To know a person.

Ich heiße Prachi.

In German, this sentence means: I am called Prachi.

In short, you might sum it up as how to introduce yourself.
True enough, 'I am So-and-so' can also be stated as 'Ich heiße So-and-so'.

But the German meaning of the verb 'heißen' is 'to be called'.
And in simply saying 'I am so-and-so', the true German meaning is lost.
Which is SO beautiful.

You are not what you are called.
You say: I am so-and-so.
That does not make you So-and-so.
Who you are is completely unprecedented, it's a story.

Let's find out that story.
How about we begin with what you are called?
--------

I am interested in the depths of your soul.
The vague things, the little things.
Show me your all, take your sweet time.
Let me discover all that you hide. 

All that resides.

---------

Mingled skins.
The taste  of burnt chips.
Hand in hand.
Shoulder to shoulder.

Light flickering in the room; only source of it visible- the candle.
Burning, flickering, not too bright, not too dim, in the middle of the room.
On the mahogany table.
Next to the star globe he got from her on their anniversary.

Of course, his gift is on her fingers.
The left hand, she likes it there.
Interlocked with his right hand, she looks at it.

She looks at it even as stays there, beside him.
She wonders, then hopes and then chides herself for being too foolish.

‘I must not get my hopes up.’

He kisses the top of her head.
He breathes the smell of her in- she smells salty.

‘From the running, no doubt. The sweat’

They just stole the coordinates to a worm hole.

And even as he and she both look at it, beyond the mahogany table with the flickering candle, against the wall; they feel only a sense of foreboding.

Like burnt dreams- very much unlike the burnt chips they just had (her fault, of course).

Because burnt dreams are very unlike the taste of burnt chips.
Setting fire to your own life, your own castles in the skies, pieces of heaven,

All for momentary if not rare or happenstance drops of ambrosia for the present.

But the petrichor can already be smelt and the dread of what’s about to happen is settling in.

They are giving up on their own lives to provide meaning to the false sense of security they’re being given- because it’s what they believe in. To die aware if not ignorant, because being aware can only make them united.

That’s what they hope.

‘I must not get my hopes up.’

Even amidst all the horror they are feeling, she continues to feel as if it’ll somehow all work out.
They’ll make it through the night.
Hell, he could even stay.

Or could he?

‘I must not get my hopes up.’

Finally he speaks-

“Funny that it’s a scroll- don’t you think?”

She looks up at the kindly face that says those words.
She breathes in how utterly silly that face looks, and she loves it, and yet she feels tormented.

She wants to push him away immediately because it’s dangerous to get any closer, but they already have.
She wants to drop her defenses and love him fully, with all her might, but she has already experienced pain and wishes she didn’t know the meaning of fear.

But she does.
All she feels - her hopes soaring dangerously and her heart welling up with dangerous, foolish love and she feels herself slipping down, down the rabbit hole.

“Yes.”
Is all she manages.
And then she looks up and tries to smile,
but ends up making an awkward face,

And says,

“You better make it back, Hugo. Even if it’s for one moment or one infinitesimal part of a second, you must make it back.”

He looks at her in surprise.

“Because although loving you is a complicated, dangerous business, I’d rather see you again than die having lost you forever.”

He smiles.
“That makes little sense.”

“I just want you back, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Now go.”

The star globe suddenly brightened and the candle stopped flickering.
He got up.

They looked at each other.

They sniffed the petrichor that was so saddening, they parted their skin like it was so traumatizing.

And it could have taken a nuclear reaction to separate them barely a few days ago- with their friends cracking jokes about how the world would come to an end if they ‘broke up’- and how funny it was that now, the world would if they didn’t.

Not break up, but part.

And they parted.

He picked up the scroll containing the coordinates, and vanished.

It was unprecedented but it had the desired effect.

She burst out spilling salty water from her eyes which humans call tears- I call it the epitome of suppression.

Because even as she cried,

‘I must not get my hopes up.’

And that was the end of everything.
Or so she believed.

The forest of talking trees,
Had a daughter they loved and set her free.

The daughter, she went out far,
to distant lands, and to men with guitars.

Those men, they smoked something called weed,
She took a sniff, and then she fled the scene.

Her guardians had taught her long back
That anything that made her feel funny was bad.

For instance, the nectar of the bees,
it made rashes appear on her skin.

The bees, she recounted once,
to a traveler, she met on one of her runs.

