The eye of the storm

It’s amidst the turmoil, calm doesn’t prevail for miles and miles the eyes can behold

Stirring vigorously the entrails, the soul, the reality of being

Lashing and thrashing out the truth, the beautiful truth never to be seen

The vehemence, the myriad of emotions, the consciousness all churning fast

What an irony this, it is the safest haven, around the most violent form

Waves beating high, the whirlpool in motion and here it is- 

The eye of the storm….

The blues and the greens of the sea are visible but it covers the eye

What could be the color of the eye, questions the sky-

Maybe it is the red of the cheeks of the lover so shy.

The choppy sea has its pits its depth the fathomable sea bed

What holdeth the eye?

Maybe it feels like the softness of caress or the shiny wild tresses on the head.

The wrath of the sea goes wild with wind, blows helter skelter the waters none can halt

What is the sensation near the eye?

Maybe it is like the tingling of buds when the tongue sweeps the lip and tastes the salt.

The encore of the sea, the loud musings of thunder, the flash of lightening bright

This brutal orchestra but what is the sound of the eye?

Maybe it is the soft whispers of love poetry and passionate couplets of fantasies on flight.

The eye of the storm draws you to it, holds you, covers you, protects you and checks you

It affects but saves its effect

In or out of it- life wouldn’t be perfect

Yet you seek it you need it you wish for it

Coz in the wild wild storm, its arms are the only place you safely fit.

The tightrope walker- blithe yet balanced
Takes the fall, dusts her pants and starts again
This endless cycle is life- balancing, falling, absorbing the pain and moving on....what does one attain?

A pair of eyes watch this through big window panes; It’s one of the pleasant distractions in the usual humdrum
Sometimes the eyes watch this through the glass sometimes look through her

The tightrope walker and the pair of eyes connect
The eyes seem admiring, fanning the ambitious, fanning the fire, showering adulation and showing belief
Walker ups the stakes; Takes the rope higher, makes the rope thinner
Blithe but balanced takes the fall, dusts her pants and starts again with relief

The magnitude of pain will shoot up, balancing will get harder but the stakes have been upped
The eyes so seasoned keep watching this through the glass and sometimes look through her unlearned

The tightrope walker and the eyes stay connected
Knowing the encouraging gaze brings the strength and confidence, makes stepping on the rope seems easier
Should the walker up the stakes further and make it riskier?

The choice would be to walk it or wait for it to snap for the lethal fall
The eyes that see this through the glass and sometimes look through her can calculate it all

The only connection is what the eyes see and show
The only interpretation is what the tightrope walker wants to know
The tightrope walker has the fall in her tow
The eyes will leave once over is this show

The discerning pair of eyes move on find interesting sights in the usual humdrum
The tightrope walker- blithe yet balanced
Takes the fall, dusts her pants and starts again
This endless cycle is life- balancing, falling, absorbing the pain and moving on....what does one attain?

The Politics of Living

Humans are composite creatures made up of virtues and vices. Stripped off all vices a human becomes his own angel. But to get there is a treacherous journey.

What does it take to slay a thousand demons- fear, inhibition, immorality and consciousness of the surrounding; unlearn the learnt, step over the professed perfect, terminate the obvious in order to be liberated?

What does it take to drift away, to let you lose, and to go with the flow; to unshackle self from routine, to become the person you are not but you want to be; to become the purest form of you; to become the spirit that resides within?

Oft times, the romantic in me wants to be this person, the rebel, the outlier, the perfect 10, the epitome of the ideal flawless living. But the harder I try, the farther I get away from the 10. Because I realize I endeavor not for me in the real sense, but it is to become someone that someone else would want to be. I ask myself “There are loads and scores of people who I want to be. But are there people out there who are what THEY want to be?”

Are there any real 10/10 lives or the ones that seem to be 10/10 on the outside are also struggling within to get there?

Do the ones who inspire also aspire?

A forgotten dream

A night of most beautiful dream

Chocolate valley and mountain of ice-cream

Floating in memory river is a boat of corn

Coming from where our love was born

Garden of most beautiful flower

A house of noodles near musical shower

A litchi cream well and a coffee lake

You, me and our wedding cake

What it's not?

I clearly am not the first one to document this. This has been attempted in the past. Yet I can’t really say why I got drawn to the idea of penning this in spite of a no-Eureka moment. Perhaps the urge emerged due to being on THAT side of the fence at some point or marginally still being there. But with evolution I have developed the ability to mock my own actions. While slowly transcending the boundaries, hauling myself to move to the other side, I must admit when I look back it seems fairly exasperating, ghastly and ridiculous there. The yard in question is the FB play field. Every movement here has a meaning. Wish I was born a psychologist or at least studied psychology while the time was right. I would have dissected some like those newspaper agony aunts (you know who I am talking about) ;)

Some of the FB behaviours are decoded below. These are ToM because they are reasonably recent in occurrence or have had ME involved and somehow I had the clairvoyance and sagacity to read between the lines (demon laughter).

Posting pictures with long lost friends- We generally don’t give a fuck about calling or meeting each other regularly but when we meet once in a year or two (by force or chance) we try putting malice behind and hug each other with luuurrvvveeee. Freakshow! we are so enterprising and full of love. The post/picture validates the feeling.

