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Greetings, wallflowers, mountain-lovers and everyone else.

Hey people!

I’m a 21st century brat who sprung out of her mother’s womb in 1999. This world, howsoever ethereal or abject a predicament it might be in, welcomed me with open arms, and I can’t be more grateful, for the countless opportunities of getting on my fellow humans’ nerves.

Um, I guess that was a bit of an idiosyncratic start.

Well, I am just an ordinary face amidst the crowd that you jostle your way through on the bus or the metro every day. Yet I do wish to make this enterprise worthwhile for you.

 I intend to harp on topics like mountains, daily life observations and last but definitely not the least, my hopelessly gigantic problem of social awkwardness. The last problem has largely to do with my personality, and has begun to subside recently. But I do believe that such a problem is hugely relevant for a considerable number of people, hence my effort to discuss on a public platform.

I’m going to share a very frequent experience that I used to have out on the streets. The fruit vendor or grocer I’m talking to quite inevitably would assume that I cannot speak proper Bengali, or that I am not a native speaker, so they would switch to Hindi or ask, ‘Tumi Bangla jano na?’ (Don’t you know Bengali?)

(My head silently screaming and my heart stifling a sob)

A big round of applause to the habit of stuttering acquired in my childhood.

I silently accept the packet of fruits and go on my way, awaiting another chance to smoothen out my fumbling tongue.

Anyways I hope I’m not boring the life out of you with such a personal experience.

My blogs would also include, as aforementioned, tales of my visits to the mountains (with whom I have a lifelong relationship with) and arbitrary yet interesting snippets of the world around me.

Next week, I’m going to upload a piece on the value of existence (it’s actually a three-year old article, but I thought it wouldn’t be so bad to share it here).

Here does this week’s misery stop.

Thanks!

Steaming Curls

Strong and bright yellow curls of sunlight poured through the window panes. The room had lit up, and the warm sunshine and sapphire blue sky outside were tempting. I had just sat up on the thick bed sheets. The chills had been running through me all night, and did not leave me alone then. I tried to curl up under the sheets again, but thoughts of a delicious dish jolted me right back up.

Slipping my arms into the warm sleeves of three shirts and a fleece, I headed out into the bright morning. Passing through the corridor and down the steps, a delicious smell wafted from the kitchen. But I kept walking.

I descended down to the main road of Old Manali, with the Beas River flowing by. My eyes and stomach drove me towards the line of roadside eateries and restaurants. Steel cutlery swung and scraped against blackened tumblers, flipping fresh pancakes or stirring soup and porridge. I stopped in front of a small café whose owner was yet to light his gas stove.

I already knew what I wanted to have. I gave the order and sat at a table by the steep road. The café owner proceeded to boil water in a pitcher, and tore open packets of instant noodles. He broke the noodle cakes and gently slipped them in the simmering water. The spicy masala was sprinkled with equal ease and diligence.

I satisfied the initial phase of my hunger by the delicious aroma that filled the small wooden hut. My nose fulfilled about forty percent of my tummy cravings. As the owner served the plate of hot noodles, my mouth watered before I could clutch the fork. Curls of steam floated up from the yellow strands of wheat. Low-fried scrambled eggs were entangled in the mesh of slippery noodles. I looked down at them for a few seconds like a new-found love.

As I put the fork through my lips, the spicy flavour burst inside my mouth and I sighed. Then I slurped up all of it in a matter of a few minutes.

Maggi in the mountains is the best feeling. Period.

P.S. – Maggi is an Indian company of spicy instant noodles.

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