We Don’t Know

You know those lazy mornings? The ones when you’re bludgeoning to go, energized with the plan for the day; yet think to stay a couple of hours in bed figuring out where you’re actually going in life?

Do you know those speeches? Yes, the ones you rehearsed maybe a thousand times a day for days; yet drop you numb like… Like it’ll all be over the moment you say it.

I know them too. I bury them underneath my generous smiles which might not be as alluring as yours but nonetheless are fake too.

I’m that person who’ll tell you that it’s not the offenders errand to not  hurt you and by the end of the night, will excavate a corner at the edge of the bed and cry for feeling less of myself because of someone’s words and actions too. 

I’ll tell you you’re lovable yet won’t know how to love you in the most perfect way.

I’ll preach you to choose your boyfriend over your math class, because the former has the potential of outliving a forever or maybe lasting a forever. But when the ball will be in my court, forget about missing the lecture, I won’t even spare a thought to quit my revision either.

I was strictly advised to be focussed on my career during my childhood, and then suddenly degraded for not dressing up like those pretty girls as I neared my 20. And today as they take on to be the social media queens, I try to recall where did I miss that magic wand which transformed them from clueless kids to charismatic chicks? 

To all my questions, I get just one answer: This world knows nothing and they’ll tell you everything except just that. 


“Is that too much to ask for?” Part II

​”There’s no money in women’s cricket, hence, no future.”

“IPL’s glamorous business is playing in your head, which is but only for men”

“Ever heard of any female cricketer or broadcast of an international match? They’re all oblivious”

One after the other, such pessimism made the road ahead marshy for her and subsequently with every step, Adira feared submerging in the bog.

So just like everyone who failed to understand Robert Frost’s conjecture in his eloquent work, “The Road not taken”, so did she but here on purpose.

When the great poet quipped:

“And I took the one less travelled by,

And that’s made all the difference…”

He rang bells of sarcasm on every individual who’s more or less a part of the mob, yet when interrogated will always mention his great struggle through a difficult path and thereby, claim indelible  triumph in his/her own eyes.

Similarly, even she thought of doing life the easy way by narrating great ideas and greater philosophies of breaking concrete and becoming a professional cricketer but never ever attempting those surreal ordeals.

Holding conversation with peers drowned into dullness as she instead spent her schooling hours by doodling in the chemistry class, poking her face outside the window in the physics class and with a sunken head sealed with ambitions in the computer class. Adira stayed perennially consumed in her own thoughts after that deft “NO” she’d received from her father. This was her class 12 and doubtlessly, Indian parents hardly take this academic session with a pinch of salt let alone playing cricket simultaneously.

Eyes welled up night after night as the pillows grew moist with grief only her heart knew about. Even today, she can’t recapitulate a single moonlit sky which didn’t give her sleep out of dreariness. Dreariness as a byproduct of incessant tears and frothful fears. Every morning that she got up, her feet trembled while getting down from bed. They were shy of crashing on the floor, on landing… Quite incapable of carrying her own weight now.

But, she was adamant. Adamant of not becoming a granny who whines about how life offered her lemons when she sought peaches.

Those tanned pages of every book she’d read in past on meticulous struggles, uncountable sacrifices on the path to glory and the will to adhere in every given circumstance were her Nightingale.

She incessantly muttered to herself that Adira is going to be Adira.

So she survived this woeful academic session, secured admission in a decent college and then thought to give a second shot to her passion. She was worried whether her parents would allow her to play cricket this time around or not. And energy to fight more battles at home had almost drained her mentally in the past two years. So, she put this little clandestine in her belly and hit another cricket field.

Life in this new second home was different. Here, she met a wider pool of players. From the ones who were just playing because they took admission under sports quota to the ones who’d travelled miles from their villages to a metro like Delhi in search of better facilities, exposure and recognition; every girl here had her own story which is quite usual yet, felt magical.

Adira had saved quite a few bucks over the recent years such that she could afford coaching fees, cricketing whites and shoes. She spent the initial few months borrowing cricket kit from her peers and often missed college to reach the ground.

Realities were appearing to converge with her expectations as she played quite a few inter college matches and many practice games. But soon she realized that she can’t go really far by playing this hide and seek game at home.

Is that too much to ask for?

​”Is that too much to ask for?”, she sighed.
Adira plucked her school bag from the almirah after pinning the neatly pleated dupatta and sat in the bus. The occasional honking by the driver pestered her often, and consequently she would switch over to her dreams for resurrection.

Sliding on the seat, pushing the back rest of the front chair through her red striped bellies, she adjusted her focus onto things that offered her a new lease of life.

Racing with the morning sun to reach the horizon earlier, she religiously smacked her bat on reaching the ground.

An atheist, had finally found her God.

