schizophrenicsalad

Palimpsest

2011-07-13T13:40:00.000-07:00

So I won’t intrude in your life and you don’t intrude in mine. Facebook is a voyeur’s paradise. Every month I get at least one request from a person I never spoke with in college – mostly my first post grad college – random women who used to sit at the other corner of the class ,short fat overdressed richie-rich girl from koregaon park, mind-numbingly dumb-now-married-to-some-NRI girl who exchanged one line with me in two years, the guy who gossiped about me in a not-so-nice way, the ex’s close friend who I was fond of but now don’t really care about, etc etc. What is with this bunch? The bunch I don’t give a shit about, the bunch that makes me squirm when I run into them on some not-so-fateful day in a crowded market. Why can’t you walk away? Look the other way and pretend that we don’t know each other? Because really I don’t. Apart from knowing your name and that we breathed in the same space for those two years, I really don’t know shit about you. I don’t understand this compulsive need for people to come and make small talk, really pointless pleasantries are shared when all that both parties are checking out is who has put on more weight and who looks more miserable. Numbers are exchanged – this annoying age of cell phones, how can you not have one, even my plumber has one – and you are trapped – you have to give your number. But then again that’s not really important because in spite of all the fake smiles and the “ooh we must catch up” business, no message gets dropped, no calls happen, so after getting that missed call also I don’t bother to save it. Let it fade away in the next few days from my list of calls and hope to never run into that person again.

So why do I hate meeting / accepting facebook requests / chatting with these people so much? I don’t know. Maybe it is because I had the most horrible two years of my life in that shithole course. Pune is no student’s paradise - it is an orgy of recklessness and pettiness. Woman stabs woman over a boy. Boy fucks girl and then he fucks her best friend. Roommate gives a crying shoulder and then complains about the weight. Boy wakes up in the morning and says he is commitment phobic – never mind that at night his brain was in his balls. Almost-best friend suddenly appears in boy’s room in his night clothes. Thankfully the ‘almost’ turns to ‘never’. And the usual jhingbang. Really there is nothing so liberating about a college and a place like that. If anything, that place makes you question your own sense of self. It makes you feel helplessly trapped. Anything that made me not want to face my own self in the mirror is pretty much better-best deleted. And so I try to delete the episodes, the chapters, the primary and the auxiliary characters that are associated with the phase. But no – facebook is a bitch that will keep trying to make you get in touch with people you are actively trying to erase. I wonder sometimes if erasing my account is the answer. I don’t know. I like being in the loop with people I know and want to know further. Why should I be the one erasing myself? Talking of erasing, there have been recent erasures which have surprised me, not because the erasing happened but that it happened so easily. Kurtz is a person I used to know who is trying very hard to mend his old ways and turn into a new leaf. But I think spring is over and soon it will be time for autumn and things will begin to change colour and fall. For me he is fallen already because flimsy leaves are fated to fall one day or the other. His flimsiness is legendary really. One day K wants to be friends and the other day he finds an easy way to get out of it. One day he sees me as this unrealistic image in his head and the other day it shatters so easily he walks over it with sigh of relief. I don’t know whether erasing is an activity he indulges in frequently but give a man a rubber and he will find ways to use it almost immediately. As for me, I’d like to think of my two years of that crappy phase as an unpleasant parchment on which I have begun the process of palimpsest. Because I don’t just like to erase, I like to rewrite.

The Do-Not List

2011-06-07T13:54:00.000-07:00

I do not like the colour grey.

I do not like it that my brilliant second cousin got brain fever at the age of 12 and never recovered.

I do not like sympathizing with her.

I do not like others lending me their sympathy. Though sometimes I do whine for it.

I do not like lukewarm conversations that start with a polite hi and end with a politer bye.

I do not like it that losing weight is such a pain and sweet cravings, uncontrollable.

I do not like it when people pluck flowers only in the day because one shouldn’t pluck them at night. Why pluck them anyway?

I do not like sugar coated responses to my mistakes. I wish people were more honest.

I do not like never ending chatter of intensely self centric people. I have my bad days too you know.

I do not like getting a zit. I am too old for this kind of agony.

I do not like it that I wonder about my choice of friends and if I could have chosen more prudently.

I do not like spending hours reading Anna Karenina when all I want to do is stare at the blank sky.

I do not like blank skies. This city is full of smog. My home town is full of stars.

I do not like that I am indecisive, unstable, obsessive and neurotic.

I do not like it when a certain someone is happy.

I do not like myself for not liking that.

I do not like early mornings.

I do not like cats.

I do not like non-sweet alcohol drinks. Except beer.

I do not like it that my closest childhood friend lives in the land of the Gujjus. I need her back.

I do not like the nomadic life I lead. Some day I’d like a house without a two year lease.

I do not like Delhi as much as I like Mumbai. Yes I confess.

I do not like summer.

I do not like it that my ‘like’ list might be shorter than my ‘do-not-like’ list. Who would have known?

The Kaleidoscope

2011-05-29T14:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, inspiration comes knocking at my door. I look around, I glance behind my shoulder, I like being alone, I confirm my solitariness. And then I begin to write. But nothing ever materializes beyond a page. Then thoughts get arrested by the anticipation of an audience and the inappropriateness of it all. And then I stop.

This has been happening for many months.

J.S. Mill was right. One has to write poetry (in this I include fiction) assuming there is no audience at all. “Poetry is feeling confessing itself to itself”. But what kind of a confession is that then really? Even Catholics need the confession box and Calvin needs a Hobbes. What is the point of anything confessing itself to itself? Pray tell.

And yet the fear of being read and read into, the uneasiness of misinterpretation, the lack of courage is a reality that suffocates me. Where is my Hobbes? I used to have one. I don’t have one anymore. It is tragic. My Hobbes and I drifted apart when more than just distance came between us. Life happened and though it isn’t as tragic as it seems, it is tragic enough.

But I am digressing and I should try not to. So writing with an assumption that one can be read is a really scary proposition. I admire the guts of authors who write autobiographical works and get published. I admire the guts of blogs that chronicle a personal life without giving a damn. And hard as I may try, I don’t think I can even become it. That is sad. And have I lost out on you already? Yes you – you who reads my blog once in a while, my fortunate patron, the known and the unknown, the blurred past and the etched forever, the berating friend and the appreciative acquaintance – have you taken me off your RSS feeds already? Did you not have me in the first place? Did you plan to have me initially and then wrote me off as just another person who got married and became boring? I don’t blame you if you did. I haven’t tried to redeem myself much except just write a “oh-i-am-going-to-vent” post and then chickened out. Yes that’s all that I have done. Characteristically enough I haven’t carried out what I claimed, I have announced and then disappeared. It is unusual if I do finish something I take up till the end. I am the queen of incompletion, of half-heartedness, of initial euphoria and immediate disillusionment.

But I really do want to write for there is so much to write about. I want to pen down pages and chapters from my life. I want to mention the twisted story of the man with the heart of coal, I want to confess my lack of feelings for the boy who died, I want to say how sometimes when death doesn’t move you, you can question your monstrous self for years. For years and months that have passed, I have had moments of madness, euphoria, disillusionment, depression, betrayal, elation, fulfillment, epiphany – notice that there is nothing banal about these emotions, nothing as simple as happy, sad, indifference, no – these are the big words, the specific adjectives, the things that express the precise state of mind – I like it that things have been dramatic, larger than life, immensely exciting – things that can be recalled in an anecdote or make a fit subject for a late night confessional chat, things that can still make my gut twist, that can still make my throat knot up. I like it that I have had a fairly exciting life where I didn’t let impulse cower to the mind. Sometimes I regretted, sometimes I didn’t. But mostly I am just glad that the youth was a kaleidoscope and not a microscope where I didn't sit back to analyze but somersaulted with the colors.

And I want to write about the people and the episodes, all the shades of the kaleidoscope need to splatter across the white sheet of paper, the fear needs to be covered with a splat of dark humor, the puns and the digs need to be highlighted with a fluorescence.

So why do I fear the interpretation, the detailed investigation, the repercussions of such scrutiny? Why do I fear the microscope when I have already played in the colors?

From the Laugh of the Medusa

2011-05-07T05:02:00.000-07:00

An excerpt:

“Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn’t open my mouth, I didn’t repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What’s the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts? Where is the ebullient, infinite woman who, immersed as she was in her naivete, kept in the dark about herself, led into self disdain by the great arm of parental-conjugal phallocentrism, hasn’t been ashamed of her strength? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a … divine composure), hasn’t accused herself of being a monster?”

-Helene Cixous. (The Laugh of the Medusa) - Read it!

Die Blog Die

2011-05-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

I’m officially sick of writing about the weather, the season, all things happy and all that la la la! No, I do not know what to write about these days. I want to make this blog more personal than it is. Then I want to write about how, what and when I really feel. Then I want to be somewhat like my tall friend whose writing has this sharp, acidic courage that mine could never achieve. I really want to vent. But this blog is now not personal. And that is excruciatingly annoying. It is only my fault that I let myself go. I think it was the greed of getting some comments on my erstwhile no-hit blog. I think I was a bit tired of wallowing in that anonymity which now seems to be such a luxury. In between all of that, I have resorted to another privately tucked in scrap on the internet, but this one is still my oldest, my favourite. Blogspot is still comfortable. Tumblr is a step sister of blogspot. I was never much of a fan of wordpress. And this red and white and black header is still what is typically me. This strange, senseless title of schizophrenicsalad given to me long ago by a friend is also a part of me. And with this blog now becoming a yawn-inducing machine, I don’t know what to do to revive it again. How I miss the venting and the bitching. Being older sometimes comes with a disclaimer. Politeness and all the shitty jazz sometimes just strains and drips itself into your writing. And this is how we all become dull and insipid. And this is how a perfectly good blog dies.

I am almost tempted to let it die. And restart again. But like a nagging, incomplete story of the past, this blog also seems to have the last 6 years of my life. A lot of it has been deleted for god knows what politically correct reasons. My curious cousin discovered this blog thanks to my negligent brother who discovered this blog thanks to my negligent internet history. So all the sex had to be erased. All the smoking had to be gotten rid off. All the bitching, the drunk episodes, the stoned scribblings and the massive stupidities I have done in my first post graduation days and after had to be let go of. What is left then to write about? The god damned weather, the city and more of the bloody city, the monsoon and so much of the monsoon, my annoyingly unpredictable health and maybe some food and ofcourse the oh-so-often swimming posts? No wonder I had to resort to a new link. Who wouldn’t? Who can live with this boring crap?

So even though I do want to kill this blog, I am going to try to let it stay. And maybe care a little bit less about appearances? And write a little bit more about the strained relationships and the blooming ones? Maybe I can write about the fantastic poems I come by thanks to some friends? Maybe I can post interesting videos I come by on days? Maybe I can light up a bloody cigarette and not wonder who is reading about it. Oh by the way, if you listen really hard, the lit cigarette is not quite so soundless. The small noise of the thin paper burning really does make me want to pull out another one. It’s like diwali in your mouth.

Sometimes the bad weather can bring you joy.

2011-04-17T04:29:00.000-07:00

Today’s weather is exactly how it was when we first saw our current home – gloomy, dark yet full of hope. It was the fifth day of continuous house hunting. I was determined to find something that could replicate my home in Mumbai. I was waiting for a house to speak to me like it was my own.

It was almost a year ago that the winds lashed out at the trees, the dust got into my lenses half blinding me, we sat in the coffee shop outside the complex and waited to see yet another place and face yet another disappointment. A really delayed call by the property dealer had already inflamed us. We were almost determined to not go and see something else the week after that. All I wanted was to return to my house in Mumbai in which I had spent hours, making it from a brand new house with no fittings to a workable home with many memories. We move every 2 years. This is our third house. City to city, locality to locality, cook to cook, convenience store to convenience store, we are uprooted from our comfort zones so often that now house hunting has become a painful ritual.

In a weather like todays, we walked into the complex, through the dingy corridor that had no light and it opened up to the messiest and yet the warmest house I had seen all week. Seven people lived in this house before. None of the flushes were working. The balcony door had been cracked by the crazy wind, the wall was a jaundiced yellow and multiple things needed repair. But the kitchen had nice modular shelves, the living room had so much potential, the white light needed to be done away with and I could see more than a month’s time of work that the house needed but somehow it was okay. Somehow we had found our new house.

Sometimes bad weather brings pleasant surprises. Sometimes a heavy downpour can make you stay in and have that really rare conversation that cements relationships. Sometimes a really hot day can make you like yourself in your own skin. Sometimes a really cold day can make you fall in love with an author you didn’t discover before. Sometimes a windy day can make you feel like Marilyn Monroe. While on other days, it can find you your next home. :)

I did get rid of that white lighting.

Molten Sunset

2011-04-02T06:51:00.001-07:00

The weather is deceptive today. It gets warm, a little dust storm comes from nowhere. Then the weather suddenly cools down. Now it is breezy, beautiful and not a time for indoor activities. It is the final match of the world cup. I don’t care too much about cricket. I just like watching the last few overs of the second innings. So I will go for a swim.

The water isn’t warm but it isn’t cold. At sun down, getting into the pool feels like dipping yourself in molten sunshine. It’s somewhere in the middle – the transient transition, the few minutes that just passes by, the shortest part of the day, when the yellow and ochre meets the blue and invites the indigo sky to take over for the night. It is a time for a peaceful exchange between the busy day time and the sleep inducing hour. That is the time I love to go for a swim, when everything is changing and the shimmering droplets of water turns into dark glittering globules and I can stay in and watch the day retire into the night.

And while I am swimming and have drowned the noise of the world and my mundane daily life thoughts in the water, I stay suspended in a state of alternative introspection. That is my favourite part of the day. That is the most beautiful. In a pool, around strangers with whom I don’t have to make conversation, in a completely public space, I find my most private moments and I find my peace.

Farewell Fabulous Fog

2011-02-08T04:36:00.000-08:00

The morning was enrobed in this ethereal mist – white and translucent, gauzy and delicate, gloomy and gorgeous. Like a bride’s veil, the city seemed to be hidden away from the view of the rest of the world. No flights could land. No, they couldn’t spot the city. Everything was delayed. There were traffic jams on the road. Yet, fog is so beautiful that every inconvenience can be excused.

I like a foggy morning. It makes me like my tea better. I can’t see the tall building in front of my house. A semblance of idyllic isolation surrounds my balcony. Suddenly I am not living in a big city. Suddenly I am not surrounded by high rising condominiums. Suddenly peace seems to replace all hurried, human activity. I am suspended in a self-deceptive solitariness and I love it.

Winter went by too soon. Suddenly its warm and my coats are whining in the cupboard. They will again be subject to months of suffocation with the unbearable smell of naphthalene. My heart goes out to them. Hot milk won’t be so much fun anymore. Walking in the chilly evening will not be a secluded activity anymore. The walking tracks will be thronged with multitudes of people every evening. The charm of the cold, the biting wind in the middle of the night and the dead of the morning will disappear. Everything will become warm, hot, burn and char. Yes I hate summer. It makes me sluggish, least inspired and most cranky.

Bye bye cool morning breeze, colorful socks, velvet blankets and hot chocolate.

Hello sweaty, sticky days, skin breakouts and tissue paper overdose. I so did not miss you.

Dying and Dipping

2011-01-21T09:37:00.000-08:00

I know what death must feel like. It feels like getting into the swimming pool on a cold winter day in Delhi. Thousands and millions of tiny little daggers were suddenly stabbing me from all ends. When I dipped my head in, my ears revolted in disgust and the ringing didn’t go for an hour after. My stubborn as hell self didn’t give up. So I tried to drag myself to the other end convincing myself that all I need is a warm up lap. All I needed was a brain – which by the way, also was frozen with my throbbing forehead. “No this isn’t happening”, I gasped in my head, “I can’t breathe”, and quickly, before the world closed itself around my eyes, I shut myself out and managed to swim back to the edge and get out. Yes I know what that chicken in my freezer must feel like. And yes, I know how it feels to be physically numbed till you can’t feel your own pinch.

Winter comes with long vacations. Home is where the paunch is. Even I couldn’t escape from Mom’s ghee-bhare paranthe and my favourite halwas. Indulge – I thought – and back in Delhi, all will be okay. That is a myth. The holiday weight isn’t. How does one lose the new year’s new layer of adipose tissue? I hate the treadmill. I hate the monotony of walking in one spot. It is depressing, to keep walking and yet stay in the exact same spot – almost like how we sometimes live our days, our weeks – we think we are walking, and yet the routine of the daily life sucks you right back and nothing has changed. So with that depressing piece of contraption out, I wanted to start taking real walks. But Delhi is cold and I like walking in the dark. Yes, I have issues. Like I don’t like the redundancy of the treadmill, I don’t like the visibility of the early evening. I like going for a walk when the sky is dark and no one really sees me. I like the invisibility of the night, when they can see you walk yet can’t see your face. I also don’t like walking with a phone or music. I like to just walk. And the dark of the winter is too cold for my warped activities.

So what do I love the most? Ah. I love to swim. But it is cold. Just how cold, I didn’t anticipate. Why haven’t they shut the pool down? Do they like inviting people to have just a little peep into numbing, icy death? And I hear people have been coming for a swim. They must not be human. They cannot be human. It is impossible to dip oneself in that chilled water and step out as if nothing happened – as if nothing evil struck your face, as if nothing icy smothered you and as if nothing menacing grabbed your lower back. And so, following really bad examples, I bravely and enthusiastically got into my swimsuit and stepped into that sinister body of coldness. I died. My short lived death lasted half an hour. Really. I am still reeling from that numbness. And sheer stupidity. I don’t think I can even look at that pool until April. And that too, is worth a second consideration.

A Tale of a Tampon

2010-11-25T10:28:00.000-08:00

Good God there is a shortage of tampons in Delhi. Not exactly the best thing to blog about but I am so furious. I am furious at the lack of supply, I am furious at this very idiotic monopoly that Johnson and Johnson has in India, I am furious at the chemist who suggested I buy pads instead “ek hee toh baat hai madam” – little will he know how similar they are when I stuff one up his nose! Why won’t more brands retail them? And how are all the women managing without it? In a fit of total panic I called multiple stores around my house, around my area, even in Khan market which caters to all the expats of the world who are tampon-only users, I texted a friend, I even called my mother to check the availability in my hometown and courier it to me. Meanwhile I am trying to figure out who is travelling abroad in the next month so I can ask them to pick it up at a duty free store. This is ridiculous. How can something so essential go missing from the market? Another woman in the same predicament as me gave me the most sympathetic look and a nod of mutual grief in the pharmacy store. “I’ve been trying to get them for a month” she said with such sadness in her voice. My panic only aggravated, my despair deepened, my pharmacy store-hopping got faster.

This happened in the evening.

Cut to night time 10 PM.

A call from a random unknown number. It’s a chemist. Apparently the idiots at Just Dial have been circulating my number as “Tampons waali”. A chemist from North Delhi. North delhi? Really? I am desperate enough to go there. He says he doesn’t have it now but he knows I am looking so he will try and arrange. He assumes, in a smug voice, that since I am looking for it so badly, I would obviously be willing to buy more than just a few boxes. “Ten”, I say in a state of total last minute anxiety. Tiny pause. My heart is beating. Tiny pause continues. “Fifteen?”, I say encouragingly. He promises to try and arrange and asks me to calls back tomorrow. But North Delhi. Really? It’s SO far, I think in my head, willing to take on the task at hand, take metro, run and go, etc etc.

But I have exams in 5 days and I haven’t prepared shit. I am neck, head, all of me down into a bit fat puddle of obscure crap. Taking this course lightly isn’t treating me very well. The books suddenly seem really big. The reference readings are piling on and now a mountain of A4 sheets sit ominously in the corner of my study room. Basically, I am struggling to read up and how.

Back to the topic at hand. So yes, it is far. At least an hour and a half by metro, if I am lucky. So I gather the courage to ask him if he will home deliver. Tiny pause repeats. I offer to pay for transport. I offer to buy 20 boxes if he manages to scrape them from the corners of the earth. He agrees. I thank him profusely, send a little prayer to the female gods above and see a glimmer of hope at the end of the dark dark empty shelves.

And now I wait, I put 2 reminders on my phone to call him tomorrow, lest some other tampon deprived girl bribes him with a larger order. I wait for an unknown man sitting in Soni Chemists in some obscure corner of north Delhi to save my soul.

One of Those Days

2010-11-11T20:04:00.000-08:00

Literature has been killing me. No, not with joy, but with its inescapable vastness and weight. This was supposed to be fun – this returning to academics. It is fun – till the exams came looming on my head like an unavoidable omen. Will I or will I not? I don’t know.

Meanwhile issues of the future continue to haunt me. What after this? Surely not the corporate rigmarole anymore. Surely not the brainless routine of the television life. Writing? Editing? More studying? I don’t know. I am the constant worry wart who seems to need something to fret about to add meaning to her life. It is not a good thing to do.

Yoga is supposed to help relax. But that also stresses me. When will the instructor come? Will I be home on time? Will I do justice to the 45 minutes? Will she train me well? Is she over paid? Am I being a spoilt brat by not going to classes? Etc. Etc. Etc.

Weight gain. Ah. But of course. How can one even forget the internal trauma of standing on the scales after a month and seeing a considerable shift. Give up sweets, eat salad, don’t eat after 8 PM, they say. I just want to sleep in bed all day and not wake up. Hibernate and escape all the worries of the world. Not want to look at myself on some days.

I have the moodiest hair in the world. My good hair days are almost as extreme as my bad hair days. I swing between the uncontained messiness of Medusa and the shimmery tresses of Apollo. On most days when I do have a thing to attend, a party to go to, a person to impress, I will most surely be blessed with the Medusan mood. It is inevitable. And adds to my rotten mood of the day.

Let me also get back to my first semester and say that the books truly suck. I can’t wait to get onto next semester. That is if I pass this one. Paradise Lost. Really? Isn’t this talk of Satan and Eden really quite overdone? Chaucer? Do I need to know of the worries, issues, debauchery, codes of honor of the medieval ages? Eh. I don’t think so. Donne? And his metaphysical conceit. Fine – it is slightly better than the rest. But who can even get started on Plato? Why is imitation so complicated for you? And pray Mr Sidney, do you need to defend poetry in such ridiculously complicated language? I am getting a little sick of their intellectual masturbation. I wish they’d just disappear.

Birds have taken over parts of my balcony and the AC area. To sit, chirp, shit and mate. Little dried blobs of black, brown and whitish stuff are found every day. It isn’t pleasant to scrape of someone’s dried crap. I used to hate rodents. Now I also dislike birds. I chase squirrels in campus. Scare them out of their tiny little wits. This, after one entered my house and threatened to eat at my sofa, stared at me in the eye fearlessly till I had to make the guard chase the hyperactive piece of furriness out with a danda.

I also have unfulfilled desires to be a writer. It’s the great new Indian dream. So many publishers, so many books. Doesn’t everyone get published anyway? One just needs the plot and the other elements Aristotle so elaborately puts down as a prerequisite for writing fiction, which is actually quite simple and one doesn't need to know him to know those.

Masterchef Australia has become my new found addiction. I cannot wait for the clock to strike 9 PM. I can’t get enough of the fact that food isn’t food, its art for them. Then I wonder – would I have been a great chef if I followed my cooking passion? It’s one of those questions one asks when they are on the other side of 25 and inching closer towards the big 3-0. It is all part of the great dream unrealized and a mid life crisis of ambition and purpose.

So what it is exactly that I want? Money, fame, intellectual satisfaction, professional acceptance? I just want to stop being the wary lamb that got lost somewhere along the way. I just hope this path is leading to the right destination. Otherwise, one will start on a new direction again. After all, there is always Google maps. And this, one of those vaguely lost days.

The Warmest Winter

2010-10-25T00:41:00.000-07:00

There is nothing that takes my time these days more than Salman Rushdie. In my overarching, over ambitious, Icarus like project to do a term paper on the post colonial issues of his novels, I have doomed myself to constant reading and re-reading, mugs of coffee, hours of nerve wracking research and multiple moments of sheer desperation. This is the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of the current state of my life.

What comes a close second is the change of weather that seems to whisper to me each evening, urging me to step out of the house, take a lazy walk, sit and stare at the line of mirchi lights all over the lawns, smell the newly sprouted blooms whose fragrance has invaded every open space in the city, buy some neroli and jasmine moisturizer, sit at my balcony and watch the moody rays of the sun come and go.

This is my favourite season of the year. When the monsoon has been chased away to give way to the cold breeze that hits you with a surprise one fine evening, when the fan makes you shiver in the early hours of the morning, when the day ends early and the dusk demands a sweatshirt, when you start to dig into the deep recesses of your lofts and trunk to bring out those naphthalene smelling woolens.

This winter is special. Like that long lost lover you meet after years. Like the nostalgia that hits you when you put on that age old over coat. Like the friends you made in the open air of the concert. Like the smell of the barbecue chicken that mom made on cold nights.

My tweed coat calls out to me. The heaters and the gloves beckon me. I can’t wait for it to be November. The coldest season of the year is the warmest to me.

Lady D, A-Melle and Me

2010-09-03T08:13:00.000-07:00

I would have really liked to go for a swim today. Swimming just takes every bit of shoulder ache away and every scrap of worry away – even though it’s only for a while. But here I am, sitting in my yet another new house in Gurgaon, having cutting chai that reminds me of Mumbai, leisurely inhaling a dangly stick of Marlboro Ultra Lite and not finding much to really complain about. Except the fact that I miss Mumbai like I once missed Delhi when I moved to Pune years ago.

Gurgaon is alright. I am quite enjoying where I live. But more than anything, it’s the fact that I am back to academics is what keeps me happy and content. Delhi isn’t what it used to be. The roads aren’t the same, nor are the people. Everything has changed and the little time capsule that I had preserved in my head is now split. I am not complaining really. I am more comfortable with the idea of change now than I ever was. And in a way its making me experience the city with a whole new perspective. Friends who have matured, acquaintances who are now close, new family, new street food stalls, new metro lines, new flyovers and new ways to kill and use time.

Lady D is my new friend in college. Oh for the record I am back to my unreal, impractical yet joyous world of literature. I am friends with Kafka and Freud again. I am finding a new found love in Moliere and Rabelais. I am in a constant love-hate relationship with Plato and Coleridge. Amidst all this, Lady D (who was at Mumbai for the last 3 years too) and I, find moments to reminisce about the city, to miss the rushed streets of Colaba, the drunken nights at Mondys, the sound of the locals, the chaat at bandstand, the midnight gigs at Blue Frog and the sheer freedom of being who and where you wanted to be. I’ve come a long way since I first moved to Mumbai. I’ve fallen hard for the city with a fishy smell, the musty air and the mad energy. Honestly, I can’t wait to get back and continue what I left incomplete – my long and rocky affair with the city.

A-Melle is another new friend. She usually doesn’t know what Lady D and I are going on and on about Mumbai. I can’t wait to take her there and make her another victim of that overcrowded city’s charm. College is nice. I go everyday like a geek who needs her dose of lecture to survive. Not really though. I also take great pleasure in bunking when the professor sucks, almost as much as I love scribbling notes like a maniac when I love the text. It’s nice to have lunch that costs Rs 25 and cold coffee that isn’t a buck over 20! I can push A-Melle around and get shoved in return when we are dragging ourselves to the library, or sit under the hot sun while Lady D fills me in on the latest dope in class. Being back to college has given me the joy that was essentially missing in the last 5 years.

And even though I miss Mumbai like a dog misses his favorite bone, I am happy to be doing what I like doing. I feel stable, I feel like I can have a decent conversation again, I feel like all that rust is off my brain. After years of scattered mindlessness, confused existence, meaningless jobs, ridiculously pendulous interests, being everywhere and yet nowhere, I finally feel like I am home.

From the Journal of a Gypsy Girl

2010-06-21T07:04:00.000-07:00

So many things have happened in the last few weeks. I have had a whirlwind trip to Gurgaon and back. I have spent at least 35 hours in 5 days on house hunting and seen at least 30-40 houses. Some have been indulgently beautiful hence overpriced, some have been passable but with miserable blackish mosaic flooring, some have let me down by its badly planned kitchen, some have had black chart paper pasted onto the windows to save curtain money and some have had landlords vain enough to detest. Week 2 of June 2010 will be marked as the most frustrating week of the year for me. Day after day, hour after hour, unhealthy burgers after burgers, heat and muck, annoying brokers and liking flats which were not in my budget finally got to me. Saturday night was my desperate attempt at throw some positive light at this location move, so I stood at the balcony of my guest house and watched the glittering gurgaon roads and phase 5, and thought of what I may like about this place versus Mumbai. Honestly, not many points came to mind except that the roads would be better, the winter would be glorious and people won’t ramble in Marathi expecting me to know it just because I live there. Hindi will be the new language – even if its interspersed with some gaalis and a haryaanvi accent. But apart from that, I couldn’t think of any more reasons.

I am the newest lover to Mumbai. I am suddenly appreciating the people, the ethics, the warmth, the respect for some semblance of lane driving. Yes I haven’t gone on the Metro in Delhi yet and I don’t particularly like the locals of Mumbai, but at least I have the option of taking an auto or a taxi in the middle of the night, without holding a pepper spray to my heart. I like the monsoon even though it’s a mess on the roads. I like my house, it’s gorgeous. I have fewer friends, but eventually it doesn’t matter. Everyone gets wrapped in a life of their own and socializing isn’t top priority. I like the weekends here. I love the strictness of the drinking and driving rule. I like Party Hard Drivers! I like that my ex driver is an ex underworld goon who is super fond of me and would take me out of any pickle that I may slip into. I like that getting a gas connection is simple and a replacement comes promptly.

