Prose before hos

A year ago, on 27 September, my recent ex indicated (for the first time ever) that he felt off. Not from us, he insisted, but from his life. He couldn't describe beyond that. Previously (many many years ago) I'd had an ex who expressed something similar only to cheat on me so my radar kept warning me to be wary, to lookout and instead, I double downed on the empathy and care. 

I don't usually shit on my exes or make it a point to splash sordid details here but I also don't usually have a break-up sequel in the same year with the same person twice; unique problems require unique solutions. 

On 27th September, this year, I cut all ties with my recent ex. Favourite ex, nice guy, kind, puppy dog eyes— you get the drift. We had broken up earlier this year, and I'd pulled all the cords out. However, a combination of many reasons and matters of the heart compelled both of us to look at each other again, albeit differently. 

It also didn't help when we ran into each other on a weekday morning when neither of us expected anything of the sort. What followed were real feelings of care, trust and all that. I gave "friendship" a shot with my ex, going against my idea of working things out with someone I've been in love with. 

It was something that he had pushed for. It was something my closest friend had pushed for. Against everyone who had seen me cry, dip mentally, be upset about the course of events since 27 September last year, I went ahead and opened the channel of communication for us to talk. Naturally, things didn't flow. 

Until one day in August this year, when he came forth. Said the nicest, kindest, real words of affection. Said he's erasing boundaries between us and that there's hope, among other things. I saw the man I had briefly fallen in love with. It was everything and more, the words poured from both our sides, and while our understanding of friendship was very different, we were clear on our affection for one another. 

From that point onwards, his aim at sexualising the relationship was a part of our equation, and mine to de-escalate that was a promise at honouring the friendship. Both of us failed at it. 

My birthday rolled in and I had been a mess emotionally and physically. I was way too anxious, unprepared for my vacation. It did not help that he picked a fight with me over telling him that it was surprising he rememebered my birthday (he dislikes them) and that I don't hold the same space in his life (he had accused me of being sarcastic when I was honest). In addition, I shared a major life update with him, to which he had no reaction. He was cold-ish, unwelcoming of my presence for two days including my birthday. We warmed up by the end of the day because I made an effort, I apologised. I owned up. 

At 38,000 feet in the sky, on my birthday weekend, period and mood swings hit me hard and I decided to come clean to him. In vulnerability, I told him what he meant to me in terms of importance and how I would have just looked out for his wish in a sea of presents and everything else. A few hours after the landing, he hit me with a monosyllabic response and a hug emoji. That was it. All of my outpouring with one word and an emoji followed by it. 

Through the next 4-5 days, when I didn't hear much from him (except a tech support query- how to move WA widget tray for emojis). I realised he wasn't all that into me. I was clear— this is as good as over and I just had to call it out. I could have, alternatively, asked him where he stood with me, but his actions revealed his answer. I knew for a fact that this was long done, and we are conveniently tugging at heartstrings. 

I had prioritised resolving the work crisis in the short-term future, so my relationship (more like situationship, this time around) took a back seat for me. I was convinced this man and this crisis is not a priority to be picked right now, and when time comes around for us both (we had a lot of shit at work we were dealing with and I didn't want to push), I'll initiate the chat on where we stand and where to next. My friend had forewarned, "You better be the one to move on first because if that's him, you'll be fucked in the head."

I didn't pay any heed because, remember, my work, took priority, and I knew where I stood in his life (label friendship, and actions all over the place). And again, he was in a state of transition at work so it didn't seem like a good time to push him or me in that direction. 

The first week of return at home and at work hit me harder than a 30 kilograms checked-in luggage. Things at work were high-pressure and I was still recovering from jet lag. Nearing the weekend, and at this point we've not spoken for a while, I caved in and initiated a conversation. He was sweet, attentive, asked questions, remembered what was up in my life professionally as per our last conversation.

Everything was smooth. 

The next day, when my body and mind were protesting to take a break from overworking and underresting, I asked him if we could meet for coffee. He was allegedly at work at 10:30 pm and naturally, that wasn't going to be a plan that he could join in on. In anyway, he lacked spontaneity and I had known this would be a tough call.  

Saturday morning began with inquiry on why I wanted to meet for coffee. Realising clearly I didn't want to do a chat like this on call/text, I brushed off. In the same conversation, middle of what I think was flirting, he spat the cold truth— he is dating again— and apparently that changes nothing between us except the sticky stuff. 

