Compliment. (Posted by Narcissa.)

"Bhishon Mishti."

Translated it means "very sweet", but i was fooled into believing it meant "God save the men."

Swoon swoon.

All sand, no ***.

So i went to The Beach last night. For the first time. Nice ambience - sand under your feet, a little artificial lagoon, seats made from coconut tree stubs, the works. U2, Sting and others strumming slow numbers, and i asked myself: What the heck am i doing out here with women?? I should be out with a man! I hate the DJ, he just kept on with those crooning voices.

Some would say i'm a bundle of contradictions, that i say i want a man and then i say no, i don't. Actually, i don't have a problem with men. Just with what they do when they are in my life - my focus is on them, i go out and see something nice and pick it up for them, i crib and cry that they don't call me, they don't love me any more blah blah blah. And i don't have a problem with commitment, just marriage - risky business, that.

My friend told me almost a year back that if i didn't find a guy by 24, i should begin to worry. Boy, i should be rolling on the floor right now, with spasm after spasm hitting me, panic stricken because of not finding a guy yet. But no, i choose to go out with friends when i can and then sit there and go all bleary-eyed as the women around me talk about "Oooooo my boyfriend" and "Mmmmm last night". Give me a break.

So now i fret endlessly every day wondering where the heck my man is. Alright, where the heck all the nice men are.

The day before i went out with my parents and saw one, one, in a crowd of thousands of men who looked yum. I've seen such a specimen of perfection - attitude-wise - only once before in my life, and that was nine years ago. Call it desperation if you want, but i couldn't stop looking at him despite sitting next to my mom and in front of my dad. When i mentioned this to my friend from office yesterday, specifying the time that had lapsed since i last saw someone like that, she had one remarkable thing to say:

"You know, there's only one place i've seen the most good-looking men."

All eyes and ears, i waited eagerly for her to continue.

"At the departure terminal in the airport."

Oh well, that explains it.

I think it's time to get my passport made.

Strengths and Weaknesses.

Okay, this is going to be fun.

I have a weakness for saris. It takes immense will power - and to some extent, being broke - to resist picking up a gorgeous number when i see one. A couple of weeks ago, i went out shopping with mommy dearest to Safina Plaza. It was a spur of the moment decision, and i went thinking i'm not going to spend blah blah. Mannn, there was a Kutch Exhibition and i couldn't keep my hands off the saris! I picked up two, came back home and showed my purchases off to my aunt who was visiting grandma then.

She looked at the saris, commented on how nice they were and dropped a killer line: So, when's the wedding?

Umm... "Yes, yes", she went on brushing aside my umms and aahhs, "You have only one year now. Then your market value will just plummet."

Ohmigod, she really, actually said that! My aunt, MY aunt! So educated, so well read, so sensible, so...Ohmigod. I was shocked, then offended, then indifferent.

For some reason i was just thinking about it again yesterday and it struck me as funny. Imagine, if i don't get married now, then i never will. Then i wondered, even if i do listen to her and say yes to the process of 'groom hunting', which man in his right senses would agree to tie himself down with me?

Just for kicks, though, i thought i'd list out things that could reflect my 'market value' in terms of who i am, and not how old i am. So here goes.

Strengths:
1. Loyalty (Woof woof!) - 'ex'es and my workplace are proof.
2. Adjusting - i'm sorry, but this doesn't apply to seating arrangements anywhere. My size doesn't allow for that kind of adjustment.
3. Good HR skills - bring on the maasi with a foul mouth or the Kasautiwali Kamalika
4. I can cook, and cook well (I think i should make this the top of the list)
5. Rare shopper (Hallelujah!)
6. Good housekeeping skills (That doesn't mean i keep cleaning up behind the man's mess)

Weaknesses:
1. Bald pates and french beards (well, i won't cheat but i am allowed to drool, aren't i?)
2. Cats
3. Extremely low levels of patience
4. I'm a wee bit too bold for people to handle
5. Need plenty of TLC

I guess that more or less summarises it.

The writer and the pen.

We are inseparable, you and i. Don't know when it happened, don't know how long it's going to last for, but for the present we are paired. So what if there are distances as long as the table between us, there's still a passion that keeps us together.

