Gangs of MZMS 🔫💣🔥

when love was war….🔥🔥🔥


In MZMS, when we were in std. VII, we started forming gangs. If it were a pre-80s suburb of Rio, we would have fought for drugs and stuffs; but we were born and bred in peaceful environments, where you only heard of robberies through a very distant relative who had been told of the same by a very distant relative of his own. Sometimes, you’d come across the reports of murder in the locality, and you’d gasp at the realisation that there was a locality right behind your ass that you did not have a hair of an idea about.

Fights did break, among all age groups and over a wide range of issues. Little kids fought for candies and stuffs, elders fought because their wives demanded designer dresses which their neighbours got from sale. Women fought because their mother-in-laws were being bitches. Mother-in-laws fought because their daughter-in-laws were being bitches. Women also fought when the grocer was not ready to pull the price lower than what the worth of a bag of 250 grams of okra was. Actually, okra sellers were an endangered species. Everybody fought them.

At our age, we fought for love, or because the umpire gave a no ball when it was not one. I remember testosterone rushing through our veins, making us feel powerful and eager. We’d watch the scuffles in Indira Gandhi Stadium, hear stories that triggered them, and admire the gang leaders with undiluted awe. If somebody had even a vague connection to those gangs, like if he could tell two or three unheard stories about the gangleader, he was showered with much respect and honour. Most of the fights happened when two boys fell for the same girl. It was war after that. They’d get to the stadium with their gangs and beat the daylights out of each other. A few years ago, a boy was even beaten to death. It came in papers and there was a small candle march.

So in std. VII, with so much hope in our eyes, we started forming our own gangs, so that if ever we confronted a troop, we would have one of our own to fight back. It was not like one of those 4 houses the Sorting Hat puts you in so that you could chase shots riding on magical brooms, it was quite deadly.

We had just made the switch from half pants to full ones, and there was an urgent need to display the privileges that came with full pants. We tossed our beyblades into the wastebin, we stopped watching Roll Number 21, we fastened our belts and geared up for a new life.

The class got divided into various gangs, each with its own speciality.

My gang was called Indo Dragon, the only gang to have a two-word name, and a logo. It was a dragon I’d ripped off from my comic book. We had put together a bunch of weird kids. Churan was the psycho scientist who was trying to derive a formula to calculate the volume of his penis, Bihari was a WWE fan who could imitate sweet chin music quite well. We had Bhola who was built like Thor. Then Mausa who had loads of money. We were an exclusive group where entry required some talent or 80% or above in Maths. My friend PC qualified for none, but I kept him in the gang anyway. For moral support.

There was another gang called Mayo gang. Its leader was Atif, and I don’t remember who were in the team.

Shoodra gang consisted of students who didn’t give a fuck about the rest of us. They were either too innocent or too distanced. There was another group called MARD gang, which consisted of four people the first letter of their names being M, A, R and D, which was the only qualification required for entry.

Later, there was a reshuffle and a new gang came up – Batul Da gang. Batul da is this famous tutor of my city who prepares newborns and infants for IITJEE. So everybody who went there, including me, had to maintain a level of swag by talking in coaching jargons.

Now let’s talk about the girls. Yeah, I know you were waiting for this. Okay. There was this crazy gang of five girls who were high on hormones. They had boyfriends and were known to set girls for desperate boys. If you liked a girl, you just had to contact them. But they were also loud and phoney, and even though I did not particularly like them, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Doctor was a part of the trio which was high on marks but low on kindness. Their favourite passtime was getting us beaten up by the teacher, especially Lauvva sir, whose favourite passtime was beating up students, especially us.

Other than that there were a few random trios. Insignificant but they hung on.

Unfortunately, we never had a fight. The closest thing to a fight we had was the tae kwon do sessions on the terrace during lunch breaks.

The class evolved in the next two years, and then we got divided on the basis of our relationship status into the following groups :

• Classroom couples. The most annoying of all. They’d snog in the back benches and write corny love letters for each other, often in their blood. The girls would bring maggie for their boyfriends and the boys would bring the biggest packs of Dairy Milk Silk, recharge their phone and give them their kidneys to play with, etc, etc. They’d often get caught fondling each other, and we would hear an hour of moral science lecture from someone as inhuman as our Maths teacher.

• There also were people with partners outside of the classroom, and they were usually quiet. Sometimes they’d miss the classes. They didn’t usually care.

