Ink Stained

     It has been more than two years I've been living in Delhi and I think I still don't know many a things about it. There are certain questions bouncing in my little head just as a bouncing pinball in it's closed fancy closet . There are few rational answers to them, but few I just like keeping unanswered.         An example to the first kind was "why do all people live in flats". I mean of course we all know the most probable answers to this kindergarten question. The property price hike and all. But an example to the latter kind though is little more fascinating. "where are all the rickshaw pullers?"          Here in Delhi, I've lived in three very different colonies till date. A mediocre Malka ganj, a bad chandraval, and an above average saket. But in neither of the colonies I could spot a school rickshaw. A rickshaw in which a wooden bench just widened the space for kids to sit, in which kids with fancy school clothes went on blabbering

are you happy daddy? I am not your obstruction anymore, neither am I a burden anymore; actually, I was never. Never did I come your way, I always did what you said, I even cleaned those stinking liqour glasses you left; but I was always a prey to your fray. why you used that belt on me? oh,it pains! your rough hands on my cheeks one after the other, oh,it pains! I could never figure out what my fault was. I know I wasn't good in studies, I know I couldn't cook food that well, I know I couldn't wash those clothes that clean; but were these faults that gruesome? I knew not how other children felt, I knew not how they could smile, and laugh; I knew not how they could study, and play so well; I knew not how a normal heart did beat. the only things I was familiar with, were your angry words, my swollen red marks, my swollen eyes, and two fluids,your sweat, and my tears. I don't remember my eyes ever dry at home, or ever fearless at school,

           My brother, I have never seen him as a Guardian, or an elder brother, or a dad; even though he is three years elder than me. I've always seen him as a friend. A friend who got me into trouble sometimes, and got me out of troubles most of the times; a friend who knew I'm eating paper then too couldn't say no; a friend who was with me when my biggest accident took place, just behind me. Cutting short, he's just like a best friend.         But this is not about my relationship with my brother, it's of the constraints that i deny on his being elder. It just happened yesterday that I had to tell him a joke(which was cracked in college between friends, a typical non veg one) and I had to say the hindi word for male part, and it couldn't come out from my mouth.            I'm not trying to be noble by saying that i couldn't use typical abusive language, which we used to use in schools amongst friends in front of my brother, but this is strange eno

It just happened an year before when we started with normal greetings, formal greetings to be specific with it; when some leg pulling sparked in between us. That kind of leg pulling which slowly and gradually turned into grave fights; the kind of fights that happen between a younger sister and an elder brother. But she's just like a honeycomb; full of sweet honey, but you have to go through stings to get that honey.                   She was the one who took an hour minimum of everyday when I was struck with a bomb(read typhoid) and endured my nonsense, told me rest, covered up for my fake assignments, got me fake marks, but never with a genuine smile. everytime, with a cliche. The time seems to be so fascinating at times. two years before, we barely knew each other. Then we got to texts, then to whatsapp, then to legpulling, then to fights, and now to a relation.            I was not very sure of this idea as i always have been against this very idea of mocking customs li

              It most of the times happen that we are not able to judge ourselves, not able to decide upon what our personality is like, what we like, what we don't, or it just happens with me.              On looking at street children knocking each car window , begging for pennies in rags, we sometimes feel pity, pity on their innocent faces, the faces which plead for lot more than their words say. These children, who lose their childhood in begging and collecting rags, are so very cursed. But one day seeing them smiling, you wonder what could be behind that smile. What could be the story behind their dirty but shining eyes; what could be behind the u.s.p.a. worn out shirt that that child is wearing; what could be the most happening thing that brings joy to these faces. This feeling is not pity.             Reading about big personalities and watching movies based on their lives, on one day you feel so inspired, so zesty, so passionate, so ambitious, and when that movie fades

    R eaching the Dosa shop this evening, when I placed a huge order of three dosas, I expected the bhaiyya standing there to give me extra sambhar and the red beloved chutney. Or if not the extra sambhar, the red chutney had to had to be kept. But quite contrary to my expectation, he just kept three sambhar packets and no red beloved chutney. When I asked for it, he started crying off the inflation in tomato and onion prices. Then i remembered and now fully understood the headlines today, "City cries onion tears".               Today's post is a small one as everyone who reads this blog, must be familiar with the soaring high inflation in onion prices and tomato prices; the rain which spoilt the crops and thus raised the prices equivalent to precious gems. Being an economics student, I need to now the inflation and other important economic news, but being a taste fanatic, I still need that red beloved chutney.

                  How often it happens when you're travelling in a bus and a few people, at a far distance, who seem to have no other work than talking irrelevant stuff(for them at least with a very little knowledge) of nation and political scenario, start off a story. A story of their past, of they being caught in a bus hustle, of being caught without a ticket and how they made an escape, of how rude the conductor was, or of how mad the driver was, or how they struggled for a seat and that turned out to be a "reserved for ladies one"(my favorite). Very often. This sometimes is fascinating and amusing. Most of the times people talking to each other hardly know the fellow being, but this is India. We all know each other. what if buses are most prone to thievery, what if  most of the times we don't even find a place to place our feet, we are the people who live.                   And why only buses, our conscious is manufactured in such a way that  that we are always

           It has been more than a month when I started hunting for bhagwad gita. people knowing me would rather laugh at me again as I always keep blabbering about my atheism. I won't deny my being an atheist(though i fear being called that) but that's how it is. But i wanted to read gita, not as  "gita", but rather as just a book. Just yesterday when we people were roaming about in JNU( we call it roaming but basically we went there for 'supersubsidized food') and we reached it's library, I got what I was searching for and that too for just 100 bucks.              But in a country like India, you can't read a mythological anywhere you want, at any time you want, in any posture you want or  in any state you want(by that i mean bathed or not). When I went for my coaching this afternoon( my m.a. entrance coaching which came to face after weeks long dilemmas), i took a metro as i was already getting late. I thought why not read my introduction and star

         Ever since I was a kid, I mean ever since I started hating studies, I've always found myself at constant war. A war between sleep and tension, a war between dullness and schedule, and (not very proudly though) I've won most of the times to the bad influences.           This one holiday, I planned up up with assignments, reading almost-impossible-to-read EPW articles, the plan from the morning to the evening. But quiet usually, I missed one meal (not because I was too busy studying, but because I woke up at the time of lunch). And adding cherry to the day was the awesome weather which held my view and my pen again and again to itself...         Though the funny part was we got this holiday after putting up a great fight against the teachers and the administration on grounds of we-need-more-time-to-study and we-are-grown-ups-now. But as they say, a holiday is always a holiday...