Nehru Keychain


It was the mid summer of 2008, and I was about halfway through my 12th grade. I was still living in New Delhi at the time, but had just recently received the nod from CIC regarding my student visa status. I remember accompanying my mom to the local American embassy for some usual mundane bureaucratic step that had to be completed almost instantaneously, for if I was to ever have a chance to enter Canada of all places. There was a relentlessly endless line on this extremely hot sunny day, as it usually is at such places. Luckily, taking opportunity of my surroundings, I struck a deal with my mom that while she prepared for this mundane event, I would visit a nearby historical sight that I had always heard of but never truly cared enough to visit.

This was Teen Murti Bhavan (Three Statue House), the former residence of the first Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, who stayed here for 16 years until his death on May 27, 1964. Historically, that was all I knew of Nehru, and yet I had always quite admired him, something I rarely ever. May be it was because of his iconic sense of style, his famous speech or the fact that every third stone in Delhi was named after him. I, frankly do not know, but he had a lavish house filled with interesting nick-nacks from all around world and across different periods. And, I simply went with the moment. I spent over an hour or hour and a half, which was a big commitment from me at the time. As I was leaving, I came across this shambles of a souvenir shop, keeping in fashion with the rest of the place, and shop keeper, this plump middle aged lady, mistook my casual stroll by as an invitation to stop doing whatever she was doing, probably something that had nothing to do with her actual work, and sell me some cheesy memorabilia that I did not need. She was quite enthusiastic about making a sale, likely because not many Indians have a habit of visiting empty graves, so not to kill her excitement I decided to buy the cheapest scrap of personified history available – a key chain. Sadly, she caught me eyeing a row of books as she wrote up the bill, and I ended up buying a 500 page anthology of India, written by Nehru himself, as well. At this point, it is important to note that the only piece of literature I had ever read up till that moment of time, which ran more than 20 pages, was Charlie and the chocolate factory by Roald Dahl.

The Discovery of India by Jawaharlal Nehru is considered a modern classic and is just one of his many books, the complete collection of his writings run across 81 volumes, but this specific anthology he wrote during one of his times spend in prison. All of this I would later find out, almost a year later, when an ignorant high school history teacher would ask me, in front of a crowded classroom, as to how morally and economically bankrupt India was and that whether I hated the “untouchables.” And sadly, I wouldn’t have an answer because in spite of living in India for my entire life and spending the mandatory years memorizing it’s culture and history, I absolutely knew nothing about why it was here or what it means for it to be here. Thus, began the process of gaining a complete education and understanding what it means to be an Indian, an Asian, a Human and, most importantly, just to be.

All because I was pressured into buying a key chain by a vixen of shop keeper, who probably didn’t even care.


The Grey Life (2006)

My 1st piece of writing ever, excuse the bad grammar.

It was a bitter and chilly winter day. I was on my way back home from the school. I 

took the same bus that I took every other school day and expected the same boring 

ride home that in time took only twenty to thirty minutes but felt like an decade. I took 

the same old window seat as I like glancing out the window on the way home as it was 

the only means of entertainment available. But the ride ended up becoming one of the

 most eye openings and inspiring experiences of my short life. On the way home, the bus

 stopped at a traffic signal and there I noticed him while glancing endlessly out the

window. He was an old man carrying a rectangular box which appeared to be twice his

 size. I guessed he was in his eighties. He appeared as a tall, wrinkly and somewhat pale 

looking individual. He was barley able to carry that enormous box but managed quite 

well compared to any other individual of his age whom I knew. Seeing the old man I felt 

helpless and also angry as to how nobody around him offered to assist him. I admired the 

old man’s spirit as anybody else in his place would have waited for someone to 

help him or her. Finally, he found a spot to rest under an old oak tree which stood just beside 

the highway. The tree just like the old man survived in spite of all odds in a densely

 populated and demanding area. The old man pulled out a small rug from his box and laid

