Oh come on.
Like you actually thought this was going to be about pandemic influenza? This is about me.
It’s always about me. And anyone who comes here thinking – ‘why doesn’t she write about something less shallow than her life’ – Go away. Be gone. Get lost.
I’m not here to please you. You are here to humour me.
If you have no time for my ramblings, I am more than dandy with that.
It’s almost 3am and I am at work. Pretending to work on a pitch. No, not pretending, trying. Really trying. I’m nervous in this office. I can’t stop thinking about when I will get to go home. This is my first night here – I’m not sure where to sleep, or whether I should sleep at all.
I can’t believe this kind of trivial crap goes through my mind most of the time. It’s like it’s on over-drive but no one really cares.
I feel low.
I’m going through one of those recurrent quarter-life crises. Almost 26 years old, single, no life partner on the horizon, stuck in a full time job, getting paid chicken poop, living in the back of beyond, a victim of public transport, no social life, no time for hobbies, no time.
Weekends are longed for and when they begin, you cram them so full of things to do, that you end up being tired the rest of the week. Weekdays can’t be messed with because your new job demands you not to make plans and leave early enough to do something fun, before you head back to the village.
All men suck. The ones who don’t have girlfriends or wives or are gay or are pretending not to suck, until you fall into their trap and they divulge how hideously sucky they really are.
Money is being made everywhere you look. Smart individuals with zero talent are raking in the cash. Why? Because they have foresight and are bold enough to make the money that is there, waiting to be made. There is so much money in this city and none of it is in my bank account.
There are so many things I want to learn – pottery, salsa and capoeira. None of which I can do – don’t ask me why. And don’t tell me I could if I “really” wanted to.
Did I mention how much men suck? Especially the ones I happen to be so lucky to encounter. It’s almost as if this secret manual, a code on how to piss me off, is passed amongst them. Like a little all-mail underground cult with an evil agenda, dedicated to making me feel crappy. Maybe I’m giving myself way too much importance.
What am I doing? Am I happy with the direction my life is going? Where will I be in five years? Those are the deep questions that plague my mind now. You’ve got to admit they are deeper than - when will he call me? Who is he with? Why do I want to kill that stick-figured chick?
This makes me a tad pleased.
I’m older, and deeper, and wiser.
Ok maybe just the first two... Hey, two outta three ain’t bad.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
FW:
I've realised that I’m too messed up to be in any sort of relationship. One needs to have a lot of patience and time to even consider me as a “better half”. I’m demanding, possessive and a tad insecure. And if one gives me reason to be any of the above in excess – God help them.
I’ve decided this, whatever I am so called into, vis-à-vis my previous post, isn’t a major relationship – I’m talking long term. Cause if it were one would try and calm me down about issues I have with stick figures.
I’m treating this undefined thing, like a fling. I like flings. I am good at flings. I’m old enough to have a couple of flings. And if I define it like a fling – I become less messed up in my head. This is a good thing. It’s psychology.
I’ve realised I am the jealous type. And the more I try and hide it, the more it eats me up inside. So if I have murderous feelings towards more than one woman – I’m going to show it. So the man in question better deal.
I’ve realised that it is in my best interest to keep myself happy and free of stress. And if that means I am never getting married, having a relationship and a family and ending up living alone with cats and a bitter disposition, so be it.
I have concluded that I am an attractive woman. As Maya Angelou would put it, a phenomenal woman, and if I am to emanate this belief, I have to believe it first.
Lastly I have realised that this post is turning out to be one of those “I’ve realised” forwards that circulate the net. So I’m going to stop.
I’ve decided this, whatever I am so called into, vis-à-vis my previous post, isn’t a major relationship – I’m talking long term. Cause if it were one would try and calm me down about issues I have with stick figures.
I’m treating this undefined thing, like a fling. I like flings. I am good at flings. I’m old enough to have a couple of flings. And if I define it like a fling – I become less messed up in my head. This is a good thing. It’s psychology.
I’ve realised I am the jealous type. And the more I try and hide it, the more it eats me up inside. So if I have murderous feelings towards more than one woman – I’m going to show it. So the man in question better deal.
I’ve realised that it is in my best interest to keep myself happy and free of stress. And if that means I am never getting married, having a relationship and a family and ending up living alone with cats and a bitter disposition, so be it.
I have concluded that I am an attractive woman. As Maya Angelou would put it, a phenomenal woman, and if I am to emanate this belief, I have to believe it first.
Lastly I have realised that this post is turning out to be one of those “I’ve realised” forwards that circulate the net. So I’m going to stop.
Monday, January 08, 2007
in other news...
I’m kinda, sorta, maybe, not-too-sure, perhaps, possibly seeing someone.
We met in December 2006 – which was still the “good” year technically, so I’m a little relieved about that bit. But we are “getting into something” in the New Year – which is scaring the beejeesus out of me – cause of my super superstitious odd-numbered-bad-year-luck thing.
I have met everyone that is possibly close to him from his parents to his dogs to his building’s watchman and he has met no one of mine. This is fine by me, because the whole “meeting the parents” bit freaks me out a little.
Now, I have been single and mingling, with no good results, for the better part of two and a half years. And suddenly, bam, I find myself in a relationship quandary.
We call each other, he cares about where I am, we go out and his arm is around me, His hand reaches for mine in a crowded club, I’m the one he calls before he goes to bed, I’m the one he messages in the morning and I’m the one who gets to sit in the front seat of his car.
This is all new. It’s all good, but it’s all new. And I am baffled. As if I did not think enough. My mind is now on overdrive. I’m constantly preparing myself for inevitable disaster.
The day before yesterday was supposed to be the day he’d walk up to me and say whatever this is, it’s over. Yesterday was the day he was supposed to call me and tell me that he’s met someone, or that his ex is back in the picture. Today was the day he just gives me the cold shoulder and doesn’t return my calls and text messages.
Last weekend was our first out of town trip. It was not exactly a romantic get away or anything. We went with some thirty-five people to his friend’s dad’s farm. Some fifteen friends were there with twenty parents.
He was introduced to some elderly man as himself; I was introduced to the elderly man as his better half. My feminist instinct was under check, or else I would have demanded an apology. In fact, my 50’s, apron-wearing, home-maker, house wifey side, absolutely loved it.
As usual, the pessimist in me is waiting for the bubble to burst, constantly thinking that it’s never going to work, before it has even begun. And I think, assuming that each day is going to be the end is making me miss out on a lot of good things.
That, and the intense jealousy I am feeling toward some of his annoying, ditsy, Paris Hilton-esque female friends, who probably eat a single pea for every meal and think the weighing scale goes only to about 40kgs. Bloody damned stick figures.
On the 31st night he took me out to this club and we celebrated the New Year together. Before he dropped me home we discussed “us”. I asked if it was a fling, he said no. I asked if we were seeing each other, he said yes. I asked if we were exclusive, he said as exclusive as I wanted us to be. He told me if there was anyone else, I’d be the first to know.
(Insert romantic ‘sigh’ here)
If this is just another one of the big man upstairs’ sick jokes, I swear, somebody’s gonna get hurt real bad.
