Mynie Moe

Champak

2009-07-14T23:37:00.001+05:30

I was just flicking through an old, really old issue of Champak. For those who need an introduction, Champak is an LS children's magazine. The typos and grammar WILL undoubtedly make you cringe.

But there was something really weird I caught while reading the inane stories, none of which have obvious morals or lessons that kids' magazines generally promote.

The fictitious names that these writers/contributors (who actually take bylines for what they churn out) attribute to their characters -- most of which are animals -- are ridiculous.

Here's a sample:

Kitty Cat (quite obviously)
Bhuro (Also a cat with "very good heart")
Gadru (A "simple donkey")
Chuchu Mouse
Guddu, Bittoo (Both "wrestler pigs")
Cheeku (The "clever hare")
Blacky Snake (None of Blacky Snake's caricatures show him to be resembling a shade even close to black)
Nanu Rat
(And Nanu's friend) Nikki Rat
Nittu Frog
Annu Ant (This is what made me laugh out loud)
Kalu Crow (The cliche disappointed me. Come on, after all that creativity, Kalu Crow is a let down)
Speedo Kite
Fighto Mongoose
Daba (Agarwal uncle's "outdoor" dog)
Roxa (Sharma uncle's "sheer lazy" dog)
Chandan (Reporter with Jungle Times)
Pipi Car (Features in a story involving a four wheeler and a bicycle)
Trin Trin Cycle (Yes the cycle starring in the above mentioned story)

That's that.
My personal favourite, Annu Ant (such alliteration!)

In shambles

2009-07-11T17:33:00.007+05:30

I've just about returned from a trip to Kerala, that's where they say my roots lie. And this time around I traced them myself. The process in itself was exciting and enduring and the end, rather anti-climactic.
A long, long drive on the NH47 -- bordered by coconut trees and paddy fields -- from Cochin to Palakkad took me to a small hamlet called Pazhumbalakode. That's where my great grandfather once lived as the village head or the 'adhikari'. It's a village that one is most likely to miss. It's probably meant only to be discovered by wanderers -- ones who've lost their way on a long and arduous journey.
The narrow pathway leading into the village is amplified by the chitter, chatter from the adjoining school. The path remains narrow till it diverges towards the pond/lake to the right. Straight ahead are the homes lined up one after another in a perfect line on both sides.
I was escorted by this lady who claimed to know my grandfather and kept questioning the family's integrity over leaving the village. 'And that too, when you're the adhikari? Unimagineable. Tch tch,' she kept saying. 'And for what? A luxurious life in a big city. Does it suit a brahmin to do any such thing, eh? Tell me, tell me.'
I responded with faint smiles for lack of fluency in malayalam and tact of handling old women who believe they've seen enough life and have the ultimate authority over anything under the sun.
I asked her if she could lead me to my ancestral home. She was more than happy to play my guide. 'Just two minutes ahead,' she said. I followed her. A few more steps and she stopped. Pointing at what was an apology of a house she said, 'That's it.'
No, no, no, I told myself. But that was it. That was what was left of my ancestral home. A 10x15 ft wall. Covered in moss. With a door that seemed to have been shut since at least half a century. It might just have needed a gentle push to see it all come down. But nobody had bothered. It was a wretch. A complete one at that.
I could only imagine what it would have looked like when my great grandparents, grandparents and the rest lived there. Should have made for the house that every villager envied for being the biggest in the village. I would also like to assume that it would have made for the most beautiful home in Pazhumbalakod. Grant me that.
Initially, I didn't know what to feel. I was confused. I then felt saddened by not being able to see an integral part of my heritage in all its glory. Then shame crept in while I stood in front of the shambles.
I stood there gaping at MY home for a couple of minutes, took out my camera, clicked a few pictures and walked along with village lady after being nudged twice.
I turned around. One final look. One final good bye. I then thought to myself -- maybe one day when I am really rich, I could buy the space back and build the adhikari's home again.
Some consolation!

Back from the Himalayas

2009-06-07T18:13:00.000+05:30

I have lost count of the number of times I have visited Manali and trekked the mountains around it. It's become a routine holiday -- I let the summer set in, hop on to the Paschim Express, let it take me to Chandigarh. Then I wait to be transported by road to Manali, bearing witness to the strangeness of a new state. It never seems familiar.
The road journey gets cold by the night, I keep my winter clothes handy to shield myself from the pleasant, teasing cold winds rushing in from the window of the car/bus. Let them brush my hair till I suspect they'd make for a knotty, troublesome morning.
When it's just about dawn, I step into Manali. Breathe the cold, calm air and feel unusually at home. Routine. Routine but equally, if not increasingly, exciting with each passing visit. It was the same when I went this time -- routine yet exciting.
I have a strange affinity to the place. Every time I come to Manali, I see the place worsening -- with its traffic, pollution, congestion, tourism et al -- but there is still something that makes me want to return. It's been three days since I have arrived in Bombay and I want to return. Return soon.
The Himalayas around the city are overwhelming in their stature. But I find their presence reassuring. They are stable -- they have been there for hundreds of years and will remain so for many hundreds to come. It has resisted change in the past and will continue to in the future.
Reassuring to me!

Moment of clarity

2009-05-14T18:04:00.000+05:30

It's been about three weeks since I first got to know that I would be away from India for a couple of years to study further. The first week went by dreaming and day dreaming about the winter in Europe, about the relatively emptier streets that I have only spotted in movies so far, about meeting Europeans in their pink skins, about having to cook my own food, about managing new currency and much more.
Till last night I was only excited about what was coming my way. But last night, some alcohol and a couple of good friends quite reversed my idea about the whole deal. For the first time I realised (and I would call it the moment of clarity induced by a bottle of wine) that it would need a lot of getting used to making new friends and more traumatically, missing old ones. I realised I would be missing people more than places. I'll miss the voices more than noises. I'll miss hugs and the kisses. I'll miss the chats and debates. I'll miss all those around me. I'll miss them all. :-(

P.S.: Sadly, there's no way I can miss you all. Borders don't matter to us right?

Simple complexities

2009-04-29T11:23:00.000+05:30

It's been more than 20 days that I have been wanting to get a haircut done and everytime I call my salon, they say they are booked for the next two days. Even my dentist doesn't ask me for such heavy-duty prior intimation of my arrival! Anyways, since I can't decide what I what I would be doing 48 hours in advance I am not comfortable with the whole idea of getting prior appointments with a hair salon.

But then I told myself that it's my problem and the big, complex world of today revolves around appointments and meetings and blah. So, I gathered myself up and tried fixing myself up thrice but got tired of being turned down because they don't work to match my timings! What the fuck! I was just asking them to chop off a little bit of the hair that I thought was redundant! It's not going to take more than half an hour, is it? But there they are, just not interested! Isn't this their job?

So, I gave up on my salon and called up this other guy, who is also really good -- that's what JP old me. And the Other Guy also happens to be an extremely busy hairstylist and asked me to give a call the following week! A whole week before he can touch my hair! That's frustrating! I just want to have my hair cut, damn it!
But I tried being a little patient and called him up the following week, as per his instructions and he asked me to get an appointment at another branch for the weekend!

What the fuck?

What IS with these guys?

Colour, colour which colour?

