Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Kanika, A Frenemy for Life

Today seems to be the twenty-first of January, 2015. This day is sandwiched between two pre-board exams of two important and difficult science subjects. This day is kind of ruined. I have known Kanika for the past six-years. To me, she was the most arrogant, bitchy and bossy person around. And you know what the best part is? She still is. I still remember that I never took panga from her and her #girls-gang because of the seemingly dangerous unity that they used to have. One of them, Urvashi, who was always popular for her academic success (still is), used to abuse like there's no tomorrow. Snehi was gentle, however a bit clever when it came to subtle mockery and laughing with both lips pressed. Lastly, my favourite, Nikita, someone who understood the pain I've underwent. Kanika was the mother of all three of them. She haunted me. She still haunts me. She haunts me both physically and grammatically. She can be thought of as the Nazgul approaching you with an axe to slice off your head from the rest of your body. It is because of Kanika that I have to check what I'm writing, at least thrice. And she seems to be loaded with applications that are like her, for example, Grammarly: an application that rates you for your English proficiency considering several parameters. Then she started reading Harry Potter, a common interest that we've always shared. It is not necessary for me to go on talking about how much Kanika loves Harry Potter. We all already know all that. But I believe Kanika emerged as a more confident and aesthetic personality when she reread all the books and continued with her reading endeavors. I can say unequivocally that she still is the most intelligent, motivated and sensitive person among all of us. Her personality is balanced. I believe she is the common voice for all of us when it comes to talking about the sensitive subject of homosexuality. Not forgetting that she is a brilliant writer. Her writings are full of punchlines, anecdotes and comparisons that one can't easily miss. I believe her writing style is as motivated as her. It is one of her dimensions when it comes to being a true artist.
Personally, the relationship I've shared with Kanika has always been very special. Kanika is a dear friend, not in a way that we hangout everyday or talk on the phone a lot or maybe spend time at school. But I've always considered her a part of that secret group in my mind that I consider intellectually enlightened enough. Sometimes our conversations are completely one-sided. She prattles on for hours about how she has read/completed/watched/heard new programs/books/serials/shows/wtf. And sometimes I keep on chattering about my various endeavors like music and shizzzz. Sometimes our conversations are mature. I respect such conversations. I find myself at real ease while talking to her because our relationship has never been shrouded with stuff like pretense or ego. She informs me when I bore her. And I do that too.
What I want Kanika to know on her birthday is that she is special to me. And this is the first and the last time I'm writing this because we don't need to call ourselves special to be special. She's been there for me with the biggest and worst of my secrets. And that's why I cannot afford to spoil my friendship with her because she might just 'leak' some secrets/photos that would be of public domain. I also want her to know that she's emerging as the ideal woman; confident and sensitive, just like a true feminist.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

I guess I liked studying, until

I always considered myself a good student, mostly not because I scored well, but because I liked studying. With such an attitude and a comfortable tenth grade, I planned to pursue medicine. It is a popular fear in our country, that if  one wants to become a doctor, one needs to pass through a labyrinthine test that doesn't allow most people to follow their dreams. At the same moment, I knew I could.
That was the moment when I asked my parents that I wanted to join the celebrated Aakash. Wasn’t it so obvious that if I wanted to be an engineer, I would've joined FIIT-JEE but as I was more inclined towards biology, it didn't take me a minute to ask my parents to dump their dust into an abyss of nowhere.

With a zealous first day as I walked into the building with an agreeably sized bag and fresh notebooks, I was hit on the face by a girl in a Burkha, pacing to get the first seat. 'Competition' even for the seats. The place stunk with competition. On my second day, or third, I kept my bag on the second seat as usual and went to the loo after that. Only to find, later, that my bag was thrown at the back and the seat was snatched by some other girl. For a moment, I thought of going to her and rebelling for what had just happened. But then I let it go. Was it my mistake that I was not 'competing'? APJ Abdul Kalam puts it this way, that the smartest of brains are usually found at the back of the class. With this, I smiled to myself. 

