I wish I could put my arms around you!

HER movie still.
Joaquin Phoenix in Her (2013).

To be honest, that is all I can wish nowadays. I don’t know if you know it yet, but I hope someday you will realise how much you mean to me. It is not easy, you know, to be attracted to someone on the magnitude that I am to you. If only I can get a chance to tell you, ever, that I am not in love with you and neither it is a crush, but it is this inexpressible feeling that ballast and colourize my heart.
People usually call it love- if only they knew what to talk about when to talk about love. No. It is not this feeling that is so overtly voguish and popular. It is something even beyond it. I am not sure about it. But I just know that it is not it.

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Or maybe it is, love?

Because you know, I’ve never been in it. Love. I have heard all the kinds of tales and stories about it. Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Antony, Lancelot and Guinevere, and even Monica and Chandler. And I must tell you, the love that these people enrobe is a fallacy. I feel so. And I don’t think I love you like Napoleon did to Josephine. Or like Paris did to Helen.

Maybe I don’t love you at all.
It is all beyond love and even colossal. I have all these overwhelming feelings and I don’t think that anything can make me more halcyon than these feelings.
I wish I had the chance, or even the mettle to tell you that I am so into you that I don’t think I have ever been in someone. In fact, not even in myself.
I wish I could tell you that not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. The day is to say but I don’t think I ever let your memories slip out of my mind. Not even for a moment.
But you know, one of my favourite women once wrote, who I think was much like myself, “Hope is a thing with feathers” (Emily Dickinson).

Maybe someday I will just hold you in my arms and that will be it. I will not need to tell, to explain my feelings. Just You. And Me. And maybe, it will be perfect.

Because the only thing that matters is that,



//The Layman//

Watch the film on Netflix: Her (2013)

From Russia With Love


1963 promotional poster of From Russia With Love. (Source: metacritic)

‘From Russia With Love ’ is a novel written by the English author Ian Fleming in 1957 as a part of the series of novels featuring the British Secret Service agent James Bond. The novel is fifth in the series of twelve, all revolving around the panache of the protagonist James Bond and his missions in foreign lands. The situation of world politics in the post-war (World War-II) era, dominated by the former key members of the Allied powers- the United States and the USSR, sets the precedent of the novel. The world war had unified two juxtaposing ideologies of capitalism, inherent in the United Kingdom and the United States, and communism, of which the USSR was the staunch exponent, against the fascist and inhuman reigns of dictators like Hitler and Mussolini in Europe. After the war ended with the Allied powers emerging as victors, the extant fissures among them widened and the antebellum position of the West against the communist ideology and nations regained its stance. Thus the end of the second world war marked the beginning of the Cold War era, an almost five decades-long period of skirmishes and conflicts between what will come to be known as the First World (the US, the UK and their allies) and the Second World (the USSR and its allies).
With the end of the war and the transfer of legitimacy of world domination from the empires of Europe to the United States, the sun finally set on the British Empire. Two world wars and the growing stipulations of the colonies for independence had dismantled the roots of the British Empire. Excessive financial and human resources of the Empire were exhausted in the wars, and the independence of colonies, especially India, fractured their ingress to the cheap labour and resources of the colonies wholly. The declining significance of the British was onerous to come to terms with for the historically dominant and supreme Britain. For the first time in modern history, Britain was not at the premier position of dominating world politics. As a consequence of becoming secondary to the US in the ambit of the First World nations, the English adopted their self-invented and the most important tool of popularising a discourse to regain their lost status and grandeur, literature. Continue reading From Russia With Love

The Love Prose

Screenshot_20180609-003228_1I see her in my dreams.
I dream with my eyes open.

There is always a picture in front of my eyes.

A beautiful, the most beautiful girl I have ever met in my life, walking in the ethereal world in a way too plebeian for her, carrying the most precious smile on her pretty face. That smile is precious because I know, or I guess I know, there are not much things that can bring a smile that peculiar on the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
And in my dream, she walks towards a light, a light that shine too bright to be followed. That is her way, her thing. And I see her moving towards it in the most beautiful way anyone ever can. She looks so beautiful that even the roses of the ethereal world seem acerate.

I try to follow her, I really do. I try my best to reach where she is, to stand beside her on whatever peak she has her heart on.

And then in my dream, she seems to have gone too far in the mystical world. Too far, for me to tell her that, I Love Her. I love her because she is the most beautiful girl I have ever met and I do so with the whole of my heart. To tell her that I have been in love with her since the moment we met. And to tell her that I will always love her.
But, she seems to have gone too far.

And yet, I could see her most beautiful and perfect face, right in front of my eyes.

Ergo, if the only place where I could see you was in my dreams, I’d sleep forever

I love you, sincerely. 


Joseph Francis Tribbiani

‘Rach, I think I’m falling in love with you!’

