Perhaps at Pondicherry

Saturday, 12 May 2018



I once sat in a very cramped stall, and watched a young girl selling textiles. Quite naturally and embarrassingly, the shy eleven year old me looked at her intently. For she could have been in school, perhaps meddling with her last minute assignments, racing the pressing iron through her school pinafore or even tightening her braid. But today I watched her jaunty arms quickly fold textiles that soon became a mountain of riotous colors.  Her sinewy arms attuned to a brave composure, it painted a certain maturity. She was blessed with her mothers instincts, I suppose. Here I was sulking with how much my mom made me walk through the aisles of Dugbe* market. The aftermath of that was cornering myself in the matchbox shop with this young talent. I think moms sole intention was to teach me a lesson of hard work. But, I picked on something entirely different.

Ticker Tape, Rumbling Rails

Wednesday, 4 April 2018



"Pin drop silence", that's why we heard more, they said.  But we knew we were a species with an evolved sense of hearing. With our curious syndrome, we could even listen in to our disintegrating brain, it sounded like a flat tires final hiss. But then our ears were tuned into something worse - a dreaded chalk piece forcefully pinched between his fingertips which led to a highly pitched tiff with the blackboard. Adding to that, his broad shoulders could not lend a view to what was written on the blackboard. I was hoping that the bell would save us all, but I decided to play guessing games by tracing his hand movements. What looked like wiry lines gradually became symbols, and when he finally moved, in my mind I read, Speed equals distance over time. Formulas, not exactly a fan of them, in fact I wanted the law of acceleration to apply to one thing right that instant, my physics class.

The Search for Everything

Tuesday, 30 January 2018


Between two lungs, a conscious of mine took a deep breath. Flighty thoughts strayed into desolate plateaus under the view of a vigilant sun and moon, my half closed eyes. But my meek hands rested like the anchored rocks of a cavern, I suddenly found myself in. Darkly lit and tinged with rays of red, among the many quieted ones, I waited in the cavernous theatre. His grave was on my mind.

Eating Me Alive

Monday, 11 December 2017



Ive spent a shy two-month sabbatical out of London, aiming at writing fantastic stories, but then time warped into something enigmatic. Consequentially, I find myself propped on a boomerang. If my existence is charted on a time frame, Im caught in a limbo that wavers between my lost realities here and then it returns to my hilarious exit from Heathrow terminal.  Although, I am currently grounded at Kochi, my mind is constantly moving back and forth. With this anomaly, quite often my brain goes into the sleep mode, especially when I wash the dishes. I think its quite allegorical, you know, wash away whats in the past. But instead, my thoughts panders to the intricate sensitive web of decisions I made within the confinement of a cramped plane seat. The gravity of those decisions certainly wasnt overpowering to make a plane plummet; gratefully it still flew. Embrace whatever comes your way, and move forward.  Only until my optimistic musings during the twenty-hour journey were quelled by something utterly irrelevant. 

Sea of Hyphens

Wednesday, 26 July 2017



The first year in my hometown, a regular conversation starter would be, “Where are you from?” It naturally follows with a surprising look whenever I say, “ Well I am from here.”
“No where are you actually from.” This conversation is only justified until I say, “ Oh well I am an African –Indian.” Suddenly that explanation seems credulous, but to be frank, hyphenated- identities are the most confusing. If you pitched a tent on that hyphen, it would explain where an identity would belong, on a thin line.

Viva Vasarely

Saturday, 1 July 2017




He was mercurial, just like the furious flames of the stove. In a matter of explosive seconds, he upbraided me for being the worst waiter in the restaurant. Naturally, I was always caught loitering in the alleyways of the kitchen, which I presumably called Dante’s chamber. Hell was where he was, the rustic ovens, fiery copper pans and the grunts of enervated chefs. Purgatory was a small backyard cloaked in limp greyness, where the skittish chefs enjoyed their last puff of hope by the diminishing cigarettes. Many hoped to stay or get out of their job, and then came heaven, the patisserie room. 

With & Out of Trace

Monday, 12 June 2017





It’s been a while. The blog has enjoyed its rest, whilst the writer had spent her academic jail time. Though she has been successfully bailed out, her work still has its academic imprints- just like a lingering jail stamp mark. But it would be an absolute crime to not admit that she did not seek comfort in the screen-printing room, the cocoon-like study pods and listening to the keypad aggression by agitated students. Unlike the verbose essays, her project did not go through some sharp critique before submissions, but it did have a ‘face-off' experience.