Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
-Got a stamp on my passport after having it for at least 5 useless years.
-Traveled more than I actually wanted to- none were pleasure trips.
-Sulked for a month solid.
-Fell really sick. At least that got me home.
2. Did you keep your new years resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I make the same resolutions every year. Doesn't work. Will do it again.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Nope. Not that I know of.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes. Geographically yes.
7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
My birthday this year.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I cracked 3 interviews with no pushes from inside. Got a bit smarter at handling people (read meaner- if that is possible).
9. What was your biggest failure?
I lost my school of thought.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
A broken heart and then a horrible cold. Same thing almost.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Mom's. Period.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
Some friends. Taught me something though.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Shopping. A complete no brainer!
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
About the year ending. It sucked thoroughly.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009?
Not only 2009- but every year that comes - Vincent. I know its corny.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
SADDER.
19. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Well...I suppose being a little more sincere in my emotions.
20. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Felt less miserable I suppose.
21. How will you be spending Christmas?
No idea. Remind me to update this when I have a plan.
22. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Love? No.
23. How many one night stands?
I am too much of a prude for this!
24. What was your favourite TV programme?
Currently House, but am always loyal to Roadies.
26. What was the best book you read?
I just read a whole lot of essays.
27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
That I just cannot sing. Not much of a discovery- I just remind myself every year!
28. What did you want and get?
I got nothing I wanted this year. :(
29. What did you want and not get?
Some thing to work out. Nothing worked out.
30. What was your favourite film of this year?
I just watched a lot of mindless movies this year.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I cried all evening and I was 25.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Less heart ache. More intellectual hope. And money.
34. What kept you sane?
Mirrors. I find my face most endearing!
37. Who was the worst new person you met?
A particular Professor in a particular university somewhere.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
A handful of friends.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.
Nothing lasts forever...and we both know hearts can change!
40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Shut up and Drive!
-Got a stamp on my passport after having it for at least 5 useless years.
-Traveled more than I actually wanted to- none were pleasure trips.
-Sulked for a month solid.
-Fell really sick. At least that got me home.
2. Did you keep your new years resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I make the same resolutions every year. Doesn't work. Will do it again.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Nope. Not that I know of.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes. Geographically yes.
7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
My birthday this year.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I cracked 3 interviews with no pushes from inside. Got a bit smarter at handling people (read meaner- if that is possible).
9. What was your biggest failure?
I lost my school of thought.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
A broken heart and then a horrible cold. Same thing almost.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Mom's. Period.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
Some friends. Taught me something though.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Shopping. A complete no brainer!
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
About the year ending. It sucked thoroughly.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009?
Not only 2009- but every year that comes - Vincent. I know its corny.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
SADDER.
19. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Well...I suppose being a little more sincere in my emotions.
20. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Felt less miserable I suppose.
21. How will you be spending Christmas?
No idea. Remind me to update this when I have a plan.
22. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Love? No.
23. How many one night stands?
I am too much of a prude for this!
24. What was your favourite TV programme?
Currently House, but am always loyal to Roadies.
26. What was the best book you read?
I just read a whole lot of essays.
27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
That I just cannot sing. Not much of a discovery- I just remind myself every year!
28. What did you want and get?
I got nothing I wanted this year. :(
29. What did you want and not get?
Some thing to work out. Nothing worked out.
30. What was your favourite film of this year?
I just watched a lot of mindless movies this year.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I cried all evening and I was 25.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Less heart ache. More intellectual hope. And money.
34. What kept you sane?
Mirrors. I find my face most endearing!
37. Who was the worst new person you met?
A particular Professor in a particular university somewhere.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
A handful of friends.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.
Nothing lasts forever...and we both know hearts can change!
40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Shut up and Drive!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Vanished.
A few days back my sister sent me a message – “Chordadu passed away today evening, sometime back. Just letting you know.”
I didn’t react to that message much, probably because I did not know how to. It is not like I was particularly close to him or anything of that sort. Often I thought he was vile and old and how he should just die. But then he died and I was not even sure that I really wanted it that way. For the 22 years I have lived there I had nothing to do with him, rarely interacted with him and it never mattered. So why now?
I remembered his wife telling us when we were small that he sat around all day like a barn owl. And now that barn owl was dead, his wife finally managed to coax him away.
He hated my dog. Every time my dog would decide to act like a complete stubborn mule and sit pert in front of the main door and bark like a rabid cretin- he would unleash the wave of choicest vernacular abuses. It made no difference to my dog. When I read the message it did hit me once that now the dog could bark to glory. But then I thought- did I really want her to bark like that?
Today I am feeling sad about things. Today I feel this vacuum. Not that some special memory came to mind but suddenly death seemed too real to pretend that it had not affected me this time.
I have just been to the cremation grounds once. That only time being when one of my friend’s fathers committed suicide. I remember crying after I got home not because I saw anything that scared me but rather for he suddenly came to mind. I had not even seen the dead body. I didn’t want to see it. He was this sarcastic and brilliant man who just jumped off the 7th floor one day after fighting with his family. When I came home – he suddenly came to mind.
But today- Chordadu just didn’t come to mind. He came to mind with a volley of feelings that I could not handle. The feeling that I could not lose anything that was mine, anything I knew, anything I know. For if I did, a part of history and just goes missing. In a story of everyday- some lines stop running. I am going to tell these stories to someone one day and I cannot have parts missing. How can you make do with characters that vanish? Does it not change everything even if he didn’t matter too much?
Chordadu just vanished, like Dadu, like didima, like Bodhi’s father...like Raman’s mom...and one day...like me.
I didn’t react to that message much, probably because I did not know how to. It is not like I was particularly close to him or anything of that sort. Often I thought he was vile and old and how he should just die. But then he died and I was not even sure that I really wanted it that way. For the 22 years I have lived there I had nothing to do with him, rarely interacted with him and it never mattered. So why now?
I remembered his wife telling us when we were small that he sat around all day like a barn owl. And now that barn owl was dead, his wife finally managed to coax him away.
He hated my dog. Every time my dog would decide to act like a complete stubborn mule and sit pert in front of the main door and bark like a rabid cretin- he would unleash the wave of choicest vernacular abuses. It made no difference to my dog. When I read the message it did hit me once that now the dog could bark to glory. But then I thought- did I really want her to bark like that?
Today I am feeling sad about things. Today I feel this vacuum. Not that some special memory came to mind but suddenly death seemed too real to pretend that it had not affected me this time.
I have just been to the cremation grounds once. That only time being when one of my friend’s fathers committed suicide. I remember crying after I got home not because I saw anything that scared me but rather for he suddenly came to mind. I had not even seen the dead body. I didn’t want to see it. He was this sarcastic and brilliant man who just jumped off the 7th floor one day after fighting with his family. When I came home – he suddenly came to mind.
But today- Chordadu just didn’t come to mind. He came to mind with a volley of feelings that I could not handle. The feeling that I could not lose anything that was mine, anything I knew, anything I know. For if I did, a part of history and just goes missing. In a story of everyday- some lines stop running. I am going to tell these stories to someone one day and I cannot have parts missing. How can you make do with characters that vanish? Does it not change everything even if he didn’t matter too much?
Chordadu just vanished, like Dadu, like didima, like Bodhi’s father...like Raman’s mom...and one day...like me.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Blah!
Am on the train. It is rather boring here- and after a really long time I am travelling alone- flights don’t count really for 2 hours just goes off in trying to get comfortable in the dratted seat with the seat belt and rather fat and sleepy co passengers.
It’s not like I prefer train journeys but hell these trying times without a job leaves very little to choose from. And since I am travelling alone my mother must give me the safest train she can afford. Even when you are old enough to become a parent yourself you can well expect to be molly coddled by your mother. Only by your mother. She makes me feel like I am 12 and I have an uncanny feeling that this feeling will stay till I am 42 perhaps.
Parents and their story are not of concern right now- that maybe ruminated on later. What is irking me now are my co passengers. This time it is a family and a quarter- a mom and a dad, two kids- one boy who is wearing a Che t shirt and obviously thinks he is cool, a girl who has really badly done mehendi on one of her hands and it is obvious that her mother didn’t let her get it on both hands, and the uncle- who thinks he is VERY cool because he has a lap top. The mother is like this fat anaconda- the thick, contented snake. She looks huge next to her husband and I can only imagine her feeding off the spectacled small husband of her for years- long enough to produce the two kids and now she is doing it just out of habit. She too has rather ugly mehendi done on her hands and gold nail polish on very ugly nails, dark lipstick with a darker lip liner and really tacky and gaudy jewellery on. Out of all respect for an ‘elderly’ lady I had politely asked her whether I could keep my luggage under her seat for her daughter was perched far too happily on mine. She says- “Hamara luggage rakh le ne dijiye phir jagah bacha to aap rakh dena.” So much for decency. I just shoved in my rather big bag under the seat even before she could say any more. Then she says- “Hamara luggage ke liye jagah nahin hoga...” so I turn around sweetly and say- “Aunty, aap ke paas to 5 ticket hai na? Aap us paanch seato ke neeche rakh lijiye...” and put on my ‘don’t fuck with me face’ and placed myself squarely on the seat.
It worked.
