Sidekicks

… I make a truly fantastical sidekick!

After years of watching cartoons and bollywood and Mean Girls *sticks out her tongue*, I’ve realised that the role of the sidekick is kickass! No, honestly, can you imagine The Little Mermaid without Sebastian? Or Munna without Circuit? Circuit man! That guy! Now, tell me who’s funnier.
Munna – “Kya kar rila hai Circuit?
Circuit – “Bhai bulb pe baap ka naam likh rela hu”
Munna – “kyu?”
Circuit – “Bhai baap ka naam roshan karne ka hai na?”
Hahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahaha! *giggles* Bhaat a joke sir ji, bhaat a joke!
But jokes apart, have you ever thought on those lines?
No? Bad sidekick you make!

Who likes the sidekick’s role? Mr. Sidekick is always sidelined. I mean, a life full of magic and misery? I get so confused man! So, strengthening my case:

• The sidekick plays the court jester role; she makes the good times roll. They clutch their stomach and sound out with great difficulty “haha…you…you…it…haha…ain’t…haha…gasp…fa…funny”! Sadly the sidekick doesn’t get the credits.
• The sidekick is so ordinary looking that she is told about other beautiful women. Come on, Circuit cared for his “bhai” and “bhaabi” more than his “jaan” who didn’t show up even during the end of Lage Raho Munna Bhai. Even Gandhi didn’t show himself to poor Circuit. Tsk tsk!
• The sidekicks always have ultra-gorgeous buddies.
• She trips over her own feet. But can’t remember being picked by Mr. Right.
• She says ridiculously silly things when she tries to be serious. She could be going pea-green with envy, but she ends up saying things like “I wish I could be the lucky dog” with a broad grin. Blow her someone, by George!
• She has memorable catch phrases. “Shut the fuck up!”, “Awesomeness”, “you won’t understand, it’s so deep!”, “you are smart and it has everything to do with your ass!”, “I like your mum, she’s really cute and I’d like to adopt her!” and many more.
• Sidekicks are peculiar. The sidekick typing to you has a peculiar laugh, ever heard a donkey bray?
• She tries to shake up the mood when the tension gets to be too much, like when the heroine is diffusing a bomb (studying for an exam or un-plagiarising an assignment), or hitting on a cute guy, or something equally as life changing and world saving!
• The sidekick gets nothing more than a handshake from a cute guy. Whenever my hand is shook by an insanely attractive gentleman, my legs turn to jelly and lose the ability of balancing, my hands shake and drop things, I turn scarlet and I prepare to liquefy while he hugs my pretty best friend and waves a goodbye! Well, she is confident and beautiful to hug him back!
• A general notion – the heroine is beautiful while the sidekick is available.
• The sidekick cooks well, the heroine bosses better!
• The sidekick has the highest cool quotient that is never noticed by anyone.
• The heroine usually has some tasks she hates to do, so the responsibility to complete said task falls to the sidekick, i.e. conveying messages. Oops! One wrong message conveyed, sidekick screwed! Even if it means telling a hot guy about the shady guy hitting on the heroine. Because the hot guy might or might not be the hero! How do you respond to questions like “why do I need to know”?
• The sidekick tends to talk a lot. That leaves cute guys with the impression that she never shuts up!
• The sidekick is either mini or huge. I’m huge.
• Dainty princesses have the capacity to grow cuter with alcohol. Sidekicks blackout!
• Sidekicks are either silhouetted or killed! Will I die before my buddies, or be their ex buddy? *shudders*

Hmm. I rest my case.
Lots of love from the sidekick zone!

To a couple happily married and leisurely repenting

Few hours ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a beautiful picture was clicked with five ultra-gorgeous people smiling away at the camera. Sheer bliss. The picture wasn’t about the pose, the clothes or the background, but about an irrational yet immense desire to catch, lock and keep safe, the happiness that a mere picture and a mere smile will never be able to contain. Well, that’s how the moment was planned, a way of holding onto happiness.
Oh shit! We left our fucking evidence! How now?
Oh, and, I should just stop being modest. Not everyone in the picture is ultra-gorgeous, but they are sorely beautiful. And it wasn’t a galaxy far, far away; it was on a podium with the bride and her groom in a wedding.
So, life on campus had gotten on our nerves. Seriously, TISS can put trees to sleep! After days of great depression and the result that is rumoured to be expected every tomorrow, the tension got to be too much while I decided to shake up the mood. I needed a merry long night.
“You look fine. In fact, presentable.”
“Not good enough for a wedding.”
Every nice looking woman is presentable for a man; I was dressed in jegings and a T. It was a moment of life changing decision making for me. After three seconds of thinking, I jumped up at the opportunity like a hapless puppy! After all, I asked for it. So what law to be scared of?
Sometimes I have epic realisations; it isn’t a good idea to go alone with a guy. How do we answer all the stares and glares and questioning expressions? Weddings aren’t a joke, are they?
So we roped another guy in.
“What?”
Ok, he’s going to say no.
“Let’s try.”
Hurray! Yoyo! Lalaalalalala!
Because people who don’t give into adventures are a menace to society. I would have cursed him with a horrible death at hundred surrounded by cockroaches and slugs. How can anyone deny a wedding invitation?
So we were three. Nothing to worry about. No one will suspect. We walked out of the gate with conjured bravado, and vowed to accomplish our mission.
After wandering for quarter of an hour, we successfully set foot on the red carpet, sans red noses! We mingled in the crowd and picked our plates.
We feasted on pani puris, ragda patties, Sarson da saag te makkhi di roti, puris, mixed veg, matar paneer, zeera rice, dal, dosas, papad, salad, ice-cream with chocolate sauce, gajar ka halva and gulabjamoon! Oh man, believe me; I pulled myself up with ease after all the stuffing. Digestion wasn’t difficult with simultaneous thinking and putting up an act. I was on a roll!
I remembered what we were discussing while walking to our destination.
“So, whom do we kill?”
“The guy. He’s ugly!”
The third member of the Gatecrash Association piped up “but the girl isn’t all that great either, I can’t see her structure!”
We were clutching our stomach in helpless fits of laughter! Had the groom been handsome, I would have murdered the bride and taken her place. Had the bride been pretty, the guys would have killed the groom and like Pandava brothers, they would have shared her.
Man! Men and their cheeky comments! Have a cheesy night, men!
After the food, we walked up the podium for a click. I hugged the bride and pored love. I wished her genuinely and posed with a mile broad smile. Who would have thought I could? Holy moly guacamole! They didn’t even ask who we were! She could have at least asked for my name! I had to resist the urge to whisper in her ear “we are gatecrashers babe, stop being so nice” with a great difficulty. But the guys had a great conversation next to the groom.
“We are leaving our fucking evidence!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
And the groom overheard! Ohmygosh bigosh!
I wished the couple again, they reciprocated the friendly gesture. At least they have our best wishes. Lord Lyttton, let them be happily married and they can leisurely repent together!
We took the photographer’s number. We’ll get our picture soon. That moment clicked at 22:12 hours on the 12th of December 2013 was perfect, and I have only a memory of it. But that is enough for cheering me up at points of depression! No, seriously, I really want young, decent gatecrashers attending my wedding, because its right when they say one should always feed the hungry.
So we successfully flew below the radar, and it’s a paradise there. We were visible enough to freeload food but invisible for people to remember us. Cheers to our newly discovered talent! *doffs hat* gosh I’m happier than the couple on their marriage!
Can you say spectacular?

