Live Your Illusions

Dilli Delirium

2011-11-27T16:05:00.004+05:30

Crossing past the India Gate, lit up like a bride. Late at night. Time to kill.. for the first time ever.

Stepping out of a car and actually going near the monument after sundown. When I was running through the picture in the car, drowsy and content.. with my father right next to me, lost in his own ruminations of life. And I, not a care in the world, but still as worrysome, little lines furrowed my forehead, but meant nothing more than simple everyday observance from the window. Ah, windows. What is life without them. Just where it’s nice.. not out there and not inside.

Those precious moments of dependence. Of being taken care of. The slightly warm breeze lulled me into a broken sleep. Passing by lamp-post after lamp-post and one huge bungalow after another. The soft light from the streetlamps were a favourite kind of lighting for my screenplayed dreams.

And my mind hurried to a guy running the length of one empty road after another, rid of people, skidding on turns and crossing roads. While dogs wandering along lonely roads turned towards him and stared wonderingly with their huge puppy dog eyes.

The scene was being played in my mind without loop, unending. Vivid and lucid. The guy running down an empty road. Panting and sweating, he needed to get somewhere as soon as possible. He looked about nineteen. Beethoven played amazingly in the background and the rustle of the trees, it sang a song of longing.

And he crosses the distance, reaches India Gate and in utter loneliness falls to his knees. And he looks up, I see his back dark, contrasted against the magnificent golden bokeh of the great monument. No reason of rhyme can I see in this expect the sheer poetry.

And I am awoken by screeches and car noises. These beasts of metal and rubber. I sigh and feel the dull pain in my neck which I’m so used to, sleeping there awkwardly. What was I thinking. Oh, yes, of course.

And we get there and park a long way away. Nizamuddin’s not far. A walk around the Gate and we’ll be on our way home. I step out and turn to look. And the place is populated like it was a month of Sundays and holidays packed into one night.

Those little people look devilish from out here. Wait, devilish? My mind is still in the Secret Dreams mode. But they are there. Devil’s horns alight on almost every head. Well, look at that. I’ve seen these before but not so many. Not at night. Not in public. Grown men wandered along the place. Did they not see it? It must be fun. Of course. What do I know about fun.

They were in a place where the glowing redness defines them all. Alarm and absurdity. It was comical and .. Crustacean, somehow. Or how it ends up that every sentence I type is a fragment worth revising. The scene was a reality worth revising. What was the almighty doing. Buying one of these? Why can’t I be the one with the horns AND a pointy tail to boot. Muhahahaing between all those people while they ignore me with their merrymaking. Busy and bustled into one huge mess called life.

Little parachute men being propelled into air and then caught into the hands of human helicopters who are their base on ground. Do they fly with these little men? Engrossed in some twisted mechanics of a twisted business?

I don’t stay long but the walk around it is peaceful. But the presence of the human race is always a little disturbing, specially when my Dream protagonist is kneeling there alone. Walking past the ice cream and the kulfi stands, all crowded, we get back in the car.

Passing some out-of-the-world graffiti on the way, which probably would mean something if I could stand there are see it. Street art museums.

There’s a man with a wooden leg. Hobbling away, a fictional pirate lost in the murky waters of New Delhi? All of them can be turned into different stories of their own but somehow they get stuck in one.

The Railway station is also a year of smelly Sundays. All those lives put into one big boiling pot of breath and blood, slowly stirring on its own. Somehow it’s always hard imagining a white ghostlike mighty hand turning it over. And causing it to boil to the brink just for the fun of it.

It’s always a prayer that the Man in the sky is a good chef, or we are all cooked. Badly.

Open your heart, I'm coming home.

2011-11-19T16:21:00.001+05:30

Putting these rusty fingers to some well deserved exercise.. I decide to type something, anything down. What else does a bored pseudo writer do when her exams are 5 days away and the impending doom can be magnified exponentially by getting into a dreamer, couldn't-care-less mindframe about it.

People commenting on posts out of the blue, spur a person to write a little. But believe me, words pour out on this pixelated whiteness only when the thought of someone reading is not a certain reality. Coming to something to write about.. the First City is something that makes you fall in love with it and clenches you with steely sharp claws which feel warm and feather soft while wincing in wondrous pain.

Living is Delhi has its own twisted renderings. Rather than thinking of home as this pleasant place where I can get away from the bipolar weather and compromised living conditions, it's gotten me to a point when home is not far away. While home I cannot do half the things that I take for granted here at this freedom mongering city. As they say, home is where the heart is. The memories of seven year old weekends stay in the mind as clear as the fact of waking up a little past mid-day after a night full of Dexter Season 5 on the loop.

And the evenings spent on overpriced Tibetan and Lebanese appetizers 10 minutes away can well be the evenings strolling near your home gazing at rocks with extraordinary shapes and picking through discarded treasure troves in your car garage. And I discover I have a great career as an Antiques dealer.

It is reassuring that I do not forget words during the non blogging months in my life. Rather than non-blogging days they are the thinking-about-blogging days and some days it's just blogging. Okay, some hours. Or.. some minutes. I gather I should do this more often but I'm scared of people reading it and sending me to a shrink.

Speaking about Delhi, the best thing college does, except the general awesomeness, is the extra awesome people it gets you to see perform, speak and get inspired by. Poetry and the lack of it. And what that entails. About left brains and right brains. And the blind fanaticism and closed mindedness of those who think not in poetry. It takes special kind of people to not lead the world towards
destruction.

And those are the ones who have a streak of madness in their lives. Someone who looks for order everywhere will destroy the things he does not find fitting into his own little package of the "world" for him. Neat lines cannot run through humanity. Peace is a chaotic but loveable existence where acceptance lives within everyone.

Share. Is a word which might mean different things to different people. A sense of entitlement which is neighbours with your ego might get in a couple of arguments. But different strokes for different folks. The world's a village and the village idiot can only blog about things.

And the idiot likes truths scattered in free verse. Rumi and the works. Who, unfortunately, was as I can presume, googled by a number of people after watching a certain movie. Along with the Lizard King. I thought about writing a full fledged post-review for it but passed. Because it doesn't really deserve it. Although I liked the "abrupt" ending, it was something that disappointed "people".

Stories like these are better expressed in a book because a movie is seen but not seen. With the sense that it should be filtered with. I could bash a number of people and things here but the movie was sufficiently awkward and weirdly edited. A strange amalgamation of mongrel music. And NOT in the good sense. It was taking an average person's life and fitting unsuccessfully into greatness. Doesn't work for me. The protagonist, a little more than expected, was believable while everything else remained superfluous and bitter tasting.

Maybe if I watch it for a second time.. I'll skip parts. It ruins the wintery university feeling with their treatment of familiar locations, kind of unforgivable.

People worshipping other people and the concept of being a "fan" or fanatic to the point of crazed devotion is admittedly weird. Never have I worshiped a proper "god" that we talk about living gods. Thoughts close to the heart being reflected, as I've already noticed, by other people evoke this sense of achievement. And the biggest yet, is that which was put into words. That archetypes should not be made into heroes.

To certain people, traditional gods are the celebrities. Their lives followed "religiously". The next time grandma complains about modern day gods, retort back with the millions following the page 3 tabloid culture on their gods. Considering how it came to be as sacred as it is today, that's a whole different ball game with hidden motives in daylight and blah blah.

This is a messed up place to live in. And if anyone asks me what's the point of studying History, it's definitely finding about how the world became the funny joke that it is today. Till next time. As lines get added to the funniness.

PS - The title is borrowed from the Pink Floyd song 'Hey You'. Old love.

Grandness of Grey.

2011-07-10T09:24:00.000+05:30

What happens when after you decide to settle down for the nigh.. err, rest at 5 in the morning after the all nighter infront of the TV watching weekly reruns of White Collar and Burn Notice. Wait, why did I not discover Burn Notice till now. Oh maybe because of the time. 3 am? Emily Rose made me a very reluctant non believer.

But. Good enough to be wasting time infront of the TV all night. The whole world's dead. Might as well. The rest of the hours you can pretend they are. Time moves too fast when the eyes are glued to the idiot box. Time makes idiots of us all, Jo. Wondering about the legal, criminal fetish here.. well, it sells. Thinking of why the hell do Big Bang Theory and other good stuff have to clash. Missing Castle all of a sudden. And there is it. White Castle. You know, you make a movie and you get it stuck in poor impressionable people's brains.

Voldemort, there are easier ways to be immortal. And there are these sleepy hunger pangs. Of just very forgetful. Flipping between channels. Cursing the lack of good music on TV and on the radio. And it's finally 5 and it's bed time. Sluggishly turning the TV off, the lights off, etcetera. Well, here's getting back to your for the early mornings I've been burdened with for eons. Now it's a late night. Adios.

But then just catching a glimpse of the grey sky from the window, it has to experinced on the whole. And messing stupidly with the laptop for a little while.. it's up to the roof where the dog follows. My mom's cute realisation on how the term 'puppy love' came about. He manages to be quiet this morning, though. A big relief at that. Only sniffing and snuffling.

And the horizon with the brazen buildings, before it the monsoon green grass, like a carpet, all laid along to the railway line. Above the buildings, leaving a margin around three fingers wide, of a whiter shade of grey and then there were the black clouds of doom. Of torrential rain. Of heaven on earth.

But then the winds of change just felt like breezing by and it was done for. And the gentle gypsy movement of the wispy black clouds as they disperse and gather together, .. turning lighter by the second.. blowing away like puffs of smoke. But the sky's still grey, the day's still good. The morning still a miracle.

Been ages since I saw an actual sunrise.. the sun not exactly being there was such a plus. And the school morning come back to me in a rush. Rushing past the beautiful weather and dreading the cool air, knowing that it wouldn't last. And there was no time to just enjoy it while it lasted. Now it was such sweet revenge. The real experience. Sometimes with an unnaturally good imagination, one tends to forget that the real thing can be better.

Looks like I just needed to get up early.. or not go to sleep at all. And then just not sleep. And not worrying much, because it'd take me ten sleepless nights for it to actually be fatal. On one hand I wish I had taken a picture of the merciful beautiful clouds, and on the other I'm glad I didn't have any good batteries because NO WAY I could've done justice to the sight. And more importantly, even if the picture turned out to be amazing, it still wouldn't define a fraction of the awesomeness the morning contained.

Feel the decade old feet stepping away from home, moving away, while I stood grounded staring into the magnificence. The hugeness of it all was consuming and ethereal. Only at some places and some occasions does the sky look humongous. Like on an open field, it looked like a heavenly dome covering every one of us. Only thing needed was being barefoot on a dew drenched lawn.

Mostly, moving towards school, the weather would feel like a dream along half way. When everyone was either slumbering away in their dreams or their lives and there would be a lull of sweet love all around. Now there's so pattering roof above my head and all there is is the open sky. And wide open eyes staring, a wonderful prize. A devotion sans disguise. A desire to be swept up and taken away.

The surreal grey and speckled blurred white with all it's glory.
I wish I hadn't gone to sleep all these days lately.
Hoping for a grey-er morning tomorrow.

2011-05-04T22:21:00.001+05:30

It all started on a clear autumn morning when I was getting ready to go to school. Another god damn day of absolute boredom and whiling away precious time. Reading textbooks was never a very wise option. There were enough distractions, and never anything too interesting to think about.

Always too much to imagine. Too little to do. Less work. More play. Somehow. It all fitted in this neat little box of everyday school time normalcy. Looking at normal people act out their made up idea of life. Carrying out self assigned duties and living on the rights they thought they had over their life. While being so oblivious to exactly how slave-like their existence was to just simply every little thing around them.

Maybe it started on multiple days getting ready for school. Maybe every day.. getting ready for more crap everyone had to dish out to the world. Every day, waiting for it to end. Every day. Waiting for everything to make sense. Something to make sense. Everyone to? Someone to? Maybe waiting .. expecting myself to stop expecting. Some day. Some time. Soon. Maybe.

Wondering all the time going through all of this.. what kind of a mental disease is this exactly. Not caring most of the time. Making personal commentary on everything that went on. The madness. Did it go on outside? Or was it inside? Life is just made up of an impossibly long string of rhetorical questions.

Was it an autumn morning? Just a personal version of an Indian autumn. When the monsoon said a weak goodbye. Not wanting to leave me be.. nor did I want to part. Not so easily. Always so heartbreaking. And when the winter sent towards us those cold, damp droughts which I personally liked. It was just a slightly colder version of the sometimes warm misty rain that blessed us on some very lucky days.

It just makes the clockwork of the brain go around so well. Like a little phase of life. A little phase of a normal stressful day.. like the night when I am not as tired as I want myself to be. Never as tired. As the Beatles put it.. a hard day’s night. When I would’ve had been working like a dog the whole damn day and should’ve been sleeping like a log at this time in the night. But I’m not because of the things that I do. It won’t let me be.

Tip tap tip tap. Who doesn’t love the sound of uninterrupted pitter patter raining of words on the blank screen. Like this. All so blank and nice with little black letters forming on the screen. It’s like some real mind magic. God. Makes me a believer. It’s like sufi music when you’re alone and the sun’s shining hard and hot on you.Standing there alone on the roof, standing mindlessly against the railing, looking at the horizon. Feeling your bare feet on the slightly scorching floor. That old nostalgic feeling of cold water being splashed on dust or earth or hard, hot granite. Love it. The smell of it. The sheer shining sights of nostalgia it invokes. Or peace. Like the strums of a lone guitar trembling on to your earbuds..

Sounds of a soft drum drumming drumming.. That little tinkle of a cymbal. Or a loud disoncerting, yet welcome tremble. Random random random. Just like right now. Unsequential ununderstandable. Uninteresting maybe. Unsung, probably. But mine.

The dry summer. Feeling the sun on your brow. Trying to keep it unfrowning. Unseen. The distant horizon. Alone and alive. The sun beating down on you. The music beating to your heartbeat. When everything’s as clear as the summer azure sky. Cloudless. Just blue. Blue all around.

The heart swirling around like a blissful whirling dervish.

Free.

When life is as it is. Not how it should be. On a summer afternoon, alone with the horizon. Hot. Hungry for more. Hung up on life. Happy. Hostile. Home.

Without people. Pain. Perceptual pureness, peppy personalities. Pettiness. Pink pins prickling. So pristine. So unreal.

All ponderous. Pensive. Puns are perverseness. Persuasion and pasty wallpapers to the walls on your brain. Splattered with a plethora of inks and a multitude of injections of intentions. Insiduous. Insane. Ingrained. Preserved and maintained. Whitewashed, put in chemical X and Y and Z. And everything bled.

While the world worked in grey and monochrome. White and black. Like little books on a rack. Not a hundred thousand loose frayed pages of flack. Faulty forays. Faded deadends. Cut up and curated. Ready to be arranged. Sequentially. But never done. Too hard. Too soon.

Those little books on a little book rack. Filled into a sack. And

burned black.

Flexing the phalanges.

2011-04-05T16:34:00.000+05:30

I’m so sorry. This is pretty much directed to myself more than anyone else. But due apologies to ANYone who was looking forward to posts. This tiny show of creativity is such a shame. Going by the saying that if you don’t use your brain it stops working or something along that line, I’m just going to push the little sleepy Escribtionist in my to just pelt out any kind of rubbish that can be written. So you’ve been warned. If you cannot handle everyday common rant just click on the little x on the upper right corner of the screen.

So I’ve been into devouring the newspaper for hours. Laziness and procrastination plus the old habit to give the same amount of importance to every little piece of writing that interests me. It’s just only after a couple of hours of broken newspaper reading and facebooking and day dreaming that I realize that I have to slog through the rest of the newspaper now. Can’t just abandon it.

And being the classic procrastinating perfectionist that I am, I actually THINK and talk to myself about things mundane to the common aadmi. Like the story in our Individual and Society textbook in which the writer talks about a little article on the plight of peacocks during a nuclear test that distresses him more than the effects of the nuclear bombs itself. He had a particular name for it. Which I’ll type as soon as I gather the energy to pick up the book from the shelf. *sigh*

In particular, yesterday’s newspaper was a real piece of art. A masterpiece. With the World Cup win covering almost all of it (yes!!). For the very first time I’m happy sports took up so much of space. AND I am sure I will not reach the same level of ecstaticness ever (exception : if India wins the World Cup again). One particular piece which caught me by surprise was that our own skipper Dhoni was a Railway TC at Kharagpur before he played cricket professionally. Wow. I mean, wow. Neither did my roomie know it. I may have heard it before but I may not have been actually interested enough in knowing about the man himself.

