A first.

Hey, everyone!

I am back with a happy announcement. So, I graduated a month back – the medical school has finally ended. I started this blog just when I started my medical school and of all the destruction that was made, this sphere remained constant throughout the journey. Therefore, I thought it important to share this tiny milestone here. No more an undergrad, the feeling is pretty liberating.

Thank you for sticking along!

P.S I will resume sharing here again once I get back my will to express.



Quick update.

Doing this since so many fellow bloggers left me comments about why am I out of sight. (Did you think I died, huh?)

  1. Final year medical school exam in 2 months, I am DYING. (read it again, yes, it is real)
  2. I HATE final year at the moment. (Don’t disagree, I hate you too.)
  3. I didn’t die yet but can’t be sure about it after two months. (Mamamamama!)
  4. I am always stressed out, panicking, cranky, filled-up-about to cry… sshhh, DON’T TALK TO ME, DON’T TOUCH ME, DON’T COME NEAR ME.
  5. I am the whiniest, chicken, freaked out, stressed and cranky medical student in the history of whiny, chicken..jshdudnska… ugh, lost the track.
  6. PLEASE PRAY FOR ME THAT I DO WELL AND ACE IT. Please. This means everything to me, every single thing. Will give you a cookie.
  7. Hello.
  8. I am funny, no? Say yes.

Orange skies.

They say people who keep diaries with them are the loneliest. At that silent moment in the cold winter’s night, writing her heart on empty pages; she felt the most isolated being to ever exist.


To all the ifs and buts, and crumbled woes –

There are days when I feel so strongly attached to him, where I feel an unusual sense of closeness to him, knitted with a crisp of fallen autumn’s leaves, a truer than ever love in my heart for a person who with all his flaws looks so perfect to me. Then there are days, where I absolutely hate him for breaking my fragile heart and getting my delicate soul torn, for leaving me wrecked, where I loath his existence for letting me go through the worst, for being responsible to most of the bad time in my life. But then again, there come some days where I see him as a consistent support in life. A constant who will forever be there without any absence. Who’ll always choose to gather my scattered pieces by his mere shadow at my side. And then again, there come such days too, where he just seems to me the very perfect gentleman to ever appear. Where sometimes, I hate his foolish self, his constant nagging, his interests, his random talks. But still, to compensate for it, such days embrace me too, where he just wins me over and over over again. I live in moments where he turns into a heavy breath for me but the next moment, his gentle call makes me forget the harsh and coarse. Where his steady step turns into a spring breeze, opening the close buds of my heart but his cold compassion pierces my gut, where his dry words pour the pain into my soul but his random notice turns it all, upside down. Maybe, that’s how love was meant to be, to make you go through the ups and downs in a single go or to make you feel the cold and warm in a single skin at a constant moment. Not assure of what he is, but he is the closest to soul, the most comforting to the ache and the perfect intimacy. If he’s not meant for my puzzle, God! write his fate in my jigsaw. If he’s not the perfect one for me, God! make him the best to my story. And if I’m supposed to be left a wreck, give me the supreme of the finest to heal all my wounds and fill all my voids.

In the name of my desirable darkness and lumped throat,

I’d ink my heart for if it was ever deemed to be read the truth.


– Marked eternity.

Of Black Coffee, Guitar and Our Love…. Part – 1

“Honey, Hydrogenated and androgynous milky white love is all I have to offer you. Would you like me to pour it in your coffee, or directly into your soul?
” As he ended, she smiled gently, putting the fine streak of her shiny hair back off her endearing face – the delicate gestures he’d always freeze in his memories and heart. Theirs was a different love story. A love story weaved so deeply in a train of emotions, in the tunes of those crispy new strings of his shiny guitar, in the fumes and aroma of those steaming cups of black coffee, in the night’s lullabies, in the morning’s fresh calls, in her carefree laughter, in his scared heart of losing her; it was but a poet’s poem, a writer’s prose and a painter’s master piece. So perfect, so content, so diverse yet so artistic.

The beautiful city, its luxurious lifestyle, hurried lives, those forsaken monuments, flowing water, the shiny sun, that cold breeze, the soothing orchestra, blooming tulips, rushing birds and all along, himself along with her presence, “Darling, you complete me. Just like this half completes the other one”, while travelling in the train, under the orange bed of clouds from that parting sunset and flowing water by the side, he mumbled gently while putting together the two parts of jigsaw puzzle and showing it to her like a little, happy kid.


He was a guy any girl could fall for easily. Handsome, rich, educated and a beautiful combination of charming personality, what did he see in my serious, brainy, sophisticated self, to grab me tightly in his love, get a hold of my fragile heart and be kind of owning power to my delicate soul – in the darkness of silent nights she would usually puzzle her self in these never ending questions. No, it was not insecurity. It was neither distrust nor a fishy mystery. But rather, she would always feel beaming and gratified when ever she would reach the answers and conclusions of these questions, the utter reality, “He belonged to her. She belonged to him. – The content.”

