Love...demons...

That was my valentine gift. Of Love and Other Demons by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Didn’t start reading though…slept of and saw demons in dreams. Still wondering what love and demons have in common? Both are fierce? Is that so? It was after a lot of cribbing that I finally managed to get a gift…but knowing me for what I am I guess the gift was not chosen badly. Basically, I never remember getting a gift for this day. Yes, I did…the red drowsy roses, me and aachi bought from Jose uncle’s shop once upon a time…no teddy bear loves, no candle light dinner.

Neither did I know that abnormalities waited for me in the path of love, where valentine’s was just another day when “Americans” actually showed love!!! And the Yamani version of it, when you love a person all through the year, what is the purpose of having a day to show love?

Yes, maybe it is the consumerism of today’s world that paved an extremely polished graveled highway to the market goers of today. In the most famous shopping mall of Bangalore, I saw its extremities. A crystal (Swarovski…I think) chain on his lover’s neck; the village lass turned city-gal: pointed heels on the potholed roads, eyes searching for someone who could hand over a rose and say, “Be my valentine!”

My heart was in the groove, I wanted a gift too. But then, when I saw that love was not anywhere around and what mattered was just “Oh! WOW! He got me a diamond!!!” I thought, it is better off in my case. I was happy eating Lebanese BBQ chicken and prawn fried rice, and laughing, as usual…Every day was Valentine’s Day…ahem…ahem!

what i felt from last night...

Sleeping is in the high priority list these days. And finally when I hit the bed, I feel, this is what I wanted to do my entire life. Last night was no great exception. I was trying hard to listen to him talking, but my eyes gave away…I was dazed into a world that snored away to glory. Then I dreamt of sweetened thick sugar syrup flowing…I was in the low-ceilinged room of his house that he described to me, He came to me and asked me to take bath before his amma came…what was the sugar syrup for then?

I woke up to find him cosied to himself, that sweet slumber and peaceful face. The newly trimmed short hair that fell on his forehead and the soft snore escaped through his nostrils. I got up, went up to the loo…switched on the light, wondering what the time was. My newly grown left finger nails that had a silver polish glistened as I turned the tap on.

Coming out, I checked the time in my mobile…5:30. Wondered whether I should go back to the room, that cold, some-smell filled room of mine. But I didn’t feel like leaving him then. I snuggled back into his arms. He mumbled something to me. I kissed him on his eyes, on his lips and softly told him that I loved him…

I kept waking up, at 6, 6:05…he pulled me back, put his hands and leg around me and said, “Don’t go now…” I smiled and lay back again. The sweet sugary syrup didn’t flow, but I saw myself walking down a lane, shaded with yellow leaved trees. I went walking, and then the alarm went off again.

I walked back to my hostel, my head was swinging slightly. I lie in my bed for a minute, I knew I was getting late for my office , but I just wanted to sleep again…

suicide note

I was listening to a song by Nirvana. Not that I listen to them always, just a particular liking for the song “where did you sleep last night…” It was a sway effect- the sound made me feel like dead, doped and disturbed…and once again, I fell in love with Kurt Cobain...

From there, I went to wikipedia, read about Cobain, his life, his love, his music, his guitar, his band, his suicide note…suicide notes…

Suicide Notes are written at that point of time, when one feels that the world needs to hear what one's saying before the final whiff of air! I have felt like writing a suicide note a lot of times. Never had the guts to "DO" the final act though. I have tried, but failed. For various reasons. For stupid tears, and unreasonable judgments passed in life.

What was bothering me, when I read it? Why did I tear off the suicide notes I had written? I had written three of them. Blaming everyone who made me feel lost, tired and depressed. I hated the world with the words I carelessly scribbled. When I put the blame on others, I quietly gulped down my mistakes. It didn’t matter to me anymore. The world meant nothing at that point. I wanted to keep it somewhere so that someone who sees my body would notice it.

The moment I knew that I have not succeeded in ending my life, I tore the papers into bits, scared that the world might put it back into pieces and know what went on in my mind. I ffeared being caught of my sins, that I joyfully put blame on the world. I feared being tortured because of it.

If at that point, my world would have scrambled like thermocol balls in a windy room, I wouldn’t have smiled today!

Pre-Onsite Depressive Syndrome

Today: - Another normal day at work. I have had disturbed sleeps these days. Not work pressure. I am relaxed at work. But the thoughts of having to go to another civilization…one day, I will have to go too… I was wondering…how it would be for those who are going. If it were UK or USA, it would have been better.

