Paras Joshi's Blog

There are days when you can sit under the winter sun and see your whole life flash across your eyes; when the distant bustle of moving traffic, the chirp of the birds or the whistle of the trees add a strange melancholy to the universe.
It is surprising how there can be so much grief and sadness everywhere you look and yet life never slows down. It will march ahead at the same unrelenting pace and you’ll have no option but to keep pace with it.
But above all, it’s surprising how it will knock you down harder than you thought possible, and with the same breath show you the strength to rise up again.
Death of someone you’ve loved unconditionally your whole life is a powerful learning experience. It is humbling, and it helps you realize things nothing else ever would. It tells you the greatest human gift is the ability to adjust to almost anything, to accept the worst and to embrace it. It teaches you that Death is the hardest thing; not for those who have passed, but for those who are left behind. You’d never understand the inexhaustible ability of time to fix everything till you walk into a familiar room once again and do not feel weird at the strange unfamiliarity to it. You don’t realize how uncertain, unpredictable and astonishingly terrible life can be until you get that call in the middle of a meeting or the middle of the night and just like that, every thing around you dissolves in smoke and the world goes blank.
But above all, it tells you Life is never ending and transient; death but a negligible incident and that it shouldn’t ever mean the end.
I lost my Dadi- or Maa, as every one called her- on 28th January, 2018. I lost my Nanajee on 3rdFebruary, 2018. It’s been one long never-ending day with no concept of time and space. If I look back, I’ll never know where it started and I don’t know how it will end. I have breathed and I’ve soldiered on, but I don’t remember the last time I lived.
My Nani- or Chachi as everyone has ever called her- died on 1st June 2015. I was 21 back then, and I still remember that day clear as ever. Nanajee, at 91, was frail and not in the best of health but had nonetheless made the journey to the hospital just so that he could meet her once again. I was never as heartbroken as I was that day when I saw him slump in the chair next to her, hold her and sob, ‘Tu chali gayi. Ab mera kya hoga paro?’ It gives me immense satisfaction that after almost 3 long years of Separation, the grand old man will meet Chachi again, only in a better place. Nanajee worried about everything and everyone his entire life; and it is reassuring how for the first time in probably 75 years he is free from that tension he carried everywhere.
Maa and Dadaji had a love marriage; and by definition a 64-year long love affair. Once, not long ago when we asked her to tell us how it started, she said, ‘Humare zamane mein, Chajhe mein se maine inhe dekha; chajhe mein se inhone mujhe dekha. Aur bas, pyaar ho gaya.’
And so all Dadaji does now is sit on his bed and think. I remember him saying ‘Ab ye toh chali gayi. Jee nahi lagta,’ two days after she left us and it breaks my heart. He’s the only one now. My last connection to a phase of life that very few are blessed to experience over such a long period of time.
It’s going to take time before I can walk into their rooms again and not notice they aren’t there anymore. It’ll take time before I get used to not looking at their face, or talking to them. It’ll take time before I stop regretting how I didn’t meet them enough; or get used to the realization that I’ll never meet them again.
And while it’ll change life as I know it, Death will never affect that old life I’ve lived with them. That will remain untouched; unchanged. I’d still talk of them like I’ve always had, as easily as ever; the household name they always have been. Life is unbroken. Life is continuity. And just because they aren’t here anymore doesn’t mean they cannot be a part of it.
All is well.
I love you.

