In a letter to Ophelia the IIIrd, Fernando wrote, “It’s too cold here without you.” Seven days later, Ophelia sent him 27 orchids with a note saying, “They’ll keep you warm for me.” The orchids withered in four days.

Fernando plucked out all their petals and hid them in between his favourite books.
He wrote a letter to her each day for 27 days. On the 28th day, he posted all of his letters, tore out all his books, and ran down a cliff into the coldest stream of water that he could find, screaming Ophelia’s name.

He swam in the stream for three hours, whispering her name over and over and over again, dreaming of a love he knew wasn’t his.
after three hours, Fernando chose to drown.

In his last letter to Ophelia, he wrote of the time he was seven and his father left for war. He spent every evening next to the river, waiting for him to return. When all he got was a flag and his father’s uniform, he left home.

Like his father, he knew Ophelia wouldn’t return so he sent her a note with a goodbye and a petal from one of those 27 orchids, saying, “They weren’t warm enough.”


(i) you’re the part of October 
I wish I could forget/
(ii) winter takes away a lot from you/
(iii) July felt like sunshine, 
trapped in a box/
(iv) I’m not sure I’m an autumn person/
(v) I do not know what I ever saw in anyone but you/
(vi) November is a paradox that I wish I could solve/
(vii) I don’t do very well around chaos or the lack of it/ 
silence does not help me heal/ 
words do/
the lack of words does/
(viii) I wish I could leave without actually leaving/ 
I wish I wasn’t here/ 
I wish I didn’t have to be/ 
I do not want to not be/
(ix) November isn’t my favourite month/ 
(x) you seem like December on a rainy day/ 
I wish I did not feel like the storm all the time/ 
I miss you/ 
and the lack of you/ 

(xi) do I really own any of my words? 
(xii) sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself/ 
my words/ 
your words/ 
(xiii) I’m confused, 
it’s summer on a cold January day/ 
and I miss the rain/ 
I wish the weather could heal me.
(xiv) I’m sorry you thought 
that sunshine could ever be a person/
or a month/ 
or a feeling/ 
I’m sorry everyone has to leave/ 
on a dark October evening/
when there is nothing but silence/
to close the door behind them/ 
I’m sorry you have to be/ 
when they aren’t.

Dark October Evenings 

A letter to my favourite poet

(i) I taste your words on my lips
I type out this letter as an apology
for this world not being enough poetry for you.

(ii) I think you’re the kind
who’d bring a knife to a gun fight,
whisper words in a rock concert,
sip wine on a Sunday morning,
reading out the same article on the jewel heist
over and over and over again,
a total of 37 times.

(iii) I’m sorry Sunday mornings
are never long enough for you,
I wish I could taste Sunday mornings like you do.

(iv) You’re the song in my one song playlist
that I play on Tuesday nights
that feel like Friday evenings.
I wish I were a poet.

(v) I wish you did not have to apologise
for all the words you’re yet to write.

(vi) You’re poetry
(vii) I wish you’d think so too.

(viii) thank you for being the difference
between roses and lilies.
I wasn’t ever much for roses anyway.

(ix) you’re my favourite unwritten book,
that I wish I could read,
over and over and over again,
on a Sunday night,
at 11:53 pm,
as you whisper my name underwater,
and the constellations shout back,
calling you home.

(x) I wish there were more of you,
and more of your poetry today.

_a letter to my favourite poet.

//unlearning words.

(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!