Prose before hos

It's too cold to do anything except acknowledge how cold it is. Mentally, I'm done with the winter but physically it's only just begun. Each day is worse than the last with physical aches and matters of the heart all rising to bite you together in the ass. I can feel the tart salad aftertaste despite covering it up with fluoride. I need to see a dentist, probably more than I need to see my friends but I've made no effort to see the former. 

What is my plan for the next 10 days? Idk, rotting in bed, reading, gaming, catching up on TV, meeting friends who are in town and definitely trying to find some time to unwind for me, clean my room, to workout strong and find time to help my heart feel at home. It's been displaced, it gets displaced. 

I don't think the marker of being rich is having an Apple ecosystem. Sure, at 15 that was my definition and at 21, I was it-girl. I had an iPad, a MacBook, a video iPod and basically iPhone hadn't come out or something so I was essentially there and it didn't make me feel any different. It's like a face-card but only you buy it which doesn't make it that special at the end of the day. 

Today, I can walk out feeling smug af without an Apply ecosystem. Sometimes when I look at myself, I'm the realised vision I had on a mental mood board for myself at 15, probably here on this page. Never articulated but always aspirational. I seek and I get, not without the hard work and/or the effort but definitely, there's a way towards the will but more than anything, it's not come easy. The road was paved with ten years of effort. I recently shared that ten-year glow-up photograph with a man who has no context to my life. He validated that image with an emoji. If he knew, he'd straight up push for a national award or something. 

Flight attendant: Is there a doctor on this flight?

Dad: *nudging me* that could have been you if you did not spend all that time hating on the right-wing and JNU administration did not fuck your fellowship application over. 

Me: That could have been me if you had completely funded my admission to an Ivy League college as opposed to leaving me to figure my own higher education plans out.

Dad: ...

Me: ...





Yeah, should have thought twice about dropping out of that PhD that my life now resembles a fresh meme format on Twitter.

Not sure if I should be glad that the universe spelt it out for me that research isn't going anywhere or unhappy that I'm still gonna pay my dues?

The only time I felt like turning to this page was when I was reading a summarization of Foucaultian event, and now's just as good a time as any to discuss events.

Events pertaining to the ongoing Venus retrograde (who are you and what have you done to the person writing this page?), the deadline that I've been talking about for a month (and doing nothing about), the post-human condition of men (being apologetic about who they are inherently but not making any amends to that behaviour), and the weighing scale (which has been tipping on the wrong side for over a month).

Most of these go right back to when I decided to take a fucking break and call it an academic event. Aka Snobster goes to Europe.

What is it about an event that marks its uniqueness? Is it the stand it takes from being away from the regular, where all you do is repeat your actions until something interrupts? Is it the intervention by external force or agency that changes the regular, the banal into something else and transforms the normal into extraordinary? Does that qualify as an event or retrograde or even testing times?

Also, why the negative connotation, you'd ask.

Unfortunately, you'll not receive upon asking here. Just now or just ever. You'd have to do more than asking. A Cuban sandwich is a good starting point. As is a massage.

But of course the technology in my life doesn't think so.

The Medium is the motherfucking Massage

If this is an indication of the state of affairs then this is just as good as any cry for help. I'm not sure what I should be doing but I do know what I shouldn't be doing.

Putting things off.

Last time I put practicing bass off, it took over five years, and one inch long nails to respond to that. I picked bass when I returned from London, determined to play again. And so I did.

I did for a week until I realized I had an academic deadline and put that off. Then I proceeded to put that academic deadline off, in pursuit to get over the jet lag. I also put off complaining to the airlines who fucked my luggage over despite paying a bomb and getting my arse flown in and out of the country through premiere airlines. So much for solo travel and wanderfuck.

As I sat down to hammer out a few words (as few as 200 to meet the deadline), I stopped at 9 and proceeded to call four different people. I dug out three old cinema readers, lamented why I decided to pursue television when I clearly am not well versed with it, felt like cheating on my diet with chowmein but stopped short because I took a bite of the chocolate muffin. Who am I kidding, it was half a muffin and I had rajma chawal for dinner which meant I ate dinner for four people. 2300 calories at best and this has been minimum for a week. What will the weighing scale even do?

What I'm trying to say is, this academia is hard. Losing weight is hard. Keeping up with people and taking their shit is hard.

We know what happens when things get hard. I abandon them.

Ask the last guy who found himself hard around me. He'll tell you all about it.

