Part 1 - Part 2

29^th June, 2015

I know the title of this post isn’t making any sense but I do hope it will make the sense it is intended to. I am writing this one in two parts for various reasons, yet I cannot give one solid reason maybe because there isn’t one. Keep reading, it may make sense, or don’t read.

Part 1 – Audacity.

My current whatsapp status reads “basically I am dying”. No, not a false alarm, I am not kidding this time. I might am dying. If not today, good for me. There is this sharp pain in my left chest area, where usually the human heart resides. No, it is not related to anything else but a critical medical anomaly, which is followed by a slight numbness in my left palm. I cannot feel much and it is warmer than it needs to be, and pain comes and goes, being unbearable at times. I have been dosed with medications and am asked to be a bit warned about anything out of the ordinary by the doctor. There is one medicine that I have to continue for a year or so, and that’s really not cool.  

But what does it has to do anything with being audacious? Probably nothing in a macro view in regard to everything, but in a closer inspection, I might say it has to be my nature. I have audacious throughout a considerable amount of time. Defiant, arrogant, sometimes self destructing and with no regards to feelings of the people who may or may not care. For example, I had an exam yesterday, an entrance for M.A in English. It was my audacity only that gave that exam, regardless of the questions which made no bloody sense to me, I mean, how am I supposed to know which style did Charles dickens did NOT used in a sentence. Who cares? But I gave the exam and I don’t regret it. Well, it’s just my nature to be so, and hence, here comes the fact that even the verdict by the doctor doesn’t bother me. Not by the least. I just shrugged and asked if I am really gonna die. Chances are slim, but I have to be careful about everything. Silly thing this heart is. Pains both ways and now it really pains like fuck. But even now, I am just laughing at death’s face, I don’t know, if I am really gonna pop off in a few months or the world have to bear my existence for more, I don’t care. Maybe bit regret, but they will pass. I don’t know if, by the time this blog is read, I will be in a position to do anything, but since I have time, I will be using it.

Defying death isn’t natural and  is impossible, but pain can be defied, and so one can be audacious enough to make snide remarks and laugh giddily. Right now, while I am typing this, I am having problems in using my left hand, my fingers aren’t moving smoothly and I am making mistakes. I am sweating as I am short of breaths and that’s about it. But then, such trivialities are just trivial. It was my audacity only when I punched a wall continuously until the skin finally gave away, leading to a massive bleeding. And it is my audacity only that I am posting the picture of it (yes, I took a snap before the fix). 

                                                        this was fun, but i was reprimanded later.

  So there, I am (probably, apologies if otherwise happens) dying of a heart anomaly, I can’t feel my left hand much, I feel pukish like someone has placed a gag inside my throat and my head spins like a Ferris wheel, while my audacity defies everything. Death’s too easy.  Not bad eh?

Now, to part 2.

Part 2 – The Green Park Girl Parable.

As mentioned earlier, I had an exam yesterday. The ungodly hour of 2.00 pm, as the sun was burning the city of Delhi, it sucked all the vitality that I might have used in other things, like porn or something. Anyways, the exam wasn’t what I must have expected, and I don’t expect anything from it anyway. The good thing is, or what makes the title, is the fact that the train from university to qutub metro is basically empty, especially during the afternoons, 2 to 4.30 or so. I was awake all the night before, gazing at the sleeping streets along with the stray dogs that were on a constant vigil, and thus as every anatomical rule dictates, I was exhausted as anything. It has been a penchant of mine; I hardly take a seat in metro. I prefer commuting while standing near the door, leaning against the glass panel on either side. It provides a good view of the entire coach and sometimes beyond.

Now, I had learnt it years ago that truth is always stranger than fiction, and I always keep an open mind whenever I am out, looking for something stranger than fiction, and I am never disappointed. But I wasn’t expecting her, the green park girl. The girl who was dressed in algae blue top, black jeans and slippers, with a beige colored bag.

Humans are very strange, and curios. Especially when it comes to someone else’s phone and text messages. Those sheer want to know anything and everything, which always leads us to peeking in someone’s phone over their shoulder. And I will admit, though I resent doing so, I too am not totally void of that curiosity. So, being ashamed now of what I have done, breaching the private moments of a complete stranger, I couldn’t help but notice one or two messages on her phone and some drops of water on the screen, it took me less than seconds that she was crying. The empty coach, a few people so oblivious about each other, no one noticed. I did, unfortunately. It’s a curse really, to notice everything that one shouldn’t even see. I did. She boarded the train from Kashmere gate and to both of our misfortune decided to sit just on the seat by the glass panel where I stood. There was this strange sadness in her visage that was visible, like she wasn’t even trying to hold it back.

