Reshuffle

Hey,

I've been going quite crazy trying to figure a way in which I could be off Facebook while keeping a fraction of the benefits I used to get there.

Why was it such a task to leave Facebook? Because it gave me the visibility I needed. You went out there, read my blog, helped contribute to the cooking scenario and give me that faith in what I was doing. Writing and cooking is not my profession. They're something I love doing, at my own pace and frame of mind. 

I left Facebook for various reasons. But I still yearned for that space. I thought I could make do with my blog here if I tried new options with Blogger. I'm a tech dweeb. I know nothing about technology, computers or worse, HTML coding. I wanted a space for my food and photographs. I thought it best to create additional tabs here on this blog, and tried I did. I googled methods of getting those much needed tabs. But it didn't seem to work out since the Blogger interface has changed.

Somewhere along the way, in posts splashed everywhere (call it tactful advertising if you like), I found that Wordpress allows one to have tabs/pages within a blog. I've been on Wordpress before and back then, it seriously looked like too much for me to need or even want. I just needed that space where I could go and write at, occasionally. Now, it's more than writing. And I find the need to de-clutter (personally and on this space) quite overpowering. 

So I'm giving Wordpress another try. Here's where I will be shifting to. It's crazy for someone who knows not much about technology to keep skipping around. But I've got them ants in my pants. So I've moved here - http://babushkachauhan.wordpress.com/ - the same old me! New avatar, if you like. It can be quite annoying for you, the reader, to move around. But consider this to be a new destination I'm headed towards, with you. :)

And I get to have pages! Go check them out and tell me what you think. The blog is still being worked on, as we speak. It's quite exciting. I do hope this works out. If it doesn't, I'll figure something out. I need to know that I tried, at least. I'm looking forward to seeing you there. Do keep reading! :)



Much love,

Babska
http://babushkachauhan.wordpress.com/

Crashing Waves

It's no hidden fact that I think. I think a lot. I think beyond what is required, most often. You can be sure beyond surety. I don't just think, I think in all dimensions, speeds, circumstances and environments. This isn't me waxing eloquent about how much I think or how well. It's just telling you that my first, middle and last name have the word 'think' in it. 

So yes, now that we've got that sorted out and imprinted in everyone's memory, a few of these thoughts crashed into me the other day, as I was ummmm...thinking. And I thought I'd share them with you because, well... there is no because. 

The world will listen when it is ready to listen. It will carry on doing what it has to or wants to, till then. You can either stand by and watch or you can carry on doing whatever it is that you have to or want to do. Till the world decides to listen to you that is. Maybe it's something larger out there giving you a chance to really think about what you want to tell the world, in the interim. Or maybe it's the world giving you a chance to articulate what you want to express, and how. It's not always that we end up communicating the way we intended to. Sometimes time dilutes things. Or intensifies them. You figure you have a lot to say at times and nothing to say, the next. You're almost always caught stunned by how, just how you don't have anything to say when you're bursting within. Thoughts, feelings, words, silences - you name it - all seem to pour out from every pore and all you're left with is a gaping silence. And sometimes you're taken aback by how you say so much you never even knew existed in your brain, forget your heart. The world gives us time. Weirdly enough. 

So yeah, as this thought (and the consequent ones) crashed into me like the waves of a monsoon sea, I figured that maybe this has some weight to it. I mean it's not like this is THE Gospel Truth. It's just another way of perhaps dealing with things that come your way - a form of introspection, awareness and acceptance. We don't always get to speak up. And we don't always say what we really want to say. This could have a million reasons behind it. Call me strange if you like, but I'm someone who really believes in the larger existence of I don't know what (yet). I believe there's a larger picture. I believe that there's a reason why things happen. Maybe it's something that helps me believe in the silver lining post all the trash the world throws your way. It's something that helps me believe -in what is something I haven't figured out; or rather, I don't have a concrete something yet. It changes with each passing circumstance. 

So yeah. You talk when you are listened to. You've just got to shut up and sit tight at other times. Sometimes that's the best thing you could ever, ever give yourself.

The Graveyard Hour

I knew, even as I drifted back into sleep, that I would be writing this post. It was a piercing sound that startled me awake. I swiftly grabbed my phone to shut what I thought was the alarm that did something so heinous. The piercing sounds were that of the neighbourhood dogs howling the night awake. It was somewhere around 1:45am. It was a bittersweet moment because a) the night still had so many hours of sleep left for me to devour (YAY!) and b) because the intense relationship I was having with this love of my every night was carelessly shredded apart by these dogs (*&%$#!@#!!), at an hour so substantial (and eerie) that it made me make a mental check to come here and tell you about it. It was the hour of ghosts or spirits or whatever have you. 

Ghosts, or the concept of them (or whatever fancies your ideologies) have always been a part of my life. And no, I don't imply or mean that I can see them. I hope I don't ever get blessed with that power. But they've always been a part of my growing up years where childhood curiosities and questions sort of overtook everything else that was so real and boring. Our imaginations worked overtime as we spent dusks and evenings pondering over ghosts and ghost stories. The us would be the brother and the cousins, and the occasional elder who dropped by in our world of theories and conquests.

I think the concept of ghosts started off with the entire fear of darkness. Why are you scared of the dark? Because there are ghosts around. That's where it all started from. Darkness almost always meant it brought ghosts along - whenever, wherever. Except the puja room. Or under your quilt. Those were the only places where ghosts could never trespass to, and still can't. We wondered what they were; whether they had their feet backwards and floated at a slightly elevated level, dressed in a translucent white. 

Then we had movies we were forbidden from watching with Exorcist topping those charts. But when you have elder brothers who are allowed access to the VCR and in whose company you could watch tv at night (only because they were summer holidays), one tended to oversee those rules. So ghost movies would be rented, hidden among stacks of other, happier movies as they were smuggled in amid scrutinizing eyes. When you have brothers, the world doesn't matter. Elder or younger, you're safe. I'm digressing, but I just had to say this just so you know that a) I love my brothers, and that b) they absolutely rock, and that c) we were not cracked in the head as kids. So yeah, I still remember many a night spent watching movies from between the weaves of my bed cover.

