It really is a small world sometimes. Like our small school world. College world. Post Grad world. Work world. In these little worlds of ours, we really are separated by six degrees. Everyone, knows every fucking one. It is bloody scary.
I wish I could give an example (in fact I tried, but deleted it), but everyone would know who I was talking about, because you guessed it - Everyone knows everyone.

Anyway, I'm supposed to be working on some really boring stuff today, so of course I'm playing mafia wars. I discovered the joys of photolibrary.com, and I love it. I've been designing random things of late, like party invites, wedding invites etc, and I think I should just sell them (see Nic, I'd do it for money. I lurve money).

December is drawing nearer. I can't help but think of Delhi, the trip to Rajasthan, my pretty room with a mouldy verandah and cold sunshine, the sharp stars in Ranthambore. I think I vaguely miss it. But I've said this before, so yeah. Last year, this time, we were glued to Uttam's computer watching the news, and feeling some strange unidentifiable feeling. The world has not changed at all.

I miss Cal in winter too. Park Street, chinese bulbs, monkey tupi, impending Christmas. I miss college and choir and looking out of room 19 into the college courtyard at a big bright star when I wanted to zone out from the lectures. This one, below. I miss it.

Anyway, I am SO maudlin. I have an uncertain December ahead of me. I'd like to go someplace with snow, I really do.

Okay, anyway, it's been 2 hours since I've come to work and not done a thing. Time to get back.

Postcards from Dilli

Today, for some reason, I was reminded of Delhi. Maybe, it was the weather. It's almost been a year. Anyway, so I sifted through some old writing and photographs from that time, and decided to put something together. It seems a little childish, a little contrived - but it's okay. I see it a lot in my old writing - this kid who's kind of stumbling through the big bad world and can't help but romanticize it. Okay, so maybe I still do it, but I get it. I get the superficiality of it. I find it tiresome to read through an endless stream of descriptions which don't really mean anything. They create a mood, and that's where it ends. It's so easy to be a critic, but it's super tough to actually do the right thing. Which is why, I say, it's okay. Even if the writing is a little too romantic, a little too dramatic. I'm learning.

It's funny - a friend of mine (who reads this sometimes) asked me if I have any writing that is "happy". And I was like, sure, I must - I'm a happy person. But wow. There was nothing that wasn't angsty. Everything else was fluffy rot. Either fluff or angst. There was some old stuff - like way back in college, but they were too, I don't know, English lit. Extremely influenced by whatever we were reading at that point of time. My own voice was kind of missing. And I'm still getting there - but I like it. I like going through old stuff. Sometimes I'm genuinly surprised by a piece of writing - and sometimes (most of the time) I'm so, so embarrassed. But it's fun nevertheless.

Everyone should write. Just write whatever. Writing rocks.