And it better not be me.
We met in December 2006 – which was still the “good” year technically, so I’m a little relieved about that bit. But we are “getting into something” in the New Year – which is scaring the beejeesus out of me – cause of my super superstitious odd-numbered-bad-year-luck thing.
I have met everyone that is possibly close to him from his parents to his dogs to his building’s watchman and he has met no one of mine. This is fine by me, because the whole “meeting the parents” bit freaks me out a little.
Now, I have been single and mingling, with no good results, for the better part of two and a half years. And suddenly, bam, I find myself in a relationship quandary.
We call each other, he cares about where I am, we go out and his arm is around me, His hand reaches for mine in a crowded club, I’m the one he calls before he goes to bed, I’m the one he messages in the morning and I’m the one who gets to sit in the front seat of his car.
This is all new. It’s all good, but it’s all new. And I am baffled. As if I did not think enough. My mind is now on overdrive. I’m constantly preparing myself for inevitable disaster.
The day before yesterday was supposed to be the day he’d walk up to me and say whatever this is, it’s over. Yesterday was the day he was supposed to call me and tell me that he’s met someone, or that his ex is back in the picture. Today was the day he just gives me the cold shoulder and doesn’t return my calls and text messages.
Last weekend was our first out of town trip. It was not exactly a romantic get away or anything. We went with some thirty-five people to his friend’s dad’s farm. Some fifteen friends were there with twenty parents.
He was introduced to some elderly man as himself; I was introduced to the elderly man as his better half. My feminist instinct was under check, or else I would have demanded an apology. In fact, my 50’s, apron-wearing, home-maker, house wifey side, absolutely loved it.
As usual, the pessimist in me is waiting for the bubble to burst, constantly thinking that it’s never going to work, before it has even begun. And I think, assuming that each day is going to be the end is making me miss out on a lot of good things.
That, and the intense jealousy I am feeling toward some of his annoying, ditsy, Paris Hilton-esque female friends, who probably eat a single pea for every meal and think the weighing scale goes only to about 40kgs. Bloody damned stick figures.
On the 31st night he took me out to this club and we celebrated the New Year together. Before he dropped me home we discussed “us”. I asked if it was a fling, he said no. I asked if we were seeing each other, he said yes. I asked if we were exclusive, he said as exclusive as I wanted us to be. He told me if there was anyone else, I’d be the first to know.
(Insert romantic ‘sigh’ here)
If this is just another one of the big man upstairs’ sick jokes, I swear, somebody’s gonna get hurt real bad.
And it better not be me.
happy frikkin' 2007
Remember how I was hoping and praying that this year was as good as 2006 and not as completely awful as 2005?
I'm guessing the hopes and prayers didn’t quite work out.
My car was stolen today.
Four years we parked our red Hyundai Accent at that spot next to the train station, and today when my dad got back from the train, it was gone.
It was bought as a surprise for my sisters when they came down from the states. It was a beautiful red, which my mum and I chose, as opposed to an old-fogey silver model. The music system was a swanky one – something my dad wanted to splurge on, ‘because we all like music on the road, especially me – he got those ones with a remote so I could DJ from the back seat.
Dad just got back from sitting at the police station for almost three hours filing a FIR, so he can give it to the insurance company. If we don’t get the car back, at least we get the money. It’s naïve to even think we will get the car back in one piece – especially in this country.
Anyway, it’s been a lousy day.
Hopefully this run of crap will not continue. Hopefully the rest of the year is better and brighter. Hopefully the insurance covers us. Hopefully my mum and dad are not too upset over this thing.
Hopefully the testicles of the asshole that stole my car, fall off.
I'm guessing the hopes and prayers didn’t quite work out.
My car was stolen today.
Four years we parked our red Hyundai Accent at that spot next to the train station, and today when my dad got back from the train, it was gone.
It was bought as a surprise for my sisters when they came down from the states. It was a beautiful red, which my mum and I chose, as opposed to an old-fogey silver model. The music system was a swanky one – something my dad wanted to splurge on, ‘because we all like music on the road, especially me – he got those ones with a remote so I could DJ from the back seat.
Dad just got back from sitting at the police station for almost three hours filing a FIR, so he can give it to the insurance company. If we don’t get the car back, at least we get the money. It’s naïve to even think we will get the car back in one piece – especially in this country.
Anyway, it’s been a lousy day.
Hopefully this run of crap will not continue. Hopefully the rest of the year is better and brighter. Hopefully the insurance covers us. Hopefully my mum and dad are not too upset over this thing.
Hopefully the testicles of the asshole that stole my car, fall off.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
on being inked
I woke up nervous as hell.
The horror stories about people ‘going under the gun’ were enough to scare me, but the horror stories I heard about my tattoo artist were pushing me over the edge.
I took a cold shower and unconsciously cleaned the upper right portion of my back more than usual. It was never going to be the same.
I walked up to the tattoo studio and some girl put some numbing cream on my back. I left and went to get a good healthy breakfast, think fruit juice, eggs, baked beans, potatoes and sausage. I ate like it was my last meal. The cream was numbing every bone in my body.
My closest girlfriend arrived and tried to calm me down. She laughed and joked and even sang ‘I feel pretty’, but I was a nervous wreck, no, wait, a numb nervous wreck.
As I approached the tattoo studio I got a phone call from them, I informed them that I was on my way, and they informed me that my parents were already there.
And from that moment, I was the calmest tattoo virgin ever.
My mother helped me fill a consent form, my father suggested colours and shading options, my best girl sang softly, someone took pictures and my tattoo artist dissipated all doubts that he was a maniac and made me feel most comfortable.
He talked to my mother who was very concerned with about the man who was going to ‘mutilate her baby girl’. He laughed when she told him she wanted to cut his hair and wash it.
The fact that my parents were there appealed to him on some level.
The fact that my parents were there calmed me down on many levels.
After the first half an hour the numbing cream wore off and I could feel the needle jabbing into me. Weirdly it was awesome.
I felt liberated, I felt a rush, I felt like someone who was doing what they wanted, I felt wild and free, I almost felt empowered.
I felt like an adult.
And throughout, all I focused on was my mothers reassuring smile.
The horror stories about people ‘going under the gun’ were enough to scare me, but the horror stories I heard about my tattoo artist were pushing me over the edge.
I took a cold shower and unconsciously cleaned the upper right portion of my back more than usual. It was never going to be the same.
I walked up to the tattoo studio and some girl put some numbing cream on my back. I left and went to get a good healthy breakfast, think fruit juice, eggs, baked beans, potatoes and sausage. I ate like it was my last meal. The cream was numbing every bone in my body.
My closest girlfriend arrived and tried to calm me down. She laughed and joked and even sang ‘I feel pretty’, but I was a nervous wreck, no, wait, a numb nervous wreck.
As I approached the tattoo studio I got a phone call from them, I informed them that I was on my way, and they informed me that my parents were already there.
And from that moment, I was the calmest tattoo virgin ever.
