The Bear that Wasn't

I dedicate this post to my Mum, who unbeknowest to herself has made the end of this year survivable. With her obsession for feeding me, disciplining my nani, bitching about the maid, her secret hatred for minority communities and the not so secret loathing of Amir Khan's newly acquired.. sickeningly perfect muscles.

And to my Father, for his obsession with ULIP, PPF, EPF and other acronyms that I should ideally be familiar or at least vaguely acquainted with but am tragically not.

And to the bear, that has been declared to not be a bear, but wants terribly to continue to be one.

To D,
The world is hateful, and you are the bravest woman I know.
Love,
Your chicken-shit sister

*

Brilliant books by brilliant authors scare me. They pose a great dilemma. Half of me wants to zoom through it at warp speed and assimilate all the loveliness in one gulp. The other half wants to be patient, re-read every sentence, twist and turn it around and memorize it.

Some sentences are so brilliant that unbeknowest to myself, I end up doing both. Rushing to the end just to feel its brilliance like a giant (but pleasant) kick in the bum. And then catching my breath, to stare long and hard and close at the line(s) of prose in question.

To dismantle it in my chubby hands and re-mantle it in my brain.

(Re-mantle is not a word to the best of my knowledge. Just humour me and I promise to do this again)

*

oye lucky lucky oye.. oh lucky lucky oye..
someone please get this song out of my head..

*

This post is also dedicated to Magga, who unbeknowest to herself, has for the past 5 months (and counting) been harbouring a criminal. A seemingly model tenant who has quite beknowest (see I told you I'd do it again) to herself, been smuggling all sorts of contraband into the establishment. Examples to illustrate- stale Bembos's burgers, staler mango smoothies. Foul words, fouler moods. And oh-so many bottles of wine.

The delinquent in question has successfuly managed to conceal a 2 foot camera tripod within the premises of her den. That and the most prolonged case of the blues. The tripod lasted 3 days, the pout lingered on for three months.

And the riff-raff.. The constant traffic of cronies she's given shelter to from time to time? Lets not even go there.. A South Indian bombshell, a delectable pooch, a sibling (a.k.a Ursa Major) and a monkey precisely 6'2" tall.

All this treachery while being fed on a healthy diet of interesting conversation and roast chicken. The ungrateful wretch.

*

This post is also dedicated to the bombshell, the pooch and the monkey.

*

The bear that wasn't.. Tooodle Ooh Too Too.. Wasn't a bear at all..
Yes thats much better..

*

I beg the reader to not accuse me of relentless pseudery, what with the allusions to all sorts of members of the animal kingdom (bears, monkeys, dogs.. I believe a chicken also finds mention). I'm mostly slipping in secret messages to myself in the fervent hope that I myself will remember what all the references refer to.

Pseudery is in fact a word. I read it in a book. An absolutely delightful book by Stephen Fry.

*

If I could ask any three famous people for a hug they would be-
1. Stephen Fry: For bringing poetry back in to my life for a brief and refreshing bit.
2. Shrek: Ok so he's not really real. But hypothetical hugs are so much more fun when the prospective hugger is big and cuddly. And green.
3.Daniel Craig: *blush*

*

I'm still working on which three famous people I'd like to have dinner with, which lucky one I'd like to be stuck on a deserted island with and which celebrity I will name my child/dog after.

I saw 15 minutes of a documentary on Britney Spears. So that's one name off the list(s).

*

This post is dedicated to the word "unbeknowest". That and plural(s).

*

We went to watch a movie today, my mum and I. There are so many things I love about watching movies in Chandigarh. Firstly and most importantly, I think the city houses the only multi-plex cinema that still screens advertisements of Vico-Vajradanti and Vico Ayurvedic Cream.

Second, is the version of the national anthem that they screen before the movie. The anthem is picturised on soldiers at the Siachen Glacier. It is the kind of thing that makes you want to join the army or marry someone in the army or make your kids join the army or marry someone from the army etc. The kind of thing that reduces people like me to a blubbery bag of salty tears.

Jokes apart, it is a beautiful rendition of the national anthem and really stirs something inside me.

*

There has been an awful lot of blubbering off late. I blame the hormones. When in doubt blame hormones.

*

I spent the first half of the movie convincing myself that if I did not write a post soon, my brain would explode into millions of tiny little pieces/peices. That and the horrifying prospect of forgetting how to spell. All this fear therapy was briefly suspended for when the songs came on. I realised a while back that I only go to watch Hindi movies for the songs. The story line, dialogue etc. are purely incidental (which is sort of how some movies are made in the first place).

I am deeply indebted to Jos for helping me come to terms with this ugly truth. To embrace this handicap, accept it as a gift, storm resolutely out of the closet..

And sing along..

*

The second half of the movie was slightly more hectic.

I spent a fare amount of time trying to shield my eyes from being visually assaulted by the lead actor's bulging pecks. I swear they seemed to burgeon with every passing minute. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to reach into the screen and deflate them somehow. Maybe ascertain the location of secret valves through which air was being cruelly pumped into his tiny little frame, testing the durability of his skin and the seams that hold it together. I was banking on the songs to come to my rescue, but there too I was to be granted no respite. The bulge came back to haunt me all over again.

About the only thing that was more irritating was Jiah Khan, who I am convinced is the most annoying little twit to have ever graced the silver screen.

This post is dedicated to the person who reads it through and through.. every last bit. Its about time I dedicated it to myself.

*

This post is dedicated to Gargoyle. For refusing to cave to Dabba culture. For making the 10 hours spent at work survivable. In your never ending quest for funny pet names, may you find great success.

For your quiet amusement at my inexplicabel hatred for Shobhaa De. Wait till I give you the lowdown on Amir Khan's abs (clearly the theme of this blog post) and Jiah Khan.

And also to A, may your run of bad luck cease post haste. And to Bose, may your store of gossip never cease. Certainly not post haste.

*

Apropos of nothing this post is also dedicated to R. I don't think I will ever be 'Lamba'sted quite the way I was on that fateful day (I'm tempted to say day(s)). I know you are a nice person, I really do, but the mouse in me is really glad to have turned in her Placement Cell shoes.

*

Although a shade darker than its prequels, I quite like the third edition of Pirates of the Caribbean. Especially the bit when all the pirates are swept up by Keira Knightly's motivational speech (and not just because she is pretty) and decide to fight. Its the kind of thing that makes you want to be a pirate or marry one and so on..

Apologies for the drivel. It is much cold here and I cannot sleep. Am slowly losing the ability to construct meaningful sentences.

*

If I take all the emotions I have felt over the course of the past year and try to cram them into a bag, well lets just say it would be an awfully large bag. Its not just the variety but the extremes which surprise me. Extreme happiness, bliss even and also a fair amount of glumness. Deep, debilitating fear and surprising amounts of strength and courage. Contentment and impatience. Being loved and being lonely. Industrious and shamelessly lazy. The depression of having bungled some things up and the joy of success.

About the only thing I regret feeling is Boredom. I think it is an entirely despicable way to be, bored that is. So I shall attempt to make a rather ambitious New-Year's resolution. To not permit boredom to come and ruin a perfectly full and beautiful life. To never ever accept boredom as a sad but necessary side effect of being alive.

I really hope I succeed. My sanity, among other things, is riding on it.

*

At long last, this post is dedicated to a fool. A peddler of humble wares and big stories. Who is full of "Gup" and even fuller of gas. Who promises to look me up the next time he is in Mumbai and flirt with me away from the watchful eye of his girlfriend. Unbeknowest to himself, he made my day.

I will be there, in my sunday best, to keep boredom at bay and find fodder for more blog posts.

*

Happy New Year!!

Hind in Sight

cute bottom is looking at me from the corner of his eye. he is gifted with the most extraordinarily powerful peripheral vision. that and the most extraordinarily attractive butt. about his other endowments, i dare not venture any descriptions, seeing as all i can see is his back side. which is not a total loss.. his bum is yum.. so i'll just give the rest of him the benefit of the doubt and continue to steadily fall for him. or just his posterior.. same difference.

so i strain against every compulsively shy muscle of my body to make my presence felt. a way must be found to make this man fall hopelessly in love with me.. or at least be mildly interested in the tiny little sliver of me visible from that inconvenient angle.

increase the volume of conversation.. but only if you have something beautiful and insightful to say. i prattle away nonetheless, simultaneously scanning my brain for something even remotely interesting. politics? haven't so much as looked at the paper in ages.. entertainment? no, watching repetitive reports of Chandrayaan in orbit do not count.. religion? God no..

evil doubts creep in.. i am hopelessly boring.. beyond any hope of remedy. and he sees through my flimsy disguise. that is if he's looking at all? something deep inside softly says- boo hoo..

no no no fool.. you must focus. carpe diem.. i mean just look at your audience. they seem mildly interested don't they now. must be all the books you aren't reading, all the movies and plays you aren't watching, all that brilliant music you aren't listening to, all the exercise you aren't getting..

sheesh.. big help you are! i see i'm going to have to go this alone.

and i manage somehow, elicit a round of giggles with some inane joke or the other.. manage to make some heads nod in agreement at exceedingly astute observation.. to shoot down an argument with a flamboyantly worded counter. and suddenly i am an intriguing person. lovely in every respect. the careful gaze of CB's bum have transformed me.

oh CB.. ever since you came into my life (3 minutes and counting) and looked at me in that special way (?) i am a changed woman.. altered irrevocably, improved immeasurably.. don't ever leave me and go.. first i'll have to recover from your loss.. and then i'll have to tolerate my own company. not the Me that you make me.. the you-less Me.. sob..

cute bottom proceeds forward.. i follow..

no i am not stalking him, we are both in line for the same thing. i only fantasize endlessly about men with whom i am mildly acquainted. but follow them around? na.. that's what the real nutcases do.. just to reassure myself of my sanity i casually shift my tractor beam like focus to other more commonplace things.. the walls, my hands, other butts (a regrettable accident), the floor, my arms.. moving briskly back to the hind in question..

alas, the bum and its owner have disappeared. fool! you should have never looked away.. so you're a loony.. swallow your pride and accept it. this tragedy would never have occurred unless common sense intervened. the same thing inside once again reiterates its stand.. boo-hoo..

