Like every other year, at this time, I have plans to sit back and scrounge around for a celebration, snigger at anyone who plans to drastically ‘turn over a new leaf’ (secretly wishing to do so myself- a massive hypocrisy, yes), and have my moments of deep contemplation and thoughts in the shower, about how my life turned out in this past year. A part of the very same is this post.

I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs this year- a pleasant mix of both really. And a large fragment of the ups are the contribution of some of the most amazing people I have known (or known better, somehow) in college, this year. This is to them, ’cause if it weren’t for them I’d be at psychotherapy right now instead of typing my thoughts away.

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What does a manic, sleep-deprived (borderline insomniac) almost workaholic woman with an inappropriate (sometimes downright offensive) sense of humour need to maintain sanity in life? My best bet? A manic, sleep-deprived (borderline insomniac) almost workaholic man with an inappropriate (sometimes downright offensive) sense of humour, and that’s AS for you.

He may as well be the devil’s advocate, the child who is usually the bearer of the ‘bad influence’ every traditional Indian parent warns their soon-to-be-rebellious teenage kid against. But somewhere deep down, we are so freakishly similar, that it is like meeting the same person in another gender. Of course, a lot bigger and with a less shrill voice.

He’s been my punching bag, my 4am friend (well, literally so), my shopping buddy, and so much more. If its a food craving I have to satiate (and absolutely need to for survival) or submit a set of collated paraphrased internet articles in the name of research under a stipulated time, he has it all covered.

So, AS, if you’re reading this, I’m just so thankful for having you in my life. And though I wouldn’t possibly ever say it in a non-platonic way but, I absolutely love you. Thanks for being there, beside me like a rock, whenever I needed you. Yes, the huge frame has been enough to withstand a lot of troubles from coming my way.
And well you made me sing again, you get so many brownie points for just that.
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A thing about me now, I have never ever, and I’m not sure if I ever will ever cry in a movie (that’s so many evers and nevers). It’s true. I’m stone-hearted. Almost to the point of depressing myself. But again, not enough to make me cry. Which brings me to SB- my depressing movie straight face motivator- the reason why I can sit through sad movies without making a single inappropriate comment because observing her little ‘vulnerable’ moments and thereafter making jokes about it is just so much more fun.

So, jokes apart now. I absolutely adore her, and I wish there was a better way to express how much AS and SB mean to me.
There is a fire within her and I see it time and again. When we needed a voice of reason when we work or even when she did a silly TV sketch for me, I saw it at work. I know I have full faith in her, and no matter how nonchalant she tries to be, I know that she cares.

She is steady as a rock, and even if she may be going through an internal turmoil, I know that she is the go-to person for a good-old-funny-as-hell gossip session or a random funny comment on the most unprepared of people (trust me, they all really do need it).

I deeply admire you, SB, and I want you to know that, even though you may get teary at the slightest of things (really soppy Bollywood melodrama included), but there is a strength in you, that I would someday hope to have. And if you get even the slightest bit teary eyed (or even lumpy) reading this, I’m going to punch you in the face.
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There is always this one thing in life that is a constant reminder of how far you’ve come and how you’ve grown through the biggest years of your life. This for me has been M. My sole remnant of how I lived through a difficult and yet, life changing time in my life. In this year, I have known her even more closely than I did before. And now, I firmly believe that there is always a purpose for someone to become a part of your life.

M has been a mirror on my life. I know that no matter how much we laugh about or make fun of each other, some of my most memorable unplanned enjoyable times have been with her. Be it a random lingerie shopping date, a survival escape from a fatally boring class or even a random 2-person sleepover, she makes it all even better.

M, I’m glad I got to know you so much more this year. You’ve taught me, that sometimes in life, it’s better to strengthen the old bonds, than trade them for new ones. And even if someday, for some reason, one has to start paying for air in their car tyre, you will still be as special to me as you have always been.
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Now there is someone, who was one of the primary reasons for this post. My year in discovering people, would have DN at the top of the list. Of course everyone knows her as someone without whom our class’s metaphorical building blocks would metaphorically collapse. But then there is so much more than this responsible, caring, mother-figure-like adult (probably the closest to the definition of adult), than what everyone knows.

She knows how to get the party started when at a wedding or anywhere when inebriated. And when inebriated at a wedding, there’s no stopping her. She is two extremes put together, and is probably the closest combination to human perfection that I know of in my generation.

