Tag Archives: Love

I met the love of my life …

Sorry I’ve been off the blog for such a consistent amount of absent time but sometimes life happens and other priorities take over – yes, even when you love writing as much as I (and most of my readers!) do.

I can only profusely apologise for both of my mistakes.

Have you caught on yet?

My first mistake – the obvious err in my ways – not keeping an active blog and number two?

Slightly misleading you with my very untrue headline! 😀


I had to get your attention somehow, right?

I haven’t met the love of my life yet anyway (though I am working on that!) so for now my current consistent lover- the written word will have to suffice. Not that I’m complaining.

Work is ultra-busy (which is a great thing by the way – just in case you’re wondering) but I’m stoked to say that my second book in The Last True Blood Series is scheduled to release next month.

I’m very excited and I really do hope you’ll join me in my celebration of another milestone in my writing journey.

Watch this space; I’ll be dropping more details soon.

Cheerio & take care my lovelies 🙂

Holding hands in love

I once loved this boy named Geronimo

I once loved this boy whose name was Geronimo.

He reminded me of my ol’ toy I’d cuddle when I felt low.

I loved this boy whose name was Geronimo.

Because he would rarely eff with my flow, you know?

Now I thought I’d live and love my Geronimo for forever.

Turns out I hadn’t learnt yet that forever often became never.

So suddenly flirtatious frivolousness,

transpired into angry unhappiness.

Alas, one day my fury took over,

so I plucked at him like he was a clover.

I threw him off a cliff because he was too slow,

and as he fell, his last words were Geronimo!

Turns out Geronimo was filled with vanity,

but I didn’t care because I still had my sanity.

This is a true story. I swear.

If you want the fake one, here it is.

Poor Geronimo. Well, at least I made him famous.

Childhood Friendship

What’s Your Most Cherished Earliest Memory?

I read this wonderful blog piece earlier today for work, and there was this interesting suggestion for Blog Writer’s Block that caught my eye (among the mammoth 150 or so odd suggestions for overcoming it).

The writer, Devin Burglund, suggested that you write about your earliest memory. So I thought I’d improvise … naturally. Because I like making things a little more difficult than they have to be, obviously.

One of my earliest, most cherished memories was when my very first crush, this absolute hottie (I was six by the way), a Colorado native at the British Continental School we both attended in Jeddah, Middle East told me he liked me. Trust me, even till this day, I still (as embarrassing as it sounds) get butterflies fluttering in my stomach when I think back to that hot sunny afternoon.

Had I known then that age and maturity would bring the awkwardness and fear of rejection, consequences and all the other unimportant and insignificant attributes it does, I would have savoured that innocent childhood moment when we didn’t care about what others thought about us, or before we had the experience and knowledge of annoying adult idiosyncracies so much more.

I lost touch with Jerome Douglas Noble but I’ve never forgotten the joy he gave me that day. I hope it was as sweet for him as it was for me and I like to flirt with the fantasy that he seldom thinks of me and that my memory brings a hint of a smile to his slightly twitching lips.

What about you? What’s your favourite memory?

I’ll Dance If I Want To!

I’m going to crank the music up and dance like no one’s watching because I feel like and it’s a Friday. If anyone does watch, past experience suggests that they may be blinded. You have been adequately warned 😛

Seeing as I seem to have had a crush on the word “wonderful” this whole week, I’m going to stick with the love alongside a pinch of what I like to call Mituri sparkle added, so …

Have a superb weekend full of wonderful wonder my peeps 🙂

Happy Birthday to my Purpose …

Mothers are amazing, aren’t they? Unsolvable phenomenon’s if you ask me. How else could anyone possibly ever explain the unconditional love, the unrelenting support, the fierce need to protect no matter how old you get, the doe eyed adoration for you even when you couldn’t conceivably (or inconceivably) get any more irritating or incessantly demanding or annoying or downright rude.

It’s my mama’s birthday today and like all kids on this planet, I have the best-est mum anywhere in the solar system, earth bound or intergalactic. I have witnessed my mother seriously working her skin off trying to be the best role model out there and man did she deliver.

