Me, Myself and More!

since nobody is reading or writing on LJ...

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:41:20 GMT

am hoping someone is at least viewing it ...

Turning 30 is horrid; and since I am depressed abt it, I went shopping...and this is what I got...my new baby!

0 % unique? 71 % herdlike? :) Absuardly obsure?

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:55:05 GMT

Quite a jolt to my ego, but what can I say :) >

So, meghainclouds, your LiveJournal reveals...

You are... 0% unique, 0% peculiar, 29% interesting, 0% normal and 71% herdlike (partly because you, like everyone else, enjoy travel). When it comes to friends you are normal. In terms of the way you relate to people, you are wary of trusting strangers. Your writing style (based on a recent public entry) is absurdly obscure.

Your overall weirdness is: 26

(The average level of weirdness is: 29. You are weirder than 58% of other LJers.)

The Blogalyser reveals...

Your blog/web page text has an overall readability index of 11.

This suggests that your writing style is conventional
(to communicate well you should aim for a figure between 10 and 20).Your blog has 58 sentences per entry, which suggests your general message is distinguished by verbosity
(writing for the web should be concise).

CHARACTER MATRIX

male		female
self		world
past		future

Your text shows characteristics which are 54% male and 46% female
(for more information see the Gender Genie).
Looking at pronoun indicators, you write mainly about yourself, then the world in general and finally your social circle. Also, your writing focuses primarily on the present, next the past and lastly the future.

Find out what your blogging style is like!

Miss Goody Shoes

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 19:16:27 GMT

As a kid, I had quite the reputation of being Miss Goody Shoes. :) While I dont really think i strived towards it, I dont really remember doing much to correct the impression either. Oh I have to tell you that I wasnt really good - its not that I didnt 'think' anything bad; I just was terribly bad at executing things.

I guess this is as good a time to slay the demon of Miss Goody Shoes.

I have always been a voracious reader, and my parents have always indulged me. It was always okay if stayed up late reading, or if I came late for dinner, or got late in the library. It helped of course that I was not only good at studies, I also liked studying (ewww, I know its gross, but I didnt particularly get a chance to slap myself as a kid). However, there was a unfortunate phase in my literature loving years - a phase I am extremely proud of. The Mills and Boon phase. From Amar Chitra Kathas, to Enid Blytons, to Dickens, to Maugham to the Russian classics - my reading was all very respectable like me. So it was quite surprising when my dad found that he had to pay for an increasing stash of M&Bs from the library. He didnt say a word - my dad finds it difficult to talk about anything which is connected to boys and romance :) Anway, he was relieved when I was in the tenth standard, and he could legally put a restriction on the amount of books I could read - ALL the books. He didnt have to specifically mention the M&Bs.

At this point, I have to tell you I had a bad attack of M&Bs, much more damaging than any viral attack or measles or mumps or whatever. I was bad, very bad. No you dont understand. I was horrendous. I used to take like 10 books from the library at one strech, and read like two a day; three if I could manage to eat a really long dinner. And it wasnt even a short spell - it went on and on and on. Btw, if anyone needs any information on M&Bs - authors, styles, themes, anything - just ask me - am da man; I can write a whole thesis if required. But I digress again. My dad had enough - it had to stop - he restricted all books till I finished my board exams. I was not really devastated. There is where the bad part girl comes in.

That year was really hectic; in addition to the pressure of the board exams, I had Bharat Natyam classes, computer classes, and 'eat as much as you can' classes. Well, the last one was really dinner time. Anyway, the whole day was crammed with activies, and I barely got enough time to breathe. At this time, my dad decided that I should wake up at five every morning to study. As cruel as it sounds to all of you out there, it really wasnt; those were the days when I could wake up before eight thirty without throwing abuse at the Gods above. Note again - this is where bad girl kicks in. My poor dad would wake me up at 4.45..cuddle up with me till 5, nicely seat me on my reading table with tea, and then go into the kitchen to help my mother. And what would I do? I would open my thick text book, open it to page 77, take out a new M&B from my stash, place it strategically between the book, hold the book very straight, and read it with as much concentration as my chemistry text book deserved. You think its sane to wake up at five in the morning and read a M&B? What can I say? Thankfully, someone told my dad that sleep is extremely essential for Board Exams, and he decided that it was enough that I woke up at 7. Really, what can I say? I WAS a sidey, corny, cheap teenanger. I just never gained enough credit for it because I also was one of the school toppers in the Board exams. Some people never get recognition for their true worth.

Why do I remember all this now?

Yesterday was a hectic day at work.I had logged in from home and was working till 11pm. While my work was intense, there were frequent breaks when I had to wait for other people to complete their part and send it to me. During those breaks, I was reading a M&B (I still read them *defiant pose*) and my dad walks in with a cup of tea. I could swear it was almost exactly the same feeling as 15 years back. This time I was working on a laptop and had nowhere to hide the book. I quickly shut the book and almost thew it on the bed and concentrated on the laptop with fierce concentration. My dad just kept the tea on the table and walked away.

It almost took me a minute before I realised that I wasnt fifteen anymore, and it wasnt my board exams, and I was actually MUCH past the age of reading M&Bs, and even if that was true, I could read them without hiding. It was a weird feeling. In the years between fifteen and thirty, I did go on to do a lot more justice to the bad girl tag I wanted, but I hadnt thought that being caught with an M&B at the age of thirty by my dad, would actually get me embarrassed. It did. Its a sobering thought that at the grand old age of thirty, I really have to work on the Ms Goody Shoes attitude. Seriously. Really quite a lot to think about. And of course quite a lot to work on - as you see, this is not the day we will slay the demon of Miss Goody Shoes.

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 22:58:55 GMT

Little Mrini tugged at my hand as she insisted on me reading the book, or rather, reading it out to her. As I shifted my attention from her proud mother and a story about her, she perched herself comfortably against my side, pushed her hair off her face, ran her tiny fingers over the pictures, pausing to look at my face with exaggerated patience. I smiled at the lion, exclaimed at the leopard and duly the admired the tiger, all the while waiting for approval on the little one’s face.

I was born in a family where you didn’t think about kids so much, you just produced them. My dad had nine siblings, my mom five; the next generation didn’t do as well though, with my parents doing the worst – I was a single kid. Still, we were a family who didn’t think about kids, or talk about kids. Kids were there – all over the place. They were a natural progression to marriage - you had them, you took care of them, you loved them. You loved them – loved them not as kids, but as adorable, sweet little beings – sometimes annoying beings - who were nevertheless part of your family, and who needed your care and attention. Of course you liked other people’s kids too, but then, its not like you liked them ALL the time – oh come on, even when they are bawling into your ear on a long bus journey? Did you? Sure you love the Johnsons baby ads, sure you got all excited when your niece held your finger for the first time, sure you adored the neighbor’s boy – he was just so loving, how was it possible not to love him back – but all the time? Maybe you did? I didn’t. Well, I don’t know if I did – as I said, I didn’t think about it so much.

And then I did – think about it I mean. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Growing up, I had always assumed that I would have a husband and kids, just like everybody else did. People with divorces or single people, or even better, single people with kids - they didn’t cross the limited periphery of my imagination; if we did cross paths in real life, it didn’t really make an impact. As a grown up, I can’t really claim that my imagination got any better, but the dimensions of reality had surely changed – not life, not environment, not situations, but reality had. Normal life everywhere, but a different reality. A reality of un-loved kids, abused kids, ignored kids; a reality of irresponsible parents, un-kind parents, unacceptable parents. I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently it was – as people narrated stories, I wondered at how different my reality was from theirs. As shocked as I was by the stories of cruelty and neglect, I was even more shocked at stories of un-intentional mistakes. Oh I didn’t expect parents to be perfect, but I was surprised at how people remembered and reacted to their parents mistakes. And as much as I adored my parents, I tried to be objective about how my childhood had been. Objectivity. That was necessary. And as surprised as I was at a story, I was surprised when people said that it was better not to have kids, rather than have them and subject them to their mistakes – whatever, the reasons for those mistakes were. I understood; as I heard the pain in their voices, I understood. And even as I understood, I was surprised when they actually said that.

I am not sure when I said that, when I first said it. I am not even sure what my reasons were for saying that. I am not even sure what my exact words were; I think it was “I don’t think I want to have kids”. Over the years I repeated the statement. Oh my reasons were different, and hardly noble. It wasn’t due to any misguided notion of saving un-necessary pain in the world; it was more that I was exploring a new world, a world full of possibilities, and a kid didn’t fit into the convenient scheme of things. I had tons of things to do, and in the middle of these things, what if I ended up making mistakes everybody else seem to be making? It was selfish, but it is easy to persuade yourself that its selflessness – better not to cause more suffering in the world.

Also, it wasn’t most difficult selfless decision I made. First, I wasn’t married, far from it; second, I wasn’t really the maternal kinds, I hardly went the ooh aaah way with babies, and I was quite liable to get annoyed with obnoxious kids. I had wanted kids with J, but after that, it was an easy selfless decision. Really, it was.

So it was quite a surprise when my room mate agreed with my decision not to have kids. Of course, she was my room mate for a good six years, and she knew me well, and who better could verify that it was a sensible decision. Still, I wish she hadn’t been quite so vigorous in her approval about the whole thing. I left it at that, and went on to tell a few more people about my general views on parenting and kids. Objectivity. That’s essential.

A few months later, and I worked up courage (and that was the first sign that something was wrong) and asked my room mate on why she was so sure I shouldn’t have kids. She calmly told me that she didn’t think I would make a good mother – kids needed a lot of care, and I didn’t have that kind of warmth or patience in me. Oh don’t mistake me – she wasn’t being mean, just matter of fact, and she genuinely didn’t think that the statement would hurt me. I had never wanted to be a parent, a mother, so why would I care on whether I would be a good one or a bad one. I was a good human, a good friend, a potential bad mother, but why did that matter? After all if you are never going to apply for a position, why worry if you are going to be good at it? I was hurt, really hurt. But I had an explanation, and it was a sensible explanation. I have always been the kind of person who was always good at whatever I tried, and it was just that my ego was hurt that I could be bad at something. A very sensible explanation, a very objective one.

