Why is it that Yellow catches my eye more than any colour can, makes me experience a rush such that my lips spread as if to touch my ears on either side? Why do I feel the need to own every other Yellow T-shirt or kurta there exists in the world? Why do I grab every set of Yellow earrings which I see dangling in local marketplaces? You guessed it right, genius, it is indeed my favourite colour. You may now pat your back.

But it wasn’t always like this, you see?

There have been years in my life where this place was…someone else’s. Yellow was just another colour lurking in the shadows somewhere, existing but not so much. Back then, it was the majestic, the soft, the regal Purple that held my heart. But I had never thought of Purple in these terms. Purple was my shot at being different. Purple was a colour that wasn’t just not pink ( a colour that every girl liked), but also no less in its femininity. While pink was immature and petty, Purple was more evolved, knew what it was doing, not looking for attention.

I conceive Purple differently now. It lays in the darkness, always aware of its own splendor, that mystery which is second only to black. Always half awake, half asleep, half sane and half tipsy, always holding back more than it would ever reveal about itself. It makes me think of wine, maybe because of the Purple grapes used for it. “Wine” – the word itself exudes a knowing carelessness.

I do not know when the transition from Purple to Yellow happened, but it did. I knew something was changing when my eyes no longer looked for that mystery colour, when my hands no longer stretched to pick up the Purple pen or a Violet towel.

Maybe Purple was a bit too perfect for me, a bit too flawlessly sleek. I couldn’t relate to it, I only admired it and respected it now. And with a suddenness that is characteristic only of the next colour did I think, “What’s wrong with Yellow?” That was when the whole ball game changed. Yellow was my new love.

And it has stuck.

Yellow has this thrilling quality about it. It is not held back, it is uninhibited, spontaneous. It is like a child who jumps in your path from behind the bushes to scare you for play, sometimes funny, sometimes so alarming. It is like a teenager who is happy in the company of a few friends, who doesn’t consider it necessary to be compulsively rebellious, but has his own way of amusement. It is like an adult who works responsibly but lets it all loose on the weekends. Yellow is like the grandmother whose wrinkles around her eyes only reveal the number of times she has giggled and chortled and chuckled in her life, and still does.

Yellow is not an enigmatic smirk which makes you wonder, but a laughter which is at times overbearing. In order to uncover Yellow, you do not have to look too close or touch it, as you would do with a Purple.

And in these winters as I look for a spot of sunshine to soak through me, I absorb the Yellow. It runs in my blood now (maybe making it orange?). I exude yellow through my laughter and my voice and words, most of the times a shade too elated. I am Yellow now, and it feels good, like it couldn’t have been any other way. It feels yellow…


Greetings, dear reader. I want to let you know that I have collected many notebooks throughout my life of eighteen years. Many writing pads, numerous diaries, spiral notebooks with partitions of pink and yellow plastic, and uncountable registers. But of course registers are different. Or rather, registers are the only ones which are normal, ordinary…uneventful? For once, humane? Registers are everyone’s day to day. Notes and school’s rough work, the dreaded math sums are all contained in that set of pages lined with black and pink double margins with an insignificant box to enter the date and day. I won’t say that I strive for perfection in a register. I am okay with some cuttings here and there, and don’t mind the shabby doodles, for what is a register without doodles, without words interrupted by a triangle here or a spiral there?

But my diaries, those fancy notebooks, they are different.  My diaries are all empty, my classy notebooks waiting for some equally elegant words. These diaries with thick pages are sure to hold the ink dutifully. Yet my hands shake, my resolve wavers. I do not want to make mistakes; I do not want to strike off words I wrote with conviction just a second or two ago. I am afraid I can never be as perfect as that diary, and I do not want to taint the magnificence of it through my human inadequacies. I can never fill these diaries with as much force and surety as in a register.

So I wait. I wait to become more mature, mature enough to write and be satisfied, to write something befitting of a place in a diary as perfect as that which sits in my drawer right now, nonchalant.

And even if I do sit down to write something, what would it be? Surely I can’t keep on changing subjects; I should try to maintain a steady theme throughout. What should be the subject? I do not want to write something that I see myself outgrow. I do not want to laugh at it or worse, even cringe at what I write when I grow up and read it in sweet moments of leisure. What if in my attempts at being splendid, I become overly pretentious? That would be a waste of a diary!

