Am I just an adult or a grownup too?

Last weekend I met someone. A kind, middle-aged lady who couldn’t stop feeling sad for me and my disability.
“I wish my daughter had features like yours.” She said to me.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling so fondly at her.
Why? I asked myself. I’m not a tolerator of bizarreness. The way she complimented me was not bizarre but definitely weird!
But was it my chore to sit their dissecting every word of her sentence? Do I know if her daughter is ugly? Am I sure if I am very beautiful? It could have been extremely simple, maybe she pictured a face cut in her head for her daughter and I fit her imagination. I did not wit back at her sarcastically like I always do at everyone who says weird things to me.
Knowing me, my close acquaintance would have predicted a reaction. But somehow, my mental reflexes behaved the way they should. Not like an adult, but like a grownup.
My subconscious realized instantly, that all this years of retorting swiped off the impression I leave of myself in gatherings. I look calm, composed, collected (a few words that have been used for me) and surely, this was not how I wanted to look. Somehow I began to feel that my disability also makes me look vulnerable.
My perspective has changed with time, the society is stagnant.
No matter what I try and how hard I try, beauty will always lie in the eye of the beholder. When I am a quiet observer, people could think I’m Calm. Or they could think I’m socially awkward.
When I’m chirpy, people may think I’m bubbly and cute. And then I could end up looking the awkward girl stumbling over her words. The socially inept kinds.
Now, will my saying anything change mindsets?
Sometimes, my own judgment of the public portrayal of myself could differ from what people think of me.
I sometimes get very awkward around people. When I said this to a friend, she said “you are not awkward in public at all”. She put a strong stress on the “please” after that.

I like how I look. I have lots of good in my head. Lots of evil too. What I really am doesn’t show to the world.

A crazy, silly male friend once commented “you are readable. But do you think I am?” and then he went on to finish his silly verdict of himself with a big, long “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”. I swear he sounded like a father reacting to his child’s midnight ice-cream cravings. If you’re reading this, Ralte, you’re so cute. Hilarious too! And consider this post as an answer to your readability of me.
No one is readable unless you talk of yourself. This reminds me of someone who commented on someone else. “Sai, X did not tell me you are here. You get to know what’s happening in her life – her new pair of funky glasses, her newly made friends, her budget of the month. So surprising how she didn’t talk of you.”
Okay? I certainly received the negative vibe. And I had no response.
I will only respond to what concerns me. Or better yet, what affects me the way it shouldn’t. And the rest?
Some aren’t my battles to fight. There are places I shouldn’t interfere.
Accepted.
Because the lady’s compliment concerned me and I do not know if she was being mean to her daughter. The friend X had a comment passed at her behind her back and I couldn’t figure if it was snide or not. But I kind of knew my friend X is somewhat like that. And should I react to things I’m unsure of?
I don’t intend to be the audience surrounded by evil. I will not restrain myself from vocalizing my opinions in the necessitous second. But I will not question what is petty and make the interaction awkward for me and the person I’m talking to and the people around us.
Lesson learned.

At the writers meet last Sunday, we were asked to free write on change. And the carefree piece I wrote made me think of my life and what strikes as a noticeable change in the recent.
My temperament, I concluded.
And after a long while of being writer- blocked, I realized, just any post won’t do justice to my blog.
Coming up with so much more.

Hear me, Lord Lytton

I wake with a jolt and put out a hand to feel Payal close to me. Thank goodness, she’s safe, wrapped in her blanket, head perched on her pillow. She’s breathing well.
The screams of the ambulance slowly ebb away and I catch my breath. Thank goodness all is well. I turn on the light and I notice the book on the bedside table reading “For love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” ~ Kahlil Gibran.

I pick it up and unintentionally flip open the page to something I had written two weeks after Shiv…

Hear me, Lord Lytton; it’s over. Our cruise together. I’ll have to continue alone. Half empty, half naked.
I’m at a complete loss as to what I should write. Perhaps I should talk about my emotions?
They are all muddled up.
Had Shiv been here, he would have directed my attention to my aim. He would have sat close watching me dissect emotions, needling through one thought after another; meanwhile the crumpled chit and the battered plastic of my pen would mate in an uninterrupted rhythm of passion. Oh the passion for that very touch that settled in our drifting bubble is someplace else, entombed in silence, lost in oblivion. Plus, Lord Lytton, they say I will never hold Shiv again.
Lord Lytton, I’m also rid of my long, dark hair. They talk of customs to reason it out with me. Shiv liked them loose, he caressed inarticulate whispers through them, pouring into me the lyric of love while I relished in the divineness of his arms. I am at a loss of words, Lord Lytton. Neither word nor brush will do justice in aptly depicting that thing in me that stirs me every now and then. Thing, the most convenient word for what’s inside of me. I have not a name for it.
Lord Lytton, they talk about the woman who is widowed within six months of her marriage. They say it’ll pass, they talk of re-partnering, they thank god for not bestowing the poor girl with a child from her dead…

I shut the diary; I cannot bear reading further. It pains me to think of him. Does it make sense if I say I feel sorry for him rather than for myself? At least I am the survivor, I didn’t have to experience a bike crash and die amidst doctors and sharp medical equipments in an ambulance away from my people. At least my body wasn’t shrouded in blood and gunny when delivered to my family.

The evening I brought Payal home, the joy in me pierced to be shared. Though I breathed widowhood, there was a new identity that carved itself into my soul. Widow I am, but I am also a mother.
I addressed his photograph with our three month old baby asleep in my arms.
“Shiv, I am not sure if they are right about dead people becoming stars and looking down upon the living. But today, I feel more connected with you. I wish you heard me narrate to you stories when I was Payal’s caretaker at the adoption agency. I also wish you sat with me throughout the adoption process. But I know you’re crying tears of joy and pride for the three of us from above. She will know you. She will call you her father and be immensely proud of the thirty years of your accomplishments. Our family is complete. Happiness is you by our side. Contentment is this metaphysical connection the three of us are sharing.”

Talk on, please?

“So how much have you written in the past year, Sia?”
“Not much, Ashar. Just the occasional blogging apart from daily journaling.”
“Uh-huh?”
I Smiled.

“What’re you thinking, Sia?”
“Nothing.”
“Something. Saying nothing would be a lie.”
Pregnant pause…

“Sia, May I know?”
“Yeah… Um… No!”
“Embarrassed of the thought?”
“Juvenile thought.”
“Well, if you think its juvenile, it’s okay to be embarrassed of it.”
“Okay?”
“But if you need help, there’s no shame in asking for it. I know the ego will stir while asking for help; you’ll feel silly and worry if you’re judged. And I know you know all this, but I think we all need the occasional affirmation that feeling doubtful about one’s thoughts is normal.”
“So does that mean you won’t judge if I share?”
“How can I promise you when I can’t control my own thoughts? But trust me on this; I don’t want to judge you. I want to hear you and help if I can. But this isn’t me speaking. These are the values my elders passed on to me that are showing me the light. And after hearing you, I may change my mind. How? That I cannot say, but all I can do for you is to promise you I’ll try and be as supportive as I can, that, if you want to share with me.”
Silence fell.
“Should I be proud of myself that I’m being honest to goodness with you? I feel funny. But you know what, Sia? I despise counselors who promise to never divulge nor judge. They’re humans first, counselors later. And I’m sure they talk of their clients to their spouses, friends and colleagues… They spout out details and save the identity and are eternally proud of themselves. What a noble profession!”
I nodded. My throat knotted.
“Ashar, are you free for the day?”
“I don’t have plans for the day. What can I do for you?”
“Sit with me? Uh… that look makes me nervous.”
“I’ll sit with you but what’re we doing?”
“Sitting… and I could make you noodles and there’s some orange juice.”
“Wow. I’m up for food.”
“Uncertain.”
“What’s uncertain, Sia?”
“Future.”
“Spot on! You seem inspired by me already, my love.”
“Ha-ha. You sit here while I go and make noodles for us?”
“I’ll come with you. As much as I like for people to cook for me and serve me in bed, what will I do all alone in your room? Besides, your roommate might just walk in to find a male stranger on her roommate’s bed. That’d be weird.”
“You’re a self-help guide!”
“Nay. I’m big hearted with words, you see? I give more than I can take. To be precise, I talk to good listeners. I’m a pathetic debater and if someone who is as much or more talkative than me sits with me, I shut up like a chicken!”
“Talk on, please?”

What a cheesy disappointment

“A KG of parmesan costs fifteen hundred Indian rupees, ma’am” he says. Of course, he is warm; he attends to me like he does with every other customer. The professional niceties are so cold yet so warm. I look him in the face, and I try appearing as sharp as the cheese.
“Well I never! The last time I checked, it cost twelve hundred bucks.” I tell him.
He tries arguing with me and I leave him narrating the familiar porky pie of the price rise to himself. I hear that from the vegetable vender, the fruit vender, the food joint staff, and I need an increase in my own pay as well. Why am I blaming him?
I promptly decide to make cheese at home; the basic Asian cottage cheese if not the Italian Parmesan.
I buy milk on my way home, just a couple of liters to begin with. Yes, this should do. I quicken my pace, god how do I contain my excitement?