Food pictures- The piece of chicken in the picture tastes like shit. I can’t have it so while it looks half decent let me at least take a picture. Instagram can do the rest for making it look edible. The picture will let the world know what a culinary expert I am and I never settle for anything less that gourmet!

Pictures of babies and kids- I sincerely, really, honestly love my child but while all my single or childless friends are living it up I am going nuts cleaning soiled nappies and child puke. And this retarded kid just doesn’t sleep. Let me take a picture and make a post for some distraction and sanity. At least the picture conveys the joys and sanctity of motherhood. Awwww I am complete now (fuck shit give me alcohol! And take this lump of flesh away to his father who must be in some gutter pissed drunk with his man friends at 3 am!)

Check-in at the airport- International: So what if my company is sending me to China for some donkey/bitch work which entails racking brains with incomprehensible Chinese and swallowing raw, uncooked animals, at least the picture tells the world that I have another stamp on my passport and I have arrived in life. Domestic: I live in a pigeon hole because that is all I can afford. It is always a happy occasion to spend a night or two in a nice hotel at the company’s expense, away from my very own shit hole. A good meal is sometimes all I want/need/crave. And who knows that my girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse is on the verge of dumping me because I am never there and we have endless fights on phone while I am away so much so that I bawl my eyes out in that nice hotel room night after night? Who cares the check-in screams “Jet-setter! Yay! And I have a dream job- middle finger to you MFs ”

Selfie- I am living in denial of the fact that I am self-obsessed. Some time ago I blatantly and unabashedly accepted the truth; “I am a narcissist, main apni favourite hun”, on public forums and now I post one selfie a day. Even my profile picture is a selfie. However who knows of the gruelling grind behind that one right angle- I spend endless hours staring into the mirror cursing the Lord for sculpting that face. Bathroom is my haven where no one bothers me. I strike innumerable poses, make sure the light is right, the nose doesn’t look crooked, the pout is right, hair obviously right, face- pretty, fresh and young, to get that one out of one million photo right which can then be improved through Instagram amounting to “HOT!!!”. The target this time around is 50 likes. That would validate that I look hot and pretty and also improves my self confidence which I otherwise awfully lack L

Game of Thrones updates- I heard about this fad some time back. They kept saying GoT GoT, winter is coming etc. Sounded cool and hep so I Googled and finally got that GoT stands for Game of Thrones and it is in its fourth season now. So what if I know jack about last three or GRRM and the books he wrote, I can always catch up later. But for now let us post about Ep 8 Season 4. Hey I am thrilled because I am intellectual for following a period drama and being informed because I am a part of a global phenomenon!!

RIP messages- Who did you say passed away today? Yeah! I heard that in the passing on FM, let me see is there is more of it on FB. There is. It must have been someone famous, with a cult following. What was the name again? Let me Google- “Which famous author died today?”- Yes Mary Angelou!!! She was much more than an author. Excellent! Let me pick her singer, dancer attribute because I can totally relate and write a post around it. Done. 6 like minded people who were ardent followers of Mary Angelou liked my post. Happy shiny day!

Strong is the new skinny! Really?

I am choosing autonomy for claiming a notorious statement to my eminence- “All who workout is narcissistic but all narcissistic don’t work out”. There is a possible argument there that people exercise to stay fit or they do it for the unadulterated and neat love of fitness, longevity and health but I would say the overarching truth and underlying reality in all such declarations is the love for self. Yes? Makes sense? May be? It is self explanatory and so (vain and self absorbed) people who put in enormous amount of exertion and time and money to look good and prolong their youthfulness, would treat all of the above like an investment and every investment demands and promises a return, preferably tangible. Coffee table flat tummy is a viable, tangible and visible return and so is carved out calves. It therefore legitimizes the outcome which entails being in shape and toned like a model because fat and obese can truthfully not be pleasing to a narcissistic eye or otherwise. Hence it is established that (narcissistic) women in order to look pretty or alluring need to be slender if not skinny because that is what gets noticed first followed by intellect and blah blah blah. And being plus size results in self loathing.

I have been a Cross Fitter for a month shy of two years now and I keep faltering upon the phrase “Strong is the new skinny” which invariably is aimed at persuading women NOT to vie for an anorexic-size-zero-mannequin inspired-super model-body BUT focus on other integral elements of core strength development implying "UK 10 is also good while you are strong and toned". Yes! I can repeat the aforesaid 6 Gazilliion times every day to myself but my brain sieves out the latter and zooms in on the former every time I enter the Box. And so does 90% women's brains who train with me. The conversations are always about or around “I need some serious wash board abs”, “My calves are so fat, I think the only remedy is lipo”, “Look at my bye bye arms, I can barely keep them bare”, “Jesus Christ I am losing my boobs”, “I can call my butt Mini-me coz it’s as big as me”.....phew!!!!!

So where and how is being strong imperative and significant for us women when we can’t get over our bodily woes and inches here and there. I mean what the heck would I do with all the strength when I spend sheaves of cash and earn no abs to flaunt specially when there are stick figures dancing all around me? Skinny is all that matters and appreciated at the end of the day. Strength et al is still gibberish in this context unless one is a lady Mariner or a Security personnel or a black-vest-and-cargo-clad-super-cop straight out of a Hollywood film. But we are a Bollywood inspired race fed on "pretty is always petite".

