oscillation

time
long, short, buried
and filled
under the arch of your eyes

breathing
twirling hair
pull out
sometimes i think i know
and then....

no

I stare at your name
remove
bring back
dark-green light
for giving

all

and more

so much impatience
trying to go
returning
listening

silence

swelling silence
quiet flesh
quiet body
quietly dying

i touched you and remembered

sachets of remembering
the place of a scent
the slow opening of eyes
curve of brow
draping, tasting, weighing down
knowing this giving

this powerful giving


I move, that's true
I see you all round
the lines of you, the are's and the might-be's
I live with sand under my skin
endless sand

and the sea retreats....

Many apologies in advance, my awakeness is ant-size

Barely 3 hours of sleep last night. No, I wasn't having jaw-breaking sex or whatever its called these days nor writing some scintillatingly creative piece of brilliance. The Dynamo finally gave into EST (examination standard time) and stayed up studying Communication, Leadership and other such totally irrelevant topics of her Social Psychology course.

did you know that 75% of the English language used in communicating is redundant? Do you suppose the Japanese are more economical when they speak their own language? Africans while speaking Swahili or Afrikanse or Portuguese....sorry just showing off there.
So anyway, paper twasn't half bad....meaning I didn't write nearly as much nonsense as I had hoped. Tch tch....must be losing my touch. Philosophy tomorrow which means another late night. And my two beautiful Honours papers on the 7th and the 8th. I better go catch up on sleep.
Wish me luck.....OR ELSE!

Rain....rain

Twas an evening of sharp showers. I was walking home with a fat bundle of papers and it started pouring. Home was a 5 minute walk, but I couldn't risk getting my papers wet. So I ran to a small cigarette-shop just at the mouth of my lane and stood there. I was the only girl there. Only girl, soaked and clutching a bundle of paper. I felt perfectly safe.
The rain wouldn't stop. After about ten minutes, I decided.....and started up my lane. People were running back and forth with bottles and laughing. I didn't run. I was aware that my enjoyment must be veiled. I couldn't show that I was loving the strands of hair on my wet cheeks, the way my clothes clung to me, the drops littering my lips. I wish I didn't have to move. But there is a demand that you shield yourself from rain. Movies invariably show rain as romantic and subtly sensual. And the heroine torn between shiedling herself and shyly ducking the hero's advances.

You know what? I came home and loved myself in the mirror. I danced around in my wetness just to see myself. I did not want to hide. I was completely, deeply in my body and watching it with pleasure. Tis true I wanted one particular witness....and I wouldn't have hidden even then.

howdy neighbour

I went down to my local xerox-shop last evening. Never been there before, it's always closed during our Cafe-Coffee-Day afternoon trips. Exams and lust for the philosophy professor drove me down there. I dumped my huge pile of borrowed notes on the counter and looked around.

A small shop, scantily-lit, slightly broken-down. A petite woman with a resigned, determined face started copying my notes. A child of about a year was playing just outside the shop. The woman kept a sharp eye on her. When she started crying, the woman gave her a rupee and told her to get a banana from the 'bhajjiwala uncle next door.' And she did. As she wandered in and out of the shop, she occasionally brushed against my leg. Very soft and fragile.

Everyone knows the shop. People kept coming and asking for 'Ram.' The woman demurely replied that he wasn't there. There was something about her, about her neatly worn sari and matching blouse, the simple parting in the middle of her hair. She couldn't and didn't want to be any other way. People....men came and were familiar with her. Asking for pens and printing-paper. Some neighbourhood kids playing nearby came running and scooped up the child, making her chuckle. My xerox was a long process. I watched. There is something connected and sure about the place. Mothers xeroxing certificates for a daughter's college application, drivers coming in long, smooth cars and holding out 500 rupee notes to be changed, elderly women out for evening walks in salwar-kameezes and sneakers....and no matter how developed Pune gets, tis heartening to know these little pockets of raw simplicity exist. Maybe the shop will never expand, maybe it will be demolished and be replaced by some grand mall or office-building, but for now....it's there.

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....

Random niceness-es

My step-mom and I go for a lot of late-night movies. We've watched totally duh ones and some nice ones and some wow ones. It's our hang-out time, our de-stress mode together. Very often, we drive along without speaking. There's tiredness in the car. And music. And an acceptance of simply being present. We'll watch the movie, share some junk-food and drive back home, again in silence. There's no hiding between us. So being quiet is ok.

Meerambika is my Significant Other. We take it for granted that we'll make that extra effort for each other. We also manage to appreciate it. There's the loveliest un-embarrassment in our relationship.

My mum calls me twice or thrice a day. Like most mums, she begins the conversation with 'where are you?' Unlike most mums, it's not because she wants me home PRONTO, rather she's curious because she sees me for three weeks in a year.

S and I sit like a couple. On his bike, my chin somehow ends up on his shoulder. Touch is imminent. And very private.

Dominatrix Woes

The Gestapo is here again. Alarming reminders of Embassy days. I find myself incapable of being nice for more than half-an-hour a day. And even that is to relieve Shuchita. They are here for a couple of months so I'd best put on my Niceness Cap and wear a smile...however pained. The trouble is that my irritation spills over into all other spheres of my life.
Adding to that is an irritable back which is grumbling at the roads of Pune and persistently aching. And I think my eyes have weakened further. Constant headaches blah blah.

It's been raining for the past 2 weeks now. Miserable, tired weather! And the roads are ravaged. Alisha and I make quite a spectacle on her bike when we come home from tnt. We sing 'Alice' and 'Hakuna Matata' while our bottoms bob at every pothole. When it's raining and there's no electricity, therefore no streetlights....every pothole is occasion for throaty moans. Sounds very raunchy. Dark road, rain, two figures on a bike moaning deeply....

Haven't seen S since Tuesday. Very grumpy.

Running over
The plains of flesh
The crevices
The courses
Of nerve-rivers
Warm with the heat
Of touched skin

The rain
Brings your face
To my fingers...

Essay written for raksha bandhan

A Step Up...

They said it’s tough being an only child. Then they said it’s difficult adjusting with siblings. I thankfully got left out of both categories.

I was 15 when Eeshaan was born. I remember going to the hospital a few hours after he arrived. A big bundle of possibility with a ready smile…even then. I looked at him solemnly and thought he was cute. And now I could use the phrase ‘my brother.’
That was our first meeting.

I never consciously thought about our relationship. We flowed into each others lives effortlessly. In 6 years, he’s never questioned why he and I have different mothers. Blood doesn’t play much of a role for us. I know I have a confidante, a fellow Disney and Mark Knopfler fan and all the cuddles I could ask for. He knows he has a die-hard admirer for life. We’ve been flat-mates for a year, and roommates for the last few weeks. He’s the only one who doesn’t roll his eyes when I whine about my boyfriend. I’m the only one who thinks he’s cute when he’s doing subtraction.

I’m not sure why it’s called ‘step’-siblinghood. The way I see it, it takes many extra steps on the part of both individuals to make it work. And it’s a ‘step-up’ in the lives of both if they manage it.
I’m 21 years old. Eeshaan just turned 6. We share half a blood-tie.
Everything else is whole…

:(

Miss him.

i am sixteen........

Grrrrrrr.......bugger being in love! I should shave my head and take up sanyas $#$$$*&^%&*(($..................................................................................

Ok, i'm done acting 16. Grin.

Cannot access my blog directly. I can create and edit posts but cannot view. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!
English classes are becoming pokingly boring. They're beyond any sort of amusing description thereFUR I shall spare you the pain.

Stomach is completely in form and I have been treating it lavishly to lamb-chops, roast-chicken, chocolate cake, stuffed red-chilli pickle, onion pickle and so on...
E had his birthday party on Saturday. A wet, slushy birthday with 30 kids screaming and running and generally having a blast. I danced around while they played musical chairs, got a paint-on tattoo and fought with SBI the rest of the time. SBI came all rain-drenched with hair standing at attention and looking Incredibly Good. He and Meerambika were enormously sweet and helpful. Put up decorations, helped clear-up....actually I'm very touched that they came so enthusiastically for a six-yr-old's birthday party. Neither are very used to this kind of madness. Many happy, tickle-n-touch hours with SBI afterwards. Many topics were discussed with SBI's characteristic vehemence of detail and memory.
I spend a lot of time on SBI, in SBI...it's draining sometimes, sometimes I have to pull up and reason with myself, he has heard all my cribbing and whining when I need him near and can't express it otherwise.....but it takes a a few hours of togetherness to make it right.

I sometimes feel weighed down by expectations. My own, others...
I get tired of being compartmentalized, weary of knowing that there is, in all probability, no looking beyond. It starts with having 3 cars parked in your garage. People ask me, I duck my head and mumble, their lips curl in an 'oohhh, rich girl' expression. Can a figure be seen sans a background? Can I hang in mid-air without pre-sketched lines behind me?
That's where The Drifter came from.....

