Now, what was I saying?

I can explain.

My wrist just stopped working. On account of all the writing I do. Outside of this blog. For a living. No, not carpal tunnel. Megaloblastic anemia, it is called. Yes, I know. Given my -- how shall we put it -- 'healthy'-ness, you would never guess. What can I say? Size doesn't matter after all. 

The point being that I was advised to type as little as possible. Ergo, my absence. You know how promptly I blog otherwise. 

On the bright side, turns out, there is a medical explanation for my Dory-like memory. It's B-12,  dear readers, curse of the grass-eaters. So, because of severe and prolonged 'brain food' shortage, my neurons have been deep fried, says Patel saab, my doctor. Therefore the dizzying and mindless haze that is my mind. I knew it! 

On the not-so bright side, since I can't get this thing in anything non-meaty,  I've been spending most of my time outside Janaiah's house, waiting for him to awake from his drunken stupor so he can inject me with the blood-coloured shots that I've been prescribed to take (daily and then weekly and then monthly) for the next year or so. Failing which I'll slip into a coma, wither and die. Again, on the plus side, so now I can wait for Ryan Gosling to come and read to me.  Yayy, me! 

-x-

Did I tell you guys about Bumble Bee?  So, after our Side Bottom left us, after seven years of loyal service, I felt much like when Goofy died, and I thought I'd never want to get another car again.  But after contributing 88.9 percent of my salary (for the past four years) plus 4 phones plus an iPhone to Autos Anonymous, I thought it was time.  

In April, after many tears and recriminations, I finally bought Bumblebee. By bought, I mean half-mine and half-Citibank's.  Like an arranged marriage on Shaadi.com, I have been smiling for the camera and telling everyone how it happened so suddenly and fortuitously and what a solid match it is. But in secret, I wistfully stare at a Beagle every time it passes me on the road.  That said, I have to admit, it's gotten easier though, I think I'm even developing an affection for Bumblebee. Like Aishwarya Rai, maybe I will realise that Ajay Devgan is who I should settle with, not Salman Khan.  Never Salman Khan.

But coming back to the point. Oh yeah, I drive now.  By which I mean I can make a car move forward. If it's small.  And during the day. When it's not raining. On a one-way road. Which can reverse on it's own.  And comes with a parking sensor. 

In completely unrelated news, I have started making friends with watchmen everywhere. I have no idea why though. 

-x-

Depp reminds me of a younger me.  Not as much because she's a lot like me as it is because of the boys she dates. This, even before she tells me about the love of her life -- Ice man.  I tell her he's not good news but she thinks he's The One.   

I want to tell her, that I know from experience, he's not The One.  That she'll date several more versions of Iceman and discover that she has a penchant for angst-ridden, over-achieving, smart-assed, two-faced, commitment-phobic, insensitive, egoistic, uncommunicative, jerks.  That, he is simply The Type.

But I don't say anything. If she is me, she'll find out soon enough. 

-x-

Two more weeks and twentyfouryearsgone.  Ah, well. The wheel weaves as the wheel wills.  So Samwise and I went to drink at HRC on her birthday and then sat and wrote all the things we have to do before we are 25. Except for, ahem, 1, 4, 7, 9, 11, 15, 18, 22 and 24, I seem to have done okay. Who'd ve thought, right?

Oh, oh, oh. Also, for the first time ever, I think I finally know what I want to do.  In life, I mean. Or, at least for the next two years. For a person who can't think far enough to plan her dinner, that's saying something no?

-x-

Now, to The Birthday.  I'm going to be in Bombay so I can be with Jughead.  And Aghori. (Both of whom are currently maintaining a radio-silence that's driving me mad but I'm hoping they'll come to their senses soon.) And Samwise. And Poison Ivy (Who I can count on for epic conversations.)

The last time I was in Bombay, I was standing on the insanely-crowded marine drive on New Year's  desperately trying not to cry.  The last time I had a birthday, I was in Goa, stone-cold sober and tragic and heart-broken.

So, anything above this and I'll survive 25.

 -x-

Night

 “Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn't know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.” 

Dawn, Elie Weisel. 

Na na na na na na na na na

The Original

Two Face.Get it? 

Just look at the strokes, will you? A linc pin, ladies and gentlemen.

Were photoeditors always this cool? 

No, really?

I'm flattered you think so.  But no, it didn't just pop into my head. Inspired by this genius on deviant art.