And that is how I got into the business of decoding the so called paradigm changing assertion “Strong is the new skinny”. It took me a year and the track Sunscreen to understand the slogan and start appreciating it. Thereafter I could rationalize that we have created more (role) models to follow on the bony slender side and fewer on the strong chiseled, muscled super cop side and we obviously sway towards the weighted side. We need more of self loving stronger women and fewer self loathing skinny variety to inspire us. We need more super-cops, pilots, politicians, Mariners and fewer anorexic calendar girls and actors qualifying as role models. Narcissism, self love and conceit shouldn't be the evaluation metrics of skinny alone. The horse blinders that block the beauty outside of skinny should be compromised. The beauty in strong/big/plump/maybe fat too needs to be acknowledged as well. It is a process of transformation not for the women alone, but one that their entire ecosystem needs to undergo.

The truth however persists that while the wild goose chase for followers of strong continues, skinny will rule. It is a while before strong replaces skinny. The start would be when we choose to not embrace passing out due to starvation, deprivation and drugs to look pretty but lift 70 kilograms, dress up in UK 8, keep our heads high and wear our best smiles to party. In a nutshell happily reporting from the place we are at.

Relationship Hindsight

 

Sometimes walking out of a relationship leaves you like you were walking on a busy road with a slow slug crawling in front of you with excess baggage, curved under his own weight not willing to budge, not willing to let you ahead, not willing to make way, not close to tiring out. You just have to tread heavily behind him with all his baggage and yours for as long as you find a clearing. Finding a way out is a struggle.....

 

Some relationships feel like borrowing a runway designer gown from a dry cleaner for a red carpet event. Somewhere within, the voice in you, intimidated and shy, tells you that it is a different and difficult league but you can’t resist the temptation of seeing yourself enshrouded by the shallow and banal, the sham of pleasantries, the gown with a train and the charm of stepping on red carpet in Cinderella heels till you trip. Once you have been there done that you know you have to return home from this farce; that neither the gown was yours nor did you belong to the red carpet vanity in entirety….ever.

 

What happens when your eyes grow bigger than your stomach? You become greedy, you want more, you want to capacitate but you can’t and eventually you consume and then regurgitate. The system refuses to accept it for it defies nature....then comes the punishment for the avarice...starvation!

When you get into it telling IT “This is it and I am planning a fairy tale ending here”, the dude (soul) gets so ecstatic and hysterical that it almost dies when you end it abruptly. IT sulks and sulks and mops and bawls ITS eyes out that IT becomes too hard to rehabilitate IT back. You almost become schizophrenic living in parallel worlds feeling one and living one…neither of the two gets you anywhere….The soul wrenching ones are these…

It’s like when you have had white smoke with your soul on getting in and getting out, IT knows that there’s no staying back…You have given IT a heads up and the suicidal soul won’t kill itself when you actually walk out, may be IT will just punch ITS face hard. You recoil and recover….

Some feel like being at the crossroad signal where one encounters an urchin selling flowers, pushing them hard onto the car window. Give him a nod and a smile and he is encouraged beyond comprehension. You can’t bring him back to reality, you can’t convince him that you don’t need the flowers; you can’t decline the offer. He is tenacious. The signal changes and you move on and the little urchin with flowers withers away in gloom.

Some are like knowing if there is life on Mars. “What if it was for real?”, “what if we could share?”, “What if we could live in communion?”..the “what ifs..?” they hound like the dark shadows which appear every time there is light around…and from there on the shadows become you so much so that you become oblivious to their presence when things lighten up around you, you know it rises with you, it follows and stays never leaving you alone…you know it’s you!!!!

For the lack or for the want?

I feel like the hunchback Spartan trader Ephialtes, disloyal to my generation, when I hear people with similar FB timelines as mine, making it big in life by working towards achievement of that one dream which they have harbored and nurtured in their teens.

What was I doing when I was a teenybopper? Preparing for Organic chemistry exams, reading Sidney Sheldon in my leisure hours, spending wee hours fiddling with my first mobile handset (mind you back then it was novelty, especially when your boyfriend bought you one for the marathon night chats under the duvet), watching Blue Lagoon, Shakespeare in Love and the likes on TV when mom and dad were away, thinking of ways of arranging funds for the boyfriend’s birthday, finding a solution to the aforesaid by teaching kids all the way from the 1^st standard to the 10^th standard, chatting with random strangers sharing ‘asl’ in A Small Smoke Filled Café on Rediff. That’s what growing up was like.

My jaws dropped the other day when I discovered that the kids at the gym who work out with me are merely 18-19 and my jaws nearly swept the floor when they added that they were studying medicine or pharma or BDS or one of those intellectually stimulating courses. The stereotype of a geeky, nerdy, sloppy slob of a doctor was smashed for me. They know exactly where they are headed from here- cosmetic surgeon, big bucks, glamour, industrialists, Bollywood, face correction, more money, ageing actresses, sagging skin, lots of money!!!!! And therefore it is so important to look good themselves and hence turbo workouts at the age of 19 along with studies..WOW!!

