Don’t try to save yourself. You don’t have to be okay. In fact if someone asks you “How are you?” Make them buy you a cup of coffee or even better, a red velvet cupcake with extra cream cheese and tell the poor stranger everything they don’t need to know about your life.

How to heal a broken heart.

Drown yourself neck deep in cheap liquor. “That’s not healthy” you protest. Well, neither was that good for nothing boy so shut up and down the drink.

How to heal a broken heart.

Cry. For however long you need to and as loudly as you can. Only loud wails can silence how loud silence really feels in your head. Perhaps rain drops will not heal you but your tears will wash away his touch, his lips, and his hands.

How to heal a broken heart.

Make a mountain out of little chocolate brownies. It is completely acceptable to eat noodles with bare hands…  You are not on a pretentious date to nibble like squirrel. Right now, my lady you are not a squirrel. You are a god damn person with more space in your stomach than your heart can offer.

So build yourself a future. From pizza boxes that lie under the bed in which you both made love. Build yourself a life from empty soda cans that were used up when the two of you cuddled together and watched movies all night long.  It does not matter if you are crying while you do this and catching your breath in between spoonful of pastries… This will stop. And when it does, go out there and burn a few calories because burning him alive is punishable by law… In some states.

How to heal a broken heart.

Remember there are no real shallow goals.  You want to look good in a crop top?  You want to binge watch the Game Of Thrones? You want to find out if his best friend will flirt with you? Ok there are some shallow goals.

How to heal a broken heart.

Sing.  Even if you are the most terrible singer. Or Dance. Like no-one is watching or just talk to a dog. Or if you can, take your already hurting heart, squeeze it into ink, write poetry and subject people to listen to it. Because they don’t have a choice.

And also because, there are lot of things he refused to listen to and they need to be said.

How to heal a broken heart.

You don’t heal a wound by touching it.Don’t call your ex., Don’t accidently run into him. And do not talk to his girlfriend. Or Wife.


How to heal a broken heart.

Does it happen suddenly like sunshine in between rain to create rainbows? Or does it happen one cup of coffee at a time like the weather slowly changes from a pristine winter to a sickening happy spring?

How to heal a broken heart.

You make poetry your poison and say things like “he was not my fish but he was my sea” when in the first place all he ever was is a mirage. An illusion you never saw through.

How to heal a broken heart.

Tear stained pillows and curtains that have been kept closed too long. Sunshine is a privilege and appetite is a dear friend who forgot to visit.

How to heal a broken heart when you know that every beat a broken heart takes to keep me alive is a burden.

How to heal broken heart. Tell me if you find out.



The Art Of Falling In Love With Yourself!

It is important to love yourself.

Not in an “I am okay when there is Valencia filter” kind of way. It is important to truly and madly be in love with yourself. We have enough narcissism in the world but very less self-love and let’s not for a minute confuse the two.

Buddha doodles

Buddha doodles

Love yourself enough to appreciate your body. The size of your nose is way smaller compared to the mind share it occupies in your head. Also, you need to hear this.

If you are twenty something and finding it difficult to love your body, learn to accept that if you are the norm and not the exception, this is probably the most beautiful you ever will be.  

Love yourself enough to never wake up with puffy eyes. How many times in the past year have you woken up with puffy eyes from yesterday’s tears? I have lost count.

How many times have you let a relentless argument or a meaningless conversation keep you awake longer than it should? Remember that no self-respecting individual will take or let their sleep or appetite be taken away by another person. I am not referring to the honeymoon phase – you will get over that yourself.  

Love yourself enough to learn to take care of your own needs. You know how some people want partners who know exactly how much sugar they take in their coffee? That’s alright, but figure yourself out first.

Learn to make your own coffee, drive your own car and if you think you cannot survive without the paneer ka subzi that mom makes, learn to make it. It really helps. 

Love yourself enough to say “NO”.  Say NO not just to the things you don’t want but even to the things you don’t need.