It never ended at that. Of course. What a stupid thing to expect. We were blessed with voracious imaginations and this weird need to try and figure everything out. I believe I used the word conquest sometime back. So yes, we thought of them as our own personal conquests against a world that occupied so much space in our imagination. Incidents and stories narrated by uncles had us gather around, gaping wide-eyed, reinforcing the fact that we could contact the supernatural world since humans and animals could so evidently be involved. So secret missions were chalked out, to be executed in the dead of night (3am was Satan's hour) in not so easily accessible places (such as the tree house in the backyard). We looked forward to nights of Plan Chit, while a swarm of potential questions we would ask these spirits swam in front of our eyes. The world was exciting and so adventurous. Nothing could stop us. 

And then we watched Poltergeist. Or Omen. And suddenly it hit us that we'd never thought of how to say bye to ghosts. We'd overlooked what would happen if the ghost decided to stay back. I swear I saw what my life would be like if I were even accidentally possessed by one of these spirits, flash right in front of my eyes. The world didn't seem that adventurous anymore. I guess that's when reality started taking her baby footsteps into my rainbow world of adventure and all things brave and fun. Plans made way for conversations; we could never control what kind of spirit would visit us and decide to spend their ghostly life with us; we worried. We decided to 'grow up' and make do with ghost stories, experiential anecdotes that meandered across generations (involving at least one person from each generation, mind you) and of course, movies. 

Somewhere along the line, we decided to quit the thought of meeting ghosts altogether. The plan of calling them was buried, as were thoughts of visiting graveyards (complete with a picture of Hanumanji and a small piece of iron). We just couldn't afford risking it, our slowly growing up minds thought. It makes me wonder if the onset, acceptance and sheltering of fears ushers in the process of 'growing up'. But I'll keep that thought for another post. So that was that. As time progressed, and as summer holidays became few and far in between, we moved on to exploring more 'feasible' areas that triggered our curiosities. 

Therefore, with a background and history such as this + the million horror movies every industry has ever made; still make me wonder about concepts such as ghosts. They do not hold my curiosity as much as they bother my sense of peace. Today holds a deeper meaning of passing on, ghosts, possessions and the supernatural in general. I'm not necessarily a 'true' believer in the surety of their existence and presence as much as I am suspicious of their existence. Especially when it comes to dogs who howl collectively at around the same time every night, and at the time they choose to howl.  *shiver*

But then, when my reality cuts back to today, my greed and absolute lust for sleep takes over as I dunk my head in my pillow and drift back into a world that fast fades away from what could potentially have Casper and Nearly Headless Nick sitting next to me to one of deep, unperturbed slumber. Thank you, God, for that! I will be eternally grateful to you for making me pass out when I really need to. And as for ghosts, the tug-of-war between my imagination and sense of realism (and sanity, I'd like to believe) have brought me to let them be as they are - whether or not they exist.

Snipping it

Cutting off is such a strong act. It involves great amounts of resilience, courage and strength; I'd like to believe. It does take a lot to cut the cord. It takes more than intense emotions to get one going in that direction - it takes a seedling germinating within which grows stronger with time -  strong enough to push you off the edge and then, stable enough to help you get back on whenever you want to. Isn't that what happens, if and when it does? People who cut off, come back. Sometimes. I don't know if that's fortunate or not. That depends on how you take it. I'm here to write about cutting-off. 

Cutting off is supposed to be everything I just mentioned in the first two lines, and more. And I also mentioned how I'd like to believe it was all that simply because it's something I find very difficult to believe in. It isn't my style. Cutting off to me means that you shut that component of your being, out. Completely. Snip. Or smash. Whichever you prefer. How do people do it? How do you shut what was important in one go? How do you eradicate everything else the concerned relationship brought along with them - family, associations, and worst of all, memories? How does something go from being so precious to being nothing? You do kill it because eventually, everything ceases to be in the spotlight. What was once important, isn't anymore. How do people do that? How is it so resilient, brave and courageous to just walk away? How is it not painful to a numbing extent when you stab that part within yourself? 

I've experienced being cut-off by. It's the most traumatic experience one can ever go through. And no, I'm not here to project a sense of victimization as much as I am here to question what holds relationships, really, because if it is so easy to walk away in a second, then I wonder what relationships are really worth. People cut off for various reasons, sometimes it is necessary, sometimes it is the best way out, sometimes it is done in the best interest of the other (or the self), sometimes it is done because things just stop making sense, etc etc. How much is ever enough and who gets to decide? 

I'm sure people have their legitimate reasons. I just can't figure who gets to decide how legitimate those reasons really are...and why. And people come back with the same 'ease' with which they left. Maybe you get closure in whichever manner comes your way. Maybe you still have loose ends. Maybe you've found something better. Who knows? There's never any certainty when it comes to relationships or when it comes to your need to survive the tumult that you put yourself through. There's a point after which breathing becomes labored, where going through every day with that one person doesn't hold much water anymore. There will always be this need for self-preservation. The self before everyone else. 

Maybe that's what makes it so effortless. Because I've begun to realize from the realities around me that nothing, and I mean nothing and no one stands taller than their own self. And we'll do anything to keep it that way. Relationships don't ever stand a chance if you don't stand a chance yourself.

Life has its own way of speaking to you. It's how you choose to listen and take it forward. Cutting-off just becomes the wild card you use when you never ever thought you'd use it.

Music Khushi

This is something a friend just showed me. It makes me overjoyed because a) I LOVE this track and b) the world is filled with music and various genius sound making things/beings/organs. Do have a dekho!



*sigh*

To be or not to be...

 on FB?

I share a love-I don't ever want to see you again kinda relationship with FB. It's not FB that I despise. It's the entire load of rubbish that comes along with it - the pretenses, the "friends", the convenience, the snooping around, the ease with which people know what's going on in your life without even having to try, apart from so many other shenanigans that make me have this mental debate all the time. To be or not to be? 

I love that FB gives me so many options to do what I want to and showcase what I want to. I don't like that everyone is privy to it. I love that old friends can find and reconnect with each other (heck, my mum found her long lost school friends!). I don't like that every tom, dick and harry you meet becomes your "friend". I love how filled with images my pages are because that's just who I am. I despise how the loopholes in its privacy policies literally make my bones shiver. I love how it gives me such an amazing platform for more than reconnecting with friends. I despise that I can't take that along with me whenever I hit the quit button. 

