“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

~Meryl Streep


Picture Prompt!

This time, we had to choose a picture snapped by the other, and use it to compose a piece. 

Sana’s click:


Rose petals were all she could see. The bed had been covered with them in a layer so thick, she could sit without crushing too many. Her ghoonghat peaked over her forehead, like a hood, narrowing her vision. Gaze lowered, she tried to focus on the intricate henna design on her hands. Anything was better right now, than her heart’s reckless pounding. Jolted from her thoughts, she heard the door open quietly. He was here. 

In what felt like a split second, she thought of all that she knew about this man-  her husband, with whom she was to spend the rest of her life. Surprisingly very little. From his footsteps, she could tell he was approaching the bed, and that eventually he sat down on the edge. He was nervous too, she just knew it. Then she saw, entering the frame of her veil, a hand. She  couldn’t help but frown a little; it was rather hairy after all. Extraordinarily hairy, in fact. Trying to push aside the thought, she breathed in shakily. The hand held the hem of her veil. Get it over with, she pleaded mentally, and as though her thoughts were heard, it was removed from her face. She kept her head bent, half out of nervousness, half out of a sense of cultural duty. Slowly and delicately then, she raised her gaze to meet his. 

The hair on his hands had only been a warning sign to the rest of him. His cheeks, neck, ears; almost every visible part of him was covered in jet black hair. But it wasn’t just that, that knocked the wind out of her. His features, grotesquely ape-like, and his small beady eyes which stared back at her. Her head hit the bed, as she fell limp. The last thing she saw, before everything faded to black, were the rose petals, lush and pink, crowding her vision. 

She awakes in her bed, sweating. Her heart races as she pushes the damp strands of hair away from her face. Just that dream again. Nightmare, she corrected herself, trying to steady her breathing. 


My snap:

Processed with VSCOcam with f2 preset

“He who is conceived in a cage yearns for the cage.” – Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Can the same be said about a beautiful caged creature? Does an incarcerated bird not yearn to soar up in the skies despite a cage being its natural habitat? Can a person long for freedom if all they have known all their life is imprisonment? Is this merely a nature versus nurture battle? Does nature ever lose or does nurture defy the nature? Why do you want to fly up high, when you’re not even born with the wings? Is it the nature that takes every ounce of your strength to not go against nurture? Or are you a rebel for letting your guard down by allowing the whims and desire to take over the castle of your mind? Does conformity make you a coward; or does that make you a brave warrior for letting the desires yank your chain every now and then?

How can you long for something you’ve never known! How come you ache to break away from your very existence? How does your heart pine for something your brain can hardly reason with? How do you make peace with your heart and mind? What does it take for each to cease fire? Do you really wish the nature versus nurture battle to end? Would you not cease to exist if there is no fight, no battle, no dilemmas or whimsical desires of your heart and rationale of your mind?

Is it the harmony followed by dullness that scares you or the chaos leading to utter liberation which frightens you? Do you want the tide to take you away and lose yourself in that mighty ocean of life? Or do you like to watch standing at the shore; knowing what lies beyond that shore, but never really knowing for sure! 

“To be human is to keep rattling the bars of the cage of existence, hollering, ‘What’s it for?’ – Klaus Kinski




Prompt: Poetry

This week’s prompt is as follows:

Look around your room, choose an inanimate object you see and write a poem about it


The object I chose was pictures and here is my poem:


A picture is worth a thousand words,

Palpable, immortal and unspoken words;

Much more than eyes can see,

Way more than memory can perceive;

A lifetime wrapped up with a bow and a ribbon,

Glee, despair, smiles and sullen;

Re-living a lifetime at a glance,

And yet, timeless are those,

Palpable, immortal and unspoken words



Hadia’s object is a pencil and her poem is as follows:


You drag me across,

Till my insides are spent,

Blunt me against the surface,

Your intentions, hell bent.


Slender, I fit easy,

As though part of your hand,

Your sole companion tonight,

I perform at your command.


As I spread my entails,

Becoming small, and smaller still,

You are slowly preserved,

Through me, a humble pencil.



Prompt: Shufflin’!

This week’s prompt is as follows:
Put your music player on shuffle, skip forward 5 songs. Incorporate the opening line of the song you land on into your piece.



The song I landed on was “Things Are Changing” by Gary Clark Jr. Here’s my take:

Things are changing now and I can’t tell where I’ll be from here on out. The thought scared her.

She flaunted her flaws unapologetically. She wore no make up, save a touch of her usual red lipstick and the smudges of last night’s kohl below her eyes. She fingered the rim of her cup absentmindedly, the steam still rising though the foam had cleared.

Dani’s was rarely more than a third full just past 9 am on a weekday morning, and the peace was welcoming. Perks of working irregular hours, she thought, before catching herself. Perks of not working at all, she corrected herself bitterly.

She stared at the empty chair across from her. It had usually been unoccupied, but today of all days, she felt the emptiness. It was like realising that work was a whole lot more bearable with the boss away on vacation, but eventually he’d have to return. It was merely a matter of fact, something which you’d express little more than vague displeasure over. Just like that today it brought an irksome discomfort; though the solitude that she had embraced before, returned abruptly, wasn’t wholly unwelcome.

So caught up was she in the nothingness of her current existence, that she didn’t notice the waiter approaching her, until there was a clink of china as he set her breakfast down before her.

With one sweeping movement, she transferred her hair from the nape of her neck to the side, the tumble of curls obscuring her face from the window she sat adjacent to. Giving her food a sideways glance, she knew that despite her sour mood, she was ravenous.






