I'm Julius Caesar, and my Ides of March lasted all month.

My day started at 5:30 a.m because i was attending a Webinar on Mobile Marketing. Somewhere in the back of my head, i thought that maybe i should work from home today and then discarded the idea faster than rotting food because there were meeting scheduled. So ho hum, i bathe, wear my jeans, crunch down on some junk food and head out.

I get my bike out with ease. Enjoy my ride to work. Stop at a petrol bunk to tank up. Give this git of a 19-year old guy trying to cut across a dirty look and a sarcastically polite "Can i please go ahead of you?". Get on the bike, ride out of the bunk and... BAM!

Next thing i know, i'm on the ground, lying like Madhuri Dixit's tawaif step in the Devdas song Maar daala.

I skidded on sand. Gravelly, beige, dirty, dry, stony sand. I was trying to take a short turn and merge into the ongoing traffic, and in my attempt, i slipped. The bike fell with a bang and so did i. I think we've got a lot in common that way, the bike and I. We are both heavy, we both fall hard when we fall, and we both go flying. I did, so much so that as i slid across the gravel, my shirt flew up and the dirt grazed my stomach. My flat-out left palm got scraped and my knees got badly bruised through my jeans, but i'll only know the full effect of it tomorrow morning. Thank God for the helmet on my head, and the fact that i fell away from the traffic. The bike's suffered the most damage, poor thing. The left headlight's gone and there's a clean cut on the top panel.

I'm pretty shaken up by the incident. After checking for bruises and serious damage, I quietly gave the bike for servicing and came back home.

Don't know what it has been this month, but things have been terrible on the physical health front. First the pain in my left arm, the tummy aches, my allergy, and now this.

I bet Caesar had a less painful death despite his 23 stabs.

*Sigh* I hope there aren't going to be any more of these now.

When it comes to Pasta, simplicity isn't my cup of olive oil.

I've had a serious craving for pasta since yesterday. In general, i've had it for a really long time but last afternoon, i watched Spaghetti Aglio Olio being made on NDTV Good Times and i couldn't get it out of my head.

Last night, after visiting the doctor, A and i went to The Palmyra at Palm Meadows for dinner. Having been switching between crying and moaning and pitying myself all evening, i decided to treat myself to something that would cheer me up instantly: Pasta Aglio Olio! The chef who took our order nodded, A conceded that it was a good decision, and i smiled. Life was beginning to look better already.

When it arrived, my pasta was delicious. Three little disappointments, though: the chef had put bell peppers and zucchinis in it, there wasn't enough salt, and the pasta wasn't spaghetti. Aglio Olio is the simplest of all, with just olive oil, chilli flakes, chopped garlic, a little basil and salt going into making it. (Apart from the pasta, that is.) And i was really, really, really hoping for just that.

Today, the craving for Aglio Olio hit full force again. Since i was working from home and hadn't had lunch, i asked Mom to pick up the necessary ingredients on her way home. Fully anticipating that she would bring back spaghetti, i lost it when she got flat pasta. Argh. Never mind. Craving. Must. Be. Fulfilled. And so i set about making Aglio Olio.

Let it be said that the Aglio Olio was a flop, to say the least. Even Aishwarya Rai's acting in Dhoom 2 had more character than the Aglio Olio did. On second thought no, my pasta wasn't that bad.

Thankfully, i had decided to make a second batch of pasta for Mom and Dad - Pasta Arabiatta - because Aglio Olio would've been too tasteless for them. Smartly, i just transformed the Aglio Olio into Arabiatta, with cream for more flavour. And, surprisingly, finely chopped red and yellow bell peppers.

It's fab, and i'm eating it right now. Even Arshad Warsi's acting in Ishqiya didn't have as much character and flavour as my Pasta Arabiatta does.

It's a major slump in my state of being right now. It's anti-social time again. I don't want calls, i don't want e-mails, i don't want favours and i just don't want any bullshit. I need silence. Outside and within. I need my allergy to go away because if it doesn't, it just might push me to kill myself. I need to provide answers to a lot of questions. I need endings. I need to stop being so bitter, that feeling which seems to have flooded over the boundaries of sanity and taken control of my senses.

I wish for love. I wish for peace. I wish things weren't so complicated, and maybe they aren't.