You'd go on and ask me a) why I put up pictures, b) why I can't block people, and c) why I can't manage my life on FB in a better fashion. I've asked myself the same things too. I think I'm entitled to put whatever I think is decent and social enough to go up there - well, what the heck did you think FB's popularity is built on? Besides, i'm not the FB hypochondriac who updates the world about every single thing I do. Like I said, the boundary lines are drawn. It's just that when it comes to friends, there are so many and at so many levels that it just doesn't make any sense to me. It feels more like a task than a pleasure. I'm not that orderly about my life. I have lists. But I have lists. Not a million lists. I could have a million snaps though. Or updates about my blog. Or food. Or all the 3, every day.

I've gone off it so many times. And come right back because I need some part of FB. Not that I miss the friends. I miss what I can do with it. I will forever have this question, this bug that will eat away at my need for this mass of social media and my need to get right off it. I know that I will oscillate in this weird state of undecidedness, where I will be activating and de-activating that account, and venting about it here, till I can come up with a better solution for this.

The challenges one has to face in life. Jeez.

Girl Matters

I have always been a lover of eye make-up. Eye make-up constituted my entire world. No other make-up existed except eye make-up. It was a world that began unfolding since I was 12 when I was allowed to buy my first ever Lakme eyeliner (the not so fancy black one in a small glass bottle). I loved it very much. It was the window of a world so so cool I never knew could exist. And coming from a family where make-up and objects of beautification are shunned till a particular age, that one bottle of eyeliner was used only on "special" occasions such as dinners. It's no wonder that bottle lasted me a kazillion years, or till it dried out, whichever came first. 

But that was it. That.was.it. My idea of make-up = my bottle of black eyeliner. It started and ended there. And then one fine day, I walked into the world of kajal. It was a slow acceptance of something I found almost unnecessary. I had a black eyeliner, I thought. Who needs a black kajal now when I can make do with this? But then I had to try this out, and try out that out, I did. My first ever kajal was the charcoal black Streetwear kajal. It was bought ONLY cuz it looked nice and smelt of kapur (camphor). *sigh*

So there it was, my world of make-up (mind you, ALL make-up) expanded to = my bottle of black eyeliner and my super cool (and wonderfully fragrant) black kajal.

I won't blame you for wondering which female species I belong to for the worldview of make-up I held and still do hold on to. It's just how I am. Touche.

Shift to 2012. 

I now have taken a weird and (very) fast-developing interest in the wonderful world of eye make-up. Again. Apparently, and so I figured, the world of make-up doesn't stop at a mere kajal and eyeliner (which is still pretty much what I use even today). I have now fallen into this rabbit hole of the wonders of eye shadows, mascaras and well...yeah just eye shadows and mascaras. I don't think I will step in to the world of false lashes just yet.

I feel blessed and oh so poor as I write about my tryst with my new found loves. I've always been an eye person and someone who really loves just the simplicity of highlighting one's eyes. Today, I've become an eye make-up glutton! Or I feel like one at least. Today, I have in my possession, 5 boxes of eye shadows and 1 mascara and I know I want more. Needless to say that beauty does come at such a damn cost! I'm broke buying such small boxes of very expensive (but such pretty) eye make-up. And when one busts cash on something like this and doesn't experience any sort of heart-burn, one realizes they're heading to be the hot eyed girl they always knew they were.

Being a girl is SUCH high maintenance. And SUCH a pleasure!

Now do excuse me while I go and tumble down that rabbit hole some more.

Oh, and happy girly-ness to you too! 

And, ummm, I'll catch ya later, boys!

That School

It's funny how walls make you feel. And that's how I will begin this post. Because that's all I could see of you - walls.

You're where my first memories start from. You're where my concept of excellence came from. I just had to, even before I knew it. You ensured that in the way I dressed, spoke, presented my self, kept my hair and nails, my books and how well I wrote cursive in between the lines - both the big and small ones. I made it through all that. And the white canvas shoes I would guard with such duty. It was quite a challenge - how do you manage to keep something white so spotless, especially when it's at your feet, at the mercy of everyone else's? Well, I kept them white. And spotless. It's funny how it was so doable back then. Today's a different story, however.

You're the first place I have memories of from. They pan the first LKG teacher my life gave me - Ms. Sebastian? - she will always be a Ms. Sebastian to me. And Mrs Thomas; prim with her starched cotton saris, steely eyes and a personality that imprinted the first pages of my life for good. She's got to be someone if she's remembered from what feels like just yesterday. You're the place where short breaks were spent in the junior school ground; on stone benches that made me figure the red 'devil' ants from the black 'God' ones. And when it was time for that first tooth to fall, it happened right as I quickly swallowed a piece of sandwich only to realize I was eating more than just bread - all in that 15 minute short break. You gave me our first bully. You gave me the first hints of a tumultuous relationship I was going to have for years to come with PT and sports. You gave me Ms. Chanda, the aayas in grey saris who accompanied us everywhere and my first memories of class pictures. 

You made me feel for the National Anthem way before I could even figure what it meant or even stood for, above and beyond the identity of being something Indian. I remember the sound of the school bell being rung by the stern man from a few floors below that resonated through every classroom, through every ear to be followed by the faint but strong melody of a distant chorus singing the anthem. And we would join in. And the entire school sang. A sense of restlessness to get out of class to get the preferred seat in the van eased into a sense of stillness as we stood, eyes closed, singing for something we were all just about figuring out. Like I said, you made me feel for the National Anthem. You showed me what it felt to begin and end the day not in prayer but in a song. If today I feel the chorus right within me, it's because it started with you. When I feel goosebumps, it's because they start with memories from there. Clenched fists exhibited a new purpose, stillness meant more than just London Statue. 

Your walls seemed limitless, you were tall and mighty. I felt a sense of awe, pride and such fear. Your walls rose high, in protection and submission. Your walls created a small world within filled with satiny maroon striped ties. I could never ever see beyond them. Not the buildings outside, even; no matter how far back I would walk to get a broader view. Everything existed within and my outside was a scary world where ma told us never to talk to strangers or believe them. You were huge; beyond anything I could possibly describe. You towered over me. 

