Sometimes things lie right before you and you fail to recognize them. Feelings, most often are the biggest scams of 'em all. I have a memory of a memory. Memories that unveiled the truth before me.
That night when we were sitting on the floor with a half empty bottle of wine, when right above our heads the roof turned into the sky. When talk fused into a shimmering song and we got consumed by its magic. Right at that moment I remember, I fled back to the day we were on the big blue bus. When we were listening to Jesus the Mexican boy. When my hair was falling over my face and you blew it gently away to look into my eyes. A moment of nothingness turned around and looked straight into my face.
Then I came back to where we were and had an unconscious smile spread over my face. Now, when I think of it, I know it's that moment when I fell in love with you. Yes, it was then that I lived a lifetime in a moment without even knowing I did. It was then that I fell in love with you.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Notun Bou II
Two continuous days of relentless downpour and a house arrest is what perfectly describes our first two days in Calcutta. Top that with a sudden disruption in the normal digestive functions leading to a ban on eating any of the mouthwatering delicacies that were being whipped up morning noon and night, and you have a real bummer. No it wasn't Paris, it was me who was betrayed by my solid Indian digestive system, right after a gluttonous attack on the shingaras presented before us on the very first eve of our arrival.
Yes, right after the major drama over the Grand Old Man's coughing fit both Paris and I were taken away from the scene. I don't know if we were being protected from the wrath of the Old Man or he from the sinners. Whatever it was, he soon recovered after seeing the family doctor who adequately assured him that he was not going to die in the next hundred years. By late afternoon he went back to believing that Paris was English. He said she reminds him of Queen Victoria and smiled a toothless smile. Yeah right! None of us wanted to mess with the Old Man so we nodded and smiled.
At that moment the overcast sky climaxed violently in a deafening roar and let down heavy rain showers. What a relief from the sultry weather. Hot and crispy shingaras were ordered from the corner tea stall. "Dekhe baba dekhe." (Go easy honey!) Warned Jethima as I pounced on the Shingaras, greedy for the sweet crunchy peanuts that surprise your taste buds in every alternate bite. The greed paid off.
I had to place our old antique easy-chair close to the washroom and settle there with my laptop. Paris was sitting on the bed and enjoying sinfully aromatic topshe maach bhaaja. She had acquired a taste for the quintessentially Bengali food cooked in our house rather quickly.
"Let me sign into facebook. Please!"
"Let me eat the maach bhaaja. Please." I snapped.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." She spoke in a devilishly sweet manner.
I was supremely annoyed and decided to take my mind off the fish. I lit a cigarette and chose to concentrate on my dull e-mails from work.
"Oh my God! This is revenge right? You are doing it deliberately, aren't you?" Suddenly Paris lost her calm.
"What? What did I do?"
"You are smoking."
"So?"
"So, I want a drag." She said in a sulky voice.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." And that was the end of it. Paris got up and left along with the plate full of maach bhaaja. I was certain that I had guaranteed myself a couple of sleepless nights on the floor. But what does a man with a super rapid bowel movement really do when he has exotic home food all around him and silly family members running around to feed all of it to his wife. But then I had to concentrate on how to make it up to Paris. I had a plan. Only a cigarette could make up for the rising smoke of anguish. I knew that the bado chaat (big terrace) had a spot where no one usually ventured and that could be easily assigned to her as her official smoking hideout. The only problem was that I would have to get up from my strategic position and show her the place. At that time I just couldn't trust my gut!
Redemption was necessary for survival. So I said a small prayer and left my chair. Viola, I made it through the courtyard, two side passages and a climb of sixty six steps to the bado chaat with only a slight feeling of uneasiness. I had Ghontopotol, our ancient household help Raghu da's recently adolescent son, usher Paris to the chaat. I was hoping Ghonto would act quickly but I don't think he understood my urgency. I was leaning against the rickety wooden door and running my fingers through the marks of its age, the fractures running down its body, as I waited.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs to be precise. Paris appeared from the darkness of the staircase to the sunlight impregnated porch. I was just about to whisk her off to the backside of the thakur ghar (little temple in the house) where we piled up relics of our lives but she stopped.
"What's up?" I asked her.
Breathless from the exercise, she looked into my eyes with a sense of alien intensity and said, "Who's Dola?"
Yes, right after the major drama over the Grand Old Man's coughing fit both Paris and I were taken away from the scene. I don't know if we were being protected from the wrath of the Old Man or he from the sinners. Whatever it was, he soon recovered after seeing the family doctor who adequately assured him that he was not going to die in the next hundred years. By late afternoon he went back to believing that Paris was English. He said she reminds him of Queen Victoria and smiled a toothless smile. Yeah right! None of us wanted to mess with the Old Man so we nodded and smiled.
At that moment the overcast sky climaxed violently in a deafening roar and let down heavy rain showers. What a relief from the sultry weather. Hot and crispy shingaras were ordered from the corner tea stall. "Dekhe baba dekhe." (Go easy honey!) Warned Jethima as I pounced on the Shingaras, greedy for the sweet crunchy peanuts that surprise your taste buds in every alternate bite. The greed paid off.
I had to place our old antique easy-chair close to the washroom and settle there with my laptop. Paris was sitting on the bed and enjoying sinfully aromatic topshe maach bhaaja. She had acquired a taste for the quintessentially Bengali food cooked in our house rather quickly.
"Let me sign into facebook. Please!"
"Let me eat the maach bhaaja. Please." I snapped.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." She spoke in a devilishly sweet manner.
I was supremely annoyed and decided to take my mind off the fish. I lit a cigarette and chose to concentrate on my dull e-mails from work.
"Oh my God! This is revenge right? You are doing it deliberately, aren't you?" Suddenly Paris lost her calm.
"What? What did I do?"
"You are smoking."
"So?"
"So, I want a drag." She said in a sulky voice.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." And that was the end of it. Paris got up and left along with the plate full of maach bhaaja. I was certain that I had guaranteed myself a couple of sleepless nights on the floor. But what does a man with a super rapid bowel movement really do when he has exotic home food all around him and silly family members running around to feed all of it to his wife. But then I had to concentrate on how to make it up to Paris. I had a plan. Only a cigarette could make up for the rising smoke of anguish. I knew that the bado chaat (big terrace) had a spot where no one usually ventured and that could be easily assigned to her as her official smoking hideout. The only problem was that I would have to get up from my strategic position and show her the place. At that time I just couldn't trust my gut!
Redemption was necessary for survival. So I said a small prayer and left my chair. Viola, I made it through the courtyard, two side passages and a climb of sixty six steps to the bado chaat with only a slight feeling of uneasiness. I had Ghontopotol, our ancient household help Raghu da's recently adolescent son, usher Paris to the chaat. I was hoping Ghonto would act quickly but I don't think he understood my urgency. I was leaning against the rickety wooden door and running my fingers through the marks of its age, the fractures running down its body, as I waited.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs to be precise. Paris appeared from the darkness of the staircase to the sunlight impregnated porch. I was just about to whisk her off to the backside of the thakur ghar (little temple in the house) where we piled up relics of our lives but she stopped.
"What's up?" I asked her.
Breathless from the exercise, she looked into my eyes with a sense of alien intensity and said, "Who's Dola?"
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Scribbles
June 24th
Just before leaving for office, as I chew on my solitary jam sandwich.
Thought attack!
Dear Wife
It's that time of the year again. (Do not fear my opening line.)
Let us go just you and I to some solitary place where love resides!
Pack your bags and we shall be off to any place of your choice. (Do not fear the dreadful rhyme.)
If you do not like the mountains, I shall be pleased to understand your love for the sea.
Wake up my dahlin and make up your mind.
Let us travel. Let us explore. Again.
Yours
Just before leaving for office, as I chew on my solitary jam sandwich.
Thought attack!
Dear Wife
It's that time of the year again. (Do not fear my opening line.)
Let us go just you and I to some solitary place where love resides!
Pack your bags and we shall be off to any place of your choice. (Do not fear the dreadful rhyme.)
If you do not like the mountains, I shall be pleased to understand your love for the sea.
Wake up my dahlin and make up your mind.
Let us travel. Let us explore. Again.
Yours
In a new shade
Changed the old template of my blog.
Though I really liked the previous look, this one's not too bad either.
I love the colours.
So maybe this new look will inspire me to write more, write better.
Here's to a new start...of life in a new shade!
Though I really liked the previous look, this one's not too bad either.
I love the colours.
So maybe this new look will inspire me to write more, write better.
Here's to a new start...of life in a new shade!
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Notun Bou
Notun Bou, a term typically used in any bengali family for the new bride in the house. From in-laws, distant relatives to her very own husband, anybody can call her Notun Bou. It's a generic term really but sometimes when the Notun Bou happens to be the last one of the family (as in married to the youngest son after whom no other boy from that generation is to be married) she maybe christened as that for a lifetime. As far as my traditional bengali family is concerned, I know that each notun bou in our family is carefully scrutinized like each and every chingri (prawn) that comes home for lunch. I can say that because I have witnessed two of my uncle's marriages while I was young. Once married, then quite like the chingri the notun bou too is brought out like a priced dish before the members of the family, who then (depending on whether she caters to their taste or not) pass a judgment about the selection. In short, she must appeal to a whole host of people before being accepted as a member worthwhile of our great Bengali brahmin family. I always wondered what made them so proud, so superior that a large section of the society was considered as unworthy association.
