My mother is a history teacher,
and I was a sixth grader when
she first told me about the World Wars.
Now, as a twelve year old,
blissfully unaware of the crises of the world,
this was a revelation because

I could not understand, however hard I tried,
how anyone could watch and simply see people
killing other people.

Six years later,
desensitized to terrorism
and having learnt the ways of the world,
I realize how wrong I was,
believing that I would never ever be
one of those who could stand see war
tear apart countries.

I have been witnessing a genocide
in Syria for most of my adult life,
and reading the final goodbyes of people
in Aleppo over Twitter today,
never have I been more ashamed
of my own existence.



She could feel her level of contentment decrease each passing day.

She read things which inspired her, she read beautiful words and of beautiful worlds with beautiful people and the happiness she felt was unparalleled.

Yet, when she sat down to write, words didn’t flow from her fingertips to the keyboard like they used to do before. Instead, she felt a pressure. She didn’t feel the wish to write, rather, she felt obligated to write.

It took two drafts which she never deleted, always saved, before she could produce something good enough to maintain the bar of her poems.

At the peak (and opportunity) of her writing career, she felt that somehow, she had already put forth her best work. The sense of fulfillment, pride and accomplishment that followed every time she entered the post button was hard to come by.

Her mind evaded thoughts, things that she knew she could put to words. Desperation turned to anxiety and he could feel it slipping by, as if the longer she didn’t write, the more it would escape and soon all she would be left with the ghosts of all-good-things-written. She would be a shell. She would be someone who would come to be known as the person who let the best thing that ever happened to her slip by.

The one thing that she was good at, she let it go.

So she wrote. Though it was rubbish, absurd, hopeless, immature; she wrote. She wrote of her block, she wrote of overcoming block, she wrote of what to write about- and when, it was done, she closed her eyes with her palm and would press the “Publish” button.

She made it a habit to write at least five days a week.

Was it sufficient? She wouldn’t know. Did it get better? She wouldn’t know.

For right now, all she cared was for the not let her rust herself. All she cared was for to stop her mind from stopping, because she knew if she did, there would be no one who would stop her thoughts from consuming her.

You Are Enough.



You called me ugly. But I beg to differ.

I feel beautiful.

I feel just like drunken sky, bathed in hues of yellow and blue and white, spread all over your heads, a tantalizing display of colours never seen and designs never imagined.

You called me shallow.

But I feel layered.

I feel like taste of your favourite dessert: chocolate truffle, the slightly bitter taste of chocolate oozing down to a softer, sweeter and mellower palate, both sweet and bitter serenading a taste so perfectly wonderful as if you’ve just had a culinary orgasm.

You called me confused.

But I feel precise.

I feel like the quiet and composed calm that you experience before the storm hits, that one moment of tranquillity and peace that you might never experience again, the one moment of perfect clarity when I know that no matter what the stakes, you’ll never be more content with life.

You called me monotonous.

But I feel unique.

I feel like the swaying leaf in the last nocturnal hour, the moon light shining just for me, and a thousand others, but only just for me, engulfing me in an aura so holy that my spirit is pure, its divine.

The world called me replaceable.

But honey, that’s what I’m not. I’m one of a kind, and that is enough.

If I Die…

Just right now, I was having my lunch when I noticed that the weather was really weird outside. I was sunny and cloudy and windy at the same time and looked as if it would rain. And I think, I saw a few drops of rain to. Abandoning my lunch, I went t pick the clothes that had been left out to dry.

I picked them up and then settled down again when an extremely loud, ear-covering, car-siren-turning, making-people-come-to-the-balconies sound of a plane or something came, and went on for about a minute or so. Everyone in the balcony was squinting at the sky. After a minute or so, when no plane was spotted, all went back inside.

And when the sound ended, the skies just cleared up, the wind stopped blowing and sun just lit up the earth.

I’m pretty sure that sound was from a UFO. Because five minutes after that, another equally loud noise of the same category came, and the same procedure followed.

So if you hear that I’m dead or if you hear that I’ve been abducted and converted to an alien, you are my witnesses, okay?

Be Your Own Kind.


