2014 in review: A big thank you to my readers!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 12,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Peshawar Attacks: How The Meaning Of ‘School’ Has Changed Forever

Photo Credit: Associated Press

In a world where the sanctity of life can be so brutally violated, do I really want to create a new one?

As I’m writing this post, the screen in front of me appears hazy and my head is buzzing—that’s because I’m crying. Silent tears. The office boy is giving me a side glance every now and then, wondering what’s wrong with me. I wish he didn’t see me like this, but I can’t seem to stop myself today. Since morning, all I’ve done is read up and watch the news as more and more details pour in about the Peshawar school attack. And with each lurid story, the tears flow faster. Continue reading

That time of the year.

2013This is that time of the year again, when everyone in the world wants your good. Or so it seems. Everyone sends you ‘happy and prosperous’ new year wishes via various mediums – Texts/ Whatsapp/ BBM/ Facebook/ Twitter/ G-Talk, you name it. Only a percent out of these people will actually bother to make a call and wish, or even better, meet you and wish. That probably shows what these wishes truly mean. It is more of a custom than a heartfelt gesture.  Continue reading

Cutting Chai. Chhota Goldflake.

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It was raining incessantly. Bombay rains. They never stop. They are unusually white and misty. It blurs your vision. Makes you dizzy if you stare outside for too long.

I was perched on top of the window seal of my little rented apartment, and gazing outside. A cutting chai and a chhota Goldflake in hand. I was puffing absent-mindedly. He creased his forehead and gave me a disapproving look and went back to photoshopping photographs in his laptop, as I threw my head back and laughed.

A raindrop fell on the chai. The smoke came out in little circles. Got lost in the white rains. Continue reading

The Big Bong Theory.

I know my small eyes and straight hair, more often than not, makes you jump to a conclusion that I belong from that part of India, which is always in constant political turmoil. Maybe it is about the petite frame, or the small eyes, or the decent skin or the unnaturally straight hair – I don’t know what exactly, but I have been labelled with the word ‘Chinky’ ever since I learnt how to write my name. Two days back, I was sitting in the Volvo bus on my way to Pune for some work, when the uncle sitting beside, caught me off-guard by asking the awkward question, which I answer at least thrice every month – “Are you from North East?’

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That little boy called Karma.

So, they say ‘Karma is a bitch’. Which breed, I ask? And most importantly, why is poor Karma a bitch anyway? Karma is actually a little orphan who has nowhere to go. It craves for some love and sufficient attention. So, it looks for a chance and jumps on you, given an opportunity. No, not exactly the same way Rakhi Sawant craves for the media.

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Rolling it up.

It was a sultry February afternoon. As the Ramnath Goenka Award winning professor kept teaching the journalism class, about developmental journalism and how we, as youth can save India, four girls bunked class and came back to the hostel, to roll a joint instead.

The room was dark and comfortable. There were slices of the hot sun seeping in through the sides of the curtain, giving the room a dreamy feel. As four of us became busy passing on the joint to each other, my mind kept thinking how life will drastically change in a week. The journalism course was getting over in a week. Masters would be over. Work will start. Time to step into the ‘real world’.

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Tales from the train.

Picture Credit: Stephen Bailey

So I am in this train, surrounded by chirpy, over excited bongs yapping all around me in all three languages—irritating the hell out of me. Next to me is the bong father-son duo who has been staying in Pune for the past 17 years and has already bagged the two window seats, very conveniently. Just opposite to me is a pot bellied Bengali girl of my age who is crying at the drop of her hat, because her transfer plea to Kolkata has been approved. All these three characters are talking to each other and socializing, while I am just observing and feeling like throwing them off the train skillfully, one by one.

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