Shampoo

Random title, no? 

Well, actually I just read a post on a certain writer's website about, umm, bath. Yeah. Bath. So I thought, you know, why not write about shampoo too? Like a cute little sequel thingy.

Anyway I'm dry out of ideas to write about. And you know us writers, how we're the biggest cheaters on earth - when we don't have anything to write about, expect us to come up with the most mundane mediocrity under the sun, cleverly wrapped in mesmerising words. I do it all the time! (Oh don't give me that condescending look. I know you do it too.)

So here goes - Shampoo.

Now I'll be honest here. I am 20 and I STILL don't know how to shampoo my hair. About time, you'd think?

So I thought, maybe, just maybe, there might be some other bubble brains like me, who still haven't figured it out, and we might as well come clean (pun intended!) and share our non-talent.

How do you shampoo your hair?

It can't be a rocket science can it? 

You turn on the shower. Damn. The water's too hot. So what do you do? You hop around in the shower with a burned hand here and a burned foot there, doing this weird tribal dance and occasionally making weird noises like "Aieeee" and "Ooh oooohs" (Which might make the people standing outside your bathroom frown and question what you really are doing in there. Been there, done that, man. Creepy.) 

And you continue till the water is about just the right cozy temperature of warm. Not hot enough to fry your hair and not cold enough to freeze you to death. Now isn't that just heavenly?

Okay, then you take some shampoo. Use the one that suits your hair... I mean, you know, if your hair is dry (obviously NOT while they are wet, you smartass!) use the one meant for dry hair. If they are oily (if you haven't oiled them previously, duh.) like mine (America could bomb my scalp next, not exaggerating), use the one for oily hair.

If your hair is just perfect (yeah, right! Liar.) then you get to use the one for normal hair! (Whatever is considered normal anyway?)

And then you have those anti-dandruff ones too. But a little tip here - don't use them more than once in a week. 

Because "Hey! Use me everyday, I won't make you bald in a week!" .... Said no anti-dandruff shampoo ever.

So there. You rub it in your scalp, and you wash it off. Most of them come with the instructions written at the back, bless them.

Put on some conditioner if it pleases you. 

Aaaaand, you're done!

I'm done writing too. Phew.

What was the purpose of this post?

I don't know, man.

You can shampoo however you want to. Or you know what? Don't shampoo. That's cool too unless your hair starts smelling like the thrash I just put out.

Anyway, peace.


Read this article here: http://www.writerbabu.com/post/shampoo/5162/

The Drunk Girl's Epiphany

Warning: I'm having that dreaded Writer's Block again, as you must have deduced from my last post which was pretty much pathetic. Trust me, it was nowhere near what I had in mind, and I will edit it once my writing is in sync with the thoughts in my head.

Till then, here's one more. 

This is not based on any true events. And I wasn't drunk when I wrote this.

The Drunk Girl’s Epiphany

I am piss drunk. Don't get me wrong here – I’m not a habitual drinker or anything. No, you can stop calling the AA now. Really, I’m just a normal girl. Whatever the definition of normal is, that is.

I’m a normal, ordinary girl. Whose normal, ordinary book got rejected by the publishers.

For the eighth time.

You know, I’d researched so much. 

I’d read the experiences of all the first time authors. I was armed. Armed by their consoling words like “It happens to the best of the authors” and “Ultimately, what happens, happens for the best”.

 I was armed. Armed with the notion that someday, I’d too be fondly recalling the stories of my rejection over a cup of coffee to the paparazzi.

The first time it happened, I expected it. 

I even took it as a good sign. Now I had a story to tell. The story of my struggle. After all, if it comes too easy, its boring. Besides, everyone’s a sucker for the underdog-turned-millionaire story.

And then… there was the second, third, fourth time.

They all told me the same thing. That my book was too ordinary. There was nothing dramatic about it. No romantic cheesy dialogs. No clichéd happy endings. Heck, no glamour or sex either.

Who’ll buy it? Who’ll read it?

One of them even said that it had no “spunk”. I asked him to define spunk. He called the security and had me ushered (read ‘thrown’) out of his office.

I guess he did not know the meaning. And I guess he used that word to reject all the authors he rejected.

Then there was the fifth time.

