Of course the stage is sacred, it’s where we get high

[For anybody who hasn’t got the ‘we’ of the title, this post is about my college dance team. And for Amma who’s frowning suspiciously at it, it’s just an expression enne kollanda I don’t actually smoke :D]

I must start by mentioning this is an awfully personal version and a limited one at that, as bail for any future complaints.

And I swear it’s completely harmless. Because if I told you about the time when VC and the rest of us were walking to Gp’s place, and she naively went up to a guy and said, “Cheta, aa mund onn mattuvo, athinte adeenn rocket onneduthotte”, it would be blasphemy. So I shall not do it. (Did I mention she was playing with a paper rocket, but sshh.)

And if I told you about Buhari’s newly founded self-declaredly super-efficient onstage technique by which he focuses *cough* biogas *cough* into instant energy, I’d be revealing too much. Also he might kill me, hence I won’t be doing that either (I’m not sure how much effort he put into it, but I know we were all thankfully shielded from some pretty major shit, again sssh).

This isn’t a goodbye post though, because farewells make sense everywhere except in our dance team where it’s pretty much a farce. Not because if-there’s-such-a-thing-in-the-team-as The Official farewell gets postponed until it never happens like last year, but because you’d think you’re bidding seniors goodbye and that’ll be the end of them, but they never really leave :P.

Sure you won’t see them in college anymore, but they’ll always be around with their “Choreo enthayi?” or “How’s practice going?” And just as you thought you were beginning to miss Sreekanth etan’s upbeat chalis, he’ll show up in college one day with his “Njan oru chali adikkate” reminding you there was never anything upbeat about them, and you’re still stuck with his annoying jokes even after he got shipped off to Bosch 😀 And just as you think you’re missing the pillar Arjunetan, he’ll appear unannounced at a fest with his flippant quips and make you laugh until your stomach hurts.

A little more than two years ago though, I wasn’t acquainted with room no. A322 (if you aren’t either, it’s our dance room), I didn’t know any of those I just mentioned, I didn’t know what lay ahead and I was an entirely different person.

LH was where I’d eat as guest for 20Rs from the mess sans the fish because it’s reserved for inmates. Today, it’s where I’d go with the rest of the team for lunch after 2 (it’s free because mess duty would’ve left by then), or for tea in the evening before fests and to #64 during practice breaks to soak Sreelekshmi’s bed in my sweat. She never complained.

College was a place to be left no later than 6.30pm and DEFINITELY not where you broke into spells of crazy dancing to London Thumakda or Mangalyam at A322 at 8 in the night. Triples were wild and fun and once-in-a-while, today it’s squeezing three of our asses onto the tiny two-wheeler seat every second day to go home or to sir’s place. Hari’s Enfield and Akshay’s Duke from the end of the season don’t count, traitors getting rich just as we are getting despatched. Arjun etan’s the best – Dio then, Dio now, Dio forever 😀

A full split was a rift between groups in class, now it’s what Aswin’s trying to accomplish in the left corner of the picture below in the mirror. IMG-20151112-WA0009.jpgAt sir’s studio, standing in our infamous Battlecry photo pose that we never got a photo of. Kj and Akshay missing.

They were busy with, er, each other. Jk, it doesn’t happen during practice.

Talks being held at CETAA hall don’t mean IEEE or ISTE or EDC or any other club anymore, they mean chaya/vada before practice from outside as long as we pretend we belong to the fraternity inside, though it’s past me how we ever pull it off in our chic practice attire :D.

And college from two years back was where you went to study though none of it happened, not where you sat through and waited for 4 in the evening so you can go to the dance room and meet a bunch of crazy people. Who’ll teach you the 14 districts of Kerala in order, and that your phone gets on Roaming when you leave the state and not Tvm. Or maybe it’s just me who needed the lesson. (My parents believe I should do IAS, geography’s my only weak spot  you know). Who, when you weep and complain that a friend didn’t let you cheat off their test (it was series okay), will first console you and then ruthlessly laugh at you for not having legitly failed a test. Of course I’m bragging.

The reason why this place is crazy though, is cos you spend the first few months in the team wondering if you really belong here, and the rest of your college life feeling like this the one place you really do.


I remember when S6 began, I couldn’t wait to go to A322 every day. Days of practice from 9am to 9pm  when post-6.30 evenings turned into major dancing stints outside the choreo-prospectus of contemporary and hiphop. Of days when Ginu almost killed Muth on the eve of Cultaway ’15, of days when the team was deluged with new Asus phones, of mind-boggling quantum of selfies uploaded in the group every evening, of celebrating birthdays and Dhwani and pulling Nami’s leg and Jithu’s Ladio, of days when college practically shrunk to that room atop main block. It wasn’t unadulterated fun, it was euphoria through an entire season of 13 stages. When the most fun moments were after losing Sarang and before performing at Ragam. With undertones of Pazhagikalam and Ethu Kari Ravilum and Vinnod Nee Irundhaaaaaaaal *wink*.

sree.png A322 from last season.

We missed those evenings this year as Dr. David courteously asked us to practise off-campus and we dutifully obeyed. Can’t blame him, University Youth Festivalil event allathathu kondu Cup onnum adichittillalo. I’m sorry he got kicked out of college later though. Could have been sooner.

But if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have had all those hilarious days when 9 of us girls cramped ourselves into Nany’s car to go to Sir’s place for practice while he on the driver’s seat tried to hide his face with someone’s shawl as a Mechanical Professor passed us by at the junction. And an odd semester where we jumped from the studio to temple hall to emmau’s church meeting hall to indoor stadium and finally back to A322. Where the guys miserably struggle to keep up with the girls while we do push-ups, counting away and Muth stands on her head. I’m not winking or coughing.

Where discussions loom over MJ5 to Maroon 5 to Mini Militia.

Where stories are weaved and costumes designed from scratch, pieces choreographed and portions intertwined.

Where you miss a step on stage and get off in despair, you’ll laugh about it with the rest of them for the rest of the season, and the next.

The team is probably also what your parents advise you to think twice and twice again before joining, you’ll listen to them consistently complain about the hectic days -no, not theirs- but they’ll proudly watch you on stage and exclaim, “So that’s what the six months’ practice was about”. Or they’ll say they don’t approve of it, come watch you at NUALS and when asked how it went, like Anaswara’s mom they’ll critique, “You didn’t point your toe during the lift”. Parents 😀

The stage itself is a culmination of sorts of timeless full-stretches, punctuated by the smell of hair-spray and face-paint and smoke, and the clamour of an audience in anticipation. You’d think that the rush of adrenalin before a performance would grow fainter as the stages go by, but it doesn’t. And the jubilant cheer that bears the team name as you get on or off the floor only grows on you, the initial boos that invariably turn into indiscriminate cheers as the dance proceeds only get you addicted.

