The Real Write Ups -- Pat

We don't have even one picture. I've done some of the craziest things with you around and we don't have even one photograph to document it. It's better this way. We were too cool for pictures anyway.

That red light and those dirty draws, what a shady, shady room that was. The room where it began, with those mad stories and random things being set on fire. I still remember always having to recharge text balance in first year thanks to you. I still remember calling you Anish. Yeah, I'm not going back to that again.

I don't remember second year that well, you weren't around very much. Then you came back to College and it took us a while to get back on track, but soon enough we were up to our old tricks again. Everything has changed now. How we see people is different, our friends are different, we are more cautious and there seems to be a lot more at stake somehow. But we will be escapists always. We can self-medicate like pros, that's something we've mastered over the years. We will drown our sorrows in a half and then celebrate the insane times with the rest. We will use our sarcasm as often as we can, snubbing the world and each other every chance we get.

We've carried each other at odd times of the night when we were like dead weights, we've walked around a hell lot of places with a bottle of Pepsi that you got free from the Cafe and we have set up headquarters in MyBar. We've fought and created drama and then forgotten it all the next day. We can spend hours laughing at people. Even the senti conversations, man. Sometimes you know exactly what to say. Cocky is your middle name, and you aren't apologetic about it. I'm going to miss our muk east breaks and our resolutions that we always give up on.

Yeah, I don't know what's going to happen once College is over. We're going to get busy and things will change all over again. In different parts of the city and Paharganj will be too damn far. I'm going to bet that we'll stick together though. I'm going to bet that I'll follow you around until you come to my place for "just a beer" and end up having another killer night. Here's betting that College was the beginning.

It's been some ride, Pat. Knowing you has been beyond insane. The fights and the drama and the bad trips were all worth it. After all, there ain't nothing that we can't fix with a, "Bhaiya, barah DSP aur coke".

No, I don't want your coke. 

The Real Write Ups -- Anna

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups.
Shock of curly hair. Splash of colour. A laugh that frolics and resonates the halls like the patter of rain on a roof. An excited sense of animation that takes its form in the bubbly movement of hands and a light spring-like gait. No picture of you can be complete without these things and so, no picture of you will ever truly be complete.

I don't remember what day it was or how we ended up sitting with each other, but I do remember realising (and quite late, too) that we have a lot in common, a lot we could relate to about each other. It's a good thing, I feel. We still have a lot to do before we can rest and say, "yes, I know most everything about her." In the way that we worship our fathers or how we enjoy Maths, in the way we hug and leave vehement kisses on each others cheeks, in the way we talk each other through exams, in all these ways and more, we are quite similar, Annamo.

But you are more careful, more meticulous than I am when it comes to the important things. You are less reckless and more organised. This truth makes itself most clear about a week before any major exam. You will have a plan, you will stick to it. I will adopt your plan, fool around anyway and breathlessly manage to keep up with you somehow. We will both walk out of the exam hall though with the same expression on our faces. Sometimes it's disgust. Other times it's relief. There is also happiness, anger and quite often a look of absolute nonchalance. "It's over dude. Screw it."

No, I am not a real Malayali. I don't know the movie dialogues and the colloquial phrases. I can't read that well and watching the news in Malayalam sounds to me like aliens trying to make contact. But what do I have you for, then? In the same way you explain a difficult Trix question, you will explain these things too, but of course, you will laugh your insides out as you do. I have my share of bad habits and strange notions of life that you would most vehemently disagree upon. Despite this, we are the best of friends. I will still come to you, disheveled, unbathed and unapologetic after a night at Vijay Nagar and you will give me that look of utter disdain with your nose all scrunched up. In less than five minutes, we will return to laughing out loud at new nonsense.

The lazy afternoons we spend sitting in your room will be my best memories of Rez. Conversations ranging from Cherai beach to South Africa, punctuated with gossip and random anecdotes. I doubt we will ever stop having things to talk about. We don't need a Rez room to be who we are. We will do the very same things in Paroor, Thrikkakara, Padivattom or Thevara. We're going to be calling each other when we teach our kids Maths and reminding each other the tips and tricks we used in school and college. I feel our dads should meet and congratulate each other on the fantastic impression they have made on their daughters. As beach-lovers, I know that I can always count on you for a quick ocean swim.

