Sometimes, you can predict the fortunes of a year, by looking at the first few days of the year.
2015 began on a terrible note, as I blew away the most perfect relationship, chasing a frivolous fling. I should have known. 1999 had begun like this too. It was the year I gave up on Raveena Tandon and mistakenly assumed Rani Mukherjee could be the love of my life.
As you might have guessed, I was horribly wrong.
As the year comes to an end, and I look at everything the year brought with it, I can safely say that it was a shitty, shitty year. Pick a domain, and you’ll realise what a shitty year it has been.
SPORTS: There was hardly a memorable event in all of the year. Yes, Sania Mirza won a few events with Martina Hingis, she can go to Pakistan. Screw you, Sania! , but it was hardly something that got me excited. Saina Nehwal won two tournaments in India and was the runner-up for three events, but Indians care about the sport as much as Bajirao cared about Kashibai, so no point discussing that.
Cricket in 2015 was equally depressing. Something told me we were never going to retain the World Cup, and apart from the bleak reminder that four years have passed, the 2015 World Cup held no special importance whatsoever. And honestly, expecting India to win a World Cup in Australia is like expecting Mithun Chakroborty to ace the AIEEE exam.
India played Sri Lanka yet again in a Test series. I sometimes feel the Indian cricket board is like an alcoholic, and the Sri Lankan team a bottle of Jack Daniels. Every time you think they’ll kick the habit, they organise yet another tour to Sri Lanka.
CINEMA: Honestly, I was looking forward to quite a few films this year, and none of them blew my mind away, except for Masaan. What a film! What writing!! Varun Grover, take a bow. And some arrows. And shoot Aditya Chopra.
Most other films were all padded-bra, no boob (I coined that term, yes). In comparison, I still feel 2007 was the best year for cinema-viewing for me. It was a year I could walk into theatres without a care in the world, and most of my gambles paid off (Also, Bhubaneswar and Bhang, so yeah).
NEWS AND MEDIA: Most of the year was consumed by the Islamic State. Those guys are such assholes, they put the ISIS in CRISIS.
If 2014 was a case of the Nation waving a gigantic middle finger at the media, 2015 didn’t make the relationship any better. Time and again, Times of India, the shining beacon of journalism, proved that we as a nation will consume anything thrown at us.
Indrani Mukherjee’s sixth husband’s seventh sperm found jogging in a park? Bring it on! Bollywood actress posts a pic of herself in a bikini, yup, that’s crucial information. Why do you think students are committing suicide in Kota?
On the ‘getting high’ front, 2015 wasn’t great either. I got drunk a few times, but ended up going back to my room and feeling like Hari Singh after he helped Thakur with his morning ablutions.
The pot wasn’t great in 2015, and Lakshmi-Shiva-Durga refused to meet me all of this year.
On a personal front, 2015 sucked donkey balls too. I did the least amount of writing this year, and even though my stand up career witnessed a minor fillip, there wasn’t too much to show. Three beautiful women walked out of my life this year, and sadly, I don’t think I have learnt any tangible lessons from the events.
2015 saw the least number of posts on my blog, barely nine short stories, and an unpublished manuscript.
In many ways, 2015 reminds me a lot of 1999. I was a sexually frustrated teenager grappling with reality and illusion back then. I’m a frustrated adult, grappling with reality and illusion now.
Overall, it wasn’t a year that I am going to miss. You can go fuck yourself, 2015.