The Celtic Song

The ridges of his palms

Spoke the names of the trees

His tarnished hazel eyes

Wrinkled at the crease.

His bleeding heart had long since

Turned to soldid stone

As he ventured into shadows

In a hollow bark he called home.

Train to train, venturing

Back again, and twice

His name was carved in pinewood

Nibbled on by hungry mice.

The leaves rustled around

In his weary mind

In expanses of loose land

He felt oddly confined.

Now he lives upon a mountain

Hight above the raging sea

Timeless, yet not forgotten

Lies the chiselled pinewood tree.


So What’s Your Story?

So I tend to get really passionate about things. And mostly, whether or not I admit it, I have phases of absolute obsession. But I love few things constantly and hard. One of those is people. I just tend to enjoy learning about the nuances of characters, about little stories, and the things that make us individuals. I like that we all have so many things going on, buzzing incessantly, and every person we see has a melody, waiting to be sung.
You just need to ask the right questions. And there’s one man I know, for sure, who does. There’s one tumblr which I can’t seem to stop reblogging, one Facebook page that is the reason I still have an account there (sorry, Zuckerberg), and over 4,000 portraits that I cannot get enough of. I don’t want to sound like a total hipster with my nose up in the air, but I do think that I have followed the journey long enough to get utterly attached to it.
On September 10th, when I got to know that Brandon Stanton was in India, I was ecstatic. I wanted him to experience the varicoloured streets, the people, the enigma of it all. On the 11th, when I opened up his page, I recognised the India Gate in a jiffy. Motivated to meet him, I chalked out a list of places he was likely to visit, and tried to formulate a route. I emailed him, googled the UN tour dates, and sat in my room, thinking about the times his page has kept me up till the wee hours of the morning. I thought about the times I had wished on my lucky stars to get a glimpse of him, a sign that the man behind the page is real. And when I reached home from school on the 12th of September, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I refreshed the page over and over, half-thinking there was a glitch, half-wondering if this was, indeed, the real life. Once I got permission to go to Connaught Place, I was in a frenzy. I spent the car journey imagining how it would be, and a few seconds later he was less than a foot away from me. Honestly, I take pride in the fact that I didn’t collapse from the sheer brilliance, and I managed to maintain my integrity, pretty much. I got to talk to him, hear stories from his life, and even get a piece of advice.


The coolest part, however, was when the police tried to blame someone for the sizeable crowd, and asked him who he was with.

“All of us”, we replied in unison. Humans.


Ten Things I Want You to Know

1. Always take pictures of the sky when it’s pretty, it probably won’t ever look like that again.

2. Take off the dark eyeliner and nail polish once in a while, you’ll feel lighter.

3.  Sleep under six blankets with the fan on high in the middle of the winter, the sound is soothing.

4. Raise your hand when you know the answer, even if the class is all upperclassmen.

5. Read that book again, you’ll notice something you didn’t the first time.

6. Don’t drink too much caffeine, you’ll get the jitters and bomb your math test.

7. Wear pencils behind your ears, it’s convenient.

8. Try to talk to people, it won’t kill you.

9. When that cute boy tries to cheat off your test, write the wrong answers and change them later.

10. It’s okay to feel happy, don’t let other peoples sadness make you feel bad.


The Blue Funk

Evermore in thoughts of folly

Oh, the sheer salad age

Glasses filled with melancholy

And concoctions of rage.

A calloused compuction

Lies beneath forlorn hope

Thoroughgoing rhapsodic fluxion

Under colloquialisms of trope.


Through my Fingers

I told myself


That books and words

And sentences and poetry

Are just combinations and algorithms

Encoded with the same twenty-six letters

Over and over,

Outward and outward,

And forever outward.


And that sometimes those twenty-six letters

Weave into each other,

Under and under,

Inward and Inward,

And forever inward.


So at sixes and sevens

As I tried to put you onto paper

It was not my fault

That they eluded me.


Don’t get me Sartred

Walking down the street to nowhere

It felt like somewhere I’d already been,

It felt much more like a place

That any place I’d ever seen.


‘Round the roundabout to nothingness,

I met the voices in my head,

When I passed the sign of nihility,

I couldn’t but go ahead.


And when I finally reached the void

I found a swash of colour

And suddenly the world around me,

Seemed a tad less duller.


The Circle

The moment when you realise

That the air you breathe will someday

Fire up an inferno in someone’s heart.

That the leaves on the sycamores

Will someday slake your thirst.

That the stars in the night sky

Will be interred with your bones.

Is precisely the moment

When you begin to get it right.


No Post on Sundays!

So well, since I posted this, I’m already declaring the title null and void, but for what its worth, I’m going to start using weekends as visual days.  No text, no poetry, no prose- just illustrations and photography. I’ll be posting my own art, and photographs, and also some of my favourites/classics.