Soon after, she geared up for tossing the red cherry on a freshly flattened tract, as she kissed her divine idol before releasing it in the air.

“Beeeeepppppppp”, honked the driver one last time on that trip as the school approached and as always, Adira sulked on busted fantasies just like the little girl who was blowing soap bubbles at the roadside.

She marched to her class with bold steps, yet cowardice found solace within. Retrospection that ruffle adults had swept away this young giant’s mind.
“Is that too much to ask for?”, she sighed.
Her parents were bursting magnanimously on her for choosing cricket as a career option till yesterday but today morning, they wore layers of insecurities than the usual fury. Cluelessness did to them what a steady and determined spirit did to her: minds were blown; but in opposite directions.
Rebel is what they called her, when she didn’t succumb to the stereotypes of the world. Never asking anyone as how to conduct herself and plan her future  as a girl, ample of unsolicited advises poured in. In a first, those torturous remarks dented her morale and unrequited sarcasm bruised her ambitions.
Tirelessly creating and recreating speeches in the broad daylight during the recess break, the protagonist often found herself mindlessly bent over trivial issues. She wanted to convince her father to let her play and resultantly, those speeches were meant to quench the thirst of a father who declined to the glass of water on offer.
Breathing was involuntary and hence, smooth; but Adira’s heartbeat wasn’t so. It pounced at every request she made to her parents to let her follow her heart. After a plethora of futile efforts, she made a firm choice… To walk away.
To walk away from everything that appeared like destiny till few days back to experimenting one cheap life which everyone tagged as priceless. A life which would see you retiring at 55. A life where every nook and corner will be filled with, “Ladki hoke cricket khelti hain?”

A life which will see no family turning to you with an apparent rishta.

A life which even if shorter than the rest would be the largest you could’ve lived ever.

So eventually, she slithered with the butterflies in her stomach to the cricket field. Whooshing with the breezy atmosphere from the pavilion end, she came over the wicket and leaped forth on her left foot to deliver a half volley. With the non bowling arm pulling down tons of mental baggage at the time of release, Adira swung the ball inwards. The red leather disturbed the furniture of a seasoned batswoman and Adira’s soul knew no bounds.

Ounces of sweat under the basking sun, helped in forming the iron sans slag!!
Besides conquering what she felt she was born to, Adira inflated herself with oodles of self love, self confidence and self respect. With so many adjectives prefixed with self, she understood that you can be your favorite despite being selfish. You can care for others despite it not being at the cost of your own health: mental or physical.
She realized that when you want something and are tremendously passionate about it then the whole universe conspires to help you attain that goal. And that “she” is someone we all can be, if we’ve the courage to follow our dreams.
Because, in addition to all the material success, your pursuit of passion is going to carve your own identity, is going to help you discover yourself and most importantly, let you accept yourself. Accept your every mistake and take charge of things; and there’s nothing more sublime than this onus.
If you do all this and more, I promise you, you can be the next YOU of every motivational quote.


​One more time,

I want to hear grandma’s tales which took me to paradise but this time, I won’t return.

One more time, 

I want to run at a pace which was never the fastest but this time, I still won’t stop.

One more time,

I want to wear those shorts that exposed my saggy thighs but this time I won’t feel ashamed.

One more time, 

I want to ask that doubt which made me look foolish but this time I won’t care.

One more time,

I want to be asked what makes me happy and this time, I won’t try to fit in!!!


Poets were weaving magic with lexicons that were the delirium of the streets; writers rekindling the same. “There is something wrong”, a boy with a baffled expression on his face quipped from the ghetto of lovers of all sorts… The drunkards, the mavericks, the hysterics and the sob story tellers.

He hated how his brothers were being hated for women who were trying to fit into sizes, most of them didn’t ask them to. Crashing on the floor while dieting, they got up just to accuse, “It’s you for whom we do that”.

Men were the crass of cacophony and the buzz of all loathful songs. 

And then, narrations were soaked in idealism; to elevate men and, to redeem men. To redeem them from the racist outfits of “the darker sex” which no one ever questioned.

They refurbished facts, smashing details on anyone who tried to default.  

“Men are called so only if they have a penis.”

 “Correct”, they approved.

“A man feels like a MAN only if the elongated penis makes its way up til the cervix.” 

“Foul! Sexism!!!”, they winced.

One among them marked another fury, thereby demanding his rights: 

“Alimony looms over me worse than banks seeking mortgage”

Etiquettes in the name of “Ladies first…” drained their time and energy very often, they complained with sore feet (after waiting for long in queues). 

Sexual abuse is always horrific. ‘Men empowerment movements’ and pressure groups were lost as were the ‘men’s protection rights’; thereby tying a noose around justice and fair treatment.

And in the end, when they lit cigarettes to protest against being robbed of freedom… They were laughed hysterically upon owing to the ruins (female suppression) by their ancestors. 


