All philosophers true to the study will go mad some day.
But then again, it is Normal that defines Mad.

Bleeding words

Ten in the night. Her table.
She stared at the blank page in front of her. She knew what she had to do. It was simple.
 At least, that’s what others told her.
“Ha!” She thought to herself. “‘Easier said than done’ to them all! What do they know anyway? They’ve never had to think. Gah!”
She sat there, looking around her room for ideas; for inspiration. She gazed at the picture frames on her table – heart shaped ones, self decorated ones, ones with her; with her parents; with her friends; and her favourite- the one with Ronald McDonald. That one was taken when she was six. She loved that day. But that didn’t matter now; didn’t matter at all. She looked at her Mac, in sleep mode; her phone, switched off. She didn’t need messages flooding into her inbox dozen to the minute demanding her attention. No, that wouldn’t do. She knew what they’d be about anyway. “Are you done yet?”, “Today’s the last date”, “What’s wrong with you?” yada yada yada yada.

Bored, her gaze shifted to her CD collection- Buble, Presley, Kylie, King of Pop, Rolling stones, SOAD… “It would be easier to write a song”, she thought and put her head down on her table.
After some time, she swiveled around, only to find the T.V running pointlessly, clothes strewn around, Plato, Spinoza, Crichton, Rowling and Blyton lying around cozily on her bed, some on the floor, and the table fan whirring away. It was all just a huge, confounding mess to her right now. Just like her life.
Out of desperation, she turned to the ceiling and found nothing that could help her there either. Just dingy, old, blue paint. Exhaling loudly, she closed her eyes and mouthed a small prayer.
“What am I doing?! Ugh. I’ve to finish this today.”, she thought, disgusted with herself, and faced the table again.
 She fingered her application form for the scholarship and read (for what she thought was the thousandth time) the last line: Please attach herewith a handwritten composition on how you view “Speech”. You will be tested on your ability to put across your ideas within the limit of five to ten sentences.

She stared at it and cursed herself.
All said and done, she knew she had to do it, and now at that. So she got down to it.
Shakily, her hand reached out for her pen, “accidentally” dropping it back in twice. She set it down on the paper and slowly wrote:


Then she put the pen down again and took a deep breath. She knew she was needlessly over-dramatizing, but she didn’t know what to write. And so, for the first time, she sat back and thought. After two minutes, she slowly picked up her pen again and put nib to paper.

Speech is a comfort, nothing more. It improves communication but is not necessary. It is just a vocalization of thoughts. Undoubtedly, without speech, the civilization we know would not exist, but civilization still would. Life may not be as simple, but life would go on. After all, my life has been going on, and I haven’t been able to speak in eighteen years.

She took her pen, closed it and read what she had written once again. Calmly, she kept the forms aside and got up. She could feel the anger rising in her slowly. By the time she’d reached her bed, all she could do was fling whatever was on her bed onto the floor and throw herself on her bed. She made an awkward moaning noise and, for the first time in a year, she cried; cried about the unfair ways of the monster she thought Life to be.

A second of solace

Down the hideous path I tread; fighting
To ward off that Darkness that chases
It overpowers me even as I try
Hard to keep myself above
The shadow it casts
Upon my dreams
Lower than dust, my dreams
Do become as (in)significant as
A grain of sand
Within my eye, filling me with anguish
Making me cry
Trudge I did, seeking to find
Solace in that whose existence I still
Am ignorant of

As I walked the path, I took
Refuge within myself
Within that they call
The mind, then a Gust hit
My haggard face and ruffled body,
Cajoling me to believe that
It is true that I’m but a feather floating
On this gust that
Takes me upon itself

I feel myself elated; lifted by
The breeze carrying me as
I go, as water
In a river, gliding, I
The feather, dip and tumble as
The wind makes me, only
To let me land in shelter safe

 Thus, I take comfort
For those few seconds while
The breeze washes over me
And leaves me be while
I open my eyes to find that
The Darkness has me,

The curve of a smile

"I am enlightened" said the Fool's smile
"I am ignorant" said that of the Wise
"You know nothing" implied the Skeptic's
"I know all" was that of the Vain
"I'm right" was seen of the Pessimist's
"Not always" replied the Optimist's
Looking at this, appeared- a smile
Another; a smirk almost
"I am happy" smiled Innocence.