A creative writing competition I couldn’t attend

The topic was street. And I decided to write on it by myself. Who cares about the reward?

**********

A lot of things happen on the street right? People walk, people talk, dogs bark, Cars Park, men pee, chai walas make tea, panipuri treats, dragging feet. And many such things. Including dustbins and twosome kissing. And shopping orbits are sometimes called high streets. What? Why? Even sober people go there!
I confess a sign of immature writing. But how can you blame me? “Street” is a sign of uncreative thinking. I have more suggestions to offer.
Anyway, please don’t stare at my piece like a fire breathing dragon, papers catch fire. A creative writer’s job is to convert ridiculous topics to sublime literature.
So end rant.
And here I go!
Street shopping and street food gives an unimaginable high! Easy on pocket, happiness unlimited. My red t-shirt magically makes my skin clearer, my hair brighter. Thanks, I know you find me pretty. That’s why I say don’t trust mannequins, they are just wax or plastic in mango’s latest arrivals, but what’s the point? They don’t understand street walking and vadapav hogging.

Love is a two way street. Oh how many times I’ve heard that before. Not really, I’ll narrate to you happy one sided love stories sometime. But taking someone’s hand and walking in the streets of Mumbai at 12 in the night and chatting away to everything under the moon is a kickshaw!

What about the loser you see on the street? Yes yes, that loser who lines up in front of the street wine shop at 9P.M and lies down in front of the shop by 10P.M before he struggles his way back home to beat up his wife? Oh he’s such a pain!
But somehow I relate to him. Sadly. I’m under age, and I can’t really go by my alcohol from the authorised shops. I stopped doing proxy purchasing after I left home. So this is my only means to blacking out.
So I line up with them, and my story is that of every woman. I do not wish to generalise and state that they are all sex hungry people ogling at me, but what to do? How much can I blame the alcohol? Tell me he’s staring at my breasts out of envy, I swear I’ll let him do so out of sympathy. I will also go alter Freud’s theories. Tell me he’s singing songs because he thinks I resemble one of the Indian Idle judges. *faints* tell me he is staring at my face because he deals in anti-acne and fairness creams and hopes that I might buy them someday. Tell me he’s grinning not because I’m buying alcohol, but because my street shopped t-shirt quotes “Just where the hell is easy street?”
Ok, I’m digressing. Even assholes have souls. End rant.

I have two childhood stories for you. Cute right? One on birthdays, and the other on street puppies.
I absolutely adore birthdays. Mine, other people’s, and strangers on the street. I was 10, and I heard someone wish a friend. I stopped to wish the passerby, she was taken aback and my mum freaked out! Yeah yeah crazy childhood! But what do I do? I craved for some cake, and even after wishing, I was bereft of it! Sad right?

Now this one goes back to when I was three. I loved dogs. I had one of my own, but I’d still go out to play with the street ones, much to the annoyance of Simba and my mummy. So this is how my dinnertime story goes.
Ronny was black and Ginny was white. They lived on the street. They were fighting over a Scooby snack right outside Simba’s gate. Simba was handsome. He was chocolate brown. He was sad because one of his favourite Scooby snack rolled out under his gate.

Simba watched Ginny and Ronny fight over the yummy treat. They barked and scratched. Simba was very smart and he was little enough to fit between the bars of the gate, he crawled out and picked his snack and chewed and chewed and swallowed it down. Just the way Sai eats her food. So Simba is a smart boy. And Sai is a smart girl. Now eat up your food!

So now, dear reader, dear evaluator, before I close, a random piece of advice from a girl writing on street - I wouldn’t and you shouldn’t walk the streets without money.

Lots of love and LMAO,

Madireddy Sai Vindhya

Flat line it before it flat lines by itself!

“I’m in love.”
“Awwwwwww…”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Ooiyeahh!”
“I kissed…”
“Pheeeeee!”
“Guess what? I did it!”
“Hoot! Hoot! How was it?”
See? Honeymoon fazes! Before you actually start living together. How cute!
Remember what Raj said before he met Simran in DDLJ?
“Kisi ke bal achche hote hain to kisi ke hot” (Some women have nice hair, others have pretty lips.)
After he met her,
“Kaisi hai? Simran?” (How is Simran?)
“Bahot pyaari hai.” (Very beautiful)
But dude. How long did he live with her? For an age of three hours and ten minutes! Bollywood and open ends!
Love is a strange emotion. It pulses through you, clouds reasoning and rational thought. It invokes jealousy, superiority complex and you’ll feel a bizarre sense of anger surge through you. Don’t tell me you are not insecure. Don’t tell me you don’t face the twisted threat of losing him. Don’t you fear replacement? Don’t you worry being abandoned?
Allow me to describe the stages in love, dear reader.

1. I want to get the last bite. For a gorgeous husband.
Hmmmmm. A girl’s favourite myth. Because long long ago some dumb anorexic blond chick was told by her mamma that if she eats the last bite, she’ll get a gorgeous husband. And she ate the first bite to reach the last bite. But I wonder why broad figures are not yet in trend.

2. Pleasure meeting you, see you around.
Of course. Because the answer to “was it love at first sight?” is “hardly!”

3. “So good to see you.” “Same here man, how are you?”
And the conversation ends at “here’s my number. Stay in touch.” You might even pull up a reason for sharing your number, excuses work better than “I’m kind of interested in you.”

4. “It’s me. What’re you up to?”
This and that. And more. And the conversation goes on all night. Even if it means hanging on and spending silent seconds and phone credit.

5. “How was your day?” “Ok…” “Same here.” “Life can suck sometimes.”
Go on. Tell him. He’s there. Are you worried about “she wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts. She wears high heels, I wear sneakers” like Taylor Swift? He’ll accompany you to the saloon the next time. He’ll shyly wait outside for you, patiently giving you time for whimpering while your eyebrows are plucked and simpering while your hands are manicured. Oh and your pretty purple nails will make him hold your hand, and crossing the road is an excuse. Soft hands, so cute.
Congratulations, you’re in love! Awwwwwwwww!

6. “I am not sleepy.” “Awwwww! Let me put you to sleep.”
Sweet? Or seductive? That precarious pink in a momentary blush. But you won’t notice it!

7. Sidelong glances, suppressed laughter.
Because some things are better unsaid.

8. “I promise.”
The scarlet seduction of a rose in full bloom. It’s a promising flower he pushes into your hand. There’s nothing better than being wrapped together in that beautiful bond of love. True love. Your love.

9. “You look pretty today.” “Come on, it’s my usual worn out purple t-shirt.”
Oh no don’t. You can’t expect him to notice you everyday. Maybe he just realised and you pissed him off! Now hit your head on the table top!

10. Silence… The glorious kiss… Shock… Laugh… Longer… harder…
Pheeeeeeeeee! Hahahahahaha!

11. “I reached safe. Listen love, I’m missing you. Hey, do you want to talk to amma?”
How awww right? You’ll check whether your manners are intact before you hear aunty say hello. That’ll be one sweet conversation. And the conversation that will go on short for that night because of high roaming costs will be about being a son and missing a mother and more about family like ranting about the biggest idiot amongst your siblings and married siblings and nephews and nieces if there are any. A family of your own will sound good.

