Just some warm fuzzies.

Yoohoo.
Another dreadful year is about to end. Dreadful? Some ask why. Many will give you infinitesimal reasons why.
A lot of stupid wars
Brexit, Quitaly, Donald Trump (yes, I know, that shit went down.)
DEMONETISATION! (I swear, each time I hear mitrooo I have a mini panic attack)
And a lot of other political mumbo jumbo which we are not really affected by, but still deeply affected by.
A lot of our favourite icons have died (Yes, I am talking about Princess Leia.)
Basically, a lot of shit went down. A lot.
Still, does 2016 warrant the amount of hate memes the memedustry (Apparently it is an actual thing now) is churning out is a question I would like to ask.
A lot of political blunders happen every year. A lot of people die, famous people too. Who we have admired and have been inspired by. Travesties, natural disasters.
But no loss seems great enough if isn't personal.
A loss of purpose maybe, or a loss of dreams, loss of a loved one. Or losing your own self.
Such losses, I have experienced; inflict as much, if not more, as any grenade could.
And guess what? Most of them are self inflicted. And all of them can be cured by none other than?
*drumrolls*
YOU.
A little effort might be required. Okay more than a little.
A little spring in the step and a head shake with a jingle of the arms when no one is watching does make it easier.
So let's make 2017 a little better? And hope to gain more than we lose?
And since we have come to it, why not do something which frightens us, so we know we are doing something new?
Hope you have a good one this time.

P.S. It's now been an year that I have begun writing this blog. Thank you for still being here in my silly little cocoon of thoughts.
A smiley is warranted now, isn't it? :)

Trails which lead nowhere

I walk on a lonely trail
laden with yellowing grass
And bereft of any sounds
except an occasional chirp
or a distant bark
It's as silent as the nights
when I lay over you
And words were neither a barrier nor a
prerequisite to understanding
our jumbled thoughts
Lost in our own worlds
with nothing except the sound
of your heartbeat keeping me rooted to our realities
which somehow seemed more fiction than
The concoctions I had designed in my head
A cold wind rushes past me and
I am taken back to the park bench that now lies abandoned
And wonder if it feels tricked too
Still hoping against all odds
That the two lovers would grace it again
And fill the silences with banters
they were often embroiled in
Even as I let my gaze wander off into what was
left behind a while ago
I walk forward
And watch as the old peepal tree sheds its leaves one by one
Which it so affectionately held onto
And wonder,
Is it also a part of nature,
That sometimes we have to shed people too.

Collateral Damage

Little Goral looks out the window

with a tranquil smile

The glint in his eyes 

Must be as bright if not less

than the stars that twinkle in the night

He tries to count them on his fingers

One, two, a hundred or even more,

But in the middle of the exercise 

He is left perplexed,

What if he has counted the ones 

The Jhelum so duplicitously

arrays as hers.

Or maybe that's okay

For in a place where heaven meets the earth

And the skies seem to merge into the shores

Like an exquisitely painted horizon

Who could claim if it was only the ether where the stars belonged

And when they dance like they do, moving in perfect rhythm 

with each tide, to the tunes of the full moon

Goral's heart sings, moving in tandem with the waves

His hair rustle in alignment with the October winds

Completing the symphony 

Like the triangle's final beat

He takes a deep breath

To fill his lungs with the sweet air

laced with the intense fragrance of the Chinaar trees

And closes his eyes as he is taken back

To the school playground in the juvenile summers

Playing cricket with Vikram, Abdul, Aziz and Rahman

And running gaily in the fields

His train of thoughts is interrupted 

By the sound of a bullet going off in a distance

And his Amma calls out

Asking him to shut the window lest he get hurt again

Goral lets out a deep sigh as he picks up his crutches

And limps to his room

Heaven on earth, he muses

Hoping God returns to this place soon.

The wise old man's advice

Today while taking a train home I noticed this old, frail woman confined to a wheelchair. Even though her body seemed to decay with each fleeting moment, there still seemed some light in her eyes. Nevertheless, I felt this strange sense of pity, for she seemed to be travelling alone, even in her delicate state. A deep sense of trepidation then, seemed to have engulfed me.
We go through the motions of life every single day, building relationships, mending some, and sometimes, breaking a few. In our entire journey as human beings, our life knowingly or unknowingly pivots around these relationships.
No matter how far you go in life, it doesn't matter if the people you care about are not there with you to see it. This is what I was told one day by an old man. Now old age is positively correlated with wisdom; which funnily enough, was something again told to me by another old person. So I believed the old man and tried to, if not nurture, but at least not screw up my relationships.
But seeing that small woman, sitting in a wheelchair all alone, in a metro filled with strangers, with not even a single loved one, or at least liked one to care for her made me question this entire labyrinth of life we make ourselves fall into. This process of construction, destruction, nurturing and dismantling of our relationships, if the outcome at the end is to be sitting in a wheelchair all alone with no one but strangers to fall onto.
But then, we began each of our relationships with 'strangers', strangers who became integral to our lives, sometimes the favourite hue in our lives and sometimes the core to which our sense of purpose gravitates.
 Childhood buds who have shared everything with you from broken teeth to skinned knees, from homework to first crushes. Those friends, no matter how old and implicit they seem in our lives right now were actually strangers before that first hello or the first let's play together.
Lovers, who you can do anything for, who possibly know you even better than you know yourself once had to peel all the layers to your soul one by one, to reach depths even you were afraid to swim in. Lovers, who make the word 'home' mean much more than just a place were once strangers before that first smile.
College friends, school friends, work buddies, gym buds, spouses, ex spouses, ex girlfriends, ex boyfriends, ex best friends, and so on.
From strangers to 'your people' to sometimes strangers again.
Ex lovers, whose name once made your head rush to now just making your fingers curl up with contempt.
Former best friends, who drifted apart for no apparent reason, or sometimes for reasons.
School friends, college friends, work buds, gym friends, ex spouses,  ex lovers, siblings you haven't seen in years.
Doesn't it seem futile to build so many intangible treasures, when in the long run the only one you could fall back on is you alone?
Doesn't it seem wiser to not let people around you affect you, no matter what the old wise man said?
But giving it a second thought, in the long run we are also dead.
So not forming relationships with people might be akin to not breathing because after all you have to die one day. And that even though is as certain as anything else, still doesn't account for all the days that you don't die.
So, even though I might have lost some people, and would lose some others even still, it would still be better than not knowing them at all. So I brave the possibility of being cut to pieces and even being left in that wheelchair alone, to fend for myself on my own.
But today is the day I live in, and let me say hello to you, with a smile on my face and a gentle thudding in my heart. 

