Mindless musings

The one about the job.

2011-06-01T22:14:00.000-07:00

I love this time of the year, when the air feels like silk over your skin at the start and end of every day. It makes me want to dance to no music. Life had turned brown for so long in between. But right now, every day is new.

So to celebrate, I'm going to eat cake and make a list. Cake makes everything nice. Yesterday, a colleague was leaving our company after 3.8 years. She seems fairly well-liked in the circles (I've only been here for 2 months). Everyone gathered, made speeches and stared at each other for a while, waiting for someone to fold. But nothing that enthralling happened, so I wanted cake.

The new job looks more promising than anything I've done so far, career-wise. My learning so far:

I really should be working right now. But the times when I shirk away from work in my first surprisingly pleasant corporate experience, seems to the best times to blog. Nothing seems more inspiring at this point.
I just read a mail at work, which referred to Nandini Layout as one of Bangalore's largest slums! I'm highly disturbed by this declaration, and am tempted to send the Corporate Communications department a hearty stinker, complete with disturbing emoticons.
Perfectly sensible, grown up people can have the strangest phobias.
I have the weirdest office etiquette problems. How do you say 'no' to someone that expects you to accompany them every time they have to pee?
I'm not irresponsible to an extent that it is unacceptable. I can really work hard, when I want to. And most of the time, I want to work hard.
I'm pretty lucky, sometimes.
I'm presently convinced that I'm not likely to die a poor, lonely, embittered old lady who lives with a parrot with a charming disposition.

Upbeat and active again. Ah, I could get used to this!

Restart

2011-05-29T21:34:00.000-07:00

It's been a good year so far. A lot has happened personally and professionally, and I can only see things getting better. So I thought this would be a good time to restart the blog. See, I have a pattern. Every time I want to dust off and restart my blog, I get a bright screaming-in-your-face theme for it. Orange, good. Swirly? Good!
It's all-a happy!

I do have things to say again now, but this is a strange Monday morning. And I really don't want to write about death any more.

But then, there's Tom Waits.

What good is 'Typezriter'?

2010-11-25T04:39:00.000-08:00

'Typewriter'.
It's apparently the longest word you can type on a single line of any keyboard. But not on my new phone with a keyboard-like keypad. Oh, no!

Next time you're buying a phone with a computer keyboard-like keypad, remember not to buy one from morons who don't get the awesomeness that is Qwerty keypads.

2010-11-10T00:26:00.000-08:00

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.

- From 'Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Okay this one's the last, I promise

2010-10-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

Misery and love. It all starts there. The two far-famed muse that turn boys and girls into writers, poets and dreamers. There will be a gaping hole in all our heads and hearts if neither did not exist. There is a lot of poetry I have stowed away, and I admit they stemmed for either one or both of the above. But must I subject my readers to such outcomes alone? I think not.

People not blogging regularly only bothers you when you start to blog way more than regularly. When I have nothing else to do, I do the only thing that I know how to. Keep writing. But could there be such a thing as too much blogging? It doesn't matter. Because once I find something to do that is a little more productive than playing with velcrow for two hours, I will disappear once again. I'll get lost in my world of new things, like a child returning from summer break. I'll have all my new stationary and people and responsibilities to play with.
*

I packed light, checked out of his life. No goodbye said. It's not an easy thing to say, when your heart is splashing about somewhere in your stomach. I walked away without a second look; turning back would be impossible.

I was six days and many imaginary miles away from him. A stir in the hard, closed fist behind my ribcage. It pounded like a voodoo drum under my shirt. I sat in silence, as still as I could. Images bounced around in my head, perfumed and prettily framed. He smiled, carving funny faces with his calloused fingertips into my beatific hands. An ominous thud within my insides. I woke up in a ransacked bed, my hair knotted with nostalgia. Running through my mind: an endless silent movie of his hands, his hands, his hands.

2010-10-15T06:43:00.001-07:00

Life was good when I didn't care. My birthdays, my skin, my friends, everything was good. It was all there and it was good, but I never gave it a thought. The possibility of anything going wrong didn't even occur to me. And if anything did go wrong, it didn't bother me. Nothing mattered too much. But then comes that fateful time in your life, when you start analysing, reading into things and worst of all, caring. That's when the curse begins. I've never wanted to rewind, but there is a reason people do. Birthdays will just be an excuse to eat a lot of cake, a tiny zit on the tip of your nose could go unnoticed, and relationships could avoid being saddled by unwarranted expectations.

Just as every year, the minutes

leading to midnight were pregnant

with disappointed expectations.

Expectations that carried within them

the knowledge that nothing was going to happen.

“Happy Birthday!”

I knew those words were coming, but

they felt empty -

just like a lame “take care”.

Her intention probably wasn't empty,

but words are like that sometimes.

My “Thank you” was worse,

like a vacuum sucking in the following words,

whatever genuine thing it could've been.

Some thoughts in bed

2010-10-08T02:48:00.000-07:00

There is something comforting about complete darkness. It implies a world that is full of possibilities. A world, where different rules apply. Once your eyes get used to the darkness, it is a world where monsters lurk, but so do surprises. The emptiness means peace. You become invisible. You can smell food better and your girlfriend's skin feels more tender than the grass you were lying on. Everything is either good or bad, depending on how you see it. And everyone becomes equal, like in death. You might miss the stars at times, but we could still be so happy. It will be a place where so much is unknown, that we could die exploring what is out there.

2010-10-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

Everyday, the Shivajinagar bus terminal sees hundreds of people running about, talking loudly, reading, listening to the radio, mouthing lyrics, giggling, talking to themselves, staring, sweating, chewing pan, spitting, touching and rubbing against people (or themselves). And most of them do some of these things, or endure them on an everyday basis. Yesterday, I was foolish enough to take a bus to Shivajinagar during peak hours. In BMTC bus users' language, it means that while the bus moves an inch at a time through traffic, there will be hoards of sweaty people rubbing against you, trying to fit their foot into the small space between your left foot and your right, all the while breathing in your face like Komodo Dragons. I had decided to be smart this time and despite how much the conductor might yell, not move to the back of bus. Having to miss your stop because you are too small and polite to push through the crowd in time is unacceptable. And having to walk an unnecessary 20 minutes to your destination because of that is even more unacceptable! So I stood at a safe distance from the front doorway, but refused to move any further in.

I was trying desperately to hold my head still in a non-stinky gap, when an elderly man came pushing through all the women and their bags, presumably to get off from the front doorway. He was mumbling something about how people suck (Okay, I polished his words a little bit). But the point is, I supposed he was coming through with the intention of getting off at the next stop. There wasn't an inch to move and he was, with all due respect, a fat man. He was restless, as though he wanted to jump off the bus immediately. Being irritable and annoyed about having showered just before I left home for THIS journey, I quickly said “Naanu ili beku, uncle. Next stop”. Saying that, I managed to squeeze in a tiny smile. He's an old man so he must be nice, I thought. But uncle said nothing and just stood there breathing heavily. I watched him for a few seconds, not finding enough space to turn my head back. He was a tall man, well-built and sturdy. He wore a sort of silky, cream half-sleeved shirt with big brown flowers placed haphazardly on it. He looked like he was right out of a 70s sitcom, only much less happy. His skin was paper-like and spread across his face like a wrinkled sheet. It held two small scribbles like slits for eyes, strikingly black behind thick glasses. A few moments after I'd managed to turn my head back, I felt a sharp push that threw me half-way towards the front door. I swung forward helplessly, my head bonking against the girl in front of me, hers bonking against the support, my foot stamping someone's foot and the strap of my bag getting laced with an aunty's arm who yanked it away angrily. The bus had halted at a signal a good two hundred feet before the next bus stop. The uncle yelled “ili yamma! Hottogu bidatthe stoppu!”, foul-mouthed me and pushed me a little further just for kicks before he hopped off the bus. “Idu stop illa uncle!”, I protested to his back. He paid no attention, of course. Utterly taken aback, I stumbled back into a relatively comfortable posture. All eyes bore into me, and the women displayed the kind of clandestine joy that comes into Indian faces when they're about to thrash a random pick-pocket. And I just stood there, horrified, giving apologetic looks to angry aunties for the next two minutes, before I got off the bus.

Written on 30th September, '10

New post

2010-10-01T06:48:00.000-07:00

There is so much poetry gushing in me these days, I can sometimes hear little bits of poetry splashing about in my gut. Or may be it's gas. But I've been spewing out as much of it as I can. This happens now and then. When I've been all parched like empty plots lying in the sun for a while, suddenly I get flooded. And I love them floods! But I'm not an idiot. I know when these floods come about. And they don't come about without reason too. Need for a boost in self-esteem, reassurance, need to please, too much free time, whatever. But the point is, it's awesome.

So here be some poetry:.

You sit forlorn, mist lining your faces

Your deplorable, despicable faces -

dull promise running through them

like an unobtrusive strand of hair.

The moon melts into an angelic face,

the stars come together to mend your heart.

Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,

you await

the perfect sunrise.

But who will mourn your loss?

How will you relinquish your pain?

There are no authors left to

write of such fatuity anymore,

for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,

weeping like children, carving into tree barks,

vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,

penning away in the hope of respite.

So go home, and change that lightbulb.

There is no real dawn.

I've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil that clung on to him like dust to a ceiling fan. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins. But one morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears, like a magician's coin.

I don't know what those lines are. They won't go away!

P.S: I've given up on naming my poems. And trying to come up with creative post titles, clearly.

2010-08-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

I cannot write stories. I can write essays even, but not stories. At least not stories that would make for a decent read. I haven't attempted to write a story many times but when I have, I usually get stuck somewhere and then that's that. Several people have told me that when you write stories, you need to write about things from your life and experiences. Stories that have happened to you. And then add little fictional elements to make for a good read. 'How would the reader relate to your story if even you can't relate to it?' Sounds fine. But what about fantasy? And crime fiction? Incredible stories set at far off places with things that you can never imagine the author to have gone through, happening in them? I'm pretty sure Kafka never turned into a “monstrous vermin” during his lifetime. I understand adding things, incidents and little elements from your life to your stories. I'm sure that happens inevitably anyway. But I don't agree that that is the only way to write fiction. I'm still trying to figure out what the other way to write fiction is though. But when I do write a decent story, I hope it won't just be a piece from my life.

On personal news, well, there is none.
Except, my 22nd birthday is coming up in a few days. I don't know how I feel about it. I'm never one to complain about getting older, but 21 just has a better ring to it than 22, doesn't it? Also, I don't want any more 'non-materialistic' friends alright!

I want temporary, fake friends who give me nice gifts wrapped in pretty wrapping paper for no goddamn reason!

What! At least around the birthdays. Hyuk hyuk hyuk :)

2010-08-19T01:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you are at some place, terribly inspired and under the impression that if you write something just then you're going to whip up the best shit you've ever written. The sun, the sand, one of the your most favourite people sitting across the table, a constantly breaking heart, the best apple shake you ever had...the setting's perfect. And then you start to write a poem. But it doesn't turn out quite the way you would've liked. In face, it doesn't turn out at all. This happens to me all the time. Sitting at my favourite shack in Gokarna at the most peaceful time to be there (2 days before season started) with my closest friend, all I could write was the shbby outline of a poem. It never came to anything. The moment was gone. So I'm posting it as it is.

Waves crashing against rock reminds me of the fond sound of pails of water being thrown onto cement porches.Weed crackling in the mouths of foreign men. The smell clings to my skin. I touch my face, ear lobe, hands. I feel it all - the sand, grit, residues of sweat beads, salt and already re-surfacing hair roots. A dog with an infected eye sits nuzzled at my foot. He looks at me with one gruesome, bloody, pus-filled eye, the sadness in the other more gruesome. I turn away. Sadness is not on the agenda this time. I sip on my apple shake, exchange awkward smiles with the bearded artist always drawing at the next table. We are two estranged lovers. Behind him, at a distance, a boat sailing is a blemish I could rub away.

Life, the Universe and Unemployment

2010-08-17T05:03:00.000-07:00

Uma Joshi ye ye ye
my mother, she told me a 60 years ago

there came an old man knocking at the door

with an ooh, aah, i want some pa

the pa is sweet, i want some meat

the meat is rough (?), i want to go by bus

the bus is full, i want to go by bull

the bull is fat, i want my money back

the money is green, i want some jelly beans
the jelly beans are red, i want to go to bed,

the bed is white, i want to say good night.

Believe it or not, this post has a point. But first,
Last night, I was thinking about the 80s. And then I thought my hair kind of looked like my dad's hair in the 80s for a while. I contemplated wearing shiny bell-bottoms and giant glasses-that-cover-half-my-face while I ride a bike indoors with my head banging in strange ways. But then, I had to discard the idea because I don't have shiny bell-bottoms (must add to birthday wishlist), giant glasses-that-cover-half-my-face, a bike, the knowledge of how to ride a bike, indoors that can accommodate bike-riding, the ability to shake my head in more than 3 ways and thankfully, the hair. I swear, my dad looked like a farmer going to the disco back then. Psychotic!

But, back to 'Uma Joshi. It's one of the most popular rhymes/games you play as a child brought up in India during the 80s. Uma Joshi's mother here reminded me of something. Or wait. Is Uma Joshi the mother? So misleading. Anyway, presuming that Uma Joshi is the mother, she and the old man who came knocking at her door 60 years ago reminded me of something. Lately, I've been unemployed. It was great at first, but then it became a drag, and then it became painful and now it's just unemployment. There is just one thing to be said about unemployment. It is EVIL. It makes you stop doing nice things like believing in yourself and start doing unnecessary things like whining all the time. And soon enough, among all the nothingness and frustration and fury and low self-respect and a gigantic zit, you spit out the one decent poem you've written in 2.5 months before you go crying to your blog about all of it. I've lost count of how many stupid minutes a day I spend complaining about my boredom and futility. I'm like the old man who came knocking at Uma Joshi's door 60 years ago. Every day of my life I keep asking for this and that and that and that and something better than that. And then one day, I will say goodnight and go to sleep unhappily after complaining about the colour of my bedspread. We all are. But, your life be yours. The Universe has requested me to shut up now, and I plan to oblige.

Random question: If I write Do-Do would you read it as 'dodo'? .

The bench

2010-08-08T01:52:00.000-07:00

I was playing once. Not winning, but playing. Playing soothed the sores left by the bench and gave me candy every night. I played the paper, highlighted by sun rays and happy members of the alphabet dancing to the sound of every scratch. But now, the books leak bad things. Words of faith and pep talks sound like dry leaves being crushed under angry feet. My pride has gone shopping, for some ink and some new balls may be. I suppose half-time isn't over yet.

I love the spunky new do for my blog! Because blue sky, green grass and dandelions are all beautiful.

Ants don't get me

2010-06-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

Today, I bit into an ant. It bit my tongue first because I bit into a toffee that I had left lying on my table some 574849 days ago and it, the ant, was on it. When you find candy/toffee you left lying somewhere 574835 days ago (I swear I tried to randomly type the same number again), check for ants? So anyway, I bit into an ant. And it was crisp.
And then after I was done biting into some yummythings so the yucky feeling on my tongue would go away, I saw one ant. On my pillow! Then I dusted like a maniac for twenty minutes at least, so the one ant or its other crawly companions will not form a rather disciplined line and march into my ear and eat off my brain or something.

Anyway, I've been writing and writing some more and then dying to write when I'm not writing, in the past few days. Love has been ebbing and flowing and overflowing in every direction, so I OD-ied happily, wrote a lot and spread a lot of yellow cheer. Now, the seas are calm once again and I'm back to my happy little hole.
I was DYING to write something this afternoon, but powercuttedoff! And I, shamefully, cannot write too well on pen and paper anymore. Backspace is vital. So then the inspiration evaporated along with my sweat and I sat down with my giant book and coffee to get me through the rest of the day. Butbut my walls are all empty and sad, except for this beautiful thing. Love!

So, will you paint me a funkyfunky poster, pliss? =)

I'm actually enjoying unemployment this time.
*Blink blink*
~~Must get restless soon, before I get too comfortable~~
*Blink blink*

Another one

2010-06-10T01:23:00.000-07:00

The stereo is vomiting our every song one by one.
But there is a silence, thick as custard
that tells a story of
two lovers and twenty thousand loves.
You are here with me, listening too.
Climbing on to my collar bone,
licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense,
before you settle, lodged between my ribs.

I think always, of how it would be
if we stayed close enough to touch
but not kiss,
to discover what we loved
and hated before we separated.
I wished that in the whiteness of your room,
I found a space next to you,
just by your side -
to see the world
the way you saw it.
Staring at the ceiling didn't
feel the same without you.

Still, I have no regrets.
I am more fragrant now that
I recognise myself as an entity separate from you.
I reek of my own mistakes,
and bloom alone on dewkissed magenta mornings.
But one day, we will bloom together once again,
shaming sunflowers and shutting up glottis.

You are yours and I am mine.

One day, very soon,
I will have words to put out here,
words of promises and pencil tips
and rubber soles and leaky houses.
Words of love -
to say to nobody in particular,
but say nevertheless.
And I hope you will be there,
and you will listen.
You will tell me the things I want to hear
and draw a smile on my teary face
with your finger tips dipped in love.
Just like you always did.

Reboot love! X)

Written on: June 5th, 2010.

Many things

2010-05-23T12:25:00.001-07:00

Did you know Blogger does not let you use Italics in the title of a post?

That's stupid. Italics are awesome. So are indentations. And punctuation! [See strange old poem stemming from my love for punctuation here]

But what will I do without

indentations,

punctuation

and italics!

I'm such a paragraph-slut! ^_^

This too, a love story

She works as a waitress in

that sketchy roof-top restaurant we always thought to be a dance bar.

