Smokey morning

Image sourced from Google/

Haze of the early winter

Opening the eyes to the swan song of

cooing birds, barking dogs, and honking

Not just another day

Smokey morning

Mooring of the ships

Tea brewed and served hot in glasses

Fritters served on the road stall

Fresh air percolates through the nostrils

Cute kids incarnate marshmallow in school uniforms

The blue symphony blows in the mind

The trumpet of life blasts to full volume

Shivering sensation

Life is like the power steam engine,

revving up to fly high and touching the sky

Rolling into one,

steamy tea,

morning mist,

capturing the dark glory of life,

remaining buried forever in the mind









Sex with an ex (7)

The car twisted and collapsed, bearing the brunt of fire that ravaged the hard steel as the flame ballooned in the air like the shot of arrows resembling fireworks on Diwali day.  Two unknown bodies were charred to death and skins interspersed with carbon, looked like skulls on display that the police barricaded the entire area in South Mumbai. In no time, the two humans making love in the car turned into a mass of flesh glued to each other like one whole particle. Even in death, destiny didn’t dare to separate them.

The car was ravaged by fire that consumed every pound of flesh ruthlessly. Ajay and Anita would never think to meet this tragic fate, not even in their wildest imagination while playing hide-and-seek with each other and running away from the world. Ajay longed for her. Anita’s heart was in the right place but wanted to break away from him.  The fear of being judged and sandwiched between two men made her feel guilty. Two hearts that longed for each other, making love in the unlikeliest of places and charred to death naked. It was the day she would meet Ajay for the last time and waving goodbye to him but both reached their end together, bidding farewell to life.


Glasses of wine clinked in the suburban five-star hotel room. It was time for celebration. The good news ring in when two bodies were burnt into ashes and the human flesh was dead to the world. Nobody could recognize them. Anita and Ajay never came home. It was a sweet revenge as the stranger man untied the bra of Rohini. She winked at him. “Job done, baby. No one in the world would ever know about them and us….our identities is now hidden to the world. We are going to get away with crime. Poor Anita! How she was used by her fiance who was sleeping with her ex’s wife,” she laughed.

The man took a cigarette drag and snigger at the ways of the world. How humans turn into devil! It’s the power of money filled with dirt that ravages life. Who is dead to the world and who is not? Life is a labyrinth that makes people spin around, chasing money and end up using each other for terrible ends, he pondered.  She inched closer to him on the couch as his hand ran down on her back, caressing her voluptuous breast and she pressed her legs on his stomach. It didn’t excite him. He became lifeless. During the last 72 hours, his life took strange turns uncovering the truth of humans that sent an electric shock down his body. He wouldn’t believe his eyes how humans can turn into turncoats and vultures who would suck the blood for the power of money. Life is a game of chess. He couldn’t imagine that one one day his ingeniosity would push him to murder ruthlessly. It was not him but the dirty mind at play who ruled to commit the most heinous crime.

After all, he had no choice. It was a question of survival and saving lives that murder was committed. Rohini fell asleep. He gently moved past her and put her head on the pillow to sneak on the balcony. It was not the end of it, he knew that. He lit another cigarette and has stopped to trust his identity. Does he have one, he wondered. Who is that woman sleeping inside? One could never know for she may fake her existence. Should he trust her? The world wouldn’t know of the game being unfurled right in front of their eyes. Four individuals, two gruesome murders. Sleeping with an ex is fraught with danger. He played a savior. She schemed the whole things. Her mind traveled faster than light. God knows what she was thinking in her sleep. He must be wary now. She cannot be trusted 100 per cent. He knows that.

It was on the spur of the moment that he decided that both should change their identities to avoid being caught for no one was sure of what lies ahead. He wouldn’t be known by his name, ever. It’s done, buried and dusted.  Everything happened in the blink of an eye as he remembered running from pillar to post, chasing death and battling all powers mounting a partnership with Rohini. Death stared at them.

To be continued.








Monday reflection: Shade of sunset

Image credit: Google/Flicker/Mohammad Habib

Blue curtains.

Velvet fabric for all seasons.

Azure blue sky.

Shade of sunset.

Shadow of striking sunlight.

Tranquil water.

Reflection of skyline.

Human emotions swathing,

into tiny dollops of balloons.

Make a wish!


Fancy imagination.


Crystal rings.


Shaping beauty of magnet.

A bit like our fascinating destiny.

Parapet! Bearer of our dark secrets.

Boulders hiding our veiled existence.

Turmoil of the seas, hiding beneath the rocks.

Soothing the soul and spirit.

Haunting past.

Present knows no bound.

Future is always scary and intriguing.

Connecting the thread of two lives.

