victoria secret beer

intoxication and alcohol in general has been a bit of a question mark for the past nineteen years of my life. with a mother who looks down upon on a bottle of anything but water or fresh juice as a punch to the healthy body and a father who is a common recipient of hard liqour but drinks thrice in a bluemoon, alcohol has never passed the boundary of an acquaintance with me. this is probably the primary reason for my curiosity about it, a recurring question being ‘oh what’s it like to be very tipsy or, god forbid, even drunk i wonder?’ inebriation is supposedly a rage and i wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other side; but in the past few months, i’ve never gone past two beers which just made my head hurt, nothing worse.

i’m going out on a limb here, hoping that my parents or any of my adult relatives for that matter, don’t read this blog of mine anymore because i’ve got an experience to share which they – Indian parents who claim to be modern and are truly so in several fields,  are in actuality not very open about other important things that may matter very much so in my future – might not necessarily be happy about.

a week and a half ago, my friends and i were prepared to test our tolerance level – we downed about six beers each. you needn’t be alarmed – we were at home, with every level of security and with the comfort of being able to use the loo seven times, if need be. with four beers down, we were just a little over tipsy and it was turning out to be a very good and fulfilling evening, spent with the best of my friends. with the sixth beer gulped down, i was very proud of my tolerance level.

besides the many voice recordings riddled with drunken guffaws and sloppy chuckles we sent to our other good friends and the spilling of a few sips of beer onto the floor in a tipsy haze, we seemed completely sober. when i had to leave my friend’s home to go pick up my mother (my driver uncle was around, still no reason to be alarmed; also i don’t know to drive yet) from her friend’s place, i like to think that i did a very good job of putting up a sober act; that was until my mother – who has the nose of a bloodhound, apparently – asked me, “did you drink anything, what’s that smell?” and while my heart went berserk and plunged into panic mode, i replied, “no we just drank lemon juice, and that smell is victoria secret beer – i mean, victoria secret perfume, the new one i got, remember? ha ha ha.” my stars must have been beautifully aligned that evening for my mother was too distracted to understand my rushed words.



some many seasons ago, i met a girl so unlike me that i fell in love with her. she was as blunt as the end of a cigarette, her words sharper than the edge of a knife. she claimed to have a stone for a heart, but there were moments when she would let its weight sink and her feeling float above. one could say she was a work of art: bold, messy, d i f f i c u l t, but in progress. when her confusing, cloudy world entered the view of my rose-coloured glasses, i was caught off g  uard. i had never felt so dis or ie nted; it was a feeling like no other. i liked girls? i liked girls, too.
in all my years, i hadn’t had such an enormous question mark
towering over


i knew i was utterly spent when i caught my heart f l utt e r ing as soon as she laid her head on my shoulder, resembling the perfect word in a poem to be italicised; i knew i was absolutely hopeless when she had placed her cold palm just under my collarbones to check my temperature, my cheeks as red as the nail polish i never wore again.
and i knew i was a  g o n e  r         when she playfully patted my behind and exclaimed that i had, “a great ass”. she was everything i was not. on most days, it was  fucking infuriating, but on some days it was absurdly endearing. i hated a lot of things about her: her ambivalence, her apathy, her incessant !!!! swearing, her l aid back attitude about nearly e v e r y t h i n g, how she’d brush over things that mattered to me, how annoyingly good she looked in the worst pictures i took of her, amongst other things. but the things i liked about her? they outweighed everything else: her subtle yet well-meaning caring side|, her honesty, her sense of humour – just as terrible as mine, her courage, her terribly underestimated mind, a selflessness that i found lacking in almost everyone else – she  had  my  heart.