I wouldn’t disclose her message, I atleast can do this for her, but it was sure that she was going through a bad separation. And when I say bad I mean very bad, and it will get worse. I know it. I have seen worse, and she not even there yet. She was typing in a furious speed, and her texts were pleading, begging and everything a desperate person would do. Maybe there was reasoning too, they do it. Humans are basically stupid enough to reason with a person who has lost all the respect, care and the love for the other one, so lost that everything the person is saying is just a poison to them. So, she was just dealing with a person who was just blind. Now, maybe he must have his reasons, nothing happens without any reason, but why shall it mean that one shall deny any explanation? And what even bedazzles me is the question that how in the name of god can anybody loose love for one. And if it was not love in the first place, why not tell them. Why take so much time, building dreams in one’s heart and then bring a wrecking ball and tear it down so mercilessly because they weren’t sure about it, it was just an infatuation. So why not tell it just when it needs to be told, why the fuck kill them inside their heart when they gave the other person all of their happiness and everything without any second thought. Like I said, he might had his reasons, but then, if you were to break that, at least meet her, talk it out, try at least to be sure that it isn’t just a momentary notion. But no, oh no, just drop a message, and everything is done, everything is at its end. A fucking message, that’s about it, it doesn’t matter after all, what the person who reads that message will go through. At least one shall have the decency. But I guess decency is just an old notion these days.

Anyways, there was a time when I really wanted to sit by her side and hug her so she knows that there is still hope while she lives, that she is not alone. To say, that it’s not the end darling, not yet, everything will be alright in a jiffy! But then, she was a stranger and hugging her like that or even doing anything mentioned above might have landed in jail for eavesdropping and molesting. You know how it works.

Eventually her destination arrived and just like the way she came in, she left the train, with her shoulders slouched as if a heavy bag is on her back. She left at Green Park metro station; the last image of her in my head will be she walking up to the escalator before wiping her eyes. I hope, (god, I need to stop) that everything is fine with you darling, you silly little stranger with blue top! The train then moved forward.

So, there, my two part blogs. God, it hurts now, the chest again and its bad and I cannot feel my leg... Need to leave. Hope my readers are good. Love you all. Goodnight.

project : letters #8

21^st June, 2015.

Letter 8

“5^th November, 2014.

Dear S_________

I know, by the time you read this letter, it would have been too late, and chances are either you will forget it, or will never see my face again. And for the first time, I would prefer your forgetfulness. In any case, I know I should not have said that to you. Given your occasional rudeness, I know I made a promise to you my love, and I was literally this close to break it. I ask for forgiveness, ask, and not claim.

Anyways, I cannot write much. I know you love me, but tonight I feel so unworthy of it.

Sorry again.

R.B”

The 100th

21st June, 2015

Guess What?

This… is my 100^th blog!

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! HUNDRETH BLOG?

Yes… well the 100^th BLOG! YAY!

I don’t remember the day I first started writing the blog, but I do remember that I forgot to give it a title. It was near 2013 I guess when I started typing stuff in here as my masthead suggests “there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Bleed. Even if it sounds crazy, bleeding is somewhat good, at least there is no false or lies in your sentiments or emotions or whatever makes us write. Hence this blog.

However it was not all of a sudden. I never do things suddenly; sometimes I do things that know no reasons, but not suddenly. I did not woke up one day and decided to start typing, that never happens. I was in the first year of my college when I was told that I have a penchant of writing, a certain way with words. Though at that time, it was either the last pages of my register or any blank page where I would put some words that would make no sense. My fried Dishant asked me to keep writing, and try to make it better. Then I came across some blogs. Like the blog called ‘subterranean homesick alien’, that belongs to Pranjal, a friend of mine. It took me quite a time to understand what he writes and why he writes. Frustrating as his tough jargon language was, it never failed to amaze me. Then there was ‘playhousediaries’, which belongs to my bohemian. Easy writing and full of colors. Sometimes desperate, but fantastic. Oh well, lovely as she is, so is her style, the flair! And how can I forget ‘beingdouche’ otherwise known as the bittersweet symphony of life, and the ‘ashes of phoenix’ that is administered by none other than narcissus! Now to speak of his blog, he once asked me what I think of his writings, a critical view. Hmm…not tough, raw, but if one wants to notice, they will find a change in his content. Polar changes to be precise, I will leave it to my readers to observe and figure it out.

