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.



Night Stories

Thursday, 16 March 2017




The No Backspace Project started a few years ago when my mother gifted me a typewriter. Away in the little corner of my room, my fingers were not merciful with the obstinate key top. I loved rolling the platen knob, seeing how my words leapt into the next line. Though I seemed to be in control, the typewriter had its share of command too, it made me a very broody writer. I used to hear each word in my mind and convinced myself to follow my stream of my conscience.  At first, it was a challenge to just write whats on my mind without editing it but soon became liberal.  All until, the typewriter’s ribbon dried out and it lead to random babblings.

79 in Time

Thursday, 9 February 2017



The summer of 1999 takes me back to the lawns that were rarely trimmed and the sun-kissed grounds where some lazy cotton sarees* were stretched out. Starched and looking like crumpled paper, her sarees eerily reminded me of snakes that basked in the sun. And in that moment of temptation, on the scorching ground, I blazed towards the garden. My bare feet felt the jaded edges of tiny stones and the harsh grunts of the burning grounds. Running waywardly, I picked up the saree and skipped around the garden, imagining it flittering like a kite. Just until the maid caught it on the other end. I tried to yank it off her but she held on to both corners adamantly. With her tacit eyes, I knew I lost, she then taught me how to fold a saree for the first time. 

Two Weeks Notice

Sunday, 29 January 2017




Far out in a town of a few non- happy- go- lucky dwellers, lay a store that feasted on some squished brains. There were some days the store lured them, but this time it lost its vile potion for intoxicating minds. By the stroke of midnight, its Christmas roar was guzzled by the rapacious years end.

Circling around this mundane town, the residents scoffed and puffed about a roast that demonized their skinny jeans. A few of the ambitious ones blazed with dangly legs and non-frost bitten cropped tops. In those defeated moments, the brainwashed then believed they transformed into penguins.  With bowed down vanquished heads, they waddled into this store- the wily one that stacked some baits of hope.