Tuesday, May 6, 2008

I'm back.

The last post got me thinking. Yeah, that happens rarely these days and is, therefore, worthy of mention. It got me thinking about how I've always sucked at answering hypothetical questions. Would I like to be reborn as myself? Are there ten people who are now dead that I'd like to meet? What was my favorite childhood cartoon? I can never get around to answering these without first asking myself: is rebirth possible, are there even ten living people I truly like to meet and what childhood. Has life ever seemed utterly pointless to you? It did to me yesterday as my ass was settling into premature rigor mortis after riding pillion on an irritatingly slow bike just to get from here to a far away there. We travel all over the world. And answer hypothetical questions every now and then. And then one day we die? That's all? Such a bloody waste of time.

Such a bloody waste of time but then what else could one do with all the time.

Yes, I'm super bored!

An Indian summer is not to be trifled with. It bears down on you till you give in and realize that you against the sun is actually hypodermis against a friggin star. And air-conditioned indoors don't have much to offer especially when the one other person you know in this place is busy getting his act together. So, you eat, spend hours on facebook, eat some more, watch movies and sleep a desultory sleep. If it weren't for Ashok, this would be unbearably similar to my days alone. Of course, there are good parts. I'm just don't write well enough to be able to put the good parts into words. Yeah, if you know anything of me, you'll know that I'll go ahead and try to put the good parts into words anyway and fail. There's tickling, giggling and getting punched in the belly. There's battles over the lone mirror we're both obsessed with. Silly jigs which start off with one of us coming up with a ridiculous dance move and the other picking it up. There's fighting till I sulk in the kitchen and then get magically airlifted back to the living room and peace. There's getting drunk and acting more drunk than we are. There's sleeping under the stars and spotting Venus. There's happiness.

There's all this but nothing to do. So would be writing more often than usual till I find somethin to keep me busy.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

remember them slam books?

dear five-people-who-read-this-blog, please come back, we miss you and promise to write more often. but before we get to writing a *real* post here's something passed onto us from glob blog.

Last Movie Seen In A Theatre?
It sucked so bad that I'm ashamed to admit that we actually rushed to watch it on the day it released. I hate Kareena Kapoor and her pathetic attempt at trying to look hot. I hate aging old Saif Ali Khan trying to sell himself with nothing but a handlebar mustache. I hate the absolute waste of Anil Kapoor. I hate the c-grade climax. the present tense coz I'm yet to get over the ridiculousness of it all.

What Book Are You Reading?
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy.

after lumbering through the collected stories some six months ago, I vowed to not go back to reading this man for at least an year. but a girl needs her bathroom reading material.

Favorite Board Game?
Scrabble. Largely because this is the only board game I remember ever winning and the only one I begin playing with any hope of winning. No, it's not fun just participating, it also helps if one wins occasionally, screw sportsmanship.

Favourite Magazine?
Marie Claire in print and The Slate online.

Favourite Smells?
Petrol. Lime. Ashok.

Favorite Sound?
The Sea.

Worst Feeling In The World?
that of the world having abandoned you when you need it the most.

What Is The First Thing You Think Of When You Wake Up?
fuckity fuck fuck.I'm so fucked.

Favorite Fast Food Place?
Don't laugh: Teenage Point, Visakhapatnam, venue of many many birthday parties in my very eventless childhood and hence THE place I loved the most for two years. Mesa Pizza, Minneapolis - Pizza that tastes like manna when drunk and like crap when sober, hence a very deserted place in Dinkytown on a weekday afternoon, silence and spice.

Future Child’s Name?
Asya. Arav. yes, we're prepared for twins. if we have triplets, one of those babies is going to be very very unlucky.

Finish This Statement: If I Had A Lot of Money, I’d...

Do You Drive Fast?
yes but only when I'm in a car. the hair's holy. the hair's not to be ruined just to get somewhere sooner.

Do You Sleep With A Stuffed Animal?
no. I hate sharing my bed with anything/anyone. I don't think he knows this.

Storms– cool or scary?
been subjected to quite a few having grown up in a costa zilla. I love storms.

Do You Eat The Stems on Broccoli?
I eat everything. stems, stalks, shoots, roots. but yeah, yet to graduate to meat. getting there. getting there.