Yesterday, I stood outside your gates and you looked smaller. The path I thought was an endless stretch of crowded pavements and vans, is now just a few steps long. Distances have shortened, associations have lengthened. You still tower over me, you still stand out, you still overwhelm me, you still make me get to class when you need me to, you still replay my memories for me, you still speak of a time when all I had were strangers and fears around me. Today your ground is limitless no more and mine is. And the first thing I see are your walls.

KG, National Public School

Turns

Poetry spoke, at first. He called out to me from the midst of so many. I guess he wore his rainbow colours just for me today. Listening to him, I am. Watching him, I am. Take him in, I did. He took me to a corner and made me feel like I was the only one there, yet another among a million others. Uncanny. Poetry; he and I had a conversation, some of which I shared with you just a while back- he with his verses and my associations, mine with my eyes and silence.

And then music came along with a mirror and there they were - my thoughts right there, written on the mirror for me to read and listen to. This is from one of my favourite trance numbers I chanced upon quite accidentally today, in the form of a different mash-up.

On A Metropolis Day - OceanLab vs. Gareth Emery

Little bit lost and...
A little bit lonely
Little bit cold here
A little bit feared

But I hold on
And I
Feel strong
And I
Know that I can.

Getting used to it
Lit the fuse to it
Like to know who I am

Been talking to myself forever, yeah
And how I wish I knew me better, yeah
Still sitting on a shelf and never
Never seen the sun shine brighter
And it feels like me
On a good day

And it feels like me
On a good day

I'm a little bit hemmed in
A little bit isolated
A little bit hopeful
A little bit cold

But I hold on
And I
Feel strong
And I
Know that I can

Getting used to it
Lit the fuse to it
Like to know who I am

Been talking to myself forever, yeah
And how I wish I knew me better, yeah
Still sitting on a shelf and never
Never seen the sun shine brighter...

And it feels like me
On a good day

Been talking to myself forever, yeah
And how I wish I knew me better, yeah
Still sitting on a shelf and never
Never seen the sun shine brighter
And it feels like me
On a good day

Here's the track for those of you who would like to give it a listen.

Turn it up, live it and give this track its due.

Poetry Speaks

... and this is what it told me:

"Jab jab dard ka baadal chaya

Jab ghum ka saya lehraya
Jab aansoo palkon tak aya
Jab yeh tanha dil ghabraya

Humne dil ko yeh samjhaya
Dil aakhir tu kyun rota hai?
Duniya mein yunhi hota hai

Yeh jo gehre sannate hain
Waqt ne sabko hi baante hain
Thoda ghum hai sabka qissa
Thodi dhoop hai sabka hissa
Aag teri bekaar hi nam hai
Har pal ek naya mausam hai
Kyun tu aise pal khota hai
Dil aakhir tu kyun rota hai."

(Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara)

I'm going to take this word for word, because when poetry or music start a conversation with you, you just shut up and listen, and very carefully at that.

Friendships

Friendships are weird phases we go through. Friends come and friends go. Some friends stay, some walk away. Some stay uninvited. Some were never meant to be. Friendships are weird phases we all go through.


It's amazing who walks by your path when you least expect it and who stays. We choose to walk side by side those who give us everything we believe a friendship should give us. And then we grow up and fall apart, sometimes. Or we grow up to be stronger, sometimes. We grow up to know that nothing is ever permanent. Friends you thought would be there, aren't there anymore. People you never imagined walking your way, stop by and stay on. And life really goes on.


Friends began to be those who sat next to you in class to those who were your neighbours to those whose family your parents knew. They shared your toys, ate sandwiches from your tiffin box and shared that chocolate with you. They became partners in games, homework, performance at school and were those we used to even shout, scream and cry at/about. 


Friendships were made and broken at convenience back then. That's the one thing I love about being a kid. You're as egoistic as can be, and you were allowed to be. You voice your thoughts, your expectations, your dreams. You never really have life-threatening fears as such because there are options. 


And then we grow up. Friendships become more than just about sharing toys, hairbands and magazines. They somehow become a bond - one becomes a weird promissory note to the other - of words unspoken but written in blood, imaginary of course. Experiences grow deep-rooted. Friendships slowly become family matters. Mums join in. Brothers, sisters, dads and sometimes cousins, too.


There is no ego. There is just no ego (and if there's ego, you need to question your friendship). You become more than free floating paragraphs that feature in the same chapter of life. You somehow become pages of the same book. You're bound in more ways than one. You're a part of this beautiful bond that trespasses so many walls and boundaries. You see each other in your best and worst and stand by each other nonetheless. You overlap. You become one, almost. 


But what does one do when everything you think a friendship should be, gets questioned and tested? We all paint such idealistic pictures of what friends should be and are and must be. What happens to those times when the same friends stop being what they should, are and must be? What happens when you question everything around you? Where do you go when the walls you had so effortlessly broken down, get built up again? What happens when your defenses are so high that all you can think about is yourself? Where did that friendship go? Where did you both go? And where does that leave you now?


What happens then?


Do you awaken that dormant ego? Or do you escape and walk away? Do you sit down and cry till you can cry no more? Do you use distance to corrode your feelings? Or do you dive right in and work at things? What happens then?


I haven't ever believed in the concept of best friends. At first it was too cliched and childish. Now it's just a superstition - a fear that something you uphold to that degree will fall and shatter right in your face. There isn't a best for me. There never has been. And even if there was a best, they were in plurals because I don't believe in a best. And it works fine for me. Not because I have options but because ideals have that annoying way of conjuring up the most extreme forms of expectations. And we know what expectations do to us.


I call friendships phases because friends come and go, stay and couch in on your life. They stroll in and out. Some stay for good. The rest come by at different times and places of your life; times when you need them the most. 

Lessons

Everyone raves about the wonders of a well-gifted intellect, the marvels of the mind, the beauty of education and so on. As you climb the intellectual ladder, you add on to your repertoire of knowledge. They say. I love being in a class. I love learning. I love having meaningful conversations that are loaded with substance and not chaff. A great intellect is such a turn on, even. To me at least. Knowledge is something one can never really have enough of. Never.


I've always been the girl you'd find at the library than on a sports field. You'd find me lost in the pages of a book than in the minutes of a sprint. There is something about learning, about reading and about engaging with a topic that just bowls me over. It matters that much to me. Sports and the way my hair looked never really took precedence. Even today.


