the birthday post - 24

24!

Almost silver.
Another year of accumulating many questions, some answers and lots of world-wisely gyan.
Travel took me places.
My love for reading has resurfaced. And how!
It's taking me places too.

Drawing is my own little trip.

No matter how much I crib about Delhi, I fall in love with the place a little more each time I visit.
Bangalore makes me happy in a way no other city does.
Chennai brings peace and nostalgia.
I should be a travel writer. I feel it in my bones.

You can never run out of places to see in India. 

I can spend all my life discovering the Western Ghats. 

Pick one place and explore it thoroughly, make it your own. 

Last year I said love is what you want it to be, this year I say love is where you want it to be.

I daydream a lot lesser. Sign of aging I suppose?

After years, listening to someone playing the piano feels like manna for the starved soul--my scattered jazz lessons are changing my life.
I have a huge complex about playing the piano.
The inability to reproduce what I hear/improvise makes me want to cry.
I feel I can only say what I want when I write.
Writing helps me organise my thoughts.

I hate talking. I don't open up easily.

I went through a mala phase where I wore one mala to work every day.

I don't speak clearly.
Even more so when I hear nice voices on the phone.
Yesterday a nice male voice called me--I didn't get what it said--I tripped over my sorry/pardon-and ended up saying "Sodden?"
It's like playing the piano. I trip and get mixed up.
I really dislike the two-step beat. 

I want to be able to write songs--put music to the words in my head.
Then also, I want to play the bass.
What is it with men and female bassists?

Picking a masters is very,very difficult.
I am drawn towards people who are self-made and independent. Entrepreneurs impress me.
Especially because I know I could be there if I wanted to. But I'm a big, big chicken.
I shall no longer be one. Starting NOW.

There can be no two people you react to the same way - every relationship is incredibly different.
Each person teaches you something about yourself.
Each person exposes a new you.

I met someone who turned my world upside down.
Or maybe turned it the right way up.

The feeling of wet mud below bare feet gets me high.
Paddy-field magic.

You really cannot put things in perspective until you get out and get yourself into shit. Ask me, ask me.

Time solves.
Time dissolves.

An unexpected apology from someone after three years was the most humbling thing that happened to me this year.
I feel like a new person now. I shall henceforth never, ever judge anybody.
All grudges shall sublime, peace will reign and a halo will fix itself above my head.

I stopped putting up a lot of writing on a public space.
I write like crazy, though.

You can be incredibly intimate without being physical.
I've become closeder but I want to be freeer.

One click of the mouse can work wonders.
I discovered my love for riding two-wheelers.

I'm a klutz.
Look-one bruise, two bruise, three..
My biggest fears are crickets and cockroaches.

I want to have a pet someday.
Reptiles fascinate me.
I would like a large green scaly monitor lizard soft toy.

New cities can be liberating.

The only thing that really calms me down is a hot shower.
The second thing is walking.

I love walking in new places.
Mostly alone.
I can't take in new places with a large group of people.
It's distracting.

My ability to multitask is steadily decreasing but is sharpening focus.

Family matters like nobody else.

I've mellowed down.
Mellowing down can be awfully scary.
I realised I like being alone a lot of the time.

I was extremely outgoing in college,  now social interaction can be bit draining.
I've got to come home to quiet.

I am awfully attached to places. More than people. Awfully attached.

I surprise myself all the time.

If somebody loves you, they will make an effort to keep you. That loving and setting free saying is bullshit.

I'm always trying to hold on to things.
Somebody once told me "Your ultimate goal is being together. My ultimate goal is just being.."

Argh, these drifters.. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.

Pride is a spur.
Ego toughens.

I love teaching. Something tells me it's my calling.

I'm way too conscious for my own good, and way too cautious.
I've had people telling me to "chill out" over the past one year more than I ever have.
I suffer from the inability to relax and let go.
Relaxing is my agenda for 24.

The most intelligent and sensitive people I have met are trippers.
Not sure I can say it the other way round.
I used to think hashbrowns were made of hash.
Imagine my horror at being offered hashbrowns at the Singapore airport.

Things always sort themselves out.

Everything's an experiment.

Try and err.

roommates

The room was large, airy and overlooked vast dry fields with the highway snaking through them. You could see the brown horizon-hills through the early morning mist, the forest fires burning quietly in summer, and the mysterious blue bus that went past every morning at 7. Our delight knew no bounds. This was a room we had chosen as ours. It was a room that did not have whitewash peeling off the walls cornering the floor with fresh white powder everyday. The chuna had been one of our greatest problems the previous year and had been a great source of dismay to whoever took pains to sweep the room. Though Dee rearranged the furniture every two months in hope of making more space, that room stayed stuffy and overcrowded. But this new place was paradise.  This was the stuff of daydreams.

Three iron beds sat at comfortable distances from each other. Three almirahs, their doors covered in half-peeled stickers and grafitti of last year, were soon stuffed with clothes, cosmetics, footwear, books and other once-considered-indisposable items that sat unused, in doleful hope of proving their worth someday. Dee's space was undoubtedly the cleanest, with her bed made, things neatly in place and cupboard nice smelling because of soap covers hidden under the newspapers. Alpi stacked so many things in her cupboard that you couldn't tell if it was messy. Mine betrayed signs of a compulsive hoarder.

We hardly ever hung out outside the room, but constantly made plans to tour the country. We planned and prepared birthday surprises for each other. We discussed school life (ah, the joys of icse!). We covered for each other. We gossiped. We washed clothes at midnight. We got high during the rains. We took care of drunks. We moved together room to room and lost things. We cribbed about the lost items till we'd lose something else. We shared goodies from home. We knew each other's secret places for hiding keys. Sometimes these secret places gave away other secrets. We saw each other through some alarming episodes of sleepwalking.

We endured each other's eccentricities with great forbearance -  Dee's hypochondria, Alpi's hyperactivity and my mood swings. Dee cribbed about feeling sleepy during exams. I cribbed about late night noise. Alpi cribbed about poor quality rotis. We all cribbed about the crows.

When we moved out, we contributed to the room in our own ways, leaving several bits of cellotape on the wall with remnants of posters stuck to them,  agarbatti stands by the desks (the night Dee thought there were ghosts in the room and we had to get rid of them by calling upon holy forces) and colourful clothes clips, which some juniors must be grateful to us for.

the return

To have close friends unexpectedly move to the city you live in can be elating.

gone

parting is a real bitch. in whatever form. a fight, a break up, divorce, divergence.

but death. it's quite different from estrangement. its irreversibility leaves you with a helplessness. a chilling silence. one minute life is burping out beeps and peaks and troughs on the ecg graph. then death steps in, armed with its horrifyingly constant straight line, a loud sustained note that settles itself into a permanent background noise in your head. the resident residual.

you cannot tell the world about somebody who's gone. you cannot describe to the world your loss. you live in denial, in fury, in resentment, you look with pity upon those whose lives he didn't touch. you want to snarl at those who say that it will fade and you will forget--you don't want to forget. in fact, forgetting is your biggest fear. you are haunted by thoughts of waking up one day and not being able to remember what he sounded like. now that he's gone you hold him closer, like a child clutching at a toy in fear of having it snatched away.

fucking intangible memories. 

revulsion

If honesty doesn't pay, what does?

