Popkinz Poptarts.

I work under pressure, I've realized. I have a dance recital in less than a week and I decide to even consider working on it when I get a call from one of the organizers who casually mentioned the dress rehearsal is on 16th. A Hiroshima Nagasaki happened in my brain, considering I didn't even know the name of the second solo I was to work on. So yeah, finally when I figured I was screwed did I manage to finish one part of it, in an hour and a half. Hell yes. And then I turned into an overconfident areshoool, so I left it at that. And well, tomorrow's the dress rehearsal. And. Well, lets just say I don't even know the other song by heart let alone remember and dance to it. So for the next two hours (or more), I plan to work my rear bones off till the choreography stands at a respectable place. And I think I'm going to be a work-o-holic, once I start working. Irrelevant.
Now playing: Forgotten Dreams.

In other news, I won 2nd place in the 27th Blog-a-ton that I participated in! I got a fancy cyber Silver batom and everything =P But thanks you guys, who voted. Awfully kind, I say. I be so thrilled. Free cyber martinis for you guys, as always =)
And to add a tiara, thank you Bumble Bee for the lovely blog award! Much too niceness you are, Bumblezz. =)

My tiny cousins were over last week. Went slightly berserk hitting the TV screen for no apparent reason with the 2 year old while the 8 year old spoke gibberish in the Garfield style into my ear. There was food flying around the house and the voice levels of tiny children were sure underestimated by everybody in general. It was a disturbing surprise. But aah well, cute kids. Slightly apeshit crazy, so I got along just fine.
Ye-p. That be them.

Other than, the weekend was. Well. A mess. Everything sucked monkey balls till yesterday, but Tuesday's been OK so far. Tomorrow's quite a day to reckon with; 16th! (Yess, I know you're reading, saxyface. Haaah, go stuuudy.)
So we'll save the chaos in my head for a rainy day. And for now, I shall take your leave, reader. It's time to give the overconfident douche in me some dance lessons. The next post...might be a photo update. There are a bunch of photographs I've clicked since January. So I was planning on some change from the fiction and my mindless rants.  Anyhoo, that's for later. Later, amigos.

Much amour,
Nil.

Once again.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 27; the 27th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'Once Again'.

Once again.

The garden was a much favored and cherished abode; my favorite wonderland in the world. It was a quiet green glass palace that buzzed of insects and moist warmth of sort; resonating green, growth and life. 

Every month or two, the creepers would look slightly more taller; crawling and entangling more intimately around the blue pipes on the walls, as if playing a careless game of sheer tomfoolery.. The moss draped walls accentuated with white (almost polka dotted) bird droppings; the rather regular little visitors that would exodus and entrada as they please, when they please.

I was a little visitor, myself. I was eight, and after the garden being my favorite place in the world came our Gardener, who was my favorite person in the world; in simple words of a petite heart. 

So every afternoon when Joseph watered the plants, I'd sneak in and stand behind the netted door. 

"Little Missus is here" ; he'd declare in a sing-song way to which I'd stick my tongue out at his hunched back. I'd eventually slip into his lap, while his green thumb would work around the pots. 

So it was just an afternoon such when I sat on Joseph's lap while he recited ridiculous and vivid fictions about the dog flowers growing into real big dogs in a month or two and how the garden would echo of barks and smell of dog litter when suddenly I stopped laughing and sat queer still. 

"What happened, Missus?" 

"Joseph...that butterfly is dead!" ; Joseph followed my big round teary eyes to a yellow butterfly that lay dead on of the pots.

"Did the dogs kill it?" ; my lower lip jutted out.

"Yes, Missus. The dogs..killed it."

"Mad mad mad dogs! But it was so pretty!" ; I whined. 

"It was, innit? But no worries, Little Missus. The dogs left behind the baby! We'll have a pretty little butterfly soon!" ; pointed Joseph at a cocoon. 

"Once again?!" ; my eyes widened. 

Joseph smiled ; "Yes Missus. Once again."

............And now, it feels strange. Standing in front of the coffin of the poor gardener who taught me the motley amphitheater of life and death at eight. 

"Once again, Joseph" , I kept the dog flowers on top of the coffin beneath layers of which, lay his heart. 

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The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

-Much love,
Nil :) 

I have a lot to say.

