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?
Tashan.
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...
save.

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:
none.

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?
Pecan.

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.

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. Adiós.

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.

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.