12. “I was sleeping, why can’t you just leave me in peace?”
That’s the problem with the extra X chromosome. It thinks too much, worries too much, cries too much and after all the energy loss, it understands too little and calls too much. Leave the poor boy alone. He is tired.

13. “How could you forget our six month anniversary?”
He just did. I don’t really know why, I couldn’t find out.

14. “You don’t give me time.” “How much time do you want?” “You gave me all your time without asking when we started off, and now you are bored of me, right?”
Please try and understand. Yesterday is not today and today is not tomorrow. When you run after something, it runs away from you. When you run away from it, it runs after you. Everything is stasis in standstill situation.
Don’t only keep calling.
Don’t only wait for his calls.

15. The next time you get drunk together.
Well, it’s not just your parents’ blood that is running through your veins, alcohol is authoritarian. Hoot! Hoot!
It was great going missionary, right? Because it’s missionary. The Church, missionaries… Close to divine, right?

16. Salena Gomez sings “I, I, love you like I love some baby!” and you sing along.
But somehow, the short conversation about mothers, family and babies never came up again.
Try asking if he wants to talk to your mamma.
“What baby no! my mummy is my mummy man… others’ mummy? Scared scared!”
Poor kid… This is called mother-in-law phobia. Asshole!

17. “I’ll pick you up for dinner at 8.”
Even if it means a low budget dinner at a dhaba. Anything for butter chicken and garlic naans because they are shaped like teardrops. Bottoms up to your glasses of water, a toast to infinite romance.

18. “Did you see the way he was leering at you? I could have shoved a hot iron rod up his ass!” “how does it matter to you?” “Because you are my girlfriend!” “Your girlfriend! You had no girlfriend when you were gaping at that bimbo who calls herself a model!” “Which bimbo model?” “That bitch at Ed’s birthday party!” “I wasn’t.”
Men, for some reason they are protective only about their women. Mother, sisters, girlfriends, wife, daughters… other women are just… uhm… sexy! Only Zeus knows why.

19. A crumpled chit of love between your fingers passed on to him -
You and I are rising in love,
Just Like that flying dove.
You and I are a cute couple,
Because I love chocolate truffle!

Yes. Very touching composition.
Yes. We are creepy about the men we love.

20. “Did you tell Emma about that joke?” “I… well… not entirely.” “Babes, I know you inside out and you by far, are one of my best discoveries.”
No, that’s surely not a complement! Now you’ll blame yourself if he is not talking to you.

21. “Don’t you know I’m pissed? Don’t you? You told her. It’s our joke, our personal joke. Our personal joke!” “if that upset you why didn’t you tell me before?” “What difference would that make? Don’t you know? Tell me if I am wrong! How will you feel if I talk about kissing and sex and us to my friends? How will you feel? Will you like it? Oh of course, you’ll be very happy. Because you women like showing off! Listen, I’m sorry, but I need a break. Let’s not talk for a week.”
Of course! He’s blaming all women, and you’ll blame yourself. You will stay away, spending every minute reminding yourself that you are an idiot. And you’ll write a million mails apologising and saving them in your drafts because he wants to stay out of touch for a week. You’ll cry, listen to Unfaithful by Rihanna and wait for his call and cry more.

22. “I thought you’ll call. Didn’t you miss me? I deserved it, I’m so stupid. I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to.” “It’s alright baby, it’s not entirely your fault. I said a lot of cutting things too. I missed you so much, but, baby, I needed a break. You get it right?”
No. you didn’t get the break concept. You’ll still nod because you missed him and his hug is warm.

23. “Baby… I’m sorry. It’s not about you, it’s me. We can’t be together anymore.” “What? After all this while?” “Baby. Lots of perfect love stories exist. Ours was one of them, not anymore. I feel pathetic. but, babes, let’s at least bid each other the best goodbye? Please don’t cry. Please?”
Weeping… howling… gnashing of teeth… pleading… praying… all to no avail. He’ll be nice. But not to the extent of coming back.

24. What sense does “it’s not about you baby, it’s me” make? Why is he blaming the break up on himself and perfect love stories? All of a sudden? Everything was going well. Why?
Trust me! You’ll go crazy trying to decipher all that he said. You’ll even start googling his name. You’ll pull your dirtiest language out of storage. You’ll throw darts at his picture. You’ll want to throw stones at him. You deserve to spew your venom on him, about him, before him, behind him and to the high heavens if you please. But he won’t pick your calls.
It’s over for him. Like a happy dream.

25. A fling before the ring
As you sit there, draped in something absolutely gorgeous, something you picked with your favourite someone for this perfect moment, you’ll hear Jonas Brothers sing “Now I’m speechless over the edge, and just breathless… I never thought that I’d catch this love bug again. Hopeless, head over heels in the moment, I never thought that I’d get hit by this love bug again.” As the ring is slipped on to your finger.
Well, loneliness reaches saturation after a point. Thanks to your nagging friends, his indifference is commonplace and by extension, ok.
You will realise that some things almost come a full circle before they change shape leaving the circle incomplete. And you’ll thank the misshape. You will understand the difference between a loving relationship and giving into blind passion. You will realise the element that led you to celebrate your engagement, and you’ll thank your former relationship for showing you why you didn’t go full circle the previous time.
It might take six months, a year, or even more, but you’ll berry his memories in the past. That's because you’ve grown with time. And the next time you see him on the street, you’ll return his smile or respond to his hello, even if he is with another woman. And you’ll be surprised to realise that it doesn’t affect you anymore.

Dude, now, the actual part… you’ve got to be strong. Bad surprises are meant to be given before you get them. Break up in the first place, I know, it’s going to hurt equally bad, but at least you’ll not feel betrayed or dumped.
What if you don’t predict the announcement? Happens. Almost all the time. Just agree with him about the break up. Don’t call him. Leave him alone. He might just come back. But for how long?
Well, take your call. But whatever has to happen will happen. You can’t force it, you can’t predict it, you can’t stop it, you can’t blame it on anyone. You can just play along.

So, after all, this is what I learned…

A second attempt at everything is better, including relationships and chocolate cookies!

Beautiful!

Enough said!

Rendezvous

… In the women’s hostel!

