Prose before hos: failed plans

Hey, good morning, Kanye

, by Snobster

A Colossal Fuck Up

I'm tired of being a fuck up on the regular.

If my 28 year old saw me today she'd jump off a building. Sure, I have all these cool bylines and a fancy new life that treats me to being broke more than usual but fuck up? I don't think I ever found that cool and now that I am one, I don't know how to bounce back.

I think I'd cope better today if I was fucking up shit when I was younger, I told ziggy earlier today. He came back with a wholly rational explanation to that and we went in a loop. My point being the same, if I'd experienced being a failure say in grade 8, I wouldn't be breaking down about my professional life blowing apart today*.

This today* has lasted two years, and we'll be entering the third in under a week. Come February and I'm reminded of how all the grand plans ended and I thought it'd be a temporary funk that I'd crawl out of shortly. To be fair, everyone around me thought the same. Until a month passed, then two, then six and all of a sudden it's been two fucking years of the same shit.

Sometimes I think would it be easier to start again. Imagine being born as a child in an orphanage with no access to healthcare or education and trying to figure out life from scratch. The burden of expectations and failure rate would be different, I'd probably turn out to be more of burnout and less of an overthinker like I am. Or maybe, I need a day out in the Sun. A day in a park with sunlight would do me good if I managed to get out in time.

Maybe 9 months ago, the struggles were making my body work. A month ago struggle was making things with a man work. Today the struggles are questioning if being alive as a whole is worth an exercise and somehow I'm struggling to find any reason in support of that.

I was not cut out to be a failure and yet every step of the way I am being called out as one. I am at a point where hanging out with friends is a constant reminder that everyone has their shit together and me? I'm just touching the grass. They have sorry faces on when they hear me talk. "It'll change, things will get better." follows silence. Their personal stories are radically different. Someone's getting a spouse, a baby, a house and I know they have worked very hard and invested a lot of their life and time and this is a reminder to me. A call out that sometimes it's okay to follow the beaten road and get results handed than going down the road less taken and encountering a dead end and stopping there and crying after kicking the wall and breaking your foot. That's where i'm at. I've kicked the dead end, cried alone and my friends can hear my sobs from the other side of the road. They're sorry for me. Thank you for hearing me out, I tell them, knowing fully well their sorry can't change my life and my gratitude serves nobody. I serve nobody.

I think failure kicks in when you realize you're out of people to blame. Where do I trace this? My family's lack of initiative in putting me through paid hobby classes to cultivate things other than what I know? Being a failure with numbers? Being introverted to a large extent? Opting degrees that are one worse than the other? That's not true cause friends with the same degrees are doing well and being introverted has nothing to do with being a failure and hobbies that I cultivated without any external stimuli are the only ones that are somehow saving my ass. Do I complete that degree? No.

Even for simpler things- I can trace back. Wordle, you know that word game everyone's wanking to? Yeah, so, suppose the word is "light", my first five guesses will be "adieu", "right", "might", "sight", "tight" until the sixth is "light" and by then it's too fucking late. Everyone on my feed is talking smack. "oh my god, I got in the first guess!!!!" You can all shove it up yours. I even suck at the fucking word game now, even when the word is simple. Then people think I know words.

I think CBSE adjudged me fine when they did. Maybe I am not all that bright or sharp and I don't actually shine. I have no interest in being mediocre at anything and that explains why I abandoned everything that requires practice, maybe except the bass. That's still a part I blame on my family. If they'd invested any money on my hobby there, maybe today I'd be a hit bass player act somewhere in the MENA or something. That wasn't on me that I had outgrown my bass and for years I was asked to work with the same one.

That's another thing with my family and my fucking growth as a professional. They'll invest in skills or resources if the "family can use it". Oh, a professional camera? Let's get you, so we can have birthday shots. Do you need an iPad? Next time your mom wants to play music on the go maybe we can use it. There's never been an approach towards working on "you" as a person. The goal was always "us" and never the children. Most Indian families go all out on their kids. Everything common between most success stories today is ruthlessness from Indian parents in making their kids shine through. Oh, you need a partner? Here's our sanction, go marry. Okay, you need a house to work from? Here, take these keys and start. I've had my share of things granted to me- most of them were edible and lasted less than 20 minutes on the dining table. The focus of providing for things worked differently, perhaps cause of the family background. You can't fight your roots, you have to accept them.

I've never been a fan of January or February, well not in the last 18 years at least and that's more than enough to claim "never". I can't wait to cry my eyes out all of this month and to mark the celebration, I'm posting this big announcement of being a fucking failure on 2/2/22. I hope everyone who reads this breaks their arm and crashes their car today. If it's not evidently clear, leave this blog alone.

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, by Snobster

In 31 shower thoughts, amazon

Piece of Time (Part-2)

For part-I, head on here. If you haven't read that or just feel it's not for you, then maybe, find something else to read. This won't make sense without the context.

---------x---------x----------

Nearly an hour late into the 'one drink only' evening, I found myself sitting alone for another 15. The person was running late.

He walked into the bar, empty-handed.

"Where's the book?

"I forgot. How about you collect it from my place on your way out?"

Sure, okay.

No surprises there; on that one drink turning to many drinks, and some shots and maybe some food that I can't quite remember. It also turned into texts from my friends demanding my whereabouts and some missed calls from my family.

