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My dadu

My grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson’s two years before he passed away. The final years of his life were a constant struggle—not just for him, but also for us who took care of him. Slowly, but steadily, we could feel his memory slipping away like sand, until it finally gave way almost entirely. It hurt us every day to see him in pain—medicated, unaware, and unconscious. He would refuse to eat, be angry at all of us, and show signs of aggression that he never had before. All of this, coming from a benign gentlemanly professor, was a huge shock to everyone in the family. Perhaps you can read all you want about the symptoms of dementia, but nothing can ever prepare you for when it happens to your own family. I was the only lucky member of the household my dadu recognised, until the end of his days. I was his favourite grand-daughter, the only one he listened to, the only one he allowed to feed him. For months on end, he would refuse to have dinner unless I wa
Recent posts

Identity Crisis?

  In the 25 years since its inception, CBS has rolled out illustrious alumni, successful entrepreneurs, and industry bigwigs through both its flagship courses Bachelor of Business Studies(BBS) and Bachelor of Finance and Investment Analysis(BFIA). Over time, it has grown to become one of the most sought after colleges of the country. Ten months ago, I walked through the gates of this prestigious college, proud of myself for having made it through the three gruelling admission rounds. Today, this college faces an identity crisis of sorts, its patent courses threatened at the hands of a seemingly irresponsible university. The University of Delhi has set forth a proposal to merge Bachelor of Business Studies, Bachelor of Finance and Investment Analysis and Bachelor of Business Economics, to come up with an all-inclusive 4-year long umbrella course, tentatively named Bachelor of Business Economics and Management. While the new course shall contain elements from all these

Rise.

When my TV screen blared the news of the gangrape incident of 16 December, I simply shook my head and changed the channel. When I heard it again on the radio, I tuned into a song instead. My behaviour wasn’t one of apathy towards the girl’s plight but sheer exhaustion. I’d lost count. Rape. Assault. Eve-teasing. A little touching here and there topped with some lewd comments. Over the past few years, as I’ve grown up, I’ve been shocked, angered, frustrated, livid, and then, simply learnt to live with it. I’ve learnt to live with the fact that during the course of every day spent outside home, I will be stared, leered, whistled or commented at, at least once. If its a lucky day, I’ll get away with just a lustful stare. If its not, well, who can tell? I’ve learnt to live with the fact that the ‘City News’ section of my newspaper will, as a rule, bring to me the news of atleast one rape a day, if not more. I’ve learnt, like other girls in Delhi, to live with a sense of un

Meera

Meera stared at the back of her drunk husband’s head, as he leaned over the fireplace, turning something over in his hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but experience told her it couldn’t be something to look forward to. She took some cautious steps back, and parked herself into a corner of the room, crouched, pulled her sari over her back and waited in silence. *   When she woke up, she was still curled up in the corner farthest away from the fireplace. He was gone. Her worn out red saree lay unravelled to a side. Slowly, gingerly, she made to get up, and her knees buckled. Her head swam and she slumped to the floor, throwing up, gasping. Meera sat there a moment, leaning against the peeling plaster, breathing deeply, eyes shut. She felt lighter. Purged. Was this how it was meant to be? She breathed some more, and this time, her legs lifted her weight. She gathered her saree, and walked to the basin to inspect the damage. The imprint of his thick fingers on her fr

The Bucket List

  Stupid Mayans holding us all in suspense. For all we know, it was some loony prehistoric guy who simply got bored midway through his calendar making and decided to leave it at that. Or a sadist, maybe, who thought it would be creepily hilarious to leave his descendents awaiting the ultimate apocalypse—eyes shut, fists clenched, sighing, and all okay bye-byes done and settled, only to find they still had college at 8:59:59 the next day. If its true, though, what a waste of a brilliant life would that be, a December 2012 end would mean I’d have spent all my (conscious) life slogging it off at some padhai centre or the other. Sad. Calls for immediate salvage attempts, running to a four month deadline. 1.        Background Clearance. In the little time that I have on earth, and before the next set of inhabitants arrive, it is essential to wipe off all traces of embarrassing pictures of yours truly, and other textual details. Thus, all the diaries, the letters, the break-up analyses,

To A Colourful Life

Sitting by the roadside, Hira intently watched cars speed by. Tears welled up in his eyes—he would do this often, and it would make him break down every time. He could’ve been in one of those big cars. He could’ve made it big. He could’ve studied hard and married and had beautiful children of his own. He could have. Had God not decided to play around with him. Had his father not taken offence and thrown Hira and his mother out of his little house. Had his mother, his own mother, not have left him in a dump yard to die. Hira was abandoned as a child, unwanted and kicked out of his own parents’ lives. Left to fend for himself in a garbage dump, he was discovered by a group of people—people just like him, who slowly, gradually, taught him about the norms of the cruel world. The world was a sad place for Hira. Because the world didn’t look at him for what he had tried to make of himself—a breadwinner, a diligent worker, a good person, no. The world looked at him for what HE had had no

You Just Hit The Wrong Nerve

The other day, in my English literature class, the teacher asked us to enumerate for her a few classics of the language, and while everyone came up with the works of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen and Bernard Shaw and the Bronte sisters, the answer that stood out the most was that of a girl sitting right behind me, who raised her hand sweetly, and came up with the absurdest thing I'd heard.'Ma'am, authors like Nicolas Sparks, they write so well, why don't we call those books classics?' The teacher was stumped. Honestly, so were most of the others in the class. Not at the 'unconventional' question, but at her sheer brainless audacity. A few heads banged down, there were a few exhasperated sighs, and some giggles, and some genuinely chafed whispers wondering what she was doing in a literature class anyway, all in some not-so-polite words. And for that one minute, I felt like I'd found my place in the world. I fit in perfectly with this obnoxiously