But here?

But just thinking back to when I applied to this “ping pong” company with an R&D centre in Bangalore. After my test, I was given a sheet of paper to fill in my details. One of the columns asked for my willingness to work onsite…Pa later claimed, they had the choice of only 3 months, 6 months and a year. But faintly I remember one month somewhere mentioned. Anyways, that’s not the point.

I was thinking how it would be to eat raw fish, vinegar rice, and uncooked vegetables. I was wondering how I would sleep without the comfort of the Indian air. Yes! there is something called Indian air. And that too, further classified on a regional basis. Then again, the food. I think I can count the number of times I have eaten rice in Karnataka, the thin white pale rice that seldom forgets that the human being eating it should have a full stomach and a satisfied burp jumping out after a glass of warm water. I miss malayali food. Of course, I could murder someone for a nice sadhya…

Oh #$%@ my mouth’s watering now.

That me, going to eat some god forsaken fish, raw??? Then sashimi and sushi and what not!

Then, Amma, Achan and my Pa. I fight with the first two people a lot. They are world to me. They are like oxygen. It is for them that I do a lot of things in life.

Pa…I am in love with him and have been seeing him everyday these days. He is like food for me. And food and me is like…u know!

I don’t want to miss them.

Friends…it is more of Pa’s friends that I call friends now. They are fun to be with. They are I-don’t-know-what-to-call-you-guys type! Chandra and Zaki…Chandra’s digs on Zaki, Zaki’s howls when he seems someone sexy on TV, their obsession for food, Zaki’s finickiness, Chandra’s cook-o-mania, experimentations with cuisines, Zaki’s pakistani chutney and arabic tea…cricket, football…Their statements on the Salaam Namaste couple, I don’t want to miss anything…

Freedom…that’s what this place has given me. The freedom to make choices, to drink breezers, to eat in jukebox, knowing that the bank account is crashing, to look at good asses (I AM STRAIGHT!!! JUST MY COMPANY WHICH MADE ME LIKE THIS) when walking down Brigade Rd. and hearing Pa’s philosophical theories about good asses, getting into every other designer store and getting out after 2 hours saying there is nothing in there for me (that’s my kanjoos nature working out), buying softie icecreams and taking a huge bite from Pa’s and sulking when he asks for mine… I wish my COO read this blog, Sir, I am willing to work for you. I will slog my ass out…but please let me stay back here. I don’t want to gooooooooo…

Pre-Onsite Depressive Syndrome

birthday blues: the story of how i wished her...

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 b’day, she told me she was planning to drink. 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 sloshed…but she was. Any intoxication mixed with grief can make one high. That was, at least my experience.

Tomorrow is her b’day. 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!

When I Wished Her...Finally...

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!

It Was Not Being What One Needs To Be

It is never easy when you foresee a flick to be a work of genius.
It is never easy when you face the reality of the flick not anywhere near brilliance.
That is what “Being Cyrus” was all about.
A host of accepted and extremely brilliant actors, a debut director promising freshness, cuts from a brilliant editor who did Pulp Fiction; it is just my humble self, which believed that the motion picture would exceptional.
It begins with a deserted shot (was it shot in a desert?) of Cyrus, probably in his 25th year of existence relating a story of how he met the Parsi family which was “later to become his family.” Family…ahem yes. The wife to become his secret love and the husband to become his guru! Then he goes to Mumbai to meet the grand old father of his guru to deliver a pack of chocolates, burgers, drinks…with an ultimate motive of "eliminating" him…Wah!
It is a continuous story telling of Cyrus doing this, Cyrus doing that, Cyrus went to Mumbai, Cyrus giving chocolates to a street woman …Ok! We understand it is called “Being Cyrus”…but what was Cyrus thinking when he played to his sister’s tunes? What was he thinking when he said, “I knew I could play Katie like a violin?” What is it that he was thinking aloud to the audience all the time when he knew that he was doing it all wrong!
I mean, it was confusing. Because:
- If you are hurt because you are doing something, then you have a choice of not doing it.
- If you are playing to the tunes of someone else, because the someone else means a lot to you, you still have the choice of talking back.
- If at 25, your past is haunting you, you do not go around "eliminating people", to make the world know you “finally arrived!”