*

Okay, let’s begin. I leave it next to the oven overnight for it to ferment.
“Hoping and praying for you, my little baby” I whisper over the opening of the dish. Yes. A baby it is. I’ll give it all the care it asks for.
I run into my room, back to my regular perusing of the interwebs, hastily looking up web address after web address, dissecting recipe after recipe. It’s too cold outside and the interiors of my little apartment are also beginning to chill.
I cannot… su-su-ppress… ya… ya…. Yawwwwwwwwwwwwn… gosh the huge yawn!
I am exhausted. What a long Sunday of chores! I put on my cozy bed hour jumper, dim the lights, and lay in my comforter with my singing earplugs on “I lost my train of thought, when you called me ‘my sweet cheesecake’”.

*

Do I really have to get out of bed? Mondays are always jinxed. Happiness lies in retrospect. Hmm. I shut my eyes again. I hear a streak of music so close. Darn it I fell asleep leaving my IPod playing “I lost my train of thought, when you called me ‘my sweet cheesecake’”!
I kick out of bed, the cold moves me but the cheese matters more! I run into the kitchen.
I scream. Not a dainty one. The cold has the audacity to freeze a human like me, and the milk sits there with ever resolving strength in its liquid state! Then it hit me, I completely forgot to add the vinegar. And I had to put it in the oven, not by the oven.
I feel the morning hunger envelope my tummy. I pick the bowl containing the milk and bottle it.
I slowly lift the mouth of the bottle to my lips and whisper “cheese”.
Too much milk for breakfast!

The last consequence that flew right out Of the Pandora’s Box

What a day it is
Heavy on the shoulders
Tasteless on the tongue
Running off the eyes
Complaining in the throat
And settling within.

What a day it is
While being pulled down with imaginary weight,
Every ounce of the self ensconces on to the gravity
Realizing that they understood English
When they christened this emotion “Depression”.

What a day it is,
Some people speak with a tinge of despise
Some remain muted with the despisedness guarded
Not willing to communicate
Leaving certain confessions to remain uncoerced.

What a day it is
When one is unsure of everything,
What to say or what to eat
What to think or what to believe,
What to do or how to do,
When there are units of labours,
Chores that cannot be ignored.

What a day it is,
When fingers type away at a pace,
Without making an attempt to create something,
Trying to garner the thought overflow
Into insufficient words
That the nomenclature tenders.

What a day it is
With Every inch giving up
With having all strength departed
With all inspiration lost in the ether
With the sixth sense soliciting a sweet escape.

Maybe in the end,
It will all conclude,
There still is a tiny spark,
Somewhere within,
Like the last consequence
That flew right out Of the Pandora’s Box
In to the crowd of the squirming and writhing
To offer a modicum of solace.
Oh what a day it is.

Because tutorials by amateurs are great!

So here we go, on how to keep calm and carry on, yo!

Let it be your way.
Let it be about messy makeup and lucky charms,
lady luck and confident smiles,
metro city nightlights
and hilltop breezes.
Write down scattered thoughts, colour coordinate your pyjamas.
Tie up your hair in a messy bun.
Reread what you’ve written, recollect those happier times.
Laugh.
Laugh till your stomach hurts; empty yourself of all the air you’ve got. It’s worth it this time.
Drawback the curtains. Let the light stream in. or the cool breeze blow in.
Keep bowls of fruit, tinged in salt and pepper. Or in fancy paprika or Kashmiri mirch.
Maybe a can of chilled beer on a Saturday night? Why of course!
Green tea or lemon ice tea other times? Yes please.
Wanderlust.
Hope.
Dream.
Wish.
Let the negativity be – fears, scars, imperfections, jaded memories, cheaters, criminals, eve teasers, robbers, and all kinds of evil people who make you feel reduced with it.
Because all of this ain’t going nowhere.
But try calling the positivity in.
Lust for thrill, adventure, travel, rebellion. And of course, cute boys.
Passionate? Remain.
Fashionable? Be.
Forward? Move.
Late nights out? Go. With the trusted.
Independence? Feel.
Beauty? Bask in it.
God? Trust in. Always.

Must you struggle too hard to make the confident, independent person out of yourself?
I think not.

Dip dip, my blue ship

"Befriend those who are a part of your league, not those who are not. You can’t just become friends with someone for some comic relief!" with that she hung the call. She was done, with another long-term sale in a ship called the friendship. Or worship?
Because she was friends, or she thought she was friends with someone who clearly communicated to her in the right syntax, “I’m really easy to get along with once you begin to worship me”.
She giggled. And she giggled alone. Clearly she did not get the syntax.

It began ruff, the friendship, rising and falling, with the tides of life. But thanks to the laughs and a few good deeds and pizzas and beer, they tagged along, sailing together. The ship had more to it than what met the eye, it of course had other people, pizzas, a few good laughs, but it also had emotions, wrong deeds, wagging tongues and middle fingers, backstabbing and more! "You know what else did not meet the eye?" she asked herself. No one spoke. No one was listening. She spoke anyway.
"the ship itself." She paused to hold back a sob. She clumsily picked a hand and wiped off the tear that rolled down her left cheek. But she knew she shouldn't stop talking. What if no one was around to listen? She always had the choice of talking to the walls, someone might just hear. Or appreciate. Or adopt her philosophy.
It was difficult to speak with her throat knotting. There was the risk of not sounding her lively self. There was also the risk of not sounding like the pretty protagonist of that movie that made it to the top of the charts. But it did not matter.
"because it existed, in beating hearts, in rising beer mugs, in shared pizzas, in STD phone calls. Sometimes it lasts; sometimes it loses itself under the gigantic wave of hopelessness, hatred, disparity and jealousy. And sometimes, leagues. The superiority complex loomed over my part of the ship like a huge, dark cloud. Very dark. And as it kept getting darker, the silver lining also went into hiding!"
This time she couldn't hold the sob in. tears and weeping followed. Well, at least she isn't a robot. She has emotions. And after a while, she picked a notebook with her picture on the cover. She looked at herself, examining every feature, clothes and that deep dimple on her cheek. She looked up, into the mirror. No, the girl looking back at her didn't quite look like the girl in the picture.
"I’m not used to seeing you like this" she addressed the mirror.
"you, I only get to see you in the mirror when I’m dressed well." She spoke to the picture.
She touched her cheek where the tear had rolled. Her skin felt slightly wrinkled and dry. There was no depression.
"the depression moved downward, it settled in my heart." She mumbled. “
“Look I’m pointing to my cleavage” she chuckled.
She turned to an empty page and picked a neon orange sketch from her drawer.
She doodled an orange. Clearly, what else could be more apt? An orange with an orange pen.
Then she circled a pair of eyes, triangled a nose, curved lips, oveled cheeks. And then she knew what was missing.
Her spirits needed lifting up. The depression had to move back up to her cheek, its original home. She pressed her nib down to make the deepest depression, almost tearing into pages.
Her little doodle was ready; it only needed something to say.
She put her neon orange pen back and picked her favorite black pen that looks like the key to a Mercedes. She used it for special occasions, and the ink was almost draining out.
She picked a spot under the bottom lip and wrote
"it's just one of those days when old happy thoughts remind you that happier times are gone. Ug these thoughts behave like... like proud, old aunties who are proud of their rich children who are settled in the first world cities with cleaner beaches, and they own fishing boats. I’ll find more ships, for fishing and more!"
She turned back to her picture and smiled. There was no compulsion to smile; it burst forth from the soul. Yes, she looked like the girl who she is used to seeing in the mirror.
“Huh! The eternal sucker of an optimist in me is just that – a sucker! This too shall pass, but it still hurts. Very very much.”

She curled up, trying hard to feel like a fat cat in her basket. She tried imagining that her only current problem is a hungry stomach, because the milk was fermenting. In reality, she hated yogurt.

OM KRISHNA VASUDEVAYA NAMAHA – a guest post

...Here’s a story of a lovely lady.

My sweetheart Pragya is a Krishna Bakta by heart, UPite by living, feminist by belief, Helpful by nature and authentic by soul. The sweet and humble girl who seeks for opportunities to be of slightest help to people, wrote a poem on Lord Krishna and dedicated it to my blog. So, this post is her space today. Also, i’m attaching the link to her blog, check out the place where she chills in her little land.

So the poem is called “Waiting for you”

Bahut din ho gaye tum par kuchh likhe hue..

....tum par naa likhu toh lagta h kuchh adhoora sa h...
..jo likh doon tum pe toh lagta h sab poora sa h...