“One thing was certain: he was my one. Most people go on their whole lives and never find their one, but I found mine. I found him when I was only 18-years-old.” At the end of ever query, she would satisfy herself with this note, just like the way a mother satisfy her little kid with a pay back of a gift.

Their love grew the way they did. Running in the corridors of that old college. Bunking classes. Arguing over the fact; “Who’s genius among them?” Silently sneaking in each other’s books in the almost-dead library to see who has got the fastest reading skills. Fighting for a “Garam Samosa”. Intentionally not complimenting each other so as to be the cute-teaser. Laughter. Smiles. Tears. Gossips. Though he was a year older than her, but he always managed to be with her, match the shoe along and tie the belt together. They actually cherished their dream-come-true-love-life in those few years which were spent in the college’s diaries.



Dear Diary,

It’s a cold December’s night. I am done with my House Job’s final working day. I am so happy and relieved. The rain and storm is making it kind of scary for me but Mariah Carey’s “Love Takes Time” is echoing at the back, which sort of gives me the contention of feeling him around. Damn you stupid brain! He is sitting far there, miles away, across the seven seas, in New York’s classy Café. And here you’re sensing his presence in each touch and voice. I sort of miss him. No! I sort of miss him too much. I talked to him in the morning, though. I do it religiously. I guess, I love him too much. But that’s not as much as he loves me. I fear these distances would distract him from me. I kind of feel this fear of losing him. OH, THE HEARTACHE…….


She instantly closed her diary for she couldn’t bear it more. Even the thought of losing him would give her chills down her spine. It would make her suffocate in her own rib cage. Beneath her own skin. In her own bone’s stature. In her very own existence. She hurriedly emptied a cold water bottle inside her soul, down through her gullet and calmed her anxious self.
“No. We can never be separated. NEVER. This never is a promise. It was made when he left for his FCPS-Part-1 studies, abroad. I am a doctor. He is a doctor. Ours is a love of arteries and veins. Of aorta and heart. Of bones and tissues. Of tendons and ligament. Of lungs and wind pipes. Of brain and nerves. Of stomach and pancreas. Of medicines and patient. Of stethoscope and overall. Of prescriptions and writing pads. Because, after all, HE BELONGS TO ME, I BELONG TO HIM.”
She smiled.


Ours is a love as classy as that of a French wine – “Oh beauté!”. But it is as fascinating as Italy’s gorgeous brands and expensive clothes. As romantic as Sweden’s seductive vibe. As cheerful as Brazil’s carnivals. As pure as Canada’s waterfalls. As melodious as England’s orchestra’s stricken streets.

She loved travelling. She would always compare her delicate love story to the countries and cities, that is how she breathed different shades in a single bonding.

“I remember when your name was just another name that rolled without thought off my tongue.
Now, I can’t look at your name without an abundance of sentiment attached to each letter.
Your name, which I played with so carelessly, so easily, has somehow become sacred to my lips.
A name I won’t throw around lightheartedly or repeat without deep thought.
And if ever I speak of you, I use the English language to describe who you were to me. You are nameless, because those letters grouped together in that familiar form….. carries too much meaning for my capricious heart.”
She murmured gently while having the last sip of this ever-so-soothing black coffee – a favorite for both of them, something which bonded them even tightly.



Dear diary,
It is for him.

Oh, darling!
I find you;
In the green meadows,
In the autumn’s leaves’ crunch,
In the spring’s blooming colors.

Oh, honey!
I feel you;
In the rainy nights,
In the sunny mornings,
In the windy evenings.

Oh, deary!
I sing you;
In sweet lullabies,
In love songs,
In melodious tunes.

For my love;
I have eyes –
And I chose you.
I have soul –
And I bonded to you.
I have heart –
And I placed you in it.

– Yours, forever yours….


“Hahahaha. WOW. I am a poetess. I WROTE MY FIRST EVER COMPOSITION. Oh honey, your love made me a poetess now. Hahaha.”
She laughed happily.

coffee guitar

Zindagi ke dard ko saho gey tum, Dil ka chayn dhoondhtey raho gey tum…..

“You escape the bitter realities in lyrics and music”, echoed in that empty room was a voice from her inner soul, a numbed voice drunk in the haunting tunes which after striking the strings of her favorite guitar in that corner, came back to her and was absorbed in her soul. In the darkness of that emotionless night, where the sad, dark blanket of clouds was visible through the window’s pane, she sulked, a little more into this phase of constant nostalgia. “You’re dead, from inside”, it was nothing but a mumbling voice made by those frail lips.

