So uncomfortable


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fight or Flight.”

I am aware that I’m using a clichéd simile,but this memory of mine certainly is as clear as crystal.I was thirteen years old when his family moved in the four-storied apartment beside my best friend’s.His father worked for the same firm as mine so when we first met,it was at the firm’s celebratory dinner party at a posh Indian restaurant.

I remember him waddle into the restaurant with a faint smile and instantly,there was a peculiar feeling in my stomach.It was as if the butterflies that were supposed to prance around in pink tutus,had misread their job description and were creating utter chaos in there instead. With every step he took towards me,I felt I had forgotten how to breathe.By the time he settled on the chair across the table which confronted mine,my heart thumped like hail on a car’s wind shield.I could not keep me from nervously tapping my feet onto the marbled flooring at the rate of perhaps fifty times a second.I was so much in love.And it was so uncomfortable.

He sat on the other side and uttered not one word.I guess he was hesitant to begin a conversation with a girl.Usually I would have not cared about the other person conversing,but with my gaze fixed on him,my mouth was dying to open to let some words out.However,every time I tried to speak,my stomach churned and I bailed out.

“Enough of this nonsense.Just say Hi.Since when are you such a wuss?” I heard my conscience tell me.

“I am not a wuss! Watch me now!” I replied to it before looking up at him again.

Naam? I meant your…umm…name? What,what it?”


Walk Away..

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Silver Screen.”

Every day he spent hours and hours,listening to me talk endlessly.We discussed our activities throughout the day,made fun of each other and came up with strange and cute nicknames.Every day he reminded me of how cute I sounded when I was sleepy.We talked about his classmates and mine.We talked about his favourite shows and then about mine.Every day he told me I meant a lot to him.And just when we were about to depart to our beds to catch up on the sleep,he said those three words.

He repeated those three beautiful words till they had embedded themselves in my head.He said those words till I had started to believe him.He said them until I wanted to say them back to him.

So I did!

“I know I said that I loved you,and I do,but I’m not ready for a relationship”

“It’s okay.You can informally be mine” I said.

“Yeah,that’ll be good” came the reply.

Call me naive to have believed that I was the girl who had won the exclusive ticket to his heart, because despite expressing his feelings towards me,he was unable to let go the opportunity to make other women’s heart flutter in the same way mine fluttered for him.He made them feel exactly how he made me feel.And why wouldn’t he? He wasn’t formally mine.He was riding solo.Right?

Now here I stand,under the moonlight falling on my dull dark hair,with my brain cursing me for confusing it; my heart shouting at me for allowing him to cut it open.I stand here wondering if I should drown myself in my tears or pretend to be the strong nineteen year old who has many more to die for her.

Under the moonlight,I stand wondering one thing.

“How do you look at someone you love and tell yourself it’s time to walk away?”

Proud Of You

In response to The Daily Post’s prompt “Proud

Honestly,my first thought to this prompt was “Oh my god.This is the easiest prompt everrr!”

However,once I had opened the ‘New Post’ page,I sat for several minutes thinking when I had actually made someone proud.It wasn’t easy.

It wasn’t that I had been a disgrace to my family by being that clichéd smoker/drinker/druggie teenager,neither had I turned into the rebel kind,bad mouthing my parents,sneaking out to after parties or breaking any other belief of our middle class ‘society’.But I also had not been able to pass exams with flying colours.I had not given my parents a chance to brag about being my parents.

That being the case,no matter how hard I thought,I could not recall the last time they had said they were proud of me.

So how did I complete this blog?

Well,I waddled into the kitchen to find my mother,wrapped in a blue and white apron,preparing tonight’s dinner.Beside her,stood my father tightly clutching a goblet of South African red wine.

“Need anything beta?” my dad questioned.

“Yes,I do” I paused “Have you two ever been proud of me? When exactly have I made both you proud?”

For a couple of seconds,both of them ceased doing what they were and stared at me as if I had asked them about ‘the birds and the bees’.Next,smiles appeared on their faces spreading from their ear to ear.

“The time you got your results” said my father before being interrupted by mom.

“And when you became Ms.Podarite

“Also whenever you are on the stage dancing your heart out and every single person in the crowd watches you without blinking”

“We have always been proud of you and we always tell you that” replied mother.

“You just doesn’t remember it”

Dummies guide to Over-Thinking

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “(Your Thing) for Dummies.”

Over-thinking is a skill that is rather easy to learn.All you need is the ability to imagine things and something to chew over till it drives you insane.

Here’s an example for the dummies.

