The Girl in Yellow Boots

Background. a.k.a. Context. I was talking to this friend and she told me about her fetish for shoes. She told me about 40 different kinds of shoes that she had. 40. Four zero. For someone like me - I refuse to wear shoes even when I am taking interviews - 40 different types of shoes sounded crazy. And that's where an idea happened. What if I could write a fictional story, each story inspired by a pair of shoes? 

Here is the first.

Timberland Yellow Boots. Via AK.
I saw her first at Indigo deli. Indigo is one of those upscale places where a lot of celebrities come together to break bread and sip on wines. Although, out of place, I was there to meet an old acquaintance, hoping to get a lead for a writing job. After all, that's what I am supposed to do as a struggling writer. Suck up to people, hoping to get work that would allow me to survive in Mumbai for yet another month. I lived like that. Month on month. Hand to mouth. I lived on hope. That some day my words would make some reader cry her heart out and eventually I'd move the entire country. And may be that day, that day I'd make a living from my art. Actual living. Not tiny morsels that aren't enough to feed that insatiable hunger that's gnawing me since I decided to take up writing as a career.

Oh, I have drifted. I often do that. When I see words come up, I tend to get lost. I guess it's one of the curses of being a writer. So, let me come back to her. I saw her first at Indigo. No no. It wasn't love. I guess it was surprise and amazement. It was intrigue. It was this urge to know more about her. Be friends with her. May be spend the rest of my life with her. That's it. Not love. Not even lust. But intrigue and a desire to be with her for as long.

She had long curly hair that fell on her face like a veil. She was chewing onto a gum furiously as she scribbled intensely with a pencil. I don't know what made me look in her direction first. But whatever it was, I turned to her and immediately dismissed her as yet another actress. She looked like one and that anyway was Indigo's claim to fame. That you could spot celebrities even on the dead days.

Since my long-lost friend, who could get me a job that promised another month in Mumbai, was yet to come, I had nothing to do but watch people. Yet another hobby that I had to develop to help me write better. So, I was looking at everyone that I could see from my vantage point, in the other corner. There was this young couple who were apparently arguing over something. May be they were having a crisis in their relationship. There was this mother-daughter duo engrossed in their food. Another couple - they were relatively older - was together on a table but looked bored of each other's company. Guess they were married for some time and they had nothing left to talk about. The man was lost in his phone and the woman was leafing through the menu. Damn such relationships where togetherness loses its meaning and people merely go through the motions. Thankfully, on the table next to me was a group of old ladies, none of them less than 60, who apparently were celebrating life like they were sixteen. On another table was this man who sat by himself, engrossed in a book. And then there was me. An out-of-job writer. And of course her.

While I was busy casting all these people in stereotypes, for some reason, my gaze continued to shift back to her. As if I was watching a ping-pong match. I would look at a table, think about the occupants and then go back to her and think about her. Even when I was busy lamenting about the couple that lacked a spark in their lives, somewhere at the back of my head was thinking about her.

I tried hard to avoid her but I could not. She was like this magnetic force that continued to pull me. I don't know why. May be it was her beautiful hair. May be it was the way she curled her lips while she concentrated on her work. Or was it way she held onto the pencil? I don't know. I would never know.

To make matters worse, I think I was the only one who was interested in her. No one else gave her a second look. And all this was new to me. I have always been unfazed by the presence of even the most intimidating women. And here was this woman who captivated my attention like no other. She, on the other hand, in all probability, was oblivious to my presence and was ignorant of the effect that she had on me.

I knew I had to talk to her. Somehow. I had to come up with a reason, a pretext. I had to find one. I had to speak to her. May be she was a writer as well. How else do you explain a girl, a pencil and a cafe in one sentence. Suddenly, as if on the cue, she dropped it.

I traced the pencil as it fell on the wooden flooring that lined the restaurant's floor. For a fall from a three-feet or so high table, it took forever for the pencil to hit the floor. May be it was one of those incidents where time slows down and things get etched in your memory forever.

