First times.

There is pride attached to certain 'first times'(first-timers too!), shame to others and indifference to rest.

Ease.

And my commode-phobic Amma always constipated when she made early morning efforts on the raised toilet seat. Not surprisingly, she thought she suffered from Diarrohea whenever she used the Indian counterpart!

How many lives have you saved/taken?

I have enough unread mails in my mailbox to take part in some contest for the same. Part of it is indolence. The other part, is the fear of facing a mail which requires you to forward it to a certain number of people, if i wanted, for example:

1. A bright love life or

2. Lot of money within the next 24 Hrs (sum usually mentioned)

or if i wanted to avoid,

1. Extreme bad-luck for ages or

2. the death of someone which is almost certain unless i forward the mail to all those on my address list to contribute in the mail-chain-money-pool-in drive.

The first three rather being pleasantly and futuristically speculative (money and true love) or hypothetically intagible (Bad luck), its the forwards under the fourth heading which botehr me the most. I have certain issues with this.

Some say its spam, some say even if it is, are u heartless enough to give in to someone's death just cause you are reluctant to click a few times? I don't know. I feel tormented when i see babies with feeding tubes in their oral and nasal opening. Really. But i still am not inclined to forward them. Almost never. Why but? I do not know. May be too fake to be true. Just to think how many times one recieves mails saying that a certain person has been saved owing to the money raised by yahoo/gmail forwards! Something strangely fishy and sympathetically-unevoking is there about such mails, but nevertheless, as soon as i click on 'delete mail' or 'return to inbox', a little something in me dies thinking of a white ghost whispering 'i died because you never forwarded that mail to your friends.'

Spatial Courtrooms.

Yesterday when i had a choice of letting someone sit on my coveted and cleverly acquired metro seat long before my stop came, i looked at people as they got on different stations, and i put my conscience to work:

"The tall guy in shades and jeans definitely does not deserve this seat, the lady in suit might just, she looks weak, but so am i after a days work! The gentleman in kurta looks aged but he definitely is not a senior citizen ...ah yes then i find my source of gratitude, a woman with a few months old baby with her. She is the ONE i would leave my seat for."

I stood up and ensured i guarded the seat till she walked up till there seeing it having got empty and then realizing i had voluntarily emptied it long before my stop was even near, she shared a look of acknowledgment! Its funny how in everyday life inadvertently we assume role of judges, that too mostly in our own contextual causes. Be it giving money to a beggar, or buying something at the traffic signal becuase you feel the person genuinely, and thats genuinely to us, needs money. This judgmentalism, i don't say is objectionable. But how fair are we being when we assume the position of such moral judges will sheep-earlike wigs over our heads. Its just a thought, needs watering, manures and pruning. But then they all start as saplings...

Marasmus and Photography.

At work. With all the prime-time indulgence websites having been blocked, i googled up my all time favourite National Geographic Photography Contest. The entries sumbitting time is long over. Sadly so. But then its just an observation i made while voting in for the top thirty photos. Poverty appeals much more than affluence. Is it planned? Is a malnourished dying Ethiopian essentially a better (read Winnable!) subject than a pot-bellied marwadi. I was falling for the trap, i was planning how i would click such 'appealing' pics and ensure that my computer doesn't crash enxt time!

Its weird. Poverty never ceases, but people win just from depiction of the status quo!

Sector 13.

The feeling is not novel. Racing against time. Its now or later, of course not 'never'. You sit all through the exam expecting to remember the answer, that one word, that one thing missing in the formula, was it sin or cos, just wishing divya -budhhi to dawn on you for a while when u just get it! And then its the end, you are tying answersheets, hearing threat calls of examiner leaving hall without your answersheets and suddenly someone from behind whispers, "its cos". You turn back saying 'hai na' with the 'i knew it, i felt the same' look and turn back to finish the exam.You finish it and are contnent to end an otherwise awsome paper which would have been left incomplete without that 'cos', that one word, one reminder.

The same feeling. Nearly same. One shared longing. One idea. One memorable day. and it all happens on sector 13. Its unfair to those who read this and cannot make any sense out of this. An incomplete but probably a well introduced story.A potential movie script? Whatever! Where the hell are the parallals between the exam thingie and sector 13, but then do not i owe something exclusive for my regular reader(s)? Exclusive to their understanding...

I could have written a mail, scrapped, smsed, but i want to write for him here, coz even as this remains something of which memories lies between us, the understanding of which remains dually exclusive, i want to shout out about the happening of the same, and yet discreetly, and still i m being open, but how can i not be? don't you tell people when you decide to get married, but this is not close to it.Most definitely, not as yet! or is it not?

Period. I'm confused.

Let me unwind. Untwirl. Untangle.

It should suffice to know, that my contentment arrived newer levels at sector 13. When i say now that i do not care for interpretations, giggles, chuckles, sighs that might follow from those who have a tiny knowledge of my personal life, i mean it. End.

Thank You proofreader.

"Dwarka Sector 13 Station. Please mind the gap."

Yet again.

At times a problem-free life starts to appear problematic. God just eased that problem giving me something gravely bothering. Yes, normalcy has varying forms. Thank You God. But really i would still value victories equally even without these obstacles. Really. For once. Let me have it easy.

I empathize. Its me.

My sister got married the year i joined the law school. I was one semester old then, and having started with family law i used to threaten my brother-in-law, how i would book him for dowry demands and domestic violence if he does not yield to my sister's wishes (primarily being ice cream, chocolates and likes) Never having however worked with an NGO working for women in such oppressive relationships, and having a rather submissive and docile brother-in-law i have never known how it is in such a relationship. I m facing currently a lack of words to express this and a lack of courage to admit whats coming next may be.

I am yet to see, know a woman personally who has come up against her husband saying he was violent, cruel demands dowry etc. I agree i have read cases and loads. But as even my heart wept for them i wondered why all the aunties i know who are in such strained relationships and those thriving only because of their high tolerance and may be physical endurance, haven't yet raised their voices.

