(i) I don’t think I saved enough metaphors for you today.

(ii) I’ve been in the hills since the past four days, there is so much music that I wish I could be but on most days, I am the song that the happy couple plays on repeat, driving away from the sunset on the highways. They have too many sunsets left to drive away from.

(iii) I’ve been meaning to write the longest letter to the Municipal Corporation of Shimla. Winter evenings tend to get lonelier in the mountains.

(iv) Three days ago, I gave my aunt my favourite book in the whole wide world, hoping she’d know that she is all the metaphors that I underlined for her.

(v) Music in the hills sounds a lot different than music anywhere else. I wish I could show you that that is how I feel about you, on most days.

(vi) I wish I weren’t as scared as I am on most days.

(vii) There aren’t enough letters that I could write to you to tell you how I feel about you on Thursday evenings when the sun sets.

(viii) I’ve been watching an average of seventeen sunsets per day, I do not know how many I have left. Sometimes, I wish I could be them and drive away from them, at the same time.

(ix) I feel like I’ve spent my entire life packing, scattering and collecting myself in both baggage and memory. There is too much that I carry around, hoping that the next time I stop, it would be it.

(x) It feels good to be home.

//of baggage claim and municipal corporations

to the girl who lives on the second floor
with seventeen potted plants in her balcony,
I hope you’re doing okay. 
I know you aren’t though,
I see your plants dying.

The sunflowers don’t get
enough sunshine anymore,
you keep them on your bedside table,
and forget to draw the curtains.

You haven’t watered your lilies
in the past six weeks,
and the roses don’t get enough space
to breathe.

I’m sorry your orchids are dead,
though I don’t understand why
you still continue to water them
day after day every single day.

the other day,
you told me that you lived through your plants,
that when you were 7 and they asked you to draw a scenery,
you did not paint mountains and sunshine
and lakes and flowers like the others did,
you painted a desert instead,
layers and layers and layers of sand,
and nothing but a sun that refused to shine,
because that’s what the inside of your house looked like,
on most days,
raw, honest, and empty.

I’m sorry you thought your house wasn’t poetry enough,
that when your grandmother passed away,
you parents started sleeping in different rooms,
the beds grew further apart,
the bed sheets weren’t changed as often,
and the two violet flower vases in the centre of your house,
remained empty for three whole years.

dinner table chatter was replaced with BBC muted on the TV,
breakfast table felt a lot like too many empty chairs,
and not enough plates to fill the emptiness with.

the sofa, once warm with all your Saturday night memories,
remained undusted for a year,
comedy night specials and Indian Idol repeats were replaced with
unending silences and unwritten poetry.

I’m sorry that when your friends went bowling and ice skating,
you stayed behind to give company to all the furniture in your house,
that fell so vast that you thought it would swallow you whole.

When old men in identical black suits with a briefcase each,
rang your doorbell with mountains worth of sheets,
you couldn’t decide in whose room you should go and hide inside,
so you decided to stay behind and stare at them tear your house away,
bit by bit in custody battles and fights for alimony,
you weren’t aware that it is under the jurisdiction of the law,
to decide in whose house you’d find home in.

I’m sorry that in all their battles for custody,
you parents lost the war.
casualties of war aren’t always things.

When you had to plant a seed for a school project,
you decided to grow a cactus in your room,
because that’s the only plant you thought would succeed.

I’m sorry that when you grew up,
your idea of self-care became potting plants in your balcony,
skipping meals to water the lilies,
writing letters to the sunflowers on their seeds,
avoiding people to have conversations with the roses,
and treating your orchids as your therapist. 

The letterbox outside your building is overflowing now,
I’m afraid that you haven’t paid your electricity bill in three weeks.
the sun doesn’t shine as bright on the second floor’s balcony,
and there isn’t enough rain to save your lilies.

I’m sorry your plants are dying.
The sunflowers don’t get
enough sunshine anymore,
You haven’t watered your lilies
in the past six weeks,
and the roses don’t get enough space to breathe.

I hope you’re doing okay.
I know you aren’t though.

two pairs of rain boots,
three bars of dark chocolate,
a dream-catcher,
a night lamp,
an umbrella,
granny’s homemade brownies,
two cups of flour,
no sugar,
a pinch of salt,
and a teaspoon of vanilla essence,
oh, add a pack of Kit Kat to the list.
three yellow roses,
two orchids,
make a bouquet out of it,
and a letter to granny,
a handmade note,.

I need some butter paper too,
and black felt tip pens,
cat food for Ginny,
the neighbours keep forgetting to feed her,
and more cereal,
fruit loops and plain butter O’s,
Choco loops for days on which it rains.
I need to buy a raincoat for whiskers,
he finds refuge under my car,
and there’s not enough space for two.
a spare tyre for my car,
and one for the cycle in the corner,

I need to start cycling again,
on highways and flyovers,
more tunnels and less streets.
Add a helmet to the list too,
and some knee pads,
two pairs actually.

Three boxes of tissue papers,
two for my sick friends
we definitely need more chocolate.

Can I order Ice Cream from amazon too?

Is that a fortune cookie jar?
I need 4 of those,
and I only want the good fortune ones!

Maybe I can get a camera too,
no wait that’s getting out of budget,
how about reel for my Polaroid

And a diary for the pictures?
23 days of January,
and my 17th diary,
of the year already.

I need crayons,
lots of crayons,
thirty two white crayons
and two sketchbooks,
one that I can keep under my pillow,
and the other that I can hide
under the seat of my car.

I need a new Frank Sinatra CD,
and a CD player too!

How about another Ipod from 2013,
and some change for my piggy bank,
maybe another piggy bank too!