 These three blogs made the monster that I am, the bespectacled dark skinned, somewhat obese guy behind a glaring screen, typing away his brains and heart out via a keyboard. The birth of psychosociopath, or psychojournals.  Now, one can ask about this particular nomenclature. Actually, I was asked why this name? Well, I did had choices. There were names that I made for the page, like blisszone or misfitislander, and unchartedplanetzero, but none of them described the sheer need of my writings. I don’t think that the current name does any justice to the reason I write either but there was a time when I thought myself as a psychopath. Well, I still am, and maybe that’s what had insinuated itself in the cyber-zone, and I must admit, it paid off well.

I started this blog, not as an escaped from the mundane life, but just to type random crass which will make no sense. There wasn’t any ulterior motive, deceptive emotions or hidden things; there is nothing to read between the lines, and no intellectual thinking, just some sentences that try, in vain, to describe either my mind state or just nothing. But I grew. With each new post I found myself more and more apt, although I am still an alien in the world of common faces, I know I don’t belong here, either because people are stupid or I am, but still, I grew large. Dragon size! (Alright, maybe not, but who cares?)

With each new post, I started thinking more, feeling more, seeing what people would miss for sure, and be a jerk at heart. And amazing as it is, this blog has seen it all. From the mundane days to the happiest moments of my life when I was in love (I still am in love), day of betrayal, heartbreak, forgiveness and immense hope and the love that never dies. Everything. This blog, the previous ninety nine blogs are an amalgamation of everything I have inside me and they are growing day by day.  The poetry, stories, everything that I wrote, they were/are what goes inside my head at a speed of light. Numerous thoughts, memories, dreams, feelings, pain, laugh, everything. And hence, this.

And I would be wrong to say that there are only 3 blogs that inspired me to write. There are other blogs too, like ‘fantasy’ and ‘infinityonpause’ and some other fantastic write-ups, and I tend to get inspired by everything that keeps me awake in the nights.

I don’t think it will be soon enough when I’ll stop writing. I want to stop, really. I cannot care less about anything, and one day, I will be so bored that I will delete everything, leaving every memory to drift and wither away. Every post that I wrote will be obsolete, they don’t mean anything already, and I really don’t care. Since everything is bound to get erased I don’t care. But till then, a happy 100^th blog post to me!

Love!

Mother and a purple shirt

19^th June, 2015.

It is only one day since baba and bhai had left for west Bengal leaving me to take care of Maa. Now when I say taking care it generally means me sleeping till 9 and then waking up to the best alarm in the world. Her fingers running through my hairs and her voice waking me up. I have never been a good son. Not to her.

Strange woman, my mother is. I cannot understand her, because there are still some things that she leaves for me to understand on my own. For example, 2 days ago, she and Baba went to ISCKON temple; it was the death anniversary of my grandmother. Now, what shall I expect from her if she goes to a temple? Well, maybe the Prasad (I like the besan laddoos).

But, to my amazement, there was something else too! And I must say, my father too is a strange person in that accord. ISCKON is also known for good t-shirts, the ones with Krishna’s 108 names or with ‘hari-naam’ shirt and  stuff like that. Yes, I know that this cannot be strange, but what she did, or was going to do something that wasn’t like her. Upon returning home, she said that she wanted to buy a shirt for me but due to my absence, she couldn’t fix the exact size. Okay, alright, nothing wrong with that, but the next thing said…

She wanted to buy a shirt for “her” too! And my great father, he too agreed. So much so, maa even had considered buying it already, but didn’t. And by the description of the shirt, it didn’t take much of my imagination to create a picture. A purple shirt with a peacock feather.

You know what is strange? Mother, knowing everything about what I’ve gone through or whatever had happened, she still had this feeling. That one feeling of either forgiveness or love. Well, to think of it anyone else might have cursed, or would have done something drastic. But, Maa! Oh mother, why are you like this? Why cannot you be like every other mother in the world who is just so boring? Why do you love so much?

