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I usually think of myself as quite undriven by presumptions, but like every one of my polished thoughts about myself, this too comes tumbling down with multiple aporias.2 days back, I began reading The Shadow Lines. For those of you who don’t know, I usually take time when reading books, not always reading, at times closing the book and thinking walking around, talking to people about things related to it, creating deceiving philosophies, relishing each aspect at my own pace, the slower the more I love the words. I’ve yet half of it to go, so that would explain how much I like this particular one.
Interestingly, I began The Shadow Lines as part of challenging myself to reading a book I’d find boring, which turned out to be the opposite. The last time I put down an Amitav Ghosh book was in 11th Grade, it was The Sea of Poppies, which I think I left halfway, I thought the excerpt from The Calcutta Chromosome I had read around the time to be overwhelmingly challenging, so wanted to get m…
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To Perdito, with love

Dear Perdito,One thing we're all taught from the day we were born is love. You remember the day you wobbled out of your mum's tummy, you remember how for a moment, even the doctor who was quite used to babies looked at you with love, you remember that way before that people gazed at your mom's bulging stomach with tenderness all through her pregnancy, never, you wouldn't remember, but it's too easy to think of that as what happened. At times I think that we are too engulfed in the beauty of love, and that's what blinds us, we're asked to love, but never by how much, never to whom. These remain among things that we've got to figure out as we get along in this world.Perdito, you know something, at times I think of love as the same as fire. We're fascinated by its beauty, yet too afraid to capture it within our soul, afraid that we'd store it in the wrong places, give it to the careless ones, we're afraid of love as we're afraid of the fier…

The Vegetable Cutters

The paint peels
sad streaks and pouts
near the kitchen sink, the stove and the work area.
It tells me tales of tears miraged by onions,
mostly hollow ones
that stand emptiness
of blades grooving over surfaces
rough and smooth, jagged and flurry,
as they cut
and cut and cut and cut
as the knives and scissors,
sharp and blunt
begging for masterpieces
which are always slow.The cuts are always slow.The cuts are slow
because masterpieces are for heroes
not crouching heroines,
the pressure is high though,
unconscious and never deliberate.I hear a rhythm as the knife goes
ctuck, ctuck, ctuck
over and over
as mum gathers veggies into salads
or aunties julienne them into ramen noodles
or the master chefs at the hostel mess boil sambhar or rasam
evenly into bits and pieces
which make me think
if they're cutting through their souls,
bit by bit
for ever and ever.At the dining table, though,
they're undistinguished
the carrots they cut,
because in the end,
no one can find it
different fr…

Wiser Mornings

One habit change I’ve made in the past year is waking up early, by early I mean really early- about 3 hours or so before sunrise. I’ve always been a morning person, all nighters make me tired even if I make up for the hours lost in sleep. Growing up, I don’t remember any night where I stayed awake after 10 even those frequented by exam goers; neither do I remember waking up very late except in unavoidable circumstances. 
     I think the whole concept changed as I moved to India and my internal clock found it difficult to adjust to the workings of the day, added to the fact that me and my cousin always had plans for ‘after everyone sleeps’. During my Farook days, even this changed. I woke up really early at the hostel, not as early as now, the earliest phase I guess was 4:30. On my defense, it was really difficult to avoid everyone and go to sleep early. Sleep deprived, it took at least three months for me to get a consistent sleep pattern. Before that, I’d find myself waking up a…

The Uneasiness of Perfection

I grew up in one of the most popular metropolis in the world. The place was a microcosm of the whole world- I mingle with people from all cultures in a daily basis, so did I have the privilege of tasting world cuisines, a selection of clothes from around the globe, newspapers prioritized international news, and best of all bookstores had equal selection of books from every country. Growing up, I had a privilege in the world- to undermine prejudice, to feel with my heart of the humanity that lies among residents around me, no matter where there passports helping to, the realization that everyone were humans from the beginning till the end. There was one thing I missed though.     I craved to be a village girl. There are things I love, I love puddles, I love having food in steel plates, I love walking rather than driving around. I love watching sunrises fall on canopies rather than on bare terraces, with chattering of animals and birds (other than crows, sparrows, cats and pigeons)…


One thing I've been thinking of these days is of how we are nothing much. When we're born we're just referred to 'the baby', and before that we're some obscure feeling. Then, we're named and we get along pretty much with that.      As we get on with that, each and every thing becomes part of us. We are built up of bits and pieces of people we meet, of experiences we go through, of food we eat (literally), of sights we see, somewhere within our subconscious mind everything affects us. It's as if we're gradually weaving a beautiful tapestry, it's as if everything elegantly falls into place.     I often think of how the life struggles of great leaders who created great movements, of authors with bestsellers, of emperors who might have spent their whole essence fighting and conquering, are referred to with commas and defined in a single sentence. Concepts and theories that academicians spend a lifetime on can be summarised in single paragraphs.…

National Ineligibility Test

(Mind you, this was written when I was actually studying for NET, and frustrated)Dear NET,
Thank you for teaching me that
The half-forgotten novels I've actually read
Fare worser than
The summaries and biographies that are tread.
Thank you for showing me
That the younger nights I've spent
Imagining battles fought, in flashlights,
And the broken desks I've fitted novels into in the same lesson repeated over and over again;
That these,
Are a waste because
They don't create any questions from Dan Brown or Blyton.
Yet again, you make me realize that the Coelho novel I read on a plane ride when I was 13 wasn't right,
Nor was Dickens, Twain, O. Henry, Swift and
About every other 'classic'
A bored 8-yr old could read at her uncle's home;
Because the meanings and colors my little mind formed were dissimilar
To the black-and-white sheets of dissections and analyses done,
And, of course, there's only one way to read.
Yet again, I believe I am cheated,


Some things  Must come to a premature end,  As I fly away from The everyday summer  And keep a lookout for greener pastures. When thoughts cease its malfunction, The perfunctory migration was never a loss, It was the removal of an unnecessary burden I had grown to love,
But had to shed.
-----Ziva Hind


I live In perpetual denial. Of the assertion of my space, Between a binary, Or maybe the assertion of a Singular space at all. Do I belong to one or the other, Any hither? Neither, nor Not any. Am I part of the country that loves me off with a passport,or, The one which has deposited zillions of bits and pieces within my desolate self? Where do I lie in the Marxian claim? Or the Darwinian ideas of fame? And if the unconscious is what is truly me,  And I act against most of its heresy, How can I not be a mixture Of irreducibility. Not any third space,
I'm just happy me.
-----Ziva Hind


Far back in my younger days, I've wanted to be a balloon man or a balloon lady or whatever it's called. I still love to be one- part-time though, these days no balloon would be enough to exhale in my dreams. Don't we all love balloons? I'm in particular love with red balloons, the contrast of the confident red with the misty blue sky have long since fascinated me. But when I sell balloons I'd think of having every colour in the universe, who'd never run out of stock. Balloons are always paralled to happiness. I have never seen a child unhappy when they see a balloon, the wondrous eyes, overwhelmed with love after love, as I sell balloon after balloon, joy which never runs out of stock. I'd always have smiling customers, customers who'll live in the moment. 
For happy adults though, the remedy won't be balloons, they'd be letters. Maybe, a post delivery girl would be one of my other jobs. No bills or packages, only letters. No one fails to be over…