So I let it sit. I let all my diaries sit. The one which I got from a friend on my fifteenth birthday, the one my grandfather let me take with me from his house, and all the others which remind me of people I procured them from. I run my hand across the glossy cardboard cover and open it, I turn some of those flawless pages, always to keep it back in the drawer, yet again.

Why do diaries lure me so? Why are they so enticing, so bewitching? I do not seem to understand the careless charm they exude, or whether they are aware of it. Or do I even want to understand? Of course not, dear reader. I would rather keep the air of mystery about it alive. What if diaries are indeed ordinary? That would unsettle me a bit. So I let all my diaries be, while I confess sweet nothings to the register.




You astonish me, Dear Reader, as you come looking for me,
For there are not many today who come my way.
I reckon, you want to hear my story.

Do tell me, oh Reader,
Can you hear my voice,
Or is it muffled under the hard concrete that covers my face?

I once lived in lush farms,
I filled the jewels they call ‘leaves’,
I once possessed the grass
In each one of its blades and sleeves.

I once dwelt on your Dear Earth,
And never has she been happier
Under anyone else’s captivity.

They call me the colour of jealousy,
And I don’t wonder why.
Of course, I am jealous of the brown that covers my Dear Earth in patches,
No doubt, I envy the grey that lives in its horizon, like the greys of ageing,
I am anxious of every colour that ever touched the face of My Earth after I left,
Because those colours weren’t me.

I didn’t realize we’ve come this far, I want to hear from you now!
Do tell me how the leaves and farms fare without me,
Do tell me how the grass lays without the tinge of my charm,
Do tell me of your Dear Earth, as it has been long since I saw her last
Do tell me, oh Reader, can you take me back to her someday?

I have a feeling that you can…
Until that someday, do tell my Dear Earth,

“Green says Farewell!”

  • Pakhi


Exams are over? Already?

I can’t begin to describe how I wait for this two month long period of absolute bliss – everyone looks forward to exams. This is the only time when I live, you know! I feel alive! This energy that courses through my veins is almost indescribable.

I have always enjoyed exams, but this time was insane! – 12th standard board exams are the thing. Last for at least 4 months, if you look at it. No one should be allowed to enjoy such uninterrupted joy for this long. Do they want to spoil the students?

I can’t begin to describe my exam time exploits.

Waking up early. No, I am not talking about your usual waking up to the sound of birds chirping and the sight of the soft sun – that’s too mainstream. What’s so enjoyable about the rising sun anyway? The sun is… it’s just…there. Throughout the day. If you look closely, you might even spot it in broad daylight.

I get excited just setting alarms starting 5 a.m. , then at each five minute threshold after. The sound of the alarm in the morning is the most soothing of all. Birds who? Chirping what? Sometimes I get so carried away setting alarms that they ring throughout the day. Bonus: it’s a good background sound for studying. Helps with concentration. Ocean sounds what? Guitar who? K-pop why? (No, seriously. Why are you even listening to K-Pop while studying?)

Waking up to the sight of your books fills you with that pure, sublime sensation of panic, of regret for not studying when you still had time. I put off studying just so I can experience the pleasure of sleeping for just four out of the 24 hours of the day.

On second thoughts, you don’t have to wake up early if you don’t sleep at all. Aha! Roll safe.

Exam time is the only time when I can take care of my body properly. Some o’ that nourishin’, some o’ that maintainin’ , some o’ that sustainin’, ya see?

I finally get the opportunity to skip breakfast. And water who?

I know my regime is successful when I see my under eye circles getting darker and darker day by day. I pride myself on this all natural look that no amount of makeup can achieve.

The behavioural change is the best part. You get to feel the crank. Getting bad tempered and antisocial, not wanting to talk to anybody  – all this makes my parents proud.

Ah, I can go on and on about this. But alas, the more I think about those sweet, sweet days, the more I start to miss them. I miss those days when I did nothing but study, when I didn’t have the time to talk to my friends, when I had to schedule even minutes of my day, when I didn’t have the time to take bath.

Harsh reality awaits me now. The exam days are over, gone. Now all I have to do is sleep through the whole day, to sit there doing nothing but stare at the walls without regretting the time being wasted in the process. My parents have stacked the kitchen with chips and chocolates just to remind me that the days of happiness are over, that I now have to get myself together. My grandparents have been pampering me but I can’t take it. I feel myself breaking under pressure. I am weak. People do experience post exam stress, don’t they? I never had a strong personality.

