this was some years ago when i ws reading one of the lovliest things ever written...

i am loving da alchemist,just fallen in love with’s a great book.a book of books.every sentence is quotable.i have reached da significant phase in wich da boy meets da alchemist.n I hav fallen in love,deeply,wid da alchemist-clad in black,from head to toe,his face hidden in a kerchief ,exposing only his eyes-enuf to murder me,his eyes have the strenght of his soul.i can die for such a man.he rides da white horse,a falcon seated on his arm.braving da winds of da capricious desert,tearing all da sand dunes to nothingness,my alchemist is da winner of winners,he is the soul of the world,hez is never gonna die—my latest crush dat hez is more dan two hundred years old.he can drag lyf outta da most lyfless of holes in da stoniest of deserts.da venom of da cobra can’t even kill him.nothing can vanquish him.oh dear alchemist—owner of da panacea/exilir of lyf,possessor of da philosopher’s stone,scholar of the soul of da world,master of the language of da world,guide of da follower of dreamz…luvya

n of cors I can visualise da desert,da thirsty desert,da dead desert,da infinte desert shez just lyk me I hav bn told-shez is a capricious lady n a lot more.i hav let myself know dat da desert can b loved but never trusted.i can form images of da olive eyed fatima,da desert woman,whose mission is to await her man,bravely facing all dat cums her way,arming man wid da courage of her patience he lets him go and win against all da odds dat da desert.da woman of da desert.luv never stops one from pursuing his destiny.if it does den it’s nt a tru1 .


Just a few more days
And then
I’ll be gone
Into the clouds

I will become a wind
A part of the waters
that course through
the stoniest of beds
And live forever….

I will be like lost music
The one that constantly murmurs
At your ears
But doesn’t come back

I will become a part
Of the past.
` So free your present
Of my presence.
And lemme go.

Even then
Won’t you think
Of me once
In a blue moon?
‘Coz my love would
Live on…

And one day
there will be
tiny purple flowers
on my tomb


There is a relationship between a man and a woman, which is neither friendship nor love. But a little of both. It’s hung somewhere in the middle. Yeah! “Hung”! Mostly it would collapse into neither –friendship nor love.
But here is the person with whom you can talk about absolutely anything and everything.
Despite the various innumerable prejudices in our society, I have seen many a relationships as these.
It could be pure fun if it’s sans commitment and long-term expectations. This is the “in”-thing today. I doubt how many of you would agree…
But how you gonna introduce this friend err…boy friend…err.. friend of yours to the world? Gawd!!! I am in a soup!!!

Dear Diary

My life is an eventful one. Why mine only ?
Everyone’s is, I guess…
But the problem is, I don’t remember what I did even the day before yesterday. And I have lived already say a third of my life.
Rather than living a record less life like mine, one should write a diary. I do not want to regret not remembering all that I having undergone. All that life has bestowed me with. The same applies to you guys too.
After say a decade or two, when I would look back and try to recapture my life it would slip away like a fistful of sand. I would hardly have anything.
It is said that we marry not because of love but because we need to have someone who has witnessed our life…But then that’s another story…

Dear Men

Dear men
You and I cannot co-exist. We just can’t. I dread thinking of the future when I would have to work with you guys. Because an all female work place is an impossibility of the nth degree.
I just can’t befriend men. Or rather I don’t have enough of salt in me to. Or probably there are quick bitches who never give me a chance to do so. I don’t want to appear either inviting or available. That tarnishes the A--factor.
I don’t want to confess that I hate you all, but you know I do. It shows on y face, doesn’t it?
I can’t let my eyes see a dwindling number of females everywhere. In this place presently it is a horrendous 1:12 ratio. We live as if we are a part of the walls. As if we merge with the background. I can’t hate anything more than this.
I used to be a great advocate of gender equality. Of men and women brushing shoulders with each other. I am afraid I might turn into a feminist. You and I can’t co-exist.

now that you are gone...

Now that you are gone, I am trying to find out your face on these walls.
Now that you are gone, I am dying to hear your voice kissing my ears.
Now that you are gone, I am being burnt to death by our memories,
Sweet and sad,
All my life now feels like a single night, and more like the thousand nights
I spent crying to have you for me, like a kid does for a toy, a woman does
for a lover. It’s the same round faced moon that saw me love you, and spend
my dreams on you, still mocks at me from this window of mine, this rusted window of mine.

a note on love

Love must be a good thing. It would feel great to be in love with someone. To share your life with someone. To care for someone all day through. To feel your heart take his name every now and then. To love that someone, who just filled up all the voids in your life. Someone who is all yours. Love must be something tender yet strong. It must be some real good stuff. I don’t know why life deprives a few people of the charms of love…

Men Who Stole My Mind- Siranjan& Yogi


Many a times I have yearned to be close to men. Men of a particular species. Men, of the kind, if you remember the protagonist in Taslima Nasrin’s Lajja. God kill me for having forgotten his name.

At the end of the day, it’s not the height factor I never stop blabbering about, but the fire I did find in that character matters, for me…

That man had traveled a distance out of the ink and paper. He walked straight into my mind, occupied my heart every single moment for which I had the book in my hands and for many days after that.

The picture of him devouring Shakespeare and all the other greats by his dim table lamp keeps coming back to me.

It was the frustration in him that pulled me closer.

His unrealized potential arrested me.

The way he failed to change the world around him made him more glorious in my eyes than a thousand victories could have.


The second guy I fell for was from a short story from some obscure age old magazine called The Mirror ( from my dad’s antique collection of course).

He was called Yogi.

He left home with his paint and brush just because he wouldn’t obey dad!

And all that at just 17!

“Good idea!”…ain’t it?

I wanted to be a real rule breaker then. I wanted to run away. All alone!

I nearly went mad thinking about Yogi.

I was young and kinda vulnerable then…n Yogi had become my mentor.

the tree has more to it...

My favorite tree is like an overgrown kid.
It’s small, but has craters all over.
It has boughs that spread not that far, leaves- rough and far from green.
When the full moon is around, it looks like a ghost.
It’s shadow stretches beyond the reach of its roots.
Yeah! Roots.
The roots- I find them the best.
Hidden in the earth’s breast, roots speak of my tree’s hidden intentions
Plus there is the sense of mystery that in it’s last life,
My tree was a man, a dumb man, who just stood still
There is peace in the shade of that tree…
There is peace even if you just ogle at the tree…
The tree, believe me when I say
Talks to me
The tree has more to it, than being just a tree…