I know I am stupid, all of them say that I am, still in love, still smiling on things, still looking at the roads outside in a drastic, fucked up hope. But what about my Maa? Why does she hopes and smiles? What makes her so strong in one place where I start to lose? Not everybody wants to buy a beautiful dress for a person who is not there. Gone! Or are they really gone? Are they really capable of that? Maybe they can! With everything that’s happening around me, nothing can surprise me. But why Maa? What makes her so loving? What makes her so incalculably forgiving?

I don’t know. I asked her “Why were you going to buy that for her?” she said, “Well, two reasons! You love her and I love her and your father adores her and maybe in the end, everything will be alright! And then again, your love, or love in general, is plain stupid.”

She didn’t buy it though, the shirt. I asked her again, if she chose one why didn’t she buy it? Her answer was reasonable. She said “well, I chose it because I wanted to, the color would look pretty on her, but I didn’t buy it because there isn’t a point! Although, I’ll buy her a dress, I already gifted her one, didn’t I?” I am yet to understand what she meant, but I have seen one thing. If my mother hates someone, the person knows she hates them. But if she loves a person, s/he will be the luckiest person on earth, because then, there would no one thing that my mother wouldn’t do for them. She loves and the person, be it my friends, relatives or strangers, they feel the love in its extremity. Like her, my father is the same. Maybe even Maa looks out of the window on the streets and waits for someone to step down from a gramin sewa or an auto-rikshaw and knock the door. She hopes, and she loves.

Mother, you are stupid. And so am I! I love you.

Regards.

Ambulance (8th blog story)

14^th June, 2015.

                                                      Ambulance.

I never had been inside an ambulance before! Though the age old bollywood movies and stupid t.v serials that my sister and mother watch with the ineffable devotion did some justice to the imagery that I had formed inside my head, it is never the same. I remember, in fragments, about what was it like and when later I tried to match it with those in movies, they weren’t the same. Or maybe I wasn’t paying much attention; I wasn’t in a position to do so that night.

I remember Arjun sitting by my side, speechless and mentally traumatized. Like someone had pulled all of his joke, witticism, all his clever sarcasms out of him, just a shell of him remained motionless. I, on the other hand, wasn’t any different from him, maybe even worse. In front of us, there was the body, laid like a broken rag doll whose left arm was at an impossible angle. The crisp white bed-sheet wasn’t white anymore; rather, anyone would have mistaken it for a red sheet with white spots. The whole room (I still don’t know what they call it, maybe it doesn’t have a name or term for the back of an ambulance) was filled with a bad stench. It happens when the brain stops functioning, the bowel movements becomes involuntary. Combine that with the rustic smell of blood, sealed medicines and some iodine solutions maybe (I don’t remember), and you’ll get a formidable, putrid smell.

Shalini lay in front of us both. Motionless, but not dead, somewhere in between. Her beautiful face was not beautiful anymore, I don’t know what it was but not beautiful. Dislocated jaw, missing teeth, misplaced nose, broken arm, internal injuries, bathed in her own blood, it can be a morbid fascination for a psychopath, but for me it was painful. My shirt was crispy with the drying blood, and so was Arjun’s, his Jim Morrison tee shirt was like some bad canvas of a 5 year old. I made a joke later after, but none laughed, neither Arjun nor Shalini. Well, jokes aren’t my forte really.

We were at Malviya nagar, me and Arjun, having momos and beers when Sharma aunty called on my phone. I had heard before that when a woman is crying her language changes into a cryptic cipher. But the firsthand experience was that evening only. It took the both of us some seconds to a minute to realize her words. “…beta…Shalini…blood…jumped…” which was followed by her wails that might have come out of the phone for there were people looking at us questioningly.

We must have broken almost 50 traffic rules that evening, Arjun was driving like hell, like some car chase scene from a movie. We almost collided with a truck, were inches from running over a guy and some other things, luckily there wasn’t anything and we weren’t apprehended by the judiciary. Well, I still consider myself lucky.

I was feeling helpless, for the first time in my life I was out of my wits and thinking of it now, there could have been worse situations. The constant oscillation between consoling Sharma aunty and calling the ambulance wasn’t an easy task, it is never easy. Arjun although called our friends, all of them and almost everyone came from the group, but after that he too became frigid, trauma is inevitable. The decision was easy. Aunty would be following us in one of our friend’s car while both of will be in the ambulance.