 it out on the rough and bumpy floor and sat on it. He appeared to be mumbling to 

himself, maybe because he did not have any family or friends to share his feelings with. He 

started placing objects out of his rectangular box and on to the rug. They were mainly cigarette 

packs and tobacco packets. He had opened his own little stall that may have been his 

only source of income and livelihood. Then I noticed the various religious posters and 

stickers that were stuck on the lid of the rectangular box ,which he had now positioned

 vertically as a barrier to prevent someone from looking into it as he was hiding

 something. They indicated that he had still not lost his faith and must have believed that it

 was god who would have been testing him and would reward him later. Suddenly the 

earth started to tremble and the old man stated to move away from me. But then I realized

 that it was the bus which began to move again as the traffic light turned green. I became

 so glued in observing every little aspect and movement of the old man that I lost track of

 the surroundings around me. However, I still kept watching him as he disappeared in the

distance, not knowing that how he had inspired an individual to never lose hope and faith

 during the journey of life.

The Queen with Speaking Eyes


Once upon a time in a land tucked below a blanket of glimmering tree tops that lay beneath the gaze of a blushing crimson sky, there crept a seclusion of hope and honey where people together laughed and cried. There rested a home of a beloved kingdom’s queen. A queen, who like all others was beautiful, charming and a caring delight, yet quite unlike. She was no ordinary queen as she was one with a pair of puzzling eyes, which her public proclaimed as speaking eyes. They claimed it granted an enchanted sight that spoke to the souls of all men and women alike, making all do as the queen would like. In her state, there crept no peeping corners with watery eyes, no empty rooms of forgotten family nights or even crazed men with godly plights. All was as she meant to be, no one or thing unlike. The queen’s empire soared, and with every triumph of peace and harmony that bore, her name flew beyond the horizon just a bit more. Each day a new suitor arrived to adore the magical queen, begging for her hand in  matrimony. But each time, they all left with an unanswered question and an uncertain queen behind. With all the queen could do, she could never tell if whether it was the queen herself  or the eyes that lured those men behind.  She thought of her eyes to be her greatest curse. Tired  of her pain,  she asked of her mother, the former queen, to explain. Her mother replied that “the king and I suffered a great ordeal in our efforts for the kingdom, and this seemed a way the world evened us out by granting to our daughter at which we ourselves could never arrive.” Tired of her mother’s givings that felt more a restriction than rejuvenation, the unsatisfied daughter left her mother side in a harsh sigh.

In her rage, she gathered three of her most reliable advisors and asked of each for a cure. The first came back with the unusual demand of placing the queen inside of an opaque box. The box would have the smallest slit, he explained, just wide enough for a piece of paper to pass by. The advisor claimed that if the queen could not see or hear her audience and only gave written instructions for her loyal subjects to follow, hence, one could know tell who they really followed, the queen or her eyes. And so, the queen demanded for her a royal box be built from where within she would live the next few days. Day and night she stood locked within the enclosed chambers, only exchanging her directions and conversations with the world outside on scribbled upon paper through the slight. In spite of all her troubles, the quest bore no fruit as the public still followed the queen on hands and feat.

After the first failed attempt, now the queen gave an ear to what her second advisor had to say. He boastfully claimed that he had come up with several potions that could put an end to her magical dilemma. He made the queen try a bunch for days on end, each day a fresh that tasted more bitter, darker and dizzier than the last. With all his effort, he attained no results and only a mess of unwanted outcomes. One potion caused the queen to grow enormous swollen feat, while another made her almost drown in her own sweat and the rest caused her hair to tangle upwards as if a bird’s nest. Again tired and disappointed, the queen took solace in the experiment’s end.

With falling hope and a faint heart, she turned to her last advisor. He, unlike others, offered nothing but a few words  that “the true test of love is in its absence, within the pain felt behind of a deserted lover.” He asked for the queen to discreetly run and hide within the dense mists of the forest beyond her kingdom’s lines, and wait for one who would come unannounced looking behind. The one who came yearning to ease his pain undirected or mystically drawn, is the one you want, he explained. Following his advice, the queen one night fled and left to hide.

