Khoya khoya chaand, khula aasmaan.
Aankhon mein saari raat jayegi.
Tumko bhi kaise neend aayegi?

Sigh. I miss Andy. She needs to get back home soon.

She's this intangible bit of my life, which I miss so much without realizing. My daily diet and exercise isn't as rewarding if she doesn't praise me for it. I constantly think something I've forgotten something quite important if we haven't had a single conversation all day. I know I miss her so but I can spend the whole day without being unhappy but it just won't feel right.

Even though I've not really talked to you since a week, I'm okay. But I'm not truly OK. The days don't feel like they should without you.

#Lesson for today: Friends like these.


Oxford, I have some new words

Fashion Gremlin. (n) - A female, who in her attempts to become a fashionista has mutated into an abomination.

Dorkess. (n) - A female 'dork' who becomes a sex goddess in bed while retaining affable dork nature.

Render. (verb) - A process commonly associated with computers that can drive even the most patient of saints to the brink of madness.

Voluntary Boobage. (n) - The prices of showing off cleavage in a manner that is provocative and yet looks accidental.

Ain. (adj) - The state of mind when anything, anything at all, feels out of place. Understood worldwide as a sign of 'Something Is Wrong'.

Salary. (n) - The imaginary promise of being paid an adequate sum in lieu of daily labour. Often made by employers to employees in order to entice them. Not to be confused with Daily Wages. Often a source of major frustration. (See Also - Myth, Legend, Fairytale, Fable.)

#Lesson for Today: Give me a damn salary, else your files will never render. Ain.


To answer a question posed to me, I say: "Yes, I'm scared. I'm terrified out of my mind, most days."

But then again, what am I scared of?

I'm scared that all the patches that held life together so far - best friends, school/college, workaholism - have disappeared and life threatens to fall apart any moment now. I'm scared that I've lost my way and finding it again it becoming an endless cycle of making mistakes.

I'm scared that if I leave the city that is driving me to slow madness, it will sound the death knell for the facade of parental harmony since a separation - if not worse - looms on the horizon. I'm scared that when I leave, no matter for how short a duration of time, it will affect the life of my dog. The one being on this planet who I have loved more than all else. I'm scared that I may just love him enough to give up on everything - a better job, a better city to live in and perhaps a better life.

I'm scared of the way I break down over small things these days, I'm not the emotionally stable person I used to be. In the hours that I look up at the fan, the lack of faith in my decisions and judgements from family is starting to make me feel the same.

And that nothing I do is good enough for anybody. I don't give good enough advice, I don't dispel loneliness well enough, I don't socialize enough, I don't stay at home enough, I don't love my dog enough, I don't care about friends enough, I don't sleep enough, I don't listen to your advice enough, I don't become a doormat enough.

I suppose I'm just scared of how scared I've become.

#Lesson for today - This, is the real horror movie.


Birthday Boo's

One fine day you'll wake up to realize that you've spent close to 10 months in a year without being able to celebrate the birthday of the people you love.

Because birthdays are special. The week leading up to the day, when you must provide a list of places considered treat-worthy. The rummaging about gift-ideas, since you simply must gift something ridiculous with something useful. And usually it is the useful part that is hard to find. There is the nightly conference about whom to invite and whom to snub and how to do so cunningly enough.

There is a complete descent into the stage of a 13 year old schoolgirl, for most part, where you tease the friends with incessant yet unhelpful hints about the endless 'maybe-maybenot' bits of their unplanned day. The giggling, cracking jokes, pretending to be absolutely mindless little adolescents. The rites of passage, declaring that everybody needs to groom a little, for there shall be photographs.

But as opposed as I am to change, it is their nature to. The years fall away and suddenly you wake up, confirm addresses and order a gift online. Even with the three days you spend agonizing over the design, colour, size, etc are rendered impersonal by the delivery boy who shows up instead of you. Photos are meant to be looked at days later, not on the way home and laughing with your arms entangled and seemingly drunk. They tend to be out celebrating, sadly enough, without you.

I wish I was there getting somewhat high with you, funny boy.
I wish I was there to see that silly smile on your face, dearest.
I wish I could see you opening the gift we spent ages planning, you idiot.
I wish I could tease you all day and talk to you about total perspective vortexs, love.
I wish I could show you that birthdays could be a fun day, crazy kid.
I wish I could be there, holding you, through the day, hon.
I wish I could be rocking out with you in a mosh pit, my dodo.
I wish I could have all of you right by my side, when my day rolls around.

