Come as you are
As you were
As I’ve known you to be…

I was listening to it numbly and then it made sense and then I wrote…

The youngest of boys are my best buddies. And the fanatic zeal about the upcoming Durga Pooja means I get to meet my 2-4-6-8 year old buddies every weekend on account of the eating-meetings that go on. `One of them is particularly special - an eight year old almost visibly grappling with his parents’ abrupt untidy divorce. I’m not judging the parents; I know them to be nice people but watching this child breaks you for those few hours. A few years back he was one of those kids who’d just walk onto the stage while a speech was on, buy as many balloons as the people around were willing to give him and talked incessantly. The toning down that has happened in him is immense. The custody settlements allow him to come over just on alternate weekends and even among forty people he was so popular with then, he seems so unsure of everything. Unsure because of many reasons I guess. Kids know when they’re being talked about, kids know when people pat them out of love or otherwise, kids just know. Since I often feel equally out of place at these gatherings for reasons of my own, we’ve reasons to bond. Those reasons also include making crazy rhymes, drawing crazy figures on the computer and talking about his crazy girl benchmate in class who is “not nice” because “she’s a girl and she brings idlis for lunch – everyday!.” Hehe.

Why I was writing about him is hard to figure out for me even. So, it’s my birthday. When I was a baby I’m sure I wondered what the extra fuss was about on my birthdays. Till around four, I always slept with the firmest possible grip on my mum’s hair-like everything else was uncertain. I remember being unsure of whether the yelling I got at the end of my eight birthday was a part of the ritual. It wasn’t. I remember being so sure that the mike will crash on me or I will stumble on my tenth birthday when all I’d do was say thank you onstage. Nothing like that happened. I remember worrying if all the toffees will get over before I managed to offer them to everyone (despite knowing I’d lots extra) in seventh grade.They didn't. I remember worrying if my friends will turn up for my birthday treat in ninth. They did. I remember sensing that the people around me weren’t really around me on a later birthday. Maybe these were normal concerns at the respective stages or maybe I am a nervous person. I rarely am at ease completely. But this night, good or bad, right or wrong, I see myself less prone to evaluate myself in terms of what people around me say or do. Attachment, entrapment, co-dependence - all get quite ugly beyond a point. I no longer look for people to fill the space. I build the space and gaze at what’s around.

And to what, rather to those who are around, I feel like saying thank you.

I’d been pretty uncertain about my writing for a good while till people came up and told me consistently that they felt that I could write stuff that could be read. I needed it immensely at that point and since what I do with words is a vital part of my well-being, Ramya, Vinod and HP, you guys make me very happy:)

To Pooja, Archana and Sneha for all the showtime that Sho gets. I love the attention:P

To the seven friends who turned up on that birthday treat and still would (no treats happening though). Varun will get one just for spreading the laughs:) And Vivek and Jassi can accost some first grade kid on his birthday for toffees:P:)

To my sister, who’s been burning with her “secret” birthday present for me. She’s practically told me everything about it. And my Dad, who’s willing to take me to the Moon if there were good restaurants there. What a pity that his daughter asks only for dosas and apple juice. And my Gran; she’s also “secretly” making kheer for me when I know she does this every single year. It’s not sweet because of the sugar:)

To my Mum, for transmitting some of herself to me in the genes…if it’s showing by the time I’m twenty, things will only get better.

To Atto, who’s currently getting bugged and giving me the why-can’t-you-shut-the-damn-thing-down-and-sleep-bum looks. I’m as human as he can make me want to be:)

To my three first second third cousin(s), for the pink cards I get every year. Maybe they look for girlie-sisterly-pamperly cards for me:)

To Neeraj, for the stable normal warm buddyhood we have. To Zulfiqaar, my doc, for the daily rants that keep my mind alive. To Anupam, because he’ll come alive from a missing persons list to call on my birthday. To Sampad, because we’ve come a long way.

To Chhavi, for guarding my dreams with fragile hands. I do understand. Love you:)

And to my eight year old buddy, I benefit from talking to him more than he does from the constant company he seeks and gets from me in those two hours of forced socializing. I hope someday he begins to feel at home with himself.

Verbatim is a fun word. Here’s why.


Prof in RVCE…

Wait here for one minute, I’ll be back in two minutes.

I want to marry my daughter and study my son.

You maad baaays, why’re you upping down the stairs?

He will take the jig-jag blade and rub it erotically. (erratically)

With one hand you write the answer, with another mouth you give the attendance.

Imagine a ship flying in the Arabian sea.

I will throw you out of the window.



Saving the best for last…

Put yours inside, if I see yours again I will scratch it. (This is to do with some guy writing his record in class)



My math teacher in middle school…

You children are all behaving like rakshasas.

Children, that sum is wrong. (This she said practically each time she couldn’t work a sum)



And this takes the cake and the bloody bakery, bakers, confectioners everything…

Why children, why are you telling kos-chun 17 kos-chun 17 when this yex-ercise has only 10 kos-chuns?



