Tomorrow’s a new day.

This one is for new beginnings.

(You might want to skip this if you don’t want to read about me. Thank you for coming here, though)

Before I tell you all about my journey, you should know that I am not the son of an army officer who has to wear uniforms and smell like good-byes. I am also not the son of a business tycoon who travels often and migrates with a suitcase filled with his family to wherever the market is looking good.

My father is just what he is supposed to be, a father. He does what he thinks will be best for his children. But every now and then, you can also see a small hint of a nomad if you look deep enough into his eyes. That’s how it began, by being a father and a nomad.

I was very young and in Delhi when my father got a wonderful job opportunity in Dubai and he had to leave us behind to go. Even worse, we had to shift to Chennai while he worked hard and became a warrior in the corporate world, fighting for peace and a beautiful house for his family to live in.

As a six-year-old in Chennai, I remember three things. Kinder joy, Jim Jam, and games. Of course, there’s the occasional ‘Remember that’ moment, but that’s usually just nostalgia and my mom talking. Eventually, we moved to Dubai.

I don’t remember much about the experience of my first flight except that I never even realized the plane took off because I was too busy eating. I spent almost five years over there, with Coke bottles, Indian food, and my best friends. But the obvious thing happened when I, personally, least expected it. My parents decided that it was time for the kids to learn what India was all about, and what better place to learn that than Delhi?

Because I was older, I don’t remember things about my time there that I wish I did. But then there is also the curse of being a human, which basically means I remember a few things that I don’t want to hold on to. My first heartbreak, first vodka shot, and my first poem have the same person and place in it. The same girl, and the same city. How can Delhi not be special for introducing me to love and Poetry? I called it home.

Three years into the best years of my life, we had to shift again. It is kind of obvious at this point because my family tends to do everything a bit too much, but this time was different. I knew what home felt like, I knew how a group of friends can be better than four walls and how disco lights can drive the darkness away.

For the first two years in Gujarat, I missed home. I wrote poetry on love and social issues but never on home because it was too damn hard. It got worse when distance took its toll on my friendships and I had fewer people to talk to as time went on. I developed commitment issues, and insecurities of my body and everything around it.

My life became a big coin flip and I had a very short span of time to call heads or tails, to call alive or existing. I don’t know what I chose, honestly.

One day, it all became okay. The nomad gene inside of me kicked in, and I promise you it is the best pain-killer/antibiotic ever. I still have atelophobia, and I still have insecurities but it’s easier to accept that now. I did not make best friends again, but I never stopped making memories.

I made my home but it wasn’t four walls or a group of friends, or two arms and a heartbeat. It was blurry memories, nostalgic smiles, and poetry. It took time but it was worth it. Stay strong.

Have a great year starting from whenever you read this.

Life update: one

Hey!

In the post – 365 – I announced that I’m going to post a life update on the 16th of every month. You can skip it altogether if you’re not interested in anything but poetry. Here’s my very first one. 


Well, I’m a dropout. I did start college back in July but barely went for my classes, because of which I was asked to opt for externals instead. I thought about it and discussed it with my family but we came to the conclusion that it’s best to drop a year and start again from July 2019. Why? Because I hope to have written my complete manuscript of the book I’m working on by then. Besides my book, I’m also working for Terribly Tiny Tales and Humans of Bombay as a writer. But that barely takes any time. I use the same posts I write for this blog for TTT and I go for taking stories for HoB every weekend.

I also hope to get much more work. If you’d like me to do a guest blog-post for you (paid) or collaborate, feel free to hit me up using the Contact page.

I haven’t exactly started my book yet because I’m waiting for the day I feel like starting it. I’m planning a trip to someplace in India to simulate a push towards that feeling. However, I have worked on the character sketches, outlines and a few other aspects of the book. 

There’s really not much to say here. This is pretty much my day. Writing, reading and using my phone. I live in Ahmedabad, a place that I’m not a big fan of, which basically means there’s nowhere I like to go in this city. Hopefully, that’ll change soon. Also, Christmas is coming soon and it happens to be my favorite season. We’re considering getting a tree this year, something we’ve never done before. Yay!

I’ll just spend it with my family because no friends (because Ahmedabad), so barely any gifts. But I guess it’ll be fun anyway.

So yeah, that is it so far. See you next month!

Let’s stay sober tonight.

Let’s stay sober tonight.

Abu was a storyteller by day and an alcoholic by night. Every day, till seven in the evening, he took money from kids and told them stories of black moons and flying swans. At night, after the last story, he would drink for hours. That’s when and how he came up with his stories. He was twenty-two.

One day, a twenty-year-old girl stopped by for a story. She sat next to him. With their backs against the wall of the building he sat in front of, they looked at the blue sky in silence for a while as Abu thought of a story. He wanted the story to be different, better, more real. Men in t-shirts, suits, and denims and women in gowns, suits, and crop tops passed by as he rummaged in his thoughts for a story. To his left, in a furniture shop across the street, the television showed news of storms in a city half a world away. That’s when the story came to him.

“This is a true story. My friend, who lived in Rio De Janeiro, loved associating strange theories with human nature and often shared them with me. He told me about the butterfly effect once. It goes something like this: When a butterfly flaps its wings at the right place and the right time, it can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away. A month after he shared this theory with me, his wife had to go to Chicago for work . On the last night of the trip, she decided to take a stroll by the beach. She sent him a picture of a butterfly that night because she missed him and wanted to share the things she saw. The picture was the last thing he saw before he died because of a storm. These two events aren’t necessarily related but I love it anyway.”

The twenty-year-old smiled, got up and pulled him up with her. They walked and shared stories for a long time that day. When she finally had to leave, she gave him her number and name. They parted ways.

Her name was Titli, which meant butterfly. He didn’t drink that night.


Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?

Pendants and tattoos.

Pendants and tattoos.

Elisabeth’s routine that day was very similar to all the other days. She woke up looking like what she would call “a tornado mess”, wore a t-shirt with a baby elephant’s picture on it and ate rainbow cereal. Of course, every choice has a backstory to it. Her sister had died because of a tornado and Elisabeth found humor and realization in calling herself a tornado mess. She used to live in a village when she was only eight Continue reading Pendants and tattoos.

A new haircut.

A new haircut.

Agastya was a very paradoxical writer – although not hypocritical. The first thing that you would notice about him was how empty his eyes were but how full of life his smile was. He was a big believer in love but had never really been in love himself. There was the one time, of course, Continue reading A new haircut.