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It wasn't too long ago that I said yes. Instead of saying “No”. To that old watchmen who wanted to taken me behind the apartment walls to plant a kiss on my cheek. Of course my parents had taught me the difference between the ‘good touch and the bad touch’. But he was Watchman Anna. How could he do anything wrong, right? Wrong. A few years later, a friend’s uncle misbehaved with me. Sly smiles, leeching eyes, hands on my shoulder slithering down, all the while, when my mind ticking like an atom bomb that something was not all that innocent. But did I say something? No Connaught place is a fairly popular place in Delhi. Two women were checking out books at a street store. Two drunk men pretend to ask about the books and as the minute passes, the scene gets worse. Three of us stood there and watched. “In case things get out of hand, we will jump to the rescue”. But would we really? I really cannot assure you. Like the dust that collects on the rubber rigged layers of a tyre, ...

ONGC Pitch TVC script The film opens on the shadow of a plane flitting over a road. Suddenly, a pair of feet enter the frame and start running. Camera pulls back and we see a kid of around 10 running to keep up with a plane flying high above. VO:  Racing planes is every kid's dream. Film cuts to a large table laden with food. People gather around, laughing, picking food and sharing. From a distance we see a grand old lady smile with joy as she sees her family together. VO:  Seeing friends and family in one place... Film now cuts to a young man just about leaping into a train that is pulling out of a station, and the minute he gets in, a relieved-looking girl hugs him. VO:  Staying together... Cuts to a young woman dressed as an executive entering a towering commercial building. VO:  Reaching ahead... Cuts to a father getting off a cab and rushing towards his kid. VO:  Coming back...is someone else's Cuts to a family of...

Delhi might be a great city to travel. But the heat gets to you. Gets to you in such a way that you want to claw out the sweat out of your skin. Get that sticky feeling out of our gut. Hold it in front of you in a messed up pile, your face in chagrin as you look at in and soak it into a bucket of water like a pile of clothes. Having a dead end 9 to 5 job does not help. Something must work out. You just need to dwell within you. Sure, everybody says we all have a calling. However , that call my friend, takes eons of years to appear right before you. At least it feels like that. You might say that we are all going through the same feeling. But, the world as we know it, is honestly, plastered with the thought of survival of the fittest.  And I, a selfish homosapien, looking for that flickering light at the end of the tunnel, flinch my eyes wide open, only to find empty spaces of darkness stretching before me. It just appears so fucking far. It’s like a Himalayan trek. No matter...

That’s my face in the mirror. The first thing I notice is the slight bend on my nose. Then I notice my turquoise earrings.  Maybe, not so bad as I thought, when I look at chandelier like earring dangling on either side. I convince myself that the attention will divert. Of course it will. And then, I proceeded to wear my kajal. Still, my face looks puffy. I move the lamp a little, adjusting the shadow. Maybe it’s the light. It never is. Oh no, I forgot perfume. I've read in psychology that aroma adds a big deal to first impressions. Why take a chance?  Oh and did he say he likes bangles? Of course, my hand cups to shape like a beak. In goes the bangles. My heart beats fast. A mental note I make to speak slower, calmer. My mind runs reels of how we’d run across the length and breath of streets. How I will be more careful this time, maybe play a little hard to get. I rehearse my laugh. I've been told I laugh like a guy. I couldn't possibly show him that, can I? This was ...

Impulse. That could be the only explanation to what happened. The encoded whispers of the wind, the snarl of the restless Bullet engine, trucks whipping up dust devils, entangled plugged earphone - the world is now on mute. Birds fly with the sun on their wings.  The clouds look resolved into lumps, like sub-standard mattress stuffing. Church towers stand still like statues, a brown skinned girl in uniform stretches her arm, asking for a lift. Her smile had an innocent dimple. I pull over. She sits across, hands to herself, school bag in between. I continue. Stray lambs bleat with bells, Lawyers in black and labourers in stripped shirts discuss politics, over a steaming kulad chai. Nirmala High School. I turn the bike key anti-clock wise. The grateful smile said it all. As I continue, I look through the rear view mirror. Her size shrinks to a dot. The reflection is now overlapped by the gigantic mountains. I was near. But I was far. Nearer, would probably be more appropriate. ...

Colour, Jilebees and more… It is hard to breathe. The nauseous stench fills the air, making it hard for one not to walk gingerly. You take a sip at the tea stall, even though it’s hard to gulp it down your throat. A foot-wide open drain, human and animal excrement, rotting food, ragged clothed children dressed in smiles, claustrophobic petite gullies made smaller by the number of people sauntering through them as if each one of them are in a hurry. White walls turned grey. Yet, there is more to this place that you can imagine Nestled between the red fort, a Guridwara and the Jama Masjid, it is in its bizarre contradictions that the locals love to call their own. The locals here might have to slum it out, but they have their own style and swagger that in evident in every gesture that this small locality greets you. The young men with their gelled hair and piercing transcend their surroundings. Ragged children wear their smiles, unaware of how harsh the world can be. Every nook and...