Day One: Of Goblin Blood, Treacherous SHOs and The End

I was tempted to delete the last post (but no, I hyper-link it instead) and pretend it never happened... the experiment, i.e. But the sad truth is that it did.

Day One saw me waking up at quarter to six (which, as we all know is a crime in December) and smell the ever-so poisonous medicine/ herb/ instant death potion as my mum forced it in my hands even before I had opened my eyes. Charming morning, ain't it? So there I was, barely awake, sitting with that awful-smelling goblin-blood like substance (I bet Crabbe and Goyle's bogey-flavored Polyjuice Potion tasted better than that) and willing to do anything to just rid myself of the smell. A smart person would've just thrown the entire thing down the sink, but not me. I tried to drink it. That was when I decided it couldn't be Goblin blood for blood - any blood - HAS to taste better than that thing! It tasted like a mixture of paper mache, dried grass and sand. Even though the mind insisted I finish the entire thing, the body refused and sent everything back where it had come from...

Thus ending this unfortunate adventure.

Moral of the story: Never trust an SHO.


CPR and a new experiment

How long has it been? I realise time is relative. Of course Einstein Uncle proposed this theory aeons ego, but one understands when one does, right? To sum up, so much has happened since October (last post) that it seems like an year already. Quite frankly I feel like I've aged 5 years in these last two months, but then that's not for me to judge.

Coming to the point, I figured it was time I performed a CPR on this blog for, well, two reasons.

1) Oncoming Exams and hence requirement for a place to rant. 
2) The Experiment.

The point about exams is self-explanatory. But my oh my the experiment. This is where my much-proclaimed pseudo-suicidal tendencies kick in. Which non-suicidal, happy with his life, person would ever attempt what I'm going to! For those of you wondering, let's start with the basics. I'm fat. That's the beginning and end of it. You see- beginning and end of it? As in, it's round? Like, fat? Never mind. Lame, quite lame. My humble apologies, I'm out of practice. One can't really think of cracking good jokes when the only stuff they've written in the last two months happened to be assignments. But I digress...

After trying a few things, I stumbled upon what claims to be a miracle drug of sorts (Ayurveda. Don't ask.). How is another very very interesting story, but we'll go there some other day. Till then, let me just inform you that  it was given to me by the SHO of our local police station, and no I don't know him personally. This little cure comes with a price though. A diet. (*faints*).

And boy what a diet! For ten days, I can't eat anything. I kid you not. The only thing I can eat- A special sort of chapati (as many as I want) but nothing else. No sabzi, daal, rice. Heck, I can't even taste spices or sugar. Only salt in moderate amounts and that has to be included in the dough of the chapati and cannot be consumed in any other manner. 

I hope you believe now that this a suicidal attempt. The idea is to update daily with the last post probably written by my brother informing you all of my funeral.

Till then, happy eating! *cries buckets*



I am not blogging here. I will, but quite sporadically. Kreation is, and has always been, special. Very special. And it will stay so. Blogging, as you guys would've made out by now (*wink*), has taken a back-seat, the furthest one rather, where you can't even breathe because the damn windows won't open. But I'm trying hard to revive that old habit now. I recently understood the importance of writing in my life. I can live without it, of course... can be happy too. But... Well, that 'but' stays put. Not when I'm writing though. There's an odd sense of completion. All I'm doing is chasing that peace and calm of knowing that the day wasn't wasted, that I did write. But not here. All that happens but it happens somewhere else.

Look at me talking as if it's some top secret corner of the great WWW that no one would ever reach. Well, it's not. Just that it's fairly unknown, quite unpopular and comparatively less cluttered. Also, it is my testing grounds.

Thus, I declare this experiment officially on.

(I suppose I'm in that CWG mode... just watched the opening ceremony, heard President Patil declare the games "officially open" and that last bit might just be a hang-over... apologies.)



*To S
Who is one,
perhaps the only one, I know*

Solitary souls.
Oceans of tears in their breasts
hidden. Set out
As the sun sets
To drink those of others-
Wailing children, weeping mothers,
Ailing old men and dying lovers-
Hand in hand
As they fall
No shape of beauty moves away the pall*
And darkness engulfs.

