About us

Hey.  I’m Sweta. This blog is all about me and my telltales. Like listening to stories? Hi there :D.   I’m not a success story you’d want to see with your kids,  neither am I a story that’d hit you hard with the harsh reality going around you.  I’m just me and me is just me with my brain,  my thoughts and my cool headphones, telling tales on daily little things.  



Mother’s day

You come out of a womb with your cords still connected to the one who carried you, the moment they cut it off the moment you start living outside her, she feeds you from her, you live off her for the next few years, where she dedicatedly nurtures you like that’s the only thing she’s been born for, like you are the meaning for her existence, like you are her life.

Once you reach adulthood, you probably think you’re well off by yourself. Yet she’s always there to support you putting your fragile imbecile needs before her essentials. You prioritize yourself and others you meet meanwhile. Does she expect? We praise her for not, what if she does? Correction, what is wrong if she does, after all that she’s done.

Now, now, calling her the epitome of sacrifice you almost unshamingly pressurize her to be the way she’s been her whole life, you call her unsung hero but treat her like your unpaid slave. And you know what’s worse, you know all that she’s been through, you still call her your unsung hero. Aren’t you ready to sing your hero out already? Let your hero sing her song. Let your hero live for her and once not for you or your family. Let your hero have her opinions, tastes choices, and most importantly the freedom of taking her desicions without the pressure having to prioritize your needs but hers.

Why should mothers be selfless, so that you can be selfish? Let her put her needs before yours. She’s done enough raising you, let her raise her horizons now. This could be the greatest mothers day wish you give her.

Having an obsession

Hi.  Have you ever been obsessed with anyone? If you haven’t let me explain how it is. 

Stage one: A random “Love” 

 It comes out of nowhere,  you’re just standing there, zoning out on something essential perhaps (given that it’s me,  and I have attentivity span of a Turkey egg), you hear a voice,  a soothing voice you like,  you look up and make this 3 second eye contact with a stranger. He’s cute.  You don’t feel butterflies,  but this is different.  Not like your usual, oh he’s cute,  cool then, kind of feeling. You look down,  realize how creepy you’ve been looking and continue walking away.

**a few weeks later**

Stage 2: The revealing 

A month later,  he’s everywhere.  You’ve just been blind all the time.  You stalk him on a daily basis on every social media possible. Try out the things he likes.  You’re obsessed,  possessed by the demon of his thoughts everywhere.  Everything somehow gets related to him.  For instance,  even if you see a frigging house fly and you somehow find your thoughts landing at him.  You’d be totally mindfucked with yourself for a few days.  

Stage 3: The acceptance 

At this point you are used to the fact you’re mind is crazy.  This is the point where you accept that you’re obsessed with this person.  You’re used to the fact the you’re blind, in obsession.  You’re so used to your own craziness that it doesn’t scare you as much as it used to at the start,  you’ve completely lost your feeling of getting embarrassed,  shamelessness is the new cool for you,  you get caught stalking all the time and you’re still okay with it. You’re okay with whoever they’re with, whatever they do in life,  you don’t give a damn anymore,  it’s just you’re habituated stalking them that you stalk them once in a while,  you’re a mature adult with a damned crazy childish crush. 

Stage 4 : “Over it” 

You’re finally “over it”.  One morning you wake up and realize your world doesn’t revolve around one person,  who gives no damn about what you do in life.  You have things to care about and priorities kicking in. You realize how much you’re missing out in life because of this one person.  It’s not them to be blamed upon,  to be honest,  it was always your imaginative skills.  You realize you know nothing about them in person, nor do they know your existence. You feel single and powerful.  You’re motivated as hell. This is where you keep telling yourself how you’re over them now. Deal with it, you actually ain’t. 

Stage 5: The bitterguard reality

Being motivated by you’re priority you land up doing something you had to,  twisted life,  damned fate,  when everything’s fine just as it should’ve been,  it makes you meet him or her once again in life,  and guess what, Congratulations!!  You’re back to stage one again, now you find yourself into them more than you ever were.  This looks like this is never going to end.  

But on the good side, right now, 

  • You know you aren’t in love and you’re dealing it the adult way now.  
  • You’re enjoying the freedom and perks of being single.  
  • You’re in love with the way you are and at one point you stop trying to change yourself for someone else.  
  • You’re embracing you.  
  • The weirdo inside you is back. 
  • Life is happy the way you want it to be because you know that this is just a stupid obsession you had by now.  
  • You’re you.  ❤

The Lost boys

” ‘Run! Run! Lost boy!’ they said to me, away from all the reality. Neverland is the home for lost boys like me. And lost boys like me are free.”

