This is me surfing on the hide tide. Dancing on the crest. Or so I believe!

Heeeeee. I dipped strawberries in sugar syrup and pretended to enjoy its natural flavor.

Peace out.

Never throw an idea out of the window!

Macaroons are the most pretentious kind of dessert. They just sit there, looking pretty. As if filled with vanity, rather than taste. Are hard to bite. And painted with artificial colours.

Stupid, macaroons.

It has to fall in place, eventually. All of it. That's how it's meant to be.

Grand Pa.

The IPL season is back. Most cricket lovers are glued to matches and all the related trivia. I particularly see some ardent fans defying the logic of technology and collecting posters and pictures. Setting up their walls with their favorite batsman's poster.

It reminds of me a very distinct memory. It was the first year of IPL in India. And I was in 11th grade. The fervour across the nation was gripping. Being at the stadium to cheer your favorite team was a luxury. Newspapers to radio channels, residential societies to corporate offices - all were caught in the momentum

That was also the year, my grandparents and moved to their new house. Which was right next to our house. Merrily, we would spend the night watching every single match. My grandfather has been one of the best sportspersons of his times. Needless to say, he makes, even today, a very passionate audience. He would watch every cricketer's performance critically, grilling them on every shot they played. Sometimes I wondered why. But I loved sitting with him, occasionally listening to his stories of swimming through whirlpools and what not.

One morning I woke up early. And what I saw amused me to no end.

Every morning, my grandfather would collect clippings of the previous night's match, and carefully pack it under the shelf. When I sat there long enough, he took me to his cupboard, opened the door and showed me a rating chart of all the teams. It was scattered with small ticks all over. He told me that each night, after the match he would tick against the team that won, count the points it earned and then sleep. His goal was to estimate the correct team's name that would reach the Finals. And he did. With much precision.

I laughed with joy and pride on how smart he was, though I felt slightly envious for not sharing that passion. But for me, watching him enjoy those matches was extremely delightful.

He's grown older today. Older than I thought he would. And no longer stays in the same house. He speaks lesser than he used to. I wish I could meet him more often that I actually do. And tell him how much he means to me. To all of us. For teaching us so much. But of all the things, how to collect match updates like a boss!

Love.

Narratives.

Narratives are so important. Every experience, whether oral or written is alive only because of its narrative.

I studied a lot of narrative styles during Graduation. Sometimes, I'd try to imitate a certain favorite writers. Influenced writing and copied perspectives make for amusing memories, I guess. I perhaps tried to steal the thought process not understanding that those narratives depicted a certain time zone, circumstances that cannot be duplicated. But I'm glad I attempted it. To every extent.

Today, as I begin to write - there are flashes of tales in my head. Situations, or possibilities. Experiences, or occurings. As I begin to pen them down, there is a recurring desire to let go of the narrative. To leave it mid way. Unassumed. Undescribed. As if a satiating narrative would break down the essence into its crux. Too much meaning can wash down the impact of a thought.

And so, I began writing about moments. Basically, flashes of experience. An interaction. An emotion. Unfinished narratives would perhaps give the mind a chance to imagine. To think of possibilties. Perhaps make it more real. More close to our realities.

Let Go.

Letting go was important for her. At this point in time, crucial for survival. A happier survival. She had to shed what had built her then. And what was tryingto break her. Life was such a blessing to her that getting morbid was almost a digrace.

Then she opened the door. The chilly winds gushed through her hair. Kissing her face cold, her nose turned red. She started walking out through the door. Her purple socks felt slightly damp with the fog settling on the floor.

She saw the highway ahead of her. Dark. Black road. Devoid of commotion. As if lying calmly for a traveler. It was 3 am. Late enough for girls to be home. But for her, it was just the right time. Break of a new day. And closure of a life going by. She stood at the cusp. Literally, on the white strip - the indicator that glowed under street light.

And she sat down. Crossed legged. She sat down in silence. Not a vehicle crossed. Not a spec of noise. She sat down. With her arms spread wide. She opened her soul to the Universe. As if asking it to relieve her. She breathed deep. As if watching it all go.

Then she got up. Diligently walked her way into the house. Shut the door and lay on the bed. And smiled.

And said, thank you.