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.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Thursday, 28 February 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 23 February 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Bouquet of leaves, crown of thorns and an albatross
HRH, the queen of Tsango surveyed the surroundings. And sighed…
Sigh sigh sigh…
The kingdom is in a shambles. The enthusiasm of recent victories swallowed whole by the acrimony of mundane squabbles. There is much unpleasant whispering in the portals of power. Much anxiety in the royal chambers. Much paranoia.
There is talk of a mutinous uprising. There is further talk of disaffection among members of a once loyal coterie. There is talk… of possible speculation… about gossip… concerning chit-chat… surrounding rumours… regarding hearsay…that something is amiss.
And there are those evil ghosts of the past. Resurgent devils that conjure up ugly memories transforming them into something tangible, something real. Putting the most vivid of reveries to shame. Swallowing up the months that have elapsed between then and now. As if not separated by months, but mere minutes.
*
And there remain so many obligations. So many demons to be vanquished. So many “to-do” lists to annihilate. Not to mention the forest fires to be doused. Loyal subjects to be rescued and delivered to greener pastures. All while battling conspiratorial coups, unprecedented levels of insecurity, a potentially debilitating case of the common cold and the most grievous malady of all- procrastination.
So much to do… so little inclination.
*
Oh, what is a queen to do? Given this advanced state of malaise, can the monarch rescue her state from the brink of implosion?
Rescue came at the hands of expected allies. Well- wishers came and delivered well-intended home remedies. A bespectacled owl offered the services of his chariot. A diminutive imp clad resplendently in bright red lent fervour to the chorus of diatribes. A sad clown lent a quiet, frustrated smile. An aspiring philosopher “just called to say…”. A dishevelled angel painted a frighteningly accurate picture of the illness, a diagnosis that was unpalatable, only because it was true. A troubled soul came to give misery some much- needed company. A tattooed invalid blew her nose, lent a warm blanket and warmer shoulder (a welcome relief to the cold ones received just hours before). A child came, offering hugs and attractively packaged treats.
Rescue came at the hands of expected allies. Well- wishers came and delivered well-intended home remedies. A bespectacled owl offered the services of his chariot. A diminutive imp clad resplendently in bright red lent fervour to the chorus of diatribes. A sad clown lent a quiet, frustrated smile. An aspiring philosopher “just called to say…”. A dishevelled angel painted a frighteningly accurate picture of the illness, a diagnosis that was unpalatable, only because it was true. A troubled soul came to give misery some much- needed company. A tattooed invalid blew her nose, lent a warm blanket and warmer shoulder (a welcome relief to the cold ones received just hours before). A child came, offering hugs and attractively packaged treats.
And some unexpected allies as well. Three to be precise. One short, one tall and one stuck uncertainly between the two. Braving cold winds and colder vibes, they came. Bearing leaves: one green, one brown and one a little bit of both. In grubby armour, but white knights nonetheless. And all the queen could do was blush uncomfortably.
*
So how will this story pan out? Is there hope for Tsango? Can all the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men piece together her much beleaguered morale?
Well, spring has made its eagerly awaited and much belated appearance. The sun is out and is here to stay (as per the predictions of the Renowned All-knowing Weather Woman and her trusty bunny- toothed sidekick Sug). If all else fails, Raquelle, Patron Saint of all Silent Sufferers of Tsango is expected back in time for things to reach critical mass.
Well, spring has made its eagerly awaited and much belated appearance. The sun is out and is here to stay (as per the predictions of the Renowned All-knowing Weather Woman and her trusty bunny- toothed sidekick Sug). If all else fails, Raquelle, Patron Saint of all Silent Sufferers of Tsango is expected back in time for things to reach critical mass.
This and a world of enticing attractions await HRH the Queen of Tsango. Success, however is contingent on her ability to get out of bed in time to face the day and all its challenges. The future of the kingdom hinges on the occurrence of this one auspicious event.
*
All we can hope is that good intentions (or at the very least an absence of malicious bad intentions) will be rewarded. A lot of trust has been callously put out into the universe. Here’s hoping the universe “returns the favour”.