My mother helped me fill a consent form, my father suggested colours and shading options, my best girl sang softly, someone took pictures and my tattoo artist dissipated all doubts that he was a maniac and made me feel most comfortable.
He talked to my mother who was very concerned with about the man who was going to ‘mutilate her baby girl’. He laughed when she told him she wanted to cut his hair and wash it.
The fact that my parents were there appealed to him on some level.
The fact that my parents were there calmed me down on many levels.
After the first half an hour the numbing cream wore off and I could feel the needle jabbing into me. Weirdly it was awesome.
I felt liberated, I felt a rush, I felt like someone who was doing what they wanted, I felt wild and free, I almost felt empowered.
I felt like an adult.
And throughout, all I focused on was my mothers reassuring smile.
i'm inked
I finally got myself a tattoo.
Something I have wanted to do for the last eight years. I remember checking out tattoo sites online when I was 17, and picking out designs and storing them for reference.
This year I finally decided what I wanted, I asked a very special person to design it for me and now, after about three months, it’s on me. My dragonfly.
Most people say a dragonfly is a clichéd design. But when I read about them, it occurred to me how beautifully perfect it was for me, right now, at this moment.
“The more you learn about this small but powerful creature, the more you understand that it is not merely a testimony to beauty, but also strength and most importantly, change.”
What amazed me, was that the dragonfly can spend three years in the nymph stage, living underwater, waiting to painfully morph into what they finally are. They are fierce, delicate, mystical and real, all at the same time. Native American astrology believes that every person has their own totem animal spirit, I’m not certain that mine is a dragonfly, but I am certain I love everything it stands for:
“The dragonfly spirit means you must consciously make an effort to express your hopes, dreams, needs and wishes. It is the essence of the winds of change; it carries messages of wisdom and enlightenment. It beckons you to seek out the parts of your habits that need changing, and then guides you to the path of transformation”
2006 has been a fabulous year – things have changed, I have changed - for better, not so much worse. I’ve travelled more than ever (two trips to Goa, two months in America and most recently Daman), I’ve changed jobs, and I am finally in an agency I have wanted to join for a year, My beautiful niece was born, I’ve met so many wonderful people, some who have changed the way I look at life. If I continue I might get into a whole barrage of reasons.
Honestly, I can’t think of a better, more beautiful way to commemorate the year.
Forever, I shall look over my right shoulder and remember.
Salute!
Something I have wanted to do for the last eight years. I remember checking out tattoo sites online when I was 17, and picking out designs and storing them for reference.
This year I finally decided what I wanted, I asked a very special person to design it for me and now, after about three months, it’s on me. My dragonfly.
Most people say a dragonfly is a clichéd design. But when I read about them, it occurred to me how beautifully perfect it was for me, right now, at this moment.
“The more you learn about this small but powerful creature, the more you understand that it is not merely a testimony to beauty, but also strength and most importantly, change.”
What amazed me, was that the dragonfly can spend three years in the nymph stage, living underwater, waiting to painfully morph into what they finally are. They are fierce, delicate, mystical and real, all at the same time. Native American astrology believes that every person has their own totem animal spirit, I’m not certain that mine is a dragonfly, but I am certain I love everything it stands for:
“The dragonfly spirit means you must consciously make an effort to express your hopes, dreams, needs and wishes. It is the essence of the winds of change; it carries messages of wisdom and enlightenment. It beckons you to seek out the parts of your habits that need changing, and then guides you to the path of transformation”
2006 has been a fabulous year – things have changed, I have changed - for better, not so much worse. I’ve travelled more than ever (two trips to Goa, two months in America and most recently Daman), I’ve changed jobs, and I am finally in an agency I have wanted to join for a year, My beautiful niece was born, I’ve met so many wonderful people, some who have changed the way I look at life. If I continue I might get into a whole barrage of reasons.
Honestly, I can’t think of a better, more beautiful way to commemorate the year.
Forever, I shall look over my right shoulder and remember.
Salute!
Not the best picture, but it'll do for now. Oh and look, the first picture I have of me on my blog. Talk about change and new beginnings, eh?
Sunday, November 26, 2006
of bugs and boys
This weekend was a mixture of crazy fun and way too much stress.
And the reason is simple. I took a bunch of friends from work to my parent’s holiday home in the hills. I turned into a psychotic paranoid woman who was obsessed with cleaning - which left me with no time to really take in the fun.
We left on Friday night, three boys and me in a car bound for Lonavala. The rest of them, two guys and three girls arrived the following night. During the course of two nights, several glasses were broken, bonfires were made, food was copiously consumed and drinks were drunk – as were some of the drinkers.
But the funniest part of the weekend was the first night with just the boys.
On the way there, they spoke like manly men, grunting excitedly with talks of building a large fire and throwing large chunks of meat on sticks over it. Talks of trekking to the mountains and camping out. Talks of embracing the wild. I listened intently, trying very hard not to laugh.
When we arrived they ran around the house like little boys, up and down the stairs like happy campers. They got their drinks and took chairs outside so they could take in the breeze. The sun set. The single street light came on.
And that’s when disaster struck.
The creatures of the night, including big flying ones, appeared.
And our three manly men could not shake off their fear. They tried to pretend that those massive moths, bugs and crickets did not bother them until they started slamming up against the window, with loud thuds.
One of the boys swore he saw a bat. And in a matter of minutes these “cavemen” were grabbing their belongings and running for cover, a little short of screaming like girls.
This is when they realized that a huge grasshopper had made its way inside.
The boys huddled into a corner while I got rid of it. Alright, so I am exaggerating a little, they didn’t huddle in a corner, they just all stood like manly men on the other side of the room, while I tried to catch, scare and kick the creature out of my house, with verbal support from them, of course.
Bugs and the boys do not mix well. The next morning a panicked phone call was made to the people joining us. Several cans of bug spray were ordered to be brought. One of the boys wanted to spray the entire surrounding area with bug spray so he suggested about three or four large cans.
Still determined to get in touch with their inner caveman, the boys found some villager to get wood and build a bonfire for a small fee. They sat around the fire on chairs, occasionally prodding the logs while they ate the chicken that a nice little aunty to agreed to cook for them (on a stove, not a bonfire)
All in all the city boys had a blast. And I had a great time watching big hulking boys run for cover 'cause of big, hulking bugs.
And the reason is simple. I took a bunch of friends from work to my parent’s holiday home in the hills. I turned into a psychotic paranoid woman who was obsessed with cleaning - which left me with no time to really take in the fun.
We left on Friday night, three boys and me in a car bound for Lonavala. The rest of them, two guys and three girls arrived the following night. During the course of two nights, several glasses were broken, bonfires were made, food was copiously consumed and drinks were drunk – as were some of the drinkers.
But the funniest part of the weekend was the first night with just the boys.
On the way there, they spoke like manly men, grunting excitedly with talks of building a large fire and throwing large chunks of meat on sticks over it. Talks of trekking to the mountains and camping out. Talks of embracing the wild. I listened intently, trying very hard not to laugh.