I wish i didn't feel like bawling my eyes out or wanting to bitchslap most people around me. I wish people would stop pretending. Stop believing that everything's okay. I wish they would shove their attitudes, egos, hangups and deceits up their asses. I wish they could be more decisive. Stop fucking around. Stop screwing everybody up.

Today, i feel miserable. More miserable than i did yesterday. Today, i feel like a piece of shit. A waste of God's efforts, like A Guidebook To What You Shouldn't Be.

Today, i feel vulnerable, in need of some warmth. And maybe somebody to hold me like they'll never let me go, that their world begins and ends with me, that i'm everything to them, as i cry in their embrace.

301st post, and a new blog.

I crossed 300. Wow. Hard to believe i actually had so much to share with the world, considering if i'm left alone with people for two minutes, i don't know what conversation to start with them.

Anyway, i've started a new blog. It's called madaboutflowers and features all the photographs i have taken of (duh) flowers. I'll slip in trees and buds and insects and soil into the portfolio occasionally, but until then it's just nice, happy pictures of nice, happy flowers.

Go see, and tell me how eez.

An awesomeley good Wednesday and Saturday have gone by.

It was an eventful week, to say the least.

For starters, how many of you have shared space with a Lord, knighted by the Queen of England herself? How many of you have even breathed the same air as they?

Well, i did. On Wednesday. That's when i met Jeffrey Archer.

Yes, THE Jeffrey Archer.

I assume that many of you will just 'Pshaw!' the whole thing, but i kid you not when i tell you that he is probably one of the greatest story tellers of all times. Forget that his British uppityness and superiority get in the way, forget that he comes across as slightly arrogant and rude and curt, forget all of that and think about the books he has given us. I only recently read Kane and Abel, and i can tell you that that book is going to stay with me a long, long time. (By the way, the 30th Anniversary edition has a different ending - Mister Archer rewrote it.)

And he's not just a storyteller in his writing. You have to hear him speak. It was quite fascinating to be able to meet him, hear him, laugh at his anecdotes, hear his stories. It was, like the Brits say, Mahv-lus.

The rest of the week went by fairly Blah-ly. Then came Saturday. I got a call from K asking if i wanted to do brunch at Windsor Pub, and i did. It had been a long time since my last brunch; besides, Saturday just seemed like a Brunch Day. So we went to Windsor, ate and drank and made merry. And then decided to continue doing just that.

Our route map was something like this:

Windsor ---->Hard Rock Cafe ---->Plan B ---->Tavern ---->Home ---->Bed

Only one word can describe Saturday post-3 p.m: Woohoo!

I love. Like, really, really, really, really love.

So, Goa.

I'm back. In one piece, physically and mentally.

And it was fun!

I stayed at Golden Eye (Hello, James darling) on the other side of Calangute - a side that i had possibly never seen before. It was cozy, comfortable and private.

I ate a lot of everything, and drank a lot of everything else. So much so that i have now developed a severe allergy to something - i cannot figure out what - and have to keep popping Avil till i can get to the doctor.

I got a temporary tattoo done above my ankle. A butterfly. It will go away in a week's time, but at least i know now that a tattoo looks good on me.

I was part of the crowd lining the streets of Panjim for the Goa Carnival. Desi Mardi Gras at its best, i should say. It was fabulous fun, and i took loads of pictures in my excitement.

I explored new eating places. Must gos include Molly Malone's near Calangute Market (on a Friday night, please. That's when Polly plays and his live music must not be missed), Mum's Kitchen at Panjim (Interesting Calamari Rawa Fry and a yummy Chicken in red masala and coconut milk with Sanas) and Sea Shell Inn at Candolim (beautiful ambience, lovely food, lovely music). Oh, and i also had Chocolate Chip Mousse Ice cream from Baskin Robins.

I jet ski-d. For 15 minutes. It was amazing going over the waves and landing with a thump on the water, wrestling our way through the constant ripples.

I hated leaving.

Two hours to go...

...before i get onto the bus to Goa.

Yes, i'm journeying to the beach side alone for the first time.

Yes, i'm a little freaked out.

No, i'm not freaked out about what may or may not happen after i get there.

