A fractured syntax is better than writing nothing

I’ve been struggling to write, hitting the backspace key more often than I would like in these past few days. Scribbling one word over another on my notepad until the ink imprints itself on the next page. And it is not because I can’t figure out what to think about anything but just because my thoughts and views are profuse. Sometimes I can’t find the right words, nothing seems to satisfy me. Nothing fits my discernment no matter how clearly I seem to have perceived it. And I end up writing nothing.


Nothing- it is a melee of shattered glass. With every word you fail to put in its right place, a seemingly good sentence shatters itself into a million tiny pieces and before you know it, there’s a pile of it on the prescient paper which knew the fate of your words before you even picked up the pen. And I can either believe all of it, or none of it. But I am a believer when I’m writing. I have to be. Otherwise I’m as good as a blank paper.


But a blank page is one I can’t do without, a blank screen is one I sit in front of, to mull over an event which led me to another event which led me to a “spiritual epiphany”; and then I start to write, but I find it hard to write without a syntax which conveys the sense of each word without seeming deceptive. And for my wanting a clearer meaning for my otherwise confusing syntax, I ultimately end up writing nothing again.


But I’ve come to find that nothingness is seductive, as it has meaning without words. But then again, if that was the case, I’ve got only nothingness in my mind.

This bulwark of protection has to be broken down since I don’t want to be consumed by nothingness under the impression that it is something after all. Because it isn’t; it is just a chimera.


So you let the rejected words dry, you let the shattered pieces heal. For afterwards, they become something of their own. You believe that they do. And that you must forego the ambition of writing nothing. And that you must accept everything, as it is.


Because at the end of the day, a fractured syntax isn’t as bad as it may seem. 🙂



Dharamsala/Mcleodganj/Triund – May 2017




Namgyal Monastery – Home to the residence of Dalai Lama

Beautiful art on the floor of the monastery


City shopping


On my way to church of St. John’s


Bird house!

Neo-gothic architecture

Church of St. John’s


Visiting Cafe Illiterati

My most favorite part of the cafe!

That’s me 🙂
Outside the cafe


Triund trek!



At the top after a three and a half hour trek

The majestic dog!

Moi 🙂

View from the tent


The rock!


The end

All pictures were clicked with an iPhone 6. 🙂

Remember me

Do you remember me? 

An eternity after I met you, your voice still lingers in my mind. Your music plays in the background in a loop while I dwell on the memories. I acquired some of your habits too, both good and bad. 

How I wish I could un-meet the iridescent soul of yours. 

I remember the day you bought your first Marlboro pack on a whim. I was shocked, at how unpredictable you were. And maybe that is when I should have known. 

I wish I could rewind back to the moment I laid my eyes on you. And leave it at that. I should’ve known it, the minute I saw your tattooed sleeve. I should’ve known that you were a bad idea. 

I should have known the moment you made me rethink, when you complicated the most simplest of things.


And how could I have failed to see beyond your smile, which with time has been the most difficult thing to efface from my mind. 

I was never allowed in the world you sequestered yourself to and I always believed it to be ordinary. I should have known better.

He leaves the letter for her beside the red roses and closes his eyes; the image of her blood spurting from her artery makes him nauseous. He leaves the cemetery.



The pages are turned to figure out what happens next.

Another page was turned recently, of a book that was put to the shelf. Dust settled. So did I.

But I picked it up sooner than when I had initially planned to pick it up; which was never.

Minds change. Mine got corrupted.

You won’t get the context because it’s not important. Let’s just say that I settled for something else.

Yes, settled. It’s funny, since I am not that woman.

The future is now crystal clear.

I’m semi intoxicated. No, not high yet. I could be. But I won’t be, on anything, on anyone.

I’ve already settled for something much worse.

Anyway, I’m craving Lychee juice. Abjured meat a long time ago, don’t crave it. Don’t know why.

I guess I settled for a life without it. For ethical reasons, you see.

Don’t know if you’ll call that a settlement.

They offered beer. I tell them that they could buy a meal for someone hungry with that money.

Now they’re settled with a feeling of guilt. I’m happy.

There’s no need to be sanguine. You’re free, as settling is complete opposite of it.

I took a quiz. The results were baffling. I’m a histrionic.
I settled for it. And my mind has been corrupted.


I’m Alice in reverse!


I fell down a rabbit hole,

My long dress barely fit inside the small abode,

My giant head hit the ceiling and bruised,

I cried for some time as I was utterly confused.


My eyes darted towards a weird marshmallow,

So tiny it was, the place suddenly felt so shallow

But I ate it all anyway,

And I shrank in size of a tiny doorway!


I opened the door to a weird blue room,

There were books all around, surrounded by a ghostly gloom

Oh what have I ever done to end up here?

This must be a nightmare; he must wake me up now, my dear!


Two years passed, Mad Hatter never came,

I was stuck inside a hell hole, a world so mundane.

I read all the books that surrounded me

And watched the warrior within die inside of me


This wasn’t meant to be; I’m supposed to be a fighter,

I was shown my own destiny but here I am; writing on this electric typewriter.