Interconnected together.

It makes a fascinating and untold tale.










Love Jihad reincarnated! Baba Yogi Nath’s Swach UP Abhiyaan

Love Jihad and Ghar Waapsi is back like super God man trudging the hills to sweep all awards and rewards that beat Terminator hands down. Don’t look to the west when we have our own desi Donald Trump incarnate in Yogi Aditya Nath. UP mein hum dum kyon ki wahan pe daaku nahin hai par sirf ek Yogi Aditya Nath. Our Yogi will put UP on the world map. Hello! Ghar Waapsi, conversion and evangelizing Hindustan. Any takers?!

A secularism mukh Bharat spearheaded by the Desh Bhakt will make us fringe as if an unnamed, invisible and non-existence God is descending our planet to save all Hindus from Videshi Taakat.  Our Yogi now converted into CM Sahab is a pure genius of a Mathematician that shall beat Einstein to death with his calculations, riots in UP blamed on the back of Muslims. Jai Ho! UP Mein hain dum kyon ki Bhakt Nath hai. Wah re! BJP! Brand Modi! Brand Amit Shah! Your communal calculus has not only stumped in political Rajneet but satta also. Kamaal Kursi ka!

Mitron! It’s how brand fire politics is played with RSS winning over the Government and defeating it by a whisker. You bet it happens only in UP! What a signal to entire India! It’s secular free Bharat. We are tempted to think. They telling us to shut up. Now, SLB must be smiling in silence for his written song, Dishkaon in Ram-Leela has been taken seriously by his own dushmans to make it Ishqaon Yogi Dishkaon. Kya baat! Kya baat! Kya baat! Let’s be silent! Who knows next they will ask the voice of dissent to go to Pakistan and global Indians to forget desh to migrate to our neighborhood. I am actually wondering on the new CM’s first policy: boost Pakistan’s tourism, of course. A harmless criticism and your passport to Pakistan is inked. Ab hoga bhai chara aur Samjhauta Express between India and Pakistan with the ambassador of love (Jihad) and Ghar Waapsi, Shri Yogi Aditya Nath.

Munch ladoo mixed with a sprinkle of Bhakt in (tolerance) for UP Rashtra is born and sanitized with so much of Hindutva that Theresa will be mummied in pictures and not in spirit. See, she is the evil version of Lara Croft from another era. It’s now the age of Satyug the Babas way hymning Sanskritised religious hymns, Babaloo! Babaloo! Come to the divine in UP. A minority lesson is on the way how to stay under the spell of Baba Nath’s tolerance.

The commandment of the century, secularization buri bimari and it’s clean up time in UP only with the Babas and Yogis sanitizing the state so much that Ram Gopal Verma is already thinking of shifting his Sarkar 4 from Maharashtra to UP. A new tale of a yogi Baba, donning the orange saffron robe in Sarkar 4. Whatta master stroke BJP from stealing the Sarkar right under the nose Akhilesh Bhaiya to give to Babalog. Swach UP Aabhiyaan.

Bhaiya-ji aur Behena, what did you vote for? Nath Babu is not promoting Pan Banaraswala but Baba yogi Pan with a sauce of Patanjali giving so much fun to bhaiyas and behenas that you forgot the ek dum original wali…Maya Behena. Bas, EVM ka confusion?! Trust Kabrastan and Shamshan to make it to the thesaurus.

Incorrectly correct



Choice of words: #QuotedStories

This post is written as part of this prompt (Fiction + personal), Choice of words,#QuotedStories, Follow your heart but take your brain with you – Alfred Adler hosted by Upasna and Rohan.

blog link up

I climbed the stairs, intrigued by the sweet and enticing voice trudging but as I raced my way upstairs to close on her heels, she was disappearing by the minute. The mysterious voice held me in its spell and I was enamored by the lullaby. My soul was captivated by this unknown force that kept pulling me in her direction.

My legs were numb and stood paralyzed but nothing could stop me. I was in short of breath and sweated profusely. The alley was dark and the staircase deserted. I was determined to unravel her identity. A strange feeling encapsulated me that her voice echoed a sense of familiarity that we’ve met since ages in another world. This sensation ran deep down my spine and it pulled me towards her. I couldn’t think properly. This was the last thing that I could do. Perhaps, I was listening to an inner voice that wouldn’t give a damn to reason. I knew that I was treading a dangerous path. But, who cares!

I inched within a distance of her shadow as I neared the white coated wall and wooden door. I searched thoroughly for her. She was nowhere to be seen. It was an enigma of sort. Maybe, life’s greatest illusion. For me, she was life. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with her. My heart was beating unusually fast and stood paralyzed with fear. It was now or never, I told myself. In all these years, I lived in constant fear. But, not anymore even if death crossed my path.

