Dear Diary, Letters to the Lover

Grow old with me. The best is yet to be.


The soldier obliged with a photograph of the letters. He keeps them neatly stacked in a file called “Rendezvous”


Dear Soldier,


It is a quiet June night , way past midnight.It is all darkness under a thin glowing veil cast by twinkling stars in a clear, dense sky. I am sitting near a window overlooking the park. The curtain can barely cover the yellow light straining through the huge sodium light on the road, shedding a pale luminous dust on the things in the room.It feels as if its neither day nor night, just the intermingling .  And here I am , smiling while writing this curious anecdote to you. Is this what we will become years later- your ending and my beginning  fused into one another.  As if there is no I or you.So intimate that my hand on your chest is your hand. So intimate that when I fall asleep , it is your eyes that close. Continue reading

Dear Diary, Letters to the Lover, Stories

At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet


Source: Internet


Dear Soldier,


                               “Kiss me with rain on your eyelashes,

                                    come on, let us sway together,

                             under the trees, and to hell with thunder.” 



At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.


Its time for my evening walk but turns out it has started to rain heavily . Monsoon has finally arrived in Delhi with all  its pomp and show( read lightning and thunder  ). I wish it stays for some time because maybe it reminds me of you. Continue reading

Dear Diary, Featured Posts

How do I describe this?

Everything is moving around me. People are talking. The fan above me is revolving. The birds have flown home. The sun has risen and set again. The earth is rotating. But the clocks. Damn it, the clocks.

I am staring at your letter. Your handwriting. Yours. I guess that is enough for me to love it, no matter how many words you chew in between. I hold the letter close to my face and breathe it in. Maybe it has some faint scent of yours remaining. I bring it close to my lips because the pen which wrote it was touched by you. I lie on the bed keeping the letter on my chest. Maybe that way the hands which folded it might save my drowning heart.

This is all I have of you. A letter. The only belonging.