But then again, I also like the India Habitat Centre, I enjoy plays at the IIC, I like American diners, I love winter evenings in Dilli Haat having a hot plate of momos, I like scouting for funky chappals in Janpath and I like trying really hard to find something that fits me in Sarojini nagar! I like the fact that some of my girlfriends are still close and here. I like it that I will be staying very close to the fancy ambience mall and walking distance from the DLF city club. There could be quite a few positives to Gurgaon/Delhi. Because it’s been more than 5 years since I left, I think it takes really hard thinking to fish out what I used to like about the city. True that I detest the public transport. I plan to be a metro regular if it turns out to be bearable. I don’t particularly like being armed with my pepper spray at all times but does give me a sense of self defense. Also, it’s a big plus that my parents will be a 9 hour drive away. I can run home any weekend I want.

It’s an age old debate – Mumbai versus Delhi, Delhi versus Gurgaon, etc etc. But one has to learn to detach oneself from the four walls of a house when moving is going to become a two yearly event. One has to learn to adapt, adjust and find joy in life. I have finally found a pretty house in Gurgaon that I intend to make a gorgeous home. Meanwhile, I am sorting out the other aspects of my life and submerging myself in the essence of Mumbai in my last 2 weeks here. Mumbai has given me a lot – a job, an opportunity to grow as a person, it’s given me M and the happiness of moving in our first 2 homes, it’s given me few thick friends and now I hope to find something more in a new city. I am a gypsy girl. I move every 2 years and I will love each place I go to. To new cities and new plumbing work! Cheers!

Of Resignations and Dancing in the Rain

2010-06-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

Today has been quite a day. Well, for starters it was my last day at work. You know how it is. Everyone is saying they will miss you and will stay in touch with you. Random people who you have met just twice in the cafeteria, women whose names you don’t remember, men who have given you the polite nod and let you take your cappuccino before them, the receptionist who is probably a bit sick of receiving your lunch sandwiches and the boss you may not love so much. It could be an excruciatingly fake exercise except today, it was not.

So what has changed? Surely not the people who promise to call but don’t have my number, or colleagues who immediately add you on facebook but may never drop a note. I think it was me. I think some of my cynicism about people in general seems to have reduced. My smile has become more genuine, my laugh less sarcastic and my one liners less personal. I find it easier to have a chat with a new acquaintance and I actually notice a subtle haircut and remind myself to drop a compliment. I don’t shut myself out anymore and it is so refreshing. My last day wasn’t spent running around with the clearance form, frantic to get out of the office. It wasn’t spent counting hours and minutes. It was a peaceful routine and in the pool of multiple goodbyes, the genuine ones that I could spot made me happy.

With that done with and the relieving letter tucked under my arms, I gallivanted around the city in an auto rickshaw and remembered my initial days in Mumbai. The weather right now is hot and sultry, but there is that weight in the air and that smell in the evening breeze that whispers in your ears about the impending rains. The promise of thick droplets of water crashing at my balcony doesn’t scare me. I know the roads will flood, the autos will refuse to budge, the pot holes will disappear into menacing little marshes waiting to swallow you in. But the rain will also do what it does each year – wash away all the sadness, the resentment and grudges of the year gone by and give me a fresh start, a happy beginning to another phase.

I will only witness the first few weeks or maybe even days of monsoon in Mumbai. A series of snapshots in my head show me the slushy train ride to andheri, the gorgeous evening walk at carter road, the folded jeans, the squeaky flip flops, the broken umbrella at worli, the drenched me witnessing my first violent downpour and the room I once lived in at my aunt’s house. There is something about the water, the puddles, the frogs in the pool, the lush green weeds, the noise of the splashes, the fear of the flooding, that completely fascinates me.

If there is something about Mumbai that I have loved more than the city itself, it’s the monsoon. The most inconvenient season of the city has been my favourite and will continue to be. Till I return again, I will always remember Mumbai for the joy the monsoon has given me. Like someone once said, “Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness, has never danced in the rain”.

Counting Stars

2010-05-05T04:00:00.000-07:00

There is something beautifully wasteful about counting stars. The futility of the counting doesn’t deter me from finding excuses to stare at the shimmer splattered sky. So there could be a million sparkles up there, but why must I not count? Must I spend my time doing something less wasteful, less pointless? But the stars in the sky were put above us, to count and to stare at. What else could be the reason? Except it being god’s little gesture of prettifying the world.

When I think of stars I don’t think of them as what Wikipedia defines them – a massive, luminous ball of plasma held together by gravity. How does the dictionary define them? – Star [noun]: any of the heavenly bodies, except the moon, appearing as fixed luminous points in the sky at night. The only redeeming word in these definitions is ’luminous’. Luminous – radiating light, shining, bright – now that’s a bit of poetry in itself. Just as a star is.

For me, every inch of the sky holds something - A wish, a longing, a prayer. Dead people become stars. Hopeful moments become stars. A dream is like the star – revealing itself only at night, showing itself to you the way only you can see it. Every artist sees the stars as they like it. Van Gogh sees it as a shocking whirlpool of light. “That does not keep me from having a terrible need of -- shall I say the word -- religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars”, he says. Anne sexton says in her poem, that like a star she wants to die. Don McLean sang of the stars as the “Flaming flowers that brightly blaze”.

Though I don’t remember when was the last time I stared at a clear sky filled with stars. Cities are not pretty. No time to sit and stare. And even if you do, it ensures the pollution and the smog doesn’t leave you with much to stare at. I was brought up in a hill station, closer to the sky, away from the rush, where an old, green painted bench still perches invitingly outside my house, where lovers meet and gaze at the sky, where children gather and spot constellations, where I sat at the age of 12 and got inspired to write my first poem. There is something so magical about stars that I refuse to let the science enter my head. I would like to still tilt my head and marvel at the miracle of creation. I would still stick fluorescent, glowing stars on the ceiling of a room. I would still like to lay flat, in complete abandon, and stare at the sky for hours. One doesn’t see that in the city. And that is why I love returning to my small hometown every once in a while – so I can stretch my arms and feel like to can touch the stars again and count them endlessly. I like to revisit true beauty every once in a while. And there is nothing as gorgeous, as eternal and as pure, as a sky clustered with stars and dreams and joy.

Things I would like to do when I don’t make excuses

2010-04-07T04:25:00.000-07:00

To write like the wind is caressing the paper is what I want to do. Free flowing and refreshing. Word after word after word -like a row of soldiers, dancing across the sheet in perfect synchrony. The pen is light and the words, effortless. No thesaurus by my side and no list of things-to-do hanging over my head distracting me.

The sky above me is so blue and the air has a reassuring smell of familiarity – of the sea and the fish. Life is rushing by me like everyone is in a hurry to get older, richer, busier. But that isn’t how I like my life to be. I hate to run. I would rather take a lazy stroll in a garden while there is still daylight, eat a cucumber-cheese-tomato sandwich, peel an orange and luxuriously pop each piece in and just stare at the grass, the flowers, the children.

I like cooking non-hurried food. The pressure cooker isn’t the answer to life. I like roasting and sniffing the spices turn from a sandy shade to a golden brown. Sit at a restaurant and taste the prawn masala fry slowly to decipher what went in it. Take a bite, speak, talk, discuss, savor the flavor and digest the moment leisurely.

Must we buy a house in the hills? Where the life is slow and moments come more easily. Memories are made at a barbecue in my backyard. The cold wind turns your nose blue yet you are perfectly warm on the inside. Cities can make you cold, routinely, mechanical.

There is a pot hole near my house. On and off, it is filled by some random water. It isn’t monsoon. One day a dog was sitting in it like a king. His head was titled towards the sky. His expression seemed to be that of pride. He looked like a delight in the muck. How often do these sights arrest me? Not often. Very occasionally now I see the clouds turn black or the flower sprout from the bud. It’s my excuse – no time to sit and stare. But it’s hardly an excuse. One makes time.

Happiness finds me. I delude myself with fake misfortunes and shut it out. Truth is I am a lucky one. With love, life, like minded friends. Sit at a coffee shop, do a night in, just talk. Shut out the internet, the wi-fi, the television, the distractions. Soak in the cloud of joy just suspended all around me. Making time is an art, making excuses is easy labor. I would like to be an artist. I’m abandoning excuses. I am going to do things I like to do.

The Final Exit Mode

2010-03-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

I am in an exit mode of mind. The new office hasn’t worked for me. Truth be told, no office has ever worked for me though I have been good at my work but never enjoyed it really. And I have sat myself down and racked my head to figure out what exactly will work for me? And the decision happened almost automatically. I want to study. Always have. Always will.

Going back to academics is a tough choice to make. Especially when one is used to the idea of the cheque arriving at your account at the end of each month, especially when one sees all most of their batch mates climbing the corporate ladder in full speed and especially when one comes face to face with your own convoluted idea of self worth.

At 20 I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was passionate about my subject but somehow I got fed in with external opinions about how a professional course is the only way to be. So I followed the herd, did a painful course, sat for placements and bang – I was now a management trainee at an office with a little cubicle. I wasn’t happy when I prepared for the entrance, I wasn’t happy to figure out math problems and who is whose aunt in those god forsaken logical sections! I was miserable doing my 2 year old course and I by the time I started working, I was numbingly indifferent and mechanical about my work. I thought a lot about returning to academics, pursue literature, do what makes me happy and finally be interested in something but then the demon of false-self-worth possessed me.

I think most of us paint our self worth according to how much money we make and what’s our official designation. Even if it isn’t something we love doing, at least its something we like being called. So when I go to a party and ask someone about themselves, 90% of their conversation will be about work. Why not talk about what you like, what you read, what music makes you the person you are, etc etc? Why only talk about the fact that you are so stressed because you are worried about how much your next bonus will be? I am not saying that money isn’t important. Of course it is. But sadly, money is now the only thing that seems to derive our self worth and that’s kind of shitty.

I had also fallen in the same web. Not working in a respectable office and not having something to talk about at these get-togethers would make me feel bad about myself. My parents would reiterate that how I need to work for people to respect me. When I took a break between 2 jobs, I didn’t like telling people that I am not working. I felt small, insignificant and worthless. Though when I wasn’t working, I was freelancing, but somehow I always thought that people will think less of me. And it wasn’t even my parent’s fault that they said it or that I felt this way. I think it was some kind of illogical social conditioning that just seeps into your head after a point of time.

But it’s been 3 years of working and 3 years of hating each morning that I had to go for work. And now I am in the final exit mode. I have realized that my self-worth comes from within me and no corporate snob in a party should make me want to redefine that. My husband makes me proud, he understands my love for studying, he wants me to return to academics, he respects it and that gives me an immeasurable amount of support and confidence. So this session onwards, I am a student again. I hope to make it through to the entrance, I hope to realize true happiness and I hope to reinstate my new definition of self worth. :)

The Hate Club

2010-03-11T11:40:00.000-08:00

Of all the people I have known, this girl I knew in college has been by far the worst yet. There are others I haven’t liked. Well, who are we kidding? There have been plenty of additions in the hate list but she is definitely the uncontended president of the hate club.

I went through this very strange phase in life. I was a very well liked person till school and under grad – peaceful, fun person who got along with everyone and never felt the need to really despise anyone. And then post grad happened and something changed. Was it me or the people? I’d like to think it was the latter. I met the most rotten, most annoying and the pettiest bunch of people that I had ever seen, all in one single room. It would make me want to throw up. I had such few friends that I could count them on the fingers of my one hand. And that few also took me a really really long time to make.

I am a very loyal friend so my basics are as in place as is the characteristic of loyalty in a dog. If I love you, I will stand by you even if you have to kill someone. I will defend you to death and only reprimand you in private. I will be the rock solid, illogical wall and ward off any shit that may happen to you. In the process however, I will expect something similar and hence be vulnerable to insurmountable hurt. So I open up these positions to only a few that I am completely sure about. But that doesn’t mean that just because I have very limited stars in my own private sky, that I will hate the rest of the world.

But for some odd reason, in my post grad, I hated people and they hated me. I thought they were idiotic and completely malicious, they thought I was obnoxious and completely unapproachable. Ah well. So anyway, I hated a lot of women and men in my class. The woman who was overly sweet and suddenly flipped sides behind my back, the man who was a devil in disguise, the woman who was so nice it seemed fake –and turned out fake of course, the man who hit on everything with boobs, the woman who was judgmental to the point of me wanting to lunge at her throat every time I saw her, the pseudo intellectual fool who suddenly switched his taste in music, the attention hungry-lycra wearing-love handles bulging dimwit, the man who suddenly thought he was Casanova, the woman who used men to do all her dirty assignment work and the list is endless. But the one who tops the list is a new discovery – a friend who I discovered, used to bitch about me behind my back. That’s the worst category yet. And in my world of loyalty, that’s unforgivable sin.

So I guess she didn’t like me. Fine. Tell me that. I prefer hearing that any day. Why pretend? I didn’t like her much either but because I had no choice, I stood her mood swings and her tantrums and her completely selfish behavior. She certainly made me believe that I was a friend, reached out to me when in trouble, used my stuff, demanded my company and blah blah. And one fine day, convenience struck, and she chose to erase me out of her life and her social network. Am I sad? Upset? Disturbed? Absolutely not. I just gave conferred on her the presidential position of my hate club. After thinking of ways to get rid of her from my life, I guess I found the perfect way really - auto departure - without feeling guilty or mean, without making some random excuse. I’m just glad she chose to leave. We call it the divine intervention of the gods of the hate club. All hail!

Dawn Intolerance

2010-02-25T19:52:00.000-08:00

It’s a client visit at office today. I can’t open facebook. I mean I can, but it will only attract dirty stares and maybe a snide remark about lack of respect blah blah. I don’t understand why though. I mean as a quasi marketing and an almost corporate communication person, isn’t it supposed to be in our blood to network, network, network till we succeed? But anyway, who can understand these things. So no facebook at work today. That’s new. Another thing that’s new today is the early morning rising. So client visit at 8 am means waking up at 5.30 to switch on the geyser and then re-waking up at 6.15 to get ready and leave at sharp 7.15. Sigh.

So I am not a morning person. No sir. Never have been. Never shall be. Never do I aim to be. When in school, I always woke up at the nth hour and was the last one to get into the car pool. I could study all night but never manage to wake up in early to save my life – and subsequently that day’s exam. In college, I barely made it to class in time, sometimes scrambling halfway in my bathroom chappals and specks. When I joined work, I loved the fact that all my jobs started at 10 AM. And this one starts at 11. So no complaints there.

Though surprisingly it didn’t feel so annoying waking up early in the morning. Usually I get cranky and feel sick, want to even throw up sometimes. I think I have dawn-intolerance.

To explain further, Dawn Intolerance is the inability to raise your eyelids early in the morning. A sense of lead-like heaviness takes over your eyes. Any accidental exposure to sunlight brings out the monster in you. In case of exceptions like meetings, early morning flights or exigencies result in making you feel disoriented and sometimes even unwell. There is obvious lack of appetite but a necessary need to reach out to any form of caffeine for assistance in making your mind alert.

But today things didn’t seem that bad. Is it a sign of becoming older again? My grandma wakes up at 5 for puja and my dad wakes up at 7 for yoga and they say it’s the freshest feeling in the whole world. I liked the morning breeze and the transition from dark to light. The sun seemed pretty and I could take a really deep breath. I even contemplated changing my swimming time from late evening to early morning. But then again, the thought was transitory, as were these subah-subah ki feelings. Someone once told me that dawn is the time of the gods and late night is the time of the devil. And I prefer the hour of evil? Well, I am not complaining. That is the mighty fate of the dawn intolerant.

Work Shirk

2010-02-15T04:09:00.000-08:00

I don’t know why I work. As I type this, I’m sitting at my workstation, not too enthusiastic, not too kicked, glancing at my watch every now and then, waiting for Monday to be over so that Friday gets closer. Work is a bitch. Unless you love what you do. Which is a privilege that only a few lucky ones have.

It’s not like I can’t write for a living. Yet I choose to do it in the garb of a corporate veil and try extracting some semblance of work satisfaction from it. Ideally I would want to do features and write about why Blue is the new hue. Or scribble about some place dug from the past or a leader less remembered. I would want to write a book. Only that I don’t know what about. Once in a while an idea does present itself to me in form of a dream or an ephemeral thought. But then I am stuck and I don’t know how to churn words by the hundreds.

Also, it’s all very messed up because I know I can take a break and stay at home, write from home, edit and freelance, try finish that book I once started, go for a swim and get more ideas hidden in the bubbles underwater. But I choose not to. And that is a pity. But there is a story behind that too. On days I want to pursue a management course. Will I be good at it? Yes. But do I want to be good at it? I don’t know.

Like many of us, I have come to associate self worth with work, with money, with jobs that sound important but at the end of the day, are not important to you at all. Like many would, I am also scared of starting from scratch, from going and asking a magazine for internship at this age, afraid that when I see other women my age already have reached where I should have after these many years, I will feel disheartened and return to the corporate ladder and slot myself in the stereotype again. So why leave? And hence, get stuck in this rut all over again.

I get to hear of things like, treat work like work. It’s a job at the end of the day that helps you buy worldly material things. So stop right there and stop getting emotional. I find myself wondering very often how would it have been if it had chosen science instead of arts, economics instead of literature, mba instead of mass communication but then again, would I have been happier then or even more miserable?

It’s a complex maze we weave for ourselves. A web of thoughts where getting stuck is so easy and getting out, so tough. I want to work where I can write and smile when I get published. I want to pursue academics and also teach literature. These are the two things I really want to do. But I am headed in the direction of neither. Either my passion is not strong enough or the corporate lady alter-ego has taken over me. Or maybe its sheer laziness? I don’t know. In either case, it isn’t a happy world.

Growing Up

2010-01-04T08:47:00.000-08:00

I realized that I’ve started appreciating beverages when I started rejecting cutting chai for my brewed Darjeeling tea & when I started preferring to go to Indian Coffee House for pure filter coffee than sit amongst teenagers in Barista over a cup of really pointless cappuccino.

Likewise, a lot of things around me & about me started changing. The jholas were replaced by bags. Quieter, simpler earrings replaced noisy, junk jewellery. Cocktails replaced tequila shots. Dinner outs replaced pub hopping. Yoga replaced couch-potatoing in front of the tv in the evenings. And most importantly, infrequent but happiness-inducing conversations with close friends replaced the constant need to be in touch with the whole world.

Of late my world has become smaller, tighter & clearer. Now a quiet evening alone at home is counted as quality time that I really look forward to once in a while instead of what was earlier termed as having no life! Suddenly I have no desire to stay in touch with everyone I know. I count few as friends & get in touch with them sooner or later. I can’t hold a random conversation with an acquaintance for too long. I have lost my tolerance for shallowness & convenience. Family has become a big priority. The well being of my brother has taken a predominant position in my list of daily concerns. Following up with Mom on her diet control & medicines and reminding Dad to consume healthier food is now a voluntarily imposed routine.

The water suddenly seems very calming. Swimming has become a route to escape within myself. Just sitting beside M quietly makes me feel content. I don’t seek for constant approval & reassurance for all my insecurities from the world. Miss P & I have started talking about real life, real problems. With age, like scotch, our bond has matured & become finer than it was.

Soup has become good dinner. Crushed ice with Baileys has become a favourite after-dinner indulgence. Investments have become important. Splurging has declined. Hair appointments are crucial and well timed. But buying a French manicure kit to do it at home gives me some satisfaction of being thrifty! Holidays are sensible & so is the spa package one opts for. Taking extra care before getting all the whites washed is also a recent development after heart breaks over them getting ruined & then getting them dyed.

Career is no longer a blind road that I once rushed into. Boredom is now no more an option. Hobbies have resurfaced. Some old books, some tattered diaries have been unearthed from the recesses of my old room in my parent’s house. Toying with the idea of writing a book someday is now a dream that shows itself often at night. Helping the sincere maid escape the egoistic, slightly demented rich neighbor is an important agenda that one must achieve. The idea of having a child in a few years doesn't seem that scary anymore. Knowing the latest property rates & following up on new projects seems like a good time pass.

Some things however, have thankfully remained the same. The nuttiness hasn't changed. The laughter hasn't reduced. The love stays strong. The friends remain as family. The family continues to be the rock. And the silent prayer I send up for letting me have the constants & the changes will still go everyday.

One imagines this is all part of growing up not growing old. :)

In Sickness & in Health

2009-11-10T22:40:00.000-08:00

After two & a half years, my slip disc problem recurred. About 2 weeks ago, one morning I could not get up from the bed. Excruciating pain, a feeling of helplessness & a strange anger consumed me as I was raised & made to prop against my pillow like a child who has to be made to sit every time he has to eat, minus the pain of course.

Another stint at the hospital and a reasonably long bed-rest advice later, I thought, it is tragic to have this problem at the age of 26. It is more unpleasant than a facebook friend request from the girl I hated in college. It is more unpleasant than the taste of Safi that I have just begun to have each night. It is more unpleasant than the zit that sits proudly on my left cheek right now. It is almost the most unpleasant thing to have happened to me of late – or so I thought.

Being in bed & confined to home all day makes you depressed, chronically moody & deeply retrospective. In one such day, as I lay in bed, with that contraption of a pulley with 2 kilos attached to my neck, I thought how I seem to have wasted my talents away.

I like to believe I used to have a couple of very-pursue-able skills. I am a good cook & always have been. I wanted to be a chef but was always told that hotel management means being a glorified receptionist. By the time I was old enough to understand, I was too old. I am a good photographer. I take lovely portraits & have had my manual SLR to experiment & discover my interest with but I did not pursue photography professionally. Maybe I never bothered to find out how to. I used to write well & always thought that I would be writing for a magazine some day till I come out with a book of my own. And then when I finally could have had that chance, I completely screwed it up at post graduation by willingly specializing in film making – which by the way, is probably the biggest regret of my life till now – and never did pursue journalism of any kind. So all 3 skills which I had were never pursued & I ended up in a television job that I hated & quit, went onto some semblance of a content writing job which soon turned into me writing pre-sales proposals for clients and after that I started making too much money to go back to a mainstream writing job, knowing that when treated as a fresher, I would probably not even be making one third of it. Was it the money that killed my passion or the lack of time with the house to take care of and another thousand personal commitments? I don't know. Ideally I would like to blame myself on neither and make fate the scapegoat but unfortunately that's not how I perceive my haphazard career graph & seeing my personal participation in my own doom, I get morose & depressed all the same.

So I message Miss P, informing her of my feeling of directionless aimlessness and she tells me things that are, to me, as profound as what any shrink would have said as pearls of wisdom for which I would have paid a thousand bucks an hour.

She told me that I am lucky. And it made sense. And that I am not the only one who didn't get to pursue a career out of something I loved. Many people who are bankers & accountants are actually closet rock stars & artists but they don't make a living out of that. I know my husband, who is a fantastic golf player, would have loved to pursue it professionally but he works 8 to 8 in an FMCG company and tries to put as much passion in that as is humanly possible and that is inspiring. If I set aside my constant complains about my lack of passion in my job, there is actually nothing in my life to complain about (apart from the slip disc surely), but the way I see it today, even that could be a blessing in disguise. For all my cribbing about unhealthy living & weight management issues, my medical prescription after I get better is not a couple of pills a day – its actually this: Compulsory yoga daily & swimming at least 4-5 times a week. How many people get a prescription like that? Its like God's way of telling me to start living more healthy.

So I also have anxiety issues. My doc told me to calm down. My parents told me to get a grip or by 30 I will surely get blood pressure. My best friend told me that I need to soothe my nerves every once in a while & my brother told me to control my spurts of uncontrollable anger. Even M told me to take things easy & stop being so much of a perfectionist because more than anyone, its driving me crazy.

Therapy? I asked.

That would be insanely expensive. Miss P said

Is the work driving me over the edge? I inquired

No, you were worse when you were on a break. M told me gently.

I will control my anger. I reassured my brother.

Hah Di! That cant happen! He assured me in return.

Maybe I am becoming a fanatic for perfection. I discussed with Ma.

Please change yourself before you get old & cranky, she told me frankly.

Why are my reflexes so aggravated? I asked my doctor a week ago after the check up

You need to calm down, stop thinking for the future. Worrying is your bad habit. He said as calmly as a prophet would.

And then the prescription for my slip disc – life long swimming to keep my spine in order and yoga – to improve posture & calm my frazzled nerves. I should really consider myself lucky. Some people get strapped to the bed, some go for surgery, some live with a collar as an extension to themselves forever. None of that scary stuff as happened to me yet & instead of pills, I get Yoga. Really, for once, I should stop complaining and start being positive.

So what if I couldn't become the next big thing in the writing circles, it isn't late yet. And I get to do some really awesome freelance writing once in a while which also gets published & read! So what if I couldn't become the photographer I imagined myself to be, I am soon buying myself a Nikon D90 and getting busy with a serious hobby. And so what if I couldn't be a famous chef and feed the world, I continue to feed my friends and family and make them happy! Not every skill has to turn into a profession and not every profession has to become a passion. Sometimes that's the way things go and as long as I have my bracket of people in my life, to love me and keep me, in sickness and in health, I am incredibly lucky & happier than most people in the world.

(P.S - Mom, Dad, Bro, M, Miss P, Adi, Ips, Amby & the recent addition Yesyen – thanks for being the bracket & thanks for being the joy.)

Not So Subtle

2009-10-22T08:24:00.000-07:00

I know the season is changing since it started getting darker than usual when I leave work. Other than that Mumbai doesn't really have a palpable sudden shift of weather – like in Delhi one fine day the night seems chilly & the morning seems refreshing, nothing of the kind happens here. The heat slowly wanes – so slowly I don't notice it. I never notice differences too subtle – like the different shades of greens in microsoft excel, like a haircut on a man, like a new plant potted in my society. I notice however if the angle of my vase is changed, or the face that the lampshade faces has been turned, or the tiny pimple bubbling under my eyebrow & the smell of the over-toasted garam masala. I guess I am selectively observant. As are most of us.

So anyway, no blogging has happened because I think my blog has died. Every attempt to resurrect it has been dismal & only triggered by a single post with no following ones. Perhaps because nothing of significant importance has happened that can be written about. I have started work & am in the process of starting my own home-made chocolate business from home. So training, research & plans have taken up weekends, new chilled our work where I churn out content for a start-up company has taken up weekdays, family visits have taken up festival holidays & its been a normal yet joyous phase. Is this what they call settling down? Is this the definition of stability? I don't know. Yet I like whatever this is called.

One post that I make each year on the blog as tradition has been for Diwali – my cathartic festival with significant change of circumstance or heart. Every year since the past few has brought with it a new chapter and closed an old one. Some have memories of quiet, solemn, peaceful diya-filled nights, some are insanely bursting at its seam with energy, dancing through the night & sparkly skies. But all have memories of my entire family together and that has been consistent. This time the family had a brand new member – M, who has magically hypnotized my folks into loving him like a son & struck a camaraderie with my brother into sharing all beer & sutta secrets with him. So the relatively larger family was together for my first diwali at my own house. Diyas, rangolis, kebabs, mirchi lights, laxmi pooja, phuljhadi amongst other things made this diwali quite regular yet not. It was somehow a very special Diwali – maybe one of the most special festivals ever & one of the more memorable nights in this house.

Did I mention we shifted in a spanking new house in a lovely locality where everything is a phone call & a 5 minute drive away and where I actually have 4 big balconies – to sit & have tea, to learn yoga, to lounge with friends and to string with lights & lamps! Did I also mention that we will be leaving Mumbai for newer lands soon? I don't know where though but as my stay in Mumbai is coming to an end, I am falling more & more in love with the city. Do I even want to go to another? I don't know – but change is refreshing, change is what keeps one occupied. Plus lots of my friends seem to be leaving Mumbai together. One left for the US, another sets sail for the UK. These were dear friends – my chick friend cum shopping partner decided to make more money and ran away, my favourite guy friend & easily the longest conversation holder needs to go set up some office in firang lands. Its a sad brain-draining world if you ask me.

I admit today that I would prefer to maybe stay in Mumbai over any other place – stay though, not settle mind you – I'm still very north indian at heart, still very much in love with my mughlai cuisine with non-sweet green chutney & a forever-hater of vada pavs! But for now, Mumbai seems to appeal to me. And then again its the comfort level that I get into I guess. I am used to my house,my househelp, my facilities, my supermarket, the disciplined lane driving, the warm people & the gorgeous monsoons and I have always been resistant to change so I can't say, maybe shifting to another place will be a better experience.

I would like Delhi very much. But I will not pin my hopes on any city this time, especially that one. I seem to invariably jinx it like I have three times in the past – I wanted to intern there & it didn't happen, I took my first job there and within a month I had to move, I was almost going to go there after marriage and M got a stint a Mumbai. So this time I will be open in my head to any city & let fate take its course. Delhi would be nice though – the comfort of familiarity, of localities & friends, of home being 9 hours away, of Miss P's house being a drive away instead of a flight. But anything can happen & I will not hope this time.

Though I will look forward to the not-so-subtle change of weather in Delhi and the lovely transition from autumn to winter that is as obvious as the kitchen that my mother just rearranged!

Here’s to Monsoon. Here’s to Mumbai.

2009-08-06T12:54:00.001-07:00

Mumbai is parched again. Dry days and quiet nights. No noise of the rain lashing against my window, no hearing the neighbour abuse because she got splashed by some lunatic auto driver. It’s all quiet again. I should be happy really – it’s a respite from the pot holes in front of my house that get concealed by the water, leaving no scope for escape, it’s a relief from the damp, musty smell of the semi-dry clothes, it’s a definite escape from the super slow traffic on the road and the almost-paralysed days of heavy downpours. But I miss the rain. I miss standing at my balcony and watching gorgeous polka dots form in the puddle below, I miss having my hair made frizzy by the light spray of the drizzle, I miss the giant globular water bodies crash against my arm when I stretch them out of the window, I miss the feel of the steaming cutting chai in the mud kulhads I have bought, I miss getting a call from my paranoid mom telling me to stay at home because the news channels tell her that Mumbai is drowning yet again! This monsoon season is growing on me – and it is, but dangerous.

