Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


We all need someone’s help in our day to day life. No matter how much we deny it we will at some point find ourselves in situations where we will have no choice but to ask the stranger standing next to us for help. I want to share two stories that symbolise the famous English expression “Tit for Tat” which means blow for blow. Interestingly, for me, this was karma acting in a good way.

Story 1 – I was studying for my “Advanced English” exam one hot and sultry day. I slept late and woke up at the eleventh hour. I rushed my morning routine and reached the society gate two minutes prior to my exam time. It was 9:58 A.M. by my watch. Reaching class by foot wasn’t an option as it would take me another good 10-12 minutes so I panicked and wagged my head like a dog wags its tail to find an auto-rickshaw. As luck would have it my day started bad and continued to be so. I was sure I wouldn’t reach college in time.

I was crestfallen and cursing my fate when, out of nowhere, a man riding a bike shows up and asks me where I want to go. He must have figured from a distance that I needed help. I told him the direction and hopped on his bike. We talked and I answered a few questions he had about my name, college and address after which I thanked him three times before getting down and going to class. I was only four minutes late and wrote a good paper. This is an example where I was the one in need of help and someone did good by me. Little did I know that I would have the opportunity to do the same for someone in return one day.

Story 2-Two months after the first incident I was touring the city on my bike when a bus stopped nearby on my route. I saw a man possibly in his late twenties get down from that bus waving his hands in the air calling for help. He was pale with anxiety and something inside told me I should see if I can help him out in any way.

I approached him and inquired whether he was okay. He replied that he was looking for the bus stop.

He was a Sales representative for a medical company. At the moment, he needed to catch a bus from the city to Indore but didn’t know how to. The good Samaritan inside me itched to help him. I asked him to sit behind me and I took off for the bus stop that would take him to Indore. Unfortunately, the bus had left two minutes before we reached. Asking around, we found out the driver’s number and called him up. He told us that his next stop would be 5 kilometres away and he was willing to wait for a few moments. I felt it was futile to continue and thought about dropping him off there but my conscience wouldn’t let that happen.

I drove faster than I ever had. I guess the idea of failing egged me to go on and we reached when the bus was just about to leave. He thanked me and I said goodbye. His smile before he boarded the bus made me feel warm. Memories of the first incident came to my mind and I felt elated. I felt as if I had paid my debt.

Concluding, these were two wonderful stories of my life which I hope will inspire the readers. Keep helping and be there for those in need as you might never know when you might need it too. As karma says, one eventually gets back what they do for people. Tit for Tat indeed!


-Prashant Gupta


The Unanswered Questions.




Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


Who am I?

What am I?

What makes me different? Why do I even exist?

Do I need to know or should I even know?

What if the answers that I’ll find contradict my existence?

What if I am not able to confront my demons?

What if I realize that I am my own enemy?

How am I supposed to defeat myself?

What if I can’t love, not even myself?

What if I can’t fathom or even achieve my dreams?

And what if I don’t need anything at all?

How am I supposed to suppress and overcome my fears?

What if I find something to hold onto and let it go like everything else?

What if I smile and think I am happy but still doubt that it’s all make-believe?

What if very often, you see me linger in these estranged memories?

Would you choose to leave me behind, abandoned in the ruins of my past?

Or would you still reach with your fingertips?

What if I consider your warmth as feigned concerns?

What if I tell you all this?

What if I’m afraid that you’ll refuse to understand?

What if say you feel what I just said, would you still hold me?

Would you still be there for me?

Like I have been there for you!

One day I’ll just simply disappear into the endless oblivion that lies ahead. Obscured by these fake illusions of dense and complex personifications of unrelated subjects clouded with irrational judgement and subtle, ignorant functioning of certain chemical disturbances within me!



The One Who Is Barely Holding On.




Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


How are you supposed to wake up and get on with stuff normal people do when you feel suicidal?

How do you fill your stomach with food when your soul feels empty?

How do you laugh when you don’t feel happy?

How do you cry when you don’t feel pain anymore? When you’re not sad anymore?

How do you give love when you’re so empty to the point that you’ve nothing left to give for yourself, let alone anyone else?

How do you wake up every morning thinking, “Today things might be different” when it has been just the same for years?

How can you be hopeful when you don’t have anything or anyone to hope for, and all you’ve faced so far in your life is disappointment and discontent, a lack of anything and everything?