“does she feel the same way?”

i worry every other minute, but as i write type this i realise that it doesn’t matter after all, [[[[does it?]]]] it’s not like i can suddenly! stop loving her for being, well, her. it’s going to take tick time tock for this moment to p a s s,  so i might as well revel in the days of our growing ~comfort~ around each other, be it as friends or just a someone new in each other’s lives.
until this situation comes to a close, i plan to lurk around her – just to make sure she’s not too self destructive; i’ll hover around for a little while longer…, to be able to laugh with her at the plainest of things, until the “rational” side of my mind realises that there are other things to work upon. after all, i want to do great things, i just don’t know what

: a slightly exaggerated version of what i experienced when i had a crush on a girl
last year


about my parents

i am eighteen years old and only in the past couple of years have i realised how utterly grateful i should be for my incredible parents. there have been days when i wasn’t an easy child to deal with, but all i ever received from their end was love. their parenting has been blood, sweat and tears, in the purest sense.
my parents have raised my sister and i gently and patiently, appreciated our every achievement, no matter how small the scale and acknowledged our every effort. their upbringing has got me well acquainted with the feeling of being loved unconditionally, sans any terms and conditions.
in my years as a pre-teen, my relationship with my mother wasn’t as healthy as it is today. but since the past decade she has grown along with me, even more so. she has always been a kind and loving woman, there’s no denying that. but since her indulgence in spirituality, my mother has transformed into the most calm and collected person i know. her mental and emotional strength has sky-rocketed, so much so that she can not only bear the weight of my father’s, my sister’s and my burdens but become the unexpected sunlight during rainy season. to see my mother radiate positivity under dire circumstances and spread comfort to everyone around her is astounding. there are days, however, when her unfailing optimism irks me, because sometimes i just want her to agree with me and say, “that sucks, my dear”. but after all that she has done for me, i would do whatever it takes to see her happy and proud. now that i’m leaving for college, she’s been remembering my childhood days, when all it took to make me giggle and gurgle was raspberries on my stomach and tickles on my chin.
my father is a gentle man, especially when it comes to me. it makes me a little sad that he’s not around as much as i would like him to be, but that’s okay. i understand his commitment to his work; being a doctor isn’t easy at all, particularly not when you’ve got hundreds of patients lined outside of your cabin, waiting to share their troubles. he may be seated on the sidelines, but he’s the best cheerleader i’ve ever had. he is easily swayed by others’ opinions, but he also gives a lot of importance to what i have to say – which i appreciate so much; and he always prioritises my happiness. no matter how many birthdays i celebrate, my small hand in my father’s soft and tender hand will forever be one of my favourite feelings in the world.
parenting is a mammoth task, but massively rewarding if done right. but here’s the thing – you don’t raise your child with the goal of getting something in return. that makes your child a liability waiting to be balanced out. my parents have given me the freedom to study what i enjoy, pursue what i’m good at – no matter the scope. i can’t ever thank them enough; my happiness is linked with theirs, there’s no otherwise. i aim to please my parents.

baby’s day out

I’m going abroad for week this summer, with my family. When I learnt of this impromptu plan, it was probably the best news I could have received in between my boards. What escaped my already air-bound mind was that, we have to apply for a visa. My mother and I were supposed to go to the visa office together but we secured an appointment on a date when she was out of town. I had to go alone. Once my father explained all the proceedings and handed me all the important documents, I wasn’t so nervous anymore. Just a week ago I had been to the passport office alone and exited successfully. Not to mention I’d turned eighteen two months ago. I thought, “I can do this, how hard can it be?”.

It was 12:45pm when I reached the visa office, and things started off just fine: I was allowed to enter without the appointment receipt, our travel agent’s guy was around during the initial stages to help me out. Once near the waiting line, I was escorted to the lounge – air conditioned, free Bisleri water bottles and cookies, that sort of thing. I must’ve waited for about half an hour during which I tried to study for my psychology exam. Tried here is the key word, because I was distracted by the stares of some very important looking men sitting with me in the lounge, muttering in Telugu which I failed to understand. Soon enough, one of the attendants – Mr Singh – approached me and asked for all the required documents. Fifteen seconds in, he tells me we’ve filled in the wrong visa application form. My heart sinks. While he leaves to get the correct forms, I call up my father who says he’s on his way to help me out. My sunken heart lifts itself up – “This isn’t too bad. I’ll get past this.” I start filling the forms – with a pen I borrowed from one of the very important looking men, who knew he wasn’t going to get it back anytime soon – and my dad arrives twenty minutes later. Once everything seemed in order, he wishes me luck and I go back into the lion’s den, while he left to attend to the patients he had left hanging at the hospital.

