I love Bangalore.

So there's a traffic jam everywhere in the city, a government that's doing crazy things to our infrastructure and plenty of carbon compounds in the air. This is my attempt to forget the bad stuff and take pleasure in the little things that quietly appear amidst the 'modernisation'. This way, no matter what happens, Bangalore will always remain beautiful to me.

Cotton-candy sky.


When Earth threw her garland around Sky's neck.


Lonely Hearts Club.


Fingers of God. (After he ate Tandoori Chicken, perhaps.)

A mountain of snow in the sky. And a lone skier.

The pinks went away, and left the purples in their wake.

It's been a month already.

Time sure flies. The feelings are still raw, but not as fresh as they were. Or as painful. Repulsion to all things physical still exists. One doesn't feel a stab of attraction towards anybody.

A year down the line, perhaps there will be a family on the other side of the fence, plenty of happiness, a perfect life, memories of times before the time. A year down the line, perhaps there will still be a spinster on this side of the fence.

Things my body's trying to tell me. (And that i'm 'aciduously' ignoring.)

1. "Stop abusing me with things i cannot digest!"
2. "Slow down and smell the flowers, not the skunks who came into your life."
3. "I was burning with fever at 1 a.m, remember?"
4. "Hi, i am YOUR body, shouldn't you be keeping me in shape?"
5. "Did you know Mister Tummy has almost choked Monsieur Liver and Miss Pancreas out of existence, to conquer all terrritory 30 inches within his radius? If you don't watch out, he'll go out of hand soon. And out of your body."
6. "Don't show me movies like Hostel. That superpower sitting in your head sends funny signals to your bladder."
7. "I make loud, weird noises because i'm mad at you, not because i'm hungry."
8. "The joints need new bolts. Especially if you're going to leave them to rust for so long."
9. "I know you've got ear drums, but you don't need to be at them constantly."
10. "It's not me, it's you."

Of Nimbekai Pura and the original Punjabi Dhaba.

Friday morning dawned bright and late, minus Take 5 after-effects. It was Saturday that took the cake. Between work and Race, i decided to go for Race. Bad move. Hard Rock Cafe post-Race, good move. Drive post-Hard Rock Cafe, very very very good move.

Took A home, left his car there, picked up mine, went to G's place, picked the twosome up, went to J's place, picked the lonesome up and just headed out to nowhere. The needle on the fuel gauge was high, and so were we. Happy, happy time aimless driving. On the way, we passed a milestone that displayed the funniest village name i've heard in a while: Nimbekai Pura. We also passed plenty of dhabas, none very suitable for gharelu bharatiya naaris to be seen in, so we passed. But then we landed up at one that S claimed was the 'original Punjabi Dhaba' - truck drivers, drunken men, unhygeinic circumstances - the works. The food was good though - and let's not analyse or even wonder why.

Much foo-fooing and leg-pulling (mostly mine) later, we decided to head back. A dropped everybody off, zipped me back home, parked my car and covered it up in record time. He was out of there before Dad had a chance to get out and catch the smell of beer on him.

Maybe this is why impromptu plans work so well - no baggage, no worries, no time to contemplate. Just get in and get out. Away, away from loneliness, a mind that works overtime and love gone sour.

Discovery.

This pain won't go away, no siree. It's just below the surface, always looking for a microscopic hole that it can possibly wedge its malignant tentacle through and break out full-force. No matter if i've had a night out, many downs at Hard Rock Cafe or Take 5, lunches and movies and an early-morning drive and a makeover, this won't change. He has though. A lot about him has. He's happier. More carefree. And i grudge him this. I grudge him his happiness because i'm not part of it. I never was.

Red turned half a year old today!

One accident. Two road trips. Plenty of scratches. Happy half-budday buddy! You've lived the six months to the fullest, i see.

True, true.

"Grief, a type of sadness that most often occurs when you have lost someone you love, is a sneaky thing, because it can disappear for a long time, and then pop back up when you least expect it."

- Lemony Snicket in A Series Of Unfortunate Events, Book the Ninth.

I had a superbly marvellous weekend!

My great weekend started on Friday evening. For the first (and only?) time in my life, i had multiple options for spending the night. And i managed to be everywhere i was supposed to be!

First there was the play - a private screening of 'The Invisible River'. As always, just as i was getting into weekend mode, i got work to do. Managed to reach the venue during the interval - a good one and a half hours into the play. What i did see, i loved. I don't know if all plays are done so well these days since i don't go to too many, but i was definitely impressed by this one. I thought the protagonist sucked, though.