Whatever has to happen, will happen.

Either ways, you'll know by Monday.

So have a great weekend, world.

Bye bye, Perfume Sprays. Hello, Ittar.

I did two things after a very long time today.

First, i took parents out for dinner to the Russell Market Taj Hotel. It's the kind of place where you can expect to find the shadiest, most murderous of local - but well-known and very sought-after - thugs doing serious damage to gastronomes in their fight for Bangalore-style Biryani. Served piping hot (not during dinner though; if you're nimble enough, you could try your luck between 12:00 p.m and 1:30 p.m every afternoon or during Ramadan), it's coveted by discerning taste buds with a favouritism for Biryani.

Second, i bought Ittar from a store on the way back from dinner. If my mother's eyes were a SUV, they would be a Rover. They find the quaintest of shops and sift through the clutter to spot stores that are inconspicuous treasure troves of useless indulgences. This wasn't entirely useless, though. She ended up picking some really strong fragrance while i looked on, completely fascinated (thanks, Vir Sanghvi, for bringing back the romance of the Ittar) and stoic about not buying any because i needed to save up on every penny i possibly could this month.

When the shopkeeper finished selling his wares (bottled in cut crystal vials, no less) to my succumbing mom, he turned to me. Oh no, i thought.

"And what fragrances can i show you Madam?"

Knowing fully well that it would be of no use, i nodded my head from side to side to indicate nothing, thank you. My mouth had other ideas.

"Uh...something light...", i said; then, thinking that words like 'summery', 'fruity with a bit of zest' and 'fresh' might be totally lost because they are complicated definitions, i settled for the one word that would sum it all up:"...something citrusy, please."

Gah! Well, at least that would distract him from the memory of my flying kurta that revealed my stomach in all its bulging glory as i passed by his shop earlier. (Stupid summer wind.)

Thirty seconds later, surprise, surprise. He showed me exactly what i was looking for. How could i not give in? How?

So i picked up the 212 essence of the 212 Sexy etc. fame. And one more named Wish. (So does that make anybody who praises my Wish fragrance a Well Wisher?)

Then, as if to compensate for the display of my navel, he gave me a trial vial of Dunhill Blue that i liked. "Use it Madam, and if you like it, you can come back next time and buy it."

Yes of course, and i'll be sure to wear the longest trenchcoat i can find, buttoned up all the way to my neck.

Good thing, anyway. My Davidoff Cool Water's slowly evaporating out of disuse. And i do want to try getting back to wearing Ittar every day.

Yeah, i'm traditional like that.

Do you believe in premonitions?

I don't know, i'm not sure. Since Tuesday, though, i have begun to lean towards being a believer. Here's why.

On most nights, i sleep dreamlessly. On the nights that i do dream, the visions are mostly not good. The scariest dream i have had is more than a decade ago, but i still can't seem to get over it; i have dreamed about something happening to my family's belongings, and have woken up next day to find that it has actually happened; and i've had flashes in my dream that almost seem like they are pieces of a puzzle that don't belong to the past or the near future, but sooner or later they do become reality. That's how bad and spooky my dreams can get.

A couple of months ago, though, i had a dream that i just couldn't explain away or get over. It involved my best friend. And a little boy. And a Tsunami.

I didn't wake up feeling terrified, just extremely uncomfortable. I think we managed to escape the destruction by getting to the airport of the place we were at.

Two days post the dream, i forgot about it. Life moved on.

I made travel plans with friends, went to Hyderabad, then to Hampi. Life was normal.

I made plans to go to Goa on the first weekend of March. Then my best friend called and told me that she wanted to go on a trip with me.

Now, the last time we travelled together was in college. After college, she got married, got busy with her husband, blah blah blah. So the fact that she called now and wanted to go somewhere - just her and me - was a big thing, and i didn't want to say no.

So i ditched plans to go to Goa, and started planning for other places. We considered Mangalore and then scrapped the idea because her husband wasn't comfortable with it(!) So we thought about it, and decided that the most feasible option for both was Goa. I agreed heartily - that's where i was planning to go anyway.

I started looking forward to the trip again, but that changed on Tuesday. Because the dream came back to me.

My best friend and I were going to Goa.

In my dream, that's where the Tsunami had happened.