• Then there were fucked up one-sided lovers, like yours truly, who used to nurture sadness because true love is immortal according to Nicholas Sparks. Two years ago, when I joined college I gave away all my Nicholas Sparks for free. When I think about it now, maybe it was societal pressure. I mean all my friends were leaping into relationships, and Doctor was kind of cute and funny, so I thought it was love. Maybe it even was – if you ask my 15 year old self, he would swear it was. But I’m not sure. I mean we had a total of 8 conversations on phone, about which I shall tell you in the next post.

• People who were single had it easy. They read Bhagat Singh or French revolution and successfully kept their female interactions to a minimum.

Anyways, so this was it. We passed X and went separate ways. The attempts at reunion have been in vain so far. Let’s see…

A Short Synopsis of Monthly Debacles #2

Here’s March and April 😷

Okay, let me carry on from the last post.


By March, the worst of the winter would be over…..
…Not that year.

– Neil Gaiman, Odd and the Frost Giants

Well, it was so much of workload that I had to break character. We even went to college at 5 in the morning and heaved gargantuan flowerpots ( check out the link for some mind blowing weight lifting tutorials -> ) that we picked from a mosquito infested nursery. We dug holes to set flag posts, got the whole walkway and all the rooms cleaned thrice, set the red carpet and flags and decorated the venue. It was fun though. I mean yeah I got bitten by a thousand mosquitoes and got muscles cramps and everything, but it was fun.
The seminar was fun as well, despite the mental breakdown it subjected the audience to. Especially, there was a speaker who was unsuccessfully trying to use the concept of magnetism to prove the existence of God. I could see the white-bearded God in the background, making a facepalm while shaking his head in disgust.


There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

– William C. Bryant

On 1st of April, I came back from the 2-day Shimla trip – I’ll write about the trip very soon – and slept like a log for 20 hours. When I woke up I could feel the muscles in my body, all of them stiff like a dead man. It took us some time to get over the bittersweet hangover and then it was college time again. Teachers were under the pressure to finish the syllabus, so they started fucking us right in the ass. We coped, somehow. That apart, something happened that taught me a very valuable life lesson – to never trust anyone. People are not worth your trust, better buy a pitbull.

That apart, I moved in with my classmate. It’s a nice place, and I have a large window by myself, and a balcony and three nymphets in the opposite house. That apart, there are grey skies, and hollering winds.

Well, that’s all for now. See you soon.

College Trip Plans 😑

yeah. I don’t have anything much to say.


I’d have put fifteen exclamation marks after Manali had I been half a wanderlust as Heer. But let’s just face it, I have more of a stationary personality. If someone showed me the stairs to heaven, I would probably ask where the elevator door is. When Michio Kaku said that they were developing particle teleporters at NASA, I can’t tell you how relieved I was. Imagine a future with no vehicles, no backpacks, no travelling – just an Anywhere Door that you could plant anywhere to get to anywhere. That’s heaven, right there!

So yeah, I’m not totally bubbling with excitement, like you would expect. Everybody else is excited, because yaayy it’s a college trip and you don’t get such chances twice in life, but I don’t think there’s much to gain from it. There’s not going to be any self-discovery like it happens in Imtyaz Ali flicks. No chicks to fuck, and no enlightenment to suck through the morning sunlight. All you get is a bunch of crabs squirming around and pulling you down all the time. You are constantly under the burden of having fun. And trust me, it’s crushing.

A decent idea of a trip, if ever, would not consist of more than 3 people, because when I’m on a mountaintop amid the chilling snow watching a mellow sunrise, I don’t want some runt to throw snowballs at my back because it’s his idea of fun. I don’t want to be around that bonfire amid dumb people acting happy, playing cards and sharing stupid stories that nobody really gives a fuck about – and such a night is supposed to mark my calendar as one of the best nights ever – pretending to have a life altering experience. Hell, my idea of a life altering experience would be a six-hour wax play threesome with Spanish nymphets.

It’s going to be a three day trip with a single stoppage at Shimla. There’s also a strong probability of boating, which I don’t like much if I’m not provided with two life jackets after a six month Swimming course at Cambridge. My classmates also have plans to walk through the mountains instead of just using the goddamn cable cars. Also, there’s a whole blueprint of snowballing as and when it’ll be done. These are tough expectations to place on your peers.

The problem with people is that they’re trying to plaster their idea of fun all over you. Something that pleases them must please you, or else, you’re boring and lazy and dumb. I’m quite sick of all this. I am done with being a part of society. It’s not even a society, it’s just a bucket full of crabs. People trying to pull you down all the time.

