29 December 2009

Iced Sunshine.

Blue and green
At odds, mismatched
Together but blind

But with the beat

Flickering sunlight
Untold stories
Withering silken
Love in soft fur

In sunshine
Till I see

The eyes
In the ice
The golden glare
Of the glaring disguise

and toppled
And teased

Wrung out
And freed

Psychedelic sanity
In sunshine shade
Suede skin
Silver stares

Fantastic swagger
Swaggering flair
Flaring love
Naked and bare

Throbbing longing
A united dream
All undreamed

A satiny blur
Far away
Away for long in a
Stormy night.

That cold, distant
Glaring disguise.

5 December 2009

Another one coming your way..

School's coming to and end.. practically it has but the full stop's still hovering on top of it all. Three months of back breaking studying then three months of back breaking fun. Then new beginnings. I hate new beginnings. I love new beginnings :D

Being away from certain people makes me shudder. While the mere thought of stepping a few feet away from some unfortunate, unfortunate people.. it makes me feel a hundred pounds lighter. Life plays games. Cliche but true. Roles reversed in an almost movie-like fashion. I am repulsed. And I am relieved.

Pre-boards going on and here I am blogging. With a history book in my lap and this big headache materialising out of nowhere. I really really dislike Modern History.. if it ain't ancient.. it ain't history. Adding insult to injury, my subconcious starts blurting out stupid theories and widely incoherent logic. And holding it no longer I share it with my brother.. and he likes what he hears. "But it's not that EASY.", he says. True.

To pen it down for future retrospect, I figure I could type it down without expecting too much, or caring too much harsh criticism:

I think economies need not exist. Keep in mind I don't give a shit about progress and I absolutely hate capitalism. Socialism all the way for me. Though how it is possible to incorporate certain freedoms is out of my intellectual capability. Which is certainly VERY limited. And this is entirely hypothetical.

As I can deduce from my limited (again) economics knowledge, developed countries put in a lot more money in social development and on the people than defence(or conversely, if one needs to be labelled "developed", it ought to). As in the case of India, we need a lot of money for defence due to the apparent political instablity and intra and inter religous disagreemnt which often than not turns typically violent. So with our limited and scant money, we put a greater part in the defence equipment. Other countries do too.. but the money is large, the same percentage represents more quantity. More often than not these countries do it to, as we call it casually, "to show off". To be in the top ten.

Actresses being in the best dressed list can be considered synonymous.

These are entirely my views and need not adhere to the exact definition and what the "people" say. This is a fiction blog after all, not one with brains involved. SO..

My ultra unreal and fantastical theory was to abolish, remove and end wars of any kind. Which comes with the removal of "economy". Well, that's what the traditional meaning of "peace" is. John Lennon's Imagine can be said to be my patriotic "anthem". We remove the words related to wars from our dictionary, the military- air force, navy and the army. About a thousand or more years ago, it would've been cavalry, infantry, and the works.

It all starts with men and ends with men. And the primeval instincts and urges. Land and women were two indicators of the status in society according to my history book. And of course we do include modern history here.

Invasions and captures. And dirty filthy politics. What I don't get is that now that the boundaries are set and the urge lessened, though perhaps artificially, why don't they just stop. Do they still have to fight over it. Is it like an essential to being alive.

With an absence of economies I refer to the total absence of countries and boundaries of any kind. Regional, religious, linguistic. But the problem arises when we look at the multitude and the behemothness of it all. In a utopian state of mind it exists like everything else. In it's perfect, fantastic form. But to implement it is the impossible in another world. The one we live in.

But they say anything's possible.

Although the idea that countries exist in the normal state with a mere absence of defence. Passive or aggresive. When we advance to the imlementation stage, I advise they all do it at once. But there's shrewdness involved, as I've been told. And if they have to start all at once, it is not possible. And we have skipped the "talks and discussions and conferences". Action is required here.

And if they start at once, they won't end together. And one of them will conveniently not agree. That's the drawback of this mostly democratic world. Or a part would do it and the other half would take advantage. How I wish there was someone to think of being a World Dictator today. Someone powerful enough and intelligent enough to do what's required.

Like parents say it.. spare the rod and spoil the child. A LITTLE bit of strictness here and there and there you have it. What you need to save the world today. Tweaking it a little so that we can conserve the earth and can live on it. If every country can't do something to stop global warming, they have to be forced to do. Politeness does nothing, I have seen in my tiny 17 year old life.

A new type of state has to grow and people have to forget about everything material. In my world, you produce, you spread it out. You offer your services. Your grow, you let them eat. And you just live. For a world is there to live. And not ignore and carry on with business.

Money sucks. I think there would be a significant decrease in the greed factor if it weren't for money. But even if we equate things and ensure that everyone has eveything. And only the bit everyone needs and not everyone wants. There's still the bit on how not everyone works hard enough to get what he wants. And some work too hard and get too less.

I'm not against betterment. There would be plenty of that.. plenty of development and the rise in the standard of living and quality of life. But every good deed and invention and progress anyone makes, anything they sacrifice or contribute will be in return for gratitude and feeling of human love, not the sound of crisp notes. We subtract a big amount of fortune from the fame and fortune.

But human emotions are not incentive enough for anyone.. and even if for someone they are.. they won't sustain the feeling for long afterwards.

But if I were living in a world that's equal and right. There would be someone blogging it out asking themselves why the world is so equal and why can't they get more than their neighbour.

It is just not possible to wire everyone's brains into what I think it should be like. A thousand apologies if I'm giving away on any latent mental disease I many be harbouring. But the smell, taste and sound of Utopia sounds good. At least to me, even if it isn't as perfect as I'd like it to be and has a hundred loopholes that I may never be able to remove.. it's still in my narcissictic mind.

14 November 2009

So here I am experiencing yet another reader's block. Boards are to start in about 3 months time and I'm listening to songs.. actually, situational songs. Very useful and crying my eyes out. A good example is November Rain.

At least something to be happy about. Ironic I know. A particularly windy day four days ago. Stormy nights three in a row. Wow. And now I'm sitting outside and unfortunately the sun's come out. And now there's a game of hide n' seek with the clouds. Pleasant. I always liked my room but now it's just some other room.. I didn't think it would be this way. Just the walls are different and the house is. The windows and the doors. It feels kind of weird acutally, to say the least.

There's not that sense of comfort I had in being on my bed, night and day. Doing something or the other. Now I get up however late but get to the bus stop on time. Just another proof on how I'm not attached to my room anymore. It's way too artificial for my taste. Old houses have that certain character, that history behind it which lends the air of mystery and me being the perpetual story-weaver think about what must've happened here before I was born.

In this house we're the first ones, which is kinda disappointing to me. The old house had its charms. This one just has clean walls and well it's functional and economical. Not much scope for repairs and paint jobs. No leakage and cracks. But if we ignore the goodness virtue, I would like to go back to the old one anyday. Even just to see the words etched onto the whitewashed walls. Destructive behaviour of mine. The letters painted on the white door with dark pink and purple. The phone numbers on another. The cupboard with french words on it and I could even gaze for hours at the time weathered floor, darker with the years, lighter when we remove the bed and the table and whatnot. The un-uniformity of it all.

Waking up in the morning to get out on the balcony, blissfully almost always mine and looking at the wilderness outside, ahead of me. Never thought I'd miss not having a neighbour out front. Just wild wild wilderness. A grey-black road with absolutely no-one on it in the mornings, stronf sunshine enducing nostalgia and the fresh breath of life if it was shadowy and cold. The garden with the white swing..

The backyard with the hot stones of the afternoon, the one which defined my summers when I was tiny and naive. The comfort and coziness of life as I knew it. The lack of something called tiles. Stone and cement everywhere and anywhere. Mud and soil.. the garden with it's swing and the many coloured roses. Now there's not much garden to speak of, though there still are roses. But now the thorns are much more obvious to the sight.

I would always remember how the gardener used to hand me a small bouquet of tiny flowers from the garden every year on my birthday. Way to logically it seems.. 'cause when afterwards I used to go out there none of the flowers seemed missing. Too much thought put into it. Hugging the trees and sitting on the backyard stairs, reflecting to memories back when we used to play.