_ J.M.Barrie

Somewhere during the monsoons of the 87′ ,

The warmth of the sun, mixed with the moving train’s breeze hit my face. It was morning already. The sunshine’s gracious presence shook me up away from my usual grumpy morning self. I wish I could’ve been in the mental state to enjoy the serene beauty around me. The monsoons made the gorgeous little hills glisten, a silent breeze and the sunshine together isn’t something you’re blessed to see everyday, but I wasn’t on a peace trip or a self exploration tour to enjoy this. The reason why I’m here, it is something serious, something scarier, something preventing the smile that would’ve crept up on my face.

“You’re awake so soon!”
Murli asked me with a amused expression on his face, slowly stirring that plastic chai cup in his hands. I nodded assuringly at him, to which he smiled back.

“Would you like to have some chai? Nothing can beat the taste of our Indian trains’s chai!”
He beamed at me.
I smiled slowly at him, which he took as an yes and smiled back at me more happily. He handed me a plastic cup half-filled with chai, which I gladly accepted and later handed him some chillars for it.

“What Sir?
You don’t need to repay me for small things like this.
You’ve helped me with bigger things which I could never repay!
I almost thought we had father and son kind of relationship going on!”
He gave me a playfully-hurt look to me.

Now, don’t play these mind games with me! Just get the money already!”
I said in a deadly firm tone, narrowing my eyes at him.
It was true that I saw him as my own son, but I wasn’t the kind of man who knew to show people how much I actually cared for them. ‘Maybe thats why your own son left you.’ My conscience told me, I ignored it, just like I always did.

“For a second there, I thought you were a  nice person.” Murli mumbled to himself wryly.

As playful and childish this nineteen year old appears to be, he was more than a ‘child’.

The society divided people onto two classes, ‘The rich’ and ‘The poor’. He belonged to neither of them.
Maybe somewhere, in the thin line between these two classes was where he belonged. The rich were the people who had enough sources to not worry about tomorrow’s survival. The poor were simply the opposite of the rich.

By money, Murli was richer than me and anyone I knew, but he did have to worry about his survival the next day. And that’s simply what made these boys different.

They all had the same story, my boy no different.  Sons of well off fathers and forefathers, yet they chose to live on streets. Independence, they called it. I never quite got the motive behind it.

“Ravi is a nice boy sir”
Murli smiled, breaking off the silence which lurched from nowhere.

“I raised him.
I know well enough about him.” My ego replied.

“You didn’t sir.. That’s why he came here..” Murli mumbled faintly.

I pretended to not have heard that. I did. I did knew I’m the reason my boy ran away from his own home. I knew the reality. My boy, who had enough guts to handle the scariest,  sin and hunger filled streets of Mumbai, didn’t have enough courage to handle his own father. Was I that scary? Is that how much I’ve terrified my own son? Sure, his examination results were important to me, but how can they get more important than him to me? Why did he fail to realize this? Why did he choose this poverty flourished,  hunger glorified lifestyle?

“You’re not a bad man sir.”
Murli spoke out of nowhere, like he had heard my thoughts.

I gave him a blank stare.

“You’re not a bad man sir.”
He repeated.
“You just act that way.”

I blinked. He was right. I failed to come up with anything back to him.

“You’re soft and sensitive sir.
Under this hard and stubborn exterior. Ravi just failed to bring your soft side out.”

“Why did you leave your home?”
I shot back. Something I promised myself during the start of this journey was to never get involved in this boy’s life, but I couldn’t help it anymore.

He laughed dryly.

“Did your parents abuse you?”
I asked. What could’ve possibly happened to a boy,  with one such a mature mind, that he decides to leave his home?

A one word faint reply came from him.

Not wanting to pester him more,  I let my curiosity down and turned towards the windowsill, gently pushing away the rain drops at the edges of those iron bars with my dry fingers.

“I was born in Bangalore. ”
Murli suddenly spoke.

I turned towards him suddenly, making him pause for a second. I then motioned him to speak again.

“No siblings. Single child. ”
He started.

“My father was a very rich man.
So was grandfather, so was his father. The money’s been there for generations.