Anyway, here I was sitting in a yellow Ambassador Taxi after seven whole years with my Notun bou by my side to meet my family. I was nervous, I was jittery, I felt I should have never flown down or even told them about my white skinned American wife Paris. For starters it took me a couple of hundred dollars to call home and explain that Paris was her name and not where she belonged. My father had maintained a strict silence policy on the topic of my marriage with a Non-Bengali, Non-Brahmin, Non-Indian girl. It was however my grandfather who for some freak reason believed that his great associations with the British must continue in the form of an English Notun Bou. (Give me a break, I sent six e-mails saying that Paris is American not English.) However, the man was ninety-three already and pretty senile to say the least. Though it did work in my favour or should I say in favour of my blasphemous marriage. According to my parents, their handsome scientist son had been robbed off from them by a strange colonial force. Paris had laughed when she heard this. All I could say is, "you have no idea."
Enter home, freshly painted in a coat of pale ocher yellow. Dark green windows studded on the walls and a gigantic iron gate with intricate art, right in front of us. They had no idea we were coming home. I had deliberately not informed them of the correct date of our arrival. Maybe I was just trying to delay the great rendezvous. Even if by an hours journey from airport to home.
Before my family could find out, our neighbours had already collected in their balconies and were quite shamelessly ogling at my Paris. Paris remained unshaken like a pillar. She even made eye contact with them and smiled. Soon my entire family swarmed the gate to welcome us. More like they came to check out the great foreign specimen brought back by their very own son.
"Eta-e ki Paris?" (Is this Paris?) Asked my Jethima (Father's elder brother's wife).
I wondered what they were expecting, the Eiffel Tower? Before I could answer Paris dived in for her feet hiding between the pleats of her traditionally draped, off-white cotton sari and perfectly executed a pronam. (Plus five for spontaneity.) Inside in the huge courtyard remained the unenthusiastic members of the family like my father, Jethu (father's elder brother), and Naroo Thakuma (Grandfather's unmarried younger sister who was famous for making naroos or coconut laddoos). We were presented before them like convicts before the court of law.
"Meye na chele?"(Is she a girl or a boy?) reacted toothless Naroo Thakuma. I don't blame her as Paris had short cropped blonde hair, an athletic body because of her tennis obsession, she was almost 6 feet tall like me and wore pants. Quite radical for the 1920's generation. Paris smiled on. I almost felt criminal for inflicting this torture over my darling wife. So many hours in that flight and still standing before the jury...I mean my family.
"Shotti biye kore phelli?" (So you really got married?) Said my mom in a strange tone of disbelief.
"Ta biye korli to bou ke ekta sari poriye aante parli na?" (But atleast you should have brought home the new bride in a sari.) Interjected Naroo Thakuma.
"Sari ta porato ke? Aami?" (And who would have draped the sari for her? me?) Well spontaneous-me was never good news for my family. The younger bunch giggled while the elders just cringed further. My father cleared his throat in a rather frightening way and instructed the ladies to take us to the Grand Old Man of India. Paris did great at holding that smile amidst the overflow of Bangla and sublime hostility.
When we reached inside we saw the Grand Old Man resting on his bed. He had shed so much weight that I almost couldn't recognize him at first. But that majestic demeanor would certainly take nine lives to shed. So, the Grand Old Man was far far away from being the poor old man!
"Welcome to India young lady." He cried out from the bed. Finally someone spoke her language.
"Thank you. How are you sir?"
"Very well. I see the English are back."
(Honey just smile and nod. Just smile and nod!)
"But now you are married to an Indian boy. It is all because of my good relationship with the British officers posted here. But when I was in England my friends used to tell me that I would marry a mem sahib. I was very handsome, you see. But marriage is a matter of fate so never mind what happened after that."
Paris and I were both dying to laugh but the seriousness of his tone made us hold back.
"So I hear you are from Paris?"
"Actually my name is Paris. I am not English. Or French."
"You are not English?" Grand Old Man sounded furious. Like he has been cheated.
"I am American."
"American?" He said with a strange sense of disgust, made his eyes small, shook his head and started coughing violently. It got worse and turned into a mad coughing fit. I had no idea what was happening. Everyone came rushing and surrounded him like the paramedics. Paris was now officially kicked off from her "hold that smile" mode and I was just plain puzzled.
to be continued...
Anyway, here I was sitting in a yellow Ambassador Taxi after seven whole years with my Notun bou by my side to meet my family. I was nervous, I was jittery, I felt I should have never flown down or even told them about my white skinned American wife Paris. For starters it took me a couple of hundred dollars to call home and explain that Paris was her name and not where she belonged. My father had maintained a strict silence policy on the topic of my marriage with a Non-Bengali, Non-Brahmin, Non-Indian girl. It was however my grandfather who for some freak reason believed that his great associations with the British must continue in the form of an English Notun Bou. (Give me a break, I sent six e-mails saying that Paris is American not English.) However, the man was ninety-three already and pretty senile to say the least. Though it did work in my favour or should I say in favour of my blasphemous marriage. According to my parents, their handsome scientist son had been robbed off from them by a strange colonial force. Paris had laughed when she heard this. All I could say is, "you have no idea."
Enter home, freshly painted in a coat of pale ocher yellow. Dark green windows studded on the walls and a gigantic iron gate with intricate art, right in front of us. They had no idea we were coming home. I had deliberately not informed them of the correct date of our arrival. Maybe I was just trying to delay the great rendezvous. Even if by an hours journey from airport to home.
Before my family could find out, our neighbours had already collected in their balconies and were quite shamelessly ogling at my Paris. Paris remained unshaken like a pillar. She even made eye contact with them and smiled. Soon my entire family swarmed the gate to welcome us. More like they came to check out the great foreign specimen brought back by their very own son.
"Eta-e ki Paris?" (Is this Paris?) Asked my Jethima (Father's elder brother's wife).
I wondered what they were expecting, the Eiffel Tower? Before I could answer Paris dived in for her feet hiding between the pleats of her traditionally draped, off-white cotton sari and perfectly executed a pronam. (Plus five for spontaneity.) Inside in the huge courtyard remained the unenthusiastic members of the family like my father, Jethu (father's elder brother), and Naroo Thakuma (Grandfather's unmarried younger sister who was famous for making naroos or coconut laddoos). We were presented before them like convicts before the court of law.
"Meye na chele?"(Is she a girl or a boy?) reacted toothless Naroo Thakuma. I don't blame her as Paris had short cropped blonde hair, an athletic body because of her tennis obsession, she was almost 6 feet tall like me and wore pants. Quite radical for the 1920's generation. Paris smiled on. I almost felt criminal for inflicting this torture over my darling wife. So many hours in that flight and still standing before the jury...I mean my family.
"Shotti biye kore phelli?" (So you really got married?) Said my mom in a strange tone of disbelief.
"Ta biye korli to bou ke ekta sari poriye aante parli na?" (But atleast you should have brought home the new bride in a sari.) Interjected Naroo Thakuma.
"Sari ta porato ke? Aami?" (And who would have draped the sari for her? me?) Well spontaneous-me was never good news for my family. The younger bunch giggled while the elders just cringed further. My father cleared his throat in a rather frightening way and instructed the ladies to take us to the Grand Old Man of India. Paris did great at holding that smile amidst the overflow of Bangla and sublime hostility.
When we reached inside we saw the Grand Old Man resting on his bed. He had shed so much weight that I almost couldn't recognize him at first. But that majestic demeanor would certainly take nine lives to shed. So, the Grand Old Man was far far away from being the poor old man!
"Welcome to India young lady." He cried out from the bed. Finally someone spoke her language.
"Thank you. How are you sir?"
"Very well. I see the English are back."
(Honey just smile and nod. Just smile and nod!)
"But now you are married to an Indian boy. It is all because of my good relationship with the British officers posted here. But when I was in England my friends used to tell me that I would marry a mem sahib. I was very handsome, you see. But marriage is a matter of fate so never mind what happened after that."
Paris and I were both dying to laugh but the seriousness of his tone made us hold back.
"So I hear you are from Paris?"
"Actually my name is Paris. I am not English. Or French."
"You are not English?" Grand Old Man sounded furious. Like he has been cheated.
"I am American."
"American?" He said with a strange sense of disgust, made his eyes small, shook his head and started coughing violently. It got worse and turned into a mad coughing fit. I had no idea what was happening. Everyone came rushing and surrounded him like the paramedics. Paris was now officially kicked off from her "hold that smile" mode and I was just plain puzzled.
to be continued...
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Musing
Where are we? What are we doing?
It's time we stopped asking these questions.
Because no matter how hard we try, no matter what, there will be no answers.
It all starts with a "want", a desire. And there is a pattern to it.
Haphazard maybe, but everything has a pattern.
So, we never love what we have and always want what we can never get.
This is a strange power equation that chance or destiny exercises on us.
In order for chance or destiny to exist there has to be this gap between, "wanting" and "having."
It is the crux of its existence.
But what is being minced in the middle is the existence of a form that is termed, "human."