There are unending on-stage tales that’ll crack you up.  Like that of Ginu’s knee drop that was done an entire half-minute early, she spent the rest of the minute doing a whole 360 degree rotation to see what steps the rest of us on stage were upto, and then calmly waited for us to catch up with her.

The real tales of ours, though, lie offstage. Not just those of the hiphop choreo days when boys had practice all through the night until morning after which they brushed their teeth and proceeded to classrooms, only to be asked to leave after being caught sleeping.

Every person here has their own stories to speak of, some of them more personal than others, and some more painful perhaps. Of how they lost count of stitches done or of how they stayed put at the expense of sacrifices made. Chances are you’ll have one to say for yourself if you belong to a performing clan.

Like a KDP who’s in bed with fits of a 104 fever at 12 and goes on stage at 2.

Or a Kevin chetan who’s resting with a plastered leg that’s practically warped and is yet the first one to jump up with “let’s go” when he hears there’s a stage to perform.

Or an Anu who’s exhausted her physique to the point of collapse and yet turns up at A322 every evening.

Or a Nipun who, when the rest of us are down on the SAC floor in tears after Nany’s accident wondering if we’d ever have the courage to don dancing shoes again let alone perform minutes later, when the rest of us are too shaken to even think clear and when he has every reason himself to break down, delivers a goddamn soliloquy and steers way for the team, for Nany who’d wanted it the most.

Or even a Nany injured in his costume after getting ready for the stage and hospitalised with  a skull fracture and two clots to his brain, the first thing he utters on gaining consciousness and hearing his team went on to win Saarang is, “You could’ve waited for me, I would’ve performed, I just had to get a CT”.

These are the stories that make up our team, these and a hundred more.

Of days of going home/to the hostel exhausted after practice, falling on the bed and not getting up until next day. Of waking up feeling like you never slept and then proceeding to drag your ass to class for attendance. Of  stretching your arm to pick up that book to prepare for a test, then deciding against it because it hurts too much. Of missing calls and weddings and reunions and parties and hangouts and deadlines you didn’t even know existed because college doesn’t revolve around class/department or anywhere close to it anymore. Of a day when it hurts because of a splintered arm or a wounded inside, or of a day when your mind’s a mess. Yet you pull yourself together and hug them all, go on stage and surprise yourself and you wonder how you did it.

Ours aren’t tales of wonder or awe but tales that reek of ache and compromise and are drenched in tears and sweat.

And if you remember those once-sore joints and overworked muscles that became a part of you, you’d know it isn’t surprising if miscomings do not deter the squad. And if you remember those relentless cramps and used up cans of Volini and almost-empty bottles of Murivenna and the Thirumals, you’d know how the show goes on no matter what.

Because nobody said it’d be easy. They just said it’d be worth it.

The best part about the team : Seniors. [And juniors and batchmates, just in case everyone’s reading this :P]

sree.pngAt the IIT IRCTC canteen. Clicking this was followed by tons of food and 6 hours of craziness.

Including a Shebin chetan and Gp who’ll make you laugh when you tearfully lose your first Sarang, then go on to play Anthakshari at the IRCTC canteen from 12 to 6 in the morning. And a Sreekanth, Arjun and Aswathy chechi without whom we wouldn’t have won the next time. Kickass seniors we have, yes 😀

I still remember our last SNIT fest from last year. Until then, I didn’t know there were engineering colleges with swimming pools atop beautiful hills, going where feels like a bloody awesome excursion trip. We were accompanied by Sreekanthetan’s Thor tee that came with us for every fest in its never-been-washed self with the excuse of being lucky. I remember how we loitered by the poolside and watched the familiar teams arrive, ran through the rain and took a million selfies in –finally – MY AWESOME NEW Lenovo phone.  And that’s the day Arjun got locked out of his house because he returned with his friend’s car past 12 midnight when he’d promised to return by 4 in the evening. He’s passed on the baton to Sangeeth now.

I remember returning home in Arjun’s car, the cool after-showers night air swept in as Devika chechi said, “Can’t believe this is the end for us final years” from the window seat. I can recall every little nuance from that trip. And I could recount every single detail from that day like it happened yesterday, perhaps cos it’s one of the best days of my life. No I do not throw superlatives around like shit.

That’s why it’s sad to know that it’s our turn now, that there’ll be no more routinely arranging and rearranging those desks and benches of A322. No more of sitting on the courtyard steps of LH with the rest of the girls, sipping tea while a familiar face asks, “Innu fest ondo?” No more standing on the surreal side of the stage while listening to the chorus of ‘CET’ or ‘Watch the Freakz’. That’s why it’s heart-breaking, because this was what we loved the most about college, and for some of us the only thing we loved.

Anu’s “erangiyooo” that transcends corridors and LH walls. Nami regularly ‘not sleeping’ on trains. KDP’s push-cart and his forever-cool. All the times when Anjaly got – undopingly – stoned 😀 Burping after eating too much of Nipun’s biriyani – oh wait, there’s always another Ragam. Pratheeksha’s slapstick remarks and AAAAAYYYY. Akshay’s adventures with meen. I’ll try my best to not miss Nany or Nikita though, they can do the missing themselves, as long as no curtains are destroyed.

Whenever I chance upon If I Lose Myself, I’ll remember the rainy days at the studio dancing with Jithu and the others and the unfinished story of our group duet.

I’ll miss waking up half-dazed in the morning, trying hard to remember if we sweated too much during previous day’s practice because otherwise – never mind – I’ll miss stuffing freshly washed practice dress into my college bag every morning 😛

I’ll miss ringing up Arjun before practice on weekends and nagging juniors to drop me home and listening to Hari and Sangeeth and Arjun’s stories (Hari’s the nicest kid around btw did I mention).

I’ll miss the workout chit-chats and the Ladies’ Hostel – my version of it, anyway. I’ll miss #64 during practice breaks and Sreelekshmi and Lekshmi. I’ll miss Aswathy and her tales of her brother. I’ll miss seeing Nanditha around the dept, I’ll miss her ransacking my bag for shit in the evenings, I’ll miss sharing upper berths in general compartments and talking until the apoopan below politely asks if we’d like to shut up and sleep.