You reach out for me, lift me up...touch me, touch my soul...

Your nimble fingers guide me to empty spaces waiting to be filled, filled with words - deep, evocative, full of love and tenderness - filled with a testimony of the good times we've had, the intimacy translated into verses of immortality... With you, i can keep going on and on; with you, i can face the worst and still create something beautiful out of it...

The page is full. You stop. The immortality has come to an end. The cup of love is empty. The tenderness, abandoned.

You set me aside. Replace me with someone else. Someone with as much ink as i had before.

Signs.

Late last evening, i decided i would do this. Blog about the accident, and my reactions to it.

At 2 a.m on the 27th, i got a missed call from A and called her back. Hesitatingly - because she wasn't thrilled about waking me up that late (or early, depending on how you look at it) - she told me that R had met with an accident at around 10:30 p.m. Ro was with him, but he wasn't hurt. R had been severely injured and was in the hospital. The driver of the hit-and-run car had left him with a cracked pelvic bone and dislocated leg. He was bleeding profusely and he was in bad shape.

Torn between wanting to be there as a friend and not wanting to be there at the same time, i tried getting back to sleep after the news but couldn't. By 6:30 in the morning, i was halfway through deciding in favour of going - it was the right thing to do. So when A called me at around 8:00 in the morning, i told her i was planning to come but i wasn't too sure. She said that it would be a great help to be around (the fact that i'm in her bedroom, at the PC and typing out this blog works to the contrary), An might also need help with work. Okay, i agreed. I told my parents that i was leaving the same day. Surprisingly, they didn't put up a fight.

Then came the tough part - booking an air ticket. It was a Friday, and buses were out of the question. So were airplanes, but i decided it was better to save time and fly. Besides, i didn't want to risk second thoughts about going. The tension increased two-fold, and kept multiplying till i was able to secure a seat on board Air Deccan thanks to a cancellation. Money didn't even enter the picture, R was more important. So regardless of the fare, i booked it and reached the airport.

The flight was delayed by an hour. And the 'security check' line had more than a 100 people in it. Upon arriving at Hyd, i discovered that my check-in baggage had a certain essential part of its anatomy missing. I was extremely upset - it was my most compact travel bag that could manage to fit in clothes for four days. I asked myself this question as i was waiting for A to come and pick me up: What am i doing here? I wondered: the delay, the baggage, that continuing feeling of uncertainty...was all this a sign for something?

We went to the hospital directly from the airport. R didn't know i was coming. My entry was very filmi - like a long distance lover coming home to find the better half sprawled on a hospital bed in the throes of pain. I'm just being mean and unnecessarily brutal i guess, considering R and I are not 'seeing' each other or 'going around'. But i can't help it, that's how i felt.

Time flew by swiftly. I spent a restless, sleepless night because of lots of things. My imagination ran riot, and not in a nice way at all. (I don't care to elaborate on that.)

R's surgery happened yesterday. I spent all my waking hours at the hospital along with A, joining in on the banter: R, don't do this; R, stop cribbing; cracking puns around legs and hips and all that. At 1:30, he was wheeled into the OT. From then on A, Ro and I took shifts waiting for news of R.

A's cousing joined us. He was wearing a Google tee i noticed as we were waiting for the lift to come so we could go to the room and wait for the surgery to get over. On the back was written 'I'm feeling lucky'. Was that a sign too? Was R going to be alright?

The surgery lasted six and a half hours. When he was wheeled out, we were allowed to see him briefly before he was taken into ICCU. He was wrapped in a sparse bedsheet, eyes rolling and a low moan escaping through his furiously chattering teeth. As he was taken into ICCU, he let out agonising calls for "Anand, Anand." And we couldn't meet or pacify him because visitors weren't allowed inside.

I had my reality check then.

His accident had affected me more than i cared to show. I knew that if i spoke to anyone at that point, i would break down and cry. I kept my face lowered and my mouth shut tight. I don't know what the others felt about my reactions or if they even noticed at all, but i was beyond caring. His surgery was a success, and there was no chance in hell that i was going to break down in front of everyone.

I gave in to the after-effects of stress when RKK called me. My voice shook, then broke, then was interceded with sobs that i was trying to choke back.

