Will write for money

So there’s a new page up with my contact information, and I am now available to write for pay!

You should email me if you want to hire me to write pretty or informative things for you. Or if you’d like to collaborate on a cool art project. I’ve been writing for quite a while now, with and without pay, and I figured that it was about time I extended these services to the internet. My skills are up for display throughout this blog, and if you like what you see, you should drop me a line.

Things I could write include but are not limited to:

scribbled verse, a hard-hitting article, thoughts on various issues of the day, pretty lines, poetry, a romantic something or the other for a partner, a heartfelt birthday wish etc etc. Limited only by your imagination.


The upside of rejection

So I asked a guy out for the first time ever last night, and he politely said that he wasn’t into it. While my tequila and beer addled brain handled it somewhat well, I woke up in the morning and felt quite annoyed about no longer having the potential of a hook up. However, there are certain upsides. So, A LIST!

  • People want to eat ice cream with you
  • You get ALL the hugs
  • People want to take you out for tea (including driving you there)
  • People want to take you out for consolation-drinks
  • People give you kudos for having the ballovaries to ask the (wo)man out. 
  • You can cross it off your list
  • You get sudden bursts of ‘Hah! I’ll show him!’, and feel like working out and getting back into shape all of a sudden
  • Permission to watch romantic comedies 

I haven’t  been blogging recently because I’ve been running around actually doing stuff. I did a play, I went to my first ever Red-Light Party, went to a Ceili (so much fun!), learned how to waltz, and I asked a guy out for the first time ever- yesterday- and also got rejected for the first time ever. I have been coping by a) wailing to my friends, b) imagining the hilarious short-story/ blog post I’m going to turn this whole deal into, and c) eating the maple fudge and toffee cheese I have in my fridge from my trip to Vincenzo’s last night.

For long-time readers of the blog (if indeed you still exist), I’m still with the boyfriend. We’re in an open relationship, and it is pretty fucking awesome albeit a little bit weird to be able to discuss with your boyfriend, how best to ask out this other guy. 

Anyway, long somewhat funny post on being a woman and doing the ill-conceived asking coming up soon-ish.


Writing about depression I

It was a funny thing, that winter I struggled with depression. I seemed to stumble into sufferers all over the place. Love is all around us, sang the Troggs, but down here in dreary winter Canada, mental illness seemed to be. I ran into them at the phony-abc-problem solving workshops the university’s Counselling Services sent me to, where students with a Masters in Social Work tried to fix us with progressive muscle relaxation, and effective study strategies. We shrugged at each other across the table, in mutual commiseration. Our sadness went deeper than that. I ran into them at my new home, and in new best friends who’d lowered their standards and saved their own lives. I ran into them at the play my boyfriend- patient, persevering- forced me to audition for. They stomped across the stage wearing monocles, doing an English accents and playing carnivorous sentient plants trying to take over the world with a catchphrase of ‘Pip pip!’. Later on at night, trudging through the snow to the bus stop, they told me about struggling to get out of bed, and failing grades and dashed hopes and blow after blow after blow. I thought about waiting for sleep to come, then spending all day wanting to be unconscious, going through the motions, and trying, trying, trying all the while to put on the appropriate expressions, display the appropriate interest, be appropriately charming in conversations. It was all so bloody exhausting.

“Therapy cost me 200 dollars an hour!”

“He works at Boston Pizza now. Got kicked out of school. Life, eh?”

“Oh, great. You want my grades? You can have my depression too”.

I’m not a brilliant writer, and I probably don’t have an Ariel inside me waiting to be bled onto paper. Besides, all those stories ended with someone’s head in the oven and children hanging themselves years later, infected with the sadness they forgot behind. I just wanted to get through the winter and run for shelter to the sun. Write about it, my patient boyfriend told me. I didn’t really want to bleed my demons on to paper. I didn’t particularly want to remember them or record them. I only wanted to get over them so I could carry on with the rest of my life. I’d been waiting for this bout to leave me, like it usually did, as had always happened before. This time was different though. This time I said it out loud to different people, at different times. The counsellor, trying to wrap up our appointment over my sobbing into Kleenex, my roommate as she fed my unwashed, unfed, ratty-clothed body avocado-goat cheese sandwiches while I spent entire days on the couch. A kind boy I didn’t know very well who watched episode after episode of sci-fi telly with me, and lent me his sweater, his warmth. Professors who peered at me in surprise over their desks and told me to be proud of myself. My boyfriend, while I waited for him to run away. I said it out loud and watched people’s perceptions of me shift and waver. I admitted for the first time out loud: Yes I was ill. No, I couldn’t handle it on my own anymore. I knew that I’d been a good student all this while: motivated, ambitious, hard working- taking pride even, in my maniacal schedule and the constant barrage of stress I undertook. This was the first time that I had just stopped caring. I was four months away from graduation, from spring, and I found myself unable to care even the littlest bit. 

