The Acid Test


That’s incredible, pretty amazing, but I’m not sure I’d want to visit, I thought to myself putting down the paper and pondering over the article I’d just read.

The headlines read ‘Acid attack victims join hands, open cafe near Taj Mahal in Agra’

I’d be too overwhelmed by the horrific nature of such violence. It would be frightening to see someone living through such an ordeal with her nose melted away and her eyes burned shut. By her having to smell her flesh burn and feel so helpless and all she can do is wait it out. And then live through that.

Here in the Asian subcontinent, acid attacks are not very uncommon. From my limited understanding, a lot of these attacks are by spurned lovers looking to avenge their rejection. The sole aim of this kind of brutal crime is to disfigure the woman and turn her into some kind of monster that all of mankind would ostracize. For her to feel the shame and rejection they felt when they were turned down. We must shoot those retarded bastards!

Barely any of the criminals are convicted while the woman has pretty much lost everything but her life. Imagine not being able to muster enough courage to look at ones face let alone walk around without a veil. Loss of vision. Acid thrown on genitals. And that’s only the physical, the psychological damage is tremendous. I shudder even as I think about it.

I look at the photo of the victims again. I force myself to not look away. The women in those pictures could have been my sister, my mother, my girlfriend. ­­

I can see them trying hard to smile. Brave women, trying to get by. Despite everything, trying to move on and get on with their life. Trying to come to terms with the ugly truth and deal with the pain.

I take another sip of my coffee, the least I could do was muster the courage to visit their cafe and deal with the harsh realities of this world, and congratulate them on being so courageous.

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I looked back and caught that tear,

lingering in her eye, latching onto her fear,

Her heart was tangled and not far from being torn,

The moment had arrived, selfishly hers to call her own,

The winds of change were raging a storm,

­And she couldn’t get the music to dance with her song.


I held her hand, but didn’t know what to say,

I didn’t want to go, and she wanted me to stay,

She turned my hand, over to my palm,

And her fingers traced the lines across it,

Locking it into her memory, as if this was the end of it.


She then cradled my hand in hers for a little while,

But soon withdrew her hand to dab her eye,

Looked over her shoulder, to make sure no one was watching,

but caught a few glances of all the people passing,

So she took me aside so it would be just us,

To have a moment that would be just ours.


Afraid of abandoning everything she held onto,

Her choices were difficult, and the options too few,

She was losing the rites of passage into this kingdom,

And unwittingly, I was imprisoning her with my freedom.


Carefully rehearsed, all that she had to say,

Choked, the lines couldn’t fight their way,

Her stubborn love wouldn’t say goodbye,

The words never came and I heard her cry,

And soon I wouldn’t be around to make her stop,

When her lips on my cheek felt like the kisses of a raindrop.


She was drunk with love and starving for comfort,

And only she could tell how much it hurt,

I couldn’t find the words to make it better,

Someday I would and maybe write her a letter,

When you move away, the world doesn’t feel so small,

And the time spent apart slows to a crawl,

It’s easy to love and hard to be let down,

But the time had come to leave this town,

The journey had just begun, and the road was long,

And now she couldn’t find the lyrics to go with her song.


Prequel to Cause I will write a song for you


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Vagabond Wisdom – The menace of the media

‘But is it safe?’ I asked my uncle. He had just been to Mexico, on holiday. He was a science professor in North America, and was now in India.

‘Yeah?’ He looked at me slightly confused.

‘Is it safe like you know to walk down the street alone?’ I probed a little more. The minute Mexico is brought up I imagine drug cartels shooting their way through rundown streets.

‘Of course, its just like any other city, just like walking down a street in India. Maybe safer’.

I looked away embarrassed at falling prey to stereotypes the media had fed me. Americans and Europeans think India is unsafe.They also expect to find people traveling on elephants and cows on every street. India isn’t like that and neither was Mexico filled with only drug lords.

While India maybe a tad bit unsafe (especially for women) it isn’t quite like how the media portrays it, we are not subject to violent crime every now and then. At least, I’ve never been mugged in Mumbai but was on the verge of getting thrashed in Auckland by a group of locals (in New Zealand which is apparently the most peaceful country in the world).

Lesson learned. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. The world is a lot safer than we think it is. Or rather after the recent attacks in Paris and Sydney, maybe no place in the world is truly safe.

So take everything you read with a pinch of salt. The media will always sensationalize a story even when there is no story. Don’t be scared of traveling to ‘developing’ countries. They are a lot safe than you think.


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Thank you! (Dream Reader)

Please forgive me if this letter sounds like I’m selling myself, no, wait my skills, or rather my profile to you. Job portals have done this to me. Forgive me if I sound like I am seeking approval and ignore my incoherent rambling. The countless applications that I have filled in anticipation of an interview call has made me sound like this.

But I know that you will not judge me. Not by this letter at least. Or my writing skills. You will read this with a big smile across your face. Even though I should have written this a decade ago. Or much before that. You will smile and humbly brush it aside, as if all your sacrifices were not worthy of even a little praise. And you will thank me for this. Even though this is my thank you letter. You will thank me nonetheless and tell me how brilliant I am. How I should perhaps have become a writer. How no one is quite as great as me.

But don’t. Cause these words can’t match up. They can’t do you justice. And they will fall short. But that’s all right. Because I know you understand. That I’m unable to convey my gratitude, quite the way you do. You always understand.

So thank you. For encouraging me and always helping me see the bright side. For being as brave as you are. For being a fighter. Always fighting for me.

Thank you for everything. And above all, for understanding that you don’t need this letter, a letter like this, to know how much I appreciate all that you do.

Love you Ma.

What this is all about #blogging101

There’s no denying it, the blogs title is suggestive in a way. I am bored easily and it isn’t difficult to capture my interest. This blog is an attempt to get beyond that. To push through the mundane. To have a sense of purpose.

Words are a powerful tool and this blog helps me slow down and take stock of my life. Nothing in my apartment manages to stay private and leaving a diary around with its pages stained with the ink that’s poured from my mind isn’t the brightest idea. So it’s strange then that I decide to occasionally broadcast some of it on the world’s most public forum.

A friend once told me, my posts allow her to get inside my head. And that is what they are. About the way I perceive things and sometimes the way I would like you to see it. You know you are not alone. We are all alike. And we all have bad days. Take comfort in my pain.

I am not an unhappy person. Although my posts are sad. It’s hard to write when you’re having a good time.

I do not get attached but I struggle to let go. I’d like to be a minimalist. But for now I have too many things holding me back. This blog is little bit about that too.

I am a marketing professional but my boss said she lost a copy writer when I quit my job. I love to write. But I find the process tedious. Without direction and a plan it’s a task to get myself to do anything.

“blogging101” forces me to dish out something. It’s easier to follow something when it is already structured. When I don’t have to labour over what to write about. I can draw in the boundaries of my imagination and focus on specific areas. It pushes me to embrace my inner tunnel vision.

So let’s get writing. Let the games begin!

The BlogStation

The BlogStation