Dear Eve-teaser

Dear Eve-teaser,

I understand breasts are beautiful things. I also agree that they call out to you. Or so you imagine. But what sexual gratification do you derive from brushing your hand across some random woman's, in the evening traffic rush or in a railway station bustle? Is that public property? How can you? And dare you?

Besides the fact that the random woman has already had the worst day, and is trying to get past all that, get home and get ready for a harder day tomorrow, you decide that it wasn't enough. And do what you do.

The next time around, she will find you and skin you. Blind you with pepper-spray. Scream into your eardrums, the most unspeakable of adjectives about your mother and your sister. Mark her words.

You moronic fucktard. Mark her words.

Random Woman


The odor of Quicklime. Dampness of naivety. Empty walls; not a nail dug in. Sandpaper polished floors of mosaic. Ladders leaning on walls, stood on to paint the upper reaches. Stools toppled. The fresh varnish on window grille.

I saw a home today, since then I have been pining to write this. The window ledge is wide enough for me to sit on and write. Unrestrained. There would be just about enough space for your books & beanbag, after we have spread out the couch. I am not imagining all this, as I stand in that empty living room, I can see it like it were real. That close.

The smell of shampoo in the shower, my lotions, creams crammed on the bathroom shelves jostling against your shaving kit. Clothes dumped on our floor. I can even hear your voice, shrill and loving, calling out my name. My faint response, a headnod, not realising that you're not in the same room and cant't see me nod. All that.

All this, standing here now, staring at the pond that begins where out portico ends. Lilly buds in its dark water. The mild forest air. Dozens of eucalyptuses. Our windows, facing east, south east. The coarse touch of the curtains. My fingers can almost feel.

The bedroom, keeper our secrets, witness of intimacies traded in faint lit long nights. Closets, worn clothes stuffed in the bottom shelf. Our smells caged inside. Breaths counted, kisses stolen. And sighs. And sighs interrupted by broken laughter.

I saw our new home today. And I needn't write anymore.

Null Hypothesis

I am force-writing this. You know how it's a custom to blog on my birthday. So here goes.

I am a cynic. I may not be good at anything I do. But I make a good cynic. I do not believe in anything. Or at least I try to believe that I do not believe in anything. And that somehow doesn't nullify my null hypothesis. But you didn't get the joke. So anyway.

Either, I,  from within am an innocent believer. But try to pretend that am a cynic. Because being a cynic comes cheaper. Nothing is at stake when you don't believe. Because you're not putting yourself out there and blah.

Or, I really am the hard core non believer that I should be. And I just pretend to look like someone who holds on to the nascent possibility that good things happen, and happen indeed. Because that way I am convincing myself that there still is at least one good reason to live.

And turn a year older on similar nights like tonite. Ta da..25!


His trapezoid toenails. The bush of hair just behind them. I focused on those as the rest of everything happened. Nothing else mattered as much as my incessant desire. To pluck each one of those strands of hair, from his toe knuckles. And see him swell up in pain. I so knew lust.

A rusty nameplate hung from a grille where a creeper of moneyplant flourished someday. Both the names on that plate, no more. Grown children fluttering around in the funereal home. Impending grandchildren. I so knew the unseemly futility of life.

Sitting on a mountain top. Staring into a deep deep valley. Wearing a crazy hat. Sombrero. Watching a shamless sun shedding itself on the canopy below, uncovering a dozen shades of green. Cold wind hitting my face, I understood life's unconquerable ability to make us forget. Move on. I so knew that liberty could be. And is.

Trying to decipher illegible writing, my very own, from cheap ruled notebooks. On penulitmate exam nights. Mouths raw from insomnia, as I fell off from the edge of my bed, I realised. Whatever we do, we get nowhere else. Except where we are here, now. I so knew truth.



Do you not get it? Is it that hard? And the anatomy of my affection so inconceivably difficult to unravel? It isn't. 

It's rather simple. Honest and uncomplicated. And you're not naive yourself. So don't flatter yourself yet. Not now, not ever. 

Don't flatter yourself with the sole assumption that I am in love with you. I am not. Can never be. 

I busy my mind with your thoughts, force feed the imaginative future that I may come to live in with you someday, because, baby, I am only trying to run away from myself. Yeah.

You see, I am this obnoxiously obsessed woman who cannot stop thinking and constantly needs something for her mind to feed on. Anything, at all. Like they say gastric acids eat up the stomach walls if there's no food, a similar force of self-destruction is my underlying. And if I don't think about you, proxima centauri, some extinct mesozoic reptile, or you, nothing would stop me from thinking about myself. 

And thinking about myself, is fatal. That's why I pretend to love you. To convince myself that it's not yet time to take the self seriously. So don't just flatter yourself. And boast about getting me off your back. Hah! You've no idea. 


We are mundane. Infact, very very. Our mouths smell of the gums we chewed last, no respite from that. Our nails are undone, broken edges, scraped paint. Hair is an obnoxious bunch of callous curls. Fashion, we don't know thee. No offence, we are just too busy. Busy losing our minds and how?

We are busy losing our minds, by falling for the undeserving. We are losing our minds, choosing birthday gifts for besties and swallowing the courier charges. We are busy making note, keeping track. Of people, things etcetera. Of checking our phones oftener than we should, trying to respond to the faintest of beeps, and sometimes even imagining them. We are actually pretty occupied going all cheek bones about unreal TV characters, and watching our favorite movies again and again until we remember every single word uttered. We are content in hugging a book to sleep every night, and revelling in our incapacity to wind up the last couple of pages. We are busy feeling the smooth finish of celebrity magazines, on lush waiting room couches. And in sitting there and trying to gauge, why we are however we are.

Off late, StumbleUpon seems to have discovered my secret love for dressing up and keeps making me visit pages full of shoes, skirts, and whatnot. Good to look at, but we are not made for that. I mean, really no! We are happy with kohl that lasts years because we just don't stay focused enough to wear it everyday, or a lipbalm that always feels too deep a shade. You know the story, lets skip it, shall we.

So there we go, no time for fashion. No time to be a doll. We are just so earthy, so real. More real than real. And reality doesn't get any better than mundane. Or does it?
Earthy. She has characteristics of the earth. Don't imagine there is an adjective more exact than this. She is more real than real, if anything. Her skin is the same tone as soil. Moist clay; porous and breathing. Her hair is the roots of those numerous trees of thought that grow out of her head. She flourishes like redundant flora; into a woman whose presence was never desired. Like weed. Boundless creeper, spreading arms and legs; on walls and trees; for support; like on numerous men. And then moves on, outgrows, abandons this support, the men, those walls that only constrained. Like a snake sheds skin, she sheds memories, and leaves a serpentine trail of history; unwritten, and somehow never capricious enough. Sometimes she sits though, still like a mountain. Stares at the night sky, and reflects. Cries, sometimes a river emulates the tears emerging from the corner of her eye. A mighty masculine river that floods and washes away everything. Sometimes even herself. After the storm, she is the layer dust that settles on leaves. Also, she is the withered leaf that falls off, to decay and become the earth again.