Time

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day

You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way

Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town

Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine

Staying home to watch the rain

And you are young and life is long

And there is time to kill today

And then one day you find

Ten years have got behind you

No one told you when to run

You missed the starting gun

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking

Racing around to come up behind you again

The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter

Never seem to find the time

Plans that either come to nought

Or half a page of scribbled lines

Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way

The time is gone

The song is over

Thought I'd something more to say

Home, home again

I like to be here when I can

When I come home cold and tired

It's good to warm my bones beside the fire

Far away across the field

The tolling of the iron bell

Calls the faithful to their knees

To hear the softly spoken magic spells

Happy Independence Day

India's celebrating its 63rd Independence Day today. I'm in an auto with a friend and we're cruising down Moolchand. I look around and i realize, we Indians really have a thing for everything English/American, don't we?

I look at the number of cars around and man does Delhi have plenty of 'em. I see a grey Innova, a red Swift, a green Beat, a black Safari, a silver Honda City, a maroon Wagon R, a black Esteem, a red Accent...

I look at billboards advertising townships around the NCR, plenty of 'em too. Fortune Arcade. Golf City. Jaypee Greens. Wisteria Lane. Really? Wisteria Lane?

Yeah. We're all proud Indians. Aren't we, y'll?

We laugh at people who can’t speak English. Look at them condescendingly. Knowing English is the ticket to a good life. Parents work day in day out to educate their kids in English medium schools. Schools that don't teach them the difference between 'then' and 'than', 'stationery' and 'stationary', 'bought' and 'brought', 'effect' and 'affect'.

Kids score a ninety percent in English and fail in their own language paper. More and more students are opting for French and Spanish instead of Sanskrit and Hindi in schools. Everyone wants to go to the US for higher education. It does not matter if you get admission in an obscure university located in the middle of nowhere in Southern part of America where it’s blazing.

Yeah. We're proud Indians, aren't we?

We prefer eating in a McDonalds or Subway and getting a fat ass over a place serving Indian khana any day.

Yeah. We're proud Indians, aren't we? 

Ok. Maybe it’s just the AC. But what I'm tryna say is, why the hell is coolness equated with all things English? Wasn't two hundred years enough?

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!!

Aama

Its seven thirty in the morning and I’m coming back after seeing my brother off at the train station. He’s going home to Darjeeling. I haven’t been home for two whole years now. The last time I went I had more than 102 degrees temperature, my lips were chapped as dry as the Sahara and the doctors had declared that it was a case of dengue. In such a crisis as this there was just one thing that would work better than all the medicine pills in the world put together-my mother's home food. By the time I came back to Delhi two weeks later she'd fattened me up real good. 

 On the bus ride back home I sat next to the window, as I usually do when I take a bus, and staring out at nothing in particular when I was awakened out of my reverie by a plump left arm. The arm was trying to slide the glass shut and trying to stop the chill morning air, the face numbing effect of which I was pleasantly enjoying till then. This really irritated me so I turned around with an expression angry enough to make anyone cower. But I stopped midway when I saw that the hand belonged to a middle-aged woman. There was something just so motherly about her. She felt like a mother, she smelt like a mother and her skin was soft and warm like a mother's. I started observing her from the corner of my eyes, noticing her conch shell bangles, the bindi on her forehead.

When she put her hand inside her purse to fish out something, all the memories came flooding back. Every day as soon as my mom reached home from her work the first thing I would do was grab her purse and fish through it looking for the item of the day. Every day it would be something different. Sometimes samosas or cream rolls other times rum balls or pastries. Every Sunday she would make us a special dish. aloo-puri, momo; whatever we wanted. It was a tradition she had started from the time she got her first salary.

And I always had to use her comb although this used to annoy her to her wit's end.

When I reached home from the railway station I sobbed like a child. And my mommy's warm bosom that had consoled me as a child every time I fell and scraped my knees was missing. And I’m missing her today a little more than I do every day.

My dimple: A theory

I have numerous theories. This is one of them. They range from downright absurd and some that make perfect sense, well at least to me they do.

I have a dimple. Yup that’s right, perched right on my left cheek, making its appearance every once in a while to express happiness, excitement and shyness at times, is my precious dimple. I was born with it so I never gave too much thought to it. But as I grew up I realized not everyone has dimples. I was special. I'd admire my reflection for hours on end. Practicing smiling in different ways, different angles to see which angle highlighted it the most. I could see my dimples winning me accolades… “And the award for the best dimple goes to…” don’t blame me; I wasn’t good at anything else to get awards. Then, I saw HER.

I met a girl who had dimples on BOTH her cheeks. Damn. There went my source of pride, my illusion of being extra special shattered. “And the award for the best dimples goes to…sorry kiddo, yours aren’t that good next to hers…” Not only did the girl have dimples on both her cheeks, but that bitch, ummm girl got dimples even when she spoke, unlike mine that made their presence felt only during times abovementioned. I was depressed for days.

