Our Broken Hearts

Apparently, I last edited this on 10, September, 2016. Couldn’t find it on the website, so here is more depressing Poetry.

​I can’t take this anymore,
Through my cracks and;
Pores, I’ve started to break.

Like shattered dreams, I’m full
Of tears, blood and hopelessness;
Waiting to be purged.

Let the fire of our love set
Me on fire, while the flames
Engulf me, I shall be reborn.

But I was no phoenix, and
My tears could never meand
Our broken hearts.

Apparently I last edited this on 10, September, 2016. Couldn’t find it on the website, so here is more depressing Poetry.


FLAMES a quiz from my childhood that helped reinforce hope in hearts of the boys.

F- Friends

L- Lover

A- Affection

M- Marriage

E- Enemy

S- Sister

This was a popular game in my 6/7 the standard,(grade) that helped verify if your crush and you were compatible. The game required both names to be written and then all the common alphabets were cancelled out. Whatever alphabets were left you’d count them and that number would be the key. Use the key number to cancel the letters in FLAMES. The example below will demonstrate. I’ll try to check the compatibility between the names Trump and Hillary.

T               H

R                I

U                L

M                L

P                A



The key here is 10 . Let’s use the Key on FLAMES.

F   4th


A   2nd

M  1st

E   5th

S   3rd

So according to the test the name Trump and Hillary have potential to be great lover but it will change if full names are used and it’ll be the same deal and everytime you finish the key, start counting again from the next alphabet. This is the way the love compatibility was calculated in my school and many others to help a brother or sister in need of common sense.


My life is a series of bad days… Bad decisions, awful music, terrible haircuts, ugly clothes, stupid choices, dead- plants, pets and brothers.

And then the bad days go out on a vacation and I have the time of my life because I don’t have demons to fight, arrows and bullets to dodge. These are ice cream like days of my ice cream like (short)6 adult life (one year, because I’m 22) that are between a series of bad or awful ones. On days like these I’m sitting with a friend(s) at a café or bar, sipping my drink, crunching food modestly and messily as I talked and listened. Days like these I cherish because they are the ones I use to cast my patronus against them demontors.

I’m a gladiator but without my armour, shield or sword, I’m fucking useless because my physical strength isn’t very reliable.

Pic Cred: pixabay.com

My physical strength is a sad joke, and that’s the last thing I can rely on not like there is anything else to rely on when my mental strength fails. And my mental strength and ability, constantly gets fried and fails because of how much I overwork it. I guess life. There are questions that haunt me, which form to become my demontors and demons:

“Does X love me?”

“Why does Y hate me?”

“How can I make Z like me?”

“Why am I so unattractive?”

“Would life be easier if I was fair, pretty and athletic?”

“Why can’t I love?”

“What is life even?”

“Why am I so Whiny?”

I’m a very whiny person, like clearly. It’s my 200th blogpost and this one like the last 100-150 or more blog posts is my whining and complaining. I’ve realised I whine even when I’m happy and love something, so whining is a constant state of being and living.

Since puberty hit me like a truck in the face 9-10 years ago, body images have only grown. Meeting new people, making new friends and building a support system has only helped me see that I’m not unattractive. To say this and believe it are still not easy but it’s possible to make the effort.

You get perks if you’re good looking, that’s no secret but it doesn’t mean life is a cakewalk. There is work that goes into looking a certain way, this means gym, clothes, make-up, food etc. Which too is a challenge.

I can’t help people who hate me for who I am. It took me a lot to get here, won’t be jumping planes or plates in the direction the wind sways. Will hold my ground and stay firm as I take each step, hopefully to go ahead.


For reasons I still can’t fathom I wanted to make a list of things in other people that in the past made me skip a heartbeat. I feel this blog post is partly to blame too. Anyways my list has a pretty simple start but as you go deeper I can’t promise anything about what you’d read.



I almost dated someone who loved the show, games and everything as much as I did, at 24, she’s one of my closest friends now. People who love Pokémon or know their stuff always, I promise always get brownie points. Even if that person is my mortal enemy.


There are very pretty smiles, then there brutally honest smiles, beautiful bitchy smiles and I know what you did last night smiles. My favourite is always when you smile or laugh before you think.


I fell in love with someone who was so honest, his words would cut till you bleed, but he never knew how to stop. It was easy to trust and probably why I feel in love. Honesty hurts, but it’s worth pain, BDSM too.


If you can enjoy a cup of filter coffee (or kappi) or more, this will work wonders. I can make coffee and if you can keep the conversation, we should get married. The Ross in me gets triggered by the “M” word.


Your playlist could be how I feel in love with you and the first line of the book about us. A good playlist can make me swoon.


If you can eat breakfast at home, lunch from your lunch box, dink tea at the chai shop on the shady galli, samosa jalebi from the hole in the wall on our way home and dinner somewhere fancy, I think the impossible is attained. Let’s sell our souls to the devil for good food and books.

Going out with myself

“Yemo kushi dantla” “there’s joy in that” said this older uncle collecting the ten, ten rupee coins for his hundred note from the waiter. I typed the previous line in Helvetica font and I didn’t like the way it looked, then I instantly tried changing the font size and it didn’t look any better. So I picked Book Antiqua and the font size was 12, but on my blog the font style and size are different, so you’ll never see any of this. I stopped the previous line at ‘was’ because my friend showed up, so I shut the laptop, put it back in my bag and shifted my attention to her.

