Pujo from the outside.

As I sip on my lukewarm coffee on a Sunday morning and scroll through the newsfeed on Facebook, nothing out of the ordinary for a post graduate student who has an exam the next week, I realise that this would be the first year that I am not going to see a single Pandal or be a part of the festivities of the ten-day long celebration – Durga Pujo. Photograph after photographs accompanied with quotes written by Neruda, J.D Salinger and the likes, that make no sense with the visual treat that my friends have to offer, make me crave for the unique smell that the air has right before Pujo begins.

I get off my bed to fetch myself some vanilla cookies. On the way to the shelf, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror- late riser, un-bathed, clad in my night suit on the day of Ashtami. The folks I was supposed to meet for the iconic ashtami’r anjali decided to spend time in an Ashram and hence, couldn’t make it with me. I am lazy. I was in a foreign land with no cheer for the bangali pujo. All I saw everywhere, not that I went out a lot the last week, was Navratri and Garba adveretisements. Same Goddess, different celebrations. I wanted to go out for Garba this year, break into my maiden dandiya venture with the friends I have made here, but alas. Everyone has exams and no one seems to find the idea as novel as I do. The only solace I have is that my festival doesn’t require me to be vegetarian! They get starry eyed listening to my rants about Pujo back at home and I return the look when they describe their Navratri escapades.

Back at home. If I were in Kolkata right now, I’d be fresh and bathed and Mamma would be putting a sizeable number of safety pins on the saree (and blouse) that I would’ve carefully chosen the previous night. The choice of apparel had to be a perfect blend of representing my inner Bangali and outer youth. Right now, on my bed, in the opposite side of the country, I can feel the outer Bangali in me ooze out as the youth dissipates into what should be done for a future that Maa Durga would be proud of. Either way, I digressed. Once dressed, I would apply eyeliner and lipstick, Ma would force me to apply rouge (Ema, ektu toh kichu gaal e lagie ja. Put something on your cheeks!) and then, she would ask me what I’d like to accessorise the look with. She’d punch in the code to the safe and take out the all-too-worn out jewellery box, with multiple shelves of gold beauty. There’d be one shelf with traditional chains and another with just earrings, the third level would comprise of the bangles and bracelets that she had curated and collected over the years. There is a particular turquoise beaded necklace that rests along with the gold chains. It stands out like a blonde German in a Deshapriya Park pujo pandal. Every time I see it, it takes me back to the time we were posted in Bikaner, Rajasthan. Ma and I (along with a few other Army wives) would take a long, sandy drive in a Jonga (back open army jeep) to reach a jewellery bazzar of the town where Ma would design her own necklaces and earrings and I would stare at the precious stones they had lined out for her to do the same. (Years later, the owner of the tiny shop would call Mamma to tell her that they had started making her design on a regular basis and that it sells like hot cake).

I would choose the least dressy bracelet, Ma would put on one of the necklaces (much to my chagrin) and then she would dress herself up in half the time she took to make me look like her (she wasn’t successful) and we would go downstairs to assemble in the community hall at our colony. Bengali or not, everyone participated in the Ashtami’r anjali. Batches of people were formed, and purohit thakur would read out the verses on the mic for everyone to hear and falsely repeat. Flowers would be passes in a jhuri and we would each take small fistfuls of the flower and those who couldn’t get to the basket of flowers would be handed some by the ones who could (Ma, give me a leaf as well…). We would repeat the Mantra paath three times, as was custom, and then break for what we looked forward to the most- BHOG.