At some point, I recall getting a look from the server, asking to behave myself. The lesser said the better about my drunken, tired self. Ofcourse, in hindsight, it seemed all too shady.

At some other point, I found myself walking to this person's house for the best (comic) book and another memorabilia I'd been nudging him for.

This should be, what, midnight? Nearly six hours since the plan and four hours since we met. The details are hazy but I remember in vignettes in colours. How well lit the neighbourhood was and how chilly the evening turned out and how I should have eaten something instead of drinking on an empty stomach.

Now since we have a policy of not kissing and telling, what happened next is censored. Largely also cause I remember in hazy bits; the highlight of which was a frantic call from my family checking on my whereabouts.

I allegedly told them I'd be home by 2 am.

At 2 am, I'm reminded by this person, "your mom had called. You're supposed to be home by 2."

That's when it hit me.

HOLY FUCK, DID I DRINK THROUGH AN EVENING OF PLANS AND THINGS I HAD TO DO INCLUDING SLEEPOVER AT ANOTHER FRIEND'S.

The answer to my emotions in the upper-case is yes. Yes, I'd had one too many drinks and I had work the next morning. I was in a neighbourhood, far away from my house, in chilly December, and nobody had any idea. Especially not the people I was supposed to meet that evening after only one drink.

"What should I do? Should I head home"

"Yeah, I don't know. Just do whatever."

That person was visibly short and irritated. I think I'd be too if I found another person ask me that question especially when all I wanted to do was sleep.

Actually, let's no go to what I'd be and what it was probably gonna be. It has to be worse than my imagination.

I decided to crash the night and leave in the morning. Because, baby it's cold outside.

After a ceremonious start to the day, early next morning, I landed back at mine. About three hours and a splitting headache later, I found my family seething in anger.

"IF YOU WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE WHY DON'T YOU GET MARRIED AND HAVE AS MUCH SEX."

Wait-wait-wait-woah-woah-woah.

Calm down. No, really. Marriage? Sex?

This was the first time in all these years I heard my parents mention marriage.

Not only I was hungover beyond belief but scandalized at the idea that "having sex" is something we're discussing over the first cup of coffee.

I was caught off-guard and I might have made the matter worse by laughing. The idea that "having sex" with someone is basically something you can do only if you stay out all night cracked me up.

If you ask me, there are far worse things to do at night. Talking to someone and laying yourself open is far worse. In an equal amount, talking and sharing your idiosyncrasies or talking idly or just about forging a connection.

I don't know, so many things came to my mind and all I wanted was lots of water and coffee. And a bed to catch up on sleep. Actually, I just needed my bed and 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep. My sensibilities were on 10 miles an hour and I knew as much; if my cab doesn't show up in ten, I'll be late for work but woah-woah-woah easy on sex. I just went for the book.

The book!

I came back to mine without the bloody book. After all that and more and then some more, how could I forget to take the fucking book. The worst part was that there was no sex and there was no book. What's the opposite of win-win again? Yeah, that.

It hit me as I was in a yelling match with my family. All of this started with the wretched book. The fact is, about two weeks in this conversation of the best book, I didn't have the fucking book. I was nowhere close to it.

I got out of the house, told myself I'd get the damn book before Christmas and vowed to order first thing at work.

Naturally, the universe didn't cooperate.

I wrote to my contact, an old friend, a senior editor at the publishing house that is responsible for the distribution of this best book in India.

"...is it possible for you to help me purchase a copy and avail the discount?"

I got an automated response in no time. The editor was on leave until the end of the year.

Well, fuck my luck.

I checked the availability of the book online. The first thing I learned about the book other than being expensive is that there was no way in hell, I could get my hands on in it before the next fortnight. Which meant, it'd be past Christmas.

Between Christmas and the yearly book shopping time at the World Book Fair, it would be a week. If I've waited this long, what's another week.

But the book, and Christmas, and reading in bed? And then proceeding to finish the damn TV series between Christmas and New Year's Eve?

I convinced myself, it's okay. It's fine. I can live without the book until January.

On 29th December, a friend and I went to a film. It was our second night in a row of catching up on the films we'd missed and since we'd reached the mall slightly early, we decided to hang around in the bookstore. I mentioned the best book ever to him, and he told me, it was true. He also offered to lend me his copy except the copy was back at his hometown.

Don't worry, I'll get it from the bookstore here.

I decided to fuck my discount and get the bloody book. However, the universe had other plans.

"Ma'am we're out of the stock. It'll come back by second week of January."

I thanked and exited. You've got to be shitting me, right now. I thought of ordering online again as we walked to the theatre. But that would mean, I'd risk paying more because I can potentially get the book from the Book Fair.

Book Fair means I'd actually meet the editor friend and request her for an old-time employee (me!) discount. A whopping 50 percent on all hardcover, paperbacks, and the rest.

On 30th December, my arm was twice it's size with rash and stiffness. I was at a sleepover with friends and in massive discomfort.

I had also not been home in a long time so there was that added sense of, "well fuck. I'm unwell now."

On 31st December, the doctor I'd casually gone to see for my arm (thrice it's size, completely stiff and unmovable) had asked me to get hospitalized that very minute. He'd mumbled something serious, amputate and the condition being extremely serious and it being all wait and watch the situation.

Before midnight, at 9 pm, I found myself on Amazon with one functional arm which was swollen with multiple needles and reactions to the antibiotics they were trying on my arm.

I found a seller willing to deliver the book at a somewhat discounted price in 10 days.

