mihir

I've often wondered about the bravest thing I've ever done. But the answer eludes me. The thing about bravery, the way I see it, is that it's associated with courage. I have been told that some of the things I've done were courageous, and borderline stupid. Hence, brave. However, when I did do the things in question, I didn't feel I was being courageous, but rather I really felt like performing the act. So courage was out of the window, and stupidity in. It all changed a few days back. This is the story of when I felt I undertook an act that was beyond the threshold that I call comfortable.  We were in Alaska, in the city of Anchorage. It was ten at night, into our ninth day in the State. Needless to mention, we were tired, and every ounce of energy being burned was being supplied from the reserves of Theplas we were carrying with us. The weather outside was beautiful. Well, over here, we use such superlatives to describe it every time it does not rain. It was not r

I cut the packet open, and emptied the contents in a microwaveable container. An orange Tupperware . I heated it for one minute, as the packet instructed me, and then took the first bite. I had contrasting feelings, at a dichotomy with each other. Surprise, & awe, at what one minute could do to uncooked food. Disappointment, & a lack of satisfaction, at what one minute could not do to uncooked food.  It was lunch on the fifteenth of May, two thousand and seventeen, my 20th birthday. It was the third day of my internship in Taiwan, and also the first motivation to learn how to cook Dal Makhani .                                                                                                          I was back home, to Pune, in July, two months after that day, determined to change my predicament. I initially tried to learn from my mother, but being good at cooking does not immediately translate to being good at teaching how to cook. The addition of spices,  Swaad Anusaar ( acco

it appeared on screen, and in my life, for the first time in April that year. It was the summer of two thousand and fourteen, around twelve months before the entrance examination. Given that I was preparing for the JEE, one might imagine that the most enticing thing for me, in that blockbuster, would be the life (style) of someone, post graduation, from the very institute I was training my mind for. But that was far from what caught my attention. Rather, it was a blue polo t-shirt adorned by Arjun Kapoor in 2-States, the portrayal of the real life hero in Chetan Bhagat. The Sky Blue Polo . I can't recollect what exactly it was about that color, that shade, that drew me to it. All I knew was that I had to get my hands on one of those. That exact shade, neither a tad bit bluer, nor a tad less blue. And get I did.  College during the day, coaching during the evening, and educating the self during the time that remained, meant that outings, let alone celebrations and special occasions

if there ever was a right way, and time, to use that phrase, now would be as good an occasion as any. A breath of fresh air . Barcelona was that for me, it felt that way. I had been traveling alone for the past 6 days through Italy, after a week in the Netherlands where I had had the comfort of family interleaved between my travel time. I explored the city during the day, only to come back home to familiarity. But Italy was different, significantly. when I had planned (exaggeration) this trip a couple of months ago, I had to choose between a week in Italy, or an escapade through eastern Europe, covering the major towns of Prague, Budapest, and Vienna. I wanted to do something unconventional, a little off the ordinary, a tad bit local. I imagined pacing my way through the streets of Napoli and Florence on a Vespa, the Italian equivalent of our beloved Activa, and that was it. The choice was made.  I stepped out of the airport on a Saturday morning, to find myself in a damp, crowded envi

I arrived at half past 11 in the morning, on three hours of sleep, owing to my jetlag  —  courtesy of the nine hours time difference between the States and the Netherlands. The city was Amsterdam, and the first stop, Dam Square. I normally don't indulge in street performances, but here I was embarking on a three week trip, alone. So I wanted to give in to everything touristy, and local, alike. And so I signed up to watch a Londoner, or so he claimed, dance by fitting into a hula hoop.  I'm going to tell you what followed, on the basis of memory alone, for I don't have any pictures, not anymore at least.  The romance with her began immediately. It's almost impossible for it to happen any other way. If you're in Amsterdam, keeping your eyes closed is the only way to stay clear of the canals; and your heart closed, to avoid falling in love with them. And I'm no different, not in this regard at least. I started walking along the canals, and turned directions when an

545PM, the local time in Netherlands. I'm on a train journey to Eindhoven, where an uncle of mine stays. It's an hour away, adding to the miles I've already clocked so far. The last month has been a race against time to lose weight in the bulk, to look presentable (by my standards) by the time this trip began. Every day I'd track the steps I had taken, as a result of the running and badminton I was so extensively involved in. For a change, today I'm making a mental note of the miles I've accrued, as I sat stationary in one place, for hours at a stretch.  The immigration was easy today, unlike the drilling I'm so accustomed to in the place from which I'm traveling. It was quick too. No sooner had I stepped out of the flight at 445PM, that I started walking briskly, knowing well enough that if I don't complete the formalities that each nation has made us used to, in time, I'd have to take the train at 545, instead of 515. I don't even know why

it's the 4th of May, and well as they say, may the fourth be with you (me in this case). I'm at the Centurion Lounge at the San Francisco Airport, about an hour before I start boarding my flight, to embark on a journey that will take me to Europe, for three weeks. That's one loaded statement, filled with achievements, that in the moment feel very small, or rather insignificant. But if I look back to any point in time, where my younger self was told that he'd one day be in a lounge at an airport, I'd accept it with a blink of an eye. It was always fascinating when I saw people do it, or talk about it. And today, here I am. To add to this, i'm traveling solo (for most of it) to Europe, no mean task in itself, and although I haven't successfully (we'll get to what success of a trip would mean in a bit) begun, let alone complete, the trip, I ought to take a step back and appreciate the intent, and the action to undertake this in the first place!  To say that