Today when I stood smoking outside bars that blared Pink Floyd shamelessly I knew I was in Bangalore. I have been on the road for about two weeks now, in four trains, two buses, and countless moods.
On the twenty first of last month I left for a badly planned trip with my friends to Goa. There was a lot of initital hesitance about the rain, akward social mixing, and general mishaps that might occur because of this chronic non-planning. But we were to discover that mishaps are more fun that they are not. Chunni and me along with five of our friends left for Bombay on the twenty first. Katty and Tanya refused to join us- 'AYE HAYE, TRAIN!', and flew straight in style to goa, waiting for us with a rolled joint and affectionate curses.
After a beautiful breakfast at Theobroma(dude if heaven had a cuisine this would be it), and reckless drinking at Gokul we somehow landed in our train to Goa, all passed out before the TT could say ticket.
Sid had forgotten to get two of my friends tickets, making a sheepish face and throwing his hands up in the air when questioned about the matter, but the two ticketless were more than thrilled with their first act of holiday rebellion. 'DUDE we can tell people this is the craziest thing we did in Goa.Wikkedddd!!'.
Trains are fun anyway, but when you can get high with a little help from your friends, they become stories. We have an official roller, his name is DJ. Now DJ has to make sure that everyone is high all the time. That's his job.So as soon we got into the train, DJ got to work. 'Tum log baitho, main scene dekh ke aata hoon'. After Deejay's sneaky but slow rolling we managed to smoke outside the window. Now the problem with DJ is that though his job is to get everyone high, he gets mindfuck stoned all the time, and forgets his job.
So we had to pass the night watching him get stoned and grin at random people, while C and I swigged from a bottle of rum doing the usual 'humaari zindagi BARBAAD hai yaar' sequences.
We reached Goa in the morning and rented bikes and a car, which we realized were eventually fucked up, and drove to Palolem where our friend from the flight was waiting. After deciding on rooms and swimming in the sea, I knew this was all Goa was going to be about. For the next five days we swam, drank, smoked, laughed, rode, cursed, joked, loved, and knew, like my friends always say, that this was forever.
We took buses to Gokarna, complained about by the boys because there wasn't enough party. Mo decided it was lame because 'I need loud music in my ears man!', and Katty because 'Kya jagah hai yeh bar 11 baje kaun band karta hai'. He has a point though. We still managed to get happy and high and talk till the morning when it was time for us to leave.
I didn't write anything on the trip, mostly because I was deliriously happy the whole time, and I can never write when I'm high, or tired. Which are the only two things I was throughout. I've scribbled things like 'If you try sometimes, you will find, you get what you need!". 'We rule'. 'Jealousy might be my largest(wtf??) flaw'. 'My friends might be the best people in the world'. 'Kaisa Karobaar?Aisa Karobaar!' and 'Lund lele muh mein'. I remember getting crazy drunk on the last day (first time I drank vodka in three years) and running on the beach, feeling a bunch of things I couldn't process or admit. I remember sitting with a few dogs and calling my own's name to the sea, hoping I could see a glimpse of his face in the sky like Mufasa's. I remember looking back and seeing shadows on the beach and not knowing if it was my friends or not, but knowing that if it was, I had nothing to worry about. I remember looking at the sea and letting myself flow like the calm storm of the waves. Aristotle was right. To be a good man, one needs good men to live by, and I know that I have found mine.

(Photo credit supercool supersavvy Tanya Bhandari)

No one tells a story like Queerfish, who scribbled relentlessly even when everyone around her was dying.