Anyways, I’m going to Manali. Because I might just hit enlightenment if I somehow slip out of the bucket.

A Train of Thoughts…

What’s a relationship all about!? 😒

The train was late by two hours. Then, they announced that it’d arrive at platform number 4, which was on the other side of the world, somewhere around Peru. I was exhausted by the wait – rolling the trolley bag felt like hauling a dinosaur egg. I dragged it through the stairway – my palms tired and sweaty – overtaking slow, fat, redfaced aunties who had travelbags so large that you could suspect them of felony. When I landed my bag at the dilapidated floor of platform number 4 and heaved a sigh of relief, they announced that the train would – due to some technical issues – now arrive at platform number 3. So I hauled my luggage and tagged my soul along to platform number 3 where the train showed up after thirty minutes. Before that, I tried to update my phone using railway wifi, but it seemed Indian railways was still using pigeon services, and I did not want another pretext for my brain to go crazy, so I unplugged and decided to write a scathing article about the appalling fall in the standards of government bodies. But then I was too tired so I just watched a flock of birds fly away in the stratosphere above the high roof of platform number one and wondered why don’t they ever get tired. I also wondered if Icarus’ flight was worth it, if what he experienced in those tiny fractions of time would ever be felt by Daedalus, and if history has been unfair to him. Then, the train arrived and I crawled in.

Okay. Let’s establish the facts first. I had a hot copassenger. But her husband was a bit of an appendix. A wheatish poker face. And he wore a black sweater on a dark pink shirt which gave me sort of a headache. And what’s unfortunate is that they had a child. Picturing them having sex was kind of weird – like watching a cult porn or something. In small towns, you can have hot chics plus dowry if you earn well. I can, too. But what attracts me more is intelligence, which is a rare thing in both the genders. This intellectual friend of mine has even higher standards about which we shall talk later.

So, what kind of women do I like?

Well it’s tough. I can’t draw an eligibility chart. I’m in the last year of my teenage and I don’t exactly find Gwen Tennyson hot anymore. I like girls who play chess. But that’s not all.
I guess I liked Doctor. No, not someone like her or someone of the same name or appearance or intelligence or DNA coding or whatever. Just Doctor. It’s not easy to explain, didn’t I tell you.

In a relationship you look for compatibility, because love cannot haul you all along. So yeah, maybe compatibility is the word I’m looking for. But I’m not sure. It could be all about blowjobs for all I know.

Anyways, they looked kind of happy. I mean almost perfect. Compatibility. Blowjob. Or maybe both. I guess you establish that much when you’ve made a baby together. It’s a huge risk, and if it turns out ugly or dumb, you would most probably not relish wiping poop off its ass for years. But then, what do I know. I don’t exactly adore them.

The train trundled on the eternal tracks, and through the tinted glass I stared out; trees, throngs and time past me in a flurry of blurred paintings. I realised I am passing a moment and this was enough to make me sad.

to be continued…

OCD. 😑

Another blizzard of unreined horses…

The smell was revolting. The bus felt like a death chamber. I dug my nose into my hands and breathed through my palms. The conductor busied himself with bashing the boy. His parents had to swear they’d clean it up once they reached Bhagalpur. I felt bad for the boy but I couldn’t dare to lift my eyes. My world squeezed into that tiny bowl of my hand and I told myself that it was just an OCD attack, and that unlike Aza Holmes, I can control my own thoughts, but that grotesque image of the puke won’t go away. The smell invaded my bubble and I felt my throat tighten. My heart stopped.

This is not you. This is not you. No, you can’t puke. You control your own thoughts. Brain operates vomiting. Your brain is telling you to stop. Stop.

The bus stopped at Bhagalpur bus stand and I raced out, covering my nose to block out all the air. Thirteen steps later, I puked near a giant tree, people watching me with disgust and pity.

I brushed and hailed a cab. I put my bags on the backseat. As we whooshed through the mad traffic, I couldn’t shrug the compulsion – I would turn back every four seconds to check if my luggage was still there. I knew it was there, I could have sworn each time. But the thought won’t go away. My palms sweated. I felt vulnerable. I felt like that little kid who loses his mother’s hand in a crowded carnival. I could feel the sweat on my forehead. I could feel the fear in my ribs.

Think about Doctor. Think about your last message. But, have you checked your pocket? Is your wallet still there? No. Think about Doctor. The message. Your luggage? It takes 5 seconds to scoop something up and disappear in the crowd. Check your luggage.

