Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Month: January, 2013


Everyone deserves to be loved, and I owe it to everyone that I love them.

Maybe it was something you did, something you said, something I am not, something very obscure- but I tend to love everyone. People have their stories and like a kleptomaniac, I make them my own, without knowing that the effect they have on me take the people away and ruin the feeling.

The magnetism of your stories and the nonchalance of your demeanour make me want to fill in a gap in you, which only I perceive is empty. You don’t invite me, I stand by your door and wait, or even worse, hope for you to let me in. I don’t take the no as a no; or a goodbye as a cue to leave. Your words are just reason for me to collapse into a habit that is as addictive as gambling- even if I lose, I come back to play my chances in the hope that one day, you’ll overfill my time.

This isn’t a romantic love. I don’t see myself spending sleepless night wanting your skin on mine. I wish it was though. Our ways would have been charted easier. This love is unfulfilled because there is no name to it, no convention. I worry for you, I crave for the conversation- and I am left heartbroken should you not reciprocate. I call it love because of the effect it has on me, and because I find no other name suitable.

There is no exclusivity to this feeling. You are one of the many who I worry about. But you’re also the only special one. It’s a love beyond comprehension.

Maybe that’s why I’m more confident about it. I can manipulate this.

But I love you, let me assure you. And even if I try not to, even if you spurn my affection, even if I walk away, even if you rip my innards with your words and freeze the blood with your silence, I will love you.

The weight of us both.

I see more of you every day now. I see it where there should have been pain. I see you in water. I see you in books and in lamps by the roadside.

Pettiness irks me. Attempts at greatness shatter me. I breathe heavy in the effort to remember how you must really be and heave a sigh of disappointment at every time I don’t see the image of you on surfaces.

You could never have expected this of me, of course- because you do not expect. I on the other hand, I expect the clouds to be a dark grey on a particularly windy evening. I expect the trees to shed their sparkling leaves on me as I pass underneath them. I expect smiles from strangers who have thoughts of their own to be lost on, and I expect strength in moments that there is only cold and darkness.

I expect of you to look into me and find me outside in your world too. I expect, and thus I break into two- the expectant and the reasonable, every time you brush my dreams gently into a bottle of ‘maybe’.

What madness is this? What obsession can be cured?

My greatest fear is what when you stand before me, I will fail to see you, blinded by the hope of you in everything in sight.


This is a repost of what I had posted two years ago as a Facebook note.

Three years ago, sixteen:nine International Film Festival 2010 had finished its 3rd year’s first day. A day of trepidation, a day of nervousness. As photography head, I was the last core committee member to join the panel.

I remember the tears the next day. Not because the festival days were over, but because someone’s premonition said that the festival was, too.

Some of us shook our heads at it. Some of us fought the notion. When the tide of refusals to plan the next year and the rejections swept us, some of us crossed our fingers, and some drew out the swords. Loyalties were tested and sleepless nights entered our lives. Friendships were collateral damage. Trust was a commodity that now belonged to parties and not to us. A film festival had little to do with films and so much more with feelings.

You could see the arms flailing helplessly. You see the fire dying in our eyes. No monster could be tamed, no saviour came our way. You could talk about it in the office, on the stairs, and in whispers- You could see how redundancy gripped the days.

“SNIFF is not coming back,” they said

June 28, 2010.

“I tried. But she won’t hear any of it. This doesn’t look possible. You kids should try something else.”

I was tired of trying. I see no point in urging a further rush of arguments. Please understand- I’m with you only this far, and I’m truly sorry.

The tears. Oh, the tears. The false promises and the deceit of hope.

What does one do when tomorrow looks…dead?

We thought it was over. We thought the last year of UPG would be spent lamenting on the stairs, cursing every belief that crossed our eyes that this could have been done differently. That’s what happens when you lose a war. There’s ridicule, sympathy, and advice on what could have been done better. You’re splattered with blood, and there’s no mercy.

You can’t complain, though- neither of you were wearing the other’s shoes.

Then, like a sunny day in the month of July, determination came our way. One to shed the tears, store them in a chamber of our hearts and slid back into the routine of creating, organising, and living.

Of course, also came along the accusations of being traitors. Of having given up too easily.

You shut the noise and drag your feet. You watch Sagar battle it. You watch Radhika shield him. You watch Srinath fortify himself silently.

You watch a new war field prepare itself. New soldiers, new tents, new enemies, and new places to conquer. The rains wash away the caked blood and you have a lining in the place of blank skies.

Something in the air changes, some darkness moves away.

Make way, the sun has risen.

Make way, the brightness is blinding.

Make way, the first ray is here.



Miscarriages happen all the time, I’d heard. So no matter how long I carried my baby, no matter what dreams I saw for it- there’ll always be that one little doubt of the insane mind that says, you could be wrong. Four words that drive the sleep out of anyone’s mind. You nurture the foetus, it isn’t a child yet. So it’s like a rough sketch you’re practicing all your caring abilities on.

How good these are, is a matter of thorough subjectivity.