I’ll miss Ginu – from class, from #48,  from A322,  from her home and her beautiful family in Aluva, wrapping ourselves up in early morning buses to offset shivering to death, but mostly the one who plays with paper rockets and engages in mindless monologues.

All the triples while being squashed in between or holding on for dear life at the edge, of jingling coins in pockets and asking around for loose change to add up to 10 for one lime at chechikada for a team of 21, of surprisingly never missing a 4am alarm to beat and cook 20 eggs before morning trains, of journeys dotted with umpteen stories told and retold, of seniors’ unexpected visits and juniors pestering for treats.

And somewhere in between laughing our asses off at each other’s hilarious military poses and our old age acting-‘workshops’, between tying Nany/Arjun etan’s hair to create pretty girls and ‘Practise at 10’ every Saturday, between Hari dubiously handling someone’s schoolbag at his tuition and an 8th standard KDP crushing on his teacher’s daughter, between sitting down with Vivek etan or Sreejith sir listening to their stories and Anjaly’s updates about Goldfather,  between those train rides to Madras and cycling through forest-lined campus roads at 4 am, I guess we all fell in love with this team a bit more than we knew.

That’s why I love this place, because it gave me people who could turn my days around. It gave me a bunch of faces who made mine light up with a beaming smile every time I saw them, because they’re a piece of that part of my life where I found happiness of a sort I didn’t yet know existed.


There are certain things that’ll come across your way in life, you’d just know it’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime gambles that’ll change the shades of your day. Maybe it’ll repaint your black and white hues with a tinted rainbow, or maybe it’ll turn the sepia pages into an orchestra of brilliant strokes. You won’t know if it’ll be for the better or for worse, you won’t know what exactly would come out of it – a lot like when you fall in love. It’d look unfamiliar, maybe even a little daunting, yet intangibly amazing at the same time. And once you’ve tasted it there’s no going back to the way you were before, because nothing less real will do.

Years down the lane, I’ll perhaps bump into an old costume or a random picture of the team, or a can of brown hair-spray or an unlikely orange stocking hung out, or a wedding playing Bella’s lullaby that’ll send forth a deluge of memories. And I’d pause and ponder for a minute or two, about how we spent days and nights of college days within a class room coloured in our sweat atop the main block, how we fought for that last bite of LH sandwich or the last sip from bottles of water, how we watched the rain from the shady corridors and dozed off on our dance room’s cool floor after practice, how we travelled from college to college ticketless in trains and wrapped together in buses, how we shed tears together and laughed a hell of a lot more.

And how within the boundless walls of our team, seniors and juniors dissolved into family.

I don’t know if I’ll tear up then. I don’t know if Pratheeksha and Nipun would have kids by then.

But I know I’ll smile as I remember, this was the best thing that happened to me. To us.

 13048163_1050189105054123_8229974287425393695_o.jpgTeam Watch the Freakz in 3.2.1. GO!




4 years. College.

Note: Specific references may not get across unless you are acquainted with some of the people mentioned.

I’m listening to “Thiruvaavani Raav” and for some reason the only thing that comes to mind is the pretty bespectacled sister from the movie, and Rohit going, “Enthu nalla kuttya alle” as we leave the theatre (of course that’s not really how he put it :P), the others nodding and sheriya’ing in approval. Next on my playlist is probably some other track with some other strings attached. It’s all fine when you’re still in college and have that sudden rush of memories – the subjects in question are always in sight, even when you might want them to momentarily disappear once in a while.

In a few weeks though, the scene would disperse and all that’s left would be cords and contacts.


Apparently Facebook thinks it’s time for deep questions now since college is almost done.  Pretty sure I didn’t learn concentration at CET. Badjoke level  – Bharath. Don’t judge me.

And now to answer this audacious query.

I remember the first day of college like it was yesterday. It was raining in the morning, I wore my navy blue kurta and black jeans, sceptical if I was shabbily dressed for college. I remember how I walked up the steps of Golden Walkway under the umbrella Amma had handed me in the morning with her customary “Kondu kalayalle paru”. I remember smiling at the drenched and dripping trees on either sides of the Walkway that swayed happily in the breeze as if ushering me in. I had one used 200page notebook from school in my bag, there still were many blank pages left. They won’t actually teach on the first day, no? (yes they will, note that Facebook). I wondered if there’d be seniors waiting in class to rag us. I wondered what the subjects would be like, what the teachers would be like, but mostly what the students would be like. And I wondered what Sandhra and Bharath would be like – they were the only ones I had become friends with on FB after orientation day.

I got answers to all the speculation from my first day in class, never mind if they were right or wrong. I rushed home that evening to tell Amma I wouldn’t survive four years in this place. “4 years potte, I won’t survive a month there OK? Nithya AND Gopika are in the other class AMMA”

“Are the kids in your class not nice?”

“The ones I talked to seemed fine. But they’re not KIDS! Not like the ones from school anyway.”

“Well you’re not in school anymore.”

“Onnu kekkuo!? There was this girl Athira from Kozhikode – she’s the first person Haneena and I talked to – Haneena is nice she’s from Palakkad – and she was just talking to us but we thought she was ragging us okay? So rude! AND she’s in my class! ”

“See you already made friends from two other districts” Amma laughed.

“Onnu povuo, then there’s Physics, Chemistry and Maths. Those things were supposed to be over with entrance no? Rest are all basic this, basic that, BME BCE BSC and ABCD”sree(This was a status I put up during first year university. Even design is better than this shit lol.)

“Okay let’s join All Saint’s next year appo Paru can study Arts, mathiyo?”

“BLAH. I wish I were in some other department. ANY other dept”

I went on to complain about my class, that there were way too few people from Trivandrum, and all the nice (by which I really meant FAMILIAR) people seemed to be from here.

Four years past, that conversation turns bogus, and the nicest of all people you meet in the 4years here HAVE to be from Kozhikode.  And the nicest-people-I-met-here list would go something like Athira (from the first day, yes), Divya, Anapi, Roshni, Niranjana, Nidhin, Renjini, Navas, Sreelekshmi,  Lekshmi, Thasni, Ginu, Arjun only because it’s my list 😀 I should probably mention it’s an incomplete one, just in case anybody from my batch is accusingly glaring at my post.