I'm kidding.

But no, I did stop short of giving him a head. Because hard.

This didn't happen if you're my mom. Or dad. Does my dad read this page? I don't know.

Anyway, I'm on to entertaining friends who have decided to involve me in post-karwachauth hang despite the absence of any significant being in my life. If that isn't an event to write about, then I don't know what is.

This paper can go write itself. As can this page. The bass will also play itself. The PhD will do itself. The man with a hard on? Well, he had to handle it himself.

I'm wrapping up my 26th year in India today. For the next week and a half- and possibly the last few days as a 26-year-old will be spent in the UK, provided the airport authorities don't tear my passport, I get to be on the right flight before and after the layover and my posterior and I survive 13 hours over multiple time zones.



This was a bad month for writing but I promise, or well intend to work on that promise in the next few days and write about the UK. For the most part, this was supposed to happen when I was turning 21-22 and since then, I gave up the idea of doing anything overseas.

Repeat after me- Thailand is not overseas. Thailand is home.

Onwards anxiety, panic and hopefully many interesting posts. 

I was born to do great things.

I answered my mother in response to her "clean the house tomorrow". Don't get me wrong. Brooming the house is a great thing, as is mopping the floor. The balance you need to strike between dipping the cloth and calculating the amount of water that you ought to drain before you scrub the floor takes talent. More talent than writing an email does. People don't understand this, but writing an email is an alibi that prevents me from brooming and scrubbing the floor. I've been told I'm good at writing emails. Chasing people, even. The last one's a lie. If I could truly chase people, the men who have ghosted me would have never had a chance.

Where was I? Yes, doing great things. The higher purpose of my life, apparently.

I answered this out loud, perhaps for the first time today, in a really long time, I believed in every word I said. Maybe it was the endorphins kicking in; meeting an academic who told me she believed in me. Maybe, it was the first day after a quarter of a week of living with a backache. It could very well be the second cup of Americano, kicking in all the feels that I was living through. Maybe, my gut felt good about touching this spot for once and feeling it all together.

Coffee makes you believe everything is possible. You're great and you're meant to do great things.

Uppers, man. They're life-changing.

I think I came down to the conclusion of sorts today; about being born to serve a greater purpose. You could be doing a Ph.D. without getting dependent on hard drugs. This should be counted as an alibi to stay the fuck away from serving 12 hours of your a day to a place which has no human life dignity to offer. What has become routine now, will seem inviting a year after this. Maybe, I will crave for a desk and authority a lot sooner than a year or maybe, I will lodge bullets in my head by the end of this trip. The fact remains if you have an epiphany that you should be doing greater things, such as a Ph.D., who are you to kill your damn dreams.

A sane individual? Fuck that.

Try two cups of Americano, and kick yourself to do something strange. Believe in yourself, for half an hour. Take the Metro. Believe that you're getting that fellowship, that residency, those scholarships and the three publications you are thinking about writing to. Also believe that you will join kickboxing and start driving a car and basically be all round changed a person, that which you never were during your previous stints in academia.

Come home, procrastinate a little, wait till the coffee settles down (I'm in this phase), slap the keyboard and make some noise.

Repeat after me- I'm meant to do great things. I'm going to do great things. None of them include a mental breakdown.

May your coffee kicks before your reality does.

I've forgotten how to write. To assemble my ideas on a #ffffff digital sheet and twist them tight to breathe life into them; how does one do that?

I've forgotten how to do most things. I've forgotten to be myself. To know with confidence, that I own it and I can kick ass if I do it.

In my mind, I come across the strange situation, over and over again- what if I can't? 

I'd prefer forgetting how to, as opposed to failing at it once again.

Remind me again darling, how do I kickass. 

A PhD synopsis defended successfully.

Two complete cycles around the Sun whilst being gainfully employed.

Two new cookbooks enroute.

17 kilos of body weight down.

 Life's on the fifth gear, in the fifth month of the year. I'm not complaining.

About three months ago, I'd have chided at anyone who would have asked me my take on PhD.

But also, three months ago I was a totally different person.
Dead on the inside, if you must.

Heraclitus was right, you change just as soon as your thought does. Probably faster than the time it takes for the rays of the Sun to reach Earth. 8 minutes is a decent time to be one version of yourself.

If you've been following this page then you'd know that I also nearly died. PhD would be useless in the event of a death.