Love yourself enough to do the things you deny yourself because you are too afraid to take a chance. Red lipstick and high heels? Take that vacation you wanted to. Ask that guy out already. And seriously, if someone doesn’t treat you right, leave them.

Love yourself enough to nurture yourself.  Spend time on your nails or spend more time reading or whichever matters the most to you and don’t let anybody tell you which one is right. Or do both. Get that pedicure done and read Austen while doing it!

Love yourself enough to spend time with the people who matter. People don’t come in a catalog  or with an instruction manual. So if you have spent enough time with someone who is shitty, it is up to you to  time to turn that page and move on.

Love yourself enough to let yourself feel things. Jealously. Anger. Regret. Remorse. Grief. Let yourself have whatever you need to process these feelings. Time. Nachos. Some cheese and some more of it. In short, give yourself a break. 


And when you are done feeling these things, love yourself enough to rise up again.

Love yourself enough to let people love you even when you think you don’t deserve love. And love yourself enough to be the bigger person who gives love when someone does not deserve.

Sometimes tough love is the best way to love yourself. So don’t mistake not texting him back or waking up early or saying no to a night out because you need some sleep as being hard on yourself.  Love yourself enough to show some tough love on yourself.

It is important to love yourself.

Not in my self-worth is decided by the number of friends I have or the number of likes I have on Facebook kind of way.

Love yourself enough to make YOU a priority.

The top-most priority when Life demands it!




Don’t keep your door closed” my mother yells and her voice feels like a faint memory from the past. Like an intruder in my own house, I close my mouth with my hands for I fear that the sound of me choking on my tears is enough to ruin their sleep…forever.

Panic. Anxiety. Stress.



It’s is almost like you are drowning but you can’t for the life of god figure out what you’re drowning in. I need a plan. I try to draw plans with sharp objects against my soft skin. I dig into my skin with fear and believe that for some people, fate is written in scratches and cuts.

And then I float, not float. Pardon my vocabulary that seems to oscillate more than my moods. And then I don’t float into depression. Nobody floats into depression. I am forcibly dragged by my neck into depression.

Like an abusive boyfriend who I keep going back to because there is a strange sense of comfort when being strangled by familiar arms, I sink back into the depression I’ve known for this long.

 “Go see a therapist” a voice booms still not loud enough to silence the voices in my head. I walk into a clinic and I take a seat in the big couch.

“He’s not going to help me” I murmur under my breath while silently pleading “Please help me.” I notice a box of tissues aesthetically placed on the side table that almost makes it look like it is acceptable to cry in front of a stranger.

Not that it’s a hard thing for me to break into tears. I control my thoughts and focus.

How do I tell a complete stranger that I light up a cigarette in my room not because I’m an addict but because that is the only familiar scent from the boy who left me?

“Tell me how you feel” the words almost escape my ears because I don’t remember the last time someone asked me that.

Guilty. Ashamed. Angry. Furious. Sad.

And if emotions were colours, I would paint the canvas with every shade from the every palette in this world and still not decipher how I feel.

I feel dead and if you were me, what colour would you choose to paint that with? Not black. Please. For I might be depressed, but I don’t lack imagination…

I push all these thoughts away and get through an hour of going back and forth as a stranger introduces me to myself.

Perhaps you didn’t love him. Maybe he never had feelings for you. Are you doing this to compensate for something? And how old were you when that happened? Was it someone you knew?

He hands me a slip, and I am slightly disappointed that this doctor didn’t warn me that that the punishment for seeking death is pills that make you feel lifeless.

I walk out and weigh the options. Prozac with a dose of fatigue, nausea and mood swings or slipping right back into that pit. Without a second thought, I reach out for the bottle of pills that do nothing to cure my addiction except for replacing it.


Despite my fight, there are days.

Like the one when my sister heard my loud wails that said “It hurts”. She asked me “Where does it hurt?”

When I kept screaming the same thing “It hurts” over and over again.

She lost her patience and said “where” a little louder and unkind this time, and I said

“I don’t know where it hurts”

And yet you so easily look at me, a smirk in your face and tell me “It’s all in your head”


To Every Girl Who Is Afraid To Be Alone,


Learn. There are a hundred different ways I could have started this but I fear you may not have the patience to read all of it. So I tell you what I want to tell you in the first line.

