|| The Feisty Copperhead ||



Made of You

It’s as though my every pore is made of you.
And I lie awake every night; stand for hours in the shower
Clawing time and again at my body, just to get your presence out of me
That clings on like the smell of your breath clung to my hair as we lay together
Entwined in the sun whose rays lazily lapped at your hair
Just like the words you throw at me lazily lap at my feet
Scorching, the very being that once wrote sonnets on your eyes
Hailing praise at the very things that today make the nerves in my back sizzle, bringing alive the feeling of surrender
Injecting my veins with ice cold water, almost as cold as the glance you drop me,
Like hail dropping through a rainbow, ruining a Sunday afternoon,
When teenagers hold hands, hiding, just like the way
You hide every ounce of kindness you once spent, and instead choose to press the blades of my disparities,
To the nape of my neck, similar to how your fingers would trace, as your poison stained lips broke
The very resolve that held my pieces together
Pieces you broke
As we lay down on a bed of my insecurities
Peppering kisses, making hate.
Still can feel your breath, tracing down from the corner, I liked when you’d kiss,
Tickling my ear, whispering little words of disgust, that burned themselves in my memory,
And play over and over again
A stuck record, making me cover my ears
Like a child in a nightmare,
Where I’m losing my self
As I fight to hang on to you.

self medi(a)cation

Beautiful and soo relatable


help |hɛlp|
verb [ with obj. ]
make it easier or possible for (someone) to do something by offering them one’s services or resources

To whomsoever it may concern,

Growing up, I drew out my silver linings from off-white pages and the silver screen’s safe cocoon.

And I’m sure a part of you did too, regardless of whether or not you spent your time as a kid running around playing with friends all the time, or being holed up in their zone with a book or a movie. The degree of influence must’ve varied, obviously, if you’ve made it this far I’m sure none of the Superman movies drove you into checking for flight powers by flinging yourself off the balcony.

I, myself, have made it this far owing to the films about people wanting to fling themselves off the balcony.

There was the Breakfast Club in senior year, Silver Lining’s Playbook in…

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The Queen Bee Equivalency

Look how she struts along the path,

Her posse of fans in tow,

Fawning over her every move,

Her every wish their command.


Look how they gather around her,

The queen bee equivalent,

As I look upon, from my invisible spot,

Left out, berated, ignored.


Look how they follow her every step

Attack to hurt, at her word,

With bated breaths, they wait for her approval,

The queen bee chooses her mate.


Look how she stands there, tall and proud,

Like the world revolves around her,

Her posse of workers move ,

programmed to adore her,

walk to surround

her,  And sadly

so do I.



How do you know you’re broken?

Is it the suffocation you feel, alone in a room?

Or the feeling of nausea, of impending doom.

Is it the pain that strikes your heart?

The giving up on love, music and art.

The long nights awake, pillows drenched with tears,

Being with your thoughts- your biggest fear.

That piece of glass at the back of your drawer.

Those marks on your arm, finding solace in that scar.

A joint your best pal, a smile, your worst,

Over thinking, saying you must be cursed.

Blank wordless pages, your struggle to feel alive,

It’s a chore, every day to survive.

The 2am cries,

The “I’m okay” lies

The battle raging inside

The loss of your pride.


How do you know you’re broken?

Is it the helplessness you feel?

The heartache and despair,

An inability to heal.


How do you know you’re broken?

That you let someone get too close,

Gave them the power to hurt

To leave you morose?


How do you know you’re broken?

Can you feel the silence in the air?

Can you feel your sanity calling?

Reaching out to find you

Only, you’re not there.

How ‘NOT’ to write a book- A review of ‘Half Girlfriend’ by Chetan Bhagat

(This is a really old one that I had written for an assignment, thought everyone should know how lame the book really is.)

As with most of his books, Half Girlfriend begins with Bhagat being stalked by a man with a story, and he then decides to (surprise surprise!) turn it into his next ‘Best Seller’, and thus is told to us, the story of Madhav and Riya, a small town boy and a girl from the big city of Delhi. Blossoming in St. ‘Stevens’ (as the ‘English types’ call it), this is the story of how they fell in love.

