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?