horizontaly parked in diagonal world

We spent the evening at Temi Kothy the way such evenings are meant to be spent—without watching the clock. Dinner slowly turned into conversation, and conversation into something warmer, more open. The family spoke to us as if we weren’t strangers anymore. There was no hesitation, no guarded distance. Sikkim people, we concluded, are simply… different. Kinder. Softer. More open to letting you in. At some point, the conversation drifted—as it always does in the mountains—towards stories you don’t tell in cities. Ghosts. Ahmad, surprisingly, leaned into it. With unusual interest, he spoke about how the hills carry their own presence. How silence in the mountains isn’t always empty. How certain places feel… occupied. The daughters listened, half amused, half serious. And I sat there, somewhere between missing my protein-heavy dinner and trying to piece together the history of Sikkim from fragments of conversation. It was all light. Playful. Unstructured. The kind of banter that doesn’t ai...

  Our emergency hotel had done its job. By morning, we were rested—but not settled. There was no plan. No urgency. No checklist waiting to be completed. And somehow, that felt perfect. Sikkim isn’t a place you move through with intention. It’s a place that asks you to slow down… and drift. So we did. After checkout, one decision was already in motion—we would go to North Sikkim. Nathula Pass, Zero Point… places that don’t just sit on a map, but live in imagination. But our car wasn’t allowed. Permits, local registrations, controlled routes—the mountains decide who enters and how. So we handed over our documents to a travel agent, made the booking, and let that part of the journey unfold on its own time. And then, with nothing binding us, we turned south. The roads to South Sikkim felt softer. Less demanding. Almost forgiving. We drove in the direction of Kalimpong—but never quite reached it. Because somewhere along the way, direction stopped mattering. The road became enough. We pa...

After the decision, our hearts were heavy. Nepal had been the plan. The idea. The story we had already begun to believe in. Turning away from it left a quiet weight—like leaving something unfinished. But the road doesn’t wait for emotions to settle. Fatigue had already started creeping in. I wasn’t driving yet. The previous day’s journey—from Bangalore to Patna—was still sitting in my body. A long travel, a 3-hour halt at Mumbai airport, and barely any rest. My mind was alert, but my body hadn’t caught up. So Ahmad started again. And I shifted into my role—co-driver, navigator, decision-maker. The route ahead wasn’t simple. There were options. One of them tempting—cutting through Nepal’s mountain roads. It would have been beautiful, raw, and probably unforgettable. But time wasn’t on our side. So we chose the plains again. A longer route, but predictable. Safer. Faster. The plan was clear—cut across the Ganges-Koshi belt, push towards Siliguri, and from there pick up the Teesta River, ...

I had barely arrived in Patna when the plan found me. No buildup, no long discussions—just a call. And before I could settle in, he was there the next morning. Ahmad. My best friend from our Don Bosco days—the one I went to school with, morning and afternoon, day after day. He was a junior, so we didn’t share classrooms or tiffins—but we shared the road. The drives to school, the drives back home, the small conversations, the comfortable silences. Over time, that routine turned into something deeper—an understanding that didn’t need words. Even back then, there was something distinct about him. Maybe it came from being the son of a powerful IPS officer—but Ahmad carried a quiet authority. Not loud, not intimidating—but composed. Observant. The kind of person who doesn’t react quickly, but when he does, it’s measured. There’s a discipline in him, almost instinctive, like he’s always aware of his surroundings. And then there’s his other side. Ahmad behind the wheel is a different persona...

There was a time at Don Bosco's, Patna when I was completely bored with my classmates. They were decent people, but not adventurous enough for the restless energy I carried inside. Somewhere deep within, I felt there had to be more interesting people in the world — people who questioned things, laughed loudly, and carried a little rebellion in their spirit. By Class 7, I had almost given up on school and, in some strange way, on life itself. To make matters worse, I fractured my hand that year. What should have been a temporary inconvenience became a convenient excuse. I stopped going to school regularly, hiding behind the bandage and my boredom. Still, one thing about me was constant — somehow I would pass my exams even if the world was about to end. So Class 7 passed by quietly. Then came Class 8, and something unusual happened. That year the school failed almost 20% of the students in each class. At the time it felt harsh, but looking back, it felt as if the universe had qui...

 Some friendships begin in classrooms, some in playgrounds, and some over shared interests. Ours began under a tree. My first school had no building, no corridors, and no polished floors. It was simply a primary school under a large tree , meant for children from poor families like mine. In those days I was growing up in what felt like the poorest corner of the poorest state of a poor country. Life was simple, and resources were scarce. School, for me, was not exciting. I disliked the discipline — the idea of sitting in one place, listening, repeating lessons. Even a school under a tree felt restrictive to a restless child. I would have happily wandered in fields or played by the river instead. But that was where I met Munna . Munna was one year older than me. In that early chaos of childhood, he became the first person outside my family who mattered deeply. At that age we didn’t know words like friendship , loyalty , or bond . But somehow we already understood them. Soon Mun...