In my dreams

“The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened.” - Anonymous

Prologue – 

What follows next is the recollection of the dream I had a few days back. I see no reason why anybody would be interested in my dream and its significance, if any. However this was the most significant dream that I have had in the recent years that I could recollect in my waking life. And therefore I feel compelled to write it on my blog and publish the link everywhere, maybe just for the heck of it or maybe it’s a momentary lapse of season. Following the waking up from the dream my first reaction was to note down the happenings of my dream as good as I could before it fades from my memory, as everything does. I couldn’t sleep that night post this dream, as I lay tossing and turning in my bed, churning this dream in my head thinking of the significance of it. But mostly I just reveled in the beauty of it even with its untimely and tragic ending.

I won’t unload any unnecessary esoteric trivia, like dreaming of being in snow was because I was feeling cold (it is cold in Curepipe this time of the year, especially at night) or what could be the interpretation of the proceedings. I know that it doesn’t make much sense nor has continuity, but then it is not supposed to, it is a dream. However two things I want to clear before I begin. First there is no prelude the events I describe, I was smack in the middle of it as dreams often begin. Also there are no reasons to things I deduced, they were just in my notes. Secondly, I wanted to tell what a lucid dream is, as this was, at least at the end. A lucid dream is a dream in which one is aware that one is dreaming. In a lucid dream, the dreamer can actively participate in and manipulate imaginary experiences in the dream environment. A lucid dream can begin in one of two ways. A dream-initiated lucid dream (DILD) starts as a normal dream, and the dreamer eventually concludes it is a dream, while a wake-initiated lucid dream (WILD) occurs when the dreamer goes from a normal waking state directly into a dream state, with no apparent lapse in consciousness. Mine was the former.

The Dream –

It’s daytime. I am in a car, driving. Most probably it is my car, that I drive in the waking life, as it looks and feels the same from the inside. In the front seat is a girl, beautiful, smiling, chirpy, with hair flowing in the wind. There are other people in the car too, two of my younger cousins and one friend from school. I don’t pay much heed to them, I am engrossed in the driving and perhaps my own thoughts. The girl is warm and friendly but there is sadness in her eyes, she also had her heart broken, but she doesn’t behave that way. Like me I mean, I am quiet, a bit aloof and cynical. We get to her house and she invites me inside. She lives with her family. She is a Christian (I don’t how I figured this out). She leaves me alone with her grandparents, as she goes about the house, dancing, twirling and playing with the curtains. Her grandparents start talking to me, they seem to like me. They tell me it was nice of me to give her a lift. I seem to be a responsible person to them and they tell me it would be good of me drop her back home whenever she gets drunk. I deduce that she is a trouble maker when she gets drunk. After a while I say the pleasantries and take leave from them. When I get back to the car my cousins start teasing me while my friend takes me to the side and asks me to be careful with the girl’s heart. And not to pursue this matter any further if I am not serious.  I shrug it off and get back in the car. Cousins keep teasing me all the way in the car.

Scenery has now changed around me. I am still in a car, but this is not my car, nor am I driving it. It is snow all around me, looks like I am on top of some mountain. Car seems fairly bulky but powerful and secured. We start going down the slope.  Gradually I see riots breaking out and people fighting and rioting around me.

The next scene I see that I broke through the front windscreen of the car, due to some collision. As I am flying out of the glass, time slows down and I feel the darkness coming from the edges. I feel this is some premonition of the things to happen and I can save myself from dying. Then I realize that the only reason I saw this is because in some universe this has already happened and it is inevitable. Then I make peace with it. I see it happening, we are going down fast, trying to lose the rioters, someone has thrown something at the windscreen, the glass cracks and it is not possible to see through. The car crashes into something and I am thrown out of the car by the impact through the windscreen. I feel the darkness coming in again, but this time I do not fear it, if death is just the blackness I came back from then there is no reason to fear death. And then, as they say my life flashes before my eyes. Only that my whole life doesn’t flash before me.

The only and the last thought which goes through my head is of that girl and how I won’t get to be with her. I regret not reciprocating the love and her warmth when I had the chance. As I lay dying I feel my heart beat receding and the feeling that it will come to a halt eventually. But now suddenly I want to live, to be with her, I try to fight it, my failing heart beat that is. My dream has become lucid as this point. But I realize that this is in vain as my heart beat becomes fainter and fainter each time and finally is no more. I realize that this is how probably dying would feel like. The dream stops and I wake up at this point.

