Pimp My TYite

(written by Sayali Patil, who had to write a story about me. She had to include the words ‘vaseline’ and ‘whip’)


The train starts picking its pace, slowly and slowly as Kathan tightens his arms around Susanne. As he watches the trees and the stations passing by, it reminds him of how he met Susanne and how quickly has the time passed away. This might be their 12th or 13th journey together; visiting different places together and spending time with one another. His eyes come back from the window to Susanne, who is still sleeping in his arms.
He watches her face carefully, her well defined eyelashes and her beautiful lips. The evening light falling on her face makes her look even prettier. He tilts her face and plants a gentle kiss on her lips as he tastes the vaseline on them. She wakes up and smiles at him shyly just like the way she had when had mentioned about his wild fantasies with whips and other things.
They start talking and she tells him about her past again, this time she also tells him everything about how she was adopted and how she doesn’t know who her real parents are. Kathan talks to her about his last wife and his daughter and how he doesn’t know where they are right now.
They talk about each other’s pasts for a really long time, that’s when the pieces fall into places and she realises who her real father is.

Home Of Words.

Alphabets are all that I have.
Because I never have had anything in life.
Come, take shelter in my arms,
Don’t leave me alone, my love.
Everyone else did. Each and every time.
Forgetting me like an unwanted chore.
Gone with the wind, without a trace.
Haplessly giving a sad smile,
I keep the door to my home open.
Just allowing everyone and saying,
Kindly make yourself comfortable.
Let your soul be free and be yourselves.” ; but
My non-materialistic home holds
No importance to them.
Over and over they ignore it.
Preferring material things; which make me
Question my principles and whether I
Rest too much trust in and my thoughts to
Souls which look for something finite.
To those, I would say,
Vain is the vessel,
Without the soul.
Xysts, parks, beaches and the air are where
You will find your home, for there lays the
Zest of life.”


A lowly luminous gaseous body,
Falls in my field of vision.
Floating around arbitrarily,
In broad daylight,
Its light is nothing but wasted.
Aimlessly like a vagabond,
It wanders from place to place,
Looking for something,
Like a finale, an end.
An end to it’s tiresome,
Long and lonely journey,
Which is filled with-
“Water is sand.”
It says out loud interrupting my thoughts.
It was told that it was born to spread light,
But it didn’t know how, or when or to whom.
But how would a star not know how or when t-
“Water is sand!”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Water is sand! Water is sand!
Is this the real li-
Shine a light on-”
“WAIT! STOP! Calm down.”
“Can’t! Must give people-”
“But what do you want? Do you feel like spreading light and warmth? Why do you think you’re alive?”
“Ali-i-i-ve.. Hope… Yes……….. Hope.”
“You hope for what dear one?”
“I w-an-t (?), people to look up at me when it’s dark, and hope. Yes. Hope. YESS! HOPE. I want to see hope in their eyes and watch the eyes light up like pearls. I want to make them feel like there is still something worth smiling for and something worth fighting for.”
I stood there in awe as I watched a star shine in broad daylight, not because it was told it had to, but because it had finally realised what made it shine.
And shining had never felt lighter and the star had never looked brighter.
And whenever things seem to be going south in life, I look up to the sky at night, at the bright star in the North doing what it wanted to, and hope…

Of Sand and Waves.