She was running from the men with guitars,
and she told her friend, that bees preferred honey in their combs rather in jars.

Her friend, smiled at her,
he looked at her too plainly, as a vulnerable girl like a puny bird.

Guess he forgot the beaks,
of the birds, and how sharp they can be.

She ran from her ‘friend’ and ran
and thought of scouring even further lands.

Once she came across a sea,
the brilliant blue fascinated her being.

She heard someone call it a name,
She was confused, the brilliant blue hadn’t told her one then.

When she asked the brilliant blue, it said:
“My dear girl, humans name and in their minds they thread.”

“They thread names and pictures to make some sense,
And once they make enough of it, comes relief immense.

“For their puny brains,
Can’t handle not knowing pittance.”

The daughter of the talking trees,
Pondered over this.

Jumping up and down the stairs,
she thought of why a human even cares.

Caring for a friend once, she went as far as to a mountain,
the tallest mountain in all land, they called it in the known terrain.

She went to bury her friends’ remains,
and the mountaineer could not understand why it was of consequence.

The bees’ remains, she called it.
She explained gently that she ‘owed one to the bee.’

A phrase she’d learnt from her travels,
and as far as phrases go, there was another which quite unravels.

‘The stars quite dazzle,’
and she could not understand that as the coat against her she nuzzled.

Because stars, she knew, didn't shine for them,
It was for whom they loved, and for their friends.

She understood that humans couldn't believe
That even those stars they seemingly loved had in them a being.

She looked up at the stars floating on water once,
the Dead Sea, they called it, and they reported seeing a ghost that day once.

Floating on the water, they said
but it was only the daughter wondering how everything was made.  

She wondered the point of it all,
because the brilliant blue had told her humans wonder about it too, after all.

And she thought how it didn't have a point,
what was the need of making some sense, or a point?

If everything you saw was beautiful?
Wasn't that enough meaning after all?

Because beautiful things, and the workings and the ends,
all these human-ities, deserve to be experienced.

She thought of how beautiful the ball
and everything she’d seen was  after all.

The ball we live in, she thought
Maybe I could see it if I go on further and don’t get caught.

By these humans.

To this day the forest of the talking trees
think of their daughter as a passing breeze.

A breeze wonderfully so was she,
because they know, it was her that sent stars their way to look at and

To believe.

 

"When I was a kid, I was fascinated by space. And I learnt that time slows near a black hole. Inside a black hole, time stops altogether. Whether or not will this theory ever be proved, I am moved to believe that this would be the perfect place to love someone."

We agreed that this was too perfect.
He said he'd find me there- somehow. And that we'd escape together.
Escape to a black hole.
Where time stops.

The perfect place to love someone.

I told him I'd wait. He smiled.

How long?

Long enough to be with you. 

You do realize we'd be 27 years apart, don't you? 

You could learn to like older women. 

He grinned.
I marveled at the brilliance of that grin.

The Sun was beginning to set.

Watch the stars with me, tonight. For one last time.
Before I cease to exist.

That ending left me feeling as if the cells of my lungs had evaporated, leaving me unable to breathe, with only a burn in my chest. As if my lungs had incinerated.

These paradoxes are such, such funny things.

How could he cease to exist when he was in front of me right now, right there?
Living, breathing.
Loving, leaving.
Grinning, sparkling.

Destined to not be, crumbling.
~

Terms.

Susan Cain's TedX video is a beautiful testimony to the fact that introverts are amazing people.
And so are tumblr sites. And Luchie's Introversion comic.

It made me think of what I am.
I don't believe in terms, but I do know that we are bound to live by them, or else we'd be called lunatics and won't survive.

Also, living by terms is more interesting. I'll explain all this later, when I feel like it.
(That's how I do stuff. When I feel like it.)

But what I feel right now- is the confusion- regarding 'which term' is for me.
Am I extroverted?
Introverted?
Or am I an ambivert?

It's better to not believe in terms- when it comes to what kind of a person one is based on their social prowess. Because it all depends on the situation.
But then again, because it depends on the situation at hand, it is important to know what one is.

An introvert could act as if he's really extroverted, and no one would ever know.
If my Fountainhead goes around talking loudly and horsing around, it really does not mean he is extroverted.
He is having fun. He is not an extrovert.

I could be coming to that party where everyone is going to.
I find solace in the fact I can easily lie about why I am not coming and just avoid confrontations.
I hate drama.
And it's lovely to stay at home and eat and grow fat reading books and watching anime.

