Best BalconyLetters Shayari, Status, Quotes, Stories

Aruna Menon

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Realised that you are YQBaba rather late in life! I followed you because your #balconyletters fascinated me. Your site allows me to express any thoughts without the pressure or restriction of competition yet provides the daily impetus. Thanks for the likes on my quotes. Saluting you and YourQuote.in today ! #yqbaba #harshsnehanshu #arunawrites #ripplesnreflections

Realised that you are YQBaba rather late in life! I followed you because your #balconyletters fascinated me. Your site allows me to express any thoughts without the pressure or restriction of competition yet provides the daily impetus. Thanks for the likes on my quotes. Saluting you and YourQuote.in today ! #yqbaba #harshsnehanshu #arunawrites #ripplesnreflections

Harsh

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I'm taking a break from writing these balcony letters. I'm taking a break from writing about love. Too much of the same thing makes one's words lose their value. My Tinder bio at one time used to be, "I will write about you when you leave. But stay long enough first." That was a better state to be in because right now, my words are whirling my feelings. So much feels, man, that I hate myself. Mostly because it is still one-sided. I stand bare in this winter while you add cloaks of shawls and sweaters over your heart, muffling even those faint heartbeats that I had once heard. These words, initially written to convey, are now being written to understand what I feel. And what I feel isn't a great feeling. It's like standing in front of a mirror that doesn't reflect your visage. The truth is I'm taking a break from writing about you. I'm taking a break from writing to you. My love has not yet reached that stage of unconditionality where I can be happy without your reciprocity. How could it even be? It has yet to encounter your conditions and brave through them to find that bliss. Will you be kind enough to elaborate on the asterisk that stands between us and says "T&C apply"? Balcony Letter #35 Click #BalconyLetters to read all of them. Sort by the oldest.

I'm taking a break from writing these balcony letters. I'm taking a break from writing about love. Too much of the same thing makes one's words lose their value. My Tinder bio at one time used to be, "I will write about you when you leave. But stay long enough first." That was a better state to be in because right now, my words are whirling my feelings. So much feels, man, that I hate myself. Mostly because it is still one-sided. I stand bare in this winter while you add cloaks of shawls and sweaters over your heart, muffling even those faint heartbeats that I had once heard. These words, initially written to convey, are now being written to understand what I feel. And what I feel isn't a great feeling. It's like standing in front of a mirror that doesn't reflect your visage. The truth is I'm taking a break from writing about you. I'm taking a break from writing to you. My love has not yet reached that stage of unconditionality where I can be happy without your reciprocity. How could it even be? It has yet to encounter your conditions and brave through them to find that bliss. Will you be kind enough to elaborate on the asterisk that stands between us and says "T&C apply"? Balcony Letter #35 Click #BalconyLetters to read all of them. Sort by the oldest.

Harsh

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Today you say you have half-adopted me. What about the other half? I ask. You giggle and say, be positive, just like your blood group. I whine that the other half is shivering in the cold, feeling left out. You offer your muffler. Your sense of humour is infectious. I have to resort to my Bihari self to complement it, else my lameness would totally turn you off. I didn't anticipate meeting you today, else I'd have returned your lunchbox filled with tiny letters instead of chocolates. Now that I have spoilt the surprise, I'd rather fill it up with something else. Surprise surprise. Whatever it might be, trust that it will be half of what you expect. The other half will be the wait. Balcony letter #34 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Today you say you have half-adopted me. What about the other half? I ask. You giggle and say, be positive, just like your blood group. I whine that the other half is shivering in the cold, feeling left out. You offer your muffler. Your sense of humour is infectious. I have to resort to my Bihari self to complement it, else my lameness would totally turn you off. I didn't anticipate meeting you today, else I'd have returned your lunchbox filled with tiny letters instead of chocolates. Now that I have spoilt the surprise, I'd rather fill it up with something else. Surprise surprise. Whatever it might be, trust that it will be half of what you expect. The other half will be the wait. Balcony letter #34 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Harsh

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On our sixth meeting, you relate how it takes just 21 times to get habituated to anything. You don't want me to turn into a habit. You don't have the mindspace. I joke that like high-rise apartments jump from the 12th to 14th floor, we will skip the 21st meet for the 22nd. No 21 meets, no habits. You ignore my lameness, thankfully. Your restraint lingers in the air between us. Even after two days since our last meeting, your aversion to new habits itches me every time I face the mirror. Like a wiry eyelash that enters one's eyes and pokes it throughout the day without being discovered, the hitch chokes me every time I think of texting you. Would I seem chep? Would you cut off whatever little there is? Its uncertainty makes me cautious. On the one hand, I want to become a habit, on the other hand I don't wish to lose the fond friendship that I have found in you & come to cherish. Cluelessness, my word of the month. What if habits are formed much before the 21st? What if it has merely been six meetings & I cannot stop writing you a letter every night while you're asleep. I'm relishing this new habit. The habit of beginning your day with a well-meant letter cannot be too bad. Is it? Balcony Letter #33 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

