why can't things happen to me one at a time?
I stole your eyes once. I wanted to know what it would be like if I saw the way you do. I saw bright things, and I saw dark things. I put them back where I found them, because I wasn't used to so much clarity.
I want to steal your eyes again, today, because I'm much older now and I still only make my world up in visions of monochrome.
i will try this,
one more time.
i scan my thoughts
for something to say.
there is nothing.
i wait for that energy
to gush through my fingers;
that urge to write,
to sweep through
the magic of fantasy
i see nothing
but empty fields
of green, wet grass.
a bird is flying low
looking for a worm
to feed its
a black juicy worm
peeks out of its home
to nourish another's.
i hear nothing.
not that song i was singing,
not the baby that was crying,
not the movie that is playing.
i shall end this,
with my baseless attempt
at playing with my fingers.
i think i must cut my nails.
do excuse me,
because i have nothing to say
and am forcing myself to.
i might forget
there is not much for me to say, not much for me to do, and there is nothing i want from me. it is a pretty insignificant end, an inconsequential blip in the radar of reality, a booger in a nose filled with phlegm. this is something that has brought me new friends, some that might last for life, some that i lost for life, some that didn't mean anything. it brought me great times, a shoulder to cry on. it defined some relationships, strengthened some, ended some, started some.
we spent evenings full of "long walks, blogging mohikers, messing around with people's reps (generally bitchin'), i found a twin under a sky lit with stars." we spent evenings in national market and corner house, laughing, crying, listening, talking, passive smoking, smoking, riding bikes, drinking coffee out of heart shaped glasses. i spent entire nights on the phone, and not realising it with more than one person i know through blogging.
i have learnt so much, shared so much, and this has kept me going.
i shall go now, but i might come back. i might come back, may be tonight, may be in a week, month, or year, may be never. i might start again, with a head start somewhere else.
but not now. not when i don't have anything to call mine.
i promise to be there for you forever:
(whether you like it or not)
through thick and thin,
through ups: with a hug and a hi-fi,
through downs: with a hug, at "a hand's distance."
through issues: on the phone through the night,
through problems: adopted, or your own.
through parties: and ananya's imitations of ntr moves,
through subways, and deli9s,
little italy, zafraan, waterfront
and spice king.
and long drives: some that broke our hearts,
changed our lives, and our perspectives
(not to forget your nails, with jhatack orange nailpolish),
and others with looking for ice cream at 12.00 am.
through cheese: dosas, pastas, sandwiches, cakes.
through icecream, pani puri, maggi, mirchi bajjis.
through vodka and orange juice,
through coffee, tea and red bull.
through chocolate, paneer (or lack thereof).
through long nights before exams and deadlines
i will console you, get pep talks, give some,
bitch some, curse some, study some, waste some time.
through fights: yours and mine, yours and an’s,
and ananya’s diplomatic skills.
(an and I don’t fight, remember?)
i promise to bug you forever:
i am only your sister playing nagging wife. heh.
(but mostly i shall bug you
when you're just about to fall asleep).
i shall be with you through madness and insanity,
through sense, through non-sense,
through long, winding conversations about world problems,
our lives, the rain, random people at college, basically bitchin';
short, empty conversations about ending the long ones.
through silences: in autos, on the terrace, on the phone.
through music: even if some songs we like talk about not washing off lipstick (ew!),
we also like songs about rainy nights in georgia,
and noone giving us the air that's ours to breathe.
us, we will dangle our legs over the world,
wondering what's to be of us,
laughing, crying, but fighting mostly,
eating, drinking, but talking mostly,
and i promise to be there for you, forever.
Remember that time back in Aloor? When we were leaving, and one of those girls at camp said she'd keep you, and I non-chalantly said yeah okay, atleast that way I won't have anyone to bug me? She said, Yeah right, like I would, that you are my praanam..
I wonder what it was that made her feel that, we were hardly in the same room that day and I really didn't care about what she was saying right then, I was too tired.
I'm glad I have you, darling, 'cuz you really are my praanam, my Guardian Angel, my twin, and my best friend. :)
and since i promised myself i would do this the day my life changes:
This Is Going To Hurt Just A Little Bit
One thing I like less than most things is sitting in a dentist chair with my mouth wide open.
And that I will never have to do it again is a hope that I am against hope hopen.
Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
It is hard to be self-possessed
With your jaw digging into your chest.