I do take risks.
Everyday.
Just talking to a person so boldly as I've lately begun doing is a lot for me.
I can stand up to my class, now, and talk.
It's still a risk, even if now I can at least talk. It's still a risk because inside- I'm crumbling with embarrassment.
And then I shrug it off, as certain people have taught me.
It bothers me, in the moment, though.
I still hate public speaking.
I don't think I'd ever be able to do it.
Giving speeches, reciting, enacting a drama- it really isn't for me. Even if it is something that I can attempt without dying, it isn't for me.

A fish can't learn to fly.
But it can at least attempt a leap outside the water, can't it?

And people who think introverts are shy people who can't love-
Think again.

We love fiercely, with passion.
Think of Lyra and Will.
Estha and Rahel.
Two cats swishing tails.
The Little Prince. And his rose.

We love so fiercely, we lose ourselves.

Coming back to a term-
I think you know what it is, Fountainhead.

Nay, we aren't introverts.
Nor extroverts- that's laughable.
Ludicrous.
Ambiverts?

We aren't what these terms define people as- based on their social skills.

Nay, nay.

We are simply humans who don't like to talk to people who don't matter.
The popular ones, the fabulous ones.

What defines what is 'popular' anyway?

We're not.

And even if somehow, some of us become so, (you there) we never thought of being so.

And even then, it doesn't matter, does it?

Becoming popular does not mean you have changed.
It just means more people acknowledge that you're existing.
And look forward to seeing you.

It also does not mean you always reciprocate that. (Mental xD)

And the kind of people we are- we like to shout our hearts silly to people who at least strike the same chord as us.
People on our orbits, or who we orbit, they're much too intimate to even decipher. They already share our very soul, our very wavelength.

People like those- however few- are treasures. Diamonds. The ones who share a chord are gold. Silver, platinum, your choice.

That's why people are astonished when we tell them we are actually quite introverted, if they are in want of a colloquial term.

They can't believe that we- people who are seen in breaks shouting and running and chasing and being silly- can be introverted.

But we are.
And not 'introverted' but a term which we know, and we understand.

And we know what is truly of consequence, and we are true.
And we are different.

But we are human.
Only human.

Pandora's Box.

I'd written a piece long back. I showed it to no one, and deleted it as soon as I was convinced it was bullpoopy.

Well, rather than piece I'm sure you could call that a note saved in my crappy phone. And that note, I wrote after I came back after witnessing a girl being bullied. And not being brave enough to stand it. Because I was afraid of landing up like that.

Now I realize how brave she is.
And I'm glad she makes an effort to connect with me, so, so glad.

See, thing is, that note went somewhat like this, the thing in which I believe the most:
You don't get to call that fat girl fat.
You do get to call her, however, a person suffering from Prader-Willi Syndrome.

You don't get to say mean things behind that new girls' back even if she wears torn clothes.
Her parents died in the fire that burnt most of her clothes.

You don't get to feel vengeful about the boy with the street look even if he slammed against you and left without a proper apology.
He had three jobs to get to and six mouths to feed.

Wonder how that popular girl keeps smiling without her jaws tiring?
She finds comfort in the fact that no one in school knows the scars on her back.

It feels so good.
To be understood
to be taken seriously.
To live, to laugh,
to hurt, to cry,
but only if your emotions are
treated properly.
Taken seriously.
It feels so good.

Being prejudiced, and being slaves to terms is all part of how we've shaped this world, and how we perceive things. Being open minded is tough, and I don't mean it's 'tough' I mean it's tough.
Don't get me?
How hard is it for our brain to not form presumptions about something?
It is a defense mechanism. If our brain couldn't form a presumption that "Hell yes, this animal is gonna eat me up" we couldn't have survived.

How hard it is, to truly see.
But how wonderful.

The resultant treasure you find is a thing which is simply part of your soul.
I used to not believe in destiny.
Lyra and Will, made me.
Stars, made me.
Stories, made me.
The things that happen everyday, make me.

Oh, I still believe in free will. Yes I do.
It's a contradiction. So maybe it is a paradox. Or again, maybe it's not.

Because you see, the things which are truly of consequence, are seen from the heart.

So even if I do tire of all the misery and melodrama and not enough 'seeing' happening around, I take heart in the fact that the Little Prince was here, and he taught a certain person and a certain fox somethings, which were imparted to us all.

