Zest

Something I shall never be able to write about.

Yours Sincerely

When we fall in love
We hope that the curves and crevices
And bents and dents of a person
Are of the exact shape that would fit in
Our sharp edges and blunt ends.
We flaunt our jagged past that sticks out.
We keep our scarring ideas at hand
Not to hurt but to show that this -
Is what needs to be embraced.
But then as we get closer,
We become weary of or irregularities.
We become embarrassed of our flat dullness
And start moulding;
Bending a little comfort here
Breaking of a little self-respect there.
Finally it becomes a competition about
Who is doing it better.
Who is sacrificing more scaring ideas
And whose past has been polished
Into a more fitting memory of gone by days.
Some of merely manage
To fit in certain curves with gaping holes
And try to make the mismatched bends here and there work.
However, some of us let go.
Because for us -
It is not about fitting into that puzzle.

on the Xystus

So we will go to Greece
And we will put on hats like tourists do
We'll walk down beaches and sit at monasteries
There will be stories all over the place
Also decadence
We shall talk of our days
Of coffee flowers and small rooms
The sun will gradually set on us
We shall walk some more
To friendly inns and deserted by-lanes

We shall not meet for years
But when we go to Greece---
We shall kiss on the xystus.

Why not?

It all started on a summer evening. Like every other middle class Bengali who is still in Kolkata and has surprisingly managed to get employed, I had a long, tiring, and 'sweaty' day at work. Just as I was gathering my stuff to leave, I was invited on a 'walk to the metro station' by this really hot colleague of mine who is so out of my league that Sakhshi Tanwar would feel a little more comfortable playing Daenerys Targaryen than what I felt.

I was anxious, I was sweaty and to top it all, I was self-conscious to the point of a nervous break down.. Now who wouldn't be conscious if you are as tall as a lamp post with dark circles till your chin and oil pouring out of your skin like the middle-east? I have grown up watching the 'Fair and Lovely' ad which has taught me that to get married, or to get a lover and even to get a job you need to be fair and lovely. 

The moment we stepped outside the office and started walking he asked 'Is something bothering you?' and me being me blurted out, 'I am so sweaty that my pants are sticking to my inner thigh and my underarms feel like jelly fish.' I knew I had made friends with a good man when at this point, my hot colleague burst out laughing. He pat me on my back and said, 'That's good. It proves that you have worked a lot throughout the day.' Thus, the day was made.

The idea, however has stuck to me ever since. Why don't we ever appreciate what is natural? Why are we so ashamed of the fact that we sweat, or have facial hair or have huge feet? 

Well to be honest, by 'we' I actually mean women. I have seen my girl friends and also have subjected myself, to absolute torture when we have spent our own hard earned money to pull hair out of our skin. Waxing every bit of self love that we have and threading our personalities to that perfect arch of an eyebrow. 

I have been told by my male and female friends alike that I sweat like a 'man' but very few appreciate or even acknowledge the fact that I do a lot of things like a 'man' by the social standards. 

I run after the bus like a man without thinking about whether my breasts are drawing attention from all that running. I carry 20 litre water jars up the stairs to the fourth floor of a building, without asking another man for help. I swear like a man, at a man or woman who pisses me off without worrying whether it is 'lady-like' to know of such profanity. So the question is why isn't this ok? Why is it that I am usually taken to be this very angry and volatile person because I behave in the way that naturally comes to me? 

My lack of filters is thus considered to be 'manly' but why on Earth should natural behaviour be the essence of one gender while the others are expected to pretend all the time? 

I will bet my life on this that nobody will be able to give me an answer to these questions other than 'Men and women are different' or 'Women look beautiful when they take care of themselves' or similar such absolutely pointless arguments which basically do not even qualify as an argument because we have already accepted them.

Here I have a request for the handful of readers this blog post may ever get. Can we please start thinking about not stereotyping gender? Can we please start accepting people with all their naturally beautiful flaws? Can we please appreciate women who sweat, as hard workers? Men who go to the salon regularly are not homosexuals by default and even if they are, you and I are nobody to mock them. Men who spend time to look good are not feminine. Why not just accept individuals? Tell me, why not?

VFX and more: The Great Indian Hypocrisy Worth Rs 250 Crore

Fuck Bollywood! Fuck the Khans! Fuck the racist North Indians! Bahubali is a blockbuster with a record opening in its first week and nobody can simply get enough of it. Neither could I, and therefore dedicated one whole evening to try and understand what 'CGI' meant. 'Imma be cool like that!'

