Back Home

Published October 7, 2015 by Virgo293

Some words. A deed. An alien world.
A scary walk. Unlimited smoke. An empty street.
Doors shut. Lines drawn. An almost dark night.

I am looking around for light.
For another soul that’s human.
In all these faces that look like me, I am looking for something that resonates within.

I see something shine far away.
Light that is reflected right onto my face.
I run up the distance, in one single lap, rubbing my eyes to get more clarity.

And the vision, freezes me.
I notice the chill in my own eyes.
In the mirror ahead, I see myself. The self that has become a part of them.

I halt. I cry. Even shiver for a while.
But then I get back to the search.
Of the illusion I had of myself, when I was back home.



Out of Context

Published September 9, 2015 by Virgo293
We live a life full of miseries today. We wake up with cars honking in our ears, in pea sized bedrooms that neither have enough bed nor enough room, to see faces of people filled with lines.
The day that follows has sunshine  just as light and heat keeps fowling upon us when the sky is full of clouds. The grey of concrete that surrounds us, is worse than black at times.You smile briefly until the news of a mishap, a manhandling and at times even a war reaches you. And then there are people that nag you down your throat.
We live in perpetual frustration. Happiness, prosperity and laughter, in a world like this, become non-contextual.
There’s is little you can do about any of this. But in the brink that these instances, they fill your life with misery, and affect you all over.
They say it is about the eye. About how you look at things. But then the glass is no longer half full. And the last few drops left in it force you to see the emptiness it is filled with. What do you do then, imagine a full glass? Optimism in this context then, isn’t it pointless?
I read something on a newspaper today, and it is truer now, than ever before. It said ‘The world is comic, but the joke is on mankind.’
Let’s face it, in the world today, if there is little to look forward to if you are a realist.
But the deal is that, I, am not a realist. And perhaps that is precisely why, I am out of context.
Blog -1


Published July 5, 2015 by Virgo293
The old self that I was, has been long left behind. The new self is layering itself with multiple shades everyday. This gift of life is unfolding only to spread sheets and sheets of new loom over me.

And I, am patiently waiting. I am letting the cover reach my soul. Sniffing each fold, tickling each corner, playing with the softness, feeling it all. In a room full of light, I am figuring the brightest corner. The one in which it will be safe to hide.
And once I find it, I think I will stay there for a while. Metamorphosize beneath the cocoon… Develop the beliefs. Live with them for sometime.
Until I find a reason to come out. Reason enough to risk my existence for an experiment. An experiment that will have me stand the test of time. Or progress into another transformation.


Published June 24, 2015 by Virgo293

I haven’t seen anything as fickle as respect. Those little glasses people look at you with, become misty time and again. Their vision, doesn’t last forever. A little pull here, a little push there, and boom… it’s gone.

But it is easy to come too, this thing they call respect. You pick your ego up, snort that nose back a little, squeeze in a bit of attitude, and people look up to you. The best way to have it in fact is a little secrecy. Discretion, like the elite amongst us will call it. I am sure that’s out of knowledge, of the fact that once their truths are known, no one will ever respect them. And hence begins the show. The masquerade of virtue, of kindness, and at times even humility. And it gets you what you want. Pat after pat on your back.

But just when you’re resting, that respect, the one that came in fairly easy, knows better than to stay. It falls like a castle of placards on a windy night. One blow, a single misdeed and its over.

What goes with it, is worse. Years of genuine hard work. The endless smiles you have exchanged. The unassuming comfort people confided in you with. People change, and no matter how hard you try not to, you change with them.

What do you do then?80c462fd144894f4eeba8cf2d22ac75c

You start once again. Building glasses for people. From that sweeper in your lawn to the boss you report to.This edge of a sword that you make out of your life, is of course your choice. You want ‘respect’ after all.

Just that, this time when you distribute those glasses, may be you should work towards creating an actual vision. Perhaps then, this illusion you are trying to create, might actually have a character. And perhaps then, when this castle of respect shatters again, your value will still remain.

Say it Again!

Published March 17, 2015 by Virgo293


Words, spoken once, can’t be repeated. They can be formed and delivered with the same tone and accent; but repetition, no. That moment in time, when they were said, the way they were, can never be recreated. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

The morning dew, along with the azan, marks the beginning of each day for me. It doesn’t start the same old one though. It starts something new.

When that delicious food bite, fills in your taste buds for the umpteenth time in your favourite restaurant, the flavour hasn’t been replicated. It has taken effort, and expertise, and a lot of them both, to get to you the same experience. And yet, each experience is new.

I met this painter once. He said he couldn’t use the same muse twice. It just didn’t inspire him anymore. And then he showed me around fifty paintings of the same beloved. She was in a different position, in a different state and a different state of mind in each of them. And therefore, each painting was different. And new.

Boredom and monotony then, I think, can’t be the fault of just words. It is possibly the lack of feelings behind those words.

Perhaps that is why everyday in the rainy season doesn’t infuse poetry into your ink.

And perhaps that is why, my dad doesn’t get bored of I love Youing my mom. Because he  never repeats it. He just says it again!

Pure Indulgence

Published February 25, 2015 by Virgo293

Indulgence is a very disloyal feeling. It’s a feeling that deserts you when you most need it. When just a little bit of it can make someone happy. When a little extra from it, can get you a special someone. When its vacancy is perhaps the only reason for a relationship to shatter into pieces.

I wonder if it ever listens to anybody. I don’t even think it has a rule book to follow. Its ethics are a big question mark. And yet, when it comes, it leaves you blue. Unapologetically! 

And then there is communication. Like a needle it sews everything indulgence has ripped apart. Everything that is affected by the lack of indulgence can be attempted to be fixed with communication. But all it can manage is patchwork! It cannot make the cloth anew. Only indulgence can weave that magic. 