For the first time, in a rather long time, I felt a rage familiar to the kind I'd felt when my previous partner(s) had cheated on me and I had found out. I realised I didn't want to carry out anything, no explanation, or question, no curiosity. Just wanted to bolt and leave the situation. 

I told him I can't do it and he tried to shortchange me with "Friendship" repeatedly. I had point-wise rebuttal for every line he threw (and there were not as many, except a fair amount of gaslighting and manipulation). All I could gather was, "I've a lot of feelings" and that I have "tried friendship". It did not work for me. For his sake and our sake, I gave it a shot and now I had to leave the space. 

The conversation ended abruptly. 

Last time, the breakup lasted 10 days in February and 2 continuous days in March. There were pleas, reminders, sweet-nothings, frustrations, affection; there was weight in it. This time, he had one foot out the door and had established that he's taking the other foot out of our intimacy. 

I don't need to be reminded twice where I'm not needed, so if the week leading to my birthday was any indication, I was fucking done. I was done when I wrote a heartfelt confession to him mid-journey in an aircraft and when I didn't hear back anything concrete. I was done when I realised I was never going to be it. He was always looking to bolt and infact had acted like a complete coward in leading me on days until he broke the news to me. 

 I was just the fallback convenience, a fact that my friends had individually told me over the course of a year and a half and I'd chosen to ignore them all. 

Love is so potent that it drives you to insanity. 

So, naturally, after the conversation ended, I did what any sane person would do— went to watch a movie alone. 

One Battle After Another at an IMAX near me. 

Two things hit me en route home after the film: one of the earliest memories I have of us talking and getting to know each other, he had texted me relentlessly throughout Killers of the Flower Moon (last Leonardo DiCaprio film) in 2023. I was flirting and giggling through the film in the theatre at an IMAX and texting him. My attention was largely on him and it was then I knew that a man compelling enough to draw my attention out of this film was going to be a permanent fixture in my life. 

During One Battle After Another, I had texted a close work colleague, my therapist for a slot and re-read our break-up sequel chat over a thousand times. I'm pretty sure the folks behind me could see the unhinged behaviour but I was out of fucks. 

The other thing that came out so clearly was the date. It was exactly a year since my relationship with him turned into relationshit and he had moved out of my orbit into god knows whosoever else's. I was sure he was not into me, but the crumbs, the sweet nothings sprinkled in pennies on the ground, had a chokehold on me that was hard to explain. 

I remember howling like a baby when the breakup went through on that day in March this year. I cried like I had never cried before and my life looked dark as hell. I don't even remember how did I go back home and how did I come to the office, but the folks at work could see something was wrong and asked me to take 10 days off to recover. 

I invested that time in myself and put my pieces together. 

This time again, I've to bring myself up again, but in a true sequel way, the road is set and I'm ready to rock and roll. 

This end-of-a-cycle with Leo's film and 27th September were incidental. I had anyway planned to watch the film alone at the same showtime and I had been thinking of telling him that there's a lot of water under the bridge. His disdain and lack of empathy towards the end reminded me why I should have never gone the friendship route and how, what I learnt at age 17 from Seventeen Magazine was the holy grail of all things relationship then and even now. 

I hope our paths may never cross and that I don't have to go through the misery he put me through with any man or woman ever again. 

Here's to being single for the second time after a break-up with the same man. 

Please embarrass me in person if you ever hear that I entertained a text from him, let alone allow him back in my life in any capacity. 

In college, a close friend once broke her phone by slamming it on the ground cause she wanted to pick on her chicken-pox scabs. She'd created some kind of record by the end of three years, of replacing her phones, either out of tantrums, anger, parental tiff, and even out of carelessness. I used to find it fascinating, to see a person go through so many extended version of personal skins; I had replaced two or three personally since the keypad used to give up and back then I was blamed for texting too many people. 

In hindsight, you can't ever have too many people in your late teens-early 20s, they always leave when you need people in your corner. 

Anyway, it's taking me the patience blessed upon by my forefathers and generations of hardworking people to not throw my phone against the wall. Mostly due to a crusty man and his behaviour towards me lately, but also my other well-wishers, friends, who have sold friendship to the first outlet out. 

Lord, grant me the wisdom to not be that girl. 

Right, the temple then, it was a lot like being at a gig. It was loud, smokey, and an overload of smells— sweat, tears, alcohol, fumes and flowers. Alcohol? Yeah, they use whiskey to treat and honour God. A sensory overload but a bad choice of brand for the alcohol, not one, but all. 

