Fat-Free Hypocrisy

Mango Showers

2011-07-30T03:05:00.000-07:00

In India, they have terribly hot summers in most places, but these are interrupted by rain. Of course, we also know that summer is mango season. In southern India, sometimes these rains are so harsh, that it rains mangoes. They call these “Mango Showers.”

I’d never eaten a mango till I got here.

Well, I’d eaten Mango flavoured things, like ice-cream and cheesecake and other things, but I’d never really eaten the fruit.

And I realised that the best mangoes weren’t the ones that were sweet all over and specially picked and cut up into dainty little cubes.

No, the best fruit was when you didn’t know if the mango was sweet all over, and it tasted better when it had a little bit of that lip curling sourness in it.

It was nicer when there was a mess all over the front of your shirt, and juice dribbling off of your chin.

And it was especially nicer, to have someone’s laughing face close by, stained and messy in much the same fashion, making your own lips curl into a smile.

And that was how I came to love mangoes.

Windward

2011-07-02T04:00:00.000-07:00

How would you be, my dear,
Were you human as you are the wind?
Would you be as wild and untamed?
Would we shiver in your displeasure,
And tremble in the chill of your contempt?
Would we thirst in the heat of your fervent passion
And bask in the afterglow of sweet content?
Would we welcome you in nights of restless abandon,
And desperate hope that you'd stay near?
Tell me, How would you feel,
Were you not whispering by my ear?

-Sreedevi

Ask and you shall be questioned.

2011-03-25T23:26:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me that perhaps one of the bigger causes for problems of the human race is that we expect everyone to tell us things.

Why is that?

We’re told why we should choose one shampoo over the other, one toothpaste over the other, why one store is superior to the other, even why one programming language is supposedly better than the others.

And what do we do?

We hmm and haw, get ourselves more confused by the minute, and eventually make a choice that we doubt for a long while after – till we embrace the choice because we made it and it would be too humiliating to admit that we were wrong the first time round or we give up on it, admit we were wrong and proceed to repeat the cycle.

Why is it so difficult?

In the world of INTJ, we have a statement “I’ve made up my mind; don’t confuse me with the details.” I didn’t quite understand it then, but then the appearance of a praying mantis outside my door gave me pause. If I believed in such things as omens – good or bad – I would think that it was a sign to contemplate my surroundings, clear my mind and think about the choices I’m making.

Odd co-incidence, that.

The mind’s a funny thing, really. It finds all the hidden meanings, all the junk that goes on in between lines; whether that’s a good thing, one can’t say, but if you’re thinking it, then you can’t blame anyone but yourself. That is the truth.

The good thing about the mind is that it won’t tell you a thing. It’ll only just sit back, cross its arms and ask you questions that most of the time you cannot answer. It’ll smirk at you when you parrot out what you’ve been told all this time and ask you, “Really?”

You’ll really want to smash that smugness right out of your skull, but you can’t do it apart from the obvious reason why. It’s when you decide that the heart is a stupid muscle that can’t do a single thing that is voluntary. Hell, it can’t even beat without that miserable git that is your brain.

It’s fairly stupid to follow the sayings of a muscle that’s pretty much ordered around by something else, innit?

The truth lies in that complex grid of neurons that not even the most intelligent people on the planet have thus far been able to understand fully. We should be turning to minds, I suppose, not Gods when confronted with troubles.

That’s what the mantis at my doorstep meant.

So the mind says, “You needed an external factor that is sketchy at best, to tell you what you should have been listening to internally, all this while? And you call yourselves the most intelligent species?”

We’re learning; we’ll get there. That’s why we are the most intelligent species – for the most part – because some of us will learn.

The details are less confusing now; worst case scenario, the cycle will start again till I get it right, or die trying.

Remember, remember.

2010-12-31T00:25:00.000-08:00

Looking back on the years that have passed,

There are several memories scattered;

Some of euphoria, and some quite sour,

Yet all of them equally mattered,

In making the trip through the varied land;

At time lush green and teeming with life,

And later regions of barrenness like a desert

Representing all our successes and strife.

A mixed feeling engulfs when we think of the time,

We will separate to follow stars of our own;

Excitement in facing an unknown world ahead

And fear of leaving a comfortably numb zone.

But most of all to find that the days may be empty,

Of filled to the brim with things to do;

Either way there may no longer be company,

That will comfort and help you pull through.

The joy that we shared, the laughs that we had,

And the outrageous stories that raged;

Of people and events; some so unbelievable,

That it’s possible they were all staged.

Gossip and tips and all the knick-knacks,

On things that mattered, or didn’t;

Bring wide smiles, and probably sly grins,

For things we did, but quite shouldn’t.

Moments of truth, perhaps quite unpleasant,

That brought us to tears or frustration;

Yet we trudged on, like soldiers in fog,

Towards a road, either to success or perdition.

Times like these may never return,

Bottled and stored, fresh long after the present;

It seems like yesterday, we arrived at these gates,

Many years it has been, so short: as a moment.

Sreedevi

Stephen Fry 'twinterview'

2010-09-14T09:11:00.000-07:00

Here's a transcript (of sorts) of the "twinterview" [interview via twitter] conducted by Johann Hari (johannhari101) with Mr. Stephen Fry (stephenfry), for the benefit of anyone who missed it.

As always, Mr. Fry, it has been a pleasure.

Please find the .pdf file here.

Let me know if anyone has any problems with it.

Regards,
Sreedevi.

Wanderers by moon

2010-08-24T04:58:00.000-07:00

Darkness falls and shrouds our world,

And long slumbering beasts awaken;

With raised heads, and claws uncurled,

They wait with infinite patience,

For the moment they can, readily escape,

From shadows where light be forbidden;

And sniff the air for unconscious prey,

Within reach, unfortunate and unbidden.

Long they have hungered, and hoped in vain,

Till night o’er them hath befallen;

And with moon and stars, they rise again,

The beasts to beauty, wretched and forgotten.

By howl of wind and wolf alike,

Prepared to hunt, unencumbered;

For rules by day, are hidden and ground

Into stardust, till dawn be remembered.

Nothing remains, not bone nor decay

For nothing is left, worthy of remains;

Nothing is heard, or pretended be heard,

Screams of terror, lost forever in pain.

A hat, a coat, a scarf, that once belonged

Thievery struck, a beggar in want

No sign of a struggle, no need for a lie

For those who are lost, never survive.

Sreedevi Jagannath.

Dreams in the summer sky.

2010-08-23T01:53:00.000-07:00

Its one thing that I wake in the morning to see that it’s a rainy day.

It’s entirely another to wake up most mornings and simply feel that way.

Most mornings I just wake up, admiring the way the light plays with the sky blue of my walls, blurring the edges of the walls into a generous summer sky, irrespective of the weather outside. I further the feeling by drawing curtains, the colour of a stormy sky; where the clouds are thickening, but not thick as to sport the grey uniforms of somber soldiers.

It lends a pattern to the summer sky around me, patches of golden interspersing the faultless expanse. In the quiet gloom of the morning hours, it gives my dream addled brain a little longer to hold on to the fantastical images that lend extraordinary depth to pre-dawn dreams.

And then the waking dream has to end, as all dreams must.

It is not the end I fear, but the dream itself. For if there is no dream then there will be nothing to end.

A quote for the Romantic

2010-08-17T01:25:00.000-07:00

"Romance to the sensitive soul, is as water to the gentlest flower - nourished by enough, withered by too little and smothered in too much."

Sreedevi.

Of Fleeting Fancies

2010-04-29T22:02:00.000-07:00

With what words shall I write to you?
Shall I use those precise and refined
So clean, so crisp and pure?
Or shall I let dignity go blind,
And utter words, no church can cure?
Tell me, how shall I write to you?

How shall I say the words?
Forming in my very soul, in tears
Failing and drowning inside,
Too adhered to pride and fears;
Till quivering lips make no sound,
Except for a breath expelled in clear
Resignation, acknowledging my cowardliness;
How shall I say the words?

How shall you hear the truth?
In halting, ambiguous sentences,
Or prose in high, crystal tone;
Half false, half untrue, full verses?
Or should I leave sight to converse alone,
In hope that the message gets through?
Pray, how shall you hear the truth?

How shall I confess to you?
That nights no longer hold sleep,
And days are fogged over in a haze,
While I contemplate a dream;
Thoughts follow lost paths in a maze,
Fretting over consequences
Of events that have not yet come to pass;
It is madness: I hear, I see, I do.
How shall I blame this madness on you?

Sreedevi

A scar to tell...

2010-04-20T03:57:00.000-07:00

Scars abound; pink, white and brown,
Each with a tale to tell;
Some in anguish, many in sorrow,
A few in happiness as well.
A story to each, from scrapes on knees,
To stretches across a plane;
Perhaps our tricks and climbing trees,
Or rough-housing, when games remain, not games.
A sharpened blade, a broken glass,
Edges unnoticed by the eye;
A clenching fist, with digging nails,
Efforts to see through a lie.
The need to feel a thing besides,
A broken heart, ripped from its place;
Hope withdrawn and pain derived,
With salten rain in call to disgrace.

Sreedevi.

Night, the Illusionist

2010-03-10T20:32:00.000-08:00

What emotions we find within us,
Are magnified greatly at night;
The cool lust of the daytime,
Turns to warm love by candlelight.
How leers and lewd whispers,
Feel akin to passion, by light of moon;
And oft, those unknown strangers,
Prove lovers by fall of the gloom.
Soft, it does make, darkness,
A master of disguise;
Many weakness does it gather,
Masking with pleasant lies.
Blind as we are in shadows,
To faults of souls, that dwell;
Light is too sharp to appease us,
Night, with caresses, does quell.

Sreedevi

Whatever shall we see?

2010-02-25T08:11:00.000-08:00

A shudder, sigh;
My Kingdom for a breeze;
Anything that might defy,
This stillness and unease;
A wish for wings,
Tonight it might be,
The end of dreaming,
And the beginning of peace.

Sreedevi.

No shred of dignity in the world of IT

2010-02-24T23:13:00.000-08:00

All things are a flowing,
Sage Heracleitus says;
But a tawdry cheapness
Shall reign throughout our days.

-- Ezra Pound “Hugh Selwyn Mauberly”

In my limited experience working within the IT Industry, it has come to my notice that there are mostly people who find quite a bit of benefit, just by making a scene.

By “making a scene,” I don’t mean the messy liaisons of an emotional nature - Hades knows we have far too many of them – but that wherein a circumstance is subjected to mountain making. As with many people in the IT industry, I would feel more comfortable, if we stripped them of any technical titles, and instead re-christened them as Bards of Dogtown.

In days of old, Bards had but one function; travel around the land, involve in a goodly amount of scriptwriting (and mangling), and tell their stories with a presence, all for the sake of a few coins, food and shelter, till they moved on to the next village. These modern day Bards have but little difference, except they tell stories to make profits, garner benefits of travel and cash, or simply save their veritable backsides.

I have seen several such Bards, and they do little but spend their time making it look as if the world would end if the company-sponsored perks were not unduly credited to them. With a flair for the dramatics, they announce their resignation, and reluctantly (not to mention, nobly) accept the considerable pay raise, and promotion. It stands to be seen if they really would leave if someone called their bluff.

There is no such thing as idealism, and professional courtesy is a thing of the past. Sadly, I see my eyes being opened to face the real world; people would employ cut-throat techniques, and use the corpses of the meek as their steps, rising in the corporation with little to no shame. Clichéd as it seems, rat-race is apropos, for the current corporate world.

Do people feel no remorse in compromising their integrity, to get a free ticket? Is there no shame in taking ruthless advantage of benefits offered? It would be clearly a class of the least level to salivate over small time gains, but as I see it, people care less about being professional, or classy, and more about those extra pennies they can squeeze out of an organisation. It is truly a blow to we, who proudly claim to be white collared.

My next line of thought is, “why is no one stepping up and asking these questions?” To which, I fear the answer will be, “because no one cares enough.” Shocking, yes, but what can a lowly last rung employee do? Give up a job because of righteous indignation? Not likely!

I cannot help but feel pity for those who work diligently, doing right by themselves, when it comes to moving up in the organisation. I feel disdain for those who think less of appearing like a money-grubbing leech, than they do over filing reimbursements over ten dollars. I also feel sorry for the state of affairs. As I implied before, Professionalism is truly dead, and honour was knocked over in a joust with money.

Pathetic, Indeed.

He walks in Darkness

2010-02-07T21:39:00.000-08:00

He walks in darkness.

Beneath his feet, not a sound,

No rustle as his cloak

sweeps the icy ground.

He walks in darkness

It is no shield to him

For none but the moon

Dare lay eyes on this form

Gliding through the forest

In the dead of the night

No different than mere mortals

In the harmless light

For it is with the setting of the sun

That life leaves his veins

And he hungers to feed

In attempt to be whole again.

It is a half life, this being

Has not a shred of repent

When hunger is sated, deed is done

He knows he will never be rid

Of stains that mar his own

Of red that flows, to burgundy deep

Promises to revive him, it does keep.

Too long has he been dead this way

For life is meaningless to him

Yet in the time between the fading sun

And the rise of the chariots each day

A fire burns within his body

Longing to decay, in vain.

For he walks in darkness

And what little shall it show

He watches and waits, in shadows

Sreedevi

The Last Breath

2010-02-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

The dust has settled; silence resounds,
I'm unsure if I'm flying or aground;
Unaware of anything but the cold,
Wrapping itself around, like a lover of old.
Who am I? Where am I? This I cannot recall,
There's nothing to think of this moment, at all.
I hope, against everything, there's comfort ahead,
These rocks at my back, make not warm a bed.
Something flows out of these things I call eyes,
Tears or blood? reminiscent of lies;
Promises I made when I said I would return,
To the smile of a child, it makes my chest burn.
I see them before me, reach out my fingers,
Nothing happens, no movement lingers.
Blackness is calling, why did I come here?
Ill fated decisions, there's unguarded fear;
Hope has left me, there's nothing to try,
I welcome the stillness, and the grey afterlife.

Sreedevi

A Year and A Day...

2009-12-15T22:53:00.000-08:00

You’ll see that one day you wake up,
And notice inside you,
There’s something missing that you can’t decide on;
You’re sure of a space that used to be filled
But the edges are a blur and the memories riddled
With time playing havoc on all that you own;
It resides at the back of your mind
And it shows up when you have the time
To spare, in your busy life;
Apart from the occasional letter and missive,
It’s not the top in your Priorities’ Line;
Now it’s too late, it’s a year and a day,
No place for you at the round table,
You’ve outgrown the chair set out in your name;
This is what happens when friends grow apart,
Or you grow apart from your friends;
Pictures seem perfect enough without you,
And the insider jokes no longer make sense;
Learn that the chapters in a book have to end
It may have been good, but it helps to pretend
That some things are best forgotten in grace
Turn around, turn away; Just turn the page.

Sreedevi.

Disappointment

2009-11-23T23:18:00.000-08:00

In hope perhaps the heart is more fool

Than any opportunity given
For hope and desire start the fire
With which disappointment be driven
Fond are times in past and present
When hope rewardeth human
Countless occasions of deeper sorrow
In those very instants forgotten
Why this madness, why this need
To expect of things and compliance?
In the end, no score is kept
Of success or defiance.
Dark are days until the time
Fresh circumstance arises
And traitorous heart, it hopes again
Worse for wear, but triumphant.

-Sreedevi

Prejudice by Lavanya Desai

2009-11-15T05:53:00.000-08:00

Lavanya is 12 and a 7th grader in Oxford Middle School. With regards to the current debate regarding prejudice and racial problems in America, her language arts teacher Mrs Sue Buckner, asked them to express their feelings/opinions about the topic.

Here is what she came up with. I am honoured to know her; she speaks on the topic with more maturity than most adults display. As her parents say, We are very proud of her and thought that a 12 year old's words might open a few eyes and change a few hearts .

My name is Prejudice
I live in the hearts of all humans
You've heard of me , haven't you?
I am black as the darkest alley,
Where a Jewish boy was lynched with glee.
As terrible as the thoughts
that slowly set my evil free.
As common as air,
And just as needed for survival.!.
Where would the world be without me?
I can drive the nicest person to his Doom,
And bring the foulest to the Top.
I can torture you to Madness,
And never ever stop.
No one can escape from me.
Rich,poor,ugly,handsome,
I am always there!
Don't fool yourself, human,
I am everywhere.
I am everything, yet nothing,
So long as I shall live.
Destructive as a hurricane,
Blasting through a town.
Heed my advice, child,
It may just let you live free.
Save yourself -- and others
And stay away from me.

Lavanya Desai

In Chains

2009-11-06T01:20:00.000-08:00

A sense of unease
Bridles the heart
A mind in distress
Unable to part
With thoughts and dreams
Unbidden they spring
Unfulfilled by day
In twilight lingering
Twisting and turning
Brewing more fertile
Unwanted colour
And designs inverted
Words have more meaning
In idleness to float
Depressing, demeaning
Endless a moat
Within isolation
A new form arises
With hearts and freedom
For steeper prices
Such is the manner
Of sorrow in rage
We choose to bind
Our souls in a cage.

Sreedevi.

Dandelions in the sky...

2009-10-29T04:14:00.000-07:00

Empty inside, light-headed feeling,
Cotton ball mouth and sand in my eyes;
This is how it feels the day after
Faith is lost in most things alive.
A pang in the chest where
A heart’s supposed to beat slow,
But there is no rhythm this time;
Now, somehow it feels like
Killing some large part of mine.
Chills in my spine, ache in my throat,
A burning behind my eyes;
I can’t break a promise again,
The one where I promised never to cry.
Never, seems to be too long a word,
Broken too soon to deny;
Emptiness and loneliness, two strong words;
Too powerful to defy.
What shall one use to fill,
Such a gaping hole with?
Pennies, and wishes aside;
Faith leaves too large a hole,
To fill with more meaningless lies.
Dreams are left dangling,
And hopes are left streaked,
With tears from invisible vines;
Choking and holding no more,
They wither and die.
Clockwork in movement,
Nothing has changed,
Except for no life in your smile;
No one seems to care anyway,
Lost in a giant fog outside.
No sound comes at that moment,
No howling of winds,
Nor lightening cutting the night;
You wake up one morning, and it’s gone,
Dandelions in the sky.

Sreedevi

Celebration of the Dead

2009-10-29T04:09:00.000-07:00

In the land of the dead
There is a celebration
Where skeletons dance in streets
In gowns of silk and satin

With no shoes to cover up
The stark white shattered toes
Gentlemen have tread upon
Remorseless and morose

The dresses were once white
And adorned with pretty lace
Now they are stained crimson
Matching a bruised bloody face

In the land of they dead
They dance in celebration
Lifting up what’s left of broken
Hearts and decayed emotions

There’s a peace in their chests
Where hearts haven’t beaten
In so very long a while
Longer than time they haven’t eaten

Dried flowers in hairless skulls
Are the only bright thoughts
These women have in their head
It’s all they have ever got.

In the land of the dead
There’s always celebration
More and more come in for peace
Children, and women, in exultation.

Suspended in time, they no longer care
For the dead have no clocks to weep
Late, late, it is too late;
Now there is no wait for sleep.

Sreedevi

Into the Night

2009-10-29T04:07:00.001-07:00

In the gathering gloom, the mind learns of clarity
For when there is no light, the darkness survives
And only the darkest of thoughts shall thrive
For the world is nought but shades of grey
And with the rising dawn the sun chases down
All that lies hidden in the shadow of the sun
It is there that we shall find, peace from momentum
Of restless wanderings of the un-chastened mind
It is then that there will be peace in benediction
Of an everlasting light, till the orange-red of dusk
Like a warning beacon from all that is cheerful
It is time.
Darkness arises and the moon refrains from a shine
All too clear, for it is weak to decline
The power of the night, and of its children
For when we are not blinded by the gold that is foolish
We shall see by silver true natures sublime.

Sreedevi Jagannath

Ignoramus, ignoramus...

2009-10-29T03:56:00.000-07:00

Secrets and ceremonies
Riot and Ritual
Overpower incoherency
Turning habitual
Psyche and mentality
Work in mysterious way
Manifesting as Spiritual
Causing intimate decay
The Mind is weak
The heart weaker still
Caught in superstition
Eroding the will
An anchor is needed
The soul finding none
Death eats a little more
It is deemed bygone
Too late are veils
Lifted from sights
A glimpse and forever
Devoid of light.

Sreedevi

One too many times...

