Sunday, December 27, 2009

Profound Witticism Of The Day

How can I be a fish and a cat at the same time?

I may flounder, but I'll always land on my feet.

All rights registered. Happy Holidays!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

What On Earth Do You Want?

Who is this shimmering, transient quantity called you? Why is it important that you should be? Why do you need to be? And why is this need dulling with every day that passes in a mediocre, less than okay haze? When purpose is missing, and talent questionable, how long can you run? And why are you running? After so many, many days of giving in, why does it rankle so sharply still? The conviction of being something, something worth being, that shone like a torch inside for so many years; where along the way did it quench itself without ceremony? Why do words offer poor consolation, when they have been more than adequate shoulders for a lifetime thus far? And do you even want to know? Or is the asking deliverance enough?

What do you want? Not need, because need is something you have no say over. What do you want with the fierceness of flame and the grit of dripping water seducing rock into sand? What do you want with a passion that rages across your mind and your soul, without relent, without rest? What do you want to be, to assuage a fear building for years, that may be this is all there is and ever will be. What will shield you against the cutting licks of desperation and the beginning of despair? Where has your body of strength disappeared behind a shadow of impersonal mass? Do you want, and want badly enough? Will you, ever again?

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Life In Limbo

My brain is so rusty with disuse that I can hear it creaking whenever I try to think about anything more challenging than "Is it time to the bathroom?". Is it the work? Is it the house? Is it the life? How does one fill a void one can't find? Should I have lived during the bubonic plague so that I'd have more substantial things to worry about?

All right, I need a break. This blog is on hiatus till further notice (or RSS update). Because melted icecream is just, well, mush. And no one likes mush.

Much love.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Convent Educated

These past few weeks, I've been thinking about my schooldays a lot. This particular wave of nostalgia was triggered by a classmate who recently got married and did the requisite commemoration of the event on various social networking sites. We had been rather close at a point of time, and in remembrance of that particular chapter of our lives, she had sent me an invitation two months ago. Of course, I didn't go, but what struck me a little was how I didn't even consider going.

This friend of mine, S, was my partner on the quiz team in school. Well, we were the quiz team in school. Between the seventh and the tenth standards, we spent a lot of time together trying to win glory for our school with our astonishing knowledge of random trivia. We had our moments. We were the first all girls team to qualify for the final round of a particularly prestigious city competition (which we eventually lost). We had four exciting and exhausting years, competition after competition, and a friendship burgeoning in between. My mother was taken by S's other worldly commitment to her studies. Her parents also seemed fond of me. We lost touch after school, and over the years, I only heard of her, not from her.

So when I saw her wedding pictures, I was looking at her, really looking at her, after a gap of nine years. And it freaked me out a little. I know it's unrealistic to expect everyone else to stay the same while your own life moves on, but I just keep picturing everyone else still in their school uniforms. How can they be getting married? Are some of them seriously posting pictures of their children?

Driving down the lane of your own intensely important life, you tend to keep others' lives constant just to give you perspective. When it finally filters down to you that the rest of the world is moving too, it can be oddly unsettling. I miss the existence of the two too serious girls in their navy blue blazers and skirts, discussing the latest weird factoid in the corridors of a beautiful, still colonial school. I miss the fact that school is one part of my life that I have absolutely no contact with, keeping it fossilized in my memory. Most of all, after all these years, I still miss school as sharply as I did after I left. But that actually makes me happy.

Congratulations, S. You were beautiful.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Divine Inanity

I used to write poetry some time ago. Used to because these days I don't write anything apart from mediocre copy and superlative grocery lists. But today I read some of the stuff I'd written and kept secret all this while. Then I decided to post some of the poems in order to feel that I've earned the right to an evil smirk. Here's one now:

They build you temples,
Mosques, churches,
Even complicated sounding places
Like synagogues, imagine that.
They look to you
With hope, everyday
Believing that every little sorrow
In you, will be assuaged.
Kindness, mercy, love, wisdom
Are contained in you, they think.
Incense, flowers, wafers, wine
Small things to get you
To notice, to care.
But you keep laughing,
Hurting and watching,
Lashing out at the very fools
Who then grasp you closer still,
Wondering why the gashes
Keep working deeper in.