The publisher said she’d be extremely happy to publish my book. For five lakh rupees. And double the royalty.

I do not even remember the sixth and the seventh time now. I had already lost hope. Reading about J K Rowling getting rejected 12 times is inspiring. Being in that situation feels like shit.

People, have a knack of making you feel like shit.

So that’s my story. Today happened to be the eighth time. Somehow I already knew my book wasn’t going to make it. And I was right. As soon as the publisher started talking about how my book “does not make the cut”, I zoned out.

I don’t remember peeling myself off the chair and dragging my lifeless body out of the publisher’s office, but somehow, I did.

Right into this bar here.

This place feels a lot better than home. Or the publisher’s office. For a change, I’m staring at this glass in my hand, instead of that pathetic manuscript which nobody seems to like.

I drown my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions and my sorrow in this glass.

The drink looks like piss.

Heck, it even tastes like piss.
I guess I know now why they call it being piss drunk...

It burns my throat. But it warms my soul.

My eyes are losing focus, and I’m blacking out.

I have a passing thought as I slowly get sucked into the vortex of my grief…

I’m having an epiphany.

No, no. Wait. That’s just wrong.

Epiphany is such a huge word… Man, I love that word. It almost sounds… Sacred.

No I wouldn’t like to use it when I’m drunk. 

 I’m afraid I might club it with wrong sentences and then it would just lose all its significance and purity.

Heck, even my Microsoft Office Word doesn’t have a synonym for epiphany.

No. A word like epiphany ought to be used with its other heavy suitable equivalents. Like… Marauder or something.

But wait. That’s not what I wanted to say.

How does it even matter what I want to say? They don’t like what I’ve got to say.

One more drink until I pass out.

And that, was the end of one more writer. Bottoms Up.

Delicious Pain

Pain. A four lettered word that encompasses an ocean of feelings. Hurt. Ache. Sorrow. Suffering. This seemingly tiny four lettered word is a bitch. 

Can you define pain? 

Yes and No. 

No, I cannot define it in so many words like you define Gravity. But Yes, I can define in a thousand words or more, what it feels like to go through it. 

And despite the reputation that precedes it, we go running headlong towards it.

I might even venture to say, people are attracted to it.

Yes, you read me right. Attracted.

They willingly bring it upon themselves.

Why, you ask?

I'm trying to figure that out myself.

Why are some people just addicted to pain?

And when they're not, they enjoy it vicariously.

Think Edward Cullen. Yes, that shiny vampire with a permanent constipated scowl.
Why are teenage girls addicted to this "sick masochistic lion"? I'm hoping you have an answer to it because it seriously beats me!

Bella Swan. Stupid lamb or whatever. Why do people actually want to be her? I mean, isn't it kind of really tiring to be the damsel in peril all the time?

And don't even get me started on Fifty Shades of Grey.

“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” says Chuck Palahniuk.

Is it true? Do we just want to feel pain because its a... stronger emotion? Because it is more enduring, and makes its presence felt, unlike say, happiness or calm?

Because it leaves scars. Permanent souvenirs. Something to look at and remember the past. 

Isn't that why people are addicted to cutting?

Because... at least you feel... something.

Maybe, feeling pain is better than not feeling anything at all.

Maybe pain reminds us that we are still capable of feeling.


Are we addicted? Or do we just happen to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over?

Do we not learn from our mistakes? Or do we consciously choose to ignore?

What is it about pain that keeps us coming back?

What is it about pain..

And I know it hurts,
I can't take it anymore
But somehow it doesn't astonish me
That I keep on coming back for more...
More and more...
It's like a habit I can't leave,
Shackles of pain bind me
And I can't seem to escape
It's like a drug I can't forsake...



"Sometimes, greater the pain, the more fiercely someone will cling to it. ... Our addiction to pain is one of the toughest problems to solve in human psychology." - Deepak Chopra.

So You Want To Be A Writer

So You Want To Be A Writer (By Charles Bukowski)

If it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
Unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
If you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
If you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
If you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
If you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
If it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
If you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
If you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
If it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

If you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

Don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
The libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
Don't add to that.
Don't do it.
Unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
Unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

When it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

There is no other way.

And there never was.