2009-04-02T20:43:00.000+05:30

There's this little girl whom I meet at my gym every day. Well almost every day. There are days when she doesn't wake up on time and there are days when I don't wake up on time. So let's say we meet about four days a week on an average.
Anyway, she might be about eight years old. She's skinny and around four-and-a-half feet tall. I heard her telling the instructor the other day that her mum thinks being four-and-a-half feet tall is terrible for an eight-year-old. And that's what brings her to the gym. So, while the rest of the women (it's an 'only ladies' gym. I think women in Dombs are still very conscious of working out in front of men) sweat it out to lose or add flab, little girl tries growing a few inches taller.
One of these days while I was trying to make sense of parents wanting their children to grow taller than what they can naturally be, little girl diverts my attention towards something I found even more irksome.
"Didi, main itni kaali kyun hoon?" she asks a gym instructor, who has a relatively lighter skin tone.
"Go and ask your parents, why are you asking me?" the gym instructor replies jokingly.
"My mom is very fair. Bahut gori hai. Main kyun aisi hoon?" girls asks.
Gym instructor tries ignoring her volley of questions by telling her that it's important to be tall. Far more important than being fair. She does a good job because little girl gets back to her grow-taller regimen.
Two days later, I hear little girl asking another instructor how to have fairer skin. And that's when it really begins bothering me. Bothering me enough to rob at least two minutes of sleep every night thinking about why little girl is so worried about her colour.
After two nights of thinking, my surmise is she has enough reasons to be fretting.
I am sure the rowdy thugs in her school might have named her kaali naagin or some equivalent of that. Her fair-skinned girl friends might be making her feel ugly. Her teachers might never have chosen her to play a Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty for the school's annual function. Her relatives might have suggested kapuzillion ways for her to grow a shade or two lighter -- drink more milk, try this fairness cream, no, that one's better etc. Her mother and, possibly, father might not be letting her play with other children for fear of little girl growing darker under the sun. Her playmates might be pointing fingers at her, laughing, gossiping and speculating why she can't play along with them -- she is a bad girl, she might have failed in her exams, blah, blah. While little girl might try watching TV to distract herself from the badgering, she would possibly only take notice of all the fair and good-looking women living beautiful lives behind the silver screen.
Phew. Tough life she has. And she is just eight.
Ufff

Mannat

2009-04-01T21:49:00.000+05:30

This one is for one of my very close friends AD, who passed away last October. I am certain she still checks my blog and has a hearty laugh from up there.

A,
You know what I had to do today? Stand outside YOUR Shah Rukh's Mannat from 5 pm to 8 pm in the hope that either Sourav, Buchanan or he would come out to update us, the byte-hungry, demented, jobless media about the ongoing KKR controversy. You know what it is about, right? Yeah. So, there I was burning myself away in the heat and sweating myself away like a pig when I could have been chilling my ass in a pretty cool pool tournament. But such is life.
Anyway, all along I hoped for your SRK to come out to speak because then I could have told you how he looks, smiles, waves, speaks, walks in real life. But that was not to be. Forget Shah Rukh, not even his dog Hippo came out to greet us. We just stood there, saw the sun go down into the sea, saw his house light up and also saw Dada storm away to the airport from Mannat.
If you still carried a phone, I would have called you a hundred times to update you about all what happened and curse your King Khan for being so heartless to not even offer us water. I would have gone on for less than five minutes and then heard you go on for half an hour in his defence. But I couldn't do any of that.
Such, also, is life.

Phew!

2009-03-30T11:27:00.001+05:30

My designer mate KK just called me and said that the fault is not really ours. It's some technical hitch at the printer's end. That's some consolation.

P.S.: Cycle ends. :-)

Screw up

2009-03-30T00:35:00.000+05:30

My mind is pre-occupied. Something went wrong at work. The page that I made yesterday doesn't have a picture in print, instead has a blank grey patch. I don't know how it happened but I am pretty sure I'll have plenty of brash remarks to hear till the end of today and maybe tomorrow and maybe day after tomorrow and the day after that. How could I be so irresponsible? How could I leave it all upto the designer? How could I this and how could I that?
So, I am horribly tense right now. Waiting for a how-could-you message from my boss. And while my finger nails are moving up to meet my teeth, I am keeping them distracted with the keyboard. I'm breathing heavily to calm myself down. Thinking of the peaceful yoga session I had in the morning.
By the way, my mom's begun joining me on my yoga errands. It feels good to have some company to the gym and back. We can joke about the funny accents of our yoga instructor and more importantly discuss breathing styles.
Ahhh... The horror is returning. My mind is really not letting go of the picture-not-on-the-page issue. This is my problem. I take things too seriously when I get attached to them. Yes, I am quite emotional about my work. Silly, but true.
But right now what my conscious mind is telling my subconscious is that it's really not my job to check the page for formatted pictures or lack of them. That's someone else's job and so I need not worry. I am succeeding to some extent. There's some relief.

P.S.: The horror is returning and cycle is continuing... Boo hooo... I hate the way my brain and my heart work in tandem.

2009-03-11T23:44:00.000+05:30

It's been about 15 days -- I am not sure how many exactly, I lost count after three -- that one of my best friend's (GB's) mother passed away. It was all so horrible and terrible over the past few days that I preferred the quiet around it. Now, the shock has passed us by and what remains is some bitterness, sorrow and a blend of denial and acceptance.
I regret not having said my final goodbyes to Aunty. So here I am, doing just that.

Dearest Aunty,
I am sorry I couldn't make it to Kerala. Feel like a s*** pot about that. I would have loved to see you one final time and told you everything I never told.
Aunty, I would have loved to tell you how strong you were. There was nothing that could bog you down. You went through such trauma -- mental, emotional and physical. When I saw you motionless on the hospital bed some months ago, down with whatever got you down, I was shattered. I couldn't see you -- someone who was so full of life -- lying there lifeless. But you kept all our hopes alive. You kept building yourself up. And with you, all of us were building ourselves up. You were strong and inspirational.
I'd have told you how much I am going to miss your sense of humour. You know aunty, you could laugh with anyone and everyone -- you could laugh with the three (GB, PU and me) of us, you could laugh with our mothers and fathers and their mothers and fathers. And I am sure you could have lived to laugh with our children and theirs.
I would have told you how I am going to miss witnessing your tuition sessions through the pink transparent curtain. How you could handle a bunch of students from different classes in different schools, studying different subjects all in the tiny little room. What surprised me is how you managed to make all of them so deftly. I know you never did it for anything in return. You just wanted them to learn. You inspired me.
I would have told you how I am going to miss your snares and glares every time I came to your house and indulged in loud laughter riots. Reminds me how we stifled all the giggling and laughing and got back to our books or at least pretend to, when your eyes met ours. I am going to miss your work-while-you-work-and-play-while-you-play dictum.
I would have also told you how much I liked slurping up your sambar till there was absolutely nothing left on my plate. I am not sure how much I'll miss it, because your daughter is sure on her way to perfecting the art of making the ideal sambar that you made! Congratulations on that!
I would have told you all this and much, much more. There is so much unsaid and, as cliched as it might sound, life really seems short.