Play we did even as late as just two years ago. Or maybe a year and a half. Lucky me always experienced beginner's luck and then the reputation led me to win half the time. And the other half of the time was helped by the team-mate who was inspired.

Morning sunshine and the dew-drenched grass. Mostly overgrown and the jasmine tree. The terrace. Where I remember learning about the three parts of the Himalays while my mother put out clothes to dry, or later where I used to read, I remember Oscar Wilde, in the shade of the tree from afternoon to the evening till when there was not enough light to go by. The shade of the blackcurrant tree..

The blackcurrant tree that showered upon us in summer and lay waste the terrace in the early days of monsoon with the purple-black overripe currants all splattered and squished onto a good part of the place. Which when cleaned left a faint purplish tinge on the ground, which remained for quite some time and a faint smell wafting through..

Now here the trees and identical copies of each other, those which are not are far away and are mostly eucalyptus. Or just plain bush. Thorny bush. And grass. No hide-outs here. No secret places and nooks and corners. No corner room library across the backyard. No smell of musty old books and warmth of a hundred pages of remembrance.

I am happy that I will be leaving this place for sometime atleast next year, coming back would be fine, that's just how much I know this is my home and would love to come back and sleep in my bed for a change. But well it's kinda fortunate that we did move or I wouldn't have had the heart to leave the city for all I know if I had to go away.

All's for good maybe. And I've gone on with too much rant and the laptop's riding low on the battery. I think I'll rant about something else later.

9 November 2009


I watched intently the thin wisps of steam wafting up from the hot cup of coffee that was placed a few inches infront of my book. Tapping my fingernails a few times on the table, acting as if I was trying to figure out an apparently hard mathematics problem, my hand moved slowly towards the cup and jumped back a little at the sudden heat of the cup, the teacher looked at my hands, distracted from reading his newspaper, during which I managed a glance at the clock on the far wall on the other side of the room. Still about half an hour till this prick leaves.. still, a lot of time, a lot of problems, and still about six months that I will have to bear with this madness.

My distracted, bored brother sat opposite me, at disadvantage that he couldn't see the time. He compensated his rather ill fate with trying to peer into the tutor's watch, his head reclining comfortably, rather too comfortably in his palm, his elbow resting on the groaning table. The teacher straightened his watch hand away and folded his arms. Little brother looks up at him and then grins and presents him with another unsolved query.. "how.. ?". Rather than answering himself, he turns to me and points, do YOU know, you SHOULD know this, however else will you do THAT. Tell me tell me. Tell me.

I don't know. I'm stupid. Wy don't you just go home to your squeaky-voiced little wife and to your brand new son and eat dinner, which you have been thinking about for the past hour, anyway. Do not on any condition use your brain and solve the kid's problem, for god's sake. Do I not have a life other than wasting my time away at something I couldn't do for a million dollars, atleast you do it, if only for two square meals a day.

I glared and chewing my fingernails took a look at the ragged, beat-up looking, tired mathematics book, which was the most used object in the house and the least usable. Tapped the book with fingernails again and sat deciding if I wanted to stop pretend studying after all, because it was getting pretty boring, or maybe take a break, go to the washroom and on the way see what's on TV. Or maybe just take a peek on my scrapbook and see what's new and if someone loves me still.

Banishing all the thoughts I tried to concentrate on the work at hand and finally I'm getting it.. and then there it was. A faint shuffle and scratch outside the main door. There, again. And every one of us three turn to look. The wooden doors are shut, mum enters the scene, curious to see who's up with the disturbance, listening to a growing scratching at the doorstep, a faint shuffling and beating on the doorway, she stands there looking about. And then down at her feet.

There it is.

A glossy black puppy. A stray. Coal black, big-eyed and tiny. Whining a little sadly, shivering and looking in with very sad puppy-dog eyes. My hands let go off the pen and the papers, my heart feeling as if it's about to burst and a very vivid feelings of how it must feel when one meets a long lost son, who they've never even met.. and who, by the way, in fact, was very, very in need of her.

I get up with a start, a very audible aww materialising in my mouth, pouting, hands outstretched, I'm coming to baby, no no, don't you cry. Come here, now. Mommy's here, don't worry. I rush to the door just to be pulled back very firmly and asked what the heck do I think I'm doing. Well, he'll die there in the cold. Let me do something. SOMEthing. Another pouty expression, apparently a very cute one at that and that's why it actually worked. Can I go and at least find out where this bundle of joy came from. And could I at least return in to his mommy. Well, I am his real mommy but you know what I mean.

Reluctant okays, at least take your brother. Don't go out alone. A ghost of a smile. Like mother like daughter is all I hint at. Stepping out of the door I don't even feel a tiny bit cold. Passing through the gate and looking down at his chocolate brown, wide-eyes, feeling his tiny body in my arms, the complete bliss in it, I hear an eager "Can we call him Shadow? I always wanted a dog named Shadow.." Well, why didn't you name your dog Shadow then? "He is NOT all black." My brother's very clear disbelief at how my brain works so irrationally.. he catches up forcing his way into his jacket and shouting the dog's name, coming up and stopping he scratches behind the pooch's ears.

We stop and hear faint excuses coming from the house's direction, mum talking to the teacher about the weather etcetera. "Can we keep him?" Yeah.. can't even take care of two, you want another one, who'll feed him everyday, you can't even take yours out for a walk two times every day, blah blah, I tell him mocking at you know who. He nods his head agreeably and we start on our quest on finding where this guy's mother is. He probably ran away from her scoldings as well. And we laugh.

Not too far away, just the next bend in the road we find that's where he's supposed to have escaped from. A seventeen-year old guy, at least that's what he looked like, leaning on the gate, with a hand on his bicycle. He says there were more of this kind. Yes, and a mother. Will probably return. So we put him down and walk a few steps away, looking back longingly at the little black bundle.

I run back and cover him with this torn rag some kind soul probably left from them in this chilling cold. I bid him goodbye and we half run half walk back to the house, to our mother telling us not to waste any more time.

And I return to my sums while the door is shut and I look to see that about 10 minutes are left of this cruel torture. So when finally he leaves, I heave a sigh of relief and run upstairs, leaving the books behind me open, and mum screaming at me to close them and put off the lights. And come down for dinner just this second. These kids, no manners.

I run upstairs and up to my room and slam the door and wake up my laptop and log in.

Hey all done studying? I missed you. Yep, me too. Guess what. And I tell him everything about Shadow and he tells me how nice I am. And how I'm a good person and how this makes me and how in turn that makes him feel. Yes. I tell him we'll go check up on the doggie tomorrow. ASAP. In the morning, as soon as we wake up.

Dinner is a usual affair and the same "sweet dreams". And yes, it is true I have noticed that when people tell me to have sweet dreams, they are and when they aren't meant to be, they aren't.

I wake up feeling, under the sheet an utter happiness that's so hard to define, a warm comfort I now pine for and a completeness that's now obsolete. I stretch out and think of incomplete things to say, to do and am aptly reminded. I slither out, go to the next room and shake the hell out of a sleeping brother.

We step out into the groggy winter sunshine, without suitable footwear, the roughness feeling just right to my bare, naked feet. And the grass with just the right amount of softness. It's all so nice. I walk up to the bend in the road, ready to be welcomed to the sight, the smell and the wide-eyes wonder of pure, unadultered love. I stare.

And there's nothing except the green rag that we lay him on the night before.

I look back at the sleepy form running up to me and he stops in his tracks. Oh no, she's going to cry, he's thinking. But I don't. We look for the cycle guy and he's there inside, sitting on the stairs, with a toothbrush in his hand. Where'd he go, we ask him. He said he watched him get up and follow this guy on the morning walk, probably. He says, this fat guy walked past on the opposite road, he got up and ran to him and then he followed him. And then he took his toothbrush and went inside. Shouting, don't worry, he'll find someone there. More of his kind on the main road. And even his mother would be there. Dogs are like that.