...muskura jaati hoon sochti hoon jab aaj toh tum par likhna h..
...kya likh rahi hoon fark nahi padta...
..TUM par likh rahi hoon..
...kaafii h..

...tum kya ho mere liye kabhii milo toh bta sakoon...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mere saamne aane ka..
...kya rok deta h fir..
..kabhi milo toh poochhun...

.. samhaalna itnaa ishq us patthar ki murat k bass ki baat toh nahii..
...matlab samaata tohh woh TUM MEIN hii jaake h..
...kitnaa khush ho jaati hoon bass ye soch k hi...
....kabhi milo toh bataau...

...jab kabhi apna haath yun hi badha deti hoon Hawa mein..
...ki kya ptaa thaam lo tum..
...mann toh tumhara bhi machalta hoga ki bass aaj toh bann jaau woh jo chahti hoon main..
...jo milo kabhi toh jaanu..

...main toh bass imagine kartii hoon..
..ki jab muskate ho tum toh hawaaon mein jaadu baraste hain...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga ki kabhi milo yun mujhse aur khil khilaa k bass hass pado..
...taaki main apni line modify kar sakoonn..
..aur kahoon...
...ki jab hasstaa h woh toh har zarre mein JANNAT dikhti h...

.. jo tumhe sochti hoon main din raat...
.mil gaye jo tum kabhi kahin kisi baat..
..toh kya hi ho..
...sochti hoon..
...jo milo kabhi tohh janu...
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mujhse milne kaa...
..mera haal kya hoga tab ye dekhne ka..
...jo mili kabhi toh jaanu...
...khud ko bhi aur tumko bhi....
..jo milo kabhi tohh jaanu!

Jo le aati hoon tumhe apni aankho k itne paass..
..mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga meri palkon se khelne ka..
...meri alkon se khelne kaa..
...kabhi aao toh jaanu...

Kya kah doon main tumse krishna jo aa jaao tum..
...kya likh doon main tumhare liye jo mil jaao tum...
...kya kar doon main aisa jo mil jaau main tum mein hi..
...mann toh tumhara bhi karta hoga mere in sawaalo ke jawaab dene kaa...
..aur suljhane ka in uljhe ishq k reshon ko..
...aur kholne ka in kachchi pakki si gaantho ko...
....jo milo kabhi toh jaanu!!

..Waiting for you...

tumhari 'Ishq'

isn’t thab one beautiful poem?

May Lord Krishna keep you always happy and prosperous. Blessed be.

Sauntering on with brisker trots

There’s no news
To amuse,
No clues
To put to use
The insight
To invite
Peace of mind
And other things of its kind.

No right song
For the mood to muse,
No right book
For the mind to peruse,
No right man
For the lady luck to seduce,
And the writer’s block,
Deliberately being obtuse.

Who else to accuse,
What more to lose
To lose or to enthuse
Is for me to choose.

Feeling accused
And abused
To a bitch
I’m reduced,
But there are miles to go,
Lots to do
Desires to conqre,
And strength to induce.

No hostilities to spew
Calling for positivity to ooze
Sauntering on with brisker trots
To beautify lives in all the world’s hues.

Wanted...

• Someone who can listen to all that I have to say. I say a lot of crap a lot of times. Must sit throughout.
• Someone who’s prepared at all times of the day to read my blog. I’m bloggypoo enthusiast.
• Someone to go shopping with me, just to tell me how awesome I am at picking the right thing that makes me or anyone eles look a darling.
• Someone who can sit with me on a swing reading a book out loud.
• Someone who is wonderful at repartee.
• Someone who can tickle my funny bone because I just can’t get tickled.
• Someone whose shoulder I can cry on.
• Someone to be my bride’s maids. My Little sister will be the Maid of Honor of course.
• Someone who can cook or bake with me. Without cribbing.
• Someone who will while away hours or days quilling with me.
• Someone who can play the guitar for me to sing.
• Someone who can wake me up in the morning.
• Someone who can travel with me to every corner of the world possible.
• Someone who can adopt a baby and a puppy with me.
• Someone who has read the same books as I have. Doesn’t make sense to store all the aquired knowledge in my head to be forgotten later.
• Someone who shares with me a morbid fasination with Harry Potter.
• Someone who will stick by me till I die.
• Someone who understands and will judge (not) that sometimes I simply have to make up a word there isn’t one in a language that I speak which properly describes how I feel at that given moment.
• Someone who can fix my horrible spellings at all times.
• Someone who isn’t afraide of being grouchy or unreasonable around me because god knows that I’ll return the favour.
• Someone who can be brootally honest with me.
• Someone who can give me hugs at least 24 times a day.
• Someone who’s willing to teach my kid math and science (I will adopt one and bear none) because, let’s be honest, Math+Science+Me=FearInducedParalysis.
• Someone who has a slightly crazy family.
• Someone who is as passionate about something as I am about writing.
• Someone who can endure the initial scrutiny of my crazy happy family consisting of a mum, a dad, and a little sister, because once that test is passed, the rest will be a breaze.
• And several people doing all of this with me.

Know this ain’t an add for matrimony. Dudes, don’t go crazy.
This also is not a bitter diatribe of a single girl who in Mormon Culture has reached the level of spinster. We’ve come a long way and I’m just 21.

Overwhelmed

This was published a couple of months ago on The New Age Woman. Sudha Shashwati, a grad school mate – she inspires me to write. She surprises me with her writing prowess and... Well, i’m completely overwhelmed to go on about this.


Please read for yourselves.
Blessed be.

Why did you do this to me?

I believed in your writing skills, Mr. Bhaggat. I did, really. And you kicked me in the face?

Kick, the film - a kick in my face.

Mr. Khan doesn't do different shit, he does the same shit differently. from the pretensively chivalrous Prem to the sadak chap Pandey ji, he has been kicking our senses, kicking us writers, kicking them critics and kicking off the floor when women like Aishwarya Rai Bachan and Katrina Kaif fall for him! There were hooting young men in the theotre, trying hard to take off after him. The background scores were extremely loud, I was wondering if the audiance was competing with the sound system!
The dialogues are a menace to intelligent minds.
Fernandez was introduced as a psychologist and i hoped she would make an intelligent heroine. And she did - she was the intelligent woman who fell for the guy who impresses her with a chain of illegal deeds and a trip to jail.
Mithun da? I was always so fond of you. why did you sign this film?
Archana Puran Singh, where was the LSRian in you when you signed? Didn't you read the script?
I'm sure Hooda is going through financial crisis.
And there was Nargis Fakhri who was taller than Sallu Miya.
Well, the story line kicked off on the wrong foot!

Salu Miya, what is he, a monkey? Seriously, what does he keep doing? Didn't anyone slap him for so creatively churning out piles of bullshit? Well, would that even make a difference?

There's one very interesting scene where the hero is stuck in the river surrounded by cops. Hault. In the next scene, he is in India planning his next robbery. Then, he becomes a cop. The end.

Like the Beatles would say, "Let it be, let it be."

Even if Salman Khan is shown cooking biryani in different countries, eating biryani, serving Biryani, sharing biryani for three whole hours, the movie will gross two hundred millions. It will be a box office hit. A blockbuster.

The end.

Because my brain needs vaselene to recover.

P.S. Nawazuddin Siddiqui, you're not the villain. The villain is Sajid Nadiadwala. Over and out!

Main jo bhi kahungi sach kahungi. Sach ke alava kuch nahi kahungi.

So i've scene many bloggers making the "truth" lists and i think it's really cute. It's now my tern to be cute! so, being honest to goodness:

