could play in my house.’

‘Yes.’ I replied, struck by her words.

I was the least helpful person at home because I was the youngest. So whenever I couldn’t understand or help out without something; Mom and my brother used to say, ‘You are not even worth five paise.’

I didn’t like being told that. I felt worthless and guilty whenever they said that. I felt that I was a bad person. For a five year old, that is pretty bad.

And here was a person who told me, I’m good. ‘I am a good person.’ The thought itself made me happy.

Years later I understood, what actually happened that day. She stood up for me. She decided to stand by me. I think, that’s the best thing a person can do for you.

‘There are no victories, there are only battles and the best you can  hope for is to find some place where you can make your stand. If you are lucky, you will find someone, to stand with you.‘ (Castle)

You know what ‘Always’ is? This.

This  happened a couple of days ago, but I really want to share it.

I plan to do architecture but, I’ve got counseling rounds and stuff and the process will take about two months from now; so dad suggested I take up literature or something like that. So I applied for F.Y.B.A. in English Literature and I got in. Dad called to ask what happened cause I messed the submissions for it. The following conversation happened.

Dad: How did it go?

Me: Pretty good, actually. They didn’t bother much with the forms. Since I wanted literature, I had to give in a write-up. She did say it was well written.

Dad: What was you topic?

Me: ‘Favourite author and why?’

Dad: What did you write?

Me: About J.K. Rowling…

Dad: No wonder.

    All my Dad knows is that J.K. Rowling is author of Harry Potter series. Nothing else; like really. Harry potter is always there, if it is writing, fantasizing about Hogwarts or making new friends. It will always be there; like this instance, like dad knew enough to respect Rowling’s work. I make Harry Potter references all the time, this is the one time a person has looked past it being a book. 

( Yes, this my favourite conversation with dad.)

To the City.


I took a train to the City, from the suburbs;

on coaches that traveled by rail,

half-filled by humans and a quarter by baggage,

I witnessed the early morning scuffle of baggage and women, pushed and pulled;

as the train moved on,

away from green and peace, into chaos and money.

I heard the rhythmic swaying of trains, machinery and chains, all quiet and loud.

I glanced across the coach and I saw two wayfarers;

one chanting mantras, another trying to exist in virtual space.

Happiness and sadness reflecting in their eyes;

then a moment of grasping arose.

I saw Death claim a soul, as the eyes of its victim stopped glistening;

even the ever on schedule train stopped; if only for moment.

For it was a city that never stopped, the train moved on, 

as the nameless lay in a stretcher, in a named station;

looking more frail and old than ever.

Rest of the souls in the coach went back to their living, praying and thanking for survival.

A few tried to determine the identity of soul, lost in the million- million names of the City.

They began to discuss a City that once existed; fondly called the good bay.

The time everyone knew what you did by your name,

when people stopped and looked at the sea’s beauty,

when money was a mere piece of paper.

New friends were made and old ones rejuvenated.

One gladly said she was happy;

to know her friends as she headed off for a war.

‘What war?’ I asked, and they replied.

‘The war within the City.

The war to survive, you see?

This City doesn’t let you succeed easily; nor does it kill you.

It lets you survive. ‘Barely survive…’ said another.

The City is its people and the people the City.

The people are strong, resilient and determined such like the City’s isles.’

‘Just surviving through the ages,’ one ended this; as the next station was announced.

The people readied themselves for a battle;

a smile and a few yells greeted me as I squeezed through the crowd, to the front.

As the train pulled to stop, I landed on the platform, thankfully; from an anonymous push.

I joined the hundreds that climbed the bridge and had a bone-crushing exercise to move forward.

Rushed out of the platform, I reached the City as images from my memory flooded my sight.

I walked slowly, devouring the sights of familiar childhood and wished;

‘If only this City was made for walking!’

Slowly and then at once, a new smell arose, different from the a smell of train and filth;

as if it was conjured.

The smell of sand and sea;

while the mind wondered ‘how far can the smell of books and money be?’

I searched for my destination, old and short among-st the tallest; reminiscent of the old colonies.

I watched the sea from my destination, a proof of survival.

Slowly, she seemed to say.

“Oh, you love the City!

And you will,

 love the City.”


      So, WordPress sent me a notification saying I’ve finished one year of blogging with them. In this one year I’ve written five stories and a poem. Not much blogging, I know. But I’ve come up with a resolution though. At-least one story or poem a month.

       I’ll start college this year and I’m scared. I have a hard time expressing myself. Written expression suits me just fine. I started this blog after watching a movie. Yeah, my life is that bizarre. The movie was ‘The Art of Getting By.’ It is one movie that, precisely describes me. I was like George. More of a loner. Struggling with stuff. Then the question stuck with me. What do I want to say? I would be lying if I said, I don’t want to leave a mark on this world. One of my fears is that, there will be no proof of my existence. People do say ‘Count your blessings’ but I’m definitely not that kind. I can not be happy about someone who isn’t as ‘blessed’ as me. I want better. I strive for the best to come. I want to achieve, but not by changing myself. I want to be just as I am. I’m scared like Peeta was. ” I just don’t want them change me.Turn me into something I’m not.”

      So here’s to people like me. Under the cupboards, introverts, scared, emotional, weirdos and the other million names we have; and most importantly, here’s to new posts!

      Cheers! May the Odds be Ever in your Favor. Always.



In life you meet three kind of people.

The Eternals. The Moments. The Memories.

The Eternals are the ones who remain.

The Moments are the ones who leave.

The Memories are the ones who are trapped in you.

The Eternals are the great experiences of humanity.

They are the same as you. Or different.

They soothe you. Or challenge you.

They can kill all your hopes.

They can conjure the most sweetest of utopia.

They can never be yours but forever yours.

You will have no claim on them.

But you will always have a duty to them.

The Moments are the ones who don’t last.

But in that one moment, they’re beautiful.

They’re scary like the first drop of the roller coaster.

They’re exhilarating like the slow climbing crawl of it.

You know it will neither last nor mean much.

But in this one moment, this is perfect. And…

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