A sumptuous meal of khichudi, beguni, aalu’r torkari, chutney and papad for the main course alongwith paayesh for dessert awaited us. We would form a queue, wait for 10 minutes to reach the buffet counter, hand in the token we had purchased a month in advance and then, finally take our thermocol plates, dishevelling under the weight of the food we had laden it with, into the pandal. Every pandal in Kolkata has a theme. I don’t even know what it is this year in Ekta, my colony. Irrespective of the theme, the ashtami bhog remains the same- the taste of which I can still imagine if I close my eyes and concentrate for a bit. It is usually too hot to eat immediately, yet we make the same mistake every year. All the kids would either sit where there are the most number of fans attached to the bamboo skeleton of the pandal, or venture out, on the grass lawn that is there in the centre of the complex. The girls, in sarees would sit on the granite structure that outlines the lawn while the boys would stand and finish their meals, rushing for a second helping (Ei, please get some more beguni for me). Beguni is the creation of magic. Even those who don’t like brinjal will feast on it. The crunch, the exact amount of saltiness to balance the sting of the brinjal- it is a mouth-watering delicacy that one needs to be in Bengal to enjoy.

Tired after a long day’s work, we would all break for the day, but only after deciding what time we would be meeting in the evening (and what we’d be wearing). The evenings had a meticulously planned event schedule. There was something for each of the five most important days of Pujo- starting with Anadamela (where the residents would open stalls and sell chaat, an aunty would bake insanely gooey brownies, another would steam momos and someone would sell Avon makeup. There would even be stalls with games), dramas, dance shows, guest performances, a DJ night with no DJ for the kids, Dhunuchi dance and conch-shell playing competitions. We would practice for a month to put up a decent show. The evenings would comprise of us kids sneaking out to buy alcohol before the FL shops closed for the night or because some of the Pujo days were supposed to be dry ones. We would walk till Balaram Mullick and gorge two to three Malpuas, some would smoke a cigarette in the by lanes opposite to our colony while some ventured to look at the tiny pandals that the lanes held.

That’s the beauty. The size will not matter. Every housing society, Every complex, Every group of lanes will have a pandal with a beautiful idol of Maa Durga adorning it. The Jamini Roy eyes, the curly hair, a serene smile on Her face- that is all that matters, after a while. And this clutter of Pandals is what we enjoy. All of us would go out at 1 am, take a local bus till the nearest ‘big’ puja that was there, usually at Gariahat, and make our way back on foot, hopping from one pandal to the next, walking with a sea of people equally enthused by Puja, surrounded by amateur photographers, street hawkers, aunties who almost lost their children in the crowd, Uncles who would stop for Phuchka, lovers who have told their parents they are actually with friends, newlywed couples, tourists amazed at the footfall per square inch and the Police who are have the responsibility of maintaining the flow of people. The entire city gets barricaded like Eden garden before an India-Pakistan match, traffic gets streamlined to allow pedestrians the priority, much to the chagrin of those who have work to do. After reaching back, We would all sit near the swing, chit chat till 3 or 4 am and then, our mothers would start calling us frantically (Come home now, enough is enough).

Pujo is an entity in itself, not just a festival. The centrality of the Goddess with the peripheral activites that make her homecoming so special for even those who don’t believe in Her powers, is enough to sway the most strong-hearted. One cannot help but miss Pujo. I had never thought I would say this, and I am a firm believer of enjoying what the place you live in has to offer, but I miss Kolkata right now, at this very moment. I miss the thrill of clicking a hundred photographs per day, I miss dancing to dhaak beats as Mamma gets teary eyes watching Ma Durga’s face on Dashami and as the idol take a few rounds around the complex perimeter before finally leaving us for bishorjon, I realise that She smiles with a promise to return the next year.

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It’s been a while.

It has been a long time since I have had the time or inspiration to write about anything- here or otherwise.  It has been busy and trust me when I say this, I am not used to being busy. I have no idea how the days fly by and it is a welcome change. Life back at home was stagnating, to put it crudely.

Post graduation- ohmygod is it hard or what? You’ve got to study, run around for your dissertation, prepare for conferences, keep up with your social life, eat food, breathe… get the drift?  I came to a land quite far off from home and I did not expect to find family here. But I did. I miss Mamma and I miss home, I miss my grandparents and friends who speak a similar tongue. Nothing would ever change that, but to have amazing people surround you eases the transition. I found three beautiful people who make me believe that maybe, just maybe, the sisterhood of travelling pants could be a reality.

