…or technically the opposite of whatever Mayday is since this is a post about all the GOOD things that happened this May. So, I guess a more apt title would be REPOSE PROSE (as informs me repose happens to be one of mayday’s antonyms), but I can’t decide if that would be grammatically correct (and has nothing to do with the fact that it tragically lacks in puns that barely pass off as puns. honest.)

I’m so good at titles.


  1. The most amazing that happened (and it barely made the cut since it was on, like May 30th) was the fact that I met–in person–one of the friends I made on here. Thaz right. I met the modern-day equivalent of my pen pal. This is she. We met and had breakfast and it was wonderful and beautiful and just great. She’s great. Find her on InWords (great website by the way) here.


  1. I also got a bunch of paint supplies and bought more books (even though I still haven’t read half the books I bought at the last book fair) and just had a very good end to a month that was otherwise steeped in anxiety.


  1. According to the International Renewable Energy Agency (IRENA), as of May 29th, the renewable energy sector now consists of nearly 10 million people globally.


  1. Taiwan became the first Asian country to begin the process of legalizing same-sex marriage. (It coulda been us but society playin’–but hopefully this will pave the way for India to also recognize that love is love)


  1. Some corals in Kenyan marine national parks have adapted to warmer waters. Which is amazing news considering the depressing reality of the Great Barrier Reef.


And that’s five good things that happened in the fifth month this year.


There’s a lot of crappy things going on in the news: things that nobody saw coming, things that were predicted by a few and dismissed by the many, things that have been happening for years but only now been able to get the appropriate coverage. So in this day of hyperawareness and (perhaps as a result) desensitization, if you’d like some good news along with the bad, this might be a nice place to hang out on the weekends.

On that note:

Yours Truly,


P.S The featured image is a picture I took of the Husainabad Clock Tower in Lucknow. Which is just a beautiful city. 10/10 would recommend.

p.p.s The gif is of an actor known as Misha Collins, who is among my favourite people currently in this world, not least because of his charity organisation called Random Acts and his A+ parenting skills. (fun fact: he was allegedly accused of being the antichrist by the Westboro Baptist Church–make of that what you will.)





you make me laugh but it’s not funny

With the dawn of winter, a series of births took place amidst the population on Earth. They gave rise to peculiar little children–the first on earth to not be perfectly Happy. Or Sad. Or Angry. These kids discovered desperation.

Those who gave birth to them–The Happy–did not understand. What was this–this grey fog their children writhed in silently, mechanically? What was this watered down imitation sunshine that bathed their houses and plants and roads? The Happy did not understand.

The Sad–who came before the birth of The Happy–were similarly flummoxed. What were hesitant smiles that did not perfectly contrast their misery? What was this tentative hope, hesitant optimism?

The ancestors of The Sad–The Angry–understood the newest people in a way the other two generations didn’t. Of course, their great grandchildren were still freaks as far as they were concerned, but they could see the method to their madness. They understood desperation, even if they were unfamiliar with the intermittent moments of apathy that followed.

The Happy, The Sad and The Angry all loved the newest people unconditionally. The Happy delighted in the way their fingers dipped in the colours and drew swirls of beautiful, bright madness in the air. The Sad wept with them when they sobbed the tears of the discontent and wailed as they cried the woes of the distressed. The Angry ranted with them against the injustice of the skies and the flesh, and the betrayals of the heart and the mind.

And to all this, I stood a spectator.

The newest people took off sometimes. You can stay in the same place and still find ways to leave people, it’s fairly simple. They took off in the still night, picking locks with pieces of hearts ripped empty and sharpened to a point; crystallised preservations you could hear over the dripping of the faucet if you listened hard enough.

They’d breathe in the night air and look at the stars and grasp comfort from lights long dead and so far. The Sad once told them that stars are just stars. Not dead lovers illuminating the dark.

The stars are just stars, but some flowers used to be people, The Angry would hurriedly placate. For instance, windflowers sprang forth when Adonis’ blood fell to the earth. The hyacinth used to be Hyacinthus, a victim of jealous rage, the narcissus, the lily, the lotus.

The kids laughed and wept and joked and threatened to choke on the air they inhaled. Some of them fell in love and forgot to be sad, others fell in love and forgot what it was to be happy, still others did neither and stared at the scenery. And this has been their story.