Anyway, after the play, i was supposed to get to M.G.Road so i could meet up with R and head to her place for the night - ye olde gang was catching up after a really long time. I had time to kill while she finished her official party, so decided to head to ye olde haunt and spend some time with myself. G landed after a while (read: I can't handle my own company) and we started on getting high. S and J joined us soon. Post session (3 BMs down), got to R's place and had a full-on huggy-buggy session with everyone. Goooooood feeling happened. Stayed up all night chatting, bitching, gossiping and catching up. Guzzled some more, foo-fooed (yeah, i did - 4 Mores that too!) and had a super-duper time. Left for home at 5:30 in the morning, woke up in the afternoon, headed to grandma's.

The weather on Saturday afternoon was straight out of a fairytale. Decided to go out riding and get some garma garam munchies for cousins and myself. I reached the supermarket, and the Rain Gods poured forth torrents. Rode back blindly in the heavy rain, drenched to the bone and shivering. It was a liberating experience. Chicken burgers followed soon after.

Sunday dawned nice and lazy. Had work to do, did it at my own sweet pace. Watched TV, ate, lazed. Was happy.

And yeah, i smiled a lot to myself. Because the process of relearning to love my life and who i am has finally begun.

**********

The only difference between living life and writing a book is, you can't go back to a chapter and correct the mistakes. You can't even erase them or scratch them out and start afresh.

Bridging the generation gap with Boney M.

A pretty unusual phenomenon occured this Saturday: i woke up at nine that morning. Even more phenomenal was the fact that i was gung-ho about getting a lot of things done - search for documents, meet a driving school instructor about my license, go to the tailor's, watch movies... and suddenly i remembered that there was a concert to attend in the evening! Boney M! I wouldn't miss it for the life of me! Unless, of course, i didn't have good company to go with. Fortunately, i did. N and my dad.


Thoroughly excited i was about his coming along for the concert - his first in a lifetime. Dad's 70 now, so he's grown up on Boney M songs. So has mom, but she refused to come. (When we went back home and gave her an account, she regretted it badly though.)

Marcia Barrett was fabulous. There were people of all ages swinging to the eternal tunes that she and her fellow bandmembers had sung. Young, olg, grandfatherly, surly, teens, us... Definitely a Kodak moment for families who came there together.

Surviving three bouts of cancer and getting on the stage after close to two-three decades is not a joke. And her energy, her stage presence were something else. So was that note of mischief in her voice when she spoke. Loved her laugh, loved watching her perform. So did everybody else.

Some things that popped into my head during the concert:
a. What must it have been like for her to sing all those songs again after so many years, and without the rest of the Boney Ms around too? What memories must that have brought back to her?
b. Will her children and grandchildren carry forward her legacy?
c. Was my dad enjoying the concert?
d. Was my dad uncomfortable in the crowd?
e. Did he hear the 'chutya's and 'fuck's that N and i kept using?
f. Where did Marcia Barrett get her eternal youthfulness from? Life isn't kind to anybody, so how did she manage to keep her spirit alive? Through the songs?
g. Was my dad enjoying it?
h. Damn, should i get off that chair, was i attracting too much attention by standing on it to watch her perform?
i. The fireworks were the perfect way to end an unforgettable concert.

Times Like These.

I just discovered Jack Johnson. Thank you, God. And yes, you too byatch. :)

In times like these
in times like those
what will be will be
and so it goes
and it always goes on and on
and on and on and on and on and on it goes

and there's always been laughing, crying, birth, and dying
boys and girls with hearts that take and give and break
and heal and grow and recreate and raise and nurture
but then hurt from time to times like these
and times like those
what will be will be
and so it goes

and there will always be stop and go and fast and slow
action, reaction, sticks and stones and broken bones
those for peace and those for war
and god bless these ones not those ones
but these ones made times like these
and times like those
what will be will be
and so it goes
and it always goes on and on
and on and on and on and on and on it goes

but somehow i know it won't be the same
somehow i know it'll never be the same

Tut tut.

I'm a superbitch, that's what i am.

Reality Bites. (WARNING: Content Rating 'A')

My boss had an extraordinary complaint to voice the other day: she was eating peanuts when suddenly she dropped a few of them, and some of these fell right into the tee she was wearing. Her crib was, not a single one of them got stuck in there because she had such small...you know, she was a small size.

