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)

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..

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

Deja Vu (though am not very fond of the word)

It freaks me out when certain films seem like my life playing out on screen. Does that happen to you?
And it's weird because I have seen 'Suburban Girl' before and never thought about it that way, until it ended the way a certain episode in my life did. 
So Brett (an associate editor at a NY publishing house) falls madly in love with much older, much successful Archie (Baldwin being his usual charming self) and figures out how wrong the whole affair turned for her. 
Also the film features one of my favourite songs, 
"Here's the day you hoped would never come
Don’t feed me violence, just run with me
Through rows of speeding cars
The paper cuts, the cheating lovers
The coffee’s never strong enough
I know you think it’s more than just bad luck

There, there, baby
It’s just text book stuff
It’s in the ABC of growing up
Now, now, darlin’
Oh don’t lose your head
'Cause none of us were angels
And you know I love you, yeah"

I remember saying this to my friends once, " I know, it's nuts, but when I'm with him I feel like a better version of myself... You know? Funnier, smarter, sexier."
Of course the film did not end all that happy but most importantly like Brett says, "Because you like to run away. It's part of who you are". 

Off load

A really big and important part of me decided to part ways with me. It wasn't sudden. I saw it coming since the day it became a part of me.


I've been such a fool.

Six hours in Shillong

Shillong happened just like that. On an evening when I was supposed to be in Delhi, on a whim I decided to first go to Guwahati and then to Shillong. I took the first flight out and with just two days in hand head out to a place I had only heard of or read about.


I planned to travel with a Maharashtrian family who were staying in the same hotel as I and we shared a cab together right upto Shillong. I had six hours, a bunch of strange people for company and whole lot to see. It wasn’t exactly an ideal situation but I wanted to make the most of all that I had. Though the initial plan was to travel to Tinsukhia, but my Daddy rubbished all demands within minutes of putting it forward and I settled for Shillong.

The drive from Guwahati to Shillong was laced with more than just potholes. What caught my fancy were tribal women selling neatly cut pineapple and jackfruit all along the highway. Not to forget the spicy bamboo pickle, I think it is the only pickle that I’d ever like to have considering I hate pickles. The weather was gloomy, the mountains green and people friendly. I read somewhere that the only places one can locate any culture is in its people and their behaviour.


It was a perfect milieu of bonhomie and a whole lotta love. Now there is something more to this story which may also be the reason for me smiling ear to ear throughout the drive. It was so overwhelming that I could even get through the pain of travelling with a bunch of people who knew nothing about the place or its people; they were just there to spend money and boast of a vacation to a far off land.


As I neared Shillong I saw why my friends gushed about Shillong so very often. There were tiny houses, pretty girls in their best and little boys with pink cheeks waving at every passing car. Group of teenage boys strumming Californication on their guitars and all of it happened in perfect rhythm. Music was everywhere, to the extent that I paused  my iPod and within seconds put it off. I wanted to hear the sounds of Shillong and sink into the sights of the city. As instructed by a friend I headed straight to City Hut for a nice meal and strolled around the Police Bazaar locating places I had only heard of before.

                                    
Next pit stop was the View Point. The winding roads up to the point had by now drenched in rains and very little was seen of the Military area around it. As I stepped out of my car, I sudden spell of cold gripped all of me. It was too much of a change from the warmness of the city to the chills of the mountains. I saw all of Shillong washed in bright sunshine from where I was.


Like this very piece my trip was half done too. I couldn’t see more than half of the places I wanted to. Couldn’t listen to all the beautiful music I wanted to, couldn’t meet all the people I wanted to yet. Yet I loved every bit of whatever little I saw. So a next one should be planned soon. Till then, a little tip for all travellers: Never travel with ignorant fools, trust me no matter how smart you are, they will make you feel like a fool as well. I wish I had known. 

Neon Nights

Disclaimer: Do not try this under any circumstance. It is seriously injurious to your health and modesty!


I hopped out of my auto. It was still few minutes to dark, the vendors were screaming louder to sell all that they had to so they could return home with cheap liquor and some peanuts. I peeped into the little scrap of paper I was clutching in my hand trying to locate the address I scribbled in hurry. Unable to find it, I sought for some local help. The man muttered something to another autowallah and in a few minutes and few blocks away he stopped.


I admit I was woozy after the long flight from Bombay and was quite disoriented and in that state did not bother to enquire where I was being taken, I was just happy to know I was going somewhere. I got down again and as a practice tried to look for some clues below the signboards. I read P-A-H-A-R-G-A-N-J. It sounded familiar at first and without too much thinking I paid the driver and started walking to find a place to stay for the night.


