a slightly exaggerated but true experience of eating what turned out to be an outrageously good muffin

my sister and i bought six too many muffins. one whole extra box. at the bakery, we had more than convinced ourselves that one box of six muffins isn’t enough to serve a family of four! so, naturally, we bought another box. you see, there was no maternal supervision; there was only our fancy, our mother’s money and a whole shop of delicious confectionery. it’s a miracle we didn’t buy some other things we would be ashamed of. it was surprising that while standing at the check-out counter and buying those twelve delicious cupcakes, we felt no guilt whatsoever, even when both of us had an unsaid mutual understanding that neither of our parents will eat even one cupcake – what, with adults, and their calories and health and all of that important stuff. also the fact that one entire box contained too much of something my mother doesn’t eat: egg. so essentially, we had just bought twelve cupcakes for the two of us. when we sat in the car with our muffins, both of us looked at each other and probably thought the same thing: well. at least we have variety – one box of chocolate muffins and one box of red velvet muffins.

skipping ahead to the good part – past our mother’s defeated sighs and our red cheeks – we sat down to eat our evening snack: one chocolate and red velvet muffin each. yes, we decided to reward ourselves after watching an annoyingly good movie. nothing like positive reinforcement done right, yes? as we were seated at our dining table, we switched on our stereo and it played smooth, silky piano notes. there are only three tracks on my iPod that are instrumentals, and one was playing right as we took our first bite into the muffins. and for some reason in that moment, as my teeth sunk into the delicious, chocolate fluff that was the muffin, i realised that i had never heard the piano so transcendentally. everything seemed to proceed in slow motion; the music flowed through my ears, and seemed to pass through my entire body. right then, i felt like i was exaggeratedly aware of all of my five senses: i could taste the sweetest of the sweets, i could hear the sound of simple, ethereal music, i could feel the rhythm of the piano notes, as i watched my sister probably experiencing the same thing while eating her own muffin, and i could smell a new, freshly-baked story for my perpetually inactive blog.


the sea

i can hear the sea whispering my name / acknowledging the yearning within me / to dip my toes into the sand that is warm with comfort and security / to touch and caress the white and the blue of the wonders before me / to feel the cold sea in my palm for a split second before she returns home / to taste the salt in the wind / to see the day transform into an evening of experience and awareness / to smell the petrichor but without the rain / i never learned how to float, but as i imagine myself standing before the grandeur of the endless blue, all of my anchors sink and i rise, drifting towards someplace i have never been before / i am not afraid / i am conscious of every moment of my being / i am alive / i am here / i am

victoria secret beer

intoxication and alcohol in general has been a bit of a question mark for the past nineteen years of my life. with a mother who looks down upon on a bottle of anything but water or fresh juice as a punch to the healthy body and a father who is a common recipient of hard liqour but drinks thrice in a bluemoon, alcohol has never passed the boundary of an acquaintance with me. this is probably the primary reason for my curiosity about it, a recurring question being ‘oh what’s it like to be very tipsy or, god forbid, even drunk i wonder?’ inebriation is supposedly a rage and i wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other side; but in the past few months, i’ve never gone past two beers which just made my head hurt, nothing worse.

i’m going out on a limb here, hoping that my parents or any of my adult relatives for that matter, don’t read this blog of mine anymore because i’ve got an experience to share which they – Indian parents who claim to be modern and are truly so in several fields,  are in actuality not very open about other important things that may matter very much so in my future – might not necessarily be happy about.

a week and a half ago, my friends and i were prepared to test our tolerance level – we downed about six beers each. you needn’t be alarmed – we were at home, with every level of security and with the comfort of being able to use the loo seven times, if need be. with four beers down, we were just a little over tipsy and it was turning out to be a very good and fulfilling evening, spent with the best of my friends. with the sixth beer gulped down, i was very proud of my tolerance level.

besides the many voice recordings riddled with drunken guffaws and sloppy chuckles we sent to our other good friends and the spilling of a few sips of beer onto the floor in a tipsy haze, we seemed completely sober. when i had to leave my friend’s home to go pick up my mother (my driver uncle was around, still no reason to be alarmed; also i don’t know to drive yet) from her friend’s place, i like to think that i did a very good job of putting up a sober act; that was until my mother – who has the nose of a bloodhound, apparently – asked me, “did you drink anything, what’s that smell?” and while my heart went berserk and plunged into panic mode, i replied, “no we just drank lemon juice, and that smell is victoria secret beer – i mean, victoria secret perfume, the new one i got, remember? ha ha ha.” my stars must have been beautifully aligned that evening for my mother was too distracted to understand my rushed words.