~ Charles Bukowski

Letter to the Moon

This is one of my old writings... Like, medieval old. Practically last birth if you consider the point where I am now.. It's naive and raw. And kind of really cheesy. But... I dont know... I like it. Thought I'd share.

Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

Looking at you today makes me nostalgic. Your full, bright aura has something magical about it that has always enthralled me and him. Looking at you today reminds me of all those nights’ picnics we had sitting by the lake, stealthily escaping from our houses with a basket of sandwiches and some lemonade, gazing at you for hours, and occasionally stealing glances at each other. Marvelling your mystical splendour. Looking at him bathed in your exquisite incandescent light sends waves of love in me much like you influence the tides of the sea.

Now I sit alone by the window of my house in this unfamiliar town, no sandwiches, no lemonade, no lake, just me and you, and memories of him. I know he is there gazing at you too, wishing for my wellbeing. I can feel his intent stare through your steady light illuminating on me. I wonder how he’s looking right now, engulfed in your luminous glow…

Your stars reflect their shimmery light in the otherwise dark house, like beams of love and hope connecting the distance between us.

You’ve been a faithful companion. You’ve always been there, your eternal, omniscient form watching upon us, you’ve witnessed all of our light and dark moments, much like we witnessed yours, changing and growing, maturing, just like our relationship did, and you’ve shined your glorious radiance upon us throughout. There is an imperfect perfectness in your craters, much like the sour experiences and bitter fights in our relation, but they are what make you human, just like us.

I’m alone tonight in this vast alien city filled with bright lights just like you are, up in the heaven, a lone orb of light among a thousand unknown stars.

All I wish from you tonight is to convey him to hold on to you, just like I do, tell him to find strength in your radiant aura, to assure him that he can talk to you when he feels lonely, just like I do, that it won’t be long till we sit by the lake again, submerged in your light, with a basketful of sandwiches and some lemonade.

Yours affectionately,

Her.

Fallen Star

You searched for me in daylight,
I was right there by your side
But you never saw me
The sun overwhelmed my light.

You searched for me in twilight
But the moon was yet to come
I tried to call out to you
But my light just wasn't enough.

You searched for me in the dead of night
You looked at the starry skies,
Teardrops formed in your eyes
They smudged your vision,
They blurred your sight.

I called out to you,
But you'd already turned your back,
You'd lost all the hope,
Tired of waiting, resigned.

And I came crashing down, shattered,
Just to be near you 

I am a star fallen,
To make your wish come true.

14 June and Symbiosis Law School.

14th June, 2012. It isn't just another date. It's a milestone. 

It brings back a lot of memories. The good ones and the bad ones. 

See, that's the thing with memories. You cannot relive the good ones without reviving the bad ones which you thought you had so carefully suppressed into non-existence. 

But that's where you go wrong. You cannot simply make them go away, and sometimes all they need is just a smallest of a trigger to come rushing back. 

Like say, looking at the date.

But to tell you what happened on 14 June, I'd have to take you further back in time to somewhere in early May 2012. SET 2012. For the legally challenged, it goes by the name Symbiosis Entrance Test. 

The moment of euphoria when I saw that I had cleared the written test and had been selected for the GDPI. That frantic last minute shopping for formal wear and formal shoes for the interview.

It's still as vivid as though it happened just a month ago. The nervousness. The anxiety building up as I saw thousands of students there, waiting to show off how brilliant they were. 

And me? I stood there. Awkward and out of place. I had convinced myself that I absolutely did not stand the chance to be here. I mean, look at them. Their CVs were bursting with certificates. They were oozing confidence. 

And what had I done throughout my life while these people were busy collecting certificates? What proof of extraordinary brilliance did I have to blow the interviewers' minds? Nada.

The GD and the PI went by in a flash, and there I was, sitting at home, awaiting the first list.

05 June 2012.

The list was out. I read it thrice. I wasn't there.

The waiting list. I wasn't in there either.

This college had no place for me. 

I cried. For days. I sobbed and cried like a baby. Reviewed my options. I had already messed up CLAT (again, that's 'Common Law Admission Test' for the ignoramuses.) What other option did I have? Nada.

I had completely given up the hope. 