I put on a happy smile for my parents because I know I’ve hurt them enough. I’ve done enough harm and pain to two individuals who have given me nothing but care and love. Who wanted nothing but the best for me.

I’m alive today because I do not want to put them through the loss of a child, their first one. I swallow everything and I hold it in.

I try to bury it so deep that not an inch of it shows on my face or in front of anyone else. I sometimes tend to forget though that this is the case. But who the fuck am I kidding here three people already know what I go through in a week. And a bunch of others elsewhere but they’re at a place that doesn’t really matter anymore. I’ll try and get through this for my parents, for my siblings because I don’t want them to have an elder brother who chickened out and did not want to live.

I’ll cut myself just to cover it up and I’ll eat something to make myself believe that it fills me. I’ll laugh to try and project that I’m happy. I’ll be sad to prove that I can still feel and I’ll get up and go to college in the morning to make them feel and think that everything’s okay.

That I’m just like them.

That I’m a human who can feel and isn’t empty and numb inside.

Maybe someday I’ll believe that myself. Weirdly, I do not know whether I dread that day or I’ll glad because fucking hell, I’ve started to like this dark hole I’m falling into…deeper and deeper.



A Thixophobic.




Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


It is not even hard for me to talk about this anymore. Time has changed me for good. People come, and people go but I eternally stand as an introvert. I express through writing and I sing the song of my legend vicariously through my clothing and accessories.

My matte purple nails yearn to scratch across his sweaty body. I wear a ruby ring on my pinky which is meant to rest on my ring finger.

Vintage wine lips stained with the virgin blood I wish I spilt for him. I lay undead on my silk sheets, every morning, rubbing and stroking. University reminds me of the lessons I learned for him. Kamasutra becomes my bible, and Mila Kunis becomes my inspiration. Transitioning to instrumental from rap, and strapping on a lacey corset, a quiet girl from a noble family sprints towards standing on her own two feet.

Hustling so hard and exhausting myself to the extent of leaving me breathless. But who could’ve imagined that these feet are trapped in diamond studded, burgundy, sky-scraper heels as the night pulls a shroud over my boy’s intense foot fetish from the world.

My Instagram profile is now flooded with self-drawn Hentai, featuring a dry A.F. manhood and a mouth full of sweet albino nectar, which once exhibited strictly classic Manga fan art.

I float in the dark energy of the limelight. I stand strong for my rights and by my opinions. I take care of my slowly deteriorating mother who, abandoned by the man she loves till date, is left with nothing but two daughters whose souls were killed by the people they called their family.

I hate those who lie, who cheat, who pretend but then I’ve realized – am I not the one who is cheating her desires, lying to the world and pretending to be quiet?

My mind screams at my peers telling them how stupid but lovable they are. It roars about in the broad daylight, breaking through my poker/resting bitch face, only in vain for no one ever manages to catch the noise.

I care. I think. I help. I glide along the crowd in my pastel pink sundress, red trench coat and white kitten heels. I end up offering too much. The debit flow has increased and my heart sinks deeper into the seemingly endless pit of credited emotions and gestures.

I break down. I struggle to become stronger one day. I allow myself a five-minute cry-time every day and later continue to be a gangster fully equipped with a hooded leather jacket, unicorn key ring, skin tight jeans, vampire dental grills and a “B-O-S-S” finger ring.

Nice to finally meet you, folks. I am a thixophobic girl with the soul of a hopeless romantic. Who could’ve imagined?

P.S. Thixophobia, A.K.A., Haphephobia is a rare specific phobia that involves the fear of touching or of being touched.



A Talk With Myself.

I have killed love.I have gone with lust and I have given into feelings which meant nothing.



Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


I am beautiful. I am not normal. I am different. I cry at night for no reason.

No actually, the reason I cry is because I am afraid to lose out.

The fear of losing out, missing out, watching the white shirt walk away and watching the setting sun.

This fear makes me cry.

Sometimes the same fear makes me smile. Makes me laugh and feel so strong, feel so resurrected.

Makes me feel alive. The way no rain- drenching experience could.

I am neither fine nor smart. I get confused even when I try on the prettiest of dresses. I am confused even about the best rock playlist I think I have. I am never satisfied with my song collection. Sometimes when I don’t find out the song which fits into what I am feeling, the most random song which I haven’t heard for ages makes me smile and everything feels better.

