Essay: Papillons dans mon estomac.
Translated: Butterflies in my stomach



Ze Butterfly.

They're red in colour and they've been fluttering their flappy wings in my stomach since the sunny July of two OH ten.
Yes dear, that pink flush on my face is because of you.

I wanted to write profound lines about you and me. Like a Wordsworth-meets-lovestruck-Shakespeare epic poem of 200 verses. But, we all know that.. I can't.

So I decided to use the red butterfly metaphor. It's spontaneous, passionately red and unique, mostly like us?
(It's actually just a pretty butterfly but I PRONOUNCE IT all those things. Capiche?)

Mucho lou.
Excuse me for being out straight this time. Maybe this made you smile as well?
Also considering you are my only reader, it's a risk par excellence.

Zig. Zag. Zig. Zag.
Like taking the steering wheel of a car and going absolutely nuts moving it from right to left, left to right - like a little boy with his first plastic toy car.

I've been sitting in my plastic toy car for far too long, methinks.

Tomorrow I will make a detailed list of qualities that I can buy per kilogram. And finally visit the market, bargain a little with the uptight wholesalers who give you the elevator eyes, before they're convinced you're worth a makeover.

Then I will convert it all into a virtual superwoman suit, wear it, feel happy and face the world full frontal.

Until then, I'll circle in my whirlpool of Jamie Cullum, Corrine Ray Bailey and some good Ol' Dave Matthews, hoping to jazz up my spirits.

Today I'm hit by the regular hum-drum of an approaching winter existence, with colourful woolen socks and a post-diwali hogging hangover.
Getting sun-kissed by a half baked exposure to sunlight, I walk into a my temporary cubicle of densely scrutinized words, hoping to hopscotch my way into a sharp-toothed adult reality.

And I dream.

Sometimes I impart wisdom about how faith keeps us going, like a permanent treadmill that pretends to be your customized motivational speaker.

Admist my predictable climb of a life, I walk through my past clouds letting it shape my present decisions in a self-analytical fashion, praying the ladder doesn't break before I reach the top.

As I walk these walks, this unpredictable cyclone of love and passion sweeps my away and I don't know how to write about my next step. It's a beautiful detour, with the potential to be another pathway.
I don't know if it's the red bricks that attract me or the sheer joy and fear of walking on a cloud like medium - but I smile. I wonder if I can buy a manual somewhere.

Fear behold, this might be it.

I'm not a bad person.
Just fickle.


I have always been dreamy, like a small child with that little frilly doll on her mind. (Or action truck, whatever)

I am impulsive.
And I am romantic.
I fluctuate between being self critical and extremely lax.
But, don't we all?

And I have my fair share of irrational choices, honest interruptions and impulsively tainted decisions.
Just your average girl who runs through tunnels of emotions.

But you don't want these justifications.
You want to know why I make the same mistakes.
You only want to know why I am so complex.
It's simple. I try. I do wrong. I get beaten down. I learn. I implement.
I'm not a bad person.
I am just fickle.

I promise.
Maybe I need that sabbatical to Pondicherry afterall. Devoid of technology and a heart.
Maybe I can buy some stability?