Now that he’s deemed the hero of the nation. Going into another territory that of choices and it’s outcomes. There’s the part that makes me very, very insanely happy and hopeful. For someone who doesn’t trust her choices too much (and is ALWAYS imagining up alternative scenarios), the move from the profession of a ticket collector to that subsequently of the CAPTAIN of the INDIAN CRICKET TEAM is astounding. Terribly, terribly astounding.

I’m always stressing about where do I throw the newspapers. I did get to donate them the last time but THIS one, sir.. is gonna be forever in my treasure trove. Morever, there were some more little articles of brilliance. Like the one about

Maybe I sound like a newbie to news, but maybe I just AM. Rediscovering paper news. But can’t they award a special distinction to 30 pages of pure awesomeness. That’s probably just my heart speaking. But what the hell. TOI FTW. Just cyberly much.

Another article spoke about some housewives turning wasteland into a herbal garden all on their own. While some people went against it and tried to discourage them, in more ways than one. They put in their own money and just went ahead. That's what makes it happen.

And I am rediscovering Rehman’s music with some of his older songs which I didn’t go into much. But since they were convered by Underground Authority at a fest, it was a treat discovering them. His earlier work sounds so much different in some ways and all the same in some. Much of it depends on the lyrics too. Hindi lyrics always sound so much more soulful. One example is the song from Guru called Shauk Hai. And Jaage Hain which has this crescendo of pure emotion. Needless to say I used to listen to that during the exams, pulling all nighters. It didn't make much of difference, except it made me feel like it did.

But of course, the song will have better meaning with something bigger.

Talking about something bigger, there was an out of the line article I saw today as well as yesterday. Today it was about the cricket hater's reaction to the World Cup frenzy. Of course I can sympathise, except when the World Cup FINALS are on with the country in it. Otherwise I can be as hypocritical as possible. Another article was on women striving for a 'male standard' at work while being the wife and mother. And the thing which clinched it were several facts, that I didn't know earlier, like women being more vulnerable to effects of smoke, having smaller airways, having less tolerance to alcohol, 42 percent women dying within the first year of having heart attaks, etc. etc. It's pretty dismal looking at these facts. The final one being that the male child of a woman who smokes may be born with a lesser number of testicular cells. Isn't that nice?

Another was about the Atheist and Freethinkers in the US Army 'coming out', so to say. Letting people know that they are there. The writers talks about being a non-believe or non-Christian in the army went against the norm. But that only just reifnorces that religion supports violence here. Just a few minutes back I came across an even on Facebook of a Balaclava march on the Royal Wedding Day, starting at Soho Sqaure in London. An excerpt from the description - "In defiance of the police abbusing the intrusive Section 60 powers to remove face coverings and search you at the recent 26th March protests. My proposal is that hundreds, if not thousands of us march with our faces covered." It's through a line of pages on Anarchy that I came across this.

And Shobaa De's article on the Mahatma being a gay icon. With it being banned in Gujarat and Tushar Gandhi calling the move very "Un-Gandhian". For starters, that's what happen when you put people on a pedestal. It was his life and we here can do nothing about what he felt and did. Even if it's only been just suggested. Looking at the reaction in these circumstances, it can only be imagined what would've happened if it'd been proved.

It's not a new concept of people being in a very close relationship based on sharing the same viewpoints, ideals and respect towards each other. But when it comes to someone as revered as him, it all comes down to national pride. A pride of a nation of homophobes. Even the suggestion scares them to no end. I don't understand what part of love do you not like. How does gender even define love. How can anyone even point fingers and say anyhthing about two girls or two guys in love. It must be unthinkable for them to imagine someone making fun of them being in a heterosexual relationship. But the same unthinkableness SHOULD have been there in the homosexual mind. But it isn't. Which is the main deterrent for them for "coming out".

The Kevil Keller character in the Archie comics will now have his own comics. He's just a guy. But for those who don't know, he's openly gay in the series. The most I saw of him was online with the cover showing him falling for Archie. But WHY does everyone fall for Archie. That's an argument saved for later, perhaps. Mane cartoonists have too dealt on that topic but it's pretty hard to understand, but being GIVEN he's the most wanted guy here, it takes a lot of time for anyone to question his credibility as Riverdale's sweetheart. I would say it's the same with Shah Rukh Khan.

I could just go on about everything.

Saw the movie Monster, on the life of Aileen Wuornos, the female serial killer who was exceuted in 2002. I didn't even need to look for this info again since I now just know everything about her. Videos of her interviews in prison are on YouTube. I suggest the movie to anyone who'd like to indulge in good cinema. But while being a very violent movie of sorts, it's the most sensitive one I have seen in days. I'm rediscovering watching a string of movies too. Since reading doesn't involve that much of a visual indulgence. Of course, imagine I can. But there's just been too much of that lately. There are a lot many movies to be reviewed in the days ahead.

Falling in love with The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony. With the soul stirring music and the lyrics as though have come out of my very own heart. Cut up and just stolen.

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Trying to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet yeah

No change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change
But I'm here in my mind
I am here in my mind
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mind
No, no, no, no, no, no..

And every word speaks truth.

Mundane Monotony.

2011-03-04T22:21:00.003+05:30

Three months is a break long enough from my beloved estranged blog. Time to reconcile, kiss and make up and head towards another break up. So let's see.

Coming out from the cinema, all good movie drugged up. 7 Khoon Maaf. Well, definitions differ and how they do. Sometimes they are bigger than items of pure entertainment. And hidden symbolism that some people find are beyong their little bubble. Or maybe some of the big headed freaks want to get out of things ideas they don't really possess but which possess the person.

Sadly, normal popcorn movies cannot be relied on. And there has to be some degree of dependence on the movies that keep your hands away from the popcorn tub and hovering about different little things in the movie. The quirks and the questions and answers and little adorable admonitions to the mind.

So what finally pushed me to finally type something out here on the blank white I've been keeping away from for these "busy" months.. a couple walking behind me. The guy explaining to the girl who Ruskin Bond is and that the movie is based on one of his short stories. Well, she finds it hard to understand who the guy is. How hard can it be to infer the meaning of "a very famous writer". And the fact that movie is based on a story. I hope she knows what a story is. Unless she's been living under a rock. The rock would've cried tears of anguish.

I narrate this incident to my father and he laughs and tell me some people just don't believe in reading and writing so much. Well? There must be a certain amount of "reading and writing" an average person does. Maybe that has gone way, way down or maybe I have been living under a rock. And I am pretty happy living there until someone somewhere knocks it over.

And on my way, all throughout.. I'm standing there on the Metro, between two girls who are discussing some pseudo important issue regarding some people. And I wonder what would've happened if the situation with the couple be reversed and the guy's asking the girl the questions. Or would that even happen. Guys I've known have always known things like who's who. Not in the page 3 sense, of course. But even that.

I spent around five minutes wondering how many girls around me in the Metro knew who Ruskin Bond is. Or are they too stuck up in their own pretty world to look at the rest of the ugly world. Or will stuff continue happening and what flashes infront of my eyes is a makeup brand stall that graced our canteen lawn with their presence today. Is that all it means to them? Cash in on the all girls college? Gullibe little girls who think caking on makeup will solve all their problems. Turn them into a princess maybe.

There's a lot to say about that. But things rush through all the time. And there's not enough time to write it. Maybe the problem is not enough reading, it's the sheer thought that they don't need to read. I know girls who'd go through their life without touching a sheet of paper that does not give them marks or is not related to a celebrity.

Or well, even if they read.. it's stuffed with subliminal ideas that permeate into their brain with a lot of love and no reality.

Maybe guys have an upper hand at being the better equipped in the grey matter group when they know they gotta deal with it in the real world. Not to say women don't work, but I do not spend my days with totally awesome working age women now. And I don't encounter eighteen year old males enough, face to face than I can dish out deserving insults at them. And those I do I won't say are much lacking in the mind matters.

But without making this a long monologue about anti feminist feminism, let's move on to the movie of the moment. And the moment's a long one. Going by the reviews I found on the net, the makeup is not cakey, the art direction was not overdone and the acting was awesome. I don't know what's deviating them from the story. I think it's a wonderful depiction with fresh, witty dialogues and a different mean streak to it. But I think it's a continuation of the crush I had on Delhi 6 with the pang of love for 7 Khoon Maaf. I mean what's not to like about a mainstream awareness created on sadomasochism. An obsession with poisonous mushrooms, a plagiarising rockstar gone wrong, an insecure soldier of war, a desperate police officer, a cheating Hindi-speaking Russian, and a very, very disturbed woman who's yet gone on to maintain her sanity enough. Reminds me of Dahl's dark fiction.

Not to mention the treat it is for the lovers of language. Dyachenko's seemingly funny shuddh Hindi that's so rare to the native ears. And Shah's amazingly accurate Bengali accent. Khan's Urdu. Also worth loving were the tiny lines here and there which give a difinite shape to the timeline. From the Berlin Wall to the recent Taj firings.

But more than that it's the whole idea of psychological extravaganza that the movies portrays that tends to snatch up my fancy. I only wish I was studying psychology right now to delve more into it. But so naturally, it's better handing in my own interpretations, because Freud and other "scholars" were just only thinking individuals too.

I think movies certainly reach out to a much larger group than books. And it's time someone did something about everything. Been thinking so helplessly that this world stands no chance until the demand for good genes is inclined towards the demand for good brains.

And when girls get enough time to stop looking at themselves in the mirror enough to look at the world and think instead. Specially when those books does them no good. Preaching ideas of a male perfection and the helpless damsel in distress syndrome who can't spoon up even her breakfast without the "comfort" of having someone in their lives. No taking names.

What's scary is that these girls will be tomorrow's women. And the men are gonna be running behind them. I'm going to get nightmares tonight.

This all was probably much of mindless judgments. But when things and mindless, it happens. I was gonna write something about people's opinion on war but more important things come up :P ;)

Also, the stong slashes of religious symbolism that decorate the movie, for those who have seen it. The idea of forgiveness reminds me of a Spiderman 3 quote:

"You want forgiveness? Get Religion."

2010-11-27T23:18:00.001+05:30

She pressed the phone to her ear and hmm-ed absent mindedly while she scanned the screen mindlessly. And thought about nothing in particular. It's so easy blurring your thoughts to an almost incoherent buzz in the background. It all dulled to a certain black spot in the back of her mind. And she pushed it all in, it got sucked into it as if like a tiny black hole.

The white screen reflected in the almost black of her eyes and she closed them. And then blinked. Put down the phone. Slid the laptop off her lap. And stood up. Things you do. So human. So meaningless, so harmless. Missing people so much and then not showing it. Showing it and not feeling it. Hiding things, lying, making a show of empty emotions and pulling in raw feelings of perplexing intensity down into the back hole.

And it's almost gagging with the convergence of all that is in the world.

All of it is nothing. And nothing of it is important. Just get if off you, go to sleep.

Long time, old friend.

2010-09-03T16:04:00.001+05:30

It's just one of those days. Fortunately, when I feel like writing. There's been a long hiatus, a very long one. Life's been busy, the mind's been sidetracked into something of a less fantasy-friendly direction.

With all the Historians, their words, ideas and the facts and theories, the vital part of creaitvity was probably being ignored but I think Erich Segal's Only Love tapped into the dozing, lazy writer, jerking up tears, making me miss things, being homesick and citysick and nostalgic. For everything. And every one.

Making me think about the rain at my old house, the pattering on the roof and the partial comforting darkness of the late afternoons, enveloping me in the utter love and the essence of what life is made of.

And I guess the worst thing I hate about the room I'm in now is that it doesn't have a window. Probably the ONLY room I ever saw so unfortunate. It's like being blind. Reminds me of eyes being the windows to the soul.

And it's only through the screams and shouts from the corridor that I come to know that it's raining right now, as I type.

Rain was there yesterday when I went out but strangely it wasn't pleasant enough and that's on rare occasions that I feel that. Waddling through knee-deep dirty water is never pleasant, I think. For any one.

There was some refuge in the rain-time ice-cream tradition we've come to perform. But even that was short-lived.

The streets are generally alive with the college kids, their shopping and their somethingortheothers, but occasionally there's something deeper and thought-provoking for the listless brain and the periodically blind mind's eye.

Like a few days ago passing between the row of buildings, walking on through the somewhat narrow lanes of restaurants, various stores with t-shirts on display, small shops selling momos and the old, old wooden doors of the ancient-looking houses resting in between them, up there, in one of the first floor windows.

Moving my eyes up from the muddy wet ground to the lighted small balcony, I see an old man sitting very near the railing, with his head bowed down to the people passing below, an almost sinister expression on his face, but blank nonetheless. Craze and anger.

Sitting on a small stool.. he stared down at people, moving his head along the direction we went, sitting deathly still, tensed, with just his eyes and then subsequently his head following us. I jerk my head back from looking at him, but can't resist looking back once more just to see if I just imagined it.

But, no, there he is, looking back at me in the eye, blank and strange. I rush on ahead to my friends and decide then to think about it later.

And it's right then that I know that this will be written about. Now or later. Stories started materialising out of think air and I asked if he could be locked up, nah. Or probably just another normal old person angry for just a minute at something trivial. Or what WAS it that made him this way. It could be a number of things ranging from the trivial to insane. But I keep this for sometime else.

There are other eerily amazing things going around in this so-called young people's abode. This University area we see. There are people living here.. in this ancient city, the old houses, the pigeons in the building next door, which I will never understand is lived in or not.

It was my second night here that I spent an hour sitting in a balcony looking at the building, my friends occasionally shining torch light into one of the windows. Empty rooms in the subsequent floor. Thank god for that. The floor below had a cooler fixed on a window and we could see people moving about in the darkness. An old building with the yellow paint peeling apart, the blue beneath it visible.

Sometimes I imagine out building as the Gringotts Bank, with the striking similarity in the shape. Bit smaller, I think. Us Goblins, working on laptops, watching TV, cursing the terrible food. Funny. Never thought of being a Goblin until now.

The building with the plaster peeling off is lovingly named the Pigeon Building by yours truly. A row of pigeons sitting on a window ledge. And just sitting there. Till the end of time. Not even moving a quarter of an inch.

And it's not just the animals.

On the way to McD there comes a series of permanent people on the sidewalk. It's not every time that I notice but then he's not that easily noticeable too. This little figure couched down on the sidewalk, sitting against the wall, covered and wrapped in off-white clothes, and a makedo turban on his head. And I don't even know if he's a he or even his age.

The face is never seen, just the hands outstretched from under the tattered cloth wrapped around his puny shoulders, a small frail figure with his head bowed low, sitting in a corner, not saying a word. Not asking for money , just not doing anything except sitting there hidden with both his hands opened together as if he's holding something precious that we can't see.

Then there are the two little kids who sit with a weighing scale, ignoring it much of the time, as people step over it carefully moving along the narrow sidewalk. While the two little people carefully and meticuolously copy notes from the textbook to their notebook. Discussing with each other something very important while they study. Not more than 7 or 8 years old. And their heads at the right place. Probably siblings, one girl and one boy. Sitting quietly, lost in their own world. Studying.

And such a crude contrast to us "DU students". Take a hint.

Another are other small children selling mint and tiny chocolates, trailing around people, running behind them, shieking in their little childish voices. Yesterday, as it happened, waiting around in a line for the ATM, a "bhaiya" apparently bought a chocolate for my friend and asked this little chocolate seller to give it to her.

And great laughter ensued. For the stretch of time waiting for the ATM, being inside the room and getting away from there. And the poor child trailing behind us all the way pushing the chocolate on to her unwilling indirect customer. She stopped only after we took the chocolate from her. And ran back gleefully shouting that the didi took it. So much happiness.

I'm not getting around to clicking enough pictures, not as much as I want to. Or expect myself too. And writing too. But I think this much will be enough to while away the time being happy with myself for getting something out of my system onto the keyboard and seeing it on the screen. Bliss.

Such picturesqueness. Such inspiration lies in the narrow lanes and the branded stores and the old houses of Delhi 7. The streets, the sounds, the sights. Loving it.

More to come. Very soon. The College. And The People :)

Long Break.

2010-07-12T01:10:00.001+05:30

After a month long back and forth with the First City (okay, the name's plagiarised, but I like it).. finally here for good.

Travelling across all this expanse of varied landscape has me gasping for breath with an unending unstoppable sudden burst of literary ideas from this golden faucet of creativity. And pity, nothing of it is left, evaporated dry until I'm in close vicinity of my laptop or anything that could help in writing of any kind. Note to self - Keep a pen close. Always.

So all that's left is fancy pansy empty words warbled into this small Blogger box.

Anyway, getting on with this utter melodramaticity..

Flitting through these narrow lanes so many times a day, one gets to wonder if they were always this old. And were they EVER new, did they ever get to look new all at once, if someone living there could actually call it a new place. Or if one or the other building came up randomly dimming out all the others, like it happens so often. So every day.