We have all these words that express the presence of so many things. Words like "table" or "hand" or "love", but the truth is that words can never establish their being. Words produce sounds and sounds may differ even every time you say it. So is it a table or is it a thable or thaible? Is that four legged thing lying around in the house any of this? Or is it all of this?
So does this thing really exist? Does it exist only because it is there in front of you in physical form? Then what about love, pain, anger, angst? Do they not exist because they are intangible, because they don't exist in physical form? So if we question the existence of any one, we are questioning existence itself.
"Your life is what you make." (Waking Life)
But life is like the time spent on a treadmill. You can walk, you can run, you can speed but you ain't getting anywhere. We all choose our pace and some choose to go against the direction (So much more effort needed) and that is probably the capacity to which we can design/make our life. The problem is that whoever the hell put you on that treadmill, now you've got to run. You give up, you end the show. So what are we crying over, what are we searching for so frantically? In reality we are what is the junky sitting around the trashcan, the gypsy on her next bus, the stock broker in his glass cabin, the mother of impossible children, the senile old man, the infant, the brave, the broken, the righteous, the sinner, the saint. We are the owner of infinite futility and It, my dear friends, is called life.
It's time we stopped asking these questions.
Because no matter how hard we try, no matter what, there will be no answers.
It all starts with a "want", a desire. And there is a pattern to it.
Haphazard maybe, but everything has a pattern.
So, we never love what we have and always want what we can never get.
This is a strange power equation that chance or destiny exercises on us.
In order for chance or destiny to exist there has to be this gap between, "wanting" and "having."
It is the crux of its existence.
But what is being minced in the middle is the existence of a form that is termed, "human."
We have all these words that express the presence of so many things. Words like "table" or "hand" or "love", but the truth is that words can never establish their being. Words produce sounds and sounds may differ even every time you say it. So is it a table or is it a thable or thaible? Is that four legged thing lying around in the house any of this? Or is it all of this?
So does this thing really exist? Does it exist only because it is there in front of you in physical form? Then what about love, pain, anger, angst? Do they not exist because they are intangible, because they don't exist in physical form? So if we question the existence of any one, we are questioning existence itself.
"Your life is what you make." (Waking Life)
But life is like the time spent on a treadmill. You can walk, you can run, you can speed but you ain't getting anywhere. We all choose our pace and some choose to go against the direction (So much more effort needed) and that is probably the capacity to which we can design/make our life. The problem is that whoever the hell put you on that treadmill, now you've got to run. You give up, you end the show. So what are we crying over, what are we searching for so frantically? In reality we are what is the junky sitting around the trashcan, the gypsy on her next bus, the stock broker in his glass cabin, the mother of impossible children, the senile old man, the infant, the brave, the broken, the righteous, the sinner, the saint. We are the owner of infinite futility and It, my dear friends, is called life.
Monday, April 12, 2010
One of many
It was a simple plan. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It wasn't meant to be either.
So she reached his place at 6'o clock, a little blank and a little filled with anticipation. Her plain sky blue dress brushed against her knees. She tugged at her dark chocolate coloured belt before she pressed her fingers upon the doorbell. There was something very simple yet rich about her attire. Though her hair, as always, lay scattered in random curls, wildly over her shoulders.
This was the first time she was going over to his house. Until that day, she had only imagined him walking past a couch, a pillar, a kitchen counter, while he spoke to her over the phone. Then, in just about ten seconds, her train of thought found a completely new track. She was in his house. His house. So unlike how she had imagined. It wasn't that amorphous space that she had always thought it to be. Or was it just her thoughts that were amorphous? This house, his house was more of a place that she as a little girl had always wanted to be in. There were beautiful paintings over the walls. Photographs, not brilliant, just honest, hung along with them. A splatter of colours, and warm ones that too, built up the mood of the place. Plants with big blossoms and plants green faced sat here and there. She was too shocked, yes shocked, to even notice his smile.
His house smelt of lavender blossoms and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. Ah! She loved it.
She never realized when she let a concealed smile slip away. She looked almost childlike, when he caught her twitch her lips. She felt airy, ethereal almost, in that house. He was talking to her. She had no idea what he was saying. Then she suddenly shifted gears and went afloat to Vatican with him. Oh! That's what he was talking about. How lovely his world was. How beautiful she felt there. She stood up on her toes, with her hands behind her back and looked around from side to side like a curious little child. Then he took her to that side, from where one could see the entire world. But she didn't care what lay on the other side of the glass wall. Her gaze had settled elsewhere. She couldn't believe what she saw there. It was a Gustav Klimt. Der Kuss or The Kiss, her favourite painting of all times, hung large and lovely over the wall. She couldn't believe she never mentioned, never spoke about her favourite and yet they thought in one breath.
They sat there on the couch, right before Der Kuss, drinking all that vodka and grapefruit juice. She was sipping carefully and consciously, as he kept talking to her. She had downed seven drinks, each with equal precision and care. She was always scared of things getting stuck in her throat and this time she was sure there was a chance. Seven down and the eighth drained to the last drop, she found it hard to hold her ground. No there was nothing there for her to fear. Nothing got stuck in her throat. There was nothing in the glass. Nothing at all. She no longer felt airy or ethereal. Just numb and truly blank.
Before she knew they were on the mahogany table, dancing with her shoes kicked off.
Then there was just music. Of what? She never knew. Hands on hands, skin on skin, breath entangled, perfume infused timeless time. It felt like another universe, yet another track for her train of thought. And then when she felt the axis tilting, the sky rotating and the moment penetrating into her soul, it all came to a sudden standstill. She was BLANK. Tabula Rasa, as Locke would put it.
She woke up breathing heavily. She almost jolted out of it. She was in a silent room curled up against a floral sheet. She walked over to the Der Kuss wall. Thank God, it was still there. Just expressionless she felt, like a corpse hanging off a nail. There were no empty vodka glasses, no perfume of lavender and grapefruit. There was nothing and no one around. Where was he? She thought. Lost and searching, she looked behind every door. Engulfed in nothingness, teary eyed, she stood before the mahogany table. Yes, there it is. Her footprints from last night. A sense of familiarity filled her up when she frantically searched for another pair. Footprints there were, footprints of just her. There was nothing. There was no one. Only emptiness in every corner of her heart. And then suddenly she felt something. Something stuck in her throat.
So she reached his place at 6'o clock, a little blank and a little filled with anticipation. Her plain sky blue dress brushed against her knees. She tugged at her dark chocolate coloured belt before she pressed her fingers upon the doorbell. There was something very simple yet rich about her attire. Though her hair, as always, lay scattered in random curls, wildly over her shoulders.
This was the first time she was going over to his house. Until that day, she had only imagined him walking past a couch, a pillar, a kitchen counter, while he spoke to her over the phone. Then, in just about ten seconds, her train of thought found a completely new track. She was in his house. His house. So unlike how she had imagined. It wasn't that amorphous space that she had always thought it to be. Or was it just her thoughts that were amorphous? This house, his house was more of a place that she as a little girl had always wanted to be in. There were beautiful paintings over the walls. Photographs, not brilliant, just honest, hung along with them. A splatter of colours, and warm ones that too, built up the mood of the place. Plants with big blossoms and plants green faced sat here and there. She was too shocked, yes shocked, to even notice his smile.
His house smelt of lavender blossoms and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. Ah! She loved it.
She never realized when she let a concealed smile slip away. She looked almost childlike, when he caught her twitch her lips. She felt airy, ethereal almost, in that house. He was talking to her. She had no idea what he was saying. Then she suddenly shifted gears and went afloat to Vatican with him. Oh! That's what he was talking about. How lovely his world was. How beautiful she felt there. She stood up on her toes, with her hands behind her back and looked around from side to side like a curious little child. Then he took her to that side, from where one could see the entire world. But she didn't care what lay on the other side of the glass wall. Her gaze had settled elsewhere. She couldn't believe what she saw there. It was a Gustav Klimt. Der Kuss or The Kiss, her favourite painting of all times, hung large and lovely over the wall. She couldn't believe she never mentioned, never spoke about her favourite and yet they thought in one breath.
They sat there on the couch, right before Der Kuss, drinking all that vodka and grapefruit juice. She was sipping carefully and consciously, as he kept talking to her. She had downed seven drinks, each with equal precision and care. She was always scared of things getting stuck in her throat and this time she was sure there was a chance. Seven down and the eighth drained to the last drop, she found it hard to hold her ground. No there was nothing there for her to fear. Nothing got stuck in her throat. There was nothing in the glass. Nothing at all. She no longer felt airy or ethereal. Just numb and truly blank.
Before she knew they were on the mahogany table, dancing with her shoes kicked off.
Then there was just music. Of what? She never knew. Hands on hands, skin on skin, breath entangled, perfume infused timeless time. It felt like another universe, yet another track for her train of thought. And then when she felt the axis tilting, the sky rotating and the moment penetrating into her soul, it all came to a sudden standstill. She was BLANK. Tabula Rasa, as Locke would put it.