As i pondered, i realized how even i might not open my mouth in such a case- shoving all the knowledge, 'feministy', right-awareness learned in the college in to drain. Somewhere we as women, have to agree that we cannot see our husbands, boyfriends being accountable in public for something close to wrong which they did, and just to think its a wrong against oneself that he might be requried to answer, just forces one to believe that everything shall be fine. What i m saying might not be a cause novel to the domestic world and which in fact might be the reason operating for many who grin and bear, but i emphathize with them. Its true i would not keep quiet as my husband drives me out of house at midnight, but may be i would if he shows mildest of repentance or eagerness to save the realtionship, even for a second. In fact knwoing myself, i would try to save the relationship may be, initiating even, if there isn't any repentance . It is more than non-impulsiveness, its more than saving 'his' face, its more than kids, if any. The reason is more i think, somewhere, in the acceptance of the fact of one's being a woman. I don't expect being hit by my husband, but i would not be taken aback if i already knew when i got married that he was an angry man. Its revolting, disgusting. Its sad yet true for me to admit that i will continue in such a relationship, may be this is because the surety of the fact that if i am with the person i am currently with, such a situation which pits my self respect against my being as a woman would always remain hypothetical. For reasons more than one, and for reasons which remain inexplicable, i m sure i shall endure for long. And real long before i claim my rights.

PS: I really don't know why i placed this picture here, may be because she too might never claim her 'rights' to an unbashing husband, like me. Yes yes, i m being stereotypical, deciding on looks, but please let me be this one time.

Uninhabited Home.

I had started building it early.
In my 13th summer, had felt the wetness
Cursing self I had sighed.
My second was X, not Y
Lagging behind by an alphabet to cost me five life-worthy days a month
Beginning of survival with cognizance of periodic blood loss
Nevertheless called for celebrations somehow
I roared at the social imbecility and eternal function crave

Still wondered at the Divine mechanisms
Till the complexity was taught –
That my within was tortuously confusing,
Dormant fertility had awakened that day, I reckoned
Motherhood in me curled its lips in to a smile
If sewing teddy could cost a droplet of the red
My baby could of course ask for all
I sang odes to the aching lowers, embarrassing laundries and otherwise inactivity
A final one to the second X.
My baby’s first abode, I painted imaginatively
Repainted once more

Reconstructions of the haven continued
As my fertility got legitimized
So were celebrations in my eyes
Marital joys ancillary as they seemed
I was eager to barter a pain for another
For the life shall be caused meanwhile
At least so I thought

I kept renovating, priding my femininity
Without a reason I discovered
As my own complexity jibed at me:
The barter is not that simple
You thought ‘blood-money’ was all
One sixth of lifetime seemed painfully futile
The thoughts in rest, laughable
I still keep living, painting and re-painting,
A part of me which could only be
An uninhabited home.

(PS: A word of thanks to Daddy who doubly assured that lines in a poem need not always rhyme.)

At(tempt) to Define Temptation.

When the range of chocolates named Temptations came in to the market, I thought now they have captured the human feeling and named the product most appropriate to be so named, but then now i feel there are situations better exemplifying how it feels to be tempted~

Say when you are late waiting for a bus and an auto walah without breaking the eye-contact with you goes around the place in a periodic motion.

Or may be when you wake up in the morning with a pleasantly painful pimple having a yellow head and your index finger's and thumb's fingertips almost impatient to squeeze the fluid out of it.

Or may be when you see a really senile man with a pagdi on his head and multiple wrinkles on his face in a city bus and you feel the camera from your backpack pressing against you and you are wondering if the man could raise a hue and cry on being clicked or may be is independent enough to use his lathi against you.

Or say when it gets itchy at wrong place and wrong timings!

Or when you just stop yourself from calling a friend-turn-foe cousin of yours an 'asshole' before your parents!

Sigh, there are so many temptations that go unnoticed and all that comes to mind is an erotic (and now chocolaty) connotation of temptation (or may be it is me only, the pervert me who thought like that till today!) -unless companies like Cadbury forcibly capture 'temptedness' in a chocolate bar may be. May be we as humans will appreciate the tiny temptations more when Mahindra launches autos called Temptation, or we have a pimple cream/ itch cream named temptation, or Nikon's new camera model is named Temptation....

Beer and The Fairer Sex.

I m an alcohol virgin, not out of ideology may be but because of lack of chance i have never even had a taste of it, however, that's not something i portray as a virtue! In spite of having a medico in my family i m pro-alcohol when it is in moderation and am comfortable with the notion of social drinking. What i detest is however the hypocrisy of men regarding female drinking which is why i intended to write this piece.

We are all now broad minded. Drinking does not raise eyebrows anymore. I have friends and cousins who drink and its NOT a taboo to me, but when my brothers, guy friends and boyfriend still holding the beer can preach me that i should not be drinking, a part of me wants to turn a liquor baron that instant (as if liquor barons are the one who drink their guts out, but just wanted to use something that sounded extreme!) or may be Devdas... This prescription of non-alcoholism for women you are connected with is the meanest form of duality! You want their shoulders when u are in ur alcoholic worst (read HIGH) but want to keep them devoid of the pleasure: be it of drinking, of socializing over drink or of the subsequent high feeling and the feeling of being taken care of when high! And why so, coz drinking women are taboo? No u did not care when ur office colleague (a woman) drank to nose in the party..coz she wasn't ur girlfriend, ur best friend, ur wife, ur mother ur sister? right? Women in relations, consanguinous or conjugal or semi conjugal should not drink. Period.

That still being comparatively a problem closer to home, the behaviour you get having ordered for beer is even more ridiculous. Wearing a bindi you are not supposed to order for beer. I don't have too many personal experiences to share, but reaction of the pan wallahs when my best friend, who happens to smoke, asks for cigarette is just too corroborative. Raised eyebrows, contempt-filled eyes, disbelief at how someone in kurti and jeans, so homely looking, over-clad in a duppatta ask for a cigarette! 'Let my sales dip (not really) but i wish she wasn't smoking' kind of look which i have seen often actually forces me to believe that men in general also are still uptight when it comes to tolerate a cigarette between the fingers of a female being or may be a beer glass in her hands....We are the nurturers, the care-takers, the situation sambhalo ones. Hence booze is not our cup of tea!

More than breaking my alcohol virginity for the sake of 'lets try it once' it is this hypocrisy which propels me to have in my life at least a few socially embarrassing moments of extreme drunkardness.....to give the 'concerned' men in my life a little jolt!

How I Wish I Should Never Be Needed To Talk About My Kevin!

