Two Days of Winter : Day 1 #the monkey God

A long walk up the hill…๐Ÿ’•


With laboured breaths, I dragged myself on this never ending slope, secretly working on the probability of reaching the peak on my own legs. They said if you mumbled Hanuman’s hymns, the ascent became smooth. But stubborn as I was, I chose to do it without any supernatural help. Plus, I believed Hanuman has better jobs to do than push people’s ass up the hill. I mean I could picture him having his brunch, sweet red berries on his plates, and suddenly the doorbell rings and millions of SOS calls trying to get through. If I were God, I’d probably resign soon and get myself a nice planet where I could fix my chair with supernatural cement and watch torrential rains over dense forests.

This junior behind me swore he could feel a heart attack creeping up his chest. I told him it was just gas and asked him to keep moving.

“I’d collapse. I had an operation a few months ago. “He pleaded. I chose not to believe him.

“Don’t lose heart, boy. Once you reach there, you’ll be reborn. ”

Let’s rewind to the moment we went to the temple, from where we watched the hills and the houses, planning honeymoons.

“If there were no condoms in this world and a couple lived in Shimla, at what rate do you think the population would escalate? “I quizzed.

Acting thoughtful….

“I just want to have a machine gun and shoot down those tiny people walking on the road. “Said the Military man, thus spoiling my erotic thought.

We took photos and then branched off into two groups, one behind healthy male teachers, the other behind diabetic female teachers. We went to Mall road, and Mr. Gabbar asked us to get over with the shopping quickly. We went in an elegant clothes store, where women with rosy cheeks sold swanky shawls.

“How much for this? “I picked one from the counter that had Pashmina written on a plate above. I could buy it for maa.

“Twenty Six thousand rupees only sir! “She said coolly, as if she were selling Kismi bars. The shawl dropped from my hand. People’s stare oscillated dramatically from my face to her face. I could hear Ekta Kapoor background music. Dhoom tana na na na….

“Ermmm…what’s the lowest price? ”

“Thirteen thousand for this one. “She showed me the dullest piece of clothing ever manufactured.

‘Does it come with superpowers? ‘I wanted to ask. But I just said hmm, and turned away, as if I was a ghost and nobody could see me. If I had twenty thousand rupees, I’d start a business in clothes rather than purchase a shawl.

We then moved on to the main street, and the guide told us that we could get to Jakhoo and watch the sunset. One of the teachers revolted against going on foot, so we left him and walked ahead. It was agoddamn race against time.

None of the girls came with us. They got a cab and Mr. Gabbar cited security reasons and sat with them while we the bravehearts walked on the slope, fighting gravity.

Saying that the walk was a backbreaking exercise would be a severe understatement. The muscles in my legs stiffened like cement. My heart pounded like those cheap DJ speakers they put on small scale marriages. I was gasping for breath. I was kind of convinced I’d not make it to the temple.

But I did it. I was the last guy to reach there. It baffled them. I mean I’m a fat guy, nobody expects me to climb mountains and stuffs. Mr Gabbar patted my back.
The girls were already there, without a hint of sweat on their brows, clicking selfies at the base of the sky-high statue of the monkey God. As we sat for a group selfie, one of the monkeys stole a girl’s specs. We had to give him a whole pack of roasted grams to get the soecs back. Monkeys are shrewd, I tell you.

Clicked on the way….

We had missed the sunset, but the last smear of red was still there. We clicked photos and left the temple. Since gravity was now working downwards, girls and Mr. Gabbar joined us this time. Somebody dropped the idea of a bonfire, so we started collecting dead branches with some vigour.

I’d never felt so excited before, I must tell you. I mean who dreams of picking twigs in a foreign land. We got the flashlights and searched in the bushes. It was scary but exhilarating.

As I left Jakhoo, I made a secret vow to some day, get here with my…..alright, maybe I am too desperate. But when you have a beautiful experience, you add it to your bucket list.

to be contd….

Two Days of Winter : Day 1 #the last lap



“5 minutes to go! “Mr. Gabbar announced after stretching his back at about 9. “Grab your bags. ”

I looked around drowsily. The zombies around me had finally collapsed. The couple was zonked out, snug together – the boy’s head glued on the girl’s shoulder at a weird angle. Somebody had put a kurkure in his half-open mouth, which I’d have plugged out had I been a kind man.