Her arrival was the end of my date with myself, like a therapy session it was short, but long enough. During the date, I had a coffee and chicken puff while I wrote an email to a friend that I’ll mail at the end of this sentence. I sent the email, texted a couple of people and I’m hoping the head ache will go away if I ignore it. If only that worked, let’s hope the head ache gets the message because I usually don’t. Hypocrite alert.

I’m gonna get back to work because the date with myself was too intense for me to deal with right now.

It took me three weeks to slowly unpack everything that went through over the date and weeks later after three trials of finding the right playlist I’m writing again. The playlist is Anoushka Shanker’s album “Anourag”with two Kannada songs and two songs from Coke Studio Pakistan (obviously, the clearly have the better Coke Studio). These discoveries have been pretty simple, if I continue to ignore the pain it’ll only get worse. Everything needs to be grieved and mourned, but longer than needed it turns into a pity party.

My wall out of focus

So my pity parties are getting considerably shorter, I seem to be happier in general. Letting people go is the best way to start, also staying hydrated and regular exercise helps but like can only pick one, so bye, bye peeps. Closure or cutting things off cleanly always helps. The flowers in my room need water change and a cutting of the stem every alternate day it helps them live longer.

We’ve all been taken out of the mother planet, do whatever you can to stay alive.


I’m spiraling down into nothingness,
Like the oblivion in her eyes. Where
worlds seemed devoid of lust, leisure, love or life.

The fast light, strong wind, showers of rain
It’s too much, can’t anymore; hope
It goes away, like the bout of happiness from yesterday.

My fingers traced the morning light on your skin,
I’ve felt you, every time I try to catch you
Light’s gone and it’s time to say goodbye.

Some Nights

Some nights are crazy fucking blurry, everything is hazy and I want a tub full of ice cream because I can’t have you. I feel like a stubborn baby that is screaming for a toy, but it’s a person who doesn’t want me, I can’t make you like me. I can’t keep chasing smoke even when I know it leads me nowhere. I know it, I believe it, I can say it and I still can’t follow it.

Why can’t I simply think with the right head? Why am I letting my blood rush decide for me? But it feels like more than a blood rush; the happiness, joy and a sense of freedom from being tied up. I put myself through pain, sorrow, and guilt probably because I secretly enjoy it and can’t admit it.

The focus is lost, everything is fading, the lights in the distant are pretty like her eyes. I keep forgetting and then remember their sparkle whilst falling in my dreams, like an escape I missed. The radiant smile set my damned soul on eternal blaze just so I could drown in the blue of her eyes.
Out of the misty night I find another light that shows me fireflies and now I’m worried about another trip down memory lane. It’s nothing pleasant and is everything I wouldn’t want to be.


I want to be admitted to a hospital. No, not a mental hospital, visiting hours there is horrible. I want to be admitted for something physical like a broken bone, appendicitis or some other surgery because we’re not equipped to deal with the injuries to mental health.

After the surgery I’d be placed in an semiprivate ward, where there would be another patient and his family, with whom we’d make a single serving friendship. We’d share meals, gossip, dark secretes (not that dark also) and phone numbers that we’d never use.

After the surgery I’d have all my relatives, family and friends (if I have managed to not piss them off) waiting to see me. I’d be passed out and under observation in the ICU or if it’s nothing that major I’d bed in a ward bed couple of hours later. Once I regain consciousness I’ll be flocked by a lot of family members, aunts, uncles, both my great aunts, my mother’s oldest brother (for as long as he lived), my brothers (when they were still alive), and sister. My grand mother didn’t ever show up, and nobody ever complained.

The many white polythene bags will be filled with fruits, bread and rusk. Sometimes smaller paper bags carrying sapota or grapes fills the room up with it’s aroma. There would be another big jute bag from Anugraha / Anuyogya (clothes stores my family shopped frequently from) or some clothing store with two steel plates, spoons, a bowl, blanket, towels, steel water glasses, knife, Thermos, clothes, and anything else they felt would be required for someone who’d be staying the night.

I have watched my mother or aunt (Dad’s older brother’s wife) pack such bag on multiple occasions for the night because someone met with an accident, tried to kill themselves (has happened often), is having a surgery, or giving birth. My aunt with the hardened facial expressions, moving around the house and packing things or my mom is panic or grief stricken and deals with the moment by distracting herself with the packing and making calls regularly.

It wasn’t scary or worry some as a kid because I was very confident the adults would fix it, because adults and they could fix everything, right?
My fear for hospitals only arrived with an awareness towards death, simply that people who die don’t come back and if I miss someone who’s dead I can’t just call them up, listen to their voice and feel okay, because…

This fear gained more strength when my brother died, I sat with his lifeless body in the ambulance while everybody else was crying, shrieking, and getting things in place for the funeral. I cried too, to my hearts content and this is probably the only reason I’ve been able to accept he’s dead and not try to reason that his death is a conspiracy theory.
I wish as kids we weren’t inculcated with this awkwardness for touch, because I’ve never hugged my brother but once on my birthday he held me awkwardly and that’s the only thing I have to hug.

The fear of hospitals only got worse when my Uncle (mum’s oldest brother) suffering from liver cirrhosis was in the hospital. Looking at him as anything less than his grand and majestic self seemed was too painful, so I never visited him at the hospital.

Hospitals and I shared a very awkward relationship, I’d go to one only if I was too sick to go ahead with daily routine. Then I visited a friend at a hospital and it was so hard to keep myself together and not fall apart.

But days later I constantly put myself in a hospital and realised how much I miss some of aunt’s or uncle’s who won’t come under the same roof without bickering unless someone died, is dying or hospitalised.