Momentary lapse

So another year has ended and a new one has begun. This transition, in my opinion, should last longer. I often wish there were some way to probably create a stopover, or an interval or some kind of a time lag before things start moving again. I would like to take a moment to think, to analyze how to make the next year better and not to make same mistakes again.

Each year, when people are kissing the air and wishing each other good luck for new year, I am left wishing what if the clock stops ticking right when it strikes midnight.
I wish to take a breath, I wish to sit down on a bench in a quiet park, I wish to soak in the moment before moving on. This is never going to happen.
 I always feel I am being rushed into something, and that feeling just spoils the fun for me. Almost always.

Oh Dilli!

It is exactly 7 pm in India and 8.30 am in the U.S.

Just a regular day at work for me, the same buzz, the same chatter that builds up to the time when markets open.

But my head is buzzing with a very different kind of a sound. It is  faint, far away and a little distant. It’s the sound of Delhi’s gaffar market, where I spent many afternoons looking for an old broken walkman to write an obituary on.

The sights and smell of Chandni Chowk and the steps that lead up to the Jama Masjid, whose tombs have seen me climb up and down, brushing against a hundred people and exchanging that awkward look and a sheepish smile.

Bangalore is getting colder by the night. And all I can think of is cold winters in Delhi. Walking around lodhi, stopping for a quick peg at Lodhi Garden Restaurant and then  to Khan Chacha for a roll.

(All images from Google, please don't sue me)

The big 23

Just the other day I was reading a post by a fellow blogger on turning 30 and how she cried almost every day thinking about it. Suddenly it dawned on me, I was turning 23 in a few days,  precisely in less than two days.

23 is no way a milestone, but it in fact is a constant reminder that you are inching towards one, hiding in 25. You are now moving closer to having all the symptoms of what they call- a quarter life crisis?  Plus I prefer even number to odd ones..I am sure I will enjoy my 24th, 26, 28th but not the 23rd, 25th and 29th etc etc.

When you are 23 the least expected out of you is to have found a boy to spend the rest of your life with. But in my case, that certainly doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon. The next is to have a stable career, which I do now..to have friends to get drunk with, which I do...to have a car, umm ok lets not get there.. The point is, by this time people expect you to have figured it all out. But guess what, I still haven't. And it is ok, because life is more than just crossing milestones, it is about the journey itself.

And the only song I can think of to sum up this feeling is 'Moving on' by Soulmate.

(More will follow on how the day went)

Follow up

There has to be some amount of balance in life. Thus it is unfair to write about backstabbers and ignore the back-watchers. Thankfully, I have been blessed with many. *touches wood*

They yell at me when they should, but hug me the moment they know I need it. They kick me out of my bed on gloomy days and bring me soup and tuck me in on one of those blaah days.

They will call, text, mail or leave an offline message and some times take a flight and land at my doorstep.

They are people I call friends and I am glad I have them watching my back :)

Thank you guys, you know who you all are!

(P.S.- :*) 

My sincere wish for you, rot in hell! You backstabbing little bimbette!

I know you keep a track of my life and my activities through my blog, especially now that I have completely thrown you out.

This ones for you:

Read the title of the post again.

I don't even need to justify why I would wish something like that for you, after what you did to me and my best friend under the pretext of being one of us. You and your rotten little chihuahua-faced homo-boyfriend with a small dick can both go die. [small dick because he could never say things up front and ranted about it elsewhere and secondly because you seem pretty frustrated, get a hint ;)]

See how life turns out for us eh? Last I heard about you was you were begging around for a job/or sleeping around for one, whichever suits you.

I may be a pseudo intellectual but I am definitely not a bitch like you. I have many better accomplishments to boast of, the only thing you seem to be good at is making life miserable for others.
And maybe this pseudo-intellectualness got me where I am..certainly at a better place than you, asswipe! (see am not good at this, don't have a natural talent for insulting people like you do. I, on the other hand had to google some cuss words just so I can use them in this post)

And talking about not having real friends..I have enough who warned me about you and am glad I listened to them.

Really feel sorry for you, your existence is just a waste of space.

Good luck with your shitty life..

Waiting for the cab to come

Too many good souls lost

I had a horrible dream last night. One that involved my macbook and some unidentified liquid. I woke up in a sweat. I hugged my macbook tightly and went back to sleep.

I haven't had a proper mourning after Jobs' death. Its yet to sink it. To make it worse is the pendulum stance media keeps taking. When he died they hailed him as a hero, as a savior of mankind. And a few days into it, he turned into a recluse monster. Oh cmon!

I for one, respect Steve Jobs immensely, and have no problems with the fact that he never did any charity or was hard on his employees. How else do you think he built the empire that he did?

I hope this blog post gives me some kind of closure.

Rest In Peace!

(P.S.: Too many great souls have gone to heaven this year, Amy Winehouse, Steve Jobs, Jagjit Singh, Gautam Rajadhakshya, Mansoon Ali Khan Pataudi.  Not fair!)

In Paris with you- James Fenton

Just the other day I read this  poem again, may be for the millionth time. And still it charms me the same way it did, the first time I read it.

 In Paris with You

 Don’t talk to me of love.  I’ve had an earful
 And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
 I’m one of your talking wounded.
 I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
 But I’m in Paris with you.

 Yes, I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
 And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
 I admit I’m on the rebound
 And I don’t care where are we bound.
 I’m in Paris with you.

 Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
 If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame
 If we skip the champs Elysees
 And remain here in this sleazy
 Old hotel room
 Doing this or that
 To what and whom
 Learning who you are,
 Learning what I am.

 Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
 The little bit of Paris in our view.
 There’s that crack across the ceiling
 And the hotel walls are peeling
 And I’m in Paris with you.

 Don’t talk to me of love.  Let’s talk of Paris.
 I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
 I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
 I’m in Paris with…..all points south.
 Am I embarrassing you?
 I’m in Paris with you.

-- James Fenton