So hard to retain your calm
When your fingernails are making serious alterations in your life line or love line or some other important line in your palm;
So hard to give your usual effect of cheery benignity
When you know your position is one of the two or three in life most lacking in dignity.
And your mouth is like a section of road that is being worked on.
And it is all cluttered up with stone crushers and concrete mixers and drills and steam rollers and there isn’t a nerve in your head thatyou aren’t being irked on.
Oh, some people are unfortunate enough to be strung up by thumbs.
And others have things done to their gums,
And your teeth are supposed to be being polished,
But you have reason to believe they are being demolished.
And the circumstance that adds most to your terror
Is that it’s all done with a mirror,
Because the dentist may be a bear, or as the Romans used to say, only they were referring to a feminine bear when they said it, an ursa,
But all the same how can you be sure when he takes his crowbar in one hand and mirror in the other he won’t get mixed up, the way you do when you try to tie a bow tie with the aid of a mirror, and forget that left is right and vice versa?
And then at last he says That will be all; but it isn’t because he then coats your mouth from cellar to roof
With something that I suspect is generally used to put a shine on a horse’s hoof.
And you totter to your feet and think. Well it’s all over now and afterall it was only this once.
And he says come back in three monce.
And this, O Fate, is I think the most vicious circle that thou ever sentest,
That Man has to go continually to the dentist to keep his teeth in good condition
when the chief reason he wants his teeth in good condition
is so that he won’t have to go to the dentist.
I wrote a mail to a cousin about two months ago, when she asked me to fill her in about what was going on in my life.
"I just read a blog post about how wonderful life would be if it were in reverse. I think it was a quote from Seinfeld. Everything would end in baby bliss and an orgasm. So that's where i will start, in reverse. The last thing that has happened to me, the most significant thing in three years, is my dentist's announcement. They're coming off, these dreadful braces!
Now, you might wonder why i'm starting with something as immaterial as braces. I have my reasons. I got my braces in the second month of my intermediate first year. Which is around four years ago. So these braces have been an integral part of most of my significant life (if any). Most of my friends (and me, i must admit) don't even remember the Me Before The Braces.
I had them at my first ever with-friends-pub visit, to my first-ever-drink, my first ever kiss (and, despite what anyone might say, you can kiss with braces, they don't make a difference, and they might even be hotter), my first boyfriend, my only break up yet, and many many painful toothaches."
And to requote Nash, like a vicious circle, i had to keep them on for some more time, as if three and a half years weren't enough. So, finally, they're off! And, really, I look quite pretty without them. Cute, even. I'm smiling into the mirror, and whaddya know! There's no metal! I can eat without stuff getting stuck there! Woohoo! How proud of me are you, eh World?
do excuse me. i've been high on air since this morning. i was probably the girl you saw who was singing real loud and very out of tune and didn't seem to care.
oh, and i think i lauuuu john mayer. someone please kidnap him for me and make him sing to me. i promise i won't even scream and go gaga and everything. i'll just sit and listen. pretty please?
you and i,
dangling our legs
over the world.
at length. randomly.
cursing aeroplanes while they land.
down slopes. running.
not stopping. not being able to stop.
an old man, singing bhajans to his scooter.
women, dancing to songs on their tv.
bribes. sudan. education.
goa airport. jammu parking.
staring into space.
it had just stopped raining, and the line between the sea and the sky was ever so distinct, i don't think i captured it quite well with my camera.
sunset. 29. 09. 06.
me, caught in a breeze and a tide.
29. 09. 06
a crash course in how to change nappies,
watch the rain from the veranda, with a book on my lap.
and, great, great food.
might be summarized into a wonderful time.
There is so much I'm not saying these days. It's as if my thoughts have forgotten what it is like to be defined by words. It has been so very long since I've had a long meandering conversation, that when I did have one today, it seemed to gush out.
Life feels like a boring sunday afternoon- an endless game of cards, a rented movie, a switched off phone, and pappu saadam. There is nothing to look forward to, and that I think is my biggest problem. A cousin called it the "second year syndrome." May be that is what this pointlessness is. Everything is such a grind, college, phone calls, messaging, going out, watching movies, drinking, coffee, ice cream, cheese-goddamn-cake, even listening to music feels boring.