She visits her grandma and works out crosswords every Friday.

She always wears her hair tied down,

been saving since she was fourteen to go to Paris.

One day, she would say with smiling eyes.

Wants three kids, the oldest being a boy;

she jots down names for them in her little notebook.

He lives in her building, grunts when she looks away.

He chops flesh at a butcher shop every day –

and hangs around outside a different bar every night.

He tucks his unkempt hair behind his collar and

chops it off with a knife every Summer.

The scar on his nape would then be visible.

A while back, he went to jail for stabbing a friend

and today, he says he'd do it again.

It's been a while since I shared anything I've written, barring the previous post and the poem above. There is no lack of inspiration (not with all the drama in my life!), no lack of time, no writer's block. It's just been a busy few months and all I really want to do now is keep it this way. May be get busier. I've felt no need for a break through all this though. I've wanted to be at a lot of places and change a lot of things to have them go my way almost everyday, but there have been no 'I need to get out of here's or 'I need a vacation's. Not till I get somewhere with something that pleases me. I'm also feeling slightly anti-social these days. I don't know whether it is the lack of...er...well, society. Or may be it's just a slump. Apparently, I've found new ways to mope around. When at least one aspect of my life starts going the way I would like it to, I will be social again. I will feel like it then.

But I always want a plan, something to look forward to. If there is nothing, I make something up and be falsely excited about it anyway. Like trying to blog more often for the 4 readers I have because I think they like what I write, for instance. I made a lot of plans today, most of which will fail. But it made me happy.

But, I deviate. I was doing this explainingtoselfandthosewhocare thing: I've been writing. But I've been on an intentional hiatus from sharing what I write with anyone. It all started with laziness and a moody internet connection. But eventually, I found smarter-sounding reasons to give people. Firstly, why must I write itself? Why can't I just feel and not put it down on paper? Why must I string together a bunch of words in an attempt to find meaning in my thoughts and feelings? And secondly, why must I share what I write with people who will probably only just read it and not feel what I felt? Seemed solid and adamant enough for people (including the self) to stop questioning me / bothering with me.

And then, weeks later, it struck me during one of my many rickshaw-journeys.

I write because I love to. I love writing things, stowing them away, tearing them up, re-reading them, editing them, twaeking them and doing all sorts of abusive things to them!

I share because I have 4 readers.

And my 4 readers read what I share and react, because they want to.

No other reasons; none required.

EDIT >> Oh and nobody ever says "er"! Atleast not in the context it's usually written.

Oh well.

Black and white

2010-05-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

My hands are pressing piano keys,
black, white, white, black, white.
You are there, sitting at a distance.
Staring into the Earth, tall grass and shadows and all,
dirt waiting to get into your nails.
The sun here is always either rising or setting.
This is today and that, tomorrow.
We have no in betweens.

It is as it has been.

2010-05-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

Everyone around me has a talent, it seems. Apparently, everyone not around me also does.

When people do a lot of things, there is usually that one thing that they do better than the rest of the things they do. A forte, so to speak. I've been trying to find that one thing I'm good at, that one thing that I can call my 'talent'. I haven't found one. Writing is the only thing I can say I'm good at doing. I at least convinced myself, if not everyone else, that it is.

I can write. I can also go off into strange tangents all the time, but that doesn't count as talent, I think. I've not written any great truths and words don't spill out of me anytime I want them to. But of all the things I've tried to do, writing is the one thing I feel most connected to. And now, people have started making the connection too.

This is it then.

In true March Madness style

2010-03-26T01:07:00.000-07:00

I've rekindled my thing with making random lists on whatever I get (usually tissue paper) and carrying them around wherever I go. And it's still awesome!

I've had a more or less eventful month this March.

- got very busy with work
- thought I was finally working things out in my head about my seemingly never-ending emotional woes, but failed understandably. There's only so much you want to deal with.
- understood exactly how important I actually am where I work and how I can take advantage of it
- spent a fun 2 weeks with one of my favourite persons in the world
- looked forward to having a crazycityexperience-cum-lazy-cum-adventurous-cum-inspiringartsyetc vacation, and ended up having a completely 'city' vacation but loved it anyway
- discovered that I like fast, ruthless cities like Mumbai almost as much as I like lazy, friendly cities like Bangalore and Pune
- re-discovered my love for Stumbleupon, blogs, online-reading and all the fun that internet is
- continued see-sawing between "nothing seems appealing" and "everything seems awesome"
- re-confirmed my doubts on this universe being a bitch and love being psychotic and annoying. But then there's no Peace and Happiness without Love sittingly stoutly inbetween. So, I'm trying to let live if not live.

But apart from all the random nonsense that's been on my mind, this month has also been painfully retrospective. A new job, lots of new books, new people and may be a new place is on the cards. Just don't know which damn card. I'm sure it'll come to the surface 'one fine afternoon' (ya see what I did there?), just like everything else :)

Till then the job-hunting has resumed full swing, I'm reading like a maniac every chance I get, I'm writing and stowing stuff away secretly again and I'm beginning to like what I write again. I think lots of varied writing will pop up in here and everywhere else very soon.

I also think that it's funny that I find this on a T-shirt to be freaking hilarious:

(Like a blog post is ever complete without a)PS: You see what I mean when I say the list-making thing is back?

2010-02-01T07:29:00.001-08:00

With some people it's always either drown or soar. Never moderate.
I always prefer moderate, whatever it comes to.

But then, am I confusing 'moderate' with 'mediocre'?

Story

2009-12-15T00:25:00.000-08:00

There are some stories that have no significance at all, but you know that you're going to be telling it for a long time to come. This is one of them.

It was a usual day. I was in a hurry to go to some usual place. I'm always in a hurry.
Now, I wish I had an alternative mode of transport that comes as easy. But since I don't, I spend half my salary on auto-rides. So, I was waiting for an auto like any other day. One was parked a few metres away from me, but somehow I did not want to approach the driver standing next to it. After a few minutes of looking about like a homeless person, checking the time a million times and stomping my foot down in frustration as my phone continued to ring, he came. The auto driver standing and eating ice cream next to his parked vehicle came to me. He asked me where I wanted to go, I gave him vague directions and he nodded.

I seated myself and we took off. About 20 metres into the journey, he stopped the auto and said "bere aato thagoli madam" (take another auto, madam). By this time, I was anxious and had thrown my phone into my bag, to stop myself from checking the time again. I continued to sit inside, wondering how much longer it's going to take me to find another auto. I was imagining excuses I could give to the people that have been waiting for me. I was about half an hour late already. If I didn't get another auto in the next 5 minutes, including the transporting time, I would be over an hour late!

I don't know how long I sat there thinking, but I was interrupted when the driver finally looked back at me. I could see that he wasn't going to move. I had to get off. I thought to myself that there must be some problem with his vehicle and that's why he wanted me to take another auto instead. I climbed out of the auto and started looking around desperately once again.

I was searching the roads frantically and giving dirty looks to the tailor that stares a lot, when I heard an engine revving. There was no mistaking it. The distinct sound that old-fashioned autos (the ones with no electric meter or green exteriors or mobile-charging points) make when they're about to take off. My hopes of reaching in time to catch people before they leave and convince them to stay, were soaring high. I turned dramatically, with the hair swishing and everything. And almost immediately, my eyes widened in horror.

The auto that I had just climbed out of, was starting to move. I began to jog towards it. May be he had fixed the auto. If I manage to get his attention in the rear view mirror, may be he will drop me. I might actually reach my destination before everyone left! I almost had a relieved smile on my face, when I stopped abruptly in my tracks. The auto had halted a few metres before me. The enigne was still on, but he had stopped. I was smiling now. He had seen me in the mirror and stopped for me.

I took another step and before I could register what was happening, the auto driver had picked up another girl and sped off into the dirty bi-lanes of JC Nagar. As I stood there gaping behind the auto, almost waiting for him to come back, I could've sworn he smirked at me in the rear view mirror!

I stood there in utter horror, trying to tell myself that this was not one of those things that never happens to others. This is not one of those stories that would contribute to the reasons my life "should be on primetime".

Another auto soon came by, and I climbed in. I had a long way to go and very little time to do so.
------------

And thus is the story of the time I got dumped by an auto driver. It will be told in excruciating detail, may be even in the exact same words (with a few classic strange expressions thrown in), for a long long time.

Ramblerambleramble

2009-10-18T17:18:00.000-07:00

I feel like giving a quote for today.
So here: "Life is a jueey" by Dee, who should really really blog again!
<3

I've had a strange and fast couple of days. The festivities went by not-so-festively. The new job is quite meh and the timings are already getting to me. But I still prefer it to unemployment. I don't do much these days except work, sleep and read. But it's 5.30am, the crows are crowing (or do they caw?), the Azaan has begun and there are a number of things on my mind right now. And since it's my blog, I'm going to list some of them:

Body massage
Jammies
Ishaan
Baldness
Alice in chains
Rippling muscles
Blue glittery kite
Kickboxing
Right boob with extra sprouting nipple (this one's from a dream I had a few days back and I just can't stop thinking about how strange that is!)
Puppy
"Make the bed and go to sleep" on repeat
Fringe mag
Onions, milk...may be some eggs
3-12 3-12 3-12 3-12
Saph
Beach!