And he shut the door behind him.

We sullenly walked back the way we came and went about our own ways and never mentioned him again. A light flicked off for a second and turned back on again, full glare. Everything went back to normal.

And normalcy was happy, then it was sad, then it was normal.. and then there started the vicious cycle, well, it had gone on since I was a day old I guess, but sometimes nothing seems real until you think about it.

In retrospect, I feel that it was brief but it was beautiful. Just like everything else in my life. Just as I now know that almost everything is short-lived. Relatively short-lived compared to the life we live. Happiness is real. End is real. And everything else is just stupid make-believe.

Feelings fly swish infront of our eyes and hardly ever do we catch it. Even when it's possible.. and instead we suppose that it would last forever when nothing does. Nothing. Ever. Never.

4 November 2009

Sheared and

Shook off
Thrown into
the Pyre.

Broken desire
Deep in mire
Done with
And sold

Up for hire.

24 October 2009

Blase, Benign.

I never did speak
For the words unsaid
They sound a little weak
For feelings undead

Stirring in the depths
Golden and red
Without pretence
Love intense

Like a bird upon a wire
The ant on your toe
The first flower in spring
The curve of your brow

It had its rights
It had its wrongs
It had everything
Fit for a song

So long to the memories
Goodbye to the nights
It's just days
And just more ways

Please, take a seat
Till the pages fill
The cups to the brim
Till the fingers bled

Till I walk all the way
To Shangri La
And back

To a cacophony of carcasses
A flutter of dread
Belligerent, it grows

A cycle of bliss
And malaise foregone
The intensity of felicity
To where it belongs

Blessed and bless'd
With the weight of memories
It did so snap
And up we wrap

The curtains close
A cyanide dose
Sachharine sweetness
A red dress in shreds

Hope and mental flux
Stuck, hard luck
Take a bow
Sing out loud

Making of hay
In green meadows
A starving tree
On the seashore

Confused, adamant, it goes,

In the desert
Mustard flowers
On a concrete road


A break from reality
A trip to insanity

Just a
Winning streak
Till the stage is set
Till the egos are fed.

21 September 2009

Carrying On..

I never knew that movie soundtracks could serve such a useful purpose.. introducing people to music I guess they would never have stumbled upon ever.. I fell in love with Sonic Youth after listening to a song of theirs in Juno. Juno did become one of my favourite films ever but with it there were a number of musicians who left a lingering infatuation kinda feeling in the air..

Originally the Carpenters'. I bet many don't know that Britney Spears' I Love Rock M' Roll is actually a cover of a cover. Originally it was Arrows' and then Joan Jett and The Blackhearts covered it. Which comforts me to know that.. since I was always bewildered about why I love the song so much and why on earth is Britney singing it.

Also, Kimya Dawson and Adam Green of The Moldy Peaches, as introduced by Juno. But genres like Noise Rock and No Wave is more my kind than indie or alternative.. ruggedness rather than edgier sounding pop. Pulls your heart's strings a little tighter. But indie does serve the purpose of putting into words the feelings more effectively than mainstream pop which IS rather disgusting, one you think about it. As I have hinted on in many previous occasions.

Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore's voice in a slightly mellower version of Kobain's in my opinion.. and what're more, he's still alive. And 51. Thus pushes me more into believing I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Anyway, similar movies were Notting Hill and 10 Things I Hate About You. And many others. And more to come.

20 September 2009

The End of Exams

19th September. I waited so long for yesterday. But surprisingly the (expected) emotion of relief wasn't there. Weird. Maybe it's because I didn't put in enough effort to actually be thankful that I'd have nothing to do when that ends.. and I'll have the time to myself. But then I have all the time to myself. And it's just wrong. Life's going nowhere.

Some people just don't seem to understand the concept of being a 'loner'. Advising someone to no end about going out and meeting people and getting together with friends is not justifiable.. and it's just the hidden control freak in them. Just as people have notions about what women should do and not do, and what they should wear and say and every damn thing on the planet.. there exist certain rules about social behaviour and socialising.. which sometimes people so easily relate with normal daily activity and "staying sane".

There's this taboo about being in your room all day which doesn't seem to go away.. and just like the incessant knocks on the door, there are reminders and re-reminders that being alone isn't right and isn't well naturally, allowed by these rulers of the world.. who can't keep their nose out of everyone's business. They slap you on the back and pat you on your shoulder and tell you to cheer up.

And well, those of us who don't fake, aren't fake, won't ever be fake would never do that because they just do and say and act like what they actually are inside. And if inside you aren't happy you don't show you're happy, you aren't satisfied, you aren't content and you're just well totally bewildered by the multitude of meaningless vices and aline disgusting emotions and trivalties of life.

Just as some people are good at being able to be in groups and noise and, well, bad BO. Yeah. We loners are good at being self-reliant in having a good time in peaceful solitude with apparently inanimate best friends like books and music. And find solace in writing or reading or anything else in the world that can be done alone, daydreaming, yes instead of finding peace in a roomfull of people and clatter and gossip and weird fake laughs.

Someone got it right when they said self-love's the best kind of love.

And I was lucky enough to understand that much younger than anyone else I know.. some of them would depend on another person to make them happy or interested in life till the second life is about to leave them forever.

I talk to myself.. although not out loud.. or I would've officially been crazy, right now I'm just self-proclaimed. But, listening to the line "Why're you so quiet?" for the thousandth time makes me wonder what are they attempting at when they ask me this. Is it to belittle me, cement my opinion on how stupid they are or just some other nonsensical forgettable stuff.. I've stopped caring. Well I didn't care when they asked me when I was nine and I won't care when I'm nineteen or ninety nine.

Or I wonder if they're just insecure about what goes on in my mind.. sometimes my behaviour leads them to believe I'm stuck up, obnoxious and plain arrogant. And I couldn't agree more, on certain terms and I am sometimes completely against the blatant view of my super-secret weird, sanely crazy personality.

There are just a bunch of people, I could count them on my fingers infact who know what I actually am.. and what it appears I pretend to be.. and there are some highly thoughtful relatively more like me.. a miniscule proportion of people who get me at hello.

Coming back from retrospection to life inspection and my direction.. err, now I'm confused about what I'll study after I finally leave school. Psychology, or so I thought was, what I'd be good at. But currently I think English would be good for me.. atleast it would solidify and legitimise what I thought I am, I'd like to be. History if I'm going to dig up graves.. and climb down into them and write my books.. what a thought.

Or maybe sociology to understand more about what I'm writing about. Philosophy would also serve the cause in a more in-depth way. And I realize it's going to be the toughest few days of my life when I'd have to decide and pick one. As it is I'm indecisive even when it comes to clothes, let alone college.

But I'm running ahead of time. And I should probably drop the anchor for a while and bobble in my bubble till time comes to swing the champagne bottle and break it and wave goodbye and a new hello.

Shifting to a new house for the very first time. Been living here since forever. I was born here. It's hard but important enought to not get all stubborn and haughty. Similar.. only three schools till date, three years in one, two years in the second. And then will complete a decade being in the same school I am in now. More than half my life. I'm a grounded person I guess.

School starts on 29th but before that have the Fine Arts practical on 22nd. Bleh.

Never been good at drawing human figures. Interesting fact.. Mughal rulers were initially against artists drawing humans as Islamic laws said that creation of life or depiction of it.. is solely the right of God, but one ruler suggested that it is all right, since when artists draw the figures do they come to realise the futileness of it all and how un-real the painting is, consequently realising how powerful God is, making them revere Him more than what they did before.

Studying all this has led me to belive studying subjects like History is like being stuck in time. My characteristic quality. Reflecting on what has happened. And reflecting on what could've happened and what will happen and what should've and what might have and what did happen. That's all me.

That's just another good part of being narcissistic, you love yourself so much that in everything you come across you stick with what you relate to and what you're best at. At least you're happy about some selected things.

And I get how science and math create. It takes all kinds to make the world work. The reflecting kind and the working kind. I'm glad to be in the former category.. and I'm glad there aren't more like me. I like being lazy. And I like being lazy alone.