One day you will be found out
For what you really are.
No benevolent mother, or magnanimous father.
Just a vicious child, with more toys
Than he knows what to do with.
I wonder if I should tell them
Maybe get stoned to an early demise.
But lift the mists in the process
Of them wondering why.
I only hold my tongue because
Wilful child or not,
In you lies the hope
That they hold on to,
The possibility of a morning
A little less blue.
It's not you that I bow to,
You're a child of cruel whim, destructive fantasy.
I bow to the ones
Who know no better than
To put all their faith, their trust,
Their hope, everything in you.
Their faith moves
My mountain everyday
So you keep playing, and I let you be,
Needless delusion, futile, necessary.

Monday, August 03, 2009

It Wasn't Supposed To Be

He wasn't supposed to die. She was sure of this, surer indeed than of anything else in the world, including her own existence. She couldn't imagine anyone more solid, more real than him. Why was it then that everyone around her refused to meet her eyes when she asked about him? When the warmth had still not left his body, why did his eyes refuse to light up? And just what was she supposed to do if he did actually prove her wrong?

As it turned out, he did prove her wrong. He died barely six days after being rushed to the hospital. He died in the same manner in which he had lived - quietly, with dignity. He even chose the wee hours of the morning so that there would be no one around to create a fuss. The next time she saw him, she no longer had the warmth of his body to console her anymore. Her children wept at the sheer incomprehensibility of it all. Her own mind was reeling with questions. How was it possible for the world to keep moving? Or did the world simply not care for the passing of quiet, dignified men? How was she supposed to fill the little voids he left in every single pattern of the life they had crafted together for the last twenty five years? How was she supposed to surmount her insomnia to make sure that the kids got to school on time? Who was supposed to ensure the precise shape and texture of the rotis? How was she going to make any sense of the innumerable minutiae of life that he had stored in the different corners of his mind? Would people ever know that he'd written her poetry?

Her mind came to the only conclusion she could fathom - it was unnatural, it had not been fated. Now every other player in that theatre of illness and uncertainty was suspect in her eyes. Her relatives, there was a reason they had refused to meet her eyes. They were killing him, they had killed him. Friends and well wishers drew away, the ones who remained suggested that to decipher unnatural events she had to consult those with supernatural faculties. Therein began the never-ending line of holy men, yes men and of course men. They were sure he'd been killed. If only they had been consulted, they would've saved him. Even now, danger lurked around her and her children. Amethysts and pearls, emeralds and opals were the only protection. They all visited, sympathized, prescribed and disappeared. She never seemed to find peace. After every holy man left, she would meet a detractor who denounced him as fake, and lead her to another. The wall of gemstones and suspicion had turned into a fortress which left the world outside. She was happy in her prison because it was just the way she liked it - orderly and neat, with thoughts that stayed in their boxes. And yet, all the gemstones in the world couldn't drive away the sight of his face and the little proofs of his existence that still made her weep. Was there any stone in the world powerful enough to drive away the love from her heart?

Within two years of a holy man predicting that she would live to a ripe old age, she lay dying. Her fortress was in ruins and she was letting go of life everyday, bit by little bit. The friends and well wishers crowded around her once again. They wondered if this helpless waif could be the vital, colourful person they had known. They implored her to try living, but how did one live with a heart that was so irrevocably broken? She lingered for a few moments, taking in the faces of those who had meant something to her in an existence which was getting more difficult to remember with every passing second. A few more moments, and then it was done. The ignominies of life were rendered powerless, and with her last breath she found him again, waiting as patiently as he'd always had. For once, love had won over the need to let go.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

