Prose before hos

This one time I went out with a guy. It was completely harmless and couldn't have been more blas but my intuition told me otherwise. Bear in mind, I was in my teens and not half as pre-emptive about people and reading the room. This is one of those. 

As young people do, we had a meal, some conversation was made. I'd go into the details but I have far too many people in common with that gentleman and he's now married so why ruffle feathers (why I miss anonymity here). 

The highlight of the meal was not the fibrous meat and bread and all that excess salad that neither of us needed, but it was this gesture. Since the eventful luncheon was being split on account of some payment both of us had been scammed of, and I was in possession of the funds, we were basically splitting the amount we had earned.

Anyway, the meal got over and the bill was cleared and I was trying to rest my nerves until the man started to scribble some stuff on the tissue paper. Within ten minutes, he gave me a piece of that tissue on which he had written a short poem about us and the meal. Effortlessly charming. 

Ofcourse, I was a bag of nerves after. 

Some other stuff followed (if you're my mom, you should know we didn't have sex) but largely harmless. 

I returned floating on a cloud and recited that to all my friends the day after in class. 

Anyway, about a quarter into this and our staccato conversations, I found this man has written another one of his masterpieces on Facebook. It was mellow, something on the lines of unrequited fondness (surprise, surprise on the subject). In hindsight, what else is an 18 yo supposed to write in the peak of their heat but ofcourse, my convent school hadn't prepared me for that. I was convinced it was about me because my grandeur of delusions and overconfidence knew no bounds. 

For about a year or so, the highlight of my rather uneventful life was in total belief of the masterpieces, one with me and one for the public. 

It took a few months after, just a year short of that luncheon for me to realize that not only the guy had a girlfriend who he was massively head over heels in love with, that she was actually smart and all that. 

Back then, I imagined my life was parallel to this rom-com which I shan't name. However, if you're this intrigued and somewhat invested, you can always put two and two together (that my dear friend, the Ice Prince, once told me, "I've been putting two and two together since age 5." Okay then). 

The iconic line that resonates with me to this day about my delusions and overconfidence is how I learned that my favourite love song is written about a sandwich. 

That, my friend, is the reality of it all. 

Perhaps, that entire piece of writing devoted to me, that I'm to this day using as a bookmark in my favourite book from 2009, is perhaps about the meal we had, and not about me. 

How I look at myself in the mirror every morning is truly beyond me. 

(Title reference; track of the day)

Sometime this week, a colleague asked me to shut the hell up about the Retrograde. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last, however, I find it easy to pass the blame about everything on the blowing up of the planetary positions. Never mind, science or logic (that I actually fucking studied in college, thank you very much). Truth be told, she invoked my PhD card and told me that it's embarrassing to be speaking about and expected to be taken seriously given my line of work (academia!). Who the hell wants to take a babbling researcher seriously who's pinning all possible issues on a fucking planet (again, why aren't too many people doing this beats me).

I was born to do great things.

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

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

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

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

Uppers, man. They're life-changing.

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

A sane individual? Fuck that.

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

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

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

May your coffee kicks before your reality does.

I've 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.

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

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

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

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

Remind me again darling, how do I kickass. 

This afternoon I expressed my yearning of quitting cutting sugar to my group of lunch companions.

"How are you consuming sugar?"

"In tea, that I have left."

"Ice creams?"



"Not a big fan. But I do dig in tea cakes."

Seven pm this evening, two cubes of milk chocolate. Because everyone needs chocolate (I hate chocolate) and since I had a salad for dinner, I could eat some crap. Even more crap a justification than the garbage I put together in my mouth.

Eight twenty pm this evening, I broke my intermittent fast. Gobbled a cup of Vanilla ice cream faster than you could spell that out loud. If I could do it any faster, I'd be a cartoon, an extra on Tom and Jerry.

Will quit sugar. Will do PhD. Will find a job that keeps me happy. Will also find the love of the life. 

Three words that put the fear of god in me aren't "I Love You." They're something even scarier, a question full of hope.

If you can't feign a guess let me give that one right up (because it's 12:50 am on a Friday and I am feeling sick after all the Pork Bulgogi I'm not used to eating anymore).

Let's schedule meeting?





No. Never. 

Incase you didn't get that, I hate meetings. More than I hate Coldplay and F.R.I.E.N.D.S or Butter Chicken. I still think a band like Coldplay offers something. A meeting, on the other hand, doesn't offer crap. It is a construct to eat into your time and make you feel real silly by the end of it. A meeting is as useless as eating bad momos, or using toilet paper over health faucet. Nobody cares about toilet paper. It hurts, okay?