First passed the days and then the months, with each adding day in seclusion the queen’s heart broke and fell as someone had yet to come. As more time riddled by, her pain turned into anger, and the more angry she got the more resilient she became. She learned to live alone, without a face to make her laugh or cry, except her own. Living off whatever she was lucky enough to find or willed enough to obtain from her a new unconquered land. The queen had finally began to learn how to live on her own.

After years in desertion of love, the queen, now aged and tested, on a sudden confident morning took the passage towards her far left behind kingdom, once her beloved home. On entering her old place gates, she had nothing but to gain astonishment. The palace, the market streets or even the children’s mimicry seemed left untouched as if she had never left, all marked by her silhouette and presence. She walked further more and around, only to finally rest puzzled beneath her still unmoved bronze effigy. A statue that reminded all of her and what she did, even if all was now forgotten by her. In her daze, he approached a boy playing nearby by, “Why does she still stand?” she asked. The boy resolutely replied “She was once our beloved queen, who took care of our every need. With her, we need not worry about anything, she was always there to take our care. But one day she disappeared, and no one knew where or why. Everyone was in a panic. We looked and looked, but without our leader there stood none to unite us in her search. Everyone just scrambled arbitrarily from here to there, and came up with nowhere.Each of the queen’s advisor tried to take advantage of our hate and suspicion and made a claim to her throne, but all were vanquished in their mindless struggle for power. With time, we learned to trust and care for each other.  In her absence, we were all forced to live together, and not just beside each other as we did before. We formed a democracy and elected leaders, we finally became community. Even though we never found out what happened to our queen, we like to believe that her departure was meant to teach us a lesson.”

“And what may that be?” asked the queen quite frantically. The boy proudly replied “loving one means learning to let them go, because it is only in desperation that they learn to love. Today, my queen may not be by my side, but it was her love for me that taught me to love.”

Lhamu. A gasping impulse for an intangible desire.

A tired puff of relentless air, a revolting hand on the spreads and a failure lathered headbutt. All the signals of discontent the protagonist entails during an effort to gain some much eluded sleep and a thoughtless tranquil being. He eyes blindingly towards his cell to catch a sneaky glimpse of the time flying by as if never having envisioned such a mass source of radiance, almost like the tales of knowledge that once the philosopher and teacher Socrates foretold. 12:45am – is the stamp of time read by this forsaken soul, as if out of the sandman’s delight. It has now been nearly 3 hours since the battle for appeasement from a fulfilled rest began.  Eyeing around his room you would dearth an amalgamation of genres of interest and endeavours – politics, art, commerce, history, fiction and even sports. A stampede of books, whose width would sunken the heart of any other contingent of the contemporary youth stand like the individual in talk; a riot of colours and shapes through the medium of paint, metal and plastic that are enough to blind even the most hardline of enthusiasts; and an unnatural blend of objects from the past and gadgets of the present. From among the confusions and contradictions of the surrounding space emerges a sight of focus or rather an entity that seems misplaced, if not concealed, among the zealous of the individual’s concentrations. It is a small black notebook, no larger than the size of a personal dairy. No graphics, corporate trademark or even a cheeky title on the medium of expression. It materializes as a blank slate from the superficial perspective, maybe in an attempt of shrugging off intruders through false deception of emptiness. Finally, after glancing through the enormity of his feats and glaring limply at the objectification of the black book, he slithers up from his slump and contemplates an action or thought while gathering strength hinging on his bedside bank.