I have killed love, I have gone with lust and I have given into feelings which meant nothing. I have walked those lonely walks of friendship which led nowhere.

I have been in love and known I was. I have not been in love and known I wasn’t. Do you get me? No, you don’t. What do they call it? Ah! Damaged. That’s what they say.

But no.

I am beautiful. In ways you couldn’t ever decipher. I am a star that you could never fit into a constellation. Maybe, dear Reader, I would never know, but maybe you are the one who could understand.

Who would want to know every detail of the book that I am? You would bookmark your favourite pages and at best write new pages with me. It would have fewer tears and raging thunderstorms with us under the umbrella. But I wouldn’t ever know because I would never give it a chance.

It’s funny how I would want someone to read me. Yet this book is not for publishing. Is that fucked up?

No! That’s beautiful I think. If you didn’t notice let me tell you I call myself beautiful, but you know the catch? I don’t believe an inch of it. I’m still like all of you thinking that I am too damaged and need fixing.

Whereas I completely know that I am beautiful. And I am more than just worth reading. I am a discovery.

Of emotions.

Of the meeting between dawn and dusk.

I am not the zenith because I am on a journey which is more than just unforgettable, you don’t just store it as memory, you need to live it.



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You tell me it’s going to work out this time. Me, the love struck kid nods in affirmation. The phone is still left unanswered.



Understand. And love.

We’re here. And we care.


Year: 1

Flashback: August 2012

I am this Eighteen year old girl in the new city of Bangalore. Thrill and enthusiasm consumes me. I meet him for the first time. Followed by our first movie night and all those things that make your knees weak.

Year: 2

Flashback: June 2013

You don’t return my calls. My messages. I don’t remember the last time I saw your face. You send me a quick text. It’s not working. Let’s break up.

At least I deserved a call.

Basic decency.

Year: 3

Flashback: January 2014

You tell me it’s going to work out this time. Me, the love struck kid nods in affirmation. The phone is still left unanswered. Déjà vu, I console myself.

Year: 4

Flashback: February 2016

Happy Birthday 🙂

The unsaved number looks familiar. I manage a decent thank you. It’s been so long I tell myself. The circle is complete, we are friends again.

Present: 30 July 2016

You tell me I am the love of your life. These words can drool any girl. This time you manage a call. But frankly my dear, I am a little exasperated. A part of me will always love you. But now that I look from far away, it was simply the matter of a decision.

In your absence my life bloomed.

Weed less.

Can you see me?

Because from here I cannot see you.


-Anmol Mathur

Memoirs of A Love Struck Kid.

Who’ll take care of my family- I need to be stronger for the things that are about to happen and will happen. Tiny irrelevant things like a breakup are not worth crying over.



Understand. And Love.

We’re here. And we care.


I found out I was adopted when I was around 14 years of age. It was one of those incidents that you stumble upon purely by chance. I was in our living room when I happened to stumble upon these papers. They declared that the people I’d come to love and know as my parents weren’t actually my parents.

If you ask me how I felt that day I would tell you I didn’t know actually. Part of me did not believe it. Part of me was lost. I mean why did my parents give me up? Where did I belong? Who were my real parents? I just did not know how to feel back then. I mean I was only a kid.


Cooking is an art. I can give you a recipe, tell you exactly how I made it, with all the right ingredients but I can tell you right now, you will not be able to replicate it.

It’s about the texture, the pattern, the way I make it. All these things make the dish something that no matter how hard you try, impossible to replicate. There will always be a difference.


Someday I want to be a chef. To pay for my father’s expenses we’ve had to rely on my cousins and other family members. Someday, soon, I want to start earning so that my family does not need to worry about anything anymore.


My adoptive father has cancer. Terminal. I can tell you this now, give it to you in writing that he would die in another 2 years. How do I cry for small irrelevant things? Like a tiny break up. Don’t get me wrong. I did cry. But I felt guilty.

If I cry now, after the breakup, bawl my eyes out, what happens in two years. My parents, they’ve taken me in. Think about it. If I cry now about such irrelevant things, two years later when something happens to my father, what then?

Who’ll take care of my mother when she needs someone? Who’ll take care of my family? I need to be stronger for the things that are about to happen and will happen. Tiny irrelevant things like a breakup are not worth crying over.



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