Paper Bouquet

Reliving the Flight

2012-02-10T14:11:00.002+05:30

The video you haven't seen, the story you haven't heard!

Pencil-Paper-Post

2012-02-02T10:32:00.002+05:30

When was the last time you played hangman, or used a pencil, or drew a fat man in a hat?
The really good thing about being a student at 24 (almost 25) is that I never have to think too hard before answering that question.

About Alice in Wonderland

2012-01-10T11:02:00.000+05:30

A dear friend of mine is revising her fairy-tales these days.
And yesterday this line was quoted to me, in the context of research and writing my thesis.
It's only fitting that I save it, and remind her of it, and brighten a few more lives by linking to the online illustrated Alice in Wonderland.

`Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely,

`and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'

Metaphors

2012-01-04T10:17:00.003+05:30

I am behind a glass door.

Thank you for the pic, friend

Three Birthdays

2011-11-16T19:04:00.001+05:30

there's more...

I don't have a picture with the third birthday person. Will upload when I do.
So this is the story of a tumultuous week in India. I landed in New Delhi with luggage weighing around twenty kilos. I flew out ten days later, with just three pairs of clothes, my laptop and a box of mithai for my supervisor.
No I wasn't mugged :)
Imagination can take you everywhere. I think on this trip, I had the coolest ideas for gifts for my Anmol Rattan. Here's a collage of the ones I could find online :)

Squash Court

2011-10-17T06:44:00.002+05:30

The pock-marked walls are my friends now, as are the mild red lines closing me in. Sometimes I dance on the glazed flooring, other times I'm clumsy, hitting thin air and tripping over my own feet. The court doesn't seem too big any more-- it's just my size. Or maybe my mind has expanded to fill it in. It's my stage and I'm the ballerina.

Sparing a Thought

2011-10-11T23:25:00.003+05:30

Sparing a Thought for the leftovers:

The plates, scraped clean, are strewn around the bin
which brims with styrofoam cups and Fanta bottles

Buntings are astir in a listless breeze

Remnants of rubber balloons dangle

From awkward perches on window ledges

And sunlight streams in on the

Glittery puddles on the floor

And ever-rising spirals of dust.

Creamy smudges and footprints are on the table
Beside the upturned chair where someone was pushed.

The broken party hats that didn't quite fit

and the gift wrapping paper lie crumpled in a corner

And atop a tower of empty, greasy plastic containers

Stands the lone bottle of ketchup.

I pause, turn around in belated sentiment,

Tripping at the doorstep, haltingly compose

a tribute to what's left behind:

R.I.P.

Twitter Reruns

2011-09-29T08:17:00.005+05:30

When I used to tweet, I wrote some "poetry": profound pith of 140 characters or less. I thought I shouldn't lose those masterpieces to the dark recesses of the webbed world.. Funny how in the neighbourhood of lacklustre lines, they'd seemed so brilliant :P Here in this blogpost, they are just fillers! Anyway, here they are.

broken in some places, fragile in another,

they should encase me in bubblewrap and leave me with my mother.

gussa in my stomach, sorry in my head,

i should just stop thinking and get into bed.

sleepy in my eyes and ouchie in my heart,

love is but a caprice, and mush and goo are fart.

~*~*~*~*~*~

talk to me. fill the void with words. fill the words with meaning. fill the meaning with hope.

the pathos of a sunken wreck, is in its nameplate still intact,

but what's the grief in kithship lost? twas but an unnamed pact.

i talk and chirp and tweet all night, the meanings aren't a coming.

the weekend lost in idle thought, a-lazing and a-bumming.

there is a subtle irony, in things of tragedy,

in what you perceive as awful curse, the others a moral perceive.

i stayed awhile grappling for words, to make the ending come right.

i give up now and drift off to sleep, with a simple sweet "good night".

*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm always kind of relieved when red turns to grey,

cos i keep wondering if there's a right thing to say #gtalk

*~*~*~*~*~*~

too much fizz, no spark :-s

and now it's all so difficult to digest

therefore,might i suggest

that u go for a walk in the park!

Unfinished - September 2008

2011-09-28T21:01:00.004+05:30

He was getting to know her. Their first battlefield was a mostly one-sided contest, both above and atop a checkered tabletop. While she wrestled with mysterious stratagems, he simply stared; that was his second favourite game: to watch people, a task as absorbing as any Saturday editorial page. Today, he was ticking off minutes in the pleasant pastime of naming the quirky, million-a-minute expressions that flitted across her face. She stared at the chessmen, oblivious.

Goodbye Friend

2011-08-30T16:43:00.004+05:30

Trying to begin a blogpost without a cliched one-liner is like trying to find new ways to peel a banana.

It feels like I'm sitting across the table from someone familiar, shrugging my shoulders and dropping my eyes to begin talking about something uncomfortable. It's the elephant in the room, this feeling of adieu. I've tried to ignore it since I first felt it creeping into my heart like a cold shiver.

Ironically, today I feel like I'm living the biggest cliche, I'm having a reality check after spending an idyllic weekend away from my life. The only contact I made with the outside world would be a couple of emails to the bosses of me. Now I'm back, and the truth hurts: it's only the friends you trust the most who are the ones to let you down. To tell you the truth, there was no major incident reported today. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, yet the ordinariness of a once-warm friendship chilled me and scared me. Imagine organizing a party and then not being invited to it? That's the kind of punch in the stomach I got, and I'm afraid it might've showed on my face.

But I wonder: is it easy to tell that I've crumbled? If it were, the world wouldn't selfishly move on the way it does. Maybe there would be a regretful pause, a kind word, some sign of acknowledgement. But, nothing. No one will ever pick up the phone to call and ask. I'm out of sight, out of mind.

I'm a well-adjusted child. I'm a mild person to acquaintances. I can be a great listener or a vivacious conversationalist. But I'm famous for losing touch, I'm famous for keeping my story under wraps. I don't know when I started guarding my secrets so preciously. Was it after Mom first read my diary? Was it during my teen years, when my friends walked out on me? Or was it at age 10, when incomprehensible things first rattled my bubble-world.

Today I'm reliving some horrid school memories. Sitting alone in a corner of the classroom or hiding in the stairwell, writing in my diary about my first experiences with betrayal. Today, once again, I am the insecure schoolgirl with puffy eyes, trying to decide where to hide in the lunch break.

I knew it was time that I accepted that a trusted friend has moved on. So I called up a friend whom I've had longer than my oldest scars, and I sobbed.

Cathartic posts help get rid of headaches in dire emergencies.

Please to note tip.

Meaning

2011-08-10T21:47:00.006+05:30

I always wanted my writing to matter. It has to mean more than words on paper, it should tug at more than just the corners of your mouth and the message should carry forward with you after the moment is gone. The message should repeat itself in cumbrous silences, in the next introspective minute or a later hour of solitude.

Today, the best of my essays seems like the inconsequential hearts-and-flowers on a teenaged girl's diary. I feel inarticulate, incapable of the task before me: to set into words the chain of events which have thrown open a new window in my mind today.

Because, today I heard a story from the Shah of Blah. I hung on to every word as his glistening eyes bored pictures into mine. It's a month of dinner feasts and intrepid tales; every night brings with it an anecdote to make one's hair stand on end. You can be sure that there's a story hiding behind every chance remark; it's the questions you ask which will steer the night onward.

And after an evening spent talking of the bloodcurdling violence, religion, revenge and fear in India's recent history, I came away feeling like the world was spinning a little too fast. I had no answer for the question, "How come you have never thought about these things before?" Had I really grown up oblivious, in the same country, same neighbourhood where blood flowed like rivers and the newspapers bore grim headlines.. My mind was buzzing with thoughts and the lump at the back of my throat refused to go away. A socially conscious Indian? Ha, not even in the same continent as one. I felt so small and shallow for growing up in a bubble. My eyes were wet for shame, at all the petty groveling and airheaded notions I'd grown up on, never bothering to scratch beneath the surface. Suddenly, I found myself really thinking about the miserable people who'd lost their world while I was growing up...perhaps my biggest problems then were, how to lie to my parents about where I'm going?

The biggest epiphany made my cheeks burn with embarrassment: for, what I'd taken to be my liberal and tolerating attitude towards all, had been exposed for the blatant apathy it concealed.

I apologize to the Shah of Blah, whom I've called a girl and a racist on numerous occasions. I admire his vision, his passion and his prejudice too. I now know that apathy is a greater sin than racism. And I thank him for the many stories that will twinkle in my nightsky for years to come.

Happy Friendship Day!

2011-08-07T09:10:00.000+05:30

Dedicated to my world of very special people:

I carry your heart in my heart :)

Tough Love

2011-06-13T22:51:00.007+05:30

03sides.blogspot.com

It wasn't an easy job lugging the string-back chair alongwith the little teak desk, her journal and a bottle of water. She cursed her decision to wear slippers. Cursing aloud was rebellion too. With every step forward, she sank half a foot into the yielding sand; retracting a foot wrenched the slipper off until it dangled awkwardly from her big toe. It was like walking in water. The sensible idea would've been to leave the slippers and the bottle of water behind, maybe the desk too. There was only an hour of sunlight left. She had to hurry to reach her spot on the beach and write about all the things that were ticking away inside her, before the sun drowned in the ocean and before the ticking time-bomb triggered further mayhem along a blazing trail of self-destruction.

Things only made sense when they were neatly printed on much-thumbed ruled sheets of paper inside those red cloth-bound covers. On good days, the handwriting was cursive, with decorative flourishes and curlicues. There was always a sense of satisfaction at a mischief managed or a job well done. But today, as she sat poised over an empty page waiting to spill her mind, the familiar routine brought her no solace and the lights in her mind darkened with the sky.

She wrote anyway. But her fingers were cramped from clenching the chair, and the words came out crooked.

Today she'd been in an argument. She was asked some hurtful questions, and she'd said some spiteful things right back. She shouted over the din of accusing voices, and she'd gone on until she was out of breath and there were no bad things left unsaid. The hurt inside her still throbbed, she had been wrongfully accused and no one understood how unfair it was. The sentences stumbled out disjointed, her secrets fled helter-skelter like bugs escaping an ambush. Hunched over the desk, she scribbled away, squinting in the gathering dusk and absent-mindedly swatting away the mosquitoes that buzzed around her for their supper. There was only the sound of her hurrying pencil and the sashay of palms in the evening breeze.

She didn't know that Dad had followed her to her spot on the beach. He still stood in the shadows of the palm grove, watching her sob over the little desk. Even after everything she'd said, he was worried about her stalking off alone in that temper. The beach wasn't a safe place after sunset..

Her journal was snatched away from her, she gasped. She lunged for it, but she was no match for her towering father. She pulled at his shirt and tugged his arm, whined and stood on seat of her chair and hopped to grab his shoulder, trying her hardest to get her journal back. Her anger had dissolved into embarrassment that betrayed itself in her clammy hands and flushed cheeks. Papa couldn't, shouldn't read that!

Her efforts were futile. She shrunk away from him and stood over at the other side of the desk with arms crossed in a show of defiance. She stammered, "Pa, I-I-I.." she was trembling with fear. A thundercloud was gathering on Papa's forehead, his lips were pursed and his eyes followed the progress of her writing from page to page. In a swift, neat movement, he tore out the entry she had just composed. He stared at her as he furiously tore the paper into shreds. Her mouth was a horrified o, but he felt an unexpected pang at seeing that her eyes were welling with tears.. After all she's done?! To spite himself, he did one last irredeemable thing-- he jogged to the water's edge and flung the journal, as far into the sea as he could. He then strode back towards the house, eyes burning, heart hurting, ears ringing with the sounds of his daughter's wails.

Book Review: Shantaram

2011-04-14T09:38:00.004+05:30

(Also borrowing a bit from my own post)

Shantaram is about a escaped convict who is adopted by trusting, loving hearts in Bombay as one of their own and rechristened to Linbaba, or Shantaram. His aliases change as do his allegiances, as he befriends India and its people in a fearless exploration of crime and culture. There is a universe of possibilities within every moment, and that brilliantly shines through when your eyes follow the course of the last line and turn the very last page.

It may be that one is too similar to the other or even inspired by the other. But in my mind, Sacred Games (by Vikram Chandra) had a tighter, meaner storyline, characters I loved a little more, but with lesser space for the philosophical mastication that makes the reading of Shantaram, more of a "process" and an adventure. Highly recommended for people with patience and a little insight, so that they can read between the lines and see the pictures he paints as well as imagine the colours of the ones he doesn't.

Gregory David Roberts gave me a brand new thought to wrestle with, with every turn of the page. He is an emotional writer, if there ever was one. I was quite surprised to see how much he *feels*, escaped convict and all. And he is very good at putting all those things down on paper. He's like a hurting, caged child on a quest for answers, with words as his only comfort.

There are so many lines that resonated and are going to ring in my head for a good while to come. And when I decide to re-read the book, it will be with the keenness of a student with a textbook. There is so much life can teach you, and he's tried to put all of that within the covers. Truly a man who has "realized" his life and commands honour, just by that.

Notes from an Aeroplane

2011-04-04T19:19:00.012+05:30

I have been reading Shantaram and absorbing a new perspective with each turn of the page. Shantaram is an outsider who befriended India and its people in a fearless exploration of crime and culture. Through the writing of Gregory David Roberts, I can identify with and appreciate the humanity which is the epoch of Indian society.

The other day, I boarded the plane in Kuala Lumpur towards Mumbai. After I sat down in my seat, I was sadistically enjoying the sight of a mother trying in vain to control her excitable son who was running ahead of her. She was looking around for help, frustrated, while at the same time trying to coordinate with her mother who was seated a few rows away from her. Her son was obstructing the way of other passengers in the narrow aisle. He stepped on my toe as he clambered past and the long snaking queue that had formed behind him pressed forward in relief.

