The house of remmbrances

There are some roads I never want to walk on and yet something about the houses aligned on these roads, a patched roof here and a rustic chimney there, captures my soul and begs me to come here again and again. No, my house did not look anything like these big mansions adorned with splendid doors, but it is the bits and the pieces of lives dwelling here and there about every building that make me long for the touch that I suckled on as a child.

A house partly lit in the warmth of a mother’s love and partly dimmed in the grief of a father dying from cancer. A house blessed with a rope on which are hung two three proud undergarments of a six-year-old who has hundred reasons to bunk his classes. But the one house that tempts me into forgetting the societal norm of not breaking into a stranger’s private property is the one which in its curves and edges and its pots and plants gather the aromas of the spices that my grandmother used to cook with. I stand by the house for hours, pretending to be on a phone while secretly allowing my senses to fill themselves up with a past that is never going to return and that I badly want to bring back to life.

Hidden underneath is a pain too, which comes drifting with the aromas of the spices and makes me extremely sorry for the unknown inhabitants of the house. One day, and I am sure of it, the kids of this house will grow up and will move away in search of a career that will tend to elude them, forever. On their journeys, they would come by a house that will smell exactly like this house of their childhood. But then they would have no way to come back for the house would be lost forever to a past that was both loving and beautiful.


Mornings like

Through the window I see the morning, warming up slowly like a toast that promises nutrition and flavors, rising up to the world. It has come after a long night and its golden hue, bathed up with cries of young children, is urging beings, like a lover come over from a long journey, to get up and notice. Somewhere the green on the leaves is breaking into a yellow, and while bringing more colors to the universe, the sunlight is boasting of what her absence could do to the trees.

The Letters between the minds

As I was sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall, wrapped in your memories, a waft of air, came swirling through my windows. As soon as I was made aware of your presence, the wind tip-toed out. Once again the nature had left me without a companion to sit by, yet in my mind, I was sure, your presence would continue to linger around my life. FOREVER! In order to put a stopper on the scent that the wind had left behind, I wandered along the corridors of my big broad mansion.

Once again! Alone!

You don’t smile much, do you? It is absurd but I still ask you, since you have left the town entirely and have no plans of coming back, why would you leave your magic behind? Why not take it away with you? Promise me that you will forI have begun to think, Where you are, is my home.



Once upon a time, I had a smile that could take your breath away. I smiled like a king! Like I had no worries in the world! Like I could love anyone! Like I was an ally to the wind and I go war with the clouds and make sure the rain never dampens nobody’s enthusiasm. Once upon a time, I was a scent, cut out of wind. Once upon a time, I fell over the wind saving a monster. Once upon a time, I buried my smile.




If in your hours of grieve it did not come by your pillow and sing you a lullaby, the wind is no ally. I know what have gathered in your chest are years of disappointment and failures and no medicine, not matter how sweet, could make you forget a past that burns you so. When I first saw you, I knew your smile hid secrets of kinds that could lead one to treasures. I will be kind with you Disha, I will help you help yourself.




The walls around me are of colors that suit my fancies very little. My friends tell me  I don’t deserve to live among the livings. But I know, had I been so undeserving of a life, I would not have come through the woman I call my mother.

 Not my mother! 

My mother was a dream that grew on the lashes of young lovers. She was soft and kind and her touch made you reconsider humanity entirely.

And they say my mother made a mistake giving birth to a witch like me! I might be a witch, but since it is my mother who showed me the light of the day, I must be a good witch.

Love Disha


If only walls knew constraining people, there would have been no Columbus, no Shakespeare and no Disha. The closer the walls are the farther one could leap. Leap on the thoughts one’s mind yarn. To heck with the letters, I am coming.

A peak into life

Another day started with me flinging bed-sheets around, yawning without covering up my mouth, sneaking into the refrigerator for eggs and breaking the latter into a pan I had used last night for frying soggy potatoes from yesterday. My life, I tell you, more or less rotates about papers after papers of incomplete stories, written in an extremely bad handwriting, and freely readily available stocks of eggs, caffeine and chocolates.

This might give you an impression of myself being an owner of a flourishing career of that of a successful writer who struts about continents philosophizing people, who came first, “the egg or the chicken?” But no, that is exactly the kind of writing I am running away from!

Luckily for me, I just happened to belong to a well to do family, which from a personal point of view is a good thing to happen to someone. But if you look at my life from around the table, you would wonder had I been poorer with tatty clothes and marred expressions on, would I have understood the ups and downs of life any better? For as they say what success is without failures! And therefore no matter how hard I try to tell people, who by the way always look at me mysteriously for my choice of such a distinguished profession, unlearning needs more patience than learning, they don’t ever believe me.

Since childhood, I had points to prove to people who would never listen to me talking and perhaps, this prompted me into hiding my books on Biology into a cupboard and, out of the mess I call my wardrobe, taking out a typewriter. I don’t know why I think people will hear me better if I wrote to them than if I approached them, looking all weird and out of place, and broke on them my deluge of conflicting words.

I can tell you I am amazing because to do the same things every day and call yourself a bore is so what everyone does.

It is stupid how I do nothing and yet can talk on my favorite subject, which is I, all the freaking times. But only because the last time I met my psychiatrist he told me obsession of any kind is a bad disorder to have, I shall try to include in this blog someone else’s stories as well.

My best friend who drinks and smokes and does all those cool things that I never had the guts to do is one hell of an awesome woman. She doesn’t understand anything between New York and Nairobi and yet she is as impressive as anyone with an IQ above 130 could be.

Does she ever get afraid of people or circumstances? She does all the time but then she sticks a Marlboro between her stained lips, strikes it up and watches confusion and fear burn on the edge of her cigarette. That is her style of outdoing life.

I meet her often! She is in sales. I don’t know what she does in a bank because she really is someone you would expect to find near a beach; sniffing on fish curries and pulling deep long puffs of whatever is available,

Every time I ask her what she does in a bank, she smiles, ruffles my hair and says, “You think I have an idea?”

So I have altogether stopped forcing a conversation about work with her. I think at a deeper level the entire idea of working in a bank and being just another someone aggravates her a lot. But I don’t blame her for this reluctance because personally, I think,  the only thing she could ever be great at is being a gypsy.

She would make a fine specimen of a gypsy!

When it comes to love, there is always a new boy in the town and an older one, leaving the same town. Between their arrival and departure, if you think she doesn’t care for the boys, you don’t know anything about her, not yet. For her love is a field where one runs wild with a ball in their hands and no matter how many times one loses one gets up, picks the ball over and runs for their life, one more time. 

Probably this is a marathon that never ends. The good thing is she always participates.