Monthly Archives: September 2008



Oh man, she’s everything I wanted.
I decide to beg her, to plead her to be mine.
And so I walk towards her, with purpose in my eyes.

But hey, what’s this? I feel a pang inside.
Something inside tells me to stop,
to wait, to think; that this is not the moment.

I tell the voice inside to keep quiet.
No question of a doubt, I tell it
She’s so, so completely perfect.

And that’s when it hits me:
She’s the perfect woman.
Who deserves a perfect man.

I stop, turn around and walk away.


PS: I’ve edited the previous ‘poem’ quite a bit. Tell me if it resembles a poem now.

Categories: Poems | 16 Comments

You will come back to me

You will come back to me


You were walking away from me.

I couldn’t help watching as you went, gracefully on your soundless shoes.

Your bottom looked so cute, your wind-swept hair just as beautiful.


You had just dumped me.

After saying some mean things, but I’m glad we talked.

I know you didn’t mean to be rude, and to each one her opinions anyways.


You ignore me now.

I’m walking with someone beside; I brighten up on seeing you coming.

You greet the other with a dazzling smile; turn away just as our eyes meet.


You say that I’m in a rut.

As I don’t talk super bikes and cars and F1 races.

As I write in hindi, can’t tell Black Dog from Green Label.


That I’m a useless romantic.

As I love humans, believe that we’ll all be friends some day.

As I believe in mother earth and that whatever she gives, suffices.


That I don’t have it in me.

As I give as much as I receive, don’t loot and plunder and hoard.

As I believe in competing with self, have no desire whatsoever to defeat.


Why do you behave so strange?

I know I ain’t in fashion, but hey, you toh never conformed!

And rode hollow waves, and walked on air, not understanding what lay beneath.


Why are you looking outside?

You were so content and complete, and beautiful and with yourself.

Can’t imagine how the magnets of glitz and pomp pulled you so away.


We’ll be back together.

I know you, this isn’t you, and you’ll rediscover yourself soon.

Go, go around with the dudes now; you’ll realize their worth too, soon.


I’ll be waiting for you.

As for now, the heart aches, as I know that I’m the one for you.

But hey, take all the time you want babey, I’ll be waiting for you.




Disclaimer: This ‘poem’ is entirely a piece of my thought and does not literally portray my, or anybody else’s life.<!–[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]–>

Categories: Poems | 18 Comments


A junior of mine was telling me about the time when he recently hung around with some alumni. He was kinda surprised that the alumni had received him so well.

I wondered as to why should it be a matter of surprise to any IIITian that an alumnus is welcoming him, and asked him why he thought so.

“Ab sir, yehi hai na, mein koi neta toh hoon nahi…” (“The thing is sir, I’m not a neta…”)

I looked at him for some time, trying to gauge whether the words that had come out were the cover-up of a frustrated sour-grapes-wannabe loser or the expression of a feeling genuinely harbored in the past.

I’ve known some people who remained at the forefront of extra-curricular activities in recent years. And yes, I do think for some of them that they thought that that made them belong to some elite class. But I’d also always thought that these people were the only ones who thought so. That even one guy not from the so-called ‘elite’ class has notions of the ‘eliteness’ of an elite class points to a problem. And this is entirely new for me.

I can hardly solve the problem, if there exists any such. And examining this issue in detail is something that I think I’m least qualified to do. I can only say this much to my juniors.

That you need NOT be a neta to expect a warm welcome from me when I am no longer a student of this institute. Or now, when I am leading a fairly active campus life in my fourth year. A knock on the door and some good manners will do just fine.

And that this also holds true at least for all my friends who are studying in or have passed out from IIIT.

Categories: IIIT, Relationships | 18 Comments

A new blog?

I was thinking of planning a new blog. A long way back when this blog was started, I had no distinct vision for it. With all due respect to the three years younger Aniket, he was probably too immature and nascent to think about things like ‘distinct vision’ and stuff. So this blog started. As my thoughts found an outlet, they flew in more and more freely and found their place on this blog. All kinds of thoughts and observations (from personal interests like music and athletics to philosophy to social commentary) made their way here. In between were a few works of fiction, too.

Some time back, there started coming some creative literary ideas in my head. And this blog started acquiring a literary shape. Soon I began to notice a certain reluctance in myself in writing random/ general/ non-literary posts, as it might destroy the specific ‘literary’ character of my blog.

I finally decided that it wasn’t good to stub out my thoughts and not take up non-literary themes. Also, that the majority of posts have been literary in nature and that this newly acquired character should be preserved. So, there should  be a separate blog for non-literary, personal kind of posts.

Quite a few questions arose after I decided to create another post. Okay, the literary works will be here on this blog. What about the past non-literary works? I decided to shift them to the new blog, too.

“What about the comments, then?”  “Okay, even they will be shifted.”

“Wait, this doesn’t seem right!” “Hell, not all things are supposed to be right, Okay!”

But then there were practical issues. People might have bookmarked, or at least identified some of the posts, and might want to visit them again. This partition ends that possibility, however remote it may be. Also, the blog records would be disturbed. Finally I thought I’d keep the older posts where they were and start posting personal posts on a different blog.

Now, what separates a personal post from a literary post? Are my travelogues literary? Of course. Are they not personal? Like hell they are. What about some of the philosophy? It makes for some good literary reading (by my standards), but is also intensely personal. What about the stories? Even they are written from personal experiences, and express personal angst.

“Is it really possible to tell where ‘personal’ ends and ‘literary’ begins? Can I really draw a line here?”