Anyway, I'm all geared up and excited about yet another "plan" that might not happen at all. I seem to not mind making plans, getting excited about them and then having them flushed down the potty too much these days. Wee!
But if this one DOES happen, I'll do at least one awesome/impulsive/fun/crazy/strange to others but fun to me/peaceful/creative thing a week.
Amen.

I've used the word "strange" thrice in this post :|

Oh and, optimism rules!

On 19th June 2009

2009-10-15T22:15:00.000-07:00

I had loved you,
when I saw you smiling into the rear-view mirror
While you saw patterns in strewn match sticks,
I saw a photograph in your face.

I had loved you,
when we sat on the side of the road talking,
taking in the city sunset behind crowded flyovers.
I watched you get excited about a pile of stones, smiled.

I had loved you,
when we sat together in mundane coffee shops
waiting for the waiter to turn away, so we can slip in a kiss.
We smiled as we left and held hands till the parking lot.

I had loved you,
when your nails were dirty
and your knuckles a little sore,
I still have that sketch - cigarette ash on paper.

I had loved you,
when we lay on the floor and spoke about my insecurities.
You told me I was a writer.
I believed you.

I had loved you,
when you told me you loved me
amidst tears and smoke and an old geyser.
They probably heard us, but we didn’t care.

I had loved you,
when I stood out my door and hugged you everyday,
like it was our last.
I watched you ride away and resisted calling you back.

I had loved you,
when you tried to jive
and looked like a fool, a fool that made me smile.
That white shirt always made me smile.

I had loved you,
when we sat listening to music
and sipping Earl Grey, smoke leaking
from our kissed-red lips.

I had loved you,
when you held the guitar like a woman
and gave her all your love.
I wanted to be her, to own and be owned.

I had loved you,
when you painted and sketched
and wrote something new.
I told you I loved it, even if it missed an apostrophe.

I had loved you,
when we leaped into the sea
with the smell of waves and the sound of pot.
Laughing like children, dirtied with sand and salty water.

I had loved you,
when you laughed like a child,
loved like a man and
smiled like a saint.

I had loved us, darling.
We were the loneliness in a crowded bar,
that buzz between drink and drunk.

Written on: 19th June 2009 ofcourse

Pet joy!

2009-10-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

Just a small note to say that tomorrow is Pet Adoption Day at CUPA. If you love animals or want to provide a home to one of them, you must be there between 10am and 5pm. Check out details of the event here.

I'm going to be there to finally pursue my dream of having a pet that's not a goldfish or a stray cat hidden at the back of my garage. I hope to bring home 2 lovely little guinea pigs tomorrow. I've researched on everything about them, thought about where I'll keep them, what I'll call them, made a list of things to buy for them and even started working on home-made toys for them. I haven't been this excited about anything since the time I realised I will never have to touch a math text again! Eep!

Yippity woop!

2009-10-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

Hello all. I've been doing a lot of general reading and watching of movies lately. I suppose unemployment isn't as annoying when the weather is such. All the rain is lovely and all that, but it's beginning to get on my nerves.

Anyway, One of my poems is in the current issue of Fogged Clarity. I woke up on the 30th of September to an email from Ben Evans, stating that the October 2009 issue of Fogged Clarity is out. October came a little too early for those guys. YAYS! Poor Ben had nothing to put in the biography bit, but it looks great anyway. I'm totally kicked about it.

Although this morning I did wake up to a rejection from one of the magazines I had sent in submissions to. They loved my work, but didn't want to publish it because they consider stuff put up on blogs/Deviantart/other personal websites too as being previously published. I was disappointed. I mean, most of these magazines do mention that original rights to the work remains with the author. But I guess that's just how they work. So now if something I write is print-worthy, you may not see it till it's on some respectable magazine. I suppose. I still don't know how I feel about this.

New things, old already

2009-09-21T04:56:00.000-07:00

Today, I took the usual auto that brings me to work after dropping off some kids at school. But, for no real reason I decided to sit on the opposite side, facing my back towards the driver. It was an eventful ride.

At one point I realised that that's exactly what my life is - moving into the future rapidly, but backwards. Not knowing where I'm headed, still holding onto the past, too afraid to turn away and look ahead. May be all this 'holding onto the past' thing is overrated anyway. May be there's just no need to let go.

Anyway, I've been terribly caught up with things lately.

In the past 2 months, a lot has happened. There have been new beginnings and ends.

My first actual job turned out to be nonsense, but I've convinced myself not to let it shit all over me (and my resume). I'm going to start afresh. It was a bad decision, but a helpful one. It taught me what utmost corporate crap can be like. I just can't comprehend how people live with jobs they don't enjoy all their lives!

It's been a while since I decided this is not for me, but I'm still here. I have verbal reasons for my holding on to this job, but may be it's really just that I'm afraid. I can almost see myself reverting back to the 'No job-no life-no love-no nothing' phase. And it's not pretty. But this time, it's not going to happen. This time, I'm going to try and enjoy my unemployment for however long it lasts. Which will probably be as long as it takes for me to find a good job. Good, not decent.

On the bright side though, two of my poems have been accepted for publishing. So my work will be published in two different literary magazines (one in print and the other online) in October. So that's one thing off the list! I'm thoroughly stoked!
This has been the most exciting news for me recently, apart from a swollen cheek.

The "Quarter-life crisis" - Part 2

2009-07-14T14:47:00.000-07:00

I've recently graduated and plunged into the big ugly world of job-hunting. So far, there is Option A. Actually, it's more like a compulsion now. There are several reasons, but most importantly it's because I'm too egoistic to ask my parents for money and flew back to Bangalore so very haughtily, believing that I'm good enough to be a writer. If this does not work out, I'm back to square one of job-hunting. Except this time, I will be alone, impoverished and slightly demotivated.

Why, what about option B?

Well, there is no immediate Option B. There are signs of it somewhere behind the fog and it will eventually come to the clearing, but starving till it does seems to be a poor substitute for Option B.

Anyway, I've (once again) realised that there is too much to do and too little time. A career, post graduation, learning French, traveling, a house for dad's 60th, a house of my own, a parallel career in editing, becoming a fairly published online writer, an advertising agency/publishing house of my own, love, marriage, children, pets, voluntary work, an "experience" with a Brit/Irish man...
There are just too many things!

I feel once again like I did every time I looked at my 10th grade Math text and said to myself: "Jan, you're just too young to face so many problems. A book full of it, too!"

Contradicting Gandhi

2009-07-10T03:34:00.000-07:00

An eye for an eye doesn't leave the whole world blind.

See, if you take one eye and I take one of yours, we're both left with one eye, aren't we?

And if you decide to forget that you started it and take my remaining eye to replace your lost eye, then I'd be (too) blind to take your remaining eye, which was mine in the first place!

So it still doesn't tally.

May be in a world not familiar with Math, dear Bapu.

Older

2009-07-08T04:15:00.000-07:00

My grandfather prayed twice everyday, for forty two years. At some point, he was an atheist - a young rebel and all that. No one seems to know what changed that about him.

He was a brilliant man, who studied law but refused to practice it. He settled for a mediocre life - worked in a bank all his life, got married at an early age and had four children. He retired early and saved nothing. He smoked a lot and chewed a lot of beetle leaves. Highly passionate and quite exaggerated at times, he was always a bit of an eccentric. He studied English and French voraciously all his life. After he retired, he became a French tutor. Literature and cricket were his greatest passions and Kamal Hassan, his greatest hatred. “The man sounds like he's vomiting every time he utters a word”, he would say.

From the time I remember, he read with a magnifying glass. He was going almost blind from the age of forty, but so what! He was too passionate to give up on his books for such a silly reason. He also carried a black umbrella everywhere he went and made note of his every expense in a little notebook. He insisted on tallying the account to the paise, every day. If he couldn’t remember something and the account did not tally, he’d make up an expense and tally it anyway.

On January 20th 2009, he died. When he died, he was not reading, teaching, writing accounts or praying anymore. Sometime in 2000, he had a stroke that paralysed the left side of his body. Within a few years, he was completely bed-ridden. You’d never think so if you met him, but he relied heavily on my grandmother for everything. When he was bed-ridden, shriveled up to no more than 4 feet in all, he still demanded for masala dosa every Sunday and made funny noises and a disgusted face when something was not done satisfactorily for him. When someone visited, he'd complain endlessly about my grandmother in the only word that came out of his mouth: “Peru”.