I walked into every room, with a stone in my hand assuring everyone that he will not stay for long. The responses were not greatly positive. Ok, didn’t expect too much of positive energy anyway. At least not with a stone in my hand. I heard him walk up the stairs and into the lobby. I wished he was a little quiet. Does he want the world to know? Yikes! Men were, are and will always be men! I’m sure he’s going to chant about entering the women’s hostel during the day and his version of the story will have fifteen million exaggerations! Couldn’t she shut him up? Well, she, let’s just call her Peanut here, because she is tiny. Well, Peanut was helping me in bringing him up to my room. And she was of great help.
There, he entered the corridor. Ohmigosh bigosh! No guy ever entered my room before.
I put out my hand to shake his.
“Thanks very much”
“Pleasure.”
Pleasure of course! What confidence! Has he entered the women’s hostel before?
“I’m Sai. What’s your name?”
He was tall, muscular, had all the charm of a moderately attractive gentleman, and he was Komal (meaning tender and delicate. Usually a girl’s name in the northern part of India.)!
He took the stone from my hand in an un-Komal style and knock! Strike! Smash!
The lock broke.
So, I had returned from my aunt’s place that evening. And I forgot to carry my room keys with me. My roommate was out of town with her boyfriend and I was locked out. I made continuous, unsuccessful phone calls to the hostel authorities and Peanut and I collectively mustered all the strength we could to stone that lock to no avail.
Finally, Peanut offered to bring a guy up, as the guard had gone for tea. And there he was, sans red nose!
He walked in with Peanut after me.
”huhh! First time!”
I didn’t really believe him. I only smiled. I wanted to say stuff, but he helped.
“Guys…”
Peanut piped up “we know. Don’t worry. We’ll feel free to ask if ever we need help from you.”
“Yeah man. Anytime.” Komal said.
But I wasn’t really thanking them. I was worried about something else.
“The guard. You guys got to be going.”
Uh-oh. Subtle!
“I mean…” *sheepish grin*
“I know I know. Really nice room man. I’ll come back on the hostel night (hostel fest).” He patted the awkward, scared, borderline rude girl on the shoulder and walked away with Peanut who gave me a fleeting hug before leaving.
I just stood there, speechless. I mentally kicked myself to at least utter a final thank you. I swear, I must have lost that social mechanism that gauges social situations and handles them appropriately. This is crazy. Whoever took my social abilities away is lucky I’m not trained on using a gun.
And I never got to see him again. Chacha was right, what a ‘Trist with Destiny’!
Hmmm. Rendezvous never the less.
Cheers to anti-climax!
Because I don’t stun people within a fifty meter radius of my, err, charming personality!

Human rights because humans wrong!!! :P

This was someone’s Facebook status few days ago. Duh! Duh!
Love, you are my friend, but no. Sorry. But I still love you.

So, the point of this post is that it’s blogger activist day today and bloggers all over the world, irrespective of cool or not, are posting this and that and more about human rights. And me being super cool, decided to follow suit and change directions midway.

There’s generally something very cool about bloggers. I’m a chicken in public sometimes. When someone seemingly very cool starts intellectual masturbating in front of me, many smart and witty come backs knock on the back of my lips. But my mouth wouldn’t open.

Sometime ago, this guy sharing the dinner table with me:
“Sai, you’ve bloated since I saw you first, 3 months ago. Please!”
“Okay?”
Yeah. That was all what I said. I wanted to ask what was troubling him. As if I was hogging on his dad’s income (Tum pareshaan lag rahe ho. Tere baap ke paison se thoos rahi hun kya? What the fuck does “please” mean?). But no. I didn’t say anything more. However, we became friends.

Another random conversation:
“1$=55RS and 100$=…”
“What?” he growled.
Ok, I know it’s around 65RS now. I read the news.
“What world are you living in?”
Chill. My dad is a currency exchange trader. I know. I was just recollecting something he said to me 5 years ago while explaining about US hegemony and the value of dollar.
But what’s the point? I was answering myself.

See! It’s as if all of my social skills automatically recognise that I am thoroughly dependent on them and decide to take a vacation all at once. But, when I tell people that I am a blogger, I suddenly start appearing under a bright, white light. I’m thrown off my throne of social ineptitude. Intellectual bullshitters recognise my levels of intellect.
“Hey, I’m a blogger too (don the pseudo American accent). What do you blog about?”
How very cool!
“Stuff. Generally about this. Sometimes about that as well.” *smiles like Abhishek Bachchan from the idea 3G add*
KICKASS!

That’s what! That’s how! Some people are cool on the net. If they can’t show off in public, then I propose to the law, showing off should be declared as a human right. Every person is entitled to possessing and displaying their knack for coolness. And everyone is cool in some way. I am, she is, you are and he is. We are all cool.

Choose your style! Show off! Stay cool!

Only you and I know why!

“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon?”Well, my persistent question.
I never got the answer. Or maybe I did. In the form of extermination of a flurry of emotions.
I looked forward to a moment that would never come. It was only meant to be lived in dreams.
So I lived. Then re-lived. Then re-re-lived and many times more. In dreams of course.
Then I asked for it. Then I asked again and again and again. In reality.
Then the realization hit me like a steam train, soon was a polite way of saying never.
Because…
Sometimes, everybody lives.
For themselves.

Well, take your call!

“Here, let me light it for you” I offered.
I took it between my right fore and middle fingers and between my lips, trying hard to imitate the damsel in distress style of holding a cigarette, feigning the confidence of an advanced smoker. Honestly, I only read about ways to smoke online, second hand experience does not equal to firsthand experience.
Click. Click. And another click and a hard draw!
Cough cough cough cough cough… Cough cough cough cough cough…
I must have drawn stares. Maybe even sniggers. Surely a few “first timer! Huh!”’s.
The best way to stop worrying about it is caring two hoots about it.
“here.” I sounded choked, but I still aimed at nonchalance.
He just patted me on the head.
“Ok?”
I nodded.
“Water?”
I nodded again.


* * * * * * * * * *

“First timer?”
“First timer!” I was extraordinarily loud, aiming splashes of Zandu Balm at the guessing numbskulls. But I think the guy was slightly taken aback.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to…”
“Mean to aim splashes of tobacco down my throat? I was helping.” With that I smiled to put the conversation to bed.

* * * * * * * * * *

Someone I like smokes twenty cigarettes a day. Someone I am friendly with calls herself an addict. Someone I talk to gets high on cigarettes and advices me to stay away from those ugly cancer sticks. Someone I call “mum” tells me to not entertain the ideas of “healthy motherhood” and “a good smoke” in one thought because they cancel each other out. But who do I hold responsible for my trend following fantasies? Then later who will I blame for falling ill?
Heaven is symbolic of paradise. God is symbolic of goodness. That bearded guy in the skies is kind, loving, nonviolent, and everything good you can think of. Then why do we fall sick? Why do we die at ages that are short? Why do people tell you to “ask god for help” when he does not really help?
Can’t I smoke and smile at the same time? If the word “disease” is so soothing to Mr. God’s ears, he should have let them affect lesser dangerous parts of our body.
Take my advice, Mr. God:

• Toenail cancer
Really. I am too lazy to chop off my toenails. Also, no one looks at your feet when they meet you first. And if you get them removed because of whatever reason, they’ll grow back. Or you can simply get fake nail extensions.

• Finger nail cancer
Sometimes, short coloured nails look all sporty and sexy. But whatever man, who cares about nails? Someone as stunning as Megan Fox doesn’t have thumb nails. She is still very capable of making you go wooooooooooooooooohhh like a wolf!

• Chemotherapy and loss of pubic hair
Not having pubic hair forever is a luxury, ‘nough said!

• What sounds better, heart attack or body hair attack?
You won’t require waxing for some time.

• Decay of the bacterial layer on the tooth
Dude, leave the tooth alone, and kill the germs if you want to kill.

Everyone has the right to live till hundred. Everyone has the right to die the day after their hundredth birthday. Trust me, we are not asking for a life span as long as yours. When you send that guy, Yamraj, to pick us up during our wheelchair days, we only want to jump up and sprint towards him on our weak feet with a broad grin!
Why such complicated messes, Mr. God? Are you scared that you’ll die of boredom if you did not have humans to play with? Really, you are the parent of the colonialist Briton!

