Tuesday, 24 February 2015


I don't know what this is. But I wrote it on a whim. So here goes:

Peck at it, keep pecking
Sooner or later, the light will shine through.
Keep pecking.
You'll find worms and lizards and snakes and flies.
You'll find twigs and leaves and flowers and lice.
Peck at it.
The sound you make.
Peck at it.
Keep at it till it's all out.
Keep at it till it's red and brown all about.
Leaves will fall.
Get it all out. Don't let it go.
Keep at it, till it comes out no more.
It's what you do, make it bleed.
That wound. Make it bleed.

Thursday, 3 July 2014

The Canard

It was a day of the crescent moon. I don't remember how old I was. But I do recall the smell.
What's your favorite smell? Is it that of roses? Or that of the earth after the rain? Do you like the smell of a mango? Or are you one of those who like petrol?

For me, it is that of the piece of heaven I had that day. I was only talking, to the stranger I'd met. He was telling me about his planet, what was its name now? It's not important. I only wondered what that beautiful piece of glass in his hand was. Was it glass? It sure looked like it.

The earth was new to me. I was a mere 4 year old. Yes, that's how old I was. The tumbler in his hand, shaped like a river. It flowed along its edges. Can you imagine it? Can you smile? A bigger one? That's more like it. Yes, those were the curves of that tumbler. Beautiful, radiant and mesmerizing.

Just like your pearly whites glisten and make that curve on your face irresistible to all of humanity, the tumbler had its own set of pearls. What was that clear white liquid with a tinge of red? Later, I found out the color was pink. Not a hot pink that burns your eyes, but a pink that you might discover if you looked too closely at purple. What is that supposed to mean? You'll see it for yourself.

The pink of your lips, the blush of your cheeks, the curved, shiny fruit perched at the top of the tumbler reminded me of those. A beauty in itself. The curves that never ended.

The tumbler, the white drink with the pink tinge, they all reminded me of my love. Was I truly a four year old? I cannot say. My memory fails me. The curves, they come back. A perfect meal. Love and a tinge of Borosil.

This beautiful piece of Borosil tumbler called Canard, inspired me to write the above lines. I hope you enjoy reading them.


Saturday, 31 May 2014

Cancel it.

I comb my hair. I give them a glance. A glance because it is too hard to stare. A glance because they aren't worth a stare. Then I glance up, I stare. Into the mirror. Into the depths. I know. I couldn't get a haircut again. I just couldn't. I don't want to. But I have to. Luscious, long hair? You've got to cut it short if you want it long. That is the deal. That is my part of the deal. And I have to fulfill it.
The doorbell rings. There is a courier. A courier for me. What could it be? HUL sent me a shampoo? I wonder why. TreSemme Split Remedy, it says. Ha, as if shampooing my hair is enough. Do you think I haven't tried? Do you think I haven't used them? Do you think I don't love my hair enough? My mother says give it a go. I say No, too many hair products. She says she has a good feeling about this. It is really very hard to say no to mothers. Who made it so? I say Ok.

It is time, it is time to cut them. My head says. It is time to try this shampoo, the last one. My mother says. I listen to my mother. I shampoo my hair. I condition them. Is it enough? Why does it feel different? Could it be true? I delay the haircut. I may have to cancel it perhaps. Who knows? 

I try it the next time.
I delay the haircut.

And the next.
I delay the haircut.

And the next.
I delay the haircut.

And the times after that. 

It has been 8 weeks now that I've delayed the haircut. Perhaps it is time to cancel? I pick up the phone. I cancel the apoointment. I don't need a haircut. The splits are gone. The splits have disappeared. The scissors' blades needn't split for me. Splits are sad. Let's never split again. Let's stay together. Forever. My hair. The scissors. And our love. You know why it's hard to say no to mothers.

This post has been written as an entry for IndiBlogger's TRESemmé Split Remedy competition.