Today

Today is not what I would call a boring day.

Today is a day that I feel conquered by emotions - which is usually a sign that the monthly shedding of a bloody layer is due.

Today, also happens to be the day I decided finally to keep my promise to myself and just write. To satisfy a craving, a hunger to yell out loud. It has been a nagging thought in my head to do what brings me happiness - even if it means drinking tea. Strong, flavored, which could transport me to the green luscious minty cold mountains of Nilgiris.

Today, is the day I felt jealous of a friend who converted an old run down bungalow, into a rustic hotel of sorts, and lives there with his girlfriend.

Today, is the day I had resentment in my heart and my brain for a change agreed to the resentment - towards someone who spoiled my birthday. I should have been angry then - instead I had to apologize. Was it really so bad?

Is it just today?
Is it me being very self-centered, and thinking only of me?
Is it true that I am hiding my deepest secrets within myself?

Yes, it is true.

I have my deep dark secrets. But let them rest, in peace, within those gallows that are built deep within me.

Madhatter

On how much I love writing. That is what came to my mind when I wrote the first line. Have you felt like words could liberate? Liberate from a thought stuck in your head...a loud scream captured in a blog that I hope no one ever reads...except you. But only after i am long gone. Maybe, my secret hope is that you could print it all...and make money. And give it away. My books...need to go to a library, called Madhatter. I am a madhatter you know. 

Birthday Blues: How I wished her

When I called her, she said she was talking to the moon -asking him how the year would be for her. She said she had a neat shot of vodka in her hand, and lot of memories in her head.

I asked her what she had in her heart…she laughed it off…

I told her to quit drinking. She said she would. Obedience was never for her. But when she told me she would, I knew she meant it.
She told me about the gift he had given her, a sketch of them holding each other.
She told me about the people who had already wished her.
She told me her anxieties of becoming a year closer to death.
She laughed at the awkward feeling in her that she called insanity.
She told me about her sleepless nights, how she thought about her real parents.
She told me about the tears that come out of her eyes, ‘just like that…’
She told me about her new office, about the mallu community there.
She told me she hasn’t been reading or listening to anything.
She told me how she has put on weight.

She said, she finally said, Wish Me My Birthday!
That’s when I wished her…
She said Thank You
I hung up.
I knew I should not be wishing her birthdays again.
I felt relieved...she had grown up!

What went in my head...and then...

I don’t think I can blame her, if she feels extremely depressed about her birthday. The only reason being that until last year, her birthdays were an occasion for her.

She came to know she was adopted last year.

She had left home. When I called to wish her on her last birthday, she told me she was planning to drink till she loses touch with the earth. I told her not to, but in the evening, when I called her again, she was drunk. She cried out to me, said she bought muffins and cans of beer. Not that I think beer could make one any high…but she was. Any intoxication mixed with grief can make one high. That was, at least my experience.

Tomorrow is her birthday, yet again. I do not feel like wishing her this time. But I love her so much that I can not stop myself from wishing her. Ever since I have known her, I have. She has laughed, cried and frowned on different occasions. Reasons were weird. Sometimes, she was delighted thinking she was becoming older, sometimes, the thought of becoming more mature, sometimes, that I was late in calling her up.

Tomorrow, I should…do not know if she is still alive though. I call her only for her birthdays.
This year maybe she has lots more stories to tell me…

Happy birthday to her!

Strangers on a Bed

We sleep like strangers.

Our backs facing each other.

Never searching for a warm spot.

As night spreads out in darkness, 

I hug your back tight...

Counting your heartbeats, 

and the snores that escape...

My nightmares return, 

And demons make love, 

And I hug them too...

A Small Thought

A silent thought goes out to that cup of tea,

and round butter biscuits, had before brushing,
sitting cross legged on a red oxide floor...
counting mangoes, small, medium, big...
like bright green bulbs.

A small wind sashays through the leaves,
and a mango falls, and running to take it before a naughty crow can peck on it.
Getting scolded for running without chappals on my feet,
and later
forgetting grief in pancakes filled with sugared grated coconut, spiced with cardamom...
rolled and had with hot sweet tea...

Memories of childhood,
smell of cardamom and mangoes,
and a small thought escapes like a tear from my eyes.

Two of Us

There really is two of us, 

one who knows, 

breathes and lives within a body. 

The other, 

who dreams, 

wanders off with a favorite word, 

a sweet scent,

an act of love, 

and buttery morsel of food.

Not afraid, 

passionate and unbeaten, 

willing to try, 

and not to escape.

And the other, 

quiet and measured, 

scared and scarred, 

weak and mellow.

I love the second one, who do you?

Stereotypes

Yesterday, yet again, there was a heated discussion between my husband and my mother in law.

For the past few days, the discussion was about an uncle whose son got married recently. Apparently, the new bride does not seem to be taking any interest in getting up in the morning, cooking or even talking to the people in the house. The uncle being a widower, used to do all the work in the house, including the cooking, because he felt that because his sons lost their mother, they should not feel the lack of one...

The hunt for a girl suited to the family was on full swing. But here is what I thought...she is educated, good looking and smart. Sadly, she did not have a job. For her, the life that seems to be ahead lies in the kitchen of a house filled with three men.

Which brings me to why I am writing this - - I am educated, I have struggled my way through to sit on the chair that I sit now. But am I the stereotype of the working woman - career oriented, strong headed, who does not care for her family etc?

I am not. Not for me. And do I need to care of what others think? Yes, my mother would say - all her life has been about "what would they say?". But really, do I care? Should you care?