Cigarette & Sarcasm

A few months ago, I told myself I was going to be healthier. Now, I just stare at the “healthy food” aisle at the supermarket, questioning every life decision that brought me here. Kale chips? No, thanks. I’ll stick to pizza, where the cheese is as authentic as my delusion of “living my best life.” Honestly, if the world ends tomorrow, I’m just going to regret all the salad I didn’t eat—not.

I took a bus today. It was almost spiritual—except for the fact that the air was 90% human sweat, and 10% hope. A man was singing old Bollywood songs like it was a concert, a woman was fighting over a seat like it was her birthright, and I was just trying to make sure my phone didn’t fall into a puddle of humanity. Public transport really is where you learn the true meaning of “personal space”—it doesn’t exist.

You know how it goes. You wake up, check your phone, and you’re instantly bombarded with the latest “life-changing hack” that promises to make you a better person—today. You know, the ones that tell you that waking up at 5 AM will transform you into the next Elon Musk, or that a 45-minute morning routine consisting of yoga, journaling, and self-hypnosis will somehow make you an enlightened, emotionally stable god among mortals.

I’ve been watching this whole influencer-turned-guru phenomenon closely. Every scroll through Instagram or TikTok is like a reminder that you’re not doing enough.

I’ve always been a master of strategic early arrivals. Throughout school and right up until university, I made sure to get there early—just so I could sit quietly in a corner and avoid talking to anyone beyond the obligatory “hello.” My desk was my sanctuary, and my textbook was the perfect shield. The only problem? My focus is non-existent in crowded spaces. No matter how hard I tried to dive into the pages of my book, I’d end up staring at the chaos around me, mentally counting the seconds until I could escape into my own world.

If there’s one thing I’ve mastered, it’s the art of pretending to be busy in a room full of people.

Indian weddings were always expensive, but in 2025, they’ve become a full-blown economic crisis. I got an invite last week that said “Reception at Taj Palace, Dress Code: Versailles Circa 1789.” (No sir, no mam, this is just for the aesthetics of the writing—I never got any such invite, just imagining it, because who even gets invited to these places?)

Now, I wouldn’t mind missing a wedding, except my mother considers it a moral failing to skip any function where people are distributing free paneer tikka.

It turns out oxygen isn’t free anymore. No, really. The government hasn’t started taxing it yet (give them time), but the way Delhi’s air is going, soon we’ll be carrying oxygen cylinders the way influencers carry Stanley cups—accessory first, necessity later.

Picture this: It’s a crisp January morning. By crisp, I mean visibility is so bad that my neighbor’s kid has mistaken a streetlamp for his father. I step out for a walk (because being that person who ‘starts the day right’ is my latest attempt at self-improvement), and within two minutes,