why? hello! 
And how are we. 
Just dropped by to say: 

*clears throat* 
I’m sorry.

Thanks for understanding, though. 
I’m back from my (long) hiatus. This blog only gets worse from here on. 

A total of nine men died in the entire zilla the night in which Rewat Ram was born. There was one other death that night, much before Rewat Ram came into the world. It was his mother.
Five years later Rewat Ram consumed his father too, or so it was said. The boy was cursed, as many as six soothsayers/witch-doctors had looked at his tiny hands and shuddered at the amount of bad omen the little boy promised.
The orphaned boy was infamous across the 15 villages which comprised of the Samtarpur Zilla. His father, despite hating him for his wife’s death, had not had the heart to drive him out of the house or disown him. He had brought him up like one does a goat, with no love and incessant beatings.
After his fathers death, no one from the village came forward to take care of the boy. The temple would not have any thing to do with the accursed boy and neither did any of the families. No one even dared to bring him up as a house servant which was normally what orphaned children with no immediate relative s ended up as.
On the 4th day after his father died, the boy passed out due to hunger and viral fever from drinking contaminated water. There had still not been any consensus on the future of the boy in the village. The boy had knocked up all the 29 doors in his village crying and begging, firstly in hope of being told what to do in absence of his father and later on just for some food and water. None of the villagers had obliged, they all knew about the curse and had wanted nothing more than to be rid of the boy.
On the 5th day a wandering traveller came upon the village, wearing the most inhospitable expression and dirty long dreadlocks. His wares slung across his back inside a dirty white cloth. A long black dress completed his sinister look. He came into the village and went straight for the little boys house.
Not much is known about the actions of this strange traveller in the village that night. Some say that it was the brightest night of their lives, the moon was almost touching the top of the pipal tree at the centre of the village square. Others talk about seeing the dancing shadows of the traveller around a fire inside the boys home.
But whatever the events of the night, both the boy and the traveller were never seen in the village again.
Almost a decade later, the village now stands in ruins, a most vile form of cholera wiped out the entire village that summer. Travellers, who pass by, camp near the edge of the nearby stream. None dare enters the deserted ruins, most talk about hearing illegible chants and shouts from within and loud knocks on non-existent doors followed by hysterical laughters of two grown men, all through the night into the dawn.

A cranky old auto rickshaw, not the green and yellow metered ones in Delhi. It’s the ugly cousin from across the border in Gurgaon, Haryana.
With straight rude outlines on a very awkward looking body, this three-wheeler does not bother to budge until heads and bodies are overflowing from it at all angles. Flanked by jutting knees on either side, the circus for a public transport begins its journey with countless other black and yellow look-a-likes.
They even charge for the ride, Rs.10 per head, which is a travesty if you ask me. The auto maneuvers itself across the several thousand - ridiculously high - speed breakers along the Gurgaon highway, before coming to a grinding halt at a glorious pot hole bang in the middle of a T point intersection.
The driver gets off and mutters a string of expletives. He pulls out a long rope and walks to the back of the vehicle while curious necks crane out at insane angles to stare at the him.
Why of course, he rings a coil around a wind up engine right in front of the rear left tyre. With an angry tug he yanks the cord which, not being properly attached, flys back at him; it damn near floors him to the ground.
Seated in front, I start fiddling with the goddamn buttons on the dash board of this ‘manual’ auto. I mean what the fuck are they supposed to trigger anyway. The third button I press nonchalantly let’s out an ear splitting horn. It’s so loud that I instantly start feeling like an asshole for no reason.
‘Sisterfucker!, who’s that’ cries the driver from the back. Another yank and the engine spurts back to life. All is forgotten as we start our journey again. #gurgaon #auto

A metro commuter in New Delhi intently reads a special magazine coverage on the 2014 Lok Sabha elections in India. A fading party led by a person who is clearly caught in the wrong job (to put it mildly) on one hand and an arrogant communalist who’s entire campaign might as well be based on a mindless viral couplet. The country this time around almost feels like it is ready for an informed & logical choice. The only thing letting it down seems to be what’s on offer. Responsible governments are still quite afar, hence ab ki baar (sic) modi sarkaar. #elections2014 #india #politics #delhi #democracy

Pottery displays crowding out the ramshackle homes of their sellers. While sturdy lofts of their prospective buyers stand tall in the background.
#gurgaon #pottery #india #craft #clay

At the park. Nobody has fallen down or even tripped (hilariously or otherwise); seems like the joggers are immune to my ill will.
Oh wait, my park companion for the day, Bishu Da (of the tripai bazaar fame) has just discovered the lack of friction in recently watered lawn patches. This at the end of a 5 min long ball shielding against 3 cocky kids, all below the age of 10. The kids are presently enacting a slowed down and slightly animated version of his fall.
#deerpark #kids #jogging

If my math teacher back from high school were to find out that I’m pulling the correlation & regression bullshit on a daily basis as part of my job, she would be mortified. 
She gave me a sum total of 6/100 for my final semester, after which i dropped a year & dropped math totally. 
Not that I’m good or anything. I’d still not get past double figures if I were to do that test again. 
But that’s life, I guess. It doesn’t need to make sense and add up like your math problems. 

my brain is confuse.
i feel refresh. 

(via crowdsourceinspiration)