Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts

18 August, 2014

Mandatory Murphy Bashing Monday


Monday is the day

•    Cats decide to scratch me awake
•    Heater decides to not heat
•    Soap decides to disappear
•    Cats (again) decide to play with the roll of toilet paper
•    Shampoo decides to get in my eye
•    I forget to pick out clothes, as usual, and I have to make do with one of my black T-shirts.
•    Blow dryer is missing
•    Straightener not working
•    Can’t find my Lacto Calamine
•    Leaning Tower of Clothes in my wardrobe decides to tip over
•    Whiskas gets over
•    I forget to pack last night's alu sabzi for lunch (which is going to rot by evening:/)
•    Bag is not packed
•    Laptop charger is not around
•    Shoes pinch
•    Activa doesn’t start
•    Petrol is below the red line
•    Caretaker wants caretaking money
•    Wallet is empty. Like EMPTY empty
•    Hunger pangs are clawing the stomach lining
•    Traffic light, which is ALWAYS green when I usually pass, turns red
•    Huge bus decides to plonk itself right in front of me
•    Another huge bus decides to plonk itself on the other side
•    Bag straps are too tight
•    Remember that I forgot kajal
•    Accidently bonk the office laptop on my desk
•    Pantry runs out of all kinds of food
•    Friend doesn’t show up on time (so I can crib and get it out of my system)
•    Day starts with escalations after escalations

Monday is also the day when 

•    When my sweetie pie in the office brings THREE WHOLE BOXES of Chips Ahoy! and hands them over to me, making me want to bear hug her all day long.


Fuck you, Murphy :P

P.S: For those who are not familiar with Chips Ahoy! Here:


 

26 July, 2014

Randomness Rattling Around In The Head


•    I don’t understand people who say they haven’t read Harry Potter. Don’t understand as in me no comprende. Don’t understand as in my mind stops making sense of the words that come out of their mouths after that. This applies to people who say they hate reading. Not the ones who dislike reading, I understand it is personal choice. But they say they hate it. I feel like a five-year-old then - I want to pout angrily and say I hate you
 

•    Grammar is easy when you have to write, but marking someone else’s copy down and answering their questions as to why it has been marked down is just painful. Also, the number of twisted sentences I have to read every day is even more painful – makes me want to go back to happier times.
 

•    My blog reader thingy has finally conked out, leaving me stranded with so many blogs that I have been stalking for years and the painful task of having to transfer feeds individually, manually. Also, goodbye to the days when I follow someone via GFC. How do you manage your subscriptions? Any leads?
 

•    In the last couple of weeks, I have eaten out only twice (as opposed to every single goddamn day in the last two years), and cooked pasta, pudding, rotis, dal, chaawal, alu ki sabzi, salads, dosa, frittatas, pancakes and soya sabzi ALL BY MYSELF. And I find that, considering she didn’t give me any practical training whatsoever, Mom has equipped me well with all the knowledge I need to start using a full-fledged kitchen without too many accidents. My faith in myself grows by the morsel.
 

•    My 25-by-25 list is almost ready and I’m wondering if I should post it as a post-post or a page post.
 

•    I read through my own About Me and find it a little frivolous. Left me wondering if I’m frivolous. I like to think that I'm not. But for all I know, I might be.
 

•    The worst/best part about working with the Books category on Flipkart is that every day I find a couple of titles I really, really have to read right that second. No prizes for guessing who went broke buying books and more books this month.
 

•    I have been a ghost around the blogger world for a long time now – dropping by to read a million posts and never leaving a comment. I realize that the reward for a blogger is the comment that he/she receives and I wonder why I’m denying that joy to some really nice writers.
 

•    Also, I find myself skimming or closing tabs when I chance upon posts for contests and I detest myself for judging. But, but…. So many around!!
 

•    Thrift shopping is addictive.
 

•    I’m going back to my black phase – no more colors and all that sissiness for me and everyone who says my wardrobe needs color and go boil their heads.
 

•    I miss my Enid Blyton days. Those days which weren’t tainted with the knowledge of how bitter and nasty the writer was, allegedly.
 