The pencil landed near her feet and that's when I noticed her mustard-sauce colored yellow boots first. I had her in my field of vision for this long and I never noticed the shoes that she was wearing. I was stumped yet again. I just couldn't comprehend that a strikingly good looking girl, dressed impeccably in a red dress could wear such ugly yellow boots. To me, a girl wearing yellow boots means a tough woman, who is headstrong, bold, prefers outdoor, loves to travel and is more alpha that the alphaest of men.

I know that I couldn't paint a more cliched picture of a girl in yellow boots. And yet, she, the girl in yellow boots and a red dress, looked like a polar opposite. She was this a fragile little thing that for sure would shatter into million tiny pieces if I even touched her. Her countenance and her boots, together, were like this study in contrasts. I had all the more reason to find a pretext to talk to her. She was away from me, or I could have helped her pick that pencil off the floor. I could have sent a note or something with the waiter but that's probably the oldest way to get rejected the fastest. I could walk up to her and ask for her permission to join her but I did not have the balls. There had to be a way. Do I drop a dish or something and create a ruckus to catch her attention? But what woman wants to talk to a sloppy man?

It took me forever to come up with an elaborate plot to get her attention and go talk to her. In my head, I repeated my opening lines that I'd use to talk to her. I perfected my approach and fixed my hair. I pumped myself with fake confidence and I was finally ready to go talk to her and ask her about her boots. That was going to be my opening line after all.

With an elaborate gesture and a swoosh, I got up from my place and let my gaze travel over other patrons - the man lost in his novel, the old ladies making merry, the boring couple munching onto their salads in uncomfortable silence - to the corner where she was seated. To my shock, it was empty. She was gone. I checked again, I checked all the corners and all the tables. She was gone. I did a desperate dance in the deli but she was gone. I rushed out but she was no where to be seen. I asked the doorman about her and he merely shrugged at my enthusiasm about a nameless patron. I spoke to the parked taxis and rickshaws but she was gone. She was gone.

Before it could sink in that she was gone, my friend walked in. While he briefed me on the job, my gaze continued to go back to that corner that she was sitting at. The corner now housed a group of chatty young women, all of them pretty and interesting. But the one I wanted, the one in yellow boots, the study in contrasts, was gone.


It's been three year now. I haven't bumped into her again. Even if I have, I wouldn't have noticed because, to be honest, I don't remember how she looked like. I just miss that red dress and those yellow boots.

I do visit Indigo deli more often than I ought to, hoping to spot those yellow boots, hoping to find out more about her. Over the years, in these three years, I have perfected my approach, my opening lines. I know what to ask her and what to talk to her about. I just need one more encounter with her. Damn I deserve that one more encounter. One more chance. And I will not be slow this time about.

Even though three years is a long long time for memories to fade away and people to move on and things to change, I can't get that evening, those boots out of my head. I remember that tumble and that roll of the pencil as it fell down, as if it had happened yesterday.

Of course, some things did change. That job that I was expecting to get that day, eventually came my way. The thing that I wrote for that job, did make people shed tears and did move the collective conscious of the country. One thing led to another and I have now become what I desired the most. A successful writer. Who makes a real living. Who is vaguely recognizable. Who has a few fans. And I am in a relationship that I dreaded the most. I am with a charming woman and most evening, she and I hardly have anything to talk about. I don't know who's fault is it. But I am the man who is perpetually lost in his phone and she is the woman who keeps fiddling with the menu cards when we go out.

Though, the only thing that hasn't changed is that whenever I am at Indigo, my eyes automatically go over to that corer where I saw her the first time. Hoping to see a flash of pale yellow near the foot of the table. Hoping to find her there. In that red dress, chewing onto a gum furiously, scribbling in her notepad, wearing those ugly yellow boots.

Even today, my woman and I are at Indigo. She was busy talking to someone on her phone and I was pushing my salad around with one hand and twiddling my phone with the other. Suddenly, someone tapped lightly on my shoulder and said, "Excuse me! Aren't you the same guy who wrote that book about that film actress?"