On our sixth meeting, you relate how it takes just 21 times to get habituated to anything. You don't want me to turn into a habit. You don't have the mindspace. I joke that like high-rise apartments jump from the 12th to 14th floor, we will skip the 21st meet for the 22nd. No 21 meets, no habits. You ignore my lameness, thankfully. Your restraint lingers in the air between us. Even after two days since our last meeting, your aversion to new habits itches me every time I face the mirror. Like a wiry eyelash that enters one's eyes and pokes it throughout the day without being discovered, the hitch chokes me every time I think of texting you. Would I seem chep? Would you cut off whatever little there is? Its uncertainty makes me cautious. On the one hand, I want to become a habit, on the other hand I don't wish to lose the fond friendship that I have found in you & come to cherish. Cluelessness, my word of the month. What if habits are formed much before the 21st? What if it has merely been six meetings & I cannot stop writing you a letter every night while you're asleep. I'm relishing this new habit. The habit of beginning your day with a well-meant letter cannot be too bad. Is it? Balcony Letter #33 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Harsh

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The two of us have reached that stage where less words say a lot but still their exact meaning eludes us. Perhaps, that's why when we were lingering for the extra hour we stole from this day, we didn't really converse. It was mostly my familial monologue complemented by your quiet interest, as if I were talking to the mountains. Unlike the walls that reflect, mountains absorb. So did you. I egged you to tell me what you were thinking. Nothing, you said. Your brown eyes conveyed otherwise. You might not have been thinking but were definitely feeling something. I could see through that twinkle. Conscious, I asked if I bored you with my quintessential family saga. "No, I'd tell you if you bore." Serious, point blank, unlike your fun selfie clicking avatar I witnessed during the day. "What do you do with guys you usually take selfies with?" I asked, moving away the spotlight from myself. "I take selfies with everyone. Very few end up becoming my DP," you smirked. I worried. Did I actually bore you? Eluded by meaning once again, I humoured, "YourQuote it." Faux smiles passed & the meaning was lost into ether until ... I returned home. I must have terribly bored you. I'm your DP now. Balcony letter 32 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation. Requesting fellow writers not to post their quotes with this hashtag as I have been working on this series with the same name for 3 months now.

The two of us have reached that stage where less words say a lot but still their exact meaning eludes us. Perhaps, that's why when we were lingering for the extra hour we stole from this day, we didn't really converse. It was mostly my familial monologue complemented by your quiet interest, as if I were talking to the mountains. Unlike the walls that reflect, mountains absorb. So did you. I egged you to tell me what you were thinking. Nothing, you said. Your brown eyes conveyed otherwise. You might not have been thinking but were definitely feeling something. I could see through that twinkle. Conscious, I asked if I bored you with my quintessential family saga. "No, I'd tell you if you bore." Serious, point blank, unlike your fun selfie clicking avatar I witnessed during the day. "What do you do with guys you usually take selfies with?" I asked, moving away the spotlight from myself. "I take selfies with everyone. Very few end up becoming my DP," you smirked. I worried. Did I actually bore you? Eluded by meaning once again, I humoured, "YourQuote it." Faux smiles passed & the meaning was lost into ether until ... I returned home. I must have terribly bored you. I'm your DP now. Balcony letter 32 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation. Requesting fellow writers not to post their quotes with this hashtag as I have been working on this series with the same name for 3 months now.

Harsh

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This time, Delhi's winter has brought along with it embers to warm my heart. In our touch, slight and intimate, I have felt its heat. Temperature has never been my friend. Be it the sultry summer that simmers me into steam or the Himalayan cold that sends me into shivers post every sunset. Today, when she drove us into the greener and much colder JNU campus for dinner, I groaned how my sweater wasn't enough for me to not tremble. She took off her muffler and urged me to wrap it around my neck. It helped. My teeth didn't crackle thereon. Besides, it smelled of her. An hour later, in the movie theatre, they blew the A.C. right on top of our heads. She started to shiver a little. I returned half of her muffler to her, which she twirled around her neck and part of her face. A sniff later, she said, "It smells of you; it is nice." It smells of you rather, I replied, our necks conjoined by a magical piece of wool that smelled of the one one was fond of. At this hour, while I am wrapped in a blanket in search of sleep, I crave for her muffler. It's much colder without it. So cold that my nose is blocked. Balcony letter #31 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

