Those days I was travelling through Uttar Pradesh, hopping from city to city in a whirlwind of a trip, resting nowhere, moving endlessly. First there was Allahabad, then Lucknow, then Varanasi. There was a stir of insanity somewhere deep in my mind or maybe it was genius, always hard to distinguish between the two. But I knew I was changing. That I wasn’t the same person I had left home as. With every city I rummaged through like a storyteller flipping through pages of his memory, I learnt more, about myself, about the city, and about my country and country people.

I was at Prayag, bathing in the waters of two rivers which confluence and became one, people struggling in and out of their clothes while their boats threatened to turn over with the weight of others disembarking and climbing aboard, it was in the middle of this armada of multi-coloured boats that I received my first lesson. When you’re surrounded by men and women, of all ages, colour and speaking languages which all seem garbled and different from each other but equally confusing to you, getting ready to take a dip in the holy waters without a shred of doubt as to why they were doing so or what they sought to achieve, you realised what binds every single individual in our country together; not money, not religion, but faith in something greater than ourselves. It reminded me of the time I was pacing restlessly in the corridor while my classmates were being interviewed for their dream job. Soon my name was called out and at that moment my knees felt like they would cave in, unable to support the weight of my stomach which at this point felt like it was made of lead. But I remembered what my grandfather had told me when I was a child: that it wasn’t the certainty of winning which made brave warriors out of simple men, it was the faith that you could if you tried. That night, over all the phone calls congratulating me on my new job, I had missed grandfather, and thanked him for the faith he had installed in me in my formative years.

A few mornings later, I was cruising through the streets of Lucknow, trying to figure out how to get to the Imambaras from Google maps and failing splendidly at it. Enter Edreesh, a man with beard as saffron from heena as the hair on his head was grey from age, he chewed betel leaves with spices which resulted in the emanation of a strong fragrance every time he opened his mouth to speak. He was driving a cart with a horse, brown and royal looking, pulling it. He offered to drive me to the Imambara and elsewhere and I agreed, taking his hand and climbing onto the cart, which started moving at a brisk pace as soon as I had climbed up. The whole morning we trudged through the streets of Lucknow, me marvelling at the impressive architecture the Nawabs had made and left behind. In the afternoon Edreesh finally dropped me off at the front door of my hotel. It was only after I had come out of the shower that I realised I had dropped my wallet somewhere, possibly in the tonga itself, which by now had definitely vanished into this maze of a city. My worries about how I’d get back home didn’t last for long however, since the telephone in my room rang, the manager informed me someone was standing in the lobby with my wallet, claiming I had dropped it in his tonga. That day, I learnt two things: that not everything they show in the movies is necessarily fiction, and that honesty is a virtue, we Indians hold really close to their hearts. Months later, I would remember this lesson and confess that unlike my friends, I don’t know how to cook or play the guitar, and I only write sporadically and not that great either, and the woman I would confess these things to would smile and tell me, it’s okay, honesty trumps showing off guitar skills when it comes to impressing a girl any day. I would blush and ask her out on a date, to which she’d agree, proving the truth of the two things I had learnt from Edreesh, all over again.

The final part of my travel culminated in my stay at Varanasi, a place where days are spent in the courtyards of temples and night comes to you on the stairs of the numerous ghats overlooking the river Ganga. Amongst these ghats, the one I spent most of my time on, was Harishchandra Ghat, where the walls were splattered with graffiti of all kinds and colours, and two crematoriums were at work all times of the day, the electric one as well as the one where wooden pyres were built and turned to ashes in the open. The flames of this ghat never burn out completely, myths say, because there is always someone’s pyre burning here. Here I learnt my third, and probably most important lesson. That of letting go, of accepting that some things in our lives are meant to leave us at a certain point, and we must see this as an inevitability, not something that breaks us beyond repair. Years ago, when I had missed my chance of getting into the most premiere institution for engineering in India, the sense of mourning had been almost unbearable, threatening to tear me apart. It was at that time that my friends stayed beside me, reminding me each day, let go of what hurts you, and embrace the new that comes along. Finally, I had accepted my situation, used it to my advantage, learnt to be happier. Everyone at this ghat had lost something, I realised, but they would stand up again tomorrow, they will live again, love again, fight again, and that, is what winners are made of.