Statutory warning for anybody who expects to read a film review: you can stop right here and go watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan; the rest of the cynics who are hurt every time a film is not even half of what its trailer promises may continue reading.

For a longer part of this year, every time somebody said ‘Indian Cinema’ it sounded like ‘Bahubali’. You know, how Mr S.S Rajamouli had single-handedly decided to transform the face of Indian cinema by spending Rs Two Hundred and fifty-wait-for-it- Crore and the media couldn’t say, think or ask anything about the content or storyline because, 'Fuck all that! This dude just spent enough money to feed the entire country for a couple of days at least, so who cares? We’ll just relax in our royal recliners and have popcorn or sip pointlessly brain-freezing cold drink to digest our emotions as the regal orphan is brought up by the always awestruck tribal people.'  

Now without any spoiler alert, I can tell you that the very beginning of the film gave me a slight feel of Jungle Book, where there is an abandoned infant and a strong motherly figure but hola! Within minutes of having unbelievable graphics thrown at my face, I realized that it is about a giant of a man who can’t get laid in his neighbourhood because of his bossy mother and decides to risk his life only and only so that he can find the girl who is hot enough for his tremendous masculinity. Anybody who begs to differ will also call ‘E Laldupattewali tera nam toh bata’ a song of light humoured friendship where the heroes do obscene facial expression and insist on touching the heroines against their will because the Godmen of this country have announced: ‘Women actually like rape’. Period.

If you have read any amount of literature or have watched even one Pixar movie or had befriended me, even by mistake, then you should already know where I am heading. Yes, from all those magnificent bloodshed and self-righteous dialogue delivery, what stuck to me from Bahubali is the mating sequence of the leading pair. No, it’s not a song sequence or a dream sequence, as they like calling it. Or even a romantic sequence for that matter. It’s an out and out mating sequence where most of the mating was being done forcefully. You may, and I repeat you may call it a ‘romanticized rape sequence’ but yeah, that’s mostly all about it.

Even if I decide to overlook all my other problems with the film, like over-rated graphics, bad junior artists, continuity mistakes and lack of logic, I simply cannot overlook this magnificently romanticized rape sequence that I COULD NOT believe was going on.

There is nothing, that I might say that would be sufficient to express my disappointment with the filmmaker over that one sequence. The character of Avanthika, played by Tamanna Bhatia is introduced as a formidable female fighter who doesn’t care about looks or life but of course that’s no way to lead a girl’s life, yo! So you need an oaf to come and rip you off your clothes, paint your lips and touch you in all inappropriate ways so that you can feel all feminine and then finally, fall for him.

I was stunned. Still, kind of, am. How on earth could a man think of passing this off as romantic? What unearthly spirits should possess a man to actually think that standing in the 21^st Century, in our country, where one of the biggest problems right now are the innumerable crime against women, it is okay to propagate such objectification of the gender?

After that, the whole time that I sat through the movie trying to forget about the crater this film had made in my pocket, I realized that I might just be the only person thinking about it right now. The rest of them might be gloating over the strength that Rajamouli’s female characters portray. The character ‘Shivagami’ for example is the apparent epitome of female strength but she won’t sit on the throne because that’s what ages of Indian patriarchy has taught us. And none of us have a problem with that. The fact that the filmmaker allowed this one odd female to be strong is more than what we can ask for.

We don’t even wince once, when the great ‘Bahubali’, the ultimate man dances with the three sexy dancers in the ‘what-was-the-point-of-that-again’ scene because ‘hey, come on dude! A man’s gotta have his fun!’ That is what young men are supposed to do. It is absolutely okay to behave like a pornstar with a woman outside your family. 

I mean that’s what Indian hypocrisy is all about.  Because it’s ok if you pass a comment on a female on a train as long as you don’t beat your wife up. Because staring at a woman’s body is perfectly alright as long as you don’t let your daughter wear short clothes. Because everything we say or do is a waste because nobody, not a single person in that huge fucking crew of Bahubali had a problem with these things. Nobody associated with that film pointed it out to the great Rajamouli that it is wrong to demean women like this and the romanticization of such violation encourages violence and crime against women. That after years of having film heroes getaway with teasing their future wives on the road, it is time that Indian Cinema made a different statement. That Avanthika should have slapped the shit out of Shivudu.

Untold

Don't you worry love,

This will pass and so will that.