It may flaunt two Swiss-glass buildings in the heart of the posh Delhi colony: South Extension. But I’m sorry, it created monsters. One of my friends, a splendid guitarist, a good student and presently a student of English also left his engineering classes because they made him feel like a plastic bag floating through the wind.

I loved biology, moreover, I loved science and the idea how only a few hundred elements formed the beautiful world. But with time, I started to hate it. Aakash focuses on useless things, everything except the concept. That’s what they claim the test is all about. So much so that at the end of the day, you are neither strong with the concept but stuck with ten-thousand names of a family of Potatoes. 

I agree that their faculty is well-read and all of them are experts in their own spectra. But they are not teachers. A teacher is a guide who walks you through your difficult and strives to make you enjoy everything about his subject. A teacher is supposed to fill the class with magic. They aren’t teachers. The class room is more of hell-in-a-cell to me. It is all about demoralization and showing you how bad you are. Was biology about how plants reproduced or about what angle the ovary was aligned to the placenta with respect to the top view from the stigma? Was it about learning how cells divided or knowing the chromosome numbers of twenty species by heart? 

‘If you have missed your class, we have no sympathy for you. We do not want to waste time of the students who were present every day?’ Is asking a doubt wastage of time, I asked myself. With time, I stopped asking my doubts only. I knew how small I would feel after that. And how the others would look at me.

‘I am sure. You can write it in the back of your notebook that you won’t be able to crack the test in one go and will be struggling your ass next year in the regular batch’ Was something I often heard when I answered wrongly. Was I that bad?

As the year commenced, they created hounds out of us, to fight with each other. Our aim was not to know everything. Our aim was to push our competitor away from us, even if we were wrong. I never wanted to pursue medicine after that. I would love to be a doctor but that path to becoming one was so tedious, and more than that, such a waste of time.

I am sorry that our country has fallen to such a measure. We need more doctors, more hospitals and a fortified healthcare-system. And we in turn are making it more intricately difficult for children to become doctors. We need medical colleges. We need more medical students. Everything is the medical test. No one knows what's after that. Neither do I. People aspire to be designers, writers, engineers and all sorts of things but these people aspire to crack the medical test. 

I am sorry for Aakash that today it made me realize that they weren’t worth it. They might think I am a useless boy who would not remember the average life-span of a sea-urchin. I am better off at providing my service to humanity rather than wasting time for a test that will make me feel even smaller. Love yourself, you are important. If you feel your teachers think you won’t be able to crack the medical test, you should also remember that they couldn't do it either. That’s why they are there, still banishing children out of classrooms and channelizing their own frustration of not becoming doctors themselves. 

So should I sum it up in this way, that: 

  • Sex: Male
  • Quota: General
  • And wants to be a doctor. 

Sunday, January 5, 2014


Still fetching for cheesy taglines to start today's blog, (Through the columns of your esteemed newspaper types)...

 It is not correct for me to define the title that I just put up there, above the blog, because you'd already know what it's going to be about. Did I mention my audience was smart and intellectually up-market? (an interesting expression I'm going to use when people tell me that my post is verbose and not getting to the point.) Isn't it sometimes so hard to write? Looking for words, looking for subjects and literally begging the reaches of your brain to come up with something that you and the reader would like. I'm not a writer though. Not at all. All I do is, fill in the space with cheeky punchlines and prattle on about the stuff OTHER THAN the subject. But what if one doesn't have a subject? I'm just being talkative. Loquacious is a word I wanted to use there, par fir my frequent readers would point out that I use it a lot. I should at least replenish my vocabulary. That's become a priority since I opened the SAT book which mostly circles around knowing cool words. This friend of mine has literally weaved a sweater full of hype when he started practicing for his SAT. But most of the time, I feel like telling him that he's just overdoing it. What all he needs for the test, is a calm mind and a witty-day.