We didn't prep to make it in time, but the evening prayers were on in full gusto. I went into a spiral of thoughts— the first school picnic where they took us to a temple, and my then best friend and I refused to go inside ("communal" but never mind that we went to a Catholic school); that time in Varanasi where my college best friend and I refused to step foot inside the temple everyone recommended us (my grandfather was especially disappointed to hear that I went all the way and came back) and then again at the crematorium where my grandfather was laid to rest. I travelled back and forth in time and felt adequately discharged, emotionally bankrupt by the end of it. The music— conk shell, drums, bells— the works were all rising by the seconds, getting louder, like a fully rehearsed set going to the finale; with the devotees ending it with praises to the god. I felt it was wrong for me to be there, as an agnostic, as someone who doesn't identify with the facets of the religion offers, and yet, I somehow belonged there, by the virtue of my second name, the family name, but there's only so much the name can help you with. Can you possibly be in dissonance with your identity carved for you as an infant when being born in a family defines your faith? 

There were other firsts this week- taking charge of my emotions after a long fucking time and knowing when to pull the cord. Sunsetting something good is never easy but purging what needs to end is a critical part of life. This week, I scabbed at my wounds, pulled the plug off a promising relationship and ended my journey on the dating app as well. Regardless of what "well-wishing" friends say, it was good while it lasted and as always, there was a lot to learn and grow from. I don't want to count the pleasant vs non-pleasant and recall the sentimental parts which made me feel strong enough to bet my whole future for a boy in a different city but there were takeaways from it. I know I have it in me to write a lot more than I do, I know I lived enough of life in the last two months than I did in the past two years combined, it was a whirlwind, it was honest and it was painful; all of it was strong enough for me to quit what I signed up to, take a month's time and write a script. 

But life, 

it doesn't work in a way where we can justify everything on vibes. 

We can script fiction but real life doesn't allow us to miss flights to make new connections, fuck everything to spend a day in bed with someone we never once met and spend the next morning making promises that we never will fulfill. Real life is made up of small moments, where you go to the washroom and put your hand in your hair and stare at yourself in the mirror wondering if your morning face threw the man off or whether it was your ability to be vulnerable and tell him you expected this to be nothing more than a one night stand when you were both hoping against it? You live a lifetime in those tiny moments, in between a washroom break at work or walking to the coffee machine for your morning fix. But in fiction? Those tiny moments amplify to become huge, you order a club sandwich from room service, you tease one another and mutter silent "i am sorry" when you're taking a work call. You are awed by their kindness when they want to just help you and please you as you wonder, what did you do to get there with them? Someone you didn't know 24 hours ago is now holding your hand and clutching your heart. 

You didn't do anything to get there with them. Your faith created a fiction so potent in your head that you lived through it and convinced yourself you earned it, you deserve it and you made it. 

You didn't make anything. It was just fictional. Like the gods, we worship and pray to and make alcohol offerings. The difference is, that one takes place in a plush hotel, on comfortable sheets, white enough for you to make lies on and the other takes place in a public space that you share with a hundred odd people, feeling giddy. 

You don't belong in either one. You belong in the office washroom, living in the moment. Staring at yourself and wondering if you've aged ten years in the last month or if it's your haircut. 

A few nights ago, I found myself angrily responding on a long thread where people were dissecting one of my many guilty pleasure films. Now, there's nothing that irks me more than people debating and critiquing those few subjects I've spent my time, money and youth studying it all. This includes Philosophy, the Indian cable TV from the 90s onwards, the internet as a virtual space to interact viz a vis films, pop culture and so on.

Here's a fun fact, I've seen Kuch Kuch Hota Hai/KKHH (1998; dir Karan Johar) 64 times between age 8-10. I stopped counting after age 12.

You can then imagine my frustration to see dumbfucks write 100+ comments trashing on Kajol from KKHH. Only my favourite character in the film.

During my stint with Cinema Studies degree programme between film school and grad school, we were constantly discouraged to use narrative analysis in any way whatsoever. I'll take my personal experience over the years of bad dating/relationship patterns and attempt to address this, something that's irked me beyond belief.

For the uninitiated, if Michael Scott is "Beyoncé, always", then I'm "Kajol, always" from this film. Never the Rani Mukherjee who dies or that annoying kid who enjoys singing and dancing or Farida Jalal imposing Bhakti rituals on the family. I can't be Anupam Kher either cause he's possibly cleared the NET to be the principal at St. Xavier's College and we all know I haven't cleared that one wretched exam yet.

