I am tired of searching for Utopia, or trying to hold on to the one I had. Here on, I would be building one for myself.


To Tell a Story

Here’s what I would like you to do for me:

Make me laugh. Make me cry.

Show me my place in this world. Show me the world’s place in my life.

Lift me out of my skin and put me inside another’s, and show me how to live there.

Show me places I have never been to. Carry me to the ends of time and space.

Give my demons names, give my fears a face, and show me how to confront them.

Present before me heroes who will give me courage and hope.

Demonstrate for me possibilities I had never thought of.

Ease my sorrows, increase my joy.

Teach me compassion. Entertain me, enchant me, enlighten me.

Above all, tell me a story.


Credits: DC Comics Guide to Writing Comics

Because you were the greatest ever.

I have been staring at the screen for the past 5 minutes, wondering where and how to start. It’s not like I am short of words, Oh no, definitely not. I am just scared, afraid whether whatever I pen down would do justice to the man, the legend.

Because my minuscule skills in painting a picture out of words would fail to capture the greatness. the romanticism, the grit and above all the  sheer talent of el fenomeno.

I can parrot off a list of statistics and awards or drown you in a deluge of video’s . But that would be belittling the man, as would putting the blame-dump on the nefarious thyroid or the fragile knee or the infamous seizure.  But I am not here to prove his greatness.

I would rather just close my eyes and thank him for making me smile countless times in past, for scripting the greatest redemption saga in sports history, for letting me be the happiest person on earth on 30th June 2002.

Because you Sir, were the Greatest striker ever to grace the game. Period.


Life has been confusing for the past few months.

Things that seemed important have been relegated to ‘Oh-you-are-still-here’.

Things that seemed ‘This-is-what-I-want’ have been queuing outside my door daily, desperately hoping for my greedy and sensually charged eyes to fall on them. Fall they did, but I have been shying away from leaving my comfort-laden bed and making that daily journey to the door.

Things that seemed ‘haha-what-are-you-for’ have been graced with undue attention leading to ‘oh-you-are-still-here’ sitting up and taking notice and ‘This-is-what-I-want’ contemplating hunger strikes and what not.

Mostly, everyone was waiting for me to put all this in writing and see the fuck-uptiness of it all.

The voices in my head have been in a major competition for my attention, with those of my bosses and colleagues. Meanwhile, my once a month charge towards demystifying life has been buoyed by a fortuitous overlap with a Monday morning. I am definitely not primed for any productive work today.

Too-many-thoughts, none of them sensible!

My mind has a thing against the concept of self-preservation, it absolutely refuses to acknowledge it, leading to inevitable stink-holes that I regularly find myself in.

Choice is overrated. Period.  Also, funny thing this life is,  I kid you not.

Inertia has me in a fierce Undertaker-ish choke hold. And as my mind was busy dishing out snooty looks back when Self-preservation 101 was being expounded, I am miserably failing at recognizing the imminent danger.

I have almost fixed the title of my autobiography:   “Dummy’s Guide to err… well, Avoid being a Dummy”. Yes the ‘err’ and the  ‘…’ are part of the title.

Trivial Updates.

Mythology is replete with horrifying anecdotes of God’s wrath that befell on those who chose a life of depraved immorality, sin and in general waywardness from all that is good.

Things like eternity in hell, reincarnation as a lowly life form, hollow emptiness where your soul was supposed to be; are just few of the chart-toppers in God’s this-is-how-i-roll-when-i-am-pissed list.


Having had the misfortune of packing and unpacking a total of four times in the last two years, I have come to believe firmly that i-sentence-you-to-another-house-hunting/shifting is one of the highly underrated weapons in the Holy One’s arsenal.

The sheer inhumanness of the process is mind-boggling. And there is a special 128-beat disco version for the hard-ass incorrigible sinners, where-in you are made to waste your weekend in meticulous (OK not so much) packing and then shown the door when you land up at your DREAM NEW HOME! (Yes it did happen, reasons are unimportant)

Anyhow, all that is in the past, and I sort of like my new abode. First of all, it is huge. We (me and my 3 flat mates) can host a party of 50 people in our hall and still sleep peacefully in our separate bedrooms. In fact it is big enough to crack the lame “mera ghar toh itna bada hai ki do rooms ke beech mein roaming lagti hai” joke.

I am yet to embark on the unpacking journey. I am stalling it because I want to do it right this time. You know like keeping all the clothes neatly in closet with separate shelves for work and casual clothes, books in the bookshelf instead of my bed, dirty clothes in laundry bag rather than on my bed, food stuff in refrigerator as opposed to- yes you guessed it right, on my bed. And no this is not because I have a smaller bed this time, I am genuinely gunning for a new cleanliness-compatible version of mine.

Hopefully we would abandon our cavemen like existence today and get Wi-fi at home. Thus enabling me to work at office from tomorrow instead of hogging Internet bandwidth for blog posts and other cyber-exploits.

PS Considering the fact that this is the first one, I seem to doing well on my resolution of longer blog posts.

Zapped !

Remember that friend, whom you talked to after ages, and suddenly the words inside you were let out of captivity, the emotions perceived to have slumbered into anonymity somewhere in deep recesses of your brain, simply got up with a shrug and resumed their shameless promiscuity.

I think that is the kind of relation I have with this web log.

Losing Grip

The words were too structured for the abruptness his thoughts demanded. And the sand kept slipping through his fingers. It was frustrating.


The ferocity lacked conviction, a muted apology betraying the vicious snarl. The baby giggled, amused. He turned away, feeling like a dud

Fool's Gold

One cold night, he would be ready again, he would let in the wind and forsake the warmth; and remembering his pain, risk it all over again.

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