2009-10-29T03:51:00.000-07:00

The sheets are so cold now that
There is only half the warmth
And your side of the bed
Is just a little too far
Over the chasm that’s opened
Since your latest faux pas
I want to admit that it isn’t your first
And although I hope it will,
It can never be the last
No matter how alone I’ll feel
Right now; it’s got to stop.
If I want to forgive you
I don’t know whatever for
It seems it’s your illusion
That it’s entirely my fault.
So while you lie there fuming
Over nothing at all,
I have to stop my mind turning
To forgetting it all; it will stop.
You’re a nice person
But you’ve never enough
And if I look over everything
Nothing’s left to give up
Sacrifice has to have a meaning
But with you it’s too much
My patience has run thin
Stretched over with scotch
I’d forgive you if I could
But you’ve broken my heart
There’s aren’t many pieces
To make one up; it has to stop.
One day you’ll miss me
Or maybe one day you won’t
I know I won’t be here
To care if you don’t.
Now it’s gone a little over the top
And it’s stopped.

Sreedevi.

Without the Light

2009-10-29T03:44:00.000-07:00

Slivers of moon, dancing on your skin
White as pearls and silk akin
Dark eyes watch as eyelids droop
Transported to a land unknown

In realms beyond understanding or hope
As breath is evened and consciousness lost
A sigh, content and slow
Escapes from within, a touch of frost.

Dark eyes watch as slumber takes
Yet another victim, underneath her wing
A smile of pleasure, a frown of pain
And words too soft spent uttering

A name called and a touch rendered
While tales of bards be dreamed
A crimson pool flows, encumbered
By tongues and teeth, bloodied, gleamed.

A need so raw and primal by nature
Unravels as warm poison be drained
Healing and filling, to thirsty creature
Beast or man, with such poison sustained.

A moment too long, or many too brittle
A hunger instatiable, held within reach
True havoc be unleashed upon mere mortal
If ever such wants garner release.

Mercy is found with the dawn that breaks
Streaking with colours uncertain
Gaining in strength and curious ardor
Till night comes knocking, waiting again.

Sreedevi

An Idle Mind...

2009-09-13T23:56:00.000-07:00

Often the mind is simply – well , Bored - and it finds the need to do something, lest it be overrun by ungainly thoughts and the sharp methodical slicing of fear, concerning events that, in most probability, may never occur.

Such is the case now, and here I sit, trying almost whole heartedly, to make some meaningful use of this blessed time of peace.

Surrounded by a chattering set of non-gifted people, who raise voices in a crass mockery of power, one often wonders why, just why?

Why do people tend to have an over-glorified sense of their selves?

Why do people take what doesn’t belong to them?

And why are they inclined to appear stupid, with each passing attempt to assuage others of their own intelligence?

I can produce no answers to such questions, and I vaguely hear my own mind mocking me in the Voice of God.

“Do not ask such questions of me, for even Miracles cannot bring you what you seek here.”

I can do little more than sigh and grace myself with a sardonic smile.

Truer words have never been spoken.

It is in such an environment, I suddenly find that for a very brief moment, my mind is thinking of nothing. Absolutely nothing; not even deigning to decipher the cacophony outside the window.

Simply hearing, not processing. Seeing and not looking.

And it is peace, and chaos in one.

Peace because for that moment, I am one with the immobile furniture, the walls, and the very ground; of course making the arrogant assumption that they process nothing more than nothing.

Chaos because it is a state that the mind, neither the body is accustomed to being, and panic briefly ensues once the moment has passed.

I believe the panic another brief moment when the mind asks itself first, “Am I still alive?”

Pointless as this essay seems, I have to agree that something born of pointlessness is probably, just that.

Albeit, it has given good exercise in rehashing vocabulary and the opportunity to sound even vaguely philosophical; not entirely pointless, in essence.

Perhaps it is time to close this digression and attempt finding more interesting things to do, but sadly, I find that in my eyes, writing this is rather more interesting than most other things expected of me.

It often feels like employment is but a way to smother unrequited desires in choice of the same, as long as possible, to avoid the torturous resurfacing of all that “could have been.”

Indeed, it feels that way.

A storm brewing within, that can be suppressed in as much as the daytime. Nothing is guaranteed to remain repressed while the mind is otherwise unoccupied, leading to such dreams as to leave the soul thirsting, or nightmares that leave the mind unwilling to let itself drift.

In our dreams, we are never free, and I once again arrogantly assume that in that brief moment, we are as close to death as the alive can hope, without truly getting there. In our death, I think we will be free; if not of anything, of our mortal obligations, insufficiencies and things equally vile.

Therefore, in that brief moment, before the mind has to ascertain that it is still alive, we are free. It is that taste of freedom, barely at the tip of our tongues, so to speak, that leave us longing for the day we die, consciously, or unconsciously, repeatedly or sparsely, longingly or reluctantly.

We all long for death. It is only a matter of time that it will be handed to us. But in the meanwhile, we can hope to attain such peace, in elongated moments till the occasion, where can join the gratefully, living dead.

Red Wine Heart : The Fate of the Romantic

2009-09-02T09:31:00.000-07:00

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance in the company of Italian Opera.

What does it take, to feel that spark to write a true romance? Of the many things, love is the one topic that no author can ever produce with merely ink and no experience.

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance that she has never felt, in the company of Italian Opera that she doesn’t quite understand.

For it is in the nature of Romance to cause yearning, and Opera to cause anguish, especially when one doesn’t understand either.

A longing for something unfamiliar has a strange form, a hazy shape, one that dances only inches from your fingers, so close and yet too far. It makes your chest constrict, and a burn rise in your eyes that you do not want to acknowledge.

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French Romance that she has found but lost too early, in the company of Italian opera she doesn’t understand the words as much as she does the depth of feeling accompanying the mellifluous lyric.

It makes the air colder, and the room too small and the world outside too large, with something within her that wants to perish; if only it didn’t cause her to perish with it.

It is in the nature of those who have loved and lost, to hate with a passion the age old saying, and any person who dares say it to them.

No, it is not better to have loved and lost.

Because when it is gone, you realise that it has left you incomplete, and no other piece in the world fits in just as perfectly.

It is better to have not loved at all.

It does the romantic no good to hope that they may never love; it is folly, and the knowledge of the inevitable it is far worse a torture than a broken heart itself.

With the hopelessness than drifts through the misshapen pieces than make the romantic, like sunlight through the dormers of abandoned churches, comes the unfailing need to forever wander in search of completeness; made worse by the unflinching truth that it can never be.

The strands of heart warming and cruelly beautiful music will drive one to sin while the passionate and timelessly engraved words may drive one to desperation before.

No, it does no good for a romantic to watch a freshly patched heart be torn apart by memories or longing or loss; and it causes more pain to wrap them up in the gossamer layers of fantastical and yet wanton thoughts.

For it is a role of the romantic to be lost in an eternal loop of destruction and reconstruction, till perhaps there is nothing left to destroy, and lesser still to rebuild.

Till death do us part.

What are you thinking?

2009-08-06T04:27:00.000-07:00

Here in the darkness
For oft the mind
Seeks inspiration
From need to unwind
It needs not flowers
Meadow or perfect dawn
Only peace and quiet
To hear itself; be drawn.
With ink or brush
Or paint or quill
Its thoughts at a rush
To be inscribed by will
And want for space
To be observed
And perhaps rephrased
To fit different canvas
And parchment anew
Adjusting by wider Point of View.

Sreedevi

Step by Step

2009-08-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

One more and then I’m a little closer;
On the path that is keeping me in the air,
While the ground is crumbling to dust
Around my feet. But I can see
Nothing but the tiny curl of your lips,
Into the closest thing to my heart;
And a smile that will light up my way
Through darkness and despair,
Like it’s keeping my feet in the air.

Sreedevi.

Review : Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

2009-07-16T21:28:00.001-07:00

Before I go into anything, I must mention that I read all books in a stretch, being a late bloomer and all that. I like the series, and have nothing but good thoughts for all the books except the third and seventh in the series.

Finally, after a year long (desperate) wait for the most awaited summer blockbuster, I made it early to the advance booking section, only to find the line nearly empty. “Oh well, Joy!” I said to myself, and bought the best seats in the house, Gold class, mind you, to truly enjoy the experience of the magic of the movies, so to speak.

After driving most of my friends and family batty with my occasional “WooHoo!” countdown to the movie, I finally had the tickets to the first day of screening.

Mind you, despite the rude wankers in the theatre who refused to turn off the cell phones and talkative mothers who left their husbands at home to catch up on gossip in the middle of the movie, I was charged.

It was my favourite book after all.

The movie started off well, with Yates keeping to the code, and not totally changing Narcissa to someone else more glamorous, that is to say, keeping it by the book, pun intended.

Throughout the movie, I came to the conclusion that David Yates’ heroic efforts at trying to keep the movie by the book and at the same time maintaining a decent runtime, was very much; I’d like to think, in a parallel with Harry Potter’s heroic efforts: Clumsy, Inept and someone dies in the process. No, literally.

Although I have nothing to say about the senior actors’ and actresses’ performances – they were, truly inspiring – but I have much to say about the younger cast.

I would perhaps, give them leeway for having to work with a somewhat confused and scattered script, but mostly I’d sneer at their feeble attempts to make it all look real.

They have much to learn, the younger cast, and one would wonder, that while working many years alongside great people like Gambon, Smith, Coltrane, Rickman, Broadbent, Fiennes, Bonham-Carter, and the others, they ought to have picked up at-least a morsel or two.

Well, there are many things about the movie that ought to have been, but sadly, are quite far from the goalpost.

I would of course, say that Rupert Grint gave an excellent performance, and remains safe from this critic’s sharp quill, magical or otherwise.

The Half Blood Prince was rife with discontinuities, and having a rather non-fanatic companion to the same, I found that it was confusing if you didn’t know the real story. It left gaps, and questions that would put off a first timer. Although it is directed at the non-clueless audience, it leaves the rest dangling.

It quite reminds me of the blind groping of Potter without his glasses.

A noble effort to keep many scenes verbatim, but unfortunately, a failed one to keep the flow.

Not to mention some important jibes and confrontations between members of the order (not to give away things for the reader with no book-knowledge).

On Nth thoughts, the humor, I admit, was spot on. Had the audience cracking up on quite a few occasions, to the credit of Master Grint and the senior actors. Grint has proved himself more than capable of comedy.

All in all, it was rather disappointing for me, having such high expectations for this particular movie. I still think that after the initial fuss over it, it will be one of the quite-forgettable experiences at the theatre. I for one am looking to make up for this damper, with the help of Public Enemies; let’s hope it sticks to the wall with that.

This movie-lover has been turned off. Good luck to the unsuspecting lovers of the books.

Sorci

2009-07-10T10:34:00.000-07:00

You lay there in the gloom, in the doom

Watching and quietly waiting
You offer your tears as crystals pure
To the hapless weak who take the lure
And in you drag them, smiling and fine
To your cove where there is naught day
Drive them mad, and into slavery
To do what calls for your bidding
You weave such intricacies in your web
That it leaves them quite astounded
Poor souls, they think the threads go tight
To keep the warmth, and thaw the chill
For they are too blind to find a flaw
In such perfection that you wove
Men are weak and helpless fools
When blinded by their passion
Few emerge, once prepared to go
Where fruits are most forbidden
And so you weave and wait and see
For still other opportune moments
Fortuitous is he who comes to believe
That you are, but the Garden of Eden.

Sreedevi.

A Funny Disclaimer

2009-05-26T04:00:00.000-07:00

The content on the blog is the opinion of the blogger, not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual, or anyone or thing, especially those with the ability, means and desire to fight back.
These are personal views, which imply that the writer is responsible for them, not my employer, the writer’s employer or another agency.
I am not responsible, nor will be held liable, for anything anyone says on this blog in the blog comments, nor the laws which they may break in your country or theirs through their comments’ content, implication, and intent.
I am not responsible for translation or interpretation of content.
No money is being made by me from this blog or its contents.

If I made derogatory comments and you felt bad, sorry about that.

Don't Sue Me; I have no money, lost it all on the stock market.
If you want to give me money, leave a name and number.
Don't get me into trouble; I have enough of that already.
Don’t come after me with pickaxes, stakes and torches; I’m terribly out of shape and you’ll probably catch me quickly.

Snowflakes

2009-04-24T23:44:00.000-07:00

The water is loud. It froths and seethes as it rushes by.

But among the harsh slaps against the rocky shore and bed, I can hear a gurgling.

It sounds like the water is meaningfully drowning its softer side.

I wonder why.

The grass is wet under my feet, and my soles are raw from the hidden bits of rock in them.

Another spray of mist, a rumble.

The sky is overcast. I smile a little.So damn apt for this.

I can feel the cuts in my palm, I’ve been crushing it too hard. My brain long since gave up warning me of the abuse. It’s strangely numb, and yet I feel the sharp edges.

I can see the picture in my head, and I try not to think of anything else.

Just the picture, till this is over.

My legs are freezing, and I look down at slightly blue toes peeking out from under too-long jeans.

I never did have them fixed. I doubt I’m going to start now.

The water is still rushing by, and I wonder if it is as loud as the thoughts rushing through my head.

A bolt of lightening strikes across the sky beyond, and I can see little spots in front of my eyes.

I can feel the cold metal in my hand, and I absently brush the metal with my thumb. Involuntarily I flinch at the sudden burn and pain.

It doesn’t matter to me.It will go away.

Here, by the water, cold, wet and soaked, and bleeding.

It’s light, but I feel it burn into my skin. It’s cold but it reminds me of warmth.

Warm skin it used to rest on.

I look down at my half open palm. It is, as I thought it would be.

But at the centre, mingled in blood, is a snowflake.It looks beautiful.

Bloody and beautiful.

I remember it on your skin, how it used to tinkle when you turned in your sleep.

How it was so alive on you.

How your eyes shone when you saw it.

How it seemed to shine brighter when you smiled.

Here it lies, glimmering in the dim light. And it reminds me of you.

Only you.

A few drops of rain fall in warning. It is time.

I panic. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. But I must. I cannot hold on anymore.

It’s been so long, and the house has grown cold. Too cold.

Like the diamond in my hand. Cold droplets burn the skin.

I clutch the diamond and remember. One last time.

You made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. That I would let you go.

I lied.

The chill of the water is like knives on my skin. The water filling my lungs is like knives inside me.

I can see the snowflake, and think of nothing else.

Somewhere, over the fence...

2009-03-23T03:40:00.001-07:00

It‘s getting dark out.

I know that on weekends it’s my turn to take the dog out. I don’t mind; he’s a very sweet thing, and doesn’t bother me much.

He let’s me walk aimlessly behind him.

The dog walk is just up the street and across the main road. It’s a route I’d know to follow even if I were asleep. It’s nice to take a walk in the evenings. The winds blow well, and carry a promise of rain on them.

Soon. It will rain soon.

I don’t even have to look to know the furry thing is following my long steps at a trot. I smile to see him lolling his tongue and wagging his little tail.

We wait patiently at the crossing; waiting for the motorists to realise there are pedestrians by the side of the road.

They don’t. We wait.

A small break in the endless river of vehicles, and we quickly cross the street to the dog walk; a narrow raised area by the rail road, interspersed with old trees.

You can see the walk for a long way, and I realise we are the only walking pair at this time. It’s a good thing; I don’t have to worry about a fight or momentary fling between dogs. I can walk my aimless walk.

He knows the drill, so he happily trots off down the walk, me following at an almost snail pace. I hum to myself and watch a train go by noisily.

The wind is making his promises again. I pay little attention to them.

It’s fully dark now, and the lamps are on, throwing pools of light like little suns on the ground. Shadows play in the pools of light.

The grid fence goes on as far as the eye can see, and I reach out to touch a creeper that’s boldly crept up higher than my head. The fence is tall and wide and it makes me think of a really large cage.

I know the fence ends somewhere in the distance and is then replaced by concrete fences we know as walls and buildings. So it is a cage; we only don’t see it.

We have drawn such big cages and walls that we forget we are in them, and go on as if we were free.

None of us are free.

It’s only that grand illusion we have for ourselves. With our comfortable houses and uncomfortable jobs; the long hours; the unending spending.

We are all in cages, some just bigger than others and some just more comfortable. The luxury we buy for the lives we have turned into cages is just a rationalisation; just something we do to make it seem all better.

The fences we build around our houses and in turn around our families and then around our hearts and lives is a self inflicted imprisonment.

Are the fences to keep people in, or keep people out? Both, I think.

I look beyond the fence in front of my eyes, beyond the railroad trench, and to the other side. More houses, more walls, more people looking beyond the fence and the railroad trench; looking at me looking at them.

Are they farther from the inside or am I closer to the outside? Hard to answer when I don’t know whether I’m inside or outside. Confusing, I know.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Here I am, standing in a pool of shadows, looking to a place I’ve been to , and yet unsure what I am looking at.

Confusing, I know.

I stand, and my dog sits by my feet, and both of us stare a little while longer. We have nothing to lose but time.

When we walk back, we walk back to another cage I think, or maybe the only place we can be known, and missed.

We walk back.

2009-03-04T04:09:00.000-08:00

I saw the Joker,
Lying by the side of the road
I felt pity take me
To the point of overflow
I asked if I could help.
The joker laughed and laughed
The joker was so amused
Through the marks of wear and abuse
The joker turned around
It was then I wished I was dead
For it was my face that I saw
In the Joker's broken head.

Sreedevi.

Wait for me...

2009-02-12T00:10:00.000-08:00

The grass in wet beneath my feet, and my shoes make squelching noises as I walk to where I need to be.

I'm only now aware that I am soaking wet, or maybe I was aware, and just didn't care. It doesn't matter; not much I can do about it now.

I'm cold though, and it's as if the rain has soaked me through my skin, right to the bones. A hand comes up to my face and brushes off the wet hair sticking to my forehead, and dripping water into my eyes.

I know that the rain water is cold, and yet there are warm drops flowing down my cold skin. It makes me shiver.

No one is here, and that's good. I don't want anyone to be here. I cannot stand to look in their eyes and see what's there. I cannot.

There is an ache in my chest and I rub at it, and it's a few times before I realise it is from within, and that nothing can soothe it.

It's still raining and I'm still walking, closer and closer to there.

Thoughts run through my head, things of little meaning and consequence. Bills to pay, people to meet, things to buy.

I'm not ready to think more, just yet.

I'm here, I say to myself. Here at last.

It seems as if every bone in my body is weighed down in lead, and yet I'm hollow to my core. I cannot rid myself of the hollow feeling, and it irritates me, makes me restless.

Makes me do things like walk in pouring rain to be all alone, with little care for anything else.

Perhaps it's the right aftermath I'm looking for from this insane experience.

I'm looking now, forcing myself to read the letters on the stone, forcing myself to understand what they mean.

Forcing myself to accept it, and still failing.

Something bubbles in my chest, and it's not a pleasant feeling, but anything is more pleasant than having to do this. Time and again, and still, failing miserably.

Maybe I don't want to let go of this yet.

It's been a while, and the rain has slowed, but it is darker than when I got here.

I cannot face this, I want to say so much, but I don't know if you'll listen to me anymore.

My legs fail under me, and I fall painfully to my knees, feeling the scratch of earth through my clothes, but this feels better.

At least this pain, I know, will go away.

I stare at the words and reach out to trace them on the stone. It's smooth under my frozen fingers. It calms me to watch the repeated movements as my fingertips caress the black words.

A name.

A name that meant the world, but only to me. Only in my world.

And a name that will rest here, in this stone, forever.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Peace.

It's the living who find no peace in the death of others. You left, to be in peace, and you took mine away.

Why?

Without you, peace is but a lost dream, something you cannot remember when you wake, but long for it, not knowing what it is.

I cannot see you this way, I will not see you this way.

And yet here I am.

In the damned rain you loved so much.

2009-01-21T02:49:00.000-08:00

I see her.

She pays me no heed, moving like the mist in her robes of blue and white.

My voice doesn't touch her, though it cracks from wear.

Pure and perfect, she walks on, feet bare.

I see the thorns around me, and the wind shrieks;

But she laughs like they're roses, without care.

Her robes are tearing, a little, and at times more;

And I see her bleed.

She walks, I follow.

Torn and tattered, shorn and shattered;

She's frail as the glass under her feet;

Her hair is white.

I cry for her pain.

The salty drops burn my skin, and I need no mirror

To see proof;

I know I am yet walking behind her.

Faster we move, strangely she gives me strength;

Perhaps it is only my curiosity.

The forest is gone now, not a thorn in sight.

The night has faded, song welcomes the cheery light.

I take my eyes off her broken form;

As broken as mine.

To glance in wonder, the change sublime.

I feel the sun, the grass under my feet;

The frost has been lifted, quite like a sheet.

I know that face, when she turns to me;

It is a face that I have seen, staring defiantly

Back from panes of silver that gleam.

Her laughter is clear, her hair like silk

The glow in her form, moonbeams in milk.

Pure and Perfect, she is once again.

She walks by me, rest from this game.