I walk all the way from the train station to the sea. And the half an hour walk was worth it.
I remove my sneakers and the socks, and place my naked legs softly on the sand. I feel my toes dig in into the grains and feel the warmth against my skin and nails.
It isn’t as windy as I wanted it to be, but still, I feel serene. There’s something about the sea I guess which makes it beautiful even though it isn’t what I want it to be.
And I walk towards the sea and feel the waves against my ankles. And this feeling, is something that I haven’t felt since the last 5 years. And I had almost forgotten how calming the waves were.
They gently crash against my skin and enter my bloodstream. Make me content for that moment.
I kneel down, not giving a care in the world about my shorts, and trace my finger on the moist sand.
The traces spell “The V” because that’s what an immature 19 year old like me will write.
And the next thing I know is that “The V” is gone. The waves just told me to act my age (and how I’m not going to get the V anytime soon).
I smiled faintly, looked up to the sky and sighed.
I looked down on the sand again, and yet again traced my fingers against the soft surface. This time, writing “Hurt”.
And yet, the waves washed away the hurt, leaving the sand as it was before, untouched.
I did this over and over again, with different words.
I wrote “Pain” – and when the sea touched it, it was gone.
I wrote “Past” – and as soon as the waves were over it, the sand was clean now.
I wrote “Love” – and as always, the waves worked their magic.
And after couple of other words and childish drawings, I wrote a final word.
But I knew, as I saw the wave approaching, that the moment the waves touch the word, I have to let it go. And this is what I did.

And that evening, I experimented with more than just water and sand.
I learnt that if the waves cannot wash away the traces, it can at least fade them away.
I realised that time can truly be compared to waves.
I realised that I can let go too, because after all life, is just a story of sand and waves, isn’t it?


I’m on the bed in the balcony and it’s 4 am. I feel the cold breeze flow through my hair and sweep away the sleep off off my face. But even this single bed, it feels too spacious.
After all, your absence never failed to make itself known to me. I lay down on one side of my body, and place another pillow in your place and spoon my arm around just to end the strange heartache; because I’d rather a pillow, where your body used to be against mine, than the heartache which also makes itself at home at the centre of my chest.
I remember how we used to be up at night, talking (or arguing) about how Stoik’s death was much more of a blow than the shooting of Bambi’s mother. And as I try to sleep and press my ear to my pillow, my bed, I can hear our awful voices singing “Come On Eileen”. We’d dance ‘seductively’, insult each other, and fall down laughing, only to look into each other’s eyes, smile, and let the moment work it’s magic.
Your head used to be on my chest, and you’d tap your long, artistic index finger on my stomach to the same rhythm as my heartbeat. I would have my arms around you and would trace my finger on your bare back as we would stay as we were, in silence, comfortably, and feel warm and safe with each other.
I miss it, I miss it all, I miss you.
And right now, I’m huddling inside the mattress and looking at the stars. Now I wonder, if you are looking at the same stars as I am, and thinking about me, and feeling the same way that I do.
And if you too are talking to yourself and looking at the full moon, hoping that we come full circle.

What Amortentia Smells Like To Me.

[Thank you Fake Twin, for giving me the idea to write this, you really don’t know how much it means, Ily]

“Ashwinder eggs? Check. Rose thorns? Check. Peppermint? Check. Powdered moonstone? Check.”
I fold the yellow parchment and place it on the open Potions book.

‘Amortentia.’ the page read. And like every other teenage witch and wizard in this room, I was excited too.
And just as we started brewing the potion, I felt something at the centre of my chest. Excitement? Nervousness? I have no idea, but as I watched the smooth surface of the Amortentia in cauldron and it’s spiral steam rising up, I finally absorbed that it was time.

They say the aroma for this particular love potion is different for everyone because people smell things that appeal the most to them.
So, I bent down and took a deep breath.
Oh God. I find myself grinning. For I smell the most beautiful things.

It hasn’t rained lately, and yet, I smell the damp soil. This tells me, that two fundamentally different things can come together to make something beautiful and alluring.
For a moment I forgot that I’m down in the dungeons and instead I visualised that I’m at the ground, laying down on the dew-drop ladden grass and breathing something with makes me feel surreal.
A blueish calm fills my mind and makes me feel rather green about life. Everything feels new and I get curious about almost everything, just like a pup does. I find wonder in whatever I see, from things as small as a flake of snow to something as wide as the sky. And this feeling is like a Renaissance to me.

