Growing up.

It’s just that: you suddenly find yourself wandering into the lives of others, not knowing what to expect, then one day you’re suddenly wandering out. Growing up teaches you to know when your time has come to leave.

I think growing up means understanding when your turn is over and graciously leaving the space for others without throwing a tantrum of self-entitlement.

Growing up made me understand not to look for “meaning” in the world. 

The world has no meaning on its own, don’t blame the world for your miseries. Meaning is what you make of it, what you bring to the table, what you contribute in another person’s life. Meaning is planting a tree so a few people can breathe easy, meaning is screwing a tap tight so that water doesn’t leak, meaning is leaving your smartphone behind and sitting on the grass to laugh with friends who care.

And meaning is also letting go of those friends when its time.

Growing up is realising that new places become old and old places can be experienced anew.

Growing up doesn’t have to be hard, it doesn’t have to punishing, you’ve to simply learn to let go and absorb again. Growing up is flexibility. 

Let fucking go.

Grow up.

Selfishly, yours.

Whoever reads this,
I don’t suppose it is possible to love someone for everything they do or every bit that make them. I don’t presume to be above all the hypocrisy and to love selflessly. I’m selfish. I’ve always been selfish, and I don’t say so with the kind of smug pride that our generation seems to celebrate in being so irresponsible, but I say it with a heavy heart. I wish I was above it. I wish I were a better person who really knew to look beyond oneself and really reciprocate without expectations. I tried. I really tried to not expect, to expect is to begin to find faults and then to resent. But that is how my life turned out and therefore it is by no means a general statement for anyone reading this to confirm to.

As I was saying earlier, I don’t think it’s possible to love every bits and pieces of someone. I didn’t either, but I loved most of it. I loved the small bits—those infinitesimal bits that I deluded myself into believing, were only for me.

And I failed.


It isn’t so much the pain of loss than the sheer shock of being so… incapable. So selfish. No, it isn’t too much pain anymore, just the little dull throb of memories. But the disability, for lack of a better word, shook me to my core. I was deluded to think I was better than what I thought of myself where in fact, I was just as I thought I’d be. Selfish.

I don’t know when I grew this selfish, I don’t have anyone to point fingers at. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get past this incapability or if it’s gradually getting the better of me.

I wish I could say this was me being objective and not self-loathing. But 2:00 AM and not a wink of sleep does infuse one with the sense of self-hate.

I sincerely hope, for all of us out there, I sincerely hope we’ll get past this together, stop it once and for all. Wake up from this entranced sleep, look up from our black mirrors and snap back to reconnect with people again. And even though the insecurity gnaws at my mind, makes me doubt everything I believe about myself, I want to put it out there—unsure, but ready:

Let’s stop being so selfish.
From Kolkata, India.


That little tug behind the belly sets off the fragile heart. Fluttering, legs like jelly and an audience waiting to be pleased gathers around me.

I have known failure before,

But none quite like this, where the anticipation runs ice cold and my humour, tired, falls on deaf ears.

I have known failure before,

But none quite like this, where cold sandwich is the only thing I return home too. A little bit of telly, enough to distract, never quite enough to forget.

I’ve known failure before,

But never quite the way I’m drained out, flowing through the city in a mindless rush, numb and dirty, inadequate in my heart and empty in mind.

Indeed, I have known failure before,

But none quite like this where you aren’t present—never you mind.

[You see, I was convinced, convinced that we were invincible. And never in my life have I ever been more wrong.]

Small relief.

I woke up today with you on my mind, nothing unusual. Nothing more painful.

A glass of tepid water, handing father the newspaper, asking mum if she wanted a sandwich, my usual routine. My time in my balcony, the tropical sun beating down hot and heavy, no gentle breeze rustling the leaves, the heat of roads glittering, glaring at me.

My morning routine, scrolling through news feed. The black portal to my loneliness clutched safe in my palm, my other hand shielding it from the heat of the sun. Nothing keeps, fleeting, false colours of joy keep me going—every day, the same way, the strangest attachment to my world of lies.

When evening comes with small relief and I’m distracted by the sound of the wind between the trees—

It’s sudden, the rain comes lashing, unforgiving, purging the concrete of unbearable heat. Thunder strikes loud and lightning licks the ground and I’m afraid earth’s come for me.

It’s with fear in my heart that I drag myself out and feel the rain pushing me underground. My soul is drenched, my heart swells and for once, there are no tears. I wanted to talk about beginnings in the end but I’m not part of this world anymore—

A small relief from my thoughts tonight.