The official website

After a lot of plumbing, The Tap is up and running here:

http://www.thetap.in

Woohoo!

a bit of conversation

How much time did it take to make an egg sandwich? I shifted in my seat. It looked like it was going to rain. I had about four hours, and though I knew I would make it well in time, I was getting restless. Outside the kadai, a white dog settled down comfortably. Apparently, this was the same dog that had chased him a few months back. Didn't look capable of hurting a fly though, I thought to myself. Did I remember to pack my towel? I wondered if it had dried. This chap seemed rather nice. He was making conversation, and I tried to listen. I don't remember much of what he said - I think we just discussed various dog-chasing incidents. I'm gonna be late, I whined, half to myself. Relax, he said to me, not for the first time. I blushed, embarrassed, not realising that I was being so obviously fidgety and absent. And then—

"Do you know what Zen means?"

"Huh?" I sat up, suddenly hearing him clearly.

"Do you know what Zen means?"

Of course I knew. I had devoured books on the topic. I had read extensively about the philosophy — I had sat under trees discussing it with friends, I had spent late college nights reading about it. I had used words like nowness, awareness, self-realisation, consciousness and transcendence.

"Uh, Zen is you know... Zen", I said, gesturing emphatically (the same gesture one would use for 'world, universe' and the likes while singing school assembly songs). "I know the concept but am not sure what it exactly... "

"It just means being in the moment. In that place", he said simply. "So relax."

I was so taken aback. Was I that transparent, was it that obvious that I was incapable of relaxing? Of course, the comment was just a casual, offhand remark on his part, but he just put into words what I read so many times, knew well, and struggled to follow.

I'm always thinking about a hundred things at once. I'm regularly accused by friends of zoning in and out of conversations. I'm always multitasking, and I'm almost always in a rush. To have an almost-stranger observe and squarely point out what he might not have realised he pointed out was quite startling.

Some things you need to hear find their way to you most unexpectedly. He really hit the nail on the head.

madras dusk

the evening light of chennai was a dull, humid golden that spread itself slowly across the city's terraces. dusk came from the direction of the beach - both light and darkness seemed to birth in the horizon. after a good two hours on the street, young boys carrying cricket bats retreated indoors, chattering noisily and bidding their see-you-tomorrows.  young couples strolled on the marina, eating groundnuts; kites of various colours and shapes flew above them. trains, like veins, faithful and regular, carried everyone to their common destination - home.

routine treated everyone equitably. a family prepared for dinner with sun tv blaring in the background, a young girl in the neighbourhood lit a deepam, wearing jasmine in her hair, and, in a crowded dingy street, a man scored his stash for the week.

Playing in my head

Keith Jarret, and a sun rising from behind the basketball court. Keith Jarret, sitting alone in my room in the afternoon. Keith Jarret, at 3 am. Keith Jarret, without a thought in my head.

Keith Jarret. Foreground, background and everything else.

quote

Came across this brilliant sentence today:

"Contact is the appreciation of differences."

-Frederick 'Fritz' Peris

language

Having read this over and over again on TUIB's blog post, I thought I should just post it here:

"There's something fishy about describing people's feelings. You try hard to be accurate, but as soon as you start to define such and such a feeling, language lets you down. When we really speak the truth, words are insufficient. But they're important to us, nonetheless, because they are what connects us to thoughts other than those belonging to us."- Iris Murdoch

hello

I'd like to meet you, who do you see?
Introduce yourself to whichever of me is nearby.

                        

-CSNY

the tap

I think in pictures nowadays. After I started doing the comic strip (here), I feel as though I've found my tongue in another language - I'm on my own trip. For those of you who want to check out what I've been up to, you may head over to the fb page while the website is being constructed. 

:)

oh the relief

There's nothing like a face-to-face apology.

1996 Everest expedition: In memory

Looking up something online, I was lead by a chain of links to the Wikipedia article on the 1996 Everest Disaster, which I was introduced to in Anatoli Boukreev's The Climb about three years ago. This book was written as a response to Jon Krakauer's book Into Thin Air, which attributed a large part of the blame to Boukreev. The Climb shook me up and I never did feel like reading Jon K's account of the expedition, in spite of seeing it lying around in the library all the time. But today, after three years, suddenly my curiosity was revived and just as I was making a mental note to read all the books available on the expedition, I saw the date of the disaster:  11 May, 1996.

If this is just a random coincidence, it is extremely eerie.

May the eight rest in peace.

levelling

a routine is the most irritatingly sane thing in the world. almost as irritatingly sane as the invention of time itself. there is a way out, but the way out would make one insane. it seems to me that most of us are caught in a yossarian-like situation, especially those of us who've been working for a while now, and are discovering that settling down actually marks the beginning of The Unsettling.

but even duronto has two stops to revive itself. for me, on a daily basis, the same old is broken by little things - currently, it's watching the progress of a growing plant in office. some things, albeit routine, i look forward to, for the relief they bring, the relief of constancy and the relief of paintings.

and then again, travel provides the breaks. the western ghats make me happy. and meeting new people exhilarates when connections are formed. conversations with people i barely know suddenly become heart-warming, lighting-smile-in-fond-remembrance-just-before-sleep somethings i hold on to for a long time.

the want for change starts fading away, and i find myself embracing straight lines, even if temporarily. the search for the spontaneous and the insane transforms into a period of easy acceptance of the more subtle and sane, which lasts longer each time.

once

There was hardly any movement - just the occasional stray breeze that lightly touched some strands of dry grass. Only open sky and open fields were. In between the two we sat, insignificant in the vast state of non-motion. The silence and the stillness painted our memories in careful detail; hours and days dismissed time.

But in the real world everything moves. Time moves, and so do we, succumbing to the movement, like clockworks in this mindless, inescapable routine.  And not just once have I had this sneaking feeling that we might never have time again to create memories as beautifully clear, crisp and vivid as those. Today's memories are coated in a layer or two of blur.

Ask me about yesterday, and I could describe to you the colour of the grass in different months, what it smelled like when it was damp, and the sound of the whirring dragonflies. I could tell you about the feel of the mud in between my toes...but then that you must feel yourself. 

I wish I could take you there.

But I don't know if I could stop a second time.

grumble

I've realised that much as I love Hyderabad for the comforting familiarity of home it offers to me, it is a musically (and, in most cases, culturally) dormant city. Having spent over a year here now, I am surprised that there is hardly anything happening on the arts and culture scene, compared to Bangalore and Chennai. If you're not a party/clubbing/movie person and are a funk/rock/jazz lover, Hyderabad has little to offer.

Sometimes I wonder if it's a grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side case.

But I do sorely, sorely miss the music.

into the great wide open

Having spent four years anchored under the canopy of friends, freedom and the steady backdrop of home, I think all of us were a little unsure of our place in the world post-college. It wasn't so much as finding jobs or courses as it was about feeling uprooted and walking around trying to fix ourselves in new soil. It fascinates me that what seemed like such a large and complex world was hardly a pixel compared to what we see stepping out, and it makes me sad to think that all of us will never be in the same place at the same time and under the same circumstances again.

I remember vividly conversations that I now know all ten thousand of us had at some point - conversations about love and relationships, about drawing lines and erasing some, about searching, finding and losing. I remember conversations about being and meaning, about purpose and ambition, about giving and owing, and about defining and belonging - when belonging was the last thing we had to worry about.

happy new year, everybody!

the answer

Its all so simple really. Once u stop thinking of life as something irrational that needs rationalizing. Everything makes sense. But doesn't make sense if you try to figure it out. But why would you want to figure it out if it already made sense. No?

Catch-22.

the birthday post - 23

I thought this birthday I wouldn't write one and nobody would miss it but then people asked me where the traditional mail is and orey excited I became!
So here it is.

