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My new book, "The flock of wind", out now on Amazon and Flipkart.

One of "those" books, indescribably close to my heart, Please do purchase, read and promote!

Link on Amazon: https://amzn.eu/d/5V7jwBG

This year, exams do not feel like exams enough. Yes, they do bring the same headache and anxiety, but the concept of examinations, good grades, and 9 CGPA doesn't wrought a reaction from me anymore.

I believe, I am over doing all of this, am over studying like a bee searching for flowers; I have done enough for me to enter a good college. Everything else from now, seems like an excessive decor for a minimalist interior.

I recently learnt about capitalism, and the emotional baggage which is automatically turned in with it. I learnt about how capitalism deals with gender, caste, status, and emotions in general.

Capitalism, from how my professor describes, is basically the wrapper, the parcel, and the packaging of a seldom sweet chocolate. Eating the chocolate isn't termed enough- what makes the chocolate stand out, sell more, and find its deserved hype, is everything and anything which tags along with it. Capitalism is fancy, it is unnecessary, yet we still tag along with it.

The stress for scoring good, to have straight As, to strive higher, roots not from inner conviction, but the underpants that the society makes us wear. These phenomenons, of always being dissatisfied have been heaved on us.

As a history minor, we're being taught the historicity of the ancient period of India, and the one of the things that I learnt from it, is that the human race earnestly began for survival. Survival was the initial goal, the initial target.

An entire of series of misery and especially, social misery has wrapped its head around my life. Never, in my 18 years of existence have I ever faced a social inexclusivity so vicious, and strainful. Many episodes occured, with new scenes with every other person. Every single episode is indifferent, yet different at so many levels with each other. Every scene feels as if I rubbed a spine-chilling cube of ice on my face, straight out of a refrigerator.

The point is- I know that I have to wait, but I don't know how to. I know that it will need time to heal, but I don't know how to find time for it. I believe, all of this surfaces upwards now, because I never learnt how to wait, and when to stop. The only thing that I am aware of, is running. I have never stopped running since the past 7-8 years, never stopped to catch a puff of breath, never waited till I found it in my lungs to breathe again, I just never knew when to stop, nobody taught me.

And now, when the series of episodes "urgently" requires time, and time again, I don't know how to procure it. I don't know how to stop running, was never taught to stop. Fortunately enough, I understand that I need to stop somewhere. Fortunately enough, I understand that I need to learn to wait, and need to find the brakes. I understand that the ice cubes will require time to melt, and I will need time to search how to stop.

I came across a post on one of my favourite social media platforms, the one that I had already read a year ago, but now, it does hit some of my emotional muscles.

The quote was supposed to be an advice from a woman's roommate to her, asking her to wait for three days. The roommate explained that for the next three days, the woman shouldn't reach out to her boyfriend in anyway- no calls, texts, or meetings. She asks her to wait for the next three days, and if he really loves her, he will revert back to her.

The young woman, already anxious and love-deprived, pulls out her list of the "what ifs". She asks her roommate what if she isn't able to wait for the next three days? And the roommate then ellaborates that her boyfriend solely gets off on the fact that she comes back to him, at the end of the day. He knows that she will come back, and therefore, he chooses to he nonchalant about their relationship. The woman wonders if he will ever come back, and her roommate explains that this is her sign to leave the relationship, for clearly it lacks basic love and understanding. "Why do you want to be with somebody who doesn't even want you back?" She conveys.

The post, and the discussion effortlessly brought a chunk of salty memories on the "shore". The post, effortlessly reminded me of one of my male friends who was limitlessly nonchalant, and would never reach out to me. Just like the woman's boyfriend, he got off the fact that I would always reach out to him, and had taken me for granted for a large phase of our friendship.

I had a bunch of piling attachment issues, and had been attached to him, and I somewhere considered it as my duty to be the first one to initiate a conversation. In all of the first-texts and the instant-replies, I forgot that a bicycle does not function with a singular tyre. A bicycle needs to have both of its tyres, in working conditions, that is how the journey becomes memorable.