Far in the distance, i saw the metro moving along, its reflection gaining speed across the surface of the lake. To my left from the seventh floor window, i saw traces of sparkling light splattered in the sky, remnants of a wedding firecracker gone cold. As i continued talking to RKK, i thought if this was a sign too. That time would move on, and everything would be alright. Perhaps there would even be cause for celebration soon.

'Kill Me' for the day.

Q:
What's a Coorgi with sexual fantasies called?
A:
Pornnanna.

The Mariana Trench of one's personality.

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. "
- William Shakespeare, As You Like It


The idea of things happening by 'chance' is an amazing concept. It can lead to things you would never have dreamt of.


Last week, as i was walking past him i happened to glance over my shoulder by chance. And i saw a blogger posting page open. Hmm, i thought. Next thing i knew, i was surreptitiously checking out the blog, the name of which i saw by chance on his PC.


I read it, and didn't really form an opinion. When i visited the blog again today, i rationalised the reason as one of finding out something more about him. (We met yesterday, by chance.)


I didn't find something more. No siree, i didn't. I just found plenty more.


A virtual open page that his life is. And an intimate, intimate affair (or should i say, friendship?) with a woman (or stranger?) stripped of the bed covers it must have been conceived in, laid out naked for the world to see. It seemed to have been an emotional phase in their lives - the only thing vulgar about it was my encroachment into their virtual private space (if there's anything of the sort), an Internet Voyeur. I'm ashamed of my act now, because i can see how deep the waters must have run on both sides. It was so... ambiguous, and yet the ambiguity was the very thing that tugged at the heartstrings.


I realised then that he is such a different man for eight (or more) hours every day, a mask covering his face.


There is so much more to him than what i, and perhaps a lot of others, see.


There is so much depth to his character that it scares me. I don't think i want to have anything to do with him.

'Kill Me's for all the days i haven't posted one.

Q: What do you call a woman with loosies?
A: Julaabo.

Q: If Oreos had medicinal value, what would they be called?
A: Cureos.

Q: What footwear do female plumbers wear?
A: Clogs.

Q: If Ozzy were a bird, what would he be?
A: Ozztrich.

Q: If a holy man is called 'Divine', what is a holy cow called?
A: Bovine.

Q: If Brad Pitt were perpetually hungry (for food), what would he be called?
A: Bottomless Pitt.

Greek Fish and Deja Vu.

I went to Spiga yesterday for dinner. I wasn't really sure what sort of ristorante it was, so i was pleasantly surprised at the cosy, laid-back atmosphere. Mood lighting, not too many tables, soft music, and to top it all, we got a table that was in a separate section, away from the crowd. Ideal setting for... depressing conversation. :-)

It so happened that RKK and i decided to go out for dinner, and after much research-cum-debate, we hit on this place. Now, he was sort of pining for a last look from his Lady Love (A typical balcony scene from Romeo & Juliet, if i may add. Except, she would be peeping out of a 4th floor window.), while i was longing for the company of a certain somebody who couldn't possibly have made it. I guess the mood just got carried along to the dinner table.

Then, when we reach the place, realise we only have cards and absolutely no money...it begins to happen.

Deja Vu...

Flashes from a past that's fled to the back of my mind, never to return...

A Naseeruddin Shah movie... a cobbled pathway leading to a restaurant on the first floor... passing a bed on display that i absolutely fell for... feeling light headed...apologising for not carrying enough money, so i had to be treated to dinner...

Just as soon as it came, it vanished. But not for long.

We got down to ordering food. I scanned the menu, decided on Greek Fish because it sounded appetising.

The service was quick, and we had just started on some conversation when the food arrived.

One look at the slivers of fish resting on a river of parmesan-mushroom sauce, with vegetables decorated around it..and we're back to where we had left off...

I had eaten the same thing... Greek Fish... I remember not finishing it because i remember feeling light-headed... and it wasn't just the aperitif i had ordered.

I remember the day because it felt like something was happening...maybe i was wrong. I wonder if i was the only one to feel that way?

To conclude: sometimes it's just very hard to get over things because they were beautiful experiences / phases of life and you want them to last. But when you realise you have no choice, you just have to let go. What remains of it are flashes of sweet-sour memories that strike you when you least expect them. A heady mix of Greek Fish and Deja Vu.