The husband, I suppose works for a catering company or has something to do with food. He kept saying things like- “Rajdhani pe catering karne ka contract aaya tha ek bar hum logo ko...” to which his daughter reacted with wonder and surprise (if they both do not mean the same thing and if it is possible to show both at once). I wondered then- do parents lie to their kids? Do they pretend to be far more important than they are? What if he was lying to his daughter? I do not know whether he was but this just crossed my mind. He was acting rather high and mighty with the train staff which irritated me to no end. He complained about the piece of fish he got for dinner, about the salad about well...everything. When I had initially just seen his wife I felt sorry for him- but now not. I hope that his wife drains him dry and one day gets on top and squashes him. And he, if I must add, has no clue about jumbled words in newspapers. This is how he works them out- he just chooses whatever letters he thinks can make up a word and the remaining letters can go to hell. Right now- he is singing rather dumb and sleazy songs while trying to make the bed. I hope he falls and breaks his neck.
The son and daughter seem to be rather happy doing very pointless things. The son helped me hoist my bag to the top berth- sometimes I feel like kicking myself for simply being incapable of packing light.
The uncle was talking in whispers on his phone to someone I can imagine is his girlfriend. He kept wearing his shades inside the train and thought it was rather cool. He bought loads of food and finished it in about half an hour with the rest of the family. The mother, who kept asking them to not buy any more chips and cake, ate half the loot herself. The anaconda going full throttle. I could draw her- in an ugly caricatured way.
They woke up at 6. Six in the bloody morning with the insipid father playing ‘Jana Gana Mana’ on his archaic cell phone. I wanted to get up and slap him. Like really slap him. What a joke they make of the national anthem. I don’t understand why they serve tea at 6 in the morning. Who in their right mind has tea that early? I have not seen this hour of the morning in decades. In normal circumstances I probably have gone to sleep an hour prior to this dratted time.
I suppose that is the sickness of our generation- we have our priorities all over the place. We don’t compromise on duties and promises, but on time. We can do what we want with our time because we push ourselves to keep up everything else. Like for example- I can do my academic work well in advance so as I do not have to pull endless all nighters but that I never do. I will do everything else but not study till the zero hour. The tragedy.
And I do not like travelling sleeper class. Period.
I am almost home. Well...in Bengal so as good as home. I love the green here. And the autumn clouds and the base mundane pictures of life before the reach the metropolitan. When I am not home I cannot place exactly what I miss. It is never one thing. Life does strange things to us. Things we can’t comprehend and in the process itself can’t accept. But it happens.
Like when do u know that a love is worth keeping? Worth going that extra mile for? Worth giving up something else for? In all honesty I don’t know if I have figured that out yet. With my tremendous capacity (or incapacity) for patience I don’t know what I have figured out in life.
I wonder why education makes us think that we can confuse and complicate theory. What we do is just read theory and agree to what great bored men have said in the past. If you don’t like the ramblings of one- you can critique it in an equally long discourse and pass it off as your thesis and choose another. And mind you if- if some gay or bald guy has not said something specific- then nothing else is profound or worthy or mortal concern.
What kind of questions can I answer? I need to figure that out- for they are the only kind of questions I am entitled to ask.
As a wise man once said- Literature is not a code with one message. There are only better or worse interpretations.
Amen.
It’s not like I prefer train journeys but hell these trying times without a job leaves very little to choose from. And since I am travelling alone my mother must give me the safest train she can afford. Even when you are old enough to become a parent yourself you can well expect to be molly coddled by your mother. Only by your mother. She makes me feel like I am 12 and I have an uncanny feeling that this feeling will stay till I am 42 perhaps.
Parents and their story are not of concern right now- that maybe ruminated on later. What is irking me now are my co passengers. This time it is a family and a quarter- a mom and a dad, two kids- one boy who is wearing a Che t shirt and obviously thinks he is cool, a girl who has really badly done mehendi on one of her hands and it is obvious that her mother didn’t let her get it on both hands, and the uncle- who thinks he is VERY cool because he has a lap top. The mother is like this fat anaconda- the thick, contented snake. She looks huge next to her husband and I can only imagine her feeding off the spectacled small husband of her for years- long enough to produce the two kids and now she is doing it just out of habit. She too has rather ugly mehendi done on her hands and gold nail polish on very ugly nails, dark lipstick with a darker lip liner and really tacky and gaudy jewellery on. Out of all respect for an ‘elderly’ lady I had politely asked her whether I could keep my luggage under her seat for her daughter was perched far too happily on mine. She says- “Hamara luggage rakh le ne dijiye phir jagah bacha to aap rakh dena.” So much for decency. I just shoved in my rather big bag under the seat even before she could say any more. Then she says- “Hamara luggage ke liye jagah nahin hoga...” so I turn around sweetly and say- “Aunty, aap ke paas to 5 ticket hai na? Aap us paanch seato ke neeche rakh lijiye...” and put on my ‘don’t fuck with me face’ and placed myself squarely on the seat.
It worked.
The husband, I suppose works for a catering company or has something to do with food. He kept saying things like- “Rajdhani pe catering karne ka contract aaya tha ek bar hum logo ko...” to which his daughter reacted with wonder and surprise (if they both do not mean the same thing and if it is possible to show both at once). I wondered then- do parents lie to their kids? Do they pretend to be far more important than they are? What if he was lying to his daughter? I do not know whether he was but this just crossed my mind. He was acting rather high and mighty with the train staff which irritated me to no end. He complained about the piece of fish he got for dinner, about the salad about well...everything. When I had initially just seen his wife I felt sorry for him- but now not. I hope that his wife drains him dry and one day gets on top and squashes him. And he, if I must add, has no clue about jumbled words in newspapers. This is how he works them out- he just chooses whatever letters he thinks can make up a word and the remaining letters can go to hell. Right now- he is singing rather dumb and sleazy songs while trying to make the bed. I hope he falls and breaks his neck.
The son and daughter seem to be rather happy doing very pointless things. The son helped me hoist my bag to the top berth- sometimes I feel like kicking myself for simply being incapable of packing light.
The uncle was talking in whispers on his phone to someone I can imagine is his girlfriend. He kept wearing his shades inside the train and thought it was rather cool. He bought loads of food and finished it in about half an hour with the rest of the family. The mother, who kept asking them to not buy any more chips and cake, ate half the loot herself. The anaconda going full throttle. I could draw her- in an ugly caricatured way.
They woke up at 6. Six in the bloody morning with the insipid father playing ‘Jana Gana Mana’ on his archaic cell phone. I wanted to get up and slap him. Like really slap him. What a joke they make of the national anthem. I don’t understand why they serve tea at 6 in the morning. Who in their right mind has tea that early? I have not seen this hour of the morning in decades. In normal circumstances I probably have gone to sleep an hour prior to this dratted time.
I suppose that is the sickness of our generation- we have our priorities all over the place. We don’t compromise on duties and promises, but on time. We can do what we want with our time because we push ourselves to keep up everything else. Like for example- I can do my academic work well in advance so as I do not have to pull endless all nighters but that I never do. I will do everything else but not study till the zero hour. The tragedy.
And I do not like travelling sleeper class. Period.
I am almost home. Well...in Bengal so as good as home. I love the green here. And the autumn clouds and the base mundane pictures of life before the reach the metropolitan. When I am not home I cannot place exactly what I miss. It is never one thing. Life does strange things to us. Things we can’t comprehend and in the process itself can’t accept. But it happens.
Like when do u know that a love is worth keeping? Worth going that extra mile for? Worth giving up something else for? In all honesty I don’t know if I have figured that out yet. With my tremendous capacity (or incapacity) for patience I don’t know what I have figured out in life.
I wonder why education makes us think that we can confuse and complicate theory. What we do is just read theory and agree to what great bored men have said in the past. If you don’t like the ramblings of one- you can critique it in an equally long discourse and pass it off as your thesis and choose another. And mind you if- if some gay or bald guy has not said something specific- then nothing else is profound or worthy or mortal concern.
What kind of questions can I answer? I need to figure that out- for they are the only kind of questions I am entitled to ask.
As a wise man once said- Literature is not a code with one message. There are only better or worse interpretations.
Amen.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The need arises everyday to DO something. Every morning that I wake up I am swamped by the same irritating need. It is this need that haunts you till you go to bed and you are just going to bed for this need has totally exhausted you.
Always searching- always a thousand questions, always a thousand accuses and complaints.
I need to find a job, need to start liking my course, need to be happy, need to find a place of my own. They are all very categorical and selfish needs but they completely blindside me at any given time of the day.
And its is not just me- but everyone around me. This need is like a bad cold. A rash that creeps up your neck and covers your cheeks and you are most swamped with the need to cover it so as others cannot see it.
The need to think that you are better than the rest- when you just might not be. The need to not be hurt, not to feel disoriented, not to feel broken.
The need shall undo me one day.
And even then it will remain.
Always searching- always a thousand questions, always a thousand accuses and complaints.
I need to find a job, need to start liking my course, need to be happy, need to find a place of my own. They are all very categorical and selfish needs but they completely blindside me at any given time of the day.
And its is not just me- but everyone around me. This need is like a bad cold. A rash that creeps up your neck and covers your cheeks and you are most swamped with the need to cover it so as others cannot see it.
The need to think that you are better than the rest- when you just might not be. The need to not be hurt, not to feel disoriented, not to feel broken.
The need shall undo me one day.