Tired, they return
Cry rivulets
But the oceans flow still
And again, as the sun sets
The work begins-
Drink more
And more
And yet more of Their Sins.

* From Keats' Endymion



Not long ago they sat and drank
The poison of their dreams.
Not long ago they ate it up
As bread with milk and cream.

Not long since the world had ended
All torn and split and burned.
Not long ago the Gods abandoned
The dead in their graves turned.

Not long, the Son of God he came
To wash the Sins of Man.
Not long since the Man he tried
To do all that he can.

But that was that and now they sat
The Masters and the Lords.
Drinks did rounds and toasts were made
To The World and its New Gods.


(Written in response to Prompt#8 at Flash Fiction and can also be read here


Random Epic Convo on facebook

Friend: what the hell does your status on Gtalk mean?

(The status being:
I test my bath before I sit,
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament)

Me: Go google Ogden Nash

Friend: he is the blogging guy
isnt he?

Me: ugh. no
i hate you.

Friend: ok

Me: go die.

Friend: will do then


This was copy-pasted on facebook and what followed was a deluge of comments that shall be reproduced here in full.


ON to MV: 
The fate of any artiste is that one day his name will be ash.
Whether he be Shakespeare or he be Nash.
But to be known as The Blogging Guy
Yes Mihir Vatsa,, go sodding die.

KS- pls convey


Ah! Such brilliance pouring fourth
MV I think should head North
And north his head he should
For I'm sure it's nothin' but wood.


1. I didn't know Ogden Nash.
2. I know him now. Thanks to WP.
3. He died far long ago to be remembered now unless you've read his poems in your school textbooks.
4. "He is known for his LIGHT verses."


Curse me for my bad grammar!!! I should better die! :(


Yes, die you should, 'tis time 'tis time
or atleast, i beg, turn into a mime
for water now overflows from the cup
Mihir Vatsa, 'tis time you shut up.


Trust me, Mihir, it is no crime,
To forget a man who has lived and died and whose memories have been washed away with time.
But when the stress and worry and grimness and melancholy of modern life gedya,
Do you plan to search for lightness and
 mirth in wikipedya???


KS KS Oh my nanny,
How you remember the crushes of my granny,
Ogden Nash was a name ago,
Now search for MV and here you go!


Search for MV and you get links to a facebook page.
Search for Ogden, or just Og, and you get a plethora of poems that refuse to age...
That is the difference, Mihir, that Kriti and i meant.
Your name is written with a stick on a sandy beach, 
and his is like paw marks on cement.


Oh O! Sorry to break the rhyme, but CDLR, did you really google my name???

There can't be anyone more lame than you!!


Also, no that I think of it
What irks me more is you didn't know him 'cause he's long dead
Mihir Vatsa, try and use your head
We had Nash in school, yes. You're doing Homer in class instead
Says he doesn't know Nash, lousy beefcan
Nobody even knows if Homer was a real man!


I do my research, just like you.
I had no way of knowing whether you have invented some nobel winning drug or been part of an antartic crew.
I admit it's lame to spend hours writing bad poetry to rag people i don't know.
But at least when i've
 been out-ragged by someone, i don't let my defensiveness show.


Yet again, Vatsa you cry buckets
I'm telling you to please go check your suckets
All messed up are your receptacles
Adjust those stupid spectacles
And notice you're the tennis ball and we the ruckets


The tennis ball apologizes, bends its head
says sorry to the rackets, lets his tears shed,
Knowledge of the literature he has none,
Thought the chat on GTalk was just for fun.

KS is the guardian angel,
Educating me on FB from the google messenger,
Yet the subject apologizes for the sake of juniority,
Thinks Ogden Nash was the poet of the highest superiority.

CDLR, never knew you were batch '04,
The 6th and 7th search on google, should probably let you know more,
I bet you are the best ragger I ever saw,
Insist you take the post and we forever know.

