I've so much to be thankful for. I have always had more than an average share of everything good. Shucks. I should really stop wasting it. And act more worthy of it.

I’m angry. I’m annoyed. I’m provoked. But there’s a sense of great loss that always comes after these mélange of emotions. It is quite irritating. Can’t I just stick to feeling one particular way? Them together is disturbing. Gah.

Silence.

I’m mum, and so are you,
Where there were words,
There’s now silence.
We were friends once,
We grew together,
We discovered much.
Things we held dear.

But now there’s silence,
Where there were words,
Once.

Bile.

There’s just this feeling that arises from the deepest depths of my stomach. I squirm in irritation and disgust. I’m almost repulsed. For how long? Why can’t I be indifferent? Is it not in my temperament to be so? Sometimes I think I’m too spirited for my own good.

There are moments when I really want to do something drastic. Like shout at someone hard. So that they know exactly what’s on my mind. And they don’t dream of acting stupid again. Or shake people violently hoping that it would rattle their brains enough to get them to actually function. Maybe shouting at people would actually cause them to blink at me even more stupidly, and shaking people would just get them dizzier than they are. Aaarrrghhh.

Insomnia

Stream of consciousness, and thus almost grappling with... I dunno.


I tossed and turned, restlessly so
Waiting for sleep that took long to come,
I thought of a great many things,
That required none my attention though,
Carefully I pondered, wrinkled my head,
And thought of myriad things.
While I longed and wished for sleep to come.
But it seemed to ever take so long,
That maddened I pushed my way
Out of the stifling mosquito net,
Out of the claustrophobic maze.

I strode out into the dark that was,
Of my restraining room, out into the veranda,
I peered out in despondent gloom.
The birds I heard with the cries
Of the prophet of the mosque.

Around me the world gently slumbered,
While some of us woke.
Stealthily a rodent ran
Out from a flirtatious hole.
No longer did I long for the sleep that wouldn’t come,
Even as the rest of them around me snored on.
Except the few women that pattered, with their timid feet,
For their morning shift. And then they would have
Their noon shift and evening shift and night.
Except the men that washed the cars of our blessed fathers.
Except the girls who ran to homes, to help their mothers.
And oh of course the brave few who walked the morning like thunder.

A motor hurried on the wide empty road
As I watched on at the world of dejected dark gloom
I watched and I watched as the minutes ticked by
And sleep that was forgotten was shorn,
And I watched the sky pale into a roseate gold.

The sun rose like a mighty thing,
Proud of not being beheld without shielded eyes.
And I watched unblinkingly the gentle dawn
That came not as sudden as I thought it would
It wasn’t abrupt, uncannily unsudden unlike snow,
For it was like a drowsy dog that stretches its limbs slow.

The lazy dawn, it came like music,
That stirs slowly in one’s soul,
Like the gentle reminder that a pace so mild,
Would bring its own morning glow.

But I was watching this unqualified,
For hadn’t I seen the light too soon?
And from the unfortunate rear?
I had not woken to greet the sun,
I had cheated it of its due,
I had beheld a sight unwittingly,
And I was so unprepared.

As I looked up to see what was to be seen,
With a tinge of discontented regret,
At having not shut my eyes,
Like it would have better served.
But as I watched the sun watching me,
I kept aside my sudden dread.
It shone so bright, like a great big plate,
Put to dry by some wealthy host,
And the warmth that emanated,
Warmed me to the very core.

Adequately blessed, by nature’s great wonder,
I stumbled onto bed,
The net no longer stifled me,
I was asleep before I had lain.

Vicious.

Every time I walk by Candy Lane, they seem to have new candy up. Sometimes, when I hurry through it, they beckon me offering me every kind of candy to taste. They shriek out to me, tempting me with their pretty colours and tongue-salivating smells. If I so much as look at a particular flavour that seems interesting, it pounces on me to get me to taste it. It looks inviting enough, with its supple shape and desirable smell. I think I know exactly what it would taste like and happily ready myself to a feast, but the moment I so much as nibble at it, my face twists in horror. Here I thought it would be sweet, with a slightly tangy after-taste, but this is sour!! It happens every time that I seem to gather gumption to try another candy. All if them delude me with their sweet scents and promising flavours. A green piece, with a smell that’s reminiscent of a taste I can’t quite describe—sweet and sour and a slight tart taste that’s almost acerbic—attracts my interest. But when I eagerly taste it, anticipating exactly what I dreamt it to taste like, it shocks me. It’s all too sweet and nothing else. Its colour and smell deceived me. Again. It happens again with a yellow one that I am sure would be sweet, and salty at the very end. Except it isn’t.

Then there are others, who stand near Candy Lane, eagerly waiting to see if the candy would beckon to them too. They can see some of the candy, and they don’t confuse their flavours like me. They know exactly what they want and where to get it. They look on longingly at specific ones that they especially desire. They know that the green one is sweet, the yellow one sour and the purple one bitter. They like them and want them. How do they know? Maybe I would never know. But they do know them well enough. Know them by heart while I’m helpless in my ignorance. Or is it my incompetence? But the candy never seem to call out to them, they are too busy tending others. They look on, wistfully, sadly.

Who is more wretched? They, who know what they want and where to get them, or me, who misjudges them all? They desire the real, for what they want is actually present, before their eyes, but they can’t have them. I desire delusions, which I think exist, and they eagerly submit themselves to me. Except they turn out to be just that, delusions. And I shrink back, again.

Don't ask what's up again.

Hello?

Hey...

Oh, hey !

Wassupp ???

Oh... Nothing much... Just shitting

Huh?

Yeah, what?

Uhmm... As in bull-shitting??

No, shitting !

As in sitting-on-the-pot-shitting??

Yeah. Squatting is difficult with all this fat, lol.

Oh. Okay.

What?

No...

What??

No... It's just that... you picked up the phone while you're shitting.

But the phone rang !

Yeah... But people don't usually take the phone to the loo !

But it was in my pocket !

Yeah... But... People don't usually talk while they shit !

Oh. Okay! Click.
Beep beep beep beep beep.

What glee

It's nice to have a sister in college. And she's older and nice. And actually fun. Right from the time she started relating stuff about the college, the teachers, the atmosphere, she got me psyched. Enough to make me choose an all-girls college, which wasn't exactly my idea of a 'proper' college. Sure, it was LSR, but... It was not part of the campus, NO guys... NO campus life... NO going-to-other-college-canteens-everyday. All the way to the other end of the city to watch a decent college play. No momos point, no Kamla Nagar, no chhole-waalla, no free transport. But I was still psyched to go to college--for she got me to be.
I entered college knowing she would be there, knowing I always had her if I ended up with first-year jitters. It was because of her that I went for the department trip, because of her that I wasn't intimidated by the presence of all my seniors (like I've always unfortunately been), because of her that I eased in to college life. I was happy, and eager, because her presence in college was, somehow, always comforting. Though I barely saw her each day, it was the security of having her around, somewhere in the other English rooms, or about the college, that made me breathe easy. Every time I was uncertain about something that was happening in college, I always had the assurance in the back of my mind, "Oh, I'll call Koyel up."
She was the first person to make me feel wanted in a new place, in the midst of unfamiliar walls and unfamiliar faces. Though I did make my own set of friends, and fit into my new environment without any hiccups, it was the security of having her to fall back on that made the transition so fluid. And even though I've found, like all the others have, the joys of keema samosa, M-block, sev-puri waalla, rickshaws where everyone's fare unfailingly always comes to a nice round figure of five rupees, even then her presence carries much more joy to me than any of these.
More than the need of someone like her to be around is the assurance that she is, indeed, around. The functional aspect of having her near is grossly overshadowed by the simple perception of her presence.

...

Continuing from what is perfect, I realised some more things I ought to have added. People aren’t perfect. But moments are. For they are just that, moments. So momentarily, people can be perfect. And it’s even more satisfying a feeling for you’ve probably known them before and never expected them to be ever perfect. And they suddenly surprise you. I feel content, in those moments. Though I don’t expect them to continue being perfect then onwards, I at least am left with a hope that they can be, they might be. Which is almost good enough. Ah, the joys of perfect moments. Bliss.

Ugh.

As of today, I've decided to be less cautious. I knew that people were stupid. That they existed, and in hordes, who were mentally incapable to understand half of what I uttered (which was said out loud only for I hoped they would be intelligent enough to understand) and definitely nothing of what I thought.
I thought it was narrow and elitist of me to think people as inferior to my intellect for they probably knew much that I was completely ignorant of. Also, that it was my human duty to understand why they didn't, couldn't know certain things. To treat them kindly and not harbour any feelings of supreme contempt like some of my friends did. Even if they did not know certain things, who was I to condemn them? I should accept them the way they were, and hope for them to evolve. This was not meant to be patronising in any way. It was just something that warned be from becoming a snob, in any way.
I still believe in most of this, but I'm cracking. Too many people prove to be stupid in too many ways for me to hold conversations with them anymore. It's just the way they think, and how it is so silly that they can't even see it, that makes it unbearable for me to talk to them. I don't even know what to say that they would actually understand the same way I'm relating it. It's this huge gap that exists in our understandings that renders it impossible for us to actually converse. This has absolutely nothing to do with communication gaps or so. It has nothing to do with differing definitions. Crap, it has NOTHING to do with words at all. I mean, unless we're talking about how sunny the day is or which flavour ice-cream tastes better, I can't think of any topic where I would not be disgusted with them. Their responses are so infinitely petty and crookedly constructed that I shrink back in horror. Horror not because of their deformed thought process, but horror for they in no way were lesser equipped than me. It would have been a different matter altogether if we were taught different things and that's how our responses are so uneven; then I would reverted back to what I had always thought true. That I will not, cannot be contemptuous of them. But here, they had the same schools, same teachers, and same kind of environment where I grew. I look to them to be weighed in equal scales as I weigh myself. And find them to be this. How do I forgive them after this? I can't. I won't.




This was written after an especially annoying revelation that came while learning certain things certain people held true that made the author choke and go green, she felt so ill. So pardon her harsh tone. She was seeing red. Tearing her hair out and hyperventilating. Yes, you've got her perfectly now.

Vanity will be the end of me. My downfall, and even that word is vain. Bloody peacock.

Elusive

Something in the dark corner stirred. It fluttered, tantalisingly staying out of reach. She patiently waited for it to stomp, but all it did was flap it's wings. It disturbed her, not to see what it was. Especially because it was here; and yet unknown to her, of all the people. With a desperate effort, she groped at it. It shuddered and fell. And vanished.

Surreptitious disclosure

A thrill runs down my body
From the very hair to the wiggling toes
My heart gladdens with every word
That you think and then utter

Your unreserved hand touches me,
With the reasons best known to us both
It’ll be a secret, which we’ll share
With everyone, for the world to see.

69

She waited to be let in. Tapping her fingernails nervously on the scratched plastic, she kept glancing at her folder. For the hundredth time, she checked her papers. Then they called her in. Her mouth went dry. She gulped, and got up. She had been there before. Except this time she intended to be calmer. And less suspicious. The fact that she had always been right didn’t help much.

Abrupt

He sat in the sun, eating oranges. He liked oranges very much. Some kind stranger had given him one. He relished them slowly, and licked the juice that trickled out from the corner of his lips. Smack. At intervals, he would spit out seeds and catch them in his hand. He’ll store them, and plant them, he promised himself. Then he would have a big orange tree, all to himself. Then he would eat oranges everyday. But where would he plant it? He needed a place, some soil, any soil. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t fertile, he’d make it fertile. He’d water it everyday and the tree would grow. He loved the smell of the orange rinds. They made his head swim and tongue salivate. Lost in thoughts, he forgot to keep an alert for possible seeds with his tongue. And almost choked.

'Tis a puzzling world, Mr. Tulliver declared.

Delusion. Such a pregnant word. We live a delusion, everyday. We interpret, we create, we understand, we relate. What is the real that we not see? What is delusion then? Delusion can be defined only through “reality”. Delusion is when we see anything that is not reality. An imagined reality, then? So what is this reality? You have a situation. Or any event, lets say. The event happens. Four people witness it. Three think the same. One perceives something different. What is the reality? The cautious say they have to witness the event themselves to decide. Or at least get a “non-coloured” view. Bah. It will again, ultimately, be interpretations. So you decide your interpretation. And if it matches the one that the solitary one decided, that is reality. And so the solitary seeks solace in the acceptance of his reality. While the three comfort each other saying that the others are deluded. What if the cautious outsider sided with the reality the three interpreted? The four are content in thinking that the solitary deludes himself in fanciful interpretations of apparent situations. He is wrong. He is blind. He is crazy. The solitary either trembles in rage or doubts his reality.

What if the four agreed in their interpretations of the event? They live happily. If an outsider doesn't agree with them, they dismiss him with an indifferent laugh. What if all four disagreed? We have a fight.

What if they disagreed, but respected each other's realities calmly calling it “difference of opinion”. And left it at that. Easy. We do that, but where we call realities “opinions”. But what about when we are passionate about our opinions? What about when we can’t call it an opinion anymore but a reality? What we call has “no questions” regarding what happened? Like, we say, India was partitioned in 1947. It's a fact, a reality. But is it? Most of the people were bewildered. Standing in the same place as yesterday, they were suddenly transported to another place. A new name to their soil. A surreal “reality”? Another argues, it was a reality that they became two different nations. How? One person felt he was not an Indian. The other felt he was one, but he wasn’t, “really” speaking. He was in “Pakistan’s” soil, a citizen, though he had lived in the same place for decades and been a citizen of that soil. His reality says he is an Indian. But who is to say his reality isn’t real, to him? To him, the keyword. Just as your reality is real, to you. When the many people’s interpretations of reality match, it is reality. Real. Fact.

A schizophrenic lives in a fantasy world. He lives an imagined reality. He conjures up people and places that don’t exist. But all this is very real to him, this world. He is a schizophrenic because they aren’t based on facts, his world, and his interpretations. So he is a schizophrenic. Our difference from him is that our interpretations, our realities are based on facts. Which is about it.

And that was it.

She was scrubbing. But there was an annoying spot that just wouldn’t go. She gritted her teeth and rubbed with all her might. It maliciously grinned at her. Tired but determined, she used everything that promises to clean all kinds of spots. Except they seemed to have no effect on this particular one. Disturbed, she gave it one last vehement abrade. Stupid thing. Frustrated and dejected, she sat back to catch her breath. Glaring at it, she muttered insults. But stopped halfway. Wide-eyed, she realized that it wasn’t a spot. Just an imperfection, the kind that happens sometimes, while they are manufactured. She hadn’t been able to realize this, for this was so uncharacteristic an imperfection for it. She chided herself for allowing herself to be so shortsighted. It smiled innocently. Repentance, lament. But the damage was done. She had rubbed it too hard.

Catalyst

I sit on the floor, and look around. Piles of books, papers, memories lie scattered on the ground. I’m stacking the ones I need, in one pile. A few go to the trash. Most, I reluctantly toss to the pile that will go to the kabadiwaala. A notebook catches my attention. Studious nut, the cover says. Inside, there are some equations jotted down in a bored student’s writing. I turn the page. And laugh. There is a caricature of my senior Chemistry professor. Bulging biceps, flying cape, synthetic suit. D-man, I called it. Sighing, and thanking my lucky stars that I passed the darned subject, I push the notebook away. A few minutes later, the floor is noticeably clearer. A few minutes is all you needed to clear it all away, a voice inside me accuses. I ignore it. Though my hands are dusty, the work is half done. The pile of the things I need is small. For the pile of things I want shall be sold off tomorrow, or possibly today. I carry them to the verandah. It takes me four trips. And no, I may appear small, but I can carry a lot in my hands. Hands, did I say?

I go empty the trashcan into the big “Use Me”. There go a hundred things that I want to remember. Maybe I needed to throw them away, for weren’t they my cyanide? I hear them tumbling down the long slide. Tomorrow, the jhaaruwaala will come and collect them to take them away, before I wake. They will lie there, tonight. As I trudge back to the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I shall go have a bath, after this, I promise myself. I don’t wash my hands till the work is finished. I’ll wash it at one go. Not now. I stare at the few things that I haven’t yet sorted. I want to just bundle them together, and throw them away. Or maybe keep them now, and look into them tomorrow. Or some other day. But I don’t. I steel myself and patiently scrutinize each of them. Most of them, I toss to the now-empty dustbin. Sometimes I hesitate, but then decide it’s for the best. Half an hour later, the bin is full again and only the pile of things I need still lie, neatly stacked on the ground. That pile I go through again. It grows smaller, even so. By now the bin is overflowing. And down they go the slide. I used to like playing on the slide. “Gee! Whoosh!” All of us playmates used to scream in glee. One after the other. Slide.

I finally go take my bath. As the first spray of water hits me, I remember the last time I played in the rain. Three of us had squealed, laughing, while we jumped, up, up, and up. Gravity, notwithstanding. I hum to myself tunelessly.

Refreshed and clean, I come back to the room. Picking up the small pile, I put it away in its designated place. I had cleared the outside clutter, finally. To help clear the clutter that’s inside.

Sun (s)peeks

For days I halted, living in surrender,
For days I paid homage to the offender,
Now I rise,
For I despise,
Not warming them when I promised I’ll render.

Tagged :)

I tiptoe in, as my heart most violently ticks,
My rasping voice adds to the scary fix,
My knees, they wobble,
Brain reduced to cobble,
Trembling, I write my first limericks.




Thanks, Rudy :)

I wonder?

Whenever you're having a conversation with others, there's usually one basic problem that keeps occuring. One we commonly term as a "misunderstanding" or a "communication gap". It usually stems from differing definitions. I say "mature", thinking of my definition for it. The other interprets it as "mature", using their definition for it. Unnecessarily confusing. But gloomily certain. It helps, i guess, if the definitions are clearly understood by all parties concerned, before any further discussion. But it isn't always possible. Which is why sometimes it is so essential to be around like-minded people. But that discourages growth, after a certain point. Oh well.

Hesitant.

Have you ever, when you're hurting, wanted to inflict all the pain you can, upon yourself? Wanted to undergo through it all, all over again? And all at once?? So that you can feel it all again? You feel like experiencing all those things that hurt you, anew, so that you can feel all that pain all at once; and get it over with? So that there's nothing left? So that you know that you have achieved going through the maximum. And still come out of it?? That you can? It’s not masochistic. It heals, somehow.

What is it that makes me doubt this particular way? It has worked, and it will. But is it somewhere like cyanide? Is it??

Tinted discontent.

I think in colours. And they console. Pat me on the back, promising me that they too, share what I feel. I cling on to the reassurance, blindly, desperately. But then there are moments when they too, desert me. Instances where they make me suffer, with their false hopes.

Yellow, green, blue, violet
All the colours of my rainbow;
Blue, black, silver, white
All the colours of my sky;
Maroon, pink, orange, red
All the colours of my heart;
But colourless my world.


This i wrote exactly a couple of years back. And its come back to haunt me. Is it this way, its supposed to be? Will everything, someday, disappoint, thus? What is this curse thats come upon me?

I submit to this; do I have a choice?

Slowly it mounts.

I don't like feeling vulnerable. I blurt out things i intend to keep to myself.

January 6 : I said we will have a fight.
Earlier, i told you how i always manage to convince people that they dont like me. Without them realising my active role. It's eerie, how i'm always right.
"Just a friend" is not enough, you think. To me, it can never be "just" one. You are wrong.
It was as intimate, as you could get with me. You never realised that, did you ? You always wanted more, aspired to grab more. No. Firmly I say. I decide what i want to share. If you have a problem with that, then go fuck off. If you can take me for what i have to offer, and no false pretensions about what i choose not to offer, then, then you deserve me. "I wish that had a consequence" you say. You have the consequence in front of you. Either live with it, or reject it and move on.


When i'm at my most vulnerable, it's curious how seemingly nondescript things help me. Talking about school. Drinking hot milk. With Bournvita. What disconcerts me ? Recalling conversations that remind me of long forgotten things. Reliving some moments and looking at them, now unhappily.


I shy away from people at these moments. Finally, i may have found your cure. Brooding doesn't help, we knew. But talking to oneself, it does, in a way. Then talking to others some. Then ending abruptly and going back to writing. Maybe its still not a cure. A temporary analgesic, like you said.

Why is it that people take my concern for love? I mean, it is love, but not the kind they construct it to be. I love you. I'm not in love with you. Is it that hard to accept it? Is it really so rare? This love? It comes to me as the most natural thing in the world. Does it not, to you?

Acquiescent acceptance

“I watch you watch me. I want to belong. But every time you take that one step closer, something inside me tenses. Frightened, like a deer in the headlights. I watch you watch me watch you. Do you know the truth? I am terrified. I watch me lose you.

You could have been home to me.”



It strikes all too very close.



Except, much later, I see how it was the right thing that I did. I should have ran, like I eventually did. Its proven too often to be the correct way, for me to doubt it any longer. But I want to doubt it. But I cant. I cant, I cant, I cant.

Rumination

So much that we look down in ourselves are actually parts of us we loathe. We give it names such as 'madness' and 'forgetting ourselves', but we refuse to see how it is only the naked self that is manifest. For we cannot love it in us and are ashamed of it, we extricate it from us as if its only an outgrowth, that has to be merely plucked away and a soothing ointment applied to restore us to our 'former self'. Why harbour such delusions? Why lull ourselves to this deception? Are we such cowards?
If only we would acknowledge it; we could easily correct ourselves. Isn't identifying our weaknesses essential for our growth? Isn't it exhilarating, in a way? The revelations invigorate me. Which is why I’m curious enough to ask if they do the same to you, if you do it?

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Midnight Monologue

Almost everything is transitory. Very little is constant, forever. The most perfect things in life are the ones which are the most fleeting. I revel in those moments, and they make me whole. But the whole is full of scope. There will be more moments that would bring perfection. I cherish them, and enjoy them as completely as I can. I don't want to carefully amass them and go back to them again and again to extract the juice of happiness and satisfaction. Neither do I want to keep them intact in glass boxes. Both of these ways appear to be two different poles, but they do meet. Touching and squeezing the moment to extract the juice and hungrily lick it is not very far from gazing at it with a longing and pacifying the self with the assurance that it will always contain the juice. In the first approach, the juice will empty someday and in the second, it will dry away in solitude. I want the third way; to taste it and carry it in my veins such that it freshly creates itself within my body and soul and my mind revels in it's sweetness. I carry it within me, but don’t enclose it exclusively for me.

Tortuously reticent

The agony of knowing,
And the inability to show,
The agony, of loving,
And not explaining to you,
The agony, of wishing,
And it crippling, despairing,
The agony of feeling,
And not expressing,
What is due.


Slowly, it burns

Droll, this.

It's amusing to see how most people manifest their deepest desires in the name of their email id. So we have their names with incredible adjectives that pronounce them as marvelous creatures with astounding attributes and breathtaking beauty. They are suddenly transformed into wonder women and charming chaps, with enviable elements of enthralling traits.

Also, the ones who want to make a statement, or assert their individuality. There is a basic desire in almost all humans to follow the crowd or stand out in it. So we have people desiring the fantastic and expressing them through their email ids. It comes as a bolt from the blue at times, when you've known someone for a while, and then when you read their email id, it comes as a surprise when you see them describing themselves.

Then there are the ones who use the names of their idols, who are worshipped in terms of exterior appearance (again) or some other desirable quality they happen to possess and our friend yearns for. So they are part of their email id. Wishing to live someone else's life is common, and apparent in younger years, where you copy others to feel better about yourself. But it gets deviously concealed later. The deceptive veil is cunningly worn, and most are fooled.

Suppressed aspirations surface in strange ways.

Verità infelici

People, will, always be obsessed. And i cannot be an armchair critic. It's too convenient a position to take. But can I only just watch? Can I really not do anything about it? Not even make them see it? Am I really that helpless? Or am I a victim too? Is victim the word? I will deal with this.

Talk about ego boosters. Two tests, what results !! What knaats ! What tangles ! What rubbish, i say ! Entre Pondre !!!!!!! (sorry i just HAD to say that)


Congratulations!
Hello, Wizard. There are many types of magic, but all require a sharp mind and a cool head. There is no puzzle you can't solve, no problem you can't think your way out of. When anyone feels confused or uncertain, they can always rely on you to untangle the knots and put everything back in order for them. Yes. I WISH. Character Stats: Rogue (14) Warrior (5)Wizard (22) Paladin (11)

Your Profile:You're intelligent, educated, and just a bit superior to everyone you know. I am ?? Bah. If you're still in school, you probably make A's, if you're not too bored to waste the effort. Yeah, that's what i used to say to feel better about myself. Gah. If you work, your annoying boss relies on you to solve the problems no one else can figure out. You've never met a puzzle you can't solve. *incredulous look* WHAT ?? When it comes to leisure, you'd rather read, play a strategy game, or surf the 'Net than run around getting sweaty. You're talking to the hopping queen here. I ALWAYS want to get all hot and sweaty; it's a childhood inclination. You're a brainiac, and you're not ashamed to admit it.Above all, you're a mastermind and a great thinker. Muhahaha... I so love the guy who's written this... Poor thing You see the unknown as territory to be conquered, and the mysterious as something to be systematically unraveled. You don't have time for fools; you only spend your time with people who can comprehend your obfuscatory convolutions. Now THIS is downright despicable. Is it supposed to be a virtue ? You enjoy amassing knowledge, both useful and trivial. Finally, maybe some truth.

Your Mission: I have a MISSION ?? Huh ? You were put on this earth to enlighten people. Ohhhh... They will listen to you, because they are impressed by your vocabulary, your erudition, and your ability to grasp concepts that invariably elude them. Ha. Ha ha. HA HA HA HA HA. You are the one who has to figure things out, because let's face it - you're the only one smart enough. *more laughter* Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to Discover Something. Something small, or something big. What? I mean, WHAT ?? Find an unknown insect in your own backyard. Discover a cure for sunburn. Develop a faster way to get the dishes done. Calculate the number of molecules in the Andromeda galaxy. Discover a comet. Discover SOMETHING.And do make it a priority. No... Nononononono... You've gotten the wrong "discoverer". Sheesh !! The Famous Adventurer of Silmaria has a crystal ball trained on you, and will be noting your progress. Wah wah !!

A Warning:Try to remember: you're not infallible. If people around you are all nodding and smiling, it may just be because they don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. Check your facts and admit the possibility that even you can make mistakes. Loosen up. Make friends with a Rogue and have him or her try to poke holes in your theories. LOL !!!!!!! Who knows; you might actually have fun.On another note - making plans and formulating theories can be quite stimulating, but at some point, you are going to have to actually DO something. Employ a Warrior, if necessary, to put your brilliant schemes into action. Just be sure your instruction manual is written in very small words. Rogue ? Warrior ?? Eee kaun sab hai bhaiyya ??


This one's even better. I cannot BELIEVE this. Go on... Laugh



The Priss Deliberate Brutal Love Dreamer (DBLDf)
Mature. Responsible. Aristocratic. Excuse me. The Priss. Hehehehe... I loved the "excuse me". I can picture that... Except i can only see myself caricaturing that, at the very most. Hehe. Prisses are the smartest of all female types. YAY !! *wink wink* You're highly perceptive, and confident in your judgements. You'd take brutal honesty over superficiality any time--your friends always know where they stand with you. More YAY ! You're completely unfake. Don't tell me that's not a word. Well, it IS not a word. Accept it. You're also excellent at redirecting internal negative energy. THIS, i REALLY wish. These facts indicate people are often intimidated by you. They also fall for you, hard. Yuck. You have a distant, composed allure that many find irresistible. YUCK. If only more of them lived up to your standards. Haha... Yeah, totally :)
Your exact opposite:The Playstation Random Gentle Sex Master HAHAHAHAHAHA !!!!!!
You were probably the last among your friends to have sex. And the first to pretend that you're pregnant. LOL. Kya ?? MOI ?? Though you're inclined to use sex as weapon, at least it's not as one of mass destruction. Come again ? You're choosier than most about your partners. A supportive relationship is what you're really after. Whether you know it or not, you need something steady & long-term. And soothing. This is officially shit. ALWAYS AVOID: The Playboy, The Loverboy CONSIDER: The Manchild Uff... I'm bored.


Yes. I know. I will NOT take online tests again. Or... Maybe i will... Just for kicks ;) Cheers... !!

:)

Today, in the bus, I saw this little boy who was an assistant conductor. He would jump and order others about and would be affectionately humoured; it was generally fun watching and listening to him. It made me feel old for not being able to jump on people’s laps. After a few minutes of despondent longing, this small girl got on the bus. She was tiny, wearing a salwar kameez. The boy looked at the girl. I looked at the boy. I laughed. That was the end of my yearning. Funny, how things happen.

Head hangs in shame.

Nanku : It's funny... What I think is "weird". Weird to me is when people, who appear to me to be a certain "type" DON'T fit into that mould that I create for them and behave different. Weird.
Mithu : Maybe because it just makes you realise that you were WRONG or that you CAN be wrong in any way which makes you feel uneasy or find it "weird".
Nanku : Yeah. But what is worse is that I can't accept them completely for what they are (or maybe what they are NOT) for it's so bizarre for me. It cripples me. I should try and alter this. Uff.
Mithu : Yeah, you can't bring yourself to do that maybe because if you do that, it'll be like ACCEPTING that you were wrong about something?
Nanku : A very yuck shortcoming. Uff uff.
Mithu : It's ok. Everyone has shortcomings. You'll have to work on it.
Nanku : But even though I want to change this, its just that usually others agree that those people I think are weird, are weird. And then it gives me a false reassurance and I don't bother.
Mithu : (laughs)
Nanku : It's not an ego issue.
Mithu : Maybe it is, somewhere.
Nanku : (thinks for a while) Yes, you're probably right. Somewhere, subconsciously, it might be one. Shit.

I will not.

I'm not being condescending. I was kind. Is it so hard to understand kindness? To appreciate it? Is cruelty the only language you understand? Stupid me, i actually cared. But was it? For you, i cannot change.

Pusillanimous

Your words have no meaning.
Are they just uttered,
To fill a void?
To fill the abyss
That separates us?

You ignore it,
Thinking I'll take no notice.
You're wrong;
Yet again.

Your words are a pale echo
Of what they are
Supposed to mean.
You're a shadow
And aware of it

You hide from it
You camouflage it
But you're still a shadow
Looking to be opaque.

Chin up.

You have no idea what makes me happy. I like sitting in the sun. I like it when little kids drop nayantara blossoms onto my lap. I like listening to the parched earth hungrily sucking in the rain. And then the fragrance of the newly wet earth. I like it when something reminds me of a long forgotten incident. I like dancing in the aangan of my ancestral house in Calcutta as my old grandmothers look on, laughing. I like seeing them laugh. I like it when i accidentally catch a telecast of Burning Train on tv. I like the smell of freshly shampooed hair. I like it when Koshi bakes for me. I like it when Nisha jumps on my stomach to wake me up at obscene hours of the morning, however cranky i act about it. I like it when people do sudden acts of kindness entirely on their own. I like the taste of clear water after drinking Calcutta's drinking water. I like coming back home after staying away, even if it was for a day. I like the way Baba wakes me up, every morning. I like the way Anu's eyes light up when she sees me coming back from college. I like it when Siddharth comes running from far and catches me by the waist. I like laughing hysterically over something that only we can understand. I like the sun finally gracing us with it's presence after months of winter. I like cutting my nails. I like exhaling air that looks like smoke in winter and the way Pari says, "Your stomach's on fire, that's why !!" I like playing Scrabble. I like re-reading my Tintins. I like it when two of my favourite cousins land up unexpectedly and hijack me. I like listening to "Dekha jo tujhe yaar dil mein baji guitar." I like to see the yellow sun. It reminds me of what ma once told me about it. I like it when Dada remembers to bring the imli toffees they give you in planes, everytime when he's back. I like it when Parth calls me his shining star, however embarassing it is. I like dancing to Secret by Maroon 5 when I'm alone. I think Bikimax can cheer me up almost anytime. There is obviously more. But you don't deserve to know about them. Not anymore.

Cyanide.

Have you ever talked about so much that goes on in your life because you want to keep the more important things to yourself ? Expressed so much so that you don't have to express what's really important ? Blurted out so much so as to keep others from realising what has been kept back ? Revealed so much that no one probes further, so your secrets are safe, with you ? Iterated and reiterated a discussion so many times along carefully constructed lines so that people think there isn't anything more to discuss in it because it's wrung dry ? Exposed your pantaloons so that no one would want to see more ? Been madly happy because at other times its so hard to be so ? Told everyone almost everything you want them to know so many times that they don't even bother asking, and so you're safe ? Washed your dirty linen in public so that no one is interested in your linen any more ? It's like making files of everything you want to remember forever and then conveniently forgetting them; now that they're filed. It just makes it easier to forget, for you can always go back to it and refer to it. You don't have to carry it around in your mind anymore. You have told everyone everything (atleast created an illusion that you have) so that no one asks anymore. Both these things are synonymous with each other. It's easy. It's convenient. It's dangerous.


Quick Poison.

Phlegm

I'm hopping mad
Don't you see?
It irks me so
But you don't see.

You, who patronise me
And beat your chest
You, who presume
For you think you read my face
Yes you, who advise
In that condescending tone
I'm thwarting you;
I'm letting you go.

Blah blah ride.

Sitting in the waiting lounge of the Dum Dum Airport, all I could think about was how fast I could get back home. Continuous messages that I sent and received made me all the more anxious to get home as soon as possible. So in that mood, when the gravelly voice of the airport executive announced that our flight’s boarding would now begin, I seized my backpack and started walking swiftly towards the already lengthening line; I guess everyone was in a hurry. But as I should have known, some people coolly disregarded the line and flocked towards the entrance, where they were (haha) told to get into line. Their “getting into line” was shoving a few people already in the line to get into line. Ha. As a few passengers around me muttered “illiterate” and “uncouth”, all I could do was laugh. Not at them; but just at the way this woman used her bum to shove a gentleman into giving her space in the line. As the line slowly progressed, suddenly we heard a clamour of voices ahead, right in front of the line. Apparently, a group of passengers who were obviously all related to each other could not find their boarding passes. As a fat lady sat down to search for the passes in a jute bag full of handheld fans and tiffin boxes, another meanwhile took off her six-year old’s pants (he apparently had shitted in his undies and needed a change). As the next few passengers demanded to be dealt with, two men shouted out to someone “Pammi, mere paas hai !!” So finally, the issue solved, finally our turn came and we boarded the bus (with great difficulty, for people WILL trod on your feet or place their luggage conveniently on your toes) that would take us to the plane. While standing in line to climb the steps of the plane, suddenly a ‘lady’ materialized by my side and persistently egged her way in front of me, angrily urging her husband to do the same. The unwilling husband remained behind while she and I battled an entry to the plane (which I inevitably lost). Finally securing a window seat for ma, I settled down on the middle seat while I wished for a non-annoying fellow passenger. Anyway, with a rocky take-off (pun intended), I settled down to read the part of Jane Eyre I was supposed to finish. But as the smell of achaar hit my senses, I looked to the other aisle to see the Pammi’s mother-in-law (I’m guessing) opening a tin of matris and paranthas. As she passed around the thick paranthas to her sons, I tried going back to my book. But hunger intercepted and while eating cheese sandwiches and “something to munch on” (that’s how they described it), I looked around to see what was going on. They apparently had something called “Simplibid” going on, and the same group was arguing over something with the air-hostess. Apparently, they had a certain amount above which bidding took place and they were trying to argue their way into bidding for less. As the air-hostess patiently explained them that they had to abide by the rules and reasoned how they wouldn’t win anyway if they bid too low, one man hollered to the air-hostess, “Yeh dono behene hain. Inka add karke dekh lo zyaada aayega.” As she explained again how she had to follow the rules, the man commented to the man she was reasoning with, “Abbey eh toh ladaayi karaake chhodegi.” It made me angry. I could feel it coming. What did I do? I waited for her response. First she went pink. With humiliation. Then red. With apparently suppressed anger. She managed to collect the things she had in her tray for showing people interested in bidding. She put on a blank face and asked them whether they wanted their money back or would they bid. She quietly wheeled her tray away. I won’t lie. The first thing I thought was how Pari would have handled (or not handled) the situation, if it had been her. Would she have flared up, like the Pari I know so well? Or would she have managed even better?? It worried me. Which is why I related this to her, waiting to see what she would say. She was curious to know what the airhostess had done. I guess she’s as worried. Anyway. Moving on to my till now un-introduced neighbour. Oh, the horror. Sigh.