I mean I hated the rains. I hated Mumbai primarily because of the rains. The dirt and the slush and the muck and the transition from sophisticated footwear to clumsy flip-flops made me want to run away from the damn city. There was a time I would dread this season – pray to the gods of weather to make monsoon pass soon but now, I actually miss it if it doesn’t rain for a few days in this season. I don’t know what it is really – I can’t seem to put my finger to it. Maybe it’s the fact that I have, with rains, some of the most memorable moments in Mumbai with some of my closest people. Or maybe it’s because for me, the rain is like this cathartic force that comes every year and washes away all the crap that has happened since the last monsoon. Or maybe it has become my muse, my inspiration to write. It seems to be the only weather which makes me really calm and makes me want to dig out an old book and re-read it. It seems to be the only time of the year when everything looks beautiful to me. It’s the only time of the year when I get to use my retro style flowery umbrella and roll up my jeans without the fear of looking silly.

I guess it was only a matter of time that monsoon grew on me. It was only a matter of time that Mumbai grew on me. It’s all happening. The unthinkable and the unimaginable. Mumbai taught me to be resilient and be good to strangers. It forced me to be patient and more tolerant. It made me see the whole world’s joy come together on the faces of people who spend their Saturday nights on Chaupati. The city is becoming me and I am becoming the city and though I am sure I won’t stay here forever, I am surer of the fact that I will miss it very very much once I leave. So here’s to Mumbai – the land of ‘anyone who really cares to come here’, the city that will make you fall in love with it no matter how much you resist and the place where dreams are weaved on local trains.

The Shoe-side Story

2009-07-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

So I like shoes. Big deal! I also like clothes. I like brands. I like a nice bag. So what?
So a few days ago I met these 2 friends and one of them ended up discussing something about colours and heels with me and the other one said “Please don’t sound like Barbie dolls. Please be normal”. Err… excuse me but being well dressed is abnormal?

I don’t understand this stereotype associated with women who like to shop. No, all of them are not full of fluff. And most of them are, in fact, people who earn well to shop well. I’ve always had a thing for footwear – when I was a student, it was my collection of Oshos and flip flops of all colours and since I started making money, I started collecting gorgeous heels from Aldo and Nine West and Charles & Keith etcetera etcetera! Does that make me any less smart? I don’t think so! I like to write and I love to read. Haruki Murakami sits on my bedside table as I type. Some Atwood is stacked up on the shelf. I just finished The Colour Purple. And there is the latest issue of Cosmo and Vogue that lives in my bathroom too. So why are people always equating fashion talks with lack of real brain? I don’t know!

The other day, my husband’s friend’s wife, who I am just beginning to hang with, dropped in and M mentioned that I show her my massive heel collection. I refused saying that “She needs to know me better or she will instantly judge me as some blonde who only buys shoes”. Why did I say that? I don’t know. But somehow, somewhere, even I am aiding this stereotype to thrive.

People really need to stop being so quick in judging. All coordinated women are not dumb and all messy ones are not geniuses. Just like people need to abandon the stereotype of all feminists being manly, aggressive and short haired, more people also need to stop associating fashion with stupidity and high heels with blondeness.

Everyone has pretty feet. I think its time every woman starts buying herself some really sexy high heels and adopt my mantra – “Have pedicure. Wear Heels.”

Cross Legged Thoughts

2009-05-17T03:06:00.000-07:00

I sit at my desk, bring the lazy white-butt cigarette to my lips, inhale, shut my eyes, exhale, open my eyes and pop in a dark chocolate. Ummmm. But I am not completely comfortable yet. So I cross my legs, struggling to fit into the tricky wheeled chair and start typing and thinking and smoking and typing – all at once.
I like sitting cross-legged I realise. I do it when I type, I prefer the sofa side in a restaurant so I can cross my legs and eat, I like to cross my legs while I pray, I don’t mind being the only person in the house-party who volunteers to sit on the floor in the absence of enough seating space, I also like sitting like that in the car, at my office desk, at casual meetings, at a jenga game and anywhere else that it is possible. Give me my comfort position and I am happy.

Anyhow. So I quit my job – walked away a job that allowed me to slot and choose and watch movies and give promo briefs with a very comfortable routine & with weekends off. For many it was a dream job – ‘Wow, you work at Zee Studio. That must be fun. Blah. Blah’. Yes, so it was initially – and then monotony set in and frustration of not being able to do what I like bugged me enough to just leave. Recession, bad economy, rising prices aside, I still feel that I am meant to work somewhere where it allows me to write. I may be wrong you know – I may be really bad, maybe no one wants to give me a chance or a job, maybe if I attempt to write a book I will get dismally rejected by the publishers, maybe if I try my hand at a magazine I will suffer from a writer’s block on a daily basis. OR maybe I am good, maybe practice will make me better, maybe I do start doing what I actually enjoy and not go to office to just do a damn ‘job’. But we won’t know till we try, right?

Parents threw a fit when I decided – and it wasn't an easy decision, mind you – it gets very comfortable to work in a place which gives you such flexibility and such fun colleagues and you get into a comfort zone after 2 years in an office – where you know everyone and everyone knows you (at least by face if not by virtue). The chai wala knew exactly how I take mine, the canteen people were habituated by my sugarless mosambi juice, the ex-boss knew me inside out and became my agony aunt plus mentor plus super friend, the colleagues knew my quirks, the common enemies were identified, the confidants selected– its not easy to think of starting afresh – new desk, new people, new colleagues, new unknown devils, new café menu, new area, new afternoon lunch places, new roads, new bathrooms, new dress codes and more than all that, a new profile altogether. So I think it was a brave, brave step towards at least attempting to find my calling. If I fail there are always more similar jobs, if I don’t then hurrah for the switch. But then again, what else is life if not a series of heartbreakingly tough risks?

I can take this risk because M is with me – here, there or anywhere. I get encouraged to pursue literature because Miss P is there to yell at me and make me see sense. I feel confidant to take this step because my brother who is 19 acts like he is 39 and says he will stand by me come-what-may. I feel incredibly lucky & blessed. Many people have to do a 9-5 job – some like it, some don’t, some do it by choice, some don’t, some need the position, some need the money and some just need to keep themselves occupied. I need neither and if I don’t make the effort now to do what I like, then I would be a complete idiot.

So here’s a toast - to new ventures, new people, new workstations and many many new words.
It’s a new beginning in my life. All good wishes (and maybe some leads) would be appreciated!

From the Diary of a Newly Wed

2009-03-23T11:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve set out with a very hopeful heart to resurrect my blog. It’s been minutes, hours, days & months. Either I am suffering from the longest writer’s block ever or there is nothing exciting enough to write about. I’d imagine it’s the first. Mainly because since I have stopped writing, the following things happened:
1. A 50 days long vacation
2. A bachelorette party
3. A wedding
4. A honeymoon
5. Moving into a new house
6. Starting life over
Whew! And what a journey all of this has been.

First of all, the myth of post-married life has been killed in my head. No, it is not restricting or stifling or a loss of identity or a distancing from friends. In fact it is anything but that. It’s lovely, refreshing, stable and I love coming back home to a friend. I feel like I’m dating the man I married & that makes every day exciting & every dinner, a date.
So in a nutshell, I recommend marriage to anyone.

I am married. But I don’t feel married. I still have my last name. I still wear my jeans, tshirt & coordinated chappals. I still talk to my friends as much. I still party. I party more. I still drink. I drink more. I still go to work, come back, watch tv, chill & laze around with my husband, M.

I used to think love is overrated. Now I think marriage is underrated. For me, marriage has been a surprise – all preconceived notions have fallen flat on my face, all apprehensions disappeared. I think it’s mostly to do with M, who has ensured happiness & madness to continue & multiply in my life. I think I have been incredibly lucky and in the rush to catch up with the new life & the new luck, I have not written a single line in the salad. I have been running around, working like a cow because of the damn recession, partying like a rockstar on weekends to temporarily forget recession, stocking up my beloved kitchen, putting lamps in corners & feeding every single soul who happens to drop in.

Yes, life has been good. The blog has been resurrected. And you are invited to a meal if you happen to come by my new home.

I will keep adding portions of my life to the salad platter. Between love, life, work & marriage, I will write again. :)

Diya Battis & the Sparkling Night

2008-10-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Its past 12 am, Diwali is over but the diyas are still warm and the warmth passes onto my hand as I hold it gently. Patches of colourful wax lumps decorate the ledge of my balcony. The smell of crackers is still in the air. The kaju barfis lie on the table, with the dry fruits and the colourful, bit-too-shiny gift packs. The rangoli I made at the entrance is smudged a bit, but looks pretty – the diya on it has somehow not died yet – it faintly throws light, illuminates it, stays like a faithful caretaker.

We didn’t socialize too much this year. We reached home for Diwali at 7 pm – Simla is cold, I was wearing a cardigan, a thick oversized sweatshirt and shivering to death – I think it was my open feet – mom used to say that if you keep your feet warm, your entire body will be warm – and yet I am a fan of open footwear via which I exhibit my perfectly pedicured feet and hence literally get cold feet.

Utter chaos broke at home henceforth – mom trying to get us to have a bath after the long journey, we cringing at the thought of a bath in this weather, getting the mandir ready for puja, making me look presentable for the colony aunties (ew how much I despise them), rushing to make the alpana and the rangoli, dad and brother taking charge of the diyas and candles and amidst it all, the house-help Minnie being the most in demand from all areas! But all in one hour flat we managed to do it all – and had a decent diwali after all.

Diwali for me has always been a riveting point in my life – something significant has always happened – some realities acknowledged, some realizations dawned, some hearts broken, some resolutions mended, some priorities reordered – Diwali has always managed to make me grow a year wiser if not older, and a tad more worldly yet optimistic. Diwali has always been a festival of joy. Diwali has always lingered in me longer than any other festival – like the colourful lamp that will hang in the balcony and fade slowly until next Diwali arrives.

To Thee I Tag...

2008-09-22T04:33:00.000-07:00

The Rules:
People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by them.
People who have been tagged must Tag 6 people to do this quiz and those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Spread the love?

The Tag:

1. If your lover betrayed you, what will your reaction be?
I will make him fall in love with me all over again, get him to be needy, puppy eyed, weak and then ditch the cheater!
2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?
My brother making it to his dream college, and then getting whatever he wants in life and being the happiest man on earth.
3. Whose butt would you like to kick?
Many butts without taking any if’s and buts. :D
4. What would do with a billion dollars?
Buy my parents a beeeeeg beeeeeg car, get my mom a dishwasher, buy my brother everthing that has the lovely apple marked on it, get myself a wardrobe the size of a room (before buying a big house that is) and then fill the whole damn thing!
5. Will you fall in love with your best friend?
That’s a subjective question…what kind of love are we talking about here – yes I love my best friend Miss P, and no, I am not gay.
6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?
Being loved. Anyday. Anytime. Anyway. Anyhow.
7. How long do you intend to wait for someone you love?
The wait is over folks! But generally, I'm an impatient person.
8. If the person you secretly like is attached, what will you do?
I don’t think I am qualified for this tag anymore. But hypothetically speaking – I will ignore it and move on.
9. If you could root for one social cause, what would it be?
Gender equality, working for the girl child, women development – you get the drift, don’t you?
10. What takes you down the fastest?
Unconditional affection – ask my friends how I turn putty in the hands of a little TLC.
11. Where do you see yourself in 10 years time?
In happy-land
12. What’s your fear?
Supernatural creatures? Eh. And sometimes my own destructive self.
13. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Vanilla Sky - Free. Independent. Refreshing.
14. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?
Neither. Married and Rich. I’m telling you – one can really have it all! :D
15. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously who will you pick?
That’s a stupid, childish, school-crush-type question. No comments.
16. Would you give all in a relationship?
Most but not all.
17. Would you forgive and forget someone no matter how horrible a thing he has done?
No. If the horrible meter reached the line of limit then fuck you and your existence.
18. Do you prefer being single or in a relationship?
In a relationship. I feel stable and sane.
19. List of 6 people to tag:
Miss P, Nimpipi, YouDay, oh my god I don’t have any more blogger friends. I am officially depressed.

G’Bye.

Wake me up when September ends

2008-09-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t rain too much Mumbai anymore. And I slimily miss that about the city. In fact, it hardly did rain at all this season – and now September shall end and monsoon is over. I like the rains – maybe because I stay, nestled safely in South Bombay, where a rainy day only means going out in flip-flops and life goes on as usual – no wading in the knee-deep water logging, no autos chugging and suddenly dying on me, no slish-slosh of the mucky stations – only the turbulent, gorgeous sea, cutting chai at Marine drive, watching the rain drops make a pretty pattern on my office window, and letting the light “barber-shop-like” spray come in my room at night with the thanda-thanda breeze. So yes, I guess monsoon for me has been nice – starting from the first day when the downpour came sans warning and I got drenched and ended up buying an over-priced umbrella on the road which broke in the next 10 days – to last evening, when I actually liked getting a bit wet in the rain and didn’t run indoors.
I usually don’t like getting wet in the rain, mostly because my hair gets frizzy and I can sometimes be quite a vanity case. But last night I let the big droplets just crash onto me indulgently while I continued to walk at my own slow speed. Also, the other day, I loved getting wet in the rain and imagined that it made my skin glow. For some odd reason, the rain has been a very cathartic force in my life of late – I let myself go when the waterdrops start to hit me, raise my chin up and let the water splash on my face, sometimes spread my arms very filmy ishtyle – and feel cleansed and lighter and happier after that.
Its become such a habit to hear the water lashing at my window on some nights, or to wake up to a really fresh day, to be pleasantly surprised and sometimes rudely shocked at its unpredictability, to know that ‘ohhhkay today is my converse chappals day’ and decide not to see the face of my new silver satin buhloody expensive heels till every bit of the water in the sky dries up. I am so used to my rainy season gear- the capris and the non-white tshirts, my retro flowery umbrella which is a permanent resident of my bag, a bright red plastic-ey scrunchie and the rubbery sole chappals, that seeing the season faze away is almost depressing me. What also adds to the misery is the fact that I am going to hit mid-20’s soon. I think I’d rather have slept the month away.
Wake me up when September ends?

Paranoid Android

2008-08-22T14:36:00.000-07:00

I left the iron on for 2 hours today and then writhed in guilt. I do such things often and am always paranoid if I have left a tap open and will have to come back to a flooded house. Sometimes when I hear noises, I am almost always sure it is one member of the army of mice under my floor (discounting the fact ofcourse that I live on the 7th floor), and then I switch on the light to see a polythene bag doing rounds of the room aided by the fan overhead. I have a Velcro-detachable net at the window – once upon a time a fat rat had entered the room and I cannot think of a more horrifying thing to have happened to me ever. I also look around the pot a little bit before settling there for a long period of time – once a pigeon had entered the toilet and hid herself cleverly in one corner and had chosen to make her presence felt at a very wrong time. Since then that corner of the loo had been sealed with ply and I am at peace again. My window sills and cupboard tops also have egg shells delicately placed in corners – I am paranoid about lizards too, and for that one can’t blame me or my paranoia against creepy-crawly creatures because in the days of my glorious under-grad, a lizard had dropped on my shoulder when I was rushing through the English corridor for an exam and one superstitious lady told me “its lucky”…lucky my arse…I don’t remember how I fared in the exam but I definitely remember the sick feeling of the cold creature. I think animals make me nervous – sometimes humans do too – but animals win the cup there. Its so difficult to figure out their next move – a bird would charge at anything to get out of the room, a rat would hide anywhere so it doesn’t get killed, a cat would sneak off through any corner of the room – one doesn’t see humans do that very often – like I know my mom wont go and sit on the stove one fine day and that my brother wont crash his way out of our glassroom just because he wanted to fly. In that way though humans are more credible. But the minds of both are as twisted – animals more so coz god only knows what they are thinking.
I especially dislike cats – the look slimey and sneaky to me – one cannot trust a cat. And that why I try staying away from Ms.P’s backyard when I am in her house – she is never short of cats taking refuge in her humble home and I am never short of crinkling my nose in disapproval and part-terror. I don’t mind dogs though – only because they are supposed to be loyal to the limit of stupidity – sometimes I think I am like that with my friends – I’d partner in a murder someday with a select few of my women if I have to – I just pray that day doesn’t arrive.

What else am I paranoid about except leaving gadgets on, blowing up the geyser and subsequently the house, creating flood, having rats and birds and lizards in my vicinity and losing all my hair? Oh I am also paranoid about not having a pair of red chappals and a red bag always and always. I am also scared I will run out of ideas one day. I am also paranoid that what if my marriage doesn’t work. I am also freaked out about gaining a kilo after paying a bomb to the gym. I also get very cranky when I miss the trailers before a film starts and also when the yolk gets even slightly overcooked. I am very paranoid about my brother taking the cycle everyday to his tuition. I am also paranoid about getting pedicures once a month come what-the-fuck may. I think I am generally paranoid. But I also think this keeps me very occupied, sometimes gives me a sense of being, of doing and of getting done to. It makes me feel important and sometimes makes the smallest of events important and the drabbest of evenings exciting. Why would people want to be calm and laid back all the time? I would die of boredom. I like being called ‘the Paranoid Android’ by my best friend. Paranoia is the new entertainment. I think somehow I really like paranoia.

My Cuppa Chai

2008-08-07T04:19:00.000-07:00

Green & Mint tea makes me sleep well. I realized this when I woke up last night because of some inexplicable anxiety and had to brew myself a cup to soothe my jangling nerves down. After that I pretty much slept like a baby and woke up late. Why late? Because the aromatic lopchu tea reached my bedside late. And hence I realized that I am, my dear friends, totally addicted.

I can’t seem to wake up without tea. I get cranky in the evening if I haven’t got my cuppa chai. And I crave for mint tea whenever I feel uneasy – which by the way is fantastic if you make it like this:

One bag of Twinings Mint & Green tea
5-6 twigs of fresh mint leaves
Sugar / sugarfree
One mug of water.

Boil water. Put twigs in the mug. Put the tea bag and sugar. Add hot water. Let it brew for about a minute, stir with the twigs, let them stay there and sip - voila!! – life is good and soooo peaceful for the next few minutes.

That’s why I love Cha Bar – and leave no opportunity to go there on weekends - sit and sip on a cup of fine Darjeeling 2nd flush and then order some strangely concocted margarita tea and then graduate to makaibari and finish with the classic cutting masala chai. No I kid you not, I do this often – I can have innumerable number of tea cups in a day – the more the merrier.

Tea centre at Churchgate is shut for a while. I am one of the many tea-lovers waiting so badly for it to reopen – so badly that I try crossing it every time I go to colaba – even if it’s a detour – just hoping that one day the lovely old warm building with open itself to me again.

Green tea, herbal tea, mint tea, apple tea, peach tea, ice tea, masala tea, Darjeeling and assam, earl gray and Ceylon, Chinese tea, jasmine tea, any tea at all...
Its like if Heath Ledger woke up from the dead and asked me “Coffee, Tea or Me?”, without a wink of doubt it would be "Tea"!

To Phases and Sales and Steam Baths!

2008-07-31T12:27:00.000-07:00

A long inexplicable gap has happened in my excursion of nonsensical, inconsequential writing. Meanwhile many things have happened in the life of the not-so-rich and the not-so-ordinary me. I have got engaged. This post announces it formally to my world and the world beyond.

Yes yes the big BIG step has been taken, the promises exchanged and we are halfway there – there where I thought I would never reach – the land of non-singledom and the island of serious commitment. (which by the way does not imply that I will not have my girls nights out and my drinking sessions, so please to be inviting me over as regularly as you always did!). The boy is a family friend’s son and to cut a long story short, it’s been a good journey so far and this has sorted my head the way I never expected it to. (Oh and yes, the mystery behind me staying back in Mumbai and not making that Delhi change is now a mystery no more)…! So with that in order, and the virtual announcement over with, let’s get on to the other exciting things that have happened around me!

Everything went on sale…and I mean everything! Suddenly I transformed from the serious office going woman to a shop hopper getting fantastic deals and burning my bank balance away. With Nike and Reebok also being on sale (apart from that many lovely prêt lines) made me finally join a gym again – and seriously at this time and one that thankfully stays open till late night – its been 15 glorious days and I have gone every single day. But I do think that the steam room is the real motivation behind it all – where I bask in for 15 minutes almost daily and come out feeling like a momo!

It’s a good phase – happy things have been happening around me. Two very dear friends of mine have had some pretty good changes in their lives too. While one has taken a solid friendship of many years and finally turned it into a relationship, another very close friend has found her passion for the subject she will now indulge into with a huge hearty dive! The now-turned-girlfriend is all cheery and happy and I lurve hearing her that way – and her skin is glowing and her voice has that ring to it and I couldn’t be happier or approve more! The other academically inclined one is going to get into heavy time reading and research and interpretations and is actually going to enjoy it and I am already looking forward to hearing all about it and wishing I were there too! My life is all hunky-dory except a little crap and tension at work – but when have I ever taken my work seriously, I ask thee… as long as I get to wear what I like, take my random breaks, listen to music and get paid for some creative input that suddenly struck me one evening, I am fine and dandy!

Monsoon is playing hide and seek with the city these days. One day it decides to drench the suburbs and lets the town go to work only to come back feeling silly about going anyway! Another day it is so hot in the morning that one could die and by afternoon, when the team finally decides to go for the sea-food lunch, its raining so much that the water is upto our knees and we are hoping to wade our way back to office. Also, the wind, the damn wind has done something strange to my retro pink flowery umbrella and now when I try to open it, sometimes it just jumps out of my hand like a ninja with a life of its own and goes and hits the person standing in front! I am fed up… so fed up with this rainy madness that I can’t wait for the non-wintery winter to arrive in this sauna-like-city! Wake me up when September comes?

Now my stomach is growling and I suddenly remember that I have forgotten to have dinner. Woe is me! So I am going to go poke my head in the fridge for some hot milk and you may please continue with the comments.

*Silent prayer sent up so that the phase continues* - To happiness and joy and many more such phases!

Everyday

2008-07-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when it rains and you shoot it with macro lenses in high speed – every droplet looks like a shimmery globe that gently crashes onto you and bursts into a million beads. That’s how I see the rain – like bits of diamonds indulgently sprinkling from the skies. My headphones are big and shut out the world – shuts out the noise of the keyboard, shuts out the colleague who munches all day on chips, shuts me out and transports me to a space where nobody can enter. That is why I chose the workstation at the window – I love looking out – when it rains and the whole world is sparkling and the crow is splashing itself, when the sun shines and the warm yellow satin sheet bathes you, when the sky is gray and cold and stunningly menacing.

Today is just another day of the week. Everything will be the same. The way to office. The strangers in the subway. The work routine. The people. The timings. The only thing that changes is the weather. I hardly think we are limited to only the four seasons. I think there are thousands of them. Everyday when I look at the sky, it looks new. Everyday the clouds form new faces. Everyday the sun teases me differently, the rains splash me in a new way, the breeze makes my hair knot itself in assorted ways. Everyday is a new season.

Monsoon Memories and the 2 Ladies

2008-07-02T00:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve been accused of not writing of late. It isn’t my fault really – work has been hectic and I have dedicated my free time to the pursuit of film watching. I’ve seen depressing ones, and brainless chick flicks, and nail-biting adventure, and the ones with mind games, and the ones with ‘only’ conversations and the ones you just watch because there is nothing else to watch. I recommend Lemony Snicket's: A Series of Unfortunate Events, that I watched the 2nd time over. The rest of them were crap and mostly not great. Oh and the recent film P.S. I Love You – didn’t impress me expect that one scene where the 2 walk together in Ireland. So yes, that’s why I’ve been busy and also I have got a haircut after weeks of contemplating to get one. Yes I like it, its mad and untidy and I feel a tad younger again. (things people do when they are heading for the big quarter of a century, I say).

Apart from that, I’m looking for a flat. I’m having space issues. I’m feeling unloved. I’m missing my ma. I’m buying too much red. I'm addicted to mint tea. I’m looking to buy flip-flops. And yes, monsoons have returned with all its flourish and nuisance. Though some days I really love the city – the breeze is cool and the leaves are greener – but on other days, I miss my regular bhelpuri wala who seems to have disappeared thanks to the constant pouring and the occasional flooding.

Yesterday, Mumbai was sinking, official holiday was declared after I already landed up in office (this only happens to me), roads were blocked and the news channels took great pleasure in over-hyping the whole situation. And they do that so much – every time the usual clogging, blocking, splashing, showering happens, the aaj taks of the world exaggerate it to “Floods in Mumbai – Daily Routine Stopped” blah blah – and thanks to that my relatives / friends / everyone who hasn’t ever stayed in Mumbai calls and asks me if I am safe and in my 7th floor home, safe from the torrential downpour and the watery menace! And to think today we are ALL back in office again and the sun was out at 10 am – too much fuss over nothing!

But monsoons always makes me nostalgic – last year I shared the season with Miss P who had to brave the Dadar ka keechad daily and who underwent multiple pedicures with me and Nimpipi with her banana chappals walking tall in the mucky Chruchgate station and hollering at me to stop popping open the damn umbrella at every slight drizzle, and many others who are not as significant enough to make me still smile at a year old memory. Sigh. And this monsoon I feel rather lonely – I crave for company to go to Cha Bar (yes Nimps, I finally found where it is and have been haunting it with its 86 flavours of tea ever since), I miss someone to sit at the special table at Mondys and sharing a beer with, I miss just staying in my room with hot tea and endless things to chat about, I miss taking a walk on Marine Drive talking about everything clean and dirty – so yes, I miss my lady friends and they both had to go away to Delhi. Woe is me!

But it’s Mumbai for another 2 years and we shall be brave and we shall send out weepy-needy holiday invitations to them – come back, come for a while, come for ever, come visit, come stay, come and stuff some memories in my box again, come before the monsoon season is gone!

Rain, Ghettos, Sex and the City

2008-06-06T13:16:00.001-07:00

So I don’t care what the critics say and how so many people are “apparently” disappointed by the film. I thought it was pretty darn great and I loved every minute of Sex and the City.

So my lovely Friday went like this – was supposed to go to Filmcity to see a set – that initial plan, getting cancelled, prompted me to hurriedly book the seats online, after which the day dragged ooh, ever so slowly. A courier at office greeted my post mid-day and VOILA, someone had sent me the first very difficulty pirated version of the film itself – the audio of which is not audible at all – but oh the gesture – I was thrilled with the whole “it’s the thought that counts” angle to it! And then the day dragged even slower than before – the hours to the film were killing me – until my friend and I decided to while away time very productively.

And hence we hit Ghettos – and downed whisky and vodka and sort of snacked on half a plate of French fries and then hopped into a taxi to head to the far-far-away land of virtual New York. Reached dot on time – zipped into the hall which obviously had more than enough SATC fans just waiting for the film to begin!

So all the waiting and all the anticipation and all the longing to just watch my favourite 4 women on screen, come to terms with their mid-life crisis and joy, was so totally worth every penny of the 270 bucks I spent on the “Platinum” bloody ticket at Metro Adlabs. Yes, the hall was filled with groups of women and some victimised men who were dragged by their women, but I was pleasantly surprised to see some men flock the cinema hall sans their women - I guess seeing the packed hall on a very rainy Friday night was proof enough of its huge cult status! So yes, I got totally Carrie-d away and joyously so!

No spoilers here – I’m not going to even attempt giving away the story (though yes, its so goddamn predictable) – or start typing a review – I am just going to gloat in the fact that I managed to catch it on the first day and now, I sit in my room, a happy woman who has seen the best chick-flick till date!
And before I sound too fluffy or pink, yes I also watch the Bergmans and the Kurosawas of the world – and Godard being my favourite – Fellini comes a close second – but let me just say – we all have our little indulgences, and sex and the city tops my list! And the shoes, oh the shoes… those heels are droolworthy – I totally had a brainlessly good time there and I could do this again any day of any week!

And did I mention, how my eventful day ended? Reached home – happy and very celluloid stricken – and it started pouring like crazy. The house was empty – and then a call “We are stuck in rain, can you get a taxi and help?” – I panicked and in my typical “I will save the world” syndrome, wore my rain friendly chappals, short skirt and braved with a huge umbrella in one hand and three in the other, to rescue my relatives from the rain. No taxi, no nothing – finally managed to get one to drive me almost till where they were – sent back due to knee deep water level and then the bumblebee taxi gave up on me – “paani ghus gaya madam”, he apologetically said to me…my heart sank – the water was gushing and rushing and the current trying to work totally against me – with my oversized rainbow coloured umbrella, I just about managed to wade my way home and wondered what must happen in the suburbs if Malabar hill is like this! Anyway, the thought didn’t stay in my head for long – much as most thoughts don’t – and then I came home, cleaned up, dried up and now I sit in front of my laptop while the rain lashes angrily at my window – the wind is lovely, the song that is playing is that funny song by Rihanna who keeps repeating the “ella” in the umbrella – yes I find it totally senseless, but its raining and I like to hear about her umbrella or any umbrella for that matter – Travis is next on the playlist with “Why does it always rain on me” followed by CCR “have you ever seen the rain’. Any more rainy song suggestions? Talking of songs, I totally have to download the soundtrack of Sex and the City – I can’t seem to stop talking about it, can I? – well, expect a hangover for a while – till another movie takes my fancy, or I become too lazy to care!

The End. (in pink glittery fonts) :)

Divine Secrets of the Yap-Yap Sisterhood

2008-06-02T01:02:00.001-07:00

A friend called me in last evening – she’s been married a few months – and lamented about her already unexciting sex life. And then some details followed, and by the end of it, I was in splits and trying to help her with fundas that I religiously pick from Cosmo. And this morning then another friend called who had had fantastic sex all weekend and but ofcourse, I had to hear all about it – some parts I was indifferent to, some I didn’t need to know, some I couldn’t care more about. But discussed it was and discussed it always is. And much to many boyfriends / husbands / lovers’ disapproval of this exercise, it is the practiced norm and the fact of the matter is that it’s as common as discussing what to eat for dinner.

Pajama nights start the habit I suppose – from flimsy boy talk we graduate to the relationship discussions and then we move up to the gender talk plane – where everything becomes generic and suddenly all men seem alike, much as all problems.

But more than boy talk and all that insignificant crap, there is a lot of sharing and support there – and a need to have those pillars… I hardly know of any woman who doesn’t have her thick group of lady-bugs to buggy them through the bad times and the good. And no wonder that Sex and the City does so well – its like dejavu – with the moments of “oh my god, we have had this exact conversation somewhere”!

