Prose before hos

All the things we lose, have a special place where they accumulate.

All the lost objects, find themselves in the universe of lost objects.

Have you seen/read (in that order, yes) the Harry Potter series? If so, then you'd understand this better. This space is entirely how J K Rowling describes the Room of Requirements to be. Think of the desire and the focus that goes to get around to one of those.


The universe of lost objects functions in a similar manner.



The universe of lost objects is a very happy place. The flooring is covered with a layer of pens, pen caps and unused refills (which come free with the said pen's replacement). This universe has unaccountable pen-drives and sim cards, which have no digital footprints to trace their origin, but often go back to fading relationships and thinning identities over time. It has a colony of hair clips, rubber bands, ruffles, combs and other hair accessories since they're usually small in size.

The size dictates the journey and the ease of movement from in and out of this universe. Not that it doesn't permit large objects, it's just a limited stay, usually. Unless, they're abandoned immediately after the realization that this universe is hard to find.

The universe of lost objects has all your childhood triggers. Those erasers which you would lose every week, to the brand new keychain you added to your backpack in the sixth grade. Lucy (Peanuts) on your backpack didn't last a day in school. The universe of lost objects has packed your old comic books, novels, bookmarks and even your first cellphone, if you were a nineties kid.

Do you remember that birthday present from your 12th birthday, that your folks got you? The universe of lost objects has that as well. Isn't that cool?  If you don't identify with this immediately, let me tell you about my first contribution to this space. A gleaming brooch, in the shape of a thumbs up sign, which was a part of our heirloom (!). My aunt was a regional manager at McDonald's, way back in the day and it was passed on from her to my mother, and to me. On a winter morning, before dropping me to the school, my mother put the brooch on my blazer. As I walked inside the school gate proudly, it was a matter of minutes when I realized I'd lost it somewhere. I spent the next seven years, until my farewell, looking for that. In hindsight, I am almost convinced it was my evil (then) best friend who is responsible for that loss.

It's not just the brooch, or the sentimental value. I have a thing for memorabilia. Take me to an exhibition and buy me a coaster. Years later, you'll see me protecting it with bubble wrap and never using it. In my mind, I am saving it away from accessing the universe of lost objects. I hate that hell hole. I spent the last five months after renovation wondering where I kept the glass Jim Morrison coaster, my mother bought me from a fair, eight years ago. Have I ever used that coaster? No.

Similarly, for as long as I remember, I have saved eraser's cover- the plastic sheet which covers the eraser so you don't dirty it while using it (which is quite ironic, really). I have had the eraser covers from when I was eight years old to a scale (which has animal figures emobossed and their names next to them in Chinese, in Roman script). It's on the verge of breaking, yet, each time I see it I make an agnostic prayer for it to be saved. I can't stand the idea of losing it to the universe of lost objects, or forever.

Part of the problem is with locating this space. The universe of lost objects is intricately linked to the memory. Retentiveness takes you a long way through in the course of your travel to the universe of the lost objects. However, one distraction and you're forever out of the queue to visit the universe of lost objects. That does make this space reminiscent of jailtime/ life imprisonment. You can't exit, unless you are forgiven or there's drastic change in the behaviour or you have shit tonne to pay your lawyers.

The last month or so have been extremely productive, in so far as sitting at home and writing is concerned. Which means, I have been relying on resources at home- more than regularly. Imagine finding out, you've lost a vintage Disneyland Mickey Mouse box containing two of your 64 gb pen drive, a sleek pair of lilac glasses, with the most dainty frame covering the shaded glass. A pair of sky-high sleek wedges with leopard print strap, and a no-nonsense design with it. It was special cause I picked it up during my first trip abroad, years ago.

The brooch losing bit took me about ten years of grieving to be able to come to accept the loss. I had only had it for under two days before I could bid a goodbye.

Nobody knows how to access this universe. I have always wondered about it. I wish I could make a casual visit to the universe of lost objects one day and see my lost memorabilia. That would mean more than a closure here.

This is the age to watch, and not read the written word. The fact that anything that I write cannot beat this video is besides the point.

Nine solid years of irreverence. Bad writing, poor spacing, blasphemous grammar and mindless use of punctuation, wherever deemed necessary.