I am drunk

2009-02-22T05:08:00.001+05:30

This is to sat rgat iu apolhise for my orevious post. I a m drink. damn drubk]

Drunk, pissed drunk

2009-02-22T04:56:00.000+05:30

Ok, I need to accept and acknowledge the fact that I am drunk. Damn drunk. I am at GB's place, one of the best friends in my life. We are with another best friend PU. And we are damn drunk. In fact, I am so drunk that I have just cleaned GB's puke. She puked in her bedroom and next to her bed. Ugh. Hate playing the bai when everyone else is drunk. But someone has to play tje bai. SO, why not me?
Anyways, I am really happy i have friends like GB and PU. They are great people. The best I have ever found in my life. They are the best. They are damn nice. They are cool. They are super duper funny and super duper amazing. Please forgive me if I am not making enough friends. And I am sure LD is going to read this and feel left out. So, this one's just for you -- I love you too. I lonbe you a lot. In fact I lobe you so mych si that I have a kufe of amy owm./ Dure i ma damn drunk.l
Ots fun yhouhj to post when you are drinkl. once spm,epme firehes our what this is post it bnack to me. for is am waitnin. shit,. fuck!
You know i was trying my best to be food at grammar and everythign else when i started odd , buit now, i jsy don't care. I just want to share what i feel
we played soem,in called the sic tiodes game. where we do something what we ffeel we want to do and haven;t veeb abt to di. so we witte tonw what we want to do and pucj uo chits aof what we want to do.
then weh t caemt ot my choiuce. i t so gappened hat u have to specn d a datg fow wmy gra nd man...
\ficj i am not majing sense
bye bye'
I lpbe ou al;l

SHIT SHIT SHIT
i know uou lobe me too

FUCK!

Parting ways

2009-02-18T01:48:00.000+05:30

I was on the train today. Like every day. And every time I board a train, there's something interesting. Intriguing. Something I make a mental note of and think of penning down later. The later that seldom comes. But today, I am determined to make it happen! So, while I have noted, what I am going to narrate, about a zillion times in more than six years of train travel from Dombs to town and back, tonight is when I write about it.
I was on the train from Elphinstone Road to Bandra on my way to cover some local hockey tournament. At Dadar people streamed into the train, pushing and tugging at each other. Smelling each others' arm pits. Cursing each other. Kicking each other. Mocking each other. And then reconciling.
Oblivious to this tension was a girl wanting to stay at the edge of the gate way. She managed the crowd, managed her luggage and managed herself to stay put there. She wanted to steal one final glimpse at her lover on the platform. The final glimpse that will see her through the night. See her through the times when she would miss him.
She fixed her eyes on him as the crowd settled down. She then whispered something. He knew what she said. He whispered back. I'm not sure what the exchange of whispers meant amidst all the pandemonium. Maybe it wasn't meant for me to understand.
Then he asked her to move inside and take a seat. She denied. He asked her to hold on tightly to the metal rods above. She followed. He asked her to call him when she reached home safe. She nodded. She asked him to rush home. He stood there. He frowned as the train began crawling out of the platform. She wore a consoling smile that read, "It's alright. I'll see you again tomorrow."
Their eyes had this amazing chemistry. Some sort of a bond that didn't let go. For them, the people, the noise, the commotion -- the world -- didn't exist.
She watched him disappear. He saw her till he couldn't. She moved inwards looking for a seat. The little consoling smile disappeared. And she frowned.

And I looked away.

Clot in the throat

2009-02-15T23:46:00.000+05:30

I hate this feeling -- the feeling of a clot in the throat. It happens to me when there's a sudden rush of emotions. Emotions I can't handle. Emotions I can't share. Terribly demeaning emotions.
It happens when I want to scream out loud, scream till the world goes deaf, but am forced to keep mum. It happens when there are a million words in my dictionary but I can use none. It happens when I want to cry, cry till the oceans flood, but can't let my tears show. It happens when I want to prove a point but there's nothing to prove. It happens when things I direly want aren't going my way. When what I say falls on deaf ears. When they get me wrong. When they don't respect me. When there's disregard. When they don't draw the line. It happens when I realise I have't drawn the line. It happens more often that I would like it to happen.
It's happening right now.
*Realises water is good for clots*
*Gulps down half a bottle of cold water*
*Feels better*
Ah... *wonders why people prefer alcohol*

Horribly creepy

2009-02-07T19:22:00.000+05:30

It was about 11 last night. I was making my way through the Dadar railway bridge. Clutching on to two bags, inconveniently climbing up the uneven stairs. It was dark. The station was poorly lit as always. I took out my phone. Managed to speed dial 5 and talk to JP. Was about say a final good night.
And then, a lanky man stretched his hand out from the crowd on the opposite side and grabbed me by my left upper thigh, trying to make his way up to my genitals. Before I realised what was happening, he was done. He began walking hurriedly to wherever the hell he was headed.
A second later, I yelled out, 'Abey chutiye, haraami. Ruk. Ruk na saale.' He moved faster. He began running. He was too fast for me to grab him by his collar, pull him back, slap the fuck out of him, crack my knuckles against his nose, kick his balls and let him writhe in pain while I had some sadistic relief.
He fled. Fled like a rat scurrying for cover from pest control. I shouted again. I seemed to have raised an alarm amongst the late-night vendors selling their 'foren maal' on the foot-over bridge. They began yelling, chor, chor. One of them came up to me and asked, kya chori hua madam?
I said, chori kuch nahi hua, haath laga ke bhaag raha hai.
The vendor then told me, Accha, accha.
And he stood there.
And I stood there, still abusing the coward, who now seemed to have made his way to the foot of the bridge and onto the roads. I hoped he got caught and lynched by a mob till he bled.
I felt helpless. Like a damsel in distress, needing someone else to act on my behalf. I had this horrendous, creepy feeling. I could still feel the man's hand where he had felt me. Like a nasty after taste. And it stays for a long time. Stays so that you can't experience or think about anything else but what's happened. And then there is the feeling of haplessness that returns at regular intervals.
Horrible. Just horribly creepy.

Plain bored

2009-01-29T19:30:00.000+05:30

In office. Damn bored. People around are typing away stories on their computers. Others just pretending to be busy, me included. A group of ladies is holding intense discussions interspersed by hearty giggles. Wonder what they are talking about. Wonder if I could join them. But again, I am really bored right now and rules of boredom state that indulging in any interesting activity might steer one away from the state of boredom. So, I shall just stay put where I am -- typing inanities on my blog post.
*Looks around to spot anything worth a mention here*
The terminal on my right is empty, the one on my left is unoccupied, so are the ones ahead of and behind me. That wasn't worth a mention, you may say. And I'll reply, that's all what's happening around me, and that's what makes me bored!
The TV is switched off for lack of a worthwhile sporting event. Two colleagues just walked in. They are scrounging over the remnants of some Butterscotch-chocolate cake that was ordered to celebrate our boss' birthday. Can't spot my boss. Guess, he's down stairs making important calls on his phone, getting some inside dope, drinking some hot chai and munching on some crisp, salty and very addictive pea nuts.
The landline phones in office are constantly ringing. As soon as one stops, the other begins. I am beginning to believe there is some strange, uninterrupted cycle they follow.
Ah, have been given some work! Will be right back.

Ah, where was I? Anyways, boredom has gone. Listening to some System of A Down songs. My colleague DT has been very kind and generous to lend half his I-pod!
So, bye bye....

New Year and all that...

2009-01-01T13:57:00.000+05:30

Well, it's the beginning of a new year and my Inbox is full of greetings -- both on my phone and e-mail. While I have been avoiding answering these wishes from my well-wishers/acquaintances, it became increasingly difficult to ignore them. So, while I was semi-drunk (yes, I am the kinds who has ego issues in conceding my full-drunkenness!) this morning after a quiet evening with my family, I had nothing better to do, but classify these greetings into different categories. And from whatever intelligence I could generate from within my intoxicated brain cells in the semi-drunken state, I have 5 broad categories. Here we go...
1)There are some greetings which are plain and simple -- just Happy New Year from XYZ and family or Wish You Luck from ABC -- Thank You.
2)Then there are the ones that are intensely poetic -- It's time 4 (yes, 4) new resolutions, new beginnings, new visions. It's a new life, afresh. It's time to remember and thus wish a Happy New Year -- Thanks, Wordsworth.
3)There are also people who believe in keeping their humour quotient up despite alcohol getting the better of them -- To all my friends and relatives who sent me love, prosperity and best wishes for 2008... it didn't work. Please send me cash for 2009 -- No sorry.
4)And when there is such festivity around, there are some who find the urge to stay "glued" to their culture, their language and not get swayed by the winds of westernisation. So, there are customised messages for them, in their own languages that send out heartwarming messages to their "cultured" clan -- Thanks, but no, thanks.
5)But what amaze me the most are the ones formatted on some mobile software by some geek, who doesn't have a life on new year's eve and finds designing forwarded messages the most interesting aspect of his/her time on earth. The designs -- all made out of a thousand commas and semi-colons, brackets and hyphens form the "cute" teddies or "sweet" flowers -- Amazing.

So, I shall have a great year after all, with so many people in the world wishing the same for me. I'm glad!

P.S.: If you defy my skills of categoristaion (yes, in semi-drunkenness) you must get back to me. I might consider your suggestions and apply them next year. :-)

Sigh

2008-11-10T16:06:00.001+05:30

One of my very close friends passed away about 20 days ago. I have been wanting to blog about it. On some days, I haven't been in the right frame of mind and on others, I have begun to write but never found the right words.
A couple of days ago, Avanti would have turned 21. Her family decided to publish a book with messages from her friends. I finally got myself to contribute, after having lived in denial for way too long. Here's a bit of what I have to convey:

Dearest Avanti,
Yesterday was your birthday. You would have turned 21, and I can't begin to imagine how excited you'd have been with the whole deal of crossing the 20-threshold! I thought a lot about you yesterday and the only thoughts that filled me up were of us having a whale of a time together. I guess that's what you did with everyone around you. That's what you did with the world. You pumped in so much energy and life that no moment in your company would seem pensive. You always had so much to say, so much to listen, so much to contribute. I remember one instance when you told me about meeting one of your uncles, who was breathing his final moments. I can recollect how you were shaken up about the prospect of death -- about cessation of life. You couldn't fathom how somebody could just stop living. Today, I can't believe that someone as alive as you could stop living. As hard as I try to find logic and reason behind the way things went, I fail. But, I have come to terms with reality, because that's what you'd want me to do. I would be lying if I said that I miss you, because I miss you a lot. And always will. But it's your memories that live with me and always will.

Yours,
Mini

My Tattoo

2008-10-23T20:06:00.000+05:30

The latest and probably the only excitement in my life right now is my new tattoo. After a lot of contemplation, opposition and persuasion, I finally got it done last month. Have been a little busy lately so haven't had the time to blog about it. But yeah following were the tiresome steps involved in getting my dear little tattoo etched on my lower tummy:
1. Being sure about the tattoo (took about a month)
2. Narrowing down on the design (2 minutes, i had a dream about the tattoo. So that made this aspect easier. I let my subconscious mind rule over my conscious)
3. Getting a nod from important friends (1 day)
4. Persuading my parents (never really happened)
5. Arranging for the money (1 month)
6. Getting the tattoo etched (1 hour)
7. Feeling good about the tattoo (Ever since)

Ah yes, I still feel proud of the tattoo and hope it remains so for the rest of my life. Now, a little about what the tattoo looks like and what it means.
The tattoo is an image of myself. It's me, through my eyes. It's a little girl sitting all alone on a rock. She's looking into the blue sea. She has two young, yet strong, wings. She is undecided about plunging into the water and exploring the world under water or taking a flight to catch a glimpse from above the rest of the world. She's been thinking forever. She is 'happy-sad' about being indecisive. Happy because she can just sit forever and cherish this moment before making a choice and sad about having to make the choice.

Cool na?

Discard

2008-10-19T20:01:00.000+05:30

This is something I wrote for the anchor space in the Edit Page of DNA. That's the newspaper I work for. The piece had to be a funny life experience. Having had many such, I just picked the most recent and wrote all about it. The editor discarded it calling it too "risque". The piece had been feeling lonely, lying in the 'Sent items' folder of my gmail for over a month. And also my blog had been feeling a little lonely for some time. So I thought of helping two lonely subjects. Here you go...

Wilson College Nature Club trips have marked a major high in my college life. The tiring climbs, sore bodies, parched throats and obsessive environmentalism compensated by fresh breaths of air at mountaintops, blinding fog, greenness and much more…

I am not sure of having learnt the finer nuances of nature conservation, but if there’s one aspect of being in natural surroundings that I have mastered, it’s beckoning nature’s calls in the open. Yes, more often than not, when tents are pitched on remote green plateaus, one can only see trees and rocks as makeshift curtains while attending nature’s calls.

On one of these trips, I was in northeast India with a few friends, returning to Gangtok in a van after a failed attempt to reach Nathula pass on the Indo-Chinese border. One of the most common problems encountered at altitudes above 10,000 ft is high altitude sickness, something that could even turn fatal. To ward off the adverse effects of the illness, the best one can do is sip water at regular intervals. And that’s exactly what I had been doing after already having experienced some dizziness on the downhill trip.

I have always believed that I have been cursed with an extremely small and non-elastic bladder, which always lets me down. With my shortcoming, it is only natural that I had the urge to relieve myself at an interval of 20 minutes. After a couple of halts, the driver grew impatient with my demands and pretended as though he was short of hearing whenever I pleaded with him.

To my delight, we got stuck in a traffic jam in the ghats with a few uninhabited shops in the vicinity. I took the opportunity, hopped out of the van and began scouting for a good shelter to do my business. I looked around. There my van was, last in the beeline of many vehicles. A few trees dotting the spot. Nah, too far away. I saw the rear tyre of my van. It seemed too alluring. I could just squat there, nobody would have an inkling of what I was up to. And, it wouldn’t even take me a minute. So I looked right, left, right again, and go.

I was enjoying the growing emptiness within me, and vroom. The damn traffic jam decided to clear. There I was, exposed to the world in front of me – mostly my friends who had got off to stretch a few muscles and a few strangers. A few moments of silence and shock prevailed before I zipped myself up with a job half done. And what followed through the trip and still does is insurmountable embarrassment.

Fruit Skins

2008-09-15T21:31:00.000+05:30

Last night I was at Parel station with a colleague, MV heading home after an extremely boring day at work. Both of us were so bored that we had a headache owing to boredom and general absence of interesting events during the day.
So we stood there at the station. Staring at things. I stared at the peeled-oranges on sale, the mucky-looking ragada of the ragada-patties and men and women at the platform. Finally, I stared at the weighing machine on the platform. The typical ones that you and I step onto, while we are 3 or 5 or even older.
And MV and I looked at the four 60 watt bulbs and the hundreds of zero watt colourful bulbs. All of them flicker in harmony. One goes off, the other goes on. Another goes on and yet another goes off. They all make for a very psychedelic view. Look at them for a few minutes at a stretch and you'll transcend to another space and time! Fascinating without doubt.
But what's equally, if not more exciting, is the response each ticket carries along with your weight. MV said I should weigh my bag. Yeah, weird and silly, but what would cheap thrills do if we weren't around? So, we did weigh my bag. The card read 2.5 kg and carried a lame prediction, something to do with business interest. Business interest of my black and white striped bag with loads of crap in it. What got us rolling in laughter was a cautionary message at the top of the card, "DO NOT THROW FRUIT SKINS (yes, skins) AT RANDOM." Hilarious.
I was left speechless for a while and even when I write about it now, I am at a loss of words! I would love to meet the person thinking of these social messages and writing them with such great finesse! If anyone knows of any such person, do get back to me.

P.S.: Meanwhile, I will weigh my new bag tonight at the weighing machine and check what it's prospects at business are!

Busy and liking it

2008-09-09T20:37:00.000+05:30

I have been a little busy for a few days watching inter school football games, reviewing them, finding new talent, chatting up with coaches trying to find who is the one player in their team who turned the match in their favour or against. Ah well, it has all been very exciting sitting in the "press box", something that least resembles a box. It is more like an enclosure for the poor and humble!
What I like about my job is that I have fun just going places and watching sports. And then being able to comment on it is just a privilege! I have for the first time in my life, begun liking my job. And that's a good sign, isn't it? I know it is. That's that then.

P.S.: After all that bragging about regular blogging, I have taken a hiatus from it because of busy-ness *hangs face in shame*

Alarming Regularity

2008-08-24T17:24:00.000+05:30

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

2008-08-21T18:45:00.001+05:30

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

2008-08-18T13:46:00.001+05:30

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

2008-08-15T10:30:00.000+05:30

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

2008-08-10T15:25:00.000+05:30

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

2008-08-06T22:10:00.000+05:30

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

2008-08-04T18:21:00.001+05:30

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

2008-08-02T17:36:00.000+05:30

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*

Snail's faster

2008-06-13T01:39:00.000+05:30

I'm one of the happiest persons in the world right now to experience the renewed fastness of my computer. I had even named her 'snail' owing to her very special characteristics of working at a horribly slow pace. But, now both of us have something to cheer about. She won't get whacked and I will have a more pleasant stay in the virtual world. She will finally stop hanging herself in what I believe are her dire attempts at suicides. And, how I would quash all those efforts with a simple Ctrl+Alt+Del. Now she is 256 MB faster, which is equivalent to getting a face-lift done at 50, considering her age and ways of life. I can already see her beaming with confidence.
She's even allowing me to listen to some great metal music without asking me to shut all operations by choosing 'End Program'. I like the experience and shall savour it till my snail comes back to what she was best known for - being slow!
I'm happy for snail. I'm sure she's happy for me!

Missing and all that

2008-06-11T23:23:00.000+05:30

There are quite a lot of things happening with life as of now - new job, new people, newspaper (!), queer work times - which means a lot of adaptation. I don't know whether I completely like my job or not. It's not bad, so to say. But it doesn't give me the cheap thrills that college gave. I can't say what it was that college gave, that made it so special. Maybe it was the people, maybe the schedule, maybe the way I lead life. There was an awesome level of comfort, something I have never found elsewhere. So, this post is about that - how much I miss college, Wilson College, and how difficult it is becoming to get over it.
I miss the ancient Victorian structure, and the lovely beach that faces it.
I miss the walks on the beach whenever there was a free/off lecture.
I miss the experience of the last benches.
I miss my pretty, very pretty friends.
I miss my ugly enemies.
I miss my teachers, the ones who didn't know even one tenth of what I know (or so I'd like to believe!)
I miss Sudhakar Solomonraj or Suddhu as we like to call him, who knew everything there was to know.
I miss his hand-outs, the songs he played.
I miss the Nature Club.
I miss the Nature Club's annual exhibitions that meant a week's sleeplessness.
I miss the Nature Club treks, which I would like to believe are the best treks in the world.
I miss the festivals, which needed so much work to be done.
I miss the Principal's inane speeches.
I miss abusing the 'system'.
I miss going against the authorities.
I miss the canteen that served 'Wilson samosas', the only item on the menu that I liked.
I miss whiling away time in classrooms.
I miss staring out of the class window into nothingness.
I miss the running late for lectures (though there weren't many that I walked in late for).
I miss the hearty laughs over some stupid joke.
I miss the projects.
I miss the fights that they ensued.
I miss the films we made.
I miss 'The Clarion', our fortnightly newsletter which helped me make some friends for life.
I miss the class-drinking sessions.
I miss the class fights.
I miss the industrial visits.
I miss the hostel, Pandita Ramabai Hostel, and the people there.
That's a long list of things I miss.
Seems like I've been in love, and getting over this love is not only difficult for me but also seemingly impossible. I really wish I could turn back time and re-visit the three lovely years and keep playing it back and forth. Seriously.
Signing off with a heavy heart.

Return to the virtual world

2008-06-11T15:32:00.000+05:30

Ah well! It's been almost a couple of months that I have been active in the blogosphere. (and when I have finally decided to, my niece here isn't too happy with me doing what I am doing. So she insists on reading every word, as I type. She's a fool! HA! She read that too! Anyway, I am trying really hard to ignore her.) It's getting difficult to make sense while there's a pesky little kid beside you trying to annoy the fuck out of you!
So, I shall put up something that makes some sense later in the day. Bye for now.
P.S.: What a return!

Me and My Terrace

2008-04-01T22:29:00.000+05:30

Only a floor away from my home my terrace welcomes me every night with its half tattered door, darkness and some faint starlit chipped tiles. It's the place I love being in. It's the place where the most remarkable ideas have struck me. It's where I make all the important decisions of my life after consulting the Moon or the million stars. *Hides face partially in shame*
I can spend hours on my terrace, in the dark, just listening to some music - music that I carry on my phone - thinking - thinking about everything that makes me think, EVERYthing - or talking - talking over the phone or to myself. *Hides face in shame again*
I enjoy walking up and down the terrace seeing who's walking on the roads, what's happening in the buildings facing me, who's spending time solitary like me on their terraces. Then I walk some more and think about the day, think about all the jokes that were cracked, laugh stealthily making sure no one's watching me. Then I walk some more and think about all the things that went wrong, all the times I wished I could erase from every one's memories to whom it mattered. And, then I just wish, wish for all the things that should have happened but never did. Some of the wishes I know would never materialise. I'm sure my wallet won't be graced by some magical charm and have unlimited reserves of money in it, and a million more impractical wishes. *sigh*
My terrace is also the place where I go when I have no one to talk to. In all the solitude, I find company there. Company that doesn't talk, just listens. No, I'm not demented. I just find comfort in inanimate objects. What to do, I am like that only!
Anyway, I have been bullied into mentioning the one who inspired this post. So, here I go. Thanks Lyandra, for all the support and courage you always offer me in all ventures of my life, this one being no different.

Trips Galore

2008-03-31T17:07:00.000+05:30

How I love the season when exams conclude. It spells a term of fun-filled, senselessly drunk, nobody-gives-a-fuck-about-anything parties. And more importantly, plans of trips and on 1/13th of an occasion, it materialises into a real trip. Again, this summer, as every year, people are making plans for after-exam trips like there's no tomorrow. I turn to my left, a trip plan; I turn to my right, another trip plan; I look above, its the same; I look below, things still haven't changed! Ha!
After planning a trip to Goa for millions of years, a bunch of us have finally taken it upon ourselves to make it really, really, really happen this year. Goa, I know, is as cliched as anyone can get. I'm sure when the most brainless creatures on earth meet and make plans for a vacation, even they think of Goa. It's a place visited by almost everyone once in a lifetime. (I'll kill the fuckers who give me statistics on this and prove me wrong in the comments section! I really don't think all the random things I claim are true.)
So, yeah, this will be my after graduation trip, with the bunch which has meant the most to me over the past three years. I'm sure there will be a lot of drunken talks there as usual like, "You know guys, we should have a trip every year, or once in six months or even one every couple of months, each month, every weekend" and more horse piss about how, "It's so great that we all love each other so much"! I'm waiting for all of that actually. And I'm sure I'll be running to the sea a couple of drinks down, wishing I was a mermaid and wanting to talk to all the merpeople! But the best part is, not anyone would remember it the next day! So, I'm safe!
There will also be some bike rides, or so I hope and wish. I love the lash of wind against my face on the bike when I'm riding it. The winds can be harsh as you gather speed. Hmmmm. *Gets lost in dreams of great bike rides*.
And, the beach and the sand and the Sun. We'll walk on the beach barefoot under the Sun. Under the Moon and maybe even under the plain dark or bright sky. We'll think of all the college days. All the stupid pranks, the shameless jokes, the senseless fights, the mega-bitching, the maha-boredom - all the times we've spent together. It's really the end of all of this. The end of an era!
*Lets gloom set over for a while*
*Gets bored of the glum, wants some fun*
*Publishes post*

Strings

2008-03-18T22:42:00.000+05:30

There are so many things on my head. It's difficult to pick out one string of thought and separate it from the knotty mess. It's tough to straighten out the one string of thought even if I manage to pluck it out of the knotty mess. While I try consciously to straighten it out, the string of thought then thins and threatens to break. A broken string of thought in the head causes much tension. It's a loss of balance. It's a loss of a string of thought from the family of strings of thought.

Ok....that's enough on strings of thoughts!

Head Ache

2008-03-15T00:20:00.000+05:30

I have no idea what the reason is for the splitting pain in my head since the past couple of days. It's something very very consistent and that's the most annoying part of it. I wake up in the morning, it's there. I have my breakfast, it's there. I take my lunch, it's still there. After the nap, still hanging around, yeah! Evening stroll, very much present. Dinner time, freaking me out. It's mid night and it's still lingering.

The pain isn't negligible either. It comes from within - as though it was your brain that was mourning. It hurts beneath the forehead, under the temples and even a part below my nose. Stroking the forehead forcefully helps. It eases the pain, but then the fingers start giving up - out of boredom of performing the same movement.

Then I think of popping in a pill. Something that will relieve the pain. Distract my attention to the more pleasant happenings around. Let me breathe with lesser stress. Let me live without wincing. Then I decide against it for some binding reason.

Then the prospect of relief passes out. It's by choice that I own my head ache. It's despite the option of a cure. Now, I lose the right to complain. It's time to live. Live with the head ache!

Pacman

2008-03-04T00:02:00.000+05:30

A rejuvenated interest in Pacman is something I have gained recently. And I should say, it's entertaining. Damn entertaining. And extra-addictive. So every time I get the Internet, the first thing, hmmm... probably the third thing, to be precise, I do is log on to http://www.freepacman.org/. What follows is then legendary!
I love myself wading through the aisles with the white, sweet bubbles that come my way. I know the only thing to do in 'Pac World' is to eat the bubbles/tablets/sweets/stars/planets (different connotations for all us different people) and run. Run from Pinky and Inkey and Blinkey and Clyde. I hate to see their sharp, disfigured teeth ready to chew me into themselves. What I yearn for, as does everyone playing this game, are the Four Pearls of Evil (that's what I imagine them to be). Pearls because they glow more than the rest of the non-shiny bubbles and Evil because they give you the license and the power to kill. To eat the Pinkys, Inkeys, Blinkeys and Clydes of the Pac World. But like real life, the period of staying in power is short term and the Evil again has the upper hand over you - the nice one!
What is coolest about the game is the music. I have hardly seen it advancing through the five years that I have been a fan of it. It still sounds like a trippy rhythm that can wake you up from the deepest sleep ever, if played loud enough!
Another spectacular thing about the game is it 2-D character. It helps my primitive brain function. Function with quite some adeptness!

Dogs

2008-02-25T15:07:00.001+05:30

The soft paws, jagged claws, wet nose, razor-sharp canines, fur coat, the brown patch around the eye, the belly that bellows almost always, the ochre eyes. I miss each of them - I miss Oink, my dog.
It's been two long years that he's stayed away from me. Long enough to probably stop loving me. Long enough to probably forget me. Yet, when I met him today, he pounced and jumped and licked me all over. I must admit that I love the attention! I love all the adulation! And then comes my turn to pet him, to give him all the attention he needs, to pat his back, scratch his neck, to kiss his jaws and shake his hands a million times over! My turn at this never ends! For however long I stay with him, he owns me, owns my love!
Today is special because it's his birthday. I bought him a Merwan's mawa cake, which of course he shared with his siblings, quite unwillingly though. He probably knew there was something unusual about the day - the fact that I went to see him, to be with him and the cake might have definitely given it away.
I love him, still the same, well probably a little less. That could be because I miss him more. It's when I have those pensive patches that I wished he wagged his tail inciting me to inflict some violence on him (yes we did have some brawls, and tough ones at that!). Hmppphhhhhh.
Happy birthday Oinkieee

Wish List

2008-02-08T18:15:00.000+05:30

How I wish the world thought the way I did. Things would be simpler, life much more meaningful.
I wish to climb the tallest peaks in the world to feel the thin air, to feel the coldness, to touch the snow, to feel the ache in the legs and feet below from the strenuous journey.
I wish to fly across oceans and dip into the waters whenever thirst beckons, drink the sweet water from the oceans and rush to the moon. The moon seems like a place that holds all the goodness, all the purity, all the good people. Maybe it's my fantasy, maybe it's true.
I also wish to buy all the sweets in the world and give them away to all the bitter people in an attempt to sweeten them. Don't know how it helps, don't whether it does at all.
I wish there were people who could walk on stilts all their lives, I would be one of them!
I wish I still had my pet - Oink. I would never have left home.
I wish all the stars could be counted.
I wish the sky was dark though the day and night.
I wish the elephants could run real fast.
I wish the world used pencils rather than pens.
I wish all the food in the world came for free.
I wish all the people I loved never got upset with me.
I wish I never cried.
I wish snakes were harmless.
I wish the nights were less scary.
I wish I could sleep on all nights.
I wish I kept travelling all through my life.
I wish I could just run away.
I wish I didn't have to answer anyone.
I wish I didn't have to miss anyone or anything.
How I wish.....