"Who are you?" I think, "Healing as a Spring day."

"I will be here," She speaks,

"The longer you allow me stay."

"For gratitude," I beg, "Tell me your name."

Ethereal and binding, warmth radiates;

Engulfing, lifting me, as a feather on air.

Burdens of kind, weighing me down, disappear.

A rush of cool air, a burst of song;

A smile on my lips.

She kept, she left me strong.

Hope.

Smoke Screens and Lost Dreams

2009-01-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

Image by Dave Barstow

The wind cools the sweat on my skin. There are goosebumps.

My bare feet complain at the scratchy gravel under them, but it’s not an immediate concern.

My hand rests on the nearly smooth surface of the low brick wall. My thumb absently brushes at the top.

A waft of white smoke warms my face. The tingle of nicotine on my lips feels good. I take another drag off the cigarette, and enjoy the burn of smoke coursing through my throat and lungs.

Blowing smoke rings is not my specialty, but I try, tilting my head backwards and aiming one at the stars.

It’s a cool clear night. Perfect to be out star gazing.

Or thinking.

Mentally I shrug, what’s the difference?

I chuckle at a joke I remember from TV, little puffs giving the effect of slight coughing. I had coughed through my first cigarette.

Never coughed through another one. It was surprising, I should have been in a bed, wired to tubes, but here I am, thinking about nothing at all.

Sounds of late night traffic float up to me. At this height, it looks like tiny toy cars zipping below.

I am not entirely sure what I want to do, but I find myself swinging one leg over the wall, then the other. I get as comfortable as I can on the ledge. I was never afraid of heights.

The city is alive and buzzing. I gaze out at the lights and traffic. I think I may have started up on my next smoke, but who cares? I lost count years ago.

If I twist my head around just so, I can see the pale sliver of the moon, waxing? Waning? I stare at the moon a little longer, then turn back when my already stiff neck protests.

I absently rub at my neck, leaving the cigarette to dangle precariously from my lips. It’s stuck there by drying saliva on paper. I decide to test exactly how long it will stay that way. I think I may be squinting to get a look beyond my nose.

I smile at the image that brings up, and lose the battle to leave the ciggie hanging. I grab at it, then realize, that the position I am in is not exactly a good one to be making sudden moves.

I use both hands to grab onto the ledge, and stabilize myself once again. Sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I know it is from the adrenalin and then the endorphins produced by fear and thrill.

It feels great when I realize that I managed to stay on, although only just. The ciggie didn’t make it though. Poor little thing, died before it’s time.

I think it may be just too disrespectful to cross myself over a cigarette.

“Death to smoking!” a little righteous part of me yells and raises a triumphant fist, the fist changing to something decidedly rude, when a replacement has found it’s way back to my lips, which I wisely lick beforehand.

These damn death sticks cost a lot.

The tang of nicotine is on my tongue, and it’s turning bitter. I think neem leaves taste something like this. I’m not even sure how I know what neem leaves taste like.

I’m back to thinking about nothing at all, my fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the wall. I love to pretend that I know how to play the piano. I took classes when I was a kid. I’m not really sure why I stopped.

I hum a perfect Allegro Vivace. I’ve always been good at remembering music, though my brain refuses to remember my birthday. I have never told anyone how deeply I am moved by music. Somehow I consider that a useless talent; Knowing the exact pitch, knowing what is good music, knowing which tune can make a person overwhelmed enough to cry.

Sure as hell doesn’t pay the bills.

So I’ll always wake up in the morning and do something no one appreciates and I sure as hell won’t remember once it’s done.

I think about the day I won’t do that crap. The day I just up and walk away, to follow whatever it was I gave up, one more time.

I’m somehow afraid that the day I don’t wake up may come sooner.

The more I think of this, the desire to go after the lost cigarette is getting stronger.

The lights down below are hypnotizing, I need to look at them a little longer to actually define the effect they are having on my nicotine-rushed brain.

A shrill ringing almost makes me fall off again, and I instinctively grab on to the ledge, scooting backwards and out of danger.

I’m not sure if that move made me relieved or agitated.

The damn phone is ringing like the world is about to end, and I decide to valiantly ignore it for another minute. They’ll call back anyway.

I’m not sure if the bell saved me, or put me in danger. I shrug. The whole thing is moot point anyway.

I swing my feet back onto the balcony, before third time becomes the charm. I’m just making my way back inside when the phone rings again.

Told you, they’d call back.

Broken.

2009-01-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

You wanted to see, that part of me

Defeated and devoid of emotion entirely.

Here it is, see the liquid crystal pour

And fall to a shimmering pool on the floor.

Are you pleased, are you satisfied?

That last remaining hope in me destroyed

So utterly broken, here I kneel

No little, nor speck of joy to feel.

Have you laughed enough, have you cried?

With mirth overwhelming you like a tide

For I weep with a heart broken beyond

What repair possible, with no peace found.

Unable to live, not coward enough to die

Damned to suffer more, for my foolish pride

Is your cruelty tamed enough to see,

How utterly your pride has shattered me?

Do with my wretched soul, as you will

I have no faith to fight you still

But when you’re sated with crushing me

Have mercy, allow my death a little dignity.

Sreedevi.

At the end.

2008-11-22T07:31:00.000-08:00

Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

There's a time, there's a place
There's a meaning, to disgrace.

Tick tock tick tock

There's a hunger, there's a need
When you're stronger, there's a greed.

Tick tock tick tock

In the darkness, there is fear
In the light, death draws near.

Tick tock tick tock

Are you there? Do you feel?
Does your pride hurt, when you kneel?

Tick tock tick tock

When you smile, is there pain?
Is there numbness, when you stand to gain?

Tick tock tick tock

Do you nurture, do you feed,
The black within, as you bleed?

Tick tock tick tock

Come with me, it shall not hurt,
I give the answer, when time's run out.

Tick tock tick.

Not this night...

2008-11-13T07:32:00.000-08:00

It is cold out. The sun is a little while away from setting. I trudge on.

It is something I have done many times.

It keeps me alive. What I do, what I make myself do. What I make myself see.

This habit I learned to make a thing of pleasure, something I don’t allow myself to experience very often.

The only pleasure I have known in a while.

The wind whips around my head, setting strands of night loose from their confines, the little band I tie to keep them in place. It’s a game we play when I come here. I’d like to think that the wind wants to make me feel less alone. He whispers in my ear at moments and rages in harsh tones otherwise. It’s all he know, I’d like to think.

At least he speaks to me.

There are a lot of things I’d like to think.

Grass and earth crunch softly under my booted feet, and I bend a moment to pick off a wild flower, pushing its way out from between a few rocks. I smile at its courage to prove that sometimes life can be found in places where you least expect it. A lot can be learned from these little things most people fail to see.

The sun has begun to set, and I am yet a while away from the place I need to be. I hurry along my usual path. It seems I have worn out a little walk way in the side of the hill. Things, when done long enough, can give you the most unexpected results.

I hear the slight rush and murmur of a river in the distance. The lake is only a short distance away. Water is a wonderful thing. It has more power and it carves paths where none exist. Water makes it’s own destiny. Water, water, everywhere.

I hum something tuneless as I make my way up the grassy slope. If I turn I can see my car at the foot. It has taken me nearly half hour to get this far. It’s nice to see the car fit between my thumb and forefinger, and I chuckle at my silliness.

Everything can be brought down to a manageable size if we look at it from far enough. I walk backward looking at the vehicle through my fingers till my fingers are touching. I snap those fingers and turn around and bow to an imaginary audience, softly clapping for my very own brand of practical magic.

My clapping still makes an echo and a bird screeches in the distance, chastising me for my audacity to disturb the natural order of things.

I am chastised.

Ah, finally, there. Just in time to get myself settled in. That’s precisely what I do.

I sit on the grass, ignoring the moisture seeping into my clothes. I know I will be cold by the time I get back to my car. I shrug it off, it’s nothing new. They tell me I should take better care of myself, and that this insane habit would one day kill me.

I sincerely hope that it would.

Then, in the least, I would be happy when I left. The last thing I would see before I froze to death. I am reminded of the story of the woolly mammoth fossil, whose froze over with a meal of fresh buttercups. I’m very sure the mammoth was quite content during its last moments.

I suppose if I died out here, I’d have the beautiful ending I wish for often.

I suppose if I died out here, I’d finally have the ‘ending’ part of it.

My boots come off. My feet are bare underneath. I never bother to wear socks when I am coming here. Seems like a waste of time and energy.

The grass sighs under my bare feet, and I absently play with the young blades with my toes. They tickle me in return.

I must look mad indulging in these silly things. Perhaps I am. Perhaps not. Insanity would probably lend sense to many things that I don’t understand.

I hug my knees to my chest, and rest my head on them. I like this spot. I love these few moments when I feel like the world is at my feet. It’s a wonderful feeling to have.

The sun is setting, and now the real magic starts. No matter how many times I see this, this sorcery of beauty, this enchantment of nature, my breath still catches in my throat.

Every single time.

The small city below is bathed in crimson, and the forests catch fire. It reminds me of cities burned down and lives lost. A raging river of blood chased down by a cavalry of fiery horses. And the burning continues till all is done.

Morbid, the comparison, but the colours, oh the colours!

Perhaps it is the fire of passion that heats the blood in young hearts, and the blush of a virgin lights the porcelain skin. Ah! The things that a mind can make, with a canvas of clouds.

Night quietly engulfs it all, and my passionate stories dissolve in darkness.

Inky blue velvet with diamonds

Carelessly strewn for the world to see.

Puffs of white smoke from a rich man’s cigar,

Settle quite gently amidst the navy.

I sit quietly and stare at the tiny twinkling stars, while below, city lights spring up, some yellow, some white, throwing shadows in the night.

A warm wind blows and ruffles my hair,

Telling me it’s time to go

Nothing’s left to see here

Perhaps I might return again

And gaze at another sunset,

Close my eyes, preserve the image

And have to see not ever again

Anything else, too trivial to match

The mesmerizing beauty of this last ballet

That ends in such romance, this August day

Perhaps then I shall achieve

Peace.

I’m ready now, the boots are on my feet, the car keys in my pocket, jangle in assurance that no little trick of mine would magick away the thing itself.

I shall not freeze this night.

Dancing dreams

2008-09-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

What happens when you don't know what you want to make decisions for?

What happens when you stop caring for the distinctions? Between love and hate, between day and night, between right and wrong.

Because you don't care, for now atleast. Because you cannot decide whether you care or not.

Because all you want to do is feel.

Not think.

When you sit in that darkened room, twilight streaming in through the windows, watching the empty chair in the mirror, what do you want to think about?

Don't. Just don't.

There's that little green light blinking in the corner, it's too dark to see whereof the light is born, but it's alright. There is no need.

Blink. blink. blink.

You sit there, knees to your chest, watching the blinking green. Your fingers tap out a rhythm you can't remember the name of.

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

Somewhere there are voices, and laughter. You smile because you like to hear laughter. It's something you have not indulged in, for a while.

What is the need to laugh?

Faint music accompanies the staccato your finger tips play on the floor, and an unknowing band is formed, if only for a few minutes.

There is a whiff of perfume on the breeze that's teasing the curtains, and it makes you remember a night in the garden, under the moonlight.

You don't want to, but you do anyway.

Laughter, music and that perfume. Snatches of conversation, a smile and warmth.

Warmth that makes you colder now.

You stare at your feet. Feet that moved in tandem, in that garden, under the moon.

Feet that danced.

Feet that you didn't need to run away from something you didn't want to run away from.

But you did anyway.

It's cold, but you like it this way, because you don't like it warm. Especially when the warmth is not from another body.

You don't know because you are living on auto pilot. Being alive doesn't need thinking. Life is an automaton anyway.

At this point, it is easy to be this way.

Because thinking leads to memories, and you have no way of forgetting.

That garden under the moon.

Your vision is blurry, and your eyelids are heavy, and the cold is making you sleepy.

The green light is blinking still. As long as it is blinking, you feel alright.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The curtains are still being tickled, and you think it's the wind laughing, watching the cloth squirm.

Your eyes close for a blink, and green light is gone, replaced with the August moon. Your lips curl into a smile, while your dreams see you dancing.

Laughter, voices, smiles and warmth.

Music, perfume and a garden in the moonlight.

You dance the night away.

Savior...Sadist?

2008-09-23T23:59:00.000-07:00

warning: expletives used liberally.

"There's something about you... Like you're hurting too..." -- House, Season 3.

In my recent list of addictions, House has ranked highest. When a friend recommended it to me months ago, I brushed it off as another medical series that would be filled with large words and complex sentences and innumerable shiny gadgets that somehow is available to a general hospital, meaning available for little or no charge to the poor and suffering public. It was only a matter of coincidence that many months since that recommendation, I stumbled on 5 episodes, and out of sheer boredom, started watching "House."

And the addiction started.

It's been days. I've been hunting down all the episodes that I can get my big hands on, and absorbing all the things I can. Hell, I even learned some fancy words.

And I found Dr. Gregory House.

What attracted me to the series was not the fact that there were sensational cases being solved, medical mysteries pondered upon, and split second decisions saving lives. It was just House.

House, a broken, bitter and brilliant man, who never for once stood out like a shining hero, saving the day. Who was remembered by the people he saved as more of a jerk than a joy.

A true Godsend with a grumpy exterior, and a prickly interior, surrounding a heart that had been hardened and had no hope of being melted. A genius nonetheless.

A man who cared nothing for those he saved. All that mattered to him was results and finding the solution, and the best part? He never pretends otherwise.

A breath of fresh air, a break from the usual sticky super heroes who stand with cape billowing in the wind, while people applauded. I tip my hat to the creator of the character.

I think you will find no surprise in the fact that I love the character of Severus Snape too.

I have no time for idiots and fools who dabble around wasting time on unnecessary things such as sugarcoating the situation, creating deception and a sense of false comfort for those affected by the situation.

After all, feeding a man dinner at a 5 star restaurant and then telling him he had 24 hours to live is hardly necessary.

I'm not twisted, to believe that these are nice characteristics. Merely necessary ones. I find the naked truth a lot more easier to face than someone simpering and lying, only to take the long road home. It's rubbish, it's useless, it's stupid.

And I detest stupidity, especially if I am in a position to be sporting it. Ask my friends, and they will tell you that I am the one to be the bearer of bad news, because I'm more comfortable telling people they are in a truckload of trouble, rather than hold their hand and tell them that it will all work out, when I clearly have no clue of what the future holds.

An interesting opinion I came to hear was that it was being cowardly, to be unable to lie to people on their faces, and create that phantom cocoon. No no, I'm not laughing just yet. I'd really like someone to explain to me why it is more cowardly to tell people the truth, when by lying we are only misusing trust that the other person has in us, not to mention delaying the fall of the blade.

Moral support? Hardly. I think moral support is worse when you hear people saying it will all be fine after you've lost your first born. Absolute bullshit. How is Circe's name do you know what it is to lose a first born that does not belong to you? Even if you have lost your own, how is it the same as this?

That's the trouble with humans. They tend to oversimplify the situation when all that is required is clarity. Clarity is not necessarily the same as making it look easy as pie.

Pie is not even easy to make. Ha!

The point I was getting at is, people have trouble facing things as it is. We always look for an external factor to place the blame, the easiest and the stupidest being "luck."

I do not believe in luck. I believe in probability.

I'm not exactly disabusing anyone of the notion of luck, merely disregarding it, because it makes no sense.

You get hit by a car, bad luck mate, never you mind the fact that you were jay walking on a busy street. Someone infinitely more stupid than you gets the job that clearly someone of your intelligence should get, bad luck mate, probably bad karma, regardless of the fact that you probably didn't fit what they were looking for.

It's stupid.

Why make excuses? Why does a dog lick himself? Same difference. Because it can be done.

Because we do not want to feel shame, guilt or defeat, or any of those myriad negative emotions that result from calling a spade a bloody spade.

Because we are cowards. Luck, my very large arse.

It's not that I can explain why something happens, but I loathe people who put that reason as luck. It's not damn luck that you survived the accident, it was timely and accurate medical help. It's not like by chance the people dialed 911 and the ambulance got there on time. It happened because there was no delay in the traffic, no bumbling idiots instead of ER doctors and because your body responded well to medication.

If you didn't then it was a mistake with the system, the doctors screwed up, or that annoying 80 year old hag at the wheel of a broken down fiat was cursing in Italian and refusing to make way for the ambulance.

Now where in that scenario is luck playing a part? It's just people being people.

Imbeciles who say "you were lucky you lived or unlucky you died," ought to be hexed and ridiculed by someone like House, Snape or me, or hundreds of others with straight attitudes.

Doesn't mean I condone being a jerk, I just find it unnecessary to be nice, and amusing to no end, of course.

Didn't you know, we who speak the truth are unmitigated evil bastards and bitches?

What does it matter? I'm going to rant, you're going to read, people are going to whine, and the world will go on as it always had.

More screwed up than yesterday, but the world does move on. With or without you.

So suck it up and grow a backbone, and the sadistic ones who are in heaven because they saved lives or did great noble things may just let you play in their pool just yet.

Maybe.

A moment of weakness...

2008-09-19T21:49:00.000-07:00

The click and the tone on the other end indicates that the conversation is over. For now.

Flicking the phone closed, I take a moment to stare at the screen, convincing myself that this is the right thing to do, the right decision to make.

I almost believe myself.

I try not to spend too much time thinking. I'm sure that will do no good at this point of time. What's done is done, spilled milk and all that.

A prickling sensation and a tight clenching in my chest has me gasping for breath, and it is not the first time I damn my stupidity, my sense of impulsiveness.

My strong principles, my pride in self.

I wonder why they are stupid things in the eyes of the world. Everybody seems to have the same thing to tell me. Maybe I should have held on a little longer, maybe I should have borne the degradation a little later.

Maybe I should not be hesitant to lick someone's boots to get my work done.

I wish I understood. I wish I knew why it was bothering me so much if what I did mattered to the world at large. But I live in the world, and not for the first time I wish things were easier for me.

I think about the starving orphans in the world. I should be grateful for all that I have. It only depresses me further.

I don't understand why I'm supposed to be thankful to be better than starving orphans. It only makes the whole thing seem more preposterous.

Everybody has it the same. Same difference.

A sense of panic grips me as I think about the things that have happened, and I sink to my knees in front of the idols I follow in my religion.

I've already been brought to my knees, my pride crushed when I borrowed for the first time, and admitted shamefully that I needed help. I lost faith in myself when that happened.

And I don't want to lose the only remaining faith I have at this point of time. I would be lost even worse than I am now, and I cannot bear the thought.

My chest clenches painfully, and it feels a little harder to see good in the world. A little more, my shoulders slump, a little more I die inside.

It really can't be this bad, can it?

I get no answers from the empty room. I rarely panic in front of others. I am glad to be alone, especially when I am falling apart.

It gets harder every morning to wake up to a purpose. I idly think how it would be to go to sleep one night and never wake up again.

Would anyone miss me? How long would it take for someone to realize something is unusual?

I shake my head, such thoughts never helped when I needed to assure myself that I need to fight another day. I need to be strong for those who believe I am. It worries me that my voice is tinged with bitter regret and wariness in place of the usual confident drawl.

Fortunately, I am yet to lose my touch in making illusions seem real, to be the person that the world expects me to be. Happy in times of difficulty, thankful in times of despair.

It bloody well makes me look masochistic, I think.

I'm still on my knees, my head is bowed in deference or shame, the difference between the two have been blurred a little. The ache in my knees seems almost welcome.

Small punishment for my sins of indulgence, within thoughts of self loathing and harm.

It hurts that I can no longer respect myself, to the point that my reflection is ashamed to look at me. It burns that I can no longer look at someone and think I'm better than them. It's humiliating that even my own mind hates this person I have become.

It will be alright, it will be fine. Things will get better. The only way left to go is up. The night is darkest before the dawn. These have become my mantra when the darkness threatens to engulf my waking mind. They are working, my mind feels better.

I almost convince myself that it is the truth. Almost.

I briefly consider getting mindlessly drunk. I then realize I can neither afford it, nor would I appreciate not being in control of my mental faculties.

It's still a thought, I mentally shrug.

I don't know how long I have been in this state of mental merry-go-round, and I'm startled by the door opening and closing somewhere in the house.

Honey I'm home, I think to myself and smile mirthlessly. I better get cleaned up before my friends see me. It would not do to look anything less than the severe self I maintain.

I get a little extension of my privacy in the small yet comfortable bath chamber. Only the redness of my eyes and the purpling circles under my eyes give away the tiredness my soul experiences, and lately my body has been reflecting.

A splash of water, a little miracle face wash, and I look much better. I could easily blame it on having worked all day on the laptop. I walk out to greet the boisterous bunch that has returned after whatever they do all day. I would do for now.

