starting to blue

Dear Bombay

2011-02-27T13:18:00.003+05:30

Dear Bombay,
It's been a year. This time today you were full of possibilities. You were my new life, my new career, you were my city of dreams. This time tonight I had my first taste of a single girl's life...of mattresses on the floor, of a hurried Maggi for dinner before rushing out for a late night movie with the girls, of returning way way past my 'normal' deadline, the cackle of girls filling the night air, with a shiver in the dark and heady independence coating my tongue like last night's drinking.
This time tomorrow I was looking forward to my new job, to my first train ride as a commuter, this time last year my three years of meagre savings were all I had to my name, and all I had to build a home, and get by before I got my salary. This time, today I was running on zero cash and full tank on dreams.

This time today, right now, you're already my past.
This time today you're my wan smile, my nostalgia, and my old pictures. This time today, you're no longer mine.

Not Getting On

2010-12-08T18:04:00.001+05:30

Certain people don't realise that they function as multipurpose units. One in particular is driver, strongman, escort, bodyguard, confidante, occasional cook, composer, entertainment provider, comfort provider, fixer of phones, occasional credit card, books and DVD library, music teacher, killer of boredom, jhamela sufferer and provider of many things that I cannot mention in public fora such as blogs. I'm told it's very difficult to find such multi dimensional MPUs. Most have very small processors and cannot carry out so many roles simultaneously.
I've mostly done without such an MPU until very recently. But the question is how does one get on without, now that I'm used to having one?

in the closet

2010-09-09T13:16:00.002+05:30

My desk drawer is full of odds and ends. Press releases, CDs marked with illegible writings (used as on 27. 08, says one), a battery charger for one of the cameras, broken headphones and somewhere in the corner, a sachet of pot pourri. Somewhere under it the pack of ear-buds has burst. So along with the the crowd of antacids, paper, proofed printouts, and pens that don't write, the pink and white ear-buds have run all over my shelf like ants on spilt food. Every time I open it to hunt for something I need, they roll from one corner to the other as if scurrying away in fear. And the woody spicy smell of the pot pourri leaks out guiltily.

Let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now...

2010-08-20T16:40:00.001+05:30

The thing about songs is that they live on. Sometimes not just live on but build lives of their own. Within their familiar notes, they entangle a little piece of our history, and in their beats that sweet smell of nostalgia. And foremost amongst those songs, none could spell college as obviously as Bittersweet Symphony. No song could be more us than this one.

When Ashcroft wrote this melody he didn't imagine that a lone guitar wielding figure, in an inconsequential college in north Calcutta (even though professors would have us believe that we're everything but inconsequential), would pass on the bug to so many. He didn't imagine the song would be played, practiced, strummed, over and over again, ad infinitum, ad nauseam until it would take over our collective consciousness. It would become the song that a classmate would name her blog after, the song a senior would only have to hear the first two words of, to cringe "oh no, not that song again", the song that gets at least one replay during the many BYOB parties with ex classmates, the song that plays on my phone when anyone from that precious group calls, the song that has now found playtime in my earphones after eons, the only song that can transform this gloomy rain soaked morning into hope.

My father remembers a time during his third year in BHU IT, when his classmate played Staying Alive, continuously for an entire week. Much as he'd hate it, for me it's the song of his youth. Just like Bittersweet Symphony is mine. What's yours?

Karaoke Happiness

2010-08-01T13:01:00.001+05:30

We lay like broccoli, me scribbling meaningless nothings on my notepad, both on a new OST trip. There is a contentment in shared melodies. A space is of your own is so overrated. Wouldn't you rather sing along than sing alone?

Where Are The Words

2010-07-30T18:08:00.001+05:30

Growing up there were a lot of words. School was when I'd finish reams of notebooks, with imagined love stories (always about a 13 year old girl and an 16 year old boy) bad poetry and a lot of adolescent angsty journal entries. Come college, the angst diminished somewhat and in its place came imagined heartbreaks, one sided love and stories and more bad poetry. And now as the days go by I find myself more and more short of words. There's heartbreak and anger, stare out of the window wistfulness even fuzzy contentment, but no words. Earlier I'd tell myself I can't write when I'm happy. But there's more to it, I think. I've taught myself how to state facts, or make idle speculation in sentences, but have forgotten to write what I feel. What happens to those feelings, I wonder. The ones who'd once be expressed in words and now remain lost somewhere in the consciousness ? What happens?

2010-07-17T17:50:00.000+05:30

These days I find myself checking every long distance train to see where it goes. There is that odd, brief pang when I see it's not going home. Which is odder still. Whatever would I do if it were? Hop on?

2010-05-12T17:33:00.005+05:30

KELANEY

Growing up in Cal, Bangla Rock was infra-dig. They were the bands para pujos invited and the para chyangra's danced to. They were the bands who sang of a somewhat western angst, in an anglicized Bengali accent. They stood for music the 'vernac types' in college would listen to. The one's who'd probably call me tyansh. But the songs were always catchy. Nothing could beat the instant way you could relate to the lines sung in your own tongue. It was the music I'd only dare to admit to liking if I was trying to subvert a stereotype.

Later some of those bands became the most approachable people I'd speak to while working on a story that required quotes from public figures. They were also the ones we'd laugh at for saying corny things like "tumi ki hobey amar jadur dewaal" (I kid you not. the lead vocalist was introducing Wonderwall on the radio)

Now those songs have become the songs of nostalgia. Just like Bittersweet Symphony and college (and Save Tonight. and Scientist. and Hand In My Pocket and many many more that deserve another post) , Ekla Ghar is now synonymous with the many fests in college. Prithibi and Telephone are the songs that the 'seniors' gave to me. Phiriye dao is the song that made my Freshers eve.

The other day Jitz and I found ourselves singing along to Hasnuhana at Calcutta Club, a Bengali food joint in Oshiwara. "Shunshan fanka bypass-e/ Ar hridoyer circus-e/ Smriti deye dhuyo aar hashe," we sang along as we grinned at each other and dug into our fish fry and rye.

Now I press replay on the token Bangla rock number that I have on my phone - Ekla Ghar (I'd put more if only I knew people who had the songs). I don't hear the language often enough. And I don't mind being vernac anymore.

P.S Looks like am not alone. Another recently migrated friend confesses. "I often listen to these totally kelane bangla songs. Especially now that am outta cal."

2010-04-29T13:55:00.005+05:30

She eats alone these days. Stands at the kitchen counter and eats, staring unseeingly at the cupboards. Or the water filter. Or even the sink. It's the shortest distance from oven to plate, to mouth, to plate, to sink. Besides it's intolerable sitting in an empty room and staring into space and eating. Which reminds her of the women in Jhumpa Lahiri novels- most of them solitary housewives, who eat, standing at the sink, too numb to need the comfort of a sit down meal.

They will get a TV soon. And then she'll eat sprawled on the mattress, distracted by Star World. And move from one cliche to another.