With the new TVC of Lufthansa, we get to see how these lessons are ingrained into every Indians, leading them into being winners and influencers on a global platform, and inspiring others to be more like us. Lufthansa has, and continues to incorporate in itself, the values and virtues that make Indians who they are, thus being an important aide and supporter of being truly Indian, and have shown us how to be #MoreIndianThanYouThink.

Watch this inspirational​ ad about the world trying to be more like Indians.

To know more about this campaign, click here.


Terrible sexts for lonely nights #12

you say, don‘t dream about me

you kiss me a moment later, the

kind of kiss where tongues rattle

against each other like hailstorm

and windowpanes, you kiss me

till I’m reluctant 

to open my eyes 

don’t dream of me, you whisper
don’t be so unkind, I want to tell you

don’t leave the embers glowing with

sparks that want to devour, and not

let them
let me touch you, I want to

say, nothing has ever felt 

more delicious on my fingers, 

than the warmth between

your breasts, than the 

sweat running down on your arm

than the moist folds of skin, which 

makes you moan, every time I touch
this dream would’ve been different, I want to tell you

our breathing would

feel like a storm stuck in our chests, I

would hold you and you’d tell me not

to go slow, this dream would’ve been

noisy, this dream would’ve ended in a

messy bed, waiting to be made again

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #11.

​Like pilfering and plundering marauders

her hunger for me is insatiable

she had me all to her mercy, sitting on the chair with me hands behind me awaiting the moment she devoured me, but Aria just watched me from a distance, squatting on the sofa completely naked, a drink in hand, her dripping crotch wetting the fabric, the dark spot underneath her spreading like rivers in the dense Amazon
My insides clawed and begged for her, her small perky breasts I knew were made to fit into my warm rough fists, the curve of her stomach which would shiver and erupt into forests of goosebumps when my tongue slid across it slowly, oozing with my starvation for her skin
Aria would straddle me when I would be at the peak of my desperation, pulling my hands from behind me and placing them on her hips
‘tear me apart’, she’d purr
and my fingers would glide along the stretch marks on her skin, the Northern Star to my depravity, leaving red welts along them like travelling trails along ridges, she’d moan and open her lips and stick out her tongue, and let her hunger for me trickle down into my open mouth, mix with my tongue, as she hoists herself with her hands on my shoulder and slides down again, making me enter deeper into her realms of pleasure
her nipples hard and protruding bathing in the warmth of my breath and rubbing between my teeth, I start to feel sweat trickling down my legs as my thighs become rigid, Aria plunges with her voluptuous mouth, eating my face out with violent kisses and incessant nibbles as my fingers roam her back as a last measure and find the spot I’ve grown so familiar with

and at that moment I feel myself explode inside her, filling her up with all of me, as we moan and scream our voices hoarse to the empty room and walls and bed and sofa they’ve been tainted with our lovemaking
later, Aria kisses me again, softly on my forehead, the way flowers float down into graves, the way love rushes into open arms, at the break of dawn

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #10.