I would have to.

Love letter for the Unknown...

2008-09-13T20:05:00.000-07:00

It is a thought to have, some words to say, but all I feel is a longing. This longing, bittersweet, I know not how, to translate to something more tangible.

If it were to be, then I would write for you, immortal words, great in number, to move hearts and mountains alike. If it were, many a happy tear, those words would inspire.

Yet all I offer is simplicity.

I know not your presence, at this moment, though I feel your existance deep within my heart. For I know it is you, who will lead the way into lands I fear though I fear not death.

It will be you who may be the one to truly set me free. From shackles of mortality for my love, and chains of lonliness for my soul.

It will be you whom I shall live, for you are my need, and want, life has no meaning beyond.

I long for the warmth of your voice and the brilliance of your smile. Like the sun on a spring morn, heralding the end of a cold winter. Although I would have an experience of none other were you by my side, be it December or May.

I yearn for the tenderness of your touch, were there tears on my face, or the gentleness of your embrace, were there joys to be shared.

I drift among the days like wisps of clouds in the wind, ever waiting to share what is pure. Ever waiting for you to share with.

Were you beside me, I would know no days or nights. Only you.

I would wish upon a star, and hope you were here, if there were any that remain to be wished upon. For I wish only for you.

Would it be foolish? If it were, then I am a fool, and lest I be condemned for it, were love a foolishness.

A fool am I, to want for you. You who are yet to grace me with a sight or sound of.

You who are unknown.

--Your Love

Man in the window.

2008-09-04T14:32:00.000-07:00

The weather seemed to reflect his mood this night.

The wind outside howled, and tore apart tender things. It swept through the gardens, mercilessly crushing fresh blossoms as they slept the night. Murdering them in their beds.

He envied the wind, on this dark night. He could not howl and rip through with no thought on consequence.

However much he wished to.

He stood at the window, pale slivers of his face reflected in the glass like waning moons. Moons that were trembling at the power of the wind. The panes rattled and the frames threatened to fly loose of the hinges.

He didn't pay heed. They held.

He caught his reflection and started. The face staring back was not his. It was that of a corpse.

Lifeless, hollow, frozen in stone.

The fire in the hearth had died, he did not know when. All that was left were dying embers. An occasional crackle, as if the fire was holding on to the last strings of life, knowing it would not last.

Just like he was.

He walked around the darkened room, lit only by the eerie moonlight, reflecting off the silver in his hair, and the polished surfaces.

This night, it was suitable. This night he needed the darkness.

Caressing the gold engravings on the rich leather spines, he spoke to the books. They were his only friends. The gave all and asked very little.

They did not judge.

They could not judge.

For a moment, he thought of how it would be to be one himself. A book of good value, in good hands. Tender touches, reverent readers, a place among peers.

To be oblivious to human apathy.

To never be aware of the world outside. An eternity in rest.

Lifeless but contain life for those who learned to look. For those who earned to look.

Oh, to be bound in the finest leather, carved upon with the purest gold. Passed on as heirlooms.

To last as long as time itself, till day and hour forgotten, and fade away.

To be oblivious. Ignorant and truly blissful.

He flicks off some dust on the sleeve of his jacket and turns back to the room.

It is still dark everywhere. The moon seems to be waning.

How long has he been here?

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the darkness.

He picks up the half full glass of wine, black in the night, watching the man in the window do the same.

The glass hovers a hair's breadth from his lips. Watching himself is strangely hypnotic.

His breath fogs the glass dangling from his fingers. Elegantly careless.

The image disappears for a moment. The moon hides from him. Quickly, he sips the bitter burning liquid, and revels in a private moment of exploration as his senses respond to the heat.

He shivers. His image does not watch him. The broken image of an animated corpse.

Eyes closed, he feels the burn settle in his core, warming him. It is pleasure he can enjoy alone.

Pleasure. Alone.

The inferius is back. It grins at him from the window.

He hates it. Leave me alone! His cries are lost to the howls of the wind outside.

He cannot even know if he spoke aloud, he does not care.

The inferius smiles at him, and it is not pretty. It is nowhere near pleasant.

It is scary.

He cannot take this anymore. The image still smiles, like a predator, and raises it's hand.

He knows what will happen. He must not let it happen.

The glass spills the liquid as it flies across the room. It is almost as if time has stretched to let him watch this. An arm comes up to cover his face as glass shatters and little pieces skitter to a halt.

He has won. The inferius has missed.

The red-black liquid has splashed on the walls, leaving trails towards the floor. The carpet has a stain spreading through it.

Glass crunches underfoot as he makes his way back to the window.

The inferius is laughing. He hates the damn man in the window.

Cracked face like cut up pie, and yet the bastard laughs.

This must stop.

It's extremely satisfying to see the face crumple in pain moments before the window shatters under his fist.

The window has broken. The inferius is gone.

He knows the laughter is now from within him. He had won.

There is something warm dripping from his hand, and he takes a moment to realise that the pain is also from there.

It is alright. Blood is life, and pain means being alive.

He is alive, with pain and blood.

He is alive as he feels the skin tear, when he carelessly pulls out the tiny pieces embedded in his flesh.

He feels the warmth of the blood flowing down his arm as he examines his sliced skin.

He has never felt this alive in days.

His lips curl into a feral grin, as he raises his bloodied and battered fist to the new man in the window.

His laughter is lost in the howling of the wind.

A few faces of a flower..

2008-09-04T09:27:00.000-07:00

2008-08-31T11:35:00.001-07:00

Another night, another one of those bloody parties.

If it was up to me, I'd be home 'brooding', as my friends put it. I'd like to think of it as self-realisation.

I drain the glass and get up to grab a refill. At least the wine was good. An advantage of upscale parties.

The disadvantage was the requirement for civil conversation. Less conversation and more action, was what these two faced windbags needed to unwind a little. I mentally snort at the line I spontaneously stole from Elvis. A little fun was not out of context here.

Fun. Yeah, a little of that.

Before I can safely order a drink and drown in it, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Trying not to look peeved, I attempt a smile and turn around to see who it is.

Oh no, not now. Please?

My unspoken prayer is brushed off as the inevitably invitation to dance is thrown at me.

Always perfect, I gracefully accept and mask my irritation and regret in a perfectly coordinated waltz. Hide my reluctance and resignation in cleverly simulated laughter and witty repartee.

Always perfect, always gracious and always so bloody elegant. On the outside.

Thoroughly broken and unstable within.

The waltz is agonizingly slow, and it takes me all of my control not to run screaming from the room.

The smiles and laughter are grating on me.

Finally, oh finally, not a moment too bloody soon, the music fades into nothingness, and my cry of injustice follows it. A lull and the dancers move off the floor, the players take a break and I find the opportunity up for grabs.

Hastily, yet calmly, I weave a believable set of lies before another young one comes up to me. Work, fatigue, schedule; all words to use when you really want to be vague yet convincing.

My partner of fifteen minutes looks disappointed, and I want to laugh. Bloody hell. fifteen minutes and and they think they know someone well enough to miss them. Ignorant imbeciles. Of course, none of this bleeds through the flirty smile pasted on my face.

More excuses and ten minutes later, my chauffeur is called for, my coat is checked out and I am in the receiving hall, sipping on a 'one-for-the-road.'

I do NOT have a drinking problem.

It's raining outside.

I grin, and stamp down the insane urge to get drenched. Moving to the front, near the door, I enjoy as much closeness as I can to the rain, feel the tiny splashes on my face, forming beautiful little crystals adorning my very expensive clothes.

I probably look like a fifties has been with a penchant for shiny things.

It's precious moments to revel in the apparent purity of the rain, before the car comes to a halt before me, and I am ushered to sit inside, among the luxuries I can afford, but care nothing for.

It's all about the outside. All about the money, honey. Sod everything else.

The driver is a good man. Knows precisely how much I loathe these damn gatherings. I can hear the smile in his voice as he wishes me a good evening and raises the barrier between the driver and passenger areas. Good man.

I am now ensconced in dim light, surrounded by one way glass windows and comfortable leather. And of course a well stocked mini bar.

Dully, I watch the city lights blur past and it's a long time before we come to the final stretch of countryside leading to the Manor.

The Manor. Never home. Just the Manor.

Yes, it was where I lived and spent my time when I was not rubbing shoulders with the creme de la creme of society. It was just a fortress. It would never be my home.

Magnificent, luxurious. More space than I would ever need.

Cold, lifeless and more space than I would ever need.

I rest my forehead on the cool glass and am tempted to squash my entire face on it. It feels so damn good. For days, it has been as if a fever has taken hold of me. My body feels so heated from within, and there is nothing to cure it. The water fogged, drenched pane feels wonderful for all that it is worth.

And I intend to enjoy it as long as I can.

I don't know how long it has been, but crunching gravel and the car rolling to a halt signals we have arrived.

Of course the butler and the house keeper are waiting for me. Fully dressed and barely awake.

Master of one, slave to another.

I don't even bother to hide the fact that I have had one too many to drink. They all know anyway. I hate the looks of pity and sympathy they think they hide from me.

Idiots. The lot of them. I'd prefer they look at me like the waste of space I really am.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I wish I was someone else.

If I had a nickel for everytime I said that.

Besides, the whole issue is moot point anyway.

I wave them away with a slurred goodnight. They take my coat and leave me be. Good people.

The study. My study.

My den, my lair. The only place I can find solace.

I let the smell of leather bound books, polished rosewood and brass wash over me. Glorious. Warmth from the fire and the alchohol is burning me up. I need to feel cooler than this. My skin feels like I want to rip it off. I want to claw it off.

Beads of sweat form on my brow, and I don't bother to wipe them off.

My wine awaits me. In crystal glasses. Cost me a fortune, but worth it I suppose.

A good year, great taste. Sipping on the vintage brew, trailing my fingers indulgently on the smooth wood of the banisters, I find my way to the wing that houses my personal chambers.

Impersonal as they can be made.

The bath seems like a great idea. I can wash away the filthy feeling, I hope. I can try to stem the boiling of my insides. Gruesome images of melting interiors do nothing more than make me snort in amusement.

How inelegant. How normal?

Cold water, cool marble and I think I might not go mad yet. Mad as the hatter, ha.

Water sloshes out a little and forms beautiful sparkly spots on the marble. I take a minute to admire them before I use them to draw meaningless designs. I think I catch my reflection in the many mirrors. I look positively like shit. Or mad.

Or both.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I give in, though not too loudly. We don't want to wake the staff now, do we?

I wonder what makes the staff put up with my churlishness and my bouts of stupidity. Or my weirdness. Love, loyalty or money?

Who am I kidding? It's the money of course! Love and loyalty took the last train to the land of no return.

Did I mention, I have a flair for the dramatic?

It's still raining. I can see from the lovely wide windows away on one wall of the bath.

Water water everywhere...

I am so content at this point. In this moment of time. Could I stay like this till I die?

A clink and crackling, and tiny tinkling noises. The wine is gone.

But one shade of red replaces the other.

Fascinating to watch the crimson pour down my wrist to make art on the white marble. Stark and beautiful.

So beautiful that I want to see more.

A moment of pain, gone too soon to understand, and my wish is fulfilled.

Mingling with the water and the soap suds, crimson, red, maroon and pink. So many shades, so many streams of colour. Idly, I twist and turn to make them mix better. I like that.

So beautiful.

An almost childish giggle escapes me and I think it's alright. Who gives a damn?

I always loved colours. I never wore them, except on rare occasions, so people assumed I didn't like them at all.

Imbeciles. The lot of them.

I can feel the edges of darkness that cloud my vision and the numbness seeping in. I welcome them. It has been far too long.

I can see the drops on the white tiles that are slowly turning a red so dark, it is almost black. I love black too. It is a colour after all.

Too many thoughts, and I quiet them with a shush. Later. I'll think about them later.

Now, sleep calls, and I shall answer. Sleep is good.
I close my eyes, and I want to rest.

I will rest.

The last thought on my mind: I wonder who will find me first, before all goes black.

Blessed peace.

It's not over yet.

2008-08-30T19:48:00.000-07:00

It isn't over yet.

It's his favourite place. Ours. I learned to visit the bookstores, just as he learned to sit through the movies. Somehow we blended into each other's choices.

And now, all I can hear is the quiet dejection in his voice as he said those words.

It's not over yet. Not now. He is wrong, I was wrong.

The crowds of Sunday shoppers and casually dressed tourists hamper me. I only hope that I am not too late. I only hope he has not changed.

A glimpse and I'm not sure if I imagined it. I follow anyway, hoping that I haven't.

It is him.

I'm sure; with that rigid posture, the hands tucked into his coat, as if protecting himself from the boisterous menace of Summer loiterers. Or maybe it is the world he wants to protect. From himself.

Maybe it is me he is protecting himself from.

I push past the gigglers and the imbeciles. His words, of course. I was never the one for creative insults.

For a moment, I am stopped by the memory of his retreating back, in that same coat, when he walked away from me.

From us.

Not anymore. It's not going to end now. Not like this.

In my moment of inattention, I've somehow lost him.

Again.

Fear, desperation and panic, all set in at once. I need to find him. I need him to let me find him.

For me. For us. Hopefully he wants to be found.

Bastard could be slippery if he wanted to.

Another moment, and I think he wants to be that Bastard.

I've lost him.

A man hurrying somewhere bumps into me from behind, and pushes past with a muttered oath.

I couldn't care less. My chest feels heavy without this added apology, anyway.

Mindlessly, I walk forward, cross the street and everything seems to happen in slow motion around me.

Horns blare and curses galore, but right now, it feels like nothing compared to the sinking feeling in my heart.

I'm not over you yet. My heart refuses to accept that he's gone. I tell my logical thinking to bugger off.

I've stopped at the window of the jewellry store where we bought those ring. My fingers twist the ring around my finger, and my reflection has a twisted bittersweet smile pasted.

The clerk in the store, smiles at me from behind the counter, and it annoys me so much that I want to wipe it off. With my bare hands.

How dare they smile as if everything is alright?

"The world does not revolve around you. Get over yourself."

Those words, so harsh and cruel, because they lacked his anger. They lacked even his customary bite and snark. Because they were true.

At this point, I am my own worst enemy.

No matter what my friends tell me, they are lying anyway. Because he was right. I was too full of myself.

I'm so hysterical, I can see an image of his face in the glass, behind me, interrupted by passers by. I want to laugh, or maybe cry.

Or maybe drown myself.

Only it isn't. My mind playing tricks on me, that is.

He is standing behind me. Watching me.

Watching me watch him.

It's as if the sun has risen on my face, while his remains expressionless as ever.

I'm so nervous, it's a miracle I haven't fainted dead away. The same uncertainty is reflected in my smile as I lock gazes with his reflection.

The world around us is forgotten as we stand there for what seems like eternity, my eyes pleading and his stony.

It's not even been a few moments. Strangely private moments in such a public place. It would not affect me even if we were in the middle of a street.

All I care about is that he has not walked away yet.

I turn, and almost cross my fingers to hope that he won't vanish. I can almost hear the sneer in his voice as he calls me a fool.

I am, I was and I will be. A fool to want him, a fool to need him and a fool to have lost him.

Twice.

I hold out my hand. It is batted by a woman rushing by, laden with shopping bags. I doubt I have heard the curse she utters, or the grimace she sports.

He obviously has, judging by the curl of his lips, a perfect smirk.

At least he's not wearing his mask. More than I expected. Really.

I'm offering my hand, my heart.

I'm offering myself.

In another endless moment, my breath caught in my throat, I wait.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, he takes my hand in his.

The simple gesture says so much. It shows hope. It means another chance.

It means he's forgiven me.

And that's all that matters for now.

I pull back my hand, and him with it, till we are close enough. The softness of his face and the openness in his eyes is all I can remember, or think about.

We head back home, hand in hand.

It's a promise we make. A promise I make.

I will not lose him again.

2008-08-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Your hell, your life..

2008-08-10T15:45:00.000-07:00

With every passing day, there is despair. A warring within oneself, between the lure of security, flawed, or none at all. At the same ring, every morning, pleasant dreams or incessant nightmares let go, yet linger somewhere in the corners. Not always is there gladness in leaving the demons behind, to the darkness. For at times, sunlight is harsh and hides no flaws. Perhaps it is better to dream of disturbing ideas. They seem so much more predictable.

Sitting in those indistinguishable compartments, rocking back and forth, in a soothing yet not entirely comfortable position, you wonder at where you are. looking around, into faces of varying ages, colour, ethnicity, you wonder: how different are they from you? Some came with hopes of new lives, and yet others to escape tyranny, or all that they left behind. You wonder which category you belong to.

A fleeting look, catching a stranger's eye, exchanged polite smiles, mumbled apologies and rarely a "good morning," and a connection is made. That face is burned into your memory, that voice forgotten. The name, you never knew at all, nor will you now. That's what binds you to them, and them to you. The possibility that they are also nameless, numbered identities in this country so praised for it's open arms and capitalist regime. A country whose flaws are hidden behind colourful banners of fast food joints and brilliant displays of money they don't have.

You still worry. A longer than necessary look from a cop, a glint of, perhaps, imagined suspicion, and you think twice. Is it something you are doing? Then your stop arrives, and you disappear into the throngs of first, second, third, Nth generation Americans, and your only friends in the city. You wear clothes that are so common, it looks forced. Maybe the complexion, the curve of your nose makes you stand out, in those factory produced, mass manufactured designer clothes.

Life, you live as the others live theirs. A mix of cultures. In the end, you wonder where you really come from. Time passes and borders blur. Your English turns less refined. All those words you crammed through sleepless nights are pushed into oblivion. Smile at the irony. Your language was more fluent and refined when you used it as a non-primary means of communication. It was practice, to polish the grammar, when your parents and friends spoke in native tongues. Somehow, that use seemed more natural before it became your only link to millions of people washing up on this country's shores.

Whatever your reason, you came, gaped at the skyscrapers, the bright lights, the blatant misuse and wastage of energy and money, distanced yourself from everyone claiming lack of time, and now, the utter despair that grips you each morning forces you to continue the act that you put on, that you call your life. Because now, there are strings attached: most that you attached by yourself.

Because it is your life now.

Closed doors

2008-07-12T16:51:00.000-07:00

It is the fear of being too open
That keeps us closed to all without
Yet the time draws nigh
For those walls to crack
Strange and alien it feels
To want that fear, to need
The opening up of self
The reluctance to let go
And more so to hold back
Tears up the wall itself
Never has the uncertainity before
Fed the path to sureness of heart
FOr fear itself seems uncertain.

A moment in time

2008-07-12T16:45:00.000-07:00

I blink, and an eternity has passed
As if life itself were ageless
Moving forward at the speed of light
Till it stops, and but a moment has been
For it was that eternity that seemed
Just a flash of time, a mere second.
Now the light surrounds me
Though blinded by it, others are
An understanding, a blessed peace
To ensure sanity, or the lack thereof.
The glow fades, but never leaves the eyes
For only they mirror the soul
Look into them, beyond the facade
Only then, can the truth be seen
In shades of black, blue, brown, grey, green
The core of which never changes
For we are, who we are
Yet we are all the same.

Gladiator

2008-07-12T16:34:00.000-07:00

He stood on a field, strewn in roses
Mingling wiht the blood, spilled fresh
And much of old, the colour bled and dried
Sweat on his brow, the sun on his back
His sword, his only support
Deep he breaths, each as painful as the next
Of wounds on his body: bloody and broken
The cheers of the crowd, fall on deaf ears
For he hears nothing, only blood rushing
In his ears, his ragged breathing
Hard to hold on, Harder to let go
So simple would it be, to lay down and die
The beauty of death, when it smiled on him
For he had only to smile back
The thought of dying on bended knee
Is so dishonourable, even in his mind
That his will to survive doesn't defy him
the strength is forced to his trembling legs
His back slowly straightens
And with raised head, the sword is lifted
The applause, the cheers, are there still
Even Death bows to strength and honour.
He is a warrior, soldier, a man, Gladiator.

At the End.

2008-07-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

The rose in my hand, I'm sure has blackened
Signifies all that's within, so dark
And bleak like a jagged cliff against the sea
All along I thought it was you, but it was me
Who refused to hear, did not wish to feel
all the words of care, promised from your lips
While I groped, blindly, in the gloom
There it was, right ahead, so close
Yet disbelief that it was something
Wanted and close to my heart, for freedom.
Here we are, shivering in the rain
Anguish clouds my eyes, as I forcibly watch
You find your untimely peace, in the Earth.
Lost am I, and unwilling to be found
Regrets of times I should have seen
Something so plain, for all to view
All the love, all the joy that could have been.
Just another I failed to reach
Here in this time, in this universe
A harsh punishment, this life
That won't stop, like the sands of time
Until I wither and die, as fools deserve
Alone, with little hope and wish
Ragged and tearful.
I cry for times I failed to show,
What I knew, but was afraid to let you know.

