The Hazy Road

Dear 31 December, Hello, friend. In the search for our own design, we have come full circle again. We're crossing the finish line, together. I didn't think I'd make it. Did you? I'm breaking our little tradition. It wasn't a very good tradition, anyway. No tears tonight. No excessive sleeping because 'it's just another day' and 'I don't feel well.' No waking up at 3am to see how many missed calls I got. It's only fair. A new year calls for change. Every month-end, we run short of money, so we cut back. Every year-end, we run short of time, but we don't give up, do we? We hope. We look at our private moments, and we think, there's more to life. There always is. But whenever we meet, why do I feel that we're a miscalculation? It just doesn't add up. Yet, here we are. Looking back to see my triumphs and missteps, miseries and regrets, jolly moments and their subsequent hasty farewells. Well, life never ...

It's very easy to ignore the online world. Unless you are affected, none of it matters. Most friends I know make an effort to stay away from political news, criminal reports, and anything dark-themed, because that is what our society has become. A bright and clear mirror of the dark skies we live under every day. Safety has become a passing opinion. Trauma a trend. All we share now are humour, movie reviews and artwork, because that is all that's left pure. But not quite. Comedians, actors, directors- all people we look up to for their creations- are creating madness. They're breaking people down, bit by bit, all under the blinding light of their stardom. It's too bright for me, anyway. And to think that these people were once admired for their open-mindedness, "woke af" thoughts, or even their work. It is incomprehensible. People are speaking up, and people are being heard. Right from the top, to the friends I personally know. And the sound is hurt...

Today, there are no last words. No goodbyes. No 'phir milenge'. No 'best of luck'. No emotional texts. Time doesn't stand still, and this moment, we can't preserve this. We'll spend our lives trying to convince ourselves this day was among the best days of our lives, and we'll try to remember the faces, and their spaces in our hearts. So we've captured smiles in selfies, and we're quietly hoping the smile sticks just a few years longer. We need the shaadi ki biryaani, after all. We need company. Today, we're here. Alive. Almost ready to face the world ahead. Almost ready to be awesome-r, better, smarter, and most importantly, greater than who we are. And what we are is legends in the making. And legends have tragic backstories too. So don't be afraid if raaho me thoda fisal jao. Just remember the mistakes, and live your days a bit kinder, happier, worthier, if that makes sense. The fear is medicine for you to get better. Do not ov...

​Choose Life. Choose a college. Choose a career. Choose your soulmate. Choose bigger smartphones, choose cruiser bikes, cars, Bluetooth headsets and electric kettles. Choose good shape, low fat, and dieting. Choose easy pay credit cards. Choose a 2BHK apartment. Choose your friends. Choose binge-watching, guilt-snacking, and window shopping and make yourself feel what passes for happy. Choose stories, snaps, and double tap; human interaction reduced to nothing more than data. Choose thirteen reasons why Salman Khan is better than everyone else. Choose screaming about illogical statements. Choose beef jokes, unrealistic ideals, blackmailing and an endless tide of depressing misogyny. Choose this life is a lie, and if it isn't, Rick and Morty is God. Choose memes on T-shirts and matching bags. Choose a three-piece suit bought for one-time use in a range of fabrics. Choose home delivery and wondering who the hell you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting...

​I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the way, we grew up too fast. We were the '90s kids. Lost in our worlds. Not phones and Tinder and Instagram. But people, and pranks, and cycle rides, and cricket, and football, and badminton, and just playing around and racing. We sat on benches, and balconies, and rooftops, without cellphones in hands to capture the beauty of the world. We never really could, could we? We couldn't replace sleeping on rooftops, under the starry sky, wondering if now is all there is. We couldn't replace laughing so hard we felt tired, and our stories weren't about dates, no. We were questioning the simple. Looking at airplanes cut through the sky and wondering about their destinations. We'd wonder about our destination, so some other kid could one night look up and see us. Whatever happened to those air bubbles? And the tazzos? Collectible cards, and those beyblades, and saving money for them. Those small Frooti...

It takes a hand To salute the flag, But a heart To respect the nation So spit your Paan, Stamp your cigarette, Throw your wrappers away; Show your hand To the oncoming traffic, And run across the way It takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation So push in the green Under demanding tables And wear your fair face; Pee on the green You see in the open, And run your bloody race. It takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation So rant along As social mobs, Taking sides furiously: Unfurl your screams! Complain! Question! Abusing everyone merrily. And most importantly, Enjoy your public holiday Sleeping, wasting it away, For it takes a hand To salute the flag But a heart To respect the nation. independence Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: idealism may be dead, but action isn't]

The walls have ears. The walls have tears. City walls are among the saddest things in creation. They see all, hear all, know all. Yet, they know none who can notice, listen, understand. Take a walk down an old narrow lane in Kolkata, and pause midway. Notice the tattered walls. The not-aesthetic artwork that Smoke decided would look good there. The mould that chose to survive there. The doodled wicket. The artificial stench of old concrete. The cold surface skin. The monsoon tears. Why wouldn't you feel strange in the streets at night? You know the feeling, just not the reason. For you can't hear the silent screams drowning into the night; see the bleeding tears mixing in with the clouds; know the sins witnessed held against their frames. No wonder the sky turns blue with sadness at night. the decaying city Written by Yash Raj Talan [note to self: you will grow to love Kolkata]