Be the kind of person who cannot not open the window of the bus. 
Be the kind of person who has to try new restaurants and dishes. 
Be the kind of person who keeps a rainbow in the closet.
Be the kind of person who isn’t afraid to not to anything sometimes.
Be the kind of person who paints his own walls. 
Be the kind of person who bungee jumps.
Be the kind of person who drinks and makes out with strangers.
Be the kind of person who sits at Saturday watching teary romcoms and doesn’t believe in love.
Be the kind of person who likes to cook.
Be the kind of person who talks to new people. 
Be the kind of person who loves the smell of old books and lusts the new ones.
Be the kind of person who travels. 
Be the kind of person who appreciates the sky.
Be the kind of person who isn’t afraid to scream in an ascending airplane. 
Be the kind of person who explores new routes.
Be the kind of person who dances in the rain.
Be the kind of person who eats ice cream in the winter and sips soup in the summer.
Be the kind of person who prefer flip flops to shoes. 
Be the kind of person who isn’t afraid to cry in public.
Be the kind of person who is not afraid of himself.
Be the kind of person who isn’t afraid to let go of his inhibitions.
Be the kind of person who finds beauty in scars and corners and crevices.
Be your own kind of person.

This is something I wrote because I felt like writing. Call it boring, but I just let my heart out. I hope you like it!

How He Met Their Mother


I am absolutely in love with the series and I wish they could continue. To me, ‘How I Met Your Mother’ was not a story but the lives of five friends, totally different from each other, yet, bond by something more that friendship. Okay, cut the crap! I missed it! I missed the last episode, of not just a season, but I missed the finale of my favorite TV series. TataSky should be sued!

But, here I am, still attempting to write an article about what I do know. And it’s hard not to know. My Twitter page, Facebook wall, trending at WordPress, and most of the other active social networking sites are inundated with people saying goodbye to the best TV series ever. A story of five friends, some twenty-something people, who live, eat ,play, drink, and enjoy!





Catchy titles, heart melting pictures, the legend-wait for it- dary phrases are flooding the entire social media. And I almost feel sorry, no, almost guilty of not having managed to watch it somewhere. Apparently, from what I’ve heard, Barney and Robin have a divorce, the Mother dies after having a whirlwind romance with Ted, attributed to a long illness, and Ted and Robin end up together, just like it all started. I may not know the full story but still, I cite a few reasons why HIMYM will be remembered:

1. Ted: I know we all love Josh Radnor as the extremely-confused-in-love, and ever-unlucky Ted as he rushes from one relationship to the other, never once realizing that he will most likely end up being with Robin, for the rest of his life.


2. Barney: It’s delightful to see Neil Patrick Harris play the role of a ravishing womanizer, flirting with every blond and brunette that he comes across, yet being this total domestic person who falls in love with The Robin. This is a character easily found in most serials, yet the conviction with which Harris play Barney and his confidence in ‘Have you met Ted’, and ‘Suiting Up’ makes us go head over heels for him.


3. The Gang: The Gang comes across to us as siblings from the other mothers, always ready to distribute their sloppy and useless advice among themselves. It gives us a feeling that life is not always doing the job that we do, but also to have drinks at the McLaren’s with our five best friends and CHEERS! Marshall, Lily, Robin, Barney and Ted emit a feeling that is hard to register. It gives us a homely feeling that even if something’s not right, The Gang would be there to fix it all right.


4. McLaren’s: The setting is perfect. The place called our second home. Ted can do all the drunk announcements he makes, Robin can drink as much as she wishes, without payment, Marshall and Lily can kiss at a place without anyone staring and Barney can always get a girl to bed. McLaren’s bound to be one of the best pubs in the entire of New York.


5. Story Idea: I adore the idea that the makers got Ted read the entire story backwards. Just a look at this title giver me a tingle of excitement at my spine. All the events recapitulated give us the feeling of nostalgia towards the Gang.

Okay, so no matter how much people disapprove of the show’s finale, we will always have enough reasons to remember this as one of the greatest shows of all times. For all the reasons mentioned above and also to eight great, fabulous, and exciting seasons of HIMYM with Robin, Barney, Lily, Marshall and finally, Ted. So it’s better not to be sad and BE AWESOME INSTEAD!