And I can never thank God enough that I didn’t end up in ANY other department, anything to do with circuits would have killed me. Where else would I be expected to dig pits on the ground and have 12th std Chemitry labs and mix concrete using shovels with picture-perfect lab groups that comprise another Parvathy as thin as me for moral support in times of nervous breakdowns, an Oormila for the timely completed rough record, and a Pramod to discuss episodes of Chandanamazha with? 😀



The first one and a half years of college Nithya and I were busy deriving *cough* inspiration from seniors *cough* (SHE might actually do Civil services, given the quantum of all the inspiration :D), and tagging poor Gopika along everywhere we went. So if anybody had a crush on anybody and it was public knowledge, I never came to know of it until third year. If two from my class became a couple in that time, I never heard of it until third year either. There was Drishti and Dhwani and ICI and lots of running around, everyone was eager to get to know everyone. All occasions from birthdays to buying new chappals were celebrated together in class by all- well obviously not all-, until stuff settled down. By the end of it Nithya/Gopika and I were arguing as to whose class was better lol. Come to think of it, we still do.

Confession: The first time I cried in my entire life for somebody from class being rude to me was in second year. Yes that happened, and Shemeena the pacifier wanted to know if I planned to weep every time somebody decided to shout at me, “It’s up to you to ignore the shit people throw at you, especially when you know it’s shit”. No she never used those many ‘shits’ but it’s pretty much the gist of what she said. The day I truly realized college wasn’t – isn’t – school.

Everyone is different here. Somebody’s idea of awesome is somebody else’s lame. Somebody’s fun is somebody’s boring/outrageous. Somebody’s rude is somebody’s normal, and everybody’s going to unapologetically be themselves, as they should. And if somebody throws shit your way, you could ignore them altogether, or you could just ignore the shit and be cool even if you don’t think they deserve it. It’s not called being fake, it’s called growing up cos you realize everyone’s wired a little differently. But idk what it’s called if you’re smiling at them and solemnly hoping they’d get hit by a truck, I’m not that evil so I wouldn’t know 😛

That was the first and probably the best piece of advice I received in college.

4 years past, a lot has changed. No more shallow small talk and pointless socializing and definitely no more celebrating the new pair of chappals. But I’ve reached the point where the captions from first year #newplace #newfriends #newlife have turned to #amazingpeople #lastfewdays and memories made that will remain.

So Holi will always be a reminder of THIS day 😀sree.png

And Tum Saath Ho will forever be the vocal team comprising Vinaya, Oormila, Niranjana, Roshni, Divya, Revathy and Malu seated on the last bench of S8C1 and almost resolutely singing the song in chorus. I don’t think Malu sincerely put in her efforts though cos it actually sounded good. 😀

Uptown Funk will be Rintu chanting along with Karthik’s stereo, just as passionately as she dances. I would post the Iski Uski clip here, but she’d kill me.

Right Round will be an entire year of putting up with Nithya’s bass voice in S3/S4 and later realizing in S7 that she’s faaaaar better than Athira 😀

I’ve also learnt that the ‘Trivandrum is rude’ isn’t ALL garbage. But for every seemingly rude “Athinippa njan yentho venam” Trivandrumite you meet here, there’ll also be an innocent ever-helpful ever-clueless Malu asking in her unintentionally rough tone, “Enthu patti paaru, thaan inn despa? Njanoru paattu paadi tharanoo?” You see, for every Sankaran with a heavenly voice, you’ll also meet a lot of terrible singers, and Malu would serve their cumulative effect that can cheer up anyone’s bad day. 😀

For every Adarsh who is in love with CET, there’ll be a Raj Govind who wants to burn the place down. I might have contributed at one point of time.

For every Divya who won’t copy during series tests, there’ll be a Puru who cross-references more than two individuals’ answer sheets before settling for the better one.

For every befuddled-looking Allan, there’ll be an Anapi who never stops smiling.

For every quiet Navajoth, there’ll be a Ginu who never shuts up.

And for every Smitha mam, there’ll be a Jiji sir.

For every all-cool Aishu on the project presentation day (she was practically stoned with the Avomine she’d gulped the previous night :D), there’ll be the rest of the super-tensed project team that goes “Engottelum erangi odiyalo?”

For every Structural project group that finishes their work weeks ahead of the presentation, there’ll be Gopika’s team whose project equipment arrives on the evening of the eve.

And for every Ajay/Jasin/Oormila who spent four years at CET learning Engineering and Quantity Surveying and Structural Analysis, there are those of us that studied that tables should be titled at the top and figures at the bottom 😀

The best stories I heard in 4 years were almost always a part of the reserved ones, the ones who wouldn’t get on the dance floor until the lights are off. And the best speech was delivered by the guy who occupied the corner seat in class quietly, and calmly tolerated (and laughed at) the hilarious shit we did in environmental lab.

So I guess there’ll be no more cursing the UG Professor and putting up #submissionsandshit updates on FB customizing the privacy setting to “Hide from Smitha mam”. No more begging teachers to postpone assignments and queuing in front of Latha mam/HOD/Vijayan sir’s room.

No more large groups huddled around the first bench eating Renjini and Shilpa’s lunch and no more deciding between Thalassery/LH food. No more going to #48 in the evening and listening to Sreelekshmi’s stories before practice. And when everything’s done and everyone has packed their bags and vacated their rooms and hugged and said the final goodbyes to catch trains from Trivandrum one last time, I’ll have the songs in my playlist to remind me of 4 years spent together in a place that offered fun as much as freedom, and made everyone laugh and cry and hate and love and sing and dance.



I remember the first day of college like it was yesterday. I remember wondering if, after 4 years when I step down the Golden Walkway one last time as a student there, I’d be a different person than the kid climbing those treads. If I’d be taller than the stunted figure I was then. If I’d make enough memories and meet the lovely people I’m supposed to meet in these four years. I wondered if the trees would dance in the rain to bid me goodbye, as they did when I met them the first time. But mostly, I wondered if I’d be sad to leave, if 4 years would be enough in this place.

I have the answers now, all of it, I know that the time we get here isn’t enough to take enough selfies for a lifetime. 4 years of sitting next to Athira/Rintu in the third bench of C1 listening to their stories, or stealing minutes between classes to eat vadas at Civil Canteen, or hearing Divya’s “Oru announcement und ellarum keep quiet” – none of it is enough in the end.

And as we’re asked to collect our no-dues, I wish we could ask, “When do next sem classes begin?” just one more time.




CET CIVIL 2012-2016 BATCH.

Back when we were kids

Before college and high school, before crushes and heartbreaks, before Science got split into three different subjects and Social Studies into two, even before we were taught integers and fractions.  Back when we wanted to grow up. Back when we were kids.

If you ever followed the road opposite to the Ganapathi temple in Medical College back then, you’d reach the Medical College quarters. It’s where more than half my childhood lies, it’s also where I decided I didn’t want to marry Kunjacko Boban after all.

