Tuesday, October 30, 2007


There is a silly Phil Collins' song that makes me cry. I probably heard it when I was thirteen and sappy love songs came bundled with puberty.

It just started playing in my room. I haven't heard the song in maybe six years, and my heart suddenly feels heavy.

I am buried under the burden of my ambitions. I live for them. I strive for them. I love living my life. It is an adventure, with me rushing towards colourful dreams. It inspires me and I take every step hoping to face another challenge. But, yes it all balances out at the expense of functional relationships. I never wish to formulate any, for I love a few, I loathe a few and I ignore the rest. It's perfect this way.

But for how long? I deliberately forge discontent in my existence, or I am left with nothing to do. There is nothing missing, yet, I wish for something to miss. I am unhappy because I am happy! Lack of choice brings me to the conclusion that maybe that hated idea of 'love' perhaps exists, but it's too soon to reject my own ideals and notions, I have nurtured so carefully all these years. It's comfortable, its convenient. Everything I do -- action and reaction have a defined purpose and a set priority in the hours of my life. Neither surpasses its utility, but what if I was wrong. What if at twenty-two I have become another song.

You're the only one who really knew me at all
So take a look at me now
Oh there's just an empty space

Monday, October 29, 2007


When you plant your ass for twenty hours in your car every week.

When you order pseudo Italian dishes for lunch and dinner.

When you conveniently forget you survived on twenty five buck vodka shots at The Supper Factory.

When you make your friends pick you up from Gurgaon but not step inside a bus ever again.

When you untag yourself from all the wonderful pix clicked at Decibel.

When everyone you know pretends Nuovo Cinema Paradiso is their favourite movie.

When you change your clock widget's design every time you change your wallpaper.

When you have a laptop that displays widgets.

When you realise cigarettes really do beat stress.

When you know what a DMAT account is.

When you have an access card that you use for discounts at media nights.

When you ask people to meet you at Bristol and not at gol chakkar.

When you pay five hundred buck rental on your Vodafone.

When you don't remember what dairy milk tasted like.

When you join salsa classes and never attend.

When you have a psychic lifestyle guru's number in your phonebook to discover untapped psychic impulses that help unleash hidden creative ideas.

When you jump up in joy every time soni de nakhre plays.

When all your colleagues have a pod clipped on.

When you catch the 10:50 pm show at the Cineplex.

When you type out this post on an application called Dark Room 0.8

When you miss the irony, that is this photograph of a rebellious, disillusioned, hateful, twisted, desolate Anki who would have eaten a live squid than done any of the above.

Friday, October 19, 2007


I'd swim the rivers through Amazon
I'd climb the Matterhorn and ski back down
I'd fly an ostrich to the moon
I'd walk through Sahara in the month of June
I'd race a lama through Atacama
And ride a shark till Panama

I'd take my chances in the world
But not be left standing alone

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


A storm comes and runs
twilight turns all grey
Annabella smiles
eyes shine so bright
stinging their souls
they can't see her
and she won't
Annabella sings
her beautiful dream

Nobody love
nights are here
and days are gone
her burning eyes
shine so bright
she smiles
a beautiful tear
love nobody
Annabella sings

Saturday, October 13, 2007


My dearest friend has emailed me a critical review of this wonderfool blog. It has left me distraught, just like this two day weekend. Now, ofcourse its great to have a two day weekend, but not when parents are visiting the daughter-gone-wrong with a lot of chocolate muffins that seem to satisfy the daughter for now, eventhough telepathic signal being transmitted all the way to Kuwait didn't really materialize into the much desired Motorazr. Still, the muffins are equally great. Hence, me being stuck at home with parental units engrossed in watching Bappi Lahri's latest jewelery, shall experiment with a long post about, well me.

So, this special friend believes that as much as she loves my posts, she thinks I am a sell out for several disturbing reasons.

" looks like u try 2 project a verry cool image of urself on d blog wich is fine cuz its ur blog and ur ego massage, which is why i thnk it should be kinda anonymous where u can talk.. u know realllly freeelyyy bout urslef, lilke a parallel identity, like your mirror and u dunt have 2 care whethr ur readers like u or not, u knw where u can freely talk bout ur life and insecurity.. where it is really from the heart.. where it is really a blog, a part of you.. independnt of ur liasions. but i guess its a romantic view."

So, its Saturday night and I have the option of watching
Y Tu Mama Tambien or reading one of the seven unfinished books, but I prefer to sit here and listen to RATM and Yves Larok and imagine the amount of fun everyone else is having, as I am missing a two hour jumping session at Morrison, and a four hour shit fuck jumping session at Agni. My other options are watching Sa Re Ga Ma Pa with Ma and Pa, or watching my dog smell other dogs' poop on the road.

Instead let me try and dispel my friend's misplaced observations, by posting what she expects from me.

So my lord, what does it mean to be an anonymous blogger of me?

