mihir

there was once an inseparable bond. Multiple times if I'm honest, each stronger than the previous, or so I was made to feel. And yet today, as I write this, memories fade me.  I remember that bench in Delhi, where I first spoke my heart out, and without realizing too. We were each others comfort sofas, as she called it. The second time, a familiarity seeped in, as life's meaning, the mundane in all it's essence were discussed day and night. There was excitement the third time, and calm, through adventures, one too many. And the most recent, where a sense of being was felt in all it's beauty, as cross border conversations turned into singing, through the streets of old Edinburgh. But the rest of it, and so much too, is all blurry.  I remember pushing thoughts away, of the happier times, of the simpler times, because it was no longer simple. A discomfort almost. What began as a conscious effort, slowly, unknowingly translated into a natural state. A state where she, and t...

the light breeze through my hair, at eight-hundred-and-twenty-three feet, was the loudest soundest I heard that day.  the plan to be there that day was not a premeditated one, but the thought of being in the United Kingdom was. The idea of being present, let alone celebrating a milestone in America, a land that I have still not been able to call home, was unsettling. Being in western Europe, on the other hand, around people I call home, was comforting to the n th  degree. You can call it an escape, because I sometimes do, but the question I ask of you, and me, is a simple one. Is going home ever an escape? when the clock struck twelve, there was a cupcake, a candle, and a dear friend who asked me to make a wish before anything else.  chapatti, dal, rice, & onion aachaar, was what followed after prayer and halwa in the Gurdwara, here in Edinburgh. I do pray regularly, not out of compulsion, but for what it brings - a light breeze. I couldn't script a better start to th...

the city was welcoming Brentford that evening, on the second of May, the official start of summer, and a national holiday, here in the UK. Unknown to them in some ways, they were also welcoming me, with fourteen years of memories up my sleeves.  for as long as I remember time going back, I remember wanting to be here. The cupboards in my room back home, have sketch-pen marks of the players I adored, while books in the storeroom have their images cut out from Sportstar magazines. To add to that, blog articles from back in the day have me talking about their weekly performances. I remember wanting to sponsor my visit here, not 'wasting' (that's what he says) any more of the money my father had spent on merchandise over the years.  and I was finally here, I was home , and I was Welcome(d) to Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams, the home of the biggest football club in the world, I heard the announcement. he made a back heel pass, in the middle of the pitch, a few minutes in. ...

they were talking about planning her wedding dinner - the bride, and the organizer. "I want the food to tell a story", she said, and I overheard. I immediately wondered if I would have the time to pen out the nuances of my special day, like this bride, at 10AM on a weekday.  the cafe was Monmouth Coffee Company , and the nearest Underground station was London Bridge. It was the internet that recommended this place, but it was the white scribble on a black canvas that drew me in. Filter Coffee.  the beans were from Peru that day, and the voices from across the world.  there was a wooden table in the middle, one that could house ten of us -- four each on either of the longer sides, and a piece each on the shorter ones. I got a seat in a moment's notice the first couple of times I was there, but the third time around I was made to stand -- in the first concentric circle around the table, my coffee placed neatly on the arm-rest.  there was this calm I felt, as I tried to...

It was only after I sat down and made myself comfortable, did it really strike me. The privilege I was carrying around was far from innocuous. The sweatshirt read GAP in bold letters, and underneath it was a salmon-pink H&M shirt. The shoes & socks adorned the sign and brand of Nike, and the final strike below the belt was Levis. A bejewelled NRI.  I was in a 3AC compartment of the Indian railways, travelling from Delhi, to Chandigarh on a pleasant Thursday afternoon. It had been a while since I had last commuted via a train in India, and that showed in the lack of expectation and mental preparedness I entered with.  The remaining six people around me had humble backgrounds (I could see it in their eyes) and their clothes smelled of simplicity. I at once knew the privileges, and riches I was travelling with, compared to them, and the majority of India. I had forgotten that most people who travelled in trains in India, came from lower-middle-class families, and used thi...

"How's Mihir?", my aunt asked my mother a day before I was scheduled to fly out to the States. My mother has been a creative creature for as long as my memory serves me, and her reply only reinforced that belief  — "He seems fine, but only once he writes his blog a year and a half later, will we know for sure." I remember this exchange distinctly, and moreover I wrote it down in my diary  — something I had decided to maintain over the course of the next foreseeable future. Just a couple of days back I had written about my undergraduate experience and while the memories had made the words flow naturally, I was almost certain that I had missed out on so called smaller incidents that must have been crucial to my growth during those four years. I did not want to repeat the same mistake, and I believed that noting down incidents, and emotions in real time would aid my memories when (not if)  I did decide to pen down my blog once I completed my master's. So here ...

today wasn't good not as I expected I started off slow that played with my mind there were distractions aplenty the usual  it was hard to pick myself uff, gravity sleep came easy self-doubt nagging along I woke up not for the first time today brewed some coffee and (hoping) with it a fresh-mind sat-upright with a plan in sight that rhyme was music, though short-lived they came again, and took me to a virtual land, far-far away I left my abode and went for a run mind, not nagging along where am I today? I often forget where was I before today? I often forget what did it take for me to get where I am today? I often forget gravity, baby steps, and some coffee I often forget for the umpteenth time   I gave today another go today was a good day lest I forget "Why are you constantly worrying about the next part of your life  without realizing that you're right in the middle  of what you used to look forward to?" ~ Anonymous ...

It was the month of November, and the year was 2019. It was the birthday of one of my closest friends. While she resided in Mumbai, having recently started working for a corporate firm, I was in San Diego — studying. Gifts were sent, and messages exchanged of how she held a dear position in my life — but the time difference and a working day meant that we were unable to talk over the phone for longer than two minutes. On the same day, about two hours before her birthday ended, I was surprised to see her message pop-up on my phone. There were telltale signs in her messages that she was having a horrible day — and that led to a half-an-hour conversation over the phone. She was in a new city, around people she had met just a few weeks prior; it was a working day, and office formalities didn't offer her any celebration other than the meet-and-greet birthday wishes! She had planned to reward herself with a dinner at a fancy restaurant with the money, and more importantly the effort th...