There is so much more I still have to learn from her. Like no matter how much one may be burdened or internally stressed, one has the option to either throw it around and wear it with resentment or, embrace the weight and make a stepping stone out of it. DN is the second kind.

DN, you’ve been a revelation to me this year. And well, you’re simply such a beautiful soul. And no matter where you are and what you do, I want to be a part of the day you finally take a plunge and break your hostel rules and rub it in your warden’s face.
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My year was eventful and full of so many people that came and stayed to make it worthwhile. AB, for instance, is now my best dance partner and we have so much chemistry, that with enough practice we can totally be small-time reality TV stars. AB, you’re just so much packed in one, I can gladly place my money on you when I say that you will be one of the most successful ones to come out of this whirlwind of a college life that we have. You’re also the prettiest cross-dresser, and as much as you enjoyed doing my show, I still cannot re-iterate enough how grateful I am for you doing it for me.
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One of the nicest and most helpful people I know, DDR. I have come to discover him as someone who would gladly do all in his might if you need him. You’re simply amazing and well, I cannot stress enough on how much I admire the shady badass you can be when you twist your fingers to get stuff done.
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PS and MC, you guys have a very special little place in my heart. This year, you guys have showed me, that it isn’t the physical closeness that makes friendship special and it is the little things that count (well almost literally, because we are after all little people ).
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AP and RS, my troll buddies and my closest bros. My year would be so very uneventful and dull without you.
AAD, NA, and KM, you guys made our first few work project so much more fun. Thanks for keeping me sane and well, stripping me off of all sanity at other times.
ARS and MT, straight off, you guys made me model. The one thing I could possibly never imagine myself doing. Ever.
NS, you’re like my ally, and one of the most fun people I have ever had a work-night–cum–bitching session with.
US, that insanity ridden Jaipur trip would’ve definitely been incomplete without you (that stuffed dog toy too? ).
RA, AV and SK… I can probably not complete a sentence without mentioning the three of you together in one breath and I loved that I discovered more about you guys this year.

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So this is to all of you and everyone who made my year in college worthwhile. I probably won’t be welcoming the new year with either of you, but you are special enough for me to be a part of my year-end introspection. My year was a metaphoric roller-coaster ride and I know that if it weren’t for all of you, I would’ve metaphorically thrown up and would’ve been left dizzy at the end.

Thank you all for being a part of my year and my life, and I wish you the best for years to come.

Love,
AK

Nature works in mysterious ways, and I have reason to believe it does. I write to you every year, hoping I get a response from you. It’s been three years since you’ve been gone, but I know you’ve always been right here beside me. It may sound a wee bit insane, but deep down, I just know it’s you, standing by me through all my laughter, tears, sickness and health. I always crave for a response, and somehow, in one magical way or another I seem to get it from you.

Words seem to fail me when it comes to describing how much I miss you. I hope you know how hard it’s been for me without you. Without that first morning hug and bright smile and sometimes the tough love and lectures about how I need to get my act together. I hope you know that the void you left behind was not an easy one to fill.

A part of my life went with you the day you left us. And for sometime, I was left stunned and in disbelief, bitter and craving for that part of my life to come back to me. But life has a pace and life is the name of that unforgiving thing that gives you the time to heal, but doesn’t give you the space to show it. It is unexpected and sometimes takes turns when you’re least prepared. But it does lend you a hand when others aren’t looking, trying to make up for the pain it caused.

These three years, I have been healing, but I still have been seeking, what you seemed to have taken with you. There is a part of me that wants to let go, a part of me that wants to believe that everything happens for a reason, but no reason seems good enough when it comes to you.

But then again, there come these times in life when you believe life is working some bits of magic to give you a sliver of hope. I know you have your mysterious ways TJ, and I somehow manage to find you in even the littlest of things. You have changed my life in so many ways, and it’s amazing how you still seem to do so.

From our college pet, a little puppy whom we figuratively raised and named; a cat I brought home, hoping to raise alongside my dog; the different and sometimes crazy combinations of colours I wear; the pages in my notebook filled with random doodles; the insanity and ecstasy I feel whenever it rains; all the times I’ve been fearless to speak my mind; spicy chaat and chai-samosa sessions, and so many more of those little things in life are places I find you in. Things you imbibed in me. In every good thing I do, or positive thing I say, I feel like you are present. A part of you that lives in me and is guiding me to do those things. Do good, do the best, do right.