A witty-day is when you're no one's someone. It's the day when all you can think of is insulting people by in-your-face jokes, silly examples people can relate to and of course a little bit of the secret-ingredient that we all have manifested from our that-funny-friend. A witty day can be some day when someone comes up to you and tells you a dragging, boring story about how his triceps ripened by a milli-inch and you're so not interested. And all you do is forget your sanskars and say "CHUP REH BORE MAT MAAR"


It's very simple. The test carries half of its points for essay writing in which you have to impress the reader by your streak of vocabulary, width of the sphere of your imagination and sprinkling it with examples that can explain stuff simply. A usual question would start with a long story but would sum up that you've got to write a biggie on "Don't worry, be happy". So a witty day would help you to write a lot even when you don't have much to write. You would start with punches of humor cracking silly jokes you wish like making a straight face after. But what the cool part is, you won't realize how American you are.


The fact that I find her very silly is her constant mumbling about me and my family when we're walking in front of her house. It's foolish for me to tell you why I dont like her. Maybe I just got an idea for my next post that'd have an interesting title "Padosan". When the reader is going to fish by, he'd think "Oh, oita bhalo Kishore-Kumar er mishti misthi 1960's er movie" But it's not like that. When he's trapped, I'm going to ramble about how much I hate my neighbor. She's not the bullet-in-your-face hatred type. She's just the one on whose face you want to throw bananas and tomatoes at.

Reminds me of a celebrated Phir Hera Pheri dialogue which my mum thinks she's never told me, but she laughs after telling me each time as if it's my first-time and it's going to be really funny . "JAANI, KUTTON KI CHOTE CHOTE TUKDE KARKE TERI BETI KO KHILADUNGA"
(The need to put in that little Saif-Ali-Khan punchline, I mean, WOW)


The problem with her is the lack of art in her speech and how she carries herself. I mean, villains have to be stylish. She needs a cigarette in her mouth, a hat sitting on top of her head and of course a cow-boy jacket. Aise kya suit pehen ke khud ko banti itna hai. Pitegi.

I don't like them. They're very cliched. Ab don't ask why.


I like the blue color because I relate it to water-dispensers that you'd find at hospitals or my place. There's a nice symbol of a thermometer in red for hot water and a frost-particle of snow for cold water in blue.


It is very simple. He plays the guitar very well (Talent.) He has the world's most beautiful mother (Genetics.) He's a prince. (WOW) Arre sab choro, his wife is so saxy (Luck). He's a horserider (Sporty haan?) His father was the captain of the Indian team. (Ab zada ho raha hai) And guess what, dikhta bhi theek hi thaak hai.

I just wrote more than a thousand words and was weeping before just because I wasn't able to write.

How can you sit in someone's lap and create a scene just because you're a kid. I mean people have bigger things to worry about in life rather than looking after a soppy baby who has attention-problems just because he downpoured in his nappy.


Retiring is pretty classy. It's like an official announcement to the world that "Hey, I'm very rich now. I can manage for the next thirty years provided I don't have a knee-replacement. And boo yaa, I have more money than you."

Ishani is my freak best-friend who'd probably not read the above lines and skip to this because the first thing I'm going to do next morning is to tell her that I wrote something on my blog about her. So why I think you should know her is that she's a pandora's box full of laughter you're never going to see anywhere. She'll insult almost anyone in the world, even monkeys and plants. Her in-your-face type of humor is so amusing that it'd make you ponder about it for a second, like, "WHAT? I didn't catch you". But the best part is that you dont need to understand what she says, because it all ends up into a senseless piece-of-conversation. And after that she says she wants to be a doctor.

And boys, if you want her number you can always caantect me on my number 1800-this-number-does-not-exist.

If you do not like Babaji-ka-Thullu jokes, you should probably not read this. Bhai itne THULLU se toh tere baal hain, conditioner lagake kya khaak paahar tor lega. -_-

Because I just rambled up shit. A lot of shit. And she's the only life-saver 'my-types' girl who has the patience to read this and edit it and insult me about grammatical mistakes. Don't miss how she completes thirty-six books in one month.

That's because I'm high on weight and I have another interesting article on a cabbage-soup diet opened up in the next tab and I neeeeeed to read it for the betterment of my future which I hope doesn't fall into diabetes and high blood-pressure.


(That's actually our principal's epilogue to the morning assembly which he thinks he's too cool when he speaks.) 

