Quill, Write Ups

Happy Birthday to Us

Aah… So we’re here, to our own surprise too.

So, just the way each one of us dies in wait of our birthdays to arrive even when we are brutally exposed to the truth summoner- the calendar which says with utmost inhumanity and emotionless gestures in the gravest possible voice, “Still over three months to go, daft.” We were no exception either.

And poor, teary-eyed, us- are left with no other option but to stare at the slipping sand just as nonchalant and graceless as its motion.

While the weirdest part is even after realizing our actions, the moment the hour strikes, we all jounce as if we were oblivious all this time, and the moment had occurred spontaneously.

Now, since I’ve clarified that the fundamental was but the same, allow me to proceed.

Well, it doesn’t really seem like twelve months already. And if I were to reminiscent, The Pocket Diaries was just another idea scribbled down on a random page of a random notebook, claiming itself to be the greatest concept ever.

And to be very honest, even I felt that it was just another blog that I’d put up run for a month or two and abandon. As if it was destined to face the same fate that former members of ‘attempt to be the greatest poet ever’ faced (a bit too realistic ;P). The good part, being, I realized that this dream wasn’t to be achieved alone.

Having access to wisest company- Nitesh Gaba- the one who gave form to this random scribble of mine, it didn’t take us long to manifest our dream – adrenaline rush is quite a thing.

Me, the ‘randomest’ guy, texts another ‘random poet’ on Instagram if she wishes to collaborate. Actually no, Puja Vardhan, isn’t a random poet, she has a distinctness of her own. Getting back, we have a good chat, doubts are cleared, the webpage is ready, posts are up and exactly at 10:52 p.m. of 31st of October, my birthday, I spread the links out.

Honestly, there is nothing special in the day- 1st of November, I just thought it would be cool, to get to celebrate and party for two consecutive days.

Now, the weird thing happens. The webpage actually starts to get some good responses. Suddenly, AdSense approves the account, Analytics shows a count of over 5K webpage views in a mere span of 53 days. And me, a boy who was 15 a couple of days back, starts to feel super important. I start building a proper team, I start taking seminars in local schools, I am coaching over 150 kids roughly of the same age, whoa… a proper fairytale, rather a Viking dream. Efforts and results.

Well, since everything was going as if scripted by a Bollywood writer, it was certain that I create a bubble around me. A bubble in which stood the mighty master. The weirdest part was, no one could prick my bubble. The wisest arrows carrying the lesson of humility shot at me- I cut each of them with my swords of pride. Failed, yet victorious, experience glared at me in sympathy and disgust as well, let’s call it my conscience as if saying “Beta, non-med lete time bhi meri baat nahi maani thi na, khud sochle ab.”

Well, guess what, I lost. And certainly, I was the happiest when it happened. The bubble, the invincible bubble was never pricked. That victory was my loss. I grew tired of it, tired of not being myself. Humility started dawning, the sense was coming back, the wisdom rose back, and conscience, my split personality said, “Lautke buddhu gharko aae.”

The bubble was never pricked, it was dissolved in its own toxicity.

If you try to live too early, you don’t live too well.

I launched my book later, T.P.D crossed 10K views, its audience was now over 20 countries wide, and watching myself in the newspapers became normal for a couple of days. I was happy…

I was just happy.

An underrated, yet an invincible statement.

A year of The Pocket Diaries, made me realize, it was never me. I am just a messenger. I don’t own TPD, it is in fact well above the possession of any single person. And what else could I have wished for? For me, and for probably all of us, T.P.D means love. And well, how could anyone possess love… After all,

Possession is the opposite of love.

An artist is the happiest when his art surpasses his own self.

I was wrong all this time, it was never Manan Verma- founder of the Pocket Diaries, it was always the opposite, The Pocket Diaries helped me find me.