Was it important to be a good mother? What made you a good mother? If you hugged and kissed your little one when she was hurt? If you instilled the ‘right’ values in her? If you spent ‘quality time’ with her? If you read bed time stories to her, and made school projects for her? I hated to admit it, but these were considerations, things I had refused to consider. Yet, I knew that I did look down on my colleague who spent more time on herself, than her kid. I, who advocated personal growth and space, did look down upon a lady who was embodied that, but who needed to ‘make time’ for her daughter. The colleague was a divorced lady, who had just come out of a bad marriage, and surely I shouldn’t resent her new-found freedom, her time to herself, her joy at being finally rid of ties. But I did resent it, I did judge her, and I did think that being a good mother was important. Why did I persist with this traditional image of a mother who was always there for her kid? Surely I knew that the world had changed, men and women had changed, their roles had changed, and if you were good at everything else, did it really matter if you faltered at parenting?

As days passed, I didn’t really have to make empty claims that I didn’t want kids. I was provided with good instances on why I shouldn’t. When I took an apple from the fridge and ate it without washing it, a friend exclaimed “God save your poor kids!”. A odd conversation with J years after our breakup; he casually mentioned that I shouldn’t have more than one kid – that’s all I could handle. He was the only guy I had wanted babies with. As I watched my cousins play for hours, I wondered at their infinite patience. As I saw my own parents love me, I wondered at my own capacity for love – would I be able to love another human being like that, with that kind of devotion?

I can’t discuss all this without talking about my mother. I have never really talked about her, it’s always been my dad. I have always been Daddy’s little girl. When I scrapped my knee, I ran to my dad and he hugged me; when I had to do a school assignment, it was my dad who built the best doll house in the school, sitting late every night; when I had my first period, I cried to my dad that I had cancer, and he quietly took me to my mom; when I had my first fight at work, I called my dad and he told me to take the first bus home. And my mother – I love her and she loves me – but we never told each other that; never showed how much we care about each other; we both took pride in flaunting the daddy’s little girl thing. But there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t realize that she is a really amazing mother. Its amazing that I haven’t really told her, told the world that. She is a teacher, a strict disciplinarian, and she isnt’t really a ‘hugging kissing’ of person. But does that make her less maternal? No!!!

Over the past two years, I have grown closer to my mother. As she grows older, she is less hesitant to show her vulnerabilities. As I grow older, I am more aware of the woman behind the maternal mask. We talk about things we have never talked before, about being women, about relationships, about love. As I talk about marriage to my parents, for the first time, I realized that I was connecting more to my mother than my father. We talk more; I hug her more; she calls me every day now; its strange how things have changed, how I feel positively maternal towards her. Is it because I see glimpses of myself in her? Objectivity. That’s difficult.

Last month, one of my closest friends had a miscarriage, her second one. I watched her pain and stood by helplessly, not knowing what to say. She wanted a baby, ached for one – she has wanted to be a mother from the time I have known her. I have watched her with her niece and if there was ever a girl who deserved to be a mother, it’s her. She is beautiful – and yet I see failure in her eyes. As her body lets her down, she questions her essence as a woman, her purpose in life. Even as I hurt for her, I struggle to understand why? Does it mean that life without kids will always have voids? Is being a mother, serve a higher function in life which I am unable to comprehend? Will the love that you give and receive in all the other roles of life, ever compensate?

Last month I told my room mate that I want to have kids. If I did marry, I would have kids. I say that with increasing confidence these days. It’s quite strange when I am increasingly un-sure about whether I would marry, but that’s the way it is. My room mate is still unsure about it; I am not. It’s not because I am think I have become better at raising kids, it’s because I want to do, I need to do it.

Little Tara comes and joins her twin. Mrini refuses to give up her seat next to me and I hurriedly distract Tara. Its leopards and tigers once more, and I get into the ‘indulgent aunt’ mode once again. As both of them climb to my lap and gift me with wet goodbye kisses, I am quite thrilled to be the indulgent aunt. As their mother herds them into the house, she tells me that she is training them to be independent, so that she can do her own thing. I laugh as I see her eyes dart inside even before she is saying good bye to me. Yeah right – I believe that! But I am talking to space – as she rushes inside to do something she will never take for granted – Being a mother. Me, I am back to be being indulgent aunt. .

Introspection

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 16:49:04 GMT

Written a long time back...but didnt feel upto posting it till now... :)
==========================================================

Its been a long break - and this time it was not a case of verbal constipation - Its just that it has been difficult to articulate things - writing has been difficult, somehow the words dont seem to come as easily as they once did, and if they do, they dry up suddenly..suddenly there are multiple backspace keys and a lot of empty spaces, and I dont mean just on the computer. Have you ever had these phases where so much has happened, so much is happening, to you, to people around you - where there are moments, memorable and otherwise, and yet you dont seem to be assimilating anything - They seem to be passing you, they seem to be telling you something but you just cant understand what it is. Its very simple and its right in your face and yet, yet whatever it is...it seems to be slipping away from your fingers. A small slice in time....fast paced moments, defining moments, loving moments..and yet that whole slice seems to be static.

I know I am not making sense, but I did warn you :) Words dont come that easily these days. I have considered myself to be a good observer of life, and yet life as it passes by, with its innumerables follies, it doesnt seem trigger any response any more..at least with writing.

Life is a journey of self-discovery they say - and as each day passes I struggle to see myself, clawing aside the banality of existence, and clouds of self deception. I try to question myself, my being - not as much the heights I can achieve, but also the depths I can sink to. I try to smooth wrinkled beliefs held in tight-fisted but aged hands, to wade through platitudes and decaying romanticism and try to reach the bleary figure, that may or may not be me.

Each day has moments - pleasant, boring, sensible, even lovable. I try to sift through these to find the ones where I am the most comfortable with myself, even when I try to understand what means. I am not unhappy, neither am I lonely, but I do think I am alone. I find distance around me, voids which I am not sure will ever fill up. Some of this could of course be circumstantial- a strange country, a different work place, and a new life. It would definitely be unusual if I acted as if nothing was different. But there's more - it suddenly feels that beliefs are perceptions and they need to change as the angle does; that convictions are rigid fingers that feed a self pandering ego, and that respect, as you were taught to respect it, is something which you cannot earn - it has to be there in everything around you.

Around 8 years back my roomie asked me if I had any regrets with my life, and I replied that I didnt. However, after a long pause, I did say that my only regret is that I hadnt done anything. She looked at me as if I has lost my head and asked me if I realised what a big regret that was. I had no words - my life at that point did resemble a newly mowed lawn - neat, pretty, and blooming...well, bland too. Almost a decade later I have the same conversation with another friend, and the answers this time were so different. A decade - so much happiness, and yet so much regret too - of kindnessess forgotten, of love thrown away, of malicious cruelty, of unwitting snobbishness, and the most unforgiveable of all - deliberate self deception. Oh there were always reasons; some days I even believe that those were valid reasons; on other days I take comfort with the reasoning that I woudnt be what I am without those reasons- and yet is it really important that I should be the Me that I am today?

As I watch TV, I seem to focusing on the little clock ticking away on the lower right corner rather than on whats happening on screen. Its a new movie thats playing, one I have never seen before, but all I can see is the remorselessness of time. The newness of everything around me just seems to bring the contrast of the old with it. I know that's the way it is supposed to be. After all 'old' and 'new' exist as antonymns in the English dictionary, dont they? But how are you supposed to transpire the time between old and new?

Sometimes I think I am a creature of nostalgia - loving the anonymity, the safeness, and cosiness of the past. I have held on to old books, old clothes, old credit cards, old friends, old lovers..refusing to let go. The memories associated with all of them are not happy, some decidedly painful, and some horrendously painful. And yet I dont let go - maybe I feel that if I did let go, my life would be the plain green lawn again. I dont know. I hope I would know soon.

The strangest thing just happened now. As I write to you, I suddenly realised whats missing. No, its not a Eureka moment. I dont grab it with triumph, nor do I gape at it with discovery. I just hold it with sadness - with my fingers paused at the backspace key, hoping that maybe I can rewrite it. I cant.

I miss the sense of being 'touched'.

Its ages since I felt that. Weird, isnt it? As I look back at the myriad motions time has taken me through, I recall the excitement of a new life, the comfort of friendship, the overwhelming love of parents, the kindness of strangers, but I dont recall being shaken by any of it. Why? I have not been a stranger to emotion - I mean, I am the same person who has touched raw wood being polished, and wept at the beauty of it. I am the same person who used to dance to tasteless Bollywood music on my own, and yet feel a million emotions as my arms arched into space. I am the same person who would rub oil into a child's scalp and feel emotion tearing right into my toes. I am not talking abt the giddiness of romantic love or the the torrid vulnerability that comes with it. That came, that destroyed, that passed - into realms I will never know again. No, I am not talking about that. I am talking about the heart, the heart that has been relegated to the status of a organ, a biological one at that. I am talking about walking though a crowded, noisy street and feeling grateful, really grateful for being alive, and smiling as you stand like an idiot in the middle of it. I am talking about the ackwardness when I said good bye to a friend on the phone, when I paused because I didnt have anything to say because words could not do justice to that moment. I am talking about the soundless quiet that pervades your soul while you are walking around a temple in silent prayer, your feet pressing into the squishy mud. I am talking about the wind that blows into your face and your being when you are sitting on a train step and a fellow passenger joins you, and you laugh together at the way your dupatta is flying - at the smile he gives you before he moves aside for your friend to join you.

I dont feel that anymore. That's what I mean by the remorselessness of time - not the first grey hair, not the ageing metabolism, not the signboard of thirty which appears in next year's calendar. Not even the acceptance of the acceptability of a life without a companion. That's what scares me - that time would take away the one thing without which I am just a shell, a shell with layers of self pandering beliefs - unkind, unimaginative, unreal.