I looked up to her and nodded absentmindedly. My book about a film actress and a nameless stalker had done wonders. I assumed that she was talking about the same book. Before I could add anything, she pushed a copy of my book and a pencil in my face. She said, "It's a brilliant book. I loved it! Could I have your autograph please?"

While I did not want to be rude to the woman, I really wanted to be left alone. To drown in my disappointment and sorrow of not seeing the girl in yellow boots at Indigo yet again.

But I managed a feeble smile and took the book from her. Just then, she dropped the pencil.

I saw the pencil fall to the wooden floor. The time seemed to slow down. Yet again. After all these years. The pencil rolled and tumbled as it raced to the floor. The slow and agonizing fall eventually came to an end as the pencil came to a rest on the floor next to the mustard-sauce colored yellow boots that she was wearing.

P.S.: The other pieces of theGirlIn series are here

P.P.S.: If I sound like the protagonist in the story and I come across as a vain writer please note I am not trying to be one. 

Dear Mary Kom,

Wrote this a few days ago. Couldn't publish in time. But der aaye, durust aaye!

Dear Mary Kom,

I just came back from a movie hall after watching the eponymous biopic based on your life. And it was moving. So moving that it has made me write this letter. The letter is going to be a really long one. Please do get a bucket of popcorn and some soda before you start reading this.

First things first. You are a wonderful wonderful person Mary. You are a true achiever and a true fighter. I love your never-say-die attitude. I love the way you are totally committed to your sport. I love the way you have been an exemplary ambassador for the sport of boxing. Thank you so much for bringing so much glory to India. I am so proud that you and I are compatriots. I sincerely wish I could do half the things that you've done. You deserve all the awards and medals and appreciation and flowers and other things that we have bestowed upon you. And I sincerely believe that you deserve a lot more. Apologies that it took a movie to get me (and probably other Indians) to notice your contribution to our country.

So, if this letter gets rude, out of place, please ignore it as a rant of a jobless old man.

I do not mean any disrespect to you, but Mary, you've made a mistake. A big big mistake. You allowed Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Omung Kumar (I loved Omung Kumar when I was a kid when he did shows like Ek Minute etc.) to make the movie on your life. And you allowed Priyanka Chopra (who I know has been put on earth to marry me someday) to play the lead. The three of them, individually, are great (like I said). Probably as accomplished as you are. But the three of them together created a mess that is hard to digest. There are so many things wrong with the movie that I don't even know where to start.

Actually I know where to start. Research. If I were to make a sporting movie and a boxing movie at that, I would have done a LOT of research on it. No no, not on your life. That would be easy because I would merely need to sit with you and get dope on you (which I hope they did!) But research on sporting movies per se. I would want to know what kind of sporting movies have worked in the past. What are the few things that make a sports movie interesting. After all, its not a typical rom-com where the actors are running around trees and stealing pecks when no one's watching. I would've seen the classics like Angels in the Outfield, Finding Buck McHenry, even Mighty Ducks etc etc. And I would have seen the boxing movies like the Rocky series, Million Dollar Baby, Ali etc. I would even see Jerry Mcguire. And movies from India that have done well - Chak De India, Bhaag Milkha Bhaag etc.

And then, once I have done all this research, seen all these movies, I would goto the drawing board and start working on your movie. From what it seemed to me, the research bit was missing from your movie. Leave aside research, the script did not have the essential ingredients for a sports film. What could those ingredients be? I think it would be a long list but the key ones would be fast-paced story, action-packed fighting scenes, grandeur and strong characters (apart from you Mary) that inspire.

Mary, you are an accomplished boxer. Couldn't you consult the director on the boxing scenes atleast? The fight sequences were really really bad. They were so boring that I could've actually shown a clock ticking on the screen. I would've saved some money. Even the training bits were really sad. Look at Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. For whatever that movie was worth, it got the training bit correct. You can see the dude sweating while he was training. In your case, agreed you woke up early and you milked the cow and all that but that's your training? Really?