*
post-script: CB left, only to stage a comeback, this time with his face in full view.. which much to my ill-conceived joy was not half bad either. i considered smiling to myself.. i ended up smiling to the whole world instead..

*
post-post-script: common sense staged quite the dramatic comeback too. which is funny because it hadn't really gone anywhere.. fortunately he was joined by a great deal of dreamy eyed optimism..

Lionesses: Of Punjab and Elsewhere

The circumstances of C's exit (or is 'eviction' a more apt word) from the Shamrock house were dramatic to say the least. Purely due to the involvement of so many drama queens in a small confined space. Far above the legally permissable limit I think. There was much yelling and screaming (the word banshee pops into my mind) followed by much impolite (albeit less shrill) small talk. And more luggage than I had ever thought one person could possess. I thought I was packing impaired, till I met C. Her idea of moving house is to cram all her assorted odds and ends into a sequence of flimsy polythene bags... and pray. Luckily, even after a hard day's work I was at my good samaritan best and supplied her with a couple of airbags. Thats me you see, steady and dependable in times of adversity. Especially if the adversity involves a nice juicy fight which I'm not a part of.
M seemed angrier than I've ever seen her. And murderously sarcastic too. And adding some much needed fuel to an already crackling fire was the latest entrant into my life.. Isabel. She fought like a lioness. Against what I'm not quite certain. In fact I didn't see the point of any of it. But that didn't prevent me from deriving bucketloads of joy from all that transpired.
Being congenitally averse to inviting conflict of any sort, I feel fortunate to be thrust in the midst of it once in a while. It makes life seem more real. Fighting my own battles is something I procrastinate about and can postpone till the cows come home. In fact, most often the cows are home, done chewing and digesting, taking a nap etc. and I'll just change my mind. All the anger just drains away.
I have enough people telling me this is a sign of weakness. And maybe it is. But changing requires too much effort. Being a mouse comes naturally. Why, pray tell, would I want to mess with nature?
I think the world could do with more people like me. Who experience the joys of conflict vicariously. Unless of course all the pent up anger comes spilling out one fine day. I doubt it will. There is something so noble about remaining calm. I feel it is my unique gift to the world.
As for M and C, both deeply regret the Tuesday Night Massacre. They may have different versions of what happened but they agree on the fundamentals: Both didn't want to part ways on a bitter note. C didn't see it coming. M is as surprised. She thought Swedish people were pacifists.
I think I managed to convince both that it was just one of those rare unfortunate incidents in an otherwise simple and blissful life. M will go on hosting dinner parties, watching movies and hopefully scripting some soon as well. C will go on with her assignments, trying to change the world's perception of itself, one photograph at a time.

And I'll be here or there, hopefully everywhere, with something or the other to say..

Roar..

*
Notes:
1. C: freelance photographer, erstwhile neighbour
2. M: aspiring script writer, die hard fan of single malt whisky, Landlady
3. Isabel: Coming attractions.. watch this space
4. Me: Innocent bystander

rhyme 1

'tis precious little fun to mope
when there's no one there to see
wiping away brave little tears
to an audience of... just me

making do with one's own shirtsleeves
when hankies are in short supply
to blow much reddened noses
who seem averse to running dry

i could hold my breath till i turn blue
punch my fists into the ground
but histrionics are so robbed of joy
when no one is around

to bask in well intended sympathy
holds contentment beyond measure
to watch guilty parties writhe and squirm
a harmless evil pleasure

so to my lower lip i give free reign
to quiver and pout i set it free
being miserable isn't half as bad
as some make it out to be

to go without spectators
may seem an awful curse
but when all else fails its good to know
that things could always be verse

N

N is headed for another heart-attack me thinks. The reports I generate cause him nothing but anxiety. And they should. The economy is in lousy shape and our book is beginning to look like shit.

It makes me sad. And I worry constantly. What if I'm doing something wrong with the numbers? Making silly, avoidable nistakes... like that one.

But I love N. He is silent courage under fire. He always has the cutest smile on his face, like a father resigned to his delinquent children. I bet he hates his life right now. He should go home and give his wife a hug.

I sort of hate my life right now too. But only because I messed up one report that made N's performance look abysmal. In my defense, his performance was abysmal, I just made it look slightly worse by making some.. er.. nistakes.

In N's defence the economy is in lousy shape and our book was bound to start looking like shit sooner or later. But who listens to N? All they do is push him. And give him heart attacks.

N is lovely. He laughs at all my jokes. I love N.

N is only about 46 years old. Pity...

a Butter-Knife (and the answer to all of life's more pressing and intriguing questions)

M's arrival was not a planned one.

No no.. correction. The entire process of his arrival was meticulously planned. Down to the very last detail. To the very last bottle and bib, the very last home remedy for assorted post natal maladies, the vary last well meaning (read: shrill) grandmother, the very last proud prospective (read: harassed beyond mere words can describe) parent.

His creation was quite another matter. That was the unplanned bit. As a consequence of a fairly pleasant weekend in Atlanta, S found herself feeling "somewhat lousy". She figured it was one of two things: gas or breast cancer. The fool.

But as far as accidents go, M is quite the beautiful one. He has ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. The softest belly and the roundest bottom. The loveliest head of hair, the smoothest and flawlessest skin. And the warning signs of what will someday be a very fetching pout.

I am reliably informed that he has other, seemingly endless charming attributes. To be revealed on closer inspection of course. But I'm quite content to admire from afar. Although M is more beautiful today than he will ever be I can't wait for him to get older. To talk to him. Read to him.

Not that conversation is a more evolved form of communication. Its just one I'm better at I suppose. One I'm more comfortable with. M will just have to wait till I come out of my shell and make up for all the hugs and kisses I haven't lavished on him.

And I'll wait patiently, for him to grow up.

*hug*

*

So much to say, I feel I'll burst at the seems. But all in good time. All in good time.

*

When is one ever sure of what one wants? I experienced a moment of great clarity today as I was leaning over the kitchen drawer. Usually I would settle for anything- a spoon, a fork. That is if I feel like upgrading from using my index finger or a Reynolds pen. But today was different. I needed to spread peanut butter as finely as possible on only the most golden brown toasted piece of whole wheat bread. I knew what I required and I was not going to budge till I got it.

A butter-knife.

If only every other decision was that simple. Guess I shall have to take life one piece of cutlery at a time.

Signs of Damage

Hmm.. umm.. uhh..
*
Honestly, when i resume writing after an extended hiatus about the only thing that i am in a position to state with a reasonable degree of certainty is "Hmm.. umm.. uhh.." and other assorted, unintelligable sounds. Of course one can never let the reader know that now.. Uh uh.. not happening. The reader must be convinced that the absence was in fact a fruitful one. A much needed one. To allow thoughts to ferment inside one's head.

*
The unfortunate bit is that the whole time i've been away my head was in fact teeming with lovely thoughts: mostly happy, sometimes sad and fairly confused (no more than is usual)
Lyrical, insightful and even in grief, always somewhat funny..

And observations.. of this grand city which i now call home. So many brilliant and beautiful little things. Charming occurences that merit lengthy and detailed documentation.

But this blasted screen stares at me cruelly and i just melt into an inarticulate puddle of piss..

We are most often our harshest critics.. Who knew impressing onesself could be so difficult?
I want to send the critic on a vacation.. to some far away forgotten island where she can sit and sip a cocktail of her choice. I may even go visit her once in a while. The absence of exacting standards could potentially get quite lonely me thinks..

Hmm.. umm.. uhh..
*
I have been terribly hysterical off late. Shit happens, what can one say. And maybe thats why i'm back.. This blog was always my preferred medium for looking at myself and laughing and my assorted and many hued sillinesses.

Also a preferred medium for use of words like 'sillinesses'.
*
Hmm.. after having written several paragraphs i am now convinced that i have in fact not completely forgotten how to write. I am genuinely scared that if i stop writing, a part of my brain will just atrophy.. drop off and die. And that if i stop singing, before long all I'll be able to do is croak. Its frightening, the kind of thing that can keep you up and hate yourself a little every day.

*
I think one of the best things about living in mumbai is being able to tell people that you live here. Mumbai is an excuse in itself..
.. i'm out partying all the time, after all this is Mumbai..
.. that poor woman has lost her mind, Mumbai does that to you..
.. can't bring myself to save anything, Mumbai, so expensive..
.. i have no time to post these days, its sad. Between getting to work, being at work and getting back from work i barely get any time to breathe.. heck, thats Mumbai for you..

Which is fortunate for the city itself. Imagine being forgiven for all your vices and idiosyncracies simply because you happen to be who you are..

..its a shit hole. but its Mumbai

*
Not a fan of abrupt endings myself. But NS just walked in. He is playing distracting music. Mostly soppy love songs with 'Hotel California' juxtaposed uncomfortably in between. Think I'll wrap up. Get a little work done, flirt with him for a few minutes and head out. Into the adventure that this day is in the process of becoming..

*
About the title: long story. Tragic, but like most things also slightly funny. Ok probably only funny if you really look close, observe the mayhem and then pan out and move further and further away.. Slowly.. Slowly.

Its hard to explain. Maybe some other time..