Life in a festival... (again tentative)

Atop sits the elephant, wise and watchful
Father on his one side, his other
Occupied by his compassionate mother
Their neighbours, each of four hands
Look down on the world, asserting
Their greatness at the top, the beginning
A level below stood the lusty blue youth,
Rounded by the girls dancing, in merry
And joy, their eyes glowing
To his side, lay a mirror invisible
Ten in fact, each portraying in difference,
Him, in all His glory and power within
By his other side sat his wife
With her friends, each a beauty;
A power; a woman; a deity

Then came the saints; one, two, three,
On their divine way
Devotion in their hearts, wisdom in their say
And then, the mortals, a variety of them at that
A wedding, a worship, a game,
A parade to the temple came
Down below sat the merchant
His wife beside; goods all about
Gleaming smile and a belly wide
And below all were the villagers.
Dhobis; a farmer; a snake charmer on the side.
Working their lives off until they died.

And as the girl looks at her art created
Her mind wonders.
How the world is so alike her art
She watches and ponders

Another generation?

This is a very weird post. For in this post, I shall tell you people why I feel older than any of my class mates. I feel like I'm in another generation altogether.

After coming here, 4 of my class girls started going out with some guy or the other. I use the term "going out" for that is exactly what it is. They sit, talk to the guy for a week, two at the maximum, and become their girlfriends of sorts.

I am amazed how they do that. For when I got into a relationship, I got "committed". I wasn't "going out". My friends and I, then, did not "go out". We fell in love. We first talk, we fall in love and get committed to him only if we trust him and know we'll end up with  him. That ain't the case today. You find a guy. You go out, "be his girlfriend", make out and then maybe, you'll love him and he'll love you

I find that very different actually. My opinion of course. And I every time I see them I go like.." the kids these days...!!" :p

A thousand years of love

A thousand years I want to hold your hand
A thousand years of you beside me
Loving me all the way

A thousand years I want to say
I shall love you a thousand years
Come what may.

A thousand years your eyes I want to see
Thousand years within them, love
Is what I want to be

A thousand years I want to be seen
As nothing that meant to you more,
A thousand years I want to mean

A thousand years within your arms
A thousand years I want to be held
Where nothing harms

I pray, I cry, I want that with all my life
To be yours; all yours; only yours
The one to whom I belong, I ask of thee
Let my love be yours. Deny me not of this.

Of dreams and love

He saw her in his dreams; eyes closed
A maiden fair and beautiful
Her eyes as clear as the morning dew,
Skin so fair of the white sandy beach
Like the morning rays were her kisses soft
Cheeks as soft as the morning breeze,
Her hands, oh how he loved those hands
As graceful as the eagle's flight
Pure at heart, clear in mind
Was his maiden of dreams. In light
He woke, his eyelids lifted, in front was I
In all my dreary self

One look he gave me, his eye
Widened, "you are her, my dream
You are her my dear". I refuse; deny
"I have not that elegance, nor grace
Nor beauty of your girl desired
I am not her, your dream, your love"
Long he looked, longingly he looked and cried
Out loud " 'tis true, you are not her
You are not her my dear, my dream girl
You are not her, for you are better"
And there did the love blossom.

Luck, is it?

If being forgiven is lucky,
Then lucky I am
If having a caring soul for yourself be luck
Then lucky I am
If being given support and encouragement is luck
Then, again, lucky I am
If unconditional, undying love begotten be luck,
Then, God knows how lucky I am.
For you, oh Soul my own, personify my luck
Having forgiven my sins of stupidity,
Having borne my crimes born out of ignorance,
Having cared for me through your pain
I see your eyes, I still see
In the beginning what I did see
A love so strong, so steep
And see something never before seen
A pain so sharp, so deep.
My sorrow lies in those eyes two
Where pain profound I see
Look closer, I see your heart,
My sorrow lies, the pain is me..............

A different English.