And now I am,
A juvenile Sam,
Realized my true stamp,
and now off to a sleepy ramp. 


P.S.: Curse blogger for the spaces, yet again.


A year. :)

It's August 1 again. 

A year.

One wish.


The same promise.

Love :)


Trust me, I know =]

It is a most agonizing experience to burp while you are drinking water. For not only you break in a coughing spit befitting a last stage TB patient, but the air-water collision in your throat is akin to a nuclear war.

Trust me, I know. :)



Acrid smoke, acid sky
Tears of blood, a string of lies
Found her way in.
An empty shell, broken.
Into the abyss, she went 
And cried.
For a love that was never hers
She died.

Although written much before her death, this poem is dedicated to Viveka Babaji. I was no fan of her, nor do I support the very idea of suicide. It's just stupid. But having been close to the edge myself, I know just how shattered a person must be to harbour such thoughts leave alone taking the plunge. May whatever it was that drove her so leave her side in the afterworld.

Edit: And this, incidentally is also my 100th post. Congrats! To me, you, my dear blog, the neighbour's dog. Ok maybe we can do without the last one.

(Photo: Taken on my last trip to Rajasthan)



Filled with doubt
And spite she stared-
Perched on the rocks-
Into the abyss

Many came upon her beach
Tainted tears, stained kiss
The heavens, they cried
The wind, it hissed.

Swam in the ocean of hate
Swallowed tears, blood and pain
And at last, she broke into a song
They thought she was a dreamer
They couldn’t be more wrong.

Author's note: This was a prompt. Those who are on my Gtalk would know that I had requested some ideas for a theme, something, anything to get me started. Tubelights gave me the link to this picture. Just know, I'm grateful. 


Personal vs. Professional

The so-called professional and personal are, to use a common phrase, two sides of the same coin. They might stick to each others' backs, but they're as different as, pun intended, head and tail.  
The professional is what we project... It's like a magic trick. You climb up a stage, show your audience your little trick. The catch is that the audience already knows it. They know what you're there for. They know what you're going to do. What they don't know is how. That is where your real test begins. If you could fool them, even for a second, then you can make them wonder, and that's your reward. The wonder.

We're all show-mans at the end of the day. Shakespeare knew it when he said "All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players". So, where does the personal come in? And how do we separate the two? I would say we don't. But that doesn't mean we let the lines blur. That would be stupidity, suicide. A great professional, like a great magician, does not show his trick. He lives it. 
So, at the end of the day, you can only choose 'heads' or 'tails' to play your gamble, to take you shot at winning. There's no guarantee you will, but this great gamble requires a great sacrifice. That of the other. 

And here, Sirs and Madames, must I rest this discourse.


Yes, this is quite random, I know. I was discussing the matter with this gentleman when I realised that I would like to take this discourse further. So I've brought it to all of you:

How many of us try to keep the professional and personal separate? Some succeed too. But does that constitute a success really? Living two lives, dissecting yourself and everything you know in two halves so you can have the best of both worlds. But can you really? For those who strive to achieve a balance it might be true. But for others who aim to excel, a balance might just be one stepping stone.
Indeed, it IS like a balance. Think of an old two-pan balance. The kind that vegetable vendors still use here in India. The professional rests on one pan, the personal on the other. A balance can be achieved, almost perfectly at that but that is just half the journey accomplished. For someone who aims at success, one who wants to climb the highest pinnacle, must destroy that balance. For one pan to rise the other has to go down.

This is my personal belief. I would love to hear your takes on it. 


P.S: For a change, we don't have a depressing or morbid post on this blog. :P


The Final Embrace

Behind the doors, beyond the sea
Knew not gloom, knew not glee;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers
Frothing spasms, bone chilling shivers.
Death but gently kissed

Time and space frozen again
Silence surrounds, sorrow strains;
Anguish impaired, infected reason
Crimson terror persecuted vision.
The bottle slyly hissed

Healing herbs turned assassin
Victim of a crime of passion;
Love defeated, prosecutor Envy
Here he lies, where he longs to be,
Embraced by the mist

Note: This is my take on Prompt #3 at Flash Fiction. You can check out the original post here.