I was watching this harrassed lady. In fact, I was unashamedly staring at the emotions flitting across her face. When our eyes met, she held my look for a good minute; I tried to match the despair in her glance with a nod of encouragement (a typical Indian mannerism that I didn't really notice until Shantaram pointed it out for me). We both looked away to focus on her son, who was clamouring for a window seat now. I laughed to myself because I could see how excited he was to get home. After a foreign holiday, the sight of so many Mumbaikars must have been a comforting sight. And the demand for a window seat! How typical. For the boy, this is any local train or bus, taking him home. His naivete was endearing.

My smile lingered when I looked to my left and saw a group of aged Gujju uncles take their place. Clearly one of them had bought a new camera and was taking pictures of the others who were alreadys strapped into their seats. Another uncleji was trying out the camera in his brand new cellphone which still had its plastic wrapping intact. He joined his friend in clicking and reviewing pictures of each other.

Passengers were still filing in. And then suddenly it struck me how noisy everyone was. It was not just the boy who was excited, there was a veritable buzz in the air. People were chatting and greeting each other as they took their places. The elderly mother of the frantic lady was helped into a seat next to her daughter and someone else stowed their luggage away respectfully (all five bags of it). A balding, bespectacled uncleji passing onward to his seat, stopped with a "Good day!" and made conversation with the brat while his mother and grandmother smiled back. A group of middle-aged men passed me on the left, their eyes staring because that is how you acknowledge a woman in India. The old uncleji with a cameraphone was still clicking away and he harkened loudly to a friend sitting some rows behind me, who responded with a shout. It was all very lively and I was quite entertained.

Uncleji seemed to be testing out all possible angles and perspectives with his cameraphone. He clicked the view from the window a dozen times. Bear in mind that the aeroplane was yet to move towards the runway though the main doors had been sealed shut. He then took a number of photographs of the empty aisle, some vertically, some diagonally and some upside down. It took him a few presses of the button to get each click right. Little did I know that he was simply practising. When the aisle was taken up by the pretty stewardesses, he lined up the perfect shot and fired only once. He had his picture, the cameraphone was switched off and put away. :P

We were finally in the air. The little boy wanted to explore every gadget around him. The honeymooning couple laughed when he lunged for the handle to open the luggage compartment. On the third jump he made it, and the newlywed husband jumped up to shut it before anything could spill out. No one actually knew each other, but everyone was traveling together and that meant something to them. The Gujju uncleji's friends came to visit him from the other end of the aircraft and sat down in a neighbouring empty seat to have a chat. It was then that I noticed that there were a lot of people standing around the aisle, especially around one seat towards the back of the plane. At first I thought maybe something was wrong. Then I realized that they'd been there for a while, and one of them was seated on the armrest of the seat opposite the aisle to be close to the center. Others had asked people to "adjust" so that they could form a circle....and play cards :D People from front rows had moved back to join the game, while those at the back had simply come forward, stretched out in the vacant seats and gone off to sleep. And just like the little boy, I felt like I really was in an overnight journey in a bus, like I really was going home.

(more notes from an aeroplane, here.)

Magical Mumbai :)

2011-03-31T06:58:00.011+05:30

(This is not only about cricket!)
So what happens when you give a brash kid a little extra money and a passport to roam with? She'll go everywhere.

Sometimes if the neighbours get overbearing, she'll do a daytrip out of the country. If she craves donuts, she'll visit the mall in Malaysia where the coffeeshop overlooks a busy street with ceaseless pedestrian and two-wheeler traffic, and she'll watch the cobbler across the road, in his tiny blue hovel, shoes displayed neatly around him, behind him on the wall and above him on the ledge of his little perch. And she'll think about all her shoes back in Singapore that need mending.

On this particular occasion, the brash kid decided that the time was ripe to take a few risks. Low airfares from her favourite budget airline only enabled her planning. And that was how it was that in the middle of March, she packed some clothes and some papers into a small grey cabin bag and, seven-to-eight hours later, landed on Mumbai's shores on a Friday evening.

The fun began at the dutyfree, when a Gujju family almost made away with a lot of alcohol (and her passport). There was the puffing, sodden whale-of-a-monkey who helped her lose the prepaid taxi ticket to an overzealous sweeper. But a few laughs and profuse thankyous later, everything was sorted out, the old angry Parsi aunty was pacified and provided with a taxi, and the kid was on her way to begin the Mumbai adventure (passport, visa and taxi receipt intact). As the sodden monkey said, yeh toh litmus test hoga.

It was Holi, and Mumbai was shut for the day. Or maybe it was because of the cricket match? The solitary diners in Indigo, Phoenix Mills, didn't seem to care. The waiter topped up their glasses of Sangria and brought around the dessert: Bailey's icecream with caramel schnapps. The girls were giggling now, scooping out bits of apple from their wineglasses and into the icecream, enjoying the crisp with the creamy and the tangy with the sweet..

The watchman downstairs had a dog which was great friends with the goat belonging to the weaver family just across the road. Love knows no bar. This was also obvious at Bandstand, where middle-aged husband-wives were out picnicking, teenaged girls were vying for attention, trying very hard to trip and break their noses on the slippery black rocks and desperate couples were making good use of a dupatta for privacy. Meanwhile, friends walked on, windswept, talkative, happy.

And then of course there was cricket, with all its fervour, its white knight and capricious lord. Deals were struck over email chains and anonymous phonecalls. Bundles were hidden in nondescript black bags and grey-headed taxidrivers stared in abject wonderment. Sometimes, disappointment is for the best, things work out in unexpected ways, and you watch your country become a champion.

My friend the Crow visited me everyday, peeping in through windows to watch me at my laptop and making to scare the pigeons roosting over the faulty air-conditioner. He probably picked on the remnants of cheeseburst pizzas and dirtied the freshly laundered clothes when I wasn't looking. The electrician tried to fix the ceiling fan with some spit and cellotape, but it was back to its squeaky best in a couple of days. I told him it sounded like a chirping bird had nested in there; the boy turned his face away to hide a laugh. I saw that.

So when he took me out for a date, we bought my birthday present, played silly games as we waited for our biryani and parantha and then walked along marine drive for a couple of kilometres with our coffee cups. When it seemed like a good time to sit down, I removed my green chappals and swung my bare feet over the ledge right beside his. And I told him stories about Mumbai which I had read in books borrowed from libraries in foreign countries, and he told me about the places I hadn't seen but had only read about. Then everything became white noise because we settled into comfortable silence. That's the way it is with old friends. A mumbling urchin approached us and he absentmindedly handed over his coffee cup. There was a family spanning three generations sitting nearby and chattering about their toddler's antics. We shifted to make way for a group of boys to walk past us and I moved my Bose headphones and chappals closer to my side. I was okay with more walking but the boy was tired so we decided to take him home.

And they didn't want to me to, but I did the dishes. And I didn't open the second pack of Brittania Healthy Start after all. I never got around to doing most of the work I'd brought along, yet I had a fulfilling, enriching week. We most certainly passed the litmus test. By the time I actually was in trouble, with a mislaid student pass and no way to get off the aeroplane back to Singapore, I was too chilled out to care. So I bit into my double chocolate donut, slurped my iced coffee and began to think about how I would write this blogpost.

Back-to-back posts, WIP

2011-03-19T12:37:00.001+05:30

आपके हुए

Dreams for Sale

2011-03-13T07:52:00.007+05:30

A spate of disturbing dreams this week has made me wonder what exactly I'm yearning for. Each of them takes me down a different route.

Anxiety. Beside the unmentionable inexplicable dreams (Depravity), there was the familiar school-time nightmare of a parent-teacher meeting, an email correspondence in my case, through which my folks found out exactly how badly I am doing at my research. Let's not go there right now!

Serendipity. I dreamt that I visited the house I grew up in. It's a single story brick house that resembles a cottage in size and appearance. The expansive garden is cluttered with ferns and overhanging trees like an untidy girl's hairstyle. In my dream, I walked up to the letterbox at the gate. The white paint on its wrought iron edges was flaking away and the hinged door was nigh coming off in my grip. I reached in to check for mail...and I found a bundle of letters and postcards addressed to me. Birthday letters which I never thought to check for earlier, and which lit up my day like Diwali.

Tragedy. And yet another thread of worries came to surface when, in my dream, I watched my closest childhood friend cancel my call, stomp on my heart and throw away a gift I'd given her.

Maybe it was just a rough week! In fact, a lot happened in the span of five days. One exposé, one hook-up, one phonecall from Providence, one blast-from-the-past and one earthquake (which admittedly didn't hurt me but hurt a lot of people, bless you Japan :( ). I'd be fine with a mundane life, thank you. Let's save the drama for bigger battles.

Project: Day 5

2011-03-07T09:41:00.013+05:30

A picture of somewhere I've been to

This picture was taken in December 2010, at the Taj Mahal, Agra, India.
It reminds me of myself, I have always loved to sit cross-legged with a book, in a doorway, whether it be the threshold of the terrace of my department, now, or the backdoor of my bedroom back home, ten years ago.

Back then, I'd sit cross legged on the floor and pull my short wooden desk over my knees. Everything I would possibly need would be around me. I'd spend hours in the doorway, often looking out and staring at the dreamy blue sky overheard, or watching the gardener tend to our vegetable garden. I'd scribble the name of my crush on the table and just as quickly erase it. But I wouldn't get up until I'd finished my studying for the day, or until nightfall made it impossible for me to study in natural light.

Imagine if my doorway had been overlooking the Taj; every day at the desk would've been a delight!

Each of my friends has preserved a different set of memories of life as a high school student in my all-girls' convent school. Some wistfully remember the unforgiving afternoons at the cricket pitch or the basketball court. Others recount hours of tuition followed by homework for the next day. Cliques of girls are nostalgic about their carpool group, and the official white ambassador thumping with Backstreet Boys' music which took them home everyday. Some, like me, looked forward to the bus ride home everyday and the chance-glance from their crush in the parking lot of the all-boys' school. There are some for whom school was a nightmarish experience of trying, but never succeeding, to fit in. And I know a girl who still hasn't forgotten how we all used to steal her lunchbox everyday around noon.

But for me, high school was a time for self-discipline. Beyond the shortening skirts and the growing animosity towards authority, the discontentment and the struggle to identify the self, I learned to accept differences; I learned to train my reactions. The board exams were looming and my teenaged awkwardness made me reticent; I'd prefer to spend my time mugging text books and skipping meals. While skipping meals made me no cooler than I was, the long hours spent with my books are paying dividends to this day!

Birthday Balloons!

2011-03-02T07:40:00.002+05:30

Amazing birthday, with multiple kidnappings, bubbly champagne at midnight, and gifts ranging from kitschy silver purses to jigsaw puzzles :D

Project: Day 4

2011-02-23T16:14:00.003+05:30

A habit that I wish I didn't have

Snapping at people who mean well :) In my head I always go, Ohh there I go again. It happens often enough to be labeled a habit. It's when I need to withdraw into my shell and think about things, when I need to lick my wounds and answer the questions my minding is firing out. Right then, if someone talks to me or even looks at me, that's when the cannons are let loose. BOOM!

Run for your lives!

Okay, catharsis. It really upset someone close to me, alright?

Upset enough for them to want nothing to do with me for the rest of my life :/

And then there was a big to-do, and everyone else tried to mollify their feelings and I was too overcome with guilt. So I sat there shaking and sobbing for a good few hours. It wasn't pretty.

I think I can safely say, lesson almost learned. Unless I hit a few more roadblocks, I don't expect to meet the cantankerous side of me for a few years/months at least ;)

Project: Day 3

2011-02-17T08:35:00.008+05:30

A picture of me and my friends

Hehe, bet you didn't see this one coming :D

I thought this was the most appropriate thing, given that I'll be able to point out funny things about each one of them and how they are individually a part of the epic tale which is my life :P

I also updated Project: Day 1 here, so go ahead, read up!

And (drumrolll.....) the cast and characters of my story!

The Hero - Booty, my love, the dog with the prance in his step and the doe in his eye
The Pirate - Gaurav Sharma, the happy pirate. Ever indebted to him for adding a dash of the cavalier to routine weekdays!
The Fairy - Sucha-Singh, for her angel-with-wings avatar :)
The Guards -My Singapore gang, who takes care of me in their own special ways :)
The Headless Man - Rodiboy, for talking through his hat, for his crazy mind-over-matter experiments, for being unashamedly differet :)
The Old Man - the one on the armchair beside me, fifty years from now.
The Faithful Hound - my DD :) woof!
The Girl - The Woman in my life and in my apartment, ever-intriguing, never-predictable, always-lovable
The Strongman - Varsha :D for walking like a woman, talking like a man. The original Lola :P
The Lunatic - Purva, and I think very few people (like me) truly understand her lojix :P
The Monkey - There can be only one Monkey Raina :)
The Minotaur - The strongest person I know, my Mommy :)
The Nurse - Krishna ji, the second-best caregiver I've ever known
The Invalid - Bhai, who is always there in my thoughts
The Priest - Our pujaari, pandit, conductor of Havans, storyteller extraordinarie, Nana
The Nudist - Bhattu, so comfortable in his own skin :)
The Three Witches - Babbu, the girl who plays cricket better than most boys; Aastha, the lovely LMF ;) and Yajjo of the tangled hair and love of wind!
Also,
The Three Witches - My pubquiz/literary-sharing clique, Scoobs/Kancha/Guns :)
The Knight - Hehe. Rahul Bhaiya! I mean the one my sister is married to :)
The Apparition - Kancha! Blink and you'll miss it! :P
The Innkeeper - Bhoops. Who is watching the wayfarers and imagining their destinations.
The Littleman - Shiny, the Chotu!