Similarly, I always imagined settling down with an intellectual. I spun a lovely dreamworld cushy with long conversations munched on over numerous cups of tea and durees. I dreamed of snug hours spent in silence as he and I would pore over books and mango tea. With a dog. And big french windows. With sheer curtains for just the right amount of light. There would be books of all sizes and on all topics right next to my bed, in neat but somewhat haphazard piles. My books would range from wild love stories to biographies to cooking to photography to comics to mind-blowing fiction. His pile would be books stolen from mine. And maybe a Calvin and Hobbes. Or Asterix, better. There would be coasters with stains of our favourite mugs. My house would smell of books, my life would smell of words and stories. 


I don't know about that anymore. I used to call myself an intellectual and with such pride. I'm not so sure about that anymore. Yes, I am all of the above and more, but today, for the first time in my life, I didn't imagine another intellectual to be by my side. Maybe it's because I've become so cynical about this entire concept of intellectualism thanks to the examples our country is flooded with. And given how my experiences with many of them have been, the last thing I really need is to be with another one. I realize that I shouldn't make such generalizations based on these past events, but one's got to be realistic and careful, more so.


As much as I love the intellect and it's sheer beauty, a part of me has slowly (and at a now faster pace) started to shirk it away. Or perhaps I've started pushing aside the people who have this nasty habit of glorifying it. 


We complicate things with words and rationales. We refine our experiences with so many theories and possibilities that we forget what it really felt like to be in that situation - in all its rawness and nudity. We walk so far away from what we're really going through because we ornate our life with so much that is unnecessary and fake, for most part of it. We bring it up a lot during counseling where one is asked to feel and not think/explain. And it's close to impossible because something that is otherwise so natural and effortless has now become something that is we struggle to even discover.


I look at the man who gives us flowers every day, playing with his son at this hour of the night. There's nothing else in the father and son's world than pinching each other's cheeks. They're not hustling over lost business or left over garlands or the fact that prices have risen which probably makes their meals harder to come by. Poo Selvan plays with his son, Poo Arasan (Flower King) and that's all that matters. It's him and his prince and his kingdom of flowers that spans his chair and cart. He will soon wrap up for the day, take his wobbly moped, eat his dinner, and keep the flowers ready for tomorrow's sale. He will come home tomorrow and deliver the jasmine mala. He will go about his day. And I will find them at their cart, lost in their kingdom of games and strings of flowers.


We will worry about the bill(s) we have to pay. We will worry about the work we have left for the day. We will ponder over when our salary would already just get here. We will think about why petrol prices are so high. We will think of home loans and insurance. We will think of another degree. We will think of human rights and animal rights and Dow Chemicals at the Olympics. We will conceal our acne, do our hair a million times and we will wonder how many unnecessary calories we've consumed. You can add to this list.


Somewhere in the night, there is a Flower King ready to retire in his kingdom. And all he thinks about is delivering those flowers fresh tomorrow without expecting that Parle G biscuit or Alphenlibe lollipop in return. He will not know. He will not expect. He will sleep a happy, fragrant sleep in his huge 1 room kingdom with his parents for walls.

328

I've raved, ranted, vented and left so much of my 25 year old baggage on this space. I still have a lot left. I hear it's something that never really ceases to exist. Baggage happens whether you like it or not. Whether you want to carry it and how is what perhaps differentiates you from me and us from the rest of the world. 


With every passing day comes a new challenge - a new confrontation. It could be about the freedom I have as an adult or the roles I'm supposed to play so effortlessly or the duties and responsibilities I'm supposed to take on or the career choices I need to make as my journey progresses. It can be about anything and everything, including stupid petty things. 


On deeper introspection, I find that I seem to be living my actual adolescent years now. I say this not because the adolescent in me ever died and went away (I don't think any part of our history dies and goes away. We just evolve from what we were. More on that later.) I just think that the steam seems to be setting itself quite free at a time when things should be settling in. But then again, no one really settles; especially not now. That's why I'm such a huge fan of Erik Erikson and his theory of Psychosocial Development. I keep going back to this not to show how much I love psychology and some of these theories (which I do very much, FYI) but because they make so much sense. Not that this is some weird knowledge/theory class camouflaged in this post but I brought this up to help map where the hell I am. It strikes me as obvious and oh-so-stupid-for-not-arriving-at-this-earlier that we're a sum of a series of parts that role out every single day. 


I learn that we're each a bloody awesome collectible of our own personal tissues/paper napkins sprawled with scribbles, thoughts, doodles and nothing sometimes. Each day, every person we interact with, contributes in not just making us who we are but also making us realize who we are. This is not a lecture and neither is it a preaching ceremony. This is my white board and here I am, penning my thoughts down on something that has struck me right in the middle of this existential vortex I'm submerged in.


There are certain events off-late that have brought about such weird and drastic changes I never thought I was even capable of feeling. When you're faced with a sense of not giving a rat's ass, not caring, being nonchalant, being abrasive and being everything you feel so shitty about being, because at 25, you're expected to be a certain way, you figure that your life is up to something - that perhaps you're bang in the middle of learning a lesson you need to learn. It's one of those impromptu things that life springs on you without you even knowing. And before you know it, you look at yourself in the mirror (and I, at this blog) and you wonder who the hell you're really looking at. The change seems drastic, the difference seems incorrigible. 


You never thought you'd become this way - stone cold and uncaring - just like your parents told you the big bad world would be. You think for yourself because at this age, there's nothing I want more than to be for me, to live for me, to look at only me; because you know what? I've got the rest of my life to think of everybody else. It makes me wonder when and how and why I got this way. Why 'me' became so important. I am a me girl. Strongly. And they call these Scorpio traits. Call it whatever you wish to, but this is what it is. For the moment at least.


And at the end of almost every day, I rewind and replay everything significant that passed by. I reassess, review and figure that there's so much I can do differently. A large part of me also chalks out plans for what I will do in my future when these same circumstances are to arise again. I think of various permutations and combinations on how to tackle this better. While that's so far ahead without even the remotest guarantee of surety, I learned something today.