I knew I would make friends, I am someone who does that easily, but to have people who are kind, caring, goofy and as good as family can get (when you’re away from home) is a relief. Here, I am not just pursuing another degree, but also trying to find who I can be and how I can grow as a person. Every day is a learning curve- from learning to sieve the bullshit from wisdom to understanding how different people are and how small things can make a huge difference. I’ve learnt to sleep with the lights on and learnt to ask if the music is okay- things I usually never bothered to ask- but it somehow comes from within because they do the same for me. As a side note, all of us have the same, and I mean the same choice in music (double yay). I’ve also learnt that I am usually always hungry, especially if someone else is cooking (nomnomnom)

From my room, I have an unobstructed view of this huge tree that has cotton pods hanging from its branches. Every now and then, a group of kids (I cannot believe I am calling UG students kids- I used to be one of them just a few months back!) gather around at midnight to lather each other with cake and I am reminded of all the birthdays I’ve been through and all the friends I’ve had. I often wonder, while watching them run around- trying to escape their friends who have cake in their hands, whether they have any idea how precious all of it is. The memories.

We do everything for only two reasons- to make happy memories or to build a happy future. Here’s to two years and eight more months of a life that better be worth the wait. Here’s to memories being made on the way to happiness. Here’s to friendship and more importantly, family.

 

Holi thhi!!

It was Holi today. The festival to celebrate the beginning of a season and also, to make sure no one resembles themselves but smothering them with colours. WoOt! It is the best festival EVER. I love it. I wait for it, earnestly every year. A lot of my friends aren’t pro-holi, given that the colours (called abeer in bengali) aren’t herbal or organic, so there’s the huge issue of skin rashes… and then, people start slinging mud and eggs, rotten tomatoes, the entire mass of things-we-don’t-want-on-our-face.

But I love it. More because, I don’t mind a few rashes and acne on my face. I have so many, anyway, what harm could a few more do, right? And there’s children running around with cute little water guns (pichkarisand uncles and aunts boozing away, halfway down till Sunday, everybody’s hands are pink and faces are red, nails are filled with colour which refuses to come out and there is bhaang everywhere. Bhaang is the best Indian concoction of an illegal (?) drink, and even children gulp it down, cause well, Burra na maano HOLI HAIIII  !

I live in a colony, so the mud slinging and tomato throwing remains contained to a minimum and there is just a lo of water and colours and drying up in the sun, while lying on the grassy lawn, tripping a little on the bhaang that you were given by the adults of the colony, all of this while really bad bollywood songs are blasted on the hired speakers and you’re so thrilled, you actually dance to them like there is no tomorrow. And then when the body begins to ache, you slug back home to sit under the shower, trying in vain, to get back the normal complexion. It sounds dreary and scary but it is double the amount of fun than what I can possibly describe. Imagine, running after your buddy to paint his/her face a shiny golden or a smoky green…which all, in the end, turns to black cause all the colours get mixed up.

It is a day to make amends and forgive, forget and hug things out. It is a day to make merry, to drink openly, to eat great food and visit relatives, cousins, friends, the shizz. It is a day where being dirty is accepted. It is a day where being high is the norm. It is a day where there is colour everywhere… happiness, joy and rainbows being farted out at every corner. How cool can a festival get? Yes, I look like a red-faced bozo right now but I loved every moment of getting painted and thrown water balloons at. It hurts like crazy (that’s the only minus point), but then again, we pay good money to play Paintball, which also hurts life crazy. Tomato-tomaato, then?

Here are some really ugly photos from the day that was, and will always be the day I look forward to every year.

 

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Aaah! :(

What I wouldn’t do to be in Pune right now. Two of the people who mean the most to me are there and I could literally give an arm to go there asap!
My best friend has chicken pox and I really want to give her a hug. I want to sit and draw things with her and learn The Cup Song.
And my stud boy is achieving all these major feats in his college and I want to be a part of it too. He’s doing what he’s always wanted to and that makes me so happy!