This is a typical conversation between two IIT M students

A: Hey dude
B: Dude, like wassup?
A: Nothing, you finished studying?
B: No dude, I'm putting night out, the subject is just pain max
A: Pain only, I'm so sure tomorrow's exam will be a cupper only
B: Dude, like totally, I've to go put grub and put night out only
A: Some guys are like pack only, they don't even want to put fight
B: If I do that, my folks will like rape me. I need a 7 point CG dude
A: Ha ha, my parents know I'm one gib max guy but still make me put fight da
B: I know macha, it's all time rg ing only at home. That's why I never leave the insti.
A: So true. Only those muggus can get it all da
B: No dude, they're just putting pseud, they're no stud and all, they put fight for even slysha pain subjects
A: So true, anyway, I'm leaving, gonna go put arbit stuff for a while. See ya

And so on goes the conversation.

I'm sure you guys noticed something different about this language where there is only one verb "put" and there are the eternal suffixes "max" and "only". And of course, te certain words peculiar to the "insti" such as arbit, pseud, stud, rg-ing, rape, slysha, gib, pack, night out, "putting grub, putting fight.

It's not that these people do not KNOW proper English, it's just that we choose not to speak it. To us, this is our English. It happens all the time, everywhere. You notice you speak in a diffrent Engilsh with your parents; different with your friends; different with your teachers; different on stage; different in a debate. Each time the style is so different. Yet we are the same person. Aren't we?

What brings about this difference then? Why is the English spoken on stage the "proper" English? You get these questions if you read Amy Tan's "mother tongue" like we freshies did.

I don't know. I see myself using a certain english in the blog and different in my answer papers.

Why do I do that?

One night..

All alone, she did moan
"She wanted to be alone",
They cried, yet didn't cry
She tried, yet didn't try
And ended up being the survivor lone.

Does a sad limerick count as a limerick?? This is mine.

The memory of an Angel

This is a short story I wrote for a creative writing competition in my hostel and was awarded first place for. The topic was the story should end with the sentence "Shit!". Incidentally, first time writing fiction. Total bomb!

It's hard being a doctor in a small town in an obscure county. Specifically when half the town was hit with a strange epidemic of diarrhea. Asking people about their ways and times of disembowelment was not my idea of glamour when I entered Pre-Med at Oregon. Listening to old ladies offer me their opinion as to why their shit was coming out too fast, however, was something entirely different. At least the former didn't make my stomach want to churn itself out. How I ended up here is a mystery; one I always end up trying to figure out over these lonely lunches in my depressing, square office.

I'm an unmarried, middle aged, slightly balding guy, who's had more than his fair share of girlfriends, hookers and porn. But strangely it wasn't the fascination for the naked female that led me from being a top rated M.D aspirant to a small town doctor on an average pay. It was the clothed female; an eight year old one, to be specific.

I saw Angela on one of my hospital tours, my first to be exact. One look and I knew she was the most delicate thing I'd ever seen. Her soft, curly, brown hair fell all around her face and was being tucked behind her ear by a weeping lady I suspected to be her mom. I was instinctively drawn to the child.
"She has leukemia.", her mother said
"How bad is it?"
"The doctors are giving her two days to a week", she said with a sniff.
"it's an irony" she went on, "Angela always talked about becoming a doctor and setting up her own clinic and t-t-to think she'd end up dying in one..", her voice trailed off and pretty soon, she was in hysterics. I, out of practice, signalled a nurse to take care of the woman.

Turning to Angela, I could almost see her dreams in her closed eyes. I patted her on the head and brushed her hair aside, and vaguely thought about life and death the way it'd have been thought about in the movies. Mine was more abstract though. I wasn't able to put it into words the way they do in the movies.
As if on cue, her eyes opened, big, brown, and hopeful. And suddenly I felt the loss of my sister hit me back with a vengeance. Probably because I'd lost her the same way too, to that stranger called leukemia.
Tears stung my eyes.
She was trying to say something. I could hear her struggle to breathe. Slowly,
"...c-c-clinic...Angela's clinic.." she managed to say before those round eyes closed, hiding me from her.

Something about the serene look on her sleeping face kept me there.

Around ten minutes later, she opened her eyes again. They were almost pleading this time.
"you''ll do it f-f-for me won't you..?" She asked me. I fingered through her hair and I think she saw me nod before she drifted off once more. She drifted away.

Before I had time to think through how I got from there to my clinic, "Healing Angels", my phone rang; insistently at that, snapping me out of my reverie. And instinctively, as I remembered the reality of my diarrhea-hit town, I knew what the call would be about. "Shit!"