Everything we've ever pretended

Will eventually disappoint

And then love,

There'll be nothing sorry.

Together love

We shall write a sad poem then

Or at least - hold on a little longer.

Courtesy: Hari Menon Photography

Therefore and Thereafter

There was just but 'reality' as they called it. They said it was amazing. It was beyond all experiences. 'The sight of reality' they said, 'is so powerful, that at times you get transfixed or may be...may be you'll lose your sight for life.' They kept on saying it. They kept on repeating themselves for some of them believed though they never said it out loud, that repeating things, repeating them continuously make them real. They just believed that but never said it out loud. They repeated it till everybody had heard it. They repeated it till everybody learnt the word. They repeated it till everybody was talking about it. Everybody knew it was there... somewhere. But they stopped as soon as somebody tried to comprehend the meaning. They hated questions.

However, in the midst of all this, there came a poet. All this while he was just there. Neither did he ask questions nor did anybody ask that why didn't he ask questions. Some Mr Know-it-All commented 'No point talking to him. He'll never understand reality. He believes, thrives, grows and survives on imagination.' So they left him. They kept him aside like a piece of paper which has been so badly scribbled upon that there is no more space left. They couldn't fill him up with anything else. So they just left. 

The poet had heard about the new 'word' in town. He tried to talk to a few of them to understand what was going on but nobody was ready to talk. They were just speaking, shouting, answering, justifying but nobody was explaining. None of them were talking and what seemed very weird to the poet is that nobody, not a single person was asking questions. 

He met a man who was telling anybody who would listen that he had answers to everything and asked 'If you are saying that you're going to give me all the answers why aren't you asking questions?' But nobody was listening so the man did not answer. He said the answers were for everybody. He can't give it out to one person. The poet asked a few more of them but everybody was so busy speaking that nobody heard that the poet was trying to talk to them.

Everybody had accepted by now that 'reality' was the most powerful thing in the world and while the universe was settling down in peace an anonymous pamphlet came out. It floated around the town like a fallen autumn leaf. People tried to catch it but they failed. They tried to send men to get it but nobody could. Mr Know-it-All said 'It's a stray parchment. Leave it.' Somebody else said 'In reality, how can a stray parchment fly around the city like that?' Everybody heard a question after a long time. They got excited. Everybody now started speculating. Meetings were held and committees were brought into effect but nobody could catch that rogue pamphlet. In the mean time somewhere someone felt a weird little tinge at the back of their head. 

Finally somebody said 'Call that poet, he might know what is there in the pamphlet. He knows about all these things.'

As the poet came, they demanded an answer. He brought out the pamphlet and read it out loud.

"Imagine. For imagination asks questions, all whose answers are there in reality."

In the mean time, somewhere someone named the weird little tinge at the back of their head as 'imagination.'

Sobriety

The most pretentious state of being that human mind could come up with. Because at the end of the day, you are either faking it or you don't like it.

Accept it.

Regularity

I woke up in the afternoon
And felt so tired of being me
That I became an autumn leaf.

By evening I was tired
Of floating around
In the slight breeze
And became the shadow
Of a lamp post.

As night fell,
The trampling feet
That walked over me...
Over and over again,
Broke me beyond repair.
I started oozing out light.

All the light
Stored inside me
For the next Light Donation Camp
Came out and drenched the road.

By morning
I dragged myself to bed
And signed a Peace Treaty
With the Universe.

Qcumbersome

Served on a plate of awkwardness they ordered for a salad of uncomfortable and called it Qcumbersome.

Procrastination

took her over a year to find out what the word means.
The word that told the story of her life.

On the Flip Side

That is the better side to be on. I genuinely feel that the flip side is THE side to be on.

It's risk-free, less-hassle and people generally think that it is the wrong side to be on, so no living up to any expectations.

Oh I love that part! I love not living up to expectations because I hate it when people don't live up to mine. And they do it with such prowess,I tell you! They give me serious inferiority complex. Brrrrr... the very thought gives me goosebumps.

Being on the flip side also develops your personality. You become shit-resistant and actually with years of practice you might just become shit-proof. Like nothing affects you.

Sarcasm becomes your defense mechanism and I'll also tell you one of the trade secrets, you can mask your bitterness as wit.

On the flip side you are also alone.  Almost all the time. That again means more time to read, watch movies and be creative and better as a whole.

I have always liked the Flip side but now that I am actually here, I am loving it.