Reminiscing through the dreary lanes, monotonous streets and ill gone offspring of fate dwelling around the pessimists of devotion and charity, he finds himself entering a world governed around the appearance and disappearance of the authoritative, yet draconian, red light. The ideologically undeveloped mind of the boy, if that what he is, trying to rationalize the adolescence behind the whores, the neglect behind the pimps and the bewildered lust behind the secretive pigs thriving on fornicating nymphs. In spite of dilutions to the concepts of rights and wrongs in the protagonist’s cognisant, he seems never farfetched from his habitual state under the realms of unfounded plight, sly and ache for wealth and ability to cause misery. Strolling callously around the veins of panic and horror, he spots a bar, only in name, which is still unwrapped by the night’s lore and persists to invite solitary characters and dire amnesia addict slowly awakening as sobering folks. Neither is he gutted by the mind nor by the soul as he observes the epitome of shame that the proposed society has dragged a prostitute to be. He is not repelled by her enticing stand for it must have taken scores of thumping to make a girl limp as her. He cherishes her consuming scent; the very same potted with the sweat of her feats, her patrons and her cause earned redemption. He transpires beyond the coat of slapstick pleasantries that the vermin of the world desire to smitten on and indulges into the splendour of the less uppity aspects of beautifications like the mesmeric ballet of the eminent nose ring, the tomes of the enigmatic kajal or the strict shyness of a freckle. May be it’s because of his obsession with the slick past or nervousness for the eventual taste. He puts himself under the grips of the night sky and the solace of a lonely corner as if he is stuck and the only thing he can do is stare endlessly into the oblivion that has come to be this tavern of so called aberrant desires, as termed by the intellectual and the holy, and the shanty-shack professions around it. He lay there in torment of a thought, a thought he is yet to decipher and fully understand. He lay there in his confusion   concerning the world, its people and the possible afterlife. Concerning his mind with the most fundament of question which glories the intellectual, but even the most ardent and spiritual laureates of the past failed to find an answer to. But he sat there in his naivety, self-claiming inability and a set of eyes cracked with the torment to find an answer, no matter the question. His body was twitching, shivering as his formidable instincts. After an impulsive squeeze to the eyes, he propounds an action and moves squeamishly towards the gates of the night-lit bar. He walks with a concealed cynicism, yet profound buoyancy as if the skies were his and the moon his apprentice. To his delight or simple plutonic luck, there were no obstructions at the gateway. No bouncer, pimp or even a menial watchguard to bard his heartthrob entrance. Feeding to his cynicism, he peeks in a look to see if the doors held more than he desired for or least needed.

Among the humming of the ethanol clouds and tinkering of the rainbow rains, he comforted in an uneventful corner while eyeing the various caricatures of the place. He drifted his foci from everything in between the fat guys with heavy drinks to the petite men with over-compensative roars.

“One screwdriver.”

He ordered so with a guilty quench to the evidently elder and characteristic bartender as if with the embarrassment of what impression of his celebrated age would be shed. A 19 year old sipping on intoxicating vodka at nearly 2 in the morning is not the least of pleasing sights, he thought.

He ushers a random gaze through the morbid shells of females baring their bones for the incessant primordial requirements of the here dominant males. Among the frail   jazzing women, he focused his off and on attention on a girl who was seen as the exotic delight of the lot. She was a petite woman of possibly North-East Indian descent, unlike her companions who largely appeared to be from the hinterlands of the nation. At first the blinding streams of rainbow lights and the dimmed chastity of this edifice made it hard to resonate with one’s eyes, yet her disenchantment with her surroundings carried the dangled boy’s interest. Flickering between the smoothness of his drink and the disenchantment of the girl, he continued to lavish her with attention.  He in an impulsive act seeks a look towards the fairly hidden clock on the wall. 2:35 – it has now been more than half an hour since he drifted into his creation of self serving lust, yet he was the  only person there who hadn’t had a cheeky twirl with one of the girls or an overzealous consumption of slippery alcohol. He laid rooted there in his obsessions, his drink and the girl, until the dawn of the hangovers was evoked by the seeping rays of a new day and the paranoia of a transcending night. By now, the stage had been cleared and the various fornication enthusiasts had emptied their respective chambers of interest. The boy no longer bothered to check the time or know of whether he is now suppose to be somewhere or do something and be worried about someone caring. For now, in these lusciously illuminating speed sticks, he did not seem to care.