Memories are funny things…

…Very randomianously random! They can come anytime. Anytime, even if it means the night before two exams.
Me and a darling boy from school!
Me: “I’ll have mansions in Paris. I’ll own vineyards and mushroom farms and chicken farms!”
Darling boy: *smiles* “I’ll live with you then. Let’s get married and become wedding planners for the firangs!”
Me: “we can become wedding planners without getting married. And don’t you dare let anyone hear about the marriage shit bit!”
*half blushing but mostly not*
Darling boy: “I’m kid…”
I cut him off.
Me: “we’ll be cool. We’ll be both like Band Baja Baraat cum Jodi breakers types. We do it all, pre-wedding, during wedding, post divorce!”

Darling boy: *pipes up* “great idea! We can do more! Clothes, venue, cake, I can also do the ‘kiss the bride’!”
*laughing uncontrollably*
Me: “no. that only her ‘lawfully wedded husband’ will do. After ‘I do’ in French!”
*clutches stomach*
Me: “’I do’! Hahahahahahahahahhahahahhahhhahaaha! Le...le...Let’s have choreographed sangeets too!”
Darling boy: “chicken dance! Monkey dance! Victory dance!”
I begin to cry! Bah! My tummy hurts!
Me: “bassssssss! Ha-ha! Mamma! Aiyo! We’ll make the best mix!”
Darling boy: “we’ll even do funerals if anyone kills their spouse!”
There! He dropped it hot!
Me: “we will also get detectives on board if someone wants to spy on their worst half!”
Haiye! Tauba mera jalva, tauba mera pyaar… Mera emotional atyachaar!
How will the guffaws stop?
Darling boy: “stop laughing; otherwise people will think we are drunk!”
Me: *gasp gasp* “Theek hai theek hai ok”
We paused for two seconds and burst out again!
We decided to call ourselves ‘The Handlers’ and commenced our deal with a high-five…

What makes Sai blog today?

Guilt overflow.
Yeah. Blogging is a better thing to do compare to what I have been doing for the past 2 months. Please don’t excuse me for being late. My conscience hasn’t excused me. She is looking for a hammer to knock some sense into me. I wish she was a little more assertive while telling me to study! Stupid she part of the stupid me!
So it’s usually in my quantitative research methodology class that I sit to blog. A few of my posts forced my fingers on Thursday mornings between 9-11. This teacher, lovingly called ‘Nagini’ (go, read Harry Potter for reference), is dross and snakelike, the meanest bitch, stingiest evaluator, and the best teacher. She starts off the class by quizzing and throwing people out for not being able to answer. I guess I have been the lucky one for not being questioned, for blogging and sleeping soundly and not have been caught. Ha ha ha! *open mouthed* You know the feeling?
So, today was our last class. And for the record, I started this post there. We had a preparatory non-evaluated quiz today. And knowing myself better than anyone else, I decided to turn up my laptop and take down the questions. And needless to guess what else I was doing.
First 13 questions. Blank. My reaction:
Ok, the balloon has officially gone up. I am sitting on a powder keg. 13 is the only one I know.
Question 18:
Ah-oh! I deserve a felicitation for studying hardly. The rest is all Greek to me.
Question 20 – list the key ethical concerns while doing a research: I guess I know 20. Isn’t confidentiality a key of ethical concern? It’s difficult to maintain confidentiality and write about the issues you come across in your research (I’m a social work student). I think. Hurray!
Quant is a cloud on the horizon. Trust me. And this is the only subject I actually kind of like. Lol! Rofl!
My conscience started off with the mental kicking! Now guess what happened! A few students walked in. whoa! Guts man! And she let them in? And repeated a few questions for them. Sometimes actions speak louder than words. I gaped! And guess who walked in with the late comers? A pregnant ginger cat. And Nagini loves animals. She barks with dogs and meows with cats, you know?
Ginger resembles Crucshanks. I was playing with her few months ago. Awwwwwwwwwwwww! Kitty mummy!
Few minutes later, my phone pinged my chichora whistle message tone. And it was her turn to react:
“Woh kya tha?”
Hahahahhahahahaahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Question 23 – What is the level of measurement of the following variables, and is coding required or not.
She dictated many. Like Gender, economic class, monthly income, and…
Shoe size:
Yaar, I don’t have footwear. What’s the point of good clothes? Shirt size:
Madame, you are hitting on touchy subjects. Shift from medium to large. I am bloating!
Weight in kilograms:
Ok, that will do. Around 68KGs.
Height:
There there. I’m consoling myself. I’m 5.5 inches, but my mum is 5.6, my sister 5.9, and my dad 6.1! And they all call me Potti (meaning short in Telugu- my mother tongue).Potti! Potti! *howls*
Subject of study in bachelor’s degree:
English was way better. “Kya hua? Tera vaada? Woh kasam, woh irada.” Social work padhne ka…
Level of satisfaction with the hostel facilities:
Hostel, accustomed. I sleep in a mess!
Nagini:
“now. Answers. Let’s see who’s in how much trouble!”
Poori ki poori pani mein hun ma’am. But suddenly I’ve started liking you. For this quiz, I’ll study.
Couldn’t keep up with the answers. Haven’t studied. I will solve the quiz myself.

Celebrating the awesomeness that is Namrata Rawat!

Okay Naamu. Where do I begin? Now, please don’t holler “beginning”! Because I don’t want to type in my sleep. I am not starting from the day we met. No, not that day when I thought you to be this cute, immature, blabbering little kid. There you go… My first opinion about you! So, you are one of those people who I clicked with, in about half a second. Thank you for being in my interesting companionship, because I got to meet you! I’m glad we are still hanging on together, successfully keeping each other sane for the past two and a half months in our mission of surviving and doing considerably well in TISS. Really. If it weren’t for you, I would have caught on to a hanging electricity wire in the slums of Cheetah Camp! *Dramatic drum roll* But you get the idea, right? Have I ever told you that you are one of my most favourite people in TISS? Because you are! Have I told you lately that I love you? Because I do! You make the world a sassier place. You know you have the licence to criticize me ruthlessly and later pamper me boundlessly because I’m your “kiddo”! Your “suno!” and “koi baat nai” make me strong when everything seems to be going wrong. You are beautiful. As beautiful as some unconventional heroine, simple, intellectual and piquant. Adding a bit of Telewood drama… You are crafted so beautifully by the higher power (Bagwan Ji ne tume kitni fursat se banaya hai!). Hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahhahahaahahahahahahah! You know, sometimes, I picture myself draped in a worn-out blue saree, sitting in a rocker chair, holding a sepia tinted photograph between my wrinkled fingers. Its edges are blurred, colour faded, and somewhat smudged. But you can still make out the faces. The happiness beaming forth from the faces of two young women, holding on to each other, smiling away into the camera that was capturing the moment along with the background of TISS. The photograph is old, but the people in it are still young. It still retains its fragrance and it shall forever. Yeah, it still looks like a girl is hugging her younger brother. No seriously, even in a worn-out blue saree I’d want to carry off that school boy look. I’d still be jealous. Dude! I’m not going to try to be too poetic about our friendship, because what makes it so special and beautiful is the fact that it is so entrenched in the ordinariness of everyday life. And it is fun. And funny. And I hope everlasting, I want to enjoy the rocker chair moment to the fullest. Dude! You are an awesome bitch! I swear by the most beautiful of Enrique’s compositions! So, “baby doll”, moral of this blog post is… sometimes you should thank your mood swings. Because, hadn’t you deactivated your facebook account, this would have just been one of my signature “you mean so much to me” facebook statuses. And I write blog posts only for my all time, most favourite people! Biggest warmest hug! P.s. this should have been a birthday present, but then, the impatient me realised that presents don’t need occasions.