Most importantly, WHERE THE FUCK HAS THE YEAR GONE?!! IT’S JULY-AUGUST ALREADY??!!

21 June, 2014

Hamartia*



He was a mild-mannered analyst - unconventionally good-looking with a smile that would make you break into one yourself. He had this innate ability to make the people around him hoot with laughter if he so chose but on the whole, his masterful personality commanded respect and admiration, from peers as well as superiors. 

She was masterful too, the words she wrote could make images jump off the pages right into the heart of the readers. She had a loud laugh that covered up most of her insecurities and her heart was bigger than her ego. She constantly spell-checked everyone but the ones who loved her knew that she was not being annoying, it was just the way she was.

And they fell in love.

A simple wedding under the watchful eyes of two sets of parents and a handful of friends was the beginning of their happily-ever-after – neither of them had any illusions about love being perfect but they had understood that as long as they looked forward to snuggling at the end of the day and waking up next to each other at every sunrise, there was nothing much else that they needed.

One day, his mother came to stay with them. While daughter-in-law loved mother-in-law to bits, she couldn’t bear to share her life’s love, her husband, with anyone. And considering he cared about his mother more than everything else, she had not a choice but to deal with the constant ache that possessiveness brought with it.

The rational part of her told her to shut up and deal with it, that she was his  mother and that she was just being a bitch. But that part which governed her love for him raged and ranted every time he gobbled down something that his mother had made for him with relish and she cried herself to sleep every time he fell asleep on his mother’s lap. She had to be nice to her in front of him to remain in his good books and she couldn’t complain to him because one, she knew him enough to know that he would not understand this kind of possessiveness and two, the mother really was a sweet, old lady who was trying to accept that her son had fallen in love with a wildling.

The wildling’s artistic tendencies and wild imagination which had been the best part of her till now were the same things which magnified the possessiveness manifold inside her head and heart. And slowly, her soul was chipping away into nothingness and so was the love. 

She decided enough was enough.

She chose to go the sneaky route and spiked the old lady’s chai every morning. The chronic diabetic couldn’t really tell that all her Sweet ‘n Lows had been replaced with powdered sugar and the packets resealed – she was just happy that she and her bahu were spending some quality time together. The lengths the wildling was willing to go to.  

Eight months later, the old lady succumbed to undetected kidney failure induced by out-of-control blood sugar levels which nobody seemed to be capable of explaining – what happened to the controlled diet, the planned exercises and the insulin shots?  

He was distraught with grief and she was ecstatic with joy.

In brief moments of sanity, the wildling wondered if she was going insane. But then the euphoria of having gotten her own way set in and she climbed quietly into her husband’s lap and nuzzled against his scruffy jaw which dripped quietly with tears.

Until he found the last of his mother’s Sweet ‘n Lows in a dusty cupboard somewhere and painstakingly worked out what had happened.

He hadn’t believed her capable of it until he saw the barely veiled guilt in her eyes and the blind rage that set in was one that he, or for that matter she, had never ever felt before.

“How could you do this to her? All she wanted was to bond with you, find a daughter in you! How could you even think it?!!
“She was taking you away from me!”

But her sentences were garbled as the pressure at her throat was causing the edges of her vision to blur. The rage refused to relent. The pressure evened out only after her body went limp. The face he had loved and sworn to protect was lifeless all of a sudden and the horror that dawned within him was far more destructive than the rage.

The next morning, the newspapers carried a small article in one of the corners somewhere in the middle page “IT husband strangles wife and hangs himself. Suspected insanity.”


And thus, the green-eyed monster claimed three more victims.  

***

Most of the time we fail to realize how destructive jealousy and jealous rage can be and what dire consequences it can lead to in any relationship. Whatever else you do or don't do, never underestimate the power of jealousy. 

P.S: Inspired by a true story. 
P.P.S: Too much GoT obsession happening, forgive me. 
*Hamartia - what a beautiful word. I have been hooked to the word since I finished The Fault in Our Stars. It means "fatal flaw", for the uninitiated.
 

