Unchanging Cameo

Rambling away
as you write to
remember,
that which you've left
far behind your today.

Typing away
with line breaks
and commas,
lending your words
profundity unearned.

Thoughts scrambling
scampering
in that vortex,
slipping away
from your sick grimy reach.

Winter approaches
you knew that it would.

But Summer lasted
nary a week.

Know Thy Query

It's quite the sham, what people say.

About time healing all, and fissures erased.
Time does nothing but remind you repeatedly
That what once was yours no longer exists.
Matter may reassemble, but never resurrect.

They ask you to smile, for the "fond memories",
Those that may recur, tweaked beyond recognition.
They inquire politely, "Come to terms with it yet?"
You stare, you shrug. The terms are unknown.

Brasso For This Blog

I haven't blogged in over a year! Feels like five. When I'm asked what I do for fun now, aside from college (later, tell you later), it doesn't even cross my mind to say I blog off and on.

I miss being able to sound all cool and bloggerly haha.


I miss shooting off posts and then saving half of them as drafts instead of publishing right away. The joys and shivers of revisiting the junk you wrote yesterday.. I miss that as well. All the stuff on this blog was written so long ago that nostalgia overpowers all self-critical editing instincts.

Editing, be it someone else's writing or my own, now that's something I'm not sure I miss. But it's okay, I've set myself up for a lifetime of fixing things as and when they turn clunky and inefficient.


I think one of the nicest things about writing regularly is that occasionally, not necessarily often, you author something that resonates with a reader. Nicer still if you get to hear about it! Sometimes that reader is a surprise or a complete stranger, sometimes it's someone who you always suspected didn't really like you at all, and sometimes it's exactly the reader you had in mind while writing. Haan rest of the time it's the same old "chaar log" who comprise your entire readership..

It's nice to be able to strike a chord somewhere. With present day readers, and with your future self.


I know I didn't have any of this in mind when I blogged back then. But going through some old posts today had me feeling so grateful for having written them when I did. And it's simply not about which ones got tons of hits (none did).

A post about my scene with the Army, that's a post I'm grateful for. It came at a good time, and I appreciate more than I would've expected that even my father read it.

The wonderful reassurance that I had some serious imagination game at age four, and the sense to write about it at age 18.

There's stuff that makes me want to go back in time and pat my past-self's head. Not like the Pillsbury doughboy, no. But come on, just read about my woes! Too cool.

There's wisdom.

And senti aplenty.

And pain that I must endure until I frickin' die.

I want to give future-me more of this stuff.

Selfish agenda is selfish. And how I talk and write is probably outdated!


There are a lot of things that were an integral part of who I was and what I did two, three, four years ago. And some of them simply aren't anymore.

That's okay. That's welcome!

But I think blogging off and on is something I want to bring back into my routine.


So hi again =)

Blindness & Bombay

I was born and brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

But when I walk past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble, crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.

People waiting for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to protect me. My city calls out to me.

When I walk through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares. Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city calls out to me.

               

I often take visitors for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you?  It's too bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse against each other.  A faint whiff of the sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.

Get on a bus heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you will have reached the ghats. You will hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and postal codes, my city calls out to me.

And you see, I tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed nothing. Who’s to decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another? 

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.

I fail to see the difference.

It's Okay To Not Relate

When some random person predicts that you will meet all sorts of people in college, believe. And when your prospective college promises you “immense exposure”, believe more.

After nearly three years of undergrad at a town college dominated by people from not-town, I do believe I have been on the receiving end of adequate exposure. No kidding. Why, day three of college consisted of something like this –

Yeah, I'm over my Blue Suede Shoes...

Okay, not quite like this. Picture the girl about eight years older and two feet taller, wearing the same skirt and a lost expression on her face. Okay so far? 

Now picture the same in the main corridor of a college library dominated by microbiology students normally intent on research... yeah. 

Now tack on a pose, something like this –

There's only so much a girl can cover... the library is the place to look it up!

It was probably the first time I didn’t laugh aloud for fear of interrupting an intense parody shoot. Turned out I might as well have laughed, would’ve contrasted the gaping mouths nicely.

