Why am I an unsuitable candidate for a given position?

For as long as I can remember, I used to maintain a journal – noting down bits and pieces, now and then. Today, it has become more than difficult to even write a sentence. I often go back and question myself whether I am even capable of writing anything anymore – whether I ever was. I wonder why my friends want me to help them with their essays – especially, when corporates and schools easily shortlist theirs and mine get boxed in piles of rejects. How does one proceed when characters stop talking and fingers cannot move anymore? Paper parchments remain dry save for that blot of ink, which never really shaped any letters. My mind keeps questioning. And my heart, it keeps droning – it will come back, all of that talent that people praised me for and that one thing, I had one day, long ago thought, I was good for. Now, I judge my plot lines to be broken, characters to be shallow and sentences too long. How do I go on like this? Sorrow should inspire me to write, and joy should bring out the mirth in my stories. I can spin no more yarns, for they all end up in knots. Look how lazy I am. To bring accolades, I write about my laziness.

I have browsed through my Facebook feed, checked Whatsapp twice. Can anyone believe that it is after one am? I still expect people to be constantly going about their social media activities, while they should be sleeping. I do have all the excuses. How does one go on like this? So, I am an internet addict who does not post anything on social media but does keep checking all her accounts constantly.

In school, I was a devoted student, reading not just my text books but others as well. College converted me so much that all I read is random shizz on the internet. Newspapers, often remain unturned and classes unattended. Very few professors knew me by name and by the end of the final year I never even made the effort. Do you see how the tone of this piece (if we can call it that) has changed? I told you, after a point of being fruitless, I leave everything to nothing. Also, like I mentioned before – nobody hired me and nobody enrolled me.

Creativity is definitely not my forte and I have a difficult time wracking my brain to be original. If you want me to give you my introduction, I’ll probably tell you my name. And everybody knows how boring that is! And if you want to just talk, I have a few topics – weather, places to eat at and how to screw up conversations. See?

For example, I wanted to take up running. I did run between a few sport stores to find running shoes and then, zilch. I thought I would take up yoga – puked on the yoga mats three days into the program, and never saw the hall again. So, right now I cannot be called a fit person. I boast of ugly double chin, open pores on my dull skin and a paunch, which precedes me every time I enter a room.

Going ahead for me is like going two steps backward – every time. I do not want to edit and I definitely do not want to write. I want to sleep all day, roll on my bed, put my feet above my head, watch YouTube videos, not interact, eat chicken and prawns all day long, and did I say sleep? I am not editing this and I am not finishing this. Lazy, I told you so and the utter procrastinator!

A/N – This is to all the statement of purpose I have ever written and wondered what it would be like to write the opposite.



‘There is more to life than what we have seen. The day school ends, we shall all cross a threshold. That day, a door shall forever be closed upon us. And the privileged ones will all leave behind their naivety because that is what the other side of the door requires of us.’  Words she had spoken and words, which could not have been truer. In an attempt to be courageous, she might as well have found the secret of life or at least that of survival.
She is jerked back to the present as the car drives over yet another speed breaker on the state highway. She is enveloped in the night’s darkness. The road sky is bereft of street lights and the velvety night sky is barren. She cannot see anyone. No one can see her. She realises that her i-pod which she had been listening to, is still playing. She switches it off. That she gauges is another light being put out. She hunts for the earphones, she had plugged into her ear at the beginning of the journey but had lost them in her bouts of dozes and preoccupation. Strangely, she does not know where the car is. She smiles wryly, wondering what is new about that. She seems to lose way frequently nowadays. And in her search and chagrin, she loses grip on her music player as well.
The car lurches forward again. This time, it is over an unexpected pothole in the road. She jolts forward and falls on the luggage. She had not realised how cramped she had been, sitting for six hours in the back of the car until it had been too late. She was stuffed along with luggage – suitcases, cartons and with loose bags thrown somewhere. She is petite and everybody thinks it is easier for her to fit in – convenient. For whom, she wonders?  She hears others in the front seat, telling the driver to take it slow. She does not make a sound – cramped and sore, though she is. She just assembles herself back in the small seat as if she were but a piece of broken machinery. Well broken, isn’t she?
As impossible as it sounds, she goes back to her quest of finding her travel companions – the player and the ear plugs. She realises that they are not on the seat. They are probably lost in the crowd of other inanimates. She tries to search for them with her hands but she cannot find them. The rhythm of the silent drive is broken yet again. Abandoning her search, accepting the inaccessibility of it, she resumes her seat.
Her inability and realisation of failure together with all her bouts of preoccupation and her epiphanies attack her.  An incoherent sob escapes her, choking her. She tries to muffle it. She knows that this is yet another sign of a failure about to greet her. She gives up. She does what she has been doing for a while now. She buries her head in her arms and buries her self in herself. She cries – silent but loud sobs. She cries. Nobody listens to her. Her world, however, echoes with them and her spirit suffers yet another fissure from the incoherency.
The honking of a truck and slamming of doors wake her up from a fitful and sob induced sleep. She feels the salty tracks of tears and kohl  lining down her cheeks. Quickly trying to rub them off with her hands, she flutters her eyes to clear the haze. A sharp piercing light, a light so bright that it initially hurts. She tries to escape it: bury her eyes deep down in the sockets, guard them with eyelids. And she would if she could. Slowly, however, she brings herself to face it. Then, the door sounds and is opened. All the bags, cartons and cases are removed – noisily, slowly but efficiently, bringing in light to her darkened corner.
She realises that they have reached. She  will also reach her destination. She contemplates bidding her time as she gets off the car. This probably is the first stop in a long journey to find words, which will string together answers that she has been looking for forever.