I know you’re out there somewhere, and I need you to know that you mean the world to me. Even if you aren’t reading this, I know that somehow, my thoughts are reaching you. TJ, you are the most special person in my life and I hope you know what you mean to me. I am the person that I am today all because of you. You have given me the strength, courage and passion to go through life with the simplicity, ease and innocence which were synonymous to you.

I would’ve loved for us to grow old together and do all those things we planned to, from being together in school and college all the way to being business partners and flatmates. I know life would have been different had you still been here, but I know deep down that you’re always right here by my side, making me go through life effortlessly and with the same passion, insanity and innocence that you did.

Tejaswee Rao, thank you for being in my life and making me what I am today. All the hurdles I crossed, the tears I fought, the fights I avoided and the hope I refused to give up, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for being there for me and for still continuing to do so. You’ve been my mentor, sister and pillar of strength. One may think it’s cosmic coincidence, but I know it’s all you.

I hope someday I get to see you again. I wouldn’t want to wait another lifetime just to be with you, but I know you would make it worth the wait.

Love you now, forever and for always,

yours,

‘Roo

Little did I know that the devastation of the floods and the heart breaking visuals of falling buildings and faces of the miserable trapped and desperate faces would soon give way to something I wasn’t really expecting. Another one of those viral-yet-comical, brave-yet-insensitive amusing little guilty pleasures we all crave for came in a time like this.

This morning, Youtube, the boiling pot for all the good, the bad, and the funny on the Internet gave me just what I needed- a dismissal of almost everything that I learnt in undergrad level Journalism. If not everything, well at least this was a clear dismissal of lessons in Journalistic Ethics-101.

Click to watch video

Recent Internet sensation, Narayan Pargaien, is a man of high stature. Well, at least that’s what he apparently likes to portray. The video of his report on the Uttarakhand flood is now viral on the Internet, not because he did a remarkable job of it, rather because he did what most politicians and self-righteous moral police would kill to achieve- deviating from the main issue.

Not only was his report a wee bit of an exaggeration, it was also a wee bit distracting, and a wee bit annoying, and a wee bit comical, okay fine, it was certainly more than just a wee bit comical. What do you expect out of a flood report video, which is high on ‘video’ but has little or no ‘flood’. And ‘reporting’? Now that’s just asking for too much. If you haven’t seen it yet, the video is of reporter Narayan Pargaien, doing his job (which as much as I’d like to disagree, is ‘reporting’), atop the shoulder of a man, presumably a flood victim in Uttarakhand. The flood and victims, government support and rescue operations are just the few things he said that most people who’ve seen the video just once have conveniently overlooked. Because well, you cannot blame the man on the shoulder to not get through to you, he tried his best on his part… It is all your fault you person with a short attention span!

Okay now I sense too much bashing happening here. Let’s cut him some slack and give the poor man the benefit of doubt (I was talking about the man who’s carrying him, who did you think? I said poor).

Anyway, so why do you think the man resorted to what the Internet has termed as ‘inhuman journalism’? Who knows? Maybe Mr. Pargaien was ahead of our time or a literary genius for all you know, metaphorically depicting the ‘burden on the shoulder’ of the man via journo… ahem… floods, yes floods, that took away everything from him. Poetic isn’t he? Or maybe it was just humour he (unintentionally I suppose?) wanted us all to see in a situation where that is the last thing one can offer. Well, whatever floats your boat Mr. Pargaien, or rather, whatever ensures you float.

Now, time to cut Mr. Pargaien some slack, after all everyone does not have the luxury of a Yellow Submarine, like the Beatles. The man did do whatever he could to save himself from the still unpredictable flood. Of course, it would’ve been an ounce better if our shoulder man could’ve also saved Mr. Pargaien from the flood of Internet commenters. But you can’t have everything you know.

All said and done, we are still in a deep, dark, dingy place where the country’s media is concerned. There is still an enormous amount of growing up that the media needs to do. And when it comes to a tiny droplet of a mishap like this one, the Internet will make sure the ghost of your mistakes shadow you forever.

I just hope that journalism one day becomes what it’s supposed to (wishful thinking, I know). Fair, and free, and ethical and all that jazz.