And then, came 14 June 2012.

The day the second list came out. I did not bother to check. I wasn't in the waiting list (which was pretty long, mind you) and there was simply no point in having it rubbed in my face that I didn't deserve to go to a law school.

So instead, I spent the whole afternoon watching Hannah Montana. (Yes, I watch Hannah Montana. And I abso-fucking-lutely love it.)

And then I got a call, from dad.

"YOU'RE IN THE SECOND LIST!" he screamed in the phone. 

I was numb. Was I? No, no. There had to be some mistake. How could I?

Was he kidding me? Or was this the college's idea of playing some sick sadistic joke?

I checked their website. I read their acceptance letter. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

I was... in?

How?

I still do not have the answer to that how, but somehow, I was.

It's been a year now. And the memories of all the nights (and days, and mornings, and afternoons, and evenings, you get the gist) that I cried come surging back. But they don't make me sad anymore. They only make me value what I have now, even more. 

Yes, I do have my fair share of days when I curse the college. But that's mostly when I suck at the assignments. 

Symbi has watched and helped me grow as a person. It made me confident, And it gave me the most important lesson. That I was as good as those thousands of students with their folders overflowing with certificates.

14 June reminds me, that underestimating myself would be the biggest injustice I'd do to myself.

Tangled

Whenever I switch on the television, it's like I'm ambushed by a bunch of expectations just waiting to guilt me into oblivion. They expect me to be stick thin, have a skin tone that would put a white crayon to shame and have hair that even Rapunzel would resent. 

I still brush off the figure and the skin... But its the hair that annoys me. Yes, the hair in those shampoo/conditioner/oil/serum advertisements. Sleek, shiny, straight, black hair. And as if you already weren't conscious of your not-so-perfect, not-so-sleek, not-so-shiny hair, if yours happen to be a mop of curls like mine, you should not even exist. 

I have these poker straight hair staring at me, everywhere I look. The ones who don't have them, get them done. And don't get me wrong - I'm absolutely not being bitter here; but they look exceptionally repulsive to me. If you have naturally straight hair, well, good for you. If you don't, well, good for you too unless you decide to burn/chemically exterminate them into a dry dead broomstick.

Why are people so obsessed with straight hair? Whatever happened to that rustic charm of curls?

I mean, I love them. How can you not? Look at Nick Jonas and you'd know what I'm talking about. Or Taylor Swift. 

How about Carrie Bradshaw?

Don't you just love her hair? Don't you just love how she 'Carrie's them off so pompously?

Yet, when I see around, people I know with beautiful curls are having them straightened. It pains me to see that.

Is it weird that I find nothing wrong with curly hair? Is something wrong with me? Am I wired differently? Is it because I have curly hair? Am I either supposed to straighten them or just cease to exist?

Yes, my comb doesn't automatically slither down my hair like it's been coated with petroleum jelly (which it probably might be in the advertisements since I personally don't think even people with straight hair have the privilege of witnessing a phenomenon of such bizarre proportion)

Yes, on windy days (and maybe other days too) I look like Einstein with a bad hair day.

Yes, sometimes my hair tends to have a mind of its own and is responsible for many a combs with missing teeth.

But all said and done, I love them and wouldn't have them any other way.

Yes, they are stubborn. They are unruly. But I'd never want to 'straighten them out' for anything.

Don't you just love the way Carrie looks at Mr. Big and says, "Your girl is lovely, Hubbell."

"I don't get it." He says, confused.

"And you never did." She smiles. 

You can't blame Big for that though. None of them do.

Except those very few of us. The ones who feel inspired enough to write a post like this as they watch Carrie walk off, proudly bouncing her hair. 

 The wild and untamed. The outcast curly hair.

Technology... Gave me a Voice.

So, my blog turns a month old today, and it couldn't have been a more perfect occasion for one of my write-ups to get published. The whole thing being special since this particular article is about everything that this blog personifies: the courage to assert an opinion, an idea. 

I wrote this article for a friend's internship, and it surprisingly turned out a lot better than I expected. 

Thank you Devlina for giving me something to write.

Technology... Gave me a Voice.

“Heema, could you be a little louder,” my friend said, embarrassed, cutting my speech midway. “I’m so sorry, but your voice is just so soft… I can’t hear you!” she said apologetically.