And even then it will remain.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Bye Bye Alma Mater
I saw a picture of my school a few days back on some girl’s album on facebook. And for the life of me I could not recognize it. Could not recognize the corridors, the chart boards or the classrooms. And could not recognize the girls. Well obviously for I am ages senior to them- but I could not recognize the ‘essence’ that me and my friends and to a great extent my sister and her friends had while we still wore those uniforms. I left school in 2002, my sister left school a few years later and though there seems to be the yawning gap between how school was for me and my sister- both of us, sitting right there in front of the computer screen- could not recognize the school where we spent 12 years of our lives.
The girls were like those incredibly hot, pretty and mindless women who act in chick flicks in Hollywood. Their hair is styled immaculately, the skirts are shorter and sneakers replace the boring old keds we wore. If anyone had seen my skirt when I was in school they would not have imagined that skirts could be any shorter- but yet- impossible is nothing these days. When you see these girls you know that when out of uniform they would give even Paris Hilton competition when they dolled up and posed for such glamorous pictures. I don’t have any glamorous pictures if I may add. Their multiple piercings and manicured nails makes me think of the times when senior prefects would ask us to take off ear rings that were big and frowned at my nails for they were pink. My sister exclaimed that we were never allowed to do all this in school- and I realized that she meant both of us. A three and a half year age gap now reduced to nothing. She and I were now the outsiders who had long stored our badges and monogrammed shirts away in our cupboards and no longer recognized the alma mater- at least the way it was now.
I sometimes wonder- would I want to be remembered by my school- if I ever become famous would they call me in to give a speech at some function or some reunion? And would I go?
I had left my school rather unceremoniously, rather hurriedly and in a matter of anger and disdain. But 7 years have gone by- what do I remember? The words of certain teachers saying that I was not really a person who could study? Or the lessons of a lifetime that I know I still have in me and I could pass onto my daughter (when I have one).
So typical it is- to reminisce about school and talk about the wonderful values it has instilled in me. Perfect for that speech if they call me after I am famous. But it is true. And to think that maybe another 7 years later these Paris Hilton’s that my sister and I laughed at would be talking the same way as we are. We grew up and maybe they will too. It is just that the world we grew up in was different- I had my first boyfriend in class 11, my sister had it in class 8 and these girls- well they could have started in class 5. You never know. We flouted rules in different ways despite being captains and prefects. They have their own rules. We dated St. James guys and St. Xavier’s boys – they have LMB swooning all over them. People who have been there know what I am talking about.
7 years have gone by. 7 bloody, long years.
The girls were like those incredibly hot, pretty and mindless women who act in chick flicks in Hollywood. Their hair is styled immaculately, the skirts are shorter and sneakers replace the boring old keds we wore. If anyone had seen my skirt when I was in school they would not have imagined that skirts could be any shorter- but yet- impossible is nothing these days. When you see these girls you know that when out of uniform they would give even Paris Hilton competition when they dolled up and posed for such glamorous pictures. I don’t have any glamorous pictures if I may add. Their multiple piercings and manicured nails makes me think of the times when senior prefects would ask us to take off ear rings that were big and frowned at my nails for they were pink. My sister exclaimed that we were never allowed to do all this in school- and I realized that she meant both of us. A three and a half year age gap now reduced to nothing. She and I were now the outsiders who had long stored our badges and monogrammed shirts away in our cupboards and no longer recognized the alma mater- at least the way it was now.
I sometimes wonder- would I want to be remembered by my school- if I ever become famous would they call me in to give a speech at some function or some reunion? And would I go?
I had left my school rather unceremoniously, rather hurriedly and in a matter of anger and disdain. But 7 years have gone by- what do I remember? The words of certain teachers saying that I was not really a person who could study? Or the lessons of a lifetime that I know I still have in me and I could pass onto my daughter (when I have one).
So typical it is- to reminisce about school and talk about the wonderful values it has instilled in me. Perfect for that speech if they call me after I am famous. But it is true. And to think that maybe another 7 years later these Paris Hilton’s that my sister and I laughed at would be talking the same way as we are. We grew up and maybe they will too. It is just that the world we grew up in was different- I had my first boyfriend in class 11, my sister had it in class 8 and these girls- well they could have started in class 5. You never know. We flouted rules in different ways despite being captains and prefects. They have their own rules. We dated St. James guys and St. Xavier’s boys – they have LMB swooning all over them. People who have been there know what I am talking about.
7 years have gone by. 7 bloody, long years.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Reality Shot I
It is almost 2 in the night and I have not even started studying. I have to read three...three fucking HUGE essays and write summaries for those in a page each. Just a page. You cannot imagine what torture it is for a person like me to do concrete work- and the worst part- I can't even get myself to start. I am writing excuses down.
I will have to be in time for class tomorrow or I will have to not attend class for being late and leave the course.
Which is not a very bad proposition for ever since M.Phil has started in this dratted university- at least 20 times in a day I wonder why I am doing it. I wonder why I am here, wonder why I cleared the entrance without studying one bit, why i cracked the interview- WHY WHY WHY!!!
I am not even giving this a chance- this is the only shot I have at studying on so as all those who had ridiculed me when I was 16 would turn around and run away. I am doing this just for that and for the fact that English- is not an effort on my end.
But theory is and that is why I am doing it.
The last few months has been exhausting. I want to go home and I want to collapse in a desolate, dignity devoid crumble on the bed and stay there till 2011. I want unconditional love served to me with tea in the morning and peace.
I also want to cry.
I want to sit down and bawl my eyes out. For days I have felt tears prick my eyes but there has been no time to cry.
I want to cry. For I know I need to.
I will have to be in time for class tomorrow or I will have to not attend class for being late and leave the course.
Which is not a very bad proposition for ever since M.Phil has started in this dratted university- at least 20 times in a day I wonder why I am doing it. I wonder why I am here, wonder why I cleared the entrance without studying one bit, why i cracked the interview- WHY WHY WHY!!!
I am not even giving this a chance- this is the only shot I have at studying on so as all those who had ridiculed me when I was 16 would turn around and run away. I am doing this just for that and for the fact that English- is not an effort on my end.
But theory is and that is why I am doing it.
The last few months has been exhausting. I want to go home and I want to collapse in a desolate, dignity devoid crumble on the bed and stay there till 2011. I want unconditional love served to me with tea in the morning and peace.
I also want to cry.
I want to sit down and bawl my eyes out. For days I have felt tears prick my eyes but there has been no time to cry.
I want to cry. For I know I need to.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
It is hard to deal with a broken heart especially when it is not yours. With all my faith even if I tell her that things will become ok- it does not help. I can see her moping around, trying to escape, to find little snatches of happiness in some lost romantic rainy day. I wish I could do something. I wish I could do something to make it alright.
When reality sobs herself to sleep just next to you all the happy bright thoughts and quotes on love walk the line of shame. Helpless voyeurs we stand sighing in our hearts. We all have our personal heart aches. Some one night stands, some affairs gone bad, some absences, compromises, lies, hypocrisy, betrayals and an ounce of truth somewhere in all that mind fucking- we are all so useless. So darn useless.
When reality sobs herself to sleep just next to you all the happy bright thoughts and quotes on love walk the line of shame. Helpless voyeurs we stand sighing in our hearts. We all have our personal heart aches. Some one night stands, some affairs gone bad, some absences, compromises, lies, hypocrisy, betrayals and an ounce of truth somewhere in all that mind fucking- we are all so useless. So darn useless.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Goodbye and thank you for all the Fish!
I cycled today while the storm built up and raindrops started gaining speed. It was wonderful- obviously something we all have wanted to do sometime or the other and probably had done. I just had to hurry for my documents were at the danger of getting wet. I knew my destined job was not to be completed so I enjoyed that moment in the rain. I did not think of great things though I wanted to. Something epiphanic and brilliant to write about and later gloat over. But nothing really came up. The only line in my head was that everyone had their own private heart aches.
Over the last month or a bit more I have learnt some hard lessons. Lessons that took large ugly chunks out of my heart and left me so empty that I could recognize myself even lesser than normal. But at the end of the day when everyone is fighting for that little bit of ego and little bit of the sky I suppose it is all fair. Or not.
I arrived at this place thinking that I was to stay here and I convinced myself that it made sense. The emptiness hit me when I sat amidst unknown faces eating my dinner. This was like a full circle and it was never a nice feeling. I was old enough to be practical and to deal with everything rather maturely.
Wrong.
I need my comfort zone or I cannot function- and I do stupid things if I can't function.
So tomorrow I must explain so someone why I must leave. With a very solemn expression I must mumble about a family emergency.
But today I cycled in the rain, watched the storm and saw ugly fat toads all over the place and two of them mating.
Over the last month or a bit more I have learnt some hard lessons. Lessons that took large ugly chunks out of my heart and left me so empty that I could recognize myself even lesser than normal. But at the end of the day when everyone is fighting for that little bit of ego and little bit of the sky I suppose it is all fair. Or not.
I arrived at this place thinking that I was to stay here and I convinced myself that it made sense. The emptiness hit me when I sat amidst unknown faces eating my dinner. This was like a full circle and it was never a nice feeling. I was old enough to be practical and to deal with everything rather maturely.
Wrong.
I need my comfort zone or I cannot function- and I do stupid things if I can't function.
So tomorrow I must explain so someone why I must leave. With a very solemn expression I must mumble about a family emergency.
But today I cycled in the rain, watched the storm and saw ugly fat toads all over the place and two of them mating.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Ha ha
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we race to the door
And break all furniture down to the floor!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we scream and shout
For we have nothing that we can talk about!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we pinch the others
Donkey, mad bat and their little brothers!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we race to the door
And break all furniture down to the floor!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we scream and shout
For we have nothing that we can talk about!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
In circles of three we pinch the others
Donkey, mad bat and their little brothers!
We go round and round in circles of three...
You, monkey and little me...
Monday, August 10, 2009
Oh well!!!
The last month and a bit more has been harrowing hell for me and a few of my friends and family as well. For all the set back that could have hit us square in the eye has dutifully done just that. Every thing that could go wrong- has. But this strange tendency we all have- to stick it out...just one night longer, just an hour more, just one last shot. Me with my issues with being close to people and such vague things- I do not know whether such moments of grave tenacity had brought me any closer to anyone else but rather has made me so isolated.
Disconnected and Isolated.
Such heavy words they are! Oh my!!!
Disconnected and Isolated.
Such heavy words they are! Oh my!!!
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The poet writes...
I thought that I would write a book. Someday, soon enough. I want to write a book, get it published, do the book tours, the back cover glamor shots...all the works.
But the twist is that it will for sure NOT be chic lit! NEVER NEVER NEVER. As much as I hate those books, as much as those pieces of cheap lit have entertained me- I will NEVER write chic lit.
I might write a book on JNU and call it 'Plane Spotting' or write a Fantasy Trilogy- the name of which I have not decided yet.
But I will.
Promise.
But the twist is that it will for sure NOT be chic lit! NEVER NEVER NEVER. As much as I hate those books, as much as those pieces of cheap lit have entertained me- I will NEVER write chic lit.
I might write a book on JNU and call it 'Plane Spotting' or write a Fantasy Trilogy- the name of which I have not decided yet.
But I will.
Promise.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Post Heart Break Ramblings in other words BLAH!!!
For the last few days I have tried to write. In reality with pen and paper and also in my head like I mostly do. I tried when I saw the different shades of blue in the never ending sea, when I saw a glowing sun set, when I walked the sea bed, when I took off in to the air, when I got thrown in to the water and even when I saw a jelly fish- I tried to write.
Isn’t that what we should do? The old school intellectuals? Seeking acceptance from a world who we don’t believe understands us? Seeking approval and some sympathy from people who do not think like us nor can feel like us form the written forms that we pour ourselves into. Read me- in all my naked honesty- read me.
And learn me, understand me, accept me and if you can follow my blog daily.
Who am I to tell them that I do not believe them? Who am I to tell them that at times I do not even believe myself? The mind is capable of such diverse thoughts and such absurd conclusions that even if I pour myself out in words and customized pages- I can never believe to be completely honest?
When I fail to write- something like this piece comes into reluctant existence. You see, the great cynic of the post modern age, all I have learnt from the hallowed portals of my academic castles- is that I can and should write. How could I possibly do anything else?
Can I live?
Maybe not. Breathe, survive, love, lie...?
I do not know about that- but I can write.
So...you know by now what to do. But let me warn you- what you read of me is not one bit honest. It is what I want you to read of me! And hell- you already knew that.
When my heart is broken- I may turn my tears to words,
When I have so much love in me to completely own you- I may turn my want to words,
When I have no answers to give- I can turn my lack of knowledge to words,
With these words there is nothing I cannot do.
I have learnt that I am not good enough. For something I have loved with all my heart. When we had nothing we were given so much that now, after two years we have so much to lose that our heart s are breaking. It is true my dear friend that while showing you pictures of a far off land when faces familiar come up there are tears in my eyes.
I will never walk those same paths again, I won’t play with those puppies again nor spend the nights up with you...you all who I hold so close to me. Why us? Why?
You all, in your locked rooms- tell us where we went wrong. Tell us why we had such an undignified departure from these tree shaded avenues, from all the colours, and all the happiness that our immature hearts could hold?
Why?
Look into my eyes and tell me that I am not good enough for you all. Tell me that the last two years, all the hard work, all the faith and respect have just been lies. Tell me that I deserve to go.
After being away from home for two years and learning to be someone I was not, I came back home with nothing left to lose. I was no longer that girl who in a hurry stuffed her chaotic life into a few boxes and changed cities. This new me was nice, I liked her very much. But when I reached home I had the feeling deep inside somewhere that my life no longer would be the same again. I did things I could manage, could make time for, and could do with all the sincerity I could muster. Survived on the sliver of hope that two years had been spent well. What a conceited fool I am!!!
But when it hit me, I wanted to run away and hide. After a long long time I wanted to run away and hide. That is what courage does to you. It makes you complacent, it makes you feel in ways you have never felt before and that is dangerous. I thought that after the long and hard fought battles I deserved my bit. But my battles were just beginning.
After being away for so long I never liked being home. But this time I wanted to stay home. For the comfort it gave me. For the hugs, the quiet words and the smiles. I want my mommy. I want you. And I want it all to come together to comfort me.
Why am I being so silly that I must break so?
Have such battles never been fought before? Why am I so eager to run away? Am I a coward?
When I had lost everything I had fought so hard to gain it all back. I was stupid in the first place to have lost it all...but when you are that young...it is in your blood to do the stupidest things. I just could not believe that I had to fight again.
Why me?
The new journey has begun and I am learning to accept that those paths will never be traversed again, not by me...but by the likes of me and I wish them all well. But god knows how much I want to be there, doing the same things, feeling the same way.
And as far as running away is concerned I shall sit here and shut the world out. Silently, slowly and by myself.
And you and I will meet when those doors have opened again.
Isn’t that what we should do? The old school intellectuals? Seeking acceptance from a world who we don’t believe understands us? Seeking approval and some sympathy from people who do not think like us nor can feel like us form the written forms that we pour ourselves into. Read me- in all my naked honesty- read me.
And learn me, understand me, accept me and if you can follow my blog daily.
Who am I to tell them that I do not believe them? Who am I to tell them that at times I do not even believe myself? The mind is capable of such diverse thoughts and such absurd conclusions that even if I pour myself out in words and customized pages- I can never believe to be completely honest?
When I fail to write- something like this piece comes into reluctant existence. You see, the great cynic of the post modern age, all I have learnt from the hallowed portals of my academic castles- is that I can and should write. How could I possibly do anything else?
Can I live?
Maybe not. Breathe, survive, love, lie...?
I do not know about that- but I can write.
So...you know by now what to do. But let me warn you- what you read of me is not one bit honest. It is what I want you to read of me! And hell- you already knew that.
When my heart is broken- I may turn my tears to words,
When I have so much love in me to completely own you- I may turn my want to words,
When I have no answers to give- I can turn my lack of knowledge to words,
With these words there is nothing I cannot do.
I have learnt that I am not good enough. For something I have loved with all my heart. When we had nothing we were given so much that now, after two years we have so much to lose that our heart s are breaking. It is true my dear friend that while showing you pictures of a far off land when faces familiar come up there are tears in my eyes.
I will never walk those same paths again, I won’t play with those puppies again nor spend the nights up with you...you all who I hold so close to me. Why us? Why?
You all, in your locked rooms- tell us where we went wrong. Tell us why we had such an undignified departure from these tree shaded avenues, from all the colours, and all the happiness that our immature hearts could hold?
Why?
Look into my eyes and tell me that I am not good enough for you all. Tell me that the last two years, all the hard work, all the faith and respect have just been lies. Tell me that I deserve to go.
After being away from home for two years and learning to be someone I was not, I came back home with nothing left to lose. I was no longer that girl who in a hurry stuffed her chaotic life into a few boxes and changed cities. This new me was nice, I liked her very much. But when I reached home I had the feeling deep inside somewhere that my life no longer would be the same again. I did things I could manage, could make time for, and could do with all the sincerity I could muster. Survived on the sliver of hope that two years had been spent well. What a conceited fool I am!!!
But when it hit me, I wanted to run away and hide. After a long long time I wanted to run away and hide. That is what courage does to you. It makes you complacent, it makes you feel in ways you have never felt before and that is dangerous. I thought that after the long and hard fought battles I deserved my bit. But my battles were just beginning.
After being away for so long I never liked being home. But this time I wanted to stay home. For the comfort it gave me. For the hugs, the quiet words and the smiles. I want my mommy. I want you. And I want it all to come together to comfort me.
Why am I being so silly that I must break so?
Have such battles never been fought before? Why am I so eager to run away? Am I a coward?
When I had lost everything I had fought so hard to gain it all back. I was stupid in the first place to have lost it all...but when you are that young...it is in your blood to do the stupidest things. I just could not believe that I had to fight again.
Why me?
The new journey has begun and I am learning to accept that those paths will never be traversed again, not by me...but by the likes of me and I wish them all well. But god knows how much I want to be there, doing the same things, feeling the same way.
And as far as running away is concerned I shall sit here and shut the world out. Silently, slowly and by myself.
And you and I will meet when those doors have opened again.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Well...then...
I have this strange habit...well,not exactly a 'habit' but more like a disease if I could call it so.
I get used to/irritated with people REALLY fast! It's easier to talk of it than to feel it because when I do feel it hitting me I realize how impatient I intrinsically am.
What actually happens is - I end up spending a lot of time with someone because I am rather fond of them, but VERY soon their whims and quirks start getting to me. It happens with everyone I am fond of. EVERYONE. It is not that I love them any less then but I would do anything right then to go away from them, do something else, be somewhere else. It happens with friends, family, acquaintances...hell!!!
I can't explain why it happens but it completely irks me when I look back at it. And the strange thing is I can't do much to change it.
So more often than not I end up spending stipulated time with people I love so as I never get irritated with them. It is not their fault, it's mine. So if I ever cancel plans with you - I am doing it for I adore you completely.
Believe me.
I get used to/irritated with people REALLY fast! It's easier to talk of it than to feel it because when I do feel it hitting me I realize how impatient I intrinsically am.
What actually happens is - I end up spending a lot of time with someone because I am rather fond of them, but VERY soon their whims and quirks start getting to me. It happens with everyone I am fond of. EVERYONE. It is not that I love them any less then but I would do anything right then to go away from them, do something else, be somewhere else. It happens with friends, family, acquaintances...hell!!!
I can't explain why it happens but it completely irks me when I look back at it. And the strange thing is I can't do much to change it.
So more often than not I end up spending stipulated time with people I love so as I never get irritated with them. It is not their fault, it's mine. So if I ever cancel plans with you - I am doing it for I adore you completely.
Believe me.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
My rains...in my Calcutta
After ages I saw the rains here. Like I used to as a child, standing in the balcony while the rain spray touched my face. The dull grey all around, in the sky, on the streets. I missed the rains in Delhi, then again in Calcutta till this time. I saw the rains in Pattaya but they weren’t as nice. The sea looks awesome in the rains. I wish I could have been there with you. Standing high in the hotel window staring at the islands that were vanishing in the horizon. And I would tell you that tomorrow we should go to one of those islands and try spotting the hotel window from there. How completely kiddish. But that is how I am – I think too fucking simply at times.
But this rain in Calcutta- these are my rains. I grew up with this, getting wet and getting shouted at for that. It’s so monotonous that it seems so comforting to me right now. The lack of something, of action, of something drastic, stark and heart breaking. I want this blanket around me. You do not know how torn I feel inside. Look at me. You’ll know. All I want now is to be safe, to be home and to be held like I am wanted and worth something.But you I miss. Strangely. A lot of empty spaces between us…and I do not know what to do with that.
But this rain in Calcutta- these are my rains. I grew up with this, getting wet and getting shouted at for that. It’s so monotonous that it seems so comforting to me right now. The lack of something, of action, of something drastic, stark and heart breaking. I want this blanket around me. You do not know how torn I feel inside. Look at me. You’ll know. All I want now is to be safe, to be home and to be held like I am wanted and worth something.But you I miss. Strangely. A lot of empty spaces between us…and I do not know what to do with that.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
...
The dull witted gray clouds like tears behind my lashes.
Waiting, expectant, holding onto the last smile.
The last kiss and the last written word.
Scared.
But you and me beloved.
You and me will be ok.
As the days pass I am trying to be ok. I know that this means nothing more than just something I did not get. Big deal. But then why is my world falling apart???
For the first time in my entire life I forgot my admit card for an exam...forgot to turn the page and check for the next question...left out 40 marks in a paper...
The more I think I will be ok the harder it becomes.
You, when I talk to you, you know I wanted this, I do not need to explain my heart break to you. Just hold me.
You stop mid way- telling me things you really want to but refrain. And I tell you that I rather deal with this with you than deal with it alone.
Why?
It feels like a bad break up...a bad nasty break up.
Fuck.
You and me. We will be ok. Some how.
Waiting, expectant, holding onto the last smile.
The last kiss and the last written word.
Scared.
But you and me beloved.
You and me will be ok.
As the days pass I am trying to be ok. I know that this means nothing more than just something I did not get. Big deal. But then why is my world falling apart???
For the first time in my entire life I forgot my admit card for an exam...forgot to turn the page and check for the next question...left out 40 marks in a paper...
The more I think I will be ok the harder it becomes.
You, when I talk to you, you know I wanted this, I do not need to explain my heart break to you. Just hold me.
You stop mid way- telling me things you really want to but refrain. And I tell you that I rather deal with this with you than deal with it alone.
Why?
It feels like a bad break up...a bad nasty break up.
Fuck.
You and me. We will be ok. Some how.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Reality Shot
I got my heart broken today. In the most undignified way if I may add. As I sat in the car on the way back from a lot of fun, I was shaking inside. When no one was watching some tears would roll down my eyes. When I was left with just one more person in the car I wanted to cry. Not silently- but aloud. Bawling, screaming, letting out all the insane pain that I was feeling inside.
I didn't. No one had ever seen me that way and I could not afford that now.
I have never felt so useless or broken in my life.
Yes, love, you can fall in love with something that may not have loved you back.
Yes, love, you can fall in love with something dead.
I didn't. No one had ever seen me that way and I could not afford that now.
I have never felt so useless or broken in my life.
Yes, love, you can fall in love with something that may not have loved you back.
Yes, love, you can fall in love with something dead.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
4:30 am
I miss you...I keep looking at your photographs.
Keep repeating your words in my head.
You.
I miss.
Keep repeating your words in my head.
You.
I miss.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Some goodbyes...
Some goodbyes are the most silent of all. No one cries, no hugs, no tears- no promises to keep in touch and no revelations of how the other person will be missed. Goodbyes of this sort make me feel the most empty. Because at times like these I have no idea how to express my self. I can't cry, or hug or promise to stay in touch or let them know that they will be missed. It is completely unnerving.
My room mate is leaving today for China. Forever.
She tells me that she is leaving tonight and places some gifts in my hand. She is almost apologetic for giving me those gifts. That is how she is. One of the most silent presences in my life.
she hardly ever raised her voice, or whined or complained or said anything harsh or rude. I think I said enough for the both of us. She never ever complained about anything. In all practicality she knew in her mind that she was here just for a year. Thus when my stuff over flowed all over the room- she didn't mind. My friends came and stayed over all the time- she never said a word. She hardly ever said much.
The most we talked was during a power cut once when i explained to her how elections in JNU worked. She audited one of our courses and attended more classes than I did. She bought all the course books and politely let me know that I could borrow them when ever I wanted. I didn't even buy ONE of the course books.
I don't know whether she hated me or liked me- but for hours when we sat alone doing our own work in the room, literally oblivious of each other - she would pass me chips or an apple and at times I passed her my things.
She taught me this incredible thing- if I was asleep at the odd times (which is like all the time!) she would switch the main light off and work with her table lamp on. My earlier room mates had never done that. That was a very small gesture- but it meant the world to me. I knew that I mattered to her.
Since then i never put the main light on when she slept- no matter how many times I bumped into things late into the night.
I got her stuff back from home and she sent stuff back with me for home. On nights when I had nightmares or was crying my heart out in silence- I would turn to see her sleeping figure next to me.
At least someone was there- I was not all alone.
Now, as I write, she is packing her things. One by one, everything I identify with her goes into the suitcase- the electric kettle, the multipoint charger, the chinese army mosquito repellent, the contact lenses case...
I don't know what to tell her.
She told me that she was leaving tonight. Her mentioning that made me realize how incredibly short a time I had to let her know what she had been to me. For a whole year I had not mentioned a word to her about anything emotional and yet here I was writing about how I felt.
I am writing what I want to say Wang. If ever you come across this piece- you will know.
She told me that she won't be back for the next semester. I just said - "Oh...". she smiled and carried on with her packing.
Our lives are changing now- people are leaving and some are hoping that no one leaves. But some journeys always end for others to begin.
And I for once don't want a room without her.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Shit Pot Monster
S - im shit scared of flushing at nite
Me - why not flush?
S - im scared
Me - are you scared tht the things you flush may come and get you?
S - no
just the sound
Me - hahahahahah
u are a riot
S - hahahhahahahahha
thank you
and sometimes i feel that somethings gonna come out of the shit pot ka hole and grab my bum
Me - i so want to post your last comment on fb
S - karde
but dnt give MY name
Me - hahahahahha
fuck
S - wot happened?
Me - no just tht
i am still laughing
S - hahahhahahahhahahha
im SERIOUS
bachpan se he
i have felt like that
Me - then maybe u shud shit in plastic packets and chuck them
no flush
S - DNT gimme IDEAS
i mite just
you know
Me - no bum grabbing
S - start shitting on newspaper
heheheheheh
tujhe nahi laga aisa kabhi?
Me - nahin meri ma
S - hahahhahaha
how UNIMAGINATIVE
Me - rite
nothing really interferes between me and my personal hygiene
S - ???
Me - u do realize tht i will never me able to look at u and not laugh
ever again
S - hahahahahhahaa
doesnt matter
as long as you dnt LEAK the information
Me - wen u come to my house i will give you a plastic packet if you need to use the loo
promise
S - hahahahhahahahahahhaha
Me - can i put this in my blog?
S - my potty-scapades
Me - hahahahaha
yes yes
perfect
S - hahahhahahahahhahahahaha
NOOOOOOOOOOOO no
you cant do this
my reputation will be ruined
no one will marry me
OR
take me to the toilet
hahahhahahaha
Me - or you never know they just mite have the same fears
S - MAYBE
Me - we all look forward to hot men taking us to the toilet to shit...
come with me or the shit pot monster will come and hit you on the face with your plastic packets of shit
One of the most hilarious conversations I have ever had in my life...every time I read it I invariably crack up...
Me - why not flush?
S - im scared
Me - are you scared tht the things you flush may come and get you?