A Series of Unfortunate Events

They made me move out of my perfect apartment. Some high-flying company decided that their executives needed the house with one red wall more than I did. The landlord's compliance was purchased with a princely sum of money. The roomie and I looked around for a week or so. It made me realize certain things all over again:

1. Moral policing is a landlord's definition of value addition.
2. This whole metropolis thing is a sham to disguise mindsets which are narrower than Slimfast powered waistlines and more medieval than all the assorted K soaps.
3. If you're unmarried, your virtue (?!) is to be guarded zealously by conducting random checks on your household, for your safety of course.
4. If you're single/non-Hindu/slightly independent of mind, you should live on the street.
5. If you don't believe that owning a house makes people demigods, you should live in the gutter that flows by the street.
6. In your house hunt, you will say 'uncle' more times than you have ever said in the rest of your life.
7. Wine shop owners are not appropriate landlords. After a while, the fumes go to their heads.

Let me decode it for you. We fell in love with a beautiful, fully furnished place owned by aforementioned wine shop guy. After packing for two days, hiring transport and moving in, the guy hectored us for an hour for having 'itna zyaada saaman'. Then he proceeded to humiliate a friend who had come to help us because he happened to be male. The same night, we moved to another place where the landlord was easier to live with simply because he doesn't live in Mumbai. So if something seems too good to be true, it is, really.

One more of my teeth has decided to go to the Great Big Mouth. Of course, the process of its demise is exceedingly painful and equally expensive. To top it all, I'm supposed to be churning out creative ideas to garner new clients while my head feels an electrocuted, overly tuned guitar wire.

She came to visit me for barely three days, out of which one day went to the dogs because I was travelling on work. Woe is me for ever imagining that work related travel could be interesting and fun. The work is interesting, yes, but the travel is an exercise in wishing you were elsewhere. Of course, there are also moments when you discover new facets to your personality. Like the moment when I shut up two loudmouths who weren't letting the other participants talk, simply by being politely rude. Now that was fun.

At one research trip, I managed to lose my glasses for almost three hours. Three hours of blundering my way through a blurred world, trying to convince myself that I could conduct a serious group discussion wearing sunglasses. And some people should really stop with the 'Tough Love' pep talks. Unless you've walked a mile in my shoes, or seen the world with my very poor eyesight, skip the lecture.

And then, Michael Jackson died. I mean, is it funny to someone up there?

And yes, I really meant every word of the post title.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Here We Go Again

Over the last couple of months, I've been very detached from the blog. I've preferred reading to writing, and not just out of laziness. I even mulled announcing that the blog and I are on a break, but I couldn't do something so self important and keep a straight face. It's not that I've finally run out of things I wanna say or write. It's not even that I'm too busy (it's never that. If you wanna do something you'll make the time). It's just that the 'what to say' has been overwhelmed by the 'how to say it'. I'm trying to get over that, so here it is.

We met a year and a half ago, driven by mutual curiosity elicited by somewhat deft wordplay which filled up the minutes we spent at work, glued to our screens. We read each other and wrote to each other with a level of intimacy that only very close friends share. We were both addicted to the catharsis of blogdom in a world that spun either too fast or too slow for our liking. He wrote like I wanted to write, and what I wrote gave him pleasure. We had windows into each others' minds long before we met. Of course, the real world is different, and it contains the very real possibility of turning virtual friendships into quietly shushed embarrassments of the past.

But we did meet, and it was so easy that we never noticed the shift. It was simple to be friends, simpler even to be more than friends. A relationship was forged during midnight rambles about philosophy and vada pav, the weight of family expectations and the hilarity of existential angst. We met everyday, without fail, and we never forgot to share a few laughs. I moved to a new place so he could visit without encountering the unpleasantness of a landlady. We fell into a pattern where I always got my way and he always gave in, where I bullied and he let me, where I tried to get him to read Harry Potter and realized the strength of passive resistance. Our friends started referring to the two of us as a collective noun, and we never felt any danger of losing ourselves.