I was the annoying little sister who cried on cue and made sure my elder brothers were scolded and punished by my parents for mischief that I’d worked up – that’s what my brothers would tell you anyway. Served them right too, they called me fat all the time. But either way I was still the little sister, with a tiny potbelly I’ll admit, and could always be seen seated on Achu Annans shoulders or carried by Kannenan on his back 😀

Biju chetan and Aju chetan were the neighbours Kannan and I spent most of our time with. (yes they’re brothers). We were undeclared best buddies, with a share of harmless details of our exploits to be kept secret from both our parents. We were always present at each other’s birthdays. In those days it meant Birthday cake with icing from Jayaram bakery, the quintessential puffs and cutlets and samosas, homemade chicken curry/parotta, juice and icecream etc.

We usually waited for our parents to leave before kicking off with cricket in their compound. We bowled with the 8rs pink/white rubber balls or the more expensive optic yellow tennis ball for 30 rupees that was handled with more care. I was always the underdog, Kannan never took me on his team. Achu annan occasionally joined us, he was nicer and always picked me. I’m sure the rejection scarred me for life. Though it made more sense when we played football, cos I always ran away with the ball, err, in my hands, that is. Football was too boring for me anyway.

I owned like one doll or two whose faces I had disfigured in an attempt to beautify, you don’t sit inside playing with those when everyone else is outdoors. At times when I got bored I’d sell fish on the back steps of our house. Different shaped and sized leaves painstakingly stacked and arranged neatly, I’d diligently make sure no flies sat on them and that my customers got the best and the freshest picks. No none of the boys ever visited, even my parents never visited though I always invited them very nicely. I don’t think they were all that impressed.

When corporation people unloaded sand in front of Biju chetan’s garage, the others would jump from the low sunshade onto it while I would nonchalantly prepare mudcakes using cherattas (coconut shells) and coax anybody who’d care to taste them. Yeah nobody ever did.

When it got too hot to play outside, we played Video games (cartridges and joysticks, people?) at their place. The four of us would huddle in front of the tv. Countless runs of Mario and duck hunt and I don’t even remember the names of the rest of the games we played. Afternoons meant more cricket/video games followed by cycling/badminton at our place in the evening. We usually went back home only for lunch and in the evening when it got too dark and the games were over. Sometimes we’d fall asleep on their beds, nobody was ever home in the day, even otherwise it was okay I think. Anita aunty was always so sweet (still is), she gave us the best birthday gifts and even had me cutting her son’s birthday cake once.

During vacations when everyone else left for holidays, we’d be in empty quarters abandoned by their residents, plundering the guava and mango trees there, checking intermittently and listening intently for any sign of intruders, other than us, of course. At times we’d bring back home the fruits of our labour the parents never noticed. We made tons of envelopes using newspapers and cooked rice –it was our mini project-, wondered what to do with it and eventually sold it to the lady fishmonger who routinely visited our homes (she gave us 2rupee coins each)  😀 Any spare change we ever got was spent in buying and stocking pink rubber balls, once we started playing they got lost so often, and eating the round pedas at the Milma shop in the main road.

When we weren’t playing or searching for the umpteen lost cricket balls on the other side of the road, Kannan and I were busy fighting, physical mental material psychological every kind of possible damage included. Following which I obligingly cried to let my parents know. They knew, I think.

All our plots had mango trees and during summer seasons we’d eat fat and ripe orange and yellow mangoes raw and pulpy in the morning, noon, evening and at night.

We were forever sweaty and covered in dirt, always running around and shouting to each other loudly, sometimes across goalposts (always a distinguishable rock), or from opposite sides of the wicket (3 aluminium rods each) or the court net (that we had a proper one though), or even across compounds. We always got home after dusk, exhausted and happy. We’d shower, eat, watch Doordarshan and fall asleep somewhere in between. Unless we decided to fight, which was twice a day, followed by my drama.

Those were the days when happiness meant wearing your favorite dress on your birthday, and the prettiest and nicest strangers were the ones that smiled at you. When soiling your clothes was the way to be and nobody minded except the elders. When summer didn’t mean heat as much as it meant cricket and cousins and mangoes. And spending all the time under the sun were 4 (and at times 5) tiny people forever playing and fighting and laughing.

And I’m mighty glad we were loud enough for a lifetime 🙂

Convocation and other things

Late post. Wrote this on convocation day of batch of 2015.

Convocations are fun. Not only cos there are hats and cloaks (and of course graduation) involved. They bring back seniors you’ve waited months to see again, they probably bring together classmates who passed out, planned a reunion whose date was extended over and over again until finally they just settled to meet for their convocation. (I can imagine that happening with our batch once we pass out of college). They might even be when some dearest couples meet after okwhoamitojudge. I’m sure convocations have other functional facets too, more on that coming up next year cos next in line is yours truly.

Convocation at CET last year was not a very emotional affair for me, save for meeting a handful of passouts. Back then, we were still third years (read: careless juniors), following the paths of seniors (I’m not even going to elaborate on that, and no I’m not winking), we were yet to be acquainted with project work and hectic final year schedules (no mini project for civil, baby). Life was good.

You had to rush to civil canteen at 4 if you wanted to sit by its verandah cos usually seniors would already have seated themselves there. Most evenings there’d be student groups comprising all batches in the civil grounds discussing some intra-department event or program. And in my class, everyone was either co-ordinating something or partaking in some other thing or they were swamped with other stuff to be doing any of those things. CEA and ICI would juggle with dates and time slots to make sure their activities didn’t clash, and even so there would still be overlaps, cos there was always so much going on, big or small, whether it be Hanging Gardens, or some techie engagements.

Then we got to S7, and before the place had livened up, rather fateful things happened. In stead of the tons of heads that filled college front after 4 and the after-college hours punctuated by crowds and buzz at chechi kadas, sanika, core’s front, bus stops and pretty much everywhere, there permeated empty and quiet. All through S7 we waited for things to go back to normal and for college to go back to what it used to be.

It never did.

Today, convocation happened. And frankly, today’s the first day of this year that college felt like CET again. People were shouting and laughing and their uproars rang noisily in the classrooms and the corridors and all around the place. College hasn’t been this loud since last year. So many familiar faces, there were seniors whose names I didn’t know and still don’t, but the mere freshness of familiarity brought happiness. Even that scary chechi who always glares at you, or that creepy chetan who makes awkward eye contact.