Thursday, December 26, 2013


Gulabi is a color that speaks for itself. In English, or even in the semi-incomprehensible speedy language of Punjabi, we like calling it Pink. What comes to your mind when you think of pink? Now don't say roses. Don't say love. Don't say gay. Pink is the color of women empowerment that we see such petite creations on the road called the 'E-Riks', exclusive auto-rickshaws for the exclusive Indian woman. Today we have separate metro platforms, separate seats, reservation in the government and a lot more. It's the power of pink. 

Above all, Gulabi reminds me of the post-interval Rajasthani based Amit Trivedi composition in Sushant Singh Rajput's Shudhh Desi Romance. One just can't miss those stone arches where the protagonist seems to be romancing the other new girl that this film starred. The corridors of Jaipur's Hawa Mahal and the Bazaars in a shot that displays the Puskar Mela. The song celebrates the pink color as a symbol of nascent love that tends to turn into physical contact and the colour's close affinity with hearts, rose-petals, cheap plastic diamonds and its flamboyance over the dull stone-colored backdrop of Jaipur. 

Pink reminds me of one of my mother's suits.It seems bizarre that she isn't quite fond of the color. She would always add, in a tone very proud of itself, I never played with dolls. . As a matter of fact, she hates pink. She relates pink to lily-livered touch-me-nots of our city. And I do not blame her for that matter. And then she would finish the conversation with a supercilious smirk, asserting the fact that she was beyond other women. Coming back to the suit, it has an inborn tendency to make her look thinner than her usual plumpen-self. Don't we feel the need to have such apparel that augments our inner-being by hiding a few curves down the thorax? 

Pink also reminds me of my notebook. I was so desperate to buy one, that the shopkeeper said a million sorries that he didn't have any color apart from pink. But the prima-facie position of pink in our lives, that too on a boy's notebook, is questionable. So much so that it reaches the sexual orientation of a man, to wear pink and to have pink stuff. But a survey that I've conducted in my mind, with the people I have around me, proved that they dont detest pink as much as they show. 

And the only pink marvel that I long to see is the cherry-blossom vegetation of Japan.
Have a great day, 
Hoping you're in the pink of your health. 

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Beta, swatter pehno.

As mercury falls, it seems but yesterday when I recall myself looking for the AC remote and getting all doldrums about not finding it, climbing my revolving chair (Khatron ke Khiladi ekdom), and then switching it on.

It is notable that with the nascent winter diffusing into the course of the year, what gets more frequent is the intake of tea, coffee and other things that you'd avoid in the sweat of June. There is a particular corner next to the South-ex flyover close to where I study. You get super-spicy pakoras over there. The temptation s aroused in this time of the year. The only thing I am quite dubious about, is the aftermath of such fried, resplendently oily intake. If my friends are used to sleeping with their quilts covering their mouths, the flatulence confirms what overeating does to the gastric systems. Nevertheless, aadate kharab nahin shauk badhe hain.

Scientists have proven everything, so my cliched start to this paragraph: "It is scientifically proven ki...", I start as follows. Winter is the time of the year when everything seems to be positive. Things get slow, like love. Out of the other displays of nature, the winter is my patticular favourite because of the clothes and the potential fashion rises to. From an extent where you would see people stripping naked for exposure, ignoring their health and the Beta-sweater-pehno theorem, there are people who seem to be wrapped in layers and layers of polyester.

The birds, with their orotund sense of commencing the day, tend to wake up late. The sun himself asserts its supercilious position upon life, asserts his dominance and by coming late everyday, like an actor. There's nothing beyond the laws of the nature. We may reach rockets high, but when nature decides to rise the sun late, throw in the winter-season, we are bound to wear sweaters and jackets. We are very smart aren't we?

But yes, there are my friends, the dogs of course. Some very generous people provide a teeni-meeni bit of space in their houses for the dogs. It might just be a mere effort for us, but for them, it is haven.

Another very funny thing that starts to happen is the delaying of flights, arre baba. I don't understand why newspapers have to make that their headline news. What's exciting about it? People waiting at the terminal spending hours and cash for their recreation. Reminds me that Cafe Coffee Day has done really well expanding.

