Our feelings are second-hand. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs are coloured, our originality validated through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.
Why would anyone throw perfectly good sponge cake out of a car window?
It seems like the fate of a development studies student is to be cynical and dissatisfied in an educated but distant way.
Growing up, no one showed me how to shave in a hurry or sleep with women without falling in love, and that sort of deprival lasts a lifetime.
I wish every girl in the world could grow up in a city like this, a city that doesn’t frighten her.
I am learning to drive. I am grasping terror in my hands and tossing it aside.
Even in the age of the Internet, love is old-fashioned.
Just like an alcoholic’s tragic relationship with his seedy madhushala, my lonely nights had come to be punctuated by sub-standard meals at Kolkata U.P. Chats and Paratha Center.
Scissors snip menacingly, the naked razor blade wanders tantalisingly close to my ear, and cheap talcum powder is generously applied all over my neck.
Snapshots or instant pictures capture a moment in time. But what of a place where time doesn’t exist; where there is stillness and nothing ever changes?
Over the years, one learns that reason doesn’t stand the slimmest chance against emotions and sentiments.