She woke up breathing heavily. She almost jolted out of it. She was in a silent room curled up against a floral sheet. She walked over to the Der Kuss wall. Thank God, it was still there. Just expressionless she felt, like a corpse hanging off a nail. There were no empty vodka glasses, no perfume of lavender and grapefruit. There was nothing and no one around. Where was he? She thought. Lost and searching, she looked behind every door. Engulfed in nothingness, teary eyed, she stood before the mahogany table. Yes, there it is. Her footprints from last night. A sense of familiarity filled her up when she frantically searched for another pair. Footprints there were, footprints of just her. There was nothing. There was no one. Only emptiness in every corner of her heart. And then suddenly she felt something. Something stuck in her throat.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Splatter
You killed it before we walked.
You never gave our quivering feet a chance.
Splatter. It's dead.
You never gave our quivering feet a chance.
Splatter. It's dead.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
It'll be over before you know
It'll be over before you know.
The night will crawl away and the feelings too.
Will you be able to match eyes with the light?
Will you ever be the same?
What are you searching for?
Your ground will disown you.
Your heart will feel borrowed.
Let us put the pieces together.
Will you cherish the inevitable distortion?
Come along, let us go back again.
Set foot on this journey,
where familiar turns unfamiliar with each day.
Let us be resolute.
Let us start once again.
Who made me unlearn it?
Who made you forget?
Will we ever be the same?
How did we believe in the unending orgasm?
Believe. It'll be over before you know.
The night will crawl away and the feelings too.
Will you be able to match eyes with the light?
Will you ever be the same?
What are you searching for?
Your ground will disown you.
Your heart will feel borrowed.
Let us put the pieces together.
Will you cherish the inevitable distortion?
Come along, let us go back again.
Set foot on this journey,
where familiar turns unfamiliar with each day.
Let us be resolute.
Let us start once again.
Who made me unlearn it?
Who made you forget?
Will we ever be the same?
How did we believe in the unending orgasm?
Believe. It'll be over before you know.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Penetration
Practise doesn't make it easy or any less awful.
Experience only sedates you to the extent that it doesn't feel like you're dying. Anymore.
I still feel shy, peeling off the garb of honour and stripping myself in front of absolute strangers. Standing naked. Stark naked.
It's like letting strangers walk into your home and have them go through your pictures, try on your clothes, raid your fridge or read your letters. And while they are busy encroaching every single square inch of "your" sanctuary, all you can do is pass that photo album to them.
Deep inside it is tearing you down. Ripping each part of your body, one by one in a gruesome fashion.
It doesn't work like the movies. No one ever falls in love with us. No one finds us beautiful longer than the hours paid for. Nobody acknowledges us, nobody spares a stare.
We are living, breathing machines who are everything but human in the view of the world. There is no room for our feelings, our dignity. There is no room for us.
More often than not the make-up on my skin is less meant to attract you and more meant for me to hide. Hide under layers and layers of powder and glitter. It eases the pain, really.
But why should my profession create a crater on my character? I didn't compose the music of my life. I didn't realise when i slipped a word or jumped a note. I don't know what made my song a cacophony. Honestly I really don't remember what happened.
But you must know that everyday I am wishing, hoping to be that girl in your home. The one who went to school, the one who argued for permissions, the one who had friends come over, the one who is allowed to fall in love, the one who still gets scolded, the one who is loved.
I don't need your sympathy, just a bit of accommodation. Some room for people like me who exist for real. Who are not machines, who are not dirty, who are not evil, who are not always confident, not born to be a seductress, who are not meant to feel odd or guilty for existing. You cannot shut your eyes and shy away from the truth.
Make room, make room for me. For whoever has made me like this it doesn't matter, as long as you can move away from the bed and make some room for me in your mind.
Experience only sedates you to the extent that it doesn't feel like you're dying. Anymore.
I still feel shy, peeling off the garb of honour and stripping myself in front of absolute strangers. Standing naked. Stark naked.
It's like letting strangers walk into your home and have them go through your pictures, try on your clothes, raid your fridge or read your letters. And while they are busy encroaching every single square inch of "your" sanctuary, all you can do is pass that photo album to them.
Deep inside it is tearing you down. Ripping each part of your body, one by one in a gruesome fashion.
It doesn't work like the movies. No one ever falls in love with us. No one finds us beautiful longer than the hours paid for. Nobody acknowledges us, nobody spares a stare.
We are living, breathing machines who are everything but human in the view of the world. There is no room for our feelings, our dignity. There is no room for us.
More often than not the make-up on my skin is less meant to attract you and more meant for me to hide. Hide under layers and layers of powder and glitter. It eases the pain, really.
But why should my profession create a crater on my character? I didn't compose the music of my life. I didn't realise when i slipped a word or jumped a note. I don't know what made my song a cacophony. Honestly I really don't remember what happened.
But you must know that everyday I am wishing, hoping to be that girl in your home. The one who went to school, the one who argued for permissions, the one who had friends come over, the one who is allowed to fall in love, the one who still gets scolded, the one who is loved.
I don't need your sympathy, just a bit of accommodation. Some room for people like me who exist for real. Who are not machines, who are not dirty, who are not evil, who are not always confident, not born to be a seductress, who are not meant to feel odd or guilty for existing. You cannot shut your eyes and shy away from the truth.
Make room, make room for me. For whoever has made me like this it doesn't matter, as long as you can move away from the bed and make some room for me in your mind.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tell me darling don't you think of me even once before you go to sleep?
Don't you ever see a glimpse of me when you are really really busy or absolutely free.
Can you hear me whisper in your dreams?
Can you hear me hum and sing?
Don't you laugh at random, thinking about some funny thing i did.
Don't you worry, don't you feel?
Tell me darling do you love me? Even for a second, even if a lie?
Don't you ever see a glimpse of me when you are really really busy or absolutely free.
Can you hear me whisper in your dreams?
Can you hear me hum and sing?
Don't you laugh at random, thinking about some funny thing i did.
Don't you worry, don't you feel?
Tell me darling do you love me? Even for a second, even if a lie?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
'Believe' is a commonly used word. A word full of meaning.
Sometimes I think it drives our lives, keeps us alive.
And sometimes I feel the problem is - we believe.
Believing is an act of escapism. Believing quite conveniently and naturally
transposes all responsibilities on another entity.
It is when we believe that action is held in abeyance.
Belief is a delusion.
It is an act of shying away by leaving things to an indescribable force.
So even when you believe in yourself, you 'other' yourself from the essence of you.
Believing rests upon the dark cloud of doubt.
It is not assertion but consolation.
So if we free our mind from belief, what should really remain?
I don't think it will be lethal. I don't think we'd die.
We have been trained to believe. And trying to unlearn that, is a prospect full of uncertainty.
It is an untraveled territory where the fear of the unknown creeps in.
But belief makes us gullible, it fools us more often than not.
We should try to step off the track and explore life minus belief.
I don't find the thought as blasphemous as it may sound.
We internalize certain things most naturally but what are we humans for if we don't explore beyond what's given to us.
Man without the ability to believe won't make a race of hollow men. It'll make us different.
I borrow this from a feminist critic - It'll not make us 'other' (from what we are now) but 'another'.
Sometimes I think it drives our lives, keeps us alive.
And sometimes I feel the problem is - we believe.
Believing is an act of escapism. Believing quite conveniently and naturally
transposes all responsibilities on another entity.
It is when we believe that action is held in abeyance.
Belief is a delusion.
It is an act of shying away by leaving things to an indescribable force.
So even when you believe in yourself, you 'other' yourself from the essence of you.
Believing rests upon the dark cloud of doubt.
It is not assertion but consolation.
So if we free our mind from belief, what should really remain?
I don't think it will be lethal. I don't think we'd die.
We have been trained to believe. And trying to unlearn that, is a prospect full of uncertainty.
It is an untraveled territory where the fear of the unknown creeps in.
But belief makes us gullible, it fools us more often than not.
We should try to step off the track and explore life minus belief.
I don't find the thought as blasphemous as it may sound.
We internalize certain things most naturally but what are we humans for if we don't explore beyond what's given to us.
Man without the ability to believe won't make a race of hollow men. It'll make us different.
I borrow this from a feminist critic - It'll not make us 'other' (from what we are now) but 'another'.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Lovers, friends, nobody
24 December 2009
(Another Christmas Eve)
HE: Sitting across the same teak table that smelled so new just a year ago. It still smelled of the forest, not akin really, just old.
Another Christmas eve at Tarash's. And a completely new one altogether.
She was there, right there before my eyes, yet I needed to blink and make myself believe she really was.
She was going through their newest photo album. A dark purple book with a bluish tinge (like the colour of hurt) that had pictures of Baby, Tarash and Dina's newborn girl. I was just fiddling with my cell phone, pretending to attend an important business issue.
He had his arm around her and their fingers caressed the breadth of the photo album together. Last year, that arm was mine and Baby was inside Dina's belly. The excitement was something else last time. It was excitement for the last time.
Wait. She smiled. Wow! Last year that smile was mine.
She caught me looking at her. 'Look away', I told myself. Look away, I couldn't.
'Dude! Do you realize, it feels like WHAM wrote that song for you." Tarash whispered in my ears. His sweet little trivia didn't matter, didn't help, didn't change a single little thing.
The doorbell rang, Niha came in. I think I was waiting for her. Her blonde ringlets brushed against her steady collar bones. She was so gorgeous but why wasn't she looking it then.