If You Could Dye Your Hair Any Colour, What Would Be Your Choice?
I couldn't get myself to stray too far from my basic brown the two times I tried to "make things exciting". I'm pretty sure I'd look stupid with red or magenta on my head. apologies for not being very creative/adventurous in this department: chestnut brown, it is.

Name All The Different Cities/Towns You’ve Lived In.
Srikakulam, Visakhapatnam, Hyderabad. ermm, Chennai for a wee bit. Minneapolis. Gandhinagar.

Favorite Sports To Watch:

One Nice Thing About The Person Who Sent This To You:
I like her because we have similar stories.

What’s Under Your Bed?
well. there isn't a bed. there's a mattress, that's too small for two. however, I am aware of what's under that mattress coz
a. the floor's infinitely cooler than the mattress and ashok put together
b. I have a habit of dangling off my beds, and
c. ashok's an asshole.

under the bed is a very gross floor.

Would You Like To Be Born As Yourself Again?
nope. how can I be born as myself anyway unless the whole world around me decides to repeat itself? even if the whole world cooperates to recreate every circumstance that's shaped me, what's the point, again?

Morning Person or Night Owl?
Night Owl but my regular bed time of 4 am can hardly be called night.

Over Easy or Sunny Side Up?
Over Easy. runny whites maketh a queasy morning.

Favourite Place To Relax?
there's this coconut tree that no one cared about when it was a little coconut plant. so, it grew at an easy incline leaning over my grandma's garden wall. the trick is to scale the wall first and then inch up the tree. then you lean back, trust friction, ignore the harmless black ants, let the breeze dry you off, hum old telugu songs and talk to the old lady sitting in her armchair on the first floor balcony. heaven.

Favourite Pie?

Favourite Ice-Cream Flavour?
Mint Chocolate Chip.

You Pass This Tag To–
nobody. lemme count the number of people who did what they were asked to the last time we tagged them. zero!
as I've just demonstrated, we're friends with some fiercely independent people in blogland and they'll write what they want to, regardless of who tags them, anyway. right, alternative excuse: we don't know nobody and everybody else is friggin' lazy.
alright, would update this part later.

Of All The People You Tagged, Who’s Most Likely To Respond First?
if I did, how about nobody?

Meanwhile, India is freakishly hot and I regret my decision to leave behind my open toe shoes very much. More later.

Monday, April 14, 2008

since we cannot grasp this eternity at once

we tell each other that this is far less than, say, an year. thirty hours shouldn't be difficult if we can wade through three years. thirty is small. finite. easily countable with the eight limbs we have between us. surmountable. then there is hysterical laughter. sheer terror and unmitigated joy tingling across continents. then the breaking down under the pressure of it all and a calm reassurance that we'll do fine and that I am nuts.

it'd be easier if there was some momentum. things getting taken care of, lists getting crossed out, calls being made. instead I gave myself three days of nothingness. alright, frantic last-minute clubbing isn't nothingness. three days of nothing-important-ness, then. what is to be done with this pile of clothes that I was hoping to grow back into? and this grim reaper coat that'd probably kill me if worn outside of Minnesota? and my resilient pink heart-shaped balloon that's been floatin on since Valentine's day as a symbol of undying roomie love? it's the what-is-not-important-enough question that makes this so irritating. I can see the wisdom in being a monk now. and in not moving away from partners with a more practical outlook towards packing. it's very easy, he says. pick. crush/fold. pack. simple. of course, it's not that simple. every scrap of paper found has to read through and reminisced over. every piece of clothing has to be judged cruelly. in spite of the fact that nothing is gonna get thrown away, anyway.ok. the nearest Goodwill is bound to get a few boxes of blingy indian clothes if I really plan to take a flight home. one more day and so much to throw away. (this is calming me down. I'm actually realizing that I need to throw away stuff.)

Other thoughts? Apollo 13 is not the best movie to watch 30 hours before an international flight. Jus as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre isn't a nice idea a day before you leave home the first time for Bushland.
I'll miss you, America. You of the many weird people I'll never get to see back home. land of opportunities. that made me realize I wasn't ready for all those opportunities and never might be. I'll miss being exotic. and I'll miss being truly free. You have made me less judgmental, more aware, more concerned, more reckless, more beautiful in the Indian sense of the word beautiful, and less healthy. works for age 22, America, works splendidly. Maybe, I'll come back again and, maybe, you'll have been through a black president and done with silly wars and the brown-people-are-terrorists phase by then. AdiĆ³s.