The past year I have seen more of the computer screen than I have in the previous ones.
The past year has seen so much more love - it just keeps growing exponentially.
Aforementioned year has also seen me obtain driving license! Woohoo!
I still am a magnet for mallus.

I have made new new friends.
Old ones seem to renew themselves everyday.
I've gotten over old fears.
New ones have taken their place.

I've travelled lots! Orey.
Orey is the word of the year - it has taken over the whatay kingdom.

The Western Ghats. Period.
I used to be good at sketching.
Now I only draw stick figures.
I wish I had the same ability to simplify in thought.

IwantogotoAfrica Icantwait.
I love skirts.
I love kurtas.
I love shirts.
I love stoles.

Buy of the year: pink pajamas. Feel like a thirteen year old.
Some teenager called me 'didi' recently and I suddenly felt very old.

Piano has arrived in the life and I am inexplicably happy about that.
The trick is to find the constant to find permanent comfort.
Not look at something bound to change and then whine (though you may whiskey..).

People care.
But our lives are governed by immediate circumstances.
So what about sunrise and what about rain?
The man will never die.

I dislike people who eavesdrop.
It's easy to apologise.
You don't notice the love that's in front of you because you're too busy looking over your shoulder.

Editing is making me learn english and forget some.
I can't chop an onion without chopping a finger.

I love exploring cities.
Junk-jewellery-window-shopping is soul-satisfying.
Too many hyphens, too many hyphens.

I sometimes don't listen to songs that I know will make me feel.
But only there does lie manna.

I love birds' feet - yellow of mynas and pink of pigeons.
I love donkeys' eyes.
I'm terrified of anything below ground - caves, tunnels, even metros sometimes.

I love bookshops in airports.

I love in-flight magazines.

I get incredibly awkward when people ask me to read aloud my poems.
They're meant to be read, not listened to!
Shy comes.

Every birthday, I am awed, thrilled and touched by the number of people who call.
This post gets shorter by the year.
I feel younger.

Orey.

commons

You only had to jump across an arm's length to get into the terrace of the neighbouring house. But nobody ever tried. Windows faced windows in dangerous proximity, eliminating the slightest chance for privacy. One could hear low murmurs behind drawn curtains, and the mixed smells of everyday cooking drifted about on its morning rounds.

Inside the building, the staircase was narrow and almost always dark, the steps steep. The yellow bulb had long gone and nobody had bothered to replace it. Brownie, tommy, rocky, doggie - they all had different names for him- used to lay his heavy brown body across the third and fourth steps, curl up and sleep contentedly, oblivious to the many visitors who always almost stepped on him. He never budged.

Everyone came out to their terraces in the evening. Kids played cricket, stopping only after invoking the wrath of the neighbourhood aunties who threatened not to return the ball from their compounds the next time. Men smoked intermittently, and so did two black-eyed young girls; in the corner lay a pile of absently strewn stubs and a couple of old bottles. The starlit night sky watched over couples, throwing their long black shadows into a rough denial of embarrassment.

Afternoons were silent with clothes drying mutely on the washing line, save the lone caw-caw of the hungry crow.

samick

She was old. A little out of tune due to age, but her tone was rich from years of experience. The bass keys were deliciously low, heavy and guttural and the higher ones were full and shrill, but not unpleasantly so. They gave me the feeling that there might be two or three other notes lurking beneath the key I just pressed. The sustain was terrible and she was loud, very loud. Tones merged into semitones, semitones into tones. There was something curious about her- she seemed to be ignorant of absolute pitch, yet each note was absolute in itself. I lost my mind and fell in love.

on memories

I've always wondered where the phrase to know something like the back of your hand came from. I don't know the back of my hand one bit and I've never really taken out the time to examine it. If I close my eyes I would just have a vague idea of what my hands look like. I have a clearer picture of the hands that I've held though, possibly because there is so much more attached to feel than to appearance, and you can relate the former to the latter.

You see your hands everyday but don't know how many wrinkles are there on your knuckles. You don't know how many veins show on each hand and if they're the same number on both. But they're around, you know, you can examine them in detail anytime you want. I'd like memories to be that way - not really getting in the way, but just being around, so that you can pull them out and go over the details anytime you please.

There is no recollection that is effortless. Watch how your eyebrows come close together in intense concentration when you try to remember the details of an bygone moment which you clutched close to your heart and vowed never to forget. The one you carried around and thought of almost everyday, and then once in two days, and then once in a while, spilling a bit of the detail each time, till it became chiselled and sharpened to a few select features, nudging the others into the background, till it became a memory of a memory. You frown to yourself and squint at the picture, wondering which paint tube to use to reproduce this shade which you can see oh-so-clearly in your mind's eye but cant find in all the pantones.

And then you reconstruct the original moment by putting all these bits and pieces of memories together carefully, telling yourself that this was how it was, this was what it felt like, because - without even knowing it - you've already forgotten.

vellore calling

I've found that I'd rather revisit a place that I've been a part of than visit a new place. There's no place in the world I want to go to more than I want to go back to vellore. I can feel it so strongly. Sometimes you just know. (Whales in the wild, wait for some more time.)

Firstly, Kasam beckons. I remember the kids - loud, shy, curious - their smiles, their endless stream of questions. It's a calling. There's a magic in their spirit which is contagious. There's a certainty in my wanting which I haven't felt often. Out of the gazillion feelings that make up life - Kasam roused a feeling that I can cannot replay in my head. It was only when I went there with a friend of mine who agreed to teach photosynthesis to a class of ten-year olds that I realised, as I stood watching, how much I loved the place. And the children. And their blissful, naughty-happy faces. I recall clearly the cheeky boy in class who got tired of me talking about the states of India and tried to convince me that he's from Africa instead. It makes me smile every time. I know I have to go back to Kasam and fulfil the promise.

I discovered in Vellore my love for long walks. Morning walks, afternoon sun-scorching walks, evening walks, walks in the dark, rainy walks. Grassy walks, highway walks, happy walks, angry walks, teary walks, lonely walks. Walks to Brahmapuram, walks on Gandhi Road, walks to the station, walks to nowhere in particular.

I think of the cows sometimes - the one with the big red horns that I'd fondly called Red Bull, the small frail one under the dark-leaved tree, and the one with dark circles around its eyes. I think of the beetles - even those became special after I learnt that they were harmless and only pretended to be intimidating. I think of the hills and the secrets they harboured - from bird's nests to broken bottles. The dry summer fields, the morning mist and biting chill. The unexpected ponds during monsoon which always surprised even though I knew where exactly they were; it always felt like the first time.

I'm not in love with Vellore for the memories. There's something in the air that is addictive, something that got me hooked. It was a place I knew. The brown of its soil, the green of its grass, the blue-grey of CMC. I want to know what it would be like to go back there as a different person, feel like the same person, and come out differently again. I want its change.

he says

It was that oscillation between feeling traumatically low and excitedly high that sank me in gloom, making me sceptical about living out life with an emotional gas regulator, always checking on how much feeling to let flow, how high to keep the flame without burning other people or burning out, how much of myself to express without feeling vulnerable, exposed, misunderstood.