10 days would mean that if I did survive this bullshit, I could actually read this book. My physical condition wasn't positive and it didn't look like I'd be hitting the Book Fair at all.

On the third day in the hospital, I called the same bookstore's other outlet to check on the book's availability. Turns out they did have it, except at double the price.

Did I want to read the book before my arm got amputated? Yes.
Was I willing to wait for a cheaper deal? Also, yes.

I thanked and hung up. Decided to wait another week.

On the sixth day, I got a mail telling me the packet has been dispatched.

On the tenth day, there was no news of the package.

I'd safely made it back home and was resting for the most part. My cousin was designated to get married in two week's and I had pending shopping, pending office work and the insatiable urge to get my hands on the fucking book.

It wasn't even about reading at that point as much as it was about getting the fucking book.

It took me three days to chase and get on multiple calls and send repeated emails to understand that the seller registered with Amazon had sent no fucking packet with the book. The book was costly and the price displayed in the store was ridiculously cheap. He/she possibly realized so after the order, and instead of fulfilling it, inserted a random number of the package.

When I traced the package with the number, the courier company informed me that no such number exists and their tracking numbers are completely different.

At this point, it had been two months into this book fuckfest. I made money, I earned a salary, I had one too many drinks with the person, and then I nearly lost an arm. How is it that I couldn't get a copy of the best book ever but everything else was happening just fine?

I told myself, this book and I aren't meant to be and decided to move on.

On the last day of the Book Fair (that corresponded with my last day of bed rest), I had chores to run and was in the other part of the city. Some shenanigans with my cousins, including the one who was to get married. They were insisting on my sibling and me to stay until I cited work and she, some other excuse. We got out and stopped for a pitstop midway. After the snack, I told her to proceed home without me.

I took an auto straight to the Book Fair. Some rituals are meant for a lifetime. If I had survived a situation with my arm and I was to live, I'd get back to my ritual. This was my first trip out in nearly two weeks and an infected arm. I had been advised to not get out of my way to exert any pressure, especially on the arm.

And yet, I found myself at the World Book Fair in Delhi on the last day. A Sunday. Fucking hell.

I proceeded to make my way to the distributor's stall. The cell phone reception was poor and I'd been trying to reach out to my friend for the discount. Inside the hall, there were massive queues just to enter that specific distributor's stall.

After a patient 15 minute long queue, I was in.

It took me another 5 to locate the copy of the book. Hidden under a pile of children's books, this was supposedly the last copy and I couldn't be more thrilled.

After picking some more books and basically ensuring my fucked arm to be fucked some more, I was frantic. I had little money designated to spend and without the discount, this entire stash would be upward of 10k.

I tried my best to locate someone, anyone, who knew where my friend would be but to no avail. I struck up a conversation with an acquaintance who feigns ignorance in entirety each time he sees me and explained the situation. He apologized and said he can't help me.

At this point, I was tired and feeling groggy. I had overexerted myself and carrying those hardcovers hadn't made it easy. The serpentinite queue to the cashier was daunting. I stood there, hoping for a miracle.

I saw another salesperson, this time, I approached with a strategy.

"Hi, do you happen to know XXX?"

"Yeah, why? Do you need something?"

I explained the situation to him. How I'd been an ex-employee and how XXX always helps me with the discount and how I was unable to reach out to her.

He walked to the front of the queue with my pile and instructed the cashier to give me the discount I'd been dying for.

Twenty minutes later, I owned a copy of the best (comic) book ever written.

It's been exactly seven months since I came into the possession of the book and I'm pleased to tell you, I've no idea where it is.

You see, in my excitement, I got the bags out and stored it safely. Safe enough for me to read after the wedding and then a work trip. In between that and the corona bit, I lost the track of where exactly did I keep the book.

I'd say I'm excited to find it but that would mean another two-part story and I don't know if anyone here is up for it again.

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, by Snobster

In 31 shower thoughts, Christmas

Piece of Time (Part-1)

I've not read the greatest comic book ever written.

There, I said it.

I'd be lying if I said I don't have the intention but let's just call what ~~white~~ people call kismet.

Or I could write and tell you all about it.

-----x-----x-----

This dates back to 2009. I had a crush on this guy, a senior in college, and a friend who was a classmate with the said guy was trying her best to set us on a date for a few months. It so happened that he wanted to show up on the day of my school farewell but due to some unforeseen circumstances (his friend, later girlfriend asked him to come over or some such) he couldn't, and well, let's just say that was a sad end.

Why I bring all this up is because the next time I was asked to join this group of people, I was writing board exams and there was no way in hell I could let him or anything distract me. The goal was to land up in this guy's college, and not just cause this cute guy was there, but also cause lots of cute guys.

Anyway, back to the story. The group of seniors was going to a film. The film was based on this comic book. That's the first I heard of it. I was also told the film was okay but the nerds loved it and well, that piqued curiosity enough. Enough for me to summon an order at home in my list of things to do after the completion of writing board exams.

I did get the CD but it was in Hindi. Some error ensured that I had to wait two months before I could get myself so watch the pirated copy in Hindi.

Needless to say, it wasn't half as much fun or intriguing as the prospect of watching that with the group of people I was asked to join.

Cut to over a decade later. I'm told this comic book has made a reboot in form of a TV show; one of the best from 2019. I'm intrigued. I'm also reminded of that gorgeous introverted guy, the one who I had a crush on at 17 and that went nowhere. Never mind, I tell myself. I'm gonna watch it and re-write this story.