Characters
Saif: What a waste! The character should have ideally been a character. With the same voice that buzzes in Kal Ho Na Ho, Saif relates the story with absolutely no relation to Cyrus!
Naseerudhin Shah: He was good. Mumbling all through, he portrayed the character of the world famous sculptor losing his brains, with perfection. One brilliant performer who says aloud with his presence that, “I am brilliant, even if my director is not.”
Dimple: Protruding b***s speaks louder and louder than her acting. She had a character, which could have been very well played. I am wondering why someone did not tell the woman that she is supposed to be hysterical most of the time, and hysterical did not mean overacting…She was better off selling candles!
Boman Irani: Came and went. However, wasted for a role like that. There was no space given to him and if there was a space, he would have done it with brilliance.
Simone Singh: Lovely performance. Lovely in her chic dresses, panicked expressions and strong dialogue delivery. Finally…
Not that I forgot some good performances, The father character, was well played, very well played. The police man, with full dedication to his role, but very theatrical in his performance.

Music: I don’t remember hearing any.
Editing: He cut and cut and cut and cut…finally it was only 90 minutes. God bless him!
Direction: I wish he knew what he was doing. He had everything a director could ask for, but he messed it up, big time!
Summary: Watch it; you will not lose anything else, other than money and some time!

When the tigers broke free...

It was just another Saturday evening...there was music which seemed the only difference...there was no cricket mania, or football mania, or Tamil busty chick mania...

I was not high on anything, I was just feeling plain. Was not feeling like going back to the humid room of mine, just lie in the hall with three of them reciting stories about their college days, and how the songs took them to a hyper state..."I thought you never liked it, da..." "Yeah, I don't, it does not match my ideals...".............

Then, When Tigers Broke Free, I saw,
................
................
................
................
................
................

A full womb, I was struggling to get out from it, on that day I just had to come out.

She cursed me when my head popped out. I twinkled, and she said that she didn't want to see my face. The maid took me away to a room stacked with boys and girls like me, little ones, whose mothers would have kissed their foreheads when they were born, the father would have had tears seeing them...grandmas promising to light candles in their names and grandfathers with a proud heart that finally, an heir has arrived.
I felt sad about them...
Nobody had kissed me, nobody had tears in their eyes, nobody lighted candles for me, nobody felt proud...I felt so plain that day...

Then on the third day, a woman of 35, her friend and nephew took me away from there, giving the maid a 100 rupee note...

................
................
................
................
................
................

I had tears in my eyes, it flowed down, I knew I had lived a long way after it.
I didn't know whether to cry or to laugh, I was between lovely people, who loved me for whatever I was...
But can't take that haunting womb from my mind,
Can't stop thinking about it,
When I walked back to my room, I thought...

Good that She Didn't Get To Kiss Me!

And that Is what Happened When Tigers Broke Free...!

Room No: 27 of the Children's Ward

I was thinking about a hospital room.

Room 27 of the children’s ward. It was the last room in the corridor. There was a window just outside the door from where I could see the sea, the sunset, the moonlit sky…In the room, there was a bed, a bench, a cupboard and a body, which had tubes on it.

The body was mine and I was alive. There were people who came and went. There was pain that was constantly there. There were friends who supported me. They knew I wouldn’t die.

I fell sick one day; I was put in a general ladies ward. Achan didn’t like it. He said he wanted to shift me to a room. I was. Room 27 of the children’s ward. I read The Godfather there. I re-read Mid Summer Night’s Dream there. I listened to my favorite songs there. I was just there…

There were syringes going in and out of my body. There were multi scans taken for my head. There was blood that oozed out when they tried finding a vein in between my groans. There were pills to sedate me. There were nursing students who came to see the seriousness of the patient. There were new, old, naive and experienced doctors who talked at length about my disease.

Doctors diagnosed my disease. They said I had migraine. I knew it was a hole in my heart. For my friends it was the sudden emptiness in my heart. I decided to keep quiet and so did my friends.

I left the room, still a patient. I decided to start filling up the hole with books and music. I spent hours in the college library. I had lost interest in dance and the innumerable forums I was an active member of. I hated myself for being so tired of having tried.

I got out of it all…and now, I don’t want to go back to Room 27 of the children’s ward.

I am still alive...!

When Flowers Bloom...

I Had Loved Him...

Then I thought I was crazy.

When I held him tight across my chest, I knew he felt the same. With those round eyes he looked at the tears that dripped down my tired face.