I pushed the door with all my might, banging it with my fist and body which made it open wide on the terrace and suddenly an unknown force flung my body, propelled by the wind towards the edge. I felt like a bird flying in the blue sky and flitting past the crystal clear cloud.  The voice has brusquely stopped. I looked around but this place looked eerie. I was standing on the crossroad of life-and-death, my feet firmly entrenched on the roof’s end of the skyrise. My head was spinning as I looked down the city with its inhabitants and cars becoming smaller with lights moving faster than the corner of my eyes. My vision blurred. Suddenly, my eye struck on a banner lying upside down on the huge and sprawling jamun tree: Follow your heart but take your brain with you – Alfred Adler


I often wonder, what if one has to choose between the heart and the head for it’s impossible for someone to carry both with them in this big world of thinking.  It’s like the analogy of who came first, egg or chicken. The short story above is an analogy of sort on what keeps raging inside my head when I take decisions. I always trust my intuition and decide on the spur of the moment. I have been designed like that only: The head or logic has never been my strongest point.  I am someone who always thinks with the heart. My high point of argument: If we had no heart to feel the pain, love or making decisions, the head would never exist. This quote by Alfred Adler about following the heart but taking the brain along is quite tricky, complex and subjective. I can’t recall a single time when I haven’t followed my heart. It hasn’t resulted in the best decision of my life which often has led in hurting myself. I have left several jobs without thinking of its implications or weighing the consequences such as payment of loans and EMI or my own expenses. Trust me, it was the roughest patch in life where I didn’t have money to buy a single cigarette stick for myself and broke my own piggy bank for daily survival.

I can’t recall a single time when I haven’t followed my heart. It hasn’t resulted in the best decision of my life which often has led in hurting myself. I have left several jobs without thinking of its implications or weighing the consequences such as payment of loans and EMI or my own expenses. Trust me, it was the roughest patch in life where I didn’t have money to buy a single cigarette stick for myself and broke my own piggy bank for daily survival.

Still, I shall tell you it was the best decision that I ever took in life for following my heart and ended up being in a fix taught me hell lot about resilience, patience and going with the flow. It helped to refine and define myself as a person. At the end of the day, I will always choose to follow my heart rather than carrying the head along. I am planning to for an iPhone 7 and logic would tell that it’s stupid to throw away so much money out of the window. But, I am someone who toil real hard for my money and why the fuck give too much importance to pricey logic. Life is short. Treat yourself well for it’s you and no one else deserve the good and bad things in equal measure.



Decluttered, done and dusted with

Slab of wood is aesthetically cut to give shape to human intentions and desires, dust is chucked out painstakingly and polished to near perfection. Dreamy layers are suited to one’s mental, spiritual and artistic contentment offering aesthetic glance. It is what we make of life, with joys and sorrows, ups and downs growing in leaps and down as we slouch our head on the soft pillow, listening to the lullaby of breeze and rain. Our life is like the carved wood, polished and left on its own to gather dust again and the sweet memory sounding like the song of perfection, listening to the downpour of emotions that falls like water and gentle sea breeze.

Displaying IMAG0182.jpg

The blue travel bag dusted and done with.

It snuggled cozily between my bed and wall, finding its space and demanding attention for it stood neglected for all these years. Once in a blue moon, it was pulled out and my fingers snuggling on the thick dust to retrieve my treasure trove of memories, flipping pages to relive the days of near perfection. It felt so real and in the current times. It demanded my immediate attention, my green luggage bag that I bought at Mahim on a rainy day on the eve of my departure, leaving Mumbai, my city. It’s been eight years from now. A fortnight ago, I decided to get rid of the blue luggage back that was torn in places, removing old magazines, xerox copies of notes and tiny plastic dabba where the perfume of Biryani flew in the air. It’s the stuff memories are made of. In the end, I decided to throw away the cheap luggage bag that stood like a tower, earning its place in my room. It was time to bid farewell and like some say, decluttering and getting rid of excess baggage makes way for fresh energy. Choking the self-doesn’t help.

As I look back, what dash of memories a huge bag that I bought cheaply off Mahim, outside the railway station held for me. It’s the cheap man’s accessory when I spotted someone selling the travel bags in South Mumbai during the monsoon 2008. I took his number. It was a Saturday when I walked in the cake of mud behind Mahim station, traipsing clumsily past the dingy shops and huts to plod my feet in the workshop. The green bag was packed with memories of the xerox Economics notes while I was reading for my Masters at Kalina campus in Santacruz Mumbai, old newspapers and entertainment magazines such as Filmfare, examination papers, paper files holding handwritten notes, cutting posters pasted in the room and what’s not. I am a hoarder of things, memories, and people reminding me of life as a carefree soul. Some, I chucked out and the rest I neatly kept in two plastic bags.