That makes my friend from the last post on the blog as Rifat Bi cause she's always the recipient of "Mera pehla pyaar adhoora reh gaya, Rifat Bi." Maybe, I should start calling her Rifat Bi here.

Imagine my surprise when I defended that thread and got shat on. People were hell-bent on shitting on Anjali/Kajol under lots of dumb arguments including how she could never muster the courage to tell the guy she loves until he took matters in his hand, eight years, one daughter and a dead wife later.



Here's why I think Anjali, Kajol's character is a freaking rockstar in the film and that everyone who thinks otherwise can go suck balls.

1) She had ZERO fucks to give. To the point, she left her college degree mid-way to ghost the shit out of the guy who practically leads her on and acted out on his dick's first stimuli.

Okay, I see why this can be problematic for a lot of people. He didn't owe her a damn thing, and yes, it is true, she never did verbalize her feelings to him and vice versa. He didn't owe her a relationship, they hadn't hooked up ever or even close to potentially hooking up.

However, the difference is, she made that effort to go to him to confess. As she proceeded to do what she intended on doing, he had a whole verbal vomit and told her he loves that new girl.

Good on you Rahul/Shah Rukh Khan. You fell for a person and told your friend, great.
Now here's the snitch. Did she in return owe you a damn thing, especially to be in your life from that or any point onwards? I think not.

In life, often in friendship/relationships, if one person takes a step without involving the other and only steps in to inform, it's on the other person to decide the further course of action between them. In this case, if Rahul/Shah Rukh Khan decided to seal the deal with the new girl, it's on Anjali/Kajol to take a fucking call on how their rest of the life/relationship should look like.

To ensure she doesn't interfere nor does she play the second fiddle, she leaves. She leaves her fucking degree, college, her best friend/guy she's in love with and decides to change her life. Good on you, fren.

2) During Act II, she doesn't give in to the circumstances. 

Let's be real. If I was tutoring the child of a man I'd once been in love with, I'd either put her at the back of every class or be detached to the point of no interaction. Anjali/Kajol here is graceful, even after she finds out the parents of the annoying kid is a no couple no other than her former love and her backstabbing friend; she acts with great restraint. She repeats that just the same when Rahul/Shah Rukh Khan physically shows up to disrupt a harmless Summer vacation shindig.

Unresolved feelings of 8 years are met on a basketball court over a competitive match followed by a song and dance number. Followed by yet another intimate rendezvous between the friends. What does she do?

She proceeds to go back to get married. She doesn't succumb. However, yes, she feels a lot. You can fucking see her upset. But then again, she sulks and she's unhappy possibly cause she'd not been laid in a long time. A good head by Aman/Salman Khan would have fixed it. Not rushing into a marriage. I'm fucking certain on this.

This is followed by that douche showing up at her wedding. She definitely didn't need drama at her wedding, especially since she was abandoned at the college fest years ago for a new girl. She also didn't need drama at her last Summer Camp. She fucking needed her peace, that's all.

3) She owed no answers to anyone, least of all the audience.

Let's rewind and keep her perspective central.
She's a hard worker in college, plays basketball, dotes on her friend and is there for him pretty much always.

In return, she gets half-assed friendship in the form of a dude who's constantly belittling her (men who think otherwise are the ones who do the same in their platonic friendships IMO). He thinks she's a worthy opponent in sports and life but when it comes to a relationship, he'd rather be with someone who touches a chord with his family, aka go to a temple looking like a damsel. He would rather confess his life to a stranger he met a week ago than a friend of so many years.

Does this guy of all the people deserve to know why she left unannounced? Absolutely not. You can't come back when you want to and expect the other person to accept you with open arms. You can't belittle people constantly and hope they'll be there for you. There's a tipping point. She had hers. People have theirs. There's no shame in admitting/knowing that.

Again, I get the reverse, that is, it's not on Rahul/Shah Rukh Khan to be with someone he's not in love with and that is totally fair. But then, in the same fairness, we must allow Anjali/Kajol, the space to grieve, move on and make her own decisions including the difficult ones.

What she did was mad, but it called for it. Mad real circumstances of your friend who you're in love with, in a relationship with the new five feet something in town who plays the electric guitar without plugging it in an amp. I've never hated Tina/Rani Mukherjee more in my life.

4) Rahul/Shah Rukh Khan used his dick and not the brain to make a decision.