Years ago; in another age now that I look back at it, I had a stupid dream. A dream fueled by adolescent enthusiasm and the conviction that you can only afford when you’re young and free. I was 16 and had only just begun writing, spurred on by a rather inconspicuous quote by the wildly celebrated Professor Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore. The quote went thus: Words, in my not so humble opinion, are our most inexhaustible source of magic. The dream went thus:  To become a best-selling author before I graduate from College, to feature on the cover of HT Brunch and, to be a multimillionaire author before I turned 24. 
I dreamt big. And I had the conviction to do it. At the age of 16, I had my priorities sorted enough to sign a three book deal with a leading publishing house. At the age of 21, I was lucky enough to get a chance to feature on Brunch. I was young, full of ideas and a misplaced sense of superstardom. I was writing like a dream; the words flowed like magic. You see, I have always been incredibly vain when it comes to my ability with words. In my defense, I was getting everything I wanted; no matter how incredulous. And I was egged on by this belief that maybe I was God’s favorite child, with this supreme conviction that when you want something from the deepest recess of your heart, the Universe, with all its unfathomable power, will come together to make it happen for you. 
Incredibly naïve; incredibly stupid, don’t you think? But I was getting all of it. And more. I was going to LitFests and Book Fairs. I was signing books. I was inspiring people to write. I was giving interviews. Doordarshan made a short documentary on me. I had it all. I was, and I am, in a way, famous.
But all of this was before the pressure of the real word caught up with me. Before I was caught in the mad frenzy of being successful and safely placed somewhere when I graduated from college. Before I started fretting more about the next internship I could fix and how it would look on the CV rather than worry about the fate of Arya and Sealand. Before not falling behind others became more important than finishing the next project I wanted to work on. 
And so here I’m, three months and thirty days shy of turning 24, pouring over hundreds upon hundreds of pages of acts and rules looking for an obscure section that might help my case; working a 10-10 job and going back home with nothing other than 7 hours of sleep and the pending deadlines on my mind; my parents casually commenting on how I’m never really present at home despite living with them; the dreams and ambition for my 16 year old self all but forgotten. 
And it gets me thinking. How often does it happen that we are so intimidated by the idea of making something for ourselves when we graduate from college that we forget the things we used to love at one point of time? How passions take the form of hobbies as we settle into a life governed by billable hours and the clock, and masterpieces that we could have created consigned to little notes on the margins, that tune in our head, or random scribbles and doodles on the back of a note-book? It doesn’t happen with all of us. There are people who rebel against the established order and go out there and achieve their dreams; but for every two who do, there are hundreds who live with the knowledge that it could have been so different if they had the courage to strive for the unconventional. A happier life, if not more comfortable and settled than the ones who probably have? 
Because somewhere in the struggle to land up something big, we forget that once, years ago, there was this one talent we all had that could have put others to shame. The 23 year old me is striving hard to get that perfect job that would make sure that not only am I making money, but I also have the time to spend all of it in ways I’ve always imagined; hardly having written anything new in over two years. But the 16 year old in me still wants that Literary Superstardom that would rival the kind of success Rajesh Khanna had at his peak, still there, somewhere, afraid to over-power the practicality in me. But I think that is what makes the successful people successful; the ability to throw caution to wind and take risks when you have a more comfortable alternative.
Someone once said, “Find what you love and stay close to it.” Writing this, that’s all I can ponder about. 

We had been planning for the vacation for more than a couple of months now. It had become a sort of tradition over the last three years of college- a Goa vacation in the winters and a mountain getaway as soon as the spring/summer semester got over in June.
The idea of going backpacking to Lohaghat was Robin’s. We were in the middle of one of our Horror Marathons at Banga’s place when he had first mooted the idea of taking off to Lohaghat.
‘Wouldn’t it be scary and cool?’  he had asked incredulously.
Akanksha had scoffed at the idea instantaneously. In our group, she was the one who was the easiest to frighten. I still remember the time when Banga had quietly put his phone by her bedside following a night of binge-watching Paranormal series and then called on his number from the other room. The scary HUHAHAHA ringtone had sent Akanksha screaming and running madly throw the dark house. Banga had carried a black eye for the rest of the week.
‘We are SO NOT going to Lohaghat.’  She had said pointedly, but ultimately gave in because the idea caught our fancy.
‘Aaand we can record it! Our very own Blairwitch Project!’ declared Robin as he took out his Samsung Galaxy S4 Zoon and flashed it proudly.
For the uninitiated, Lohaghat is supposedly one of the most haunted hill stations in India. A picturesque town situated in the high hills of Uttrakhand, Lohaghat has long been known for the legendry Abbey, a colonial bungalow where even the bravest of hearts have shuddered to step in.
On the morning of our departure, it had rained cats and dogs. Akanksha had been going on and on about signs of ominous tidings ever since she had gotten in the car, or that’s the first thing Banga told me when I met them at ITO Metro station at 7 in the morning. We had planned to leave at around 5, but the rains had greatly set us back. Lohaghat is almost 10 hours from Delhi on a good day. We wanted to check in to the only Villa we had found on Airbnb before sunset.
The journey was remarkably uneventful. We stopped once at the McDonalds plaza just out of Meerut and once after Roorkee. I took over the wheels as soon as we started our ascent. That is the deal I had cut. I would drive in the mountains if they wanted me to come. This was the first time we had decided to drive ourselves rather than get a cab and I wouldn’t trust others with mountainous road. 
Sometime after crossing Champawat, Tripti and Banga had started making out in the last row of the Innova. Robin had immediately taken out his phone and started recording the action. I laughed, Akanksha scoffed like she had done pretty much through the day, but Tripti and Banga didn’t seem to notice. We had rolled down the windows and the music was really loud. It was completely dark by now and we hadn’t come across another soul ever since we had passed through Champawat.
‘Guys, STOP IT. You’ll have plenty of time once we are at the villa.’ Akanksha chided, but was asked to shut up by Banga.  She was the easiest one to scandalize in our group. 
‘DJ, Stop the car. I want to ride shotgun. I am not sitting at the back and watch them exchange saliva.’  She scoffed.  I laughed and brought the car to a halt and she quickly exchanged places with Robin and we set off again. Robin was now sitting directly behind and had presumably started recording again.
We drove in silence for the next half an hour when we reached a fork.
‘Which way, Banga?’  I called out to our ‘navigator’ busy at the back. He ignored me, but obviously. In his place, I’d ignore me.  I looked look at Akansksha, exasperated. Just then, we heard the unmistakable roar of a Bullet and sure enough, there was a headlight flashing brightly in my rearview mirror. I waved a hand as the lights drew near, and the bike came to a halt right by my side. Somewhere behind me, I heard Robin whistle.
‘Lohaghat?’  the tall blonde foreigner asked me, her hair flowing behind her. She was clad in black, top to bottom and the kohl lined eyes. Damn, I was sold. She leaned in through the window so that her lips were barely an inch from me, and said softly, ‘This way,’ as she pointed towards the left. She withdrew just as suddenly as she had leaned in, and added, in a quiet undertone, ‘If I were you, I would turn the music down. The hills don’t take kindly to intrusion.’
She kicked the bike hard, and was off before I could say anything.
‘Woah, dude did you look at-’ Went Robin as soon as we resumed her journey, but was immediately cut short by Akanksha, ‘What did she mean by “hills don’t take kindly to intrusion”/ Don’t you think she was weird? How did she know we were going to Lohaghat? I don’t like this. We should go the other way.’
I never got a chance to reply, for at that very moment, a rickety scooter over took us from nowhere. It was green in color, and there were two men riding on it. The one who was riding pillion looked back at as they passed us, and slowly, his neck turned one eighty degrees. He looked at us, and smiled. The most eerie smile I’d ever see. His teeth were crooked, and his tongue jutting through them. He gave a screech, and the scooter turned a bend, and disappeared. Akanksha screamed; Robin cursed, and I brought the car to a screeching halt.