I wish I could to there, just, that’s all I wish. As soon as possible.
I owe it to them, more than anything. I did not see my BFF’s college in Delhi and I haven’t seen stud-boy’s college the way I want to, per se. And they’ve both been more than enthusiastic, and have travelled with me to mine, albeit it’s closer to home than the distance I have to travel to see theirs. Ha!

Aaaah! I miss them so much 😦
I’d travel for a day just to be there for a day. *ptch*

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A wallflower; under construction.

I just watched The Perks of being a wallflower. And I feel sad, irrevocably sad. I’ve been feeling sad for quite a few days now and this feeling? I feel it only when I’m supposed to be doing something, something important,  but end up not doing it, for whatever reasons. Read the following with the voice in your head, do a mimic of Emma Watson. Make it sound deep. With background music, preferably.. I’d suggest Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drop or maybe a John Mayer song? People go. Some leave. Some linger. Some promise to return, but there is always one person, who you know will return, will keep that promise and will come back. And I miss my person. I miss her terribly. There are moments where I was weak and I need to be strong. In life, sometimes, all you can do is build memories with a person. Go outside with them, sing songs, dance, write, be with them..and then, when that person is away, you hope that those memories are strong enough to make a road to wherever that person is. And then, hope that the road is simple enough to lead you both back to where you belong. But where do two people, lost, swimming in a fish bowl, belong? They belong to one another. And then, you know, just know, that the memories you have are there for good and that all you can do is wait. Wait ror new memories.  Wait for that person to find the road and signal to you, in your own little code, that the way is clear; that she needs you too, she’s had bad days as well, that she’s missed you as pathetically as you’ve missed her. And you smile and look back at the days you wept because you had things to say and couldn’t, because she was happy and you wanted to be happy too but just couldn’t, because inside you wished that she would understand that you need her to ask you specifically- what has been going on, on the other side of that road? But you remember you’re smiling because the road was strong and she signalled. The road, leading to her new world..and you tiptoe into it, holding her hand, with glittering eyes and trembling fingers, and look at her and she smiles back. And you know, just know, that a road apart will not take her away. Your best friend. But till then, all you can do is wait. And hope that the memories build a road strong enough, strong enough to lead you both back. -written on 12.07.2013 @ 11:30pm

 

 

Baton.

I am one of the ‘bhalo meyes’. I do well in studies, I write and read. I sing too, and dance (in the bathroom!). I haven’t done anything ‘socially’ unacceptable yet, but what is the acceptable standard? Noticed, how the first thing I stated about being a bhalo meye, was academics? Is that the first parameter one should be judged on? It is a universal acceptance in this country, that a child good in academics should be forgiven most, if not all the sins (read: goof ups).

Let us now shift gears: I see my colony today as I had seen it 5 years ago and the only thing that has really changed is the ‘group’ that rules the playgrounds and the group that holds the bottles. When I had walked into the green centred fort surrounded by the 4 blocks of cement, I had no idea what life would turn out to be. A lot of it was a huge question mark, including my choice of stream in education, my friend circle, my life at school and at home; my new home. I knew a few people here, already, before I shifted in, so I never had to one of the awkward ‘new girl’ moments. I have had many of those, before so I was adept at making myself at ease, but thankfully (?) i did not have to apply my prowess at the vast knowledge I had in the field of bein The New Girl.  I was in the age group which ruled the building. I use the word ‘ruled’ with a fair bit of leeway here. There was no Queen and there were not followers but there this group of friends, MY group of friends, who would usually make the calls and form the rules. Rules, yes. Where we sat, what we did, who we spoke to and why not, how things turned out, we discussed a lot of things which seemed important then but are actually, as we all know, unimportant justifications of our shallow existence. We had nothing to do, so we discussed people.