Saturday Morning

Clearly, I am over qualified for my job. Not that my present means of earning bread and butter annoys me (yet) or tires me needlessly. It's just that I see myself deriving a great deal of joy from simple things which require little or no thought.. Serious thought that is.

Like a postman. Now thats a job I would perform splendidly. Especially in Bombay. And to make it more fun the area I service should be huge…
And I should see new and exotic places everyday… Bhandup, Mumbra, Kalyan… Masjid Bunder, Ghatkopar… no these places really exist, I’m not making them up. I wish I were imaginative enough to come up with names that interesting.
I’d deliver mail… chit chat with its recipients. Maybe learn marathi or gujarati..
Hmm… yes I shall have to weather a substantial pay-cut to pursue this alternate career.
So I suppose I’ll have to marry someone really rich, having been denied blood relations to any rich people who’s death is imminent. God really is mean.

But then how many investment bankers do you know who’d be willing to marry a postman?

Hmm…

*

Thane is quite lovely. At least it looks so from the train. It’s green and hilly. And far away from anything which is even remotely familiar.
Kalyan, not so much. Lovely that is. Far? Oh yes its far. It might as well be on another planet.

*

I should wrap up… Am in Worli, need to head to Dadar. And I started from Bandra. Need I take such a circuitous route? Of course not… but I figure I should do this things as long as I have the energy to wake up early enough in the morning to budget time for such adventures. It helps that I can afford to… Monetarily that is.

*

The weekend is upon us. But my company insists on working on Saturdays as well… what a bunch of chumps.
But I’ve gotten used to it… I am in fact one whole month old in the organisation (as a much exclamatory, i.e. “!!!!” mail from HR recently informed me, HR dude, they need to get a clue).

But something must be done with Sunday… something grand…

Maybe I’ll sleep in late? That’s a start :)

all trains lead to dadar

i've discovered the key to avoid weight gain.. (drumroll..)- a bad sense of direction

yes, the life of a directionally challenged person affords some advantages. even if it takes a great deal of thought to look beyond an obvious handicap, dress it up in a cloak of fanciful theories, till it comes out looking and smelling every bit the part of a virtue. seriously after i'm done with most of my flaws, they're damn near resume-worthy. seriously..

so to recap, a congenitally defective internal compass aint all that bad. it helps if you're an optimist. more so if you're a gasbag..

*

i leave really early for work these days. mostly because i love offices when they are empty. particularly in the morning, when i'm at my productive best. the remnants of the previous day of work being turned out. swept, picked up, discarded, packed away.

i wonder how long it will take for me to get accustomed to working in an office environment.. i who am so terribly prone to distraction. i notice everything.. before long i'll know which ringtone belongs to which phone, which areas provide the best fodder for gossip..

this too is a gift.. especially for the chronically bored (propensity toward boredom, which in itself is a virtue. i can't quite say why just yet, but gimme time.. its one of those days)

*

dadar station is manageable in the mornings. really, i'm not kidding. it surprises me everyday. for the longest time the very mention of the word dadar would fill me with the deepest and most crippling dread. now i've figured out how to tackle the trains. you either have to travel really early in the morning, or really late at night. and the women have it easier.

mumbai is surprisingly egalitarian i think... the city is pretty much a pain for both sexes. in some cases, easier on the women folk.

*

of course part of the reason i leave so early is my sincere belief that i will get at least slightly lost on the way there. i get a little less lost everyday. tomorrow, my last day at the dadar office i just might disembark at the spot and walk in the right direction and reach in record time. of course getting lost is fun too. you learn to swallow your pride (read:shyness) and ask for directions. you discover new routes to old destinations. it is an entirely fascinating way to live.

(see i told i was good)

*

yesterday i wondered what name to give the smell which assaults the ol' factory (bad joke intended) when one approaches dadar. a mixture of sweat and dust and pee. and add a dash of humidity. humidity has a smell too. or maybe its just a sensation. either way you can discern its presence.

but on the whole, dadar station smells of people and everything to do with them. human beings lend it its signature scent. by doing nothing in particular. just existing...

sitting, eating, walking... mostly walking... mostly briskly...

*

i cried bitter bitter tears in a shady alley at dadar. coming to bombay has opened up a veritable dukaan of insecurities. coming face to face with my ineptitude and more so with my fear of it. with my shameless need for people and love. and greed for the finer things in life.

but what is life if not for these things. once in a while scary things should happen. they make us realise just how strong or weak we are. and the things that really matter.

and you get the odd blog post out of it...

*

look forward to more unpunctuated and garbled rubbish. bombay brings out the poet, even in the most cynical of us.

Ok I'm half asleep… but this post needs to be written. I'm going to dedicate it to three people…

Who also happen to be the three people who are most likely to read this… no that’s not the only reason I like them… being part of my readership merely enhances their natural appeal…

First, to P… Happy Birthday! I'm saying it now because I'll be fast asleep when the time actually comes. I hope you're having a blast. I'm guessing the revelry includes large quantities of alcohol and other intoxicants I haven't quite made friends with yet. That and loud music. To which I hope you're dancing… don't worry, you don't look funny when you dance.
Have fun old friend… and don't forget to brush J

Next, to PPP… Pooch, The Original. Tomorrow, I embark for Samirpur. Yes the "mendak" is returning to her "chhota sa kuaan". I plan to bury myself in my recently procured collection of childrens' books. To rehearse for when you do indeed surrender your body to so "noble" a cause. Ghanshyam is eagerly awaiting our arrival, about as eager as an incredibly sullen person can be. Oh and Sher 'Schumacher' Singh is coming to pick us up when we disembark! There is much mindless TV to be watched and countless naps to be taken. But it won't be the same without you. Awww (the way I say it).
Hope you're back to your social butterfly ways. I need to exist vicariously for a bit so please get a life post haste…
Also, I owe you a detailed account of my recent adventures. Shall pen them when I'm feeling particularly poetic. And I'll give you a heads up too.

And last… to Pooch, The Recent (and desperately in need of an alternative pseudonym). You vanquished the odious army of auditors without them so much as stepping on your doorstep! Hope the work gods treat you well, that all the necessary resources come flooding in without too much of a fight and that the loud lion hearted primate keeps his meddling paws to himself. Fret not the impending arrival of the long haired Neanderthal (he's got a haircut by the way). For what its worth, I think… no no correction… I know he is a fool and a gas bag and an ugly one too…
If things happen to teeter precariously on the edge of bearability, give BB a buzz. All ears at your service.

Family Portraits

My father is the cutest thing. He firmly believes that any man in an old movie is either

a) Al Pacino
b) Richard Burton
c) (and this one serves for all cases where a) and b) fail) Charles Bronson

In fact, I wonder if, you were to line up the above mentioned thespians, would he even be able to tell them apart? I bet he'd say that Al was Richard and that Richard was Chuck. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if he insisted that all three were Charles Bronson.

Of course, every blonde woman is always Goldie Hawn. Unfortunately, my dad can never remember her name either. So he just refers to her as "the woman from that movie.. er.. you know.. arre vo vaali.. that one.. the one about the... haan the one we saw in Vizag… Neeru (seeking desperate help from my mother who is by now struggling to control stubborn fits of laughter) das na".
We all just understand.

Any woman with hair colour other than golden is Elizabeth Taylor. And there are simply no arguments entertained. You could go blue in the face insisting otherwise. Really there is very little that good ol' illustrious Liz did not achieve in her acting career. According to my dad, Liz Taylor starred in, among her other breathtaking performances… Forrest Gump (as Tom Hanks's mum), Gone With the Wind (as the formidable Scarlett O) and even some musicals like An American in Paris and Singin' in the Rain. But not all musicals mind you. The ones with blonde women are invariably starring "the woman from sound of music" alternatively known in my house as the "doe a deer vaali movie" co-starring Al Pacino/ Richard Burton/Steve Mcqueen… you get my drift.

Any man who so much as skips or courtesies in a movie is Gene Kelly… any man who is even remotely funny is Steve Martin. Clearly my dad's knowledge of movie stars transcends all time periods… all genres… all logic.

These days he's starting to get adventurous. Limited information tends to be his Achilles heel. Any young looking person is met with an inquisitive "Is that Tom Cruise?". A recent phenomenon (observed on too few occasions to be documented with complete accuracy) concerns short, funny looking men who are most probably "Dustin Hoffman kya?". Strangely enough most short, funny looking men in old movies do turn out to be Dustin Hoffman (a.k.a. "the man from Tootsie with the funny nose"). But if the Hoffman connection is not made, chances are we fall back into the whole Al/Richard/Charles quagmire again.

But there is hope… if not for accuracy than at least for variety in the mis-identification. Clint Eastwood and Marlon Brando feature sometimes. It makes for hours of breaking-your-head-against-the-wall fun.

My mother on the other hand is really with it. She's up to date with the Russel Crowes, hugh Jackmans, Brad Pitts and George Clooneys of the world. Basically all hot men… name one and she's likely to at least remember… the name (come one she's not super human or anything). In fact she absolutely drools over Eric Bana and letches shamelessly at Mathew Fox. I didn't even know who this Fox fellow was till she introduced him to my world. Truth be told, I am richer for the knowledge… he is quite the delectable fox.

My sister of course takes the cake. In fact you might as well surrender the entire bakery and all associated establishments to her. If there is a man who had one dialogue in some vague indie movie which was seen by a sum total of 50 people she would know that the actor in question was the third cousin of the person who was a cameraman/ choreographer/ designated coffee fetcher on another equally obscure film. She has so much redundant movie rubbish in her head… it’s a miracle her skull hasn't started cracking at the schemes. She is a mutant I tell you…

Now I watch as much E! News as she does… perhaps more (I watch repeat telecastes sometimes… yes I disgust even myself). But is it my fault that I lose interest immediately after the daily round-up of Paris Hilton's capers has been dispensed with? Is it? Is it?

