Picture Story : Chapter 2

She didn’t have to open the note to know what was in there. She held the note close to her nose. She could smell the tobacco off his fingers. He still smoked. She smiled and nodded a little before opening the note. In long strokes of cursive writing it said, ‘Do you remember?’
The handwriting, the peculiar scent of cigarettes mixed with a light scent of cologne screamed his name. He didn’t have to sign things to make his presence felt.
She remembered. Of course she did. Those evenings, as the sun set on the lovely beach by their house. She remembered lighting up candles. They had electricity of course, but her grandma preferred candle light. The shadows danced on the chipped walls of their once beautiful mansion. The shadows hid the cracked walls and chipped paint.
‘The candle light makes the house look regal,’ her grandma would say. To her, a teenager about to enter college, the pretence was annoying, but she played along. She also swore that she would one day be rich enough to fix those chipped walls so her home would look like it did back in her childhood.
She remembered switching on the radio in her room, and as the music echoed within the four walls of her room. She dreamt of roses, gardens, pretty dresses and pretty jewellery and fancy things. And she dreamt of a prince charming… She’d lose track of time as the radio played tune after tune for her to dream to. The radio was made redundant the day he walked into her life. He was everything she dreamt of… And she had never switched on the radio until that evening that he walked away… The radio brought back her dreams and with her broken heart, she found those memories impossible to deal with.
She walked out of her room, down into the den. She opened an antic closet and pulled out an old chest. She clicked the chest open and rummaged through some stuff. Bottle caps, rag dolls, ribbons, little books and finally, that little transistor radio. She placed it on the table and stared at it.
Why was he doing this to her? Why was he taking her back to a time she had buried deep in the folds of her memory… Why?

Picture by: @nomadwanderer

Click here to see @nomadwanderer’s photographs. She’s awesome!


Every Picture Tells A Story- A new project

Ever since Phil Collins came into my life, this song title has fascinated me. So here I am, borrowing from @nomadwanderer’s lens… She takes the pictures, i tell the story… Let’s see where this takes us…

Project Picture Stories: 1

She clicked the lock open before walking into her room. Something felt different about the room. She laid her bags down on the ornate love seat and took off her sunglasses with her diamonds studded fingers. She carefully folded them and walked over to her dresser where she placed them… She let her fingers run across the smooth edges of the antique dresser… She smiled as she looked at her make-up, perfumes and jewellery neatly lined up… And in the corner was a small photo. The only woman in this world, she wished she could be.
She glanced at the photo and then at the mirror. She looked similar to the woman in the photo and yet so different. Age had left its marks on the corners of her mouth and eyes, but there was a sparkle in the eyes that she had protected from the cruel hands of age. She looked at the photograph again.
The woman wore black against a black background, making her seem like a floating body.
She looked at the mirror. She was wearing a similar black boat necked dress. But she was missing the beautiful neck piece. She touched her bare neck…
The bare neck was a reminder…
She made her way across to the bed as she hugged herself. The room was a little cold… ‘The heating must be off,’ she thought to herself. She sat down on her bed and hugged herself as she let out a wistful sigh. She hated thinking of the past, but then…
Suddenly something on the table by the window caught her eye. She looked shocked, bewildered and happy at the same time. She walked over to the table, too afraid to touch it. She didn’t want it to disappear. Her hand almost went up to the necklace that lay staring at her. Her diamonds and sapphires seemed pale against the rich green. The green, locked away from the clutches of time, devoid of any marks of age… The green that had adorned her neck when it was smooth like porcelain, begged to be worn… She pulled her hand back and touched her bare neck again… There were wrinkles. Time had touched her, but her memories- they were just as fresh as the green. Then she saw the neatly folded note below the necklace. And she knew…
@nomadwanderer’s picture came from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaurwakee/4218839653/

Journal Rules

Ground rules for the journal:

  1. Write every day, even if you have not written for the novel, write as to why?
  2. Tell yourself the truth.
  3. Write about the influences. Film, music, books, art or people that triggered off the want to write.
  4. Thou shalt not lose passion
  5. Thou shalt not forget the goal. A finished book by end of December
  6. Thou shalt ignore people telling you, you cannot do it
  7. Start the first day by reading random pieces written before.

Yehi Hai Write Choice Baby, A-ha!

Enough random thinking. It will still continue, but from today, the blog will see posts about creating my second novel. I plan to do the following things by the year end:

  1. Be brutally honest about myself, to myself:

Satyadev Dubey once told me over a cup of chai at MIG club, ‘Lie to the world, but don’t ever make the mistake of lying to yourself,’ It’s about time I took that advice seriously. I am honest with myself but to put it down in words is to crystalize it, frame it up and make it permanent. I am not going to be scared of it.


  1. Delete the delete:

Negative self- image might help me improve and all, but the negativity about my own work makes me destroy most of the things that I write. From now on, delete does not exist. I will write, and however crappy I think my writing, I will revisit it later and craft it to reduce its level of mediocrity.


  1. Worker harder on the hard work:

Working hard is simply not enough. I will work harder at working harder.


  1. Reflections can be beautiful:

Maintain a writers’ journal so I can reflect on the process of writing.