I mean, what sort of doctor can't save their life from Malaria? (question)
The kind that does a PhD in Cinema. (answer)

A step away from being vixen Doctor and about 10k odds words away from sealing the deal, but did I want to step in that boat twice? (the answer is no, in case you're looking for it).

Then, something happened.

Three odd days ago, I woke up to a deadline reminder for pitching my proposal to the faculty at large. "8 May is the final date. Call me and we'll discuss."

Owing largely to the ill health of me and mine, I was going to take the semester break and give myself a buffer period to bounce back.

However, here's the thing with me. If you're me, you don't do downtime. You don't put your life on buffer and stare at the screen to let the events unfold as they desire.

You grab life by the balls. You go down on it, you own it and tighten the grip because you're taught just as much. Never give up, don't bow down to the circumstances. You're a fighter, give that dirty cock a good squeeze and take the life out of it.

"I was thinking, instead of you know, the Kardashians, how about I work on Netflix as a new medium of television...like post TV but on the internet?"

"That's a great idea."

72 hours, a few emails and a packed weekend later, we're getting down and dirty.

Bring that roof down, son. I'm coming for the last hurrah.

"Now that you've had a trim, I can't wait for your life to change."

I had hoped my mother would stumble upon Tom Hiddleston who would take her first born as his lawfully, soon-to-be bedded wife. That's quite a life changing deal in exchange of a hair cut, alright. However, her life did change. Six hours after the wretched hair cut, she landed up in the ER.

I, in my bed, stared at the ceiling all night long. In my head, one question. "Is this the life changing moment I was awaiting?"

Everyone has a bag of ridiculous supestitions. There's a varying degree to pick from, from people who wouldn't cross the road after a black cat walks over, to people who consider, hair cuts are life changing. There's a measure for superstitions. Mine, ofcourse, is all in my head. Garbage pile.

Thus, everything connects to hair on the head. The pile of garbage to life changing luck.

I was 13 years old when I had a life changing haircut. Wanting to be one of the cool kids, I decided against the advice of my mother and late grandmother and opted for what's strangely named, "Razor Cut".

That was everything except the fucking haircut I wanted. It's also another reason I don't trust barbers one bit.

The next haircut that I visibly remember is at 21. I was struggling to get admitted into a post graduate course here, in India. Despite having made it in the UK, I didn't want to take a loan and spend the better part of my 20s paying that.

I had hit the point of frustrating dead end, after having appeared in eight odd entrances and had cleared one, which I had no intention of going through with. Raging poverty with a Masters in Philosophy was not an alternative to paying the loan.

Back in the day, I had obnoxious Orangutan red hair colour that was left with a residue of ugly golden tail. Sitting with utter frustration, one morning before heading out of the house, I handed my mother a pair of scissors and asked her to chop it off.

Four hours later, the college I was not nearly eyeing but had my last shot at gave my mother a call. "Please deposit the fee. She's made it past the wait list."

By the time this could sink in, I got another news. I had topped my college in the final year examinations. Undergraduate in Philosophy, shining with the best of grades.

Man, I remember being thrilled. Followed by passing out in the washroom. A story for another day.

The next hair cut happened at 24. I was struggling with the Grad School. To be precise, struggling to exit. The tails needed to come undone and breathe life into my hair, a tactic I believed could ressurect my life.

Four inches short, I felt light in the head, not to forget how much of a change it added to my face. In under a month of that almost too dramatic a change for me, I was seeing someone and had snagged a job in publishing. I was elated.

Naturally, last week when I went for the coveted tail cutting, I knew life would bypass a certain change. An entry of sorts and exit for another. A job change? Two sizes for clothes? I don't know.

However, what I didn't anticipate at all was sleeping on the bench in the hospital within 24 hours of that wretched hair trim.

I joked to my mother on the second day, "See, I told you life would change."

Her expression translated to "Fuck you."

Sixth day in, she was home. I was convinced that's all for a change and surprise this time. And by my standard, I had done okay at all the change. I had flipped out only twice in those five days and managed to keep a nearly straight face at most people, situations and things at work- something I was doing for the first time since a family member landed at the hospital.

This was ofcourse until I got a Whatsapp text from my academic advisor.

"...you have to defend your proposal by the end of this winter semester. That is around May. Please let us start work on it if you are interested in your PhD."

Fuck. My. Life.

If it can be counted as a past-time, then my favourite would be listening to my grandfather discuss his professional work life with me. 

My fondest memory of her remains of him and I quarreling in her room.