The Corpse - Vishy-washy when he's sleeping like the dead :P
The Wanderer - SMB!
The King - Nana. The betaaj Badshah of our Chd Drama Company :)
The Queen - Obviously, Nani. An adventuress, eternal student, wrinkled, wise, wistful.
The Escapist - I'd marked Bhavna on the original post. :) I mean it in the most affectionate way possible.
The Magic Cow - Biksi, whose numerous udders sustain the Ed Board populace while his filthy jokes titillate their intellect (or lack thereof)

The Talking Shrub - Guns Dhilz. She's That Fantastic :P
The Visitors - The visitors to Singapore in November 2010. :) unforgettably happy time.
The Lover - Well I have so many now. But deewane, deewane toh deewane hain!
The Husband - :P I wonder?

The Sniper - Dhishkaoon! It would have to be the other Akanksha. Forever waiting for an opportunity to catch me off-guard :P Of course I mean that in the best way possible.

The Birdman - Manu P., for the bling-bling!

The Giant - hehe, Shai :P

The Twins - Hehe, the poemwriters. One poem was about how I was a spiteful Rose and the other was something to do with Rain.

The Dandy- Choosie Singh :D Self-explanatory if you know him.

The Sorceress - The new jaadu-tona queen is obviously the ex, MDH i.e. Megha Di Hatti

The Genius - There will only ever be one name here!

The Boy - The suspense lingers...

The Tart - (who seduces the boy) Scooby Dooba!

The Broken Man - Boys take turns at this role when I'm done with knocking their teeth in!

The Metal Man - Nikhilnikhil!

The Urchins - Nalayak and Nangu. I could never ever refuse them food!

The Giant Cat - My shishterrrrr

The Freaks - All the single ladies, all the single ladies. Yes I know a few freaky ones :)

The Prophet of Doom - Hehe. Brendan. In his new avatar as the gloomy Grinch.

The Ringmaster - Muahaha, ME!! I crack my whip and run the show :D

The Dancing Bear - Rrraouull Beejh :P In a crazy-groooving utterly-fascinating disco number :P

The Floating Skull - My Prof :| lingering like a bad smell, or a floating skull. Never quite gone!

The Parents - Mummy-Papa. Without whom I would not exist and there would be no Circus here ;)

The Devil - Jacomoji :) naughtiness personified!

Project: Day 2

2011-02-16T09:50:00.006+05:30

The meaning behing my blog name

The name of my blog is y.a.c.k.i. which is a self-composed acronym for Yet Another Crazy Kid with Issues.

Hehe, that's the first ever profile picture I set, back in Ye Old Hi5 days!

The name came up during a random conversation with one of the best listeners I know. We were talking about the goofy things I'd done that year... Haha, speaking of goofy things, I'm suddenly reminded of two days ago, when I spilled a bottle of honey-lemon juice all over my books and papers...my desk still feels sticky to the touch :/ Well obviously, there's still some truth to the name then!

The blog address, however, is "ko-j" and I believe that would be easier to guess. There's a teeny-tiny story behind that too though. When I was fourteen, I discovered the baby books my mommy had maintained for my sister and me; while hers was an extensive account of every baby milestone in her first five years, mine ended abruptly at age 8 months. Mom defended herself, saying that I was just a fast-growing kid that she could never leave me alone for a second to update my baby book :P Of course, I didn't buy that and sulked for a week. So, my on my fifteenth birthday, my mom gifted me my very own Baby Book, a storybook with pictures of the first fifteen years of my life. It was titled "Ko-J, The First 15 Years". That was the most awesome birthday gift I've ever gotten.

However, only my sister ever called me Ko-j, and that was way back when I was an angsty teenager. Now I'm "tota" to everyone :) maybe it's time I changed that handle.

Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T09:09:00.003+05:30

I won't have you know that I'm a believer, but I played a mushy song last night when the clock struck twelve.
In outward appearances, I'm a part of the Black Brigade, the attention-seeking anti-Valentiners who go Gothic for February 14. If you stare carefully, you'll realize that I've actually made an effort with my make up kit today :D all for the disdain of the day of lovers.

But this closet romantic has dug up a story of modern love and a good old tune to set the mood for you today! (courtesy: Saini)

Heartiest congratulations to Mohit Rodeja who has made us all proud with his amazing performance and selection in the TAS recruitments in FMS :)

Also, just to gross everyone out, this is what I was browsing today. Teehee!

Love love.

Awkward Afternoon - I

2011-01-31T22:47:00.003+05:30

My face burned with shame; to think that, of all people, she had seen me embarrass myself!

It was afternoon, I sat huddled between a wall and a stiff-backed armchair in the hot, stuffy den and hoped that they wouldn't find me. I could hear them calling from the living room but I didn't budge an inch. I was wearing my new frock, and the burning, sticky stain from the spilt tea was spreading fast, even as I watched.

My frock was pink and polka-dotted. My face was purply-red.

She, was a vision, the perfect idol for a seven-year-old girl. She was the new face of Pond's Cold Cream, her perfect smile glinted from advertisements in all the glossy magazines, she even swayed with the salsa beat in the latest Close Up commercial. She, was the It girl, a livewire who seemed to electrify the very room she entered, a stunning diva with high cheekbones and naughty eyes; and she wore her hair just like me -- cropped short, like a boy. Gosh, she made me sigh with delight. And, to think She was in my living room!

I'd gawked at the company from the pantry window until I was called into the living room. I stood there, eyes downcast, fidgeting, squirming, not wanting to stay and yet desperately not wanting to leave. When I finally dared to raise my glance, I found her kind eyes waiting for me while her lovely pink mouth posed questions I couldn't understand. I sunk my head into my chest and stared resolutely at the ground.

After a brief interlude, the grown-ups resumed conversation, content with letting me sit at their feet in silence. Perhaps they thought I was sulking? I took to watching her hands as she regaled them with stories and scandals. She had slender hands; her long, thin fingers were topped with square fingernails. Like a pair of love-birds, her hands fluttered in tandem in the space before her, eloquent and expressive, performing a waltz to the lyrics of her speech. As she spoke, my eyes took in the immaculate french manicure, the sparkle of the diamond ring, the little brown birthmark on the back of her hand..And when she grasped the butter knife to cut off a teensy slice of cake, she flicked her little finger unconsciously, and I gaped at that artless charm..

When the knife began to slip from her fingers, I jerked into motion, reaching to grab the offensive article before it even hit the floor. Unfortunately my knee-jerk reaction had startled someone else - there was a resounding crash and clatter behind me, and the hot stream of tea running down my back and neck told me the rest of the tale. How was I to know that they were using me to prop up their tea-cups?! I looked up into her eyes and I saw, not the hero-worship I had imagined a second ago, but the horrified look my mother often gave me when I got home after P.T. period. Any time now, I would be hauled up to my feet and scrubbed clean, in front of everyone. Maybe they would even divest me of my sopping wet frock! I would be humiliated, naked, in front of Her!

That's when I saw them reaching for one of those old, coarse towels... and I made my decision: I would not be so ignominiously treated, not when she was watching, not if I could help it! And so it was that on an awkward afternoon when I was seven years old, I learned what dignity is, and how you can save yours by saying No. I picked myself off the floor, turned around and shot out of that room, adrenaline lending wings to my flight. My first rebellion was thrilling, even though it was only to duck for cover behind the big stiff-backed chair in the hot stuffy den.

I sat there, staring at the stain spread across my frock, and hoped that they wouldn't find me.

Emails from the Family

2011-01-24T10:26:00.001+05:30

Hi

I have nothing much to say -- the days are flying by and I'm scrambling for a foothold so that I can get started on research. But there are so many wonderful, distracting things -- like my new Android phone, like planning (yet another) trip to India, like taking care of a friend and checking up on another.

So today, instead, I'll share with you the amusing email I got from my Dad last week. Papa is thrilled with his brand new HTC Desire Z, a gift from yours truly. He's prone to eating up his words as he types and he's not completely got the hang of his snazzy phone ;p still, the incident he describes is an entertaining one.

From: Dad
To: Nani, Mom, Sis, Jiju, Masi, Bua1, Bua2, Me
Sent at 6:26 AM (GMT+05:30)

I could not wait till morning URGENT STOP PRESS.....2.00 AM

The Chandigarh Police had to Face an Aggressive Woman Driver.
A Thanedar hauled up Mother for being a Traffic Nuisance causing Traffic Jam at the Sector 17 Bus stand Roundabout.

Mother Driving and NANI were in Front seat and me pushed to the rear replied very meekly :
Dekho ji,
• Pahley to Yeh aram se peachey baith ke tamasha dekhtey hain jab sabh mujhe push mar raven they
•Yeh mujh say sabh time gari chalaney ko kaheyten hain
•phair who sabh garian jabardasti mar key mujhe kooney main push kiya
•Ab aap bhi sabh key sath shamil Ho gaye
Poor Traffic Cop replied feebly that he will not chalan Karo but wanted her to understand that she should stick to her lane and not cause terrific traffic jams.

Exhibit A: Punjab Policeman

Nine A.M.

2011-01-12T08:03:00.001+05:30

There is too much "writing" welling inside me and it needs an outlet..

But once again, I have neither pen nor paper, nor keyboard in sight. The tempo of music on my ipod surges and so do my spirits. It is morning and I am on my way to work. For the next half hour, nothing will faze me as I concentrate solely on my morning playlist... At an easy pace, I walk towards the bus stop and stare with unseeing eyes as the bus I am supposed to catch pulls away from the curb, just hundred metres from where I am. Like I said, nothing fazes me in the mornings and I like to stretch this half an hour to as long as possible.

Sometimes, I bump into acquaintances at the bus stop, not unnatural if you consider that I've been living here for over two years now. Rather, the strange part is how I don't have more friends in hostel. So I'm making casual conversation as my right hand fumbles for and then hits Pause on my ipod. And as I nod and smile, I'm mentally calculating the number of minutes more of conversation that I have to make before I make my escape by getting off at the first shuttle bus stop!

I'm a horrible, anti-social child. I'm in office now, sipping hot water and checking my email, my Twitter and Facebook feed. Sometimes there are "projects", people I'm curiously stalking because I like to know everyone's story. Ironic, then, that I'm so cagey about my own.

Maut, tu ek Kavita hai

2011-01-07T07:33:00.003+05:30

प्रात:काल का समय था | बहिन को स्टेशन छोढ्ना था, इसलिए मैं ६ बजे ही तैयार हो के बैठ गयी |

इत्तेफाक से मेरी स्कूल की सबसे अच्छी सहेली भी स्टेशन पर थी |

B: I guess it was meant to be!
Me: (smiles and hugs) Uh.. where are you going?
B: Where this train goes, where possibly you are going... what a dumb question is that?!
Me: Uh, ya right! How are you?
B: Bas fine. (looks at watch) I don't have a ticket... I'll have to bribe the TT today..
Me: Oh? You can do that?
B: Haha, we have a plan. My mother's at the other end of the train..
Me: Great, let me walk you to her. You know I bumped into A..
B: Haha, no shit!

.... (more inconsequential conversation)

समय के साथ साथ, हमारे रास्ते और मंजिलें एक दम अलग हो चुकी हैं,

इसलिए अब हम सिर्फ Facebook friends हैं |

उस से मिल के एक अजीब सी उदासी हुई |

फिर हम घने कोहरे में घर जा रहे थे |

पिताजी धीरे धीरे गाडी चला रहे थे | यूँ एकांत में चंडीगढ़ को देख कर मेरी उदासी और तीव्र हो गयी |

मूड बदलने के लिए, मैंने गाडी में लगे पुराने ज़माने के टेप रेकॉर्डर में कोई कसेट डाल दी |

और फिर अचानक, उस धुंद में, केवल हम थे और अमिताभ बच्चन की आवाज़...

Maut, tu ek Kavita hai

मौत, तू एक कविता है

मुझसे एक कविता का वादा है, मिलेगी मुझको

ज़र्द सा चेहरा लिए, चाँद उफाक तक पहुंचे

दिन अभी पानी में हो, रात किनारे के करीब

न अँधेरा, न उजाला हो

न अभी रात, न दिन

जिस्म जब ख़त्म हो,

और रूह को जब

सांस आये

मुझसे एक कविता का वादा है, मिलेगी मुझको |

Speaking from the Heart

2010-12-08T08:06:00.013+05:30

So this is why I am superficial to most other people --

For some time now, the boy has complained
Of the shroud with which I cloak my words
The crinkly laugh to hide my eyes
And the sugar-sweetness disguising lies

He grumbles at my formal air
The multiple apologies and small talk
Pretentious handshakes, the polite nods
The way I give attention to garrulous sods.

He's the king of his jungle, I do appreciate
That my party tricks will hold no charm
For one whose discontented puns
Often send big boys running to their mums

My obsequious ways will not flatter
The king of snooze and pizza gourmand
He's the one whose super-naughty quips
Have often launched a thousand ships

even aeroplanes; I beg pardon, though
And request that I may present my case:
It's not easy for a rabbit in a foreign knoll
Where poisonous mushrooms could take their toll

Anytime, and spiders with murderous intent
Wait stealthily on tuffets for hapless girls
Or flatter naive houseflies about their pretty face
I tell you, the jungle is a dangerous place!

Much easier to be Maurice to your King Julian
To offer cups of tea and a willing ear
To smoothen rumpled egos and pour sunflower oil
Well before turbid tempers begin to boil

You growl, yet it cannot be helped
I won't drop my guard; I'm prepared in case
You fancy a toss with your favourite toy
Then I can take the battering as strong as any boy.

Until then, oh masochistic me
I'll wait for the reverse to happen instead
I'll imagine how the jungle king
Will strum a mandolin and sing

To his love in the moonlight. Ha! you see,
My thoughts are better left unsaid
They're gentle amusement for a king's page
But I prefer to leave them off the stage.