#Lesson for the day: I wish I was Marvin, without all the depression.


Of thankful thoughts

I'm grateful to a lot of things in life but more than all of them, for now, I'm grateful to be loved by him.

I'm thankful for the beauty of the posters and letters, reminding me that old-fashioned romance lives on. That his presence made me stop wanting to get drunk. I'm thankful he helped me believe a little more in myself and try harder to become the person I want to be.

I'm thankful our memories turn themselves into sepia-tinted showreels, moving in slow-motion, where the sound of our laughter echoes throughout and the light naturally makes us look ecstatic. That between is a divide of distance, not of barriers we chose to construct.

I'm thankful I can say all of this to him and he'll listen. That he'll forgive me for being a jackass and a hypocrite. That I can, for better or for worse, be there for him. I'm thankful I let him see me cry and that he did the same.

I'm thankful he is the person he is.

Lesson for today: I'm thankful to be his.


Food is my religion

At some point in every fat girl's life, she is told that her existence faces an imminent threat from the afore mentioned fat. At this point, you are made to swear on all you hold sacred (including potato chips) that you will stop indulging your lovin' for unhealthy foodstuff (including potato chips). For a while, scared by the revelation that your extra kilograms may do worse than just ruin your dreams of shopping at UCB and Zara, you actually make the effort to stop eating crap (including potato chips). This, is a big fuckin' mistake. It will, lead to disaster.

I went cold turkey, quitting chocolates, chips, candy, various other junk food-esque items and chole bature in the same day. Now, for a girl who has probably been comfort eating since she was 9 years old, giving up the very foundation of content leads to a considerable amount of emotional and existential angst. This translates into many unfortunate incidents. It starts off by becoming hormonal. Not the usual PMS hormonal, but oh-my-fuck-this-is-adolesence-all-over-again hormonal. It's the maa-behen-nani-dadi of PMS. And to add some more fun to it, you don't even realize it's because you've suddenly corrected your skewed body systems.

Then, you start becoming moody, since movies aren't the same without chocolate and nothing is what is used to be without potato chips. Even Arrested Development fails to cheer me up. Frasier still does, but damnit, I want my potato chips.

After a few weeks of this hell, where you feel happy, then sad, then suicidal, then homicidal then everything and homicidal, the doctor who has ruined your life so far says, "You need to stay away from Pasta." By now, your emotions are no longer complacent viewers, content with their hoard of potato chips. You rebel. Potato chips are purchased on the sly, chocolate is gained from ill-conceived means and By God, you eat pasta till you WANT to stay away from it.

Amidst all of this, you see that your body has reacted well to the lack of mind-altering substances and has shed some weight. You start questioning your decision to take up potato chips again. This is where it all falls apart. This is when you become depressed, irritable, sleepy, unable to focus and the whole schebang. At some point, you will find yourself wandering aimlessly at a metro station while not knowing where you're supposed to go.

Contrary to what you may believe, this has nothing to do with anything but your brain telling you that it cannot function solely on human sympathy and what not. It needs potato chips and you can't negotiate on that fact. So after months of agonizing, I ended up at Indian Coffee House, had my Dosa, Lemon Squash and Chips. I read a book. Then I came back home and ate some more food. And today, I happily munched on potato chips with Dahi. And tonight I went full glutton, without any regret.

The end result is a very satisfied Lemon Girl who feels very emotionally balanced at the moment.

And then I figured the Four P's of my happiness: Pineapples, Pasta, Potato chips and Lemon Boi (whose name starts with P and shall hopefully keep me well stocked with the other three.)

#Lesson for today: Food is my religion, do not make me fuck around with or I will turn into a fanatic fundamentalist and Fruit Ninja your ass off.


How I survived four hours in traffic and learnt I was allergic to chilli sauce

I live in Delhi. Good ol' Nayi Dilli, the city where Mirza Ghalib found inspiration. He must be thanking his stars to not be alive today. Delhi got absolutely fucked by the monsoon today and as is tradition, the drainage system pretty much fell apart. And then, to top it all off, I got stuck in the traffic for four hours.

Yes, count that. F-O-U-R.