Bold, judge if you must!

“Take your pleasure seriously.” ~ Charles Eames
Isn’t it a beautiful quote? How many of us choose our pleasures over the societal norms? How many of us are confident about what we do? Here’s a list of my pleasures, guilty or otherwise:- Writing. Let the world know about what you think. Because you know you think right, the world can judge.
- Talking, loud and confidently. He doesn’t want to read my blog? He will have to hear me. Even when I’m talking to the walls. He’ll at least get a word.
- Displaying a knack for embarrassing honesty. I’m pretty direct. I don’t play with words to camouflage my instincts. I tell a friend I have to pee when I have to pee. Or when I see sparks flying, I ask if they are dating, while the others pass each other awkward glances.
- Cussing. I like the words “bakchodi”, “chootia”, (Hindi abuses meaning fuck or fucker or something similar.) and “fuck”. They roll off my tongue very enthusiastically. Don’t ask why.
- Recording and replaying my own voice. Don’t you want to know how the world hears you? A glitch in the way we are created, god, why can’t I hear myself the way I actually sound?
- Alcohol. Occasionally. It’s ok to take help to speak your heart out.
- Sex. Who doesn’t want it? Raise your hand! *Counts quickly* Expect nothing more than cruel treatment from me for lying!
- Animals. They are beautiful. Soft. And they can love you unconditionally. And they are better than you, me and the big bad world. I have a picture with a monkey sitting on my shoulder.
- Babies. They are all pink; with teeny-weeny hands and feet and a wide open little mouth, and eyes and a nose. Why do they have to become a part of the big bad world when they grow up?
- Reading. My horizon broadens. I get a better understanding of what the world wants. Like minded people form groups, and many groups make diversity.
- Shopping. The better things you have, the better you look. But save up haan! You can’t keep emptying your dad’s wallet. He has other bills to pay.
- Sarcasm. Use it well and you are cool!
- Laughing. Audrey Hepburn thinks it’s the best calorie burner. I laugh like a braying donkey. It’s kind of cute. And people laugh along.
- Lying in bed all Sunday. You can’t be busy throughout the week. Take a day to cut off from the world. Contemplate. Reflect. Smile to yourself, because there are a few secrets that only you know.
- Facebooking. I send messages to random people when I’m depressed. Always helps in lifting your mood. Because, if the other end of the line is happy, you receive happy smileys. Otherwise, your tongue knows the magic words.
- Professing love. Now, who cares if it’s one sided? The other end can never change the weather at your end.
- Hit on your ex, don’t fear. Who cares if he doesn’t like it? You are never meant to do anything he likes.
- Quilling. The beauty created by exhausted fingers can be overwhelming.
- Gifting people. I do it because I’m creative. I plan best of presents. Be my friend.
- Gossiping. Maybe, someday I’ll learn to not be the bitch I unknowingly am. I self reflect a lot. And it’s always good to be updated.
Dude, my life is mine and yours is yours. I will judge and so will you. I am a part of the big bad world to you, and you to me. Because we all think different. Because there are two sides to a coin. Life is very, very short time duration, just make it worth living. I’m not using clichés for the sake of it; it’s not nice to miss out on things that others are getting to enjoy.
Be human. Not a chicken.

Play along

Life and its games. Hide and seek. High jumps. We’ve just got to play along. Lost or found, win or lose, we’ve just got to play along. A lot of times in life, it happens that we lose something so dear to us. Something that we keep wrapped in the most beautiful feeling, safe in our hearts. But before we realise, the bird has taken flight, and there is nothing we can do about it. Blame the nature for not gifting us with wings. After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, we give up the state of denial and accept defeat. And we move on. No, it’s not a choice, time moves at its pace. And we move along. But some day, suppose you find that same bird, perched on your wall, would you still want it? I’m not sure. I feel undecided. Not after all the tears I poured out after its happy bon voyage. It chose to fly. And stopping it was not in my power. I don’t want it anymore. Even the sight of it makes me cringe. It was not the prettiest. But it was mine. And as my love for it faded, I began to notice its ugliness. I wonder what’s so gravitational about that thing which is so repulsive. I can’t stop gazing at it, and I stop worrying about the cringing. The bird and I and our past are attached with strings. Strings that I desperately want to untangle me off. But the strings are strong. And I invested a lot of my strength tightening them in the past. I jumped as high as I could to hold my beloved back. But I couldn’t reach the height of its flight. I gave up. I lost the high jump tournament. But better late than never, I won the hide and seek. But the variations here are that the game went on for months, and the concealed came out of hiding to the den. Maybe the concealed has a continuation game in mind. Maybe he plans a race this time. But I can play better. Much better. I know how to play games within games. This time, I will lead and he will chase. And I’ll watch him floored by my prowess.

Objectification of beauty

Hey gorgeous! I know the world is gaping at you open mouthed. And you’re enjoying the spotlight. I also happen to know you make attempts to catch eyes. I see the pride in your eyes. Your seeds bear fruits. Your charm compels. Your hair falls perfectly without your trying. Your skin radiates with colour. And your dimples bring smiles. Whatever you do, makes the world explode with a honey dipped, sugar coated awwwwww. But if I do the same, the world shakes its head. Your daintiness makes you more womanly than I am. The world has forgotten about what makes a woman or a man. I know everyone is not a doctor, but how can gender be quantitative? If the world likes you more for that prettier face and more interesting body, then, really, the spotlight will last over you for maybe a decade and a half longer. Till your hair greys. I have a few admirers. My family and my real friends. They love me today, and will forever and a day. And they not only see my eyes, they watch my emotions through them. They don’t notice my teeth or my lips while I smile; they watch it reach my eyes. They may not tell me how pretty I look, but they surely tell me I look smart. They may not find me hot, but I know they think I’m beautiful for the person I am. But the world is blinded by the beauty of the face, not the heart. My world is just the opposite. Rewind... Replay. Years ago, my granddad and I. Me – “Thatha (granddad in Telugu) am I pretty?” Thatha – “My granddaughter is beautiful. Did someone say you are not?” Me – “My features are blunt.” Thatha – “So you like sharp features.” Me – “Do I have at least one sharp feature?” Thatha – “All of them are.” Me – (sulking) “You are lying!” Thatha – “To me you are beautiful. Even the crow adores its chick. And you are beautiful.” Forward a few years... And play. Mum and I. me, all decked up. Pink shirt, pretty bracelets and stunning goggles. Mum – “wow! You are a true beauty.” Me – “Awwwww. Ha-ha.” *blushing* Forward a few more years, to a few months back from today. Play. It was never meant to be forever. But it happened. And it was one of the best things. Over the phone to him. Me – “we are not all that tall. And I like wearing heels. Will you mind if I rise to your height or more in heels?” He – “even if you are 6 feet tall, I won’t mind.” Me – “I’m so fat.” He – “fat is better than malnourished.” Me – “let me know before you come. I’m so ugly.” He – “I know what you mean. So much of pain and money wastage at the parlour just to see me? Just wear decent clothes.” Forward to one hour ago. Play. Moody times. Facebook chat. My bff on the other side. Me – “we all have mood swings. I know I’m stupid at times. And this time it got out of control.” She – “Why don’t you get it? You’re perfect the way you are. I’m just very disappointed in you. I mean you have a blog. A job. And what not. It’s really sad to see someone who is so talented and so stunning and the most amazing person by heart doing such stuff due to insecurities.” I’m the most beautiful person alive. And my beauty isn’t visible to the random passerby.