In those nine years of life in a corpse, he re-discovered his childhood. From being carried to the bathroom and given sponge baths, to fussing about watching television late at night, he seemed to have become a child all over again. But he was a man driven by his pride, his good looks and intelligence all his life. And he did not let that fade. You see him lying there, all shriveled up, in an almost fetal position, growing skinnier, his skin rotting before your eyes, and you could feel nothing but admiration. He was almost a vegetable, but a proud one nonetheless. It must be that resolve and strength of character that made him live in that condition for so long. Every time we visited we’d suppose it to be our last, but the next time he’d be smiling his toothless smile, having that proud look on his face after every shave.

His death was peaceful and quiet. It was nothing extravagant, no fuss or drama - very unlike him. The last thing he did was hold my grandmother’s hand, making sure that the coffee she was pouring from the tumbler did not enter the wrong hole.

I should've learnt French. You are an inspiration. At least, not many men are as handsome these days – already balding at 30, but still strikingly handsome.

Inside Out

2009-06-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

The film we made for our final year group project in college. It has FINALLY been uploaded! I lost my personal copy of it. Thank you for this one, Dimple.

Do watch and comment:

Inside Out from Culturazzi on Vimeo.

On funerals and fame

2009-06-17T09:30:00.001-07:00

This post is exactly what the title says it is about. Funerals and Fame - Two things that have been on my mind a lot recently.

My brother asked me after reading this, why I'm writing about the things I'm writing about (he meant death). I'm young, happy and all that right? Shouldn't I be writing about society, conformity, rebellion and things like that?
You will know how good/bad a writer you are, only when you write on things you feel passionately about. To see if your writing captures your strong emotions right and if you can make people feel what you're feeling. Some people feel passionately about everything, but that's a different case. I'm definitely not one of those. Who cares about genetic modification or what it does to oranges? I'm happy as long as my oranges are orange, perfectly round and happy-looking.

But now, about death. I've always been fascinated by it. Not because of ghosts, spirits, after-life or any such supernatural concept, but because of its conclusive nature. You are dead, you are done for. Over. Khallas. Soon, there will be no trace of you, unless you bother to leave one. People will forget. They will still love, fight, cry, laugh, study, watch films, make films, work and enjoy a good thrill once in a while. You are born, you live and then one day, you're gone. Just like that! That fascinates me. And so much more.
How much to talk about life, how beautiful it is, how challenging it is, how we should "live life to the fullest" and every other cliche you can think of? Death, makes for an awesome topic. Writing about it demands a certain acceptance, honesty, bitterness and a very perverse sort of optimism. It's like sex, needs to be talked about and mentally prepared for, before the "time arrives". *Chuckle*

Anyway, I've been reading up a lot on having my work published online. From this came 4 things:
a) I want to publish online and therefore be recognised (if not float in money and fame, that is)
b) I don't write enough
c) I'm thoroughly inspired to create once again (after day before, that is)
d) The wait to get noticed is going to be nothing but agonising.

Well, wish me luck!
I'm going to write about things other than death, yes.

EDIT> Could someone tell me how to get that accent on top of "cliche"? I've never known how to do that. And I hope be known as a freelance writer some day. Sigh.

Experiment with story-telling,

2009-06-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

which turned out to be my first Vignette!
After a lot of feedback from a lot of people, I've discovered the reason people don't get this piece of writing is because I labeled it as a "Short story". So I read up a lot on the literary definition of a short story etc and realised that this piece makes more sense as a Vignette, because it's describing an incident, merely stating what's there. Painting a picture, so to speak. No judgement involved and no new ideas are imposed onto the readers. I've also edited it a little. Now, please do comment :)

--------------------------------------------------------------

There was once a village, where cows mooed and birds sang.

Fathers ploughed and mothers made homes that smelt heady with muck and incense every evening. The children laughed and played, and climbed trees to glimpse at the new "Colour box" through the village doctor’s window. Its peoples came together in joy; and in sorrow, they all wept for the weak and coy.
When Murugan died one dry summer day, the village sat under the Big Banyan Tree.

“He was such a good man”, said someone. “What did he do to deserve this?” said another, shaking his head like one of the cows. A group of wailing women sat next to the body, swathing silk garments and garlands on it, that people brought to pay their respects. Once in a while, someone whispered. Now and then, someone slipped away, to feed the children or water the plants. But they sat there till the sun went down and the cattle returned, tired from wandering and grazing the hills.

An elderly man rose and walked up to the tree. He cleared his throat and spoke grimly: “It is getting dark. Murugan belongs to the Earth now. His soul must move on to a better place.”

“But both his sons are at the war-front!” cried a teary-eyed woman from somewhere at the back, clutching the ends of her sari over her mouth. All heads turned in the direction of her voice and hers quickly bowed down. There was silence.
Many heads nodded, there were whispers all around.

“Do you have a way to inform them, then?”

Silence. The whispering voices now rose like a rising tide.

Another man spoke “Yes, yes. We must do the needful. He lived a respectable life, now we must give him a respectable death. We can only pray that he goes wherever he wants to now."

The villagers nodded in agreement.

The next morning, the grave-digger opened his eyes to a soft breeze and scattered ash.

Outside, the cows mooed and the birds sang.

That thing that everyone talks about

2009-06-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve wanted to work with picture prompts for the longest time. But somehow, this time I didn’t feel like poetry.

All of us wait for something at some time or the other. But some of us are waiting all the time. When does that start happening? When does past tense turn into past continuous? What makes us wait, knowing all too well that we may never get what we wait for?

Waiting suggests hope. Hope suggests optimism. Optimism suggests a healthy spirit.
We wait, in the hope that someday, something good will happen. Someday, things will change and our fantasies will turn into realities, our desires fulfilled.

But, why wait? Why not try to drink it all up, as the flood comes in? Why wait for the flood that may never come? Why wait for that someday, that may never come? May be that is not so much optimism as it is stupidity. But we still wait. In the hope that we will get what we deserve and that we deserve well. And that once the wait is over, the result will be worth it. Of course, the wait may never be over and if it is, the result may not be worth it. We know it. We know that sometimes, it makes life seem like a typewriter without cartridge, on which you type and type, but nothing appears on its pages. Isn’t it then like exposing a cavity over and over, just to see if it still hurts? But that is hope. It is positive, but can be positively bad too.
And sometimes in hope, fantasy and reality merge together so uncannily, that you cannot see anything but an unknown haze far far away. It is a haze that stretches endlessly beyond a vast ocean of waiting, standing unrecognizable and unreachable. Sometimes, it is like that breathtaking sunset that we wish to touch and realize as our own, but know it will never be. We know that we will never have it and it may not be all that we hoped for even if we do, but we still hope that it will be. And we wait, just to see.

Great hope, miserable hope. It has a strange way of killing you, while keeping you alive.

I too, will wait for my pages to be filled in. Because I don’t want to rush through to the end, only to realize that they have been empty all along.

I will not live in hope, but I will let hope live in me.

At a different time

2009-06-04T01:47:00.000-07:00

I was talking to an old friend recently, about old times. But our childhood had nothing in common, except for one: Brothers. We both had brothers about four and a half years older to us. Once this was discovered, naturally, we did a whole lot of brother-trashing! Do not misunderstand people, we do adore our respective brothers and everything, but that’s just what little sisters (actually, any sisters of brothers) do.

So, first I will remind you that, as a second child, most of my toys were hand-me-downs. Things the brother was bored of, trashed, dismantled or tore the eyes out of. Out of these, I barely remember any, except for a very sad teddy bear, a freakishly tall stuffed doll whose very Country singer-like name I can’t remember, a white robot-something and a kitchen set that I barely understood. A kitchen set, yes. I mean how utterly presumptuous, conceited, sexist and all that! I usually either buried those little cups and ugly, floppy tables or used them to scoop out mud so I could build my secret cat-hideout. Oh yes, I snuck a stray cat (Jinx) home in my 6th grade summer break and religiously fed my share of milk to it. That was fun while it lasted, which was until my grandmother chased it away the very first day I returned to school. I know it has to be her, the way she went on about how “black” Jinxy was and how its bad luck will make me fail 6th grade and wash vessels for the rest of my life! I do mean to confront her one of these days about her racist attitudes.

Anyway, I digress terribly. I was talking about my favourite childhood toy - the white and blue robot-something. I have no idea what it was. I’d like to think it was a man. Robo-man! Erm...clearly, I wasn’t a very imaginative child. But he! He flipped and had wing-like things at the back of his movable hands. And the blue patches on his head lit up, when he was switched on. He even spoke what is now very sexy robo language! I don’t have many memories of Robo-man, though. But the most special one was that time he (I, with him as my tool) stabbed the living crap out of that ugly Barbie my cousin sister owned. I always hated those blasted creatures and never owned one. Alas, now I have several of those prancing about me. They’re alive too! Eech.

