The Tale of All Cities

This article has been building up in my head for a fairly long time now. I can probably trace it back to midnight on the 3rd of July, 2012. Sitting on the 70th floor of the Rockafeller Centre in New York as the wind swept across the viewing gallery, the tiny bits of light from buildings and cars interspersed around the huge grid that is Manhattan combined in my head to form the gears of a well - oiled machine: one that was single-handedly running the world economy and bringing to life the dreams of a million people. There is a strange magic in the way cities seem to inspire ambition in the minds of young people everywhere.

What is it about cities?

C'est La Vie III

Read Part II of the story here.

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The loud beeping on the alarm broke Sahil's slumber. 

Friday, 10th June, 10:00 am 

Memories of the night before came rushing back. Amna was still sleeping, her face peaceful, her hand holding Sahil's. The solitary ray of sunlight that shone through the window lit up her face perfectly. Yet, Sahil's head was in turmoil. He had yet to break it to Amna that Meera would be here by evening. Meanwhile, he was undecided about his feelings for Amna. Deciding to take things as they came, he gently shook Amna awake. 

C'est La Vie - II

Read Part I of the story here.

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Three days.. Defence..10th June.. Meera!  The phone call last night from out of the blue was back on his mind.

“Sahil?”

He would think about Meera later. “Yeah, right. I’ll just come over to your place. Make dinner? It’s Friday night! Take a break! For me?”

“Okay, 6 pm then”. And with the incessant beeping of the old pager she still carried, she was off for the day.

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C'est La Vie - I

I was challenged by a friend to write a "touching" love story. Having never truly experienced what those in the know would refer to as the "pangs of love", this is uncharted territory for yours truly. 

Treat this as the interesting insight into one man's affairs of the heart from the eyes of someone whose closest exposure to "romance" is through the mushy tales of Katherine Heigl in her numerous avatars of the girl next door who "found love in a hopeless place". 

Here's Part I of the story. 

One For The Memories

The flipside of every waking moment not being taken up by work of some nature, as is the relatively new experience of being a senior in college, is that one tends to spend a  lot of time thinking about the answers to life, universe and everything.

Or, for the more sentimental lot that I claim allegience to, plunging headlong into a wistful reverie of times gone by.

To deal with my most recent bout of existential crisis, I put all my energy for a night on scavenging memories from the last few years as college slips quietly by, not unlike a magpie hoarding treasures. My erstwhile blank whitewashed wall now bears the weight of a hundred odd photographs that sum up the highs of life so far.

For all the good times, there's always a friend inseparably remembered. Here's to all the memories that remain.

Good Times! Dated: 1st October 2012

You're dirty and insufferable, and I love you.

It seems like a rite of passage that all bloggers who are also IITians go through. I am referring, of course, to writing about the place, the people and the experience in general. You can never get away with not having an opinion. This is my letter, from a slightly tramautised lover to IIT Kharagpur, my home for the last three years. 

Blowing Over The Dust

I recently read the article A Dust Over India by Mark Manson in the online PostMasculine. Evidently the author who was on his first trip to India could not have found a more god-aweful place to be at and decided to spew his bile in an article that paints the country in every shade of black that could possibly exist.

I'm usually perfectly nonchalant about articles such as the aforementioned. One man's experience can never be the base for your impression of an entire country. But there seemed to a certain rage in Mark's writing that got me thinking.

Paradise, Lost - IV

If you haven't read Part III, click here.