15 September 2009

Through Tinted Scarlet Glass

I wonder how many people actually think about the future so much.. and if they do what do they see.. the house of their dreams. A wonderful life. The ideal setting for you to spend the rest of your life in. But I've heard that it doesn't turn out that way. Well, I think people forget what they imagined years ago their life's supposed to look like where they are right now. It's just forgetfulness, not fate. But I may be wrong. But I sure hope that I'm not.

Because days ago, (I got news for myself), I think too much, I imagine too much. And I am way to romantic for it to be healthy. I've been through this a hundred times : I expect something and it turns out that I don't get what I want. I get my heart-broken (Yes, even if it's something as silly as what I want for dinner a particular night). And picturing the future is huge, very easy as it may be.

The idyllic settings don't just flash across every day infront of my eyes. It's like organising something that's complex to the point of being frustrating. Just sometimes. And sometimes I step out into the garden and it comes crashing down inside me. What I want and how I want it. And who I want to be with. Or who I do not want to be with.

About 15 minutes ago I had the most vivid and by far the most interesting and the most calming and euphoric sensation at the same time. A house in the woods.. on a mountain and you can't see the building until you're well near the gate. There's a garden, a wild garden. Wild roses. Wild flowers. Untamed, except to make space for an elegant vintage white iron table and a couple of chairs. Birds and squirrels.. maybe even have a birdfeeder.

A grand white house white a glass door and innumerable french windows. With red curtains, not unlike the ones that are in my room right now. A small pond to the right and a white swing with overstuffed red cushions on the left.

The ground floor still looks kind of vague.. but up the stairs and there's the bedroom spread across the whole floor.

And the kind of bed I'd prefer. A year ago it would've been a swinging bed. A round one. Hanging from the ceiling with black satin. Or a large fourposter. Or a modernish water bed. Scarlet tinted windows on the bedroom floor, through which the sun would shine a personal shade of scarlet golden.

A few years ago I also wanted horses and a swimming pool, a tennis court, a huge field. I may want it again, but they're more or less useless. And anyhow, who has the money :P

Getting serious again.. in my bedroom I would bunk our for hours on end. Atleast one wall would all be covered with books to the ceiling. Another room would be all books, everywhere you see. With a beige armchar right in the middle, along with a footstool.

A wall niche. My reading wall niche. With a big window overlooking the valley. And a bunch of scarlet roses that grow right beneath it. I'd sit here when it would rain and I'd sit right in the middle of the room,on my very comfy armchair, on nights when I'd be scared of the darkness. While there would be Dylan in the background or the mellower songs of Gn'R or maybe classical works. On vinyl.

Or early morning on my hide-out on the terrace. Or late afternoon on a blanket spread out in the garden. With the birds chirping and the sun a balmy warm comfort, enveloping me like love does.

All day every day. Write and Read. Sprinking in a liberal amount of gourmet dinners and good movies. Kisses and hugs. That's Utopia.

I'd have a dog and two cats. Or give or take a couple. And fish.

Too much wilderness and a little sunshine. Lots of rain and fog and mist.

Imaginations like these ought to be written down, or they're lost when life makes you busy. It's also an attempt to make myself work towards something so I could get what I want right now, when at times I won't want it, and I'd love to settle for something that's not remotely like this.

Or when I feel I'm not worthy of anything. But I am. 'Cause this all.. it's already mine :)

1 September 2009


The stars twinkled and she could almost almost see them reflected in his eyes. They shone in the glasses half-filled with Coke. Voices of the night enveloped them as they stared up at the sky. It had stopped raining late in the afternoon and the sky had cleared out.

It was cold outside. But still warmer than when they were freezing in the AC, but neither of them had a problem with that. It was mandatory. It was habit.

They had studied all day. They were tired. And now they lay, out on the roof. Exhausted. It was almost a quarter to ten. The floor of the roof felt cold even through the blanket they'd spread out.

Her fingers played with the thin layer of dust on the floor. And he let out a sigh of relief. Her hair were half sprawled on the floor. They were a sharp contrast against the off-white marble. And they were long. Longer than they were 3 months ago. He stretched out and flipped over.

An ant found its way to her hair and attempted to reach her face.. he flicked it off. And smiled at her. She smiled back and returned to looking at the sky. She slowly closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.

He thought about how soft her hair was as he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers. It went round and round.. and then he saw her looking at him. He turned away and folded his arms.

He tried not to wonder. He tried not to stare. It was not as if he didn't like her..

On the blanket, smelling the rain, looking at the sky, glasses of coke, having the time of their life. She stuffed the last popcorn left in the bowl and laughed at him. He didn't care. All he cared for, was at that very moment, stuck in time, was for her to be happy. For her to be mine, he thought. Can she be mine? Will she be mine?

He lodged his hands behind his head and wondered. Thoughts raced, skipped and jumped through his mind and he lay there, still, unmoving. Heart thumping. Words fumbling in his brain. Ideas buzzing around.. strewn all over the place.

And as it started, it shut down in a fraction of a second. He thought of nothing. Nothing. Didn't even want to think about it. Then she started to talk about a book she'd read the other day. And how some characted reminded her of him. She giggled and he noticed, for the hundredeth time maybe, how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

Moments passed.

His hair looked nice, they always did. And as if one cue he ran his hands through his hair, goind halfway and then all the way, then to his side. Like he always did, it was almost his trademark. And then he scatrched his nose and smiled.

She fished out her i-pod from her pocket and took a second to admire her immaculate shiny black nails. The earphones thumped to life and she tried ineffectively to ignore her emotions and was suddenly reminded of how this song used to remind her of someone.. someone who was with her right now.

Someone who was probably thinking about something as trivial as what he'd have for dinner today. She pulled at tugged at her thoughts to keep them from straying but her will power was never known to be strong.

She stared at knees of his jeans, it was the perfect shade of blue, worn-out and old. Torn at some places. It was his favourite. His brown eyes looked pensive, the best they could look. Not that they were anything less, anytime else..

While he contemplated if he was going insane or something else as unlikely.. he was never the one to carry his heart on his sleeve.. and he never would be. Well, if she liked him back, she'll tell him, that's for sure, he thought. He's not a teller.

Thumping music drowned out her heartbeat somewhat and and tried to supress her feelings, and it was hard. She'd accepted long ago that nothing was going to come out of coming right out with emotions. Intense emotions. She'd never freaked anyone out. And neither did she want to, ever.

Ofcourse, the fact that she liked him from the moment they talked the first time wasn't of much special importance when she thought about it. That's the difference between what actually happens and what we want to see happen.

They were friends. That should be good enough. She tried to dissipate her thoughts by going back to reality, to what was happenind in the god-forsaken real world.

She said something, he couldn't quite hear what she said..

"Huh?" And he leaned in, while she repeated. And she laughed again.

He didn't listen in. Again. Instead, he leaned in a bit more. And he smelled her hair. It was enticing. He couldn't quite place the fragrance.. it was something between citrusy and a sweet sharpness.. and her skin, it smelled earthy..

He pulled himself back, took a deep breath.. and started humming a song. And he lightly beat his head on the floor. Inconpicuously. She whistled a tune. The same tune. They had the same tune. They were tuned. In. As he thought this, he wondered about what he was turning into.

And there they lay, oblivious to each other's feelings, turning over in their mind thoughts unsaid. Well, someone did say some things were better left unsaid.

A perfect example was when both pondered, and weighed and rejected the idea but still proclaimed to their parallel best friends in parallel worlds in parallel alien languages, they said the three words and sealed their lips to fate.

Time wore on. She offered an earphone to him. He was about to ask for it anyway. As the song ended.. they felt that it was time already.

She stuffed back the ipod into her pocket. He grabbed his shoes. And asking each other, "Dinner?" "I'm hungry." "You're always hungry.".. they got up, straightened and headed downstairs.

The empty glasses and bowls were left there. It was mandatory. It didn't matter. It was habit.