Madhav approaches Mr. Bhagat with a set of journals, written by his lost ‘Half –Girlfriend’, hoping they would be of some use to him, as the girlfriend in question (half, I mean) was a big fan of his, and he’d spent many a time  reading his works by her side.

Curiosity finally gets the better of the author, and we then embark on a journey that is the (not so) colourful love story of Riya Somani and Madhav Jha.

Their college life was basically Madhav trying to kiss Riya, while she politely rejected his advances, referring to him as ‘Baby’  and failed attempts at conversing in English. Add terribly described basketball matches to the mix and you have yourself the first act of the book. And of course, how can I forget Madhav’s desperation, leading him to use the worst pick up line of all time, a crude “Deti hai toh deh, warna kat le”, in order to get where he wanted to with his lady love. Continue reading “How ‘NOT’ to write a book- A review of ‘Half Girlfriend’ by Chetan Bhagat”

Man’s Best Friend!

They say that dogs are a man’s best friend. This is an adage I believe to be true. However, Buddy is not just my best friend. He is the most important member of our family. Mornings, at 1 Meghdoot apartments, begin with Buddy’s incessant barking and the sound of his nails scrambling against the door to get us to let him in! “It’s a new day! Let’s play!” he says. And he won’t stop, until someone throws the ball around, so he can jump up and down along with it while it bounces.

For breakfast, Buddy enjoys having the most expensive pack of digestive biscuits, dipped in sweet tea. However, in the absence of these, he will compromise and have a few cookies from ‘Sun and Sand’, or perhaps, a sausage from my plate. He then expects a thorough belly rub, and finally chooses to snooze in front of the air conditioner.

Buddy has to play for at least 28 hours every day. If his quota isn’t met, he WILL show his displeasure by chewing on our slippers. Socks are sometimes held hostage for treats. As are cushions, teddy bears and golf balls.

Proving the myth to be true, Buddy is adept at tearing apart my projects and somehow manages to almost always rip apart reports due the next day.

‘Ma’am, my dog really ate my homework.’

Of course all dogs have been gifted with a super power known as ‘Puppy Eyes’. One look at that adorable face and all sins are forgiven.

Buddy’s feeding time is an entertaining event. The entire household gathers around him while he idly stares at his bowl, as though not knowing what to do with it, and tells him what a good boy he is, until fed up, he decides to eat the ‘food for commoners’ given to him, just to make us all go away. Often, friends are invited home, just to butter his highness into eating.

Buddy is the most ‘vocal’ part of our family, and he never fails to make his presence felt, especially during conversations in the kitchen. If ignored, he will retaliate by walking around the living room with muddy paws and jumping onto my bed with the same.


Every evening, Buddy will trot over to my father’s room and sit there, with his head tilted, until he is asked the question, “who’s my good boy? Is there a better boy around? How can there be a better boy than Buddy? “, which he replies to with a haughty “ruff” and walks away, shaking his stump of a tail.


Why own a dog then? you ask me.


Get welcomed home by a dog, after a long tiring day, and you will understand.

Buddy isn’t just happy to see us back, he’s ecstatic, as though life is perfect now. He will follow us around and listen to us grumble about our days, without asking for anything in exchange. He’s just happy we are home.

My favourite part of the day is lying in bed, under my covers, with Buddy squeezed beside me.  You just feel complete.

Dogs only want to be loved. And I can guarantee you, spend a day with a dog, and you would only want to love him back.


They say that dogs are a man’s best friend, and I’m glad I have Buddy as mine.

How to Sit Home In Pajamas and Make Money -A study of how YouTubers fill their bank accounts

Every time I sit down to start an assignment, I find myself distracted by a notification, and then, two hours later, I am found watching a video of a cat. And that is when I know that I am beyond help.

Do you search for a place that will inspire you and leave you questioning your existence at the same time?