When we arrived they ran around the house like little boys, up and down the stairs like happy campers. They got their drinks and took chairs outside so they could take in the breeze. The sun set. The single street light came on.
And that’s when disaster struck.
The creatures of the night, including big flying ones, appeared.
And our three manly men could not shake off their fear. They tried to pretend that those massive moths, bugs and crickets did not bother them until they started slamming up against the window, with loud thuds.
One of the boys swore he saw a bat. And in a matter of minutes these “cavemen” were grabbing their belongings and running for cover, a little short of screaming like girls.
This is when they realized that a huge grasshopper had made its way inside.
The boys huddled into a corner while I got rid of it. Alright, so I am exaggerating a little, they didn’t huddle in a corner, they just all stood like manly men on the other side of the room, while I tried to catch, scare and kick the creature out of my house, with verbal support from them, of course.
Bugs and the boys do not mix well. The next morning a panicked phone call was made to the people joining us. Several cans of bug spray were ordered to be brought. One of the boys wanted to spray the entire surrounding area with bug spray so he suggested about three or four large cans.
Still determined to get in touch with their inner caveman, the boys found some villager to get wood and build a bonfire for a small fee. They sat around the fire on chairs, occasionally prodding the logs while they ate the chicken that a nice little aunty to agreed to cook for them (on a stove, not a bonfire)
All in all the city boys had a blast. And I had a great time watching big hulking boys run for cover 'cause of big, hulking bugs.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
the break up
I have been avoiding Satya, the guy who does my taxes, for the past month now.
I have been cheating on him with another accountant.
This other guy now has my papers. I have allowed this new guy to study my files, peruse my account and do my paperwork. I’ve even given him a Form 16, something Satya has been asking from me forever.
I have been with Satya for about a year now. We’ve gone through the PAN card process together, the TDS stuff and all the rest of it. Our meetings were brief but meaningful.
A signature here, a stamped paper there.
But it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
I needed someone who was passionate about my paperwork.
So I cheated.
Yesterday Satya called me and I did not pick up the phone because I knew I had to tell him.
I had to break up with the man who saved my money last year.
This is how the conversation went in my head:
Me: Hello?
Satya: Hi, It’s me… You know tomorrow is the last day right… (Voice trails off)
Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…
Satya: Oh? What about? Are your papers not….
Me: Never mind the papers.
Satya: What?
Me: I’m getting my taxes done from someone else. I can’t do this anymore.
Satya: What?
Me: Listen, I needed to. He seems so much more into it. I know you have other clients….
Satya: What?
Me: Don’t do this! You know what I’m talking about!
Satya: But…but why? All I ever asked for is your Form 16, maybe sometimes too many times.
But, I did it for you..
Me: I know. I know. It’s not you. It’s me. I need more. I need someone who is into me.
Satya: I am into you. I’m the one that keeps calling. Do I even expect anything from you?
Me: I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to do this for myself. One day you’ll understand. We can still be friends and send each other Diwali cards.
Satya: (sighs melancholically)
So armed with what I was going to say, I called him back.
This is how the conversation went.
Satya: Hello?
Me: Hi, It’s me…
Satya: Oh hi...
Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…(Voice trails off)
Satya: What about? Your papers?
Me: Never mind the papers. I’m getting my taxes done from someone else.
Satya: Oh ok.
Me: What?
Satya: Fine, I believe you owe me 1000 rupees for last year.
Me: What?
Satya: You can give me a check. Better still, mail it.
Me: What?
Satya: Ok. Bye
Me: Errm. Bye? Is that….
(click)
Arrgh.
Men. I despise men.
I have been cheating on him with another accountant.
This other guy now has my papers. I have allowed this new guy to study my files, peruse my account and do my paperwork. I’ve even given him a Form 16, something Satya has been asking from me forever.
I have been with Satya for about a year now. We’ve gone through the PAN card process together, the TDS stuff and all the rest of it. Our meetings were brief but meaningful.
A signature here, a stamped paper there.
But it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
I needed someone who was passionate about my paperwork.
So I cheated.
Yesterday Satya called me and I did not pick up the phone because I knew I had to tell him.
I had to break up with the man who saved my money last year.
This is how the conversation went in my head:
Me: Hello?
Satya: Hi, It’s me… You know tomorrow is the last day right… (Voice trails off)
Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…
Satya: Oh? What about? Are your papers not….
Me: Never mind the papers.
Satya: What?
Me: I’m getting my taxes done from someone else. I can’t do this anymore.
Satya: What?
Me: Listen, I needed to. He seems so much more into it. I know you have other clients….
Satya: What?
Me: Don’t do this! You know what I’m talking about!
Satya: But…but why? All I ever asked for is your Form 16, maybe sometimes too many times.
But, I did it for you..
Me: I know. I know. It’s not you. It’s me. I need more. I need someone who is into me.
Satya: I am into you. I’m the one that keeps calling. Do I even expect anything from you?
Me: I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to do this for myself. One day you’ll understand. We can still be friends and send each other Diwali cards.
Satya: (sighs melancholically)
So armed with what I was going to say, I called him back.
This is how the conversation went.
Satya: Hello?
Me: Hi, It’s me…
Satya: Oh hi...
Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…(Voice trails off)
Satya: What about? Your papers?
Me: Never mind the papers. I’m getting my taxes done from someone else.
Satya: Oh ok.
Me: What?
Satya: Fine, I believe you owe me 1000 rupees for last year.
Me: What?
Satya: You can give me a check. Better still, mail it.
Me: What?
Satya: Ok. Bye
Me: Errm. Bye? Is that….
(click)
Arrgh.
Men. I despise men.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
You know what I hate…
I hate it when you cannot be close to the people whom you care about, because of distance.
I hate distance. Both geographical and emotional – I hate it when you feel so far away from someone with whom you once bonded so well.
I hate it when two girls only start talking because you talk to both of them, and they end up bonding and leaving you out of most things.
I hate it.
I hate it when you are an afterthought, when you are called just because someone feels they should “do the right thing”.
I hate it when you know a situation is so bad for you, when all you’re better judgements scream “run, fool, run” and you don’t, instead you wait and take it all in.
I hate waiting. Waiting to be picked up, waiting to be met, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a plan to be made, waiting for results. I hate waiting.
I hate it when you get that overwhelming feeling that your friends are not telling you something.
I hate it when you think that overwhelming feeling maybe just your paranoia playing with you.
I hate it when people make fun of where you live. Whether it’s the distance or the name – Do they realise you had no say in the matter when it was ‘christened’?
I just hate it.
I hate it when people comment on what you are wearing when you just walked into a place.
I hate it when your so-called ‘girlfriends’ talk to you, then talk to each other online, minus you.
I hate being a third wheel.
I hate pretending I am happy for couples who are happy.
I hate happy couples.
I hate the fact that the friends I had in 2004 are not my core group anymore.
I hate it when the guys you hate give you attention, and the guys you like, don’t.
I hate the fact that friendship is based on time/place/circumstance.
I hate hating where you live.
I hate it when you’re sleep is ruined because of some random electricity cut.
I hate it when you have to pretend that all the jokes about where you live don’t bother you at all.