This friend in question was sitting a few centimetres away from me.

I’ll be a lawyer in a few years, I thought. With a voice like that, how am I supposed to scream “I object!”?

Would the opposition hear me? Would the judge hear me?

There are SO MANY things I object to, in life. I object to women being treated like a commodity who belong to some male or the other throughout their life. I object to the fact that they are blamed for every big and little act of violence and injustice done to them. The list goes on.

In our real, non-virtual lives, women may not have a voice. Their views and opinions are suppressed by the gag of patriarchy. But it’s different on the internet. In real life, our voice may or may not be heard; but on the internet, there’s a hope, that someone, somewhere, will.

I like the fact that technology makes me heard. That I don’t have to modulate my voice here and it’d reach my voice across countries, across barriers. Whether it’s when I see my blog receive hits from people across the globe, or when people ‘like’ my views on social networking sites, (the same views which I’d have kept to myself from the fear that they won’t be heard) it instils in me the confidence that it doesn’t matter here whether I’m soft or loud. What matters is that I have an opinion.

Someday, I’ll have the strength, the courage and the confidence to raise my voice. In real. And say that I object, loud enough for the opposition to hear.

Till then, I have the internet.

You can also read the article here: http://www.achievewithdell.in/FullStory/976/0/Heema-Shir../

Of Feminism, Bad Journalism and Jiah Khan's suicide letter.

So yes, I read about the suicide, and I read the letter. We all did. And for a long time, I successfully refrained from commenting on people's overhyped reactions on it.

But what I read in one newspaper yesterday just took the cake, and here I am, joining the bandwagon despite my reluctant self.

I didn't know her and I am nobody to comment/speculate what drove her to take her own life or how she could have dealt with the situation instead. Seriously, who ARE we to comment?

Did you know her personally? Are you an expert on psychology? No. Then do this world a favour and shut your judgmental face.

Yes, we have an opinion on everything, but where do these opinions go when we are the ones in that particular situation? Why don't we counsel ourselves on the best way to deal with the situation we are in?

Yes, that's right. Because we are human. And though we become experts when it comes to counseling the rest of the world, we are as clueless when we are put in the same situation.

So all you psychologists who are busy analyzing her disturbed state of mind, or distorted self-image, well, please evaporate. Thanks.

Oh, you were "shocked"? Of course you were, you poor thing. "She looked so happy". Yeah, right. She told you that when she came over to your house everyday for tea, didn't she?

"She was an actor and people looked up to her. She has set a dangerous example for her fans." Well, here's a not so shocking fact: actors have feelings. They have a life OTHER THAN living up to their fan's expectations and setting a good example for them. They are humans, and yes, humans get depressed. Sometimes they can't deal with it anymore. They suicide. Get over it.

No, I'm not glorifying suicide, or saying that it was the right solution or it's the right way to deal with things. No, I'm not defending her.

What's my point here? My point is, leave her ALONE. Let her rest in peace.

Suicide is a very complicated thing. What happened to Jiah Khan was extremely sad. What she went through, I do not wish upon anyone. But that's that. Who am I to comment on what she should have done? Who is ANYONE to comment on what she should have done?

 Who are we to judge her?

Is it okay to take one's own life? That's a disputed question even philosophers haven't arrived at a consensus to reply to.

But oh, when we are so interested in commenting on people's lives, why would we forego a chance to showcase our expert opinions on people's deaths, right?

So, coming back to the point, just when I was getting over being irked at people's ludicrous reactions to this news, I found this gem of an article. *sarcasm*

http://www.firstpost.com/bollywood/jiah-khans-suicide-note-what-did-rabia-teach-her-daughter-858835.html

The title reads, "Jiah Khan's suicide note: What did Rabia teach her daughter?"

Wow. This journalist's blatant and extremely repulsive sexist self gets a huge round of applause from me. Where do they hire them from nowadays? The Talentless Agency specializing in cheap, sexist and insensitive (insert word here. Calling them writers or journalists will make me lose faith in the profession) who also happen to have bad grammar?

After recovering from the shock that this piece of ridiculously bad journalism actually got published, I sat down and read it. And I have some choicest expletives to describe it which I wouldn't write here, but you can use your own discretion to add some.