Sreedevi.

Western Bharathanatyam Dancer?

2008-07-05T19:46:00.001-07:00

Lady of the Light: Galadriel

2008-05-27T13:27:00.001-07:00

A picture of innocence

2008-05-15T12:12:00.001-07:00

Jack Sparrow, "CAPTAIN" Jack Sparrow.

2008-04-25T20:12:00.000-07:00

Lucius: Charcoal

2008-04-23T20:19:00.001-07:00

Severus Snape: Charcoal

2008-04-21T20:47:00.000-07:00

I see you...

2008-04-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

Round and Round the mulberry bush...

2008-04-17T17:59:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to the same songs since a couple of days. Same bunch. Over and Over and Over again. And is the bunch big? No.

11 songs. 11.

I have no clue why. I feel like listening to little else, or doing something else for that matter. Movies don't interest me, books enthrall me as much as cleaning stables, and there is absolutely nothing else I want to do. I haven't moved past two pages in my studies. My mind is in a sort of lock down. Refuses to concentrate. Write, sure. I can do that, but what do I write about? My friends tell me I have managed to come up with a good number of articles and short pieces, and yet, my mind craves something more. I feel stuck in a bunch of moments, and like those songs on my player, they are going on and on and on.

My mind is doing something else alarming. Reminiscing. And Images. Beautiful images, Ugly images, weird images, Images I have no idea where from, some that Have to be imaginary, because they do not exist in this world, and some others that take my breath away. It's like some sort of slide show in my head. Fleeting, beautiful, and elusive. The harder I try to fix an image to examine, and maybe discover it's origin, the more vague it becomes, till I have forgotten which one I started off with. I swear, sometimes I think I am going insane. Anyone have any other better ideas?

Beautiful though, to observe how your mind pictures a song. At different moods, different images. One day "Pompeii" makes it an intense dance, and a war on the other. Then again, war is a form of dance, is it not? I'm pretty sure I look zombied in public, judging by the mildly wary looks people on the subway have directed at me. Or maybe something else. I sure as hell have not grown two heads. Try listening to "Menouthis": It's brilliant and intense, I assure you. Has my insides twisting to do something impulsive, like contemporary dance or something. Nutters. Brilliant, but completely demented.

All my days pass in a blur. I feel guilt. I should be working, and I try to, honest, but nothing happens. I just can't! I have no effing clue what's going on, and I can't even concentrate long enough to figure out the meaning of all this. I come full circle, and realize I have zoned out. Disturbing, I know. I probably am a head-case. "Within" by William Joseph is another amazing piece. I just sat through eight hours at the workplace and got nothing done. What the bloody hell!

I think I'll check myself in now, thank you very much. Bring on the strait-jackets. I haven't changed my desktop background in weeks, not that I have realized it till now. Memories have frozen. Little things are making me swing between moods in the matter of minutes, smiles are spontaneous, and anyone you ask will think I've lost it, because my smiles are usually very rare. I think I am in my happy place, my happy confused place. Great. Now I just re-read what I have typed so far, and do you realize the circles in there? I could beat the Olympic symbol.

Before I drive you into your happy confused place, I shall cease and desist. I insist.

Molten Gold

2008-04-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

A silver droplet flows so quietly
On borrowed weight, the force of the earth
While a lone golden ray tries in vain
To hold up the crystal, barely of girth
The battle is fought and the valiant Sun
Gives up, but doesn't go quietly
It penetrates it with all it's power
And makes it shine, like itself so brightly
A prism of sorts, a knife on colour.
Perhaps there is more to just a tear
Beauty, perhaps, however baleful.

Sreedevi.

Snape, Snape, Severus Snape...

2008-04-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I have only re-created something that was already done by someone else. Idea is someone else's.

Sorrow

2008-04-08T20:03:00.000-07:00

Cocoa, Mahogany and the Cello

2008-04-05T12:54:00.000-07:00

Something dark, something resonating, something wonderful and something so invigorating.

Each time some maestro draws his bow over those taut, tuned cello strings, and the first sounds, so deep and rumbling, emanate, I have to clutch at something, to stop my otherwise assured fall into something I may not approve of later. It started many years ago, when I heard the very first classical piece, but it was not love at first sound. I loved the tune, surely, but then, the first few times I was so entranced by the more prominent sounds, I barely noticed the others. The mind does not register very clearly what you don't want to hear. This is true.

It is only when you listen, not with your conscious mind, but your sub-conscious one, that you start to appreciate the true construction of that wonderful piece of music. You start to break down the complex structure into simpler ones, dividing and sub dividing, untangling and reassembling, till you finally extract that last, most exquisite drop of crystal that resounds so clearly, and you encounter nothing; nothing but silence. You have successfully separated the most number of different sounds you can hear and understand, and if you knowledge of instruments is good, you may have completely segregated them, I'm sure.

Well I was not, all that good, it being my first time, but I did notice, now that I had taken care to "look" at the music, that there was more to it than meets the ear. Those 'Oh-so-brilliant' violins were so - Empty - when all alone. Not that I don't love solo violin pieces (Forgive my plebeian nature with terminology), it was just so much more complete with the cello. I think they are the most amazing of string instruments, with the harp and guitar at close second.

I found that the whole cocoon was built with all that heavy, brooding and soulful cello, and the others were the ornaments on the Christmas tree. What's Christmas without the tree eh? When that neon bulb went on in my head, I fell, headlong into an abyss, I fell in love with the cello. I went on a cello spree since then, grabbing any little thing I could, listening to all the little bits I could get my hands and ears on. Where I came from, the internet was no so vastly used in homes as it is here, and not nearly a quarter as fast, so I lost precious time. Buying was out of the question, our wallet was not deep enough.

And then I found high-speed internet, and my tiny dreams came true. I listened. Oh I heard! I was in rapture.

Those waves of mahogany flowed over me, caressing, enticing, ensconcing, enervating and I was reveling in it. It left me longing, wanting more and more till my skin prickled, my toes curled and my whole self tingled, in anticipation and fulfillment.

I loved music even more, if That was even possible. I am obsessed with it, cannot live in it's absence, and it runs through my very core. I have it strung into my very nerves, muscles and sinews. It holds court in my soul, my heart and my mind. I tried to learn, but found myself too lacking to be pure. I found my amateur skills a blasphemy. I resorted to walking around with music in my ears, tapping my feet and generally in a trance. Whether I am waking or sleeping, working or relaxing, it has me so thoroughly like a puppy at it's feet.

Obsession, I think so, but no obsession has been this wonderful.

Draco, Sweet Draco..

2008-04-04T17:21:00.001-07:00

My Attempt at Art -- Comments welcome (please keep them clean, though! )

2008-04-02T18:43:00.001-07:00

To be or not to be.. Incomplete

2008-04-02T18:41:00.000-07:00

It has been a busy couple of weeks, what, with all the work that I have to do, the subjects I have to study, and the exams that I have to pass, all so that I can have a decent job to go by. It's not that I mind, it's just that I HATE having to do something as distasteful as having to resort to "help" from others to get the job. It just so seems like proof in stone that the extent of my intelligence is highly over-rated and it leads me along that line of thoughts that I am not worth that little piece of paper that commend my so called achievements in getting another degree. Mediocrity, however, is not shown by that generic format of the certificate, small mercy.

I have been in touch with more people in the last fortnight, than I have in the last few months, yet I have never felt so alone as I have right now. No, No, it's not that romantic crap, thank Jebus. I just mean in general. People are moving on, getting gainful employment, getting married, starting a new life, and yet, it feels strangely as if I am stuck in a moment and I can't get out of it.

It's not I am brooding and stalking around like a giant bat or vampire, snapping at everyone or some such. I'm not doing the classic Snape, but it doesn't change the hollow feeling I have, as if I am missing something. I would have shrugged it off as a "I want my chocolate" phase of life except that it's been there far too long than healthy, I imagine. I don't know how many more are experiencing the same turn of events, but I'm sure I'm not the only one rocking this boat.

What do you do when you start feeling this way? Incomplete, Incompetent, and so many other words I can spell with an 'I'?

Perhaps it will go away? Or maybe we'll become numb to it. How do you complete yourself? Oh and before you say "find your better half," I'll say go stuff it. It's not THAT kind of incompleteness, so there.

Right now, I probably look like a giant bat in a corner. But hey, all the better, people may leave me to my thoughts.

It's been a very long time since I felt any semblance of normalcy. So long, that I may as well have forgotten how to feel that way again. Then again, normalcy is probably overrated. Every day is a haze, just a routine to-do list. There is no feeling, not even when I a learning something new, which is always the best way to get me all high and happy. For all the love I profess for learning, this is probably wierd. Learning, being surrounded by books, and just stocking the mental pantry is just my thing. I thoroughly enjoy being geeky. Yes, completely batty, I assure you. Yet, it is what defines me. Rarely do you find me not exercising the mental muscle (Don't even go to the part of the physical exercise). Surrounded by walls of books, always thinking of new ways of doing things, and all that jazz.

Don't get me wrong. I am far from brilliant, I just love to learn, and my ability to learn is inversely proportional to my ability to retain things, and it's not the learning that is the thin end of the wand, certainly. If I could retain all that I learned, you have no idea what the outcome of that would be. There are so many things I wish to be better, my memory is on the top of the list, but there may be a bright side to forgetfulness. There are so many things that I would gladly forget and probably have, and that is a good thing.

Just the same, I am in the state of mind when every song of longing, separation, and happy endings leaves me in a fit of self loathing. Oh how I wish, I was one of them, all those people who look so happy, all of them who are in such wonderful places of employment, and have so much more than me. I just want so much more than this. And it's not that I am unwilling to work, mind you. I probably will do what needs to be done with a passion rivaled by none other, if and only if I am motivated to do it. Therein lies the problem, the motivation is just not there, there is no spark, no urge, no desire, no passion, no drive. There is nothing.

I probably shall run mad if this continues. I have dallied in the arts, the sciences of the mind, philosophy, history, music, literature, sports, and have found that once I know I can do whatever I please, the need to dally in them goes away. I want a lot, I have need for little. How do I build this? The things that deal with a lot of thought such as philosophy, and psychology are those that excite me most. In fact, I love messing with people's minds. I know, sadistic, but that's me. I love to pick brains, I love to watch people squirm when I try to figure them out and, more often than not, succeed.

Merlin, there are a lot of "I's" in this, aren't there? But what do you expect when my thoughts are being relayed to you by me? Smirk.

Mornings, noons, nights, time is of consequence and yet it is not. Twisted, but true.

Remember me...

2008-03-17T19:03:00.000-07:00

If it is one thing I hate, it is being proven wrong. Apparently, everything that I am is proving wrong, and the next person to tell me I am smart, or intelligent, will never know what hit them. I have no interest in being lied to, and it is detrimental to my health to lose my temper so often. Or so they say.

I hate being mocked, and if I am lied to, I am being mocked, so think twice. It is so pathetic to sit every day and watch everyone leaving you behind. There is very little sense in "resting while I can" when that rest is riddled with self deprecating thoughts and suicidal tendencies. There is only so much a person can handle, and after years and years of bearing down on disappointments and all the dreams that ever were, you just find it very tempting to test how little effort it takes to throw yourself in front of a speeding train. I don't trust buses.

I hate being the butt end of The Creator's Jokes, and I hate it even more when he keeps me alive every day, in good health, only to mentally torture me, with those so called "tests" of his. They are supposed to make me stronger, are they? I am a believer in God and all things Great, but honestly, yeah, this is a Great Joke. I'm just not laughing.

In what way did I wrong anyone so much that I am being so driven to insanity. It takes just one look at the pity or charity people show toward you, something you cannot miss, mind you, to take one more step towards finding the perfect way to off yourself. When you know the blame does not lie with you, or as I would like to believe, it takes so much of patience to bear the hurt and the regret you feel when one more non-productive day goes on by, and you are still as useless as ever.

I swear, by the Creator himself, if I am rejected in one more interview, I can safely throw myself from a high cliff, or get hired as a maid, because, obviously, "It is not my fault, it's just luck, you see" and I say, go to hell. I'm just a waste of a lot of space, I should think.

As screwed up as this seems, I feel like a complete incompetent imbecilic idiotic insufferable ticked-off moron. I have no freaking clue what is wrong, and frankly at this point of time, it is moot point, because even a retarded high school drop out can find a better job than me. How does that feel? You have no freaking clue.

I want to believe it when people tell me, something better is around the corner, but after months of being turned down at every bloody company's interview, you run out of "something better" to be waiting around the corner. And to top it all, I can't even freaking cook, to live out the rest of my days indebted to some one who felt pity on me to pay off my loans for me. Talk about mental health, I'll stop at mental.

Everyone is a smart-ass about it, as if they went through it personally and then lived to tell the tale. Did you feel so pathetic as well? Did you wake up every morning and wonder why you did? Did you look at your bank balance and just forgo that thing you wanted to buy, but now you just can't? Have you tried to smile when you really feel like slitting your wrists so you could just go numb? Have you ever felt like taking a ticket to nowhere and find a job earning 6 bucks an hour just so that you could feel more among what you are truly worth? Have you ever felt the Need to die??

There are so many things threatening to break right now, and one of them is just my barrier of self reserve, that last thread between sanity and the insane need to laugh hysterically and blow my head off. There are no more words to show exactly how screwed up my life is. You know you are freaking useless when even the god damn kid rummaging through garbage seems more happy than you are right now.

Frustrated? If you didn't get the point by now, you have it all. Ignorance.

Wishes in the night...

2008-03-05T21:21:00.000-08:00

There is a weight in her chest
That threatens to choke her
And she tries to stop those tears
That threaten to spill over.
There are so many many times she hopes
That the night will be so binding
But each morning she wakes up
Blinking against the sunlight blinding.
She goes through the hours weary
Of the night that is approaching
To embrace the darkness so calm
Before the fear within turns consuming.
There are so many dreams she sees
And lives through them smiling
For only in our dreams are we free
Before the daylight threatens, unending.

Sreedevi.

Viva La, just a little..

2008-02-28T17:50:00.000-08:00

There is a lot of fun in visiting some place, especially when you don't have to worry about any of the things that make trips a nightmare. The tickets, the hotel, the sights, in general: the planning aspect. I hate planning for trips. It takes a lot of time and a whole load more of patience. I would rather have my nose stuck in a book or more likely, in a web page.

When you don't have to worry about those little gremlins, it is such a breeze, a wonderful experience. In fact, I am such a worry-master, I worry about every little thing, and if something is less than perfect, I go ballistic. It is impossible for me to enjoy a trip if I have to arrange it. What's more, I hate to worry about the expenses. I don't mind spending the dollar if it is worth it, but I fret that I may be spending unwisely, and I do tend to get prudish and picky and all uptight; translation: I spend extravagantly, given the opportunity, not worrying about the consequences. Which is a big, big, big problem, considering the fact that I am just a student and temporarily unemployed.

This trip to Seattle was a dream. One day of high-strung nerves and the other one and a half days of uninterrupted bliss. The cute hotel concierges didn't do any harm either. Say, what is the ladies' counterparts of "Bird-watching"? I've been rather curious. The one day of high strung nerves was the jet-lag of coast-to-coast travel and also another major factor that I won't quite mention here. Let's just get to the un-interrupted bliss right now. God knows it sounds much more intriguing.

Well the trip was paid for, the food was paid for, the luxury hotel was paid for. What more would one simple, single woman ask for? I can think of a couple of things, let's not go into details, shall we? I had a great Luxury suite to myself, all the food I could want to eat, and classy service. I had missed the feeling of having someone waiting on you for so long. Being a student in a grad school on your own money, can really make you a plebian. Would have been different if I had Mr.Lodge, Mr.Rich or Mr.Gates as a possible parent, but hey, a student can dream, right? That don't demand a down payment, unlike your surly land owner, but then again...

So I have this wonderful feather bed that I couldn't appreciate very well because of the nerves first and then because of the fact that my body was so used to using a sleeping bag as my bed that it kind of actually complained about too much comfort! Imagine that! And I thought I'd never see the day when luxury didn't click well with me. Then again, here I am, writing about it. Anyway, I digress. I loved the room and most of all I loved the services that came with the room and also the very fact that it was like a wonderful isolation that I had not had for a couple of years now. Just me, my solitude and my wonderful hi-tech gadgets. JOY!

I relaxed, completed the task I came here for and then relaxed again. Trust me, this was well deserved comfort. And did I use it well. I feel absolutely revitalized and rejuvenated and some happy heart-things happened, and there was some not so pleasant issues, but overall I give a "O" for Outstanding. I think I'm in love with luxury all over again. Oh, the pain! The separation of him from me. I think I shall cry. Of course I feel sorrow. I don't miss people this much!

The view was great, the temperature was perfect, a little too much sun for my tastes, but I think it is a part of Seattle's charm. It reminds me of this beautiful and harmonious union of technology, a fast and slow pace; a great ambience. I think I am taken with Seattle. And ironically I was sleepless for the duration of my stay here. Ha Ha.

I loved the rolling green lawns with children playing and old people relaxing and it seems so bloody cliche, but it reminded me of a sort of yawning hills and valley scene. Why do I sound like that Andrews woman, who couldn't shut up about the hills?

The whole thing was like a great care package, chicken soup for the soul, a big kiss on my aching mind. I think it's all better now. I find myself smiling like a right idiot. I think I figured out the reason that cute concierge is looking at me in a slightly alarmed manner. Who can blame him? I am in the lobby, hammering away at the keyboard, smiling weirdly and practically set up shop here. I think I want to come to this city. I think I have found the place I want to replace NY with. I think I finally fit somewhere. In a place that has something for my every mood without having me empty my wallet and over-drawing on my Visa, and where the people don't think smiling at a stranger (and having that smile returned) is something along the lines of "If you see something, say something." I love NY, I really do, but sometimes you would want to smile at someone and want that smile back, for no specific reason, or you would want to chat up a stranger and not have them threaten you with several thousand volts of electricity. Okay, maybe I exaggerated that a bit, but you get the idea. A place where you don't hear children spewing obscenities instead of nursery rhymes, a place where people talk politely and at the decibel required, a place where I can walk the streets or take a cab after dark and not worry about having anything untoward happen. I think I found a place where looking over your shoulder is something not necessary while you walk.

A place where rules are followed and people respect pedestrians, and offer help if you need it, and where I won't be scared to lift my eyes and look around, lest I invoke someone's wrath for being able to see. It is like a breath of fresh air before you return to the filthy docks, and you know that you will treasure it, and long for it, and want it to never end. But too soon it does. And you hope that you will have that chance, maybe for keeps.

It's a pity. I love the city of New York. It is my home, and I love it like my own. She took me in and gave me a place to stay, and have a little bit of her when I am there. Too bad that most people respect her so little, and it is always the people. The people who are only beautiful on the outside more often than on the inside.

Love? Hardly!

2008-02-02T19:20:00.000-08:00

There are only so many things that render some things irreparably broken.Sorrow is one of them. There are so many many ways this one word can leave a person flailing and helpless, with no want of rescue. It is a double edged knife. Either it cuts down or moulds into steel, the former not necessarily a bad thing and the latter not necessarily a good outcome.

A broken heart is sometimes a good thing. The pain sharpens the reality of the situation and helps you really 'see' things, as they actually are. I know it sounds cold and heartless to say that, but it has taught many a young person the difference between reality and fantasy. It can show that the hottest girl in school has space to rent in that pretty head of hers, or prove that that quarterback everyone drools over is really as full of air as that foolball he kicks around. It also gives you a certain amount of sadistic pleasure when you put his head in place of the football.

Before you think that I'm writing this because this personally applies to me, have this image of me sneering and shaking my head.

That said, why do we even try? I suppose a dire need to "not be alone" qualifies as a half-witted reason to precariously balance that overly lost soul of ours on the line and hope no train comes that way. I think you should stop reading those trashy romance novels and start off philosophy.
At least a meagre intellect is better than an air-headed hopelessly romantic damsel not-so-in-distress. Please wait till I put my head between my knees to get rid of the nausea rising in my throat. Utterly pathetic.

I have no clue about what some people think, especially when they go all fluttery eyed and goffy grinned over some one they are eyeing. Does it not clearly show of uncontrolled minds? I have lost controll several times, but only in anger I assure you. I think that gives me immunity against
the hoardes of cupid crippled mortals around. I hope and pray that it is not air bourne. Or that my Hara Kiri sword is ready when I have the symptoms. Hey! I'm only human. I can be affected. Maybe.