-     -     -

I didn’t catch on to it then, that tendency to stare a little, laugh a little and then get on with my life anyway when faced with things I simply could not relate to. In retrospect, that’s what got me through college with my sanity intact. Sure, sometimes you reflect and take it from there, validating another popular claim – that college will change you. But if you’re lucky, a voice in your mind just tells you that it’s okay not to relate.

It’s okay to not want to hug acquaintances like exiled lovers reunited at long last. Especially when you see those exchanges take place a minute before your university exams begin.

It’s okay to not know the characters of sitcoms and dramas as intimately as you know the smell of your sweat. Both remind you of fresh flowers, both fade away. Pick whichever. Do remember, though, that your sweat is a part of you.

It’s okay to not litter your chats and contact list with hearts and ellipses and exclamation marks. There was a reason Beethoven wrote music fur elise, and not for ellipse. You and I are in on it, let the rest of the world be.

It’s okay to not care to socialise with the 60+6 students studying the same course as you, across years, across colleges. Yes, it would bring you contacts and recognition and potentially a gazillion people who could like your new status, but bringing yourself to things that make you happy is more important.

It’s okay to not talk about every cool thing you do. It really is.

It’s okay to not attend high school reunions if you decide you don’t feel like it. Facebook is still around to tell you who’s doing what, when, where and who.

It’s okay to not have a 1000 people on your friend list should you not care for the above information, because... well, just because.

A lot of things are okay to not do. Not because you’re in a position to pass judgement but simply because they don’t feel right to you. 

That makes it okay to draw up a list of what you don't care for. And lists, my friend, are what make blogs. Aye, it's still okay to not relate ;)

Your Statistic Is My Santa

An Ex-Army-brat About An Ex-Army-man

Papa served in the Indian Armed Forces. As a post-graduate student of AFMC, Pune and then an officer with the Army for 16 years, he is the reason I was once an Army brat.

My pre-school years were spent in and around the Army, predominantly in Ambala Cantt. I’m talking 1991 and thereon, when “pre-school” simply meant before school, not a bastardised version of Kindergarten. I was brought up amidst families of other servicemen, dignified Army mess workers and staff at cantonment hospitals, where Papa served as Gynaecologist.

In case you’re wondering what a Gynaec was doing in the Army – women serve in the Forces too. Male officers have families and wives who bear children. Doctors serve as part of the “fighting units” too, for a few compulsory years and also as backup forces. That’s what took Papa to Siachen and to the border by the Indus river. The former is how he knows everything about frostbitten, amputated limbs. The latter is how he has zoomed in photographs of Pakistan’s armymen holding rifles and looking out at the Indian camp from across the border.

As an Army brat, I’ve had my share of “top secret” bike rides from uniformed officers when Papa was busy elsewhere. I’ve had military hospitals’ nurses fawn over the awkward fountain ponytail he’d tie atop my head every morning when it was just the two of us.

I’ve been included in jokes about a rotund officer who was allegedly always forced to rest his huge belly on tabletops and I’ve had a very friendly Brigadier take me on a tour of defunct canons and rifles arranged in the cantonment garden.

I’ve been entertained by “Santa Claus” on the phone for precisely 15 minutes every night for a week I spent with Papa at the Alwar cantt; I’d share my Christmas wishlist with Santa and justify my requests with “But I’m shining Papa’s medals, buttons and buckles with Brasso, Santa!” We once discussed what was wrong with the porridge Papa cooked for me at breakfast and I never could tell how my bowl of porridge suddenly tasted better the next morning. I was 11 when I discovered my gift-bearing Santa lived down the corridor and was usually called Captain by others and “scary uncle” by me. You cannot begin to imagine how betrayed I felt.

This may evoke a smile for the child that I was and the memories I cherish. This may have you believe I’m boasting about the perks of being an army brat, particularly one pampered by a whole bunch of dapper Army personnel. This may have you believe that Army-folk and their work is overrated. “They even have the time to play with random officers’ kids at work, beat that!”