Attendance in meetings is just as painful as living with a butthole after exposing it to the coarse texture of the toilet paper. Meetings that go on anything more than twenty minutes hurt more than toilet paper on arse, after three days, if you have used water all your life.

Toilet papers are the worst. I digress but I hate the idea of meetings just as much as I hate using toilet paper.

Meetings are the curse of mankind. In a hierarchy pyramid of the worst kind of urban torture imposed on healthy, sane adults, meetings are parallel to the idea of self actualization. The parties involved in the success of a meeting know everything, the case, its symptoms and the diagnosis but yet are reticent. They will insist upon wasting your time and their time on company's time and take you through some real banal shit while you dream on about the cruise vacation you could afford if you picked up a shit, mindless writing job in some obnoxious corner of Delhi NCR. Sure, you'd lose your clients and your residence's proximity to work, but you'd gain in money and money can buy you a trip to Lake Como.

Wait, we are still at the meeting.

Successful meetings have a thing in common. The parties involved never digress. They come together, find solutions and keep the negative away (haha, suck it Maya Angelou). However, most meetings like real people have flaws and they always fucking digress. Nice dress, where's it from to Haha can you please not use images of kids, maybe it will prevent a known sexual predator from Croatia to not show up in India to find that kid to sexually molest, everything comes in together, in betwene work and camaraderie.

All in good spirit. Just as how meetings are.

Off late, I realized I considered the attendance of meeting as highly successful adults brainstorming to change the world and make it a better place.

However, as someone who gets regular emails from people to have a meeting, let me break your bubble and say no. Meetings are the biggest professional lie that HR initiated for people to feel welcome and loved in the organizational setup. Nobody cares for you and certainly wants you, especially the youngest employee forced to be sitting there, who could really be online shopping feverishly, just as much as her neighbour on probation does.

Where was I? Meetings, yes.

Meetings are also painful when they're set without your consent and you're just expected to be there.

You can't be kidding me Srishti? You'd like me to meet your clients and your hotel and your boyfriend all on the same day which happens to be the weekend? Who are you and why should I even do this for you? 

In my limited tenure of professional bullshit, there's not been a single meeting where we discussed stuff which came in handy. Sure, I have initiated meetings and yes, hypocrite of me to request to be a part of some of them. However, they made up since there was emotional compensation such as food involved or there's some person whose presence made up for it- a boss who was supportive, a colleague who scribbled on my notebook, "you've lost weight. You look skinnier than ever" or even facts that made me say, "HA! IN YOUR FACE ASSHOLE".

Largely, it's been the last point.

Meetings are vindictive in nature. Since there's no font for Sarcasm yet, we have meetings to make up for being snarky.

I think that's more than enough rant and a mental preparation for me prepare myself for a Meh-ting Monday which involves two back to back meetings. No amount of good/bad weather walk or Tequila shots can help ease the pain. Talking about the problem, however, does a lot of good.

Me-ting me soon, are you?

I don't recall who, but I was having this conversation with someone recently, on what Delhi does to people.

Delhi makes people angry. It boils their blood. It leaves them with a curse up their sleeve, in Punjabi, in Hindi. Whether or not they can speak those languages is immaterial, it's quite amusing to see everyone roll a word, phrase or even a paragraph out everytime you accompany people who drive you around. High beam is the peak asshole behaviour that every Delhi resident must exhibit. Without which, you don't qualify to be a Delhiite.

Delhi is humid. It's uncomfortable to live here, to be normal and to be happy. I haven't met a single Delhiite who is not stressed, agitated or unhappy, purely because of how things are. The government, the state (or the inability of comprehending the Capital and Union Territory status) do not understand Delhi, neither do the people. What we understand is that this city is the rape capital of the country. It stinks of immigrants from almost all cities, the NCR folks are cool-ish and that all Delhiites are scums of the world who abuse everyone. Believe me, the weather doesn't help.

Diwali, for a whole lot of Delhiites translates to smog, smoke, haze. For the rest of the world it's dancing to Bole Chudiyan at the community event. Indian expat community knows Karan Johar better than Hiroo aunty does. For us here, Diwali is when we pre-order a combo pack on Amazon for 3M masks to breathe clean (or attempt to) and curse every moron who hands his child an Anaar to light outside. And Karan Johar, he remains a nepotistic pig for all the girls envisioning a future in Bombay cinema.