Longing

2008-01-14T22:22:00.000+05:30

It's been really long that I've visited this space. Have been caught up with commitments, with work, with college, with life. I seem to have lost touch with myself, in many ways. I hardly have the time to think about My health, My body, My hobbies, My sleep, Myself. I have been lost in a world where there's only room for making sensible decisions, taking the right paths, no room to wander, discover or simply while away time. It's a mechanical way of living. It's been so long that I have sung a poem, since I have strolled the streets without a thing to worry or strain about. It has been so long since I have walked oblivious to everything around me. Walked just staring at the moon and the stars. Walked alone, hand in hand with myself! I long for solitude, long to stay away from the crowd. Eat my popcorn when I want to eat it, and not wait for the rest of the world to join me. Watch a movie without having to find company. Wander the whole night and not return home, and still have no compulsion of justifying my absence.
I want to be selfish, just think about myself and not the minutest life around me.

Over and Out

2007-12-14T20:36:00.000+05:30

There's a strange kind of tiredness creeping into me. Whether i like it or not, I am shrouded by it. I'm tired of all the early mornings, of all the sun rises, of all the blazing noons, of all the sunsets, of all the cold nights. Tired of life.
There's too much to brood over, too little to smile about. There's too much to debate over, too little to agree upon. There's too much of darkness, too little light. Life's a bitch. Excuse my French.I'm sick of all the blames, of all the burden, of all the onus. My shoulders are drooping, they can't take anymore weight. My heart is heavy too.
I look at people around me. i see them empty. Full of sympathy. That's still empty. I look for The One. I can't find anyone. I live my life, it's full. Full of thoughts. Thoughts that grieve, thoughts that sob. Thoughts that give a heartache. Thoughts I hate.
I hate what I love.
I pretend. Pretend to smile, to look for joy. I find very little, or none at all. I gather the little. Store it in my house. I water it, but it just doesn't grow. It's planted in sand. It won't grow. It chokes me to death. I love the little joy, but it hates me. It denies me itself, it withers and wilts.
I wither and wilt along with it...

Fire Crackers

2007-11-07T21:52:00.000+05:30

They shoot up in the dark night sky, making a loud hissing sound. Form a pattern high up there for the world to see. Patterns that look like flowers, or showers. Transform their colours from red streaks to pink blobs to purple splashes. And then, they all disappear - the streaks, the blobs and the splashes - to leave just puffs of white smoke in their place. Fire works.

And there's the breed that works when the sky is lit up by the sun. Begin with a weak hissing sound, one that's short lived, just a harbinger to warn you. Warn you of the explosion that's in store. Then the blast. Could be just a singular loud noise or a multiple series of moderate noises. All one sees is delicate sparks interspersed between these noises. At the end of it all, they too leave just puffs of smoke rising from the ground to mid air to the heavens. Crackers.

Fire works and crackers are all over the place once again with Diwali. It reminds me of the days I used to burst crackers, be a part of the I-have-more-Laxmi-bombs-than-you clan. Fun days those were.

Shopping for Diwali meant shopping primarily for crackers. The jewellery, the clothes, the household material, the sweets could take a back seat. With all the enthusiasm, we used to stock ourselves with all the essentials.

At the primary level were the Sparklers, the ones that sparkle when you light them with candles, sometimes showing a strong resistance to light up. Also in this category fell the tapes, the thin, red strips of paper dotted with black noise making chemicals. We would load our new Diwali guns with the tapes and play chor-police all afternoon long till the end of the Diwali vacations. I would hide behind the tall, grey tank in the terrace in the hot sun, my feet burning on the hot terrace floor, but determined to be true to my race of chors! Then there were the other small range products like the snake, which never did any good to anyone but just left a lot of tar remains and a staircase reeking with noxious gases; the electric wire, which had no electric charge what so ever but just burnt with bright colours - the electric looking green and orange - while you held it in your hand.

The secondary level comprised those crackers which looked a lot more challenging to crack. It required alertness, to light them some distance away and flee the site to secure a safer place on earth, much safer where the fire from the crackers would not reach you and you could witness their marvel, giving you a satisfaction as though you were their creator. The flower pot fell in this category, which when lit showers sparks and fire from it's mouth that rise up in the air, to be taller than you and fall all at once like illuminated rain drops reaching the ground. There's also the jameen chakra, a gold-coin-with-a-tail like appearing fire cracker. The key was to light the tail and wait for the magic - how it spun round and round and round shooting fire from it's tail resulting in a circular labyrinth of fire. There were a few athletic characters who jumped over the sparks, probably to show how they had shunned all fear for fire and reached yet another stage of life.

Also here belonged many other noise making, neighbour waking crackers like the Taj Mahal, Lavangi, all of which had small packets of chemicals tied together so that when you lit one end of it, the blasts would continue to be heard in a series. Of course, there were a few like me whose main aim during Diwali was to make the crackers last, make them last till the very end, when no one else had any left and then burst them to be the object of envy of all. We would untie the Taj Mahal and the lavangi and burst it one at a time, making only minimal noise but serving the purpose - keeping everyone company during the bursting sessions as well as having bursting sessions when the rest weren't.

And, finally came the tertiary, uppermost level of fire crackers. These were the ones which wre reserved only for the big Dadas and Didis. Our parents would always say, when you grow as old as Neelu Didi you'll get those, not now. And how I yearned to be as old as Neelu Didi with every passing Diwali. These included the rocket, the ones which needed a glass bottle to perch them on. Lighting a rocket was a whole ritual in itself. First, the lucky Didi who could burst rockets would ensure that nobody else was lighting any other cracker at that point, then would decide the apt position for the bottle which would then hold the rocket. After checking and double checking, Didi would approach the rocket with her agarbatti and light it. Then in no time, she would rush to us, the ones not as lucky to burst rockets. And look upwards. Towards the skies and see the marvel. The beauty of the single stick like object with a cap transforming into many colours and shapes.

And also here belong the Laxmi bombs and the Atom bombs. The ones that require not just alertness but astute alertness. These are the ones that leave your ears shaken, once they burst there's a strange humming in your ears which refuses to hush up for at least a couple of minutes.

Ah, well. I reached all levels, including the didi lucky enough to burst crackers too. Realisation of the futility of the whole affair, the environment un-friendliness, freak accidents et al, later I've stayed away from the crackers. Feels good, must say.

Words

2007-11-02T14:06:00.000+05:30

I've always been friendly with words. Whenever I met a new word, I would check on it - whether it seemed heavy or light, fat like an elephant or thin and slender like a deer. I would discover its meaning - how different was precaution from precocious, what did it mean to feel dizzy, how different was it to feel giddy. From where did the word come - barber came from the Roman word barba which means beard, moolah means money in Fijian. Its usage - the wind always blows, never sings or dances; the birds always flap their wings, never just move them. How to speak the words - jim-nay-shi-yum for gymnasium and gai-nah-kau-law-jist for gynaecologist. They puzzled me, amused me, entertained me, but most importantly, kept me company.

There are a few words which I love more than others. Some because they sound good, some because they have been easy to spell while some others purely on contextual basis. Here's a list of a few of them, however random it might sound and seem, I am loving this activity of putting down words. Just words. Without having to bother stringing them all together to make sense.

Bubbles, frostbite, x-ray, samosa, blueberry, blackburn, oink, Frisbee, VIBGYOR, whisper, lee, gushes, spoons, sex, education, bosom, crux, cash, pink, shimmer, glitter, lustrous, sensex, tune, strings, fangs, fish, luxury, benzene, loop, dewdrop (as a child, I thought it was one word), gleam, balls, shread, guts, glitz, blood, beef, tortoise, turtle, purple, porpoise, mess, pastings, twinkle, trickle, creek, fins, dolphins, manga, sauna, grave, casket, muffled, reaking, jealous, exit.