I missed blogging. I missed that longing urge to sit back and recount the happenings of the day/week/month and pen it (key it) down and watch it virtually immortalise on the web. And after being pestered and poked by my loved ones and more so that little voice in my head (that hates me more with every passing minute considering the royal ignorance it receives), here I am back to my long lost friend and mirror of my life- My blog.

Before I go on about the thoughts that I promise to share earlier on when I started the blog, I might as well keep this post about my life and the updates about it. As mentioned earlier, in a year I went from being this to that and that to anything and everything I could in an age where I’m not supposed to be doing anything significant so to say (no this isn’t the renaissance come on, that generation was different).

I was sort of enjoying anonymity for a while and well, didn’t really have the time for popularity really. Grad school isn’t really a cakewalk, and there are more compromises than surprises. Among the good stuff, I’m almost a pro at driving, (and yeah, wriggling my way out of chalans with a puppy face as well); mastered the art of pulling all-nighters, without a wink of sleep (yes, coffee is still my best friend); put on 8 kilos in a month (trust me that’s a huge achievement); discovered an inherent work OCD or workaholism, more so; and so on. More about which would follow on the blog.

So here I am, now a masters student (yes, I got there ), with metaphoric bruised knees from all the ‘growing up’ that has been shoved down my throat, trying to revive, rather resurrect my blog in coma for nearly a year. I am going to try my best at keeping up with the times and not let my blog die out now on, and well I can only hope it goes back to what it was when I first started and it gets all the love that it got all over again.

On that note, see you soon..
Cheers..

Animal spotting in a jungle safari at Jim Corbett, Uttarakhand.
Now if only I could spot a tiger or two in the ‘tiger reserve’, none-the-less, nature has just so much to offer, and this would just be a minuscule fraction of it…

Pictures by: Me..

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No I haven’t forgotten your birthday, never have.

I know you can read this from wherever you are, and I hope you remember me, your best friend whom you left here stranded. Oh, okay stop giving that look already, of course you do.

So things are going fine here. Life is going on. I guess time is a healer, but is also brutal in its ways. It doesn’t really wait for one to think or react, and when it’s had enough with you it changes drastically and coaxes you to blend in with it. I’ve just been learning from it. I guess I am learning to let go, but I can never stop missing your presence in my life. And on your birthday, TJ, I just want to thank you for being a part of my once very ordinary life that you made so extraordinary.

You have changed me in so many ways, for which I’ll be eternally grateful to you. You’ve made me grow.

I can’t really say it’s been easy here without you. That vacuum you’ve left is not easy to fill. But I’ve learnt a lot from you, and even your haunting absence has made me realize that nothing in this world is permanent.

You have been more than a friend to me. Like you said, we were like ‘fraternal twins’. But in its truest sense I wish I could be even half of the person that you were.

You may have left earlier than anyone would’ve liked, but you have been immortalized by the happiness you’ve spread. You’ve left behind a legacy of immortal words and smiling faces that feel blessed that you were once a part of their lives.

Every moment I’ve spent with you is more than a memory for me, because it’s very difficult for a person like you to be reduced to a mere memory. You are someone whose warmth and goodness just resonates beyond the dimensions of life and it is this very warmth that I can still feel crop up from time to time, reminding me how to live every moment to its fullest and cherish life in its every form. TJ, you may have left me, but ‘Tejaswee’, the radiant light, will be with me forever.

Dearest TJ, thank you for making me the person that I am today, I have derived a lot of strength from you and still continue to do so. You have made me a better person.

I would’ve loved for us to have grown older together and fulfilled our dreams by each other’s side (like the media house we were supposed to start together), but I guess life always has sinister plans lined up, and questioning fate just leaves you more bitter and angry.

In the short time you were here you have been the best friend anyone could’ve asked for. I’m just lucky to have had you in my life. Thank you for being there for me whenever I needed you, my sister, mentor and pillar of strength.

I was told that only a miracle could bring you back, and I am still waiting for that miracle to happen. I miss you like crazy, but I’m still hoping I’ll soon see my silver lining.

Thanks for looking out for me, TJ. I guess guardian angels do exist after all.

I will always love you, and I know you will too.

Happy Birthday, sweety.