You are a resilient rainbow. You don't fade even when skies turn grey and the sun hides behind the clouds. Instead, you will resonate even brighter and act as an assuring band of confidence. Oh, and when the sun is out and the rain has just given way to a misty coolness, you will beam across the horizon infecting everyone around you with an excitement that's hard to resist.

Annamo. You will always be my rainbow. Not just because of the range of colours in your wardrobe but for the vibrance with which you have painted my life. You will always be my horizon, not just because you are the standard I set for myself but because you unconsciously teach me that there is always more that I can become, greater dreams I can fulfill. You will always be that fluffy cloud holding me up with the lightness of your laughter and reminding me not to crease my forehead with lines of worry. I don't like black and white, neither do you. Let's stick together and make sure we never have dullness in our lives. As I always say, the kettippidichummas are for life. 

The Real Write Ups -- Aayush

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups.

What's up, handsome?
Nothing much, pretty woman.

The most awful part of being your friend is the realisation that it took me far, far too long to be your friend. There you were, saying hello to me on that first day of College and it didn't even occur to me to get to know you.

But now my Hindi is better and your shyness has abated and I know that neither of us will ever attempt to get rid of each other (hypocritical as we are). My foodie. I love that we can sit at a table and not utter a single word because we are too busy stuffing our faces. I love your various sandwich inventions and the endless hours we spend browsing Zomato. Most of all, it's the unadulterated serenity on your face as you bite into something delicious that is always going to stay in my mind.

Sometimes, your "chuck it" when I'm upset is the most soothing balm. Because like you, I'm better off driving uncomfortable things under carpets and there is never something that a Hot Chocolate Fudge and (endearing) hyena laughter cannot fix. I could spend hours sitting with you in any given corner of College, just talking about everything, about nothing. From cars to parents to love and the lack of it, the range of our conversations makes it difficult to list or catalogue them into the files of my memory. When my forehead is crinkled with lines of worry, it will always be those easy afternoons with you that, like the gentle rain of Delhi that we so love, wash away the grime of my day.

In the next ten years, whether or not we make big money and find penthouse apartments in New York, the plans we make will always weave between each other like the threads in an elaborate tapestry. We are alike that way, wanting the same things for ourselves. Jaguars and supermodel spouses apart, we will also build schools and visit the dirtiest dhabas. We will goof off in our apartments making cheese tomato sandwiches and swapping relationship advice (that is more often than not stolen from How I Met Your Mother or Cosmopolitan). We will do things on our own terms sometimes, and sell our souls for a fat paycheck most other times. We will travel the world every chance we get (and depending on our relative income levels, one of us will fund the other on occasion). When I map out my life to you, I find so many of our roads crossing at the same point and it's comforting to know that even though we may end up in two entirely different corners of the earth, we will both be searching for the same essential things.

I think you should know something. I will always be grateful for the poise with which you didn't pick sides. You could have, I know. I also know that it would have been easier for you to have chosen. But you made diplomacy look effortless. I have convinced myself that you did this because I mean that much to you. Yes, I do like to flatter myself. It is the most precious thing you could have given me. Because along with losing a lot of things, I came that much closer to losing you and you made sure I didn't.

If you think about it, it's been a long time since the awkward hugs (as is obvious from your face in the picture). Now, our inside jokes span so many different spectra that it's impossible not to remember you on a daily basis. It's a good thing.

I said one day, "If we all end up in D-school, we're going to be friends for life" and you said, "I thought we already were." That will be my favourite out of all our conversations. It will be my reminder to hound you for everything from First Class air tickets to chicken curry at Kake-De-Dhaba.

Without any awkwardness or embarrassment I can say, I love you. I mean it, I do. Now get rich quick. You know I'm only in this for the money.

The Real Write Ups -- David

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups.