I hate that I am petrified of falling in love, getting married and having a baby.
I really hate it.
I hate that sometimes all I think about is doing all three of those things.
I hate being weak and cranky.
I hate negative vibes.
I hate it when you just stop bonding with the people you used to love hanging out with.
I hate feeling left out. And I’m beginning to feel it more. And hate it more.
I hate having to use humour as a defence mechanism.
I hate it when a once big group segregates into mini groups and you don’t know where you belong.
I hate it when you don’t want to belong.
I hate not telling people how I truly feel.
I hate not having a friend I can talk to. Someone who is not just around for the moment. Someone who will be there for me when I am sixty-four even.
I hate when you have nothing to write about and the one thing you decide to write about it how much you hate everything. I hate that ‘things I hate’ becomes a topic for my blog.
I hate hating so many things.
I hate when you bear your soul, and then wait for it to be stomped on over and over.
I hate it.
I despise all of it.
I hate distance. Both geographical and emotional – I hate it when you feel so far away from someone with whom you once bonded so well.
I hate it when two girls only start talking because you talk to both of them, and they end up bonding and leaving you out of most things.
I hate it.
I hate it when you are an afterthought, when you are called just because someone feels they should “do the right thing”.
I hate it when you know a situation is so bad for you, when all you’re better judgements scream “run, fool, run” and you don’t, instead you wait and take it all in.
I hate waiting. Waiting to be picked up, waiting to be met, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a plan to be made, waiting for results. I hate waiting.
I hate it when you get that overwhelming feeling that your friends are not telling you something.
I hate it when you think that overwhelming feeling maybe just your paranoia playing with you.
I hate it when people make fun of where you live. Whether it’s the distance or the name – Do they realise you had no say in the matter when it was ‘christened’?
I just hate it.
I hate it when people comment on what you are wearing when you just walked into a place.
I hate it when your so-called ‘girlfriends’ talk to you, then talk to each other online, minus you.
I hate being a third wheel.
I hate pretending I am happy for couples who are happy.
I hate happy couples.
I hate the fact that the friends I had in 2004 are not my core group anymore.
I hate it when the guys you hate give you attention, and the guys you like, don’t.
I hate the fact that friendship is based on time/place/circumstance.
I hate hating where you live.
I hate it when you’re sleep is ruined because of some random electricity cut.
I hate it when you have to pretend that all the jokes about where you live don’t bother you at all.
I hate that I am petrified of falling in love, getting married and having a baby.
I really hate it.
I hate that sometimes all I think about is doing all three of those things.
I hate being weak and cranky.
I hate negative vibes.
I hate it when you just stop bonding with the people you used to love hanging out with.
I hate feeling left out. And I’m beginning to feel it more. And hate it more.
I hate having to use humour as a defence mechanism.
I hate it when a once big group segregates into mini groups and you don’t know where you belong.
I hate it when you don’t want to belong.
I hate not telling people how I truly feel.
I hate not having a friend I can talk to. Someone who is not just around for the moment. Someone who will be there for me when I am sixty-four even.
I hate when you have nothing to write about and the one thing you decide to write about it how much you hate everything. I hate that ‘things I hate’ becomes a topic for my blog.
I hate hating so many things.
I hate when you bear your soul, and then wait for it to be stomped on over and over.
I hate it.
I despise all of it.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
time flew
.jpg)
The bean in the womb
The bean, three weeks old
The bean, 8 months old - and counting.All I can say is : WHAT THE HELL?
Sunday, October 15, 2006
qwerty and happy
I just downloaded the original Pac man game onto my home PC.
It’s quite a fun game really, it succeeds in getting the heart pumping and the energies flowing even on those particularly boring Sunday afternoons. But there in lies the rub, I cannot play it to save my life. And I have just realized why. I’m too neat. I have to eat all the little green globules in one area before I even think of moving to the next, which makes me inevitably have a fatal encounter with Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, that much more often.
Which explains why I have passed the ‘qwerty’ level and just barely made it to the ‘happiness’ level (ironic isn’t it? That this is in a game and not in real life?)
The masters of Pac man play a messy game, random green globs left for no reason lying around at every level, blinking strawberries and twirling cherries – the ones that I foolishly go back for even though Clyde is at my tail.
I realize have a lot of these little stupid things that I just have to do. Another one is eating French fries. I just have to eat two or three at a time. This makes sharing a pack with me very awkward for the sharer. If I am eating a fried egg, I have to break open the yolk and smudge it around the whole egg so every part has the yellow. I feel the need to brush my teeth in front of a mirror. I have to squeal while I stretch in the morning; a stretch without a squeal is no stretch at all. I have to put my alarm for half an hour before I actually need to wake up – this is my snooze time. I have to fold my underwear, not necessarily my clothes. I won’t even begin to get into the quirks I have with my arch-rivals, the ant world.
I’m rambling again. There, that’s one more thing I do. Ramble on when no one really cares to know what I do with my underwear and my fried eggs, in all honesty. I think I should go and master the art of Pac man now. Or maybe I should just give up and shoot some men instead.
In a game, not in real life.
As much fun as the latter sounds right now.
The way my life is going, I think I'm still at the ‘qwerty’ level.
It’s quite a fun game really, it succeeds in getting the heart pumping and the energies flowing even on those particularly boring Sunday afternoons. But there in lies the rub, I cannot play it to save my life. And I have just realized why. I’m too neat. I have to eat all the little green globules in one area before I even think of moving to the next, which makes me inevitably have a fatal encounter with Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, that much more often.
Which explains why I have passed the ‘qwerty’ level and just barely made it to the ‘happiness’ level (ironic isn’t it? That this is in a game and not in real life?)
The masters of Pac man play a messy game, random green globs left for no reason lying around at every level, blinking strawberries and twirling cherries – the ones that I foolishly go back for even though Clyde is at my tail.
I realize have a lot of these little stupid things that I just have to do. Another one is eating French fries. I just have to eat two or three at a time. This makes sharing a pack with me very awkward for the sharer. If I am eating a fried egg, I have to break open the yolk and smudge it around the whole egg so every part has the yellow. I feel the need to brush my teeth in front of a mirror. I have to squeal while I stretch in the morning; a stretch without a squeal is no stretch at all. I have to put my alarm for half an hour before I actually need to wake up – this is my snooze time. I have to fold my underwear, not necessarily my clothes. I won’t even begin to get into the quirks I have with my arch-rivals, the ant world.
I’m rambling again. There, that’s one more thing I do. Ramble on when no one really cares to know what I do with my underwear and my fried eggs, in all honesty. I think I should go and master the art of Pac man now. Or maybe I should just give up and shoot some men instead.
In a game, not in real life.
As much fun as the latter sounds right now.
The way my life is going, I think I'm still at the ‘qwerty’ level.
Friday, October 13, 2006
double 'C' theory
I’m PMS-ing. There. I admit it.
My mood-swings, cravings and over-emotional behavior today has finally been justified. I almost cried several times today, once when I was really happy and once when I was really sad. Then some childish boy in my office threw something hard at my neck and that gave me an excuse to run into the ladies room and cry. That’s one indication of PMS.