And i've been feeling a little scared and a little uncomfortable ever since.

It may or may not come true. There is, after all, no little boy featuring in our lives. I think, in my dream, that the little boy was my best friend's baby. But she's not a mommy, and not going to be one anytime soon either.

If it has to happen, it will. I'm taking my chances and going anyway. Maybe i'm challenging fate, battling destiny. I don't know! But i'm going. And i'm going to make sure i say a proper goodbye to everybody before i do.

Bloody hell, i should've taken those swimming lessons.

William Blake's speaking my mind...

"...And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree."

There's going to be blood on my hands this year. Or maybe a severe injury. To hope, to pride, to two-facedness, to spinelessness, to false impressions. To acting up, to pretending, to denying happiness.

I keep it all in, and it just grows and grows. Bloody hell.

This time, last weekend...

...I had cleaned my entire room. I mean, entire. I dusted and swept everything in sight (and hidden from it).

...I arranged all my books - only close to 180, i am sorry to say - neatly, along with several other little things like a Santa i got for Christmas, a Happy Meal Pinocchio, candle stands, book marks, matchboxes, a reading light, a puzzle ball, a Happy Meal guitar and a tourist pass to the Rann of Kutch.

...I cleared the top of the shoe rack to make space for a vase, a candle lamp and another vase/holdall.

...I glammed up the dressing table with fairy lights.

...And i made this for the wall space over the shoe rack out of beads, lace, wire and more beads:

So now, during the day, the shoe rack area looks like this:

And in the night, it looks like this:

I'm liking very muchly!

Rudaali?

Growing old can mean getting enemas for some people, for others it can mean indulging in a few extra marital affairs because their spouse isn't making them happy. Then there are those who quit their jobs and decide to pursue their passions, or just pack up their bags and travel. It can mean receding hairlines, growing waistlines, sagging bustlines and shrinking willie-nillies.
As i grow older, though, i notice something totally different: my tear glands are on overdrive.

Now, i'm not an emotional person. But in the recent past, my parents have found me crying through Master Chef USA (when Faruq gets in, or when Adeliz is given that second chance and makes it, or when Sheena's asked to leave), Jhalak Dikhla Ja (when that chick from that stupid serial faints after doing some pathetic Samba and Bellydancing while her new beau - also her co-star from the same serial - gets sick with worry backstage), Die Hard 4 (Bruce Willis saying "I'm coming for you baby" and more such sub-standard stuff)... the list is endless. You name it, i've cried over it. I don't know who's more embarassed about it, them or me.

And all this from a person who had to force herself to cry while watching Titanic due to peer pressure. (Hey, i was in school then!)

It's a mystery to me. I cannot understand it. I cannot wrap my head around it. More importantly, i don't like it. Ironic, when it's real life that should prove more moving than TV. I mean, i've cried less over my last breakup than i have over the sorry dialogues and drama of My Sister's Keeper. What's the deal with that, i'd like to know.

Maybe i should just have my tear glands surgically removed or something. Then i can peacefully sit through things like the rerun of the three-fingered man being eliminated from the Master Chef kitchen...

Wait, is that a tear i can feel on my cheek? *blink blink*

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Theories i learned from the Big Bang.

They were good people, they respected me, loved me in their own weird ways. They were wired differently and, like my soulmate keeps telling me occasionally, it was just bad timing that didn't keep us together.

So today, this post is dedicated to all the loves of my life. The times i spent with all of you were fulfilling, enriching, frustrating, bittersweet. I got out lighter because i gave a piece of my heart to each one of you, but also wiser because i took a bit of sensibility in return.

There are things i have internalised from you guys; things that will stay with me till the day i leave this world and pass on to the next. In order of oldest to freshest exes:
1. Always brush your teeth before going to sleep.
2. Love can come in any size, Zero or 16, because it's the chemistry that matters.
3. If your life together is at the expense of extensive collateral damage, consider the worth of your decision very carefully.
4. Think, "what's the worse that will happen?" and you'll be able to deal with any situation.

There you go. I'm misty-eyed, walking down the roads of Past and listening to Guzaarish songs. I feel nice in a bittersweet way, not very unlike how they all made me feel.

We were good together, guys. And now, it's all good.