29 August 2009


I sit around
Trying to work things out
Fitting together
The jigsaw pieces of life
The world spinning round and round

It takes inspiration
To reach a worthy destination
Not just too much preparation
Or unending perspiration

Dealing with a wordly fascination
With acceptance and inhibition
Procrastination fit for an entire generation
And that's a pretty lethal combination.

What inspires me the most
It could be the pitter-patter of precipitation
Or the bustling life, the moving colours
Or a railway station.

It takes inspiration
To create poetry in motion
Writing fiction with conviction
Silly superstitions
The same pen, paper and imagination.

27 August 2009

IndiBlogger Nomination and Other Stuff

Ten years in this school and I finally get something published in the Gallop, that's the school magazine, by the way. Though I didn't want it to happen, it did. And that too.. I won for writing a poem which I didn't even consider worth looking at. It was fun writing.. but not so fun when you read it. I'll post it on here soon.. and it's not so much a poem as something written by a rap artist or a songwriter.. not as poetic as I usually go for. But writing on 'Inspiration' in a set time of 40 minutes isn't my idea of creative freedom. But what the hey :D

So, I've nominated my blog for the IndiBlogger of the Month competition. So I guess you could vote for it if you feel like. I blog this just for the record. And NOT for votes. But I would really like it if I lose by a small margin. I don't have a chance winning, so as well lose with a little flair.


People who aren't on IndiBlogger yet could sign up. It's an interesting place to spend your time in. Thanks a bunch if you vote, and thanks again if you don't. I'll know I have to get better at this and improve. I already know that but little reminders go a long way.

22 August 2009

Nostalgia's a funny thing. It's always in this sepia-coloured faded sort of background, the landscape of the days and the years. Old and faded, folded around the corners, crumpled in places ..

It's like a song which keeps playing in your head. On the loop. Never stopping.

What with all the old, smiling, wise faces, the part which I know as well as the back of my hand. And sometimes I'm scared of a bright, shiny new character popping up on the screen in my head. Which really doesn't belong there.

But something brighter and new keeps coming up. And like a naive, innocent, stupid child I stare into it instead of shielding my eyes like one ought to. It hurts.

Untried, unstested. New and alien. It's like a blotch, overpowering the comforting smell of nostalgia, keeping you awake like a bad dream does. Only except you don't know if it's good or bad.

It thrills and leaves you wishing it were true. When you look back and see that you've got all that you need.. it comes snapping back at you.. whispering your own words in your ear. And sometimes you revel in the glory and sometimes you back away from it.

Shut your mind to it. And try to hum the song that always played in your head. But there's a new song now. A new feeling. A new meaning. It's like ecstacy.

But most of the time, it hurts. It hurts because you know you aren't supposed to do it. Time has made you wise, almost like the wise faces in your old photograph. But you are not them. And you wish "time" had been different.

That you could still be the naive innocent, stupid child that stares into the brightness, and lets it engulf her being. Burn her to the core. But now she's shielded, she's strong, she can no long do anything wrong.. because she knows.

The present's a void I'm not pressed to fill in. It exists like an empty room. Unwanted. Un-needed. It's like an extension of the past, a few metres behind the starting line, the past's like the starting credit of a movie, and the future's the beginning of the end credits.. I picture the first line in white against black as they start rolling in.

And the movie could be a tragedy, a comedy, drama.. or a genre that hasn't even been invented yet. I just hope I can figure it out well before the end.

It takes you on a ride.. smashed you up in a freak accident. And then pushes on as if nothing ever happened. It's like a circle that has no end. It's like thar bright red dot on a sepia background.

The only downside to my condition is that there's not much to write without a perspective. Confusion does nothing. I don't do anything. I'm stuck. And it's just there.

29 July 2009


As I lie on my back
And I breath out
Waves of quiteness
Wash over me

As I live on

I wander outside
Look at the trees
The birds
And I smile

And thoughts

Pass through
The panorama
Of my mind

I feel the coldness
On my skin
The warmth
In my heart

Searing fire
The icy sting

The graceful ballad
It used to sing


There hums a trifle tune
A fire just went up
In fumes

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

Can solipsism
Really turn me on

I really don't feel
Too strong
As I feel my way
Against the wall

In the mirror
Is this
What it feels like

Being free
Being strong
Telling yourself
You are not


All around
It is found

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

But then
Does this all
Feel so wrong?

The softness
The touch
The caress
The whisper

Your eyes
Your lips
Your hair
Your fingers

A throbbing heart
A calm conversation
The pain
Of simple reason

And I wonder
If that's really
What I want
Is this me,

Am I mine?

Do I
Mean to be..
Am I..
Are you..
Is our world

Really.. "Fine"?

The answers
A bit
Too far


The truth is out
For you to see

What I said
Was not always

I don't belong to me

I was
Will be


Part of You.

. . .

25 July 2009

"It's Raining. Let's Go For a Walk."

Being born in July, it's like I found a twin. It always will be the sweetest experience. Undeniably. The ecstatic stinging drops dancing on you, the first ones of the season. Never miss them. Well, yes, even after they tell you about the acid in it.

My first memories of the rain would be going out on my birthdays.. with my father, in the front seat of the car. The wipers going swish swish on the screen, and me leaning ahead to catch up with the changing scene. The precious 3 seconds I could I get a clear view. And nearing a speed-breaker my father would gently push me back with his left hand as he steered with his right. I would look at him and smile.

It always rained on my birthday. And I loved it. Loved every bit of it. With the core of my heart. It would be around half past four in the evening when I'd step out in my birthday glory, all dressed up and shiny. Under an umbrella, I'd rush out to the car and settle back. Like a princess. In her glorious carriage. A carriage shaped like a pumpkin maybe. I was Cinderella. And my 12 O'Clock would last forever.

We would reach the bakery, get the cake. I would always get an extra slice of blackforest pastry to go, and eat it on the way home. All I would see out of the window was black and green. The rain soaked roads. And the highlighted trees. The fresh, crispy crunchy air hitting me on the face. Little droplets of happiness plopping on my arm. And I would burst out laughing in joy.

Then it was ooh-aahing in the balcony with now long-lost friends. We would stretch out our arms to get as many raindrops as we possibly could and then would rub it all over. Sprinkle it on each other. And stand grinning stupidly at the rain.

I was 6 and Dil Se came out. And then I was 7 and Taal happened. I fell more in love the rain. Knee deep. Sinking, maybe. The starting scene in Dil Se is timeless. I fall in love with it more and more, every time I watch it. Though probably I didn't understand much of it when I was 6, it still flicked on some swtich in me. And it has probably made me who I am.

I haven't watched Taal many times but it seemed to as if rain was there for half the movie at least. And it looked beautiful. It was all that mattered. And I live in a place where there's about a dozen trees for a house. And not many houses. Not too close together. The green jumps out of my visions and goes deep inside me. It's like love at first sight all over again. And again.

Life happened when I was 8. It was my new school. It is the most beautiful building I've ever set eyes on. Will always remain that. And it had a special connection with rain. I started school in July. The first year it opened. Nothing can tear away good memories.

I remember rain in a lot of places. At the lake. At home. At school. A number of places outside my city. There is a multitude of sounds and smells that say "rain". That say monsoon. They tell me that life is what I want it to be. I wish I could make a soundtrack of my life. The rain wouldn't stop playing all along.

Remember going back from my friend's house, walking on the street against a strong monsoon gale. Torrential rain slashing through everything. When I finally made it home I wanted to go back out again.

When I’ll look back at my life some decades later, walking in the rain would be an important part of growing up. Whether it was with dreamy, screamy teenage angsty music hooked on to my ears or with just the rain, it had its charm. It was mostly in the nights, when I wasn’t locking myself up in my room. Outside, it was cold, the darkness enveloping me, it was comforting. While I cried about a thing or two, sighed and then let it go.

I remember going outside at 3 in the night, and grinning at the sky like some maniac. I remember telling someone, “I like romancing the rain.” And I sort of of feel he should’ve been confused about if he should be jealous. But I don’t know.

A kiss in the rain. That has made its place in almost everyone’s “things to do before I die” list. I had it on mine too. But I’m not so sure now. Just sometimes. I’m scared if two happy memories would cancel each other out. But I truly hope not. I’ve never been good at math.