I'm not even trying to exaggerate here, I swear to the sweet lord. I left home at 10:23 AM and I reached my office at 2:27 PM. And I ain't talking about Indian Stretchable Time here. Somewhere at the far end of the seven flyovers I must cross to get to office (which is an hour on a normal traffic-y day), a pipe had burst because of the heavy rains. The MCD is anyway perpetually confused about how Delhi functions and the rain sends them into a nervous breakdown.

So yes, I spent four hours inside my car. To top it all off, the car flooded. Yes, it flooded. Water sneaked in from some goddarn where and filled up my darling car till my feet were soaked through and I had no idea where anything was. While I was devising a plan to get rid of it all, the car decides this would a good time to show me how it can skid across the road and almost ram itself into a pedestrian's face.

No, I'm just messing with you. I can barely drive a cycle straight and need a driver and the car was flooded only about 3 inches.

In spite of this obviously scarring experience, I was in a chirpy mood when I got to office. Mostly because nobody else had shown up and I lounged about till 5 while abusing the internet. At which point I figured I should eat something. I power-walked to the market, where I figured I'll get a slightly spicy roll, just for the heck of it. I usually am somewhat sensitive to spice, but since I'm currently dead on the inside, I couldn't care less. Bad idea.

I have a slight cut on my lip from where a grossly negligent parlour-woman slashed through with her thread. My lips usually burn for a bit if I get spice right on them. And today being the precious fucker it was, the chilli sauce hit the cut point blank. The next seven minutes were spent gazing wonderously at my face in the mirror as my lip swelled up to five times it's regular size. And made me look like I was wearing whore-red lipstick. All in all, I'm apparently allergic to chilli sauce.

#Lesson for today: Days like this, be glad you made it back home with your body parts all intact.



To A Dear Friend,

15 years and we're still grinning at each other doing silly happy things.
15 years and we're still giddy with delight at each other's Hello's.
15 years and we're still bickering over whose Mum makes better food.
15 years and we're still sorting out our problems every night, one day at a time.
15 years and we're still make-believing that Wonderland exists.
15 years and we're still friends.
15 years later, I'll look back and let you know that we'll be strong for 15 years more.


Peering back to the past, I chance upon the memory of a girl sitting with her classmates during a psychology class discussing the relevance of the Five Stages of Grief. By and large, everybody agreed that these stages did exist and were subject to change in their order. We also agreed that it was the loss of a loved one or a major tragedy that caused so.

Coming back to the present, there is one slight flaw in this model that we had all missed out on.

It is not simply the loss of someone cherished or a tragedy that accounts for the stages. So many little things, smaller and seemingly inconsequential in nature bring about bigger torments than one would like to give them credit for. One grieves not only for people. One grieves in equal ways for the loss of purpose, of rationality, of direction, of judgement, of self-control, of belief, of faith and of self-identity. But more than all of that, one may grieve for the loss of peace of the mind.

And then comes the grieving. It starts with Denial, of course. One cannot readily accept it all. Then the Bargaining, in this case. Then starts the long cycle of crushing despair. And then, if you're lucky, you'll find Anger. But anger cannot last long and is soon followed by Acceptance. It comes out of nowhere and overwhelms you with a serenity that makes you wonder at the beauty of even something such as loss.

I have found acceptance. Or at least a version of it.

#Lesson for today: Acceptance is a beautiful thing.


For we love personifying.

I was once asked what my blog would be like if it were a person. At the time, I must have laughed and mumbled something about my blog would obviously be like me in person. A few months have passed by since and I have diligently observed you, my dear blog.

The manner in which you encourage me to twist words. Perhaps only to add a slight poetic longing to them. Longing I had long forgotten about. The times when you refuse to let me write and script scathing posts that break more fragments of an ailing heart than they would have healed. The simplicity with which you take in every complaint, rant, fantasy and obsession I have thrown mercilessly at you.

You have been me, at some point in your existence, but that moment has passed. You, darling blog, are different. An entity that exists separate of me somehow. Perhaps it is a symbiotic life that we lead.

You would be tall. I get the feeling of a tall, lanky adolescent boy when I see you. The kinds who secretly wishes to play the Cello but decided to opt for a guitar instead. I see you walking down the street, childhood backpack and book in hand. You too, disdain change with the intensity that I do. It reflects in the ageing of your shoes, the manner in which you have yet not discarded your favourite childhood shirt. The yellow one, that is.