‘WHAT THE HOLY FUCK WAS THAT?’  

"The sky shone bright with stars, while the half-moon glowed faintly. Apart from the occasional wisps of the cloud, nothing obstructed the clear sky. For a while, the loud singing and music, the laughter and the hullabaloo followed him, but slowly, they grew faint, and ultimately died." -Emergence, book 2 of the Avaasya Trilogy.

 I have oft been told that I write like a dream, and not in the conventional sense of the word; but the kind of writing where you forget a mere 16-year-old has written what you’re reading. I have also been told more than enough that I am terribly vain when it comes to my writing. But I suppose that’s okay? If you’re good at something, might as well be proud of it. After all, they say, ‘ rule the words; rule the World. ’

A lot of people have wondered how a guy studying in class 10th could come up with a plot as complex and write details as vivid as what makes up The Avaasya Trilogy.

I think a major reason for my success- howsoever small it might be- is the fact that I was a voracious reader growing up. I would read anything and everything I could get my hands on and would get so overwhelmed by the ability of the words to transport the reader to another world all together that I always knew writing stories is the only way forward. I was 11 when I decided I’ll surpass JK Rowling one day. I was 19 when I decided I want to be the Rajesh Khanna of Publishing Industry. 

Obviously, the fact that I am smooth with words is true not just for The Avaasya Trilogy or my Blog, but also extends to my conversations and interactions with people in my personal life. The kind of person who knows how to say the perfect things at the perfect time-? Who can smoothly put the most scandalous of questions to you in the most nonchalant manner ever. The kind of guy who gets his way around things every time. You get the gist, I’m sure?

The question is, why am I writing all this on my blog?

Because, the reality is, I haven’t written anything new in the last four years apart from a handful of blogposts (I finished writing Emergence in two months after I got done with Equilibrium. I was 17 at that time. I’ll turn 23 this July.) Every time I have to add something to Emergence during the edits, life suddenly becomes a real struggle. Whenever I have tried to sit down and write a new short story or something… anything, words and imagination have failed me alike. A few days ago, my editor and I decided to add another chapter towards the end of Emergence. I thought it’d take me a couple of days at the most to write the 7-8 pages I thought we needed. I eventually mailed her 2 pages at the end of the week. Right now, I’ve managed to type in 500 words, having been at it for almost an hour. And this is how it has been for the last so many months. Years.

Where words once flowed freely, all there is nowadays is a blank piece of paper, and a pen. And a lot of people won’t understand what’s the big deal. But imagine waking up one day and discovering you can no longer breathe on your own. Or walk without support. Or run. Or swallow food. Drink water. Ride a bicycle, drive a car.