Now, i see that the baton has passed over, from us to the babies who used to surround us then. We were always kind to them, therefore, the favour is returned. The rule the green centred fortress, they decide the time, the place. But when the ‘seniors’ (?) show up, they graciously open their arms wide and play pool with us. HA! I see how the dynamics of a place changes, when one large chunk of the childrens’-group graduates from being in school to being in college. A lot changes, not just at home but also around it. I’ve seen it a million times before and I see it happening again. The friends I had/ have are all in college now and the ones in school are the only ones who actually ‘stay’ in the colony. Since we are all temporary guests in their constant, we bide by their beliefs.

This continuous relay of the baton will continue, forever. People come and go,as this is life. But the rules are here to stay. The rules that govern the dynamics of a group everywhere in the world. And this is what I see happening all around me, right now. The saddest part of it all is, that while my friends move over to colleges in other cities, I am here, in the same city and in the same colony; caught in a limbo between transgressing from one ‘group’ to another. Who am I? Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t an identity crisis. But, who am I, when in a group? Who are you, when you aren’t with the people who you think define you?

Do you let people define you? because people, make up the world and everything in it. If you believe in Marxism, you believe in a person. If you believe in literature, you believe in the people who created it. People, people, people.

Three is a crowd, is it?

Laugh!

Every one must laugh. Laughter is one of the most beautiful expressions of what you are, or could-be feeling and the best part about laughing is that no-one has ever taught anyone to laugh. It is something that is inherent.
But with time, we lose the ability to laugh freely. We hold it in, for fear of being judged, for hesitation creeps in, because we learn manners and finally, because we begin to think.

A few days ago, a few of us friends got together and we started cracking very unsuitable jokes at the fattest friend’s expense. She is used to it, being the butt of most of our jokes and she laughed along with us. She could’ve easily felt bad and taken it all in the wrong stance, but she didn’t. She had nurtured the ability to laugh at herself. She knew that we all loved her, no matter what and she laughed.. and boy! did she look beautiful while doing that. I admire her ability to take it in her stride and what she says is very true- Jo sach hai, toh woh toh dikhega hi na. (the truth can’t be hidden, can it?) the ‘sach‘ being her belly fat!

:')

:’)

A few days later, I got together with a different friend group and yet again, someone became a butt of the jokes. This time, we weren’t laughing at the expense of her weight but at her sense of geography. Rome was the capital of Argentina and Greece was a city near Venice! She was innocently hilarious and we laughed with tears in our eyes. And then, the one we were laughing at became all serious and said ‘Why are you always laughing at me?’. And all of us shut up and did not laugh any more. This wasn’t the first time we had to shut up cause she didn’t like it. What she always failed to understand was we never laughed AT her..we only wanted to laugh and we never intended to it at her expense. it would’ve been someone else, if nopt her and that time, she too would be laughing! And she would have enjoyed too, had she taken it in the right spirit. It isn’t like she doesn’t laugh at the shortcomings of others, not in a condescending way of course, but y’know how it is when a large group of friends get together, right? No one means harm!

If you know how to laugh at yourself, you’ll have to worry much lesser and have lesser ego issues too. Someone said something about the way look and you dint like it? say ‘thaank you man!’ and give a big smile. Somebody pulled a fast one on you? say ‘good one, I’ll try it on someone soon!’

And if you can’t take it in the right way, at least learn to deal with your ignorance if that is what people are laughing at. Read, research and the next time, be ready with an answer, instead of being a sour puss. And if everyone laughs at how fat you are, figure out their tics and joke with them (in case you are too lazy to exercise, like me!)! There is ALWAYS another way. 🙂

 

-stay tangled! keep laughing!

It is hard to let go.

Which sex would you choose?

To talk to about your feelings?
To talk about lizards?
To talk about China?
To discuss your boyfriend?

