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.

You're Your Best Person.

It's May already. Which means, it's that time of the year when most of the kids look forward to the blissful two months of summer vacations. Obviously, schools try to spoil it with bundles of holiday assignments; but nonetheless. Vacations are always special. Moreover, I've no summer vacations now. Started working and what not, bro.

But I have this particular fond memory of my school days when I used to be fat. And how I used to dump my school uniform into the cupboard to not see it for the next fifty to sixty days. Needless to say, I would gorge my way through the summer. And wear loose breezy clothes that made me uber comfortable in the heat. What else are vacations meant for? But what would follow was rather disappointing.

My uniform's skirts would not fit me. I would get stuck in them so bad that I wanted to tear those pleats at that very moment! At the same time, my mom would be waiting with a grumpy expression, as if knowing I would not fit into them. Those days, I wondered, if she knew I would get stuck why didn't she just buy a bigger size before hand? Similar situations arose when I had to buy denims. God, how much I hated trying those pairs. I've gone through that phase to know how it feels when those clothes lying in your cupboards for months just refuse to fit you. You just have to stuff them in and buy bigger sizes in a hope that one day you'll go back to the older smaller ones. However, this is no sympathy note for people who feel they are gaining weight. Or already have.

Many people tell me, you won't understand our dilemma because you're thin and your waist size has only reduced in the last two years. Well, it has. No denying that. I'm nowhere close to what I used to be.

But size does not matter, really. Pun unintended. If you feel you relate to even an inch of what I wrote, I just want to share a moment of empathy and tell you, you're your best person. And keep it that way. Always.

The Journey.

The traveller. Uprooted and rolling. For whom the journey was the only fascination. He strived for no destination in particular. Because destinations are conclusive. They become finite and make you conform. And thus, he never chose to pinpoint on a specific destination, when he spread out his map made of old handmade paper every weekend. He chose the route, the one which was most enticing, the one that caught his fancy. That would make him go around every geographical embodiment Nature has ever created. Sometimes, he would also digress from what he had initially planned. Who cares. The final destination was never binding on him anyway.

It's always interesting to write about travels and travellers. They is a certain nomadic air about them. A sense of uncertainty, of not finding them the next morning when you wake up. And a carefree countenance, indifference almost, to the worldly routines that draws you to them. It's like a cinematic sight that you see dreaming to play the lead role instead.

So, each Monday, when the larger part of civilisation gathered themselves to hit their chores, he embarked upon a new journey. A week full of new experiences, new people. A new life almost. As if he was chosen by God to only foray into untraveled lands and explore. A divine mission as it were. An old rustic bike,  a camera dangling round his neck, some beer cans and some food that he frequently gathered along the way.

He was no loner. He made several acquaintances through his journey. Countryside folks often looked up to him with an amusing fascination. Young village girls found his rugged bike and dusty appearance a fresh change from the conventionally clad village boys. Wherever he went, he mingled and celebrated with the local residents who often fed him and sometimes offered shelter. In return, he would click their photographs. Lots of them. Those photographs were his means to tell the tale of the place he visited. The joys and sorrows he witnessed. Every place was so distinct that he was but compelled to capture it. Through the week he would click incessantly, from the countryside to cities. And over the weekend, reminisce a part of his life spent on exploration.

Travel brings power and love back into your life 
- Rumi. 

Love's a thousand desires.

Love like the olden golden days. There is no state of being in-between. It's pure and wanting of corrupted egos. Say it'll work, to see it working.

Each passing day, he saw her down the street. Such a typical sight. To watch an ordinary girl trail through the ordinary street. Love of the ordinary. It was simple and straightforward. He liked it that way. He made no effort to glorify its existence. To push it to the superlative. Because the superlative is unnatural. He liked himself that way. To watch her, write about her, think about her. That state of happiness gave him the power to conduct himself. It brought him no complexity. He knew she is his. She knew he is hers. They did not have to necessarily discuss it. This blinding faith was intimate to each of them. Faith, drunken to his countenance.