2010-02-24T16:50:00.004+05:30

And before I left a senior warned: "Remember the curse of the telegraph farewell -- you might just end up back at 6PS (6 prafulla sarkar street for the uninitiated) when you least expect it!". But the thing is.... I'd rather like to be back.

2009-12-23T16:12:00.010+05:30

So I'm back from Goa, relaxed, de-stressed, and annoyingly chirpy...err ok so make that was annoyingly chirpy, since office always gets rid of the chirpy factor. Am back, from a holiday that I've been looking forward to for ages. And back with 39 pics and only three worth posting. The rest of the 36 are, well, bullshit. It looks like I have no sense of light, or composition and no control over my motor nerves.
Pictures taken by my friends of course, seem quite wonderful. Shuddho's in fact are really good, despite or perhaps because of the 15 minute wait that preceded almost each picture. Jitz went by instinct, not trying too hard but not as if she took no effort at all. Hers look like she took an actual interest, liked the person, and for a moment was detached enough to step out, take stock and take a picture with a discerning eye.
Even the waiters at Brittos fared better than I did with this (picture 2).

But oh me. Me... I was phenomenally bad. For evidence look to picture 1. That is one arm, one person, and another person's back. The person in the middle looking so unfortunately bad, is actually quite good looking. Why have my pictures been so disastrous?
Is it my cheap Polaroid camera? It can't be as picture 3 is taken on my camera by Shuddho. Is it really as simple as me not being creative enough (although someone else left the sentence at just 'creative'. But I refuse to believe that anyone can ever be described as not creative) .
I have since found an answer I can live with. I think my supreme ineptitude stemmed from being to conscious. Too conscious that this was the best time I've had in a long time. Too conscious that 7 mega pixels can perhaps capture the sight but not the sounds smells or just the comfort of belonging. That it can't record that giddy happy high. Or that slightly bittersweet feeling of not quite fitting in and yet knowing that it's just right. Maybe it came from a desperation, that I must take a picture so that I remember, but quickly, lest I miss out.

But miss out I didn't. Thank God. What I do is miss my friends.

2009-11-23T23:27:00.009+05:30

When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That's what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.

Abhilash Talkies, The God of Small Things

Of all things, this is one sentence that really scares me. It bothers me if people like me a little less. Even if it's people who I don't like too much. Isn't that weird? Why would I ever give anyone that power? And why do I?

So here's to a new endeavour. Here's to learning not to care.

and oh well, here's to lost causes...

2009-11-14T22:27:00.004+05:30

Dear Boy-I-Was-Sort-Of-Hitting-On,

I really really like you. Like you in a 'love is' cartoons, line drawings of walking into sunsets hand-in-hand, make me go ridiculously girlie giggly mushy, moon over your Facebook picture, consider doodling your name at random times but not actually doing it since I am too grown up to, way. I like you and the only reason I find this so easy to say is because there is very little chance of you stumbling into this blog. Sigh. As someone very wise recently pointed out I apparently always fall for those who are outside the realm of immediate possibility.

But anyway, even if you'll never read this, I write this to just get this off my chest. And to serve as a warning to all other dimwits like me.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being so dense. I'm sorry for replying to you in a flurry of excited typos every one and half month you pinged to say hello. I'm sorry for doing all that natak of hitting on you and pretending I wasn't. And I'm sorry for not realising that the interest wasn't actually mutual. Which is where epiphany number two comes in. I think my arrogance stops me from registering that someone I am so obviously interested in, isn't interested back. So I keep pushing and pushing despite all sorts non-encouragement (not active discouragement, mind you) until the boy is forced to act like a jerk. Which is when I register "he's not that into me" and go crying to friends who rally around saying 'there there, he's a jerk'.

But you! You are so totally sweet. Thank you for not being a jerk. Thank you for asking me to what I now see wasn't a date but just an arrangement for us to be at the same place at the same time. Thanks for not getting sleazy. Thanks a thousand times for not taking advantage of my adolescent type crush and giving me your room number (yes, this has happened to me before). Thanks for hugging me goodbye and kissing my hair, in a way that made me close my eyes and feel a little squishy inside. I realise now of course that your oh-so-sweet gesture wasn't an exclusive move but an applicable to all girl friends thing. Am sorry for being a small-town type who didn't see a PR type move for what it was.

And what I'm really sorry for putting you in a spot where you couldn't say "back off!" This will teach me not to hit on professional contacts. Gah, what can I say, I'm really sorry for being a stupid cow.

Swooning still,

P.S. But you're still so cute!

P.P.S. Sniff. Here is my rebellion. Will not wear my heart on my sleeve any more. Or, for that matter, your favourite band on my caller tune. So there.

2009-11-12T19:46:00.009+05:30

On hold

Sometimes it feels like my whole life is on whole hold. I don't know how many stories that I've filed are on hold. That's work. There are three blog posts which are still on hold cause what I have written on I have no clue how to finish. That is, or so I kid myself into believing, my writing. And all my plans of working outside the city, doing my own thing, making ends meet on a higher salary that is still far too little to survive on (God, why does that sound good?) will probably come to naught. That's life

Somebody hang up and let me go.

2009-08-24T18:16:00.007+05:30

So there's Free Fallin' by Tom Petty and a beautiful beautiful cover of the song by John Mayer. I'm listening to the song on loop again and you know what really pisses me off about the song (other than the thought that listening to one song on loop over 20 hours is, well, a little nutty) ? It's when he says "And Im a bad boy cause I dont even miss her". I mean, really, is it just me or is it always, al-bleddy-ways that a boy gets to say this?
Please can a woman cover the song in a really kick ass manner and change that to And I'm a bad girl cause I dont even miss him ? I'd really prefer to sing along to that version.

2009-07-29T00:06:00.007+05:30

Through The Filters

With him everything seemed to have that tinted glow. Not rose tinted. But as if viewed through muted yellow filters. The colours were richer, her laughter louder, her hair shinier and her skin glowed. Like the old Dove ad. There was something about that time made it seem as if everything was tinted with that slightly fuzzy happiness that made everything ok. It felt like a time shot in Vaseline shots.

And now the filters have changed. Everything now was a dull boring brown. Nothing was funny anymore. Not even her. How unfair that that glow went away with him. How unfair that he left and the brown came back.

2009-07-14T18:29:00.005+05:30

In My Place

Out of all things that she could have remembered from that book, what she did was a paragraph that didn't matter. A young truck driver drops everything to accompany a strange 60-year-old man who talks to cats. Another falls in love with a girl in a picture. World War II soldiers lost in a forest have remained the same ever since. But what she remembers are half forgotten lines about a girl the truck driver could have visited. The truck driver wonders why he is going along with a strange 60-year-old on a strange excursion. He could have visited that girl in Tokyo "who always made time for him whenever he wanted to meet her," he thinks. Which is when it hits her.

She is that girl, she realises. There is no mention of that girl in the book again. Just that one line. It's easy to identify with that protagonist in a book who conquers all kinds of odds to get to his goal. Easier still to identify with the best friend or the sidekick, and like Kate Winslet in Holiday, feel like a side character in your own life. But nothing... nothing quite puts you in your place like the realisation that you aren't the best friend. You aren't even the best friend's other option. Yours is not the situation that could have happened. You were never an option.