How could god be so unfair? Dimples. They were one thing I prided myself for.

And like any teenager, I found a way to blame my parents for it. This is where my theory comes into the picture: my father has dimples. On both his cheeks. My mother doesn’t have any. My brother has one dimple. I have one dimple. So you see it’s a logical conclusion-my father’s dimples were distributed equally, fairly between my brother and me. Goddmmit. It’s not fair. First, he gets to be the younger kid; then he steals my second dimple. I grudge him.

Religion Vs Science

The following extract has been taken from a novel (the name of which i do not wish to mention, because some of the intellectuals might stop reading after hearing the name due to their prejudice!!) But it is a good book. And this passage particularly evokes a lot of thought. It questions our beliefs, or the lack of it. It makes one think about one's priorities and the general direction in which one's life is headed. At least this is the effect it had on me...So here it goes...by the way, the speech is made by a Carmalengo from the balcony of St. Petersburg Church in the Vatican City...don yawn, read on...

"The ancient war between science and religion is over. You have won. But you have not won fairly. You have not won by providing answers. You have won by so radically reorienting our society that the truths we once saw as signposts now seem inapplicable. Religion cannot keep up. Scientific growth is exponential. It feeds on itself like a virus. Every new breakthrough opens doors for new breakthroughs. Mankind took thousands of years to progress from the wheel to the car. Yet only decades from the car into space. Now we measure scientific progress in weeks. We are spinning out of control. The rift between us grows deeper and deeper, and as religion is left behind, people find themselves in a spiritual void. We cry out for meaning. And believe me, we do cry out. We see UFOs, engage in channeling, spirit contact, out-of-body experiences, mindquests - all these eccentric ideas have a scientific veneer, but they are unashamedly irrational. They are the desperate cry of the modern soul, lonely and tormented, crippled by its own enlightenment and its inability to accept meaning in anything removed from technology.

Science, you say will save us. Science, I say, has destroyed us. Since the days of Galileo, the church has tried to slow the relentless march of science, sometimes with misguided means, but always with benevolent intentions. Even so, the temptations are too great for man to resist. I warn you, look around yourselves. The promises of science have not been kept. Promises of efficiency and simplicity have bred nothing but pollution and chaos. We are a fractured and frantic species...moving down a path of destruction.

Who is this science God? Who is the God who offers his people power but no moral framework to tell you how to use that power? What kind of God gives a child fire but does not warn the child of its dangers? The language of science comes with no signposts about good and bad. Science textbooks tell us how to create a nuclear reaction, and yet they contain no chapter asking us if it is a good idea or a bad idea.

To science, I say this. The church is tired. We are exhausted from trying to be your signposts. Our resources are drying up from our campaign to be the voice of balance as you plow blindly on in your quest for smaller chips and larger profits. We ask not why you will not govern yourselves, but how can you? Your world moves so fast that if you stop even for an instant to consider the implications of your actions, someone more efficient will whip past you in a blur. So you move on. You proliferate weapons of mass destruction, but it is the Pope who travels the world beseeching leaders to use restraint. You clone living creatures, but it is the church reminding us to consider the moral implications of our actions. You encourage people to interact on phones, video screens, and computers, but it is the church who opens its doors and reminds us to commune in person as we were meant to do. You even murder unborn babies in the name of research that will save lives. Again, it is the church who points out the falacy of this reasoning.

And all the while, you proclaim the church is ignorant. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightening, or the man who does not respect its awesome power? This church is reaching out to you. Reaching out to everyone. And yet the more we reach, the more you push us away. Show me proof there is a God, you say. I say, use your telescopes to look at the heavens, and tell me how there could not be a God? You say, what does God look like? I say, where did that question come from? The answers are one and the same. Do you not see God in your science? How can you miss him! You proclaim that even the slightest change in the force of gravity or the weight of an atom would have rendered our universe a lifeless mist rather than our magnificent sea of heavenly bodies, and yet you fail to see God's hand in this? Is it really so much easier to believe that we simply chose the right card from a deck of billions? Have we become so spiritually bankrupt that we would rather believe in a mathematical impossibility than in a power greater than us?

Whether or not you believe in God, you must believe this. When we as a species abandon our trust in the power greater than us, we abandon our accountability. Faith...all faiths ...are admonitions that there is something to which we are accountable...With faith we are accountable to each other, to ourselves, and to a higher truth. Religion is flawed, but only because man is flawed. If the outside world could see this church as I do...looking beyond the ritual of these walls...they could see a modern miracle...a brotherhood of imperfect, simple souls wanting only to be a voice of compassion in a world spinning out of control."

