2017's Reading Journey and More.

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.” 

― J.D. Salinger

2017 is a year of great reading. In spite of having an extremely productive year, I've read 125 books. I've done more meaningful writing at work and otherwise, traveled, and published a book. I've widened my horizon and picked less discovered books, writers I haven't read, and went back to the ones that are close to my heart.

I stumbled upon Hanif Kureishi's 'Intimacy' at a second-hand bookstore and carried it home fondly. Only to lose it, two days and fifty pages later. But those pages were enough to make me buy another copy overnight. Scaachi Koul's 'One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter' was a part of my latest sojourn. I've keenly followed Scaachi's writing on Buzzfeed and elsewhere, and find her writing humourous. In this book, she talks about racism, immigration, sexism, and more while maintaining her usual tone of hilarity. 

Although Vikram Seth is one of my favourite writers, I've hardly read his poetry, but this year, I've checked it off the list. 'All You Who Sleep Tonight is something that pulled me through rough nights. So did Sarah Kay's No Matter the Wreckage. 

As a child, ‘The Little Prince’ was a valued treasure. Even as a grown-up, I go back to it time and again. When I knew that he was returning as a young prince, I was thrilled. The Return of the Young Prince is also a thought-provoking and delightful short read that bears relevance at this time, especially to millennials. 

The thing about diverse reading is that it exposes you to great literature - the unputdownable ones, but also the colossal bores. When I was younger, I often forced myself to finish a book even if I didn't like it much, but now I realize life's too short to read something you don't enjoy. However, the introduction to the works of writers like Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Kurt Vonnegut, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Simone De Beauvoir has been enriching. I've ended my reading for the year with Tania James, a wonderful storyteller whose short-stories have me unfathomably hooked, and James Frey, whose detail about his time in the rehab filled me with wonder. And of course, there was also a great deal of Murakami and Ruskin Bond, along with a few graphic novels and comics. 

2018 is certainly going to be different and far better. I intend to read only 50 books; I know it sounds funny but I've spent more than two nights researching lesser-known books and writers to create a list which consists of some classics like Watchmen, Vanity Fair etc. Right from Noir fiction to Nordic literature, graphic novels to more poetry, there is a plenty of fantastic reading to look forward to in 2018. 

If you have any book suggestions or think I should read a particular writer, I'd love to hear! 

To take a look at what I've read in 2017, go here:

https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/7343804

My book ‘Warm Delinquencies’ is available on Amazon for worldwide shipping. You can order it here: http://bit.ly/2gnn6j9.

12 AM Thoughts.

1. My feet are sore because of all the running I've done tonight. I guess I went a little overboard with it like I do with a lot of other things.

2. It's funny how I try to fill a void with the most pointless things ever. Are all human beings like this? Do we fill our void with inane things and expect to find meaning in the end?

3. Empty houses and broken hearts have more stories to tell. Distraught minds are often better than distracted minds. Late nights make for more open-hearted conversations while daytime conversations are just guarded.

4. There was a time in my life when I would distinctly remember lines from the books I read. I'd remember the lines that'd stir (or even snap) something deep inside of me or make me weep profusely. Now, I don't. Either I've stopped reading good books or I'm too distraught to remember stories I love. But hey, I can still recall the last lines from 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love' by Raymond Carver.

5. I've rarely missed a train. Maybe only once, and the memory of it is rather faint. But recently, I had a dream where I was sitting alone on a bench and watched the train I was waiting for leave right in front of my very eyes. I anticipated for its arrival, I watched it as it halted, and then witnessed it move slowly. I had to get on it, but I didn't even move an inch. I let it pass. I let it leave.

Tune for tonight: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Z5s3m9_Lq0

Growing Up.

The longest and most productive weeks are often the ones that breeze past us in a jiffy. You cannot fathom when the week begins and ends. And all of it in the blink of an eye. When I was a lot younger, I always assumed that when I'd finally do a job I love, time would stall. I figured that I would be able to taste every moment of it just the way I enjoy my cup of coffee. Funnily I also believed that the job I love would come only with the choicest of work that suits my interests. You assume a lot of things when you are young, don't you?

Lately, a minor part work that's coming my way doesn't interest me and maybe, just maybe, it's largely influencing the paramount of work that I otherwise enjoy.

