Why Do I Write??

huh!

2006-09-13T15:10:00.000-03:00

Love. Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defences. You build up this whole armour, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, listen to your ramblings for hours or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside- you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.Do I?

Insomnia

2006-09-08T18:16:00.000-03:00

It's after dusk, when dreams come alive, that the head is de-clogged, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. Is there an attraction to insomnia...I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out this before, but i strongly believe in its existance; the night seems to release a little more of our vast prehistoric instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. Yes, perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it! A "sleepless night" is not always something to lose sleep over.

Thoughts

2006-09-03T12:58:00.000-03:00

Languid feelings
Slowly envelope us
Inspiring us to take
A sinful little nap
On a Sunday afternoon
As the time zones spin on
You and i
Alone
Content
Here in
The warm cocoon
Of our thoughts

The Chocolate Balm

2006-05-05T08:08:00.000-03:00

Here's a piece of conversation I had with myself yesterday:

Me: I’m craving for chocolates.

My alter ego: What’s there in that stupid brown gooey thing so laden with calories?

Me: I want that bittersweet taste. I want that rich molten feel circling around my tongue. I want that divine pleasure to last for hours.

My alter ego: Per say, right now you have a chocolate in your mouth, in that case can you describe how would you feel?

Me: It feels like the world is a better place to live in, it makes me feel loved and feel wanted. It takes away all the gnawing pain I feel in my heart.

My alter ego: So, it seems as if what you really want is to live in a make-believe world. A world without pain, a world where you feel loved and wanted

Me: Uh-oh. Is this a ploy? Are you trying to talk me out of wanting chocolates?

My alter ego: No, not at all. Having or not having a chocolate is absolutely your call. What I’m trying to learn is what exactly are you looking for in a chocolate, is the food itself or is the food serving as a cover up for something more vital.

Me: Uhm, well in that case I want to feel good about myself, I want to feel loved and wanted, I want to make my parents happy.

My alter ego: Why don’t you try to let loose yourself for a second. It’s okay to feel lonely and unloved, and it’s also okay to seek out love. Why don’t you acknowledge the fact that you want love?

Me: But what if I know I can't have it? My relationships are best in my mind and I can’t handle my parents pressure as they don’t take stock in the virtual world I live in. Hell!! What's the point of wanting love when I can't have it?

At this juncture my alter ego takes the centerstage. Now listen to my ego speak:

Yes, I guess you have fallen prey to the usual bait—FOOD because you believe that what's the point in wanting something you can't have? You want to spare yourself the pain and turn to something you can have--food—is’nt that right?

Why don’t you just admit what you want and then work in a positive direction to have it, rather than letting something else replace it. This way you will be able to get in touch with your innate desires. I agree that it’s the insatiable desire and craving itself, which is amazingly satisfying. But you have to believe me that It's the desire--not its fulfilment--that cheers your soul. It works by keeping your mind off the worldly tensions and worries. If you closely listen to that language, you hear your self.

It is not the chocolate, it's not the chips, it's not the icecream. If you give yourself permission to want without judging or dismissing your desires as crazy, you, too, have the power to return yourself to what you want most: the centre of your own stunning, tender, radiant heart.

It turns out, that the chocolate has had always been inside me.

An Idyllic Realm

2006-05-03T08:00:00.000-03:00

Wishes have had always been ambiguous. However, it buoys up the dreamer’s spirit to dream. Wishes strengthen the moral fiber leading the dreamer to believe that there is a world beyond present. I am a dreamer these days, walking in baby steps en route for what I envisage to be a more shielded offing. The sun rises each day giving me a reason to spread my wings and fly.

Tomorrow shows the promise of a brighter day and in that, I must have faith. Today I look inside and love the woman I am becoming. My strength can carry me forward and my feathers will shine in the suns dawning beams as I soar into that blue sky.

Probably this dream is my raison d'être of living.

Soul Soup

2006-05-02T11:53:00.000-03:00

I am angry at my agony,
dissatisfied with despair,
yet I know I cannot run from it,
because I take it everywhere.

The comfortable certainties about the nature of trust on which most conventional systems have had been founded have always been at best doubtful. Doubt and uncertainty are symptoms of the poison our culture has fed us for a hundred years. But once it looks at us in the eye-there is no escaping. It's a completely new learning experience. We all learn from experiences, past mistakes, and consciously avoid them when life gifts us a chance for a new start. However, we cannot count on them. Especially when the situation completely defies previous patterns. Patterns are safety nets. Patterns help us explore what we have on hand, and give us directions and hints for our next steps. But they also rule our lives so that we fall into the same tricky trenches we deserted, and voila! Deja vu.

So what do we conclude here--is it that the lack of having a familiar pattern a stroke of luck? In case we don’t, then we're starting on a completely blank slate. We are free to put in whatever we want to make it our own. A perfect one. But unfamiliarity breeds fear. There is no faith, nothing to latch onto. For some its exciting. But it's not the excitement that counts. It's how much we learn about ourselves - that we can feel a certain way about someone the way we’ve never felt before. The wisdom of Jane Austin seems so right at times like this. It’s ironical , how she is right about everything else, yes, its not about Willoughby's charming good looks or Wickham's easy manner (or for that matter Hugh Grant's endearing stutter or Pamela Anderson’s breasts) it has to be built on unwavering feelings. Like admiration. And respect. Which seem, over time, to be turning into something else.

A friend of mine once commented, "You need to stop thinking." Of course, if only I could do that.

I'm solemnly trying to accept that doubt and uncertainty are really just a part of life.

I wish I could overcome this feeling .

Uncertainty

2006-05-01T01:37:00.000-03:00

Last night I was so excited, so certain that today would be beautiful. Now, huddled in my pyjamas and holey tee over my second cup of tea, faced with uncertainities, life seems less promising. Perhaps I should quit starting the day off with depressing music. And if I'd call my parents back, then I wouldn't have to feel so guilty all the time. I know I need a little clarity.

There are lessons in living abstemiously. I ask the gods for guidance and then fill my ears with noise. But sometimes they grant me the most incredible ephipanies. I feel like I'm flailing about in a great body of water. Each breath of air seems a gift; my toes stretch beneath me to discern some hint of a current. "write and paint and listen and wait," the gods tell me. But sometimes all I want to do is weep like a child, to stomp my feet in tantrum. But my world has lost all hard surfaces against which the soles of my feet might be banged. And when I weep, I feel the water level rising. Outside, the world is dead- a withered world. I long to break this silence, but my powers are like lilies, succulent and fragile. How will I ever grow strong here, where the only rain is inside of me?

_________________________________________________________________

Well, this is it
I’m running out of space
Here is my address
And number just in case.
This time as one
We’ll find which way to go
Now come and meet me
On the sunny road

Sunny Road - Emiliana Torrini

Mr Kalboorgie's Mornings

2006-04-30T14:36:00.000-03:00

What’s the best way to start a morning? The short answer could be “don’t”, but the worthier possibilities are infinite. You could jump on your treadmill or your part time help, smell your roses or parathas, read or watch the news, hear the neighbour’s parakeet or his wife’s pranic breathing. But of all the myriad ways that the millions mark their mornings Mr Kalboorgie has to be unique. He spends his first hours listening to the chatter of the schoolgirls.