All in all, Ms. Sonia Gandhi carries herself in very beautiful, agreeable shawls.


Monday, December 16, 2013

My dear Suman

Suman is my maid.

And the thrilling thing I know about her is her being the mother of twelve children, and mind it, all boys. Whenever I think of telling people about her, the starter that springs up to my mind is uske baara bachhe hain. Isn't it amazing to have a full cricket team along the BCCI? Her eldest two sons just got married and she took newspapers from our house to her village. The auspicious ceremony of marriage illuminates with its fire, and for this fire, she needed the newspapers. But in between this glory of twelve children, a sexagenarian mother-in-law suffering from tuberculosis, a husband who beats her and maaliks like us, Suman is a sweetheart behind a turgid, country face.

My room would be a usual pandemonium of clothes, books, socks and wires, if Suman didn't take that half an hour of her life to conjure her magic spell. She was the best woman at work one could ever see. My other lousy, loquacious maid Pooja's cleanliness isn't appreciated by my father, but when Suman cleans the floor just for a day, the house and my father, both sparkle in a blue-mooned grace. 

Maids usually remove their slippers before entering the house. There are many reasons for it. India is a dusty country and they don't want to bring the external dust inside. The second reason is heartbreaking, that many people believe that the dust they bring in from their slums will disturb the purity of the house. She has an amusing habit of moving out without wearing her slippers. After she realizes, maybe in fifteen minutes of walking bare-feet, she'd come back wear her slippers and smile. Her smile was a necklace of white beads as she looked down upon her silly self and bragged the sextet of dents. 

In the pre-Diwali festivities, my mother is used to gifting sarees to these ladies, but dear candid Suman asked for a bucket. A bucket of steel to be precise. She needed one for the family to bathe. It's pretty sad that in a life where we crib for chocolate flavored hair-conditioners, people don't have buckets to bathe in. Toilet ka kya karei jab nikaalni toh khule mei hi hai? I saw her standing at the gate and prattling about domestic issues in her obscure dialect. Her husband, a guard, looked severe. But she was laughing and in her scanty hair, a gajra of Rajnigandha sat in pride. She was dressed in a simple orange Saree, but to her, very special. In comparison to her daily wear, this one was laid in salma-sitaras, mirrors and interesting patterns. Did she have another baby? Did she get a present from her employers? And oh then she started to laugh. The sky was painted in a much cooler tint than its usual soberness. It still remains a mystery to me why Suman was so happy that day. Joy is a rare phenomenon today. Isn't it?
And then laughingly she added the cliched ultimatum of maids , aaj kaam pe nahi ayegi

Friday, May 24, 2013


India or any other country, everyone dreams man. Everyone does. Everyone loves. Everyone hates. Everyone wants a perfect life. Why would anyone say he doesn't want money? Yes we all love a few more in the pocket. Some say "we want enough". Sir, enough is just a formal manner of saying "a lot". You can't run behind money, those who're experienced always say this. I believe you should run for money. But run for money only when you like running for it.