An island was inhabited by aborigines. They weren’t much advanced, and took life as it came. Soon, colonisers came and occupied the island. They brought with them their religion, their culture and their science. As others from their original place found that here was a place of opportunity, they started coming in droves. Soon the immigrants outnumbered the aborigines. Their leaders now started oppressing the aborigines. They told them that the island had a distinct culture, and that they, the aborigines did not fit into it. Therefore they had to leave, or they would be driven out.

In another such island, the aborigines were stronger. They were still in majority in certain areas. They successfully demanded a separate country from themselves.

But the differences between the communities hadn’t been as clear cut. The aborigines and the colonisers had come in contact, and adapted from each others’ ways. Many rituals and cultural traits were common. Some people had intermarried and had mixed kids. These kids had traits common to both aborigines and immigrants and if was impossible to tell which was which.

It was, therefore, impossible to partition one community completely from the other. Such a partition could never have the exactness of a surgical operation. Surgical operations can never be performed on two intertwined creepers. Such creepers, if separated, are bound to bleed for a long, long time. The wounds can often get septic, and become incurable diseases.

Just like Kashmir has become for India and Pakistan. And it is paining like hell these days. Even harder is the pain of the Kashmiri Pandits, who were driven out of their homeland despite being one with the majority Muslim population, just because some people thought that they didn’t fit in the overall character of the valley.

I’ve decided that my blog will stay as it is. And I wish certain other decisions were up to me.

Categories: Critique, Relationships | 12 Comments

Under the boundless sky (III)

In the last two posts, I’ve talked about my experiences in Devabhoomi. I argued in the last post about the shortcomings of photographs, and then gave a supporting example.

I don’t deny the importance of photographs. A picture does speak a thousand words. But words themselves have their own significance, and it’s important we keep our words close and not let them get lost in the maze of pictures that we’re bombarded with nowadays.

Here are some things which words cannot do justice to:



Standing at the edge of Parvati river was our base camp, and this was the view of the mountain we were gonna climb. Just looking at it snapped us into euphoria, and if you think that this looks fabricated, cliched, straight out of a picture postcard and so on, you’re not alone. We thought so, too.


From the base camp, we proceeded to higher camps and were put up in tents like these which were located in some clearing in the forests. 10-12 people shared each tent. The tents not only provided for some much needed warmth and protection during the night, but were also witness to some of the most insane, mind-blowing BC I’ve ever seen.


Finding a suitably well-hidden, clean and level spot behind some rock or tree in the mornings was one big ordeal. Here I am suggesting a possible alternative to our group members.


I had climbed this ascent bare handed till about the highest point you can see in this pic, when I was ordered down by our team leader Sanjay Ji. I was proud of my climbing skills, till Ravi (the little pahadi boy beside me in this pic) ran down this slope. I repeat, Ravi ran down this rock. Quite a humbling experience.


This was Zirmi, a paradise nestled deep in the hills. The place was so enchanting that Suneja and I went on to explore this bhaloo-infested valley unarmed and on our own. While climbing back up, I gave Suneja the scare of his life.

Also, this was the place where I got the biggest craving for poetry I’ve ever had. I literally rolled on the groud, beat my fists against rocks, recited one of my self-composed poems to a lady and grabbed a girl by the shoulders and made her listen to some Yeats I remembered after assuring her that the poetry wasn’t intended for her. I could have killed for some Wordsworth or Yeats then. The high wasn’t quite settled till I finally scribbled about a hundred lines of poetry, sitting on a rock which provided a view of the artistry of the clouds…

And while I was writing, I noticed that I wasn’t the only one bitten by the poetry bug. Sitting on nearby rocks were Pradeep and Vishal, scribbling away to glory.


As we took our first step in the snow, our hearts filled with apprehension and overflowed with reverence. The pure whiteness of the snow told me that this wasnt an ordinary place, but a ‘Bhagwan ki Jageh’. I’m not particularly religious, but the shouts of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ spontaneously escaped me as I started walking up this patch. Others around me followed suit, but no, the valley didn’t reverberate with the sounds of our ‘Har Har Mahadev’s. Rather, our sounds just got lost in the vastness of the surroundings.


This stone structure is a ‘Monument of Estranged Love’ created by the humble villagers. The guide told me that if someone who has got estranged from his love prays with a true heart and places a stone on this structure in her memory, God soothes the agony of both the ex-lovers’ hearts. I’ve never had a love which I could get estranged from, but I nevertheless said a prayer and added my stone to the pile. Maybe it’s still there.

The picture shows (from the left) myself, Pradeep and Vivek.


At the height of 15000 feet, only 60% of the amount of oxygen that we normally have in the plains is available. Walking in itself is an ordeal. Here’s Doley Ram, carrying more that 20kg of load on his slender shoulders. And he does this everyday.


Not everybody who comes from the city for a trek in the hills is used to the hills. Kishore just got the life scared outta him while rappling down a slope.


A unique experience we had during the Sar Pass trek was sliding down a hill slope sitting on a piece of polythene.

Here’s one of us, probably Vivek, sliding down a slope.


You are bombarded with snow flakes from all sides as you slide, and it’s impossible to prevent some from entering your shoes. A 4 hour trek to the camp in wet clothes and shoes follows the slide. As Vivek reached the camp, he was in no condition to walk any longer. (click on the pic to fully appreciate the contours).


A trek is only as good as the company you have on it. Here are some of the wonderful people I had the pleasure of meeting on the trek. (From the left) Pratham, myself, Shobhit, Rohit, Vishal, Pradeep, Nishant, Vineet.


And finally, a lot of thanks to YHAI without which this trek wouldn’t have happened. And as for the wonderful friends I met, well, it was a pleasure. I’d like every trek of mine to be with the same set of people. Wish it were possible.

And yeah, for the people who were there on this trek, guys, just one last time…


Baaki saare, THALLE THALLE!

Categories: Photos, Travelogue | 8 Comments

Create a free website or blog at