I pondered over the sagacity of these driven people to be convinced that the most important thing today is to have clarity of thought, vision, knowing what leads you and what pulls you down and a Business Plan. No one likes being in jobs anymore, at least a score from my class (MBA) is making a desperate attempt at initiating their “start-up”; Decades ago MBA used to be esteemed but alas it has been replaced by Entrepreneur today! So I am a B.Tech, MBA, CFA and an Entrepreneur, as good as a degree, diploma or a charter.

And it seems I like a moron am required to think that if this rung breaks apart and re-starts a parallel universe of entrepreneurs, who will serve the old men already in the game. May be we will backtrack to the era of barter and scratch each other’s back for survival…Maybe KFC will provide Zingers for Facebook’s wedding (if Zuckerberg likes Fresh-ly fried Chicken) and Facebook will manufacture fans for KFC.

What kept my dad in his job for 30 years? Why didn’t he ever get frustrated with his boss(es) and broke off like a Leftist to start his mutiny? Had he done that, I would be chilling in a pool, sipping at a cocktail with a manicured, spa-treated expensive dog, beating the Mumbai heat. Maybe he is not a patron and believer of democracy and could clearly survive the politics of work- in its inherent anarchical or monarchial form. What sets us apart? Why is there so much unrest in us? Are the patience levels depleting like Ozone? Are today’s employers the reincarnates of Hitler, Stalin and other tyrants? Are there more opportunities today than ever existed? Or do we have a sharper intuition and sense to judge the opportunities or are we really really smart to make something out of nothing? Is change and mobility of prime importance to us today? Was money and career never this important to our predecessors? Is Loyalty a vice now? Do we have an inflated sense of who we are and what we are capable of? OR is this another attempt at accomplishing oneself as “have arrived”.

Suddenly self-expression has become so vital that everyone seems to have an extended personality. Irrespective of whatever one is at work, he or she must be a socialite, must play golf, attend all the important events in the city, blog (for money), must know photography (for sharing), must be training physically, running marathons, must know all forms of “alternate”- music, cultures, sports; undertaking deep sea diving, trekking courses and certifications etc. While I simply am into reading, watching films and occasionally cooking, I find these interests and extensions extremely stylish and smart. I have immense respect for all those who manage their “lifestyle” so beautifully well. But I wonder if all these manifestations of a certain personality are a function of growing and moving up in life or a certain education type or a metro phenomenon or a residue of exposure to the world or mere perceptiveness or overwhelming love for self or cognition and need to earn more money or need to belong like the rich and the famous or….

Somewhere the entrepreneurial streak and the general interests are intertwined. From knowing what an individual does when free of the golden handcuffs (read job) I can now figure whether he or she stands a chance as an entrepreneur or not.

For me, I am still waiting to know myself beyond work and mundane and of course the wait for the ultimate discovery of my Business Plan continues.

It was not easy!

It was not easy and it never is

Care for the hit and not the miss

Success comes to the one, who yearns for it,

Toils and works hard and smiles bright

Success walks in tip toed and pats on the back

Thence, of excitement and jubilation there is no lack.

Of long days and nights, and journeys and flights, and struggles and ploys

And the sex toys

It was then that brings in the now

The moment of glory and the pinnacle of joy

Treat Thy Self well today

For….It was not easy and it never is!!!

Loosening Up

My Diesel jeans loosened up after a wash! They are loose where I need them to be and well fitted at places that flatter me.

We have come a long way from the time we started together. On Day one, my jeans were restrictive; they deterred me from bending, folding, and moving lithely because it didn’t know my contours neither was I familiar with the rigidity of the fibers. They said “you must buy one that holds you tight and close within it” and I subscribed for it. But then it became clammy, tight and wouldn’t let me breathe. After gasping, fraught as I was, I decided to let it go with utmost disappointment and abhorrence.

And then some Spinning and Tumbling in the tub changed everything for us. It came back in its full glory and hugged me like I had never dreamt. The comfort was such that I could now Sleep in them.

I play, cook, travel, draw, eat, read, write, think, dance, run, lounge, party, shop, drop and a do lot more in them. It earned me a compliment to envy for- “It’s the woman in it who makes the jeans!”

My jeans are distressed and ripped. That’s how I like them. I never liked the slick, impeccable, monochrome, blue finish. I like it acid washed and I like it stone washed. It must have gone through some treatment before I endorse it. The distressed ones make me look different. The ripped ones give me character. The ones that are both distressed and ripped get most of my love. That’s how I like it!

I approve of them till I get jaded and then I shop for a new pair. The start is always so exciting, the tension to fit, the loosening up followed by the flawless fitting, the charm of newness, the commendations, the standing out, the perfect match with everything else, the need to sport. But here’s always more to vie for on the shop floor may be because I get them on a discount.

All of them get stacked up in my Closet. Some come out once in a while when I wish to look like days gone by, some stay there untouched for days and weeks and months and some are just buried under the heap never to be fished out. But I never get rid of them. All of them are always there….

It’s astounding how my jeans are my life's raconteur...they are a metaphor! :)

Now I am initiated.