Then YouTube is the place for you.

Now, most people know YouTube as a place to find music videos, prank videos and Mallu-Porn, but here lies one of the biggest communities in the online world: YouTubers, or  people who post content on YouTube and garner followers. These people can own accounts where they post videos about Dancing, Let’s Plays, Life Style, Beauty Tips, Self Help or just being a prat, and these accounts are followed by people all over the world. These YouTubers, however ridiculous their jobs might sound, are known to have over a million subscribers, the highest currently being 43, 240,882 million people, all subscribed to a YouTuber called ‘PewDiePie’. As hilarious and pointless his name might sound (did I mention that there is a channel called ‘The Pointless Blog’), PewDiePie, or Felix Kjellberg is famous for playing games, recording his reactions and posting them online (all from home) and currently is worth $12,000,000.

In India, All India Backchod (or AIB) have some of the highest followers (1,541,617 people) and are known for their politically incorrect content and tongue in cheek humour. They have sponsored videos and a high viewership; all helping them rake in the moolah.

And how exactly do these people, whose job description includes talking into a camera at home in their pyjamas, earn enough to continue their lifestyle you ask?                                The answer is us. Normal people who procrastinate online all day (I’m talking about myself here) and are forced to watch advertisements before we can indulge ourselves in a Danisnotonfire marathon (sigh!).  Viewers will probably watch at least 30 seconds of an Ad. As long as they aren’t using AdBlock, this will make the YouTubers some money. YouTube tallies up the revenue they make from ads, and then splits that profit with the channel owner. However, Advertisers only Continue reading “How to Sit Home In Pajamas and Make Money -A study of how YouTubers fill their bank accounts”

A Hug :)


No one values a hug today,

But, to me it’s a precious gift,

From down in the dumps, to a snappy mood,

Anything, a hug can lift.

Many-a-types of hugs you have,

But forever my favorite remains,

A warm tight, bear like squeeze,

While laughing like we’ve got no brains!

I love the cuddly, sweet smelling kind,

Full of love and care,

The ones I can feel even when alone Continue reading “A Hug :)”

Partying Like A Naval Brat

Ever had your parents throw a party? One with loud music, booze, salty wafers and peanuts galore?

Most ‘defense brats’ will know exactly what I’m describing. Most of our parties involved a ‘pot-luck’ where biryani was generally the ideal dinner plan, and by the end of the evening, most of our dads were smashed beyond compare, while our mothers would act like the best of friends, and then go home and say “I really don’t like that woman.”

We always had that one uncle who told the same stories again and again, and that one really loud aunty, who had that annoying kid no one really liked. These parties generally involved all the kids being locked up in a room, to stay out of everyone’s way, with a constant flow of chips and coke coming in, courtesy the family’s maid, until the time one of the older kids had the brilliant idea of playing ‘dark room’ which was followed by a secret mission of transferring all the tiny tots into a different room, keeping them occupied with a cartoon, generally Naruto or Pokémon.  Once the kiddies location was secured, we’d start the horrible game of darkroom, which involved all the kids cramming themselves into spots too tiny to fit then, and silently waiting for the ‘denner’ to come get them ‘out’, all with the lights off. I was the kid who always hid in one of the cupboards, behind the hostess auntie’s towels and bedspreads.

Getting caught was considered a curse, and the poor victim could only pray for that one smart kid, who’d manage to hit the grim reaper equivalent hard in the back and say, ‘Dhappa’. This hero was then guaranteed some solid appreciation for the rest of the evening, as because of him, the ‘denner’ would have to repeat the below process.

A quick what to do when after you’re the chosen one after what seems like a dozen rounds of ‘inky-pinky-ponkies’:

  • Stand with your face towards the wall, and count to a number chosen by the other players beforehand. This number was always either 10 or 100. Never anything between them. (I’d always wish for the 10, but my sadistic friends always went “No no, count to 100.”)
  • Yell “ready or not, here I come!!!!!!!” Continue reading “Partying Like A Naval Brat”

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