Pennies

The Bathroom Saga continues. Slight improvement....I am trying hard to return to normal diet but my insides are not willing to compromise.
Went for 'Corporate' last night. It would have been pretty good if it wasn't a cookie-cutter copy of 'Page 3.' It was well-paced, however....didn't drag at all. Bipasha cannot act! Few models can, I've realized. It's tough to get beyond the ramp-show expressions. When you model, your expressions are beaten down to a) smile and look intelligent b) smile and look dumb or c) The Frozen-Seductress
Did you ever see a model looking passionate? Agonized? When it is drummed into you that you must above all be of mass appeal....you stop stretching. Stop diversifying. Lillette Dubey and KK Menon are highly watchable. And there's not much entertainment in terms of sweet scenes and songs.

Moving on....

I am now part of a couple again. Some things have changed. I now touch and am touched with eagerness. Some things have remained. Our affectionate nickname for each other is 'Bitch.'
It's a tough role to play. There are automatic demands and expectations. I am not giving in to how much I could love him. But he knows. I don't know what value I bring to his life. It's not insecurity, I just wonder. I like being the first girlfriend. And this is the only way I could get closer to him. He is full of possibilities. I wanted to watch him unfold. I want to be as tender as I can. It means so much to hold him close. To feel his breath and feel his fingers slowly move over mine....

Down with tummy-bug and horrible nausea. On vegetarian diet for this week. I broke down yesterday and ate some Burmese chicken. You have to swear you will never tell my doctor!! Cross your heart and kiss your elbow!
I went for a blood-test this morning. My family is very hopeful. They're certain it's jaundice or hepatitis or typhoid. Now the lab wants other samples.
Umm, what if I can't do potty by 5 pm this evening?

Lots of hug-therapy with S going on. So happiness there :)

Let me tell you

I am a no-conflict person. I can't stand the knots and the bile that rise in me when i'm angry. It's just more peaceful for me if I can avoid all that. I have low reserves of energy and i honestly get exhausted with fights. As pseudo-Zen as this might sound, i'm ok with being the accepting 'nice girl.'

You don't give me the future
All you can give me are
Moments
That touch
The back of my hand
The way I touch yours

The slight mingling
Of our bodies
As
Little by little
We unfold
Each other
Dissolve
In laughter
And long, such long looks
How much closer
I wonder
How much more....

Falling Further

And then something opens wide....stretching you till you want to beg. You dissolve years of being tightly coiled. And you cry, because you know that you are just as soft, that you have just as much you want to give....and that you bruise just as easily. When you can no longer hide in your memories, no longer give the brush-off. Within a moment, you crash into the present you ignored for so long. In trembling faith, you begin again. Dancing around, trying to be honest, hiding when it hurts, wanting badly, so badly. The world is scent and shape. You are ripe and raw in it. And you just want to know how to love.

Lots happening. College has begun. I am now a high-nosed S.Y.B.A student, vastly superior to all midget First Years. I am majoring in English, and have psychology and philosophy as minors. It's good good good to be back in routine, for all that I have to re-work my entire sleep-schedule. I have missed philosophy class. Ok, I missed our gorgeous professor :) No, really. He's nearly 60, and once you get past the constant sarcasm and commenting, he is every kind of hot. We have Applied Ethics this year and I shall be studying ethics in environment, in medicine etc. Haven't had any Honours classes yet, but we have Chekov's 'The Cherry Orchard' as one of our texts. And 'Animal Farm' for the General paper. YAY!!

What's Your Japanese Name?

Your Japanese Name Is...

Hiroko Yamaguchi

What's" your Japanese Name?

Exhausted. I've been slammed face-to-face with two years worth of fears and decisions. Affecting work very badly. It's been a shaky week. Thinking too much. Have to re-focus on focussing.

Your Personality Is Like Acid

A bit wacky, you're very difficult to predict.One moment you're in your own little happy universe...And the next, you're on a bad trip to your own personal hell!

http://www.blogthings.com/whatdrugisyourpersonalitylikequiz/">What Drug Is Your Personality Like?

What Your Soul Really Looks Like

You are very passionate and quite temperamental. While you can be moody, you always crave comfort. You are a grounded person, but you also leave room for imagination and dreams. You feet may be on the ground, but you're head is in the clouds. You believe that people see you as larger than life and important. While this is true, they also think you're a bit full of yourself. Your near future is still unknown, and a little scary. You'll get through wild times - and you'll textually enjoy it. For you, love is all about caring and comfort. You couldn't fall in love with someone you didn't trust.

http://www.blogthings.com/insidetheroomofyoursoulquiz/">Inside the Room of Your Soul

Listen...

When flesh is linked with eager flesh
And words run warm and full
I think that he is loneliest then
The captive in the skull.

Caught in a mesh of living veins
In a cell of padded bone,
He loneliest is, when he pretends
That he is not alone.

-Ogden Nash

i think i lost it....my head I mean

Is there anything more annoying than eagerly checking your cell-phone for new msgs....and finding IDEA CHITCHAT and 73337333 on the list? Advertising 'hot ringtones' and FIFA updates etc etc etc and so forth (please think Yul Brynner accent). I mean, I could be waiting for a Very Important Message from The Guy I Haven't Seen Since Yesterday Evening. HMPH!!

My Two-Year-Itch-of -Self-Imposed-Singledom may finally be over. Don't jump yet, my dears. There has been a four day avalanche on the Dynamo's head. She is still recovering and isn't quite her normal, flippant, hyper-aggravating self yet. She is having sudden attacks of The Blush Syndrome and is quite unable to stop smiling. She has also paced the floor of her bedroom down by an inch. That's the latest. This is Dynamo, self-reporting from The Swivel Chair.

Fall

I traced you in a dream

As you stood abashed
On an opium stage
There I ran
Touched you
Learnt you..

You the vessel
I, soft liquid
Soaked in your skin

You the mirror
I, cracked glass
With all your broken pieces

How strange to have what
I coveted for so long

And how hard I fought the flow
That led me to you

Have I told you
You're part of the rain?
Pressing against me with
Lingering certainty.

Did you know I found you
In gilt fingerprints
I made?

You breathed in that dream, didn't you?
I did too.

Second yr admissions happened today. But of course I have to go back tomorrow to pay fees. Uhhhhhhhhhh!!!!Horrible room without any ventilation!
It doessn't help that I slept between the hours of 5 am and 8 am this morning....only. Had long talk with S online. Confusing, personal and very satisfying talk (scratches head, makes face, sighs).
Then I talked to Neha who of course wanted a re-hash of the S conversation(girlfriends i tell you). Then I decided to fill out my admission form. Between dancing around to 'fanaa' and thinking....it was 5 am when I turned out the light. Almost immediately, my cell-phone went off. Bizarre message from Debs.
All in all, sleep and I did not have a mutually satisfying, adult relationship last night.

Laa-ing in La La Land

I have been doing some serious calculations.

No. of days since I have kissed/been kissed: 767
No. of times I have danced to 'mera desh rangeela' in my room since yesterday: 19
No. of times I've looked at my cell-phone and sighed since yesterday: 1142
No. of times I've rehearsed different scenarios of what I'll say to S: 666
No. of hairs that sadly bade farewell to my head during my oil-massage: 102
No. of times I've logged into Google and Orkut since yesterday: 17

I have discovered the secret of un-boredom. Consider sleeping as a major activity.

Ok, so I nearly crashed into a wall while parking. It's the Society's fault for making parking spaces with Kate Hudson vital stats. I have my good moments with the car but Saturday morning traffic and a jabbering six-year-old in the back seat....I'd rather let Raju drive and feel useless.
I miss Samar. Totally absurd. The guy is an encyclopedia on classical music, Indian history, Indian epics and a bit of wildlife. He has no clue how to hug! Seriously!!! He's improved thanks to the tireless efforts of yours truly (it's purely altruistic of course). He talks on unbrokenly and...well...he isn't always the greatest listener. And yet, he's strangely accepting of my...um..less than sane moments. Sweet, exasperatingly literal and self-focussed. And such beautiful fingers.

Moving on from my fetish...
I GOT THE DISNEY ANIMATION BOOK. PRESENT FROM WICKED STEPMOTHER FOR MY RESULTS. Thank you thank you a million a times. I might even get a distinction next time. Hee.

Isn't it Loverly

Our housekeeper, 3 maids, gardener, the manager of our building and Raju are having a squall-competition in our defunct living-room over their Secret Moneymaking Scheme. I haven't the heart to tell them to shut up, as it is they consider me one of them.
Moving on...