And in dear old MCC…

Girls you can’t have half half men can you? (This was while explaining why the sample size sort of thing couldn’t be 22.5 and was 225)

I can’t say like that no…If I say doing Rostow is enough and Nurkse comes… (This was when someone asked her what theories could be skipped)

And my favourite…

Girls don’t worry we will have more interesting fathers in the next sessions. (This is regarding an excruciatingly boring Bible Scriptures class two dear and unfortunate friends of mine attended…the first class was held by a “boring father” so to speak)


And so, verbatim is a fun word. ROTFL! This post is near completely compiled by Varun:) Also, inputs from Pooja-Archana:)

PS: The comments on this post continue to get better...

Not so long ago, a door I didn't know of opened. I drew the curtains aside and light flooded in. As it rains and storms I hold on tighter to the light-present but suffering. But light can't be held...light is loved but free, the fruit and the tree.

And the moon doesn't knock on one's door twice.

Everyday, every single day, I pack my bag and go to a hybrid between an amusement-park and a circus. And I tell you with immense conviction that it is not amusing – not at all. The circus begins with a prayer which I haven’t been able to mug in four years here. We’re forced to mug enough in college anyway, for instance, in our industrial psychology classes.

These classes operate on certain assumptions. These are –
a) all students are dumb; as dumb as the professors secretly know they themselves are (shhh! It’s a well-kept secret)
b) all students have appalling English skills and need to be told how to spell words like “progressive” and “aind” (and of course, nobody in class knows how to spell aind because only Her Highness pronounces and as “aind”)
c) all students need to be taught like they’re a quarter of a step ahead of third grade i.e. all notes must be dictated by Her Highness and copied down by us, the scribes-in-training. Holding a pen unless you are using it to write the holy words of Her Holiness is pretence and deemed punishable. Thus, do not hold a pen (pun intended). Her Holiness is also hornophobic and while hunger, as a drive, justified a whole semester of “teaching” by her, sex drive was done in an hour of mumbles, blushes aind a real quick quickie.
d) all students must reproduce the material given in class in the test much like animals performing tricks in a circus.
e) all students must leave their minds outside the classroom.
f) all students must always quote our prof’s daughter’s doings as examples wherever possible. Whether it makes sense or not is of no consequence because it’s a circus yaar, if you want sense why come to college?

The way this works-

You show up at the performance i.e. you come to college and get five marks for being bodily present and mentally absent. You learn your tricks i.e. you copy all your notes and perform i.e. regurgitate all that you learn in the test.

You graduate and do not study psychology because apparently, there’s no money in it and come back with a token hubby and your firstborn and then you are the ideal student. I cannot find an analogy for this from the circus-world even and maybe that is because this isn’t even expected out of those animals.

Saturdays have two extra shows like the three theory rides over the week aren’t enough. Yesterday saw us, the animals being locked in the cage of a classroom for we had deeply disappointed our Ringmistress by not copying down the squiggles on the transparencies while she was away. Yes, even that happens here.

Chains are yet to come. Maybe a week from now…

that star
lazy, dazy and absolutely crazy?
is winking his intent eyes at me
is winking his intent eyes at me

that star
shhh, sequestered and all shine?
among others but mine
among others but mine

that star
at the end of the dark miles?
the sustenance of my smiles
the sustenance of my smiles

six months since a sunset

a new sun in the sky

but what do you with a sun

when the night is nigh?

a smiling white cloud

you float by

gathering my grey

sending yellow blooms

my way

may those unmet steps

find you your pawn

may you re-do the walls

and find the beauty of the Bygone

may your 8 and 80

buy you hours of endless laughter

may you never cease to seek

the joy you daily slaughter

It’s been a year since my grandpa passed away. It’s taken me just as long to get myself to write about it. I miss him. I miss his grey eyes which watered incessantly. I miss the little towel that he insisted on keeping right beside his pillow to wipe those eyes. I miss the way he gulped his food down and dissolved all his medicines in his glass of water. I miss his black shoes. I miss watching him put on and remove his specs six times in two minutes. I miss watching him count the replays of goals as goals because he no longer understood the difference. I miss the way he wore his clothes on the reverse and refused to wear them the right way.

For someone who had deteriorated as much as he had physically and psychologically, death was a relief. I’m glad he went peacefully, was hospitalized for just five days, lived a long good life etc…but I miss the man who told me the the most amazingly funny stories over a decade back…I miss the man who proudly announced to every rare visitor that his grand daughter had come first in class…I miss the man who listened to me more than he listened to his wife…I miss my grandpa.

And while I’m at this unforced bit of subjective analysis (what in life is objective one may ask) some more bits of learning from the past year…

A year back I couldn’t stand being alone while now, I sort of consciously avoid company…the best days are spent alone, outside home, in six tidy bookstores between cups of coffee and a lasagne…but people count all the same.