Choice, and the Lack Thereof

2010-11-19T21:52:00.002+05:30

I don't think I properly understood the power vested in the freedom of choice, until it was taken away from me.
For the past week, I have been subjected to the well-intended hospitality of the Taiwanese people. On the face of things, they are such a gentle race that I have repeatedly been persuaded into revising my opinion of them.

So I will grudgingly admit that they are a gentle, hospitable people -- but I do seem to bring out the very worst in them! Except for meals in which I point at something behind a glass pane and nod my head emphatically, every other thing I try to convey has been misconstrued and misinterpreted into something more agreeable to their ears and tongue. So what looked to me like "fried chicken on noodle" became "beef noodle soup". What seemed to me to be a worthless used ticket stub became (for them) an issue worthy of detaining and questioning a passenger. What appeared to me to be a "motorola milestone xt" became a "motorola milestone". what looked to me like a "refundable deposit" became an infrangible transaction. And when a whole departmental store gathered around me to tut and hiss at my unbecoming Indian ways, what looked to them like a tourist's travesty quickly became my public humiliation.

See I've tried to like this country and its friendly people. I spent a couple of hours in a McDonald's toilet today, trying to get over my actual red-blooded response. And when the guy at 7-11 saw my bloodshot eyes, he conveyed his sympathy in the only way he could -- by saying "Thank you" instead of "XieXien". (Yes, that's a huge concession.) When the lady at the ticketing turnstile finally let me go past, she patted my back but I was too much in shock for that to register as compassion. And if nothing else, they all nod and smile. They're good people. But since they haven't required/chosen another language after Chinese, they probably don't understand how significant these choices could be.

Now Papa says he's okay with an un-suffixed milestone. But I've decided that what we want is a precious thing indeed. And we should aspire for it, and grab it if we can, and hold it close and feel a quickened heartbeat. And that is what it means to be alive. And since I am still in shock, that might be why this post ends on a ridiculous ponderous note.

The Story isn't Over Yet

2010-11-13T09:05:00.001+05:30

Shiny: hehehe

12:44 AM yar will we ever stroll between ur house n mine and whistle like we once did?

Kokil: ...we will have to make new memories aur kya :)
She doesn't know, but main bhi senti ho gayi. Tough times are ahead for her...I'll be sure to be right there by her side.

Opposite Day

2010-11-09T20:02:00.002+05:30

I'm in no home to go mood

And chair in a sit, cake an unpack

Best my wear smile and outfit

And finger my runs tousled hair my through

I'm in no home to go mood

Set timer the on camera

Sure make the me is on focus

And candle that midnight at light

I'll press play and run to take my place

Smiling brightly, talking animatedly

Trailing off in the middle of the third sentence

Because my ears don't believe me, and no one else is listening.

I'm in no mood to go home

Because that charade doesn't make sense anymore

There is no one there who makes it home

There is nothing there I can't live without.

Birthdays are special.

I will sit here in office and talk to myself,

Turn up that music, encourage that first step,

Push myself out the door

I'm in no mood to go home

But the first step is nearly halfway there

The script sorts itself out and is easier to follow now

Birthdays are special.

I know what to do next.

I will sit in a chair, unpack a cake

Wear my best smile and outfit

And run my fingers through my tousled hair.

I will clear my throat.

Set the camera on timer

Make sure the focus is on me

And light that candle at midnight.

A response to Langston Hughes

2010-11-08T17:33:00.005+05:30

Original poem, by Langston Hughes:

Bouquet

Gather quickly
Out of darkness
All the songs you know
And throw them at the sun
Before they melt
Like snow

Response, by Me:

Brickbat

Frequently
I gather quickly
Out of Faith
All the songs I know
And throw them at Despair
Before I combust
Like phosphorous

...But I guess that does not as pretty a rhyme make :)

She's a Lady

2010-11-08T15:19:00.003+05:30

She's a lady
But her hair are tangled
There's mud and grit under her nails
Her knees are grubby, as if
She'd knelt by the window
And hated the world for going past.

She's a lady
But her sweater's snagged at the elbow
There are crumbs on the bed
The plants are drooping
Her tongue is stained orange, from
The ice-candy she didn't share.

But, because she's a lady,
She'll wipe off the smudges
Straighten the pages
Throw back the curtains
Powder the cheeks, and step out.

No one's the wiser.

Project: Day 1

2010-11-04T20:58:00.004+05:30

"A recent picture of you and 15 interesting facts about yourself"

That's an old picture of me; I must have been five or six!

And here's not fifteen but twenty-five things about me that you didn't know :D

1. I am a klutz. Anything that can be possibly bumped into, spilled or knocked over, has been jostled, spilled or dropped by me. The list includes everything from paperweights and cellphones to pillars and walls :-/
2. I usually remember what I dream about at night and can recall them years later. My dreams have the uncanny knack of coming true.
3. I have had a crow, 3 chicks (as in, the baby chickens), rabbits, pigeons, doves, dogs, cats and parrots as pets during my childhood. After they died, we ate em. No, just kidding about the last bit.
4. I am bad at hiding my feelings-- my face tells all.
5. My scariest injury was when I impaled myself with a geometry compass, luckily I have a bad aim and it didn't go into my eye. Not kidding.
6. I throw like a girl. But I have sharp elbows.
7. I'm a sucker for guilt trips. That's a sure way of getting to me.
8. I still dream about my dog, who disappeared soon after I left Chandigarh. The last such dream was two nights ago and I was staring deep into his eyes :P
9. About once a month, I get into a letter-writing frenzy; when it wears off, there are always exactly two people I have yet to post letters/postcards to, and I never get around to it :( sorry Akanksha (both of u :( )!
10. I giggle/ break into a smile at the most inopportune moments, it gets worse if the situation is dreadfully serious. :-3
11. I would do possibly anything for love or friendship.
12. I am terrible at arguments; I win them by walking out before I am countered :P
13. I end up in tears after really funny and really sad movies both :P
14. I screw up any computer I try to fix! The last such incident happened a week ago.
16. I have cycled at all times of the day or night.
17. I have authored/co-authored two books.
18. I have missed my school bus twice, deliberately, in order to make life slightly more interesting by getting a ride home with mom an hour later :P Okay, not so exciting after all.
19. My first crush was Shashi Kapoor. 1980's Bollywood hero, for those who don't know.
20. I instinctively distrust cute strangers.
21. I avoid reading fiction because I end up thinking/behaving like the protagonist. After my last book, I was trying to read minds. Prior to that, I was a policewoman.
22. My sister has "educated" me through a scandalous series of lectures throughout my childhood.
23. I am a lot like my parents and I'm secretly proud of it.
24. I love spending time alone, except for on Saturday mornings.
25. I have written each point in this list whilst cringing at giving so much info away :P

Oo-Oo, Project!

2010-10-30T13:31:00.000+05:30

It's called the thirty-day project and I found it while reading another blog; I will not tell you which blog because that girl plagiarizes on twitter. There are rarely any tweets which I google and find she has come up with herself. And so, I will not give her credit for this idea!

Apparently this is all over "blogosphere", which I must confess I consider a very stupid term, much like "cyberspace" or "netizens", heh. And even though I am never out of things to say, I think I'll try this out with an interesting twist on every post. Postings will necessarily be on alternate days to give me time (to breathe!) to write on my other, Jurong-Bird blog.

I encourage people to do this with me :) I promise each post will be interesting..see ya Monday then!

Day 01 - A recent picture of you and 15 interesting facts about yourself.
Day 02 - The meaning behind your blog name.
Day 03 - A picture of you and your friends.
Day 04 - A habit that you wish you didn't have?
Day 05 - A picture of somewhere you’ve been to.
Day 06 - Favorite super hero and why?
Day 07 - A picture of someone/something that has the biggest impact on you.
Day 08 - Short term goals for this month and why?
Day 09 - Something you’re proud of in the past few days.
Day 10 - Songs you listen to when you are Happy, Sad, Bored, Hyped, Mad.
Day 11 - Another picture of you and your friends.
Day 12 - How you found out about Tumblr and why you made one?
Day 13 - A letter to someone who has hurt you recently.
Day 14 - A picture of you and your family.
Day 15 - Put your iPod on shuffle: First 10 songs that play?
Day 16 - Another picture of yourself.
Day 17 - Someone you would want to switch lives with for one day and why?
Day 18 - Plans/dreams/goals you have?
Day 19 - Nicknames you have; why do you have them?
Day 20 - Someone you see yourself marrying/being with in the future?
Day 21 - A picture of something that makes you happy.
Day 22 - What makes you different from everyone else?
Day 23 - Something you crave for a lot?
Day 24 - A letter to your parents?
Day 25- What I would find in your bag?
Day 26 - What you think about you are your friends?
Day 27 - Why are you doing this 30 day challenge?
Day 28 - A picture of you last year and now, how have you changed since then?
Day 29 - In this past month, what have you learned?
Day 30 - Who are you?

The Bitter Fourth

2010-10-26T11:54:00.001+05:30

Post dedicated to Daddy Dearest, who is fasting for his best friend today.
His best friend is terminally ill...

(coming soon)

Thank you Taxi No. 5916

2010-10-26T10:27:00.003+05:30

There is much explaining to be done, and it will happen here post-mastication.

Cheers, burrah

and there are still honest souls in the world, so everyone can sleep easy tonight.

Update: This email belongs in this story.

Happy Birthday Nani!

2010-10-19T07:03:00.002+05:30

Happy Birthday to the coolest grandmom
Her achievements in the past two years include -

Learning to operate the computer
Learning to read and write in urdu
Learning to operate an email account
Revising the Bhagwad Gita

I think she's doing sufficiently well on all fronts,

since I recently accepted her friend request on Facebook, and since she told me she is translating Nana's Urdu poems to Hindi over an email conversation we've maintained in the past few months. :)

My nani turns a cool seventy-something today. I hope someday I am as cool as her.

And I will not even tell you about her girl-scouting, mountaineering and international-backpacking-with-ten-rupees experiences because that will make you feel embarrassed at your own "mere existence" :P not to say that maine khud bade teer maar liye...

My Convocation, 2008 - Little Did I Know

2010-10-15T09:09:00.004+05:30

My convocation was on 11 October 2008.

It was a very memorable day because

My sister had just gotten married and it hadn't properly sunk in.
A lot of people were in town for the convocation so I got to shake hands with a lot of acquaintances and hug a lot of friends.
I was in Chandigarh, and little did I know that it would be the second-last time I would get to drive my car.
I bonded with the new Ed Board, even wore Meha's clothes for my convocation. Little did I know that it would be two years (or more, depending on whether she's around in December) before I met her again.
Biksi broke the news of being happily-settled, at the ramp. Gawking classmates walked past us.
Ghai screwed with Rodi-Mayank's head with CAT advice. Hmm, little did they know!
The birthday lunch at the absentee's home, not-so-awesome since I was quite uncomfortable. Little did I know that it would be years before I'd be with the whole gang (minus sorely-missed-Sucheet&Silvia) again.
I bawled on Akanksha's shoulder on the PECmarket road, hehe, and word got around.
DD and Mayank and other Mechanchis hung around, and pulled a cute stunt which made someone's day, far far away :)
I changed clothes at Verka. The above-mentioned were guarding the car.
I left Chandigarh half an hour after the convocation ended. My brain was buzzing with confusion and nostalgia..
Hehe, I almost took someone else's degree to Singapore :D Had forgotten this one until the aggrieved party reminded me :P
Reached Delhi later that night and took/tore off my mauli. Little did I know that it would be many, many years until I wore a mauli again. In fact, I haven't worn one yet since 11 October 2008..
Regrets - too many to count. Starting with why the hell did I go to that birthday lunch, going on to why the hell didn't I click pictures at the Steam Engine and other awesome places, and settling down uncomfortably at why didn't I be with, and click pictures with the very important people of the day? :-/
Guess I'm so lucky that I am in the handful of pictures that other people clicked, though my frazzled expression in most of them leaves a lot to be hoped for..This is a good one which Arsh uploaded :)

More Traveling

2010-10-14T09:24:00.000+05:30

Life is my Gmail "travel" folder
Life is the ticket printout on the wall of my cubicle
Life is emails from travel websites
Life is about having a phobia of maps because I'll inevitably get lost
Life is about strange-tasting food, in strange-sounding districts of strange-sounding places
Life is about a currency I don't have the forex rate for
Life is captured in a really good camera.

The Hunt for the Perfect Gift

2010-10-12T07:50:00.013+05:30

For days,
I have stared at the calendar
marking off the days leading to your special moment -
calculating the hours left, and the time I have
to come up with a gift worthy of you.

Baffled,
I have pored through colourful maps,
measuring the distance from Mahim to Malabar -
Squinting hard at a small LCD screen
with hopes for clarity and a brainwave.

Unfazed,
I have then turned to other worlds,
browsing through wish-lists on Amazon -
alluring promises which beguile me,
but they don't provide what I am looking for!

Slowly,
I have lodged a prospect in my head, gleaned from
reading instructions on Wikihow -
planting the seed of an idea so glorious
that my heart beats fast, my fingers reach for my credit card.

Enthused,
I have bookmarked several pages thus,
chasing other avenues, open to suggestion -
allowing myself time to sleep on it
that I may evaluate its magical merit with cold reasoning.

Later,
I revisited my options,
smiling at my own naiveté -
dazzling preposterousness!
with relief, too, at my caution and self-restraint.

Alas!
The day has arrived, and I have no ideas left;
humbled, I'll come as I am, armed with just a hug -
tired after skirmishing with countless ideas
and bearing no magic potion to make it a perfect day.

What ho!
You have then watched my surprise, the
sparkling, rounded eyes, the ever-
widening grin of incredulous rapture
when I found that I'd gotten it right, after all.