1. The truth is I really like dressing up for no reason.
2. The truth is I immensely enjoy planning presents for people that sometimes I feel like Santa Claus's wife - a deadpan matron.
3. The truth is Tailor Swift, sitting in the States, having never been comunicated with me has an uncanny ability to describe exactly how I feel about all sorts of things. Her lyrics are just so girl power, yo!
4. The truth is that because I am 21 and am not dating anyone, I sometimes feel like a social outcaste. Lol.
5. The truth is I would trade anything to be sired to a guy I met at a church. See, god knows.
6. The truth is that if I could pick a place to live in, it would be a place where exotic food like cheese, chicken, chocolate and chaat come at an affordable price.
7. The truth is I love wearing siren lipsticks, metallic eyeshadows. I automatically feel pretty as a primetime heroine.
8. The truth is that I get very very excited about birthdays. Mine, others', stranger's on the street.
9. The truth is I miss my long gone British accent. It was darn cute.
10. The truth is I attend parties and gatecrash weddings just for the delicious, structurally inspired food.
11. The truth is I love the tinkling sound of bangles. It somehow adds to my lady luck.
12. The truth is extra spicy maggi and lemon icetea fix bad moods for me.
13. The truth is that I can never end a phonecall. I love the phone, Maybe because it comes at a price. A huge one for that.
14. The truth is that I have an 'annoying complex', that is, I am always worried about annoying everyone around me and feel as though i do it most of the time.
15. The truth is that I also have a 'victim complex' because I worry way too much about being cheeted or lied to.
16. The truth is I can't understand how people love mangos to the extent that they can eat every variety . I love mangos too, but only Dasheri and the Pakistani mangos we used to get in London.
17. The truth is when I grow old and marry my children off, I'll adopt a street puppy. Every morning when my hubby dear and I take our doggy dear for a walk, kiddy dears from school busses can wave at us and say "aunty uncle dog. Happy happy family."
18. The truth is I'm as lazy as the London Bridge. It's easy 'falling' asleep.
19. The truth is that I find every moderately attractive gentleman hot. It's not me, it's the stalker in me.
20. The truth is that I'm a huge perfectionist. But only about the things i enjoy doing.
21. The truth is sometimes I think about my life as a movie, complete with a killer soundtrack, and really really good clothes.
22. The truth is that I cannot go to sleep unless my room is a mess. A real mess. Once, one of my weird roomates called my bed a bird's nest. Needless to say I was offended.
23. The truth is that I become extremely self difensive without any reason.
24. The truth is that the two best compliments that I've ever had came from boys who had no idea how bad a crush I had on them.
25. The truth is that I don't quite agree with super dainty, but i love Audri Hepburn and it was her right to be superdainty.
26. The truth is I am nocturnal, give me piles of work and I'll work overnight. Working with the owls, such piece, such reverence, such joy, I claim.
27. The truth is I get unreasonably excited when i find other Harry Potter fans who will talk about my love for Harry with me. As in i jump up and down and clap my hands.
28. The truth is I love saying "lucky bitch" and "lucky bastard" but I don't because usually people mind. Wonder why!
29. The truth is that sometimes, only sometimes I wish I was a little more normal. otherwise, I'm happy with my crazy self.
30. The truth is I love the taste of vibhuti.
31. The truth is that I love the taste of undissolved, leftover sugar in my coffee cup.
32. The truth is I love the smell of new sanitary napkins, they kind of smell like Johnson's baby powder.
33. The truth is that I had a faze in life when I thought I liked Justin Bieber. But now I know that the Baby song is a bomb that Canada through at USA after Rebbeca Black's Friday-Friday song.
34. The truth is that at least half of these things must be true for you, reader, because even though we're all wildly different in many ways, and live in such different places, there's a strange string that makes us all kind of think alike in some asspects.
35. The truth is I like posts like this where everything has everything to do with everything random and cool and true.

A bit of fire creates wonders

... But mind, you don't want to burn your fingers!

Hhhahahahaheeahhehahahahehaahhahehehehahhaheheha.... I'm only talking about the stove! Doesn't it create food - the wonder? Yeah, it creates disasters too, but if you're sure of how your hands move - which box to open, which spoon to pick, how much of what to add and when to put off the flame, you're good to be the fire's friend. You're very very hot. Every guy wants a wife who can cook. Naaaaaa, that's when I decide to marry and disown my cooking skills at the right time!

So, for us students out there, a few recipes. Easy ones for that.

Butter maggi:

Cook your maggi dry and add butter to it. You're done. A few tips for becoming a pro maggi chef -
1. Add only 3 teacups of water to cook your maggy.
2. Add your taste maker before you boil the water. This avoids the formation of lumps. I always use an extra maggi taste maker sachet because i like my maggi all spiced up.
3. Butter maggi tastes the best when it is dry.

Ema datshe:

Ema datshe is an easy peasy cheesy dish from The Land of the Thunder dragon - Bhutan. I learnt it from a friend from post grad college. It's real real simple and real real delicious. All you need:

2 tablespoons oil / butter
2 chillies split
2 cloves garlic chopped
5 potatoes sliced
5 cubes of cheese
Salt and pepper to taste

Method:
1. Heat the pan and add oil and add the garlic and chillies right after and saute for around 2 minutes till the aroma of the garlic releases. Adding the garlic to the oil before it heats prevents it from burning. Don't over fry, chilly and garlic burn easily. Keep an eye.
2. Add the potatoes and fry for 6-7 minutes on high. Keep stirring.
3. Add the cheese and cook on medium flame for around 5-6 minutes. Cheese - more the merrier. Add a lot. And keep stirring.
4. If you think the gravy is thickening too much, then add a little water. Do not add more than 1/4 cup because the cheese gravy is meant to be creamy thick.
5. Season with salt and pepper and remove off heat.

Serve with rice. Perfect! You're cool!

Bhel puri substitute:

This has always been my favorite. No hara/lal chutney, but yummmmm never the less. What you need:

1 packet of aloo bhujia (the pack, not the sachet)
Half an onion, chopped
one small tomato, chopped
2 green chillies, chopped
Few coriander leaves
Juice of half a lemon

Mix all the ingredients together and dig in! You can add or quit ingredients according to what suits your taste buds.

Ghee fried rotis:

Needless to comment on the sort of roties you get in hostels and PGs. Here's a tip, apply some ghee to your badly cooked hostel rotis and toss them in a heated saucepan for a few seconds. A better dinner. Yayyyy.

Tequila mock:

Last but not the least, tequila mock. It's the shiznit, baby! Because it's your right to chill! All you need to stay away from alcohol and create yourself a pure natural paramount flavour with an edge are:

Juice of half a lemon
2 chillies, sliced
Half a teaspoon of sugar, preferably icing sugar for the kick. But any other sugar should work just fine.
2 pinches salt
2 glasses of chilled soda
Lemon slices to garnish

Method:

1. Squeeze out the lemon juice into a bowl and add the chillies. Release the chilly oils with a spoon.
2. Stir in the sugar and the salt and add the soda.
3. Put the lemon slices in and poke them using a spoon.
4. Leave aside for around 2 minutes with the lid on for the ingredients to infuse together. Don't forget the lid or the punch will be gone!

Bottoms up!

Give your taste buds the sensation!

tweak a tweet

i've been off facebook for a while. for multiple reasons. like selfcontrol, giving myself some "me" time, and to stay off my oh-so-inviting laptop who's
my besty. well, the speech software is a male voice, his name is Jaws and i automatically associate him with everything masculine. heheheheheee... :D :D
:D and i've also been thinking of giving him a name. what about Earnest? heheheee... because he is earnest, the nice man. and maybe he could be nicknamed
Earny? lol. i'll just call it a silly thought, and move on! because, what does "i'm working on earny" sound like? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! no! not once!
but he does everything i press. on the keyboard, no, just clarifying! hehehehehahhahahaheheahhhaha.... there was a crazy little game we Virgin, Slightly
sexually frustrated, undergrad, LSR girls used to play in our women's hostel. we would type something crazily horny and make him read aloud. then we used
to clutch our stomaches and giggle like thirteen year olds! "ooh ah harder baby" hahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha omg omg we're so dirty, such bad
girls, let's keep this a secret.

so yeah, back to the post, and as i said i've been off facebook, mum has kept me updated on little things like a friend's status, or a school kid's overly
grown up pose, or she reads out to me some wise man's wise quotes. or their tweets that they repost on facebook. so one such post that caught my attention,
is by Chetan Bhagat. hmmm, those of you who like him, read. those of you who don't, read anyway. he's a writer who caters to the lowest common denominator.
no literature is bad. ask me, i'm a major in English litrature. and i enjoyed reading two states with a friend who is also an English major like me. and
now she's postgraduating in the same field. and she likes Chetan Bhagat too. Babydoll, right?

here, i'm re-re-posting his tweet that he reposted on facebook.

Hello. 3 Idiots. Kai Po Che. 2 States and today, Kick.
Sometimes, I look back and wonder, how on earth did all this happen? I remember my days at the bank in Hong Kong, and getting a performance review from
my boss, telling me I don't deserve to be promoted. That I lacked something, while everyone else was ok. I remember thinking I need a drink, and wanting
to get pissed drunk at his treatment of me. But right then, another thought came to me. Let me express my hurt in another way. And so I started a book,
about three friends in an Engineering college.
Six books, five films and a hundred columns later, today as I see Kick release in more screens than any other film ever, I wonder. What if I had chosen
the path of getting drunk to cope? What if I had not written that first sentence? What if I had believed my boss, who said I lacked something vital? Thank
you God for giving me the strength and wisdom at that moment.
All of us are told we aren't good enough. Sometimes we believe it also. But don't. Because nobody, not even you, knows what you are capable of. The criticism
will never stop, ever. As I write this, many on twitter must be posting hate tweets about me, telling me how useless I am. But all I want to tell them
is this. Buddy, I heard that one before. And it is because I heard that is why I am where I am today.
Congratulations to the entire hard working team of Kick for the big release today.
And thank you boss. Thank you so much for not promoting me.
Chetan Bhagat.
25 July 2014

now, those of you who don't like him, gather some substance. please. his books have been published, they have been best sellers, they have been appreciated
by many, many and now look at yourself before you call him "bug-at" (he doesn't care). yes, you choose whether or not to like his writing style, but that
doesn't make him a bug or a writer.

i read this yesterday. and since then, i've been thinking of it. isn't he right? doesn't he write about what you and i, us young-ings feel day in and day
out? and then, rejection - that one hard thing- that giant, skindeep, brain deep brooze that makes us all want to get "pissed drunk"? oh man, been there,
done that - pissed drunk, blacked out. and i am a woman. judging eyes away!

i have also been looking back and wondering about a lot of things, about how i am a changed person, completely. totally completely. i guess environments
do that to you. school then graduation then post graduation. and the kind of people you meet at different points of life also changes with phases. first
parents and grandparents and elder siblings if any, then parents and grandparents and aunts, uncles, cousins. then maybe or may not be - a younger sibling.
then school, classmates, teachers. so on and so forth. i hungout with batch mates, seniors and juniors till i graduated. there wasn't an age gap more or
lesser than one or two years. it wasn't all hunky-dory, there was a bit of plotting, a lot of bitching and many more secrets. there could have been a bit
of slapping too, if LSR had been coed. but yeah, i remember a huge catfight, a date (not mearly, just hungout with a guy classmate from senior secondary
school at a street cafe over a plate of
mozerrella momos). that's when i called myself a dating disaster and never went on any anounced dates after that one. what's funny is that i dressed in
black, distressed boyfriend jeans paired with a colourful woolen jumper with extended sleves. i also had a pink dragonfly brooch sitting where a badge
usually pins, or maybe the dragonfly was a little below the badge spot - right above the left boob, right below the collar bone (intended). awww i still
think it is cute. i don't have the brooch anymore, Babydoll had gifted it to me, and my grandma's doggy tore off the pretty pink fabrick. so that's done,
majoring and all the fun.

post graduation began just five days after my last English exam. what's funny? i was told i had to start post graduating just five days before i started
post graduating. bahhahahahahhahahahahaa... a flaw in the admission process. and there i was, all dainty and flighty, in a damn inconvenient world. and
the people were also very different. whoa, that was the first time i sat with people much much older than me. "i'm 26". "32." "21." "23". "27, that ain't
old at all, i know how to chill with not-yet-20 year olds like you" "i'm 50, i have twin daughters who are 21, they didn't clear it to be here along with
me." wow, now you see where i was? being the youngest meant being the kid amongst everyone. there were voices lowder than mine, whispers softer, heights
taller, some shorter, some almost the same. but it all differed. and there was more to the crowd than what met the eye. there was everything out there,
hunger, spook, creap, nice, birthdays, elections,
politics, maggi, nachos with salsa dip, cool, hot, shit, mean, smart, cruel and much much much more. one wrong choice, you're doomed. i'm not doomd, just
discombobulated.
i'm not newly disillusioned, that phase is long gone. just wondering how it all happened, and the time flew past, like a jet plane!

this post just keeps me going, i am supposed to go do the moonwalk workout to reduce much more than a few pounds, i'm on a diet too. a crazy one. i keep
whipping up all sorts of amazing home made junk (oh maybe i should do a recipe post, yo!) with cheese and cream and... well, you know pizzas and brownies
and doughnuts and pastas and cookies? consider bribing me sometime, i'm fantastic! so, anyway, i'll be right back to get on. in an hour.

hey again. so i totally digressed and this once, the digression makes complete sense. but there's one thing that i need the world to know.
i hate to admit it because i like appearing strong. i fain mighty strength when in real i'm a one hundred per cent a chicken. but i guess it all reaches
a saturation point.

so, people - they've said and done a lot of mean things. and like a poor darling self-pittying baby, i believed them. not once, a lot of times.
i've once been told that i shouldn't drink because i'm visually challenged. hello, i'm a responsible adult.
i've also been told that i shouldn't trust boys and befriend them because i'm timid, disabled, and i might be raped. beat that! beat that! i've had boy
best friends till i enrolled at a women's college for graduation. the stopping to my boy memory lane is miles away. that lane for another blog post.
once, a bugger offered me a friendly advice - he told me to unfriend all the people i call best friends because they're all fake. he thinks so because
i am not the sorts who deserves friends without disability. "friendships happen in leagues" he said. and he's right, none of my friends are out of my league.
well buddy, you know what? that drew me closer to the people i love very much. and you should also know that they love me back just as much. thanks very
much.

i was nervous, upset and anxious. being left behind was never something i excelled at, even if the circumstances couldn't be helped. and i darling'ed my
self way more than i should have, because i thought no one else was doing it for me. no one darling's grown ups, do they? but that ain't true. mum was
there, assuring me that things are going to be ok, and i shouldn't work like a robot, just to prove my abilities, i shouldn't take different paths just
to experiment. there were friends who took my calls in the middle of the night, just to console my sobs. there were friends who wrote to me very often,
they were my energy booster vitamins. i received birthday presents, random presents, warm notes, dinner treats, kind shoulders.
but the difficult times were over powering, they meant much more to me because i don't think i really grasped exactly how selfless those gestures were.
now i know, everything is going to work out for the best.

no, i am not as famous as Mr. Bhagat. i only publish blogs, here on my portal. but it's a lesson learnt - "All of us are told we aren't good enough. Sometimes
we believe it also. But don't. Because nobody, not even you, knows what you are capable of. The criticism
will never stop, ever."

i will live out the confusions till they become clear. i will lower my expectations and exercise my rights to life, liberty and most importantly, the right
to chill. and... i'll remind this to myself very very often.

i really will never understand how i got so lucky.

A dyslexic heart

A dyslexic heart,
Is a dreamer's buddy
It listens
It understands,
And it hopes to scurry.

It has a funny walk,
Beginning with imaginary strength
It takes a step
A confident move
Straight ahead.

Then it happens,
All over again
The same downfall
And bleeding knees
With no strength to regain.

Embracing the gravity
It thinks hard
For a way to straighten up
And dust off
Leaving behind failures to discard.

The bruised knees hurt,
The pain is searing
It calls out for help
To the clever hearts,
That beat away jeering.

It musters lost hope,
And invokes the gods,
Looks around for an even path
And pulls up from the ground
To squat.

Gently,
With hands on the ground
And feet following suit,
It begins to crawl with its head high
Imagining being crowned.

It tried picking speed
But it will take a while
This too shall pass, it knew
And it was sure
Of its chosen style.

countdown - hour after hour, minute after minute

"48 hours" the doctors say. she's a year younger, slipping away into peaceful sleep, the sort of sleep that has no awakening. we haven't met much, but she is like a sister, very close to my heart. i can't say why i am writing this, i don't know what to say really, "R.I.P" or "you're better off up there" or "you'll live in our hearts" and such crap don't make sense at all! i'll miss her very very much. "48 hours" is that little glimmer of hope, which i know will fail me. god i wish many more birthdays for her. and it's so unfair that she has to go this way. we all knew this had to come, we prepared ourselves to face it, its still a shock that this moment is arriving.

Apraajeeta aka Appi, (name changed) my dad's bestfriend's daughter. i'm not sure if she turned 20. her mum runs a bootique and god she looked so elegant. petite, that little face and that cute giggle and the way she spoke, so calm, collected and well, respectful. very very respectful. though i am just a year elder than her, she addressed me as akka, meaning elder sister in Telugu. even we treated her like a child, maybe because she never grew. the hight of a dwarf - but how does it matter?

i've always known her with a liver disease. the elders spoke about it and we were never to question. but i have a vague memory of asking, during my early teenage days. mum explained patiently and all i remember is that she won't live for long. wow, she was never given the chance to dream of a long, happy and healthy life. we all want our fairytale, cute and clichét, but she was always told to live a short life long. god she braved it! words fail me, it's so difficult to go on. no, i am sure she won't be very happy reading this, because i know, too much of sympathising and empathising don't float our boat! we are a little different, we have bodyparts that aren't too kind to us. eyes in my case, liver in hers. we've never wanted sympathy and empathy, we lothe those emotions, and we can not handle it! i was scared to ask mum, so i asked her.
"are you unwell? what's wrong with your health?"
"nothing at all. why do you ask?" she asked, aiming at nonchalance with success. she did not answer.
i was 11, she was 10. and clearly, i would have answered in the same way had someone asked me about my eyesight.

the world needs to know, heros like her lived, she had the truth presented naked in front of her - everytime someone met her, they expressed their simpathy. she lived till 20, obviously she was used to it, but still. again, a vague memory - "when i'm an older woman..." what? no, no more of it i can remember. then her mum repeated it to her dad "when she's an older woman..."