It Was Another Life. We Were Different Then.

When I think back now it seems like centuries ago and I can’t even recognize these people anymore.

On days my father was home, the two of us would go to the local bakery early in the morning to get freshly baked breads for breakfast. I still remember the place. It was in one of the many alphabetically numbered municipal buildings’ basement near a place called G.D.N.S Grounds.

These breads were so fresh out of the oven I could feel my palms perspire under the heat it exuded when I carried it with my tiny five-year-old-hands. On such nights as this when I close my eyes and take in a deep breath I can feel it’s warm whiff enter my nostrils and I can see the image of a road covered in mist with the morning sun fighting to peep through and wake the sleepy little town. The image is so vivid I can feel the chilly air numb my ears. On such nights as this I can taste the still crunchy crust of bread dipped in a hot cup of Darjeeling tea. My eyes would water as in my juvenile hastiness I would burn my tongue. The bakers always cut the bread into rough irregular slices, wrapped them in a newspaper and tied it with a white string. I’d carry it by holding the string with only two of my fingers at times, turning it round and round, while my father carried me home. As soon as we entered the house the two of us would be greeted with the smell of the most mouth watering scrambled eggs prepared by my mother. Family breakfasts together.

Such days were special and rare and I looked forward to them eagerly; my father’s job as a journalist hardly let him spend time with us. Every time he came home my toddler brother would get busy untying his shoe laces and hiding his shoes and socks under the bed. He thought this would stop my father from leaving the house. But he did. He left home and would not come for months on end. There was a time when my brother didn’t even recognize him. He thought my mom’s friend’s husband was our dad.

Rough and irregularly shaped as the bread may have been this didn’t deter it from being the tastiest thing on the planet when had with scrambled eggs made by my mother. They tasted better than any Mc.D or Sub I have had till date.

All I have are these memories now, simple moments of carefree happiness. These are moments that bring you back to your folks no matter where life takes you and no matter how bad the situation between you gets. These memories linger on and keep you rooted, despite the fact that you can’t even remember the last time you had a decent conversation with your father; despite the adolescent arguments that you have had with your mother where you didn’t speak for a month; despite the fact that you take your brother to be a scoundrel because he stole your Rosary that had been blessed by the Pope himself, and gave it to his girlfriend whose name he doesn’t even remember anymore. They linger on.

We’ve changed but we’re still the same.

Jus Tryna Cheer Meself Up

Since almost everything I do is turning into shit and almost every relationship that I make attempts to build falls apart, I will write about the only good thing that’s going in my life. Part of the new master plan to always stay positive. So here it goes- I GOT THROUGH JAMIA! Well it isn’t technically a completely good thing because I've just been called for the interview. It’s on the 20th. Im nervous about it. And damn quota! If I get through the interview I’ll completely respect myself for one full day! I mean sure I got through Stephen’s but I always lived with the guilt that the only reason I got through that college was because I was Christian. And I always felt guilty bout the fact that I might be occupying the seat of someone who actually deserved to be in Stephen’s. someone whose deserved it more and whose seat I snatched jus because of the fact that I belonged to a certain religion, regardless of the fact that I never as much attended a full mass for the entire three years that I was in college. Talk about loyalty to one’s religion.

My entrance had gone well but I had the made the most fatal mistake conceivable by answering all the four questions asked in one booklet instead of writing two answers each in two separate answer sheets as was required. But what I really think did the trick, besides my extremely well written answers (cough-cough) were my Statement of Purpose! I tell you boys and girls a well written SoP does the entire trick. Take notes. Will ya?!

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

Growing up, in the little town of Darjeeling in the foothills of the Himalayas, we did not have a television set in our house; it was a luxury those days. So my earliest memory of what media was, or what I understood of it, goes back to my childhood days when my father, then journalist for the Nepali language daily Sunchari in Darjeeling, allowed me to accompany him for a myriad of events ranging from an outright political march against the unfair policies of the West Bengal government, to a friendly football match being played between two villages in a football field carved right in the middle of the tea garden, to interviewing victims of landslides, a major problem every monsoon in Darjeeling. Needless to say, all these visits and the opportunity it gave me to interact with so many people from almost every possible background helped me to view events from a perspective that prompted me to think about the important issues around me and affected me in more ways than one. 

Hence, print media was the first ‘kind’ of media that I was exposed to. It was the prime source of information there and the window to the outside world. The tradition of reading the newspaper outside tea kiosks and the debate that would follow kept the townsfolk quite satisfied with their daily dose. Small as it may be, the town would not miss out to have a share from the booming growth and penetration of electronic media that consumed India in the 1990s. Pretty soon, every household, including ours, had a TV set; first came the black and white one, then the coloured. With the advent of television there was a sudden rush and availability of 24-hours of information and entertainment. One could see plump housewives basking under the feeble sun, discussing the tragic life of their favourite soap characters. I, for one, thanked the good heavens above for making the TV and saving me from my hellish existence - the neighborhood kids no longer made fun of me, because Shaktimaan told them it’s wrong to do so. Heidi by Johanna Spyri would never have sparked off my love for reading, had it not been for the Japanese animated version that my brother and I would religiously watch every weekend!