I need to do something new, I think. I need to do something.
likeasoulwithoutamind inabodywithoutaheart i'mmissingeverypart
hey-ey-ey hey-ey-ey hey-ey-ey
Oh, and to all those people who come to this blog looking for "tamil actor siddharth love life" or "siddharth dirty photos" (no kidding!!) or "siddharth girl friend", I'm sorry, but this is not a gossip column. If you do find this stuff though, do get back to me. I'd be interested in some of it.. :p
(lyrics from massive attack - safe from harm, unfinished sympathy respectively.)
what a cool thing to pretend,
what a cunning way to condescend,
[add magic lines]
you know i'd be insane to let that dirty game recapture me.
out of cartons
of boxed dreams.
i would like to indulge in a splurge of words. i would like them to evaporate in my mouth, melt into my tongue like warm cheese. i want their smells to get trapped in my hair, like the smell of bread in the oven. i will slice them with my fork, pick at them with my fingers and mix them in a gravy of sentences, garnished by punctuation. i will pick out the looming capital letters, and pack wondrous vowels in consonants and exclamations. i will then bake them into stories that i will never tell, and pat them into songs that i will ever only sing in the shower.
and then, for dessert, i will pack them away in boxes and sell them to little children on the road.
she sneezed out
in a rush
and i could only think
of how much good
would do her.
dear master of jacks,
do tell me how
you manage juggling
only one task.
one constant circle the clown was juggling
with invisible eyes, a red nose,
disappearing colours, laughing children,
dynamic worlds and
some music repairs.
it lets you take your thoughts into your hands, and puts them into perspective.
..as a child's silent prayer,
my hope hides in disguise
while satellites and cameras watch from the skies.
an acid drop of rain
recycled from the sea-
it washed away my shadow,
burnt a hole in me.
and all the king's men
cannot put it back again.
but the ghetto sun
will nurture life
and mend my soul
The big wheel
keeps on turning
on a simple line
day by day.
the earth spins
on its axis
one man struggles
while another relaxes..
hymn of the big wheel, massive attack.
19 (years old)
60 (GB video iPod)
9 (people that i didn't know who wished me)
4 (people i love who weren't here)
2 (cousins called me the sweetest cousin ever!)
2 (cousins hogged till their non-existant stomachs bulged)
0 (calls from chickoo)
7 (blasts in mumbai)
i like doing lists, i say.
here's another. five most favoritestest ads.
1. the standard chartered ad with the blind man and his coach at the olympics. i could have cried. and then ananya told me it's a true story.
2. the airtel ad now about the power of expression. too. much.
3. the old emirates ad where two africans go to europe, and for the first time ever, they see snow. they run downstairs in their pajamas, creep past the reception, and then run out to play in the snow. very beautiful.
4. the mastercard ads.
the look on da da da..
for everything else, there's mastercard.
5. the old nokia n-91 ad. with the tattoo creeping up and down those people's body. anyone know what song plays in the background? it's todally too cool. (ps. my birthday's round the corner. someone care to buy me a nokia n-91?)
in other news, time is an illusion. lunchtime, even more so. (that beautiful line is not mine, don't worry.) especially when the time you have left to eat boils down to a very hungry five minute period. also, hangovers suck ass if you have to go to college when you have one.
i have always wondered what men like for birthday gifts right from the first ever time i had to buy one. (i ended up buying a blue t-shirt for him, and as luck would have it, that's what he was wearing when i gave it to him.)
so, people. million dollar question. what do men like for birthday gifts?!
I’m a city person, I have decided. I cannot live without traffic on the roads and lots of random faces everywhere. I especially cannot live without the fascinating menagerie of people, the life in the bustling, and the organized chaos. There is always an unspoken culture, a familiar code of direction, and many dimensions of the same plot.
I have always lived in a city. A fairly small one, as cities go, but a fairly cosy one. It speaks, my city. It tells tales. Everyday, there are stories that it can tell. Of people who have just learnt how to walk, of people who have just learnt to see, of people who have just learnt to talk. (It certainly hasn’t taught anyone to breathe, however. Cities don’t do that. You’re in the wrong place if you’ve come here to learn to breathe.)
This is a story of two cities that I have seen and fallen in love with. One is home. The other, however, took me in as a guest.
It is a city with culture oozing out of its walls. The curtain opened slowly for me, and this made it easier for me to take it in. As my taxi pulled out of the train station, the first thing that caught my eye was the beauty of the buildings. The old bricks, the trees in the wall, the oblivious faces to them all. As I tried to digest the beauty of it all, the place was determined to make it hard for me. It popped up a structure, a bridge, so beautiful, that it was difficult to even savor the spice of the taste in one bite.