*

I seem to have hit a good spot with this one. When in doubt, write about family. That shall henceforth be my dictum.

As in most things, family tends to be a reliable bet. Even if it is exploits such as finding a muse worthy of merciless caricaturing.

Yes… Ridicule, begins at home

Comeback Queen

Ok I have to get back to this before time renders me incapable of ever contributing to my blog again. I'm not even going to bother coming up with a dramatic opening sentence or a grand subject… or anything for that matter. Just proceed in small baby steps. And much like a baby whose first few utterances are warbled and incoherent, I'm counting on my cuteness and pudginess to carry me through.

What the hell… lets be reckless and go crazy. No spell checks either..

*

Come to think of it my blog themes were never that grand to begin with. So lets recap… I've written posts about pimples, saris, and water shortages. Countless ones which indirectly address the question of men and one extremely acerbic one on pigeons. Yes I snuck a few in there that could qualify as "meaningful", but really who are we kidding?

And this extended hiatus? Its not like opportunities to write did not present themselves. I have in fact spent the better part of the last month doing next to nothing. In fact the quantum of the nothing that I indulge in seems to grow with every passing day. And its not like there were no worthy subjects for documentation. I mean I did take what could possibly be the last set of exams of my life… I am now (almost, one can never be too cautious) a post graduate. Life has in fact changed FOREVER!!! (caps and exclamation mark for dramatic effect… also picture me with eyes stretched to twice their size). So lack of time and fodder weren't to blame… perhaps it was just good old fashioned laziness.

But even when some things are a habit and even if they are no more unpleasant than anything that’s fairly pleasant (apologies for that sentence, I'm still warming up the engine) once they get suspended for a bit… its just really hard to pick them up again. Like my jog. It annoys me that I stopped going for one in the evenings regularly. And curiously I live next to a nice park and quite enjoy running. But I just can't get myself to adhere to the routine again. Bleh… (apologies again… but I couldn't find any other place for the mandatory minimum of one "Bleh…" per post)

A small caveat to the loyal fan base (two people at last count, both curiously referred to as "pooch" for various reasons… my lack of creativity being the main culprit… hee hee). Don't get all excited about the comeback. First, I am as prone to sink back into laziness as ever. And second, even if I do take to this regularly, there's no telling what I'll write… quality may be seriously compromised. I mean zits and irritating birds are one thing but if I'm seriously strapped for ideas I may resort to writing about… oh I don't know… IPL? Khali? Lizards? (no wait… I've done that… damn it).

*

While on the subject of Khali, lets get off it as soon as possible (parumpumpush… that was a post joke drumroll for the uninitiated). I saw the great man himself on CNN IBN tonight. And there I was thinking the channel had taste… bloody capitalist sellouts…(inside joke). Just the sight of him… or the fact that so many people actually give a shit… I don't know exactly what it is that made my stomach churn. I had the strongest possible urge to vomit. And that’s that.

*

The last time I wrote was the night Pooch (the original) and myself were leaving for Samirpur. That post, having been swallowed up by my blog into its deep, dark recesses, was read by all of one person. Of course it met with satisfactory reviews. But one can never be too sure when the readers are nice people who happen to be fond of you.

And funnily enough day after, I depart for Samirpur again. This alone puts a giant question mark on whether this post will be followed by another. The only computer with an internet connection is in my father's office, access to which fraught with obstacles… try the most exhausting flight of concrete steps followed by a long painful walk. But boredom has been known to make me do strange things. Trudging to the comp in question is likely to be the least of these.

*

I wish free time were a marketable commodity. Now don't all you economicsy types start off on explaining the whole leisure-labour tradeoff to me. I'm serious… if there were some way in which I could trade some of the free time I have right now for the time I won't in the future… now wouldn't that be spectacular? I'm talking a grand interetemporal exchange of 'velaness'. I have gallons and gallons of leisure at hand and absolutely nothing to do with it.

And that just kills me. Eats me up completely. Irritates and annoys me. Bothers me no end. Makes me think all sorts of deranged thoughts and go completely to pieces. Write terrible blog posts… and unapologetically to boot.

*

Ma left today, for Bangalore. She has left father and daughter in each other's company for a sum total of 15 days. I wonder if we'll survive. Something tells me we'll manage pretty well. My dad and I tend to get into each other's way a whole lot less. He's more resigned to the fact that I'm incapable of conversation. I think he just needs the physical presence of his children around to feel that there is 'raunaq' in the house.

Also I seem to have inherited the worst habits from him. At least all the ones that irritate my mother. The propensity to hoard mountains of unnecessary things, an aversion to all things related to domestication such as bed making, room clearing etc.

While my mum pesters, my father sort of lets me be. And sooner or later things get done… beds get made… rooms get cleared. Of course its usually later than sooner that such happy developments occur. And more often than not when things reach critical mass.

Yes, papa and I should do just fine…

*

Ok I should about wrap up now. I may exhaust my treasure trove of blog-worthy topics. I can't believe I've gone and written so much. And I can actually think of some more not entirely boring things to write about. I'm not entirely pleased with tonight's outcome but its early times yet. There's one thing that strikes me every time I don't post for too long- this is always easier and more fun than I remember it to be.

Blimblop may in fact be back in business

Nor any drop to drink

The better part of the Delhi metropolis seems to be in the grip of a devastating drought. There’s word on the news of people foraging around for precious water to meet basic needs (no, by basic I do not mean laundry… think more along the lines of drinking and cooking). Given that the mighty State Government has very few options but to grin and bear it, there is little that the tiny Kingdom of Tsango can do to insulate itself from the sorry state of affairs.

Now, all of us down at Tsango are a fairly resilient lot quite accustomed to all nature of adversity (not to mention perfectly at ease with the prospect of a suspension in all bathing/washing-laundering/cleaning related activities). All would have been well had it not been for the tremendous stupidity of other Queens (96 of them at last count) of the wider AGSHW area. A pressing lack of sense… civic, common or any miscellaneous variety. For they live in an advanced stage of denial and or indifference. A world where come hell or high water (or lack thereof) clothes must be washed, floors must be swept and swabbed, hair must be shampooed (AND conditioned, lather…rinse…repeat…lather…rinse…repeat). While the rest of the world and all its mere mortals struggle to subsist, this insensitive lot can’t digest the thought of having to survive one day without washing their precious undies. And all the drones who do their bidding must go about their assigned tasks mechanically… the malees must water plants, the maids must polish the stairs. Life goes on as if noting at all happened. Its enough to drive anyone stark raving mad.

The Queen (she of Tsango, not the other thoughtless witches) of course being of the conscientious (God bless MS Word, else I’d never have been able to spell that blasted word) sort felt it her moral duty to educate the dumb masses. Alas, like most visionary thinkers she is misunderstood in her own times. She must be content with posthumous recognition.

So she swallowed her pride and budding activism whole and retreated into her quarters, which albeit overrun by sexually hyper-active lizards and pigeons with steadily precipitating intelligence quotients is still, after all, home.

*

There is much that needs attention. Some, like the unwashed plates and bucket full of dirty clothes shall have to wait till the liquidity crisis abates. But there are term papers to be written and exams to be crammed for. Conversations to be made, with Mona, Bob and of course with Thin Air. There are Georges (Clooney) to be ogled at and an old forgotten Kingfisher to be consumed. Naps to be taken (much oversleeping to be done) and movies to be watched on a doddering old laptop. An entire life to be lived in the confines of those four walls.

*

My apologies to the Duke (he of Puke) for paraphrasing much of the content of a series of vituperative messages into this post. I’m sorry you had to read this twice over.

*

A lizard climbed into the fan’s regulator about 45 minutes back. And it is yet to surface. I can posit a few explanations. 1) Overcome by exhaustion after a day of scurrying around, she decided to take a nap 2) Subsequent to her daring venture into the dark recesses of the electrical appliance, she has been electrocuted…her charred remains only to be discovered eons from now 3) The inside of the regulator is in fact the scene of THE MOST happening party for miles around. All of the famous reptilian P3Ps are there shaking their tails and booties and sampling scrumptious 6 legged hors d’ oeuvres…

Yes I have a lot of spare time on my hands, but if you’re reading this, well then so do you. So there.

The Whole 5 Yards

It takes 3 minutes to tie a sari almost perfectly. Subsequent attempts at ensuring complete perfection can take upto an additional 57. My solution to the problem, like my solution to most problems, is to dilly-dally till the absolute last moment. To finally get down to the complicated process of drapery when you have little or no time to be fussy about the outcome. Somehow, not having the luxury to redo things makes you do them well the first time over. Either that or you just have to grudgingly be satisfied with the effort.

But a sari is almost as trying to keep on that it is to put on. There is the painful question of what to do with the pallu. Sure at first you feel all grand and princess like when you flap it around, like those deliriously happy women in the sari commercials. I always feel a bit like a super hero myself, with my one shouldered cape. But the charm wears thin faster than you can say… oh well… just about anything that doesn’t take too long to say. From then on in it’s quite the nightmare. Conventional wisdom (i.e. passed down from generations of mothers) says the left arm (on which the palla rests) must never budge from the strict angle of 45 at the elbow. Not even if your arm muscles spasm or threaten to give way or just get bored of assuming the same position for hours on end. The said piece of cloth must be pinned firmly (but delicately so as not to rip the fabric) to the left shoulder and let loose, extending over the arm reaching the left wrist.

And then there is the prospect of having to navigate your way through a cruel world, which insists on installing obstacles in your way. Tip toeing through puddles which will magically materialise or manoeuvring around mounds of rubble. Stairs, by far the most worthy of adversaries must be scaled repeatedly. I don’t know what the rest do. I just bunch up the pleats and march on steadfastly giving the whole world a fairly generous peak at the frills at the bottom of the petticoat. All this must be done gracefully.