B+

You know, this year wasn't supposed to be like this.  Because I already endured last year.  Survived the relationship-that-wasn't. The job-that-wasn't. The new-city-that-wasn't.  The end-of-the-world-that-wasn't.  But this year, this year was going to be better. That was the deal.

But, no. This had to be the bleakest, suckiest, unluckiest and most painful year I've had yet. And it's not even half done yet.

Having said that, I'm still keeping my chin up, dear readers.  Because this year I'm being an optimist.  Even though since I've decided to be one, all the things I've got are the trauma of (i) losing an iPhone (ii) getting a root canal treatment (iii) finding out A has a girlfriend (iv) finding out B might have a thing for me (v) having Smugface/Mad Prof turn my olive branch into whomping willow and smash it back in my face (vi) getting into a weird cat-fight with Aghori, my soul-sister (vii) seeing the mother in HYMYM (viii) going broke (ix)  (x) having my hair turn red.

On the plus side,  I now see why optimists are always so happy.  The biggest hope of them all? It's the certainty of death.

Have you seen my owlet?

The Things I tell people. In my head.

1. A: I like you. 

2. B: I like A. 

3. Smugface: I hate you for not even trying. And I hate that I hate that. 

4. Dark Lord: You came back.  Thank you.  

5. Amen: I'm sorry I'm such a shit friend. 

6.  Ma: I know you are scared. But I'm not marrying that Samsung salesman. Don't you think if all I wanted in a man was that, I wouldn't have found him myself? 

7.  God: I get it. Learning my lessons now. Please hold. 

8.  Mad Prof: I don't believe you. 

9.  Mongoose: It took you to make me want to be a journalist again. 

10.  Fedora: I quit. 

Circa 2013

This year


I turn 25 and I want it to mean something.

I want to write more. live more. love more.  Build more bridges, burn less.  Read new authors.  Watch old movies.  Get drunk. Dance wildly. Learn to swim. Travel everywhere. Shop smart. Enjoy the fall.  Throw a party.  Push my limits. Be selfless. Learn a sport.  Think less. Date more. Walk every day.  Cook. Experiment. Drive.  Be young. Be less afraid.  Smile often.  Earn more.  Spend more. Not wait. Go get.  Make friends.  Discover music.  Dress up.  Say yes.  Cycle.  Go out.  Think big. Get fit.  Find a cause. 

Be happy, you know? 

 

The Spa Scare

Apart from it being utterly time pass, there are few incentives to my job.  But from time to time,  there is the occasional perk.  Namely a restaurant review here and a movie review there.  And still yet, a spa review in between.  Like this Monday when I was called over for the same at a fancy-pants hotel. So here I am, sitting in the locker area waiting for the sauna to ready. 

 At the sound of the beeper,  I take off my thick snowy robe and step into the darkness.  I'm blinded by the steam and the wet heat.  A minute inside and I'm bored. So I begin to imagine I'm a Fernando Botero nude and start to pose this way and that, singing and swaying. Five minutes later, the beeper goes off again and the steam slowly starts to thin. I turn around and my heart stops. 

A figure begins to emerge. There's someone else in the room.  Even before I can process this, I'm running outside, my scream still stuck in my throat. I slip and fall.  My worst fear has come true. "This is what happens when you read so much about serial killers. They'll know. And they'll follow you. And they'll hack you into pieces when you are in the shower. And then leave the CSI team a clue written in your blood on that mirror there," is my last thought.  Still, I scramble out on all fours into the locker area before he can grab me by my feet and drag me back inside. 

I clutch a towel and run to the door.  It's locked.  The swipe card is back in my locker.   I look back. There's still no sound from the sauna. I walk back, each step leaving me more and more numb with fear.  I reach into the locker when I hear the door open and the soft thud of footsteps. I sink into the floor.  But I'm strangely relieved. This is the end and my legs are waxed. 

I feel a hand on my shoulder but I still don't move.  Now, it's saying something. But I don't understand.  It leaves me and walks into the sauna.  "Getting his tools," informs the voice in my head.  But something is wrong.  Too much time has passed. 

I slowly look up. The glass door to the sauna is ajar. The figure is exactly as I saw him last, still as a statue and creepily motionless.  A woman, who I slowly recognise as my therapist, latches on to him while reaching for the water bottle I've left behind. She lets out a little 'hiss' as her hand touches the hot stone.  

Feeling returns to my body and she passes me the water.  "It's normal to be dizzy after the steam. But you look very pale, please relax," she says.  

"What's that," I ask, pointing.  

"It's a sculpture of the Fengshui master, Guo Po. To promote, how do you say, positive vibes and inner peace, you see?" 