S - no
just the sound
Me - hahahahahah
u are a riot
S - hahahhahahahahha
thank you
and sometimes i feel that somethings gonna come out of the shit pot ka hole and grab my bum
Me - i so want to post your last comment on fb
S - karde
but dnt give MY name
Me - hahahahahha
fuck
S - wot happened?
Me - no just tht
i am still laughing
S - hahahhahahahhahahha
im SERIOUS
bachpan se he
i have felt like that
Me - then maybe u shud shit in plastic packets and chuck them
no flush
S - DNT gimme IDEAS
i mite just
you know
Me - no bum grabbing
S - start shitting on newspaper
heheheheheh
tujhe nahi laga aisa kabhi?
Me - nahin meri ma
S - hahahhahaha
how UNIMAGINATIVE
Me - rite
nothing really interferes between me and my personal hygiene
S - ???
Me - u do realize tht i will never me able to look at u and not laugh
ever again
S - hahahahahhahaa
doesnt matter
as long as you dnt LEAK the information
Me - wen u come to my house i will give you a plastic packet if you need to use the loo
promise
S - hahahahhahahahahahhaha
Me - can i put this in my blog?
S - my potty-scapades
Me - hahahahaha
yes yes
perfect
S - hahahhahahahahhahahahaha
NOOOOOOOOOOOO no
you cant do this
my reputation will be ruined
no one will marry me
OR
take me to the toilet
hahahhahahaha
Me - or you never know they just mite have the same fears
S - MAYBE
Me - we all look forward to hot men taking us to the toilet to shit...
come with me or the shit pot monster will come and hit you on the face with your plastic packets of shit
One of the most hilarious conversations I have ever had in my life...every time I read it I invariably crack up...
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
For a mother...where ever she is.
Last year roughly some time in November my best friend's mother passed away. I still have the message he sent me. It simply said- "Mom is no more...she has left me...and gone away."
I thought he was joking. I refused to believe the message though when I read it my insides just jumped off a cliff and plummeted below. Another friend who was close to the both of us mustered up the guts to call him up for I could not manage to task myself. She spoke to him for a minute and looked at me. I didn't hear the rest and I couldn't hear the rest.
I just started crying. Shamelessly, sitting right in the middle of at least 30 other people I broke down. It was the most natural thing to happen right then, And some how, sitting here, so far away from my best friend and no obligations to holding him up I cried.
I was never really that close to his mother. I had been to his house so many times but had spoken to her very seldom. The most i spoke to her was possibly when she asked me what colour muffler I wanted, She had made me a baby blue muffler. She cooked for us, stuffed us silly and watched all the soaps on t.v. Even when we went for shows she made us food to take with us. She even made me pickles to take them to Delhi with me. A whole jar of pickles that just sits there on the shelf in front of me even now. I am scared to finish it. It's like the day I do the very last bit of her will vanish from my life.
I think I cried more for myself than my friend that day. I just thought of losing my mother and my heart just broke. I couldn't even start to imagine what my friend was going through. His world was shattering around him and I was miles away, crying.
The other friend who had made the call excused herself and went away. She probably didn't want to cry as shamelessly as I had.
I miss my mother. And I can't imagine life without her. I probably love her more now than I ever could and when I think of my best friend I want to run to my mother and ask her never to go away to a place where i can't call her. I want to keep my mother forever and probably even let my best friend have a bit of her. Just a bit. Just so as he can get the love.
I never spoke to my mother about this. Nor did I talk to my best friend about it. He kept saying that he needed to talk to me. But I didn't want to. What could we talk about?
what could we possibly talk about?
Thursday, April 2, 2009
MEMORIES
Is that you? You finally noticed that I was there. It was getting rather lonely here. I am so glad you returned. Please don’t ever leave again.
It is wonderful to see you smile; I almost started believing that those tears were painted on your cheek with permanent tones; I had thought that the nervous chin and the downcast eyes would forever be you. I had thought that I would reflect your deepest pains and lost passions forever.
But now, look at you! The brightness, the colour and the hope! Come closer...you know these old eyes. I don’t see too well these days.
You want to hear stories?
Ah! A treat for my ears. Sit. Let me entertain you.
You remember when you were small? When you were too pleased with the new crayons in school and you did not notice the shriek in the bedroom? It wasn’t the neighbor. It was your father hitting your mother for the hundredth time.
You remember the next day? Your father told you that your mother had gone for a long holiday. He lied. She had killed herself that night.
You remember your sister? She ran away from home because she hated you for being the most loved.
You remember the first boy you fell in love with? Did you know that he cheated on you the very night he promised to marry you?
Your convocation? Ah! The best! Did you know that you didn’t get the best student award because your best friend lied to the faculty?
Did you know that you were adopted and till date your father loves you and yet hates you the most?
And do you know that these stories about you are stuff of fairytales?
Don’t you remember your first boss? He used you unfairly and yet gave the promotion to his prodigal nephew? Do you recall the first pitch you lost? The first insult that was hurled towards you? The first desolate moment of heart ache?
You don’t remember?!?
My beloved, now you do! You must forgive this old mind...there are so many things one tends to forget.
But I am happy for your smile. For the steadily diminishing glint in your eyes and the vanishing colour of your cheeks. You are so beautiful this way.
I am happy for your present and the future but you must remember.
You are going?
No! Wait!!No...
Why must you pick up that paper weight?
Are you going to...NO...STOP...NOT ME...
The coloured paperweight crashed through the silvered glass and the mirror lay broken in a million pieces at my feet.
The memories were dead.
So I turned and walked away.
(This was written for a story writing competition in the annual festival of our school.)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The life, the truth and Everything.
A professor of mine made us write about love in her class. She gave us whole two hours to write about love. "Make it personal" she said and sent us off to class. Like a retarded bunch of immature kids we sat around a giggled, joked, wasted time, each person looking into the other person's work to see how 'personal' it was. None of us were 18 or 16 or 12.
We were all adults who have had relationships that were nor platonic. Well, most of us in class that day. These adults had also by all probabilities has sex, cheated, broken up and had their hearts broken.
Yet, while we were ordered to write, we acted like children.
Some found it cool to associate science with love and give some redundant explanation. It was most insulting to him, he didn't realize.
I'll tell him why if I could. Talking about love the way he did made it seem like a theory. And theory by rule cannot be proved/disproved and is always subject to change. So is what he made of love. Yet this was the guy who asked other guys for their rooms when his girl stayed back on campus.
Irony.
Some called it power to fulfill their aims, some called it faith, beauty and many such heavy things.
The professor patiently heard us all, lauded us, appreciated us and told us that she loved us. She said that every relationship was a negotiation. She said that to love someone you did not have to like that person. She sent us off with a new novel to read with this new vision and idea of love.
It felt like a personality development class. 2 hours of squeaky clean thoughts and heaps of lies. Everyone hid the truth about how they felt about the person they loved. I probably did too. For there are always proper temporal and spatial zones for some abject discussions. You obviously can't tell her professor that you love your boyfriend...that is blasphemy.
That very evening I had a huge fight with someone I loved. And in the end it all came down to negotiations.
Monday, March 23, 2009
What do you want to be?
.jpg)
She asked me this question when i was almost dozing off in the car next to her. I fought with the sleep reflex and opened my eyes and looked at her. Well, she didn't know I was half asleep and I was wearing sunglasses.
My mind screamed out - "Do you think I am 8???"
"I don't know..." I said and i looked out of the window and nothing in particular, I had to show that I was thinking.
"There has to be something that you like except advertising..." she asked changing the gears.
"Yes...sleeping..." I wanted to say.
"Well...maybe...I don't know..."
I didn't have an answer.
When I was 8 I had a lot of answers.
For then you can be anything you want to be. You can be an astronaut, an architect, a forensic expert, a historian and God knows what else.
But now you can just be one thing.
And sometimes not even that.
When you are 8 all you really need to do is to imagine. And everything just happens. It's so simple and you can be a new thing every day. You can even want to be a housewife and say so...and your mother will not raise an eyebrow.
But I am obviously old and lost. I don't even know what I want to be for 5 mins at a stretch. Every day was the end draws near I wonder about what I want to be.
And every day I have no answers.
I didn't have an answer for her. Well surely not one that i could tell her.
"I want to be me...for every day that comes now on I want to be everything i used to be...and for days that I have left behind in some long lost age I want to be EVERYTHING you can't imagine...yes even a rockstar..."
But i told my nosy classmate today-
"I am going to fly a plane..."
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
'' "
- Someone I do not know is reading my poems and choosing them for an event of embarrassment and discomfort scheduled for Friday the 13th. Bravo.
- Battles were fought and pitched on our grounds and we were not a part of it. Nor will we be.
- They will dance till the moon goes right up to the center of the sky.
- I lie. I don't like you.
- 9 Songs is a STUPID movie but i enjoyed the time i spent watching it.
- One of my friends is a chauvinistic, biased freak.
- I threw hot pink and violet gulal on black boxes and made it look funky.
- Went all the way to another state to have pasta in a shop that was closed.
- My room mate is going away for 2 weeks.
- Every memory is a trace of a tear.
- We live in an Utopia...yet some traces of happiness are so hard to find.
- Battles were fought and pitched on our grounds and we were not a part of it. Nor will we be.
- They will dance till the moon goes right up to the center of the sky.
- I lie. I don't like you.
- 9 Songs is a STUPID movie but i enjoyed the time i spent watching it.
- One of my friends is a chauvinistic, biased freak.
- I threw hot pink and violet gulal on black boxes and made it look funky.
- Went all the way to another state to have pasta in a shop that was closed.
- My room mate is going away for 2 weeks.
- Every memory is a trace of a tear.
- We live in an Utopia...yet some traces of happiness are so hard to find.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
He didn't jump.
Instead, just to make a point he took of his shoe and threw it down form the 7th floor of the library. That is where he was dangling his legs from. He drank a lot of water, spoke on his cell, and talked animatedly to the people inside. Only once he addressed the crowd gathered below to say that JNU had no value for his life for the life of others. He got the police and the fire brigade and the tv crews in.
He didn't jump.
He came out looking like a martyr leaning on the shoulders of our student union president, he looked as if he had gone through hell sitting up there dangling one of his legs and his privates placed precariously on the window ledge.
I think he came down cause he had to pee.
Daddy!Daddy! It's just like you said- now the living outnumber the dead.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Going.Going.Gone.
We had our 'Hostel Night' yesterday. It is the last function of the 3 day hostel extravaganza that every hostel in JNU hosts. It is basically a 'gala' dinner followed by a dance party and loads of booze to add to the general confusion.
However the story is not that, or about anything that happened either at the dinner or the dance. But rather well after everyone had stuffed themselves silly and had finished shouting at the DJ to play that 'one last song'.
This particular friend of mine has a room mate who appears to me as a pretty nice and sweet guy. Well, in general, i obviously have to base my reaction depending on the very minimal contact i have with him. The usual B.A boy who has his set of weird friends, good in sports, confused with his German translations and so on. However every time his girl friend comes to his room to stay (those are the times when my friends are unceremoniously kicked out) they have a small World War of sorts. EVERY TIME.
Bottles are crushed beyond recognition, mugs are shattered to pieces, window glass is broken, book shelves twisted out of shape and I don't know what else. It in general is darn nasty.
It seems to me that they 'battle' every time they meet, or rather they meet ever time they need to fight. I should not assume any such thing for I am sure they love each other very much and after all my experience I know for certain that every couple has its own equation and perception. I cannot unearth this one perfect idea of a couple and expect it to work with EVERYONE and for information nor can you.
However, this time i was an auditor to their epic battle.
We were all outside the room, in an open space behind the room where people hang their clothes to dry and keep the coolers and chatting with friends who were having a few drinks, singing, laughing and having a decently good time. within roughly 10 minutes of the lights in the room going off we heard a loud noise of something being thrown, soon followed by another then the door banged hard and the windows flew open and the lights went on. My two friends who stay in the room with the guy quietly closed the windows and went in to check. We discretely left the boy's wing. While we were leaving we realized that we were not the only ones who had heard the racket. Half the hostel was awake and outside their rooms, at least on the ground floor.
What happened next is a different story but the guy had cuts all over his hand and the girl was unharmed albeit greatly embarrassed.
She was not embarrassed by their fight but rather by a million people barging in to find out whether he had hit her or not- especially those retarded feminists. The ones who never hear the full story but run to mutilate the character of the guy involved and run signature campaigns to get support for their propaganda.
I know for sure that the guy did not hit the girl, he never has. If he had ever done so then she would have been gravely injured; for a guy who can twist a steel book case out of shape is not a force i would want a girl to reckon with. Other feminists could and may by all means ostracize me for a comment like this and are welcome to. However I do not believe in their brand of feminism and I never will. I stand by what is right and what they do does not substantiate as 'right' to me.
JNU has this association (if i may call it so) called GSCASH- which is to make people stand up against sexual harassment of any sort. What happens when a boy/girl slaps a GSCASH against the other- the case is taken up by a 'court' who decide the tenets of who is wrong and who has been wronged, and it is a long drawn tedious process that can take forever. The group is supposed to be apolitical but they have party back up which absolutely makes a farce out of the whole system. The case in question becomes a joke and the people involved become characters to be joked about and talked about, the ones you make plays about and laugh. You however do not learn. NO ONE learns.
For these 'feminists' such an association is the best thing ever.
The guy is always wrong and the girl is always the victim.
The only grounds on which I think a guy must not hit a girl is because biologically females and weaker then males and can't physically match up to males. Genetically and otherwise females are built differently. There is nothing to argue on this. You cannot expect a female to be physically strong enough to take on a guy unless under unique circumstances. I believe that the only reason guys are taught to never hit girls is because girls get hurt easier than guys do. This is entirely a physical thing.
I am not even raising an emotional argument so don't bother.
So i remotely abhore these 'feminists' who choose to ignore that a girl may also harass a guy emotionally. They refuse to see the other side of the coin or hear the other side of the story. For them it is ONLY bout the fact that a guy hit a girl. Not do much about one human being hitting another.
So lets get this straight- you put sex before being human? Is that what your 'feminism' is all about?
I for one being a girl know how manipulative and harassing a girl is capable of being. I am not saying that ALL girls who have got harassed are like that but all I am saying is that there is another side to the story. Maybe you should try hearing that before you tighten the noose.
In every relationship there arise times when you could murder the significant other. I have felt it SO many times. Now how I deal with it is the question. As human beings who are cultured and educated (as per the basic government approved norms) should know that every relationship has its marker of respect and privacy and space that should not be violated. Stop the fight before it gets physical. I have seen bruises on people I love and I have cried for that. don't forget that we are human. You cannot and should not hit another human being. Irrespective of the sex.
There even cropped up a fight between the people who had been awoken by the noises about whether the couple should be left alone to sort out their differences or should the guy be pulled out and beaten up for hurting the girl.
They weren't even in the room and they already had taken sides.
I was asked by my friends to stay out of this so I departed. i knew that the girl was not hurt and I was fine with that knowledge. I am no one to say whether a couple should or should not fight and if they should then how, with what levels of decorum or what levels of approved noise.
That is not my concern, it is their private one.
I hate feminists. They are prudes with half baked and selective knowledge and no humanism in them. Maybe they should learn about being humans before they learn about being a girl or a guy.
Feminism is passe and its GONE.
However the story is not that, or about anything that happened either at the dinner or the dance. But rather well after everyone had stuffed themselves silly and had finished shouting at the DJ to play that 'one last song'.
This particular friend of mine has a room mate who appears to me as a pretty nice and sweet guy. Well, in general, i obviously have to base my reaction depending on the very minimal contact i have with him. The usual B.A boy who has his set of weird friends, good in sports, confused with his German translations and so on. However every time his girl friend comes to his room to stay (those are the times when my friends are unceremoniously kicked out) they have a small World War of sorts. EVERY TIME.
Bottles are crushed beyond recognition, mugs are shattered to pieces, window glass is broken, book shelves twisted out of shape and I don't know what else. It in general is darn nasty.
It seems to me that they 'battle' every time they meet, or rather they meet ever time they need to fight. I should not assume any such thing for I am sure they love each other very much and after all my experience I know for certain that every couple has its own equation and perception. I cannot unearth this one perfect idea of a couple and expect it to work with EVERYONE and for information nor can you.
However, this time i was an auditor to their epic battle.
We were all outside the room, in an open space behind the room where people hang their clothes to dry and keep the coolers and chatting with friends who were having a few drinks, singing, laughing and having a decently good time. within roughly 10 minutes of the lights in the room going off we heard a loud noise of something being thrown, soon followed by another then the door banged hard and the windows flew open and the lights went on. My two friends who stay in the room with the guy quietly closed the windows and went in to check. We discretely left the boy's wing. While we were leaving we realized that we were not the only ones who had heard the racket. Half the hostel was awake and outside their rooms, at least on the ground floor.
What happened next is a different story but the guy had cuts all over his hand and the girl was unharmed albeit greatly embarrassed.
She was not embarrassed by their fight but rather by a million people barging in to find out whether he had hit her or not- especially those retarded feminists. The ones who never hear the full story but run to mutilate the character of the guy involved and run signature campaigns to get support for their propaganda.
I know for sure that the guy did not hit the girl, he never has. If he had ever done so then she would have been gravely injured; for a guy who can twist a steel book case out of shape is not a force i would want a girl to reckon with. Other feminists could and may by all means ostracize me for a comment like this and are welcome to. However I do not believe in their brand of feminism and I never will. I stand by what is right and what they do does not substantiate as 'right' to me.
JNU has this association (if i may call it so) called GSCASH- which is to make people stand up against sexual harassment of any sort. What happens when a boy/girl slaps a GSCASH against the other- the case is taken up by a 'court' who decide the tenets of who is wrong and who has been wronged, and it is a long drawn tedious process that can take forever. The group is supposed to be apolitical but they have party back up which absolutely makes a farce out of the whole system. The case in question becomes a joke and the people involved become characters to be joked about and talked about, the ones you make plays about and laugh. You however do not learn. NO ONE learns.
For these 'feminists' such an association is the best thing ever.
The guy is always wrong and the girl is always the victim.
The only grounds on which I think a guy must not hit a girl is because biologically females and weaker then males and can't physically match up to males. Genetically and otherwise females are built differently. There is nothing to argue on this. You cannot expect a female to be physically strong enough to take on a guy unless under unique circumstances. I believe that the only reason guys are taught to never hit girls is because girls get hurt easier than guys do. This is entirely a physical thing.
I am not even raising an emotional argument so don't bother.
So i remotely abhore these 'feminists' who choose to ignore that a girl may also harass a guy emotionally. They refuse to see the other side of the coin or hear the other side of the story. For them it is ONLY bout the fact that a guy hit a girl. Not do much about one human being hitting another.