Loads of love and hugs,

AK

It is sad that it took a bitter and badly written post to revive a blog which was in coma for a while. But I guess sometimes you need the right kind of emotion to bring you back from hiding. This is in response to this post. It has created frenzy all over the blogo-sphere. And well read it here if you haven’t already. And here are my responses are in red.

Dear Delhi boy,

Namaskaram from the South of India, or as you may like to believe, the countries south of the Vindhyas.

-Dear South Indian girl (since Ghetto-ising isn’t really my style, I shall refrain from calling you Madrasan),

Good evening from… well, an Indian. I usually am against being racist, because frankly I’m left with very few options, after being a part of so many cultures, and belonging to so many places having an army dad. And just to make things straight, I am part Punjabi, the rest of me I shall get to later.

I came to your city 2 years ago with a brand new job and a bucketload of expectations. My friends and family here thought I was completely insane to choose Delhi over more female conducive cities like Bangalore or even Bombay. I am very sad to report that your reputation of being an ignorant, chauvinistic oaf with the intelligence levels of an autistic 3 year old on crack precedes you and it hurts me even more to admit to this rather accurate description.

-First of all, I’m sorry about the fact that despite your desperate attempts to make Delhi-ites hate your kind, I still love South Indians. Some of my closest friends are South Indian, and even after reading your post, I still wouldn’t ‘generalise’ and look at them with suspicion, despite you completely reinforcing the unjustified stereotype against your kind. I’m sorry to report that I still haven’t lost faith in your kind despite this statement being exaggerated and downright derogatory to children with special needs.

Your reputation has travelled far and wide, to countries outside South India as well. And believe me man, it is not a pretty situation. I understand that your stone faded, ripped jeans, your V-neck cleavage showing t-shirts that reveal to the world that you have infact inherited your mother’s voluptuous shaved Punjabi bosom, are what you think maketh a man, but it does not. It only maketh for a man who gets a pity license to share his girlfriend’s bra. I write to you as a woman who has been brought up in a society free of any discrimination towards women so thanks to you, my living in Delhi is as safe as Hugh Hefner’s playmate of the year living in Jeddah.

-I understand how you feel. It is but natural that an age-old Indian fetish for breasts surfaces now and then. Quoting most psychology texts, the things we notice most in the opposite sex are the ones deficient in us. It happens. I don’t blame you at all. As for your society honey, at least I have the freedom of wearing shorts to college without being judged.

You meet me at a friend’s birthday, talk to me about nightclubs and your new SUV and when I look like I’m in desperate need of a barf bag, you think I have an attitude problem. I understand this completely. But let me remind you that I am from SOUTH INDIA and not SOUTH DELHI, so no ,I am not scrawny, I am not fair, I don’t have straight hair and my topics of conversation go beyond the Fendi I saw in last month’s Vogue.

-So Miss Southie, at least women here are allowed to nightclubs and not shoved out of them by some moral brigade trying to supposedly ‘save our culture’. Women in fact are welcomed into nightclubs with no cover charge. I do like Fendi, Gucci, or even flee market apparel, and at least I have the freedom to openly lust for them without being judged.

I am olive-skinned, have lower –back-length lustrous cascading tresses that sometimes make me look like I fell out Jim Morrison’s tour bus. Got a problem with that? Well just suck it up coz I was born into a society where a woman can whoop your Punjabi patoutie to pulp.

-So you want to be accepted for your self-degrading description of what I would have otherwise called beautiful, but cannot accept a man with a single physical flaw. Do I see hypocrisy here?

While your mother pretends to be very progressive but still cows down to the whims of her husband every single time, mine on the other hand was born into a matriarchal home where every single possession is in the rightful name of the girl child. Could you ever, my hunky handsome, cash throwing pig, imagine this kind of power in your society? So stop telling me that women are not treated like trash where you come from. Just shut up and admit to it. It’s just easier that way. And lest we forget that we’ve managed to curtail the number of rape cases despite not having a female Chief Minister. Amma ‘s body composition generates way too much heat for her get out of her AC room anyway, so don’t even bring that up.

-Congratulations for being born where you have, but I’m still not going to stoop down to your level and generalize. Both my parents are emancipated to the core. More than your society could ever imagine being. Despite my mother earning more than my dad I still live in peace and harmony and have the freedom to have a boyfriend (and for that matter even girlfriend) from anywhere in the world and openly discuss about him at the dining table.