So, what's this all about? When you finally take up a job you love, do you generally expect it to be brilliant on all days alike? Do you always hope that it comes in the form that is acceptable to you and only to you? I mean, I always hoped for it -- especially because I could be quite rigid and adamant when it comes to doing anything that doesn't thrill me. It might seem to be an awfully painful experience to convince me to write something I hate. Something I don't want to be associated with. Something that tests my patience even during a good night sleep. And more importantly, something that pushes me out of my comfort zone.

It just does not work that way.

The slightly older, almost 25-year-old version of me definitely knows that even the things you love come with a lot of flaws. Just like how your favourite triple chocolate sundae comes with a bad case of cold. You still savour it. You still crave it.

That's exactly the thing about growing up. Despite knowing that it comes with cons, you still adore it.

Give Up, Romantic.

I am your regular girl.

I want to be in the sort of love that I can swoon about on Instagram. Yet I want the sort of love that I want to hide from the rest of the world.

I am your regular girl. I am confused about the sort of love I want.

Contrary to the popular belief, I am not really a huge fan of good looking men. Not that I really mind them, and I don't really disapprove of a wonderful man with brains at the right place and has a beautiful face too. Some perks are good. 

My idea of the perfect man is the one who could woo me with his words. As a writer, I love soaking into the splendour of words that sometimes ruin me. I sign up for things like that - men who are all about words. Unfortunately, about no action.

No, I don't like the mysterious danger that lurks along with that sort of love. Because that isn't the kind that goes on Instagram, remember? For years, I tormented myself looking for the grand, maddening, I-will-kill-you-with-my-love sort of love only to realize it was too bad for me. So, one fine morning I wiped my slate clean.

I wrote, no expectations. Zilch. Nada.

The days turned sunnier and rosy. That's when I met him. In the beginning, he seemed like a person I could easily avoid. But, he ended up being in my face most of the time, and no matter where I went, he was available at every nook and corner of the earth. Maybe he made himself available for me. Maybe he did not. I hated him for reasons I could not even fathom but hating him was easy. So, I hated. Avoided. Ignored. Hid. Ran.

Things changed, of course. You must have watched enough romantic comedies to figure out what happens when a mysterious guy walks into the life of a girl smoothly and glides away just the way he walks in. He didn't even belong to the section of guys I liked, and no don't remind me about wiping my slate clean. I could give a lot of reasons, but the fact was that I was heartbroken again because the words I fell for were the ones that drowned me in the end. Now, I would blame all the movies and books I've devoured, and sometimes went overboard with picturing what if my life would be like if I was a character from a book. Fiction ruined me, just the way I ruined my expectations with the most unrealistic forms of love.

The sort of love I was looking for did not happen to me though it happened to a lot of people around me. I stopped believing in the sheer presence of love and the ways it could alter the definition of my life. What was I thinking anyway? My life wasn't like 'Notting Hill' and it definitely is never going to be like 'Say Anything.' So, I had to separate love from my love life and live my life.

Sadly, some things are not meant to be. If I was Taylor Swift, I would have sung a sad melody for you, but I am not and don’t fancy Taylor much, so I figured I must Instagram the heck out of my life and never bother about a guy I’d put on Instagram. The clouds seem blue all over again.

The Coffee Cup: A Short Story

"You don't have to understand. You just have to have faith..have faith in destiny."

-Serendipity (2001)

The weather was as pleasant as it could get. The coffee shop had a handful of visitors only - it was one of those gloomy days at the coffee shop. The brick walls, rustic wooden tables, slightly distorted chairs, Eddie Vedder's tunes playing faintly, and a strong aroma of black coffee complemented her. 

She sat at the corner of the coffee shop with a copy of Dandelion Wine while smoking a cigarette. She looked like she belonged there, engulfed in smoke yet with a twinkle in her eyes. 

She looked at him as he occupied the table across her. He carried a laptop, few papers, and a pile of books. 

"I will have my usual. And please, keep refilling my coffee till I ask you to stop," he yelled out to the lady at the counter and he had his espresso right after he asked for it. He plugged in his earphones and started scribbling on his papers. She leaned forward to see what he was doing. He was writing, and very swiftly at that. 

She looked up at his face. A pretty face, she thought. Big brown eyes, well groomed hair, eyebrows creased, dressed in black and very clean. Just unlike her! She wondered why she never saw him if it was his usual place. She blinked her eyes and got back to her book.

A couple of hours and a few cups of coffee later...

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I'm one of them.”

She was startled and looked up at him as he was settling down at her table. 