I love Bombay. I love it's calm madness, and it's tall Parisian buildings. I love that the city runs in rain or in riot. I love the nice cab guys who I trusted to doze off drunk at the back after telling him my address. I love that the city looks like it's going to break down any second but it never does. Bombay is one of those cities that movies are made about, books are written about. It's a city with soul(shola hai ya hai bijuriya and all). It's like Delhi, it's a person. That's why they have a problem getting along. Because both Bombay and Delhi are distinct, but strong soulful people. I love how you can suddenly see the sea, and feel and smell it as you come close. I love hoping to see someone famous at every bend.
My favorite places in Bombay are Gokul, Indigo, and walking around Colaba. Everything is so beautiful and alive and hindi cinema. Yesterday when I was on my way to VT station, I drove along a railway line and a cab full of kids going to a madrassa and I decided this was my second favorite city in the world. With vada pav and badass streets, what's not to love man.
First favorite (don't ask why cause you'd know if you know) was, is, and always will be, sadi Dilli. More than all of you who visit and complain, I, as an inhabitant, KNOW that the city is vile. I sense it's ruthlessness everyday, but it's got into me. I am a pure bred angry mutton dilli vaala.
I felt different in Bombay. I hadn't fought with anyone in a while, and my father and I had managed to survive in the same space for a week without wanting bringing the walls down. I felt really good in Bombay, but Delhi had taught me how it felt not to feel good. It had taught me to be jealous, angry, sad, drunk, self important, and still be a human being, and not necessarily a bad one.
When I drank out of a broken heart and wept, Delhi told me that pyaar mein kabhi kabhi aisa hota hai. When I fucked up exams and misused medications it told me that zindagi barbaad hai, and eventually it taught me to accept myself and grow. It taught me that it was okay to be ridiculous, hysterical, absolutely wrong, and absolutely crazy. It absorbed me into its madness and taught me to be like itself. Not ideal, but real.
What I was saying before all this bakwaas was that I love Bombay, with all of my Dilli ka Dil.


When I drove away from my father this time, I could see him in the rear view mirror, wagging his finger furiously. 'Sharanya DON'T GET DOWN at any stations and don't talk to ANYONE'. It kills me to leave him alone. Every time I drive away from his apartment in Bombay, I develop a familiar lump in the throat and the waterworks begin.
I can see my parents miss each other everyday. I can see my dad's determination combined with discontent at living this single life in a city that doesn't belong to him. Unlike me, he has vowed never to love Bombay but only it's people. It's absurd that as we focus on getting away from our homes, our families, and everything we know, all our parents want to do is come back to it.


Today I visited my grandmother and was a self confessed pukka South Indian because I realized all I need to live is rasam sadam and mangoes. I noticed that some bastards are cutting down trees that I climbed as a kid to build a McDonalds or Pizza Corner or some such.
I am at least five kilos heavier, but also five times happier than I was a month back. 
I am also half drunk, lazy and sleepy, and there is a Penthouse at my disposal to sleep in. True story.
Excuse me while I dive into a Parking Lounger and maybe never return again.

Best song ever. Is dard ki hai na dawai. 

 Today my sister turned eighteen years old.
All I want to do is eat her cake from a box and watch Reality Bites, but my sixteen year old cousin is parading around my room with his shirt off and a pair of pyjamas over his head and saying 'mere back ke muscles toh dekh yaar'.
Now he's telling me his Sudoko score on his blackberry while two others prepare munchies that my dog is lusting after. 
Life is absurd. I NEEDS to watch some senti cinema alone, though. 
The feeling that I can't share my space with probably the only people I like in the world, and the guilt that comes with it sucks.
I know that when I wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy, everything will be fine. 

I now know that god has finally punished me for my gluttony after I bit into a piece of emseal that was lying on my table.

Since the sixteenth of may I have not had a silent moment in the house. Today for the first time in almost twenty days or more, I walked into my room to find it empty. Not wasting another moment I locked the doors and buried myself in my bed.

I am one of those unlucky people who have the luxury of coming from an absolutely normal family. I have no bizarre trauma to trace madness back to. I grew up in times of boring but fortunate normalcy. Till I was sixteen, I used to live with seven other people. My mother,father,grandparents,aunt,uncle and sister. We ate all meals together, watched KBC every night, and every morning before I left for school I collected canteen funds from every adult in the house. All my neighbors were very involved in our lives. I always had friends over for dinner and Swat Cats. It was a time full of unnecessary celebration and unrequited absurd love for family and others we believed were tied to us by bonds that were based on time, not blood. The past month has been like that. There have been several plates laid out for meals, an unreal number of teenagers around, and clouds of blaring noise.

All I want to do is lie in my room and stare at the ceiling and never hear the doorbell ring again.

Immensely surprised at myself at not wanting to get drunk, I am finally at the place I have dreaming about for almost a week. Leaning in an obtuse angle on my computer chair and listening to the music from Shaitan, which I watched today. Call me young and easy to please, which is what I am, but I loved it.