They always say, you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. But she got addicted to a certain kind of nostalgia. A nostalgia which was as pure as a harmless baby in the mother’s womb knowing nothing about the cruel world he’ll have to live afterwards. A nostalgia as carefree as that smoker, puffing cigarette comfortably despite the fact, he’s paving a good path to the grave himself. A nostalgia so strong that it shattered her into pieces, her dreams into so many unfed hopes and traced her back to the train of memories and ashes. Her soul cuddled the past days, good old ones, long ago. And her flesh burnt into the silent tears and crashing fears. In her memories echoed the melodic tune,

“Dil kaheen jab saku’n na paaye ga,
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aayega.”

A cold breeze of somewhat refreshing nostalgia hit her hard on the cheeks, going deep in her dark soul and numbed mind. She was in love with the time when happiness was reachable and peace lied inside her. Where there were smiles, she genuinely felt and meant, frowns; rare but worthwhile, people, few but honest and all the good and bad, but a life – so peaceful and entertaining. Old songs to old diaries, old phones to old socks, old shoes to old bags, old people to old memories and old happiness and all that ever lived in her past was so soothing. She puffed sighs and few regrets in the silver lining of sadness which blanketed her so well that she seemed to be a part of this unknown melancholy. Moving in this lonesome corner, listening to the heart wrenching tunes, she touched those old letters and diaries’ pages while sipping the steamy coffee. Oh, the combo of “Lazzat-e-gham se aash’naa ho kar, Apne mehboob se juda ho kar” and the joy of hand written notes was so well that she lived those little laughters, once again, which were cherished way back in times, over the phones calls.

It was nothing but a certain nostalgia. A nostalgia too strong for her which would end up having her a lump in throat for hours. Nostalgia for hours and weeks and months and rather it turned into a complete lifestyle. Silently gazing at the stars and the dark, vast sky her wet eyes and cheeks felt the coldness of her inside. She was cold to everything. To life, feelings, emotions, to the little bits and huge stuff – an emotionless puppet. When you start thinking about what your life was like 10 years ago–and not in general terms, but in highly specific detail–it’s disturbing to realize how certain elements of your being are completely dead. They are dead but living inside your memoirs.

The sea and beaches where promises were made and broken along the flowing water. The happy smiles with every bite of cotton candy, the lively gossips over coffee cups in the balcony, the long walks, silent messages, all were now but haunting memories. She took another walk around the room, sipped some more caffeine and lied down over the sofa. The air of nostalgia cuddled her more, softly, secretly and a wave of chilling chronicles went down her spine. Wrapped in beautiful red silk, she quickly stood up, took out her brushes and vibrant colors, the empty canvas and her vacant brain. Played with them, the throbbing shades like her aching heart, the silent room and in it – she was there all alone with this painting, something which will earn her livelihood at the cost of her memories.

Echoed in the air was another line,

“Zakhm-e-dil jab tumhey sataaye ga
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aaye ga..”

She felt few drops on her cheeks, sipped some more coffee and finally took out her guitar to get lost with it, in the land of dreams and old days. The night was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of her grief, alone in her aimless guilt, alone even in her loneliness. As they say, “Was I bitter? Absolutely. Hurt? You bet your sweet ass I was hurt. Who doesn’t feel a part of their heart break at rejection. You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger. That’s my favorite part. It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story.” But oh honey, the irony, rejection was from life. So then, how you live it?

It was insane. It was disturbingly soothing. She got addicted to this haunting isolation. This miserable state – the certain nostalgia. It broke her. Would tear her apart. But it was satisfying. She felt an unknown bliss, satisfaction it, where she could just over dose herself with caffeine and her paint brushes, guitar and all the stuff from her past with these old tunes. Suddenly in her old notes she read, Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a scar on it. Only that she held sadness close, long after it was over. Only that she spent that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.

In the sighs & tears, she was as always restless but slept herself to sad lullabies. She knew it was not normal, it was insane, she got addicted to a certain saddening nostalgia…

Echoed the same voice,

“Jab koi pyaar se bulaye ga ,
Tum ko aik shakhs yaad aayega….”


Tangled Threads.

We all come into this world as babies. Frail, helpless and delicate beings whose first cry becomes a source of joy for others. Apparently, the only cry which spread elation. I’ve always been rubbing my neural cells over the stance of “Generation Gap.” Have seen it so many times in my life, the resulting misunderstandings, the bitterness, all the tears which flow out due to this very dilemma; I usually wonder whether these are us, the children who fail to understand the parents or it is the parents’ failure who can not grab a child’s mentality beyond the limits of mere studies and career making.