some many seasons ago, i met a girl so unlike me that i fell in love with her. she was as blunt as the end of a cigarette, her words sharper than the edge of a knife. she claimed to have a stone for a heart, but there were moments when she would let its weight sink and her feelings float above. one could say she was a work of art: bold, messy, d i f f i c u l t, but in progress. when her confusing, cloudy world entered the view of my rose-coloured glasses, i was caught off g  uard. i had never felt so dis or ie nted; it was a feeling like no other. i liked girls? i liked girls, too.
in all my years, i hadn’t had such an enormous question mark
towering over


i knew i was utterly spent when i caught my heart f l utt e r ing as soon as she laid her head on my shoulder, resembling the perfect word in a poem to be italicised; i knew i was absolutely hopeless when she had placed her cold palm just under my collarbones to check my temperature, my cheeks as red as the nail polish i never wore again.
and i knew i was a  g o n e  r         when she playfully patted my behind and exclaimed that i had, “a great ass”. she was everything i was not. on most days, it was  fucking infuriating, but on some days it was absurdly endearing. i hated a lot of things about her: her ambivalence, her apathy, her incessant !!!! swearing, her l aid back attitude about nearly e v e r y t h i n g, how she’d brush over things that mattered to me, how annoyingly good she looked in the worst pictures i took of her, amongst other things. but the things i liked about her? they outweighed everything else: her subtle yet well-meaning caring side|, her honesty, her sense of humour – just as terrible as mine, her courage, her terribly underestimated mind, a selflessness that i found lacking in almost everyone else – she  had  my  heart.

“does she feel the same way?”

i worry every other minute, but as i write type this i realise that it doesn’t matter after all, [[[[does it?]]]] it’s not like i can suddenly! stop loving her for being, well, her. it’s going to take tick time tock for this moment to p a s s,  so i might as well revel in the days of our growing ~comfort~ around each other, be it as friends or just a someone new in each other’s lives.
until this situation comes to a close, i plan to lurk around her – just to make sure she’s not too self destructive; i’ll hover around for a little while longer…, to be able to laugh with her at the plainest of things, until the “rational” side of my mind realises that there are other things to work upon. after all, i want to do great things, i just don’t know what

: a slightly exaggerated version of what i experienced when i had a crush on a girl
last year


the story of a bath

the brush of my clothes i miss
amidst the bare of my body,
surrounded by cold tiles, colder air
that invades my personal space.
water begins its descent,
from the shower onto ice beneath and
the fall of the drops splash my face
as i stand aside, waiting
for the water to steam.
goosebumps mark my body;
unlike a temple, i’m not proud
of the spots, the skin, the hair
i see so clearly in the mirror;
nearly always melancholy
in this place, i stand outside
of my comfort zone
in the cold
my eyes
see the steam
rise into the air and
under the water i stand
to wash away my thoughts;
the hot water first strikes my skin
but later caresses gently,
i breathe in deeply and sigh
as the mirror fogs up and i only see
a blur that shows me mercy
from my own self; the water so hot
almost gets under my skin
to help my highly strung nerves,
unwind from within;
my toes curl, fingertips prune
signalling it’s time to leave,
to do more important things,
than drown in self pity,
and i emerge outside
with steam rising
from my body.

poor mr. cabbie

hey mr. cabbie,
what’s on your mind,
is it the family of three
that you saw passing by?
or is it the little brown sparrow
that’s been a stranger to your eye?

hey mr. cabbie,
what are you thinking about,
is it your favourite apple tree,
that you recently saw cut down?
or is it the absurdly grey cloud in the sky,
its shape akin to that of a dead butterfly?

hey mr. cabbie,
what was your last thought,
was it the news on the telly
about the big bleak future that is your next stop?
or do you feel the choking breeze,
and hear the greens on your usual route cry?

hey mr. cabbie,
you better watch your step,
the war is coming, and this is your warning
the wheels of your car will screech in worry,
the roads will crack, the building will fall
and the earth will sneer, bulls-eye.

specks of dust

we are the forgotten comma,
and the neglected semi colon;
we are like words of gratitude
not conveyed, never felt.
we yearn for a moment of glory,
a touch of honour and a whiff of fame,
but we forget to be happy,
what a terrible shame.
we are all specks of dust
floating upward, frontward
in the light,
while our life takes off,
and we miss the flight.