(Born to german hippies who still preferred Mcleodganj for their abode, Niha lived and worked as a public relations executive in New Delhi. She spoke and abused fluently in hindi while she also made the lead of Haf Daugs, an amateur rock band. Niha got me a lot of attention and envy. She was so perfect, Niha, my girlfriend.)
She pressed her lips against my cheek bones. I put aside my cell phone and smiled.
No she did not look.
'Hi! Kite how've you been? Hey Shivie!' She turned to them.
Hi, there was no room for that hi last year. There was no Niha, no Shivie last year.
(Shivie was Kite's Collegue. The young talented editor of their paper. He was just a mention during the evening drives, a joke while we had dinner, an incident over the phone call, her boyfriend this Christmas eve. He sat there, right across the table, right across the tip of that natural crack running down the spine of Tarash and Dina's teak dinning table.)
Dinner was served, presents opened, good wine drowned, songs were sung and I looked at her. Her fingers brushed off the bits of hair like Christmas tree leaves that rested on his navy pull over. I looked at her. She noticed.
'Look away' I thought. Look away I couldn't.
She was Kite, wonderful Kite, vivacious Kite, KT for many, little Kittie for me and then she was Kite, just Kite, this Christmas eve. She had the same fragrance but I didn't know it anymore. The same girl, not mine anymore. Enough.
I looked at the giant grandfather clock resting around the corner. It was late. Very late.
'Time to go', I told myself.
'Coming?' I asked, looking at Niha. She was distracted from her play with Baby. She paused and came over to me. She smiled comfortingly as her slender arm slipped right through mine.
'Bye', Everyone said. And then another 'bye' followed alone. There was a familiar ring in that word. This one I knew. I turned around to look.
'Look away', I said to myself.
'Bye. Merry Christmas.' Look away I did.
(Another Christmas Eve)
HE: Sitting across the same teak table that smelled so new just a year ago. It still smelled of the forest, not akin really, just old.
Another Christmas eve at Tarash's. And a completely new one altogether.
She was there, right there before my eyes, yet I needed to blink and make myself believe she really was.
She was going through their newest photo album. A dark purple book with a bluish tinge (like the colour of hurt) that had pictures of Baby, Tarash and Dina's newborn girl. I was just fiddling with my cell phone, pretending to attend an important business issue.
He had his arm around her and their fingers caressed the breadth of the photo album together. Last year, that arm was mine and Baby was inside Dina's belly. The excitement was something else last time. It was excitement for the last time.
Wait. She smiled. Wow! Last year that smile was mine.
She caught me looking at her. 'Look away', I told myself. Look away, I couldn't.
'Dude! Do you realize, it feels like WHAM wrote that song for you." Tarash whispered in my ears. His sweet little trivia didn't matter, didn't help, didn't change a single little thing.
The doorbell rang, Niha came in. I think I was waiting for her. Her blonde ringlets brushed against her steady collar bones. She was so gorgeous but why wasn't she looking it then.
(Born to german hippies who still preferred Mcleodganj for their abode, Niha lived and worked as a public relations executive in New Delhi. She spoke and abused fluently in hindi while she also made the lead of Haf Daugs, an amateur rock band. Niha got me a lot of attention and envy. She was so perfect, Niha, my girlfriend.)
She pressed her lips against my cheek bones. I put aside my cell phone and smiled.
No she did not look.
'Hi! Kite how've you been? Hey Shivie!' She turned to them.
Hi, there was no room for that hi last year. There was no Niha, no Shivie last year.
(Shivie was Kite's Collegue. The young talented editor of their paper. He was just a mention during the evening drives, a joke while we had dinner, an incident over the phone call, her boyfriend this Christmas eve. He sat there, right across the table, right across the tip of that natural crack running down the spine of Tarash and Dina's teak dinning table.)
Dinner was served, presents opened, good wine drowned, songs were sung and I looked at her. Her fingers brushed off the bits of hair like Christmas tree leaves that rested on his navy pull over. I looked at her. She noticed.
'Look away' I thought. Look away I couldn't.
She was Kite, wonderful Kite, vivacious Kite, KT for many, little Kittie for me and then she was Kite, just Kite, this Christmas eve. She had the same fragrance but I didn't know it anymore. The same girl, not mine anymore. Enough.
I looked at the giant grandfather clock resting around the corner. It was late. Very late.
'Time to go', I told myself.
'Coming?' I asked, looking at Niha. She was distracted from her play with Baby. She paused and came over to me. She smiled comfortingly as her slender arm slipped right through mine.
'Bye', Everyone said. And then another 'bye' followed alone. There was a familiar ring in that word. This one I knew. I turned around to look.
'Look away', I said to myself.
'Bye. Merry Christmas.' Look away I did.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Hot Doug fantasy
Times are such that one leaves for work early in the day and returns late in the evening. That makes 6-7 hours of sleep and just about 2 or maximum three hours for reading or television. Not to mention the quick dinner or whatever you may call it in the middle.
Well, I aint no banker, engineer or some serious analyst but my work, mainly concerned with my frugal writing skills, keeps me at work for a considerable amount of time. When I return home, I watch a little bit of television while I eat. Last night I managed to catch a fairly interesting show on Travel & Living. It was a special show on, Hot Dogs sold across America.
So we stop at "Hot Doug's", an eatery in Chicago that subheads its rather connotative restaurant name with, "Sausage Superstore." Now this guy has been in business for God knows how years and there was all that history-geography of Doug's being rambled on for sometime. However what caught my notice was the menu. A wide variety of Hot Dogs, fresh-cut french fries and fountain soda feature the list. What is interesting though is that Mr. Doug likes to name his Hot Dogs after his favourite celebrities. So there is, The Elvis: Polish sausage - smoked and savoury just like the king at 2.50$, Keira Knighty (Formerly Jennifer Garner and Britney Spears): Fire dog - Mighty hot! at the same and Salma Hayek (formerly the Madonna, Raquel Welch and Ann Margaret): Andouille sausage - mighty, mighty, mighty hot! at a whopping 4$
Wow! What would you say to that? Well, our man Doug says, "He adores these lovely ladies."
Just imagine if Kiera Knightly was ever to visit Hot Doug's what would she say.
"I'd like a Keira Knightly, mighty hot or wait a minute.....(chew her lips, make tiny eyes) I think I'll have Salma Hayek - mighty, mighty, mighty hot. Er, excuse me does it come along with her delicious accent and luscious breasts?"
What if Madonna threw her leather clad legs up on the table, tilted her sombrero, pointed the 6 inch pencil heels at the menu and said, "Hey Doug, bring me Elvis' wiener, real hot and smoky! And throw some extra chilli will ya." Yikes!
Then Ann Margaret walks in, looks straight into Doug's eyes and says, "Don't go by the years sonny boy. Bring me the hottest. A Salma Hayek. Whopsie, that still would have been me had you ever learnt to spell c.l.a.s.s.i.c."
Ah well catching Mr. Doug's expression at that moment would be priceless.
In India, sausages are still commonly seen as firangi food and the only variety we get here is, "Madam, isspicy or plain?" But I strongly believe we too should have a sausage superstore like Doug's. With or without the celebrity names it don't matter. Though with the celebrity names it would be a lot more interesting.
Imagine a perfect Sunday afternoon in the spring time, just before summer kicks in, you walk in to our desi sausage superstore and ask for, ummm, lets say, "The Shahrukh - pure ham and cooked to perfection."
Or "The Bipasha Basu (Formerly Zeenat Aman and Rekha) - Mighty, mighty, mighty maal!
Or "The Kareena Kapoor for the novice dieters - Low fat, plain shit.
Or The BIG B - to satisfy your tall desires. (If at all you go by the paradigm - tall man, big feet, big...)
I swear to God I shall spend all weekends right there, ordering every Bipasha Basu that leaves the kitchen and amuse myself with the never-really-big-enough Big Bs.
At the end of the day, I give full credit to Mr. Doug for romanticising the oddly shaped things called sausages the way he has. I truly believe him when he says, "People find it hard to chose between children. I say that's easy but choosing between hot dogs...I don't know." I can see the glint of conviction in his eyes, just like the shine of pork fat on the fried sausages.
Well the celebrities may sure be used to fragrances, orchids and clothing lines being named after them but I don't know how kiera knightly, Salma Hayek, Kareena Kapoor or Shahrukh Khan would react to having their names immortalized by hot dogs at some eatery. Though had it been me in their place, I would certainly be overjoyed, thrilled and felt many notches cooler, with the honour bestowed upon me. I would go over to Doug's all the time, flash my brightest smile and say, "Hey Doug! Gimme a Sushmita: a lot too hot with a chilled bottle of beer."
Well, I aint no banker, engineer or some serious analyst but my work, mainly concerned with my frugal writing skills, keeps me at work for a considerable amount of time. When I return home, I watch a little bit of television while I eat. Last night I managed to catch a fairly interesting show on Travel & Living. It was a special show on, Hot Dogs sold across America.