If I have to describe the impact media has had in my life, specifically two memories conjure in my mind.

I still remember waking up on a cold February morning, when I was fifteen, to flickering TV News channels broadcasting about the Columbia Space Shuttle mishap. Kalpana Chawla was one of the seven astronauts who had lost her life while the shuttle was re-entering the earth’s atmosphere after a sixteen-day trip in Space. I can’t say for sure what it was, but something in me changed and I mourned for her, along with the rest of the country. As is the case these days with every news-maker, all the news channels aired special shows about her journey from Karnal, a small village in Haryana to out in Space. For the next two years I worked as hard as I could in the hopes of following her footsteps. I would go to the library and devour books after books about Space and the Universe. I even read her biography. Of course, my ICSE marks in mathematics and science smashed my dreams of starting a career as an astro-physicist and later on moving on to become an astronaut. And besides that, my height would not have allowed me to even sit inside the cockpit, let alone a space shuttle, but that’s another story. Every time I think about this juvenile dream of mine, I get a smile on my face.

The second story takes me back to my class twelve second term exams. I remember writing an entire essay about the ‘Relevance of the Brain Drain Theory in the 21st century India’, based solely on a special issue of India Today that I had read. When the term started afresh, my teacher read my essay in class. It turned out I had been the only one to attempt it. Having abandoned my ‘astronaut dream’ two years prior, it was on that day that I decided that I want to be the one to write an article about something, anything, that would help a girl like me to write her essay, somewhere in the world…or India will do for now.

My move to Delhi to pursue my bachelor’s degree in History from St Stephen’s College provided me with an invaluable exposure to a variety of cultures from within India. My active participation and the opportunity to lead the Hindi Dramatics Society, Shakespeare Sabha, of college, in capacity of the joint secretary, has instilled in me a deep love for the creative arts. I love being on stage. Besides this, the experience of hosting an sms request show and acting for an infomercial designed for NIIT, has equipped me with the confidence to carry out scripted dialogues with as much ease as impromptu ones in front of the camera. Not only television, but I have also had the chance to write for a monthly radio show for AIR and to record for radio skits. This range of work was propelled by the deep desire in me to be associated with the media in any which way, in any which capacity.

My association with (company name)in Delhi, for the past one year has exposed me to the glamorous side of the media too, hence increasing my fascination.

This is a particularly suitable course to translate my interests into a career. I believe that I possess the enthusiasm to expand my knowledge base and the horizons of my perspective. I also understand that the valuable experience of studying at the A.J Kidwai Mass Communication Research Centre entails immense hard work but my ability to persist and the eagerness to learn have propelled me to apply for it.

Tell me I’m good!!

Things I Dislike

I hate it when people use my stationery and don't return them. I know I know, its only a pen, its only a pencil, but it irritates the hell out of me. And the worst part is I don't have the guts to ask the other person to return it. It seems cheap for some reason. I just feel awkward. But the other person is as much to blame. I mean how can you just shamelessly keep someone's stuff. and this obsession is not only over stationery, I am also possessive about my clothes and money and novels and stuff like that. Irresponsibility is something I just don't like.

I hate people with no civic sense. This encompasses urinating in public, littering, spitting paan etc. I find it absolutely repulsive. I also feel all men who pee in public should be punished severely, preferably have their dicks chopped off or there should be a system where he gets electrocuted. I've seen men pee right next to a urinal. In this case, their eyes should be popped too. Littering should be liable under capital punishment.

I hate people who don't forget to mention the price tag of everything they purchase. I too have this habit, but in my case the opposite holds true. I boast when I buy things for cheap, like a hundred rupees tee to getting my tattoo done for just thousand bucks.

I hate it when I'm listening to music and people change it, or stop me when I'm singing.

I hate repeating things. But somehow I've gotten used to it. I have too many deaf friends. No, but it might just be my accent.

I hate it when people use my toiletries and don't use it responsibly. I mean, don't you just hate it when you open the flap of your sunscreen and you see all the sunscreen oozing out and in some cases there are parts of it has even dried. I also get irritated when people squeeze the toothpaste tube right in the middle instead of sqeezing it from bottom up as it should be done.

I hate bad handwritings and bad accents. Its such a turn off. It does not matter how good-looking a person is if that person does not know how to speak you're sure to enter into my bad books. I also dislike people who forget their own language just cuz they've spent six months in some other place or just cuz they went to some international school for just two years.