Delhi stands for difficult. If you can survive Delhi, you can survive everything. That Delhi is as much mine as it is yours. Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours. 


All of the above is true-ish. Except, I don't feel it anymore. Staying away from Delhi makes you forget the war tactics that you need to survive this place. Atleast for now. Survival of the fittest is not true for Thailand. Survival of the chillest, on the other hand, is something I could do with.


I've been back for a few days now and god, I'm everything but Delhi. I don't get the Mughal-e-azam play reference (what is it, please tell me),  I am missing the Swan Lake and I have no idea what was the last topic on which Modi and Kejriwal fought. I have zero idea of what happened at the Dera and who did Kangana accuse of last.

To be honest, not all of the above is Delhi but this is the only place that seems to care about all of it.

Instead, I am feeling the Fall on my skin. This evening, I smelt Pujo in the air. I took an auto from my evening coffee run and it was beautiful outside. To make things beautiful, Starbucks has brought my Salted Caramel Mocha back. Remember the Winter from 2013 when I was a mess and spent close to 10k buying Salted Caramel Mocha? Well, it's back and so is my zeal to live. This time, all together. My head's all fuzzy with the first kiss of Winter in the form of the air conditioner taking a hiatus in my room. Imagine, this is me and this is in Delhi. I'm in fucking love, with the world. In this world, I'm in Thailand.

I smile uncontrollably when a ridiculously cute man tells me that he's called dibbs on my arse (if and when we are in the same city- tragic). I am floating in a haze of noodle soup for every meal, and sausages for 10 baht with cheese stuffed in them. In my head, I'm kicking my feet in the sand when I squish the dead jelly fish (okay, that's not that cool). I'm walking inside the 7 Eleven store and looking for Korean masks at 2 am, along with buying a bottle of water and a slice of buttered bread. Ooh, look at that lipstick. Is that matte? I'm everything that has no care in the world. I'm full of glitter, coconut filled donuts and I'm ready to buy sunglasses at 11 pm at the Walking Street because why the fuck not.

The day after I returned, I met Man Friday. What was supposed to be a handing his presents from my trip sesh, qualified into a long walk where he kept cursing Delhi weather. None of that affected me since in my head, I was walking the streets of Pattaya.

"Can you not be fucking distracted and do something with your life instead?"

That hit me for 12 hours until the ridiculously cute gentleman texted some cute shit at my face. I was back in my vacation haze again.

Oh, to be young and feel the butterflies.

You remember the feeling when your crush looked in your direction as a 15 year old? Or when that man you liked tapped on your shoulder to ask for a spare pen?

The equivalent of that is seeing a text from someone you're crushing on. Thailand makes everything better, even men. I haven't felt like 15 in a long, long time so naturally, I haven't crushed on anyone like that. This vacation brought back the feels, of what it's like when you hear from someone you like.

In 2012, a friend who was dating her then boyfriend would burst into a smile each time we called his name out loud around her. It was a nerve reaction, "@*#l" and she would giggle like the world's down to her feet. I remember this so vividly because this tactic helped us in an outdoor photo-shoot. I wouldn't get into the details because the split was hard on the said friend (and the guy is a cunt). But, man, everytime I think about the vacation, I am giggling at the thought of the place, of being transported to the streets where the shopkeepers had become my friends and the Raw Papaya salad cost less than a plate of momos. As I write, I have a smile as wide as my friend's, just at the thought of all this.

In the relatively small window of the time that Mia K and I have left with each other, on one of the days when she was driving me home she told me to get back to reality. While reversing the car, she said,"As my grandmother would say, if you laugh today you will cry tomorrow. Almost as if they prevent you from being too happy too soon."

Despite being stuck in a jam on a 2 km distance home from the coffee run, I was smiling all throughout. Later, ofcourse, reminded of this conversation with Mia K.

"What?", Divyanshu answered in his imaptient, mechanic I-am-at-work-bitch-voice

"I need your help. There's this phrase in Bangla which loosely translates to if you laugh a lot, you will cry a lot. What is it?"

"It's not that. It's actually translated to 'if you laugh today, then you will cry tomorrow.' Slightly different meaning too.", he answered while tapping his keyboard.

"Right, yeah! That!"

"I'll message you."

Waiting to complete my cycle of Joto Hashi, Toto Kanna everybody. Hopefully, the next time I write, it would be to sulk about the weather, the internet speed to send horrible emails and the cobwebs on my vagina in the absence of anyone calling dibbs on my arse.

