mihir

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 ...

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...

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 ...