But since I’m on the topic of childhood, toys and bothers now, let me tell you an often-narrated story of mine. If you have a brother (younger/older), you will know what a pain in the backside they can be. I say, the brother and I had a perfectly inharmonious (translates to perfect) relationship. A wrestling, hair-tearing, biting, death-threatening, spitting sort of relationship, if you will. From him sticking chewing gum on my head so I had to chop off all my hair to get rid of it, to me “humiliating” him in front of his football buddies by showing them his most embarrassing pictures, we’ve done it all. But this particular incident, very curiously, seems to interest listeners the most.

It was a regular day. I was about 8 years old and the brother and I had had our regular dosage of fights the previous evening. I had, as usual stormed off to bed grunting about what an idiot (see, I didn’t abuse then) my mother had given birth to. We went about doing regular things that day, going to regular school and doing the regular kneeling down in front of class for regular not doing of homework and all that. But as I returned home that regular evening, suddenly things weren’t so regular. There had been a somber tragedy in my household. It was in our room, in fact. The evil, conniving brother had tapped my weakest link. It was pure, cold-blooded revenge. I walked into our room, to find him simply looking at the computer. But I sensed a slight smile, almost an evil smirk on his impish face. His eyes darted slowly towards the window and back. I followed his eye-movement till I stopped still in utter horror. His eyes had only briefly rested on the limp body of an abnormally large stuffed doll, with its livid-looking limbs hanging loose, like the roots of one of those really old Banyan trees. There it was! The doll, whose name I can’t recall. It was my favourite doll, the ugly, horribly dirty doll that wore the green dress with bold pink and white flowers and the purple hat till its very end. The brother had suspended her on the curtain rod, where I couldn’t reach. She was hanging there, from a thread tied to her neck and connected to the rod.

Then…

Then what! He convinced me she had committed suicide and I cried miserably for the rest of the day. The next day of course, I took fancy to something else. But oh, the hell I gave him for that!
-------------------

I write this today, as I remember. Brother, we may not be from a family who profess their love for each other. We may not share anything anymore, we may not wrestle or secretly watch sitcoms that I’m not allowed to or play basketball with a holed-in bucket or sit together for hours with my math text (thank goodness for that!), but you are a distinct part of my childhood…and life. I never thought I will, but today, I wanted to write about the brother. Someone very close to me once asked why I sometimes prefix “the” and not “my”, when I talk about a person. But you are not one such person, brother. This post is for me more than it is for you, my brother. For my childhood and yours, for all that we shared and will share.

Of course, I sincerely hope you never read this one. Ever.

Where I want to be in 10 years

2009-05-17T06:59:00.000-07:00

First, I think I have an interview for an ad-film making project with a team from Amsterdam, dayafter. I think.

But on other, more exciting news, I've been blog-hopping to dangerously unhealthy levels recently. Purely for lack of a social life. And for lack of E-company or better things to do. There's only so much of sitting home (which is in the middle of nowhere desert) and doing nothing a girl can take. So I decided to do nothing online, at the least.

Therefore, all I've really been doing is reading, looking for inspiration, writing, reading some more and writing some more. And, I'm going to admit very shamelessly, wishing I could write like:
- him, when he does write, or
- him when he makes the kind of observations that are so rarely made or
- him, with an imagination like a stretching sea of sand before a lone desert-walker.

(a lot of random blog-writers can be included in this list, but I won't go there.)

In the past week, I've come across all kinds of blogs. The professional type, the personal type, the rant-blog type, the poetry type, the boring type, the technical type, the nonsense type, the amateur type, the inspirational type, the terrible-writing-plus-bad-grammar type and a lot more. I've snooped into friends' blogs, friends of friends' blogs, strangers' blogs and unknown best-blogger-award-winners' blogs. I've seen the whole lot.

And I found my ideal life on one such blog.

I've read a good part of this blog and spent a good amount of time doing it. I did not analyse it. I read it for what it is and what it said about her, her family, her marriage, her friends, her life, her job(s) and everything else. It's frankly one of the few personal blogs I've liked so much. Isn't it AMAZING how someone can influence you and your life so much, without even realising it? (And it's even more amazing that my Wallowing theory actually seems to be working!)

The blog belongs to an acquaintance. Someone I've met just once and exchanged not more than 20 sentences with. If she were a fictional character, I'd want to be her and have her life and everything in it (almost) when I'm 30. Her talent, her intelligence, her take on things, her line of work, her home, her principles, her beauty, her wit, her humour, her courage, her dog, her marriage. I want (almost) everything. I'm sure when she has a baby, I'd want that too. I think I'd let her keep her husband, though. But I wouldn't mind marrying someone very much similar.

So that's it. That's what I have to work for. That's where I want to be in 10 years. That's where I very darn well be, in 10 years.

In these profound days of doing nothing, surrounded by nothingness, I'm rediscovering the happy-no-matter-what side of me. I've also come to discover the true me, in me. The hopelessly hopeful, hopelessly romantic and hopelessly positive girl in me. The ambitious, slighlty old-fashioned, confident, focused girl in me. The girl who knows exactly how, with whom and what she wants to be 10 years down the line(the where, as in location-wise, is still a mistery. I guess my nomadic tendencies will never leave me. Wee!)

So now, when some bald, mean-looking, well-spoken, well-dressed bloke sitting behind a neat desk at an office-with-an-awesome-view in my dream job place asks me where I want to be/see myself in 10 years, I'll know where to link him.

:)

Woman

2009-05-15T01:29:00.000-07:00

There she sits, Maria
sunk low in her chair,
swaying to the tune of silence,
gazing at the paddy fields.

There she sits, Maria
smelling like frayed brown books of literature - hardbound,
like dusty old furniture,
like tea roses and talcum.

There she sits, Maria
no more a lover, a wife and a mother -
just a woman,
smiling like a flower about to wither.

Fur-real buddy?

2009-05-12T02:55:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted a Guinea pig. Like this one:

And I want to name him Donut.

Oo, is it true that pets can take your mind off your rotting loneliness? Is it?

Now listening to: Orange Sky - Alexi Murdoch

No title.

2009-05-08T12:54:00.000-07:00

You know how they say chocolate lifts your spirits, makes you feel happy, etc? Well, I'm having my doubts. Six Snickers bars down, and no spirits soaring here!

I realised I may not like change too much. Nothing's going right and all I want to do is wallow. I see why people like to wallow. Doesn't sound like the best decision, but I have a theory (like for everything else I say). Sometimes, if you are strong/smart enough, wallowing a little after you've had a day like mine can do you good. It sucks, but it still kind of gives you time to sort things out for urself and realise things you forgot to, because you were too busy living life. See?
My only other otpion is to go out and try to take my mind off things. But that's pretty much impossible. Because if I go out now, I'd be bogged down by other people's questions along with my own and I'd only be runnning from my problems or even worse, giving up. But on the other hand, if I do wallow for a while, may be I will get a grip at some point and actually DO something about the situations that CAN be helped. May be.

But then again, things might not be so bad. I had the nicest conversation with a friend I haven't spoken to in a very long time (let's call him Doritos). At times like these, you can't really help but make sense. This comes at the 2nd stage, where you are out of the shock and things are getting a little clearer to you. There may be no silver lining, but there is some light nonetheless. So when you suddenly start talking sense and sounding "profound", so to speak, people know something's wrong. They ask questions. Suddenly, everyone seems concerned. People you haven't heard from in years are asking you questions, saying they're sorry and giving you their best advice. It's kind of nice sometimes, as long as these "friends" don't interfere more than needed. The thought of someone even thinking of helping you through a rough patch, is nice. But this is the point, when your cynical self peeks out and wonders a little too loudly, whether it is concern or curiosity. But then, unless I hate the person so much that I want to claw their insides out, I would normally think it's the basic niceness that's in people. But then there are some friends like (let's call her Curry), who seem to go off on a tangent more easily than me. Curry is a good friend. She asks me what's wrong and I tell her. I don't know whether it's in hope of consolation or simply because I was asked. But I tell her nonetheless and she takes off about how she worries about things. What if her shit ends like mine! I mean, that's kind of rude now. I'm no one to judge, but things surely can't be worse in Curry's case? But hey, that's how people are. They suck, sometimes.

I was pondering the thought and I decided to share it with Doritos. And that's when we started discussing 9th grade literature that we both loved so much, that was taught to us by a man we respect more than any teacher. Actually, this is more of Philosophy. Remember Stoicism? Okay, for the ignorant, here's what it is in it's simplest explanation: In Julius Caesar, there is Anthony and there is Brutus. Anthony is what is known as an Epicurean. A man, who believes in living life to the fullest and that a fear of any supernatural power is only superstition, that diminishes his enjoyment of life. Nature runs the universe and therefore, man has free will and the sole responsibiliy of his actions.

An appealing thought, isn't it?

But then there is Brutus, a staunch Stoic. A man, who believes that the universe is controlled by God and humans are the only creatures with the power of reason. Therefore, reason is the ultimate link with the mind of God. Passion, is the biggest enemy of reason and rationality, being a hindrance to virute. And therefore, reason must dominate over passion.