Dear Photographers,

Why must you insist on making everyone's lives miserable around you? I see you with gaudily dressed couples who insist on crossing the road in front of my car when I am heading towards Kasturba Gandhi Marg from India Gate. I judge you, and not the couple, for the road opposite KG Marg doesn't even have the best view for pre-wedding photography. Yet, you insist on taking the poor couple at there at the crack of the dawn. Who even wants to see a couple canoodle at India Gate? Can we let that be for when they have children and run out of options to entertain them? Do you have no respect for the martyrs? Hashtag soldiers are dying at the border and you're minting money.

What is this attitude of calling people to ask for work/payment at 18:51 pm? Some of us poor sods who were not confident enough to call ourselves photographers ended up getting a desk job. You know what's a desk job? It's a verb (I think) or should I ask Kasturi Roy for clarification. The kind where you sit and work for eight hours straight (yes, I will continue to make Instagram stories and be more productive than you and your ugly partner combined). The same kind of desk job that commissions you and pays for your "lunch" bill at the deceptively named Bombay Canteen. I seriously begin to question the existence of my honorary ball sack each time I encounter people like you. I am too terrified to even take Nathu's Sweets bill for redeeming at work. Here you are with your 12% VAT and 10% service tax on Truffle Oil laden side of Fries with Keema Chorizo Pav and Spinach Asparagus cooked with Hand Crafted Egg Noodles' cheque for clearance for one shoot.
I don't know whether to laugh or to cry at the fact that my salary can't pay for a meal like that and your skills can't save you in an organization where art truly matters, but we can't always be ungrateful now, can we?

I digress, but after a long, pathetic day of work (where my colleague and I were, in all likelihood, passive aggressive towards each other over some banality in our ways of working) you expect me to take your call and motherfucking brief you on my projects and ask you about your life. (No, I am sorry. I am not the authority on releasing payments. You know who does that? The person whose ass you insist on licking. Please follow it up with them). 

I wish I had the balls to pull such stunts as you do. And get away with them. I can only wish.

In my mind, these are akin to the stunts that trained professionals perform at on your television screen at home. That advertisements you proceed to skip on your Tata Sky? Those produced by some person at an agency who gets bare minimum to live by conceives that idea and makes sure it's paid for by the company. Those stunts can be comparable to yours. The kind where you ignore the brief, stomp your foot at me by shouting in all caps, "I AM THE PHOTOGRAPHER. I AM THE AUTHORITY. I AM THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE. I AM LOKI, MOTHERFUCKERS." You get my point?

One of the greatest reasons why I absolutely hate my school with added fervour is when I see professionals with the attitude such as this and I wonder, why did Sr Ivy nip me in the bud when I tried behaving like a deviant in grade XII? Did you really have to live up to your name Sister?

Too personal?

How about, why am I being a motherfucking professional and smiling through it all?
I don't know. There are things I don't know. Much like you, who's the photographer and yet calls me up to ideate the photograph for you, draw a mood board, send you the products, click a reference shot and even send that across.

I really didn't think I'd be drawing storyboards in a publishing house. One of the reasons for not pursuing filmmaking was to walk away from it. Yet, here we are and here I am, doing 90% of your work and taking all 200% of your bullshit and getting paid .23% of what you're making in this.

Do you think I'm going to sympathize with you and your kind?

As someone who was taught "hustling", "being observant" and "jumping" to take that aim at the film school, I look down upon morons like you. Call yourself a "visual thinker", an "artiste", a "photographer" or custodian of art, your confidence is that of a person who's written a mathematics exam very well knowing that you can't pass that, no matter what. I say this because I very well know where you're coming from. I may have even been the same person myself. Cover up the lack of your art and skill in the guise of being too good at it. I did it for years in academia until someone showed me my place. Self-awareness comes complimentary with an MPhil degree.

What would I like for you to do?

I would sincerely request you to shove it up your ass and suck your pride. It would be great if people could be taught skills, humility and professionalism at schools instead of "Prairie is a grassland" and "Zaire has amazing crops".

Just take a moment and look at what shit you're sending out. Ask yourself before taking a motherfucking photograph- is this good enough? Will it serve any purpose? Is it what my client asked? Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears lurk in the woods?

Ask whatever it takes for you to understand you are a speck of dust in the larger scheme of things. In the universe. The art you make, the pictures you take might out live you (I can't say for sure in case of digital). However, here we are and here's your work. If you truly take pride in something which 20 people deem shit, maybe it's time you look again and see. If you are 100% sure about your work then maybe it's time you're dealing with the wrong people. Maybe you're a Van Gogh of this generation. Maybe we are all fools.