So lets get this straight- you put sex before being human? Is that what your 'feminism' is all about?
I for one being a girl know how manipulative and harassing a girl is capable of being. I am not saying that ALL girls who have got harassed are like that but all I am saying is that there is another side to the story. Maybe you should try hearing that before you tighten the noose.
In every relationship there arise times when you could murder the significant other. I have felt it SO many times. Now how I deal with it is the question. As human beings who are cultured and educated (as per the basic government approved norms) should know that every relationship has its marker of respect and privacy and space that should not be violated. Stop the fight before it gets physical. I have seen bruises on people I love and I have cried for that. don't forget that we are human. You cannot and should not hit another human being. Irrespective of the sex.
There even cropped up a fight between the people who had been awoken by the noises about whether the couple should be left alone to sort out their differences or should the guy be pulled out and beaten up for hurting the girl.
They weren't even in the room and they already had taken sides.
I was asked by my friends to stay out of this so I departed. i knew that the girl was not hurt and I was fine with that knowledge. I am no one to say whether a couple should or should not fight and if they should then how, with what levels of decorum or what levels of approved noise.
That is not my concern, it is their private one.
I hate feminists. They are prudes with half baked and selective knowledge and no humanism in them. Maybe they should learn about being humans before they learn about being a girl or a guy.
Feminism is passe and its GONE.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Confessions for this Week
1. I bunked two classes for absolutely no good reason and two more for a decent reason. None of it had anything to do with love, anger, or anything remotely awe-inspiring.
2. I ate 4 egg rolls in 3 days.
3. I picked up a fruit from beneath a tree on the side of the road and ate it. Twice.
4. I lost my temper and cried twice.
5. I learned some terrible things about one friend and don't know what to do with it.
6. I called the American Center Library up at least 15 times to confirm one list of 30 useless people.
7. I was rude to one person today. A junior.
8. I was glad today that I had someone who loved me. I am glad always, but especially today. And the concerned person did nothing GREAT, in fact he did NOTHING.
9. Today i made sure that I looked smarter than the rest 30 odd people going for a seminar. I thought it mattered...to me it did.
10. I swore a breakdown that involved breaking and burning every piece of remotely flammable article of a planned project.
11. I abused the daylights out of people all down the week; not on their face but by typing it in sms and then giggling to myself about it for the words sounded funny when i said them. I didn't send those sms.
12. I didn't study, not one bit.
Maybe I should do this more often.
Maybe.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Anatomy of Greed
We have sticky fingers. Probably green too. Like the ones that grab anything it tends to remotely like and sometimes even things that it just must have. It is a fancy, a fascination and an obsession to want anything and everything that can be wanted and probably possessed.
I was very small then...tiny in fact. Probably 4 or 5 or at the most 6 years old. Surely not older otherwise my ego would have retaliated back rather terribly at this incident. I had lots of toys. LOTS. Just as all pampered girls do especially if they are the oldest of the siblings. Even more so for the poor parents feel that since they have decided to go ahead and make the error of wanting MORE crying, bawling, defecating, noisy kids to add to the general chaos, the first of the blessed lot must be feeling unloved when the later truck load arrives. The poor child is made to feel miserable by relatives of all shapes and sizes and most hideous proportions that the parents would now love the new creatures and not them. So these disillusioned older children wander around plotting murder and managing to pull the cheeks of the new arrivals and subsequently getting shooed away by the ever watchful, irritating, pan chewing ayah. These juvenile delinquents are made shades worse when those awful relatives heap gifts over gifts on the new creatures and the criminal minds wonder- what exactly will a 6 month old baby do with a tricycle? Or a toy train? Or a Barbie? It baffles them. These were supposed to be THEIRS. And why not?
The parents do not care anymore about their glorious lives and no one gives them anything. Trust me. That is how the relatives and the servants ensure that they think. And if you are a shade darker than your new sibling then God help you and your likes. You will be ostracized to the depths of a dark continent and back. Twice over.
What do the parents do? In turn they together with some well meaning people donate some goods of decent entertainment value to the older child hoping to negotiate peace details. It works mostly. You know...the bright, colourful, shiny, new toys are such a temptation.
Someone had sent a packet full of toys to our house. I do not know who they belonged to and I never will. Being the eldest I managed to sift through them first before my brother and sister could reach it and I hunted out a plastic cat with a blue bow painted on its plastic body. Someone had nibbled on the tail and the right ear. Teething Animals!!! The rest of the things were broken and uninteresting. So I grabbed the cat, with its nibbled ear and tail as it stimulated this vague memory in me. It was probably an old toy of mine for I had the habit of chewing anything and everything. I still do. It also occurred to me that if this was mine then for sure some unholy soul must have taken it away from me when I was sleeping and had put it in the bag with all discretion so as to pass it on to my siblings. THIEVES.
So I grabbed the cat and exclaimed-
“Eta to Amar!!!”
Translated- “This is mine!!!”
The next thing that happened has engraved itself in my memory in such a bitter and raw way that it bleeds even today.
My grandfather snatched it out of my hand and said-
“Shob kichu tomar noye...”
Translated- “Everything does not belong to you...”
Nothing had ever been snatched away from me unless they were shiny sharp objects. Baffled I looked up at his face. There was a look of a strange disgust- a disgust of my childish greed and God knows what else. But disgust.
He took the plastic cat away from me and gave it to my sister.
The plastic cat with the blue painted bow now sits on the top of the refrigerator. And I don’t care who it belongs to.
I was very small then...tiny in fact. Probably 4 or 5 or at the most 6 years old. Surely not older otherwise my ego would have retaliated back rather terribly at this incident. I had lots of toys. LOTS. Just as all pampered girls do especially if they are the oldest of the siblings. Even more so for the poor parents feel that since they have decided to go ahead and make the error of wanting MORE crying, bawling, defecating, noisy kids to add to the general chaos, the first of the blessed lot must be feeling unloved when the later truck load arrives. The poor child is made to feel miserable by relatives of all shapes and sizes and most hideous proportions that the parents would now love the new creatures and not them. So these disillusioned older children wander around plotting murder and managing to pull the cheeks of the new arrivals and subsequently getting shooed away by the ever watchful, irritating, pan chewing ayah. These juvenile delinquents are made shades worse when those awful relatives heap gifts over gifts on the new creatures and the criminal minds wonder- what exactly will a 6 month old baby do with a tricycle? Or a toy train? Or a Barbie? It baffles them. These were supposed to be THEIRS. And why not?
The parents do not care anymore about their glorious lives and no one gives them anything. Trust me. That is how the relatives and the servants ensure that they think. And if you are a shade darker than your new sibling then God help you and your likes. You will be ostracized to the depths of a dark continent and back. Twice over.
What do the parents do? In turn they together with some well meaning people donate some goods of decent entertainment value to the older child hoping to negotiate peace details. It works mostly. You know...the bright, colourful, shiny, new toys are such a temptation.
Someone had sent a packet full of toys to our house. I do not know who they belonged to and I never will. Being the eldest I managed to sift through them first before my brother and sister could reach it and I hunted out a plastic cat with a blue bow painted on its plastic body. Someone had nibbled on the tail and the right ear. Teething Animals!!! The rest of the things were broken and uninteresting. So I grabbed the cat, with its nibbled ear and tail as it stimulated this vague memory in me. It was probably an old toy of mine for I had the habit of chewing anything and everything. I still do. It also occurred to me that if this was mine then for sure some unholy soul must have taken it away from me when I was sleeping and had put it in the bag with all discretion so as to pass it on to my siblings. THIEVES.
So I grabbed the cat and exclaimed-
“Eta to Amar!!!”
Translated- “This is mine!!!”
The next thing that happened has engraved itself in my memory in such a bitter and raw way that it bleeds even today.
My grandfather snatched it out of my hand and said-
“Shob kichu tomar noye...”
Translated- “Everything does not belong to you...”
Nothing had ever been snatched away from me unless they were shiny sharp objects. Baffled I looked up at his face. There was a look of a strange disgust- a disgust of my childish greed and God knows what else. But disgust.
He took the plastic cat away from me and gave it to my sister.
The plastic cat with the blue painted bow now sits on the top of the refrigerator. And I don’t care who it belongs to.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Confessions of a genuinely f***** up mind... :)
My thoughts are all mangled up in knots. I can’t think. What I can do is cry. Shamelessly standing under the pouring shower water...just cry. And then the water runs out. I have forgotten what claims I may stake on friends I call my closest and how far I am entitled to depend on them for emotional intravenous feed till they turn around and yank the needle out. Ouch.
Find a few caves, sit , meditate...learn life truth, give up everything for life truth, write a 100 poems or more in rhyming couplets in the earliest language known to your race, become immortal so as people study that in another 1500 years and do Phd.s on them. Aaah! Nirvana.
How hard can it be?
Bleh!
I created you, you vain thing. And I can destroy you. Remember that.
It’s just that I love you too much.
Find a few caves, sit , meditate...learn life truth, give up everything for life truth, write a 100 poems or more in rhyming couplets in the earliest language known to your race, become immortal so as people study that in another 1500 years and do Phd.s on them. Aaah! Nirvana.
How hard can it be?
Bleh!
I created you, you vain thing. And I can destroy you. Remember that.
It’s just that I love you too much.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)