And within another wisp of the aroma and a loud crack, I apparate onto my kitchen counter right beside my stove. I see a utensil, with tea brewing in it on a low simmer. A nice masala-chai with lemon grass is one of the most refreshing scent I can ever have. I remember when I first made tea at home. I opened the tea jar and kept my nose in it for more than 10 minutes straight just because it put me in a trance. Adding lemon grass to it, was well, a feeling which I hardly ever experience. Heavenly? Unearthly? I have no idea. And I probably want that feeling to remain wordless.
Because for me, in that moment, that smell makes me transcend the boundaries of reality.

And as I was raising my head again to get my head in the class, I smelled something else.
And I realise, that it’s that smell which I get when my chin is on her shoulder and my hands wrapped around her. And it’s her smell. The smell of her skin, her hair or probably a concoction of both. But it makes me feel safe and warm. And her face appears as clear as daylight in front of my eyes. And her wide eyes, although momentarily, make me feel like everything is right, and that I, am alive.
And to be honest, nothing is worth it if it doesn’t make you feel alive.

They say the aroma for this particular love potion is different for everyone because people smell things that appeal the most to them. Now I don’t know what  the potion tried to tell me, but I can truly say that it’s left me in a magical daze and a heart-warming awe and scents, which although may change with time, are for now, to be called, mine.

Dear Eighteen.

November 27, 2014 to November 27, 2015.

It was the best of times, worst of times; it was life.” and so here’s an ode (and a post)  to (for) you dear 18.

My dear eighteen,

The most valuable lessons and experiences in life are learnt and gained (respectively) in the toughest of times, and you, my ‘finally-adult’ one, were the worst. Sorry if I was rude, but you know that too. You were simply awful.
You were worse than the year in which dad had a stroke, and I saw his left side cease to function for a couple of days.
You were worse than the year in which we had to leave town for a couple of days and the 6 year old me was confused why.

Yes, I hate you. To the core. But as much as I hate you, I’m thankful to God that YOU HAPPENED to me. And I’m glad that I went through the things I did. Because I, the person I was, was NOT ready for those, at all. And you, by showing me those, have prepared me for tougher times ahead which I may face in about the next 47 years (considering the average life expectancy in India in 66 years).

I thank you (kind of), because you made me learn how to deal with loss. You showed me that even after somebody dies, you can still keep learning about them, their life. It can keep unfolding itself to you just as long as you pay attention to it.

I thank you, because you made me feel the first-crush feeling again. Scratching my head with a wide silly grin when she’d walk into the room would make me realise that life is mesmerising and people can move you without words too.

I thank you, because you taught me how to deal with failure and confusion. Flunking an exam is never easy, and flunking probably the most important one you’re appearing for is obviously not. Dealing with that was no cake walk, and confusion was bound to set in. But, dear one, you made me realise, that overthinking, won’t help, ever.

I thank you, so much, for giving me people, I didn’t know could/ do exist until I talked to them. You showed me how people can slide a finger smoothly over your mind and soul, even if they live in an another hemisphere. I could consider that the ‘best of times’ about you. If I used the maximin strategy, this would be it.

I thank you, because you showed me that blood, is not always thicker than water. And that the world, in the end, is all about money. You showed me that along with my own academics, I can help someone else with theirs too. And becoming a teacher, I understood why you have been so harsh to me.

A lot happened in the 365 days that you existed in my life, and now, you hand over to nineteen a brand new ‘me’, a ‘me’ I never thought that I could (ever) be. A ‘me’ who is not exactly like the ‘me’ I was on 27/11/14. I hate you eighteen, I abso-friggin-lutely do, but YOU are the year that I’ll be most thankful to. You TRULY made me an adult (who would still laugh at childish jokes and 69 [LOL])

Yes eighteen, “It was the best of times, worst of times; it was life.” And now, as I reach the end of this nearly 500-word long letter, I’m starting to wonder, what time you were.

To you, Eighteen, the year I learnt. To you, nineteen, the year I look forward to now.