And I go on living because I still have hope.
The only thing which was left in Pandora's Box.

Kaleidoscopes are so beautiful.
You see patterns, you change patterns, you see them as they change.

You don't observe the individual elements that much. You don't see the small pieces of glass or the paper stars and paper circles and paper figures.

All you see is the entire picture.
And the entire picture is so resplendent.
So magnificent.

That's what matters.
That's all there is of consequence.
The entire picture.
But as humans, we do examine the individual elements because those elements are what happen to us everyday. And as we go through each day, dealing with those elements, perhaps to forget later, we at least see those elements in their entirety.

And if we do our best, give it our best shot, to those individual elements; if we continue to capture the entire picture by giving our best shot to each of those little things, perhaps when we grow up and have time to reflect on all that happened, we will see the entire picture.

And because of the individual elements we were so diligent in working upon, the picture we will see will not be just resplendent, but also lambent.

The magical, lambent of the stars is so because of the individual elements which smash all their elements and compounds to burn brighter, now is it not?

Why not give everyday a shot.
Why not live instead of just dreaming.
Dream a little and work a little.
Charm a little and play a little.
Live a little. Die a little.

Love a little.
Gaze at the stars a little.

Sputnik.

Will you be my sputnik?
I'll be the star you'll revolve around.
The star of your focus.
If only you'd be my sputnik.

I'd shine with all my might for you.
I'll smash the electrons of my heart
To burn brighter
And I'd give up on being a Red Giant
Or a supernova-
If only you'd be my sputnik.

Be my sputnik
We'd scale the universe
We'd see it all
We'd saunter past Black Holes
And narrowly escape solar coronas

If only you'd be my sputnik. 

Ad Astra.

She whispers to the stars every night.
The soldier falls asleep looking at them.
In the same open field, fireflies fight to shine brighter than their brothers in the skies.

The child finds his mother's face among the stars.
The stars remind the lover of his beloved.
His beloved wishes upon a star every night;  for the soldier to return home.

She wishes her sister back as well-
little knowing that her sister has been enchanted by the stars; they speak to her as she deals with her brother-in-law's wound, whose body lays on the cold, hard ground, face upturned, drinking in the glorious night.
Drinking in the stars.

She whispers to the stars that night that she's afraid.
The stars console her. They tell her that soon enough, she'll come to them.
She lets a tear trickle down her face.
It falls on the soldier.
He smiles at receiving the tear of the star-whisperer.
Tears from the Land of Tears- a secret place.
He can't go there just yet.
He needs to get drunk first.
He drinks in the night; for he's unsure as to what tomorrow might bring.

The child tightly holds on to his aunt's arm, as she wishes upon a star again, the next night, miles away from the field.
Today he tries to look for a ghost among the stars.

But the stars seem dimmer.
And no dead man's face, nor a wish is to be found or heard, that night.

Because miles away lies two bodies.
Of a star whisperer and a man drunk on the stars.
And the stars seem to weep for the loss!
Of two humans they fell in love with. 

Urban melancholia reigns because psychedelic illusions are abundant, dreams are left broken.

Trying is what makes us human.
And the happiness tinted glasses of children, through which they look at everything leaves them unable to comprehend how it's so rampant.
Tragedy.

But employing the little that was left in Pandora's box, we try.
We aim at happiness.
We aim at chances, and second chances, and some of us miss and some do not. And some fail gloriously, with a fight, and some do not.
We use our words.
We live.

That's why we're human.
Even with the universal futility of all actions, we try.

We laugh and we sing to our songs.

So that's why,
Reach for the stars.

Simple. True.

Ethereal.

I'm awake in my room at 2 a.m. and I feel ethereal.

Maybe it's the combination of listening to Jonsi's magic and watching 'Her'.

Of having plans which others deem boring but to me are amazing. 

Of buying two books. 

Of meeting an incredible human who I have the honour of calling my sensei.

Of having incredible friends who trust me.

Of being able to structure words into sentences beautifully, with a reinforced ability. 

Of having some clarity into what I want to do, what I want to be.

Of actually doing all I just said, and more.

It feels ethereal. 

The Art of Spoon Bending.

O

Much more pointless things have been done than this. 'This' can mean a lot of things but currently it means a singularity. A lazy singularity. But such is the nature of singularities that 'lazy' might not even begin to cover all that is to be covered, and currently I need to cover an important issue.