I wait for an hour for Mr Singh to get back to me. During this hour, another family seated themselves in the lounge – mother, daughter and son. The daughter seemed to be around my age, except I was not dressed well enough. The son, probably about twelve or thirteen, had in his hands a sleek black iPhone – and I’m just being paranoid but, I almost felt like he discreetly clicked a picture of my tired face and made a meme out of it. But then again, at that point, all the negativity had planted itself into my mind so I must be getting ahead of myself.

The hour become an hour and a half. I didn’t go look for him because not only was I shivering in the AC room but I also had to use the loo – desperately. But, I didn’t want to leave my spot, just in case he happened to drop by the moment I left to relieve myself. Tapping my foot against the hard wood floor, I tried to distract myself by skimming through my neglected textbook. In the cold. While my bladder was whining as though it already didn’t have enough of my attention.

At 4:40, Mr Singh finally got back to where I was. Two minutes in, he groaned and looked up at the fancy ceiling of the lounge and informed me that my travel insurance documents were wrong and a few extra xeroxes were missing. My sunken heart plummeted. He breezed through my other documents and kept pointing out the little errors that had slipped my father’s mind and some that were never informed by our agent. I explained everything to my father on phone and I did so at a whisper. Not because I cared of what the other aunties and uncles in the lounge thought of me, but because I was on the verge of tears. Mr Singh was staring down at me – almost pityingly – and that made everything worse. I blubbered out incoherent words to my father and at that moment, I felt like a little girl whose hand had slipped out of her mother’s in a crowded bazaar. “Why are you crying, ma’am?” Mr Singh asked me, annoyed. My throat was blocked and my eyes were wet with tears, I was ashamed of myself for crying so easily.

Mr Singh, meanwhile, was sure that my visa application couldn’t be completed today. He told me to come back tomorrow. He didn’t understand that I had wasted nearly four hours which I should have spent studying for my final exam. Afraid of crying even harder, I just nodded to everything he said. Once he left and the stares of everyone else in the room had shifted onto something a little less interesting, I called back my father. He was upset, not with me, and he knew I was overwhelmed. Speaking in the kindest voice, he told me that he’d be there in another twenty minutes. And so I waited.

My dad made everything right, even before he arrived. He asked the authority responsible to e-mail him the correct travel insurance papers and got them printed out. It wasn’t until he arrived and I saw the Frooti bottle in his hand, that I realised it was 5:15 and I hadn’t eaten lunch. No wonder my head was pounding. Before I could register anything else, he had his arms around me and as much as I appreciated the gesture, it just made me burst into tears. My hands covered my face and I could feel the stares of those around pierce into me. My eyes were shut tight and my sniffling was loud; that was when I knew that I hadn’t had such a bad day in a very long time.

Once my eyes were dried and I had had a sip of the cold Frooti, I went back to the counter. It had been five and a half hours since I’d been in that office, and the other attendants had started recognising me, wondering what I was still doing loitering around. Another lady attendant and Mr Singh approached me and started rechecking my documents, once I told them that the correct documents are all there. Just when everything was okay – I realised that in all this flurry, I had misplaced my passport sized photos. “They were right here, I swear.” I said. I spent five minutes scanning the glassy floor, frantically searching every piece of my belonging. “Lagta hai aapka aaj din hi kharab hai.” (Looks like, your day itself is bad), Mr Singh said with a reconciling smile before he helped me in the search. By then, I think, he had understood how shaken and inexperienced I was. I was sure I had searched my backpack at least five times, and on the sixth time, there were the photographs – inside the small pocket in the front zip.

