Latest Posts

Return Address

Hey Mum,

Thanks for the letter. All I can say is that I wish you weren’t so scared and worried about me all the the time!! ‘I am precious’, I get it!  No need to get so emotional about that! I am precious, because YOU think so. The universe is hardly bothered about my existence.

I am not weak, so stop telling me how to live a good life. I cannot live a life that YOU value as good. I like myself.  I am not affected by how others see me, I do forget to brush at night often and I enjoy lifestyle mags terribly.

I do not know about tomorrow, but I am gonna tell you this, I will not make your mistakes!  Probably YOU have been afraid of taking a step forward! So, do me a favor and take a step that you think is necessary for your life and not tell me about it. I do not live your life mum. Thank you for everything, but please do not worry about me,

I am good. Will be better if you stop this whining about me! And I do not fear consequences, I am simply fear not being able to be myself. I want to understand this life, the way I feel it, I see it, experience it. I value your opinion but I want to form my own opinions as well ! I love you mum, I get you! But you have to trust me! I will be fine!



P.S: I do not like ginger tea! and instead of water, will beer do?

Return Address


The Letter


Clicked this happy pair at the Brisbane Ekka three years ago! Please do not copy it. This is not a stock photo.

Hey there,

Firstly, I love you and always will. As long as you will be able to remember me, as long as I will be able to remember you, we must remember that we love each other. If there will time travel in future and if somehow you manage to come back to Now, you will forever find me loving you, with all that I am and everything that I can be.

In life, it does not matter what you want, who you become, who you are with;  never be scared to take a step forward (or sideways). There will always be consequences for each step you take in life. There is no avoiding them. It is better to face consequences than to sit back, wondering what would have happened had you done this, had you said that.

Life, my dear, happens once. We admire the stars, the mountains, the seas. Funny, for they were here from long ago, they will be there long after. It is you, me; us mortal creatures that are miracles really. Each of us, happen in this world only once in the history of space and time.

Amazing, when you think of it!

Every time you look at the mirror, does not matter how old you are, how unhappy or lonely or happy and glad you feel, remember that the world should look at you with awe and wonder, for you happened just ‘once’

So learn to celebrate yourself. Take care of yourself.  Do brush your teeth every night. Use that foot cream,  take that holiday, have that beer, drop that cigarette. Smile. Keep a diary of happy memories; you will need it.

You are precious love, not just to your family or friends, but to the universe. There is only ONE of you in this entire physical world. Once you do that, you will discover how easy it is to treat others nicely, how easy it is to love any animal, how easy it is to ignore judgement from others.

How difficult it is to hate anything at all.

Learn to love yourself, not because lifestyle magazines tell you do so. If you can remember ever, how I look at you now, you will probably understand how you should look at yourself. Therefore, take that step, make that mistake, pay for it too, lament that life in general is mundane and be glad for it. That mundane life is what so many pray for. Do not be scared. Never Fear Consequences.



P.S– There isn’t a trouble in the world that a cup of ginger tea won’t solve. If you are unsure about what to do next, have a glass of water.

Literate for a Day

Am I a Blogger? Or Not!

This is an important question. This is also NaBloPoMo prompt of the day.

The very first answer that comes to my head is ‘No, I am not a professional blogger’

Why Not? Well, frankly I do not earn one bit from this, nor from the beta reading I do for quite a few writers and writers-to-be. To be honest, I do not earn at all. I am stay-at-home mum and yes not earning makes it difficult.

However, another thing comes to my mind. Is earning money is the only signifier of a profession?  I like writing, I have written all my life. Technically,  I have written for blogs, written contents, written stories, written diaries, written recipes and I want to keep on doing so. I get these arthritic pains and I sincerely wish that I never have them on my fingers.

Therefore, I can say I have a long writing experience. Does that not count? In a profession ‘experience’ counts, right?  The fact that I spend a good portion of my day to maintain my writings, does that not count? That I do not watch TV, or go to a movie, but diligently work towards my stories, does that count?

Honestly, I do not know. What makes someone a professional? An university degree? I have one, a good one. Being at home was my choice. Only once you enter the ‘home’ somehow the society overlooks your work, even assumes that you have none.