No people, I’m not fortunate enough to afford luxurious diseases like bone marrow aplasia, so I get petty Obsessive Compulsive Disorders. It’s like diarrhoea, except that it’s your brain that’s on the run. I had this for a long time, but it started screwing me recently. After I lost my bag in Patna a few years ago, it became pretty bad. Now I’m rechecking doorlocks like crazy. But it’s okay, it’s not fatal or something. And no, I won’t forget my baby in a bathtub.

As the cab reached the station, I checked my stuffs a thousandth time and carefully pulled them out and paid the driver a shiny little bill of 10. My mother would have haggled for a couple of hours and paid 9, but I don’t have that superpower.

I walked slowly, feeling the twinges and shivers of some unknown tragedy. It was cold. And there were 2 hours to go before the train would whisk me back to Delhi. I trudged myself towards the platform. It felt like stepping into the NullVoid.

To be continued…

Cigarette Date #4 : The Pieces

The final part of the journey…

We hail a cab which drops us at Ratu Road, from where, another cab drops us at the main gate of SAIL township, from where we walk through the Satellite Road to enter Shyamli. All the while, we are talking about her friends, her friends’ friends and her ex-boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends. I don’t have to say anything as my life has been quite unextraordinary. Imagine me as the agricultural tv channel they put on government set top boxes and imagine her as the flamboyant ESPN, in HD.

Shyamli is this beautiful township of Mecon, so serene that if Anurag Kashyap visited this place he’d start directing Bhajans. It was my idea to smoke in Shyamli. We walk and walk and walk and stop at a park which looks desolate except for a man fooling around with his German Shepherd. Why do people hang out with dogs? Like, what the fuck are cats for?

“Are you sure we should go in? “I do not feel safe in a park with a German Shepherd dancing around. She looks at me and starts walking. Into the park. Damnit! I follow her. Godamnit!

That goliath monster charges at us as if we ran away with his engagement ring, barking like German artillery of World War 2. Heer screams in fear. I am already bleached out, my heart on the tip of my tongue and my ribcage ready to slip through my ass. That’s how I’m dying! Godspeed!

But I jump in front of her anyway, and I’m not sure if I peed or what, but as I sacrifice myself to keep her from harm I tell her to get away. I don’t know what I am thinking right now but somehow I know that when I’ll look at this in retrospect, I will choose to visualise myself as a caped Zorro.

A miracle saves us though. The dog turns as his owner calls him back. He’s chuckling at a distance and even though I give him a nervous laughter in response, I want to sue him for life. We race out, swearing and wheezing. Then, we laugh and swear and laugh and life suddenly gets better, and safer. We could have kissed but I have the heart of a mouse so we just slow down in a street which looks devoid of people. That’s the place.

“We’ll smoke here. “She says. There’s no one around, except for a guard who looks like his wife became a monk and that’s why his life is hell and so he wants to poke around and have some fun from observing people’s activities.

I nervously pluck two cigarettes out and hand one over to her. Then, I light up the matchstick and light my piece, my heart a canon of Arras inside my chest. Then, with shaky hands, I light her cigarette too. I don’t want to die of lung cancer. And I don’t want her to die of lung cancer.

“You first. “She says. Dear Lord, forgive my sins! My lips touch the cigarette butt and even though it doesn’t feel like orgasm, goosebumps cover my skin. I inhale smoke little by little, as suggested by the Wikihow article for beginners, and look at her. She doesn’t look that ecstatic.

“It’s gone. Light it up again. “She frowns. I rub the stick against the box and light her cigarette. And just like that, we are taking drags. It tastes like burnt corns, which is not exactly delicious and it doesn’t have a soothing effect on any of my senses, as they swear on their mother’s life. In fact, I feel like I should have bought a Frootie instead. But a Frootie Date won’t look good on a blog post title.

Heer is grumbling about something. She looks beautiful while doing so. She wants to blow smoke clouds and it’s not happening. I tell her that that only happens in movies, but it doesn’t calm her down. She wants her smoke rings. She says that this friend of her blows smoke rings every Tuesday night at India Gate and people from all over Delhi flock around him to watch this spectacle.

As I look behind, the guard is gawking at us. He seriously needs to have fun with his wife more often, he looks so downtrodden. She gives up after a few drags and since I don’t have any good reason to do so, I carry on. My lungs still feel like lungs. But yeah, the smoke stings my eyes.