- from Death by Music by Rukun Advani

earthy

He was extraordinarily sensitive and his reflexes were always quick but not sudden. Outdoors, his energy never ran out; indoors, the weed and music kept him going. Life warmed to him - dogs, cats, birds, mice, lizards - they seemed to speak his language. He climbed hills with ease, and liked to wrap himself around a tree branch and swing upside down. He wasn't in the least bit shy - sometimes I felt like he was closer to early man and thought to myself that this boy couldn't have eaten the apple. There was something raw in his manners, yet there was grace. He was clever, though not very strong; he could work out the physics for better efficiency. He found his way mostly on foot and I suspect he was slightly uncomfortable with other modes of transport. He understood directions by following the sky, the hills and his intuition. He learnt through experience and experiments of his own, through feel, touch, taste, smell, sight and sound.

flip vs scroll

Kassia speaks:
http://booksquare.com/the-future-of-print/#more-3682

timbre

Sometimes I just sit and play a note once, twice, thrice, over and over again. It's almost a form of meditation. Sometimes I let the note ring, sometimes I hold the pedal down till it fades away into silence. Sometimes I cut it short, forcefully, in a vindictive staccato. Like I should have let it be but I didn't.

Only recently I've been playing something that is slightly close to what I wish to express. This reproduction from the inside to the outside (both while playing music and writing) is a somewhat tricky issue. Experimenting with Buckley's Hallelujah, I was surprised, and rather pleasantly so, to find that I play completely different chords when in different moods. Try to play what's in your head, then forget the head, and the expression is all right.

Writing, in many ways, is like playing the piano. Or vice versa. There are no incorrect sequences or combinations of words. Throw in a bunch of random chords and make them talk. You forget the rules and trust the sound.

thought

Believers always have an explanation; half-believers use the explanation as an alternative; non-believers have a lot of explaining to do.

Look

We threw the relationship out of the window and now we have one.

vellore

The vividness is disturbing. The intricate details linger, in shapes, in colours. Places have an invisible force- vellore in particular does-it clings to those who've been a part of it. I can still strongly smell it's warm familiarity, not because of frequent recall, but because the aura still surrounds.

What a life that was. The freedom was gaping. There was untamed madness in the air, as perpetual as the smell of weed, amidst lazy class-goers and couples huddled on footpaths. There were the trains - I strangely miss them the most. Outside college, there was endless space, there was the hustle around cmc, there was kasam, there was china town, where you couldnt stay an hour without bumping into three people you knew. Vellore had its secrets- you had to know where to look- under shady trees, beneath your feet, in thorny bushes, in pacific bay, in burma bazaar, in bus 1 and bus 2, and of course, at katpadi station (carrot samosas!). Sometimes you had to look in tasmac.

The vellore sky was enormous. You just had to look up to see the Orion and be reassured that all's quite well with the world.

It's now slowly sinking in - my reactions have always been late and drawn-out - that I will use the past, inaccessible tense whenever I talk about this home of four years.

mince curry

The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers by Sarnath Banerjee is a gripping graphic novel woven out of strikingly colourful threads of history and modernity, madness and sanity.

The plot begins with the protagonist unexpectedly inheriting his grandfather's possessions, including the controversial journal, The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers, which records the events of eighteenth century British Calcutta, a time when the city cauldron bubbled with several atrocious activities and scandals. Begins then, the long and arduous search for the journal, amidst lusting men and women, psychics, skull-crackers, drunken priests, stoned babus and more, who all -- in spite of their eccentricities -- seem strangely real.

The artwork tells a tale in itself. The characters are dynamic and captivating; the aftermath can leave you seeing them in patterns of bathroom tiles. Banerjee speaks with a casual, nonchalant wit that takes a minute to grasp, cleverly beckoning for a reread. That moment of enlightenment annotates exclamations in the thinking mind. Digital Dutta, who appeared first in Corridor, Banerjee's first novel, takes us through the journey of his own character, and leaves you feeling well-traveled.

Entertaining, explicit, hilarious and poignant with a philosophical undertone (I almost had to refer to a thesaurus for that) the book is just awesome oly ya. Only upon the second read does one realise the ingenuity of this work; the careful stitching together of elements, the mixing of those 65 essential masalas, to produce something that will awaken, shake, disturb and indulge all your senses.

glimpse

It dawned upon him that the body travels but the mind stays unmoved, as confirmed by the great Arab traveller Ibn Battuta. He realized that sitting in his North Calcutta house, he had a pretty accurate idea of what the world outside was like.

By not travelling, he felt more travelled. Both in space and time.

- from The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers by Sarnath Banerjee; referring to my favourite character Digital Dutta.

the journey

I remember exactly how our household back then used to sound - I always picked up the background noise. Lata and Kishore played in the mornings, alternating with MS Subbulakshmi. Both my parents being music buffs, a lot of subconscious listening went into our childhood. I was introduced to ABBA/Cliff Richard/Carpenters by my mother. My dad listened to a lot of BMK, and I remember downloading his thillanas one day at hostel because I suddenly pined to listen to them. Strange what you grow up on never leaves you. Michael Jackson was so much a part of our everyday lives that I still sing the same wrong lyrics from a permanent etching into memory, a reason why to this day I say mos-cow. I don't think I could ever forget the cover of that Dangerous tape, and the white ribbed plastic that made it easily identifiable long after the paper peeled off.

I owe many many hours of happiness - the kind of happiness that does not require and cannot be shared with anybody else- to a little black tape recorder that offered the discovery of and escapade to another realm. I never felt like I needed anyone - I was content. I think as we grow older we start looking for other people to make us happy.

I got gifted piano instrumental cassettes on every birthday- most of them being Clayderman. After that I moved on to Yanni and quickly tired of his arpeggioed style. I hadn't much exposure to jazz/blues- so most of what I played was old 60s and classical. I'd pick up songs at home, spending hours at the keyboard, and then go back to piano class the next day and try it out. Nothing compares the wood richness of heavy-keyed piano sound.

My brother started listening to different kinds of music when he was at school - I would curiously listen to his tapes - Bryan Adams, Deff Leppard (letsgetletsgetletsgetletsget "drunk!") , Duran Duran, Eagles, The Beatles, Knopfler, dinchak party music, Silk Route - they all featured on his playlist. Clapton, Pearl Jam, the Smashing Pumpkins and Simon and Garfunkel were introduced after a while. Ah, to have an older brother. He also opened my window to jazz (how could you not have heard Take Five?!). Sweet discoveries of Brubeck and Chick Corea followed.

Long after CDs were around, I still bought cassettes and stuck to my faithful black cassette player. We exchanged cassettes at school and I listened to friends' parents' old ones - ranging from old country to blues to classic rock. We were extremely lucky to have access to the Internet. I spent hours crawling the web referring to my ‘pop hits of the 60s’ handbook and downloading as many as I could with a dial-up connection. I used to listen to Yahoo Radio back then, when YM was awesome (and they still had Doodle!). Brilliant stations, brilliant songs. A lot of the music i got was through a personal journey of hunting online and retrieving. Zz Top, The Doors, Cream - all were painstakingly downloaded. Digital Dreamdoor was my bible (and to my great delight, introduced me to ELP!).

Harmony fascinated me. All my friends were in the school choir (both those who sang and those who lip-synced) and we'd get together every break, singing songs from printed sheets of lyrics. Of course we sang a lot of boyband songs, but what the heck. Singing in church was an experience - the organisation of the choir was brilliant and I loved how all the parts would come together finally and echo in all their fullness.

