It was always a special night. The autumn moon shined bright, doctors got together on the terrace and sang old songs– sometimes out of tune, but it didn’t matter– there was laughter, and milk. Spiced to perfection when my mom made it, we drank out of silver bowls, relishing every sweet sip.

I didn’t know it was Kojagiri tonight, and suddenly, as I gazed at the moon from a friend’s balcony, I felt so far away from home. No aukshwan, no money from baba, no culinary innovation from mumma, no gossiping or laughing, no reminiscing about Mora, Chhoutu, and UMA.

So I walked by myself, watching the moon,  humming Rafi songs softly to myself, missing my parents, my home, and the immortality-promising masala milk.


I’m a new person in an old city. I walk these cobbled streets and I can feel history around me, wrapping me up, just like the cool breeze on this autumn afternoon. I walk the halls that have been home to many people I look up to, and I touch the walls, hoping to absorb some of that energy, to make it a part of me. I’m used to wandering around old buildings, having worked and studied in spaces constructed over a century ago. Here, just like at Xavier’s, the magic is tangible.

In this new city, where I arrived exactly two weeks ago, and where I’ll be for the next year, I’ve found home. I’ve fallen in love with the quaint streets, the vibrant halls, the mad weather.

I’m not a stranger in this city where I know nobody. I am only new.


For the rains, for a bunch of emails, for a phone call, for people to arrive, waiting for a song, waiting for the right time, just waiting. 

Never one to be blessed with patience, this waiting game is driving me crazy. 


My little Pumpkin is 13 today and almost as tall as I am. I couldn’t lift her, even if I tried my best– but she lifts my spirits, with the twinkle of her eyes and thejokes on her lips.

Sure she amuses, amazes, and (very rarely) annoys but Pumpkin,  Pumpkin is precious. 

Buying books calms me down these days. As if just owning titles and having them line up on my shelves, on the windowsill, under the bed, in every bag, will be enough. My problem isn’t real estate though, it is something more worrying.

I read an essay today by Joan Didion that felt vaguely familiar. I had read that anthology only a couple of weeks ago and had completely forgotten. Am I not reading mindfully enough? Am I devouring pages and clearing memory as I move on? 

I feel like I am driving too fast to take in anything. Where the landmarks are a blur and the impressions last only a short while. 

I listened to a Rushdie interview today and he recited poems and literary anecdotes effortlessly, I couldn’t even remember a quote. 

What is the point for reading if you can’t remember? What is the point of travelling if you can’t recall? What is the point of memory if it only fails you? 

No Entry

If the quickest way is through a one-way street, occasionally you give into temptation and ignore a no-entry sign. A cop stops you and you plead ignorance. You get mad, not at being caught, but because you knew better. 

Listen to your better judgement. Always listen to your better judgement. #notetoself 


Friendships are strange and unexpected.

Some will be intense and then lie dormant. Some will be giving. Some will be quiet and others chattering nonstop. Some will show you the mirror and a few will be a warm, safe hug. Some will push your horizons while others will ground you. Some friendships will be abandoned, some resuscitated. Some will be time wasted, some will teach you lessons. 

A few special friendships, and this is rare, will bring you home.