There was a boy

Who loved too soon,

With a kind heart

And an easy smile.

There was a girl

Who guarded her heart,

With high flying dreams

And twinkling brown eyes.

There was a love

That never took off

Like a Song unsung,

Like a tale untold.

My first best friend

He had jet black hair and wide dark brown eyes. His skin was pale and silky smooth, his jaw tapered to a discernible pointed chin. He once told me that he wished he had dark tanned skin like mine. I was surprised. I had always wanted to look like him.

He was a boy I went to elementary school with. He was kind and sweet. We used to play together in the little playground under the building where we both lived. I used to hang from monkey bars because someone had once told me that that would make me grow tall. He always used to stand under, ready to catch me if I fell.

We went to school together, did homework together, played and read together. Our mothers used to joke that they’d have to literally pry us apart with a crowbar if we spent any more time together. I think he was my first best friend.

He always had a smile for me. Even the last time I visited him in the hospital, when his insides were Churned and ruined by cancer and chemotherapy, even when his eyelids were droopy from pain and fatigue, there was a smile on his face. When I cried, he held my hand. When I was leaving, he gave me a charm bracelet off his wrist. When I asked what that was for, he said, “so you’ll remember me when I’m not there”.

His funeral was a low-key affair. His parents looked sad and worn out. His mother hugged me close and kissed my hair when I went up to pay my respects. I wanted him to have something to remember me by as well. I had brought a book we had read together. As I left it by his side, I looked into his face. He looked like he had before, before the illness that took him. He looked happy and peaceful.

I still miss him.


Radiant is the sun

Clear and warm the day

Blue skies and not a cloud

Bright and sweet is the morn.

The light through the trees

Shine smooth and golden

The swing sets in the park

Full of kids and laughter.

The dew drops on the grass

The new shoots on the plants

The wildflowers looking up

Tell me Spring’s finally here.


Pointlessness and all his friends – part 2

Sometimes it feels like the human body is such an Inefficient design. It smarts at every outrage, it repairs itself at very slow rates, doesn’t regenerate organs (don’t throw liver at my face, it is only one organ, we have 50 others which can’t replicate to save their skins, pun intended) and lives only a fixed number of years. Perhaps an earthworm is a superior species.

The reason for this pointless meander about the human body is an article titled MPG of a human on a website called Do the Math  I randomly came across today. It is an older article, published in 2011 by a bloke called Tom Murphy who also maintains the website (I think). It compares the human body to automobiles based on calories consumed. The conclusion is that our bodies are at about 25% efficiency in converting the food that we consume into energy and that they are more efficient than most cars and an Iowa cornfield (?). While not suggesting that we replace walking/biking for cars, the article concludes with a proposal to choose more energy efficient cultivation and eating methods. I may have missed the whole point of the article.

P.S : I’m completely stalled at writing my thesis and am therefore ranting pointlessly while overdosing on Korean dramas, period ones in particular. Reminds me a little of the Mandarin ones I used to watch on TCS 8 while growing up.

When I saw you first

My heart beat wildly,

I whispered to it gently,

Patience, dear heart !

You walked in,

All tall and proud,

In your green uniform,

Stars agleam on your shoulder.

Your shy smile,

Your hidden heart,

Your lovely letters,

They became my life.

When I saw you last,

In that same uniform,

With more stars of valor,

My heart beat wildly, again,

Your face was bleak,

Your manner strained,

I wondered to myself,

If it was the last time.

Letting my mind wander

On another Meander

Up the hills and cliffs

Down the plunge into the deep.

Was it all for nothing;

All the love and

All the hurt,

All the talks and

All the laughing?

Days and nights

Have come and gone

All that’s left is me,

Left to wonder,

What might’ve been !

He saw the world
With the Wonder of a child.
His eyes so loving
His smile so wide
His heart so open.
I took him
I broke him
And then I cast him away.
He was never the same,
He’ll never be the same,
I took him apart,
I crushed his soul.


Something woke her. It was the middle of the night. She didn’t want sleep to desert her completely, so she stubbornly kept her eyes closed. She tried to keep her breathing long and deep, willing herself to go back to sleep. She must’ve fidgeted, for she felt his arms tighten around her. He was holding her like he often did as they slept, one hand on the back of her head, the other on the small of her back, folding her into his body like they were puzzle pieces. He was pleasantly warm. She gently tilted her head to one side to look up at him. His skin seemed to have attained a silvery Patina from the wintry moonlight filtering through the thin drapes. He looked peaceful and content. She laid her head back on his chest and breathed him in. He smelled like home.

On suspense endings

I was never any good at stories with suspense twists and turns and endings. You know the type, narrative jumping to and fro, keeping you on Tenterhooks, of that ilk. I always had to know how things ended. That was  (and still is) the only way I could keep on reading a book peacefully. Even if I somehow I persuade myself to start reading a book whose ending I don’t know outright (read haven’t read on Wikipedia), somewhere in between the suspense gets so bad, my stomach starts to hurt (faux emotions manifesting in physical reactions, there’s a clinical study somewhere there) and I absolutely have to go to the end of the book to see what happens.

This weirdness has branched out into some other questionable behaviours over the years. The same intolerance to suspense also applies to movies and TV series. No matter how ardently I had been looking forward to watching a certain episode of a certain series (prime example being your favourite and mine, Game of Thrones. Although the last episode of season 7 has left me slightly disgusted with the show runners. Nope, not the incest, after 7 seasons I’m pretty much immune to that, it’s the whole Rhaegar-Lyanna secret wedding and Aegon-Aegon confusion that has me riled), I always read the recap online before actually watching the episode. And of course, this means that I inadvertently spill the beans on the epic happenings in the series/episode to other people who were waiting to watch the episode and who actually care very much about the suspense factor.

Another quirk with endings that I have is that I don’t like stories or novels in which they leave you hanging.  Like Gone with the Wind. I couldn’t rest until I found the sequel contracted by Margaret Mitchell’s estate (Scarlett by Alexandra Ripley), written by another author in a completely different setting which changed the baseline of all the main characters and read it to see that everything is all right in the end. Rhett does come back to Scarlett and they have another child and they live happily ever after.  I think I read both books about four years apart, this was before Amazon I think, or at least before it became the phenomenon it is now. I searched far and wide, in book stores in four different cities until I finally found it in the one around the corner from my University. What can I say, I like the endings of books tied up neatly in a bow so I don’t have to wonder.