"I see."

"Are you ready for your massage now ma'am or do you want some more time in the steam?"

"Back in the steam? No. No. No no no." 

"Ma'am?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll take that massage now." 

Buri Nazar Wale, Tera Muh Kaala

1.Okay, really, like WTF?!  All this while I've been going on and on like a miserable fuck and no one even thought to tell me. Y'all suck. I want to make you guys pay, but I'm guessing you already have. Anyway, enough. New rules. Until Something Really Happens, no boys on the blog.

2. 45 days. 18 books. Eight behind the required run rate. I have to finish the reading challenge, dammit. It's the only thing I decided to do this year. If I don't, I'm going to bin all my resolutions for the new year. Okay, I have to say it. I'm just so, so sick of reading on the Kindle, dear reader. I just want to hold a real book. which smells of paper. has a cover. and which I can spill things on. which looks different from the previous or the next book. which I can put next to my pillow. and sleep.  Can someone gimme a bunch of those, please? Pleaseee?

3. Now, this is not really on the list but am I the only one that thinks Daniel Craig = dopey eyed construction worker/self-mutilating monk from Angels & Demons. Oh, and Skyfall?! "The Best. Bond. Movie. Ever." "Dark, supple, and punctuated with moments of unanticipated visual brilliance." Are you kidding me?. I'll take Home Alone 3 over this cheap, campy joke, thank you very much.

4. On the work front, I'm waiting for a Good Thing to happen.  If it does, it will change everything.  I'm pretending like I don't really care but I do, dear universe, I really, really do.  Can you conspire to make it happen? Before the end of the year, if you don't mind. I'm aging by the minute here.

5. Inspired by Jughead and the Dark Lord, for the first time ever, a weight-watch ticker. Hit The Golden Number by 31st December.

PS: "Until Something Really Happens."  "A Good Thing." "The Golden Number." Why am I talking like this?  All in good time, my friends. All in good time.

All or Nothing

Today, I did something I'm rather proud of.  Something the stubborn, passive-agressive me of six-months ago would never done.  I was fair. I was just. I talked. And, I listened.  I won't pretend it was easy. Losing a friend. But I did it anyway.

I'm still a little underwhelmed. But I'm told that's what happens when you go with a plan.

I admit, I always overestimate people I like.  I think them the smartest, the coolest and the nicest.  Again and again, I give them every benefit of doubt. I think no less of them when they've wronged me.  Short of murder and rape,  I forgive them pretty much everything.

So, the only thing that can make me truly dislike them is them.  When they do things even the idiotically-loyal-me cannot overlook. Still, I hope.  I wait and wait for them to prove me wrong.

When they still don't, one day, I switch off.  Take them off my radar.  Call it a day.

As I did today.

I said my goodbyes. Found my closure.

Now, I move on.

Thanksgiving comes early to Castle Grouchy

Thank You, The Great Indian "Oktoberfest" --  It seems I can like beer after all which has made me think about ALL the other things I've written off all these years (neatly labelled under "HATE") but should now try again. Pigeons? Math?  Driving? Relationships?

Thank You,  my very expensive and very gay hairdresser for inquiring if I am particular about the length of my hair and not waiting for me to reply before you chopped off my inglorious tresses. I wanted to hit you then, when you shouted across the floor, "Thanks for letting me go all the way!" but in hindsight, I'm a happier girl today. Every one's been complimenting me on my new look. Someone even said I was looked very pretty. ("Just like Johnny Depp in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory") But still.

Thank You U.N Summit, for keeping me occupied and out of office for the soul-suckingly boring month that is October. For extracting from me a pound of flesh. But more importantly for making me meet Nadir. When you slipped into my hands the Prime Minister's speech in full sight of the rest of 'em, is the moment when I fell a little in love with you, heart of my heart. Why did you have to be married? Why?!

Thank You, Smurfette for that weekend.  All the luxury indulgence was much appreciated.  The morning after however was one of the scariest experiences of my life, courtesy of which, I'm going to be abstaining from aqua vitae for a long time to come. Oh, and maybe from bath tubs too.  Because this is a family oriented blog (Dafuq), I can't recount the sequence in detail.  (Just know that I almost did an Elvis and that you are very lucky I'm still here.)

Thank You, Smugface and NYT,  for killing every desire I've might have had for you both.  I never want to date anyone whose name starts with V. Ever. Ever.

Thank You,  networks of the world, for giving me back BBT, Grey's, Merlin, Vampire Diaries and everything else, now I have something to do while I wait to grow old and die.