You could, for instance, smoke. Or inhale smoke. Or breathe in some virus that never existed before it gets to that little thing waiting to break out. You could trip on an uneven tile or slip in a little soapy water. Right on your face, crushing your baby. You also could have an accident, that saves you and kills that one.

And all of this time, you’ve been eating right, stepping steady, missing work, skipping the vodka.

So whose fault is it anyway?

A different and horrendous scenario is, when you lose your baby a little after it’s born. You’ve seen the eyes open, you’ve felt the heartbeat, counted the toes, cooed in its ear, heard the voice. And one day, it stops doing all of this. A weak immunity system, an angle of the head, a slip of the hand, an adulterated bowl of baby mixture. A future of colours and books and scolding fading away in fast forward. A sudden void where there was a life, a movement.

And then you’ve rubbished all hope.

The world doesn’t seem to care enough. All claims for sympathy are false. No one can soothe you now. You’ve been cheated on by the world which is so desperate to move on while you’re left grasping for those swift moments of belonging, of having put your sweat and blood into the making of another you. A part of you dies.

And exhausted, you lie down. Beaten by chance, exploited for no fault of yours.


Some of us, are different.

We try again. A different life, in a different name. Built on the memories and the principles on what you dreamed of growing all those brief rays of joy on. A foundation is what you have, but your blood is at stake again, and so are your tears.

Some of us, we venture out again.

Some of us, we don’t give up.

We dream again. We try again. It makes us nervous, and our feet tremble when with each day, we re-dream the same dreams that we once saw for someone else. Something else. At every breath it takes, it shakes your confidence if the next will be its last. It makes you paranoid and disbelieving in any good. All the good news is greeted only with anticipation of failure- because our minds, we train to live by experience.

The pride, however, is when it takes its first step- and you could lay down a million lives to see that day dawn.

Welcome to life, my baby. May you live to see another day.”


Tomorrow, I invite the joys of creation, of getting up, dusting off and riding again.

Tomorrow I step into the world Sagar, Radhika and Srinath rose back from the ashes to create.

I watch with the memories of SNIFF and the pride and determination of Aahan.



Ordinary Lives- 6.

She couldn’t stop giggling.

His exasperation grew. Her dimple deepened with every rush of ideas in her head.

He rolled his eyes.

She took a deep breath and paused to look at him. The smile wouldn’t go off her face.

His familiar frown, the brown of his eyes turning into caffeine. The Silver has just started growing, and years later she’d be tucked in a bed, his cheek in her hand, his nose against her neck, and she’d talk about this night. Not this moment- not this pause between his question and her answer.

His pout began to grow and his hands went into his pocket.

“This is uncomfortable.”

She looked at him harder.

“In what way?”

“I’ve asked you something. You start giggling. I need an answer.”

She bit her lower lip to stop bursting into another spurt of giggles.

“What will I do when you’re gone?”

“What you do at home even today.”

“Dad gives me pocket money.”

“I earn enough to give you that and run the house.”

“And if I forget the keys?”

“We’ll keep one at the neighbour’s.”

What was with her? He was opening the door he’d never known had existed within him, and all she was doing was staring through him.


“Already there.”


“I know how to. You should learn too.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But I’ll be away.”

She’s saying a yes.

“Okay Ma said I had to learn any way.”

They looked around for the next question.

“Washing machine?”

It’s a yes.


She started giggling again. This time, it was deliberate and slow. Like she was trying to say something.

“Don’t go away for too long.”

“I never want to.”

The curve of his lip choked her and she started coughing. He grabbed a glass of water and made her swallow it, rubbing her back, unable to believe his luck. His last straw had stayed rooted while he grabbed at it.

Her chin on his shoulder was the only reminder of anything else in the world existed apart from the light that flooded his eyes, and lit up his face.

He threw away the pills that night. She broke the news to her family.

Right of private defence of the body extends to cause death- A must read.

Section 100 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860, further defines when the right of private defence of the body extends to Cause death :

The right of private defence of the body extends, under the restrictions mentioned to the voluntary causing of death or of any other harm to the assailant, if the offence which occasions the exercise of the right be of any or the descriptions hereinafter enumerated, namely :

First –
Such an assault as may reasonably cause the apprehension that death will otherwise be the consequence of such assault;

Secondly –
Such an assault as may reasonably cause the apprehension that grievous hurt will otherwise be the consequence of such assault;

Thirdly –
An assault with the intention of committing rape;

Fourthly –
An assault with the intention of gratifying unnatural lust;

Fifthly –
An assault with the intention of kidnapping or abducting;

Sixthly –
An assault with the intention of wrongfully confining a person, under circumstances which may reasonable cause him/her to apprehend that he/she will be unable to have recourse to the public authorities for his/her release.


I checked this from the Lawnotes webpage:. If this information is inaccurate or the section modified, please let me know.


Take a break. Take a trip.

Blast A Trumpet

Slowly making incisions in everything I come across

Raj Sivaraman

Part Time Genius, Full Time Hyperbolizer


Don't expect brilliance. Mediocre at best.

Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

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