And all this must be done on high heels. Because flats are out of the question: its an unwritten rule. Even if it means that 20 minutes into having worn them, the entire weight of your body rests precariously on your toes. Even if the pain renders you dangerously close to passing out.

So lets recap… you have this impossibly tight string around your tummy cutting of the blood supply to everything south of the waist (or waste lands as Akka would endearingly refer to our bellies as). You have about a dozen overlapping pleats, which must be planted right in the middle of your gut. The gut of course has to be sucked in tight unless you want to look like you’re well into your second trimester. There’s the palla that must be tamed and the sandals that must be worn and borne. The brassiere strap that must be prevented from making an embarrassing appearance. The pebbles that creep in between your toes and move further on cruelly piercing your sole. And if you choose to leave your hair open you’re in for one hell of a picnic. For there is only so much nipping and tucking that the free and mobile right hand can do. Meals are impossible. I for one have never been able to master the art of one- handed eating, this despite years of attending weddings without adequate seating arrangements. No matter how scrumptious the meal, the sari clad me would just prefer to go hungry.
So breath held, arm aching, toes screaming for reprieve. Oh yes, and don’t forget to smile!

*

Ok the griping notwithstanding the end product of all this misery is actually quite beautiful. I’ve never known a woman to look anything less than her aesthetically pleasing best in a sari. There is something so incredibly feminine about the experience that almost makes the unpleasantness recede into the background.

*

There is something marvellous about living in a girls’ hostel. I could just stand in the courtyard and yell, “Help!!” and help would in fact appear. Sarees materialise from thin air, sandals will drop from the heavens, bangles and all nature of jewellery and accessories will be instantaneously matched, some generous souls would even offer the services of their ironing skills. The whole world turns out to take a peak and almost unfailingly tell you that you look more gorgeous than you ever have. And you believe it because somehow, they always mean it.

Everyone is captivated by your beauty and the whole process of your metamorphosis. There is no envy or malice. Just a feeling of awe at having been in some small way a part of the creation of unparalleled loveliness.

*

All the recent farewell-ing that I’ve been through is not without ugly side effects. There is the realisation that youth is steadily slipping through your fingers. That you can’t really post pone growing up any more.

I feel like such a geriatric… bleh…

Partying is Such Sweet Sorrow

i don't want to sing... and i don't want to rhyme... and i most certainly don't want to sing any of my rhymes...
i don't want to click/scan/mail any pictures... and i don't want to come up with any creative titles
i don't want daily updates and minute by minute schedules in my inbox
i don't want to listen to anyone's goodbye speeches... and i don't want to fill out any more testimonials... i don't care what people want to say about me to me... either that or i don't want to care... same difference
if i have to eat one more piece of sethi's chocolate trufle (how does one spell that word??) cake i'm going to puke

i wish IM and her army of annoying hyper-excited and compulsively-enthu trolls would just quit trying to 'involve' me and just leave me ALONE

... damn i needed that. i suppose after 5 straight years in the brown pastures of North Campus such things are bound to happen.
either that, or my sudden bouts of curmudgeon-liness are a sign of age. i prefer not to think about that

the end

Itchy and Scratchy

The Khujli Wala Chuha

The Khujli Wala Chuha is a creature christened by the stupendously creative KB, the Maharani of Lucknow. The rodent is a manifestation of all the pent up frustration and anger inside the members of her court and kingdom (Court Jester NL, Head Concubine SY, Man at Arms APJ and her dog Xena to name a few). Of the urge to want to assuage all the burning questions inside their heads, to rid themselves of tedium and tension. An advanced state of unease in which all you can do… is scratch. Scratch your head, scratch your belly, scratch your behind. Scratch the insides of your brain in search of answers…scratch just to dull the itch.

The Khujli Wala Chuha (henceforth, KWC) Syndrome seems to have the nation in its grip. It has spread its tentacles all the way to Bengaluru, where a hapless DP Devi is struggling to come to grips with the fallout of a sequence of seemingly ‘rash’ (pun intended) decisions. When the malaise first surfaced, it compelled her to dump her boyfriend, quit her job, relocate to a new apartment. And now that all the dumping, quitting and relocating has finally been done, the rat has re-surfaced and opened up a veritable ‘Doubt Ki Dukaan’. Brave decisions are hard to go through with and harder still to live with.

It seems to have well near crippled the Duke of Puke, NS (alternatively, the Earl of Pearls) as he presides over his increasingly uncertain territory. ‘The powers that be’ have not been kind. First, they isolated him in the most desolate and inhospitable of places. Then they issued proclamations that proved well near impossible for the Tribal allies to swallow. All hell threatens to break lose and needless to say NS is scratching around furiously for solutions. Attempts to achieve a mental calm include pandering to the vulnerable bellies of friends, family and dog and recourse to hours worth of mindless reality TV. The things life makes you do.

And what of Shehzadi Samra PKH? Valiantly battling the temptations promised by the corporate world and struggling to suppress the desire to breakfast at the American Diner on a daily basis. In an attempt to eke out a literary masterpiece, one that doesn’t prove too costly for the kingdom’s treasury.

And of the 4 (of the famous 5), who are readying themselves for the onslaught of Evil Exams. How they fester and writhe as D-Day approacheth!

Yes, all is not well in the hearts and minds of the Queen’s allies. She can only hope that a deadly combination of ‘cheer up tom-foolery’ and ‘frequent change of subject’ therapy are some source of solace. Or at least that her amateurish attempts at psychiatry don’t cause irreparable damage.

*

As an aside, I wish to say that KB is a marvellous person. I’ve never ever known her to be upset or at least visibly so. In fact her cheerfulness grows exponentially in times of adversity. She has proved a worthy ally indeed.

Tomorrow, (or rather today) is holi. I’ve always disliked the festival, don’t quite know why. I only ever once truly enjoyed the festivities but not enough to want to give it another shot. I think I was just born a boring geriatric. I hope to sit this holi out as well.

But this year I have a valid explanation. My family is not celebrating festivals this year. I hate to have to call it an ‘excuse’ but if I were honest I’d have to admit that that’s exactly what it is. I haven’t denied myself any other opportunity for revelry. I haven’t activated the ‘excuse’ enough to warrant it being called a ‘reason’ rather than an ‘excuse’.

I’ve used it selfishly to avoid situations that I think are bound to be unpleasant.

*

I don’t know what I hate most about the fact that C died. Whether it was the place, the time, the circumstances or simply the fact that she died. I suppose it’s a bit of everything.

I hate that she had to die. Because I saw no reason why it absolutely had to happen. Very few deaths make sense, but this one was damn near incomprehensible. Could anyone find a reasonable reason as to why a 23 year old should die?

I hated it because I actually liked C. Not in the way one is obligated to like relatives but because I thought she was genuinely likeable. I mean if I had met her one fine day through a common friend or if we happened to be assigned adjacent seats in school without any prior knowledge of each other or some such random thing… I know we’d have gotten along. But then most people got along with her and liked her too. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t.

She used to laugh at almost all of my jokes. In fact she laughed at most everything I ever said. I could say, “the sun rises in the east” and I know she’d at least crack a smile. And the others laughed when she did, even the ones who didn’t really see the humour in the situation. I suppose it made them comfortable to join in once they were assured that underneath all the words I usually over-embellish conversation with, there was in fact the kernel of something funny.

I hate that I wasn’t there when it happened. That I was so far away. In a sense insulated from all the heartbreaking goings on. But this was the most stifling form of seclusion ever… I couldn’t feel a thing. Only guilt, that too for being unable to feel anything else. Guilty for not crying enough, for actually packing in a few hours of sleep, for eating good food, wearing nice clothes, taking a long walk, watching tv, breathing. Guilty for not having been a part of the indescribable pain that death can cause. Other people were there and they weren’t even family. People who were confused and upset and hurt and angry. While I sat miles away… feeling guilty.

And I live in a constant state of guilt. For not having been there, for not having called, for not visiting. For eating good food and wearing nice clothes and taking long walks and watching tv…and breathing.

And the thought that with every passing day, my memory of C resembles the real her less and less.


*

I can’t help but think of that day without thinking of R. He is the nicest person in the world and I am utterly undeserving of him or his niceness. I think a part of me loves R just for those 45 minutes. For humouring my tears.

And thenceforth, for humouring just about everything I have dished out. The long winded theories, the moronic philosophising. The forgotten birthday and several unmade phone calls.

I wonder what purpose certain people serve in my life. Have you ever known anyone you’ve wanted to remain acquainted with simply because they were there? Not because of their intelligence, conversational ability, endearing traits, good looks. But because they happened to, at a crucial point in time, make you feel a shade less sad and lonely.

*

The summer just got crueller as it went along. But I remember this one day, after a sequence of several bad days, I managed to cheer myself up for a split second. I was in a cab on my way to a wholesale market called (if my memory serves me right) Masjid Bunder. MK was pleased as punch to host someone from the GO on his daily route. He spoke like an excited little child on the phone, giving me directions.

It all suddenly made sense: It is so incredibly easy to make people happy. And the world really is better off with more happy people than sad people. I know… I’m a lot happier being happy than I am being sad. Everyone is striving hard to move toward a state of happy. Not the ecstatic jumping around kind, just quiet contentment. And I can help.

I had the strongest urge to be a source of joy to the world. To swallow cynicism up whole and let my idealistic self spread happiness, even if it came at the risk of embarrassing myself, at the risk of working too hard or the risk of wasting too much time.

Some things are worth it.

(I really believe all this stuff so if you think I’m insane, go ahead)

*

I don’t know how long that urge persisted. Moreover, I wonder if the way I am allows me admit that it did, guiding everything I have done since then. I doubt I’ll ever really make peace with my good intentions for the world. That I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with them (enough to say it out loud). Even as I speak, I feel like such a self indulgent fool.

