Screw up

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.

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

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

Drunk, pissed drunk

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

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

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

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.