Housekeeping: check out the new colors on this baby. and let me know if it kills your eyes. also, I might have screwed up the blog feed thingie. I don't know yet. Somebody tell me it's working. please.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

the future's not a fugitive anymore.

calls herself aishwarya. and aishwarya, won me over. cud have driven by her, made it to nowhere, as ignorant of light and being, as of milan kundera. she could have as easily been just another pretty face, irritatinly nameless, and fleetinly memorable as i could have ended up bein just another asshole, inevitably cynical, and comfortably anonymous. only, she was my angel undercover.after a lifetime of nut-crunchin ball games with malice and the mundane, she blessed me.the bitter sweet symphony of a hard fought victory.she blessed me. had our share of lex luthers and darth vaders. of nightmares and northern stars. she took my arm, held on tight, and refused to give in. to give up. everythin took its toll. there was distance. there was darkness. prophecies of imminent death and parables of starcrossed lovers. all we had was us. and flipbooks of a beautiful future. till death do us apart. we believed. past the haze of unrest and infinite space, gazin into each other, only to stare at ourselves starin back. we knew. to hold on was to make happen. and happen we would. she fought for me, as i took the blow, past her scream. shrill.dry.spellin out my name, in fear and breathin. cud afford to smile through the ride to hell and back. for eventually seemed next door, and life, was on hold. pacin all over, for us to arrive. weak and down on our knees, bled off color and courage, chivalry hangin out to the wind, she still held my arm, as we swam ashore. to the other side. finally, we had each other. and that somehow, explained. everythin and then some more. embalmed in her embrace, liplocked, and open-eyed, breathin warmth into each other, we were plain grateful. that it almost left us spent and senile, that it could so easily not have been, and that we managed to gift us with life. maybe someday, it would really sink in. that it took me bein outrageously blessed to be spendin the rest of my life, with my pretty princess. it took us, every bit of us. the fact that three years later is two weeks from now is testimony, that god after all, isn't busy playin dice with a very dead einstein.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Journeys End in Lovers Meeting.

So, I'm abandoning everything I've ever believed I needed to start over new. Simply because I'm tired or, even worse, lazy. Ever been stretched so bad that you thought you'd snap? Ever hated everything about you so much that you needed to stop, step outta your life and disappear? Well, I've decided to quieten all the sane voices in my head for once and do the craziest thing I could possibly come up with. I've decided to brush off my system the idea that some things/situations are necessary for my happiness and install in its place the idea that most of these things are, at best, desirable. I'm quitting and I'm at peace. I will be with him and all will be well with my world.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

everything has an upside. except teen anorexia.

