The reasons we need.


In a world where we have been continuously narrated that, “It’s all in your head”, or, “just try being happy”, and the best of the lot, “depression is a state of mind.” Well, here’s a little light on that enormously misunderstood subject: Do not comment on something you do not have the faintest idea about. Not only do you make yourself look like an idiot you also paint someone else who has spent every morning trying to paste a smile on a face as an “idiot”.

I have been on the receiving end of many ignorant yet clever and helpful to themselves, advice. But in that massive haystack of nothing less than self consciousness and self loathing, feeling nothing short of being misunderstood and tagged as an “attention seeker,” “cry baby”, “over-thinker” and much more; I found one microscopic needle. It was simple. And in my case, an approach that was surprisingly effective. The task was to list down reasons to live. Although it seemed utterly hopeless at that moment, I’m pleasantly shocked to say that, I surprised myself.

I live because I love dogs. I live because I want to eat my favourite food. I live because I want to write a piece that will make my species smile. I live because I like it when my favorite people smile. I live because I do not know how many more people need me to make them smile. I live because I’m a dreamer. I live because I am comfortable in my skin, regardless of what is being thrown at my insecurities. I live because I know of at least one person who will cry because I was standing there in front of them when they least expected it. I live because I matter to others. I live because I’m not selfish enough to hurt others by giving up. I live because I love dogs.

There are so many of us out there who cannot fathom to make this list. It is not an easy task my friend. But start. Start with what you love- a blanket, a quote, an old t-shirt, an essay that had once giving your dreams flight. Start. It might remind you of times you had once forgotten or shunned aside thinking they’re worthless.

I live to write. For an audience I have not met. On rainy evenings with songs by Eddie Vedder keeping  me company.

Pancakes & White sauce pasta

I have been forced to start a blog by two of the most stubborn characters I have ever had the pleasure to befriend. They have this hilariously adamant belief that I would do a good job at writing. I don’t have the heart to tell them that I don’t write as much as I Rant. But here is an attempt to put their souls to rest, hoping they find someone else to believe in with as much genuine care as they have for me.


We all get these little shoves towards what others think we are really good at. Well, just because we’re slightly better than them, accidentally, doesn’t mean that we’re a prodigy. But it does feel good to know that someone thinks you’re going to make it in a world where there’s more kryptonite than colored capes. I read somewhere that, “It is impossible to write 52 bad stories in a row,” so this is me proving them wrong but secretly wishing that they’re right.


This is a short story about a dog.


The fluffy, fawn furred, Leonberger hopped skipped and jumped towards the sad lonely pig. Then that adorable mutt, pounced on the pig, and just before the pig thought it was going to become bacon, the dog licked him all over and told him that he was vegetarian.



Does this story have a moral? No. Does it have an interesting approach? No. Do I have an unexpectedly mind-blowing little addition to give the story a sense of purpose? Not in the least.

But it’s a story nonetheless. And people have already just read it. Congratulations to me for my first audience.

Thank you and goodnight.

Also, be kind.