The second was in the evening when I ate an entire bar of milk chocolate and then almost immediately ate bread dipped in really spicy chutney.
The third was when this sweet guy in my office asked me what was up with my life. Instead of smiling and saying everything was fine, I unleashed a bevy of reasons about why I am so incredibly depressed. I even told him that there was nothing wrong with me, and that I do not want to merely have fun any more, and I deserve a boyfriend.
At which point he said something that stumped me. He called it the ‘Double C Theory’
He said that the way men see me now is like this funny, sweet, bubbly little, ‘one-of-the-boys’ girl, which is all really good according to him. But if I want to snag one of the said men, I have to suddenly, when he least expects it, turn on the ‘Coy’ woman act.
Apparently what men like is this outward extrovert, but a closeted introvert. I found this most interesting. That is my key to snagging me a man. But this is just according to one guy. There are a million guys who probably like the opposite, right?
Oh, but the other ‘C’ is ‘cleavage’. According to him, you should show a little cleavage and be coy at the same time.
That would work, right?
My mood-swings, cravings and over-emotional behavior today has finally been justified. I almost cried several times today, once when I was really happy and once when I was really sad. Then some childish boy in my office threw something hard at my neck and that gave me an excuse to run into the ladies room and cry. That’s one indication of PMS.
The second was in the evening when I ate an entire bar of milk chocolate and then almost immediately ate bread dipped in really spicy chutney.
The third was when this sweet guy in my office asked me what was up with my life. Instead of smiling and saying everything was fine, I unleashed a bevy of reasons about why I am so incredibly depressed. I even told him that there was nothing wrong with me, and that I do not want to merely have fun any more, and I deserve a boyfriend.
At which point he said something that stumped me. He called it the ‘Double C Theory’
He said that the way men see me now is like this funny, sweet, bubbly little, ‘one-of-the-boys’ girl, which is all really good according to him. But if I want to snag one of the said men, I have to suddenly, when he least expects it, turn on the ‘Coy’ woman act.
Apparently what men like is this outward extrovert, but a closeted introvert. I found this most interesting. That is my key to snagging me a man. But this is just according to one guy. There are a million guys who probably like the opposite, right?
Oh, but the other ‘C’ is ‘cleavage’. According to him, you should show a little cleavage and be coy at the same time.
That would work, right?
Sunday, October 08, 2006
a little more gaargh
I was reading some of my archives and i came across this post
It was then I realised to my utter horror, that my luck has still not changed. It has been almost a year and I have nothing to show for it.
How's that for a perfect end to a bad Sunday?
I need to weep into a big, fat pillow.
It was then I realised to my utter horror, that my luck has still not changed. It has been almost a year and I have nothing to show for it.
How's that for a perfect end to a bad Sunday?
I need to weep into a big, fat pillow.
gaargh
Sunday is a good day.
Sunday is a day when I read a book, eat my father’s food, drink tea and generally relax while I mentally prepare myself to be pissed-off all week.
But not this Sunday. Oh no, someone up there thought they’d make me just a little bit peeved on my day of rest.
I woke up in the morning at ten with an alarm that I had not set. This is very annoying. My phone just seems to be on its own trip and it is out to get me. It dies when I am on important calls. It rings for no reason sometimes. It is possessed.
I was talking to my ex online and he asked me some very inane question. To which I said he should really pay more attention to when we are chatting because it’s just annoying to repeat stuff over and over. At this point the profanities began and I was left speechless. My first reaction was to yell back. In capital letters. But I realised he may be just a little on edge. Which he was, and soon after apologised and gave me a virtual hug. I accepted but refused to virtually hug back until he washed his mouth. Also I told him if he ever spoke like that to me, it would be the last time.
Then I went to my room and lay down, when I realised to my horror that there were two happy-camper ants running around on my pillow. I almost fainted as I frantically dusted them off and had visuals of them entering my ears and building an ant colony, eating away at my innards, while I suffer and die slowly.
Bloody damned ants.
Sunday is also a day when I wash my hair and do my complicated deep conditioning treatment. It’s not that complicated actually - wash, shampoo, wash, shampoo, condition, leave on for 1 hour and wash.
Today however, as I got ready for my bath, the water in my village went. I say village because the water went. Apparently someone forgot to pump. Excuse me? Forgot? I’m sure all this person has to do all day is remember to pump. How come they forgot? Their job description is “pumps water”. How can you forget? So there I am, semi-shampooed, trying to use whatever little water that is trickling out of the tap.
The water eventually came. So I quickly rush into the bath to wash off my conditioner. I’m not sure what would happen if I left it on too long. Then I get a phone call. So I run out, in my towel to answer the phone. I thought it was important. I don’t know why. No one important ever calls me.
It is a service provider woman. Not only is she high-pitched and annoying, she is calling me on a Sunday. Don’t these people have any respect for Sundays? I asked her what day it was and she bubbly replied, and then I told her never to call me again and banged down the phone.
It’s almost 8pm now.
The day is gone.
And I am just peeved.
Sunday is a day when I read a book, eat my father’s food, drink tea and generally relax while I mentally prepare myself to be pissed-off all week.
But not this Sunday. Oh no, someone up there thought they’d make me just a little bit peeved on my day of rest.
I woke up in the morning at ten with an alarm that I had not set. This is very annoying. My phone just seems to be on its own trip and it is out to get me. It dies when I am on important calls. It rings for no reason sometimes. It is possessed.
I was talking to my ex online and he asked me some very inane question. To which I said he should really pay more attention to when we are chatting because it’s just annoying to repeat stuff over and over. At this point the profanities began and I was left speechless. My first reaction was to yell back. In capital letters. But I realised he may be just a little on edge. Which he was, and soon after apologised and gave me a virtual hug. I accepted but refused to virtually hug back until he washed his mouth. Also I told him if he ever spoke like that to me, it would be the last time.
Then I went to my room and lay down, when I realised to my horror that there were two happy-camper ants running around on my pillow. I almost fainted as I frantically dusted them off and had visuals of them entering my ears and building an ant colony, eating away at my innards, while I suffer and die slowly.
Bloody damned ants.
Sunday is also a day when I wash my hair and do my complicated deep conditioning treatment. It’s not that complicated actually - wash, shampoo, wash, shampoo, condition, leave on for 1 hour and wash.
Today however, as I got ready for my bath, the water in my village went. I say village because the water went. Apparently someone forgot to pump. Excuse me? Forgot? I’m sure all this person has to do all day is remember to pump. How come they forgot? Their job description is “pumps water”. How can you forget? So there I am, semi-shampooed, trying to use whatever little water that is trickling out of the tap.
The water eventually came. So I quickly rush into the bath to wash off my conditioner. I’m not sure what would happen if I left it on too long. Then I get a phone call. So I run out, in my towel to answer the phone. I thought it was important. I don’t know why. No one important ever calls me.