They store the umbilical cord tissues in glass jars in what can be called human banks (i m sure they cal it by someother name which i am unable to recollect!).

If my baby develops any disease then he may be miraculously cured as the frozen tissue stays safe in the bank at a pecuniary cost.
Thats technology. Thats science. As a lawyer-to-be I can only marvel at the thought of it. But what about the uncurable things? Will that umblical cord extract my child brighter, 'taller, stronger and sharper'?

Being a woman (context forces me to use this term in stead of girl) and that too a cancerian, maternity flows in my blood. There is a favourite memory i share with my best friend from school, at 12 she used to say i want a puppy being a dog lover and i used to say i want a baby! That being so, now that i am, very practically viewing, less than a decade away from marriage and maternity, i often get fascinated about how my kids will be and how they shall grow up to be.

And one fine day i come across a book by Lionel Shriver named 'We Need to Talk About Kevin'. A fear seeped in to my joys of anticipatory maternity. The kid, Kevin, in the movie at 15 shoots a bunch of his schoolmates and a teacher and as he serves detention, his mother grieves and writes a series of emotional letters to her estranged husband. She recollects in them how Kevin was ruthless as a child and showed cruel intentions as he mauled insects. I managed to read several reviews for the book, although i m yet to read the book.

My love for kids definitely is much more than my longing to become a mother. I have a niche in my sympathy zone for all the kids, irrespective their delinquency or not. Kids are cute, no matter what. But this indifferent love for children vanishes somewhere, selfishly rather, when i think of my child being a delinquent. The thought of my son doing a classroom shootout is horrific. Not that I will start loving my child lesser, not that i will be ashamed of him, but is n't it like picking the best apples from the mart, just that we don't have kid marts and thankfully so. Its the same way like u r ok with homosexual relations but the minute your daughter tells u she has a girlfriend she would like to marry may be, you are all uncomfortable and furious. It might sound so irrational but i would not hate to admit that as my heart goes out to all the kids in the world- blacks white, brights dulls, creatives, geeks, delinquents, champs, i would pick up for my child a set of positives, an assorted virtue basket- smart, cute, genius, creative, obedient, lovable. Inconsistency, yes it is there. Duality too. But I m human n i don't feel ashamed to ask the best for myself, my child.

Sigh...I m already looking forward to become a proud mother at a parent teacher meeting! At times I wish i was not so ahead of age and behind times.....


PS: A special word of thanks to my proof reader. :)

Forging Connections. Thanking Connectors.

as



















Rather weird.
Surviving with the entire horizontal expansion of the widest possible India between yourselves, subjection to similar pain also brings in a sense of connectedness.

This is with special reference to the newly changed mess contractor. Who incidentally is the one serving him at the other end of India.

So i grow closer to him, each time i crib: breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Thank You Foodking.
Now i realize how the bond amongst the soldiers all lined up at the war front, each subject to similar fear (pain in this case) feels

PS: i cudn't get where to title my photo, but i reckon you get the link, Foodking, Crown Burger. Just a symbolic thing, as i felt putting up Foodking logo could have made this blog may be more sueable! Or could it not have? Watever...

Emptiness.

The last time i cried in to these, the paneer went salty. I will thence let emptiness prevail.

Early Morning Indulgences.

Rain drops in my tea.
Maroon umbrella yet dry.
Periodic motions of the slinging camera.
Humming a song I go by.
Stack of daily newspapers,
I pull out the lucky one.
Still tells me about the blasts.
Leaving me more waiting for the sun.
But world is still good,
And so are its men.
This however is not something,
I had intended to pen.
The faint smile of a rainy morning
Seldom fades with the day
The worldly woes i sip with tea
I so merry so gay!

A Paunchy Patriotic Independence Day!

No Prime Minisiter's politicized speech. No Tak Tak of the thal-jal-vayu sena jawans marching. Its just the Girl's hostel and Boy's hostel guards. Posing for the camera, baien muding!

A simple Independence Day, with the same patriotic songs playing in the same order as they had played on Republic day.

Same flag. Washed. Dried. Ironed.

61 years of freedom.

In all its reduced non virulent and non infectious form, Independence day still elicited from my within a surge of love for my country. As i clicked the paunchy guards early morning in my pajamas, I promised myself that i did need not yet another 100 years of foreign rule to get my Country freed and display my lowe for it.

I don't know what i would do. I dont want u to know what i would do, even if I do. I remember what Mr. Williams had said (for those who accidentally follow my blog!)

Sigh.

Yes India, i love you and though this seems an inappropriate place for such talks... i m proud to be an Indian, i shall prove to be a true Indian!

Jai Hind.


(P.S: Laugh. Its ok. At times you feel that you expressed ...in writing or though spoken words...somethign overridden with emotions at a particular point and u regret it subsequently. Sometimes you thanks yourself that u were so overridden for otherwise you wud have never said it....this is one of the later times and i m so glad bout it!)

Soaked.

I m loving it.
~Mc Donalds.


There is a joy in wetness.
There is a joy in shabbiness.
And i love rains!
Mostly, coz it legitimizes such chappali- jeans folding shabbiness!


Rain rain come again.
Let Little Johny go to hell.

Now this too is a Rights Based Approach, Really!

Can a moment of weakness justify an act/acts otherwise in private understanding between two people as unpardonable?
If yes, then should not doing of your 'unpardonable' act in fact become a right as soon as the other individual gives in to weakness?
Or now will you resort to the defence of subjectivity of weakness?

I detest the plea of weakness. Completely.
God has made woman strong enough and if one uses the pronoun He for God, conceding He is a male entity, it is obvious and in fact a deductive logic that he would make like pronoun holders at least as strong as the women, if not stronger.
So plea of weakness, momentary or otherwise for doing nething, ANYTHING does not hold good.
And if you have gone weak and expect others to understand, the only thing you deserve is the other one going weak.

I don't know/care how much of it makes sense, but as i write i have in my mind a definite Man, Woman and corresponding weaknesses.
And it shall be of use to know that I m currently at the verge of decision making: whether or not to excercise my right- the weakness fortified in to right!

Shout. Right click. Properties. Background. Novelty!

I am fickleminded.
And I m sensitive.
Unlinked as they might be, it truly shows on my desktop background.

It is like a Kuhnian Paradigm Shift.
The entity on the desktop background as soon as becomes one with sour recent memories loses the space to the next best competitor in My Pictures.
Am i OK? Is it kiddish? Or is it crazy? To shift alternately between your boyfriend, mother and dead grandmother's picture in the order of altercation you have with them in the day. There being a sense of practical impossibility for the change from the last one being caused coz of altercation.

Whatever it be. Pictures speak a thousand words they say, but when i leave a conversation in a thump-feet-leave-room manner, i do the same mentally and desktopically.
Won't you call that being consistent with yourself?

Painfully and Guiltfully Wishful.

The library seems like a strange place. Books books books.
Stored in them the fights, the misunderstandings, the sorrows, the victories, the losses, the yet-another-tries, the patience.
Law. A law library.

Who will cry if a law library gets burnt up?
Most definitely not the students i hope. Excuse for extension in deadlines.
Others glad to keep to themselves stealthily the issued copies to themselves.
Teh librarian happy to have off for a week or two.
Scholars yes might die, but relevance? Lessened contributions towards a hypothetical library which the next generation might have to itself.
My dislike towards libraries is not usual. I was tolerable of libraries as a child.
Nancy Drews. Hardy Boys. Agatha Christies. Robin Cooks. Sweet Valleys. Grishams.
I have grown up envying the book racks taller than me.
Never having ever thought of even a spark in the same. And here i think of a burning library.
I guess its memories the place creates.

Library period coming only once a week, it used to be a joy escaping the tyrannies of the Ma'ams and Sirs for a span of thirty minutes, making the library a desirable place to be at.
But when you begin to associate libraries with deadlines, sleeplessness, surprise tests, issuing/loaning disputes, book hiding, there is not much to look forward to.

Yes, I would pity the burning copy of the day's Hyderabad Times and those books in the fiction section. But the rest of the meek-turned-violent me might not feel a trace of sadness as the contractual violation enumerated on a page goes up in flame.

PS: This is a phasic feeling, which is essentially temporary. This should not be seen as contempt towards books: fiction, scholarly, legal ne sort! This is a meagre expression of disgust of a student who has been recently exposed to the worthlessness of her library having been stuck in the middle of her research with a deadline approaching her at the speed of light.

She surely loves books, even now.

And Daddy sewed her head.

That was a bad phase of our lives.
I was in class 5th, Nani in 10th. Daddy was transferred to a place named Joda, in Keonjhar district of Orissa.
A place with a single school, tribals, elephants, malarian mosquitoes and narrow roads polka-dotted with heaps of elephant dung- Hot, steaming and almost appealing to anyone who had lost the sense of smell.

When Daddy realised that it was place hardly habitable for us all as a family, and it could have meant compromise on mine and Nani's studies, he just made us feel the evaluatory trip to Joda was a weekend getaway- till we realized at the end of it that Daddy is going to move in there, with me Mamma and Nani at Nalco.
I think i took it the worst. And somehow i feel that Nani and Mamma knew it from before.
Not that i loved Daddy the most. I did of course. But because i was the most emotional out of the bunch.
Daddy pre-bought me my birthday gift- a Ladybird cycle, with a basket in the front, the ownership of which was transferred , once we moved to Delhi, to Makeyi, Saratamma's granddaughter, who used to steal semi-ripe guavas from our backyard of Nalco house and eat it with salt and lemon. So Daddy left with a Kenstar rice-cooker and other essentials for survival to that place.
I remember wailing like a hyena.

Daddy then become much more precious to me than he ever was. I have faint childhood memories of one day when sitting on the porch, having a teatime chat, Daddy had asked me casually whom i loved more, him or Mamma. I was inclined to say it was him, but then on realizing that Mamma might be hurt, i had said i loved both equally. Once he had almost become a guest at our place owing to his job, i was vocal about my feelings: i loved Daddy the most, and incidentally more than Mamma.

In Nalco, things were different after that. Self-reliance of a household with the male head away was something we had to learn tough way. Reminders stuck on wall about when to pay whom, which cheque should not be allowed to bounce, when the EMIs had to be paid, when the medical check-ups were due for Bapa and Ma.

Few relationships got strained, never the less within the tolerable limits of elasticity as i later concluded. Acquaintances were more helpful than the people we were related by blood or by marriage.

Money was never a problem, but i guess it turned out to be a bit tough for Mamma to manage us three, with everyone having their exclusive headaches, doing a multplier effect when it all came down to her: Nani and her academic compulsions, the needs of being dropped at school and be brought back, tuitions, her otherwise demands of clothes which needed to be bought a bit too often. And i think alone Nani would not have been a problem if i was not there. With my contirbutions, which i can see were arranged in a very systematic alphabetic way: Allergic rashes, Asthma, Diarrohea, Fever, Vomitting; Mamma was just having a toughtime.

Daddy had to do a compulsory year there, before we moved in to Delhi. The cognizance of the fact never relieved me. Each fortnight when Daddy used to come back home for weekend, i hardly used to be happy: coz i would mostly would be preoccupied with how he was required to leave in two days.

Nevertheless, those two days every fifteen days were each time the two most beautiful days of my life. Coughing, scratching, puking, or in whichever state i would be depending upon what had struck me, i would listen interestedly to all the tales which had. About the elephants. About the tribal farmer who had gifted him artichokes. About the tribal kids who were fascinated by stethoscope and syringes until they realized that the later had such painful use (i think the fascination is normal for any child for that matter) About the people who prayed to get well and i could not believe doctor-the-God could exist outside movies.

The best was the narration about the tribal woman who worked as a labourer at the lime kiln on whose head a stone fell requiring stitches on scalp. When i had fretted enough about the rashes Daddy told me how this woman had sat unmoved an entire hour as he placed multiple stitches on her head. She had without emotions of pain or fear watched the fan- one two three- the low voltage making it easy for her to keep trak of the no. of rotations per hour. I should stay put too: moral of the story. But i never learnt. Allergy and mroe importantly Daddy's leaving in next one day were obviously more painful then few stitches, he must have been lying, may be they actually gave anaesthesia or something. I don't care, did not then care.

I had my own stories, of how my being fat now was becoming unbearable with bus students teasing me to pay up double the fees. How birthday was good and i did not offer toffees to two particular students who had called me 'Moti' even on my birthday and finally what all things did Mamma not allow me to do. He was all ears for everything, i guess he must be thinking that a two years break in this aspect at least i coming. Hours and then again i wail.

Its a bit weird when you expect gifts from people who come from places famous for jackfruits, dried costly brinjals and humanly-non edible non vegetable stuff. Daddy's pre-birthday gift was something which had to keep me happy for a year.

The one year eventually ended. We moved in to Delhi. Things were good. I just stopped short from becoming a person having acquired every possible ailment, or may be the youngest one to do so. Those memories have become triumphant ones: showcasing Mamma's tolerance and skill at managing situations and mine and nani's 'good children' proofs.

Its difficult to conclude this narration. Its not that that phase is over in real sense. I have (My roomie has!) a kenstar cooker here at college. Shameerpet is not even famous for jackfruits but for snakes as against elephants in Joda. But Mamma Daddy do not cry as bad as i used to. I feel a bit bad at times, for always, for me, a good bye for a loved one should be tearsoaked. I hate smiling good byes.

But then i m not in class 5 now to not understand these nuances.....

Blogger, I m home.

Its like seeing ur Nanny back on a Monday morning to babysit you.
After you were absolutely hating being left at the neighbour's place for a week to be looked after.

Its time again to unburden, to unpack and to wonder.
La la la.
I m home.
I m my normal self.

The Unwritten.

It is bit disturbing.

My blog is supposed to be my vent. Puking out what my brain and partly my gut can not accommodate at a particular point.
But now i know my puke is being read.
And now that scares me to puke the worst of the contents of my stomach!
Its churning, but i m scared i will lose the person i love to a confessional/semi-confessional blog.

Has the purpose of blog been defeated by his readership?
Shall i let my stomach contents churn?

No bangles to count, no sons to give birth to.

She was my grandfather's wife.
May her soul rest in peace.

She was one of the four people in her generation who i know was happy at my birth: birth of a second daughter.
I loved her. A lot.
At age of 7 i was almost as tall as her, ad at 9 i was an inch taller. And i she could have died laughing when i had said that i was as old as she was, in fact more, coz i was taller!
She didn't die then.
At thirteen, disgusted with the onset of puberty (read abnormality), i used to seek solace from her. She comforted me telling how she was married at 13 and had her first of the seven miscarriages at 15.
She was intelligent. Never having gone school, she could stun listeners with appropriate English words at precise correct places: responsibility, cordial, distance etc, the most often used words.

She wore earrings which made two elliptical holes in her earlobes. I used to wonder how much weight it would be adding to her, remove earrings while weighing yourself Ma, i used to say. When she slept beside me i used to count her bangles. One. Two. Three. and then fall asleep. The day Bapa (grandpa) died, and she had just regained her consciousness, she had hugged me and cried, saying i won't be able to count bangles henceforth.
Post- Bapa's death, she shifted in with us. I detest to put this this way, but i think Bapa's death was a boon to our bonding. We both just grew closer. All praises of my lemon tea, she would always have long tales to tell: how she was the ugliest in the village yet got to marry Bapa who was so so handsome (I never believed in both the parts, i feel it was vice versa). How due to Bapa's fish obsession she had to kill 'fresh' out of water fishes and cook them with potatoes and mustard.How she fell from the bullcok cart and flattened her nose for the rest of her life. How she was worried that she had firstly outlived Bapa and then the age that he had lived.
She had wanted to die as soon as possible: tell her you are dying tomorrow and she would be happy. Apparently. And in case i herd any of those cribbings regarding 'why i m alive at 88' i used to say, in something which i now realise might have made her feel curse-ish, that she could not die till i had a son. She was worried, what if i had two two daughters and stopped right there? Or would i end up do something 'immoral' to let her die early? She is the place i got my weirdness from, and yes asthma.
She loved my singing, my humming, my noises. Lying next to me she would ask me if i could sing her a song, which i was sure she could never understand. She had said that she would miss my voice the most when i left for hostel.
She had hugged me, with my chin resting on her scalp for a whole 15 minutes, at 3:30 am in the morning the day i was to leave for hostel. I hardly had spoken to her over phone.
Two weeks before my end semester exams had to commence for the second year, i got to know that she was hospitalized and i was so sure nothing would happen. I had not given birth to a son, she could not die!! I remember borrowing ice for comforting swollen red eyes. She was there only for a while.
My exams had to start at 2 pm in the afternoon. Law of contracts. 7 am. Call from home. She was no more. She had left. i realized i could not remember how she sounded. How her bangles felt. how her fish curry tasted. I rubbed my eyes to get rid of the mild wetness. And cotinued revising. She had breached her contract. She had.
She must have been moving upwards that day. Happy to have stopped outliving her long dead husband. But i know she was somewhere sad for not being able to wait till i had my son.

Big Big Babool!

My brain feels like chewing gum.
The one chewed for an entire cricket match.
Tasteless.
I am wondering how often i am getting this feeling.
I should start marketing my product may be, the otherwise useless product.


This too shall pass.

Nineteen, GoneTeen and the Lost Immunity

The Nineteenth year of my life is nearing its end.

I was in class 7 when i had turned 13.
I had thought:
For almost a period of 6 years i could be angry without a reason, 'speak my mind' out to parents, crib, cry and stamp feet, get irritated at nothing and create fuss about food.
I was a teenager.
Its normal for them to create problems. They are just on the verge of adulthood. They too would grow up. Their nuisance-creating hormones shall settle in a while."

I could feel comfortable about having pimples and not panic about puppy fat.

Now the relaxed phase is going, almost gone.

I m expected to be mature. No more a teenager.
I m expected to be responsible. I shall be twenty.
I m expected to be responsible and not lose keys or create rucus at public places. My hormones should must/should have settled by now.

And i have every reason to shed tears for my flab and acne.

Life would get tougher in a few days.
And after the happy birthday, i shall lose the most powerful shield i ever owned:
My teenage.

Welcome, Mr. Two in the ten's place and all allied worries!

A Nidhi Malik-ish Blog.

It was in fact amusing.
Her rage (mocking) at my non-inclusion of her as a ponder-worthy subject in my blogs.

I was sigh-ish.
And indeed hurt at my indifference towards such an important person in my life who results in me at almost a daily basis plethora of pleasant thoughts!

It was rather weird how we started, with morning walks as an excuse. We only gained weight after those walks :D Happiness really was fattening.

What followed were taunts, jibes, backbitings and pangs of jealousies.
Nevertheless we are going strong.
We were/are almost Siamese twins: a fat twin a lean twin.

What is she to me, she knows it the best.
For all those who are visiting this space: She is my better half.

This is to U, Baby.
And this should make you happy.

Ahm, A personal communication to a dear friend: Cmon blog has multiple uses :D

Pink- A passing thought.

Call me orthodox, call me left-behind in tastes and contemporary fashion.
But men are intolerable in Pink.

Sinewy bodies, unkept messy hair, the stubble, the cologne and then the Pink Shirt.
Something incorrigibly distasteful!

There must be some reason why the baby frocks come in pink and baba suits come in blue.!

Tinkon Ka bas Ek Aashiyan.

Back to where I belong.
No matter how much u deny, after 10 years of imprisonment, the inmate feels cozy and home-like in his cell only.
My little world.

The unwashed Number bearing t-shirt wearing teddy, the green hatted big-assed daughter doll, a few dust-bearing 'statement' posters in which i don't believe in anymore.

Life is same.
But do i even want a change?
What change if at all?

The room at least gives me 'My home' sort of feel.
May be i will barter with a nuanced and advanced version of my home.
A real home. A house i would own.
(I am fully aware of the difference between home and house, but i m letting myself use them interchangeably. May be coz they are in fact interchangeable in certain cases!)

I have tried reading Naipaul's A House For Mr. Biswas.
Thrice.
Couldn't complete.
The beginning though never fails to impress me.
I too want my house, not nominal like a hostel room.
But my own house.

This urge of private property nevertheless appears to me inexplicable at times.
Why isn't my parent's house mine or for that matter my prospective husband's house?

I had argued with him at this, when he asked me why would i need a house. I could stay with my husband and it was foolish and opportunistically escapist for a girl to have her own house!

Outrageous? Or do u believe in this as well?

I really don't have an answer why i want a house.
I know i would not stay there. I would not rent it out of possessiveness.
Then why exactly do i want a space of my own?

Well,
I guess its more like the feeling when u don't erase with the eraser behind ur pencil lest it finishes!
Its like, preserving the chocolate in the refrigerator till it rots. Or till some cold-immune strong bacteria eats it away.

I want my house. I want it if not for myself, not for anyone else too.
If I can't stay there, no one else can.
I want to have the feeling of owning a piece of earth.
Not treat it as a threat-device: Main apne ghar chali jaungi tum dekhte raiyyo!

But the silent joy of being a house-owner.
I told u before, and the feeling is still inexplicable.

The Snoop-Kit Show.

They fought like cats and dogs.
It rained cats and dogs.
And, he loves me cats and dogs.

Convince me at this moment that life is not a bed of roses.
And well, that might be easy.
Coz I guess its just a platterful of Jalebi and A chilled can of Budweiser.

Not understandable by many people, intentionally personalized.
S.W.A.K.

Two Months.

My nature of giving titles which generally are thought provoking or at least wondering-provoking makes way for an exception here.
Yes, two months. And literally two months.
I m behind life.
I am like a person who is in coma for two months and then realizes that the world around him has moved on.
Hillary quit race, Gujjars re-woke, Inflation broke records and rest on CNN IBN.
I m behind life.
I m giving time for every wound to heal, everywhere they lied.
I m behind life.
I m still galloping as the others, having won or lost, are sitting on the other side of the finishing line.
Yes, I m behind life. An ailment costed me somethings. I lagged behind, and substantially so.
But, I m alive.!.
The exclamation, camoflauged with the fullstops.
Yes, I m surprised I'm alive. And pleasantly so.
And I keep gallopping.
In the Roshez's words: Tugaduk Tugaduk Tugaduk.
And I am knowing, and accepting: Hillary's loss, Gujjar's reclaims, and Increased inflation.
Loss. Reclaim. Increase.
Band-aiding.
Waving at those on the other side of the finishing line, telling them people I'm joining you soon.
And each time I tell myself-
Quit brooding, Coz life is too short to brood for unrun races.
Well, i am as bad as a convincer to myself as bad as the solacer I am to others.



May the finishing line quit making difference.
PS: I m self-obsessed.

Goa Express.

Geographical Isolation: A means by which a certain species are unable to mate with a related species or subspecies.
Na, Na not flaunting my biology knowledge.
Not a time to do that.
Touchier issues. I wish it were indeed 'touchier'

Shameless?
Not addressing the people who got to date and marry their preparatory school classmates, who continued being their high-school classmates, college-batchmates and work colleagues.
For them a delayed SMS reply would exemplify the situation better.
I m writing for the Kabutar Ja Ja Ja crowd.

Ha, the song had almost became the national anthem.
Symbolizing lovers, painfully staying away: geographical isolation.
Obviously Barjatya doesn't think beyond marriages and contemplation of reproduction before marriage is not something Barjatya fans look forward to!


But whats the feeling?
The rhetoric yet novel feeling?
The feeling of worthlessness
A sudden pleading to science to make spaceships more practical and affordable?
The feeling of what Priyanka says "Its Coke ki Pyaas, Sprite won't help"
Pyaas? Utterly, 'Witch-ish' and hindi filmish.
But really. When the person you are missing is so unavailable yet so impossibly substitutable?


Anyone who has had a pet would understand the exclusivity of such 'missing' so well!
You can't be content caressing any cute dog when you are missing yours.

Outrageous-Love interest n Dog?
Is it even comparable?
Well, if u have the former, you will say i did injustice to him/her. If you have the later, then you will say I should meet an animal rights activist for having made such comparison.
If u have both, then...then i guess u r just lucky!


Period.
You get it, don't you?
Staying far from someone, anyone can be so painful.

"All my bags are packed, I mready to go"
I m going to experience pain.
The kind which i reckon will hurt more than my ear piercing did, more than my broken leg did, more than Federer's fourth loss to Nadal did.

Sigh.
I just hope till the next generation, we have Tata bringing to India some affordable spaceship models.
Which would make dinner at Shameerpet and post-dinner stroll at Vasco a reality!

(PS: I meant in French Open, Oh yes, i know U had guessed :P)

Normal Chhe?

