Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Category: Uncategorized

Ordinary Lives – 8.

She look at him in the darkness. The heat of his body hadn’t cooled down yet. His breathing was slow and childlike now. The weight of his shin on her foot.
The cars drove through puddles. A clocked ticked 10 feet away. Her only light was an abstract reflection on the ceiling.
She leaned closer to him, her hand under his chest. The smell of soap from an hour ago (or was it two?) had been adulterated with saltier, tangier elements.
For a second she refused to acknowledge, she wanted to push herself apart and sleep on her own. On a less sweaty bed after a bath.
Then she buried her nose in his cheek.
Years of distances and awkwardnesses vanished. Her lip found the corner of his. Like forgiveness. Like a fruit of patience. The reality and the softness of his body made her heart beat itself against her lungs. Beat till it burst or beat till her lungs gave way. Beat more than it would in the moments that they loved each other’s bodies.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep – out of exhaustion and relief.
An hour later, he fell asleep too.

On Tubby Legs and Heavy Hearts

I won’t even have the gut to write this. It’s tough, I try to change, but then I give up. Too lazy, always rationalising, finding other things to do and eventually just not losing weight is something that happens. Every day. I don’t want to give up. I want to try. I try to change and then the diets come in.
But yes, I’ll remember the people who decided that me being fat is something that affects more than space. Not for revenge. I’m too soft to do that, no pun there. But just for a little note of how I am noted in their eyes and how I’d rather not be there at all.

Cranialrumblings's Blog

I watched a video on Upworthy today. A video about Dustin Hoffman on his character in the film ‘Tootsie’. I’m sure it was shared somewhere on your Facebook walls or Twitter timelines.

If not, here it is —

Watch it again, if you haven’t already.

Now, I haven’t blogged here in a very, very long time, but today, this moved me to immediately pen down my thoughts.

Mr. Hoffman, at one point in the video, says he couldn’t believe that he wasn’t more attractive when he was made-up to look like a woman. For me, this hit the proverbial nail right on its narrow-minded head.

I’ve struggled with weight and self-esteem issues for as long as I can remember. Apart from being a skinny toddler, I’ve always had the chubbiest cheeks, the tubbiest legs and the dimples on my elbows that so many kids in school seemed to lack.


View original post 963 more words

A letter to Chetan Bhagat from Indian Muslim Youth

Simple. The minute you address ANY community of personal choice, you’re quite the idiot.


Given below is the text of a letter that was initially written by a group of individuals and sent as a rejoinder to the article written by Chetan Bhagat titled,Letter from an Indian Muslim Youth published in The Times of India on 30 June 2013. The letter was sent to The Times of India The signatories include non-Muslims, because a large number of the emails read, ‘I am not a Muslim but I am equally disgusted by Chetan Bhagat’s letter’. Given below is the text of letter followed by more than 200 signatures:

A Letter to Mr. Chetan Bhagat from Indian Muslim Youth

3rd July 2013

Dear Mr. Bhagat,

View original post 1,900 more words

Protected: Gaurav

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Published December 25, 2009. 


I stood by the door, watching him struggle with his typing.

He kept typing ‘D-e-s-‘.

Then erased it again.


And a blank again.

It was a year since he left his remedial teaching, and now he was out on his own. In a world filled with instructions and words he could not read, he was struggling to keep with the times. Facebook, was his obsession, and his problem. He wanted to talk to all his friends from all 3 of his schools, but the words never came out the way he wanted them to. They either sounded too abrupt, or they didn’t make the sense he wanted them to.

He couldn’t read right, what his friends told him.

I wasn’t helping either.

Picture us.

Born a few years apart. One mechanically challenged, the other mechanically brilliant. And vice-versa for the literal skills. I wrote like there’s no tomorrow, he struggled with his own name for the first 10 years.

We had our differences, and as much as I tried not to sound ruthless and cruel- I kept away from helping him, because he needed to stop using a crutch for his communication.

I remember him on the first day I saw him. They put the dark bundle with curly hair and big eyes on my lap, and I was so excited I cried.

I looked at him, again, now. Standing 3 inches above me, hair coarse, but still curly, and wearing the subconsciously official colour of our household. Grey, with denims.

He yelled again.

I stifled a sob, of a brother I thought I had again for a moment.

I walked away.

That’s what I always do, it’s what I have been told to do- walk away from him, so that I can have a better life. So that my temper doesn’t kill the both of us and so that I can prove that I am a better, bigger person. He wasn’t the nicest guy. He was rude, mean, and spoke to me like he owned my house. Destroyed everything I created. Lied, cheated. Hurt. Threatened to hurt. He drilled into my faults the way you do only when you want to cripple your worst enemy.

I walked back to where he sat, typing what he didn’t want to, not being able to type what he wanted to.

I first understood the gravity of his problem a couple of years back, when a movie about this was released. The ‘I’ll-send-you-to-hostel’ threats were too familiar to miss. The mother weeping, the father’s exasperation- was like they’d installed a camera in my bedroom and watched us for 15 years now.

The realisation of his end of the trouble set in when they showed the muddle in the child’s brain. How nothing made sense, how everything else was so much more exciting. How what he said was never what he wanted to, or what he’d begun to say. How his friends were the only escape route from hurting everyone around him because of his own frustration that suddenly the family was a distant unit of people who only made him do things he’d never want to.

I never thought my own brother would hate words- my source of joy.

But then I noticed the only thing in the film that was different. The sibling. The constant support, the covering up, the absence of arrogance. The sibling who was patient.

I was making my pride my vanity by being who I was. I wasn’t in any way helping anyone- least of all, the only person who needed me most- my sibling.

I reeled back to reality again. He turned to look at me.

“Spelling bol, aaj ke liye last.”

I sighed.

Kisse baat kar raha hai?

“School teacher. Type kar na.

Bol kya type karu.

Likh ‘Radhika is a good sister.’”


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.

Immature Fruit

Poetry, Travels, Sketches, Writings and a Sip of Inspiration with Passion.

A Dowg's Life

I’m a dowg. Woof.

Smoke Signals

Life, et cetera