So we stop at "Hot Doug's", an eatery in Chicago that subheads its rather connotative restaurant name with, "Sausage Superstore." Now this guy has been in business for God knows how years and there was all that history-geography of Doug's being rambled on for sometime. However what caught my notice was the menu. A wide variety of Hot Dogs, fresh-cut french fries and fountain soda feature the list. What is interesting though is that Mr. Doug likes to name his Hot Dogs after his favourite celebrities. So there is, The Elvis: Polish sausage - smoked and savoury just like the king at 2.50$, Keira Knighty (Formerly Jennifer Garner and Britney Spears): Fire dog - Mighty hot! at the same and Salma Hayek (formerly the Madonna, Raquel Welch and Ann Margaret): Andouille sausage - mighty, mighty, mighty hot! at a whopping 4$
Wow! What would you say to that? Well, our man Doug says, "He adores these lovely ladies."
Just imagine if Kiera Knightly was ever to visit Hot Doug's what would she say.
"I'd like a Keira Knightly, mighty hot or wait a minute.....(chew her lips, make tiny eyes) I think I'll have Salma Hayek - mighty, mighty, mighty hot. Er, excuse me does it come along with her delicious accent and luscious breasts?"
What if Madonna threw her leather clad legs up on the table, tilted her sombrero, pointed the 6 inch pencil heels at the menu and said, "Hey Doug, bring me Elvis' wiener, real hot and smoky! And throw some extra chilli will ya." Yikes!
Then Ann Margaret walks in, looks straight into Doug's eyes and says, "Don't go by the years sonny boy. Bring me the hottest. A Salma Hayek. Whopsie, that still would have been me had you ever learnt to spell c.l.a.s.s.i.c."
Ah well catching Mr. Doug's expression at that moment would be priceless.
In India, sausages are still commonly seen as firangi food and the only variety we get here is, "Madam, isspicy or plain?" But I strongly believe we too should have a sausage superstore like Doug's. With or without the celebrity names it don't matter. Though with the celebrity names it would be a lot more interesting.
Imagine a perfect Sunday afternoon in the spring time, just before summer kicks in, you walk in to our desi sausage superstore and ask for, ummm, lets say, "The Shahrukh - pure ham and cooked to perfection."
Or "The Bipasha Basu (Formerly Zeenat Aman and Rekha) - Mighty, mighty, mighty maal!
Or "The Kareena Kapoor for the novice dieters - Low fat, plain shit.
Or The BIG B - to satisfy your tall desires. (If at all you go by the paradigm - tall man, big feet, big...)
I swear to God I shall spend all weekends right there, ordering every Bipasha Basu that leaves the kitchen and amuse myself with the never-really-big-enough Big Bs.
At the end of the day, I give full credit to Mr. Doug for romanticising the oddly shaped things called sausages the way he has. I truly believe him when he says, "People find it hard to chose between children. I say that's easy but choosing between hot dogs...I don't know." I can see the glint of conviction in his eyes, just like the shine of pork fat on the fried sausages.
Well the celebrities may sure be used to fragrances, orchids and clothing lines being named after them but I don't know how kiera knightly, Salma Hayek, Kareena Kapoor or Shahrukh Khan would react to having their names immortalized by hot dogs at some eatery. Though had it been me in their place, I would certainly be overjoyed, thrilled and felt many notches cooler, with the honour bestowed upon me. I would go over to Doug's all the time, flash my brightest smile and say, "Hey Doug! Gimme a Sushmita: a lot too hot with a chilled bottle of beer."
Monday, July 06, 2009
Stollen stuff, merely for the lack of anthing better to do...
Ok so this is something I stole from another friend's blog. It's a series of rapid fire questions and they seem fun enough. Plus I have nothing better to do. So, here goes...
1. Last beverage? A bottle of Coke
2. Last phone call? Arnab Sen, 10 am, we fought over his facebook status msg :)
3. Last text message? Was last night, to Arnab Sen, about life and stuff.
4. Last song you listened to? Mr. Bojangles by Dylan
5. Last time you cried? Friday, secretly, because I made my first copy error and the Ad was up
on TOI.
HAVE YOU EVER:
6. Dated someone twice ? Nope
7. Been cheated on? Nope
8. Kissed someone & regretted it? Why, really? No.
9. Been depressed? Ummm...mildly yes.
10. Been drunk? Haha...totally. Last in Mcleodganj and it was all good.
11. LIST THREE FAVORITE COLORS: Green, Black and Red
THIS PAST YEAR HAVE YOU:
12. Made new friends ? Sure
13. Fallen out of love? No
14. Laughed until you cried? Never
15. Met someone who changed you? Well, everyone important in my life tends to have some contribution to who I am. No one specific though.
16. Found out who your true friends were? Well as long as there's Arnab... :)
17. Found out someone was talking about you? Totally. So many times. Unavoidable isn't it.
18. Kissed a friend? Sure. All the time.
TRUTH:
19. How many kids do you want to have? Wow! I think one is good.
20. Do you have any pets ? Yes, fishes - 2 Black tetras called Telemachus, Telemachus
2 Sharpe tetra called Mirinda, Mirinda and 1 Buenos aires tetra called Achilles
They are gorgeous and I love 'em.
21. Do you want to change your name? Not at all. I love my name.
22. What did you do for your last birthday? I had chicken pox so I sulked and suffered but my awesome friends came over and made my day. Thanks Hakuhodo II and Arnab.
23. What time did you wake up today? 7:30 am to get ready for office. Urgh!
24. What were you doing at midnight last night? I was playing Galaxy Balls on my phone :)
25. Name something you CANNOT wait for ? A holiday with Sen.
26. What is one thing you wish you could change about your life? Nothing really...I am thankful for what I have.
27. What are you listening to right now ? Chan Chan - Buena Vista Social Club
28. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom ? If you consider vocal involvement during a Tom and Jerry show as talking to a Tom then yes.
29. What's getting on your nerves right now? The intern guy next to me who is sitting annoyingly in a sixty degree angle and intruding into my work station.
30. Whats your real name ? Sushmita
31. Hair color ? Screwed up black....thank you Noida water!
32. Long or short ? Longish
33. Height ? 5''2 1/2 Hahaha...the half is funny but I insist on having it mentioned.
34. Do you have a crush on someone? Right now? No
35. What do you like about yourself? I have an innate connect with dreams and i love it. I am also a little scared of it.
36. Piercings? Ears and nose
37. Tattoos? None as of now, though I think I'd like one.
38. Righty or lefty? Aw-righty baby!
FIRSTS :
39. First surgery? If ripping out precious ivory is surgery then I had mine when I was very little. 6-7 I guess.
40. First piercing? Ears, when I was 6 from a parlour called Bluemax in Calcutta
41. First best friend? Best friend...has to be Arijit aka Guddu...my partner in crime :)
42. First sport you joined? Roller Skating
43. First pet? My fishes...on my 23rd birthday, by Chintu Dahlin ;)
44. First vacation? To Calcutta at my Grandmother's place. It was a yearly ritual.
45. First concert? Was in school...I think I was in 12th. It was a rock concert by bands from various schools in Delhi.
46. First crush? Yikes! Ummm...never mind.
47. First alcohol drink? As bizarre as it may sound, it was a tequila shot on Kriti's 18th B'day.
RIGHT NOW:
48. Eating: Right now, longing for the finished Mc Vitties.
49. Drinking: Water
50. I'm about to: Get onto some real work.
51. Listening to? Supriya is playing Twist and I am almost breaking into a naagin dance.
52. Waiting for? The eve, to get together with Arnab.
YOUR FUTURE :
53. Want kids? Sure
54. Want to get married? Yes
55. Careers in mind? Advertising/Writing/ Film making
WHICH IS BETTER WITH THE SEX OF YOUR CHOOSING?
56. Lips or eyes? Eyes primarily, but lips follow.
57. Hugs or kisses? Kisses and hugs...Both
58. Shorter or taller? Totally taller
59. Older or Younger? Either way it doesn't matter.
60. Romantic or spontaneous? Spontaneous.
74. Nice stomach or nice arms? Ummm...Nice stomach, totally.
61. Tattoos or piercings? Tattoos.
62. Sensitive or loud? Whatever. Too much of both is annoying.
63. Hook-up or relationship? Depends really on many things.
64. Trouble maker or hesitant? Trouble maker...haha!
HAVE YOU EVER :
65. Kissed a stranger? No.
66. Drank hard liquor? Sure.
67. Lost glasses/contacts? I have perfect eyesight :)
68. Sex on first date? No.
69. Broken someone's heart? Yes. Which is not fun but sometimes you have to do what you need to do.
70. Had your own heart broken? Haha...ridiculous but yes.
71. Been arrested? Oh Gawd! NO.
72. Turned someone down? Many times.
73. Liked a friend that is a girl? Yes and most people know about it.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN:
74. Yourself? Completely. Otherwise I would never get ahead in life. I trust me :)
75. Miracles? Happen. I believe...
76. Love at first sight? No. Attraction, yes.
77. Heaven? In the hardcore sense? Still confused actually. But somewhere I've been hegemonized to believe in it.
78. Santa Claus? Somewhere :)
79. Kissing on the first date? Depends...no big deal actually.
80. Angels? Haha...umm maybe.
ANSWER TRUTHFULLY:
81. Is there one person you want to be with right now? Yes.
82. Had more than one boyfriend/girlfriend at one time? No.
83. Do you believe its possible to remain faithful forever? It's all in the mind. So if you are truly determined on making a relationship work then yes.