Cheap and affordable was written all over the place but what wasn’t is all that i figured in that one night. I quickly checked into a hotel called Chanchal. I know the name sounds funny but it was the only place which was affordable and I saw many foreigners getting in so I thought it would be clean as well. After the ritual I left to look for some place to eat. It was 9.30 and it looked as if the city had begun to snooze already. I hand cycled my way to Connaught Place and spotted Moti Mahal. I grinned like a glutton and quickly settled for a nice meal of Biryani, Saag and Raita.


By 11 p.m. I retreated but Delhi being Delhi I couldn’t find a ride to the hotel for a long time. Having nothing to do, I thought of walking down as it wouldn’t be more than a 20 minute walk. I reached Paharganj and it looked as an entirely different place. In two hours it turned into something I wouldn’t have chosen to stay in. There were men of all sizes and shapes looking at me lustily. I increased my pace and they hankered after me. I heard comment flying from all direction and hitting me like arrows of filth and disgust. I cursed the man who murmured into the ears of my autowallah, I cursed the relative whose address I couldn’t find and cursed the night.

I sensed the red neon signboards screaming at me as though I had entered a place I shouldn’t have. This was Paharganj for you. I swear those five minutes on the streets of Paharganj left me feeling not just raped but exhaustingly overpowering. The gaze, the stench of sick craving and above all the neon lights reduced me to a piece of meat.

I pranced my way quickly and reached my room huffing and thanking God for all that did not happen but could have. Many must have got lucky that night and I was just lucky to not.

Popistic Paris

Inspired by: Andy Warhol and his popism

Food for thought if not your conscience...

Will cynics ever make good journalists? In a school where every student should be taught about truth, values and ethics are instead made to give in to the system. Instead of teaching them to stand for themselves, the so called educators are making cowards out of these poor pupils. By either threatening them of losing a chance to make a good career or by making futile promises they are trying to gag their mouths.

We are living in such vulnerable times.

Special one

Some incidents teach you rather big lessons in life. I have learnt one today, it doesn’t matter how many read what you write, how many understand and how many acknowledge. When what you write touches one heart, it matters. When what you write makes a difference to a life, it matters. When what you write brings a smile on someone’s face, it matters. These are the people who matter and when they read, its more than enough. This one was for you Bani.



Wishing you oodles of much deserved love.

Books = BFFs? or not BFFs?

Yesterday I was shopping for a few books at Landmark

Observation 1: Pune Landmark is nothing compared to the Bombay one (Infinity mall, Andheri)

Observation 2: Teenagers in Pune are obsessed with Linkin Park, that wasn’t a surprise

Observation 3: Most kids flocked the Xbox and PS3 corner in the bookstore, whereas the classics section, children’s books section were mostly empty or had parents dallying around to find something for their kids who were at the gaming section.

I remember reading Heidi, Bambi or even the Tales of the Huckleberry Finn (that was my favourite as a kid). Like all good girls I read fairytales every night, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, I dreamt about the seven dwarfs and me playing snow white. I even owned pretty shoes like Cinderella. Then I slowly moved on to Oliver Twist, Sherlock Holmes and then there was a brief period of Mills and Boons owing to my age and hormones. And all this while the classics never died. May it be Jane Austen or Jonathan Swift and even Shakespeare- I had a habit of reading aloud Shakespeare, especially Merchant of Venice. That was me when the only video games we played were the ones that came in a big box, cousins or daddy would lug along from foreign land. Mario and Luigi it was.

Today, most kids own PS3s or PSPs or what not. What are they reading anyways? Ummm nothing really. It is either J.K. Rowling’s world that takes them far away from reality or it is Paulo Coelho, yes kids are reading that too, talk about growing up a bit too fast. May be the next disability would be inability to read. Thus I do not support e-books or even audio books or anything that takes one away from the joys of holding a book and reading it.

I love the way books smell. The old ones have a peculiar musky smell, whereas the new ones to me are like hot muffins-fresh and yum. This is what I thought as I waited for the staff to hunt for the book I wanted.


(P.S :- I bought Peter Ackroyd’s selected essays)


(P.S. 2:- I have become a pro at typing in the dark)

Some really old ones

I had to dig through two box full of pictures to find my favourites. Putting some of them here. These are of people I love a lot.



My Dad, my hero


My mum, my best friend, my confidant and the most beautiful woman I know
I don't mention her to many people, because when it comes to her am always short of words.
She is the best thing to have happened to me and I love her a lot

My grandparents (Thatha and Paati)
I have heard stories about him from her, about how brave he was during the wars, about how they survived in Kashmir for years, about how every journey with him was an adventure for her.
My grandma, is from a royal family, but she chose to marry grandpa and live a humble life. She taught kids in school, raised five children and put up with my grandpa's annoying habits. She is a brave woman and even today lives a happy satisfied life. Even if I achieve half of what she has in her life, I would consider it big. Paati, I love you a lot and can't wait to get you home...:)

A drunk ode

  

   Dear Beer,

  when I have you near,

  I have no fear 

  Everything is not so clear       

  yet i wanna cheer

(Photo courtesy: Denny L. Laloo)

And the post below led to this...