This time, Delhi's winter has brought along with it embers to warm my heart. In our touch, slight and intimate, I have felt its heat. Temperature has never been my friend. Be it the sultry summer that simmers me into steam or the Himalayan cold that sends me into shivers post every sunset. Today, when she drove us into the greener and much colder JNU campus for dinner, I groaned how my sweater wasn't enough for me to not tremble. She took off her muffler and urged me to wrap it around my neck. It helped. My teeth didn't crackle thereon. Besides, it smelled of her. An hour later, in the movie theatre, they blew the A.C. right on top of our heads. She started to shiver a little. I returned half of her muffler to her, which she twirled around her neck and part of her face. A sniff later, she said, "It smells of you; it is nice." It smells of you rather, I replied, our necks conjoined by a magical piece of wool that smelled of the one one was fond of. At this hour, while I am wrapped in a blanket in search of sleep, I crave for her muffler. It's much colder without it. So cold that my nose is blocked. Balcony letter #31 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Harsh

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Of late, I have been writing these letters not to the love that I lost but a love that is yet to happen. I met her recently. I don't know if she is into me as well. I feel she is, though. Not as much but enough to trespass the littleness of the phrase "a little". I gave her a letter the last time. It wasn't a letter like this, where my thoughts meander in search of stability & understanding. It was a to-the-point letter. A letter where I divulged what I felt, unveiled the mystery that could have been my mind, said a little more than what I say usually. I don't know what triggered me to write it but I felt unburdened in letting my secret out, as if I were holding a lie inside. I printed it with different fonts & sizes on both sides of three A4 sheets because my cartridge gobbled words, as if she didn't need to read them. She acknowledged my hazy words but didn't reciprocate what she felt. I egged her to. She said, later, when we meet? Right now, I feel as if I am standing bare with my truth dangling in place of my phallus while she stands fully-clothed in front of me. Sometimes, it's the truth, not lie, that burdens you if you hold it for too long. Can you please tell her this? Balcony letter #30 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Of late, I have been writing these letters not to the love that I lost but a love that is yet to happen. I met her recently. I don't know if she is into me as well. I feel she is, though. Not as much but enough to trespass the littleness of the phrase "a little". I gave her a letter the last time. It wasn't a letter like this, where my thoughts meander in search of stability & understanding. It was a to-the-point letter. A letter where I divulged what I felt, unveiled the mystery that could have been my mind, said a little more than what I say usually. I don't know what triggered me to write it but I felt unburdened in letting my secret out, as if I were holding a lie inside. I printed it with different fonts & sizes on both sides of three A4 sheets because my cartridge gobbled words, as if she didn't need to read them. She acknowledged my hazy words but didn't reciprocate what she felt. I egged her to. She said, later, when we meet? Right now, I feel as if I am standing bare with my truth dangling in place of my phallus while she stands fully-clothed in front of me. Sometimes, it's the truth, not lie, that burdens you if you hold it for too long. Can you please tell her this? Balcony letter #30 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Harsh

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Have you ever driven your two-wheeler as fast as you could in the middle of a wintry night? The cold winds lash against your face, flaring your nose a little, numbing those bare fingers a little, watering your eyes a little. It's an unusual rush, especially when you've just dropped your crush at her home & cannot wait to get back home to read what she has to say about that impassioned letter that you gave her. The journey takes forever. The quintessential two-wheeler romance, girl embracing a guy, guy putting brakes to foster intimacy, are all Bollywood clichés. Here's what true middle-class two-wheeler romance looks like. It's cold, late at night. You're driving slow. Both her hands slowly clasp around your chest, braving the cold. This is where typical stories end. But you are a fucking writer! You want to make it memorable. You let go of the clutch on the left, bring your elbow closer to your chest to shield her left hand from the cold. You then lock fingers of her right with your left. An intimate pranam. Fingers fondle. You don't want the journey to end. You decelerate. Bliss. Next minute: her home. You wonder why time elapses so fast when you go slow. Balcony letter #29 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Have you ever driven your two-wheeler as fast as you could in the middle of a wintry night? The cold winds lash against your face, flaring your nose a little, numbing those bare fingers a little, watering your eyes a little. It's an unusual rush, especially when you've just dropped your crush at her home & cannot wait to get back home to read what she has to say about that impassioned letter that you gave her. The journey takes forever. The quintessential two-wheeler romance, girl embracing a guy, guy putting brakes to foster intimacy, are all Bollywood clichés. Here's what true middle-class two-wheeler romance looks like. It's cold, late at night. You're driving slow. Both her hands slowly clasp around your chest, braving the cold. This is where typical stories end. But you are a fucking writer! You want to make it memorable. You let go of the clutch on the left, bring your elbow closer to your chest to shield her left hand from the cold. You then lock fingers of her right with your left. An intimate pranam. Fingers fondle. You don't want the journey to end. You decelerate. Bliss. Next minute: her home. You wonder why time elapses so fast when you go slow. Balcony letter #29 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Harsh