Lying in bed, listening to the staccato sound of the pattering rain. While I lay on my bed, and sighed and wished it went on forever. Not many sounds compare. Yes, the sound of someone’s voice in the night. Whispering sweet nothings. Like sometimes the rain does. It imbibes a feeling of hope. It’s like a little elixir, water, when you’re dying of say, scorpion poison, wandering around in a desert. A thousand miles to go. And you find an oasis. But sometimes it’s just a mirage and you can’t quite get there.

It’s unfair how people use the terms “don’t rain on my parade”, or something similar. It’s almost insulting. I also hate the sun after the rain. Well, I hope it doesn’t quite get there as not going aww when you see a cute puppy (yes, now THAT it inhuman).

Last week, there was English class. Torrential unbelievable rain storm. Window. Classroom. Rang bells. But someone was missing. Some things were missing. That sinking feeling of helplessness. As I wake up tomorrow I’d see the rain, I’d stretch my hand out, and live for another day.

It all ties itself up in knots, the insurmountable happiness, the tearing pain I connect with the raindrops. Going for walks with my dog. An occasional game of football in the mud. Catching crabs when they came out. Some in the garden, some in the backyard. But we always let them go back in the evening. For they had dinner to eat. A school to go to. Well, who knows what they get up to. What equals the “rainy happiness”.

People say and repeat the quotation, they walk in the rain so that no-one sees them crying. Well, I walk in the rain so I can stop crying. Crazy stuff. Crazy life.

I’d wake up tomorrow and go out and stretch out my hand and feel the rain. ‘Cause I know it will be there. And it all ends in the sweet realization that every year, around the same time, bringing the same ecstasy, there would be rain. There would be happiness and there would be hope. Even if no one or nothing else is with me. Even if nothing remains. It teaches me to live. It teaches me to love.

12 June 2009

(No)Two Ways About It

She is an artist
On a trapeze
Singing with
The summer breeze
Her life on lease
In the winter freeze
She muses
To let it go with ease
Or act on a
The lingering release
To be vindicated
To be set free
Or give in to the
Of dreams that please
With selfish ease
Or plunge into the
Unknown depths
That can't be seen
But still
Sprakle and gleen
Mind dazed
Looking for
Sounds that appease
Craving for a place that's
Above her the ropes
Swinging back to
Routine, in between
The place in which
She has always been.

27 May 2009

Another Classroom Story

They hurried up the stairs. Rushing each other. Grumbling, they started cursing their luck as they headed towards their new class. This was messed up, they had been put in another section. This messed everything up big time. This was not what they wanted at all.

"What the.. WHY does this happen to me!? That section was good enough. It was terribly, terribly fabulous.", Shania said, stomping her feet on the ground. She looked like a blown up version of a little girl throwing tantrums. "What.. now I can't even see him. Ever. A whole different floor. That ain't fair.", she said, pouting.

"Whoa now.. I guess it's for the better. Now you won't get distracted. Right?", Whitney questioned her. She knew how her friend could be. She had to learn how to adjust to stuff. "Uh.. well, you know I had friends there. Old friends.. but what the heck! We'll settle. Calm down, calm down."

There were some changes to be done with their schedules. They had to be given a timetable that had to be scheduled with the respective teachers. It was a hassle. It was a problem, indeed. The librarian was usually the incharge of all this and when she screwed up and it wasn't so unforgivable, they had to oblige. And hence, after a week of wandering around the campus due to consequently, "free" periods they had to head to their new class. How long can fun last?

Stopping a few feet away from their new classroom, Whitney pulled Shania aside and said, "Look, don't be too sad. I'll talk to the headmistress. To see if she can get us back to the old class. Just endure this class for a day or two." Shania nodded. "Well, that's okay. I'll try."

She pulled herself together but broke down again. With sad eyes, mimicking crying she said "But I want to be distracted.. I want to be distracted, or else how am I supposed to study?" They grinned at each other.

"Look who's inside. We better go in now."

"It's their class teacher I guess. She's new. Supposed to be pretty strict."

"Whew.. here we go!"

They went inside and looking around Whitney saw an assortment of faces. New and old. Most of them she didn't know and that's saying a lot, she had been in the same school for well, quite a long time. Some old friends smiled at her. Some nodded. Some waved out a friendly hi. Shania pulled at her sleeve. The teacher had turned to talk to them. She ignored, still scanning the room while Shania jabbered on.

The teacher nodded, "Yes, I know, take your seat. We'll talk later." She turned back to the blackboard but then turned around to face the girls again, "Oh, and welcome to the class!" She said brightly. And returned to her work.

They found an empty desk at the extreme right corner, the front bench. No surprise. They sat down quietly and discreetly looked around. Yeah, most of them were new. That's no fun. No fun at all. A single "new kid" is fun. Even two. But here they were.. feeling as if they've come into a completely different school. Now THEY felt new, instead.

Time went on slowly. The front bench wasn't so good.. nah. They couldn't even look to see who was in their class. Whitney looked out the window. It was July. There were rainclouds in the sky. The grass was a beautiful green. The world seemed fresh. She felt Shania leaning on her. She turned to her and she said "Whitney, how much time's left for the bell to ring?"

"I have the time but I have no idea about the timing."

"Ahh.. you've been in this school for like a million years."

"So what? You've been here.. for like a few thousand yourself."

"Shut up." Shania stuck out her tongue at her. And turned around to ask whoever sat behind them. Whitney just resumed her nature appreciation.

"Uh.. excuse me? What's the time?"

She sensed him looking up from his work, clearing his throat, he said, "11:15".

Shania turned back around. She sat still, tense, and then grinned. Foolishly.

The bell rang just then. The pushing and shoving of the desks and chairs drowned out the teacher's voice. And she was forced to just leave. Some idiots made a run for the door, others hung around. Chatting and eating.

"Did you see that.. did you just see him?" Sensing no response from Whitney she said, "The guy behind us, you know. Wow, that's cute! He's cute. I mean like, oh-my-god." She looked ahead of her, grinning, looking at nothingness.

Whitney smirked, she shrugged her shoulders as she leaned back into her chair and calmly replied, "Well, yeah, and you come to know that now?"

Shania looked at her, wide-eyed, mouth open, hands coming around to push her. Whitney smirked. "Oh, you're slow." Easing her legs out under the desk, Whitney sighed.

She kept sitting where she was. And Shania got up as the Guy-with-the-Time headed towards the door. Someone called him and he looked back. And he smiled at something. His hand moved towards his neck as he stretched it and turned again towards the door.

Almost out of the class, he paused, turned around as he stepped out into the corridor, and looked at Whitney, just a tad too long. His eyes, just a bit too bright. His smile just a tad too wide. With a spring in his step, he looked down, glanced again at her and moved away. Whitney's heart skipped a couple of beats.

And she could almost see the cartoonish hearts floating around Shania's head and she had closed her eyes and was smiling like a doofus. Whitney shook her head and leaned back a bit more into her chair and lay her hand across her heart.