His society is a giggle away from the school wall of Ahlcon International School. I fell into step with him last evening at the gym. We talked of strength training Vs Cardio and, water cuts and power cuts in East Delhi. I asked him where he lived. “Just by the school,” he said. And then the soft spoken Mr Kalboorgie volunteers the information which so clearly makes his mornings come alive.

Now that he has retired, the school’s routine measures out his longer hours at home .The bell marking at the end of each class competes with the cyclic gong’s of the society’s temple. His house is too far away to hear the priest’s intonations, let alone the splutter of oil lamps. All he gets is the banging of shut of desks, the screeching back of chairs, and yes the incessant banter. But Mr Kalboorgie is not complaining. Quite the contrary. For these bring vicarious activity into his unwilling leisure, and scatter his depression like the brightly colored sweets which so often splatter the play ground’s dun-colored dust.

The sounds that Mr Kalboorgie most looks forward to are those he heard even when his bank job took him out of the school’s decibel range every morning. He has lived in this quaint, low slung society flat ever since he got married, and later, among the flotsam voices drifting up, he caught the marigold brightness of his own little poppet’s lilting prattle.

Now she’s just had her first daughter, and Mr Kalboorgie has collected his PF. So much has changed but not the early part of his day. The kiddies still chatter, as they breathlessly unburden themselves of all that’s happened since the end of school yesterday, desperately trying to squeeze its recounting before the start of school today. The ‘mugpot’ loudly revising her ‘poetries’ stands no chance against the quotidian excitements of girlhood. “Eh Binnie, it’s all your fault; you kept doing najar to my new pink capri’s and now our bai has gone and burnt them. Stup-pid!Oh god. I’ve forgotten my badge; now again I’ll get detention. I’m really feddup up of Aishu’s showing off. Only her papa goes abroad or what? ”.

Aamir in RDB, Bachchan in KBC, Salman in jeans or jail, Mr Kalboorgie keeps track of all matters of compelling importance via the ecstasies and anxieties wafting up in ebb and swell. Petulant tantrum, precocious assurance, the perfidies of best friend, and boy-friend. How mortified would would little Ferzie be to know that an unknown uncle was party to her whispered secrets. Cynics may put Freudian interpretations to this eavesdropping. But the gentle Mr Kalboorgie would’nt give a toss of a ponytail. Nothing can ruin his mornings, for it starts in such a delightful way.

A Game Called...

2006-04-28T11:01:00.000-03:00

Think of it as alter-ego. Think of it as SUPER ego. Think of it as ID. Think of it as staid. Think of it as whimsical. Think of it as prudish. Think of it what you will...it's a game afterall

____________________________________________________________________

Scraps of conversations built upon the fragile illusion of the absence of reality

"Let's play ‘catch surprises’."

”And what exactly is ‘catch surprises’?”

“Well, it’s a game”

"What kind of game is ‘catch surprises’? I never heard of it before"

"Well, it won't be a surprise game anymore if I tell you what it is."

"But for playing a game I need to know the rules."

"The rules of this game are very simple and I’am sure that you will figure out the rules yourself, as you play."

"But I want to make sure that I don’t make any mistakes?"

"Mistakes are meant for learning."

"That is not fair."

"Yes, I know."

"What’s a game without rules, it is just you having all the fun then ."

"Who said that games are for fun and again it was a game to you? I just said 'Let's play catch surprises’."

"Okay, let's hypothize that I play catch surprises. Who is to decide who has won?"

"Sorry, You won't be able to decide"

"Now what does that mean??will I win or I won't?"

"Whichever way you want to look at it."

"I need some answers, don't you think so?."

"You won't know if you have won even if you win, as a fallout you will never know."

"Why would I want to play the game then?"

"Because it is not a game to you."

"Then what is it?"

"It’s a surprise called life."

A Lazy April Morning

2006-04-27T12:22:00.000-03:00

An abstruse symphony
of sunshine and peace
orchestrate their moves,
fusing into one—
creating a summer zephyr
on a lazy April morning
rushing in through my window,
romancing with the room,
leapfrogging onto my closet
teasing me in the mirror,
sketching my silhouette
with a gleaming reality
springing up —
in the most surprising of places
to tease my beliefs
and twirl them in the veering wind,
to sow new dreams,
new thoughts
new feelings—
so that the memories of today
stay with me
for the rest of my life

My Hate List

2006-04-26T12:18:00.000-03:00

Just to let off some steam from my almost exploding head, I have created the following list of things I hate. However, don’t get me wrong, I do not mean hate in its most intense form, when I say ‘hate’, what I rather mean is 'dislike'. The main objects of my satire are the people I meet in my day-to-day life, although I know that some of my views are skewered, but that’s what makes my hate list unique…

I Hate my Boss
My boss venerates idiocy. Just because she is the Boss, she thinks that she can clomp on me as much as she pleases. Say what her heart desires and stick to her idiosyncrasies at all times. A lady Hitler look alike, this dame also sports a pair of hideous dark green contact lenses on her shrewd prying eyes. The very sight of her morbid appearance makes me puke out the shit of a thousand dinner. I wonder why she is the way she is, is it the endorphins? Is it that sinister foil of the ego; the shadow? Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of my boss?

I Hate rash drivers
I am a pedestrian most of the time and I really enjoy my walks. Some rash drivers make my life difficult. I hate them.

I Hate expensive restaurants where they leave you asking for more..
These are the expensively silly places where they play amazing music and serve you1 measly plate of spring rolls and call it an appetizer. That's a tease, not an appetizer, dumb folks! I work hard to make money and I hate to see it go waste.

I Hate it when people act as if I am talking to a wall
Ever noticed while talking, when the other person would suddenly say "What?" just after you asked them a question, then you are just about half way through the first word of the question and they suddenly DID hear what you say and answer it.

I Hate when someone puts me on the speakerphone even when they're the only one in the room
Just because someone’s too lazy to use his/her hands to hold up the phone I have to strain my ear to hear. That’s so unfair. Moreover, if they are reallllyyy busy then how about them calling me up when their work’s done.

I Hate people who use their shopping carts/baby strollers as battering rams
The message is clear , these guys want everybody to clear their path. Why , are they hollywood stars?? While the new mommas really know to use their baby to best effect!

I Hate people who talk to me with their headphones still on
I always talk to them at below normal volume so they will have to take them off and go, "What?"

I Hate people who hold the door for me when I’m still 40 feet away from it
This makes me feel obligated to hurry towards them so they're not standing there holding it open for too long. Thanks for the "favor," dumbo.

I hate people who hear their cell phone ring, pull it out of the bag, then take another 5 seconds looking at who it is before answering it
Hearing the entire Himesh Reshammiya song ringtone once wasn't nearly enough. Thanks for the repeat.

I Hate running out of
a) Chocolates
b) Reading material
c) My cell phone cash card
d) Milk, bread and Maggi
e)Moisturizer

Monday Blues!

2006-04-24T11:14:00.000-03:00

Monday. Again? Who invented this awful day?