I strive so hard to explain the concept of letting go, especially to ma. I have these million dreams and I'm bound in more ways than one - many out of choice as well. I realize that a vast component of growing up is the ability to let go. We keep talking about how important it is to stand by and let the person you love, walk on their own feet. We talk so much about letting go and standing by in the wings as the show unfolds. We talk so readily about catching someone when they fall. But damn is that difficult to do. 


And that seems to be the current exam I'm in the midst of. It has been the hardest thing to let go of people and watch them from the wings as they walk on. I know that the next time I vow to do something different from what ma did while bringing us up, I'll be back to square one. People we love don't hold us back because they don't want us to succeed. I just learnt that why they hold on is simply because letting go is the biggest test anyone can face, the biggest fear anyone can live with, the biggest risk anyone can take. 


Letting go just means that you don't get to be in control anymore. It amounts to letting the reins go. It summarizes everything we're so scared of - of being without control and of being alone.

327

I don't know what it takes for a man to just let a woman be.
I don't know if it really has anything to do with the way she dresses or what she chooses to dress herself in.
I don't know whether it's because he's generally unhappy in life or is always a pervert.
I don't know whether it's because that woman reminds him of someone or if she's just another piece of eye candy.
I don't know.


I despise sexist extremism, feminism and chauvinism. I despise it all. I don't believe in male/female bashing. I don't engage in any of it and neither do I entertain it.


But today's had me feeling so angry, upset and annoyed all in one because for the first time, I actually felt like my space as a woman was being trampled upon. I'm extremely territorial about my space and even though I'm patient with the occasional trespasser, I'm not so passive or unforgiving to those who know better and still push their way in. 


Today made me realize that it really doesn't have to do with the clothes you wear or how thin/fat, ugly/hot you look or feel. It goes beyond acne, bad hair days, bad presentation and whatever else it is that strikes a man's fancy in a woman. Stared, leched at, you anyway will. It's like it's already been decided by shit knows who that some men out there have no other business but to stick their sick eyeballs where they don't belong. 


It's one thing to look at someone and check them out. We all do it. It's another to stare, and evidently so. I figured that everyone makes such a huge deal about dress-codes for the 'safety' of women. I don't think it matters. Lechers will exist and will lech and will go about their business. The world will still go its way, we will still feel encroached upon.


We know what it feels like when a man stares at our chest or when we're stared at as we run or when all we get during a conversation is a man staring at our lips, or better still, our chest. Have someone leer in your face at your filthy crotch and you still probably won't get it. It's just a matter of time before someone punches you, in your face, or better still, kicks you right where it burns most. In your face.


We'll talk about safety then.

Growing Up

You don't grow up when you stop crying.
You probably stop crying when you're dying inside or are dead inside towards that particular thing, event or person. 
You probably cry your last when these realizations hit you or when you mourn the loss of feeling what that particular thing, event or person really makes you feel.


You don't grow up when you complicate communication with fancy words.
You probably veil your thoughts and feelings in fancy words so that the real you can't be seen. So that your vulnerabilities stay camouflaged in pretty, intellectual conversations and silences.


You grow up because you have no space to breathe. You grow up when your face is pushed against the wall. You grow up when you figure your ego's your best bet. You grow up when everything else stops making sense. You grow up because you have to walk on and move forward (or backwards).  You grow up because thinking gets you nowhere, neither do feelings. You grow up simply because you have to.

Today Morning

I don't really write or catalog every single day any more. But today is an exception. I just had to bore you with the details of today morning. And that's only because I hope you've had one as beautiful as mine.


Bangalore has this amazing knack (through all the effects of global warming and all) to bring a chill after the rains. It's not like Bangalore has seen its share of rainfall (or any other part of this country for that matter), but whatever little we got seems to have done its part. It's cool and cold. It's supremely windy and gusty. It's pretty. It's green (at least outside my balcony). And my feet have started aching which is a grandma syndrome I have  (or so I like to call it) that is indicative of the cold outside. It's all pretty and nice. And pretty.


My day started with bugging the pigs and un-fluffing their fluffed up selves. It moved on to some much needed exercise which I have been running away from like I run away from karela (bitter gourd). The morning involved a weird fling between sweating it out and shivering (and getting a foot ache). The jokes these things play on us! 


I got back home to an empty house with the mother traveling and the brother at football. It led me to doing this and having the brain cells in my world blossoming and thanking me for ever and more.

Poring over breakfast options makes me feel happy. Poring over food options makes me delirious. But then I decided I wanted to do a more Indian thing than anything American. I wanted something that would fit in with this weather. Something warm, comforting, spicy and of course, something that would complete my day.


I ended up making my favouritest of my favouritest of my favouritest breakfasts ever. Masala omelette and toast. My go to breakfast. My breakfast. I can eat this when I'm awake, asleep, drunk, sober and pretty much everything else in between. This is probably the ONLY thing I will ever eat from anywhere (again, that's relative - you know why). I've made friends with this baby on the train, on highways, on drives, on beaches(!!) and everywhere else. We share a romance of sorts. We have each other's backs!

And then I became greedy and inspired and gluttonous. I think we'll branch all these under the umbrella term - Inspired. I figured I needed some shine in my Saturday morning ( AS IF the weather, the workout, the tea, the yellow teapot and the omelette weren't enough!). I decided to go and test my "inspiration" and this is what it resulted in.

Baked Banana and Cinnamon Toast. Clearly I'd not had enough of bread. And I needed some TLC on this cold, feet-aching day. So I experimented with this. And I must say that even though banana and cinnamon don't really go under the food matrimonial column, they made a pretty darn good pair. The toast was just the way I like it - crisp and light like air. There was a burst of cinnamon and warm banana coupled with a bit of gooey and a bit of crunchy sugar on top. All in all, my mind was treated with much luxury and care. The heart, well, we'll leave the heart out of this :)


And I made


Baked Banana and Nutella Toast. The banana and nutella combo never existed till Gokarna. You'll have to go visit the place to figure what I'm talking about. And is it heavenly or is it heavenly! You don' question this combination. Ever. Anyhoo. So this was a burst of everything good. It's something you give yourself because you love you irrespective of the weight gain you may will incur. It's a treat. It has chocolate. And all I can tell you is that my mouth actually felt numb after this meal. It's like that was a defense mechanism just so you wouldn't commit the heinous crime of eating anything else after this one. It's like everything was complete. 