As far as my story is concerned, well, college commenced- and I became occupied with travelling, completing notes, making new friends, and in the translucent haze of time, I forgot about him. I did remember him, but not enough, to reach out to him. He himself reached out to me in the next two months, and confronted me for not reaching out, for not being there. Safe to say, I argued well on my part, and gave the same example of a bicycle to him. In return, I got gaslighted, and guilt-tripped, but I blocked him. A deserving end, to an undeserving friendship.

Two days since my college began, and I already caught dysentary with a terrible fluke of cold. This is what I get, I guess- for having shunned myself down for the last 2-3 months in my home. This is what I get- for falling into my guilty pleasure and asking for a spicy frankie. I really regret having it; hadn't it been for the frankie, The hope would have never flickered.

As much as I adore my brain, and its maze-y thoughts, I also despise how tricky it gets at time, to get out of the maze. I despise how I always have to look out for the hope- for it to keep flying. I admire the mazes I make, and I equally despise how I get lost in them. It isn't that I despise getting lost- what I despise is not being able to find a way after getting lost.

There's an apparition, more likely a ghost- Chakwa, in the Konkan district of southern Maharashtra. The ghost seems to play tricks with the travellers at night. It seems to make them lose their way- and come back to the same spot from where they left repeatedly. In some cases, it is also said to have led the travellers to the sea, or river-side. I find it easy for the travellers- they can convienently blame the ghost for losing their way.

As an English Major, I could see the script and dialogues had been written flawlessly, giving special impetus to different languages, as well as the usage of vocabulary which suits the characters well. One scene that stuck with me, was when the atomic bomb was supposed to be launching within 10 seconds, and how the entire music symphony stopped, dropped silent, and then, the missile was launched in stillness. Nolan believes in detailing, in being subtle, yet clever. The detailing can also be observed in the scene where Jean shows Oppenheimer a script of the Bhagvad Geeta, and asks him to translate it for her. The scene gains special memory when the same translation is used by Oppenheimer again, before the missile is launched. Nolan knows just how to make a scene immortal.

The beginning of the movie with Oppenheimer’s laboratory, to the University of Göttingen, and then to the communist fronts is indeed baffling. I think, the story was streched unexpectedly between his marraige with Kitty, to the launching of the atomic bomb. Too many years were shown, too many journeys were travelled, too many personalities were showcased. Same aligns to after the bomb is dropped- The jury and confrontations of Oppenheimer, Strauss’ envy and vendetta, all of these episodes lapsed consecutively with each other and the story turned out to be haphazard. The timelines were uneven, Strauss and Oppenheimer’s juries were scattered and incomprenhensible,, almost an hour of the movie drifted in courtrooms and accusations.

My favourite character from the movie would be Kitty, played flawlessly by Blunt. Kitty surprisingly turned out be the wittiest, and one of the most strong-headed characters in the film. She was the first to have suspected Strauss’ vendetta, to alert her husband and his colleagues about the same. She upscaled the feminist agenda throughout the movie, and highlighted the details of some particularly wry scenes like her interrogation, as well as, refusing Teller’s handshake in the end.

I blame the end-semester vacations. My entire body does. I blame the end-semester vacations for being unhealthily long, for lasting a bridge longer, for having nothing to do in the meantime. As much as I drastically enjoy being alone, and finding solace in my own company, I also feel the need to bring in a change, and wander ahead of myself.

I and my best friend share the same nature. And because of that, we do come across each other with clashes. I, am deeply sensitive at the back of my mind, and I do keep things to myself. Sometimes, the thing slips away, sometimes it doesn't. Since yesterday, it hasn't.

I have been analysing, wondering, de-simplifying the thing, knowing perfectly well, that it doesn't make sense. It's not a big thing, something that should be paid attention to, but the more I want to get rid of it, the more clings onto me. I have understood for now, that all of these voices, the sound-effects, the frequencies, all of them function in the background, and I somehow end up show-casing them in the front, and getting engaged within it. I told myself, that the only thing that should be lying the forefront is my goal, my ambition, my growth and my development.