So anyhow let me talk about these characters. Lets start with your coach. Of course the coach is like the Guru. Whatever he says, is like a thing cast in stone. He has to be inspiring. Look at Micky. He made Rocky the fighter he was. Look at SRK in Chak De. Leave boxing and hockey. Look at a simple movie like Rockford. Nagesh Kukunoor is a PT teacher to kids and he is inspiring. Mary, your coach, to me did not look like someone who could inspire. Please please know that I am talking from the perspective of the movie. The actor, the lines, the action, demeanor of the coach is so so important for a sporting movie that you had to have a brilliant actor play that role. I don't understand why would you settle for someone who has not proven his mettle as an actor!

Then, your husband. Damn I hate him. He is too too good to be true. You cant imagine the plight of all other men in the country. When a woman sees your husband do all those sweet things for you, they'd start expecting their men to do the same. Thank God the movie flopped. Otherwise your husband would have been the reason for a few divorces for sure.

Lets talk about your father. His anger and exasperation is justified. He is a simple man and wants his daughter to do well. But Mary, in the movie, did you actually give approval to overt dramatization to that fight scene that is apparently shot in Turkey? Where you are down and out and your father sees you take a thrashing of your life and he then yells at a television to encourage you. And you, some 6000 KMs away get this burst of energy that helps you win. Mary, are you telling me (the gullible movie-goer) that telepathy works? I mean, it may. But this much dramatization? Are you sure? And no, it did not happen at just one place. Even the fight in the climax when your son is struggling with life and your come back. Really?

Then Mary, where did the entire thing about "you being discriminated in a bout because you are a Manipuri" come in from? Do you really think so? You really think we are that small? Some of us may be. But Indians at large? I was actually offended at that scene. Filmmakers have a responsibility and it sucks that someone would resort to communal tensions to make a story out of an incident. And please know that you are as Indian as I am. In fact, Mary, you are a notch better. Way better actually. Because you've brought glory to the country. I on the other hand have just ranted on this blog. Did you not realize that the management or the federation declared the other girl a winner because they hated your guts. Not because you are a Manipuri. Please Mary. I sincerely hope that you did not approve of that bit in the film.

There are so many more questions I have. But I guess time is not on my side. Over all, I think its a poorly written film. The direction and acting looked half-hearted as well. The fight scenes were pathetic. A film-student could have done a better job in my humble opinion.

Oh, and the film lacked grandeur. As an amateur film maker, it seemed to me that you guys cut corners while making the film. The sets were done poorly, space was sparse and props lacked detail, something that I did not expect from a team of Bhansali and Omung Kumar who have worked on magnum opuses like Black and Saawariya. I mean look at all other Sanjay Leela Bhansali films. The only thing that stands out in those films is the opulence, the grandness, the larger than life visual hooks. Your movie Mary, lacked all of it.

Some parts looked as if they were shot on a phone camera. May be they were indeed shot with a small camera. After all, cinematic creativity is something that I dont know nothing about as yet. You should've seen the sketches and you should've been a part of the PPM and other such meetings.

In the end, Mary, I think you ought to give your story to some other filmmaker who would probably do justice to your story and tell is better. You need to redeem yourself. The next generations just can not have this movie as the reference point when they think about the boxing legend from India - Mary Kom!

An Indian who is very proud of your achievements. And is disappointed with the film.

What could've been better?
Story, script and screenplay

What worked for me?
Your husband. Even the actor and his acting.

Overall rating?
1 on 5.

Will I recommend it?
NO WAY. In caps.

Why ship?

"Real Aritst Ship." - Steve Jobs.
Image Credit: Andrew Power / Busy Building Things

a. A conversation with a very very dear friend about The Nidhi Kapoor Story. Please judge.
b. I am a firm believer in the concept of shipping (folklore). She, on the other hand, hates mediocrity and thinks quality is always greater than quantity. It's a never-ending debate and there is no right side. I guess.

a. I don't remember the exact words that she used. Or the exact words I used. But this is how the conversation went.
b. This friend, F, is my dearest friend. The kinds I can die for. Really.

So, it went like...

