A pink-toned image of a couple's lower bodies engaged in foreplay


“You want boom-boom?”

A middle-aged man pops out from the shadows and asks, smiling solicitously. He wags a phone, a pretty young thing’s pic on the screen. The PYT could be a lady, a boy, or a ladyboy – you can’t entirely say in Bangkok. The man has his audience covered.

In the context, I grasp what boom-boom means. It also helps that my friends are smiling deviously from the sidelines. I turn down the proposition by walking away. But my friends take over. “You can’t come all the way here and do nothing…” “You need to loosen up…”

I don’t know. To me, boom-boom is how my heart goes on finding someone who makes you feel parallel lines can somehow meet. And how the same heart feels when the person decides to get off mid-journey. Not the sound of multiple body parts contorting on a bed.

My friends look more disappointed than that pimp. We get back to our hotel. They rush to their rooms to prepare for their boom-boom providers who will be arriving later. I trudge to mine.

Love isn’t easy. But if you aren’t one for easy lays either, is your love life all… doom-doom?

This was a submission for Arre Love Stories.

A huge tree trunk with exposed roots spreading out

Roots Are Us – Or Are They?

Where do you belong?

Where’s your home town?

What’s your native place?

Ask anyone any version of these questions, and they’ll respond in a heartbeat – showing you its precise location on Google Maps, and including for good measure the closest village, town or city; the exact distance from any of those; and transportation modes, frequencies and times, and alternatives to all of those.

Graphic of a young man with a confused speech bubble above him

Ask me this, and in the past, I’ve been stumped. I was born in one city, spent my childhood in another, came to adulthood and have lived the longest in a third, and spent a few years in yet another, with three of these being in different corners of the country and the fourth right in the centre. The concept of a home town or native place doesn’t work for someone like me. So, my response has been an all-purpose “I am a global citizen.”

While that may come across as progressive or evasive, depending on your school of thought, that may actually be not too far from the truth, or genealogy. My mom has told me the ancestors on her mom’s side came from the Middle East. On inspecting my family and immediate relatives’ physiognomies, I also get a bit of West Asia. Getting more contemporary, in a cultural profiling assessment for a US-based assignment a few years ago, I resulted more as Yankee than desi. And at a bank in one of the cities where I’ve lived, seeing my athleisure wear (when athleisure wasn’t even a term), the manager asked me engagingly, “Are you an NRI?”

However, on hearing the ‘I’m an international citizen’ bit, folk smile indulgently, but remain insistent, “No, really, where are you from?”

So, I’ve started taking the safer route, and have gone with my birthplace. That satisfies people, also because it’s on the passport. That works in the case of my family too. When probed, my parents have shared that their parents, on both sides, were born in cities different from the ones in which my parents were born. So, for convenience, my parents (and brother) too have gone with their respective places of birth. Which means… three of the four of us cite different ‘home towns’.

As cultural definitions go, though, this native place thingamajig has to be on your father’s side, and his father’s, and his father’s father’s, right up to Adam’s time. So, here too, the ladies get a raw deal. Oh, wait, there’s “mother” tongue. Which muddies things up a bit. Or perhaps not. Dad has the home but mom the voice? How (stereo)typical.

Coming back, though, the version of the belonging question that has had me the most tangled is: Where are your roots?

I mean, I get it. ‘Roots’ is meant to stand in for the terrestrial locus that is home. Roots give you support, keep you grounded. There’s also a sense of nostalgia the word evokes, like a sepia-tinted photo, a memory of a simpler time.

But, I also don’t get it. Roots might keep you down-to-earth, but they also keep you fixed – to a place, to a perception, to a philosophy. They are also below the surface, cueing a deep, dank place where the light doesn’t reach. And to get even more matter-of-fact, they are the recipients of much organic waste. Suddenly, ‘roots’ doesn’t convey so warm and comforting a place anymore; and if this is what is meant to give you identity, who would wish to identify with this?

To continue dissecting the metaphor, if using a tree analogy, why only roots? For instance, why…

An illustration of the Tree of LifeCan’t I have shoots, thus moving up, seeking the light, sky and all things higher?

Can’t I be a mighty trunk, sturdy and solid, providing support to the resting and respite for the passerby?

Can’t I be a tender leaf, offering a speck of greenery in a rapidly greying world?

Can’t I be a flower, spreading good cheer with both my appearance and my fragrance?

Can’t I be a fruit, providing sustenance to herbivores and “healthivores”?

Can’t I be a branch, bearing all of the previous three, and offering shelter to itinerant birds and housing for the nesting ones?

In fact, why can’t I eschew the plant analogy altogether, and be one of those birds? Free to rest and roost anywhere, unmindful of borders, and thus, bringing things back to that ‘global citizen’ response.

And even staying within the realm of roots, why should I be only underground roots?

A quote post, around not being fixed like a treeWhy can’t I be the aerial roots of a banyan tree, above the ground and a bit away from the parent tree, eventually becoming my own tree (technically, a trunk) yet remaining a part of the original?

Why can’t I be the exposed roots of a mangrove, delighting in all the elements – sun, sky, air, water, earth – instead of just one or two?

Or best still, why can’t I be the adventitious roots of a money plant, cut at the stem, taken away from its parent, put in a new location, and gradually prospering in this new home too?

But this discourse perhaps is too much for even the most woke millennial. The cynics pause and then sneer, “Bah, you are rootless!” I prefer the term “unrooted”. But by then, their ears are well into the ground. People’s desires to put you in a box are apparently too… deep-rooted.