Speaking of doodles

You whistle right about now.

This is what I'll do if you leave me in a room with a pot full of black paint.   And it's called creative liberty.

The said trip

Ahem. 

So, it seems that I might have been a little angsty the last time around.  But here am I, dear reader!  Five shades darker, eight pounds heavier and ten degrees happier. Because that is how, crazy, stupid, impromptu trips make me. 

This is how it happened, dear reader.  There I was, during the last week of July, contemplating matters of the heart, wandering through life listlessly. Having resigned myself to the boring birthday weekend looming ominously ahead with nothing to look forward to, I was as usual pretending to work, trying not to sleep when the call came. "Listen. I know it's last minute. But I have like a week to go before I join work. Do you still wanna do the trip?" she asks. Heh. Did I want to?  The next week, I'm filling out leave forms, wrapping up at work, throwing clothes into a rucksack and running to the bus stand.

After this point, many many things happened. I remember little. So I resort to chronology and notes from the iPhone. So, humor me.  Okay? Okay. 

Day One

Hyderabad

I try to sandwich my bag into the overhead compartment. Like me, its curves seem to preclude it from sitting anywhere prettily. I'm on the verge of throwing it out of the window when I feel a swatched hand reaches past me and glides it in, as if to show that's how it's done . Even before I turn, I know I'll regret it. He's tall and dimpled. And now, he's flashing them and smiling down at me. I hate him. I wonder if his is the empty seat next to me. No. He's the one in front. So he leans his seat into mine and starts to read. Bright Shiny Morning, I find out. 

I'm seated next to a woman who looks uncannily like my grandmother. I dismiss it as a tragic coincidence until she starts to talk. And confirms it. I check my phone obsessively. Maybe Smugface did say goodbye. But no, no new notifications, Apple informs me mercilessly. Aunty is still talking about the temples I must visit. I fall asleep.  

It's a rainy, green, morning. Aunty is still talking. To her husband on the phone. Something feels wrong.  My feet are bare. My shoes are gone. I'm flapping around like a headless chicken. I've woken up Swatch. Aunty is trying to comfort me by touching me inappropriately. Swatch's standing over me again, smiling. He's retrieved my shoes. I feel like throwing them at him. But I smile back like I'm Cinderella. 

There's an ominous silence. Aunty has stopped talking. She's looking at us look at each other. She doesn't like it. She waits until he sinks down in his seat. And tells me about me. How gullible I am. How trusting I am. How boys only want one thing. How I should never talk to one. Never even make eye contact. I can see Swatch tilt his head so he can hear better. He's smiling that smile again.  I hate him. 

Aunty's still talking. 

The bus stops and I reach for my bag. But Swatch gets it before me. I give him a dirty look. He grins at me. Aunty is tapping her foot, making her disappointment known. We get down. He's waiting a few feet from me. Aunty's husband has come. But she looks at Swatch and decides to wait until Aghori comes to fetch me.  He's looking serious, tapping on his Swatch as if to say "your move." I pick up my bag and walk towards him. Past him. 

Onwards to detox. 

Day 2

Manipal

We are sitting with our feet dangling high over the river. It's sunny one minute and raining the next.  It's misty and windy. And, freaky. It's perfect. Everything in our damp, little alcove rattles as a train passes overhead.  We sit and talk. She tells me about Falooda. I tell her about Smugface. I don't even have to explain. She gets it. Then, it dawns on me. I'm here. With Aghori, my travel sister. 

Udipi

Eat at the Udipi temple, Aunty said. So we packed and ran. Completely sure we were going to miss the daily meal. But we made it just in time. Never was there/nor will there ever be Sambar rice or Payasam I'll love more. It's decided. I'm marrying a Kannidaga. If god wills, maybe the temple's poster-boy who stole my heart. 

Day 3  

Gokarna

I'm weary to the bone. If I have to sit in a bus one more time, to have one more man lech at us, to not be allowed to think about peeing, I'll kill myself. But we have to. We have to head on to Goa this evening. But I'll think about that later. 

Our "shack" is an unapologetic euphemism for shit. Its only saving grace is that it (literally) opens out onto the beach.  Which, by the way, didn't look like much last night. Still, until it's time for the train, we are going to walk along the shore.  We walk the > shaped stretch, waiting at the fisherman's cove (the tip), entirely unprepared for what lay on the other side.  