Writing about India

This is an excerpt from the article "How to write about Africa" By Binyvanga Wainaina. Amazing article. Sarcastic and angry way of telling people the African stereotypes that are repeatedly used by European author till date."

How to Write about Africa

Always use the word 'Africa' or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai', 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky', 'Shadow', 'Drum', 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas', 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' means Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care....... "

And it goes on.

As we laugh about the style of writing and as such, have you ever thought how this very article would be if written about India?

Always include animals roaming on the road and having perfect right of way. Make sure you give disgusting imagery of people defecating on the road, be it men, women or children. India is known for its population so always bring in images of streets filled with people to an insane level where no one can move. Wrinkled faces and bony hands, poor, naked children and roads lined with huts made of straw should always be present in the book. Snake charmers must always be mentioned at least once. Never play upon the fact that India had many scientists and an army among the top five largest. Always mention the inter caste clashes that happen with such absurdity. At least two sentences must be written about beggars troubling rich men, mothers insistent on marrying off their daughters into rich families. And of course make repeated mentions of the "glaring sunshine" "sweltering heat" etc. And remember, there should always be an inherent love story of a forbidden love......

Would that be it?

The difference is, when Wainaina wrote his piece, he was talking about false claims. I was not. 0_0

It was him.

Love like his I’d never had
Love it is I still know not
But Love it shall be for now
For it can be but only Love

Stood against me when weak
“Be stronger” he said
And stronger he made me
And set this Soul free

Stood by me when in need,
A comfort and counselor
When the world was up against
When my world was up against

His hands two my great aid
One hand holding mine
The other my shield; in all adversity
Never to yield

Guide me, he would
Many a time at that
Through anger; through sorrow
From the day till the morrow

You’re too angry, he’d say
You’re too moody, said he
You’re too volatile said he again
And there, that, that would pain

For though the words true
Would cut and bleed
For in the end, t’was true this
For in the end, the words were his

Nurturing a belief within his heart
Nursing a fear all the whilst
Scared for me? Scared of me
I’ll never know, neither history

Many a time his blood I tasted
Many a time he did mine
Though a regret naught I have
T’was that blood gave me the strength I have

Ever to impress; in no way disappoint
I strive along the way
Hoping not lose on the line
And yet end up losing that which is mine

To better him, my sole aim
To better me, his
And strive did we to better
End up losing one another

There learnt a lesson did I
We must not compare; him and I
After all, he is he
After all, I am me

Today we stand, apart and together
Today we stand bested by each other
I hate his love as he does mine
Yet I miss that love I hate, know he’s crying

Random scribbles

"The more one says about oneself to the world at large, the less likely it is that any of it is true.

What your Orkut profile says about you is merely who/what you want to be, and not really who you are."

So said my esteemed friend's Orkut "about me".

And esteemed he was for this boggled my mind.

Is everything we do and say pretentious? Is nothing what is really there? Am I who I think I am? Or am I something different? Is what I'm writing my actual thoughts? Or am I writing something I want you to think I'm thinking? Do I introspect? Or do I WANT to introspect? Which me is real? Is there a real me or a real you? Is anything real?

Then it popped.

What is real? Is what we see real? I didn't think so. If you were walking in the dark and saw a rope and mistook it as a snake, what is real? The snake or the rope? The rope? But for the one second that you thought it was a snake, wasn't the snake real? So what differentiates that which is real? What makes the rope real and not the snake? Is it that, later, everyone told you it was a rope, hence the rope? Then if today everyone told you you were God, is your being God real?

Or is it the constancy of the rope being a rope and the snake having been real for a very little time? Is it lifespan that defines reality? In that case isn't everything unreal?

back to the first question. Am I really what I think I am? Or am I something I want to think I am? Does anyone know who anyone is?

But again we think what is real and what is unreal?

No one really knows.

A girl's day out

Out she came from behind
The cloak of darkness dropped
Emerging into the world
Her Sun kissed her morning
And felt her soft cheeks
The sky looking upon
The trees bow low, their flowers fall
Quick to reach the ground below
Lest her feet tread upon earth
The breeze, to her it rushes
Embracing her within itself
Caressing her hair and comfort
And as night descends upon her world,
The moon gently smiles,
Breeze unwilling to let go
She looks at the sky, the stars
Give her the twinkle in her eyes
Before they close and hide her
Again, forever.