That's how I'd want it to be. Simple. Agreeable. It should have the power to settle the turbulence on other fronts. The power of fulfil desires, whatever form they choose to take. It should bring endless joy, each passing day. Should be divine. 

Hand stains. Mug shots. Winter is soon gone.
Rebirth.
Encore. 

To those we loved, and never lost. 

What They Understood of Feminism.

I often refrain from offering critiques on philosophical and literary theories. The reason is simple, everybody can have a point of explanation about what they understand of an Existentialism or a Surrealism or a Cubism. We all can draw numerous interpretations about how we connect to these or vice versa.

However, today I just feel like talking about Feminism. And largely, not in its favor. For one, I'm the least of a feminist. Yes, I promote gender parity at most platforms; but I refuse to discount another person's importance as an individual only because he belongs to the opposite gender. This warrants for a lot of reaction, mostly. And I like it. Because mostly women, largely identifying themselves as feminists do the following -

1. Write extensively about exploitation of women - sexually, mentally or physically. About women being victorious over men. About women rights and legal status that prevailed in ages far beyond their own birth date.

2. Write the above mentioned on visible social media platform, provoking other women and sometimes, men who are probably not that articulate. So that the latter join hands with them and acknowledge (read like or retweet) the same.

3. Share facebook pages created for the woman's cause. And they do so far more rapidly than you can blink. Ask them what and when was the First Wave Feminist Movement and ...

4. Discuss harassment incidents that flashed on news channels last night. It is the intellectual subject matter to quibble about at social gatherings.

5. Fight about the state of security in the city and seek out to claim the city by its streets. This, they do on news channels and everywhere else.

I know this is probably the most generic and as the purists might put it, nonsensical explanation for feminism. But this is perhaps how the concept is understood by the masses.

So basically, it is an arm chair philosophy. You sit, talk over coffee and move on to shop at a fancy mall. And then you critisize men for not vacating seats in general compartments of the Metro after gobbling a whole god damn coach. It might even seem blasphemous to call it a dysfunctional idea, feminism. In the wake of rising incidents of rapes and sexual harassments, even more. That does not mean I don't feel for those victims. But merely talking and preaching is highly hypocritical.

Case rested. 

Seven Reasons Why Winters are Wondrous.

Winter is the best time of the year. The best. Needless to say it is my favourite season of the year. I won't even try and sound like the English and say how much I appreciate the Fall, because come on, there is no such thing as Fall in the Indian seasons. It's a good thing to accept your indigenous happenings. So yes, winters. It is that time of the year when mornings are chilly and evenings are chillier. And afternoons are sun-soaked. But that would be like stating the obvious, wouldn't it. That's not why winters are kickass.

Some say these cold months are so romantic. Perfect for an evening date and so on. Well, probably. I cannot picture myself wearing something glamorous in the teeth-clattering night just for a date. I'd rather layer-up to enjoy. Some have even criticised the season for causing them discomfort - they have to wake up in the morning and go for work in the cold. Yeah, as if the rest of the year, your files and projects were shipped at your doorstep by a valet. Come on, work is work. Summer is too hot, monsoon is too wet and winter is too cold. Excusitis might be the cause, rather than the season.

Anyhow, winters are awesome. I got my reasons in place.
One, it's the best time to gorge maximum. Food gives energy and keeps you warm. I'm giving you scientific backing for it. What else can you ask for.
Two, you don't gain as much weight by eating extra. I read this somewhere that the body uses those calories to beat the chill. Science, eh.
Three, Christmas and New Year's fall in winter. Peak time for celebration and more food.
Four, there is so much to shop for. Mufflers, sneakers, jackets, pullovers and accessories to match. Girls, be happy !
Five, winter is equated to wedding times in India. Every day, every week there is somebody getting married. More food, more shopping, more celebration.
Six, It's Old Monk time for alcohol lovers. They swear by it.
Seven, nights are longer during winter. That means, MORE SLEEP. This ones the best, is it not?