The favorite seniors were hugged and kissed, the not-so-favorite ones smiled as if in solemn awareness. In the beginning of final year, it was as though we’d get used to the numbness felt around college but today we realized we really need a batch of loving doting annoying infuriating seniors to make it the CET we knew. They were back and I guess that’s when we realized we’d actually missed these people. Sure, some in particular, but generally just all of them being present here. Probably because they were a part of the carefree years when college was (relatively) lively. When we didn’t have career discussions looming over our heads 24×7, because that wasn’t our burden to bear :P. Because basically they were in charge, and they were everywhere.

Today was like a day from ‘those days’. So when you hear that the dragonfly you once had a crush on has flown back, it thrills for a while, then dies out. When you exchange with seniors pleasantries and what’s going on in your lives, it’s only casual talk. It’s like they were here only yesterday, they’re here today, and they’ll be back tomorrow.

Well guess what? They won’t, and tomorrow will be like the past 7 months have been (because I’m so bloody optimistic). But today was good, tomorrow we’ll be back to being final years, the day after we shall part ways and be gone. And the next year, it’ll be our turn to get dewy-eyed about all that we’d missed (or maybe that’ll be just me), heartily complain about our too loose/too tight cloaks, drown in hugs, pose for pictures, cheer in jubilation, throw our hats up in the sky, and finally wonder why we never realized life here was quite brilliant*.

*I hope.



Evening Coffee House visits

Whenever I can, I visit the Indian Coffee House at Medical College for veg (beetroot and potato filled) cutlets and coffee and on hot days, their soothing refrigerated fruit salad my cousin and I found last year.

I only discovered the MC branch towards the end of my second year. Before, I would frequent the ICH near Statue, after visiting Public library or sauntering through Palayam. The place was mostly filled with middle-aged intellectuals, some working youngsters, a few college-goers, and a couple of odd families now and then. I’ve sat next to tables of wise-looking uncles who’d be engrossed in discussions of economics and politics, at other times next to long curly haired artsy people in kurtas vehemently discussing films and media. I’d wondered if some day when I grew up, I’d sit there discussing serious shit with my grown-up friends. Probably not cos they shut the place down a couple of months later for violating food quality standards or smth, or are they open again?

Every time I passed the watchman by, he’d give me a weird what-are-you-doing-here-kid look. I’d come home and inquire, “Amma, do I really look like a kid?” and she’d say “Pinnallathe, 10th standard max”. I’d sigh, secretly smug that I look so young but go on to complain gleefully about my parents’ genes (they’re both short, Amma’s even shorter than me). (I love complaining).

After the news spread about the unkempt kitchen –that’s what amma told me it was – I discovered the one at Medical College. Of course, it had always been there and I’d overlooked it, after the clothes on the corner chair in my room and my many messy tables and the newspapers that loyally arrive home everyday.

It was more convenient for me too, considering I stay at Ulloor. So now I don’t have to wait until my Public library due date to visit ICH. In S5, S6 my visits were few and far between, as dance practice engaged us on all evenings and most weekends. S7 started, bad stuff happened, princi kicked the dance team out of the dance room and Paru ate more ICH cutlets.

Visiting the ICH is a delightful thing. It’s like an hour devoted entirely to solemn sacred indulgence, so oft repeated yet always gratifying. No I’m not going overboard in describing them cutlets man, just read on. I usually go after 5, earlier if I’m craving ICH cutlets or in the mood to get out in the hot afternoon sun. It’s a 4-minute walk from my place to the bus-stop at medium pace. I walk all the way to ICH if there’s an hour to sun set (takes hardly 20 minutes), else I take the bus on a 7-rupee ticket. There’s a constant smile playing on my face on days I take the bus because it means I’ll be getting the sunset scenes complementary. Actually I always take the bus, the free stuff is pretty much star of the show 😀

I get down at MC bus-stop and cross the Chalakuzhy road. The place is overflowing with lower middle class men and women, relatives of patients staying at Medical College Hospital, all from different parts of the state, flasks and tiffins held or hanging from one hand, buying hot tea/tender coconut for the inmates or getting bites for themselves from the array of tiny chaya kadas and bakeries there.

There is a guy with his pushcart selling chaya+kadi, other street vendors seated by their platter of home-made assortments, there’s even home-made tea (I know right, must be good why else would they be permanently seated here), vada and idiyappams, idli and sambar, etc. The roadside they sit on is wet and always smelly coupled with the stench from bleaching powder carelessly sprinkled over the narrow open drain adjoining the footpath. The medical shops, general stores, all attending to customers. Throngs of people crossing the main road during STOP signals. The multitude of faces on foot, the unending lines of cars and autos and ambulances to and from the wide MC entrance arch. Vehicles parked in front of shops in no orderly way. Nothing’s different today.

The play begins. From where I stand now, the sun is a brilliant orange behind the Dental College block on the left. The world slows down here. I could stand for hours watching it, just as I could when it’s behind Palayam palli or at CET, but the memories they evoke differ. The setting sun here reminds me of all the evenings when we stayed at RMO quarters behind the Dental block (they were demolished some years back to construct the OP blocks) from when I was 6 until 10.

The veiled medical college ground seated somewhere deep behind the many hospital buildings and the bifurcated roads and all the trees. I have a single vague memory from when I was 9 or so of walking to the ground for a cricket/football game one evening with my brothers, the sun was the same brilliant orange then. The summer vacations we spent stealing mangoes and guavas from yards of empty quarters and hiding from kozhikkallans (chicken thief). Evenings spent playing cricket and football (I sucked at it) and badminton and cycling until sun went down with Achu annan, kannenan and Biju and Aju chetan and listening to the prayer calls from a mysterious mosque somewhere far away.

I’ve been coming and standing in the same spot watching the same sun remembering the same stuff here for so long but the novelty never wears off. I always wondered how nice it must be to go there every day. Probably not for the ones that do though, I’m sure they don’t stand out here on the smelly road watching the sun on the other side, reminiscing stuff. (At night, with the orange streetlamps and all, the MCH is way sexier than CET, that too is subjective I’m sure). (OK amma enne kollanda). (Aarum enne kollanda).

Just to clarify things here, when I say MCH, I’m referring to its whereabouts and the places and people without referring to the Medical College hospital itself. This is a convo I had with amma back in first year (she works at SATH inside MCH).

“Amma, there’s SO many medical shops at Medical College and Ulloor alle. Appo aarku marunnu venengilum ingot varande, it’s so easy for us since we live here”. “That’s because it’s Medical College”. “I’m also talking about Medical College only”. “I’m talking about the hospital, paru”. “Ethu hospital, oh, OH. OOOOOH”.