Bangalore - Ranchi - Bangalore.

G got married on March 7, 2007 and i went for her wedding to Ranchi. Travel took up most of our time, nonetheless the journey was enjoyable. I had carried a book with me - Broken Verses by Kamila Shamsie. I've read one other book of hers titled Salt and Saffron. But this book was... different, and not in a disappointing way. I finished it on my journey back to Bangalore, and it motivated me to write. After a long time. Here's what came of the effort:

"
March 9, 2007
Just after Guntakal
On our way back to B'lore from Gouri's wedding.

I'm fast coming to the conclusion that the world is just one giant exhibition. What else could explain the coexistence of a factory spewing smoke and a lush spread of rice fields less than 200 yards away from it? Or another industrial setup bellowing close to bare land on which endless carts of rich, golden hay provide shelter for the men who drive them?

This journey has been interesting, entertaining and in many ways, enlightening.

Godavari is vast, with bridges running over it. They serve a dual purpose, these bridges. Concrete above for highway traffic and rusty metal below for trains to fly over. Somewhere along its glistening water, a boat bobs into view. A man stands on it, feet resting on either side of the boat in preparation of hurling the net out to capture unsuspecting fish.

Thatched huts dot rice fields everywhere. Four stone pillars support a roof made of dried palm leaves. The entrance is about three feet high, and the overall effect is...well, it strikes me as being a romantic place to spend a night clear of clouds in. I've promised myself a night in one of these huts. Some day.

The sunflowers were magnificent. Like eager little birdies waiting for mommy bird to feed them, they turned to the sun for food. Their happiness at having full tummies was evident in their playfully swaying stems and flower heads.

Bano is one of the most beautiful stations i have had the good fortune to spend minutes at. There's no concrete, only the earth and shelter for people stopping over. Picket fence coloured white, in bold contrast to the sepia tones of the silk cotton tree. It was tall and full of flowers - huge, crimson and just so...sensual. No red-blooded woman could have resisted them. I picked one fallen from the tree to take home for my mom, and quickly jumped back into the train.

When seen through a canopy of the forest trees, or over the rocky hills, a sunset is a soft, rosy, yellow orb shining in the distant sky. You'd want to reach out and touch it, but wouldn't be disappointed if you couldn't because it seems to travel along with you and then, gradually vanish into thin air.

Static. It's been a sore point throughout the three and a half days i've spent on the train. I can't touch metal, or people for that matter, without having electricity sparking from my fingertips upwards.

We played antakshari on the train last night. Senior Citizens (excepting RKK, who we might as well count as one because he willingly went to the other side) vs. young blood. Kannada Carnatic and Hindustani classical vs. Bollywood songs. At 11:30 in the night. They almost beat us at it.

Prakash anna and Pratibha have been married a month now. It was totally cute to see them holding hands, kidding around, whispering sweet nothings over opposite berths and resting heads in each other's laps in turns. Makes me wish I could find enduring love too.

Uncle thought he could help me with that. He found a nice German boy on the train for me. Name's Andrew, and surprisingly, his accent's quite un-German. (not like i'm an expert at accents, but anyway.) He seems intelligent too. And boy, he's cute. Very cute, in a simple, earnest sort of way. (I think it's the beard and the eyes - a colour of brown that seems to absorb light and radiate it back as its own.)

There are more fields now. I think Andhra Pradesh is full of them. I don't think i'll want to see anything else for a long time. And i won't either, given that AP is such a bii..ig state. We've been in it for more than 12 hours now.

I'm in love with nature. It touches me like nothing else in the world. The joy it gives is unparalleled by any mortal happiness. I just may have established a love affair with it to last all my life. And i'm glad."

Let's leave this post unnamed. It is, after all, a post that talks about my bond with someone, a bond that was so ambiguous that it never really had a name. We never 'saw' each other, just did a lot of things together. At least, that's what i think. And then, a thread just snapped loose and the thing was lost forever.

I haven't been in touch with this someone for months now. Initially it hurt - it always does when you're enjoying something and it's abruptly pulled out from under your nose, so you can't have it any more. Now i'm used to it, simply because i don't think i need to put myself through the depression of being the one who leaves everything behind and keeps making an attempt to get things back to normal, only to get a kick in the guts. Now, i don't give a damn if i don't speak to this someone ever again.

