The last sentence of this post contains confidential information.

Dear 17 readers,

Congratulations for being the only 17 to be able to read this post. The blog, now being private shall be more  personal so you may un-invite yourself or unfollow as you may please. I am headed to Auroville for the mid-terms midst a lot of confusion and frustration. Also, my mood swings are now a character of their own, shedding tears at will, being rude to unsuspecting people and sitting on swings and swinging further. Apologies for sounding very urbane-emo. Let me tell you of happier things: Father got promoted, hair does not suck so much, Theatre was fun. Atleast I got to do SOMETHING this time around, however amateurish it may have looked to someone outside the course. I feel fatter and less happy every day but it's cool. Just mood swings. Terrace looks more beautiful when sad, an observation.

Okay thanks bye,
Adrita.


(See, now you know my name. I am also very vaguely disappointed at a random fact. The word vaguely was put in so I sound less like a loser.)

Semester One.

I'm writing mindless essays with my fucked up vocabulary about some fucking feminists and jumping around awkwardly during Theater and being cranky for no reason and eating laddoos and getting fatter and getting subliminally insulted by people every 10 minutes and then feeling emotional about random speeches made by the college Director and High School is repeating itself and friends are being rude to friends and calling it a joke and no one wants to get to know other people better and still stuck up on the 'moti bhais' jokes and why is there a sudden surge in everyone, including me, to seem cooler than the others?




I think I should leave college and sweep floors at Auroville, get some peace and some fucking bread.

P.S: This blog may go private next week, unless of course changes for the better. Also, if I have been rude to you in the past two days, SORRY. IN CAPS.

The bucket was red.

The earliest memory I have of my life, is a really strange one. I was sitting inside an auto-rickshaw, on my mother's lap, along with other children and their mothers. I don't really remember where we were going, just that it was an important day. Something tells me it was my first day of pre-school but it could have been a vaccination date for all I know. My father was washing his car. No wait, maybe his gate. He was definitely washing something since he had a bucket and a mug in his hand. As the auto kept moving away from the house, the silhouette of my father  waving goodbye kept getting smaller. Maybe it was the early morning fog or maybe my then-undetected amblyopia or just my loss of memory but he kept blurring as the auto moved forward. As babies, I am assuming, we don't really know the value or significance of a family member. To us, he or she is just another random person that lives in the house, feeds us Cerelac, changes our diapers. They hold no meaning, no background, no emotion. As my father waved goodbye, I felt that I finally understood what he was. I remember knowing that the silhouette of the only man on that street with a bucket was related to me. Perhaps this realization was the only reason I remember the scene. I've felt this connection with him only twice in my life. The second memory is of the day I left Bombay. 

I was inside the train with my mother, again. And as the train started moving I saw my father waving me goodbye. It was only the second time I've seen him get teary eyed.

Fathers never change.

This strange, strange world.

The rules are played out differently here, written by the most foolish, the most cunning.
All these fascists, with opinions to appear smarter, solutions to change the world, money to feed the poor, money to feed off their friends; they all sit on the maroon chairs and loom over their twitter profiles.
They start from scratch.
They begin with the inconsistent pawn. They make them their friends.
Then they move on to the bigger, grimier, shady pawns. They make them their acquaintances.
After this, they start with the bulbous, slimy, hairy pawns. They sleep with them.
Then one night, when the money seems alright and the silence plays low, they bring out their rolling papers,
and begin.
They call the inconsistent one, to crack the jokes no one finds funny.
They call the shady one, to bring the stash.
They call the slimy one, to fondle through the night.

They play,
They score,
They win.

This strange, strange world.

Meanwhile in the same town across the moon, some commoners with very less money cry. They cry, not because they don't win the game of life; they cry because they always played the fair game.

They cry for the strangers in this strange, strange world.

News Flash.

1) Everyone's life sucks right now, I feel. Mine too.
2) Workaholic days are JUST about to begin so hopefully I'll be a little less lazy in the coming few weeks.
3) New friends are happening to me.
4) I feel like a very uncool senior but don't want to push it.
5) Have to do a futuristic FASHION photoshoot. Very Lady Gaga-ish. Fack. Why do I tend to always take up things I know NOTHING about.
6) Got paid for internship.
7) Coffee addiction has only increased with the Umesh Mess. Count per day has increased to 3-4 cups daily.
8) I still don't know a lot of seniors and cannot make eye fucking contact.
9) No scandals to emerge stronger from.
10) Deflated expectations suck.
11) New campus is office-y but more urban so it's cool.
12) Collecting Coca Cola cans.
13) Ugly pictures are being tagged on Facebook.
14) Bye.