You are those twenty words that people won't even remember.

2009-07-05T23:28:00.004+05:30

Unidentified Coloured Object

So my very obliging girlfriends gather at my place to welcome me back after my three week hiatus. One of them has suddenly developed something of a social life in my absence. And has had an obvious pedicure and is wearing nail polish. Her pedicures would always come sans nail polish before so I obviously take note. Toe flirting, I accuse. And well, if a girl is dating anything she does is attributed to the sudden appearance of guy. Hair serum? Aha date with boy huh? Eyebrows done? Oooh date night. Dieting? When is date? Shopping? Going anywhere fancy with boy? Of course all of these things are stuff we'd do irrespective of boys but it's generally fun to watch them squirm and blush and deny start a general banter. It's like small talk. But better than talking about the weather. I mean with the weather all you can say is "Oof it's so hot" and it ends there. This on the other hand offers us endless possibilities for a conversation.

So yes nail polish. She demurs. "Yeah I finally went for it, because they got me a white nail polish," she says.
Girlfriend 2: "That's not white. That's more peach."
Me: "Yeah, a very light diluted with white sort of peach."
The one with a social life: "Han? I thought it was white."
Girlfriend 3, arrives later and the topic comes up again. "That's white," she agrees.
Girlfriend 2: "No actually it's sort of coral."

A day later, we're walking down the street to grab a bite when it finally hits me. "Aha! I know. This is shell pink."
Her: " Han? I thought it was white"
Me: No... think sea-shells. It's that sort of pink.

(We are very good at that stating the obvious. What's OCD? It's this compulsive need to do something obsessively, she wrote. What's shell pink? It's the shade of pink often spotted in sea shells!)

So now the matter is resolved. Shell pink. So there.

2009-06-09T19:51:00.002+05:30

[663 finds his apartment is flooded]
Cop663: Did I leave the tap running, or is the apartment getting more tearful? I always thought it would cope okay. Didn't expect it to cry so much. When people cry, they can dry their eyes with tissues. But when an apartment cries, it takes a lot to mop it up.

Chungking Express, 1994

My house thinks it's in this Wong Kar Wai movie. It figures it is allowed to act up now that mom's in Bombay. The AC refuses to work. Got it fixed by the maintenance people and it still switches off in the middle of the night and only starts working when I wake up suffocating and panicky. The floor of my box bed also just gave way. It sort of caved in the middle and the durries and stuff is poking outside. Like it's saying, "Dude I refuse to take all this load, without your mom around." And the AC remote walks about the house alone. Here it was on the bed... sometime later I will find it on the window sill. Wonder what kind of shenanigans it will get into once I leave as well. Spooky this.

2009-06-04T19:18:00.002+05:30

Deliver me from well intentioned neighbours. please god please.

2009-05-22T20:49:00.001+05:30

What is it about that sad sad song with its soaring violins and weeping melody, that gets to us so? Why do we persist in making our heartbreak worse with sad songs? Why must I listen to Damien Rice singing “And why'd ya sing Hallelujah/If it means nothing to you/Why'd you sing with me at all” when I already feel like shit? It’s not even as if the words are especially brilliant. It’s not like I enjoy this feeling of wanting to go on long bawling trip, curled up into a ball the windows closed. Especially not when stuck in office with the most inane cover story in the history of all cover stories. I don’t need to make my claustrophobia worse with that melody that chokes me even as it moves. Why do I do this? Why does my already low, friend listen to So Unsexy over and over again? Are we perverse or what?

2009-05-21T00:22:00.002+05:30

Hollywood wisdom

"Girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up: if a boy punches you he likes you, never try to trim your own bangs, and someday you will meet a wonderful guy and get your very own happy ending. every movie we see, every story we're told implores us to wait for it: the third act twist, the unexpected declaration of love, the exception to the rule. but sometimes we're so focused on finding our happy ending we don't learn how to read the signs. how to tell the ones who want us from the ones who don't, the ones who will stay and the ones who will leave."

Gigi, He's Just Not That Into You, 2009

May be if I read this enough, I'll remember not to forget.

2009-05-11T21:58:00.003+05:30

why boys are stupid

so it's raining after one of the hottest and most humid week ever. My work's mostly done and I really feel like a drive and coffee. And unfortunately for me drive and coffee type things can only happen with boys ( my equally unfortunate girlfriends don't have cars and aren't trusted with their parents' cars either). So I dig out boy's number from a stream of texts ( I will so not save his number, given number of times I have ended up drunk-texting/dialling), and half smiling at the thought of coffee and the lovely weather, dial... Dated Rahman number as caller tune should have brought me back to earth but nooo, am still dreamy-eyed.

Me, sweet voiced, cheery: about to say hi

Him: Han, Ma bolo.

Me: what the fuck?!

arggh, a particularly dense/ hard of hearing boy: han ma bolo

Me: Ma? what the fuck

Him: Oh it's you... listen, I'm driving now. Will call later.

Why girls are not...

Deflated I walk back to my comp to see an office atex message blinking.

Debo: It's raining. Am drenched:D

Me: You went downstairs without me?!!

Debo: no no, was at the verendah

Me: You wanna go downstairs and get wet?

Debo: lets lets

So we rush down, leave a crowd of puzzled, elderly men smoking at the porch, and into the rain and the already waterlogged pavement. We wade across to the opposite side order tea, run to the pan shop to buy cigarettes, and stand around shivering, smoking, sipping tea, grinning from ear to ear. " I feel like dancing," I say. Debo smirks knowingly: "You already are."

Inside, shivering harder, grinning even harder, when another random elderly man looks awestruck : "Bhijte gechile naki?" We only giggle harder.

Boys stupid. Girls be smarter.

2009-05-06T19:47:00.003+05:30

So Unsexy, Alanis Morissette

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated

When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

I love this woman. She gets us so.

2009-05-04T18:55:00.003+05:30

Gush-ling

So it's 2:30 Pm and page release time. And the cover story has a quote about someone gushing about Hrithik's eyes. (Or was it his nose?) Except the person quoted is not qualified with name, age profession etc. And since the reporter is on leave, SeniorPerson1 and SeniorPerson2 decide to pick a suitably "gushy" age.
SP1: Make it 24.
SP2: 24? No no. 19 is more fitting I think.
SP1( disbelievingly): 19?...(pause, and then she looks at me) Malini how old are you? 23 or 24?

Me:!!!!!
By the way, I am now 2 years, 13 days and 6 hours old at this office. When does one stop being "of gushy age" ?

2009-04-23T23:46:00.008+05:30

I bought my friend a pink balloon.

