I remember this one time, when I'd just moved to Delhi when I was a chubby little 14 year old, and the climate of the city had begun its course to destroy me from the inside and remake me.

Okay, that may be a little dramatic. But it was REALLY hot.

Anyway, every month that year, I was sick atleast once a week, which helped with removing the chubbiness, noted one time in the shower when I looked down and could see my toes. In the duration of one of these episodes of fever, I was lying helpless in my parents' bedroom, milking the sick card for all it was worth and enjoying the added attention. That's one thing about being sick, is that your parents stop being mad and take pity on you and bring you things to eat, pausing for once their continuous reminders of what a lazy pile of crap you are.

Then my dad decided to take my temperature, and I had to hold the thermometer under my tongue for some reason, which I now realize was probably again just my mother's made up medical ingenuity. I had to deal with these all my life, until I took biology in high school and learned that everything she'd ever told me was a lie. Now when I try to explain to her how what she said is not factually correct, she harrumphs and says I should have stayed in physics.

So my dad reads the thermometer, and looks quietly at my mom and says, "It's 104" looking all serious. Cue flashback to the time my mom said that people whose fevers go beyond 104 usually die. So while they look serious and talk in low voices as if I, sitting in between them, would not be able to hear, I start joking and telling them to stop worrying about me, as if this fever is just something I do for attention.

I don't remember much of what happened after. Obviously I survived. And as I write this from my yearly sick bed, I realize that this is another story with a pointless ending. 

“Maybe love is only there for a month.

Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit.

Maybe love stays.

Maybe love can’t.

Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, and love leaves exactly when love must.

When love arrives, say, ‘Welcome, make yourself comfortable’

If love leaves ask her to leave the door open behind her

Turn off the music, listen to the quiet

Whisper, ‘Thank you for stopping by.’”

Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye, Project VOICE

i think its more than about time for a new blogpost, and rant out my thoughts, though it wont be a rant so much as a quiet and desperate groveling with the gods of fate to make sure im not on the path to a destitute life of living on bread and peanut butter for the remainder of my existence.

the thing i like about this blog is that hardly any people know about it. even then, i look at the stats on my page (i don't know why), and today to my absolute horror i realized TWENTY TWO people looked at my blog on the 9th of january. first, this seems like an obtrusive invasion of privacy. sure my blog is on the internet, but STILL. the internet is a big place, why are 22 strangers reading my blog? secondly, the source of all the traffic seems to be from some dating site. curiouser and curiouser. maybe the blog seems like a safe haven for people sad enough to be on dating sites. market niche? or sign for some major inner reflection?

right now, i think im in that phase of life in my 20s which every Buzzfeed article prepares its readers for. honestly, though, how many lists for 20 somethings can that website publish on repeat? yes, Buzzfeed, i don't know where my life is going, the financial situation isn't looking great, im living with my parents again after an exodus that lasted four years, and i'm not sure what career choices to make.

the thing with those articles is, is that they always somehow make you think it will all be okay. in fact, most movies and books and quotes and stories tell you the same thing... that it will turn out okay in the end, that you're meant to be on this path, and it will take you where you need to go. what worries me is the fact that we know this is not true for everyone. there are poor people, and people who struggle to make ends meet, or end up at deadbeat jobs that turn them into bitter, dull people. yes, yes, the future is in our hands blah blah, but it takes so much energy to be proactive, something i just don't have. energetic people make me feel so uncomfortable whenever they're in the vicinity. especially those "morning people."  this goddamned laziness will spell the end of me, i swear.

well, it is the new year. even though this means absolutely nothing. but. fresh start and all that, not the time to become completely devoid of optimism. 

just upsetting.

A letter from August 15th, 2012.

Dear FutureMe,

So like a wimp, you've set the time on this to only one year in the future, because for some reason you're really scared right now. Oh cmon, you know why you were scared at this time. Life seems like it's falling apart and you don't really know who you are anymore.