But there's a catch. Sometimes, i miss those things. Over the weekend, i went to a Dastakari exhibition at CKP, and passed the Grand Ashoka. Automatically, my mind went back to an evening at Sutra, me so high and happy that i knew i was blabbering and didn't give a rat's ass. It was one of the best times i have ever had on an evening out. These thoughts were followed by a longing of sorts. A longing to go back to the way things were.

I never stop wondering why it turned out this way. Maybe it was something i did or projected. Or maybe the someone was just plain freaked out that i was getting... too involved maybe, or was just being a pain in the wrong place. I don't know. All i know is, sometimes i miss it all.

Happy New Year?

So the party's over, the alcohol's worked its way out of our system and the dance floor's empty. But exactly what were we celebrating? A year that held some 20-odd carcasses of children from Nithari in its bag of surprises? A year that unleashed a madman serial killer on Mumbai? Or the one that witnessed a woman being harassed and abused at a New Year Eve bash? A year that brought to light exactly how jaundiced Indian journalism has become?

I'm not much of a fan of politics, world affairs and everything else that falls into the category. My knowledge of the goings on in what we all hold in awe as 'the world' stops at Wired, Wikipedia and perhaps movies. Of course, when i have been forced to sit through it, i have watched news on channels like BBC, NDTV, CNBC and these days, Times Now. On the night of the 31st, though - or was it the 1st, i don't remember - as i watched the news in Hindi on NDTV, i was quite amazed by how low journalism had stooped to get those viewer ratings shoot beyond the stars.

To illustrate, the case of Nithari's missing children. 38 in all, and about 20 skeletons found. In packets, all sawed up. The accused, who has admitted to molesting and killing these children, is crying foul on the basis of a 'mental disorder'. What was even more apalling, the news channel narrated bits of conversation between the police and the accused, filled with the words 'rape' and 'sex'. The exact bulletin is beyond description in the way it was handled - almost as if the newsreader was gleeful about reading it out. Worse, the conversation kept being typed out on the screen.

Why did it have to happen that way? I mean, it was children we were talking about, for heaven's sake. It makes me angry enough to know just that, and hearing words like sex and rape doesn't add fuel to the fire, it disgusts me that those guys sitting in the studio are stripping those long-gone children of what little innocence they have left in their death. There were bigger issues here, like the class divide that probably prevented the police from investigating further into the situation, or the fact that they were to some extent at fault. Barkha Dutt was probably the first to even touch on these topics, but i don't think they got as much airtime as the whole conversation and constant news flashes of 'rape rape rape'. It makes me feel glad that i didn't get into journalism despite having dabbled in it for a while.

Then there was the episode of a girl being physically harassed at the new year party at Gateway of India. A Midday reporter was on location shooting photographs, unaware of what it was he was capturing - a girl with her boyfriend, suddenly surrounded by men who were feeling her up, pinching her and what not. It was probably the next hottest news after Nithari, on air across all news channels by the 1st or 2nd.

Once more, the photographs being showed in succession, again and again, as the barracudas moved in on her. Ask a question instead, did anything happen to the slimeballs, and the media draws a blank.

Interestingly, my grandmother had this response to the whole thing - why should the girl go out dressed like that, she's only inviting trouble; and why should she go out on new year in the first place? Points to be noted, she was amply covered and more so than most women in Mumbai apparently dress up when going out. Besides, should a woman/girl/teenager stop stepping out of home or going to parties just because there are sex-starved, lustful assholes of men lurking around every corner? How about fixing them for a change?

Half of January's passed us all now, and although these news snippets are not out of the media circuits, they've lost most of their steam. What replaces them - as i saw today as a banner headline, front page news, right on top of everything else in the paper - is something like 'Abhishek proposes, Ash says Yes!'.

So what is it that we are celebrating, again?

Deep in the Deserts of Depression.

You switch moods like a chameleon, hoping they will be able to see beneath the shape-shifting. Only to find that they're all too busy covering up their changing colours themselves.

You think the world owes you something for being who you are, only to discover that the world doesn't really care.