My mom wasn’t a rich woman unlike them, but she was smart and educated. Appa fell in love with her, for she was intellectual and charming.
They got married and I was born.

When I was 13 Amma started getting sick.
At the start of her illness, Appa took very good care of her.
But as her health started declining, his morals started declining.
His alcohol addictions and extramarital affairs put me on rage.

So after mom died, I decided there was nothing else to cherish there.
Home was not that Bunglaow we lived, it was Amma, appa and something I called a family.  When I lost both of them to life, I decided there was no use inhaling bricks and stones, instead of…instead of.. Love.
I didn’t just have a family anymore,  I was denied of love.

So I just chose to walk off..”

It took me long enough to come with a response. This boy was hardly 15 or 16, yet that child’s eyes bore so much pain.

For a minute there, I saw my own son in him.

I did something that surprised myself. I hugged him tight. The boy suddenly burst out crying, hugging me back tighter. That moment, I felt enlightened. I knew where exactly I went wrong in raising my son.
I realized all he needed was not a guard, it was a dad.

We didn’t speak anything after that. Murli took me to Ravi’s place. A small rusted and old, leaking shutter where two average weighted humans could fit in. For people like me, it was hard to even peep inside.

I knocked the rusted iron door.’ Ravi’ came out. He was shocked, he dropped whatever his hands held upon, his eyes teared up.

He took in long breaths. Words failed to come out from his mouth. He opened his mouth gasping, while his eyes blurred up with water, yet, he was smiling.

“Have you gone dumb already?” I scolded playfully, my cheeks felt sticky, that’s when I realized I’ve unaware of my own tears.

He pounced on me, hugging me tight. The last time I hugged him was the day he was born where I hugged him tight against my chest, while his tiny fingers held my thumb. Under normal circumstances, I, the great so and so, would’ve not let my boy touch me .’Crying was for the weak.’ I’d have scolded him.
But here I was, crying for the first time in my own life.

His soft and delicate arms were coal black and rough. For hours, I listened to my son share his terrible work experiences in that dreadful chemical factory where he handled the hot iron plates bare handed.
At home my wife would be grunting all day about how her baby’s hands will hurt writing long homework. She would lose her mind if she were to see him today.

I kept his palm inside mine looked at him and smiled. He was very dark, dirty and shabby.
We washed him for hours. Clothed him neatly. I realized, he had gotten so skinny by now.

“Do you even eat?”

“Yes.” One faint murmur came.

“How many meals?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

He looked at Murli before answering “One time a day.”

“What do you do with the money you earn?”
This time I turned towards Murli and asked.

“We eat a meal on it sir. Half goes on our living.
We lend the rest, to people worser than us. “

“Is it even possible for people to live on worser conditions than this?”
I openly wondered.

“Unfortunately,  yes sir. Take a walk down these streets if you doubt my words. ”
Murli assured me.

I knew he wasn’t lying.

“Do you want to come back home?”
I asked my son.

“Take him sir. ”
Murli replied instead of Ravi.
And that made it.

I took my son, Ranga, named after my father,  the proud old Navy officer, Ranganathan, who lived by the name Ravi here, to our own home. It took months for him to settle back, to his normal life. But our father son relationship was never the same anymore. It was better, so was my now adult son. He’d got enough experience in life to provide his father the security, he haf longed all these years, to give to his family.

Years later,

On a trip to Bangalore, I happened to meet Murli’s father coincidentally. Who then realized his mistakes and was living a pathetic life, praying for his son to come back. Never have I ever broke a promise, Never have I ever unkept my words, but by then I decided to break a promise i made to myself and Murli by taking him back to his father.

He wasn’t initially happy with my decision. But when he saw his reformed, guilt struck father in crippling depression, crying for his son, he melted.
His father got his son back, Murli got his family back. And I, I got an immense pleasure on getting to see this happen.

Murli is a multimillionaire today. He’s got an empire under him. 20 years later I remember reading an article about him, and it stating how he easily had got it all in life, to which he had simply replied

Well, you haven’t lived my life.”

Maybe the lost boys are still there. Somewhere running around the slums of Bombay, almost killing themselves slowly each day for the purpose of bare survival. I don’t know if they do exist anymore. Neither do I want to know.