Much to my chagrin, they downplay something as pure as love into an item. Something you can pick up from the nearest romance trash cinema /novel. They go around singing like insane canaries and smiling like they just bought out the top ten of the Fortune 500. Ghastly behaviour such as an inappropriate amount of cheerfulness and a little too much spring in their step, should be made offences punishable by law.

I'm sure you can as much deduce my feelings on the appropriate behaviour for those who claim to be in love with someone. I always believe that love is love, no matter what the source. Now can I smirk at my obvious superiority and control?

There she goes

2008-01-15T16:53:00.000-08:00

There is an inexplicable sadness in her eyes
And a depth to her heart, she herself denies
Does she know that she is not alone?
In this path that she has chosen so clearly
Does she know you'll humor her,
And manage to say what would entertain a few?
She walks along a clear path to oblivion
Hiding in the shadows of her fears and tears
Hoping that the sun will not find her
She fears those demons who haunt her at day
And let her be in the dark, only she can see
She holds hands with a man she created inside
Her mind, for he smiles for her only
He cries no tears and dries hers with kisses
For she was alone far too long.
No one heard her heart break and tear away
All that she held so close to it
But they saw her smile, and walked on by
Even though the shadows under her eyes
Darkened and the light in her eyes dimmed.
Is she not worth a second glance?
Or has everyone forgotten how to look and really see?
Whatever the reason, it is too late
As she walks away, holding the hand of a man
Who has never known of existance, or of life.

Sreedevi.

In the Rain

2008-01-12T18:53:00.000-08:00

Cool trails on my forehead , my neck
Trailing down, leaving a burn in their wake
Open eyes, staring out into the distance
As if time were of the consequence
As if the rising sun would never dawn
A deep breath and the feeling returns
A crystal that would shatter on touch
Rests in the line of vision of the eye
The world seen as a blur, but magnified
Somehow seems so much more purified
Till a blink and the miracle is gone
Replaced with the cold truth, cold draught
Swirls around and leaves in it's wake
A moment lost, a feeling returned
A trip back into the reality of this world.

Sreedevi.

Full Circle

2008-01-04T21:25:00.000-08:00

It take very little for me to slip into my “Think too much” state of mind. And when I do, it can do no good for the ones around me. In the place I lived before, the ones I shared the apartment with usually steered clear of me. Why? Simple. They thought I was intimidating, and plain scary. Suited me fine, but after a while, you have to stop discussing things with yourself, for fear of slipping into an irrevocable insanity.

I decided that this mission of mine would be solitary. So I took that glass of beverage, something that was harsh on my throat, but easy on my mind, and stood in the kitchen, mulling things over. Unfortunately, my tongue sometimes refuses to listen to my logic and has to take control. The next unsuspecting victim, came for dinner but was forced to stay for drynesses. I would not know what caused the tentative “Is everything alright?” from her; whether it was the impossibility of ignoring another person standing almost trance-like in the same room, or plain concern at my almost stone-like expression, I'll never know. It certainly sparked off the half hour tirade of mine, well, not tirade exactly, more of low rambling. With that poor girl at the wrong end of the proverbial stick.

It basically revolved on my observation on how everything, and I mean everything, is basically some distorted version of a full circle. Nothing is just a straight line. In fact, by geometric definition, a straight line can be considered a part of the circumference of a circle of infinite radius. What I mean to say is that: think about it. Everything in the world of humankind is dependent on some other object, creating a nightmare of inter-dependencies. Devil's Snare. And we are stuck within it. No matter what we do, we somehow end up following some convention, some rule, some damn yellow brick road that never ends, all the time thinking we will reach the magical land of Oz.

We create rules, we created society, and then we allow our creations to govern us. It is only less gruesome than what happens if AI breaks it's controllers. Somehow it brings to mind the proud smiles of parents while looking over their new born. So many dreams in those smiles. So much of hope to control their lives. The start planning from even before conception. Planning to follow society's self indulgence. Whatever for?

About thirty minutes into the more or less one-sided conversation, I managed to snap out of it and the girl all but left skid marks. Honestly! I should re-consider insanity.

Live or Let Live?

2007-12-31T15:42:00.000-08:00

There is something that you can't do without hesitation, no matter how heartless you claim to be, and that, is betraying a friend. A person close enough for you to have the privilege to call him friend. If it were a split second decision, you choose to live or let live, would you live and not allow him to suffer the misery of existence, knowing your intention, your betrayal, or would you let live to tell him, with no amount of uncertainty, that your heart never intended? That you would die rather than betray? Would he smile through his tears, fondly, at your stupidity, and pay respects to your grave with a regularity envied by those tombs whose flowers have long turned gray as the tombs themselves? Or would he cry out to the sky and pound the earth, whether in disbelief at your intention, or sorrow at your action? Those of which neither of you will ever know, to ever debate on it when your years and ears are both getting on?

On a long list of things that you should never have to do in your meager lifetime, burying your friend , and betraying your friend are both somewhere at the top, along with “Never take sides against the Family.” Which brings us to a Paradox, a Cyclic Dependence. If you can justify neither Burying nor Betraying your friend, then what do you choose when you have to?

Before jumping to the most obvious and most inelegant conclusion that Burying and Betraying are the same thing, stop a moment to think. Are they? Just like insanity is defined in each perspective, varied as the designs in a Kaleidoscope, so does Betrayal. Just to make the proverbial cut and get rid of the offending hand that offers the choice, would it still be a clean break? Is there even a solution to this?

So many questions, so many views, so many thoughts, each leading to the other in an unending spiral and eventually to madness or to the path of ignorance: both pathways of complete bliss. For only the insane understand what is the truth, and the sane suffer from the insanity of trying to simplify a situation and then achieving the complexity that we started to avoid. We build idioms to tell people to see things as they are: call a spade a spade. We made a complex solution to simplify for those who never understood the beauty of plain speech. We congratulate ourselves for something as stupid as that. Are we the sane ones?

Friendship is something we created, to give dependence a non-invasive name. I would not mind being a friend or going to one, but I am too proud to say that I am dependent on my “friend”. Well, after all, there is no dependence between friends right? I could not be closer to dying because of a sudden fit of laughter. Who are we trying to hoodwink? Ourselves I should say.

Digression, you say? I disagree. Who says what is digression and what is not? I raise an elegant eyebrow and smile most unpleasantly.

There are still others who understand that friendship is not for those who value pride too much. They stay within their little bubble of unbreakable glass and pour their heart out, knowing full well that that glass will throw the words right back at them. That's as close as they will get to being friends. They will listen passionately because pride only stops speech, not hearing. And then they will nod and convey, most wordlessly all that needs to be conveyed, and leave the other in a state of peace and light.

Of course if you do not depend, then there arises no friend and therefore betrayal is nothing more than a dispassionate flick of the wrist to sever the ties that bind them to you. Is that not?

But there comes a time for everybody's first. When some of those bubble people allow the slightest crack to form, and then you find a friend, and then you should hope and pray on bended knee that life will never throw at you a sword and say, “Go on, pierce his heart...”

I hate GoodByes...

2007-11-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

Like the title suggest, I simply dislike goodbyes. They make me feel awkward, and it fills me with some sense of dread, the question, "Will I see them again?" rolls around for that instant, making me a little hesitant in turning around and walking away.

It is when the goodbye is more permanent that I become what I never am usually. A little lost. How do we tell someone Goodbye for the last time? It is a little more complicated than, "Well, till next time, seeya then.. Take care..."

Death is so Final, that there is little you can do when it comes knocking. No arguments, when it is time. Walk away. No teary goodbyes, no last minute declarations of love, nothing. Just Go.

Having faced so many such finalities, each time I make my heart a little more strong, the tears a little lesser, and the resolve a little tougher. Prepare: that's the only thing I can do. My eyes sting lesser and the understanding sinks in. We cry when we are not ready to let go, and when the understanding sinks in, we stop. I treat each goodbye as if I would never see them again. Sometimes I am right. Leaves me guileless the next time I think of the Dear Departed.

Yet, there are somethings that cannot be avoided. Manage your emotions however well, but one look at another broken heart's voice and it takes every ounce and more of all the available courage not to crumble and let it all go, strength be damned. I daresay I have become an expert at reigning over my own choked sobs, but it takes a very bruised pair of palms and cut lips to hold someone and watch such wrenching raw emotion wash over them, and you, and be the only dry-eyed one. Whispering words of comfort and promising them that everything will be alright, even if means lying through your teeth. It leaves me feeling wretched, it leaves me feeling drained. But someone has to seem heartless enough not to cry for their own Father's passing.

Such things leave people in a state where they cannot decide whether this new information is to be dealt with, how? Denial is easy, but never the right option. Always the hard way, it has to be.

There are so many little things that death of a dear one makes you think about. How quickly the "is" becomes a "was", how you will never see them smile again, how you will never get those few and far between hugs, how your family will never be whole again.

It leaves your thought in such a flurry, that momentarily you are disoriented. And when the thought get into order, you'll wish for the blissful oblivion of disorientation, knowing fully well that when you calm down, you have to fill in the shoes at the Family Head. It is far easier to forget and pretend it never happened.

The worst is when you don't know what your reaction should be. I was never one for open emotion, and I don't intend to make personal grief into a bawling marathon, blaming "release" for undignified behavior. As the British say, "Keep a stiff upper lip, at all times."

What happens when you don't have any personal grief left? Imagine someone who takes the news as "It had to happen sometime..." People misunderstand the facade to be real.

A bit of advice though. Never go to bed angry with someone, unless you can handle it. Tell someone you love them, no matter how much of your pride you have to swallow, to speak that simple emotion. Always leave someone with a kind word or a smile. There may not be another chance to do that. And not everyone can be so hard that it will not cause guilt.

So the next time you are saying Goodbye, leave no room for regrets.

Fallen Rain

2007-11-15T21:46:00.000-08:00

I'm walking through fallen leaves,
Watching them float peacefully on miniature oceans
A drop that falls, playfully drowns one
Like children in a pool,
While the leaf retorts, and splashes
The heavens it can reach.
I realize that my image is rippled now
But I smile to think that something so small
Can have such a strong impact
Something sends a shiver down my spine
It's not the cold wind, but the warm skin to blame
And my attention is no longer on playful pairs
As we walk through the fallen leaves.

Sreedevi.

Dark? Scared?

2007-11-10T21:42:00.001-08:00

This is the festival of light. The time when the dark was effectively vanquished by the Light. For a time. But as everyone knows, it was only time before Evil reared it's head, in the path of the Light again.

But in the modern day, I wonder what has the privilege to be called Evil or Dark? Privilege? You ask me.. Surely, you must be joking?

No, I assure you, I am very sane and very serious.

Tell me, what is the general idea of Evil? How do you define it? Is there an Oxford or Webster, universally acknowledged definition to it? We can deftly term evil as something dark, something that has unpleasant consequences, something that hurts innocent people. Innocent to the context, I should correct. I have always wondered. That makes falling in Love very evil indeed. People die for love, kill for love, do senseless things in the name of love. Does the means justify the end? If a person innocently fell in love and then was rejected, that person gets hurt, and the consequences for that person is unpleasant. Therefore, by the generic definition of Evil love is Dark.

Oh and for those railing about Moral issues, some parts of the world consider falling in love as a sin, so there. All in black and white.

NO. this is not another fluff piece. I assure you. Fluff is the last thing on my very black thoughts right now.

One more thing, why is it that we consider the absence of light as evil or scary? We make up tales of creatures of the night being horrific and being violently bad stuff. Come on. Give a vampire a break, will you? Did he personally demonstrate the sharpness of his/her incisors on your neck?

I have a dozen people whose thoughts screamed “Evil” at me when I mentioned I have a soft spot for the night and the moon and darkness around me. I can swear they walk around me with garlic pearls ever since I told them I enjoy solitude and that I sleep at dawn. A couple even “surreptitiously” grazed their necks to see if I had somehow managed to sneak a bite out of them. I think any non-vampire would smell the garlic, though..

I made a statement, and I think I'm officially to say it first. Pain, sorrow and darkness are a person's best friends. Horrified? Let me explain the reasoning I employed to reach this somewhat disturbing conclusion. Happiness and Joy and all that jazz cannot come unbidden to you. Not all the time at least. They last some, but I think they are the main use is to cushion a fall sometimes. Which may be good or bad.

These three and Fear, are those that can come to you at the first bidding. Even without you calling to them. They come and they keep the thoughts in your head straight. Like joy, they don' t tell you that the world is made of marshmallows, and that if you are feeling joyous, a truck can't run you down.

What and How you react to these best friends of yours, when they make an appearance, is up to you, and it will define how strong you are. It is way to easy to laugh and smile and make people believe when you are happy. Much less so when your smiles have to hide the pain you feel and call attention away from the fear in your eyes or the sorrow that is weighing down on your heart.

Make no mistake, they are not meant to drag you down. It frustrates me when people believe that they are bad things. I say, wake up and smell the coffee. These are the things that teach you to understand the value of a smile or of “Love” (ugh that word again!!). Be grateful, infidels.

I am an advocate for the dark side. Dark != Bad, for Salazar's sake. The darkness of the night is gracious enough to allow a measly candle to fight it. It is the unknown. That's why people fear it. What darkness is used for is not an excuse to condemn darkness itself.

This does not mean I'm going to go around waving sticks and claiming apocalypse is here. Rather apocalypse is in my coffee cup because I have unwittingly ruined the perfect taste with sugar. Impulse is sometimes so bloody unhealthy.

MY point is: don't be so quick on judgment. Before fearing something, and insulting it with fear rather than respect, think about it. Dark and Light cannot exist without each other, as you so well have already noticed. It is the classification that annoys me.

Pain, if you understand it, will no longer be feared. That is what I'm aiming at. Understand before you Judge. I sympathize with the anti-heroes simply because things are so unfair for them. With them being so unceremoniously being shunned because they react differently to the same stimuli. If someone yells at you for being stupid, they are bad. If they pat your head, go “there there” like everything will automatically undo itself, they are the best. How Pathetic!!

I wish half the children understood why they were being chastised. Oh yes, I understood why I was being chastised when I was a child. I reacted , how to say, differently... but I understood nonetheless.

My friend once burst into tears when I faced my mother's tirade, got slapped and calmly apologized before slamming the door in my mother's face. She apparently was never chastised at home. Explains why she was and still is a very spoiled twit. My revenge was sweet, but I understood why that scene occurred and never repeated those mistakes again.

The point of that little anecdote was just that. Understand and then deal with it, but learn from it. I cannot say that I always follow my own advice, but I, in all the goodness in my heart, am trying to help whoever needs this kind of brash truth, being slapped in the face. I utterly dislike being told “it's going to be fine” when I know that is a lie. Being lied to is not good and it will do good for you to keep in mind who is right, the next time you run someone crying.

If you want someone who will blind you with sweet caresses and soothing words, even though you need to be shaken to the truth, good for you. When it finally hits you that you have been living a lie, and those so-called friends of yours made your life better then but that led to a blatant crashing of your world in the long run, just remember the words of the “unsympathetic” ones as you labeled them.

Digression, you call this? Read again and think about it. They are all interconnected. Beyond that, I can say no more.

I see you moving to get those garlic pieces and mentally making a note to not get me on a temper. Go on, call me whatever. I recently have been termed as the “Ice Princess.” MY response is fitting: Sneer.

I'm not even going to dignify that with a retort.

Becoming Me.

2007-10-08T19:21:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know, the title is not my own. I filched it from "Becoming Jane." But the reason I did that was because, I felt it only apt. After seeing the movie, I had that reassuring feeling that there are others in the world, or were there, who were also not understood. They also had no one to connect with. There were others and will be others who I can relate to. And there will be people who can relate to me.

Perhaps you'll roll your eyes after reading the previous paragraph, perhaps you shall be intrigued to read ahead. Perhaps your reaction will be neither. I will not justify this writing of mine, other than to myself.

There are so many many times I am bursting to share my views on something, but I find no channel for release. The need to bounce the ideas or views or whatever it may be, simply finds it's way obstructed, and either slowly dies, or proceeds to contemplate the virtues of schizophrenia. Surely, talking to self sometimes seems so much more useful than talking to people who will halfway not understand, and halfway make assumptions, and bothways make idiots of self and of me.

Not that I regret my quaint tastes or my cynical attitudes, or my aloofness that is so easily and readily construed as arrogance. I am very, very happy to break the mould, even if the creation is uncommon and uneven. Unfortunately, the vices of the soul deem the desideratum of intellectual company very becoming indeed. Unfortunately, such company is rarely, if at all, so attained.

I wonder, by how the notion of headstrong women and arrogant men is passionately pursued, whether it means to be of more use at all, than make up the essence of classic, evergreen fiction. To be read, enjoyed by the season, bound in volumes of rich leather, initialed and labeled in shiny gold letters, and then forgotten till some one finds comfort in those tomes again. Rarely by the same reader as before, I assure you.

Such stories are, I believe, never forgotten, once introduced to memory. The ingenuity and the powerful natures of the leads are so delicious, it is inclined to be etched, may not be in the fore, but in the least, some back-shelf of the vast expanses of the human mind, to be remembered in civil conversations and brief re-collections. Never Forgotten.

Are the realities of such delectable characters ever accepted? In all my life I have never once come across a self styled person resembling a Mr. Darcy, or Colonel Brandon, or here it comes, even Severus Snape. Not even in the same ballpark, not by the measure of a very long stick. Sometimes it makes me wonder if such characters are somehow the taboo, only to be read about, but never experienced. It is such a shame really. Chivalry is all but dead, romance reduced to physical entanglement of limbs and mouths, and men neither proud, nor prejudiced. Pride, dear reader, is somehow becoming the equivalent of arrogance. Looking down an aristocratic nose is mis-conceived as pride. Little wonder why people have confused hearts with souls and brief concurrence of ideas as being depth in understanding another individual.

Loneliness is the mistress of torture, and the lady of strong men's dreams. It's amusing, to the point of raised eyebrows, how young couples mistake an idea of concern toward the other, as love. I wager that most of these couples will not realise what they are really in, and when sufficient time passes, like the rock is reduced to sand in a desert, so will the boundaries defining concern, affection and true love be so indistinct, believing in either for the other is hardly an effort, given the slightest hint. Attraction, Nature's simple antidote to thought, works well indeed.

Singularly, I bring these up, for the reason that Finding ideal company is more than just a climb up the Himalayas, and so everyone settles for the next best thing, finding whatever company. I have had so many corrections to my train of thought recently, it had left me lost. I figured a good day or lifetime of introspection would be helpful to making such corrections. I found that a dozen years of talking made little effect on the listening powers of my closest friends. Other than gleaning correctly the information anyone could pull off in a hour's conversation at a local party, my "closest" friends had no idea who I was, or what my thoughts on common topic were, in the least. Even my next of kin, couldn't understand my responses, after 20 years of growing up together. I am truly, alone.

For a long time I walked around with questions threatening to drive me mad. Was I that much of an sociopath? Why do I enjoy the silence as a better company, to the sweet frivolities of friendships known. For one, people have become so adept at judging a book by the cover, that many think Playboy deserves a Pulitzer. It's maddening, infuriating, and blasphemous. How intellect is now restricted to proficiency, is simply annoying.

I do not, however, claim that I have knowledge of the pages within the bindings of great books, throughout the world. I do not. I barely have scratched the surface. But what I can claim with pride is that I have learned from all that I read. And I do not need the tag of fame to be attached to the author's name to compel reading their works. I have read several obscure books, short stories, and plain doodles on the back of a paper napkin, and I am sure that I can attest to a good writing style when I see one. It's unfortunate that I am in want of reasonable company, when there are so many millions of individuals around. I say nothing, however, of their individuality.

A wave of this, uncompromising need for a like minded , similarly inclined person, if at least one, is enough to make me run to the hills and live in solitude, with a handy multiple personality disorder, to satisfy the need to feel understood and equaled, in mind, heart and soul.

A handful of sparks

2007-09-26T13:55:00.000-07:00

Each time I have that feeling, that familiar tingle, I cannot help but hold out my hand, palm up, and and curl my fingers heavenward. The glint of the gold on the finger of the heart is somewhat dimmed by the shadows cast upon it by the light playing on my fingertips. Familiar creases deepen and threaten to forever mould into my palm, canyons upon fair lands, tinged in red as the setting sun.
I stare at the sight, never shaking, deadly still hand. And I feel it. The ever so slight tingle of blood teasing my finger-tips, tickling my nerve endings, and I wonder what it is.
What is that strange sensation? Why do I feel it so? No reason is there, or is there reason where there is none?
What do I do with this, this energy ready to burst forth? For I know not how to expel it. I know not how to treat this condition, to see it through it's end.
Tell me, What will it be, with these tips to bend?

Autumn in New York...