After results yesterday, got plenty of phone calls from neighbours and relatives...and the Gestapo. They of course called from the U.S. Right in the middle of TnT and about 6 customers. Very happy they are, a bit disbelieving of course....'she is a weak student after all blah blah.' Dad did a salsa around the office, Shuchita cried with relief, Mum bought half of Nerja a round of drinks. My favourite great-aunt said 'phail korli naki?' I said 'na, first-class peyechhi.' She said, 'oi eki holo.' See why I love her!

TnT got a gorgeous book called 'The Illusion of Life.' It's basically the history of Disney. Did you know that Mickey's voice is Walt Disney's own? And that the artists actually sat for hours in front of mirrors experimenting with facial expressions before drawing them on characters?
I am marrying that book, since I can't afford it. The rest of you are allowed one affair each!

The nicest part of yesterday...nicer even than the meat-full dinner at La Dolce Vita...was Conversation with S. A good half-hour chat on the kitchen telephone with spooky echoes. Some personal, some 'Da Vinci Code'-ic type subjects were discussed. It was warm and comforting, lots of verbal hugs. I went to sleep smiling...and feeling smooth and defenceless. Maybe it was the combination of vodka, meat and tiredness. Maybe it was that it was night and everything, including my voice was quiet and shadowed. And yet so clear.

Yay

First Year results out. I have got a First Class. And enough to major in English. Yay!! Have been dashing off mails to all those who would want to know.

Our house is being re-modelled, all these days the computer sat, masked and taped...and looking. I have missed blogging. Writing hadn't stopped though. Another slight installment on 'Bookshop' has been scribbled.
A lot happened these last 2 weeks. I went to 'Not Just Jazz by the Bay' to hear Pink Noise and watch Jivraj play. I enjoyed it, sharp-edged, surprising music, some gorgeous guitar-work from Amyt. And I am so very proud of Jivraj.
Work started from the 16th. I have discovered blurry managerial skills in myself. Working with 2 new people who are set to be temporary is a revelation. Janaki's been away and Geeta and I have gotten even closer :) She's leaving at the end of June. I am setting aside a day of mourning before that so I'll be ok on her last day. Hopefully.
I have been terribly edgy with S. And I've been hiding. It's hard to be as tender with him as I'd like. But I'm concentrating on it. I've given myself license to be as devoted, overwhelming, affectionate as I like.

Please read this.

Thank you Trina, for constant inspiration.

Who's Gonna Drive You Home...

I went all the way to F.C. Road today via Range Hill and Ganeshkhind Road. For all non-Pune-iite readers....these roads are either clogged with traffic or having pipes laid or being concretised. And I managed to get my first real dent in the Ikon. We were caught in a red light, and there was a truck behind me. I didn't realize the car was shifting back and....OUCH!! I love beat-up vehicles....they look owned. The only thing is, Dad wrote the check for the car.

Vernen's coming over for dinner tonight. We're having scallop-noodles and possibly chilly-beef. Yes, Mrinalini...another expensive dinner...hee.

I 've been very disgruntled over The S Affair. I don't mind if he reads this, I hope he does, even though he probably wouldn't get it. I hate it when his attention shifts from me. But then, that's true of everyone I love obsessively and am not certain of. I just keep reminding myself that I wouldn't find him half as attractive if he didn't have so many interests and arguments.
There are a lot of niggles. A relationship must nourish as many needs as possible. And those that remain must either be compromised on, or find fulfillment elsewhere. Is that it?
I love S's body. The length of his fingers, his eyes from a distance, the whiteness of his skin on the upper arms, the way he clasps his hands while sleeping....
And I love that he brings out my quirks and my indulgent side. But there are so many sides which he will not bring out. To be in touch with all of me, it's important that I touch and am touched by new surfaces and depths. So I can change gears at will. Go along in second-gear even if the road's empty.

UHhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......I just want to curl up into one of my numerous cavities and never come out!

One Hundred Hyphens in My Story.

I am nibbling on some unnamed-undoubtedly-sophisticated-cheese and gulping a very strong rum-and-coke. An unofficial celebration of my 100th post.

Meerambika and I celebrated the end of finals for 3 days. Day 1 was dinner at Malacca Spice. It's the sweetest restaurant with gorgeous sausage satay. That was followed by Monopoly-of-the-Dance-Floor-at-Fire N Ice. That is a disco in Pune. One of the most happening. We didn't know where it was. Then we ended up being the only ones on the floor...and not caring.
So that was us trying to be Cool-by-being-conventionally-Uncool.

Day 2 was a movie marathon. Basic Intinct 2, Hum ko Deewana kar Gayee and Being Cyrus. I had to re-build my aquaintaince with the multiplex. BI 2 is pretty good, if a bit overdone. Sharon Stone is all Watch-me-narrow-my-eyes-and- contract-my-clitoris-all-at-once. The plot is clean and well twisted. Whatisname comes nowhere near Michael Douglas. But fascinating insights into Sharon Stone's character.
No comment on the other two movies. 'Hum Ko...' because I was too busy passing 'i-am-too-smart-for-movies-with-more-than-three-songs' comments amd 'Cyrus' because I had to leave half-way for TnT.

Day 3 was lunch in Koregaon Park. Now, neither of us know the area and we both possess terrible senses of direction. We started out with fresh fruit juice at the German Bakery. This is a shack situated opposite the Osho Ashram. A popular health food joint, attracting the labels of hippies, junkies, Osho-ites and foreigners. It's also completely vegetarian so M and I decided to heigh our way onwards in search of meat. It was 2 pm, 37' C. We walked for about 24 minutes and entered a beautifully posh Italian restaurant. Sat down, scanned menu. Jerked our eyes up towards each other. Horror! Disbelief! It was all vegetarian! More dangerously, there were waiters and management personnel who looked capable of harpooning us with silver salad-forks if we left without ordering. So M got an orange juice, I got a Coke and we split a lemon cheesecake. And reached Dessert-Nirvana. It was smooth and rich and white. So bourgeosie and worth every bit of the 105 bucks we paid. We tried our best to be Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. But then, I was smoking Silk Cut. Wasn't my fault. Dad's out of station and I have no one to bum Classics from. We left with our flesh intact. Went to another restaurant. 'We serve Indian, Chinese, Continental', the sign proclaimed. We went in, sat, scanned menu. Slow, tired gazes met. Vegetarian. This time we actually left. There weren't any forks. It was 3:45. We walked for another 200 metres, came to the place we had heard of. It served meat, we had heard. We walked in, scanned menu, sat down. Ordered shredded lamb Szechuan style, chicken reshmi kebab. It was 4:00 pm. We talked of things only patient people can bear. Boys. Lies. Samar. Sex.
We checked out pretty girls.
And our celebration ended in an auto. Aching feet, Burnt skin. Happy.

Foresooth

Lazy laaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzyyyy days. Raju is being very nice about all my driving-related faux pas. Basically, it's always the other person's fault. TnT began on the 19th. New colleague to learn and discover. Our annual picnic is coming up on Sunday. We're going to Kamshet for an overnighter. The only boo-factor is that both Vernen and Samar have exams so I am woefully short of people whom I can climb all over.

I am currently reading 'Clive Avenue'. A very interesting insight into South-Indian culture and Chennai-vasis. Next up is Ruskin Bond's 'A Flight of Pigeons'. And Janaki is lending me 'Changing' which is Liv Ullman's autobiography and 'Shooting 'Water'. So yay for lots of reading. My Kolkata trip is hanging in the balance. My mashi, whom I usually stay with, will be in England shooting her very first movie (as a producer/director, not an actress). And there is no way I am re-entering GP-land. Anyway I shall know by this weekend. So please pray for me. I need Landmark and Park Street and TCS and Neha and Shakun.

Strange days. A lot of thought on my body. A lot of need from it. See, it hasn't been touched and pampered in nearly two years. All those two years came battering on my door a few days back. I told my friends I needed severely sexual touching. I cried. Tried to write. Everything I wrote looked small. I appeared to myself, in my body. I felt strong. My skin is scarred and reddened and stubbly. AndI love it. I have never been so confident as I was when sensory need was pushing me. I thought of burnt-orange flowers. I thought of his hands under my hair. Of the salty dampness that fingered my spine. I thought of his scent and his shape.
And I breathed.

The Blind River

Somewhere deep inside me
Is the mouth
Of a silent, red river
Weaned on twelve years
Of waiting.

Then my body reached
An estuary

And the river
Groped

It's blind way
Through secret channels...

Carving regions
Of pain

Seeking rest...

It flowed past
Averted eyes
Drained lips

It gathered
Where my flesh parts
Left traces
I tried to hide

I filled
With its edgy colour
It's salt
It's moan...

All the Loves of my Life...