The day that Kotler failed

So it was a bright and sunny Saturday morning. Actually it was little too bright, a little too sunny and I was hungover and tired and sleepy. My phone was conked and the alarm which was supposed to wake me up at 5; never did wake me up at 5. So I woke up at 6:45 panicked and looked at my phone, it was switched off. I switched it on and called the person I was supposed to pick up at 7. It was my friend’s friend, or as my friend (Ashutosh) said; his business partner. So I was supposed to pick her up from K.P.H.B and drop her to ISB where she was going to have her first exhibition for newly founded brand Inky. She was the designer (She is a pass out from NIFT and has been working on designing for years) and my friend, Ashustosh was supposed to take care of ‘The Marketing’. And they were supposed to sell apparel, accessories, jewelry and the whole works. Online for starters I think, they have a portal and all too (See it here, even if just for the hot model).  Anyways I couldn’t care less about all this that morning, every part of my body screamed that it wanted more sleep, except the throat maybe which wanted something to drink. But then I remembered the days when I did used to sleep and Ashu used to give the proxies for me and the Sundays when we were supposed to go to coaching and I used to ask him to go alone and get me bottle of Limca instead. So my mind told me that I needed to do this.

So I got up and called her, her bus was a little late and she would take a little time, and I guessed since Saturday in an off day, there won’t be much traffic on the roads. What I didn’t realize that time a little late was only a little late and she reached 20 mins after calling me, and Saturday is only an off for IT people and there would be plenty of traffic in KPHB. So I got ready in a frenzied state and drove with the intensity of The Transporter on crack. And I was only one and a half hour late. So I picked her up and drove up to ISB. You see ISB has an entrepreneurship course (PEV I suppose it is called) and part of that course the students are supposed to bring an entrepreneur to campus, help them etc. etc… And the team who made the highest profit wins. Again I was least bothered about all that. We went in, met her friend in ISB and set up for the day.

She had brought up Kurtas, Stoles, Potli bags (don’t ask what or what for they are, I didn’t have the slightest clue), Jewelry (which was the highest selling and is what the ‘The Female Purchase Decision Making Model’ is based on) and a few other things. So we set up and got to work. And what followed was something akin to the Great Revelation of Saint John. I realized that my girlfriends had been merciful on me and never subjected me to the full torture which can shopping with girls be.

I was taught in my Marketing class that any purchase decision making model had five steps. One after the other and leading to some conclusion.

However what transpired next was an education is itself. Only a little, if at all, of what Kotler Baba told us was followed when a bunch of people from Venus (read women) descended upon us for buying an ear ring worth 50 bucks. And this is what I named ‘The Female Purchase Decision Making Model’. Which is of course, over simplified and based on the little understanding of these byzantine creatures that we mere mortals (read men) have. Comprehend it if you can -

Click on the file to see the full size

P.S. - Another revelation of the day was, ISB has a lot of hot girls.

Open letter to ... Umm... I don't know ( What the hell is an open letter anyway?)

So the blogosphere is rife with open letters, some Madrasan girl wrote an open letter to a Delhi boy, read it here, full of rants, overkill and absolute crass. Another Madrasan girl wrote a much more classier reply , here  and one Delhi boy wrote a self-apologetic reply which was very Un-Delhi like, not only it did not contain any references to Black label and Chicken Tikka, but also was subtle, a word I think unknown in that  region.

But nothing succeeds like a direct, blatant and obtuse hate letter. 2357 comments till last night and counting, it has actually become news material. I couldn’t sleep the whole night post reading the open letters, not that I was worried about the National Integration or why my blogs never get so many comments, I can swear I am more imaginative that Texas Chain Massacring someone’s face !!? 

My motives are more altruistic and grandiose.I was worried about my beloved Rajasthan, once more it’s been left out of the debate and publicity generating, mudslinging, thriving-on-stereotype pen wars. While the Madrasnas and Punjus are fighting and Bongs are either silently observing and not downgrading themselves by commenting on literature much below Rabindra Nath Tagore’s or maybe they are too strung out, and of course the Gujju Bhaai and Banes are too damn busy minting money sitting comfortably in ‘A-mae-reeca’, we poor Rajasthanis (literally and figuratively) are feeling left out as usual. It’s like seeing your neighbor having a party, music pumping, girls splashing in the pool, booze flowing but not getting an invite because you are so un-cool.