2007-09-11T20:04:00.000-07:00

Is there something that can completely captivate you? "Ensnare the senses?" Something that can make you stop mid-stride on a busy street? Something that makes you pause in mid-sentence and make you forget? Forget where you are, Forget what is happening, and take you to another place?

Think.

I am sure that there is at-least one such thing for every person.

What made me ask such a question? Take a guess. Something did captivate me, ensnaring my senses and took me to another place and time.

What was it, you ask me? I'll tell you.

"I wandered, lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high, o'er vales and hills..."

There was a distinctly beautiful song playing on my i-pod, which I think was "Be here to love me" by Norah Jones, and I was enjoying my self-declared coffee break, on a cool autumn afternoon, with a particularly beautiful blend of cinnamon-flavored coffee in the wake, trying to be at peace with the world and remembering to savor my last scraps of solitude.

Shaking the mental images of impending doom at the workplace from my mind, I tried to concentrate on the coffee, trying to get my mind to relax, which I was finding increasingly hard to do. There are some days that you would want to lie down and never wake, hoping they'd instate a memorial for you, who died bravely fighting workplace pressures. This was one of those days. My stamina was steadily deteriorating, owing to the hectic work schedule, and lack of sleep, thanks to imbecilic "above the floor" neighbors and a nagging sense of responsibility for my own demise. I wanted to just close my eyes and pretend it was a bad dream. Didn't work.

I sighed and decided that peace was a little hard to get right now, and leaned back on the cold metal seats that adorn the sides of the little stone pathway leading back to my personal hell. I needed a break. I felt like laughing out loud. A break? Damn it! You just had a summer break. What in the name of Merlin and Salazar are you talking about? It is just the first week of work and you're ready to drop dead? I chided myself for being such a coward. After all, I was not the only one in this boat. I felt a little better, knowing that I would not be alone in this. A deep breath and I felt practically normal.

Sipping the remnants of the coffee and letting the warm liquid gently soothe my aching throat, I settled back into my seat and glanced around, amusing myself with the behavior of overly-greedy pigeons, when I actually paid attention to the surroundings that I passed through every day, without so much as a cursory glance.
I was surprised at how ignorant we could be, not noticing the little beautiful things around us. The little things that would make things seem so much better for the moment.

I could not take my eyes off the sight. The afternoon sun lazily tickling the fall-tinged leaves on sleepy trees. The wind, blowing fallen leaves around gently, as if trying to help them remember how it was to be above the ground, fluttering in the playful breeze, how it was to be alive. The rays of golden that seemed to be drawn tight as rope, binding the earth and the sky, upheld by the strong branches of tall, proud trees. It made me smile and a content sigh escaped my lips, which were parted ever so slightly at the wonder that lay before me.

How long I sat there, I don't remember, but why I sat there, not caring about the time that passed, not caring if anyone watched my fixed gaze, not caring if I had to leave.

Not caring if I was in this world or the next.

When I finally forced myself out of my reverie, the rays of bright gold had dimmed and my coffee had long since gone cold.

A minute to a day

2007-09-09T16:13:00.000-07:00

There are several things we fail to notice. And when we do, we wonder why do we ever worry about "greater things in life," but then we always worry.
The wonderful feel of the fresh air on our faces, the gently fierce wind. The feel of soft grass beneath naked feet, the warm glow of light to draw shadows on the walls. The warm fuzziness of the thick comforter on a cold night. The wonderful flow of silky hair through our fingers.
The grace of a slow-dancing flickering candle flame, the feel of warm coffee flowing down the throat on a cool evening. The wonderful chill of cold water in our mouths on a warm day.
The crispness of fresh snow under boots.
Warm glowing feeling when you do something nice for someone, or someone does for you.
Laying down to sleep after a tiring day, and waking up with that lazy feeling on a weekend.
Having nothing to do for a few hours.
Reading novels when you should be reading textbooks, just for a few stolen hours.
The tickle of the carpet when you walk around without shoes.
Smelling a wonderful meal from the door when you come home after a day of hard work.
Getting so much as an appreciative nod for something you put your heart into.
Smiling when someone lies to you, just because the lie makes you smile.

I will go on when I can, but for now my greatest pleasure is sitting back in a chair, feet bare on soft carpet, in a comfortably warm room.
There are my favorite songs playing in my ear and the cinnamon dolce latte has left a wonderful warmth in my chest and the faint smell of magnolia blossoms tenderly floats around.

I only sink lower in my chair and give way to a relaxation I can enjoy for sometime without worrying too much.

Cruel Caresses

2007-09-09T13:19:00.000-07:00

The trees bow their heads in despair, as the wind rages over them, crushing, tearing and hurting. The anger is not unexpected. The wind was always the same. It was only time before the wind learned to calm down. Too many times the wind had destroyed before realizing the extent of ruination. It was never happy times at that. Too much too soon, never to come back. And yet the wind raged now.
They cried with crimson, cinnamon and lemon hues as the wind shrieked and tore at them, ripping the leaves and throwing them carelessly around. The pain would subside. The trees gave up trying to stop the colorful tears, let them flow.
On and on, the wind went on, making everyone who could, run for safety, for no one was safe when the wind was in a temper such as this.
Tentatively the trees touched the wind softly, gingerly brushing against the wind, waiting for a reaction. A rustle. A gentle response. The wind was ready to be calmed now. He accepted the caress.
The temper subsided, slow and steady, and the scorned lover gave in to the touches and the simple pleas. The wind slowed down and touched back, caressing away the pain the wind was responsible for. Wind's way of apologizing without breaking stride, so smooth and soundless. The wind embraced the resigned trees to gently sway them, whispering sweet words that only they could hear. This was only for now, before the wind was wild again, but it was for now.
The trees respond, and a gentle rocking of the branches ensues, making a peaceful harmony.
All is well for now...

The End of Summer

2007-09-03T15:30:00.000-07:00

Sorry People. Just a phase I assure you. I never intended it to be as mushy as it turned out, but it did. So, apologies from my side.

He walked, out into the open. He couldn't stay inside anymore. The house was too large for him. It smothered him. Absently he walked toward the surrounding woods, arms wrapped around himself, the evening was cold. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he angrily shook it away. No, he would not allow himself to cry.
The weather suggested it was time to end summer. The wind howled around him, as he curiously looked at these things below him that were taking him somewhere. "Stop," he willed them, "Stop. Where are you taking me?" But his feet would not listen, they did not answer him. It was as if the trees moved aside to let him pass. It took him sometime to realize he had wandered far from his home. "Home? What home?" he thought, and then, threw his head back and laughed hysterically.
He was there. This was the place where his life had begun. The fountain of his life. He glanced around. It was not the same anymore. Never again. The water seemed to beckon him, call out to him. "What?" he asked the water, "what do you ask from me? I have nothing to give you."
A voice inside his head told him to go to the water. He did. He didn't have the energy to argue.
Quietly, he knelt by the lake and absently stroked the surface. There was someone in there, he thought, and he did not disturb the water anymore, and waited for the turbulence to recede. The he curiously peered into the water. In the dull light of the evening, he saw someone there.
The man had a drawn face, and dark patches under his eyes, and his face was wet with tears that fell from his tired, reddened eyes. He strangely looked familiar. That man seemed as if he had aged in a hurry. "Who are you?" he asked in his head. It took a while for the reply to run through his head. "You," it simply read.
He sat there and stared at his reflection. "Narcissist," his mind told him, "what are you looking at yourself for?"
"I'm not looking at me," he spoke aloud, "that man looks like he lost some... something- that was precious to his heart. I wonder what could be?" He smiled and the man smiled back at him, with a look of pain.
"Show me." It was all he heard himself say, to no one in particular, eyes wandering to the opposite bank, and beyond, into the darkening woods, before slipping away.
He sat at the same glade, but only on the bench that overlooked the water. He was not alone. Glancing down, he saw a face, on a head resting in his lap. She looked so contented, a small smile playing on her lips. He absently pushed an erring lock of hair from her forehead and let his hand rest there awhile, before moving to stroke her beautiful auburn hair. She was amazing. So tender and so beautiful. She opened her eyes in response to his movements, and he found himself looking into the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. They danced with glee and mocked him. He saw his reflection in those eyes, and realised he had been smiling gently, as if at a child. His gray eyes were alight with happiness.
"What?" She asked, in mock annoyance, before taking his hand and kissing it gently, before letting it rest on her neck.
"You're the most beautiful person I have ever seen," He said, drawing his free hand to gently stroke her fair, oh so soft, cheek. She grinned, revealing pearly white teeth, and said "I know. You keep telling me."
She swung her legs off the bench and moved to settle in his arms, snuggling into his warm chest, loving the velvet feel of his shirt, inhaling the intoxicating cologne he wore. "You smell wonderful," she murmured, not realising that he had buried his face in her wonderful silky hair, inhaling the faint floral scent of her, that always drove his mad. He tightened his embrace and sighed.
"Promise we will be together, forever, " she softly spoke, head pressing ever so slightly into his chest. He placed his forefinger under her chin, and raised her face to his. He took a moment to take in her face, the fine raised cheekbones, the wonderful eyes that seemed to always mock him, the beautiful lips that had just spoken in an angel's voice. "I promise," he said, gently bringing her face forward, moving in to lightly touch her lips with his own. He was drowning in those eyes, those eyes that seemed to hold the secrets to the world...

They were sitting at the dining table, sitting across each other, the long table between them filled with silver platters filled with delicious looking food, gleaming in the flickering light of the candles all around. Everything had such a warm glow to it, especially her face. There she sat, radiant in her simple black dress and around her neck, was a single strand of pearls, which she seemed to playfully twist, as she picked at her food. She looked up to find his eyes studying her, pride in his face, a smile on his lips. She returned his smile and then her gaze moved to the window, overlooking the magnificent gardens that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, dully lit by the light of the moon. She caught her breath at the sight. She held her gaze for a long time, evidently not noticing he stood and walked over to stand behind her, following her gaze.
She gave a small start, when he gently placed his hand on her bare shoulder, to bring her back. She turned her head to see him smiling down at her. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked her.
"Yes, very," she said, before placing her hand on his own.
"Let's dance," he said.
"But there is no music," she said, laughing playfully.
"There is now," he clapped his hands enough to be heard beyond the room, and a string quartet started almost immediately, from some part of the house.
"You never cease to surprise me," she smiled as she placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be led to the wide floor beside the table. They danced slowly, quietly revolving on the spot and she moved her head to settle in the crook of his neck, her arms circling him, and resting on his back, while he brought his arms to rest on the small of her back. He didn't know how long they had danced, not that he cared. This seemed to be so perfect.
"Will you promise never to be apart from me?" He whispered in her ear.
She murmured into his shoulder, "Yes, I promise."
He gently withdrew from her, enough to face her.
Her eyes roamed his face, and she broke into a small smile.
"Then marry me." She seemed surprised for a moment, but then her face glowed even brighter and she gave him the most wonderful smile.
"Yes," she said simply.
He withdrew his hand and brought it between them, slowly opening it. A small gasp escaped her lips as she saw what he held. A beautiful ring, shaped like a curled serpent, studded with diamonds and emeralds all around, was gleaming in his palm.
He slowly took her left hand and placed the ring on her third finger.
"It's a family heirloom," he said, looking into her eyes, "my mother asked me to give it to the woman, whom I loved more than anything in the world. You complete me. "
Her eyes glistened in the light of the candles, making them even more beautiful than he had ever seen them.
"Thank you," she said, smiling and crying at the same time.
He was drowning in those tear-filled beautiful eyes, shining like stars in the sky...

He was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand. Something was wrong. Her face was drawn and pale, almost white. Yet she was so beautiful, so captivating. Her hands were almost only bones and she was so small that she hardly seemed to exist. He felt hot tears streaming down his face. He took her hand and placed it on his cheek, weeping silently. She smiled at him and struggled to sit up. He held her and raised her. She slumped into his arms, not having the strength to support herself. He could not help himself and shuddered as he wept into her beautiful hair, even though there was hardly any. Still he felt that floral scent.
"I'll miss you," she said, into his ear.
"Don't say that..." she cut him off.
"I love you. " He withdrew her head gently to kiss her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead and her chin, before resting his lips on hers.
"I love you," he told her after a while, "please don't go..."
She only smiled, and he felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest. "I have to," she said simply.
She looked at him once, her eyes tired, yet mocking him. And then embraced him, with some strength. He sat there, a long time, till he felt her breathing steadily slow down, and then stop.
"No!" he screamed. "You can't die!" he said more softly, but realised that she was gone. His life, his love, his equal. Gone.
He felt hands on his shoulders trying to draw him away from her. "No!" he shouted, he was not going to let her go! He pushed the hands away. It was Death, he knew, come to take her away. He was not going to let go! She was his! He held on to her tightly, and then felt a prick on his arm. Slowly, he felt himself slipping away. He tried desperately not to, but he couldn't help it. He saw her, floating away, her face the same as it was when they shared their vows, she was wearing a beautiful white gown, flowers in her hair, holding a single white rose, but she was sleeping, and floating so far far away....

He found himself lying on the banks of the lake, it was pitch dark all around. He wondered how long he had lain there, but was unable to answer. He lay back and closed his eyes, and wept, his body shuddering with every sob he tried to stop from escaping his lips. In the end he let out a small cry of agony, his heart painfully throbbing in his chest, and his face wet with what was like the rest of his soul.

He staggered to his feet, his body felt like he bore the world on his shoulders. He struggled with each step he took, back to the house. "No, it's our home," he chided himself and walked on. He stepped through the door, and led himself to the study. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, throwing eerie shapes onto the walls covered in book-cases.
"She loved to sit here an read for hours," he remembered. This was her favourite place. He sat down in the armchair in front of the fireplace, and drew his feet under him. He stared into the fire, listlessly, seeing her face in the dancing flames, till the fire burned out, and he fell asleep in the chair.

She was gone.

Hanging by a Titanium thread

2007-08-30T17:08:00.000-07:00

It was said in the movie that Superman's hair, a single thread of it, could hold a ten-ton weight indefinitely. Great, isn't it? I really wonder how anything so frail can be so strong. Well wonder no more. You have the power within you. No, This is not a bloody pep talk before any non-existent game. Seriously.

What the hell am I talking about? I'm talking about the heart and the soul, so frail, yet so strong we assume it to be, and unknowingly tie to them all the burdens that we can ever imagine of. They carry all that we fear to let go of throughout our lives, and believe me, you'd be surprised as to how much weight that turns out to be.

Are we, frail as we are, so presumptuous that we can handle all that burden? Are we, try as we might, so afraid to let go?

I think that in 90% of the cases, the answer is "yes." We are afraid to let go, no matter how passionately anyone argues against it. A few of us can let go of a few of the things some of the time, but not anything that makes the ten-ton weight disappear. I think people fear that if they let go of things, they will no longer have something to blame and therefore will have to accept responsibility for their actions. Now that is simply unacceptable. Isn't everything a part of the "blame game?"

The thing that made me think of this was seeing people, myself included, kid themselves over and over again with the same thing. The most common being the illness of the heartbroken. Now that is a classic. "Maybe if I hope a lot and wish on the falling stars, he/she will come back and things will be perfect." What a load of goat dung. Thankfully I am not like Severus, with a doe patronus. I have long ago learned that letting go is useless in some issues, but best in others. Especially in the affairs of the heart. Well fortunately I have had no more heartbreaks than the usual schoolgirl-celebrity crushes, but I really pity those people out there who suffer this insufferable illness of holding on, even when nothing can come of it.

The heart, in this case is overburdened. Taking on more and more burden with every passing thing. Even though we think we have forgotten, we still are not ready to let go. I do not know how to let go. I don' t think I am ready for it. And I wonder how many people are willing to accept that one weakness? Well, if you ask me, it is hardly a weakness, but my friends disagree. They think that by letting go, it is to forgive, be it yourself, or others, and that makes you a better person. Well I hate hot dishes and I think revenge is something that suits that condition just fine. Not that I'd go taking revenge on everyone I don't like, screaming "revenga!" but a person can dream, can't I?

No people, I'm not mentally imbalanced, I'm as sane as the next guy.

I have asked myself, "Why am I holding on to all those little things that I know are done, that cannot be reversed, and that is absolutely no use to me?" and I draw a blank, every single time. I try to reason out, as I do with all issues, to find a good solid reason to keep holding on, as the eloquent modern day poets say (feel free to use paper napkins to wipe off the dripping sarcasm), especially Avril Lavange or whatever the hell the name is, in her song. Well, I find the music good, just that I don't pay attention to the lyrics in most songs, therefore tripling my tolerance for modern songs. Let's not digress. I guess it is because those little things define a lot of my life. They are pieces of me, and I am afraid that if I let go, I lose myself. Not a pleasant thought. Maybe I'll leave that ten-ton weight exactly where it is now.

So go on, sit in that dark corner and think about what you have done. Are we fair in punishing ourselves for our own mistakes even after the message has sunk in? Or has it?

Weather Vanes

2007-08-26T19:47:00.001-07:00

No, I'm not talking about that darn rooster standing pointlessly on the arrow with the NEWS needles. I am talking about us, people, being weather vanes. Think a Nargle or a Wrackspurt got my mind? Nope, it's true. We, as people can be so affected by the weather.
Why, just the other day, we joyfully stepped outside to "sail to Philadelphia" (well if you really want to know, we were going to take the bus), and our moods, so uplifted with the prospect of a nice trip with friends just then, fell, face down, on to the concrete- the moment we set foot outside the door.
The air was balmy and the temperature showed no signs of proving it was only 8 in the morning. This started the mood swings. The intolerable humidity made our clothes stick to our skin and sapped out our energy ever so slowly. Tempers were slightly irked.
Finally we decided that it was all OK and jumped on the bus, cheerfully pulling up our feet and then the journey, for me, meant a well deserved 2 hour sleep, something I had been lacking for sometime now.
As the sun steadily climbed into the sky, and stopped awhile overhead, Philadelphia's streets beckoned us to explore them. But no sooner than we heeded the call, we found ourselves being burned. The sun, was playing his cards right and we fell for it.
Hastily we tried to flee and find shade, find the cool reserves of air-conditioning, which I believe, was the aim of most people that day. We ran into the Visitor's Center to find the whole enchilada of tourists there. For a moment, I wondered: Have we become so conditioned to the air we breathe that we can no longer accept natural weather?
Barely into the cool, our moods lost their dourness and we were once again cheerful.
Now you tell me. Doesn't it strike you that our mood is an indicator of the weather? I would like to think so. Or maybe there were Dementors around. Yeah right!
Thing is, we had fun as far as a couple of hours. Then the pretense lost strength and we all set to whining miserably about the heat. The endless heat, that did not go down even with the sun. It looked like the sun enjoyed torturing us. Well, maybe he wanted us to appreciate him. What we take for granted and what we try to get out of. What we ignore.
Either way, the weather drove our mood. Though the direction the mood is driven in depends solely on the person, we indicate the weather. If the legend to the map is known, the map can be deciphered and put to use. So is the story with our behaviour with respect to weather. For example, I turn dreamy when it rains or is gloomy, so a friend who has no idea of the outside conditions, if the person knows me well, can say "Oh dear, better carry an umbrella." Well one might argue that a simple "What's the weather like?" can suffice.
True. Ignoramus. True.
Well that is what I think. What say you?

Thoughts for the Day

2007-08-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

A splash and the image is distorted
And it takes some time to heal
But before you know it's started
Like an ever spinning wheel
Same old questions haunt my mind
Answers, not just yet
When will I wake up and find
That i am done paying my debts?
Somehow I'm alone on the street
Though people and cars fly by
They are all just dancing to the beat
Of another flowing lie
I get nudged, pushed and shoved
Strangely I'm thankful for the pain
For when I'm cut, I'll know I'm cut
And that shows i can feel, even the cool rain...

Clime, Chocolate and the Carribean

2007-08-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

It was no manic Monday, and it was no freaky Friday. It was that day of the week when the pressure of work wears off almost, the day that serves as the transitional between the hectic, always too long, work week and the always too short weekend.

It's the wonderful Thursday. I always felt something special for a Thursday, apart from it being my only strictly-veggie day of the week (Don't ask!). Normally my Thursdays are a hazy time of the week, when I barely realize what is happening, floating in and out of meetings and dreaming of how I can spend my near-at-hand valuable days of rest and relaxation.

Wipe that smirk off your face, unlike "some" people, I don't get "rest and relaxation" on weekdays. :)

This Thursday was remarkable. It was one of those really amazing days when you give thanks to the Lord for life, and the flora we hardly notice and tell our problems to go suck an egg. Precisely that. I didn't quite notice the nature of the day till it was half gone, but better late than never right? Well, what factored the revelation? Reggae. Yes, you read it right, Reggae.