I was sick of filming the curvy paths and the deep lush green valley. There was no snow because we forgot to click that option while booking the hotel. Anyway, no matter how lovely the scenery, after a while, you start missing the comfort of your fluffy mattress, the privacy of your small room, the choking groans of your fan which your landlord swore on his mother he’d repair in the evening. You rot away for months and the fan still whimpers like a granny’s fart; but there’s a peculiar relief in the realisation that nobody can hurt you within that territory. The familiarity sustains you – take that away, and life becomes a minesweeper.

They woke up. Well, it seemed like they were only pretending to be asleep. But their faces were all tired and swollen.
In the back, a girl gagged loud enough to throw airplanes off the radar, and it produced a domino effect, and people started either gagging or complaining of nausea. Mr. Gabbar took out his magic pill – the orange candy – and got it distributed through volunteers. Of course, the volunteers got to keep the remainders with them. Since, one of the volunteers was Popatlal, I got an extra candy.

“Don’t look out. Look straight. “Mr. Gabbar suggested.

“Why, sir? “I quizzed.

“Your head starts spinning. We are going round and round. It’s necessary to look ahead. ”

I swear to God I’d looked out at the windy paths all the morning and nothing had happened, but the moment I heard Mr. Gabbar’s explanation, I began feeling dizzy.

“Sir, why don’t they honk here? “Mishra asked. The conversation began with the definition of sound and went on till I passed out. Later they would tell me how Neta puked after he had enough of their enlightening dialogue regarding the effect of wave on the rocks of Shimla.

We reached the bus stop two hours later, because the driver had forgotten that they didn’t allow buses through that way and so he had to go back and cover the distance of 3 kms in 26 kms. I could not feel my legs when I leapt out of the bus. Our bags were kept in a van, and we were told to follow a lanky guy who was a local. The Military Man lead the parade, sometimes even passing the lanky man, and we followed like Hamelin’s rats, avoiding death as the cars zoomed by, allowing us a narrow space, on the other side of which was an alluring death miles below.

We reached the old hotel, which was nothing like Bhatt camp’s opulent horror houses. It was a four-storey establishment in the need of repair.

We went in to take the keys, and Neta was quick to grab a bunch from Mam.

“Distribute it. “She said.

Neta nodded and ran upstairs. There he found the room with a balcony, which offered the most panoramic view of Shimla, plonked our luggage there, and threw the keys at the crowd behind. The Military Man, Neta and I had seized the best room of the hotel already, and now all I needed was a nice commode with a bidet.

The view…

To be contd…

Two Days of Winter : Day 1 #the toilet

Another struggle on the fore…

The first thing I saw when my eyes opened was our conductor collapsing like a dead pine. DJ RonCruz was quick to react, and he grabbed the semi-dead man by his collar before he could roll all the way down through the door and experience a really cool freefall into the valley. Yes we were in the pass again. On my left was the rocky mountain and on my right were the terraces. The terraces reminded me of Boticelli’s Mappa dellโ€™Inferno, only that these were not grotesque. There were resplendent houses with sloping roofs, sometimes only two at a level. Surrounded by coniferous trees and monkeys and birds, these cottages could anytime pass off as one of the best honeymoon spots in the world. I didn’t waste any time and began picturing my honeymoon with this hot Arabian diva I’d seen on YouTube the other day.

It turned out that the conductor was just sleepy from the overdose, and he suffered minor trauma which could be cured by two rounds of Iodex massage. Everybody went back to being crazy once DJ RonCruz resumed playing sexist but popular and upbeat songs. Girls looked like plastic surgeries gone bad and boys looked as usual- ugly and gross. Back in the stern, a feeble cry was demanding the bus be halted instantly for a piss break or somebody might jump, but it was suppressed by the mind blowing music and ceaseless cheers. And ten minutes later, the guy actually jumped.

The bus screeched to a halt. Everybody went quiet.

“He jumped! He jumped!” shouted the third year guys from the stern side.

Girls look kind of cute when they are gobsmacked. You might view this as a sexist statement, but I swear I have observed this. And science backs it too, because your eyes expand when you’re surprised, and big eyes are beautiful. Applying deductive reasoning to the two statements, we get that girls look beautiful when they are surprised.

Anyways, the guy was alright. He said he’d jumped from vehicles before. Once he even jumped from Brahmputra Mail and rolled like red carpet for a few feet and then got up alright.