Now, this is not the most convincing philosophy, simply because of its deterministic nature. But, its emphasis on reason and rationality is respectable. SO, the conclusion is that you need to strike balance. Be an Epicurean in your good times and a Stoic in your bad, and voila! You have a happy person! Because if you don't SEE the damn holes, you want to keep sailing the freakin' happy boat.

Cheers.
Written on 8/5/09

2009-05-05T02:26:00.000-07:00

Ever felt so angry that you want to rip someone's head off and feed it to termites?

FTW.

The "Quarter-life crisis"

2009-04-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

I turned twenty in August last year.

I don't usually make lists. I'm not that organised. I organise things a lot in my head and sometimes aloud, but I don't make lists. The thought of having what you want to or must do written down, scares me. Writing anything down means that it is there and you cannot pretend that it does not exist. You can shred it in to pieces or may be even burn it and let the ashes flow in to, and become one with the ocean. But if you have a conscience like mine, it won't let you forget. Once you write it down, it becomes immortal. In other words, you cannot procrastinate without feeling the occasional guilt pang. You can ofcourse make the choice to live with the occasional guilt ( I say 'occasional', because I presume you aren't THAT nice a person!). So, I don't make lists.

But 2 weeks before I turned twenty, I made a list. At the time, I was suffering from the illusion that turning twenty means I have to DO something. I didn't know what that something was, but it had to be done. I thought I would feel like crap if I do nothing. Making a list in itself, was a start for me when it came to the satisfaction of 'doing something I don't usually do'. So, on a friend's suggestion, I made a list of '20 things to do before I turn 20'. But as i think of this now, I began to question what it is about turning twenty that makes it such an important event, or even decade for that matter. Being twenty is really not such a nice thing. I mean, I love growing up and I'm not one of those people who always want to go 'back to their childhood'. I love the fact that I'm getting older, which hopefully translates to smarter, nicer, more experienced, more independent etc. But what is being twenty anyway? Here's what: (this is keeping in mind the following decade as well)

You are insecure. You feel the need (almost a compulsion) to organise your life and think about what you want to and should be doing. You start wondering where you will be in a year or two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now. You start noticing things about yourself that you never did before, or at least chose to ignore.

You find yourself judging more that you used to. This applies to you and others. Suddenly, your extremely "chilled out" friend seems like an idiot who is doing nothing with his life and being happy about it. It seems atrocious to you that someone could care so less, even about themselves. You see what other people are doing, and if they happen to be the right kind of people you should be seeing, you start trying real hard not to feel like a failure.

If you have a job, you realise that it is not even close to what you should be doing, what you wanted to do. Or like me, if you are looking for a job, you realise that you need to start at the bottom and work your way up and that scares you shitless.

You start feeling that people, speaking quite generally, suck. They are selfish, mean and catty. You learn the hard way that the people you thought were the most important friends are actually not, and the ones you lost touch with are. But what you fail to realise is that, they're thinking the same things. They're not really selfish, mean or catty, but are simply as confused as you are.

You start feeling alone, scared and confused. Suddenly, change is your biggest enemy and you see yourself trying your very best to cling on to the past with dear life. You also see that you know it will slip away and you can't hold on to it much longer, but you try anyway.

All of a sudden, getting wasted and acting like an idiot starts to look pathetic. You want to settle down for good and get the sort of stability that you avoided all your life. That becomes top priority.

All of a sudden, all your past relationships seem silly and you find yourself looking for a life partner. Your "things I want in my partner" list (only a mental list if you're normal) changes radically.

You worry. A lot. You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem
to make a decision. It's driving you mad. You want to flee from this cursed period and either become older or younger. You wish you could skip this decade of supreme decision-making necessities and either go back to your innocent childhood, or grow up and become a 30-something where you're already settled and hopefully have less to worry about.

But hey, no 20-something feeling this way is alone. We are all in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we can to figure this whole thing out.
May be we should all just grab a beer and watch the sun set, while we still can.

EDIT > I never did finish doing all the 20 things from my '20 things to do before I turn 20' list. And I'm proud of me, because I don't feel like crap about it anymore :)

2009-04-23T04:56:00.000-07:00

The world, I suppose, will turn without you.
But just what good is it?

Anew?

2009-04-22T02:49:00.000-07:00

A recent revelation has made me write again. For how long this will last, I'm not sure of. But I do know that it's the mark of a new beginning.

----------------------------------------------
Today what woke me up was a familiar sound,
not of chattering in the other room, of laughter
or of doors banging shut.

No, today the air is warm, the clouds are heavy.
Something is amiss.
Ah, it is the sunlight that pours in through the dirty windows,
On to our bare skin, bare backs.
This morose morning has been long due,
But darling, it’s just that I hadn’t a clue.

As I stood out on the balcony, I realised this was yet another first for me.
For the first time, I felt the sky was shedding a tear,
Like my mother often said.
I felt the stars were tumbling down.
I felt wrong seem right.
I felt my breath evaporate through the tips of my fingers, between my nails.

They escaped up high towards the dark day sky.
And i touched all the spots where i had been burned on my body from your fingers.

It was so quiet outside but so loud in my head,
And i thought i saw shadows moving like animals in the forest at night, but it was just the sound of
the wind brushing against trees
just like the ruffle in my heart,
and the bones that suddenly seemed so heavy in my chest.

I take one last leap and forget to think,
I don’t want to.
I’m tripping and falling through,
and I can’t see the bottom.
I don’t want to.
As I leave the safety of life,
I cry up at the angry sky and showers akin:
“This rain is not soft enough for my fragile skin.”

Writing backlog

2008-12-16T14:20:00.000-08:00

The steel that has sliced through your veins pierces deeper,
as the veil covering your wounds grows thicker.

Let the veil slide away my friend,
let the wounds fade this day.

As I witness this dreaded day,
the beauty in your fearing eyes makes me say:
Let the veil slide away my friend,
let the wounds heal this day.

--------------------------------------

Silence - a strangled
telephone has forgotten
to ring.
-------------------------------------

My wandering mind rests in your eyes,
trying in vain to understand.
One brief second, and it goes insane.
The thoughts are lost in all its vastness.
They have no connection and make no sense, but
they are plenty.
Plenty enough to keep me going, through all this madness.

The portal between the mind and eyes
is now but a thin line, as vague as it is unseen.
The mind is unaware of what the eyes convey.
The eyes fail to convey the message in yours.
I wish to tell you that it's me and not you,
but my being fails to comprehend.
All that is said now is nothing.
And again,
I let it be, for there really is nothing to say.

---------------------------------------

This , as the title suggests, is old stuff. Stuff that adorn the pages of my notebooks randomly (mostly written in a slant, I have no idea why). I haven't written much in a while. And I don’t date my work anymore, coz being reminded of how long it’s been since I last wrote is depressing.

I have to make a collection of a kind of writing (poetry, short stories, screenplays, photo essays, anything) for the end of this semester. And I just can't decide which one to pick! Any suggestions?

Punctuation,

2008-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

It breaks 'em bounds,
it rips 'em apart,
it satisfies 'em hounds,
that never cease to want,

It opens doorways,
it leads you through,
it goes on to say,
till there is no more way,

It keeps you wrapt,
it keeps you intact,
it's just another tact, my friend,
simply a longer dot.

2008-12-08T22:01:00.001-08:00

I stole from random blog-hopping find:

Where is your cell phone? Charging on my bed, under my pillow
Where is your significant other? Out having Eid briyani!
You hair colour? Black
Your mum? Bloody pissed off with me right now
Dad? Cleverly avoida playing the bad cop :)
One favourite thing? Books
Your dream last night? Nah, slept like a baby
Your dream goal? To be happy and successful
The room you're in? My room in Bangalore
Your hobby? Reading
Your fear? Drowning
Where do you want to be in six years? Working in a well-known ad-agency, earning a lot more than I need.
Where were you last night? Strangely, visiting relatives
What you're not? Confident enough
One of your wish list items? A guineapig named Donut
Where you grew up? India, Dubai, Singapore
The last thing you did? Eat chocolate
What are you wearing? Blue jeans , brown top and Aerosoft slippers :D
Your TV? Is almost never watched by me.
Your pets? None :(
Your computer? An old Acer. I'm happy with obsolete technology..I guess.
Your mood? Indifferent
Missing someone? Not really
Your car? Umm..
Something you're not wearing? Flourescent underpants :P
Favourite drink? Water. 'Tis true
Your summer? Involved a lot of travelling - the kind I don't like.
Love someone? Yes
Your favourite colour? Black
When was the last time you laughed? 3 minutes ago
When was the last time you cried? It's been a while.

Cleche, did you say?

2008-10-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

Blue sky
Red roses
Big butts
Long noses

You love them all,
I love them as much as you.
We both love love-
it's the biggest cliche,
the best one too.

---------

It's true. Some of the best things in life are free..or cliched.

We all love cliches. It makes sense and that's why it's a cliche. Everyone says it's cliche, therefore making it less cliched than ever!

So now cliche is good.

Ta!