College opened up many many new worlds. Grunge and metal: Kamelot, Pain of Salvation, Maiden, Pearl Jam, Temple of the Dog, Dreamtheater, etc. DVD collections arrived one day from Bombay - in it I found entire collections of progressive rock and fusion. Alan Parsons, Yes, Asia, ELP, Rush. The amount of time I devoted listening to those bands I cannot fathom now - I don't know how I had the time to listen to each and every song, find the ones I liked, and find favourite bits in those songs (I love this part!). I got to meet some amazing musicians who changed my life. I listened to different guitarists for months, before I comfortably settled on Satriani for his grace. Dave Matthews Band, Steely Dan, Jamiroquai, Bobby McFerrin, Shakti, Prasanna, Floyd, Extreme, Fleetwood Mac, Mr Big ; King Crimson, Tower of Power, lots of jazz - everyone had something to offer, a band or song to suggest till it became as much a part of the listener as the offerer. After some time, all of us at college had the same collections in our hard disks- some of them who would be misnamed forever. The newer Jamie Cullums, John Mayers, Jack Johnsons. Zero, Motherjane, TAAQ- there was no dearth of fresh music. The college bands, the others that came and went at fests. Acapellas, acoustics, live shows, a bunch of friends sitting and jamming.

Of course, bus rides always had interesting music too - Remo being my all-time favourite Tamil hit!

Sometimes I feel like I belong more to these songs than they do to me. I know where I'm living my parallel life.

ideals

He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness forn philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saweverything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an idealist.


- from Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham

The book

And then it turns out that I published off a book :)

A collection of 49 poems in free verse, published by Writer's Workshop, Kolkata. Those interested in buying copies please mail writersworkshopkolkata@gmail.com or request a copy at http://www.writersworkshopindia.com/modules/contact_plus/

Beam.

breaking barriers

sometimes all you have to do is ask.

trick

Sympathy, when offered, can hurt ego.
Sympathy, when not offered, can hurt.

TAAQ at HRC Hyderabad

I screamed myself hoarse.

After four years in Vellore, and getting to see most of the gigs around in Bangalore and Chennai, but somehow managing to miss TAAQ each time, the wait was finally over.

The show was brilliant. They started off with one of my favourites, Look at Me, and by the end of the song I was already filled with that feeling only Bruce's tu ta paraburapurooo can express. The new song, Where the State has No Name is a bluesy, catchy number and has one of those choruses that comfortably settle down in your head. A total singalong song. I really liked that they wrote this one. I've always believed that TAAQ is an intelligent band; from their lyrics to the structure of their songs, there's a characteristic subtle wit that underlies. They're classic, they're contemporary. They reach out to the audience with songs like this one, and previously, with Keep the Promise, One Small Love and Shut up and Vote.

It was the first time I heard them play their signature cover, with its long intro (oh what tones on the guitar!) delightfully breaking out into Roxanne. At this point I glanced at the bouncer, contemplating my fate if I did get hysterical. De-arranged was anything but. I love how all the parts come together in their songs. I grinned throughout the show, and everytime Bruce went hic! during Drunk I grinned a little more.

Its always interesting to observe musicians during a live show. Bruce, with supreme confidence, picking, strumming, singing away in his strong steady voice, doing his plectrum-dropping act; at the same time not losing track of the audience. Rzhude, closed eyes, completely with the flow and completely enjoying himself, his thick basslines underlining clean riffs. You could almost hear him say as he cradled his guitar: this is my baby. Rajeev, swift, fresh young energy. I squinted at him intently for a large part of the show, counting in my head. Jason (haven't heard him play before), effortlessly fiddling about on the keyboard, bringing out some mind blowing solos like it was child's play.They played a fun version of Wonderwall with some interesting chords there. Mighty strange was mighty good, so was Bend the World. Paper Puli was trademark. And finally, Surrender stole the show. (Nice harmony, shouldaii shouldaii still rings in my head.)

The only disappointment was that there was no song from This Is It. They got our groove, yes, but what happened to mom made butter skies and all that?

But moving on. You can listen to TAAQ at home, scribbling those clever lyrics down with your tongue sticking out. Drive with them to work and do a BLM into the window of the nearest car at the signal. You can jog in the mornings with that TAAQ playlist on your iPod. Blast their music on a Sunday afternoon in an empty hostel.

But TAAQ, live?

Oh what a feeling.

walk

Every morning I go for a fifteen minute walk. Even though there is some sort of a jogger's park nearby, I stick to taking the long and winding road. (Which winds back to square one and does not lead to anyone's door.) I tried walking in the park a few times, but the sight of so many people out for their morning exercise was overwhelming. Plus I like straight roads better than having to go around a circular track over and over again.

I see the same people everyday during my walk, and now I feel like I almost know them. There is uncle in the white t shirt and shorts, who walks with his son. Boy is usually dressed in blue and insists on pushing his red tricycle with great care. I suspect he's got an imaginary friend. They seem a happy pair, father and son. Once they got mom along and there was a whole new dimension to the picture.

Another companion is the great dane who confidently strides down the road like he owns it. His owner, a small man about the same size looks meek, positively scared and at heel.

Bespectacled aunty holds two big bulldogs on either side that look only half as intimidating as she does.

Short man jogs in the opposite direction, looking remarkably fit.

Old uncle gently ambles along with his Dalmation, whose head perpetually is in the nodding state, quite an agreeable dog. Dog peers at passers by, nodding and stepping towards them till uncle gently and absently pulls him away.

Strangers to each other, yet the mornings of our lives overlap.

kadambi booksellers

I have been living in Marredpally for quite a few years now, and every time I cross the main road, a big sign that says Kadambi Booksellers catches my eye. I had heard that it was an old bookshop, full of rare books, but had never got the opportunity to take a look inside. I walked into the shop today, expecting to find ancient treasures, but what followed was nothing short of a life-changing experience.

The owner of Kadambi, a man who is into his 84th year, sits at the front fumbling about with a radio. R N Acharya, who started the bookshop over 60 years back, tells me how the store has evolved over the years- starting off as a small bookshop in a garage to becoming one of the major landmarks in the city, and finally shifting to the current location on account of 'road widening' at Clock Tower.

The shop is neatly stacked and is organised by category. There are whole racks of NBT books, and it was thrilling to see the collection. The shelves are covered in dust; yet the books seem carefully preserved. He knows exactly which book is where, as he fingers for the book he wants to show me. 'Come read anytime', he says. 'You can stay here the whole day and nobody will disturb you.' One section of the shop contains technical books, mostly engineering, that he wants to distribute for free. 'Impart knowledge, not exploit knowledge', he tells me as he shows me his own personal collection of books that he read at school, standing on the bench for not doing homework. ('But I consistently topped my class!' he adds.)

'If you have the time, I will give you a synopsis of my life.' R N Acharya was born into a well-educated and modern family. His father was multilingual, a graduate of Presidency College in those days (three generations above us) and a correspondent for Reuters. His mother worked for LIC and even drove a car. After her early death, his father left the city. Acharya and his brother got jobs as clerks in the army and took care of the younger ones. Later, he started selling fiction books and also worked as a newspaper delivery boy. His shop picked up over the years and brought him to where he is now. He showed me photographs of his family, a collection of letters and postcards.

He talks of India before and after the British Raj, of readership, of the education system, of his own struggle for survival. 'It is only now that you have these modern conveniences. Back then, things were very different..' I realise that his voice speaks for his entire generation. So much about him reminded me of my own grandfather. While he uses an old typewriter to put his thoughts on paper, his brand new computer sits on his desk, covered with a blanket.