Reason #2: Teenaged Sleuthing

2010-10-08T18:42:00.005+05:30

The summer vacation of jogging was quickly superceded by a half-dozen years of cycling. It all probably started innocently enough, a casual glance at a group of boys who were sauntering home after their early morning walk, but of course we didn't giggle or point because we were still unprecocious and quite unspoilt. Well, a couple of months later, I decided to have a crush on one of them, so we used our aimless cycling efforts to track down their neighbourhood and then tried to jog our way into their interest. *cough*. But I feel like talking about the ridiculous amount of cycling I did as a teenager, so I'll focus on that.

The summer vacation of running was soon to end and Shiny and I were bored with the daily routine -- well okay, Shiny was tired of it and I was only relieved that she'd finally seen the light. So we decided to fire our coach, i.e. Shiny's brother, and to try cycling as a more effective and interesting way to lose weight. I ditched my sweatpants and wore shorts instead, feeling happier and more comfortable to be breezing through that terrible one-kilometre stretch which I'd huffed and panted through in the bad old days. This would be May of 2000, when even though the days were wretchedly hot, the early morning air still felt pleasantly cool when it hit our hot, flushed faces as we raced down empty streets in neighbouring sectors.

During all that aimless pedaling and staring up people's driveways, we'd sometimes try out new bicycle stunts or play hide and seek to keep things exciting. So I learned to drive standing up, sitting on my cycle's carrier, without hands... it all sounds pretty blase now but back then, every morning brought with it the potential of perfecting a new trick. There was "the skid" we never got right though, and the cycling backwards that we never really tried. The naughty boys in our neighbourhood used to cycle upto neighbour's front gates, ring their doorbell and then race away, but we being good girls didn't dream of harassing people at 6 or 7 am.

And when we decided to have an agenda, the first item on it was to find out where a particular boy on our schoolbus lived. He'd become quite a nuisance in the evenings because he'd shoot past us on his two-wheeler, honking and swerving and scaring the life out of Boot and Cindy. Of course, the attention was flattering, but somehow it seemed only logical to both of us that we, too, must track down his house somehow. That was a difficult challenge; it took us several weeks to narrow our search down to one sector from three! By the time we found his driveway of all the thousands of driveways we had pedaled past, we felt sufficiently confident not just about the layout and little inroads of the three neighbouring sectors, but also of the morning routines of the newspaper boys, the dog-walkers and the hefty aunties who hit the tarmac running.

Our pedal-pushing often took us back to Nirjhar Vatika and we'd see familiar faces who'd witnessed our limping laps during the bad old days. It was here that we finalized the next item on our agenda, i.e., to find out where the cute joggers of Vatika lived, our scouring had a purpose and every morning became a treasure hunt rather than a mindless meander. (I hope you won't judge me because of this post.) We were barely in our teens and it was quite exciting to play sleuths and make up a mystery to solve. Of course, I haven't lost that habit till date ;p

There was a time after that I'd rather forget, when Shiny outgrew these morning cycling expeditions and would stay indoors to sleep, when I ran out of things to do during the day so I'd cycle all alone for more hours than was normal, when the summer turned into a cloudy monsoon and it wasn't always possible to go out in the mornings, and finally when the winter unrolled its swirling fog and it wouldn't be daylight until 8 am. But that part was fun in a different way, it prepared me for all the solitary cycling on the road ahead. Blah-blah-blah. senti-senti-senti. I'm just so glad I finally grabbed this slippery memory and traced it out on paper :)

Dear John

2010-10-06T06:53:00.005+05:30

The best part of this movie:

Jogging

2010-10-05T07:08:00.003+05:30

Last night, I went jogging for a brand new reason.
Let me explain why that is significant, by talking of older reasons. Today I'll tell you Reason #1...

Reason #1: Because Shiny went Jogging
When I was thirteen, I used to go jogging with Shiny and her big brother in our summer vacation. Shiny and I were both chubby and we'd stopped going for our regular gymnastics exercises. Her brother is a fitness freak and used to go jogging every morning, and follow it up with a hundred pushups and weight training. Or atleast, that's what it sounded like! He poked fun at Shiny until she huffily decided she would be fit like him by going for a morning jog with him every morning. Shiny and I were inseparable (until board exams did us apart), so obviously I tagged along as well! :P In hindsight, I remember tagging along with every activity Shiny did with her folks, be it the customary fish dinner on Wednesdays, the routine vaccinations for Cindy or the mundane shopping for groceries. We gave "long goodbyes" a whole new reason - so we'd keep walking up and down between our houses because we were unable to decide who got to see off whom! I will not say more here because I am feeling extremely sentimental and nostalgic.

There is a long, straight stretch of road near my home, it's a wide road that leads from the main market of Sector 7 Panchkula to the 7-8 dividing and the 7-17 dividing roads. Our run would start there. We'd run until we reached a particular target - usually the roundabout, where we'd do stretching exercises and squats. Then we'd run uptil Nirjhar Vatika and do more exercises. On the way back, we were allowed to dawdle while her brother ran full steam ahead.

Shiny was awesome at this. I'll claim that I don't have stamina for jogging because I'm more of a "sprinter" :P I'd run out of breath in the first three hundred metres, and out of will in the next fifty. With my eyes squeezed tight and my lungs bursting in protest, I'd push myself through the second half of the kilometre; all the time I'd watch Shiny out of the corner of my eye and wonder why she wasn't feeling the torture. My brain shouted motivation all the time and I tried to fixate on my target and power through... but it felt like I was jogging on the spot, the roundabout was ever-distant and unattainable. I'm not sure I ever ran the whole kilometre to the roundabout! There was a road barricade about a hundred metres from it; I remember collapsing against it every time and noisily sucking in the air that my lungs demanded. Through misty eyes, I'd watch Shiny complete her run perfectly poised and proceed with the exercises that her brother directed; red-faced, I'd follow suit in a few minutes.

Angsty Topic of the Day: Strawberry Shortcake

2010-09-30T07:56:00.001+05:30

I visited Fairprice yesterday because I was trying to find the best way to spend my 30-dollar voucher! I think so far my top preference is for a summer tent :D Any suggestions? They sell everything, so you can recommend everything from face cream to potted plants. Saw a notice up by counter 11 which said that "At Fairprice, we take care of our customers, but we take care of our staff too!"
Hmm...my stomach did a guilty twist on reading that... I remembered an embarrassing incident a few months back when I'd been guilty of being a misbehaving customer :-s
(I bet I wasn't ranting online enough then too :P) Lesson learned, move along now.

But really, a summer tent does catch my fancy. In our first month in Singapore, the gang of us went camping to Pulao Ubin with a gang of pesky undergraduates (whom we didn't know) who kept squealing and chanting rhymes all night long. That was the first time I realized that I'm really truly old!

As I was browsing the aisles, I came across this horrifying new avatar of Strawberry Shortcake:

You can see how she compares to the older, cuddlier version :O
Made me angry enough to punch the proprietary company in the face, it did. And it felt extra nice when I found that someone shared my angst and saved me the trouble of repeating their words.
I'd call it "Oversexualizing our Children" too!

Whew

2010-09-28T10:51:00.003+05:30

I feel so much better. Ever since I found out that my ex-roommate stalks me (!!) through my blogs, it's been difficult to pen down my feelings. Fortunately, she's a large-hearted girl, even luckier for me is that I'd never cribbed about her here. But now she enjoys quoting my blogposts to me in our evening meetups...I blush and try to change the topic. I lumped it for a while, I told myself that it would be okay :) But I think it's not working out so well. I've been uncomfortable, feeling quite like the drenched girl in a busload of business suits, with people coldly eyeing me up and down and pitying my lack of grace.

Today, when I was standing at a pizza counter impatiently waiting for my order, I felt my sweat glands activate with sheer irritation at the lady behind the counter, who in her High Shoddiness had somehow managed to forget that I'd ordered. I wanted to tell someone, but Twitter is superficial, and my blog now has stalkers who would only be too pleased to know of things I don't talk about when I meet them everyday.

Pressure, pressure. I've tried to remember the non-threatening regulars and invite them all. But again, there's no pressure, pressure. Maybe I like you best because you let me be.

I feel quite inspired by Suchreet's 1post1day challenge. Now in my secret, walled garden, I may just do that myself :D

P.S. Most of you have asked me atleast once about whether my roommates are bloggers/facebookers. I guess karma had to catch up with me :D

The Rulebook

2010-09-15T10:34:00.006+05:30

There is a book of rules which no one shares with me. I've tried asking for it nicely. I've tried to earn it with good behaviour. And I've often lost patience, thrown a tantrum and demanded to see it immediately.
Nothing's worked.

The easiest way to get under my skin, is to dangle a secret in front of me. And now I'm at my wit's end, cudgeling my brains for a new strategy. I've given up hoping that I can wrangle it with more pleading or convincing. As far as I see it, the only way to know it, is to ask people who have read it.

So I talk to everyone I meet. I ask them searching questions, leading questions, innocuous questions. And when I find an answer I need, I try not to show my excitement. It's taken some false starts to deduce that people respond to empathy, not interest.

Hazarding guesses and interpolating experiences has only taken me so far. I'm tired now, and my quest continues. Sometimes, I'm once again seized with the ambition to go after the prize; when a crafty stranger hints at where they keep it, I have to restrain myself. I have to remind myself that not all I hear is true, and this is likely to be another trap. Because, it's taken a few false starts to deduce that people respond to interest, not rivalry.

I'm tired now, and there are only so many people who understand what I'm looking for. I have a diary full of diagrams and maps that I've drawn based on the fading memories of the few who cared to share. Each of them takes me in a different direction. Everytime, my steps lead me back to my big white wall.

The blank wall was once my enemy. Often, I've hurled myself against it, hoping that it'd give way. Sometimes I'd try to climb over it. Or I'd call out loudly, hoping someone on the other side would hear my plea. Many's the tear I've wasted crying over the unfeeling expanse of brick-and-mortar. And everytime, I've only felt foolish for my own softness.

But I can't say I haven't learned. The blank wall is my friend now. It's become my horizon; it tells me how close I am to the boundaries of truth. So I walk along the wall now, with one hand outstretched, and the cool white against my palm reassures me that my problems are tangible, within my grasp.

On some days, I'm brave enough to turn my back on the wall and explore life around me. On these days, I see the world in heightened technicolour. The trees too have a story to share; they bear the traces of the knowledge I seek. They sigh, they sway and lean closer, but never speak. Winning over people is plausible, but like I said, it's all a game of shadows. I try never to speak of where I came from. It's taken a few false starts, but I've finally deduced that people respond to love, not empathy.

And when my need for conversation is satiated, I turn around and head back to my secret sorrow. If it gets too dark and I cannot see the horizon I search for, I walk with my hand outstretched, until it closes against the cool white again. I lean my forehead against the wall, my feelings a confusing mixture of relief, at the homecoming, and depair, because the wall is never gone, it never budges an inch.

Dedicated to Exotica. Happy Birthday!

2010-08-04T19:57:00.001+05:30

A Psychological Tip

Whenever you're called on to make up your mind,
and you're hampered by not having any,
the best way to solve the dilemma, you'll find,
is simply by spinning a penny.

No - not so that chance shall decide the affair
while you're passively standing there moping;
but the moment the penny is up in the air,
you suddenly know what you're hoping

-- Piet Hein

Book Reviews

2010-08-04T07:24:00.001+05:30

I'm sorry, Blog, I've been an irresponsible mommy. I've also been busy with fever, moodswings and other byproducts of July...
The only thing that's kept me going has been the little hill of books I've devoured in the past weeks. They were excellent company through slow days, temperatured days, worrisome days and bored nights as well. So I thought I'd post a book review or two instead of leaving my blog neglected and lonesome! Yay!
(Sorry for the awful formatting...there was some trouble with that!)
So we begin with...

The Interpreter of Maladies

by Jhumpa Lahiri

Ms Lahiri keenly understands the psyche of an Indian mind.
I like the fact that the stories are understated, and

how most of the narration is through the musings of the protagonist.

Agatha Christie's Detectives: Five Complete Novels

By Agatha Christie

I enjoyed reading this book. I'd forgotten how much fun it is

to stop in the middle of an Agatha Christie and

think deeply about the potential murderers,

or even the potential murder victim!

Dead Man's Folly was interesting in that sense,

because one wasn't sure who was going to kick the bucket

until it was already too late ;) A refreshing puzzle

to come back to after a day's work.

Highly recommended for those of you in the doldrums.

The Best of Isaac Asimov

By Isaac Asimov

I'm currently reading this one. What a thrilling book.

I wish I'd read this growing up. It's a series of

facinating thought experiments which make you wonder

how different life could've been. Because the characters are all

chip-in-the-shoulder humans, what you have is an utterly

believable account of panicked people in a

fantastic situation. I can't wait to get back to it tonight :)

By Your Leave

2010-07-01T21:28:00.007+05:30

Shall I slip on my sandals

And put back my chair

Return our mugs to the kitchen

And settle my hair

Shall I pick up my keys

The strayed books and notes

My pink pocket hairbrush

And the handy white tote

I'll check if the postman

Brought us letters today

This place still bears my address,

Even though I moved away

And for one desperate second

I'll want to stay back so much

And pretend I didn't see you

Steal a glance at your watch

We lean in the doorway

Finishing each other's remark

A pause, as if to remember

This closeness in the gathering dark

The goodbye itself was brief

Now I'm well on my way

All I said was, "Take care

And Happy New Years' Day."

Bhai

2010-05-27T23:00:00.002+05:30

I don't write about my Bro because I am afraid, probably, of sounding like a hypocrite.

I have never seen a smile as radiant and wonderful as his, and just thinking about it tears me up inside.

Throb;

2010-05-24T12:01:00.010+05:30

The middle finger of my right hand is swathed in a thick cushion of cottonwool and fastened with a rubber band, twisted once over, to make it a snug bandage.