25 April 2009

On Summer

Balmy afternoon breeze
The scorching backyard stone
The ants on the mango tree
The sound of music
Running free

Happiness filtered through the leaves
Of the laughter shared
Of hearts
Loved and bared

Waking up
To the TV noise
To the AC buzz
To the rememberance
Of yesterday's stuff

Kisses and hugs
And sticky mud sludge
Crabs and lizards and mongooses
Wandering around, or don't even budge

Vivid, alive and sharp
The stinging rain
A running train
Bridges on rivers
A lonely forest trail

Of cricket
And running barefoot
Of stinging splinters
Shouting in rejoice..
For the ball, jumping outside

Welcome sweat and
Accidental blood
The cold water
On the skin
The cold water
Sizzling on hot earth

Badminton rackets
On the shuttle cock
On a lost frog
On someone's head
Swinging short

The melting icecream
Burps and gurgles
And sneezes that hurt
Laughing and falling down
In the dirt

Bruises, cuts, scratches
Stupid bets and cricket matches
Winning, losing, strutting
Blaming and then hugging

Pepsi breaks, the world cup
Shouting sprees
Getting locked in bathrooms
Throwing water, looking at them freeze

Hide n' Seek
Chewing gum in your hair
Groping and tugging
Torn shirts
Made up swears

Changing the score
After the break
Cheating and being fair
Shooting water into the air

Jumping three stairs at once
"Spins and fast and bouncers"
The sun in our eyes
Sneery smiles

Lucky shirts and shorts
Wristbands and socks
Charms, bracelets and
Chanting for your team
Sitting on the bottom stair

The crunch of dry leaves
Inefficient prayers
Blue jeans
Faded and threadbare

Plans to win, psyche them out
Breaks from the sun
Wiping away
Filthy perspiration

Clouds and the rain
Going insane
Buzzing honeybees
Hiding in the garage
Catching balls with "the" panache

Soaking wet
Mango stains, bamboo canes
Noisy planes
Cars in deserted lanes

TV shows, children's prose
Harry Potter, the guy in the cloak
First love, getting close
Just a few books more

Garden hose
The grass yellow, green
Blue petals, white roses
And the red poppies
The adorable tiny muddy stream

Sprinkled grass on the head
Tattered seat of the swing
Scratching your knee jumping up ahead
Winning and then crying instead

The corner of the black railing
My side of the bed
Mattress on the roof
Reading 'til the day's dead

Calling out to the songbirds' call
Smiling neighbours
Staring, looking at the insects crawl
Pulling up the garage shutter

Learning to ride,
Getting it in your stride
Going the fastest
Acing the speed test

Cycling, whistling, singing
Discovering kingdoms
Letting the streets lead
Clouds in the sky, they're so mighty high
They make shapes and then they break

Circling birds of prey
Letting your mind go astray
Absorb the heat
Go off to the land of sleep
Have a sweet, sweet dream

Running on the street
Torches under the sheet

Singing TV jingles
Squirting lemon on your tongue
The tingle
Then sucking on your fingers

Dangling feet from the ledge
There are bird-nests in the hedge
Jokes on one another
Looking at the wings flutter..

Are they the sparrows in the trees?
Or mine.. could I have it again, please?

9 March 2009

Though I didn't expect much on the Exams this time with everything messed up in my mind, in my life, I surprisingly managed to do pretty well. Not too good, not too bad. Also, not been feeling too well, lately.

Resolutions are lame. I can never keep up with them. Never ever. Good that I didn't make any this time, although I can't stop myself from pretending I did and then shouting on myself and then um, laughing at myself at how weak I am at controlling myself.

Back to school in 3 days and then I'll be in class 12. Just a year and then I'll be out of the place. My second home, quite literally. A total of ten years out of my meagre 16, then 17. More than half my life. Quite a lot of time spent there.. and it always will be the most beautiful building. Ever.

Not even grown-up yet, and reminiscing of the good times. :D
Remember when I had perfect eyesight, when I didn't have to worry, didn't have to take care of a million different things, didn't have to make mental notes that I conveniently forget the next second. But I'll confess this, I hope I take them and stuff then in some old, ratty chest of drawers, all cramped in just as they are. Just so that they all come tumbling down on me one day, when I mistakenly pull out the drawer in the dark, just out of the blue, miraculously and I can use all those stupid mental notes to do something extraordinary. Write up something. Anything.

Now you see what an "imaginary mind" truly is. It is no asset. Just a pain in the.. err, neck.

Been a long time since I relaxed, not caring a fig about stuff like normal people do. I breathe out and I say "Wow.. NOT having a life completely rocks." For now. Yes.

A week in Delhi was much help in getting an idea of what kind of life I'd be leading once I left school. I loved it and I'm dead sure I'd be loving it more than ever when the big things happens. So this is it then, the most important year in my life and I've got my own rules this time. Again. I've got to get a lot of stuff out of my mind, totally out of my system. This is hard work.

Delhi 6 is definitely one of the best movies I've seen. And of course, I don't get how someone can't like it. But sure, intelligent movies are for intelligent people. It was like seeing my thoughts, arguments, beliefs come alive and shout out on the screen. It was amazing and better, because it was out there, not between two people no-one knows, who are out there having a fight on the phone, hanging up on each other, stating that "it's not God's fault" and the other one says, "well, there is no God to start with." Th latter would be me. Finit. And it strikes me as utter stupidity when people fight over variations of nothingness. And a whole dimension of mind-boggling variety of it too.

It takes brains to reason. And absolutely nothing to swallow stuff. And it's getting increasingly interesting for me to see how people confuse spirituality with religion. Looking at it, I think, it would be best for me to study religion, better and more satisfying than studing abnormal psychology. I mean, it's a whole world of disease out there. Except that's now what we call it, is it?

Not one thing would be the same if we didn't have the religious inclinations of the Almighty into consideration while running the world. It's even worth thinking if your city would be called what it is if the people had turned out different. Thinking about what you would've been like is a different ball game altogether. Consider religion, society, choices, decisions, regions, races, similarities and disparities. And yes, people still think studying numbers and formulaes is oh-so-wow, well, intelligent. Talk about people, eh?

The cultural landscape, the urban landscape, even the natural landscape. What you're wearing right now. What you're sitting on. What you're sipping on and what you took a bite of last. Look at how you've cut your hair. It is society who states that guys have shorter hair. Girls have longer. Someone's studying, someone's working. Someone's smoking, someone's in jail. Births and reincarnations. Saving lives and taking lives. Loving and hating. Choosing criteria. What would have Anarchy done. Would rights and duties been regulatory if we didn't have a number of distinctions of the basis of religion and caste and gender.

Wouldn't there have been Peace? Wouldn't people be learning the same stuff, teaching the same stuff, feeling the same feelings? And very well be sharing what the world had to offer. And I don't think cultures are totally dependent on religion.

Too much of the angry ranting. But really, people should take it easy sometimes. Hello, one can't own someone else's life. They believe in God and then they think they ARE god.

Something really miraculous happened. Ordinary. But incredibly miraculous for an eleventh grader who keeps surpising herself. A 9/10 on an article I had to write in the english exam. It was 99% rant. So it just turns out I have to turn aggressive towards anything.. and the job's done. I get it. Being "extreme" helped a lot. Moderating things doesn't help at all. Moderate something and you'll be having moderate effect on everything around you. Who remembers someone's who's the same all the time?

Explaining it, 9's the highest you can go. I've NEVER been there before. Close, but never quite there. Life just turned my way. Finally. There are some words - like "euphoria" and "pure joy" that I type a lot, say a lot, but then I hardly ever feel it. And this was one real experience.

Emotions are the essence of life :D

And yes, Delhi 6. Beautiful movie. Music. Lyrics. Just the way I like it. Of course, everyone likes stuff they can relate to. And there was much of that in it. Sure, matches RDB, and goes a notch better too. For me at least. Loved it. :)

And it also gives me immense joy in laughing out loud, when I recall this guy in his late teens getting out of the theatre and yelling out to his friends: "Worst movie ever. Time waste." Look what we're leading to, India. People would rather see idiots dancing and prancing about in clowns' gear- which is of course, what I call "normal" clothes, rather than get inspired to, if they're not already, to get their country in shape and DO something. Not sing and dance.

Typical local scenario. They sing and dance. Whoa, it's the teachers' day, we respect our teachers, we love them yes, let us all dance. And bore them to death. And have a blast. And bore them to death. Thank you. Not. And oh no, it August 15, let's sleep in. And let's sleep in yet again. And again. And. Again.

Life's a party for most of them.. but they just dance to the music.

They don't face it.

3 February 2009

Uninspired. Pt.1.

Mediocre sunshine peeked in through the stained and cracked glass, on the only window in the apartment. Plaster peeled off the walls and she could smell the dampness. A baby was crying somewhere and outside, street-vendors were out already shouting and yelling and pedalling. Pushing or pulling. Morning-tea smell wafted all around the building. How she hated tea. How she hated the sounds, the smells, the gnawing feeling of helplessness.