I was on a road, on a journey
The world my companion
A lost couple, a decided few
The rest in blinding oblivion

Among the lost I was, and haunted
I felt, knowing there was a place
There are ways, paths plethora
Not knowing which, to that place, takes.

To the past I was chained,
To the Future, addicted
To the Present but blinded
And in confusion I had drowned

Lost I was, no doubt
Lost I had been, no wonder
For at a point of paths three
My instinct did but stutter

The path first seen was
That well trodden, well defined
Respected was he who travelled
Upon it, that place you reached

Second the path was wide
Less trodden upon it had been
Respect it commanded, though
A survivor yet to be seen

For this path though wide,
Was an infant in age, with none
That had traversed upon it could
Claim of having seen the sun

Whether the traveler would
Fall into that pit of looming darkness or
Reach that place of light and joy
Was beyond our knowingness

And yet travelers it had, a select few
For knowledge was necessary
To guide those curious, chiefly for respect
Some for pleasure, some for reasons arbitrary

And then there lay that path other
That which capture my heart and mind
That lay unworn by foot steps
For respect was not its kind

Overgrown it was, weeds of ignorance
Lay strewn, underneath lay the way
The few who took effort, broke their backs
Uncovered that path, feebly seen to the light of day

That the path that lead you to conquer
Self and other, mind and manner
That the path that enticed my curiosity
Challenged my mind and captured my wonder

At that crossroad did I stand
Looking at those pathways three
Looking behind at the people dazed
Looking again at my choices free

Hands that led me till here point down
To that road new, that road infantile
For they found comfort in my walking
On that road at least a mile

My fingers urged my feet down
That path overgrown, mysterious and alluring
Brave I was to think it a choice, they said
For apparently that wasn’t my calling

Amidst this confusion was a hand another
Knew not to guide me but comfort
A silent promise it bore, either way take you
Holding you I’m there, t’ was curt

That the hand was there made
No difference to my strife
But that the hand was there made
All that difference in my life

Too long I stood at those crossroads three
‘Cos down was I pushed that path new
Respect, said the pushing hands
I was pushed, ‘tis true.

Now I find a way strange, so different
From the rest, alienated felt I
Swallowed by loneliness but deserted by tears
The hand that remained saying, don’t cry.

She was there..

I saw her eyes, confused she was

A multitude of feelings played within them

Conviction over powering, or was it passion?

Inferiority passed by, with Doubt

His missus, while strangling all the way

Confidence, his nemesis.

And yet far away, happiness shone,

On a passing thought or a lasting feeling

Is something that remains unknown.

Her lips parted and I saw a waver

Giving way to Breath and

Breath alone, words failed her

A moment this and a moment after,

Her heart strengthened, her cheeks widened

Eyes gleaming, I saw a smile appear

Just when the hope would fade away,

Before the smile could pass, I closed my eyes

And from the mirror, looked away.


I feel so lonely in this world of many
Feels like you're by me, feels like you aren't
Is it your seeming indifference? If so then why?
Is it your bearing illness? Was that not my fault?
I left you alone, now I have been so.
Whether on purpose or otherwise is beyond
My understanding. If it be so, I do ask of you
To, upon me, show understanding and forgiveness
And Portia's very own mercy. I am human as you are.
My mistake was once yours. How was mine worse?

Was I truly the only light that gleamed Joy?
That when I turned away, I left you in the dark?
Was it that pain that became anger? And culminated into sorrow?
If that be so, I am honoured. And yet each day
That pass without the blessing of your smile send my heart
Plunging; deep into the pools of Guilt and Misery.

Is there an answer to this?
In the haven of your heart? Or in your closet of life?
A picture; a person; an experience; a word?
Could the word be mine that shine?
And yet, all I wish to say within these lines prolonged
Is a phrase so small; so often used and yet so powerful
I miss you.