everything has an upside. everything. war and terrorism. corruption and anarchy. genocide and moral policing. there's nothing that doesn't present an encouraging face to the optimist on dope. except maybe, teen anorexia and exhaust fumes from the vehicle in front of him. what is a cynic but a realist with a warped sense of humor? you've to be a cynic to look at the upside of living in a hostel. a prison cell with roommates far less interesting than child-killers with a cross tattooed across their chest. or gay hustlers with asthma. the hostel. with a crumbling remnant of the forgotten art of brotherhood passing off as an excuse to borrow your soap, its not always the flowerbed where personalities bloom or the shower booth outta where real men with hairy chests walk out. heads held high and diplomas held in their armpit. not always. for me, living here was as fruitful as lookin at the sky with the hope of being blinded by stardust. flightclub warns us against everyday being a copy of a copy of a copy. out here everybody is a copy of a copy of everything you despise about humanity. the nerds and geeks with binoculars for eyeglasses. the professors who keep forgetting they are not life members of the third reich. the food that tastes like baked shit on the better days. and women who were better off being victims of female infanticide. everythin out here was a fucking violation of my rights as a starry eyed 18 year old stepping onto the deceptively manicured lawns of the campus. its true. i did not know what to expect. i remember clutching at the hackneyed imagery of productive college activism, a group of close knit buddies and the possibility of young love. it was not to be. and how! six months into what turned out to be half a decade of solitary confinement, i decided to withdraw. into my own six by four. scrawled from roof to floor with the scribblings of the voluntarily deranged. seeking asylum in my own private nation populated by movie posters and undemanding play lists. and this my frend, was the upside. this and the fact that you aren't required to flush in a hostel. the hostel was blessed with a local area network that in turn blessed me with timely supplies of personal entertainment. the college housed, what was a behemoth peer to peer network with a sharesize running into thousands of gigabytes. cinephilia was my escape. and alternative rock, my cpr. for a long long time, movies were the only audience to my display of any personal emotion. i crackled delightfully as billy wilder herded me through the next plot twist. i stared awe-stuck as bogart wondered if his was the most popular gin-joint in the world. was inconsolable with disappointment at how unremarkable the shining was. while shaking my head in disapproval at the ending of the conversation. movies for me were more important than those petty antics for survival as eating and having a social life. my six by four and an endless supply of cinema were all that i needed to counter the debilitating effects of mind-numbingly inconsequential local mediocrity. i feared conversations with familiar people. shirked away from academic requirements. honed what she calls a fiercely non-conformist point of view into an all-consuming hunger for an alternative reality. where people just don bother you with as much as their sorry existence. spent countless hours in an endless riviera, lamenting, among other things, the progressive loss of style in the cinema of the late 90's and the lack of availability of terribly good indie cinema. the sojourn into alternative rock had equally rewarding consequences. anti-establishment stems, not from the hatred of a machinery that doesn't care but from a state of lovelessness and the threat of dying alone. and the knowledge of having nothing to blame for it. warmed up to anything that sung in praise and proof of the sentiment. loved everything that put protest to tune, that sang my fears, and made music out of melancholy. strove to drive away the discouraging pallor of the sense of unsharing with a blanket of sounds that were supposed to be keeping me company. when you've decided to keep people outta earshot, you tend to take what you are listening to that much more personally. with a seriousness you'd prolly accord being held by a breath that cares or being kissed by the lips that warm. a lack of everything is the freedom to do anything? exactly. a hostel that was supposed to be the end of my human fervor wasn't without this upside. the upside of a meaningful loneliness.

i'd trade the last five years in this shithole for a three minute long freefall. if an instantaneous and painless death came with the package. with freebies like one last cigarette and a scoop of peanut butter thrown in. and here's the irony. this was supposed to be the privilege of higher education. this was my window of promise ( and the other way around ).as i look back now, clouded by the anger at an absent nostalgia and wandering aimlessly across a mind space left barren with the sheer lack of any hint of memorabilia, i don't know what went wrong. i don't know if i am guilty. of closing in on myself far too soon. or if this is just a case of a self-scripted tale of emotional impoverishment and self-styled misanthropy. but am sure of one thing. this wasn't how i saw myself turn into an adult. this was certainly not as seen on t.v. this was harsh reality. more harsher than reality. and i am pretty unsure of its long-term effects. i may not turn into a psychotic doom sayer hoping and prophesising an accelerated demise of humanity due to the exhaust fumes in question. neither would i check myself into an art of living center expecting a spiritual car wash. but i'll certainly live with a silver bullet permanently wedged in my insides with "everything has an upside" inscribed on it. because at the end of the day, all said and most of it leaving me alone, i love myself for having stayed alive. if only to be able to watch vanilla sky for the umpteenth time, fifteen minutes from now.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Minneapolis and its horrendously cold winters don't lend themselves very well to walking while lost in thought. I've noticed lately how difficult it is to avoid those small pools of what looks like water but is, in fact,(oh, it surely is, now that's it spring, oh snap, it's) ice while compulsively making lists of five people whose presence my life could have done without or five creative ways to die. I wonder where this obsession with lists of five began. I always ask people for five good reasons to do something I don't want them to do. Three when I want them to do it and there aren't five good ones. But then it's always seven or a multiple of when asked to pick a random number meant to be manipulated to demonstrate my brother's newly discovered math skills. Maybe it's just about odd numbers,then. Or, perhaps, it's about having some illusion of order to my life which is not all that confusing in the first place. All the minor acts of rebellion against the painful normalcy of my life are in turn so normal and so common that there seems to be no way out. Five years ago, I wouldn't have imagined that I'd feel the need to be someone/something/anything else so desperately. I guess, that's what being with a fiercely nonconformist partner does to a hassle-free existence. I discover new oddities every day and then analyze them and blow them up till they become distinct parts of my identity. Even though making lists of five isn't necessarily a character building activity or really a quirk given the sheer number of people who can think and know how to count, I imagine I'm the only one I know who does it, just to feel special. Just to be like him. And then there are things that everybody I know really does. Like studying for years to land a job. and then taking that job to live the life. and then living and wanting that life even though it's probably far more difficult than just doing nothing or even dying. These have come to mean nothing because everyone does them. Even though, what I've been learning and the life I was assured of by going through six unkind years of college almost completely influence what I am today, these parts of my life are to be subdued or ignored because they involve this other trait called ambition and ambition is never cool. yes, I said cool. Because an engineer is neither endearing nor interesting to anyone, but a fan of snow patrol is, perhaps, both and more. The love for the right kinda movies and music says to some, here's one with good taste. The love for, what I think is, the right kinda education and a real career just says in large neon letters: ordinary.