Watch this space.
Watch this space.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Pet Peeves
Ok, this really doesn’t merit documentation, but I have the time so what the heck
These are a few of my not so favourite things
1. People who say “helloes” instead of “hello”:
Why oh why the superfluous salutations? One is enough I say. What joy is there to be gained from the use of the plural? It is ungrammatical and downright annoying. Maybe my vehemence stems from an inexplicable wariness of overly gregarious people. But even if you are competing in the popularity sweepstakes such tactics are unforgivable in my book. If it were me I’d stick to “hello hello..”. Just say it twice, it won’t kill you.
2. Men who sit cross-legged:
Ok this is a confession from my irrational and rather sexist side. I don’t know what it is about boys crossing their legs but it really grosses me out. I’m ashamed of my prejudices but getting rid of them is easier said than done. Perakath had an interesting theory for my condition. He said that men who cross their legs unconsciously handicap themselves in the department of… well… ahem… how does one say this…ah yes: reproduction. So by rejecting boys who do opt for the said objectionable style of sitting I am merely overlooking a poor mating prospect. Merely looking out for the best candidate for perpetuation of the species. Merely submitting to natural instinct.
I really wish the explanation were as rational as all that. To be honest I just think its a slightly “girly” way to sit. I suppose there is some truth to the whole “hunt for Alpha male” theory. But the reasons appear to be more aesthetic than biological.
3. People who wear rings:
Again, I can’t quite explain this one. Perhaps it can be traced back to some traumatic experience such as an inability to wear previously purchased rings due to disproportionate weight gain of fingers (don’t go there… its a sore topic). Or maybe my general disgust for people who believe in lucky stones and the like. Wedding/engagement rings are forgivable (even if on the hand of a particularly good looking man, after initial disappointment of course). But unless you have a solid reason for wearing one (no, “fashion” does not qualify as a valid explanation) the sub-conscious me is just going to hold it against you for ever. No kidding, I’ve even steered clear of reading Lord of the Rings (though the ample girth of the book may have played a crucial role in the decision)
4. Wardrobe related queries:
I hate it when people ask me why I am “dressed up”. It annoys me no end. Because the tacit implication is always that it is for the benefit of boys or boy in particular. Now I like boys as much as any other girl (us unfortunate heterosexual folk that is) but to think that I budget time from my busy schedule to preen myself for them is just plain insulting. Did the thought ever cross your feeble little minds that I like “dressing up” for me? That I like celebrating the fact that I own nice clothes. That I like to further celebrate the fact that I think I am beautiful. I celebrate it every day, even if it is in dirty jeans and shapeless uninspiring t-shirts.
Ok I’ve exhausted my stock of diatribes for the day. And I enjoyed putting it down. I hope it makes for good reading, even if slightly bitchy, low brow entertainment.
These are a few of my not so favourite things
1. People who say “helloes” instead of “hello”:
Why oh why the superfluous salutations? One is enough I say. What joy is there to be gained from the use of the plural? It is ungrammatical and downright annoying. Maybe my vehemence stems from an inexplicable wariness of overly gregarious people. But even if you are competing in the popularity sweepstakes such tactics are unforgivable in my book. If it were me I’d stick to “hello hello..”. Just say it twice, it won’t kill you.
2. Men who sit cross-legged:
Ok this is a confession from my irrational and rather sexist side. I don’t know what it is about boys crossing their legs but it really grosses me out. I’m ashamed of my prejudices but getting rid of them is easier said than done. Perakath had an interesting theory for my condition. He said that men who cross their legs unconsciously handicap themselves in the department of… well… ahem… how does one say this…ah yes: reproduction. So by rejecting boys who do opt for the said objectionable style of sitting I am merely overlooking a poor mating prospect. Merely looking out for the best candidate for perpetuation of the species. Merely submitting to natural instinct.
I really wish the explanation were as rational as all that. To be honest I just think its a slightly “girly” way to sit. I suppose there is some truth to the whole “hunt for Alpha male” theory. But the reasons appear to be more aesthetic than biological.