05 May, 2014

Unsent Letters




To the boy who has his nose buried in the books, 

Look up! The real world is as beautiful and as perfect as it is in those books. Sure, there is pain and there is disorder and chaos and more pain but when you look beyond it, there is greater happiness. Just like the pot of gold that the goblin planted for you to find. Read to fall in love with words, with expressions, not to escape reality.

- Me who used to hide behind books when life got hard. But never realized that the solution to the problems lay elsewhere.  

To the girl who falls in love too easily,

You have only one heart and piecing it together after it splinters for the nth time will hurt more than you can endure. Love as much as you want but protect the wee little heart – give that all-consuming, ever-lasting power to only those who really deserve it. But even if you don’t learn, I shall be around to put you back together.

- Me who likes to pretend to have a barricaded heart. And hides the marshmallow-like softness behind the façade of cynicism.

To the man with the coffee and the quick stride,

You have worked long and hard which is why the meeting will wait. You should lengthen the stride, slow it down a bit, let your coffee simmer down from the scalding hot that it is now. You gaze straight ahead but you see nothing more than the path in front of you – open your senses to the fresh green foliage, the earthy smell of the first rain, the spicy aroma from the chat stall and the incessant babble of the women around.

- Me who learnt to live better. But not before God numbered my days.

To the people who are obsessed with ‘finding love’,

If you don’t stop underselling yourself and overexpecting from others, if you don’t stop looking for something that is not meant to be found that easily, if you don’t let others’ happiness sway you in the wrong direction, if you don’t stop with the endless rounds of self-pity which help you spiral only in the downward direction, you will never be truly happy even if you do find the great love of your life. Let it happen when it happens. And leave it alone till it does.

- Me who has fallen in and out of ‘love’ a million, billion, trillion times. So much so that I don’t know what true love feels like.

To the pantry boy,

The genuine smile that you serve with your burnt tea is what will get you places.

- Me who doesn’t remember the faces of any other pantry boy. Except you.

To the married woman,

If you ever come by here, I want you to know that I’m proud to be someone you call ‘friend’. Right from the quiet maturity that everyone relies on to the art of dealing with the most difficult people that you seem to have mastered, I wonder how you do it. I love how you are not perfect and your husband is not perfect but together you are picture perfect. I want that for me and some day, will you grant me the honor of being my bridesmaid?

- Me who has found a role model in you.  

To the raindrops that caught me unawares on a Friday night,

The tumultuous events of the evening did nothing to dissipate from the pleasure you gave me – I felt the heat rise from my person and disappear into wisps in the strong winds that you brought with you and I truly understood the meaning of ‘water for the thirsty’. Stick around, won’t you?

- Me who hates the summer with all my heart. Despite all the fleeting summery feelings the season is supposed to bring with it.

To 2014,

Be nice to all those who are less than lucky. Be nice to all those who aren’t as blessed. Be nice to all those who need you to make things better. Be nice to those who suffer at the hands of Fate. Bring more hope as you go along as that alone will take us forward.

- Me who has had bad days in the year. But cannot really recall them.

To Perfection,

Stop being so elusive.

- Me whose hands you slip out of on an everyday basis.


25 April, 2014

V - Vacation




It’s been more than a couple of years since I went on vacation. And by vacation I mean having the freedom to do exactly as I please when I please to without having people interfering with what I should eat, what I should wear, how I should travel and all the rest. 


While I have been to Coorg and Ooty and godknowswhereelse, it has been either with people from the office (which comes with its own set of paabandhis) or with family in which case I’m working out the logistics, herding the sheep, making reservations and whatnot (all of which counts as responsibilities and not relaxation).


I have not had the luxury of throwing flipflops in one direction, my bags in another and flopping down on a fluffy hotel bedroom with nothing to worry about for the rest of the week. I haven’t had the excitement of having places to explore, cuisines to try and people to meet. I haven’t had the prospect of cheap shopping to be done and getting back home and to routine with a refreshed mind and tonnes of new stuff.