Here is a man who has regularly corresponded with politicians and literati (even Somerset Maugham-imagine!), has had bigwig customers, has earned the respect and goodwill of everyone he has interacted with, and is sought after by authors and publishers from all over the country. Yet, he humbly says- 'I have braved through the times. I don't know how, but I'm still surviving. I earn very little.' Acharya plans on writing a book, which will tell the story of his life. But I urge each one of you to go see him in person, drop by the oldest bookstore in Andhra Pradesh, buy a book, meet this simple yet heroic man who is an icon of generations.

The birthday post - 22

(older ones here and here)

I think I'm proper adult now.
Its sinking in.
Have not stopped chewing nails though.
The hectic year has demanded it.

In may I was at undergrad college, in june I was pursuing an mba, in july I found myself at a publishing firm.

21 has got a nice ring to it. It sounds more confident of itself than 22.
23 sounds nice, I guess because its such a prime number.
22 is stuck in between.
But then the middle is supposed to be the best part.

I like really long emails almost as much as I like moderately long letters.
I still prefer a short letter to a really long email though.
I still am a bundle of contradictions.

I realised I'm not really in favour of genetic engineering. Haw to the biotechie.
I miss walks. Thats what I miss most about vellore. And the space.
I love cows. I own a bracelet with wooden cows on it.
I hate time zones. Its so difficult to communicate esp if the time difference is six hours.

I realised I need a catalyst for music.
It doesnt flow out of me the way it does from them.
The only thing I want badly is an electric piano/fodu keyboard. \
I used to love chocolate ice cream, now I'm tired of it; I never liked mango much; I dont seem to like strawberry either; and I can't stand butterscotch; I used to like vanilla till my brother told me he doesnt like it and now I'm doubtful too.
I love mango/orange bar though, the kind that makes your tongue orange.

My five weeks in Chennai were the craziest five weeks ever.
The amount of support I got from both family and friends was magical.
I love train rides in Chennai.
My emotional graph is all spiky.
I'm nowhere close to being stoical.
I get extremely affected by things.
But I can also be as solid as brick. Ha.

Strange things annoy me. Like foot-door-stoppers.
Like filing nails.
Like when people sing happy birthday, most people touch the lower notes (usually the 6th) at the third line (birth).
I love kids.
The one thing that can make me happiest is rain.
I'm happy to be home.

I'm picky about words.
Like I'd never use the word 'regards' unless I absolutely have to because I don't like the sound of it. It doesnt have any kind of heart or soul. Putting a warm before it just makes it sound like something that absolutely cannot be warm.
My favourite fruit is the orange because I love its sound.
I'm terrified of anything underground- tunnels, mines etc.
In a man, I seek simplicity.
I like things to go my way.
Sometimes I insist they do.

Guys are strange beings but I think am beginning to understand them now.
I dislike cities and traffic and lights and noise.
Another year gone by and the word cute still tops the compliment list. Where is smart and outgoing?

Clouds fascinate me.
I will bear a big smile the whole day if its cloudy.
I will hop around making high pitched excited noises if its raining.

I hate being corrected by someone who I know is right.
I love animals.
I love naming pets and since I don't have any, I name my friends'.
I can't last two days without rasam.
I have seen that love works wonders.

I have a quick temper.
The year has been megaeventful. Dhamaka sale oly of life changing incidents.
I tend to be extremely dramatic.

Birthday calls are the best.
I feel loved.
I always have something to say.
I like reminding people that I'm around.
I am superwoman.

something to write about

today I saw a fat dachschund puppy clumsily walking along the street, and it was the oddest, sweetest thing in the world.

muse

I opened notepad today, because I felt like writing. I stared at it for a while, wishing I could doodle on it, but resorted to chewing my nail instead. After a few minutes of staring, I lapsed into that contemplative mood where a multitude of thoughts stream in my head and I cant seem to capture all of them. It's much like those runners at the bottom of news TV channels - where you catch some part of a line in a glance, wait patiently for it to reappear, eyes glued to the screen, but inevitably miss that bit again.

So when I can't capture my thoughts while they're being thought, it's a problem later on. During my rethinking, I find that there are lot of gaps. Is that a memory problem? Because a re-thought is actually a memory of the original thought that you're trying to bring back? Either way, I can't seem to find some thoughts once they're thunk out. Or rather, I can't seem to find thoughts when I want to write them down. Missing links. Which explains why there is so much discontinuity in my writing. I reread my old blog today, and cringed at the staccato presentation.

But then again, I was never good at writing prose or composition, I think. A considerable amount of effort goes into it. I think writing sentences itself is a challenge. And I find it a complete drag, having to succumb to the rules of grammar and sentence construction. ( And to think I'm an editor, at that!) A sentence is supposed to make complete sense, which I find rather troubling. What if I don't want to make complete sense? What if I just want to leave my sentences hanging in mid-air? Full suspense creation, ha.

It's easier for me to put a bunch of words in verse, especially since I think in pictures. Writing free verse is like spray painting a wall. And writing prose is like having to colour inside the lines.

However, this is only my perspective. I find my sentences too bound by themselves, too dry, and I need to figure out a way to let them loose. I have read some compositions that have made me marvel at the writer's ability to put his ideas so simply and fluidly. Its only when I'm trying to say something that I get stuck. All other times, when I'm not really bothered, I seem expressive enough (eii wait ya, I'm telling no).

Sometimes I wonder if language itself can fall insufficient of expression.

Words have shape and sound, and silence is space.

the same old

Change is inevitable. That's a universal fact. You try to cope with change, and before you know it, you're changing with it. Try to resist, and you change all the more. Obstinacy doesn't get you anywhere. Accept, accept, that's what they've been preaching. I wonder why it is that even though all the wise men have been drivelling it into our heads that we should 'go with the flow', it isn't applicable easily.

Change is stealthy, you didn't even realise when it had crept in. It seems sudden, always. But it's been sitting there all long, growing, in one dark corner of your room, waiting for you to acknowledge its presence. In due course of time, it turns into an attention seeking, gleeful monster, poking and prodding you. Since its there to stay, you might as well get acquainted with it.

Change makes you think, change makes me think. It is the curtain in between scenes that morph into each other in a strangely disconnected way. And the characters run about excitedly, confusedly, changing costumes, going over dialogues.

Change sucks you in and lets you out.

It binds, it sets you free. Go through it, turn it over, walk around it, wallow in the whys, but there's only one way out.

Skip to point now.

just

I went to a school for slow learners/mentally challenged children yesterday.

I met a boy there, S, who is autistic and is something of a musical genius. He plays the piano, guitar and sings. He played a few songs on the keyboard and I was absolutely mesmerized. S sang softly even though the room was noisy. His eyes shone as he played and chords just flowed out of him. It was clear he was somewhere else, he was part of the song. He composes, too. I asked him if he understood what harmonizing means , he said he did. I sang a few songs with him and it was one hour of absolute bliss.

It was exhilarating to have connected.

Five weeks in Chennai

I've explored a considerable amount in the past five weeks. It has been been nothing short of madly tumultous but exhilarating all the same.

I went to the beach plenty of times during my stay. I love the beach. I love the ships and their tiny lights against the vast blackness. Oh, and the lighthouse! Just fascinating.. especially with all those Enid Blyton tales absorbed into my system. This part of the Marina is charming. The beam sweeps over sea the in a majestic circle.. and the spotlight falls on a building during its course! I always wondered how the residents of the apartment might be sleeping with that big round yellow beam shining through the windows every few minutes, its quite amusing. I can watch the sea for ages. It just fills me up with that half-thrilling, half-calming, lifting feeling;the cup runs over but keeps getting filled up like PC Sorcar's Water of Ganga. With every rise and fall of the waves I get a little higher.

