I wake up in the morning to find a troubled sms from Arjun, “Something terrible happened. Newspaper front page.”

Fearing another massacre in the name of region or religion where me, my friends and my family always miraculously survive, I check the newspaper. “Assam boat Mishap” it said, “over 200 dead” and I quite surprisingly heaved a sigh of relief. I spent another twenty minutes evaluating my cruelty and insensitivity. How could I sigh? How dare I sigh? ONLY 200? ONLY A BOAT MISHAP? Nothing less than a group of militants or a death toll of 500 will do to invoke a great deal of sadness. It’s a lot like Kill Bill you see. You scream and claw your skin terrified at the sight of the first gruesome murder. By the end of it, blood is only red, only some kind of a liquid that stops churning your stomach. Gore is only a term. It’s all a psychological mumbo jumbo. You master the craft of avoiding sympathizing and feeling or getting horrified. Growing up with Khasi-Bengali communal wars, which alarmed my parents so much, that they dislocated me from my roots much to my dismay, by moving to a place full of hostile Bengalis because “it is safer to be with one’s own kind” and in that process, erasing all possibilities of a mixed community around me (I don’t blame them), I have learnt to grow up an immunity to face mass death. Because in Shillong, you could be jogging in the morning when you bump into a body. A dead body hanging from the street lamp. Beheaded. Or a massively mutilated dead body right outside your door. And as if mutilation wasn’t enough, the murderers will have shaved the poor fellow’s eye brows as well for special effects. And you think ohh, another dead body?  If it is not death that you read about first thing in the morning, it is a celebrity’s redundant love life. It’s a bargain for life. I have learnt to not let it affect my emotions. More dead people. Ohh. More prisoners, ohh. They filled up the cemeteries and jails. Is that so? Only one person dead? Not enough I must say! 

Arjun texts me back, “No Adidas. Some management issue.”

[FOR YOUR SAKE I HOPE THAT YOU BEG TO DIFFER]

Note: I am writing this post out of extreme hatred. I never thought I would.

My class is demarcated. As widely as it can be. Not a fine thin line between two groups but a huge Mediterranean sea. No ships, no helicopters. Do you know what that means? Nobody crosses any boundaries. And now I’ll regurgitate: My class has been demarcated for the last two years and it’s consistently been running its third year marathon.

Now may I describe the two groups?

Group A: The one that sits as closest to the Professor as possible but fails to stand under the spotlight for a second. These retards wear the world’s ugliest clothes and shoes. Sometimes they make me wonder whatever went wrong with the brain function that helps us choose right from wrong. First ones to submit all assignments, bottom down the scoring list. And God has shunned their pathetic little lives so far from his business that he makes utter mockery of democracy. He proves that he does not love all his children equally. And that he will always favour the prettiest and the smartest. All the Anna supporting people who cried, “What happened to Democracy?” Democracy is a myth my friends. They are still stuck in their favourite backstreet boy era with their amateurish guitar skills. This group has never tasted limelight. And if they ever did before you could say, "ohh crap!wtf?" they are back to their disgusting little lives. They are so invisible that it will make you wonder if they have Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak shrouded on them or not. Not joking. They are the backdrop.

Group B: Why doesn’t it surprise you when I type that this group has the prettier, smarter, heavily accentuated Beverly Hill-ish people? If they are judging you, their judgments will burn your skin and roast your flesh. They have the most expensive birthday parties thrown in the coolest clubs of all. They will marry within their group and raise hauntingly nasty children like themselves. They are the editors, the heads, the celebrated ones of every Society. Protect me if you can because they are also the ones who blog. They suck all the fun of the city to their lives leaving none for others with their super popular vacuum and despite this they prove their intelligence. Either it is multi-tasking or well, the more obvious fact: God IS biased. They own you. You don’t have a life. When you talk, they scrutinize your life, your family, your words. If you crack a joke, they will prove it to you that your joke as your life, is completely “redundant”. I quoted the word, did you see that? They are ingrate if you ever helped them and think they will remember your unpopular name. Don’t wish to be their friend, you don’t stand a chance. Do you know why? They are cool and popular and you with you twisted little life don’t even share the same pedestal. Rule 1# They do not talk to Group A. If they do, heaven will fall lose and mad men will run free. They are snobs. They’re the crowd, mingling with only the other cool people.