Learn. Learn to be alone.

Perhaps you were born to a father who kissed your forehead the day you were born and swore to protect you for the rest of your life.

Perhaps they called you “princess” at home and made you believe that it was necessary to belong somewhere to feel beautiful and loved.

Maybe you had best friends growing up. Girlfriends who would fiercely protect you and boys who made you laugh hard.

Or maybe, you were never single. You always had ‘love’ string along . Someone to talk to. Someone to cry to. Someone to lean on. Someone to dress up for. Someone to love. Someone to touch. Someone to make you feel wanted. Someone to call you beautiful.

I am guessing you had all of this. Or some of this. Or none of this. It doesn’t matter.

Learn. Learn to be alone.

Because learning that intimacy is pleasing to have but that it is not the end of the world is what will save you from this very world.

Learn to be alone because I don’t want you to feel like it’s the world against you when you realize that you have outgrown people.

Learn to be alone because one day you will come back home from work, tired and spent. And on that day when the familiar dinner table conversation of your family sounds like cacophony, I don’t want you to feel helpless.

Learn to be alone because sometimes people move far away from you. They move places, shift jobs and start new lives. Time-zones and careers and marriages cut across like a sharp piece of glass that test even the strongest relationships.

And sometimes even as you are cuddling with the love of your life, learn to be alone. Because sometimes. No, not sometimes.

People change all the time. For better or for worse.

And I don’t know why we say it like it is a bad thing.

Learn to be alone because seriously, you don’t want to be the girl with sad wallpapers and Instagram quotes on how to deal with emotional pain.

Learn to be alone even if you are picking out wedding clothes . Because I believe in forevers and rainbows but god forbid your relationship fades away. Sometimes quicker than the colour of your saree and sometimes long after you are too old to do anything about it.

Learn to be alone even if your relationship doesn’t fade away. Yes. Learn to be alone in a happy marriage. Learn to be alone even if you are a happy daughter. Learn to be alone when you hold your first born.

Learn to be alone when you move cities. Learn to be alone when you are in a crowded room with all the people who matter to you. Learn to be alone when you are by yourself.

Just Learn.

Because learning to be alone is the first step to loving yourself. And it is the most important step to loving others.

Because learning to be alone means that the relationships in your life are not a necessity. They are not roots of a tree called selfishness and insecurity.

They are branches that give shade. They are flowers that add joy.

They are there. Or Not.

But you stand, tall and gorgeous anyway.

Loving them not because you need to. Not because you have to.

But because you want to.

And girl, don’t be afraid of being alone.Because not learning to be alone means that you might be lonely.

And that my girl is something you should be very afraid of. 




The other woman. What about her feelings, her dreams, wishes, wants and needs?

For isn’t she woman like every other woman, after all? 

Believe me when I tell you that I will think only of you whenever I see a sky filled with stars because our relationship has a striking resemblance to starlight.

Do you know that some stars are just a speck of dust but those are often the ones that shine the most? Just like our relationship.

Home-wrecker. Whore. Slut. That is what I am often called.

Really, all I want to do is watch a rainbow in the sky while holding your hands and still feel like a good person even though I know that only one of these things can happen at the same time.

I want to hold your soft palms without feeling the edge of your wedding ring that along with my fingers, pricks my conscience.

I want to listen to you tell me that I am your entire world and I want to have a chance to believe it.

I want to love you without the guilt and I want to kiss you without the pain of knowing that you are mine only as long as our lips are at it.

I want to make plans with you that don’t involve an alibi. I want to make real plans with you. Like what we can have for breakfast. That is, if you stay over, ever.

I want to start believing that you are not a whole different person when you are not around me. I want to know that you are not making ten year plans with her even before the perfume from the back of my neck can linger off your body.

I want the big small things. I want to share an ice-cream with you knowing that the other half of the ice-cream belongs only to me. I want to split a half melting chocolate bar and eat my share and eat the rest that sticks to your fingers.