I've had supervision upon me for the last year or so, which has been trying to tell me to either improve or go home. In this duration, neither has happened, except for losing that one year. While I am pretty sure, at the end of this, I'm going to be extremely disappointed, I am trying very hard to not emulate the same vibe on this page. Which is perhaps the only reason as to why I don't update/post anything here as often.

And, what can I possibly update even when I feel like? Everyone I knew in 2007 has moved, people I came to know over the years are all gone, all over the place. People around me got career, cars, job, had children, divorced and separated. Me? I moved from using a desktop to one laptop to second and now onto the third. I've moved from one university to the other in the same city. People came and went, heart was broken and mended several times, from negotiating a salary to filling out scholarship forms; it's been a repetitive cycle of zero movement. There's no inactivity but there's also no change. It was great the first time around, not so much the second time. By third time, it's hardly a charm. I am immune to most things, beings and feelings- not so much drama or feels that one gets to write about. I could go for a nightout at 2:30 am and return at 9 am to not write about it. Not for it wasn't fun or great or whatever, but, it's not relevant, really.

Someday perhaps I'll look back and wonder why didn't I celebrate the day with as much vigour as I used to back when I was happy. However, today, I'll live and breathe in ecstacy that the longest relationship I have been in, is with this page. And, I can't be more grateful.

It's our last single digit birthday. :)

I hate writing. It's comical to establish that; it's been nearly nine years since I've been writing here. However, in these nine years not once have I written a piece that I could once point at and repeat, "Please spend some time on it." My work does not beget that attention. I've never aspired to be a blogger whose work leaves an influence that you will carry it with you to the Sunday afternoon tea and think about it while you feast on scones (much less, bring it up to your set of friends who are enjoying an egg-mustard finger sandwich while you have ordered scones for yourself). In a certain way, my writing is comparable to that of a hooker's job. It's mechanical, often conducted without any emotion and extremely utilitarian in the exercise of having written something. Sure, it's frilly and flowery (again, a cheesy parallel with that of the 'outfits' adorned by prostitutes to titillate the passer-bys) but it isn't anything 'good'. Now, it's another case that I am not going into the discussion of what's good and what's bad and who defines it. We'll take another lifetime, and perhaps in an alternate universe it's already been done.

It's a paradox in itself that this page survived for nine fucking years when I can't put myself to focus on a document that needs 15k words. I bumped into a colleague yesterday who had the most inspiring thing to tell me, "You're a content writer, yes? You could churn out 6k words in a night. How difficult are 10000 really?" Not at all, but I've lost my mojo to type mindlessly and for the words to make mighty sense. A year ago, I could send shit out without thinking twice. Today, it would take me a month to compose 5000 words for an essay and still be pooping in my pants about the outcome.

Things are different this time. Pardon me for the analogy but this really captures the essence. Have you ever been in bed with someone, and realized within the first few seconds that it is going to suck (no pun intended) rather bad? The moments building to the next and passing to join a whole act of conjunction being so utterly tasteless and devoid of sense that you're mentally calculating the time in which you get done and get out. Writing a dissertation is a lot like that. You're doing it and at the back of your mind you know it's horrendous. You are aware of the fact that your body can't do much to salvage this and that this particular encounter will leave a setback to your head, so severe that you will think twice before heading to a direction which requires you to think creatively and work independently.

A former professor recently told me that I am not cut out for this line. It's a rather polite way of telling someone that they're a misfit in academia. Then again, it's not just her. If I had a dollar for each time someone said that to me, I would have enough to re-apply for my rejected visa application and consider moving to San Francisco. I've been told they have good pancakes there.

So, yeah. I can't do this. I cannot for the life of me write and I cannot process intellgible ideas by theoreticians and academics. I've tried and off late feigned and failed how this works. I'm not in an environment conducive to be in academia and that somehow explains why such few Punjabis actually end up in this line. I'm not saying that they don't but they probably don't have a family like mine. It ends up consuming more of my mind how to sit these fellows down and explain what it's like to do what I do, than sit and understand what Habermas really meant. The fact that I can eat when I want, sleep when I want and waste time as I want is what comes as a visual to my folks then there isn't a scope to come to terms with telling them what it's like to be here.