Eeshaan: The smartest 5 yr old ever! A fan of Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, Queen and Mark Knopfler, Roald Dahl and Dr Seuss. Not to mention...a smile and eyelashes to die for. My favourite cuddlee...anywhere, anytime. Talks incessantly and is known for smart-ass comments. Once his aunt called him an ingrate; he called her 'an ingredient'. Is cutest while doing subtraction. Seriously.

Mrinalini: She is earth and moisture and light. When I have my own harem, she will be chief belly-dancer. She introduced me to theatre and to openness and awareness. The only one I really want to marry.

Mum: The most beautiful woman I know. I could have used her name instead of 'mum' but she would never have forgiven me. She takes pride in setting her identity to 'Tia's mother.' Ours is the most unconditional relationship I know. I see her once a year, usually during my birthday or Christmas. She's dimpled and curved and dances divinely. She makes sure I don't aspire to be like her just because we're related. She never tries to shape me.

Dr. Nandan: My sociology professor in 11th and 12th std.....and my friend and mentor for life. I remember the first time we met. The Cambridge School had just opened and students had been called in to give statements to the press. Everything and everybody was trying so hard to look new and shiny and correct. In the middle of all this, I saw a dark, bearded man with a 'jhola' come down the stairs. He wasn't trying at all. He just was the most palpable thing in the room. He's watched me cry without sympathising, let me be flighty without holding me down, let me sit on his table and talk of love and movement and writing and parents and grandparents...all without judging or even grimacing. He's all the way on the other side of the country, but some part of me is always steered by him.

Mr Winter: My creative-writing advisor and one of the people who got me up on stage. We're out of touch now, but he's watched me change as a writer and had the decency to be shocked :)

Jivraj: He's pampered, provoked, torn, patched and pulled my stitches apart. He taught me the power of the body and of touch and taste. Things have changed drastically between us, but he has never stopped believing in my ability to overcome bitterness.

Neha: One of my oldest friends. A trained Western dancer with a totally hot body. She started calling me 'babe' in 8th grade...back when I still got embarrassed. She recognized my excellence as a flirt long before I did. Vice-captain of her house in school, prefect extraordinaire and the toast of every function for her dancing...honey, you rock.

Shakun: No you're not less important than everyone else above you! She's been my best friend since we were about 9 years old. We bonded over Mrs Bilimoria, our elocution teacher who perpetually had a thorn up her ass. A bright-eyed lass with curly hair and an athletic body which refuses to accept fat. Of our Band of Three (Neha, Shakun and myself), Shakun is the most sporty. I've cheered her on in dozens of basketball games, throwball games and runs. She captained her house in school and is a bronze-medal winner at YMCA for the 100 m sprint. Shakun and Neha have watched me hack my hair into weird shapes, fall in love, fall out of it, start smoking, become cynical and struggle with it, slit my jeans because I was bored,. They've seen my focus shift, heard me whine and giggle....they've been part of it only if i ask them to.
When I need to hang on, they hold out everything. They let me fall in complete faith that I'll clamber back up.

Geetanjali: A hug-freak to equal myself. The clearest person I know, with energy and enthusiasm that overwhelms. A hardcore romantic without any opaqueness about her. She's one of my local mothers.

Janaki: One of the most well-informed people I know. Ask her anything on anything and she'll have it. TnT glows with her presence. And she's the World Authority on Bad jokes. Another of my local mothers.

Roshni: My partner-in-evil. My first vodka-shot, my first cigarette, my first visit to a disco were all with her. We both fell for the same guy, then dumped him and fell for each other. Only veerrrryyyyyyy slight exaggeration there :) She's studying in Missourie now and I miss her. All I have to remember her by are some photos, a pink comb and a thong. Sigh...

Debolina: I am realizing that all my girlfriends are incredibly hot. This one is currently living in Dubai with her first husband (sorry dee :)). Boyish, totally naive and completely loyal...she turns 21 today.

Shoie: My first cousin. We were bitter enemies at one point of time. Now she's 13, roly-poly, a bit of a LMG-freak but a joy. Fun, well-read, delighting in the ridiculous...one of my favourite companions.

Sayantoni: 8 days younger than me, and my aunt by distant relation :) Aurobindo Ashram was our favourite hang-out place in Kolkata. With amber skin and a wide, wide smile, a care-a-damn attitude combined with intelligence and tenderness, she's been my anchor through many a wreck.

Vernen: A sweetheart with no idea of polite distance. Vernen gets right into you and doesn't hold back himself. Unafraid of intimacy and utterly, utterly honest with beautiful people-skills....totally love him :)

Meerambika: My soulmate. Moody and a loner, we bonded over 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire'. We share talk, silences, bad porn movies and constant complaints. Oh, and we both love Vernen :) :)

Samar: Very poor indeed...has only 2 golden retrievers, a jhoola and one sweater. Oh, and the appetite of T-Rex. Samar's a Classicist...by nature and by taste. He's my Hindustani music coach. I'm his Bodily Contact Coach. We have a very systematic relationship. We meet 2/3 times a week, i msg him 25 times a day and hit on him 3 times a week. I have never forgiven him for finishing all my chocolate eclairs from Kookie Jar. We love each others houses. Here, he plays the insufferable guest...ordering me around and eating incessantly and watching movies and rearranging my desk-top. I go to his house to meet Steffi and Lisa, the Golden Retrievers. I love the staircase in his house. Samar's my current sensual-feast.

Dad: Ok, this is a tough one. We've been fiends...sorry friends for 21 years. We've tried very hard to reform one another with absolutely no success. He once offered to get me pink, heart-shaped contact-lenses. He's nearly as stubborn as I am and we sleep in exactly the same positions. We've put up with a lot from each other....and finally, in some weird let-down of our legendary stubbornness, we've accepted one another. And believe me, that's an achievement. We might be closer to other people but I'm pretty certain no one is as accepting of us as we are of each other...

Friend...
Let's talk in raindrops
Or vernacular glass-panes
Let's touch in clothes
Fragranced in many skin-scents
Let's linger in what we dreamt
Yesterday at dusk
Let's laugh like wrinkled, just-washed cotton
Patterned in ice-cream scoops
Let's taste
Like the very first story we ever heard
And the first time we felt water
Let's be chiffon
And coffee beans after smelling too many perfumes
Let's elevate to our bodies
And strip to our minds

Friend...
Let's be you, and me,
And us...

DRONE

The worst kind of tiredness is when I feel I have accomplished nothing in my day. Learnt nothing, had no good communication, no purposefully completed goal...

And yet my day wasn't really a downer. I dropped E off at Janaki's house early this morning and had a peek at this new book on the making of 'Water' told in the perspective of a mother-daughter relationship. Janaki and I both relate completely and in completely different ways to mother-daughter books. I listened to Bangla rock with Dad, slept off and on and hung out with Samar all evening. We kicked, pillow-fought, watched snippets of different movies, had a conversational threesome with Mrinalini and then he gave me a classical music lesson. So...my role for the day was pretty much that of the Listener. Unopposing and dispassionate.

Driving has started again. With Raju, our beloved chauffeur at my side. I am definitely getting better even though my main problem remains that I don't like being in control for too long. But public transport and walking isn't as much fun in Pune as I remember in The City. Here, the beauty-spots are at least a half-hour's drive away. Pune University, Fergusson College....all haunts of Desperate Weight Watchers and Beauty Seekers. The campuses are enormous and thickly overgrown. Entire roads and crossroads are named after them. But they hold themselves aloof. Perhaps, falling in love is meant only for little lanes which lead to nowhere.

I would often walk from Hazra to Theatre Road in The City. School got over at 5:30..just between dusk and darkness. It was a straight route, filled with light and colour and smell. Each step heralded a different smell. Jasmine, oranges piled into a perfect pyramid, old books, new books, musk incense....that road and I became lovers. The heavy, City air clawed at my hair and lay in my skin. My feet stomped, tripped, touched and concentrated. There is a little lane behind Excide with a paan-shop, a deliciously-smelling roll-shop and a homeless woman.

There are two 'walkways' in pune I have made friends with. One is the lane leading up to our building (see post rubble). The other is the short-cut from Samar's house to Baner road. It's over a muddy, dug-up field. Both of these are un-named and unplotted. They're short, rough and haven't been pampered. Come to think of it, most of my friends are like that.

Way of a Staccato Speaker

Imagine being caught in mid-blink. Eyelashes frozen, quivering...eyes staring in desperation.

That's how I speak. I have ideas, delighting in their form, anecdotes that may bring us closer, observations waiting to make a difference...
But I will stumble mid-sentence...mid word. My breath will break into pigeon-hole syllables. My tongue will shrivel, my mouth fills up with irregular moisture.