3. People who wear rings:
Again, I can’t quite explain this one. Perhaps it can be traced back to some traumatic experience such as an inability to wear previously purchased rings due to disproportionate weight gain of fingers (don’t go there… its a sore topic). Or maybe my general disgust for people who believe in lucky stones and the like. Wedding/engagement rings are forgivable (even if on the hand of a particularly good looking man, after initial disappointment of course). But unless you have a solid reason for wearing one (no, “fashion” does not qualify as a valid explanation) the sub-conscious me is just going to hold it against you for ever. No kidding, I’ve even steered clear of reading Lord of the Rings (though the ample girth of the book may have played a crucial role in the decision)
4. Wardrobe related queries:
I hate it when people ask me why I am “dressed up”. It annoys me no end. Because the tacit implication is always that it is for the benefit of boys or boy in particular. Now I like boys as much as any other girl (us unfortunate heterosexual folk that is) but to think that I budget time from my busy schedule to preen myself for them is just plain insulting. Did the thought ever cross your feeble little minds that I like “dressing up” for me? That I like celebrating the fact that I own nice clothes. That I like to further celebrate the fact that I think I am beautiful. I celebrate it every day, even if it is in dirty jeans and shapeless uninspiring t-shirts.
Ok I’ve exhausted my stock of diatribes for the day. And I enjoyed putting it down. I hope it makes for good reading, even if slightly bitchy, low brow entertainment.
Blame February
(pardon the general vagueness of this post. Advertising and the mainstream media have persuaded me into believing that there is some truth to the whole “month of love” thing… capitalism is such a curse)
I hate my phone. It has this awful habit of ringing when I’m not around. Or when I don’t wish to answer it. Or when I can’t bring myself to respond with any more than the bare essential monosyllables.
And when I am around and really itching and craving to speak… it will do anything but ring. I’ll cross my fingers (and toes and legs and eyes) but always in vain. I wait and wait… try to stare it into submission. Never works.
But most of all, I hate the person that some conversations bring out in me. ‘persons’ rather, because there are so many telephonic mes. There is the inexplicably incoherent and giggly me (topping my list of most irritating avatars). Then comes the terribly excited, ridiculously short of breath and awfully loud me. Then there is the droll and sarcastic me (she’s the smartest of the lot and also by far the most despicable).
But this post isn’t nearly as much about talking as it is turning out to be.
It rang today, at one of it’s trademark inconvenient times. The phone waited till all the stars were misaligned, all the odds stacked against the prospect of a pleasurable conversation…
1. I was walking home
2. Navigating noisy traffic
3. I needed to pee
“hey there little one…”.
A voice I would at some point have killed, nay, committed brutal, morbid homicides to hear.
“Can I talk to you in a bit, I’m in a hurry, really need to pee”
“Ha ha.. little miss P needs to pee…”
More cruel laughing follows. And then I join in. You know it’s strange, how and when we laugh. Is it because someone said something funny or nervous laughter or polite laughter or just laughter because that certain someone said it?
“ok so when should I call?”
“ooh…umm…crap… about twenty minutes?”
“twenty minutes… when was the last time you took a leak? Last Wednesday? Ha ha ha..”
“no I’m walking home, sprinting actually”
“really how far have you reached?”
“Erm…well…I…”
“You’ll never make it”
Well, it turns out I did successfully manage to reach back home, and dive into a loo just in time. Subsequent to which, a conversation did happen, a rather short one though. Fairly mundane too, one of those general haal chaal type things. As usual I sabotaged it right when it was getting promising. Sometimes I do these things…I worry that it is too good to be true and deliberately mess things up. Silly me.
And ever since I’ve just been swirling in the densest cloud of fuzziness. Half of me knows it was just a phone call, an exchange of harmless pleasantries. Try explaining that to the other half.