We walk under the starry sky, along the quiet avenues, not talking, our steps parallel and slow and in synchronization. And a few seconds later, Heer asks for my piece. I’m gobsmacked. ( Gobsmacked is this new word I’d run into in Lord Evans’ Merriam-Webster, and it means dumbfounded. )

“What? “She looks at me quizzically as I hand it over to her. As if sharing cigarettes is a normal thing! It’s quite intimate, it’s as intimate as sharing herpes. She deftly holds it between her fingers, like she’s Augustus Waters, and she begins to draw smoke. I blush like Hazel Grace Lancaster. After two drags, she scrunches her face and coughs.

“You okay? ”

She nods through the hazy cloud of vapour and goes back to sucking through the cigarette as I steal longer, intent glances at her. Heer is ethereal. Not in terms of physical attributes or the ability to talk interestingly and consistently, but in terms of being so expressive without having to make an effort. You have to see her to be able to believe. She’s not a person, she’s an event. Witness her unfold and smile in joy.

She tries a few more drags and then gives up. She returns it to me with a frown. I have developed a sudden liking for smoking. And I love this girl who smokes because I-have-to-exhale-puffy-clouds-and-watch-them-glide-away. And I absolutely abhor, loathe and detest the guard who’s following us like a tail. We take a U-turn and keep on walking. I am drawing smoke from the same spot her lips touched moments ago, and in a rather unconventional way, it does feel like kissing. As I’m relishing the evanescent taste of her mouth on the brown tip, she pirouettes and gives the guard a spectacular display of her middle finger. I am blank and confused and awestruck and terrified. But that’s the normal psychological state when you’re with her. The guard stares at us and I tell Heer to run.

“No need to run. HE’S A FUCKING STALKER. “She says and I’m ready to sprint, but the guard is only staring at us, expressionlessly, so we cancel running and simply assume he is a zombie, and float away.

“This is the principal’s house. “I point to K/95 and she paces up.

“Oh no! I’m dead if he sees us. “She speaks in hushed undertones.

“He won’t. Only the guard will. “I say as I peer at the armed guard who also has the longest moustache I’ve ever seen in real life.

“Damn! “She says as her steps are hastier than before.

“What? ”

“The guard. He was at school, you remember? ”

“He sits at gate number 3 nowadays. What about him? ”

“He sits there because of us. Umm..we were late one day. One of my friends flashed a hundred rupee note before his eyes and he grabbed it and let us enter. Well, I recorded it on my phone. And then, I blackmailed him. I always reached school late, and then one day, he disappeared. ”

“Poor guy. That’s so wrong. ”

“That’s not. He is a corrupt man. He deserved it. ”

I do not say anything. I feel sorry for the guard but I don’t want to discuss morality and ethics on a cigarette date. Also, Heer could nuke an entire continent and I’d still love her with same passion. As we’re about to enter the E/16 street, I see a familiar gigantic homo sapien trudging towards us. He is Lord Evans. THE FUCK!

“Shit! Run! “I say, and we wheel and run. He has already spotted us though. But anyway, we keep running.

“Why are we running? “She asks, panting.

“Lord Evans. ”

“What the hell was he doing there?”She says, exasperated and baffled.

“There is an empty house there. We go there and click pictures and make scary videos of the place. ”

“He didn’t see us, right? ”

“He did. I’m so screwed. Let’s go somewhere else. NOP. ”

She nods and then, we go to NOP. We watch the famous Haunted guest house, buy chewing gums, sit at a bench, take selfies, share the silence, feel weird and leave together.

On the way, she asks,
“What after tomorrow? ”

And all of a sudden I am just an empty space.

“Seventy more days to go. ” She reminds.

I know. And I know it won’t be the same after she leaves. I’m suddenly enveloped in this gloomy shroud of sadness. People leave, after all. I don’t know how to stop her. You can’t deceive time. It’s just not in your hands. I don’t want to lose her, but today’s warm moments will be blisters tomorrow, and they’ll pinch and hurt and stay. So I don’t want to say anything. I’m already missing her, and I know I’ll miss her more when it ends. That’s the theory Einstein won’t give you – the closer you get, the worse you break. I don’t want to break, I’m scared. Moreover, we are playing roles, so maybe I’ll have to be careful and hold my emotions before they begin to fly high.

“We’ll see. ”

The smoke fills my heart. I’m just ash.

She doesn’t say anything. I don’t have the guts to. So we leave it there, the question of tomorrow, floating in the streets, rustling in the breeze, looking for something, somewhere, some time…..