He now once again scrambles up from a prolonged state of skirmishing in his nothingness, except only for this time to find one of his obsessions standing in front of him.  His muscles contracted, his eyes stretched and his body stared murmuring its own tones. He stood there in silence, yet embarrassed by his answers. He released no refined speech of the sublime con man or the garnished delights of the petite youth filled boy, not even the least inspiring grunts of the nymphotic teenager.   He stood there flinching, left alone by the trades of knowledge which he so eagerly attained.

And with the flicker of an amorous smile, letters drizzled in an intervene fashion of an elapsed age of harmonious occurrings and gentle times.


His hidden obsession spoke with an accompanied gesture of a crucial introduction. She spoke with an unlinked passage to the indigenous trends of her environment, unaware of the generated awareness around her.


“Uncle, doh coffee dena” (Uncle, two coffees please)

“Uncle? … ”

He eyed back and forth between his transcendent desire and an old grunt tacking his daily tweaks.   A petty bourgeois is what the boy thought of him, someone who administered his entire medium of life around the mechanical principles of pride and respect. He quarrels with a wholesaler not for a few extra rupees, but for the primordial intent of protecting his paradigm of rational content. The shopkeeper remains negligent, and the boy distant. As he stood there in time waiting for the man to cease his blustering sounds of anger, the girl carelessly pounced near gentlemen and shrugged his shoulder in an act of frisk. She ushered furtively in his ears, as the man gazed in concentration and the boy perplexed.


This was only the second word liberated by the girl’s speech, after the initial exuberance of her name. She placed forth a yellowish delight for the oblivious boy. He at first was questionable of her offer, not because of his ambiguity towards the girl’s intentions rather, due to the sight of a floating visitor twirling in his drink. Yet, it seemed irrational to challenge his irrational reason that had brought him so far, that too over just a minor infectious pest.

“Uhmm.. What is this?”

The girl mimed her request for gratification, as the bounds of communication between linguistics placed a thorn.

“(Strident coughing)”

He felt a burn through his throat and a fond contact, one of the two was all too proverbial. The former was the girl drawing him towards a trail while he reminisced about the taste. She walked him through a pathway into an indicatively concealed door placed inside the store.


Stammering, muttering on and off the stairs, he felt enriched by the dust and dirt around him. He felt no longer perplexed by the accompanied splendour and her clandestine endeavours. He focussed on the dirt as usual, only to be remarkably amazed. He felt the exuberance of his reactions fading away. He followed an old man enlightening the way as he rode in the comfort of an alluring girl beside him; another cliché that he felt reality had made him to experience. The aged individual, like the girl, seemed to have swayed away from the luring clarity of the emerald east and under blotted tint of these escalating crimson lanes. He seemed one with the grime and filth that bounded him, making it hard for the boy to percept his existence. He finally eloped into delusion and then an illustration, making him what now seemed to be a tarnished rustic door. There were droplets of absent hues trickling onto the door, only to soak the habits of colours and fly away in a mist of twittering birds.

“(Coughing) haha . . ha…”

The illusion imagining disillusioned boy gained his momentarily misplaced wits to visualise the now seeming monotonous fellow only opening a snuck door, stuck between the staircase and a blocked passage. What lay beyond the other side was a half-naked white male lying unconscious on the lavatory with a beer bottle snug between his bare legs. Before the boy could gather enough recollect, the foreign man was severed from the boy’s memory and given a soothing crack of radiance.  The half-naked man was frisked away, leaving behind a traditionally reserved for a few unkempt eyes.  Strings of rose-coloured light seemed parched for a flounce in the niche of her eyes. He felt an absence of air, all seemed to be galloping for a blissful thump off her lips. Her radiance blinded time as it callously swept by, as the boy glared in a daze.  She retreated into a dejected tub that lay behind her, with her hand in his and his face following hers. An image that he undertook constructing barely hours ago erupted facing him like a sultry slap from temptress reality. As till now, he compulsively followed her again. Anxious, quite and flabbergasted, he stood there as the exposed splendour sought to   uncover the hidden boy.

