Decembers past
Thick gullets of fog gurgling down at my palm as i stand at the entrance of my paternal house. Me smoking invisible cigarettes, and feigning ignorance as...
amputate my heartness again...
a soft whimper, a treble meander, in case the earlier letter didnt go through... with a new song (of course) as an apology (or a reason) if you've received...
amputate my heartness
in between jobs in a tenderly sewn place to be, tethered with hope, amusements nestled inside you. that withering, nervous energy at the back of your tongue...
verbage
1.“There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immoble....
dil se ...
Since we’re all celebrating #DilSe and the songs have never really left me, here’s a small nostalgic semi-novelette on my memories related to the songs. I...
french, fingerchips and fishermen
Typing out a blogpost from my cranky two year old phone. A first blog directly from the phone where the text disappears beyond the ambit of the screen’s...
crickets
Poona memoriesJuly 2016, I was brimming with words, in my shared flat where I had a room with a balcony and a study. One of the most memorable cities I have...
#scurf50: a day
a couple walk, their fourth floor one room set locked behind them. the labourer building the small bridge to cover the naala and to seal the gap between...
where is the house
How do you feel about moving? Is there something stirring within when you see all those packed suitcases? One segment ended, another beginning, and you are...
love to eat or eat to love
falling in love over foodthey used to sayi used to snigger under my breathfood? dal chawal and aam ka achaar,that's the kind of food you fall in love...
the rainfall of my discontent [sic]
the politics of rain—falling in long straight, noiseless, zero fucks given pointed potshots. folded, crease-free mannerisms, almost like flying truisms in...
mustard oil musings ...
the book i am reading these days successfully achieved what every book in a north-Indian's bag secretly aspires to gain access to: a mustard oil stain....
Noorie
on page one-knot-seven of the Muji notebook i was gifted years ago i listen to the 2002 Bally Sagoo remix Noorie. Like a magic potion, the song balms the...
food, nostalgia, and longing
Kay shared a PDF with me, and extracts from it too… “A writer is forever trying to get his reader to taste. Taste my world, he says, smell it, ingest it. A...
malgudi days
she sat watching a film on tele, whose protagonist was a human of around the same age as her, a peer perhaps. the protagonist's mother, like her own mother....
from the parchment of rains...
I heard it rained in Mumbai last night.. write to me about the monsoons? I want to read your words slowly to absolve myself of the pain of the arid...
patrick melrose
People have their own poisons Melrose or Udaan, you choose? before you make a judgement, not all tormentors die or leave you so easily everyone is a culprit...
old city, new metro
There was a dust storm outside office and I was bang in the middle of it.. carrying a pile of books from office.. and a kilogram of litchis.. But the...
The Martyoshka that got away
A matryoshka doll left us today. No, she didn't die, neither did she just throw a tantrum, fight with her other four friends, stomp her foot on the ledge of...
//summer sun//litchis
One of my earliest memories of eating litchis is inside our first car. Bought literally at the turn of the millennium, a second-hand off-white zen that papa...
