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!