That’s the day I remembered (soon to forget tho) there’s a hospital in there. I mean I always knew it’s a hospital, it’s just been in the background all of my life so I never really thought about it. Ok so it’s not just a place with students and goodlooking pg chetans and friendly chechis and some strict and some fun professors and tonnes and tonnes of people. I keep forgetting it from time to time, though.

I know there’s a lot of suffering you have to overlook to see the beauty here, and maybe only when you own the memories I do too. Then I think of the front blocks where my brothers had been admitted more recently, a little bit of guilt sets in and the odour catches up with me.

Walking to ICH from here takes around one minute. It’s a tiny footpath, dotted on its sides with old men and women selling cigarettes, paan masala, lottery tickets, toothpicks, mirrors and combs. Everyone’s walking past briskly or pausing in front of shops to read signs or making their way in, and more crowds take their place on the footpath as pedestrians dissolve into shops.

The time spent in ICH itself is pretty uneventful. I almost always order Veg cutlets with coffee/tea. If my parents are home, I get them packed too after tasting the beetroot sauce (they’re often too soggy or too watery or bitter). But almost every time, the taste differs. The ICH at Shangumugham always gave cutlets that tasted the same, perhaps cos they were consumed after being crusted with the salty breeze from the beach, or cos I was too young to notice. Even they shut down after a while. Once in a twenty batches or so, that old taste from the beachside ICH is delivered. I can’t describe the taste, but my father says it’s all potatoes and beetroots topped with more beetroot sauce and doesn’t do much good for the tummy. The last bit isn’t true, but rest of his description is spot on.

Well he suggested the famous ICH mutton omelette as good for the tummy once when I was a kid and that was the day I thought I was going to die of a stomach explosion (I got gastritis and get it every time I smell mutton from afar ever since). So no thankyou. Beetroot cutlets with beetroot sauce please.

Otherwise filled with relatives of people from the hospital and the working class, if you visit during 11-1, you may catch some pg’s with stethoscopes hanging around their necks walk into the partitioned doctors’ tables section. A few uncles/aunties always give me weird looks (here it’s are-you-here-all-by-yourself). I re-read the wall-hung menu board every single time I’m here, just the Malayali me complacently making sure nothing’s new. They keep updating the prices, that’s one thing they do. And the person at the counter NEVER asks me for change. Do you know how rare that is in today’s world?

The slow stroll back home is only the second best part of ICH visits. There are less people crossing my path now, wider roads. The medical college blocks to the left, some I’ve never visited, others I identify from having often curiously observed from home during nights. The orange sphere can be spotted where the buildings part, and to the right side, in the spaces between the proximate apartments, I catch glimpses of distant houses and coconut trees and mobile towers rising up from the bottom green patch against the blue skies. Somewhere there, my distant future awaits and I’m smiling again. It’s also (for some really weird reason) where my past resides. I’ve no clue why, I think somewhere along I associated distant past and distant future with literal distances 😐

The PT Chacko Nagar roads have been in a pathetic condition for too long, all opened up and left on their own. I walk a bit more, watching my future lying so far away, where I’m working in a bustling metropolis, all by myself and shit. JK, more often the image is me sleeping on the floor of a living room with hard copies of draft articles strewn all over.

I reach Ulloor, cross and reach Akkulam Road. It’s a downhill slope now on, the sun directly infront moving down the horizon, beckoning me back. From here, the journey is effortless, I just have to follow the straight (and make way for Biharis now and again) and usually takes longer than 900 seconds since the frame is reluctant to let go of the evening.


PS: Written after last visiting ICH yday evening




Trust me, you’re alive :)

These have been a couple of long days, long weeks, long months. The much-awaited weekend’s coming. The plan is to snuggle into that nice cosy couch and lie there all day as the warmth of home wraps you in and lulls you to sleep.

But you know what they say. Life is a jerk.

And before you know it, Life has busted it all – even that little plan to sleep all day. You’re on fast-sinking ground, shrouded in darkness. Lying amidst broken fragments of something fragile yet wild, threatening to drown you. It’s a while before you reach calm and make out shapes in the black. And when you do, you gasp – it’s you. It’s all you, shattered to pieces. You’re in the graveyard of your own life, and they weigh you further down to darker hollows.

Is this a joke? Retribution? What for? You sit on your knees and cry. It’s not like you were actually going to sleep all day. This so-called Life is stupid, okay? The ground seems to appear steady now. Maybe it was punishment for some wrongdoing, either way it’s over now, you think. Everything’s going to go back to normal.

So if it’s all over, why does it hurt so bad? It’s shearing you apart, so why aren’t you dead yet?

Then the pain sets in. It’s too real to ignore now. Somebody, make it stop!

You grope around in the dark for an opening, a door, an escape- it should be there. Every feel of a shard opens up a new gash on your skin. Like an idiot, you hug at the infinite walls that surround you and yell for help. Scoop out handfuls of damp earth from the ground in a desperate attempt to escape. All the while crying like the little lost child you are. You tell yourself hopelessly that a time-turner is going appear any moment now, and you’ll be back in your living room again. Everything’s going to go back to normal.

But nothing happens, your calls for help are the only company you got. With that knowledge, you collapse onto the floor. You lie there for a while with your eyes still wet, thinking about the warm couch in your living room. It’s all gone. The dark, damp and debris are all that remain. You look around- Denial isn’t going to help, this will be your new ‘home’ now.

As if on cue, the cold ground kisses you, and somehow it doesn’t scare anymore. You acquiesce to what is perhaps the only show of affection the place has to offer. You slowly stop crying. You learn to see in the dark. The broken everything doesn’t cut you anymore, and the persistent prickling pain grows to be a part of you. It’s tricky, but you’ll learn when it’s your turn. *

Though your head blasts with a hundred, nay, a million questions, all the likes of “Why me?” you learn to embrace it. Life goes on. People pass you by from another world, smiling. “Everyone has battles”, probably answering that question in your head. Of course everyone does, you smile weakly. The ground kisses you again.

The dark doesn’t make you feel lonely anymore, the damp is as warm as it’ll be now on, and debris that perhaps if pieced together can paint a fraction, if not the whole picture that you once hoped to create. You remember some quote about black and white keys in a piano. You just never thought they could get SO black.

But you know what they say, Life is a jealous ass. Jealous of comfort in agony even. And just like that, Life kicks you out into the (regular) world, once again blinding you.

Though this time, it’s the sun, isn’t it? It has to be. What else could be so warm and bright?