Articulate writers from across the country are already trashing the film, but it's youth Bollywood dudes, it's supposed to be fast paced, transmitted in slow motion technicolor, and a little bit in-your-face.

I wish I could get those snazzy templates with psychedelic Elvis faces flashing at you, and political boom boxes in black and white, but I just don't got it to pull it off. 

This year was my aunt's fiftieth birthday. My sister, along with enthusiastic family members, had planned a get-away with the whole gang. During my years of brash teenage bullshit, I used to pretend I was 'off' family. I bunked weddings, pretended to be interested in nothing, and turned up late/drunk/or didn't at gatherings. I refuse to change this policy for my dad's side of the kinship, but my maternal relatives rule. They are creative, crazy, and all look exactly like me. It is interesting to see parts of yourself in people sitting around a room and know you have come from them. My uncle is a mountaineer cum software engineer, full of contempt for the capitalist urban world and almost sickened at the idea of existing in it. After years of what he describes as a war with the world, he decided to live in the mountains. He owns exactly one pair of pants, two shirts, and one suit for meetings at his son's school. His home, that he and his wife converted to one from a cow shed, was inhabited for two weeks by sixteen spoilt people created and consumed by the city. After complaining about the lack of fans, and the inadequacy of bathrooms, everyone decided to settle down. I was more than happy with the absence of a cellphone signal and the internet, spending all my time with my cousin lurking in the trees and finding routes to the river.

Since I was little I was sent to live with this uncle for at least a month wherever he was. Many times it was in the south, in a small hill station near Madanapalli in Tamil Nadu, or Koorg. I need to see the mountains, I need to breathe that air once in a while. I need to know that there is a life outside the city, outside who's dating who and she's so much skinnier than me and what will I do with my life and ohmygod I want to kill everyone in college,on the road,in the bar,and in the other bar.

I admit that my attitude is a little escapist,romantic,and every other label that is put on things that give people joy. 
I wanted to write a Queerfish style 'Mountain diaries' post, but things, and experiences become less relevant as they pass. 

We got driven up to the hills in a huge van called a Winger by a Punjab da stud, complete with long hair and kudis calling on his phone from time to time. The whole family was letching at his wide Punjabi smile, and his delightful taste in music.

My uncle's house in a village called Bhadol outside Dharamshala was owned by a man called Thakur. Just Thakur. Like Santana, or Usher. Thakur was a man born and bred on Chandni Chowk ki rotti aur makhan ('jaisi duniya mein koi cheez nahi hai!'), and had served in the Delhi Police till 1975. 'Emergency ke wakat mainne bahoot haramiyon ko peeta, sirf haramiyon ko', he tells us as my father stares at him mesmerized, nodding and signalling the group to nod after. The party from the South couldn't care less about a bad-ass ignorant cop from the capital, but I assisted my dad in the Thakur campaign, nodding along furiously but being ignored completely. Thakur's dog is an Alsation called Jackie, joh unka 'ek lauta dost hai'. 'He's my best friend', he translates for the benefit of the madrasi ladies, who hated him, whispering in Tamil about how he must treat his wife. I used to sit on a hammock and watch Thakur and Jacks dig for hours at end in the morning, not asking for or needing any assistance on their vast tract of land. I saw in Thakur a sense of fairness that I often wished I saw in cops of the city, and contrary to my mum and her sisterhood believed that he was probably an excellent husband. 

My cousin AD and I sneaked off into corners to get the occasional stoned. We climbed on to trees, peering at our mothers and grinning at each other through the leaves. We managed to find many elevated spots, thanks to my decent climbing skills and AD's hoisting and letting me climb on his back so it was easier. He's still in the mountains, camping and behaving like an avatar monkey and I miss him. Once we were spotted by my (other)uncle who glared at us yelling 'Ey tell me when you go da buggers!'. After that it became a trend for him to pretend he was taking me out for a 'talk', so he could give me a fancy cigarette to light.