I start streaming it. I think two or three episodes in, I get a text, "Are you watching...?"

I ignored that text until my next conversation with the said person. I think it was outside a bookshop where we stood and discussed the TV show.

"Have you read the book?"

Nope.

"Okay, stop watching the show and read the book first. You're going to love the show more then. Infact you should take my copy. Why don't you come to my place and pick it?"

I take this person's this advice seriously. Mostly, cause he disseminates the advice outside the bookstore and that he reads but also cause I get it, some people are authorized to shove words of wisdom for the certain pop culture and interest-based nuances and he's one of them. However, no thank you on that offer. If the book is indeed the best comic book, I'll add it to my collection and buy it soon.

I take it off my download list for the upcoming work trip I was saving that for and instead download a bunch of films to catch up on.

I return from the trip to find this person texting me to wait for him at the airport. Only, I read the text at home. No bump-ins at the arrival.

Over the next 48 hours, we find ourselves amidst situations around us including riots, student and civil rights activist protests, drunken camaraderie with our respective friend, events and more action than all of 2020 has seen thus far. We also find ourselves trying to make a plan to watch some fuckall film/show together. To mope in solidarity about the state of affairs and maybe to banter some more on other obscure things that make us warm ~~acquaintances~~ friends.

Here I must establish, this person doesn't quite live in the country. He's supposed to leave for his hometown in a hot minute. On the eve, I ask him for a drink. He agrees.

"One drink. I have relatives from overseas."

Yeah, I have other plans too. I'm supposed to meet my other friends after.

I request this person to carry a copy of the book. I might as well take him up on that offer cause I've a week off for Christmas from work.

He tells me he's planning to take his copy back with him. He plans to read it over Christmas.

Shit.

By the time, I'm out of the shower, fashionably and painfully late, I see a barrage of texts. Among that,

"In my infinite generosity though i have decided to VERY TEMPORARILY lend it to you."

Great. I'd have the book with me by Christmas.

(To be continued. Title track reference)

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, by Snobster

In Am I The Only One? Yeah, boohoo

Have Feet, Will Travel

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.

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, by Snobster

In academia, beach please

Netflix and PhD

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, by Snobster

In bad bitch, disasters

Re-tox 2018

The most befitting end to the first month of the year, resembled the finale of Mukkabaaz (2018; dir Anurag Kashyap). Without giving much about the film, let me jump straight to my point.

I dropped my phone inside the pot.

Pot where one takes a dump. A commode. Or whatever you call that space in your culture.

This cover is my calendar, only less fun than seeing the "dentist".

Semantics aside, this was truly the cruellest way to end the cruellest month of the wretched year. Amongst other notable things that took place, here's the highlight of this year in badly organized point format (because fuck me, I'm truly not in a state to think of beautiful, prosaic words that make sense).

1) I started smoking after four years of being clean. I also got sick enough to lose my hearing ability. That had something to do with smoking and little something to do with the fact that I sneaked out of my house and had a run-in with the cops, all in the same evening.

2) I am truly out of fucks to give for deadline and work. Here's something that everyone around me has noticed. A sample-

a) We need images for the opening pages. Oh my.

Me- Don't worry. I'll do it in an hour.

b) We need to send the book to the press. Tell them this is the deadline.

Me- Yep, will be done.

c) I basically need 10 posts to have gone up on Facebook yesterday.

Me- I'm tracking the delivery of the time travel machine. Could you hold a minute please?

3) I'm eating crap. Mindlessly. All day, every day. I have no chill with regard to my diet so I'm taking bites (sin), I'm eating butter and oil and fats and dairy all day (sin), I'm also piling on carbs and how (sin), eating ketchup by the bucket (sin), no working out (biggest sin).

4) This page. I am single-handedly responsible for the dwindling numbers because if I don't show any interest, nobody else does either.

5) Went to the theatre one whole hour before the designated time of the film. Entered the exhibition space, a whole ten minutes late. Don't ask why.

6) Terrible, terrible personal space issues. Concerning an almost pleasant past experience. Or the beginner's charm. Either, or. Just not the way things were supposed to pan out in a personal space.

7) The phone. After dropping it inside the pot, I carried it with me again each time I went to take a dump- just to challenge the universe.

Come at me motherfuckers.

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, by Snobster

In beach please, childhood

26 Years, 7 Days

I travel unprepared.

Amongst some of the notably stupid things I indulge in, booking tickets a few hour before the flight is one. I've almost, always done that. It's not that Adani adopted me or Kumar Mangalam Birla is funding my travels, but I truly cannot commit to anything- even vacation- for anything over 24 hours in advance and taking forward this stress a month in advance, is not my idea of "having fun".

Yet, here I am. Somewhere high up, in sky or in my head. Or probably both if I'm lucky and alive.

You see, *this* trip was planned about a month ago and the amount of stress it caused me, it could kill an already dead patient due to heart blockage. Let me explain how-

For an ordinary person, a vacation is a way to de-stress, involving being uncomfortable, being adventurous and even for that matter being out of the known and into the wilderness. My idea of vacation is having done triple the amount of research I do, for anything, going over Tumblr, blogs, internet content, magazines like an obsessive maniac just so I could know and potentially have control over any problem I may encounter during my stay. I want to know what colour of the bedsheets I can potentially have when I land in a hotel, and what condiment will the shack serve with the Fried Rice I plan to order for my lunch on the second day. I should see a therapist, but let me complete.