He consistently lived and acted at the moment. From the get-go when he's trying to chat up Soniya/Monia/whatever random stranger in the college he's peddling the friendship band to followed by Tina/Rani Mukherjee. He never thought of anyone and any other being besides him. That whole monologue of respecting four women? That's a testament to this theory. He respects a fictional entity, his mother, his girlfriend. Not his friends, not his support system.

You can't possibly stand up for a person who allows his friend to get-away and doesn't take it upon him to find her or even try to do that.

This is the dude who was emotionally dependent on his best friend and has the balls to abandon her just as much the minute he finds the first girl who likes him back to give him a head.

We also see his feelings change towards this woman the minute she plays basketball wearing a Saree. The woman kicked his ass for years in an androgynous outfit but no, the minute she has her bellybutton on display in a nude saree (a lit erotica extension someday), he jumps at it.

Prick.

This is possibly the worst of my writing and thought process all put together as I proceeded to chew my nails out after god knows how many years but this was a much-needed rant for everyone who believes the villain is the woman who decides to take her life in her hands. Fuck the woman, it could be a man but nobody whoever stands to correct the wrongdoings in their own life by others can ever be wrong.

If someone's wronged you and you want to avenge, go for it. That's also why I love Gangs of Wasseypur (2012; dir: Anurag Kashyap). A Karan Johar film can be an Anurag Kashyap level revenge drama if you have the eye to see it. If you don't, then it'll continue to be an Archies comics romance set in a fictional world for the non-cinema studies plebs.

If you're a woman who's been personally victimized by pyaar dosti hai narrative and have had to live through it, my condolences. It's a conspiracy by all fuck boys to use you as an emotional doormat and wipe their hands off any and all responsibilities they have towards you and their friendship/relationship with you. If they can't do your friendship right, they don't deserve to have you. The last thing we all need is random strangers defending the no-good fuck boy. 

Okay, I didn't kill myself. I'm still kicking it in this 27 Club and hoping it's got more of a 27 Dresses ending than the former. Only since all my friends are oh so busy that if I give someone a call at 22:00, they're all exhausted and dying. Perhaps they'd be too exhausted to attend my memorial concert. Someone better fucking get Dave Mustaine to do a set before Cancer consumes him.

We're not even 30. For fuck's sake, stop sleeping at 11.

Meanwhile, to the one person who reached out to me reading my last post, thanks. I'm going to hold it together until all my interns are done working since they need the letter of recommendation that nobody at work will bother writing for them. Also, it's been a Summer to remember, alright. Reasons maybe notorious and even disturbing, but oh-so balmy. 

At this point, most of the internet is aware; might as well do a press release-ish. I had a nervous breakdown last month. Maybe it was two months ago, I don't quite recall. It had been building up since March, and truth be told, I'm surprised at my resilience. I read some of the old posts here before starting this and man, am I clinically depressed or what. Perhaps, self-deprecation leads to this or just wallowing in pity does, I don't know. I wouldn't know.

All I do know is it sucked dead monkey balls. I should have seen it coming when I cut every single person outside my family out for a solid month. Radio silence and meeting deadlines. Each day as I woke up, I was thankful beyond belief for having a job to report to, despite not quite feeling like waking up. I confused depressive spell for laziness. "I'm exhausted" was thrown like confetti. Never bothered to address or come close to explaining the exhaustion bit.

Have all the men lost interest and checked out the updated shot of me in that bikini on the right? Have they left the page? Good.



A large part of running away from explanation comes from mansplaining. Being mansplained at work. Did I tell you, I attempted to quit my job?

The only one stable thing in my life - and I decided to throw right out of the window. Well, still trying.

Trying times, these.

Jesus Fucking Christ, I have new found respect for every salaried, regular office going people who deal with men on a daily basis in their workplace. How do you do it? Where do you draw the line? I've recently encountered the first of (perhaps many?) gender disparity situation in professional space. Addled with a fair bit of idiocy being peddled to me as life-changing advice or just friendly small talk. I find myself trying to ignore and walk away without a reaction in sticky situations which are becoming an epidemic at large now.

"...you didn't hear from me..." and "...between you and I alone..."

Fuck right off. Nobody gives two hoots.


Without putting too much out there, I find it difficult to navigate my work life under the scrutiny of someone with less than obvious work experience in exactly my line of work; being told how to do my job; all this while, being a patronizing pig to my quips or straightforward responses.