I guess the slumber parties I’ve had and the girls nite outs I insist on has incited much curiosity amongst my male friends – some have said they’d give anything to become invisible and sit through the conversations, some have tried to bribe me into keeping the phone on to let the secrets out (fat chance!!) while some have just shrugged their shoulders and said “god only knows what you girls do in there”. Its probably equivalent to the male-locker-room talk – except that, I am told, men never get as close and as detailed with their friends as women do. Yes? No? Any comments there?

Men have close friends – but mostly it’s an unspeakable bond (or so I have been told) – but I don’t see how watching cricket together or downing litres of beers make you any closer to the other. How much of talk is really there I wonder. The man-to-man talk somehow has never impressed me. It seems….well… not as strong as female bonding.

But then again, I can’t comment coz I probably can’t understand how they bond as much as they can’t understand how we share such intimate details. To each his own and to each her own I suppose. I am terribly grateful to have the ‘ladies incorporated’ in my life and must I say, life would have been very unpleasantly different without them.

And like Carrie says “Life doesn’t always turn out to be your fantasy – that’s why you need friendships that are real to get you through it all”
So here’s to my fabulous women folk and my lady bugs – Cheers to our divine sisterhood and love to you all!

The Alcoholic Smoker

2008-05-19T01:02:00.001-07:00

Weekend was just about okay. Some issues bogged me down. The tearjerker me resurfaced. Then I slept over my problems all Sunday. And woke up at 6pm ready to get drunk.
So the plan happened – P, the old friend has returned from London – had a short stint and Mumbai and relocated in Delhi – so he was in town and we went to Hard Rock Café.

Black tunic with red tube, black capris and blood red heels – I felt very Carrie – walked into a surprisingly empty Hard Rock and started the good ol’ catching up over LITs and Mojitos – was initially very disappointed with the strange Arabic music they were playing and then Teenage Wasteland changed the mood and the usual charm to the place was back. Jackie Shroff walked in looking very stoned – he has no neck anymore, really he doesn’t – his head ends and his shoulders start – it’s hilarious – he looks like one of those Russian dolls that have a round head attached to a round body! Being amply amused by him and getting reprimanded by my friend for being “oh-ever-so-mean”, I went back to my paneer shashlik and some strange crispy chicken things. The main highlight of the evening however was the fire-extinguisher shaped lighter that a friend has gifted me and that attracted all the waiters to my table – they swooned and they held it while I fashionably lit up a cigarette and smiled politely at them. P called me an “alcoholic smoker” – yes so I am the type that smokes ONLY when I drink and I follow it as a rule – and no, I don’t drink daily – its more of a once in 15 days phenomenon – so technically I maintain the fact that I don’t smoke. I am a non-smoker, I am I am! *stands at her balcony and shouts out loud*

I think along with Mondy’s, this will be another place I’ll miss when I am back in Delhi. But Café Morrison mostly makes up for the latter – nothing can replace Mondy’s though – and good ol’ Huxley throwing out the letchy man who winked at my friend! Mostly I will miss the jukebox – and my favourite song when I am down many beers – High by Lighthouse Family! I shall miss! I shall miss so much!!

But enough about getting nostalgic already – here I am not even close to getting a job in Delhi and I am talking about missing Mumbai. Shee. Must not and shall not count the chickens before they hatch… for now, the summer of this city and the monsoon that shall soon follow is enough for me to light up another cigarette in grief! Oh but no, an alcoholic smoker I am and an alcoholic smoker I shall always be. STRICTLY and ABSOLUTELY. So here’s to the next trip to Hard Rock or the next weekend in Mondys!
Cheers! *Puff Puff*

Chewing Gum and no work

2008-05-15T01:50:00.000-07:00

No, I haven’t been lazy. Just been extremely busy in domestic issues and other such happenings. Haven’t got the time to breathe / talk / write (hence, sorry to all my mitr, dosts for not being in touch - I shall call you soon)!

Firstly, I have been busy deciding where to spend some part of the huge incentive I have got (for god knows what reason – I hardly think I work that much) – anyway, with that mostly in order and the noble noble intention of setting the rest aside for the down payment of a car I plan to buy, I am back on track – and back to the blog shog that I love so much.

Oh also, the net at home isn’t working and blogger was blocked in office until now when I realized that its been miraculously unblocked and joy had returned to the world again. Work is less, office is where I while away time, home is hectic, that’s when I seem to have no time to myself – so in that scenario, this is good news – blogger shall badhao the shobha of my to-do-lists at work and finally I shall be able to comment on my fellow bloggers posts! (And that is such a relief – coz I would read something and the spontaneity of my reaction would be lost when I would go back to commenting on it at night at my pc) – but now no tenshun venshun – all is good – peace has been restored in the world and these corporate hoo-haas about blocking everything seems to be dying out.

Oh, and now I REALLY need to find a job in delhi – come December and I’m moving there – so help help already peeeeepal !!!

Lunch time. Let me munch and return to writing.

..............................................

Little bit of Bhindi, 2 tiny chapattis, salad and dahi! Where did my mirchi ka achaar go? Where did the daal disappear! Sigh! I’m still hungry. So I have stuffed my mouth with some 6 pieces of Happy Dents one after the other and now my jaw hurts.

Work is a bitch. For one, there isn’t much to do. But I have to sit around and pretend to work while I blog. Its god sent I tell you- this blogger unblocking thing – or I would have died of boredom! Not like I have much to write right now anyway. There is much happening in life right now. But non-discussable at this point. So shall update you when I can.

I’m suddenly feeling super lazy. Yawn. I think I will meet a friend at the Cha Bar in the evening. Or just go home and sleep. Maybe even watch Sweeny Todd that I still haven’t gotten around to watching. I don’t know. Yes yes, I am lazy. I think I will just go be lazy again.

The Game of Tagging

2008-04-24T00:43:00.000-07:00

Last movie seen in a theatre?
Juno.

What book are you reading?
Madam Bovarys Ovaries. Its brilliant. And I take my time with each chapter.
Also Atwoods Blurbeard’s Eggs – I am getting increasingly fond of short stories.

Favourite board game?
Scrabble. Addicted to ps2 lately so havent seen the face of boardgames in the looongest time.
also used to enjoy Chess.

Favorite Magazine:
Cosmo. RD.

Favorite Smells:
First rain of the season. Turpentine. Petrol. Heh.
Also, Hugo red and Davidoff coolwater.
Johnson baby lotion.
And the typical smell of my house in Simla.

Favorite Sound:
The sea. My brothers voice. My grandma’s knitting – kat tik kat tik!

Worst Feeling In The World:
Failure.

What Is The First Thing You Think Of When You Wake?
I’m late!

Favorite Fast Food Place:
Kailash Colony market

Future Child’s Name:
I refuse to think about such a question.

Finish This Statement. “If I Had A Lot Of Money I’d…”
Do my MA, start my café, buy a lot of perfumes, save the rest in my kid brother’s account.

Do You Drive Fast?
No. I feel scared. I also tend to hit the sides of people walking on the road and the abusive drivers who zip past me.

Do You Sleep With A Stuffed Animal?
err. Does an extra pillow qualify?

Storms-Cool Or Scary?
Cool. I feel like a heroine out of a gothic novel. Catherine Earnshaw maybe.

Do You Eat The Stems On Broccoli?
yea. Also the tails of prawns and everything crunchy and fun. I hate wastage.

If You Could Dye Your Hair Any Color, What Would Be Your Choice?
I can dye it any colour. I don’t want to.

Name All The Different Cities/Towns You Have Lived In.
Kinnaur, Nahan, Rampur, Nalagarh – these are the obscure little places in Himachal.
As a kid, with minimal memories of it – Dhanbad.
Out of the known cities - Shimla, Delhi, Pune, Currently Mumbai.

Favorite Sports To Watch:No time. No inclination. Used to watch the football league matches once upon a time. Not anymore.

One Nice Thing About The Person Who Sent This To You:
Two people sent this to me – fellow blog sisters, friends, writers, talkers, thinkers! – I cant restrict myself to one nice thing.

What’s Under Your Bed?
Bed box – journals, old cards, letters, other tit-bits.
Monsters too?

Would You Like To Be Born As Yourself Again?
Yes. Thinner though – and less self obsessed.

Morning Person Or Night Owl?
Night Owl. Hate early mornings.

Over Easy Or Sunny Side Up?
Sunny side up – and the yolk needs to be liquidy! Yumm!

Favorite Place To Relax
Mondys. With friends, music, beer.

Favorite Pie:
Apple Pie. I bake!
And shepherds pie that my aunt makes.

Favorite Ice Cream Flavor:
Strictly chocolate. The darker the better. And of late, I’m getting used to the sugar-free, fat-free gelato – that I know isn’t all that it promises to be – but it takes off the guilt pretty well.

You pass this tag to –
Is there anyone left? I think I am one of last ones to even understand this tag business!
Well...whoever is reading this.

Of All The People You Tagged This To, Who’s Most Likely To Respond First?
Uh. G'bye.

So when are we doing Shaadi?

2008-04-20T13:13:00.000-07:00

I am in simla – basking in the glory of utter laziness and getting pampered like a spoilt little princess – but I do deserve all of that and more after surviving Mumbai for so long. Surviving Mumbai is a task, yes it is. Not for people who come to visit and fall in love with the sea, or who come for a few months and start liking the space the city gives a person to just be. But for people like me, who are at the verge of completing a year in the city, it is nothing less than surviving. And no, I wouldn’t be stationed at Crib Central right now, if I hadn’t spent a glorious week at Delhi and then made my way to the hills, the homefood, the electric blanket I sleep in, the colourful socks I wear and the absolutely-no-care-in-the-world-sleeps I get. Well, yes parents always bring with them, a dose of nagging, bugging, poking – but that is permissible and ignorable for all the luxuries I get to dip myself into.

Delhi was expectedly a lot and a LOT of fun. Pix took 4 days off – we slept, talked, smoked, shopped, drove, sang, ate and did all things fine and dandy. Janpath and Le Café, hilarious drive to JNU, more Le café with Bangers and Mash, Café Turtle, face packs and exchanging the latest books and films, sleeping at 4 after sooo many games on PS2, meeting my kid brother, and my adopted brother and Ktik and the Petite one, surprise morning visit from Pinks, having isabgol to clear the confused tummy, meeting Adi, Deb and You-de, making ever failing plans with the infamous painter, soaking in every bit of Delhi that I love and crave for when I’m away! Ah, it was all glorious, so glorious!

Nimpipi came to meet – warm hug, my attempts to give warmer, tighter hugs and then the laughing fit in her car that went Ghhhhhhhooooooeeeeee at every red light. But the noise and all was totally worth it for the drive with her on that sparkly highway and the kaddu ka bharta at her house (no, I am not being sarcastic – I am a veggie lover – so much so that the thought of bhindi, karela, kaddu, baingan, lettuce and all those greens excite me more than any chicken, crabs, prawns or muttons of the world) – so yes, back to the delicious bharta that bahadur served us with garma-garam phulke and the last bits of which I happily wiped clean from that white china plate that I always have nightmares of dropping and crashing one day – and there was daal too, and 2 more subzis and the dahi she assumed that I would take without being told – it was a yummy meal. Aunty talked in the background – I didn’t get much of the context in which it was being said but I caught on some words enough to know that she had had an eventful day. Nimpipi’s room is lovely – the DLF bitch as I fondly call her – has a spectacular view from her 15th floor apartment – and then she gave me a pair of very sexy beige boots – and my day was almost made perfect. *blows kisses to Nimpipi*

Oh and one pattern that I noticed in all my visits to all my friends homes – the moms always asked me “so when are you doing shaadi”, “beta, koi ladka mila?”, “tumhare parents dhoond rahe hai? Iske liye bhi koi suggest karo”!
Oh my godly god goddd – same story everywhere – just because I hit 24 doesn’t mean that I have to keep telling people that “shaadi toh ho jaayegi aunty!” – How come noone asks about my job, my prospects, what music I listen to, what cuisine I enjoy? Isn’t that more important? And wouldn’t that make me less queasy? But I think I have quite perfected the art of evading the topic, or laughing it off. It’s just amazing how everything suddenly revolves around shaadi-marriage-vivah-mangni-wedding-byah – and all other names they give this relationship!
Maybe my problem is also that for everyone else it seems like such a BIG deal but I view marriage very lightly– it’s not a fairy tale romance or a movie with the sunset ending that signifies a happily ever after– its life – mundane-get-to-know-each-other-learn-to-love-each-other kinda life. Prove me wrong if you must. I will only be too happy.

I sound so pessimistic. This post is depressing me. And I am on vacation. I should have written about something happier – like green-grass-blue-sky kinda happy or the kick I got out of finishing the entire pack of Sour Punk yesterday or the fact that I took a friend out for driving today and she almost died of a heart attack! Heh! The day was good! It's all good. Or we will make it good – wont we friends? Prove me right. I will be most happy.

Later then. I must snuggle back into my toasty electric blanket. Mmm.

P.S.- Looking for a job in writing in Delhi. Comments, suggestions and contacts are needed and most welcome.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

2008-04-02T04:40:00.000-07:00

I realized how much I love a mirror when I climbed 3 floors to take the lift with the mirror as opposed to the one at the ground floor without the mirror the other day. And I realized that I have been doing that often – only now I have graduated from the first to the third floor. I like the lift with the mirror – sometimes I let the one without the mirror come and go – and wait for the other one.

When I moved into a flat, the first thing I looked for was not the western loo, or the big windows, or the yellow lights – but the mirror – was it full length? Was it true? Did it make me look slimmer? Oh then it would have to change – I would rather the mirror would make me put on a kilo or two so I keep myself on a healthy lifestyle!

I don’t like mirrors that are just next to the window – the natural light shows too much – all the pores, all the flaws – and I don’t want to get depressed first thing in the morning.

I also like to sit facing the mirror when I am in a restaurant – so I can glance once in a while to check my hair or any speck of food stuck between my teeth. I like mirrors in stores – and malls – where one can just walk across and slimily look at oneself.

I like clean steel plates and computer screens that are off. I like spoons and the magic mirror room in a fair. I like phone cameras. I like clear water bodies. I like it when I can see myself in the sparkle of my date’s eyes. I like photographs. I like photoshop. I like to talk with someone else while looking in the mirror. I like to talk to myself while looking in the mirror. I like the mirror in the car. I like to carry a small mirror to check my kajal. I like the little mirrors in my Rajasthani dupattas. I like them on sheer curtains. I enjoyed studying how mirrors are made. I like Saint Gobain.

I also like those magical mirrors in fairy tales where one could enter a mirror and go to a different world. I like Through the Looking Glass. And how everything gets reversed in a mirror. I like the fact that a flat mirror won’t lie. I like Snow White. I like the tale of Narcissus and the lake. I like Sylvia Plath’s Poem The Mirror which goes like this-
“I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions….Whatever I see I swallow immediately….Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike…..I am not cruel, only truthful…”

So does that make me vain? All this preening and staring?
Does that make me loony? My liking for distorted images in a spoon?
Does that make me reflective? All these ideas of the mirror showing the truth and yet reversing everything?
Does it make me bookish? These references to Plath and Greek myth?

I don’t know. I like mirrors. For what they are. For their warped identities – to have the painful job of reflecting what’s true and yet inverting everything. To serve a purpose of utter shallowness and yet such immeasurable depth. I like the fact that a mirror has so many meanings. I like it that it’s installed everywhere- in lifts and corridors and bikes and bathrooms. But I like it best that a mirror reminds me of who I am every morning. I really like a mirror. It lets me be me and it makes me like me.

Holiday. Home. Happiness.

2008-03-28T12:33:00.000-07:00

Ohkay I am thrilled – I have watched it 6 times back to back and I cannot wait for May 30th – Sex and the City, the movie’s official trailer is finally out and I am so excited! The Body Shop near my house has a 40% off and I am finally going to be able to afford something there. I am such a chick sometimes!

But! But!! But!!!! - Most importantly, my people and the people of the world – yes yes its official (no, I am not getting married) – I am indeed coming to Delhi for a week long trip. The lord has finally listened to my prayers and I have got a 2 week holiday – where I intend to indulge in utter laziness, eat good food, go shopping, get a haircut, catch up with all my friends, go to Big Chill, and Janpath (oh my lack-of-footwear angst shall finally be over), and then a week in the lap of luxury in Simla – sleep, eat, walk in the woods, watch films, get a pedicure, lounge on the mall, take photos, visit my school – life shall, albeit for 2 weeks, be miraculously turned into my little haven.

So this plan was actually to happen in March but the evil three letters – KRA (Key Result Areas) held me back… and then the tedious dirty process got over and I managed to get a great rating (god only knows how), and now I take off to the better parts of India (yes, I mean North India) while my big fat bonus and the great year end hike gets deposited in my currently sparse bank account. Life is looking up. Now only if my parents weren’t being such a pain in the ear! But I plan to buy ear plugs from Heera Panna tomorrow – I really do!

I had the strangest nightmare the other night – I killed 2 people and then I was petrified that someone may find out so I hid them and then kept feeling guilty and headed to Marks and Spencer to shop (incidentally they were on sale in that sequence and I do think this is a result of ogling at the Body Shop board daily when I return from office!). Anyway, it was creepy and I woke up and messaged Pix who assured me that it was nothing really and that I am Uma Thurman! Uma Thurman it is then – I’d rather that than get Freud to find inklings of a serial killer in me!

Holi was nothing major. Just some dry pink and green gulal. And some red too. How can there not be red! Excellent food but no thandai, no bhaang, no nothing – kaise hai yeh log – see that’s why I miss North India – do you see why now? Do you? Do you?? And do you see why the thought of returning to my familiar pretty Dilli and Simla makes me grin like a fool all day?

Well, suddenly office seems bearable and colleagues seem okay, suddenly I am looking at Mumbai not-so-severely and I am trying to distract myself with the personal complications at hand. I think this is what happens when your office lets you free or atleast temporarily.

Come 11th and I am in apna Dilli for a good gorgeous week – this is a time to celebrate and to take out my little black organiser – so tell me people, for what day should I book you? Dinner? Lunch? A stroll? – tell me peeeeepal…. I am coming home to you!!

To pee or not to pee

2008-03-18T02:05:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at my desk at work. Colleague turns around to me.

C: Let’s go
Me: hmm…okay
C: Take your swipe card
Me: Ok let’s go

Or, picture this:

2 ladies at a club
Lady 1: I am going to the loo
L 2: wait, I am coming too
Chorus: excuse us boys

This happened to me once:

Me, sitting for dinner with a “couple” of friends
Friend 1’s hoity-toity girlfriend: I need to go to the restroom
Me – struggling to eat the insides of a crab
Friend 1’s girlfriend: Ahem! (Gives me a dirty look)
Me: (as if almost snapping to realization) Oh…ok, lets go.

I have never really been a fan of going “together together” to the loo – a phenomenon universally prevalent amongst those of my gender and much speculated amongst those not of my gender. “So what’s the big deal about going to the loo in pairs?”, asked a very close ‘not-my-gender’ friend of mine… “What’s the big deal about wanting to know it?” I immediately retorted. It’s not like it’s a whole secret life we live in that tiny close space - but its fun to keep the curiosity alive.

What does one do in pairs in the loo? Surely we don’t discuss the shades of pee. Surely we don’t discuss the do’s and don’ts of a Brazilian wax. But it’s just a thing – to go together to the loo – a funny habit that I find myself mostly falling in. I personally believe that these trips facilitate female camaraderie.

In office I end up smiling at random women who I would never know otherwise. In restaurants, I end up discovering at least one likeable thing about my friend’s hoity-toity girlfriend. In college, I know I can burst into tears and not be stared at funnily. In sex and the city, discussions on size, tampons, orgasms come easy there. Maybe that’s why I had a problem with Ally McBeal – it had a common loo – and somewhere I felt the female bonding went missing there. One also discusses their men, her men, our men, men in general in there. Skin issues, sharing perfume, make up tips, bitching about bosses come next in line. But mostly, it’s a space where one’s guard is down– and every woman loves the other – it’s like a modern day Lesbos.

Cleansed and Buzzed

2008-03-08T13:52:00.000-08:00

The day began with a resolution – to clean up my room like never before, to discard all the extra papers hiding in envelopes and folders, to slot out all my important documents in labelled files, and to settle my cupboards.

So the excursion began and I was pleasantly surprised to find myself thoroughly enjoying the deed – I colour coded my clothes (from light shades to dark and keeping them in stacks of their family of colours, my cupboard now looks like a palette for asian paints), and then I settled my shelves (placing the books in order of height and thickness) and proceeded to do the dressing table (that found the products categorised in hand lotions, foot creams, body wash’s, moisturisers, perfumes and lip balms)!

What really made me happy was the way I put the paper work in order – “Medical Bills”, “Medical Reports”, “Payslips”, “Appointment letters”, “Travel details”, “Bank Statements”, “Credit Card Documents”, and then the “Important Bills”, “Semi important bills” and “Photocopies of all documents”. I was so pleased with myself and my rarely surfacing Monica Gellar tendencies that I proceeded to treat myself with an extra long bath and then a trip to Mondys with my friends.

Now Mondys is synonymous to Mumbai for me. There would be no weekends without it! For those who don’t know, Mondys is short for Café Mondegar, perched at the beginning of Colaba Causeway with its white, black and green board calling out to me everytime to go there. And its not just the place but the staff there that makes me go there over and over again. Huxley, the manager, gives us tables really fast (and today we got that special “table with a view”), and he makes us feel super special and super safe (there has been a history of a dirty letchy man getting kicked out by the bouncer and 3 table-ful of big-eyed men getting displaced to 3 corners for us)! The beer is chilled and the pizzas are cheesy! But the true USP of Mondys is the jukebox and its “strictly no-trance, no-hip hop” policy – skim through it and find the Doors knocking at your head, Alanis throwing her lyrics at you and the classic rock numbers making you sway happily!

So Mondys it was – with college friends (who else? I don’t meet office people on weekends as a rule) – and we talked about old times and I laughed until I had tears in my big brown eyes and we ordered one pitcher after another and with a couple of more trips to the loo, we talked and laughed some more. So yes, I’d say this was an ideal Saturday – a cleaning spree, buying 2 dvds, wasting ourselves so wonderfully at Mondys and then lounging around in my lovely spic and span room with my laptop and more music.

And yes, why I still sound so cheerful is because there is tomorrow to sleep and shop and sleep some more. Come Monday and I am going to be depressed until next Saturday and write some cribby, pathetic posts till then. Bear with me friends for the weekend shall return and the joy restated.

The Devil Wears Chappals

2008-03-06T11:01:00.000-08:00

I am running dangerously short of footwear. (Dilli dosts help me – send me some love from Janpath and some affection from M block). Mumbai has absolutely no variety – all I see now is kolhapuri chappals of which I have had enough and those silly ballerina shoes that I think are ridiculous! I am so desperate for some variety that I have even considered cleaning the dust off my old red tattered converse shoes – and I would mind you, if it weren’t for the heat and humidity of this damn city.

Well, ok, Mumbai isn’t as bad as I make it out to be. the other day I was waiting to cross this busy road since forever and a huge truck just stopped causing the entire traffic to come to a halt and the driver gestured me to cross the road – it sent warm tingly happy feelings inside me and I thought to myself “This happens only in Mumbai”. Also the cab drivers are very nice and sometimes insist on returning 50 paise also. It again makes me go “aww”! So ya, I guess the city does have its moments. And it has Naturals icecream – with my flavour of the month being Anjeer. And Mondy’s ah Mondys – what would I do without thee?

The other day I was listening to Hemant Kumar… “chup hai dharti chup hai chaand sitaare…” while I was sitting at my window, looking at the opposite building (well, what can one say, that’s the view I have)…so anyway, the salty breeze of the sea was at its best and I was nibbling on aam-papad and I realised that this music taste has been passed on to me by my dad – and that’s when I realised that, try as much as we may, we eventually become what our parents are – and then thinking about it more in detail and to my utter horror, I discovered that many of my mothers traits are now happily perching on my head. And then the lovely song started “waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam…” and my thoughts wandered off to the fact that maybe the Beatles are not it – that maybe I should start getting more into old hindi music in details… the lyrics of this song almost makes me cry each time I listen to it. Sigh.

I got a tiny stuff toy from my cousin today – and I was so delighted – not like I am one of those “ooooh stuff toys are so cute” kind - on the other hand I think that for a gift for an adult, it is the easiest waste of money – but this was indeed special. For one, it was Hobbes from "Calvin and Hobbes" and that was enough to make my cry in joy and secondly, it was something she had won in one of those game parlours where you try fish out a toy from that plastic box – both these facts added to the gift so much that I am, at this moment, sitting right beside it looking at its loving eyes that seem to speak to me!

Hmm yes, I have no string of thoughts – no paragraph is connected to the other – this post is leading to nowhere land. I don’t think I have anything so important or major that I can keep writing about anymore. I think life is becoming increasingly unexciting. I was invited (twice!) to this fancy club called Blue Frog that has recently opened and is the “place to be” (apparently!) – But I am put off by the fact that it has entry charge – yes entry not cover! – and then again, I was invited by men in my office who I am not friends with – so lets not even try treading that path of drunkenness with strange men. And hence, my evenings are very limited to sometimes catching up with college/school friends who work/live nearby or going home and listening to music until the late night episodes of Friends begin. Getting old, are we? Or we could just call it maturity? I like the latter – it sounds less boring. And for some reason I keep trying to find reasons to sound less boring – like trying to spice up a history text book with an imaginary character like Jodha (isn’t that was Rushdie says?I am not sure)

Oh I played Tekkan, a tennis game and a road rage game on playstation today and it was kick ass! And may I humbly say that I kicked ass! I had underestimated it – for all my view about it being just a video game for kids – today I have new-found respect for the damn thing! It is brilliant – the only down side of the entire exercise are the boils I got on my thumbs (apparently I have delicate hands, says he) – and now as I type I have two blobs of water bags on my thumbs. It’s so ugly. And I still want to play! How? How must we solve this problem?

Okay enough of rattling senselessly – back to my major problem – I need footwear – and those who are my friends would know the kind I want – flat chappal type sasta-tikau funky stuff – with big wooden beads or anything red? Colourful would do but I am assuming I should grow out of the whole multicolour thing. And some heels I prithee? Lovely ladies going to gk, please to be helping – beige? Black heels? Size 5? Oh I am desperate. Please to be responding to my plea! Pronto?

(“mera joota hai japaani yeh patloon inglistaani” plays in the background. It’s a sign I say!)

Ta dah!

2008-02-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

This page is supposed to reflect me. Yes? So I wanted to give it a new look – I loved the earlier photo up there too – it was so serene, so beautiful – and utterly depressing. So in honour of Nimpipi dedicating a post ONLY to me and only me (yes luv, I am still overwhelmed), I decided that it calls for a makeover.
So in the middle of the night I first opened the earlier photo, got the dimensions and got busy photoshopping. I would like to imagine I am a photoshopaholic – I can spend hours, days, nights just editing photos and doing fun stuff with them – you may ask the one who became my mock-client while I tried my best to please her tallness, and we sat making a collage for her through the night.

Anyhow, more on my weekend. Saturday was spent whiling away. I chatted with 2 taxi-wallas, one from UP and the other from Bihar – both abusing the shit out of Thackeray (after discovering that I am a North Indian too) – “madam taxi chalane mein darr lagta hai”, one said while the other one was more aggressive “kisi ko bhi haq hai bharat ke koi bhi pradesh mein naukri karne ka” followed by more ranting. I nodded vehemently and told them to stay put and said “koi aapka baal bhi banka nahin kar sakta”. Politics is going to the dogs, as much is Mumbai with its new-age molesters and jerks who jack off on trains. A friend commented “Mumbai is turning into Delhi” – I said oh no no no, no one beats up cabbies in Delhi just because they can’t say “kute and ikde” (marathi for where and here)! Dilli Dilli Dilli – when shall I return to thee, I count the days!

I also met a school friend today, who is getting married in 4 days – a classic arranged marriage with her to-be-husband being the first guy she met and said yes to. I wasn’t surprised to see her happy and content – I was almost envious though – because this much would never bring me happiness… I expect too much, want to much, need too much out of a man – so seeing people whose lives are so simple and so simply joyous makes me wonder if being a “thinking” woman is actually an advantage or mostly a tool that will ensure constant dissatisfaction with what one gets versus what one actually expects of life. So I called P, and she almost reprimanded me for even questioning it – yes, my friend probably doesn’t even know what she wants and is happy with what she is getting, but if she is happy, it can’t be that bad, right?
I, on the other hand, feel that I will never be happy and totally content – because life isn’t that simple for me and adjustment is a word I really don’t like. So that’s why seeing my small town friends settle down and happily so makes me ask myself – would I be happier if I were a little under-exposed to the goddamn exciting world with all its multiple possibilities? In any case, what can be done now – thinking is a habit that is impossible to discard – so once the process has begun, lets fight the consequences dear friends, lets think some more – lets think about how to put one to sleep at 3 am in the morning – ah yes, shut photoshop, post this entry, stare proudly at the made-over blog, close lid of laptop, switch off lights, get into bed, stop thought.
Goodnight.

Access All Areas

2008-02-23T14:05:00.000-08:00

Okay then. We are going public.
No more basking in my anonymity – for that I have created another blog and writing there is far more cathartic. No more saying “this is a secret blog” – with several friends of mine having the link, I realised it’s hardly a secret anymore. No more “oh god it’s so personal” – I have duly deleted all the whiney crying sappy soppy posts that used to periodically trickle in when this blog began and also realised that I don’t mention anything personal on this anymore. So I don’t see a reason why the critics and the regulars of the blogging community shouldn’t get a chance to comment / lash out / appreciate / criticise and love my blog.