I abso-fucking-lutely loathe tomatoes. Cooked, roasted, boiled, raw. I don't care in which form it is, I hate it. I like Tomato Soup though.


I hte ppl who ryt lky dis. R U mentally impaired? Cn U nt spl? rytng lyk dis robs da wrds of ne senmnts wtsovr.

I dislike vegetarians. They're such impediments to a perfect lunch or dinner. I hate it when I go out expecting a full out non-veg spread and I have to compromise cuz one person wants vegetarian food. I mean why would anyone want to eat vegetables when they're eating out. You eat vegetables at home everyday. It makes absolutely no sense to eat vegetables when you eat it everyday at home. That just sucks.

Hmmm..I think that's about it. There are many many things I hate but I can't remember them right now.

Oh yes, I also hate forgetting things.

Breaking Out by Marge Piercy

My first political act? I am seeing

two doors that usually stood open,

leaning together like gossips, making

a closet of their corner.

A mangle stood there, for ironing

what i never thought needed it:

sheets, towels, my father's underwear;

an upright vaccumn with its stuffed

sausage bag thet deflated with a gusty

sigh as if weary of housework as I,

who swore i would never dust or sweep

after i left home, who hated

to see my mother removing daily

the sludge the air lay down like a snail's track

so that when in school i read of Sisyphus

and his rock, it was her I

thought of, housewife scrubbing

on raw knees as the factory rained ash.

Nasty stork of the hobnobbing

doors was a wooden yardstick dusty

with chalk marks from hem's rise and fall.

When I had been judged truly wicked

that stick was the tool of punishment,

I was beaten as I bellowed like a locomotive

as if noise could ward off blows.

My mother wielded it more fiercely

but my father far longer and harder.

I'd twist my head in the mirror to inspect.

I'd study those red and blue mountain

ranges as on a map that offered escape,

the veins and arteries the roads

I could travel to freedom when i grew.

When I was eleven, after a beating

I took the ruler and smashed it to kindling.

Fingering the splinters I could not believe.

How could this rod prove weaker than me?

It was not that i was never again beaten

but in destroying that stick that had measured my pain

the next day i was an adolescent, not a child.

This is not a tale of innocence lost but power

gained : I would not be Sisyphus,

there were things that i should learn to break.

The Night I met a Vampire

I met a vampire when I was in the second year of my college. It was around ten at night and I was returning home after six hours of play rehearsals. The stretch from the Metro station to my house was one with trees on both sides. The area which is bustling during the day with car mechanics and car audio shops was totally deserted at that time of the night and not a soul was in sight. It was a peaceful night with the full moon illuminating through the trees and forming sinister patterns on the road below. These shapes seem to contort themselves into strange forms because of the rustling tree leaves that swayed under the gentle breeze. This ambience accompanied with Lionel Richie singing ‘hello’ through my headphones was perfection personified.

I was jus about to enjoy it when I sensed footsteps behind me. Now I have always been pissed scared of ghosts. I am more scared of ghosts than people, rapists, robbers etc. My theory is, if a rapist or robber comes in front of you, you can always scream for help or better yet pick up a stone hit them and run away; but what can you possibly do to a ghost? You can’t possibly scream for help, you’re going to be too shocked at the moment to even utter a word. You can’t run away, they’ll jus conjure right in front of you! The fact that I was reminded of the story called ‘strange meeting’ from my class ten English short stories text book didn’t help either. The story that described two friends, who meet their dead friend two months after his death, let loose a string of horrid images in my mind. Abba started singing ‘Mamma Mia’ and calmed my racing heart. I told myself repeatedly that it’s nothing but my mind playing tricks on me. But I was proved wrong when suddenly in front of me stood a phantom in all its glory; unkempt hair, ragged clothes. My over-imaginative mind’s eye could almost see clearly the next morning’s headlines: “Girl Found Dead. No Visible Signs of Physical Violence. Vampire Attack Suspected.”

The vampire was taking in slow deliberative breaths and I think I even saw his fangs glisten in the moonlight! The moment was wrought with tension. My heart pounded in my ears more loudly than the sea beating against gigantic rocks. I stood frozen-not a muscle twitched in my body. The sweat beads rolling down from my forehead down my cheeks was washing away every ounce of nerve that I was trying so hard to muster and before I could figure what was happening, he made a quick pounce at me. He held on to my right arm and shook me up. I figured he was doing some sort of vampire ritual before drinking my body dry of every droplet of blood. But one good thing that the shaking did was it did bring me back to reality, and a little voice in my mind went “hey wait a minute. Vampire? Seriously? Are you freaking kidding me?! You’ve been reading too much of the Twilight series! And just look at him. He looks no way close to Robert Pattinson! You are getting robbed you dumbo!”