Maybe its time to let go. Maybe its time that time learnt to be kind. Maybe its time that I learnt to trust it. Maybe..maybe words would be easier next time...

Tue, 19 May 2009 04:47:28 GMT

I have never understood why I have given so much importance to love. All that is a weapon - a weapon to defeat people. A weapon to wound, lash out, to massacre - till you reduce the person whom you love to be much lesser than a puppet.

Love...I wish I never I knew what it was...

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 20:53:34 GMT

Warning: This is a very long read and might not make too much sense to non-malayalis....well, malayalis too..so read at your own peril...

Its not often that I write about men in my journal, that too Malayali men. My opinion about men is poor, malayali men even poorer, and so why burden my journal with the their weighty, arrogant presence? Its unfair on the journal and me and just adds another cap to the ideal Malayali fantasy of well-read, moustached men who thought that a sense of humor allowed them the luxury of being assholes.

But some men, some deserve a mention - if not anywhere, in my hallowed journal. One such man is called MohanLal, otherwise known by all Malayalees as Lalettan. But then if you are Malayali, and reading this post, you would obviously know that. Duh! It strikes me at this Notepad moment that any Malayali who is reading this, knows all that I am saying, and so whats the point. No point. No point at all. But write I must.

You see I grew up with Lalettan. In Devlali. No, we are not next door neighbors, but you already know that. You also grew up with him. But this is my journal, and I have to give you my version of the story. Yours can wait.

I am a Malayali, one of those fanatics who realised pretty late in life what it is to be Malayali. There's a reason. You see if you live in Kerala, and you live with other Malayalis, you turn out to be a sane Malayali (I have insane Malayali friends who argue that there is no such thing). But if you live in a small town in Maharashtra, with a Kerala Samajam, and an Aiyappa temple, and Malayali parents who have other Malayali parents as friends, you turn out to be ...well, a Malayali who is quite convinced that she is not Malayali. And who screams out the fact to other Malayalis who scream back, with the end result that nobody hears anything. Which is probably why after two decades I have finally come to terms with it - that I am Malayali.

Anyway, back to growing up with Mohanlal. I dont remember when I first met him. It could do with the fact that I am growing old or it could do with the fact that he has always been part of our lives. Devlali has one Malayali shop, well, one shop with a Malayali shopkeeper, who sold jackfruit chips, gingelly oil, Malayala Manorma, and did NOT sell Malayalam movies. But right opposite this shop, is another one which is quite important to the scheme of life, or if you insist on absolute honesty, one which is quite relevant to this story. You see its a shop which rented video cassettes - no, not DVDS, not even VCDs. Video cassettes, if you are old as I am, you would know are things you play in a Video Cassette Recorder. It rented video cassettes of Shiva, and Silsila, and Saudagar, and Sanam Bewafa, and Jackie Chan movies. It also rented Sanmanas Ollavarkku Samadhanam, and Mukendetta, Sumitra Villikennu. I can almost sympathise at the plight of poor non-malayalis who are attempting to pronounce those names. But considering the amount of people who read my last post, I neednt worry - I dont have a vast audience. Sigh! Yes, getting back to VCR shop as it will be called for this story, it was where it all began.

As a teenager when you are told that Malayalam cinema is the best in the world, you think its part of the parents grand plan of having untainted Malayali blood in the family for the next fifty years. I know - I will add 'demented' to the list of adjectives I use to describe myself. The late eighties was the time when Doordarshan showed one Hindi movie every Saturday; the early nineties was the period when Chitrahaar gave way to things called as countdown shows. It was also the time popular kids in school participated in Antaakshari with Hindi songs (naay, not Bollywood songs, Hindi songs); also the time when everybody thought you were hip if you had seen "Honey, I Just Shrunk the Kids" or knew Michael Jackson songs. I was a popular kid. A hip one too. As an additional FYI, I have to also add that my other hobbies included reading Screen and Filmfare and gossiping about Sangeeta Bijlani and Salman Khan. I can see a few people cringing, but what the heck, I still do it.

A tumultuous childhood. I agree. My poor desperate parents were torn between two choices - me growing up as an American English-speaking, jean-clad, tattooed rebel who sang songs with unpronounceable lyrics. Or a loud North Indian who wore pink lipstick and who danced to "Mera Dil Gayega Zubi Zubi Zubi.." at weddings. Yes, some choice that. Desperation called for drastic measures, and thats when my dad finally made friends with the Sindhi owner of VCR shop. The pattern changed - every weekend we now took one Hindi movie, one English one (which Sindhi uncle certified was 'clean'), and two Malayalam movies. And thats how it all began.

I wish I could claim it was love as first sight. Or second sight. It wasnt. I pretty much didnt understand the first malayalam movies I saw, but that could be a indication of just how slow I was. I thought the next few movies were funny - I didnt know what satire meant then. A few more movies, and I thought that malayalis sure know how to poke fun at themselves - I didnt know what sense of humor meant. Then there were some movies which were so natural..and yet intense. I didnt know what to say except that they made me uncomfortable in a weird way. They were good movies, I agreed, but I still thought that Aamir Khan IN QSQT was the 'bestest' actor ever. My parents talked about art movies and commercial movies and tried to explain the difference. My conclusion was that not-so good looking actors like Om Puri and Naseerudin Shah acted in art movies and good looking ones like Aamir acted in commercial ones. There - one more adjective for me - shallow. They gave up.

The next few years passed without any obvious perils. I continued to watch movies - lots of Hindi, lot less English, and very little Malayalam. Somewhere down the line I fell for Deepti Naval. And Amol Palekar. And then Hrishikesh Mukherjee. People then told me about 'middle cinema' and 'light films' and I watched them. I discoved it meant that the movie had awesome music, the heroine was believeably pretty, the hero was believably not-so pretty and was NOT a businessman's son, they lived in actual houses and not sets, they had humour which didnt involve Kader Khan, and they showed women in nice cotton sarees and sleeveless blouses. I liked. A few more years and a middle aged man called Mahesh Bhatt replaced Aamir in my affections. We continued to rent malayalam movies from Sindhi uncle. I was now familiar with most Malayali actors - Mohanlal was one of them. Plump, thick curly hair, and a moustache - not my idea of a 'hero'. He wasnt as per my obnoxious cousin - he was a 'lead actor' he explained with disdain frothing on his nostrils. I agreed because the cousin has promised to let me watch one of his raunchier movies(Mohan Lal's, not my cousin's, I have to clarify), and I didnt want to upset the delicate balance of power. Shallow? Absolutely.

Years later when I joined college in Kerala, people told me that the 80s and early 90s were supposed to be the best period in Malayalam cinema. I also started understanding the concept of directors and scriptwriters and discovered M T vasudevan Nair, Padmarajan, Hariharan and Bharathan. But back then, while we watched these malayalam movies on Saina Videos, we didnt really focus on the director or the craft as they say. I dont think I could ever write a decent movie review - not now, not then. But at that point, we were beginning to talk about the story, the characters, and Mohan Lal. I would never make it as a film critic. But yes, the stories..(not the scripts)..the stories - they appealed. The characters - they touched. Mohan Lal - he conquered.

I am not sure I can analyze why and when I got hooked - for two reasons - 1) digging deep into my childhood could bring up embarrassing secrets. 2) I simply dont remember a lot of things. Sure, I can list out my favourite movies, but that isnt it. As much as I hate to agree with the obnoxious cousin, it is the truth - Mohanlal was a actor - an actor who brought out the literal definition of acting. Any person in a story-telling medium who tells the story by portraying a character is an actor. Mohan Lal was just that. He introduced me to some of the best characters I have met - some of the most simple, most complex characters ever written. Oh yes, there are so many others actors who did that - in other Indian languages and international cinema as well. So why is he special? I almost typed "He taught me to be a Malayali". Now that would be a big exaggeration; it is; maybe untrue too like all exaggerations. But the fact is that he did get me quite close to Kerala - malayali culture, malayali people, malayali sensibilities and ethos. Inspite of my best attempts to fight my roots, I coudnt help connecting to my land, my people. What began as a discovery, a reluctant admiration for something foreign has become a fanatical pride in my very own culture.

In Varavelpu - I saw the gulf malayalee's desperation to come back home, his welcome being worn out, his dreams being shattered in a state unfriendly to entrepreneurs. In Panchangni, I stood by the helpless journalist as he fell in love with a strong lady who has suffered the system. In Kireedam, I watched a small town guy's dreams to be a police officer fade into nothingness. In Nadodikattu, I laughed through the antics of the unemployed, educated 'graduate', who wades and kicks through life with desperate optimism. In Amrithamgamaya, I met a multitude of kids studying in medicine and engineering colleges in Kerala - their innocence, their camaraderie, their darkness, their guilt. In Thoovanathumbikal, I watched Jayakrishnan alternate between his rustic and sophisticated personas with equal ease and yet falter with the two loves in his life. The stories were many, the characters were lots more, the sensibilities lots more complex - and yet he breathed life into every single one of them. My later years in Kerala brought me into contact with the best in Malayalam literature, music, and cinema. I grew to appreciate the nuances, the art, the craft of cinema. As I dug deeper, I always had fellow enthusiasts along with me - arguing, agreeing, discussing - passionately, and that always led to new insights, new depths, new discoveries. Not just about cinema or literature, but about myself, my identity, my beliefs, my convictions.

But Mohan Lal was there before all this. He was there at a time when I coudnt enumerate, elaborate, or elucidate. He didnt have an aura, he didnt have charisma, he didnt even have a stage..he came and went without leaving a stamp of himself - but coloring landscapes, drawing characters, evoking emotions..on unacquainted palettes like mine. At a time when my sole bragging consisted of a theoretical knowledge of national awards and Aravindan, Adoor and Shaji Karun, he took me into unknown..nay..known familiar shores and helped me build castles of my own.