I was angry. Really angry. There was a point when I really wanted to slap Shalini, regardless of her then condition. Slap her so hard that she’ll wake up of her pain. I remember telling her once that our lives aren’t really our own, it belongs to people who love us, cares about us. Every decision we make, every choice, even if we like it or not, the people around us get affected inevitably. If not right then, they will in the long term. Yet, forgetting all that I said, she took the decision to end it. And the mode she chose was more stupid. Take a poison pill, there is cyanide available! Or slit your wrist! But no, you had to jump? Suppose you don’t die, the embarrassment will be scarring enough; the cost of mending the broken bones will be emptying your pockets. Shalini later told us (after 3 and half months) that she wasn’t thinking anything. Her decision, albeit being stupid and dumb, was a spontaneous one. That made me angrier and I almost exploded on her in the hospital, in front of the doctor and the nurses. She had no idea what we all had been through for the last 3 months. Yet I really cannot blame her. The invitation cards had already been sent to get printed, all the relatives knew, the marriage was just round the corner when Abhish called her to break it off for no reason, or maybe an ulterior reason, we never asked. We didn’t want to. Although to be frank, Abhish too wasn’t in a condition to answer after what I and Arjun did. We knew he was a bastard, but this went too far, and so did we. Suffice to say, he ended up with broken ribs, traumatized diaphragm, and other “minor” injuries. Shalini wasn’t just a friend to us, and Abhish wasn’t a friend to us, so nothing to regret, and we don’t. None of us regret. That’s what friends do, right? Although it did upset Shalini, but she was able to forgive. It was that phone call that led her to consider suicide, and her jump led us to beat the shit out of him, balance of world!

It has been over three years now, since that night. That ambulance is still vivid in my dreams, the blood, Shalini’s cold hands in mine, her blood on me and Arjun, us being completely dumbfounded by the situations that night, and the consecutive three and half months. There wasn’t one night when we weren’t at the hospital, turn by turn. All of us!

It is also three years since Shalini is her again. Not that ugly disjointed, cracked body, but beautiful again. Well, she complains at times, especially during winters when the pain in her arm becomes unbearable, but it is okay. At least, she’s not dead. After being discharged from the hospital, she asked me if I will ever write about this. “Will you write as it is, vikram?” she asked. Well, it took me three years to write, but I don’t think it is a good story to publish in the books, or maybe, if she reads it first and likes it, I might will print it. Well, if anything, the ambulance had changed things for good. She’s not dead and I am more than alive. 

        XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX   End  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jet Planes (7th blog story)

16^th June, 2015.

                                              Jet Planes.

“Kid! There are two bogeys on your six! Lose them mate!”

“I’ve a better plan sir! But it’s a risky one! I might not come back!”

“Dammit son! We’re gonna have that drink tonight! Don’t do anything stupid!”

“Sir, trust me!”

The fighters were speeding at their maximum speed, the g-force was beyond normal, but he knew what he was doing. He has been doing it for a time now, although his ways were dangerous. The jet suddenly dropped its altitude like it had a cardiac arrest in the mid sky. The others which were dogging him didn’t saw that coming and were late in their reflex. He gained the upper-hand he was looking for. “Well, get this you sonofabitch!” he laughed and pushed the button that released a shower of bullets on the two planes…

“BOOYAAH”

“Great job son! But it isn’t over yet… there’s one more!”

“Roger that sir, I am on it. We might make it for the…I AM HIT! I REPEAT I AM HIT!”

The jet started falling, a dark tail of smoke rose and was spiraling to the sky. He always knew this would happen one day, but wasn’t expecting it today. “Not today dammit, I am not dying today!” he said to himself… the jet was losing its altitude fast and there was a very little time window to…

“Joel, come inside! There is someone to meet you son!”

“But Maa! My plane is falling, see?” Joel showed her the paper plane in his hand. “I have been hit, and I am falling behind the enemy lines, and I need to send a distress signal to my headquarters!”

She laughed. “Well, you can send it from the living room too, and there is someone to meet you, I think he can help!”

“Allllllllright!” said little Joel Francis Swaminathan and in two leaps he was inside the room from the backyard, only to meet his father’s friend Commander Raghav Dutt of the Indian Air Force. He had known Dutt for a time, and they were like father and son too. Dutt was Joel’s godfather made on his baptism, and although it might not is in the norms to make someone who’s not a Christian a godfather to someone, he had proven himself more than that.

“Hey bud!” said Dutt as he picked him Joel to hug him in a fatherly manner. “What was that ruckus out there?”