From there on, everything went accordingly. Mr Singh and I shared a few smiles and that put me at ease. I didn’t want to be the reason for a government employee’s bad day at work. At 5:45, I was out of the place. I ran my hand through my hair – that had become tangled in between all the haste and worry – and I was sure that the one strand of hair that left my scalp was because of the immense stress and worry I had felt in the span of six hours. I sat with my father outside for a little while, so grateful he was there. When I reached home and walked to the elevator that would take me to my floor – it was already there, waiting for me. It was almost as if the universe had pity on me and made things a little easier. What a long day it’s been. But, the trip should be worth it, yes?

ten seconds

i just smacked a mosquito so hard i could almost hear it whisper before its final breath, “i deserve this for attacking you just when you sat down to write about something you have absolutely no idea about; after all, you’re just winging it, so you’re going to need all the help.” 

have you ever felt terribly, pityingly inadequate? of course you have! just when you find yourself seemingly grounded and at the same time, metaphorically suspended in the air, floating about with less worries than usual clouding your mind (do you want me to stop with these puns, really? do you?), you’re suddenly strung high up into the air, with your ankle having replaced the spot for your – or someone else’s for that matter – neck, while your blood succumbs to gravity yet again and gives you a long overdue head rush.

these past few months, i’ve been trying really hard to be optimistic about all things going wrong; i may have also started believing in fate – probably my mother’s influence, and definitely not a bad one. but there are some days when upsetting what ifs start to pick at my brain and all the negativity i’ve managed to avoid suddenly comes and sits upon my shoulder, like an annoying bird pecking my ear, except this one bird weighs a ton. human beings are weak, and a tiny peck, a nudge if you will, is enough for us to give in and descend into this underlying world of all things bad.

three seconds for your mind to register the thought; two seconds for you to frown or scrunch your eyebrows because you’re obviously startled by its sudden intrusion; four seconds for you to mull over your options panic and a hint of pity for yourself , one second for you to choose whether or not to continue that harmful four second streak.

that’s the thing though – if you refrain from giving heed to the first negative thought, you can escape the subsequent self-pity and onset of inferiority complex that follows. now, the content of this particular post is an example of what’ll happen if you give said thought more attention than required: you will have in front of you a poorly structured, aimless rant, riddled with puns and humour that have traces of pity, guilt and sadness, and a clock that reads the time as ‘way past your usual bed time, young lady’.

extremely loud & incredibly close


i haven’t done justice to this book at all; i’ve been reading it for more than a month now, i think, and it’s because i kept reading it in long intervals – sometimes i didn’t read it for a week or two altogether. it’s not that the book wasn’t interesting, in fact it’s anything but uninteresting, but the reason i was avoiding reading it was because it made my heart hurt and heavy with each page, with each chapter. jonathan foer has done an absolutely exceptional job writing this book; it’s not just a story, you can literally experience the feelings of the protagonist (oskar, a nine year old boy) on the pages; he’s used all sorts of formats of writing and incorporated the visual aspect of the boy’s feelings (if that makes sense) onto the page and the reader can’t help but understand it perfectly well, at least i did, even if oskar himself isn’t sure. i’m not done reading the book, i’ve still got a few pages left to read and yet again i’m avoiding it because a few uninvited tears have already escaped my ducts reading the last chapter, but maybe it’s just me being a lil oversensitive bb. apart from the whirlwind of feelings that accompany this novel, it’s got everything you could ask for: humour, suspense, conflict, drama, naïvety, perspective, epiphanies, analogies, frustration, sorrow, death, experiences, letters, visual appeals, a cameo by a specific someone famous, attachment, love, need, mystery, relationships and so much more. this is a book that i’d definitely want as part of my collection and one that i will read yet again once i’m done reading it for the first time because i feel like it deserves more of my attention; attention that i want to give it without becoming a jumbling mess of tears. i’ve already recommended it to a bunch of people, and i’m doing the same to you – i’m not guaranteeing that you’ll like it but it’ll definitely be a taste of something new.