In literature, winter is equated to death and endings. Where life withers and things come to an end. But it seems like a carnival time here, man ! Everybody is drunk with joy and celebration; there never is a dull moment. That's how it is for me.

Word.

"Karma is a cutie."

I read this somewhere, and I couldn't help but smile. And smile more.

There is so much to share and smile about
So much to rejoice about. Happenings that are beyond the politics of the politik. Beyond the grim hustle that consumes us, rather hypocritically. We critisize only because we are at a comfortable spot.

Appreciate and be grateful. No life-science preaching, this. When you will go around happy, it will come around to you !

She Lives. She Loves.

There is something about some people you come across. Something unusual. They might not be your closest friends but you know they are there. Their presence is inevitably known to everyone in that space. In some way, they just have to be known by everyone around them.

I had one such girl during my graduation. We weren't the kind of friends who would share our problems or secrets the way girls do. Or maybe I never did. Her presence just made me happy. Whenever she was around, I expected a stream of laughter to start echoing in minutes of our interaction. She was always ready with a story to tell. And her story, a rather simple one, drew people towards her. She loved narrating them in fact.

In a span of three years, I had become privy to so many stories about her life, that I felt I was close to knowing her well. From how she smoked her way to college in an auto, to how she passed days in her depressing convent school, to how she danced all slutty at the party last night and rushed for a morning lecture. She was a favorite at the cafeteria. Sipping iced tea even on the coldest mornings, she carried a bag with no books, a wallet flooded with loose money and a story. I never saw her tell a sobbing story though. It was as if in her mind, she was a celebrity being chased by the paparazzi of the city.

Initially, I hardly spoke to her. In fact it took me time to understand her sometimes-blunt responses. To the ones she loved, she loved immensely. To the ones she disliked, well. The heaviness of English Literature was whisked away in her humor and lines we made jokes of. It's not like she didn't face problems or was never broke or didn't have a fight. It's just that she was the way she was. Always on a high.

I'm glad to have spent my days of graduation with her. I don't remember not recalling any incident that she shared with me, and not laughing. I don't think I came across anyone like her again. I'm at a loss of words when people ask how was she so different. I'm just glad I met her.

To you, pole. I wanted to write this much earlier. 

The Man and The Photograph.

Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.

He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.

New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.

Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.

The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.

But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.

After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.

He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.

Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.

The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.

Ten Reasons Why My Dad is Awesome.

I wrote about fathers and daughters some time back. And their relationship as it usually is. For some unknown reason, I like talking about that relationship. It makes me gleeful. Not that mom's are any less loved, or I'm not fond of my mom, or whatever. I love her immensely.

Somehow, talking about fathers is special. It could be due to whatever Freud said about the Oedipal Complex (and let me know, if I repeat myself, again).

Or perhaps, mine is such a flamboyant and benign soul that I cannot stop gushing about him. Some days, it's like I have suddenly woken up to my dad's good looks or sense of dressing or way of talking or handling people who seem annoying to the others.

For one, I think he is the best dressed person in my family. Relatives older or younger watch and ape him. He loves to shop for himself, right from cufflinks to bandgala jackets, belts and watches. And thus, he understands why one would need so many pairs of shoes.
Two, he has the most amazing collection of perfumes. And he lets me steal them quite generously. (Yeah, some perfumes are kickass for everybody to use.)
Three, he never scolds me. Ever. It's always cool between us.
Four, he has amazing people skills. He manages the most sticky people with a grin and the next minute, you wouldn't know if someone tried to test his patience.
Five, he doesn't ask how much money I need. Just gives. And being the nice person I am, I don't take advantage of that. It's true.
Six, he loves travelling far and wide.
Seven, my girl-friends had a crush on him when I was younger. And he starts smiling funnily whenever I tell him that.
Eight, he has enormous amount of patience. I mean, people can come and borrow some patience from him, it's so much in abundance.
Nine, he is the one who distracts mom and me from having heated arguements.
Ten, well, he's awesome. Period.  