The least you can do is be respectful of someone else's work, while I attempt to do the same. Our purpose or reason of being at the workplace is different. Perhaps, you need to fit in and buy yourself a lifestyle you envisioned whilst looking at the snooty kids in college live through the carefree haze of exams and deadlines. Maybe, it really is that you've lived a difficult life and find it hard to trust people at the workplace. Or maybe, you're just a terrible human being wearing the woke af and Queen Béy is my bff button badge on your batik kurta. The bottom line is, please don't be a cunt to the people at a workplace you join, and offend them by shushing them each time they're having a conversation about the work with you.

Most of my professional work experience inside an office space has been pleasant - and I realize now how awfully lucky I am to have had that. It has been every bit rewarding and without hesitation, I can say, it's been a safe space. This is one of the biggest benefits I find at my current workplace, I don't have to feel insecure about being who I am in my demeanour or professional self.

I also find this a problematic a statement to make that I'm judging men in professional space in a haste but believe you me, it terrifies me to imagine a workspace where I've to factor in how to negotiate sticky professional work situations. That which could potentially translate to a case of a sleaze fest work environment, in addition to the daily negotiations with the garbage that clients, slackers as co-workers, and dinosaurs who can't deal with technology, thrown at me.

I've personally seen sleazy shit go down, and women being okay with it just because they've had a household to run, bills to pay, family to raise and sustain. I respect for them for taking it, I do.

A couple of years ago, a man physically molested me and I couldn't bear to be in a room with men at all. It took a long time to change that. I have massive respect for people who deal with this on the professional level with grace. It takes a toll on you, and your boundaries. I appreciate their resilience more than anything else. It's taken me years to address it, heck write about it.

Coming back to this certain difficult individual; I don't quite understand his raison d'être to be this person when you can be yourself and drop all charades. It's the same as being 18 and trying to look cool by cheating on your perfectly likeable girlfriend with someone else. You do it to be someone you're not, but aspiring to be.

I've encountered a lot of things at the workplace but this is a first, and I've been told by other employed women friends, not the last of it. That this is fairly common and I've got to learn to live with this toxicity and gender disparity, right out there.

Maybe, this has been a strong factor for me trying to end my association here besides the obvious PhD deadlines, feeling in a rut, and more so, suicidal with my life leading nowhere except a block away from home, give or take.

It's the curse of my existence. For everything that's wrong in my life, I try to escape it at work, and whenever something goes off at work, I try and find reasons to end that right here. Maybe, it's all amplified inside my head. Maybe, I should really be okay with mansplaining my job at me. Maybe, even when I find out from the grapevine that who I'm bedding is the talk of the town, thanks to the speculative cunt of my co-worker.

Really, been a terrific Summer. Can't wait for the wettest July of this decade.

It me, in my bedroom. Crying the hell out every single day.

A few months ago, at a client meeting, my boss was in conversation with a partner. Discussing vacation days, she looked at me and asked, "I think I took a lot of days off last year, didn't I? Yeah, but this year I didn't."

"Yeah, you went on these short-ish breaks."

I thought of that on my way back from the meeting. All day. Continued thinking about it, until one day when I was distracted by how much water weight I was gaining if I drank a glass of water empty stomach in the morning. That stole the show. My boss planned her vacations rather well. She travelled at least twice a month on these extended weekend trips. I'm sure it added to the bulk of money she spent but in turn, she got a lot more to experience and fewer vacation days at stake.

Last year, I took days off at a stretch and fell off the grid for work. Academic work, booty work, research work...you get the drift. While that did a lot to my head and helped me work better, it cost me all my paid leaves. Consequently, the last sixty days have gone with one odd day off. I told myself to stick to the amazing, already in motion plan that my boss is on. Extend long weekend and maximize vacation days that spread over a month at least.

By the time I came to that conclusion, I was down to my first failed vacation plan of the year. One long weekend I had took upon myself some freelance assignment to get over a man I had occupied my mental space with. It took four days and three edits, but mostly it took my time to distract myself from the fact that in the absence of no departure tickets, I had to cancel my arrival tickets. I lost money on that but then again, I wasn't sure if I needed more distraction to divert my attention from that man or my failed vacation plan. My colleague's husband who sweetly agreed to help me book tickets was bewildered when he heard, I was planning the vacation to each kachoris. A fact, I'm still proudly wearing on my sleeves, and er, posting here.

After deliberating my effectively smart, extending long weekend into bullet sized vacation plan, I jumped into action at the beginning of the year. I carved a full snow-beach-plains and god alone knows, all terrain vacation plan to be carried out in the long weekends spread across the calendar. For over a week, I researched for tickets all through the country to see where should I start and end.

