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Stuff that gets under my moleskine.

Define Dord.

In 1934 the word Dord appeared in the dictionary as an error. A mistake.
A word with no meaning.
They called it the “ghost word”.
Searching for a body
to attach its soul to.
Searching for meaning
just like you, I wonder
how many diaries it filled in
and dictionaries it looked up
for the truth in black and white

for all truths must be

in black and white, never grey.

So Dord kept looking

for the light at the end

of a circular tunnel

only to be or not

to suggest that maybe

it didn’t need to mean something

Maybe not all of us
to serve

a purpose

but Dord was persistent
Dord was fire
no Dord was sea
Dord was whoever the FUCK

it wanted to be — Remember Dord,

was just like you.
Special but not sacred.
Lonely but not alone.
Eating itself away to pieces
in search of something

that didn’t quite exist.
But Dord does.
It exists in your heads cause I put it there.
Cause the goddamn dictionary put it there.
So now

Dord is immortal.
Dord is dangerous. Dord is grey.
Dord is a mistake
which reminds you that there are no accidents.


Just destinies.


Published by TERRIBLY TINY TALES for New Year's of 2017

Dear 2016,

The date today is 01.01.2017. But I'm still writing to you instead of the 'new year.' I don't know it yet. But I've known you. And I remember everything about you like it happened yesterday. And this is a list of everything you've taught me:
I learnt that every song doesn’t have to be about Love. And sometimes you call that song Life.
I learnt that healing never ends. Until you decide that it doesn’t have to—for you to get a new wound. And then it does.
I learnt that it wasn’t rules that were meant to be broken. It was people. People who were meant to be broken so beautifully, that the pieces never fit back together.
I learnt that the only things that can fill voids are Tetris blocks and ice cream.
I learnt that I should not mistake loneliness for sadness. I should not mistake tiredness for sadness. And I should not mistake sadness forever.
I learnt that your parents will become your kids someday. 
I learnt that if you try to haunt someone’s memory, they become your ghosts.
I learnt that love is a space time continuum. Because in love, there are space givers and space takers. And in this transaction of space, a lot of time is lost.
I learnt that people who don't go into shells are stronger than those who do. They don't have time to stop and lick their wounds. They are bandages. And bandages fix everything.
I learnt that effort is a one-way street. So sometimes, people collide and crash.
I learnt that the only true learning in life is empathy.
Finally, I learnt that every new year doesn't have to begin with a list of ruthless resolutions for the future. Sometimes, it can begin with a resolution of the past.





My heart is known to have and to hold things tightly. It reeks of resolve, coming from a Monster of Habit that lives inside its four valves. A monster called Hope. 
Hope needs the same things everyday, a little differently. It gets used to them. It demands them. And it does not know how to let go of them.
By things, I mean People.
People that it refuses to let go of. But like every other monster that my heart has ever tamed, Hope too, is learning to stay on the leash. The command always being
"Let go" of the people. Of the playthings they bring. And it knows that one day, it'll outgrow their toys and will not need them as much.
"Let go." It's learning that meals will not be served at the same time everyday. One must respect the master's schedule; however hungry one may be. And masters are cruel.
"Let go." It's learning to expect a little less from every hand that reaches out for its fur. It knows that they think they're petting a dog. Or a cat. Not a monster. And you can't pet a monster without getting bitten.
"Let go." It's finally caving in. It understands that the leash is a friend. Perhaps the only one who'll stay. It now lets the master tie it up, and walk away. It has learnt how to let go.
And by Hope, I mean Love.


 A concept created by TERRIBLY TINY TALES™ 

H for happy

I am your imaginary friend

who insists on existing.

Like a chuckle

you gasp out

at that meme.

I hold you,

Gripping your finger.

Like a ring you gave her.

Hold on.

Do try.

Please, I need to exist.


S for Social

I'm not a butterfly.

I'm a worm with my nose in a virtual Book.

The one with Faces. I have an Instant connection with them. Or so I think.

Our conversations are so often filtered. I guess What’s Apparently bothering me is that even though I can see you at the Snap of my fingers, I only see what you show me. I no longer feel Linked to your life as much as you are in mine. Or so you think.

For I share my world with you,

but it feels like I'm talking to a wall.


I'm just a blue bird.

You can call me Larry.



Broken hearts
are like Public Bathrooms.
They're left looking clean for the next user;
except that only you know,
where the dirt is hidden.

So you look for tissues,
to wipe away your tears
but there is no damn roll
except yours to play,
because you're all alone-
in that 6x4, heart-shaped cubicle
which seems to grow bigger
the longer you stay
and therefore,

all the more lonely.