They gave me reasons. The divorce, the change-over from left-hand to right-hand, insecurity, nerves.
I believed all of them. And then stopped.
I went to therapy. To speech pathologists. I did exercises o regulate my breathing and relax my muscles. I suppose they helped.
I don;t like to read aloud. But I gave a book-reading for 50-odd people. I gestured, stuttered, panted through it. A teacher came up to congratulate me. I told her it had taken guts. I'm not sure I didn't mean that literally.
I sometimes twist my words so as to avoid the pitfall alphabets. 'm', 't', 'b', 'k'. I talk best when I'm drunk, when I'm sick and when I'm sleepy. I've develped alternative means of communication. Writing, gestures, touch. I've given recitations and done theatre with all my love.

My world consists of those who mimic and those who understand. Those who ask and those who avert. Those who listen with sympathy...and those who just listen...

Going on

Exams up from the 28th...a fact I'm blithely ignoring. Finally finally had a chat with Roshni. It's not the same as hearing her hilly voice going 'tarpor jaboi na nakee?' with an extra-high note on those last 2 'e's. ' It rubbed off on me about a month after knowing her.

It's been raining off and on for the past three days and there's been an energetic wind. And I have been lusting. For Calcutta, for deliberate talk and silence on fierce, grey afternoons, for breathlessness and black-and-white movies, for a graceful, curving branch of wet, white bougainvillea...

Janaki, Akash and I listed some of our fascinations yesterday.
Mine are walks, water, alliteratives and touch.
Akash's are film, books, music and children
Janaki's are highways, rivers, elephants and children.

I'd like to know yours...

Tales of Long Ago

It's been a long no-blog zone but I can explain. Shuchita had chicken-pox and unfortunately the computer is in her room. So for two weeks, I had to be contented with poking my nose round the door and sending silent, amorous messages to the computer. Ah, but such torture is not to be borne.
I had a very nice 21st birthday. It was ushered in at midnight with champagne, good Pune-iite friends and my dad reminding me that I wasn't grown-up enough to 'do things without his permission.' I've got lovely presents, including Worldspace Radio from TnT and Sumitra, 'Anna Karenina' from Samar (which he's bugging me to read so i can pass it on to him), a totally bohemian statuette of a Red Indian from Prithvi, 'Eats, Shites and Leaves' by A. Parody and a book on literary criticism from Ankush and a very curvy vase from Meerambika. From Dad and Shuchita...a giant teddy bear, a scrabble-board and dictionary (yeah), solitaire earrings (yes, my dears) and pretty skirts. So that's my hoard.
I'm planning to buy 'Collected Short Stories' of Tennessee Williams and Huxley's 'Brave New World'. 'The Old Man and His god' by Sudha Murthy sounds pretty good too.
Janaki had a serious talk with me yesterday evening. More on that, though, when it's better crystallized.
Shuchita and E are going to Calcutta on Friday for a week. I completely envy them. It's months since I touched my city. I miss it most on warm evenings when there's a breeze and everyone looks eagerly out at the moving leaves, pretending it's nothing but knowing that only that slow movement breaks the gauntness of humidity. But then there's a click and the picture has been stored. I must return to my adopted city....one of many.

There was severe voltage fluctuation in our house for the last few days which resulted in our computer, our washing machine and my DVD player blowing up all at once.
Shuchita and I are running the Oscar race. We've planned to watch all the movies nominated for Best Picture. So far I've only seen 'Brokeback Mountain.' Lush visuals and matter-of-fact homosexuality is what I've processed so far.
I had a beautiful Valentine's Day. I attended a Philosophy lecture on euthanasia, learnt that my French oral had got postponed, heard S and Prithvi sing, felt happy and warm, went to Apache and had gorgeous cheese sandwiches and this cocktail called Go 2 Hell, got vaguely high, cuddled with Varun and Prithvi, had a good sale at TnT, cuddled with S and Geeta and walked a bit with the moon.
7 years ago on Valentine's Day, I was in Lake Gardens...wearing a pink, satin Barbie nightie, my bed a nest of pillows so I was propped up enough to look out of my window and see the road lit weirdly with moonlight.
2 years ago, I was on a couch... a body I loved kissing and touching me with minimum fuss.
This year, I looked it in the eye, shrugged and celebrated.
I managed to whack S across the mouth with a book while trying to hug him. He pretended to bleed, but it didn't happen and he finally bought 'Where God was Born' for 417 bucks. S and I abuse each other a lot. I like talking about him and hearing about him. I like talking to him and listening to him (the latter happens more frequently). I hug him a lot and he's ok with the bodily contact. I like touching him and hearing him sing. I say a lot of sarcastic things about him with complete dishonesty. He's someone I know a little and would like to know a lot.
I've been thinking about him a lot lately and I wanted this no-frills polysection.

I'm reading Amit Chaudhuri. 'A Strange and Sublime Address' is beautiful. Calcutta leaps and runs screaming ahead of the reader leaving behind intense sensation. I've moved on to 'Afternoon Raag' now. Left is 'Freedom Song.'

Thanks to Geeta and S, I have started listening to classical musician Amir Khan. I never liked classical music. But Amir Khan gives me images. Leaves rolling in mud. Pleas for deliverance. Mirror images of two women at sunrise. It is poetry. Repetition adds to the intensity. These are people who don't need words in their music. Technical perfection is their medium of expression and it's a passion.

Good night.

I'd like to say I'm sorry. So so sorry. But it doesn't cover it. Nothing does.
A few weeks ago, the father of one of our regular customers died. I was shocked. I remember telling someone that death had 'never really touched me.' There is such a thing as fate. And I have gone too far in mocking it. I was disturbed, but briefly. It was a first for me.
Today, three members of my family are gone. Murdered. It's as though death is 'touching' me in degrees. I cried for the first time over a death. Felt so terrified. Helpless.
When I heard of the death of our customer's father, I was alarmed at my own reaction. I had never faced it before, and i was afraid that when someone close to me died, I would not be able to face it.
I was right.I don't want any more 'touching.' I am scared.

Today was 'Sari and Tie Day' in college. Some of the girls wore ties and looked truly beautiful. The rest of them wore saris and jingled and preened and squealed at each other. I like wearing saris, but only if I can run around barefoot in them. I detest high-heeled shoes, with the exception of my boots. Another disadvantage of a sari is that I love bike-rides and I can't sit sideways on a bike.
On the topic of shoes, you'll see me in my black, leather, ankle-length boots or in bright-red Oshos. I have a pair of purple, leather slip-ons with clunky, brass buckles which I love but hardly wear. I have one pair of formal stillettoes which cause my feet to scream in protest. I wear them for drunken dancing.
My father has 'the adult version of chicken-pox' and is under house-arrest for a week. He isn't a good patient, becomes deliberately pathetic. Unfortunately, none of us have had any version of chicken-pox so we're all experiencing psychological itching.
I had one of those evenings where my lips felt too dry to smile. Everytime I tried, it was just a horizontal crack across my face. My reviews are reading stale. Thank goodness for Geeta and Vernon who hugged it all away.

No work today and I'm looking forward to cuddling with my quilt, eating an obscene number of hajmolas, reading Meg Cabot and maybe having a huge meat n cheese sandwich in the evening.

Terms of Endearment

There is this one colleague of mine who totally repells me. I mean I actually shudder if he walks towards me. Don't ask me why...it could be a lot of subjective, stupid stuff...or nothing at all.
I am a total reverse sexist. I like dark-skinned women and fair men and this guy has the exact colouring that I hate. There are total scummies I will love obstinately and there are perfectly harmless people I hate.
This girl in college for instance. She has lovely, smooth, cocoa skin. I can't stand her. Ok, she does fling her wet hair around a lot and she nods incessantly like a Bobo doll. I call her Noddy!
So anyway I have a meeting with this colleague tomorrow after lectures. He's had a bad couple of days and I guess he needs an ear....or a rebound relationship. I can't provide the latter and i don't want to provide the former. He uses the phrase 'you should' a lot. Ah well, all my years as a professional, personal-listener will stand me in good stead.
Alternatively I could empty the pepper-canister over him and escape.

I have several really painful pustules on my face, I haven't had a good conversation in the last 36 hours.

Intensity is perfect focus.
I do not like sitting around looking out at the street or stare at a TV screen or bob my head to indifferent music. I want purpose and I'm not choosing to find it. I want to rub my eyes hard and smudge the carefully drawn kajol lines. I do not want to chill. I want to feel my body breaking the homogeneity of the air surrounding it. I want to feel the air closing in, strangling relentlessly.
I want force. I want to be a force. I'm living in the pages of an Ayn Rand novel am I? Can I be a pin-point? Can you gather all my hair in one hand and force my head back...all in a second?