Love is deceptively easy to get used to, especially when it's the kind of love you've unconsciously been holding your breath for. So I've gotten used to the smell of the skin just above his temple, the quick smile that always manages to overlook my instinct for world dominance and the voice that is meant only for me because if anyone else hears it, it'll be the joke of the century. He's gotten used to my hectoring and shrillness, my impulsive demands and my thorough conviction that I am always better and always right. Now we've gotten to a point where we're pretty much unlivable without the other. Of course, this means that he now has to move away.

It's not the most difficult thing in the world. It's not that we can't make it work, or that we 're entertaining any doubts about what we want to do with our lives. It's just that I'm tired. Tired of change announcing itself on me. I could probably get him to stay, but of course I won't. I would never grudge him the opportunity he's been waiting for all his life. But emotions are never absolute, and being happy for him would be so much easier if I could pack myself in his suitcase. I know I shouldn't be this way, but I just am. I'll stop.

Just as soon as you explain to me how to have Friday night dinner with a phone and how to get Google Chat to give me a hug on Sunday evenings.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Borrowing Others' Words, Coz I Don't Have Any

From Professor Dumbledore.

If you ever have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember Cedric Diggory (or what I take to mean keeping your eye on the long road).

From The Mask.

I can take off the mask anytime I wanna. I just don't wanna.

I've never been good at being cryptic or mysterious. But this isn't the time to spill my guts. All I can say is that I really, really, really don't wanna. And it's driving me crazy.

I wanna crawl into a dark little burrow for a while. Any suggestions?

Sunday, March 15, 2009

25 Things That Hardly Matter

Just because I don't like writing on Facebook.

1. Right now I'm playing fetch with Ramprasad, my Facebook pup.
2. Whenever I read about Madeline Bassett in any of the Jeeves books, I get more convinced that she was written because Wodehouse found Anne of Green Gables ridiculous.
3. Mosquitoes did not let me sleep all night, so I read the Deathly Hallows book for the nth time. Harry Potter is an inexpressible comfort to me.
4. I find all doctors sinister, even the friendly, white haired 'Family Doctor Uncle'.
5. Masakalli makes me feel like I could fly.
6. Today I discovered that poppy seeds are called khus khus in Hindi.
7. The most ridiculous thing that happened to me recently was when I was huffing and puffing away on the treadmill. As it is, treadmills make me feel unco-ordinated and nervous. To add to that, my gym plays crappy remixes all the time. The icing on the cake was the woman next to me, loudly exhorting everyone to 'Shake it Daddy'.
8. I'm deeply convinced of the innate decency of Gregory Peck.
9. I feel embarrassed when other people do stupid things, even in the movies. I look away because I feel like I'm watching something indecent.
10. Yesterday I washed and dried all the detachable parts of my fridge, taking neat freak to a new level.
11. I'm so used to PVR that I find that all other cinema theatres smell funny.
12. My trainer recently told me that my life is doomed because I never played any sports in school. He has told me this everytime I've worked out with him. Now I wonder how many muscles I will benefit by socking him on the jaw.
13. I think that the term 'White Lies' takes the cake as far as racism in language is concerned.
14. Somehow, the knowledge that Hermione Granger is played by an actress who is a straight As student in real life feels right.
15. I can't believe how large a number 25 is.
16. I don't know if I'll ever have kids, but I've got names picked out.
17. I still write letters, old fashioned pen and paper ones, to the two people in the world who write back. I love it.
18. I have a couple of giant regrets, a few of which I plan to address by getting back to academics someday.
19. Boredom and idleness make a fascinating cocktail. That is my poison.
20. Dating someone younger to me has made me realize that age does matter, just not in the ways we think.
21. If I had to think of one word to describe how I'd like to feel, that word would be Sufiyana.
22. Dave Barry is my Monday morning ritual.
23. The best thing about the aftermath of Delhi 6 is the number of people I've discovered who are in love with Delhi. Thoda sa resham, thoda khurdura, a slice of the same ancient soul in all of us.
24. Tomorrow I have to tell my client that she lacks professionalism and courtesy, without offending her. I'm looking forward to it.
25. Mangoes are God's way of making up for life.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Clickety Clack

You know, there is always that moment. The one where things clear up in your head with a resounding click. The click may be a perky one or a gloomy one, depending on the subject of the epiphany. I've had more than my fair share of those during my life.