You believe that all existence is about procreation, and then cry your heart out over infidelities.

You depend on so many things to make yourself happy, only to realise that at some point it's all bound to leave you, all alone.

You knock on a door, expecting someone on the other side to greet you with open arms. Only, the arms are busy holding somebody else.

You trust yourself on being a strong believer of many things, only to find out that the heavens are merciless to those who believe they can write their own fate.

You keep wondering how to get out of this impenetrable pit of self-pity, only to learn that all it takes is will power to get over it.

Mathematics, Death and Lessons of Life.

Last night, my Math teacher from school was struggling for life at Mayya Hospital.
Last night, I heard of his condition.
Last night, I was caught between going to see him and not seeing him.
Last night, I half-consoled myself by calling his daughter and telling her I would come this morning to see him.

This morning, my procastination was laid to rest with my teacher. He passed away last night.

Let me begin at the beginning. It's going to be a fairly long post, because I have a lot to say, a lot to regret.

I joined Stella Maris High School in 1994-95 and passed out in 1998. In those three years of schooling, I was exposed to a plethora of cultural activities, clubs and academic opportunities that the school was well-known for. My parents had tried for admission there when I was in the third, tried again when I was ready for high school. The first time, the headmistress had accused me of not being educated enough to join, the second time I got in because two years earlier my cousin had passed out as a topper and a School Pupil Leader. They must have seen potential.

I hated being judged, still do. I hated the school all the more because they let me in on the basis of my cousin being there. Most of my eighth standard passed in teachers sizing me up in comparison to my cousin, trying to guage my intelligence, how good I was. I carried my head high, nose up in the air - only I knew it wasn't snobbishness, but insecurity and a fear of being hurt, judged.

By the end of the first year, though, I proved my potential. Thanks to a highly caustic, non-secular remark by Ms. Ananthalakshmi. I had just become part of a 'group', and was busy talking with them during class when Ms. A suddenly picked me out and sprung a Physics question on me. I didn't know what to say, I was so unprepared for it. So she asked me what I spoke at home, and I said Urdu, and she mumbled, "Oh, Muslim. That's why." All the things I'd heard about her being a nice soul flew out of the window. Ever since, I tried hardest in her class and by the end of the year, I was one of her favourites. I remember her maun vrat days most, days when she never spoke and instead gave us things to write or read, using sign language.

Then I was part of the Drama Club and Literary Club. I took part extensively in dramatics, volleyball (my favourite game ever), Hindi essay competitions, won stuff for the school etc. etc.

My first encounter with Master Balachandra was immediately after a play we'd put up to introduce the Drama Club. He smiled and congratulated me on a good performance.

My second encounter was when he taught us Math in the ninth standard. And the tenth.

He was a superb teacher, rewarding us when we did well and chiding us when we didn't. He spoke to us like we were intelligent adults. I remember getting chalk thrown at when I was talking in his class once, and another time getting into an argument with him over some test marks or something. He was great fun in class, and even better outside of it - school trips, events and sometimes, even counselling. He loved his students, and we in turn reciprocated the feeling.

Then graduation happened, and I left school with one thought - although I loved the place, the education and the memories it had given me, I would never come back. For a very simple reason - favouritism. Something that happens even in my work life. There are students who are expected to come back, without care about the rest. Students who promise tremendous potential as alumnis, students who need to be taken care of. I wasn't for it. And the only way I could refuse to let it affect me was by never going back. I went only once, when the school felicitated me for scoring the highest marks in Hindi in the board exams. That day, when I met my teachers, most were... indifferent. Except, I remember, Master Balachandra and a few others. He was rushing to class, but stopped and chatted with us anyway.

It's been eight years since I passed out of Stella Maris. I think about school every once in a while, remember the good times I had, sometimes am even tempted to go back but never do. It's something I have been proud of- the fact that everytime I leave a place, I never revisit it. Thus far, I mistook it for being courageous enough to leave the past and move on.

Then things happened to my teachers - Mrs. Bhagyalakshmi lost her son and her father (I think) and she went to pieces; Ms. Kalavathi, who taught us Geometry in the most arbid but adorable manner, passed away; the high school principal changed. The incidents tugged me towards school, but I never made it.