So, coming back to this blogging, what should I call myself? Know what, I am NOT a professional blogger. Not because I do not earn from it, but because I refuse to attribute a definition to something I enjoy doing so much. I believe defining something also limits it.  I do not like ‘limits’. Allowing them in life, makes it so constricted.

Let me not have a definition of who I am, what I do, what do I call myself? I like blogging. I also like photography, cooking, playing with my kid! I am a professional NOTHING! I like it that way!

Beware! Beware! His Flashing Eyes, His Floating Hair!

indexDoes the poem have a special meaning for me? No.

Does it have any other reason that it stayed in my mind? Yes, you see, I have never read a poem more intense, more scary and more enticing in my life. (And I have been made to read quite a few)

I am not going to write about Kubla Khan. There are just too many books, too my PhD articles, too many everything about Samuel Taylor Coleridge. What I am about to write is about my sheer dumbness regarding my understanding of this particular poem.

I read it very often, at night, when I know that the rest of the family is asleep. The poem gives me the same goosebumps every time.(I assure you, Benedict Cumberbatch’s  recitation of the poem has nothing at all with how I feel about these lines)

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover

I do not know why I like Kubla Khan. However, I think it somehow affects me in the most breathtaking way possible. It is unimaginable how one can place the words ‘savage’ and ‘holy’ in the same context.

The truth is that I have never read anything so disturbingly attractive, so detailed and yet so full of mystery. It is difficult to even discuss this poem without digressing in to philosophy.

And that is the beauty of this poem. It always makes me feel so many things, overwhelms me each time that I stand completely dumbfounded to my own mind and its capabilities. Every time I read it, I end up with the rather unsettling feeling, the feeling that I did not understand what it said. I felt it; I can even say that I saw what the poet wanted me to see. The moment you ask me to write I am done for! I do not know.

How do you really write ‘fear’, ‘awe’, and ‘beauty’. Words are symbols; They are not those feelings themselves, just some icons, signifying certain emotions. I cannot, however much I try, show you ‘fear’ by arranging ‘f’,’e’,’a’ and ‘r’ in a meaningful way. No one can.

That is how I feel when I read Kubla Khan. Mind stops working, heart overladen with emotions and the pain of not being able to put them in words so that I can share it and relieve myself of the intensity of emotions this poem creates in me.
By Heart

Midnight Snacks…


It is two o clock. I know it is. I always wake up at two o clock.  It is always the same ceiling above, with the old smoke alarm on it.  I blink, then feel the grumble in my insides.

hunger, Hunger, HUNGER!

I push myself out of the bed. It is always a fight, am I more hungry or sleepy?Should I duck under the quilt and wait till sleep overtakes the hunger and I do not have to wake up? It is cold outside.

hungry, Hungry, HUNGRY! Aiming towards the kitchen, I walk like a somnambulist, in a per-programmed GPS mode. It is so difficult to keep my eyes open. Mum always says ‘have a full dinner, finish that milk!’ Do I ever? Nopes.

Small kitchen with a large window. The night is dark outside. Very still. Red clouds coiling above. The sky tonight is waiting to break in to thunderstorm. I am terribly afraid of lightening.

I rather collect my food and get back under my quilt. So I search my kitchen with a well stocked pantry, always smelling of food, butter, flour, cream, berries, meat, herbs, bread…warm bread. I need to do something about my midnight snacking issues, I think. I always think that, then I always raid the fridge. Somehow there is always a little chocolate, a slice of pie,  may be a few muffins, always.

Rubbing my eyes and yawning as much as I can, I open the fridge door. My old steel colored fridge, trusted for years. There, the apple pie, from yesterday. One large chunk left, do I have cream? Nopes, never mind.

Happy to see it, I extend my hands in to grab it. Food! It seems I have been hungry for years, years and years. Why can I not reach it? I try again, and again. It is right there, right in front. I cannot touch it. A loud crack of lightening. Oh dear! I run back.