Imagine the struggle. The helplessness. The restlessness. And imagine living with it day in and day out.

 And I have only myself to blame for it. They say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. As I grew up and started realizing the ease with which I could get anything I want simply because my words were smooth and the magic never waned, I started losing focus. You know the drill, I’m sure? The thrill of a new hunt, the charm of a new game?

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I forgot to read. And more importantly, I forgot to imagine. The way I look at it, the only way out of this fall is to be honest with myself. And the only way I can get back to writing the way I used to is if I have something to prove. To myself, more than anyone else.

So beginning today, I’ll try and post a new short story on the blog at least twice a month. That’s my Unbreakable Vow. For where’s the fun in the game if there’s no challenge?

Rajesh Khanna, the biggest Superstar there can ever be, had the most remarkable of falls because he refused to be honest with himself.

I don’t intend to be the Dark Star.

31st Dec 2015. The last day of the year.

Like all the lasts, I think there's something really romantic about the last day of the year. It gives you a sense of closure. It encourages you to put behind what happened in the preceding 364 days. It gives you hope for a better tomorrow. And more than anything else, it reminds you just how fast time flies.

I mean, it was only yesterday that I first entered college. And here I'm, closing in on what will be the last winter break of my college life, doing what I love best on the last day of the year; reminiscing about the year gone and the chances lost.

In a lot of ways, 2015 has been a watershed year. At least for me on a personal level. It is an year where I learnt something new every day. I learnt not everything lasts forever; that fairy tales, more often than not, are a stuff of dreams. I learnt publishing a book is not everything and doesn't really get you anywhere. I learnt what disappointment actually feels like, and what is it like to nurse a broken heart. Not the kind that kids get from a failed relationship. But the kind you get from failing to fulfil your own expectations. I experienced loss, and the astonishing power of time to heal just about anything. I also realized how time doesn't stop for anyone, and that one day the absence of someone wouldn't really trouble you anymore.

But most important of all, I discovered faith. The kind of faith that does not ask for anything apart from belief. The kind of faith that tells you this too shall pass. The kind of faith where you know you're not alone. I discovered faith doesn't mean believing in a higher power. It doesn't mean believing in someone else's hallucination. It does not mean believing in something that cannot be explained. It simply involves having the belief that everything happens for a reason, and everything happens for good. That the one person you choose to put your faith in wouldn't leave your side even when everyone else does. And for discovering that kind of faith, I shall forever be grateful to 2015.

But there's something really romantic about every Last. We waste an entire year doing nothing, and then suddenly we find it's December already, and then before we know, the year changes. And we suddenly realize how much time has passed by.

And then we tell ourselves how the coming year would be different. And then the coming year becomes this year. And then the year past. And this is life.

So with a profound sense of humility, I bid adieu to 2015, knowing that at the end of the day, tomorrow is just another day, and the only thing that'll really change is the date.

 Like it changes every day.

 Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. For twenty one years I had no idea what it meant. For twenty one years.
Until today.
The time is 8:45 PM. I’ve just settled down to watch the latest episode of Game of Thrones. My sister walks in the room. She says, ‘Paras, we have to go.’
It’s about Nani- we call her Chachi. No one in living memory has ever called her anything but chachi, except Nanajee, of course. The story goes when my mother and her siblings were younger, their cousins would call nani ‘chachi’ because obviously she was their ‘chachi,’ Mothership and the siblings picked it up, the neighbours picked it up, the maids picked it up, the grandchildren picked it up, the great-grandchildren picked it up… even their friends picked it up. 
Nanajee lovingly calls her Paaro. And perhaps it’s his final ‘Paaro’ that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I shut down the laptop and jump out of the bed. She’s been unwell and in hospital for almost a week. We all have been dreading this ‘last ride’ to the hospital every waking moment ever since. On a certain level, we’ve been prepared for the eventuality. But no matter how prepared you are, there’s nothing more difficult in life than accepting the fact that a person you’ve loved all your life will one day simply stop being there. In every way possible.
Chachi hasn’t been well for the last so many years. I can’t remember the last time I saw her walking… or even sitting up straight without support. I can’t remember the last time I saw her without a tube up her noise to help her breathe. I can’t remember the last time she didn’t need machines to help her survive. She had a hard life. She had trouble breathing, trouble sitting, couldn’t walk. She had weak bones. She sometimes had a memory lapse. She had trouble hearing. She had trouble chewing. For the last three months, she was totally bedridden, steadfastly refusing to sit for even a few minutes because the pain in her bones would be simply unbearable. Because even with a nebulizer it would be impossible to breathe… and yet she is the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. Or I’ll ever meet.
Imagine having to stay confined to your bed every single day. Hardly able to sit straight. Unable to eat yourself. Unable to turn your head and watch TV. Unable to breathe without a machine. Not knowing what’s happening outside… Imagine doing this day in and day out for years on end. Imagine living in pain. It will drive even the hardest of us insane.
And she took all in her stride. She was never bitter… Never angry. She would say, ‘kya kar sakte hain.’  She would regale us with stories from her childhood, our parent’s childhood, and stories from another age… every time we met her. Every time we’d call her, she’d only ask, ‘Kidadi aaogay?’ when will you come. She loved when all her children and grandchildren were in her room. Oh the happiness on her face. The joy it would giver. She’d never fail to ask us to stay the night over. Spend some more time with her.
She would Pull our face close to hers and kiss us softly and sloppily, stroke the head, and ask us what we’re doing in life. And when it was time to come back home, she would ask us to stay… stay for a while. Her world was in her room. Nanajee by her side, the family all around her. The stories she would tell. The memories she would stir. The laughter. The jokes. Everything.
And it’s all gone in a flash. Twenty one years of knowing her. Twenty one years of seeing her every weekend. Twenty one years of her unconditional love. And it’s all over in a matter of minutes. She’s there, in her hospital bed. You could swear she’s sleeping.  Peacefully.  You would never be able to tell she’s been in so much pain. And now she’s in a better place. Away from the all the pain. The sufferings. The hardship. It’s how funny how sometimes you have all the money in this world, and yet, you don’t have anything. For as they say, there are somethings money can’t buy.
Nanajee is frail, and he comes to the hospital every day to meet chachi. He is there today as well. But he’s come late. Chachi has already passed on. He sits near her, looks at her once, and breaks down. Nanajee, before whom a thousand people bowed their heads when he was in his prime, is clutching chachi, and crying like a baby. He whimpers, ‘Paaro, tu chali gayi, ab mera kya hoga paaro.’ 
Oh, the astonishing pain of watching him in this state. I could never been more heartbroken.  They were together for almost seventy odd years. For so many years, nanajee’s entire day revolved around worrying for chachi..  And now he has nothing to do, and he has to live all alone in a room he has shared with chachi for the last thirty years.
It’s third June today. It’s been three days now, and all he does is cry.
So there would be no more of ‘Chachi-chachi’, no more of sloppy kisses, no more of the tender hugs. No more of her concern. No more of her stories… nothing. She is just not there anymore. Gone...Forever.  Never to come back.
But why am I writing this? The loss of someone so close has to be a closed affair. A family affair. A private affair. But death is a humbling experience. It tells you how you cannot take anything for granted. It tells you how uncertain life is. But more than anything, it’s about the terrifying realization that life doesn’t stop for anyone. It goes on. That one day Chachi would be just another memory. A person who loved us unconditionally for so many years would cease to be anything but a memory. We’ll walk into her room, and won’t find her absence awkward. We won’t call her every week. We won’t meet her every week. We won’t ever hear her voice again. And it would all be normal. Maybe it doesn’t really make sense. Maybe nothing makes sense.
But consider this. How often do we meet our grandparents? Just how busy are we with our lives. My Dada-Dadi live in Noida, and we, the grandchildren, hardly go to meet them. Hell, hardly ever remember to call.
Grandparents- they ask us to visit them, stay with them. Spend time with them. But aren’t we all too busy with our own plans? Hell, don’t we tell ourselves we’ll go next week, and then that next week becomes next month, and this is life?
For twenty one years I’ve had the privilege to have received the love of both Dada-Dadi and Chachi-Nanajee.
Until today.
And I suddenly realize that life is too uncertain.
So cancel that plan, put down that call. Go sit down with your grandparents. Jeeyo, khush raho, muskurao. Kya pata, kal ho na ho.
RIP Chachi, Godspeed.
I miss you. We all miss you. In Loving Memory ofthe One that was so True. 