In my journey/venture to be a cosmopolitan Indian, I have passed through stages where I have grabbed and let got of my heritage at the behest of convenience. I now claim to be Mallu (not malayali), I speak un-accented English, I speak better Hindi than a lot of North Indians, I have a larger share of non-malayalis as friends, I have convinced my parents that I would never be able to live in Kerala, and on most days I live the life of the person I want to be. And yet today I am one of the most clannish people I know.I also have this fierce pride in something to which I am not even sure I have contributed to (other than the accident of birth of course). I know identity is one of of the most misrepresented words in the English dictionary, and yet I use my heritage to define a big part of it.

And thats why I take great pleasure in disagreeing with the obnoxious cousin. Mohan Lal is a great actor, one of the best the world has seen - but he is also a hero - my own personal hero. My very own Lalettan. And yes, with the moustache too.

For those who are interested: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohan_Lal

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 01:33:39 GMT

I listen to the rain patter on my window as I curl into the comforter. I was told I was coming to 'Sunny California' when I moved here, but I havent seen too much of the sun since then. I can listen to people moving about in the apartment upstairs - lots of thumps and lots of grating. Strangely the sounds are comforting and not annoying, the feel of people and noises is something I have learnt to value since I have come to the States.

I am amazed at the quietness in America. Cars dont make noises, beds dont creak, stoves dont splutter, babies dont cry. There are vast open spaces interspersed by huge freaking things they call freeways. And on those huge winding freeways people hurl around at neck breaking speeds, not one of them making any noises. I mean, how weird is that? In India, anybody who sits on my bike screams, and I swear I dont go beyond 40Kmph.

Anyway, back to the rain. I mean to write about the rain. Its a safe topic to write about..like love. After all Americans use it in every part of conversation - to start it, to prolong it, to end it. The weather I mean - not love, of course. Of course, love is a safe topic too. Everybody talks about it - some scorn it, some lap it, some love it. I digress. Yet again.

Yes back to what I was saying. Rain. My earliest memories of rain are as a one day old baby. Really, I swear. I was a rain baby. I was born in a small town in Kerala called Chertala on the day the Americans bombed Nagasaki, well, thirty four years after that. Well, that year, that day, there was no bomb, but they was a huge deluge. The heavens opened and there was rain like never before, the sound of it drowning my screams. My father hired an Ambassador car to bring me back to our ancestral house which was a good three hours away. He held me against his heart for the next three hours, not even shifting me to his lap, not wanting me to feel the waterclogged potholes on the road. I slept. I smiled. I listened. To the sound of rain against the glass, and my father's heartbeat. That's my dad's most precious memory. Mine too. He of course also remembers the severe backache he had for the whole next week. I am strangely vague about that.

Then again, as I grew up in Devlali, a town known for its artillery center, its old Parsi bungalows, and cold harsh winters, the rains did not play such a huge role in my life. I mean, I have more memories of freezing water in taps, and navy blue sweaters with Vardhaman wool, and bicycle rides on foggy mornings, than of anything else. But maybe, there are some things one can never forget. Every year when I came back from our annual vacation to Kerala, I would be miserable. It was a three day journey, and I would spend every minute of it, alternating between fantasising about my marriage to my cousin, and misery at leaving what I thought was my inlaws house (Those days I thought inlaws were a pleasant species). The last leg of the journey was on the Bhusaval express from Kalyan to Devlali. If you ever want to experience the magical Indian railways, do not, and I repeat, do not get on this train. Its slower than a snail, its dirty, its got extremely uncomfortable wooden seats, and every single person on the train is a glutton. The train would start from Kalyan station and I would dread getting on it. I would sit amidst dhoti-clad farmers with gandhi caps and old women with green tattooed bindis, and hope to God that they would not spit out the betel nuts they were chewing with monotonous regularity. And then ...and then it would be morning and I would look out of the window and forget everything. The Western Ghats would have the sexiest, drenched, really, really wet look, and I would gape at her awesome beauty. There would be miles and miles and miles of the richest green, and the rocks on the cliffs would look as scrubbed as the washing stone in my backyard. The trees were not dense, and they often stood lone and proud in the deep pastures, all clean and glistening and fresh. I would touch the drops on the bars on the windows, and then touch my nose. I dont know why, but I did. The train would groan and puff and rumble at my eccentrities, but I think it liked me, because it always stopped at the most beautiful places for no apparent reason. My father said it was because of passing trains and different signals. Blah! As if I would ever believe such a stupid explanation.
And then we would slowly roll into Devlali Cant; its a really tiny station with two platforms, and beyond the small station building, you can see the hedges, and beyond it, a tarred clean road and small dotted houses at the horizon. For years it was the same view, and for years I have loved it. It always meant coming home, even though it was a timeI had constant doubts on where home was.

And then of course the time I fell in love. Not with rain, of course. With J. I remember the first day, or rather the first time we acknowledged it. We walked out of the old house in Indira Nagar, and crossed CMH road in a daze. We didnt hold hands, it was too new for that. The old park was full of people, even though it was drizzling, and yet nobody seemed to notice how different we were. We felt so different, we were in a different world, how could anybody not notice? But nobody did. I chattered without knowing what I was saying, and he was silent. He said he was hungry, and I took him to Butterscotch. We wanted to sit on the steps but it was too wet with the rain; I dont know if there is anything called lover's luck, but the old grouchy shop keeper actually dragged two plastic chairs for us, and placed them on the veranda. I dont remember what we ate, I dont even remember what we wore that day (and I have a pretty good memory about clothes), I dont remember what we talked. I just remember the cold wet breeze and the warmth inside me. J said bye after an hour and went away and I didnt see him for the next eight months. But it was enough..I think it was.

It would be weird if said I have always loved the rain. If you are in Bangalore and you have a bike and a one hour commute to work, you would be a big fat liar if you said you loved the rains. Which I probably I am. In addition to the obvious pleasure of getting drenched, you have to deal with crawling traffic, death traps in the disguise of potholes and salivating lechers who think you are impersonating Zeenat Aman. And yet its been difficult to wish away the rains. I have often stood near the office pantry, sipping the disgustingly sweet lemon tea, and watched people go home, and pretended that I was happy I didnt have to rush home. The rain has always been a reliable friend who visited you when you needed the company.

2007 November. I was in hospital for 25 days. They coudnt figure out what was wrong with me and my organs were supposedly shutting down slowly. I hadnt slept in days, I was running high fever, and I had promised God that I would marry the next guy my parents sent, as long as he got me out of the place. November in Kerala is like Chennai at any time of the year - meaning its hot and humid and the fan in the room offered no comfort. That night there was a thunderstorm, and the power went off. I could hardly breathe and I have never hated anyone more than the rain Gods, that night. That same night was the first and last time I saw my mother cry - she held my feverish body and cried along with me, cried as both of us prayed for divine intervention. All my life I have been Papa's darling girl, and my mom has been the stern strong mom, guiding me through the rules that every child inherits from its parents. That night as thunder broke over us, and rain pounded on the windows, I dimly realised how vulnerable my mom was, and how much I needed to know it, how much both of us needed to know it.

Its almost six months since I have come to America and I am still getting used to the idea of living in a country with distinct seasons. I loved summer in Kentucky; Kentucky with its vast green horse farms dotted with black and white hedges and its 'this is the smallest place in America and you must be kidding if you thought you could have fun here' attitude. As the days grew shorter, and my longing for India became bigger, the land decided to change colors, or rather the trees did. That was kind of them because I was down in the dumps, and the colors suddenly lifted my spirits. I was told this is autumn in America. Every day as we drove from home to office, and we crossed the hills, I would watch the expanse of red and orange and maroon, and think of the song sequences in KANK and hum along with the music in the car. It was nice.

And then it all changed again - they told me I would have to stay longer in the US and and the seasons decided that they would have to make it harder for me. Winter descended with the promise of snow and lonely nights, and I curled up further into myself, away from everything that was warm and special. And rain? No, America doesnt have monsoons, as they taught us in geography class in school. But I discovered that the rain did work its magic in the land where it wasnt even acknowledged as a season. In fact it didnt work its magic, it worked a miracle. As we sat in our apartment on cold wet days and talked about home, and loss, and love, I watched as two friends found comfort with each other. It was in Kentucky that I saw my first double rainbow, and it was in Kentucky that I saw Smiles fall hopelessly in love. I was turning too old and cynical, but there is something about rainbows and mushy love which makes you feel young again. Jealous too, but thats another story.

And now I am in California - the land of desis and traffic which comes close to impersonating Indian traffic. Winter has come, and is still on, so has Christmas. New year too came on a stealthy note, and left before I could say hello. But the rains - the rains didnt let me down. Rain drops came and pattered cheerfully on my window sill on the very first day of the year. I didnt get up and open the drapes - you do that with strangers. I just smiled to acknowledge him, and went back to sleep.

The Suprabhatam on my laptop is over and now I can only hear the rain. The people upstairs have gone quiet too; I can hear Smiles in the other room but it seems to be from a far away place. Someone in pinging me on Gtalk, and I smile to acknowledge an old friend. The comforter is pulled up to my chest, and I tie up my hair. Smiles yells across that she will make eggs for breakfast. I grin as the friend sends me her baby's picture over Gtalk. The rain..its still pattering....

On why I love travelling...

Wed, 10 Jan 2007 12:11:31 GMT

I come from a family which was “middle class” in the true sense of the word. Yes, I know, these days everyone is called “middle class” right from the software engineer who earns a six figure salary to the call center dude to the government employee who barely makes do. But back then in the days when my parents were called middle class, we had “enough and a little more” as my father would say. But I digress, as usual.

