Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Movimento

All my life, I waited for you. Now, when I sit in the shade of the peepul and play with the grass, you wander around the front porch searching for me, weeping, begging for one last chance… It is too late now. Once, I waited, hiding, waiting for you to find me, waiting to be swung around in a circle, my arms thrown out into the air, the wind whipping my face. Then, you walked away and left me bewildered, hurting. Now, it is too late.
All my life, I looked around to see if you were there. When I brought home my messy drawing of a brown bear just like Teddy to show you. When I bruised my knees because Nini pushed me down. When mama scolded me for drawing on the walls with crayon. When I was hungry. When I was sad. When I wanted a ‘there, there’ kiss. I looked around to see if you would be watching, waiting, calling to me, gathering me into your arms.


You were never there. Never. Not one day.


All my life, I wanted to play with you. Catch-catch. Hide and seek. Running. Tummy-rub. Tickle, tickle. Water games in the bath like Nini plays. Mud games. Snakes and ladders. I wanted to sit next to you, to snuggle into you and play for hours, to see you smile and muss my hair happily. To learn new games, new things.


But you were never there to play with me. And I played alone, all day long, scratching my name and your name into the sand with a long brown stick and drawing a heart next to it. 


All my life, I wanted to ask you questions. How does the sun move from right to left? How come mama’s hair grows all straight and beautiful, but yours curly? How many birthdays more before I become a big baby and not a small one like now? Can I have a puppy dog? What is a smoochie? Will you come to school with me today and hold my hand and buy me orange mints in front of all the other boys and girls?


You were never around to answer any questions. Whenever I came to you, you waved a big hand and said, ‘Later, later’.


And now, it’s too late. Now, when I’m pale and white and no one can see me. Now, when I call out for you and mummy, but no one can hear me. Now, when I tug at your shirt or mama’s duppata, but no  one can feel me. Now, you want to play with me. You cry over my photo. You cry into mama’s arms. I see you sometimes. You fall on your knees and beg God for ‘one more chance with my precious baby’. You scream and rage and weep till tears dry like salt on your cheeks, saying ‘they’ve taken my baby away, my baby, my child, my precious’.
But all those days, when I wanted to walk next to you, with my small hand tucked into your big one, dressed like you, looking like you, walking like you-
when I wanted you to lift me up and cuddle me-
when I wanted you to love me-
Where were you, daddy?








Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Love Stories

Fact. Harlequin sells 4 books a second.

That's 240 romance novels, a minute.

Question. Who's buying?

Ladies, please. Don't act all feminist and cringe. The time has come to admit the fact that you've not only read a romance novel, but you also, secretly, love them. And for a variety of reasons. There are a few who loved the romance, few others the passion but most of us just love it for the extreme entertainment value.

Allow me to elucidate.

A typical romance novel is written in a tone which would expect me to empathize with the heroine/protagonist, so that the more I read the book, the more I connect with the character and her trials, and well, feel for her. Incidentally, the typical romance-novel heroine is almost always a 5'9" blonde with never ending legs, big brown eyes, curves to die for and a highly successful career, but oh my god, she has elbows. I have elbows too! Wow, I really feel like I KNOW this woman, almost as if we're in a parallel universe. Freaky.

But there is no Love in her life. No Passion. No Romance. No mad monkey **x, even. And just when you think you can actually empathize with her, a sudden twist of fate makes her meet Mr.Man. The books get particularly hilarious at this point with their descriptions of Mr.Man. Here's an example:


She had not imagined anything like those shoulders, which were about the width of a small bus, or the bulked-up chest straining against the fabric of his tux. Nor the thick dark hair, cut short enough to tempt a woman to do some finger tangling while not drawing one bit of attention away from the slashing brows, the prominent cheekbones, the stubborn chin.

I hadn't imagined anything like that either. But don't fall off your chair just yet. It gets better.


The chest was, as she already knew, huge and strong. The throat tanned,the neck corded with muscle. His strong jaw jutted in classic male determination. His face was freshly shaved, she’d imagined, for tonight’s event, but already displayed a hint of swarthiness that would provide the tiniest frisson of roughness if their cheeks met.

So you really can't blame our heroine for falling for him now, can you? The strong male jaw. The bus sized shoulders. BUS SIZED!