Normal

Climbing two steps at a time because you have long legs is normal.
Tripping down and falling--- very very normal.

Melancholy

He searched the word online and found out that it meant 'a deep, pensive and long-lasting sadness'. "I have to search 'long' now" he said to himself. After about an hour, "This is Melancholy" he decided.

Letters

No no. I am not talking about the alphabets. I am talking about the pieces of paper where you write.

You write about this and that and here and there and of course about then and now. And you write about him and her; and may be a little about--- it.

I am talking about all the things that you write down on that piece of paper. The things that you imagine that would come as a reply to those letters. The time that you spend weaving a message that would make that person laugh or cry or even hurt them. I am talking about the effort you put in to get your feelings across.

Yes, I am talking about telling the story which you may not have told otherwise. That particular sentence that you thought of telling this person who matters but could not because you never wanted a reply. Write it down in a letter. Write letters.

Write letters because it feels good. Write letters because it feels good to receive one. It is an amazing feeling to know that somebody actually took some time off to sit down and write a letter to you. It's so good to see the spelling errors which were made because you were anxious and the incomprehensible sentences that contain so much that they hardly make any meaning. Write letters because they can be preserved or can be carried around in the wallet. They are not like mails or text messages which you lose after sometime. Write letters and add a 'p.s'. Trust me it is the best part about it.
  

Write letters because after a while words become so meaningless, when they are spoken that until and unless you put them down in writing, they refuse to make sense. 

P.S: I have always believed that words have a mind of their own. They make sense only when they wish to.

K for...

                                                 


Quietly he came and touched my shoulders when I was trying to find my way all by myself on a hot summer morning. First look at him and I found a friend. It is rather difficult to describe my relation with him but I can definitely say this much that we have always been in love.

I fell in love with him the day I took the train that took me away from home. He was waiting at the station. It was as if he was waiting there for me. Quietly we walked side by side without saying a word and the vastness of his being started engulfing me.

Man he had colours! Colours that I had never seen or ever even thought existed. I was perpetually awestruck. His shades mesmerized me. I could not believe that it was possible for some one to contain that much. The stories he had to tell, the scenes he had to show were beyond anything that I had ever known or imagined. He was larger than any form of life I ever thought was possible. There was nothing about him that I could ignore.

I used to stare at him while walking on the road or traveling by bus or just while sitting at my window. When he used to tell me his stories I listened with all the concentration in the world. The passion he had when he spoke about Independence and the student's movement of the seventies was more than anything that I had ever felt. The sadness in his eyes when he spoke about the people who stay on the road would tell me that he knew them from so close that at times it was difficult to understand that they were not the entirety of his being. He loved the buzzing noise of intellectual and pseudo-intellectual murmurs at the Coffee House and also the coziness of Cafe Coffee Day. He used to laugh at me when I cursed the rain and the water-logged roads. I used to laugh at him when he got stuck in a traffic jam. We cried together while sitting at the Park Street Cemetery on a lonely afternoon. Our first kiss was at Nandan on a stormy evening. The nights were always about open terrace and the city sky-line. Whenever I went home for holidays he used to come to the station to drop me off and stand there waving at me till I could hardly see him. Our conversations were weird. They always began with the meaningless frenzy of people trying to go from one place to the other. The mad rush of evening metros, the fight over an auto, the murderous buses and we used to laugh at the traffic police and abuse the government. But all of those always ended with my promise to come back to him wherever I might go.

One day we took a tram to the opposite direction, the other day we walked on road bare-foot. Another day we just sat at Esplanade talking about life and its idiosyncrasies. One day we also watched a movie at Nandan and took a walk from there to Elgin Road Crosswords. We watched theater on every other weekend. We never got tired to walk from St. Paul's Cathedral to the Race Course. The launch ride to Howrah station always had to be on a rainy day and our first visit to Princep Ghat awaits another day to complete the story. Everyday he used make me fall in love with him a little more. Even with the weird people he made me meet. The fights that I had because of him and the lovers I declined because of his jealousy never even for once made me doubt my love for him.

On the last day that I was with him it was raining again. When I looked at him I realized that he was sad but then I knew he will be fine and shall wait for me patiently till I came to him and we start our whirlwind love story once again. That day Kolkata made a promise to me too. He promised that whatever might happen he shall always make a place for me when I return and wait for me at the station just like the first day.