​Keep still, you whisper, keep still please

and your mouth engulfs me whole, in one

gulp I become a part of you, my fingers

grabbing on to your hair, digging into your

scalp, and the deep moans emanating from

your throat busy taking my tongue down it

becomes lost in the din of the playing movie

the darkness of the theatre becomes shelter

to our sin, and the aroma of butter popcorn hides our primal smell as we claw and pounce on each other, each determined to make the other break, scream till the unaware audience calls the police, made to parade naked in 

front of a hundred watching eyes as we 

drip, as we spoil the cheap carpet and blue cushioned seats with our overflowing, yet undeniable proof of desire
and when it’s my turn I push you into your seat with a sudden fierceness that makes the hinges creak and the couple behind us shush but we are too far gone my hands are groping your nakedness in the blinding darkness the way falling stars claw for the sky, my head muffled between your squeezing thighs, your crotch damp and your skin blistering into breaking goosebumps your fingernails digging into my back, the sharp pain tearing my senses into a sudden placental desperation where all that mattered was my fierce tongue digging deeper into you and the throbbing veins in me
the thrusts were gentler, careful not to let anyone know, my fingers in your mouth, playing with your hungry tongue, stifling moans, while I entered you again and again

my sweaty back home to your invading fingers, my hands holding on to your shoulders as I pulled myself closer, and let myself go again

and as we approach climax, the movie does too, and in the darkness a child cries out, and in your ears I let out the loudest groan, as you clench your thighs to not let me leave
when the lights come back on, we leave first

because once stars break, they 

don’t stay in constellations

falling forever, till they meet the sea

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #9.

​The rains here feel, invading

they enter my room through

the cracks in the windowpanes

the way your tongue finds my

lips, pries them open and slithers

in, the rain beats down on shades

and roofs, and trickles down walls

the way my fingers slip across your

blemished skin, reaching down, till

they’re entangled in a silly web of 

moss, till they’re wriggling inside

the crawlspace of your wet enticing

orifice, you take my breath and stick

it to your nipples, they grow harder,

stony and cold, in my mouth and

against my face, your hands carelessly

stroke me, as my fingers bury deeper 

inside you, there is no mercy tonight

like the rain, filling up every corner, 

beating down into every end, you

pull me into yourself, over and over again

I’m in your mouth and I’m inside you

and I’m between your breasts as well, there

are so many of me and so many of you, we

are losing track, till I scream out your name

and you know the time has come, and 

inside you, the clouds empty their rage, 

inside you

I fall apart again

TerribleTerrible sexts for lonely nights #8

​This may sound unbelievable, so 

please bear with me for a moment, 

there had been a moment, when I 

discovered entire worlds lie hidden 

between the spine of a book, entire 

gospels, about pleasure and wanting
There’s Ginny who walked into the Chamber 

of Secrets- head held high- who gave herself 

into the arms of a dark haired teenage boy because she wanted to, and no one judged her, no one called her a slut
There’s Luna with her collection of sex toys- ropes and vibrators and lubricants- and an appetite that could swallow a man whole

there’s Myrtle who moaned loud enough for three floors down to know when she orgasmed, and didn’t let anyone tell 

her a woman sounds best when she

doesn’t speak at all
There’s Pansy Parkinson who wore short skirts to Quidditch games and was often seen in empty classrooms-three fingers deep inside-  shivering as she gushed

There’s Parvati and Padma with skin as brown as oak and a string of lovers who lived between creases of their thighs and died at the edge of their tongue, there’s Ms. McGonagall who celebrated her 62nd birthday by inviting three male strippers into her bed, and as they lay spent- with scratches that bled and throbbed- she took a bath 

and poured herself another drink
There’s Dumbledore who absconded with his lover Grindelwald to Argentina and I hear they walk in eight gay parades every year, hands firmly held together

There’s Hagrid who weaves flowers into his matted beard and loves gardening and identifies as submissive, there’s Mad Eye Moody who moonlights as a paraplegic nude model, 

There’s Bellatrix who grabbed the sheets as her lover entered her from behind, who wanted to be held by her wrists and pushed onto the wall and kissed till her lips bled
and there’s Harry, with his tongue tasting like the sea after he’d been between her thighs long enough, who held her in his arms and watched her fall asleep, for whom the sexiest part about fucking was the intimacy after
In that moment I learnt, all desires were magic and the only potion for love was acceptance 

you’re waking up in a world of dreams where the only sin is to judge a soul by the weight it carries, and the only thing forbidden 

is the forest where centaurs roam

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #7.