Of finding the unknown, and knowing what to find

A lot of times I question myself, why do I write? Why am I drawn to blank sheets of paper and a good old pen time and again? What is it, that keeps me going to it like a moth moves to a flame? For it is my destruction and my resurrection. My means of abandon and my means of salvation. How I stay afloat on this thin glacier that life seems and how I drown each time, losing all hope to come up to the surface again.

 For a long time, I believed I write for applaud. After all who doesn’t love all the love that comes their way, that feeling when someone gets it, gets what you have been trying to say, no matter how long ago you felt it, how long ago you wrote it. But at that one moment, you both are on the same page. Literally and metaphorically. At that one moment, it doesn’t matter how different your cultures are, how old or young or poor or rich or dark or light skinned ambitious or lax or a dancer or an accountant, whoever you are, wherever you come from. At that one moment, your connection transcends all those differences and you are one.

 And this is what I believed, I write for the reader, for the sheer want of being understood, to connect to another human on a spiritual level. But it has taken me some while to realize this in fact, I write for the luxury of understanding, of forming a connection to myself. Of understanding these swirls of emotions that engulf me, the seldom tides of happiness as high as the as the ones reached by seas on nights of the full moon, and the more prevalent lows, the ones in which you feel like you’re drowning into a bottomless pit, with no escape, no relief; for what can even relieve you from the prison of your own thoughts, from the self inflicted pains you so masochistically are drawn to.

So I write this time, not to be understood, but to understand. To look at myself from a peeping hole when it is too difficult to look in a mirror. For being an unattached distant observer to my self orchestrated catastrophy.

 I write, when it is too difficult to fathom what exactly is it that doesn’t let me come up to the surface; and even more difficult to find the right words to describe that feeling of being pulled down. I write, to not paint myself a pretty picture but to unhinge this mask of superficies that we all our forced to wear. Not to laminate the ugliness behind a rosy tint but to shatter the glass and revel in its brokenness.

I write not to understand the world because I finally know I never can, but to understand my perception of it. I write, not to cheer myself up. Not to shroud this feeling of decay, of being lost, and not the good kind, but to lay bare each thread of discontent, to lose myself deeper still into this tornado of thoughts.

 Just hoping I am thrown off to a better place.

A little bird's bellow

A soft pinch. A demure cry.

Enters a bundle of joy.

So precious, so chaste,

That one might fear.

It is too dear

To enter this world, 

a world so full of hate.

A world, which not unlike the little one

Was once, itself unaware of the worldly ways.

Just like the little one's face,

the world once too was a blank slate.

When the only cuts it knew were the ones made by rivers

Meandering through the lush plains,

Where birds wandered freely, not bound by nations

Maybe they wander still, and maybe they always will

But what about this little one?

The one who is much too small to fly yet,

And much too human to take a free flight.

The one who is trapped in the world as we know it,

The one who will never know about the world as we got it.

The world as we got it, much too precious, much too pure,

A clean slate. With mountains the only borders there ever were,

perpetual and infallible. God's precious monuments.

The world, in which the only tussles known were

between the shore and the sea waves.

The little one might not know it yet,

But it has got a lot to see.

Perhaps some deep wounds, 

God forbid, some deeper still.

But god left this place a long time ago, they say.

Otherwise, how could we have made these deep incisions

To this earth anyway?

For although we see wires, these borders are wrought with blood.

Blood, which reeks of malice, greed and fallacious passions,

Passions, to reason the wrongs, to suppress the rights;

But I do hope some day, the little one might get to take a free flight.

Because even though it has been a long time that God left this place,

A little hope still remains.

For although the cuts are too deep, 

A smile, some warmth,

A pinch of kindness; might still seep.

Stop. Let's be idle.