I went to Mc Leodganj for the first time, and it really is only Paharganj with a better view. I was appaulled at the number of cars, there was a freakin traffic jam one day. And after I'd spotted the ocassional hot phirang and bought pretty turqioise jewellery and Free Tibet merchandise, I was pretty much done. AD and I usually abandoned the screaming group of identical people in the market and ran off above. He looked for pine trees to walk under, and we walked to nowhere. On the way we ate expensive pizza and chatted up locals, my cousin's favorite passtime after chatting up foreigners. 
In a few days we decided we should go trek since it was getting bloody hot where we were. The 'oldies' were offended at our desire to sneak off alone and were all 'We don't even WANT to come you guys are so boring'. My uncle the trekker packed us a backpack of rain-jackets and torches and sleeping surfaces, shouting 'You'll die you fucking chapatti morons PACK PROPERLY!'. 

Because of a 'fuck you man' 'fuck YOU man' argument I'd had with my cousin and the unearthly time of departure(5:15 am) I was hesitant to go on this voyage, but I did anyway.
After eating more expensive pizza in the middle, we started out fully on our trek of the tambis. Initially we lost our way but got shown the way by an enthusiastic monk who decided he liked us after noticing my Free Tibet Tshirt and that we were Indian, and young. He sprinted up a small hill like an elf, signalling for us to follow, and after reaching the top pointed to a direction and said 'aise zaao', smiling and taking photos with us as he left. We decided that this was a test of us by the monk, and we must follow the path of enlightenment been prescribed to us, made our way into the prettiest forest in the world. There was a little path beside sudden streams, and after we sighted a pair of white horses gliding through the bushes, it was established that this was freakin unreal. AD began his Lord of the Rings fantasy and galloped forward like Legolas, while I carved myself an axe and ran behind like small but fearless Gimli, and Suks(my sister) made herself jewellery from flowers like a pretty elf with no name. On the way to our destination Triund, it started hailing on us. Draping shower curtains on our heads we ran out of the forest to a small stall on a cliff that overlooked the valley, called Sunset Cafe. I was doubtful about sheltering in this small settlement. It looked like one blow of wind would send us seedhe khai mein. When we entered, the dude in the shop twinkled his eyes at us, asking us where we were from, and introducing himself as Ajay. He must have been around nineteen years old. He had torn up his jeans, and was wearing a sweatshirt that said 'don't give a f***. When AD in his stumbling Hindi asked Ajay if he could roll, Ajay twinkled at him showing him that he was rolling too. He disapproved of AD's maal telling us it was corrupt, nakli, and that we were his guests and it was his responsibility to get us high. We sat in Ajay's shop for three hours, because just the sight of the thundering skies was murderous. But it only took three minutes of effortless chatter and exchanging stories, that AD, Suks and I had all fallen in love with Ajay. I thought I was the only one till I looked at my siblings looking at him and grinning with glee. In the middle, we were joined by Ajay's bro, also Ajay, and also terribly god looking. (Hills people got the looks always). Ajay and Ajay told us about crazy white people, mad punjabi families, and the groups of boys from Chandigarh- 'ek chaanta maarne ka mann karta hai'. 'Hum sochte hai ki paise jab aa jaata hai insaan admi se chutiya bann jaata hai'. In three hours, we realized we had all been talking the whole time. Suks and I even dancing to Ajay bro's phone music consisting of all our favorite songs. (Ji Karda, Laung da Lashkara etc). I made myself a dream in which Ajay and I get married and I grow vegetables in the garden like a good Himachali girl what fun.

On the way back, since it was downhill and we were very high, we were even happier than before. We ran, sang, danced, swam in the river, held hands, jumped from rock to rock humming-much to the amusement of passers by and made arbit resolutions and promises to ourselves and the world. I stood on rocks looking at the Himalayas and wished my friends were there. We were led back home by a dog(I named him Morphius, AD wanted to call him Ikamafoona-wtf!!?). Morphius of course was sent to us by the monk who gave us directions, and abandoned us as soon as he knew we were ready. 

The three of us returned back home dying, but so content that our mothers were all tears and 'I wish we could always see you this happy da'. After that it was two days of random short walking, countless momos, and waking up to my grandmother shouting curses instructions at the entire household, and feeding us like we'd been starved otherwise. 
But when she cooks, it's like every meal is my first. 