It was a morning well deserved. I'd forgotten about my hair. And my schizo work which visited me in my dreams last night. Also, the omelette and bananas thanked me for doing them justice. I know. I felt it.


Have yourselves a splendid Saturday! :)

BEING A GIRL FACET - I

It’s past 11pm. It’s a Friday. TGIF. Really. The week has been kind, work has been schizo and life seems to be the usual. I just got back from the station and all I could think of was jumping onto Sampark Kranti Express and hitting the streets of Dilli after eons or taking the train to Hubli and figuring out what next after I get there. I have a thing for trains. And travel. I think you’re well aware of this. I will write about this more and for ever more X 100. 

For the moment, I have more pressing issues on my mind – the mop on my head. Hair’s a big thing for us women. Really. It not being there is also a big thing. It’s something we fuss about and cry over and all that jazz. We women know enough of what hair means to us. And I think it’s safe to say that some, if not most of you guys out there, care about that mane too. So yeah. Hair.

Mine sucks. Bangalore is exponentially incapable of giving you a good mane. Or me at least. Bangalore is home. I love Bangalore. But Bangalore gives me mane woes. Huge ones. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s the city. I love how awesome, gorgeous, beautiful, blossoming (ummmm), rich, healthy and amazing my hair looks in Kerala or Kolkata or Dilli or Mumbai. I just got back from Goa and my otherwise mess of whatever you want to call it, was the best thing ever – in all its messiness.

I felt divine. Really. My head felt nice, my hair kinda blossomed and shone and all that. And the best thing is it needed no extra care. None at all. Just some regular sun and rain and sea spray, if I may. Sigh.

It makes me think that I should make Goa home. Yes, you got that right, I could just rearrange my entire life to focus on my hair. It means that much sometimes. Or at this moment at least. And a million other moments too. I could center my life on the way my hair feels and I know it’s got a direct connection with the way I will feel. I know. We all know they’re connected somehow. I will feel good if I move to Goa just to give my hair the lifelong spa it needs. I will pick up and move. But

Bangalore = home.

Goa = good hair.

What are the odds? The choices one has to make, the sacrifices. It scares me to wonder what challenges and choices lie ahead. I want both. I want both very greedily. But alas, when did one ever have both? One has to make difficult, life-changing choices sometimes. 

However, having said that, nothing changes that fact that a good mane can make you feel like a kazillion bucks! Touche. That’s life. And that’s being a girl. And writing about random (but important) stuff totally seals the deal. And if you didn’t get the gist of how important this is, then I feel bad for you. Just kiddin’. (Not) 


You can ignore me now. TYVM. Have a super, dapper weekend! :)

The Quarter Girl

Quarter Girl (QG) closes every night and reopens again every morning.
QG learns something new every day. Or relearns things gone old.
QG stays behind closed doors but has all her windows open. Throughout.
QG sponges on everything that is good around her - the gusts of wind, the rain, the smell of morning, the fatigue before settling in for the night, the words in her mind, the silence in her chaos. 
QG feels fickle, cornered and trapped. By what, remains elusive still.
QG admires, loves and lives.
QG fears her heart. She fears her mind more.
QG cares about her actions the least.
QG runs from bonds and commitments. Of any kind.
QG dreams of what she hopes will be a reality. In her dreams.
QG feels torn apart with nothing in between.

The Quarter Girl makes me want to stop, or pause. She makes me want to sit on a rocking chair and close my eyes. And perhaps sink into the pendulous stillness that lurks around the corner. She makes me want to live in that stillness, and stay in limbo till I'm ready to stop rocking back and forth and start thinking of moving again - whichever way I decide.


The Quarter Girl makes me believe that this is how the journey is going to be all my life. For a lover of travel, it makes me want to hold on, stay put and map my route out. Out of what, I don't know. The tunnel's a long one. And it's pretty darn noisy, resounding with so much God knows what. I'm speeding along but still in the same place.


Maybe sitting on the rocking chair was a bad idea in the 1st place.

Within

Clenched fists constrain, restrain, contain.
You can't come in. You can't go out.
You can't break through. You can't see through.
You can't breathe. You can't feel.
Clenched fists feel difficult to open again.

Reality Bites

It's important, I realize, to walk on the road that keeps your self in mind. Self preservation seems to have become a task, not a state of being. 


I thought I was OK, untouchable (for most part of it) and not so damageable. I pride myself of the walls I have around me. Many say that walls contain and don't really facilitate growth and freedom. To me it looks like these walls around me are here to shield me in order to get to where I want to. They are the means to many an end I've figured for myself. And with the growing number of people who only choose to put you down, one can't help but concretize these walls. Really. However, these walls aren't flawless. 


People still get to me. I think it would be impossible to not be gotten to. It would be unreal for me to not be affected by anything, any one, ever. That sort of thing doesn't exist. It never will. I hope it won't. These walls are porous. Things people say, matter. It's strange that people who don't mean much also manage to get away leaving me pricked, if not more. 


I guess it's because I have an image of myself that has been moulded by me over the years. I've gathered what I think of my self, what important people think of me and I've made my inferences. Carl Rogers calls that the 'Ideal Self' and 'Actual Self' concept. I can't always be certain of what I'm made up of. One can never be. We'd be astounded by the amount we're capable of doing, withstanding and tolerating. I can't figure that congruence between the two, but I know some bits of what and who I am.


I am a lot of things and I'm not a lot of things. I have some awareness of what all those are. What I need to figure is to get past all this and walk on. There are too many negatives in this world, as are there positives. I have to, at some point, figure what gets me and what doesn't and why. And as I walk along, I need to refocus and not give a shit about the irrelevant. 

I.just.have.to.stop.caring.


I.have.to.stop.caring.


Stop.caring.


I think that's one of the most peaceful and best ways to practice self-preservation. Not giving a rat's ass unless necessary, is the way to go. My walls will stand as are. The drone of not so relevant comments/information/remarks will always continue. We will always be porous. It's up to us to keep what we want and leave the rest where it deserves to be left - in the trash can. We're always going to be mediocre for some, awesome for some and one of a kind for the rest. We just need to shift the viewfinder and focus better.