It is a service provider woman. Not only is she high-pitched and annoying, she is calling me on a Sunday. Don’t these people have any respect for Sundays? I asked her what day it was and she bubbly replied, and then I told her never to call me again and banged down the phone.
It’s almost 8pm now.
The day is gone.
And I am just peeved.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
my lost mojo
I have nothing to say.
It's rare and I am worried for myself. We had an office party last Friday and I was uninterested and all I could think of was going home. After a couple of Vodkas, all I could think of was more Vodka and going home. I finally left at 10pm. Under normal circumstances, I would have made plans to stay at someone's house or something. But I just didn't want to.
I had an all night shoot for my film on Saturday night. I was overtly stressed, on the edge and very unapproachable. Even the male model smiled at me occasionally and instead of giving him a nice flirty look right back I looked pained and frustrated. At the end of the shoot all I was thinking about was the hours of editing and voice recording that will slowly take over my life for the next two weeks.
Two people asked me to meet them during the weekend and I have made excuses. If this continues all I will have left are Internet friends who are satisfied with an occasional mail and a smiley emoticon.
At work I sit at my desk. This is a huge deal because normally the last place you look for me is at my desk. Which is probably why no one can find me any more. I eat lunch alone. Either reading my book or listening to my i-pod, both are deemed to be very anti-social.
More than one person in the office has asked me if I am okay. Are you sick? Do you need some medication? How come you're so quite? Check for fever.
Throughout my journey to work and back home I have my eyes closed and I listen to music that calms me. There was a fight in the train and I didn't know until someone pushed me and I saw two women tugging at each other. Not that I would intervene anyway, but under normal circumstances I would at least be aware.
My conversation is strained. My interest in things outside my own existence has diminished. I don't look at, let alone talk to the guy sitting next to me - so much so he has invested in a pair of earphones and bobs his head to his music while I listen to mine.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I guess.
People think I am just still stuck in vacation mode. Maybe. My body is here, but my mind is so far away it's scary. I think I have just changed. That's a good excuse isn't it?
I need to snap out of it. This is getting me nowhere.
It's ruining my mood. It's depleting my energy. It's robbing me of my personality.
In short, it's got my mojo.
It's rare and I am worried for myself. We had an office party last Friday and I was uninterested and all I could think of was going home. After a couple of Vodkas, all I could think of was more Vodka and going home. I finally left at 10pm. Under normal circumstances, I would have made plans to stay at someone's house or something. But I just didn't want to.
I had an all night shoot for my film on Saturday night. I was overtly stressed, on the edge and very unapproachable. Even the male model smiled at me occasionally and instead of giving him a nice flirty look right back I looked pained and frustrated. At the end of the shoot all I was thinking about was the hours of editing and voice recording that will slowly take over my life for the next two weeks.
Two people asked me to meet them during the weekend and I have made excuses. If this continues all I will have left are Internet friends who are satisfied with an occasional mail and a smiley emoticon.
At work I sit at my desk. This is a huge deal because normally the last place you look for me is at my desk. Which is probably why no one can find me any more. I eat lunch alone. Either reading my book or listening to my i-pod, both are deemed to be very anti-social.
More than one person in the office has asked me if I am okay. Are you sick? Do you need some medication? How come you're so quite? Check for fever.
Throughout my journey to work and back home I have my eyes closed and I listen to music that calms me. There was a fight in the train and I didn't know until someone pushed me and I saw two women tugging at each other. Not that I would intervene anyway, but under normal circumstances I would at least be aware.
My conversation is strained. My interest in things outside my own existence has diminished. I don't look at, let alone talk to the guy sitting next to me - so much so he has invested in a pair of earphones and bobs his head to his music while I listen to mine.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I guess.
People think I am just still stuck in vacation mode. Maybe. My body is here, but my mind is so far away it's scary. I think I have just changed. That's a good excuse isn't it?
I need to snap out of it. This is getting me nowhere.
It's ruining my mood. It's depleting my energy. It's robbing me of my personality.
In short, it's got my mojo.
Friday, September 15, 2006
myrmecophobia-ish
I may have it.
How else would you explain the screaming and the paranoia that “they’re on me”?
I have a couple of incidents that probably caused it. The first was in junior school when I stepped into a hill and they were all over me. And they were running up my legs and two boys from my class (both who liked me) were frantically trying to “rub” them off my legs and thighs. Then one of them tried to carry me to class. And I wouldn’t have it, instead I escaped running with them, still all over me, to the girl’s toilet to wash them off.
Another time was when I was in college. We were at a picnic and I was drinking something, with a cola in it. And I put the glass on the ledge of the balcony while I was talking to this friend. About five minutes later, I picked it up, without looking and put it towards my mouth. And then, through the corner of my eye, I could see movement in my glass. They entered my glass, swimming in my drink, thousands of them, now running up my hand out of the glass.
This morning, I had a nice bath. Clean and feeling pretty I grabbed my hot pink towel and wrapped it around me. And I felt a little bite on my arm. I saw one and screamed. I immediately took of the towel and saw about 35 of them all over my upper body. I quickly turned on the shower again and frantically washed them off me. And asked for another towel to be passed to me.
I heard a story about one falling into a girl’s eye from a tree and it bit her eye ball and got stuck. I have also seen a flying one. That’s right, people… the source of my paranoia now has wings. All the better to “get me” with.
I abhor them anywhere close to me. I think about them and my skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms. If there is just one of them, I’m fine and I feel power as I crush it. But there is never only one. They move in large swarms.
There was even an animated film on them. Apparently it was very “cute”. I cannot bring myself to watch it. The name of the film creeps me out. My skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms, again.
They’re ants. By the way.
Shudder.
How else would you explain the screaming and the paranoia that “they’re on me”?
I have a couple of incidents that probably caused it. The first was in junior school when I stepped into a hill and they were all over me. And they were running up my legs and two boys from my class (both who liked me) were frantically trying to “rub” them off my legs and thighs. Then one of them tried to carry me to class. And I wouldn’t have it, instead I escaped running with them, still all over me, to the girl’s toilet to wash them off.
Another time was when I was in college. We were at a picnic and I was drinking something, with a cola in it. And I put the glass on the ledge of the balcony while I was talking to this friend. About five minutes later, I picked it up, without looking and put it towards my mouth. And then, through the corner of my eye, I could see movement in my glass. They entered my glass, swimming in my drink, thousands of them, now running up my hand out of the glass.
This morning, I had a nice bath. Clean and feeling pretty I grabbed my hot pink towel and wrapped it around me. And I felt a little bite on my arm. I saw one and screamed. I immediately took of the towel and saw about 35 of them all over my upper body. I quickly turned on the shower again and frantically washed them off me. And asked for another towel to be passed to me.
I heard a story about one falling into a girl’s eye from a tree and it bit her eye ball and got stuck. I have also seen a flying one. That’s right, people… the source of my paranoia now has wings. All the better to “get me” with.
I abhor them anywhere close to me. I think about them and my skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms. If there is just one of them, I’m fine and I feel power as I crush it. But there is never only one. They move in large swarms.
