Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Tag: Change


“What moves you?” you ask

Looking at me in a crowded room

As the crowd presses with its eyes

On the new victim of your unwanted curiosity.

But I will know that later.


That evening of dimmed lights and glasses half full,

I have nothing to say.

I know your gaze anchored to my unseeing eyes

Is a game you have played and mastered;

But a game that matters only to you

A personal victory that does not scratch the surface of another soul

Yet here I am writing about it.

Let me explain this.

You asked a question,

And I will answer it because the question

Intrigues me.

Let’s not presume it’s you.


You don’t know how far back

I have to scroll my photo stream

To find a picture of myself that I clicked

That I may like.

That show my eyes without the baggage

Of nights I lay trying to court sleep

He, like everything I desire, rejects me gently.

A picture of a friend pulling me close

To share the moment.

Of family that does not hand me the camera

To capture them, ever so complete without me.

Of any trace of my existence.


Further back, when a boy asked me

If I could honour him with my love

I refused to believe that my love is honourable.

No love that has rolls of fat

No love that has broken teeth

No love with pimples is honourable.

I shall get my share of loneliness

That my loud faults warrant.

Because anything good in me

Is swallowed by my lard.


A little before that, not long ago.

A woman whose womb I come from

Looked me in the eye and said,

I cannot love you anymore.

And she cut the umbilical cord.

She was free.

I was happy for her.

She was free

Of being tied to a millstone of disease

Of shame, of questions and worry.

She climbs mountains now,

Watches birds, flies with them.

The farther she goes away,

The closer my demons breathe.


Before that.

A school bell rang and a gang of girls

With quieter laughs and thinner knees

Sat away from me.

When I opened my lunch to share with them,

They inched away.

I’ll have all of my lunch myself.

Yet I felt hungrier.


What moves me?

I don’t move.

Last night.

Everyone around me says they can do without the internet and I agree. I can do without it too.

Of course it isn’t a compulsive brain-damaging urge to want to stay online and browse all the time. It’s just that I have made so many friends through Twitter (little note – it’s part of the internet!) and they are across so many time zones and regardless of time zones, they are leading so many lives that I want to be part of each of them and I’m afraid of the day when even one of them doesn’t think of me if they are in crisis because I want to be there since that’s what friends do even if you have met once or never. I want to be there to share their joy, news, highlights, frustrations, rants, their pillow talk friend, their shoulder to cry on, their first SOS contact I want to be on their speed dial because what if they’re into something that they can’t tell their mom or what if they just want to hear a human voice? It’s not compulsive, it’s my emotional drive to not let anyone be alone, even if that means I get late to class in the morning and have to text an apology as the teacher takes a break to sip water and even if it means I have to skip gym before work and instead head to after work when my body is dragged through the day and has a thousand conversations with every soul I have interacted with running through my mind wondering what is the next most comforting thing to say because if you ever need reassurances I must be around to give it to you, to soften the blows and to set things straight. I don’t think of it as an obligation because I choose the people I interact with even if they are many and one day I don’t know who I love the most and who I would want to settle down with and I was pretty sure I didn’t take her name the last time someone asked me who my best friend was but hey, circumstances change and I can assure you that she really does think I’m the best friend in the world and for me, in my heart that is enough, even if she doesn’t remember what she told me the next day. I’m here for everyone and I like it, till the names blurred last night and I wanted to know who I am in love with and if I am in love at all and I had no answer because of so many names in the same list, each a promising candidate of my affections and a brilliant soul.

So I put my internet off, and I slept.

The parents turn 22.

This is to the two singularly most important people in my life. Singularly because they are equally important, and because if I had to save my life as opposed to listen to them, I’d listen to them.

Mandatory birthday post? Hell yeah! And there’s seriously  no better candidate for today than the two who have been responsible not only for the incident of your birth, but also the quality of the life that followed. So look at your parents today and even if you hate them for fighting, for being nasty to you, for not understanding, for suffocating your dreams, for pulling you back when you were than fingernail’s breadth away from what you wanted, for being the reason you broke up with your best girlfriend- just look at them and smile. A hug is sometimes the last thing on the list, but if you can, for me, give them one.

Even your Dad, because we often think he doesn’t need one.

