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.

Discovering self dependance - we're all social animals

“Beware of Destination Addiction—a preoccupation with the idea that happiness is in the next place, the next job, or with the next partner. Until you give
up the idea that happiness is somewhere else, it will never be where you are.” —Lauren Britt
This quote is a punch to my throat - knotting. Strongest realisation so far.
Too early to make a promise, but I'll certainly try giving up my habit of looking for happiness in petty things and worthless people.

scribbling in fieldwork hours

Fiesta for breakfast
The day got a head start
With a smile on the lips
And trots and skips
Of footsteps and heartbeats
Prepped with wisecracks and witty quips.

Chin-chin to the cheering chirps
That raised the sun with the melodic harps
That blessed the sky with the azure glow
And kissed the crowd with breezes that blow.

Thanking god almighty
For days that slide
Like Santa and his elves
Down the dark chimney
To brighten huddles
With hues in motley.

The best quantitative research methodology lecture so far!

I wrote this in class. I’m not proud of writing things apart from notes in class but I love how the best of my creativity unleashes in classes that are difficult to follow.

So we were asked to write a descriptive peace and I could only write this! and I can’t figure a title for this one.

Okay here we go…

The horse had a boney horn,
Hoofing on her head with prowess
Unlike Ms. Buggy the cow
Bearing a wealthy saddleback.

The dog meowed after
The tiger that took a rain check
While the mouse his highness
Lounged awaiting his pray.

Tiny humans with hands and feet
Crawled in a damp milieu
In the mansion of inheritance
Of the herculean ants.

The rose carried foetor
Gazing enviously at the mighty fair crow
But lizard the wizard
Had a mightier stance!

Zombies had a Leonardo DyCapreo
Sea monsters had sexy boys next door
King cobra’s asset was
That he could cook gajar ka halva.

Satan got his sweet way
In my little ditty
I wonder if jalapeños are peppers
In this Parallel universe.

Has lo, kameeno!

I live a hilarious life. I live amongst hilarious people. I say hilarious things. My professor has a “Hillarios” name!
Don’t believe me? Read on!

Side note, as well as potentially useful information for my foreign blog readers: dudes and dudettes, learn Hindi. Watch Shah Rukh Khan. Indian humour is something you’re missing out!

Kanu in pain – “Aaaaaaa!”
Me – “Kya hua bhenchod?”
(Realization hits, I’m stepping on her foot!)
Me – “Sorry.”
Kanu – “My foot!”
*Both of us die laughing*

Me – “Why aren’t there any mushrooms on my plate?”
Arunima – “Ummm… You ate’m all!”

Naamu – "Hi, Sai-Pie. What's up? What are you doing?"
Me – "Hi, Mousse. Grilled vegies up to the throat. i'm doing the job of a pig."

Professor Panchal – “How many of you hail from a rural part of India? (Picks Kapai out of the few raised hands) You tell me, did you run around the keth as a child?”
Kapai – “What’s keth?”
Professor Panchal – “Sure you’re from rural India?”
Kapai – “Yes, the part of rural India where Hindi is not spoken!”
(proud of you, bro)
Me: “Do I look scary?”
Gopika: “yeah, I think so.”
Me: “My student’s dad said to his 2 year old chup hoja varna madame tujhe kamre mein band kar dengi!”
Akhil: “Fuck you nahi bola tune?”
Gopika: “Don’t listen to him, Sai. Never say kinky shit to people who don’t look like they’d be good in bed!”
(I think Akhil choked)

Me – “Kanu, open the door?”
Kanu – “Yeah.”
Me (sounding sullon) – “What’re you doing?”
Kanu – “Leti hui thi.”
Me – “Creativity?”
Kanu – “Leti hui thiiiiiiiiiiiiiii bhenchod!”
Us – “Hahahahhhahahahaahhahahaahhahahahahahahahahaha!”

Vandy – “Poor kids… what math did you teach them?”
Me – “11+12=23.”
Vandy – “That was instant. How many times did you rote 11+12=23? 11+12=2311+12=2311+12=2311+12=2311+12=2311+12=2311+12=2311+12=23!”
Me – “Shut uuuuuuuuuuuup!”
Vandy – “What’s next? 2+2=4?”

Nilabh – “Like the English add S to denote the plural form of things, Jharkhand mein log end mein ‘un’ lagate hain.”
Me – “Jaise?”
Nilabh – “Ladki ke end mein “un” laga?”
Me – “Ladkiun.”
Nilabh – “Good… United Kingdom ka capital kya hai?”
Me – “London.”
Nilabh – “haan. Ab ‘ON” hata?”
Me – “What the fuck! OMG hahahahahahahahahahhahahahaha!”

Richa – “I need to prove to people that I am from Patiala!”
Me – “And how are you gonna do that?”
Richa – “We got them Patiala pegs, bhenchod!”