"Oh, I put in a hundred hours at work last week, it was sooo exhausting, I think these dark circles are going to stay FOREVER!", says my friend when I finally meet her after getting cancelled on almost a hundred times because she is "soooo busyyy". You could get the picture of how busy she has been, with all the extra syllables she put in while sending me TEXTS to let me know she can't make it. Not even phone calls. Because who has the time to make them? She lets out a sigh trying to feign sombreness, but the glint in her eye stinks of pride. Because perhaps dark circles are something to be proud of. Another friend complains that she absolutely abhors her job; but still goes out to do the same thing over and over again Monday to Friday, without even batting an eyelid, as if it was nothing to mull over. As if it was normal to go to a dreary monotonous place and drain your calibre into something you didn't particularly enjoy, something you didn't even particularly know why you had to do, except perhaps to earn money which would be whiled away in the weekends to 'blow off steam' with friends who have a similar kind of work style.
People who don't hate their job are increasingly seen as an atypical tribe, something foreign and almost unattainable. People who have "free time" are considered alien, after all what kind of life are you living if you are not grinding your mind to a state of almost zombie like depletion wherein at the end of the day you don't even have the capacity to think. In a world where dark circles are carried like badges of honour and not having the time to even have breakfast is something people "boast about", one is considered to be a failure if god forbid you work any less than a gazillion hours and almost akin to being a social outcast if you could afford to sleep more than eight hours a day. And dare you go sit at some place alone, without using your phone or your laptop or a bluetooth in your ear, things which give you the airs of a 'busy', important person. You would be branded a weirdo. Don't trust me? I have memes to support my theory! Because who else can sit all alone and all idle, with nothing to give him/her company except just one's thoughts!
 But you know who should sit all alone and all idle with nothing to give him/her company except just one's thoughts?
YOU.
Me. All of us. Take a second, or a minute, and if you are lucky enough, maybe even an hour. For just yourself. To think what you want to do. More importantly, to know what you don't want to do. Because someone once told me, "The mark of a successful man is that he knows what he doesn't want, even more than what he wants".
Think. Is it worth it to miss breakfast? Did missing birthdays, anniversaries, important events, not so important events somehow make you more successful?
 More importantly, is it what success should feel like?
Stop. Shut your phone. Take off that bluetooth off your ear. Close that laptop. Shut that book. Shut up.
 Breathe in.
 Think. Or don't think.
Breathe out.
Sigh out.
Smile perhaps? Without any reason? Because why do you need any reason anyway except that right now you are in this moment and you are alive.
Hum a forgotten tune which lingers in your sub-conscience every now and then.
Skip a step. Or may be two.
Or just stay still.
Laugh. Without any reason. Let them think you are nuts.
Stop.
Don't burn out even before you get a chance to shine through.

Words.

Words.

Words are what get us by every day. Or at least me. For I don't know a coffee place that would take my order without me telling him what I need. Or even at school. How would one know an apple is in fact an apple unless the teacher told us it is. A rose would perhaps still smell the same if it had a different name. But Shakespeare wouldn't be able to point that out if he didn't have the right words; could he? This I reckon is the magic of words, being able to express exactly what one wants to say, you just need to know the right words. But what if you don't have the right words, after all words are not as easy as "A double espresso please" or "Hydrogen and oxygen makes water." 

Lately I have come to realize that words are not as magical as I used to think they were. For I have come across certain times in my life when I could not find the right words no matter how hard I tried. And no matter how 'exquisite' and 'fancy' words I tried to come up with, (the ones you read in books but never use because who says things like aberration for instance), when I rolled them off my tongue to express how I feel, they sounded superfluous, even vain. 

For which word can even begin to express the feeling you felt during your first kiss when your heart was pounding so hard it could rip out of your chest and fly off just because your first love's lips almost seemed to melt yours. Amazing? Awesome? Beautiful? Somehow they all just seem dull. And how can they not, for when you're life is painted with more colors than a rainbow and no heart breaks have touched you yet; when you feel immortal, invincible.

And what about the feeling of the air knocked out of your lungs after witnessing your first heart break. Like a glass that has shattered to a million pieces.

And when your folks are proud because you got your first job? That sigh you let out, because life seems perfect right now, and at least at this moment, you couldn’t ask for anything more. Content, happy, perhaps. But somehow, they don’t seem enough to express what you’re feeling.
Or even the feeling you get after you get to pee after holding it for what seems like an eternity. That sigh you let out!

So I have realized words while indeed magical, are inadequate in the most magical moments that life offers you.  And while, I could try to come up with words to express how I feel, I have learnt better than wasting my breath on the futile exercise. So while I might chat with you all day, remember, if I shut up, you have created a little bit of magic in my life.

P.S. A lot of backspaces were used to find the right words. But I still believe I couldn’t find the most adequate ones.

why so Serious?

My little sister is one of the thickest eggs you would ever have the pleasure to meet, for her skill of somehow always being in a pleasurable mood. No amount of ill words, scoldings or thrashings ever seem to dampen her spirits, a sulking expression on her face is as rare and fleeting as a sensible thought on her mind. It is one of the things that I hate as well as love the most about her, a paradox familiar to those who are lucky enough to have siblings. Just the other night when I was scolding her for not having been prepared for a school test which was just the next day, she tried with all her might to give me a sombre expression, having lowered her eyes to hide the mirth in them and trying her best to contort her lips to form a sullen expression. But alas, she isn't the best of actors and the sullen expression didn't take time to turn into a much controlled smirk, escalating quickly to a full blown grin after seeing my reluctant, albeit encouraging smile. The sparkle had never left the eyes, and as expected, the scolding she had just received had travelled from one ear to the other without a word registering in her brain. I could do nothing but grin back, how else are you supposed to respond to a child's innocent mischiefs?
This insignificant moment, however, left a significant thought in my mind. Why can't grown ups face their seemingly 'important' problems the same way as a child? With a pinch of salt and maybe a resilient smile if not a full blown grin. Surely, failing tests must be as stressful for a kid; if not more, as an incomplete presentation or failing the set norms society sets for us, assuming us more akin to robots than individual human beings. No problem can be that huge, that it warrants a frown more often than a smile. And who knows, someone might smile back at you too?
As my train of thoughts came to a grinding halt, I registered that my sister had left me with all her books to pack and gone off to sleep, promising to get up early to prepare for her tests. With yet another frown, I concluded that grown ups have a thing or two to learn from the little ones. Also, the little ones are too smart for their own good.