Today, as Mr. Balachandra is already on his way to his allotted space in the afterlife, I realise that it wasn't really courage that held me back, but cowardice. I was afraid of rejection, of not being recognised, not being somebody to anybody who were once so much to me. It's a fear that, after 23 years of 'growing up', I have never been able to overcome.

Which is perhaps, why, I cling to people I grow close to. I become dependent on them. And in the process, I dissolve boundaries marked with a 'private' board and mess just... mess things up. I just lost a dear friend that way today. But I do hope he stays happy.

I regret not going to school last Sunday for the fest, where Master Balachandra bumped into my mother (who's a teacher too and had accompanied her school children there) and asked after me - how I was, where was I working and so on. I regret not going to school and speaking with my teachers, spending more moments with them to cherish. I regret not smiling back at my grandfather when he was on his way to the hospital where he would breathe his last - he gave me a smile that said so much, and I hate myself for not reaching out halfway to meet him in that moment.

It's not just regrets that reinforced their way into my life today, it's also a lesson - two actuallty - that I learnt.

I understood what it means when people say, "Live every moment like it's your last." I think realising that anything could happen to you any moment makes you be so much nicer towards people, so much kinder towards yourself. You become human, and expect yourself to make mistakes. You make an effort to reach out to those who were close to you, who you lost touch with, and rekindle warm feelings between you, to feel good about things when life takes a turn for the worse.

I learnt that the only way to come to terms with life is to come to terms with it yourself. I was grieved yesterday to learn about my dying teacher, life ebbing out of him with every passing moment, the same man who walked jauntily into class, spread cheer around him, made us laugh, made us cry, moulded us into better people so we were able to face the world outside the protective walls of convent education. I needed to talk to somebody about him. The first person I turned to was a friend I value more than my life - he said he was mind-fucked and would call back a little later; then the friend who I lost today - he said he was busy; and finally, a friend I turned to but the soothing words offered just seemed like an act.

I remembered what it was like to be alone again, I remembered how I used to be able to deal with these things myself, and how I'd lost the habit because I now depended on people for emotional fulfillment. I questioned the wisdom of it, and am still trying to draw a conclusion.

I wish I could make the regrets go away.
I wish I could untangle this web of emotions.
I wish I could have gone yesterday to visit Master Balachandra.

Compromise.

This is a continuation of the 'If Marriages are made in heaven' piece.

A piece of information kept hidden in the recesses of my mind was brought to the fore while I was travelling today. Talking about the middle path - that of an unsatisfying marriage that can't be put an end to simply because of society or whatever other reasons - I just realised that I'd heard of one such wedded couple years back from a classmate. I pass their house everyday, and never fail to wonder how they manage. It's weird, really - they live in different sections of the same house, with different gates leading up to it, different rooms, bedrooms, living rooms et al. The only thing they probably share is the kitchen. It's been an arrangement in practice for decades.

Given this, I have a thought to share aloud: why do people get married in the first place if they're going to decide to go their separate ways? Is that brief period of togetherness worth a lifetime of moving from one partner to the other, or regaining the freedom that's the prerogative of singlehood? I've even seen it among a handful of friends, had a taste of it first-hand.

Really, I'm confused.

"Oooooo, shiver me timbers!"

There's a new little 'rule' I've added to my everyday routine: complimenting at least one person a day, and genuinely at that. It's just something that's stuck to me since I read this little booklet titled 'Life's little rule book'. It had things like, 'make sure you buy great books even if you don't read them' and 'always keep a flower on your desk, even if it's a wild flower'. There are plenty of little rules I still follow but don't remember what they are because they've become such a habit.

Anyway, coming back to where I left off, compliments are something everybody gets. Surprisingly, even I get them. There was a time when it was impossible to handle them because I never knew how to react (these days, I've realised that the best thing to do is smile and say, "Thank you"), or I never saw myself the way people who complimented me did. I still don't. Which is why, when I got a few never-heard-of-before compliments, I was quite surprised. So surprised that I made a note of them, because I knew I'd never hear them again. Here's the list, it's not very long. Oh, by the way, it may seem like a fairly narcissistic exercise but what the heck, you only get compliments like these once!