I zoned out for a while here, censoring myself and using the backspace button fervently, and had this blinding moment of clarity. yeah, the one followed by a resounding thwack to the forehead for not realizing something so simple earlier.

I have gone from being torn between wanting to please my parents and wanting to do what I like even though it hurts the health of my relationship with my parents to being torn between wanting to please Ashok and wanting to do what I like even though it hurts the health of my relationship with my Ashok. Every single time I manage to do what I like I secretly think of myself as unimaginably heroic. Even though it involves something as un-grand as finding and falling for Ashok(in the previous case) or getting sloshed(in the latter). My parents always said they didn't really have a problem with me finding and falling for someone, they just weren't happy about a few things: like timing, Ashok and his general influence on me. Ashok always says he doesn't really have a problem with me getting drunk, it's just the timing and alcohol's general influence over me that riles him. Oh, you and I know what else is gonna rile him, this comparison and this blog post. But, today I can be reckless coz tomorrow I could be jobless and, subsequently, broke and internetless. I go get pasted and try to hug the My Chemical Romance star on First Ave's walls (when sufficiently drunk I feel the name has special meaning given this thing we two have going here) because I'm never going to get to do it again. I dance like I'm possessed from the moment I start buzzing coz I have trouble even smiling at people when sober but I really like people, I like being around them, I don't like sitting alone, constantly trying to please people who're important to me but don't really like me unless I'm the way they want me to be. Drunk people love each other. Drunk people don't care what you are. There's no real need to be unique when you're moving with a crowd. There's no need to watch out for death traps set in ice on the sidewalks coz there is no embarrassment or pain until later. Five good reasons to fuck up your liver and lungs? I'll give you one. For jus those few hours/minutes it doesn't matter if you're ill-equipped in every way for the life you're being asked to live.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

tag attag. my kinda weird.

this is for ziah. aishwarya gamely responded to her tag while i stayed true to the glacial pace i pride myself with. its almost illegal, how i treat matters of online consequence. something to do with the inherent comfort of impersonality that ether can afford you. and about the theme. seven possibly shocking and necessarily weird facts about myself. before i turn my psyche inside out and lead my dark secrets to light, i have to agree with ziah. its difficult to tag what really is a personal idiosyncrasy as weird if you haven't tried to lose it. the fact that they exist is proof that you have made peace with them. they go as far as shaping into your own personal forms of protest. against the ultimate in conformity. that of regular humanity, all of which, they say, can be mapped onto a single genome.they are probably more than quirky personal traits. more than old habits dying hard. they are what set you apart.the sheep and the scarecrow. the shock of invisible red hair your personality is determined to preserve. the self-proclaimed war cry against ubiquity. they may be weird but not unfamiliar. strange but not inexplicable. hilarious but notwithout purpose. they are after all, carefully ignored unusual habits that people credit us with. and the other way around. why is this turning into a declaration of independence? let me stop my opening statement. and take the plunge.