---------------------------------------------

Yes. Kolkata was never a graceful ageing lady for me. Kolkata was the tall young man with big eyes, in punjabi and jeans and chappals with a stubble. Oh a black leather-band wrist watch on his left arm and a weird sense of humour.

Journey

Travelling was never about reaching the destination.
It is about the journey.

It is about meeting new people.

                                                            Knowing them and their place.

Mixing with them and having fun their way.

Keeping them as memories.

Not knowing how to reach your destination.

                                                         Journey is about getting lost.

                                                            And then finding your way.

Journey is all about finding a place for yourself.

                                                 And again setting out to search for a new one.

photo courtesy: Vinayak Iyer Sambit Sukla                         

I

Believe me I tried but then I never understood you.

I tried from my point of view and then from others.

Yet you always seemed inappropriate. 

I tried to ignore you but then again I failed. 

Finally one day I stopped questioning.

Stopped wondering why do you like moths better than butterflies

And why you forget faces but remember the shadows.

Accepted you with your wide open eyes which saw nothing. 

Only I don't tell anybody that I know you.

Dear I, you never fail to amaze me.

Home

                                                 



It came up as a sudden realization on that first day when I was going off to stay in Kolkata. As I walked out of the gate of the house that has been my home for the last 17 years I realized it was more than a building. It was the place I first laughed, got scolded and cried, brought back my first report card and prepared for my first dance performance. The walls of that house were my first canvas. The lawn my first playground. It was the place where I fell down from a tree and broke my arm and brought back my first pet. Learnt cycling and sang the first song. It was the place where I made memories for the first time and learnt to preserve them in  nooks and corners that went unnoticed by everybody other than me.

                                   
                                       

When you walk into my house through the gate the first thing you would come across is the garden. I remember my evenings passed by watering the plants with my father. Clipping the dead leaves, trimming the shrubs and then just looking at them till it would grow dark and then, us gardeners would go inside the house for the evening tea.

                                      

Upon entering the house if you are observant enough you would know that it has too many doors. Every room has been given a door wherever possible and at times impossible. There were few doors which were never opened because having them there made no sense. The windows were not very big and that is one thing I hated about the house. Though our house was a quarter that looks exactly like the rest of them in the row but we had special parts. We had two small storerooms in our house. Now the storerooms could have been filled up with furniture or boxes or whatever but as luck would have it they were filled with books.


                                       

Ancient looking books, not so old books, almost new books, brand new books--- name it and it's there. Every year during summer vacations we used to bring out all the books from the shelves and the cupboards and put them in the sun to rid them of insects. Each one tends to his or her own books and Ma always had the most number of books and ended up asking me for help. She had books like Communist Manifesto, Crime and Punishment, Franz Kafka, Jean Paul Sartre, Leo Tolstoy Short stories collection, Poems by Mao Zedong and what not! Uncountable number of bengali poetry books. Name the poet and she has his collection. Rabindranath Tagore, Shakti Chattopadhyay, Sunil Ganguly, Jibananda Das, Krishna Bosu, Binay  Mojumdar, Shankho Ghosh, Joy Goswami, Kazi Nojrul Islam, Sukumar Ray, Nabonita Debsen and many many more. I used to wonder how could she have read all this till I found out that she has read all her books, all of Baba's and then of mine and much more than that.


                                                     

Many of my friends are of the opinion that I get attached to people very fast. Well that's not entirely true but then to tell the truth I like people in general. I have been brought up that way. Though practically speaking our family was pretty small but our house never had less than six to seven people living with us. First there was Babai who apparently was not my father's real brother which I came to know after Babai passed away when I was in class-III. They were just friends. My parents not even for once thought that it was important for me to know that what exactly is my relation or their relation with this man and trust me it wasn’t important at all. That man was nothing less of a father to me. He was the reason I never got to complain about not being able to play with my father or run around with him or fight with him because even though Baba would just stand at the door and watch me and Babai having a pillow fight or me dangling from Babai’s biceps, I never felt that it isn’t normal.