And looks like this will become a Travel blog soon or something totally potpourri to the best. Malls shmalls to roadside stalls, the bottom line is Dilli Haat is the best place ever. Or anything to do with Indianness for that matter. If and when is an important contibuting factor regarding many facets of the ness I just mentioned. Sadly.

Feeling at home with my room which is I will be sharing with my (yet) non-existent room partners.. re-reading Deathly Hallows, which by the way I have read only once before when it came out, in the two days that followed. On the two days I was supposed to study for a Math test and conveniently, and happily, didn't even care to touch the book. Never regretted it. :P

And of course, also managed to spew out a washy review on my older blog, which in fact was the last post on it :/

Wonder why. Not.

And yes, found out about the base book for the first year History. AND, I realised sometime last year during the "free" periods as we, the minority get to have.. I did go yawning around the library and abruptly shut my mouth snatching up these two very random books from the bottom shelf on different occasions, did read a quarter of it.

And would have gone through all of it too if I had a library card. But laziness gets the better of me. And a very active sense of being distracted. Grabbing up a number of books every day, flitting through them and trying to keep some of the names in my memory, with a certain "mental note" which always gets blown off. No stick-it notes. Whoops.

So no full on bragging. Just a quarter, I guess.

I'll need a photo blog soon. And another diary-like blogthing for the crap I have to dish out.

Somethingortheother.

2010-06-02T02:31:00.003+05:30

Only when you're sad do you crave the once comforting sounds and voices of the past and the images which seem to hug you tight and never let go. Like a long lost friend or your very own soul mate. Together forever.

The warmth and the coziness of the late afternoon sun. The slowly receding warmth of the evening, sitting on the backyard stairs. Feeling the hair on the back of your hand rise up very slowly as a cool wind blows through the air which is thick and dense with the warmness and the love of the dying sunshine.

A bird sings here and there and you have no care in the world except to just stay there for as long as you can and as long as you like. Until something equally, if not more loved calls out for you. It was a time of not people, but feelings. Simple, pure feelings. Which had no twisted complications and gruesome mutations. The now tainted will of the girl was then straight and unassuming.

Watching the ants zoom past her big toe and each one of them following the other. The only lone one was her and she didn't want it any other way. Everything else seemed to have someone to be with. The trio of the cats lazing out on the stones, the couple of squirrels scurrying past each other, running around the old mango tree and playing hide n seek.

The rustle of the leaves from somewhere up above. A dead dry branch falling down through the branches and breaking into two coming down to the ground. I trying to find out if I can notice which one is missing and where exactly was it before. But I couldn't of course. A hollowed out mango falling down the next second, attacked and devoured by a red-beaked parrot which holidayed there up above every summer.

Even a peacock, once seen from the balcony, from somewhere or the other where peacocks live. And another peahen, white and grand. Always made me wonder why the males were so showy. I thought that happened only in animals. But then as it just turned out, hilariously, when I found out that was not the case at all.

Going back to simpler times..
It feels strange that I don't remember exactly what I used to think about all the time then. Like I think all the time now. But knowing exactly what was on my mind, then would've been precious to know about now. Facebook was not waving "What are you thinking about?" on me then. It just makes sense how super duper psychology is used in making networking websites turn you narcissistic and self-absorbed, to make it work for you. It's good though. Not all the time, but. This, sometime later, I guess.

There was a time when all thoughts went out to how the world looked to me and not the other way round.

When everything feels like it's going wrong, down the drain, tumbling down.. I try to catch at these fading memories, flying away from me like an important paper, a currency note or maybe a photograph I adore, cherish, can't live without. The wind is taking it away and it's strong. And just as I clutch at it, it drives it farther away.

But somehow I manage to catch that. Somehow. And I capture it and put it down right here where no one can take it away from me. Never. The golden sunshine on the roof, hungry crows gathering around the bread crumbs I put out for them. The sparrows sitting on the bird rest, rolling around in the inch high water pooled from the night before. The dark, cold nights spent out on the balcony thinking about nothing at all.

The least about the future and what will be in it. The questions were all about the world, not my life. Leaning against a tree, feeling the roughness of the bark against my arm, smelling smells from the day and the night. Walking on the iron pipe which led to the water tank. Feeling the coolness below my feet standing near it. And comparing it to the still mildly hot stone of the backyard.

All this and more, making me forget for a moment of what is the present and what of the future.

Things like the frayed end of the jeans, walking barefoot and letting it get more frayed, showing it off if I felt like. The walks on the gravelly path to the patio. Barefoot and dreamy. The feeling of dry grass under the feet. Or the moistness, the wetness and the ticklish feeling of little pebbles. Catching blades of grass between the toes and transporting it back to the non grassy areas. Trying to catch a high up branch or a lone flower hanging high high up, looking pretty and so unachievable. I gave up on it, I didn't want to have it. And so it is, now. It may be very easy to get it. I might get a chair to get the pretty flower on the high branch but I won't.

Just like that. It's just inherent now, not wanting what I can have easy.

An evening lies vivid in my mind, like it was yesterday. Or today evening, a few hours ago. I heard someone play the flute not far away. I loved it.. every little note. But I was not curious about who it was or if he/she would be here again. I did not venture out to see if it was really someone or maybe was I imagining things.

Sitting on the cement stairs leading into the house, with a glass of salty lemonade, picking up dry blades of grass scattered near the bottom stair. And then throwing them away. It hit me like love, like a breath of fresh air.. it was not sweet or sappy. It was just soul. Bringing forth music, for anyone it may reach to. Or even if it doesn't. It was just so full of feeling. And I believed feeling was all that was in the world. And nothing else.

Leaning against the handrails, smelling the iron. The paint. And the dust. Scratching out a dried drop of tar on it. And looking at the clean, smooth space left behind.

The ever changing colours of the sky and the shapes of the clouds. The colours, the smells and the sounds and voices. Everything that can be seen, felt and sensed. Heard and smelt. Everything which could be lived. Not just survived.

So it just rolled on to me, all of a sudden. When I feel too negative, it has to be taken to positive. Led by the hand and told to sit there. Until it gets too late and they're waiting for you to come have the dinner inside. To the busy dining room, with maybe the TV on and the day's happening being shared with much gusto. A dozen smells, all clashing into each other. And I would settle into this, forgetting all about the quietness and music of the other world.

I don't want to do that. This is much more than evening ruminations and dinner time.

I was going to the bad and I pushed myself to the good. Feelings can change feelings and nothing else. I wish, hope I hold on to the surrealism of life as it is and not give in to the normalcy of business, which people say life is.

But it is the world, for me, which I think about. And not my life. Is that such a bad thing. No, it's not a question. Not any more.

2010-05-14T10:45:00.001+05:30

I just hate the moment when everything comes tumbling down on you five minutes after you wake up. I could spend a life time practicing the art of staying there, just staying in a state where you can lay and think about anything and everything except the day ahead and the days to come.

Things around, objects on the floor, the wall clock that is in the darker corner of the room, the time that's dark and cannot be seen. A few lazy moments spent guessing whether it's 12 0r 9 or 6 and then resignedly resorting to looking at the window for an idea. Not wanting at all to switch on the lights. They're too loud. As if someone just blasted out an irritating pop song on the stereo and all you can do is clamp your hands on your ears as hard as you can, and in case of the lights its the eyes. Hand eye coordination here.

Thin slivers of light framing the door, sometimes a little too bright to decide if it's just sunshine or we're having an alien invasion again. Oh, hello. The tiny space between the window curtains which confuses you to no end along with the clouds zooming past the sun. And for one tiny flicker of a moment of hope that maybe it rained, or it's going to. Or maybe it will sometime this week.

Any sound rumbling loud enough is wished to be interpreted as rumbling rain clouds. But it's a sad story. Coming back inside, eyes travelling to the absolute corners of the room, the mirrors and the clock again. Still a little ununderstandable. Shifting to objects hung on the back of doors. Stark contrast against the white. This time it's a lone school tie, dark dark green but looking black out here on the bed. I never liked ties. At all. It does bring up a choking feeling of nostalgia. Pun intended. The tears chokey though, not asphyxia chokey.

Pushing it away and far.

Feeling the comfortableness of the bed and the absolute silence being broken by a twitter of birds or a faint honking horn in the background. It gets better after the a/c is switched off. But not yet, please not yet. That's the final step to getting up. And no one likes getting up. Not here, anyway.

No one likes honking horns either, I don't like cars altogether. It's just coloured metal and machine parts. And simple ugly. I have no idea how people fall in love with cars and and are interested at all in them. I wish someone drew inspiration from the Flintstones vehicles. The world WOULD be a better place. In more ways than one.

Lying there thinking about people and people that matter. Thinking about the comedy routine last night which went something like - Can't sleep.. can't sleep. Why am I so obsessed? Again? Am I in lov-- no. @&#^%#* I just can't sleep. Darned mosquitoes. I'm gonna kill you. And then sighing and revising the whole thing over and over again.

And then repeating it again right in the morning - What? Really? Do you think so? Nah. Naw. No. Dumb. That's dumb dumb dumb. Then just pausing there for a second and holding my breath. Do I have schizophrenia? Thinking it over.. now, how does that even matter even if I do?

Trying to snap out of it all. A mountain of clothes on a chair nearby and some scattered on the floor. A contrast again. Trying to guess what it is. Looking at objects before the curtain. Silhouetted metal stick-figured men and women who act as candle stands after the sun rises.

Ooh, I get a text message. Oh, please do not include me in your stupid chain texts when we hardly ever or NEVER even talk to each other. Selfish much? And now you ruined it. Pretty bad. But anyway..

Glancing at mirrors to see what they reflect. I plan to set up mirrors in a way that I won't have to get up to see places I can't see and everything just comes to me instantly. Maybe I could mirrorise the entire house. How nice would that be. Or more than just a building. No, no running away, imagination.

We can think about something nicer. Nicer things. Nice-y Wise-y. Perfect.

Then I would talk about going back to a more believable version of reality. And thinking about consequences/ results of the actions/ exams. But then.. who wants to? I'll settle for this much. "Perfect" will suffice. Thank you very much.

Silent.

2010-04-28T02:04:00.001+05:30

Silently
Suffering
Slashes of
Sweet sacrifices
Sometimes simple
Something suffices
Silently
Shredded sheets
Stoic squeeze
Sunshine that stoops
Steers
Sneers so, sees
Slipping off
Summits of surety
Surprising smiles
Surrendering to
Scenes of
Silent singing
Simpering, soft
Soliloquies
Settling to
Stuttering lies
Standing
Sitting
Stunned
Silently
Time flies
Someone's left
Silently,
Binging on byes.

Futile.

2010-04-10T04:14:00.000+05:30

A hundred hours
Of solitude
Wearing away at the edges
Lost
In the multitude
Twanging
Like
A rusty guitar
Staring
at a
Sad little star
Fear
Draining out
Seeping from
Under the door
You see it now
Now it's no more
A wild
Enigma
Is what's in store
The train of thought
It finally stopped
The life
It halted.
It's all
So faulted.

Blah Blah.

2010-04-06T14:14:00.000+05:30

I wonder if how we feel right in the morning is how we truly feel deep inside all the time. Or is that just our reaction to our sub-conscious thoughts that welled up in the dreams. But after I'm fully awake and then "count my blessings" instead of thinking of what I don't have that I start getting normal. But till then I think that empty, sinking feeling of that something missing is the strongest. Right after I wake up and right before I go to sleep.

I don't want it to go away.. experiencing it is a delight in itself. Ironic but, it is.

Then I think of things I have to do and have to see.

Positive people must have a huge capacity to control their feelings and an immensely strong will power if they can do it. Poor positive people.

I think it's better to be true to you feelings than suppress it and bottle it up. And forget about it. They have to be considered one day or the other. Now or later.

I really goof up too much. And I make mistakes. And I mess things up. More for myself than anyone else. Considering I'm left to sort it out. Which is cruel. But it's correct. So let's see..

But I can't understand certain people either. Selfish, selfish people. They can't be both, true and not true to their emotions, simultaneously too. Is it so hard taking a single viewpoint in personal relationships and sticking to it. Is that mature. Or the opposite. I am immature and I stick with my feelings. I don't think that's childish. If loyalty and perseverance is a childish trait. It gets translated to stubbornness. Well, all right.

Saying that one's life is in one's own hands is not completely correct. Some choices are made by others. Free will is a b*tch. Excuse my French. Yeah but then no one can change mine either. So it's fine I guess.

I thought it sounded true that you can't just stop loving someone. When you love a person it is for ever. Love is not a weak feeling. Like feeling like having ice cream after dinner. Nah, I'm way too full right now, I'll have ice cream tomorrow instead.

Relationships are not part-time jobs. Oh wait, I even wrote a cheesy poem on it. Sounds like a drunken pop song. But here it is : (It is no award-winning piece, neither it may even make much sense, But I'll RISK it. This is SO much fun :P)

No electricity
MP3 player gave up on me
Whiling away my time
Writing sh**ty poetry

I want someone
Take me for a 24/7 dream
Not a part time job
To take on
When you need extra green

I'm no lunch break
A break from the job
I wanna be the vacation
That never ends at all

Full time, front line
Paparazzi and the limelight
You can be it all
Just give me a sign

I don't wanna be the
Washed up one hit wonder
A Diva is forever
Which really makes me wonder

Was I a break from life
Just a shoulder when you cried
But your life itself
Is what I want to be

I'm not ashamed to ask
And neither should I be.

This was added later, so not to mess up the flow :

Your life itself
Is what I want to be

You said I was
But things change too soon
You ordered a side-dish
But they didn't have any left

You're stuck
With a five-course dinner
But you're on a diet
Which is really sad

So you go on to buy it
You take a teeny bite
"Man, the food's really fine
But well, I can't sit to dine

I have a lot of work to do"

You rise and without a look,
Go away into the night
The food will be flinged
Right into the dustbin

You'll be at your table, writing
Man, it really, really stings.

The Cobain-ness Left In The World Today

2010-04-05T20:54:00.004+05:30

It was precisely the summer of '06 when I first heard the the very first lines on Smells Like Teen Spirit and I was hooked.. the music being the least about it. Impressionable teens is such a cliche but there's a whole lot of truth in it. And rockstars are not bad role models, if we know exactly what about them we like.

To a certain limit life is influenced my music, movies and books. And there are some people you look up to. Dead or alive. In the case of Nirvana and Cobain, first it was the raw music, then the symbolism in the music videos, the lyrics after that and then whatever I could gather from his quotes and any little bit of information I could find.

There is a certain affinity I find with the man that I share with a handful more people. Sadly, they are not people I see everyday or talk to. Or I don't think that is even possible, ever. My latent thoughts were echoed through the quotes I read and they became legit. They just materialised from thin air into letters on my laptop screen. Three very strong examples I would give may be Nietzche, Oscar Wilde and Cobain.

I have fallen in love with Nirvana multiple times and it is such an engaging love that is rare. First it was the raw emotions of Teen Spirit. Then the angst in You Know You're Right and the complicatedness and utter complexity exuding out of Heart Shaped Box. Lithium is a song which I can safely pick out to be my life's background music.

Cobain's feelings towards his fans' adoration as inferred from his suicide note strike a chord. And his "Peace, Love, Empathy" lay on a profile I made on a website for a number of years and will surely be used again on paper sometime soon. Being empathetic is a rare gift and I've been accused of being it on occasions and for most people it translates as a setback 'cause generally emotions are not mixed with most things. "Productive" or "Necessary".

But emotions are the essence of life, and for a hundred people being apathetic, clinical and mechanic, there's one me living on emotions and feeding on it. And I will live on it. Wait and see.

On the darker side.. he was a misanthrope, as I see it is the only way to live 99% of the time. But thank goodness for certain people life ain't so bad. Non-conformity and taking a stand against fakeness. I sometimes sound like a broken record.. but there's not enough telling people what it has all come to. So taking a u-turn and living in Misanthropia is a far, far better option.

I remember spending the whole summer listening to Nirvana and Guns N' Roses and sometimes shedding tears which had no personal meaning to me I remember wondering why the heck am I crying but crying anyway.

The biggest help was knowing that being different does not mean being wrong. And being wrong does not mean that it has to change. The wrongs and the rights in this world are relative. And everyone deserves a chance to show the Cobain-ness in them and be hated for what they are, than be loved for what they're not.

So here's to you, Kurt. To the man who sold the world.

Influencing generations on generations of legions of fans and followers. R.I.P.
You will be missed. For ever and ever more.

Peace, Love, Empathy.