I knew that I had sold my soul to Himachal Pradesh and vowed to come back repeatedly to thrive in the beauty of the people and the 'Him-a-layas' like the mad phirangs coming to the hills pretending that India is a place to attain peace. But they're so sweet in all their ignorant bliss. I thought of bro Chunni repeatedly when I saw what we call 'scruffies' and bought postcards to send to my more than friend abroad. :D 

Delhi's it's blazing difficult mad self but it's where I was made, so tis no problem. And in my two hours of driving on the road a couple of days back, I had exhausted all the angry swearing I had missed out on.

Now I am going to go watch endless American television and be lazy cause it's vacation time bitchezzzz! 

Till then you can see my most awesome worst pictures of all time. 

I'm not going to brag, but I suck.

          Thatha praying

        Coolest thukpa lady of all time 

      Ma in the monastery 

  Misty mountain tops 

                       Best shit ever (I was sitting on a rock so the water came down straight on my head)

                          This one, I'm showing everyone as 'dekh yaar maine itni sahi photo li'

The only way to live is to see and the only way to see is to take a bus sometimes and leave, so that like Johnny Cash I can say that I've been everywhere, man. 

I only had one song to listen to the whole time as it was the only one on my phone, but it was perfect. Cause

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree

I ran to over the hills and far away and returned and I STILL have exams. I have pictures to show this time! :D 

Was dreading the return to urban heat and discontentment, but despite everything that Delhi lacks and Himachal possesses (peace of mind, beautiful people) it's always good to be back, only to leave, and return once again. 

I realized that the city has taught me to endure, critique and survive, the mountains taught me to believe, and let myself go. (Tibetan 'Boodhism' FTW yo). Till I go back to walk in pine forests and sing to the river, there's always expensive shopping and the temporary refuge in beer and and a permanent one in the company of your mates.

More later. My keyboard and mouse don't work and my seven year old cousin is standing on my head because it's time for his Beyblade Pokemon whatever battle. He is dancing around yelling 'metal fusion wheel!' and 'Rings of fury' so I'm letting him have it for sheer enthusiasm and phrases that sound like Linkin Park lyrics.

14/05/2011 (didn't publish because it's meaningless and badly written)

Thanks to Chunni I have become obsessed with this song that she posted on her blog a couple of days back in a way I didn't imagine I could. The Kominas are so fucking fearless you can't help but fall violently in love with them. Beautiful men singing so much sense in Punjabi is only pure perfection. I almost fail every exam because of finding a new band to stalk and dreaming about situations that involve me meeting them.

After abstaining from the alcohol for about two weeks and being rather proud about it  I went out to get drunk for about twelve hours post the first because of which I am now a little sick and in no mood to study Milton and Shakespeare and the irony of the position of women in the Elizabethan age I DO NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK ANYMORE.

Delhi has turned into the burning hell that we all know and for some reason love. I have vowed to turn off my computer till the end of time because I get no work done like this.

But before that, check out Michelle Williams she's so cute. 

Today

It's the first time in two days I have had a moment alone and my head is swimming with the lack of noise in the background. On the 16th morning TWELVE people descended into miniscule home to live and thrive for a week. My family is awesome but loud and crazy so all I can remember from the past two days is blurs of cousins running around with my dog in tow. There's quiet girl cousin who is exceptionally sane and only talks on her phone or sleeps or makes chai for everyone. There's twelve year old geeky cousin who loves dragons, watches Jack White videos all day and observes 'reading hour' with me in which we lock ourselves up in a room distancing ourselves from our unintelligent kinspeople. There's oldest bad-boy cousin always scouring for skins in my drawer and playing trance music, coming into my room with a fully rolled joint when I'm trying to read boring shit and then twenty minutes later grinning madly and chanting 'I'm so smashed dude don't tell anyone'. There's a six year old who has just discovered Led Zeppelin and knows where babies come from. There is sixteen year old non-cousin but family friend adopted as cousin who wants to 'abbe yaar drive pe chalte hai' and shows me photos of girls on his Blackberry saying 'yeh achhi ya woh vaali' and dances to Punjabi music all day.

And there is my sister who I cannot live without so I am more than glad she is back from her holiday in the south so we can play 'Monty Jonty best bhais in the world' and look at pictures at shoes online and make lists and plans to rob my father.