The End

Yours Truly,



Little Things

Because there is something about me. Something that forces you to take a breath just so you can hold it for a while; something in the scrunching of faces and the wringing of hands and the anxious pacing. Little things—impersonal. Something weird and unusual and vague. Something that makes you smile and laugh, come alive just a little bit. Something that makes you frown and sigh, then pull away because you’ve had enough.

Because there is something about her. In the way she dances as she walks down the street, in the sudden whipping of head and the small smile. Something that makes you look again, one last time, just to ensure you commit it all to memory; something to look back on when you’re 70 and marvel at. Something in the lowering of lashes and the confident statements. Something you try to hold on to, but forget a few minutes later.

Because there’s something about him. Something in the widening of eyes and the quiet, challenging tone; in the tapping of feet and the grasping of hands. Something about the firm convictions and the distracted ramblings. Something that overwhelms you with the need to hold it close–closer–as close as you can.

Because there’s something about you. Something in the eyes and the wind through your hair; in the flicking of wrists and the lines of your palm. Something in the wrinkles: the evidence of past laughter and the years you’ve witnessed.

And there’s something about her. And him—and that one too. Something in the mundane, in the everyday. Something strangers notice and don’t at the same time.

There’s something about it all–something beautiful and pretty and idealistic.

Something tragic about how it’s forgotten all too soon—or worse, never noticed to begin with.

Yours Truly,


P.S  Today was just so incredibly wonderful. I actually painted. It’s been so long and its the first time in so many weeks that I’ve felt like myself. I thought I should perhaps write a different post about it, but then nah. Anyway here’s what I spent the afternoon doing:

So I did sort of play it fast and loose with the paint. I’m afraid I’ve absolutely ruined it. Oh well. It was fun, though. It was a nice day.


My last post was my hundredth. Which might not seem like too big a deal to most of you, but it is to me. It meant I finally did something completely and properly and loved every minute of it.

Yes that's me. I'm an overjoyed potato. An overjoyed potato whose make up game is the bomb.
Yes that’s me. I’m an overjoyed potato. An overjoyed potato whose make up game is the bomb.

I wanted this one to be special. 101. I wanted to write something meaningful and profound, something that’ll tug at your heartstrings and float in the recesses of your mind long after you read this. If not beautiful, I would’ve settled for funny; something witty and light-hearted that’d brighten your day. But I don’t know. I should know by now that that’s not how it works.

SO, in my usual narcissistic fashion, I’ll settle for something about me (and no contrary to what you might think I hadn’t started this post with the intention of writing about myself. Yes I know I do it a lot, I do feel slightly guilty about it, but hey this is my space. It’s either this or weekly updates on social networking sites giving away too much unasked for information. So really you’re doing the world a service by reading about the stuff I write here so I don’t feel compelled to write anything on Google+ or something. Yeah, reading this is your great service to humanity. The angels smile down at you at this very moment and shake their head adoringly while contemplating including you in their ranks. You’re welcome.)

I’m a little lost. As regards to what I have no idea, there’s just this general feeling of being untethered—and by that I don’t mean free, but just sort of…ungrounded? Is that even a word? For the most part I get caught up in day to day stuff and don’t dwell on it much but then it’s always just right there. I know we’re kids and not supposed to know what to do with our lives but there’s just no joy in it, you know? It’s just blah.

With me being smack dab in the middle of boards, my anxiety is having a field day. I have bio tomorrow and should be studying but I figured I’d take a break. Help. I have this soul crushing image of receiving my results in January and finding out I got B’s and C’s. I was in the car on the way back from school on Friday and we were parked and all I could think about was all the ways I could get into a car accident right now and what would happen if I did. My first thought? I wouldn’t be able to give my exams properly. Not dying, but failing. Hermione would be proud.

Things aren’t all bad though. Some things have actually settled down, which I’m not sure is a good thing or a bad thing, but the plus side to the closing of chapters is that they allow for the beginnings of new ones. Oh and I got to finish the last of the ice cream—which never happens in my house. I’m usually the one excitedly opening the freezer to find an empty carton. What kind of a monster puts the empty ice cream tub back in the freezer to taunt the less fortunate?

Okay well its a little after 8. I should go study.

Thank you, by the way. For soldiering through all the whiny posts and the boring posts and the downright absurd ones. I mean yes, I know it’s all for the greater good, but thank you anyway.

Yours Truly,


He Fears For His Sanity

Few things in life are as joyous as sitting on the floor with the TV blaring, watching your brother tuck into a plate of pomegranates, grabbing a fistful and then promptly squeezing them onto his face before dissolving into hysterical laughter. He sits there with juice dripping down his cheek and–having decided to ignore my annoying buzzing and assuming it’ll just go away–bites into another pomegranate seed.