When you've had enough of this shit;
No matter who made the mess,
you flush it all away
into the seas of your mind
that well up your eyes with
a favourite song or...
a familiar fragrance.
But memories are treated with sunlight,

which enters the wound
if you leave Rumi for it.

And now it's time,
to leave your stall.
For outside, someone is waiting
in line for their Forever
only to find out
that some doors
open from within.



Couched in her arms, I once looked at my mother's face in dim light. It didn't look anything like her. Unrecognizable; to be honest. Although, it did look like something else. Like an ocean of faces. Faces of all the women I have ever known, read about, or imagined, who were drowning in it. Desperately trying to be saved in the dark.
I wanted to let them know that I could see them. Because I too was a woman, and the world had made me adjust my eyes to its darkness. But just then, I decided that I wanted to save them, to rescue their dreams from drowning in ma's sleep! I simply wanted to see them in broad daylight—Not as shadows. Not as Ghosts. Not even as mermaids.
As people.
I knew ma was asleep. She needed her rest after quietening all the storms that must have raged in her heart since childhood. But I was still young, still awake and aching to see her face, clearly.
I got up, and switched on the light. And I want to let you know that ma is beautiful.



How do you kill hope?
Do you stifle it with a pillow
or tear it apart
with that razor sharp wet
in your glistening eyes?

Do you look for it
in that last drop of shampoo
which never gives out
to the shower getting colder
and your parents getting older
with your grey strands?

Do you wait for it
to make a legendary entry
with a yellow umbrella
or sweep you off your feet
with the fling of a purple door?

Do you ask it for a name
a number, an address cause
you know it’ll take a raincheck
and leave you waiting at the red light
STOP guessing-
Let me break you down for it.

No one killed hope
and lived to tell the frail.
So hope lives on
And so do you.



Artists will tell you,
It's always good
to sleep on an idea
and see if you still like it in the morning.

That's why they don't listen
to the dead of the night,
which asks them to pick up a knife
and put an end
to the suffering.
they pick up a pen
and write a new morning.

On other nights,
they hold a brush,
which strokes their pain to sleep
till they realise
that all their struggles
were mere pangs of birth

of their masterpiece.
And a mother must live,
to see her child change the world.




I wish they didn't have a word for Depression.
So that my little brother
could come tell me
how he falls and fails everyday...
without feeling ashamed of it.

I wish they didn't have a word for
So that you'd stop calling it that
when it looked like indifference
or worse,
when it resembled abuse.

I wish they didn't have a word for Memories.
So that every new one
wasn't just another reminder.

I wish they didn't have a word for
So that people could say
that they've died
at least once before.

I wish they didn't have a word for
So that it was just a way of Life.

And I wish they didn't have a word for
So that people won't take theirs
so seriously.

And oh!
If I may say so,
I wish they didn't have a word for

So that every time a person
lives something;

They don't have the urge

to pick up a pen

and make a word for it.







We're no coffee drinkers
or tea drinkers
smokers or non smokers
we're just 1111 sighs
looking for a sign
that tells us
it's going to be okay.

In the mornings,
we can't rise from our beds
and by breakfast we're expected
to rise above all that shit
going down in our
Mondayne lives.

We have half eaten words
for breakfast and lunch;
Except dinner.
We're too quiet or too loud at dinners
depending on whether
they're inside or outside

For our travels
we take the flight, the metro,
the bus, the rickshaw
down memory lane.
And come back with questions
that we never wanted to answer.

In flights
we support our heads with a pillow
like the babies we are
who can't hold their heads high
or think straight with them.

In the afternoons
we're the most
alone we've ever been
since the day we
last felt complete.
It was light years ago.
Yes, distance wise,
since we're so far away
from what made us feel that way-
and it's rarely ourselves.

On the weekends,
we find ourselves lost
in a party to forget
the way our stomachs clench
from the hope in our hearts.
We're also looking for ways
to get out of that party or-
perhaps the fastest route
to get out of our heads.

In the evenings
we're all about video calls
to parents and siblings
and long lost best friends
to feel like we're doing all this
for a reason
and we're not alone
in trying to find one.

In the nights
we're the most unforgiving
to our demo-
Don't call them demons
if they're the only ones who stick by you.

At work we're all about
the laptops and the meetings
and the bosses and the colleagues
and the nothingness of it all
when it comes to finding

And we're too afraid to try
all the cures in the world
because what if
none of them work-

Or what if they do.



A humble attempt at Hindi poetry, published by a Facebook page called, 'Paigaam'.

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