More often than not, these trips are fucking hard on me. I break down in rash, I throw up, I'm sick. All this happens because I'm stressed and more so, because my head is convinced that I need to have it all under control. The potential for stress stems from the shit brewing in my head. The nagging feeling that surrounds me goes like this, "You can't all this fun, something must go wrong" and so I wait. I wait for something to change, a plan to modify, a meal unavailable, a piece of garment I imagined I would buy sold out-all this and more in the span of 5 minutes. I take my research to places unimaginable, including booking hotel to much in advance that I regret for the remaining evening and the time leading to the trip, why did I create that urgency.

Naturally, vacations are stressful because I've been taking them with my friends or myself. I feel the ones where I take myself, I'm far more lackadaisical and composed than the ones which I undertake with my friends. I feel being responsible for myself is okay, not that my friends or partners ever expect me to take care of them while traveling. Because I'm a Type A asshole, and because I'd like to believe I have taken precautions and I'll most likely be having fun, I'm responsible for anything that may go wrong, whether it's controllable by me or been going wrong due to me. Add to this, splitting headache, anxiety, and this sense of doom.

When I was in Eight Grade, my school took us for an ambitious trip to Jodhpur and Jaisalmer. I don't remember much except for dying in the fucking cold in January at night. Those guys had provided us only Jaipuri Razai and let me tell you, it can freeze your balls out. There was camel poop and aloo poori in the five days that we travelled in all permutations and combinations. Despite being all of 13, I vowed to never visit Rajasthan again. I think I broke that twice since, but goddamn not Rajasthan. I don't remember what exactly was so wrong but I do remember taking this idea of no trip to this state whatsoever. A blanket ban.

I remember the dates very well. Before leaving, my grandmother had assisted in packing clothes, in fawning over me. In doing all possibly grandmotherly things one can indulge in. I also remember on two occasions speaking to her on the phone. The second time, she was talking as though she's half asleep. It didn't occur to me, things had gone awry.

When I returned in the end of January, my grandmother was in semi-coma. Delirious, not making sense and definitely not waking up. Now, as an adult I know that the doctors had given up and she wanted to pass away peacefully at home. The adults in the family knew about this some months ago that it was time for her to go.

Back in the day, it didn't occur what went wrong. I'd left her, sick but in her senses and I came back to a corpse on a bed, in that state for three weeks where people would visit us and look grave.

I think about being 13 a lot. About how naive I was and how it helped me to get past that time. I don't think I'd be able to do it today, with the same innocence that I moved past. That's the beauty of being young and stupid. You bypass so many things easily.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, each time I travel, I feel I won't come back to things just as how they are. It makes me crave for banal and stay in banal. It makes me dig routine more than Canadians love Poutine. I actively look forward to days when the five members of my house are doing nothing more inspiring than eating dinner at home and watching TV. You have no idea how fucking nice it is to have "normal" things, as opposed to thousands of people flocking your place in a month to see a dying exhibit. You wouldn't imagine what it's like to be on a vacation and come back to see the entire life change before your eyes.

Which is why, I control situations. If not for others, for myself. I like to take charge and do only those things which I have done and they have paid back in making me least bit happy. Often, the research I do helps me make a better decision when I'm in control, and the vacations that I don't take, help me retain my sanity.

Here I am, floating between land and ether, writing all this and promising how I'll try to be better.

I've no idea how things will be when I return home. If people will continue being okay, if I'll be the same. I can just hope that I don't beat myself too hard for the rest of my life if something goes wrong.

But you know what they say, don't you? If something has to go wrong, it will go wrong. Maybe they'll stop my luggage for bringing 20 pairs of socks, maybe we'll miss our flight, maybe I'll die 30,000 feet in the air. I won't know, and I certainly don't know.

You miss all the shots you don't take and so here am I, a week into being 26. Taking all my shots just as how life presented it to me, with a slice of lemon.

Cheers.

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, by Snobster

In 16 going on 26, Blues and Greens

The Minor Fall/The Major Lift

Couple of years ago, I got into a whim of getting a line tattooed on my body. It seemed harmlessly personal, insofar as the longevity of the design/idea was concerned.

I truly thought that I'd live by the words and in good faith, they'd live back with me. I can't quite pin the circumstances that lead to this whimsical thought but it had something to do with a bit of a mix, personal upheavle with some manchild and professional inability to sustain a job.

Those were the days when I'd fail no job interview and kick all jobs in a fortnight. The days prior to getting the wretched research degree which makes everyone question, "Sorry, you're overqualified (On paper, bitch). Why do you want this job again?"

x

Where were we? Skin.

I suppose what prevented that tattoo was costing. An odd similarity I share with my workplace (where I've been at for close to a year now). All life decisions boil down to whether or not it's "worth" the money. I used to think my parents are strange for drilling that idea in me, and probably because their parents were strange for drilling that idea in their head.

It took me one year at a massive Art and Design firm in the country to realize, it's all our parents and probably a very Punjabi thing in practice. "Is it worth it to skip office and stay at home for your mental health?", "Is it worth it to pay INR 23000 for an image when you can send someone from your organization with a camera, who's on a monthly pay roll of INR 20000. Imagine the number of images he can click while making the sale pitch at the bookstore?". Everything is always equated in contrast with a commodity, service or even a situation which will be created, just to be able to satisfy your question, "Can I?", "May I?", "Shall I?"