Yes I warn you, it will not be funny. I lack that talent and envy Nimpipi for it. It will not be oh so political and ‘latesht’ – I suck at current affairs apart from the ones that are mine. *grin grin*. It shall not be hugely entertaining and mostly have posts about the purple sky and issues of vanity, the station I almost missed a train at and my lazy tendencies, some Sylvia Plath poem I loved or Madam Bovary’s infamous ovaries. It shall also be peppered with some poetry I churn out once in a while and some adventure I have (like almost getting killed in a taxi and ducking the cheap shots of fluffy-headed men hitting on me at the gym). Oh, once in a while I shall also gloat about the huge poster of Beatles that I just got framed – it is so gorgeous, it almost makes me cry each time I look at it for too long! And very rarely I will tell you about what is up at work and how working in the television industry can totally be the most sado-masochistic thing one can do to oneself. But more often than not, it will be random things that just come to my mind.

I am not very regular with this thing, but once in a while you may visit. And prithee, don’t be too harsh because I love the link it was born with and it would break my heart to change it. Actually, like I’ve said before, its my space, I breathe here, so see if I care. Anyhow, if you haven’t been here before, I welcome you to schizophrenic salad’s public journal.

Fellow Blogger Friends, you may add me to your blogroll,while I shall soon learn to make one too.
New readers?- You may scroll down now.

Beauty is Skin Peep?

2008-02-18T10:52:00.000-08:00

I know life is getting better since I have stopped wearing any sort of (subtle or otherwise) make-up to office. There used to be a dependence on touch and glow. And then came a phase when calamine was the layer that would sort of let me get out in the morning. But of late, nothing…yes indeed…nothing and I have been able to get out without thinking that I may have to stand in the daylight and speak to someone long enough for them to analyse all my skin flaws… not like they’d care but anyway.

So much of what we are is derived out of the way we look. If my skin is bad (which has been the case since I landed in Mumbai and its been a long way downhill ever since), then I feel totally under-confident and very depressed. It’s terrible that I have to feel that way just based on the way I look. And it’s not just me, other women have these issues do.
I wonder if men have these problems…do they bother about the marks that zits leave and the tiny bumps they leave behind like a remembrance of sort. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t even care. Or maybe it’s because all the men I know have been bestowed by naturally clear skin.

I was on facebook the other day, whiling away time…what else does one do on facebook anyway? …so I was looking through albums of some friends and I saw some women with terribly bad skin…and I heaved a sigh of relief sending a little thank you to god saying that I am not alone. Well, in retrospect, that was a terrible reaction to have. I should have probably felt bad for them…instead I felt good for myself. Sigh. What tangled webs we weave… of self-obsession and insensitivity, of vanity and such insanity.

Anyway, so my skin has marked considerable amounts of improvement. Yes I may not be glowing and all that but I am hopeful… if I can discard any form of make up then there is hope for me yet. But then again it is that time of the year again – the gorgeous winters - which seems to have passed by in a week – and the heat shall begin and the sweating and the humidity and the skin getting all confused all over again.

I really think my skin has a life of its own. Like it thinks for itself. And it is mostly confused. Because I am from a hill station and because I have always lived in dry places, being in a city where every 5 minutes I feel like my t-zone is feeling oily and moist, I can only assume that my skin gets confused…on how to behave and how to look…so in that confusion it ends up with worry bumps, which we no-so-fondly call pimples. But it’s been quite some time, I am hoping like I am adjusting to this place my skin will too – and one day it will shine with health and joy like it used to… till then I will just go back to my dermatologist on peddar road and give him a thank you message. I can get out sans makeup. Yay…. I can let my real skin peep into the world. It’s a day to celebrate my friends!

“Mary had clear skin
The lambs loved her dimple
Aloe-vera and antibiotics
Pop goes the pimple.”

Snacking on the Salad

2008-02-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

I think my multiple personalities are acting as definite roadblocks in my writing excursions. Not that I used to write daily, not that I am a regular blogger, not that I even have a regular lot who reads my somewhat anonymous blog, but I do keep putting in – something or the other – like N mentioned last night, about Lizzy the lizard, the tampon joy and my effort to gym – I know its nothing monumentally or even remotely important…but its my life – and I am assuming (very gladly) that some close ones like reading about it once in a while.

Of late, I feel tired and lazy – more the latter actually – and because I write from 3 sides of me – the socially correct and politically correct me namely this blog, the surreal, streams of consciousness poetic me which would be the one I share with my best friend, and the open, loud, brash, shameless me, which is the third top-secret one – hence even when I sometimes feel a pang of desire to sit and scribble, figuring out which one is the role I want to put on now is such a mental task that the lazy side of me finally triumphs and I end up not writing at all.

However, another argument could be that, I used to write a lot when I was depressed, morose, disillusioned blah blah. I think it was all the extra time I had on my hands – it was like this – no boyfriend, no friends, no life = tons of spare time = lots of scribbling and regularly updating my blog. That’s why the time I was alone and depressed last year was the phase when this salad bowl experienced the maximum seasoning and garnishing. Now, it stands bland and rotten – with no new flavours and no new ingredients. And that, my dear friends, is totally pathetic.

Yes, so I am the tragic queen amongst my friends and I love writing about misery. In fact, I find it terribly difficult and painful to write anything funny. Don’t think though that I haven’t tried, but with repeated attempts that led to disappointing failures, I resigned to writing serious stuff and at times, just frivolous stuff that constitutes for all the light reading on my blog. And because of late there has been nothing serious or even mildly exciting in my life, I haven’t bothered to put it down anywhere.

Let me think about what I could update someone on my life and its many monotonous moments – the job is going on fine, I was supposed to go for a trip to Italy from office which has been cancelled and in effect broken my heart – all because I haven’t finished a year in the damn organisation – hence, my fellow friends and I, who they fondly label as MTs, short for “management trainees”, shall stay and rot in the office while the others gallivant around Italy and ogle at the delicious men there. Though I think that it’s a terrible waste that I am not going – what will the others do – watch some places and “wow” “wow” everything I sight – while I, a lover of classical literature and of art and architecture would have enjoyed the museums, and the colloseum and the gondolas and the Roman history goddammit. Sigh. But what must happen must happen. And so I must sit at office and sulk so those many days (and then maybe in my tragic horrors, end up posting stuff more often). So that was that about the update at work.

I have been negligent on the gym part and I feel that it was of no use. I feel like I wasted money and most weeks, when the score is 2 out of 7, I sit in the pool of guilt and wish I’d bought some clothes and a perfume instead. Or even a teeny-tiny diamond ring. Nahiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnn!!!!!

The slip disc is in control. I haven’t been relegated to bed rest till now. I seem to be doing okay. The boy in question is also fine. We all have our issues. We all sail through them. I suppose it’s not something one would discuss in this blog…apart from the fact that it may turn out to be mind numbingly boring for you, I’d rather leave all the intricate details to the censored blog I maintain and that I am quite in love with.

Mumbai is getting chilly in the evenings. It gives me great pleasure to be able to wear my sweatshirts and sleep under a blanket. But the sleeveless stuff hasn’t gone at the back of my wardrobe so that doesn’t say too much about what a winter we have here. But atleast, something is better than nothing.

Okay I think I have lost my flow again. I have become so floopy and indifferent and lazy. I don’t want to write because I feel it’s too much mental effort to write. But with people poking me and reminding me to keep putting something down time and time again, I am sure the salad bowl won’t die.

So till we meet again (hopefully not in the tragic mode), keep coming back to snack!

xoxo

Incompletion

2007-12-28T10:14:00.001-08:00

Suddenly I don’t like Mumbai. Everything that was getting eventually endearing about this place seems to have slowly faded. Life at the local train stations don’t interest me anymore. There is no more a wide-eyed wonder about the expanse of the sea. No more do I venture out to Colaba to shop on my own. Streets remind me of my friends who came and went – the places I haunted with them – Bottles of beer at Mondy’s, burnt fish at Martins, huge amounts of prawn fry at Leopolds, a walk staring at the large mansions at Bandstand, a stroll along Marine Drive – Mumbai has lost its charm – no more do I wish to stay here.

Ips went away – a stable rock solid support was gone. Jai flew off – my school mate was gone. Pix left – my best friend and most comforting factor disappeared. Ktik followed – confidential talks and random dinners flew out of the window. Niv was next in line – my favourite critic and darling friend also went. I feel so voided of late.

I cross Dadar and remember the catering college and Hard Rock. I go to the stations and imagine the tall banana-chappaled woman making her way through the crowd. I visit the book shop at Causeway and remember going there to find research books for Ips’ Phd. I cross Chembur and the days I spent with Adi comes back to me. I see a Subway and remember the two mad sub-lovers.

Very important parts of my life have left. Mumbai was a lot of what it was because of them. Each one brought me joy in a very special way. Suddenly I feel very very lonely. I don’t know if I want to stay here anymore. Suddenly there is nothing much to look forward to. And I am a “social butterfly”, aren’t I? Then how come I find it terribly difficult to make new friends?

I have a comfort zone. Part of that zone came to Mumbai, made it beautiful and left. Suddenly this city is as hollow as it once was. And I am as incomplete.

Caricature Workout

2007-12-24T10:38:00.000-08:00

Someone called me a pretty cartoon. That is mostly because, if you have seen me, I have a big head compared to the rest of my body. So in effect, if one looks at me carefully I look pretty much like a caricature – big head, big eyes, big mouth – well, let’s say I am a caricature artist’s ideal subject. And all this started when I announced that I am going to lose weight and then I was told that in that case my body would become thinner and I would look more comical than I do now. Hmm. And so much for thinking that I was sexy and all that crap. Ah well. Sigh.

So anyway, I have decided to join a gym – for which I had gone shopping today. All this is done with the sole intention of motivating me enough to lose weight – you know how it goes…if I spend so much money on getting my goodies together for gym-ing, I will be guilt ridden enough to wake up in the morning and run to the gym – paisa vasool you see – and considering how broke I am right now, spending oodles of cash on the membership and the accessories is a big thing for me. And tomorrow I am going to buy myself a set of three ankle length socks and then draw out a cheque of almost one third of my salary towards the bi-annual gym fee. I have instructed my parents to courier me my running shoes all the way from North India for this very noble and healthy cause of mine. This is quite an event in my life.

You see, this is bigger than you think it is. I am essentially an owl by nature. I love keeping up till ungodly hours of the night and hearing the crickets sing, I read a few chapters out of some book or write some unstructured poetry, I watch an obscure film or I catch up with other nocturnal friends on the phone, I love the silence of the night and I love the sound of my voice in the silence – for me night time is my time – so consequently, I find it terribly difficult to crawl out of bed in the morning…grudgingly I open my eyelids to the morning light at 9 am and run out of the house with a sandwich in my hand at 10…such is my habit, such is my routine. So for me to take an initiative to even think about waking up at 7 for gym every morning is very very very big!

But I am determined. And I have gone and asked them how much will it cost, I have taken the pain and effort to walk into that fitness space (in which me and my flabby self feels totally out of place) and ask for the fitness instructor (who by the way is totally hot and totally indifferent)….I have figured out which membership plan I want, I have decided what time slot will suit me and will make me (hopefully) a healthier and thinner person. I seem to be so obsessed with the idea of losing weight. Part of me blames the goddamn tiny anorexic-designed dresses that are sold at Peddar road that come in from Bangkok, part of me blames the very looks oriented society we live in, part of me blames the fact that I am not fighting the system but falling into it and yet part of me blames the indifference in which I am letting myself bloat up.

Am I fat? Am I thin? Am I fit? More importantly, am I happy? And if losing a couple of kgs would make me happier then I suppose this is a good new year’s gift to give oneself. All I am hoping is that there is weight loss all over and that I don’t end up looking like a bigger caricature – or if a caricature must I be, then let me atleast be a pretty caricature.

With this hopeful note, I pen down my new years fitness resolution and validate my coupon to happiness.

*huff puff*

Loud and Clear

2007-12-22T08:46:00.000-08:00

I wonder who discovered this wonderful thing that I have just discovered. And I don’t know why I didn’t discover it earlier. To think of it, it’s been ten years since it all began – how convenient would it have been if I had been adventurous enough to use it then. It would have been ten years of hardly knowing that every month the cycle with repeat itself – the pain, the mood swings, the lethargy, and the lack of appetite – most of it would diminish and I would have been a happier and a less bothered woman – as I am now.

I remember seeing it first when I was 14. It looked like a little bullet – and we were so fascinated – I mean why wouldn’t we be- after being used to seeing white rectangular lumps, these tiny things the size of half my index finger seemed fascinating – how could that tiny thing soak up so much, it was totally incomprehensible to us. So my other 14 year old friends and I unwrapped one – with wide eyed wonder… as if a mystery was getting solved - and put it in a mug of water and ‘PLOP’ it swelled up in an instant and became more that double its size. I think that that sight was what scared me out of my wits…just imaging inserting it was unthinkable then – and then the fact that it would double up in size was downright scary.

Then one day I grew up. I became 24 and that sight that beheld my gaze and horror ten years ago was suddenly very blurry and the misery of handling the trouble every month with my hectic work schedule very clear. So I went for it yet again, and managed to use it…and now I am relieved, I am happy, and I have almost forgotten the worry that would make me squirm in the middle of the night.

It’s probably the only good thing that man discovered that was a gift to us women. It all started with something to plug in wounds of the French soldiers. I agree there was no intention to make it what it is today – but that’s how the tampon came into being and made comfortable my monthly being.
Hail OB!! Hail the Tampon!! Loud and clear!!! I need to ‘whisper’ no more.

On Popular Demand

2007-12-10T08:55:00.000-08:00

I haven’t been writing anything good. Actually I haven’t been writing at all of late. As many of you know, my affections have been diverted to another link that I keep hidden from the world. I wanted to experiment with a space where I wouldn’t have to think twice about what I write – and the experiment proved to be quite fruitful – so that’s why the schizophrenic salad hasn’t seen the face of a new post in ages.

But today my wardrobe-critiquing-mojito-sipping friend asked to post something “on popular demand” so I embarked on this mission to have at least a post (even if it’s a lame one) to make an appearance on my blog today.
I think I have stopped writing because mostly I have nothing to write about – nothing really important so to say – no heart aches, no heart breaks, no pain, no misery, no joy, no rains, no trains. I fear I am going through a writers block of the worst kind. Or worse still, I fear that my brain is soon depleting and I have no opinions to throw around anymore.

Yes, I feel out of touch with the world – sometimes I feel myself losing perspective – sometimes I feel mentally lethargic, so much so that even thinking is an effort. My world is cocooned to my work place, my parents giving me continuous flak about the marriage issue, my effort to sleep on time and some television thrown in here and there (ofcourse with the never ending sorrow about my skin and my endless desperate efforts to salvage it).

Life had more meaning when I had more friends. What a dangerous thing to say. I feel sometimes that my identity is a result of all identities around me – who I am is determined by my friends, my boyfriend, my colleagues, my designation at work, my family – in all cases, it is in respect to someone or the other. I suddenly feel terribly afraid…what if that’s it…what if that’s all that my identity will ever be? – determined by people around me – and what am I without those people – I suddenly don’t know.

I feel so drained. Didn’t I tell you? I feel tired to even think anymore. Because silly random questions like these pop up and then I want to just sleep. Take for example today – because I had a huge fight with my parents and my mother chose to call and keep yapping about it, I conveniently refused to wake up and face the day – I sent some lame ass excuse to office and woke up at 11 and sauntered my way into office at 12:30 – rushed around, diligently finished work and made an exit at 7 pm. After which I had sumptuous dinner and headed home in the “proper” time (lest my folks lose it again) and now I am sitting at my laptop typing this – while getting ready to sleep again.

Sleep is the best remedy. I could sleep over most problems. Except when I didn’t have a job – that time even sleep would evade me…eyes snapped open at 6 am sharp – oh those were some torturous days. I don’t even want to think about them right now. Thinking is so tiring. And the week has just began.

And I didn’t even pay enough justice to the fact that this was a post after a very very long time…I just rambled on thoughtlessly – and didn’t have one thread of connection or any structure whatsoever. But then again, this is my blog and writing nonsense is my own business.

I promise to try harder next time. I promise to live upto popular demand. Right now I must sleep my miseries away. Right now I must watch some television and drop semi dead in slumber.

Goodnight.

Saturated

2007-10-06T06:11:00.000-07:00

It’s a glorious Saturday. I am terribly distracted by the gorgeous music collection I own… it was Cranberries in the morning while I cleaned up and rearranged my room, then it was followed by some obscure numbers that I vaguely do recognise and associate with, even know scraps of lyrics of some but can’t ever place them, then came a flush of RHCP and how its snazzy bollywood numbers! Saturdays are nice when they are so wasted and lazy. On other days I am gallivanting around town for work or pleasure (wink wink!)…hence, today I decided to keep myself within the cream walls of my glorious little L-shaped room and watch a film or two…which for the record wasn’t such a great experience coz I watched Four Weddings and a Funeral and positively hated it – Yes yes the cute boy looks n all sort of redeemed the film – but apart from that…it didn’t catch my attention even one bit. I fail to understand now how come it’s such a "ooooh-u-gotta-watch-it" film. There was nothing exceptional at all. Anyhow, that being over, I treated myself to a delightfully hilarious video of the 4 penguins of Madagascar, at the end of which, even the movie time didn’t seem such a waste.

Apart from all this, I panicked when I saw myself in the mirror and realised that Mumbai will never suit my skin and hence I must be doomed and cursed to eternal ugliness – yet, like all hopeful ladies, I undertook the brave job of mixing some natural honey lemon type things and apply it indulgently on my skin – hoping some semi-miracle comes out of it. I am still caked with it – I am still hopeful.

Also had a talk with my mother, father and brother. That made me happy. Especially after mom wasn’t bickering about my marriage issue so much and especially after I bitched about the ugly photograph of the ugly boy that was proposed to be a prospective groom. Yuck. The good part however in this whole exercise was that my mother happily agreed with me. May god keep making more of such easily reject-able men. Amen.

Then my cell phone bill arrived and literally game me a heart attack – but because it was a detailed itemised bill, I took great pleasure in pouring over it and adding how much I spent on whom on an average in a month. I was shocked how scattered my affections and conversations were – I seem to be part of a long and winding friend chain!

Time spent on the bathroom was beautiful. The thought of scrubbing my feet clean for hours makes my eyes go all wide eyed and sparkly…so such cleanliness exercises were undertaken very successfully.

And now I am alone. Family is out for the weekend to Lonavla. The house is to myself and myself alone – to walk around in negligible clothes and listen to music as loud as I desire. It is indeed a happy Saturday. So lazy. So happy. So indulgent. And so perfect. I am going to watch another film now, and then head for the vegetable store to look for some Aloe Vera for my dying skin – it is indeed a humble cause so I must leave now. It’s a happy Saturday…I am saturated with joy!

Admit All

2007-09-20T04:30:00.000-07:00

Hundreds of people with carelessly folded jeans and dirt splattered feet scramble around and scuttle their way to their respective platforms. Just outside Andheri station you see umbrellas grazing against each other and move in a mad hurry – red, yellow, fuchsia, Bollywood prints with Rekha peeking in her classic Umrao-Jaan pose, distasteful leopard print, boring stripes, exciting dots and if you happen to go in the usual office hour then mostly black. A whiff of “cutting-chai” holds your attention albeit for a few seconds before you glance at the train time-table blinking green in a distance and decide to rush to the fastest one you can jump onto – and it takes you so easily to almost the other end of the city.

For a small town girl like me who apart from my peacefully perched idyllic home in Simla, have only been a fan of the wide smooth Delhi roads, found the very idea of a local train incomprehensible. I could not understand why one would need trains to travel in one city. Was Mumbai really that big? Or the traffic really that bad? After starting work here I realized, the reasons are both and more.

Local Stations, apart from making sure you reach work on time and being the cheapest mode of transport available, ends up giving you a whole new perspective if you are perceptive enough. It’s this heady mix of class, culture, vada-pavs & burgers to the very soulful blind singer who comes in your coach & the fashion designer who struts in with her Louis Vuitton bag. Never before have I seen people so different from each other, share a space so comfortably and actually though occasionally manage a conversation too.

From “Chinchpokli” that still fascinates me with its name to “Bandra” where I love to hop off to head for some shopping – the stations of Mumbai have a flavour to it that I have not seen anywhere else. Two in every three people will guide you if you are lost, one in every three faces will have a warm smile, chances are your wallet will never be stolen from your bag and even if you do manage to drop it, your credit cards & license will be duly returned somehow, by some strange stroke of mumbaiyaa luck.

It is a place where you would be able to survive – whether you are young or old – eager to open up or clamped in a shell – there is a warmth in the musty salty air that melts you down – there is a life to the sea that you gaze at and a music to the rain that mostly bothers you. And there is always that station that gives you the utter independence to go anywhere you feel like going.
The city may be moody - it rains, it pours, it shines, it whines – but the local trains must go on.

Its Mumbai: Admit All.

In Mourning

2007-09-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

Lizzy lost his tail. He is uglier than before. Something I didn't think was even possible.
Lizzy had become an essential part of my cluttered room.
Now its Lizzy without a tail. I saw him scuttering across the room to hide himself under the bed - this was the same lizard who would flaunt its meaningless existence by crawling across my walls as if he owned it.
Poor Lizzy must be so ashamed. And traumatized.
This blog will maintain prosaic silence for a short while to mourn Lizzy's tail.
While I will silently pray that I don't step onto the now-detached rear end of Lizzy.
Amen.

p.s: Does a lizards have a soul? If Lizzy dies will his spirit haunt my room? Will Lizzy die of humiliation? Does a lizard think?
Oh no, we are back to that same question. Its a vicious cycle.
Err, also... do those tails grow back?

Living with Lizzy

2007-09-07T05:21:00.000-07:00

Does a lizard think? I have an ugly little lizard that looks like a miniature dinosaur, if not uglier, living in my room – at night it likes to roam around the floor – I am now petrified of walking around without my slippers lest I step onto it - not because I don’t want to kill it but because the thought of a lizard coming in contact with any part of my body – especially my pedicured feet, makes me squirm and send that uneasy feeling down my neck - you know the kind when you feel water trickle down your spine! Eeeeeeks!!

So I have been watching this lizard just explore the walls of my room and sometimes the ceiling too – and I wonder what that damned creature must be thinking. I call it Lizzy now. I might as well have a name for something that has been sharing my room with me for the past one month. I’ve tried chasing it away – it just comes back… and because its so tiny, creepy and slimy, it just comes back from anywhere goddammit!

What must go on in the mind of Lizzy? Whether he likes the cream shade of paint of my walls? Or which house guest of mine should he petrify next by its visual presence? Or whether the switchboard is warm enough for it to go sit on it and warm its hideous arse on a cold rainy evening?

What does Lizzy eat? Fly poop? Fly kids? Yucky Lizzy has no taste.
Where does Lizzy sleep? Below my bed? Over my head? Lizzy go away, make haste!
How does Lizzy screw? Does he stay on top? Lizard sex seems so boring, so chaste.
Why does Lizzy live? Why inhabit my room? And make it look like such a waste!

Dirty dirty Lizzy! He is a dirty ol’ lizard. He is tiny with a curious little head that stays raised for some odd reason – I haven’t been near it enough to analyse the shade and texture of his unsightly skin – I’m sure it must have little beady eyes – snoopy poopy seedy beady eyes of a villain!

Egg shells don’t drive him away. I am going to try peacock feathers next. He doesn’t do any harm so to say, its just that his mere presence is disturbing and is driving me up the wall (up the wall….haha!). But seriously, any lizard who manages to make me write about it AND christen it – must be destroyed!!! But how? I prithee tell me…how? Must I commit bloody murder? But I can't… and not because I don’t want to…but because the thought of being close enough to kill it is killing me!

What should I do of dirty Lizzy? Lizzy is a plague that has taken over my walls. Lizzy is a creature who is a descendant of the evil dinosaurs. Lizzy is a laid back lizard that roves around my room. Lizzy is a curse to make me think about what a lizard must think? Or does a Lizard think? I don’t know. Go ahead, think about it. And tell me if you can think of anything.

P.S: Lizzy the Lizard is up for adoption. Roomie anyone?

Coffee-Soda on the Rocks

2007-09-07T04:59:00.000-07:00

So I was trying to take a power ‘noon’ nap, when these memories from the past just flashed in my head. I think it all began with my craving for something to drink – I didn’t know what – so I was weighing my options in my head, wondering what is available in the refrigerator and will that be better than freshly brewed aromatic tea? – And then Red Bricks came to my mind.

Red Bricks was our little space in this inconspicuous corner of Kailash Colony in Delhi – a space that made sure that each one of us there has our own little private space to hold, to keep and to return to almost every evening. Large couches and warm wooden tables along with smoking and non-smoking zones, good music and happy hours discounts were all that we young-perpetually-broke college-goers could ask for. The red bricked walls were covered with framed posters of a thousand retro musicians. There was a corner to put up your own personal post-its and there were 4 shelves full of books (including the very curiosity inducing manuals of the kamasutra and monthly magazines like Rave). The menu was fantastic – or at least I felt that way – it had an assortment of coffees and teas (reason enough for me to fall in love with any café), and then had its famous oregano-cheese grilled sandwich – and a 20% discount to everyone from my college – it was our little haven, a respite from the fancy-shmancy baristas and mochas of the world, and a place where no one would kick you out even if you just ordered a coffee, picked up the newspaper and sat playing chess with a friend for hours.

It was my land of escape – when I needed my space – and hell, do I need my space all the time or what – when I had to get out of the kich-pich of the PG I lived in, or the zingbang of college activities or when I simply needed some time to sort out my own little insignificant personal problems that seemed so monumental back then. It was a place you would meet the boys – it was a place where little Friday night concerts would happen and the smog would take over the whole population flocked there for utter indulgence – it was a place where everyone had kissed at least once - it was the only place you wanted to be when an India-Pakistan match happened - it was a place that somehow gave you a sense of ownership and pride.

I have spent entire Saturdays there – downed 4 mugs of coffee and 2 plates of fries along with one good book and maybe a stray game of chess with a boy whose name I never asked. I have had this unique drink there that I have never seen anywhere else till date – this coffee soda thing with lots of ice– strong coffee with soda and the frothy thing that accumulated on top, there would be these 3 coffee beans joined at the hip – it was so strange and it was so fuzzy-fizzy and it was so nice. I miss that soda coffee thing. I miss just having an unassuming little inexpensive warm den to spend time in – I miss Red Bricks and my life back then. It was great while it lasted.

Red Bricks was closed down because of some legal problems when I was in my final year of college. We all mourned it heavily. We all missed it crazily. Something was just taken away form our lives. The coffee-soda drink was snatched away from mine. And never again have I had the opportunity to see so many cute guys just sitting lazily waiting to invite you for a game of ludo. We tried to find a substitute. We found something very remotely similar in Village Café – but it wasn’t walking distance from where I lived and I couldn’t sit there till 11 at night – and it was expensive and eventually became shady.
And then college ended, we all moved to new places, new campuses - NCC became my new friend for chai, Zaika was the roadside favourite for cold coffee – but Red Bricks remained irreplaceable – and the soda-coffee inimitable.
Some things in life…well, never have to change.

Haiku and I

2007-08-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

Atwood talks about the past. When women existed within four walls. Yet without the limitations of imagination. It goes like this:
“Life was more joyful and innocent then, and at the same time permeated with guilt and terror, or at least the occasions for them, on the most daily level.
It was like the Japanese haiku: a limited form, rigid in its perimeters, within which an astonishing freedom was possible.”

I am still in awe of this analogy she has built – of the fact that it has given me a whole new perspective on…Freedom? Life? Haiku? Word play? Me?
I happen to develop a liking to the place I’ve just started work at. Many say it is limiting – without challenges, without creativity – but I look around and in hidden crevices (and in a lot of channel goodies), find a sea of opportunities. I think for me it is also a lot about respect. I need to have a stand in the place I work at. This, now, here – I like it. Surrounded by intimidating feminists, hearing talks about women’s issues, being amongst multitudes of boobs – I feel like one of them – somewhere in some corner of me, I feel like I belong.
Who can kill your creativity? Work? Job? This so called 9-6 routine? Some of the most interesting people I know work at banks, mnc’s, ngos – so does that mean they cannot be funny? They cannot read poetry? They cannot delve into literature? They cannot paint a picture or tell a story?
It’s a great thing if you love your work. I strive for that. Right now I am at the “liking” stage and not the “loving and dying for it” level. But I am striving to earn to be where I want to be – to be able to study without bothering about where my next meal is coming from – that’s something that keeps me going.
And then again – the books I carry on train, the doodles I make in my diary and the way I spend my weekends is life enough for me. I am relatively satisfied. I am not bursting and overflowing with love for work. But I just about love life right now. And that, for me, is a great start. I am hopeful. I am optimistic. I am happy. I am like haiku.

Block Talk

2007-08-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

“Your internet connection is experiencing problems or your network administrator has blocked Gmail chat.”

What it this I say? I am at home. With slight fever and a horrible headache. Took an off from work. And popped in a crocin. Slept for a while longer. And woke up pretty much okay. But by then it was an off from work so why bother? I might as well stay home. So I log onto gmail and want to chat with some friends. And I get this silly message out of the blue and in the middle of a conversation where I was cribbing and simultaneously gloating about being ill and hence being at home. I call up R to ask “who the hell is this network administrator and what does he think of himself?”, he gives me a nonchalant answer “log off and log on again”… as if I hadn’t done that like a million times before I called him for help – am I a total net retard?...uh NO! Then he tells me, it is guy who came to fix up the net connection at home – aha… I thought as much, but suddenly why would my gtalk be banned? Have I been doing some uncensored wordy exchanges through it… I don’t think so! This is infuriating!

Oh and this rambling reminds me – who the hell is this M anyway? My blog isn’t out for public scrutiny. It’s my space where I can and will say anything – nonsense or not – and then yesterday I had this comment on this earlier post – and I was like…eh who is this? Only my friends have this link and I mostly know their nicknames. So this uninvited intrusion irked me a bit. But I published the comment anyway – maybe he/she returns – this M – to leave some smart ass comment yet again…so if one can bother to comment, I am okay with publishing it. Phhhhbbbt !!!!!!