Almost four and a half years to the day I first had a daydream which eventually morphed into an idea that spawned a trilogy; here I’m, penning this blog as I wait on tenterhooks for the launch of my first book.  I guess it is the logical culmination of a long process that started with my getting inspired by JKR and writing Emilio Esparda and the Sword of Life way back when I was in class 5th- a mere 11 year old writing a novel! From Kalazar Kai (like Salazar Slytherin) to a Governor of Magic, it was a vividly imagined resplendent world I had filled with characters liberally borrowed from Harry Potter, my first hero.  
From being on the editorial board of the School Magazine, to basking in the glory as my English teacher in class 7th went around the department telling others to just learn from how well I structured everything I wrote (I guess one of the biggest reasons I took to writing in a big way is the sheer encouragement I would receive from here every time I wrote something. The last time I met her two years back, she said, ‘Hopefully, we’ll see a book written by you in the market soon!’ Can’t wait to go back and tell her, ‘Ma’am, this is all because of you!’), from reading every kind of fantasy fiction to having this steadfast belief (often bordering on arrogance) that I am a pretty good story teller, this has been one heck of a journey.  A special shout out to my cousins, Pramath Parijat and Shubhankar Parijat. The Avaasya Trilogy began as collaboration between us before we shelved the project, only for me to take it up again after an year!
The last few weeks have been frantic; the last few months surreal.  I have seen myself grow, learn become wiser and change as a person. Experienced remarkable highs and depressing lows. I have learnt how writing a story is probably the easiest part of it all. There have been phases where I have doubted the story, the book, and myself. Phases where I have been disappointed let down and left with the feeling that perhaps the book isn’t good enough. That perhaps I’m not good enough. I have gone through phases where I have been unable to write even a paragraph.  Equilibrium is a book I finished writing in under a month when I was seventeen! It’s a book that had Red Ink Literary Agency sign me solely on the basis of four sample chapters ( I started writing after I was signed) It’s a book that was bought by my publishers when I was eighteen. And yet, it’s a book that took three years to see the light of day.
Those who know me intimately would swear by how I have been going on and on about my book ever since I signed up with Red Ink. From going on ‘bragging’ about the book to stop talking about it altogether because of the sheer embarrassment of not having an answer to ‘When is it going to be published?’, I have been through it all.
And it is this intervening period of three years that has probably been the most magical part of my life. Looking back, I can proudly say that this has been a coming of age experience for me.  I have spent hours sitting on my bed, staring at my book collection and imagined about that time in the not so distant future when my own novel would occupy the place of honour in that collection. I spent hours realizing how that ‘not so distant future’ is simply not happening. But I guess it was all worth the wait. Someone once told me everything happens for a reason and everything happens for good. I guess all the delay made me more mature.
I have learnt the importance of dreaming and relentlessly pursuing it to the point that no one can deny you. I have learnt the importance of giving something your everything and that the greatest happiness in the world is when the thing you have dreamt about every waking minute is finally happening. I have met some wonderful people who influenced some of the characters in the series quite heavily. I have shared my dreams with people who aren’t around anymore. I have acquired a new perspective. And probably, have learnt not to take everything for granted. I don’t even know why am I writing this, but just felt I needed to thank so many people for just being there and occasionally dreaming this dream with me.

I hope the book doesn’t leave you disappointed. Thank you so much for all the support on Facebook these past few days. It means a lot. This book is my dream… everything.
Paras Joshi!

You sit in front of the desktop, type in a few words and pause to consider what you’ve just written. It’s nowhere near your best. So you backspace it all. You sit there staring at the blank document, and with a sense of disbelief, wonder what has gone wrong. You struggle to come up with something. And you think about the time long gone where words once flew freely.  You close your eyes, and go through the myriad thoughts spinning a web around your mind. So many ideas! So many stories to tell! But nothing to write. And all of a sudden your mind goes back to that one memory that will forever remain etched there. That day which reaffirmed something you’ve known for quite a while. ‘I don’t think you have it in you anymore’ the words are still fresh. The wounds still raw and they still hurt. But what’s the point to deny the obvious? Delay the inevitable. So with a sense of nostalgia, you open Blogspot and go through all your entries. You go through your own work and feel like it was another person who created it. You go through it with a strange sense of indifference- like a person who had once wielded unrestricted power and is now powerless to even lift a finger. Like a magician who had once mesmerised people but knows that the spark is gone and the magic has waned. ‘ You might just be the next best thing, not quite like me ’You have prided yourself on your way with words. And now that way appears to have closed its doors to you. It’s like losing your identity. And there’s nothing worse than that. The only thing you can do is live in denial, for accepting the truth is the hardest thing in the world. You have dreamed a dream. For five years you have dreamt of the day your own book will be out in the market- lauded by one and all. You have lived for it. And when that day draws close, there’s nothing but a sense of despair that hangs heavy over you. Writing has been your love. And now, there’s nothing but a blank parchment and a pen. The words have dried up. The flair is gone. So you hum and old Rajesh Khanna favourite, go through your previous works with a sense of great pride, and resign yourself to your fate.  For as they say, not everyone in this world has the fate to experience the fullest form of love. Some are born, just to experience the abbreviation of it. Perhaps the least you can do is write what you feel, in howsoever rudimentary a fashion, and try and feel that familiar joy once again.
Magic. Believe in it!  