Like every morning,after sending the little ones off to their school,I sat cross legged,by the phone desperately awaiting my husband’s Good morning call.

We were in a long distance marriage,you see.It was the only way I could carry on with my dream job while he completed his overseas project,earning him a well deserved promotion.It was a happy marriage,without many troubles or issues.Whenever there was a problem,distances were not a reason behind it.I was.

So I waited for his call till it was not morning any longer,clueless about the fact that he had successfully pulled off that magic trick of disappearing off to one of his endless meetings.

Unaware,I waited and waited till I ran low on patience.My mood deteriorated at the speed of unrefrigerated food rotting in summers and before I realised,I was imagining his despicable hourglass figured secretary wrapping her lanky arms around his neck.I could hear the sound of her five inch stilettos striking the wooden flooring.I could see the smirk on his face.


No,my husband could never think about doing such a thing.

So next,my disgusting over thinking self created an image of him being involved in a terrible accident.The anger that had taken over my senses due to the previous mental imagery instantly replaced itself with fear.I grabbed the phone and called him only to hear “The number you are trying to reach is switched off”

Could it really be? My goodness.

My thumb pushed the redial button over and over again.The same message.

And suddenly,the message faded away.Blackness covered my  eyes and I fell to the floor.My eyelids were seconds away from giving up when there was a different voice on the phone; an unrecorded voice.

“Baby,I’m so sorry.I was in a meeting”

“Yes yes,I know.I should have informed you sweetheart”

Jaan? Talk to me”


See? Over thinking isn’t so hard,is it?

This Irreplaceable individual :)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do or Die.”

You have three hundred words to justify the existence of your favorite person, place, or thing. Failure to convince will result in it vanishing without a trace. 

There is a person in my life, a person who introduced me to what I call family.

This individual held my hand whenever I stumbled on the staircase of life. Every time I collapsed, this person pulled me up, back on my own two feet. She sacrificed countless hours of slumber to ensure I slept well. She taught me to embrace my femininity and also, at times, to free myself from the clutches of being a woman. She told me that I was, by no means, perfect and that I did not need to be. And most importantly, she made me fall in love, with the one who confronts me every time I look at the mirror.

This person is aware of even my unsaid thoughts. She is aware of my deteriorating mood before I realize it. Unlike individuals of her kind, she does not for a moment, hesitate to answer the questions of mine; questions on subjects that our society has categorized as taboo ones. When life throws stones at me, she is my shield. When my heart is mistaken for a toy and tossed around, she is there to mend the wounds.

She plays not one but myriad roles. She is not just the figure who brought me to this world, but she is also my father’s exceptionally loving wife, my grandmother’s extremely caring daughter-in-law, and my irreplaceable friend. Without a single complaint, she puts her wishes aside to ensure smiles on the faces of her loved ones. She is not only a mother, she is an inspiration.

She is a beautiful gift from the Lord who sits above.

She is amazing.

And it goes without saying, that without her presence in my life, my life would be an abyss of nothingness. Without her,I would be incomplete.

Her favourite,or so I thought.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Teacher’s Pet

“There…there must be some mistake,I mean…this is…it’s not possible!”

My desperate eyes searched for answers on the dull faces of all my subject teachers.Their mouths were shut tight; their gazes fixed on the principal,as if conveying to her that they had not played a role in this.

“Oh god,it cannot be”

Saying this,I collapsed on the black leather couch-otherwise meant only for teachers-and hid my face in my palms.

Unbearable pain arose inside me which bought along a lump in my throat.My heartbeats were similar to the melancholic beats of drums on an African funeral.I felt an undying urge to scream.Yes,I was aware that I was not the ‘scholar kind’ but it was impossible to swallow the fact that I had just failed a major subject.

But how could I have failed? I had always been the best at it! That’s what she had always told me.My subject teacher-Ms.N had told me I was the best.She had on numerous occasions asked me to narrate my answers to the class because of them being perfectly worthy of bagging full marks.She had told me several times that I would be the one to make her proud.She had told me I was her favourite.So how could this pathetic incident have occurred?

“I did not expect this from you” said my principal with atrocity oozing from her voice.

“Overconfidence is the only reason why you are here” said Ms.N.

I was definite that the rage brewing inside me was visible in my eyes.Therefore,with my head down and without a reply,I lifted myself off the leather couch and stormed out of the air-conditioned cabin.

And suddenly,I was a clown in a circus.Everyone stared at me and giggled as I walked past them.Some ran towards me to confirm their doubt about my failure.Not a single ‘friend’ paused to sympathise.Neither did the teacher whose favourite student I had been not too long ago.