I think I look like Medusa today. EEsh! Bad start to a bad day. I wake up reaaaaaaaaaly early only to bid tearful bye-byes to my mom and brother. I hate byes but guess I have to put up with it. Then there is the excuse that gloom gives me. For instance, today it gave me an excuse to have dark milk chocolates. Although I have hardly eaten chocolates this month, but today it’s different, there’s something very comforting about this sinful, cholesterol-ridden food when I'm sad. However, the guilt of having two bars of chocolate has turned the incorrigible optimist in me into a doom doctor. All I can see is my fat self, whining colleagues, unhappy bosses and distracting elements at the workplace (yes! Cafeteria poses a major distraction for me, as all I want is jugfuls of java!).

Gosh! What am I doing? Let me just hocus-pocus for better focus. It's 4:30 pm and I’ve already been out and about...the April sun is shining bright. The birds are chirping and the flies are stupidly dive-bombing people's heads...what more do I need? Why am I battling with my inner demon who insists that my life as it is now is no good...Monday blues aside-I don't think I've ever been happier. I am dreamy eyed. I have a permanent smile plastered to my face. It's terrifying. And I love it.

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night

2006-04-23T10:44:00.000-03:00

Elation often sits with ecstasy-
Reflecting in what truths they hold
Essentially clinging on a touch of madness-
Hiding in stories left untold.

So I sit with restful viewing-
Of April summer sky
With all the peace of tempered breezes-
The phases of the moon

The stars now seem to shine before me-
Like lovers in line for a dance
But it's basically that lunatic fervour-
That spells for me romance

Sunday Revelations

2006-04-23T09:22:00.000-03:00

I often wonder why we find some people more special than others? This is a question I have been pondering upon lately. Think of all the people we never meet. Think of all the people who slip by us without us noticing. And of those people who brush against us in this abrupt and accelerated walk of life, why do we like some, accede of others and ignore the rest? This is one of the most beautiful unsolved mysteries that the universe has to offer. Is it something coded into us? I believe in destiny, although I reject the notion of pre-destined living. There is no romance in such a thing. I want to cherish the universe I cannot comprehend, a universe which kisses me, winks at me, fills my life with with breathtaking moments that beautify and enrich my life. I try very hard to look and listen. I hope I’m blessed.

Girl Gone Amok

2006-04-22T10:04:00.000-03:00

I am a pacifist and I mean that in the broadest sense imaginable. Right now I'm finding myself on my wits end mulling over various peacekeeping terminologies to keep the growing tension between me and mum at bay. So what is the tension all about??

Marriage: what else!!! Today is a lazy Saturday, with mum and brother in town and having nothing to do , I surf channels till I win the popular choice vote and settle for ‘Channel V’. So while we three are inattentively listening to the songs and I’am helping my mom chop vegetables, I give her updates on each of the new league music videos. ("He's a serial kisser – god knows who gave him a meaty role" Or "he always sings in the same nasal tone which is such a put off" ) While mom does not like this particular channel very much, she is mildly amused by my remarks.

And then slightly wrinked, unruly hair Aamir Khan comes on.

"Oh Ma, listen to him. He is looking so cool with Kajol," I said. "He has that maturity and senstivity, with a dash of humour and a bright spark in his eyes"

"You like boys like that? But he just got married!" Her ears perked up.

“hello…?”

Is my mother trying to set me up with a just married superstar?? Has she given up on sons and grandsons of people she knows??. Poor mom. She just wants me to get married so desperately.

Sigh.

So, you thought that my ordeal is over.Well far from it. It has just begun.

My mom does not spare a single chance to talk about my impending marriage.Now that we are on the topic, she almost bullies me into opening the matrimonial sites where I have registered, puts on her spectacles and with much difficulty tries to read the responses. The first response goes something like this:

“Hello ABC,

This is regarding your profile here for a prospective matrimonial alliance. I am the prospective groom. I am settled in Bangalore with my family. My whole family and my friends have seen your profile and liked it. So we are interested to proceed further with the prospective alliance between you and me. Please do not hesitate to contact me and meet me in person. I am very fun loving so I can promise you a time of your life.”

You could have hit me with a mallet and I wouldn't have noticed. But this!!

And the next one:
“Dear Madam, I’m Mr XYZ, to know more about me, please mail to XYZ@yahoo.com or mobile me. Just to let you know that I like only fair, tall, slim, educated, working, talented, confident, home loving, caring, god-fearing, religious women. Hope to hear from you soon”

And the list goes on…and for my mom I’m being too choosy if I’m choosing not to respond! My own version of 'Socha Na Tha' is taking shape right before my very eyes, an unmarried almost spinster girl suddenly finds her mother giving her an ultimatum: marry or else.

I can actually hear my mother's voice echoing through the movie: "I am so unlucky", she says, as her head bobs in sorrow and she stares up to the heavens, "My daughter does not listen to me". This, despite the fact that I’m making all possible attempts to listen to everything she says.

To add to my dilemmas, my mother’s screening method is hardly foolproof. Once, she was particularly taken with a suitor who claimed to be a Genetic Scientist at Cornell University, well I don’t have any doubts about his caliber but it was his family who put me on the firing line. I was supposed to clear their screen test before I could even talk to the groom. I was suspicious, but I agreed to meet them (did I have a choice here??). Within seconds, their shaky command of English and yokel line of questioning (though I wonder why? these guys were shuddho bongs why on earth did they have to rank English over Bengali, just because their son was settled in the US or it was me muttering in Bengali of a dubious origin)—“You are liking dancing? Our family too much liking dancing”—then again “You make crispy fried samosa? Tell us how?” and the final blow “Name all five compulsory things we need for Satya Narayan Puja and the ritual for Shital Shashti Puja”. I went blank and refused to entertain any further questions, even though my mother persisted thinking I was bullheaded. But I was lucky enough to flunk the test.

Uh-oh, I often fantasize about settling my questionable marriage status for once and for all and ‘live happily ever after’. But before I do that, I’d assemble all the experts on marriage, which includes all my kakimas, mashis and nosey neighbours, and televise them arguing the merits and evidence of their sides, with cross-examination and – most important – publicize the downside of harmless snidy remarks passed on singletons.

That's all for now...mom's waiting to have a quick little chat with me.Phew!

The view through the windshield

2006-04-20T11:57:00.000-03:00

Didn’t sleep too well last night. I was up at dawn, persistently pestered by the buzz of mosquitoes eager to bite and the birds were singing so loudly that there was no possibility of returning to sleep. I know, I know, I will not elicit any sympathy from anyone. 5am is probably something the world deals with, but bear in mind, I am a creative thinker (doesn’t matter if my office has limited my thinking prowess and re-christened me ‘an Editor’), who is NOT used to such times. Like Bart Simpson said, “there’s another 4:30?”.

In any case I had to leave for Jaipur so I left, albeit grumpily. The urban streets at any other hour are jam-packed with cars, trucks, auto, motorbikes and other such grey gas emitting vehicles careering into one another and blasting their horns. I considered myself lucky, the dirt tracks outside my window were so serene. Only the occasional moped engine or call of morning greeting punctuated the tuneful tweeting (yes! for a change) of 93.5 FM Radio. The calm of the city was engrossing, at times, I felt that I did not know the place at all. I was so occupied in enjoying and absorbing the sights of Delhi’s morning life that I did not even bother to change my position throughout the 5 hour 17 minute journey. The morning quietude just got me thinking. For that precise moment, I could feel life. Yes, life seemed like magic to me. Life, which was passing me at the speed of 60km/hr, seemed so complicated, yet so interwoven and interdependent: come to think of it, the rain falls and the moisture evaporates and rises, where it forms clouds and falls again as rain, over and over and over. The moon is the exact distance it needs to be from earth to block out the sun during a full solar eclipse. The sun is the exact distance from earth it needs to be to heat the planet enough to sustain life, neither too hot nor too cold. I shall stop here, for my musing might come across as mindless ranting of a teenager who has taken the first class of elementary science.

