“Today I walked a hundred bucks.”
“You mean a hundred metres?”
“No, I mean a hundred bucks.”
“Well, the distance I covered would’ve cost about hundred rupees by cab.”
“But can you really measure the experience of walking in rupees?”
“You can’t. But sometimes, you need to put a price to everything that’s priceless to make society understand the value of it. It’s like saying the rustling of the trees and the wisp of the wind costs x amount of money.”

Death by WhatsApp Groups

Hey, I’m only just exiting your WhatsApp group

It’s not like I’m exiting our group as such

Look, we still remain, flesh and blood, cheers and hugs

We still differ on some things and agree on so much.


But you see, from morning to evening

My life has been going beep beep… beep beep

I am lost in my thoughts and I don’t want to awaken

Or I’m just very awake when I should be asleep.


And I like to be in the moment,

Not in pieces, in many different places, you see

So when I’m with you, I shall be with you intensely, fully

But when I’m with myself, please just let me be.

Finding Solitude

Telling the family that I’m working overtime in office.

Telling my colleagues that I can’t work overtime because I’m at the art studio.

Telling my mentor that I can’t make it to the studio because I’m visiting the family.

This is a lie I am guilty of having told.

But however important each of the elements in this trinity are to me, sometimes, I just need to be by myself. And time to myself is not easy to come by.

Solitude, is something worth stealing for.

I write because…

I write because I know, one day, once again, like many times before, I will feel like tearing everything up. Burning down the diaries. Deleting everything there ever was.

But till then, I shall write.

I write because I am full to the brim with things to express. And by brim I mean a height of a hundred feet above my head.

I will catch those thoughts with a butterfly net, and write.

I write because sometimes, I get tired of selling smartphones, selling products, selling promises. I crave to be honest, transparent, open.

I write because I want to paint large canvases, sing out loud, bring down the house with an electric guitar.

But till the time I have only a fountain pen or a keyboard, I shall write.

I write because I know I can make small talk if I have to, but when I bump into people, it hardly is small talk.

I write because I happened to meet a beautiful lady at a concert, who told me she had read what I had written. She mentioned she hadn’t said anything, because she had related to it too much and too strongly. Because she had found expression in what I had written, for what she had only felt.

I write because I know how to live with vulnerability, with sensitivity. Because I have not let the hard times harden me, or the bad guys kill me.

I write because one day, as I was walking into a party, knowing the first thing I would do when I got the chance was to delete the status update I had foolishly posted, I was told by someone that I had inspired them.

And despite the heart that had perhaps opened up too much, I decided to let it be.

I write because I know that conflicting, contradictory emotions can exist together, all at once. The first time a poem of mine was published, and my mother happened to find it, her heart had swelled with pride, but her eyes were soaked in tears.

I write because I dream of a world where we don’t have to pretend that everything is alright, when it isn’t.

I write because I dream of a world where we don’t have to pretend that everything isn’t flowery, beautiful, rocking, when in fact it is.

I write because I know I’m not a writer, and I have no set standards to attain.

In a world that is quick to judge you for your looks, to note you for your dresses, to look at you for your legs or your hair, I write to assert my humanness.

I write to feel less alone.

I write because I don’t give a damn what people think.

Or at least try to.

I write in order to live.

I write because I must.

Some thoughts on my first exhibition


(‘The Joy of Being Alive’, oil on canvas, 3 feet by 4 feet. One of the paintings from my first ever exhibition)

When at an exhibition, take two rounds.

The first is where I leave you alone with my art. You are free to look, experience, feel, judge, like, love, hate – whatever you want.

The second round, you take with me. I tell you what I felt while creating a piece, what I want to convey, as best as I can put into words what can’t be put into words.

You tell me what you see, what you feel. Often, you tell me bits and pieces of your own story.

And in retrospect, an exhibition hardly is about the feedback you received, how many people liked your work, or how many paintings got sold. It’s about the stories, the little conversations we had.

The magical moments that got created within the entire space and context of a gallery.

How you inspired me, and how I inspired you.

And how we all went back home, a little more enriched.

“Falling upwards. Daybreak. Uncrash. Rolling down uphill. Apple tree. Cherry tree. Grapevine. Grape wine. Dark chocolate. 75% cocoa. Chocolate. Fruers and ambitions.”

Just came across the above note saved as a draft on my phone. Sigh. Sometimes I wish I could understand myself.

On holding on to yourself

our greatness, we tuck it away
in silent corners of our minds, our homes
the last drawer on the lowest shelf of that
abandoned cupboard

what makes us extraordinary
what makes you, you
what makes me, me
why are we so ashamed?

and mediocrity, you know, that’s what is celebrated
so we hang those degrees and certificates in sparkling golden frames
keep the awards on our desks
with the fully-inflated ego of a child looking for the next pat on the back

and water shapes up rocks oh so gradually
sand withers away carefully, to never be noticed
stories get written slowly, silently
sometimes even forgetting their own authors

so hold on, hold on my friend
hold on dearly to the fact
that you’re more than just that.