It was 9:30 pm as I got off at our bus stop, hot and sweaty and cursing at the vile woman who was trying to throw me off the bus. I hadn't been able to get out early and meet Sabi for coffee. Incidentally she is my only close friend I have no Orkut/Facebook pictures with. Lots of those stuck inside photo albums--me on her birthday 1994, in my first salwar kameez. Us on her school farewell, she in a sari and me in salwar kameez. Saraswati Puja-both of us in a sari- she prettier. Again. Lots of birthdays, farewells, Christmases and pujos. No random coffee shops. No posing over alcohol. No sleepovers.

Not that it ever mattered, but we both suddenly realised that there was no online photographic evidence of how close we are and intrinsically linked our lives are. There is a stupid testimonial on orkut that doesn't mean anything. But that's it. She has her glam pics with her hotel people. I have those not-so-glam ones with my college gang, and my work gang, and many extended groups. But we have none of us together.

No pictures of waiting till late afternoon for Uncle Alvin(her uncle, now mine as well) and aunty (her mom) to finish cooking so that we could finally get our hands on Christmas lunch. No pictures of nearly dying because the pork curry (and once vindaloo) was way too hot (for me). No pictures of me valiantly carrying on despite a runny nose, and tears and sweat. No pictures of falling asleep post-lunch, smug, full and very happy. No pictures of just lolling about on our terrace talking endlessly. No pictures, of what I now recognise as my best memories.

This time now that she was in Calcutta we would photo graph it all. Us in shorts and chattering aimlessly. Us with our going out faces. Lots of us. But that didn't happen. There was always far too much to talk about. And we were never satisfactorily pretty enough for pictures. At least not both of us together. So the plan was to meet at a coffee shop and randomly take lots of pictures. Thanks to my work schedule that too didn't happen.

I was walking back, thinking about all this and considering dropping in for quick hello when I passed by the sad balloon seller. Sabi and I became friends after I joined the school in the fourth standard. She was in the fifth standard then and mother had dragged me to her place during the holidays to borrow books. Anyway the point is, we haven't seen each other through balloons and Barbie doll stage (although no, she was over barbie dolls. I loved her Barbi'e's kitchen set. I was a domestic 10 year old).

But I digress again. Sad baloon seller. Hot sultry evening. Horrid day. Pretty sad balloons. Even the heart shaped one was wonky. So I settled for the big pink round one (by the way isn't 5 bucks a bit much for a balloon?). I walked to her place, bag, phone, press kit and balloon in hand.

Sabiiiiiii, see what I got!!" said my fake whiny voice.

"You gwot me bwaloon!" she said.

"Accha no hugs, far too hot," I protested. Obviously no one listens to me.

"Mommy I got bwalooon," she showed aunty, who rolled her eyes in reply. "Bwaloooon," she said for extra effect.

I got my friend a pink balloon. Just because I can.

(Clarification: We don't really have an IQ below 75. We just like acting that way.)

2009-03-18T17:00:00.005+05:30

Sabse Chota
So yesterday evening, I headed to Metro Plaza after an assignment at the ICCR where I watched a stunning wadaiko performance. Something about them reminded me of anime cartoons… the martial arts type stance, the intense expressions, the very hypnotic beats…(unfortunately that’s all I understood of their music and thankfully I didn’t have to write anything beyond a 30 word caption). Down the lane was Metro Plaza, where I was supposed to meet colleagues out shopping.

I wouldn’t buy anything, I planned. And I held off for quite sometime. There was a nice lacy sleeveless top that screamed ‘buy me’, but I looked away. There was a plain black round necked T that, I swear, I needed desperately (it would go with my long sleeveless white tunic, my fab India skirts, on every fat day…) But I decided I needed the money in my wallet more. There were peep toe ballerinas that I decided were far too cute for me. I can’t do cute, I told myself. And then, I fell for a corduroy, calf length A-line skirt in pretty grape. It was languishing behind a lot of hideous mini skirts and was on sale. I had to rescue it. Except that the shop had no trial room. And the waist looked a wee bit big for me. So I tried it over my jeans and T. Fits fine, I thought. "If it fits over my jeans it’ll be loose emni, na ?" I asked my colleagues.
They nodded. "Bhaiya isse chota size nahin hoga ?(Doesn’t this come in a smaller size?"I asked the shopkeeper.
"Yahi sabse chota size hai" he shook his head.
"Haan?! Maine kabhi bhi sabse chota size nahin pehna (Really?! I’ve never worn the smallest size in anything!" (Yes I know the Hindi is wrong, but this is Calcutta). And…well…bought. Sigh. Things I do to feel thin!

P. S. the skirt looks fine if held up with a belt. Without it, it rides dangerously low.

P. P. S Does anyone know an inexpensive tailor who would alter clothes they haven’t made? In Calcutta that is.

2009-03-01T23:12:00.013+05:30

the life and rants of the single, imaginative and (perhaps) desperate

So when he called me to ask if I was coming to watch his show, I shrugged. I thought, ok, cute bassist, already beginning to happen band, is being nice to media person. And then I watch them play, while hiding behind the bar so I can take notes while watching them, without being shoved around by the pub goers, my eardrums bursting because I'm right next to the speakers and I'm a little sad and a little lonely and fall a little in love with their music. It comes easy with self pity, beer and no company. I leave in the middle of their show as it is quarter to twelve and this was a last minute assignment and my poor mum is waiting up for me.

In the car, happy, alone, the wind in my hair, am impressed enough to leave a message saying "Loved your gig. Malini from so and so newspaper". I wake up the next morning and see the reply:"Hey, wanted to meet you. Left?" I almost reply. But decide against it.

Still don't have an interview so I sms the ahem-rather-hot band manager. "Would ****** be free for an interview at 2?" Nope. They're leaving the hotel at 2 since they have a show at an orphanage. Could the interview happen there? Sure, I say. And cringe. Mail my pending story. Get ready to go to work on my only day-off in the week.

I reach the venue, which is a quaint house off the bypass where they are setting up their equipment. And in the space of the interview am charmed in spite of myself. Their wit. Their humour. Their complete lack of snotty attitude. Oh and how they almost made me blush. Almost.

Question: Once the novelty factor wears off do you think your music and songwriting will be strong enough to stand the test of time?"

Vocalist: Yes because the sound remains the same. If today you take a baul or ram leela performer and make him wear a shirt and trousers while performing, what he sings remains the same. If that lady in jeans and kurta does the bharatnatyam, she may not look like a dancer but it will still be bharatnatyam. Even if there was no kajal in your eyes**(or something to that effect) they wont stop being beautiful.

I smile a little unsurely. What is going on, I wonder. What do I do with this sentence? Does it go in my copy? And well, what is a compliment doing in the middle of my interview?!!

Bassist sniggers: You didn't get that.

Vocalist: That was a compliment.

Me (I think I mumbled) : mmm well, I smiled. Sort off.

Vocalist: She got that. She smiled.

I continue valiantly with my interview (difficult to do, if your feeling as foolish).

Interview over, I watch them goof around and practice and realize that my copy would be hopelessly not objective. Just when the gig is about to start a woman lands up. "Where is ***(bassist)? I have his clothes."