Oh, before we get to the issue, that purple 'O' over there is me. Say hi guys.

Now back to the issue.

How to bend a spoon. 

I watched The Matrix for the first time, when I was in second grade. Not a particularly high point in my life, but it was nice, and The Matrix was the kind of a movie which just passed over my second-grader head. But the thing that hooked me to the movie was when the bald monk kid is staring at the spoon as if he has constipation, and the spoon fucking bends.

Somehow, it just increased my respect for the movie by a thousand points. Matilda, by Roald Dahl, features a young girl who can do incredible things with her eyes, for instance, write on a blackboard with a chalk to scare her humongous and ugly headmistress away. With just her eyes.

These movies made me attach a certain respect to our wondrous eyes, and I used to stare at a window for minutes, hoping it would just go- crash!
I wish I could say I stared at the window for hours, but everyone I know knows how lazy I am. Again, the lazy singularity.
But then again, aren't we all singularities?

Back to the topic at hand. Spoon-bending.
Yesterday my spoon bended.

Let's assume the entity that speaks to me in my head is called Peach and is, indeed, a peach. And the voice which responds to the initial statement is, Pooh.

Peach: "Wow. It looks bent."
Pooh: "So it does. How'd it happen?"
Peach: "How 'm I supposed to know?"
Pooh: "You aren't?"
Peach: "Well, yea."
Pooh: "This is big. This lazy one has done something only freaky 6 year-somethings can do or weird bald monks can do."
Peach: "I really don't think he was a monk, just a weird bald kid."
Pooh: "Does that even matter?"
Peach: "It does to me. He wasn't a monk. Monks go amok."
Pooh: "Amok...?"
Peach: "Yea! They dance like hooligans on the streets and drink pee and undergo gender reconstruction surgery. Also, most of them have anger management issues."
Pooh: "Actually-"
Peach: "This kid here looks pretty calm to me, even cute."
Pooh: "I think you're talking about 'munk' and even that is not closer to the truth."
Peach: "Meh."
Pooh: "So back to topic..?"
Peach: "She was eating ice-cream."
Pooh: "What?"
Peach: "The girl whose mind we occupy before she erases us. She was eating chocolate ice-cream like a pro at midnight."
Pooh: "..."
Peach: "Her sister starts screaming about ice-cream equality otherwise, you know."
Pooh: "Am I supposed to be the voice of reason, of logic and are you supposed to be the non-linear voice? Yes."
Peach: "Well, Mr. Voice-Of-Reason. Tell me this. Remember what happened when she tried to scoop out ice-cream in the middle of the night with the spoon that's bent now?"
Pooh: "There was a cockroach..."
Peach: "And she killed it."
Pooh: "And in the process, she scooped out too much ice-cream, during which the spoon got bent."
Peach: "Voila."
Pooh: "..."
Peach: "Don't worry though, this was just a case of rememberance of memory, not logic vs. imagination."
Pooh: "Ok..."

What really bothers me is that my voice of reason didn't even bother to ask the non-linear thought pattern maverick about why she lied in the beginning when he asked if she knew why the spoon was bent and she replied in the negative.
More importantly, why is my voice of logic so dumb? .-.

Even more importantly, what was the point of this?

Points are in existence, you see. Even this has a point somewhere, in some alternate universe.

What we learn from this is when you have to bend a spoon and marvel at your awesomeness, be caught in a situation involving ice-cream and a cockroach and be sure to stick in the spoon deep into the ice-cream, so that when you try to scoop it out, it gets bent.
The cockroach is a variable which may be discarded, it's not valid to the equation.
By the way, an equation never actually was in the picture.
Bet you didn't know that.

O

P.S: That grey 'O' over there denotes creativity. See the displacement?

Have a nice Sunday, whoever is reading this. You know you don't have a life. Just like me. :'3 

1.0

Cassidy was tired of feeling it.

She had always been a girl who couldn't very well explain her own thoughts, her ideas, the fragments that flashed in her mind.

She could not explain, but she could write, and write she did, in fact all she did do was to write- it helped her to think clearly.

But currently, she was feeling a weirdness in her that had come to define her life as of late. It felt as if all the noises around her had grown noisier, and they were screaming in her ear. Her throat was always parched, her senses were always clouded.

She could not understand what was going on. She was drifting.

Caught in a melee of madness, she could not resist.
And she went with the flow. 