I booked my tickets to Kashmir for this long weekend. You know, the one that starts in a few hours from now. One of my closest friend stays with his family there and has been fussing for years now for us to come over.

"I'm coming to your city. x" I dropped my text and screenshot my flight details. We spoke in detail, almost every day. About the bakeries, the lake, the snow and the walnut wood carved bed he allocated in the guest room for me. "I'm actually priortizing the furniture in the guest room for you more than my room". My friend and his Kashmiriyat had me.

Until last week when the news channels announced the bloodbath between India, Pakistan, and as always- Kashmir. In the middle of everything- my mini vacation plan. I understand my problems are miniscule, they don't matter.

In a large scheme of things, neither do I.

But here we are. And, this is my blog.

While soldiers are actually indeed dying on the border, and Ambani family is uniting with another business conglomerate's and all of Bollywood is attending that. At the same time, we're launching mobile apps, prepping for the largest possible election campaign and god knows everything in between- I can afford to safely talk about myself and my miniscule problems.

Where were we? Right, my flight.

I cancelled my flight after what seemed like all of India was trying to get me to cancel it. This list includes my colleague's husband who helped us book the arrival tickets from Aligarh to Delhi for kachodis, my college friends, my colleagues, my grandfather, friends, Tanu Dogra and others who I'm pretty sure don't care if I skip their name and affiliation.

It was a surprise when my refund was processed in entirety. It wasn't when they said they're releasing the prisoner of war.

Small price for a foiled vacation plan.



Or how my failed vacation ensured peace between India and Pakistan because I'm going to die without having ever seen snow. 

I've drawn a list of things I need to-do, in addition to all the garbage I have listed on Trello. Bear with me because this is the closest I've come to organizing my thoughts. Prose will be back when this trial week is over.

Trial run from 9th-15th July for the following things-

1) Sleeping by 11 pm. It's 11:53 as I type this, if I make it to bed by 12, it would be a real achievement. Okay before 12, every day for the rest of the week. (At the time of posting- it's 12:01 and I need to brush so 12:15 am is final time)

2) Make. A. Budget. Factor in all the costs, losses, pros, cons, and everything else involved. Don't procrastinate. (I mean, for fuck's sake, you do this for a living at work every fucking week)

3) No overthinking. Not about the job, not about the lack of water in the washbasin at the job. Not about not having any real skill. Not about, "What will this PhD even do?"

4) DO NOT EAT PEANUTS. DO NOT COME CLOSE TO PEANUTS.

5) Minimize eating crap to not even once a week.

6) Pencil in HIIT at least four times this week.

7) Look for a birthday gift for grandfather. Something that he actually cares about.

8) Read a motherfucking book other than what you're making.

9) Watch Narcos.

10) REPLY TO PERSONAL EMAILS. PLEASE FOR FUCK'S SAKE RESPOND TO EMAILS FROM CONFERENCE ORGANIZERS, ADVISORS, POTENTIAL EMPLOYERS.

11) Organize your artwork for the room.

12) WRITE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PAPER.

13) Do not binge on dessert. You don't need dessert. Do not eat mango. Do not go near a mango.

14) Limit social interaction to one hour at best, after work. I repeat- 60 minutes or less. Or every 15 minutes spent with people you don't care about, add that to your workout.

15) Don't spend time on dating apps.

Earlier this year, I was seeing someone (let's call him the man from Quarter-1) and I'd mentioned this page to him. My planning of putting two pieces a week regularly went out of the window as I spent all my time staring at the screen of my phone, alternating between giggling and going red in the face. My writing became sparse and for the most part, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I was truly having fun. I was stoked beyond belief and nothing else seemed important.

I recall having a discussion with the man from Q-1 on this and he showed concern. He wanted me to keep pursuing my hobbies, when I was trying to decide if he was good enough so I could add fussing over him as a hobby in itself.

That explains a lot why that didn't work out.

A quarter of the year later, in totally bizarre circumstances I met someone else. The supposed man from Q-1 was out of the picture completely. I wasn't looking for anything at all. Despite that, this somewhat happened. This is the man from Quarter-2.

There were sparks alright, but not without the cloud of doubt. What were we doing? Were we doing anything at all? I could tell you if I knew, but to this date, I don't. The good part is, I've stopped trying to unravel the mystery.

Somewhere between action (and lack of thereof) and speculation, we began bickering more than I have argued with anyone, ever. I tried all possible rational explanations- maybe this is going to do more good than ever. Perhaps, we were going to come out so strong that we could take over anything. Maybe, it was all in my head.