In India we have a saying – that God gifts every child with a Mother because he couldn’t be there for each one of us physically so he gave us someone in his image and my Mum is definitely my Higher Power. I don’t think there is anyone else on this universe (parallel ones included) I frustrate more (and I know it when I’m shamelessly doing it), torment more, stress more and generally poke and prod more than my mama … and what did she do to deserve it? Well give birth to me of course, she should have known better 😀

Seriously though, what did she get for it? Not much I guess, but I do know that my very definition of everything and anything good and solid in this lifetime begins with just a whiff, a tinkling on the edges of my cranium, a gentle nudge deep within the etched compositions of my soul of my mother. The values of right over wrong, my moral compass, my undying belief that in the end – good will prevail over evil, that working hard DOES get you to the finish line no matter how impossible and stupidly childish the notion seems at the moment and most imperatively, that little voice that plays in my heart surging its way to my head that uncompromisingly reminds me that everything is going to be okay is all my mama.

The obstinate power I find hidden deep within myself when I ceaselessly tell myself every morning that “I am invincible and that my dreams are going to be reality” is courtesy my mum.

My very definition of love is my mum. Mothers are truly the greatest gifts any one of us are ever going to receive. All the money, fame, designer clothes, falsified compliments this world will give you on your travels, everything you may think is good but is just another façade for what is the cruel, mocking way of society will never compare to the gift so many of us choose not to see even though it’s right in front of our eyes, what we often take for granted – our mothers.

Who else would still claim your atrocious kindergarten overused art piece of your hands dripping in red and blue paint is a masterpiece even when you’re old enough to know better? Most importantly, who else could tell you that and still make you believe it was true – that you are the brightest, most intelligent, most perfect, most wonderful living thing out there?

Who else can still make you feel warm and fuzzy after all these years, like you’re the safest with a simple brushing of your cheek with her finger or a warm caress that speaks so much louder than the words “I love you”? No one, that’s who.

2013-01-05-039To my mama – Have the best birthday ever and even though I don’t think I say this enough, I love you more than existence itself, because well, you are my reason, my purpose, my life, my soul. I love you so much more than all the beautiful words in the world I could ever create or muster up to string along together so instead, all I say is that I only wish to be a glimmer of your image in an effort to be some sort of poor tribute to everything you are!

xoxo Chotu & Motu xoxo

Why Writers shouldn’t end up with one another …

Okay, so we’re constantly being told about how it’s nice to end up with someone on the same page as you, you know, so you can share your trials and tribulations of a hard day’s work with that special someone.

If you’re a teacher, why wouldn’t you want to come back home and explain how you just received a letter from that student who you thought was your best one yet outlining twelve possible reasons why he wants to kill you slowly and meticulously? On the other hand, as a Doctor, what could possibly be better than coming back home after an arduous twelve hour shift and sharing why that patient you “accidentally” left a pair of scissors in after slicing them open is going to sue you for everything you got?

Hey, at least your partner’s got your back, right? Plus, as an added bonus in the Doctor’s case, your divorce hearing is going to be short and sweet.

Even if you can’t quite wrap your brainy tentacles around why anyone on earth would ever want to get with someone who is most likely to have had exactly the same day as you (unless you are truly aiming for the award for the most boring life ever, then please go ahead), there are some absolutely undeniable facts as to why writers should stay clear of one another – at least in the “relationship” field:

1. Every time your partner politely asks you to go shopping, frantic alarm bells ring uncontrollably in your head because you know the shopping list is going to read like a novel and the last 24 hour Walmart in your area has a restraining order out on you because you never leave the premises. Seriously. It’s not your fault; it just took you that long to get through the list, that’s all.

2. Your children end up falling asleep before you get through the first line of a bedtime story because you and your partner are too busy discussing the appropriateness of commencing a fable with “Once Upon a Time”. You’re still discussing how Snow White taking an apple from the Evil Queen (and anyway – who would fall for that pathetic disguise in the first place?) is not realistic enough considering all the “Stanger Danger” lectures out there when your kids wake up in the morning.

3. A surprise ending is always so predictable because you understand the way your partner’s mind works for a climatic end. They wine and dine you and it’s already playing out in your head because you’ve been editing their novels for as long as you can remember. The only move that may shock you – the “you’ve been served” rendition when the postman hands you your “out of the blue” divorce request. To top it all off, instead of being devastated, you’re proud of them and you ring them up to say that that elusive cliff-hanger ending they’ve been working so hard to achieve is in the bag, baby!

