Blue
Posted by: Vasudha on: November 8, 2009
What the hell is up with everyone being dressed in dark blue today?
the part you overlooked
Posted by: Vasudha on: November 7, 2009
today your fingers lingered a little
longer than usual just because you
had the time all your silent smiles rushed back
to you but you kept forgetting to wear
them little storms exploded inside you
i pretended not to notice the night’s
toes were soaked in sorrow i decided
to fight the words that threatened to break through
but when you closed your eyes and chanted my
name i had to tell you you had to know
that it was not mine no never had been
Creating the Perfect Writing Environment
Posted by: Vasudha on: November 6, 2009
Things I did this week:
- Uninstalled Microsoft Office. [And installed Microsoft Works.]
- Threw away my clock and wristwatches.
- Deleted all movies from my laptop.
- Unsubscribed from 139 feeds. [Now I'm only left with 98.]
- Set my desktop background to solid black.
- Uninstalled all Firefox add-ons except Google Gears, Ubiquity, Delicious and Echofon.
- Uninstalled klok, the time tracking software that had made my life hell.
- Gave up on caffeine. [Yay me!]
- Uninstalled both Yahoo! Messenger and Google Talk.
- Deactivated my Facebook account. [For a month. Ballpark.]
The Painting
Posted by: Vasudha on: November 4, 2009
- In: Fiction
- 4 Comments
The painting looks at her suspiciously, observing the movement of her narrowed eyes along a confident brushstroke. They stare at each other in silence.
Minutes fall lightly around her pink frock.
The painting grows impatient: it hasn’t slept in over a hundred years. It is tired. And slightly annoyed. It waits for her to come closer. Someone needs to know. Anyone.
Did the small red patch just wiggle? She steps back, eyes widened in fright. Could it be?
She stands still, unwilling to move, unable to make up her mind. Someone coughs. She drops her gaze and bites her lip.
The red patch squirms.
…
She nods her head. It is an imperceptible nod, a slight shake of the head indiscernible to all but the painting. She has made up her mind. She likes it. She will listen to its story. She comes closer. Trembling, the red patch steps aside and lets her see what lies underneath.
A disappointed tsk and dropped shoulders later, she wanders off in search of her mother.
The painting stares after her.
This is not how it was supposed to be.
To a dead woman
Posted by: Vasudha on: November 4, 2009
Because of you, I never gave up.
But just so you know, breaking glass dolls was never fun.
This is what happens when you throw away your diaries.
Posted by: Vasudha on: October 22, 2009
- In: Notebook
- 5 Comments
I’m the guy who throws his apartment key in the sea and, on his way back, suddenly remembers that he lost the spare one a month ago.
Breaking door locks is easy, yes. But not if you’ve forgotten which door is yours.
About
I am an undergrad physics student. I enjoy writing in my spare time, and live in Delhi with my parents. [...]