Dark times await. I dread the phone calls I keep receiving from my friends, pushing me for a get together, a party, some o’ that chillin’.

That is not all. My dark circles are vanishing. I am losing my beauty, day by day.

This is the Kalyug the scriptures talk about – the age of Vice, the age of Kali. I can almost envision Lord Kalki atop a white horse with a drawn blazing sword.

Brace yourselves.

  • Pakhi


What? You clicked? Wasn’t the title enough? Hey, I was just trying to tell everybody that they like to walk on crumpled leaves.

Had I seen such a title, I would probably be like “Um, Okay!”, and scroll down. But you clicked, which means that you are expecting something more. Let me see what more I can possibly add to this very obvious statement.

Aha! So, everybody loves walking. Especially sleepwalkers. They just can’t resist. Are you a sleepwalker? No? Thank goodness, I thought I just lost a reader.

Moving on, everybody loves… leaves! And why not, they give us oxygen, and… well, they give us oxygen. Isn’t that a reason enough to love them? You are living to read this post today because of leaves. If you don’t love leaves, rethink your existence, you anti – life being.

So you combine your love for walking, and your love for leaves to get: “Everybody loves walking on crumpled leaves!”

Wait, there’s a mistake. Where did crumpled come from? That’s obvious too. Basically crumpled leaves have a soothing sensation due to the sound they produce as you step on them.

But why do they do that? Maybe you are breaking their bones as you walk over them. What? Leaves don’t have bones? I always knew science was odd.

Or maybe, they just have a really raspy voice, and are cursing under their breath as you crush them under your feet. Maybe they are just going “Damn You!” “Damn You!” “Damn You!”, all leaves at once.

Think twice before walking on crumpled leaves, you anti – life being.

There, there, I understand your psychology now. You don’t care about leaves. But you do care about yourself, right! What if there is a pit dug in the ground as a trap, and hidden by lots of crumpled leaves? If you come across a big heap of crumpled leaves…No, don’t jump on the hea…come back, you! Now dust those dry leaves off your sweater. Okay, I’ll let it go this time. The next time, just shove them aside. Just bend your fingers a little, and swim your hands through. Create a clear passage.

Or better, carry a rake around! I read an interview where the actress revealed the three things she doesn’t leave her home without: Her sunglasses, her lip balm, and a rake: you never know when you might need one.

Yeah, there you are ready to go. Now you can step inside that massive pit in the ground without any obstacle. Learning something new everyday!


The heat makes me weary and dull. Washing my face innumerable times, I still can’t distinguish between water and sweat – which appears so quickly.
Even warm winds start to comfort me at this point, but the warmth slowly turns to a soothing cool, gradually turning chilly. The dusty winds push the sun behind the clouds, as if even the sun was tired of the heat. Skies turn from a scorching yellow to a welcome blue – a blue, which for once isn’t gloomy, a glorious blue which stands for delight instead.
And as the first drop of rain falls to the ground, it doesn’t create a puddle, but rises off as steam on touching the ground, as if afraid to face the unforgiving heat  captured inside the land. Lazy drops turn to heavy rain, and the world embraces its true colours which were lost till now.
Grasshoppers are always a shade more than just happy. They are euphoric – capering, hopping about in the greens, not caring if they land back on the grass, on a tree, or even on my shoulder.
Hours fly away unnoticed as I stand in the balcony, my eyes following the drops from heavens to the ground. I am enveloped by cozy winds which drive some droplets on to my face, some splattering on my clothes.
But do I mind this little play?

Ah, the monsoons at last!

  • Pakhi


Bottles remind me of bottlenecks. Not the concept though, just the word. ‘Bottleneck’ – something I never really understood. That’s the case with everything when it comes to science.

In ninth standard, they split science into three. But Chemistry was the worst of all.

Chemistry is all about atoms, you see? No, you don’t. You can’t quite see them. It’s even harder for me as I already use spectacles. ( Difficulty in seeing far off things)

And I don’t quite believe in things that I have never seen. Are atoms even real? Or are they just fragments of someone’s imagination? And if they are imagination, then it’s a stupid one. As Mark Twain said, ”You can’t defend your eyes when your imagination is out of focus”. Oh wait. Focus…focul…focal…focal point? No, I don’t want to remember… I better change this line of thought before those retarded lens diagrams invade my mind.