I went yesterday to see a flat where I may want to move in. It is in a beautiful society – in the heart of Bandra on Carter Road – the sea front is walking distance away, and so is Crepe station and Tangy Tomato. And decently priced even. Just that the deposit is going to burn a hole into my parent’s pockets. But there is nothing called perfection – in that wonderful almost furnished house, lives a girl who has a huge Boxer! I am petrified of stray dogs, I avoid all kinds of poodles and apsos and this is a huge terrifying looking brown and black boxer, for god’s sake! What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

Hot friend J sent me a mail. Asking why I haven’t met him in so long and why are things so weird. I hate such topics – where there is so much talking and so many explanations. What do I tell him – ah yes, I don’t want to meet you right now and hang out with you because I, indeed, do not want to go out with you, so I am keeping you, my dear hot friend, at bay. What is annoying is that he stays at Bandra – so close to office and so convenient for hanging out – but I shall not and will not cross the line of control! *smug smile*

I had salaami & black olive sandwich for breakfast, with sprouts followed by cold coffee. I feel full, pampered and ready to sleep again.
So how do I solve this gtalk problem? How do I get in touch with the world that is out there again?
I am hoping switching off the computer/modem and restarting everything in an hour should miraculously do the trick. So I am going to try that before I have to call Mister Network fuckin’ Administrator. I am going back to sleep sweet sleep. Any comments on that, M? Indulge yourself.

*Disabling blogger.com also now?*
Let’s kill the network administrator.
Yawn!

Of Bean Bags and Boredom !!

2007-07-26T06:12:00.000-07:00

I am bored. Therefore I shall scribble.

What’s there to a place? I wonder.
There was Delhi and my life there. It was so perfect? Why was it so perfect?... because I chose it to be perfect in my head. There were days of despair, or illness, of fights and tears. And there were days of friendship, adventure, smiles and laughter. And yet, in its complete self – it was perfect.
I think we choose our perfection. For me Delhi was it. It was the only place I thought happiness would come to me from. But now I realise, happiness doesn’t come to you. You, take your lazy arse, and go to it.
It is what you make of a place that the place makes of you. It is the vibes you give a city that get flung back to you. No? Yes? Something?
Mumbai is okay… I am getting used to the rains, I am okay with the traffic, I like the breezy nights and the lazy weekends. I like myself. And I like the way I can adapt.

I have learnt the following things about Mumbai:

- To get love you have to give some first.
- Rains is a pain in the ass. Grin and bear with it. Power of toleration, I say!
- Taxi and auto wallas are most fun to chat with
- You must know how to jump onto a moving train
- Therobroma is brownie haven.
- Sion and “sheev” are names of the same place – but I still cant figure out why is it spelled so differently in english and hindi!
- Station is a place you should write award winning books at.
- “Kute” means where and not “kutte”
- The auto meters read one rupee more than you must pay them
- Noone gives a rat’s shit as to what you wear – and this I loouwe!

Apart from that, and apart from polishing my social skills, there is a home – there are warm children who love me – and it is such a warmth inducing feeling (oh me and my maternal instincts). There is utter boredom on days and utter business on other days. There is, somehow, never a time when I don’t have people to meet or something to do…like I don’t know…music to listen to, write a mail, read on the train,cook something new, straighten my almirah, stare at the sea etcetera etcetera!

And then there are the really bright moments of the day. For example when an announcement is made that 2 huge beanbags shall be arriving home… one deep red and one black. The thought of the deep red fills me with so much lazy joy! I love beanbags – all kind, all colour… well, there is just one kind actually…but yes, all sizes, all prices, everywhere and anywhere – be it the common room at LSR or my friend’s house, be it at Village Café or the furniture shop around the corner.
The first thing I want to buy when I have my own place is a bean bag. A huge read bean bag. It will be like this big blob of colour adding life to my room and symbolising my love for just being a couch potato and doing nothing. It is comforting just looking at a beanbag. I have always been so much in love with them. So much so that in the computer game, the Sims house party (you know where design your house, your lane, your garden and all your furnishing – oh even your lover, just for the record!), ya so in that game even, I remember having these crazy fluorescent green and blue beanbags all around my virtual house! Beanbags give me such joy. Much as most things these days do. And sometimes when everything is giving me too much joy, I crib just a little bit to feel “normal”!

I’m in office. And as you can gather from my endless ramble, I am bored. Oh so bored. And sitting in anticipation of seeing the beanbags arrive at home. Pix is on her way. We are going shopping. *jumps in the air, clicks her feet, CRASH*
We shall raid the streets of Bandra. We shall share this experience called “Mumbai”. And after the exhilarating fun of it all, we shall crib just a teeny-weeny bit to get our feet back onto the ground.

What’s there to a place? I wonder again. People make places. And right now my people seem to be here. This is my city now. I have partly arrived!

My Station My Space

2007-07-12T06:42:00.000-07:00

The simplest of sights arrest me. I am, increasingly, falling in love with the variety of life that the station has to offer – the diversity of people, the multiplicity of human emotions, the colours of the umbrellas, the smell of the vada pavs, the unspoken camaraderie between the women and the verbal solidarity between the men.

There are moments when I am completely taken aback by a beggar woman – who has exactly two saris…yellow and orange – that she wears in turns…and spreads the pallu out to beg. And she has this incredibly saddened expression on her face. I would want to decide whether it is a practiced expression or a genuine one…except I don’t seem to have the heart to do that. I, having decided to harden myself against such moments, still end up taking some coins out… but I decide however, that when I have some extra money, buying a sari for her won’t hurt me.

One day I saw a young boy, just lying…sleeping?... ( I don’t know), in one corner of the ladies compartment – I wanted to reach out and wake him up, ask him what’s wrong, help him if I could…but I didn’t. I don’t even know why. Maybe because at one level, even I have strangled a part of my conscience.

But today what I saw will stay suspended in some corner of my mind forever. As I climbed down the stairs of the station, I saw a man who was limping – seemed like a case of polio – and with him, was a small child…say four year old…and he was holding his hand and both of them were slowly coming down the stairs…it was such a strange sight – it was so heart rendering – I kept turning around to look at them – to just know that they have reached the end of the stairs… I don’t know who was helping who down the stairs…who was guiding who… a physically challenged man who could hardly climb down the stairs on his own, or the child who could hardly keep a track of his own tiny feet?… I wanted, at that moment, to capture that sight… I wished, at that point, that my eyes were a camera of sorts… I was visually arrested and emotionally moved… I was, again, one inch closer to loving the absolute beauty in such simple sights. I was again in love with the idea of going to the station tomorrow.

Sip of Heaven

2007-07-09T01:13:00.000-07:00

Am I turning into an alcoholic? Hah! Over dramatic self at its best…it is, at most,
a wine-holic. And that is if you include the very delicious Tia Maria, Peach Schnapps and sometimes a can of beer.
It was Rhododendron wine yesterday. It is fine white wine today. 2 bottles of Port wine were guzzled a few days ago. Some black currant vodka was offered last night. Ofcourse I declined. I hate vodka. I would much rather slowly sip and swim in the silken taste of wine.
Once upon a time, I used to think I am allergic to wine. Those were tragic days. And this stemmed from the fact that I am highly allergic to grapes. But come one trip to Goa and with a few anti-allergic tablets in my pocket and a bottle of wine, I finally realised that I am, in fact, not at all allergic to this drink of the demi-gods! And then began my very stable affair with wine – of all types and varieties – white, red, port, apricot, peach, apple, plum and even the above mentioned, rhododendron wine.

Now you see, Simla, my beloved hometown, is a place for wine lovers. Suddenly a burst of wine making has taken over that side of the state like a plague. Everywhere you go – departmental stores, hotels, tourist spots…there are so many wines…I am amazed at the stuff they make wine out of – every time I go there is a new type to taste and to celebrate to…never mind if there is no occasion for it….drinking wine is an occasion by itself if you ask me!

I am sitting at my laptop – sipping at my sparkling glass of wine, scribbling this nonsense, trying to do a shot breakdown for the film I am working on, and teaching my 8 year old cousin for her exam tomorrow – yes, I am the goddess of multitasking, I am super cool! *narcissistic guffaw*
I bought a diary today – handmade paper et al…I love stationary…never regret or feel a twinge at over-spending on it. I think stationary is meant to be splurged upon and to be hoarded. It is just so beautifully useful. I needed a diary. Well, I always need a diary…but to add to my collection. This time however, I needed one to scribble my thoughts in the train – I observe the most interesting people on the train…old women with such comforting faces, strange women who talk to themselves, kind faces, poor faces, happy faces, dissatisfied faces, gorgeous faces, innocent faces, annoying faces – and this makes me think…there are too many people in the world…all of them have a thousand stories to them…there are so many incidents in the world…can anyone write down all of them?...can anyone record each experience…I guess not…I guess it must be really tough being god. I sometimes also wonder…if god has a record of all the people on earth…its like this visual – of god and his helpers – and they are all surrounded by miles and miles of paper (handmade ofcourse!) which has the record of everything that happens on earth…wow…I think I visualise too much…I think I should give my imagination a break. I think I should go and get another glass of wine. Cheers!

Polka Dots

2007-07-02T23:46:00.000-07:00

“Someone is a dreadful blotch
While someone is an ordinary spot
But the best of them all
Is the joyous, bouncy polka dot”

Monsoon has attacked this city. Rain rain everywhere, not a drop to escape from! Yesterday, after office, I took my umbrella and braved myself to go back home… it was not raining as it mostly does…the water wasn’t conspiring with the wind and slimily drenching me from all sides, but gently drizzling – almost pleasant…slightly making me smile and forget the fact that I was at office on a Sunday. I let my umbrella blossom with a flourish and then stepped onto the horrid bumpy water filled road… and then I saw dots… the raindrops very designedly fell on the water body making tiny ripples at intervals… it was like a polka dotted puddle… nature’s own pattern!

Now I see dots everywhere. When I go to buy my night pajamas. When I watch the beetle scuttle in the bush at the park. When I sit doodling on blank papers while I am on the phone. When I dab dots of night cream of my face. When I watch one big bubble float in the air during my bath. When I stare at the yolk of my fried egg at breakfast. When I type any word that has an ‘o’ in it. The whole world is suddenly one big polka dot.

There is such harmony in polka dots. It’s like one visual song. And there is a peaceful sense of co-existence in them. And a strange feeling of life and joy. I feel comfortable when I see polka dots. I think it is the smoothness. Or the fact that they all seem, somehow, to be at one level…there is none above or below the other…its so in accord. Unlike lines and sharp patterns, it doesn’t disturb me.

White dots on bright red. Green dots on lemon yellow. Purple dots on hot pink. Ah! Such variety. So many combinative possibilities. So much colour. And so many happy dots. The world is one enormous dot. And I, a speck, just waiting to be a polka dot.

Jamun Sky

2007-06-29T01:15:00.001-07:00

I have turned into an insomniac. Every night I sit up till 3 am. Doing what? Nothing actually. A lot of music has come to be a part of my life. And a room on my own leaves a lot of space for all the introspection & retrospection that I think I have subconsciously needed since a long time now.

The rain lashes at my window. Almost jeering at me…telling me that tomorrow it will be another ordeal to get out of home - in folded jeans and converse chappals and an umbrella…while trying to block the wind that brings the rain from all directions…and then hunting for a taxi to the station…while struggling more to save some part of myself from the water…and walk on the road…hoping that some car doesn’t rush by, merrily splashing me with dirty water… there is so much water… oh it makes me want to sit in an oven and dry myself…it makes me not want to drink water even…it makes my fingertips like crinkled grapes… it makes me feel like a specimen of osmosis…it makes me want to curl up in my bed and sleep till the end of monsoon here…wake me up when September ends!

I called myself “characteristically confused” today. What a term to use. I thought about it all the while in the train while listening to Babylon. Rainy days make me want to listen to happy music. While I popped in some jamuns that I bought from in front of the station. I love the strange taste of jamun…so exotic…not sweet, not sour…just flavoured in its own essence. And I love the colour. Oh royal purple. Like purple satin. So gorgeous.
I think jamun is a gorgeous fruit. Splendid. Super. Grand. Yet so common. And with it, the multiple stories that we read in junior hindi classes… jamun trees and the efforts to steal them from the neighbours garden… or the jamun excesses at granpa’s place. oh I love jamun. And I think purple is beautiful.
Only I hardly wear it. I love black and red. Turquoise and green come next.

A bath before sleeping is a must every night. Mumbai is a huge glorified pothole with pigeon holed houses. Only I feel rather cool – I live with my mom’s brother and his family in a spacious sea facing apartment at the very uppity Malabar Hill. That is, until I move out on my own…which should happen in the next ten days. Sigh. I am so used to my little cousins here. I will miss them so much. I’m such a softie.

These hours to myself are actually useful. The train trips with my books and music is an added advantage if we look at the travelling crap in a slightly positive way. Putting aside some time to think-think is so essential. Everyone should do it. Anywhere. Long bath. Star gazing. Evening walk. Night time. Anytime. It is therapeutic. Makes me ask myself if what I have right now is what I actually want or whether I want more out of life and love.
Love is an overrated concept. Or have I not said that before. Loud and clear? Like from the top of a ten floor building. With a mike. And huge imaginary speakers. But let me correct myself. It isn’t an overrated concept but an overrated word. Otherwise, it is wonderful – this love thing – to be able to give and express and receive – everything abstract and beautiful – and in the words of Beatles, “All you need is love”! I miss being pampered. I miss being loved. I think I just miss dad and mom. And my brother.
Someone once told me…when you start missing your parents everyday…you, my dear friend, are getting old. This is my tenth year of being away from home. And I am missing my family all over again. It feels like school. But I am not young. I must definitely be getting old. I think I need to go back to granpa’s house and try stealing some jamuns again. Purple tongue. Purple memories. Purple fruit. The world is pretty again.

It is 2:44 am now. I think all this thoughtless random scribbling is soon becoming more haphazard…like my thoughts…slumber is taking over me. I think office begins early tomorrow. Oh how I hate punctual bosses. Sleep and let sleep…no? I have a purple tongue. I think my dream tonight shall be tinged purple too. A purple haze is taking over me. And it rains and it rains and it rains and it rains. It never stops. “Wake me up when September ends”. What the heck…one more song won’t kill me… but one more paragraph will.
Whoops…the jamuns are over!
Purple sky. Purple fullstop.

Abyss of Thought

2007-06-26T00:08:00.000-07:00

I am tired. Of nothing. And yet of everything. How old do I sound? How old can I possibly sound? And I am all of 23.
I think the initial euphoria of a job and all that crappy jazz has fizzed out in its good ol’ due time. It’s been 3 weeks and oh I am so sick…so sick of work or rather no work – well, yes I have a job but I don’t know whether I am working productively or not. Earlier I would question my existence. Now I don’t even need to question that. Why? It is so simple. I don’t question that which has no answer anymore.
Remember my earlier posts on why this, why that, why me, why him, why despair, why not joy! Now it is a silent sort of a resignation where my mere strength to fight my own questions in my own head has gone plop!

I think it was better when grassy indulgences and such sinful sessions made me look at the moon and say that there is nothing larger that connects people…whoever at that very moment is looking at the moon, are all, at a certain level connected through that sublime entity, to each other. And this is a part of a conversation on the terrace when ‘joint’ studies formed an inevitable part of our weekly curriculum and such larger-than-normal-life statements were made apart from the very silly singing in chorus and hogging on wai-wai and maggi at midnight. Meaningful results of the great roll of weed!
To think of it, as human beings, we are on a roll – and by that I men roll downwards… life keeps getting worse…in some way or the other…for me the word ‘responsibility’ spells ‘worse’…not the sort of responsibility where you are incharge of yourself…I am totally in favour of the ‘each women for herself’ theory…where my problem essentially crops up is the big deal about marriage and being responsible for someone whose life is knotted with yours…or things like a bank account and bills…oh life just keeps getting worse… after twenty two it is all a trip downhill and there is no trekking or the effort for it anymore.

So back to what I was saying. So I am tired and haggard. I already want to retire in the hills with a load of books and some 100 gbs of music. I want to inherit indecent amounts of money from some long lost royal uncle who realised that I am the right heir and then I don’t need to work anymore. And then I want to eventually open a coffee store of my own…with lovely exotic flavours, the right music, student discounts, cosy red couches and a corner with books. Ah…that is life…and what I am living right now is nowhere near it. Instead of a hill station there is a rain infested, muck filled city with humidity and sweaty local trains, instead of my café there is a production house for which I work, from which I am getting easily detached. Instead of my wishful inheritance there is a measly salary and a difficult existence. And instead of an ‘ah’, there is a ‘ouch’!

And then I set out to do the very tiresome job of thinking…and then my abysmal effort of jotting some thoughts down and posting it onto my blog…for further record and a reference for my erstwhile mental state incase I find myself, in a few years, in some mental institution taking therapy on soul searching and other such “who am I” crap!
Because there isn’t just my professional life that I am dissatisfied with, my personal life has also got me in limbo. I mean with all due respects to the romantic writers and the stupid movies that gave us a totally unreal and a screwed up definition of love, I realise that maybe there is no love…maybe nothing is unconditional…maybe it is all give and take…maybe sometimes it is just give give give…maybe at the end of the day it is plain convenience sprinkled with a little amount of fondness…but there is no passion, no driving force to go out of ones way to do something for their so called loved one, no real investment. Maybe we all are so tired of looking that now staying with the one already there is an easier bet…and anyway, the whole wooing process is so much of an effort that even mouldy, old relationships – where there is no sweet nothings and no romance, no random surprises and no special efforts – is better than looking for newer grounds.
I don’t believe in this. I am still a hopeless romantic at heart. I still believe in keeping a relationship alive…that everyday is a new day and that every dinner is a new date…but does it matter what I believe in when, in reality, I see nothing of the sort. It all seems to come down to routine and to habit. And I hardly want to be someone’s monotonous habit. And yet somewhere, in my deep denial, I think I am becoming just that! I think basic human nature is sadomasochistic. I know there is affection, I know there is genuine concern, but I also know that I must have no expectations – and that sometimes gives me a sense of void – the fact that the heart is capable of loving but not trusting and yet staying right there – in that abyss of uncertainty.

I am an impatient person. So impatient! If things are not going right, I want to jump right in and take charge – and then I want to hold the confused reins of my life and try and untangle them fast and start the ride in another direction altogether – never mind if that direction may lead to dead end or yet another twist! Here I am, one month old in my organisation – dissatisfied with work, confused about my role, vague about my aim – and I am thinking of taking off and switching yet again. Is there any point a person reaches professional satisfaction? I suppose…but I am far from it….so so far away!
The froth and gloss of “working” is disappearing – with every swig I take, the mug of life looks bleak and negative – maybe I need another refill…or maybe I need a change of drink itself. Or maybe I just need to go and get drunk one day. It’s been so long – beer beckons me…every time I cross Leopolds and glance at the multiple pitchers inside, I let out a subconscious sigh. Where are the glorious days that were…the all-ladies drinking outings…ah I forget…I am 23 now…and it is all downhill from here onwards.

Have you ever wondered, however pathetic our lives may be, if a gun is held against our heads, we still beg to be let to live, we still pray with all our strength for our silly little meaningless lives…and why is it so precious? Don’t they say there is a whole new world out there?...then why is death looked at with so much fear…every minute is fought for till the end…with surgeries and meditations and allopathic and homeopathic doses! Well then, I suppose however ugly life may get, it is actually the most beautiful gift we have. So even when random inconsequential thoughts of flinging myself from a cliff does enter my very messed up mind, I never actually get around to executing it – it is way too scary…and maybe even I don’t want to let go of my gift. Though, people call suicide cowardice…I personally think it takes a bloody lot of courage to go and actually do it. But I may be wrong…and I may not even know…I haven’t killed myself yet.

Oh and here I go…deviating again…
What was I talking about…about my tiredness and lack of effort to question the purpose of my insignificant existence…or maybe I was just talking…you know, yapping through letters and words…and it all started randomly and it shall, as usual, and as my life, end randomly.
Well hah…how depressing, isn’t it?...not really…I’m sneaking into the kitchen for some toast topped with chocolate syrup…little joys of life…and maybe that is enough to get me through the next day…and maybe grape jam can get my though the subsequent week even… ah well, welcome to my world….welcome to my erratic abyss of thought.

Hypotenuse

2007-06-26T00:04:00.000-07:00

Crib quota of the day is over. Missing my city is a continuous phenomenon. I have learnt to live with it.
Memories are sweet and linger in my head like the smell of lilacs.
The train chugs at its usual pace. All kinds of women sit, chit, chat, stare, wonder, ponder.
There is something in the wind. It isn’t love.
Music plays in my ear even though my ipod stays hidden somewhere in my backpack.
Dinner is homely. Children can be so philosophical. Return of innocence. And sense.
My best friend is coming for 2 months. Such joy has gripped my heart.
Safety net of friends comes to rescue. I am covered till August.
Am I a social butterfly? He says that. I just like meeting my friends. Such angels.
The sea is mighty and violent. The rain drops hit my ageing face. I can be so dramatic.
When do I wear my white pants? Muck and dirt engulf this monsoon wrecked city.
Bob Dylan. Such great music. Courtesy Pix.
The bed is big and cluttered. Because it is big I sleep diagonally. I am a hypotenuse.
Somehow I am not upset anymore. This is life. Live it.
And what is life?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind.

Parasites of Technology

2007-06-15T00:49:00.000-07:00

My phone has no signal. I feel terribly handicapped. What have we become? Slaves of electronic contraptions! Dependents of wired voices!
I think our cell phones are almost synonymous with another limb…it’s like an extension of the self… and a nuisance at times.
I think of all the times I have used the phone to express my anger and depression. I recall the times I have been utterly stupid and dialled a number and lowered my ego.
But there have been times when the conversation courtesy airtel or hutch has ended with a smile or a leap of joy in the otherwise stable heart.
So then I suppose it cannot be such a bad thing. And yet what a nuisance it can prove to be… buzzing and ringing and interrupting conversations, arguments, discussions and sometimes even sex! We have indeed succumbed to the 10 digit numbers. We have been taken over by aliens called sim cards and recharge coupons. We have lost all our privacy and disconnect from the social world and reconnect into a personal world. The world is suddenly such a small place that I sometimes feel claustrophobic – as if a cloth is being tied around my neck and I can’t breathe and then I feel sick and my lungs want to burst.
Look at me!!... I keep glancing at my silver coloured phone…I keep seeing the left side of the screen, checking whether the damn signal has re-entered my life or not.
I am a victim too, I am!
- Oh signal return…phone buzzes…typing ends…talking starts –
Goodnight.

Incompletion

2007-06-14T05:47:00.001-07:00

I went to help my aunt and uncle pick curtains for the house yesterday. Fab India – with all its frills at the price tags… I mean this is what I call business…hire the rural handicraft artists and weavers…get them to make all the fancy stuff…sort them in the assorted ranges and then quote the price ten times over if not more. And pay the poor workers one hundredth of the profit.
Yet…I was there, looking at the beautiful curtains…trying to mix and match and get my aesthetic sense on a roll… peacock blue with gold work against a beige-gold printed one… blue and white printed one against a plain white basic looking curtain…and other combinations that we made from the “sheer” section – you know the kind where it is semi-transparent…so that the sun-rays just about come and kiss your feet in the morning and the light at dawn just about sneaks in and stealthily wraps itself around you.

Which reminds me I am right now wallowing in sheer boredom. Its amazing how one word has so many meanings. Sheer curtains. Sheer boredom. Sheer joy.
Back to the curtains – and I don’t know anymore, why I started writing about them in the first place.
‘Snow hey oh’ is playing in my ears right now. RHCP. There is nothing to do at office. My boss is missing. Ah well, its my dramatic way of saying that he didn’t come to office today. Considering what monotony rules my life right now, I am making everything and anything seem of proportional heights…it is called making a mock epic out of one of the chapters of my very normal mortally-limited life.

Song changed to ‘Across the Universe’…did I mention how much I like this song?...let me elucidate - or actually…just read the lyrics if you wish to… or scroll down if not.

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass,
they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind,
Possessing and caressing me.

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.

Sounds of laughter shades of life are ringing
Through my open mind inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like amillion suns,
it calls me on and on
Across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva

- Song ends –
Another song starts – but now I am distracted. I am wondering when can I get out of the office and when I can meet Kartik.
Now let me tell you who he is. He is my adopted sibling. I am the damned eldest one in the family…no cousin is older and no one my age… in solitude of my aged self, I have grown up, always being prodded to set an example for the “kids”…for gods sake… I like being human… I like being lazy and sleeping all day too, I like my beer outings, I like lying in a hammock all day with a book, I like going to crowded, crazy concerts…I like being wonderfully flawed and fun… I don’t want to be an example… if they need an example, they can go look at the autobiography of Gandhi or something… I can hardly be a good mould for any of those children to melt and set into.
So back to Kartik and why I wish to meet him today and have a nice chatty dinner time together…I need to talk…I need to figure out some things in my head and he helps me do just that…and with an amazing amount of patience… I need to know if where I am right now is the right place to be…I need to be sure of what I am doing and if my decisions are, in any way, going to affect other close ones.
Messed up I am….messed up is my head… and I am so bored right now… and I have a book…but I am being greedy…and only a few pages are left that I want to finish in the train…it is a train read and it started that way and it shall end that way.

And I suddenly realised that I started talking about the shopping spree and never ended that… It feels like such an incomplete piece….this random scribbling…but then again… I don’t know why I started talking about it in the first place so now I won’t bother to go back to it… let it be incomplete…like most of us are anyway. And in this utterly incomplete sense of being…I shall stop writing now. Full stop? Comma! Ellipses? Whatever.

Losing My Monotony

2007-06-13T04:46:00.000-07:00

I had left living. Left what I loved the most. Left my world of fantasy and imagination. Abandoned my world of words and wonder. Forgotten my world that I weaved with poetry and knitted with prose.
And to my utter surprise, all this comes back to me in a local train – the train that I take daily from home to work and back.
Morning: Platform no. 3, Grant Road station. Borivili train. Ladies first class.
And then a half hour journey. So to kill the boredom what do I do – I pick a book – random book that I wanted to read once upon a time – The curious incident of the dog in the night time.
Night: Platform no. 3, Andheri station. Churchgate train. Ladies first class. And the read continues.
Now I wait to hop on to the train so that I get my daily slot of reading.
Immersed in a world of my own…occasionally glancing up to make sure that I don’t miss my station…sometimes being interrupted by a lady selling an assorted range of accessories, sometimes being poked by a beggar girl…amidst the heat and the crowd and the rush of life in Mumbai… I sit with my eyes glued to the book…happily flipping one page after another…feeling that old me return.
I have come to realise the importance of my time…”my” exclusive time…my train time… if I’m not reading, I’m listening to music…if I’m not listening to music, I am thinking… and I think I’m sorting my head out.
So do I know now what do I want out of life? Not really. But some of that horrid confusion and storm in my head has ebbed… some focus has come about… or atleast some strange sort of peace had regained itself in me…I think it’s the reading…I think its my own time slot in the train…when I am alone and no one really exists around me… the rambling and bumbling ladies aside, the humidity that ruins my hair aside, the sweat, the grime, the terrible traffic aside…atleast I have rediscovered reading.
It gives me peace. It sorts me out. It makes me happy. It makes me think. It’s a welcome break in my otherwise monotonous life.
If nothing else (yet), atleast Mumbai has made me lose my monotony. And beautifully so.
Back to Mark Haddon and his book. It is a wonderful train read!

Black Bombay

2007-06-13T04:45:00.000-07:00

Its like an invisible force. Like black magic. Evil. Foreboding. Yet tempting. Pulling me towards itself. Giving me unnecessary hopes, inculcating in me, a resigned indifference, asking me never to expect from people – for it is, paradoxically, a selfish but warm, rainy but sunny, expensive but cheap, crowded but personal and a hateful but likeable place. This is Mumbai. I am returning to it – yet again. Except last time was shit. There was illness in the air, hatred in the blood, tears in my eyes and so much of a mental void.
This time – I like to think – that I am stronger, more level headed, rather determined and yet most impulsive.
I like to think people are good. I like to give everyone there, the benefit of the doubt. I also think though, that I like to get hurt – and sadistically, many times so. I like to fall and rise – and bruise and heal – and tell myself…I survived again!
Limitations of a human being …but more than that…limitations of an AV student. Oh why tell me, did I take the blasted course. It taught me more about life than about a job. It made me wary of trusting, depending, and being blind against the malice of many. It taught me, no doubt, little bit of editing, camera and lots of bullshitting. But most of all it taught me – that we make choices … good choices, terrible choices…but at the end of the day we live with our choices and no one else…not our mothers or fathers or lovers… but the individual who made a choice.
I think I make a lot of wrong choices. I think I am rather impulsive and stupid. I also like to think that some good will come out of all of this. I think positive. Well…looking at the really optimistic side…atleast I think!
I haven’t slept well in the past month. Come 6:30 and my eyes snap open. Automatically!! As if an external force is prying my eyelids open and asking me to stop dreaming and start living…reality bites…and it really hurts.
Wishful thinking keeps me going still… I wish I am happy again…I wish someday I have the power to sleep for 12 hours at a stretch again. I wish my dark circles disappear one day. I wish I were pretty.
Rain and muck and crowd and locals and leopolds and odd working hours beckon me again – or may I say, yet again! But will it be that bad? Could it be worse? Could I again be sitting at the window sill finishing a pack of Marlboro lights in a night listening to Bavra mann? Or would I be reading something and eating watermelon while productively doing something out of my life? How much have I wasted…haste makes waste, no?
And yet again – this has been a hasty decision – and only my wishful thinking hopes against hope that it is not wasted this time…that I am not wasted this time…that my joy isn’t wasted this time.
I’ve had enough. Truly had enough. I’m going to give happiness a chance. I am not going to wallow around in hollow, self-indulgent pain. What is a city? It’s an area of land…with roads and houses and some people who don’t even matter. Let’s try to live for a change…and live solely for myself. Let’s defeat black magic. Let’s triumph over Mumbai!