Hello, there. I wouldn't call this post completely fictitious, it's a...different style of writing that I attempted, to free my head of certain epiphanies and visions that were rather vociferous. It was stimulated by Van Gogh's Starry Night. And call it crazy, I found just the variation of the painting I wanted, online. So the following is somewhat a cornucopia of strings of thoughts, that came in one after the other while I was in the strangest mood, and I never stopped. It may not make sense, due to the drastic transitions of odd imagery. But it's raw and unedited.
That should be intriguing enough.
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I have a lot to say about your catastrophic ways at romance.The kind which elevate your lovers just enough to bring them down on hard rubble, away from the skies and your red skirts. The deep rings of the ocean will coo deep within the marine land which would then birth the butterfly effect, around the world. You never considered the golden strings around that quiet cocoon which conceived an unholy crossbreed of the moth that resigned to growth.  All those tales which sing the hymns of Juliet aren't all that forlorn, anything that's been a part of history has stirred, moved, revolted, and been enshrined in script, in mind- though very few in heart.There's a brothel in your mind, perhaps there might be a temple, even. The point of reckoning being, there's a threshold to both them abodes. Each threshold holy to its indweller in their own ways.There's a sense of exhilaration in the careless free-fall of ash. That sense of exhilaration magnifies at the cinch attempt of beating that ash to dry paste. The salt and pepper like appearance brings about a silly sensation of appeasement. The heart has been an immigrant to seek, it can also be an emigrant to leave. Ultimately, words when spoken are relative, for they are evanescent once the will erodes and the thought is forgotten. What is fearless? The absence of fear may sound splendid, but uncommon. Is 'fearless' a state of insensitivity when the repercussions fail to inflict any sort of effect on you? Because then it wouldn't be such a glorious feeling after all.  In all its ignorance it may give me the attention that would tame me. However in the midst of all the shenanigans your existence may be party to, there lies an order in the desperate disorder of chaos. Now isn't that brilliant and inspiring?  -Nil.

Stewie Griffin is my homeboy.

Greetings, World! 

I be back from the mountains and might I add it was (to say the least and sound sober) the best effing trip ever. Ev-er. Ev-er. Ever. 

I see you've got the point. So yes, best trip ever- only we took it with a pinch of salt cause the fourth lady of our wolf pack stayed back to become an ace lawyer. So yes, that tiny  huge set back shall be taken care of next time we pull her by the hair irrespective of lawyers dying all around the world. 

Coming back to the trip, we did..well, nothing. We woke up to the sound of the strangest bird calls (AND I STILL FIRMLY BELIEVE A FOX WAS GOING TO KILL US WHILE WE WERE AT IT.) We stayed at a tent which felt like the tent from the quidditch match in Harry Potter's Goblet of Fire. (The cheap thrills we derived out of it, I tell you!) =D

Anyhow, so we used to sit in/ out and chill all the time with regular rounds of coffee. There was bonfire every evening, and the camp had a gorgeous(estestestest) reading lounge where we chilled and read books till late at night, and the occasional games of Scrabble where I whupped everybody's sorry butts =) 

The food started from typical parathas to pasta to continental to french omelets. (Excuse me while I run back, again.) Oh and did I mention all you saw around was huge sprawls of fields and snow caped mountains? 

Yeah, thattttt.

Apart from that, we went Paragliding and white water rafting. Now THAT, ladies and gentlemen kind of blew us off our feet. Yeah, just a little. Yeah, uhhuh. (head must stop nodding.)

And then not to mention Old Manali, which is basically the Pahargunj of Delhi with a gazillion hippies and gorgeous Italian cafes.

So yeah, I finally got an old school leather bound diary and thus begins my promise to literally put pen to paper instead of typing stuff all the time. 

The ladies and I. Hippie style. :)

So yes, Campville was the best place that could happen to us after boards. You can visit their site here. And at any point when you're sick of life or just need to get out in general and fall on your butt straight in the middle of the heaven, Campville is the place to be! :)

Aaaaaaaaand, I'm having some major post Himachal withdrawals. So yes, Delhi feels dangerously useless right now. Not to mention there's some bad news at home but hey I'm not even getting there. The whole point of this post was to get my mind off things. So yeah. I'm absolutely jobless, I'm home alone, and the Family Guy is a beautiful beautiful old friend I reunited with after a whole year. =)

And now, I shall go waste time. Write some, read some, watch some and get the hell out some. 

Tata!

-Nil.

P.s- Major fiction spam coming up, brethren.