Mumbai locals, they inspire a new something in you.

Unlike most people I like the morning ride to office, I like the breeze brushing past my hair; sometimes it carries the stench of a rotting carcass, sometimes the obnoxious smell from the nearby heap of garbage (of which there is no dearth in this city). I like staring at the tracks with an occasional tryst with scenes from the movie called Life playing at Gaitee Galaxy; people living in abject penury, surviving the most hostile unlivable conditions, attempting to make their existence meaningful with each passing minute, squeezing every drop of time that one possibly can into the batter of life’s pie, running, not giving up.

My First Class ladies coupe (first class is important) is a constant source of amusement- I was tickled on Day 1 and I still give out a smirk on my N-th day here. Someone pragmatic would say there is practically no need for barging into or out of the train, at a station, with all of one’s might, equipped with the lethal nudge-tool because there is always enough time to board or alight but it is as vital as asking at least 4 seated women on board to keep their places for one standing, as essential as shopping from the in-train vendors (veggies to braid of firangipani to jewelry to clothes to processed food to anything where your imagination takes you), most required being high decibel conversations and giggles accompanied with jibes on a subject who could be anyone wearing Black clothes on Monday instead of Saturday to someone wearing a red lip color or a tad over dressed for the locals to someone innocently engrossed in a book (that happens with me the most). I love my 25 minutes in the fast. Interestingly the behavior in a fast local is very different from the tendencies of a slow local. The ones in slow doze off at the onset of the journey and wake up on arrival at the destination. It is certainly less competitive and more peaceful in a slow. The ones in there are in no hurry certainly. They seldom laugh (the loud amplified laughter, and the high pitch chortles implied) or vehemently exchange notes. They are ones who wake up at 5 am, cook, clean, wash and step out to earn. Perhaps return to their abode to follow the same cycle of the grind.

This morning while in the train my fleeting glance touched the creased temples of a street ranger lost in a book, and I mention this because I was pleasantly surprised! (The book was fleshier and thicker than the reader himself) He was happily sprawled under the open sky, on the rugged earth, lying on his back with his woman next to him, unmoved by the rattling of the train tracks, lost in her reverie was the woman fast asleep. The man didn’t flinch at anything: The trains, the crowd, the drizzle, the reek, people finishing their ablutions in the bushes next to them, urchins running past, nothing whatsoever disturbed the peace of their moment. Is that how much they tired themselves out the previous night? Is that how overpowering their motivation was? Is this how human body makes itself used to the vagaries of life? Is this how bodies learn to survive? A zillion questions pop and wane.

Someone once shared an interesting observation about Mumbai. It is the first 6 months in the city that serves as The Wall. Once you hit it you know you will anyhow navigate your way through the rest.

The relationship with the city is either Black or White, either you love it and want to embrace it or you hate it and want to quit, there never is any grey here. There is always a Quid Pro Quo though. It takes away a lot from you before it commits some fornication. Perhaps the finishing school of life, perhaps the practical laboratory for experiments on living, a cliffhanger, a masquerade (maybe not), the funny Mirror that brings about expressions in you by changing how you look, Mecca for some and Tihar for some, bier or a bed of roses it is awesome every day.

Now I am initiated.

As I peer out at the night sky I feel a shudder down my spine
I am high, so high, beyond all reach, the worlds and thine
“Petrified, aren’t you?” questions some speck of mine
Unarmed, I say, “NO, I will be fine”.

The wanton wind drifts me away; time seems prolonged, end distant
Bemused I see faces all around, expressions mottled, the range is infinite
But I sit there stock-still, with thrift of feelings and bare intent
As I persuade the speck in me, I say, “I’ll be fine” with all my might

Certain numbness smacks me in the head, vision mislaid when the eyes drowsed
I know it was a conscious selection to come to blows with all that the mind had housed
Dreams are at an arm’s length, I see clearly and how; although I know I am fine, but what now?

In the dark, behind the shut eye, the shadows dance; the voices are now roaring
“Levitate, keep rising, and keep furthering, don’t stroke the earth, keep soaring
This is your journey, this is your departure, purpose indefinite but you will be fine”.

To My Phantasma

My letter to Tammy

Treat this as an acknowledgement buddy. I am virtuous and couldn’t palpably embezzle your initiative hence the effort. This in effect will result in a “letter to your Future Girlfriend” and not my future boyfriend as an outcome of some epiphanies. Thoughts can be corrected at a later stage but I’m sure you won’t have too many contentions from what I know of you. So here we go!

Dear FG Phantasma

It’s about time I write to you because I am sure you are well existent in all your capacity in some part of the world. But sometimes I wonder how to get to you, you act so elusive! Nevertheless the onus for an introduction will always be on me and therefore laying down the dos and the don’ts to follow when we make our association. Of course you can have your say when you arrive; I’ll do my bit in your absence however.