I want to you to make love to me. When you hold my naked waist and press your lips against mine, I want to tell you that I have thought about this moment and pretended that my fingers were yours. I want your teeth to bite in between the folds of my skin and when you ask me if it hurts, I will tell you that it hurts terribly. It hurts terribly to not be able to do the same to you.

I will tell you that it does not hurt every time I see perfect photographs of the two of you. I will tell you that it is OKAY that you choose to hold her hands during daylight while you struggle at the very thought of making eye-contact with me in public. I will tell you that I don’t want you to leave her because I care about your happiness. I will tell you that all this cheating is not tearing down my heart and making me feel like a terrible person. I will tell you that I don’t think about whether our kids will have my eyes or yours every time you play with your children. I will tell you that I am not crying as I write this and that I really don’t wish that you were here to just hold me.

I will tell you all of this. But you of all people should know what a good liar I am.

I want to tell you so much more but I will end the letter here because we never have enough time.

I don’t have the rest of my life with you. I don’t have the rest of my day with you. Our conversations end when she opens the door. Our phone calls end when you cannot whisper anymore. Our dates end when someone we know might be around the corner. Our sex life is always dark no matter how many lights I choose to bravely keep on!

And my man, my letter will end right in the middle of a sentence despite me wanting to pour out my heart to you.

Because that is our fate and destiny after all.

Editor’s note: This is a work of fiction, a slice-of-life portrayal by the author.

This was originally published here :

A Letter From The Other Woman To The Man Who Will Never Be Hers [#ShortStory]



images (1)

I don’t like referring to you as “The Boy Who Broke Me”. It seems to put you on a pedestal and make you look like someone powerful as opposed to the spineless chap you really are. However, because it would be perfectly unacceptable to name you, I will refer to you as that.

If I have to thank you for something, it would be for just pushing me into the middle of an ocean when I didn’t know how to swim and for pushing me off the roof when I didn’t know how to fly.

“It is over. This will not happen” were your last words before you walked away.

You didn’t seem to think that I deserved an explanation or at least a conversation before you just left from a relationship which we both chose to build. You didn’t seem to think that I deserved kinder words, a softer tone or at least a little more of your time.

And because I had made my world all about you, I crumbled like a cookie. 

When you left, the crying started. Not the kind of crying that smudges your mascara or gives you puffy eyes.

I am talking about the kind of crying that starts from the pit of your stomach, chokes your throat and comes out as loud wails of desperation. If you snatched away the last piece of bread from a really hungry infant, he would probably cry less.

As I sat on my bedroom floor wailing in desperation, downright powerless over my own feelings and my own body, I knew that I had let you emotionally destroy me.

If you ever wonder how I am doing after you left me, I don’t want to spare you the gory details.

I wake up in the middle of the night with tears pouring down my cheeks and wonder whether I deserved you walking out on me like that. I wake up every morning without the slightest of inclination to leave my room.  Sometimes in the middle of a perfectly normal day, all I want to do is lock myself in the restroom and cry. I over-think and wonder if it was all my fault.

Behind the perfectly normal girl who smiles and laughs, I count the number of antidepressants left in a bottle that seems to be my only solace in a world that is otherwise too heavy.

I am anxious all the time and sometimes pretend like this world doesn’t exist.  Appetite who used to be a friendly neighbour has become a long-distance friend who seldom visits me.

Because food reminds me of you. And so do some songs that I cannot even bear to hear.

I close my eyes and your voice still rings in my head. Neither my body nor my mind have erased how your fingers felt in my mouth or how your tongue felt everywhere else. I crave for the orgasm that you left my body shivering with. I crave more for the day when you pull out of me once and for all so that I can finally have an emotional orgasm.

But thank you for everything because the fact that I have hit rock-bottom means that I have no where to go but up. A favorite quote of mine off late is “Death is so final but life has so many possibilities” which is why I choose to rise every day rather than bury myself alive in memories that no more mean a thing.