weird fact 1 : an unhealthy obsession with the 60's

there is somethin unresolvable and gripping about the 60's. the irresistible glamor and an unhealthy nihilism aside, the fact that an entire generation of able young people swayed to the clarinet of individual expression and unregulated freedom is fascinating. i have always rued the absence of a cause in my life. an all-consuming activism, not necessarily political or socially relevant. a belief system governed by my own laws. about nature and human response. steadfastly held, in spite of overpowering opposition and indoctrination. challenging existing authority with a glint of mischief. irreverence with a hint of the devil. the 60's had them all. young people taking to the streets, hollering about their own individual take on justice or the lack of it. braving a knee-jerk clampdown and pamphleteering for what they thought was the sake of humanity. they took themselves seriously, though i guess they were far too right for their own good. students, just like you and me, standing up to an enraged political administration. seeking accountability.demanding change. fighting for peace. i don't imagine there would be a time, quite like the 60's. or would there ever be a phase in human history, when makin love was an expression of solidarity and handing out a flower was an advertisement for hope. they could have been flawed. maybe humanity would never survive so much hope. and of course, they simpered down to a slow death. but i really wish i was there. i really wish i handed out a flower and smiled.

weird fact 2 : an equally unhealthy obsession with the tragic

all my earlier posts stand irrefutable testimony to this. i can be irredeemably sad. almost nothing in the world can save me from the gloom i can nurture. i can be depressingly cynical, infectiously sullen and inhumanly distraught. almost everything in this world can make me sad. and i can spend a million hours just mulling over why i mull so much. whats weird about this,is that i need an absolutely flawless environment to be able to function normally. and in keeping with the truth of life, nothin is flawless. and i realize this stupid grudge about the stupid rule, by shuttin down. by withdrawing into the safety of voluntary inaction. self-pity comes easy when you start believing you were the victim. equally easy is being a pessimist, when nothin ever worked for you. i guess am just a dissatisfied glummy bear. the trouble is, this obsession with the tragic seems to bleed into other worldly functions. if i ever write, i only write about how sad life is. i watch a movie that ends with the usual happily ever after and construct an alternate ending where everybody gets killed as an asteroid smashes into our planet. this is not sick masochism. i am far too ordinary for that. its just me not being able to come to terms with the existence of so much happiness in the face of the obvious and inescapable evil that abounds underneath every human. can anybody ever claim to be entirely free of malice? can there ever be a utopia, which can prove the existense of a higher power beyond any reasonable doubt? i don't know. and it makes me sad that i don't.

weird fact 3 : i cannot communicate over a telephone.

if you can get hold of my mobile phone and check on my contact list, it'd prolly throw up as many names as there are people who can spell "bourgeois" right in the first go .i only use my fone to talk to aishwarya and to say yes to all that my mom asks me to do. somehow it feels too unreal for comfort. trying to picture a face behind the voice, animating the voice with an imaginary body language, infusing it with the inflections you are not quite sure you can make out. it just is too much work. the few times that i do receive a call from somebody i am not exactly dying to talk to, its a pain shuffling on my feet, trying to not get bored and coming up with some way i can end the conversation without really spellin out how big an asshole i am. i dread unknown numbers so much that i skirt away from answering any number i do not have committed to memory. an upshot. i cannot quite understand the fuss that surrounds the regular foray of mobile fones and the people ready to bow down to some contraption that lets them blog and shoot and flaunt and touch and play and gyrate. in addition to the incredible option of actually calling a human being. its not really weird considering the premium i think personal interaction should be accorded with. almost everybody i know have given up on tryin to reach me through a telephone. which most of the time is my own loss. but i don't think i can give up on the habit. here's to silence, solitude and sounds with a face attached to them.

weird fact 4 : i cannot bring myself to say cool.

this has to be the weirdest of them all. i cannot bring myself to say cool. this has to be the weirdest of them all.

weird fact 5 : keep trying to make an OST of my life

i've been a militant fanatic of indie alternative punk since i discovered box car racer's "there is", half a decade ago. the reason why it was so liberating was the fact that it seemed to be strumming out lyrics, that wouldn't have been outta place applied to what was goin on with me, back then. they fit in, right down to the last rough edge. then came jimmy eat world with "night drive" which put me to sleep as i was grapplin with a disappointing rite of passage. sum 41's "pain for pleasure" articulated my energetic confusion while "pieces" lent background to the sadness that was threatening to seep in. i flirted with iron maiden and metallica for a while, but they sounded far too archaic and irrelevant to be my spokespeople. drifted back to cold play, and they gifted me with "fix you". there couldn't have been a better representation for the promise of a second chance. box car racer returned, this time in the garb of blink 182 and with "i am lost without you", they ensured i din lose faith in the healing powers of familiar music played repeatedly. and then, there came snow patrol with "run". that song was divine intervention. it was just what god would have sung if he was signed up by a record label. it was everything. i am not exaggerating. you just have to listen to it, to know what i am talking about. i keep adding tracks to my ost. keep lookin for newer music that i imagine would fit into my ost with the downside being outright rejection of every other blameless track. for the simple reason, that its not singing for me.

and for reasons best undisclosed, aerosmith and "I don't want to miss a thing" occupy a very special spot in that ost.

weird fact 6 : i have a mortal fear of snakes.

the darned creatures weren't supposed to survive so long. never had a close call with one of them, but i routinely recall my best brandon lee education each time i step on a hose. i've never been able to overcome the stupid fear. she thinks they are graceful. that they help in eco-balance and make for exciting nat geo programming. i am not sure if a balanced ecology would do me any good after one of them gets me in the backside, someday.

weird fact 7 : i am horribly susceptible to vice.

give me a hint of the satan and the opportunity to get addicted and i'd take to almost anything. no questions asked. no will power exercised. and no remorse exhibited. there is something irresistibly sinister about the seduction of the dark side. something about practicing the prohibited. guess its a remnant of my juvenile years, but i still revel in repelling authority. i realize most of the times, that i am treading that thin line between making a statement and losing your footing. but if you were dying to know to know how free fall felt, would you not want to jump? among my latest acquisitions is a wanton liking for playing cards. i play low stakes, low brow and low class. but its begun to make sense why gambling is so frigging addictive. the sheer anticipation of making easy money, coupled with the usual ecstasy of winning in a group added to the dignity of getting away with something illegal. trust me on this, you'd not stop at embracing the devil. you may just go ahead and offer him your neck.

and that, would be it. the seven weird traits that made the grade. i should definitely be concerned about some of them. especially about the new found love for wagerin small change for gambling. but the fact that you can't help but succumb, that you'd rather live with them than try to address them, only adds that faintest hint of mystique to your personal weirdness.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Hard Times

It came down to a 15-minute walk to home and three-day old rice or a 5 minute ride to West Bank and getting lost trying to find this restaurant I've been dying to be at(since, hmm, the last 24 hours).Well, five minutes later, I found myself staring at a chalk board (vegetarian!) menu that says:
Coffee: $1.00
Stupid Questions: $5.00

People, I've fallen in love with Hard Times Cafe. Rather, fallen in love with the idea of me - this very uninteresting, barely alive, woman with deep-seated faith in a (now) conservative religion, the establishment/system, and order - stepping into a place that flaunts it's anarchist history (and present) and finally feeling like I'm home.

Like always, paused an awkward second while deciding whether to give my real name for the tab or that shorter-but-easier-on-the-american-tongue form I so hate and then spelt out a-s-h. The guy writing it down notices that I'd hesitated and wants to know if that's my undercover name. I whip out my card to pay for my food and was told they accept only cash. of course.

I find a table in a corner crawling with white etchings of what looks like somebody's thesis in theoretical physics. There's crazy graffiti all over the wine-red walls. Wine-red walls. My idea of a perfect room has been, for a long time: wine-red walls, moroccan rugs, mood lighting and the faint smell of an existence steeped in leisure. I look around for a blue-haired person, there's gotta be one in a place like this, hollywood says so. It turns out, the blue-haired woman with a mysterious air about her, who later in the night changes your life forever, is, in fact, a language major with raven black hair. She's scribbling furiously onto her legal notepad, I peer and discover she's practicing the devanagari script. of course.