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She learnt of the encounter on the lake only two weeks later. Mohan’s battalion had descended upon the shikara like a hound of tigers. Shards of old pots hit the water as they uncovered the grenades. Armed men in pathanis seemed to appear out of nowhere. Two men lay dead within minutes in the cold lake as grenades went off. Ismail opened fire first. In the shootout that followed, Bashir and Qadir were the first to go. Ismail dove headfirst into the water, never to be seen again. The militia had been overpowered. As shouts of jubilation ran across the shore from the army tents, Gulaabo stared out at the lake, hand holding gun, eyes shining with tears. She had promised Allah she would avenge her beloved land and her son. It was all finished now. As she stood in the blazing sunset, it struck her how much of the red in the lake was human blood. Gulaabo wept as paradise bled.  She decided she would rather die than go with the Fauj. It was time. She closed her eyes and raised the gun to her head. She hit the ground as the last grenade exploded in the midst of more gunfire with an impassioned cry, “Ya Allah!”

Paradise, Lost - III

If you haven't read Part II, click here.

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Meanwhile, Mohan had tripped over a platform and landed straight at Gulaabo’s door. Ismail threw him bodily to the edge of the boat. With a growl he said, “Stay away. Nothing for you here.” Mohan’s face remained impassive. But for all the aggression, Ismail betrayed a slight fear.

Paradise, Lost - II

If you haven't read Part I, click here. 

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“Bhaijaan!”

She had run like the wind that fateful day, trying to follow the jeep that unexpectedly turned a corner, never to return. It was then that she felt Gulaabo’s cold hands on her shoulder. She had stayed with her, taking care of the old cripple through rain and shine.

Paradise, Lost - I

This is my entry for the RTE Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition 2012. I want to publish the story in several parts, because as a reader, long blog entries make my head go for a toss. So I keep my entries short and sweet, thank you very much. 
Background: 
When I was growing up, my neighbour across the street was a fairly creepy woman who would spend nearly her entire day staring out to the street from her window. As a kid, one of my pastimes was to imagine what her life must be like. One of my first written poems was inspired by her. The character of Gulaabo in this story is a very twisted take on her too. When I was looking for a place for the setting of the story, I came across a news article on new clashes erupting in Kashmir. Click here to read this article. So, here goes. This is a love story set in Kashmir. 
Disclaimer: This is not the mushy stuff that Mills & Boon is famous for. Happy reading!

Happy Anniversary, Ma and Baba

Read this while you play 'Dark Horse' by David Lanz. Just for dramatic effect. 

It was a fairly unremarkable courtship, I hear. Baba had come home from Ghaziabad, taking a break from his bachelor life there, absolutely unaware of what was awaiting him. So when the family sprung it on him that they had picked out a girl for him, his default answer was no. Ma, apparently, didn't care either way. She wanted to work. Married or not.

Ma and Baba had
'Love is..' coffee mugs
as newlyweds ^_^

How they went from there to being married and off to Ghaziabad together in a month is a wonder that I can only marvel about.  

Phallic Towers

Washington Monument, D.C, July 2012
Photo Courtesy : Muddit Poonia

So, there I was at Washington DC on a hot, sunny day, taking in the sights. Standing in the lawns of the U.S Capitol, with the Smithsonian Group of Museums on your left, what you see in the distance is the Washington Monument. Tall and erect, it shoots right up from the ground to the sky, a 555 foot tall marble obelisk - a monument to the father of the American nation - George Washington. First question that pops into my head - - of all the things they could have done with the fairly large area encompassing the monument, why did they decide to build a pretty huge..erm..phallus?

Reborn

New name, new template and an all new approach to writing. This time, with a purpose. Its been almost a year since I last took the time to write something here. Ye old blog, how art thee?  :-D

Looking back on my old posts before I start again, I can't help but exclaim how extremely depressing my writing was in my previous foray into blogging! It kind of borders on pathetic.

To all my friends who read the sentimental bull**** and never beat the **** out of me :

 
As it turns out, I am kind of a magnet for all kinds of weird incidents (and people, but that's a different matter). I reckon it will make for fairly interesting reading for a lot of people. And oh, I want to start putting interesting pictures on here too. Funny stuff I've come across.

Here's to a whole new blog, new style, new template, everything! But I kept the old posts. Just so I can look at my former sorry self and laugh at her. Happy reading :)