six months ago i heard of her again. mum was out when she got a call from her family. and it was no good news. she was diagnosed with liver cancer. cancer, the sideeffect of her medication. it had already spread to her lungues then and the doctors informed that she was too weak to survive the radiotherapy. now that's called a heartbreak. we, young women sob for the men who leave us! her parents had planned a liver transplantation for her. it took them years to earn to afford a highly expensive and uncertain surgery for their only daughter, and it was too late by then. mum was shakened, she did not speak to her family after that phone call. she didn't know what to say, she kept thinking about it and she cried a little at the thought. dad went for their house warming ceremony. they had planned it so that their relatives from around the world could visit her for one last time. dad described her as "fragile". we spoke to her over the phone and she was delighted to speak to us after so long. my throat knotted but i could hold it in. it was wonderful to hear her voice. i congratulated her. she had the choice to not study. they said high amounts of pressure could cause epilepsy, but she took it onto herself, the 12th board exams in the Medicle stream - something we crib about all the time. she aced it with grades above 85. she aspired to become a doctor. god, you could have spared her another 10 years, you saw the spark in her.

this was the time when one of my friends was highly disturbed about his brother's cancer, somewhare near the throat, it eventually affected the food pipe, and days after, sometime in February, he left behind a young wife and a son around 10 years old. life doesn't just stop for the heaven dwellers, does it? but heaven dwellers, really? i just can't muster the courage to say dead!

then there's the fault in our stars. what a desirable love story. the book is tragic, beautiful and fiction, but talking about the movie - the terminally ill cancer patient, the heroine has perfect skin, perfect hair and a history of radiotherapy sessions. she bumps into an ultra-gorgeous, extremely chivalrous gentleman who falls for her even when she does absolutely nothing to impress him. what does it lead to? puberty hitting, discovering and sexually frustrated women craving to share the story with the protagonist. films really need to grow realistic. cancer is the last thing anyone should romantisize about, please, it isn't cool at all.

dad is leaving to see Appi tomorrow. mum was telling us about the pictures of her craft that Appi had uploaded on facebook. she was selling them. i heard mum telling dad to buy a few for us.

the last time Appi spoke to me over the phone, after her cancer diagnosis, she said she wanted to come visit us in Delhi. but the doctors forbade her from travelling. mum called up and her dad was telling her about how Appi had been criing for going to hyderabad day before yesterday. she fell weak while travelling and threw up blood. the doctors informed that she would slip into coma and she did, at the given time, around 1:30 in the afternoon. they took her home. we have only 48 hours, they say. math counts lesser.

we don't want to do this, but we are counting down, hour after hour, minute after minute. and you know what? Appi was never told she has cancer. she kept looking forward to the liver transplantation. i can't really say if it is right, because her parents didn't want her to suffer. she deserved a normal life, and she lived it.

editing:
Appi is gone. it's her amma's birthday today.

Babydoll's guestpost

Perfection is elusive and also; unnecessary not to mention, impossible. But it still has a lot of fans. Scores of people trying harder with every morn to achieve a little part of it; to fake it or to be destroyed chasing it… only to realize it doesn’t exist. For those few who still manage to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and move on with a smile on their face are lucky. But those who can’t; they exist but don’t really live unless they being their imperfect self, bump into someone. Someone different. Someone perfect.

I first saw S at the college. She was so enthusiastic about the first day of college. You know the type; it was a first day of my college journey- I will study so hard and be perfect – look at all these new people I’m meeting- I’m growing up kind of day. The kind of day when your mental refrain is a nauseously happy American song about being happy. I had that song in my head too; on repeat, but by habit I don’t talk about these things. By a very bad habit I mean, of constantly preferring to be a cold distant observer in any new situation. She is the perfect opposite. S was pouring her heart out to anyone who would listen, making best friends by the minute. I smiled and stood alone. We met at the departmental orientation. I was the girl who asked so if our classes start from the second period on a particular day, do we turn up straightaway for the second period or the first. Someone said, “Could you please accompany me to the college gate?” I said yes and I held her hand; that was the first time I held her hand in the years to come. Each time with a different emotion, purpose, destination but each time with a stronger bond. She asked me about me and told me we’re from the same state, from a city I had never heard of. We didn’t see each other for a while after that. But something stuck. Something always sticks about S. it’s impossible to meet her and not have an afterthought about her days, weeks later. She impinges on memory. I quizzed my dad on where this city was that I’d never heard of and he said there was no such city. I was confused but quite amused. And it was just the beginning.

It was sweet and sour initially. I was an aloof judge-y bitch and she was the queen of sunshine. Always doing something new, always sharing it with people, always smiling and discovering new things. Always friendly. I was amazed to be quite honest. I wondered how it was possible; to always like people and always be liked by them. I liked her too no doubt; on the good days when I absorbed a bit of the sunshine and even on the sour days when I didn’t say anything but she still sat by me.
I can’t point out the exact moment when I thought that this woman will be one of my closest friends for life. But I did think of it at several points. The times when we spontaneously decided to paint the town red, the parts where we discovered our mutual love for junk food, and even the parts with the boy talk; sharing everything with each other, our aspirations, ideas, fantasies and even fears, remorse and guilt. There were tough times, there were blank phases. But I knew that I will never let go and neither will she. She was always so giving… she’s the kind of person who plans for people’s birthday gifts a month in advance, the kind of person who hears shit from people and bears it to collect money for a poor person’s hospital visit who she thought was sick and she thought was her friend. You know, the kind of girl who when decides to love someone does so with the entirety of her tan, man and dhan. Tere pyar mein fana ho jau and all that.

Of course, I was a bit perturbed. I get a little uncomfortable around too much perfection. I didn’t say much because she was happy, so perfectly happy. And then it happened, the quintessential college heartbreak, twice and almost simultaneously. It was cool at first, something new! Something beautiful, something venerated and made perfect in dozens of pop culture books, films and what not. They call it the greatest emotion on earth. The purest part that everyone craves for, but few get. S did not get what she deserved- something pure. But being S, she imagined it was pure and went along with it. She was head over heels in love. And in this case, gorgeous branded 2k heels with neon motifs way above the standards of the one it went over the head for.
She came undone. Everyday a new phone call, everyday a new story of how people disliked her, avoided her, hurt her. I was disturbed and these stories didn’t fall into place. How could the sunshine S I know be disliked? Surely she was just being too harsh on herself? Surely, its just the heartbreak talking? Just the heartbreak… for tan man dhan chicks like us a heartbreak is never “just”.

There were bad days. As in I want to put the world on fire- be surly all day- everything I do turns to shit kind of days. There were many inspired days, I will begin again days. There were let me distract myself days. There were I’m totally lost days and there were happy days that ended in tears.

Slowly, with ever weakening, ever resolving strength she found herself again. That’s when I saw it. Perfection. It was never in constantly being liked or liking. It was never in meaningless friendly interactions. It was in her will to live, to really live not just exist.to learn something new and execute it, to accept, to move on, to adorn oneself. I saw that girl who sat for hours, touching every piece of jewellery in her bulging jewellery bags with a satisfied smile on her face. “you’ll get used to my madness.” She said then. Little did I know we would both get used to each other’s madness and what not. The heartbreaks helped put life in perspective for her and for me. And there are tears here and there, there always will be. And somewhere in-between it will find its way; hot and pulping- perfection.
Not in the non-klutz-y, non-creased clothes, perfect comebacks kind of way.
But in the I have something stuck in my teeth, lets laugh at fake bitches, lets gorge on doughnuts, I have a big smile on my face, my nails are neon, my hair is flying kind of way. Its something we tan man dhan chicks are quite good at!

I love you S! I always will!

Ennui, jilted, band aid on my heart

So, on a very fine evening, after a walk in the JNU campus and my first plate of the oh-so-delicious-Delhi-ish steaming hot momos with lots of the authentic mirchi chatni in ages, my skin felt more like skin. Delhi times, revisited.
Today is my third day in Delhi and I’m bathing in the distinct smell of weirdness and wonder! What’s so cool about Delhi you may wonder, nothing really. What’s so cool about the badti hui mehngayi? The poor is in poverty, the lower middle class is struggling to protect themselves from the kiss of poverty, the higher middle class is struggling to not struggle for long and the rich has felt the tremors. But I’ll tell you what. Fashion is cheaper than food here! Tomatoes I think cost eighty Rupees and guess what? I shopped three gorgeous stoles for one hundred Rupees, and many other such cheep goodies when I was out with baby doll (that’s what we’ll call my besty) and my sister at Sarojini Nagar (a local market). Omg, fuel for survival comes at a price, zero sized anorexia still in demand! Why?
What’s cool about the noise? Argh nothing. Not after living in one of the most beautiful valleys in Himachal Pradesh. The only noise that annoyed me the most was birds pecking at our windows, asserting their right to get breakfast, lunch and dinner early in the morning. Trust me, they do that. They are used to being hosted at our home every day. And it’s cool only for the first week, and for a late riser like me, it ain’t cool at all!
What’s cool about jams? Toasts and tarts and almost everything! But I’m referring to the not so cool kind of jams. The traffic jams. Oh you get that a lot in Delhi and those are a special kind of kolaveri that can only have been contrived in the deepest and most unholy depts of hell! It took us around five hours to drive to Delhi from Nauni, Solan, Himachal Pradesh. And it took us two hours to drive back home after entering the fringes of Delhi. Frustration sears in. seriously, I look up to my dad; sometimes he can be a paragon of patience.
Is the weather cool in Delhi? Nooooooooooooooooooooo! It is either toasting hot… Or spine chilling cold! Weather wizards don’t do cool in capital cities, that image is for the “Dilli ke dil waalas” to hold. Presently, Delhi is hot. Like jaw of hell hot. June is approaching and January and June in Delhi are the worst Js of the year!
No one in my little happy family finds peace in Delhi. But still, Delhi is happiness for me. As I said, my skin feels more like skin here. My heart beats the happy rhythm. Maybe because I found the almost most absolute people here. What’s funny? None of them are from Delhi. Neither am I.