But I wish I were a teenager, I feel quite mature now. I feel like a middle-aged person with middle aged thoughts. Maybe it sounds confusing here, but it is that time of my life when the only thing I want is happiness that is far beyond the materialistic pleasures. It’s that time of my life when I realize that even if I’m alone in a crowd, I can still have a great time by having a conversation with my shadow. It’s probably that time of my life when I still hang on to my 'knight and princess story' knowing fully that real world is more complicated than that... it’s that time of my life when to know more about myself I take a cosmo Quiz!! oh yes! I took their Which Goddess Would You Be? quiz, a fun little exercise with fab anime illustrations. Turns out I am "The Goddess of Wisdom" (no, not the godess of procrastination!). "Intelligent and always aware of what is going on...You usually prefer to be alone with a good book than with a large crowd, which means some people believe you are cold. However, this is the opposite, because you are actually a very warm person." Good News.

To conclude, yes, today was a major learning experience for me; just another in a long, diverging series. Today reminded me of exactly how much I’ve changed in the past few years. Over the course of this car ride, I rode through my past on wings of hindsight, marveling at the magic of life.

Unrelated Mid-week Musings

2006-04-19T12:25:00.000-03:00

Cafeteria ran out of tea uh! Therefore, this writer is facing a dangerous writer’s fuel crisis. Nevertheless, life has to go on. Let me warm up my brain by solving the wedding gift dilemma for a friend who is getting married soon… I think it will be a great idea to give her hubby a checklist (yes!! I am good at it and of course few would love to agree)… So I start with a small MR (read Marriage Research) in the cafeteria during lunch hour to know the married female psyche, and to my utter surprise I find out that such a checklist already exists and is out and floating on the net. So all I do is to skim and cut the text to fit my friend’s life to T.
Well the name of the game is ‘How to take care of your ‘brand new’ wife’ and it starts with
“In the world, one single rule applies to the men:Make the Woman happy. Do something she likes and you get brownie points. Do something she dislikes and points are subtracted. You don't get any points for doing something she expects. Sorry, that's the way the game is played. Here is a guide to the point system”…

I specially liked these two pointers, they make so much sense no?

ENJOY THE 'BIG' QUESTION
-- She asks, "Do I look fat?" (-5) [Yes, you LOSE points no matter WHAT]
-- You hesitate in responding (-10)
-- You reply, "Where?" (-35)
-- Any other response (-20)

COMMUNICATION
-- When she wants to talk about a problem , you listen, displaying what
looks like a concerned expression (0)
-- You listen, for over 30 minutes (+50)
-- You listen for more than 30 minutes without looking at the TV (+500)
-- She realizes this is because you have fallen asleep (-10000)

Today, while I was doing my very own MR, friends came up with their private woes and marking systems. Funny eh! Shopping topped the charts..well well I have more than one reason to talk about it today. Maybe it will just help me drill some sense(shall I call it logic) into the ‘infamous Mars and Venus shopping imbroglio’.Here’s what I have to say:

Starting with Mars side of the story(as told by a friend):

The primary objective for a man when he shops for clothes -- is to purchase clothes that fit on his particular body(read-purely functional). He knows exactly what brand he wears and knows his size well. So a man will try on a pair of pants, and if those pants are too small, he will try on a larger pair, and when he finds a pair that fits, he buys them. Trouser bought. Shopping done.

Now let the Venus speak:

The situation is very different with us women. When we women shop for clothes, our primary objective is not to find clothes that fit our particular body, in short it’s not functional at all. Because it's not just about the clothes. It's about being inspired. It's about being indulgent. It's about being selective. It's about finding styles for all occasions. It's about finding styles for our work-life, our play-life, our life-life. It's about us. (refer pic. top right)

Hands up! enough science and logic for a writer in a day …not sure, if I made any sense at all but I’m in dire need to revive my tired senses through retail therapy.

Packed Day ..empty mind

2006-04-18T12:11:00.000-03:00

I packed the day full. First two days of the week are like that. I have the tendency to hit the week with a punch and then fizzle for the rest of it.Too bad. It does me good to get out and about. But that’s not the issue I have ..what did I add to my day??

uhm ..nothing

I went out for lunch with my team. I had a really good time.Isn't it interesting how when we think we look good, we are in good moods? I know for me, when I'm having a fat day or a bad hair day, I'm not usually in a good mood. But I saw the mirror and realized that I wasn’t facing any of those issues, so I was feeling pretty good about myself.Interesting too, how it takes to pass one's own critical eye test to put one in a good mood. I can't just feel pretty and be in a good mood. I have to know it. That's my self-esteem issue creaping in…so i shall STOP

Rest of the day does not have anything much to rattle about….fingers are aching to type a few lines.Arrgg I can’t

Help Emily Dickinson..(me and Emily share the same sentiments or so I think—atleast her poem ‘If you were coming in the fall’ does) so I read and read that…

I think im in a state of trance…so let me go to the cafetaria and get my rear in gear.

Random Ramblings

2006-04-17T10:43:00.000-03:00

Drum roll, please. How about a trumpet or two? Why, you may ask? Well after two days of constant thinking, I have finally been able to put “my take on life” on paper. I must admit that I was stumped by this question, that initial surprise was soon taken over by this startling revelation about me - Ah! being on the wrong side of 20s I still didn’t have a clue of what I wanted from life!…except for wishful ramblings like -a great companion, a Laddakh trek, a trip to Europe, my own company, a dog called Sushi…blah blah blah. However, is that it? What is the rationale behind it?? What is that underlying thought which was making me believe that these are my happiness pointers …?

Yes, all I want is to be happy. I may have the capacity to seek happiness from within, but that is also derived from the happiness of others. Good thing? Bad thing? I’m not sure. And of course, to be able to love someone, and being loved in return. That is what happiness is for me.

That apart, I also want to be successful. Agreed , that it is a relative term , so what are my parameters of success?? When will I call myself successful?? Probably the day when I’m able to leap out of bed to lay my hands on something which I love to do, something which I believe in and I’m good at. Something whose existence is more pertinent than mine! Big words- they might be, but the day I get this feeling from inside, I’ll know that I’ve arrived.

So what do I plan to do –apart from nurturing and rearing a ‘happy family’..maybe searching for that novel hiding deep inside me and just writing it? Whether it is in the form of poetry, short stories or a novel or novella, commercial venture or a non-commercial project…I’m yet not sure what , but I always held that I would write whether I was “successful” or not, so what is the point of having these business goals or money or a “readership?” My goal is simply to put together a story, put it down on paper and then polish it till I’m satisfied.