THE UGLY SIDE OF A CRUSH

So, it's Saturday night, 11.30 p.m. You could be doing anything in the world, partying away into oblivion, or reading that new book you just ordered, even climbing that mountain you have been planning to climb since forever. Anything. You could do anything. But instead, here you are, on a Saturday night lying dejectedly on the bed, checking your phone fervently, once in every two minutes, may be twice, sometimes in a surge of desperation even thrice. Desperate. Waiting. Hoping. Not hoping. Despairing. All the while berating yourself for being such a loser. Since when did you start obsessing over a boy? You are the one who used to tell your girlfriends 'no guy is worth it' and 'I told you so' and here you are telling yourself so the same thing over and over again all the while letting out deep sighs one after the other waiting for the phone to beep. Is this how you raised yourself young lady? Or may be it is. The heart wants what it wants they tell you. But sometimes it's the conceited brain which wants it's share of encouragement. Especially when you feel he is out of your league. More when he makes you wait as opposed to the general rule. You know the roles have been reversed and you feel threatened because it's your pride which is at stake rather than your heart. And you might lose your heart in the process, but it is better than losing your pride. So who you are actually obsessing over is yourself, not that boy, wanting to be worth it, worth having for every one that you want to have. So you wait, wait for him to be into you, all the while feeling that you aren't good enough. Because well, if you would be, why would you wait anyway? You know it is a mistake but you make it anyway.
Because that is how this game is played, you know too well. Only what you don't know now is that you are the one who is playing you not him. But you do know now why they call it a 'crush'.

Magic in the Mundane

Hello guys :)
It's one of the short stories I wrote a long time ago which never really got posted due to some reasons. But it has been really close to my heart for the simple reason that it is so simple. Many of us while growing up harbour these over the top, elaborate fantasies about love and romantic gestures that can't really come true and we often go through the motions of life with a sense of disappointment and longing, a longing for some magic in our own lives, often skipping the little things our loved ones do for us. This story was written to remind myself, and everyone who reads it (however small that number might be) to appreciate those little things.
As Roald Dahl once said, "Those who don't believe in magic would never find it."
So, keep looking, just a little closer.

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Shraddha got up for yet another usual day of her usual, routine life. No, correction, Mrs. Shraddha Bakshi. The baggage of Mrs. Precisely defined what all her life was right now. Her beloved camera had been gradually replaced by the frying pans and other kitchen appliances, her precious pen, the special platinum edition Parker replaced by crayons and home work lists, her freedom and zest for discovering as much as she could, finding places still hidden from over exposure and exploitation by man replaced by the shackles of monotony brought by marriage and a settled conventional life. Although she sometimes longed to go back to that place, go back to being someone she was; yet she couldn't, rather, didn't dare to find the shadow of that girl in herself any longer. Seven years back she was Shradhha-the wanderer, the magician with words, the great story teller, the discoverer. Coming back to the present, she is a wife, a full time mom, and just another housewife in the city of twenty million people. Now thirty five years old, middle aged, and struggling with the monotonies that life traps people into, she often looked back at her past, almost in each waking day of her life.

