article, dharamsala, friends, india tourism, life, LOVE, memories, road trip, traveling, Uncategorized

The Road Trip

We pulled into Dharamsala around as the sun was first rising, with two fingers of light on the horizon. We crossed the breezy but narrow roads into the city limits, making our way to a bus depot.  Rubbing my sleep-filled eyes, I tried to peer through the hazy glass, at the snow-covered mountains on my right, the sky turning the color of light orange with wispy blue clouds at the edges, like froth at the top of a drink. Most of my classmates were asleep, the target of my envy —for the rumbling-swaying bus devoid me of the much-needed rest—considering we had a long day ahead of us.  I had stayed up, flitting in and out of sleep, leaning in, my weight on the shoulders of a friend, who had blissfully slept, much to my chagrin. We walked up to our hotel, with the taste of our exhaustion livid in our mouths, slept on the bed in the same outfit, only to wake up an hour later, drink a cup of coffee in the beautiful terrace area and later, drive to our first destination.

We had the trip of our lives, with the fear of imminent placements put mutually on the backburner. I have no adjectives to describe my classmates— they are the most eclectic bunch of people I have met! Our class would throw their hands up in the air and relax, with music in the background and a cigarette in their hand, than battle out political differences. This educational trip, or so it was meant to be, was a proof of our symbiotic association. We travelled all day, amidst the cliffs which were marked by tall trees along the roadsides, their arms up like they were being frisked. We ambled along a clammy-smelling, muddy trail to the Tibetan parliament in exile, and trudged lazily from a library to a human rights discussion. We braved the sleety rain ricocheting off the rocks. We were bemused by the plight of the young children at a Tibetan Children’s school and amused by the extremely cheap desserts at the Tibetan café.

We would come back to our hotel, exhausted from the day but pumped up for the night. Groups were fluid as people drifted in and out of different rooms with ease, some fumbling around for shampoo, and some for a matchbox. Amidst all the clamor of our incessant bickering and bluff sessions, we all felt united by one purpose—that we did not let our fears prevent us from missing out on this trip. We shared childhood (read embarrassing) anecdotes and danced to old Bollywood jingles into the night (well some did, I slept. Huge regrets.) I trekked — or something close enough to a trek —with my friends, without a care in the world, without any fear of being embarrassed of my child-like naivety. I’d like to think the time spent on a stony wall, within the reclaimed cathedral just off the road, brought us closer to each other. I’d like to hope that somehow, this short tour gave us all memories to store within each fleeting moment. Before we start feeling limited by our lives and jobs, penned in by money or family, we stretched out in our bit of the leg-room and somehow, just somehow, made this tour into the road trip we all dream about.

free verse, life, LOVE, memories, Poem, Uncategorized


I am not your experiment;

drink deep or taste not the chaste lip

that I’ve held in reverence

for so long .


I am not your dust ;

don’t hold me in the barrel of glass but fling me to the winds.

I’ll fall like rain.


I am no saint;

pluck not the stars from heaven,

but adorn my hair with flowers

of love requited.


I am no cloud with silver crest;

hope not for shade from

the grizzly Rays

but hand to storm the weather.


I am not your mirror;

look not to me to see yourself in glory

but your worst critique

and truest fan.


I am your song;

hark closer, and you will hear

a longing desire for love

that echoes yours.

life, LOVE, memories, Poem, rhyme

Spare The Prejudice


When the way seems to have gone astray,
and there seems no hope at all,
who holds the fingers’ glistening sweat,
to push harder through fate’s enthrall?

Ordinary love,makes it farther than,
the fake and twisty fairytales,
ordinary love,yes it is,
often the prejudiced,and the stale.

We cant go any further than this,
we cant love any longer;
We cant stay apart for long,you know,
nor stay together, stronger.

Inept it is,to believe in forevers,
callous,it may seem,for me to do.
Resurgent faith,with every dawn,
digs deeper in my heart,for you.

We can make forever,one day a time,
and spend lovelorn weeks apart,
we take off our masks,indignant,
for any day,our forever can start.

Spare the prejudice,its cynical,
the world doth teach ,to trust not.
Ordinary love is all we ever get,
extraodinary is but a thought.

No livid details,you love who you love,
no superman to save the day,
Cant stop dreaming,and I wont,
for My ordinary will find its way.

Maybe your love isnt what you saw coming,
but spare the prejudice,please!
You may fall for a pleasing music,
but Lyrics is what’s underneath.

Aestas air breathes through the night
guarding ordinary hearts asleep,
from prejudice,deep and dark
burning in cradled dreams.

Yet again with open arms,i call thee
My ordinary love,back to me
hoping,once again you’ll fall
for the girl you loved,the ordinary Me…

article, life, memories, traveling


*My journey from Delhi to Dilli is not an emotional turbulent ride, so you needn’t expect that. What it really is, it is a journey of discovery. I discovered myself.*

People certainly portray Delhi in a very pessimistic light. Still, all the efforts to deter me from interning in this metropolis of our age were futile.
[So here I am, ranting out, as I travel to work.
Well paint me stupid if you want.]

As it often happens (more often than you’d want to believe)
people get jittery in a new city. New people, unknown roads, unseen alleys and stories-There is much in Delhi to send anyone into a panic attack.
I am unlike myself in this city teeming with millions.
Delhi has a very intoxicating effect on me.
I get a bizarre high here. Delhi has always made me bold, well, bolder than I really am. If you know me, and know me well,
it will be plain as a sight that I am a nervous mess; over thinker, over cautious with an OCD of time, I plan every action with intricate detailing.
In Delhi, well I am your Brave modern feministic woman, unafraid of what the day might bring.
I carry my bag like a shield, and walk unaffected in the multitudes with individuality, no matter how miniscule it might seem.

I stride through the roads and ride into men-brimming autos without flinching.
In Agra, I wouldn’t have looked twice at a public conveyance.
Delhi is a microcosm of the world, and I am one tiny speck of existential living.
3rd day in the hustle bustle of this monster city, and my back is aching, skin is tanned, clothes are sweat-drenched, but I am stronger. And I love myself.
I’ve always maintained, and still do, that I feel I am connected to this city. This feeling is a gift. If you can smell the history that leans in to you from each alley, this is Dilli for you.
My words send curses flying in the faces of people who’ve told me “stay here for a month, you’ll forget the charm, and see the vivid disgust”.
Well it hasn’t happened, and neither am I hoping it will. (Fingers crossed).

I love the buses. It’s like Grand Theft Auto, except you don’t have the handles, and also that you can really die!
It’s all humorous to me. I travel for an hour comfortably- with the minor inconveniences of a back ache and fear of imminent death- in one of the hundred chartered buses that shuttle between Gurgaon and Delhi.
The daily struggle of millions is palpable in that one hour, wherein I live a hundred lives as I interact with a fellow passenger or even the conductor.

My Dilli made me realise, we are all fighting our own battles. Yet each morning, you put on a brave face,
ignore the back ache and puffed eyes drooping with  last remnants of sleep,
and strive for the day’s struggle.
Delhi will keep you on your toes, and push you till you can stand on your own two feet. Independence is liberating. Delhi epitomizes Freedom.

I’ve painted my opinion of Delhi, or yeah, DILLI, and it’s pretty as a picture.
Paint yours.