I am good. Although, I am not great.
I always thought that to be great, you needed to sacrifice.

It didn’t really matter what you were great at.
You sacrifice what weighs you down as good, and what would make you great.
I learnt how to play the piano for about four years.
I was told that in order to play the piano well, I needed to cut off my nails.

If I wanted to be great at the playing the piano,
I needed to keep my nails cut for a very long time.
Long enough for me to get to great.
Then keep them short to continue to be great.


I think artists are made of that kind of pain.
Pain, sacrifices and more pain.
Nails cut, pens filled, legs in shape, voices sharps and hearts vulnerable.
I always thought sacrifices were beautiful and heroic.

That is one thing I always thought I was. Heroic.
At the most unexpected time only though.
It was easy to make sacrifices for other people, everyone but me.
I never made sacrifices for me.
I needed me for myself, now.
I needed what felt good, now.

So I made sacrifices for other people and to reward myself,
I chose not to make any sacrifices today,
tomorrow or for the next decade.

I chose to keep my nails long;
and paint them black, white and sometimes red.
The red made me great though.

So, who’s to say that I am not great?
Maybe I am great.
Maybe I am the queen of colour,
the master of overturning sad endings.

I am good. Although, I am not great.
I always thought that to be great, you needed to sacrifice.


Of Cities and Knights

The safest cities are,
where the night crawlers
are artistic college goers.
Armed with only good;
intentions and cameras.

They roam the streets,
too man in number.
Like the plague,
killing the unkind.
Under streetlights.

In search of rights,
correcting wrongs.
At night and in songs,
under glowing gold;
and sounds of traffic slowing.

The safest cities are,
the ones we scour.
In groups or in couplets.
Armed with only good,
intentions and cameras.


In sickness but not in health,
In poverty but not in wealth,
You’ve been lulling me to sleep.

In between melodies, rhymes;
and slow blowing winds,
converging at my balcony.

In jest but not in all seriousness,
In dreams but not in festering reality,
You’ve been lulling me to sleep.

In between bed sheets and bathroom walls,
and gushing shower heads;
leaving my floors wet.

My eyes ache,
from not having caught a sight of you.
My spine,
is waiting to unfurl to your touch;
on a stormy night.

After a day too long,
long enough to finish longing for you;
as much as I do,
in sickness and in health.





Dear amma and accha, you brought me up well. You gave me all the love you could. Somewhere along the way, or maybe from the very beginning, you just never loved each other.

The other day at work, I read a piece that someone wrote about her childhood and her love for curd. How ridiculous is that? Curd. And I wondered, what my most prominent childhood memory would be. It didn’t take long for me to conclude that this memory or memories in question were of the two of you. Not as parents, but as two people in a marriage. No, not a married couple. Just two very different people stuck or unwound in a marriage that had failed you from a while ago.

Most children that I’ve noticed, tend to shape their ideas of love around their parents. Lucky for me, I never had any such commitments to make. My idea of love was truly mine. And slowly, I lost my idea of love, because I don’t believe any such thing exists. Not that it particularly bothers me, but on some nights, I wonder what it must be like to believe in love. I imagine it to be as enthralling as believing in a god. A being that has the power to change anything in your life. Isn’t love like that too? Love can change anything in your world as well. Maybe love is god and god is love.

If that is the case, then you must really pray a lot to love, amma. Then why is it that love never came to you naturally or love never came to you at all? You prayed every day. You still pray.

If that is the case, then how come you never ran into love, at the temple you frequent accha? Not even one of those surya namaskarams helped you love anyone just a little better.

If these memories do ever serve me right, I can’t have missed every single embrace that you never had. And my memories do serve me very well, I live on them. Which is why I know, that you’ve never smiled at each other, let alone held hands or god forbid, embraced. I remember no traces that love could have left behind, even from a short visit.

However, I do remember our family car rides to your sister’s house, accha. And I remember every single word out of your mouth that made amma cry. It’s etched in my memory like a bad yet catchy song. One you would hum sometimes, but never sing out loud.

However, I do remember how your voice fell slowly when you called bearing good news accha, and amma just didn’t care. When you have loved someone for nineteen years, you can hear their heartbreak even in dead silences.

I remember every instance where your anger got the better of you and you flinched at each other’s sudden movements. I remember hearing things I should never have heard and knowing fully well what they meant. But I never knew why you would say it.

I remember waking up to muffled yet raised voices, nearly every morning in Kerala. I remember waking up and walking to the living room to see what was wrong, just to see the two of you sitting facing each other on the sofa with a tea and coffee in each hand. It was just that normal in our household.

Maybe that’s why it all went south. Because amma was coffee and you were tea accha. Maybe you should have asked him for his beverage preferences when you met him for the first time amma. It would have been the simplest solution in the world. We would all be spared some pain. But if you’d have known each other well enough to decide to never get married, I don’t know what would have become of me and deepu. We would have been someone else’s off springs, without a knowledge or care of what became of the other (each other).

Maybe that is our saving grace. Maybe your tea and coffee gave me deepu, as a saving grace. After everything still, when I look at his baby pictures, you hardly took any, he looked angelic. He came as an angel with droopy cheeks, a straight haired little monster.

Maybe the day you brought him home, we had two armies within one household, but you just didn’t know that the generals were best of friends.

*’Amma’ and ‘Acchan’ stand for Mother and Father, in my mother tongue Malayalam. And Deepu is my little brother.


Something I wrote to a friend once.

Boy, my clever boy;

Why is that when I ask you for a word,

You pick abomination?


Boy, my clever boy;

You are an abomination.

An abomination of the best kind.


Boy, my sensitive boy;

Don’t you dare think you’re like everyone else.

Don’t you dare want that for yourself.


Boy, my dear boy;

You’re not meant to be the dead fish.

You’re meant to search the oceans for riches.


Boy, my dear boy;

You’re the one who’ll disrupt the flow.

You’ll find many versions of you in the treasure chest.


Boy, my gifted boy;

You will not be held by common barriers.

You will not be kept by in ambition.


Boy, my darling boy;

You will soar these skies.

You will walk these roads.


Boy, my darling boy;

I will be your shadow and step out to remind you;

That you are an abomination.

That you are your brilliance.

That you are your kind eyes and wise words.

Anything else, is for another time and another world.


I’m scared of thunderstorms.

I’m afraid of the darkness.

I say ‘the darkness’ like it’s just one darkness.

One entity.

Like it’s the same darkness everywhere.

And tonight, the two have cooked up a feast for me.

In a strange city.

A city where no one will look for me.

I consider losing myself here, hence.

Sometimes, I consider what when no one will come searching.


I’m scared of heights.

I’m afraid of falling too hard.

I say falling too hard, in context to you.

You know who you are.

But you don’t know why I can’t fall for you.

I keep writing you love letters.

Love letters that you’ll never read.

They’ll char from the fire raging inside of me.

I write to you in the darkness with thunderstorms witness.

And I lose you in the wound-up lanes of this strange city.



is that first brush of fingers.

Under the same umbrella,

on a rainy afternoon.

There were sparks.


is running outside;

later that same evening.

To celebrate the hand -holding,

but mid thunderstorm.

There were sparks.


was that last twitch

of limbs,

when folks visited

the morgue.

There must have been sparks.