"Ota ke ( who's that)?" I ask the photographer. "Bassist er bou (wife)," he answers. My heart sinks. Ok no. Shatters into tiny million pieces. "It's meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife," Alanis laughed in my head as she sang this, I think. (Ok so not man of my dreams. Not tha-ha-at cute. But you know what I mean? Alanis, gets me.)

Sms to Debo and Sanjukta: I just found out that the bassist who I thought was interested is married. wail!"

Debo: Ahare hugs. Why does it always happen with us?

Me: Sniff. I dunno. He is cuteness!

Sanjukta: Single men are a dying lot....(more stuff I wont blog about)

Me: He's cute and has a dimple and a goatee and spiked hair and geeky glasses. Am a pool of mushy lust.

When the gig begins I see them interact effortlessly with the kids, entertain, crack jokes and dance and continue the show despite ten thousand complaints to lower the volume (madhyamik on, complained the neighbours) and the lights being switched off twice. I decide I'm in like with all of them. The bassist, who's married. The hot band manager, who Gtalk gossip tells me, is not single. And the sweetheart of a curly-haired drummer (who is almost three years younger than me) who grinned at the kids, who danced around him, as he played.

All the men I want are either married, otherwise taken or too young! Such is life. Sigh.

2009-01-11T21:37:00.005+05:30

girl talk

The phone beeps. Girl: Checks sms. "Oh the reply…'too much thinking would be about trying to understand what happened yesterday…What went right and what went wrong and most imp y! :-)' hah! capital letter after an ellipsis! Ki boli?"

BFF: chuckles. "what?! does he even know women?"

Girl: hehehe. guess not. but honestly, what do i say?

BFF: hmm what about 'aha'

Girl: Nooo!

pause.

BFF: He's the one thinking too much. He brought it up!

Girl: Exactly. Maybe I should text him that.

pause

Girl: No. Let him suffer. I wont reply till he calls tomorrow after landing.

BFF: laughs. "You have to think so much, na. I feel all smug"

Girl: Bitch!

BFF: giggles and ashes her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray.

pause

Girl: Oh I know! I'll say 'hah, why don't you admit it. You're the one thinking too much.'

BFF: han send exactly that

Girl: Oh but I was supposed to maker him suffer.

BFF: It doesn't matter. This is a nicer reply.

Girl: okay... types furiously... "Smiley with a wink? or Smiley with a D"

BFF: Smiley with a D

Girl: ok... and send

5 minutes later

Girl: He still hasn't replied!!

2009-01-05T00:02:00.006+05:30

I don’t hear my name often enough. At least, not the way I know and pronounce my name. Most of the times I’m Miss Malini Something. Or, worse, a Mrs Malini Something. And when I’m introducing myself to someone who I’ve called or met for work, I say Malini from so and so newspaper. So fast that I almost swallow my name and make sure that they get the name of the newspaper, but often not my name.

I remember a maths tutor and a relative who would attach the prefix Hema, to my name referring to a yesteryear Bollywood actress. Later in college when a television serial came out starring another Bollywood star,with my name and Iyer as the title, I was called that. Or teased by that title. It never really bothered me. It was annoying, true. But that was all. There are others who don’t seem to get their tongue around the middle syllable. It’s Ma-li-ni. Not Mal-ni. Though there are times I've thought Mal-ni sounded kinda cute. Another batch mate came up with another corny substitute. Maal-ini. Maal as in goods/ booze/ drugs/ whatever and ini as in her.

The only time when I notice hearing my name is actually a PR trick. I say “Hi I’m Malini from so-n-so newspaper and they make it a point to say ‘Hi Malini,’ when just a simple 'yes' would have sufficed. It makes me feel good ( I think, Ooh, what a pretty name I have!) and saying it out loud helps them remember my name. And though I know it’s a PR trick, I’ll be the first to say it’s damn good one! I’ve heard Mal B (ach. Like Mel B?!) Miss *insert surname* or Mal, or the worst, Muhi-li-ni. And this when my name is one of the easier Indian names.

I don’t know if not hearing my name often, has some kind of deep far reaching psychological repercussions. I’m too comfortable where I am and with who or what I am to ever have any kind of deep existential identity crisis.

It must be the same for others too, am guessing, since I don’t call any of my friends by their name that often. You don’t say the person’s name when you are talking to them in person. So much so, that I often don’t know the way someone pronounces their name. There is this boy I’ve known for a year and it only occurred to me to ask how he pronounces his name while writing this post. I know that Debashree pronounces her name as De-bo-shree. And Sanjukta is San-juk-ta sometimes and Shong-juk-ta/ Shom-yuk-ta at others, mostly depending on what language she is speaking in. Sabrina is Sabrina always. Srijita too is Srijita always except whenever I say it comes out as Shijita. Sonal is actually somewhere between Sonal and Sonullah… there are so many names I’ve mispronounced or pronounced correctly over the years. Sometimes even on purpose.

But I miss hearing my name. Which is a little strange. How do you miss something you never had?

2008-12-16T23:51:00.005+05:30

So Sao, Debo and I were waiting for the metro back home. Sao was entertaining us with the traumatic experience that was reviewing Love Story when our metro rolled in. We headed for the empty seats in the ladies section and as we sat down we found that a group of young girls opposite us were staring with avid interest. Sao had to comment. "Girls check out girls more than girls check out boys...noticed?" she asked. I shrugged and pointed out that all of us do it. And pretty often.

We looked around. And honestly, there was not even one remotely attractive male in that compartment. So we switched to our standard bitching about how there are no men in Calcutta. "There are no guys worth checking out in Calcutta. So we stick to women," I laughed. Sao paused and thought for a while before relating, "Nah, there was this CITU bus that would go to Salt Lake that used to always be full of good-looking men." Apparently she and her family would take that bus while visiting relatives. "It used to be fun janish. It would take more than an hour to get there and we'd always spend a day there. It used to be like a trip," she reminisced.

"And?" I asked. She giggled," Sheyi bus tayi bondho hoye gelo (that bus stopped running)."

Hence, proved?

2008-12-08T23:54:00.002+05:30

So now you know why I haven't gotten around to blogging. Look here.

2008-09-22T19:30:00.005+05:30

So I have this problem. I am a cry-baby. I cry at the drop of a hat. Books, movies, TV serials… from the banal to the ‘deep’ nearly everything can make me cry.

Frankly my dear I don’t give damn? Booo hoo. (An hour of crying and a headache later).

Joe Hardy sad because girlfriend dies? Sniffle (yes, that too. I kid you not)

Harry Potter, angsty, misunderstood and Sirius dead? Waaail.

The time when Grey’s Anatomy’s Meredith looks at dishy McDreamy and says: "I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me. Choose me. Love me" and I knew he wouldn’t leave the wife…I bawled my eyes out.