The point I actually wanted to convey was that we were very middle class in our thinking as well. Money was there – but for a “solid” education, a long awaited home, a second hand Premier Padmini, and a rainy day. But, money for travel? – never occurred to any of us. Vacations meant the annual month-long trip to Kerala, and if you got excited about the three day train journey, or poetic about the scenery, it was attributed to mallu blood running through your veins. Perhaps, it was – I am not sure. As like any bookworm, I loved to read descriptions of different places in all the books I read -right from Kirrin Island in the Famous Five, to the old English countryside in Jane Austen’s England, to the hills described by Ruskin Bond. I did fantasize about being marooned on a beautiful island, or kidnapped to an exotic rainforest with a beautiful waterfall, but I would be lying if I said I wanted to..or desired to visit a “real” locale. Fantasized – yes. Desired – no. Tried – no. It was always an unreal world – people who did wonderful things but who were very different from me. So, if the Famous Five took their bikes and went camping, it was so awesome and wonderful – but it never occurred to me that I could too. Yeah, of course, I did the pretend stuff - using a sheet as a tent and making “chakka puzhukku” with cousins, but a real trip? Hell, no!!

My maternal uncle was considered the “hip” one in the family. Every year, he would plan a “family vacation” with his wife and kids; maybe with his wife’s extended family too. They would hire an Ambassador and visit places like Kodaikanal, Ooty, and Mysore, and when they went, my folks would act as caretakers of the house. And every year, I would watch them leave, happy to have the huge house to myself, but also quite envious about the adventures I was sure they were having. One year, I think my uncle caught the faint wistfulness (or envy!) in my eyes, and suggested that I come along with them. This time it was a religious trip to Parani with a stop over at Peechi dam – but religious or not, I was thrilled. When my father nodded his consent, I could hardly believe my ears – I knew I was going to have so many adventures. And I did! Well, every single thing seemed like such an adventure to me. The cramped journey in the Ambassador, the stops at “chaya kadas”, eating lunch in the shade of huge trees on the road side, staying at a small lodge with the entire family fighting to get the most comfortable beds, the climb up to the top of the temple, even fighting the rush to get darshan at the temple. I do not remember too much of the places, but I do remember the excitement, the spirit of freedom, and the feeling that I was exploring something, away from my comfort zone.

Years later when I came to Bangalore, the world was changing. People had started talking of travel as a passion, as a hobby, as a noun. I was amused. How can that be a passion, or for that matter, a hobby? But then I dismissed it – after all, tennis is an expensive sport, and I supposed rich people do play it. People continued to write ‘travel’ as a hobby in online forum – I continued to ignore it. I was now living as a paying guest with four other girls, and we were slowly getting to know each other. One boring afternoon we had just each other for company, and nothing to do and one of them piped up with “Let’s do a trip together!” It started with Coorg..and went and back and forth…and landed, guess where? New Zealand. I just hadn’t expected that, and that’s when I first met (in the real sense) the two most influential people in my life – RG and LB. Both of them very different people but with one common desire – to see all the beautiful places in the world. I was amused, but I was beginning to understand that these people were actually passionate about “travel” and I really didn’t have to be scornful about it. They were serious – how could anyone doubt it, when they were ready to spend 70k on a week long trip? (These were the days when we earned 6 k and barely had enough money for a Coorg trip). I passed. As excited as I was, I had grand plans of studying abroad and every penny saved made a huge difference. They went and came, and I duly admired the pictures. But I didn’t really feel too upset about missing out on the trip.

Then started a period when weekend holidays became the fashion, and I was surprised by how much I started liking these. Goa, Ooty, Karwar, Wayanad. I had started to make lot of new friends, and before I knew it, we had a gang. One holiday happened..and then another..and then another. It was no longer surprising that as one ended we were planning for the next one. I guess I was perverse to very end, because I always insisted that I was having fun because I enjoyed the company of friends and not because I enjoyed traveling as such. It gave me great pleasure to say that the place didn’t really matter, just the company did. To some extent, I still think that’s true.:-)

And then Australia happened. One day LB and RG suggested that we go to Australia. I agreed, without even thinking. RG wanted to see the rainforests, and LB wanted to see the beaches, and I wanted to ..hold your breath.. “travel!”. Yes, I really didn’t care about which place I was going to – but it was an exciting idea, going to a foreign location. I wanted to sit in a plane, drink coffee in an airport lounge, take pictures out of a train, talk to different people, eat different cuisines and yes, see a lot of different places. Me, who had scorned the idea of people spending money to see places,…wanted to, and wanted to badly.

Sadly, Australia was not what we had expected – or rather what they had expected. The rainforests were brown, the waterfalls didn’t have water, and while the beaches were awesome, they did not compensate for a barren landscape. And yet..and and yet, it was beautiful to me. Oh, not because RG and LB were with me (that too), but because it was an experience. An enriching one. Each moment – new, different (I have learnt to respect this word!), and liberating. They added up to small experiences, each one of which I savoured with greed, but hid with a pretence of sophistication. Walking along the crowded streets of Sydney watching formally dressed people hurry by; or drooling at the hunks surfing in Gold Coast; or checking out an old deserted cabin in the Blue Mountains, shop in the deserted streets of Cairns; or the best one ( a hunky cabin crew member took my hand and took me on a tour on a cruise;-)); or walking hungry in Sydney and sharing an apple with LB because we didn’t have any money (okay, that wasn’t really such a pleasant one) – I cherish every memory. That’s what I meant when I said I didn’t really care about the place. I do to a certain extent, but beyond that, I have learned to cherish each and every moment, out of the ordinary.

Of course the journey had just started. Then followed quite a few trips – within the country and out of the country. The US a number of times, and finally Europe of course. Europe is the most beautiful place I have been to, but my favorite travel location? The US. The US was my first solo trip, and where I totally learnt to appreciate traveling. I had expected to be lonely, really lonely. I was right – well, to a certain extent. But I also enjoyed myself thoroughly. Suddenly there was a whole world around me, and there was so much to do. Small things, but it’s a huge deal for someone like me – someone who had never really taken the offbeat path, and worse, never really wanted to. The possibilities were endless, and I was totally overwhelmed by them. Whether it was going to jazz concerts, or camping at an Indian settlement, or eating bison (yeah, yeah, I know!), or trekking up the Georgia mountains, or going for architectural tours – I hadn’t done any of that, and definitely not alone, and it was such a high, I couldn’t understand it myself. I found myself getting excited about traveling by the Subway, about learning a smattering of Cuban because my cab driver was Cuban, about shopping in Macy’s, about attending a church service, about everything.

And yes, I have learned to appreciate beautiful places too :-) It wasn’t that difficult. It doesn’t surprise me these days when I hold my breath when I see the mist waft pass a mountain to reveal a glorious sun rise. It doesn’t surprise me when I listen to the sound of my boots crunch on the snow, and think it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. It doesn’t surprise me when I look into total darkness overlooking a Coorg farmhouse, and feel totally at peace with myself. It’s not rare that I huff and puff and curse on a five hour trek and then have conversations with the stars as I lie under them. In fact, it seems perfectly natural to walk along a beach and feel the waves lap at my feet, and think that I want to do this (read that as travel!) all my life.

I have come a long way. Traveling. :-) The journey and the destination both turned out quite different from what I expected. I guess that’s what traveling has given me – a belief that I could change my beliefs and that it was okay for me to do so. Its given me lots more too – new friends, new ideas, new possibilities, new hope. Yes, hope. When you see so much beauty around you – how can you give up on hope?

Am I passionate about travel? I don’t know – I don’t think so. I don’t think I will ever be a “vagabond” at heart, as RG is; I love my roots, and am quite anchored by them. But I do confess that it is nice for me to swing on those roots to some neighboring lands. :-) And…that is that. Quite a rambling traveling travelogue ha?:-)

Home pics!!

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 13:54:36 GMT

Yes, am very much alive..and kicking:-) I know I have been awfully quiet, but all's well - just a case of verbal constipation. :D Will be back soon, hopefully....till then, pics of my new home..

Statuatory warning: Only "oohing and aahing" comments are welcome!!:D

Well, seriously, anything goes - but just go little easy on the critical comments (am extremely sensitive when its comes to talking abt colors, layout, furniture,floor..does that leaving anything?;-) ). Of course, suggestions are welcome!!

New living room - colorful aint it?;-)

The tavern!!!;-) yeah yeah, all booze pics in the dining room.

Christmas tree, lamps, a quilt to keep me warm on a winter evening!

A few knick -knacks!!

The pics I had bought from a street-side vendor in Salzberg.

My seat!!! and arent the flowers pretty?:)

You guessed it right! I love "yellow" these days.

First christmas in new home - new christmas tree as well!:)

And HAPPY NEW YEAR guys!!!:)

Mon, 09 Oct 2006 11:26:04 GMT

After days of procrastination, I finally did it!!! and here is the end product...

Yes that's pork curry - authentic mallu style, or at least the way my mom makes it. Those who know me personally would know how rare it is for me to actually sit up on a weekend and cook. But I did! and I am so proud of myself, considering the fact that it came out well, and more important, I did not mess up the kitchen (the proof lies in the fact that my roomie came home and asked me where I had bought it from. Normally, if I cook, the kitchen gets so screwed up, my roomies actually hide plates and vessels so that i wont use them all!)

Its not that i hate cooking - in fact the opposite. I love making stuff, but without any interference, and totally at my own pace, without anyone making any smartass comments. Which explains why the pork came out well - it was prepared in total solitude; jagjit singh, iced tea, and the aroma of grease with garam masala....awesome!!!! And strange as my friends might think, I actually do enjoy entertaining too. Oh I have never been the kinds who has formal parties and proper get togethers, but I do like people coming over. Of course, I am terrified to invite the pros (guys who are so good ar it), which is probably why i have been only inviting starved mallu bachelors only:D

Anyway, the pork curry was part of a resolution - am gonna try and make one dish every week. *determined look*

All in all, a nice weekend!!!:D

Thu, 14 Sep 2006 15:00:43 GMT

Why on earth do FRIENDS have to get married?!!!!!! Its the most annoying thing EVER! and I am tired of pretending that I am happy for them. I am NOT!!! Well, I am..but I also hate them for doing it.

Simply because it changes things, and I dont want them to change. People say that things dont end after marriage, and you can still have fun, and your friends are still your friends, and life will almost be the same. Perhaps it doesnt for the people who become couples, but life does change drastically for the ones who remain single.