My mother isn’t perfect. She likes to think she is. She’s the kind who will mentally celebrate her 40th birthday for the seventh consecutive year to convince us she’s 40. That won’t work, now that I’m 22, but anyway. She is a pleasant person to be with, for a grand total of 3 hours. 22 years has made me believe that she’s prissy, arrogant, scared, and can really go Dexter some time. On me. She can hurt, and by hurt I mean the kind of emotional wounds that stings months after the episode’s wrapped up with. But she’s okay. Along with the mandatory Karan Johar-love-your-mother thing, I love my mother for reasons as well. She’s reasonable. You can trust her. She can be argued with. She’s sensitive. It’s difficult for her to suppress joy. She has a set of rules which may get into my way, but the way she refuses to waver from them makes me more certain that I can stick to decisions as well. She thinks she’s a film-star, and that gives me the freedom to act like I am one too. I can’t come home and lie down with my head on her lap- she hates touch. But I can come home and rant. She won’t be concerned about who broke my heart- she’ll be worried about the lesson I took from the deal. it’s not ideal in most circumstances, but it’s a sort of training I’m taking from every minute with her.

Dad, is who I act like, even if I’m slowly starting to think like my mom. He’s a nice dad. Very annoying. I have more serious fights with him. He’s indifferent. He can absorb himself into a task and not care how much trouble or imbalance it causes to everyone else so long as he’s getting it done. He’s emotional in the way that you can work your way around his questions without the tension of being accused. He can shut himself up in a cocoon of that’s-what-I-want-and-that’s-how-I’ll-have-it. Which is stubbornness of another kind. He can turn a blind eye to the most obvious anomaly of our lives so long as his (yes, our lives and his life is different) sails smoothly. On the other hand, he’s concerned, about me. He can pamper me. He reads my mind and he completes my jokes. If I have a sense of humour at all- and I’ve been told I do, it’s because I have been around him, because he was as instrumental in shaping my mind as he could be. He didn’t buy me pink frocks. He bought me calf-length slacks so I wouldn’t bruise my knee. Then he started to teach me about loving nature, and loving things. He is the kind of Dad who my friends envy, and I secretly high-five. He’s the only Dad I know who isn’t awkward about hugs and holding hands while crossing roads. He’s the Dad who may intrude upon my space after breaking up, but only to ask who the boy was.

I don’t like them despite their faults. I want them to change. I want Dad to take me seriously and I want Ma to get the joke for once. I want them to understand that I will at some or the other point of time have someone to talk to through the night. And that it’s okay to let me grow up.

The thing is, I don’t share your parents. Neither do I share your story, and neither will any of us be as lucky or darned as any one of the rest of us. Some parents are terrible. I’d rather not know. Some parents are a memory, some- a faded one. Don’t assume that they may not fall in love. With each other or with someone else. They’re parents, but they’re human. They’re allowed to fail your expectations, they’re allowed to be forgiven a few sins because some day you’ll have to ask for a few pardons too.

If you’re reading this and not paying the internet bill, offer to show the parent who does the funniest YouTube video you’ve watched. If your last meal wasn’t cooked or paid for by you, offer the parent who made it, a glass of water.

Just for one day, like an unreasonably forgiving person, love them for sharing the chromosomes to make you. Forget about it later, but just one day, do that.


Reluctance gets the best of us. Or the mediocre, at least. Like this blog. I think I am showing symptoms of giving in to peer pressure with this WordPress move. 

No, my blogpost blog is still alive and that’s how I intend to keep it. 

So why the reluctance?

Because after 5 years of hanging on to Blogsopt, it drains a girl of her beliefs to be convinced into shifting base- or in my case, inaugurating new base. A lot of adjustments have to be made, and if I’m taking this domain move so seriously, imagine what life’s mundane decisions do to me. 

At 21, which is now- life is changing. Constantly. The constants have disappeared, changed themselves (hence disqualify from the ‘constant’ tab) or are suffering from extreme mood swings. All you look for is one person/place/electronic appliance to behave like it did yesterday, but honestly- it’s a lost battle against what reality is.

Change brings along a lot of things. I’ll be unfair to a world of possibilities if I claim that change is good or bad. Because it changes so often that just as you begin to form an opinion about the little street it has walked you down, you realise that the lane in that street is very different. Get the gist? No? Never mind.

Change also means deciding whether or not you want to flow with it, stay adamant or simply format your mind with every new decision so you can sway either way and no, I did not use the word ‘swing’. You were looking for it, weren’t you?

Back to change. 

A lot has been written about it, a lot will be written about it- it’s the equivalent of a lover’s touch or the sea or a Google Doodle. It will never not be talked about.

All I want you to do, is keep calm and congratulate yourself that you aren’t me, while I congratulate myself on the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be you.

So this will (also) be a platform for you to see what goes on up there and I’m talking about my ample brains there.

I plan to move all my Facebook notes here, so give me a bit and I will. Not the ones I’d written on Blogspot. though, that’s exclusive stuff.


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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