But then again, it's not just them. It's been two years and nobody I'm friends with understands what it's like to be in this position at this point in your life. You're not really moving forward and you're not really stationery. You're somewhere in between, like being on a treadmill. In motion but at the same spot where you were two years ago. Sadly, everyone around you has moved to better pastures (or well, worse) but you won't know.

It's incredible that two years have gone and I'm rather calm about this state. It's made me lazy for one and that it's sucked all the passion off me. There's nothing worth fighting for and nothing worth striving for. All that is there is a mechanical understanding of making sense with tools and ideas and shaping them to use.

Academia reminds me of being in a playschool. I have vivid memories of sitting in between a group of kids. Each one of us trying to make sense of blocks we are playing with. Nobody really teaches you to play- you just learn it or make sense of objects around you, till you have mastered it and you consequently, outgrow it. The same way academia comes to you. If you find that it's your calling (or confuse it with a result that claimed you're fit for it), you end up innit.



Somehow, I'm in that room with sunlight peering through the entrance and the right down to the spot where our bags are kept. I am leaping at the plastic blocks and trying to find my way to build a solid structure. Instead, I start with a pattern and each time end with a mess. My inability to comprehend solid chunks of meaningless pieces has come a long way now. I want out.

The only factor binding my dissertation is Shah Rukh Khan. Not in a cheesy, he-appears-in-all-chapters-way but more so in a he makes a cameo in each of the mediums I'm writing about, somewhere.

Shah Rukh's apparently, been a VJ for a show on Doordarshan, in the heydays. This is besides his full-blown acting stint for television, the infamous gigs that got him thrown out of the college and the course I attended.

He's also dabbled as a radio presenter for AIR, in one of his critically acclaimed roles in Hindi cinema. I know, I know. He hasn't really been on the radio but you've got to see the film, if you've not already, to know that he's made the journey from virtual to real in his acting. One needs to be convincing enough, which, as it is becomes a task for radio jockey. You're acting either way, broadcast is a different issue.

As for my last chapter, he made an appearance at what is touted as a pilgrim for all young adults interested in pursuing a career out of video blogging. I happened to be there, for their event this year. It was nothing short of mad, all kinds of inspiring (for whom it makes the cut) and equal part exhilarating.

Only if he had completed his degree, he would not have ventured out of television. I'm getting terrible ideas.

I lost my Bombay virginity recently. Truth be told, there's hardly a few things one hasn't done/seen by this age. Losing virginity acquires a special form where you inner monologue goes all, "hey, another thing accomplished!" Doing/experiencing anything for the first time is usually memorable. I am trying to recollect all that has been filed as long term first-time memory, in this case.

That Time I was "in" Bombay.

The thing about the city is that it hit me when I was least expecting it. I was numb to the impact when I found out I was leaving in less than twenty four hours. Barely having recovered the whirlwind Pune stint, I could not grasp the intensity of the shock. It hit me when I was being transferred to my flight, standing next to a gang of skinny girls with decaf Starbucks crap. It hit me, when the lady, sitting on the window seat kept chewing Lays Magic Masala with her mouth open, making the co-passenger (ie, me) very uncomfortable through the turbulent flight. I remember coming out of the airport with wry smile across my face. "This is what everyone's been talking about." Half expected to come across familiar spots and signs, I avoided using my phone in transit from the airport to my friend's flat. To capture the first images of Bombay as much as I could, with just my eyes, I was glued to every sight, sound and smell on the road. Not the most pleasing thing to hit your sensory system with. I felt terribly claustrophobic. As if, someone cut my limbs and stuffed me in a plane toilet. Don't ask me how and where that image comes from. There was a sense of joy- of having made it, finally. Without anyone, without a plan and without any instructions, here I was in a city that everyone around me raved about. I've always gotten a whole lot of, "You would love Bombay! Everyone would love you there. That city is made for you!" from god knows, everyone who's ever been there and known me. Naturally, I had come armed up favourable reviews.