All in my head, it was. A large fucking vertically challenged chimera, that's what.

In the process of trying to save someone and later save myself, I lost two months, my pride, emotional response and every shred of self-respect I had. I did things that my 16-year-old self would cringe reading (read: bawling my eyes out). To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was bawling my eyes out for a man, for employment, for academics, for myself but that is how I remember myself to be.

Every morning I'd wake up, I'd howl in the shower. This act on repeat by putting on a fabulous outfit, going to work, staring at the screen to slap the keyboard, and come back. I tried calibrating my life with the lipstick bait. One overpriced lipstick to get over a man, each time in case of an impending colossal heartbreak.

I was poorer by 3.5k and still fussing over the motherfucker.

Was this some kind of voodoo? The tears of my biological clock revolting at the idea of hitting snooze or just my hormones acting up? I don't know.

To this date, I have no idea.

I could say I'm doing one hundred percent great and over the trauma or past the drama but I'd be lying. The truth is, I allowed myself to built versions of things that were not said out loud, in a gigantic proportion. I allowed myself to think I deserve those things and I'm the rightful owner of all that and more, for once. I deluded myself into believing there's one such thing as a cinematic ending, for whatever it maybe- happy or sad or mellow or traumatic.

Instead, there was reality check. That version was akin to using Internet Explorer which you have deluded yourself into believing that IE is better than Mozilla Firefox. Explorer could be great, but not for you, especially when you need a snappy browser. I'm a wee bit traumatized from this experience, and for the most part unhappy that I put myself through this misery for no rhyme or reason when I could have just spent the energy trying to write.

Six months into this disastrous, fucked beyond measure year, I realized the biggest fucking thing about writing here, on this page. My Achilles heel to writing, and writing well, is love. Or something that deludes me into believing it is love. Or could touch, smell and react like love does.

That's it. It explains everything. Why I had six half-written drafts that I didn't have the energy to post.

A few months ago, a dear friend told me the shortcoming of my approach with online dating. "The problem with you is that you are looking for love and not for hookups."

I vehemently denied. Later, when another friend confronted me on my funk, I denied with utmost surety that love is not on the agenda. 

"Motherfucker, what do you want? Why are you sad? What did you think you were going to do with this person anyway? Neither of you are in the mood to bone, you're not together and you don't want to have the burden of maintaining a boyfriend so to say. What the fuck do you want?"

Got me thinking, which it hasn't done in about two years. What is it that I really want- personally, professionally, physically and mentally.

I'm pleased to say it's been over a month and I have no answers. However, I'm more pleased to announce my return on this page.



Summer's over for the both of us.
But that doesn't mean we should give up on love. 

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.

Years ago, on the morning of a Math exam, I'd picked a fight with my mom. Maybe, it's my mother who picked the fight.

Your guess is as good as mine.

It probably had to do with food. I am convinced there would be no other reason.
By food, I mean forcing milk down my throat. The terrible association I have with school begins with milk. Being forced to chug a glass every morning. A large, steel tumbler, filled till the brim. The taste of milk reminds me of the drudgery that school was.

My grandmother tried making it better by adding tea leaves, and sugar (definitely, a lot more than I needed). This deception often lead to crying, and progressed to throwing fits of anger towards my years as an angst-y teenagers.

Which angst-y teenager began their day drinking milk? Not the kind who'd listen to Nirvana and feel oh, so smug.

I digress, but I vaguely remember this episode. I must have been 7-8 years old. Why I assume this age is because after that, I never quite understood math.

Morning of the math exam; rage of fit over milk. Before stepping out, my mother's last words to me -

"Have a bad day."

I recall, I aced that exam.

Since then, I insisted that my mother wish me a "bad day" before every exam I knew I was going to fail.

Over time, I think it stopped working because despite our best efforts to pass, I continued to fail those exams. In this time, I forgot about this "bad day" episode, rather the details of it.

Years later, instant re-collection happened.

I'm in the office. Inspired by the pep talk of a 21 year old intern on how I should confront and call out the bullshit, I make up my mind to do the same with someone I'd been seeing briefly.

I took the plunge. A few minutes in, his sincerity turned to shamelessness. I called the bullshit out again. In response, I was told -

"Have a good day."

"I will. Thanks."

And so, I did. I had a day I deserved.
No amount of disgust in both those wishes could stop me from having a great fucking day, on both the occasions.