The two said naked individuals stood alone in a nervous rut with their visions misaligned. The girl in a haze turns on the shower, perhaps in a vague attempt to suppress a discrete unease. Through the feeble walls of shower the boy, for once this night, extended towards his lust for desires by surrounding the soothe of the lady with the comfort of his hands. At first, she expressed some minor contempt, in the end fell into a relentless slump and into the boy’s soothe. After moments of pampering holds and indulgence, the boy once more took initiative to slither his hands on to the girl’s face in an attempt to align their eyes into harmony. He observes the liquid sliding down from the crevasse below her eyes and finally off precipice of her lips, as if having being slayed by its own self delight. He stared at her for moments on, only to be brought to abrupt by a hesitant approach of her eyes, nose and lips that seeked more than just menial harmony. She sought unity, which he made obtainable.


Frivolously loitering in her room, or least what he presumes to be, he is encompassed within a sense of enticing ecstasy indulging his every gulp of air with a flavour of fresh pleasing perceptions. The streams of the red light that once stood for the despot, now morphed into the stems of uncut roses that hid the space under their caring shade. The Red eyes, red lights, red lips with the red roses read what the boy’s broken reed had to be. Searching through her belongings, he smiles at the sight of an image. It was of her, floating her pre-pubescent innocence in an immature dress with a pair of annoyed eyes.  And then, hastily shedding the picture aside he witnessed what his actions made and his thoughts desired. So, he ran towards his obsession for new found desires.


He stood on both the zenith of his emotions and at the peak near the skies facing the rising dreams of mankind. With watery eyes and a hardened fist, he opened his dazzle wits to the old man whose path he once thoughtlessly followed to quench the needs for his much eluded answers. On the roof of this abandoned place, the boy relenting in his haze, while the elderly man with his back towards him sought to face the more appealing traits of existence like the rising sun and the twirling-teetering bird. One youth stood in a mist of rage, as the old wept appreciating the imminent age.



Get a life @ssh#le!: The constant beckoning among two mutual friends.

[The responsibility of meaning being derived from the following fictional sketch lies solely with the reader.]

(The following is a conversation that took place on a social networking site between two separately competing friends.)



I want name!

not money

I have money

It’s enough


donation kyo? donation denase life meaningful ban jaati hai..

I have money? bas.. everyone has money..big deal..



so what shud i do with my life?


ur asking me? That’s frankly sad man..

kudh ka sooch



motive kya hona chahiye?

yeh bata

why do we live?


teri life..tujhe pata hoona chahhiya..kuch life ke principles nahi hai kya tera?


i got no clue


then get a clue..

think about this..not making money..that’s easy!


principles ka kya karu main


gand me daalega! sala life jeeyehga apne liya unse..not for money or fuck


bore matt kar

apne liye ka kya matlab


bore mat kar matlab? sala uthjaa tu..


aise toh main kuch bhi na karu


kisi aur ke zindagi jee raha hai tu


kahi door beach me pada rahu

ya upar pahado me

koi kam karne ka mann toh karta nahi


toh maine kab bola kaam na kar..

par iss “kaam” sabdh ko khud define kar..


aur kaam kis liye karte hai?


kisi aur ke definition mat pakar!


bhai we all need some money

i dont want to depend on my dad


fuck no you don’t!


that’s why i need money



you can live easily without money..


and i am over love and marriage and shit

so i want someone who looks awesome


You’re 19..ur not over love


trust me i am

waise bhi


so fuck a hot prostitute..


love shuv ka chakker nahi pasand


what’s wrong with that?