Friend (F): Are you happy with your book? Is this the best that you can come up with?
SG: Not really. If I want, I can tinker it with for the rest of my life. But it has come to a point where I am confident about sharing it with the world. I wish I could write like all the other great ones...

F: Then why would you publish it?
SG: What do you mean?

F: Arey you said its not your best output. Why would you want a sub-standard and half-baked product out in the market?
SG: It is not sub-standard. I have given it an honest shot and I really think it ought to see the light of day.

F: Why? If you can still improve it, how is it not half-baked?
SG: Its at a stage where I think I can ship it. Of course I can add things, remove things, change things. like any other story, this one is in a perpetual stage of flux. I have created it. Everything is fictional. I can do whatever with it. But I believe that if more people see it, I'd get more feedback and better I'd get as an artist writer. Its that perpetual loop. Steve Jobs once said, "real artists ship." I want to ship.

F: But a mediocre product? Do you know whenever Steve Jobs launched something, it was always very very cool!
SG: It may be. Steve Jobs knew what he was doing with his life. I do not know. Writing does not come to me naturally. I had to work hard for it. It took me considerable time and effort to come to a point where I could finish the book. Hence I want to put it out as soon as possible so that I get as much feedback on it.

And like I said, I have spent enough time on the book and I really think that it would be worth the time people spend in reading it.

Plus I want to try. Stumble on things, fall down and then get up again. And eventually carry on walking. And, if writing does not work out, I will move onto the next thing. Simple. Thats the plan. And commercial success is a true true barometer of an artist. Even though for every famous writer, there are a thousand others that die an anonymous death. When I die, I really want to tell myself that I tried. Simple.

F: Fucking faff! And if you really want feedback, show it to your friends. Why release it in print and all? Why make so much noise about it?  
SG: Because friends could be biased. They wont be merciless in their reviews. They wouldn't want me to get discouraged. If its out there, I would know that what the aam aadmi thinks.

And I really really believe in doing things that make accidents happen. What if someone reads this and gives me an idea that can change the way I work? Unless I print the book, I would never reach that person. No? So its important to get this in the hands of as many people as I can.

F. Wait. Are you writing this for yourself? Or for people?
SG: Of course its for my own happiness. It would be good to make money from it though. But money is not the only criteria. I want to tell stories. People may or may not listen to what I have to say. But I know that if I keep up to it, I will someday become a storyteller.

F: So, this is about fame?
SG: No no. Its about trying to do something that I think I could do for the rest of my life! Its yet another thing that I am trying my hand at. If it works out, great. If it doesn't, Id move onto the next one.

F. I dont believe you. You are such a fucking moron. 
SG: But that's how I am. Trust me I really want to improve the craft and I cant see any other way. I definitely cant be the guy who works in a garage till he comes up with a masterpiece. Whatever I do, I want to put out as soon as possible.

The conversation went on for another 30 or so minutes till she finally got disgusted and almost threw a glass full of water on face. Thank God she did not do that.

Though, I still wondering, what did I do to deserve that extreme a reaction.

10 books that have stayed with me over the years

First posted on #tnks blog.

There is this thing going around FB where people are listing their top 10 books. I refuse to not be a part of any fad. And thus, here is my list (in no particular order).

1. The Godfather. By Mario Puzo. As someone said, it is the dictionary of crime. It was the first time when I thought reading books could be fun. I loved reading it. I love love it. The characters have stayed with me for years. I can still recall the plots. I know the dialogues by heart and so on and so forth. If there is one book that you out to read before you die, its this one. Or may be its English, August.

2. English, August. By Upamanyu Chatterjee. Its like my biography. Just that Ogu is little less lost, far more focused and younger than I. I can totally relate to everything that Ogu did while he was posted in Madna. I've went through every emotion that August lived through while he wrote the book. If there is one book that I wish I had written, it would be this. Here is a post I wrote about English, August.

3. The Count of Monte Cristo. By Alexandre Dumas. Its a work of pure genius. Its revenge. Served cold. This is what inspired me to work on The Nidhi Kapoor Story. If there was no Monte Cristo, there wouldn't be any Nidhi Kapoor. I wrote about the strange dreams that I started having when I read the The Count.

