Wednesday, February 29, 2012

For the Annoying Sake of Definitions

Image Courtesy:

Now the following is a conversation that has sadly happened more times than I care to count in my life outside of Delhi. Specially my two years in Mumbai. And it almost always, and I repeat, ALWAYS goes the exact same way. This is when I meet a new person, lets for interest sake call them Ms/Mr. X.

X: So…that’s a weird surname….what are you?
Me: As in?
X: You know, like are you Bengali, or Gujarati or what?
Me: Oh, I’m a Delhiite.
X: <sniggering> No, I mean what are you?
Me: Well, I’ve been born and brought up in Delhi, that makes me a Delhiite, right?
X: Err…No.
Me: <Sighs>
X: <Weird crazy-girl look>
Me: Well, my parents family lineage goes back to UP.
X: So…
Me: I guess by that logic I’m a UPite.
X: No, that doesn’t make sense.
Me: Why? Gujaratis originated from Gujarat…Bengalis from Bengal…I originated from UP. So UPite.
X: No, but that’s not a caste.
Me: You want to know my caste?
X: Yeah that’s what I meant!
Me: Bengali is not a caste.
X: Err…
Me: I’m a kayasth.
X: What’s that?
Me: I have no clue.
X: Err….so you’re a Bhaiyya?
Me: <rolls eyes> Sure.
X: You speak Bhojpuri?
Me: People in Kanpur and Lucknow don’t speak Bhojpuri you know.
X: Oh… <Awkward Silence>
Me: <Thanks God for the end of that mind-numbing conversation>
X: So you’re a Delhi girl? But you’re so not like a Delhi girl!
Me: <takes out her oh-so-cool Hattori Hanzo sword and finally gets the idiot’s party started>

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Down the Rabbit Hole

Dreams can sometimes be more devastatingly disturbing than we give them credit for.
I dreamt last night, that I had died. 
And life was beautiful again.

Given that this blog is all about hope, maybe I'll come back when I have some.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

First Love

She entered her new office, impeccably dressed, sharply focused, ready to slog and start the career she had always dreamt of. The cynic had murdered the romantic years ago, and had defined every step leading her to this moment, this interview. The door opened, and she stood up to shake hands with her future husband.

P.S. Ok, so 55-fiction can be a little addictive, and am in no mood for quality control whatsoever :D

The Last Supper

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out in their routine filmy banter, but received no response. The house was eerily silent, unmistakably clean, unnervingly perfect. Almost by design. And then she stepped out from the shadows, a bloody butcher’s knife in hand, blood splattered across her dress.
“I’m making your favourite chicken. I hope you’re hungry…honey.”

This post is my first try at 55-Fiction, a story told within 55 words. 

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The Rise and Fall of the Enthu Cutlet

Image courtesy:

It’s been some time since I last wrote, and for once I have loads to write about. Except of course, as luck would have it, this also happens to be the one time when I cannot in fact write a lot. The reason for which will be apparent as you read on.

Well, if you’ve been reading this blog for a bit, you might have noticed a rather growing sense of restlessness and de-motivation in me lately. Or maybe you didn’t. This is my way of saying that I think I was growing more and more restless and de-motivated with each passing day. Until it reached a high point when I thought I was my depressed best about my career and work and life in general.

And then I got angry. I got angry with myself for being such a spineless crib-pot. After all, I’m the girl who considered Scarlett O’ Hara an idol. And there is no way in hell that Scarlett O’ Hara would sit down and cry because life was not what she had planned at the age of 25. And with a glint in my eye, I said to myself, the words she often repeated to herself, “After all, tomorrow is another day!”

As tomorrow came about, I woke up without snoozing as much as usual, and actually smiled at myself in the mirror in the morning. Today was the day…I could feel it in my bones. I got dressed, found my old sandals to put on for luck, gulped down breakfast, and set out. The morning was surprisingly chilly, reminding me of Delhi winters, and brought an instant smile to my face as I felt my nose slowly go numb. I passed by a kid squabbling with his mother and smiled at him, and he shut up and smiled back. I was glowing, I could feel it, and I knew the world could see it.

This of course is around the time that my auto spluttered to a halt in the middle of the road, but I managed to get another auto in a matter of seconds, only reiterating my belief in the day ahead. 