I wondered why man was a social animal. Is a social animal.
Couldn't he just have lived away to glory alone, keeping all that he had hunted, grown or dug to himself?

I stare at the basket ball ring. High up above there. If i make one basket I will get to marry Dravid.(I couldn't make it.)

I see a girl and a boy holding hands as they cross the road, then i see them not leaving but holding hands with intensity only stronger. If they are brothers and sisters, Hillary would be the next American President. (She is out already and i could never figure out whoever they were.)

I pick up the phone as it rings. If its Nani, then I will eat Pizza today. (It was from Eureka Forbes Aquaguard purifier.)

All these whiles. (and these are just one category of 'whiles') I wonder if I am normal.
Does everyone conditionalitizes life this badly?
Or alternatively, does everyone feel like pulling out intestines (Pardon repetition!) at sexual arousal?
Am i normal?

This search for reaffirmation in my normalcy made me a social animal. A fat social animal.
You may ask have i found people this weird?
As far as this category of weirdness is concerned, YES.
My brother confesses that each time he conditionalizes his pee: If it lasts a count of ten, then he tops the exams, count of twenty, then he gets the scholarship, count of thirty fetches him the coveted job. How well he fared, leave it.

I m normal. He is normal.

And the early man formed a society wondering if that everyone skinned deers before roasting them!
He was normal too!

Blood is thicker than water, but not semen!

My post it seems is bordering obscenity?
But trust me, this is a humble thought penned metaphorically!

Family comes first. Brothers might fight, but at the end of the day they are brothers. Sisters fight too.
At school they ask you your father's name. Your mother's name.
Then one fine day you realize that the family you always thought as one you belonged to is now to be known as your Natal family.
This realization if not in consonance to the family, then they are even the 'natal family' tag is stripped off them.

Shifted in to a world of new relations, you realize that you have a pair of daddys, a pair of mummies and a pair of siblings! And not to forget a husband.
You marry. You change your surname.
You can afford to visit your natal family only when your kids have summer vacations.
That too for a short duration, lest the newly acquired daddy and mummy feel bad.
Where has the thickness of blood gone?

Yes yes. You were in love. Your kids have blood your blood running through their veins. Your husband. Your in-laws. You love them all, unconditionally.
Enough to forget the identity of the blood flowing in your veins?

Blood beats water in thickness, but at best can strike a tie with semen.

I m not left with any parallel comparison for the other sex. May be coz for them blood continues to be thicker than water for the entire lifetime!

PS: Kaka, I love You.

In Orissa, summers are really sticky if nothing else.
U can feel the summer sticking you to the sofa back, to the mattress, to any non-cotton garment you might be wearing.
I was 4 when I think i first visited Kaka's house- Sana Kaka, the younger of my Dad's younger brothers!

Then a newly married, he was supremely fond of me. I was a plump kid and my contours made me all the more cuter and lovable (Quoting Him)
Being a lawyer, his house used to be filled with the tall bookshelves, which in turn had neatly stacked in them the Journals and manuals and other stuff. Brown bound books, with his name written on a small red-golden sticker stuck at the base on the book-edge.

On one such summer afternoon, panting out of asthma, i had rested my heavy behind on his tummy and staring at the tall shelves from there, rocking painfully on his tummy as he lay on the non-sticky cemented floor. Fascinated, i asked how the books got his name on them?

Ever so sure that i had in-born lawyering talent in me, he asked me if i would like to become a lawyer- as if that question was in fact the answer to the one i had asked?
[How he had spotted that in born talent is yet another tale, apparently when a Lord Jagannath Bhajan was playing and the singer was referring to him as his Black Wealth, i had said that it could always be interpreted as him referring to may be his Black Money and not the Lord. For some weird reason i was considered to be possessing tremendous analytical skills and was apt lawyer material, I can now laugh my teeth off at that!]

I considered, then reconsidered, wiped the phlegm oozing of the nose on the sleeves of my sleeveless frock and then replied in a negative.

"I can't remember all that is there in these many books, nah I can't."

My laze and disgust towards excessive reading never discouraged him however in encouraging me! Though he had quit persuading me once he realized that it was not paying much!

Two years back he realized I had applied for nothing but law entrances. Convinced that he couldn't have been the reason asked me to be candid, and all i could then say was that i want my name tag at the bases of those books!

He remembered the afternoon, and he remembered the moment.

I have never kept a restriction on what might inspire me and what not. Don't know if it was that day i decided to be a lawyer or it was the sickness and hostility that i had grown towards the study of science that made law look lucrative. Don't know why i answered that, that day. Don't know how he even managed to remember that i had such intentions.

Two years down the course i have seen so many journals (SEEN) that they have any last drop of fascination that might have been left since that afternoon. I don't want to own them. I don't want to have my nametag stuck to their bases.

But I m just glad I m in to Kaka's profession.
The belly rocker Kaka of mine.
I love you!

And They Made a Jhola out of Earthquake, Tsunami and everything alike!

(I'm angry and filled with disgust as I'm writing this! and this is in reference and a reply to another fellow blogger on some 'humanistic' blogsite. Not naming U, but i hope u read this!)

Mr. Williams, who was my Principal at school, often said:

"Don't let ur left hand know what good ur right hand did"
Can't say about people who are ambidextrous or right handed!
Can't say if he said this originally or quoted this.

But the point is not to be lost this way.

There was a time, when opulence was a thing of pride. Braggings conditional on the car which dropped one at school. That phase having been passed, Levis, Pepe and Ray Ban preoccupied minds and bodies. And then the phase of umblical cord feeding: staying away from home and efforts at making fashion statement with the 'Janpath' stuff. The Jhola Style-which continues long after the umblical cord is snapped.

Cool. Not a problem. Ur life. Ur money or ur parents' which U will inherit once they die or may be not. Seriously, i Don't Care.

But can u keep ur urge to be 'different, hep and saintly' limited to acquiring stuff and accessories and not people.
I detest people who do a job coz it sounds good.

Particularly, the pseudo-concernists.
Who can't stop talking about their road cleaning drive, how they fed a dying baby, how they un-burried from rubble children, how they were there when 'that' happened and how a they deserved and received too a million thanks.