I can't recollect the beginning of you and I. You're like my favourite purple sweatshirt. I've worn it so often that it's like second skin and it doesn't matter when it began because it feels like it was eons ago. I do remember the cartoons. I still have them in my drawer. In the beginning you were quite fascinating. I was mostly impressed by the fact that you could be so nice to everyone. It was a gift I didn't have and it came effortlessly to you. There I was, developing a crush on this little person with the thick-rimmed glasses sitting next to me. 

It was easy with you. Exchanging secrets over KFC didn't seem like such hard work (the hot wings helped). You do this thing when you laugh, it's as if your entire body is laughing. It's the most adorable thing I've ever seen. But I remember there was such a long time when I used to hold my tongue, lest my dirty mouth ruin your impression of me. For the record, I did try to clean up, but I was too far gone. I really didn't know how to make people laugh without being raunchy.

There's no one else who has convinced me so easily to go to church. I found myself walking to church in the evening with you, silently cribbing because some sort of Jesus-talk would automatically crop up. I found myself arguing with you over all these things about god and religion and being frustrated with you for not giving in and then frustrated with myself for not giving in. There was that book you gave me for my birthday that I tried so hard to make sense out of, but I just couldn't. I sang along to the songs though, because some music is always better than none. I felt happy by the end of it and glad I came.

I never did want to believe you were flawless, but then again, I could never convince myself you weren't. The sort of 'goodness' that beamed out of you was quite too much to process. I felt like I needed to defend you in case someone took advantage of it. No one messes with my David. It wasn't so much a sense of possessiveness as it was protectiveness. 

Then there was this 'paradigm shift' and for the longest time, I couldn't digest the fact that this New and Improved David really existed (someone told me, "David is not feeling well." I thought you had chickenpox). Badder, dirtier and yes, sexier too. Not that Old David wasn't sexy of course. We started all over again with you on my side this time. We began a new journey of firsts, ones that we may not be able to retell to many. But that makes them all the more special. I was always learning from you about the white and pure side of life. Now here I was, teaching you the ways of the dark. Not surprisingly though, your essential goodness stayed just the same. Of course, the level of niceness ranged according to moods and people, but it was still there. So was that gorgeous laugh.

We are more at home with each other now, I think. You finally laugh at my jokes. I feel like we could ride the entire yellow line on the metro and not be bored of each other. Though I'm pretty sure you'd be fidgety because it screwed up your meticulously planned schedule.You still inspire me. The way you read Economics, the way you love guitar and the way your sexiness just drips off you like honey. Yes, I knew you'd like that one. Look at the picture: I've purposely made myself look preggos so that your hotness is magnified. Oh, the self-sacrifice!

We may be light years apart in distance in the years to come. Will I let that keep you away? You bet I won't. You've seen and heard more about me than I am comfortable with and I will be damned if I let you spread that kind of nonsense to the rest of the world.

The most compelling memories of you are the small ones. Like days in the cafe and Google Talk conversations that lift my spirits. Like the little video emails that we send each other and the hugs that never lose their warmth and always manage to embarrass you. Like the bad habits we've developed over the years or the exchanges of Mallu chips for Stickjaws. With your variations of Stephanian sweatshirts with those same old ripped jeans and that big head of hair that my fingers always search for, you've made it impossible for me to let go. It will be these tiny things that I'll hold on to the tightest. From being your protector (at least in my own head), you have become mine. You are the one that witnesses my weaknesses and doesn't flinch. You are the one that knows all my stories and you've never judged. For even though your hands are small and often quite dirty (god knows where they've been), they are the kindest ones I'll ever hold. 

The Real Write Ups -- Ann

As I wrote write-ups for my friends for the College Yearbook, I realised how hollow it is to attempt to compress into three sentences the relationships I have built over three years. Here are the Real Write-Ups. 