It takes a moment to take it all in. The world is back. THE WORLD IS BACK!

You smile at first. It’s a weird little feeling, smiling like that after such a long time. Then it becomes a beaming grin. In no time, you’re jumping to catch the brilliant rays. You roll on the warm earth and laugh like a crazy old man. You lie on the soft grass and kick your arms and legs about like an ecstatic toddler. And everyone’s staring, everyone’s watching and maybe they all think you’ve lost it – and you know it doesn’t matter.

Because they didn’t see it when you were broken to pieces and plunged into a hole in the ground. They didn’t hear you scream and plead at lifeless walls that only echoed your cries for help. They didn’t see you curl up on the wet floor and hug yourself for warmth. They don’t know about the sleepless nights you spent, begging Life to go back in time, to make everything okay.

It’s not the world that’s come back. It’s you.

Some stories need a prelude to make sense. And some still won’t.

You slowly walk into your apartment. Everything is same in the world, yet you know nothing is from now on. Maybe the same things won’t bring joy to you anymore. Maybe the same people won’t mean company anymore. You have changed, you have grown and that’s okay. That is life.

You find the couch in its peaceful corner still. Blissfully unaware that you’ve been on a tumultuous journey that’s now a part of your past, that you’re spent and exhausted but mostly just happy to be back home.

As much as you’d love to cry your heart out into it, and recount in excruciating detail how you had to crawl your way slowly back up – All that can wait. Right now is time for the much-awaited lullaby and sleep.

And Life is beautiful, right there.



Edit : Somebody told me this article sounded like rap-lyric when read in haste. It is in fact about a time in when I was depressed and low. And perhaps a lot of it sounds cliche (now that I read it after some time, I can look at it objectively), but every line was penned with emotion to my own days.


Amma and Me

So I was initially writing about Math and Me, but was rather cruelly reminded that I’m still unemployed (read : un-placed). And “I hate math” written all over my blog or all over an article isn’t going to look good to potential employers coming to campus. Yeah okay they’re not going to painstakingly search for Parvathy Sarat’s blog with keywords to see if she’s a good candidate BUT WHAT IF THEY DO, OKAY?

[If any such personality’s reading this, no I don’t hate math, that’s the story of the protagonist of my story. I know, my readers are easily misled, heehee].

The decision to not write anything that tarnishes my imaginary goodemployeecandidateimage came after a conversation with my mother. My eldest brother’s been staying in Delhi for the past 6 years and the two of them have talked over the phone almost every single day during this time, that’s 365×6 times (kindly do the calculation yourself cos I hate um never mind). The second brother left home 4 years back and the way he talks to my parents, more talking takes place among them over their phones on a single day than I do at home over a week.

So today, there’s meen curry on the stove, I’m sitting on a plastic stool next to it, doing shit on my phone (no puns please) and amma’s on the phone with my brother.

“Amma, njan porath povumbo ingane daily onnum vilikulla OK, paranjilaannu venda”, I tell her.

Amma: (on the phone) “Dey kanna, paru parayua paru veetilnnu maari nikumbo kannane pole daily vilikkathillannu”

(turns to me) –dramatic mode : ON – “Atleast yearly vilikuo paru?”

Me: “Ah monthly vilikum” (realize that’s too long) “or maybe weekly. Daily vilikkulla anyway”. (puccham on my face)

Amma: “Athentha?”

Me: “Ha athu pinne, porath avumbo eniku vere pani kanum rather than talking to you guys all day long, joli cheyanam, etc etc etc”

Amma: “Kanna, parunu joli cheyanamnu” (turns to me) “Alla paru ethu jolide karyama parayunne? Joli onnum ayillalo” –laughter-

And I’m guessing the person at the other end also joined in -_-

PS: I SHOULD have written something warm and nice for Christmas but no Santa turned up at my place this year folks.


Finally starting My Blog

Final year/semester of B.Tech –

You realize you don’t want to work an IT job or a Core job or any jobby job for that matter. Babies aren’t really your thing, they cry too much, would somebody pay you to take care of puppies? You realize you are now 21, you will be 22 in a couple of months and you’ve been spending the last 4 years (almost like a fifth of your life) in a subject that you don’t want anything to do with after graduation. You have no clue as to what to do after the 4 months of college that’s left. You realize you’ve practically wasted years of academics that could’ve been effectively spent studying something you actually like. You realize you don’t even know what that something you actually like is. You have no idea what to do with your life. You panic.

No, the last para isn’t about you, it’s all me. “You” just sounded better than “I”. So I had, um, a couple of mild and severe panic attacks in the past semester, but I’ve come to develop a certain mechanism to handle them which works fairly well. Except the two times that I had to be quarantined.

Step 1: Notify all my closest friends that I’m worried/confused/close to a cardiac arrest when I think of the future.

Step 2: Listen to what they have to say, mostly involves “same here” if the friend is doing B.Tech, “so are most of the others” if not.

Step 3: Calm down. (You are not alone is the best therapy ever). Sleep, wake up forgetting all the exasperating shit, go back to my life till the panic sets in another day.

Now, this is how I take my life decisions. Oh wait I haven’t taken any for myself. Either way it’s a ritual to consult her before tough ones and also after I screw up everything. Mostly because I never listen, still.

Screenshot_2015-12-22-00-58-55.pngThis is a pretty emotional moment for me, posting a Whatsapp screenshot in public. Yes, the convo’s been scrolled to a strategic point so that the (more) embarrassing stuff can’t  be seen.

Which is when I remembered about my TRUSTMEYOUREALIVE – name of my blog- that’s been dead since it was last alive.  Okay so I’ll confess I created this blog back in 2014 when I wrote something new after quite sometime and wanted someplace fancy to post it. I mean like a page just for like an article is like fancy, no?

This time, I decided to listen to Miriam after all. Blogging’s free and I could always read it later to myself, if nobody else does.

Special thanks to my brother(s) who bought me my new lap which is pretty much the only reason I’m here cos time and again, I’d thought of posting random stuff I’d written but the idea of sitting in front of the PC in my First floor hall on the molded plywood chair and typing it out made me drop it. Wow, I really need to start writing shorter sentences.

So here’s hoping I start writing online regularly :D. (OK AMMA, whether online or not doesn’t matter as long as I’m writing!)

PS: Sorry if the beginning of this post misled you into thinking it’s about handling panic attacks or life decisions even.

PPS: This was meant to be a teeny-weeny post of max 200 characters. Sorry for the long intro, you may now continue reading nonsense elsewhere.

%d bloggers like this: