Alarming Regularity

It just struck me recently, about three-and-a-half minutes back, that I have been posting on my blog more often these days. I don't know whether it's because I have more time or because I have many more things to post about. Whatever it is, I like the feeling and shall continue for however long I keep the steam going.
There's one reason I like Sundays -- if I am lucky, I get to read really good features in newspapers. Some of them make me think hard, some make me rationalise my thoughts against the writers', some make me laugh, even out loud, and there are always a few that leave a dirty feeling in the gut. And I say to myself, "Why are people paid to do this?"
Today, my day was made by two really well-written features -- one by Jug Suraiya, one of my favourite columnists and another by a Pakistani journalist Moni Mohsin. Jug Suraiya spoke of the glory of the Beatles and Mohsin wrote of the usage of English in everyday Pakistani life.
Hmmm..so that's that.
I'll wait for the day when someone posts on their blog of me having made their day!
*dreams on*
*colleague asks to get back to work*
Good bye

Yet another wedding

Weddings are meant to be full of fun, frolic, dance, music, songs and a zestful circle of friends and relatives to make all of it possible.
Tomorrow is my uncle's wedding. But it lacks much of what goes into weddings. My grand pa's demise earlier this month has put a dampener of sorts on all preparations. The mood is still glum. Nobody is really keen on dressing up for the wedding, nobody's keen on looking good, nobody's even keen on setting up a great venue. By the looks of it, the wedding will just be a formality. Tie the knot, have meals and head home.
However, I really hope people cheer up by tomorrow. It's the only day of my uncle's life that would see him go through the wedding vows, the only day that will ensure that he enters another phase of his life, the only day when he publicly declares his married life.
I hope for the best. Hope for all the fun and frolic, song and dance. For, there's no way the day will return, once it's gone by.

Lost, quite so

Is it dusk or dawn?
The Sun's on the horizon.
Is he raising his above to cheer the world,
Or dipping himself into the ocean to bring on gloom?

I hope to see light.
I hope to feel warm.
The cold is pricking.
Leaving me numb outside.
And inside.

The mist isn't clearing.
It's too tough to find the path.
There's baggage to carry along.
Baggage too dear to leave midway.
I'm afraid though that I may lose it.
I'm sure I will.

And when I would have parted with it,
I will miss its painful presence.
I will miss the habit of its searing pain.
I would be relieved, but at a cost.
A cost I am unwilling to pay.

I hope the mist clears.
Clears pretty soon.
For, I want to see.
See the world clearly.

Morning blues

The past few days have been hectic because of my schedule. I have to wake up early in the morning, six-ish and be off to work. Then after running around for a while, I reach office and begin work of another kind. I stay till late night and return home by eleven or twelve with time left only to eat a little, watch some TV and sleep. Before I realise I am asleep, the alarm rings and I can't believe the cycle will continue.
I hate waking up early in the morning. I hate waking up before my sleep is fulfilled. A perfect start to the day is when I wake up all by myself, without a silly alarm buzzing by my side. I hate putting the alarm on snooze mode a hundred times before I actually make the attempt to step out of bed. And the rains just make it even more difficult. It just seems apt to snuggle up in my quilt and sleep till I see the sun peeping out from the cloudy skies. I would love to sleep till I finish dreaming about the pleasant things in my life (not that there are many of those right now). But I wish to wake up and think about my dreams while I am brushing my teeth. Recount them, try and make sense of them and then have some great fruit juice and healthy breakfast to start off my day.
That would make me feel less cranky than what I am feeling right now sitting in office on Independence Day. Working my ass off on a day that is the beginning of a long weekend for the rest of the world. Forget the weekend, I am working seven days this week. I want to find where the labour union cell is in the office.
There are three people in office right now, including me. The other two are from the housekeeping, who will leave in an hour to go home. But I will have to stay here and hunt for some juicy stories and put them on page and wait endlessly till the page gets done. Who gives a fuck, I doubt anyone even reads the paper these days! (Had it been some other day, I would have attacked this stand, but not today)
I have begun to doubt whether I have a life at all. I want a long weekend too. I want to spend time at home watching the parade on DD1 like the rest of them or even sleep cosily till it's afternoon and wake up for lunch. Watch a movie, eat out, meet all the people I love meeting. Do all the things I love doing.
But, NO! I can't because I seriously don't have a life.

P.S.: I'm sorry about all the cribbing. Had to get it out. I don't want to curse my state aloud and sound like a retard in my work place where I am hardly a week old. The two janitors will surely freak out.

A tribute

It's been a couple of tough days for me and my family as we bereave the death of my grandfather. He passed away on August 8 at 10.28 am. I was allowed to see him on the hospital bed as he lay out of breath. I couldn't bear the sight of a motionless tatha (what I used to call him), after having seen him bouncing with life for the 22 years of my life. I took one deep breath, closed my eyes, memorised how his face looked and fled out of the ICU.
As I stepped out, everyone and everything around me seemed pensive. My folks were planning out the last rites. I decided to walk towards home, to my granny. As I entered home, the mood was grim. My mom and aunties were weeping. I tried consoling my mom, and then realised the futility of the activity. It's unacceptable to ask people not to express grief, while one is experiencing it. I went to the other room to my granny and the fact that she was putting up a brave front gave me a lot of strength.
It seemed as though all hell had broken lose when they brought tatha home. It was one of the most depressing sights of my life and will remain so. Clad in a white dhoti, cotton plugged in his nostrils, he arrived, lifeless. That's when everyone broke down into tears. And, I let them run down too. I mourned his death with scores present.
My tatha was a noble man. And everyone was aware of his kindness. He was genuinely worried about everybody he knew. He genuinely cared for his kids, their kids and even their kids. Age was no bar to make a conversation with tatha. I would find great company in him to watch cricket or tennis or F1. We had even watched many episodes of my favourite sitcom Friends together.
I haven't met another man more accommodating, adjusting and adapting than tatha. He would never complain about anything -- a head ache, a stomach ache, a bad fall, a bruised leg. Nothing bothered him but the wellness of the world around him. He didn't mind bearing the onus of the whole world around him as long as everyone he cared for was well.
There have been times when he has completely ignored his illnesses to take care of my granny. He would nurse her day in and day out. He would insist that she rested, while he chopped vegetables, cooked lunch and even served it. He would even help the domestic help with other daily chores.
He was extremely active for a septuagenarian. He would wake up at four every morning. Go for a walk by the lakeside and be back home to prepare breakfast. In the evening, he would be out in the market shopping for vegetables and other grocery. He would make a visit to the temple every now and then too. I am not sure whether he was thoroughly religious, though I believe that it was more out of habit that he offered his morning and evening prayer rituals.
He was immensely respected by his colleagues, neighbours, friends, children, grand children and even great grand children. He was looked up by one and all.
I pay my humble tribute to tatha, who bought me a little red umbrella when I was six. I have lost the umbrella, but its memory remains etched in my mind -- the patterns and prints on it, the yellow u-shaped handle. My grandpa will also remain etched in my memory, a large share of it. Forever.

Poetic exile

I realised suddenly, how I have lost the lust for poetry. I hardly read any and write even lesser, these days. I wonder what the reason could be.
And then I think, it could be because I have no time, the universal excuse for all work that's undone. Also, the pace of life has differed -- it's faster than what it was in college days. I even had time to ponder while brushing my teeth lethargically. Now, I rush through it and schedule my next chore, while at it.
I reckon that most poetry I composed came, when there were intense emotions involved. I liked venting them out through this medium. Maybe I have found alternatives for that -- I talk to people, I listen to music, I read, distract myself with TV or food.
Another important aspect that elicited the urge to write poems within me was nature. And the fact that I haven't really been able to catch up with nature much these days is a valid reason for producing less poems.
And, now I realise I have settled in the world of prose so comfortably that any change will create unpleasant reactions. I am too cosy in my cushion of news and stories to get out and flex a few poetic muscles.
It's sad to have stifled a part of expression, which was close to me, which gave comfort. But maybe things have changed for the good, maybe not. Till I figure out the right equation, I will live in poetic exile.

Here I am

This is my first day at my new job. Ask me how it is? Well, like any other first day anywhere - uneventful. I have to while away time waiting for people to pass on some work. I have to keep asking my colleagues, what needs to be done. It's quite boring, these first days at places. I can't believe, I am actually making a blog entry. I have to get used to this waiting and begging for work for some more while, till I settle down and am fit enough to do all that's required. Till then.... *yawns*

Moving on

So, I quit my first job within a couple of months, owing to boredom. I didn't think the job gave me enough space to flex my muscles and do my own thing at it. Also, I found it a thankless job. Cleaning people's copies over night and facing the tirade for missing out an 'a' or a 'the' in the morning. Couldn't handle it. Chucked it.
So, you might think I would be happy for having got out of the hell that I just described. I am. I really am happy and look forward to what awaits me. But, changing places is always accompanied by some grief or other. Some people find it difficult to adjust to new chairs, other find it impossible to get used to the new pc, some others can't adapt to the new temperatures. I, like many others, find it difficult to leave old people, though I can adjust with the new clan. And in this place, where I hardly lasted a couple of months, I still managed to make a couple of good friends - NP and PR. There were many other characters who came along. My managing editor with her whip, my editor with his strange sense of humour, my colleagues, some who couldn't handle a single copy in an hour and others who couldn't handle this fact!
It was fun, especially in the last week of my work to look around and just laugh at all the characters. I knew I wasn't going to be an integral part of anything that had to with the team. I knew I wouldn't be there the next week on. I knew I had very little to do with them, then on. Logically, it should have helped me stay detached. However, what happened was the contrary. By the penultimate day of work, I was wondering whether I would find such people again, ever. They are a bunch of funny, nice-hearted people, with outrageous individual peculiarities. They initiated me into Journalism. They taught me what lies at the roots of it, doing away all the glitz and glamour. I learnt a lot of essential rules -- about people, about the profession. I will never forget those lessons. People never forget ABC... This, I think was my ABC. I thank all those who taught me what they did.
I will miss their company and direly hope they miss mine too.
P.S.: *Tries moving on with a heavy heart*