Me – “Hi Rafiq, how’re you doing?”
Rafiq – “Good. Sorry I don’t shake hands with girls.”
Me – “dying virgin isn’t very hard, is it?”
Rafiq – “S…sorry?”
Me – “Why don’t you shake hands with girls?”
Rafiq – “In islam it is wrong to touch an unmarried girl’s hand.”
Me – “As-Salaamu-Alaikum.”
Rafiq – “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam.”
(He never spoke to me again)

Anu – “I called you. Your phone was busy.”
Me – “Oh.”
Anu – “But I enjoyed it. You were on the phone and I realized my call wasn’t on waiting. The Marathi automated voice was cute so I kept listening to it for n number of times.”
Me – “Say whaaaat!”
Anu – “What to do, everytime I call you, your crazy influence rubs off on me!”

Me – “I’m not a dainty lady. Hey, that could be the title of a new blog post.”
Sudha – “But I’m a dainty lady.”
Me – “I’m talking about my blog.”
Sudha – “Oh.”
(A couple of days later)
Me – “You’re a dainty princess and what am i?”
Sudha – “Awww what do you want to be?”
Me – “A bombshell!”
Sudha – “Totally suits you.”

Kanu – “Sit down.”
Me (softly) – “No my bum hurts from sitting.”
Kanu (loudly) – “What?”
Me (softly) – “My bum hurts.”
Kanu (Even loudly) – “Whaaaaaaaaaaaatttt?”
Me (exasperated) – “Pichwade mein dard hogaya hai bhenchod!”
Kanu – “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Me – “The chicken’s baby is a chick. Good. The lion’s baby is a cub. Good. What’s the horse’s baby called?”
Vandy – “Uhm… Uumm. Aaaaaaammmm.”
Me – “Mmmmmmmmmm…”
Vandy – “Hub! Hub! Horse hub horse hub horse hubby hubby horse hubby horse!”

Me – “Oh yeah valentine’s day is coming.”
Mum – “Your boyfriend’s name starts with K?”
Me – “What K? Why K?”
(Failed at nonchalance, miserably)

Dad – “A mortgaged home, a car on loan, and a boyfriend arrest growth. Stay away from all the three!”

Me – “Let’s enjoy life. Life is full of crap anyway and nothing’s gonna change that.”
Richa – “Yeah, have the time of your life.”
Me – “Tum bhi karo crap!”
Richa – “Do you realize what you just said?”
(Sinked in two days later)

Me – “Hey I know who she is, she looked hot for the farewell. Her blouse was literally balancing on a string and if that came off…”
Nilabh – *Amused* “Did it come off?”
Me – *thoughtful* “Haan?” *firm* “No!”
Nilabh – “That was just the follow up question! How did you know anyway?”
Me – “She went to the loo with me and she asked me to tighten it for her.”
Nilabh – “Don’t get me wrong but this makes me want to be a Vision impaired lesbian!”

Trupti (my scribe) – “She made me open Wikipedia on my phone during the exam.”
Kailash – “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?”
Me – “What am I missing, bros?”
Kailash – “Log kehte hain ki agar insaan ka koi dost na ho to google ki dosti ke sahare zindagi kaato. Tum ne to seriously le liya hai yaar!”

Me – “Did you know that the leading lady’s name in The Inheritence of Loss is Sai? And there’s a character named Nauni and I live in Nauni, Himachal Pradesh.
Arunima – “Okay so it’s basically Kiran Desai referencing you. Like they throw in references in pop culture!”

Kanu – “What’s your zodiac?”
Me – “Leo”
Kanu – “You’re a leo too?”
Me – “Yeah.”
*tubelight flashing on feebly*
Me – “Who else is a leo?”
Kanu – “Oh crap!”
Me – *Makes a face*
Kanu – *Clears her throat and pregnant pause*
Kanu – “Shourjya is also leo, no?”
Me – “Yeah. Asshole is also leo. Don’t say it again.”
*Totally died laughing*

Me – “Daaku mera daak mere baby tak pahonchayega.”
Richa – “Daaku? Daak?”
Me – “The postman will deliver the parcel to my boyfriend.”
Richa – “Please go Google dhakia and daaku! I should get you a Hindi dictionary for your birthday!”
(Holy shit)

Nilabh – “Ever wondered why I’m so wise?”
Me – “Why?”
Nilabh – “Tere side mein ek pedh hai, usshi ke niche bait ke gyan leta hun.”
Me – *Gets up, joins palms, touches forehead to the tree*
Nilabh dies laughing, I join in!

Smriti – “Nikki agar main tujhe apni potty dungi to tu khayegi?”
Me (mouthful of choorma) – “Mmmmmmmmmmmm” *cringes*
Niketa – “Agar main tujh se bolungi Smriti apna potty dena tabhi dogi na tum mujhe?”
*clutching stomach, mouthful*
Kanu – “Point!”
Manisha – “Yaar mere ghar pe hota hai. Smart kid ke achievements pe dumb kid ko kehte hain ‘Tu uske potty khaane layak hai, tu uski potty khaale teri zindagi
safal hojaygi’.”
Kanu – “Cousins ki yaad aagayi. ‘tujhe main apni potty dunga.’ ‘de kar to dek saale!’”
Me *still clutching stomach, mouthful, silent tears*

Me – *Zoned out in class*
Professor Jojo – “What do you want to name your kids?”
Me – *Zoned out*
Professor Jojo – “Yesterday my wife came home and she was completely depressed.”
Me – *Zoned out*
Professor Jojo – “Do I need someone’s permission to die?”
Me – *Self thought* “What’s happening?”

