You know that very bollywood scene, where the hero and heroine turn their backs to each other and walk out of the scene, and then the hero turns back and sees her walking away so he shakes his head and turns around, and just then she turns around and sees him walking away, so she wipes away an imaginary tear and walks out too?
Sooo filmi, no?
I think I'm going to pass out laughing. Or crying. I wish I knew which.
Listen to A Bittersweet Symphony.
Ti ti ti-ti ti ti-ti ti ti ti ti ti.

In defense of chick-lit.

Laurie: I have loved you since the moment I clamped eyes on you. What could be more reasonable than to marry you?
Jo : We'd kill each other.
Laurie: Nonsense!
Jo : Neither of us can keep our temper-...
Laurie: I can, unless provoked.
Jo : We're both stupidly stubborn, especially you. We'd only quarrel!
Laurie: I wouldn't!
Jo : You can't even propose without quarreling.

I always knew that Jo should have refused Laurie. Even though he's perfect. The thing is that she is not. I was just surprised that she had the foresight to realize it.

Friedrich Bhaer...sigh...where are you?

If i could, i swear I'd try writing a little everyday. Maybe just a paragraph or something. Its a part of me I try to remain in touch with. I mean, how difficult can it be? I've been writing for as long as i can remember. The queen of the not-passers, that was me, yes.
The thing is, when i write, I can hear myself think. Its very soft nowadays, very very soft, but its there nevertheless, and I do hear it. When I don't...theres just an uncomfortable silence. And thats not very nice. Silence with other people I can handle. And you know why? Because there are more than ten thousand voices in my head all the time, some talking, some laughing, some being mean, some cribbing, and some waiting for their turn to talk. And I can only hear them best when i write. Or sit down, pretending to write. Like now.
Its unsettling not being able to hear my own voice. To hear myself think. And thats why i try to write. In marketing classes, in boring journalism lectures, in whatever. I try to scribble random lines that sound beautiful and mean nothing. Its just a small way of keeping in touch.
Therefor, it is important that you dont take this blog post seriously. Or anything I say, write or feel seriously. I'm just doing it for practice so that I dont go deaf and empty. Like I'm likely to go very soon.

Silence. Painful. Painful.

This is what I wrote in my journal (in the days of Anne Frank and bloglessness) a little more than 5 years ago when i was shifting base in a big way.
9th June 2002: ....I always knew I would have to leave here, I suppose. A part of me has always been an outsider in Bombay, sometimes trying to fit in, mostly looking on with detached indifference since an age where I couldnt even spell those words, let alone knowing what they mean. I dont know if where I'm going to will be any different. I don't know if I care. I just want to get away from the people i'v known all my life. Its not been all bad, it never is all bad. Its just never been close enough. I can't think here. Or maybe I think, too much. Maybe thats the problem. I want to go somewhere that I can do things besides thinking. Maybe, just maybe, inspite of what everyone says, I'll actually like it there. Who knows? Who can say?...

5-years-ago-little-me had quite a way with words, methinks. You can never, never tell whats coming. Do not try.
I always knew I would have to leave here too, but i wish i still had the 5-year-back enthusiasm of looking forward. I don't mind the going away, if only i were going away for something more meaningful. Bitterness just creeps in like horrid black smoke.
Its all ego, really. All ego. And a little of missing the grandparents and my little room by the chhat. Don't kid yourself though. Mostly ego. And self-love. Isn't that what it all is?

Adieu

Today felt like the end of something huge. Like the whole of 16-17-18. The giggle-years. Total bye bye. The no look back types. Because what would you look back at? What, indeed I ask?

There cant be anything worse than a lump the size of a cricket ball down your throat when you're trying your best to be brave for other people, and holding their hand and telling them not to cry. When all you really want to do is break down and howl and don't care who sees you at it.

Haha. When was the last time you did that, i wonder? When did it become not-okay to show how you feel? Ever since the 16-17-18 passed? But we're grown ups now aren't we? We have futures to live and money to make. Oh and some life to live, along the way. If you can spare the time, that is. Thursday at 5, then? Maybe we could take a walk. Eat an ice-cream? No? But ofcourse.