Oh dont mistake me - my friends are still the sweetest people. Its just that 'things' have changed. Its very difficult to see a rollicking gang dwindle away and be reduced to sad figures. Oh we still meet each other, but the feeling of bonding is missing - its as if you dont belong anywhere now, you are having fun - but alone - and that sucks! The camarederie, the total madness, the undemanding understanding, and most of all, the relentlessly annoying but essentialy heartwarmin companionship is missing now. When all of us were single, we fought, we bitched, we even drifted apart from each other - but in end, it was as if we knew that we only had each other, and so we had to be together. And that was enough - at least for me. Now I resent the fact that some of us have other people to go back to. What we had was good - more than good - why change it???

I so miss the laughter, the crazy antics, the drunken nights, the long drives, the night long gossip sessions...:(

I tell my dad that if some day I do agree to marry, it will be for all the wrong reasons. It will be simply because I will be the only one left and I will be tired of just watching them all go away. The biggest threat to singledom is not love, but plain inconvenience. Of course you can talk abt making new friends and all that, but honestly I think I am growing too old for that - no energy to socialize and worse no will to. In that case, what do you do..sighhhh..sigh more..write bitchy mails to 2 more of the endangered species, sigh some more, and when you still dont feel any better, write a nonsensical post on LJ. So, thats what this is abt...waste of your time? Too bad - you must be long married, in which case you wont understand (you have long forgotten what it is to be single and happy) ; or you must be just married, in which case you wont be bothered (too self-centered); or you might be just about to marry, in which case I dont like you; or you might be like me - single and intending to remain that way, in which case you are welcome to leave as many bitchy comments as you want to here.

P.S..This was brought on because I was trying to arrange for a old friends trip to Goa..and could just find 2 of them ready to go:(

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 14:50:41 GMT

The flowers match with the salwar I wore - pink. Oh well, the flowers were bright pink and I wore light pink, but what the heck, they did go well. The green looked fresh and bright, and so did the houses behind me, but I could only feel the heat, and smell the musty air.

The guy asks me to adjust my dupatta. I smile gently at him, adjust the dupatta against one shoulder, look at him modestly and ask him if I will do. He does a critical eye-over, and apparently is not satisfied as he mutters something under his breath, but decides that nothing better can be done.

I adjust one hip against one tree trunk, and lean against it. The dupatta moves again, and he is annoyed. Afraid that I will have to endure it more, I quickly smooth the starched garment, pull away the hair from the face, and try to contort my facial muscles into an expression of peaceful discontent. Apparently, it worked – because he shoved a few more lights into my face. Its was easier to now depict the peace and calm – the lights make you shut your eyes in calm solitude, and the heat makes you look like you are dying a peaceful death. But it worked, and it was soon over, as he finally clicked the last pics. I decide to shift my hip before the poor overworked plaster of paris tree gave away.

And so ended my photoshoot for my ‘pennu kannal’ pics. I started a few years back, and you should think that I should be a pro at it. But as they say about happy marriages, every single time, it’s a unique experience. Oh the backgrounds are different, the poses are different, the cameraman’s comments are different….unqiue. And it wasn’t over yet.

I come out, and Achai looks at me with curiosity. I am a pro right – so I am well prepared. The gold chain shows above the dupatta, and the hair is pulled back to reveal the diamond earrings – no trace of the oxidized nose ring. He smiles, and I smile back. Ahhhh, thank God. All’s well that ends well.

Well almost…

We are paying up when Achai turn back and looks at him. “Photo korachu bright aakum pattumo? Eru neram ollelum, korachu velithu erunotte”

A toothy smile from him.. ““Athinu entha..photoshop il athekke adjust cheyamelo. Korachu color enthayulum kodukam”.

Thank God for Photoshop…what if Chakkolas Fairness oil doesn’t work?:-)

For non mallus:
Translation:

Can you make the photo brigher? Even if she is a little dark, let her look a little fair in the photo.

Of course not a problem. We can adjust the colors in Photoshop. Will definitely give her some color.

Thu, 31 Aug 2006 06:27:06 GMT

countries i have visited..4%..still a long way to go...

Fri, 25 Aug 2006 15:06:46 GMT

I am back!!!

from europe...will post abt it..but first a few pics...:)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/72735368@N00/

and i finally my userpic..quite a difference from last year right?:)

Tue, 22 Aug 2006 00:46:58 GMT

I have to finish this meme..i promised Smits:)

I said...
good night!!

I want...
to lose weight..

I wish...
that there would actually be a genie who would grant me one.</div>

I miss...
My family ….and once in a while J

I hear...
the sound of the coffee machine…

I wonder...
whether I wonder too much

I regret...
too many things

I am...
still trying to figure out myself

I dance...
to every tune..

I sing...
when I ride my bike

I cry...
when I get so angry I cant speak

I am not...
a warm person…

I write...
when I feel like..

I confuse...
between dislike and respect for G

I need...
an occasional whack on my head when I get into an self pity mode…

I should.
go sleep..its 2.30am

I finish...
this meme…now:)

What the^%&$^$&^$

Thu, 27 Jul 2006 14:48:01 GMT

Thank you, all of you guys who responded to my last post, with detailed suggestions. I am sorry I couldn’t respond to each one of you individually, but there was a family emergency. My father had a heart attack and I had to rush off to Kerala. He is much better now, and things have settled at home, but it had been an incredibly stressful and exhausting two weeks.

I am back in Bangalore, and things are pretty normal now – well as normal as they could. But that’s not the point of this post, or rather rant. The point is..well, go ahead….read.

My dad is ill, really ill – he has had two angioplasties, and came close to the third one this time. It kills me every time I go home, and see him looking so fragile, and yet so brave. He is above seventy and has lot more ailments relating to his age. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that I can do to make things better. Oh yes, the best medical treatment, and probably “being there” for him (honestly, I don’t know how much it has helped him), but what else? As like most heart patients, and people close to them, we have learned to live with it – learn to live with the constant worry even as you continue with your life, learn to have fun even as you continuously check your phone for any missed calls, learn not to confess your worst worries aloud because you are worried that they might actually come true.

But what about people who have a choice – people who are now young, and have the choice of making a decision to live healthily. It really bugs me, really bugs me, when people act as if its not a big deal – when they choose to mess up their own lives, voluntarily, without any consideration for the people who care for them. Recently I had a conversation with my roomie who was saying the same thing.

She was talking about people who go about making random statements like “oh I want to die at 35..but before that I want to live well..do what I want..WTF, let me drink and smoke and then die..anyway life is boring”…and believe me, its become such a fad to make comments like this. And of course, turn a snooty nose at people, who actually try a little bit to have a healthy life style. Do these people actually realize what they are saying? Do they know that I would willingly take those years from them, and give it to my dad, who had so many plans at 72? Do they actually realize that while a five year suicide plan is what they want, it’s not as instantaneous as they think it is? Do they have any idea about the kind of trauma their family goes through, when they see their dear ones suffering. Forget anything, do they realize that a long painful sickness is not really ‘cool’? We have a friend who is 26, obese and diabetic and today leads a restricted life style. My roomie was talking about irresponsible she was at one time, and how a little caution could have avoided a lot of pain today.

Today again, a girl comes across to me and says that she is bored with life, and therefore she is drinking herself to death every day. Oh maybe the comment was meant to be funny, but these kind of things cease to amuse me anymore. I don’t plan to debate on the pointlessness of life, ..its pointless….but for heaven’s sake, use some brains. And maybe a little heart too..and for once, try and be a little less self centered. Yes, of course, the standard argument – Its my life ..I do as I choose, I live it the way I want….NOOOO! Its not your bloody life….You don’t live in a cocoon… and there are people around you who hold a tiny share in that life you are bent upon wasting. So its high time you stop being so selfish, and show a little concern for others. Boredom? Of course, it’s a long life (if you let it be), and you are bound to get dissatisfied at different points….so show the guts to go ahead and change what needs to be changed….instead of being a weakling and using it as an excuse for being an excuse of a human being. In fact you are worse than a person who commits suicide. A person who commits suicide does it with the intention of punishing the people who hurt him; you do it just out of indifference for people – that’s the worse crime in my book.

Whew!! I am angry…I guess its because this is happening so close to my dad’s attack, but all I am asking is for people to be a little more intelligent, and maybe caring. My dad is 72 and he is doing the best he can in the circumstances. But there is a lot more everybody else can do – eat and drink in moderation, walk, exercise, live healthily. It not a guarantee against anything, but life deserves some respect, don’t you think? I do.

NEED TRAVEL INFO URGENTLY!

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 09:04:22 GMT

Guys, I need some help.

I am planning a Europe trip - Norway, Austria, Switzerland. As of now, the plan is to take Austrian Air from Bombay, with a stopover at Vienna. Travel is Vienna for 4 days, and then go to Switzerland for 4 days, back to Vienna, and then fly to Norway for the rest of the trip.

Slight problem - the cost is working out too high. Austrian air is coming to 49k return inclusive of taxes.

I have another option - Fly to Oslo, via Frankfurt. Then take train to Vienna from Frankfurt. This would cost me 43k. Does anyone know how far Frankfurt is from Vienna, and give me cost options (train and flight)

Also, please let me know if you can think of any way i can juggle around the iteranary, to reduce costs. My norway is quite structured with a defined iteranary, but we are backpacking in Switzerland and Austria..so we do have some options.

Need the info as fast as possible. We are planning the trip for august, but need to book the tickets soon.

Please please please drop in a comment if you have any useful info.

On Ring Road

Wed, 10 May 2006 13:29:42 GMT

You take off your glasses and wipe it and curse the heavens. I am too busy kick-starting my bike to pay much attention to you. Or am I?

“Here, wipe your face with this” A huge hand-kerchief is offered. Jeez, do guys still use hand-kerchiefs – I thought it was the age of tissue paper.

Before you even complete the sentence, I have said No. Moron. Do you think your kerchief will protect my dignity from Indra’s vagaries?

“It won’t protect you. But the rain drops won’t hit you so hard on the face, if you have something covering you. Why on earth don’t you wear a helmet?”