I Do Love Home

2007-04-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

I do love home. Yes I do…inspite of all the arguments and the fights and all the tans of anger and the verbal splats…I still love home.
I leave dayafter – not for college, not for comfortable cash inflow from dad…but for work, new life and my own money. Wow… I might as well say goodbye to all my big chill indulgences, the Loreals and the Benettons… I will be amongst the “less-fortunate” ones. *looooooong dramatic sigh*

What a silly song is on…It must’ve been love by Roxette. Ah…and I am being silly and relating to it. “But it’s over now…..” – I wonder, is it? I mean I am not that emotional anymore when it comes to him…that weak or stupid for that matter. So much thinking seems to, for a change, do me some good. What use is the term “moving on” if you cant apply it? Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Or out of sight, out of mind? Pix says it is the second syndrome where he is concerned. I wonder now, is it true? Yesterday a mail from him hit my inbox and I was taken aback… I think that’s because I have truly stopped expecting anything from him. He is married to work, he says. Then how can I even expect him to stray with me? *grin*

Oh and I was thinking of that corny movie “My best friends wedding” yesterday. I admit, sheepishly though, that I like that film very much. It’s such good time pass. The karaoke segment is my favourite…I think that’s when I started liking that song by Nicky Holland, “I just don’t know what to do with myself”…oh wait, let me just find it on my winamp.
Ah yes, it’s playing now…and I am swaying happily. And voila…I switch to Moby and feel all swingy and floaty… I miss the weed-ed wonders of life… ah college life and other such sinful nights…!
Music is so amazing. It makes me feel better about almost anything.

-Phone call-

Ah it was my 2nd brother from college, the lovesick heartbroken C.J. Just finished giving him a whole lecture about moving on and staying away from what and who makes you upset. Felt so mature. Made me think about my own personal problems… have I applied it in my life…can I really?
I haven’t been upset where the man in question is concerned in a long time now. No more am I harping on the fact that I want to wait and be with him. His commitment phobia has finally put me off so much that I’d rather also just be friends now than keep trying to make him realise what we had. I mean if he can’t see it, he must be blind and I am tired of trying. Such hopelessness makes me resign myself to hopelessness. But I am really proud of myself and that I am capable of getting okay! Yay delhi here I come…!!

-Loo break-

Ya okay…I don’t feel like typing anymore. I am bored and I don’t feel like rambling on anymore. I will try sneak out the car for a drive now. I will grab some fruits for lunch. I will send my clothes for ironing. I will go for a walk. I will miss home. Oh yes I will. I do love home.

The Tan of Anger

2007-04-22T02:23:00.000-07:00

What happens when you wake up with the same ol’ same ol’ raving and ranting of motherhood, the silent but subconsciously concerned silence of fatherhood and no appetite for the otherwise very appetizing Sunday morning breakfast? It leads to a tan.

So u see my arm…its double shaded…a patch of skin with such a straight line splits the uniformity of my arm – its such a funny sight – as if it belongs to two different mannequins and is clubbed together by mistake! This is a result of going for an hour long drive in anger in the very strong sunlight of my hometown – the sun rays that are hardly blocked by pollution or smog, clouds or fog – it’s a clear day…sunny and warm…bordering at hot even – and I, so sick of my mother’s constant pestering on the issue of marriage and the love interest I had and which led to nowhere, chose to bathe after waking up with another range of arguments and in an attempt to dodge more such accusations, took the very manageable beige Maruti which is my only means to peace and distraction, and left home.

So many thoughts, so little time…so many cars, so little space. Now Shimla has narrow roads that snakes itself around the hillsides – sometimes being comfortably inviting, sometimes betraying that sharp bend where a truck comes zooming in like nobody’s business. Nevertheless, I go on… I still hate to reverse… and I don’t like to take anything but U –turns to return to some place…but these are the hills with the never ending valleys on one side and the intimidating towering mound on the other – and yet I keep driving… take a round of the whole town…watch some guys on roads and some male drivers give me the dirts (of but ofcourse – it’s a small sexist town and there are not many lady drivers you see)!! ‘Blinking Lights’ by The Eels run in my head – I was listening to them just before I took off…

“Blinking lights on the airplane wings up above the trees
Blinking down a morse code signal specially for me
In a rainbow, in the sky, in the middle of the night
But the signal’s coming through
One day I will be all right again…

Blinking lights on the highway cars
Stopping one by one
Get a look at the accident
Didn’t see that one coming

And the doctor in the sky
Going to bring his chopper down
Going to bring me out alive
Set me on the ground once more again

Blinking lights on the airplane wings up above the trees…..”

With the song replaying in my head again and again…I keep the tyres rolling… “But the signal’s coming through …One day I will be all right again…” …the sun shines and streams stealthily in my car…on my right arm… I don’t notice… I only wince once in a while trying to hush it away when it tries to creep into my eyes… and I keep manoeuvring the steering wheel with the course of my thoughts… it all seems to be in tandem…there is harmony in the world again.
Until I reach home and park the car...glance and my ‘ebony and ivory’ endorsing arm and rush in to rub it with the old and reliable recipe of lemon, besan and haldi… but well, the hour has baked it enough… I now have the tan of anger and an inability to wear short sleeves for atleast a week! But tomorrow the drive will happen again – and the tan of anger shall be shielded by sunscreen!

Wedding Bells Toll – Let the Cameras Roll

2007-04-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

What a waste of time! What a waste of good news time! What a waste of tapes! What a waste of broadcast value! What a super waste of sensibility! But definitely not a waste of TRP’s or money or the amazing amounts the ads must have put in each channel from the very masala-driven Aaj Tak to the apparently sensible CNN-IBN (that I am going to join in just a weeks time)…boy, am I glad the wedding aka tamasha business finished before that, or I could almost visualise myself banging my head on the sparkly walls of the office and wanting to walk out.

A child in Kailash Colony got killed. Some fiasco happened at a hospital. Some political stuff must have also happened (and I am being vague purely because I, at this moment, have the right to be vague about it) – blame it on the news channels where hours of a “LIVE” baraat procession is on…for lord god’s sake – what has the world come to? And if not that, then there is the repetitive footage of the other woman who claims to be heartbroken and has cut her wrist at the perfect time (I mean really, what could give the media more pleasure than getting such a scandal out on the big D-day…or should I say small B-day!)

Now I wonder, who needs to know who is on the guest list and what colour is the brides wedding attire…and why only concentrate on Whatever Lulla’s detailed designs, if there was any scope, then I am undoubtedly sure that they would want to talk about the colour of her thong too!! (But oooh the thong would be an issue for the RSS and the Bajrang Dal right…I mean, according to them, doesn’t that also go against our so very sanctified Hindu ethics and blah blah who choose to ignore the ancient erotica and the ajanta-ellora’s) – So that would make another headline “Party shows protest against bride defying Indian culture by setting thongs on fire publicly (and maybe its enlarged versions too) and pelting stones on all lingerie stores”...never mind that they all want their wives to be a sati in the kitchen and a slut in bed! And more than that never mind if another criminal mind is working his twisted head on another victim – he is almost sure that, amongst the band-bajaas and the shehnais his crime will hardly be heard!

Double standards apart, I really wonder if TRP’s all that drives today’s channels. Everything is commercial, isn’t it? And being idealistic so passé…so ngo-type? Isn’t it?... lets all indulge in spending hours of our days watching the details of one wedding – something that is so personal made into public entertainment and why only news/ entertainment channels…lets also give reality a new face by putting cams on their post-wedding activities…hah they wish now, don’t they! I’m most sure they do…and why not…anything for money…when have we ever learnt where to draw the line?

Writer’s Block

2007-04-07T06:01:00.000-07:00

I am suffering from a writer’s block. And that’s why instead of letting a thought compel me towards the keyboard, I am trying to get the blank screen compel some thoughts out of my head. And still – no feelings, no statements, nothing even remotely profound or for that matter flippantly shallow even. I don’t remember the last time I had a writer’s block – words usually trickle out of my head very easily and seamlessly.

I remember the last time I was writing regularly was the time I was hurt and terribly let down by someone. It was anger that made me write – anger and vehement questioning. And this time, when that someone very easily washed his hands off the entire affair, nothing is coming to me – no passion that makes me write in fury, no feelings that I have to necessarily manifest through words. That’s why I am even more surprised at my writer’s block.

Sometimes random thoughts do come to me – I mean, yes I still “think” and all that – I haven’t been mentally retarded so to say – but they are so fleeting and momentary that I either don’t want to pen them down or don’t think its worth the effort. Or do I not think anymore that what happens to me in my personal life, worth the effort to be recorded?... I don’t know – I am feeling terribly blank right now and don’t even know what my next sentence is going to be.
Ah yes – I remember the last time I drew and analogy of sorts – between my hair and his feelings. Its rather simple – there was a phase in my undergrad days when for some strange inexplicable reason, my otherwise curly hair had suddenly turned poker straight – ideally I should have been delighted – I think initially I was too, but in a while I started to miss my curly hair. Come season change and it went back to their curled state – and the straight phase was over. Now I own a hair straightener – I wish I had straight hair, I try sometimes to tame the mop of curls I usually wake up with – cute nevertheless, but unruly and unsatisfactory. And now I think of the straight hair phase and wonder why I wanted my curls back to badly that I tried atleast 10 different shampoos to restore it to its natural state. Its simple human psychology at the end of the day, isn’t it? We always want what is difficult to get – straight hair that came for a month wasn’t appreciated and rather cursed while I had it, and now that it is gone, I possess an artificial hair straightener – and sometimes think about the guest appearance of the straight hair that was.

Is he like that too? Want something once its gone? Appreciate the one who’s not easily his? And why just him – I think of my straight hair tale – I think I am like that too – we are all humans, and we are terribly stupid at times – take for granted what is there – not know the importance of it until its gone – its like water, I didn’t realise how much we take it for granted until one night there wasn’t a drop to drink at home and we had to sleep thirsty.

Have you realised that the most indispensable thing is what we take for granted the most? – air, water, food, home, family, best friend? And what if one of these go – how difficult or impossible is mere survival? Its problematic, isn’t it?...that the one we need the most is the one we don’t appreciate at all – unless its gone ofcourse. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? But why do we have to wait till the absence takes place anyway – why don’t we realise the importance of that person/thing/support when its right there – how stupid are we as human beings? How retarded is human psychology?

I learnt my lesson once. I don’t think I want to learn it again – I don’t like to take for granted anything – I want to feel every moment, every instance, every element that makes me the person I am and appreciate it while its here. But I also want to record all of that – every sentiment, realisation, appreciation – and how do I do that now…now that I have a writer’s block?

Dying is an Art

2007-02-14T01:20:00.000-08:00

Just finished watching Sylvia, the movie. Made me think – do all great writers necessarily have to have such tragic lives? Is this tragedy that feeds creativity into their works? Is sadness the greatest catalyst for passionate ruthless outpourings? Is loneliness, infidelity, heart breaks, insomnia, nightmares the driving force behind great writings? Pained verses are touching, strong ranting prose effective? So to be able to produce such works, does a personal failure prove to be a necessity to be a writer?
Woolf? Plath? – the two icons of their times – my Goddesses, my idols, my inspirations – both women with tragic lives – both women with mental tortures – both women clamped personally – both women dead early – for they could not carry the burden of their genius in this unfair world?
What is reason and what is passion? Poetry is passion. The power to be able to manifest your entire self in a few “not-rhyming” verses is poetry – heart rendering lines from the self is poetry.

Tragedy and sorrow – the food for poetry? Joy too – but mostly the former.
I look back at my tiny collection of insignificant work – I look at the words, the feelings, the thoughts behind it – I pour over them slowly, I think about them – I recall the context, the subject, the time in which I wrote – and sadly, it shows too – sorrow had brought out the best in me – through words I could manifest my anger, my fear, my anxiety, my hatred. In joy, I could not ever do it so well. Joyous poetry has always been flimsy – so is my happiness shallow and is my sorrow deep? I wonder…I think about myself and in my fancy, compare myself to those two – I relate to them…strangely so. Surely many others too – but I do strongly.

Genius requires certain madness – an insanity that is not visible to the world. A slow machine whirring in the head – with all kind of thoughts – real and surreal – dreams and nightmares – subconscious and conscious thoughts – all intermingling and running furiously through my head – like a storm that is brewing – that shall only ebb once I die.
When does this storm get deafening? When does it block out other noises? When does the world become an enemy? When do you become alone – you and these voices in you head – sense that is nonsense to others – logic that is senility to the world, a philosophy that is not yet been recorded in great thick books of Russell and Decartes, a passion that Rousseau hasn’t yet talked about? Is that when you leave some thoughts behind – on paper and in parchments for the world to read and recognise later? Is that when you decide to not live in the make believe social world anymore? Is that when you die? Like a legacy, leave behind your words and perish? And influence and inspire, amateurs like me, readers and dreamers – who are a little different from the rest –slightly mad, slightly sane, slightly alive, slightly dead – who wish to think, and write – to be read, to tell others the beauty of a poem, of words, of art, of verses…of an experience that is called life itself? And then dying would not be an end in itself, but a beginning of another story – more words, more poems, more genius, more insanity, more drowning, more pills – and yet in Plath’s words:

Dying is an art,
like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

Ideal Idealism Idealist Idyllic?

2007-02-08T06:14:00.001-08:00

What is ideal? Is there something as ideal? The first meaning in the dictionary is “perfect”. Now I went to see the meaning of “perfect” and it said ‘excellent’, ‘faultless’. Now before I thought of going to the meanings of that, I realised it is just one big circle. One word means the other, the other means another which in turn means the first one. So do we actually have a meaning at all? Real true meaning of anything?
Plus even if we understand the meaning of ideal – that I also think is a subjective word and differs from person to person – but for a minute, lets just suppose, if we, within ourselves understand the meaning of the word “ideal”, is anything in life really ideal? As humans, as hungry insatiable mortal beings, aren’t we always vying for something better than what there is – so nothing is really ideal, is it?

Idealism as a concept is totally screwed up. There is no utopia (unless ofcourse, in the clichéd sense, “you make your own utopia”). There is no perfection. Nothing is perfect. And then again, when I look up at the serene sky and watch that globular masterpiece of nature hang lazily, I think of perfection within imperfections.
No then can we say that perfection, in it complete self, doesn’t exist? And that we live all our lives struggling with imperfection – so is our continuous strive for perfection a never ending quest? So is perfection just a distant carrot on the stick,that the closer we get to it, the further it goes? Is perfection some wapped word that is man made and that is an impossibility?
Is any form of art perfect? Is any piece of art perfect? Nothing can be perfect if we cannot define “perfect”, right? So should be delete the word and all its brothers and sisters out of the dictionary? Should we delete ideal, idyllic, best, etc etc etc?

Is it a depressing thought? – to think that perfection may be nothing…a strive towards a theory that does not exist? But yet, in Alanis’ words, You live, you learn. I am very confused right now – I cannot decide whether the realisation that perfection is nothing should be upsetting my hopeful utopic ideas or should I celebrate the fact that as humans, even in imperfections and in the simple walk towards the horizon of perfection that shall never be completed, we are happy – we live, we learn – we make our imperfections our perfections … and in this thoughtful quest, I humbly manage to bewilder and dazzle the readers with my amazing capability to confuse? But then again, did I ever say I am perfect?

In boredom, do what the bored do.

2007-01-31T00:23:00.000-08:00

Listening to Black Eyed Peas. Such mood music, aren’t they? Most fun. Jumpy. Silly. Fun fun fun!!!
All alone at home. Not because I don’t have an option of going out but because I don’t feel like. Pmsing, am I? Maybe. I don’t know. Confused. Restless. So writing right now.
So many things to do. Like read this new Atwood book I have bought dirt cheap from a second hand bookstore. How kicked was I when I got it. I should read it, no? I love Atwood. And surprisingly more than anything, I love her short stories. “Rape Fantasy” was one of her finest – so plain, so direct, so simple, yet so beautiful. The last few lines say:
“… Like how could a fellow do that to a person he’s just had a long conversation with, once you let them know you’re human, you have a life too, I don’t see how they could go ahead with it, rite? I mean, I know it happens but I just don’t understand it, that’s the part I really don’t understand”
For reasons inexplicable, it hit me harder than any other literature on rape or child abuse. Harder than Virani’s Bitter Chocolate even. Maybe because of the flat tone – no anger, no menace – just flat and dulled and matter of factly.

---- spoke to Pix. Spoke about what’s to come, life back there. Joy. Smiles. Content. Happy sigh -------

Where was I? Was I anywhere at all? Nowhere I think. Just somewhere randomly rambling on because I have nothing else to do.
And I have been thinking, yet again, about him. He is scum mostly. Not because he has done something. But of the way he is as a person. Double faces. Multiple personality disorder, surely! So different when with me. Such a pretentious creep when with his gang of friends. Trying to do what? Prove a point? Be someone he isn’t? and even if that’s who he is, then why all the pretence when with me. Who is he really? Bah – again – I don’t wish to know.

I cannot stop counting. Parents are going to be disappointed if I am in Delhi with a lower pay pack. But what’s more important again? – money or warm honest people? I prefer the latter thank you very much. I am not him, I will never be.

I can’t decide whether I am a good person or a bad person. I mean ofcourse I know “shades of grey” and all that jazz. But no one can also be perfectly grey I think. You have to have a shade tipping towards some side – white or black…where do I fall? I would like to think it’s the lighter side – but people here definitely seem to think otherwise. And then again – when did these people start to matter? These, who I will not stay in touch voluntarily with. These, who I don’t like and who don’t like me. These, who don’t like me because they don’t know me and that’s supposed to be my problem? I care a hoot. My bracket stays intact and life is good. Entries closed. I think I have enough pillars to fall on albeit in other cities – but 8 weeks is hardly any time compared to what I have been through and how much. Internship taught me a huge lesson – don’t even trust them who claimed once to be your closest friend, for after under-grad, it is all one big façade and I don’t want to be a part of that masquerade anymore.

Definitions of happiness is also so subjective right? To find someone whose definition and ideas match with yours is a blessing. I am still waiting for my boon to hit my head!
Told my childhood friend today “I want to get married” – he reacted by saying “don’t marry someone you don’t love”. I like his optimism, his hopeless belief in the idea of togetherness and unconditional love. He has been blessed – he is the lucky one, I may not be. Who knows? So do we keep waiting? And for how long? Don’t we take the easier way out and marry convenience? Aren’t we all human? And on top of that I am also worried that beauty, the transient companion, shall cheat on me - the hair shall fall and fly into space unknown, the eyes shall be gifted with everlasting bags, the boobs shall not defy gravity anymore, the arms may not be as taut as they were, the voice as youthful, the tummy may turn from plateau to mound – and then marriage shall also be something you waited for all your life. Will I become Miss Havisham? Except that the only thing that would cheat on me would be hope and age? Sigh! I don’t know. Overthinking. Overanalysing. Overtyping maybe? Exceeding the limit? Boring you, is it? Do I care? No, this is my space. Let me scribble. Let me type. Theres nothing else to do right now, except another number from the Black eyed peas.

What a name to have? Bizarre sells, doesn’t it? Black eyes peas. It is almost graphic. So vivid. I can actually imagine peas peeping out of their pods with an eye each. Yuck. Gross. Scary even. Aberration of normality. But what’s normal? – yet another subjective bugger?

I am hungry now. Hungry and angry. They rhyme? No? Sort of?...hungry….hmmm …angry…mmmm? No! They don’t. Bah! Just like everything else – nothing is in a flow anymore, not even words.

I think I am bored now. And arms seems to be getting tired. Non-stop this excursion has been – except one break ofcourse, that I have humbly mentioned. This is bad though, I mean do arms tire so fast or it is just the beginning of this phenomenon I dread called ‘age’? No! No! No more shall I think so much. And as always, go and grab the moment – or atleast some grub.
Tummy growls. Dinner beckons. Song ends.

Nonsensical thoughts of a bored hungry chick

2007-01-03T04:50:00.000-08:00

This morning while I went about ransacking the kitchen for some food, a thought simmered and presented itself to me.
What’s the big deal about going out and eating together when you are serenading a creature of the opposite sex? And if you actually sit and think about it deeper still, every meal seems to have a different connotation. But I shall refrain from making generalised statements and my sample study area would be my dating scenario and my friend’s days of wooing wonder (past and present)!

Coffee constitutes the first few dates of “getting to know each other”…the baristas and the coffee days of the world seem to be thriving on this initial phenomenon of gender interaction. The attire will be casual yet sexy. The mood will be light yet some flirting will prevail in the air. So when a guy asks you out for coffee, a thought floats in the air along with that caffeinated aroma – is he interested?

Then comes the crucial dinner date (that is if you like the person enough to graduate onto that level) – dinner speaks for two things –
1. I am seriously interested in you.
Or
2. I am seriously interested in sleeping with you…
Smart women know one from the other while few assume the first and that, for the guy, is the easy licence to step onto the second thing.
For me personally, dinner used to be a marginally big deal until I came to this city where I never got free before 8 so even a casual outing constituted for dinner and hence it lost its novelty and importance. But from the past experience, the prelude to the grand dining included the whole dressing up just right – u know the not-too-flashy yet not-too-casual styles, spritzing the right amount of fragrance, as to not take it over the top and choke the guy, do the whole subtle yet obvious technique and all that jazz. And at dinner – throwing the right lines, not giving away too many details about yourself, never touching the ‘ex’ topic initially and definitely not even thinking remotely about the future! Dinner dates sometimes follow the infamous coffee, sometimes the lingering kiss, sometimes (and mostly in my case), a firm handshake and a wide smile followed by a message maybe. But whatever the case may be, dinner dates are detrimental for further alliance with that person!

However, I think that a breakfast date is more intimate than a dinner date (and I surely don’t mean breakfast in bed) – I think that it takes a certain comfort level to set in to be able to make an effort for an early Sunday breakfast, the whole scrubbed clean fresh morning look when yellow dinner lights are not there to hide your facial flaws, when eggs and milk and juice and pancakes can be gorged upon without any qualms and when a bad hair day doesn’t bother you as much.
Lunch, for me, is the stage when a certain closeness sets in – enough to make time for lunch or rather make an effort to get out of work for an hour (for I am the kind that advocates canteens and deliveries at the place where your daily routine holds itself)

But in all these cases, dates are essentially made of food – dinner, lunch, breakfast or coffee – food builds up relationships – maybe because the tastes may find itself in commonality – or maybe because taking out time apart from the routine things are increasingly not possible – so if a date can merge itself with one of your meals for the day, then why not.
I don’t know why are dates and food so related – convenience or the burgeoning restaurants and diners that create the mood? Common hunger or the fact that full tummies are equivalents of happy moods? – I don’t really know and do I really care – as long as my tummy sings of multi-cuisinal joy and my head has been replenished with some entertainment of sorts, let the mocha flow my dear friend, and bring on the main course!

Ode to my Wall Collage

2006-12-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

For five hundred and ninety two days
You have hung on the wall beside my bed
38 snapshots of bliss
Shocking colours of elation
Mellow smiles of celebration

Faces looking at me searchingly
Trying to whisper some word of the past
Acting as a window to peep into utopia that was

Still frames out of the cinema of my life
Actors out of the core of my existence
Urging me to relive the true me

A catalyst to my rutted weeks
Potent in its muteness
Complete in its fractioned self

People and places
Painted through the lenses
Occasions so obsolescent
Yet moments so immediate

Holding within themselves
The power to tug a smile
The potency to well a tear
And holding delicately
The icicles of my frozen past

For five hundred and ninety two days
You have hung beside my bed
38 snapshots of my head
Brought warmth in your constancy
And coursed life in my numbness

Dilli Duur Nahin

2006-11-11T21:34:00.000-08:00

The smell of momos at Dilli Haat. The clappity clippoty clop of the brainless high heels at M block. The sheer dynamism of Habitat. Pix’s green and yellow room. Just Pix herself. Trips to the fabric piles at Sarojini. Wiping our nose and eyes from eating the sevpuri at LSR. LSR itself. Mushy gooey squidgy cake of Big Chill. The mufflered winter. The intellectual fecundity at BCL. The smell of coffee and “herbs” at Village Café. Random walks to N block. Sticking our tongues out at the designer stores. Lapping up the joyful Janpath. Strolling along CP. The whiff of reshmi kebab at Khan Chacha. Inhaling the intoxicating aroma of old books at Book Bazaar. Being shoved around effortlessly on a Sunday at Lajpat Nagar. Waking up for an early cheap weekend movie at Chanakya. The horde of cows and buffalos at Zamrudpur. The air conditioned window shopping in the 45 degree heat at Ansals. The delectable food and delightful music at Turquoise Cottage. The bangles of Chandani Chowk. Parathe wali gali. Poetry reading. Mental peace. Emotion satisfaction. Bacon and eggs at American Diners. Walking out of a horrendous GD with Pix. Chaat at Kailash Colony. Followed by corn and pastry. Airy breezy rickshaw rides. Ice golas that stain my mouth orange-red. Crossing the road in front of college. Paying homage to Red Bricks. Still loving its memories. Pure unadulterated joy. Hating the overdone Mocha. The drinking on the sly. Sharing and talking it all. Dressing up with the Sadist 5. While dappling in life’s entangling complications that eventually combed itself to a solution – for we all stood by each other and shared all this. But reality check – right now it isn’t the tiny pretty room I had, or the roomies that was my family, or the best friend who is my pillar, or the mere overnight journey to my home – right now is that one yellow light that glows ominously – I am in an alien city with alien people - but the same grey blanket covers me – and I slide under it – and feel like I am enveloped in my old life again. I try to sleep – I try to dream – I take a trip down the trodden lanes of my life – “Its just 5 months”, I tell myself – Dilli duur nahin !

Life is Beautiful

2006-10-26T23:19:00.000-07:00

Life is beautiful. Did I say that? It is amazing how suddenly a change of heart can brighten up your day and fill you with that inexplicable urge to hug the world and shout out and say that “I am okay!”…
Today was a brilliant day – one of the best days I have had in Pune. I cribbed and I cribbed and I keep cribbing! Today, I smiled and I smiled and couldn’t stop smiling. Something just happened to me. People usually say this when they fall in love – I. however, just fell out of it. If love is a disease that bogs you down and rots your insides, then I don’t want to be in it… and if falling out of it means happiness, here I come !
Life is beautiful. Atleast mine is. Lord bless my soul !

You Brought Light in my Life and I Will Always Love You - A Tribute

2006-10-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

This diwali will be the diwali I will remember the most. This diwali is the first diwali that I didn’t celebrate. But strangely enough, I didn’t feel like I was missing out on something. It was a rather beautiful quiet moment I shared at home with my father, mother, brother and grandmother.
My grandfather died a few weeks ago. We feel his lack and I, more so, for I was terribly close to him and loved him with all my heart. Watching him disintegrate physically through his illness was the most agonising experience for me. Watching a 6 feet tall man who was an epitome of power in his times, slowly lose his mobility was most heart rendering. I can never forget that one line he always taught me from The Gita: “Karm kar, phal ki iccha mat kar”…loosely translating to “do your duty and don’t expect anything in return”. In today’s materialistic selfish world does this even make sense? I don’t know… but I like to think it does… I think it is one line that makes me the person I am today and I am grateful to my granpa for that. I can sleep in peace when I know that I have shown my genuine concern to someone who is unwell, knowing well that he may never bother even if I am in the hospital, I feel at ease with my otherwise constricted heart when I don’t harbour bitterness and malice against someone who has wronged me, but instead forgive and move on. Why expect? Expectations lead to disappointments. I think our grandparents are a storehouse of wisdom that, to many may seem like utter crap at this point of time, but later it will be the only thing that will make sense and the only worldly wisdom that they will carry on.
I miss my grandfather…miss so many things about him…like sharing fruits (he always bought kilos for me and himself and we sat together and gorged on them while he told me a little story from his life), going on walks with him (we always went on walks and carried with us 2 oranges that we sat in the woods and ate)…during my board exams, he woke up in the middle of the night to make me tea so I stayed awake to study, he showered me with such massive amount of love that I felt I could drown in joy, he called me “sona baccha”…he called me “Indira Gandhi”, for he thought I was rather bossy and could be a politician one day (and I also had really short hair that time)…I was his favourite grandchild…I am the first grandchild… I was the constant name on his lips when he cried in pain during his last few days… and I feel miserable now for I think I could have been a lot more with him but I didn’t… but he always knew I loved him and I still love him and he is like this presence keeping a watch on me, asking me and telling me “karm kar, phal ki iccha mat kar”…
It was a quiet diwali, I missed my grandfather…I shared a sentimental moment in my grandmother’s arms while tears involuntarily welled up my eyes, there were no words exchanged…but yet there was this silent understanding…that he was a wonderful man and that we were lucky to have him in our lives…he enriched my life, he made me a better human being, he taught me that if you love someone, say it… I was his greatest fan and still am… for me, he is the best grandfather I could have ever had, and still is… and in the whispering, shimmering diyas and in the hazy smoke of incense, I feel his warmth and his protective embrace… and though we are not technically celebrating diwali, I am festive in myself, in the ethereal glow of the night and in the memories of my darling grandpa.

Lift please?

2006-09-18T06:09:00.000-07:00

You were an accident…
May I say that?
And reduce your existence…
To a mere trifling?
But as though every rain drop
And every variegated leaf…
And as every misted window
And every patch of sun…
Forms the daily of our lives,
You, my beloved…
Formed the daily of my life.

You were an accident…
May I say that?
And reduce my existence…
To a mere traveller?
But as though every distance covered
And at every drive-in stopped…
And as every motel crossed
And every turn missed…
Forms the highway of our lives,
I, my beloved…
Formed the hitchhiker of your life.

Hop-scotch

2006-09-10T23:42:00.000-07:00

Her smile now lies
In the shoebox of her dreams…
Cluttered with memories
Tattered with age.
And in the dark musty corner
In the cupboard of her life…
Sleeps the dent of her cheek
Away from the salmon sky.