But who will i walk with now? And behind whose back will i cry? And what will become of you? Who will look after that mad little mass of all heart and no brains?

Okbye then? Take care. No, you take care. And call me. Sometimes? Once a week? A month then? Oh okay, on my birthday. Yes?

Aye aye!

I am not always very nice to be around. I am forever impatient and always losing my temper. I went to Peter Cat for dinner yesterday (had grilled chicken sizzler, because I don't like rice). I saw a weirdly disturbing movie called Under Trial today during the interval of the ManU Chelsea match. I also saw Spidey. Total Hindi flick, with thunder, lightning, memory flashbacks, amnesia et al.
There are a lot of things I want to write about the City, before I leave. Some people are too nice to me. I dont deserve such niceness. Some people aren't. They can go lose themselves. I am a little apprehensive about what lies ahead. I hate doing things I'm not already good at. And most especially I hate doing things for a purpose. In this case, a livelihood.
I'm tired of worrying about money. I wish we could go back to the barter system instead. We dont need money. We need things. People kill for money, not for things. Why complicate lives unnecessarily?
The ISC results came out today. Mine came out on 18th May. I was supposed to go see Main Hoo Na that day but had to cancel it. I also ordered pizza after my parents left teary eyed. And then felt like a complete loser. But you don't need to know this. It really has not much to do with you.
I want a long over coat like MJ. But it must be bloody expensive, no?

C

All i remember is that the sky was purple and the roads were slippery. Nothingmuchelse. Most of the time i kept looking at the sky to see if it would rain. Somebody had taught me that. Something about the shape of a cloud or something. The other times i look down at my feet, especially my toe nails, which i'm rather proud of. So i'm very adept at noticing car track patterns on the road. Anything in between these two escapes my notice almost always. Which probably explains why i bumped into you in the first place. Crashed, is more like it. There never was anything subtle about me. Its never a knock, but a bang; never a smile but a guffaw, a loud, embarassing one at that, never a bump, but a crash! Which knocked off your glasses, books and my singular train of thought.

You called it a cliche while i called it chance. And we laughed over how both words began with C. "Carma", was your explanation, while i settled for Coincidence. I dont remember most of it. Its just one of those things that happen sometimes. Like i barely remember the way u looked. Except that your glasses kept falling off your nose everytime u tried to make a point, and for some odd reason u reminded me of someone i used to know long ago.

After you moved away, I wondered what your name could have been. Maybe I'd met you online, maybe I read your blog. Or not. Chai and coffee. Cult and corruption. Its all good, you said. But mostly chai. And chocolate creams.
Goodbye, little Snoopy. Hope you find your bliss.

The easiest things are so darn difficult sometimes. I don't want to sound like I'm quoting other people. But it is so hard to say your own thing. Like when someone is away on a flight of fancy, why the urgent desire to de-fancy him, to bring him down or to simply ignore? Is it because we know what hurts the most?
What is it with young people and loneliness? I thought that happened only when you stopped asking 'why'. Why have we stopped asking 'why'? What's there not to reach out if we are all feeling the same? If we all want different versions of the same thing?
And who am I to speak really? I'm definitely not distributing warm blankets. I don't have too many to give away, and even if i did, I would be shallow enough to ask you why you think you need one in the first place. A little selfishness is good, apparently. Rules, are always changing.
If i told you I'm okay with my books and films and music and paints, I wouldnt be too far from the truth. But just sometimes, when I'm really happy, its sad if there's no one to share it with. Anyone at all. I suppose one of our favourite things to say is that no one understands. Logically then, we don't either.
Well then, who does? And what then, is the purpose of this entire medium of language, and unspoken words, and books and films and music? If we are meant to be understood only by inanimate objects, that are incidentally written by real people, well, what is the point?
Or is there not supposed to be one? Pardon me. I don't quite understand.

