My Heaven

What might my heaven be?

My heaven would have…laughter.
ringing so loud it dispels the darkness from the most sordid corners of the Earth.
My heaven would be food. All-you-can-eat chocolate. Homemade butter chicken with fat dripping from the naan bread like water droplets
falling to my shoulders
as I shake my head after a swim.
My heaven would be a swimming pool
with just the right temperature of water
so my spindly legs didn’t look like leaves shaking in the fall.
My heaven would be the feeling you get as you stand at the edge of a bungee jump, toying with the safety cables.
It would allow for wondrous curiosity.
My heaven would be the corner of my sofa bed that fits me perfectly, having just the right amount of pillows,
My heaven would have ample leg space.

My heaven would be the badge upon my forehead
declaring my mind the sharpest weapon of all.
My heaven would be finally attaining the level of sarcasm that my English teacher had,
the furtive smirk visible even in in her goodbyes.
My heaven would have no goodbyes. 

My heaven consists of a house so grand it’s never too far from anywhere and yet,
It’ll have a small fireplace
and a stack of my favourite Roald Dahl books.
There’s going to be a study lined with endless works of art,
even if all I do is bury my nose between the pages and come up smiling stupidly, a library;
the kinds where they have ladders on wheels.
I always did like those ladders.
My heaven would be cute boys who’re taller than me
no matter how high my heels are,
with baritone voices and a penchant for dancing.
In my heaven, I’ll be dancing.
I’ll put on a little Etta James on repeat and sway my hips; heartbeats would replace the seconds passing by
and the rude ticking of the clock would stop.

In my heaven, I’m ageless.
For I can’t tell if I’m going to be eighteen
or twenty five
or forty, when I attain my heaven.
But I do know that everyday, I’m getting just a little bit closer.



I always liked the summer more than any other season. There is a certain freeness I feel in letting my skin soak the light and the heat.
The heat makes you feel its presence as it arrives. The cold, on the other hand, is the absence of any kind of warmth.
I always did have a problem letting go.
And so I’d rather have too much of something, feel the harsh heat on the back of my neck, than feel it slowly escape and change into a shiver running down my spine.
So I’ve decided.
I’ve decided that I’d rather the world end in fire than ice, Mr. Frost. (Ironic, much?)

I’d rather feel the blistering heat eat away at my skin than have the cold kill me from inside.
I’d rather burst into flames, licking the skies above at least once before I die, than be one with the earth.
I’d rather catch a glimpse of all my memories, than see them one by one, that way I’ll know what I treasured most.
I’d rather feel the incessant warmth, and think of it as
Every last hug, a little too tight,
Every last kiss, lingering on for just a while,
Every interruption, not stopping for a breath,
Every purge of ideas, too many to be said.

The insatiable soul inside me does not know the meaning of “too many or too much,
It’d much rather be set aflame than ebb away at a cold touch.

A ceasing hush

Her hands trembled as she picked up the pen.
The same one which had looped around to
Add cayenne
To her monotonous life,
Imagining firsts that hadn’t happened then.
She’d construe rainy afternoons and Sunday winter mornings in her head,
A wonderland to which the rabbit hole led.

Six months later,
When she realized that perfection was as hard to find,
As that night was to get off her mind,
She steadied her hand
And wrote

I knew it had been a mistake to step out alone that night as soon as I heard the imminent footsteps…”


She drew constellations with fingertips numbed by the drone of everyday existence,
Each star eliciting a spark inside her chest, swelling with the growing urgency of something beautiful about to happen and yet,
She could count her even breaths, piercing the silence.
As the lights dimmed,
Her eyes blinked open.
Only at night, did she truly awaken.

Asking for it

She lay on the side of the road, her body, now not as inviting as it was the night before.
But he satiated his guilt and her family, their questions with a single thought,
of her decision being to wear a miniskirt that night,
now lying in shreds all around her.

“Asking for it.”
As if her body was an imbecile incapable of using its words.