Ouch! I shall stop with my musings, and for those who are still wondering what ‘my take on life is’, it’s right there …somewhere over the rainbow……

Subho Nobo Borsho

2006-04-15T05:27:00.000-03:00

Being a probashi Bengali, there are a lot of things I may not know or even if I do, I may not feel nostalgic about them…I’m quite ashamed to admit that I still don’t know about the origins of the Bengali New Year. I always thought it had something to do with rice planting and harvesting. But who cares for such trivia. I’m just happy thinking about the festivity infused to my otherwise, dull, boring and ‘full of medicines’ day.

Had a longish chat with baba in the morning. I could see the excitement of the day in his eyes and the passion was indeed palpable. I could almost see the hurried crowd at the Howrah Station, the paint of the taxi: black and yellow, feel the sharp taste of mustard in jhaalmuri, smell that familiar humidity laden wind, with fish buried alive inside. Calcutta! I regret not being brought up in a city where I think I belong and owe my genes to. It’s ironical, that it’s the same culture, cuisine and cacophony of Calcutta which I used to shun a decade back is what I want to embrace now.

The image of an average bong in my mind had been—a person with large head, glasses, glistening hair and dark shiny skin (still doubtful whether it’s health, overactive oil glands, sweat or an ungodly mix of all three!) and an overbearing smell of Keo Karpin , while for bonglings it was either over-sized or under-sized school uniforms. …I had my own share of these ‘unfashionable clothes’ days, or years if I may call it …I can still vividly remember family get-togethers in calcutta, when I would be clumsily dressed loafing around and, jethu and pishi chatting-singing-eating over batches, my brother and his gang in one room watching television. The menu used to be more or less fixed with mutton curry and luchi, maacher-jhol bhaat and we all gossping on dinner table until our hands were dry and yellow. My mother not wearing anything other than saris (wearing salwaar-kameez would be considered rebellious by our relatives in Calcutta!) - while i was growing up I resented this clutching onto the idiosyncrasies of bengali life (an exception being the pujo that i looked forward to every year). I had many arguments with my parents on this issue..but that was yesterday.

Today, a decade or more later, it’s me again- trying to take a trip down the memory lane with baba. Gazing out of the window, too weak to get up and enjoy the real ‘bong way of doing things’ . I sigh and wish Subho Nobo Borsho to my bong bandwagon…

A Sloth at Work

2006-04-14T14:48:00.000-03:00

Some people pronounce “sloth” to rhyme with “broth” and “cloth”. I pronounce it as “slow-th”.Geddit? Slow+th=the quality of being slow. Sitting in my hospital bed I have all reasons to just lie down and have a little snooze. But no-I’m not a living sleeping definition of that single syllabic five letter word, but I belong to that little known branch of the human family –which is called …err…uhm…there’s probably an excellent name to it but I can’t bother to work that out, I’d rather utilize that time watching some more intresting facts of life. Exactly! that’s what I do, I keep watching the general public in action, while I may come across as slow, sleepy, lazy and slovenly in one’s habits, my mind keeps ticking violently absorbing all little details about life and its quirky ways…that’s scene 1 Act 1 ha! Scene 1 Act 2 unfolds with my friends arrival and I become a gossipy gossipmonger myself …but I’d talk about MY quirks later…it’s time to utilize today’s opportunity to delve into the inner workings of a human mind, but I do realize that that’s not a one –day job. A year wouldn’t be enough time.

Without further ado, I set my eyes on the hospital crowd. Being in Panchsheel- which is a fairly upmarket area almost all the patients belonged to the glitterati and chatterati of Delhi (or atleast they made sure that they looked like one) …well, ample cleaveage ensured that or this is what most women think! Result –even the docs. seemed to be talking to the breasts instead of women themselves. I’m still not sure why men do it, atleast the doctors of this specific clinic should have been used to it by now, but men will be men - maybe by talking to breasts they feel that they are paying a compliment..a sorry sight. All I can say is well packaged goods are way ahead. Can’t have a man to comment on it –but I would still wish to know the answer.

next patient was a heavily pregnant lady who came in with her husband in tow…did I mention with a chihuahua in arms. O’my’god her public display of affection towards her pet was more appalling than appealing.Poor dog!

Since I was in the lab area taking blood tests I was already feeling kinda giddy—but nothing compared to the guy who fainted just looking at the syringe full of blood sucked from his body!! Imagine us..having to loose half a bucket of blood every fourth week and still keep smiling as the stayfree commercial woman. Can anyone still dare to call us the weaker sex??!!

Now time for some evesdropping…I saw two women meeting after a long time (I guessed it by just watching the way they exchanged pleasantries) and after five minutes of animated conversation they find out that they both have a common friend in neighborhood. This piece of information was enough to bond them together, and they start off as “Did you know that Shalini just had an abortion and then she was dumped by that godawful man who has a tattoo on his behind? Imagine that…and did you know that……blah blah blah”. Now, that’s what’s called female bonding, and of course they don’t need beer sessions to do that for them…it’s that infamous bitching session.
Enough of it !! the world is full of puppet-like characters whose antics provide marvelous insight into the irrationality of human behavior.Take a closer look and you’ll find an important moral lurking in there somwhere!! But you’ll have to find it yourself, coz I need to …zzz….

--------------------A blank slate

2006-04-12T12:18:00.000-03:00

I wish there was a way to speak the language of unspoken words..

and

I wish I could see the future
By riding beneath the winds of time
Walk me to the corner
Our steps will always rhyme,
You know my love goes with you
As your love stays with me,
It's just the way it changes
Like the shoreline and the sea.

PITA (for the uninitiated it's-Pain In The Ass!!)

2006-04-12T05:23:00.000-03:00

I pride myself for being in control. Arggg but I can still be a molten lava from inside, specially when I’m a mute participant to a one sided conversation which sucks –or it’s a real PITA (a new entrant to my vocab chest—to be honest I was looking for ways and means to use it , never knew that I’ll get a chance so soon!) . I cannot remember when I snapped last. Nevertheless, I am mentally fused – more so because ‘my boss’ reward for a job well done is more work!’ The dreaded moment was a 2 hour long conference call in which my boss spoke of the need to “engage” new talent, rambled through 40 minutes of impenetrable jargon to set up “new methodology” to “give a new look to the section of magazine we own” and reached the less-than-startling conclusion that last five issues need a thorough facelift. I could not comprehend a single thing she was trying to tell me.

At some point, I lost it. I began ranting in the meeting room. I hurled the lastest issue of the Conde Naste traveler across the table, muttered in the loo, and sent befuddled e-mails to colleagues. I’m fine now. Once unburdened I found I was not alone; even my colleagues couldn’t give intelligible explanations about the meetings agenda or outcome. Atleast I’m clear of one thing which I need to do –ie I’m told that we should seek recruits and I need to give a guideline to the HR.Can anything be more painful than this!!!