QuestionAnswer

Well, i got "tagged". And since there is nothing to do but study...
Couldnt be wittier...too much headache. Literally.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it:
On my right knee, when I was 5 or 6. 5 i think. Playing gully chor police. Dham!

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Relatively bare. There's an ancient year planner which I've been thinking of taking off, and a cross-stitch wall-hanging made by my mum.

3. What does your phone look like?
Rather sleek. With zero features. Ocassionally you can make calls without getting rudely disconnected.

4. What music do you listen to?
Oh, all. Recently there's been a Neil Young overdose.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
It keeps circulating by itself. Right now it shows the Neuschwanstein Castle in Winter, Bavaria, Germany.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
To go away. I mean, travel, not run away.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Is this like a do-you-believe-in-fairies question?

8. What time were you born?
Morning. Don't know the time.

9. Are your parents still together?
Yes. Meant for each other absolutely. In more ways than just "awww.."

10. What are you listening to?
There's a wind storming outside. And faint TV sounds from below.

12. The last person to make you cry?
Wont say. Do movies count?

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
Brut. Old Spice. Wet earth. Sandalwood. Old books. This particular one whose name i dont know, it has loads of memories. Kinda woody.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
I have a weakness for brown eyes. But i'm not choosy. Hair anything. As long as its clean and finger-run-through-able.

15. Do you like pain killers?
No. I detest.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Always. Never have.

17. Fave pizza topping?
Mushrooms. And red pepper.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Well, now that you mention pizza... also kulfi. I'm dying for some kulfi. In a matka.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
No one recently. People always keep me happy during exams.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
They only think they are.

I tag anybody who reads this. Even those who don't leave comments ;-) It isnt that bad, really. Loads of soul searching and epiphany in store.

Blogpost

Somethings are just not fair. They truly arent. And i wont explain that. You wouldnt care anyway. You would just nod your head and think of all the times when you thought the same thing.
I'm tired of the herd mentality. I never really wanted to be a cow. Or a goat.
And i am perfectly pissed off. And thats an alliteration in case you didnt guess. In which case you must be really dumb.
I wish blogger was like MSword. I hate having to capitalize.
Its the easiest things in life that are so difficult somehow. Ok, so that wasnt entirely original. But it is entirely true.
And that is what matters, really. No matter how much you deny it.
I'm half in love with Wilde. Men should have a way with words and wit. Alliteration again, by the way. I bet you missed it. Yes, men should be, must be witty. Even if they are hopelessly gay.
And this is a pointless post. So what? It makes sense to me. And it'll make sense to you too. When you write it. Except that you wont. Thats the whole point of it.

Reality Check

Well, that is that I suppose. Its one thing to dream big, and quite another to dream impossible. And not as some people would say "Impossible is Nothing" But just impossible impossible. The usual dictionary meaning.
And its okay really. I mean, there were all these other things to consider. And other points to make. Speaking of points, is it always necessary to make a point. Whatever happened to pointless living?
Its a funny thing, co-incidences. And they are usually never repeated. Superstitions either. And then little glitches that come back to laugh at you. Like..."you think?"
And so life comes back with a little more perspective. And as always there are two roads to take. And two voices in the head. Isnt it funny when there are two choices in front of you, there is only one you want to take, and only the other that you can? And you know even before you make the choice that its not really a choice but a compulsion. Just like there isnt any thinking involved even if you spend days (nights? years?) deliberating. You know right at the onset, what you ought to do, and "co-incidentally", it never is, what you want to.
And so we get swept forwards and onwards and even backwards in this current of choices, pretending to be in control, and knowing fully that we are not and can never be.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Wouldnt you like to know? This happens.
This.
This.
This.

Trinity and all that. Hah hah!
And 14 years 5 months and 6 days on I suppose I shall look back in anger. Or apathy.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh.
The world revolves like ancient women
Gather fuel in vacant lots.

Not original ofcourse. All by Mr. Eliot. All. Every bit. Who died and made him king? Who told him to make assumptions on behalf of the rest of the world?
Ah, but he had something going there didnt he?
And so we laugh, darlings. We laugh.