4. Rich Dad. Poor Dad. By Robert Kiyosaki. Yes. Self-help. And yes, I am aware of all the controversy and debate around it. But, eat my shorts, as Bart would say. I read this recently and since then it has changed the way I look at things. I wish I had read this one sooner. May be just before I entered the business school.

5. Eat, Pray, Love. By Elizabeth Gilbert. Because I am as depressed as Groceries is. And her travel helped me get over some bit of my depression. I am serious. Just that I dont know if its a true story or a fictional one. I did goto Bali this year and vaguely tried to search for Ketut but could not find him.

6. On Writing. Stephan King. Of course. I don't have to say anything anymore. It has inspired

7. To Kill a Mockingbird. By Harper Lee. I instantly fell in love with Scout. I wish I had a girlfriend like her! Too bad Harper Lee wrote just one book. As an aspiring writer and a voracious reader, I see a good bit and a bad bit. Good, that she has made enough money from one that she does not have to rely on the mercy of readers / reviewers for sales of the next ones. Bad, that as a reader, I couldnt read more from her.

8. Jack Reacher (series) by Lee Child. This is what unadulterated, indulgence is. You are so enthralled by the man, Jack Reacher, that you dont want his fables to ever come to an end. I have read 13 / 14 books and when I realized that I had read almost all his books, I did not want it to come to an end. And I cant wait for the next one to come. Whenever it does. Someday, I aspire to write about a man like him. Or may be a woman.

9. Shantaram. By Gregory Davids Roberts. I did not like the way it ended but the way he has romanced Mumbai with his "brother" on bikes, uff! They must've been one hell of a time. If there is someone who has been able to do justice to Mumbai and its charm, its Shantaram. Read this one purely for his narration on Mumbai. And infectious smile of one Prabhakar.

10. The Mahabharata. By I dont know who. Surprise surprise. Not a modern fiction but a story none the less. I must have read this one a thousand times. Excluding the Geeta bits. The book is about righteousness, fairness, fair play, good, bad, evil, life, revenge, greed, love, jealousy and all such passions that a human being is capable of experiencing. Love the complex plots and epic connections and relationships. While writing, the notes would have ran into millions of pages. I know I'd never be able to, but I would give an arm and a leg to peek into the notes. Any ideas how?

And here is a bonus.

11. Warren Buffet letters. Again, technically not a book but it's a collection of annual letters he writes to shareholders of Berkshire. Love his sense of humor, his candour and the simplicity with which he writes. He doles about advice on life and investing in the garb of these letters. Its one of those things I wish I had read sooner.

Thanks Internet for this meme. Thanks Radhika for the prompt. What is your list of 10 books that have stayed with you over the years?

P.S.: Too lazy to include links to these books. Easy enough to find I guess, if you want to read them.

Hello September. Of 2014.

And just like that its September. Of 2014. Time flies. And how.

I don't recall the specifics but it seems like yesterday when it was September of 2013 and I was planning for a roadtrip through the US of A with friends. The trip for reasons beyond the scope of this blog did not happen in September. Apart from the trip, I was thinking about my book. And about what life holds for me in the times to come. The times to come have arrived and life pretty much looks the same. Except that I have little less hair and little more gray hair. 

Anyhow, the point is, its almost been a year and I have no clue where time went. 

Of course I did things and I met people and all that. But do I recall how I spent the time? No I dont. I just recall that since last september, I wrote and travelled and worked and spent all that I had saved and read and blogged. I generally had a good time. But again, I dont know any specifics. I dont have stories to share, I dont have medals to boast of, I dont have bank balance to show off, I dont have sgMS to go to. I dont have any of those things that make life worth living. 

Brings me to the question that I have been asking a lot lately. What's the point of all this? 

And no, I am not depressed before you start recommending solutions and medicines. 