Vandy’s status – “My dad is the worlds best daughter's {SAI VANDITA MADIREDDY} dad.”
Dad’s comment – “News to us.”

Kunal – “Men aren’t dogs.”
Me – “No men aren’t dogs. Dogs go to heaven. And you’re being an… forget it baby, I can’t abuse you!”

Richa (shows me a scale) – “Here to here, six inches.
Me – “So?”
Richa – “Six whole inches, Sai.”
*Realization hits*
Me – “OMG! How?”
Richa – “How, exactly is the question! I’ll die!”
(I was a teenager, wasn’t I?)

Anu Ninni (my aunt) – “Akshara Hasan is okay looking but she has cat eyes like mamma.”
Me – “um, whose mamma? My mamma or your mamma?”
Anu Ninni – “chhi! What Sai?!”
Me – “Oh her own mamma?”
(who’s more obtuse?)

Deachen (to me) – “Chanda Mama kitna pyaara lag raha hai.”
Me (to Kapai) – “Chanda Mama ko dekho!”
Kapai – “who’s Chanda Mama?”

Richa – “I know this has taken an unhealthy turn but his message was adorable. Like I was his best mistake.”
Me – “awwwwww… But nawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”
Richa – “Nawwww? Awwww kisi ka sense of humour improve ho raha hai!”

Me – “you have been drinking?”
Nisha – “I have been drinking?”
Me – “you have been drinking!”
Nisha – “when was I drinking?”
Me – “didn’t you just say you’ve been drinking?”
Nisha – “when did I say I have been drinking?”
*urgh*

Kapai (handing Piyali her phone) – “ye lijiye tumara boyfriend.”
Piyali (cuddles Kapai) – “you remind me of the dog from despicable me and I’m the little girl running after it!”

I sendt my mum a picture of me holding a baby chicken. She wrote back “Both the chicks are beautiful!”

Amit (On the class chat) – “Does Arunima have an alternative email id?”
Arunima – “No, dodo, she prefers punk!”

Meenakshi – (about Komal) “Here’s the hot one.”
Me – “How hot are you exactly?”
Komal – *leans in* “I’m this hot.”
Me – “Uh… I’m hotter and I don’t need to lean in to make you go fuzzy!”
(I wish I read expressions better)

Me – “pumpkin, you don’t look good in shirts!”
Kapai – “I’m removing my shirt!”

Sachin – “Hi Sai cuty pie.”
Me – *blows a raspberry*
Sachin – “Hi sai chicken fry!”
*highfive*

Richa – “Don’t lose hope just yet, sweety. Maybe you could steal a little goodbye kiss before he leaves.”
*I died*

And last but not the least…

Me – “thank you, Sir. Very kind of you. May I know your name please?”
Professor H. Beck – “You may call me Professor Beck.”
Me – “Alright. Is Beck short for something, Sir?”
Professor H. Beck – “Beck is my Family name. I don’t tell people my first name.”
(Few days later, I get a friend request on Facebook from a certain Hilarios Beck)

Hello, awesome peeps. Have I wished you a happy new year yet?

Five full days into 2015, but my brain will still not shake offfffff the feeling that the ‘90s were ten years ago! Lol! DDLJ and Shah Rukh Khan are old!
I have omitted SRK’s name from my get-creepy-about-favorite-men-list after Happy New Year. I mean what exactly happened for 2.5hrs in the movie hall that evening? Even Vaseline couldn’t help my brain recover.

I spent my new year’s eve with a pizza, garlic bread, jalapeño dip and coke. And a book. I started reading the lover’s dictionary and decided it wasn’t meant for me.
Then I swore to myself. That I’ll stop being my old, lazy bones self, that would wake up late and retire early.
Then I came to accept that however the year unfolds, that it will unfold.
So I’m going to do my bit and chill. You do the same, yeah?
2015 brings with it many promises. Here’s to making it count.
So I wish for you and myself a miracle if those really happen. Or else, let’s make do with a happy accident like finding a note in the unwashed jeans pocket or bumping into someone we’ve been hoping to see. I hope a dream comes true, like 2014 had one in store for me in the form of ten grades Oxford result. Sure, I strived my ass off for it. You do that too, for whatever you want.
Should I pray for a blessing in disguise for us? Because they usually bring lessons, right?
Let 2014 rub off its awesomeness on 2015, however little a bit it maybe. Past is prologue, they said. So I’m carrying into the future all the good habits I put on, the right choices I made, the skills I developed, the achievements I earned, and the hope I learnt to hold on to. For the current year and further.
You do the same.

Happy New Year.

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.