The answer is always no.

x

There's this urge to get a tattoo again. This time, I'm clear I want no text, and probably hold that for life. While I love words and only ever know what to do with them, I wouldn't want to get that on my body. I used to be very blasé about the tattoo idea/design and would want to go with the first instinct but never reached that far (which monetary factor prevented- a thing I can be thankful to my parents and work place for). On the other hand, I was extremely protective of how my skin is, whether it has marks or lines or wounds or vestiges of scars so deep, which I no longer am.

I recently read something which boiled down to the idea of why would you want to take the same body back to Earth after you die? Wouldn't you rather show it the years it's lived with their marks, their signs and their strokes? You should, if you didn't already. Stop with the facials and the creams and fussing. It's great to get down and dirty and wounded and carry them proudly because they're all yours to claim. Every inch is yours to proudly own and customize, so to say.

That thing hit home. I knew two things instantly-

1) My body physically no longer belonged in the set up of "it has to be the same, au naturel, no marks, wounds or tan". Since then, my body is multiple shades of Sun, crow feet, faded and smudged tattoo and many, many wounds deep. I wear it all proudly, hoping to take the most last updated version to the grave whenever the day comes.

2) I no longer wanted words on my body.

I live words. I breathe them. I know them inside out. Do I want a blue print on my body or do I want them to go with them? The latter, cause I can't discriminate. I want every word I know on my body, I want every inch to be covered in statements I stand for. Can I physically get it tattooed and trivialize them? Probably not.

When today, another one of the groundbreaking things went down, the line played in my head. I knew why that tattoo wasn't meant to go on my skin.

It's been a year of minor falls and I'd rather wait to live them than to take them skin deep with me to my death bed. Maybe, it's a life time of minor falls and major lifts are only in comparison, a contrasting value to how minor the incident is. Yet, it's not worth it to mark the skin with words. Not on me. Not for me.

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, by Snobster

In Bores, dead inside

Vacation Sluts

If you've not travelled in the last six months, outside of Delhi/NCR for pleasure, then shut this tab and go back.

For the rest, we need to talk.

What is this new vacation epidemic and why are we all encouraging it so much?

For those of you who do not know, these last two months were the first for me where I had employment in the Summer. Like, legit employment- the desk job kind. In the past, I was working on freelance "independent" consultancy projects aka shit that don't pay jack shit and is the only pleasant way of saying jobless (I digress) *cough*. Maybe it's this year that I noticed or maybe it's just been a very recent thing, why is everyone around me behaving like they were employed in a coal mine and deserve a vacation to Hawai?

Literally, everyone I know travelled in the last two months, or over the span of six months and why not. Have money, shall spend hashtag wanderlust hashtag vacation hashtag I totally deserve it.

What becomes of people like yours truly, who continue to work over the Summer, over the last six months, over the last year or over two? Do we not hashtag deserve a vacation? Are we not hashtag human? Don't be hashtag harsh. (I'm done. Hashtag stopped.)

I'll tell you what becomes of us- nothing.

For some of us, Summer is a reminder of the Sisyphean tragedy. Of the drudgery of the discontentment, we have with life. It's a slap in the face of those of us struggling to put together a decent life by saving every penny they earn in a month, in order to have a secure future. Fuck their Instagram feed, and fuck their insatiable life.

It doesn't suck that we didn't travel, what sucks is that YOU left, took off without us. And again, why not? You have earned the right to travel by being privileged enough to be an heir to a place which can hire the lot of us- a mediocre creative person, a highly self-motivated but failed academic- we're all the same. Aren't we? That's what I've gathered in the last couple of months. It doesn't matter where you come from, who you are and what you make of your life. All that matters is where did you travel over the Summer and what all places did you cover? Would you like a scratch map with your case of daddy's money?

This post may be bitter but it's only because I'm absolutely fucking frustrated of repeating the same thing over and over again. It's been ten months since this job and while I enjoy it, sure, it's beginning to get to me. How long until I graduate? How long until this semester ends? If you stay in an institute long enough, your sense of timing gets sharper. You care about the end of the Semester, of the year. Since, the new year brings with itself new books, new texts, new deadlines, there's some sense of excitement- that which can be shared with your fellow participants. I usually reserve déja vu of going to a new class with meeting a man for the first time. The excitement is nearly the same, as is the let down at the end of the day. You're full of hopes and smell of freshly ironed school uniform, newly wrapped notebooks in brown paper and carefully stapled cellophane on the books, just as your hair looks and your arm smells when you see a man on a date. On your way back, both from school and the date, there's a sense of shit what colossal fuckery was this anyway?! It's just the same, the fresh smell of uniform and disappointment when your expectations crumble. Too morbid for a Friday night?

A job, on the other hand, is a lot like being a prostitute being stuck in her profession. There's only so much ooh-aahing to do and only limited amount of faking pleasure. You get paid for what you give, which is to say, there's no way you can calculate/tabulate your time unless of course you're on a contractual basis, a tip common for those of us in jobs and the prostitutes in their profession. Life's beginning to get a little stagnant.

My fingers, beginning to get a little sore with repetition. I tried deviating by flying to Pune and coming back. Didn't help my case, and have only been sick since. Instead, what's happening is the return of the migratory birds as I'm charting an influx of people wanting to "catch up" over what they did around Lake Como or California.