Make no mistake that my thank you is secondly.

Thank you for everything good that I am becoming because you abandoned me when I needed you the most.

But Firstly. Fuck you.

I don’t want to be your secret


I don’t want to be a secret phone call that ends as the sun rises. I want to be your early morning alarm that is allowed to be loud in your bedroom. I want to be your person.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be your ink pen that is locked away, kept only for the days you want to get your hands dirty. I want to be that little blue pen you use on a bright afternoon to write your grocery list. I want to be your boring errands.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the letters you keep in locked drawers. I want to be those unread flyers that lie under the cracks of your apartment door days together for the world to see. I want to be seen.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the tattoo that is hidden away in your weakest spot. I want to be the watch that clasps your wrist like it belongs. I want to belong.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the song that plays in your iPod after the lights are switched off. I want to be the song that plays loudly on your cars stereo. I want to be heard.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to smell like the fresh breath mints you choose to camouflage the smell of smoke.  I want to be the perfume that sticks to your body for the rest of the day. I want to be felt in the air around you.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the sinful piece of chocolate on a cheat day in your diet. I want to be the lollipop you weren’t afraid to lick in daylight. I want to be tasted with unashamed passion.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be pages from the dairy of an awkward adolescent, locked away from everyone’s eyes. I want to be the book you flaunt on your office desk to define who you are. I want to define.

I don’t want to be your secret.

I don’t want to be your muse. I don’t want to be your happy place. I don’t want to be your vacation. I don’t want to be your exotic.

I want to be your everyday order of Starbucks. I want to be the Chinese takeaway you love for dinner. I want to be the pen that stops working when you really need it to.

I want to be the cab that takes you home. I want to be those little threads of unease on your otherwise creaseless shirt. I want to be your overused favourite tie.

I want to be everything that is you and everything that you ever will be. I want to be your boring old routine that you do over and over again with a furrow on your forehead.

A Letter To My Daughter On Heartbreaks,




The first time you complained a little too much about the boy who made fun of your braces and at the same time took a few minutes longer to get ready to school, I knew that you were smitten. I don’t think either of us remember his name right now. And that is precisely what I want you to recall every time a boy breaks your heart. This too shall pass.

The first time you fell off a bicycle, you didn’t break into dramatic tears. You brushed the dust off your knees and marched on because you all you wanted to do was ride a cycle. And I wish you can look at life like that. There is an adventure around every corner.

I have always treated you like a woman who knew what she was doing but I have always looked at you as a little girl with pigtails. I knew you were too young for your first day at school. I knew you were too young for your first sleepover. I knew you were too young for your first lipstick. I knew you were too young for your first drink. And to me, you will always be too young for a heartbreak.

Trust me, despite your denials and fake enthusiasm, I know when you are broken. I know from the way your spoon makes circles on a plate that is filled with your favorite dish. I know from the way you rush back to your room every time I bring up his name.

It doesn’t matter if you  say “No, I was not crying”. Remember, my job was to understand you even before you started speaking?

I want to tell you so much about love, life and boys, but I know that you are going to roll your eyes at the uncool mom and call the best friend. I wish I could tell you that she gives really stupid advice but we both know that would mean war.

As much as I want to protect you from storms, I know that you are a rainbow that shines amidst dark clouds.  I know that you need to see the world, but more than that, the world needs to see a star like you. 

I will tell you that heartbreaks make you grow. I will lie to you when I tell you that you won’t even remember his name in a few years but I sure as hell will mean it when I say that he didn’t deserve you in the first place.

You will brush me off and not believe these words for a very long time, but the day will come when you finally realize that your mother was right. And on that day, you will call me and ask me where I got all the calm and wise from.

And that is the day I will let you in on my secret. The day when I know that you have healed enough to listen to this from me and laugh.

I only stayed calm because you were huddled in my lap, exhausted from all the crying.

But believe me when I say that it was not just daddy, but also mommy who really wanted to kick his ass.  

Death by a million stabs 



In this age of technology, lost love is a death by a million stabs.