When you realised that you were in love, it was a strange, feral feeling wasn’t it? Love? You couldn’t fall in love? But Joe, people with pristine hearts and axenic fervour are the only ones who ruminate they aren’t meant to love. They know love as savvy astuteness, they skimm to infer that they are oblivious of what love is, how love happens, and what to do when it happens. That weird feeling you had, after the most perfect date with the most beautiful, astounding and the ‘hottest’ roommate you have ever had, that, Joe, is called LOVE. You were scared, weren’t you, of this unfamiliar, serene and splendiferous feeling. Strange, how the most beautiful and dazzling feeling scares the most out of us. Furtive in your actions you were so that you could veil this new feeling from ‘her’, the woman you have just fallen in love with. The woman you had known for almost eight years. Gathering all the courage, you then turned to you ‘Best Bud’, foraging an answer to all the subtleties that had taken over your life, but just that these were making you contempible in a different way. I can understand why, even from Chandler, you had to hide this feeling of love, this new venture, because sometimes somethings are adept only with us, aloof in our intuition and instilled in the closet of our heart.
But just so you know Joe, it was not a hamartia which you were afraid to tell to your friends. You were not able to tell them because you somewhere wanted to be with this feeling alone, where only you could feel it, sense it, judge it and cherish it. Love, my friend, is quite a tricky affair. You loved Rachel and that is why you were in that situation of self-agony, only deteriorating you emotions in an ineffable way.
You then told her. You told her how you were falling in love with her with every passing moment of your life. From waking up and eating flakes at the table to the sleepless nights spent in Hugsy’s company, you were falling in love with her all over and every moment. You told her that you too can fall in Love, in a profound and beautiful way. Fighting all the diriments of your heart and the circumstances, you confessed your love.
This one word and you knew where you two were in your lives. The way you understood her feelings from BUT tells us you were a lot more than we could ever understand. You may not believe it Joey, but I too can understand the pangs of unreverted love. It hurts. It breaks. It kills. And I kow too, it is hard to love someone so much just to find out that they do not love you. You could have gone from there that day, and I think you should have, but you stayed. Because you didn’t love just some random girl. You loved the woman ‘you had known for almost eight years, who was the most beautiful, astonishing and the ‘hottest’ roommate you have ever had.’
It is approbate sometimes to let things go because you love them and you let her go too because your Love was an allegory, the truth and the echt YOU.
And maybe the world will never know the reason for why you ended up alone, but I think I know. Because you love only once and that is it. You follow it, pursue it or take its care without even letting the world know, but you love only once. I know you loved her and you still love her and will love her forever.

I know Joey, I know.


An Introduction.

Kamala Das is regarded as one of the few female writers of her time whose writings were assertive on the “Feministic” and pro-female issues. She wrote openly about the challenges faced by a woman in a patriarchal society and boycotted the unjust practices through her poems, novels and short stories. She broke a new ground with a poetic expression that made the male audience alert about a new stance that was in the process of emerging at the time. 

Her poem, An Introduction, carves out a distinct sense of ‘SELF’, who wishes not to be straitjacketed into one position but wills to create her own space. As the name suggests, the poem intends to introduce the Women to a well uplifted persona of themselves. They are the stakeholders, not only of the household chores but of the alfresco world too. She dreams of a society where women can speak any language they want at any time and any place, where they are not ‘directed’ to play a meek role in the real life. Our society has been patriarchal ever since its origin. There have been Queens and other female rulers, but their lives too were influenced, or to be precise, addicted by the male strategizers. Kamala Das aspired of  breaking the stereotypical image of women being a subject of fulfilling the desires of men. Her pro-feminist approach lays the foundation of a new and better world for Women. In her poem, she talks about the knowledge and wisdom of a woman. She believes that there is much more to a woman’s life than being confined between the course walls of CRITICISM, PATRIARCHY, SUBJUGATION & AGGRAVATION. She use strong versesin her poem for the sensitive message to be delivered to the masses with corrupt minds. She talks about how society influence the life of a woman to the extents of deciding her future in which there is no consent of her own, from being told to speak ‘like a lady’ to being advised not to love a person, accentuately a man, of her own cull but her parents.





This verse unveils the demon, a demon hunting and haunting the woman of our society to abduct their soul. Women are sexually assaulted even in their tender years which leaves an impact so sinister to leave them glum over it for the rest of their lives. And what is ironical of the prelature is that the Women themselves are victimized for being assaulted instead of receiving the medical and the mental aid of which they are in imperative need of. A woman is no one’s toy to satiate the sexual desires or to fulfill the vile desires of a family as a bonded slave who is veiled by the pious omphales of WIVES. They are not meant to be submissive and polite to anyone without a good, real good reason. Women are the torch bearers of this society who deserve to be respected, not tormented. There should not be sympathy form them in our minds but we must empathize from heart for the ones in need. A woman is an individual who has her own identity other than being someone’s daughter, mother, wife or whatever.

She is on her own, She is I.





I don’t know politics but I know the names 
Of those in power, and can repeat them like 
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru. 
I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar, 
I speak three languages, write in 
Two, dream in one. 
Don’t write in English, they said, English is 
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave 
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, 
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in 
Any language I like? The language I speak, 
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses 
All mine, mine alone. 
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest, 
It is as human as I am human, don’t 
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my 
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing 
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it 
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is 
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and 
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech 
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the 
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing 
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they 
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs 
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. 
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask 
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the 
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me 
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten. 
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me. 
I shrank Pitifully. 
Then … I wore a shirt and my 
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored 
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl 
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook, 
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh, 
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit 
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows. 
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better 
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to 
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games. 
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a 
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when 
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call 
Him not by any name, he is every man 
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every 
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste 
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless 
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone, 
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and, 
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I 
In this world, he is tightly packed like the 
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely 
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love 
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying 
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner, 
I am saint. I am the beloved and the 
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no 
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.