“When I stood on my feet and brushed off the dust from my shirt, people gazed at me wondrously, as if I were the incarnation of a divine being. They clapped and whistled, and I knew I was invincible. “He elaborated. He also shared with us some techniques to jump off a moving vehicle, and talked about how he was thinking of contacting Guinness World Records for the highest number of safest exits from running trains. It is a talent, in the same way being able to pass snakes through your nostrils is.

Mr. Gabbar did not scold him much, because he could understand the motivation – the insuppressible urge to pee, which can make men move mountains.
Girls began demanding a pee break as well. These little struggles for equality worth being mentioned, because these tiny pixels would, over time, grow into a vivid mosaic. The problem with girls demanding a pee break, though, is you’ve to find a proper toilet, which the government of India has failed to build in sufficient quantities over 70 years because Muslims used up all the marbles and all the good architects migrated to Dubai to construct tall towers. It’s not government’s fault if you see it that way.

The bus did not stop for another hour. And when it did, all we could find was a dilapidated toilet with enough holes on the door to use it as a makeshift sieve for filtering tea at community gatherings. And the toilet policy was such that you had to have breakfast at the owner’s little joint in order to be able to use that shabby cabin.
So we ordered around 50 chais and got them hot in small papercups. The taste was awful, similar to railway food. Junior girls had brought fancy noodles, packed at home, and it triggered a riot when they opened the box. People shoved forks in each other’s nostrils to keep them away, and dug their hands in the little tiffin box that could feed not more than two pigeons. In not more than one blink of eye, the noodles were sliding down people’s small intestines for further digestion. We got plenty of photos clicked and Neta insisted I capture his shoes clearly. He had to send his photographs to his long-distance girlfriend, who is not much into him, if you ask me, or him.

The selfie sisters, after having relieved themselves, took twenty four million selfies and when their storage space ran out, chased this iPhone guy for a free photoshoot.

“For 3 years they never gave a fuck about me, and now they want my iPhone. Bitches! “The iPhone guy secretly told us later.

Once everybody came out and a head count was done, DJ RonCruz sat back at his place and resumed the music. And such vampires my friends were, they, once again broke into unstoppable mad dance.

Two Days of Winter : Night 1 #the bus

the crazy dance ๐Ÿ˜‚

As the woofer roared in the background, people moshed to its peppy rhythm. The bus shook like the disco floor on a new year eve. Drenched in sweat, they jiggled crunkily and spastically, and sang along, like hammered pirates, with the number DJ RonCruz had put up on the music player using this DJ app which he had snuck from some illegal site because playstore wanted a sum not less than half the net worth of his entire village in Ghaziabad in order to allow him the premium version. DJ Ron Cruz was also a part-time camera man, who was a giant fellow and who, in his leisure, loathed his life. For some good reason, he wanted to open a momo store, but DJing was his first love. So he sat in the dingy cabin with the driver who was three pints down and the cabbaged conducter, who could bob his head even to blaring honks, and played all the viral item numbers that made girls throw themselves to the aisle and shake their melons while boys pretended to be snakes and snake charmers. Also there was a particular step where one acted like he was being shot on chest by half a dozen AK 47 gunners. Girls had nice butts, let me remind that again.

It was a frenzy – everybody was shaking like crazy. As if whitewalkers being massacred by a tag team of Terminator and Rambo. They could never make it to DID, but their zeal was unmatched. Watching us inactive, the couple ahead first exchanged their seats with us – pushing us to the second row – as they had to participate in the debauchery, after which our teacher, Mr. Gabbar exchanged his seat – sending us to the first row – as he wanted his long, spidery legs to feel comfortable.

While the whole bus went nuts with dancing, Military man monotonously described to me the history of Grand Trunk Road, built by Sher Shah Suri centuries ago. He took my silence as a nod of encouragement and delved further into the the history of National Highways, expressways, quadrilateral projects, and all that shit Nitin Gadkari would call a sex chat.

I looked out the window and tried to recall starry poems – nothing showed up on the windscreen of my memory, not even a speck of vanishing couplets. The stars glittered like grains of salt – and the moon shone in the last stage of a waxing gibbous. Its silvery glow swerved with the winding path, as if guiding us, or perhaps chasing us. I’ve heard that the lights of the night are actually spirits showing right paths to the lost souls. I am too phoney to believe that shit but there is something deeply romantic about a quiet starry night on a wavy mountain pass.

The bus was soon back to the crowded highway and it was not long before it came to a slowdown, idling in a floodlit four-lane, in a congestion you should get used to if you are in India.

