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..
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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.

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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'.
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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.

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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

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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..

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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..