Be the passport size photograph tucked away in an old wallet away from the eyes of my spouse.

Be the password that only I type and find eight seconds of solace. Be the rotting love letters.

Be the gifts that are buried under my bed.Be the places I carefully avoid lest it stirs up memory of your cologne.

Be that memory that pops up and then fades away at the snap of my fingers.

Don’t be the newsfeed. Those checkins to places we had once sat and built our dreams in. Don’t be the Whatsapp image. The filtered reality on Instagram. 

Those tweets that are almost just as long as our conversations at the end of our relationship. Really short.

Don’t be the Facebook upload. A constant reminder that you’re living the life we were supposed to. Without me.

Don’t follow me with your life in filtered hues that almost make your life look good without me in it. 

Don’t follow me with your fake hashtags because one day even I JUST might believe that you are really happy. 

Don’t pop up on me. Literally. Every time I choose to forget. Or rather every time I try to forget.

Just as I convince myself that tomorrow is a new day, it feels like you just jumped at the back of my chair to remind me that you’re better off without me. 

For breakup always feels like death. But in this age of technology, a breakup is death by a million stabs.


To the boy who is on his way,

How are you? Actually, where are you?

The more you get stuck on your way, I am going to start believing this worlds  idea of love.

When I was six years old, I believed that you were coming on a horse. When I was twelve, you had nice hair and played the guitar. When I was twenty, you were really smart and charmed me with your intelligence.

Right now, I don’t really know how you look or who you are because I don’t care what the world wants me to expect of you. I just want to write our messy imperfect story.

Are you busy holding another girls hand and wondering if you will spend the rest of your life with her?

Break her heart and come find me. However, remember to break her heart gently because I may not believe in soul mates, but I do believe that good people still exist.

Or if you get your heart broken right before you find me, I promise to do my best.

They say it with brimming nostalgia that you can love only once while your heart is still full.

That is okay.

I will have places that remind me of things that could have been and you will have lines from every other song that reminds you of her.

When you come to me, I will not expect you to be like a fresh journal that I picked off a store. I will accept you as a book that already has a few chapters. I trust us to be imaginative enough to write the rest of our lives the way we want it to be.

Let us not be the couple that treats each day as a milestone with color coordinated clothes and a ten year plan. Let us love imperfectly because that is the only way you can truly love someone.

Never “complete” me.

That word makes it seem like an ending. I don’t fancy harmony as much as living every single day with a sense of bitter-sweet anxiety that most people do not appreciate.

“Challenge” me instead.

Read poetry to me and tell me which lines I should like the most. Tell me why our child should take cricket lessons when he/she could read a book that could change their life instead. Make me understand what makes your heart beat fast. 

We don’t have to “agree to disagree”.

We can disagree every single day with unmatched passion that seems to ask “How can the person I love the most not feel the same way about this?”

That is how we will grow and learn that we are like the mismatched patches of purple and yellow sewn together to make a beautiful patchwork blanket.

Let us not fill our house with just beautiful things. We will find space for an ugly clock, a broken chair and a quirky old couch that serves no purpose.

That way, we will know that even the most beautiful things are not perfect and that small spots of ugly do not change the fact that “Home is Home”.

A few years later when we discover something about each other that we really don’t like, we can look at that clock and smile a little.
I would say that I can’t wait to grow old with you, but honestly, I simply can’t wait to grow with you. I want you to strip me naked in ways more than one so that you can know me better than anyone else and then fall in love and hate with my bare soul.

I want you to slowly enter my world and then become the center of it, so much so that I remember my memories through your words. Be the candle that lights up my universe.

But, where are you?

Am I missing you in the list of suggested friends that Facebook throws up?

Are you hiding behind photographs that I casually flip through?

Are you crossing my life in insignificant moments that will go on to be the story of what changed my life?

Are you there at all?

To the boy who is on his way,

I know you are wondering why I haven’t found you yet.

I promise that when we find each other, the story of how we almost got lost would make all of this worthwhile.


[P.S – This post has been written for Write a love letter campaign by Chennai Bloggers Club]