84. What's the one thing you cannot live without? My parents. I love them to bits.
85. Who's the most awesome kid ever? My niece, gorgeous miss Nayantara.
1. Last beverage? A bottle of Coke
2. Last phone call? Arnab Sen, 10 am, we fought over his facebook status msg :)
3. Last text message? Was last night, to Arnab Sen, about life and stuff.
4. Last song you listened to? Mr. Bojangles by Dylan
5. Last time you cried? Friday, secretly, because I made my first copy error and the Ad was up
on TOI.
HAVE YOU EVER:
6. Dated someone twice ? Nope
7. Been cheated on? Nope
8. Kissed someone & regretted it? Why, really? No.
9. Been depressed? Ummm...mildly yes.
10. Been drunk? Haha...totally. Last in Mcleodganj and it was all good.
11. LIST THREE FAVORITE COLORS: Green, Black and Red
THIS PAST YEAR HAVE YOU:
12. Made new friends ? Sure
13. Fallen out of love? No
14. Laughed until you cried? Never
15. Met someone who changed you? Well, everyone important in my life tends to have some contribution to who I am. No one specific though.
16. Found out who your true friends were? Well as long as there's Arnab... :)
17. Found out someone was talking about you? Totally. So many times. Unavoidable isn't it.
18. Kissed a friend? Sure. All the time.
TRUTH:
19. How many kids do you want to have? Wow! I think one is good.
20. Do you have any pets ? Yes, fishes - 2 Black tetras called Telemachus, Telemachus
2 Sharpe tetra called Mirinda, Mirinda and 1 Buenos aires tetra called Achilles
They are gorgeous and I love 'em.
21. Do you want to change your name? Not at all. I love my name.
22. What did you do for your last birthday? I had chicken pox so I sulked and suffered but my awesome friends came over and made my day. Thanks Hakuhodo II and Arnab.
23. What time did you wake up today? 7:30 am to get ready for office. Urgh!
24. What were you doing at midnight last night? I was playing Galaxy Balls on my phone :)
25. Name something you CANNOT wait for ? A holiday with Sen.
26. What is one thing you wish you could change about your life? Nothing really...I am thankful for what I have.
27. What are you listening to right now ? Chan Chan - Buena Vista Social Club
28. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom ? If you consider vocal involvement during a Tom and Jerry show as talking to a Tom then yes.
29. What's getting on your nerves right now? The intern guy next to me who is sitting annoyingly in a sixty degree angle and intruding into my work station.
30. Whats your real name ? Sushmita
31. Hair color ? Screwed up black....thank you Noida water!
32. Long or short ? Longish
33. Height ? 5''2 1/2 Hahaha...the half is funny but I insist on having it mentioned.
34. Do you have a crush on someone? Right now? No
35. What do you like about yourself? I have an innate connect with dreams and i love it. I am also a little scared of it.
36. Piercings? Ears and nose
37. Tattoos? None as of now, though I think I'd like one.
38. Righty or lefty? Aw-righty baby!
FIRSTS :
39. First surgery? If ripping out precious ivory is surgery then I had mine when I was very little. 6-7 I guess.
40. First piercing? Ears, when I was 6 from a parlour called Bluemax in Calcutta
41. First best friend? Best friend...has to be Arijit aka Guddu...my partner in crime :)
42. First sport you joined? Roller Skating
43. First pet? My fishes...on my 23rd birthday, by Chintu Dahlin ;)
44. First vacation? To Calcutta at my Grandmother's place. It was a yearly ritual.
45. First concert? Was in school...I think I was in 12th. It was a rock concert by bands from various schools in Delhi.
46. First crush? Yikes! Ummm...never mind.
47. First alcohol drink? As bizarre as it may sound, it was a tequila shot on Kriti's 18th B'day.
RIGHT NOW:
48. Eating: Right now, longing for the finished Mc Vitties.
49. Drinking: Water
50. I'm about to: Get onto some real work.
51. Listening to? Supriya is playing Twist and I am almost breaking into a naagin dance.
52. Waiting for? The eve, to get together with Arnab.
YOUR FUTURE :
53. Want kids? Sure
54. Want to get married? Yes
55. Careers in mind? Advertising/Writing/ Film making
WHICH IS BETTER WITH THE SEX OF YOUR CHOOSING?
56. Lips or eyes? Eyes primarily, but lips follow.
57. Hugs or kisses? Kisses and hugs...Both
58. Shorter or taller? Totally taller
59. Older or Younger? Either way it doesn't matter.
60. Romantic or spontaneous? Spontaneous.
74. Nice stomach or nice arms? Ummm...Nice stomach, totally.
61. Tattoos or piercings? Tattoos.
62. Sensitive or loud? Whatever. Too much of both is annoying.
63. Hook-up or relationship? Depends really on many things.
64. Trouble maker or hesitant? Trouble maker...haha!
HAVE YOU EVER :
65. Kissed a stranger? No.
66. Drank hard liquor? Sure.
67. Lost glasses/contacts? I have perfect eyesight :)
68. Sex on first date? No.
69. Broken someone's heart? Yes. Which is not fun but sometimes you have to do what you need to do.
70. Had your own heart broken? Haha...ridiculous but yes.
71. Been arrested? Oh Gawd! NO.
72. Turned someone down? Many times.
73. Liked a friend that is a girl? Yes and most people know about it.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN:
74. Yourself? Completely. Otherwise I would never get ahead in life. I trust me :)
75. Miracles? Happen. I believe...
76. Love at first sight? No. Attraction, yes.
77. Heaven? In the hardcore sense? Still confused actually. But somewhere I've been hegemonized to believe in it.
78. Santa Claus? Somewhere :)
79. Kissing on the first date? Depends...no big deal actually.
80. Angels? Haha...umm maybe.
ANSWER TRUTHFULLY:
81. Is there one person you want to be with right now? Yes.
82. Had more than one boyfriend/girlfriend at one time? No.
83. Do you believe its possible to remain faithful forever? It's all in the mind. So if you are truly determined on making a relationship work then yes.
84. What's the one thing you cannot live without? My parents. I love them to bits.
85. Who's the most awesome kid ever? My niece, gorgeous miss Nayantara.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
"For heaven sake, stop wearing those navel flaunting clothes of yours." Barked Faima.
"Mom, this is the last thing I need before I leave home. Don't push me to get back at you. For all you know, this time around I may not come home at all."
That was enough for Faima to snap right back and for a few seconds she believed she didn't care.
"Get out! Right now. Out! and never show me your face again."
She didn't realize, she was the one who was getting pushed against the wall and made to do something she least desired.
Maneca stormed out, part happy, part astonished.
Faima was left crying, howling, but no one heard her. Not even her son. Her very own Maahid, the apple of her eye, the true reflection of her noble dead husband. The only one she had to love and to live with. He too was barely present, especially after the new wife.
Maahid and Faima were very close. Their hearts were connected to each other. They thought in one breath and lived under the same light. Maahid was different. He was much nicer once. Faima thought to herself. Those were the days when he loved that girl, that girl who always talked so sweetly and listened so alertly. That girl who took Faima as the center of the universe, Maahid, her moon and she was a celestial nymph. Oh! How wonderful it would have been, had Maahid married her. But she, she never spoke her mind and got packed off to neverland. And Maahid never proposed because Faima thought it was too soon. Faima remembered those days when Maahid was nursing a broken heart with whisky and marijuana. In no time did he find Pia. Pia, the girl who took over Maahid like he was possessed. Pia, who was like a Goddess, like fire, like magic. The woman who had lost her eyesight in a tragic accident when she was four and since then her other senses were hightened like nobody can imagine. So Maahid completely believed that sex with a blind woman would be like a dream and he must have gotten there very soon because ever since they got married, they hardly ever left the bed. The moaning and the panting was agonizing for Faima. They just wouldn't stop. Maneca was gone and it had been three whole days Maahid hadn't said a single word to his mother.
"Mom, this is the last thing I need before I leave home. Don't push me to get back at you. For all you know, this time around I may not come home at all."
That was enough for Faima to snap right back and for a few seconds she believed she didn't care.
"Get out! Right now. Out! and never show me your face again."
She didn't realize, she was the one who was getting pushed against the wall and made to do something she least desired.
Maneca stormed out, part happy, part astonished.
Faima was left crying, howling, but no one heard her. Not even her son. Her very own Maahid, the apple of her eye, the true reflection of her noble dead husband. The only one she had to love and to live with. He too was barely present, especially after the new wife.
Maahid and Faima were very close. Their hearts were connected to each other. They thought in one breath and lived under the same light. Maahid was different. He was much nicer once. Faima thought to herself. Those were the days when he loved that girl, that girl who always talked so sweetly and listened so alertly. That girl who took Faima as the center of the universe, Maahid, her moon and she was a celestial nymph. Oh! How wonderful it would have been, had Maahid married her. But she, she never spoke her mind and got packed off to neverland. And Maahid never proposed because Faima thought it was too soon. Faima remembered those days when Maahid was nursing a broken heart with whisky and marijuana. In no time did he find Pia. Pia, the girl who took over Maahid like he was possessed. Pia, who was like a Goddess, like fire, like magic. The woman who had lost her eyesight in a tragic accident when she was four and since then her other senses were hightened like nobody can imagine. So Maahid completely believed that sex with a blind woman would be like a dream and he must have gotten there very soon because ever since they got married, they hardly ever left the bed. The moaning and the panting was agonizing for Faima. They just wouldn't stop. Maneca was gone and it had been three whole days Maahid hadn't said a single word to his mother.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The most remarkable people
I have never written about the people in my life. Only metaphorically maybe.