Your victim/student,

[PS: The lines in italics are quotes from a movie]

The Unwanted Chapter.

(Look, I was gonna go easy on you not to hurt your feelings.
But I’m only going to get this one chance)

Oh person,

You knew that I was writing a book. You entered my life and my mind in such a manner, that I was induced into writing a chapter for you.
You used to draw on my right hand when you were sad and I didn’t mind that, not even a bit. And neither of us knew how, but I’d always know, somehow, when you wanted to draw. And I’d voluntarily offer my hand. I remember almost every detail.
And now I wish that I never sat beside you.

I was pretty down one day, and I put my hand on yours and quickly pulled it away when you had a weird look. We ended up holding hands so many times later on.
But I wish that I was strong, so that my hand didn’t crave a hand to hold now.

I took all our memories, took the effort to express them through metaphors.
But now it’s occurred to me, finally, that you WANTED to be a chapter in my book, in my life, only because someone showed you a cold shoulder.
I was just a means for you to mean something to someone. But now all our times mean nothing to me. They’re just thorns in my memories.

So now, I have decided, to rip the pages apart which have you in them. Especially the chapter. Nine months from the book of my life. Gone.
I don’t want your existence in my book or my life. These are times where I wish that  ‘Eternal Sunshine Of A Spotless Mind’ was real, so that I could erase you as easily as a dot of pencil.

So, my dear friend, I don’t care what you feel anymore. I’m done being a doormat. And these are my final words to you.

“Fuck. You.”

Not yours,


(Nightcall: To get drunk and call your crush and/or your ex-girlfriend/someone you love late at night)

Hello you,

It’s 2AM. And I’m thinking about you again.
I don’t know what I feel about you, but I do know this.
I need you, your voice and your songs to keep me wild and alive. All I can do without you is survive and exist. You look into my eyes, crawl into my mind and pick pieces of my thoughts and give them an eloquent meaning.
I miss you love. I miss our meetings at the cafe and laughing at the cheesy couples who would share their chocolate brownie. We laughed so hard when that guy crashed into the glass door thinking it was open.
Remember that one time we sat there for an hour and a half and didn’t order a thing? We bought two cups of chocolate mousse and then kept strolling in the lane.
I miss our talks, because I loved how you mixed hindi words with english. I don’t know why but I don’t want you to be correct about your “your” and “you’re” because it always reminds me of this conversation.


I still want to go out with you probably because you understand me better than most people. You also inspire me to become the man I CAN be. You talk about things that I’m pretty sure no other girl does. You think big, talk bigger and dream even more so. The last time we met, we talked about LIVING life, living alone enjoying and not just existing. And I loved it. I loved you a lot in that moment.
But I guess you will not pay much attention right now to all this, since you have your priorities set. But I suggesting giving it a thought for 10 mins or maybe even 5, just give it a thought.
Because I…
I… Uhh..
I love you.

The Butterfly Effect

(The Butterfly Effect: the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere.)

I sit here,
In darkness, silence and solitude,
Brooding and wondering,
Why my life is the way it is,
And why I smile the way I do.

Each and every action that I took,
Each and every word that I spoke,
Has led me to this moment,
This, very, moment.

It’s scary and funny at the same time.
Because if I knew,
That playing truth and dare that day,
Would lead to me having complex feelings for you today,
I would never spun the bottle out of boredom.

Because if I knew,
That switching over to bollywood love songs from Linkin Park,
Would lead to my parents not trusting me anymore,
I would never have asked for a 512MB mini SD card.

There are so many things that I would not have done,
There are so many things that I would’ve done differently.
But life, oh life!
It’s left me now with an unsolicited solitude.

And now, as I sit here,
Laughing over my dumb luck.
I start losing sense of reality,
And sink into a land of thought,
Where the outcomes have changed,
Where life is not like it is now,
Where The Butterfly Effect is set in motion,
And where I descend into lunacy.