So I did what I had to do. I shut my eyes tight, took in a deep breath and let out the loudest scream I could manage; the loudest in the history of screams; the kind of scream that sends chills down your spine.

When I opened my eyes the vampire had vanished.

Gone!

Poof!

When I relate this incident to my friends, I call it the night I met a vampire and I like to think when he relates this incident to his friends he calls it the night he met a chhudail!

I Have Become Comfortably Numb

Why do I feel like im missing out? Jus going over some pictures and the accompanying comments on Facebook made me realize that I had already drifted away from people I once considered my lifeline long before college ended . I donno why but I don feel anything anymore. Im not selfish or stone hearted. They were the best bunch of people I’ve come across in my life. Kind. Thoughtful. Caring. They were everything good. When I first got to know them I was in cloud 9. I couldn’t believe that it was possible for so many good people to be present in one place. Concentrated goodness. I honestly felt this way. But I donno why in my last year, the most crucial year of college I jus stopped connecting to a lot of them. Feeble individual ties were maintained, but the feeling of belonging to a group, the previous sensation of feeling sheltered had vanished towards the end. In fact I started avoiding hanging out in groups. I started to prefer being alone or with only individuals. Not in a group. Why did I do this? I question myself but I haven’t figured the answer myself. One of them told me that ever since I started working id become too wild. But I don think that’s the case. I’ve come to a point where I don’t understand clearly the decisions I take or don’t give a damn about the consequences. It’s escapist perhaps. My mind jus goes numb. I wish I could tell them individually, or even explain to them a small percentage of how much I regret the fact h=that I jus grew aloof. But the truth is I don understand it myself. What other reason can there be? I don feel accountable anymore, not to anyone. It’s easier. But I don’t like it. I want to go back to being the old me, someone who could feel and react like a normal human being, with tears, passion, laughter. I don’t feel anymore. I’ve lost the zeal for things. Lost motivation. Lost interest. In everything. That’s jus sad cuz its not like im married and fat and ugly. Im young. At my youth’s prime. I should be out there doing things with an attitude to conquer the world. Instead I waste my days pining over things that I can’t even define. Over the past. Over what I could’ve done and what I could’ve achieved. Regrets. But since I know I can’t do anything about it I jus let it be. I’ve settled comfortably in this muck of regrets and self pity. Don’t feel like coming out of it. I think im gonna stay here awhile.

All For Love

Has anyone ever tried out this application called Zoosk on Facebook? It’s basically this online dating portal where you create a profile with your picture and all the details you wanna give, like where you stay and what kind of partner you’re looking for. Stuff like that. Check out the following profile introductions. Who knows you might jus find the boy of your dreams!!

velintine

40, Male interested in Women

Story: i m amarried man i have two 3/4 f kids n a beautifull 25 y old wife n both of us like to meet new couples any time

Ideal Date: 14/2 /1985

Ronit

20, Male interested in Women

Story: i am really shy persone who like girls but they dont have guts to say to girls will u be ma frnd over all u like to say me choclate boy

Ideal Date:i dont know

XXXSANJUTHELOVE

25, Male interested in Women

Story: I LOVE MY FREINX

Perfect Match: ONE BEAUTIFUL GIRL

sexysushil

25, Male interested in Women

Story: POLITE, SIMPLE NATURE, HOT AND ROMANTIC

Ideal Date: ask to in this no-9953051394

So commo’ girls! Whom do you choose? SexySushil? He’s even given his number. Call him up! He’s waiting to do something hot and romantic with you!! (wink-wink)

It Wasn't Just Winter Love

Last December I fell in love. May be it was just the cold chills of the season that made me long for someone’s arms to cuddle, sip hot chocolate fudge with... I donno. In this situation I did what anyone else would’ve done, I showered all my love on someone who, turns out, didn’t deserve it at all… again. But man was I madly in love. I even wrote an email to that person but somehow never procured enough guts to actually send it. I’m a chicken. I admit it. But I’ve been through this enough times to know that it hurts like hell. Yet I persisted. Needless to say it ended as suddenly as it had started. Summer came and the melting snow carried away my love with it. But the roots of the winter flower remain and haunt me, hurt me still. No amount of summer heat can kill the deep roots that have anchored within me. I’m stupid. This email is all that remains of my winter love:

“I donno what to do...it’s a phase I’ve been going through for a long time. Now I know, you'd told me that you could never look at me that way, but I can’t help but fall for you. I know it sounds clichéd but I cannot even express in words what I feel for you. Call me crazy, walking around with my heart on my sleeve, but all I really want is to be loved. Question is, will you give me that love. I can never tell you enough the things I'll do for you. I’d love you more than anyone has ever loved you. I will love you till my heart explodes. I know our days together are numbered and we don’t have a 'future', but wouldn't you rather we spend this time with everything we have to offer for each other. No regrets. I know for a fact that when you leave my heart will suffer a pain so deep I can only imagine in nightmares, but I’m willing to risk my sanity, my future, a broken heart for the few months I might have with you. You’re always on my mind. Can’t sleep at night. All I do is relive our moments together, read your texts over and over again, even if it’s a simple one just asking a question. I don’t want to sound obsessed, but the truth is, I am. I am obsessed.

