Where the man plays his thing, and the children sit around him in a circle and stare into his watery eyes

Watery, crusty eyes. Filled with ignored wishes and unfulfilled desires. His fingers strumming away, stroking away. As if he was in another world, as if he was in another body. And all the children just sitting around him, down on the floor. Watching and staring at the man play his thing.

Play. His. Thing.


Nothing gets me like a bit of ambiguity. Or does it?


The window pane captures the reflection of an unfinished building and it looks like a ghost. White, shimmering lights and all that.

Went and belted me some mac and cheese after ages. Wonderful wonderful thing this mac & cheese. So creamy and cheesy and so filling and all warm and hot and sticking to your insides.

There is Bonobo playing in the background and if I close my eyes, I can see myself sitting on a long, long sofa. With a cup of what looks to be blood in my hand. A crystal encrusted cup. And I am wearing a red velvet shirt. Not any shirt. But a Charag Din one.

And you just got gujju-ed bitches.

Charag Din. How the fuck does that company still run man? Have you seen the adverts? Total gujju stuff I says.

Thepla. Meet the theplas. If someone made a gujju version of meet the parents or whatever.

Fuck man. Whatif womaniya had gujju parents? Then I would be all like, “came cho and maja ma and shit like that” Lets have some chaas and some theplas and go all disco dandy now.


I like hypocrisy. I encourage it. Such an endearing thing it is, I don’t quite see why people view it in such a negative light. Hypocrisy is like cancer I think. So beautiful and such a powerful part of someone’s personality.

Shit man.

What if our diseases became part of our personality? Do they already? What if the colds and the coughs made their ways into our hearts and our minds?

What utter, utter krap you write kro. Thoda toh sharm karo. I am gonna break this wordpress auto correct gaandu. Break his face. Shut yaaver face.



Delhi is like that assholic friend who offers you a joint minutes after you tell her that you quit smoking. Nods her head in approval as you take the bottle and hit it hard. Hard. Shakes her hair and laughs as you puke your guts out, acid belching out of your insides. She is the one who claps and screams as your drunk friends drive through the dark nights, even as you lie barely awake at the back. And the streetlights appear now and then and you stare at them from the windows and put your hand out in the cold wind. Before shivering and pulling it back in.

Delhi makes you want to break something, do something stupid. It makes you want to live, to breathe and to fight and to argue and to live. She will fill your thoughts with craziness and laughter and before you know it, you are speaking her language, you are using her words, eating her food and you find yourself becoming more like her and less like what you thought you were.

Oh Delhi.


We should all take a break some times. I can’t believe it is December already. Fuck man, where does time go?

Where does it go baba?

Does it hide under the table when it is scared?

Does it hop and skip, headphones plugged in and Nothing Owed streaming into his ears?

Does Time wish that people would not look at him all the time? That people were not so bothered about where he was or rather what he was? Do you think Time is, every once in a  while, just like “fuckdis shit” and just disappears. Disappears. Fuck. That would so fuck everything up.

No time. No time at all. Would we all have to rush blindly, panicking and fending off deadlines one after the other? Would we be just running around circles, growing more and more indifferent to every fucking thing around us, looking at our watches and screaming at each other, “Where is the time man? WHO HAS THE TIME?”

Would a band of vigilantes form some sort of group and travel the universe searching for Time? Hunting and trailing and tracking down Time. Asking his relatives and friends where Time was seen last. Always in a hurry, always looking over their backs to make sure they have not run out of Time.

And Time hiding in some barely visited corner of the world. Where the people have no use for Time. And Time being all relaxed and mingling with common people after, what feels like, absolute ages. And the people carrying on all around him. Without a care in the world. Without even knowing what time was. Thankful to just be alive and more bothered about falling in love, about laughing and finding their friends and living. Just living.


I like to imagine that we can view the world through the lens of our choice. Of course sometimes the eyes don’t even know they are closed but once they open and once you become aware of the power of the lens, well then the world is yours for the taking.

The opening of the eyes though….that often takes time. And you know how sneaky that bastard Time can be.




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