No matter how hard I try I cannot resist that tiny thought that clouds my mind, may be just for a minute or just for an hour, and nests there for a little longer. I wouldn’t go that far to call it paranoia or some sickly psychological disorder that has gone unnoticed for really long but a concern…

Loved the way it ends. Am I the second person or the third person here? Hold on, while I figure that out.

Adoption of chair

‘You can’t adopt a chair!’ Mother smashed her office files against the coffee table. 

‘That’s it! You aren’t my son!’ Father announced, shuffling the newspaper.

‘You literate fool!’ Cursed his grandmother from the portrait on the wall. He could feel it.

It all started when Paul, the egg-face, had walked over to his psychic. The meeting went good with Paul claiming that he had seen pigeons making love under his bed and the psychic assuring him that it’s all normal when you close your eyes. On his way back to home, Paul met with an accident that had severely neutralised his eccentricities. He woke up in bed, one day, in a hospital and claimed that he has seen the abyss. Mother and father wanted to give up but told him to keep working on his aptitude. Paul did and had been doing it.

His internal monologues kept him busy most of the time. He never uttered a word to someone until he was sure what he staring at was indeed a gun, pointed at his temple. Then, he cried his lungs out putting the collective capabilities of his monologues to shame. The robbery, at his home, smashed his confidence. Everything went for a trip and came back to him in black and white. He couldn’t differentiate between good and bad just like any normal man finds it difficult to guess the seriousness of a bad joke.

The robbery was a very importance piece to Paul’s puzzle. Because, it had taken away the one connection to sanity. The psychic was nowhere to be found. The room where most of their conversations had taken place was rented out to someone else. One thing robbery did right was in setting him against the path of insanity. As far as he was concerned, everything before the robbery had been a huge event blurred by its mere presence.

Later, he moved with his parents. For them, it wasn’t an obligation to take care of him but they acted like it was an obligation to love him. ‘It will set him right,’ father told mother one day before adding X to her XX. Mother and Father took care of him. They never allowed him to go out alone. They heard his monologues which weren’t internal anymore. They were mostly about pigeons and pigs, their kingdoms, their servants and betrayals. They usually sounded like as if the narrator was as sane as they usually came. Father transcribed them into a book while mother designed the cover page. It was published in greek and later was translated to grunts and squeaks. 

Father and mother learned to love him without expecting anything in return. It all worked for sometime but then Paul learned to return it. You see, the blur doesn’t stay. One day, he threw the coffee tray up in the air and recorded the fall with a camera. ‘Why’d you do that?’

‘Because, everything falls.’

Mother slapped him so hard, father had to intervene.


You ever wonder how a thought process works? Like a chain. And between every two pieces of thoughts, there lies a link. And you get a jolt every time you go through that link.

They are not necessarily meaningful. Sometimes it’s hard to even remember the last piece and while you try to recollect…

Why smoking?

It’s not so trivial, I found out. To answer this is to give out a reason for smoking, a sure shot way to kill yourself slowly over a period of years.

Just a while back, I was wondering. What is it that makes me pick that cigarette every day? Why do I smoke? What is the purpose? I mean, will I be able to point out at something concrete?

Smoking, the act, is a delicious mixture of active and passive bouts. Between those active drags, you have the moments of passivity. Some stare at something before them, some think. Then comes another active drag and then again the moment of passivity. It’s this sweet cycle, I think, that makes me smoke. And that’s not just it. Cherry on the top is the release you get after every action. In this case, literally.

It’s only natural that we crave for results, momentary they can be, for our actions. Smoking a cigarette does exactly this. You take a drag and you release the smoke. Action. Result. While the smoke takes its time to fill the space around you, you tread those thoughts, some pointed while other just floating.

There lies the crux. That’s what smoking is to me, it appears. A delightful break in the flow of normalcy. A break where you nurture that trait which is the basic of human psyche. Action and reaction. Active and passive. In and out.


We like being alone, to an extent, everyone. But we crave to be with someone. We desire to live in solitude, but we are scared of desolation. We want for everything we don’t have and once we have it how we wish we never had. We wish it had never happened for the fear of having to let go of it,…