Well well well, I followed my usual technique of… 123 deep breath…123 deep breath and came up with my own list for the HR.…this is what the checklist looks like :

1. Grammer: This refers to the resume of the candidate. Well I want to scream aloud and say that please reject resumes with doodles and exclamatory obscenities scrawled. Heck! A writer ought to know this.
2. Style: If any resume looks like a manuscript – reject the candidate. The author is definitely a boring twit .
3. Audience: If u think that it would kill the candidate to write something an aspiring traveller might actually read? please ask him to apply for a job in Timbaktoo .
4. Terminology: If any applicant desires to invent a new term to describe any part of his/her work in an incomprehensible lingo –Refuse the person.
5. Citations: I insist that you keep the DK styleguide for language referance and all citations…and double check the candidate’s work. Not because I love it, but because it annoys my boss to see parentheses in the middle of text she’s trying to read and the text goes through me! For christ sake—spare my eyesight!!
6. Satire and Irony: When a candidate successfully crosses all benchmarks set by you, and finally takes the interview, please make sure that the person is not a dumbwit. If he/she does not understand satire, or confuses irony with cynicism, shoo them.Ask them to try therapy ... gin ... a warm bath ... anything! Except travel writing

Mind some tea?

2006-04-11T09:53:00.000-03:00

Wide awake and feeling jarred, I’m staring at the blank walls of my room, it's 1 am and I'm brewing some aromatic Darjeeling tea, wondering about the road, my life, and the choices I have made. This is a common recent occurrence for me, alone in my room, late at night thinking, unable to sleep. This sleepless trend is quite in contradiction with my usual exuberant self. I wish I could turn my mind off for a while and NOT THINK. There are times when I cannot find the switch that turns off my head. Therefore, I plot and I plan and I figure and I worry, and then I make myself mentally bushed.
O’damn ! I can’t put my mom out of my mind for a second…I hate myself for hurting her. But there’s nothing I can do. Damn it!! I know staying with her might help but I have a goddamn tour. Can’t prioritize. Mum over job or job over mum ---I am feeling miserable. I want to take a break and go for a trek. I guess that it is like this for everyone in this business, but tonight I feel beaten up for some reason. My emotions run up and down the road, just like me. It feels like they are trying to catch up with me all the time. It's like I am on a ride going in circles, more or less ending up where I started most of the time. I am driving in circles. The crazy cyclonic circle is whirring my mind and there is an opaque pane between me and the dark night and I cannot even shout into that grey bird feather-darkness. The only word that would explain everything is the beginning of everything. I can’t handle it…ah! Let me just get off this guilt trip and reach for a positive slant on things this time, even though I’m very, very tired. So what? Mind over matter, matter over mind. Focus. Let the tea do its part in tossing this tension out. What say?

Beware...I bite!!!

2006-04-09T12:37:00.000-03:00

Beware…I bite.
I wish I had a T-shirt with the quote inscribed and I could wear it and meet my prospective partner(s)…eh ! but all this remains a wishful thinking. So far I didn’t have choice as my parents made sure I dressed traditional and posed…what the heck! But on second thoughts all I did to help my parents get their dream son-in-law, was to act shy and docile, and muster faint yes’s when nudged by them. I felt claustrophobic and like a liar. It wasn’t ME by any chance, so why the fuck was I pretending! That stupid act wasn’t taking me anywhere..neither was luck. So my chances of bumping into a literature junkie with spectacles framing his bright eyes (in short my dream man) was minimal.
Meeting people online has its own set of shortcomings…what if the guy turns out to be a psychopath, a leech, a rapist, an alcoholic, a drug addict, a nymphomaniac or simply gay. What if he expects me to behave like his fantasies(aka Demi Moore-Striptease!).Heck, I know I'm in that group now. I mean, do I have a choice? Parents thingy is too overbearing, luck is abysmal so online search is the next best thing. Oh damn! If I weren't a shy, hermit-like, picky girl, who is able to have a normal conversation, I wouldn't be online. I'm not a problem-free catch, neither are my type of guys. The whole trick is ‘how to get the twain meet’.
Im not sure if my type exists at all...so far i have not been able to carry a conversation for more than 10 minutes without feeling spaced out. not even sure what i'm loooking for in terms of qualities, maybe will put it down in paper sometime but what i'm afraid of is basically getting those differences just thrown back in my face along with a metaphorical "f--- you." Life is indeed tricky …what do I do? Maybe I’ll just go back to my hermit-lifestyle.

Hit by nostalgia!

2006-04-09T11:30:00.000-03:00

My mother chose to send me to an all-girls school run by gentle nuns in this then sleepy town of Lucknow. She hoped that I would turn into a polite and polished young woman, much like an admired childhood friend of hers. I don't know if my convent school education turned me into the person my mother had envisioned but I certainly knew that I stood out among my peers, the good little Bong girls in the Lucknow of the eighties. First, I had a highly competitive spirit; second, I turned into an outspoken tomboy, much to the consternation of my mother. While my brother recited Sanskrit shlokas (prayers) at assembly, I knew the Lord's prayer by heart. Only the compulsory school dress bugged me no end.

I was free of the rigid dress code once I graduated from school but the college years are just a blurred memory. The days passed in a haze of classes, and exams, weighed down by the stress of doing well academically, a burden familiar to children of all middle class families whose only inheritance is a good education. The thought of how much my clothes and accessories contributed to my identity did not seem important enough to register in my overloaded teenage brain...

Love in the times of….

2006-04-08T17:30:00.000-03:00

When my mother was my age, she had already been married, mothering two boisterous kids, teaching other children the basic nuances of classical music.. and so much more.At 27 she and my father had already bought the lovely ‘white house’ where my brother and I grew up. Conversely, I have spent six years, since I left home, floating from job to job, apartment to apartment, and on a constant lookout for a soulmate (I’m sure things would have looked up for me if I did not voice my strong opinions against the opposite sex so openly and within audible distance of all eligible bachelors! ). It’s true that I may be financially secure —now I can actually buy instead of rent (BUT OFCOURSE will have to pay whooping EMI’s for the next 20 years), marry and raise children, can set aside some money for my retirement too, but is my happiness quotient more than my parents at my age. I doubt.
Much to my own astonishment, I have developed repulsion towards the single status. Reasons are aplenty. I hate the hullabaloo created for a single woman. We are the prime market for consumer goods such as clothes, perfumes and shoes! Even singledom is commercialized by the matrimonial websites and the likewise..Now I ask, if my mum didn’t feel the need for any of these some 25 years back –how come I have this insatiable desire for these. They are anything but a necessity. From Santa Barbara to Friends, from Sex and the City to Desperate Housewives, stories about the hardship and evils of being a contestant in the mating game have been a sure-fire way for the media to earn cash. I ask. Why are we used as bait??!! After all, no matter what one' lifestyle may be, there is virtually no one in our society who would deny that romantic love is an objective worthy of a chase. Ha! my mom never had to face this issue.
Yet, if measured objectively, romantic love is one of the strangest notions. Although my romantic mind does not think of it as strange ..just think of the cultural traditions that date back thousands of years, the idea that young people are not only capable of going out into society and wisely choosing their own mates, but that they ought to, is very much a product of our modern, mechanized, material world. It was not so long ago that one's parents' desires were more of an influence on whom one married than were one's own wishes.What a dichotomy. But looking at my parents and their successful marriage, I don’t quite rule down the arranged marriage thing completely but when one is nearing the wrong side of 20S, things need to be questioned. No matter how one chooses a partner , how does it matter, what’s the basic difference ? I think it’s sex(or rather pre-marital sex). Sex has served as a flashpoint for those who have feared the wearing away of the "time-honored values" and the arranged marriage thing seems to have safeguarded that. But what is marriage exactly? Marriage is ideally the end result of the search for a mate—has four components: the religious, the legal, the economic, and, lastly, the intangible emotional idea of romantic love. Of these four, it is the last two—the economic and the emotional components—that have undergone the most change in the last decades. And that may answer the change in equations of my parents and my life…err absence of married life.