Hey, it's a complete new year. (Part 2)

Even though it's been five days since school re-started, I don't have anything to add about it, except the fact that it's still there, and atheists are amazing people and Bollywood is a quirky and sexist place.

So, to get back to Nagpur, after those two incredible days we just roamed around the place, eating, and clicking pictures. So there.

Then we went to Jamshedpur, where my dad resides, for his work, and where all my books are. I love Jamshedpur only because of it's greenery, Kashfin and my bookshelf.

In Jamshedpur, my cousins came to visit. And some major career advice shizz happened which in turn led me to becoming serious. And that very same seriousness is why  haven't been uploading as frequently I used to, but I still remember that I do have a blog, so there.

Fountainhead's been amazing, S is good, Nabha and Pushpa are cool as always and Kashfin is amazing.

Somehow even Monkey is becoming a great friend. He was, but now I feel as if the feeling is mutual.

My New Year Resolutions, eh?

• Get into section A in Grade Tenth.
• Read loads of books.
• Become awesome-er.
• Lose weight. And pimples. 

Ain't this a boring post?

Well, that's life in all it's mediocre glory. 

Except the Ibu Hatela part of course. It's characters like these which make life worth living.

Khayega kela?

Hey, it's a complete new year. (Part. 1)

It's been really long since I last updated. But, life was happening, so there.

I went to Nagpur for four days. We celebrated Christmas with food there. My cousin is a chubby kid who doesn't know anything else apart from stuffing himself up, and that was exactly what he did there. Us, included in this activity as we were guests there.
Nagpur is where my dad did his MBBS. So it was exciting seeing him remember his past.

On Christmas Eve, we arrived, and after the mundane, (freshing up, eating) we went our to watch pk and boy was it amazing. As Fountainhead said, it had a 'feel-good' ending. While returning, we went to the Indian Coffee House, where my dad used to go with his friends while in college. It was this amazing old place, and the coffee was quite okay. I think the fact that my dad and the waiter started having a heart-felt conversation lighted it up for me.
After returning I got ready to leave for the church. I went to the church to the midnight mass, and after enduring a four hour religious process, they blessed us 'common folk' with an eclairs.
A tiny eclairs. There was a huge line, to be blessed with an eclairs.

One of the oldest churches in Nagpur- St. Thomas

The all-consuming eclairs for which I endured four hours.

When we were all standing inside the church, hands clasped in prayer, the clock striked twelve. My uncle, who was beside me had just turned 44, and Jesus had been born. I wished him. 

Afterwards, to amplify the sheer stupidity of the whole thing (did I mention I'm an atheist?) we were clicking pictures and commenting on how stupid theists really were. 

We had walked all the way to the church and we were walking back home at 1:30 a.m. I tried calling Monkey, but the ape was sleeping. I called Nabha up and wished him. 

Christmas day was quite happening. It was my uncle's birthday, so quite a ton of food was made in the evening, and my chubby cousin led me to the local market where I marveled at how the local shopkeepers relented and gave him a discount purely for being 'friends' with my cousin. I had been hearing tales of how he used to explore the entire neighborhood when he was just four, and I was seeing the aftermath of his abilities to mix in absolutely anywhere. Early on that day, we had explored a few temples where my dad was keen to comment, "Aren't you feeling the bhakti?" 

I was quick to assure him that I was not. 

In fact whenever we went near the idol, I would swear under my breath and say: "I don't believe in you." I think a religious old lady heard me because she was glaring at me. 

We went to Bhade uncle, the landlord with whom my dad had spent a decade of his life with. Their family gave a warm, fuzzy feeling which I will describe as being akin to drinking butterbeer. (Because I'm sure a wizard is reading this). 

For some unknown reason, my uncle insisted on taking us to see his property. We went to see a barren land, woohoo, ain't it fun? Going to see a patch of land, where a dog nearby keeps barking at you because supposedly he has peed there and now considers the land his? I dunno what adults think, I really do not.

The only fun part was clicking pictures. 

In the evening, a mind-blowing woman came to visit. She had been a neighbour to my dad, and she was just- 

Amazing.

Old memories. We also went to see dad's old college.

So basically it was a day of nostalgia for my dad. And awesomeness for me. Except a few lean parts in between.

There are many, many things that happened. But I will write later, because Chemistry and Literature beckons me. 

P.S. I'm Peach and R's Fountainhead now.