“The first electronic toll plaza was set up in India in 2013. “The Military Man remarked. Before he could shove another quill in my cramped pot, I retched and poked my head out. I looked behind – there was another head out of the window. A quiet junior who too was sick and tired of all this. Average looks but curious eyes, and a finger tracing through her hair the same path over and over – she was someone who you would not fall for at the first sight but would like to. I got myself busy making her look more attractive – as if she was an amateur’s canvas and I was Leonardo da Vinci. I reconstructed every tiny detail of her face and yet left her eyes untouched, and right when I thought she’d caught me staring at her with the intent you normally reserve for your first paycheck, I burst into an unending, outstretched yawn.
By the time my cheeks receded back to let my eyes open, the head was gone. Tough luck.

The bus moved slowly, like a tortoise out on a evening stroll, and exhibited proudly the rocking crowd inside. Different people watched us differently – the guy selling omelette in a food cart smiled at us, crown-bald uncles gaped at us in dismay, the street sleepers looked at us indifferently, more often in confusion as we had disrupted their sleep.

On the sidewalk, there was a long chain of homeless people. Wrapped in their ragged shrouds, they squinted their sunken eyes at us. Some kept sleeping, while some, high on cheap liquor, watched us in great delight. They looked as impoverished as one could get. And there were hundreds – men, women and children – trying to survive a tragic irony – striving for a moment of peaceful slumber by the unending flurry of blaring commotion.

I wondered if they too looked at the sky with the same thoughts as the more privileged ones, if they too praised the luminosity of the venus, if they too compared their lovers to the moon. I don’t know, maybe at such levels of economic deprivation, the idea of love gets warped. When you have a sobbing stomach to listen to, the brain doesn’t register the groans of the heart. Poetry doesn’t survive in penury. Not in the 21st century capitalism, at least.

I told myself to think about the snow and the mountains but I have this thing that when I start thinking about something, it’s tough to get out of it. So I borrowed earphones and played Jagjit Singh on a loop, only to slowly trickle down and dissolve into a puddle of sleep.

To be contd….

Two Days of Winter : Prologue

prologue to a journey of self – discovery.

It was final that I was going to Shimla when my mother told me that she was not like other moms who’d stop their kids from going places. In addition to that, she asked me to be a brave boy and not deny myself such life-changing opportunities. To crown it all, she sent me 5000 rupees to buy a shirt and a brand new shoe. I mean where do you find such mommies?

“You see how good a mother I am. I am sending you to Shimla. You should not forget this when I’m old. Buy me a nice pair of glasses and take me to America. Since I was a kid, I wanted to take selfies with white people. ”

“When you were a kid, there were no mobile phones. “I reminded her, about which she thought for a moment, and said in a flat, non-apologetic tone,

“You also have to repay the 20 lakh loan I took for our new home. ”


My intellectual friend came to my room one afternoon and we began shopping on Myntra. Buying a shirt had never felt so confuzzling before. I am one of those guys who’d go to a sale and say, ‘light blue shirt’ and come home with the first one thrown at him. I often imagine myself suited up like George Clooney, but as you should have already known by now, I imagine a lot.

The problem with buying clothes to impress others is that you have to go through a lot of Maths. Something you like would either be too pricey or would have bad reviews or would demand delivery charges that could buy three large underwears at Palika Bazaar. We scrolled through hundreds of shirts, and my intellectual friend started using salesman jargons – chinese collar, SMXXL – so I felt kind of dozy. While buying shoes I looked for a pair of blue casuals with holes on the sides – because my intellectual friend had those – but it went over budget so I dropped the idea of holes.

The package arrived early and I wondered if I was excited or not. I mean yeah, I had clothes and footwear and girls would rise from their graves to shriek with ecstasy for such a deal, but they were just clothes and footwear. I mean the best things happen when you’re rather naked. Or dressed in latex.

So yeah, shopping was done, and by the morning, Neta was ready to join in. He had been throwing tantrums since the beginning, however, we were able to convince him. We told him that there would be lots of Bhojpuri songs and woofers, and that was it.

So everybody slept in the noon – except me of course – and in the evening they flocked at my doorstep, right when I began wondering if I should catch some sleep. I borrowed a press and watched YouTube tutorials on pressing clothes and realised things are not so easy in real life as they make it seem on youtube.

We then went to the college – after everybody agreed that we shall not overeat (as the bus was to go in circles at an altitude) and then we overate because the Military Man’s lunch was delicious as heaven – and found hot girls wearing hot dresses and waiting near the parking. Okay, that was a positive side.