The other half is in the process of picking out dog’s names (a long time back it used to be children’s names. Then I figured that ruminating on prospective names for non-existent progeny was way too clichéd and filmy…so dogs it is). Choosing a suitable “our favourite restaurant” and “our song”. And by far my favourite topic for fantasizing: a dedication in a book (a long time back I really wanted to be loved by someone who wrote for a living, not books pertaining to any particular subject matter…I’m fairly flexible in that regard. But whatever it’s contents, it would have to be dedicated to me. Corny things like, “For S, the most beautiful woman in the world” would be absolutely inadmissible. It would have to be something personal, creative and preferably cryptic such as, “For S, wearer of candy striped socks and dubious expressions”. Ok enough, this bracket has taken up the better part of forever. Exit)
Both halves (at last count this post features about 5 versions of me) have their respective hearts in the right place. But it’s the latter (i.e. the hopeless romantic) who I’ll side with for the present, or at least till I wake up tomorrow as my cynical self (that makes it 6) and convince myself that it is boredom and loneliness that make relationships happen. Tomorrow I will lecture S about how love is not about love at all, but about circumstances. About the (right?) place and time. Two pathetic people and a double coincidence of wants. And S will agree, she’s a pushover and hates to argue… even if it is with one of her selves.
But tonight is a night for reveries. For a silly smile pasted resiliently on a face for hours on end. For a complete lack of concentration or ability to do anything except stare off into space…and smile some more.
I hope that I never outgrow these tendencies. They add a certain flavour to life that nothing else can quite replicate. Because love is a scary thing (I know it scares me a bit, to have to rely so completely on another person). And also because relationships are hard and at times downright tedious (I think the hardship and tedium grows exponentially, the more insecure one is). Because you can be completely captivated by someone and be entirely uncomfortable with it and unable to explain it.
But THIS is fun. Imagining the possibilities. Scripting future occurrences, conversations, glances. Like a delicious little tickle in your tummy that lingers on. Don’t know how worthy a destination love is. I’m more of an authority on “like” than “love”. But if “love” is anything like its much-belittled cousin “like”, then the journey to should prove to be truly rewarding.
I hate my phone. It has this awful habit of ringing when I’m not around. Or when I don’t wish to answer it. Or when I can’t bring myself to respond with any more than the bare essential monosyllables.
And when I am around and really itching and craving to speak… it will do anything but ring. I’ll cross my fingers (and toes and legs and eyes) but always in vain. I wait and wait… try to stare it into submission. Never works.
But most of all, I hate the person that some conversations bring out in me. ‘persons’ rather, because there are so many telephonic mes. There is the inexplicably incoherent and giggly me (topping my list of most irritating avatars). Then comes the terribly excited, ridiculously short of breath and awfully loud me. Then there is the droll and sarcastic me (she’s the smartest of the lot and also by far the most despicable).
But this post isn’t nearly as much about talking as it is turning out to be.
It rang today, at one of it’s trademark inconvenient times. The phone waited till all the stars were misaligned, all the odds stacked against the prospect of a pleasurable conversation…
1. I was walking home
2. Navigating noisy traffic
3. I needed to pee
“hey there little one…”.
A voice I would at some point have killed, nay, committed brutal, morbid homicides to hear.
“Can I talk to you in a bit, I’m in a hurry, really need to pee”
“Ha ha.. little miss P needs to pee…”
More cruel laughing follows. And then I join in. You know it’s strange, how and when we laugh. Is it because someone said something funny or nervous laughter or polite laughter or just laughter because that certain someone said it?
“ok so when should I call?”
“ooh…umm…crap… about twenty minutes?”
“twenty minutes… when was the last time you took a leak? Last Wednesday? Ha ha ha..”
“no I’m walking home, sprinting actually”
“really how far have you reached?”
“Erm…well…I…”
“You’ll never make it”
Well, it turns out I did successfully manage to reach back home, and dive into a loo just in time. Subsequent to which, a conversation did happen, a rather short one though. Fairly mundane too, one of those general haal chaal type things. As usual I sabotaged it right when it was getting promising. Sometimes I do these things…I worry that it is too good to be true and deliberately mess things up. Silly me.
And ever since I’ve just been swirling in the densest cloud of fuzziness. Half of me knows it was just a phone call, an exchange of harmless pleasantries. Try explaining that to the other half.