Must stop caring, I will.
Refocus, I so sure will.

Those lines

Lines appear.
Crinkles, furrows, squares, zig-zags. And ridges.

Lines deepen. 
Brown, creased and characteristic.


Stories of holding on and letting go are told.
Stories of stories written are read.
Pens, people, paws and palms;
held silently through a steady grip. 


With you pulsating alive, underneath and within.

More shenanigans on 25

The more I face and experience every day, the more I believe in being as selfish as my conscience allows me to be. Every day makes me want to do something about/with it that makes ME feel worth my while. It could be about having that plate of cheese burger and fries from our new stall at work or it could be about walking those extra 5 minutes or it could be about doing nothing or it could be about lying spread-eagle, adrift in whatever takes me away momentarily.


I've been going through a serious existential overhaul as has been evident from my previous posts. This is one such chapter from the same book. When you're in a world that thinks about itself, you can't really be the only moron to stand by and watch the world go by doing its own thing. You've got to pick your self up, figure where to go and then actually go. 


And go I did.


Or rather, going I am.


This overhaul is precisely what it stands for - a phase in which everything you believe in or stand by, crumbles. Literally. And you're left wondering what the hell happened when you weren't really looking. People came, people went, relationships changed, values got questioned, as did a lot more. And it's baffling. Because not only are you astounded by the changes around you and within you, you also wonder whatever happened to everything you've held so dearly on to. 


We spend our life creating ideals of what should and should not be. We are certain of what love should be like, or what dating must be like, or marriage or parenting or whatever have you. Everything is so black and white sometimes. Or with me at least. It's an all or none principle. You're either in love or not, you're either dating or not, you're either friends or not, you're either married or not. There are no 2 ways, or so I thought.


And this is what I mean by the world moving on. Or you getting left behind. Because all of a sudden, there are greys. You can be best friends but break rules you'd sworn by. You can be single but still have the best sex ever. More than twice. You can have options while being in the matrimonial line - dreaming of commitment with one, setting your sex life on fire with the other. I'm astounded by the amount of grey we live in. And it has become so convenient. There are no questions asked, no rules or codes adhered to, no nothing. The world does what it thinks is right to do. Perhaps it's the way we're all wired to be. Me first. Survival of the fittest, he called it. 


So given that we've moved from concrete, stable and awesome blacks and whites to a world of weird, twisted and interesting greys, what more can one do than to literally get off one's ass and move on? 


I'm gonna grab that burger, munch on those fries, chew on my thoughts, lie around doing nothing sometimes, treat people as they deserve to be treated - I'm going to swivel my paintbrush around in these shades of greys, right in between the blacks and whites of my canvas. Because there's really no looking back to something that has ceased to exist. 

More on 25

I've never felt so angst ridden in my entire life than I've been feeling off late. Angst that's buried deep within the furrows of my every day. And I can't seem to pin point why I'm feeling the way I am. 


They say age plays a large role. But what is age without the meaning you give it? Isn't age supposed to just a number that rolls on by, faster than seems normal? Of course. But of course not. We're not sheets of paper or calendar squares, boxed and marked off with every passing day.


There is such a deep rooted introspection that keeps going on, almost as naturally as breathing goes on. Effortless, guiltless, seamless. Whom does one trust. who's been a friend who stood by, who cares, who doesn't care, how much, how little, till when, where till...the list of permutations and combinations is endless. Like I said, they're seamless.


I've been caught in the vortex, and all too suddenly, of what it actually feels like to be an adult. In the big, bad and crazy world. The games people play are astounding. The way life tests you almost shatters the ground you walk on. The way your entire worldview and belief systems sometimes come crashing down on you scar you.


And it just isn't easy. It's not something I ever thought would happen. But it's something we all have to deal with at some point or the other.

Father's Day

I haven't ever ever ever ever ever written or spoken about Father's Day. It would be a lie if I said I've never thought about it either. Of course I have. It's unnatural not to. 


And since I've never written about it, I thought I really should. Not because I have to but because I want to. And share with you, I must, about what it is to have a mother for a father. 


Because I do not have an ideal about what a father should be like or shouldn't be like, I have no comparisons to make; I have just my worldview of how things are when you have your mother be your father too :)


It's not something anyone ever imagines, even in their wildest dreams. But when you're faced with the circumstances you're in, things just fit in. Or have, in my case. There have been no questions or words that are out of place, because I don't know what that place is - the place that reserves the tag of a father. I just have and I just live. And like I always say, it's not because I have to, but because I want to. Maybe I should make that sentence "mine".


Anyhoo, so yeah, what is it like to have a mother be a father too?


Well, no one can ever be a father, except a father. And no one can ever be a mother, except a mother. All one can do (naturally or by force) is to be as close to the ideal as possible. It's just the law of roles, relationships and people. According to me i.e. 


Having said that, I couldn't have got a better semblance of this ideal we all call 'dad'. When you're in a single-parent family, everything doubles, very ironically. There's protectiveness and then there's extreme protectiveness. There's worry and then there's extra worry. There's the support of a mother and then there's the support of a mother + her life + her everything, because that's all there is. Nothing less, ever. There are rules and then are ledgers of rules. There are curfews and then there are the mothers of all curfews. There are phone calls and then there are phone call checks. There's everything and a double of that, if not more.


I'll never know what it is like to grow up with a man in the house. I'll never know what it feels like to be protected by a man who is your own father. I will never know what being the possession of a father feels like. I will never know so much and more. 


But I know that I've grown up in the hands of steel, clay and diamonds. I know what it feels like to have an iron lady in the house. I know what it feels like to be protected by a single mother. I know what it feels like to be hers. I know. I know what it feels like to be in hands of clay which allow me to become what I want to, when I want to. I know what it feels like to be raised in hands of diamonds because nothing/no one can compare. Ever. I know what it feels like to take on the world with fists of steel by my side. 


And that's a feeling I cannot explain. When you're one, you get the power of two. You just do. You walk on and take on the world. It's no wonder I don't miss the concept or ideal of a father, because with someone like ma, there can be no one else who even comes close.


Which is perhaps why, in retrospect, I've never really celebrated a Mother's or Father's Day. I don't think I ever need to. It would be too redundant, if not cliched for the mother who stands tall above everything else. And that's all that matters.