Gal be my FG in the real sense, earnestly don’t end up being the Fuck Girl only; I abhor all such relationships of convenience. There are fancy names for this kind of an arrangement, no-name zone, friends with benefits, flings but let me drive home the point that I advocate none. Don’t misjudge my coolness but I simply can’t, not that I haven’t tried, but my attempts fell flat in the face. I probably don’t belong to that race. I might appear to be heady, in control, self reliant, decadent, etcetera but that’s just an ostentatious façade that I carry with me, it’s more like a shield you know. Somewhere in my heart of hearts I am still too clung on to morals and values which I compromise when I desire, mind you only when I wish.

I have learnt things the hard way in life but candidly I am a dimwit because I end up committing the same mistakes repeatedly. So in order to evade any further hurt to self I have decided to keep the emotional beast in me in shackles and to not permit him to surface ever. A word of caution for you would be to never whisper those three hideous words in my ears not even when you mean them. I hate the hollowness with which it’s splattered in the face. They mean nothing to me, not anymore. Earlier I used to take them too seriously and would normally start weaving dreams around them, but not anymore. I have outgrown the charm of “being in love”. I don’t think I can love anyone, not even you, no offence but it’s just the way I have become, invulnerable. I can merely keep you company, take you to the seventh heaven and back again and make my presence felt in more ways than one, but I don’t feel butterflies in the stomach anymore, I don’t feel misty eyed when struck with and emotional panorama, I don’t believe anyone can ever be indispensible because I have mastered the art of moving on and I expect you to come equipped with the same because nothing is non-transient.

I am an attention slut. So if you are my girl, for whatever time, don’t forget to make me feel wanted. That’s how I function. I need to know my importance in your life. So if you ever make me feel like shit, you’ll get it back from me, I am very ruthless that ways. This doesn’t mean that I am an avid promoter of PDA but a subtle hint of what I mean to you once in a while would be appreciated, after all, all of us are lovelorn in life, aren’t we?

It might take you anything from a day to a million light years to know me but don’t give up without trying, I am not complex really. So abstain from hurting me, not that I get hurt easily (don’t believe me when I say that) because my past life has rendered me rock solid. I have been on both sides of the tunnel, have had the giving hand and the receiving one too so I will go easy on you, I promise.

P.S. : Apply/approach after you have thoroughly read the aforesaid Phantasma!

Time traveller

Kafele means "would die for"

Layla means "born at night"

Kafele: Why do you think it is not possible to travel back in time?

Layla: There's no need to elude the existent for something you've already lived through.

Kafele: But the intent could be one of making an impeccable past.

Layla: And then? Travel in time again through the flawless past to reach the present?

Kafele: That would actually facilitate populating the old life and re-living it.

Layla: What ground would one gain by perfecting the past? E.g. if you travelled to the past you would only peril our togetherness for all you know.

Kafele: So you think you won't be there in my sprawling new present, if I returned from a journey in time?

Layla: If you correct and check and watch your moves in your last past you won't set out looking for me, my need would be eradicated completely.

Kafele: Arguably it is also possible to travel forth in time, so perhaps I should do that.

Layla: Why would you wish to send yourself forward in time without experiencing the intervening?

Kafele: I want to familiarize myself with my future; just a glimpse and I'll be back.

Layla: What bearing will it have on the current scheme of things once you're back?

Kafele: Why should anything change?

Layla: May be you'll see your prospective form to be an accomplished and affluent merchandiser and when you return you'd think of ways of becoming potentially rich. You might sell off all your cattle. You wouldn't need a shepherdess like me then.

Kafele: So you think you won't be there in this same treacherous present, if I returned from a journey in time?

Layla: Work brought us together and need knits us close, when you're wealthy and refined, my presence would reduce to mere indignity.

Kafele: I'm stuck in time! Where's the exit?

Layla: Twenty aeons passed on Earth when you last travelled to space for 2 years and still all you wish to do is forsake me and go?

Kafele: No wonder nothing quite makes sense to me anymore. That would also include you!

Layla: You are like an astronomer who feels complete and accomplished when he looks at the sky to find some points and decides that put together they look like a deer.

Kafele: Those points make great constellations and the brightness of the stars makes great stories.

Layla: Look between the constellations into the black of the night.

Kafele: You are looking in the wrong place.

Layla: "There are just as many stories to be narrated in the dark spots as there are in the bright stars." [Jodie Picoult]

N-aimless

Just when my blog was entering remission I revived it with a jolt. The story "a Janus me a Janus you" was to have 3 chapters, 2 of which never saw the light of the day. That speaks of my love for my blog.

Most people who blog, write addressing an audience, assuming people would read and appreciate their writing. But mine are always monologues with me being the script writer, the Deliverer and the audience. It's not that bad actually coz that ways I find out how badly I suck plus I also know that I'm not naturally humorous! I pretty well can do the same with a Diary but I'm too lazy to buy one and scribble on it. Actually I'm not even sure if I can write, as in write write, on a piece of paper anymore. I can at best doodle random line art or draw crazy circles on paper while painfully enduring and traversing the entire length of breathtakingly long meetings and sessions where gothic people keep haranguing for hours throwing words and phrases like long-term strategy, vision, capitalize, monetize, customer delight, net-net, diiferentiator, we are here, we need to get there, bottleneck and profitomania and lossophobia.