So being a true blue (blue blooded too mind you, nearly all Rajputs descended from Kings, doesn’t matter even if king of an one square kilometer village) Rajasthani I had to do something about it, even if nothing more than cry hoarse and wallow in self-pity.

First of all we don't have any cool nicknames for us like Punjus and Bongs and Madrasis. Ok maybe all people club us as Marwaris but that is more detestable than being a non-Punjabi Delhite and being called Punju and being a Kannadiga and being called Madrasi, blah blah blah ….. And for the record I have stayed 4 years in Bangalore and 1 in Hyderabad and can differentiate between Telegu, Tamilians, Kannadigas, Malayalis, can or rather could speak some atrocious Kannada. Have stayed 2 years in Delhi, again could understand leaving the most ‘theth’ Punjabi. Half a year in Calcutta, can understand a bit of Bengali. And in nearly most cases can tell which part of India a person is, after talking to him/her for an hour.  Now back to being Marwari, when I  was in Bangalore, my first out of Rajasthan time, I was always assumed to be being from Delhi, as much as they cry foul that all North Indians call them Madrasis and don’t understand the difference between the 4 states they are no better either, they assume all North Indians are from Delhi, all things North Indians as Punjabi and the likes. I had a tough time explaining that I was not from Delhi, Kadi is not a Punjabi Dish and people dancing in the baraat with their arms in the air happened in Rajashtan as well. In Calcutta when told I’m from Rajasthan next question with a crinkled nose was that if I’m a Marwari? Then I had to ask that did they mean the caste Marwari (the basket in which they place all Baniyas), the place Marwar (the belt containg the places Jodhpur, Pali etc) or what. And in Delhi, let’s just say that they either assumed I’m from some Gujjar –Meena highway blockade party or totally ignored me completely coz’ I neither had a car, a huge built nor the statement ‘Oye tu jaanta nahi main kaun huun, main yahan ke <insert any random high ranking bureaucrat here> ko jaanta huun”.

But this is not what saddens me. While they there are fighting over the superiority of Dosa and Butter chicken our Daal Baati and Gatte and Rabori are thought of nicknames in some alien language by others. While they have M.S Subbulakshmi and Jasbir Jassi to grow up on, best we could manage was Ila Arun, of ‘Choli ke peeche kya hai’ fame, whose mere mention in my house raised my mother’s eyebrows. Girls here never heard of Vogue leave alone Fendi and how severely Jimmy Choo can get distorted here in Rajasthan I can only imagine. 

Bharatnatyam and Bhangra have shot to national fame while Kalbeliya (yes the name is funny enough and yes it’s a type of folk dance) remains confined to shots of women dancing it to the background of the desert signifying the scene is from Rajasthan. They are fighting over who looks better Priyanka Chopra or Aishwarya Rai while we had to import Shilpa Shetty (a Bunt) as our team’s face in IPL . Delhi people start conversing in Hindi or Hinglish (You know this top looks very good peeche se but you know, it would look much better if it had a little red and a little peela color in this) if they are the upper class which they think is the default language of all Indians, South Indian people will talk two sentences in English and then two more amongst themselves in their local language and the Bengalis will coalesce into Bengali and ignoring outsiders completely after the second drink or the first joint. We on the other hand don’t even know proper Marwari, Hadoti, Mewari and other sub-dialects of Rajasthan.  We are sending truckloads of people into IIT and IIMs either directly (proper Rajasthanis) or indirectly (from the Kota coaching center network) and there is no mention of us being intelligent or intellectual anywhere, zero, zilch . We are deprived of Huge Statures and white complexion too (I am fair though, in case you are wondering, you can ask my good friend Ankur to confirm) and let’s just admit it that  bigger is better, always and in India fairness (of the skin) is valued much more than any other kind of fairness. There are not so many Mercedes in our whole cities as would pass me in South Delhi while trying to cross the road. We want Flashy SUVs, Ed Hardy t-shirts (fake or otherwise), Gadgets imported from the US and the Gulf, houses in NYC. We are not getting any action in this department, and in THE department, Rajasthan seems to be most sexually repressed state of whole India, UP people and Haryana people at least get to rape women across the state border.