4. Your partner cooks you (or at least what you believe to be) a subliminal inducing dinner and you are unable to give them false criticism because you take your role as a critic very seriously but you still want to be encouraging about the devastation anyway and end up saying “It’s nice honey. I mean it’s no Pulitzer Prize but just keep at it, You know, practice does make perfect. No matter how impossible it may feel right now. To both of us”.

5. Wait though. There’s more. The most devastating result of ending up with another writer. Your children have been so severely traumatised by having to grow up in a household with two people who believe everything they do (including the act of breathing) should be penned down, when career day comes around, they finally build up the courage to tell you, wait for it – they want to be Doctors!

Now what could possibly be worse than that? It’s settled, you’ve officially failed as parents.

On the bright side though, you may finally have that tragedy you’ve been meaning to write for years but haven’t been buoyed adequately enough for by that gut wrenching experience you absolutely need to feel in order to do so. Nobel Laureate in literature – here I come!

Happy Birthday to our Babi!

Like most girls, I don’t just love or adore my Daddy, I can’t imagine existing without him.

There is no one in my life whose opinion matters more; no one else whose words have more of a profound effect on me and no other’s approval I crave for more.

My dad and I are like two opposite ends of a stick, like chalk and cheese, like the Coyote and the Roadrunner! In the end though, everyone knew that Tom and Jerry would be incomplete without one another, dull and mundane, suicidal most of the time, and the “soul of the party” – my father and I are exactly the same.

My Baba constantly complains that the thorn in his side is that I never write these long, loving letters to him, but the truth is that my father is a “feeler” rather than a “talker”. I will often find him teary eyed after listening to some injustice happening a country away (in fact, it’s a long running joke in our house, often shamefully spearheaded by my sister or myself,) but catch him doing it, and he embarrassedly rubs his eyes free of the salty substance in an instance. Why? I often ponder, and I think the reason is that for as long as I can remember, my dad has been the prankster. Most of my traumatic high school, university and even work moments have embryonically taken shape via my father – from his mortifying Pavarotti inspired opera singing in the middle of my High school car park, to his incessant requirement to call me by my nickname Motu (which means fat in my language) in the middle of an all Indian boys conglomerate, to yelling our names within the midst of a live audience while we are acting in the school play! There are so many more, trust me.

The truth is, my Baba is the one we remember as being the cool one, the Go to guy when we were attempting unsuccessfully to organise a peaceful protest to convince mum to let us take the day off school, the one who would creepily shake the car like something out of I know what you did last summer while we waited in the dark for mum (and dad supposedly) to return from parent teacher nights (only to find out later that he’d left mum in the lurk while pretending he had to relieve his bladder and never returning because he was bored!), to refusing to take our call collects while we waited for him to pick us up because he was around the corner anyway!

My daddy is the fun, omnipresent, positive one but he is also the most humble, spine chillingly open minded one. We will often be at loggerheads because I can’t believe he thinks a certain way about an issue on hand, but in my soul, I know the reason I think the way I do is because my parents have imparted with me the power to think about the World around me, and have taught me that it’s okay to question it, in fact it’s imperative. My Baba is a feminist, a socialist, a humanitarian and no one else’s opinion on my feats in life matters more. My dad is one out of the three males who have continually inspired me to never turn my back on my passion to write, and when it comes down to it, is my epitome of the perfect example of the ideal soul mate in life.

My Baba is everything to me and deep down in my soul, I know that no matter what man comes into my life, no one is truly ever going to compare to my Daddy, he may get close, but never completely as great as him.

So to my dearest Babi, this is to prove that once and for all, we do love you more than what you do 🙂 And that I have finally put pen on paper (or at least keyboard to computer screen) to express 1/gazillion of the love and adoration we feel for you, because what we feel is far too deep to document and can only be felt in the corners and crevices of our souls.

Happy Birthday to the kindest, most gentlest, most selfless, most giving, most funniest, most positive, most AMAZING father in the whole entire universe.

We love you more than anything anyone’s imaginations or real life could ever muster up.

Only Your Chotu & Motu ❤ ❤ ❤