The other half is in the process of picking out dog’s names (a long time back it used to be children’s names. Then I figured that ruminating on prospective names for non-existent progeny was way too clichéd and filmy…so dogs it is). Choosing a suitable “our favourite restaurant” and “our song”. And by far my favourite topic for fantasizing: a dedication in a book (a long time back I really wanted to be loved by someone who wrote for a living, not books pertaining to any particular subject matter…I’m fairly flexible in that regard. But whatever it’s contents, it would have to be dedicated to me. Corny things like, “For S, the most beautiful woman in the world” would be absolutely inadmissible. It would have to be something personal, creative and preferably cryptic such as, “For S, wearer of candy striped socks and dubious expressions”. Ok enough, this bracket has taken up the better part of forever. Exit)
Both halves (at last count this post features about 5 versions of me) have their respective hearts in the right place. But it’s the latter (i.e. the hopeless romantic) who I’ll side with for the present, or at least till I wake up tomorrow as my cynical self (that makes it 6) and convince myself that it is boredom and loneliness that make relationships happen. Tomorrow I will lecture S about how love is not about love at all, but about circumstances. About the (right?) place and time. Two pathetic people and a double coincidence of wants. And S will agree, she’s a pushover and hates to argue… even if it is with one of her selves.
But tonight is a night for reveries. For a silly smile pasted resiliently on a face for hours on end. For a complete lack of concentration or ability to do anything except stare off into space…and smile some more.
I hope that I never outgrow these tendencies. They add a certain flavour to life that nothing else can quite replicate. Because love is a scary thing (I know it scares me a bit, to have to rely so completely on another person). And also because relationships are hard and at times downright tedious (I think the hardship and tedium grows exponentially, the more insecure one is). Because you can be completely captivated by someone and be entirely uncomfortable with it and unable to explain it.
But THIS is fun. Imagining the possibilities. Scripting future occurrences, conversations, glances. Like a delicious little tickle in your tummy that lingers on. Don’t know how worthy a destination love is. I’m more of an authority on “like” than “love”. But if “love” is anything like its much-belittled cousin “like”, then the journey to should prove to be truly rewarding.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Recap
Today I opened up my cupboard in search of something…something insignificant. And a few thousand things tumbled onto my amply dandruffed head. I figured that was as good a reason as any to resume blogging.
No, I’m not trying to be deep and metaphorical. And any allusions to Newtonian revelations (apple falls-meets skull-life altering idea happens) are unintended and purely coincidental. My cupboard is a royal mess and its contents no less subject to the laws of gravity than any odd thing.
A semester’s worth of notes. Bottles and tubes of cosmetics that Ma had so optimistically procured for me, discarded after initial short lived enthusiasm. Medicines- pills and potions untouched and well past their expiry dates. Books, oh so many books that I had ambitiously lugged all the way from home, and never ended up reading. Countless pairs of well ventilated socks (with the statutory minimum number of holes for toes to peep out of. I swear to God I don’t think I own a single pair of socks that is intact i.e. un-hole-ey). The carcass of my recently deceased CPU, newly procured blood red cane bag. Two prized pairs of jeans, well passed their prime and torn beyond any hope of salvage.
An unopened bottle of kingfisher, patiently awaiting that perfect vela evening. The iron I “borrowed” two months ago and cruelly appropriated thereafter. Possession of either, if discovered entails a hefty fine/expulsion from the hostel. Several ratty old bras, possession of which if discovered entails severe reddening of cheeks (I’d rather be caught with booze or unauthorised electrical appliances than with my hand in the “desperately in need of disposal” underwear drawer)
A frighteningly large number of pairs of shoes and enough clothes to last a reasonably frugal person two life times. In my defence, I seek recourse in the much-loved excuse of all supposedly tortured souls: I blame my mother. She bought most of it. Either that or sent subtle messages authorising unbridled sprees of conspicuous consumption.