Someone once asked someone what kind of a geek he was that he knew all names from the potato family. Or how much he memorized and he would've spent days doing just stupid ratta ratta and nothing else. And yes he knew all of them, head to toe- concept to application. He never memorized. He loved doing it. It never meant he had an aptitude for biology, he only ended up as a lawyer. The only inference we can fetch out of this tale is that, "Memory=Law". It is not so. The day the equation changes to "Justice=Law" he is the right person for it. As long as this person is concerned, we don't have much of his brain demographics to calculate what his true passion was. So anyway, It is in fashion to find a psychologist and expell out all you think (in front of your parents, mind that) and then he will tell you what you should be. Are you that obedient, dear? There is another class of people who like finding mistakes. I belong to them. You b
elong to them too I guess. And if you just nodded inside your body, yes we belong to a group of cowards. How many times have we found grammatical mistakes and judged people? How many times have we seen facebook photos of a girl and boy standing head to head and thinking "this might be a great person"? Humans are judgemental, that's why some book might say they're advanced. But they are weak. They do not become what they are and what they want to be. They become parents and do not let their children be the same. Applicable to some cases and enreasoning the factor of primitive thought, one can't blame the parents. These days parents are very flexible with their children. Mine are. They've let me do whatever I want to. But that is even worse sometimes. Lekin, when the child is mature enough to understand what he loves-- I believe independence comes there and then.
  I once bunked piano class and went to this amusement park without telling my folks. My school complained and a lot of shit happened after that. But today I joke about it. It is in my passion to lie so well, create a complete story and end up at home unrewarded. So once this guy asked me what's your passion, I said "storytelling". And this other guy asked me what I wanted to be, "I said Doctor". I don't know what induced me to say that but yes it was compeltely right and no lies here. Doctor and Story-ing do not collide and yes they shouldn't. For those who are confused in what they want to be, they can be whatever their parents have decided or they have or their teachers have, but they should remember never to lose their passion. Go out for tennis in the evenings, paint your walls, write articles for the medical magazine, do gay dances man no one's seeing you. Just enjoy your life.     Class eleventh welcomes you with an elegantly small but deep moraled question that seems more of embedded in the name itself, 'what do you want to be?' And yes after a sudden sally and wiping out the last drop of spice from your brain, you'll find that one word that describes everything. What I've always said is, Doctor. Sometimes I've been asking myself what I've wanted to be. Although I project myself as too booky for an engineer and too less witty for a writer, sometimes I still don't have the answer when I swim deep down.

Dreaming in India is morosely difficult. Parents are far far away from your dreams, but you are bound by your own self. Since ever 3 Idiots got into picture, whenever you tell someone you want to be a doc or an engineer, they say follow your passion. And they're right. No one helps you to find your passion, and no one ever will. Like strangely, many friends persued to persuaded me to run in the mornings, their spirit was enough to force me but not even a fraction of it to make me love it. And it's right. No one makes you love something. You love what you love; till an extent you tolerate but gradually you become such a rebel for what you want.

Have you ever been inside yourself? What do you do when your parents are not around, no friends, no one. Just you and your computer. Yes I'm talking about a world without porn, or eating or sleeping. Have you ever loudened the music a bit and danced as if you were the king of the world? Have you ever read the three hundredth page of Fifty Shades of Grey? Have you ever, just soemtimes, made yourself nothing but Maggi in the kitchen? Yes those are the little things that aren't as little as we think they are.

I have a friend who interests in autocraft. He loves cars and how they drift and how cool they make you look and the female-fan-following part with it. But when he opens the books, he's blank. Lekin when he takes out his A4 and dark pencil, he makes such a beauty. When our interest lacks somewhere, we aren't able to connect the books and our dreams together. Who would love chemistry just by reading bond-bond shit all the time? Yes some do. And for them it isn't shit.

Sometimes I think how Sunny Leone's parents would've felt, their daughter is a porn-star. We won't say it's wrong but when after nurturing a baby, making her study, making her beautiful--which parent would want his daughter to have online sexual intercourse. When we say our parents want us to be this and that, they're not wrong. But they're not right as well. Okay here pornography was too extreme, I would say, theatrist. When we observe a certain career, it always has a good and bad. Everything in the world has a positive and a negative. So here is a list of negatives first, and then the positives. Take it as an exercise, mix and match the positive of one you like and the negative of the other which you think is bearable.
NegativesDoctor: Too much study.
Engineer: IIT or nothing.
Art and Theatre: No money.
Interior Designing: For girls
Teaching: Disrespectable.
Chef: Success, one in a million.
Software: No jobs.
Writer: No one understands.
Manager: Too much work.

Doctor: Too much money.
Engineer: Brand.
Artist: Praise of talent.
Interior: Warm wishes from every soul.
Teaching: Respect and infinite love.
Chef: Praise of talent.
Software: Exciting.
Writer: Instant popularity.
Manager: Money.

Sorry for my restricted list, now look, inside the positives if you find the career that you've decided for yourself. Will you not do it just because of its negatives? And believe me, to find negatives is easier than rookie, but to enjoy the positives makes you what you are.