The mystery called MTC

This is probably the nth blog entry written by the users of the transport mode known as Metropolitan Transport Corporation of Chennai. Ugh. Nightmare I tell you. I'll start off my experience with the MTC buses.
My IIT HSEE entrance coaching classes right? (The crash course which right now is my only ticket out of my house) Well anyway, I'm supposed to go there by bus EVERYDAY. And honestly speaking, I didn't mind. I love travelling and means doesn't deter me.

So anyhow, one day mother dearest accompanies to the location (G N chetty road T.nagar) and we find out about the positioning of the bus stands that receive buses that come from and go to Vadapalani (that being the place closest to mine). We were shown two bus stands (let's name them x and y for now)that meet our requirements.
Day 1
Comes first day of class and so do I, all geared up, to Vadapalani. I saw my 12b waiting all ready for me. I climb in buy my ticket to y, deciding to try my luck there.
So the x stop came and I ignored it hvaing decided to go to y. After two minutes, I realise the bus wasn't going to y at all! Aghast, I climbed out ASAP and caught an auto, arriving 5 minutes late for class. Arghhh.
Return: I realised that probably, the bus doesn't go to y so I go back to x and wait for my bus. And then I come to understand that 12b doesn't come there on its return journey at all!!! So instead I had to catch this ultra crowded 11h on which they actually made me stand on the foot board!!

I go to Vadapalani again. This time I catch an M12b. I ask for y. The guy says no luck, goes only to x. I'm like "thanks a lot". A genuine thanks. So before getting down, I ask the conductor about the routes. He tells me that the bus, both 12b and M12b, take the route through x while going and come back through y. I thanked him and got off.

Return: I walk to y. I notice there's a bus stand on the left side of the road so I look for its counterpart on the right. When I do see what I'm looking for, I look on the side of it and it says 47, m147b, 147b no 12b!!!! I was pissed! But i thought that maybe the bus stand I was looking for would be further down the road. Having walked further, I ask an automan. He looks at me, points further down the road, shows me speck of red far away and says "antha signal kitta left eduthu konja thooram nadandha varum" I felt like saying "poyaaaaa...!!!!" But I decided to chuck that and walked back in the general direction of my class. Came to the flyover. Traffic police ayya kitta directions ketteyn. He pointed in the direction of x and says go that way and take a left. So I walk beneath the flyover and walk till the road forks. There I ask the auto man again. He points straight and tells me that at the corner I will find my destination. I walk. When I reach that corner an informed watchman some building informs me that 12b no longer comes there and I was supposed to walk to the other side of the flyover and on the left I would see the bus stand. I was so damn furious!!!! But I walked back again. And suddenly remembered that police ayya's words "LEFT". Instinctively I took the nearest turn and lo and behold! There it waws! MY shrine! I went there! The next bus was an m12b. Joyfully climbed up and asked for a ticket to Vadapalani. Only later did I learn that it did not go to vadapalani!! And wnt to CMBT instead. Since I wasn't anyhow heading for home that day, I got down at a certain stop with my new found info.

Day 3:
Vadapalani, 12b, got down at x, went to class. Coming back, caught a 12b back to Vadapalani, flawless day

Day 4: Vadapalani, m12b, x, class.
Return: I went to my bus stop. An M12b came rolling by. I clambered in. I asked for CMBT, got a ticket. Then, one of my ex seniors got in and asked for the stop which was right in front of my house!!!!!!!!!! And I was like, this bus goes there??? Because, if it were going to CMBT and not Vadapalani, it can't come to my place but here it was! So I waited and it turned out that today, the bus would not go straight to cmbt but go through Vadapalani instead!!! What crap!!! I seriously do NOT know how to figure out these routes!!! The same bus right? Goes to different places and different routes!! God help moi!!


It’s hard to love and easy to hate

My conscience rips me apart

And yet much easier to hurt

Guilt, willingly, floods my heart

What gave me the power?

To hurt you so; to know

What that pains you is me

Wanting to stop, unable to do so.

It was my wrong to have done this

For ‘cos of my wrong do you suffer

Maybe, I wonder, maybe it would help

Maybe at the end, We will be tougher.

Apologize a million times I would

And willingly, like before

But thought twice I had and knew

It would comfort you no more.

My mind torments me as much

As it you, with no purpose nor aim

For ‘ve already cracked and know that

Our love, probably, will no longer be the same.