The first image that comes to mind when I think of you is one where you are sitting at the back bench, with a book open, one leg crossed over the other, picking at your cuticles with your nails and reading intently. It makes you look curious and stern at the same time. It makes me imagine you as one of those professors that wear gorgeous silk saris and take no nonsense from their students. But of course, as with everyone, despite your shyness you are easily liked by your students. With that stubborn expression and a copy of Frontline along with the attendance register.  I can imagine you giving free attendance and silently smiling to yourself remembering how much we enjoyed it in College.

As my thoughts traverse on, our memories span across my mind like a film reel with your fingerprints marking every frame. When you broke down in the Metro. When you've hugged me for no reason (even though you're not a hugger). Malayalam dictation in Coffee Day. Endless hours of chatter (and quietness) in various comfy chairs and lawns in Delhi. Shopping as an excuse to go restaurant-hopping. Boys and continuous marriage conversations. Home, being away from home. Cherai beach and flopping in each others' homes. Fatness advice and lamentations. Just as it's impossible to isolate one frame from a two-hour long movie, so it's impossible to defragment all the million memories and list them out.

You've awed me, from the beginning. I was once asked why, and I never could come up with a good enough reason. Maybe it's the Malayalam or the music we share. Maybe it's Wills.  Maybe it's because you're so vehemently closed around most people and in contrast, so breathtakingly open around a few. I'd like to think it's an amalgamation of things that compound one over the other.

You are the golden sand that I dig my feet into when I go to the beach. Even as the waves spatter foam all over my legs and distract me, the strong foothold that the sand gives me makes sure that I am not carried away by the current. You are the epitome, not just of stability but this beautiful sense of calm. Even as you break into song sometimes in the middle of a conversation or laugh spontaneously at my ridiculous jokes, it is your unwavering presence holding me upright in times of doubt and confusion that keeps me close to you. It makes you stubborn too. In a way that makes me afraid to question or oppose you. When you say, "no", there is nothing else you mean but that. In a way, I respect that you are strong with your decisions. In a way, I resent that I can't attempt to change your mind.

Your sternness though is never present for long. You always replace it with that childlike smile of yours. I am going to be so very upset when we are forty and you still look like a twenty-five year old. As the weeks and the months pass on and we worry about our place in the world after College, I find myself missing you already. For even as the red brick and stone arches display their charm, the lawns and trees play the songs of the birds and the corridors paint gleaming sunlight rectangles on the floor, none of it has any depth or meaning unless it is filled with the people that made College home. I couldn't think of walking these halls without you right next to me and it is this thought that makes me fear what comes next.

Before I can let myself be sad, your voice plays in my head. The voice of firm assurance. I am reminded that we are not friends that disappear after College. We are the ones that will makes toasts at each others' weddings (I am already writing my speech). We will exchange prawn recipes and share secrets of where to get the best kappa biryani. I will think of you every time I hear Sultans of Swing. I will also laugh to myself when I am on a Spice Jet flight with crying babies. You will always be around, guiding my reckless little boat on this frightening sea of life.

Love Letter to Economics

You lured me in with your charm
The big names, fancy statistics
I was attracted to your novelty
The newness was my honey

There is no steady state with you
Keep working, keep improving, keep learning
Before the others have a comparative advantage
In vying for your attention

Hoping for positive returns, I tried
To understand your angles and curves
But they twist behind me and tie my wrists
Like handcuffs. I know nothing about you


You watched me follow you,
Random walk. You burst my bubble
And held the hands of another
I felt a sudden deflation of self esteem


I gave up, blamed your contradictions
Your paradoxes confounded me
The books I read for you dust over
My expectations bearish

Then I began to find the kinder side of you
Removing poverty, building bridges
As you orchestrated booms and busts
Your alter-ego intrigued me

After all these years, even today I pine for you
Short, long and medium run
I imagine a future with you
Even as I know you may never understand me

On a Birthday

I'm awkward when it comes to my birthday. Sometimes I'm cranky because I miss my family, especially my little brother who I (almost) share a birthday with. Sometimes I'm excited. Sometimes I want to flop. I'm a difficult person to plan a birthday for. I keep changing my mind and even when I say I don't care, I've realised I actually do.