And these are just the trivial fictitious things that make me cry. It’s a joke with my friends. An embarrassment to my dad (poor guy, he doesn’t get why a completely objective debate on Singur and Mamata triggers the waterworks. Its isn’t easy for a man to be surrounded by so much of oestrogen) and an irritant to mum. And well if you knew me, one of these reactions will be yours. I cry, when I’m so angry, I could kill you. I cry when I’m deliriously happy. I cry when I’m tired and frustrated (yes the office loo and too much work has done that to me). I cry when I’m hurt. Or embarrassed. Or humiliated. Or just mildly sad and wistful. I cry sometimes just because I need to. So if there is any basic spike of emotion I will cry. I don’t know why. Like when I’m having a fight this independent evil part of my brain decides, "oh she is mad now…lets make her blubber like a fool".

Mostly, this doesn’t bother me anymore. Everyone who knows me knows I cry, so they’ve sort of accepted it as "my thing". I’ve made my peace with it all. The red eyes, the puffy eyelids, the sudden blocked nose. The horrible look of pity I get when people realise that I’ve been crying. The slight ache behind my eyes when I’m all cried out. Even those times when the credits roll on a rom-com that I’ve been watching with friends and they look at me incredulously and say, "What? You didn’t cry?" Am actually ok with it all. I even find it funny at times.

But sometimes I think about this other girl I know off. She happens to be friend of a friend of a friend and I’ve never met her. Sometimes I wish I was her. She has this bizarre condition that makes her unable to cry. "My lachrymal glands are dry and almost don’t function," she had confessed to my friend. Which means she lugs around eye drops wherever she goes. And has to put it in her eye every hour when she’s wearing lenses and in general suffers a lot of general discomfort because of her condition. "Only if something hurts really badly and I’m in tremendous physical pain, can I squeeze out, like, one tear," she’d said.

Sometimes I wish I was her.

2008-07-05T14:24:00.005+05:30

So the boy was hitting on someone else. And obsessive psycho-stalker that she has turned into she has the new girl all figured out. What's strange is that the new girl he's hitting on is exactly like her. The same taste in clothes. The same taste in music. The same major. The same university( only a batch juniour). In fact she even remembers spotting her around the canteen stairs sometimes. And this has happened her before. There was another another boy before. Who liked another girl. She remembered thinking she was a lot like her too. Only taller. "What is it with these women? Is it just them? Or am I an assembly line product and there is nothing to differentiate me from the countless other women I know," she thinks as reaches into her jewelry box. Out come the new dangly earring's acquired from the BFF. Out come a dozen pretty silver bangles. There are toe rings, an anklet and pretty mojris with faded gold work. "My jingle jangle morning," she smiles as she catches her reflection in the auto on her way to work. "There, I can't be that bad!"

Sometimes happiness can be that simple.

2008-06-12T16:56:00.008+05:30

I have a look am told. A colleague of mine (who has a wardrobe and dressing sense I could kill for) just asked me to get someone with 'my look' for a makeover story. And as I stared at her blankly she added: "I want someone who looks like you...you know the whole ethno-grunge look." Thankfully she did not see me floating down the stairs all starry eyed and happy, thinking, 'Wow I actually have a look.' Although, now that Ii think of it, a look that calls for a makeover can't be a good thing now, can it?

I still dont how raddi kurtis, ancient Levis, flappy chappals, mad ma-ha-ad hair and giant-panda-esque smudged kohl can can count as a look, but hey 'ethno-grunge' works for me. This is what I love about this industry. Almost anything can be made to sound cool.

Though I hope it isn't quite as bad as Jude Law says in Closer (yes the movie is my new obsession)...

"Dan: At six, we stand round the computer and read the next day's page, make final changes, put in a few euphemisms to amuse ourselves...

Alice: Such as?

Dan: "He was a convivial fellow" - meaning he was an alcoholic. "He valued his privacy" - gay. "He enjoyed his privacy" - raging queen."

Question: What would my euphemism be?

2008-06-04T15:48:00.005+05:30

Remember that irritating female in Dil Chahta Hai? that forgettable character who Aamir dumped for Preity ? The one who made it seem a little pathetic and sort of funny that she seemed to chase Akash so desperately. Remember Suchitra Pillai and Saif Ali khan? Remember the screaming, the ranting and the screechy "i never want to see you again" before she slams the door on him? Ever wondered what happens to them? What do they do after? Do they secretly cry into their pillows after their break-up? Do they go into hiding after their public humiliation ?(God, an entire generation of movie watchers will be forever laughing at them. ) What happens to all the ex-es of the scores of lovable rakes and the ruthless rogues (ugh yes I've read far too many romance novels) who meet the love of their lives in the romances, we read and watch? (hmm make that I read and watch) Do they get stone drunk and bawl their eyes out in some nightclub? Do they go buy chocolates and booze and listen to sad weepy songs on their iPods? Do they sit around in their PJs with a bottle of vodka and listen to All By Myself like Bridget Jones ? Hah well at least Jones has Darcy. What happens to all those women who get dumped for other women who the hero likes 'just the way they are' ? What happens to the geeky Avril in Girlfriend's video ? What happens to Edward's ex girlfriends in Pretty Woman?

and I hate myself for even thinking this, but what happens to me?

2008-05-30T13:32:00.004+05:30

Watched the first 20 mins of Closer before heading for work. And now am in love with the first scene of the movie. And the song that plays in the background. Listen.

2008-04-24T23:57:00.004+05:30

I stumbled across this rather pretty song today.

There is this bit about where they say

“Ohh maybe someday
Someway, somehow in some town
We’ll get together and
We’ll break it down
And I’ll ask why you’ve been
so shy”

that hits a spot somewhere. It’s completely mushy and so not profound but yet so…pretty. It reminds me of this day when a friend (is there such a thing as an ex friend?) handed this piece of paper saying, "Read. It's for you." (I still have that handwritten note tucked away in my diary) The poem was almost lame, but had this really pretty refrain which said ‘haven’t we met before right here on a certain rainy day.’ I know which rainy day he was talking about. And even though we don’t talk to each other anymore, I’ll always remember that rainy afternoon (the whole day wasn't rainy. Just the afternoon) And know that I’d once been that special. It’s a nice feeling. I’m all warm and fuzzy inside as I sing along to “I’m shy that way”.

2008-02-25T16:15:00.005+05:30

In my heart I am a musician. I was meant to be Shirley Manson and wear knee high boots and very very dark eye make up and sing "Steal me, deal me, anyway you heal me,
Maim me, tame me, you can never change me"
Or may be Alanis Morissette and go crazy on stage while singing "You Oughta Know." Or may be wear flowy clothes and be ultra feminine and sing the dreamy "Shoot the moon" like Norah Jones. Though mostly, I can’t carry a tune. And though all those years when I was taking Hindustani classical music (vocal) (that’s what it says on the ID card. As if being vocal makes it less classical. Weird) lessons I used to be able to carry a tune (alas, I don’t think I can even do that now) dhrupad and random taals you had to double triple quadruple the pace of, used to confuse the bejesus out of me. And even I make me wince when I sing out loud with Sheryl Crow. Sigh. I really wanna be a rock star-ish person in my next life.