And your English. Good Lord, what in the world is up with that? I don’t want you to ‘explain me’ anything. It’s like you need to go to primary school all over again. And call them your parents, not your ‘peerents’ or what your cooler, more happening brethren call them—‘mere mom-dad’. Like what are they? Conjoined twins? Are they joined at the hip?

-So how old are you? 5? Anyone can call their parents whatever they like till the time they’re given due respect, you have absolutely no right to point fingers at people’s existence being from an incestuous wedlock.

Your South India counterparts may not have your looks, but are way more mentally stimulating, a quality that eludes you obviously, but has been the single most sexy factor for us Southie chicks since the age of five.

-Why do you seem so apologetic about the looks you possess? Because what looks like a desperate attempt at being a ‘dark and proud people’, you come across as someone with a deeply embedded inferiority complex. Seriously, be proud of the way you are. And I mean genuinely.

I mean once again, who can blame you? You were brought up on Gurdas Mann and the heroic deeds of Devinder Singh Bhullar and the ever so fair concepts such as elections in Phugwada while we mere ‘black-colour waale’ mortals had to make do with Bharatnatyam classes, M.S Subhalakshmi and chess. Shame no?

-Just because Bharatnatyam started somewhere near where you live does not mean you’re the only ones who possess it, North India is flooded with people and institutes which teach Bharatnatyam. To top that we even have a wide variety of other dance forms to choose from. We have Kathak, Jazz, Ballet, Hip-Hop, and so on, and of course Bhangra and Gidda, which mind you need so much energy, you’d need to be the human version of the Duracell bunny to give a 10 minute performance in them. And as for chess… we just choose to lie low and channelize our energies into lesser sports like… well hello? Those are sports nonetheless, it doesn’t matter!

And yes, if by a slight chance, you do find my big dancer eyes attractive enough for you to prolong our conversations and meetings and if by an even slighter chance you fall in love with me and decide to marry me, you will have to wear a mundu and you will have to lie prostrate shirtless at the Guruvayurappan temple.

-You are a tad confused lady. Despite this whole supposedly witty and totally-not-exaggerated rant about the men of my kind, you still have hopes of marrying them? If any of the Delhi men do want to marry you, they would gladly bare it all and wear a mundu if needed.

A small price to pay for all the genuine independence I am giving up for you. And that’s the real thing, not what you see the Delhi girls at LSR and Stephen’s doing during their fake as hell protest marches coz ultimately they’re going home to a family who’re putting together money for Bobby beta’s bail coz he just ran over his girlfriend’s ex, by mistake of course.

-Woah! This is where I get vicious honey. I cannot help it if you were too busy trying your ass off to get into IIT and in the bargain did not get in and with the marks you obtained in an attempt to focus more on entrances you didn’t get accepted in some of the MOST prestigious colleges in the country where most people would give up a limb to get into. ‘Sour grapes’ is the best way I can describe this. At least the Delhi girls from LSR handle a break-up in a more dignified way than this. Oh and if not IIT you could probably try nursing school you’d blend right in (Yeah, how’s that for a stereotype? That’s how it feels).

I understand that I come from the land of ugly. I mean obviously Hema Malini, Sri Devi and Aishwarya Rai with their natural banal looks don’t even hold a candle to Priyanka Chopra after her two nose jobs and one lip reconstruction surgery. Not a chance in hell.

-Natural looks? I really pity your ignorance sweety but from a girl who is supposedly proud of her ‘South-Indian dark complexion’ it’s strange that every actress you have mentioned here is fairer than the other, not to mention the amount of tweaks and corrections their own faces have gone through. NO ONE, and I mean no one can ever look the way they do at their age without any correction at all.

But when you do come to ask for my hand, remember I am part Maharashtrian and part South Indian and NO, they are not the same thing. So please tell your family, not to drop racist bombs like “Arey woh sab toh ‘Sawth’ ke hi hote hai na?” And YOU—don’t walk up to mother in an attempt to make flattering conversation and say shit like “Aunty you don’t look like a South Indian You are so fair” In return she will verbally Texas chainsaw massacre your face so badly, your dead Dadi will haunt you the very same night, telling you how fleeing Pakistan was less traumatic. So don’t. Better still just don’t speak. Just glean and flex your muscles a little and keep smiling. Just whatever you do, don’t talk.