You’ve turned my world upside down. At this time in my life, I have no clue what’s going to happen next. My life is in the biggest mess possible. Nothing is going right. But I know, for a fact that if you just so much as give me a quarter of your love, my life will be made. Everything will fall into place and I'll be the happiest person on this planet. I can’t stop smiling when I think of you and I’m smiling ALL THE TIME. So much so my cheeks hurt. There’s so much love bottled up inside me that I have to cry just to release it. Cuz I can’t think of any other way. It’s painful, it hurts. It hurts that you are right there in front of me and I can’t help but love this beautiful creature. What I want is for us to hold hands and walk down the street, eat momos outside college, go for movies...I hate it when I’m with you and I have to share your attention with someone else. When I’m with you, I don want anyone else. I don’t need anyone else. I don’t want anyone between us. I want it to be just us.

I am so scared to lose you. Not that you're mine right now or anything. All I want is to see you at least once a day. Have you talk to me at least once a day. All I want is for you to love me. You can’t even imagine the number of times I check your profile jus so I can see what’s happening in your life. Pls love me. Pls love me. That’s all I ask from you. I know it sounds ridiculous. Man I can’t stop thinking of you. You’re on my mind like all the time. I can’t sleep at night. You might find it hard to believe but even inside the exam hall, all I could do was think of you. I think I’m going crazy. And only you can help me get my sanity.

"Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:

Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:

Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest,

And weaves it into my midnight slumbers!"

Talk about a loser huh. Gosh I don’t understand why I do this to myself. All the f**kin time. I’m sick and tired of this s**t. Ima take this heart of mine and throw it in the garbage bin, where it belongs.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend.

All of us have that one friend we regret losing. You blame them at that moment. You blame yourself now. Sometimes you look back at all the sleepovers you've had together; at others you try and analyze what went wrong. You wish you could turn back time and undo or never do the things you did. You think if only she was a bit more adjusting things would've been different now. Guilt consumes you when you realize it was all your fault. That you could've done things, made amends to salvage the friendship. But the only truth is that you've lost forever whatever you guys had and whatever you guys could've had.

Death Begets Life

The silence that accompanies death is so heavy and depressing and damp. I can feel myself getting pulled into an opaque liquid. It’s slowly pulling me down; a force tightly holding both of my feet and pulling me down with all its strength. It’s heavy dampness drenching every part of my body, foot upwards. First my knees, then my thighs, next my hips. Slowly it consumes me. I extend my hands into the lightness of air. I know I have to stay calm. I know I cant, shouldn’t fight it. The more I fight, the quicker will be the consummation. Now its upto my chest. My breath begins to shorten. I take quick short breaths. Its level rising slowly. But somehow it seems to be moving to fast. Maybe it’s the desire in me to see more of life that makes the slow sink towards death seem faster. Its upto my neck now, my chin; I take one last gulp of that precious air and shut my eyes tight. Im under it now. I hold on to that last gulp of breath. It gets harder by the second. My lungs begin to burn and demand a fresh refill. My ears are blocked. In the end I have no other option but to breathe in the dampness. I open my eyes to look death in the face.

That gulp of air that I’d expected to be damp is surprisingly sweet and fresh. My lungs take another large swig of it; a mad rush into every alveoli, like a new born taking that miraculous first breath in the open air. It’s not all that bad in this dampness. The darkness I’d expected down here is actually sparking because the sun filters through and makes pretty patterns.

Therefore I say, let go and take in the dampness. Plunge into the womb of dampness and be born again.

The Meaninglessness of Being

Has anyone ever noticed that as your exam dates draws closer and closer every little insignificant activity seems to gain a new-found fascination and you plunge into it, heart body and soul? Take cleaning your room for example; I wouldn’t be bothered at normal times about the condition of my room but come exam time I get busy arranging the novels in alphabetical and size order; I even clean all the masala containers, wrapping up the contents into newspaper, cleaning the container, wiping them clean and filling it with the masalas again; it fills me with a sense of achievement. I mean can life ever get any more meaningless? Sigh.

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Im not really a poem kinda person but this one jus converted me.

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

How's That For an Anti-Climax!!