You know what the world really needs? A shampoo and conditioner timer. The medicated shampoo I use has to be kept on for five minutes and the conditioner for three. And my watch may or may not be waterproof but I don’t want to risk checking to see if it is. So, we need water proof timer. And counting to 300 doesn’t work. I keep forgetting where I am post 100 seconds. By 80-something seconds I drift off to some other world and I have no idea how many seconds I have lost in reverie. Have I reached 300 seconds mark? Have I gone passed it? Is this why I have either mad frizzy hair or limp weird hair ?

Ok this will contradict the inner rock star dream. I was born in the wrong time. I watched Pakeezah yesterday and I have realised I was meant to be Pakeezah. Ok not Pakeezah. Something close. I want to wear pretty kurtas and churidars, walk slowly and gracefully and wear lovely mojris. I was meant to wear white churidars and kurtis and lie on a divan with my hair soaking in the fountain. I want paighams about my pretty feet. But I don’t want to be surrounded by so many shrill giggling women.

2008-02-20T15:11:00.005+05:30

I’m wearing something totally impractical today. Ethnic 16 kali skirts aren’t made for two-way trips around half of Calcutta that involve two auto rides and a metro ride each way. Or for possible rainy days. But oh, but today’s weather is meant for long flowy skirts. And for leaving your hair open. And for pretty anklets and toe-rings. (Am leaving out the bangles and the earrings, ’cause well for me they are every-weather). And while stepping out of the house today as I struggled to keep bag, stole, hair and skirt in place and felt the wind in my hair, I felt totally girlie. Absolutely filmy, I know. And absolutely lovely. Being a girl is such fun.

P.S. I don’t care how many designers scream themselves hoarse saying long n flowy skirts are out. I like them!

2008-01-14T13:05:00.000+05:30

i bought. i read. i loved.

2008-01-01T13:32:00.000+05:30

I didn't exactly spend my new year's eve doing this. But had a quiet new year's eve all the same. Hung out with S. And realized that beer, cigarettes and good conversation is all one really needs. (Reality Bites was wrong. hah.) Though calling it conversation would be pushing it. What it was, was a monologue where I talked and she listened. I obsessed and ranted about people-who-aren't-paying-attention-to-me-although-they-should-be and she listened. And was much amused. And considering I have to function without such daily rants because we meet twice a year, it was a lot of fun :-)

2007-12-31T13:21:00.000+05:30

validation. hee

2007-12-26T14:57:00.000+05:30

You know that feeling when you just don’t want to work? When you stare at the blank screen on your PC and the words running through your head are not the ones you should be typing. Those times when all you want to do is soak in the already fading winter and sit in the sun and peel oranges while your friends talk around you and you sit and you watch it all in sepia tinted slow motion.

I get that a lot these days. I’m missing something, I think. I just don’t know what.

2007-12-19T16:36:00.000+05:30

My boss got me earrings from her trip to Bombay. I can now hereby swear that she is the coolest boss ever. Do any of you have a boss who fishes out a pair of girly, dangly earrings out of the front pocket of her dungarees? Or one who always makes it a point to tell you if she likes a story idea/story? or one who you would hug if only she weren't your boss? heh i don't think so.

my job so rocks!

2007-11-25T19:17:00.000+05:30

My exams are finally over. Which means that even my 'part-time-student-days' have ended. I don't quite know how that makes me feel. Went out with university friends for dinner and drinks after the last exam. Which was fun, though Maddy took hideous pics of me. But ooh one pic, which is all shadowy and a little blurred is really nice. And I'm vain enough to be pleased with nice photographs of me. I know I'll look at it twenty years later and think that it was nice to be young and err... almost pretty. Which is such a nice feeling. Dontcha think?

Went back to work after a break of 19 days yesterday. And had no work so tagged along with Ducksie to a rock competition. And felt very old. And what is it with all the Calcutta rock bands. Where does all this bad attitude come from ?

And yes I'm capable of feeling young and almost pretty and old and dowdy in a span of twenty four hours. I amaze myself sometimes.

2007-11-02T13:24:00.000+05:30

wanted: a really sharp elbow hacker.

So the next time I get poked by an elbow, whoever it be attached to, male or female, I will slice their bloody elbow clean. There will be nice Kill Bill-esque moment where Pointy Elbows will stare at all the blood spurting from his arm and bloodied piece of elbow bone, and i will walk away calmly. Oh and I'll whistle the really cool tune that plays in the movie.

and is there some kind of special school for this? where they teach you to ram that elbow straight into my chest and then disappear into crowds? Arrrrgh.

The really cool tune

2007-08-28T12:14:00.001+05:30

ru --

[noun]:

A person of questionable sanity who starts their own cult

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Eh ?

2007-08-24T19:07:00.000+05:30

I’m bored of me. I’m bored of the same face that stares back at me from my bathroom mirror. I’m bored of my clothes, of the jewelry I wear. I want a make over. Where everything about me will be different

Different clothes. Thinner. No fab India. No silver earrings. No vodka n lime cordial. No cheap motorola cellphone. No buses. No metros. No same old curly hair that has looked the same since I was sixteen. No gurjari jhola. No chappals. no reporting stuff that I’m bad at. No wondering about why the bloody hell that guy didn’t call me. No keeping quiet when some one’s mean to me. No more sappy romance novels. No inarticulate speaking. No more whining. No more wallowing. No more of me.

I want to go out shopping for a brand new me.

2007-08-22T12:04:00.000+05:30

I dont want to be brave. I'm not even trying to be. I'm not doing this for an extra byline. Or to get noticed. I want to get this over with and put it behind me.

And no i dont need to be asked if i'm ok. I might or might not be. But your asking me isnt helping matters.