At this point, I'm wondering if the novelty of West Bank will ever wear off. Been 18 months since I first stumbled onto this side of the river and I always find something to gape at for a bit longer than is acceptable. I catch a glimpse of a mural of a many-armed being with one hand clutching a severed head before a group of somalians obscures it again, a highly inappropriately placed hindu god, I reckon. A visibly stoned guy is smiling a benignant smile at me. I find out that my quesadilla is seasoned with lime. The visibly stoned guy is now feeling around on his table for his coffee mug while still smiling his benignant smile. I find out that spicy really means spicy out here. The somalians want to know why there's no music. Some ancient, awkwardly-tuned cambodian song with shrill female vocals and a hint of a western rhythm blares outta speakers placed right over my head. I pull out my copy of English, August: it's been on that reading list way too long. Perhaps, it was meant to be that I read of unbelonging at this very point in my life.

Spent two hours absorbing the dull clamor and irreverence in the air before making a trip to the loo. The restroom's walls scream out a hundred different thoughts scrawled on by those not satisfied with the larger, more open canvas outside. Some responsible citizen had carved out a list of 'chariots' - cab phone numbers - near the mirror. Zoned out for a bit in that tiny room, could feel a presence in there, it felt like the comforting touch of a million lost souls, felt like there's no place I'd belong to, no place that'd like me, none that I'd be at peace with and knew for the first time that it was alright. I walked out into a wall of cold air ten minutes later and for once didn't hate Minneapolis all that much.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

rough seas and the northern star

a momentary surge in the machinations of your circulatory system and an arguably audible snap in your oblangata coupled with a horrible sight of your own suicide and a generous helping of primal fear. this is how you resist insistent condemnation. accused of vandalism when you were only trying to gather the broken pieces. you respond with righteous anger and a reflex of self-pity. held for murder when you were only trying to help. you fightback with eloquent silence and a faith in goodness. for innocence is much too dignified to protest. and the truth isn't too good to be itself. you hope to be understood. by the inebriated mind of the self appointed vigilante. from above the din of flying daggers and hopelessly accurate fists, you wish for another time. another place. another chance.

can you be wrongfully right?

You may have tried.with intentions as honorable as self-less courage. sparing no practical effort and swearing an allegiance for life and the thereafter. when no distance is far enough, you ask yourself this. how far can you go, if the collateral is hope. would you stop, if the end is the only incentive? falter, if pain is the only inspiration? you don't risk asking questions, if the answer spawns a mist of despair. tempted to look back and take stock, you trust your gut and keep moving. to retrospect, is to risk fatigue. and to tire, is to die. you stand up tall. on your knees. living out a lifetime's worth. of anguished anticipation. of steel chaired waiting rooms. of dogeared magazines and the smell of disinfectant. you close your fists.take the name of the lord. in vain desperation. you stare with suspicion. at your own new-found religion. wishing for help, you wander. between begging without pride.death before dishonor is a distant luxury. you wish nothing changed. things are always different. from what you remember. people aren't always the same. as those you remember. we have waited all this while. with different perspectives. in different time lines.

how difficult is staying happy?

i have been loved. to know that, to hold that hand that wanted to hold you back, to kiss that face that wanted to kiss you back, has been the greatest gift of my life. i knew her. more than the fact, that she was the one. i knew her. as the only one. when you are living out a fairytale, its easy to dream. its easier to get confused. between whats necessary. and whats possible. between an ordinary present. and a better future. i wanted her. she wanted us. not the same thing. like resilience and resistance. like pure silence and deafening noise. she was willing to wait. till the tide and tilt at sunset. and i was holding her tight. till she lost her patience and breath. i din want to lose her. while i dug my nails in. i din want to let go. while i was pinning her down. i did not know. that the reason why we were the greatest love story on earth could flit between plain vanity and the genuine truth. i want to clean my non-existent act and still look into her eyes. i want to promise change and still make her smile. you never know you've lost it. until you notice the absence. i have begun to notice. and i want her to know. that i love her. i can't be sorry without the obvious triviality of the word. i can't take us back there despite the impossibility of the thought. but i want us to want to sleep together again. i want us to dream away the nightmares, this time.

P.S : she hates the seemingly disconnected rant i just posted. but she'd understand the underlying purpose of it. we have hit a rough trail, my friend. and we are fighting to keep us alive.