*

I remember having this conversation with E six million times over, till we knew it backwards and forwards.

How dare we let ourselves complain? Do we really deserve the right to complain about anything? We have homes and families. We have clothes to wear and food to eat. We may not have too much money, but it is more than enough to keep body and soul together. We have the use of all our limbs and assorted appendages. A fully functional brain. We have the lives that many people aspire to live.

Life is in fact perfect, barring minor inconveniences.

And the bouts of sadness? For them we must budget time. Time for being human. For hurting. And time for healing.

*

I’m really wondering whether or not to post this. Being honest is difficult. And being honest can be terribly disconcerting too. Especially when you realise that you had the capacity to do it with such ease… to be so recklessly forthright. That it caused you so little discomfort.

*

Dear C,
I miss you.

Love,
Me

Valuable Lessons: 5 years in the life of a DU victim

Fodder for thought

We don’t exert sufficient leverage. We are a bunch of hopeless pushovers. We let companies run rampant. We are willing victims of the machinations of manipulative HR personnel*. We are the epitome of pathetic subservience…

RL accuses the placement cell of being a docile cow

I believe his exact words were,

“… so what does that mean? Is the placement cell a cow?”

????

Moooo…

Moooo

*We are also equally manipulative, but that’s another story…

*

The Write Stuff: Words of Wisdom

How do I get myself into these messes? My enthusiasm (or was it joblessness?) will be the death of me. Somehow I managed to have myself appointed as a member of the Editorial Board of the hostel magazine (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered). A sad little publication, read by very few outside the circles of those who end up compiling it.

If you’ve ever flipped through one of these things (i.e. emotionally blackmailed into reading it by a friend or just unimaginably bored, those were the only two instances I could think of) you’ll notice the first few pages being hogged by flowery clichéd “messages” from “dignitaries”. Well, somehow the onus of collating that riveting section fell on my shoulders (it may have something to do with the fact that I volunteered... is it just me or does everyone see a pattern to this?). The magazine could simply not go to print without stirring words of encouragement from:

1. the Provost
2. the Resident Tutor
3. the Chairman of the Someortheothersham Committee (a.k.a. SCP)
4. the distinguished member of Wastefultothepointofredundancy Committee (a.k.a. PBN)
5. the Pro-Vice Chancellor (he does after all have a swanky office in the Vice Regal Lodge and all)

and lots more…

I’m really thankful to 3. for exercising his imagination and writing something sweet though not altogether profound. I’m equally thoughtful to 4. for not writing anything at all and giving us an extra page to play around with. 1. and 2. opted for recycling their last year’s messages word for word. 5. however proved to be a challenge, at least his peon did (I never actually did meet 5., in fact I’m beginning to wonder if 5. even exists). He asked me to imagine what I would like 5. to have said and just submit that for his signature since “voh bahut beezee rehte hain”. To channel my creative energies and compose something suitable.

I twiddled my thumbs for a bit and took a leaf out of 1. and 2.’s book, re-submitting the Pro VC's epistle from last year's edition. It was the most creative shortcut I have ever taken.

*

The Form is Dead, Long Live the Form

I recently filled out the last university examination form of my life. As usual I went about it in my trademark style, leaving it for the last possible day. It was however a marked improvement from the previous time around, when I actually had to cough up a fine for submitting it two days late. DU loves extracting money from its hapless victims and I have proven to be more than obliging on several occasions.

I don’t really know why I procrastinate with form filling and such like official procedures. I mean I procrastinate about most things, but to forms I’m well near allergic. Something about all those blanks to be filled, boxes to be ticked, signatures to signature, numbers to fill in… they just give me the heebie jeebies. I’m always paranoid about messing it up (destroying it to the extent that no amount of over-writing or that gooey white correction fluid can rescue the damn thing) and having to ask for another one.

I think I’m just terrified of being subjected to admonishment from disgruntled office staff. I hate to generalise, but I’ve never known office staff to be anything but disgruntled. At least Pande Ji goes about inflicting public humiliation it in a funny, genial way. Some folks down at Stephen’s (Vasantha, the evil banshee who presides over the transcript racket and who could forget the "Fat Lady", who spends her days yacking, yawning, scanning the DT, taking inordinately long lunch/tea breaks… she occasionally works too) could damn near reduce you to tears.

Usually, just the thought of having to submit office paperwork is enough to give me sweaty palms, sleepless nights etc. I’ve never applied for a re-evaluation or to take an improvement. And not just because my academic performance did not merit such action. But because of a deadly cocktail of fear and laziness.

Surprisingly, this last form was a breeze. I filled it up in less than ten minutes without having to double or triple check any of its contents. Pande Ji gave me two thumbs up for a superlative performance (“placement sahiba, dus mein se dus number se utteern ho gayin hai”). Which is sad in a way. No, not because I take some perverse pleasure out of my own discomfort. But because it took me 5 years to master the art of dealing with the bureaucratic rigmarole that is DU. And now its time to leave. Sigh...

*

I’m sure the coming years will bring me face to face with creative name-calling (with or without reference to my bovine-ness), annoying accusations and scary amounts of red tape. The silver lining, if any, is that life thus far seems to have equipped me with the ability to work with and around it.

That, and the ability to not take myself too seriously. Which is about my most prized possession. If the world is going to laugh at you, the best bet is to beat them to it.

Good Carb, Bad Carb

Pooch has instigated a revolution. Her recent turn as a sexy siren (hostel night, slinky sari accompanied by a hot spaghetti-top blouse) has inspired us all to make concerted efforts toward (Angelina) Jolie-fying ourselves.

Alas, we have all come to the painful conclusion that hotness, being necessarily equated with thinness (or alternatively being associated with non-fatness) is a challenging attribute to acquire. Especially for people whose idea of fun is stealing extra bowls of suji halwa at dinner time and who are still reeling from culinary catastrophes such as the discontinuation of jalebi as the Thursday night dessert (ok fine, I admit that’s just me).

We’ve realised that in order to acquire baywatch babe figures, we’re going to have to exercise more than just our tongues. To boldly go where few hostellers have gone before: the final frontier-

The gym.

*

There are those of us who prefer the great outdoors. To be fair I was the first of all the copy-catters who decided to follow in Pooch’s footsteps and hit the jogging track. Now of course it has assumed pandemic like proportions. It’s hard to venture out into the lawn without bumping into another aspiring beauty queen.

I came upon Dohee the other day. For some strange reason we decided to run in opposite directions. She clockwise and I counter…

I recall being decidedly dizzy after the experience.

*

I remember the first day. I’d been procrastinating about remedying my general sloth like existence for the longest time. And then the day finally came. I recall trying to take a nap only to end up tossing and turning uncomfortably till the last thing that was on my mind was sleep. Jumped out of bed, laced up my sneakers… and ran.

I realised that I have enormous reserves of energy. Must be all the milk I’m drinking… or the sex I’m not having. Either way, despite my laughable track record on the fitness front, barring scary term paper submissions I’ve been at it quite regularly.

I also realised that I have stupendous reserves of spit. I can’t go 60 seconds without ejecting great big gobs of saliva.

And there I was thinking the only thing I had to spare were tyres.

(I have since invented an elaborate spitting game. The key is to wait till the spit gets to just the right consistency and volume and then pick a target. So far I’ve tried flowers and leaves and met with great success. I’m contemplating a move to more challenging prey.

I’m hoping that restricting this disgusting confession to a bracket will make it somewhat less disgusting for conservative audiences. Somewhat more palatable…

…sorry, I couldn’t resist that one)

*

V is cruelly perceptive.

“Its all a race against time to lose weight before the farewell isn’t it?”

And so what if it is? Is it such a crime to want to look nice and be ogled at?

I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a sari, but if you have, you’d know that you can’t drape one without feeling at least three months pregnant. Those blasted pleats stick a mile out like a bulging reminder of having gobbled too many mutton dosas.

The ogle-quotient tends to take a serious hit

*

I figured I couldn’t give up food. Eating is such a pleasurable experience. My friends in the hostel always marvel at how my every meal is taken so stylishly. Like a carefully choreographed ballet.

But strangely, for someone who puts so much energy into eating, I have surprisingly low standards when it comes to food. I relish the experience- the table, the plate, cutlery etc. And the sentiment too… of pampering yourself. I delineate clear boundaries for roti, dal and subzi (I really hate when things spill into each other). I cut garais in strict hemispheres and budget how much subzi to eat with each mouthful.

(clearly I am insane)

I wish every meal were an event.


*

The effects of this fitness drive have extended far beyond the confines of Ambedkar Ganguly Students’ House for Women (which is about the most long winded name for a hostel ever). V has taken to aerobics. Hmphh… not so high and mighty now are we?

I think it may be a last minute attempt to shed some pounds before we lapse into a vegetal state behind desks and in front of computer screens. Fuelled by frothy cappuccinos from obliging push button dispensers. Calories at your finger tips.

I don’t know a single person who has taken to work and increased financial liquidity without an accompanying expansion of girth.

*

Not that exercise is an easy remedy for pudginess, but at least you know a remedy exists. What scares me is that my mind will atrophy as well. And I wonder if there are any easy remedies for that. Maybe I’ll take to composing sonnets on the walls of the office loos or making fun of people’s accents in my head or hoarding stationery or eavesdropping on conversations followed by extended psychoanalyses…

Oh and blog… that too…

I have a feeling that I shall spend the better part of my work existence hatching an escape plan and stun the world by relinquishing access to all the luxuries that the corporate world has to offer…

If the plans are in fact ever put into action, I think the person who’d be most stunned would be me.