Damini, Amanath, Nirbhaya... different people christened her her differently. In the end, she stood for one and only one thing- The urge, the will, to overcome the worst and be hopeful for a better life. How many people are out there who believe nothing could good can ever happen with them. Who feel there's nothing worth living for in their life. One failed relationship. One bad exam. And you feel as if your life has ended. As if there's no better thing in the world. Learn from this girl. In her last few days, in a way she became a symbol of hope. She taught everyone, what is it to live. She wanted to live. She had dreams of a better future.

And to honor that dream, to honor the brave soul, the least we can do is make sure this moment doesn't die down. Not in a long time have In a city like Delhi, infamous for being rude and cold and what not, have I seen such solidarity for anyone. This is a movement for change. For Hope. For a better society. And for humanity.

It's time we change the mentality of those who believe they can violate a person so brutally  and still get away . Capital punishment, newer stringent laws are nothing but a psychological safe-guard. It's indeed sad that in the midst of all the protests and lathi-charge, tear gas, unprecedented crowd, we hear of girls being raped in Kalkaji, in Patiala, the latter victim being driven to commit suicide because of the attitude of the police. It's sad to hear that on Saturday, 80% of calls to Police about molestation came from India Gate. Is this how things will change. Women are not safe for the leering eyes of these detestable men even in a such a protest.

Indian society is a many headed monster. You sever one head, and the rest shall continue to live. The outlook of the society is what is needed to be changed. There's no one solution. The male dominated patriarchal character of society, where sons are brought up to believe they are superior, the mass-illiteracy. The lack of sense of duty among the police personnel. And the general insensitivity of the people, everything contributes to this chaos and anarchy.

That girl and her friend were lying naked on the ground for close to 2 hours before they were shifted to Safdurjang. Where was this sense of solidarity then? Oh yes, 200 people did assemble to see the drama unfold. Of course!

Naare lagane se kuch nahi hota boss. Untill you want the change to come. People have been a part of this protest just to get even with the Police personnel. Girls have been molested in the crowd. The setup for Republic Day has been disturbed. Police and media vans stoned. People have been hurt. A cop has died.

Violence is not the answer to anything,

The horror she lived through is unimaginable. The brutality of it. You shudder even at the thought of it. I hope no one ever has to live through it again. Ever again. In a sense, it's good she didn't make it. Her life would have been scared forever. I hope she's gone to a better world. I hope, no one has the same fate as her, ever again.

RIP Brave Girl. A symbol of hope.

Dark clouds were gathered outside. Inside, the mood was gloomy. It was obvious something was on his mind. That something was bothering him. The usual spring in the step was missing, the confidence gone. He had sat silently for most part of the day in the class. Not looking at anyone, keeping to himself. On the few occasions his friends had tried to engage him, he had merely shrugged. ‘Better be left alone.’ One of them had commented.
He knew he was distracted. He knew he was bothered. He wanted to vent it all out. But he knew no one would understand. He would be typecast as the ‘bad guy.’ How long would it last? How long would he be able to cope up with the feeling of helplessness and frustration before bursting out? He had been trying to focus on what the Professors were saying ever since the morning, trying harder than he had ever in his life. But every time, he would get swept away by a gloomy brooding train of thoughts. Trying hard to figure what had gone wrong. Trying to pinpoint exactly where things fell apart.
But was it the right thing to do? Was he over-reacting? Why did he feel as if he was losing control over his life? Why was he feeling lost and confused? So many questions… He looked around himself, as if hoping answers would magically appear. And then he saw her. Chirpy, bumbling, excited… as usual. Smiling. Smiling…. She noticed him looking at her, and then quickly turned away. What was she thinking? Once again, he lost all sense of time.

*****On the first day, he saw her.
And was smitten instantly. There was something about her that made her stand out of the crowd. Was it her dressing- black jean, yellow razor back and a black jacket? Or the innocence in her kohl-lined eyes? Perhaps it was her inconspicuous smile. It had to be the smile, the one she always wore. But he was never able to figure it out. He would never be, for something’s cannot be explained. For something’s can only be felt. For him, it was one of those things. And it was surprising, considering he had just come off a stormy relationship. Just when he had started to believe he would never feel it again, here was a girl who had threatened to turn his world upside down, inside out. 
He had just settled down-on the back benches- with his new friends, promises of an exciting year ahead. The white-washed air conditioned room was brimming with people. Freshers, every one of them, were milling about. Random talks flew thick and fast in the air. Rapports were being formed, groups being created. The guys were checking out the chicks. Apprehensions of being subjected to ragging. In short, it was the regular first day of college.
Engrossed in the discussions, recounting incidences from school life, he noticed her walking into the class for the first time. For a while, she was the only one he could see. And then, she turned, and settled down. He felt something stir inside him. He felt the strange urge to go up to her and talk. Talk about anything. Talk about random stuff. Just talk. But he did not move******