Newsflash- I'll strangle the first person I see who talks about their vacation or sightseeing with me.

I don't fucking get rubbing travel in people's face. I mean, you're part privileged and part lucky for you have the opportunity to do that. For the lesser mortals, who are trying to work their ass hard, your stories, images and paraphernalia act as a consolation prize, a metaphor for those kids at 90s birthday parties who couldn't manage to grab anything from the Khoi Bag. Those wastrels were offered a handful of candies at the end by the mother/father of the child to make up for their poor sense of hand to eye coordination. Unfortunately, life isn't as kind on those of us who grow up to be those wastrels. Instead, some of us have to show up to work daily to make up for being in academia for ages and trying their best to get a scholarship to fuck off.

I've always believed for those of us who are not so pretty, the only option for us to do anything is to work damn hard. If you're a 8 and above, you can easily step out of the rat race and let people do things for you. If you're a baron/heir/heiress/royalty, again you can bow out. However, the remaining people with ill luck truly have to work an extra mile to manage to chill for three days.

Which again, is completely and absolutely fine, just as long as people don't continue to shove their extensive one month chilling at the Venetian plans in my face. I swear on all things ugly, I'll be the first to tear your passport if you come and share your vacation plan with me.

But that's not all, there are those who are completely downtrodden, back broken and hard working who go out and chill. Good for you. However, rules apply to you as well. Keep it to your fucking self.

Will it kill people if they withhold some information about their life? Will their kids die of cancer if they don't stand and make irrelevant conversation about travelling all Summer, whether it's on the 'gram or in person.

Please wash your dirty linens in private. And in this case, keep your vacation pictures to your cellphone. There's a reason you paid extra for 128 GB internal memory. Meanwhile, I'll go enjoy my two day vacation, that which poor folks like us call "weekend".

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, by Snobster

In bitches, Bores

Wettest July

I returned from Pune, last week, to hear that Delhi was anticipating "Wettest July" in what seems (?) like a decade. Predicted by the met guys and having that conveyed by my mother only means alteration of some facts so if this seems dodgy to you, I'm passing the blame to my parental unit.

What's a fact checker and why does my blog need one?

Moving on, the misleading title is quite an opener to the problem of lack of getting any. In other words, 'Cobwebs on my Vagina', 'Drought in my Pussy', both contested and lost to the current opening title. I really need to look for a solution to problems such as, "Dude, we discussed weather so does that mean he's friend-zoned me?" but really, I am just so full of negativity, I thought let me pep up with some weather talk and what better than Monsoon to get the juices (gunk) flowing. (yuck)

I used to get dating. Much like I got the idea of taking a bus to school. There's a reason you indulge in camaraderie. You apparently save the environment from pollution by contributing to the noise when you shove 50 or more hyper kids in a bus and release 20 such buses in all directions to and from school every morning. If you care, I believe in home-schooling (also cause wow the fee structure is insane and I can possibly never afford to send my hypothetical child to school).

Now, I don't get that anymore. Or dating. Have the rules changed? Why do the kids travel in cars now? Why did my school stop sending buses to pick kids? Why do parents pay upward of a fucking lakh for their kids to learn colours and numbers? Somethings I will never understand. For everything else, there are rich fuckers paying their kids fee and making the rest of us question our subsidized convent education.

I digress, but my dear frenemy Mia Khalifa answers. Her version is almost rude.

"Darling, they all want your ass and you give them your hand. You're getting none back."

Bitch is probably PMSing and taking it out on me. I took the answer back home, as she drove me in her new shiny car, only to repeat that to SSA.

He had a better explanation (or maybe, I was just well fed), "You don't get a call back for second ones because you give out the complete package in the first."

"You know that makes total sense...the ones where I did follow up or like met the guy again are like the ones where there was so much awkward silence. Yeah, you're right...they weren't the kind of dates...you know...on acid.", I said while standing under the shade of a Peepal tree which did us no good in protecting from torrential downpour earlier today. In the last 48 hours, it's been humid and dry and no sign of the clouds. I step out of the house for an hour to meet SSA over a walk, and it rains on my parade.

When they said Wettest July, they certainly did mean having for it to rain on my actual fucking parade.

Is there a problem with placing your chips on the lopsided end? If so, then I missed the announcement cause I don't get this behaviour. If I put myself out on a date, I'm slutty and obviously "too into" the guy that I want "it" instantly with. If I don't, then I'm "prude" and how dare I have a "taste" for men. Have I not learnt enough from the idea of Tinder? Swipe, Sleep and Repeat.

But no. I want the wine, and for us to dine and the sixty-nine. So what if it takes awfully long time?

However, the rules have changed and clearly my manual was lost in the mail. To get some, you've to be aggressive, like a fighter. Destiny's Child didn't sing Survivor years ago for nothing. They forecasted a situation such as this to avoid dry spells of July.

I mean, it's half a fucking year and I've gotten NONE.

If you, like me, are having questions about me, may I publically announce that Mia Khalifa isn't getting any either. Despite a name like hers, she doesn't manage to go beyond cuddle.

"He says it's done and I'm like, 'Oh? Already? I didn't even feel it.' and then I never hear from him again...You know I should start like these classes on how to train people to have good sex. Like a whole school, how to initiate, how to take it forward and obviously how to have good sex. You should be my first customer."

Because yeah, the problem is me. To my face, I don't get any cause I have it tattooed on my forehead.