WHO would be your choice, and I am asking this as a girl to other girls. (boys could answer just for fun) Would you call a girlfriend or choose a boy over the so-called fairer sex (although I couldn’t agree less with this ‘name’)? I would choose my best friend, who is a girl. Then, I would choose someone who’s next to my bestie, and she too is, well, a she. And then, I’d look at a guy to discuss some other things.

I’ve been told that guys ae easier to talk to, less of a hassle and more straightforward, with lesser ego issues. So, maybe that is why most girls end up talking things out with boys, or keeping in touch with guys or even have more guy friends. I too have more male friends than female, but the girl-friends I do have are very dear to me. I keep in touch with them as much (and equally) as compared to the guys.

Something has been disturbing me and I cannot voice it out, ’cause I do not know it yet. As soon as I do, I”ll let you know. What bugs me is how someone, so integral to your life, can vanish one fine day. I mean, you know that person is out there, living breathing and talking to other people, but not with you. It isn’t like they are ignoring you, they reply to your texts and ask you what’s up, but you know that the conversations aren’t and may never be the way they were. Why? Because you see them talk and live, without making you a part of it, involuntarily, with no malice or spite. They just slowly eradicate you from their life and you leave, without protest, and that’s your fault and totally your call.
You leave with a hole in their lives, and that hole stays forever cause no one is replaceable.  They decide not to replace you and you thank god for that, but they find new space for new people and those new people start encroaching on your space.

You tell yourself, that it isn’t a competition and that your importance is important. But the question marks come into your mind, seeds of doubt germinate and you look at them in a way, with a view, that you never have before. Did you slip from being a friend to an aquaintance to just another face in the Facebook friend-list? When they like a picture by the newer people, you ask yourself; would they like yours? And then you see that they don’t and your heart breaks just a little bit more. You ask yourself, is this PMS and then you check your Tracker to see that it isn’t.

It is hard letting go, of friends more than anything and it is even harder to see yourself fade out of their life when there was no problem in the first place, except maybe, they found better interests or hobbies or work or worse, people. And it sucks when they are still on your priority list when you have slipped off of theirs. And sucks even harder when you see what or who you have slipped because of. It sucks the hardest when you know you slipped off to someone who they can flirt with, or talk random BS with. You know you’ve lost, and it wasn’t even a competition.

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A really mediocre post.

I found a dried rose in a really old diary of mine, the one I had in class 10. I can’t recall who it was from, cause I clearly remember not receiving any roses from the boyfriend I had at that time. And besides, I am not a very red rose person. I’m not a rose person at all.

I found a tattered piece of paper with a poem on it. It’s not written by me and it isn’t written by any of my friends but it is a poetry on friendship. And I can’t recollect who’s handwriting that is. (Yes it is handwritten so it had got to be from before the computers over took our pages)

I also found my old book of Idioms. I have my favourite ones dog eared and some are even underlined. And the book right beside it (The Fountainhead) also had similar underlined paragraphs. There was a time when I found idioms beautiful and that made the base for me to appreciate complicated sentences. No, actually, helped me understand the beauty of simplexity.
Simplexity is a word made of complexity and simplicity. There’s also a book by the same name.

It is amazing how I’ve grown and how people around me have come and gone. There once was a person who was important enough for me to have saved the rose he had given to me in a dary and now, I can’t even remember who it is from. There once was a friend who thought me worthy of poetry and now she’s lost to the new memories I’ve created. There was once a time where my mother bought books for idioms and now, she watches me read Rebecca and Shantaram.

Contentment comes from within and the family plays a huge role in it. By family, I don’t just mean parents and siblings but also the few close friends you have. I’m blessed with more than a few such friends apart from the loving family. I mean, my grand father just sent me a text stating how proud he is of having me as his grand daughter, and my mother is coming all the way to Burdwan to see me off for the teeny test I have, not because it is a test but because she has a holiday and she’s free, and my grand mother asks me if I’m pooping alright and another one sends me food from the other side of the street! I have friends who’re there for me no matter what and I have a flatmate who agrees to delay his date to collect something for me from home (a letter for college, beat that).

