Poem I wrote in class

Hi, so, one Friday morning, we were given six colours representing six emotions in class. We had to use them to describe the whole week. I decided to use words instead of crayons.

Anxiety – orange
Excitement – yellow
Love – red
Anger – black
Happiness – green
Sorrow – brown


Only when I was about to shade
My Sunday circle in the distinctive ethnic ware contrast
Of red and green, I realized that
The events demanded accents of orange.
I must confess that I don’t quite agree
With the colour coordination. I’d feel quite black
If I were told to wear red, green and orange in one outfit.

However, Monday opened black,
Since green lies in retrospect.
But somewhere, some Greek goddess decided
To not let me endure another colour coordination catastrophe.
So the day drew to a close
In a fresh shade of olive green
Under the black sky. Cheers.

Tuesday came to remain leaf green,
But there might have been tinctures
Of dull red and beaming lemon Yellow.

Wednesday meant to be black and brown
And black and brown it was.
Gosh, the Gothic feels!
A fleck of red lipstick wouldn’t have hurt.

Thursday was black and red.
Half and half –has my day ever begun light bright?
But red happened when twilight pursued.

Friday began red,
A love affair between my blanket and me,
It blazed ruby till it turned a warning shade of orange,
Setting eyelids on fire to wrench them open
Time for class!

This ditty hasn’t yet seen
The dawn break of Saturday,
Nor the blood red sun of this Friday eve
So it knows not the next shade!

#IUnderstandCuriosityNotDoucheBaggery

"How do you hit on the hot guys
All the time, Sai Pie?
How do you know?"
I’ve been asked
More than once,
A bazillion times even
By the same curious ass of a friend.

I confessed that I didn't know how.
I really didn't.
And the ass of a friend
Didn't believe me.

Surely, she suspected…
What, witchcraft?
I believe in Harry Potter and wand waving
And incantations, you see!
Well, jokes apart.

It was a heated discussion. It took me over a year
To work things out for myself.
I started wondering if I had the psychological process
Of following trends and developing a liking for every good-looking person
And every nice thing that people talked about.
I kept dissecting every nice thing I said to someone:
“Do I really believe she sends out classy vibes?”
“Is he actually that sexy?”
“Are my hormones okay?”

Trust me, mate,
It was a mental warfare
And a constant pain in the ass till…
I figured basic biology out.

There’s a reason why we have five sensory receptors.
If one doesn’t work,
The others will compensate for it.

Then I simply had to focus on
What I liked.
After all…
Beauty is subjective.

Now, tell me.
Can an intelligent brain grasp nonsense?
If your answer is no, read on.

Do you realise how much you give away,
When you first start talking?
I do!
For one…
I can hear you breathe!

I know your tone, Darling.
I know your dialect,
Your choice of topic, and
Everything you're not saying!
I can tell the difference between
A stammering brain-worker
And a stuttering dumb fuck,
Thank you very much!

Because…
A visually challenged blogger I once read wrote
"A voice can reveal emotion
More than the possible lie of an expression."
And because the size of your thesaurus
Does not matter, how you use it
Is what counts.

Now…
Say Indianapolis,
And say Indian nipples!
(Another funny bit I found on the internet.)

I can smell you. Even at a distance
Of 10.54 inches.
So if your sweat mixes with something strong
That you've bathed in, then…
Well, you're bound to give me…
Ahh-choo!
Are you an incense stick?

Also, brush your teeth and take a shower
If you respect the respiratory systems of
People who are and aren’t visually challenged.
You’re doing the world a favour by using
Water, even though it is precious and all!

I can feel you moving and making gestures.
It’s just the difference
Your body mass makes in the air.
Remember that feeling…
Of creepy unease before
You notice someone staring at you?
Same logic.
So don’t even think of groping
Or walking in to my personal bubble!

Touch? I like solid muscle
And deliciously firm skin.
Stubble?
Yes, please.
Pouty lips?
Whew!

I need a man
With good conversational skills,
Alive sense of humour and other nice things
He wants to bring along with respect and loyalty.

I’ve covered almost all the senses,
Including common sense
Excluding visual modality
For obvious reasons and
Taste for, well,
Obvious reasons.

So…
In a nutshell…
Hot men are not hot because they look hot.
Hot men look hot because they are hot.
Ever seen a smart woman clench her stomach
Over ninnies with abs and all that jazz?