The same dreary, dusty place. The same emptiness. The same couch and the same wobbly bed. Dust covered corners of the room, the doorway to the kitchen. The doorway that had no door.

A leaky tap in the kitchen had been making awful noise all night and she didn't have the money to get it repaired. Tying a rag around it had done absolutely nothing except making it worse. She hadn't slept all night and her head throbbed with a dull pain that had become typical to her mornings.

She got up from the thin mattress which she had covered out of habit by a moth-eaten, faded cloth she had been carrying with herself since she had left home.
Out of habit, again, and not vanity, she stood up and unknowingly, lazily shuffled and dragged her feet over to the dressing table. And stared back at her reflection.

A stranger in the mirror. Kohl smeared, sleepy eyes looked back at her. She had been wearing the same set of clothes for four days straight now. And she was sure she smelled, but she couldn't tell. There was grime under her fingernails. A couple were broken, a few others about to. A soiled bandaid was tighly wrapped around her left index finger.. result of a gruesome accident in the kitchen, trying to cut onions with a blunt knife.

She ran her hand through her hair and her half-broken nails pulled out some strands. It hurt. Banging footsteps on the corridor outside. Neighbour's children. One squealed, and the other shrieked. And their mother bellowed at them, yelled at them, and then began complaining in that nasal, annoying monotone. And she carried on all day, with the clinking of the utensils, with the swish-swash of the water, with the flapping of wet clothes being hung up, the story of her life. Her consistent babble of which only she was the listener in addition to being the speaker.

The mirror rattled as someone on the other side hammered a nail into the wall. Presumably. A glass of water lay on the floor. The water rippled, splashed, the glass tilted and then the water was spilt, splashing on the floor. It ran across to her feet and travelled all around them and in between. She stepped out of the puddle and moved towards the window. Her feet made dirty brown footprints on the already filthy floor. The floor felt slippery under her bare feet as she reached the window. Leaning on the ledge she peered outside and it was the same.

Like everyday. Never changing. Bicyclists. Scooters. Cars. Trucks. The sun shone strong on all of them. It was like a spotlight gone wrong. It was too strong and it was too hot. It was yellow and brown. And hazy. Noises on the road and noises in her head. Dust swirled up from the street and covered her thinking. Her eyes stung and she recoiled violently, a mad coughing fit. She sat down against the wall, wheezing. Water.. water.. it wasn't there. She trembled and laid her head against the solidness of the wall. It was not even remotely cool, just hard, solid wall. And it smelled bad.

She was thirsty and hungry. Getting up with a groan she went to the kitchen and dug out a mouldy loaf of bread from the fridge that didn't work. And decided to use whatever butter was left of the small packet she'd bought last week. Taking the knife she scraped all of it off and smeared it across a slice of bread. It barely covered one. Breakfast for one.

With food in her hand, on the way to the couch, she banged the switchboard to make the ceiling fan work. She hadn't even noticed it had stopped. Well, it didn't feel that there was a fan in the room, anyway. Chewing the hard tasteless, crusty slice of bread she scratched her leg unknowingly. After finshing eating she ran her hands over her stomach, trying to sooth the rumbling. Like a baby who won't stop crying.

The room smelled musty, the fan clattered and clattered and then stood still. Unmoving. She sighed deeply and drew her legs up on the couch. Rolled into a ball and nuzzling the arm of the couch, cried. She knew she was the only one crying. She knew she was the only one crying for herself.

Now there was thumping on the ceiling. A noise.. it sounded like glass smashing. On something. Someone. She didn't care. Not anymore.. she started sobbing uncontrollably and rolled onto her side. She wished that only holding her breath could make her die. But it was insane. It was impossible.

Getting up.. lying on the dusty green couch, with painful eyes and a cramp in her neck. And numb all over. Panic grabbed her as she wondered where she was. And then it dawned on her slowly.. but steadily. Fear, as her heartbeat, mounting till she could take it no more. She screamed. At the top of her voice. With all the air she could gather in her lungs. She could hear a million other voices screaming with her.

The room grew silent all at once. A constant ringing sound took its place. She realized the screaming was in her head. She hadn't made a sound. But her throat hurt. Judging by the sounds of crickets and the coldness she felt.. it must be well into the night. But the traffic never ran out. Old bollywood songs could be heard from across the street. Baritone voices mixed with the unbearable noise of speeding, screeching and honking vehicles. Her head thudded with a piercing, pounding pain. Her shoulders ached.

Tears sprang up in her eyes. She felt a lump rise in her throat. She felt her face burning up, her ears going hot and the hair on the back of her hand prickling up. Hugging herself she whimpered till the sobbing stopped. Like a ghost, she went over to the window and smelled the air. It smelled of night. And rotting garbage. She noticed the traffic was relatively less than it was in the morning but it made the same clattering noise, the sounds of metal against metal. The rumbling. The unearthly vibrations.

She turned around and crossing the room in long strides reached the door and stepped out. Stained mosaic floor. Broken bottles lay on one side, on another were newspapers. Probably were used to pack something in.

May as well wait for the elevator.. she pressed the button with her left thumb. Ten seconds.. It rattled up. Metallic clinks echoed all around the corridors and she thought to herself. She should be scared. But nothing was child's play anymore. As she could see it coming up towards her.

Up. Up. Up.. she imagined it. Imagined a skeletal face with a scar right across it, skin stretched tight against the gruesome grotesqueness of a face she'd never seen. Sunken eyes. Lips curled in a sneer. Eyes darting in every direction. An ugly half-smile pasted across its face. It was coming. Coming towards her in the smelly elevator.

No. It may even be running, gliding, sliding towards her on the stairs. On her right. No, on her left. She was sure it was coming towards her right now. Not in the lift. But now she could almost feel its ratlling breath on her neck. The smell of fear. Closing in on her. Her heart beat wildly, she could feel it throbbing at the base of her neck. Her throat was constricting quickly. She gasped for breath. And gulped down a mouthful of air.

At the second the lift reached the floor, she clutched the iron rods and started shaking it back and forth. But then she felt weak and stopped. Finally she managed to drag open the door. Inside was a three-legged wooden stool, the liftman was supposed to sit here. But she had never seen him. Inside or out of it.

The life stank of cigarette smoke. There were etchings all over the sides. Names and phone numbers. Some wrote names of Gods. Some had scratched in vulgarities. It still made her snicker. Sound of the breath she took in echoed around the narrow walls of the elevator. It lurched to a stop on the ground floor.

Without looking at anything, not even once. She ran out the main door out into the pavement. There was no-one. Just cold air swishing around her. It made her happy for a moment. This was perfect. Just "perfect". She looked up at the sky and took in a deep breath. She saw just a little right of her, a speeding truck was rushing in closer. Closer. At last, this had lasted a long time, she thought.

She stepped out into the road.

26 January 2009

"Nothing much.. " Sure.

I don't know what kind of people seek refuge in writing.

I have to get rid of the TV. And to think I hated the mere sight of that screen some months ago. I've been reading too much of the surveys and stuff and they say watching the television is for depressed folk. What do I make of it? But anyway, watching three movies in a day is pretty cool. I mean three full movies. I've seen parts of six or seven in a day but I'm aiming at 4 full ones next.

And also, I just read multitasking's not good for you and you should do one thing at a time. Or you never get anything finished. Well, I could never get anything finished in the first place anyway. But I thought multitasking was a rare talent. Yay me. I've been known to read, eat, watch TV and listen to music at the same time. And daydream about something/someone completely different with it.

Every year the Republic Day is turned into a 4 hour escape/torture into the fantastic/revolting world of awards. Okay, add badges, ties and blazers. Green and blue and maroon. The last one more like brown. Had the first look at it today. They could really try searching for a better word, 'cause hello.. it is NOT "uniform" we are talking about. Take a friggin' look at the dictionary.

13 days to go for the Exams and nothing's done yet. I'm busy doing nothing. It's an art though. The world's got too many perfectionist overachievers to experience something as laid-backness. Okay, laziness for some. But who cares? ;D