Umm...I can't retrieve when exactly I started preferring the tak-tak of typing over the joy of holding a pencil [{(I enjoyed sharpeneing the pencil more than writing with it. With due excitement I would take on a new pencil but half way through it's length I would get bored of it and start thinking of ways of diminishing it's length. Then with growing age I upgraded my pencil interests and got to using mechanical ones, in myriad of colors and designs, how I adored them!! But they couldn't hold my ineterst for too long either. Then came the era of fountain pens in Vth standard I guess. To start with I got the really cheap as in inexpensive ones coz I would break the nib every second day. And then the next upgrade in Level II i.e. in the domain of pens happened and I got a Parker. Boy! some joy it was to write or glide with it. Then needs became more functional and time as ever shrinking as it was, got me using ball pens. Ball pens aren't great fun though but they make you feel good when you exhaust the refills and write really fast during exams. Actually in my engineering days it became more of a contention to exhaust refill after refill filling up the scripts with illegible and unintelligible formulas or "rough work" for your mathematical problems. I used to take pride in the fact that I could, on a conservative estimate, finish 2 refills during each semester exam; inadvertently I was the university topper.)

This non chalance is deliberate btw. I am determined to not think while writing this one time. Actually I want to see what I land up with hence I'll be all over the place, totally unstructured and uncontrolled in this post. The exercise to follow this bold act of flippant writing revelation is to self read what I have churned out and analyze my thoughts and the speed at which they transform and calculate the frequency at which they ditch me. May be I'll be able to draw out a pattern, graph is more like it and give it some name like the thoughtospeed curve or a non linear notioncaustic ellipsoid.}

{This fact, that I change my thoughts more frequently than required, dawned upon me when I got verbally sledehammered by my Arch-nemesis for sidetracking from a conversation and hopping onto the next one when my Arch-nemesis was least prepared for it, rather hadn't got done with his lengthy and profane last speech. (all his speeches have the aforesaid attributes, obviously by virtue of being the Arch-nemesis I can't give in to liking any even if I want to, this he would say is self control btw)}]

So I can't figure out when exactly my fondness for the keyboard outgrew my love for pencils and sharpeners and erasers. I'm also and avid stationery collector FYI. I still buy pencils and erasers and post-its and pens and more. The deal is I buy a lot and I spend a lot which some people say is unhealthy and detrimental to your finances in the long run. But I make my investments in time and save (only a meagre amount) every month. I put my money in ELSSes, MFs, NSC, PPF, LIC, recurring deposits and fixed deposits, what more? I'm doing good on that front plus right now I'm thinking that while I say this I sound like Rebecca Bloomwood of the "Confessions of a shopaholic" fame.

(I also have to throw in intelligent stuff into this writing so that later when I read it myself I know that I am witty, it's just a feel good factor and an early morning boost.)

I think I lost my interest in pen and paper when I got my first laptop, actually not completely though coz I still used to write mock CATs which gave me enough proximate opportunities with paper and pencil. It's PGDBM that did this to me, yes it's PGDBM!!!! The feeling of holding a pencil is so alien now :(

It's been years since we parted ways. A strife with pens aren't over completely coz there are those Sudoku and Crosswords days but pencils...sigh! not anymore....

{(I don't even know how to name this post now. I really can talk a lot...of sense!! and this can't be lengthened anymore coz I don't wish to get a graph with a high error factor.) Office work (meaningful tak-tak-ing) beckons!!}

a Janus me a Janus you: I

Recently I've moved into a new house. So while I was de-cluttering I came across this diary-o-mine which has been with me for ages now. As I was leafing through it, I chanced upon this story of a 22 year old who used to cook for me when I was posted in Bangalore; Nikhat Rehman she was called. Nikhat used to work her days off as a pantry maid for a Bank and in the evenings she used to cook for me. Nikhat had a strange appetite for distinction and emergence, she'll come out of the cocoon and grow into a beautiful butterfly someday she'd say. I loved her for she was in many ways a reflection of me.
Nikhat had a story. I never saw her as satiated as she looked the day when she poured out her heart to me and served me a platter full of her life for a meal. It was then that I'd decided to play the raconteur for her for her story deserves public acclaim and her life demands appurtenance.

As fate had it for her Nikhat lost her husband when she was 20. Yakub Hasan was an intercity taxi driver who met with a fatal accident en route one of his journeys homewards. The exuberant, bubbly, chirpy Nikhat was now reduced to a vapid widow.
"Don't overdress, stay black clad", instructed her assumedly well wishing khala, her only pivot in being. Nikhat followed the societal norms that were too stringent for a 20 yr old, so at times she purposely faltered, she would wear scarlet lipstick behind closed doors and try on the racy lingerie that Yakub had bought for her. For hours she would adore her image and sleep contentedly that night.
In their one year of attachment, they lived life in its entirety. Yakub was a level headed, dependable, strikingly attractive man and Nikhat was a compelling beauty. They would dress up for social gatherings, proudly check themselves out in the mirror, their appearances a reinforcement of their being a heaven-sent couple would appease them beyond measures. At the parties they would be flooded with compliments and whenever their eyes struck each other’s the corners of their mouths would curve up to bring out a beaming smile and a gleam of pride in their unflinching gaze. After returning they kissed passionately, the kiss that opened all the flood gates, a kiss that kindled yearnings. They writhed in unison, rhythmically as if riding a tide. She demanded and he served without judging her, they looked into each other’s eyes, the look had streaks of passion, love, commitment and comfort. She fitted like a dream in the nook of his arm and his tender embrace would do away with the tedium and vehemence that usually features in every couple’s lives. Such was their love, of support, of consolation, of relief, of compassion and encouragement was their story.
Yakub’s death turned Nikhat into a mere dreary, somber frame of a woman. The world buried Yakub but she continued to live with his ghost.

