Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Sweater Weather

September 03, 2015
02:43 AM

Bring back the laughter so I can box it, stamp your name on it and tuck it away...
Bring back the weather, that monsoon, my second guessing self stealing glances at you since forever...
Bring back the courage you gathered to hold my hand and flaunt me as your precious little treasure...
But before all that, just stay real close, I'm shivering cold, be my favorite sweater...

P.S. Writing prompt of the day: the cute little flutter in the sound of the word 'sweater'.

Previously posted on Facebook via my account.

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

Image source: Google Images

Flame shot

He liked his scotch neat. Sometimes straight up. He would let it stay around, talking, grabbing some munchies, gradually letting the alcohol absorb and building up for subsequent rounds. He let the molecules play with his taste buds, almost like a long conversation happening every time the glass left his lips. There was some heat, yes, but this is what every other drink could get him. He is always looking for something that can engage him, keep him guessing. Every time the back of his throat burns, he loves the way it almost starts a wildfire in his heart. He himself has no idea what the next sip would bring. The first sip may remind him of his first kiss. The one he stole sharing a piece of chocolate with his cute crush back in grade 7. While his nose is all absorbed in the citrus vanilla aroma, his soul is doing somersaults in the chocolate haven mouth of his. And then it descends down the throat and burns like a hundred suns, a million heartbreaks all at once. "Where's the orange?", he thinks to himself 'cause there is a subtle tangerine-ish tingle to this burning. He lets it trickle further more, like the first set of tears when she left him; this is one cascade he controls. Oh the taste! There's a party in his heart and a bonfire in his mouth. His voice slurs a little saying her name, his eyes could put embers to shame. Smoke! It's finally hitting home, he presumes. This should be the last taste it will leave him with, the smoky sweet caramel gift to the palate, the warm fuzzy love-like at heart.

She liked her tequila neat. Never in a cocktail. Never staying on the table for long. If it's here, it will be sculled down, with or without lemon slices. Food can wait. She never had the time. She never really gave it much time or thought. Her pointers were clear: the instant numb, the meteor-in-my-throat burn, the vanishing memories, the light-headed happy she. Don't laugh when she begins to define it as "evolved" instead of "aged". The more evolved the drink, the more unevolved she begins to act, which mostly involves translating Spanish names on the Tequila bottles to English followed by crazy uncontrollable laughter; "Casa Noble Añejo" is an old/mature noble house. Depth of flavor eventually comes around. It hits you like a truck in the middle of freeway. A few such happy accidents and she is practically floating mid-air, refusing to be normal, rather questioning normalcy.

It was one usual day at the bar. They stepped in to escape the rain. She was cold. He was nervous. It was just the two of them today.

He ordered his usual. She ordered her usual.

"Wanna try something new?", he looked deep in her eyes and asked.
"Sure", she said, passing her shots to him in exchange.
"Remember, this is not a shot. Take it slow. Give it time", he smiled.
She smiled.

It's been three years and now she understands. She didn't just switch drinks that evening. She switched the way she loved things, people. She became what he is with his drink: patient. What was always head-first, urgent and sculled down, with or without lemon slices, became almost like a long conversation happening every time his eyes met hers. She now waited to let it grow on her for she knew what followed was a party in her heart and a bonfire in her soul. This should be the last feeling in her heart before it stops beating, the warm fuzzy love-like one.

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

Image source: Google Images

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Can't kill this sparkle

Never did I know,
I had learned your freckles
the way children learn constellations in Astronomy
Or the lines in your hands
the way people know their way home.

Never did I think,
even in passing,
I would have to learn to live through skipped beats and sighs
in the mere mention of your name and not by looking into your eyes
Or that some morning you would find yourself unknowingly humming the tune to my favorite song
while oceans apart I toss in bed with hiccups.

Never did we stop and see,
What we had once, possessed the power to raise castles in dust
and the love I loved you with would make you coming back to me in some way or the other
Or that after we crumple and burn each other in our hearts
our hands would forever hold crushed stars to the world we once started creating.

Never really.
Until now.

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

Monday, June 1, 2015


So you did exactly what your heart asked of you
You picked her up, that mess of a little rebel she was and placed,
a tiara of hope on her head
some embers in her eyes
watch her bleed poetry
and bloody beautifully so.

Day after day
There she lay painting pictures of you in lights her world might never see
Who said it has to happen to be able to live it?
She could walk the blindfolded you through the roads she traversed
a thousand years in those numbered days
and gleefully so.

Do you remember her?
If you do, what about her?
Do you miss that innocent face of her while she sleeps?
Hard to believe what a mini-monster she is in the day, ain't it?
I eavesdrop her every now and then talking to herself about you in her sleep
and smilingly so.

I like the slope of her waist
and how the ice cube glides on it making her toss around and hug me
But I'm not sure how to feel about her
Were you?
I wish you were
and honestly so.

The long happy honey waves she wore are short to a grim pixie now
When was the last time you saw her?
Did she smile?
Of course she would have
then left it right there with you
and willfully so.

Steam rises and she walks out with a towel crowning her head
Everyday she scrubs some part of you off of her
or so she thinks.
And every time she closes her eyes
she remembers the spokes in your iris
and vividly so.

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Coffee diaries

Time introduces things and gives you an impression that you are the one choosing. It builds you up making you believe that you are the one who gets to choose the color of the ink your destiny will be written in, the perfume your senses would wake up to as if you are born again and the gaze that will tear you down or build you up.

False. It's just an impression. Time handles it all anyway. It just rolls the credits well in time for you to know what all is going to be there, either for a while or for the entire lifetime.

But then again, some choices are left to you.

Like taking that first step off your porch in the rain, picking hydrangea instead of rose, preferring bitter dark chocolate over milk chocolate, ordering salad dressing on the side, reading your favorite book with torch light under covers when you have state-of-the-art kindle on your desk and who among the world you chose to love and be loved by.

It looks tempting. The way colors go around in a whirl when you stir it is beautiful. But that first sip is bitter of all the bitter put together. Now that's black coffee #101 for newbie. You keep the mug aside and vow to never try it again. There is stays on the counter-top for minutes while you go about doing your chores.

And then you pass by it and choose, "Let me try again" and sip it.

"NO! Never!", you say making a disgusted face. But you don't really put the mug down. And you sip it again. And again. And yet again. It's a new taste and hence is taking its time to grow onto you.

When you put the empty mug down, you already know it was worth the try (unless of course you just somehow went bottoms-up with it and didn't really like it or you are a tea person. In that case the argument stands for black tea w/o milk or sugar).

Black coffee is different.

And you choose it.

So is love.

You know it's bitter.

But you take the next sip anyway.

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

image source:

Vanishing seconds

January 09, 2015
01:31 PM

Sometimes even the most coherent thoughts lay unavowed
Cos the best fit words we can't find
We sit in silence; hands clasped, heads bowed
Letting it all slowly seep in but not voice it out to remind...

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

P.S. Previously posted on Facebook under the new pen name 'Encee'.

image source: self clicked

Days like this...

January 07, 2015
09:34 AM

Another sunrise
Some more wishful thinking
Another sunset
And a string of memories made, sealed, packed away!

© 2015 Neha Choudhry

P.S. Previously posted on Facebook.