-Wow! You know if you just wanted to get married to a guy from Delhi so desperately, why didn’t you just say so instead of dropping subtle hints in a post where you’re simply trying to play hard to get? You could just talk to your family you know, they might just understand that you want to be with someone NON-South Indian. And of course since you invested so much of your precious time trying to crack IIT, I don’t blame you for lacking basic language skills, but let me tell you honey, there is a difference between being witty and being plain rude. Trivialising the trauma faced by people during partition is simply offensive and taking this too far. So yeah I guess it’s just better that you are not spoken to, because you’re simply not worth it.

You may not like our food, but then we don’t like you, which is worse. We may not be even that into food, but then that’s coz we have other things to do with our lives, like crack IIT or become writers, journalists, activists and do things that we are very passionate about. The South Indian woman has a voice and boy can she yell. So if you want to Sambhar ‘Chawl’ your way into my life, then you got to toe the line. Be way more aware than what your are.

-For your hatred towards food, I’d say, try spicing things up a little bit. And some sweet should do you good. At least it’ll make you a little less bitter. At least we could hope so. And as for South Indian food, there might just be more South Indian restaurants in Delhi than any other part of the country and they’re mostly located in the Punjabi dominated areas of Delhi because Punjabis love nothing more than a family of ten and some Rawa Masala Dosas.

Remember Delhi is not a country and we are not Black. If I ever hear you utter that name of that colour, I will Kalaripayattu your tongue out of your rear. Yes , that is the secret behind our awesome sex ratio. Just so you know.

-Yes Delhi isn’t a country. But it sure is more inclusive than any other part of the country and yeah, Delhi is NOT in Punjab. Please get your facts right or else it won’t be long before someone from the operation blue star lineage performs a Gatka on you (And again, that’s exactly how it feels).

For someone who is so confident of his physical abilities you really suck at luring an intelligent woman. Don’t send me text messages that say ‘happy guru purab’, you freakshow and if you want to be cute with your ever so charming (not) Punjabi advances, then don’t send texts that say “Dil laye gayee kudi Madrraaas di”! NO. It’s just not cool man.

-And again sweety, there is a difference between being witty and being plain racist. Is it that you have a problem with all occasions where normal human beings get a reason to feel happy or is this just a special case? And who are you to define what’s cool? I’m not even going to comment on that, ‘cause you’re just not worth it.

I may have have missed on a lot in this letter, but that’s ok because you’ll forget to read it and even if you do , you’ll get your cousin Jassi from Defence Callonny to translate it for you. And this letter can’t go on forever like the Punjabi male ego.

-It’s funny how you talk about ego when all you’ve done in this letter is tried way too hard to nurse your badly hurt ego.

So long my love, and here’s two steps of gidda just for you, just to show that I can be traditional and will not accidently kick your sister while doing so.
Love, hugs, kisses aka ‘muah’ (only I shall ‘muah’, you please don’t do anything coz you tend to forget that these are my lips and not a piece of Tandoori Chicken from Kakke- Da- Dhabba)

-As for the ‘muah’… do try some passionate kissing sometime. It’ll soften you up and lessen the frustration.

Yours
Madrasan
(Only I can call myself that. If you EVER call me by this name, I will shove so many coconuts down your system that your little saver pack versions will begin to sprout coir.)

Yours truly,

Cosmopolitan Indian citizen studying at LSR

PS: And well about the other part of my identity? The other part of me is from the ‘North East’. And we get discriminated against more than you can ever think or dream of. But we’ve risen above all the petty arguments and learnt to celebrate differences. Because at the end of the day we’re all Indian, and it does not matter where we’re geographically located within the country.

I may have toed the line here and there, but trust me, I meant no offence to anyone other than you (the writer of the post) here. Frankly if in your place a Punjabi had written similar bitter words for a South Indian, it would’ve got me equally fired up.

Stereotyping and profiling can be fun to an extent, if taken in good humour, and yeah they’re a part of life. But with all the corn and cheese aside, every Khan is not a terrorist, every South Indian is not Madrasi, every Punjabi is not Sardar (every Delhi-ite is definitely not Punjabi)… oh the list is endless.

Please learn to take a setback in life in good spirit and stop blaming an entire geographical area for what you may have been through. The last person who did that had all his (Nazi) glory in his time, but no one sees him in good light today.