A year on many counts.

Like i haven't harped enough on it already, i'm saying it again: last year was awesome for me. And this year's been even better so far, although there are still a lot of things to fix.

My Nikon D3000 is a year old. In the photography calendar, it's roughly 6000 pictures old.

My job is a year old.

Red is almost four years old, and i have driven him for all of 360 hours. Chee thoo.

I'm really, really looking forward to the rest of the year because there are lots of good things to come. I can feel it in my bones.

Pick me up, darlin!

Stone.

It’s true that as my age has increased, so has my desire and ability to travel. More recently, I seem to have developed a veneer of (unnecessary) extreme unfriendliness and what I believe to be a cold attitude towards most people I come across in life. And this I see especially when I travel.

And this is what I feel most shitty about too, when I think of the two chutku boys in Hampi.

I was in the temple town mid-last month over a long weekend. Having visited the place five years earlier, I was shocked at how crowded it had become, and how many more foreigners were on the loose there. (Only later did I figure out that it was because of Sankranti and the Hampi Festival.) And of course, with foreigners comes more commercialisation and absolute fascination for the fair-skinned ones. So most locals assume that anybody with the colouring or an unfamiliar (read untypically Indian) nature is categorised as ‘foreigner’. So it was that the four of us who reached on Friday afternoon ended up being mistaken for foreigners. That my camera appeared to be big-ass, and I appeared to be a big-ass photographer didn’t help any.

And that’s why, when we climbed the hillock next to Virupaksha Temple, people walked up to us and asked us take pictures of them with my camera, or just stared into the picture viewer from behind me as I kept clicking. Most of them were shady, so my hackles went up immediately and my armour of prickles fell into place. I gave everybody cold looks, turned around and questioned a few Peeping-over-shoulder Toms with “Is there a problem?” or “Excuse me?” in a venom-drenched voice. In the middle of all this, two little boys, egged on by a bunch of teenage hooligans, approached me and asked me to take a picture. I made disgusted faces and followed it up with an unfriendly, I-don’t-have-time-for-this “Okay, stand.” I figured they were going to be cocky young gits.

And that’s when things changed. Because this is how those two boys stood for the picture.

I haven’t seen anybody pose like this in years. The last time was decades ago, when I saw a picture of myself as a chubby, innocent 1st standard student standing at the gate of my grandparents’ place with arms falling on either side of my hip as if punished. When I saw that innocence repeated in the two little boys, I just melted.

After posing for the picture, they came up to see it. And they smiled big smiles that penetrated my armour, tore through my ribs and squeezed my heart to create pain-pleasure. And then they just walked away. Maybe I would have done something more than just let them go, maybe I would have smiled back at them, maybe I would’ve taken a better picture – I’ll never know. Because by then, the scoundrel teenagers who had egged them on came along for a peep at the picture over my shoulder, and my armour quickly fell back in place to defend me.

Now, every time I see this picture, I want to cry because I was so unfriendly to the two chutkus for no fault of theirs, or for that matter, for no reason. I feel like my heart’s being injected with a more-than-healthy dose of pain because I didn’t give the Maybes that ran through my mind any closure.

More than anything, every time I see this picture, I hate myself for turning into this cold person.

Okay, so i'm on the other side of the 20s...

Now what?

The weather today: warm, fuzzy and happy.

Kadmon ko sambhalein,
Nazron ka kya karein?
Nazron ko sambhalein,
To dil ka kya karein?

Dil ko sambhaley zubaan
Ishq hua hi hua...

Yes, i'm in a happy, sunshiny mood today.

Burday Shurday.

The realisation that i'm going to be 28 (!!!!!!) soon, is hitting me big time. And i want to do something different, something that will give me the sort of peace i have been seeking for years now.

So i want to spend the day along. Maybe ride somewhere quiet with a book and good food for company. Or spend a day watching random movies at Fun Cinemas. Or perhaps that day i have planned for Hard Rock Cafe. Hmm.

I also want to gift myself something. Three choices:
- A Nikon lens
- An external hard drive: my pictures will eventually have to get off my laptop!
- An HP Mini

I have no idea what i'll indulge in, what i'll buy, what i'll do. No harm delaying the decision by another week, i guess.