Physics wasn’t a bed of roses either. And good that it isn’t. Calculate the pressure created by roses on the mattress if the bed is wooden. My tears still stain the physics book. By the time we came to gravitation, I just gave up. So what if it was the first chapter?

But biology was the best. Among the three. I mean it wasn’t my all time favorite subject, but…you get the idea. Consider three cupcakes – one of them has ants feasting on it, the other is a month old, and the third one was sun-dried until it cracked. Which one do you eat? All of them. (That was a trick question)

The good thing with biology is that it’s relatable. You see, bio means ‘life’. And I live. Biology makes sense!

But whatever the case be, I’m glad to have left science 17,520 hours back. Good time calculating that, Physics.


We live in a world where long books exist. Books that we have always wanted to read,
but couldn’t, because of how lengthy they appeared to be : ‘War and Peace’, ‘Les Misérables’, your Chemistry textbook from ninth standard – the list makes up another long book.

But before embarking upon this journey, ask yourself – why do you want to read a long novel when you can easily read your phone’s instruction manual and claim to be a reader?
Is it merely something to brag about to your friends? In that case, why not!

But you could do that without reading the novel. The problem is, that some people may demand proof. They might feel that you can explain the book to them better than the author can.

In that case, it is very difficult to make up a story that goes with the title. And for the record, ‘Gone With the Wind’ is not about hurricanes.

So here are some ways that will help you to get through long books:

1. Tell your friends

  • About how long the novel that you are currently reading is, and how apprehensive you are about completing it.
  • Keep a sly smile on your face and your eyebrows raised while you speak of your misfortune, such that your face projects nothing but plain pretense. You might hear motivating things like “don’t read it then” or “what a show-off!”, which will help you read the book with renewed determination.
    Don’t forget to update the people on social media who are hungry to know what’s on your reading list. That one like on your status will surely add to the motivation.

2. Start small

  • If you are new to reading, then picking up a long book might not be a good idea. You should begin small. Read WhatsApp’s terms and conditions and privacy policy for a start.

3. Divide the book in smaller sections

  • Rebinding will cost you, though.

4. Read fast

  • It is not necessary to read each and every word. You can skim through the paragraphs. But make sure you understand what’s in it. It is no use reading the segment all over again in case you didn’t quite catch the gist of it the first time. Quite counter – productive, I would say.

5. Never skip breakfast

  • It is the most important meal of the day.

6. Read continuously

  • The key to completing a notoriously long book is to read it continuously. Do not take breaks in between. Read your book while texting, eating, reading another book, walking – and don’t worry about falling into manholes, they provide a peaceful environment to read.

7. The quicker way

  • Simply watch the movie. But you will miss out on the pleasure of saying “the book was much better than the movie”.

So there you have it.

But the most important part of reading a novel is to learn something from it.
Like ‘Gone with the Wind’ teaches you to beware of hurricanes.

Happy reading!



The word gives me the jitters. Instantly, my mind goes like :

“Hey, do you want to know how it feels to be surrounded by a hundred lizards?


“Okay, lemme show you anyway.”

And there you are – a hundred lizards crawling all over your existence as you panic.

Everyone fears lizards. I find those people really weird who can look the lizards in the eye, fist raised, and say “I don’t fear you.”

I feel that fearing lizards is completely normal. There is a bit of it in everyone. That being said, those of you who don’t relate must visit their nearest psychologist who will most efficiently implant a phobia of lizards in you.

Lizards climb walls and do nothing. How terrifying is that!

The idea is that I can’t stand being in a room already chosen by a lizard. Just because two living beings have the same choice doesn’t possibly make them friends.

Well, in some cases it can. I, for instance, love yellow couches. If I ever come across a random person who said “I love yellow couches!” out loud at the table opposite to mine at a restaurant, chances are that we might be hanging out together at the end of the day. How else do you think I have formed my present friend circle?

But things are different with reptiles.

Entering a lizard – inhabited room can cause a tumult of emotions in the mind. The struggle is real.

The irrational part of my mind would say “Ignore it”.
But the rational one would say “You could possibly die. A human and a lizard can never share a room. Think about it.”

And I think about it. It’s the kind of situation they describe in proverbs:
“There can only be one hero in the movie.”
“There can’t be two tigers on the same hill”
“Pretend to be a pig to eat the tiger”

And owing to the strong personality that I have, I walk out.

You see, it is not always about having your way. One must let others have their way too, sometimes. And in case of lizards, always.