Two years worth of memories, two years of anecdotes to add to my burgeoning Delhi diary. Two years of living, learning, losing, laughing, labouring (not much with the allegories but I’m a sucker for alliteration. Not to mention corny-ass prose)
And now it’s all lying on the floor, hours after the mishap, staring at me expectantly, waiting to be packed away in the cobwebbed recess of the almirah, behind noisy steel doors. But it’ll just have to wait. Later, later...
This is exactly the attitude that got the cupboard in its present sorry state. Exactly the signature brand of procrastination which has become my calling card. Thorn in my side… bane of my existence.
I’m so accustomed to living in a world completely steeped and drowned in “things”. So at ease with tip toeing around huge mounds of “stuff”. Crumbling under the weight of my own consumerist-cum-hoarder tendencies.
Who will ever put up with me? Accommodate me in their home and watch helplessly as the mess seeps below the door of my room into theirs. Who would ever risk moving in next door? To live and breathe in constant fear that the wasteland in the neighbourhood might reach critical mass and explode, obliterating all signs of life in a 1 mile radius.
So we’ve decided- Mona, Bob, Target the dog, the lizards and myself- to move to the nearest hitherto uninhabited island. We’ll take the pigeons too, if they promise to not annoy us any more than they already do. An entire nation to ourselves. One where we can be our unkempt and messy selves and hold our heads up with pride. Ownership of brooms and mops would be a penal offence (we’re still debating the status of narcotics and fire arms).
We’d let people visit and all… I wonder how long they’d want to stay though.
*
This was supposed to be mostly about the mess in my room. But it became about a lot more things along the way. Eh…bleh.
*
Inside Joke
Pooch, heartening news love. I may have lost my USB, but I seem to have located the whereabouts of my “pen-drive”.
*
Radio Ga-Ga
While on the subject of this, that and the other, lets change it completely.
I love my new radio! Yes, yes I am clearly several decades behind my time. While the rest of the world is discovering the joys of ever shrinking entertainment aids I go and procure for myself a pocket radio (meant for fairly large pockets mind you), with a real live antenna and everything. I’m a slave to its pencil cell operated scratchy sounds.
Though mere mortals scoff, label me a moron (the best response I’ve received so far: “you have seen an i-pod right?”) and fail to share my enthusiasm I’m all set to label this the “Best Birthday Impulse Buy Ever” and “Perfect Quarter Life Crisis Antidote”.
*
What I love most about these days is that there is absolutely nothing spectacular going on. Only mildly pleasing occurrences that require little or no effort to put together. Yes, there was the odd battle or two (“odd” being the operative word) but I’m sure just desserts are in the offing. Everything is proceeding at the pace that I am most comfortable with and in the company I most enjoy: Mine.
*
I don’t really ascribe to the following, being generally of an optimistic frame of mind and having had a lovely birth-weekend (it was more than just a day). But its 4 am and I feel a nonsense rhyme coming on.
Dr. Puri’s “How the Grinch Stole Birthday”
(Sing to the tune of “Happy Birthday”)
Piece together your will
‘Cos your over the hill
You thought you’d do great things
But you’re just run of the mill
You live in a zoo
Eligible men are so few
Each looks like a monkey
And most smell like one too
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you
*
I turned 23 somewhere in between. It was a fairly ordinary day, and I loved every minute of it.
No, I’m not trying to be deep and metaphorical. And any allusions to Newtonian revelations (apple falls-meets skull-life altering idea happens) are unintended and purely coincidental. My cupboard is a royal mess and its contents no less subject to the laws of gravity than any odd thing.
A semester’s worth of notes. Bottles and tubes of cosmetics that Ma had so optimistically procured for me, discarded after initial short lived enthusiasm. Medicines- pills and potions untouched and well past their expiry dates. Books, oh so many books that I had ambitiously lugged all the way from home, and never ended up reading. Countless pairs of well ventilated socks (with the statutory minimum number of holes for toes to peep out of. I swear to God I don’t think I own a single pair of socks that is intact i.e. un-hole-ey). The carcass of my recently deceased CPU, newly procured blood red cane bag. Two prized pairs of jeans, well passed their prime and torn beyond any hope of salvage.
