Mehta Kya Kehta?

Every year brings to me unasked for misery without fail. While I do enjoy moping around like a sober Goth on a dry day for say, a weekend every six months, helplessness is the uninvited ushpizin that always overstays his welcome. He just won’t leave till I pack my bags and announce a week’s holiday in Goa or some lesser paradise.

So I’m giving off most of the signs of being bipolar. My maternal and paternal grandfathers were diabetic, so sugar problems are all set to embrace me as diabetes skips a generation and I happen to be the lucky first born.

Going through a list of bizarre mental disorders can be an enriching experience. Schizotypal Personality Disorder, I belong to you. Derealization, you belong to me. Frotteurism, let’s pretend we don’t know each other.

“Mehta, you’re a hypochondriac,” said someone to me two, three years ago when I didn’t know what it meant. “The problem has finally been diagnosed,” I thought, relieved that my confusion was about to come to an end.

Taking a cue from 2007, 2009 hits me with the annual shit segment in December. This is not what I meant by year end special. At the ripe old age of 28, life tries to convince me yet again that love can knock at the door as easily as it can fly out of the window. Ring my bell.

Find My Way Back Home

Why I Loved 2008