Sigh. Much as i try to tell her it isn't great having big *beep*s, she refuses to listen. I've encountered the same problem with most women i know. Trust me size 32s and 34s, it's not comfortable being big. Here's why:
1. Like it isn't enough that women are naturally catty towards other women, they are even more so about women with big *beep*s. They hate you for it. (On hindsight, this might be a good thing if you're straight.)
2. "Hi, I really like that black lace lingerie with that glittery bit woven into it. How much is it for?" Saleswoman looks you up and down... correction, looks you up and says, "I'm sorry Madam, 36B is the last size." Same problem everywhere.
3. Between a 34 and a 36/38/40, men will always go for the former to settle down in life with. It's a theory i'm working on - big *beep*s get so much credit primarily, perhaps only, because of porn. So i'm guessing that at some level, all men think that women with big *beep*s are 'loose' or 'easy'.
4. We are most happy when we go from a, let's say, 38B to a, let's say, 36DD.
5. Women with big *beep*s have a greater chance of dying in their sleep because of asphyxiation - try sleeping on your sides and have all that weight constrict your breathing, and you'll know what i'm talking about.
6. You have to stand in front of the mirror to see how your footwear looks on your feet. If you try bending over, chances are you'll get asphyxiated again.
7. Telephone wires sag when they expand. Ditto.
8. All that weight pulls us down, so we walk looking like we're dejected souls. Unless, of course, we find a man who will be an important part of our lives (briefly or more) and instill confidence in us with the words, "So what if you've got big *beep*s? Be proud of them, and show them off!"
9. Sometimes, we show our cleavage not to have women shoot daggers at us or men just shoot at us, but because hey, we need some air down there. All other times we show our cleavage just to have women shoot daggers at us.
10. Men who are lovers will say, "Hide them, they're mine." Men who are friends will say, "Oh my god, hide them, they're ugly! (And you're my FRIEND, for heaven's sake!)"

Torn

My pain, Natalie Imbruglia's voice.

The psychology of ordeals.

In college, our lecturers shared a theory on stress and resistance with us. Apparently for every episode we have that affects our lives deeply, our levels of tolerance to stress get lower. So you're fine when the first incident occurs - your ability to get over it will most likely surprise you more than anybody else. When the next big incident happens though, your ability to deal with it isn't as 'strong' as the first time. It's like every incident eats away, like termites, at your resistance to stress. The result is that finally, there will be one that will cause a nervous breakdown because you are completely devoid of the ability to fight it.

I was quite disbelieving then, not just because i trusted myself to handle anything that came my way, but also because i didn't think i would ever land myself in a situation that would cause me that much grief.

Hah.

Here i am five years later, thinking how i will recover from the latest mishap. Many things about it leave me stumped, at a loss for words. How did he manage to do it? Did he even realise that some of his actions were contradictory? Is it true, emotions are like a faucet that can be turned on and off for a person? Can two people get physical, and can one see it as 'sex' while the other sees it as 'making love'? Is it natural to feel like you've been a distraction/diversion of sorts for someone that can be let go when life begins to smile again? Is it possible to forget?

More importantly, is it possible to forgive?

Yes, it is. I'm getting there. Sure, there will be moments of bitterness and hurt and hatred, but they'll pass. And they'll leave only love behind. The kind that will never be realised, but will always wait for an opportunity to show itself. I'm waiting for the day i can feel affection for him again. It's there, but it's buried right now. Died an untimely death, you might say. On second thought, it wasn't untimely - ironically, my state of affairs (pun unintended) was triggered by my actions on that fatal evening two weeks ago.

As for the resistance bit, well... Hysteria came and went. The nervous breakdown won't come. I wont't let it.

Shelfari on my blog.

I vaguely remember seeing it somewhere on somebody else's blog. Came across it today while bloghopping, and decided to add it on to my blog.

Let me clear any misconceptions you might have regarding the display: of course i'm showing off the 'expanse' of my reading material right now. And of course i've put it there for just that purpose. Shucks, what else do you expect from a person suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder?

How an accident brings random bits about the world together.

I was dropped off at office earlier than usual today. Shivering because of the cold water i had to subject my body to thanks to the absence of electricity, i trudged to the second floor, switched on my PC and stepped out to the corridor to eat some sun. Thirty seconds later, my cell phone rang. Driver.

He handed the phone over to Dad, who announced that Red had just been in a bad accident half a kilometer away and that i should come immediately. Also asked me to bring A along, who'd been with us through the whole process of choosing and buying Red.

Panicking, i started on foot to the place, calling A who wasn't in office still. Worried that Dad and driver might be seriously injured, i called them again and Dad explained: they were next to a bus at the Joseph's college signal, when an auto came zipping from behind and slammed into the vehicles. The auto brakes had failed.

I reached the place to find Dad splitting blood vessel after blood vessel, and took over. It was a relief that he and the driver were unharmed. Red had suffered a pretty serious dent on the left door, paint scraped off, fuel tank jammed - the works. The traffic police was there, with a crowd comprising passersby and autowallahs. When the autowallahs ganged up and went "Oh, nothing's happened, it's just a dent", i lost my cool and started arguing my head off with all of them. Self-assured pr**ks. There was a moment of reprieve in the middle of the chaos when a smiling old man handed me pamphlets saying, "Jesus saves". I smiled. Jesus sure did.

