Easier Said than Done

Half a plate of bhel-puri, a bus back home to my bed, a message, a cigarette- something tells me that happiness has to be hollow/momentary if it can be bought for five rupees.

Speaking of crabs- "I wish I had a shell", she whispers in the middle of class.

I smile and doodle doodles open to multiple interpretations so that you can quit interpreting my life.


"Mysterious my ass!" I croak, still drowsy.

Don't touch me, I wish my body gave out the vibes that screamed that. I am drunk enough too scream the words out myself and get away with it.

"You don't get me"- I wish I could say that without sounding like an angsty teen or an American pop singer.

Forget it, I say, when you ask me to talk, or don't call me at all. I go buy my own happiness for five rupees.

Dusty Dog-eared Pages

Do you think you could stop stepping over my toes each time we dance?
We studied constellations out in the garden, you and me, I didn't really see your face but the jawline was beautiful.

For a minute I thought Judith McNaught might just end up accusing me of plagiarism, especially the moment where you looked at me ..uhhh...what did she call that?- "heavy lidded gaze"- that's quite something by the way. Steel bands, murmured, abyss, gazes, locked, helpless bird oh what the hell! Just stop stepping over my feet when we dance!

Gone are the days when I needed to see my name on examination rolls/attendance registers to validate my existence. Ever since I heard you laugh...life's been so much better. I swear I could almost get rid off the bulky sweaters and the fringe that's so much more than a fringe. But it is still more romantic when the lights are dim you know.

You help me make the real world fade and I'll forget you are such a bad dancer. Is it a deal then?

Lets just be happy.

Attention Whore

The mirror never lies, like the eye of the beholder.

High heels are so not worth it, neither are cleavage dipping tops.

Too many unfulfilled promises- the eye seems to say now. It wanders to the bottle in my hand, beer, golden or green actually.

Alcohol never made me lose my senses, I try to tell those eyes.

The mirror lies, I realize when I look into his eyes, so do the photographs that display unflattering side profiles. I am unsure suddenly, its the golden-green drink I tell myself. I don't know about the truth- but the beauty is in his eyes. My beauty, I mean. His eyes darkened by the alcohol and sheer want seem to scream that I am beautiful.

Feels good. Just like I had been promised. It's addictive, the high, the happiness, the attention...momentary too...

I excuse myself.