A borrowed thought....

I am the one who is long in the tooth. I am the cold dregs at the bottom of a cup. I am the merchandise no one wants. I am the untouched tin on the back shelf.

I don't bleed; instead I store within me the spores of a million hates.

I carry on my back every fear, every dark whisper, and every tormented thought that can cross the human mind....My name when spelt aloud reads defeat.

This is how most of us think when inflicted by the deadly self persecution disease...Dense and unfathomable ain't it?...Sharing will those who haven't read the book...Borrowed from Ladies Coupe by Anita Nair.

The Control Operation

We are bigtime freakshows!!! We trip on the smallest opportunity given to us for exercising control.

Interestingly today evening at the Delhi Airport I saw a mother-son duo truly exceptional in their ways. The tiny kid wasn't wearing ANY warm clothes, was left defenseless against the ruthless cold, glaring in the Winter's face and still darting around with joy, while the mom herself fully loaded with all the layered protection didn't freak out at all!! This happens???? :O

Had it been a mom from my "mother's clan" she would be inanely anxious with sweat beads adorning her forehead even in winters...They just can't let their kids out in the Winter the way they want to.....

I think all of us vicariously do away with our insecurities by forcing things upon the others lower in order to us, the ones who succumb to our controlling tendencies, the ones who can be taken for granted, the ones who seldom react....

We did that to machines as well!! Someone remembered to add a Ctrl key to the keyboard, another remembered the conrol function in interpretation and processing of data....no matter what every result is completely specified by a rule ALWAYS!!

Therefore most of us end up doing what we OUGHT to do, not what we WANT to do, with due consideration given to all the parameters that control our existence.

It's hard to imagine the world with all of us breaking free some day from all that binds us down, all that is non-pivotal for our survival...Turmoil or Harmony????

Expectations

It is a funny word...amuses me like nothing else. I know not much about etymology and stuff..but had learnt during my MBA prepartions that the word has a Latin root; exspectare where ex means OUT and spectare means TO LOOK. The Latin coined the word and left it onto us to run with the baton...

A queer thought struck me today...Why do we never say a woman is carrying or developing an offspring? We instead choose to say she is expecting...There you go, the setting happens right before the time a child has arrived, that's his first and formal introduction with expectation. Even before a baby is OUT we start TO LOOK for precast beliefs, set our hopes and aspirations from him, device/design his role in our lives. He is expected.....he is not invited or awaited or longed for to live with us the way he desires, he's expected!!

Funny isn't it how homo sapiens are programmed to expect right at inception. It is injected in his blood stream before marking the natal arrival. An embryo is expected to plant itself right in the womb of the bearer, in case he doesn't he's surgically seperated from the host even if it means terminating a life. And this modus operandi and several other manifestations of the same in the due course of life never ceases to exist and amuse me!!!

The True Mirage: a short story

Like a rejected pariah they threw her out, just the way people discard disposable paper cups after drinking to the bottom, never to look back at her. She trudged the path shown to her, only to be invested with gloom and despondency with the setting sun. Like they say..whatever happens life has to go on, so it went on!

Her dreams had the imagery of a real, true mirage to pursue. She tried to detach herself from this relentless chase but the heart wouldn't give up. Wild thoughts of unpuzzling the mirage tugged her, and drawn was she time and again. The world wanted her while she wanted her oasis of bliss. She would set out everyday on an unyielding journey, ignoring the world and rest until it became her cherished passion. With every setting sun the dream got pushed farther and farther away, and she closer and more connected to her surreal goal making it a crying need. Tears couldn't wipe off the desire so strong and persistent nor could the wretched world!

A mysterious dove perched on her roof one morning to tell her that the mirage wasn't very far from where she stood but the cruelty of life would demand complete oblivion and a cessation of wordly ties, she could never return to where she belongs.....

She had a dialogue with the dove, she wanted the mirage with the world. The dove was resolute, would give her one or none. She had a dialogue with the world, the world was resolute too. Moreover, they promised her a similar mirage not too remote with no enforced stipulation and with all the goodness of the world. In haste they lead her to the place where she thought rested her fantasies in deep coffers.

In the flurry of events and thoughts she at once decided to let go off the old pursuit and hurriedly openend the coffers only to find the bugs of woes and pain. The looming plague prompted her to run back to the world, her haven which she had decided never to betray. The world knew her no more, she didn't belong anymore, her woes were not to be apportioned and addressed. Like a rejected pariah they threw her out, just the way people discard disposable paper cups after drinking to the bottom, never to look back at her. She trudged the path shown to her, only to be invested with gloom and despondency with the setting sun. Like they say..whatever happens life has to go on, so it goes on!