                                               

Then there was Gopal. She came to our house as my governess and became family. She came to look after me when I was 6 months old and even a day before she died I had heard her telling my friends about how I would not leave her on the first day itself. I was her child in the truest sense of the term. She looked after me all day. She knew what I ate, how much I ate, when I felt sleepy or when I would fall sick. She could take me in her lap and tell how much I weighed. I could not sleep without her. I could not eat anything but the food cooked by her and at a point of time I knew nothing other than her. She had two daughters and was abandoned by her husband when the younger one was a month old. She came to India from Bangladesh to look for her husband and as she did not have a passport never could go back. May be it was her who taught me that giving up is never an option. I remember it was my class-II annual exam and Ma got pox all of a sudden. Baba had to shift to my grandparent's place because he was a transplant patient and any sort of infection could be fatal to him. There was nobody to teach me right before my exams. That lady who had gotten married at the age of 13 and could just barely read and write taught me. After doing the household chores and taking care of my mother she would actually sit down in the evening with me, study the stuff herself and then teach me. She would go to Ma and learn the English words from her so that she can teach me. The night before I went to write my test she had told me “If you don’t do well everybody will call me illiterate.” I did well. I had to. She passed away when I was in my final year school. She passed away in our house. For the first time after that, I realized that she was the most important person in my life for all practical purpose because without her I did not even know what to eat and how much to eat.

                                                 
                                                

My parents were teachers and so was Babai. They used to give out tuition classes till the government made it illegal for professional teachers to give out such classes. My mother had three batches of more than 50 students a day. They were all my brothers and sisters. I played with them, fought with them and not even for once did I feel that they are just my parents’ students. Carom was a big issue in our family. Not just Baba but maternal uncle and cousins all were carom freaks. We had a huge carom board in our house which was always set. Nobody ever took it down the table. Anybody passing the drawing room can try a hit and a game can start off any moment. The students were mad about carom as well. Every day morning going to school was war! Us against Ma! Her last batch ended at 9a.m and then would start the carom marathon. First it would be Baba and some students. Ma would come and take him away by the collar so that he can also get ready for school. Then it would be me. I was so small that I could not even see the board properly just by standing so used to stand on a chair to take my shots. Ma would again come and pull away the half-dressed me and shout and curse her students who were also getting late for their school and after a while inevitably my frustrated mother while criticizing some badly taken shot would sit down to play herself. The mornings, my evenings, my nights were always filled with events.

                                        

We used to celebrate everything. Republic Day, Netaji’s birthday, Gandhi jayanti, Christmas, Diwali, Durgapuja, Rabindra Jayanti, Football world Cup--- everything. My cousins used to visit very often and so would Ma’s friends. Every weekend was some special occasion and if nothing good enough was happening we would hire a VCR and watch movies the whole day or call over some friends or faily and have cultural sessions where people would read, recite, sing and even at times if Baba allowed liquor in the house, dance. There couldnot be a day that would go wasted. You have to enjoy every day. Every moment. It has to be significant and productive and most importantly memorable.

However with all this nostalgic reminiscence I still believe home is where you make memories and family is the people you make them with. Just that much.

                                   
                                        

Growing up

It is one of the worst things that happens to human beings.It does not benefit the human race in any good way that I can think of. Just makes them a hell lot complicated and confused.

The first thing that growing up does is make one conscious. You become conscious about everything. The way you talk, the way you walk,the way you behave and even freaking about the way you look! I mean seriously, that is not even in our hands. What the hell would you do being conscious about something that you are not responsible for? If you don't have sharp features (like I don't) what exactly are you supposed to do about it? You are made that way for God's sake!

You also become conscious about what other people think about you. Well the fact is they can not possibly think anything good about you because sadly they are also grown ups. They doubt you. They doubt your actions and your intentions because growing up has also taught them not to trust anybody as it has taught you not to speak your mind.

You lose your sense of humour. Anybody cracks a joke and you would start sniffing for a hint of insult. You can not laugh out loud either. Every time you would feel like laughing out loud in a restaurant the fact that some stupid grown up, who has lost all energy to laugh in the process of frowning at others, might frown at you too would stop you.

You don't understand passion anymore, neither do promises mean anything to you. All you can do is crib and cry and then cry and crib a bit more. You expect a lot out of everybody even when you know that expecting is not the way relations work. And the worst part is that you know you are the one ruining it for yourself.

It's also sort of sad to grow up. You don't have anybody to blame anymore. Everything is your responsibility now. Even your heart breaks and feeling lonely. You can't go and cry with people because they expect you to behave like a grown up. Anything remotely close to a confession might end up sounding like cheesy dialogues from some crappy Hindi movie and trust me only grown ups know what's cheesy because they can't believe that a word can actually be spoken out of true emotions.

So finally what I am trying to say is that stop growing up till you can help it because after a point it'll get the better out of you.


                                       


p.s: And you need not feel guilty about not growing up. It has never served any great purpose.