I am talking about Calcutta. All I wanted to do was to travel the roads- to walk in the light, filtered through the clouds, under the hint of a drizzle of rain. I didn’t take any pictures, because my camera wouldn’t do justice to what my eyes were seeing. Just the roads are a pleasure.
The buildings.. Oh, the buildings! I could go on forever about them, and not be able to stop. The architecture of them all, the fusion of the structures on every road, the old and the new, the grills in the windows. The proud heritage that they all bear, the regal beauty that they all boast of. The stories that they can tell, the love that they can furnish. The contrast between The Oberoi Grand Hotel, well maintained and well kept, and a random leather warehouse- unpainted for a century, that both seemed to be built two hundred years ago.
On my very first day there, where I hardly spent an hour outside my hotel, I fell in love. In the evening, there were men sitting out on the footpath on every corner, just talking. About life, it seemed, and politics, and the world, about everything, and nothing at all. So enthralling, it was, to watch experiences being shared, opinions being listened to, with a plate of bhel-puri in the hand and twinkle of wisdom in the eye.
At a restaurant I went to one night, there was laughter in the air. A sense of Self emerged, a sense of privacy, a niche in a crowd. Like a friend put it, Calcuttans are a noisy, comfortable lot. They like feeling at home wherever they go. It’s true. I also think it’s true that Bengali evolved into what it is now, because the people found the food hard to take out of the mouth. Their language became one that could be spoken even with a full mouth. (The puchkas! The rossogullas!)
Cities, they have many towns patched together by an old grandmother into the same quilt. There is the town of the old and the brisk walk, the one of the new and striding, the town of the well-off, the town of the thriving. Mostly, there is a fusion of it all, and this is the most mesmerizing.
They all have places everybody knows, but nobody’s been to, places everybody goes to but never realize they love, places they hate, obscure places with the favorite mango juice, secret places that sells awesome biryani at three in the morning, people who gossip to you, people who gossip of you, people who you gossip about.
And what is most intriguing, is the pattern most cities follow. A network of people, most of whom will be undoubtedly connected to another by atleast one common acquaintance.
It is still in the City that I learnt how to breathe, because it is in freedom that you can breathe, and in a conflict of opinions that there is democracy. In a city there is both. Freedom, from the choices you have, and democracy, in the choices people make.
Me, I’m running away again tonight. I’m off to see the stars. There’s a movie in the sky that people have raved on about ages. It’s about time I caught it before it goes away. There’s some magic in the air that I ought not to miss. I’m probably slightly zonked by the intoxicating dose of Life that I have been given. Yes, that would be it. A buzzed headache, and a slow day.
I should make a list of the things I need at the place I’m hiding. A blanket, for example, it’s very important. It might get cold at night, and I get cold easily. Running away is simple. It’s just packing up and leaving. It’s the not coming back that nobody takes into account.
I slung my bag on my shoulders, and looked into the mirror. A mirror can show you much, and today it showed my Self. It showed me a smile in my cheeks that I haven’t noticed much earlier. There’s an adventure out there, it called out. There’s more to a smile than the curve of my mouth. My hair was in a mess. It was certainly a nice mess.
I’m running away from everything else but me, I decided. I’m giving the world a vacation. I pulled my socks on, and tied my shoelaces. I locked the door and left the key on the chair in the porch. I even grinned at the un-mowed lawn, I didn’t even curse my laziness. That’s me, and I’m not here to change the only thing I have.
The wind was in my hair. An excitement was in my walk. I had no idea where I was headed, and that was simply the best feeling. The very idea that I had Nowhere to go to was a purpose. I ate at a small restaurant at the edge of town, the kind where only patrons eat, and everyone had the same order. They’re the friendliest kind, the kind that treats you like family.
I am my recluse, the trees, my pillow, my mind, my book, the wind and the sun, my cool and the warm. The sound of the crickets is my music, the grass in the fields, my sense of freedom. But the loveliest thing, is the discovery by walking. It is like cleaning your room and finding an old favorite book at the bottom of the mess.
Yes, I’m running away tonight. To places that have always been there but I’ve never bothered seeing. To places that are me, but I haven’t had the chance to explore.