Deeksha Agarwalla

Tales of fading friendship and unbridled laughter,

For all those bitter smiles and dried tears,

For choked voices and unsaid words,

And for everything we thought would be,

But mostly, for those twinkling eyes and tightly held hands.

We were little girls, sitting on the roof of your house. I would sit with my two ponies bound in pink ribbon and red bellies dangling from my legs. Your mother would oil your hair and plait them with love-in-Tokyo scrunchies. Do you know, I always wanted those rubber-bands? To me they seemed more like bracelets. I remember the time we stole your mother’s colourful bangles. They were so pretty, weren’t they? I matched the pink, white and blue ones to wear. You, however, snatched them away from me. You said that they matched your pretty Barbie dress. It was not fair, you know. I was so happy when they had slid down your wrist and fell on the floor, scattering  around and clattering on the tiles, tolling like bells on the quiet afternoon. The sound now reminds me of our laughter, our hushed fights and loud make-ups. We were two girls with too many tales to tell and little time for each other each after noon. Were we not supposed to be friends, friends forever?

It was a sunny day and we were playing on the tyre, papa had wound over the tree in our garden. We took chances to swing around, standing on it and sitting in it. I think you are the only one who knows how I love that feeling, the feeling of sand in between my toes and beneath my feet. I felt the drizzle on my nose – just a little drop. You thought someone was pouring water from the balcony above. But you were wrong; it was drizzling. I remember shouting in unison with delight, ‘Rainbow.’ I think, I can still rattle off the little things you liked. Have those trivial things changed? Now, they seem more important to me than anything else about you.

It was one of those lunch breaks when we were loafing on school grounds – picking up something to eat from someone’s lunch box and then, telling them that we would treat them as well, some other day. I remember singing some insane song and going retro on the day of carnival day. I do not think I have shared a crazier day with someone else. Those were days of idiocy and ones, I dread being teased about.

I remember the spilled gravy of momos at Triptiz, where we would dig in, on the cold winter evenings. I would pester you to bring your iPod along just so I could transfer the in-vogue videos or those Katy Perry songs we loved to hum along. You called it a good-for-nothing box, every time you visited. Those were songs and videos I would have preserved, had the good-for-nothing box not swallowed them up.

It was your birthday, wasn’t it? When we almost burnt your mom’s kitchen trying to cook pot noodles. Whatever it was , all I remember is gulping down even the last bit of over-boiled and  mashed noodles with too much water. We have grown-up and so, seem our birthdays. Today, only a ‘Happy Birthday’ text to another suffices. Sometimes, when I stop and think about it, I realise that it is not enough. I don’t think it is enough for you as well, or is it?

We used to talk about friends growing up and growing apart. What we had not realised that this would happen to us as well. What happened, some would ask? And the only answer suitable for it would be, ‘Life.’ I love it when we catch up but we are polite, too polite. We care but if you break your hand, I might not come to know. There is a distance, we shall never scale. The thread tying us has thinned. Break, I hope it never shall because I love writing you letters. May be we shall never have more time together but we shall always have our togetherness.

Does It Happen to You too??

That moment when all you want to do is put your head against the door jamb and feel the cool wind caressing your face and playing with your hair. In that moment all you want to do is listen to the music playing in the car and watch the beautiful scenery whooshing by and you don’t want the drive to ever end. In that moment all you pray that this trance never breaks. Happens with me all the time.



I have always loved car drives, especially the quite, unplanned and incidental ones. I remember, a few months ago, when I was visiting, one of my cousins took me with her to meet her beau. To say that it was absolutely awkward is an understatement. The guy was there, sitting in the driver’s seat and he greets me with politeness and I don’t know what to say. My cousin slid down in the front seat and left with no option, I had to occupy the back seat. He zoomed the car through the city, making polite conversation and I didn’t know what to speak. Heck, I didn’t even see his face. I just looked out the window and didn’t even dare to roll down the window there. Suddenly, I realised we were long past city boundaries and in my non-listening state I’d agreed for a long drive to a cycling track somewhere faraway from the city. I had my apprehensions which I kept to myself. 


The music was unlike what I was accustomed to but it was sympathetic. And then the window rolled down on its own accord and the conversation started flowing. The guy actually ganged up with me against my coz and we flirted a little. My hair flew in the breeze and I liked the feel of my olive green scarf floating there on the window pane. We climbed hills and I saw a green hue blurring away. It was lots of fun. Suddenly, the stranger with a taste for rock and who had files strewn in the back seat of his car became a friend. And I didn’t want the drive to end. 


I didn’t talk to him again and the pair have probably broken up. We didn’t go on the lunch date, he promised he’d ditch  my coz for but still this is a memory I’ll always. Does it happen with you too, that a stranger is stuck in your memories – one whose eyes were covered with sunglasses and a face you’ll never know?? Happened with me last holidays.