I asked, for a new world
Where tears give solutions to my insomniac nights,
And feelings tend to remain happy,
Where deserts turned into seashores,
And dryness transcended into saline waves.
Where sand turned to stardust,
Shining through the middle of the dark nights,
Bright and lustrous, to dig my petty feet deep inside.
A tiny pleasure it gave.
And where only mortals ceased
And humanity lived, those doves flew spreading the peace
Where speech failed and we all wrote,
Cowardice of social interaction and those fear of fellow humans died;
Where happiness and pain
Both yielded smiles, not wet, sticky cheeks.
Where everyone was beautiful,
In the brains and the hearts,
And Magics and myths came to life,
Myths like equality and peace too,
And where birds flew,
Spreading colourful glitters all around.
Where humans failed to decipher
Those face of others, and smell those scents.
Where ‘ugly’ was just a word, with failed senses
And confidence oozed into our nerves.
Where we all saw a bright future,
Stabbing insecurity countless times
At its back, betraying the very cause of betrayal.
In the deserted path of life I kept walking,
It all felt somewhere near my reach,
Like the horizon seems, but untrue to your deceptive gaze,
Mirage it was.
I chose to be fooled,
And lived in hope.


Fitting in

Growing up my biggest problem was, fitting in. I have depreciated myself so badly to earn acceptance.

Let me introduce you to me,

  • I’m weird, (you’ll know how)
  • Meh
  • Loud but introverted 
  • Inattentive  
  • Careless 
  • Too deep 
  • Has zero humor sense 

The only way I can make someone laugh is by letting them laugh at how weird or lame I am, or just by being me. Trust me, I tried getting more attentive, BUT IT JUST DOESNT WORK THAT WAY! I tried googling, asking people, trying to be more focused, NOTHING WORKS. I can’t just control my mouth, or be attentive. 

So yeah, Hi, this is me. Deal with it. Or walk away. It might sound selfish to you, but try living your life like this once. Love yourself before you could love anyone else. If being yourself keeps you happy (Eh, who are you bluffing for, IT WILL) just do it. 

If you have the ability to love, love yourself first. _ Charles Bukkowski

Like always the drunk old dirty man was right. 

They called you weird? Congratulations. You’re not one of the masked ‘normal’ ones. They called you complicated, maybe you’re too simple for them. They called you crazy, maybe they’re too normal. 

Love yourself. More than you could love anyone or anything. You deserve all the love you can give. Try appreciating the little beauty people fail to appreciate in you. The beauty which you probably always hid inside you, the real you which might be something most people might have not wanted to have seen. But it’s you. And if this is what keeps you going. Screw the world. Be you. As simple it sounds, it’s the mantra we fail to do. 

The final question. How did I even fit in at the end? I don’t know if I did. Honestly, I just accepted me and started loving me for what I was. So who cares if I did or not? :p 

Taramani,  a bliss (A) 

  • Disclaimer: This is not a review, I’m not wise enough to review a movie either.  This is just my opinion on this movie,  you might either agree with me or not.  That depends on you.

I loved this movie. The best part about the movie was the sarcastic narration the director has undertook. Hats off to your ‘statuses’  director Ram.  

The next best thing about this movie was the script.  THE DIALGOUES!! Visual metaphors and what not man!! 

Not only does the plot revolve around Andrea and Vasanth, it’s key is what the movie is named after,  Taramani.  

The two lead actors, (ANDREA MARRY ME!  I’LL SWIM AROUND WITH DOLPHINS,  knowing me I might drown and die but still IT’S ANDREA BRUHHH) both of them has taken the movie to a different level. They justify the non stereotyped roles given to them.  Not a place where I could point out a cliche happening,  or before I could, Ram himself comes to the scene. 

Quirks of the movie :

  1.  Andrea’s reaction to her ‘respectable’ boss,  with a happy married life and a fourteen year old daughter,  calling himself “Oh I’m just a flirt.” with zero guilt ( a reflection of quite a few men today)  tells how much of a matured actor she is. Now don’t you dare go ‘not all men’ on me.(Rolls eyes)
  2. Demonitisation joke, that was a thug life moment yo! 
  3. That essay Adrian wrote, for some reason I felt he was the most mature character that’s been sketched out in this movie. 
  4. I don’t think anyone else could’ve showed homosexuality in a more mature way.  Once again kudos to Ram.  
  5. The beautiful aerial shots and a no drama screenplay. 