I get the feeling you have long hair. Not the kinds a rebel or a rocker would have. Just naturally long and flowly hair. They go well with your specs and aura of intellect. I wouldn't call you happy but then I wouldn't call you sad either. You've a marvellous ability to be content with the world. Some many even call you a star-child, one whom the fairy dust has been sprinkled upon. Yes, that would be it, for even your friends occasionally call you Peter Pan. You enchant them with your wicked eyes and sudden esoteric humour they have finally started to understand.

Tucked under your ability to get along with the world is another universe in itself. I suppose you hear home calling when you put an ear to the sea-shells. The sound of the sea is your siren call, I can see you travelling among steamers and ferrys. Aah Blog, you would make for a very curious person, I feel. You read. In fact, you devour books. Your love potion would probably smell like fresh ink and a newly opened book. That is where we meet. Somehow, you keep that single-minded worship of the written word a secret. The world has disappointed you on that more than once.

You prefer time to walk by slowly. Speed holds no thrills for you, for you will forever be that thin, lanky teenager who loves the shy girl across the street. And then there is your wild side. You drink, you party and you sing karaoke versions of songs like there never will be a tomorrow. And your smile. Your smile inspired a certain Anna Nalick to write: "But, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles/Wanna hold him/Maybe I'll just sing about it."

And of course, you love Lemons. In all shapes and forms. The smell, the sour taste. If you would know how to cook those delectable mediterranean dishes you dream of, I suppose you would add lemon zest to everything. Yes, your dedication towards all things Lemon (including a certain Lemon Girl) is astounding. Perhaps more so than the fact that you've never heard the song that many believe inspired you.

That is the you I have shown the true me without restraints or fear. The adolescent boy that makes me remember days spent under the cotton tree and dreaming of Wonderland. That is you, Blog.

#Lesson for today: Just.


Of Loneliness

All said and done, life does move on. But it makes you lonely in ways you never quite could have expected.

It isn't the loneliness you know off. Nothing changes in your life and yet it isn't your life any more.

Loneliness is knowing that the metro doors will not open to reveal a face familiar and loved. Or even known, for that matter. It is the daily reminder that your favourite coffee shop no longer is the first choice to spend a leisurely afternoon at. Being lonely is not being able to walk right into the homes you considered almost your own, especially when you need them the most. It is the cold fact that there isn't someone a phone call away who'll stay up till 3 a.m. just because you told them to.

Loneliness is not having reason to celebrate even when you have every single reason to. When you are greeted warmly by a stranger when you get good news instead of people who would have wished most fervently for your happiness. It is quietly smiling to yourself over a plate of cold food while congratulating yourself just a little.

It is an endless cycle of reminding yourself that all your new discoveries are truly your own and you couldn't share them truly if you wanted to. Of noting events, people, places, ideas, feelings on a piece of paper to maybe chance upon weeks later.

It is the slight lump in your throat when you fake a little laughter now and then, while knowing what truly makes you laugh may not be there to cheer you up for a while. Loneliness is a broken conversation and lost threads with no way to preserve them till there is time enough to fix it all.

Loneliness is the heart wrenching paradox of life where you are alone even when you haven't lost the people you pine for. They don't leave you behind, and yet they do. Their memories keep you happy till you remember there won't be any new ones to keep. And it hurts. It can actually make you feel a heart breaking into smaller fragments every single time you get through another day.

Loneliness is harsh, it doesn't go away. Not when you're surrounded by people, not when you block the world out. It stays, it keeps hinting at its ability to make you walk by some of the best days of your life without reminiscing even once.

But before all of this and more than all else, loneliness is a reminder that all of it matters, for now, only to you.


The heart must have what it wants...

It is not a fall from grace to have given up all pretensions and loved you fully. For now I know that it true when they say that you were borne of my imagination and romanced in it till I was ready to know the flesh-and-bones you. I was predestined to be, to fit the curves of your body like I readily do. Every night, your face is mine to observe and adore in the twinkle of those far away stars and so you creates a night so wonderous that one cannot help but fall in love with the cool detachment of the moonlight and forget how it feels to stand under the warming rays of the morning sun. You are mine against all odds and heartbreaks, especially those we were sure to remember beyond time itself.

I cannot challenge the sweetness of the whispered promises or the passionate surge of tears when I see you cry. Yet some days force me to wonder, they lead my thoughts asunder. Especially when the thunder rolls about and I can disguise my sorrows in admiration for the blinding light. I can only hope the same spectacle is beheld by you, standing a thousand cities away from my heart. Still, how much does distance matter when I hear you sing my weary mind to sleep?