Some quotes of him I love:

I'm too busy acting like I'm not Naive. I've seen it all, I was here first.
I miss the comfort in being sad.
Rather be dead than cool.
The duty of youth is to challenge corruption.
The worst crime is faking it.
Thought the sun is gone, I have a light.
We're so trendy we can't even escape ourselves.
It's better to burn out, than to fade away.
Birds are and always have been reincarnated old men with Tourette's syndrome having somehow managed to dupe the reproductive saga. They fuck each other and tend to their home repairs and children while never missing their true mission. To scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak to warn us all of the truth. They know the truth. Screaming bloody murder all over the world in our ears, but sadly we don't speak bird.
I use bits and pieces of others personalities to form my own.
Assassinate the greater and lesser of two evils.
Wanting to be somebody else is a waste of the person you are.
Television is the most evil thing on our planet. Go right now to your TV and toss it out the window, or sell it and buy a better stereo.
Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art.

The list is long.. I wish it could be longer and he were still alive today.
I cannot even start with my favourite lyrics, maybe some other time.

The Suicide Note -

The text :

To Boddah
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.
For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!

Don't read this. It isn't meant to be read :D

2010-03-05T01:12:00.004+05:30

This is probably one conversation that will never happen for a number of reasons. Many reasons including fear, indecisiveness, fickle-mindedness, the eternal last drop of hope that never really evaporates and a thought that will never become a story.

It abysmally stops short of the pen hitting the paper.. and what's left are the respective hand and sore fingers that have been hovering painfully for a long, long time. A very long time indeed.

These kind of sticky situations don't seem humane AND human enough. It's either I should be living in some other planet or I've been transported here for some reason or the other. Some remaining last specimen of a very rare species.

Too much introspection and too less action. Thinking of acting on my far fetched plan of the so-called changing the world and the very many closely related things on my to-do list, you won't find this one even there. It's NOT there.

It'll never be done.

Is it just something like the stuff that's never really supposed to happen and words that should be left unsaid? I really don't know. I have no idea. Maybe it's more of the kind of redundant hope that I won't tire of, and run short of.

Wow, I can't wait for dinner more than 5 minutes when I need it right THEN but I can wait a lifetime for something that could possibly make me happy instead of me going right out front and ASKING it to make me happy.

I know there are some things you have to ask for. And demand. And insist upon. But love's certainly NOT one of those.

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. - Shakespeare

And when you've done it once.. specially a person like me. You end up quizzing yourself for life if and what would've happened if you didn't force and initiate it.

Maybe the feeling needs more cementing and thinking about. It's just SO conflicting. Or maybe it's waiting for just the right moment to strike. And the right circumstances. Sometimes it's not all about right here right now.

And it's about imaginary conversations with a real person. Is this against the law or something? I wish it was, anyway. Imaginary conversations. And wishful scenarios. Thought up laughs and funny lines. It oh so heavenly but it ain't real. And that's what matters eventually.

It's pathological. Positively.

And if you happen to have a single or even multiple chances of having the same conversations, would you be disappointed? Surprised? In a good way or a bad way? This is very mental stalker-ish. Well, the person doesn't really get to know this. I guess unless they read this post. Which is not entirely unlikely.

But I think it's just better if you let it be. As the Beatles put it. And it's never too bad considering a second opinion. But then enters the question that doing something about it could be life changing and phenomenal. Movie-like twists, you know. Who doesn't like and actually want them?

I'm a drama addict anyway. I can do with some more. The conversation I intended to post here is well, still bubbling away in my brain. Fragments of a LOT many conversations down in the depths. A huge cauldron full of mixed emotions and thoughts. With dreamy smiles and dreamy eyes. And thinking about if I'm giving away more than I should be, writing this post here.

Does it happen that you feel a certain connection. Or maybe it's all in the mind. But then everything is in the mind. Physical ropes don't bind people together. How DO you prove that there's chemistry without even talking to someone? Or maybe just barely?

This is going to mess me up. Or maybe already has. I like to be messed up though. I should do something about it.

Or maybe not :D

What am I?

Building castles in the air is better than being homeless on the ground.

No Offence. No Sarcasm

2010-02-27T01:55:00.003+05:30

It gets tiring. And there's a certain limit to how far someone can go. Without sounding too ridiculous. When will labels cease to exist and when will people stop judging, grading, and classifying things. The world should just be switched on to the Critics' mode and we could just snatch up Popular, crumple it, stomp on it and burn it up.

It sounds rather authoritarian and dicator-ish, but the world is waiting to be held and worked and moulded in intelligent hands, not on what sounds okay and what's been acceptable for a long time, or what's just liked by people around you. "People" are just that. People.

It irks me when intelligent ones depend on popular opinion. The world's going nowhere without individual thoughts and not the herd mentality. One by one everyone could be doing the same, wrong thing until somene wakes up and makes them realise that the right way is the other path.

If there isn't one already, make one.

On "following", one person does wrong and another three join him, and then another twenty, it just SETS the deed as something that's acceptable and eventually the "right" thing to do. If everyone is doing it, it is NOT that it is the right thing. It's just that people stopped using their brains sometime ago and now they're tools for some stupid person who has simple no idea of what he's done, is doing and will probably continue to do so for maybe a LOT more time to come.

That leads to redundant, unsuccesful attempts at change and eventually the changers get tired, think about - "can't beat 'em- join 'em" and then finally cease to exist. Perseverance as a virtue is not much seen though as a vice, it's the norm. If you get benefitted that's what you keep doing.

It's all about you, you and you. And not about what happens outside you. Yourself too is all about the exterior other see and what they cannot see is the tumultous relationship you have with yourself inside. And sometimes you can't even feel it and you choose to ignore it, which is perceptually a good decision but in reality, it's far from it.

A call to the conscience it just what everyone needs. Every one of the "people" out there.

Agood example could be Gandhi. I refuse to revere him personally by calling him Mahatma. I study History and I conclude he was just a person, and what he said and wanted, appealed to the selves, the egos of the "people" and they thought they could benefit from the consequences, thus they liked him and followed him. His principles struck true.

They needed freedom, he was an instrument to get it. No, I refuse to think that every one of those people were as noble as him and could sacrifice their whole lives as he did for the greater benefit of humankind. No they could not. Or else we could find a million more Gandhis to stop what is happening and change the world.

But we don't. "People" want to live their lives. They want to grow up, get a good job, get rich, have an attractive partner, a couple or more kids, lead a good life and die peacefully in their sleep. They need just that. And to have that they needed the freedom to get that life they wanted. Thus they needed someone to get them there.

Once you live in India, you start loving the way you live even if it's not the best way and patriotism, mixed in your blood can never make you say a word against your country. So you gently and carefully try to mend things, all undercover. You do not question it out loud. Just as you would never go and shout at your parents' face on something you think they did wrong. That's just morally wrong and cannot be done.

These are the set rules and the norms. India's a country. Your parents are humans. And sometimes subtlety just does not do it. Bottling up something ends up in more harm being done than good. It has to come out someday and in the case of the country, I hope it is some day soon.

People live in whimsical fantasies and rely on Gods which are probably and positively someone's fantasy. Harry Potter and Ram are in the same picture for me. No, no superhumanperson sitting in the sky can grant wishes. Alladin's genie and Vishnu are the same then. Sorry I burst your pretty holy bubble. Or maybe I just bruised it a pretty shade of black and blue. I hope.

The class 12 history textbook is enough to cement my theories that our culture is a potpourri of mildly exaggerated folk tales and simpe whimsical characters who came about with just too much free time and little children who were eager for good bed-time stories.

But smell the coffee, "people", you are not a kid. And you need something more solid and palpable than a blind faith in a omnipresent entity. Like air, yes. Can you depend on the air you breathe to change say, the political situation India has? No, air is there for you to breathe. Gods are there to exist in the holy books. As characters. And nothing more. It's actions and not prayer which leads to change.

Another conclusion I come to is that "people" are just a group of very lazy people who would just rather depend on their very "rich" culture and tradition, sit back and reminisce while their present and future lies dark and dank and empty. What was once.. was there once. And it's just like a family heirloom, which was lost centuries ago but still you're SO proud and arrogant that you once had it.

But face it, you can't live on it.

Majority if village, small town and good part of the urban Indian youth grow up on cheap bollywood films, nonsensical songs and non-existent food for thought.. books are to be there in the libraries. And thinking is for thinkers. It's like saying studying is for people trying to get their phDs. They started somewhere years ago. And well, if you don't, your story ended before it started.

Sorry, sir. But you just killed my hope.

Laments of a Dreamer

2010-02-01T12:35:00.000+05:30

Being a dreamer is very inconvenient. Especially when the light switch is across the room, the weather cold and the time is 1:35 in the night. Poems come whispering to you at the unearthliest hours. Sometimes humming and buzzing like an irritating mosquito, trying to get a place to sleep, in the hollow of your ear. And you can't just slap it away and go to sleep.

Poetic paranoia is another such disease that gets in the way of living. When I can't just let the lines go and let them come to me again at a later date. That just isn't possible. I have to get up, groaning, repeating the lines to myself and scatter around stuff on my already very messy study table and rummage for a piece of paper somewhere. And then look for a pen that works.

And when you're so habitual of the sound of the keyboard, thank god for the blessed old fashioned paper. And specially when you have switched on and off your laptop at least a dozen times in the day already.

You get tired. You want to go to sleep. But your mind doesn't stop. It doesn't stop making plans that will never be implemented. And dreams that will never be realised. Not even in the dream's dreams. It fantasizes with the current favourite sappiest song there is with your current favourite person, in a ridiculously fantastical scenario.

It thinks up a movie-like storyline. Which will probably be forgotten, substituted by a more ridiculously thought-out plan that will again be fantastically substituted. It's a vicious, vicious cycle.

It keeps you away from the dreadful reality but brings it back to you transforming it like an ugly-beast-to-handsome-prince story or a rags-to-riches one. Subsequently you get disappointed and tired, and give up just to start dreaming in another five minutes.

But just on rare occasions, some incidents take you to another part of your dream which is in actuality real, and it's better than you can fantasize or dream of. It's the moments like these that you live for. And hope that you can continue to live for them.

Dreams come and they go. And they come again..

Sometimes you just want to shout at it to STOP but you don't. Because it's just the way it is. That's who you are.

Iced Sunshine.

2009-12-29T13:01:00.000+05:30

Heterochromia
Blue and green
At odds, mismatched
Together but blind

Offbeat
But with the beat

Flickering sunlight
Untold stories
Withering silken
Love in soft fur

Surreptiously
Slithering
In sunshine
Till I see

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

Teetering
and toppled
Tethered
And teased

Shuffled
Wrung out
Tweezed
And freed

Psychedelic sanity
In sunshine shade
Suede skin
Silver stares

Fantastic swagger
Swaggering flair
Flaring love
Naked and bare

Throbbing longing
For
A united dream
All undreamed

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

That cold, distant
Glaring disguise.

Another one coming your way..

2009-12-05T17:42:00.001+05:30

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.

2009-11-14T12:18:00.002+05:30

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.

Shadow.

2009-11-09T20:49:00.002+05:30

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.

2009-11-04T23:27:00.002+05:30

Sheared and
Sodden
Dead,
Forgotten

Shook off
And
Thrown into
the Pyre.

Broken desire
Deep in mire
Done with
And sold

Up for hire.

Blase, Benign.

2009-10-24T23:01:00.006+05:30

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,

Wilderness
In the desert
Mustard flowers
On a concrete road

Unexpected
Unintended
Uninterested
Unattended

A break from reality
A trip to insanity

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

Carrying On..

2009-09-21T10:56:00.006+05:30

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..

Sonic Youth - Superstar
Uploaded by Sonic-Youth. - Watch more music videos, in HD!

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.

The End of Exams

2009-09-20T20:41:00.003+05:30

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.

;D

Through Tinted Scarlet Glass

2009-09-15T11:06:00.002+05:30

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 :)

Wishful.

2009-09-01T16:28:00.002+05:30

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.

Inspiration.

2009-08-29T21:57:00.003+05:30

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.

IndiBlogger Nomination and Other Stuff

2009-08-27T18:24:00.002+05:30

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.

http://www.indiblogger.in/nominations.php?id=4

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.

2009-08-22T15:42:00.005+05:30

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.

Soliloquy.

2009-07-29T20:47:00.013+05:30

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

Words
People
Ideas
And thoughts

Pass through
The panorama
Of my mind
Unattended

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

Bereft
Of
Searing fire
The icy sting

The graceful ballad
It used to sing

Instead

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?

Ill-equipped
Disinformed
Can solipsism
Really turn me on

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

Framed
In the mirror
Is this
What it feels like

Being free
Being strong
Telling yourself
You are not

Wrong

Peace
All around
Utopia
It is found

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

Am I mine?

But then
Why
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
Remain
A bit
Too far

But

The truth is out
For you to see

Remember
What I said
Was not always
True

I don't belong to me

I was
Am
Will be

Always

Part of You.

. . .

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

2009-07-25T20:24:00.008+05:30

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.

(No)Two Ways About It

2009-06-12T19:54:00.011+05:30

She is an artist
On a trapeze
Swinging
Singing with
The summer breeze
Her life on lease
Dancing
In the winter freeze
She muses
To let it go with ease
Or act on a
Caprice
The lingering release
To be vindicated
To be set free
Or give in to the
Tease
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
Serene
Above her the ropes
Careen
Swinging back to
Routine, in between
The place in which
She has always been.

Another Classroom Story

2009-05-27T23:35:00.015+05:30

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.

On Summer

2009-04-25T14:14:00.011+05:30

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
Dust
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

Midday
Running on the street
Midnight
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?

2009-03-09T20:50:00.017+05:30

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.

Uninspired. Pt.1.

2009-02-03T21:13:00.020+05:30

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.

"Nothing much.. " Sure.

2009-01-26T21:14:00.006+05:30

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

Sans.

2008-12-25T01:25:00.012+05:30

A dash of red fury
In a cauldron full of hate
Complete with a debatable date
Could it be me, could it be you
It could be anyone, anyone could do

Paint the Mona Lisa
Give her a tear in her eye
There you are with the Taj Mahal
Let's paint it black tonight

It was a fiasco of favourite colours
Red and black and white
It was a rollercoaster of happiness
On a sea of starlight

The oars made a lovely sound
Against the silver water
It was like a lullaby
For the lamb to the slaughter

The air ringing with the angels' sweet laughter
Rose to a defeaning din
The boat gently rocking like a sleeping baby's cradle
Lurched, stopped and began to spin

The boat disappeared with the silvery stars
And you rose into thin air
Into the sky so dark
You were someone else, and the difference so stark

I couldn't utter a single word, even if I dared
The demonic nightmares had me ensnared
You had snapped the bond that we had shared so far
And finally you had declared..

The water pulled me down so low
I screamed but I did not scream
I cried but it couldn't be seen
I was an inch but close to dying and you went away.. blissfully flying.

Like a dream.

Bubbles and Blankets.

2008-12-05T01:07:00.005+05:30

I see an entirely new species of people everyday. It's as if interesting people don't exist anymore. They're all the same person with varying levels of awareness of what they are. And they're not much. It's nice observing everything from a cozy bubble, a blanket of comfortable peace wrapped around yourself.

Get the Sports Day over with, then we can resume with normal life, if we can call it that. It's hard class-hopping everyday. But it's better that way, I've always wanted to have a two-person class, and most of the time it's only a one-person class.

Teachers getting ruder, students getting dumber. What kind of a world do I live in? It's not all teacher and not all students. But it's a good number of the defected. People were never really good, but this is getting to be too much. And I'm another step to becoming a full-fledged misanthrope.

The bubble's not so soft anymore. It now clinks while I walk.

Marchpast practice, full on. Last one tomorrow. Dress rehearsals. I always loved staying in school till eight or so. Loved travelling in the bus at night. With someone turning off the lights and scaring the kids. But then I was never the "kid" and never the "bad" person. Just a spectator. Bliss. All the Annual/Sports Days were good back then. I can't really be sure what fate has in store for me tomorrow.

Marching as a parade in unison. It had me thinking.. what if someone turned rebel and broke into a run yelling at the top of their voice? I like the marchpast. I really like it and I'm in it because of that. But it just hit me in the head. Why do we do this? Is there really a valid reason : Why? Does anything have a valid reason for existing? I would never know.

I sometimes think if it's me or the world.

I'm running out of things to look forward to. Anyway, volunteering, handling the kids.. that's one thing I can live with. Aww, cute. It was nice how the teacher incharge remembered me from a trip we went on 4 ears ago. Felt good. Then I just hope I get to escape and watch the rest of the rehearsals. It's entertainment, at least, if not the best way to spend my time. One of the best things is getting up late and boarding the bus in the afternoon.

I guess something's wrong with me. People live in the past, I'm beginning to live in the future. It's as if my school's life's already over. But IT IS as good as over. My semi-class, mundane afternoons, cramming away stuff. Banging my head against my bubble. Hurts, but thank goodness for that, it's hurt a lot more if I were to live bubble-free.