This time, like the previous four or five months, I wont really do an analysis of what went wrong and what I learnt and what I missed and all that. I think that I am not programmed for that kind of planning. I forced myself to work on it. I tried but I could not. The question is, how do I make time count, before its September yet again. Of 2015. Assuming I make it to Sep of 2015.

Hunt for the second / third place

Lets start this rant with a few facts. Quirks, more than facts to be honest.

Fact 1. I dont like moonlighting my home with my office. It works for a lot of people, but not for me.

Fact 2. I seek flexibility, freedom and independence over a stable job. Even if its a well-paying one. Anyhow, well-paying naukri is a myth. 

Fact 3. I see a bed and I want to lie down. Yeah I am lazy like that. I can't say no to the allure of the bed.

So, now the rant. 

Because of facts 1, 2 and 3, you can guess that most of my work happens from coffee shops and all that. Which was fine till late. But then a lot of people are now in my position and thus these coffee shops now frown on people spending long hours. Plus, with the prices going through the roof, its become very expensive to sit there. As a result, the productivity has taken a hit and I've wasted a lot of money and time on the hunt for the illusive perfect place to work out of. 

So, I need, no not need, want... so I want a place where I could sit and work for long hours. And odd hours because I want to keep the flexibility going. I have tried talking to all those fancy co-working places and communes around where I live and nothing seems to be working. 

I put a tweet, posted a question on Quora, put it on FB but nothing is working out. And time is running out fast. Fast like crazy fast. And I cant seem to do anything about it. Someone, please help! Any good samaritans know of some place that I could use? 

Kangaali me aata geela

So when I was young, I loved using idioms. And one of my favorite ones was / is, "kangaali me aata geela." Literally translated, it means when you in deep shit, more shit is piled on you. And as I type this, I am in deep deep shit. So deep that I don't think I can wade out of it. Ever. Unless some divine intervention happens and the Hand of God (or an act of God) pulls me out of it.

Oh, apart from God, I am sure Mr. Murphy must be laughing at me as well. After all, despite all the positive vibes that I send to the universe, life has been unfair to me. I mean not unfair but it could've treated me better. It has made me a mediocre, arrogant, cocky young old man who refuses to change the way he operates. If life were to be any better, it could have either made me a beggar and left me to rot at the mercy of the world. Or it could have made me an exceptional brain and allowed me to make a dent in the world.

Neither happened and the world left me as a mediocre man. I lost the damn ovarian lottery.

And like I have said a million times, mediocrity sucks. And I am nothing but a case-study in mediocrity. Before I continue with the self-flagellation and self-doubt and pity and all that, let me come back to the kangaali me aata geela bit.

So when I had money, I saved like I was Uncle Scrooge. I did splurge, but most of what I spent was on things that I did not really need. And ever since money has tightened, I have tried to control my splurges but my expenses on things that are essential to work has spiraled. Take charging cables for phones and laptops for example. When I had money, I could buy as many cables and most times my employer would have foot the bill. But the cable never broke. I never misplaced the cables. Everything worked with perfection, like a dream.

And ever since I've been left to fend for myself (and money is in limited supply), everything seems to be breaking. Like my phone cable. And now my laptop charger. And since both of them are Apple products, the accessories are expensive. Sigh! This is just one example. There are more such incidents that tell me that kangaali main aata geela hota hi hai. I believed that accidents and fuck-ups happen with those who attract those. Have I become one of those? Plus I dont know what I want in life. And life is getting shorter by the day. And thus, I have lesser time to achieve things, as and when I know what I want to achieve in life.

I am now part of that feedback loop that is spiraling downwards. Fast. I am poor and hence I am getting poorer. I need some sort of tailwind to bring me back upto speed. Remember I spoke about a year and a crore the other day? That! That is what I need. And like I said, I need some divine intervention. Some act of God, some hand of God, something is needed.

To end this, I know that that act is just around the corner. Just that I don't know when or where will it happen. May be there's a way to expedite it? Prayers help? Try praying for me? No point actually. God and I have a chattees ka aankada. God has told me 'fuck you' in as many words.


The Nidhi Kapoor Story

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