So while Bengali people are having endless cups of tea over fish cutlets post 5 o’ clock and discussing politics, Madrasis are either working in US or Gulf in that time, or working for US and Gulf in that time and harboring money and dreams of wives dipping in gold , Punjabis are taking out their amplifier fired SUVS playing ‘Amplifier’ and pouring black labels and thinking which area to molest girls in today. We on the other hand are wondering why are hell are we here, saving up pennies and getting monikered ‘Kanjoos Marwaris”. Delhi has it’s cleavage showing female side of the population, Bangalore has them tattoo sporting, Calcutta has them parading their pierced belly buttons while here they are covered from head to toe to save themselves from the sun. It’s like never using your iPod as you never remove  the wrapping. And in Bangalore they are fighting for the discs to go beyond 11:30 while here they shut down liquor shops at 8! As Abhay Deol says in ‘Manorama: Six feet Under’ (a must watch film and has true feel of Rajasthan) “Is mardood raet ke jungle mae mae apni  choti-moti pareshaniyon ke saath, apni choti moti see gumnam zindagi jee raha huun”.

P.S. – Of all the REPLIES to the open letter I liked G.Khamba’s the best – Here

You might also like – Jai Rajputana

Lose You

I light the candles as I wait for her

And place the record gently on the turn table

As I think of our vows and happy times together

A part begs me to salvage this while I’m still able.

But I shut it out for one more time

And think about removing the deadwood,

An euthanasia for the dying love, far past it’s prime.

I resolve, If I’m gonna lose you, I’ll lose you now for good.

I don’t want a better life, I’ll settle for less.

I’ll take my punishments I’m writing in the scroll.

For taking from this comically tragic vaudeville, a graceful egress.

The Coup de grâce to the body with no soul.

She doesn’t know this of course;

That tonight is the glorious end of the abyss,

And only inkling of how our love took this course,

To utter misery from heart felt bliss.

I hear the music and a voice rich and forlorn

But save the last dance for her, I would.

What If I’ll have to wander this world alone,

If I’m gonna lose you, I’ll lose you now for good.

She left me first or love left us first

The prize question I never understood.

But tonight with her parting tears I’ll quench my thirst.

As tonight I’ll end it all;

Coz’ if I’m gonna lose you, I’ll lose you now for good.

A river runs through it

Warning : Long, meandering, spur-of-the-moment kind of post.

It is said that you can’t go home again; it is truer for me than for anyone. I have no home so to speak of in India, parents stay in Mauritius, we have our home in Jodhpur where all the stuff is kept and I had left from Kota when I left home last. 

It has been more than 500 days since I have left Kota, the night of 13^th July, 2010 to be precise when I had left for Bombay. I’ve gone to Bombay, Pune, Zaheerabad, Hyderabad, Calcutta, Delhi, Agra, Bangkok and Bangalore since but never to Kota again. In fact I had left Kota in a way on the morning on 18^th September, 2003 and I had told my mom that for practical purposes I am leaving home today and I never intend to come back. What my visits back home have been what my friend Chirag would call as Pit Stops. I never gave much thought to leaving, in fact I was glad to leave what my brother described as a ‘two storied town’ after the Bon Jovi song. My parents were in fact a little emotional, in fact more than they showed on the eve of my leaving, but I was drunk on the rush of finally being independent and with 3 bags, a big-ass music system , two thick novels and such excitement that only naivety could bring I departed for Bangalore.

Leaving home and especially going to Bangalore meant for me freedom, adventures, doing my own thing, not having to hide the booze on my breath, going where no one knew me and the exhilaration that only being totally on your own could bring. And I got all this, and more. I have drank sitting on the pavement outside a bakery right out of a Bacardi bottle, kissed on the dance floor of a crowded disc, been broke to the extent to be literally not able to buy food ,  been caught by police numerous times and spent time in the police station thrice, wheelied (jack-rabbited) my bike being drunk out of my senses, rode back on bike at 3 on the night in freezing Delhi winter after watching ‘Avatar’, played music out of the balcony on the farewell night and broke beer bottles in the college, got in fight with land lord at 1 o’ clock in the night, fell in love and got my heart broken, been made a fool of many times, humiliated and ragged. But I was happy; it was my decisions that lead to these, and to quote William Ernest Henley from my one of my favorite poems –

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

But leaving home is like any adventure sport, whatever excites you also scares the living hell out of you. The fear of having nothing to fall back on, no father to reassure you when you are scared, no mother to sympathize with you even when you were wrong, no one to rescue you when the shit hits the fan. And also the simple leisure in life that only your home can provide - not worrying about your next meal, the car always has petrol, the clothes are washed and leaking taps are fixed, the comfort and amenities of home, the familiarity of your surroundings, you parent’s name opening doors for you. And for all this and more I miss Kota.