Which brings me to my fucking point, which I have been trying to find ways and means to convey. Men, women, everyone- BUCKLE THE FUCK UP!

You will climb mountains, trek to the fucking Himalayas, run a 20k marathon but when it comes to asking a person out, what the actual fuck happens? Does anyone ask you to give up your first born in exchange of sleeping with someone or going down on them? If so, please feel free to share. I'd be happy to empathise with your choices.

If not, then I don't understand. You'd do everything except for asking for some.

Because let's face it, dating as I know has become this- you text, you plan to meet, you ditch, you text some more, you forget, you text again, you feign excitement, you try to cancel, you meet, you have a good/great time, you never speak to them again.

WHY? Why would you waste good effort to do this nonsense? You're defying the laws of science because you're destroying energy...mmm good energy in this nonsense that you're putting the other person up for.

If you want to meet for "a" drink, say so. Tell the other person, "Hey, you know what, I have no intentions of following up cause I don't quite care. You still up for that one drink?"

Half the fucking time, I meet people out of politeness. At least, we can be politely honest with each other and say, "Hey, you know what I'm going to flake on you so let's end it right here. Let's save each other the energy and the process. Why don't we spend our respective time reading Camus and never talk to each other again?"

Trust me, that'd be romantic af.

But no, here I am, and here are your rules. I will be 'cool' and 'chill' and wait for the next person to nudge me to death to have some drinks, make conversation, waste energy and never hear from them again.

I wish I could eat and spend my energy digesting refined calories than writing this crap. If I tried, maybe even I could run for some 50k and do well, because dating for sure is harder than running a marathon.

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, by Snobster

In failed plans, Mofo

Privileged

It's 2:08 am, I'm sentimentally sloshed, buckled and tied to 6E177 or whatever my flight is. I booked my tickets a couple of hours ago now and the only thing that's hitting is what the actual fuck am I doing with my life.

Earlier today, I was headed to Udaipur to hang with one of my oldest friends. Last I remembered my dentist asked me to book him a haveli there and I resisted the urge to tell him,"aao kabhi haveli par." Yep that's how sad it's been last couple of days.

Where was I? Udaipur, yes. My boss' secretary and Mia Khalifa booked me a train ticket cause I'm nincompoop, also low on motivation. After that, they promptly informed that it's waiting 21 and that I'd make it.

Cut to earlier today. My father hears this terrible plan and tells me this ain't happening. "I used to take a lot of trains so yeah, 21 wait list isn't opening for you."

Here's what.

I was 40 something on wait list for my masters degree in India, and the coveted course has no leeway. In the sense, nobody who makes it in withdraws.

I made it in.

When I refreshed the IRCTC page earlier today it showed me 6. At that point, my date, this man who's been dodging me for six months had asked me thrice, would I see him at 7?

"Of course. No two ways about it.", I'd told Mia Khalifa.

"Let me give you a reality check, love. You don't want to go to Udaipur. You don't want to meet the man. You want to do nothing except for hang out on your bed and that's that."

Shit, this bitch knows me. I really did want to do nothing.

"Look, I totally want to go out and yeah, I will meet the man in process. Then I will take the morning flight and fuck off."

"You're only saying it. You want to do nothing."

Nothing did sound great.

I checked my phone. Kuks had messaged me saying I could take her with me to eat wherever and hang at all times. She would even accompany me to all my favourite places. Shit.

Could I live with the insult of doing nothing over the weekend and show my face on Tuesday? I don't know. Could I ditch this date? No. The guy was bound to kill me. He's anal about Friday night and I'd already ditched him once.

Do I really care about a stranger that much?

Shit.

Mia Khalifa knows me better than I know myself. That's her version but I shall go with it. She does.

So, at 6 pm I exited Work and made way to an ATM. Date was on. As was Pune.

"You're actually going? Unbelievable."

"Shut up. Why don't you meet for drinks at 9:30? I've a feeling it would end in a disaster."

Pot makes me question my life. This was a date and a spontaneous trip. I'd also cancelled my train ticket at this point. Man, I must like Pune.

"Look man. Try to have fun. That's all. I will cook some mutton and go to bed."

"Can't you come meet me?"

"No, I need to work on my book."

Bitch. Wanted to download tinder and now she wants to work on her book.

Cut to a few hours later, I'm face palming, just to support my fat face. I've a strong feeling my date thinks I'm clinically depressed but I don't give any reason to believe it.

No, nothing that the man did. Just one too many drinks.

He tells me how he wants to ace rapping Lose Yourself at next Karaoke night. I tell him I want to move out of publishing but i don't know any other thing. We discuss the worst film I ever worked on. I also tell him my standard first date things-I throw up all the time, I'm a brat, I have no clue where my life is headed. He tells me about eating Bat fried in batter and judges me for eating biryani with a spoon.

It's 2:43 am and the captain has asked us all to fasten our seat belts. I've been upgraded to the luxury seat and it's a delight to watch from when you're on the top.

On top of the fucking world. How's 25000 feet above the ground for a measure?

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, by Snobster

Pages

Prose before hos

Hey, good morning, Kanye

A Colossal Fuck Up

Piece of Time (Part-2)

Piece of Time (Part-1)

Have Feet, Will Travel

Netflix and PhD

Re-tox 2018

26 Years, 7 Days

The Minor Fall/The Major Lift

Vacation Sluts

Wettest July

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