Shraddha quickly set the water on the stove, preparing to make tea for her husband, Pranav, and hurried to wake up the kids for school, Sidhharth and Aabhas, the bundles of bliss she had with Pranav. Now, five years old, the twins were the reason of wonder and joy in her life. They were at a stage of inquisitiveness and endless questions, something which often marvelled Shraddha. Questions like, “Ma, why do I have just five toes, why not ten? I would have been able to walk faster.” or “Ma, why do girls wear these things in their ears (earrings)” had often brought an ear to ear grin on her face.
She gently shook them, and after futile attempts of calling their names to wake them up, she started tickling them, the only way which ever worked, and which made them spring up from their beds, laughing. She laughed too, the mirth of the kids only too infectious. After blowing kisses to them, she went off to the kitchen once again. The kids’ and Pranav’s lunch was still to be prepared. After toiling for an hour in the humid kitchen, she quickly set the table for breakfast. The kids wanted sandwiches, sprouted salad for Pranav. Pranav entered the dining room, talking to someone on the phone, presumably his boss; the work load was quite a lot now a days, he often told her. His bespectacled eyes were crinkling with humor, and after settling down, talking on the phone and simultaneously eating his breakfast, he got up to leave for office, calling out a precise good bye to his wife of seven years. She felt a pang of disappointment at him not having time to even properly saying good morning to her, or even good bye, and just like that she was brought down the memory lane.
She had met Pranav eight years ago, on her trip to cover the majestic fort of Chittorgarh. She was the reporter for Good Times Travel, covering the sprawling structure, and he was just another tourist, coming to be awed by the beautiful fortress, like thousands earlier had. He looked like just another next door guy, with reasonable looks. She had stumbled towards him, while trying to find the perfect shot to capture the magnificence of the fort. She had looked at Pranav in surprise and agitation alike, for being interrupted from her thoughts, and instead of apologizing, she had reprimanded him saying he had interrupted her sightseeing tour while he simply kept looking at her, his eyes crinkling with mirth and said in the sincerest of voice, “But you just gave me the most enthralling sight I have seen in my life.” And just like that she doubled up in laughter, simultaneously taken aback and amazed by the man standing next to her. There was something in his eyes, the subtle intelligence, or the way they crinkled, she had no idea, but for a split second, she forgot everything around her. And that is how it happened, their first conversation, which lasted for eight hours, at the end of which he surprised her once again, by telling her he loved her. And she was taken aback once again. Who fell in love with a person within just eight hours! But the more she thought about it, the more tempted she was to reciprocate his feelings. Maybe it was the magic of the place, or maybe it was his eyes which crinkled with mirth, or maybe simply the beauty of the sunset before them, but she was more and more convinced by the second that she was falling in love with this unassuming yet the most interesting man she had ever met. It wasn't that she hadn't been in love before, she had had her fair share of romances, but this was different than anything she had ever known. She had a feeling he was the man for her, the one who she could see herself settling with. And she had been right, they had been married within an year of knowing each other, even though it was too soon for today’s times. But she had not told her she was in love with him too, no, she was not so easily attainable. She bade him goodbye and kissed him on the cheek, saying she hoped she would see him soon. And she had, right after two months of their first encounter in Chittorgarh. She had just returned from her trip of the splendid Iguazu Falls of Brazil, her second overseas assignment, and their he was, standing right in front of the door of her apartment, with a bouquet of white roses in his hand, and she had no idea how he had managed to get her address or what was he doing there. She just ran  upto him, saying that she loved him too. And just like that, they were married, and what a splendid union of two people it was. They were a perfect match, he matched her passion, intelligence and intensity like no one ever could. They were different in many ways too, she was impulsive, impatient, ambitious, while he was calm, laid back and easy going. But the differences only just complemented them more than ever. The love was boundless, and they were happy, in both their respective lives, as well as together. Then the twins happened and Shraddha resigned from her job, deciding to do free lancing instead, in order to be closer to home. And just like that, in a spur of adjustments to make their marriage work, take care of the kids and work to earn a living, the passion, the excitement, the intensity was lost. Shraddha let out a long sigh, and came back to the present, the kids needed to be dropped to the school, and then she had other things to do for the day, the cleaning, the maid had taken an off, yet again; buying groceries, giving clothes for laundry, reading that book on parenting, and all the things she had thought she would never do.

She dropped off the kids, waving good bye to them and reversed the car around. The cleaning was calling her. Far off, in the corner of the street, she saw a little girl playing with a bunch of balloons with her dog, and thought what a beautiful picture that would make. Yet again, she had another pang of loss in her heart. Shraddha had come to Mumbai from Varanasi fifteen years ago at the young age of twenty, with dreams in her eyes, but not much money in her pocket, like millions of others. And the city had welcomed her with open arms. She had her fair share of challenges initially, in finding a job, of her liking and moreover which paid decently enough for her to sustain in the city. But her grit, intelligence, determination  and hard work along with her exquisite looks had worked in her favor and she had soon moved up the ranks from an office boy doing petty jobs to the Good Times travel host. She loved her job, seeing the enthralling, enchanting places, summarizing up her experience, clicking great pictures for herself on the way, everything was way more than she could ever ask for. Then, when she thought life couldn’t be better, she met Pranav, and she had never been happier. And the kids took her happiness to just another level. But sometimes she wished for more, things which brought out her passion, her flame which even though  latent, was not not extinguished yet.

Shradhha had just finished with the laundry, and was about to go for her half an hour nap when her phone rang. She checked the caller ID, it was Pranav. She looked at the clock. Four o’ clock, there were still five hours before he returned home and the kids were not due to be picked for yet another half hour. Pranav didn’t call to talk when he was in office either, what could be the matter then? She picked up the phone, confused and said an uncertain Hello into the speaker. Pranav replied curtly, not even bothering with the greetings. “Meet me in the coffee shop where we had our first date in about half an hour. Don’t bother about the kids, I’ll pick them.” and with just this statement, he cut the call, giving her no time to ask for an explanation for his strange behaviour. She complied as told, and rushed towards the café, Coffees and More. It was right in front of the old apartment she lived in, and served the best coffee she had ever had. Pranav had her brought her there for their first date and she had smiled, saying it was her favourite café in the whole world, and he smiled, saying he knew that. And she had fallen in love with him even more, if that was even possible. Going back to the café brought many bittersweet memories back to her, and she smiled, opening the door of the café. Her smile was quickly replaced by a gasp, and she dropped her purse, looking all around the café with just one emotion playing in her mind, surprise. The whole café had been done in red and white balloons and scented candles, and in the middle of it all was Pranav, standing on one knee in front of her. He smiled, and she still was confused, and he smiled again. “Shraddha, I love you.”
She replied back hastily and was about to ask a million questions about the whole scene in front of her when he shut her up, by placing his finger gently on her lip, and she was transfixed, an emotion she had felt after a really long time.