Firstly, why does it always come down to the mother when the child goes wrong? What about fathers? Aw, of course. Don't they do enough already by being the "breadwinners" of the family? Why would we burden them by making them responsible for passing on some value addition on their offspring?

No, people are only mighty interested in blaming the mother, especially when its a girl child who goes wrong! Why not boys? Oh don't be silly. Boys will be boys.

And that is exactly the kind of thinking that authors of articles like these advocate. It roots back to the root of all our pain. Patriarchy. Do you still want me to answer why we need feminism?

If the horrendously backward author can comprehend me, I have a simple question - how do you not bother to ask what Suraj Pancholi's mother AND father taught him? I scanned your whole article (in utter disbelief, I might add) to not find a single mention of how HE could have done with some "good parenting".

And who are you miss, to question and comment on how her mother should have raised her?

It's ironic that YOU, of all the people, talk about patriarchy while your own article conveniently stinks of it.

May I question the parenting of the people who raise such chauvinistic and sexist waste of oxygen and space on earth?

Maybe, you are the one who should have spent some more time convincing yourself against writing this sadistic piece of crap. 

Voices

Discontent, Dissatisfied,

I’m not in the moment

I stay in denial.

Their vision doesn't match

The thoughts in their head

What they see, they don’t approve.

Voices. They command me.

They’re all around,

They tell me just what I’d need

To be the perfect me.

The perfect me, as they envision.

For a while I listen, on and on.

I earnestly believe.

But they never seem to stop.

And perfection keeps eluding me.

My ears hurt now.

I’m tired listening.

Voices, they’re so shrill.

They’re so loud.

They drown my own.

I search inside.

For my own voice.

A faint whisper.

That was all I needed to hear.

Now the voices tell me not to,

But nevertheless, I do.

Manhattan

“Chapter 1.

He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion...no, make that: he - he romanticized it all out of proportion. Yes. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.'

Uh, no let me start this over.

'Chapter 1.
He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street-smart guys who seemed to know all the angles...'.

Ah, corny, too corny for my taste. Can we ... can we try and make it more profound?

'Chapter 1.
He adored New York City. For him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity that caused so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in...'

No, that's a little bit too preachy. I mean, you know, let's face it, I want to sell some books here.

'Chapter 1.
He adored New York City, although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television, crime, garbage...'

Too angry, I don't want to be angry.

'Chapter 1.
He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.'

I love this.

'New York was his town, and it always would be.”

― Woody Allen, Manhattan

The Love Calculator

(Written on: 29th April, 2013)

The other day, I came across this Facebook App that claimed to find out how much my boyfriend/crush (or whatever) loves me. No, it doesn't shock me. The internet is so full of random harebrained crap that I'm probably immune to it all by now; or most of it at least. But I am appalled at the number of people who actually buy into this shit.

It reminded me of those love percentages we used to calculate as kids. (I was a total sucker for those. Oh come on, don't judge me. We all were.) 

A completely ridiculous game of numbers involving some seemingly complex calculations. (I used to feel like this great mathematician at work as I fervently calculated all my friends' love percentages with the kind of enthusiasm that would put Einstein to shame) 

Of course, they never worked, but the excitement to find out each others' love percentages never diminished. Somewhere in the middle of all those complex equations, I grew up.

What I realized, was that love was more complex than any of these calculations. So complex, that people want to stay in denial. What exactly makes them choose to rely on some ludicrous Application to make themselves believe what they want to believe anyway? Are they just that stupid? Maybe, maybe not.

Maybe, they're just... lonely. Lonely in the relationship. The comfort of staying in denial and ignorance. The comfort of believing the App that only reflects nothing but what they want for to happen. The comfort is so tempting and so inviting to them, that it supersedes all logic. Reality is uncertain. Who likes uncertainties? The thought of facing reality is so... bleak and unappealing!

So, instead of walking up to their crush or boyfriend (again, or whatever) and finding out things for themselves, all you do is hear what you want to hear. From the love calculator. Convenient. Comforting. Reassuring. And way better than facing reality and having your make believe lovey dovey dream world shattered. Reminds me of Meghna from the movie Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na. 