That's why this post is dedicated to my friends and family. Especially my friends here in college. They tolerate my tantrums, they suffer through my angsty texts and mean glares and they get together and make me feel like I'm the only thing that matters to them. Even when they're LATE. Yes, even then, they make birthdays amazing for a birthday-hater like me.

To Diya, Rashi, Ann, Anna, Kalyani, Meghaa. I know how hard you guys try. I know it isn't easy to get me in a good mood on my birthday. But you guys do it, somehow. Because of you guys, I know how amazing and un-ordinary a birthday can be. Because of you guys, I let down my guard and actually have a good time. Because of you guys, Delhi will always be where I had the most insane birthdays. I've never had these, you know. These big affairs, with presents and cakes and parties. You guys spoil me. And I love you.

To David and Aayush, who were on time with that crazy gift. Who make me laugh endlessly. Who have witnessed my weirdest moments and never judged. Who love me even after all the Drama. Who ask me for advice and make me feel like an authority on things. Who are always there for girl-rating in the cafe.

To Amit and Rose, who listened to me crib because my birthday was boring in Delhi. Who promised me a big bang when I get home. Rose, with your cakes and purple cards and birthday craziness. Amit, with this endless messages that make me feel like the only girl in the world. You two keep me sane, everyday.

To Mamma and Papa, for bringing me home, knowing how badly I wanted to be around them when I turned 21. For watching me grow up without driving yourselves and me too crazy. For the quiet birthday dinners that I'll always love.

To my Abu. Who is THE most important person in the month of August. The one who shares a cake with me every year without complaining. The one who walked around with me all over the city trying to find me a gift I liked. The one who grudgingly listens to me as I ramble. It isn't a birthday without you.

This year, I had the best of both worlds. And I couldn't have turned 21 in a better way. I love you guys.

The Little Bookstore

I'm no one to give a bookstore review, I hardly buy books. I spend more of my time in libraries than bookstores. That's probably why this Little Bookstore attracted me, with all it's moth eaten second hand books.

I've been there a few times, not really to buy anything but just to be among books that were owned by other people and often have tiny snapshots of those people within their pages. Some have just the date written on the first page them in ageing ink, some have a whole passage. Some have pages with the crease of an earmark. Some have underlined words and their meanings diligently written on top. Some have study notes in them, others have personal scribbles. Every book is a treasure trove in which you often find little stories of the anonymous.

So I trotted along to the tiny little store just to look around and smell that old-book smell. As I read the worn out spines, the owner kept handing me romance novels. I suppose a lot of college girls buy cheap romance novels from this guy. I laughed and declined. To appear a little more serious, I asked him if he has a copy of Hamlet. Hamlet? He went on to pile on his table every classic he could fine. Those books were gorgeous, I would have bought all of them if I could. I kept wondering why anyone could throw them away, but of course I was glad they did.

As I bargained my price I looked around and honestly, I just wanted to stay in that little corner surrounded by those books forever. I fingered the spine of a Winnie The Pooh, I leafed through the pages of a Huckleberry Finn, I even fell in love with this moth-eaten copy of Asterix and The Cauldron that looked exactly like something I'd find in Eloor (the ancient library where I first began to devour Asterix comics). I wanted them all.

I think the store owner figured me out pretty quickly, because the next thing I knew, he was getting me a glass of chai and piling book after book into my arms. He shoved a stack of bookmarks in my hand to give away in College. He tried to chat me up with stories of Kerala and the Delhi Book Fair and someone from Malayala Manorama that bought a ton of books from him. He said something about getting me a whole stack of Asterix comics. He went on to give me a free thesaurus. I took it, I don't even know why.

But that's where things got a little strange. This man, for some strange reason gives me a book, written by some Indian writer I'd never heard of. He raises his eyebrows and asks me to read the back. I skim through a few sentences and look at him quizzically.
"Did you read it?"
"Yes. What's wrong?"
"No, read it. Then you'll see."
I read the back again a little bit more carefully. All I read was '..her moist..'. and I freaked out.
"WHAT?"
"You like?"
"No! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Okay, okay. You don't like. Tell your friends okay?"