I always seem to deeply analyse any incident in my life, "psychoanalyse" would sound more precise, and I don't seem to understand, what was the reason behind all of this? I mean to say, what is the meaning of all of it, when all of it took place in the past? What has happened, has already happened, hasn't it?

I finished watching "Dead Poet's Society" today, and I leaned against the wall, after having completed it. So much for a small, philosophical movie; so much for Whitman's elegy; so much for 17 year old teenagers at high school.

The movie made me understand the significance of good, learned teachers in life, again. It matters so much, how the ones who teach you, affect you. It matters so much, to choose your heroes wisely, to choose your figure wisely, to choose your opinions wisely.

Throughout the movie, there was one character that sat right with me. It wasn't Mr. Keatings or even Neuwanda, but Neil Perry. Neil, for his unfiltered talent, mesmerising stage presence, and nonetheless, the versatility of his acting skills. From the member of the Dead Poet's Society, to the the character in Midsummernight's dream, to a dutiful son, Neil never slacked.

I looked at his character, and what he brought in store for the audience, and couldn't help but relate awfully to him. I couldn't help but feel myself through him. His passion for acting, his honesty, everything felt relatable. But as the movie progressed on, and as Neil met his grave end, I realised that I was nowhere like him.

It was after Neil commited suicide, that I realised that I and Neil are turbulently different from each other. We do share the same passion, honesty and stage presence, but never the same courage to stand up for oneself. I would never kill myself for somebody else, and would never drop my head at somebody else's commands. I pity Neil; how he could deliever an outstanding performance in front of a large group of people in the audience, acting somebody else's personality, but could never, never play his own part in his life.

I felt painfully unwell yesterday upon seeing Mr. Keatings fired. He was the one who introduced the teenage boys into breaking the normative insitutionalism, and in the end, he was the one who was dragged out of it. One of my favourite scenes from the movie, would be "The walk". The walk, where Keatings instructs students to walk, wherever, however they wished to. And I realised exactly how significant it is to choose.

My experiences today, land just in favour of the statement passed above. My end-semester exams ended in the middle of April, and it has been a month, since I have actively participated socially. I was not able to decipher, how I could shackle down into a partial people pleaser? Somebody who wanted to bow down to people and show them the kindness that I hold within.

I have spent a month in convincing myself, the effect and balance of inner confidence. I strongly believe, internal and external validation are inverse in nature. The more you love yourself, the less you would want others to. If you are aware of the kindness you hold, you do not require others to.

But I feel, a gap staged away my thoughts into meeting reality. A gap, or even a break, can make you restart life, right from the first chapter, and ponder back in time. I would have been worried into the moon, but I feel today I can prove my statement above, with a just example; a car, effectively fastcan surely need time to "get back on track", and to resume from where it began racing. If I am able to understand the rest and time a simple motor needs, then why not me?

I read an article from one of the websites, and couldn't help but cite similarities here, though. Courtesans and Prostitutes do share differences, but there are three aspects which bind them together- the consumers, the profit, and the shame. The consumers in context of the aristocratic men, the profit in context of money, or capital, and the collective shame imposed on the both of them.

A reel appeared on one of my instagram handles the other day, and a young woman had covered one of the choreographies from the series, and was bullied impressively. Many of them commented, that the entire segment of the "Heermandi" was a consequence of women's exploitation under men, and a powerful setback of patriarchy. Romanticising patriarchy, and the courtesans, would be a downright loss for all of the Tawaifs, who died.

But again, the audience isn't romanticising exploitation, or harassment, but the well-portrayed grace of the series. The same logic has been applied to "Gangubai Kathiawadi", the idea of prostitutionism, or even the red-light district was never romanticised.

What was romanticised was her courage, bravery, and precisely, her service to all the women, including some of those that she barely knew.

But as May passes swiftly, with the untimely rain, I think there are some changes that I need to make.

I believe now, that it is not the wisdom, or knowledge that makes one gloomy, but the hunt for it.