But how long do you live in your sweet little fantasy? And how healthy is it?

People already in a relationship who seek solace in these App results, are the ones who are insecure. They kind that are lonely in their relationship. WHY else would a person depend on an App to tell them how much their lover loves them?!

Wouldn't they just go up to their lovers and ask them? Or even better, the secure ones wouldn't even feel the need to ask. They'd already know!

The insecure ones are the ones who don't want to face the truth. 

But before you join the bandwagon of denial and find your own solace in the results of a love calculator, ask yourself: The Love Calculator has a reset button. Does your relationship have one?

A few months ago, my childhood friend (the one I used to calculate those love percentages with) showed me this Game/App she had on her cell phone that calculated love percentages. It calculated your compatibility depending on the number of letters in your name. (or something of that sort)

After much persuasion (okay no, I admit, I did not need any persuasion whatsoever. Did I mention I was a sucker for those?) I typed my name first followed by his. It came to 78%.

We both frowned.

"No, there's something wrong. Let's try again." my friend cajoled.

This time, I typed his name first and then typed mine. It came to 96%.

And we, despite our wise, grown-up selves, giggled and squealed like those two school girls we were again.

The calculator had shown me what I wanted to see.

And I admit, for that moment, just that one teeny-tiny moment, I too was guilty of measuring love in numbers.

Dedicated to: Priyanka... The childhood best friend.

Treasure Hunt

Look what I found

A box full of hope

A treasure so rare

Buried deep in myself

Where was it

When I needed it the most?

If only I had searched back then

Instead of despair

I could have found my strength

I always won those treasure hunts

How did I not discover this one?

Never mind, I’ll put it back

I’ll save it in my secret stash

I have there faith and happiness

Hope I will add to the assortment

Someday all of it I’ll need

Till then I’ll just hoard

And pacify my greed. 

Haunted

House of guilt

Haunted,

By the mistakes

Of my past

Walls of denial

Can’t hold off

These ghosts

Of all the wrong choices

That I made

I lock all the doors and windows to my soul

But they still seem to find a way

To enter into my head

The bed of defiance that I sleep on

Creaks with the weight of my remorse

Spirits of misjudgments

Haunt even now.

This Means W. A. R.

She had her non-manicured claws

On that pretty chiffon scarf

She looked at it

With lustful eyes

The thing that I wanted the most

And the one I’d never let her buy

I walk over to her, swiftly and with purpose

With a sly smile

I whisper meaningfully in her ear

“I don’t mean to be offensive or curt

But if you touch it, you’ll get hurt

Leave it honey and just walk away

I saw it first, it has my name”

In the glory of her smugness she basks

She raises an eyebrow. “Or what?” She asks.

Eyes narrow, nostrils flare

Balled up fists and murderous glares

My hair’s just done, and my shoes are new

My nails are freshly painted in blue

Some of them shiver and others scoff

As I say the most clichéd dialog

How many times have you heard that before?
“Hold my purse, this is war.”

Two

Exchange sweet nothings
Create a world of our own
Discover things unheard
Venture into the unknown
But let it be just
The two of us
I admit I'm a loner
But I'm hardly alone

Scars

Wrapped up emotions deep buried

Shoved away carefully in a dark niche

The shame still haunts

The humiliation still daunts

They were wounds of the past

They stung and burned

You bandaged them and covered them up

Wiped the tears off

And faced the world

But they left a scar

A wretched scab

An eternal reminder

Of the shameful past

They looked like they healed

But one scratch on the surface

Was all that it took

One scratch on the surface

And the wound was fresh again

Emotions came surging back

Back from their dark alcove

They brought the pain along with them

The mind replayed it all over again

The hurt. The tears.

You cringed.

Shame came first;

Hurt came next

But then came the moment

Of cold numbness

As the anaesthesia of acceptance

Slowly worked its way in

You saw yourself more clearly

As light entered the wound
Now the scars stand as a souvenir

A testimony to the struggle

The struggle to forgive;

The struggle to accept the past

The struggle to renew the hope

And the struggle to let go

The scars stand firm

A reminder that it was real

A reminder that you healed

A reminder that despite all the odds

You're still here; you survived.