bhai prostitute wala drama tujhe hi pasand hoga

i want someone who actually wants me


but you said you didn’t want love?


i mean, wo expecting anything in return


you only want someone hot..




so you want a prostitute..


i want katy perry


I don’t see the difference..


she is HOT



you’ll either be fucking a girl by giving money or love..


and not at all a prostitute


you are giving money.. but in the way of dates and gifts..

that’s same as prostitution..


she has enough money

bhai u r talking

just like Rohit did


then you’ll sell her fake love which = money


about Amrita

in goa


not really.. he was talking about a girl’s character.. I’m talking how dating for fuck is same as prostitution..and there is nothing wrong with it



tell me ur aim in life

and by this way you think all girls all prostitutes!

cuz all of them expect nice dates and gifts


To not have one – that’s my aim.. because my philosophy doesn’t believe in aims..I know what i believe in..


I don’t think they are prostitutes.. like I don’t think guys are in the same way as well..I see nothing wrong with either this or prostitution..




both are right according to me.. it’sa free world..I’m jst proving that what you want is from life is only a good fuck and some cash..


tu bimaar hai

ilaaj kara apna

bhai mating is human nature

it’s inborn


and about



at least I know what I want from least I’m living a life according to my definitions..


we all need money

· 03:34

no you don’t..

you think you do..

you need food and shelter..not money..


and that comes from money


no they don’t..

they come from the ground and the sky..


then go and live on the streets




and go to a temple where they distribute food




“you need food and shelter..not money.. ”



I never said you can’t want money..I said you don’t need it..

there is a difference


pagal hai bhai tu

tere se bhais nahi kar sakte

tujhe kuch samjhna hi nahi

bas oppose karna hai

we all fuck

i just wanna do that in style


because that’s my aim in life – to not have an aim..


thats the best way to put it


I’m living my life.. what are you doing?


style = nice place, nice girl, nice everything


Living for money and sex? which do you think you need?

phir kya?

you’ll have all this by 40-50..

this isn’t your life..

your living someone else’s..



i am living mine

but this is something that i would like to have


that you think..

living is different from having..

learn that my friend.. it’s important..


bhai i have nothing worth living for

i shud jump off from a building

but that won’t solve the problem


I finding something your own to live for will..


at least i could study some more

do something big

get people some jobs

be useful to the world

and then die



why? What would that do for you? why be useful?


i told you

for me, i would like a girl, and some money to spend

and then i’ll donate when i am done with my greed


so what?? Where is YOUR life in here???? I only see fuck, money and charity..

Where are you?


i fuck





chal you have seen the movie, the social network



that’s all you do then..fuck.. that’s why I say fuck a prostitute so that you can concentrate on finding your life then!


he starts off


fuck him..


cuz he wanted to prove himself to his ex gf


fuck him I said..

live your own life..not what some asshole did..

get a life!!!!!!!


for that i need to complete my bachelors


you need to know why you need a bachelors..


i know


then get a life!


mark zuck found what he “could” do only when he had the knowledge of his subjects

that’s what i lack

i don’t know anything


ur not Mark asshole..


i never learnt anything after school


get your own life.. and your own way of finding one..


bhai tujhe samajh nahi aaya

i said

i need to know stuff


bhai tu life kab lega apni?






bhai life me kuch karne ke liye

kuch toh aahna chahiye

mujhe sahi me kuch nahi aata

there’s not much difference between me and any person who’s graduating from school this year


you’ll know if you think what is that you want or define life to be..

and it doesn’t start with money or end with fucking


it starts with knowledge

i know that much

i have learnt that


it started off with experience..not knowledge..


experience se start nahi ho sakta bhai


life starts with experiences..


wat life experience do you have!?


I learned from touching fire that you can’t touch fire.. I learned water ends fire.. I learned you need air to live.. this is life experience..

not knowledge



i got exams this week

will talk to you next saturday


ab soja


get a life.. and I’ll sleep..

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