Khichdi: A question of to be or not to be

It's been a while that I have written something, mainly because lately it feels like I have lesser and lesser to say. And what else could I say anyway that hasn't already been said before. In a world of Van Gogh and Martin Scorcese and Christopher Nolan and Sulman Rushdie and Jhumpa Lahiri and John Green and Khaled Hosseini and Shakespeare, the great storytellers and poets and philosophers and artists what could I even say that wouldn't feel like a sorry plain and mellow mush of khichdi in a room full of exotic mouth watering cuisines. These are some of the questions that gnaw my heart and leave me inevitably feeling inspired and uninspiring both at the same time. And these were some of the things I was wondering while I whiled away my time on a footover bridge overlooking a very busy road on the one hand and a setting golden orange sky on the other. Now what was I even doing on the footover bridge in the first place? Well, super blue blood moon and overzealous friend who managed to get me excited enough to run to the bridge to see the historic once in a lifetime event from 30 kms away were the culprit it seems. I hung over the bridge for more than an hour hoping to catch something life altering but all I really got were blaring traffic noises from underneath and atleast a tonne of smoke into my lungs. But it wasn't so bad. I listened to stairway to heaven and pondered over the questions I ask myself every once in a while. Suddenly my attention fell on a barefooted man running around in the heavy traffic charged with a lathi, trying hard to control the traffic which remained oblivious of this crazy little man though mindful to not hurt him. Seeing him milling about, I kept wondering how thin a line there is between obsession and insanity; and how liberating would the latter feel. I enjoyed my little bridge time though I couldn't really answer all the questions I keep throwing at myself. Maybe it isn't about finding all answers to our questions but maybe it's about finding questions whose answers are worth looking for. Maybe it's a little similar with writing. We don't really need a reason to write and despite all the wonderful things written in the world, it still doesn't have that one thing that only you and you can offer; your perspective. And even though what you have to offer might just look like plain mush khichdi, remember that on awful days when everything hurts there is nothing more satisfying and comforting than a bowl of warm khichdi.

The genesis of this blog came one fine day when I, overtly amused by my eccentric Marwari family and somewhat funny life decided that it should be documented somewhere and if I got lucky even be read by a few people (except my mom); well, except that even my mom doesn't read it either. But as it often happens with all my mad genius plans; I got lazy and didn't really get to actually writing anything in the blog. Gradually the blog became more of a platform for sharing my abstract musings on the world and more generally a vent for my feelings hence letting my original idea of sharing personal anecdotes going to the dump. Anyway, today I feel like sharing a personal story; not to anyone particularly but just to write it; to see whether it looks as crazy on screen as it feels in my head. So basically 2017 pretty much sucked for me. I screwed up the exam I had been preparing a year for, felt lost and purposeless, tried a bunch of things and failed, and generally procrastinated my way through; as usual. Expecting 2018 to be kind of the same way since all adulting really means is sucking at things until you just die, I had very less reason to celebrate the New Year's Eve. But succumbing under peer pressure and death threats by friends who have the potential to make good on them, I went to my friend's house party. Okay so, normal kids (read adults who live with their parents ) usually just tell their parents what their plans for new year's are and go and live their youth but marwari kids have to concoct elaborate lies which DON'T involve alcohol or drugs or boys or the fact that the party is 2 hours away and basically in another state with high incidences of road rage and testosterone and crazy hormone charged boys. By now you would have guessed the party was in Gurgaon. Or the stupidly named Gurugram (Seriously, doesn't the government have better things to do than pointlessly renaming cities? Like go and remove poverty or something?) 

Anyway, coming to the point; the party was in Gurgaon, and was made up of my parents' worst nightmares. Namely booze, hash, lots of loud and dirty music and lots and lots of boys. Basically any normal house party.

But then things started getting crazier. Which they usually do after eight shots of mixed up drinks. After three shots you make Goa plans with your girlfriends. After five, you try booking air tickets using your paytm money. (Thank god my paytm had only like, fifty bucks), after six shots you rub against random Jat boys who are friends of your girlfriend's boyfriend. Crazy right? Not enough? Well the random Jat boys who are friends of my girflfriend's boyfriend also happen to carry pistols with them everywhere. Which they got to the party as well. While everyone was busy taking phones out of their jeans pockets to sit comfortably, they took out their pistols and kept it as nonchalantly as if everyone carried pistols everyday. After seven shots, one of the Jat boys took out a wad of cash charged with two thousand bucks notes; which I, after seven shots tried to steal from him. In my defense he was standing on a chair and had taken that bundle of cash out trying to shower it on our sorry crowd beneath him. I was just being respectful and accepting of his charitable ways. My friend unfortunately thought otherwise and returned the stack to him. After eight shots my long time chuddy buddy girlfriend was going around the house announcing to everyone that she has known me from the time we wore those chuddies while I ran around the house behind her correcting her, saying that we wear the chuddies even now. After nine shots I kissed my chuddy buddy girlfriend to tell her I love her while her boyfriend watched his mouth gaping. I couldn't tell whether he was appalled or wanted to join in. After ten shots, I kissed my best friend to again, prove to her that I love her. After her ten shots, she asked me to prove it properly so I tongue kissed her. All I can say is there were a lot of gaping mouths in the party. After eleven shots I was way overreaching myself so obviously I puked all over the place; so I was put to sleep. But not before kissing another one of my childhood friends, this time a boy. All the homophobes can sigh with relief. Although I don't remember this one but was told this by that very same boy the next morning. I pretended not to believe him but knowing me I probably would have done that too. What can I say? I am just full of love when I am drunk ;)

On a side note, the Jat boys with pistols went out later in the night, very happy and very very high and ran their cars up the dividers on the road just for fun and well, they had to uber later on since they got their bumper severely damaged and the tyres punctured. Which on hindsight is really good for other people on the road.

On another side note, one of the Jat boys I was grinding against brought a BMW for me to sit in with him the very next morning. I couldn't decide whether to be amused or flattered. Guess I was mostly scared because of his pistol.

Anyway, that was my NORMAL new year.

How was yours?