I'm living a life I hate.
I'm beginning to believe in fate.
I just need to get some things straight.
But I hope, I truly hope, it doesn't get too late.

A Thing of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

2008-10-12T21:23:00.013+05:30

I've heard of people getting Writer's block.. I've experienced it too. But a Reader's block is new for me. I didn't even know that something like this exists but, however hard I try I can't get myself to read more than two pages on a stretch. Hard Times - Charles Dickens. This BOOK is giving me a hard time coming to terms with reality. Perceptual, ofcourse. Or I hope. Why am I starting to think that I won't be able to finish reading this thing ever?

I mean I've read lots of Classics. Lots and lots of them. Then why not this. And I couldn't even get myself to read more than a quarter of A Tale Of Two Cities. It's something to do with the author, probably. Positively. It has to do something with the author. Moving on, like yesterday's obsession with groupies and supermodels, today we have Artists. Lawrence Alma Tadema. Particularly this painting called "A Favourite Custom" which was painted in the year 1909.

Breathtakingly beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off this composition. And I didn't even know that I could call Fine Arts one of my obsessions. Phew. I loved this one a little less than the first, but considerably. Fascinating because the far left portion of it seemed to me like a photograph instead of paint. Incredible.

Take a look at it closely. Right here. There is -- Lord Frederic Leighton's "Flaming June". I truly believe a person looks the most beautiful when he or she's asleep.

No words. Absolutely no words. And there was one more I loved. "The Roses of Heliogabalus". Love of roses. Since time immemorial. I mean, since I can remember.

As The Roses of Heliogabalus was painted during the winter, Tadema arranged to have roses sent weekly from the French Riviera for four months to ensure the accuracy of each petal.

How can people not like Art? Whoever says that has to be lying. And when even sploshes of random colours on canvas is considered Art. Modern. Then what is not? My scribbles turn out to be works of Art when I finish joining them together. Voila! The precious work of a perpetually depressed teen. Oh, but that's private collection. Not for viewing. You won't even find them in some Art Gallery somewhere, so don't you even consider googling it. :D

School re-opens tomorrow after the Exams. Sad. There's not much to look forward to. It sharpens the sadness. But anyway, life's less than exciting but there is some sort of "peace" going around inside me. Is this what I asked when I wrote this poem of mine. I just happened to stumble upon it while going through my previous posts. The sadness gets sharpened with peace. Well, at least now I know Peace is NOT = Happiness. Not always. Not ever. Maybe substantially but not completely. Nothing's "enough for me". Yes.

The gloom always hovers over the joy like a troublesome raincloud. Ready to burst. And I never liked using umbrellas. Sigh.

Live it. Love it.

2008-10-11T22:44:00.015+05:30

So I hunched over my laptop all day just to get to know more about what's behind Summer Wine. And the versions. And more versions. This isn't the original. The whole life story of Uschi Obermaier. It's the soundtrack for the biopic movie of Uschi's life : Eight Miles High or Das Wilde Leben.

Natalia Avelon, the lady with Ville Valo in the video. She plays Uschi. I absolutely adore Ville. Dunno why. Even though I don't like HIM much. I meant the band. I guess it has something to do with his heavenly voice. Hmmm..

So I moved ahead to reading all about Uschi, her life, her love affairs. My oh my. Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and even Jimi Hendrix. And I didn't even know. She was a groupie but a video I viewed on YouTube, the guy stated that Uschi wasn't actually one, and that she denied it herself during interviews. She was anyhow, a model and an actress who was also a political activist.

Somehow, I always wished I was born somewhere around the 60s. Hippie culture fascinates me. Totally. Sandi Thom's music is inspiring too. Except, I hope she does know if punk rockers really had flowers in their hair. But rest of the lyrics are lovely. Following a string of Uschi related videos, I ended up going through the lives of Gia Carangi. I had already heard and seen a bit about the the Angeline Jolie starrer movie about Gia's Life : Gia.

All this reading about life is very exhilarating and depressing at the same time. When writers do stuff like making up stories. Fiction. I get scared thinking about how many lives they live at once. Best selling authors do sometimes get too much into the skin of the character. Hence, Schizoprenia. I actually have a newspaper article taped to one of my bedroom walls telling me about what happened with Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf and more. The whole of the article escapes me except that they all killed themselves. Some of the cases were gruesome.

Back to Summer Wine. The original was by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazelwood in 1967. Another popular cover is by Bono and Andrea Corr from The Corrs. The Corrs are amazing musicians. I went through all their history yesterday night with immense curiousity. Now I just HAVE to visit Ireland once in my life. I just loved this video of their "Rebel Heart" :

Lately, I've been playing with the idea that taking up a profession of a Travel Writer can be fun. Very interesting. It actually was with me a few months ago. Then I got distracted. I know it's very weird that I still don't know what I'll do. But if I DO decide and plan out my life right now, it'd all just end up in a way that's least expected. With me, everything's impulsive. Maybe I'd just think about going off to Istanbul and I'd leave the next day.

All the History studying is turning me into a more hopeless romantic than ever. I think I WILL do just that. Travel around the globe, come back home, settle down and have a family. Nice. Oh, but I still don't know. :D

Haze.

2008-10-08T20:06:00.005+05:30

I craved for you
With suspended longing
A tryst with nature
Of my mental narcissus
Been out of my mind
With a thousand thoughts
Of a better tomorrow
When tomorrow is born of today
Today of sinful yesterday
A ray of light can do me no good
It's all a part of the game
I lost to the mighty big sun
I crumpled and burned away.

The Old Manor House

2008-09-28T12:30:00.020+05:30

Another one of my poem's. This one's not just a result of emotional impulses. Started on it months ago, but never got around to completing it. Here it is, now.

The Old Manor House

The rusty old iron gate creaked with a sigh
As she entered the ancient Manor house
The unkempt garden seemed to sneer at her sight
And she felt as small as a mouse
The vastness of it all seemed to engulf her whole
She gathered around her the cloak that she wore

The curiosity seemed etched on her face
As she shuffled her feet ahead
The strangely beautiful mansion seemed to beck to her
As she stayed rooted where her feet did rest
Compelled to move ahead, instead she turned around
The gate had moved on its own to fling back with a resonating sound

Her lips did quiver, as she peered around the hedgerows,
With anticipation as she imagined what she’d find inside
As she gazed longingly at the door,
The wind whistling by her side
She felt a cold chill run down her spine
The tall trees had begun to roar and whine

The sun was high above her
It shone white with all its might
Beads of swear appeared on her brow
As she fought against her fear, slowly, steadily, blow by blow
She looked at the ground beneath her, strewn with dead leaves,
The dust rising in little swirls and settling, at ease

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought, she saw something move
Up, up on the window high up on the highest floor
Was it someone peering outside? Or just her eyes playing games with her mind?
The moth-eaten lace curtains flapped lazily
The glass of the window broken, cracked on one side
She saw a dark eye glinting from the shadows or was it...

Just the glass reflecting the light?
The enigma that surrounded the building was as dark as the night
But she had to know, had to see, had to prove
That nothing could stop her from going inside
She gathered all her might and set her mind to enter the house
Without even a sign of fright

The knocker on the front door resembled a snake
It shone a dull golden, which would have looked grand in it’s time
The door was dark mahogany which, with its shine and splendour,
Would have put the brightest, newest door to shame
She pushed it with her hand and it swung inwards
Baring to her a room filled with dust, cobwebs and scurrying rats

She shielded herself with her arm as a bat swooped towards her
Opening her eyes once more, she saw a colony of bats resting upside down
On the largest chandelier she had ever seen, which had slowly turned brown
The glass clinked softy as a few more bats moved in their sleep
Bustling around at the sunlight which had entered the room, unseen
Uncomfited by the sudden interference into their lives, they shut their eyes

She moved her eyes around the hall with its moth-eaten furniture
And a grand fireplace which still made the place feel warm
She moved towards it, enraptured,
Above the fireplace hung a portrait old and faded
The lady painted on it looked extremely aged
She stood with a young woman, a smile etched across her face

This must be the girl who had been left alone in the haste
While the others fled with the fear of being murdered by the enslaved
The Lestranges had been knowned to have kept quite a few innocents
Locked up in the cellar, while their glory lasted
And at last their threatening had come to no advantage
When the commoners had risen to power and they had been bated.

Coming back to the present and gazing at the face of the young, beautiful girl
Who had once lived in this very house, with her grandmother and her father, the Earl.
She turned her back to the picture, glanced around and advanced towards the staircase
Which rose magnificently to the next landing, she slowly trailed her hands over the banister.

Up, up she went steadily and turned left to a golden door which led…
To a beautiful chamber with a four-poster bed
The room still smelt sweetly of roses long dead
It was strange how she could still feel the sadness creep up over her
In the darkness of the room which mystified her with the enigma
She advanced towards the broken window,
They say the young girl had climbed up atop the window ledge...

She looked down at the haggard overgrown hedge
The saccharine smell of wilted roses reached her
It made her feel heavenly,
She looked towards the horizon, the distant sky
Only a lonely tree stood whimpering under the afteroon sun

The trees whistling her a sweet lullaby, the grass whispered beneath
Beckoning her to the man of her dreams, who stood there looking up
His face ashen, with tears in his eyes, he held a bouqet of roses
Raised a hand and smiled with lips that weren’t there..

She climbed atop the window ledge,
Dreaming of flying, weightless on the misery-filled air, while joyful laughter
Rang in her head, she felt a hand support her back,
She smiled and pushed herself out of the broken window
The moth-eaten lace curtains flapped lazily
While the eye looked for another story to go by.

Partly inspired by Vermillion Pt.2 by Slipknot.

Minus Eighteen.

2008-09-26T21:18:00.009+05:30

Life has a weird way of "equalising" things. Even good things. No one can have too much of a good thing, but yeah, however much of the bad - MUCHO!! Eventually it ends up initial good being equalised by bad, but initial bad being loaded up with more bad, and more bad. And still some more. So, shit happens.

The phenomenon of "equilisation" works with grades, too. Why. I don't know.

I spend a whole day cramming up facts for the Fine Arts Theory Test and then..

I lean back in my seat at school to take a look at my question paper and there it is. Horror of horrors. Out of the five questions - each marked a BIG six - I have no idea where the last three came from! I frantically demand my teacher appear before me right now. There she is. I ask her.

"All of them are in the notes."

"..."

"Yes?"

"They are not. I think I didn't get all the notes."

"Your fault." So be it.

"But these three.. how. When. What. Huh." Dazed.

She turns to one single other FA student. "What about you?" The girl nods, feigning sympathy when I can see, almost as if in her thought baloon -
"Yes! Yes! Yes!! Woohoooooo!!! Finally. Not more than me."

Eighteen out of thirty vanish away into thin air. Simply. Kaboom.

I can register only snatches of the teacher's dialogue "Didn't you know.. how come.. must've been absent. Distributed.. long back. Very careless." Or maybe I nightmare-ed up the last "careless" bit. But it sure was there in her mind.

Sniffle sniffle. I feel my eyes filling up. On the verge. Then I feel hot all over. Then I feel this tingling. I cry.

"No problem. Do the other two. We'll see."

No problem, she says. We'll see, she says. Yeah right. The other teacher meanwhile observes me like I'm some rare specimen of an endangered species. Get a magnifying glass, Ma'am. Isn't it very interesting, Ma'am.

"You have the Practicals too. Score there." Ha!

Finally, when I care enough to get decent grades. More than decent, in some cases. Here comes someone who tells me average is okay. No, it is not. Murder. Good, so that's it then.. how did this happen? One big unsolved mystery.

Then I stare off into the distance. Down below, I see the horses going round and round as if in a circus, in the field. Galloping. Whinnying. Green grass. Blue sky. Cool wind gets in through the window with no glass.

I start writing my paper.

Creeping Normalcy..

2008-09-17T16:21:00.000+05:30

With looking forward to posting half a dozen posts per day to absolutely nothing at all for a couple of months. I wonder if it's lack of inspiration or something else? Not many people think of motivating others when they lack some themselves, I guess.

"Normal" has changed it's meaning for me. It used to be - everything goes. To.. Nothing Goes. Not even one percent of what used to be Life. Still, I'm here, same still darkness, the same faint sunlight though the light blue curtains, the same AC, the same old Guns N' Roses, and me tap tap tapping on the keyboard. Change is the only constant. I did read that somewhere. Well...

Being a Humanities student has it's pros and cons. Contrary to popular belief, it's not all "easy peasy".. and I wonder if India's gonna have a shortage of Archeologists, Geographers, Historians in another decade.. with everyone "aspiring to be an engineer". All right. No offence.

Thank goodness I don't listen to people's views. I should've been dead. But I'm as alive as I was the day I was born. India is a difficult place to be in but the people are more difficult. What with the "caste" divisons. I still get to hear a snippet from people here and there, travelling along corridors, through a crowd of shit-headed people. Even classmates. Unbelievable, considering they're 16 AND they don't believe in shitty nonsense. Or so I thought. I wish I could just erase all the surnames of all Indians. If they can show brotherly OR sisterly love to their caste-fellows. I'm sure they'd do the same if the only criteria was Nationality. Not even religion. I hate religion with a passion. More fiery than anything I can think of.

With the LHC experiments.. I hope they consider remaking the whole Earth. We get Earth II. So cool. Imagine a world without countries, religions, no higher or lower, no distinctions, no discrimination. But that's just my over-active imagination. What of all the money? The military? The wars.. the economies.. the histories.. everything rolled into one. We get another human-made disaster.

Consider living on Mars one day. As me and my Humanities friend were discussing it one day - we'd just have Geography to study. No History. No Economics. And anyway, if we get the same teacher. It's gala time! :D

Rabbi Shergill - Bilqis . Jinhe Naaz Hai.

2008-09-13T22:33:00.000+05:30

I used to have a handle on life, but it broke.

2008-09-13T20:57:00.000+05:30

I sat under the dying mango tree and thought about how things had gone awry. The heat rising up from the ground made me feel light-headed. As I heard the buzz of silence, heavy on my ears and my mind, I felt a calm creep over me. Red ants busied themselves talking to each other on their way, gosipping. I wondered what they talked about. A half-eaten overripe mango fell flat on the ground making a squashy noise when it rolled on to it's bitten damp side. Work of the parrots. I hugged the tree, and the bark felt rough against my cheek. I breathed out.

A cool breeze lifted my hair and brought it down slowly. A couple of raindrops fell on my hands while the sun still half shone merrily on the grey, party overcast sky. And I thought of the sketches I used to draw as a kid. The sun hiding behind the clouds, grinning, smiling forever. Was it the sun who was always happy or was it I? I felt a lump rising in my throat. I gulped and pushed it down. But the tears still came. There was no stopping them. No end to them. They went on, came back like the birds did to their nests every evening. Without fail.

I let go of the tree and raised my head towards the sky. A tiny drop fell on my right cheek. I didn't wipe it off. I never did. I prayed an Atheist prayer that it would soon start raining heavily. Anxious that I'd miss the first raindrops, I ran to the hall through the kitchen, up the stairs and stumbled on to the roof. Breathless, I reached for something to hold on to. I couldn't find anything. My eyesight blurred for a moment while my eyes looked at nothingness. Then I settled on the ledge. Mum always got scared when I did that. I didn't think there was anything dangerous. I wouldn't fall off. That would be stupid, and I was anything but that.

I swayed my legs to and fro, touching the wall and then not touching it. Hitting my heels lightly on the wall.. and then hard. Side by side, but that made me queesy. I resumed the to and fro moves. Harder. One two one two one two one. It hurt. I alternated the movement between the feet. That felt rhythmic. Then the rain started pattering on the jamun leaves right overhead. I was shielded from the rain. I felt cozy. Safe. For then, atleast.

Food for Thought..

2008-09-06T22:59:00.000+05:30

“The Sun, with all the planets revolving around it, and depending on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as though it had nothing else in the Universe to do.”

- Galileo Galilei

Oscar Wilde Quotes I Like..

2008-08-31T09:13:00.000+05:30

From The Picture of Dorian Gray -

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

The one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I'm doing. When we meet - we do meet occasionaly, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke's - we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it - much better, in fact, than I am.

Conscience and cowardice are really the same things. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.

It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts. The thoroughly well-informed man - that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value.

Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love : it is the faithless who know love's tragedies.

The bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to struggle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of pleasure, or the luxury of a regret.

The only to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also.

To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies.

He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.

Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious; both are disappointed.

There are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down for supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge and Esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied.

The people who love only once in their lives are the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect - simply confession of failures. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.

Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the Park in the morning and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon They have their stereotyped smile, and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! Why didn't you tell me the only thing worth loving is an actress? -- Because I've loved so many of them, Dorian.