But I’ll tell you one thing – this is why my heart breaks every time I read of casualties in the Indian Army. I've had my internal debates about patriotism and nationalism and all of that, but amongst those casualties could be people I have known, people who have given me some of my best memories. Perhaps this is why I cry like a baby when Border plays on television twice a year and this is why I’d wake up with nightmares as an 8 year old who kept hearing about an ugly Kargil War in the news.

As I write today, it amazes me that I’ve never brought this up before. Perhaps that’s because I no longer see him as Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma. Somewhere, I no longer see him as Papa. Today, he’s Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma (Retd.), a practising Professor. Today, he’s Dad. And that is my loss as much as his. 

One Must Because One Musn't

There's a lot a girl can do for a Special Occasion. Be girly and wear expensive perfume, carry a new clutch, pile on the makeup, do up her conditioned hair. If she's thoughtful she might carry a gift. If she's nerdy she might read up a little. If she's skeptic she might net-stalk attendees all the way back to their highschool farewells and if she's psycho she might do all of this and more. But what she apparently must not do, is wear her Special Occasion Shirt every single time. Boo.

Mine is oversized, deep blue and round necked with sleeves that begin 4 inches along my upper arm, as if they were an afterthought. It would probably look more at home on my father.. maybe it was his to begin with. But the front says something about Canadian skateboarding, that would probably not make him feel at home.

It looks purple when held against blue jeans, which means I resemble a giant brinjal on kiddie crutches at least once a week. It makes me want to hug myself, which is awkward but brilliant. 


"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt."

Meanings & Implications

My first distinct memory of a Special Occasion in that shirt is from late 2009. I had just turned 18. Ooh adult. I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped 18th birthday. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it."

Come on, it's MY day, right? Right. Net result, the friends were far more dressed up than me at the birthday treat. They actually showed up all colour coordinated as per plan - their secret plan. Shirt 1, Societal Norms 0.


Then there was the first of many kindamaybe dates. Better explained as "Yeah so maybe some people would call this a date, but what does a date mean? What does it imply? Are we dating dating?" You've had those too, right? Oh shut up, you have.

Anyhow, then too I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped first date. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it." The date was awesome. Shirt 2, Societal Norms 0.


There have been family outings, class presentations and fancy dinners since then. Hospital visits, blood tests and lazy 48-hour days spent rolling around at home. Awesome dates with now-resolved* status. Brinjal shirt hung around. It's loose but hell yeah, we're tight.
 
So much wisdom to be found in school essay intro patterns - 
"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt".


*It means we spend happy time together doing whatever we feel like at that time. It implies this happy time is fun time and "we should totally do this again". And yes, we were dating dating. The horror. Of course, it is imperative that all of this is non-platonic, at least in our minds, if not always in action. We shall discuss what "non-platonic" means and implies later, next class. Oh and see me after class.

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

Ain't No Sunshine

I want to write. Pen and paper, oldschool through and through. Okay, not quite. I'd be using a ball pen on a book that's tucked away deep inside my closet, that's hardly oldschool. Perhaps the smooth paper encased in hardback makes up for that oversight. I'd like that.

I haven't written for the pleasure of writing in far too long. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a traitor to the practice. The pen and paper routine usually happened when I wanted to vent furiously about things I chose not to discuss with another. Unhealthy? Possibly. And yet that curiously elegant way of bottling things up made me happy. More than I realized at the time. Damn right hindsight is a beautiful thing.

Today, even as I have someone to talk to about absolutely everything under the sun, the issue is not that I have nothing to vent about. Or even something to get all excited about. Hardly that. Having a sounding board does not mean you run out of noise to transmit. But the motions of putting a pen to fresh, lined paper that smelt the way only refined stationery can, of sliding the nib across the faded, dated page to form words that held the promise of release, of not knowing what the next line would be but knowing I needed to see it on paper, of having muddled thoughts sort themselves into distinct, expressible words as I read what I'd just written.. it was all just so cathartic. 

I miss that simple joy. I yearn for it. I think I've lost it.

Year 10 and 40! And Day 1.

So The Flintstones are almost as old as my father. Ow. Killer start.