Letter to My Readers (even the invisible, dead, dying and still-in-the-womb ones)


I'm alive.


If you're alive and reading this from any corner of the world, just drop in a simple 'hi', only to let me know that you're alive. And around.

If you're reading it from up there (yes, dimwit, I mean heaven) or from down there (you know what I mean this time, don't you? Hint: I certainly don't mean your underground parking lot)... Dude! You have to have HAVE TO comment then!!!! At least, let me know how you ended up (or down) there. It would help if you mention the services available, most importantly the internet speed. You see, mine sucks, I won't mind migrating.

So folks, till whenever I remember I have a blog which needs to be updated (which could be in an hour, tomorrow, the next week, month, year, afterlife (presumptuous. we shall wait for the comments to see if this one would be possible) or the next life (provided Twitter doesn't take-over Blogger by then)), this is

Sporadically yours truly

P.S.: I double-checked the parenthesis. No need to rack your brains. 

P.S. 2: The super duper spaces are Blogger's problem, not mine. Peace.


Made of Steel

Picture Courtesy: 'Melting Face' by Hannah Slade

I always wanted more from you
Than you were willing to give
And one day we shall grow apart
As even the best of friends do
With our different lives to live

Remembrances are still alive
Of that sticky gooey past that won’t leave
The days in the sun that didn’t last
Only the ghosts of tears remain
What choice do I have now but to grieve?

All beauty’s dead, shut out in the cold
I try but cannot feel
I do not know my world anymore
I am strong, yes; but then
I'm not made of steel
I'm not made of steel


Note: Title inspired by Our Lady Peace's song by the same name. 


It's that bad?

Him: I had a dream.

Her: Hmm...

Him: About you.

Her. Oh! What was it?

Him: It was horrible, darling! I saw... I saw that your head was cut off and I was... I was wandering around trying to find some way of putting it together... all the while carrying the amputated head in my hands. It was terrible, terrible! Please promise me you'd stay close. Promise you wouldn't leave me.

Her: I promise, honey.

(After a 2 minute pause)

Her: So, you reckon my face is so bad you cut it off even in your dreams?

You'd rather I had a TV for my head, don't you?



To J,

Lost self, lost me
Consumed by need
Getting hurt, Hitting dirt
No way to revert

Devastated, Desecrated
Cannot at all be vindicated

Crushed for sure
Nowhere to go
Burned out, wasted
Forever blasted

Devastated, Desecrated
Cannot at all be vindicated

Those muffled screams
Trampled dreams
Alive but dead
Unnecessarily bled

Devastated, Desecrated
Cannot at all be vindicated

Anguished and marred
Scaled and scarred
Pride bereaved
Love misconceived

Devastated, Desecrated
Cannot at all be vindicated

Emotion to emotion
No justification
Unseen and unheard
Obscure and absurd

Devastated, Desecrated
Cannot at all be vindicated

Sightless and soundless
Mindless and boundless
Disgraced, unemployed
Abnegated, a void


 ... because he asked.


Ask Me :)

How does it feel to be told you can’t do the one thing you believed with all your heart you could? How does it feel to give up everything for that one thing and fail at it? How does it feel to raise the bar of expectations- others’ and your own- only to fall flat on your face? Ask me. :)



(Picture courtesy: Affirmative Thinking)

 A ghostly presence,
A mere memory, an essence
And nothing more, so
That you wouldn’t know
The pain.

Whisper the words to the wind,
You would; perhaps chagrined.
An aura, ethereal I’d choose
To be. Never too close
To attain.

No arms you could hold,
No sight to behold.
A mystery, a floating mist,
No lips to kiss
Or complain.

Inscrutable, a dream
Perhaps, if that would deem
It possible to evade
You. And in shade

A voice without a face, if only
I could be to you. So closely
Wouldn’t scrutinise each word
And I’ll be a free bird