Bear with me, dear reader. How do ones explain stepping into a Monet? The feeling of being the sole person on an island? To walk in the sand, lie on rocks, sleep under blue sky, swim in the sea,  feel like the warm lick of the sun on your skin,in this universe that's all your own? To do as you wish. To not see another face for a few days? To have the voices in your head switch off. To simply cease to be?  

Laugh at me all you want. But its true. Near this tiny temple town, on this beach, my soul comes to rest.  

Day 4 

Goa

None of us seem to have the stomach to travel some more. So we throw anchor at Anjuna, the very place that Aghori and I so dreaded last time. The beautiful lantern-filled places are gone. So are the markets. With them, the crowds. So we find a nice inn by the beach with a fancy restaurant next door that serves great food. And spend our time climbing up and down the rocks to the beach.  And later, sit by a tiny shack on the top, overlooking the sea, feeding sparrows, fending away crows while stuffing our faces with hot vada-pav and mirchi bajji.  

Day 5

Panjim

It's my birthday today. We are at Titos or Mambos or some such. I can feel the thrum of the music in my bones. But I don't dance. I'm sitting outside. Answering calls on autopilot. "Thanks so much. I'm still in Goa. Ha ha. Yea, its great. No, quite sober actually. Listen, I have a call waiting. But I'll definitely catch you later. Thanks for calling. Means a lot." I do this over and over until I begin to sound like a broken down record. Smugface saves me even that. Sends me a text instead. I throw the phone away.  But then, I forget it all when Aghori and Falooda do a  YMCA style Happy Birthday gig for me and I suddenly feel a rush of love for them. Given a choice, I wouldn't be any place else.  

But I have to say it. I am melancholy. 24 sucks.

Jump

Inspired by this

You are sitting a safe distance away from the wall.  You have been sitting there for a while, taking in the air, waiting for the rain to come.  From time to time, you look at the wall and remember. The last you tried jumping, you didn't fly. You fell. And hurt yourself. It took you all this time to pick up the pieces and glue yourself together. Now, you are slowly beginning to mend, resemble a bit of your old self.

Then there he comes. Tempting you. Teasing you. Luring you into trusting him.  He shows you dreams of flying. Says you should jump together.

You tell him that you don't want to jump. That it's painful. And it hurt you. And everything. He promises it will be okay.

So you ignore all the warning bells in your head. The sickening blackness in your gut. You throw caution to the winds.  Walk to the ledge and look at him. He smiles reassuringly.  So you take a breath, count to three and take the plunge.

You are on the floor again, smashed into a thousand pieces. Just like last time. You look up and see him still up on the roof. Why? You want to know. It was for you.  So, I could protect you, he says.

You laugh, until your insides hurt. Until you can feel no more. Until the blackness takes over. Until it starts to rain.

Until it's lights out in wonderland. 

Inner Peace

Okay, so I'm really not supposed to be doing this.  I'm ten hours past the deadline for filing my story and fast approaching crisis mode. "All the time you spent in the slums will all be for naught. Concentrate, concentrate, focus, ho hum," I tell myself. Except my head, like  all the people I know, won't listen to a word of WHAT I'M SAYING. 


This was NOT how it was supposed to be, dear readers. 


Jughead and I, perpetually on self-help missions, have just finished Day 5 of  the Zen-You-Will-Be-Mine course.  Not cry. Not be passive-aggressive. Not get involved. Not be affected. Be happy, shiny, people.  That was all. By now, we were supposed to be well on our way to inner peace.  But no.  


We are exchanging notes on boys. Like giggly, teenage school girls.  "Don't let that boy get close to me. You have to make sure of it," I text her. "We won't get any guy come close. Even if they hold your hand," she replies. "Even if they make you laugh?" I ask. "Even if they play Scotland Yard and all the interesting board games,"she says. "Even if they make your heart race and put butterflies in your stomach," I pose. "Even if they are all you think about in a day," she vows. 


I know, I know. Cribbing about boys is just about all the action this blog seems to be getting these days.  But..but...I'm trying dear readers. It's a bad time to be young and single, this.  Especially when you work all the time and have no life to speak of.  Speaking of, I need a new job.  In a new city.  With weekends. And a coffee machine. And an office boy. And a paycheck that'll last me a month. 


Also, I need to go to the gym.  At least to collect my shoes. Before the subscription runs out.


And, I need to find a way to cheer up Mad Prof. 


And oh yeah, go finish that story now. 


Not to forget, I need to find Zen. 


Grrrrr. 


PS: Stay tuned, I promise to narrate tales of action and adventure next time!