“I love you, I really do. I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, I have always known it is only you. But somewhere along the way, we became so busy in handling our marriage and the responsibilities that it brought that we forgot to make time for each other, we forgot to show each other how much we mean to each other. You have made me the happiest man in this world by loving me back, and giving me this amazing life we have together. But somewhere along the way, you sacrificed too much, gave up your dreams to build ours, and I somehow turned a blind eye to it.” she wiped back a stray tear and he squeezed her hand tight, “Here is a surprise for you.  Arnabh, Sidhharth!” He called out their children who were hiding behind the chairs. Both the boys came running towards their mother and she welcomed them in a warm teary embrace. The boys brought a shabbily wrapped package to her and she opened it with excitement. Inside was a brand new camera with a note  “to the world’s best mom” written on its side. She laughed, hugging the boys even tighter. Pranav hurried to her to hug her, and she felt the warmth spreading inside her, her flame, her light.

And then again, right in the middle of an ordinay day, life gave her a fairytale. 

Dilli DIL(li)Walo ki

Why I love my city

In the beginning when I sat down to write this article, the first thought that came to my mind is how would I ever be able to pen down my feelings for this city in which I have spent 20 years of my life, sometimes cursing it and sometimes (however some it might be) basking in its charm. Many people view Delhi as this overtly boisterous city full of sprawling bungalows and all the pomp show, the “tu tadaak” and “tu jaanta nhi mera baap kaun hai” hurling brats, using and abusing this dialogue whether they are in a plush Merc or on a scooty pep plus. Then, there are the infamous profanities for which we are world famous in India! What to say, we have immense love for our maas and behens.

And now, since more recently the city has come into light for its cons (read being tagged as the rape capital, the pollution capital, the traf(fucked) city etcetera etcetera) it has become all the more important for me as a true blue Delhiite to bring out the reasons why any pakka Dilliwalaah loves this city.

 Our Khaas Aam Janta

Delhi being the national capital, has flocks of people coming in from every nook and corner of the country. And even though people claim they wouldn’t want to live in this city (due to safety and other pish posh factors), they still don’t stop coming into the city; we have people from all sorts of backgrounds. From the rani from rajouri to the too cool for school ‘every brand in your face, stilettos clacking, smoothie drinking’ Def Col chick, with shopping bags filled with vanity fair costing enough to feed an entire third world country; from the dreamy eyed autowallah hoping to join the army to the languid thulla hoping to catch one erring driver to grease his palms for the day. We have all types of mango peeps, from the aam to the khaas to the aam who think they are too khaas. From the pompous fat aunties to the sweet ganju uncles, from the too loud chandni chowk waale to the quiet scotch sipping gentlemen in Lutyens’. From the gujjus to the maraathas, from the surds to the bongs, from the ammas and appas to the papajis and mummyjis. This delicious cocktail of people is what makes Delhi, Delhi.

Life in a metro

It goes without saying that we the people of Delhi are immensely proud of our metro, the gleaming statuette of development in the city. Any metro commuter would agree when I say how easy travelling has become after the incoming of the metro; and how difficult it is to travel in it, what with, aunties elbowing each other to be the first one to get it, how you are never able to find a seat and how people are running on the platforms all the time. But no matter how crowded the trains are and how many times we have been pushed by the crowd to unwillingly get down at CS or Rajiv Chowk, we are  proud as punch when it comes to our beloved metro.

The food- from golgappas to dosas, we have it all!

Being a foodie, it is probably my favorite part of the city, the unlimited feast to the taste buds available in this mini country. From Kashmir’s Yakhni to Kanyakumari’s idlis, from Tokyo’s sushi to Paris’s pancakes, you name it, we have it. From the twenty rupee chhola kulchas from the road side, to the two thousand rupee per plate buffet at a five star, you can fill up your stomach irrespective of the depth of your pockets.

India Gate and the patriotism it fills in our hearts

There is hardly a Bollywood movie ever made in Delhi which doesn’t show our stoic India Gate, standing tall and stoic reminding us of the several soldiers who have sacrificed their lives to ensure our safety. Ask someone new to the city on what they would like to do in Delhi and a visit to the India Gate at night like in Rang De Basanti is a definite item in their checklist. And such is our love for the monument that whenever we are overwhelmed with emotions of discontent or rage, or outcry over a tragedy, we run to the monument with candles of hope and determination in our hands.

(but the venue is quickly shifted to Jantar Mantar, security issues they say.)

Political class

Delhi being the capital is the hub of political gimmicks as well, with 4-5 netas in every mohallahs moving about with loudspeakers in their hands but not much ideas in their brains, being unapologetically politically incorrect, trying to woo voters with their jhaadoos, kamals, hands, and all sorts of voodoo.

From Humayun’s Tomb to Cannaught Place: Everything reminding us of our glory

Delhi has some spectacular monuments, which attracts hundreds of tourists from all over the globe. These splendid pieces of architecture remind us of a glorious past, even though they are now covered in the writings of fools who deem it fit to carry a blade around with them in order to mark their transient love at least somewhere where it would remain forever. More than reminding us of our great rulers, these monuments reek of urine and alcohol. But regardless, one can’t help but marvel at these magnum opus structures and often wonder how idle must the craftsmen be, to carve everything and everywhere. Or maybe, it must be the lack of internet and television which spared them so much free time!

Dilli-dilwaalon ki!

The last factor, and truly the most important, that makes me love the city so much is how it opens its arms for thousands of people from all over the country. No matter whether our own students get admissions here or not, or whether there are enough employment opportunities or not, the city makes you feel at home, and embraces you, as it did to my father fifteen years ago.