But to be honest, I was kind of toey and miffed with the idea of me being in Shimla. I am not that wild wolf who tears through snowy pine forests, I’m a wise old tortoise who imagines he’s a wild wolf that tears through snowy pine forests. I can picture a lot of things – and for a long time this philosophical question has peplexed me :-

If you can imagine an apple’s color, shape, texture, taste and every other quality, is it worth to actually eat that apple?

Anyways, with time there were more and more people showing up and it became difficult to accommodate everybody. I just wanted a window seat in the front. And I would bury myself in my blanket and pretend to be dead.

The bus showed up at around 11. Before that there was a full-on baaraati dance, and people shook as if they were dying of electrocution. Senior girls were making sultry moves with their rotund assses and it was kind of intoxicating. As the bus honked at the gate, we charged like wild wolves. I was able to capture a window seat. I took out a Feviquick and stuck my ass right there.

Next, people started filling in. And it was crowded and suffocating. The couple in front of me was busy massaging their feet with odomos. I wondered if they also had condoms inside their bags. There are lot of places in Shimla where you can do some jiffy-stiffy jig-jig.

The bus moved after a few million years. First the college vanished behind me, and then the lights and the bridges, and then I stopped looking back, wondering when the cities would stop and the mountains would begin.

To be contd….

Toothbrush ๐Ÿ’•

with 8000 counterclockwise revolutions per minute and all that shit….

It was a cold day. The train was parked amidst some godforsaken jungle. The LTE sign on my notification toggle flickered like a dying candle. A mild morning light came seeping through the web of trees. And in front of me lay amorphous pieces of human turd which the last fellow passenger had probably forgotten to flush. That’s a regular scene in North Indian train toilets, so I did not make a fuss about it. I just peed, saving any possible collision of my stream with the last man’s debris, and then I tried to flush but there was no water, so I slipped out like a mouse.

The sleeping beauty on the side-upper berth had finally woken up. She fished in her fancy handbag and pulled out a fancy brush. It was one of those toothbrushes people with Swiss bank account buy – with counterclockwise 8000 revolutions per minute and all that hyper level shit; the ones so expensive that they don’t even advertise during daily soaps, so my mother has no idea about their existence.

I imagined telling my mother about such toothbrushes and about people owning them.

“We used powders and your Nanny rubbed ashes and sand on her teeth. Now I’m beginning to think we are cave people. “She’d say, and then add that toothbrush to her wish list.

The girl did not have a toothpaste though. Maybe it came with an in-built mint flavour, I thought.

Is there any cap to how rich you can get? I could have all the money in the world and still be poor as fuck. If I get rich enough to buy that kind of toothbrush, I’d rather buy one of Saturn’s moons and drill oil out of it to get even richer.

The girl went towards the wash basin. I was not sure if she could bear all that revolting shit. See, with richness there comes a whiff of intolerance. But she handled it pretty well.

A just-woken-up girl brushing her teeth in a train is not exactly how they show you in movies. I mean they look pretty wrecked up, but it’s kind of cute, nevertheless. Yeah, you won’t like to snog her but you could still make art out of her.

I thought I would, but then I gave up that thought. She was too rich and too far. And I had my own worries. So I turned around like a good boy and walked back to my berth, plugged in the earphones and played Kailash Kher on a loop.

Safarnama : Qutub Minar #2

The final lag of the journey…

The tall tower stands alone. The stories it has lived and the times it has seen – it won’t tell the shallow men down here. It talks to the birds, who have built their homes on its shoulders, for whom the imperativeness of it is much more than what it is to us, the humans. The tower isn’t dumb, it’s just not interested in talking…because we aren’t interested in listening…

We sat on the steps of the Sulabh Sauchalaya building, waiting for the torrent to fade out. Meanwhile, Shivam clicked us from four hundred and forty four different angles, the dedication level only matched by the Nat Geo people who go to the Congo Basin with their clunky DSLRs and die chasing primates. Mishra was getting bored, and so he decided he would rather take a leak. 

“Can’t believe peeing is a taxed activity. “I remarked. They didn’t pay attention to my intellectual observation, and kept on posing for Shivam, who had probably gone crazy from so much rain. After an unending wait, we decided to take an auto. 

