God was Murdered

Hey, Adéle I'll begin with a tiny story. I often sit for 3.23-7.17 hours to write at this Starbucks across Hansraj College — Delhi University — North Campus. I get up after every 61-87 minutes to take a brisk 14.9-min walk in the back alley. As I’m old now, nothing surprises me anymore & when something does, it’s always something a little peculiar.  In that alley where I walk, I often cross path with this lady dragging two oversized bags of recyclable trash. There’s nothing distinct about the lady or what she does — what’s distinct is her age. I don’t know her age, but like my grandma, she has a million wrinkles. My grandma is 87-odd years old. Looking at this million-year-old lady do what she does to put bread on her table makes me realize that before I complain about anything in life, I must always remember my undeserved privileges. And shut the fuck up instead of whining about how the bloody Goa airport is a Disgrace, how the washrooms at most cafés are filthy, how my room

Hundred years ago & decades before he killed himself with his favorite shotgun, Hemingway had warned humans — “ ✫ Never go on a trip with anyone you do not love ✫ ” — As I listen exclusively to paranoid writers who kill themselves, I went on an 11-day solo trip as I had girls to take along, but I didn’t love any of ‘em. I woke up before the sun on 10 th October — sat in a six.am train from Delhi to Kathgodam [this station is prettier than your girlfriend]. To reach Nainital, I hopped on a shared cab with a girl who was wearing two masks & seemed more paranoid than Hemingway before he shot himself. Three days later, I saw her walking in Nainital, so she hadn’t shot herself with her favorite shotgun — well, not yet .  Between April 1994 & March 1999, I lived in dorms in a boarding school amidst mountains.  23 years later, I was back in dorms amidst mountains. Though these hostel dorms & my boarding school dorms were different , they were similar in two ways: no mixed