​Eating her out on colder nights always reminded me of sin, her skin taut and 

erupting into goosebumps at a moment’s 

notice, I let my tongue find its way across 

the sweet smell of her thighs
Her smell was a concoction of berries 

and tea leaves and kisses that hurt, 

and where my tongue now dug in, 

felt as wet as her throat
Aria knew about my fascination with pain

She had seen me turn into clay in her hands when she came out of the bathroom 

after a shower, hair still damp and open, 

and let her towel slide off slowly from her gorgeous mounds, glistening and inviting 
She came closer, to the bed where 

I sat, and straddled me, slowly 

rubbing her naked crotch

on mine, making me hard and fierce

She submitted, yet in her submission 

I found my surrender, she pushed me 

away and pulled me close, she ripped 

me apart and healed me with a kiss, she 

left welts where she’d been and wanting 

where she hadn’t, she grabbed me by my 

hair and made my tongue forget syllables seeking release between her thighs
Aria held my hands and guided it across 

her body, the way lovers show each other constellations, as if daring me to take her

She pressed her body against mine and 

stroked me slowly, hearing me moan


I squeeze and grope, and she bites 

her lips, the way she grabbed the 

sheets when inside her my tongue 

felt the shudders of an explosion,

she breathed out heavily, her 

eyes closed, her lips trembling 

her hair thrown back, 

still damp

still open
Aria pushes me away and opens her eyes, 

and there’s only sadness in them, 

like empty cafes on rainy days, 

she kisses me goodbye gently, a 

peek of herself from behind 

the curtain where she stayed, 

out of reach

that night, I tried to get drunk, 

and forget how her lips had felt 

on mine, but I was neither very 

good at drinking, and my 

forgetting was bad as ever

Terrible Sexts For Lonely Nights #6.

​Of all places we could’ve met, she 

chose a coffee shop outside a bar, 

where people came, half lost, 

half wandering into nights

she stumbled out of the bar

throwing open the doors, so 

a draught folded, and slipped

past the tattooed bouncer

and she was laughing, as 

she sat across from me, I 

saw a hickey, shining 

wistfully, on her neck

where kisses used to be, 

where my desires still are
She effortlessly worked through 

her cup of coffee, cupping it in 

her palms, and smiling

at me, her eyelids 

heavy as snow, she said 

I need some hotness, to keep me 

from freezing tonight
Then she hailed a cab, 

I hope you don’t mind, she turned 

and looked at me, and I followed 

her into the backseat, fetid smell 

of damp leather, and her hair, 

ruffled like they knew, where 

my hands wanted to be

She said, go, and the driver led the car

through the deserted city streets, with

no particular address in mind, just two

lovers, doubled up in the backseat, 

and their reflection in the mirror, 

objects are closer than 

they appear, in this
And she said, don’t give me hickeys

give me yearning, 

and give me slow poetry, that

unfolds, while you pin my hands 

to the foggy window, and my wrist 

turns numb from being

held too long, while your lips, 

find where my words come from, 

and with my toes, 

I’ll seek you too
When I find you, I’ll hold you 

between the soles of my feet, 

and slowly watch you moan

tortured breathing hot on my neck, 

I’ll watch how you plead with your 

eyes and dissolve me

in your name, the car will 

cruise through empty streets, 

and bits of music from the radio

will drift between us at times, 

I’ll bite my lips, when

I feel your wet tongue, 

under my ear, where I tuck 

in loose strands of hair, my 

feet will work faster, you’ll 

have a rhythm of your own too
And there will be a climax, where 

the driver turns right swiftly, and 

you crumple into my arms just as 

I feel the runny moistness, cold

as a trickle, briny as tears, tracing 

a new city across my feet, and the 

driver will drive on 

the cab, into the night, without any destination but the music 

from the radio, and 

spent stars, for company

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #5.