The presence of indulgence doesn’t really need conscious communication. But it almost always has it. We communicate the most when we indulge. Even though the thoughts are enough.

 The presence of communication, can however, merely initiate indulgence. That too sometimes. It can’t make it go on. Feelings have to do that task. And those aren’t in your hand, obviously.

And that becomes the biggest problem. We become so dependent on indulgence, that we forget communication is in our hands. It’s like not being able to speak without a drink. It makes you addicted to it, that prick called indulgence. 

And yet, I am blamed for the wreck it creates. I wonder what my fault is. Perhaps that I believe in it!

On the Beach

Published February 22, 2015 by Virgo293

There is this thing about travelling. It either makes you more aware of your self, or puts all that you are aware of into question. Writing about such travelling puts the trips you take into perspective. At least for me it does. I wonder if this is what they call travel-writing.

When I thought of writing, and about getting the motivation to write, I always thought of the sea. I am not from Mumbai and before coming here, I always pictured that I’ll be forced to put pen to paper, which is a much required reflex for a lazy – wannabe writer like me, the minute I see the sea. But so far, after living here for four years, after visiting almost every beach, every sea face, every bridge and even the lake next my house, I haven’t written a single word on it. Or about it. This evening in Juhu, made me wonder why.

This was an exercise in this course I am doing on creative writing, just to give all of you a backdrop. And when I first got to know that we were going to visit the beach, to get a feel of how ‘Travel writing’ actually feels, I laughed. I continued to laugh for quite sometime; because I was sure that that day everyone in my class was going to believe what I have felt for so many days. That travel-writing must be something, but it definitely isn’t what happens when you visit the sea in ‘Bombay’.

Excited at the idea, I got into an auto – rickshaw and stopped directly at the beach. The minute I stepped out, a young couple, seemingly of a very modest background with a kid of around 4-5 years came up to the rickshaw. They asked the rickshaw-wala how much would it take to get to Santacruz. They were visibly people who would just travel by bus. Perhaps then, it was a very special trip for them, and they wanted to end it with the luxury of a rickshaw ride. This made me smile. I realized that no matter how old the beach gets, it would still remain one of the most special places in ‘Bombay’. And it was special for me too, I realized. But then that question came up again. Why has it not gone into writing?

I was thinking these things while walking towards the beach, when the smell of yummy Pav bhaji filled my nostrils and carried me into a world that felt vaguely familiar, yet distinctly unexplored. In so many years, whenever I have come here, I have come here for a reason. Whether it was to meet somebody, clear my head, or eat the various varieties of expensively delicious street food it has to offer. However, I had never been there to just see the beach. Never let myself loose. Never felt it.

I was already eating the delicious Pav- Bhaji drooling in butter, feeling the cool breeze through the depths of my skin, as these thoughts filled my head. That’s exactly when I thought I had cracked it. Cracked how to finally put that pen to use. That day I was going to enjoy the beach just for what it was. Without any prior plans. Without any directions. Taking another chance, hoping that perhaps this time, when I leave from there, a few words will write themselves. What followed was heaven.

When I kept a bare foot on sand for the first time, I was convinced that this was the best thing that had happened to me that day. But minutes later, as I walked towards the sea and the cool comforting waves touched my feet, the previous experience snowballed itself. I can be so sure that even the best coffee in the world, with the best ambience you can ever have, with your most desired company, can’t unwind you in the way that those first few waves can.

Temptation led me to walk on the shore, and the tiring day broke its shell, giving way to bliss. The voices around felt unrequired and I wished to be able to spend the night there, in silence. I experienced how beautiful ‘not – thinking’ could feel, let alone ‘not- speaking.’ Perhaps that’s why the constant snack- sellers and the instant-photographers couldn’t bring a single line on my forehead. In fact I enjoyed their constant intervention. I liked the fact that amidst the crowd of so many, I mattered. And that one small snack that I bought from them could make a difference, well a huge difference going by their insistence to buy it, to a small minuscule part of the world.

And yet, I bought something only for my own sake, only when I wanted to.

I was thinking all this, when I suddenly remembered how not thinking anything was so much more fun, and quickly got back to that. I remember the rest of the visit, the little that was left after all this, as a blur of bargaining for artificial jewelry, a walk on the rough patch full of shells, and a thick line – up of stalls that become just a just a bunch of fluorescent lights from a distance.

When I was leaving however, I gave myself a secret smile, wondering what golden gleam of words would fill up the pages of my diary that night.

Today, it has been exactly one week since that trip. I have had three holidays and one half-day from my work- schedule and an ample amount of time to be able to write at least a single paragraph. But I haven’t written a word. However, in this one week that I’ve spent thinking about the place, and about where on earth my muse is, I have just found a vague answer.

I have figured that the beach, is a very very private place. No matter how many people you are surrounded with, what you go through is absolutely yours. Perhaps that is why countless people come to this crowded place to forget the world. And successfully manage to do so. And perhaps that is why, no matter how naked I want to be as a writer, and no matter how illuminating I want my emotional experiences to be, what I go through on a beach just can’t transcend into words. A part of it always gets lost in transition. And trust me, with an experience like this, you don’t want to touch it, unless you know you can do justice to it.

Yet the new question is that, why then, am I penning this, word after word, without stopping. Perhaps to prove, in writing, that travel-writing must be something, but it definitely isn’t what happens when you visit the sea in ‘Bombay!


Rabbit Hole

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at.

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

The Great Indian Epic

All about the Mahabharata.

Sophie Novak

On Curiosity - a critical road towards better understanding

Bharat Vasandani's Blog

Finance, Strategy, Renewable Energy, and Green Building

Gulzar's Poetry

This blog is about Gulzar saab's poetry

Needa Natterwala

Write to Express