Skip to main content


I have Generalised Anxiety Disorder. I suffer from terrible insecurity and the fear of being persecuted by people around me. The fear has grown so stronger over the years (not to mention how many times it got validated on several occasions) that I no longer trust people. So much that I feel even scared to maintain my own diary. So blogging helps. This is a kind of virtual diary where I can talk freely yet not spill out all the secrets. Life is not easy for people like us. Especially in a country or society where you are not considered as sick unless you have a terminal disease. Even viral fever will bring you empathy and attention. But go and tell people that you have Borderline Personality Disorder so your emotional quotient is like a third degree burn patient and you will see how the stares turn suspicious. They will go home and discuss at night what a scary crazy person you are. But somehow over the years I have started to become more unabashed about who I am. I am on my way to learn the art of not giving a fuck. So far it’s been a difficult journey. I still haven’t mustered the courage to be vocal about many ‘crazy’ things about myself. I am always hiding my scars (physical as well as mental) and my insecurities behind the mask of sarcastic humour and general cheerfulness when I am around people. Not being myself is my fulltime job. For which life has paid me back with survival.

Someone has recently advised me to introspect more. And to start with learning to love myself. I am not sure how good I am at introspecting. I do think a lot. By nature I am a sensitive person. And my emotional maturity is perhaps still stuck at the stage of adolescence. I haven’t grown a day older since my teenage. Time is a cruel bitch. It is merciless to people who cannot keep up with the pace. So I suffer on a daily basis. At work. At personal life. Just mere living seems a difficult task for me. I speak less (for which I get bullied a lot too), I observe more (for which people think I am an antisocial psycho piece of shit). But when I look around all I see is people talking and talking and talking. They talk so much that if you look closely you can see their teeth pattern and the colour of their tongue. And the funny thing is they are always so eager to express their opinions and at the same time do not give a shit about what others have to say. People only pretend to listen so that they can talk more. I used to get bullied a lot as a child. I was a quiet, shy kid who was an easy target for everyone. Family, friends, bitch cousins. My mouth still gets dry around strangers. My voice changes and I begin to fluster and speak grammatically incorrect English. Learning how to use your shortcomings as shield is always a wise choice. So I chose to become an observant listener. For a person like me who gets tears in her eyes seeing run over dead dogs on the road, it was an easy job. And believe me, the world lacks really good listeners.

As for learning how to love myself more I am not quite sure. I am the same person who likes to dress up and pose for pictures. And on the other hand I am excellent at abusing myself. Another topic that people are most uncomfortable to talk about – self harming. But hey, when I write blog I always assume that nobody is going to read my posts. The google analytics stats are just faceless numbers for me. And you can’t imagine what a big relief that is. I don’t know exactly at what age my self-loathing had started. That exactly at what age I had started to think that I would never be as good as others. Ever. Even with all the male attention and fairly well academic record and a well designated job. The inferiority complex, the jealousy, the insecurity, the desperate attempt to keep people at bay but at the same time feeling like a loner shipwreck – it’s all there. And the most haunting aspect of being an intelligent and sensitive person is that you are constantly facing your monsters in the mirror. You are constantly under self-scrutiny. You can run away from others. But you can’t run away from yourself. And that’s why I no longer blame any of the past people who disappointed or hurt me. If I were a normal person with even average level of self-esteem I wouldn’t even let those people enter my life let alone fuck with it. It’s always up to you whether you let someone hurt you or not. For a self-abusive person getting hurt is the most familiar pattern. And there’s comfort in familiarity.

I started out my blog as a result of heartbreak. I wanted a friend I never had. I wanted a shoulder. My own words gave me that refuge. And all those little known and unknown people who stumbled across it and chose to keep coming back. Now after three years the equation has changed. That heartbreak is only a laughing memory. But the blog has remained. Like an old, dearest friend. Because I need it. I need it in order to survive. In order to fight the daily battle in this big, lonely world. In order to not give myself in to the mediocre cacophony of people. In order to reassure myself that it is ok to be different in a room full of clones. And I’m pretty sure I am not alone in this fight.

Popular posts from this blog

Kiriburu Meghahatuburu Trip

When we first planned our trip, I googled on Kiriburu tourism, but sadly, found almost nothing. Again, a Bengali book came to my rescue. If anybody has ever read Suchitra Bhattacharjee's Sarandaye Shoytan, they would know what a beautiful picture of this entire area she depicted with her words.
Kiriburu is a small hilltop tribal town in West Singhbhum, Jharkhand. It is situated on the border of Jharkhand and Odisha. Both Kiriburu and Meghahatuburu are part of the Saranda forest range. Saranda means 'land of seven hundred hills'. Given the place's geography (Saranda forest range is a part of Chota Nagpur plateau area), the name seems quite apt. In tribal language, 'kiri' means elephant and 'buru' means small hill. Kiriburu is one of the seven hundred hills of Saranda. A tribe named Ho inhabit this area. It's a very small town, but apparently Kiriburu's literacy rate is even higher than our national literacy rate, almost 67%. Both Kiriburu and Megh…

Photoshoot / 1

It is so much fun to be the part of a photoshoot, especially when the photographer is your best friend. The whole scene becomes an absolute mayhem. Every two minutes one party is hitting the other with a sarcastic banter which is no less dangerous or impactful than a hand grenade. Cuss words are flying about like Frisbee. The photographer is asking you to give a diva pose and then cracking jokes about your crush while you are trying hard to maintain a straight face. Not to mention the bystanders who won't stop ogling at you. Don't let those divine expressions fool you. It's a journey to the reign of Hades once the curtain is lifted.

Photo courtesy: The ever talented, my co-ruler of the Underworld, dearest Aay Kay.

The Tale of an Extraordinary Sisterhood

I have mentioned many times before that I am not the kind of girl who has many girlfriends. Or I am just not a very good friend in general. I have made and lost many friends in this journey of life so far. Some of them were good people. Some of them I am glad I could get rid of. In most cases I don’t quite recall why the friendship ended prematurely. Time has helped regenerate fresh tissues on the old scar of betrayal, backstabbing and disappointment. Or in some cases death came and put an end to it all. You can’t be mad at a dead person, especially if she was of your age and for some unknown reason death felt she was not to be allowed to live a full life. You dare not loathe her memory because she failed to meet your psychopathic loyalty.
I have two best friends. And surprisingly both of them are girls. Both are wild souls trapped in two gorgeous women's body. And probably that's why they fit in my life like two missing pieces of puzzle. I met D during my masters at ISI. Usu…