Tag Archives: Prose

Of tattoos, memories, and a lifetime of stories. 

I saw the birds on my back woven on the pallu of my mother’s sari, and realised with startling clarity that I was trying to wind freedom around me , without realizing how stifling that could be.

I slip off my sari blouse and the air settles onto the wings of my birds; slowly, slowly, my back flexes into life.

There is something to be said about a woman whose shoulders can comfortably hold the weight of the world and her own freedom. Head held high, spine curving gently, dip of the hip, another tattoo, skin settled so gently over bones, tight muscle.

There is something to be said about this woman, who has birds on her back and blood in between her eyebrows. When she opens her mouth, something like love, escapes.

He watches the curve of her shoulder as her blouse slips down; the moonlight catches the slight shape of bone.

Sometimes, just sometimes, there is some good in having insomniac musings. 


That’s the thing about love. 

You never know when it is going to come into your life, sometimes, so softly that you have no idea that it has arrived, until it has settled into your skin, a light weight. You realise that your eyes are a little brighter, that your smile has started to reach your eyes again, that you are lost in thought about his eyes, his hands, the way he smiled at you that one (and only) night, his smell. You realise that you tremble when you say his name, because name is power, and a name that has so much meaning, so much importance in your life, becomes an echo in your mouth that doesn’t quite go away. You realise all these things, and you wonder when it happened, and you can never quite pinpoint the exact moment. 

It has happened. There is nothing else left to do but to live with it. Nurture it. Accept it. Let the love mould you, as you mould love. There’s no other way about it. It is a beautiful surrender, but nothing short of a surrender will allow for survival.

That’s the thing about love. It finds you when you least expect it. And by the time you realise what has happened, you’re caught. The best part is, you know there is no where else you’d rather be. 

Of slow, dreamy afternoons.


The sunlight is dancing along the curve of my anklet. It comes quickly, sneakily, this afternoon, like an illicit lover. The light stretches out its long, lean fingers, teases deftly, catches my attention just so; then it runs away.

I stretch my foot towards the sky. The heat rests on my soul like the tender touch of a mother who caresses her sleeping child.

It is afternoon. It is a Monday that could very well be a Sunday. I am sitting in a golden couch. The sunshine moves quickly. The music, it moves, slower. The breath, slowest of them all.

I am finding my heaven in snatches.



Following a series of love letters I have written here, and here:

There are some things I want to tell you.

I want to tell you that after I met you, I was reminded of all the ways that loving someone could hurt the insides, and the outsides.

I want to tell you that I expected more from you; you who write and speak as if you understand the world and its people, you who communicate as if you understand your pain and the pain of others, you, with your worldly ways. I want to tell you that I expected you to be less selfish, and be the person I thought you were.

I want to tell you that I am sad that I don’t know what happens in your everyday anymore, and that sometimes, I don’t care enough to be sad about this. That saddens me even further. I want to tell you that.

I want to tell you that on some days, I can still remember the way you kissed me. I want to tell you that on some days, this reminder makes me happy, and that on some days, this reminder makes me terribly sad.

I want to tell you that I am angry that I am sad.

I want to tell you that I am angry that you are so selfish that you have not seen my sadness, or asked after it.

I want to tell you that I did not deserve to be treated with your silence, and that you, intellectual being that you are, have failed in your wiseness in treating another human person, and that this makes me lose my respect for you a little.

I want to tell you that you are not on a pedestal any longer.

I want to tell you that I felt like I was not good enough for you, since the day I left you, because you never talked about what happened between us, and because you never bothered to ask how I felt about it all. I want to tell you that I am angry at myself for allowing you to  make me feel this way. And I want to tell you that that hurts the worst, that my relationship with myself has soured because of the relationship I wanted to have with you.

I want to tell you that I don’t want to waste our friendship, but most times, friendships have to be earned, and I don’t have the goodwill I think I need to be magnanimous with you at this stage in my life.

I want to tell you that I hope some day, something will change inside of you and you will not treat someone else the way you treated me.

I want to tell you that I love you, and perhaps, that is the best and the worst thing about all of this, that I cannot turn off my feelings the way I can turn off a phone.

Yes, there are some things I want to tell you.