Am going to miss the city, sorely. The Saravana Bhavan coffee, Oxford Bookstore, Landmark on NHR, the Madras Terrace House. The kittens in the hostel, the walks on Sterling Road, the walk to college, the guinea pigs, the train rides, the music, the friends.

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new."

contemplative

I suffer from two syndromes. One is exhaustive overthinking and the other is overthinking in exhaustion. Both don't seem to be very productive.

new

Before I can recover from one college life, another has begun. A sprawling leafy campus, endless classes and new faces. And the old friends and the music. The mad jumble-tumble of a schedule is about to begin.. in the heart of this dirty, hot, happening, charming, growing-on-me tamilian city, so full of sweaty activity.

Life has been updated.

Four years down

And I'm older,wiser, proudly parading about with my graduate status and readily obliging to spill some of this accumulated enlightenment.

College has been a series of cup-of-life-runneth-over-type experiences-from the crazy impromptu trips to the quiet reading in the room, from the screaming jumping rock concerts to the more sober evenings. I devoured books, frowning over pages of literature and philosophy. I discovered and rediscovered music- I met some brilliant musicians who introduced me to some brilliant musicians. I climbed hills. Everything just flowed freely. There was an appealing rawness about life.

I came across some incredibly talented people, some extremely nice people and some crazy people. Some have been constant, steady and steadying. Some swept me off my feet, some put me back firmly on the ground. Everyone I met had a role to play that, on looking back, seemed to fit in place.

Here, all our lives did hotchpotchedly intersect.

Now grown ups, and being expected to behave so, we will, as the Little Prince says, busy ourselves with matters of greater consequence.

muse

it's all about finding that perfect imbalance. precarious and breathtaking, yet firm.

perspective, vellore

To this place where I've found peace.

After having lived in a city for most part of my life, Vellore has been quite an experience. The place has grown on me. And how much! Vellore is a small quaint town, with busy streets in and around CMC..and inactivity pervading pretty much everywhere else.
People are happy here. They'd be happier with more rainfall*. But yes, people are a happy lot and life moves at a human pace. Vellore is full of suprises if you know where to look. Orange/pink houses spring up boldly out of paddy fields.. such an anachronism. Evening walks, among green fields and farmers' huts are pleasant and are a stark contrast to the monstrous concrete blocks of VIT. Kids play on the streets, grandmoms sit on the verandahs watching them, cows chew their cud and all's right with the world. Such content beings.

The place radiates a simplicity that is heart-warming. People are not in the least conscious. They possess an atrocious sense of spelling and give their shops atrocious names, but they are so blissfully unaware of this. (Darling residency.. not to mention the Baby too). It's amusing. Endearing. And why the beedi is goat marked is still a mystery.
Home to one of the busiest hospitals in the country, some brilliant NGOs, two good colleges, an old fort/temple of historical importance, dhabas and a million eat-outs, 50-rupees-t-shirts.

And to everyone who has been here and has been a victim of its quiet charm.

* the rains here are just beautiful

all about and over

There seems to be a struggle for expression these days. While there is a constant flow of ideas and thoughts in my mind which I try to put down, I miserably fail to do so. Sentences, upon my reading, seem to glaringly lack meaning and substance. Words, they fail to reproduce even half of an experience, a vision, a colour, a chord. In my mind they dont flow as well-punctuated sentences. Instead,they form an abstract jumble,like graffiti on a wall, refusing to be bound by the clarity that I seek to express myself with.

It is difficult to share what is so mine. I'm not quite sure whether I would call it restless curiosity or greed that makes me want to de-track just to experience what I would not have, had I not taken a detour. I'm in the category of people who suffer from an overabundance of life and when there is a lull I have to take a walk and look for more, for fear that I might miss out on something.

I would love to share, but my inability to express is clinging on, as if it fears that a part of me would be lost if I did. So much lives in a song I grew up on, in my favourite reading spot under that tree, in a cloudy sky. Even simple experiences make my words slink away shamefully,having been made aware of their incompetency.

It seems that in general, so much is personal to me. The problem of inexpression is not half as frustrating as the need to express is. Which, in turn, is not as bothering as is the fact that you might never know what it is like to be me.

3 am

random thoughts.

detachment born out of indifference.or vice versa?
weary acceptance of things unchanging.
sensitivity,tiresome, eventually leading to numbness.
the stupidest yet biggest insecurities.
yesterday's lover,today's past.
blocking out parts of life.
cruel selective memory.
meaningless conversations.
noises outside,silent within.
finding that love is what u want it to be.
letting go of some,holding on to more than acknowledged.
ability to reason out things in the head,inability to apply it when needed.
giving yourself away,like there's no tomorrow.
moments that cannot be relived.
plodding thru life at times, at other times there's unlimited energy,exuberance.
at both times, not knowing night from day.
doing the craziest things which seem to be in a distant surreal world when ulook back.
embracing life,embracing existence wholesomely.
realising the importance of prayer.
no time,space and patience for gossip.
limitless growing.
going thru the i'm-gonna-change-the-world phase.
realising the the impermanence of life and everything in it.
trying to get rid of self-created pain.
laughing...and more laughing.
hugs that can lift your spirits...and the feeling lasting for days.
understanding unconditional love exists only in one form-between parent andchild.
cumulative negativity removed out of the system sometimes by a bout of tears,sometimes by alcohol.
taking things lightly,imagining that they are insignificant in life's larger picture.
devoid of pride,yet ego persists.
learning to use ego as a defence mechanism.
learning to empathize with people.
taking wrong decisions confidently.
discovering instincts are almost always right
learning to submit,without any inhibition,and drowning in that beauty.
the gradual process of growth seeming to occur overnight-waking up wiser everyday.
mistaking temptation for curiosity.
ability to create our own memories.fascinating.
the music matters.
marvelling at the intangible.
alone in the end,but not lonely.
incomplete,part of a greater something.
whole in oneself.

forest fire

the hills are burning. i see a golden ring far away, in the direction of sathuvachari. thick red glow, the flames lapping hungrily. i picture myself on top of that barren, rocky hill, where i was a year back. the sight is unnerving even from this distance, from my room window.

nothing changes. the town is as quiet and peaceful as ever, fast asleep,while a fire rages madly around it.

Bookshop

Found a new bookstore yesterday. All bright and neat and oh-so-organized. And cosy also. I recognized the guy at the counter from another old bookshop that I used to frequent. After hunting for a particular novel in all possible stores in the twin cities, I finally found it here and I was ecstatic!

You know that feeling bookstores give you.. oh, I can spend all day there squinting at weird titles (whatoly people read/write nowadays!), leafing through those heavy hardbound picturebooks with glossy pages all rich in colour, coming across long-forgotten books that I wouldve read as a kid, smelling pages when no one's looking.. ah. I like nice warm bookstores as much as a like old dusty musty libraries.

Heart filled with happy, I say.

Conversation

A vocalist friend of mine said, in contemplation:
He: You know, there's only one thing I won't say when I grow up.
Me: What?
He: "I used to sing when I was a kid."

And in the continuous search for permanency, we forget to appreciate the beauty of everything that is transient.

Or maybe its how we perceive things that make them seem lasting or temporary.

It's all in the mind.

To cut a long post short

So much of time goes into figuring out life no.
That's why the older are wiser.

The birthday post - 21

( for those who read part 1 a year back.. here's part 2 )
Confessions of an almost 21 year old.