Hugs and happiness :)

Today deserves a blog post :) I woke up to a tight see-you-soon-hug from my sister Vandy. Today was the last day of school for her. The summer break starts from tomorrow. And she’ll be leaving for home. I walked into the hostel with my mother and knocked on Anuradha’s door. She ran out to give me a hug and we walked upstairs together to my room. We exchanged our farewell presents and shared a quick happy chat. Anu is my favourite junior and in just one year together we’ve become awesome buddies. She is like a sister to me and I jokingly hit on her brother. Do you understand the logic? Or, is there any logic? I ran to give Kranti a hug. I received another loud “I missed you” from her and she walked to my room with me to greet my mum. She took her present and ran for her exam. She and I became chudbuds after she joined the hostel in the second year. It took us time to click, because both of us are amazing talkers and equally poor listeners. Then I went searching for Anushri, Shireen and Shilpi. They were all sitting and chatting away in Shilpi’s room. The moment I walked in, 6 arms grabbed me and incoherent screams made me jump up and down and clap my hands like a happy little kid. “Alright you guys, surprise, follow me” I shouted and rushed out of the room. Anushri is my roommate. A total sweetheart. I love her. We share. We care. We are a family of two living under one roof, inside one door. Shireen is my neighbour. Fun and sassy. And her new haircut is awesome. And we all call her Lassue-Le! And we love her. Shilpi is another amazing buddy of mine. She jokes about marrying my mum and I call her my step dad. After the gift distribution, mama gave me a bye-bye hug. I’ll miss her. In the evening Anushri and I went out to buy tuck for the week. And we bought aalu bhujiya and vegetables - one onion, one lemon, one tomato, and a very few coriander leaves to make bhelpuri. Lol. All the bargaining and minimal shopping we do to save up pocket money. Dad spent hours on rescanning a book that I lost. Gosh I’m careless. A mental hug to him. After a few hours of studying hard, we sat down to eat the bhelpuri readied by Anushri. And we played a silly game of multilingual conversing. Shilpi and Anushri speak Asaamese, Shireen and Adina speak Ladakhi and I speak Telugu. So all of us spoke our own languages and pretended to understand what each other said. And we died laughing when we understood a few words. The best part about living in the hostel is accepting and relating to the Pan-Indianism. Oh I forgot to introduce Adina. She is a very soft spoken person. Sweet and loving. Sisterly. Shireen’s cousin. And she lives in the room opposite to mine. At the end of the day, it’s another day over. And today was a good day. Last few days of graduation, last few days in the hostel. And I’m already missing everyone. Lots and lots and lots of love. <3

cook to eat! :)

 The desire for eating chatni was overwhelming. :) Yummm! :) :) I’m fantastic! <3 You should bribe me to cook some for you, you know? :) :D

Dear Yawn,

You are a beauty. But you aren’t welcome. You coerce me into making futile attempts at hard core studying. So don’t come! Don’t cart me away into the walls of wonders. Oh the wonders.

I stand beaming under the bright sun. The azure glow swallows me.  The hearty surroundings, with many hail-fellow-well-met whispers drift across me, and I take it all in.

“Open your eyes” I mentally kick myself.

“No, I like it here” I kick back.

And the mental football continues with my brain whizzing in its socket till I here my mum’s voice threatening to drench me in cold water.

And the cycle continues every few hours. :D

My exams start in another 17 days. And I need to study.

So  -

yawn yawn please wait,

Come at night when I anticipate,

Go knock at the insomniac’s gate,

Yawn yawn please wait! :D

Pleadingly,

The Girl Yawning :D

Insert a mildly interesting title here :D

It has taken me a very long time to like the person I am. This feels good. I’m darn cool! And I love my blog. I can write. I know, after a post every day, I couldn’t force my lazy fingers to typing something here for the past four days. But what to do? Approaching exams. Pounding heartbeat. Ending graduation. Shocking realisation. Wait listing admissions. Too much for a girl to handle, right?

I really can’t think of anything wildly entertaining to say. Mixed thoughts. Hungry now. Will be back with my next post, once my thought process slows down.

Lots of love <3 :)

Almost goodbye graduation. Almost miss you Shakespeare.

I will study. I will study. I will study. Ok. Not happening.

“Your exams start in twenty-two days, Sai” my mum warned me.

Shucks! No! Twenty-two days? Ok today is the first. I have my final, final (final this year, final grad exams) exams starting from the twenty-third May. They go on till the fif^th of June.

You must be wondering what I study. *clears throat*

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m majoring in English. Though I love reading, Literature is not my cup of tea. So if you are expecting Shakespearean jargon, methinks thou art at the wrong place.

Because:

1.       In another forty years, I’ll be ‘old’. Not ‘auld’.

2.       We Indians respond to ‘you’ not ‘thou’.

3.       Friends are friends and cousins are cousins. What did Shakespeare call his aunt’s son?

4.       I spurt meaningful rhyming sentences occasionally. Sonnets are not my mug of ale (a Shakespearean drink – beer made with top fermenting yeast).

5.       You annoy me? I’ll call you git, mental, bitch, ass, bugger, or a few combinations of words with F’s. But surely not ‘jackanapes’ or ‘canker-blossoms’ or ‘poisonous bunch-back’d toads’.

6.       I’m ‘writing’ this post. I’m not ‘writeth’ this post.

7.       ‘It is’ sounds better then ‘tis’. Right? Lazy writers! I don’t appreciate internet language either.

8.       Shakespearean rule – verse for lovers, prose for ruffians, songs for clowns. My rule – verse for poets, prose for casual readers, and songs for singers. Lovers can romance, ruffians can make trouble, clowns can entertain.

9.       My suitor better not compare me to a midsummer’s night dream while wooing me. I’d leave him for living in England in the sixteenth or the seventeenth century.

10.   No I won’t dress like a man to woo a man. Because I’d never be able to banish him or claim his throne. India is a democracy.

Inclusivity in education

I confess... I sometimes wish, wish really hard that people were blind to the differences in others. Wish there was equality. Wish where everyone is brilliant at what they do, I was not different and noticeable. My wish is very socialist in extremities while the world is capitalist, god bless the United States. Ha-ha, but it makes sense.

Most people are quite nice. Nice till their final ounce of sympathy drains out. They offer to listen, nod with understanding, but they have their reservations. They stare, they believe I do not realise, but they forget I have other functioning senses that make me feel like a zoo exhibit. I understand morbid curiosity. I experience it too. But doing the same thing over and over again, in my case understanding, does get boring.

I sometimes question my socialist wishful thinking. How would the world be without hues? Transparent? Without days and nights? I would miss black and gray and white and purple? People would not realise how good I look in red? Obvious much, my conscience growls at me, that is why it is wishful thinking. The world would be boring. Difference and competition puts us on different levels, and we all want to put ourselves on pedestals.