Losing Touch

Its finally gone and done it... In its fifth year running, my not-quite trusty MTNL connection seems to have called it a day. So far it had restricted itself to being only mildly annoying... I'd have to send each message a couple of times to ensure delivery, indulge in all sorts of gymnastics to ensure that I get signal and routinely decipher warbled conversations. But now good ol' Trump (I bet The Donald would be mighty mad to hear his name being associated with such a hopelessly inefficient product) has gone from slightly unreliable to barely reliable.

Cutting me off from the universe as I know it.

Its strange that I feel so lost without it... I mean all I do is complain about meaningless telephonic conversation. The strange debates I have with myself every time the phone rings and I can't think of a blessed thing to say. The countless occasions I have just let it ring (or vibrate) plaintively, pretending to not be there.

And now its silence bothers me. Perhaps because the Gods of telecom have robbed me of the right to decide, the luxury of turning down conversation because I know I can always saunter over to another bored person just a few yards away. Being a recluse is a lot more fun when you do it by choice.

*

I don't know why facebook annoys me quite as much as it does. I just feel it gives human beings yet another reason to be lazy. Befriending people you couldn't possibly care less about, birthdays you're too inconsiderate to keep track of and all nature of stupidy (vampires, quizzes, gifts and way more poking than I am comfortable with). Casual helloes to long forgotten acquintances and perhaps worse- sudden embarrassing resurgence of people you know you wanted more than anything to have kept in touch with.

Life should not be so convenient.

*

Or should it? I woke up yesterday to find a tortured and heartfelt mail from V. As it turns out she'd broken up with V the night before (yes, the fact that both their names begin with V hadn't escaped me either... they were so irritatingly cute). The mail contained no details of how they had parted or how she was feeling. Not even any nasty words for the boy who had just broken her heart into tiny little pieces. Just that it had happened and that she did not want to talk about it. "So the next we meet", I was instructed, "please pretend like none of this ugliness happened... just act normal".

It struck me... the internet is such a marvelous invention. There have been so many times when I've wanted to share unpleasant information without it being brought up in future conversation. To shout it out into the universe... exorcise the spirit... to vomit, without having to worry about the mess.

"I just flunked a mid-term, so please lets not talk about it"
or maybe ,
"I'm feeling so terribly helpless and don't know what to do"
and perhaps,
"X is so indescribably mean to me"
and quite frequently,
"I just did something awful to Y and I'm having trouble living with myself"
of course there's always room for,
"I think we both just misunderstood each other... let's just start over"

What would I do? Well I'd probably put it in a mail. Hopefully have someone to mail it to as well.

*

Technology allows us to say things we'd otherwise probably never say. Take this blog for example- I think a lot of what I write is terribly flaky, I doubt I'd discuss it with too many people. But I have no qualms whatsoever writing it down. I don't have to see the readers' reaction... fret over whether or not they enjoyed it. I just blabber on. A lot of people have liked what they read or at least expressed that they did. And those who didn't, they for all effective purposes don't really exist do they?

And what of all the friends I did end up keeping in touch with? When there were things to say but no inclination to say them out loud (and very often no balance, or in my case, no bloody signal). Acquaintances with whom I got... well... re-acquainted. And all those conversations that Pooch and I've had, despite being separated by no more than a couple of rooms. There is a certain joy to be had from keeping in touch, even when its with someone who is no more than a stone's throw away.

*

But there is such a thing as too much distance. The kind beyond which hearts stop growing fonder. As it turns out V had spared me the littany of her woes in the mail, only to deliver it in person. How it was "about time" and "waiting to happen". How she thought he was "distant" in every sense of the word and that the possibility of a "someone else" could not be ruled out entirely.

I've only ever known one long distance relationship to last. The rest just seem to crumble. I myself shouldn't talk. The only relationship I was ever in seemed like a long distance one even though we were never more than 5 km out of each others' vicinity... haha...

Who would have thought that staying in love with someone would require this much effort? And a lot of good luck too. For those times, when no amount of mailing, messaging, writing or calling will do. But I suppose if one puts in that magnitude of effort, it must be worth something. I wouldn't know and I'll abstain from speculating.

*

For now, all i hope is that my phone mends its fickle ways. I have a sudden urge to be one with the universe. The universe with all its hours of pointless chatter and silences, comfortable or otherwise.

I hate RS... I hate him so much I want to gouge his eyes out with my bare hands. Or better still, lock him up in a room with a recording of his own irritatingly high pitched voice delivering a sequence of annoyingly long lectures... Subject him to such like unspeakable horrors...

Torture in falsetto...

I hate him because he thinks I'm a moron. And lazy. A lazy moron. But more so because his assessment of my capability and dedication is based on fairly arbitrary and wholely questionable criteria.

1. The fact that I wasted an hour and a half listening to AJP and SY crib about SS and such like Snobby Stephanians. SY's enlightened take on Ronald Coase, accusations against me for alleged advances made to UN (having booked him as my salsa partner in Mumbai)... AJP's diatribe against dschool and having wasted two years loving and loathing it.

I made a mutton dosa last for the entire length of that conversation... does he have any idea the kind of restraint that takes?

2. So what if I spent 45 minutes chatting with AS over a free cup of coffee? The amount I learned over the course of that discussion is perhaps immeasurable- about masochism, slavery, an alternative approach to topology, the inner contours of the National Housing Bored (yes I've misspelt that on purpose). I concede that none of this admissable in either my term paper nor the final exam... but really, should i be penalised for trying to have a life?

3. Placement Cell: My association with the said entity has forever sullied my reputation in teacher circles in these parts. I shudder to think how any future decisions on further studies will be entertained.

I hate RS because he a living breathing reminder of my propensity to procrastinate. Of the damaging effects of my new found love for gup-shup... I hate him because its hard to avoid feeling like a fool when someone else is so convinced that you are one and is not in the least hesitant in saying it.

I don't know whether I hate him more for being in the right or for being in the wrong... All i know is that I hate him.

If you scrape the bottom of my heart you'd be likely to come across a thick crust of dislike... bleh

*

God, on the other hand I'm loving right now.

I don't think I was quite as much of a believer before I came to dschool. In fact it began a full month before the entrance exam... I remember going about it so singlemindedly, aided only by my feeble cranium and feebler self esteem. While the rest of the world rapped on Naresh's doors, I obstinately did my own thing, hoping and praying that one of two things would happen:-

1. I would clear the exam and get through

or

2. I would sprout wings like that beautiful fellow from X-Men #3 (The Last Stand) and fly far, far away

Fortunately or unfortunately God picked 1. for me. That, despite three years worth of nothing but procrastination with brief intervals of odd conversation. If only I could make RS see that God is well and truly on my side. After all isn't the cancellation of today's lecture purely attributable to my fitful praying?

*

Now all I need is for the hours to multiply into two before the deadline for the #904 term paper runs out. No amount of not sleeping can rescue me from this one.. sigh sigh sigh

back to work I say... back to work

Comfortably Dumb

As it turns out Sudhir Shah and I do agree on one thing… our mutual contempt for pigeons.

(Digression: actually, I’m sure there is a whole lot more that Shah and I would have agreed on. If only most if not all of what he said was not entirely incomprehensible for me. If only he weren’t quite as formidably laconic and I wasn’t quite as much of a mouse. Eh… c’est la vie)

Pigeons are by far the most moronic beings in the panoply of God’s creatures. And they insist on displaying their idiocy with irritating regularity. Even their facial expressions convey “dumb”. They are so stupid, it scares me…

I suppose I should be more charitable, given that they are some of the few sentient beings that ever dare venture into or in the close vicinity of my room. But even in these misguided attempts at being sociable they reinstate my belief in their dim-wittedness.

They prove particularly painful during summer. I sleep with the balcony door slightly ajar (I’m a slave for the fumes from the Haryana Roadways depot my balcony faces, just can’t get enough of the stuff). This is interpreted as a desperate plea on my part to be one with nature, for in they come… flapping wildly... and park ass above the curtain, on my book-shelf, the bed, the tube light, Mona… Of course its only once they set wing into the dirty recesses of my abode that they realise that all is not well…

They come beak to beak with their arch nemesis- MY FAN. It spins menacingly, monopolising their flight space and messing up the aerodynamics. Faced by this intractable hurdle pigeons seek refuge in the most useless weapon in their arsenal: contemplation. While I peer nervously, out from under my sheet pondering a gruesome massacre, the vanes slicing and dicing them as they attempt escape, half wanting to do the dirty deed myself, putting the birds out of their misery and mine (though mostly mine). Most nights I go to sleep dreading the prospect of waking up bathed in pigeon’s blood and feathers. Sort of like that scene from the godfather, if you substitute poor Khartoum’s horsy head by that of a bird. A blissfully ignorant face and guileless beady eyes… ughh those eyes.

I’m more than certain that my balcony is listed as one of the top 5 destinations to visit in the “Lonely Pigeon Guide” (don’t leave the nest without it). My clothes line is like a ramp in some glamorous avian fashion show, they prance up and down strutting their stuff all day long. And they insist on setting up home and hearth on the premises. Last year, upon finding a nest in my waste paper basket I embraced the Gerald Durrel side of my personality and let them stay till the eggs hatched and the kids grew up and flowed the coop. Never again… the mess they made of the balcony dealt a lethal blow to my benevolence. Why, my efforts to painlessly evict the latest squatters met with disastrous consequences. I believe the exact sound the eggs made during the attempted eviction was “splatch”. Two of them hurtled toward the floor as I tried to relocate the nest, leaving only disgusting yellowy yolk. The guilt damn near killed me. And to this day I am still trying to erase signs of the egg-icide, very Lady M style (Out damn spot!)