So here it goes, we so called young ‘snooty’ SINGLE WOMEN are now faced with the pressures of freebie romance, the pressure to remain young-looking and attractive, to keep up with sexual styles and fashions, has become overwhelming. This is disgusting. Love and romance still stay idealized and unadulterated… Marriage still fuels the eternal nurturer spirit of a woman… some things just don’t change.

Fat Ass

2006-04-08T17:25:00.000-03:00

All I do is sit on my fat ass. If my ass wasn't fat I would be happier. I wouldn't have to wear shirts hanging outta my jeans all the time. Like that's fooling anyone. I should start jogging again. Five kilometres a day. Really push my bum to do it. Maybe 350 crunches a day aka Britney Spears. I need to turn my life around. What do I need to do? I need to fall in love. I need to have a soulmate. I need to read more and prove myself that I write readable stuff. What if I learned singing or something, or took up an instrument. But can I just begin by writing my own book…my deepest fear still remains the same---what to write and who will read. I don't want to cram in sex or guns or car chases or characters learning profound life lessons or growing or coming to like each other or overcoming obstacles to succeed in the end. Are my thoughts even valid?? Will anyone ever ponder upon them ??...When at times like today nothing happens in the world? Am I out of my fucking mind? People are murdered every day. There's genocide, war, corruption. Every fucking day, somewhere in the world, somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day, someone, somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love, people lose it….Will anyone have the time and inclination to read my book. Now as I ponder upon this debatable topic, my ass is happily getting fatter!

Dream....

2006-04-07T07:10:00.000-03:00

I have not christened this piece. It is a dream. I remembered portions.

In the shadow of a shade of a moonless night
On a catafalque of a hillock I lay
Through a tunnel devoid of light I sped
My thoughts were clogged like clay.

I raised my coffin to my lips
A square wall with a warning blurred.
The arch of a palm magnified,
Liquid fingers dancing nude.

Twisting and turning, unshackling the chains
That bound me to that dream.
The sheets were soaked, the pillow high,
The hillock steep, a stifled sigh.

The distant lights of million dreams
Illuminated my inquietude.
My eyes half-shut, my silent screams.

The picture tube of my cortex came alive.
Love songs and shadows danced in grey
The soap opera of existentialism blurred.
In Kodak colours a city scene:

A lucent snake that sped through smog
The Eiffel Towers of million volts
The descent path of metal birds
Decapitated hills that we killed.

The channel changed: Nerve fibres flashed.
‘Ache’ transformed into an animated shape
A Blue Film projected on the screen of oblivion.

Ashen clad, he called for me
his voice sounded like a threnody.
His name was “Hope,” I think it was.
But he sounded like “Melancholy”

Flaming passions ignited, an artic void filled.
Ashen clad, now dressed in gold
Intimate, strong, a trifle bold,
Broke through the screen.

We met in shivered embraces
In the paradise of our making.
Mythical birds sang.
Rainbows hung from clouds.

In my dream I saw him once
Devoid of inhibitions and vanity.
In the timelessness of that dream
‘Love’ was born
Its hopelessness prolonged till dawn.

The word ‘Love’ in the last stanza also refers to the Greek legend “The Birth of Love”

Threnody is a song of lamentation for the dead. [From Greek threnoidia, from thernos (lament) + oide (song). It is also the forefather of such words as ode, tragedy, comedy, parody, melody, and rhapsody.]

The second stanza. The coffin is a sleeping pill, and when I held it close to my eyes and looked through it that is what I saw.

Daydreams and Afternoons

2006-04-07T05:43:00.000-03:00

In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon
All round the coast the languid air did swoon
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream

Tennyson—The Lotus Eaters

I awaken, it has not been a long departure, the day is still pubescent, I look out; the sun is not high, but shadows have started being trampled upon. A few naked patches of brown—the garden deficiently bald. A little green where the now rusted and rarely used garden tap leaks, nourishing weeds and birds alike. Bevies of sparrows descend on that trough—their river, content in play until a cat appears. A single hibiscus plant in bloom; still alive due to those pink flowers considered auspicious. The once crimson turnstile used as a merry-go-round by generations of children leans dangerously to one side. Beyond it the street: partly dug up, partly paved, always crowded. And then a stone wall that encloses an ugly three-storied structure. Ulka leaves the compound through a wicket gate; standing in the verandah i can see many a men trying to exchange glances. Their eyes search for a hint of nakedness, or so I think, I generally herald morning sun my tattered pyjamas . I switch off the fan, the sparrows are thankful; they use the bedroom as a playhouse. Waking up is a ritual with me, it should be, they are many people who never wake up…I let a loud yawn escape into the street, I am not flatulent, which is sad; for farting is a better way to greet a dead day. I am mesmerised by the dancing shadow of a Jambul tree, its movement imitated by a Tulsi plant that thrives in its shadow.

The doorbell rings, I do not bother to open it, those who are expected know that they will find it open; the stack of papers is placed in correct sequence on the edge of my computer table. The newspaper boy knows that I bear an animosity towards the HT. HT is crushed under the weight of its opponents. He is a fast learner, but I hate his face; it is nothing to do with his looks, but I have always suspected that he has twenty more teeth than the average human does. Ever smiling white teeth, which shine like flashbulbs.

The Times gives me company in the loo; now the front door is pushed open with a thud that threatens the foundation of the building. Hazrat has arrived, invaded, marched into, and destroyed the sanctity of my temple with her tempestuousness. She knocks violently, “Didi ki chai” A low grunt escapes me, which spells chai. I scan through the headlines; bird flu is jumping to humans, (I have to be careful not to cross Ulka’s path, she is parrot nosed, and her hair which looks like it is desperately trying to run away bears close resemblance to crest feathers of wildfowl.) Abdul Kalam is busy propagating his myth about the interlinking of rivers, the honourable president may be good at sending rockets into space, but his knowledge of geography is a little limited. ‘Shiva’ the lone male rhino, confined to a 250 square feet cage is lonely; zookeepers are trying to find him a mate. I should send Hazrat. I visualize the act and laugh. … Imagine what their babies will look like, babies with horned appendages instead of noses. The roar of the flush and the hiss of the kettle are a simultaneous occurrence.

It is time to work; a bath can wait. I scan through the remaining papers. The same bloody stories. Let me first acquaint you with the Feng Phooie of the hall. Light yellow walls, a low table that serves as both book shelf and shoe rack. A cluttered dining table with legs buckled like an old mule supports an enormous number of borrowed books, one bed pushed against the window, the other perpendicular to its right edge. Beyond that a tamarind tree, barking dogs, more people, rodents, roads, the Arabian Sea…Africa.

Naked tribes dancing in the light of a bonfire under a diamond studded sky. Hungry children dying like flies, Scrofulous flies in high office that that have developed a taste for human suffering. They ought to be swatted, eradicated, but the entire system suffers from malversation. The eidetic storyteller, his little brain covered by a deeply furrowed exterior, still has the strength to chant about his people, their torments, and their stories in passing. His sacred cane and agate tchotchkes waiting their turn to be inherited by youthful hands. Hands capable of ushering in change, he wails in grief, he chants his own threnody, there are no young men in his village now, those who are left, don’t have hands.