Why am I telling y’all this now? With summer draining the life out of me and work gnawing at my bones, if I don’t take off somewhere soon, I might just blow up. So if you hear a ‘pop’ from the South Bangalore area, you should assume that it is me. 

 
Hmmm, Gokarna is just a night’s journey away…. I’m tempted.

If any of my friends are reading this (which I know you are, you lurkers, you), TAKE NOTE.  

24 April, 2014

U - Utopia


For her Utopia was where she owned a wall full of books, a roomful, a houseful even. It was where she was capable of making strawberry preserve and scones just like Enid Blyton described it. In Utopia, she would sit down with her five friends who loved her unconditionally, and she loved them back too, and have the scones with clotted cream and her own preserve while they racked their brains to solve the latest, most baffling of mysteries. 

For her Utopia was where she could write at will and the words that came out would be so perfect that people would be transformed, their lives would be bettered. But in Utopia, she would be euphoric, not for the appreciation of the work, but the perfection of the words that came out of her pen. In Utopia, she would put a fine-nibbed pen to crisp, white paper and she would write her heart out without the distractions of the world pulling her away from the stream of words that bubbled from within her. 

For her Utopia was the perfect pain of tattoos, artwork that was as beautiful and complicated as a fine filigree work of lace or a monument dedicated to a loved wife. In Utopia, the pain made her a better person and the memory lasted a lifetime, etched on her skin. 

For her Utopia was where her family was complete, where the family was safe and sane and well-fed and well taken care of. In Utopia, there would be no blank spaces in family portraits which were complete only in the wonderful memories of the years gone by.

For her Utopia was love so strong that it went all the way from secret giggles to wrinkled hands by the fire and she knew that 'death do us apart' was that one part of the vows she took that would not come true, for their bond would last beyond just a lifetime. In Utopia, the crests of the waves always came crashing down but never failed to rise into another crest – only because of the presence of the rock, her rock.

For her Utopia was where the world was peaceful and green and had the best of men overlooking things, like God’s angels, only not so fictitious. In Utopia, everyone co-existed and minded their own businesses because they had realized that that is the only way to be a truly enlightened race if they were to survive the next great change that the Universe might bring to them.

For her Utopia was where she learnt from mistakes and never made them again, where she was truly happy in the sun and the sand as much as she was in the blankets that protected her from the sleet. In Utopia, there was nothing, really, that could get her so down that she couldn’t...wouldn't bounce back up after a few dark moments.

 
And guess what, she does live in her Utopia for no one can take away the strength of her dreams and her will to make those dreams, reality. 

P.S: Just being whimsical, bear with me.


22 April, 2014

S - Secret


So let me tell you one. I have another online identity.

You remember a time I was all depressed and I couldn’t string together two sentences together that would make sense because I lost my muse? And then that phase wore on into one of anger against some people? You didn’t notice? Yeah, that’s because I decided this place, this blog, has become so sacred to me that I wouldn’t want to desecrate it with bitching and negativity. Some of it did spill over here but I managed to contain majority of it, so no damage done.

So made myself a nice little nook, online. I don’t follow anyone. No one follows me. And that is the one place, the one thing that has really seen me as me. The stark naked truth without the layers of paint I put on for the sake of seeming normal to society. I wonder if there is another soul who knows me as well. I don’t obsess over what I write there, no pictures, no nothing. I’m not regular, don’t feel the need to be. I generally don’t talk about people. Just plain honesty, written when it is something I can’t share with people – moments of doubt, insecurity, pain. And once I’m done posting, I’m slightly happier, the load usually lifts.

While on most days I am not bothered, there are times when I’m terrified that someone I know will find it.  

Then why am I sharing its existence here? Because it was a toss between sex and secret for ‘S’ and I still haven’t made up my mind about the former. Heehee. Jokes apart, I’m sharing it here because I want your opinion on something: while I don’t have too many deep, dark secrets in my life that at least a couple of people don’t know about, I still don’t trust my own judgement to take a person, another human being, into complete confidence. As need be, I do show my vulnerabilities, but never completely and never to one person. 

What does that say about me? Normal? Or major trust issues?