I wasn’t made to sit on a lap, but the area occupied by my buttocks was smaller than what they deserved. Rohit wasn’t even visible – he was probably buried behind Amit. The auto raced down the flooded road and the cold wind hit our bodies, and it felt like this was going to be epic day. Just as I was done thinking about the epic day, Hemant’s dad called and before picking up, he asked us not to use profanity till the call was over. But midway though the conversation, a big SUV dashed by, splashing a Tsunami into the auto, wetting Mishra’s jeans and his hand and his phone and my jeans and my hands and my phone. Hemant hung up a century later, and then I broke into howls of profanity. 

Fifiteen minutes later, we reached our destination. 

the path that leads to the past…

Mishra was sent to buy tickets which costed Rs.15 each for the nationals. We pooled in and gave him the cash. He returned only a few seconds later, informing us that the price had doubled. Mishra is a jinx, I tell you. 

We bought the tickets and went in. The ruins of the Sultante, the heritage left by the invaders of the west, who had made this place their home, was standing right in front of our eyes, a bit dull and a bit old. Before we could enter the place, Shivam started clicking selfies. 

The first monument we went to was Alai Minar, which, had it been completed, would have measured double the height of Qutub Minar. It was constructed with massive stones, the edges rough and unpolished. The unfinished towers always tell a whole story. 

Alai Minar….

“I don’t think the monument is talking to me. “Mishra pointed out, trying to contradict the words of our favorite history teacher who said, “the monuments talk when you go near them.” But it wasn’t Alai Minar’s fault at all – Mishra is so jinxed that even if a tower could talk, it won’t talk to him.

The monuments don’t talk like people. They have their own whispers, which can’t be heard but only listened to. I could see elephants and carts around, and labors and people, witnessing the gradual splendid construction of a monument, which would halt just after the death of Alauddin Khilji. 

We clicked plenty of photos and then moved towards a tomb. The walls around had texts embossed in urdu. The people posed beneath an arch and clicked photos. I wondered if the monuments would ever talk to them. 

the tomb…

Then we moved to a Madarsa. It was a group of dank, charred rooms that smelled of batshit. I visualized kids taking taaleems here, which was very difficult to visualize, and then my eyes caught “Brijesh loves Rinku” engraved in the poor wall in a crabby handwriting. If you do similar things in China, they will make soup out of you the next day. They’ll hang your skeleton in the museum and place a label outside the case that’d read – Homo Habilis

each of those bricks have a story to tell…

Mishra sat on a stone outside and closed his eyes. 

“I’m feeling the past guys. “He claimed. “Somebody sat on this stone. It was a sultan. ”

I was pretty sure the stone was cursed or something. If it wasn’t, it would be now.

We then walked into a small graveyard. There were sad old tombs, and the whole place was so melancholic. If you eliminated the crowd from your minds eye, it would even appear scary. 

We went to a desolate garden after that. 

the garden…

We clicked photos and wondered which plants were replaced and which were still surviving from the era of Iltutmish. Then, we went on a sloped piece of land. 

the land where Sultans walked…

As I stood at the crest of the small plateau and looked around, the legacy of the Sultans spoke to me. The path I had travelled was travelled by a king centuries ago. In an era devoid of internet and bullet trains and hurry and pace, the Sultan would take a leisurely walk in the evening with his Begum. They’d talk about life and love and birds and trees. They’d appreciate nature. They’d kiss under that tree, they’d sit right here, and watch the birds flying back to their nests, they’d lean on each other’s shoulder and watch the dusk…..

on the top of the world….

I started feeling nostalgic for some weird reason. 

We raced down and clicked a flurry of photos. Then we went towards the sundial. On the way, we saw a Chinese family of 5. Each of them wore a hat. There were two white girls, wearing skirts that were shorter than my underwear. They owned the most distracting pair of butts in the entire universe.

We then went to another tomb, before we got to the sundial. A white lady was looking for it, asking people about it. She seemed confused. I showed her the sundial. She thanked me. 

At last, we reached the Qutub Minar.

the tower of Qutb..


A 73 meter high tower, built by two Sultans, was now a home to pigeons, but inaccessible to humans. There was some comfort in that realisation. 

People looked so stupid. All they did was clicking photos. I was no different, I had to get a new DP. 
It was over soon, the epic day. We jumped into the train and sat on the gangway floor and shared the pictures. Amit opened his lunchbox and most of them refused to eat because it was Sawan and the lunchbox was filled with scrambled eggs. So I ate full. 

On the train, I could see myself, or a part of me that I’d left, in those gardens, walking down the paths with slow calm steps, free from the rush and the worries of the 21st century. 

That’s all.