I got a superficial-looking cut along one edge of my fingernail on Saturday. This freak accident was quickly followed by two others, wherein I burned the four fingers of the same hand while absent-mindedly picking up a hot plate, and badly bruised it while pulling a door closed.

The cut is swollen and sore because I "accidentally" got acetone all over it. Obviously that was a bad idea. And since Saturday I've been feeling like a nimble, nine-fingered ninja as my index- and ring- fingers hasten to cover for their mummifed friend, who hovers uncertainly a fraction of an inch away from the keyboard like an awkward gentleman at a dance. The "white dressing" probably helps promote that thought ;)

The rubber-band is quite tight and I can feel the beat of my pulse in the fingertip.

My finger throbs; it's still still achy and sore with all the mistreatment but quite relieved with its cottony, betadine-y igloo. On my part, I love the little throb of pain. It reminds me of so many other wounds and bandages worn proudly like medals. It reminds me of the pink tiles in the bathroom of our old house, where the faint odour of Ponds talcum powder hung perpetually in the air. Mom would prepare some Dettol solution in the salmon-coloured mug and blow gently on my wound as she cleaned it. I got older but I didn't lose my propensity for injuries.

My last good-sized wound was back in undergrad days, from falling off my cycle on an empty, straight road as a result of veering too close to my co-rider :D we fell with mighty crashes, entangled in our respective bicycles, too anxious about the damage we might have caused to the other to check or count our own bones and teeth. Then it was to the college dispensary where I took myself for bandaging. Everytime I went there for a fresh dressing, the petite lady attendant would be quite horrified at my pus-filled abrasions and cheeky grins :P Ah, good times!

The throb is dying out as I type this, so with a touch of masochism I'll pinch the wound, gently. I'll tell myself that it's to make sure that the cotton isn't slipping out from underneath the elastic. But the twinges of pain arise anew and my mind regales itself with old tales. Nostalgia is a little like masochism, isn't it?

A Munchy Mother's Day :) -- from Hippo

2010-05-16T10:10:00.006+05:30

Here's what my mom got in the mail, this Mother's Day!

Hippo, the brand of baked munchies launched by Parle Agro India (The largest selling biscuits in the world, imagine that!), is more familiar to me as my friend HellomeHippo on Twitter, the cute and cuddly Hippo who earnestly believes that hunger-fighting would alleviate all the problems that silly grown-ups fight about. Hippo has a little army of his own-- sworn faithfuls who take up cudgels (and spoons) for this noble cause. I'm proud to say that I'm a believer too! Hippo loves us for our loyalty and made good on a promise to reward me for believing in him too :)

My mummy is a professor who teaches naughty postgraduate kids. I'll bet they make her really angry and hungry when she's marking papers. So on 9th May this year, my considerate friend Hippo sent my Mommy a hamper of 10 Hippo packs so that when "my mummy so hungry", she'd munch on something tasty and healthy, instead of her usual meal of red ball-point pens ;)

Mum is thrilled to find yet another animal to join the menagerie we have at home of pet animals and stray friends! She says,

"Hippo [...] sent me a gift hamper of 10
Hippo Wafer packets on Mother's day.
I think Hippo is cho chweet.
Shd I adopt him too?"

Thanks Hippo!! Mummy happy, so Koko happy! :)

She'll be munching down the mountain when she comes...

Before I Fall Asleep

2010-05-14T22:56:00.002+05:30

Sleep creeps into my eyelids. I blink slowly and breathe deeply. My brain's slowed down. My fingers are unsteady and I'm not quite sure of the rhythm they're beating on the keyboard. A part of my brain is aware of the rain pattering outside, but the sound is muffled by the cooing, soothing melodies in my ears.

I inhale deeply. It's the time for make-believe. I feel familiar eyes on me, gazing intently. It's not hard to imagine a random, unhurried conversation about the day. I nuzzle the paw of the huge teddy-bear before laying my head against it; in my arms I grab my yellow Garfield and hug it tightly.

My ears strain to catch sound of faint murmuring; the fancied conversation lingers. I breathe...surrender first to the darkness when I close my eyes. Then to the silence when the murmuring fades away. Then I surrender to sleep when I let it wipe away my half-formed thoughts.

I wake up still curled around my Garfield, asleep at the foot of my teddy-bear. I never surrender to solitude.

Experiment :)

2010-05-10T13:55:00.002+05:30

I've invited somebody to blog here with me.

Let's hope that we find a guest post here, one of these days! :D

My Forgotten Poems

2010-04-28T17:03:00.005+05:30

Dedicated to all the poems I have written over the years
Then given away, without bothering to keep a copy
Willing a catharsis and forgiving myself the selfishness
Of letting things go.

all the scattered letters
at the bottom of drawers
all the lines of verse
in cursive scrawls
on yellowing sheets of paper
now quite dismembered
mostly forgotten
involuntarily begotten.

pages of poetry gathering dust
chronicling moments rather left to rust
lyrical words, now a vacant shell, abandoned
By feelings rather left unexamined

when will you throw them away?

Machinarium

2010-04-20T08:55:00.005+05:30

I just finished playing a game called Machinarium. It's an adorable video-game about a brave little robot out to save the world. His vehicle of choice could be an oil tanker, a toilet paper trail or a nifty mine trolley, amongst others.

Anyone would think that the poor boy, err, android, is jinxed. He's suffering a long-term trauma from by his childhood bullies. You should see his gasp when he catches sight of them, there's an audible "HUH!". They've got his girl (robot) locked up in a kitchen, cooking a grand feast for them while they sit in a dingy tavern and play poker. The clock is ticking away and it's five minutes to go before his little world explodes in smithereens. There's the world waiting to be saved; yet in idle moments he starts daydreaming about picking flowers in the park or skinny dipping with his girl (robot). What I love most about him. Is the way he'd crawl through drains and hide under tables, save lost puppydogs and electrocute naughty kittens, earn money and fix broken dolls, all in a day's work.

There was no challenge too daunting for him, and no deed to ridiculous for him. We don't deal with a world half as crazy as that, yet we keep grumbling about when it'll stop raining trouble already! I wish, though, that I could walk around with my tummy rattling with a hive of flies or sunflower seeds, ready to fling at someone and run for my life if I needed to!

In the happy ending, robot boy and robot girl fly off into the sunset. My most favourite scene remains the live band performance by a 3-piece orchestra comprising a saxophone, a didgeridoo and drums. Little robot boy moved his cute robot butt and really got his freak on.

Cheers to new adventures and grand toilet-paper entrances!

Portals

2010-04-17T23:35:00.012+05:30

I've decided to write something from my old diary here. This is the diary I kept when I was trying to get through my first few weeks in Singapore. It was when my life still hung around phonecalls to India. My new roommates seemed like a strange lot of people who had nothing in common with me-- not music, not clothes, not food, not even language. That was when it really hit me that Punjabis are quite a race in themselves!

Well, back then, my diary was my friend. I would have a new adventure everyday and would hasten home to write about it. (Sometimes I mentioned my dreams, in which I'd be revisiting my childhood haunts and meeting long lost friends...that's a trend which has stuck over the past two years) It is hardbound in red cloth and there's a crest embossed on its cover.

..And there's one page torn out, dated January 9. Of course, that's a story in itself, but we don't need to go into that today!

What a coincidence that I should find a post on "Portals", after playing Portal (the video game) for numerous hours consecutively. Here it is..short and sweet.

I met you today. Six feet tall, with a handsome frame. I can't shrug you off with my usual excuses. You're incorrigibly persistent; it's only minutes before we find a comfortable way to link arms and walk together. It seems like I've finally found the pair of feet that can match mine at every step; we bump shoulders as we walk but neither of us mind.

It was our first meeting, yet we stood nose-to-nose in the bus. I looked up into my reflection; I knew I could hide from all eyes but these. I leaned in and wrapped my arms around you, my solace. No one in the bus spared us a second look. Either way, I wouldn't have cared much. It had been a very long time since I'd leaned on something. And now I was seeing a familiar face, the only face I didn't need to dream about to remember. It felt oddly like deja vu. It was our first meeting, yet I looked at you and I saw myself. We would have no secrets from each other.

I bought something today. Six feet high, with a handsome wooden frame. A mirror. Handy company for a trip into the city.

Lame, maybe? Either ways, it's bedtime for naughty children.

Why I Freak Out & Kafka on the Shore

2010-03-29T16:31:00.004+05:30

I'm thinking of someone as I write this post and I'm imagining how he's going to nod and chuckle when he sees that I've written about the one thing I've done to him over and over again in the span of our close friendship: FREAK OUT ON HIM.

Essentially, a person's emotional resilience is mostly constituted of the factors that put her together. Like the number of birthday parties she threw as a child, or the number of gold stars up against her name on the merit-demerit chart in school. Fundamentally, there are also some things she can't escape-- like the nature of her parents which she couldn't help, which becomes a part of her habit as a result of everyday conditioning and maybe a mysterious working of her genes.

So a child can only go so far before her faith is questioned and her beliefs are put up for RFCs. The ideologies that she's stridently clung to over the years have to be tested against the weightier, mightier push of reality and sullied with the grime from street-smart commonsense, before they can be considered as all-weather attire.

Some little girls pass the test, their armour holds strong against bad weather and their big bright parasols can withstand the gustiest of storms. On the other hand, other little girls make the best of the sunshine, frolic in gardens on warm sunny days. When it rains, they creep indoors and snuggle up with a good book and some shining memories. They can't handle the drama and they'd rather not get their pretty dress all wet. Not again, please.

It's absolutely up to you to try to figure this riddle out, or treat it as the rambling of a mind comfortably wrapped up in a world inside a book. Kafka on the Shore. A sensory adventure. On a rainy day.

Why I Don't Keep a Dream Journal

2010-03-27T07:24:00.006+05:30

I'm annoyed with the spate of dreams I've been having this year. They're almost all of the conscience-prickling variety. And when I'm awake, I can't think about them without stimulating my awkward glands. To top it all, a good friend of mine keeps telling me about his hair-raising dreams about flying and wolves and a city of zombies o_O

This blogpost is to offload some of my irritation at my subconscious for putting me through so much. I was dreaming about one of my oldest friends consistently for a few months. Late last year, I found out why: she was getting married in April. Since the guilt set in (I will not be able to attend her wedding), the dreams have only gotten more aggressive. Now I have to sit through different functions of her wedding every night. She looks radiant, and I'm always about to rush off somewhere :|

If it wasn't enough that I was homesick, my subconscious had to bring in the emotional-blackmail factor by unleashing vivid dreams about family members dying, or in a stroke. In one horrible turn of (imaginary) events, I'd inadvertently shifted my chair in such a way that I broke someone's legs. Then one "someone" lay bleeding, dying in a corner while another "someone" had to get their legs amputated. Bring it on, buster.

If it wasn't enough that I was emotionally confused, I would wake up and be notified that I was moaning in my sleep, mumbling things like, "Don't do this to me" and other random distressed noises. My subconscious is a regular sadist, enjoying my pain when it makes me revisit some situation which I've already grappled with. But I read about this somewhere, this is called the echo phenomenon, I've learnt not to fear it as much as I used to.

Now I don't know whether the nostalgic dreams are any better or worse than the guilt-inflicting ones. I dream so often of 2 particular personalities who were a part of my growing up years. The dreams are sweet, full of rare moments together and seemingly memorable conversations. Those dreams are like rare spots of sunshine in a black, bleak night. But I can't talk about them, not just because one of them is dead but also because the other one is not interested in knowing if I even breathe or not. If a tree fell in a forest and no one heard it, did it really fall? Hmmm.

And that's not all. Last night, my subconscious punished me for ditching a plan to meet an acquaintance on his last day in the country. It was raining continuously that day and I was quite hungover. So I stayed at home and watched the rain and ignored his calls. Last night, not only did I dream that he never left the country, but I was also so relieved that he was still around that I decided to flirt with him incorrigibly.

If it's not enough that I am full of self-rebuke and remorse, I must also deal with my tendencies to promiscuity, is it? :|

Btw, if you'd like to read a very chuckle-worthy dream journal, go here!

Apathy

2010-03-11T09:37:00.003+05:30

Last night, I was in the MRT and the guy sitting opposite me had a caterpillar going up one leg of his jeans. He was in an animated conversation with the guy next to him and failed to notice my urgent glares. His friend was listening too hard to really focus on my face of mute appeal. So I just settled down to watch the caterpillar.

Its pilgrimage over the blue terrain was in a north-east direction heading towards the guy's knee. At one point, it stopped to take stock of the situation, for which it dangled precariously in midair; I imagine what it was trying to do was, to stand on tiptoe and try to look where it was going. For that, it pulled itself up to attention till it was half "standing", if that is what you would call it.

Anyway, that's where it turned toward the inside of the guy's knee (and further up, I assume), so I lost sight of things (and I am not going to be caught staring at any man's crotch, puh-leez.)

Now, as I was sitting in the train, I did consider directing their attention directly, verbally. But what would the man have done? Flick off the caterpillar and stomp on it, most likely. After all, I bet caterpillars aren't allowed in MRT's anyway.

Then when I got home, there was a girl I'm on nodding terms with, who was standing in her doorway and sobbing really hard as she yelled at her boyfriend who was sitting at her doorstep and smoking a cigarette. And she was saying things that I acknowledge feeling/saying in sadder, stressed-out minutes. I felt like going up to her and giving her a hug. But I didn't. She's probably in a screwed up relationship and I'm sure she has no female friends. But I had to go upstairs and get into bed.

Then I wonder why everyone in Singapore is so apathetic. For me, growing up has been about finding my Apathy switch. Realizing that I didn't have to care about anyone; I'd have better things to do. That is so wrong.

Old Receipts

2010-02-19T16:59:00.005+05:30

I have some old receipts
That do a picture paint..

