description, humour

The Perfect Horror


You are obsessed with horror stories , and you want to write a decent one. But you have had a consistent history of turning your horror stories into humour. But at least, you have the Canterville ghost to support you. Only he shall be able to empathise with you, since he too had failed to scare the Otis family. But you decide to get serious. You take it to the next level.
You kick everybody out of your house, and make sure you lock only the main door ( and the balcony door) –  any door that is a connection to the outside world. The larger the house the better. You waste your time till 1 a.m. watching TV, preferably horror movies.
Then, you switch it off, get off the couch, check the door and find your pink blanket. Then you switch off every light, making sure only enough light passes through the window.  Enough light to make scary clawy shadows. ( if you’re living on the 17th floor, chances are there won’t be any claws. But you can still adjust with what you have.)
You walk to your bed, and you visualise yakshis and raktharaakshasis popping up from nowhere at your doorways. (You are allowed to imagine people you don’t like as the above mentioned.)You are on your bed, the blanket of darkness overwhelming the happy pink blanket. You imagine the worst things that can happen. Scare the shit out of yourself. You hear weird noises from upstairs. Better. You think you heard the door moan. Even better. You feel like there are evil spirits waiting for you to fall asleep so that they can have you as midnight snack. Excellent.


Hide under your blanket, and write the story down. Then go to sleep – if you can. You are not done. Post it on your blog – categorise it, and add tags. Share it on the social media.
You show it to your mother, but she is not sure where the horror is. Your dad is in no mood for horror, and thus he has no idea what’s going on in the story. So he starts asking whys and whats. You call your best friend, who lives far away, and she can no longer speak – she is on her bed with a bad stomach ache. For she imagined you narrating the story, your voice echoing in her head. She could not take it, she almost died laughing. Only almost. You take it to your other best friend in the city. He is no longer on his chair, but already on the floor hugging himself – the minute he saw your name. For the same reasons mentioned earlier.



You shall not lose hope. There are people who don’t know you at all. They will not hear your voice in their head. Only the voice of the story. So you wait. Till somebody likes it.

description, food, The Detective Diaries

The Detective Diaries #1



As a kid, I was very much in awe of Lord Krishna, because I felt he was very much like me. He loved food, especially butter, and so did I. I loved to explore, in particular, all that I was not supposed to explore. Those that were forbidden to me.
My mom is super efficient, she finishes all her chores like lightning. And then come teach me, make sure I do my homework on time and so on. So, the curry for the dinner would be ready by evening. It can be tomato curry, soya bean or even paneer. And I loved to eat them, more than the idli or chapatti, hot and instantly. But I wasn’t allowed to. I had to wait till dinner. No way. 
So I would sneak into the kitchen, whenever my mom is not around, and eat, and would empathise with Krishna. These moms, they make yummy food, and then ask you to wait. Why do they let us stare at the food, and not eat it, I would tell Krishna. But there was no use in being sneaky. No matter how noiseless and sly I am, mom always caught me. I don’t know how, but she came to know. I believed she had an exceptionally good measurement of how much she made.
Obviously, I didn’t give up the habit. A few years later, I still ate what I wanted to from my kitchen, by then, I would almost wait for her to catch me . I was enjoying it in fact, her scolding me, and then I would run away flashing all my 32 teeth at her, including the missing ones. There were two or three incidents, where I went up to the kitchen, picked up the spoon, brought it to my mouth, but had to ‘abort mission’ as I heard footsteps. But my mom would still catch me, and be so sure that I did eat. So much so that even I, for a second, would wonder if maybe I did? 
So this made me think. How can she still know I had gone there, even when I hadn’t even had a spoon. There was no difference in the amount of what she had made, and I had always been cautious not to leave traces. Then how?
And one day, as I was about to eat again, it hit me. The spoon! The spoon gave me away. My mom, right-handed, would leave the spoon at the right side of the utensil. I would pick it up with my left hand – I am left-handed – and leave it on the left side. So when my mom entered th kitchen, she didn’t even have to open the lid to catch me.
But after all this, I still got caught. This time because I became a little too confident, and ate too much. There was an obvious decrease in the quantity.