I think the creator got tricked while making the woman I call my mother…she’s always been iron deficient but possesses the most steely spirit ever. Low on iron, high on steel. Kudos. I feel like saying mmmmmmmmmy momma:P:) Oddly enough, she describes my blog as "incomprehensible." *how rude* (the Stephanie way)

Someone saved my sanity in a way that only he and me know…to say “thank you” would be demeaning…to say “love you” would be insufficient…as usual, words fail me when I need them the most. Hmmm…ours is a bittersweet symphony. Perhaps. *hug* *muah*...also, *yawn* considering how sleepy I was when we last talked hehe:P

Over the last one year I’ve stashed away half a dozen cards. I bought them for some extremely nice people I barely knew and never mustered the courage to give them out. I know each card remaining will be a regret because getting to know someone is one of the nicest processes ever.

I discovered that I do have the brother I’ve always wanted…:):)*hug*

I’ve come to believe that courting, marriage, sex and parenting etc are things where the scales have always been and perhaps, will be tipped in favour of men no matter how liberal we think we are.

When I walk beside couples and see that my own sides are as empty as empty can get I experience waves of psychotic jealousy.

One of the nicest sensory experiences ever - getting the knuckle of my finger gnawed at by my Atto:)…when warned that it’s beginning to hurt he quickly converts the nips into a very very genuine yawn:)

Also too late and too early, Kannika, my saviour turned twenty yesterday and gave the warmest parties with the most mmm desserts and lovely beings (counting in Patches)…may Sweet Chariot personified add to the long list of long livers in her family:)…and Diya and her smiles which tumble along as naturally as babies in fresh diapers in bed…happy almost birthday:)

I wonder why giving up isn’t considered to be a power, an ability, an asset and perhaps, our only way to freedom from the fracas we choose to call life. The Existentialists weren’t out of their minds when they said living was the struggle. The Absurdists weren’t out of their minds either in saying that life is absurd (oh! what a surprise! What a surprise!). I remember being critical of those critical of suicide for years now. I don’t see why some of us need to sit in judgement of those who choose to end the chaotic cycle of highs-lows, positives-negatives, goods-bads and brand them cowards. Is it because the same some us despite being just as disillusioned with life lack the balls to choose an end or think it brave to carry on? The voice in my mind replies in the affirmative. And with that comes the realization that I am one of those on this side of the issue and I am just one more of those who are dragging their weight around. Cowardice does not lie in choosing death over life; it lies in not making any choice at all.

i do not seek a way...i do not seek solace...i seek an end...i seek finality
i seek the awareness of my penultimate breath...i seek closure

i set fire to sunday
with
laughter and smells of baking
but
the night it wouldnt burn
i
broke it to shards
and
twisted it a million times
but
there remained the black mass
of night
staring and irking
amidst
the pile of ashes
that
was sunday

four full curves
one warm smile
i'm turning back to see
that it's taken me a mile

speaker of silence
and the presence of a shadow
smiles all naughty
and sports a pink halo

ps::):)

why can't i touch the moon i cherish so?
and why are there no tickets to afterlife?
why do my packed bags have nowhere to go?
and why is there so much strife?

i wander
star to star
every hour
oh where is my star
why does it not shine

i feel
my lone fingers flame
in cold moonlight
oh where is the chill
why is there no calm

i write
my wrists growing numb
sleep doesnt come
oh where is the light
why this dark lonely night

i try
to rewrite the equation
more pleasure less pain
oh where does the will go
why is it not in me

I trace the edge of the door with my jittery finger. I'm wondering whether to push it slightly and enter or whether to draw back and close it softly. What right do I have to know what goes behind closed doors? Am I a voyeur? No, I'm just neurotic. So I stand at the door - quietly with my head bowed down.

If there's a thought fox, couldn't there be a thought room?

your eyes open as softly as buds open into flowers at dawn...it is dawn...consciousness comes tapping your senses...the warm shoulder that your chin rests upon...the hands that tuck the stray strands of your hair behind your ear...the fingers which trace your lips and pry your chin down a little...the lips that envelope and caress yours...

your eyes open as softly as buds open into flowers at dawn...it is dawn...it is also a dream...dreams end, desires don't...

the longest streets, desire that never ends - thom gunn

too many colours
vivid
vibrant
and all in vain

too many colours
i sprayed
to disguise
the dark blotches of pain

too many colours
i stepped back
i stared and realized
i like it plain

I may not be the centre of The Universe:P:) but I do feel like I'm shining in our own glittering galaxy. Thank you, dear all.

Why me? I'm not saying that because something has gone wrong yet again. I'm not saying that because I'm feeling stuck in a rut. I'm not saying that because I feel like I'm being picked on. I'm saying it because I feel chosen, chosen..not like hand picked apples but like I've been marked to smile all the while. Why me? Again, a silent cheer for him, for translating my sore throat to a soaring high and for finding the way to the post office. For me. And one for my Mum. For the two people, who care the most to see me smile.