Quote

"But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!""
Jack Kerouac

Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to present a post on vulnerability and expectation.

Today I was hurt very badly by someone I realized I care about. Someone I'd like to be tender and special to. I went through the motions of pretending it was ok, then admitted I was affected but that I would be ok, deciding to be cold and unresponsive and then deciding to give the person another chance. I admitted that the main reason I came to the concluding decision is because I have handled all such situations with passivity. I dislike confrontation. I prefer withdrawal.

The pain was hard and almost made me cry. But it passed. I make sure it always does. It has left a nasty aftertaste in my mind and I know I will be less open and adoring with this person. I've thought 'Why must this always happen to me?' and all that other conventional pain-jargon. But then that's passed too. I'll choose to give over to my moods and see what happens.

Thank you.

How 'Indian' is Ray?

Check this out. It's a very interesting perspective on Satyajit Ray.
Thanks Mum :)

I was horrible to S yesterday. Judgemental and bitchy. The alternative was to be intensely loving. Quiet.
I'm not going to ask why I did it.
I want S to.

There's someone I'd like to get to know. Sensually, verbally, intimately. 'I like your sudden smile, the slow, disproportionate, unabashed way you move,' I'd like to say. Yesterday I imagined the beeping tone of the phone connecting us after we hung up. Because we both softened our screaming, crimson images, allowing indigo interaction to spill over.
I sense the childishness and the child-likeness. The former is your uncluttered perception, the latter your candour. You glow among dusty melodies and categorize ruthlessly. 'I'd like to hear you sing,' I tell you.
Much about you is black. Unknown. Uncompromising. A square. A clam.
I like you because you fit my requirements. And because you don't.
But while I keep these things in mind, I promise to remain open to your changing. And to give you your time, and mine.

I've never really thought about my relationship with E. The only certainty I follow in it is that the word-concept of 'step' should be banished. At 5 years and 7 months, he is a confident, inquiring boy who frantically demands attention. I remember when I first heard that I was going to have a sibling....I was indifferently accepting. No anger or insecurity. I expected nothing from my father. It was another thing I took in stride.

I went to the hospital a few hours after he was born. Baba wanted to name him Bhombolnath!! I think it almost went on the birth certificate. I don't remember what I felt on looking at him. This huge bundle of flesh with a ready smile (even then) and memories he had already forgotten. They moved to Pune and I visited frequently. I loved E's physical form. Even after his baby-fat was lost, his face remained round, his eyes huge with inch- long lashes, his smile sudden. With my propensity to touch, we bonded physically and quickly.

Now we're flat-mates and have been roomates for the past 3 weeks. He's loud and can be bratty. He loves touching me. He likes shurshuri. He talks too much. Blood-ties hold no significance for me. I like him because I can listen to Bob Geldof and Mark Knopfler with him. Because he likes hugging. Because I now have someone to watch cartoons and Disney movies with. We share a house, a room, a father. We're possessive of each other.
I think we're ok.

Lost and Tagged

Sorry M, you tagged me over a month ago and I haven't gotten around to doing it. And I confess I'm doing it now because I'm at a complete loss.

7 things I plan to do

Polish up my driving

Keep my word to Geetanjali and write a book for her within this year

Join dance classes (preferably Latino)

Finish 'Bookshop'

Get the highest marks in English in my March exams

Let my hair grow (might change my mind on this one)

Be brave in all my decisions


7 things I can't do

Sit on a bike sideways

Sleep alone on a big bed

Resist my brother

Not get sentimental while listening to oldies

Not touch

'Be with' people long-term

Not listen to Bob Geldof singing 'I don't Like Mondays.'


7 things I say quite often

Listen.....

Array na

EESHAAN STOP THAT!!!!

I don't think so

kirom ekta jano

Mmmmmmmm

That is just not on

There are 10 people staying in the house now. I do not like houseguests for longer than a week. And these ones...the grand-relation types....are good for asking nosy questions and generally getting on ones nerves. You get to hear good old family-stories but...........I hate being under so many eyes. It's so different on stage. I've loved every one of my short stints with theatre.
I am fully aware of every movement I make, conscious of dozens of eyes watching me. And I love the power it gives me. But there the lines are rehearsed. Silences in theatre add to performance-power. I've had silences like that off-stage too. Fraught with feeling so palpable that it touches my mouth and dries my lips. A moment of terror for those who back away from untoward emotion.

We celebrated Janaki's birthday at Green Park yesterday. I rode in the dicky of the Qualis singing 'Que sera sera.' We had an open log-cabin to ourselves with water falling all around and perched over a pool. The music was terrible but we had fun and I took lots of photographs. Vernon and I talked about a lot of things....misguided feelings, the reproductive habits of mer-people, acceptance, flexibility, why I couldn't go on the slide and other such profound topics. I was too restless to really taste what I ate. I basically ran around sampling from everyone and tickling Nandini and threatening Samar with instant drowning. Then I photographed everyone over dessert, with cream all over their mouths.
As of now we're trying to come up with an indecent, Bengali nickname for E. We've come up with Buju, Pocha and....on his own suggestion....Nothing. Suggestions are welcome.

already??

My 31st was pretty cool. All my nice Pune-iite couple friends came over with their kids. Janki, my beautiful boss gave me this book called 'The Map of your Mind.' Dad and Shuchita have gone to Kiva's which is a hip lounge-bar, the rest of the house slumbers. A colleague has emotionally commissioned me to start and finish a book and present it to her on 31/12/06. So I truly have incentive this year.
I am definitely polishing up my driving by the end of this month.

Hope y'all have a very intimate, very personal, very passionate 2006.
Love

Rubble

There is a narrow, winding lane leading up to our building. It is raw and rude, refusing to be called a driveway. On both sides of this lane, there was once subtly hilly, overgrown land. A shortcut to our hill. Home to rats, snakes and such. Now, on one side there is major IT-hub construction happening. Trucks, lorries, cranes filled with brick and cement and other such necessary hardnesses roll up and down the lane and like to park themselves so that no other vehicle may get past. The creatures who had made their homes in the soil now seek human company through the medium of drainpipes and open balcony-doors.
On the other side are makeshift shanties where the builders live. They are fleshless. The women wear heavy, gold bangles, nose-rings with chains and clusters of earrings. They lift piles of materials and deposit them into shape. Their hands are dusty and unafraid. The men are not resigned to their livelihood. Yet they work tirelessly as if saying...one more brick in place...and maybe I can think of a different life. They look tired of this tireless hoping.
I usually walk up the lane around 9:30 at night. Rickshawwallahs in Pune are not known for their industriousness, especially at night. Sometimes there is a watchman positioned about 1/4 up the lane. Sometimes there is emptiness for the first half. I hear a radio in one of the workers homes. I hear a Bengali curse-word and half-turn. There are at least 9 children living in those shanties. They are in constant danger of being run over. At night they are stowed away. As I near our building, the lane is slightly uphill. My breath fragments. I see lights from the shanties. I hear comments about my body. Sometimes there is silence and just before I reach our gate, I feel eyes on me. I enter a void with the eyes on either end and my choice is to be intensely scrutinised or to be erased.
I have been told that the lane is not safe. It shuts out the hills and exposes me to blue-collar sensibilities.
But the two-minute walk is potent. And it's my only way home.

Woke up with a horrifuck cold and aching head. My nose is still leaky and I have a Christmas party at Tnt this evening where I have to be painfully chirpy. Met Ankush for coffee on Wednesday. We have to meet once every 2 months or so since we both suffer from the Syndrome of Acute Randomness. I tried to steal another of his shirts (he was carrying this huge pile of freshly-laundered clothes) but he wouldn't let me :(

I picked up some Penguin Pocket Classics at th TnT sale. Currently am reading 'Summer in Algiers' by Camus. I'm also half-way through 'Conscience Deluded' which is a gorgeous collection of stories by Russian women. I recommend all books published by Kali which is the first publishing house run by women in India. Look out for 'Relationship' which is a series of letters between writer Nayantara Sehgal and E.N. Mangat Rai.

I've been meaning to write about some Bernardo Bertolucci movies I saw in Cal this time. 'Last Tango in Paris' and 'Stealing Beauty.' I didn't watch them with as much care as I should have, but what I noticed was that there is no mere object in his movies. Everything has a purpose, a reason for the camera to slither around it, caress it, worship it. Everything is raw, thrown open. Nothing is too sacred for the camera...in fact it is the camera that makes it all sacred with its touch. I loved them.

Enough name-dropping. Aami ghoom dite jachhi.

The Advertising Slogan Generator

Only a Fool Breaks the Ahana. Moms Like You Choose Fcuk.

Choosy Mothers Choose Ahana! The Dirt says Hot, The Label says Oh Man.