I need new curtains,
there’s too much sunshine,
and they don’t let enough of it through.
And a DVD of Ellen’s latest stand up,

I need more laughter,
I could do with some Hanna Gadsby too!
maybe more poetry,
add a Murakami to the list.

hmm, the list still feels incomplete,
add more sunshine
and a little more laughter too,
so on days, my room feels a little too empty,
I can have my bucket list fill up the gaps through!


(i) I’ve been trying to write a letter to you since the past three months and there’s never been so much music and so much silence in the same seconds. 

(ii) I breathe you through my music and you live through my heartbeat. Kissing you feels like unwriting a song, the lyrics of which I‘ve forgotten. Kissing you is like drowning, though I know how to swim. I’ve always been afraid of the ocean, so I've pretended that I know how to swim, ever since I was seven. 

(iii) The constellations feel like chords to your favourite songs, and it’s getting louder out here. I wish I hadn’t broken the record player, that you got me for my last birthday. there are thirteen different CD’s that I know the tracks to, better than breathing, that refuse to burn. I burn your photographs and I forget how to breathe. So I got a tattoo in the shape of your heartbeat, it’s not all the same. 

(iv) as a kid, I used to count the number of yellow coloured buses on the roads and I always thought that this world did not have enough yellow coloured buses so I started sketching them and making music out of them. Twenty one different shades of yellow in three different sketchbooks, as I trapped as much sunshine as I could, in the pages of those books. The lighter yellow coloured buses were acoustic songs, whose lyrics I wrote at the back of your hands and the darker ones were symphonies that I could never really understand. Like you. 

(v) when my sketches did not feel like music enough, I started strumming on days it rained and it never rained enough for me to be louder than your laughter. And damn, did I want to drown your laughter in the beats of a song that I can never clearly remember! 

(vi) it’s 8:16 pm on a sunday and I have a list of words that I want to say to you. So I made a crossword out of them, and struck out all the letters that are in your name. I’ve made a map out of them now, that feels more lost that I ever could. 

(vii) I’ve made a habit out of collecting words and making poetry out of people. there are nine different grocery lists hidden in the drawers of my bedside table, that remind me how strange it feels to have everything I need and be exactly where I need to be, and still not belong.

(viii) I’ve been trying to write a letter to you since the past three months and there is so much that I could say to you and music that I could send. Yet, all I post are empty postcards with stamps and sometimes, I wonder, if that’s how it ends. 

//empty postcards and emptier crosswords 

Today completes 4 years of a home, 4 years of a little poetic blog! It’s been an absolutely beautiful journey, thank you for being a part of it and making it what it was! 

Hope you stay! 
//notes to 2019

(i) do not get killed. 
(ii) too much Chocolate makes you sick. 
(iii) do not go around telling everyone that you’re an RSS supporter. 
Someone might actually believe you.
(iv) stop making u-turns on third gear.
(v) you do not have to honk at every cow you see. they don’t know that it means that you think that they have too much privilege.
(vi) stop being so terrified of cats. they don’t bite unless they do.
(vii) Indian Idol will come back, you’ll get through.
(viii) you’re a vegetarian even if you eat eggs in desserts. Screw people who say otherwise!
(ix) save up for that typewriter, you can sell it in the 22nd century.
(x) hold on to old woollen sweaters, they’ll be warmer 30 years down the line.
(xi) take more pictures of things you love, even if it is Archana Puran Singh!
(xii) stop obsessing over your niece, you already know she will grow up to be you!
(xiii) kumar sanu is gold, paint his music on your walls.
(xiv) buy less diaries and write more.
(xv) no two years are the same, remember that! 


2018 in a picture.

I grew up a lot this year, in a lot of ways. I got my passport renewed, I learnt how to spell Kerala, and I started singing again, this time for myself. I stopped putting my life in a box, or at least trying to. I saw death, up and close. And I mourned, every single day. I still do. I saw death and I tried learning how to mourn. I’m still trying to. I learnt how to grieve and I grieved. I grieved so much that it doesn’t even hurt as much now.  I wrote, and I wrote so much that it almost hurt to. I cried a lot more and I learnt that it’s okay to.

I started sketching again. I sketched my metaphors and called them poetry. I made poetry out of people and called it love. I painted yellow buses and I realised that it wasn’t them that I was missing, but the lack of them.

I started learning how to forgive myself, for something I thought I’d never be able to. I wrote a letter with every bit of my heart and tore it into pieces, before throwing it away.

I made peace with my loss and learnt that it will haunt me, only if I keep the doors open. I shut more doors than ever, and watched a lot less sunsets. I started counting days and waiting for all of it to end.
I started to be more and learnt how to be okay with being more. I became too much and not enough, almost but not there.

And I’m here now. So I might stay, just a little longer.


//notes to 2018

day1: running away. 

There’s something beautiful about certainty, knowing where your next few steps will take you, knowing your way home and not messing up the directions every time you see a turn, knowing that the sunset will lead you back home, and that there is a forever, though just in books and stories, there still is one.

The past few years have been very uncertain, as if I’m running after a train that I was never supposed to even board. There are two exits in front of me and I keep walking away from them, looking for another one. Mostly, I think, it’s because I’m scared. to be honest, I know that I am, every single day, even more so during the winters when the tick-tock of the clock is so much louder yet you hear every single decibel of the silence call out your name, telling you that it’s not okay.

I’ve been looking at the clock an awful lot. They say time heals all wounds but every second of unhealed wounds makes them burn a lot harder. There are burns from memories I wish I could let go of. It’s been a tough year, and there are tougher times ahead.

I hope that you can stay strong and find a home for the darkest and the coldest of this winter.  

and the lack of it.