She tried to hide her surprise and said, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, it is one of the beautiful lines from the book you are reading. Ray Bradbury is a genius writer. Haven't you paid attention to these fascinating lines from the book?" His eyes were slowly turning comical.

"I do not remember lines from Fiction. I read them just because I want to read some books before I die," she said that while taking a long puff of her cigarette.

"That is a very bad thing to say to a writer. I am Ayan, by the way."

"What do you do for a living?" She rolled her eyes.

"I write for a living. The piece I was working on while you were scanning me a moment ago had a deadline, it is meant to be published tomorrow. And don't you know that smoking is bad for your health? You are killing my health too," he said with a mock cough.

"I will do whatever the hell I want. You cannot stop me."

"Of course, I cannot. So, what do you do apart from smoking a million cigarettes a day and staring at random men?"

"A. I do not stare at random men. And B. I was a doctor," she cleared her throat, "a failed doctor, to be precise."

"Ooh, what happened?"

"Later."

He looked at her and sighed. 

She was sad, she did not give it away. He was curious, he did not give it away.

"So, what do you write?"

"Fiction."

She asked him more questions about his stories and his life. He noticed her weeks ago but he ignored to mention it. He wanted to ask her many questions too but he sensed her discreetness. Still, deep down he knew he will have his answers. Later.

Few hours later too, they still sat there, consuming more coffee and stealing glances at each other, she was reading again, and he was writing again.

The coffee shop witnessed yet another strange story again. It was 8 P.M. when they left the place together.

The conversations were saved for later.

Let Me Love You At Your Worst!

Watson: Why is she like this?

Sherlock: Because you chose her.

The moment I watched this scene, I knew it was going to be the best part of the entire episode. It indeed did.

I vividly remember asking myself countless times, “Why did I choose you of all people? Could I not choose someone better?”

But I chose you.

I chose trouble. I chose disorder. I chose pain.

I chose you. Because you keep me emotionally alive. I chose my stupidity over shrewdness.

And for all intents and purposes, I fell in love with you and there isn’t a better way of expressing this, I reckon. I want to love you at your worst.

I want to love you when you crease your forehead because of the hot summer heat, I want to love you when you freak out because the food doesn't get delivered on time, and I want to love you when you are majorly disappointed with someone in your life. I will not brush it aside as a quarter-life crisis.

I will love you when you are tired and I know I must suffer the repercussions. I will love you and put up with all your whims and caprices. I will love you when things do not work out. I will love you even when I realize that you are pushing me away for my own good. I will love you even when you are going through a major trauma. I will love you because I know I want to be your strongest even at your weakest.

I want to love you when you break down, I will hold your arm, and stand by your side. I want to love you when you want me to hold you because you miss someone. I want to love you in your failure even when I am not with you in your victory. No matter whoever is with you in your happiness, I want to love you in your turmoil and despair; hopelessness and melancholy. I want to love you in your insecurities and dire straits. 

I want to love you like how a certain writer would love his first book, like how a painter would love his most underrated yet precious piece of work, like how a musician would love a tune that brings back all his best memories I will love you like how a poet would love his tragedy. I want to love you like how Moon would love the Sun. I want to love you like how an alcoholic holds on to his pain. 

I want to love you a little more. A little more with every passing day.

So, would you let me love you at your worst? Just let me.

What Happens When You Date A Writer!

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”

—Enid Bagnold

Have you ever wondered how it feels to date a writer? Fall in love so irrevocably it feels like a redemption from your rather insipid past?

When you are dating a writer, you might feel like you are with a person who is suffering with a multiple personality disorder. You can never predict what's going on in his head. Is it about the latest article that he has read or the insecurity he is experiencing about a fellow writer?

Dating a writer comes with its own pros and cons. You put up with his mood swings, his whims and caprices, and even when you feel like an outcast at times, you long for more. If a writer takes you into his life completely, he will write about you, everything about you. He will scandalize your lives. Your life becomes an open book and you find people criticizing your life. Very often! You can never escape that. A writer immortalizes you with every word. If you don't matter, he will never write about you. He is an emotional, aggressive, and a constructive lover. He loves you for all that you are but never forgets the blunders you make. They are forever engraved in his mind.

A writer is delusional. Many a time, you find yourself awake at wee hours of night exchanging tales about his day and the people he has met. You find him curling into a ball, wiping his tears when a book has a dramatic ending. You find him self absorbed, and you cannot fathom why you are so connected yet disconnected with this man whose days begin and end with words. And not you.