Yes, it affects in every case but it really ruins everything when this gap comes between a kid and his parents. It is not only about the two parties involved but it really affects each and every person of the family. Sitting here, in this lonesome hour of the night, I am still stuck in that incident I’ve seen between two very close relations in my life which made me think again, where is actually the short comings? Yes, we never deny our parents’ efforts. Their sacrifices and all that they do for our better living but what if in providing good education, proper livelihood and all that which is apprently needed for a better living; they fail to provide the mutual relation of understanding to their kids. How heart wrenching it is when a parent can not understand his kid. When a father fails to grasp the chaos of his son’s mind. When a mother fails to grab the happenings in her daughter’s life. Is it all about money? About the facilities? About good food, proper clothes and nice hangouts? Certainly Not. What actually pricking is the response of parents when they explore that while they were too busy in earning a better livelihood for their kids, the poor children went for drugs and all such narcotics to find solace and apprehension. Yes, every parent will yell, shout and get angry at such moments, blaming the kid, making him realize the luxuries being provided but completely forgetting that the very kid is still a little child with a very fragile heart, sentiments and emotions which seek attention. And while you were too busy in earning money he went on the wrong path to grab comfort.

It is not all about parents either, surely the matter is equally dependent upon kids too. Yes, when a child shouts, misbehaves, abuses his very own mother; the heart gets torn apart. When you torture your very father so much that he ends up getting a mild heart attack, a persistent sting of tension and worry, it break the nerves. Yes, it shouldn’t be marked as the loose hand being given by the parents but actually the fate which turned its ball against the wind and rather than making the kid feel the blessings, spoiled him up to an extent that by now, he is standing with a raised voice and high neck infront of those who are the reasons of his presence on this planet.

Seeing, experiencing, facing all these happenings every other day, my mind really gets numbed sometimes. Who is supposed to be the owner of this guilt? Who to blame actually? Yes, we always say that it is a mutual matter to be resolved but still, where actually the thing is lacking? Why a certain child-parent conflict forgets that there are other poor beings dwelling in the same house, getting affected and traumatized. No, do not start judging about my family conditions. It is the story of every second home. We’ve built such thick walls around ourselves that we’ve almost concealed everything. Suffocation has been created. A parent earning, providing facilities, luxuries, paying for education, and fulfilling every need of a kid assume, he has done his job. While completely forgetting that the kid needs love and attention more, at the first place. He wants to be understood and talked to. He wants to go on his path and chase his dreams rather than just becoming the slave of his parents or society’s will and set standards. And yes, cursed is the child who can not understand and value his parents’ sacrifices. Who completely forgets that if today he is yelling and torturing his parents, tomorrow he is going to see the same roll.

But the question is still there, who to blame? Who is actually responsible? We are too inflexible to bend and apprehend each other. The threads of relation eventually get torn apart, not only affecting one or two but the whole troop. And believe me, the prick, the ache, the heat of ashes, the regrets, affect others more than those cold and hostile beings involved. And yet everyone’s life becomes an epitome of tangled threads. No body listens. Yes, not a single one. Everyone has got a plethora of points to justify the stance but not to be a bit flexible for resolving the matter and saving many lives. Yes, everyone becomes as hard as concrete. We are really piteous creatures. We ruin things. We cry over them. We feel proud, too, for the sake of satisfaction. Yet again, we repent and regret much. We are the root of all the heart ache. We, our very ownselves!


In the troop of living
We are connected
Via delicate threads –
Forever named as relations.

But, amidst the harsh wind,
We get  firm as rocks,
Forgetting the love
and irreplaceable warmth.

Our gulps get stiff,
Hearts poisoned,
Spirits loathed
And lives hostile.

In the nameless chaos,
That marks the moment,
When a thread breaks
And ends a tale.



Over a cup of coffee,with the strings of guitar!


~ Unedited form, written after a dream, in love with guitars ~

In the lulled bleak night –
She sat lone;
With her past,
And echoing tunes of –
That melodic bare guitar.

Over a steaming cup of coffee,
She puffed her miseries –
With a deep sore sigh,
That tore her pectus,
and crippled the soul.

Lost in the nullity,
Her fingers moved –
To and fro, over the rusted strings
And bounced in the desolate vibe
was a glum lorn symphony.

Like an old photo album,
The tunes sang to her;
All the lullabies of her lose,
The dingy murmurs
and delusive laughter.

Caught in the whistling vibe,
On the road to nostalgia
She traveled silently;
Bare footed and broken-heart,
Like a lost sobbing traveler.

Abruptly was she shaken,
Off her fictive fantasy,
When a silent throbbing tune –
Of her dead mute heart was stricken,
Against the numbed cold sentiments.

A dead dim glare shone –
From her solitude blue bubble,
And taking in the warmth of burnt umber,
She felt the truth, deep down herself;
For in real the brutal misery is,
Dying deeply inside thy spirit
while dwelling forged in appearance.