Bright side - they completed 50 years of being aired yesterday which means those of you whose parents and grandparents were cool enough to have a gay ol' time with The Flintstones in addition to being TV-ownings seths before obnoxious little(?) you came in have no business complaining about communication gaps. Same stuff, ha! Bright side for people who think you're still obnoxious, of course.

Wait, not many would fit in there. In the cool+seth category, not obnoxious-considerers. Okay, chuck. The Google Photus ref still makes me happy. 


And don't be surprised to see odes and obituaries someplace on the Internet, The Flintstones were the 46th most popular search topic on Google at 5 in the bloody morning yesterday. Time zones are evil, yessir. Obituaries for the writer's childhood and "days of believing in  make believe" *eye roll*, not for Fred and Wilma.


I miss The Addams Family. Won't deny they creeped me out at the beginning. If only they were the Addamses with a single D. Addams makes them sound like a very South Indian concotion. Why South Indian? I can totally picture Rita --a house help (Maid servant? Naah.. didi? Yep!) at our place when I was around 10, she was from Belgaum-- say it like that. Add-dums. But then she also insisted "Okay" was a Kannada word because everyone in her village said it all the time. The arguments we used to have... I digress. Addamses? Addams? Dimsums. 

Oh and those Sunday all Hannah-Barbara cartoons inclusive races they used to hold every uh, Sunday. Anyone?



In other news, Pranav's blog led me to this, which in turn led me to vv . Er, that's a down-two-paragraphs arrow. Never mind. 

Something tells me I'll be linking there and borrowing plenty. =)

Which is why we're patrons of The Flintstones and not Sleeping Beauty. Wisdom again.

17.9

This is the most I’ve ever shared of myself on a public forum. I’m putting it up after considerable internal debate. I wrote this when caught between what I have lost and what I don’t want. I don’t know how many who know me will be able to relate it to me but that doesn’t matter. There’s a lot more to it all but I choose to keep it off this space.

17.9

You enter my room

Woeful and lost

To say you’ll be back

In an hour,

But the look on your face

Says clearly to me

That you intend to remain

For more.

You begin to talk

Of nominees and banks

I know you’ve been harassed

By his calls;

You make small talk

About colleagues long gone

And your medicines

And errands of yore.

You tell me it’s hard

With no one for help

You tell me it’s tough

To cope,

To manage alone

To not rely

For in this new place

Ground and comfort lay afar.

I see the silent plea

In your rheumy eyes

I see you beg me

To get involved,

To hold you

As I would hold him

To care for, to love

To respect and to adore.

But don’t you see

I can’t do it

Not for you,

I can’t;

Despite knowing

How you need me

And how much it takes

To ask.

It’s too soon for me

The loss is still fresh

It hurts

And that never must show;

But why don’t you realize

Though I would never say it

His place

Will never be yours.

I’m struggling to cope

Though I hide it well

I’m trying so hard

To stay strong,

But every time I enter

His empty room

Or see his silly netbook

The tears still fall.

The Gods In The Himalayas Received Live Feed!

As a kid I had this firm belief that all we do throughout our lives is in accordance with a definite script. That every single person has a sharp, unconscious, built-in and regularly updated awareness of their role and that the very purpose of one’s existence was to act it all out to the satisfaction and amusement of immediate superiors. By ‘superiors’ I mean people with higher authority – then, that meant parents. And at every level, superiors decided the basic outline of the script their charges would enact. 

The way I saw it, we were all theatre artists. So just like we could go to Vishnudas Bhave Natyagraha, NCPA and Prithvi Theatre to watch people enact certain stories, I figured our superiors were watching us too. Big Boss style, absolutely. 


So you had kids who were their parents’ puppets and so on until you exhausted living familial hierarchy; then came some mid level authority that I never thought about; and at the very top of that controlling pyramid sat The Gods. Oh yes, I was a believer back then, Dadi took care of that… I have fond memories of those times. No, don’t try it now. 