How do you keep the music playing?
How do you make it last?
How do you keep the song from fading too fast?
How do you lose yourself to someone?
And never lose your ways
How do you not run out of new things to say?
And since we're always changing
How can it be the same?
And tell me how, year after year
You're sure your heart will fall apart
Each time you hear his name
I know the way i feel for you. it's now or never
The more i love, the more that i'm afraid
That in your eyes i may not see forever, forever
If we can be the best of lovers
Yet be the best of friends
If we can try with everyday to make it better as it grows
With any luck, then i suppose, the music never ends
I know the way i feel for you it's now or never!
(how do you keep the music playing?)
The more i love. the more that i'm afraid
(how do you make it last)
That in your eyes i may not see forever, forever
(how do you keep the song from fading, keep the song from fading too fast)
If we can be the best of lovers
Yet be the best of friends
If we can try with everyday to make it better as it grows
With any luck. then i suppose the music never ends

- James Ingram

Radio killed the video star

When 50 girls are fighting over one remote control. When even the wonders of youtube become boring. When all the films on your hard drive have been watched by you a million times, you are even condition to emote by just listening to the sounds (Too much of Pavlov off late).


Comes to my rescue Myopusradio


Though I always keep hoping for faster internet speed. And I am a satisfied girl




R.I.P Gina . You will always be remembered

Loss

Rhythm and music, sounds and sights have always dominated my growing up years. I was put in a music school when I was barely three, I would literally go there every day only to sleep, because every song would be like a lullaby to me. Grandma is a Carnatic classical vocalist. Even at 82 she has a voice that could send you in a deep trance. My mom is a walking talking juke box; forget dad he cannot sing, the reason why I hated nursery rhymes. (I could recite rhymes when I was one and a half year old ;))
In spite of starting my training that early I haven’t been able to learn all that I was supposed to. Blame it on my laidback attitude and lack of patience to learn the craft. Granma thought I could be a good singer, but I never gave myself a chance and it’s turned into a big repentance today.
My fate with classical dance form ended the same way. After spending 11 years matching my steps to the beats, I had to quit mid-way. Even today when I see someone perform on stage, tears roll down my eyes. It reminds me of my failure and how I would never wear that beautiful Saree and the gracious ornaments, how I would never have my palms smeared with Alta and tie those Ghungroos... or wait. May be its still not too late!

YOU

I THINK I MISS YOU A LOT..COME BACK WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT

Revisited Williams, revisited Her

Its silly, you seek things that are so far away and in the grind forget to appreciate whats closer to you- Me



I heard Don Williams after ages today,i cursed myself for not doing so often. Though I have always been a bigger fan of Kenny Rogers, my music teacher had all his hits, that ultimate something CD I once found in her treasure trove.

I miss her a lot. She would sing on all my birthdays, songs she thought I would like.She wasn't as much a teacher but more of a friend. She knew all my moods, she knew which Raaga would liven me, Malkauns it is!She knew how her besan laddooa were my all time favourite feel good food.

She knew all the guys I had a crush on, she knew how much I hated the sight of Bruno being sick. I remember our numerous trip to the vet with him, her cooking lessons and most importantly her smiling face...

Black and white memories in colour

“She is a dark baby, but looks like a beautiful angel to me”, were his words in a letter written to my aunt. I lost him when I was three. It was a scary evening, but all I remember of that incident is my grandmother’s silent tears on our terrace. It’s strange my mother says, in spite of the fact that I was pretty much on the non impressionable side of my memory, I have vivid visuals of our times together. I remember his bottle of Old Monk, I remember him taking me to a nearby Tapri and smoking his lungs out, often under the pretext of walking me to the park, which never happened. I remember him lying on the armchair, with at least four books by his side. His collections of readers digest, now passed on to me just like other books he loved keeping. I still have the glasses he used to read with.
Him humming old classics while holding me in his arms. He used to call me a scarecrow, considering I was a puny baby, though no one can say that about me now. I remember how he used to stay up nights whenever I lay sick. I have heard many a stories about him, both good and bad. He was a handsome army man with a tinge of humor and oodles of intelligence. He was quite a ladies man grandma used to say. Though short-lived am glad I had him. He inspires me to be brave, to stand my ground, to be who I am without any fears. I love you a lot Tatha and will always miss you.

Karma scare

I am scared this time
Will I get back what I did to you?
Your tiny heart with a sewn hole
and your eyes piercing me through your glasses.
I can take it no more.
Do not curse, do not wish ill..
You know I did us good!

Its unfair I always knew,
but not worth a single drop of tear from my eye
I am returning back from my guilt trip
to colours and flowers, to the sun and the moon.