My father has just discovered Eminem and my mother has decided she's what is according to her, 'hep'-hop. Her new rap song goes like this - 'Kya kar raha hai/chill kar raha hoon/kya karien?/Chill karte hai'. The inspiration for the song apparently comes from conversations I have with my friends and her hephop is clean as she is most disapproving of the genre's nonchalant,extensive use of 'motherfucker'. 'Paavam ava amma laan' (Their poor mothers).

(I just watched the GG finale and am losin' it. Wants brunch with the girlfriends so we can hyperventilate about CAN YOU BELIEVE CHUCK and torture Queerfish who is only too happy to be chilling with us and telling us to stop being such chicks.)

Bhenchot batti gayi phirse. MAAR HI DAALO!! 

I wish my exams would end so we can be rollin down the street smokin indo sippin on gin on juice, yo.

I should really go study for my exam because time wasted is always a source of future regret. 

'You ask me brothers why I flinch, 

Well I will tell you, inch by inch, 

Is it not proper cause for fright

That what is day will soon be night?

Evenings I flinch the selfsame way, 

For what is night will soon be day.

At five o clock it chills my gore, 

Simply to know it isn't four.'

Ogden Nash is always on to something.
I really need to get out of this lit fit cause I have started saying 'wondrous cool'. 
Time to get stoned with trance cousin fuckeverythingelse.

After many hours of staring at my dog  chase balloons and my fish pick up gravel and move it around (true story), I have finished studying the various debates in Christian theology. Not as boring as it sounds. But a little, yes. And this is not even technically part of my course. It's just to understand why some complex individuals from the 1700's wrote what they did.

The absolute irony of religion is that God did not create man, but man created God. But then of course, that only holds as true if you look at it from THIS point of view, the one that I'm looking at it from.
I actually pointedly capitalized my G's.

While I'm freaking about exams whose importance in my opinion is probably deluded, but as is (most definitely not probably) my opinion, SnoopDogg on twitter is 'eyes low, I'm blown, high like a mothafucka' on puffpasstuesdays.

Want to dance on sand dunes wearing yellow like Manisha Koirala and Bobby Deol in Gupt. If only life was all 90's Bollywood. Where love was boundless and yellow clothing acceptable. 

I'm standing on a stage
Of fear and self-doubt
It's a hollow play
But they'll clap anyway 

Based on my bleak glimpses of a future, my desire for bizarre locations and coordinated dancing might actually be a possibility. In one of those Hindi films that has fake sets and Tushar Kapoor and pretends like it's completely normal.
I shall take thy leave now cause I need to send over some Aata to humsabkifavourite...saamne vaali Jain aunty!! 'Woh kya hai na beta, uncle ko subah-subah garam-garam rotiyan pasand hai', she tells me with a generous smile like I was the one being fed. 'Garam-garam rotiyan' is spoken with special emphasis and vigor like it always is. Anyone who's been blest with the offer of them shall know what I mean.

At six fifteen every morning, I sneak up near ma's room every morning so I can jump at her as she stumbles sleepily out of her room and shouts 'Pishaash Kutti!!!' at me (meaning 'ghost child' in Tamil), my mother's chosen language at vulnerable situations. Mine of course is Hindi. In times of extreme happiness and sadness I cannot articulate in any other. I do feel like a pishaash kutti though. It's going to be eight in the morning and I'm in a familiar situation. In bed trying to sleep but imagining myself on the Conan O'Brien show instead saying meaningful things and thanking my friends and then leaving to drink beer with The Strokes like in this song. 

Maybe this is a prophecy to an impending future of glory or....not.  

I like Conan way more than Jay Leno though. 
Fabrizio moretti is so yummy dude.

I have spent the last some hours jumping around to an Incubus concert in my room while trying to read Shakespeare.
Also, the 'usne bola kemchhe kemchhe kemchhe' song has been playing in my head ALL FREAKIN WEEK. "Neend nahin aati hai raaton mein!". There's problems even Govinda can't solve. 


I need to get some damn sleep because my life is not written by Chuck Palahniuk.

And if these pigeons don't stop doing it in my AC I will shoot them through their non- existent brains.