Now, well since it was such a good script, you can find me sitting on the last bench, smiling like a stupid, writing poetry in the structures of benzene, reading, and cracking jokes. Naah… of course I haven’t turned into a ‘Sant’ retired from all the worldly desires… of course not, the passion burns like never before, the ‘josh’ is on its high. Backed with experience, a catalog of mistakes, I am proud of, and a sense of relief by improving on each.

Cheers to this amazing journey, the team, Kriti, Puja, Artman, Armaan, Nandini, Ehshaan, Sanya, Tanishq, Shria and a lot lot more.

Having all of you, your talents represented and showcased, nothing makes an artist happier.

I love you all…

Quill, Write Ups

About Reading And Books

To be very honest my reading style is a little (read: very) complex. Although I read almost every book I come across, only a few stay with me for a long time. I love to read fictions first of all, fictions that are set in indian contexts are perfect but in that too I can’t stand Chetan Bhagat novels (although I am guilty of reading them too). I guess I like books that have a certain connect in them, that are relatable to the real life. I completely adore the writing style of Ruskin Bond, the way he describes a situation or a context is like you can imagine the scene right in front of you. I have ‘Ruskin Bond Children Omnibus’ which I got in class 5th and I have read and re-read it. ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ is another one that is so simple yet so beautiful. How can I forget R.K Narayan, I have his ‘Swami And Friends’ by heart now and the Malgudi Days (though I lost the hard copy of this one) too. Then Short Stories by Gulzar, ‘Lamb To My Slaughter’ by Roald Dahl are a few of others that I enjoyed reading. Overall I think if you describe the Indian streets and bazaars beautifully and are able to paint a scene with your words, you’ll be my favorite author/book.

Brevity, Write Ups


Every now and then, I brush off the dust that tenderly settles on the keys of the piano. Impressions of your fingers tips are still printed on them. It seems as if the dust particles have been caressing them much longer than I have.  I am standing in front of our piano right now, its weak legs are almost on the verge of giving up but not just yet. Its teak frame reminds me of your collarbones that were deliciously highlighted every time you wore your red satin dress. The creaking sounds of the chair you sat on for hours reminds me of the first time you decided against what was wise and held my hand firmly, like you were never not gonna hold it in the warmth of your hands. I lay down on the floor, feeling the surface of the hard marble floor underneath the table. I press my face flat on the floor where your feet continuously tapped on as you played rhythms of your heart. My hands roam in circles around the shiny floor just like they wandered around your chubby body discovering the  insecurities that stained your smile everyday. I sit upright and rest my face on the foamy cushion of your piano chair. The way I’m sitting hurts me to the limit where numb becomes a trait that is used to describe my body.I believe that a little more would help me succeed in silencing my aching heart. I do selfishly hope though, that the tunes of ‘Claire de Lune’, that you played the last summer night we were together hits my ears, one last time.

Quill, Write Ups

Unanswered Questions

Unlike the questions which have a definite, set answer, you my dear, are a mix of uncertainty, unpredictability. And of course, the guts I require to face you…phewww….. The questions left unanswered, on my blank answer sheet, on my text to him, in the eyes of my bestfriend, you always, always invoke a sense of guilt and repentance. A ‘what if?’  A never ending quest to find a answer, and running away from it at the same time. My dear, unanswered questions, you are a source of constant turmoil and an answer in yourself!!!

IDK if this makes sense or not 

Quill, Write Ups


It’s been a long time now, and I’d like to bring this up and for good. You were everything before you broke me. don’t say that I never tried , because everytime I tried to forgive your mistakes , you stabbed my heart mercilessly. I tried to hold on. I tried to stay and maybe one day you’ll feel my void , you’ll yearn for my voice and you’ll look for me everywhere, but you won’t be able to find me. Because you lost me. And trust me, for good.