I enjoy being around mixed company. I listen. I observe. I judge. I speak. I learn. And at what place can this possibly happen? At school of course. A place where we meet and grow with people of the same age group. A place where we compete and learn. A place where we commit and regret our own mistakes. If only the chance was given.

Similarity is what the world looks for. I beg to differ. In a world where everyone is good at what they do, how can I be any worse? I can only be different. The other day, was a good day. I achieved something. I only needed the world to appreciate. But it apparently has its own chores to do.

I realise I am digressing. I might also be blabbering. Never the less, I assert, the society has no chance of success if it has brain power wasted. I am visually impaired, but I have the insight that is greater than anyone with eye sight who thinks I do not deserve inclusive education.

I justify my crying

Sad stories make me cry. Yay! At least I am not an emotionless robot.

What makes you cry the most? Hearing a sad story? Or being a part of a sad story? Have you ever realised tears gives pleasure? Have you ever realised we think and love ourselves more when we cry? What is it if it is not the joy of sorrow?

When have you last told yourself that no one understands you more than yourself? When was the last time you hugged yourself and told yourself you are not wrong? When was the last time you pitied yourself for all the things that happened with you? Have you, in that moment realised that the other side of the grass seems greener? Have you at least attempted to put yourself in the other person’s shoes?

Nothing... We know nothing in that moment can blow that passion that burns inside us. We know yet we don’t realise that self love balms our warped souls.

When was the last time you read a book? Karlos Ruiz Zafon said “every Book has a soul, the soul of the person who wrote it and the soul of those who read it and dream about it.” Don’t you think it is true? You cry along with the character. You laugh along; you sing along, you dance along. Or you just forget yourself and inhabit the character’s soul. It happens. A sweet escape.

But again, when you cry along with the character, or maybe, inside the character, don’t you know you are right? Don’t you experience a bout of depression overwhelming you? Don’t you realise that the only company you crave is that of tears and sobs in that moment?

Sometimes, all that you just need is a really good, hard cry. And the reason could also be ‘a crying practice’. Release all that builds up inside you on to your pillow through the flow of tears. It is akin to a pressure cooker.

In my case, I just blame it on that extra X chromosome.

It’s ok. It’s just the joy of sorrow.

How soon is soon?

He gently touched my left ring finger with his right index.

“Soon” he sighed dreamily.

“How soon is soon?” I asked being sure of the answer. No, not again. This guy, cheers my heart and I forget to do my daily chores. I have an assignment to submit the next day.

“4 years from now” he sounds realistic now, end of dream!

I sighed heavily. “Really now” I pulled my ring off my other hand. “You party-pooper! That’s so anti... anti...”

“Anti-climactic?” he took the ring from me and slipped it onto my heart finger. I looked away, my waves covering my face. He pushed them back to get a clear view of my blush.

“We are in the metro. People are looking.”

“Too late,” he said, his hand on my shoulder, “a few are already goggling at us.”

“I don’t want to turn the few into the train full.” I said pushing his hand off my shoulder.

We laughed softly, like two little kids after a mischievous deed, trying to hide it from mum. We stood there, bathing in the proximity in that overcrowded train.

“Wasn’t it an awwwwwwwwwww moment?” he mimicked me.

I giggled. I silently prayed for an eternity and a day with him.

From the ridiculous to the sublime. This is real! :)

If being in love with a fictional character is wrong…

Then I don’t want to be right...

J.K. Rowling had me at “Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were normal, thank you very much.”

It was love at first read. It was small at first, our little love affair. Harry would magically open a door here. Levitate a wand there. But as time went on, it became more intense. Winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament, breaking into the Ministry of Magic, going on a horcrux hunt with Ron and Hermione. I was thoroughly devastated when he started going out with Cho Chang. I came to accept that he married Ginny and has three children, but it still stings. Eventually we decided to move on.

You know, they say you can’t forget your literary love. I still get (as absolutely silly and ridiculous as this might seem now) dreams about Harry. Yes, dear reader, you read right. I dream about Harry’s adventures often. I dreamt about the eighth horcrux recently.

A dream is just a dream. Or is it not? Well, let me recount the story for you.

A green tent, the air was tinged with the reek of cats and (my mind said) dragon blood. Late afternoon.

“A horcrux could be anything, Harry,” said Hermione, “the last that he killed was… well, y… you…”

“My scar, yeah” completed Harry, “d’you reckon it’s a living being?”

“Yeah, I expect.”

“Yeah, mate, You-Know-Who didn’t own many riches apart from the Marvolo’s ring and the Slytherin’s locket,” said Ron.

“And his other horcruxes are all the things he nicked from Hepzibah Smith’s treasure-trove and the Ravenclaw common room.”

“We’ve been here for the past two days” warned Ron. “We’ve got to move.”

“Yeah, how about Northern Atlantic?” suggested Harry. “Hermione, you are carrying gillyweed in your beaded bag, aren’t you?”

Darkness. Water. Was I Hermione? Sprouting gills?

“What’s that?” the curious question shot out in the form of warm water bubbles.

“Looks like a swimming firefly” I read Harry’s lips.

“That’s a pyrophoric fish, mate,” said Ron.

“Sort of aquatic fireflies, they are, harry, the wizarding world doesn’t have fireflies” more bubbles were sent out by Hermione’s usual well-read, snotty, bossy, posh self through my mouth.

Harry stretched a hand and caught the pyrophoric fish. It transformed into something that looked like a black leather seat at his touch. Ron and the Hermione in me caught Harry by the legs. Our gills began to shrink, the water grew colder, we were swallowing water, choking and we were pulled out, in a seating position. There was a strange sort of a scarlet glow that the bait seat emitted. Strange, it could just fit one.

“This is it, Harry, Ron, the horcrux.” My mind screamed, some strong silencing charm was cast upon us. I looked up and listened hard;there were voices. Voices that hissed softly and dangerously. My insides twitched, the horrible sensation stirring violently in my stomach. It sounded like Parseltongue.

The scarlet shade showed Harry being pushed in to it and then… ahhhhhhhhhh… we were pushed under the seat, Ron and I holding on for dear life. Wand, beaded bag, Harry, Ron, was all ok?

“Welcome,” the voice hissed in English.

Our surroundings grew warmer, yet very unpleasant. I felt Ron’s arm jolting against mine, the beaded bag secure in my sock, and the wand in my sleeve. We were moving forward.

“Welcome to the Aqua Dark World. Dumbledor is dead, his body rots under the feet of Lord Voldemort and his followers.”

I had felt something heavy moving from the inside of the seat. I prayed it was Harry. Fortunately I was able to move; I sat upright and reached for my sock. I realised I didn’t have to hold on, I was stuck to the bait. I felt more scared than ever before. We were very slowly being wrapped around by the bait. More incoherent whispers were being emitted. But what to do next? Stabbing the bait with the Sword of Gryffindor would mean drowning, and not stabbing it would mean dying and leaving the wizarding world on the mercy of the Death Eaters and their master, Voldemort.

I snatched my wand and “Accio sword” I mouthed. It soared out of my sock and plunged into the bait. Then everything changed, I was huddled safe in bed. I was myself, not Hermione, and then came the jarring realisation that there is no eighth horcrux.

A dream is never just a dream, it is a place in sleep, where fantasy and wild imagination collide. No matter how ridiculous the dream, the imagination and the capability to recount the haphazard events always feels fab. Fiction is sublime.