Treasure trove.

Eight years can be a very long time in holding on to memories clutched to the chest and never letting them go. It soothes me and, at the same time, hurt me in places. We are all bruised souls, nurturing the wounds. The brutal love tale that wouldn’t make you the same. The unrelated hoarding of things often serves a brutal reminder of a city and its inhabitants, local trains, cabs, people, and friends. It gives you the feeling that you spent a lifetime growing on such things. The good thing that I retrieved hall tickets of exams of the year 2005 and attached slip on your degree document to keep in a single place.

Displaying IMG_1199.JPG

Hall ticket in SY.

I was showing my handwritten notes that I would summarize sitting in the library at Rajabhai Tower in Fort at South Mumbai, often writing with multiple fancy pens at one time, to Mom. It’s a habit to summarize notes and making skeleton ones as a technique to memorize.Kya karein, aadat se majboor. Trust me, my fingers pained. Just imagine, Mom gave me a sermon for something written almost a decade back that my handwriting is too small and I ain’t going anywhere with that. Somehow, we learned to write on paper in those days and exchange chit of romance notes in the silence library that stood as witness to our romance, a far cry to the days of phone applications downloaded online.


It’s quite a story that my minnow handwriting didn’t earn me marks in the second year despite being quite the disciplined and regular student that all lectures loved in college like their own son. I was berated by my Economics lecturer after the famous KT in SY and she coached me for free in her spare time, saying that the handwriting is too small where I failed to score. I followed Ma’am instruction and the marks magically turned from 30 to 70 plus. Ah! What days!

That’s life, you are tempted to say. It’s not just life but everything. A reminder that you just woke up from slumber after 1000 years to imagining things. Except that it’s real.





Unrealism of love

You gonna smell the rat;

Poisonous love;

Twirling of fingers;

Pure bliss;

Cavernous alley;

Seeker lost inside the labyrinth;

Treachery path;

Love can take us to the dark alley,

seeking the God of love;

Watering down to illusion;

It’s the mind playing havoc;

No love ain’t too big to lose the self;

Worshipping the obsessed hearts,

whom death couldn’t do them part;

Poetic justice;

Happens only in the after thought,

and garden of Eden and Eve;

Love can be unreal;

The unrealism hold it’s force;

The might of love;



Sab mil ke khele Holi

Image sourced from Google.



Bhaiya,Sab mil ke holi khele.

Yeh khushiyan ka tyohar.

Duniya ke anek rang.

Gulal ka kamaal.

Bura mat mano.

Holi hai bhai.

Hum toh holi khelenge.

Cher char.

Bhaiya hai hum.

Bheegi teri choli.

Anek rang.

Hum saab ek hai.

Na koi jaat na koi dharm.

Bas apne dhun mein magan.

Khelo holi dil se.

Ek hi pehchaan hai,


Mauj masti ke rang.

Rang bhar ke,

dil se dil jod de.

Holi ke anek shubh kaamn.





Youth ki Awaaz: Celebrate Equality and not Tokenism

Hola people,

I wrote this piece on Youth Ki Awaaz on the International Women Day, ‘Celebrate Equality and not Tokenism’ and you can write an excerpt below. Click on the link to read the full piece.


Every March 8, we celebrate International Women Day where we pitch for change in the way we view women and tweet with hashtags for equality or respect and share massively on Facebook. Isn’t it time for us, men and women to move beyond mere tokenism and implement the changes that we want to see? Certainly, it demands a change in our mindset and courage to be able to stand for our women, against our elders, or for that matter, let her bloom as a human being.

I want to narrate what some of my female friends shared with me. After she got married, one of my friends told me how her in-laws tried to impose their cultural practice on her taking into account that both she and her husband belong to different castes. She gathered her strength and put her foot down. Really! It’s one thing that we fail to understand that a girl has left her home and parents to adjust to a new life and how we stifle her individuality by enforcing such ridiculous and stone aged practice.

Read the full article here.

Writer’s mind


Oh! Writer! Living in his own imaginative world.

Love, hate, passion, break up and sentimentality!

The orgasm of words faked.

It’s kitsch!


Stack of lies.

How proud I am of him?

Prophet of doom.

Lyrical expression,

singing the tale of ‘ideal’ romance.

Never mess with them;

Making a fool of yourself is the next course;

You shall never know!

Laugh at your own self.

Pointless ranting.

It’s art on canvas of the mind.

Sexy and glam.