An unopened bottle of kingfisher, patiently awaiting that perfect vela evening. The iron I “borrowed” two months ago and cruelly appropriated thereafter. Possession of either, if discovered entails a hefty fine/expulsion from the hostel. Several ratty old bras, possession of which if discovered entails severe reddening of cheeks (I’d rather be caught with booze or unauthorised electrical appliances than with my hand in the “desperately in need of disposal” underwear drawer)
A frighteningly large number of pairs of shoes and enough clothes to last a reasonably frugal person two life times. In my defence, I seek recourse in the much-loved excuse of all supposedly tortured souls: I blame my mother. She bought most of it. Either that or sent subtle messages authorising unbridled sprees of conspicuous consumption.
Two years worth of memories, two years of anecdotes to add to my burgeoning Delhi diary. Two years of living, learning, losing, laughing, labouring (not much with the allegories but I’m a sucker for alliteration. Not to mention corny-ass prose)
And now it’s all lying on the floor, hours after the mishap, staring at me expectantly, waiting to be packed away in the cobwebbed recess of the almirah, behind noisy steel doors. But it’ll just have to wait. Later, later...
This is exactly the attitude that got the cupboard in its present sorry state. Exactly the signature brand of procrastination which has become my calling card. Thorn in my side… bane of my existence.
I’m so accustomed to living in a world completely steeped and drowned in “things”. So at ease with tip toeing around huge mounds of “stuff”. Crumbling under the weight of my own consumerist-cum-hoarder tendencies.
Who will ever put up with me? Accommodate me in their home and watch helplessly as the mess seeps below the door of my room into theirs. Who would ever risk moving in next door? To live and breathe in constant fear that the wasteland in the neighbourhood might reach critical mass and explode, obliterating all signs of life in a 1 mile radius.
So we’ve decided- Mona, Bob, Target the dog, the lizards and myself- to move to the nearest hitherto uninhabited island. We’ll take the pigeons too, if they promise to not annoy us any more than they already do. An entire nation to ourselves. One where we can be our unkempt and messy selves and hold our heads up with pride. Ownership of brooms and mops would be a penal offence (we’re still debating the status of narcotics and fire arms).
We’d let people visit and all… I wonder how long they’d want to stay though.
*
This was supposed to be mostly about the mess in my room. But it became about a lot more things along the way. Eh…bleh.
*
Inside Joke
Pooch, heartening news love. I may have lost my USB, but I seem to have located the whereabouts of my “pen-drive”.
*
Radio Ga-Ga
While on the subject of this, that and the other, lets change it completely.
I love my new radio! Yes, yes I am clearly several decades behind my time. While the rest of the world is discovering the joys of ever shrinking entertainment aids I go and procure for myself a pocket radio (meant for fairly large pockets mind you), with a real live antenna and everything. I’m a slave to its pencil cell operated scratchy sounds.
Though mere mortals scoff, label me a moron (the best response I’ve received so far: “you have seen an i-pod right?”) and fail to share my enthusiasm I’m all set to label this the “Best Birthday Impulse Buy Ever” and “Perfect Quarter Life Crisis Antidote”.
*
What I love most about these days is that there is absolutely nothing spectacular going on. Only mildly pleasing occurrences that require little or no effort to put together. Yes, there was the odd battle or two (“odd” being the operative word) but I’m sure just desserts are in the offing. Everything is proceeding at the pace that I am most comfortable with and in the company I most enjoy: Mine.
*
I don’t really ascribe to the following, being generally of an optimistic frame of mind and having had a lovely birth-weekend (it was more than just a day). But its 4 am and I feel a nonsense rhyme coming on.
Dr. Puri’s “How the Grinch Stole Birthday”
(Sing to the tune of “Happy Birthday”)
Piece together your will
‘Cos your over the hill
You thought you’d do great things
But you’re just run of the mill
You live in a zoo
Eligible men are so few
Each looks like a monkey
And most smell like one too
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you
*
I turned 23 somewhere in between. It was a fairly ordinary day, and I loved every minute of it.
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