“I was flying my jet, and I was hit, I am about to send the signal for help to my headquarters!” Said Joel in utter seriousness. “Can you help? Mummy says you can!”

“Yeah sure! But first, there is something!” Dutt said, Joel didn’t noticed the saddened smile on his godfather’s face, as he didn’t noticed his mother’s tear stained eyes, and even if he did, he was too young. Joel looked up at him as Dutt took the paper plane from his hand.

“When is daddy coming uncle?” Joel asked.

“Yes, um…” Dutt cleared his throat, and was looking for words to start. “Your daddy, uhh, he… he went on a special mission, you see son? The best fighter pilots are sent on the most important missions, and umm…” Dutt was stammering. How can he tell him? He couldn’t tell Rebecca about Francis’s crash straightly, and he never wanted to. He didn’t have the strength to face her with this news, the hardest news of all. And Rebecca too didn’t expect this. Nobody expects death even they know it is happening everyday all over the world. Everybody dies, and yet nobody wants to believe. Rebecca too didn’t believe it.

“When will he be back?” Joel asked, “He said he will build me a toy plane!” he didn’t understand then why mummy ran to the other room clasping her face. It was years later.

“Uhh…” Dutt tried to refrain from answering, “Joel, son, you know your father loves you, right? You are his best friend, not me! So, he asked me to take care of his best pal! Your dad’s a hero! Okay? He’s a hero!” Dutt said as tears rolled down his face. Dutt and Francis weren’t just friends, they were brothers in arms, and never had this thought occurred to any of them that something like this could happen. Dutt will never forget the last transmission Francis sent before crashing the jet to save thousands of lives.

 “Before leaving, he left you this.” Pulling a fighter’s helmet out of the black trunk with the personal belongings of his friend, he put it on Joel’s head. “He asked you to keep this safe, right? It is his lucky helmet and now it’s yours, you keep it safe okay? You are so brave, bud! Just like your daddy!” Dutt left Joel with the helmet on his head, searching for Rebecca; there are certain matters to discuss.

Joel tightened the straps of his helmet, an old but shiny helmet with a falcon on the back of it and two thunderbolts on the both sides, meeting on the front. Checked the control panel for one final time, everything was good to go. The guy with the flags on the runway gave the final signal for the launch.

“You good kid?” the voice in the microphone asked.

“Ready to rock and roll sir!” said Joel F. Swaminathan, flight lieutenant.

“We will drink tonight son! Whisky on the rocks” said the wing commander.

“Roger that Sir!” replied Joel. “Sir, if I may ask for a favor?”

“Yes?”

“Can you play Leaving on jet plane by Denver?”

“Sure J!” it had became his anthem, or his “flight song”.

The runway was clear, the sky was bluer than before with the sun bright as ever. Lip syncing with Denver, Joel pushed the throttle, the engines roared.

He left on a jet plane, knowing he’ll be back again!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX END XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

assessment

09th June, 2015.

Hello there my incessant readers and followers and other netizens! I hope the summer is not scorching on your silly little heads and make you dance blindly around some imaginative figure! No? Good, then it only means that you are not out of your faculties yet. Nothing can be more consoling.

Well, there is no particular reason why I am writing this blog tonight, since there is hardly any exciting event going around me, and I have made it a penchant of mine to write anything that makes me wonder about my otherwise vain existence. I don’t know if my being or presence makes any difference or not, or rather do I cross some minds or not. Anyways, that is not in my control. If I ever cross some dark corners of a bright mind, I consider myself extremely fortunate, and somehow, I know I am still there in a mind and a heart!

Well, my intention was to make an assessment about what has been going on around, so might as well I shall do it too!

There had been some good things, good news and some tiring events too! Like, for starters, I have been giving the entrances for my M.A. the last few weeks had been tiring. But they were good and I am hopeful, fingers crossed! Two more remains and I am getting prepped. The last exam was yesterday only and man it was tiring as hell! Suffice to say, I don’t remember the time when I was this tiring! But it was good. I am better now. Then there was this trip to Nizamuddin with Narcissus and Marion! To be frank, I am yet to figure it out as to why be me there, but then, some things need not to be solved or answered. It was… calming though. I prayed to the saint for everything that I can, and it made me feel blessed enough. Hope is a very strange thing you know; even the slightest hum inside a tomb of a long gone mystic can fill you with a hundred new hopes, and I cannot deny it that since that day, I am very calm and there is not much of restless ambience around me. Though I do miss the chaos, I know it will be back.