Attention, attention
This is more important than…
Leonardo DyCapreo’s Playboy boxers
And the hash tagged title of this astute word mess
Because the hash tagged ending is…
#There’sSoMuchMoreToBeingBlindThanMeetsTheEye

#NoteToSelf

I regulate my life.
I dictate how i should be treated.
my deeds define My identity.
My intentions make me the person I am.
I was, am and will always be called by the name I am given by my family. I refuse to accept all tags given to me. I do not fit the stereotype.
I am confident, independent, intelligent and bold and my rights will not be questioned by anyone.
I have the time, energy and the interest to worry only about the rights and deeds of my own, my family's and friends'. I will not judge or question anyone
else.
I take my passions, profession, pleasures and personal life way too seriously. I live and let live.
I am different in the way I am and for the choices I have made.
Yes, I am a woman. And a human being before that. and I will never be judged for who I am.
Preachy - something I will be called for the vocal, opinionated woman I am. A tag i do not accept.

#LookUpStories

A friend’s facebook status prompted me to write this post. And following a prompt is never a waste of time!
So, she’s petrified of cats and wanted to know if people had secret fears. I thought people were reticent only about their fetishes. But after contemplating, the memory came back to me with clarity that I eked out all my years with the embarrassment of the biggest, most braggart fear I sustained. And three months ago, when my touchy subject was touched upon, it sent a blow to my bloated ego!

I confess, I’m lapidified by the idea of traveling all alone in a vehicle driven by a man. Even now, I just cannot walk around on my own in a place surrounded by men. Now, I am not saying I have an aversion to men.

A couple of years ago, I got in touch with a school friend and we instantly clicked. We chatted on facebook and flirted healthy. He suggested we should meet and I submitted that life couldn’t get any better. I asked if I could bring a friend along and he said he doesn’t have a friend coming with him. There, sounded like a date.
“Limited bling, Sai” My girls warned.
I cannot look like I’m coming from a date. Lol! So I settled with denims, a happy, bright woolen top and a pink dragonfly broach sitting on the hill top to the left, eager for his attention.
“I got my friend’s car” he announced pulling out the key with prowess.
Shit. What now?
“Um… umm… I don’t like cars.”
“You don’t–“
“No as in I feel claustrophobic in cars. Rickshaw… we could take a rickshaw!” I aimed at nonchalance which was evidently missing.

Needless to say we didn’t end up in each other’s arms by the end of it. Honestly, I was looking forward to getting away as soon as I could. Not that he bothered me but I was feeling so inept.

Eventually, I improved. I believe in taking chances.
I took an auto one morning for field work. I told the chauffeur the route and waited to reach. If my usual trip took 12-15 minutes he drove around for more than 20 minutes. I yelled for him to stop and he obeyed. There, Murphy’s Law – I came face to face with someone I just couldn’t stand for a millisecond. He offered to help. I couldn’t let these guys know I was scared. I got off the auto and refused to pay.

But one comforting thing about seeing this person was that I could somehow figure I was close to the campus. He was with his group and they were all from my senior batch. I Waited till I heard another auto pass and hired it back to the hostel.

This semester, I was placed with an agency for fieldwork that was around 25KMS away from where I live. I was asked all sorts of questions about my disability starting from whether I was born without eyesight to why I am completely dependent on my coworkers for finding my way. I told them about my fears of travelling alone but it was as good as accosting thin air.
I called up a friend and broke fits into sobs. I asked her to pick me up. I could not bear the idea of returning with my coworkers. I was acting on impulse. I called up dad and he told me to not worry.
He took a while to think and called back. “Hire a radio cab from now on. I don’t want you to depend on buggers and jokers, be self dependant. What do you lack? I only want you to excel in your field and grow successful. You are the best.”
Though the fare worried me, I couldn’t be more grateful to god for my family. I called up Meru customer helpline.

I forwarded the car details to my parents and called dad up to inform him I started back. I cannot deny the slightest pang of anxiety but it filled me with optimism. Completely. I knew I wasn’t alone with the chauffeur, the car was running on GPRS and my parents know which car I am in and who’s driving it. What more could I ask for?

The fare still worries me. My coworker commented “just because you are rich”, does he know shit about how I feel or what my parents do or what they go through when they cut out on other expenses just to see me more independent? Well, when did these people ever understand me in the first place? I know how to find my way, and such positive emotions sprout from what we learn in life.

I am writing this post for Indiblogger’s “Look up Stories” happy hour activity and my first lone taxi ride not only filled me with optimism and hope but also showed me some real action in life. Thank you for helping me share my story with the world.

#StartANewLife

I was a month short of turning nine when the deputy head mistress looked into my victorious academic history and spoke to my mum about granting me a double promotion. Needless to say my family was elated but the felicity took an age to win over my heart. I was that kid for whom everything had to go the way it went for the others. Chronologically. Linearly. In an ascending array.
“What will I say to people about last year? Everybody did fourth grade, everybody knows the fourth grade text books except me.”
My mother tried explaining to me about how everybody thought I knew so much more than the other kids from my batch and that I already know the fourth grade texts.
But how could that be? I never read those. I resigned. Stayed by myself because there was nothing I could do. My folks were so pleased with me that they spoke about it to everybody much to my embarrassment.
“Ma, what if I fail fifth grade?” I tried my luck. I asked guests and an older kid left me with food for thought.
“Why will you fail? Have you ever failed till date?”
“No, ma. Arti said every class is difficult and it is about how hard we study. What if I don’t study hard?”
“Why won’t you study hard?”
“I will study hard. But what if the studies are harder?”
I was getting on her nerves. What more could she say to ease my worries when she had worries of her own – life in a new country, the schools, the culture, the teaching patterns, the syllabus?
“But I don’t want to study fifth grade, I will only do it next year. After fourth.”
Father intervened and I had no choice. Bam.

Till early 2014, self pride kept me engulfed in its webs. I was the youngest in class, started post graduating at twenty. Somehow, it boosted my ego as well. I thought I was as wise as my class mates who were in their mid twenties. But who knew? Who would have cared to listen if told that wisdom comes with experience and not with degrees or age?

Days passed, misconceptions brooded, troubles copulated, ambitions altered at will. In short, life was fornicating with itself. And I dropped out of college.

The year that was saved finally slipped off my fingers like a wiggly goldfish. The trapping webs of self pride loosened. Array yaar drama chodo dhobi ka kutta na ghar ka na gat ka!

So, in conclusion, I have stories of blunder. And stories of heartbreaks. But the thing with these stories is that they are not special. This is the point. Nothing that ever happened with me is special. Heart aches of all kinds – romantic, familial, platonic, social – are the most common conditions there are. Everybody goes through them. And this – the hour of crisis – is when you realize, that there is still hope, and a speck of strength to pull you up because you’re not close to your death bed yet. And the best part about beginning is that you can begin whenever and wherever!

This post is written for the IndiBlogger’s “Start a New Life” happy hour activity. And I am thinking again.
These past few days have been crazy busy in to the peak season of submissions. And all I could think was “assignment assignment”.

I am back, readers, back in to the fray – consensually. Same college, same course. But this time, with more paid wisdom in the form of the Oxford course in creative writing and unpaid wisdom in the form of all that life has taught me. These are not my happiest days. but my heart is content with my situation in life.

Facebook status

Hi.
I am a glutton.
My job is all about making a pig out of myself and I love it.
My hobbies are cooking and baking fancy shmancy delicious everything.
Why am I writing a project proposal?
Bye.

“Scars are sexy”, he says!

This is a Platonic love confession for a man I know through a couple of formal facebook chats, from friends and well, little birdies that squeak “gossip gossip”. It’d be so unfair if I tell you I despise these little beings. I absolutely adore them for they talk of him.
But guess what happened?
He hid. Went right under the radar and the birdies don’t have a clue. Off facebook, blog deleted. I don’t get to read a thing he has written.

He calls himself P-pod and P-pod loves writing. One breezy evening, over chai and samosa, little birdie said he was terminally ill. That was a moment of yugen in its purest, melancholic form. He had stopped writing on the portal he used to write. He only kept updating the notes section on Facebook. He shouldn’t stop writing. I passively resisted in response to the injustice that the universe was causing. I felt so helpless.

After a few months I dropped out of college and his tenure as a student also ended. After months, I typed his name in the facebook search box and nothing came up apart from similar names. I figured he was one of his kind. My entire being sank down into the bed. Was he still alive? It’s not fair that someone so good-looking and funny had to be returned to dust so early. But his blog was still there. And I re-read the archives he had left behind. Same campus and I had not met him. I felt disappointed with myself.

A month or so later when I decided to visit his portal, it was deleted. I told mum about him and she asked the dreadful question. You know what it is…
Anyhow, the removal of his blog meant he was alive. Woohoohoohoo! But he deleted his blog. Wasn’t the best feeling.

Then, I saw a post from his account on facebook. Miracles exist!

Can’t remember what but I wrote to him. I told him I wish he didn’t delete his blog. I did not ask and he didn’t tell me why. I marathon’ed his notes for a couple of hours before I fell asleep that night.

Currently, he’s off facebook and I forgive his state of hibernation. To be honest, I have a lot of social anxieties myself and I like to be forgiven too.

Thank you, P-pod, for setting my thoughts into words this beautifully and accurately. I think you’re super zuper duper good at it. I only hope you write what you truly believe in.

I also thank IndiSpire on IndiBlogger for the “The Stranger Whom I Can’t Forget!” activity as a part of edition53. I wouldn’t have written all of this otherwise. P-pod, you’re the stranger whom I can’t forget.