The impression of life that one gives is pretty different from the real picture. The real picture is always colourless and unattractive. The impression you give of it is more like using Timeline. Scrape a few things here and there, cut and copy and paste, and look you just managed to make everything look so pretty.

But you know, you, who just messed it all up, know  that everything is not very pretty. Certain things are ugly. And you know that you had a big role to play to make it look ugly; and now you can't do anything about it but look at it as it obnoxiously smiles back.

But know that you can't judge an artist by one painting. You have to see what other paintings those hands have created. You can't blame it all on a few things gone wrong.

Everything's mad around me. I haven't gone home for one year now, and probably will not be able to go back this time, either. I am going mad with passport and VISA applications and entrance exams and lab work and this unexpected interview call has sucked out all the happiness out of my soul. I have never worked harder, never felt more tense, never experienced these bouts of ecstasy and misery and panic attacks, or such uncertainties about life in general. I am on my own, miserable in this hot city full of cold people; happy because they let me be.

Someday, I know, I will pack my bags and leave for a happier morning in a different place where everybody minds their own business. 

The ground under my feet will never settle. And as more and more Western Blots go to the records of negative results, I realize that research is a big adventure in itself. The moment you throw yourself into the whole current, you never know how it will meander and twist and turn and where it will take you or what plans destiny has for you. The journey always favors the brave. And how painful it is, and how ecstatic and how sad and happy.

Maybe I was meant to always live on the edge. In profession, in romance, in life and that's the only way I feel alive. 

Occasionally, you'd say that all my love and affection would evaporate when I meet a firangi at Austria.

I was too tired, nervous and sad. I saw the sun and the grills of the window of the train making squares on your face.

Harimon, what would I have done without you?

Raiyo.