Now, if you're looking out for fables on getting robbed/mugged/losing heart etc, please close this tab and move out. None of that happened. Neither did random acts of kindness where someone offered me a shower and a room with clean sheets for each night that I was there. It was far less shimmering and definitely not as inviting as other cities have been. A part of the blame has to go to Pune, for making everything so warm and comfortable that you end up imagining, "Bombay must be a better version of it!' It isn't, sweetheart. Bombay is harsh. The weather is fucking awful. The city has a stench, similar to that of Hong Kong. For the record, I love Hong Kong. It's the kind of place where everything is out of your limit. Outside your pocket and boundaries mean you'll be inspired to work hard or go home. Something similar is the case with Bombay, only, I felt like going home.

Bombay isn't a city for dreamers or believers. It's a city for those who can follow a set of orders or a template for that matter. You remember the preparation for CBSE board exams? The kind where you've to follow those Sample Papers and keep practicing the format? Bombay is a city meant for those who would answer those question papers, without asking a question to themselves. It's meant for those who can continue to pedal daily, on the same route, in the same queue, wearing the same outfit and doing the same fucking thing. It's like a Metronome. Only so much can go down, rhythmically. Only predictable outcomes will lead to occasional splashes of happiness. Or sadness. The binaries can sustain without battling an eyelid because there is no space for the grey to thrive. The city lacks space, for an unrestrained flow of emotions, which spring from actions other than the ones programmed under the Ford model.

There were parts of the city that I loved, instantly. I took to them, the way fish takes to water. I never wanted to leave the filthy Juhu beach. Prithvi Café transported me back to the literatti alleyways of Habitat evenings (one up for Prithvi folks, for the delectable food). Colonial architecture in and around South Bombay makes you fall in love with the space, sure. But, those spaces are unreal for you, if you're staying near the fisherman's wharf in the opposite corner of the city. Almost like calling Greater Noida, a synonym for Connaught Place. Every city has it's charming corners and spots. This one had it tucked away, for those who can afford it.

I remember this sunny Saturday afternoon, I spent with a close friend in 'bay. He took me around to his favourite corners of SoBo (purely through the car window), only to stop at this residential area along the sea. We walked till the sea, after leaving the car at a distance and I swear on all things holy, that area smelt like Delhi. It did not smell of fish, or struggle or daily anxiety filled rides. It smelt of all things pleasant, a happy memory, an old photograph conjuring smiles and nothing else. Walking around that space made Bombay feel humanly, for once. All the things that people ever said to me about the city, came true. However, the illusion did not last very long. We got munchies post-sundown and as we came close to wrap the evening, I felt morose. Helpless, even. Anything to not get back to the fisherman's wharf. Perhaps, it was knowing that I wouldn't be with my friend for long, and that any contact with familiarity in that city was all that I needed to keep me going against everything.

Having said (mostly) everything, I go back into one January afternoon at my advisor's office. She's possibly the only one who maintained the notion that Bombay is hardly a city to live in. Her reasons for the same may exactly be the reason that would make a Delhiite stand against a Bombay kid (and I'm not going to give that here), but in all honesty, her version about the city is possibly the closest I experienced. No, it doesn't have anything to do with the fact she's written a whole damn book about Bombay, as the cinematic city. It possibly has to do with not falling for small nooks and crannies as treats and knowing that the spaces of illusions cannot hold the everyday experience. The people constituting the experience rarely give you a chance to sit back, look and enjoy it. Everyone out there is chasing something so unreal, and with so much straightforwardness that they no longer look out for magic or living the dreams. Bombay is all about the chase, and not the kind that gives you a rush. In all likelihood, you're not going to live opposite Marine Drive, neither are you going to chill at Cuff Parade and nor are you going to have a movie evening after shopping at Colaba. Bombay is about the survival of the fittest. In that jungle, if you aspire to dream then keep that dream to yourself. No one's got the time to hear yours.



Leaving this old number, that I found myself singing each time I visited SoBo. I find it ironic for a Delhi guy to sing this number on Bombay streets. But then again, I look at the Delhi guy and see that he's achieved it all. Perhaps, it's worth it. For me? Not one bit. Not right now. I think I'd forever be a pauper in Delhi than giving it all up for the chase. 

I may have traded writing with watching television but neither is going to get me out of this slump. I think what has happened here is that I've become too comfortable, too cushy and extremely lazy in painting things to the right angle for this state. It's as if, everything I ever wished for came true. The next step is obviously that of confusion, because what is it that I can do, now that I have everything going on.