I digressed completely. This was supposed to be an apology post. Because I owe my little bloggity a sorry post. I was supposed to do a holly jolly post on the 23/4/14. My little love blew her first candle on that day and I didn’t celebrate it. Not that I forgot, I just didn’t. My baby sister gave me a chocolate in celebration, I ate it, but I didn’t do the “happiest happiest blogaversary” post that I should have done.
Why, you may wonder. To answer that, I’ll have to elaborate on the title a little.
Ennui because this constant need to do something is driving me nuts. It is getting way out of hand. Where to begin? For a very long time I didn’t have the courage to really write, I wrote in bits and pieces, scraps and fragments. I have been micro blogging through facebook. I have been writing and erasing things, experiencing the blogger’s block, angry and disappointed with myself. There’s just so much to do starting from baking and quilling to blogging and a course in creative writing, that I did not know where to begin so I didn’t begin at all. A circle has no beginning!
Jilted? Jilted by that dream I fought to live. Began to live. Quit mid way. Quitting doesn’t sound good at all. Not a bit. See where the disappointment and the anger came from? Every idea of mine seemed recycled, from a movie or a book or another blog. I guess it is a human tendency to become extremely self critical when we realise a few of our plans have remained unplanned, or one wrong shot fired boomeranged on us.
I remember, more than a year ago, on a beautiful loverly (I made the word up, it means ‘for lovers’) night, during the pre-relationship days, he asked me who my current love was. The staunch amateur social worker in me franticly yelled “Tata Institute of Social Sciences”. I heard him shift, or maybe adjust. With his lips closer to the phone, he whispered “tell me!” and again, the staunch social worker in the making yelled “Tata Institute of Social Sciences” while my heart hushed a meek “not a lie, it’s just half the truth”. But, god knows, the passion for social work was greater. But still, I dropped the admission I gained to TISS. I know I will go back, but still, that guilt of returning home empty handed, in the process waving a huge middle finger to my physical, emotional and educational investments and responsibilities lingered for a month. Maybe it still does, but relatively, not absolutely. Though I made the decision for myself, it feels like being jilted. Congratulations, I’m still a graduate! Even after all this.
Thus, the band aid on my heart. I remember someone saying to me “Scars are sexy because it means you made a mistake that led to a mess”. How true, the game is in growing out of the mess you made for yourself. I have reached that moment when guilt reaches a saturation point and I am beginning all over again. But this time, baby steps. Starting off with wisdom.
Recuperating.

What contributes a certain cachet to starting this post you may wonder. Another fragment. You know what happened today? After the momo hogging bliss, dad told me off for eating too much. Like any other fat kid, I pulled a face in my defence. Then we went to a park and…
Self thought on a swing – “I love swings and summer evenings.”
The swing haled my name with its last breath, tossed me in the air with no respite, swirling I landed on my haunches!
Argh, is this how ecstatic swings treat healthy, grownup girls?

Its 2:30 in the morning and I’m typing away in super cute mauve pyjamas with clouds on them and an unmatched polo (my sister’s sports uniform for school). I should be sleeping. The Wi-Fi is turned off so I promise myself to post this entry tomorrow.

Anyhow, in all confusions, mishaps and wrong deeds, lord has been very kind. And this break, though it was uncalled for and unplanned, it is a much needed respite from everything heavy and unhappy.
Gratitude.

We crave to be white

She picked her bag and walked towards the door, all set to hit the dance floor, to booze, to party, to hug and bid her buddies adieu. She turned to look into the mirror to examine herself one last time. Ravishing in red, inches taller, stood a girl in the mirror, smiling so confidently.
Amidst the gorgeous madness, she suddenly realised a flaw. No matter how elegantly she was carrying herself, she is dark skinned. And dark is never beautiful.
She sat on her bed, trying to figure out if her skin is darker or her soul. Would she like herself as much even after the party?
She shut her eyes. She reminisced running around in a pink frilly dress, licking a lollypop, holding a balloon, two little ponytails barely touching her ears. There was no pain, neither on the outside nor in the inside of her. No dark skin issues and the concept of dark soul was out of question. She was loved.

But love wasn’t her problem. She was still loved, and she experienced intense, physical love few months ago. He had loved a part of her so much that he stared at it with thirst. He couldn’t hold his love in for long, so he held onto her, bruised her, thrust in and poured out and left her before she realised.
The world found out and now, a lot like him love her. Just the way he did. In a “no rings for sluts” sort of a way. Many like him want her. Just the way he had once wanted her. He got her.
She was conditioned to crave to be white, from her teeth to her vagina. Her teeth are, but her vagina?

I didn’t do anything, chocolate vodka did it!

I swear I would have sat on the road if she didn’t let me sit. But she was being nice and she let me sit in the auto. Oh man… like Baba Thillon once sang, I was “blowing in the wind”. I still am, you know?
But, I wish my Baba Thillon was Punjabi, but sadly he was bob Dillon. Born in another country, died in another country. But I wonder what he thinks about chocolate vodka. Do you get more flavoursome chocolate vodka in the States?
The chocolate vodka I drank… boring vodka I drank long time ago… namesake man… they are just namesake. Didn’t even taste chocolate! Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Why isn’t anything happening?

I’m not drunk. I’m tipsy. I like talking when I’m drunk. I mean when I’m tipsy. When I’m drunk also I talk. But whatever man I’m sober and I can debate on neo liberalism and post colonialism. Wanna put up a fight? With me? I’m awesome at debates that sometimes I mentally strike the other person’s head with a hammer in frustration. Yesssssss……! That’s where the spirit comes from. I’m a great debater.

But what man? Chocolate vodka didn’t even taste chocolate! 260ML I drank up and all the money I paid for it. Why?

Why do I smell guava? I wanna smell chocolate. Someone give me chocolate. Please someone give me chocolate.

What’s wrong with my doughnut cover picture? Why is daddy cribbing about it? And you know? I asked why he didn’t like it. And he said “I’ll talk to you later.”
Mean daddy doesn’t realise the importance of chocolate and doughnuts in my life.

Someone send chocolate. Please someone send chocolate. But, note. I only eat white chocolate. Dark chocolate is Yuk… only Horney people like dark chocolate. No. I didn’t say it. Someone I know and don’t want to name once said it to me. I won’t name him because I hate him because he is a bad guy.

You know I was working on a group presentation and I asked a friend to give me her earphones. And earphones also smelled of chocolate. I wanted to ask her if she applies her chocolate lip balm on her earphones. Had I been drunk then I would have asked her, you know?
I was sad on Valentine’s Day. Because I didn’t get any chocolate. You know, hot women say valentino is an excuse for getting flowers and hugs and chocolates. And they regale themselves with chocolate, be it the pish posh chocolate Dundee cakes, or bigger aphrodisiacs like rum chocolate or novelty choco-treats like little chocolates wrapped in colourful papers and assorted in pretty baskets or even eclairs toffees.
But I guess it’s out of my business because I’m a sidekick and sidekicks are not hot.

But you know what; I respect the magic of globalisation. I want strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce. Sinful? Dark desires? You bet! Chocolate knows to tease the taste buds! 10 million orgasms in one go? Who would know? How cheesy! Oh I want chocolate cheese cake!

No one is getting me chocolate. I’ll sleep with my guava.

Baba Dillon, I’m “blowing in the wind”!

Naa jaane koi

(who would know)…
Kaisi hai ye zindagani (how’s the living)?
(I didn’t graduate in translation, so shush!)
This song has been playing in my head since yesterday. The cool boyband of our class sang to its melancholic beats for the farewell party. Yeah man, I know we are bidding our seniors a goodbye, but this is no adhuri kahani (incomplete story)!
How does my story unfold?
20 years long!

What do I feel right now?
Too mixed up.

Am I happy?
Ask me again tomorrow.

What do I want?
I’ll tell you when I figure.

Do I have the time?
Time and tide treat all of us the same way.