​When tendrils are wound around a string, growth results as formulated but is restricted and slow. It’s scientifically proven that for rapid growth, they should just be.

When kids are left to themselves, more the most they fail in being the stereotypical products but perhaps, they GROW.
We see them in girls squatting whilst forming the greatest possible angles at hamstrings, in boys who shave their legs and mavericks who chant loudly. We call them crazy/lunatic/indecent and trash them off.
Then we tune into videos of ‘the doers’ who submerge the following in neon colors such that no one sidelines it: “They’re the rebels, the misfits, the crazy ones… Who have and will always continue to DO things because they persist with their foolishness through the ordeals and never doubt themselves”. And the least and the most we then do is, nod our heads with that CEO/artist/sportsperson.

Notorious Nostalgia

​If we would have lacked the ability of carrying nostalgia then losing someone would’ve been less painful.

Think about this: When you die and stop breathing all at once, I won’t have to cry woefully recalling how you snored which were also “breaths” that I underrated till the time you were alive. As your nostrils would be stuffed with cotton buds to prevent the corpse from bloating, I wouldn’t have to sit there wondering how much sweat you’d drenched yourself in to prevent that belly from bloating. While the mob would embellish your funeral pyre with choicest “flowers”, I won’t have to regret not buying you the most fragrant “flowers” such that you could have blossomed with them whenever I took you to orchards and florists.


​I expect a lot of flak for posting this but… When a young chooses to be a jawaan; while undergoing training he’s made aware of the obvious: At any unprecedented moment, he would be expected to sacrifice his life for our nation. 

His parents, wife and children are nurtured throughout his life on the same virtues. They might not always agree (or sleep peacefully) in lieu of the risks that run with their son/father/husband on the battlefield but nevertheless, will always respect him for the very same like the entire nation.

In addition to this, there are MANY (trust me) soldiers who lose their lives while protecting us at international borders and even within the domestic territory but pass on to the heavens without any national recognition, only because it isn’t always (though mostly it is) Pakistan which attacks.

Maoists, Nepalese (because many Pakistani terrorists enter into India by taking advantage of porous IndoNepal border) and Chinese borders are threats too. Soldiers who become martyrs while being posted at north eastern frontiers are in no way less than a soldier who is serving at IndoPak border. They’ve families too!

Their families hardly receive any grants from the state (centre is obliged to grant Rs 5 lacs). Moreover, remittances in all glory, are a way to honour the martyr posthumously. In no way, it is the duty of the state to grant sums to the families which have incurred the loss of a son or a husband or a father with amounts compensatory enough such that the bearers of loss can carry a dignified life for forthcoming years.

Be it a widow refusing 5 lacs INR grant from the Nitish government or a mother trying to force it under the state executives’ throat to offer compensation; the demand is completely unjustified (a modest, sensitive plea shall be considered acceptable though) and is a passive attempt to corrode the dignity with which the jawaan laid down his life.

So, for once and for all, (especially for the Army soldiers posted on non IndoPak borders and BSF, CAPF jawaans alike) cut some slack for the executives by not giving into the unsolicited demands of the afflicted families.

Lastly, I would give a last try to make my point through an example. When you go to a temple and offer, say 101 INR to the religious deity; should the idol come to life and disown you? Because you just tried to evaluate majesty’s value as just Rs 101? Or while giving, say Rs 5100, to a newlywed couple; do you do so just because you estimate the couple to be worth 5100 rupees?


The amounts you offer as gifts or grants are never the value predictors of the recipient; they are just a token of love, honour and pride towards the same.

(And the widows/kids in dire need of a source of income have certain reservations in government jobs)

Jai Hind.


​You plan to meet her for lunch at 2pm. She reaches at 2:06 pm and calls you. You tell her that you’ll be there in 5, while still struggling to find your way out of the bed. She waits and waits, listening to your “just 15 minutes, 10, 5 and so on..” Every time she calls.

Finally, you reach! At 3:07 pm, and:

Case 1: Your terrible lies (because she anyway would’ve learned that you have taken more than 5 minutes which you first assured her) and unpunctuality, infuriate her. She barges at you for the same when you finally arrive.
Case 2: She sits there quietly, sliding the matter from the table and greets you warmly. You apologize (that also depends on the kind of person you’re) and she retorts with a gentle smile, “it’s fine!”
You find her over reactive under case 1 and mock her with “when a girl says I’m fine, she’s not.. Girls are so stupid, they don’t mean what they say.. Hahaha” under case 2 (as if you literally meant when you said “just 5 minutes”).
Moral: Men have mastered the art of making a woman appear dumb no matter what she does.
No, I’m not a male basher.

No, my previous two statements don’t contradict.

(Kudos to the men who couldn’t relate to this shit)