You have been always good at reading my mind. “Loser” I mutter.

“What”

“The rains! Can’t I get angry about the bloody monsoons?”

“You are the one who loves rain, goes all poetic about the damn thing”.

So I am. Do you have a problem with it? Its not that I go poetic looking into your eyes. When was the last time we talked? Yesterday – you were discussing Rubco chappals.

You are wearing nice shoes now though. Nice tan leather shoes. I like tan shoes, though I bet they getting wet and squiggly. I snigger. Not too long though. A gust of wind blows a tree branch right on to the middle of the road. Great, now we have firewood to light a fire, in case we get marooned on Ring Road.

I turn my back toward the wind. The rain drops feel like pin pricks on my skin. Tiny ones, like the ones I felt when you were laughing with her yesterday. I am glad about the rain drops. Taste of your own medicine.

My teeth are beginning to chatter. I shuffle.

“ Come here.”

“No”

“Suit yourself. Jeez, I could die for a ciggy”.

Oh what the f***. Am I supposed to die like I wonder? Looks like this might be the Bombay deluge. But in Bombay, there was a mass of humanity who formed human ropes and helped each other ; you will get me out of here? With your hair plastered on to your forehead, and your half crouching position, you don’t really inspire too much confidence, you know. Maybe they will find us together tomorrow, in an embrace, just like they found Tom and Maggi in the Mill on the Floss. Now, where on earth did that come from?

I can’t see very well. The cars pass by, windshields swaying furiously. The lights are faint, and the road is slowly flooding. Some of them slow down as they pass by, but don’t stop. I wonder what they are thinking about us. Lovers maybe. Lovers romancing on ring road, and caught in the downpour. So ridiculous.

It’s a grey landscape. Grey rain, grey clouds, grey sky. Streaks of silver lightning. Grey blue tarred road, fast disappearing with the dirty brown water accumulating at the edges. I shiver once more.

The pavement is not much. Just elevated mud, now squishy pudding. Dots of grass and I stare at them with all my concentration. Is the feeling of numbness good? Beyond, it is defence land – where they makes planes, or fly them, or whatever. Straggly trees, not like the ones in Kerala. And lots of grass, like in praires I guess. Getting bashed up thoroughly, all of them. Just like us.

“Come over”

“No”

“Listen, this is ridiculous. Lets move closer to edge. The wind could blow you over to road, and I don’t intend coming after you.”

I always knew that. Why would you come after me?

“Ok”

You move over close to the fence. One lone straggly tree. I lean against it. Is it safe – does wood conduct electricity? I can’t seem to remember. My eyes are on the chest hair peeking out of your T-shirt. Straggly, like the trees. Nice. Sigh.

“Why the sigh?”

“Nothing”

“Common, what is it?”

I look up from the chest hair. Eyes, silver blue stare at me. Tenderly? Confused, I blabber. “This rain is called Vennal Mazha you know, but its untimely you know, and its beautiful in kerela, you know, really beautiful, fiery and cleansing…”

I am blabbering I know. Do you know this is exactly what happens you start discussing something serious? I get shy. And scared. And embarrassed. Some people get quiet, some people get talkative, I get garrulous. And then, I blabber again, when I see you walk away from me. The disappointment in your eyes pricks. Like these rain drops.

My voice tapers off. The rivulets flow past your chin and down your neck. Down to the chest hair.

“ We can talk you know”.

I look up sharply at the humor in your voice. Teasing is it? Silver blue eyes smiling.

“Tell me about Kerala” Still teasing, is it? I search through his eyes. Can only see silver grey. It was the landscape.

Talk with the heavens pounding on us? Jeez, the guy must be crazy. “You have read this book on the rains..by Anita Nair?....”

The grey is changing color. To silver maybe. I am talking. You listen, silver blue eyes as watery as the clouds above. I wonder if you notice the way my clothes are sticking on to me. I straighten up so that you don’t notice my tummy sticking out.

“Looks like the rain is subsiding. We could get going you know”

“I know. I have never read this book you mentioned. But the description that you are giving now is much less pretentious you know. Do you write? You should you know..”

I move away. “Wait ”

Silver blue eyes again. Before I know, I can feel your breath on my face. Not warm , just silver blue or silver grey - I don’t know. One finger pushes away the hair away from my eyes.

My hair – jesus f***** Christ! I am sure I look a sight. Self-consciously I run my hands through them. Silver blue eyes smile again. One hand catches my hands and place them on your shoulder.

“Wait a sec.” For what? Jeez, does the guy have to give orders even while he is about to kiss?

I close my eyes. I can feel the wet kerchief as you wipe my face. And then, your arms around me. Was that your lips graze the back of my neck? A touch, a graze, imagination.

And then you gather up my hair. Away from my neck and tie it with the kerchief.

“There. That’s so much more better”. I open my eyes. Silver blue smiling eyes again. “You have lovely collar bones. Show them off .”

“umm”

“Let’s get going. I will help you start the bike.” We rode away.

We discuss Rubco chappals next week. And I have started tying my hair with a kerchief.

Tue, 09 May 2006 06:47:23 GMT

Anyone know of decent trekking places in South India?

I would prefer a hill station - thought of Kodai and Coonoor and Yercaud, but they seem to be too commercialized. I have been to Wayanad and Coorg already.

Must-haves are - Has to be really really green, no people, and at least 10 degrees cooler than Bangalore.

'Prefer to haves' would be - Rains, mist, and a nice waterfall maybe?:-) Decent accomadation closeby would also be nice. And yes, shoudn't be more than an overnight journey from Bangalore.

Yes, I know, I am not very particular.;-)

the perfect job...

Fri, 05 May 2006 13:11:31 GMT

Some time off at work lead to this....

As a kid, I always knew I wanted to be something special. In fact I knew I was going to be “special”. There was no doubt in my mind, though I had absolutely no idea what it was going to be. I knew it had to be something I loved doing, it had to be glamorous, it had to be paying extremely well, it had to help others, and most important, it had to be ‘right’. I never found the right profession.

As a ten year old, I wanted to be a scientist – that idea petered out when I realized that logic and patience were both not my strong points. Sometime later I wanted to be a historian or an archaeologist. I loved history and ancient culture, but nobody I knew I was a historian, so it didn’t seem like a feasible idea (I guess that shows how much I wanted it). Then of course, the ‘writer’ phase – a voracious reader, anything to do with language was interesting. It kind of came close to the perfect profession – writing came naturally to me, it paid well and was glamorous if you did it well (and I was absolutely sure that I would have). I wasn’t exactly sure on how it helped others and whether it was ‘right’ but well it came close. So, that was one definite probable profession. But a few half done stories and some months of reluctant introspection, I realized that it wasn’t meant to be. Writing essays was okay, writing a diary was okay, writing a few passages on something I felt strongly about was okay..but writing a book? I couldn’t do it. I had no drive, no passion, no compulsion to write. So that was that. Then, my teenage years, and the selfless part in me took a backseat – wanted something glamorous, the job which helped others could come maybe after a few years. So I thought I would be an airhostess (no offence to air hostesses!). Well, intentions were good, but being round and roly poly, was definitely not a stepping stone to the glamour world. One attempt to join the Taj group, and that was the end to that.

By this time I was almost through with college, and I realized that I had no idea about what I want to be. All these years I was quite sure that I knew exactly what I wanted, and now I discovered that I actually didn’t. I know, I know, long time for self-discovery, but if you know me personally, you would know that I can be a little slow when it comes to obvious thingsJ. With this discovery, came a sense of freedom, and I proclaimed to the world that I had no ambition. It felt nice, and light, and unburdening.

So now I looked for a job that was just a job. Just the money, fixed hours, and nothing more. My parents were kind of disappointed I think – they have never forced anything on me, but they did want the ‘right’ role for me, and they did think that I had a lot of untapped potential, but then parents are always biased. Finally, a lot of studies, and lot more time later, I started applying for random jobs. Telemarketing executive, faculty at a computer institute, career counselor (this was the best one!), marketing coordinator and so on. I got through my first two interviews, and I was pleasantly surprised. In the meanwhile, my father had actually convinced me to write for CAT. An MBA? Well yes, I loved the academics of management, but actually being a manager? Hello, no! Managers are disliked, and I didn’t intend to study to get unpopular! But then, the management preparatory classes were fun – I enjoyed the case studies and discussions and bonhomie between the students, and as a btw, I went and wrote the entrance exam. I don’t who flipped more – my parents or me when I got a call from IIMK and TAPMI. It should have been an easy choice, and it was. I chose a job I got in Bangalore. It was simple, unglamorous, low-paying, no growth path – as a writer for creating technical books for a computer institute. I think the only incentive was that it was in Bangalore, and that was glamorous enough for me.

I settled down. After all it was just a job. It was writing, it involved only minor coding, and it was only for a while. I did it, and did some more. And I liked it. Soon it wasn’t enough to be just doing it. There had to be a right way, there had to be perfection, there had to be sense it. I argued with peers, fought for what I believed in, and continued that, all the time still believing that it was just a job. But before I could fight more, I quit. The company was shifting base to another city, and so I joined as a writer in the e-Learning department of a big multinational company.

It was new, it was different, and it was good fun. But soon, it ceased to be. Things were not done the right way, there was not enough effort, the client had to be better informed, we should be more proactive – I had a million things to say and lots to contribute, or so I thought. One evening I had a fight with my TL, and she just didn’t seem to understand, and I cried and moped and then finally decided to quit. If things were not done ‘right’, there was no point right? After all there was something to be said about dedication to duty right? Ha! Coming from me, that was pretty weird.

I didn’t quit. After the crying session was over, I was quite determined to prove my point. And besides, to be honest, J thought it was stupid, and those days it was important what J said. And so began my journey as a writer in the team…

What was my job? In simple words, create online course for different audiences. It seems simple, it wasn’t. And soon I was fascinated with a subject called Instructional Design. The principles of learning, teaching theories, there seemed to be so many ways of teaching people. Oh it didn’t happen overnight, but you don’t realize when you have started enjoying your work. And after my experience with my TL, I was quite determined to fight the system within the system. To do the best I could, from within the system.