The day I saw Aamir Khan on screen for the first time, when I was about four years old. Click! Barbie was a mere crush, this is love.

The thousandth time that my elder sister was beating the crap out of me, while I was retaliating with all my might, but with little effect. Click! There are some battles you can never win.

The time I was watching Roman Holiday in SKT's house. Audrey Hepburn woke up, looked around at Gregory Peck's modest apartment, and asked in her regal tones, "Is this the elevator?" Click! Girl crush.

After three years of reading blogs, scrapbooks, walls and suchlike, click! Very, very few situations in life merit the use of an exclamation mark.

The first time I met A, after three days wondering what I would do if he looked like a paunchy kind of yeti. Click! I'm superficial, and he's not Sasquatch.

The time I spent a whole evening at an awards show, looking at the brightest stars of the film industry. Click! It's boring, they're boring. And it's painful how much I don't care.

Yesterday, when I was spending my day off squatting in the bathroom shampooing my stuffed dog Chandu. Click! I'm so very old.

The first time I tried to write a post and drew a complete blank, about three weeks ago. Click! People change.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Comprehension Refuses To Dawn

It's something that has happened everywhere that I have ever lived or visited. It's something conducted with stealth and co-ordination akin to a secret service operation. It's something everyone does, and everyone knows that everyone does this, and yet we all do it in secret. If we see someone doing this openly, we try to persuade them to do it under some sort of cover so that it is not seen by others. And I have never understood why.

I'm referring to the act of putting underwear/innerwear out to dry. People who have otherwise had a very evolved outlook on life have advised me on how I should cover underwear with a towel so that people from outside can't see it hanging with the other drying clothes. It is most puzzling and it throws up certain questions:

1. Why are people embarrassed about underwear?

2. Is it shameful to wear underwear or to go without it?

3. If it is assumed that wearing underwear is a desirable quality in people, isn't washing underwear necessary for reasons of hygiene?

4. Since washed underwear cannot be worn while it is wet, should it not be dried?

5. If wearing and washing underwear are respectable pursuits, why is drying it a covert activity?

6. Why does it reflect on the respectability of a household if drying underwear is as visible as other clothes?

7. Wouldn't the sight of drying underwear reassure you that the nice family you were visiting believed in both wearing and washing their underclothes?

Tangentially, let's look at the concept of underwear itself. It is being used, rather brilliantly I believe, by the Pink Chaddi campaign to make a point about loose, forward, pub going women like myself to the Sri Ram Sena, the self appointed guardians of my womanly modesty and yours. It's bright, it's fun, and it has had quite an impact because of the very nature of the campaign. It has also evoked some inexplicable reactions among some other well-wishers of Indian women.

I read a post by Sagarika Ghose of CNN IBN arguing that this campaign would somehow render the whole argument against this kind of corrosive moral policing frivolous. Some others have called it vulgar, a brash idea brought to life by a few westernized apostates, something a 'truly Indian' girl would never do. I have difficulty understanding these arguments. Why should this campaign prevent other less 'frivolous' engagements with the issue from coming to the fore? If anyone genuinely wishes to make a point, chaddis are not going to drown out his/her voice. Let's face it, most of us did absolutely nothing to address the issue before the inventive chaddi brigade. And it is equally restrictive and dangerous for us to undermine someone else's debate because it does not go along with what we construe as serious.