So, again, I find myself turning to my parents. When I have pushed my dad about his ancestry (because that’s what the traditionalists want, don’t they), after initially obliging me, he has finally dismissed me with, “You know, I was – and still am – busy earning a living. Who had / has the time to think about all this??” Guess that is a response as rooted in truth as any.

I wrote this piece for The Hindu’s thREAD. Here’s the edited version on their site: This piece on thREAD

Silhouettes at a beach, with one man in centre-frame


Old soul.

Bold soul.

True soul.

Thinking soul.

Giving soul.

Caring soul.

Creative soul.

Crushed soul.

Bruised soul.

Burnt soul.

Anguished soul.

Tortured soul.

How can one soul be so many souls?

When you are all soul.

Graphic of a big heart with a small figure applying an adhesive bandage to it

Of Heartbreak and Hope

Your heart.

Your broken heart.

You keep loving.

It keeps breaking.

Yet you keep loving.

Not because

you are foolhardy,

or a fool,

or hardy.

But because,

you hope.

That one day,

you will love,

and your heart

won’t be broken.

But rather,

it will be

made whole again.

The word 'friendship' written on shards of glass

Freelance Kills Friendship

Here’s how.

The first buds come thinking you have little or no work, and so will do theirs for free. You know, for the famed exposure. The moment you talk budget, price-point and advance, they run. Why, they should be called fleelancers.

The next wait and watch, like vultures for the dying beast to become the dead or like long-forgotten relatives for an ageing rich relative to do the same. When you appear to be approaching death-state according to them – when the work seems to be tough coming, like it does at times in the choppy oceans of freelance – they swoop in. They brief you about their project, and then keep rejecting or going quiet over every pricing sheet you present until your quote is as low as that dying beast’s chin. And god forbid if you refuse to lower your budget – they will leave you for the dead. Or worse, get offended.

The final set waits too, but not to give you work. They eagerly wait – and hope and pray? – that you soon, or eventually, have no work and begin ruminating getting back to a job, so that they can come and make a sagely statement like, “Freelancing isn’t for everybody.”

A sub-set of this is the one that keeps thinking that even after three years of working as a freelancer, this is just a temporary gig before you get back to a real job.

Just like these f(r)iends eye the ‘free’ in ‘freelance’, you want to take the ‘lance’ in it and plunge it into them. But for that, you first have to take it out of your back.

Actually, freelance doesn’t kill friendship. It exposes it.

The silhouette of a woman with her hand pressed against a glass window

I was just thinking that… / about suicides

Laverne Cox in her Orange Is the New Black avatar with her series name and a quote on the picGender reassignment surgery, or simply, a sex change, seems like an “extreme” step to take in life and an “extreme” change to make to the body. But many trans folk do it. (I write fresh from binge-watching two seasons of Orange Is the New Black, featuring, among other artists, Laverne Cox, who is trans in real life and in the series.) They obviously feel their gender expression isn’t aligned with the body they’ve been given, and thus proceed to “correct” the misalignment. Once you begin thinking about it closely, it gets understandable.

So, is suicide – an even more “extreme” step you take in life and the most “extreme” change you make to your body – “understandable” too, at least in the case of some people? Maybe many suicidees feel they are misfits in this world – maybe they aren’t meant for here – and so take the final step.

With trans folk, you know whether or not they are happy in their new form. With suicidees, you can only hope they are happy in whatever form they are now.

A woman standing in a field looking into the distance seen through a few sheaves of paddy

Soul. Full.

Those who live by the soul

Often have to die because of it.

If you live for the soul,

You’ll never gain from it.

Only your soul will.

Living by the soul.



Someone who lives to fill, and fulfil, the soul.


Soul fool.

An old soul.

A gold soul.

A hammer icon about to strike an icon of a graduation cap

The School of Hard Knocks

Over the Diwali holidays, I had had some repairs done in the woodworks department. However, a couple of days later, a couple of items had gone back to working inefficiently. So, this time, I made sure I was standing close to the action as the carpenters – a middle-aged man and a young lad – went about the fixes. However, because the action was taking a while and I didn’t really have any action there, I decided to make small talk.

I asked the older guy if the younger guy, who seemed to be an assistant or an apprentice, was just a colleague or a relative, for these folk typically have their relatives work alongside them. My electrician does.

Not looking away from his work, he replied, a knowing smile in his voice, “No, not a relative.” He continued, with the same knowing smiling feeling, “Vyaapaar mein rishtedaar kahaan chaltaa hai… Gair ko hee rakhnaa chaahiye.” (Business and relatives don’t mix. In business, you should have only a stranger.) He ended by reasoning that it’s easier having a commercial transaction and conversation with someone who isn’t close to you.

I couldn’t agree more. In the two-three years I have been working on my own, I too have learnt: Freelance and friends don’t mix. If they do, the result is volatile.

The bathroom door done, he moved on to the sliding door in the living room. This was an easier job: just the bolt. Again, his eyes fixed on his task, he told me that gently should do it for the door from now on – no need to bang it. I assured him that I was gentle enough after he had fixed it the last time, but my maid must have slammed it as earlier and thus ruined it again in the process.

Again, he spoke knowingly, “That one… She speaks a bit rough…”

I first wondered if she was there when he had come the last time and then wondered if she had said anything then for him to notice anything about her. Yes, on both counts.

I responded, commenting rather than defending her, “Yes, she does speak a bit dry…” I added, again in comment and not defence, “But her work is good…”

He responded pat, “Yes, that’s why she speaks rough…”

This guy has all the answers, doesn’t he?

I wondered what other woodwork needed fixing.