Ahem... quoted verbatim:
1. You've got nice hands. (This from a man who thinks hands speak a lot about women, and are perhaps the most turning-on feature in her. And yes, I hit it off with him like a house on fire.)
2. There’s something you’ve done with your eyes today that makes you look ravishing. (Ooooo!)
3. You're a concept. (Well, it doesn't sound much like a compliment, but like I said, I'll probably never hear something like it ever again.)
4. You look like an old painting. (It doesn't sound too good, but {a}it came from an art director and {b}the dreamy look on his face said it all. Besides, I thought it was... charming.)

The comeback*.

* Thank you Moby.

The End. (No, the 'beginning' cliche doesn't follow.)

A friend who, i presume, reads (both) my blogs regularly, once told me in a burst of honesty (brought on by the truth serum or the vodka, i'm not too sure) that my blogging sucks. I also happen to have comments from an 'anonymous blogger' who's commented on my writing - 'boring', 'could have done better'... I wasn't too sure about what these people were talking about until i checked out a few other blogs by fellow bloggers. And boy, i sure did realise that my blogging does suck.

Hence i have decided, that from this day on, there will be no more trash adding to the already massive collection of junk on the infinite Web.

This blog is unofficially terminated.

Culture Chaos

Hampi.
The town (wish I could say city, sounds so much more glamorous) of ruins from the Vijaynagar empire.
The town that's brimming with temples, rocks and soul space.
The town where you're better off not wearing the Indian tag for all to see. Doing so is guaranteed to earn you the scummiest of looks.

It's understandable. Firangs probably give the commercial establishments more business. Why else would every other restaurant - like a Muthuswamy Tiffins - boast a sign board with "Recommended in Lonely Planet in 1985" printed on it in big letters? Why else would a child of eleven years sell postcards of Hampi saying, "Wudya la-ikh to bai some paostcards madame?"

Ground floors and first floors of homes are converted into rooms with double beds, hot running water, 'shower baths' and 'laundry'. Some others are transformed into dimly-lit, big tents flaunting posters of Lakshmi, Shiva and the Sun Gods over long tables set out for breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The menu has more of Chinese, Italian - even Israeli food - than it has Indian. The pastas and falafals are more palatable than the kormas and chapatis.

Take Prince, for instance. On our first night at Hampi, we went there for dinner. We were told the place was pretty well-known for its bhaang lassi. The day was a very active one and the restaurant was a hundered yards away from where we were staying, so we decided we could afford to get a little tipsy. This TDH (thank you, Mills&Boons) South Indian walked up to us and said in his accented English, "You'll have to place your orders quick, because the kitchen closes at ten". It was just five past eight.

Little did we realise what was happening.

I'm terrible when it comes to making up my mind on ordering food, so while my friends decided quickly, I mulled over what I wanted to eat. Next thing I know, the man is telling me, "Tell me fast ma'am" in his sternest voice. There was no need to hurry up, but he did. I was a little dazed and my friend came to the rescue, telling him to come back after a couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, the opposite table filled up with a bunch of firangs led by a North Indian stud boy who we affectionately christened MC - short for 'Madar****'. Aura study would reveal his to read as 'I'm cool because I've got a bunch of firangs eating out of my hand'. Oh puh-leez.

Our food took twice as long to come as theirs. We had to put up with Buddha Bar dishing out fusion music - I'm not saying it's bad, but given the circumstances it just added to the pseudo-cool ambience. Then we had to put up with Harry Potter, played for the benefit of the little white kid in the group. Just when we were still contemplating leaving without having dinner, our food arrived. Fake smiles, ass-licking, accents... it's a wonder our fried rice and pasta were digested without too much trouble.

Disillusioned and nearing the end of our meal, we saw an Indian couple enter the place and take a seat close to the big gang. That didn't seem to have any effect on the TDH South Indian either. He ignored them as long as he politely could.

We paid our bills, didn't wait for the change, shook our heads in disgust and walked out of the place.

Shaayari (Ramblings Of A Manic Depressive Workaholic)

Kabhi kurta, kabhi kameez
Kabhi stole, kabhi dupatta
Aji in sab ko chodiye janab
Kaam se hamara pichwada hai phatta.