After an hour of debate and calls to A, we headed to the Ashok Nagar police station. Just as we reached Joseph's Commerce College, the autowallahs stopped for a cup of chai. The cheek! I mean, here we were trying to get this sorted out and these guys had the audacity to drink chai at a kaaka angadi! A finally arrived, took a look at the car and said it would cost at least 7k. Damn.

There was a man travelling with us in the car who i had noticed in the crowd earlier. Dad asked him what he did (yeah, we didn't even bother about him being a stranger before we took him with us!), and he said, "Have you heard of KFD? I'm one of them. I saw you guys, thought there was some trouble, discovered you were one of our 'qa-um', and decided to stick with you for support." Wow.

Things catapulted from then on and we got out of the whole thing after three hours. It was my first visit to a police station. My first accident, but not really mine because i wasn't in the car when it happened. And my first public fight. Hmm.

And in the middle of all this, A took me aside and showed me the side of the auto that smashed into Red. The damage was massive, to say the least. I looked back at Red, glinting in the sunlight, unfazed by the accident. He wasn't in such bad shape. He was strong, which is why there was nothing more than a dent to show for the mishap. Stable, sturdy, reliable. Mine for posterity. And what an amazing feeling that is.

February 27, 2008; 12:07 p.m (my phone time).

Aging 'gracefully'.

This morning, like all other mornings, i followed my routine - get out of bed, head straight to the bathroom, get out and brush my teeth, bathe etc. I missed one important part of the ritual though - washing my feet. So i decided to wash my feet at the sink after brushing my teeth. It's a trick i learnt during my growing years from a fairly religious but lazy uncle who before praying, would finish all his ablutions at the wash basin - including washing his feet, which he would raise up into the bowl of the basin.

I guess it wasn't a big deal for him, considering he's over six feet tall. It wasn't a big deal for me either: even when i was four feet two inches, i would manage to raise my feet one at a time to the high basin and wash them. At least, it wasn't a big deal till this morning.

Still supremely confident about my ability to do what i used to do with such ease all those years ago, i hummed to myself and raised my right foot to the basin - it's at least three feet high - like it was the most natural thing in the world. I'm thinking to myself, "Mmm not bad, despite all those lapsed years and my mammoth size, i can still do this" when i felt my thigh muscles knot up. And stay that way.

Oh oh. It hurt, but there was no way i could pull my leg back down because i was almost close to the basin bowl. So, ever so gingerly, i let my foot land in the basin ("TIMBER!") and let the water flow from the tap. Then came the killer part - bringing my foot back down.

Forget it. I'm not describing it - even thinking of it is traumatising and doesn't do an iota of good for my ego. All i will say is, for the first time in my life, the realisation - of what it must be like to move steadily towards a creaking old age - hit me.

Atonement.

My weekend was pretty balanced - i ventured out of home just as much as i stayed in. Friday night's adventures were followed by a lazy Saturday lounging at G's place watching 'Atonement'.

I was gifted this book of Ian McEwan's by G and S on my birthday, along with Orhan Pamuk's 'My Name is Red'. While i'm not the types to skip pages (except in, perhaps, an M&B), 'My Name is Red' made me do that; and Atonement, even more so. It just went on and on endlessly, so i skipped entire chapters - like one on Robbie's time in the war. But what i loved about the book was the story - an 11-year old Briony, her world of order and certainty disrupted by incidents between her sister and the gardender that catapult her growth, leaving the debris of love in its wake. Yes, it is incredible how Ian McEwan leads us with his words into her mind, helps us comprehend the awkwardness of growing up that lead her to her actions.

With me, he achieved something else too - he made me realise that had i been in her place, i would have done the same. I would have, in my quest to retain my order, childish impudence and innocence, done what she did. Would i be capable of destroying the just-blooming love shared between two people? Perhaps; i don't know for sure. What i am certain of is that i am quite capable of it. Would i seek atonement for my actions? Yes i would, because i couldn't bear to live with the guilt for the rest of my life. Unlike Briony though, i wouldn't seek it through words - something she describes as an act of kindness. I know what she's talking about, and i understand it but find myself unable to endorse it. I wouldn't take the easy way out and document the truth a little before my death for the world to know, because it still doesn't make a difference to the two people who really matter - in this case, Briony's sister and her lover. I would make amends much earlier in my life, gather up enough courage, get it over and done with.

You see, i believe that to experience the liberty that comes with guiltlessness, one has to give full voice to the guilt. And not with paper and pen.