I reached the station on time, ducked in and out of the crowd, and headed to the stairs leading me to platform 7, where my train not so patiently awaited me. This is also around the time that I realized that my old-worn-for-luck sandals happened to be rather worn out. So did the steps at the station. The realization however struck somewhere in mid-air, before I came crashing down, laptop and all, and landed on my back on the station stairs.

I would have cried on the spot, had it not been for the shock I think. The shock of suddenly finding myself on my ass when a second ago I was beaming about the day I was going to have. The shock of how much it hurt. And the shock of how in a city which boasts of its good and helpful and friendly people, not even one person paused to help me get up. I heard the usual ‘Ooohs’, the chuckles at the sight of someone falling, but not one helping hand. I’m sorry Mumbai. You just lost.

I did make it to office that day. But barely for a few hours. I realized I couldn’t sit/stand/walk/move without crying out in pain. Let alone do any work. As it turned out later after doctor visits and x rays and the lot, I’ve fractured my tail bone. Which means I’m spending the next month or so on my stomach in bed, with a hot water bottle on my ass. And believe-you-me, it aint that easy to write, or do anything for that matter, in this position.

And with that fall, comes about a forced vacation, time back home in my own bed in Delhi, probably an end to any hopes of a good career in my company, and a lot of time, to think.

So I set out that day, all full of enthusiasm, ready to kick some work’s ass. The only ass I ended up kicking was my own.

As a friend later mentioned that day, “This is why you shouldn’t be such an enthu-cutlet!”


Friday, February 3, 2012


Photo Courtesy:

I’m not completely sure what’s happening. It’s one of those days, when everything gains utmost importance and you end up caring about none of it. When your thought process slows down, but everything around you speeds up. It’s like you think you’re speaking slower than normal, typing at a normal speed, but when you look at your fingers, or listen to your words, it all seems faster than normal. It’s like being stoned, just that, it’s nothing like being stoned.

It's a day when all around you is moving around, oh so fast, while you stand rooted to the spot, and feel the sand slip from under your feet.

It’s one of those days where you wish not to day dream, but you do just that.

It’s a day when you wonder what it would be like, if at that very moment, you shut down your laptop, messaged your boss that you quit, switched off your phone, and disappeared. No notice period, no questions, no answers. If you just took off, with the tiny amount of money in your bank account, and got onto the next train to goa, or leh, or maybe…home.

It’s a day when you wonder if that’s what quitting is about. Or if that’s what courage is all about.

It’s a day when you think about life as you would have liked it to have been, a job that you actually enjoyed, a hobby that was given importance and a dream that wasn’t considered fantasy. It’s a day you want to read but can’t concentrate on the words. A day you want to write, but have no coherent thought to pin down.

It’s a day when your dream is all about hope, and in you there’s none. Or maybe it’s a day that you realize there still is hope, for you still manage to day dream.

It’s a day when there’s just too much in your head, but no ability to understand it. It’s a day you want to cry, without any reason to. Or drink, with even less reason. Or celebrate, with absolutely nothing to celebrate.

Or maybe just run. As fast as you can. As far as you can. Just because you can.

It’s a day to do something reckless. Because that’s what you really want.

It’s a day to forget logic.

Or maybe, it’s just a day, to just go home and sleep it off.

Of bike rides and Santa Claus

So today, I got a ride to office. Except my office is on the other side of town. And the ride was a bike. A rather sexy bike I must say. But as I realized today, maybe my ass isn’t really meant for long bike rides. Yet.

Anyway, I did come all prepared for the ride. So what I looked like was this:

Hey, the hair is crazy enough
without the wind on the bike!

Except with formals on.

So it was like Consultant goes to Goa. Except instead of Goa, it was Grant Road. Oh well.

Well, as a thank you for the ride, I tried my best to ignore the sun and keep the conversation flowing.

Me: Who was Santa Cruz you think?
KB: I dunno, Santa Claus’s brother?
Me: And they both had the same first name instead of surnames? That makes no logical sense.
KB: Hmm.
Me: Maybe! He’s Penelope Cruz’s dad?
KB: Hmm.
Me: Or maybe, Santa Cruz is what happens when a horny Santa slides down Penelope Cruz’s chimney to deliver his gifts. Getit? Getit??
KB: No.
Me: Uff.
KB: Sorry, I’m just not as smart as you.
Me: It’s ok, I understand.

P.S. I’m not sure I’ll be getting offered that ride any time soon again. Maybe my intelligence was just too overpowering.

P.P.S. I’m learning to laugh at my pics. So please bear with me.
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