A Zingkong box and a Zinger meal set
Bought at Saket
Dated 21'st Dec 08 :)

A parking ticket
For Select Citywalk... 1002-1613
I remember the gp-style ride to the railway station :D

The present of Haroun
Bought at Capital Book Store
On December 24

And PVR tickets for the Dec of 27
To watch Ghajini at 11
am, which we followed with a trip to Mom at Sec 36
And dinner at Bakes and Beans.

The lime mojito freeze at CCD-11
Was another day, another time,
Another friend :)

Tell me, what do I do with these?

He's Smiling :)

2010-02-11T14:31:00.002+05:30

Last night, claustrophobic, I'd opened my door
Then later, I spied your shadow on the floor
As you contemplated joining me
For some midnight company

It took me about fifteen seconds in all
To stop anticipating your light footfall
To remind myself there'd be no push on the door
That you wouldn't walk in and settle down on the floor

But the imagining made me happy, nevertheless
Booty was with me last night when I felt restless
He stood in the doorway and just looked in
He just wanted to check on how I was doin

Booty gave me a serious look, I felt his eyes on me
His mouth was grave, but his tail curved gently
His ears were cocked for a word from me, his nose sniffed the air
He probably offered me his small black paw as a sign of ghostly care.

Woof

Getting a Grip

2010-02-11T09:06:00.002+05:30

I've been having a confusing time ever since this year started. I don't quite know why. I hope I can put this down on my blog and get it out of my system.

But I just can't. Feel like I'm up against a hard wall and scrabbling for a ledge or a foothold. Feels like I'm back in Austin, dangling from a rope at a strange angle and wishing that I'd cut my fingernails while I still had the chance.

Hard work and a pseudo-military regime have together turned me into a cynic that recognizes and despises phony socializing as a means to make yourself feel better rather than really reach out. It's made me into a "paper-making machine" while I lashed out at everyone whose only concern was why I am not saying mock-witty things on Facebook anymore. Like, really.

But the sad bit was the few real friends I had and my dear ol folks who got smited by the sparks of my fiery fiesty mood. And so, we locked ourselves away, hiding in the shadows and exploiting Gtalk's invisible option so that we wouldn't really say what was on our minds.

People keep letting me down. And I say balls to them now. I'm going home.

Things Dad Says

2010-01-19T07:43:00.005+05:30

Our waiting seems
Like eternity dear.
cos it's been so long since I was home

Mystic, swirling, scarry fog
cos the weather is so awesome in Chandigarh :)

Life is bol bol as Bulbul is here.
cos my sister was visiting them

Santa ji plz Biwi ko Swiftly Red Swify do.
cos Mommy was throwing a tantrum

Saz ke bina gana nahin Bulko ke bina Carol singing nahin
cos Christmases were special :)

Birthdays are a measure of quality living and add up very well for Rita.
cos it was Bua's bday

DANGER >> No Multi-tasking after putting Milk to Boil
cos, obviously.

Overwhelmed by the fond Birthday Wishes. It waz tough going being saithyha hua for a full year (60 Years) Promise to be sane & well behaved.
cos he is v clever and v old :P

Two flying over to Koyal`s nest.
cos my sis and jijaji were visiting me

I have a Gr8 Reliance Internet Disconnection
cos, obviously.

Not my usual self .... a bit sad....khata meetha
cos, awww :)

Hahahaha, this one's my favourite :D

Hy wiz kids help e. Ihave chaned the ke board and et m computer eatsletters when Itype. Its very annoying.

I miss you

2010-01-09T09:29:00.006+05:30

I miss you

I miss the way you looked at me, wryly
Huffed, turned your head away
And tried to sleep

I miss the effect my voice had on you
Rousing you from the depths of slumber
Your body twitching as you lived a dream

I miss the look in your brown eyes
As you awaited our regular lunch date
Licking your chops, groaning impatiently if I delayed us

I miss the way you followed me from room to room
Your sigh of satisfaction when I poured you some water
And your excited barking, easily construed to laughter

I miss the click of your nails on the cold floor
As you danced around me at twilight
As I led you to the door

I miss the way you woke me up each morning
With a huff and an urgent sniff, a muffled bark
The toss of your head in impatience

I miss our solitary moments in the lobby
When I'd creep under the table
To hold your paw and just talk

I miss us. I miss you.

Spectacles

2010-01-02T21:36:00.002+05:30

In general spectacle refers to an event that is memorable for the appearance it creates. Derived in Middle English from c.1340 as "specially prepared or arranged display" it was borrowed from Old French spectacle, itself a reflection of the Latin spectaculum "a show" from spectare "to view, watch" frequentative form of specere "to look at.[1] The term "spectacle" has also been a term of art in theater dating from the 17th century in English drama.

Hmmm.... Today I broke my spectacles, and I lost clarity.
Then I repaired them, but does that mean I acquired a rectifed world view?

Mayank disagrees. Time will tell.

Knowing Thyself

2009-12-28T10:00:00.005+05:30

Hullo

My life has been an oddment of absurdities and contradictions. But it took a trip to Phuket with a group of random unknown people for me to connect the dots and really get to know myself.

It wasn't the spiritually uplifting experience which it sounds like; infact it was quite the contrary. The past few days were an open challenge to my thresholds of everything, from alcohol to perverseness, to my definition of freedom and morality.

I passed the test. I endured, enjoyed and diplomatically afforded myself a sweet vacation with some awesome memories and a strange sense of gratitude/relief that I am not as rabidly gregarious as I once imagined myself to be.

I'm glad to be back at work. The details of unnerving events can be pieced together through the emails/phone calls I made to kith and kin, cos I so sorely needed to hear the familiar voice of reason :P. It will take a while to completely absolve my memories from the hair-raising bits and selectively pick out the awesome moments to cherish. But I think I can handle that challenge too :)

BTW, for whom it may concern, I am phoneless as of now. Will probably buy a new one and use my old sim for it, within the coming week. Don't worry too much about me though ;) Now I know I'll be okay anywhere!

A Few Days Before Christmas

2009-12-21T06:51:00.005+05:30

And all I would dearly love to see
Is the flutter of Richa's dupatta so pink
Spend a chilly morning on the ramp again
And laze at Verka with a Cool Koko drink

To wake up late for an 8am class
And sms slyly as you walked past
To wait while Navdeep got the lecture theatre unlocked
While Silv combed her wet hair and talked

After Silv ran home, to hide in my car at lunch
To unpack the funny plastic and have a quick munch
To snooze, alone, in the afternoon sun
In my car, under a tree in sector elevun

To copy assignments cover to cover
To feel embarrassed in the Digital class; Ma'am'd hover
To do extremely well in the AD class
Only to forget diagrams and fall flat on my ass

To throw a tantrum at the library, demand to be let in
To send flying kisses to D, flash the PECMarket guy a grin
To discuss Canadian universities with the Post Office Aunty
And to miss yet another hostel party :P

To hug Porky in public, to pull Nalayak's cheeks
To run from the seniors' eyes cos they were all perverse freaks
To bitch about Alka, to gossip about another
To suffer embarrassment upon a visit from my mother :P

To do another mass-bunk, take off into the hills
To skip the PhysEd final exam cos of imagined ills
To volunteer at the Marathon, to commandeer Ed Board
To drive back from industrial area with a magazine truckload..

But most of all I'd give a lot for another sight
For Richa's dupatta so bright
Of Hanuman barging through the doors
See Anmol fixing the projector, talk of Sidhu down on all 4s

To celebrate Christmas with a visit to the Church
And on New Years', nod off to sleep on the couch
Wake up with a start and switch the TV off at 1
Just before hitting the pillows, proclaim that 2010 had begun.

Question

2009-12-15T09:01:00.002+05:30

Why does it feel so good
To curl my fingers into a fist
Or to imagine a walk in Chandigarh's mist
To ruffle my hair when I'm a-muddle
Or to watch water dripping on my cupboard in a puddle
To chase creatures away with a soggy broom
Or to curl up around Garfield in my newly-owned room
To touch my face and remember your touch
To look at my "baby hands" and miss you much
Why do I pretend that I'm grown up and all
When I'd rather be silly and childish and small

Why does it feel so good to cry
About things that are far gone by
To obsess about things that are absolutely okay
Until I need music to repair my day
Why do I like to self-destruct
And activate my leaking tear-ducts!
Why do I stalk my favourite peeps
And demand to know their secret peeves
I rave and rant about future woes
Cos I can't just sit around wiggling my toes
I need to pretend that I'm in control
That I'm all there, just me, I'm whole.

It's okay to sit back and let things slide
I'll learn to accept changes, take things in my stride
I'll tilt my head slightly and pass a subtle smile
I'll save my nostalgia for another secret while.

The End of 2009.

2009-12-11T21:38:00.006+05:30

This is an elegy to a death that never was
To a love that never blossomed
And a tear that never fell.

It's short, as the story was
It's sweet, as the memories were
It's belated, as regret always is.

This is a pause in time
To honour that racing heart
Before it beats anew.

This is respect
As the stark dignity of nighttime
Is lost to the colours of a new sun.

This is life.

Many Decembers Ago

2009-12-04T00:58:00.003+05:30

Our walking route, Dec 2006 :). The serendipitious find of Hauz Khas Village. If we'd gone only a little further, we'd have found a lake!

Happy Birthday :)

2009-11-10T21:55:00.000+05:30

Rain

2009-11-05T11:05:00.003+05:30

It's the kind of weather when spontaneously
You pull me into the open
And watch the raindrops fall on my face
The wind steers us closer
And my head drops to lean on your chest
Lightening strikes, we laugh
You chase me back to shelter where we
Stand in puddles of love
And talk about hot tea and samose
Maggi and pakore.
And all the mundane things in the world
Are suddenly special
The rain stops, by unspoken agreement
We walk, silently marveling
Because all the special things in the world
are suddenly mundane
Since your hand found mine.

Morning

2009-11-04T07:46:00.010+05:30

On some Wednesday mornings
You gasp to catch a breath twixt
Pangs of deep pain
Your fingers fumble for a fix
The mind may not accept.

On some Friday nights
It's easier to forget what used to be
The mind is benumbed, spaces are heavy
Forgiveness doesn't come easy, but maybe
We sip on cups of hope.

But it's Tuesday
I'm willing to jump off the cliff of denial
Wishing to see something different
Hoping nothing changes all the while
I take a step away from the edge with every breath

The sun gashes through black clouds
With a blinding finality
I touch my old familiar clothes
My unkempt hair, my former congeniality
Can't keep these, they don't belong to me

Reality can't wait much longer
It's time to dance this tune anew
I nod and sway, the wind whips my hair
To a side, then aside, the wind just blew
Me off my feet, It's time to go home.

Kaafi random, kaafi jaali kavita. But likhte hi temper cool ho gaya, like a splash of cold water. In the absence of good friends, bad blogging suffices :) Thenks meri jaan

It takes great talent and a measure of dedication to do two waterspills in a single day. But I Did It.

...Or should I count that as three waterspills?

Battleship

2009-10-30T12:01:00.003+05:30

No battle is as much fun without the right soundtrack. No moment in life is as sweet as when it is accompanied by the right music.

I think that's why the jukebox nestled against my right eardrum bursts into song in situations of a high emotional tenor. Need I go into examples here? Most of them are very embarrassing. Don't make me do this na. I don't want to tell you about the time I was singing Aerosmith to myself, or Jashn-e-Bahaara, or those thirty other occasions where I was so high on music that I had to shut my eyes to turn out the psychedelic colours. No, seriously.

For now, listen to this battle as you do your laundry. Told you... big battles need a good soundtrack ;)

Ignored

2009-10-29T12:03:00.005+05:30

Hooman beengs are so ridiculous and all the rules are completely messed up. I have to gape with dismay when you tell me your horror stories and look suitably pleased at your successes. I have to smile and cheer for your joys and feed you hot sweet corn chicken soup on rainy days.

As long as I'm okay, that's not a chore. But there comes a day when the sun has not quite risen in my sky. When the coffee tastes bitter and my shoes get soggy. But nothing's really different: I'm still so concerned about the dirt in your fingernails and the twitch in ur nose. I'm still all ears. And though I'm smiling through a snarl, all you see are shining teeth and you're flattered at my seeming interest.

Until the next time you're feeling especially benevolent and are all cried out. You badger me with apologies. You're so sorry you've been caught up in your own life. Surely, there must be something wrong with me that you can hear me gripe about, so that you can feel better about yourself? Your conscience is torturing you eh. And what am I supposed to do now? Console you, pat you and the back and reassure you that you're not the jerk we both know you are? Or shall I throw the cold soup on your face and tell you what a lousy sham you've become?

Is that all everything ever amounts to? And I have to sit still and let you to publish your gripe all over me. In fact, our only communication in the course of the week is in the form of your babbling monologues. When will this end?

Sulkily yours,
The Blog

On Men

2009-10-14T14:27:00.002+05:30

Today we will write a scathing piece about the dimmer sex.

...But then we got distracted :P

Lost

2009-10-01T09:05:00.004+05:30

Take me to a pretty place
Where wildflowers grow
Where leaves whisper behind our backs
And we stealthily follow mud tracks
To see where the animals go

Take me to a peaceful place
Where bamboo thickets abound
And when it rains, the pits spill over
We're perched up on a tree and leaning over
To see our faces in the ground

Take me to a secret island
Where no one ever goes
And when we're there, we'll sit awhile
I'll crib, you'll listen, in our usual style
Then sink into an afternoon doze

So take me there, don't lose your way
Don't make me wait too long
It's been a while since we got the chance
And while we're there, how about a last dance
To that ever-familiar song?

The Great Battle of Blogpost

2009-09-29T22:06:00.002+05:30

No words frame the quiet
The pauses go unexplained
The chasm widens.
Fingers fumble, jaws clench.

