I cried. I put my head on his shoulder and I wept and I wept and I wept. Not too silently either. He woke up, stroked my hair and said, “Let it out. Just let it out, e.b.” Without asking why. And I was so taken aback with it that I had to stop for a few seconds, before a fresh wave rushed along and the floodgate once again went tumbling down the stream.

Because I was so used to hearing “Don’t cry. There’s nothing to be so sad about. Now you’re being silly.” I was so used to my worries being brushed aside, mocked at, considered trivial. I was so used to steeling up inside, and only when I was completely alone did I allow myself to bawl these eyeballs out.

And so he let me sob. I let me sob. Tears washed away all the debris, purged out all the toxins from my mind.

The next morning he smiled and said, “Umm, my shirt’s still damp.”




A residence


one day
he spoke to me
of a sorrow
of an erratic shape
that makes his brows burrow
from which he can’t escape
and then
i was reminded
of a sorrow
imprinted on my heart
that’d forever follow
inside me like a dart
but i told him
we each own a sorrow
impossible to suppress
but one
if shared, would sure mellow
a nothingness


13 years

He said he still had feelings for her. Not exactly love, no. He had a girlfriend now. But something he couldn’t put a finger on. Something fluttering, lingering, haunting.

Yeah right, she joked, not without a certain dose of hidden sarcasm. 13 years isn’t just a long time. It’s a whole damn era.

I’m going to a seminar in a few weeks. On your birthday, actually, he muttured, not so much for her to hear, but more to give voice to the thought that had never failed to get on his mind every year around that time.

She shuddered. Maybe it was true. These odd feelings, the incomplete ones. The ones with open endings. The ones that weren’t exactly love. But something much deeper, a connection — no, a potential of such — between two souls. A longing. An everlasting wish.

But then maybe it wasn’t so deep. Maybe it was just a habit. Just the way an unfinished business always tended to stick around, in the nooks and crannies of one’s mind for much longer than anyone’d ever expect. A wish that was not meant to come true, because reality might forever ruin its beauty.

Who could tell?

And then she left. Just as before. What was there, was there. What wasn’t there, would never be. She went back to her life. He to his.

She thought to herself, I wish I could have another lifetime, a different page, a blank page, where we could meet. And he thought, she’s just the girl whose birthday I remember.



I like writing. (As you’ve seen.) I have an overactive imagination. (Not always a good thing.) I knew it was only a matter of time before I started making up stories to bridge the gap between my boring life (I had pizza for lunch, I went dancing, I found out a good trick to clean my teeth after a meal in public without anyone noticing, that kind of boring), and the colourful movies that are set on continuous play in my head.

So here you go. A new category. With stories of my own, my family’s, my friends’. Of imaginary characters that reside in my mind and nowhere else. Of the past, present, future. Either told as is, or mixed, matched, divided, multiplied. Snippets of life, and especially love, that I conjure up simply because that’s the way, ah hah ah hah, I like it, ah hah ah hah.

Maybe I’m just a coward and only came up with this  folder to hide the skeletons I’d rather not reveal in my closet. (Or to be more accurate, to show them but not owning up that they’re mine.) Maybe it’s just a way to plaster my friends’ secrets on the WWW without giving them a legitimate  reason to charge over to my place and smash my head on the keyboard.

But maybe, it’s just a place where I can play. Like a big jigsaw puzzle. And I love jigsaw puzzles! The only difference is that there are countless possibilities of how I can fit all the pieces together. It’s a lot of fun. So please don’t worry too much about working out whether it’s my story, or yours, or someone else’s. It could be anyone’s, as far as I’m concerned. Whether it’s whole, or chopped up, or pasted together. Two characters can share the same name. And a character can go by a hundred aliases. The beginning comes from one place and the ending is fished out from another.

Just enjoy the tale as it is. After all, it’s fictional.

And now to rake my brain for something worthwhile of all the hype I’ve just created up there.



She’s got this picture imprinted on the membranes at the back of her eyes, retina, or whatever they’re called. It’s there, even when she sleeps. An image of his smile. Not just any random one though, a person has a whole myriad of different smiles. But that one particular positioning of facial muscles, sometimes when he looks at her, that  makes his whole face light up and his eyes twinkle. It’s the twinkling that clinched the deal, she thinks. And then her heart just melts, melts, melts. Who cares about those polar caps? There’s a much more urgent problem right here. One without a solution.


She looks up to that green canopy of the huge magnolia tree in the park, with its pristine, fragrant white flowers. That image drifts in. Yet again. One of her most favourite songs came to mind, the one Norah Jones sang in F-major but she had to transcribe into C-major to suit her voice. The one that was so aptly named — the three words that sums up all her thoughts at the moment –“Shoot the moon”.

Will you think of times you’ve told me, that you knew the reason why we had to each be lonely — it was just the season.

The season, huh? One way of looking at it, right?

And then she realised, love is a merry-go-round. But one with the “merry” bit chopped off since a time no one can longer remember. Yet it goes on. Circling. Circling. Never arriving.

~“You shoot the moon, and miss completely…”~


She could hardly say to him, that there was a quote from a favourite author that she loved, and that two seconds ago it had come to her mind rather inappropriately, although not entirely unexpectedly. She could hardly say to him, that it had stuck there ever since, impatiently doing the rounds in that tiny space between her ears. And if she wasn’t careful, it would just jump out her mouth, land itself on the table between them and start dancing naked around the cakes. No, she could hardly say to him, that it went like this: 

She could hardly say to him: I was thinking of what it would be like to kiss you.

(“The Right Attitude to Rain”, Alexander McCall Smith)



~cranky sleepless creature~