And who knows, even there people might get shelved into a folder in memory and gather dust until one day, where future me, finds a blog post written about them while rummaging through older ones. Or, I come across a note scribbled on my phone. Or a random message.

Sigh. 🙂

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Why the new year turned out to be happy after all.

The first words that I have said to anyone, be it my domestic help or my best friend, in  the last few days have been- Hey, happy new year! But then, what is truly so amazing about this year, or for any such beginning for that matter? Almost a week into 2013, it is turning out to be exactly like last year, maybe just a little more grown up. So what makes 2013 MY year? How am I going to let this year define my life? This is definitely not going to be a post on my achievements from last year or the mishaps from the past. This is not going to be about how i grow as a person this year or how my life will change because of what I eat.

The new year is really never good. The partying made my back ache and my neck cramp. I danced like a mad-woman and my hair was knotted and tussled. It is even worse for those who follow the drink-puke-pass out-drink cycle the next day, thanks to the hangover. Why o why do they say that the new year is good, or happy? January first, for most people is a haze of aspirin and missed calls.

This New Year party thingumajimmy that we all participate in was the best I have ever had till date but the days that preceded it made it what it was. It wasn’t all sun-shine and stars, trust me; there were tears and waiting in  the sun for your boyfriend to turn up, and there were last-minute panic phone calls to your girlfriends about what to wear and then ultimately looking stunning! Trust me when I say this- I had not expected the new year to be this great. Oh! and there was almost a break-up that was on the cards, but that dint happen thankfully.

My blog has hit 9,000+ hits already and it is not even a year old. I have already typed an application for an award to the Indian Dental Association for topping my college. I did not break up with my boyfriend, and we look so hot together. I have the best pals in the world. My parents just booked another apartment in another city. And life looks sunny! The last month two weeks were probably the most fun two weeks in the history of my life (minus the days in Thailand, of course) but this was so much fun!

My cousin, who is studying the US (so proud) wrote to me about how his friends ‘love’ my blog. Thank you, people. *big shout out*. Oh. And the drummer of ‘p a r i k r a m a’ messaged me himself AND gave me his number. I probably shouldnt be bragging about it but sc-o-o-o-o-reeee! And even better- he praised this blog and I quote ‘Very inspired writing’.

My brother and Mr. Mahajan here made me get my lazy arse back to the laptop and type-type-type. And thanks, to all of you too! Your praises make me write better, lyk rlly mks me wryt bttr. (laugh if you got the joke)

I remember, on Christmas Eve, my friends and I stood in queue (we broke in) and fought really hard to get into the Church and it was totally worth it. I cry every time I step into a Church and that night, while the Priest blessed me in His name, tears flowed down my cheeks and onto my tee and then to my jeans. I was overwhelmed by everything I felt and everything that was blessed unto me and everyone I had met. I cried because I felt blessed more than anything else I felt.

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I remember crying my eyes out when I saw my friends acting like a couple before me. I missed S so much I couldn’t help but cry. I felt like  a limb was being torn away from me. Everytime the couple held hands, a part of me ached. And then we met and there were smiles and tears and jokes and going out and hatred and discoveries and love and all that shizz!

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I remember laughing like a kid while playing Taboo with all my friends then throwing Santa caps in the air, followed by Shisha and then dancing in the winter chill, it was all worth it. Drinking a peg or two of whiskey and the holding on for my dear life while swaying my head to dance numbers for 6 straight hours without rest. I have never dont this and I never exercise so my body was shocked to do that much work with so much attitude in that much time! 😛

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All in all, this year is off to a good start. The praises for my blog and the praises for my photography have made me happy. I found a boyfriend who is an idiot and loves me like one. I found new friends who’re dating my best friends. My best friend finally had her first kiss. I understood how mature we are all becoming and how childish we still are going to be. I love my parents and my grandparents.

Happy New Year to all of you. Continue to de-tangle (or mess it up even further) with me !