Just One Ahana - Give It To Me! Death Is Our Middle Name.

Where Do You Want Ahana To Go Today? Ahana - It Looks Good on You.

Dude, You're Getting a Laabh! Sixpence. It's What's For Dinner.

Get sloganized

The Infinite Teen Slang Dictionary

Ahana (adj.) likely to shout at school."Check out my Ahana pet animal!"

The Infinite Teen Slang Dictionary

Dr Unhemlich's Disease Registry

Bad luck! You are suffering from Ahana's Syndrome.
Cause: bee sting
Symptoms: embarrassing noises, bulging eyes, gastrointestinal bleeding, vague leg pain
Cure: electroshock therapy

All you diseased people click here

The Prior-Art-O-Matic

Ahana: Ahana is a toothbrush! It makes amusing belching noises.

Get yours here.

NOW HEAR THIS!!!

Today I walked into an enormous room and fell in love. There were rows to choose from. Some winking coyly, others rugged and deep. I turned to one only to nuzzle another only to breathe in a third. I wanted them all. But I am fickle. One intense session of attachment and love-making and I am done. There are few I can return to. Ah well. I should get used to it.
I never was a book-virgin anyway.

P.S. A confession. I went to the Indian Classical Music section first. Grinning to myself the whole time. Fuck, it's fun having a crush!!

?????????????!!!!!!!!!!!

So another cop-turned-rapist article in today's newspaper. Reaction: People will draw their womenfolk closer to home and remind them of their vulnerability. Plenty of outrage from feminists. Marches and walks and awareness campaigns all waving signs saying 'FOR WOMEN.'
Just a question here. Who are the men we are generally warned about? The driver, the construction worker, the security guard...the blue-collar public. How much of this awareness reaches out to them? If it's education that colours the collar, why not educate them? In fact, why not educate all men-folk? What's the root of rape? Making a patriarchal point? Repressed sexual urges?
I want to know. I want to know if rape is a clear, concise 'to-do' in a man's brain or a reflexive assertion of his superiority. I want to know why, if women are shedding the burden of being silent, men cannot see past centuries of drummed-in culture. There are women who have stood up and said 'I have been raped. It is wrong and I want justice.' Is there a man who will stand up and say 'I have raped. It is my right and I want it legalized?' They don't care if it's legally wrong. Would they say it's traditionally right? What's their story? Women feel defiled, humiliated according to sexual norms. Does the rapist feel satisfied, secure as per his 'maleness' requires him to? I don't know if there's a woman alive who would say she enjoyed being raped. Are there men who think-'Well if one can express anger, frustration, hunger, insecurity, need...all through the penis....why not?'
The ones we're warned against probably don't read newspapers or slogans. The ones we're not warned against probably do. But nobody talks.

I walked away:

A blue shirt
where the collar leaned into
jasmine skin

A little green bulb
Bleeding racous beats
Sawing into sound-proof corners

The gleam of razored sunlight on railroad tracks
I heard the hiss, saw steam
Remembered...

I walked away
With heavy arms
And a breath I could not exhale.

Finally in touch with Roshni! I was really wondering if she'd taken one look at the college...or maybe been accosted by the head of the ISU...and decided to become a dog-trainer in Alaska.
All she says is that she missed me the night before last and that it is snowing where she is. Wherever she is!!!
I'm getting increasingly itchy as my time in Spain comes to an end. My only purpose has been to spend time with my mother...and it is a very nice purpose. I don't want it to end. My mum has grown to be the only person in my life who does not want to shape it. Being apart for almost 4 & 1/2 years has taught us both the importance of small doses. Neither of us are inclined to 'live with.' Aloneness is too fragile, to possessive. And therefore I fight passively against learning to 'be with.' The one choice I made when my brain had prickly heat. I am rude and rowdy and apathetic towards those who might have mattered. I had no conditions for togetherness. Perhaps that is why I now feel the expected conditions pressing on me. Familiarity. Disabled conditions that will allow me to be the saviour. A struggling rag of the 'prince-charming' concept. And above all a need for complete independence from need.
Hugs to those who have loved me/become victims of my ignorance.

I won a prize for Arithmetic in Kindergarten. 'The Musicians of Bremen'...a Ladybird Classic. What I remember most is the word 'Arithmetic' written inside on a card. In broken letters. My love for addition and mental multiplication came up to that word.
Later, when my marks decided that English was to be my chosen path, that I was perpetually the best arranger of words on paper...I did not flinch. I who forever shrugged off labels no matter what the cost, accepted that the written word would be my facist hacksaw, would chop pieces out of me, hang menacingly over my head if I dared to pull away. I chose to choose to obey.
Then came the phrase 'just words'. I foolishly ignored it and down swooped the Dementor Dictator. Just words....JUST words, just WORDS, it was said with a shrug, with palms outstretched signifying disregard, helplessness, comfort...the 'just' with soft stress on the 'j' or the 's', 'words' amplified as much as possible. When I ignored it, I had the pleasure of mass-understanding, once I singled it out, I didn't know what to do with it.
My 16-out-of-20 and 21-out-of-25 marked essays, my mawkish, over-sentimental journals, the fragmented scribbles I consider my forte....words.
Expression, medium, language.....words.
Arithmetic didn't bring me to addition and mental multplication. They brought me to 'arithmetic.'
When I touched the keys of a piano, I thought of the word 'touch.' I couldn't listen to classical music because there were no lyrics. Then I started making up music-word associations and writing them down.
I had 'lyrics' for every composition I heard. When I played, I thought of 'precision' and 'wrinkles.' I loved my 'metronome.'
I don't love words because they give me images. I love images when they give me words.

Now, every situation, no matter how personal is story-material. Not for marking. For arranging and playing with words. I love word-ambigrams. I adore the tight, toxic distance I have with a guy I love because I can juggle adjectives about it.

:)
'smile'

Masquerade

Are we really happy with this lonely game we play,
Looking for the right words to say?
Searching but not finding -- understanding anyway,
We're lost in this masquerade.
Both afraid to say we're just too far away
From being close together from the start.
We try to talk it over, but the words got in the way
We're lost inside this lonely game we play.
Thoughts of leaving disappear each time I see your eyes,
And no matter how hard I try
To understand the reason why we carry on this way
We're lost in this masquerade.
We try to talk it over, but the words got in the way
We're lost inside this lonely game we play.
We're lost in a masquerade.
And we're lost in a masquerade.

- George Benson

If Albee had been a romantic....'Virgina Woolf'...might have been thus shaped.

I bought 'Unless' by Carol Shields today. Paid a ghastly amount for it but since I was locked out of the house...and consequently out of my half-read material...
I'm half-way through it and it typifies my reading preferences. Plentiful use of metaphors, some form of intense, psychological 'wrongness' and for all its rich verbosity...strangely matter-of-fact. Seriously, in most of the books I read either someone ages backwards, or sits on a street corner wearing nothing but a sign reading 'goodness' or whatever.
I also have this thing for extra-marital stories, instances being 'The Bridges of Madison County', 'Lolita', 'The Maid's Request'. The first is a bitter-slightly-sweet romance, the second a gorgeous narrative on obsessive romantic and sexual ideals and the third is a silent, attentive awareness between an ageing artist and his maid...apparently having tangential reference to Da Vinci.
The anonymity of these relationships attracts me. They are extra-marital sometimes in the sense that neither party is married, sometimes where one is or one marries merely to be close to the real object of desire. I abhor unfaithfulness and not even in 'Bridges' is that word mentioned. It isn't glossed over either and it pleases me that neither character refers to marriage while discussing the outcome of their own relationship.

Another day in Nerja with lots of meat and cheese and alcohol. The local cigarettes really suck. I am as yet receiving e-mails which promise to increase the size of my penis by 3". Perhaps the senders are eminent psychologists who are convinced that I am suffering from an extended Electra complex.

I just checked out some artwork by Dave Mckean. Let me confess that I am no art connoisseur. I find images in words and am rarely able to do the reverse which is probably why symbolic art attacts me. I love swirls and shapes and wonky stuff. Mckean is wonky. Scary-wonky. I was looking at some images he created for the Skybox Master series. I'm putting up the link so have a look. My personal favourites are The Bee-Giver and The Scary Man.
Adios.

The room was tiny,dimly lit by red-shaded lamps, inhabited by several Vague Human Characters. I was seated on a chair attached to the top of a steel pole about 8 feet high. My head touched the ceiling and when I looked up, it too was steel and my reflected face was huge and puffy, daubed with soot. All I could distinguish was a little, white scar cutting into my right eyebrow.
The VHC's asked me why I was there. I told them it was to make up for being with other people the rest of the time. They never looked at me or at each other...instead they looked at the reflections in the ceiling.
I had no shoes on...my feet were wrapped in dirty, mummy-like bandages and then re-wrapped in sheets of steel. The chair was a swivel, but it only worked when I looked upward at my reflection. The faster I spun, the more the VHC's disintegrated. Or at least their reflections did. My own face blurred. All except for the scar.
Sometimes it looked like a fingernail.
I decided it was a foetus.
My fingers were smooth, polished steel as I raised my hand to stroke it. The eyebrow curled and grew moist around them.