These tit bits of goodness make me love this city so very much.

Till eternity and beyond.

It might seem like a frustrated rant, or perhaps the whining of a broken heart disillusioned with the concept of forever, or even the longing of a battered soul still hoping, against all odds, that somewhere there exists someone who is actually meant to be hers. Someone. Somewhere.
But Here, right here, right now, feels like a void which can never be filled again. You met this wonderful person, fell in love, learnt they had flaws, loved them even more fiercely if that was even possible, and then slowly it just unraveled, fell apart. You loved them, truly, and it still didn't work out. You gave them everything they deserved, and everything more than they deserved, and it still didn't work out. Then, how could one hope anything else could work out? You remember the promises, how they feel empty now, you remember the sweet nothings, how they feel like poison coursing through your vein, how every warm embrace feels like a cold dagger piercing through the heart. How you would give everything you have to forget everything you remember. How there lies a tree in that park which meant everything to you because it has your names enclosed in a heart. How you could tell all the moles decorating their body with your eyes closed. How you could tell when they entered a room because suddenly your heart would start beating just a little faster. How you thought you were soul mates because you completed them in ways you thought no one could; eating mushrooms off their plate because that is one thing they detested and you loved, loving the same actor, eating the same chocolates, hating the same people. All those shared memories feel empty now. The term 'soulmate' seems like a farce. And you feel cheated, robbed off the innocence of believing that some people are meant to stay forever. They would still stay with you though. Like a ghost you want to rid off but can not. They would still occupy your heart, But not as you had hoped ever since you had heard your first love story proclaiming a happily ever after.Some people are meant to stay with you as scars, lessons learnt the hard way, Lessons you would always remember. Till eternity and beyond.

May the ODDS be 'EVEN' in your favour!

From 1st to the 15th January, the rather unconventional chief minister of Delhi, honest AK churned out a car policy which reflects his temperament to the T; the decision was made hastily, without much deliberation or consent from the parties involved, was poorly implemented and caused more inconvenience than the problem it solved. Nevertheless, the decision was welcomed, even though with much reluctance and scepticism, like an unavoidable distant aunt who comes for a short visit and creates havoc in our well-accustomed schedule. But the question is whether the aunt brought enough 'laddoos' or went away with just a fruitless stir?
While the ever growing pollution has created an emergency like situation in the city, critics have often voiced that the odd-even policy is a rather ineffective measure which would actually add to the existent pollution levels in the city. The rule failed to pass the test in cities like Paris and Beijing where the pollution actually increased in the long run with people hoarding cars of both the odd and even number plates for convenience, thus increasing the number of cars on the road.
The Delhi Government fortunately thought better than to repeat the failed policy in the city and instead brought it as a short term experimentation for a fortnight. While the short run effects were mostly positive, with the traffic on Delhi roads reducing by almost 30 percent, there is a difference of opinion regarding the reduction in pollution levels. Some environmentalists pointed that the government changed the index of pollution to show a rosy picture of the city which is covered with smog.But the overall consensus is that the situation did improve, albeit sparsely. Now, the question is whether we want this aunt to stay for the long run or not? No matter what the outcome, there is no doubt that the policy was inconvenient for the general population. The slight relief during the fortnight was that schools had been closed in the city for the winter break, and AAP appointed its own volunteers, which definitely can't be a permanent solution. Bring in the precarious relationship the 'mango' party shares with the Delhi Police, and we have a raita we would rather avoid. Also, with inconvenience comes it's step sister in the form of a perverse incentive, the incentive here being purchasing two cars, which would further deteriorate the situation. Hence the better thing to do would be to say goodbye to the aunt and bringing in the well endowed 'Nani' in the form of well defined public transport, pedestrian facilities; and stricter green norms by curbing the purchase of diesel cars and stopping those god awful trucks from entering the city just to save a few worthless bucks.
Alas! The distant aunt can't stay for too long, the laddoos weren't worth the price!

The picture above isn't an impressionist painting, it is the traffic in Beijing after the long term effect of the odd even rule. This is a mistake which doesn't have to be made to realise that it indeed was a mistake!

HOW TO NOT BE A BROKEN ANDA?

We live in times when competition is so fierce that even a hundred is not good enough. SRCC's 2015 cut off itself was 100.75. can you believe it? The Apsara guys would definitely be rejoicing since finally their projection of a boy getting 105 out of 100 has come true! Their sales have believed to be shot up because it seems now that the only way to get into SRCC is by using apsara extra dark and scoring extra marks for good handwriting.

But in times of such competition how can one determine their worth in a sea of people as good or even better than him/her? How can a person know that they are truly special when even the idea of being one in a million does not make you special? (In India, if you are one in a million, there are 1450 people just like you.) Hence, most kids nowadays face a sort of identity crisis; in a country with so many everybodies what will make you stand apart? How will you win this race? Since, life is a race, and if you don't run fast enough you would be a broken andaa right?

The answer, I believe, lies in changing the whole process of upbringing.

Usually, children are asked what do they want to become when they grow up. and usually in India, parents already pick out an answer for their kids in the form of doctors and engineers and every type of conventional profession that would keep you stuck in a rigid, unbreakable mould.

So what question should be asked?

What problem would you want to solve.

This question changes the whole dynamics of our existential crisis. We would no longer be just and engineer or a doctor or a teacher but a problem solver, an explorer, a discoverer, a person who is making his own little contribution in changing the face of the earth instead of just slogging for paychecks every passing month.