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It's been a while since I wrote to you. It's been a while since I remembered. Delhi's winter is pleasant unlike the Himalayan cold. It makes you stay in the present. Two weeks ago, I couldn't have imagined that forgetting you would be so easy. Truth be told, for the past two weeks, I'm thinking about someone else. She's chirpy, adventurous & funny. Quite unlike you. It's a welcome change from my type: reticent, thoughtful & introspective writers. Now that I'm surrounded by writers 24x7, being around a non-writer is such a respite, offers an alternate lens to look at the world. Such as trespassing a tall colony gate at midnight. The gates to Green Park were shut. The other way was a half an hour walk, which my wimpiness was keen on, but she wanted an odyssey. Let's climb, she said. Being macho, I tried but gave up too soon being scared of the barbed wire grazing my sophisticated arse. She asked me to wait as she climbed atop the pointed gates, circumventing the barbed wires, and jumped. Come on, it's easy, she said. I followed, dumbstruck at first, thrilled a moment later as I flew. Sometimes, it takes someone else to show you that what you gave up on is possible. Including love. Balcony letter #28 Click on #BalconyLetters to read in continuation. Pasting in the caption too. It's been a while since I wrote to you. It's been a while since I remembered. Delhi's winter is pleasant unlike the Himalayan cold. It makes you stay in the present.

It's been a while since I wrote to you. It's been a while since I remembered. Delhi's winter is pleasant unlike the Himalayan cold. It makes you stay in the present. Two weeks ago, I couldn't have imagined that forgetting you would be so easy. Truth be told, for the past two weeks, I'm thinking about someone else. She's chirpy, adventurous & funny. Quite unlike you. It's a welcome change from my type: reticent, thoughtful & introspective writers. Now that I'm surrounded by writers 24x7, being around a non-writer is such a respite, offers an alternate lens to look at the world. Such as trespassing a tall colony gate at midnight. The gates to Green Park were shut. The other way was a half an hour walk, which my wimpiness was keen on, but she wanted an odyssey. Let's climb, she said. Being macho, I tried but gave up too soon being scared of the barbed wire grazing my sophisticated arse. She asked me to wait as she climbed atop the pointed gates, circumventing the barbed wires, and jumped. Come on, it's easy, she said. I followed, dumbstruck at first, thrilled a moment later as I flew. Sometimes, it takes someone else to show you that what you gave up on is possible. Including love. Balcony letter #28 Click on #BalconyLetters to read in continuation. Pasting in the caption too. It's been a while since I wrote to you. It's been a while since I remembered. Delhi's winter is pleasant unlike the Himalayan cold. It makes you stay in the present.

Harsh

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Today, I bounced off my idea of us not talking for a year and meeting again in the mountains like we'd first met. Like Jesse and Celine did in Vienna. It'd be an interesting journey, I said. The writer in me wanted drama. Uncertainty, rather. 'You are confused right now, I am restless. A pause befits our condition. How interesting this year-long wait could be? What if we forget each other? And what if we don't?' 'Otherwise, the way things are going between us,' I predicted, 'I'd travel to your city this December & fall in love with you (as if I'm not already), things would get complicated since you might still be in love with that musician (who you never seemed to be in love with when in the mountains). He hates me already.' You listened to my monologue without a word, without a hitch. To us not talking for a year, you agreed readily. I waited for that hitch that never arrived, for an innocuous why to discard my needless proposal. Nothing came except for an immediate affirmation. Let's do it, you said. Right now, I don't know if my proposal came as a respite or if this gap is worth the wait. I will wait nevertheless. If not for you, for the mountains that never disappoint. Balcony Letter #27 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.

Today, I bounced off my idea of us not talking for a year and meeting again in the mountains like we'd first met. Like Jesse and Celine did in Vienna. It'd be an interesting journey, I said. The writer in me wanted drama. Uncertainty, rather. 'You are confused right now, I am restless. A pause befits our condition. How interesting this year-long wait could be? What if we forget each other? And what if we don't?' 'Otherwise, the way things are going between us,' I predicted, 'I'd travel to your city this December & fall in love with you (as if I'm not already), things would get complicated since you might still be in love with that musician (who you never seemed to be in love with when in the mountains). He hates me already.' You listened to my monologue without a word, without a hitch. To us not talking for a year, you agreed readily. I waited for that hitch that never arrived, for an innocuous why to discard my needless proposal. Nothing came except for an immediate affirmation. Let's do it, you said. Right now, I don't know if my proposal came as a respite or if this gap is worth the wait. I will wait nevertheless. If not for you, for the mountains that never disappoint. Balcony Letter #27 Click #BalconyLetters to read in continuation.