But I’ve learned a lot of things this week…

1. When you say the cool lot doesn’t hang out with you, it only means you’re insulting the lot that hangs out with you, the friends who love you.
2. Just because you think someone is cool doesn’t have to mean the person is actually cool, it only means we have our romantic phases.
3. I love myself and there’s no harm in saying it allowed. Haters may hate and potatoes may potate!
4. Depression only needs excuses like… oh the room doesn’t have enough sunlight.
5. Gossiping at someone else’s expense is always fun. Trust me; you do not know the entire story. Even if you do, it’s none of your business because you will not realise how it feels unless you are at the receiving end.
6. No, the woman who gets drunk at a party and ends up making out with someone is not a slut. Trust me, there’s more to it than what meets the eye.
7. God helps those who help themselves. Where will tossing in bed for days take you?
8. People respect those who respect themselves. Often, the most confident are called cool. You have it, you display it.
9. Friends in need are friends indeed! Because the time you ask for a friend the most is the time you have the least to offer.
10. The joy you share is jealousy doubled! This applies to random people, for friends it has, is and will always be joy you share is joy doubled. So choose wisely.
11. Just because you haven’t talked for a while doesn’t mean you aren’t friends anymore. One hug and the love will rekindle. Because the heart remembers.

This is still an adhoori kahani. I have a long way to go.
But what cheers me up is that I’m wiser than I was. I’ve learnt a lot. I’m still learning. I write a lifestyle blog. About things I’ve realised, about things I’ve experienced, about how I plan my life, and maybe someone somewhere will find answers.
And guess what, I’m respected. My parents read my blog. And their advice?
“Keep exploring, child.”

Why do I care about the social strata?
I’m placed on the topmost layer in my little society consisting of the most awesome people. And you know what? We are all equals. We all share the topmost layer.

I’m cool and I know it! :)

Being jobless makes me so cool. And I get tralala sorta fun. What’s life without a crazy theme? We totally deserve an entertaining change. The rat race demands blood and sweat. Beware; you want all that’s yours. Do you want to give up? Sell away your lungs and kidneys? No, don’t, no, don’t, please, begging.
You are still loved very much. Be safe, be happy, be good. Go to bed with a smile. Pick a line for your epitaph. My epitaph – Vindhya Himachala Yamuna Ganga. Because my name is Sai Vindhya. Do crazy stuff, weird is different.
By the way, I’m not jobless. I have many assignments to complete. And piles of stuff to sort. But this post has a purpose.
I have a secret to tell. Oh, oohh, ah, yeah, hmm, hmm. I’ll be quick, surprises are hard. I can’t deal with them myself. So, awesome peeps, here it goes…
This post has six worded sentences.
Yay, yay, boom, boom, woohoo, hurrah!

Count the words in each sentence. I make a terrible, horrible cheater.
I’m looking forward to your responses.

It’s your turn to be cool.
I love you very much, reader.
Sending you my warm fuzzy regards.

Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach

I attended a writers club where we were told to write ten sentences starting with “I’ve learnt”. So here, twenty most interesting lessons I’ve learnt in the twenty short years of my not so long life.

1. I’ve learnt to stop worrying about who people think I am. Because it’s me, I own myself!
2. I’ve learnt that whatever I do doesn’t have to be sophisticated all the time, let’s go dumb!
3. I’ve learnt that weird is the new different.
4. I’ve learnt that trust is the first step to any relationship.
5. I’ve learnt to not take things at face value, it is necessary to differentiate between sweet nothings and genuine complements.
6. I’ve learnt to take it slow, because if you hurry, you flurry!
7. I’ve learnt that the cool “I don’t care” attitude is not cool any longer. I care because it’s about me!
8. I’ve learnt that the only debt one can’t repay is the gift of an understanding mother.
9. I’ve learnt to hold on to people despite misunderstandings. Because some relationships come a full circle.
10. I’ve learnt that important life lessons can only be learned through experience. Good luck, bad luck… who knows?
11. I’ve learnt that victory is sweet and easy to share. Defeat is an individual experience.
12. I’ve learnt to watch good movies. The small budget big win sorts. The true Indi win sorts.
13. I’ve learnt that love is a beautiful two way street.
14. I’ve learnt that one should drink to celebrate, not to get drunk. Barring the random kiss or drunk dialling the long gone ex is not cool.
15. I’ve learnt to raise a smile, not a fist, because I know the world expects the fist.
16. I’ve learnt to not be jealous of someone else’s beauty or covetous for someone else’s talents. I will bask in the beauty that I am and embrace the talent that I have.
17. I’ve learned that it’s mandatory to pick the cue; else the blame is on you.
18. I’ve learned that people change much like leaves. From tender green to bottle green and darker and darker. Some turn yellow in between, and then brown, then they catch fire to look dead gray.
19. I’ve learnt to hold on to my self-respect at all times. It’s wonderful to be nice, and I will. But no, not at the cost of people taking me for granted.
20. I’ve learned that what I will learn is more important than what I have learnt.

P.S. these are not just mere clichés.

Me bad bad blogger dish, why did I post a post empty of New Year wish?

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Treasure trove

The story dates back to the time I was in third year of under graduation, the last year of college. Who back then would have thought I’d have to brave another two years of attendance threats, strictly-no-plagiarizing warnings and growing up? So, the super seniority stormed into my head, got under my skin and ran deep in the veins. I lived life like there’s no tomorrow. If you didn’t believe I’m crazy, here’s the proof.
While people sat to discuss career prospects and went between their exams to give a million entrances, I laid in bed, quilled cards, shopped, got told off, occasionally felt guilty, studied now and then, wrote, gave just 2 entrances (TISS and DU for social work. I didn’t give JNU. And I got looks) and ordered tons of food and bloated into a ball. I even distracted juniors by talking about dream men and engagement rings the night before an exam. I reminded myself of my high cool quotient, because I was interning with BASIX and was earning 6000RS per month, I had a super cool boyfriend, I am pretty and I was the super senior, thanks to previous years of borderline cleared attendance!
I passed third year unscathed with 35% attendance while 66.6% was compulsory. Hey, trust me, even I didn’t think that would happen. For some time, I thought I’d have to repeat that year and it didn’t seem too bad back then. Well, why would it seem bad to a carefree, pampered brat bestowed with parental riches? I don’t know where that confidence came from, because had I been detained, I’d be writing this post from my grave. All I understood back then was kinship, friendship, internship and… uhm… courtship!
I guess because there are no reasons for absolute madness!
Ahh-ohh! Confessed too much!

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One humid day, sometime during the beginning of the session in July, while walking into the mess for lunch,
“Hi, do you need help?”
“Please” I said and caught onto her hand. “First year?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Third year” I paraded, surely she didn’t notice.

After a brief introduction and a hurried chat in Tamil over quick spoonfuls of kaddi chawal, before the afternoon classes, I invited her to my room that evening. And she turned up. I thought she was homesick and was looking for an elder sister in me. What all seniority can do to you!
But how can you blame me? That’s how I was when I was in my first year. I asked whether she was missing home and she said yes. See?
After a few crazy, intelligent conversations and my birthday dinner when my friends with much super seniority made her wash a dirty saucepan, we became buddies. We poked fun and cracked too many inside jokes. We became buddies, sisters, well; we had other plans as well.

So now, drums roll…

Introducing my sweetie sponsor… put your hands together for Anuradha Rao!
Because she has a lot to say about me!

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The moments you can't put into words.

There are some moments that are terribly hard to describe. The amazement at a finished piece of quilling, the excitement on knowing you'll have south Indian food from Saravana Bhavan for dinner, the high feeling when you've laughed so much with a friend that you just can't laugh any more or the honour on being asked to write a guest post in the world's most entertaining blog.

It's difficult to explicitly explain these brilliant moments in words- they need to be lived. And I have lived them all. Lucky me right? I know you're probably thinking- what's in a few good moments? They come, they go, so what's the big deal? You couldn't have been more off the mark. It's this sequence of crazy, weird, mental, beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime moments that build unforgettable memories. And it helps if you have a crazy, weird, mental, beautiful, one-of-a-kind friend to share them with.

I can't even begin to describe how sad it is when a whole year of fun-filled happiness with a special person like this comes to an end. I've had to live with it every day of the past four months, and trust me, it's not easy. I don't speak of it often, because not many understand. Nobody else can appreciate the depth of that void without experiencing something like it.

So when I was asked to write this post, I jumped at the opportunity. But for a long time, I wondered. What do I write about? The topics suggested to me included Federer (oh, but that post would never end then) and the Beatles (there's nothing to write really- they need to be heard, not read about!). So then I decided I'd write about the time I spent with the person who suggested these topics in the first place. Who also happens to be the person who runs this blog, just by the way. It's not possible to put it all down in one post (not even a thousand page tome would suffice)- oh no, don't get me wrong.
It's not a problem to do with a space constraint at all. It's to do with not being able to express those intangibly amazing emotions in writing. Sometimes, words are just not enough.

By Anuradha Rao

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Old gems digged!