Getting back to my story – which I believe you’re still somewhat interested in since you’re still reading – I used to visualize usually homogeneous pairs of Gods and Goddesses in stereotypical God/Goddess garb [flowing black hair (white for Brahma), loads of skin show, glitzy blingy ornaments, silky satiny rhinestone-studded clothes...] sitting on separate sofas that flanked a coffee table loaded with grub (they always always always had peanuts), laughing at the antics of us mortals as giant spools of real time footings played on giant Videocon Bazooka screens. Laughing good naturedly, indulgently, never mockingly, but laughing nonetheless. Real time? Dunno how they did it.

Even then, I could see how it was funny… I mean c’mon, you have all these humans falling over themselves to be promoted just some more, wanting to be in a position that allows them to decide the actions of so many others around them. By the time a global drama inclusive of all levels was actually put together, it was probably a holy comedy of errors. Pun, haha, pun. 


I always wondered if tapes of the part I was enacting were important enough to be viewed by the Gods themselves or if they only reached the city-level authority for perfunctory checks and were then tossed aside. Never did quite manage to figure that out. Nor did I work out how the tapes reached the gods (Bluetooth ka baap?) or how scripts were communicated to us actors – we just knew what to do and went about doing what we had to, unaware of this twisted manipulation. Mind you, we experienced joy, frustration, ecstasy, sorrow, anger, embarrassment and just about every regular emotion you can think of while we were at it. 


Doodlebug, a short film by Christopher Nolan and crew, was what brought this eerily vivid piece of imagination to the surface.

And just in case the idea of Hindu gods living on Indian land and ruling/governing/ manipulating/spying on the entire world offends you, my 5 yr old self apologizes. That was what I knew, okay?


PS – Please don’t start working out why my mind functions the way it does/ the way it always has. You might be tempted to suggest I take up Management, seeing how I had pyramidal admin structures, checks and controls, authority and regulation all worked out at the age of 5. Don't. You might be tempted to probe tomes on Psychology and comment on my concept of the unconscious or reveal that it has to do with a repressed desire to control / act / manipulate / tell stories / eat peanuts. Speculate all you want, just don’t tell me. The way I bombed my Psychology end sem, I don’t think I’ll welcome anything connecting me and the subject for a long long time to come.

Swallow And Sleep

“Abhishek and Aishwarya didn’t get each other just like that... they had to struggle and become famous before they got noticed. Everybody wants to get noticed, no? Change. IMPROVE! That’s how you will find a nice, rich husband.”

And that, dear reader, was my “well-wisher’s friendly advice”. A co-baarati, co-non-dancer, total stranger and, lest I forget, my well-wisher. Sozzled well-wisher, if you ask me but then again, everyone there appeared unsteady and smelt the same to me. No, I wasn’t the one sozzled. Though when at a Punjabi wedding, you can never be too sure of that.

So. I ought to sign up for Bhangra classes. Be enthusiastic about a bit of sporadic wiggle waggle with a bunch of other pretend-revelers. Shriek intermittently since that’s part of the job profile. Set an example, particularly because I have a kid sister to inspire. And “even the slowest gazelle must run faster than the fastest lion”. There. I just condensed 20 minutes of counsel into 5 sentences. Should head to that twitter-tweet place.

For whatever my take is worth, I’ll have the ringside view when it comes to that particular circus any day. Just watching people can be so entertaining. Particularly when they’re weighed down with bling but are obliged to look, feel and sound Punjabi festive. Loud festive. And frankly, some cute guy’s wedding is most definitely no reason to spaz on the street.

It disturbs me that I might actually be related to a man who offers random girls tips on how to grow claws and sink them nice and deep into the next unsuspecting rich brat of a guy until they’ve drawn enough blood to repaint the Red Fort. Anually.

And therefore, to quote a pal, “Swallow and sleep”.

Euphoria

:) yeh kya tha?

Did, but why suddenly? You under the notion that I don't often enough?

And why should I? *inserts update* Maybe I should.

:) Why am I doing that again??

I needed that *hug* :)

:) & :) & :) & :) & :) So when do we see you?

Aww be awesomely random just like that!!

I just did! :-) Now tell me why I did!