However, in all likelihood we are right.

You should consider going to a film school/photography equivalent. Go back, learn the basics. There's nothing wrong in doing that. You'll only get better.

Also, would be great if you could keep that attitude that home. It would save harried professionals like me our writing time and we can focus on a game of Ludo instead.

Definitely, not looking forward to seeing more of your work and hi-res images at that.

All crap,
S

I find former fat kids an intriguing place to look for answers. Answers to questions, their being, the outlook and their outwardly appearance of things which are often covered up by the elephant in the room- the weight loss-that made them who they are.

Confession- I fantasize about being one. Perhaps someday, I too shall be one. I may get to be one and live that life.

Love them or hate their luck, they're quite the rhinoceros who made the cut off to be unicorns. I know so many of them; some very close to me and the others, I want to get close to. They're elusive. I have seen them talk with their eyes, better than the communication post graduates who got a fucking degree in expressing themselves through different media.

Former fat kids is that coveted club, a Gymkhana of sorts, where one in a thousand makes it through. When they do, all eyes are on them. Sure, they have their own grievances to deal with. Their shortcomings that could not be fixed by working out or eating clean or doing weights, but god, they're so fucking attractive.

I know this because I've crushed on a few such. They're creatures who were just as regular as us, but made it to the other side. They're demigods, for they worked on their body and made it their own. It's something no normal person can understand. You have to be a fat kid to know the premise of making it to the other side. It's a lot like new money getting new money. Generations of rich kids won't ever know what's it like for having made it for the first time, on your own. Imagine, that effect but on your body. That's when you truly own them and the world around you.

The world talks money and understands attraction. You have them around your fingers, curled. Just because you worked hard and made it. A friend who's in that club reminded me, "But the fact is, the same 3 people who liked me when I was fat are the ones who truly like me. The rest are only turning their head to the changes my body made. Not at the person I am. The people who liked me, liked me when I was 150 kilos fat."

To be honest, I'd have liked my bunch, just the way they were- with or without the effort. But, effort always counts. Especially if it's your crush who's put that in.

This is another fact confirmed by so many people I've spoken to over the years. Former fat kids grown out to be hotter and more in demand than those who's consistently been 'healthy', 'skinny', 'regular', 'medium', 'average'. Not only do former fat kids get noticed for their sculpted new bodies, their chiselled face yells a lethal combination of confidence and arrogance. It's like a pass to life, you made it through your time as a former fat kid, now you have an all access card to fucking anyone's happiness. Go on, live it. You completely earned it after years of having people look down at you. Here's your card to do it now. For the record, I completely and wholeheartedly support them in this motion.

My new motto to life is- "Don't be afraid to hate" and it coincides just right with these fellas.

One thing, that always baffled me about them former fat kids is their closet. What do these people do with wardrobe full of clothes they sourced over the years, painstrikingly, for their size? Again, I know this because even though I love to shop, finding things that coincide your style, your pocket and your body together is a hellish experience. Half my trips abroad are spent lurking from store to store, finding things that can last me through the soirees thrown by my former fat kid friends. I love them to death but god, I can't match their sass.

I have had this question repeat itself, each time it saw a transformation. A girl from class who got married, another who's chilling on a yacht, yet another friend who's been there with me. This man, who I swore to myself I'd do at the backseat of his car (spoiler- didn't happen there)- him- and another crush amongst other people; this question remained in my head. I could never bring it up. Ofcourse half the time in my head I felt bad for the outfit and how it would be chucked out for snug, snooty fitted outfit to match the lethal personality of the person wearing it.

It's as if you shed the person you are, along with the weight you lose. You have a reincarnation over night, with the fat you dispose. There's no other explanation to this.

This morning, after my shower, I was attempting to wear my outfit. My new lingerie, picked out from my last vacation after having hunted it for over a week hung loose despite wearing it on the tightest clamp. A tshirt, which used to be body hugging, now hung loose over the ill-fitted bra.

I came out of the shower to stare at myself. I find myself doing it a lot more these days. The flab from my sides hasn't shown itself in a week, the tyres re-appear only after the dinner and I see the appearance of a waist line. The boobs have shrunk, but I can't say the same with surety. It's almost as if I don't want to jinx it.