It is only the sacred things that are worth touching.

When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the worlds calls a romance.

It is personalities, not principles, that move the age.

The only artists that I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists simply exists in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. There mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

He had always been enthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life - that appeared to him that one thing worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any value.

Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect.

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others.

Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes.

Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me.

Women are wonderfully practical. Much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.

There is luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.

Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.

Women give to men the very gold of their lives but they invariably want it back in such very small change. That is the worry.

Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about. But the theory belongs to Nature, not me. Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.

To be good is to be in harmony with one's self. Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's own life - that is the important thing.

It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about, nowadays, saying things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true.
The only way a woman can reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been wretched. Of course you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.

One's days were too brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life, and paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man Destiny never closed her accounts.

I admit that I think it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.

When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.

--Still, we have done great things.
-Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.
--We have carried their burden.
-Only as far as the Stock Exchange.
--I believe in the race.
-It represents the survival of the pushing.
--It has development.
-Decay fascinates me more.
--What of Art?
-It is a malady.
--Love?
-An Illusion.
--Religion?
-The fashionable substitute for Belief.
--You are a sceptic.
-Never! Scepticism is the beginning of Faith.
--What are you?
-To define is to limit.
--Give me a clue.
-Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.
--You bewilder me. Let us talk of someone else.

We women, as someone says, love with our ears just as you men love with your eyes. if you ever love at all.

The appeal to Antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists.

Describe us a a sex, was her challenge. Sphinxes without secrets.

The only horrible thing in the world is ennui, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.

There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.

Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.

Civilization is not my any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt.

Death is the only thing that terrifies me. I hate it. One can survive everything nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.

Anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often. That is one of the most important secrets of life.

If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart.

The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it.

Ah! Then it must be an illusion. The things that one feels absolutely certain are never true. That is the fatality of Faith, and the lesson of Romance.

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it.

It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem infront of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing.

You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play - it is on things like these that our lives depend.

A Message

2008-08-13T21:11:00.000+05:30

All you proud Indians, if you feel like, you can congratulate our very own.. very first Individual Olympic Gold medal winner in the 10m Air Rifle event, Abhinav Bindra right here.

Quietus.

2008-05-29T15:34:00.001+05:30

Remove the thorns with your own bloody hands
There’s no-one to help, not a soul
The fear gripping the ribs in painful bands
You shuffle forwards, retch, cry and moan

The air is empty, lingering with the promise of getting worse
Dry, damp, cool, warm, still, and breezy all at once
A gale whips up the alien leaves with an alien force
Blue to black to blue to black, bruised by fists and cut by a sword…

Back in the coolness of a musty room…

The blood seeps up the skin in beads
Like sweat but only darker, filthier, thicker than water
Your face is contorted with rage, distorted with pain, covered in sweat sheen
A battle lost, then a battle won, life’s not a bed of roses but a throne of thorns

Your heart thumping in your head, the emptiness of your emotions
Making you ache for the love long lost, a lost... lost cause
A dreamer still inside you, toying with the foolish notions
Of a world past gone, of happiness dead and born, of grief ungauged

The ruby red beads on the jeweled bracelet run loose, dance around
Moving about with ferocity unbound
Untamed, unchallenged, they pounce about with the air of a egocentric maniac
Who pushes people about, running into them, flowing, weaving, for him there’s no turning back

You jump back to the bruised alien leaves, back to the sad distant moon…

The leaves still dead and worn, blue to black to blue to black,
The earth hadn’t sheltered itself, had looked up, frightened but pride intact
Been bruised by the mighty sky, by the hailstorms it sent towards her
The leaves been bruised, but unseen, her head still held high

On the ground now, smelling the earth, her beautiful smell
You clutch the stones, the leaves, the twigs,
You shook with fear while the air stood still with incoherence
A beetle crawls towards you, up on your hand
He still had a life to live, his ending unplanned

The moon sat serenely, indifferent to your ghastly stare
Lumbering away in his sleep, dreaming of nutcracker fairies and cashel blue cheese
His face cratered, seemed destroyed, dark blotchy patches forgot to turn red when it cried
The numbness attacked your legs, creeping up to your chest, engulfed you, the pain ceased. And it was dead.
While in the still, silent, orange glowing room, the rubies made a glove for you
A beautiful glove with a hundred rubies and nothing else, the hand was no longer tense
It marveled at the redness of the royal hand, a red glove of rubies shimmered as it sped
The opaque redness dripped down ahead

The stinging pain like a nettle bite, spread across the fingers,
Shooting up through the forearm to the shoulder to the neck
To your smile
As you take one last look the room, your signs it still bore

Everything heaving up in a great uproar, the heart jumping, thrashing to get out through your ribs
The jumble of thoughts straightened to become a thin line
Broken, it traveled in straight lines, green to black to green to black
The whiteness shushed the noise in a sweeping motion of a ruby hand

As the eyes close, the silence morose,
You feel happy as a child on his first bicycle ride
As everything slows down to an imaginary race
The hands turn cold, the memories lie in folds

Everything turns to unbreakable ice and you feel…
And you feel your heart and your soul fall dead inside.

One Better Than the Last..

2008-05-13T01:04:00.001+05:30

So this blog celebrates going one better than the last blog of mine, which boasts of thirty wonderful posts. This is the thirty-first, finally.

Err..sorry, that was way too show-offy! :p

So, this wretched habit of tapping away on the keys putting up awful stories and penning down futile ruminations of a very uncultured mind, came into existence on the Ninth of September '06. The posts weren't so wonderful as to take a look at. But thankyou for the encouraging comments which you typed down for the very undeserving me.

Ahem, I tend to be a little melodramatic. Take care. Stay Happy!! :)

2008-05-13T00:08:00.000+05:30

You Are a Comma

You are open minded and extremely optimistic.

You enjoy almost all facets of life. You can find the good in almost anything.

You keep yourself busy with tons of friends, activities, and interests.

You find it hard to turn down an opportunity, even if you are pressed for time.

Your friends find you fascinating, charming, and easy to talk to.

(But with so many competing interests, you friends do feel like you hardly have time for them.)

You excel in: Inspiring people

You get along best with: The Question Mark

What Punctuation Mark Are You?

On a dark desert highway..

2008-05-07T20:40:00.000+05:30

Being a travel writer can be a thrilling experience for any person. Recently, I came across this short story by Roald Dahl, who is infact a great writer for adults, as well as children. Having read almost all his Children's stories long back, I plunged into this one as enthusiastically. I'd read this book twice before, but the stories seemed as fresh as ever. "The Visitor" is one of his feats as a short story writer. All the other stories in the book are as good but this one really hit the spot.

The roads can be fascinating in a very metaphorical sort of a way. Geographical, for some folks. The views, the people, the life. With your own two eyes. Be it any place with civilization.. you get to see a good deal. Even without. The wilderness revels in its own glory. There are innumerable accounts of people coming across strange circumstances, people or seeing something plain weird while they're travelling. Almost all of us get something to tell the others when you get back.

Personally, I had once dreamt of becoming a travel writer, going to strange and even eerie places on my own. A lot of things inspire idiots like us who dream everyday and run away from reality as if it's plague. No, there is no "running" away, but we just don't like visiting the place. There's nothing sweeter than Home Dream Home. But we do visit sometimes and yes, the memory always remains deeply etched into the brains. Painful memories. And we say, thank goodness, we don't actually live there. Poor people, wasting away their lives stuck in one boring place when they could travel away their lives on the roads of Dreamland. Reality is an absolutely fixed place. And boy, when you get stuck.. you get stuck real bad.

Everyone thinks a romantic is a stupid, absent-minded person and they go on goading themselves that they are some intellegent people with their feet firmly set on the ground, with work to do. Jobs to attend to and life to get on with. They don't know they're missing out on what life really is. These people, they run away from fiction saying they rot the brain, fill it with strange stuff which is not good for you. But they're wrong. Once you start living to what you just know, then you're gone for good. What you know in this tiny, mean life is just what your infernal brain thinks. They never get to know what a hundred other think of everything.

They get stuck in the mud knee-deep, getting on with squirming to get away from stress that they build on themselves. The world is not cruel, the cruelty is what you make of the world. People get tangled in this whole mess of affairs which they take responsibility of. Duties, they call it. Too many things to take care of. They search for things to be happy about, forgetting that there are people having bigger problems who only think about making others happy.

So, these people should be shook by the shoulders and told that the world in NOT reality. The world is a dream waiting right there on the bookshelf, down by the lane, a hunder kilometres away, in some forest.. in another country. There's a whole new world out there for you to escape to instead of blaming every other person for what the world has come to. Selfish, self centred people with only money on their mind, it's all about them. Not some poor small boy starving when he gets no food all day, not a dolphin who's been trapped just because someone needs cheering up. It's not about seals dying, not about some poor animals who have to die because something had to be tested just to make it right, just so it could be sold for money to give you a better life.

How can a country be labelled better on what weapons it has? Why make weapons when we aren't supposed to kill each other? Anyway, if people decide on what they want for reality, they can make a difference. A good life is not too far away when the line between dream and reality starts to fade. But first, we need to start dreaming.

Just A Story.

2008-04-19T00:18:00.000+05:30

I experienced my very first Writer's Block and I really don't think I'm over it yet. But, there's no harm in trying. Just last night I experienced wild flow of creativity which I found difficult to channel. Basically because I was torn. It resulted from to a lot of personal "shit" which I guess.. just HAPPENS.

So here I have it, a short story for you to critisize. Or praise. Preferably, both. I hope you like twist-in-the-tale stories. Here goes:

Evangelina glanced irritably at the clock and realised that Derek was late in calling her once again. No surprises here, she thought. She unfastened the latch to the balcony and stood there at the door experiencing the welcoming smell of eucalyptus leaves in the night air. The cool air soothed her and she slowly began to relax. The much creased forehead of hers and was starting to become smooth again. She breathed in deeply and let out a heavy sigh. Stretching her hands up, she yawned and smiled a blissful smile.

Then she came forward to the railing slowly and settling her hands comfortably on the cold black metal, closed her eyes. She could hear the sound of the night insects and as she opened her eyes, a bat or two swooshed away swiftly near a tree she could just see in the distance. A very familiar sight. She turned around resting her back on the railing and stretched back her neck so she could have a good look at the stars. They look beautiful, as usual, she thought. The moon was not visible from this part of the house. She'd have to go to the terrace. But she was violently brought back to reality when she remembered she had a phone call to attend to.

She hurriedly entered the room and started pushing a button to see if anyone had called. She didn't really trust herself to be vigilant anytime of the day. She had always been a daydreamer, always. Thank God, no calls since the afternoon. This was getting tiring. She laid down on the bed beside the phone and a couple of books she had been reading last night. Slowly, she raised her arm and brought her wrist up to see. No, it looked normal. Quite unlike what it looked exactly a month ago. She experienced a dull pain in the chest and a sinking feeling in her stomach as she recollected what she the same wrist had looked. Hideous. What had actually come over her that she had decided to end her life, she couldn’t really understand. An intense look set upon her face as she pondered over it.

Derek had always been a good person. Was it she who had caused all this to happen? Sure, everything was all right between them NOW. But there wasn’t a time when everything was ACTUALLY all right between them. She sat up straight and brought her knees close to her face and tucked them under her chin. Rocking back and forth, she remembered what had actually happened and tears slowly welled in her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand and absent mindedly picked up a book from the side table. Opened the page she’d left at and started reading to keep her mind off everything.
Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty minutes passed, still no phone call. She stared at the phone and picked it up to see if it was working. Yes, it was. He must be really busy to delay the call. Or was he? She was sure he loved her. He did. He absolutely did. Well, he did say that. But, maybe he just SAID that. She was no mind reader. Ever since they’d been together, not one day had passed that she’d not told herself that she was not good enough for Derek. Never good enough. He was everything she could ask for, but she… she did not fit the bill. She was all right, but definitely not good enough for him.

Nonsense, I’m good enough for anything. There’s a lot of negativity in you. Stop underestimating yourself, Eva. You’re as good as any other girl. Even better, she thought. She knew it was her alter ego speaking. She sucked in air as she fondly thought of what her opinion of herself was. She had a lot of mental testimonials she had verbally received earlier. From a variety of people. Certainly, she was not just good as any other; she was one of the better part of the population. Right. That settles it.

Derek’s to blame. It was he who painted her world black. It was he who told her that she wasn’t what she thought she is. A number of times, a lot was said about her to herself. Enough said. The old spirit was back. Very good, she’d see that she gets her life back. As soon as he called, she’d tell him to go his own way. That would do well for now.

As she was thinking what else she had to tell him… there came a sudden loud crash from just outside the house. She experienced a wild adrenaline rush and hurried to the balcony. And that was a sight to behold; there lay a car not far from their own family car, totally upturned, windows shattered and the tires still rotating rapidly on their own accord. Wow, she’d never seen anything like this.

With a shock, she thought that there MUST be still somebody inside the car, the driver. She could see no-one standing near the car or anywhere around it. Being almost midnight, she could see no-one else on the street too. Oh my God! This needs urgent help, she thought and racked her brains. She turned around and ran to her parents' bedroom and banged on it with full force.

“Hello!! Open the door, please! We’ve got an emergency here!!!”

There came a sleepy voice from the inside, “Uhh.. yes? What is it, Eva? Can it wait till the morning, please?” It was her father.

“NO!! It’s not about me. Come outside! There’s been an accident!!”

“What?? Wait a second.” In about a couple of seconds he was at the door in his robe and her Mum was struggling to get out of bed. “Where? What happened??”

“Just outside.. hurry!! I guess someone’s still trapped inside the car!”

The three of them hurried to the main door, out of it, and reached the car just in time. Now that her mind was starting to clear, she saw that the car was just a few yards away from their own and if it hadn’t stopped where it was, there would have been serious damage to their car as well. She went with her Father to the other side, the driver’s side. There he was, half his body outside the window and the other half jammed under the car. It was tight position, but not dangerous. Her father helped the person out of the car, and with a little help he slid out from under it and thanked her father profusely. He wasn’t hurt except a few bruises and some scratches on his arms. Everyone turned to look at the car and unfortunately, the car wasn’t as lucky as the driver.

“How DID this happen??”

“I don’t know, it skidded and then… I really don’t know.”

Evangelina looked at the driver and saw that he really didn’t look too well. There was something strange with the way he looked. His eyes were a bit swollen and red, and he couldn’t speak properly. He seemed dazed, because of the accident, most probably, she thought. It seemed as if he’d pass out any second. Strange. She looked at the car again and up at her parents. She saw out of the corner of her eye, her Father nudging her Mother and telling her to take her inside.

As they got inside, her Mother told her to go to bed immediately. She had to get up for school and it was much later than midnight by then. She asked her if she could have some water first, and went into the kitchen and brought back a glass of chilled water. She sipped it slowly and shook her head to help her get the incident out of her mind. Her father appeared at the doorway and locking up the door as he came inside, told Eva to fetch him a glass too. She did as she was told as she came back she could hear her parents conversing quietly, she stopped to listen. Listening intently, she could make out the words that were being half whispered – “yes, you’re right…drunk…had a fight with someone…couldn’t say anything properly but yes,…told him to go home… fetched a cab..” So that was it.

She re-entered the room and her parents stopped conversing suddenly and sat there quietly without looking at her. She told them that she’s going to her bedroom now. They both nodded and smiled at her. As she turned, she asked them, “Oh, by the way, how did that accident happen?” They both stared at her and her father replied, “Nothing, just a stray cat or something in the way. You go to sleep. Good night.” She turned around and went to her own room. Amused. What made them say this? Always a problem with parents. They think we’re not grown up enough.

Just as she sat on the edge of her bed, the phone rang and she picked it up at the first ring. “Hello!!?”

“Hey there, Eva! Sorry…was a bit busy with the homework. Too much of it nowadays, eh? I hope you don’t mind?”

“Yeah… no problem. You think I’d get angry on such a thing? Aww, you’re such a sweetheart! And you just WAIT till you hear what happened…”

____________________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading. Please don't forget to comment, or I won't ever know if you read it or not. Thankyou, once again! :)

The Dust of Happiness Settling On Everyday Life

2008-03-12T12:47:00.000+05:30

She sat there on the balcony, looking down on the garden which boasted of a dozen roses, dahlias, sunflowers.. a light green hedge which was starting to overgrow. Her eyes wandered to the lone white plastic chair and table lying there. She smiled. On the ledge below here, a cat lay looking over the garden as she did, probably looking out for innocent prey. She had three kittens to feed. The girls whistled and then meowed at the cute creature. She looked up. Yellow eyes with dark green, even emarald pupils, a pink nose with a snow white mouth while her whiskers twitched violently for a few seconds. Delicate ears through which the sun shone through.

