Are You A Good Person?

How often have you heard people telling you (especially when you are an adolescent) that it doesn’t matter whether you are extremely successful/rich/popular in life, being a good person at heart, holds a higher value. Since the start of the modern era where all of us follow religion, codes and principles just to become what the society calls, ‘a Good person’. We were fed the regular stuff, the regular teaching, the regular fables, the regular morals, the regular Panchatantra tales where they used English/Hindi speaking animals as a metaphor to humans and the consequences of their actions mirroring the one we live in. All stories and teachings I’ve ever heard since childhood were about good conquering over evil. The victory of the righteous. But I do not stand in favour of these archaic policies that do not exist in the modern society.Read More »



One of my favourite speeches of all time.

Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V.

How It Feels Like To Resume Blogging

Short version: It feels good.

Long version: After an exhausting final year of school, starting with a preposterous heap of course to study and ending with a preposterous heap of exams, with a shitload of work and extra curricula, surviving without a television and on a terrible 2G connection, living at a place circumvented by two universities, it does feel good.

Between solving non-NCERT maths and reading HC Verma and its cousins, I missed it. When you have a whole lot of science to deal with formulating creative ideas and devising plots does get out of sight, out of mind. But still I tried to keep my sanity by writing a journal and always carrying a little notebook, just to jot down anything that struck my head, some basic skeletal structures of ideas and themes that I hoped to later develop upon. When I didn’t have a notebook, I did have Google Keep, the most convenient app to note anything and everything.

Even after a hectic year and the results out, the feeling of satisfaction seems to be lacking. Probably because every exam felt like it could have gone a little better, or maybe because  I managed to score just a 95%, which is the new average these days. What’s the point of getting any 90+ marks when it still doesn’t guarantee you a chance to get into the college/course of your choice? I was never a supporter of the system, but when you’re a part of the system, you have to deal with it anyway and with that comes the nirvana that you are what you hate. I find myself in the same rat-race to get into DU/Engineering that I loathed for years. The realization that most things won’t work out the way you would want them to be, is an integral part of maturing. But I’ll save that rant for a future post. Read More »

The morning I killed myself.

The morning I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast and skipped the usual tea. I looked in the mirror and loathed myself for what I had become. I threw away the half consumed lysergic and morphine from last night and sat down in the balcony, trying to recollect what had been going through my mind.
I cleaned my littered room, my unfinished novels, my half written prose, my missed assignments, my mary jane that helped me through these sleepless nights. I washed my blood soaked full sleeve T-shirt that I’d been wearing in cruel summer, just to hide those syringe marks on my left arm.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with my first crush, or with the girl who made everything feel mystical two years ago, or with the girl who cheated on me twice last year, or with the girl I hooked up with for one evening to feel better about myself.
I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding my diaries and books and turning them over and over till they started gleaming with sweat.
I fell in love with my father who went down to the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current, trying his best to erase my memories with it.
I fell in love with my sister who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in her desk at office trying desperately to believe I still existed.Read More »