Write Ups

Independence Day

As our flag flies high, it reminds us of our struggle to secure basic freedoms and rights. It reminds us of our promise to honour our nation and vest free from the shackles of jingoism and aggressive nationalism. It reminds us of the trust it has in our ability to live in peaceful co existence and harmony. It reminds us of the love it has for every citizen irrespective of caste, religion and class. This flag, it flies high with the aspirations of its citizens to strive towards their best version. It flies high with the dreams of millions of Indians.

Write Ups

The way I talk to myself

In 6 lines I write,
The pain and the disguise,
In my head lives a voice,
Neither good nor bad,
Does it keep me alive,
Or does it leave me at a
stench of death

Quill, Write Ups


Maybe I sound like a hopeless sentimentalist who will be obsessed with tamasha for the rest of my life . And without any qualms about it , I will continue obsessing over it . Or maybe I belong to that 2% of millennials who understood tamasha .
Everyone thinks this story is about Tara and all those years . But somewhere I feel it is more of Ved’s story . And every Ved needs a Tara in his life . Maybe I’m more like Ved than Tara that’s why I think like this . I remember not watching this movie for almost a year because some friends gave bad reviews about it and said it’s boring and time wasting story . So almost after a year , one afternoon I was so bored , I decided to watch tamasha . And when I watched it for the first time I thought it’s all about Tara ,But it’s not .

I connect more to Ved . We are same . When he said ” andar se Kuch aur hi hai hum , aur bahar se majboor ” , I felt him . Just like him , everytime I’m confused or sad I find myself infront of mirror , repeating same things which caused me pain or I can say discomfort in the first place .
Just like him , I cry , I get annoyed , I get angry , I get mood swings and I can’t handle rejections .
And the character of Tara , she is the strength of the story and one of the best characters Bollywood can ever give us . And after three long years , I still listen to agar tum sath ho and wat wat wat on a daily basis . It’s a part of my life . Even when I’m writing this , agar tum sath ho is playing in background . Everytime I listen to this song , a line comes which is ” Tum Saath Ho Ya Na Ho Kya Fark Hai , Bedard Thi Zindagi Bedard Hai ” I get goosebumps . I don’t know why , but I do . I’m a lot more like Ved and lot less like Tara . But it’s okay , I got my Tara .
© Puja Vardhan

Quill, Write Ups


I can hear you.

I can hear your ragged breathing as you sit beside me and whisper in my ear to look at you. But I can’t. I would be beaten black and blue. Why can only I see you, I wonder?

You twist my arm and compel to turn my head and stare into your weary face. It hurts a lot. I break free and run towards my mother, she hits me hard and I fade away into a corner. These sensations pick at my skin and fill my ear with mumbles and cries, delusions of dead bodies and spies, push me into a dark tunnel where hopelessness resides. If only, someone could me help me.

Our mind is a labyrinth, long passages leading to the nebula of emotions and thoughts, a farrago of ideas. But when our mind is ill, our lives can turn 360 degrees. Mental health, unfortunately, can’t be locked in a box and thrown into a deep lake. It is bound to resurface, a burning issue in today’s world, affecting people of all age groups. But our society and its brigade of conformists have shunned the depressed, maniacs and paranoid, they are considered to be a blot on our “perfect” society. This irrational behavior exhibits an innate fear; the fear of the unknown. As we commoners are unable to comprehend the complexities of our mind, we turn our back to these problems, afraid that it will end us up in an asylum. But the world tried to restore order, it engineered psychologists and psychiatrists, therapists and life coach to facilitate the understanding of the mind and help people with mental health issues. But what the world couldn’t augur is that these messiahs would be ostracized too. They are labeled as crazy people who treat crazier individuals. This has resulted in mental health being reduced to a taboo. But this has the capacity to strike back with greater force, mental health is like an obscurus, our bottled up emotions can wreak havoc in this world.

So, I would like to extend a hand, to those who have shut themselves to this world. i would like to knock at the bolted doors of your mind, pick you up and help you stand on your feet so that you can do the same for others.

After all, happiness can be found in the darkest times only if one remembers to turn on the light.