You maybe wondering where my loyalties lie. I don’t know. I wasn’t biologically trained to function either way. Then you might be wondering if there is a third group, perhaps? No, there isn’t. Either you are cool or you are not. My life in Delhi has been brief but my descriptions about the demarcation is perfection. I am writing this out of extreme revolt like I said. So much repugnance in my guts that I slept all morning and afternoon lest I wake up to break anything valuable. What? Don’t judge. I have my own idiosyncratic moments. I had written it down in my memory ages ago and I choose to only type down my memory today. I am not angry at any group per se. I am just exhausted. I am sorry if I have hurt any sentiment but you have issues that you need to deal with.

A common Indian activity, talked about by the foreign tourists, hated by the elite Indians, loved by the rest of the population, loved so much that they are addicted to it. Not alcohol(now that I think of it elite can never hate alcohol). Not the other things that you have assumed but spitting. You’re reading it right, yes it is spitting. We are biologically functioned to spit at traffic signals, while walking on pavement,when we are in government buildings. Yes like gardens attract lovers, government offices attract spittoons. There hasn’t been any too many government offices that don’t have antique yellow or red stains against walls, to my knowledge. This is such a ordinary sight that you can almost pass it off as graffiti art. Indian creativity. This art of spitting is something that doesn’t need teaching. Children learn it by living and watching.

There was this man inside a car at a traffic signal. He spat a highly concentrated form of saliva and cough right after he turned off the ignition key and then sighed. I am assuming spitting is a stress buster. Then he caught me gawking and gaping at his disgusting face. And as if to show off his skills he spat again and again and again. This activity took only two minutes. Two minutes because the signal went green. He could have spat infinite times. I looked blank, horrified with the amount of disgust boiling within me. My equally nauseated friend suddenly blurted out, “WHAT DO THEY EAT TO SPIT SO MUCH?” Who knew that eating disorder can trigger such horrendous activities?

After a lot of brain-storming and researching on lab rats, I found a solution to control this frustrating desire. Think: S-word.

Think.

Think.

Think.

Think.

Okhay. Swallow.

Exams are back. (yes, we all want to say something similar to Simon! Go back!) but right now I can type only two more words: Hello caffeine. :)

We're talking about DP here.

Photos have found a newfound value. Let us first compare two situations.

2 decades back:

Hey that's a really nice photo. You should frame it.

Now:

Hey! DP material. DPfy it right away!

It's almost impossible to click photos of people when they're unaware of a big camera hovering around their faces.

They request, "One DP please!"

"No this one's not good. Under the bamboo trees? Okhay, should I look elsewhere to make it look natural."

Natural, sorry?

"Yes this one is natural, put it up on facebook please?"

We need to re-define natural. Clearly.

Because everything is so amazing!

I have been wondering what to blog about for a really long time. Today I found out what annoys me. PMS-ing people among other things of course.

There's this whole crowd of them around me. They take 25 minutes to stand up. 1 hour to walk to the canteen which is by the way not in Connecticut. Ohh bummer they will also whine to an extent that you'll be so annoyed that you'll stealthily move out of that crowd before God rips off your life-contract out of sheer disgust!

Don't touch me.

It's paining.

Don't talk to me.

Leave her alone. She's PMS-ing.

Worse. Leave HIM alone, he's PMS-ing.

Aww. It'll be okhay. Aww.

Aww. Aww. Aww.

And someone or the other keeps PMS-ing all the time! Whatever happened to normal periods?

Whatever's next? No, I cannot understand people anymore.

To be away from such a vexatious throng I attended this all-night concert. We lay on the rocks as it rained and the breeze swept the grains of sand swiftly, with little leaves getting lost in my hair (you know why). It was nice. It was seamless like those things you don't talk about but only witness. And it's tranquility gave me little goosebumps the whole night. We listened to flute and I wish it wouldn't stop because it was transcendental, and I forgave the annoying little twits for the whole night!

I hang up on people arbitrarily. I stop replying to their messages. I have more unread messages and unchecked Facebook notifications. I have no complaints. I like the wind blowing through my hair. I like the tiny dots of light on the hills. I am at peace. I smile. I am at peace. So much dope in my blood. So much happiness within me. So much calmness in my heart. So much regurgitation. So much dope. Wind blowing my blowing. So romantic.

Peace.