The reason I believe that this campaign was necessary was that I didn't see anyone else doing anything remotely meaningful about it. Apart from a few newsroom discussions and indignant editorials, nothing happened. A few men were arrested and let out on bail, so that they could begin making threats again. There was a gaping chasm, a complete absence of the meaningful debate that is supposedly being threatened by our frivolous underthings.

As for the argument that most of the 'real Indian' women cannot relate to this sort of action and that it is not representative of that constituency, the loose and forward pub going woman is as much of an Indian as the exemplary woman of Pramod Muthalik's fevered imagination. This may be a campaign by a miniscule elite educated and westernized section of Indian womanhood. But since it is this very demographic and its way of life that is under such vicious attack, isn't it only fair to expect a response out of it?

So yes, the next time you come to tell us that we belong at home, that you get to decide how we should live our lives, the next time that you froth with indignation at our way of life conveniently before major elections, we will treat you with the contempt that you so richly deserve. We will throw at you the humble chaddi which, for all its disrepute, has more reason to be proud of itself than you do.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Her Story

Once there was a little girl. She was a fanciful kind of child, and she liked nothing better than to listen to her grandmother spinning yarns on lazy afternoons. At one such session, her grandmother abruptly interrupted her story and admonished the little girl for shaking her legs while sitting. The little girl protested, "But Dad does it too!" Grandma replied that it was alright for him because he was a man. The little girl could not understand how she knew, but she knew instantly that Grandma was wrong. Maybe it was because she had heard her Dad tell one of her aunts who had tried to sympathize with his son-less state that in his eyes, each of his three daughters was as good as ten sons. The little girl kept shaking her legs.

In time, the little girl grew up to become just a girl. She started noticing that people on the streets looked at her differently when she walked on the road. Their eyes followed her, bothered her, made her feel like she was under some kind of spotlight. She hated every instant of it, so she decided to cover herself up and make herself invisible. She wore clothes which could have accommodated her twice over, she wore dull colours, she did everything she could do make herself invisible, and yet they never stopped looking. She envied her friends who wore shapely clothes and riotous colours, but never had the courage to follow suit.

Then came a day when that selfsame grandmother told the girl to wear jeans, because they flattered her more than the gunny bags she usually wore. The girl realized that she need not be ashamed if people looked at her. She wore colour, and she was happy. She wore well-cut clothes, and she was pretty. She felt sorry for all the women trapped in the faraway realm of Talibanistan, who were beaten in public for showing the teensiest bit of skin, as though their very physical existence was somehow shameful and needed to be hidden. She felt secure and thankful for the country that, for all its lascivious eyes, did not seek to put her away in a corner, deny her being and make her feel like she was less of a person than any man.

The girl grew into the woman who laughed aloud without fear when she found things funny, earned a living through her own hard work and also earned the luxury of doing what she wanted in her free time. When she had her first drink, it was not really a momentous occasion, mostly because she had never thought of this as something proscribed to her. She danced when she was happy, and her friends danced with her. She held hands with the one she loved, because it made her heart sing. She was free, unfettered and proud. She was the daughter her Dad had been so proud of.

Then some people decided that the woman was not how she should be. She did not hide her face anymore. She did not cower at their sight anymore. She did not cast her eyes down when they spoke to her. And she spoke back. She made them feel less sure of themselves, no matter how many times their mothers told them that they were special too. They could not deal with her, so they beat her up. They hit her, shamed her and laughed at her. They pushed her back into the box and labelled it culture, because most people had no idea what culture was. They felt secure because she could no longer undermine them, could no longer make them feel less.

Some people saw her in the box labelled culture, and came towards her. She looked at them hopefully, because they looked like they had power in their hands. They looked at her for a moment, refusing to meet her eyes. In that instant, they betrayed her. They talked in serious voices, while shutting out the sound of her voice. They quickly agreed that she belonged in the box-labelled-culture. She was less than a person, she had no mind, of course she didn't know what was bad for her. She would drink her liver into oblivion if given half a chance, she would corrupt the spotless minds of the boys on the streets by holding their hands and the country would descend into chaos if she didn't bring up another generation just like the one that had shamed her.