And then we would see, how our life changes for the better. How we become someone irreplaceable from just another.

If you don't believe me look at this kid who just figure out the puzzle and tell me she doesn't look satisfied.

KYA AB RAHEGA SAMOSE MEIN AALOO?

A TALE OF KACHORIS AND SAMOSAS

Nitish Kumar who was once again elected the chief minister of bihar for his fifth term recently imposed a ban on ‘desi’ liquor, receiving applauds from the masses for trying to curb consumption in the hamlets of Bihar which has been ridden with the ill effects of alcohol in the form of thousands of addicts who have fallen into vicious traps of debt and addiction, taking their entire families down the hole. The welcome thought comes at a huge cost to the Bihar exchequer with an estimated revenue loss of about five thousand crores, a crucial amount considering the mass poverty, illiteracy, unemployment and lack of basic amenities clawing at the state’s resources. Hence, to compensate the fall in revenue the government has devised a ‘novel’ tax system, putting luxury tax on commodities such as samosas (yes, one of the country’s favourite chai companions), mosquito repellents (needed in abundance in Bihar due to the uncountable number of mosquitoes, perhaps over numbering even the population of the state.) Also feeling the heat are kaju katlis, saris and kachoris. Hence, the Bihar government resonates the one fact even five year olds joke about : that Bihar is a poor state, in fact so poor that the people who can afford samosas come within the crème of rich folks. The people in Bihar should certainly feel happy, its not too difficult to become rich in Bihar. Its not long before the police waalas in Bihar would be tightening their leash on poor halwais churning out hot samosas while the murderers and the rapists would be freer than ever. While it is being speculated that Nitish Kumar has perhaps taken notes from the 14^th century English government which taxed citizens for merely  being ‘alive’ (yes, its true.), the country has set its eyes on Bihar betting whether it would be ‘Jungle Raj-2’ or ‘bade achhe din’.

A NERD'S ADDICTION

One of my most favourite things to do in the whole world is reading. (One major reason why I know some fancy words.) And it could be reading anything. LITERALLY anything. Sometimes I even read the grocery lists. That too with keen interest. 

To me the best feeling in the world is when you are so engrossed in a book that the real world just becomes a blur, and your whole attention is focussed on this little device made of paper which is the only link to port you into another world, different than yours, another world filled with hope and despair and magic and tragedy and love and betrayal and all the emotions that make us human. But in this world, we are merely a spectator, a bystander, so close to the protagonist that we can read his mind and the feel the hues of emotions buried in his heart; but at the same time we are so far away from him that we can do nothing to change his actions, to try to reason with him, to tell him that perhaps, we know him better than even he does. And it no longer matters if you missed your stop in the metro or if you are getting late for that presumably important event that doesn't seem too important anymore or if you have an exam the next day. The only thing in your mind is finishing just one more page.

Books work like LSD. Ask someone who just read a good one.

Karma is a BEACH!

One thing I am completely fixated with nowadays is Quora. It's such a wonderful and refreshing way to connect with total strangers.

Ask a question and there are hundreds to provide answers. And some of them provide such interesting answers that your whole outlook towards the problem is just twisted 180 degrees.

And even if you have no questions to ask or answers to provide, just reading through it everyday is entertaining, for the lack of a better word.

But this post is not about Quora, even though I might have come off as a Quora ambassador to you by now.
This post is about KARMA, and how doing good deeds actually gives us brownie points, no matter how irrelevant in might seem in our immediate line of sight.
And one instance of this is taken from one of the answers I read on Quora.

A blessed homeless Man

When Billy Ray Harris a homeless man found a very expensive diamond engagement ring, he tracked down the owner for days searching everywhere and handed the ring over to its owner. When the news spread across, complete strangers fixed his bike and provided meal for him and he also received a $100,000 in donations online from all over the world.

He still remains a very close friend to the family . He moved into a new house which he bought from the donations received for his good deed!

Karma also means good things happen to people who think good even when the going is tough.

So the next time you come across someone who needs help, do it for your own selfish purposes, because someone is adding brownies to your own Karma list.

HEY THERE EVERYONE!

(Or whoever would like to read what I have to offer)
I thought a lot about the name I wanted to give to my blog and all I could come up with was this (weird) name. Reasons:-1.) I am just a bit cheeky.
2) I am a marwari hence the word 'Madu'.
3) I am definitely a chick (girl).
And lastly, 4.) It's really the only decent name I could think of. (Another one was lazy leo.)
I am a twenty year old girl from New Delhi who thinks she is too smart to do any work. Reading between the lines one would understand I mean lazy and just a little bit pompous. Just a little. I promise. I like using fancy words once a while, hence I thought, hey why not start writing a blog?
But i didn't think I could make such a commitment since it actually required me to get off my ass and use my fingers and just a wee bit of my brain. Hence, it took me some time, almost a year to actually log into this thing. But I would do my best to maintain a regular flow of my thoughts, ideas, ideologies, travel accounts and basically any amount of crap that goes on in my life.
I do hope it interests some people. Or else the only views I would get would be from my mom. I hope.
And, and, and, what else?
oh.
Happy new year. May there be something new about your year!

P.S.   A famous writer once said that using exclamation marks in your sentence is like laughing at your own joke. But I guess one is allowed?

P.P.S. Cheers everyone!

Here's a new year photo with the jokers. My life seems to be filled with them! Oops. Another exclamation.