I descend into a dream, scarred by my thoughts and scared by the emptiness and enormity of this bottomless cavern I force myself to awaken, it is late afternoon.

My New Year's Eve!

2006-03-25T12:40:00.000-03:00

New Year's is a deceptively boring holiday. A day when you take a retrospective view of a year gone by and look at the year which is approaching with a faint anticipation. Few may love to debate that it's a good time for stock-taking or for self-appraisal, and there may be times when you may fall trap to it and almost begin agreeing to what the preachers say. But wait!! Where did the fun go missing?? I agree that our generation bears a tremendous burden. When there is an opportunity to have fun, we have no excuse for not doing so. I say so as unlike most people my age, I decided to defy the norms this new year's eve and went the thinking way, albeit unsurely.

Me and my best friend decided to have a rendezvous with horror movies that fateful night. Curling up with a hot cuppa cocoa and choicest of delectable is indeed bliss at best, and I can't deny that we loved every moment of it, but we did reach an 'I wish!' state even before the clock struck 12. Now when I look back, I see it with a slight twinge of regret. God! Why did we have to sit at home like old cronies? Aren't we young enough to act spontaneous and crazy, and too old to need permission? The rest of society has either an absence or excess of youth, and we owe it to them to have a good time. I just didn't avail the opportunity when my time came.

Now that all is done, I pacify myself with the thought that we belong to that group of people who look forward to the ritual of the whole thing, it is precisely this ritual that stops it from ever being truly memorable. At least my non-celebrating the occasion is an re-current episode in itself , did I mention this—that night we also polished off half a chocolate cake among the two of us…Ahem!it's nirvana. I take heart in the fact that, since all of the countdowns and party horns eventually fade into a generic blur of slightly exaggerated smiles captured in pre-hangover Polaroids. Atleast I celebrated my new years with a difference and you know it!

Why Do I Write??

2006-03-25T12:24:00.000-03:00

I just wanted to share the moment when I knew I needed to write. I was always interested in writing and being a writer, but this was one of those defining moments:
"What do you do at work?" she asked me as we were waiting for our turn on the busy treadmill at the gym.
"I'm a writer," I replied before I had a chance to think of a flashier, brow raising response.
"What do you write?" the young health freak fired back quickly, as any quizzical dowdy aunt would do.
"Ummm, well, anything," I blurted, grabbing the gym towel hanging prettily from my shoulder. While my t-shirt quote was screaming aloud 'Since when was genius respectable?' It had a point here. .
"I write stuff like this, or anything that describes a product or service that a business wants to sell," I continued trying to remain cognizant of my audience's comprehension level of Advertising fluffery and consumer marketing.
"Oh. So you don't write books," she asked, eyes squinting, head slightly titled to the side from confusion."No, not yet," I mumbled, thankful that the noisy whirr of the treadmill cut the painstakingly innocent interrogation short.And that was the first time I remember uttering those words: I am a writer. Even today, as I pursue freelance projects, or do research for the next article, that title, that admission, stings my sensibilities like a strong winds forcing the rain to blow sideways, lashing across my cheeks. Maybe it's because I know that the questions won't stop there, or that I won't get the same familiar, approving nod that would accompany an answer like "primary school teacher" or "doctor" or "chef."Even if, like my advertising colleagues, a person recognizes writing as a profession, it's generally the romanticized version, where the writer spends days in exotic locations interviewing famous people for a widely-read general interest woman's magazine, or sitting on a beach at sunset crafting the great Indian novel that has the potential to put The New York Times' best-seller list to shame. I do neither. \nI have many of the habits of a successful writer. I read anything I can get my hands on, and seek out works that stretch my capacity as a lover of language. I question just about any idea of how things are "supposed" to be, and consider any subject or experience ripe for a story given ample background on the topic, along with the right perspective and spin

"Oh. So you don't write books," she asked, eyes squinting, head slightly titled to the side from confusion.
"No, not yet," I mumbled, thankful that the noisy whirr of the treadmill cut the painstakingly innocent interrogation short.
And that was the first time I remember uttering those words: I am a writer. Even today, as I pursue freelance projects, or do research for the next article, that title, that admission, stings my sensibilities like a strong winds forcing the rain to blow sideways, lashing across my cheeks. Maybe it's because I know that the questions won't stop there, or that I won't get the same familiar, approving nod that would accompany an answer like "primary school teacher" or "doctor" or "chef."
Even if, like my advertising colleagues, a person recognizes writing as a profession, it's generally the romanticized version, where the writer spends days in exotic locations interviewing famous people for a widely-read general interest woman's magazine, or sitting on a beach at sunset crafting the great Indian novel that has the potential to put The New York Times' best-seller list to shame. I do neither.
I have many of the habits of a successful writer. I read anything I can get my hands on, and seek out works that stretch my capacity as a lover of language. I question just about any idea of how things are "supposed" to be, and consider any subject or experience ripe for a story given ample background on the topic, along with the right perspective and spin.
But there's one little habit that has eluded me as a writer: I don't write. I don't write until I'm emotionally stirred that is, which, to a would-be professional, is even worse. And when I do manage to put the excuses aside and sit down with one of my exquisitely bound folios and take the top of one of those gel pens I so love to write with, my mind stalls. Then, it launches into an exhausting frenzy of unrelated, counterproductive ideas and things to do. It leaps from that essay to this poem.Who can write anything decent after such a mental marathon? I image my brain as an overexcited German Shepard chasing its tail, working tirelessly to capture something so close, but too far away to grasp. I enjoy writing and think I'm pretty good at it when I concentrate. But any natural talent I possess is only as good as my commitment will allow it to be.I think that's the biggest reason why I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Not because of what people think of me, or because I haven't cashed my first freelancer's check yet, but because I haven't mustered up the discipline to write no matter what. That's what matters most. That's what will help me hold my head up when I can't get others to understand and respect my craft and my way of living. I have to prove to myself that I can make myself write.This is the attraction to writing. This is its joy. This is its heartache.This, as much as anything, is why I write.

But there's one little habit that has eluded me as a writer: I don't write. I don't write until I'm emotionally stirred that is, which, to a would-be professional, is even worse. And when I do manage to put the excuses aside and sit down with one of my exquisitely bound folios and take the top of one of those gel pens I so love to write with, my mind stalls. Then, it launches into an exhausting frenzy of unrelated, counterproductive ideas and things to do. It leaps from that essay to this poem.
Who can write anything decent after such a mental marathon? I image my brain as an overexcited German Shepard chasing its tail, working tirelessly to capture something so close, but too far away to grasp. I enjoy writing and think I'm pretty good at it when I concentrate. But any natural talent I possess is only as good as my commitment will allow it to be.
I think that's the biggest reason why I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Not because of what people think of me, or because I haven't cashed my first freelancer's check yet, but because I haven't mustered up the discipline to write no matter what. That's what matters most. That's what will help me hold my head up when I can't get others to understand and respect my craft and my way of living. I have to prove to myself that I can make myself write.
This is the attraction to writing. This is its joy. This is its heartache.

This, as much as anything, is why I write.