​Hiding from prying eyes, she escapes 

every night to the tunes of my flute, 

this is something I take both pride 

and envy in, for I can never be sure, 

what drives her crazy, 

what makes her thighs moist

is it the thought of my dusky hard body, 

where goosebumps erupt like scales 

and a mole shines like a lonely moon, 

across vast heavens of darkness?
or is it my flute, 

does the shrill tune set loose

crawling throes of desperation, 

to be eaten out

in the middle of the cane fields?
Before me, she drops her dupatta and 

bares her heaving mounds of invitation, 

and when I do nothing, 

just stare, 

do nothing, 

just watch 

what a throbbing heartbeat does to her hardening nipples, she comes closer and pushes herself against me, and taking my hand in hers

she slides them down to where 

mountain moss grow wet with rain

where mountain spring flows from
Every night, she turns around before 

pulling me inside her, every night

I beg her to look into my eyes, 

as if they are the only testament 

to the love that breaks apart my body
but she doesn’t listen, she looks away

Every night, I take her from behind, 

her voice my only companion 

edging me on

instructing me 

when I must go gentle and when she feels invincible, the wind carries the strawberry scent of her shampoo, a strand of hair 

tickles my nose as 

I unleash myself 

inside her void, 

and she screams, yes, fill up this emptiness, and her screaming awakes some sleeping birds
Before leaving, she kisses me 

softly, I ask her,

why she doesn’t look at me

she smiles, because every night 

your flute lures me into your arms

might be our last, 

every time I tiptoe back home, 

might be my brother’s anger 

moulded into metal 

poured into barrels 

shot at 200 kilometers per second 

into these breasts you love and 

this face you kiss and this body 

you melt in your embrace
I don’t want you to see me, lover 

because in ecstasy there’s fear, 

and in love there’s shame, and 

between my thighs, they tell me

lies my brother’s ijjat

Terrible sexts for lonely nights #4

​In New Orleans, they have a jazz fest 

this time of the year, and the men 

who play the best sax 

are always dark skinned, 

and the audience, they say 

‘ain’t no nigga who can’t 

play the sax real smooth’

But I’ve picked my afflictions with care

and tonight, the only thing I caress till

she sings four pitches high and wakes

the neighbors up, will be you
You’re a musician yourself, you say

and I don’t disbelieve you 

for one second

the way your tongue 

makes waves over mine

isn’t very different from

fingers on piano keys

the way you pull me close, and 

gasp, and move your hands over

the contours of my naked body

isn’t very different from hands 

exploring the curves in a trombone

you pull me between your thighs

hold me there till my breath feels

like fire, on your crotch

and I’m reminded of how, in seventh

grade, you humped the wooden cello 

and between your legs, the notes

turned to water
They say, ‘ain’t no nigga who can’t fuck 

the way, sticks touch them drums, hard-

but like a poem- meant to put you at ease’

tonight, you make me take you, in my arms

you make me look at you, and you say,

look how your skin meets mine, 

like the sand

meets the sea, 

and when I push myself inside

you with a moan, you call it a flood
You straddle me, and push me

to the floor, you look like the sun

spilling into the darkness of my skin

you slide so easily on me, it feels like

being back in the jazz club, and

letting the breathing flow into 

music, you put your small hands 

on the vastness of my chest, and 

heave yourself up, and

let yourself down, and

the sound of your skin

slapping against mine

is sweeter than any music, I’ve made
Then suddenly, it is time for the climax

it is time for me, to rise 

into a crescendo 

and when my breath 

fails to hold, gush

And you rest yourself against my body 

and let the world slip away, 

they say, ‘ain’t no nigga who 

doesn’t fear dying twice as 

sooner as others’

And it’s probably true, but when I’m 

in your embrace, or 

when I flow, in your hands

death doesn’t feel like a scary thing, anymore