The Red Queen must be laughing, looking down at me

She must know that I too am laughing, at my antithetical destiny


I am lost, I really am, and there’s no Cheshire Cat to turn to

Because here it does matter which road to take,

Even when you don’t know where to go to

I hate how the rain soaks my clothes; I hate the sound of thunder

Why in the world am I here, I’m forever left to wonder.


The Mad Hatter never came and that’s how the story goes,

But Alice still hopes to see her Wonderland once again and she will – this her inward spirit knows.

Psychology 101

IMG_9480I’ve learned that it is easy to blame other people, especially in times when we are displeased. So we cover up our mistakes (which could’ve been avoided) and cover up the poor judgment on our part by using anger as a defence mechanism; victimizing ourselves to the point where we feel attacked by the other person.

You feel indignant, distraught, disrespected and even assaulted, so you sulk. But in the moment you want anything but to feel helpless and guilty, so you react fervently by screaming and shouting; blaming the other person. And it does not resolve anything, neither does it diminish anything, it only escalates the problem so that it can be picked up from where it was left off. The cycle goes on.

It is terribly unfair you’ll say, that you don’t deserve the criticism – this is how you cover up, so that you can feel less bad about yourself. Indignation masks your reality so that helplessness can’t take its toll on you.

Safeguarding your fragile emotions under your veil of anger is easy and it seems like the only choice, by habit, because such delicate emotions are not easy to bear.

To admit to these emotions might be difficult, especially when your ego doesn’t allow you to do so, which makes confessing hard as it requires you to unmask your anger and hence become vulnerable – guilty, helpless, and unwise – which requires a very strong ego and a good understanding of your emotions.

And yet this is not exactly the talk of a conflict, not exactly. It is probably the kind of conflict where only one person has to face the blame to resolve the conflict, meaning that he has to admit to his mistakes. But since he doesn’t, he ends up in a real conflict.

Another kind of conflict is the one which is abetted by beliefs, something which can’t be avoided. It is a clash between indigenous beliefs and values which I, for a fact, never held so dearly to my heart, in fact, not at all.

So to speak, the latter is the one I get into the most. More often than I would like to admit. It has been the case since childhood.

And at times I find myself just out of my depth because I know that only a negotiation or a compromise can resolve such conflict. And I can compromise too, but up to what degree, I do not know.

But I find this to be utterly unfair. Only because I am battling against something that I didn’t even choose, I’m being hurt over something I don’t want to associate myself with and yet I can’t be left without.

I find myself to be vulnerable. Tears they come so easily! And I am a so called “strong woman”.

Still I’m trying to understand the logic behind this horrible loop of conflicts for my beliefs and my way of life – where I consider myself a person with strong morals.

I wonder, when no solution can be dictated, and negotiation becomes a necessity, who shall incur the most loss?

La montagne de l’âme.

I want to walk again, barefoot, on wet stones, see them glisten under the heat of the sun and watch them go glassy as it drizzles. I want to feel the wind in my hair, feel the rain on my cheeks, and feel the tenderness, the warmth come upon me imperceptibly slowly. There won’t be no rush, no anxiousness, I know that the world will be out of my reach as red, blue, orange and green cloud my mind, yet it will be at my disposal. I want to watch my dreams and aspirations extend without them becoming distant, I want all profound and pointless questions to leave me, as if they never existed before. I want to try and reach for that child in me, for clarity, for honesty and for purity.


The child in me is swaying in the breeze,

For her the skies stay forevermore out of reach.

She is gazing into the realm of mountains,

The distance to which she soon starts counting.

She sat herself on a big wet rock,

Not caring a bit about her frail blue frock.

She smiles and rests her chin in her hands,

She sighs and talks to the birds about her plans.

The pink parasol lies beside her,

It’s the most cherished present given to her by her mother

She then remembers her face and remembers why she ran away

It’s because her irrefutable father asked her not to laugh so loud, ever again! 


She frowns, picks up a stone and throws it in the river,

If only she was big enough, she’d stay gone forever. 

She’d stay beside the mountains and beside the river,

She’d laugh however and dance whenever.

“But only if I was big enough, I’d stay here forever.” She mumbles and falls asleep on the big wet rock. 

I yearn for that child in me, who once sat beside the river. I yearn for the girl who knew nothing about indifference, who got piqued by others asking her to grow up. And I wish I didn’t listen to them, I wish I didn’t grow so old with them so young.

Here people are standing in their balconies, enjoying the rains. That’s as far as anyone seems to get in these “metropolitan cities” and I am no different than them. The weather’s dark, the wind is making the leaves dance, mocking our languid posture. And all I can think about is the mountain of my soul, all I want is this surge of sustained noise to die down and the smell of wet soil to permeate my very heart, so that it pushes me towards a totality of innocence, towards that laugh which knew no boundaries, towards that senselessness which never separated itself from others no matter how condescending they got and towards those glowing cheeks on which even my tears smiled.