I stormed out of the shop, all those romantic old-book thoughts left in a muddy puddle at my feet. Was that man trying to sell me erotic fiction after I had bought Pride and Prejudice and Antony and Cleopatra? My cheeks were flushed and I got on a rickshaw as fast as I could to find refuge in under-eighteen-friendly Costa Coffee.

Maybe I'll take Diya and go back, just for the heck of it. Maybe I'll even slap that old pervert. Or kick him in the shin. Yes, that is bound to hurt. *beams*

Ladies Compartment

Ass grabbery seems to be a man's favourite pastime when he finds himself in a crowd. I don't know why you people do it, because it gives us no pleasure whatsoever. I don't know why it gives you any satisfaction. You don't see women grabbing mens' bodies, do you? Your sheer insolence disgusts me. I don't mean to attack all males. Only the ones who think they have the liberty, if not the right, to feel random women up whenever the opportunity presents itself. And if the women so much as gives him a dirty look or shouts, he just pretends like it never happened, as does everyone else in the vicinity. At a crowded station, you see the men shout, hurling abuses at each other, a sea of aggressive bodies forcing themselves into a train. I have not seen a more stark contrast between the genders.

Welcome do Delhi Metro's ladies' compartment: keval mahilayen. Here, no one attacks you. Here, young people stand up for older ones. Here, everyone is less irritated and less fearful of a ghost hand coming from somewhere in the crowd for a quick feel. Here, a little nudging doesn't make you as nervous. Here, when a toddler walks across the compartment and is prone to fall, at least five hands reach out to hold him. Motherly instincts come to the fore. Conversation is easier, stares are not so much to antagonise but to tell someone their shoes are pretty (or ugly). A lot of it is because the compartment is less crowded. But to me, our race's gentleness makes it's graceful appearance in the first two cars of every train.

Sure, there are still the odd fights for seats. There are still women who push and shove to get ahead and when the train stops at Connaught Place, you are still going to be squeezed in between bodies and pushed out the door. But all of it is a lot less nauseating in the ladies' compartment.

College

They never tell you how hard it gets in college if you begin by slacking off. They never tell you how dangerous it is to think you have it easy for a while after those big fancy board exams. In fact, they don't tell you all the way until your final year when the Placement Cell has its first meeting and you realise it's highly unlikely you will get a job and even more unlikely that you will get admission to a post graduate college. You then realise that you made a grave mistake by ever thinking you had your bases covered and could take a break from the rat race for a few months. Because months turn to years and before you know it, everyone you know has over taken you. The thing about the rat race that you failed to recognise was that it really doesn't wait for you to take a water break. Hell, it wouldn't even wait for you if you'd broken a knee and needed an ambulance.

So here you are, slowly and steadily, without ever noticing it shifting into last place from some long lost lead you once had. It makes you bitter. Mostly, it makes you angry at yourself for never having tried harder, for never having paid attention in the beginning when you had a chance to change it. Here you are, hoping some miracle eagle is going to swoop down and pick you up and put you back where you used to be. But of course, that's the stuff for day dreamers.

It's frightening, this feeling of nothingness that comes when you think of your future. So what do you do? Two choices, really. Ignore, or acknowledge. Of course, the easiest thing would be to ignore. It's what you've done for the past few years so you have some practice. It makes all those sinking dreary feelings go away. The problem is, if you close your eyes when you're driving, you are bound to go crashing into something sooner or later. Acknowledge? That feels like staring down the parapet of a fifty storey building. All those success stories you hear of alumni making waves all over the country seem alien. You feel out of place, and often threatened by your peers. And still, there is some inkling of self confidence that raises its head shyly when you are alone.

Go for it, fool. With your substandard marks, apply to every job you possibly can. With your average academic record, write every entrance exam you can possible attempt. Read about colleges and companies. One of them will take you in, don't you worry. But you have to start and fuel that chain of events. Most importantly, close your eyes to the world. They don't know you, and you don't need to prove yourself to them.