The girl rested her chin on her folded arms and smiled at the beautiful creature. And then looked up at the sky, signs of rain. Signs of happiness. Signs of peace. She thought, if she wasn't an atheist, she'd have prayed for some rain too. The birds chirped heartily in the trees surrounding the house and two squirrels played on the metal gate's narrow width. The trees swayed in unison and it felt as if they were cheering for the same team somewhere. The squirrels? They're cheering for one of the squirrels, she thought silently. She looked at them again, they were racing down from a tree, like young children free of all wickedness, happy to the core.

She turned to go back inside, but she couldn't decide. Then she smelt smoke in the air. Hints of smoke, someone burning leaves. She'd seen the sight innumberable times, neighbours burning leaves in heaps behind their backyard or a little outside the main gate. She didn't like it. She turned back anyway, and sat down on a chair. Her eyes rested on the calender hung on the wall. A painting, it showed a village scene. Some with axes, some dancing, some together just happy, a group of people talking, a lone tree with a peacock on it. Her eyes wandered aimlessly and much to her dismay, there was the television. She mocked at the ugly block of sheer stupidity. How it blared in this room, as night fell, as the others sought happiness in useless junk which wasn't alive and which rotted their brains with unimaginative garbage.

She glanced up at the picture of a beautiful place, a temple, with a purple sky. It mixed up beautifully with purplish-white.. golden yellow and then deep red as she looked down towards the temple, which was lighted with hundreds of earthen lamps. As she sat mesmerised by the sight, she heard a soft clinking behind her. Turning around, she saw the cat which has come up by the balcony and had now made her way to the dogs' food which lay near the bed. There she was, looking straight at the girl's face with the same yellow eyes, a paw's distance away from the food and a paw raised to complete that distance in a second. The girl sat there silently, not moving an inch, acting like a statue. She didn't mind if the cat ate some of the food, unlike her mother who resented such actions. The girl hardly breathed while the cat slowly stretched out her leg and finally had a taste of the food.

How graceful the creature looked while doing anything, be it even blinking. The girl wonderingly thought what made her blink so slowly. The phone rang and she started, hastily reaching out for the phone and tripping it over while trying to grab it, unsuccessfully. The cat stood there alarmed. It was her mum on the phone, and she put it down, she saw the cat move away slowly, as she had come. Probably, she thought, the room wasn't as safe and quiet as she had thought. Another wickedness of technical advancements. She sighed and went out to look for the cat, which was nowhere to be seen.

She decided to quit and return to the room and stood infront of the mirror, which had become quite a habit of late. She stared at the dark mane of hair and fingered them listlessly and then thought of how he had brushed them the day before. How lovingly, and as she recalled it, she thought it must be a dream. And that a flicker of wild imagination had caused her to think of this story. But it was true. No wild imagination, just pure reality. Pure blissful reality. She closed her eyes and thought how she had felt. Feeling weak in the knees, she leant on the bedpost and smiled to herself. Clenching her hands together hard, she sighed happily. Life wasn't so bad as she'd thought, after all. She closed her eyes and her mind wandered far away to where it usually resided when she was away from anything or anyone else.

The phone snapped her out of her bliss and as she picked it up, brought her back to a more blissful reality than a merely blissful dream. Long live Love.

Winter Blues

2008-01-26T02:51:00.000+05:30

Haven't read a single book since days. The last one I read was 'Web of Deceit' - Glenn Meade, after 'Rosie' by Alan Titchmarsh. A typical contrast, the same pattern. Light and funny to dark and broody. Been reading a lot of random blogs. Oops, I mean.. just looking at some random blogs. Didn't find much to read, more of pictures than words. Not good. Family photographs to far out amateur football teams. Phew. In addition, every other blog's in whats-it language which gets on my nerves. Can't I just find some friggin' inspiration without experiencing these out of the world, totally awesome.. HEADACHES!!

With the temperature dropping like never before, the depression meter increasing like alwayyys.. it goes without saying how the exams add to it. And to add to it all, I'm probably missing my last ever school trip! :(

Nevermind, I'll get something better to do. Maybe I'll get my head to start working and complete the next post for the story. If you've got time, just go through the first one and if you think it's good.. just comment. I won't know if ANYONE has read it if I don't see comments. No, this is not a plot or something. Witty, eh? :p

You'll find the new blog on my profile. Or if you're really lazy, like me, here it is: http://vermilliontranquility.blogspot.com/

Winter has never been THIS cold since 15 years, atleast. I guess. By the way, Happy Republic Day, people!! :)

Here Without You..

2007-12-06T20:57:00.000+05:30

I'm here without you baby
But you're still on my lonely mind
I think about you baby
And I dream about you all the time

Helpless.. :(

It gets too confusing when I've been bursting to say something for hours.. to utter one word of regret, of hopelessness, of misery and all I can do finally is.. to be happy.

?????

What is it supposed to mean?
Vain? Careless? Inconsiderate? Maybe.

But what is it then.. thoughtlessness.. gosh, you're so thoughtless.

Is it not really right to make someone your "everything"? When they're gone.. you have nothing. When they're with you and not with you. Incomplete. Everything seems unrequited. What exactly is it all supposed to mean?

Far too serious to be called a joke and far too funny to be called serious.
Never thought I'd feel lonely, being the luckiest person in the world.
Have I been thoughtless or is what I see thoughtlessness? No-one to blame but just everyone to hate.

Journeys end in lovers meeting..

2007-11-13T07:04:00.000+05:30

"I have no other but a woman's reason:
I think him so, because I think him so."

The Two Gentlemen of Verona (I, ii, 23-24)

Nothing ends well. Ever. Is it a sin to love someone? All I ever wanted to do was love.. I've cried in happiness.. cried in pain. But I did not expect I'd have to cry in sadness.. how much can a person cry?

Corrected? Wronged? Blamed? Does anyone even want me to live? Leave alone needing me.

I've seen people.. believing I'm with them, when all I want to do is stay away. But what about people who want to stay away not believing that I love them? Unjust.

LOVED AND LOST..

There lived a girl
Who lived a happy life
Turned her head towards the sky
She felt she was alive

Life went on..
With strifes and happiness
No-one could see what she was inside
Except a few, who knew she was always right

There came a curve
Happiness drifted away
The girl still went strong
Her tears washed away

People still knew she was right
They said she had the might
She believed them
Looking away from the wreckage

Life went on..

Till one day
Out of the blue
Her dream came true
She was a person who hardly knew
Life could be as good as new

How coud she know
That of all the people in the world
Her love would be the one
To think she does not love him so

Days went on..
Months too
But he never did believe her
She thought he knew

But he never did
And he never will
The girl cried
For days and nights long

How could she make him see?
All she ever did was love
To breathe, to be
He was her everything

Promises they made
Words they shared
Disappeared into thin air
When he didn't care

He'd reminded her of happiness
Of the better things in life
Of being together
Even in the awful strifes

What happened to the valour
The girl couldn't live
Without the boy on her side
But he didn't believe

He didn't believe the pain
He didn't believe the agony
He didn't believe the Love
All she gave was turned to waste
To see the end of her story

She'd die for another word to say
But she knows she has to keep shut
If she wants to live anymore
She doesn't want any more hurt
From the dream she loves so much more

The words pierce like a dagger
They thrust into her heart
The very heart that loves him
Even when he's far..

But she still dreams
Of a better tomorrow
Of a happy smile
Of the day when..

She'd look towards the sky
And feel she's alive.
Spending her days of happiness and sorrow
With the Love of her Life.

Paranoia

2007-10-11T21:28:00.000+05:30

Here's the fear.. the fear before I shake my head and it goes away. The melancholic fear the everything has an end. Even fear, goes dead. Forever.. don't mind that it was a dream err.. nightmare. It just was one. A new one.

She could smell the winter already. It all seemed very familiar, somehow like the lake. The lake she loved with all her heart. But her sight seemed foggy. It was the lake, but it was not the lake. The water was the same? Nothing else was. A land where not many people came.. somewhere personal. Where only fear lived. Only her dreadful thoughts thrived on the water, under the water. All around.

Nothing. All around there were just trees and deathly silence. There were hundreds of trees but no birds. She could see the water, but yet she could not hear it. It was as if no-one had been here yet. A place not yet discovered? But she had lived her all her life. Finally, when her thoughts vanished into nothingness. She set around looking for someone because she couldn't remember how she had come here. And why was she alone.. she wasn't supposed to be alone.

Turned around and there it was. Shapeless and yet interesting. A house? A cottage? But wait, it had no colour. Like everything else.. it was lifeless. As she went closer she could hear laughter. Cheery laughter at first, exactly as if they had won. Won what? She had no idea. She heard girls. Girls inside the building.

Opened the door and stepped in. They didn't look around and she was glad at that. Turned out to be some place like a cafe.. a coffee shop. A bakery, maybe. She could see a lady at the counter. Reluctantly she moved ahead. But instead of feeling warmer being inside a heated room, she felt a chill move through her spine and rest there.

"Excuse me?", she said to the lady at the counter, unsure of who she was.
She turned around, an expression of slight disgust on her face.. somehow troubled at being disturbed. She glared at her questioningly as if somehow threatening her to go away.

"Um.. nothing. Sorry." She thought it would be better if she just went about her business. But why was she here? Better if we talked to the girls seated at the table. One glance and she was shocked. She knew them. She knew them all. She didn't know what to do. Duck away? Go ahead? Or just plain nothing?

Her memory went back as far as she could remember. It's been years.. they're at school. No.. now they're not at school. She's just about to get into her room. It's them. They're telling him to push her. And he does, he does what he's told. Blackness. But from the corner of her eyes she saw the teacher. She had seen everything. Now they'll get to know. She curses, for the first and the last time in her life.

Strange recollection. Back to the room. One of them glances across at her. She's still standing, unable to understand anything. They all look up from their shrieky talk and smile at her. Smiles.. she saw them and smiled again. They turn back to each other and she knew. She knew that.. they were snickering at each other. Some went as far as baring their teeth. Oh, how she hated them. But yet..

She goes back some years.. recollects.. it's their school. Some years later. Back to class after PE. They'd won. She was happy, she changed her opinions. Exchanged them for something less hateful, more friendly. They're friends. Every one of them. Life's good.

Back to the heated room. She wants some air, but if she goes out she'll freeze. It seems impossible how it can get stuffy so soon. One of them gets up from the table. She recognizes her. Her best friend? Ex-best friend? What does she want? As if on second thoughts, she rolls her eyes and sits down again.

Another faint memory of being sad. Crying in her room.. with nothing but pain.
How could they do that? She's thinking. Can't find a reason good enough. Collapses on the floor and she knows she can't get up. She has no-one.

It was just then that they all turn to a girl she didn't know. Someone new, their new friend. New. She gets up innocently goes around the room stealthily, she can just look at the girl and do nothing. Glued at the spot somehow she waits on helplessly as the girl mananges to push her and she's sprawled on the floor. Writhing with pain. Agony. Helplessness.

The lady from the counter sees it all. She comes to the girls and asks them about whatever they did. "What was that? I think I need an explanation."

"Uh.. what did we do? We didn't do anything. I don't know but.. some people just tend to be very stupid." one of them says, mockingly. And they all laugh.

"You do know her! You've been together for years.. right?"
"Oh yes. We know her. Hmm.."
Mutterings.. a few hoarse laughs. The classic fun out of pain formula.
Followed by bellowed laughter.. increasing so much that it gets impossible to bear.

She rushes out of the door. Freezing cold and it's got a lot darker. But the cold darkness gave immense comfort. She sees a hooded figure approach her. And she knows that it's herself she's seeing. And then she realizes. It's no fun hiding away your fears. They won't go away from her that way. She has to face them. Accept it.

One fine nightmare.. she has always been wrong. Wrong in everything. She swears she won't forget the days when she was sad.. for a few seconds of bright happiness she sees now and then. Never ever. She can't go on trusting anyone blindly.

And when two persons live one life. They're one. And she failed at seeing what it was. She was wrong again. Goodness does not prevail. Love does. Love. It's what goes the world go round.

She wakes up with a jerk as if something inside her pulled at her. She gets back to reality. Crying silently. Crying maybe for the first time.. first time for a real reason. First time she realized something right. She did. Cried. And is still crying.

Till the day she understand the world she was born in and the world she has made for herself.

Calling The Conundrums

2007-09-26T22:12:00.000+05:30

One can just get tired of living their lives, not entirely wishing that they had someone else's but just that their's isn't worth living anyway. People get tired of circumstances they've got themselves into or maybe.. the circumstances have just woven around them themselves. Not ready to budge, not ready to move out of the way.

Life is just a dream, however you try to believe not to.. it's just certain that even a small noise can wake you up. It's not seeing the reality, it's losing yourself. In a bad, bad, mean way. Lose your dream, lose yourself. Lose your life.

Love your life. Love your dream. Love yourself. Learn to love, love to love :)

That's all there is to it. But again, it's not as simple as it seems to be when you've got a whole lot of noises trying to break into you. Trying to break you to pieces while you shut them out, shut your eyes tighty.. keep them away. Keep them away. Please.. keep them away.

Unexpected happiness is all you can wish for, when the dream turns to reality. The worst part is.. no-one can just wish for happiness. Wishful thinking. It comes by itself. As it has to. Someone has to bring it in. Usher it in while there's still time.. still time..

Those who choose not not go by their own views of life.. wonder how they live. Mind's frequencies.. intutions? Anything at all? Head first into what ain't right. Turn themselves into robots.. slaves to the system of the rights and wrongs.

The make-believe world ain't bad if it got you survivin' till the last :)
It's not make-believe though. It's the light of life. What does it take someone to bow down to everyone else.. accepting everything without a question? Nothing. As easy as that. Unquestionable rules, ways to know if someone's as good as you. As good as it gets. As good as the worst.

A Noise comes along.. the welcome it as just a "hard" part.. the rough path. A passing phase, oblivious to the fact that maybe it's not what they think it is. Maybe it's a way of life showing them what they actually are inside. Giving them a call to understand what they are. They are their own problems. But there aren't any problems at all.. we make them up. It's just you trying to be You. Someone you really are. Not just someone everyone else has turned you into. That's sad.

As soon as the moment we're born.. we're critisized for everything we do. Anything under the shining sun. Gets very, very critical when you've already grown up. They tell you to behave like kids, they tell you to grow up. They tell you to do what they want. They tell you to follow your heart. Make up your mind, please. We aren't puppets.

Going by my way.. looking at life through thin air. By my naked eye. Face to face.
It says.. "You're on your way.. on your way. But just a sec, turn right for Life and left for The End."

Undreamed Reality

2007-09-25T09:28:00.000+05:30

I don't know what you mean. But I know I don't live my illusions. If I did, I wouldn't have gone miserable looking at the reality.. I wouldn't have tried not losing hope if I didn't know what actually happens. All my writing's gone to you..

And you don't care. Why do I even care to do things.. I don't do it for myself. Not just my writing, everything revolves around you. Everything. I can't get the act straight. If it was not so.. what am I doing writing again? Feeble attemp at making you understand which should not go vain. Whatever happens :(

I never tried writing, it just came, but now I do. Thoughts got too complicated to be written in simple sentences. I can't send brain waves around to get to let you know what the "truth" is actually.

Only if I think.. I had someone like me. Is it supposed to go all berserk after your deams come true.. or can you just undo the move? What do I have to do to make you see?

The only truth is see now is-- this has to be a long story. A biiig story.. 700 pages. Hehe. One long happy story. Don't go away. So I just stop thinking that nothing can be hoped for. I never knew my talk was so inconvincing. But if it is, my fault.

Sorry. I'm not perfect :(

Smells Like The Spirit

2007-09-22T08:32:00.000+05:30

I'm losing it.. losing it all. Very soon, I won't have anything left. Bereft. Alone. Like I was, like I'm supposed to be. Don't bother anyone.. live happily. I've received the blame, I've heard it all. I've loved and lost, and then lost.. and loved. I say, live our illusions and love them too.

But I hope life isn't one. One BIG illusion where everyone's just tryin'.. tryin' and tryin' to be someone they aren't. I was always myself, but then, they say, Change is Good. And yes, I believed THEM. I believed them. That's not me!!

It's a feeling you get when you open your eyes in the morning and then you just have yourself. And someone in the back of your mind shouts.. "Go Girl! You've finally stopped loving yourself.. that was bound to happen once you forgot who you are." And then tears don't stop.

Tears won't stop, not until life would. I would. I'll stop. You'll see.

Day by day, night by night.. second by second. I see myself going away into the distant darkness which is not mine. My darkness has been replaced by Light. And I know change isn't needed when you love yourself.