Social Blog. What I did. How i m angelic.
Its great to let the people know that something that deserves concern, thought and human compassion. But then why should it be interrupted by so many I's!

Jug Suraiyya (I guess I'm correct, pls correct me in case I'm erring!) who writes Jugular Vein for Sunday Editorial (TOI) since a particular Sunday quit writing capital I's when he referred to himself, which i guess is so much worthy of appreciation.

There are better ways to draw attention than pictures clicked right when ur writing on the blackboard at the 'shiksha' abhiyan.
Agree or do not but it has become a fashion statement.
"I work for the society's upliftment (and I uplift myself, my social status)"
And The Jhola lifestyle then encompasses a zillion of such small 'positive social activities'.

One can say whats the problem, let her carry Jhola, let her feel gladdened that she is making a fashion statement but as long as she is doing some good to the world around her, its for good. But then if style statement requires her to do any other activity more 'stylier' she might quit her 'social activities'

When i made my shift from jeans and short tops to kurtis and bindi (primarily coz of the flab accumulation) and had just started pursuing my law course at around the same time, the most asked question to me remained if i wanted to be a social activist! And trust me i don't want to be one. As of now, NO.
Firstly, I don't need to be a social activist to disburse my share of social responsibility.
Secondly, just because I dress in a certain way does not mean I want to do certain things. Vice versa also holds good.
Thridly, I have had my share of NGO experience and trust me I have seen gross things. But i have scarcely talked about them. It hurts to make someone corpse ur stepping stone to acclaim and WOWs (An obvious but heartfelt exagerration!)

I m not an angel, not God's messenger, here to preach. But if it does not appeal to U that this indeed is happening then I m feeling sorry for U.

People respect other's peoplehood!

"Let not ur left hand know what good ur right hand does."

Really, let it not!

Marry Me.

Futility of being a housewife, for all those who feel it is futile, is at times really appealing to elephants like me.

No really, the physical activity in ironing, the toning effect of sweeping under the bed, the creative satisfaction of knitting a sweater, the educative pride of teaching a toddler, the self-satisfying feel of cooking something edible.

Isn't it like a wholesome porridge of life-elements :(

I wanna settle, only if unsettling were permitted intermittently.
Is raising kids, getting a house to live in, and cooking not a big deal?
Even if it isn't. I don't care.

Only if i had Marriage Internships.
6 weeks wife.
And we thought there were ample career options available in contemporary times!

Brevity Only Survives.

SMS. Mo blog for Amitabh. Short movies.
Pouches. Sachets. .5 litre bottles of cold drink.
Naps. Skirts. Mails.

Laze, time constraint and short concentration span has made brevity the trend.
They say drop in a Hi- Nothing more than that?

My shift to brevity has costed me dearly.
I m always cutting long stories short- it has trimmed my imagination, made the XYZ thinking lobe of my left brain as redundant as human appendix.


But then brevity sells.
Aren't you more tempted to read a blog that is shorter?

Well if thats the cost which it entails, i barter it for higher readership.

I thence justify to myself why i choose to be brief.

Bucket Full of Poses

While Bulu can click any subject deliciously, its being edible not being a precondition, I prefer Non-living items.

Childhood went by crossing arms, tucking hair behind ears, pasting smiles, leaning on and hiding behind other living and non living subjects which would have maximum slimming effect.
A kind of disgust growing towards pose-photography.

Not that they actually worked!
Now realization dawns although:
1. I m no more the subject,.
2. Others actually look pretty without posing.
3.Posed people too look good.

Yet my rebellion against pose photography having acquired disproportionate dimensions I limit myself now only to Non Living things.
And yes yes I m more successful a photographer than a living poser-subject!

A Kiss on The Nose.

A chapped nosetip, condensing over it a water-drop because of the high-blowing ac and partly because of the cold (The one that is caught!)

Lips. Descriptions may be done away with.

Contact. Accidental. Nevertheless Momentous Moment.

Smile on the nose-owner's lips!

So I give three stars to Sarkar Raj: Nice romantic movie :D
Interpretation of Nose-dies!

What a day! Gleefully glad!

12th Hour. Overpowered with sleep. Nan-sense.

The idea of blogging having overtaken me, I m telling myself that the minute i click Publish Post the problem or something alike will be poof.

This reminds me is there any such way anyway?
Problem Vanisher? Some Surf Excel sort of thing.
I remember making mental notes:
Toothpaste, not gel for Ink Stains.
Talcum powder for Tea Stains.
Fire for Graham'stains'!

God, send that All-out like man na to eat away my problems :'(

Eleventh Hour.

Dr. Love playing on radio. High chicken intake in supper. Nostalgic about everything that had happened a minute back.

The combination resulting in a puking sensation as strong as black coffee.

Add to it a dash of pessimism about future and work load.
Do the dead feel being alive is enviable.
May be parents actually mean its OK when they say are. (Previous blog)

Life is like that, or may be mine just slipped in to the exceptions!

Stop watch.

Why the hell is extra time available only in football matches?
And condom ads.


I require them at better places :(

God's Inkpot.

Everyone in his or her life has a point where he/she thinks I wish i had not done that, i wish no one ever does this and repents like I'm doing.
The God's Inkpot feeling: One's life a teaching medium, almost a projector screen!
Two things:
1. I wish people were vocal and louder when they felt this.
2. I just hope God makes an inkpot of my life a little less often.

Oh yes I'm loud.

The Pretensions of Adulthood.

Sigh.
How can it not hurt when your father or mother dies? Hurt enough to account for swollen eyes.
How can it be just OK.
I detest my parents at times for being so strong. Pretending to be so strong.

But is it like desirable? Or am i just supposed to do the same thing at the demise of my daughter's grandparents!

I know; I shall choose pretension too. Pretension of juvenility.
The license to brood. The license to have swollen red eyes.

Way to go before i assume the role of solace provider. Way too long, when it comes to this.

Self pity and worms.

Over-reliance on Google for 'values for living' has taken me to weird conclusions and mental states. Self-pity having been equated to something which is a feeling similar to eating worms appalled me. Sure i don't feel that way!

Yeah this intermittent feeling of pulling out the small intestines. That is there. But then that is definitely not in context of self-pity. Thats arousal. Purely sexual and romantic.

Never knew my first blog would have such alienic content. But then thats what it is meant for isn't it?