I saw myself in his eyes – tired, worn out and depressed…

The day came:

I gave him a bath,
Lay him on my leg with a pillow below his head,
I rocked him as I put powder for him,
He smiled his most charmful smile,
My First True Love…
He slept off…
I took him in my hands,
Gave him the last parting kiss,
Handed over the angelic body to his mother…

Later:
He grew up,
He told me that he knows computer,
He spoiled my painting,
He jumped on my white bed,
He talked back,
He ran away when I tried to kiss him…
My First True Love,
I wished He Slept…
Just To Remain What He Was!

Resurrection

Long time, I know, as a good friend asked…, “Isn’t it time, you resurrect?”

Now I am back.

So, I am writing about assaults. Mental ones are talked about. This one is physical.
For no reason, because Bubbles told him not to peel onions. She would have done it herself. She loved cooking, and she did her love with at most interest.

Bubbles scolded him; she doesn’t like him too drunk. Bubbles doesn’t like when he blabbers after too many drinks. Bubbles knew it was only beer. But still she didn’t like it…

He sulked, expecting a hug. Bubbles walked out of the kitchen with the peeled onions to cut them…to the one room of their home, to the computer turned TV…to the west indies Vs India match…not that she understood cricket, but she was willing to like it, for his sake…and his friend’s….

He came out of the kitchen, and on his way to the bathroom, he caught the smile on Bubbles lips!

As if seized by some beast, he sat on her shoulders…Bubbles hadn’t expected it! Bubbles cried…! It was hurting her…her bones, her stomach, everything seemed to crush under his weight! Bubbles screamed…then she cried…

He was over 85 kgs…and she was a puny creature compared to him…

The bones in Bubbles body are still cracking and her right leg feels weak…Can bubbles call it assault?
It was onions…only onions and a smile, which he loved…that is only what Bubbles did!

Epilogue: He apologised to Bubbles, then sometime at night, in his unconscious self, he was mumbling loudly, Bubbles told him that she wanted to sleep...he tossed her into a ball, she kicked him everywhere for defence...he hooked her in his hands, spit on the wall and screamed at her. Bubbles got scared and moved to a corner of the room. She slept there till he called her aside. Bubbles went to him, but got up and roamed around the room...
His snores kept her awake for long...Bubbles cried herself to sleep...

Misstrusts

It is really difficult. I am not able to distinguish people.

I have always loved everyone. You know what I mean right?

Then, there was deception everywhere. I am not talking about the exterior wails that followed. I am talking about the internal mistrust that crops up in me, when I see people.

Now my office, I never expect back-stabs. Because I think I never do that, so why would people do it to me. But I am told, she might say she likes you, but not really true.

Ok, so what do I do? Do I trust you then? You seem to like me too! I am not the too-good-to-be-true type. I know it myself. I am not flawless.

But I hate to believe that someone who I smile and joke with will not actually have the same attached feeling towards me. She says, Oh I missed you so much…and I think ok she did actually miss me. But when she is heard saying, Oh Thank God She was not Around…

What do I belief? What are relationships doing here? What the F*** does the word “trust” mean?

September 2006

Hair Line...s

The story of how…

I woke up with a start, to the sound of water…thought it might be one of those rainy, shadowed days. I then saw the trail of ants on their regular bootcamp sessions...I stared at them for a long time,they creeped out to the open window from my greenish bedcover. Black and Brown Ants. Suddenly caught with an urge to destroy, I killed two of them. Poor souls departed into the shadowed day...
My mobile cried loud, it is 6:00. I tossed back with negligence, it was a sunday. Not to bother the wails.
On the wall was a line, a not-so-thick black line. On the cream paint, it shone. Of course, Sunsilk Black makes hair shine...but I thought they die when they fall off. So that was it. Hair. I pulled it from the wall and dropped it on the floor. Another broom session and baby, you end up in a rotten namma bengalooru garbage bin.
I picked up a book. Collection of Poems by Anita Nair.
There again, I saw dead cells scattered. A entwined mass of hair. Black, Red and Brown.
I sighed as the image of Kareena Kapoor and the hair colouring ad whisked its way in my mind. I made a mental pledge not to colour my hair again.
I picked the dead lovers from the pages of the book, flew them off to the floor again. Somewhere between the lines, my eyes gave up and I fell into a mass of entwined coloured hair.
I tried blowing them away. Years of Sunsilk and Years before of Coconut Oil had made them strong. They refused. They stuck to me, like green fungi on old bread. I pulled them away from my body...they were sticky now...
I cried. My project manager came and told me to concentrate on pulling it apart. I tried. This effort, will this be recorded in my timesheet??? I wondered. No, I need to concentrate...I jumped on the heap and they jumped with me.
Suddenly water drenched me, I felt cold. Now for some shampoo, on the dead cells, I poured, Sunsilk Black with sunflower extracts...to make your hair bounce, shine...the TV was turned on and I kept trying...
It was hair...and hair...