      Personally,  my favorite character of this movie was the Police man’s wife.  No cliches,  I saw a lot of women I saw growing up,  in her. Every bit of her screamed reality.  She wasn’t a exaggeration, like art itself is.  The part where she defends reading books, the write up feels right out of the heart, it didn’t,  for a moment feel like it was from her,  it felt more like the writer’s plea. 

      Personal favorites

      1. “Who drank all this? ” ” My dad.. “
      2. ” I might me Sita and he might be Razvan but you are not Ram.” 

      I’m not wise enough to review any movie,  all of this is just my appreciation poured out on a good movie.  Peace out yo. 

      Decline of a weirdo: Self acceptance to masking it

      I was weird. I was always the weird kid. Back then at childhood I was kind of a loner but it never even struck me until I grew up that I was weird and I have been weird all my life.

      So what exactly was this “weird“? In my case , I was always preoccupied with thoughts, I talked to myself, (I respect me, and whenever I need opinion who else can I ask for if not Miss.Dalai Lama herself. ) I involuntarily ignored whatever that was happening around me (Basically to your questions, or an attempt to make a conversation with me it’d take me atleast 3 nudges to process that you’re talking to me)  I had zero attentivity span as I always had other things in mind, I had questions almost on everything and anything, I was a curious child and the last thing that made people cringe at me, Being happy. 

      Isn’t that all what we want?! Who wouldn’t like a happy child?!

      Sorry to break it to you. But well, not really. We all find happy people annoying. As a kid everything excited me, almost everything made me happy, I was happy for the most lamest reasons. Holiday?! *Happy* Holiday cancelled?! *Still Happy*  More food?! *Happy* No food at all *Also happy* TV crashes *Happy* New TV comes in *Again happy* Good smelling socks *Happy* Unpolished,ugly shoes that could potentially get me killed by my Physical training teacher * Blehh bleh blehh Happy*.  Point is, everything made me happy. I was once a wild optimist and everything looked happy to me. What would annoy people is, my happiness at things I shouldn’t be happy at, things that normal people won’t be happy at. But well, I was and that made me weird for them. That made me complicated.

      Despite of no one acknowledging my existence, I knew I might be good at some things. I belived in me. I didn’t know what I was good in. Growing up, I realize things might’ve turned out diffrent, if there was this one teacher, like in Taare Zameen Par to bring out some talent in me, there are Aamir Khans out there, but none of us actually mind the “average” kid. She neither tops, nor fails, she’s just there, somewhere, doing her thing so we all tend to forget her existence.

      I was 16 when I realized I loved writing, but it was too late as I have already fallen prey to the hands of the dreaded Maths and Biology group of our TamilNadu stateboard. I was in eleventh grade I was writing deep 7 paged poetry of a long lost, distant and painfully seperated love, with some drawings in a boring (well, to me) physics lecture. Neither had I experienced one such love in love, nor was I even remotely a romatic person. One of my friends borrowed my notes and she was astounded. It took her one whole actual minute to realize what I have done the whole class, she just couldn’t belive that it came out of my mind. The mind is capable of tremendous potentials. That is the day I knew, what made me weird is what that gave me a talent. It was my imagination. Back then, it didn’t look like a big deal to me, I just wrote down what I saw in mind, (it still feels the same, I’d still say anyone can write if you try). I’ve always had this mental image of poem writing people as intellectuals and people who looked smart and neat, not as “me”s who were clumsy, weird and a not-fit-ins. After that I tried writing more, I realized I was actually kind of good at this. I, the weird kid, the loner, the averager in everything, was actually kind of good at something in life. Best feeling ever.

      Ahh old memories! I still jumped around with happiness that day.

      Years later today,( I’m 18 today, not like it’s been 86 years, but well I’ve joined college and one year’s already gone) I realise I might’ve been actually good at a lot of things. I was exceptionally good at remembering history, I was pretty good at economics and politics too. But after 10th faded out even the tiniest chances of learning history. No one back at home even told me that there was a seperate group for humanities after tenth, it was funny, very funny, for a school to be named as the most prestigious school in my hometown, and no one even educated me on what career options I was left with other than medicine and engineering. I can’t blame this entirely on my school, but honestly I tried my best too, I went to education fairs and a few career guidance councilors. But under the pressure of school’s numerous exams neither I couldn’t spend much time on these, nor could I pester my parents to aid me financially for events like this. I was left there all alone, with no big options, no big ideas about the future, but very determined to set foot on writing. And thats where the journey started. With nothing, but will.

      **To be continued