It is no paradise let me tell you that; it has senseless traffic, bad roads, extreme weather, rains which bring floods, cunning people, rough sounding language, no natural beauty to speak of, a conservative mentality and the normal small town shit. But yes I miss it today.

Kota to me was my huge house on the outskirts; and it was big, especially by today’s metro’s apartment standards. It was a good old fashioned government quarter on the outskirts of the city, with three and half bedrooms, four bathrooms,  a garden in front and one in back, lots of trees and a separate servant quarter to boot. It had a huge driveway which doubled or rather tripled up as a cricket pitch and a basketball court.

Kota to me was the hustle bustle of Talwandi and Vigyan Nagar areas which had student on the streets as far as you could see all discussing which ‘Sir’ (teacher) had gone to which coaching institution, new books on the market, had yesterday’s DPP (don’t ask what was it if you don’t already know it) been done or not, which mess had the best dal and so on …. You know life for an average teenager in Kota, and I mean average in the Kota sense, life revolved around the coaching class you go to which prepared you for some kind of entrance examination, girls as the second priority, outing with friends as a distant third and school loomed somewhere back in list. And that was pretty much my life too for the last few years there. First preparing for N.T.S.E. (National Talent Search Examination), I crashed out in the final round and in retrospect I don’t understand what the big deal about it was. Then it was preparing for IIT, anybody half decent in Kota with Maths in his 11^th Standard prepared for IIT, and I was half decent, in fact I was above average so I prepared for IIT as well. I didn’t and nor did my parents probably knew at that time that there were more above average people in India than there were seats in the IITs. Especially in Bansal Classes which was like the Colosseum and the toppers of all cities of the neighboring states were the gladiators, and like in the fights, some of them got the thumbs down from the Caesar.

 But in the daily struggle it was meant to be we found quite a lot of time to do other stuff. Thanks to the fab 4 – Mr. Gaurav Mathur, Mr. Vaibhav Shukla, Major Kunal Sahni and Shri shri 108 Sankalp Vyas jee. And not to forget Mr. Tarun Bhatia, in his rented room I had my first drink. Vaibhav and Sankalp used to stay on the way from my house to place where the tests of Bansal Classes were held and we used to go together. And I back then I used to be late for everything, including that, so I used to rush to Vaibhav’s house with a few minutes left for the test to start and he would be standing on the road and curse at me, I would apologize and we used to go to Sankalp’s house, who at that panicked state (only of us two) would slowly come out and say “Abey jaldi kya hai? Kaunsa tumhe test mae kuch aata hai jo tum jaldi jaake kuch kar loge?” Then in our frenzied state we would give that test and in which we did used to get screwed like he had predicted every time, then we would come out the meet the other two; Kunal would then tell us about his elaborate plans of talking to a girl  “Aaj maine na apni bike us ladki kee gaadi mae fasa dee hai, aaj to usko bike hathane ke liye mujhse bolna hee padega”, Gaurav would then grin and then swear at us, the paper, the teachers and a few other people. Then we would wait for everyone to leave and chat in the parking or follow some girl and then would think to go for a pastry at Jai Shiv bakery or to eat Samosa or Kachori of Jodhpur sweets, Brijwasi, Ratan or others.  Or the Poha at Vigyan Nagar.

The mention of Poha reminds me, that I didn’t like it very much, in fact I never ate it home whenever my mom made it, I only had it on that Thela in the morning. And the reason for that is a long one. You see whenever I used to bunk school I had the same routine. I used to pick up my friend Siddharth from his house at around 6:30 or so, as I remember the school time used to be 7:15. We used to go this place by the river bank called ‘Mauji Baba kee Gufa’ or DP (Dying point) as he used to call it, though it was hardly any place to die from. We used to sit by the river bank and kill time; actually I have had my first philosophical discussion about life and its meaning at the age of 16, sitting by the river side throwing stones after bunking school. I had once thrown my Kiney’s key in the river instead of a stone and had to literally lift it from there to some other place, but that is a story for another time, back to my routine. We used to kill time till 7:30 or so as nothing would be open at this time, then we used to head back to that ‘Poha’ place and eat,  by then the pool parlors would open, so we used to play pool for an hour or so and I or we depending on the plan used to go to my house where my mom dad would have left for work and we had the house to ourselves and they wouldn’t realize that I was back at home by 10:30. There is this another ‘Poha’ story with Bengali, actually his name was Arjun Biswas and he was from Baroda but everyone called him Bengali. But for that story is for another time, speaking of Bengali -