Hola de Espagna

Apart from nearly being arrested in Paris, I managed to reach Malaga without too many hitches. Had my first meal at Oh Calcutta! last night. Lovely mussels and some version of an Italian stew and chocolate mousse. As of now I am wrapped in a woolly pink robe having my hair vigorously towel-dried by Mum.

Nerja seems an idyllic paradise. The only businesses here are shops, restaurants and bars with the odd bank thrown in. No hotels...instead people rent apartments or cottages for vacations. This is actually my second trip here, but the first doesn't really count. I left 98% of me in Calcutta that time. This time I'm here completely. The strange thing is that there's no consciousness of being 'away.' Last time I gazed at the sea, upon sunsets. I gloried in soaking in the bathtub (which I still consider the ultimate luxury). I was the ultimate tourist. Ok, I didn't have any paella and this time I've deigned to 'be introduced to the fine art of wine-drinking' which I vetoed last time....but it's completely casual. No thrill at flying 11 hours or being on the Continent. I might as well be the bored businessman next to me on the flight who spent his entire time reading the Wall Street Journal and making copious notes on his air-sickness bag.
This time my thrills come from the electric mattress-heater in my bed, being put to sleep by Mum...oh and Mum's new pink-framed glasses.

A Toast

To J...and all the possibilities you are.
Congratulations!

The Sibling Diaries

E (kissing me on my temple) : I kissed your brains. Now you'll do well in your exams.

Me: You might have done this a week ago. My exams just got over.

E (thinking it over) : You'll have more exams won't you?

A minute later.

E: Tia Didi, I'm making my own skateboard. If you don't disturb me I won't disturb you.

Ode

I love my feet. I mean really love them. They're clean and size 5 with short, uneven toe-nails. The veins show up clearly and there's nearly always a blister on the little toe. The heels are usually dry. I've given up wearing nail-polish and now they just look strong and well-used. And they've served me pretty well so far. They've kicked vulnerable male genitalia, walked on mud, animal excreta and the roads of Pune...all while wearing shoes that are the opposite of polite.
I've been decorating them a lot of late. Right now I have a pair of thin, silver anklets and of course my magic toe-ring in which resides the wise, two-headed elephant-genie. Thank you again, Pigwidgeon!

Question: How do things stop mattering?

I went pujo shopping yesterday and finally bought some skirts. One outfit is totally Bunty aur Babli...or in dad's words 'jhakkas'. Anyway they're both lovely and I'm in one right now. I'd almost forgotten what it was like not to have my legs separated by layers of denim...and more recently in cotton linen. Feel skin on skin.
I'm getting 'short-tempered' according to my co-worker. I do blow off steam on him. Hee.

This was an exercise at the NSD workshop last December.
We were asked to lie down, close our eyes and concentrate. Music was playing. Sitar and drums. We had to let it penetrate us completely, let images build up. I saw the sea. I was deaf and dumb but I knew there was music playing. I was desperate....to speak, to let out. The music grew higher, I knew it did. I felt it breathing, tugging at my silence. Insisting that I wasn't in bondage.

Later, we had to perform those images.
I know my voice quivered....I know I cried.
I don't know how it ended...

I started taking a mock-S.A.T online last night to keep myself awake since I was working on 'Bookshop'. It was going pretty well...and then my consistent computer pulled its usual stunt and I had to shut down. I intend to keep going though, even if it's in fits and starts. And i'll post a new 'S.A.T word' each day:) Shaunak is absolutely right...my vocabulary really is pathetic for someone who claims to love words.

'Bookshop' is getting tricky. I've been trying to create a link on my blog, but my PC doesn't seem to want to. But there is a murder at the end and i like the way I've started building up to it verrrry subtly. Also, my protagonist does not have a gender so no pronouns. Hee. I am a terribly lazy writer. I'm at my best at night, and I'm perfectly willing to give up on sleep and college isn't a problem but I simply can't go into work half-dozy. I have less than a month so wish me luck.

I watched 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and loved it. It could have been a litle better edited, but then I watched it in halves. Anyway, the concept was ephemeral and radical so yay!

Mum's down with laryngitis and Shuchita is laid up with a slipped disc and Jivraj has viral fever which Mrinalini calls dengue!! Such preposterous goings-on.

S.A.T word: ameliorate(v): to relieve,as from pain or hardship

somethings

Did you know that.......

. I like to read chick lit?
.My lips curve inwards while holding a cigarette?
. I don't like the taste of alcohol?
. I get a faster buzz from one cigarette than a 60 ml shot of vodka?
. I know someone who has a toothbrush which has the exact shades of blue and white as the cover of the centennial edition of 'Atlas Shrugged'?
. I act out most of the scenes and situations that I write?
. I am a monster of solitude?
. I succeeded in pushing someone away?
. I drink scalding, black coffee when I'm angry?
. I love gypsy clothes?
. I am fiercely competitive regarding speed and English marks?
. I can consume 2 packets of Lays Magic Masala and 2 packets Kurkure Red Chilli Chatka in a day?
. I believe I would make a marvellous burglar?
. I love J because he is so many possibilities?
. I smell naturally like my dad?
. I love shurshuri?
. There are 6 people who I don't mind calling and receiving calls from?
. I am hopelessly in love with our mini vacuum-cleaner?
. I do get tired of listening and I do need to talk long and very slowly and there are very few people I can be honest with about it?
.

I'm in the mood for late-night talk and there's no one around and no one I can call.
I'm standing on the precipice of possibility and staring down into the abyss of hopelessness.

Did you know that I love Disney movies and i love 'Terminator'? Both are so relentless.

Tiffany....thanks so much for your appreciation. I'm sure you'll create a wonderful blog. Please do keep contact.
Love.

No Full Stops in....

I have just devoured a huge chocolate bun from Just Baked and am realizing that while the shop is pretty small everything it stocks is outsize and though the cream was a little stale it was delumpcious and scrumplicious ( read all the secret seven books if you don't know these words, they appear in one of them hee) and I am nursing it down with a glass of Amul Buttermilk which I recommend highly to anyone who is tired of aerated drinks and juices and I watched 'Lost in Translation' and 'School of Rock' yesterday and liked them both a lot especially the first scene of the former yes I know it shows Scarlett Johansson's pink panties but I think it's a beautiful shot and why do we speak of panties in the plural when we usually wear one and I loved Bill Murray's dry, wry humour and i think Scarlett has this heavy, decided beauty no not just in the first shot and I have become a total 'Salaam Namaste' groupie having watched it 3 times and having bought the audio cassette and dowloaded the ringtones of 2 songs and Mrinalini, Jivraj and Dipto are coming for a visit in December and now I've made it official in writing and I haven't used the phrase 'most probably coming' so now they'll have to come HAH but really if I can't go to Calcutta and TCS, let them come to me and I read 'Diddi' by Ira Pandey and it's ever so gentle and flowing and beautiful and I'm sending it to Thammi and sending 'The Oxford Illustrated Corbett' for Dadu and while I was looking for the books I realized how little I think of them and who they are and what they like and that you can't buy a book for a stranger even if it's for inspiration and comfort and I got all emotional and I got a lovely face and head massage and i don't care if my skin glows and my hair grows at the speed of light all i really cared about was being touched and i hadn't realized how starved i was nor why i was writing so much about it and it was cathartic and my obsession with physical touch is...what do you suppose it is?

I read a nice quote today. 'Nostalgia isnt what it used to be'. That'll go up in my room along with 'supernatural' and 'the mouse's lamentation' and Ankush's drawing.

I'm almost through 'Atlas Shrugged' and have been reading it in wonder and total infatuation. The desperate fight against mediocrity, the refusal to 'settle' is beautiful. Precision has received its reward in the book. It's so convincing that I'm not even shocked at how my love for the blurry, the undefined and the intangible is wavering.

Certainty stems from innocence. There is no power greater than the ability to choose.

As of now I'm reading 'Fountainhead', 'Babyji' by Abha Dawesar, Radiance of Ashes by Cyrus Mistry, The Boyfriend by R.Raj Rao and Mapping the Edge by Sarah Dunant.
I read 'Pig' by Andrew Cowan and loved it. Coming of age stories leave so much of scope for both the writer and the reader.

I'm working on a story called 'Bookshop'. I am sapped of eagerness and haven't chosen to recharge.