September 2006

On Reading

Yesterday, I completed 5 more pages of "The Devil Wears Prada".

I can happily say, I am reading a lot these days... May sound bullshittish, I completed all Dan Brown "classics" too. With an urge to read more, I shell out money to buy books.

I have many books. Oh! Did I just sound like a school kid who brags about the number of pencils?

Oh My Sweet Reader, Don't mistake me...I was just trying to imply, the simple present tense of the statement..."I have many books!"

But now, wasn't this supposed to be on reading? Did I just think about Sir. Joseph Addison, whose name I couldn't remember and only "The Spectator" that kept cuckooing in my head! I thought of a prose like the ones he used write. Neat words, bundled in a framework of a topic...well polished, British and very manlike.

Yesterday, I completed 5 more pages of "The Devil Wears Prada".

The story is about Andrea, who in hopes of getting into a "news magazine" ends up being the assistant of Miranda Preistly, the suave editor in chief of "The Runway" : A FASHION MAGAZINE!

I thought about it...didn't seem uncool for a novel plot.

I mean, if you could be published by a top house when you have actually "taken inspiration" from other authors, and you suddenly become a star among Harvardians...and the world...at such a young age, and suddenly you are the bright star back in your country, who made us all proud...and the still-regretting reviewers and readers, who inspite of great odds bought your book...Maybe it is a Gupta, or your next door, Mehta ...

Oh! Did I mention names??? Neat, I didn't...

So...

"The Devil..." comes a welcome change... I read atleast 10 pages a day. Yesterday, due to the heavy intake of heavy fat loaded food, I dozed off to the sounds of the night...

I am waiting...for it to be SIX. I will get out and manage to get back home and cuddle up on my pink woollen bed...with the pink blanket around, and the stuffed monkey under my hands... This is about reading…

...and I completed 5 pages of "The Devil Wears Prada" yesterday!

November 2006

year roundup

i have become a year older...there were responsibilities which i think i have fulfilled with pleasure. sometimes, i have turned my head towards people, and sometimes, refused to look at them. i read a lot compared to last year. i travelled to a land i never thought of seeing, i met strange looking people and found that "love" is universal. friendship actually has no barriers. i finished off burdens. made up with long lost friends. smiled a lot as usual and cried a bit. found love stronger and patient. :) nothing great happened the last year. it was as eventful as i made it. but i think i could have lived it just a little more...! :)

2006 March

egOOO searches...

One lazy tuesday afternoon, I googled my team leader's name...stumbled upon her old articles...man...so many of them!!!

Then began a saga of egOOO searches...some ended in finding out matrimonial ads for a colleague, some in lakme skin care help ME, some in yahoo answers, some in build-your-body-in-two-weeks! oh boy!!!

But then why do people do ego searches?

Probably as G Prats (a colleague!!!) pointed out..."it is good to know that I work with people who can be searched on Google!" Of course, it is a different story that she asked my TL to check Wikipedia for her Husband!!

Ego is something like an inflated balloon! Sounding cliche as usual, but I guess it is the fact. some like themselves to be pasted everywhere and then enjoy watching it! Maybe...!

But do YOU think Shahrukh Khan would do such a thing? Or maybe even Madonna???

Ahem...Ahem (pondering!)

The Eternal Curry Leaf

I am sick and tired of being nice to everyone.
Why am I the last option in everyone's life?
I want to be a priority.
How is it that i am able to keep you and your thoughts and your needs above mine?
Sometimes I feel people think of me only when they need something.
People think of me when they know I can do something for them.
I was promised. You said I will be thought of.
I never see you do that.
I am crying within...and am pining to hear you say anything to me at all.
I thought it was love.
I really did...like a fool.
You were just like all the others.
You came and went as you pleased.
And I remain...
The eternal curry leaf.