The funny part is all through my childhood, while I always confessed to knowing what I wanted to do, I also was very clear on what I didn’t want to be. A teacher. My mom was a teacher, and very good one, but somehow I had taken a dislike for the profession. It seemed too noble, too bland, too normal. It was therefore quite ironic to think that I was now thinking about learning theories and teaching strategies. And that’s when I realized that it was more than a job.

Almost three years later – I had become part of the system, a cog in the wheel. So much a part of the system that I didn’t realize where me ended and the system began. The idealism had rusted, and so had the enthusiasm, but I still believed. Believed in what I did, and the impact it had on the world. I guess, when I speak of it, it seems funny..how much impact does e-learning make? Do I really want to teach employees who don’t want to be taught? Arent I making my compromises on all the theories I believe in, so that I satisfy my ‘business demands’? Don’t I know that I can do a much better job, if only I could ignore my corporate bosses? Don’t I know that there are better ways of doing things, but just because my client is a moron and paying for it, I am smiling and listening to him? Don’t I know the best work on Instructional Design is being done abroad, and what comes to us here is the left overs, and yet I don’t protest?

Of course I know all that. I know and yet I believe.

Why? I know that I have changed, lost a few idealisms, but I have also gained a lot of other things. I have learned to value my work, value people and the work they are doing no matter how mundane it seems, learned to contribute where there could be no possible contributions. I have lost faith, but also gained it. In myself, in people, and most of all in the system. As I grew in the organization, I took on different roles. It took a lot of teething, but you do realize the restrictions and the problems that each person faces. A corporate culture can seem megalomaniac, but underneath, it is all about people, and choices, and wonderful inventions and creations. It is about normal, mundane work, and how it all adds up something wonderful, that actually helps out real people outside. It doesn’t involve selfless labour, blind commitment, and a lot of soul searching, but it does involve dedication and commitment. Of course, there is a lot of politics, there is envy, there is unfairness, and most of all, there is compromise. But beneath all that, ultimately, it is about taking pride in the work you are doing, about doing the best you can, given the restrictions, about creating a product which might not be the best you have done, but about creating a product which is best your team could. When I proclaimed to the world that I had no ambition, I meant it. Today, I know I am ambitious, not in saying that I want a great growth path, but that I want to do the best I can, in whatever I do.

Today, I lead a team of young writers, and it is very difficult to explain this to them. Especially when you are not sure of it yourself, and when you have discovered it after 5 years. G is young, passionate, idealistic, and exceptionally good at what he does. He is also termed as a difficult person, because he just does not confirm to any corporate guidelines. There have so many times I have lost my temper, but then, I keep seeing shades of the ‘old me’ within him, and I do not how to handle it. G also makes me question myself every day. He tests my faith every day. Have I sold out? Have I given up? I don’t believe I have, at least not to a great extent, but it’s a constant challenge to remind myself. I guess I am feeling bad, because I am sad about the part in me, that made the compromise.

And so the journey continues.. How long will I go on believing? Will I give up? Through all the depressing moments, will I have the strength to believe in what I profess to believe? I do not know…

The perfect profession…it doesn’t pay, it is not glamorous, not well paid. Does it help people? It does..and does not..I am not sure. But it seems ‘right’. For some reason. There are lot of bad days, especially when G creates a lot of fuss. On those days, I dream of being a travel writer. On other days, I crib and fuss, and yet continue to do what I do the best…believe…

Fri, 24 Feb 2006 07:04:44 GMT

He: whats vishesam?

Me: Nothing really. Slept like a log and forgot to put the alarm.

He: So came in late?

Me: Yes, and then traffic sucked. Had to crawl to work.:(

He: Yes, I know. undersandable.

Me: Plus I was wearing a short skirt, so every hero on the road was staring at my legs.

He: You would have been more pissed if they hadn't looked. So its ok.

Me: I like appreciation big time, but that does not mean I want every male to ogle. Esp when I am crawling in that traffic, and when I am taking 1.5 hrs to reach work.

He: What I am trying to say you would have been more angry if they hadnt looked through the 1.5 hrs journey.

Me: So, I cant even crib now?

He: About the traffic, you can. The other thing, there is no need to.

Me: Well, balls to you!:-) I crib if I feel like cribbing.

He: Do do. Njaan onnum parayinnila.

Me: Good...but you think I am being silly?

He: No, I think you are chumma showing jaada..that you are not bothered at all.

Me: mmm..ok..whatever..

He: ya

Me: Change of subject....

Jeez, have I lost it, or do I really have no right to get angry over the conversation? Or am I being too touchy??

To be honest, I was not really pissed abt the journey. In India you are kind of used to it, usually it does not really bother me too much. Note, I said too much , which means that I am a little bothered. I like appreciation. I like my legs, and if somebody else likes them too, I dont have a problem. I dont mind an appreciative glance, but not when your appreciative glance lingers through the whole length of a traffic signal change. I do have a problem when the appreciative glance lingers so much that I feel that I have feel a body above my waist. I do have a problem when you twist your neck at at unnatural angle from within the auto, and then turn it 180 degrees when I attempt to pass you. And I do have a big big problem when you do your appreciative glance thing for a while, then your eyes deign to travel to my face, and then when your face twists into a meaningful grin.

Having said all that I was not really bothered this time. What did get me angry was the conversation. The implication that if I wear a short skirt, I should be flattered or grateful or accepting even if it was not respectful.

Am I being too touchy? Or does the philosophy of 'rapists rape because girls provoke' hold true? Is it so difficult to understand that girl might feel flattered at certain kinds of attention, but equally repulsed at a different kind, be it a glance, outright ogling or groping?

Wed, 08 Feb 2006 15:54:53 GMT

Keeping the faith is very difficult. Esp when it is re-inforrced time and again, that you have been a fool.

Mon, 23 Jan 2006 16:06:43 GMT

During my holiday at Pune, I stayed over at frizzbunny 's place for one night. Her apartment looks over this heritage building - a mansion called Aga Khan Palace (I think. frizzbunny gave me the name, but I forget).

I loved the building, it seemed so mystical. Except of a writeup written in the wee hours of the morning, as I gazed at it...

The stone felt cold beneath my feet. My lehenga swished around my legs, the beads quivering in quiet anticipation of the morning. I held on to the heavy pleats, and then lifted them over my ankles, not wanting to disturb the quiet slumber of dawn. My ankles seemed dark and ungainly against the pale marble stone, but I did like the ice cold feel as it touched first my toes and then my heels. I slow down my steps, my hips now swaying slightly as I imagined a slight music to the air. The air that seemed frozen till seemed to be stirring, as I felt a few strands of my hair caress my neck. I inclined my neck, now feeling a few more strands playing against my cheek. I let go of the heavily brocaded pleat and it falls once again in graceful abandon on the floor, lift my hand and brush away the strands, my fingers pushing them back behind my ear. I close my eyes, but the music still seems to be playing, far and distant, yet very clear and distinct. The darkness is lifting, and I wonder if I should hurry back. But the sun seems to be filtering in, and as I feel the faint warmth on my waist, it seems like the chill on my heart is also lifting. I had remembered to remove my anklets, so my feet are silent as I now place them in precision over the black diamonds on the marbles. Now left, now right, and now drag the edge over in an arc. One hand goes up in entreaty, fingers limp yet proud, and the sun seems to respond. The light seems to make my hands look fairer, and I use my other hand to brush away the goose bumps. The music seems much closer now, and I lift my hands above my head, now paying full obeisance to this unknown entity. My body arches as now the tempo increases – eyes still closed, I could feel the rhythm as my lehenga pleats fell against my skin. My chunri wrapped loosely around me has come undone, and I place one side of it over my head again. But it eases off again, this time falling over shoulders that are stretching in upbeat anticipation. I dismiss it playfully, and I am now aware of the smile playing over my lips.

My hair is open, and I look back toward the corridor, I brush it away from my back. My eyes look for you, but then before I see you, I blush and move back, once again letting the music take care of me. My bangles now feel heavy against my wrist, as they now move over my face, hiding eyes that aren’t shy more. They now move slowly over a neck that seems painfully bare except for strings of my choli. They move once again, and this time they wrap around the curve of my waist. As I arch my waist again, the dupatta falls back again, I wonder if that’s your hand around it. But then, it’s too late to reflect, and my feet move again, this time a little faster. The balcony now seems like a constraint, though the huge pillars are pleasantly reassuring. There are no shadows in the backyard, as the sun has not yet woken up completely. My feet now touch the sand, and then sink into it. From the cold of the marble to the grainy texture of the sand, it was quite different. The sand made my ankles dirty, but my feet somehow seem to have a mind of their own. The breeze had now turned into wind, and I flung out my chunri, wondering if it felt as wild and one with the wind as I did. I ran around the pond, my breath now panting, my eyes wild, chasing the chunri and the wind. The sun smiled at my happiness, and I could feel his arms around me, his breath on my face, and I wrapped my arms around me, blushing once more. I could hear the drums now, and I whirled around, my lehenga rising high, moving around in circles, as the dust moved as wisps around my feet.

And so I danced and danced….

Fri, 23 Dec 2005 07:28:41 GMT

My stay in Pune has finally ended; am off to Blore tonight. While I am looking forward to home, I know I am definitely going to miss smiles_tina . Had such a gala time with her. While I do plan to have some posts on my impressions on Pune, I have to talk about the highlight of my trip, which was our company party. Since I was too drunk, here is Smits' account.

www.livejournal.com/users/smiles_tina/15568.html

Somehow whenever I end up staying with smits, something totally weird happens. The last time was Coyote Ugly right smits? My account of that crazy night...

www.livejournal.com/users/meghainclouds/8959.html

I only wish priaakumsu was there with us. Next time, Smits come to Blore, we really have to get together, all three of us. Here is to the tribe!