And the woman was silenced. Her country turned into a repository of culture, a culture of silence at the pain of death. She trained her daughters to keep quiet, stay out of the way and never talk back. They were told that shame was their raiment, that honour resided between their legs and not in their conduct, and they were too base, too stupid and wicked to preserve it without the instruction of their fathers. The colour went out of life once again, the country withered into a cultured shambles, and she still kept quiet. She heeded every instruction of the guardians of the box-labelled-culture and she had no need to think ever again. After all, she was a woman, not a person.

It need not be so. Go over here and sign up.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Can Life Get Better?

You guessed it. I'm happy. Sharp (and sweet) of you to notice. Let me tell you why.

Mohit Chauhan's singing into my ears words penned by Gulzar. Some I understand, some I don't. But I know them all. The strange rhythms of a graceful, earthy language, further spurred on to dance their strange dance by a music effusive as sunrise, seductive as sunset. And yet another movie on Delhi! Ah, happiness.

It's past two in the morning and I'm writing a post. It can only mean one thing. I've got an internet connection for that most beloved of laptops, The Sexy Beast. He's over two years old and has lost some of his sheen. But now he looks distinguished, war weary and thrillingly familiar. In short, he's yummier than ever.

I just realized that I need not blog from work again. Sigh (a happy one, finally).

Alexander Mccall Smith's latest has been devoured and placed alongwith the rest of my books. My library (or something like it) has finally made its way from Delhi and found its place in Mumbai.

Two more days in this extended weekend that has started so well. And Icecream has a brand new look! Arctic blue and yet warm, like the soul that this blog has preserved, quite independent of me.

And I just know that little Pinkerton, my younger sister, will tell me in a few days that Dev Patel has caught her fancy. I will rejoice at the fact that Ranbir Kapoor has finally been replaced.

I could just sing right now.

Hawa se judd, ada se udd..

Monday, January 12, 2009

I'm Inside Of A Blur

And it's like travelling by Floo powder. There are glimpses, and then there are none. There is the occasional nausea and the necessary headache. But beneath it all is the fierceness of travelling by fire, the burn of it.

Firstly, I broke my mug on New Year's Day. It was filled with intoxicant, which probably explains it. Then there was Delhi, blasts of cold weather and more fun than one could possibly pack into five days. My twenty-fifth birthday, and the realization that I can never get old, because I've been old since the day I was born. My phone was off all day because I couldn't for the life of me find a charger, so my apologies to whoever was nice enough to remember and call and got irritated at finding my phone so non-cooperative.

Delhi makes me believe that I was born to buy. Socks, curtains, jewellery, shawls and if I could have, just a little more time. The friends were gorgeous, as I expected. Fun was had, alongwith scrumptious food at every possible place between Paranthe Wali Galli and The Astronomically Expensive Big Chill Cafe. I had a moment or two of contempt for modernity at Humayun's Tomb, but that is nothing really new.

At twenty five, I'm so short of what I'd wanted to be. I'm not a millionaire doing volunteer work full time, I haven't written a single word of the book that is supposedly in me, I still don't like my looks and there's just so much I don't know. But hey, atleast I still like me, I have the most wonderful friends one could ever want, and I'm in love with a man I couldn't have dreamed up. Yay.

P.S.: - I know that imitation is supposed to be a form of flattery, but I don't include copying my posts in that category. A few bloggers were kind enough to let me know that someone named Mansi was copying my posts onto her blog, which has since been deleted. She was another one of those online magpies making a srapbook of others' thoughts and giving herself credit for it. I just want to say that just because some things are so underhanded that they don't even occur to you, it doesn't mean that no one else will go ahead and do exactly just those things. I've never given advice to bloggers before because I don't believe it's my place to do so, but if all you can do is copy others' posts, you might as well delete your blog. Trust me, we'll live.