Outgrow The Years.

Simpler things these days are a rarity. It's as if everyone's running into complexities of existence. Blame it to our lifestyles? Or technology. Or whatsapp's last seen. Or parties and after parties. Or money. Everything is made into a complex gumball that we stick to ourselves and move around as programmed complex creatures.Wow, that's one term. Anyway, so yeah. We sit on our window sill, on rainy afternoons, dipping into nostalgia or deep thought- wondering how simple our past years were. So on and so forth.

The other day, I stumbled upon some old pictures. Not that old, though. They were pictures of friends whom I was not really in touch with now. Maybe we think of each other time and again, but never really met as we used to. I laughed over how each year we had one big fight, that involved a lot drama. How we used each other's names as excuses to meet a whole bunch of other people, rather discreetly. How we spent that long span of time just among ourselves.

And how, we barely meet now. I don't even remember when did we speak on the phone. There is no speck of animosity between us. But then, one day, I read somewhere that sometimes we outgrow certain people. And I could not understand whether I agreed to this, or otherwise. How do you outgrow people? Does moving forward in life imply ougrowing people who made your past worthy? Then, I also thought of some possibilites. What if I had met all those people, now. In the state of life I am curently. When I have a better understanding of things. Would we make better friends now? What if the settings in which we sustained our relationships were different? Would I have been the same person, if I did not have their influence on my life back then?

So I came to a conclusion that outgrowing people isn't the best idea to stick to. Probably it doesn't work for me. Maybe it does for you. I wouldn't know. Sudden realizations of a lost friendship did not embark my mind, no. But it definitely reminded me of the good days that were. Days that were spent with people I liked being around. And I'm quite sure, that would not change if I meet the same people again. Eventually, I came up with my own version of that phrase - You outgrow the time, not the people you spent that time with.

Just let certain things be simple.

Resolutions Are Meant To Be Broken. Are They.

We all make New Year resolutions. To improve ourselves, our surroundings. Begin with a bang, slow down mid way and probably by year end just laugh over how resolutions are meant to be broken. January's promises become December's jokes over New Year Eve's dinners. Of course, it's enjoyable. We laugh on ourselves - about how we resolved to wake up early and do yoga, complete the pending treatment at the Dentist, learn driving, be more honest, spend more time with the family, quit smoking or reduce procrastincation.

But what if we ditched the New Year's time to make such promises to ourselves. No, this isn't a self help post that will awaken your you from the shackles of your grey existence and bounce back ! Or maybe it will. It's only a thought that struck me when I reminisced over the resolutions I made and achieved, half baked. Yeah, so why choose New Year's to make resolutions. What's up with New Year's? Just because you begin the year are you bound to load it with self uplifiting moral promises. You have the whole year for it, man. Or is it the air of resolutions and promises that float around you on New Year's Eve, where there is a whole range of resolutions to choose from. Your best friend's or boyfriend/girlfriend's list. So many options, is it? 

Well, I have been noticing this for two years now and have realized the futility of making New Year's resolutions. Not because they don't survive. But because when I'm celebrating and partying, who cares about waking up early for yoga, going to the Dentist for root canal, or improving my driving and so on. (I don't smoke, so that's one respite from resolutions already.) I will make a resolution when I want to. I don't feel like making it public; or maybe those self improving tips don't hit my mind when I'm partying. And since I won't make my resolutions on a December-January cusp, there won't be an obligation to fulfil and guilt to ignore them. Maybe one made some where between the year, will work better for me.

PS: Also, I read Robin Sharma say somewhere, that it takes any person about 30 days to get used to a new habit. The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari wasn't the most intriguing book I read, though. Just saying. I'm trusting you with this one, Robin !