May be I will wake mum up. Mum is sleeping in her usual pajamas, holding dad. I smile looking at them, cute! But I am hungry. I wake mum up, ‘ mum, mum, wake up I am hungry’

She blinks and looks at me, ‘wha…’

Surprise, disbelief…Why am I feeling so hungry? Everything starts melting around me, mum’s face, my hands, the thunder outside, the kitchen. My hunger is consuming me, I have been so hungry for years. I start crying ‘mum, I am hungry, I can’t eat’

She can hear me, I know she can. After that I lose myself. How? I do not know but I am certain, tomorrow night at two I will wake up again!

a href=””>Trio No. 3



Nighthawks- Hooper

‘ There is no reason to wear a hat at night, but I did. The yellow-white neon light was just too much for my eyes. It shone on me, right on my eyes. I had to pull the rim down lower…better…much better. Hopefully the screaming headache will pacify soon. Its that light, that’s making my head burn. I am awfully thirsty. On the opposite wall, the clock struggled to strike one.

I sat on one of the tools, by the cheap wooden counter, sweating under my suits.

I need a drink, hah! I already had a drink, a lot more than just one! Isn’t that why I am at a ice-cream parlor. Why am I here really? So late in the night. I do have a home, had a home, now I have a house. Three months ago I used to go home early. Afterwards there would be screamings. Now, I don’t bother going home. no one screams there anymore. Is it possible to hire a screamer, someone to complain and nag about the day once I put my briefcase down. They say money can buy anything!

“Which one sir?’ the blonde guy was asking. Nice looking bloke, sharp nose, fair skin, thin, hollowed cheeks. ‘Why are you here?’ I want to ask ‘Vanilla’ I reply instead. Ice cream guy looks at me, nah measures me. Why? Cant a person want a midnight ice cream? Honestly, I am too drunk, too old, too boring, too angry, too tired to even try and see what other flavors they have. Vanilla, good old vanilla, nice, steady, comfortable vanilla.

‘Cup o cone mister?’ he smiled at me. Not a nice smile, or may be its me, may be I smell of whisky. I do not like smiling blokes. I feel like punching his teeth out.

‘Cup’ I say.

‘Sure n you ma’am?’

On the opposite counter, by the street a brunette stood, in a red dress, or a blouse, not sure. Angry, she was angry and breathtaking. ‘Have coffee?’ she asked, deep voice, deep as the red on her lips, deep as those brown eyes, deep and angry.

‘Cappuccino, two’ she sat down on one of those tools without waiting for an answer. The ice cream guy did not smile at her but he ran to the coffee machine.

Beside her was the tall guy. Taller than me, head capped in a hat, strong nose jutting out over thin lips pale blue eyes. The moment I looked at him, he looked back at me. I darted my glance, to the lonely empty streets behind him. Closed shops, empty shop windows. The street was bathed in dull green light. Streetlamps. Reminding you more of failure.

Their coffee mugs turned up first. I sat beating my fingers against the cherrywood counter. She was sad. The way she poured over her coffee, her long lashes never let me see the color of those eyes. My ice cream, almost frozen to hard ice arrived soon after.  This is better, the cold ice cream, against my hot dry thirsty tongue. On our very first date, we had vanilla ice cream. Cones. Walked for hours after that.

I steal a glance at the man. Hiding under his hat, he was looking at her, taking her in. This empty sidewalk, this dark useless, lifeless night. The city smell, of cars and petrol, of us, of boredom. I wanted to laugh. I am old, boring, tired, angry but I can still recognize it anywhere, ANYWHERE.

It is the look of love. That ugly man, with rude face, stubborn eyes, he loves her…

Doppelgangar Alert! Good Heavens !

Say I enter a house, as per the situation given. I find it to be exactly like my house, the alignment, the furniture, to the books on the selves (a black wooden cabinet really, with books arranged subject wise, alphabetically) and wall art, which on my case will be none, I think I will stare.

Being me, which is being incredibly slow to retorts, snide remarks and beating myself up later for not answering, I think I will do just that! Be slow! Wonder where have I seen a house like this before, may be even comment on the alarming number of Agatha Christies and Patricia Mckillips on the shelf; may be, just may be feel impressed to find someone just like me.

Will I realize it to be a doppelganger? Not immediately, not unless I find the same brown patch on the carpet, that same chalkboard, that same notepad with ‘bread, eggs, self-raising flour’ scribbled on it. That will be the time I will not be talking much. I think I will be taking it all in. Simple, be polite, courteous;  probably even ask, where did this person acquire that wooden carved tissue box.

Then I am going to drive home.

Then I guess I will PANIC!

That will last me a week. However, who knows, for I have complained so many times about how no one gets me, I might find my exact friend.

Doppelgänger Alert