There are some people that come into our lives and change/affect it forever. And i mean it in a good way. So here are a few of those remarkable people who hold a significant post in my journey so far.
I must begin with the most interesting one of course. She is my friend from college a real eccentric creative, she is Tanvi Srivastava. Medusa like hair (but very gorgeous if you look closely) and the most endearing smile ever. We didn't start out as friends, she always seemed someone who was too uncaring at first. There was a mega drama about her becoming close friends with my closest friend that time. But it all worked out for the best. I can't recall when Tanvi and I became good friends but when it comes to her I love love love her completely. She is so full of ideas and best of all she is always out there executing them. Exceptionally creative, enthusiastic, massively intelligent, bizarre and fun! There are a ton of things that I'd like to write/say about "Tanno d" but just for the heck of keeping it short let me sum it up by saying that if I have a daughter I'd most definitely like her to grow up to be like Tanvi. I love u tanno d, you're awesome.....:)
Arijit Sengupta - My first real boss ever. It all started out with sitting on his seat and staring at his picture for a good long week, being judgemental and then finally meeting the "boss". I would say, may God bless every trainee with such a wonderful boss. He is a tough taskmaster sometimes but the ocean of talent and creativity in him is always awe inspiring. They say that if you think you are rich then look around and you'll know there is someone richer. Well when it comes to Arijit aka Furry I'd say just the same. If you think you are smart, hello...meet Arjit! In terms of creativity he is nonpareil and his work is seriously motivational. Not just that, he is an exceptionally nice guy and I think there is so much to learn from him. I miss you Furry, in office but I am super glad we became friends and I treasure you immensely.
How can I forget you Mr. Arjun k Puri, my bestest friend from school and probably the only bestest friend i ever had. Hmmm....our amusing story stands aside all of this, but the truth still remains that you have left a mark in my life and I fondly hold you close to me as the nicest person I've known, brilliant writer, determined and the most amazing friend ever. You deserve your fancy HSBC job, i am super proud. Love ya lots.
Mayank Gupta, for proving it that if you chase your dreams with great conviction you can make 'em come true. I hold you as my role model and completely hail before the great one. You know you are awesome!
Ms. HI or Hepzibah Israel....you probably don't even remember/know me but your lectures on Jane Eyre/Mill on the Floss/Orientalism has much more to do than just that. You are an emblem of a strong modern Indian woman. You were scary and bitchy at times but still....you are quite unforgettable.
Ha...finally! Last but completely top most in my life, Arnab Sen, my partner in crime, my soul mate. You were the college Casanova, the Bitch, the crazy competitive one but I always knew that the antithesis of all this is your significant other. When I think "Buddy", there's no one other than you I can really think of. We fight over smokes, we talk like there is a "topic diarrea", we sing like we are insane and bitch like there's no tomorrow. We are like two pirates (where i am the cool one). You are a great guy, very rare specimen of niceness still existing on earth. You make me hopeful. I think you are a promising journalist and a true intellectual. You are talented, determined, passionate, strong and supremely goofy! But best of all there's no one who can care about not just me but all their loved ones the way you do. Strange thing to say, but I love your complexion, makes you very ummm...haha..hot! Yeah I know there are a ton of women swooning over you and I think it's great cause those women have made one helluva choice! You know i love you like crazy. Stay mad always :)
There are some people that come into our lives and change/affect it forever. And i mean it in a good way. So here are a few of those remarkable people who hold a significant post in my journey so far.
I must begin with the most interesting one of course. She is my friend from college a real eccentric creative, she is Tanvi Srivastava. Medusa like hair (but very gorgeous if you look closely) and the most endearing smile ever. We didn't start out as friends, she always seemed someone who was too uncaring at first. There was a mega drama about her becoming close friends with my closest friend that time. But it all worked out for the best. I can't recall when Tanvi and I became good friends but when it comes to her I love love love her completely. She is so full of ideas and best of all she is always out there executing them. Exceptionally creative, enthusiastic, massively intelligent, bizarre and fun! There are a ton of things that I'd like to write/say about "Tanno d" but just for the heck of keeping it short let me sum it up by saying that if I have a daughter I'd most definitely like her to grow up to be like Tanvi. I love u tanno d, you're awesome.....:)
Arijit Sengupta - My first real boss ever. It all started out with sitting on his seat and staring at his picture for a good long week, being judgemental and then finally meeting the "boss". I would say, may God bless every trainee with such a wonderful boss. He is a tough taskmaster sometimes but the ocean of talent and creativity in him is always awe inspiring. They say that if you think you are rich then look around and you'll know there is someone richer. Well when it comes to Arijit aka Furry I'd say just the same. If you think you are smart, hello...meet Arjit! In terms of creativity he is nonpareil and his work is seriously motivational. Not just that, he is an exceptionally nice guy and I think there is so much to learn from him. I miss you Furry, in office but I am super glad we became friends and I treasure you immensely.
How can I forget you Mr. Arjun k Puri, my bestest friend from school and probably the only bestest friend i ever had. Hmmm....our amusing story stands aside all of this, but the truth still remains that you have left a mark in my life and I fondly hold you close to me as the nicest person I've known, brilliant writer, determined and the most amazing friend ever. You deserve your fancy HSBC job, i am super proud. Love ya lots.
Mayank Gupta, for proving it that if you chase your dreams with great conviction you can make 'em come true. I hold you as my role model and completely hail before the great one. You know you are awesome!
Ms. HI or Hepzibah Israel....you probably don't even remember/know me but your lectures on Jane Eyre/Mill on the Floss/Orientalism has much more to do than just that. You are an emblem of a strong modern Indian woman. You were scary and bitchy at times but still....you are quite unforgettable.
Ha...finally! Last but completely top most in my life, Arnab Sen, my partner in crime, my soul mate. You were the college Casanova, the Bitch, the crazy competitive one but I always knew that the antithesis of all this is your significant other. When I think "Buddy", there's no one other than you I can really think of. We fight over smokes, we talk like there is a "topic diarrea", we sing like we are insane and bitch like there's no tomorrow. We are like two pirates (where i am the cool one). You are a great guy, very rare specimen of niceness still existing on earth. You make me hopeful. I think you are a promising journalist and a true intellectual. You are talented, determined, passionate, strong and supremely goofy! But best of all there's no one who can care about not just me but all their loved ones the way you do. Strange thing to say, but I love your complexion, makes you very ummm...haha..hot! Yeah I know there are a ton of women swooning over you and I think it's great cause those women have made one helluva choice! You know i love you like crazy. Stay mad always :)
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Coming Home
Long years make memories dizzy. But they still exit.
Living in a completely different world and then coming back to where you started.
Not much of a big deal actually, people do it all the time (Without realizing the finer nuances).
Anticipation is what kills you. Anticipation not just about others, but about yourself.
Let my shoulders bear the weight of those two boys again. A feeling quite forgotten, just images remain. I can try and take myself back to that very moment, but just images remain.
The warmth of her fingers against my neck when we embrace in a thoughtless moment. The sweet taste of her mouth, that zing of the celestial currents bestowed on her lips. That very moment, that exact second, the very point when she bats her luscious lashes, and the anticipation of living it again.
All this and the fear of having lost it all. Coming home is hard, similar to your first sexual intercourse, but certainly harder. The good thing is, in "real life" the slow mo option has been already unchecked and before you know, you've arrived.
Living in a completely different world and then coming back to where you started.
Not much of a big deal actually, people do it all the time (Without realizing the finer nuances).
Anticipation is what kills you. Anticipation not just about others, but about yourself.
Let my shoulders bear the weight of those two boys again. A feeling quite forgotten, just images remain. I can try and take myself back to that very moment, but just images remain.
The warmth of her fingers against my neck when we embrace in a thoughtless moment. The sweet taste of her mouth, that zing of the celestial currents bestowed on her lips. That very moment, that exact second, the very point when she bats her luscious lashes, and the anticipation of living it again.
All this and the fear of having lost it all. Coming home is hard, similar to your first sexual intercourse, but certainly harder. The good thing is, in "real life" the slow mo option has been already unchecked and before you know, you've arrived.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Be alive while you are alive.
Don't mourn your death before you've died.
Love will come and love will go,
don't kill it through its drive.
Be alive while you are alive.
Every breath is a treat
every whimper, worth another try.
When you are cold or even if a hundred years old,
Thank god that you still thrive.
One eared, one legged or even if heartbroken,
be alive while you are alive.
Don't mourn your death before you've died.
Don't mourn your death before you've died.
Love will come and love will go,
don't kill it through its drive.
Be alive while you are alive.
Every breath is a treat
every whimper, worth another try.
When you are cold or even if a hundred years old,
Thank god that you still thrive.
One eared, one legged or even if heartbroken,
be alive while you are alive.
Don't mourn your death before you've died.
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