The hour changed, the professor came. Students settled in their seats nosily. It was a full five minutes before order was restored. He eyed her. She was thinking about where to sit. Undecided. Contemplating. The chair beside him was unoccupied. ‘Would she come and sit here?’ he thought, fervently hoping she would. He looked at her intently, as if willing her to listen to his thoughts. She seemed to make a move for where he was sitting, then changed her mind and went and sat in the opposite direction. Silence ensued as everyone waited for the professor to say something. He opened the register, turned to a fresh page, and waited for her to dictate the notes. Playing lightly with the pen he held, he turned slightly to look over to where she was sitting. She was talking to the guy sitting next to her. The teacher began speaking. His hands moved to jot down the first few words, and then…

***** He was in the metro, going back home. His friends stood around him.
‘So, we’re Facebook friends now.’ Said one of them. He was tall, skinny and had a strange elegance about him.
‘Ah huh? Koi ni, I’ll send her a request abhi.’ He said, took out his phone, and with five taps, reached her profile. ‘Friend Request sent.’ He said with a grin.
‘It remains to be seen if she’ll accept your request.’ Retorted one of them. ‘I doubt she even knows you.’
He thought for a minute, and then said with a swagger, ‘I won’t give her a choice.’ *****

His friend tapped at him. ‘Why are you not writing? She’s been staring at you for some time now,’ he leaned in and whispered, referring to the professor. He nodded at his friend in a disconcerting manner, and tried to pick what the teacher was saying. She was talking about the Class Division according to ancient Brahmanical texts. He knew about the topic. He remembered having read something sometime. He tried concentrating for a few minutes before realising it was futile and gave up. He shifted in his seat a little so that the person in front shielded him from the glaring stares of the professor, and once again let himself to be drifted away by his thoughts.

*****So I see you have not accepted my friend request, he inboxed her a full two weeks after he had first sent her the friend request. She hadn't accepted it all this time even when she had been coming online and talking to his other friends.
It took the girl another 3 hours to reply. 'Um, sorry I didn't see your friend request.' The next second, she accepted his friend request, and they started talking. The boy prided himself on his ability with words. 'There's just no one quite like me,' he always used to say.
They talked about random stuff at first. School. Colony. Interests. Then he asked her, 'So, how d'you travel to college?'
'Umm, I take the metro.'
'So how about metro-ing together?' he asked.
'Yeah sure. While coming back, we could metro together. It'd be difficult in the morning to coordinate.'
'There's a solution to everything.' he replied.
'Okay, give me your number.' ****

There was a commotion in the class as he came back to reality. Someone had entered into the room. He shifted to get a clear view. It was one of his friends. Evidently the teacher was furious because he had walked in late, though she had let him sit. The friend walked up to where he was sitting, and dropped heavily into the adjacent chair. 'Kya baat hai? Aaj akele betha hai?' what's the matter? Sitting all by your own? He asked him.
'Aise he,' he replied. Just like that.

*****' Why d'you always sit at the front? Don't you get bored?' he whatsapped her. They had been whatsapping for a few days now, but for some funny reason, barely acknowledged each other in college. The plan to metro together had proved to be futile. In the class, while he sat with his group at the back, she would always sit at the front, and hardly ever talk.
'You have no idea how boring it is.'
'Then why d'you sit at the front? Sit at the back. Trust me; you're missing out on a lot of fun.'
The next day, he got late for college. The first lecture was already halfway through when he entered with his friends. The classroom was full and thus they had to go stand at the back. The lecture was one he particularly detested so he began searching for her. He scanned the first two rows, but did not see her. His heart sunk. Dejectedly, he began looking for his other friends... Once the class got over, he would grab an empty chair and sit with them. Then his heart skipped a beat. There she was! Sitting right next to where he was planning to sit ...*****

'Why are you distracted?' asked the professor, as he snapped out of his waking dreams. 'You should be writing.'
He nodded stupidly and looked at the open register in front of him. He didn't realise he had started scribbling random stuff along the margins. He looked at the time. Only thirty minutes had passed. He frowned. The time did not seem to pass at all. A far cry from the day when she used to sit with him and the entire day would pass before you'd even know.
She had started sitting with him since the day he had walked in late and spotted her sitting with his group. Since that day, slowly but surely, they had started coming close. By an unspoken consent, they had started waiting for each other at the metro station in the morning, sitting together and hanging out together, and leaving college together. In other words, they had come a long way. Everything had been going good and great before it all just fell apart.
His phone vibrated. He looked at the screen. 1 New message. It was from her.
'Are you pissed?'
'No'
'Yes I can see that. Tell me?'
'Nothing to say.'
'Tell me.'
'I don't want to go over the same thing again and again'


To be continued… !