It means having really dirty feet with over grown toe nails and a brand new life insurance which will save me some taxes. Alas, all those original school passing certificates have disappeared from my drawer and I am unable to furnish my age proof. So from today I am nineteen years old. Also, my blood test report has officially proved I am anemic. Quite a rude shock because all this time I was thinking the face cleaning I got from Mrs Singh in August made me fair, when it was the absence of Mister Ferrous which was making me pale and effectively fairer. Also, my white blood cell count is 18,000 units, when it should be 9000, and so I hid the report in my car's dashboard, convinced that I have got AIDS. Before y'all scream out I am dumb, let me tell you that according to NCERT Class XII biology Supplement, the body responds to the HIV Virus by producing way too many white blood cells, till the virus terminates them once and for all. So, believing that I have contracted HIV through a needle planted by some sadistic fool in the seats at Priya's, I kept avoiding the doctor's appointment. Alas, daddy took over the car and took the report to the doctor in my absence, who said I am just allergic to something and so the white blood cells have decided to flood my blood stream. Sigh, the only drama being played out is being witnessed by certain corpuscles floating in plasma . And, so I don't see why must I share all these melodramas, insecurities and impending health disasters here.

This new job thingy is not all that exciting, since the Linux systems are a pain with all those open source softwares, and commercial television is an evil empire, populated by inane shows and anal scripts, meant to be written by me. This is a convenient arrangement for the next four months, so that I save some worthless currency and fly off to Alexandria to stare across the green ocean till my eyes hurt. We can worry about the future on return, but for now life's pace seems to be just perfect, and every professional experience continues to teach me more than any film school would have in the past year. So no more regrets about not going for the Master's
that I had always dreamt of last February. But readers, in my rare confessional state, I wish to share that I am in the process of applying to the New School. Perhaps I am being too ambitious, and I know I cannot afford New York for two years as a creative writing student, but it would be nice to know, had I the opportunity and the resources, would I have made it to a bunch of phenomenally talented people and interacted with some tremendously inspiring writers?

Next we can talk about titillating sexual encounters that seem to be the norm across blogs written by urban Indian girls in their early twenties. Now, what can I say about that, except that I worship the body in flesh and not in soul, and one of my hobbies is to spread the science of hooking up for the needy. Yes, I believe in the art of seduction and as much as it appalls my dear friend, there indeed exists a five-step course, that can get most average people laid ninety percent of the time. I can get several satisfied followers to vouch for my claims, but it's just too silly and can spell doom for humanity if in wrong hands. In the end we all know deep inside that lust is the only true primeval desire and love is just a rational justification for hormonal impulses. So all you hopeless romantics can just stop pretending. Besides, we are asexual beings with higher pursuits of the mind occupying time and space. Sex is just a regular by-product of metabolism, which requires no special attention or a personal webpage. Fuck all people. With protection.

Now Porcupine Tree just whispered that they want to put Felix's penis on me, which just confuses me as the only Felix I know is a patented potion belonging to JK Rowling and so it's time for me to go and write something sensible, namely prose and poetry that I wish to archive on this webpage, and read when I grow up.

Sorry, for all the justifications I can or cannot furnish, all I have to say to my critics is that I write for myself. My amateur attempts at fiction might inspire or conspire, but as I stumble through my life, I can always come back here and observe the evolution of my mind with a smile, through words that will be preserved by the good people at Google. And, hopefully this girl will marvel at her young writings and remember a time inhabited by a new generation of independent free spirits.

Aight sweethearts, it might be a hell lot of fun to be me, but back to fictional writings born of the notions swirling around the black trenches of my mind.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007














Thursday, October 04, 2007


Now, I cannot stop hating myself for having ignored the joys of house music for these past years. I want to kick myself for watching three thousand zombied bodies jump in unison, two years ago, to the hooks and whims of a certain god that goes by the name Sasha, and yawning. Of course, I have made up for the lost time, by jumping to all that trance, anywhere and everywhere, so much so that I am no longer allowed to sit in the front seat by my Sony Xplod owning friends, for the fear of being subjected to the sounds of San Francisco unto death. So, this dead bureaucratic city, that insists on sending cops and prematurely interrupting my jumping session, has defeated self-righteous moral guardians, vis-a-vis five star hotels, who have a license to kill, entertain intoxicated souls and feed the Hilton off springs. Sometimes, I wish anxious parents, burly cops, and horny men realised, its not the vulgar, south Delhi spoilt brat syndrome, but simply, a bunch of neurons finally bursting through a blast of colours, moving the body along to an intensely gratifying stimuli, called music. Oh yea, the post, well television is the next pit-stop, and the horrors of journalism shall never be re-visited. Of course, mixed emotions are being experienced at the new place, liquid spewed by nine different buttons on the coffee machine are being sampled, smoke breaks in solitary company are being lamented, and driving all the way to Gurgaon has increased my carbon footprint to a staggering 57 tons per year. Still, it has the making of an electrifying new script, till this girl decides to move on to the next big thing. Of course, by twenty-five, I would have run out of every known form of mass media, given that only advertising remains to be tasted and Bollywood still does not qualify as an industry in the girl's eyes. So, awaited roles include an ad hoc college instructor, assistant to a counsellor, song-writer sporting the pseudonym Maxlet, Italian chef, hair stylist, unwed mother shunned by the society, or the boho who gets to switch on the applause sign. Oh, and be sure to wear some flowers in your hair, if you go to San Francisco.