There was even an animated film on them. Apparently it was very “cute”. I cannot bring myself to watch it. The name of the film creeps me out. My skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms, again.
They’re ants. By the way.
Shudder.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
what becomes of the broken hearted?
If love grabs you by the balls, this is my version, of what heart-break does to you...and, trust me, it's happened oh-too-many times:
You are sitting pretty in a big beautiful bubble, staring at the soap-watery colours of the rainbow that surround you, and life is blissful.
Suddenly a big, hairy fist appears, as if out of nowhere. It jabs the bubble and grabs you tight.
It reaches into your mouth, down your throat, clawing at your beating heart. You can’t bite down, you can’t breath, you can’t throw up, you can’t scream out. It wrenches your heart right out, through your throat and out of your mouth, throwing it violently on the floor. Another fist punches you in the gut, leaving you writhing and empty, staring at the blood-stained life-giver, struggling to keep its beat.
And you lie there, trying to breath. And just when you start again, you allow yourself, dim-wittedly, to be consumed by another blissful, soapy bubble.
You are sitting pretty in a big beautiful bubble, staring at the soap-watery colours of the rainbow that surround you, and life is blissful.
Suddenly a big, hairy fist appears, as if out of nowhere. It jabs the bubble and grabs you tight.
It reaches into your mouth, down your throat, clawing at your beating heart. You can’t bite down, you can’t breath, you can’t throw up, you can’t scream out. It wrenches your heart right out, through your throat and out of your mouth, throwing it violently on the floor. Another fist punches you in the gut, leaving you writhing and empty, staring at the blood-stained life-giver, struggling to keep its beat.
And you lie there, trying to breath. And just when you start again, you allow yourself, dim-wittedly, to be consumed by another blissful, soapy bubble.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
picking up the pieces
Jetlag is killing me. I have been up most of the night at the computer, or tossing and turning in my bed. My bed. I haven’t slept in it for over eight months. It needs to get my shape again.
My room was so clean when I arrived, thanks to my wonderful parents. But it is now a mess again with everything pouring out of three suitcases.
The flight did not seem long at all. I guess I wasn’t as eager to come back as I was to get there. Luckily I did not have anyone sitting by me through the entire trip, so I could stretch my legs across three seats, listen to my ipod and reminisce about the most amazing holiday I have had in a long time. Missing the faces that kept me company for two whole months.
I met my niece, who as soon as I arrived from a long flight and an even longer immigration wait, gave me the most beautiful toothless smile I have ever seen, that it made everything worth while. Through out my trip she made me fall deeper into love with her, with everything she did – even poopie in the potty.
I met my sisters, who tried their best to make me have the best time ever – taking me out, exposing me to fantastic cuisine, making me stuff, buying me stuff (aren’t sisters fab?)
I met new friends who showed me a great time everywhere we went. Who were older than me by years, but never once made me feel uncomfortable, who were nice enough to make time for me, to get to know me, even though they weren’t on holiday.
I met a girl friend I have known for nine years, my best friend in college, and I realized that even after not being together everyday for almost three years, we picked up exactly where we left off. She showed me a super time in New York, that happy hour was the happiest.
I totally trusted her, again, with my thoughts. And I realized that she is and always will be my best friend- even if we don’t say it all the time like corny sisterhood women.
I met a guy friend from school. He was one year my junior, and was, as my memory recalls a short blue-house boy, with thick glasses, who giggled in the line going to assembly in the mornings. He’s no longer short, he doesn’t have the glasses (well actually he does, but contacts have prevailed), but deep down, he is still a little blue house boy – with traumatic childhood stories that end in him crying.
He picked me up and reached me home, introduced me to bolis and fishbowls, took me on midnight walks in a park, introduced me to trespassing on private lakes, long walks on the beach and a whole new vocabulary. And, just by being him, made the last few days of my trip, the best.
I feel as if I left bits of my heart in Staten Island, Connecticut, New Jersey and Georgia.
And now I am back in Bombay. Picking up the pieces.
My room was so clean when I arrived, thanks to my wonderful parents. But it is now a mess again with everything pouring out of three suitcases.
The flight did not seem long at all. I guess I wasn’t as eager to come back as I was to get there. Luckily I did not have anyone sitting by me through the entire trip, so I could stretch my legs across three seats, listen to my ipod and reminisce about the most amazing holiday I have had in a long time. Missing the faces that kept me company for two whole months.
I met my niece, who as soon as I arrived from a long flight and an even longer immigration wait, gave me the most beautiful toothless smile I have ever seen, that it made everything worth while. Through out my trip she made me fall deeper into love with her, with everything she did – even poopie in the potty.
I met my sisters, who tried their best to make me have the best time ever – taking me out, exposing me to fantastic cuisine, making me stuff, buying me stuff (aren’t sisters fab?)
I met new friends who showed me a great time everywhere we went. Who were older than me by years, but never once made me feel uncomfortable, who were nice enough to make time for me, to get to know me, even though they weren’t on holiday.
I met a girl friend I have known for nine years, my best friend in college, and I realized that even after not being together everyday for almost three years, we picked up exactly where we left off. She showed me a super time in New York, that happy hour was the happiest.
I totally trusted her, again, with my thoughts. And I realized that she is and always will be my best friend- even if we don’t say it all the time like corny sisterhood women.
I met a guy friend from school. He was one year my junior, and was, as my memory recalls a short blue-house boy, with thick glasses, who giggled in the line going to assembly in the mornings. He’s no longer short, he doesn’t have the glasses (well actually he does, but contacts have prevailed), but deep down, he is still a little blue house boy – with traumatic childhood stories that end in him crying.
He picked me up and reached me home, introduced me to bolis and fishbowls, took me on midnight walks in a park, introduced me to trespassing on private lakes, long walks on the beach and a whole new vocabulary. And, just by being him, made the last few days of my trip, the best.
I feel as if I left bits of my heart in Staten Island, Connecticut, New Jersey and Georgia.
And now I am back in Bombay. Picking up the pieces.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
crikey!
I heard on the news yesterday that Steve Irwin died because a sting ray jabbed his heart with its poisonous barb. That seems to me like such an unbelievably ironic thing to happen. This is the guy who used to wrestle crocs and play with pythons. What a way to go.
It’s like when the headlines said that Superman fell from his horse and broke his back - it could never happen to Superman. Steve Irwin was the “superman” of the wild, I thought.
He was one of those guys who could go out and do that and people would stand on the sidelines, biting their fingers, but always reassured that this guy knew what he was doing and would be safe.
And now this. That’s just how much life really sucks.
Small consolation, but at least he died doing what he loved – even though, reports say, it hurt like hell.
R.I.P Steve.
It’s like when the headlines said that Superman fell from his horse and broke his back - it could never happen to Superman. Steve Irwin was the “superman” of the wild, I thought.
He was one of those guys who could go out and do that and people would stand on the sidelines, biting their fingers, but always reassured that this guy knew what he was doing and would be safe.
And now this. That’s just how much life really sucks.
Small consolation, but at least he died doing what he loved – even though, reports say, it hurt like hell.
R.I.P Steve.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)