I Love Her, Yet I See Her Die Everyday

Mumbai has been more than city. She is more human than any of her inhabitants. She is more virtuous than any saint. More womanly than any woman & stronger than any of her counterparts across the globe.

She has identity for herself, an identity which is an amalgamation of childish innocence, serene calmness, spunky sexiness, brazen boldness , head held high confidence, troubled soul sadness, intense passion, gentle love, tender care with a hint of street smartness.

But my unflinching, selfless lady still lives & dies at mercy of vicious wolves pawing her from all sides. She lies in slums slathered with layers of sickness & filth. She chokes in clouds of poisonous clouds that burns her green. She lies rotting within heaps of garbage piled on her rivers and ponds. She lies bleeding in every blast and they pass her by without a second glance. Everyday a new wound opens in her body, her every feature lay twisted & the necrophile feasts on her.

She is ruthlessly provoked, tortured, lynched & slaughtered & left to die every single day.

STILL SHE BREATHES, STILL SHE NEVER SLEEPS

Snow White Must Die

Kohl Rimmed Eyes

Blushed Up Cheeks

Cascading Locks

Shimmer Red Lips

A Perfect Smile

A Glance Too Close

Burnt Charred Eyes

Bruised Cheeks               

Scattered Locks

Bleeding Lips

Twisted Smile

Snow White Must Die, She Is No Longer Fair

The Poisoned Apples Burnt Her Core, Her Dwarfs Don’t Care

The Wicked Stepmom Snatched Her Soul

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

When it’s Over Give Me a Call

Thoughts, Thoughts and more Thoughts

I hate cliched thoughts that seems to be have made for the sole reason of making the reader puke (esp if you happen to be someone like me who has somewhat sarcastic view of life) but despite that some unique ones exist that seems to arrest attention. Guess they are fun read.

As we evolve we believe life will exempt us our struggles, "You forget" says the devil with a chuckle "I evolve too"


Sense of humour is just common sense dancing


The trouble with men is that they lack the power of conversation but not speech


Comedy is a sarcastic realization of inescapable tragedy


At times I lay awake at night wondering where I went wrong, then a voice inside me says " This is Gonna Take More Than A Night"


I'm sick of following my dreams, I'll just ask them where they are and hook up with them later.


Dance is like eroticism, one thing leads to another.


Anticipation without anxiety and underneath the feeling "I belong to me, just as I am right now".


When you look at the abyss, the abyss looks at you.

The Color of Love is Red

Happy Valentine’s Day” the shrieks filled the air as she looked upon the young squealing couple; now shaking Red confetti off each other’s hair. The entire coffee house was in a myriad of different hues of Red. Undoubtedly Red was the color of Love.

‘Love’ she thought and couldn’t hide the smirk that escaped her crimson lips. What do they know of this emotion? The obsession? The intensity and darkness? It can kill & die together.

She closed her eyes and the room was still dark, the rocking chair creaked ominously in the corner unaware of the inhabitants. The lone candle casting dark long shadows blinked, threatening to go off anytime. He had insisted in bringing her to this god forsaken place, he had said it was serene, away from the mad bustling world. Had he forgotten to mention it was dark, closed, claustrophobic and dreary? The smell of dust mingled with the musty smell of old wood n cobwebs seem to enter and ravage her mind but it was the metallic smell of blood that was numbing her senses. She glanced up to see her face reflected out …….hundreds, expressionless on the mirror or what remained of the mirror that once graced the wall. And there he was at the foot of the mirror.

Damn wasn’t he adorable, the way he smiled his dimpled smile, the way his intense eyes lit up when he spoke to her, the honesty in them when  he said  he loved her. She could live through thousand perils of hell and not utter a single cry if it was for him. She lived n breathed just for him, until, until he said they were other people with whom he shared his life and they too held a place and he could not always be with her. He said she was a part (though an important one) she was just a part of his life.

‘INCAPABLE’ she had termed him. Incapable of loving her,  just her. Why was it so hard for him to do that when she did it every day? When she had molded herself into everything he wanted….. She loved him to death and only death could do them apart.

He wanted to go, he had to die………….

Her eyes fluttered open as the waiter brought her the coffee mug. Tears flowed through her eyes as she saw the mug. It was red and just like her hands stained with blood.

The color of her love was RED.

One of my "Attempts" at writing something that comes close to horror. Please after reading this do not come back at me saying I need help n stuff.  I'm one of the most happy believers of LOVE in this planet. This is just a dark expression of the most frequently felt emotion.