Ma has this annoying habit of striking up conversation with otherwise utter strangers. Grrr. So this guy who was sitting next to me and MA start talking. While I TRY to read. By the end of fifteen minutes, she already knows that he is the eldest of four sons and two sisters (which he, incidentally, added as an afterthought, “Oh, they, too, exist!!” Chauvinist pig.), has a wife and two kids, lives in Saket I Block, works with the Airport ground personnel (a job that his father got him, who’s a senior Airport official), likes to eat paushtic roti, plays the sitar as a hobby, has a nephew who studies English through correspondence, has a son who wants to grow up to be a pilot (have you noticed how he coolly “forgets” to talk about the females he is associated with him?), and so on… And ON. The result of which is the “poor slightly dull and mentally slow man” (Ma’s description) conveniently asks to sit in the window seat the minute Ma gets up to go “powder her nose” (overdose of Victorian texts). Bah. The SAME window seat that I struggled passionately to bag, and then gallantly gave up for Ma, for she likes them so much. And Ma let him. Aaarghh. Bloody philanthropist. ^*$@*$@*. Hmpf !

Anyway, as soon as Ma left, this (ugh) person tries to initiate a conversation with me. ME !! Robbing me of the seat and then acting friendly ! The audacity !! Grr. A few cryptic half sentences later, the thick-headed guy got the hint. Whatever. I read on.

When Ma came back, the conversation began. AGAIN. Thankfully I was no longer sitting in the middle. Phew. Soon, his bladder squeaked too. Do I let an opportunity slide? Ha. I was in the seat he vacated (MY seat, which I had graciously given to Ma, the ungrateful creature... Hmpf) in a flash. Like that. Hehe. YAY !! I rock. Lalala... *contented sigh*

The rest of the journey was uneventful. I read. They chatted. Yawn. But then, we were about to reach Delhi. Fifteen minutes, they said. As we descended from above the clouds, I could see lights. Bright lights in the darkness of night. Little squares of light. In well-regulated harmony. We went up again. Then dipped. Somehow, seeing the same lights for the second time within a span of ten minutes was more beautiful than seeing them for the first time. Ma leaned in as i squealed in delight. (*grimaces* Yeah, i squealed). That's when I felt a little sorry for the annoying man. But I couldn't very well help it, could I? (Okay maybe I felt a little guilty. Bah. Why can't we choose the genes we want to inherit??)

As impatient I was, till even a few moments back, for the plane to land, and I to reach home, I was suddenly reluctant. Reluctant to come closer to the lights I admired from above, reluctant to keep the back of my seat upright like we were instructed, reluctant to let go of the moment. But I eventually did do just that. Tore my eyes away from the window, straightened my seat, land. The landing was soft. No bumps. Kind. I wonder why people are afraid of flying. The loss of control over one's life? The height? The motion? A lot of reasons which I'm possibly completely unaware of. Fear sucks. I hate fearing things. They interfere with what I want in too many occasions.

When we DID land, everyone got up to get their stuff from the overhead cabinets... And as usual, people knocked their heads while taking out their bags, and push-push, shove-shove. This weird uncle next to me did this weird booty shake that I swear would give Beyonce a run for her money. Apparently it was to make space around him in order to lower his bag. I think I'll try that one sometime too. So anyway, while we waited to be let out (for what seemed like AEONS!), everyone just glared at each other in this really competitive way, as if daring the other to try push him/her and you-shall-see-what-happens. Someone let out a long fart. Yuck. Not in a crowded aisle, have mercy! We finally descended *phew* to wait for the buses to chauffeur us to the airport lounge. Everytime a bus would arrive, there would be a tumultuous movement around us as everyone would lunge forward to get a seat, along with their spouse/child/luggage/tiffin/bag/all-of-the-above. Crazy. Tired by now, we just waited till the last bus came, and went as dignifiedly as possible. Trodden toes notwithstanding.

We FINALLY reached the airport, finally located the belt that would have our luggage, could NOT get a trolley ("khatam ho gaya madam"), finally spotted our bags, found out that they broke the handle of MY PRECIOUS roll-on, heaved the two till the gate (there absolutely was not any place to actually roll 'em on *grrr*. And that was it. We were out. Out under the open sky, where dada smiled at us the moment we saw each other, and we were soon on our way home, bags secure in the back and us chattering away. The end wasn't too bad. But never do I travel in Air Deccan again. Blah.

There's a lot which i find myself getting increasingly sceptical of. Why is it that i suddenly see so much selfishness in most of the things people say ?? Anything which on the surface sounds selfless; is more selfish in the core than anything blatantly selfish. It's not self-introspection, it's self-love. Self-interest is suddenly glaringly evident to me from almost everything written; or uttered. Why is there a "me, me, me" in everything ?? They scream of self-centred thought, dangerous self-obsession that they just dont see. Of course everyone needs to find out truths about oneself, but that in no way needs to turn them selfish. Is it that hard to identify it in oneself ? Have i not identified it in me ? Can they not, too ? Why not ?

Slipping away

The legs do all the prancing.
I hop and skip and jump and run
The legs do all the prancing
I twirl in glee and gurgle and laugh
While the legs do all the prancing

They learnt to jump when I was little
They learnt to fall when I was older
They learnt to be steady as the years progressed
Now the legs do all the prancing

Once I fell while dancing
But rose
For the legs do all the prancing
Once I faltered in a step
While the legs did their prancing
Twice I swayed but didn’t stop
For the legs did all the prancing

And now the prancing is slowing down
As the legs grow weary
And I’m sleepy
And the legs don’t prance now
But once the legs did all the prancing.



Non i piedi cosí felici

I found a way. It was quite easy, really. All i have to do is say it. Out loud. And its reality. Its unburdening. And not as complicated.