>EDIT: AND it's a cool thing to say ofcourse!

Say it: Kleee-shey!

2008-10-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

Choosing the path that he must take is quite a simple feat for him. Because the path that he sees is just one. One goal, one mission, one vision and one mind. One mind, with a million possibilities. So many choices, so many people, so much colour, so much freedom and so much life. Yet, the path is one. The mind is one. The mind of a person that is but a mere human, subject to the life that is his. A master of his own.

-----------

I've been stressed for a while now. Its not like me to be disturbed for too long usually. I used to take pride in being quite resilient and 'emotionally strong' (according to my final year psychology tests). But i've been this way for the past few weeks.

It's simply unacceptable now, not when I don't have pregnancy or PMS to back me up. I have no business eating up other people's patience just because I'm not in my best mood.

Oo, speaking of eating up, dig this:

Incubus: Dig

Now listening to: Dave Matthews band - The Space between us.

2008-09-19T11:27:00.000-07:00

It's an extraordinary feeling to have someone that is there, always. To handle everything for you. Not just to tell you that everything will be ok, but to make things ok for you. To remind you to be grateful to have them, and everyone else that means something to you. To make you feel special in more ways than one.

-----------

This is the best birthday gift I ever got.

Thank you :)

Love,

2008-09-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

The day I see this man in real life,

I will kiss him wildly.

and then..

2. I will die peacefully.

..of you

2008-09-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

I heard his heart
beat my name,
but
with the wrong spelling.

What is different this time?

What is different about Us?

We sleep like two open brackets lying on the same side. My hair is forever in your face. I push it away exasperatedly. You are gentler with it. And when it finally comes in the way of a kiss, in reckless abandon I ask you, shall I shave it all away? You smile and hold me tighter.

Your eyes are the most unreadable things I have ever turned to. May be it’s because I'm always distracted by the soft lines that form a pattern in the corners of your eyes, every time you smile. I'll learn their language some day and know all your secrets.

It is you who points out the stars in the sky and tells me their names. Sleepy eyes; they sometimes hardly register. But I know that you will be there at night tomorrow, to tell me their names all over again.

It's just strange, this feeling.
Why does it happen?
Why now?
Meant to be?
Is it?
Maybe not.
But could be.
Should it?

May be I do love you, in my own small way.
May be it usually does not work for you.
But may be it will work for you this time; WE're usually unusual.

Or may be, Love is just overrated.

what happens if I say..

2008-02-26T11:52:00.000-08:00

no?

Some day, I will be able to answer that.

Complaint

2007-11-23T12:55:00.000-08:00

What IS the matter with people?

Why can't they ever be content with the way things are? Why can't they ever appreciate the GOOD things and shove the rest to the back? Why can't they SILENTLY analyse the cause of the not-so-good things in their lives (if they HAVE to think about it)? Why do they have to burden their friends/family/strangers they meet on public buses or even non-living books and guitars with their worries? Why do people have to "vent out" their ever so complicated feelings? Why do they have to subject unwanted on-lookers to stories of their (apparently) miserable lives? Why can't they let go? Why do they make complete idiots of themselves by trusting someone enough to confide in them and that they won't get bored, while unknowingly risking the same people heave a sigh of relief everytime they manage a conversation without complaints? Why do they have "Rant blogs" and even NAME them so? Why do they wallow in self-pity and expect (rather, want) others to pity them as well? Why do they breakdown at the slightest provocation and label themselves 'sensitive' instead of calling themselves fools? Why do people use the word 'emo' (this is honestly beyond me!)?

Why? Why do they never cease to complain? Why can't they just be alright, if not happy and stop whining, if not start smiling?

Random thoughts

2007-05-09T02:42:00.000-07:00

Hello.
I'm upset! First people nagger me for months that I don't blog anymore, and now that I am doing it, no one bothers to read! HMPH! But hell, it's my blog. For me. So yes, I will continue to post.

I think. Yes, I do! I think a lot. A lot of random things. So these are some of the things/thoughts that've kept me occupied in the past few days:

-Ctrl Z
Another one of those options that would be great in reality. It could be used for a bad haircut, a hangover, a bad relationship or even to cure death! Imagine the Grim Reaper having to face to the utility of Ctrl Z. I mean, he would have gone through all this effort to plan your death and get you into an accident, and after you crash your buddy goes, "Oops! Ctrl Z"!

-The Ghost:
Things you thought you'd burried, get unearthed so easily. Defences you'd built, let you down. Wounds you thought were healed, make you cry again.

Just for a moment. When the ghost visits.

-Watching a bunch of boys roar over a violent game of Foosball is a very easy way to rid yourself of stress.

-When things have changed so much, and you wish you could go back in time to there and then. And you know it will never be the same. That's one kind of pain.

-The only thing a friend said to me about the dreams he's been having:

"I don't know. In the morning, it's another day. I try to relive the stories of the night but they always seem to have flown away. But while they lasted in the night, I tell you, I lived like no human had lived before." Must've been a beautiful dream to put it that beautifully :).

-I want my life to be a film. I want to save someone's life. I want to survive a calamity. I want to be madly in love. I want to fight Evil. I want to stand up all alone. I want to make the world laugh with me and cry with me. I want a life extraordinary. I want to stand at the helm of the world's biggest ship and scream "I'm the king (Queen?) of the world!"

-Alice in chains. Ethereal.

-Chris Cornell. He is just..just so..Damn!

-Strawberries n cream! :

-The beach.

Ok there's a lot more, but I think I'll just go and watch Fever Pitch now. Very mushy mood, yes.

Now only if you wish you hadn't read this post and wasted time...Oops! The Ctrl Z doesn't work, does it? See what I mean.

Sheesh! Reality Sucks.

Nothing

2007-05-05T05:20:00.000-07:00

Haha I love this cartoon!

Will you ever know ? -Dec 04, 2.55 A.M.

2006-12-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

"They ask me how you are. And I nod, I wonder if they understand. They probably don't. I don't yet either. Maybe you do, you ought to. You generally have a reason, or so I'd like to believe.

Your laughter doesn't ring in my ears anymore, neither does your scent linger in my nose. Your images don't flash past my eyes, I don't even feel you watch me dance. I guess I'm just lying.
People close to me look askance when I try to talk. People I don't like, are all ears. And my soul screams out, not a sound escaping my body..

Will you ever know how I watch the horizon for a sign of my lost cowboy to come in riding through the sun ?

Will you ever know how I manage to have a constant smile, knowing it'll vanish the minute i turn away?

Will you ever know that you are among the few people I have forgiven for making me cry myself to sleep ?

Will you ever know how difficult it is to wake up on an empty stomach and find yourself abandoned ? Will you ever... "

The pen slipped from her hands, as she slipped out of herself..

the boy - Dec 03, 7.56 P.M.

2006-12-03T08:56:00.000-08:00

ah. It's him.
the boy who walks into class like the devil himself drove him to college
the boy whose very smile hides a sneer of disdain, of adorable contempt
the boy who pretends to have no idea what you're talking about, and still manages to look cutely clueless
the boy who makes every junior wish she were hotter and every senior wish she were younger
the boy whose eyes crinkle with delight at the sight of the forbidden
the boy who is kind to wasps who don't harm him but brutal to women who love him
the boy who despises lies, except his own
the boy who is mysterious to strangers, and unfathomable to his friends
the boy who is intolerant to selective serious people, probably because they are the ones he can't outdo
the boy who is hypocrytical with a smile, and genuine with an arrogance
the boy who really is.. still a boy.

Tearjerkers

2006-04-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

Why now?
why now, when i need you not,
why now, when i have another sought?
why now, when i love another,
you say we are made for each other?
why now, when i love you no more,
you say you want me evermore?
why now, when i'm so torn
you pretend to be lovelorn?
why now, you say you want me back,
strength to resist is all i lack?
why now, when loyalty is a necessity
you fill my heart with pity?
why now, when i ceased to care,
you give me reason to be aware?
why now, when it's too late
you want us to finally relate?
why now, when i have to say "good-bye",
you propose hopes that are so high?
Why now?
Why now?

---------------------------------------------------------------

Loving you gives me nothing but pain.
My insanity lies in the fact that
I would go through as much pain as it takes,
just to be with you.
That's how much i love you
That's how much i need you..

introspection

2006-04-03T07:57:00.000-07:00

Have you ever sat in a room full of people chattering away to you and others, and just for a moment experienced emptiness followed by a gush of thoughts completely different ?
I have.
I told Sarah just today that i've never written a poem in my life.
I don't know whether to call it a poem, but this is just something I wrote during my 10th grade, when I was seated in a never-ending chemistry class. I think that chemistry class happened to be right after a wonderful 40 minutes of studying Julius Caesar. So obviously, I was inspired. lol.

It's so quiet around
as the noise plugs my ears,
it's so dark around
as the array of colours veils my eyes,
it's strange how the being is capable
of isolating and blocking out.
Even as i am bound to my seat,
there's no leash on my mind.