Kid #3 looked at me weird as I lay on the floor giggling shamelessly over something no one else found funny. I don’t know why the situation was that humorous. Kid #4 (the boy, that is) is 5. Surely there are far more clever pranks a sixteen year old could come up with when faced with such a seemingly puny adversary.

I’m an annoying sister. I squeeze seed after seed into his face and he sits there patiently waiting for me to stop so he can once again pay attention to the cartoon. I’m a puddle of maniacal laughter while he indulgently looks on, straight-faced and slightly confused. ‘You’re wasting food’, he quietly chides. But even that sensible protest doesn’t stop me. Squit! And another seed reduced to red splatter; squit–another one just below his eye. He blinks and looks at me bewildered, unable to comprehend why I’m even doing this while I wipe away the tears of silent, uncontrollable laughter. Eventually I get distracted by some shiny object and he is left in peace.

Minutes later, I’m on the laptop; my neck hurts and I look up for a second. Squit! Right in my eye. A few drops dripping onto the notes beside me. Squit! Sticky juice sliding down my neck, and I’m  too stunned to react.

He smiles a shy, wise smile free of all mischievous glee and then turns and goes to the kitchen to put the plate in the sink, having avenged his precious snack time which had been butchered by the juvenile antics of his eldest sister who, as common sense tells him, should know better than to go around squirting fruit juice on to unsuspecting little humans. He comes back into the room and is immediately met with a cap full of water aimed straight at his shirt. Looking at the once again giggling culprit he contemplates responding in like. Aware it would be up to him to manage it if things escalate, he sighs and decides to spend the evening with his much saner mother.

I really should find better things to do with my time.

Yours Truly,


So…Uh…That’ll Be All

Hello. I don’t know much about you. Any of you. And you don’t know much about me—sure you’re reading this which I suppose is a part of my soul, but you don’t know me. You don’t know the kind of nightmares I have or the things I like; you don’t know that I have a tiny scar on my nose or that my sister once bit me hard enough to draw blood (she’s an animal. A bloody animal) And I don’t know you. Maybe your sister bit you sharp enough to draw blood once upon a time, maybe you have a glorious pink alarm clock and maybe you think the cereal companies are in on a conspiracy too.

Point is, I don’t know you and you don’t know me and yet we still do. You read the crap I write and—if you have a blog too—I rifle through the scraps of your soul you plastered across the interwebz (with a z ‘cuz I’m cool like that), they might not seem like pieces of yourselves to you—but they are to me. Because I don’t know you, but I have these scraps I can piece together and guess and wonder with. So, uh, thank you for those.

I don’t know why I wrote this. I don’t even think I can figure out what my point was. It’s just we’re all living on this big piece of rock at the same time and in a few thousand years there will be no traces of any of us and future generations won’t have anything to do with most of us. The only people who’ll even know we exist are the ones who exist with us—and very few of them at that. So I guess I was just saying thanks. For your scraps. And for knowing mine.

Yours Truly,


Not One.


There are these people in your lives that are absolutely perfect. They’re not flawless, but they are perfect. And the sad part is, sometimes even when you tell them, they refuse to believe it. It’s not that they’re being modest, they genuinely don’t believe it.

I don’t get it. I don’t understand how someone can be that wonderful and never even realize it. And I know most people would say that’s part of their charm, but it just pains me really. To see them going through life thinking that low of themselves when they mean so much.

We all have one of those, right? Well I’m surrounded by them. All these perfect people who shouldn’t be putting themselves down but always are and it’s sad.

I asked a few friends to name just three good things about themselves. Only one of them did. And even he was unsure in the beginning. And well this guy has always had an ego. Not the obnoxious, ugh kind, but the refreshing, self-confident kind. It’s a welcome change in a teenager. My best friend flat-out refused to do it. Another friend of mine said there weren’t any; a fourth kept asking me why I was making her do it. And the fifth said she’d tell me as soon as anything came to mind, except I think nothing did, because she is yet to get back to me. And so on and so forth. Why are we so afraid to accept the good stuff? Are we afraid of coming off as arrogant? Or are we afraid of jinxing it? Or—and the worst of all—do we just truly believe there is nothing to accept?

I know a few confident people from school—and one day I realized it was really all an act. They just didn’t want to appear vulnerable.

All these perfect people. And not one who sees it himself.

Yours Truly,

sc edited