So I sought refuge in the company of others, trying to get away from my own head, and worried my mother as I refused to study, as I refused to care. I ate chowmein, wrapped up in fluffy blankets in my best friend’s bed, and told her over and over how glad I was that she was back.

A ragtag bunch of strangers, copers I ran into on every turning, and a couple of friends, who fed me and bossed me around and tried to bring routine into my life. It was all inexplicably heartwarming and wonderful, and I should have been grateful and come around, but I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion. Nothing but indifference and calm despair.

For a friend, far away

It started as a joke but rapidly took on a life of its own. I have always wanted to live with a friend, I’ve been lucky to have some wonderful women fall into my life, and I would very much like for this to happen some day.

Here’s what I see: I see us in a room with grey cool floors, and a third floor balcony sitting by the window, watching the Delhi sun slip beneath the horizon. I see you with your glasses slipping down your nose and a contented black cat at your feet (or a tabby- who knows which stray creature you’ll bring along home), singing absently along with Nina Simone. Or the Beatles, who’ve never let us down. I see me with a book by the window, a coffee stain on the page, that I wipe away guiltily with the corner of my skirt. I see fairy lights strung around the window and a banjo by the mantel and I see a whole lot of contentment and peace.

So, come. Come live with me, and we shall live out our youthful fantasies. Perhaps we will let our boys come visit. And a rag-tag bunch of friends.

It is winter and I miss my friends, the sisters of my heart so very much. I wish I could encircle them all with my arms, gather them up, tuck them up tight into the corners of my heart. But the earth is so very vast and we are all so far away. Soon we shall be farther still- scattered twinkling lights, like fire-balloons that drift across a pink sky full of kites.


Let us talk in rapid bursts of colour, you and I.

Like ripe mangoes bursting out of their skin in our hands,

the juice running streams down our


Like the brief fury of red in the air,

when someone throws gulaal at you in the frenzy of holi.

Like the first time we kissed in a dark stairwell,

and it was crap, and I said so-

The words tumbling out of my mouth

and into your big eyes, which took no offence

but looked lazy back at me, smiling ‘Then teach me’.

So I did, and it wasn’t much better-

but there were stars exploding underneath my eyelids

As i felt your warm mouth,

hesitantly touch


I look forward to Daylight Savings like a foolish child each year. Turning the clock back by 1 hour feels like stealing time back from the jaws of death or something- and since this one hour is usually late at night, it means an extra hour of sleep- a worthy cause. For anyone who doesn’t know yet, DST is at 2am on November 3rd.

We have:

gnarled, veiny hands and forearms,

(and feet too, from too much walking),

an interest in the blues,

a propensity for hedonism,

a love for the written word,

an appreciation of beauty in stretches of untamed road,

contrasting views of the world,

and an unceasing fascination with each other.

– dug up an old tidbit I’d scribbled sometime earlier this year. Inspired by something Shalmi said.

Things to look forward to/ things to keep me going

  1. Getting my drank on with L at pubcrawl on late-night Friday
  2. Getting my nose pierced next week
  3. Guilt-free sleep for a good seven hours this weekend
  4. Acquiring a new programming skill- MATLAB
  5. Butternut squash soup and pumpkin pie coming soon to the Atrium
  6. Abnormal psychology classes
  7. Listening to the Dylan CD Tanuka gave me
  8. Reading the C.S Lewis collection James gave me
  9. Watching ‘Sanyasi Raja’ that Ma gave me about a year ago
  10. Reading the European Folktales book that Shalmi gave me
  11. Winter break in Dubai
  12. Getting my second tattoo after graduation
  13. The beautiful walk to campus every morning in the fall
  14. Catching up on all the coursework I have a backlog on and actually understanding class
  15. Hair growing past my shoulders again
  16. Yoga or kickboxing classes
  17. Going running
  18. Eating healthy home-cooked food and getting into the routine of not eating out

On secrets

I was talking to my boyfriend a couple of weeks back and we were speaking of secrets. I told him, a little surprised at the realization, that I barely had any secrets any longer. ‘So does that mean you’re less interesting now?’, he teased.

I don’t think it’s that though. I think I am just less ashamed now. Back in high school, even near the beginning of college, my secrets were all about things I was ashamed about.

Mental illness, a dysfunctional family, crippling anxiety and self doubt, sexual assault, OCD episodes, hooking up, my writing which was less about love-stories and more about things like a fifth grader watching her schizophrenic sister being taken away for the last time, the fact that I trained in classical music. My jealous nature, my bad temper, my desire which remained hidden behind the veil of being a ‘good girl’. The intensity of my emotions, my depression which was all but undetectable behind the ‘bubbly-smiling-pretty-girl’ facade. And so on.

I like growing up, I do. I no longer have to hide. I’m not judging myself any longer, and if people turn away from me because it is too much, then well it’s a loss, but I’ll survive. So far, they haven’t for the most part.

When I have secrets these days, it is usually about things I am waiting to come to fruition and don’t want to tell people about just yet.

Here’s to more of the same 🙂