Remember I only love the words, not what they actually denote or connote!

My Silver

2007-10-29T15:13:00.000+05:30

The shimmering silver of the moon allures me.
It invites me;
More than the glittering gold of the sun.
For, the moon's rays gleam with coldness;
A coldness that's warm.

He watches me when I'm shrouded in dark;
Keeps me from dangers,
Warns me from the untold.
Many a lonesome nights have passed by his side;
Nights of low, nights of high.

And tonight, I sit beaneath him
Amidst the sifting sand;
Faced by pristine, white waves
Which I fear could engulf me.
The waters froth at my feet,
Giving me a taste of their mirth.

Taken for a ride!

2007-05-07T23:19:00.000+05:30

This may have been after a good 10 long years. I got into a double decker bus, it was late in the evening and I was rushing to get back home, headed for VT/CST. It's a given, when you get into a double decker bus, you're limbs involutarily climb up the stairs and go straight up. I believe the ones who opt against this are abnormal - they either are generally sad in life disallowing any scope for the slightest level of excitement or suffer from a severe degree of vertigo. Me being neither, propped up zealously to my seat up there.

I peeped out of the window to see the city at my feet! Mopeds scurrying past the road as if the larger vehicles were on a mission to gobble them down! The cars and the jeeps and the vans blaring their horns at undefined forces, hoping for a miracle to clear the traffic. And, in the midst of it all, were hundreds of pedestrians trying to make their existence felt by halting traffic with a single wave of their hand, assuming the duties of a traffic controller!

And all of a sudden, I spot a vacant seat on the front row! I feel elated! I jump and leap to the seat. The front seat on the "fisrst floor" of a double decker! The window upfront is open, there's cool breeze blowing through, it brushes past me and right up to the back of the bus, I guess. I spot the dizzying tail lights of a million vehicles on the street. My eyes follow their trail, but fail, the busy-ness is unimaginable. There are tall standing lamp poles, like pins with glowing, electric heads. All seem to chase and drive each other, performing an odyssey by themsleves. How the lights dance in grace! A delight for my weary, sleepy eyes!

Alfredism!

2007-05-04T21:52:00.000+05:30

Alfredism of the day:

Now, picture this. Both, me and Alfred are in the office cabin, we have to share one, my fate!!! It's post lunch, and I feel like a quick nap - may be for a good quarter of an hour, plus there isn't much work load, so i really can manage that. I get into the cosiest possible position in the available tiny little space, rest my head on the desk and before I realise, I'm deep into my nap. I even remember a dream from it, something about a great dessert. And.......the next thing I sense is a hand on my right shoulder. The first thought that struck me was, "Oh shit! it's my boss! I'm screwed!". Then i hear our dear friend Alfred, " Mini, let's listen to music".

I'm left speechless but I still manage to squeeze words out of my mouth carefully filtering out abuses, now that was tough! How could any human being with even quarter of a brain wake up a soul sweet as me (!) from a deep slumber and suggest something as stupid as that? Given the fact that we have NO music system in the cabin except a laptop that doesn't even belong to us!

He amazes me! Alfred! Phew!

My dear Alfred!

2007-05-03T21:45:00.000+05:30

Alfred, he's my colleague. Lately, it seems as though he's consumed my entire life. I spend the whole day in his company. When that's done, i'm talking about him to all my friends. And all of them seem so curious to know about him! I get calls enquiring about Alfred's wellbeing everyday. All of a sudden I realise how many of my friends' calls I've missed because of lack of an Alfred in my life. But now, it's no longer the case!

You might expect me to confess my love for Alfred in the following lines, but let me save all the build up of a climax - nothing of the sort awaits your attention. In fact, what's waiting is an acount of the weirdest character I've met in my life! Undoubtedly!

Firstly, he's no macho man. He's shorter than me. Now, that's a statement in itself, quite definitive, considering i'm one of the shortest females you'll ever meet. And when I stand right in front of him, I can see the top of his head covered with jet black hair. Hair well groomed, not in the most fashion sensible manner but: parted at the centre of his head, each strand of it dripping with oil! And two curvy locks hang right on the forehead, like fangs of a venomous snake.

His gait is another aspect which surely needs mention. His back is always erect, as though a plank of wood is stitched tightly with his vertebral column. Each stride of his would involve a push of the shoulder blades in alternating order, once right then left. His hands would remain safe in the front pockets of his pants constantly in search of some hidden treasure, may be!

He loves wearing his shades, and has quite a collection of them. All of them seem picked from a roadside vendor after keen deliberation of frame shape and colour. He would resist taking the glares off even after entering the darkest dungeons. It's funny to spot him peering at scrawny writings on the walls or papers with his glares on. He lacks the commonest sense to do away with them in such situations, guess he believes in giving himself enough challenges in life! After all, he's one of the National Cadet Corps members, that's what i hear him harping about half a day long, everday!

His talks are something that amaze me the most. He would start off questioning your opinion regarding something, for instance he would ask, "Whom do you blame for corruption?" And before I can even open my mouth one tenth of it's capacity, he would be on his own trip! "I think, it's wrong to place the entire blame on the officials. If the public stops offering them money, they wouldn't have any option but to do their jobs the right way." I can only try butting in, for he's got great conviction! He'll go on and on, " And, don't you think it's wrong to blame the system when you aren't ready to be a partof the system? I think it's wrong, to make any changes, you have to first be an insider......bleh blah bluh.."

One of my friends thinks he doesn't belong to this generation! That's very interesting and true. For, his use of language is totally uncharacteristic. One such incident: There was a movie discussion, something that happens all the time. My friend Alfred thinks 'Kya Cool Hain Hum' is a great movie. I beg to differ, so i say, "Alfred, that's a damn sad movie!" And dear Alfred takes it literally, " No, it's a comedy. How can you call it sad?" Ohhhh Myyyyy Gaawd!
And he's still stuck in the era of using "Housie" as a game to entertain the children and hold their attention. Wake up, it's the age of Play Stations!

It's non-stop entertainment in his company, though he tends to get on your nerves at times. Never mind. I'm looking forward to more of "Alfred Quotes" to keep posting here! Here i come Alfred...!

Thoughts

2007-04-18T22:24:00.000+05:30

Times there are, when you cry, when you laugh.
And then times like these,
When neither you try.
For there's none to laugh along,
Nothing to weep about.
Only a looming boredom
That elicits a pensive me.
So, here i am - speechless yet alive,
With thoughts rushing through my head,
Not knowing which to track.
To trace the crowd that gulps me,
Or the bubble of quiet that frees me?
The choice makes me glum.
Makes me shut myself from the noise.
I retreat into the bubble,
And amble in the consuming silence.

Sense

2007-04-18T22:12:00.000+05:30

I wake up to the silence,
To see, to smell, to hear;To sense.
The dry of the leaves rustle,
The calls of the birds ring.
A beam of sun pierces the thickness
To light a new born leaf.
The river waits, bare and naked,
To be dressed by the flowing waters.
The dragonflies buzz past me,
Humming the secrets of their days.
Greens bloom on the barren rocks,
The earth feeds the starved.
Life is what i sense, despite the lonesome quiet.