Her life now lies
Within that iota of a second
When the spring of her joy exhausted…
And no one could wind it again.
But shove into the refrigerator
The clock of her ordinary youth.

So let no life touch her
Let no confetti of laughter
Colour her air of indifference
For another heart turned hop-scotch
A game? Hop… Jump… Trample
And another Havisham born.

Red

2006-09-06T10:29:00.000-07:00

These are a few rather beautiful poetic lines written for me…
My most perfectly detached turned lovable room mate, friend, sister, support in Delhi to who I owe a lot of me that is and a lot of me that I was and am glad am not anymore…
Thank you Deb, for drawing this little painting out of me through words and through the colour I love most…

With my burning desire, let me be red,
The symbol of fecundity…
In its each drop is life…
Ardent… potent… passionate…
Blazing hearts afire…
On the alta smeared feet…
In the niche of all’s existence…
As crimson… vermillion… brick…
Let me be the impetus for change.

The Wooden Room of my Head

2006-08-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

An assignment on a dream sequence in class made me think;
Yes, we dream all the time… at the yellowed sight of dawn and at the pink placidity of dusk… in the cushioned comfort of our beds and in the uncomfortable chaos of the daily bus… but how often do we think about a dream… or rather, think what our dream is…
It is a class on visual design. As a film student I am told to think visually. As a literature student I have always thought visually. But my dream lies in literature and in visuals lies my dream.

So there is this room. Small. Compact. Warm with wood. Lined with shelves. One window. And strangely enough I see no door. My perspective isn’t a 360 degree one. My vision encapsulates three sides. The books in the shelves are hardbound and large…heavy and old… gold embossed… making my heart fill with an inexplicable feeling that it wants to burst and spray out celebratory confetti! But they are not arranged in perfection as I usually like to keep my shelves…in categories and according to sizes… yet they are not carelessly stacked. There is a certain complacent sense of regal laziness in them. They are like old people…looking at me with a vault of wisdom and philosophy. They are alive with knowledge and potent with the power of thought. The peculiar smell of old books that is like incense to me emanates from them…yellowed pages… fading letters…with the old english fonts… ornamental fonts, elaborate fonts… stacked together into exquisite sentences. At the left side corner, is a small table… really small… enough only to fit a huge book, an ink pot, and a lamp. The lamp is glowing, yellow light…incandescent and luminescent. There is no other light in the room. It is daylight but it is dark inside…somewhat reflecting me and my multiple layers of hidden self. The single window is large, it is framed with dark mahogany wood…it has a rich royal maroon curtain that is heavy…it is plain but has a character to it…it is grave, almost profound acting like a barrier against the rest of the busied world.

And I sit at the table… head bent slightly, fingers stained with ink, slightly shivering with the anticipation of hurriedly putting down the next thought on paper before it passes me by… scratching and scribbling…yet in a neat beautiful honest writing… the y’s are a little extended and the t’s are abrupt and stand tall.
Through the window and the curtain… a little space is left open, for the sun to stream in… there is a wide ray that seems to be travelling in from some infinite space…and you can see the little dust particles hopping in that light… but if you look closely, really closely… like strain your eyes to a super humanly capacity…and see that they are not really dust particles after all… they are words… tiny microscopic words… floating and streaming through that ray of light… and entering my wooden room… permeating through its every corner… till I can smell the words and feel it in my breath. And I begin to write again… I don’t know what I am writing, but I am writing…and furiously so… the ink pen is making faint itchy noises…noises that are like manna to my senses and music to my ears… and I am happy…in my closed room, I am content. There is a serene expression in my otherwise obscure and inscrutable brown eyes. I am filled with silent joy.

So I thought of a dream. I dreamt of joy. This, to me, is the only complete joy.

Monsoon Returns

2006-07-29T01:31:00.000-07:00

White walls sullied…
Across it, in invisible paint…
Marks …. muck… malice…

But for how long does stay a distemper of humour…
Or a wallpaper of illusive plaster?
Erroneous was I…
Swathed was he…

Monsoon came…
Months… moisture…. mould…

White walls mutilated…
Fissures… fractures… Finished.

To My Heart, I Bid Farewell…

2006-07-19T06:38:00.000-07:00

As I begin to write this, I do not have any particular topic in mind, or any defined thought, or even an idea about what I am going to type next… for at this particular moment, I don’t have any specific issue driving me, or some annoying thought invading my head… so I think I will continue my ramblings till it finds direction by itself…

I’m sitting in my blue room…the music is blaring…and I think what’s making me type right now is the music that is going on right now… I feel like I am a teenager again… LFO is playing…I find myself doing a little jig in front of my full length mirror of vanity… then some John Denver plays while it rains outside and the greenery is shimmering in its complete lushness…
How innocent is childhood…school days…little things like an argument with a classmate is the huge mammothian problem of the day… some inter-school activity that results in a crush on a boy from the other school is the only thing required to make you a giddy gladdened goat… when I return home, I feel like I return to my innocent days of glory… when I didn’t have to censure myself when I talked or think about its repercussions…

Life is such a maze… and right now fate has taken me by its fisted grasp and made me perch right in the middle of the labyrinth from where I am still trying to figure out where to go to… but the past few days have been a rediscovery into myself… an accelerated exercise into an introspection that I have been trying to indulge myself in since the past few months…
Yesterday, I entered home and burst into tears… I haven’t behaved this way since I was in class 3 and returned from the boarding school… I don’t know what took such a fierce hold of my emotions that the tears ran free as a cathartic stream… maybe it stems out of the fact that in the past one year, I have revealed too much of myself…too much of vulnerability, too many words, too much of the side I wouldn’t ever go back to… and that only resulted in tonnes of misinterpretation, so from the past few months I have put on a waterproof mask that refuses to show any signs of tears. Such a huge lesson learnt in time has made me very wary of the real world… I realized maybe I have had the best of too many things and too many people all my life… the most amazing family, the best friends, the best of roomies and the strongest of unconditional support systems till I hopped into a new chapter of my life last year and then all the best things snatched, all the worst ones were all at once put on a platter and served to me under the fasad of a fancy garnishing.

This new meal …that looked oh so pretty, was layered with all things bright and beautiful… till I got to the rotten core of it around January this year and then it took my another few months to realize that it is actually the source of a terrible sickness, and that this indigestion is making my life pure hell… another few weeks and it was time to throw up…to expel all of that out of my body…

And now I am here again… I feel so old, I feel so mature, I feel so ridiculous at times, for being a blind trusting naïve person – when I was growing up, I was taught the goodness of humanity and the importance of a genuine apology… even though I have been callous with words and feelings, my conscience has always poked me enough to try and fix things… so even now, I just don’t get it how some people can just brush off things, or reverse the blame, or worse still…forget it all? It makes me think…so was I taught the wrong things in the little pretty convent school that I studied in and the little pretty warm home that I was brought up in…or there is something wrong with that world outside…with the people from the big cities and the fancy public schools? … Maybe I am generalizing too much… but right now I am in my rambling mode and I give myself the freedom to type exactly what’s coming to my mind than write the pre-planned structured prose and poetry that I usually churn out…

Home is where the heart is…home is where my heart is… where I feel a void when I see my brother’s empty room because he is off to a boarding school…where I wake up and get my morning “chai”…where I have heated arguments with my mother about commodifying marriages…where I wait for my father in the evening so I can greedily grab the car… where I snuggle between them both and feel like I am 10 again… but most importantly where I can express my true self and not worry about being labeled a nut or a slut…

I was having this conversation with a friend of mine in one of those green CNG autos that seem like giant ladybugs chugging along the wide beautiful roads of Delhi, and we realized that we are the kind of people who are not very “socially conscious”…and I think its so true… we are the kind of people who say what they want, when they want… who look at a spy camera and wave at it and make funny faces right in the middle of Connaught Place, who go to a coffee shop for a few minutes just because they allow you to smoke, who bargain till their throats hurt for something so crass and garish that they wouldn’t even want to own in their wildest nightmares … this is what I call life … to get kicks out of doing strange things…better still if its in public… for in the anonymity of the world and in the companionship of another crazy person like me…I find myself again… I find someone who discusses with me the problems of being stereotyped and the sheer joy of being a feminist…a liberal leftist…a nihilist…a ‘anything’… with whom I go beyond the trivialities of definitions…

Home is where the heart is…with these people is where home is… to them belongs my heart and my true self… the first mistake I had done was to carry my heart to the infernal pothole Pune that I had gone to…the second mistake I had done was to let my heart go to my head… and now after such realizations and such let downs and yet such major lessons…I have decided this time, to leave my heart here and take my superficial self there… to think with my head and feel with my head… and let my heart do both when I am back home!

Settling in…Setting out…

2006-07-12T04:05:00.000-07:00

A dread had taken refuge in my heart the moment I had heard that I have to spend the next 3 months in the city of Mumbai…now I do not know what or why that was… though some reasons were starkly clear – I didn’t want to run into the people of my distasteful past, I am also known to be the sort who hates changes, I thought it would be too crowded, too humid or maybe I just wanted to plop myself in the comfortable cushion of Delhi where I didn’t want to make new friends but be with my beautiful bracket and relive the old me… whatever the reasons may have been, the moment I set out to Mumbai, I felt a displacement…like that house cat that has been thrown out of her familiar home and then turns wild and hostile… I turned wild and hostile – but only mentally… many things were jumbled up in my head, many memories knotted, many issues hanging mid air waiting for me to hold them and sort them out – so as a person who used to have a terribly simple life, suddenly these new cropped bugs got into my system and my defense mechanism revolted and in effect I shut the most important door of my heart, the sensitive one.

And then I had an encounter with the city that never sleeps – or rather the city that hardly even let me sleep… the initial days were utter confusion – grappling to get into the groove of my internship, getting used to living in a pg with a nutty landlady, handling dead lines, making some new acquaintances as well as digging out some old ones – until one day I realized that time was zooming past me and I wasn’t even cribbing as much anymore…
Then came a short patch of ill fate again when my path crossed with my ill past again… it was inevitable – I say that now – for everything happens for a reason and that was the final kick in my head and a jolt into the reality of the world of selfishness… another important lesson learnt…and another speedbreaker old me, picked her broken pieces and resumed her journey…

One major reason why I didn’t want to come to Mumbai was also the fact that had I ever got into trouble, I wouldn’t have a friend in the middle of the night, to fall back on… my best friends were in another city and the best friend I had here was nobody to me now… life has its strangest ways of testing your strengths and weaknesses…
At a time I was alone, I faced many obstructions…. Pressure of an unwanted marriage, paralysis of my grandfather, being mugged in the streets of Mumbai, falling sick…while that ignorant past of mine who thought that all my problems of life still revolve around him – for a moment I wanted to laugh – in anger or in amusement, I didn’t know… running into him at the streets of a market, on the day I needed a friend the most, reiterated his conceitedness and my final judgment of him in my mind. After that day, bit by bit, the messed up, knotted strands began to unravel and started combing itself out… in life sometimes, you need just one moment, to redo your priorities and to salvage your pride and joy back… the hurt was there, and I admit it without any shame…lots of hurt and lots pf pain… for why wouldn’t it hurt to have seen one lose a friend that was so close to the heart, to another. Yet, nothing was worth more hurting… ‘enough’ is the word that I finally knew the meaning of…

So in my trips to the hospital, while going to work, having sleepless nights, yet finding reasons to laugh and make people around me smile, I began to get a little bit of myself again… not all there yet not all here… I wasn’t unpleasantly closed, yet not cent per cent open…a comfortable balance I had learnt to strike in my daily life. Another huge advantage that staying in Mumbai gave me was it returned to me my sense of independence… I could go alone for movies again, and having coffee alone at Barista wasn’t weird anymore… loneliness is a beautiful thing – it is such a retrospective reflective phase… when you start question your existence and your reason for existence… the necessity for joy and the dispensability of misery start to make sense…

Like for example, on of these days, I got a ride from a colleague to this place that’s one far end of Mumbai but where my precious friend plus mother figure plus counselor plus sister, Adi lives… and as the bike zipped by the highway, I saw the cars just zoom by, sometimes we overtook them, sometimes they left us lagging behind…and then at one point, we were at high speed, the entire scene seemed to slip by me in full speed and I saw a plane take off and swim across the sky at some unimaginable speed to some far off destination – and it made me think…this is life, this is what every day is like… time is passing us by…and there is no way we can turn back and grab back even a second of it…the time I am on the bike is unique, it will never return…even now as I sit here writing this piece wont come back to me, every breath we take is transient, every word we say is like time – once gone, never to come back… so even when the laziest of days loom over us and life seems to just sit still in one immovable position… think…we are still unknowingly rushing through life… we are ageing, youth is cheating on us… so instead of sitting and lamenting over the sorrows that life brings us, we should learn to live a moment – carpe diem – grab the moment… live…celebrate… some of the most profound philosophies of life come through such simple words… and we, silly human beings who take too much self importance in wallowing in our rights and wrongs, fail to acknowledge and follow that simplest of paths….

Three months, many tears, some smiles, a thousand realizations, one cathartic confession and innumerable retrospective hours later, my priorities are in order, some issues are sorted – I finally know what I want to do , where I want to be, with whom I want to be and with whom I don’t need to be… I feel more complete and largely at peace with myself… I want to live my moments but also in the process, make sure I don’t end up covering anyone else’s moments in muck. Life is indeed short… and we are all on our own bikes, how we choose to maneouver it is entirely upto us… we will never stop and the road will never be empty… and it took me some time to learn that no one is indispensable to me but myself.

Mumbai made me see closely the beauty of life... that during the rains and the floods, a stranger doesn’t hesitate to stretch his hands and help you through the current, that the guards take it as their personal duty to prevent you from venturing out during the riots, that out of the many auto wallahs who have steered my safely home at 3 at night, only one was a mugger, that even when by mistake I have jumped into the men’s compartment in the train, I haven’t felt threatened or unsafe, that on a Sunday, however dirty or crowded the beaches are, the families still have unadulterated fun as if it were Switzerland itself, and that there is a certain warmth to this city that has finally seeped into me and replaced all the prejudices I started out with... and I used to wonder before, how come, inspite of all the traffic, the water logging, the rush, the crowd, people still don’t want to leave this place... now after 3 months here, it has begun to make a little sense... and though Delhi is still closer to home, and closer to my heart... the dread that had taken refuge has found an exit at last…Mumbai beckons me back...and I will return... as for now, I feel a strange twinge of sadness... for I had hardly begun to settle in and its time to set out again... !

The Quest of Questioning

2006-07-07T02:48:00.000-07:00

You have a gruelling day at work. The matters of the heart are screwed enough to give you a giant ulcer so you prefer not to even think about it. The rains are slashing against the roof, constantly reminding you of its attack once you step out in the open. Things at the family end is also not so hunky dory. Your best friends and supportive bests are miles away. Not such a happy scenario, is it?... then at the end of each day, how important it is to come back to a flat where you regain some peace of mind?
For my first almost month and a half, I chose to live alone in the city of Mumbai. Then some memories came back to haunt me and going back to a psychotic landlady amidst all that wasn’t exactly my idea of “going home”… so I began to work like a maniac, the office became my second home, the streets of Mumbai I walked with ease and the cinema halls became my solace in the solitariness that I entangled myself in. But the good that came out of it was that I began to enjoy my work…a line that I wasn’t so sure about began to beckon to me with open arms and inch by inch, I walked in to get embraced in all willingness by the world of television, cameras, digibetas, and edits. This is what I want to do – I realised, as days went by and I watched a world around me, that has no time to spare, yet time enough to make the best of professional as well as personal relationships. It is a statement I use a lot, “There is no alternate tomorrow”… so if I had to be here, I am here and I am happy. It doesn’t matter then, if my personal self wasn’t at its happiest best, as long as office was a place I enjoyed going to. Yet sometimes, late nights are inevitable and some tiredness of the mind and body, unavoidable. So then coming back to a nutty, money-gnawing, squirrel of a landlady wasn’t the most welcoming of thoughts…
So I escaped – that hell hole and a part of where I had knitted more memories that had turned bitter – and shifted to a place where I was sharing a house with 4 more girls… now in my life, though my best friends are girls, my general opinion of the general girls are generally not of the very positive kind – for after the few girls I made friends with and who entered my tiny bracket of the indispensables – I haven’t bonded with too many women, or rather come across any that I have wanted to bond with – or for that matter, even where men are concerned, there is a level to which I can be friends with them and after that, I pretty much emotionally back out – so in a nutshell, making new friends is an effort that I don’t feel like taking, and a risk that I don’t want to take, for after being so let down by one such best friend, I have taken a sanyaas of sorts from this world of friendship and closeness.
So shifting into this new place brought out the sceptic in me – but then once I moved in I realised, that this is a world, totally disconnected from any front of my life. These are the people, that I will share a space with for a few weeks and then disappear… so here is a place, there is no pressure to be someone else – no pressure to guard myself or censure what I speak – no associations, no connections, - what an amazing expansive breathing space – where I didn’t choke or suffocate… where I came back everyday and made tea for the whole lot and then sat down and talked about absurd things in life…
For example just yesterday, I was having this random conversation with one of them about religion, it all started with my statement about how I think that religion is the last thing that people should fight about, yet it is the first issue on which riots break out and how completely ridiculous this is – and then we went about talking of Godhra and other Hindu Muslim issues and then I mentioned that I find peace in the church and that it is one of my favourite place to go think and reflect on myself – it is like that coup where I can untangle and comb all my mixed up and complex thoughts and give some direction to them and hence form my beliefs and opinions. She is a catholic, so she started telling me about how her faith and her prayers bring her peace of mind and helps her in times of distress and despair… and then she asked me what religion I follow – and I am an agnostic – so I told her so – that I don’t ridicule, condemn, or comment on people who are religious – but I don’t believe in idol worship or chanting to the elements – I however acknowledge that there is a universal force that shapes our destiny and that’s my belief. I think that religion is too personal an issue to bother about any further than your individual self. And then she made an offhand statement that made me think further … she said that I am still searching, that I haven’t yet found a path that gives me peace and that one day I will find it. It sounds like such big words coming from a 20 something year old girl, yet I found myself questioning myself….
So is that why I am not at peace with myself? Is that why I look to get some answers from the other person because I couldn’t answer it myself? Am I really looking for a path that gives me salvation? …
And while playing around with such jumbled up thoughts, another thought pops into my head… “religion…religious…religiously”… Is religion really a pillar of strength or is it just a routine and a hope to have a better after-death experience?... why do we then replace it for the word “regularly”? like we say…”I religiously do this and I religiously follow some soap opera”…so is that all there is to religion?...is its just a routine that you are so conditioned to follow that you now follow it without a second thought - like eating, walking, even crapping – is it just a routinely thing?...
So that one discussion with a person who I just know as my tea-companion and whose surname also I don’t know – with a person I may never meet after these few weeks – makes me think, makes me feel like myself again … wondering, questioning, critiquing and thoroughly and healthily confusing myself!
I think in life, the salt and pepper doesn’t come through answers…the essence of everyday comes through questions…these little thoughts, these strange doubts, these issues of personal concern… the more the questions, the more the speculations…more doubts and more thoughts still… so why are we always looking for answers, when just diving and floating in questions is an experience in itself… why the human quest for answers to these universal questions… but then again, the very fact its been centuries, and we are still looking for these answers says just one thing – that we may spend all our lives looking for these answers – yet ironically and unknowingly simply exist within questions and queries…and that’s what makes life so indefinably beautiful.

The Death of an Ugly Duckling

2006-07-03T02:06:00.000-07:00

As the wet droplets of rainwater fiercely splattered against my face today, I took a step back, while the monsoon infested suburban areas of Mumbai whizzed by me…. then I realised that it was going to be a rare experience… midnight…local train…the rain water wrestling against the wind to enter the lonely ladies compartment and wash against my face… and I stepped forward again, letting the rain caress my cheeks and ruin my brand new khaki bag… like this evening, it was a rare experience… that may never happen again… that I may have avoided but yet wanted to bring upon myself… so the step forward was a choice…
All choices are half chances. Chances on life, on love, on friendship and other such abstract yet definitive bonds that as humans we are entangled with. This evening was an end to a beautiful chapter turned ugly…and end to a part of me that was… the vulnerable, trusting, open me ended. The guarded, sceptical, clamped me was born. This evening was a chance on myself... a chance to hold, a chance to let go… and I took the latter…
I think at the end of the day, we all have the instinct to differentiate between what is bad for oneself and what is not. It is as simple as a diabetes patient knowing that sugar content is bad for him or her…or for an obese one knowing that another bite from that mayonnaise filled burger may mean a step closer to a heart attack…or for the smoker to know that another cigarette means another few minutes of the priceless life snatched away… and yet the paradox lies in the fact that the thing that is bad for you is the one you crave for the most… so can we just pass it off as human behaviour… and then reiterate the helplessness and utter stupidity of the human self?...
Someone once told me that I am a woman of paradoxes… it immediately brought me to my defensive best but then again, today when I think of it, it seems to make perfect sense… I know what’s bad for me and yet like a diabetes patient craves for that sweet, I feel a lack of him and sometimes reach out to that wretched phone to tell him to make things okay and then better sense prevails and my hand involuntarily jerks away from that phone as if it were a dragon waiting to gobble my pride with pleasure. And then I think of the choice that I made, the half chance I took on life… lost yet won… suddenly the rain water hitting my face tasted salty… and unknowingly, a strange contracting feeling of absurd joy seemed to take hold of me while I let the rain wash away my tears… because though this evening was an end to a beautiful chapter turned ugly, it was also an end to a beautiful me that had turned ugly.

Ivorised

2006-06-27T01:07:00.000-07:00

A hazy curtain does raise
Iron shutters be my eyelids
Like globular lead, my pupils –
Pupils that reflect nothing
Why so blank, so bland?

Downcast are my eyes
From left to right it darts
No tug at the mouth
Puckered, like my thoughts

Clad in red
Crossed grasshoppered legs
Fingers haven’t been spread so long
Scratching, spotting, scrambling
Across the sheets.

The walls are white
Four walls – no door
No window – no hole
Large, expansive –
Loud yet deathly silent.

And in the whites
Like a drop of blood
I sit frozen
And pen down my mind

Such mindless thought
Such mindful rot
In the ivory coloured room
With looms of space
The breathing expanse
I sit and jot.

That’s all I need
In whites and reds
I can live myself
I can immortalize –
My brain cells – preserve into words.

Then let me live
In lonely space
Let me breathe & let me write
Between passion & detachment – let me exist
So without regret, I may perish
Become cold & numb, even before I die.

T'ease' till Dawn

2006-06-27T01:05:00.000-07:00

I am like the autumn leaf
Variegated is my existence
Like inconstant fractions
Denominators and numerators inverse
Inverse as often as day and night

Mouth widens
Tears spill
A laughing sob escapes my body
Convulsing – Sometimes in joyous fit,
Sometimes in passionate anger

Despair, disgust, dream, die
Change colours,
Wound sentiments
Turn dust to gold
Turn heart to stone

And then like an autumn leaf.
Detach and drop
Float midair
Swoop in the wind
Touch the ground.
The season has changed.

Demons of Denial

2006-06-26T06:39:00.000-07:00

There is this fancy sounding word that I recently came across… and have been using it ever since. Is it an attempt towards positivism, an ironical usage or simply another one of those babies of the Greek metaphorical and mythological world that I seem to adopt periodically?
Eudaemonia… the greek goddess of Joy…eudaemonic, the state of being in joy and the derivation that I have been using of late…

But I wonder… do we just use these words to cheat ourselves? To make the apparent surface of our lives better?... like one of those self-help books, that ridiculously ask you to wake up every morning and like a buffoon look into the mirror and reiterate your own positivism to yourself…I have always found those books full of glossy frog crap, if I may put it that way. And then again, every day, I log onto my account, and watch the fancy word “eudaemonic” appear on the screen – as if sometimes indifferently watching me, sometimes mocking me in its noiseless expression.
How often do we tell ourselves that we are happy? How often do we desperately want to believe that we are content? So have we climbed onto that branch, from where, we only have one perspective of ourselves, and we end up assuming that, the view from up there is the only view that there is?

And this vague question now makes my stream of thought, take a leap into another random track …how powerful is the art of self conviction? Can you look into the mirror every morning and repeat a lie, so much so that the lie turns into the truth for you? I have heard of people living in self denial, not acknowledging their shortcomings, their faults, their lacks and blacks. Of late, I have also seen some of those… who, for fear of coming to terms with their wrongs, refuse to acknowledge and admit it in the first place… so as to live in a joyous illusion of virtuosity.

It is a human phenomenon I think… to believe in what makes life easier… but an easy path isn’t essentially the correct one… and then again, you can turn around and say – who defines correct and incorrect, moral and immoral – they are all constructs – more societal than personal – so what maybe terribly heartless for me, may be absolutely acceptable to another. But I think that humanity is the touchstone to human behaviour, to compassion and concern – the abstract feeling of hurt defines right and wrong – not society, not a personal weighing scale, not a moral conditioning – but simply the art of being humane… to consider feelings… and even if inconsideration has already been perpetuated, then the self realisation and consequent apology must follow. I believe that denial is cowardice, those are the brave ones who admit to their fall only to rise again

It would be judgemental on my part to make such statements on others…to demarcate the line between being courageous and an escapist, to define the two in the first place – for definitions is what limits us, as human beings - to stop thinking beyond our convinced selves and look beyond the little world of denial that we constantly build and live in… it would be narrowing my view to that branch that I may have climbed once, but then again, a few steps beyond and I am another iota closer to the zenith, and instead of looking down with one perspective, may learn to look around and beyond. And then, eudaemonia may be a sight, a vision, a feeling that may permeate in me – than just be that elusive, deriding word, demonically sitting on my screen.

I like an unlike verse...

2006-06-24T13:15:00.000-07:00

Just when i begin to steer clear of every little particle and word that even distantly smells of the word called 'love', i open some old dusty poetry books and within the yellowed pages, come across something like this and cant help but want to share it with the world... even in the false emotion of love then, there is some inexplicable beauty, that, if in not life, can atleast be an expression in words...

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

- Pablo Neruda

Hug me Tight

2006-06-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

It is just another morning thought…one of those soul searching sort of questions that pop in your head once in a while…however these questions seem to have been popping in my head too often for comfort – it may be a good thing though, for then I give a few minutes of silent consideration to some issues that I subconsciously grapple with in my life and don’t even know about… some questions that make me the complex person that I am…some questions that makes me the cynic that I am, the critic that I can be…
I woke up this morning and thought about the same time last week and the time before that…then my mind traveled like a port-key to the time much before that too…weeks, months… time seem to collapse like a castle of cards in front of my very eyes and images, flashes, words, conversations, touch, smell, feel…everything of the past just seemed to touch by me again – like that humid wind that just whiffed past my face- it was like a movie and I was the protagonist and I wasn’t smiling…I was one of the two main characters and I wasn’t happy…and then some droplets, some sobs, some breathless sniffles seemed to zoom in front of my eyes…big huge brown eyes – soulful sad hurt eyes… and then in another flash of a second, it zoomed out and the face was mine…and I wasn’t happy. How important is happiness in one’s life? We live – we don’t die – I may be an existentialist and yet I don’t live in the worthless abandon of one – yes, it is an interesting theory that I keep telling people for I find it extremely fascinating and remotely believable – that how can we say that we are living if each day we travel closer to death…so aren’t we dying…what is life then, if we started dying since the day we were born – and then again, I see sad movies where unrealistically the dying protagonist talks about dying with a smile, about living each day – for tomorrow is a distant hope and today is the only gift we have – so live, smile, let joy wrap its arms around you and let a hug envelop you – and then I look at the movie that had just flashed in front of my eyes… and I only saw a depressive sight of me – and then another question began to nudge me every minute – do we live to love, that love which is a skewed up theory with no particular definition – comes in all shapes, sizes, ages and stages – that we share with a friend, a family, an ideology, a passion…a person?? And then if love is a phase that makes me the protagonist of this story then I’d rather not love – for if we live, we must live to smile, we must live to experience each day and squeeze that last dreg of happiness – to be hugged and to hug with all our might. This morning I couldn’t remember the last time I was truly happy – and when you reach that stage and its cause is some sort of inexplicable love, then you know its time…the day you cant recall your last unadulterated moment of joy, it is then time to let go of that futile unrequited love – it is then time to let some happiness seep in and some bitterness ooze out – it is then time to go back to loving, but only loving your life…it is then time for that tight hug – and I need a hug again.

Marmalade

2006-05-22T07:48:00.000-07:00

A rumble at my feet… and a quiver in me… like frames per second…the sights pass me by… so many familiar views… huts covered with dung…bamboo shoots… rice fields submerged in water… sand mounds… dry ever stretching yellow fields… looming peepul trees…some destitute naked children…bricked houses dappled along the way… and I sit and watch in silent wonder and a gloomy face…
I have just left my utopia…stepped yet again on the paths of hell… only this time, with a slight hope to make inferno less charring…
Again a wistful me…makes her way into the paths that have been charted out for me by my most unkind mother fate – for I would give an eye and a leg…I would kill…I would have done anything to spend the next 3 months in the world I existed before…
A single day here was beautiful… maybe fed me with enough memories to last a week…and then what…like always would I have to depend on dipping myself in my revitalizing storage of memories that I have carefully preserved in my head?...
I like to call it my precious marmalade – these memories that I thrive on… every single hour in my utopian land…every single word that my friend Estella has uttered …every smile that my familiar people have showered on me…that crispy brewed smell of Village Café… that old yellowed pole by the road… the coconut-man that has been at that corner forever… its all a part of my marmalade… jellyed into a box… with the sweet smoothness and the tangy bits that makes it so unique… conserved… preserved… jammed in my head… flexible enough to make space for new moments… adjusting enough to squeeze in more bits…and yet, in its congealed state sits in my head, not allowing for my defective present to act like a fungus to its eternal undiluted perfection.
I am allowing myself to soon turn into a Miss Havisham of sorts…and yet, in all consciousness, I take that alternative…for I’d rather be preserved in marmalade than rot in the fungus of my today.