Sana got the song “Tum Duur Thay Tou Kia Hua” by Junaid Jamshed. Here’s her piece:

Sitting by the window of the cafe, looking out at the street that was giving away all the signs of life, quite a contrary to the deafening silence and lifelessness of her own heart. People walking up and down that long widening street, under the scorching heat, as beads of sweat trickle down their face, their eyes look up to the sky in a silent prayer for rain. After what seemed like a million hours, she finally got up and headed out after paying the check. Yet another day of sitting at the corner table, lementing over what’s been lost. Only problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what exactly it is that she lost!

Another day, another attempt, another cup of coffee by the same window. Same old faces, longing for the serenity to pour down on them from up above, same hustle and bustle. But today felt a little different, despite everything being the same, nothing felt the same. She could sense it, but couldnt really feel it; Yet! As she tries to mull over that shift within, Sun shies away and hides behind the dark clouds. All of a sudden, as it starts to rain her surrounding changed drastically and yet so subtly. There’s still the same fuss out on the street, yet it’s not the same anymore. Everyone who longed for rain, now that it’s finally here, run to find a shelter! Right there, watching the rain coming down hard on them, seeing God answering their prayers, she found the missing piece!

At long last, she knew what it was that she lost! That hollow feeling in her gut was still there, but she embraced it this time. She had it all, and yet she didn’t have it at all! But she didn’t push her luck. For now it was enough that she’s found the bad root. For now it wasn’t necessary to pull it out yet! She could live with it! For now, it was enough!

As she walks out of the cafe, the song being played inside made her shiver even before she stepped outside in the rain. The words kept ringing in her ears long after it was out of her hearings!

Tum dur the tou kya hua,
Tum mil gaye tou kya hua,
Veeraniyaan, kum na hui,
Tanhaa tha mai, tanhaa raha

– Sana

Scrawl Sisters

Okay folks, so here’s a rather nervous beginning to our project! After some discussion, we decided to stick to a format; One of us would come up with a prompt or inspiration, and both of us would have to write a piece, giving our take on the prompt. This post’s prompt is

Your Passion For Words“.


I didn’t really grow up reading lots of literature. Nor do I remember being that one kid with always a book in her hand and a dream of becoming a writer while growing up. I found my fondness for reading in the early years of my teens, and my love for writing quite later if I recall correctly. I have never been an introvert who took refuge in words or believed in scribbling her feelings in a notebook that she kept hidden from everyone lest they’d take a peek at her soul. I have always been an outspoken, extrovert and confident person growing up. Like many other stereotypes that we live and maintain in our daily lives, I always imagined finding a safe haven within words isn’t really needed by someone like me. But as they say, you never know what you’re missing out on unless you really have/try it! Who knew, you could find someone out there who has already given words to those feelings and emotions you couldn’t really put your finger on or you could discover how fiction is closer to reality, than the truth that you are living! I often hear and read people get asked about that certain book or a piece of literature that changed their life or their stance on life. I could live a thousand years and still wouldn’t be able to answer that question. As Hadia responded to that question quite beautifully upon my asking, “It’s not always a book/a poem/a piece of literature so much but certain sentences, sometimes just a word, which changes something within!” Couldn’t agree more! I simply love a writer’s ability to be able to connect to so many people, at some level or the other, without ever having the need to know them personally. The power of words, those words that make the readers live that emotion as they read on, regardless of their lives, age, gender, situation or whatever that sets all the humans apart. The knack of living or trying to live every possible human emotion, through my words! I don’t know if I have what it takes, but I sure would like to try!




I have been enchanted by words for as long as I can remember. Shy and often quiet, books opened other worlds and other wonders to my younger self. A well written paragraph was more beautiful than the most perfectly painted picture, the projection of emotion utterly palpable. They became a support, like friends who were always there for me. I was simply addicted. Not many children can claim to the severest punishment they’ve endured being, their library books confiscated, or the batteries of their “secret” night time reading torch mysteriously disappearing.

 While reading was my favourite escape, writing slowly became the best release. I kept diaries and journals, pouring as much of myself as I could into each entry. The fact that I might begin forgetting, and my memories would one day no longer exist was what drove me. Personal expression aside, I love the clever use of words; how it can be moulded  and shaped to mean many things at once, yet so beautifully. I fancied myself a poet at the age of eleven, “self-publishing” a book of my poems, intricately laid out on Microsoft Word. I believe I spend more time talking about writing, than actually indulging in the act. A frequent sufferer of writer’s block, I find myself hitting stops more and more in recent times. .  I still consider it a fanciful goal, to be known for my writing, yet it is one I cannot quite let go of.

Reading and writing my sole therapy. While it is chiefly something I do for myself, it is a comfort to know when others can relate. I simply would not be who I am today without the written word.



Since this is the beginning of something new, I feel like a little background must be provided. This (joint) blog, is an attempt to do something Hadia and I very strongly feel about; for the love of writing. We don’t intend or expect it to turn into an internet phenomenon, within our tiny circle (as fickle as it may sound) of “blogging”. Neither do we have any agenda of raising a voice for nor against any social, political, psychological (which is pretty much a possibility when two of us are in on something, together) or universal issue, so to speak. The aim is simple and yet quite intricate, if you ask me! We just wish and hope to take our love, passion, ambition and aspirations for writing and turn it into something tangible and concrete instead of just a desire and itch that we are able to scratch not so often, owing to whatever excuse we find that occupies us. We wish to take this writing business much more seriously than a mere “Man! I want to be able to own a house with a big room full of books and hopefully some of the books with our names on them!” Having a passion to do something is never enough, discipline and taking actual steps is of utmost importance. So this might as well be a baby step, but a step nonetheless!