And this is just one example. There are a hundred different variants, all unique descriptions of raw male beauty, including phrases like "His crisp white shirt perfectly accentuated his rippling muscles", "His shorts did less to cover the muscular shafts of his thighs" and "When he ate, food got stuck in his hairy mustache". Ok, maybe not the last one, but you get my drift. Chuck Norrises, all.

Now is the time they think we must empathize most with our heroine. What would you do when you met a Man with a strong male jaw and bus sized shoulders? 

Such are the complex choices life throws at you. Le Sigh. And so, then they have heated passionate encounters which are described in great detail. I'd post an example, but please. This is family blog. No joke.

The books are just high entertainment from this point, and so completely crackpot, that they're unputdownable. It makes you accompany the heroine right from her shuddering spasms to the ache in her loins and even the pain in her empty heart which was caused by Mr.Man who wouldn't make her coffee in the morning because his parents died in a car crash or some sloppy excuse like that (the bastard!) and then finally the merriment and utter happiness that she experiences when she gets back with him.

There are no intellectual values to these books, let's be honest here. No moral debates or male-female prejudices. It's trash, and so completely fun, entertaining and ridiculous that we can't help but read more. But most importantly, inside every one of these trashy, harebrained novels there is something that every woman wants - A happy ending.





Now Playing: Norah Jone - Love me Tender


Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Relationships or Manacles??

Blogging about something that I wrote quite a while back. Precisely, when I was in 12th standard. 




2 June 2008
Today I was having tea with one of my good friends that I have known for more than 6yrs. He was nice enough to help me out with my exam work as I was unfortunately dying being swamped with too much of organic/inorganic chemistry I am incapable of grasping.
In the middle of it, his phone starts ringing and the whole atmosphere changes. I ask him what is wrong and he tells me it’s his girlfriend.
I tell him to answer the phone to which he replies that she doesn’t know that he is with me and that hence he cannot respond!
The petrified look on his face and then the sudden panicked look in his eyes make me wonder what he is doing being in such a relationship. He has been complaining for the last 1.5years that he is not happy and the reaction sort of made me realize to what extent his life is a pretext. What sort of a relationship is it that makes you need to lie or cover up your presence with a friend you have known over the years? Most of all given the fact that he was merely helping another person with something as innocent as studies!! 
I felt bad as I was the reason for him to get so panicked.And it also made me wonder what people get into calling it “being in a relationship”!
Is a relationship something that makes us pretend to be something we are not? Is it that which makes us lie and then cut down on being with our friends?? Is it something that ties us down and make us enforce upon ourselves manacles pulling us down and creating tension within us??
In my process of typing this he calls me. I ask him how he is and whether he was okay and tell him that I hope that they didn’t have a fight.
He laughs another pretext he lives with on a daily basis and tells me that they did, but not something regarding me!! (of course he did not tell her that he helped me out!)
I laugh because I have no other reaction for the situations he gets himself into while silently praying that what ever relationship I may be in, that I would find someone who would be nice enough to understand that tea with someone is sharing a friendly moment over tea,  and that helping a friend with studies is something nice and would encourage me in such endeavor rather than make me feel horrified enough not to pick the phone when it rings!
But for my misfortune,  if I do not find such a man (which I believe would not be the case, nevertheless hypothetically assuming), well I would rather enjoy being me and single than be some person who has no clue what the hell I am doing with my life :)


Monday, July 5, 2010

Rain God, are you listening?

It is hot. And it has been so for the past 2 weeks. I’m writing this today because it is getting unbearable by the day and someone has to do something about the heat and the retardedly high levels of humidity. And, since you and I cannot do nothing about it, I dedicate this post to whoever the rain God is! Please piss on us, please do. We would really appreciate lesser temperatures. We promise to not cringe when see potholes get filled with dirty muddy water and when plastic bags combat movement while wading through knee-deep water!


Please make it rain.


And Murphy, wherever you are, please shut up for once. Just this once!


Kthnxbye.






Friday, July 2, 2010

You and I

You look at me, I look at you
You try and you try ever so hard
You think you know me and you just might
I don’t try. I don’t think
I know you because I feel it.
I feel a sense of myself.
You walk away. I look past you.
You think you’ve won, you actually just might have.
These are answers to questions, you don’t ask.
I have all my answers, what do you have?