I am almost proper adult!
I have to start acting and feeling like one.
I have to stop chewing my nails.
I have to stop saying "when i grow up I'm going to.."

The seeds of maturity are sprouting i think.
Change has happened- in a series of overnight life changing incidents put together.
Change is happening..Waking up wiser everyday.
I've learnt from other people's mistakes as well as my own.

I've read so much n its amazing how so many more books are waiting to be devoured.
I've listened to so much music n theres still so much music floating around waiting to be heard.
My problem is that I'm always in a hurry to get things done.
Because there's so much more left to do no after that?

Being single gives me a strange feeling of self-satisfaction.
I love it.

I'm an extremist.
I'm an ICSE-snob.
Watercolours are a weakness.
Sugar cubes also.
Transparency is just so important in any relationship.
I need to stop accidentally sending messages to wrong recipients.Soon.

It takes guts to accept change.
I do enid blyton quizzes when I'm bored.
My thoughts form faster than I can put them into words.
I get alarmed sometimes about where my career is heading.. eeii what am i going to do.

I rarely forget.
Meaningless things are special to me.
I have a photographic memory.
My mood almost always depends on the weather.
Home is so solid and real.

Reason and emotion are constantly battling inside me.
I want those glow shoes and i want to go partying in them.. it might actually make me dance n all.
I like gel toothpastes they look like light sabers from star wars.
You'll find white spots of sleepily dribbled toothpaste on my nightclothes.

I love my room.
I love the squirrel on the window sill.
Gimme a keyboard and I can sit in one place for hours together.
I like drinking coffee out of steel tumbler and tea out of a cup.

The weirdest thing I've ever been called is " subtly vicious".
I dont understand break ups and cutting off completely from someone who's been part of your life at some point of time.
I believe everything can be sorted out if you can stretch your capacity to understand and accept.
I'm a total optimist.

I am tired of writing illogical tests that come nowhere close to testing your actual problem-solving skills.
Its not like I dont have answers i always have too many and cant pick.
I suck at decision-making.
I'm pretty much going around in circles.

I cant walk slowly.( you guys know..!)
I've been told I resemble a penguin more than once.
I always have something to say.
I am repetitive.
I seem to attract mallus like a magnet.
I finally found where all the cute guys in hyd are. Google! Eyecandy
It seems the easiest way for a girl to get a guy is to play hard to get.
It's never worked for me.
I've found that love is what you want it to be.
I've found love.
I cant drive big cars- I dont understand th dimensions and what I might hit when i turn.
Anything to do with oceans and seas and ships and ports and marine animals fascinate me.
IT parks are just depressing.
I've written over 100 poems.
I hate being called a poet.
The word reminds of me an old man reciting his lines to silent brooding pieces of victorian furniture.
Or a girl with airy-fairy ideas about the world.
and I am not both!
I'm a writer.
I'm still waiting for that point in life where everything will settle and go smoothly.. but whats point of life being straight line graph.
Put them bundled up sine waves all over the place.
I desperately want to change my email and blog address( moimystique!) but its too much of pain now, after all these years.
There's nothing like roaming around on the streets of chennai and having coffee on the roadside.
There was a time when I thought i was in love but i wasnt sure.
Then i thought i was in love again, this time i was sure, but it was too complicated.
And i was suddenly falling in love all over the place and decided i must be having some hormonal problems.
I've realised that nothing is constant.
It's always the beginning when you think its the end.
I am convinced that the world needs me.

I couldn't ask for more.

Enough

I want to live in a country where I don't have to stand in long queues for everything.

I ask

Conclusions Part 1

Short hair makes ass look bigger.
Blue toothpaste makes teeth blue but red doesnt seem to make em red.
Songs can hold your life.
Men are SO annoying but we need them anyway...Sigh.
You never feel like writing in a new white plain pages book.
Your own voice sounds better when no one's around.
There's no reverse gear.
You never want to throw away old posters that have been in your room.
The alphabet 'L' reminds me of water.
It's mortifying to send a message to the wrong recipient, switch off phone for ages throw away sim card for a while and then get a delivery report when you switch it back on.
It's comforting to know that other people are as clueless as you are.

Who woulda thought!

On the train back from Bangalore, I made conversation with this guy sitting next to me. Turns out he works for this zipper company,(yeah, zipper) and he spent some time explaining the different parts of the zipper pointing to the one on my bag...I was slightly taken aback, I hadn't really thought about the working of zippers before.There's even something called a zipper truck in some places,which i found quite fascinating. He was a bit show-offish ("oh, i know aallll languages, I'm a marketing guy, u know") so I decided to check if he was bluffing once I got back.

So I read up on this company,it is a Japanese company called YKK,the biggest manufacture of zippers in the world. I checked my jeans, bags, all zips had YKK inscribed on them, I hadnt even noticed before. Branded zippers!! There are even fake ones cuz they're so popular.

Read up on zipper history.Then got to reading bout how Velcro came about.

Suddenly have a new range of things to dwell on.

Today

I have painted nails and I want to be a skydiver.

Window

Every night I see this light from my room. It is far away,blinks yellow and green alternately. My window faces the hills,which line the highway. There is a lot of empty land in between. So when i look out,i can see a million tiny lights far far away and total blackness otherwise. And towards the left there is this mystery light flashing throughout the night.. and it's quite big even from this distance and if you stare long enough you can see that white ring around it.

My room view is all about peace and quiet this year. Lot of activity, but peaceful activity goes on outside. Very unlike railway facing room of last year,with the constant rumbling of trains.

There's a pond outside covered in moss,which big yellow machine came and swallowed up yesterday. So now its all clear, and mirrors the sky and clouds and trees. Can spot kingfishers and white birds (egrets?) taking dips sometimes. Blue bus sails by every morning at 7ish, I think its a school bus of some sort. It's a quiet road, used to walk there very often.. can almost see myself walking down when I look out. Farmers at work in their paddy fields, stray cow or two, bullock carts. Its like watching still life, but with slight changes in the painting everyday.

When it's noisy, it's jarring-when it's peaceful,the calm is overwhelming. Life's like that no sometimes?

Annoyingly loud squirrel tries to strike a balance though, waking us up every dawn. Pah.

Vent

So I am becoming expert in family tree sums. Gimme number of males, females, who is whose son in law and I’ll tell u in jiffy if M is A's grandmother or sister or daughter. I did off all family sums from ims, time, brilliant study material and I feel so smug.

Then no today i am also very happy because for first time in life I worked out sum without looking at option and I got 12487.5 and wow it was one of options and it was right!! I was so thrilled I will become like Byju guy and they will stick posters of me with my 100 percentile in CAT all over the place yay.

Tried to sort out things for a friend but suddenly found myself more involved than expected..weekend was blur of hyperemotional phone calls and math. Patience and tolerance levels got tested like anything. Mercury meniscus reached alarming levels but somehow everything blew over and then there was peace. Also saw sad old Hindi movies... Amitabh is such a hero no boohoo.

As always, life here is sudden burst of activity with me trying to frantically juggle everything at once, and then there'll be a lull when everything moves at typically Vellorian slow motion before next hurricane arrives.

As of now I need sleep.

Jusht oly Happy

heyyyy today its raining again after relentless burning scorching heat for like ages and yesterday being the hottest day in vellore and now its all breezy and stormy and rainy and lightningy and we jammed and sang in music room in evening... harmony sounds so much clearer and prettier in the rain thunder drumrolls and all i walked back to hostel at night and grinned at myself stupidly in all the puddles hop skip jump i want onion sambar