  1. Share:

Being nervous about sharing my work is bad for my health. And a lady with bitten nails doesn’t exactly look gorgeous. It’s my work, I will share it. So what if someone hates it!


  1. Do Doddle Do:

I am always guilty of talking rather than doing. I won’t just write these things, I will do them.

Off to start with the second novel. To piece together silly little pieces of the puzzle I have strewn across the different corners of my mind. To piece them together, to bring alive each character and to be the schizophrenic writer I love being. I am off to be restless, to explore where the story goes and where it comes from, to feel the pulse of each character and to be haunted, consumed and bewildered by the story I want to tell. And my readers, darlings, you have a choice, to be involved in this mad mad mad journey over the next God knows how many days. If it sounds too boring, let me know. I’ll sneak in a fun bit or two, but I really *need* to do this. 

Let the madness begin: drumroll!

Metaphor For A Metaphor

Metaphor: it has defined much in life. It has complicated things and yet simplified so much. Metaphor is what I hide behind when im too cowardly to be in your face and one such night, I tweeted about my love for Metaphor.
Metaphor became the soul of conversation that night. Metaphor was the flavour of that night and metaphor came screaming back to me. He made me choke up with emotion and made me poetic. And here is a poem I ended up tweeting:

Metaphor is an empty perfume bottle I remember you by,
Metaphor is a supressed old flame…
Metaphor is an old T-shirt I hold dear,
Metaphor is the warmth when Ur here.
Metaphor: that’s all I have…

Metaphor is that teardrop that fell,
Telling my heart to bid you farewell.
Metaphor is that batting eyelid,
It captures the memory before it spills…

And then, magically, the poem became interactive.

@ashumhatre: Metaphor is that stain on the old shirt, metaphor is our relationship and its dust. Metaphors : That’s all we had! 😉

And the sweetest  replies came from @baxiabhishek:
I’ll be the jeans to that tee, i’ll be there where calls thee. 🙂
I’ll be the tissue to wipe the tear, you called me, so i’m here.

This entire metaphor talk made me think. We don’t hide behind metaphors. We use them to enhance what we have to say. Being obvious isn’t very charming, now is it?
Metaphor gives us the license to beat around the bush and it connects two things perfectly well. There’s nothing clever about metaphor. Metaphor is just natural…

And while I’m on metaphor:
Metaphor is a friend that tells,
All, in due time, will be well.
Metaphor is a friend, who understands,
What is hidden behind your metaphors so grand.
Metaphor is a friend who knows,
Exactly how a metaphor grows…

This one’s for all you metaphor tweeters: @baxiabhishek @ashumhatre @unitechy @mriganayanika @fossiloflife @menonhari @archisM @avgs @ideasmithy @simplymalyalee @aalaap (who’s too straight-froward to use metaphor, we understand!)

Who? Me!

Don’t you just love it when you wake up from a lovely dream? When you wake up and snuggle, delving your head deeper into pillows. When you savour the aftertaste of the lovely dream and a faint smile caresses your lips? Don’t you just love such mornings? Today’s was a morning like that. I stepped out of bed, full on, like a typical ‘Yashraj’ heroine! It was raining and the sky was cloudy… Perfect.

It’s a different story that my life came crashing back to reality. No sir, there was no ‘Lazy Lamhe’ nor did life break into a song n dance in Switzerland. It took me 20 minutes to transform from the dreamy wannabe Yashraj babe into a 25 year old girl, who works bloody hard to prove to the world she’s awesome and independent. Sigh! But yeah, I did savour the memories of the morning during my coffee breaks. My little guilty pleasure. My life!

Good timepass read!

Sunday evening shows are hard to get tickets for and me and my sister badly wanted to watch Rock On. So we reached the theatre an hour early and bought one of the last few tickets and headed straight into the Imax Adlabs multiplex. With more than hour on our hand and nothing to do, we wandered into the Crossword store. With the sale on, we just browsed through books, getting a glimpse of the first few pages. That’s when a book caught my eye. With a colourful map on its cover, Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan’s first novel, ‘You are here’ enticed me to pick it up just to browse. Get this. She has been a compulsive confessor and I am a compulsive writer! So yeah, I had to buy it. And I don’t regret it. The novel is great quick read. Enjoyable, and well to an extent, one can relate to the protagonist, Arshi.Getting lost in Arshi’s world is easy, especially since her world is so close to our won world but yet her world is just so different. We all have boyfriend issues, we all have mean bosses and we all have internal issues that we just don’t deal with. Arshi is a PR professional living one her own Delhi. She is 25, doesn’t love her job, adores her life, has a hot guy, she’s unsure if he’s her friend or a boyfriend, has the ‘it’ life (living on own, partying when she wants and all that) and yet somewhere she’s miserable. Her life is all over the place but fun, and I simply love the way she sorts out each distinct problem in her life. The book is a pleasure to read but if you’re looking for something to enrich you, this one’s not for you. It’s Chick-Lit with a real twist to it. Just like Meenakshi’s blog, which I promptly checked out after I found the link on the book. Grab a copy on a rainy day, sit down by the window with a hot cup of coffee (though you might want some Vodka as you explore Arshi’s numerous drinking parties), and relax.