When you date a writer, you are up to date with all the happenings and affairs of the world. You share your tales with him, he will lend his ear amicably, and correct you often. It is for your own good, he says. Nobody's perfect at Grammar, he says. Yet you find him chastising you for not knowing the difference between your and you're. On rare nights, you see him consuming copious amounts of coffee, editing an article. Hold his arm, read his lines out, and give an honest opinion. But do not try to be an editor.

A writer may go into his cocoon but he will love you like no other. He will make love to you passionately and introduce you to the enchanting world of Pablo Neruda and Jean Paul Sartre. He is possessive and wouldn't let you be a part of another story. You belong with him and you know it.  

You find him easily disturbed even over the nitty gritty bits of a book. You call him demented. He laughs it away. There are moments when you wish you had a simple life like others. You want to run away from his nasty temper, yet find yourself enticed by his mysterious nature. He has an air of arrogance around him. You fancy it. Admit it!

"Why do you like that writer better than me? He is a misogynist." He runs his brown eyes over your lovely face, hoping for an earnest response.

You find yourself maundering. How can you possibly fight with your man for a writer who was dead decades ago. You smile. You fall for his tender childlike nature. He is on par with an infant when it comes to emotions. You take him into your arms and tell him how good a writer he is, softly appreciating his flair at weaving stories.

When a writer really loves you, he will show you his vulnerable side. For a moment, he will dismiss his wits, and take you into world that he proudly calls his kingdom -- a place where you truly belong. A place where he sits with a Hemingway's book on a worn out couch. He will never let go of you. You might let go of him, and drift away from him. But he will always remember you as a story that was left unfinished, and trust me, he will forever yearn for an ending for a writer believes in endings. Even if it is a tragic one.

His pen will ache for an ending. Always.

Five Dream Jobs! :D

“My job is to scream cockle-doodle-doo. Don't blame me if the sun doesn't rise.” 

― Janet Skeslien Charles, Moonlight in Odessa

9-5 jobs! How many of us are already warming up to this idea? The famous myth says that 9-5 jobs kill creativity, wreck your social life, ruin your friendships and relationships. Well, it is a myth. At least, in my case. 

I digress.

So, we all have an image of these oh-so-perfect jobs in our mind and in many cases, the moolah doesn't matter. Right? Hey, I am talking about the 'not-very-ambitious, creativity is all' lot here. You invest bankers are doing just fabulous. I am talking about us, the non-serious, goofy people. 

On an unrelated note, I imagined eight dream jobs but I didn't want the post to be very lengthy (and boring). So, I cut them down to five. 

*Drumroll*

1) The Foodie: Seriously, how many of us have this on our list? I mean getting paid for eating food is the best job ever. Everytime I watch "Highway On My Plate" and "The Foodie" on the television, I cannot fathom why I don't find such stimulating (Yes, I used stimulating because I don't want to come across as a glutton. Idiocy, I know) jobs.

They don't just eat a lot. They get to travel a lot as well. Gee! 

2) Travel Writer: They say traveling is the only thing that makes you rich. Word! Travel writers have such wonderful experiences, don't they? They eat different cuisines, meet new people, listen to fascinating stories, take beautiful pictures, make the less fortunate one jealous, and like an icing on the cake, they get to write in beautiful locations. Awesome!

3) Book Reviewer: Imagine locking yourself up in a room full of wonderful books. Yay! Could there be a better job?

4) The Dreamer: Okay now, dreaming isn't a simple job, okay? It is a rather painful job to remember and recollect your dreams. Wouldn't it be lovely if we get paid for dreaming? I know, I know, it is SO Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. 

I would jump and scream in joy if my boss says, "Sleep for the whole month, dream, send me a report of your dreams, and you'll get paid." 

What can I say? He would be the best boss ever, my friend.

5) Movie Critic: If there is one job where money wouldn't really matter to me, it is this. I would watch four movies and a few episodes from a sitcom everyday and a lot more for this job. (Does this sound like a career objective in a C.V? Oops!) 

This, indeed, is a dream job. Call me a stereotype, but I would watch Indian movies and only those movies starring Jude Law (Say, a current obsession? It will wear off in a week.)

Like Confucius said, "Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life", I will shed tears of joy if I do any of these jobs. 

Oh, I actually have three more dream jobs. But I will come up with another post soon. 

So, what are your dream jobs?