Untangle your jumbled thoughts on paper. 

As often as i think of coming up with a new blog i find myself sitting idle with my mouth wide open wondering how do i even write, what do i write, how do i even start, what if it seems bizzare,  what if it turns out to be a laughing stock and so on. So there is always this one thought which is so distressing, the thought so tormenting. Its funny how we have an irrational and unproductive obsession with what other people think of us. I quite often find comparing myself or my work with that of others and that actually makes me feel defeated and deficient. Too bad it gives you the feeling of inferiority complex. But the thing is we gotta accept the fact that there will always be someone who is undeniably good at something or much more amazingly better than us. It is inevitable. Humans are extraordinarily skilled and possess a vast array of potency. So what I truly feel is that to cultivate confidence in ourselves or in our work is to stop worrying about meeting the standards that we have created for ourselves. And then there is this saying “Comparison is the thief of joy” which sums up the whole thing. Indeed, comparison snatches away our share of happiness and thrills. 

Lets take every tip with a grain of salt because Writing, Poetry and Literature- everything is art. Is there any scientific formula to write a poetry? Nay! It is all about our feelings and emotions pouring it all out into a piece of paper. It is all our very own. So guys, lets not give up, lets keep pouring our heart out,  lets keep writing and put our work out there even if we are unsure and skeptical about it because it is beautiful. Your words might mesmerize and lift someone, they may somehow make someone’s soul stronger, who knows. Your words are important and needed,  and oh so valuable. Lets keep writing  our untold stories because the world is so much more beautiful with another writer to preserve her wonder. 

Shout out to all the amazing writers out there and specially to the novice ones including me. You re an artist with your own way of writing and imagination. Someone out there needs your story. You deserve to be reminded how beautifully you write and let the story that dwells within you breathe. I just know you will make it out of here. There will be a day i believe where i ll be stumbling  into the library and see your name printed on the cover of a new addition and i will break down in tears like a little bitch. So lets write even if no one bothers to read,  write for yourself and not for others because it is a form of healing for you before it was ever entertainment for anyone else.  

“A professional writer was an amateur who didn’t quit”- Richard Bach. 


A match made on a train. 

It was a chilly January night.The sound of drizzling rain, the sound so profound, kissing my eardrums and sending shivers up my spine. I sticked my head out of the train window to feel the drops. 

My feeble eyes encountered a lass spruced up in a white kurti and a faded blue jeans, untangling her curly and bushy hair. Her hazel eyes were too deep to not get drowned in,  there was something about them that sucked me in, so mystifying , the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks and ofcourse the little blush that i could capture was a dead give-away. I stretched my neck a little longer to get a glimpse of her face but something hindered my vision. 

But the girl my eyes were looking for luckily got on the same compartment and sat right beside me,  half drenched. She then started brushing her hair with her fingers, drops of rain still sprinkled as she stood to put her luggage on a storage. Her eyes caught me staring at her. She must have cursed me for this and was somewhat terrified as there was no one in the cabin except we two. 

I was too numb and dumbstruck to even start a conversation so i just blurted out, “Hi”. 

My heart rate decelerated to a comatose level. She didn’t utter a word,  but Oh!  She smiled. Her smile could literally melt an iceberg. My body ached at the thought of never seeing her again but i had already waged a war with destiny to make her mine. 

“So thats how we started as a stranger dear and 50 years now she is still beautiful,  still so vibrant smiling as i saw her in white kurti for the very first time” to my 16 years old grand daughter as i left a bunch of roses on her grave.

“Grandpa, i got my smile from my beautiful grandmom eh? ”


The heart that has truly loved never forgets.


A Billet To My Super-Hero.

Dear Dad,

I have grown a beautiful lassie of 21 years old. Its been 18 long doleful years since you had embarked on a reckless vacation towards the abode of God. Life simply is not a bed of roses and without you in it is more like living in a lopsided hut waiting to be tossed aside by the whirlwind. But I am breathing Dad, I am breathing though not the air of elation, I am breathing.

“DAD”- The only word that twinges me wholly and profoundly, the only word that I have always pined to cry out for. Dad, do you remember when you gave me a last piggyback ride, the last time when you held me high in the heavenly breeze? Do you know when the world gets real quiet I lay shattered and deserted, a little alive with paralysed memories refusing to rise? But Dad, I learnt to be hard as nails and rugged enough to cope with the maddening multitude.

Life would amply be extraordinary if you were here Dad. I wouldn’t have to cultivate the fear of those prying eyes that could sabotage me at their convenience. There is a storm inside me that can never be lulled. There is no denying the fact that people eventually meet their doom sooner or later but you did a little too soon. Your little one had only learnt to pace. But I hold no grudges against you for I know you dwell within me, your presence is always felt in the air I breathe, shielding me from the grotty sophisticated world.

You continue to awaken me in the morning’s hush as swift , uplifting surge of thrushes fly. Be with me in each dawn.

PS: Missing your father is expected and expressing the pain is therapeutic.