Going home

Sweaty hands stuck to a glass door.
Palms pressed against the steadily mistyifying and demystifying canvas.
A whizz past reality.
Eyes that cringe to avoid yellow glare, and in a blink, open to soak in wonder.
A gasp, and an intake.

"Yeh darwaaze apne aap kyun khul rahe hai? Hum raat hone se PEHLE pahuch jayenge!?"

Then the doors slide shut, and Papa gently pushes her open jaw upward.
And the Metro races ahead, only to be engulfed by another hollow serpentine station.

Tag chaar aka Nidhi's tag!

Stolen from Nidhi.

The Rules - *I challenge you to make your own list. The only catch? You can't include a single person you know on your list. No "I love the way my husband laughs" or "I love hearing my little girl call for me." It'll be tough, I know. But this particular little exercise is about stripping away everyone who defines you and figuring out what you (not his partner; not their mother/daughter/sister/friend) love.


I love sitting in the corridor outside my class and catching the wind. Being part of the mob that runs inside whenever anyone at the staircase yells, "Bhaago, Shobha's coming!" Hot chocolate fudge at Nirula's. Jabbering on and on and making no sense. I love scribbling into my journal at night. Traveling. I love the shivers down my spine after being drenched in the rain. Climbing trees. Jumping into puddles. Splashing paint and slashing my jeans and then calling them works of art. I love causing someone to break into a smile. I love causing someone to throw up on Coke because of guffawing too hard at my lame jokes. Staring out of the window on long car drives. Cycling. Trekking. Mountains. Listening to Strings late at night. I love hour long phone conferences where everyone makes jokes simultaneously, then laughs at their own joke, and they're all happy thinking five people found what they said funny. I love Drake and Josh. And Megan. Old photographs. Monochromes. Nonsense masquerading as abstractness. My nonsense. Individuality. Hot Choco-latte at Cafe Coffee Day cupped into palms on freezing winter nights. Being liked. I love chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Lots of chocolate without the calories. Rereading old posts and thinking what an I ass I was. Black gel pens. I love Calvin and Hobbes. Learning. The smell of old books. I love character. Acceptance. Chocolate Truffle with Sour Cherry sauce from Bread and More. Holidays! Economics. Myself. Longish complicated sounding words that make me sound pseudo-literary. I love the desperate types. NOT. Snuggling into a warm blanket while listening to Fix You. Genuineness. I love colour. Exploring. Photographing people off guard. Sunrises. Lying on my terrace and looking at the stars. Going wild. I love surprises. Pushing myself. My W120. I love glass bangles. Gossip. Douglas Adams. Walking barefoot on dewy grass. I love Pakistani Rock Music. Impromptu shopping trips [paid for by parents!]. Four hour long conversations, solely through chits, at school. I love nostalgia. Closing my eyes and soaking in darkness. Vibrancy. Bonfires. School. Celebrations. Five people sharing a packet of Senor Pepito Nachos because they accidentally discovered combined chilladh in their bags amounting to ten rupees. I love the Litchi groves at Glasshouse on the Ganges at Rishikesh. Memories. Knowing there's so much to be grateful for. Storing time in a jar at the back of my mind. =)

For Better or Worse

"Didi, I don't have my napkin."

"I'm not allowed to have ice cream, Didi."

"You come in N9, no, Didi?"

"HI, DIDI!"

"Didi, you won't have ice cream?"

"You're a member of Roshanara Club na, Didi? I saw you!"

"I don't [slurp] like [slurp] chocolate flavour, Didi."

"Didi, Samridhhi has potty!"

Two years back, I was here. Not exactly telling on my classmates' toilet training skills, but still being the annoying prat who loved dissing the school, the play, the presentation, the kids who would play Mother Veronica, and their invariable fainting on stage. The five rupee orange bar we used to get morphed into a twenty rupee Cornetto with the Indian economy progressing. But then, I'd still crib. Something had to be wrong, eh?
Another day, another time. Life smacks you in the face, with a past-you looking at the present-you in the eye. And you're on the 'other' side now, the one that takes the dissing patiently. Not just that, but everything that comes with it. Authority, responsibility, accountability; I don't like [=P]. Sigh. Growing up is no fun. Two years of growing up now on display, live and exclusive. Go play.

Oh, and by the way, in an evil twist of fate, I didn't get any ice cream this year.