In response to :

Smile. Just like that :)

20-odd characters texted to 20-odd randomly picked friends on a giddy Thursday evening. It was one of those things you do just because. For the random happiness quotient involved, reason be damned. And because the world is a splendid place, in came a solid flurry of responses! Some aww/giggle-inducing replies have been left out, find your own =)

So go ahead, give out random smiles, hug the ones you care about without waiting for a 'specific, valid reason' to come by; tell people you love them, appreciate them, spend time together; grin at all the things you want to, laugh out loud anytime it seems like a good idea to, do something nice simply because you can, do things you love simply because you can! Let the giddiness out, be a kid when you want to be, get that euphoria flowing!!

Afterthought – This does not mean you take on new family members on Facebook every other week and annoy me with notifications =P

Along similar lines, I bring you this. 
The guy in this video, Vinit Mehta, is part of KC BMM. Awesomeness upped some, eh? =) 

The New Face Of Heroin

With great ideas, comes great procrastination. And with great joblessness, comes great desperation. So I’m not Spiderman’s script writer, sue me. But when all of these combine and manifest in me, what you get is an online advertisement for a job. And apparently, what those get you are responses.

March ‘09, right after the 12^th boards. Mostly an experiment to learn about the job scene for someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a prospective baarvi paas, this was how I gained firsthand experience of what HSBC’s been talking about.

Responses –

Mr. Hotjapan - “You have a wonderful photo, congrats!!”

I think “pornstar pimp” and cringe every time I think Hot Japan. Wonderful photos are more like lucky light effects with lucky genetic mixup. And this year’s IV to Kerala is making me rethink the realistic frequency of that lucky combine.

Some demanded “all ur details”, someone promoted his NGO, one suggested I become an engineer and yet another provided tantric help. He offered “free astrological consultancy, complete problem solution, tantra and pooja so call now.” For free! He even called himself Dev. For those of you who lead equally sad lives and have watched films like What’s Your Rashee? -  this Dev guy reminds me of the seductive Sagittarian’s character. I stand scarred. I also happen to be a Sagittarian. Job seekers definitely have problems.

However, the source of the post title –

Hai,

This is satish kumar mv, from Hyderabad. I am going to plan out a telugu film. I am looking for new faces for heroin and character artists, this film is released in three main languages. If you have interest, hard work, dedications are your qualities. Then you can be part of my team. My profile -I got an international award in 2008 Gandhi panorama international film festival, and I am right now direction a feature film,

Please contact me with your full details, if you are interest to be a part of film

Satish kumar mv

I let go of a chance to become a Telugu actress! I could've become the new face of heroin. Hai.

Dear Lethargy, RIP.

Dear Lethargy,

We've been friends for close to two decades now. And what a friend! What decades! What a combination, goddamn it! My mind's tear glossed eyes see replays of the times we walked hand in hand, strolling through the park and picking berries. Okay, so that was a lie. The berries never did quite make a show. You never even moved off your lazy behind, goddamn it! As for the tears… Still. The innocence. The heartfelt disregard for the rats that raced. Excuse me while I mop up this teary mess...

Remember the times when deadlines flew by and all we cared for was to hear a resounding "whoosh!" and see the back of them? When Monday came and Sunday went but everything, from bread to bath water remained unchanged? When the family was forced to watch B grade movies at theatres because the other booking counters were too far away? When the bed first developed persistent depressions and consequent lumps?  When the birds overdid the mango tree loot because we chose to be generous and laidback? And lethargic, heehee. Sorry.

Some would call us 'chaddi buddies', some 'langotiya yaars' and some... the thesaurus is restricted to English, I apologize. Essence being, you've been as faithful a companion as I could ever have wished for. Not once have I felt the slightest trace of treachery or abandonment. You were loyal. You were there. True blue Liverpool style. True red. Meh.

But now... but now! But NOW!!

Okay, cut. So I don’t have it in me to script filmy dramas. Chances are I wouldn’t be able to execute the mandatory triple-take followed by “Magar aur nahi... main yeh zulm, yeh bojh, yeh nainsaafi bardaasht nahi kar sakti!" either. System overload is for real.

Here’s to a new beginning. A beginning with great focus on recycling, mind you. I write today in the hope that more readable posts will follow.

Lethargy, you sucker, take that ^ !