You see, the school where I educate myself (or more accurately, pretend to be smart enough to be there), is located right in the middle of a commercial a.k.a business center, and these business people are nice enough to provide some form of entertainment (albeit an inexpensive one) to the toiling stockbrokers and programmers and all the jungle. This is in the form of a weekly concerto featuring unknown (for whatever reason) bands, over a range of music genres. Once in a while these concertos are really amazing, rather than the regular "good". I believe this week they found one such band.

Normally we wish for soundproof glass during Thursdays, but this time the beat was good, the thump was right and the guitar intermediate and fairly non-AvantGarde. Thankfully the man's voice was almost inaudible. But there was something so lazy about the beat that it was contagious. It spoke to my confused mind and said to it, "Aw.. shut it woman, and just pretend you are on a slow boat in the Caribbean with a nice drink." And my mind jumped on the boat almost immediately. Face it, warm weather, a Summer day, and a little time to spare, what did you expect would happen?

I threw a thick tarpaulin sheet over the "Lose weight and Stop spending" policy I was on for a couple of months now (to facilitate uncovering and resuming it later) and went out to get something made with chocolate. Soul Food.

Thus, pace slowed, mind relaxed and thirst quenched with a cold chocolate coffee, I came to my work spot, got hyped on calories and got to writing this far. Wouldn't you say I'm having a rather wonderful afternoon?

Patriotism for dummies - Volume 1

2007-08-08T13:35:00.000-07:00

I just spent a whole hour and a half watching the presidential democratic debate and realised that these debates bring to light so many issues that were hardly in the focus of any regular US citizen.

While I paid close attention to all the topics that were being contended upon, it dawned on me that I had not made any such attempt to figure out how exactly the elections in India were going.

Frankly speaking, I have never voted till now, and I gained my legal voting status 6 years ago. Hell, I didn't even know when the elections were held!

This led to yet another analysis of the matter at hand, which was, "Why do most young Indians hardly care who is governing them?"

Not that I am unpatriotic or anything, I believe in "Mera Bharat Mahan" and all that jazz, and I truly like India for it's cultural background and everything, but stop and think for a minute. Are we really as concerned with the current state of our country as we should be?

I for one, am not even a little concerned. I know that it is going to bring a lot of heavy artillery on me for saying it so candidly, but it is true. I don't remember the last serious time I was honestly thinking about how to change the country. Hell, other than having my family back home, I didn't want to go back because it is just so convenient here in the US of A. Sure a lot of people are going to say, "Of course I'm going back," but get real, when was the last time you saw an immigrant leave because they honest-to-goodness wanted to, and not because of some reason like, for the sake of the children growing up and stuff like that? If you have, then good for you. Personally all the Indians I know who left the country left, either because they had to (not wanted to) or for family reasons such as their children reaching school going age. Everybody knows that the schools here teach such diluted syllabus that the kids learn our middle school math, in high school. That tends to make them less informed, mind you: not stupid, just less informed. Not to mention the obesity and loss of Indian culture that happens when growing up here. In fact, given the opportunity, I'd stay here, get a nice citizenship and keep everyone happy.

My subsequent question is, why have so many of us given up on our country?

I have my reasons. I was not always like this. I did my bit, kept my promise to keep my country clean by not littering, by using public transport when possible, to reduce pollution and all that. I even helped make a lot of my friends aware and forced some into doing their bit, even in the face of sheer insult. I did that for a long time. I believed in the free speech and the power of the written word. All that was till I found out that the power of the written word was also dependent on the power of money. No, No, it is true.

I faced a whole bunch (big big big bunch) of inconveniences with respect to public services, and I patiently dealt with all of them, which meant I sweet-talked and coaxed, and sometimes threatened (but never bribed) to get a lot of things done, which should have been done without these methods being necessary.

I needed to use several government related service in New York, including applying for an SSN, get insurance work done and a number of other things. To my surprise, nowhere, and I repeat nowhere, did I need to use another technique other than politeness (which is correct) to get the work done quickly, efficiently and with no side-effects.

Looking at the two scenarios, and given the choice, what would you do? I already told you what I would like to do. Now it's your turn. Think. Ah Ah Ah! No cheating. No lying.

It is true that only the rich enjoy life in India. When you are middle class, you are pretty much screwed. There is no buffer for the middle class when they are faced with a tax increase. They just don't have the money. I should know, I am from a middle class family and we had trouble making things comfortable at home. My mother has single handedly supported the family for over a decade now, with my father retired with a puny (Rs. 300 a month) pension. And I have truly known the meaning of being "broke all the time."

Why don't we have something to protect our aged and retired? Why don't we have better health care? And why in God's name are the rich getting richer, while the poor are getting poorer? It doesn't make any sense.

God willing I will support my parents with all my heart, but what if I cannot, because I am earning 5 figures, but that is not enough? Inflation is so inflated that a blimp is a sorry representation.

A hundred rupees has no value now. A hundred rupees!! When I was a kid, we got 5 litres of petrol. now we don't even get 2! A single decent meal outside for 2 people costs hundreds of rupees. What is that about?

Here, 20 dollars is a lot of money. you get good clothes and maybe practical decent shoes and I can eat 4 full platters of Chinese food. Thing is, spending 20 dollars doesn't sting, as much as spending 1000 rupees for the same.

I've heard the story. "I'll earn a lot of money and then go home and live in luxury." I think it's a great idea, but for God's and everyone else's sake, don't call that patriotism. It's called something, not entirely, like "capitalism." When you have enough money to bribe everyone into getting your job done, or by simply scaring them with your wealth, you wouldn't mind India. Hell, you wouldn't mind Saudi Arabia!

Well, I've thrown in my hat, and I'm tired of typing, so now you tell me what you think of it.

Beauty and the Beast

2007-08-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

Many people who have read my blog are wondering, "Why the sudden change in wind?"
Meaning, I've suddenly had a string of blogs dedicated to running down the traditional image of love. This, after I wrote a couple of mushy flowery poems dedicated to love. PMS? No, different times, different streams of thought.

Those poems I wrote long ago, several years ago in fact, when I was still the starry eyed teen-ager waiting for my knight in shining armor. Since then, I've grown out of the mold and broken through it, to face what is.

In my lifetime, I have seen so many couples. Both serious and fling-types, and in 95% of the cases, I have made a similar observation. Both parties involved lose their individual selves for the good of the relationship. That really make me want to ask most couples a question that has been gnawing me ever since it hit me.

Is it really that important to give up one to become one?

With every couple I know , except one "former" friend, all the women in a relationship will not go anywhere without their better (really?) half. They constantly think only of the other and almost every thing they do is with respect to the other. The same, I see cannot be said of most men. They happily continue as if the woman is another of their trophies. Except for one "former friend" of mine, whose lesser (yes I said lesser, though size has nothing to do with it) half is hen-pecked before the parents know and gave up his dream for her. This too, is extreme.

In a former friend's word: Whatever.

I know that relationships are successful when there is compromise, but giving up who you are? I don't think so. That's why my friends, and my sister tell me that my attitude will not help me. I have to learn to "sacrifice" to be happy. I don't think so. I'm happy alright. Sometimes I go through the weak phases, but then, after a dose of caffeine, the sun shines and I see a rainbow again. Whoever said caffeine was a bad thing? So maybe I'll die earlier, but who said that was a bad thing either? ;)

I spent the weekend with one such couple. I soon realised that this single woman thing was something to be glad about. I had so much freedom, I could take off for the beach or the park or simply ride the subway to new destinations without so much as a thought in the world.

But mark my words, being single is not for the weak-hearted, and being in a relationship is not for the free-willed. When I'm ready to hang up my walking boots, I'll be ready to take the boat to the land of no return.

I would love to see the day when we can be who we are and yet be a team. When people can be apart when they want to (emotionally I mean) and be together when they want to. Support and Love can be free flowing even then. It doesn't mean making a business out of it, but we don't have to be salves of the bond either. We can be independent and yet be dependent. There is no vicious Circle in that, if you actually think about it.

Call, Cancel, Crap!

2007-08-02T14:25:00.000-07:00

Here I was, sitting at the park, at lunchtime and really wondering what I was doing here when I distinctly remembered, I was meeting friends for lunch at the park, supposed to be enjoyed with a side of Broadway shows. Wait a minute, there is no one else with me, is there? I thought so. This being a particularly bad spot for me, with people canceling left, right and center, I wonder why I even agree to making plans in the first place.

Things used to be good once upon a time, with people keeping up plans and making time to spend with other friends. And as usual I called my dear friend in the far away land of Detroit, who never has given me the nudge even once, except for having the bad habit of exagerating the amount of time she would take to call me back. And she heard my sob story and consoled me. "It happens," she says sympathetically, and I think to myself, "Yeah, it happens," which led me straight to my laptop.

Thanks to my other dear friend, I was spared from having a desolate afternoon. I was practically ecstatic when she agreed to drop everything and come to meet me for lunch, even though she had already finished hers. It wouldn't be fair if I didn't mention that the first friend who cancelled made it a point to come and meet me anyway, at least for sometime, before I went off for my last minute lunch appointment. I really appreciate that gesture; she could have just left it, but she took the time out to come and see me anyway. Hard to do that sort of thing.

But that got me thinking to past such events, when people didn't care, like my friend I just mentioned, and just left it at that.

Anyway, back to my real issue at hand. My question is, once grown up, do we get so involved with our jobs and selves and boyfriends (current or ex or non-existant) that we can forget our other friends? Are we really that cold?

I rarely turn down invitations to go out and give someone company, unless I really have something else, or I don't like the company. This happens rarely, maybe 1 or 2 times out of ten.

By nature I'm a no-nonsense and reserved person (yeah you should read this before you meet me, you wouldn't believe the reserved part otherwise) and I frankly would prefer a good book or movie to "hanging out", but that was before. Then they pulled at me and dragged me to all the group activities (and by "they" I mean my "friends") and then change me into that kind of person who short of having "loo-company", needs company for pretty much everything else.

Carrie Bradshaw said "Once in a blue moon, you can change a woman," but I wonder why people try to change other people and then leave no use for the "changed/new" built nature. It's like renovating an old castle into a beautiful new 5 (or maybe 4) star hotel and then abandoning it. Does it even make sense? I think if you want to play God (Hypothetically speaking) then you should be responsible for your creation or mutation, whichever. So now, I have decided to do a "system restore" back to the point when I could spend days alone and not worry about it. Somehow it is better.

"Friends" don't have time these days, to stop and see beyond the smiling exterior of someone with a really messed up mind.And the wierd part is, when someone needs a friend, they don't go to one, thinking they have the power to work things out a.k.a "I don't need help."
"And why should anyone else be any different?" they ask.

I believe such people need a lobotomy.

As to my original thread of thought, here goes for everyone. If you can't keep up plans, avoid making one, and if you can't spend time with friends, then don't waste people's time by having any.

And some people are so grown up about things, that when you say you're sad, they listen for ten minutes in their very busy schedules and then say, "Whatever."

Perfect Sense Pt. 3 (NOTE: This article has been highly contradicted)

2007-08-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

"Can't you see? It all makes perfect sense...
Expressed in Dollars and Cents, Pounds, Shillings and Pence?
Oh! Can't you see? It all makes perfect sense.... "

Well since Roger Waters (I love you!) already has proprietary rights over parts 1 and 2, I settle with part 3.

A friend and I were talking last evening, relaxing on the beautiful green, lush Central Park Lawns (more than 250 Acres to mow.. mark you), and who cannot notice the tall, elegant (or modernly mad, whatever suits you) architecture visible over the tree lined park? I took one look and it struck me, such a beautiful sight! And this concrete jungle foliage we are looking at, from the world's largest park, located right at the heart of Manhattan!

Of course my friend noticed it too, and made the statement I was thinking of.
"So much greenery in the middle of Manhattan. Hard to believe."
Of course I agreed.
We also agreed with the recent statistics that Americans were among the happiest people in the world. We thought, given "all this," the rest of the world's nations would have happy people too.

And as always the conversation took a turn to touch upon various topics, till it came to one topic, which, I confess, has always been and probably forever will be, on my mind: Monetary Wealth.

Everybody knows the US of A is the richest country in the world, which explain why people come from all corners (no, I know the Earth is round) of the world, to the land of opportunity, to make a better life. I don't know how many actually succeed, yet they come. Neil Diamond said so himself.. "Every time that Flag's unfurled, they come into America."

I'm here, following my Parents' dream. What happened to mine? Don't ask.

Let me stick to the point I'm getting at. Why do people come here? To become something, to live in a better world, to tell family members with pride and vanity, "I'm in the States."

In short, in the words of 50Cent, to "Get rich, or die trying."

Which leads to the next part of my seemingly random digression. Why does money (Pounds, Dollars, Euros, Yen, Rupees, Drachmas, Robles, Lira, even Knuts! ) have such great influence on men, women and children? Yes, I said Children. Think about it.

I believe that people believe, earnestly, in the power of money. Money can buy everything, period. Have you ever known an unhappy man with a million dollars? Show me one, and I'll be glad to relieve him of the million that cannot help him. I don't think you'll find an unhappy woman with a million dollars, ever. They'd be too busy investing wisely, or burning blonde-ly the money they have. Yes, they'd be very happy indeed. In fact, give me a million and I'll explain exactly how I can be happy with it.

So where is the million?

On a more serious note, money is a language that makes perfect sense. Expressed even in Yen.
Money, it's a wonderful way of expressing love, roses, diamonds, fine clothes, exquisite villas in the Mediterranean, I'll gladly give my love. If the man's a jerk, then I'll use another form of expression - "alimony." Isn't it just wonderful?

Whatever happened to old values of marrying for love?
Yeah.. whatever happened to them? If you find out, shoot me a mail and tell me what happened.

I'm not against love, mind you. Neither am I a gold-digger. Don't get the wrong idea. I am just emphasizing the fact that you simply cannot live on love and fresh air. You have to be materialistic and realistic. Gone are the old days where you would suffer with a smile on your lips and a song in your heart because your are poor, but you are with the person you love.

Codswallop!

I wish people would be less hypocritical, by accepting the fact that everyone wants to be rich, live luxuriously and be able to use currency instead of firewood. I'm just sick and tired of people talking about marrying for love and all that jazz.

Note, please that my friend(thanks, Riddhi) duly pointed out that you won't be happy spending your money on someone you don't care about. Eventually at least. I agree. She also believes in being content with the amount of wealth you have. Good to know there are still nice people in the world. Honestly. Money is second on the list. First is love (or tolerance/ mild interest if u ask me).

On that line, I believe in chivalry, old fashioned love and all that, I really do. If you are a great person, you will find happiness, no doubt about it.

Maybe I'm one person who thinks too much money is not a bad thing. I still need to grow up in that aspect maybe. I still think I'm joined in this thought by millions.

But for those still dreaming of knights in shining armor, still thinking that being poor really doesn't matter, just because you are rich-bored (or plain idiotic), wake up and smell the coffee. This isn't Tara and he's not Ashley. This is not even a Hollywood movie set.

Rhett Butler's still a good choice, What Say?

A Late-Summer Night's Dream

2007-07-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

Fragrance from a dozen kinds of flora
Tickled my senses alive
The warm summer wind in my hair
Made me want to cry...

This was basically what was running through my head when I sat there, on the rare occasion that I decided to do something nice, all by myself. It was positively scenic- calm, serene, a feeling of peace within myself. Occupied with a good book with a whole bench to myself in the park, with 200 or more people around, I almost forgot their existence. I managed to get this wonderful spot just when I was getting tired of having this old man peering over my shoulder as if i was reading the alchemist's secrets, learning how to get the Midas' touch.

I picked up my bag and walked over to the bench, quickly before it was taken again. Sitting cross-legged, book in lap, I forgot the world, busily buzzing away, right in the heart of the ever alive and moving Manhattan.

It seemed beautiful, but not moving at first. I sat slowly inhaling the fresh perfumes so generously being lent to me by the beautiful white, purple and pink flowers surrounding me. It was a little later I realized how wonderful it really was. Another hundred pages later, I raised my head to find it was dark out, and then saw the faint patches of light streaming on the ground and forming careless patterns where I was. The movie started almost immediately, Black and White of course. A hush fell over the crowds gathered and for those few moments, all I heard was the beautiful opening score of the movie, the summer wind whispering mischievously and the earth giving me a beautiful mental massage with her fragrant caresses. The ultimate romantic illusion.

An hour into the movie, the excitement I felt since that moment of realization was quite dimmed, because of the fact that I, was all alone on that park bench, in my ultimate romantic stage.

It burned out abruptly, when for my mis-fortune, a nearly drunk and staggering man found the need to park his rear on the other end of the bench. The fragrance now turned into the heavy stench of alcohol.

Thirty seconds later, book in hand, I found my way out of the park, disappointed, but thankful for the few hours of peace I had felt in a long time. My Summer Love was rejuvenated.

Coffee and Bottled-Water

2007-07-30T07:44:00.001-07:00

This may be a sequel or prequel or not at all related to "Snickers and Ice-Water." I guess I have been bitten by the blog-bug and let's see how long the effects will last.

Since last night I have this curiosity for the species "Femme Anorexic" in other words, starving women in NY (for now)and by Jehovah, I am not referring to the homeless.

I realized that they are all the victims of one thing. The obsession to look good. They certainly do, with flawless skin, visible bones and a bright prospect of acute arthritis in the future. Even High School children.

I observed this particular species on the street, in the subway and lounging about or waiting in front of Julio's for the morning caffeine dosage. There, with the short smart suits, perfectly waxed arms/legs, figure hugging jeans, pointy-toe high heels and the general air of contempt for the chubby and fleshy beings.

Mark you, I'm not pro-obesity, I've been fighting that all my life. But I feel pity for these people, who are so involved in how they look and how many calories they just ingested. They must be quick calculators, because they probably can look at an item of food and calculate the number of hours in the gym they will have to spend, proportional to the number of grams of fat (or should I say trans-fat) they will be in danger of accumulating.

Being thin (or a BOB) does not necessarily mean a sign of health and being chubby doesn't mean you're on a one-way track to spinster-hood. I wish I could convince myself of that :)

After a year or so in the "cheerleader club" (a.k.a thin-women-who-don't-eat-club) I was happy when my mother and elder sister force fed me and made me now an outcast from that club. I missed eating ice-creams and feeling good about it. I resolved that I would remain strong and healthy and possibly single for a long long time, rather than ensure my senior years as an invalid.

Not that I'm a health-freak, because if I was, I probably wouldn't be chubby, and also I would have been poorer than I am, spending too much on health foods. Can you believe you have to pay for the gym, pay for the salads, in general, become poorer to become healthier.

Coolies in India eat healthy if not rich food and work hard, and are probably much healthier than most millionaires with personal gyms, and unlimited salads to die on.

I'm for healthy, even if it means fat. What do you think?

Snickers and Ice-Water

2007-07-29T21:18:00.000-07:00

Well it's midnight, Sunday, the end to a less than productive or relaxing weekend, and here I am, typing in yet another flow of thought.

After a marathon of a dozen or so "Sex and the City" episodes, and a quite successful cooking experience, I break my no-chocolate-bars diet with a more than happy heart. It seemed to me, after watching the plight of delicious anorexic women trying to land a guy to avoid boredom, that me trying to get into a shape less than "round" was not really going to help out when it came to the affairs of the heart. Hell if they couldn't be happy even after giving up food and any thought of a normal life, a long forgotten snicker bar (snuggled away in my usual back-pack) and a poor excuse for a drink (ice-water, for God's sake! A single woman with a drink does not have to mean it's a cosmopolitan or a Manhattan for that matter) found themselves in my hands.

My room-mates have long since fallen asleep and I'm the usual nocturnal creature, with the usual ton of thoughts on my mind. Too true when someone said, "Women often think too much, and understand very little." Well at least women are not like men, with minds like bridled horses, flaps over their eyes.

This brings me to think, not without Carrie's influence, the chinkle of ice cubes in my china mug and the taste of chocolate, whether women should stop thinking so much?

I mean, if we didn't worry about every single detail, and be pessimistic and consider every way that something can go wrong, who will and who can?

While the men are thinking toward live-in relationships and we are thinking of the family china, is it that difficult for men to commit (speaking of a majority -- every flock has it's black sheep)? When all they want is the love of a woman, why is it so hard for them to think of just one woman? When women are willing to commit to a relationship every so quickly, why is it so excruciating for a man to say "I love you"?

Mind you, this is in most of the cases. Women, put their heart out on the line hoping that someone will come, swoop them away to a fairy land where everyone lives happily after, and find their hearts crushed by a train on that very same line. Several times before someone can swoop them away, at least to Manhattan.

I'm starting to think that we women are the ones who are wrong. Maybe we should give in to being barbaric and everyone can live like monkeys, with the males "swinging this way and that."

More on this later...

2007-07-29T12:55:00.001-07:00