Blue Seas

I'm a very busy person. I work and I study. I drink anything that has caffeine in it so that I can stay up nights. I forget to eat meals. I lose track of time. I wake up to find my face plastered against an open textbook page. My little purple appointment diary is overflowing. And in the middle of it, I look up skywards. And I thank God. I thank Him for keeping me busy. If you are a busy person. Be thankful. Because the alternative, could be so much worse.

Its the little things. The way you throw your head back and laugh. The way you look over the rim of your coffee cup. The way you argue about political theories you don't understand. The way you do a little dance when you think no one is watching. The fact that you like dark chocolate. And the fact that you like the wind in your face. And hot air balloons. And tic-tac. The way you frown while reading a book. The fact that you keep wearing that hideous, black leather jacket even though all your friends hate it. And that every time you sing, you close your eyes. Its the little things about you, that I love.

"I don't do mornings. I drink black coffee because I can't make the regular one. I'm very, very irregular about my laundry. I don't know any roads other than the ones that go to my campus and the library and back. I eat out of food packets. I love my major and I have unrealistic plans about my future even though I don't know what I'm going to do the next day. I hate birds calling, especially in the morning. Did I mention that I don't do mornings? I'm scared of horror movies. I detest rock music. I spend an insane amount of time alternating between my laptop and my books. I like cats better than dogs. I love football, and I understand it better than most guys, and if you can't handle that... I like pineapple on my pizzas and I don't eat meat. I pray a lot, sometimes even loudly. I talk to myself, all the time. So much so that people stare. I talk a lot, in general. But I'm very shy. I drink like a fish. I don't get drunk. I will not h...

"Where..were...you? Why...why did you leave?" he said. He was panting, breathing in and out. In and out. The wind blew, the leaves rustled, the water lapped at the side of the docks where we were standing. The noise of the traffic blared from the city. The crows, the sparrows and the pigeons screeched as they flapped back to their nests at the end of the day. The big, bright orange sun sunk in slow motion into the bay. I didn't see any of that, I didn't hear any of that. I didn't even feel any of that. All I could see was him. Standing in front of me. Breathing. In and out. In and out. "You left, you left me. With nothing. I... I had to come...thousands of miles. Why? Why...did..you... leave?" "You weren't mine to keep" "Okay...that. You don't get to decide that. You understand me?" I could barely nod. The giant, gaping hole that had occupied my chest for so long, was being healed, very quickly. So quickly, that it hurt. It f...

Mitch trudged back home, stopping to mutter curses under his breath in the direction of the factory. It constituted part of the looming box-shaped skyline, each house, each go-down gloomier than the other. There were no lights where Mitch lived. He swung his feet over the stile, walked on by the side of the stinking canal choked with stagnant water, until he reached the ghetto where he lived. An acrid smell of burning plastic filled his senses, but Mitch was used to such smells. He banged open the door of his miserable shack to announce his arrival. Mitch’s house was the gloomiest place you could imagine. Everything in it seemed to have been whitewashed with liberal coats of grey. The living room was undecorated and furnished with two rickety chairs and a threadbare sofa. An old woman lay on it, clutching her hip and moaning slightly. A short grey figure came scuttling out of the kitchen, stopped short on seeing Mitch and then fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her dirty face .The hand...

In economics you are taught the concept of opportunity cost. When you pick something, you choose not to pick its alternative. When you pick lilac to paint your bedroom walls, you choose not to pick mellow yellow. When you choose to send your wife (or your mistress, depending on your integrity) carnations, you choose not to send her orchids. When you pick psychology as your major, you choose not to pick history. When you decide to go to Hawaii next summer, you choose not to go to Vermont, and so on and so forth, you get the picture. In the case of a person like me, whose primary interest in life is to be not satisfied with what she has, the system of opportunity cost seems to mock me on the face. I pick and choose among alternatives like every other regular average joe (or jenny, not to sound sexist) and then play mental World Wars thinking how much better off I would be if had picked the 'other one'. To me, the grass isn't just greener on the other side, its probably made ...

For Paromita Mukherjee, who made me see the importance of those magical days. Because I want to go back to Junior High. Back to the routine and daily life of classes and P.T. and canteen food. Back to the crowded staircases and colourful softboards adorned with posters of popstars and soccer players. Back to when the most difficult thing in life meant Newton's Laws of Motion and Calculus meant eccentric professors in Tin Tin. When Bournvita was staple diet and not black coffee. When late nights meant 12 a.m. Back to when the perfect guy existed in a story book. When people did not lie because you weren't worth the truth. Back to when people left, but they always came back. Back to when every fight could be resolved with a hug and a few words of apology. Back to when 'I hate you' meant 'I'm miffed you took my pencil' and 'I love you' meant 'Ooh, I like that colour of nailpolish, mind if I borrow it sometime?' Back to when Once Upon A Time an...