So the other day, my friend Rosko (more bout her later) and I had gone to Chandni Chowk for some work (she needed to exchange a recorder, cuz she needed to record her guruji sing, cuz she's a dancer, cuz she's awesome, cuz she's a super-woman).
Anyhoo, I LOOOVE Chandni Chowk. Its one of the places in Delhi that never fails to embrace you and make you a part of itself. You know how it is once you get there, you cant help but lose yourself amongst its rich history, the buzzing crowd, warm wafts of mouth watering street food, ballimaran market, paranthe wali gali...aaaah-total bliss. But little did we know our medieval romance was soon going to turn into a modern horror!

It jus so happened that as we walked out of the store we got caught in between a sudden rush of people and there were shoves and pulls. But you know it’s Chandni Chowk and you accept it as being normal. But also in this instant, you get this minor inkling like wait a minute this woman shouldn’t push me the way she is even if it’s crowded and you’re like something isn’t right. That split second after this realization hits you, you put your hand inside your bag to check your wallet, and wadyaknow, its missing. And this is precisely what happened that day with Rosko. And the funny part is as soon as you realize that it has actually has happened , that you’ve actually lost your wallet and you try to look around you to figure out who’s taken it, the “crowd” has miraculously vanished and you’re suddenly standing in the middle of the pavement, eyes brimming with tears of helplessness, a friend looking at you with sympathy, wallet lost and along with it your atm card your college ID card and the cute little love notes that you’ve preserved cuz your best friend had given it to you.

You see them everywhere in Delhi; you know these shady-lookin-women who move about in gangs. You always look at them with suspicion and contempt and when you catch yourself doing that you scold yourself a little for acting elitist and discriminating people for their financial background. But there’s no smoke without fire. I can guarantee you that every one out of five people you talk to about such “gangs” will have a story to tell you. This is my story.

So anyway as I was saying, the two of us went there cuz she needed to get her tape recorder exchanged. After Half an hour of witnessing and learning some invaluable lessons on the tape recorder business, we came out of the shop. All of a sudden we were swamped by a sea of people. But it’s Chandni Chowk and you don’t think anything about it. However, Rosko noticed hat this woman was pushing her a bit too hard, unnecessarily. Initially she jus shrugged her off disgusted at teh thought that the woman was trying to feel her up but then she noticed that it was a bit too rough to be a feel-up. Then the crowd dispersed as quickly it had formed. And then it hit her, the realization that something wrong had happened and she rummaged her jhola for her wallet and wadyaknow it was gone, missing, not there. Obviously our first suspect was that woman in the orange sari, henceforth referred to as Orange Sari. Here we were in the middle of Chandni Chowk, not knowing what to do next. And the funniest part was we knew who had stolen the wallet but we din know what to do about it. Helpless, Rosko started to cry. We couldn’t confront Orange Sari cuz you never know, she could’ve started screaming and shouting and we couldn’t t possibly bark back at her. Besides, we din know if she was part of a nexus and she might have jus passed on the wallet to someone else. So we did what we could do. We followed Chor and her gang. They were all goody natural, having their kulfi, acting as if everything is normal. Everything’s so hunky-dory. We actually followed her through half of Chandni Chowk. It looked like a scene right out of a tranatino movie. Wrought high with suspense and tension; Foreheads beading of sweat, hearts beating fast, black and white slo-mo, a lone voice singing a wailing a fast paced tune in the background… What’s going to happen next? There was no actual confrontation. This little game continued for a while.

What happened next was something even Tarentino himself would not have been able to conceive of. In a flash of a moment the Orange Sari quickly put her hand into her bag, threw the wallet onto the pavement and continued with her stroll as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. I mean talk about shamelessness.

At this Rosko picked up the wallet and shouted “thank you auntyji! Churake waapus karne ke liye!”

Before We Grew Up

You know how when you’ve been staying in a place long enough you attach certain incidents and memories with certain places…like going to Saket always reminds me of the time when my brother Ray and I went there for the first time, back when we were just eight and twelve, and there was no sign of any fancy-schmancy mall, just a lone and humble cinema complex. We’d been left on our own to explore the city alone for the first time. I remember our dad handing us fifty rupees each. My brother and me, otherwise as quarrelsome as any siblings can be, dutched our money together and bought a pizza. Back then, Mountain Dew (I hadn’t discovered I disliked carbonated drinks yet) was just coming up and in bid to promote their product among the people, was giving out free bottles. Ray and I excitedly stood in queue and got ourselves a bottle each. Till date, the memory of the two of us sitting in some shady corner of the cinema complex, sharing a box of pizza and gulping down Mountain Dew remains one of the most memorable times I’ve spent with him.

Of course after that we both grew up and got busy with our own sets of friends but even today, every time I pass by that place, in my mind I can see two kids, amazed and dazzled by the big city lights, sharing a simple moment of happiness.