Dishant got the new Witcher 3 game and there is this invitation at his residence, man, I can’t wait to play that damn game! And plus, a party is due.

My days have been resorted to my new attempts of writing old letters, stories and hindi-urdu poetry, and I don’t know if I am allowed of such sacrilege of such a beautiful language, I am trying. There are two of them, I am attempting a third. I will post it soon. Maybe after the next exam on 13th.

Theban plays, Manto's short stories, Walden by Thoreau and Game of Thrones! I think the words are enough! you guys are smart enough to make the sense!

Then there is the good news of this month. Lady bohemian got admission in her dream institution at Chennai. Yeah I am happy for her. Even mother was in a jovial expression after hearing this. She still loves her. Heh…strange woman, my mother, she, like me is always in love with her and hopes for the best. Well, I once said to her (bohemian) and I repeat, “if it is your dream, never let it go, not even in the face of dire destruction or in exchange of the king’s riches! Let none stop you not even me.” Well, that was quite a while ago, and I don’t know if she remembers it, but I do! I have a good memory, don’t I? Well, best of luck darling, and be good! All the unrequited love for you bohemian! (no I won’t stop, I can’t).

Well, okay, now I need to make myself scarce, I have a project going on. This was my assessment, and if there is any development, I know what to do!

Lemonade and chocolate chip cookies are an amazing combo! Wanna try? Do try!

Regards!

P.S oh well, I would like you guys to pray that I get BHU admission! Benaras is so bloody amazing! Love!

Project : Letters #7

01^st June, 2015.

Letter 7

“4^th November, 2014.

Dear S_______

Well, I was going through our talks on whatsapp this morning. Yes, I do that, and we still talked moments ago, I read our conversations for no apparent reason. I actually intended to complete the Neruda poetry book I bought, but writing this letter is important.

Anyways, I stopped at the point where you asked me how you will know if I die someday. Hmm… tricky question it is darling. Although your own answer is or rather was, quite poetic in nature, romantic actually. “You will die the day I stop loving you, Mr. Holmes.” Yes, I will, without you, I can’t imagine one single moment, you are the only nonsensical sane person I know, but let us put the poetry aside for a moment and think! A hypothetical situation for you. Suppose I really die tomorrow. Maybe, a car runs me down while I am walking from C.R Park to home, or suppose that I am on a bus, coming to meet you at Mehrauli but it never reaches there due to a massive coalition on road and I die, for once and for all I die, how will you know?

I figured out that you, to my deepest horror will be the last to know. And there is nothing that I can do to avoid it, to let you know that. The first ones will be obviously my family. I cannot imagine my mother’s face on the news of my demise, she will faint. Baba will scream his lungs out and bhai, my dear little brother…damn… maybe he will keep calling my number, maybe he will deny the news and will try to awaken a mutilated, bloodied corpse, hoping that his brother will suddenly wake up and laugh like a maniac as he does, but he won’t… after all this, the first one to know will be my Dada, the person who is just the brother everyone wants. Then Dishant, probably bhai will call him, and on the other side of the phone, Dishant will lose his sanity maybe.

But then, mother will realize, there is one person left. You! And that will be her horror. Her and baba’s too. You do know how much baba adores you, don’t you? Yes, he scolds you from time to time, but admit it, he loves you more, for him you are way too adorable , as he told me in his private moments with me. So I guess it will be baba only who will call, and give your penchant, you would not pick the phone on the first ring. After 5 or 6 calls, you will pick and then…

Do you know why I love you so much? Why I am so cynical about this? From time to time I have provided you with different reasons, because there is no one single reason why I love you. I love you because atleast, even after you believe in fairytales, you know that there is a reality too! And that is why I am a bit cynical. I have been around death many times (remind me when we meet, I will tell you all about it), and thus I try to be with you all the time, make the most out of it, keep loving you and your shenanigans and mood swings and drunk talks. If I die, I won’t be able to enjoy them (yes, I enjoy your occasional bashings and outbursts too, makes me want to just hold you tight near me).

But don’t worry, I am not dying tonight, tomorrow or soon for that matter. You remember the list? We have to talk, there are some new additions.

Anyways, do me a favor love, do not stop loving me, i don't want to die. And burn this letter after you're done reading.

Until 6^th December then!

Love always.

R.B (sign)

P.S – I am a bit drunk… heh... love!”