This morning is when I learnt my answer. You don't fuss about the clothes. Instead, you constantly worry about putting something in your mouth and that thing translating back on your body. On the sides, in your tits, on your back, in your tyres- everywhere. Former fat kids don't give a fuck about the outfits. They only care about one thing- they don't ever want to go back from where they've come and how far they've worked to reach where they are. They'd rather spend their life making money to buy new outfit than to go back to the mediocrity that a "normal" body brings.

At a Safal outlet, 18:08 hours.

Baby Banana - (observing a rack full of Granny Smith) "Listen, how many calories are there in one green apple? Are those like carbs? Like I know there are 80 calories in a medium normal apple."

Mia Khalifa - "Ah, those (pointing at Granny Smith) are called pear in English and बब्बूगोशा in Hindi. You might want to learn fruits first before you learn about calories."

What do you do when you wake up on the wrong side of luck?

I always believed that Midas was a dumb muthafucka. That man gave away his power for his inability to control it. He was literally daft not actually employing people to do all the 'touching' on his behalf. I mean, the man had the resources to hire two people (with legit four hands) to do all the 'touching' for him. For Pete's sake, he could touch turd and make it into solid gold. I hope it was all 22 carat and that he paid his employees in his gold turd (remains of gold biscuits turn to the gold turd, geddit?).

Yet, he chose to exit that wonderful blessing (or whatever power) he was granted exclusive access to. I've heard many a version of that man cursing his luck for being blessed (hashtag blessed like all Delhi teenagers) to turn everything into gold, yet, he cribbed so much that someone wrote a whole fucking fable about him.

Where was I? My luck.

I'm the opposite of Midas. Whatever I touch, it turns to turd. Throw a gold biscuit my way for sample. Address on request.

You throw a project proposal, complete with everything in order and favourable conditions and I will give you back a mess, which can neither be evaded nor destroyed. I've a great example but I'd like to believe people from work are reading this and I'm on tenterhooks (I've been informed). Right now won't be the best time.

If I believe I've found love, it often always turns out to be a gastritis attack. You know, in my head, which clears as I proceed to tell the second of my three friends about it. The man literally becomes one with the ether, leaving sulphuric after effects of his presence. Or, as the doctors refer to it in science, farts.

If I think, there's no better negotiator than me, an agency will show me my place by ignoring my phone calls, messages, sweet nothings, angry everything, only to respond in the first instance a senior colleague writes to them. So much for me being the loyal client and insisting on going back to the damn agency.

Just when I think, I'm gold with not consuming carbs and processed food and refined sugar, I get pissed drunk and stoned and book a ticket to Pune. I eat crap for three solid meals for over three days and come back to eat at McDonald's because shit it's shutting down. WHATTODO?

First, I don't drop any inches or kilos for two fucking months and just when I feel that starts to happen, I start to binge eat again.

"How's the peanut chocolate? I didn't like the milk coated in rice crispies one. Oh, you don't want yours?" Fuck people distributing food in offices. That shit should have gotten over with celebrating birthdays in school and having pineapple cakes at birthdays. Those two things are legitimately stuff of past.

On a different note, I don't get people who bring back goodies from their vacation, to work. First, you get the privilege to fuck off for a while (lucky cow), then you return to rub it in everyone's face by distributing chocolate or some such to the entire fucking office because you had a gala time, while some of us were stuck in the office with people who believe are finding the cure to cancer.

That's HR's idea of no appraisal, but how about refined sugar and cocoa as vacation leftovers? You get something for being a good girl and sticking around all Summer. Did you see their pictures from Cancun? Oh, how stunning!

There's also not getting beef samosas, beef steak burger and patrani macchi, but I think a Facebook status was more than enough rant about turning my life into turd. I literally booked a return ticket to eat those things and got none of that. Instead, I drank calories in the form of a Thumps Up (which I could have done at home, thank you very much), battled body odour, and cringed at the idea of unclean bedsheets, a pet peeve I never let go since I found this friend's sibling and her boyfriend were having sex on the mattress they had lend me during a trip.

There's also my words here. I write about people and their behaviour towards me turns turd-like.

Instead of people being grateful that I'm immortalising their ridonkulously boring asses on my blog, there are those insufferable, arrogant bastards who look at me like I've infected them with AIDS. Well, if you think you're better, then make yourself better. You are literally a lot more pathetic than my words make you sound like. And, to be honest, writing about you is like doing charity. My right hand does not approve of what my left hand makes you sound like but a girl's gotta live. And write.

It's Friday and it's my writing night tonight. Time to burn bridges and turn gold into turd.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with my blog entry. I just wanted to brag that one out of my three friends think this qualifies as 'literature'.