i need to get away. Tisn't healthy to run to your comp and check gmail every 15 mins. TISN'T I TELL YOU!!!

Think i'm sleeping in the wrong posture or somethng. Bloody head and neck hurting. GRRRRRRRR.....

Tumble

I have become lazy in my prose-writing. Cutting conjunctions, inserting Irish/Scottish tones where I please....I love doing that, though.

Days are floating by. Exams hold little or no importance. Since I have four English papers, however, my long-ingrained habit of being the best is helping.

I miss him. All the time. I haven't done my usual act of getting drunk and calling him. What's strange is that I'm not crying and writing pages about it. I did that with J. Months and months of pleading and analysing on paper.
I am disconnecting from his body while building happy bridges with the rest of his world.
I realize that I am uncomfortable in structured relationships. The label of 'girlfriend' makes me squirm. Why must we name a relationship at all? I like 'partner', 'lover'....and that's it. With all others, I find myself struggling to stay true to the label.
I believe that complete understanding, great chemistry and a single-minded promise to work at it is all the definition a relationship needs.

throw my voice
my every written word given
given and clouded
sound so broken

broken
just so

i like my body

i like my body when it is with yourbody.
it is quite new a thing.
muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.
i like what it does,i like its hows.
i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss,
i like kissing this and that of you,i like,
slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

e.e cummings

Love

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor,
have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats

DON-ning the makeover.

I haven't seen the original, so no comparisions to draw on. Visually, it's sharp and breathless. No lush landscapes or floating chiffon. There's not much to listen to, no witticisms or carefully honed dialogue. The music is ultra-modern, an attempt to capture the grandiosity of the Don. What struck me was the clean, technical look. Nothing is raw or ragged. Costume, setting, lighting....all conditioned. There is one song in the village where Vijay lives and just about a scene. The rest is chic, minimalistic Urbania.

The absolute arrogance of the Don sits naturally on Shah Rukh. He is a flat character in that sense but mesmerising enough. Boman Irani does a good job and springs, or rather, dutifully hands over, a few surprises.

The plot has enough twists. There is no moral centre. Nobody is given a second chance and no character hangs around reforming itself. There is one winner, one boss and all the elements, evry murder, every secret uncovered ultimately ensure his victory. This isn't the battle of good and evil. It is the quick, the smooth, the ruthlessly determined who stay ahead throughout. The film doesn't acknowledge any others.

Gave an extremely screwed English paper yesterday. But I shall be brilliant in the Specials, make no mistake all ye who smirk!

Went over to Samar's yesterday. He's learning Tarot. Sat me down for a reading. According to the cards, I shall be rich, have a happy home. As of now, I am frustrated and held back and need to break free. Roll eyes.

It was comfortable, quiet. I was sad. And irritated because it was so comfortable. Grin. We're still a little unsure about each others bodies and the physical distance. We're being as kind as we can. Forgiving at almost every step.
He turns 19 today...

The Basu Hilbillies

Ok, so we're sitting at the table, eating dinner. Dadu suddenly goes, 'achha Tia, tomar rong-ta erokom kalo lagchhe keno?'
Thammi: 'O to bora-bor-ee....
Dadu: Na, kintu aachke chokhe porchhe jeno.

Object of scrutiny (totally deadpan): Baba, biye hobe na.
Baba: Good, poisha bachbe.
OoS: I was going to elope anyway.
Baba: Promise?
Oos: Promise.

Curtain .

Man, I luuuurve my dad!

Dilute
this red, red longing
into word-play

Sometimes the words don't come

The struggle begins
In memories
which are not happening now

But if they did,
with what would I decorate
the chapped edges of my sadness

For that would remain
Even if I could
this moment see
your skin
gleaming with my wetness

Even if
I etched my kisses
on your eyelids

I would still cry

This bridge
my love
holds both our bodies
We will brush, touch, enter
Know
So many more

We

are looking away
to either side

creating different
we's
and I's

breaking into the tiniest pieces
our 'we'

Just one

How perfectly normal it seems to miss your body more than anything else....

Chameleon

Blood stopping in watery spaces
Flooding slow scars
Worn deep


Scent trapped in my fingertips
Blue-green, magenta and black
Unbuttoned, stuttering memories
Play touch-and-go
Through arches of muscle and sinew

Sometimes...

This absolute tired shell
Others,
You
Friend of mine
Who I constructed
With the greatest importance
And softly
softly
Tried to steal

You
Who rarely recognizes grey
I, in my sea-depth
And complete

Utter
Redness

Could we have melded in tie-and-dye richness...
Did we give up a miracle?

Completely exhausted. Today was our US visa interview....basically a 15 hour process, from waking up at 5 am to coming home joyriding in the Corolla at 9 pm. The stupid visa officer with the fake accent has kept mine pending because of a one-mm tear in a page of my passport. Oh, and the fire-alarm rang twice. The first time, they evacuated everybody, only to bring us all back in 5 minutes. The second time, no one even looked up.
Anyway, this officer must have been the headmistress of an all-girls school where the students wore bloomers under their skirts till they were 18. That is her category of bitchiness.

Apart from this, we discovered Chembur, and I am in love. It reminds me so much of Calcutta. Scores of people walking on the roads and not a mall in sight. Little shops and shanty-restaurants like Gariahat or Lake Market. Thammi and Shuchita looked at saris. For the first time, I took an interest. It was slightly unsettling. My jeans felt constricting, I fidgeted against all the material holding me...I was sure right then that I looked unnatural and made-up.
My Oridental upbringing rears again! I refused to wear pants till I was nine. Then, between sixteen and twenty, I nurtured the Denim-Dream. Skirts have come into my life since last year. The sari is as yet a month-old foetus.
I am tired of having my legs draped. Subconsciously, I guess the idea of Western makeover of Indian body took me over. In fact, why blame it on the subconscious? I love my jeans. They're the longest love-affair I've had. But they cling too much. Retain too much. I'm finding saris much more free-flowing now.
I love the range of movement my body has. It's a total turn-on. I love how it lightens when it is touched deeply and physically. It reminds me that it is meant to be....