wish list

i want someone to buy me a book.

scratch that.

i want lots of people to buy me lots of books.

and an ipad. if you're willing, of course.



om namaha, hrudaya layalaku om.




"What is a good way to avoid awkward conversations?"

"Zen koans."



It was in a rickshaw in Old Delhi last week after a meal mostly made of kababs and naan, and a conversation about music, love and breaking up that someone told me this.

"Never have a girl friend who is in love with the Beatles."



(but) for now we are young
let us lay in the sun
and count every beautiful thing we can see.

in the aeroplane over the sea, neutral milk hotel.


verb: to do

make me.

you make me

you make me want
to do




or potatoes, if you please, are simply the most annoying consequence of colonisation.


sometimes, i suddenly stop everything i'm doing in a memory of you. it is your kiss i remember, strong, passionate, gentle. the way your tongue would know my mouth, the way your arms would hold me up. i close my eyes, and turn away, smiling. in this memory, i open my eyes, and watch your hands flick the hair off your face as you laugh. in this moment, i feel my love for you, lingering, like a night's farewell. and then, just as suddenly, your cunning stings me, i remember your malice, and the kiss fades. the moment passes.


all i want


1. to curl up into a blanket
2. a cup of hot, steaming cocoa.
3. preferably with marshmallows.
4. to re-read colour of magic. and mort.

1. to sleep.
2. till i can't sleep anymore.
3. to wake up and loll in bed.
4. preferably with a murakami.

1. to take a train.
2. a long, long journey. to hyderabad, may be.
3. amitav ghosh.
4. who i've always wanted to read on a train.


"... in our house books are neither furnishings nor badges of learning; they are debris. Officially we have two libraries, which are defined as places where you store your old books while your new books pile up beside the bed."

-Terry Pratchett.



I am Sita.

Why do you ask?

Is it because of my silence or my rebellion? Which offends you? Which takes your breath away? Which makes you want to brush me away or take me for granted? Tell me, why do you think that I would wait within boundaries you draw for me, why would I not flirt with strangely garbed men who come knocking at my door? If they spout ten heads, would I scream in a fit of rage, or cower submissively, and let myself be taken away?

I am Sita.

Why do you care?

Is it because of my seeming conformity, my life within a life? Which soothes you? Which makes you feel I am like any person you would encounter on the road? Answer me, why must I not go where I please, dream of love-making in forests while monkeys and trees watch in voyeuristic nonchalance? You would protect me, you say, you with more than just Bala, you who have experienced Atibala, you would hold me dear, fight wars for me, you would abandon me, just when I allow myself to be tamed, a Queen, by any standard?

Let me not lie to you then, I am she, and yet, I am not.
I am Sita.



ghosts of songs lurk in corners of my mind. they pounce on me when i least expect them, waiting for that moment, ah, that precise point in time when i'm looking away. they descend upon my mind like a lattice around all my thoughts, they envelop everything. they haunt me sometimes, a woman's voice humming exactly one note, while the rest of the song watches elusively from too far away, while i grope in the dark for just one more snatch of the song, a clue so i can figure out what ever comes next.

they delight in teasing me, these phantoms that i can only ever hope to place, sometimes heaping nostalgia onto me. phantoms from the past, some that bring me specific memories of specific people in specific places, others that leave me with vague feelings, feelings of being at home, of friendships i've lost, and so the songs have either lost their meaning or bring me only pain.

and so, i sing, hoping that i can reach it, this song, sometimes just hoping that eventually, i'll know the rest of it, and when i do listen to it, it will live up to everything i went through to find it again.


(look ma, two posts!)
(there's actually a third. didn't want to overdose. tomorrow, may be.)


about (iv)

the seeming non-metaness of that which is metaphysical.


side note about notes titled 'about': they're insubstantial because i have only just begun to wrap my head around these ideas. feel free to make of them what you want to. they don't mean anything specific or solid to me either, and considering the ambiguity of some of these ideas, i doubt they ever will. the idea is also that these seeming non-meta things (er) are so non-meta that they can be anything.

a second side note, contradicting the first: body. labour. these are the things i am trying to figure. but like foucault said in a context not completely different, we need to look in the most unpromising places, in what we tend to feel is without history - in sentiments, love, conscience, instincts. though, i must say, the questions in the ones titled 'about' before this, i have moved beyond. it is not as if i have figured it out for myself and know all that there is to know, it is just that i am now used to seeking answers to these questions, and that my head has metaphorically wrapped itself around that question by now.


mandatory valentine's day post

i have another valentine's day song. this one is more tragic, suited to my age (i'm older now, okay) and mood (less cynical). (the first one is still my favorite though.)

there's no aphrodisiac
like loneliness.

no aphrodisiac, the whitlams.


Time stole my whole month, and now I want it back.
Where can I file a complaint?