Shadow games are played
In twilight, when
The sun sets.
The mind is bleak, the eyes are tired.

But they won their war in
the afternoon. Mighty generals
know their enemies like their friends; Or
Friends make invincible enemies.

It was an easy triumph, they celebrated.
The spoils of war totaled: a pressed flower
A handprint, and the key
That started it all.

Some say that victory is sweet
And defeat rankles like bitter aftertaste
I disagree.

Trepidation

2009-09-24T11:15:00.004+05:30

Yet again
I'll miss an important day
Because I'm thousands of miles away
But I hope you know
Wherever you go
I'm cheering

Loudly :)

Beam Me Up, Scottie

2009-09-19T20:00:00.002+05:30

I think it's time to start a separate travel-blog. whatsay?

Shameless Self-Love

2009-09-18T07:50:00.002+05:30

A big, warm, fuzzy, squishy one for Koko

Tuesdays

2009-09-16T09:51:00.003+05:30

Grief
Is beautiful only in prose
When the exquisite pain is
Laid out in even lines, in oblique words
That spiral inward into depression

Loss
The word is inadequate
For the feelings it encompasses
And the hurt that rankles
In a lonely void

Regret
Is a hazy rearview mirror
With sudden pangs
Like toothache, surging like the tide
Engulfing sensibility

And the most painful farewells
Could blindside you on a Tuesday afternoon
When you least expect your world
To flip upside down

He left
Unceremoniously
Stealthily
Only to return in the dead of the night
Inebriated with regret, longing
To reach out and touch

But Reality
Knocked the breath out of him
In the chilly morning hour
He fumbled for the light
Blinked
Surrendered.

It was low tide again.

Whiff

2009-09-15T12:24:00.013+05:30

Yesterday I held a ten-rupee note up to my face
And inhaled. It smelled of Nani's purse
Roohafza, fresh laundry and rust.

Memories of the school bus
Came trickling. It reminded of Mom's hankies
Sweets, Congealed Maggi and winter sunshine.

Time slowed down and the
stars twinkled. Gandhiji laughed
In the night and we kept walking.

Hi Nana

2009-09-13T23:15:00.007+05:30

Hi Nana

I read a great story this week.
It brought back memories of story telling sessions with you, memories so vivid that I could almost here your voice reciting the words and feel the significant pauses in the air. Your eyes would twinkle and I would wriggle deeper into the mound of cushions and shift closer to Dad's side.

The story-telling sessions happened in your living room each weekend, where we heard stories of the Battle of Panipat and funny anecdotes about Padma Nani. The ones you most relished were about your life as a hungry, naive student in Haryana, and you'd slap your thigh with relish as we'd talk about the moti rotis and the fat cook. Sometimes there'd be one roti left over from the huge pile..and then a heavy suspense would hang in the air while everyone would wonder whether it was his lucky day.

And all this while, we would be ensconced in one of the big sofas or lolling on the diwan. Mom might stay in vajrasan on a cushion on the cold stone floor. The carpet was usually rolled and kept away. Dad would nod off, ten minutes into the story. Nani too. We were silent and the atmosphere grave. And in the sphere of space around Nana, the air would tremble and vibrate and thicken with scenes of war and trumpeting elephants, scoundrel vazirs and brave footsoldiers.

Before, when I was too young to understand history, Nana would be my see-saw and give me free rides as I perched on his feet. Then we graduated to nursery rhymes, and he would glue bits of paper onto his fingernails and teach me to "Fly away Peter, Fly away Paul; Come back Peter, Come back Paul."

The growing up years were peppered with fables and riddles, jokes and puns. Some of which I didn't get until much later in life. I remember the first (and only) time Nana cracked a non-veg joke involving an armyman making love to his wife. Pop's eyes went big and round, his eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he turned to look at me. I was staring at Nana with narrowed eyes because I was pretty sure I hadn't heard right.

So Nana, I read this awesome story this week, and like I said, it was typically one of the stories you would slip into a family discussion about my comical lack of common sense. It was about a shopkeeper intent on fleecing hungry travelers who happened to stop by. So goaded was he by the thought of extra money that he widened his smile and lengthened his bows and made his manner exaggeratedly subservient.

It was all too simple for them to fleece him instead, when they left him counting the swings of the pendulum of his beloved grandfather's clock with his back to the room. All too simple, and all too reminiscent of your stories and my foolishness :)

Miss you Nana. I think you might have liked the theme of the last poem.

Dear Time

2009-09-13T22:28:00.010+05:30

You've been a great teacher
But a terrible friend

You made me run around in circles
Disoriented me, made my head spin
Pulled me back to crossroads I had passed years ago
Made me shake with remorse and guilt,
Dumb with horror, mute with shock
Helped me plan elaborate bridges
That were swept away with the first wave
Watched me build castles, brick by brick
Only to blow them away with a capricious storm
Watched the tear trickle down my cheek
And the thin line redden on my wrist
Seen me squirm with pain and tortured dreams
And never offered to hold my hand

Dear Time, you've been a great teacher
But a terrible friend.

Spring-Cleaning

2009-09-13T11:37:00.004+05:30

I feel old enough today to delete some pending drafts which were never completed or put up.

I feel old enough to look back at the past few months in which I chased but one goal, sidelining my friends, my weekends, my life... and to smile about it, even though I ended up losing so much.

I feel old enough to be okay accepting the series of unfortunate events that life hands down to you sometimes. Life, as they say, is what happens to you when you're making other plans.

I found out well in time, how costly that can prove to be :)

Miss you still, Nana. Read a great story which I'll share with you soon.

p.s.: On re-reading this post, it sounds eerily like one of D's :)

Happy Birthday :)

2009-09-11T09:45:00.005+05:30

Wish you a brilliant life, a cosy loo
A smelly garden, a comfy bed
And a reason to smile always :)

Day.

2009-09-08T11:20:00.000+05:30

Hello

Today is not a good day.
Things that are going wrong:

1. sdfifgdlbmb (B)
2. fdglkgndfglfdl (N)
3. sdjgklgmfdkgmlkvm (S)
4. sfgfdgkfjkgfmbg (K)
5. SDFDFGFbDFGDFDFVDFFGDFHGFBXCZXFGDFHD!!! (Ouch)

yes this is my version of an encrypted post.

My First Ever

2009-08-26T14:01:00.004+05:30

I kept begging him to stop, but the evil man said "Sorry, ah" and hammered away. I was whimpering and kicking my legs about but that didn't stop him. It was only when crocodile tears started rolling my cheeks that a light bulb lit in his head and he realized that the anesthesia probably wasn't strong enough.

Cheers to root canals and ceaseless bleeding.

Morning Prayer

2009-08-23T07:51:00.005+05:30

Dear God/Higher Consciousness/Someone up There/Voice-In-My-Head

I don't want such dreams in future. And if they come true, I don't want to know!

Signed, Freaked out Kid With Issues

***************

I need a hug, I need a reason to believe. Er. I am more shaken by the dream than I care to admit. It easily summarized my feelings nowadays, in a horrible storyline with B-grade movie choreography. Thanks, oh stupidly imaginative brain. How do I get rid of that mental image now!

Found a easy solution out of thinking: Planning Birthday Surprises.

So now I'll take the other secret present out of its plastic bag and stare at it for a bit. And hopefully, it'll work its magic again.

P.S.: It did :-)

P.P.S.: Yaar my dreams have an uncanny habit of coming true, like the one about my root canal. you can't blame me for not wanting this one to come true. ya i'm not telling you!

Being Clinical

2009-08-19T09:49:00.017+05:30

...I'm trying

PEC NSS-Rotaract Club Blood Donation Camp!

2009-08-14T07:51:00.012+05:30

It's an awesome birthday month :)

There are three birthdays in rapid succession. And I'm having a blast planning for each of them. Planning birthdays makes the world seem rosy and happy happy joy joy ;) It's like every year in June-July, I'm racked with self-doubt and masochism. By August, I'm ready to bud new wings.

Rahul is donating blood today. Reminds me of the many blood donation camps I volunteered for in PEC Chandigarh. It was mostly just an excuse to get out of classes for a day :) And the year I turned eighteen, I donated blood and felt totally freaked to voluntarily have a needle and a tube stuck in my arm. I couldn't watch it myself :P

So a typical PEC NSS-Rotaract Blood Donation Camp has lots of people running around since 7 or 8 am. There are eight or ten beds in the lobby of the auditorium and benches line the walls for the waiting donors. The auditorium is used as the registration hall. A table by the never-functional water dispenser awards you your donor certificate and complimentary Reynolds pen after you've done the bloody deed :) The little alley beside the auditorium has a pre-donating and a post-donating snack table. Bananas, plum cake, boiled eggs, hot milk, tea and the alloo-patties from PEC-market :) But you're not supposed to drink the hot milk or have the boiled eggs before donating. That's the rule ji.

About the people. There are the busy Rotaractors. The girls are almost always in pastel-coloured cotton suits, looking bright and chirpy and really busy. The guys are in random pant-shirt, they do the major part of the running around for beds and benches while the girls stand around with perpetually raised eyebrows and look stressed. The girls are usually at the hospitality table and at the certificate-issuing table. I was once assigned to hospitality, and I had a tough time shelling the eggs. It was my first-ever experience watching large-scale tea production. :) After things wind up, there's sometimes a special prize ceremony for multiple-time blood donors. The volunteers hang around till 3-4pm in L1-2-3 and they don't leave until they get their free Reynolds pen and their precious attendance :)

Then there is omniscient O/I, NSS. Maybe you can't see him around, but he's there. He'll be making the phone calls, coordinating with the Chief Guest, checking on the breakfast arrangements and keeping a sharp eye on every volunteer and donor around. When he's physically present, the girls fidget with their dupattas and take a discreet step away from the nearest boy. According to them, he's sure to notice, and care about the difference.

There are the perfunctory PGI doctors, who loudly ask you about your menstrual cycle as you stand in a coed queue in the auditorium to register for your first ever blood donation.

There are the dispassionate nurses who stick a needle inside you as if you were a pin-cushion, and hand you a stress ball to help pump the blood into those funny little thailies.

There are the heroic donors, people who're thrilled to miss a few lectures and kill time talking to pretty girls, wasting time at the snack table or lounging in the auditorium (until the O/I comes by and asks them what's up). The adrenaline gets too much for some of the tall ones and the blood doesn't quite reach their head. So they faint, or black out (as they insist on calling it).

There are the aimless hangers-on, people who're not donating blood but gravitate towards the free food (until the O/I comes by and asks them what's up). They usually sport wide grins and bandaids on the inside of their elbow, as fake proof. If they're cute, the girls just smile indulgently and ply them with food. If they're useful, the girls frown and send them off for some work. If they're a pain, they're coldly ignored and the girls' eyebrows shoot higher into their hairline. Volunteering is a serious business. Some hangers-on are girls, ahem, like me, who're anxiously watching to make sure that their CC's are ok (until the O/I comes by and asks them what's up). (DD, you remember "CC"? :) )

The blood donation camps at PEC are a tradition. The process is fun to be a part of as a volunteer, a donor or a hanger-on. The better-dressed girls are waiting anxiously at the stairs of the entrance with cheap bouquets and waiting for the Chief Guest to arrive. The O/I is there too. A white Ambassador pulls up, hands are shaken, the bouquet is given, the ribbon is cut, flashbulbs pop. The first donors line up for their turn. Another BDC at PEC is underway.

Errata

2009-08-08T13:35:00.003+05:30

It's funny how I feel like re-writing every blogpost and giving it a happy ending :)

Despite the funny moments and the low days, I'm still pretty darn lucky. And I love the people who make me smile with their random sneaky ways :)

My Mind is Elsewhere

2009-08-07T15:48:00.005+05:30

My feelings are not in rhyme; that can be the only explanation for why I am unable to write about them.

I tried last night, to tell you in verses of four lines each, how my insides feel about the fuzzy photos and the sharp memories (ouch). I tried to rhyme that pretty memory in my head, of hugging my knees as I looked down upon a sunlit valley, where the wind whistling through the pine trees sounded like a call to the soul. I tried to joke about all the habits I untaught myself and the new joys I've introduced, about the things I've understood and accepted and other things that still rankle and confuse me.

When did things come to be this way, that you don't hear the things I never say :-)

The half-baked attempts are unpublished drafts; I clenched my fists, stared hard at the washbasin, gritted my teeth and battled the hurt. Stuck the smile back on and got on with my day. All in a day's work.

I am desperate to watch Love Aaj Kal. I won't get to watch it with the pal who has exams, and the others are busy earning a living. I might push myself to watch Up alone, cos there is no substitute for the company I want. I was unable to get any work done today. I don't want to go home. I need to work.

In other news, the random stranger I have been avoiding doled out some nonsense about "Punjabis should go to Canada". Gave him some nonsense about "You lecherous South Indians". Ha. He caught me off-guard when he asked me if I'm always pre-occupied. Always somewhere else. I wonder whether that's true..

But when did things come to be this way, that you don't hear the things I never say??

Story

2009-07-31T21:43:00.001+05:30

I had a best friend

Then I shot him in the back

And then I died.

फंडा: यार, असली दोस्ती और सच्चे प्यार में सब कुछ माफ़ होता है।
आई स्टिल लव मई बेस्ट फ्रेंड्स। मुआः मुआः मुआः

Learning to Love

2009-07-27T16:19:00.001+05:30

Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offense.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, and endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.

Dedicated to my best friends who teach me how.

All Hail

2009-07-21T00:16:00.001+05:30

to the highwayman of himalaya
and the mariner of the moor
here's reminding you ki hum saath saath hain
even though we seem door door :)

tu hai to i'll be alright
and dil mein baje guitar
teri jeet meri jeet
tu hai total rockstar!

happy birthday mr. fixit
we love you, you knowit
it's a new day, so liveit
it's a new year, so rockit :)