Well time heals all wounds. It's cliche but I hope, for both of our cases, it's true. I hope that you've learned some things though by now and implemented them. I hope you had fun in Newcastle. I hope you lived happily with as little drama as possible. I hope you found the best of friends in your dorm mates. I hope also, that you didn't fall in love, or if you did, you did with the right guy. Your trust issues? I hope you worked on them. And I hope, for me, please, that you never let someone treat you like that again. Remember that you deserve to be treated well. Please remember. Don't forget that. Don't repeat things. And appreciate the ones who do that for you.

I hope that you gave it your all, and got some really good marks! This is your future after all. And hey, remember your dream of doing some good for the world. Don't let go of that, it's what keeps you apart.

I'm so jealous of you right now. I wish I could be where you are now. This place here sucks. I've turned into something I really wish I wasn't. I hope time helped fix things. And I hope you've grown into an even better person. And hey, going through all of this. I'm sure there were some lessons. And some good things about it. You learned to cook, for example! Please God, be able to cook better now that you're 22! It's time consuming and you're lazy I know. But by now you should have atleast learned how to make a decent cake. And cheesecake. Actually it's okay if you didn't learn the cheesecake.

There are so many things I want to say. Right now, I've taken sabbatical from the most aggravating thing in my life: my now over relationship. I hope I don't disappoint. I promise I'm not complaining to my future self :P Do you still overuse the colon p? Are you getting teary eyed? Is your hair finally long!!!!? Oh oh! Also a pact. To not cut your hair for a year! And yeah, I hope after this experience, you became stronger and a better person. We have this problem of victimizing ourselves. We should stop doing that.

Oh and, I hope that on your 21st birthday, you had a blast! And I hope you've made out with a couple more people. Is it strange that I'm enjoying talking to myself so much?

And I know you're on the brink of your career. Remember what I said. Work to make the world a better place. Work in a happy environment. Be proud of your work and yourself. And reach out to old friends, tell them you missed them a lot.

Be there for your brother, and for your parents. God knows they need you.

And I do love you, maybe not then but definitely now.

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Here's your gift :) In case this 2012 world ending apocalypse thing didn't actually pan out.
Your still 20 year old self

"She had always secretly reproached him for not loving her enough. Her own love she considered above reproach, while his seemed mere condescension. Now she saw that she had been unfair."

Milan Kundera.

Going back home from the university to the Bigg Market at three at night on a weekend is like living in a badly made remake of Dante's Inferno.

The first circle of hell - the 24 hour McDonald's at Haymarket, without a doubt brimming with emotionally wrought couples fighting over the betrayal of the night. In the midst of their sordidness, the drunken busker croons love songs on his guitar. I cross the showers of tears, screams and Geordie abuses and make my way forward.

The second circle of hell - the Monument. Swarming the square are groups of Lads, leaving havoc in their wake, whilst I try to avoid their advances with deft, Matrix style moves. Basking in the yellow moonlight bouncing off the medieval stones in the square, there is always a lone man, sitting quietly amidst the turbulence as if in a bubble, under the Monument, charmed by the fantasies of some faraway world.

The third circle of hell - Bambu. The squeals of women in irrevocable pain from wearing freakishly high heels (the illusion of height seems to be the greatest pathway to redemption here), and the drunken slurs of men who intoxicated themselves into a stupor so they would no longer notice their vixen like high pitched sounds of death. I make my way through the suffocating maze of bodies and sweat, the chaos of ambulances and engulfing fumes of vodka and cigarettes, onto the very last circle.

The last stretch of the journey - the fourth circle - the final frontier - my street. I am greeted into the alley by arches of men facing each wall, releasing the intake of vast amounts of liquid. I must cross this raging river of urination, and like a ballerina, make my way to my door. Finally the quest comes to an end. I am safely ensconced by the embrace of my refuge, my home.

As my journey comes to an end, I can still hear voices of the lost, inebriated spirits, singing disenchantedly, slurring loudly, beckoning. I shut the window, climb into bed and breathe a sigh of relief.

I hate bank holidays.