It's like you get this brand me picture.. you love it. Then someone comes and changes a bit of it, here and there. Adding their personal touches. Then the edges start fading. Nothing stops it. But you aren't supposed to stop loving the picture. But then, I don't feel it's mine anymore. But I heard it right.. it said.. "You've stopped loving yourself.. where has your love gone?".. and I said "I don't know."

"You live for others now. Why?"

"I don't know."

"Don't cry, kid. Things would be the same again."

"But I guess I don't want them to be."

"See.. you've lost it. Never be the same again?"

"I know.. lost myself. I don't know."

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

Prisoners Of Our Own Device

2007-09-21T21:21:00.000+05:30

All hail.. Don Henley, Glenn Frey and Don Felder. Yay!!
Thanks for giving us such a great song to listen to.. and actually make out the meaning. Absolutely brilliant. A songwriter's dream.. easy on the ears.. but hard on the mind. I bet when a person listens to it, he has another perception of the song, which in unlike me.

All differs on how much a person reads.. each book, each page, each paragraph is a learning experience. And that too, people won't understand until they get into the skin of the character. Absolutely. As my Mum rightly said.. you need nothing to become an Editor of a magazine.. a journal, anything. Just that you know our stuff. You know what actually is worth reading for your lot.

Being an author.. is the easiest thing in the world. I swear, and I know I'm going to become one. Shutup whoever, Commerce can go eat dust. I don't care. What's it to them, anyway?

Prisoners of our own device.. not apt.
It should've been.. Masters of our own device.

I love this.

Hate Is What Makes The World Go Round

2007-09-17T17:22:00.000+05:30

Some people hate to hate, but I'm not one of those. And some hate to love, I'm not one of those either. I'm nothing. As if I didn't already know that, I know it now.

Remember how it hurts when someone takes away your candy? Yes, candy. Or maybe.. when you aren't allowed to do something you'd die for? A ride you saw in the fair? Moving ahead.. you think you've got everything just to realize that it wasn't real. An illusion? Or maybe it's just your schizophrenic mind that's playing games.

How can anyone not understand the importance of time? The time that's so important when you've just simply got to study for your exams? Oh yes, you poor poor thing. My sympathies.. but why can't you just friggin'.. EFFING understand when it's being with someone you dearly love? Forgotten. That ain't gettin' you anything other than headache.

All of it when everything was perfect? Absolutely perfect.. exactly like how you feel when you walk in the rain and you aren't crying. You're happy. And yes, you're happy 'cause you know your life's worth living for after all. But no.. soon. very soon you have to find out that it was just an illusion. It actually is nothing. Just another one of those days when.. your mind plays games. It's bored.. just wants to make fun of you when you think you're the luckiest person in the whole world.

I thought I won't, but I have. I have typed it all out just to see how much I can hate. Hate myself for loving everything. And love myself for hating everything.

Titled Escribitionist

2007-09-13T16:25:00.000+05:30

It's hard shifting from the "dark" side of you to the happy one.. but sometimes you just have to reflect upon what you aren't supposed to be. But only if you think so.. only if you think. And what about somethings you never thought about? And then they happen.. leaving you bereft of any feelings?

All's in the mind. Uh.. teenage angst? Whatever. Anyway, so this book look just like the perfect book to read in the summers, or maybe when you're on holiday. Just sometime when you could get lost in the book with no-one to wake you up. But wait, that's why books exist. Lose yourself.

Can You Hear The Nightbird Call? Three Indian stories mixed into one.. all related to the Partition. I haven't even read halfway through it and feels like I'm living in Vancouver already :p Glad to be kept away from the mundane reality in '07 Bhopal. In a shitty school with shitty teachers. Rest is okay, with some stuff being totally mindblowing. Hehe :)

If it wasn't for the "shit" mentioned above.. mine would have been the perfect life. Absolutely. I swear. Feels good to be back writing, and not writing stupid poems on dying. Excuse that, please. And I really don't mean it. But sometimes I just do.

The reason? I just do. "Everyone's out to kill me. I swear." Hehe.. quoted from my older post written on April 20th. One of my best posts, I guess. Do read it. This is what life is, you love it and you don't. But sometimes.. when you feel down.. you just need a hug!! Right now! :)

Questionable Questions?

2007-09-08T21:30:00.000+05:30

Shouldn't expect too much, or shouldn't expect anything at all. Expectations expectations expectations. Bleh. And then end up blaming yourself for no reason at all and then.. forget it? Forget it. I don't expect myself to go on.. this time.

People change, they change opinions all the time. Their views change. It just happens that sometimes, you understand what people say. You relate. And you think "If I'd heard this last week, I'd have called that meaningless". Absolutely. Events and people may sometimes be 'nothing' or maybe.. exactly something you needed. It's enough for you too see that you were right. You weren't alone. There are other been-there-done-thats.

It isn't their fault that people don't know what some people've been up to. They wouldn't even have cared if that person had no real value in their lives. Everyday happenings, but yes, no-one knows. Not their fault.

Can I Have Some Peace?

2007-09-02T18:08:00.001+05:30

Can I have some peace?
I don't want to die
But I know what it is
You want it to happen alright

You see 'em die everyday
And you say "cowards"
But what are you?
Bowing down to the system anyway

Can I have some peace?
When you really care,
Can you shut up please?
I can't really go anywhere

My country, this is
I was born, they made me think
I have to make them proud
Even if I have to kill myself within

So, that's why you see
Education's so important
It really helped me
I didn't know this would really happen

I always say "Never Again"
I made a mistake
But they drag me unto it
Till I have no space

I don't know how you do that
But whatever it is
Can't you just go on and brag?
I won't mind a bit

They say,
I'm stupid, I'm mindless
But they'll see
All their values are senseless
And I guess that's sweet

What can I do
To make me free?
You did it all again
You failed to see

It's not about what I can do
It's about what you have done
I don't lock the door for nothing
It's just so that reality doesn't creep in

You say you love me?
I don't give a shit
Monkey-see, monkey-do
That's all there is to it

Can I have some peace?
I'm already dead
But they don't know
They won't until they stop banging the door

They'd say "She was a nice girl, but she didn't listen to us"
"She was good, but she failed"
"She was my daughter, but she betrayed"

She could've done what we told her
We've always loved her so
What can we do?
She had her own way

But I wake up yet again
To the same nightmare reality
When all I see is hate
But you say I'm just vain

You can wrong me,
I'm wrong again
You can tell me to live
But I'd be gone again

Had enough of it
No More
I thought I knew what I had to do
But I ignored

You know you're right
Whatever you say, is the best for me
But that's just ridiculous
You failed to see

Why don't you do what you're told?
You're old enough
But why don't you shut up?
You've said enough

Can I have some peace?
I don't want to die
But I know what it is
You want it to happen alright.

Unrequited Respect

2007-08-16T18:53:00.000+05:30

Is there a song that no-one sings? A dream that no-one dreams..can there be a reality that no-one sees? Seems likely, almost.

But if that isn't seen it isn't known. It just exists for the "different", the exceptions, been-there-done-thats. Some things are almost invisible to the normal people if they just do what they're told. This isn't just about anything, it's about what you call.."School". No offence, all you teachers' pets but they can get irritatingly stupid sometimes.

Why do they expect us to "respect" their feelings, their decisions, their stupidity if they can't do that themselves? Selfishness, ego? Pretentiousness? Oh right, that's obvious. But what if they weren't what they have become? After all, it not what you do, it's what you are. Inside.

Everyone's seen stuff happening, but what do they do? Keep shut, none of their business..right? That's what they're supposed to do. Conformists. Hate them. Silence is acceptance, shout out loud. Get out on the streets and tell everyone exactly how screwed up the system is. Anyhow, these lyrics weren't written simply..they have a meaning.

"We don't need no education
We don't need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone"

All-in-all you're just another brick in the wall...
And yes, why do they need to break down the wall if that's so important? There doesn't remain anything else but to "not be another brick in the wall" That's where we see rebellion in the ranks. Way to go!

Microscopic Perfection

2007-08-05T16:00:00.001+05:30

No-one's perfect and no-one has to be either..

Philosopher: A fool who torments himself during life, to be spoken of when dead.

Umm..true. As if you don't get many now. Maybe you are one. Who knows? Some people never get to know their real worth till it's too late. Sometimes till the last possible moment when they can be told about what they are. What they mean to them, or how they've influenced their lives. Why is it this way? Why can't anyone just go around telling people how good they are?

Time goes about ticking away like it is now. I'm losing the possible hours to study for the test tomorrow. Maybe someone else is losing on something far more important. Worth much more, tremendously more important than an oridinary Science test.

It just matters..if you care. If you don't, then just go on reading. If you think there are better things to do, you know what to do, then. Reading this won't lead anywhere, but you still read it. And me...writing this isn't leading anywhere, but I continue writing.

Negative or Positive. Words are words..and people should understand their words.

Sickening Sweetness

2007-08-01T21:09:00.000+05:30

It has been observed..hmm..people turn sickeningly sweet after they act themselves. Yes, especially parents. Only parents. Who cares? Just to write something, just to write..

Time doesn't change. It's still the same, you know, seconds, minutes, hours..days, weeks, years...decades. Time won't change. Just the people do, circumstances do. And it isn't as if they change themselves. Others change them for a reason, if they have one. Without a reason. Meaningless. And here we go, we lose another one of us. For good.

How many times have people said, "Don't change". But people tend to make the same mistakes, again and again, again and again. And this will continue 'til everything exists. Me, you and whoever.

As if things weren't bad enough already. They have to go worse, the laptop. It just went..dead. Just like that. Dead. Here we go again...

Unexpected Happiness..

2007-07-29T09:08:00.000+05:30

...the best kind there is! :)

Yet again, my answer was chosen as the Best Answer. I half expected it myself. But when I looked at it again, made me think, if I can write such words..then why don't I let myself get affected? That's strange. I own my words but I don't feel them. Consider the question again, I find myself in the same situation as it might've been for her.

Question asked by Cassidy:
How do you love yourself when you are being constantly criticized or attacked?
Its very easy to love yourself when things are going well, when you have wonderful friends and family who support you...but how do you love yourself when, things aren't going so well and people are attacking you etc. Thanks :) Happy Friday!

My answer..read "the best ever :)" :
Best Answer - Chosen by Asker

..and it is easier to love yourself when no-one else does! It happens once in a while that people start questioning you on your decisions or anything else. Absolutely anything, however absurd. Just don't depend on them too much..so that you have to be loved by everyone else first, and then think about loving yourself? That would be the most mindless thing ever, if you ask me.

Maybe things never do go well, you just think that everything's okay. Perceptual reality. Be solipsistic, it's what in your mind that matters.

But maybe, just maybe, I don't trust my words. I don't tust myself. But I know that's the only suitable thing to do right now. The only way out. Help me, Asmi! :)

Perpetual Reality?

2007-07-29T00:22:00.000+05:30

I wouldn't ever have dared imagine that I'd have to..or I will..study to keep my mind off studying! Goodness gracious, that almost gives away everything, nothing is perpetual. Not even what you thought of yourself. But surpisingly, it's doesn't matter one bit what I'm doing as far as I don't hurt myself. When the hard part's done, I welcome everything..anything at all, come my way. Please. I've accepted everything I had to. Ready for more...almost!

What's the worst that could happen? It's not a matter of life or death. Oh yes, it is. You bet it is! And now that it is, I don't give a shit to what would come. Let it, I already have everything I ever dreamt of. I never thought of dreams, they just came and went away, almost as if a careless whisper about something as careless as it gets. For once, I really know what I'm writing about. Feels good, for the moment. This is living, live for today. Tomorrow is another life. Just feels so.

I'm just glad this isn't related to something which I'd have been really worried about. Helps in being neutral about whatever has to happen. 'Cause I seriously don't know what to do! Forget that, anyway.

I experienced Psychedelia, finally! And that was wasted, wasted on not-worth-my-time kind of waste. Hm..Schizophrenic. Phew. Oh well, reading about what people do to listen to their music, my music. The Music. Weed..grass..whatever you call it. Disturbingly fascinating. But I say, why do they even need it? Music does it all for me. In one go.

Back to the other me..all concerned about what has to happen and what should not.I just wish I could say this again, after a week, maybe..."Miracles do happen.." I just hope. Hope. Love. Faith. Pink Floyd. Haha..got here again. Can't help it. Just pray..can't. Atheist. HOPE.

Wake the Spirit..

2007-07-28T14:38:00.000+05:30

Looking at how a movie effects people, the good and the bad of it. The worst could be getting affected so much that it effects everything around you. Even a song could..evoke that something, you know what. Means something different for every person. Naturally..that is evident but why do they simply choose to ignore it? Part of the crowd? Suit yourself..then I'm happy in ignorance.

If someone just chooses to do what is best. You know, the best as seen..by everyone. Hmm, just that you think that's right. Anything acceptable, well-liked..d-uh. Sometimes makes me think that I wasn't even made to live in this world..should've been sent to Mars!

Why is it getting harder to find like-minded people? Absolutely no-one to talk to, so it just gets meaningless talking about stuff like this. Live your dreams... My life is a dream, and I'm alive. Beat the odds. I say, where are they? It's me who's odd. Conquer your fears, I fear fear. Phobophobic, big time! Take a risk, as if anything safe is left. I don't have any options left. Erase boundaries..been there, done that! Trust your instincts. If you allow me, please.

"Take up a challenge.
Never give up.
Prove yourself."

All of it seems meaningless in my case, and please do me a favour, do that for me. Inspire me!

I own my words, I right wrongs, I dare to dream but as I said already, life is just a dream and I hope I never wake up from it. But incredibly there are no dreams that I dreamt..for which I'd have to fight. I wish I'd thought of something like that, life is getting boring, kinda! I push limits and play with pride all the time. Tougher the better ha, telling me!! I face my demons not that I know of any of my angels. Taste victory...in what? Atleast gimme a clue, anyone!! Please..or I'd just be what I am.

But talking of everyone else, I'm not going to barge into your personal space and tell you to wake up, and look at yourself. What are you trying to make out of yourself? They say..live your dreams..but what they are doing themselves, is murdering their dreams. Why dream, then? Remember how every child has a dream..he dreams of magic because no-one then tells him that something like that doesn't exist. He dreams of becoming something he wants to. No-one tells him to stop dreaming. Why?! Then why not just slap the stupid kid right there and tell him right then that dreaming is wrong. "Shame on you! You shouldn't dream..it's going to be shattered. You'll do what you're supposed to do. What we make of you, not what you dreamt you would be." Makes me cry.

I was never stopped from doing anything, never ever..sometimes, I wish everyone had parents like mine. I never had dreams like these, just simply. They wouldn't have stopped me. They got the wrong child. I've always let them down, and I know I won't stop doing this. Call it whatever it is..fate? Luck? I don't know.

I'm lost..or I would've been some help to myself. Empty.

A State of Bliss

2007-07-28T06:38:00.000+05:30

Perpetual reality..I think I've found the perfect song!

Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone my senses reeled
A fatal attraction holding me fast, how
Can I escape this irresistible grasp?

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I

Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings, I thought I thought of everything
No navigator to guide my way home
Unladened, empty and turned to stone

A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition grounded but determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer,
My grubby halo, a vapour trail in the empty air,
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye
A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night

There's no sensation to compare with this
Suspended animation, a state of bliss
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.

May mean something different for someone else..but no, this isn't inspirational. Just the truth, related.

Strangeness Intensified

2007-07-28T00:04:00.000+05:30

It can be said to be totally meaningless..this New Blog. But anything brand new makes it "not-so-boring" as maybe it would have become, somehow. I have nothing to write, but then no-one has. It just appears out of nowhere!

Everything seems meaningless once in a while. Even everyday stuff...like studying, well, yeah this is just occasional. One day, it's as if everything fits! Miraculously..and then the next day..nothing is okay. It's like returning to what you were two years ago. A normal human-being, who'd never have got tired of being ordinary. Like everyone in this world is. Almost everyone. It's not as if you meet great people everyday..individualistic souls..read Misfits.

Misfits-- "disturbingly different", scary even? Maybe, I'd never know. Different...comparing someone as different as Back Street Boys and Pink Floyd. Gosh, that's worth some hatred. Talking of music..people never learn. Let their brains rot if they just need..ugh. The world could do without some of those Hip-Hoppers and..you know whats.

No offence, but I ain't forcing you into anything..as if anyone's listening to me? As if anyone's listening to any one of us? We don't need everyone with us to make us feel better. And yes, we don't need good grades too..or being liked by everyone..but some people just get lucky. Luckier than the rest. But can't help being looked upon by others..and who "we"?? Whoever. Who cares?

Artificiality..fakeness..bling? That glittering tiara of niceness? Oh well, the grubby halo of reality..looks like a good deal to me.