Not even a single ray of sunshine woke her up, as she had banished them from entering her room, especially when she was asleep. No, she did not like it when the sun would point his flashlight right on her face, first thing in the morning. Since heat was a form of energy, and would activate her surrounding molecules, spoiling her mood. She preferred a calm, cool morning where one doesn’t have to strain to open one’s eyes, because of all the light. She allowed only enough light to brighten up the room, just so it looks like it’s morning. And the blinds on her window was her semi permeable membrane, which only allowed the required to enter her kingdom. She opened her eyes and stared at her fan, which for some reason reminded her of a potter’s wheel. She could hear the utensils chattering in the kitchen. And in the hall, Arnab Goswami was shouting at somebody, as if that somebody was his teenager kid who had misbehaved. You say something, that’s disrespect and mannerless, and if you do open your mouth, then you’re not responding. Either way you will be shouted at. She just stared at blank space – configuring windows, like her laptop would say, when she turns it on. Ahh…. It’s a Sunday, she thought. Which meant she’s going to stay in bed for another hour, listening to music and being lazy. Sunday was her no-work-all-play day. It’d always been that way. She found it difficult to study on a Sunday. Somebody who does that is an alien from another galaxy for her. When she was little, she would wake up at around eight in the morning. Her mother would be still asleep – that was her mother’s only day off. She would go to the guestroom, which was also her playroom and run to her toy bag. It was her long lost friend whom she had not seen for a week. Then she would make up stories using her imagination, and play with her toys. Till her mom would call her for breakfast. But as she grew up, she was forced to study on Sundays – not that she liked it. So she preferred to finish her homework on Sundays, and enjoy rest of the day. That was her solution. But Monday mornings always horrified her – she always had the feeling that she’s forgotten something. Something that will hit her, like a tree she didn’t notice while walking. A noise from her door, brought her back to her room, disrupting her time travel. Good morning. Breakfast’s ready.

(creative writing)


It’s My Day

She woke up to the chattering of utensils in the kitchen, outside her closed room, where her parents were whispering to each other, as if they were planning to rob the house. She sat on her bed, which was when she saw the “Happy Birthday” hanging on the wall opposite her, like an inverted rainbow.

The door opened slowly, and once they made sure that she was awake, her parents rushed into the room and wished her. She flashed her teeth sleepily at them. She was finally five years old.

She walked around in slow motion, till her mother fast forwarded her. She stared at blank spaces, as if every molecule of air was wishing her a very happy birthday. She wore her favourite dress, and matching accessories. She was the only colour movie, among the other monotonous black and white movies. No need to wear socks or shoes, which meant her feet would not have to die of asphyxiation. But her mother avoided white dresses. Her mother knew very well that being the careless child she was, by the time she came back home, she would’ve practised art on it.

Then came the most important moment, when she would be handed her box of chocolates. But she would not give anybody more than one chocolate, except for two people – her best friend, and anybody who gave her more than one chocolate on their birthday. It was a silent deal – if you give me 2 chocolates on your birthday, then I will give you two chocolates on mine. Her classmates would do anything to get in her good books for the extra chocolates. But then she always counted the number of chocolates, and calculated how many will be left after distributing it among her classmates. But then there were those teachers who would just take so many chocolates at a time, driving a road roller over your dreams.

Next came the birthday party – and with it, colourful gifts. She freshened up, and changed her clothes. Her mom was setting the table, and her dad was placing five candles on her cake. She slowly sneaked up to the table, and reached out for the plate with chocolates. Her mom never lets her near the plate – she felt like a 70 year old diabetic. After all, it was her birthday. She had every right to eat as many chocolates as she wanted.

After the cake cutting, the eating and the games, she waited for everybody to leave – so she can open her gifts in privacy. But some people are like those stubborn politicians who just won’t retire. They take forever to leave.