I am thankful for you, mostly when your actions convince me that I have been ensnared in a plot, a conspiracy to make the world beautiful again. What else could have bathed the skies in heart warming hues and colours, when I had all but forgotten what they meant to me. Like today, when walking amongst the flaming rows of Laburnums and Gulmohars, I forget my multitude of heartbreaks and let go of wretched doubtfulness. You were mine to begin with and you will be mine when all has ended.

#Lesson for today: Pick a flower, press it your heart, tell it all your secrets and then walk away.


Insert heavy sigh..

What I speak to the stars is between their glimmer and me.
What I cast into the night is our secret to keep.
What I cannot say for fear of breaking my own heart,
is for the endless reams of crumpled paper to feel.


Goodbye, Farewell..

The heat is oppressive and the weather is desultory, making us restless. It doesn't feel like home inside the Studio anymore. Not like the way it used to. Nothing pulls us back to the doors, telling us to stay. It seems like we're lying in wait, to shut those doors and never look back. This is not the way it was supposed to end. No, nobody would have imagined it like this.

These are the last days of our college life. It should have been beautiful, with us reminiscing and becoming nostalgic. We should have been making plans for the future, ways to spend more time together after we've left. Only now we bicker and mourn over the loss of time and precious memories that we could have been creating. Frustration has replaced the tinge of sadness that permeates through our moods at the end of three wonderful years. For we are crying still, only we know it is not love that fuels our tears. The winds of change betray us at every step.

We wanted to step out gracefully, with time slowly fading our memories away. Fate has different plans for us, plans that make us trip and fall on our way out. We have fallen on our faces and never once been picked back up with care. All our fragility has been forgotten, replaced by hard hearts and attitudes. Is this what a farewell truly feels like, as if you weren't even wanted in the first place?

Our time as students has all but left us exhausted, in certain ways. For each other, for the times we shared, we'll do it all over again. At least that is what we say to assure ourselves that we will pick up where we left off. There is one heartstring that knows better, we would not want to go through the last few months again.

#Lesson for today: It's time to leave. Whether we want to or not. I only wish it would have been a fond memory.



I'm addicted to 9GAG.com. That would explain my current absence from Blogger. #Lesson for today: 502 pages into the site, I realize I love the internet way too much.


Looking at the descriptive entries about my classmates and their achievements in the college, I feel relieved I did not nominate myself for any award.

I pity the girl who would have to work up my citation. If left in my hands, it would read something like,

"Lemon Girl is mostly fat, existential, retarded and profound about it. College has never held any special appeal for her, apart from the canteen samosas. She can be found looking rather concerned at her growing waist-line in the makeup room or being injured by tripods. Lemon Girl has a number of other interests that shall remain undescribed for fear of her abandoning them temporarily. She is known to emulate a certain TV character quite well and is the epitome of the kind of person your mother always wanted you to be. Only not so much."

#Lesson for today: I believe I saved myself a lot of ridicule. :D


Dear Lemon Boi

Dear Lemon Boi,
I love you.

How do I not love him?

From the moment I wake up, he is on my mind and in my thoughts. Wishing him morning is now a priority when I wake up. Talking to him all day long makes time slow down and speed up without notice. The sun is brighter, even for the girl who doesn't like sunshine so much. There is a permanent smile on my face and my heart. His face is just perfect. Just perfect, I tell you. With him, the love flows naturally. It asserts itself in the face of many objections on my part.

His voice sounds poetic to me. Especially when he sings, you know. He is the perfect size for a bear hug.

More than all of that, he is sort of the character that I would have found lurking in a novel somewhere. The kinds that my mind and heart both rapidly lend themselves to. He is my 42, the one who gives me perspective. He knows how to calm me down in my hyper-paranoid state. Just right now, he was talking in a silly punjabi sort of accent to cheer me up.

Why would I ever want to stop loving him?


It's four degrees outside. Which is hardly fair. Ya toh itna cold ho ki snow man ban jaye ya phir naa ho.

Dilli ki sardi mujhe samajh nahi aati.

#Lesson for today: On days when your brain is too clogged up with mucous to have a come-back beyond Pffft, Best-Friend will turn out to be irrefutably correct about all things in general.