'Shipping' in the Summer Sun

 This is a picture I took at a lake at Ambey Valley, Lonavala, Maharashtra.

What does this remind you of?

*’Ship lofting’ is just a spoonerism for ‘shop lifting’.

I often ask my father how I look when I try a new dress on. And he always replies with what I find rather unusual, ‘You look very pretty. But for me, that 5 pound baby covered in blood will always be the most beautiful.’

This often puzzled me. It was a tad heavy for a fourteen-year-old to understand. As I grew older, I asked my dad what this meant, when he finally told me when I was in my twenties…

“It was raining heavily that night. Your mother, then in her ninth month of pregnancy, was having several contractions and was in severe pain. The hospital was nearby, but going there would’ve taken too long, so we tried to call the doctor to our home.

A doctor and two nurses had arrived after an hour-long drive, for what would’ve taken merely 15 minutes otherwise. The rain didn’t stop and neither did your mom’s wailing.

I held your mom in my arms and lay her on the bed. She was at her heaviest best, but I didn’t feel a thing when I lifted her. All I wanted was for you two to be safe. Your mother leaked unfamiliar moans out of her pores in pain. I held her hand but I still felt as helpless as ever.

“The baby’s crowning. I can see the head.” One of the doctors said after making your mother push several times. I held your mother and wiped the sweat on her forehead every few seconds. She was being brave, and despite the pain, she tried to push you out with all her might.

After that eventful hour, the doctor held you in her arm and your mother fell into an unconscious state. There, in the doctor’s hands, was this little thing with blood all over its body and scratches of hair on its head. I asked the doctor if it was a girl or a boy and with a gloomy expression on her face, she said, “she isn’t breathing.”

My face fell. I went numb. It was like my world had come crashing down on me.

“Please do something, doctor.” I yelled in exasperation. At that moment the only thing I could be relieved about was your mother not being conscious.

The doctor kept you on the study table and rubbed your back and feet. Everyone in the room felt helpless, and watching the colour of your little body change, a tear rolled down my eye.

An hour passed by, the doctor now told the nurse to bring in a vessel full of hot water to dip a towel to rub on your chest. As time went by, she felt more and more restless.

Your mother was conscious now. And after telling her what happened she began to wail incessantly.

The doctor wrapped you in a blanket and took you to another room. Three hours had passed. And the nurse put her hand on my shoulder and said, ‘please pray for a miracle to happen’.

The doctor kept you on a higher platform, and rubbed your chest continuously. We had almost given up hope.

In a desperate attempt the doctor dipped her rubber-glove covered hands in the warm water to clean it. While rubbing your chest with one hand, she pinched your tiny nose and after a brief look at the sky in what was the briefest prayer ever, she brought her mouth close to yours and breathed into it. She kept doing that for a few minutes, until a miracle happened. All of a sudden you gave a meek cough, and a viscous liquid came gushing out of your mouth.

That sight I can never forget- your mother’s smile amid her tears and the sound of you crying from the other room.

The doctor brought you in, smiling, and gave you to your mother saying, “I’ll let you hold her before the nurse cleans her up.”

I had never seen that expression on your mother’s face before that day, it was full of joy, relief and tiredness. She gave you to me after she cajoled you and you stopped crying.

I had held you for the first time that moment. I could never be more thankful to God for giving me what was in my arms. You were still covered in a slimy liquid, your eyes still closed and you were wrapped in a towel. I rocked you gently a few times and I saw calmness on your face. It was that instant that I realised that, to me that was the most beautiful sight ever. The life that ran through your veins, that calm expression on your face, that beautiful little nose and mouth through which I could feel a mild breath pass through; it was all so beautiful.

For me beauty was in the life that I could feel in you, one which had given me more joy than I could ever imagine; beauty was in the eyes of your mother which cried and smiled at the same time; beauty was in the miracle that I had just witnessed. And in my eyes you will always be the most beautiful when I held you in my arms and felt you breath.

From that day on, I found beauty in every smile, every laugh, and every movement of yours. Because you were my miracle baby and whenever I saw you I knew what real beauty meant to me.

 What my father often told me was crystal clear to me now. I felt a little happy tear roll down my eye. My perception of ‘real beauty’ changed after my father narrated this story of the beauty in a miracle.