And the shit… god bless me. It’s the shit that really pushes me over the edge. Now we all know that birds poop indiscriminately having been at the receiving end of their blessings at least once. But no, in this one regard I am indeed special. All of pigeon-dom seems to have singled my balcony out as prime location for public conveniences. I’m tempted to believe that it is some evil conspiracy hatched (look Ma, I made a pun!) by the pigeon underground. To send only the most constipated of their brethren over to my balcony to relieve themselves of days, nay, weeks worth of excrement. And always (and I mean always) aim for my freshly laundered towels.

But I’d never give the imbeciles credit for pulling off torture as systematic as the kind I have been subjected to. They’re just way too dumb.

(Digression: or are they? Hmm… I think I’ve just been really suspicious of all birds since I saw the Hitchcock movie. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it but that movie really scared me. It may have something to do with the fact that it was 3 am and I was all alone in the common room. Never a good time or place to watch a movie about flocks of murderous marauding birds.)

And at this juncture I think it is fair to ask… what do pigeons do anyway? Do they serve any purpose at all in the universe? Do they? Do they? At least Dr. No could use the “guano” (bird poop) produced by his exotic birds to fund the building of his evil empire and almost bring James Bond to his knees. These birds are of no good to me at all.

(Digression: Dr. No was part of my Ian Fleming phase. I humbly request the audience not to lose all respect for me… it was the first few months of Dschool and I was really and truly bored and incredibly jobless. Fortunately, the phase was shortlived, but of all the books I read, Dr. No would have to be the best. I mean the heroine’s name was Honey Rider…that’s really hard to beat. Unless of course you consider Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice)

So there you have it. This diatribe has been a long time coming. I deliver an abridged version at dinner every night to those unfortunate enough to be called my friends. Of course I embellish the rendering with much wild gesticulating, animated forehead slapping, absurd arm flapping, clever voice modulation…anything for an audience. I’m sure most if not all of ya’ll skipped a few paragraphs and I won’t hold it against anyone. You can scarcely understand my woes, unless you’ve suffered similarly at the claws of these ignoramuses. Had to live with the drone of their cooing as a constant soundtrack to your existence.

Had to make them the object of guiltless complaints. Complaints that would be better aimed, though not quite as guiltless, at the rest of the world mired in unpleasantness and mistrust. Had to love to hate them… and hate to love them just the same.

February Hangover: Dirty Old Woman

You know I’ve spent the better part of my post adolescence existence deeply engaged in a time consuming process of observation. Looking out for men to look at. Seeking the perfect specimens for quiet, unobtrusive staring.

And its been fairly harmless thus far. I’m such a coward, I’d never ever muster up the courage to actually say something or push things in a potentially interesting direction with anyone who I thought was potentially interesting. No, I’m content with simply staring. And like I said: its harmless and silly. It doesn’t feel wrong at all. Until recently…

What I’m trying to say in this painstakingly circuitous way is that my exploits in the birdwatching (yes, men are birds too… they’d put the most vain of peacocks to shame) department are increasingly becoming a source of discomfort. Because the latest victim to come under the gaze of my all encompassing lecherous radar is… a… boy. By that I mean a full year younger than me… possibly two…curses! Not that maturity is high on my priority list. But most men are just big infants anyway, additional youthfulness just exacerbates the problem. What makes things immeasurably worse is that I am terribly old fashioned and prudish. I can’t be anything but ‘aunty’ with the younger men-folk.

And to add to my woes… this boy (the latest one) really truly looks the part, i.e. a boy. Um… how does one say this out loud?

Good grief I think he’s delicious! So much so that I want to pack him into a box and take him home and keep him all for myself… my loyal little slave (by slave I mean in a nice buttler-ish way, you perverts get your heads out of the toilet)…
He looks exactly like something out of those old Japanese cartoons… you know, the angular features, the spiky hair. But in fact nothing like them… because he is the most scrumptious shade of bronze ever (actually he’s probably just a mildly interesting shade of brown…I’ve just romanticised him into this perfect form). Comes from spending too much time in the sun… oh glorious sun to have lent such exotic pigmentation…and freckles…and there’s a little bit of sun in that smile of his too… and…
I am beside myself with a bucket load of inappropriate feelings.
He oozes ‘boy’ from every visible pore…he simply reeks of ‘boy’ from a mile away… oh to have him be mine…Ughhh I could just eat him up!

(in retrospect this outpouring has become more than slightly improper… ah what the hell, I’ll live dangerously this one time…propriety is overrated anyway)

At first I didn’t allow my mind to wander to such dirty thoughts. I carefully tip-toed around it, pretending to not care and even laughing it off indifferently. But my not quite iron resolve has melted yet again. And now it is treading the all too beaten path of all past obsessions. First, as a welcome reprieve between two particularly mundane pages of a reading. Till soon enough, the reading and all its contents become purely incidental… before moving on to being completely inconsequential. But none of this is fun. I am tortured by ill-timed pangs to be ‘responsible’ and ‘rational’. Such desperate recourse to reason and sense is quite unprecedented.

I’m sure this affliction will blow over, most if not all of them do. Moreover, I’m certain this demon child will not prove to be an inordinately difficult to exorcise. It is the present state of possession that I’ll just have to grow accustomed to.

God Save the Queen

And they said she’d never bounce back… Ha!

Not only has HRH, the Queen of Tsango recovered from a debilitating bout of the blues, she has staged a dramatic reappearance on the ‘social scene’ (ability to conduct oneself in conversation for more than 20 minutes at a stretch without sighing). Her prolonged absence from the field of play has proved immeasurably beneficial. Having recuperated from a chronic case of the disease that shall not be named, her highness marched out of the convalescent ward with that trademark zeal and is presently in the process of shamelessly ‘strutting her stuff’.

The knights regent have decided to commemorate this comeback by loudly proclaiming the name of their esteemed patron whenever within a five metre radius accompanied by much exaggerated saluting and bowing. The cheeky Queen, not satisfied by these prostrations has made a renewed request for impromptu performances of cheap hindi movie songs (brownie points for extra cheapness, muffins for consolation prizes), a proposal that has been met with a 66.7% rate of compliance (i.e. whole heartedly accepted by 2/3 loyal lieges).

Back at the Castle, the Queen is deep in the midst of loud and animated diplomatic parleys with three kinds of people

1. those who relentlessly admire her beauty
2. herself (who also classifies under type 1)
3. those with whom strategic alliances are being forged

With regards to the latter-est type, breaking news on the Daily Babbler reports that she has gained the allegiance of Shehzadi KB of the famed Lucknow Sultanate. Together they have vowed to combine their armies and wreak vengeance on the kingdom of the evil and loud (though mostly loud) R. LAMBAsticus, who after having greedily usurped territories in Yale, Columbia and NYU has set his sights on pastures closer to home. Reticent with regards to battle strategy all that was heard from the monarch’s mouth was a precocious, “Who needs ideas and plans? We’re bitchy… and enthusiastically so!”

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Never underestimate the resilience of blue blood.

Morning

The sun’s rays are quite polite really. They peer unobtrusively from outside of the window and fall gently onto my sleepy head. Tip toe past the balcony, past the bright green rail. Through the fabric of all the residents of my clothesline, ‘left high and dry’ way past the required amount of time. Through the tiny slits on the glass pane, between various bits and scraps of paper that are testimony to my exploits of the last two years.

And all the rays do is nudge slightly… they don’t push or yell…

Perhaps because they know that a nudge is all I need. Because I am happy. And no amount of sleep can keep me in bed.

*

Some of my deepest fears are associated with waking up. As a person who doesn’t require too much sleep (I always tell myself that it is my mutant super power. Yes, I’ll confess, I always wanted to be one of the X-Men, though if given a choice I think I’d pick Magneto…or maybe Storm), an inability to extricate myself from bed is a sign that things aren’t quite right. In fact that they are probably horribly and terribly wrong.

I think it all goes back to a time not so long ago, when apart from the usual set of maladies I was well near crippled by sleep. Paralysed by a fear of getting up, going out to a brand new day and not having the faintest idea of what to do with it. Wanting to do one of several things: a) to wake up, make a list of things to do, and just DO them. b) to stop time, put the world in suspended animation and sort things out in my head with my silly self. And as a last and final resort, c) to be swallowed whole by the bed, never to be heard of again. To disappear into nothing.

The still, lethargic summer just made it all worse.

[when I think about it, c) sounds suspiciously like wanting to die. Which is a scary thought isn’t it, contemplating death? I don’t know if what I wanted was a temporary reprieve or a more permanent solution… maybe I just needed a break. Either way, I never went ahead with it. Can’t say if it was bravery or cowardice that swung things in favour of continuing, but I haven’t regretted the decision even once. I figure I must be doing something right]

Half an hour of sleep would turn into two halves, an hour would turn into three…
And there I’d be, in the wee hours of the morning… choking on my own incompetence… with nothing to show for an entire night’s worth of intentions to be industrious. Trying desperately to rouse myself, wanting to go back to sleep… but then there’s only so much of escaping into slumber that anyone can do.

*

It all came hurtling back a few days ago. But this time I gave myself time to mope. I slept too much, woke up reluctantly, walked for miles like a zombie. Poked and prodded my brain for an answer, regurgitated my woes on sympathetic ears. Felt lonely and then suddenly claustrophobic. Agitated and restless I opted for my favourite brand of ‘nomad therapy’- moving from place to place at a moment’s notice, you couldn’t pay me enough to sit still.

And then suddenly it went away, like a piddling little cold it left no marks or scars. Much fodder for introspection though and ample material for a disturbingly boring blog post. Me thinks one needs to budget time for such emotional aberrations. To work them into our jam-packed schedules and allow ourselves to just ‘be’. To strategically place ourselves in the midst of distractions.

Sometimes not thinking about something can make a world of difference.