Bengali had broken up with his girlfriend of a few years with whom he was very serious and lost his marbles. Unfortunately the movie ‘Devdas had also come out that time which inspired him in strange ways. In one of those days he showed up my house at 11 carrying two quarters on cheap rum and a CD of ‘Devdas’ . Did I forget to mention that it was 11 in the morning? And he knew I was home alone. After half an hour of movie when Paro gets married and he is one quarter down he starts “Yaar <beep> ye ladkiyan bhi badi <beep> hoti hai pehle to <beep> pyar dikhati hai fir sala <beep> pe laat deke nikal leti hai…. <beep> unko to koi dusra mil jaata hai, maa <beep> hai to hamari”. Aa yaar ek peg to tu bhi pee”. Back then as now I was too polite to say no to man offering a drink, so I accepted. When we had finished that second quarter my doorbell rang. It was only 12 o’ clock and way too early for my mom to come in so we had the glasses and empty bottles lying around. I panicked. My nerves were calmed by the sentence “Abey chutiyon daaru kee mehak yahan baahar tak aa rahi hai, kya kar rahe ho be tum?” It was my friend Siddharth (the above mentioned one), he too had dropped in. It took only 5 mins of Bengali’s time to convince him to drink. So they both set out to buy more booze at 12 in the afternoon while I cleaned up everything and prepared the room on the first floor. We started drinking over there and I and Bengali being newbies spaced out in 3 drinks. Bengali was not only drunk but also stupid, he pulled out two bubble gums and tossed them to us and said “Ye kha lena is se daaru kee smell nahi ayegi . This infuriated both me and Siddharth, as it was a strawberry flavored bubble gum, not even a mint and even that wouldn’t cover the stink of cheap rum we had had. Siddharth exclaimed “Theek hai. Aur ye tattoo kya teri gaand pe lagaye?” waving that free stick – on tattoo that came with it. “Nahi ye saale iski gaand pe lagao” he pointed towards me. I said “kyun tumhari mae kya burai hai?”. What transpired next was that three drunk guys at 1:30 in the afternoon were wrestling on the floor trying to stick that tattoo on someone’s ass. Now Siddharth is 5’11” well-built guy and Bengali was an average gym goer too, so as you would have guessed it by now finally that tattoo found its spot on my ass.

After that it was only bits of pieces of good and bad stuff that I remember, of course the high and low points stick in your mind forever. I used to come home for 15 days every 6 months, talk on the phone at nights, eat home food and go back.

Then I shifted back to Kota for 9 months. I remember becoming good friends with Somya Shringi who in his own words is my mirror image (soul wise), getting drunk and eating food kept on the trunk of my car, on the road in the middle of the city at 2 o’ clock in the night.  Driving alone in the roads behind my house listening to Bic Runga’s ‘Drive’. Finding wine and cooking pasta for someone, and getting my hand cut while opening the bottle of wine (the scar is still there). A jinxed new year’s eve, courtesy Mr. Akhil Babel where we finished the Vat 69 before reaching the place we were supposed to drink it.

Of course here Mr. Prateek Bansal deserves a special reference, he was my perennially busy neighbor who never had time to talk in the 5 years I have known him, but used to talk standing on the gate for hours, discussing philosophies of life, movies, books, the psyche of people we knew and taking my advice eagerly but never following it.

I’ve stayed in Kota for 8 years this is the stuff I remember and I miss the most.

When I was close my sometimes I have transported back to that place, sitting on river bank in a foggy morning, where the only sound was the water flowing and cigarette puffs, no worries in life than who’s gonna bounce the stone off the water more number of times, the promise of youth and Siddharth’s question “Bhenchod koi bhi aadmi life mae kya chahta hai?”

P.S. – To the people mentioned in this post. I have linked your name to your Facebook account, if you want that despite your ‘Kaali Kartuute’ you should remain anonymous just tell me I will remove the names’