I’m running away, and I’ll never be the same again.
these blues can paint you grey. they can pull you into a mist and blind you in their colourless delusions. they can drown you in a world of nothing. where everything makes you crawl into a reclusive nonchalance. these blues can change you, complicate you, confuse you, suck you into a disconnected blur of emotions. and i let them.
over there, she sits. a cigarette between her fingers, a blue skirt upto her dainty feet. the waves foam as they hit the shore. the sea streches before her. she stares into it, a serenity numbs her. the sun sits at the horizon. the sky is a deep red, as if bleeding with her. there are children playing in the water. they jump at every wave, as if to show their superiority. the sea laughs at their innocence, a roaring laughter.
her face is flushed. she watches the frame of some men playing deeper in the sea. there are lovers, more under the waves than above them. the sea protects them. there are couples walking the beach leaving trails of footsteps behind them. footsteps in the sand, she laughed, to be washed off by the water. there are millions of colours in front of her, dancing in the water.
the sun sets.
"..i'm not a concept, i don't complete anyone, i don't make anyone alive. i'm just a fucked up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind."
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind-
each prayer accepted, each wish resigned.
and the scenes just melt into each other, so beautifully, that even if you didn't want to watch it, you would, for even just the colours and the pictures on the screen convey so much emotion.
it just gets better every time i watch it. like rahman's music.
there's something about you.
it's not your eyes. they're plain brown. they're lovely, yes, but there's nothing khaas about them. they do have the right feelings when i need to see them, the right look when you stare bored, into nothingness. definitely not the eyes.
your voice is plain. screechy at times, too. the perfect modulation to irritate someone out of their skin, when you're trying hard not to. no, you don't sing as well as you imagine.
nope, not the voice, either.
you walk funny. but everybody does. in their own funny ways.
your toes, are okay. your hands are not exactly what i would like to call nice.
may be it's your shoulders. the way they're always there when i'm slightly tired, or drunk even. so comfortably placed.
may be it's your talk. the inanity, the love, the tone, the humour, the way your eyes say more.
may be it's your gentle smile, your silent person. your shy face, your grin.
perhaps your laugh. but that's not great either.
may be it's just you. your emotion, the way your hands move when you talk, the way you blink.
perhaps i'll just wait to find out.
i sneaked a look at his feet yesterday. they're beautiful. perhaps the second most beautiful feet in the world. his toes are short and broad, toe nails cut to perfection. it's not what you'd expect, looking at the rest of him. they're a very comforting structure, the kind you'd want to look at when you're tired and stressed out. they were slightly dirty, just enough to give a dusky colour to his feet, and a rough texture to his nails. he had his big toe wrung on to the second one when i looked, and my heart did a little flutter.
i want toes like those!
A good book seduces you.
It feels your fingers first, and slowly, without you noticing it, thrusts you into its depths. It makes you lie in its world, a distorted sense of reality and fantasy fuse into each other, and you are oblivious to both.
It makes you want to cuddle up under a blanket, and each time a page is to be turned your mind rages into battle with comfort. Your mind eventually wins, the world in the book being too irresistable, you pull your hand out of the blanket to turn the page.
A really good book makes you lose all sense of reality and fantasy. You become audience, enraptured in your mind's story telling, the voices and the eyes are all you feel. The hand comes out automatically, without comfort protesting, or even giving a slight whine. Your body becomes invisible. When you are jerked out of this world, you know what Buddha felt like in his ultimate state of concentration.
A brilliant book stops all time, reality and fantasy.
It makes sure you are still enraptured by it, even when your hands and eyes are not fixed upon it, even when every part of your body makes its awareness painfully obvious.
And in this gentle semi-consciousness, you are too detached even to think for your own.
I sometimes wish there was a book that could hold me so for eternity.
they say i mustn't write about the things i don't know.
so i won't write about why the man on the road never fails to walk by at 9.30 sharp. so i won't write about why the ice cream melts, even when its cold.
i won't write about the stars. i'll pretend they're candy hung in the sky, wrapped in shiny paper like a reward for those who come first in class.
i won't write about colour. i'll pretend africans are being discriminated against because they dance funny.
oh, and i definitely won't write about religion. i'll pretend people are a funky bunch who choose to think they're in the world for pretending to do the same thing differently.
i won't tell a love story, because nobody understands love anyway. i can't tell a hate story, because i have never known passionate hatred.
i won't talk about poverty, because i'm wearing jeans worth 1,500 bucks, a t-shirt worth 500 bucks, listening to music on a stereo worth about 20,000 bucks, typing this into a laptop, whose cost i am not about to imagine.
i won't talk about sex, the closest i got to it was "female" on all the forms i filled.
i won't talk about me, because i don't know half a thing about me, and nobody else knows either, so i can't be helped.
what ever is left to write about, i won't, because i know everything there is to know about it, and writing won't help.