2007-08-18T13:43:00.000+05:30

If I were a beginning, I would be: the word
If I were a month, I would be: september
If I were a day of the week, I would be: sunday
If I were a time of day, I would be: dawn
If I were a planet, I would be: neptune
If I were a season, I would be: monsoon
If I were a sea animal, I would be: a dolphin
If I were a direction, I would be: south west?
If I were a piece of furniture, I would be: the arm chair
If I were a sin, I would be: sloth
If I were a liquid, I would be: a vodka martini
If I were a fraud/scare, I would be: me
If I were a gem, I would be: a ruby
If I were a tree, I would be: a pine tree
If I were a tool, I would be: a screwdriver
If I were a flower/plant, I would be: a very prickly rose
If I were a kind of weather, I would be: the rains in calcutta
If I were a musical instrument, I would be: a flute, or a saxophone
If I were an animal, I would be: a well fed fluffy cat
If I were an emotion, I would be: contentment (is that an emotion?)
If I were a vegetable, I would be: an onion
If I were a sound, I would be: silence
If I were an element, I would be: water
If I were a car, I would be: this is easy. A bright red lamborghini
If I were a song, I would be: “maybe tomorrow” by stereophonics
If I were a food, I would be: homey comfort food. like rajma chawal
If I were a place, I would be: home
If I were a material, I would be: khadi
If I were a taste, I would be: chocolate
If I were a scent, I would be: a freshly brewed pot of darjeeling tea
If I were a religion, I would be: no idea. Do agnostics have a religion?
If I were a sentence, I would be: this one
If I were a body part, I would be: eyes
If I were a facial expression, I would be: a lazy smile
If I were a subject in college, I would be: not mathematical economics
If I were a shape, I would be: round
If I were a quantity, I would be: a litre
If I were a colour, I would be: turquoise
If I were a thing, I would be: my first fountain pen
If I were a landmass, I would be: plateau of Tibet
If I were a book, I would be: the catcher in the rye
If I were a monument, I would be: the Spinx
If I were an artist, I would be: Van Gogh
If I were a collection of poems, I would be: readable
If I were a landscape, I would be: an oasis
If I were a watch, I would be: the fast track thing I wear
If I were God, I would be: really bad at my job
If I were a vowel, I would be: a
If I were a consonant, I would be: l
If I were a formula, I would be: a grandmothers secret recipe
If I were a Science, I would be: marine biology
If I were a theory, I would be: chaos theory
If I were a famous person, I would be: smug
If I were an electronic equipment, I would be: the ac
If I were sport, I would be: ok so not sports. scrabble
If I were a movie, I would be: amellie
If I were a cartoon, I would be: luann
If I were an explorer, I would be: dead
If I were a scientist, I would be: archimedes :D
If I were a relation, I would be: not very nice to know
If I were a river, I would be: a brook pretending to be one
If I were intoxication, I would be: a nicotine buzz
If I were alone, I would be: making tea or reading
If I were a question, then I would be: han?
If I were a hobby, I would be: something totally pointless
If I were a habit, I would be: fidgeting
If I were in an atom, I would be: invisible?
If I were an end, I would be: a happy ending
If I were you, I would be: not reading this .

I was tagged by Jo and i tag Lara, Serendipiduous, Anwesha and Oopie

2007-07-11T21:34:00.000+05:30

You Are an Afternoon Person

You can find energy any time of the day ... or night!
You prefer to be out and about when most other people are.
Very early mornings or very late nights aren't really your thing.
You're practically solar powered, and the afternoon is when do best.

Are You a Morning Person or Night Person?

2007-06-23T17:19:00.000+05:30

Things that make me happy right now

Incredibly pretty pair of long bronze earrings.
Meeting friend who I hadn’t seen for a long time
Getting treated to toast n stew
Plans of sleepover at bestest friend and rock’ s etc (I’ve mentioned her before)
The thought of meeting a lot of friends for girly lunch tomorrow
Not having any work
And yet getting a comp to myself (that is so rare in this office!)
Radioblog playing softly

2007-06-06T09:45:00.000+05:30

hate-list updated. includes sleazy photographer person one. and fatso busybody irritating intern, one . and now excludes not-very-polite-but-actually-quite-nice person-in-new-team.

sleazy photographer(SP) besides trying to imply that "there is friendship between us" (WTF!! what does that mean?)also discussed pornography(this, 2 weeks after i join) (and i think its sleazy to do so. even if you think that makes me a prude) and makes crank calls at my extension.

so obviously when some guy calls at our extension and keeps on saying hello even after i said hello in reply, i assumed it was SP, and was a wee bit rude. after which the line got disconnected. i hang up. try to get back to work. when idiot phone rings again. i bark a really terrible sounding hello into the phone. person at the the other end of the line asks for fatso intern. intern answers the phone. which is when it occurs to me that, the voice did not quite sound like SP. it was in fact, or so intern tells me, my boss's boss. intern also tells me that boss's boss actually asked who had answered the phone inititally.(thankfully boss hung up before intern told him that it was me, new female/trainee who definitely should not have an attitude problem and should NOT bark hello's in to the phone)

i have decided that i will fake laryngitis and speak to boss's boss in sign language. or pass chits. or mime. or in anyway delete my voice from his aural memory. (is there such a thing as an aural memory?)

and yes i generally do not call people fatso. or fat. i call intern so, because he is an irritating name dropping pompous ass.

2007-05-30T20:33:00.000+05:30

darn! cute guy at work is cute no more.

and there is possibility that i wont be working under my totally lovely boss anymore. my boss is the most amazing woman ever. she can turn the crap i write into an actual article. and in the entire building she's the only person in this entire building who counts me as human. also she never ever points out that what i write is total crap. sigh. and now i'll be shifted to a team of nice enough people or so i can assume, except that they were a team before i joined, and will treat me like an outsider. so jokes will be cracked which i wont get which wont be explained to me. and my articles will be subbed to bits. and... sigh. this too shall pass, i guess.

am whining too much these days, no? happy thoughts then. byline's come out six times already. yay me. bestest-friend-and-rock-one-person-who gets-me-totally-and-loves-me-despite-and-does-not-make-fun-of-me is in town. so yay!

2007-05-27T13:14:00.000+05:30

skulk, skulk skulk.

am at work on Sunday. but skulking so that i can file silly story first and run away. am terrified that boss's boss will see me and send me on crazy story which no-one wants to do. and that's another thing. what is it with me and crazy stories? walked about like maniac and accosted random people on park street with bizarre questions. and then went to the tea table and accosted other touristy looking people with more questions.

and wanted to text colleague saying that i really liked his article. except in the process ended up sending text to boss. so boss thinks am presumptuous lil thing now. or worse. that am sycophantic. yay me. and obviously i cant send her a message saying that it wasn't meant for you. what would i say any way, "am sorry the message wasn't mean for you. your article was not nice?"...sheesh!

2007-05-24T17:01:00.000+05:30

PMS and lock-yourself-up-in-the-loo-to-cry day. i really wish i could do something about them lachrymal glands. its totally ridiculous how almost anything can set them off. arrrgh.

2007-05-07T09:50:00.000+05:30

Blue Monday

i need to whine. and take a crying jag. and spend an entire day feeling sorry for myself until am so sick of self that i have no option but to stop. funny thing is that i have nothing really to crib about. i have a really nice job. very few people actually get this job fresh out of college. and no one has actually said that i am a complete idiot for not knowing the things am supposed to. and whoever whines about not having friends at work ?

2007-04-24T23:47:00.001+05:30

Day Two in the Life and Times of a Trainee Reporter

Very productive day today. Reached place of work at 1 (as was asked to, by boss. Still don’t get concept but? Why 1? Why in this maddening heat would you ask people to leave their homes at 12 in the afternoon? ). Did not find boss in seat. And I had nothing to do. No stories that I could have work on. No previous day’s stories to file. No subbing guy’s head to chew on for screwing up previous day’s article. So twiddled thumbs. Got water. Visited loo. Got tea. Came back and peeped in boss’s cubicle. Boss was still not in her seat. Asked moderately approachable people if similar situations(of not having anything to do, not having access to comp so that you can pretend to do something, is something that happens to people). Said approachable people were obviously very sensible and did not deem question worthy of answer. Oh n did I mention? Every ones is always busy here. Even people who stop by other’s cubicles for a chat do this in a decidedly busy-I-have-work way. Which is why, not having anything to do becomes really really scary and stressful. Yes imagine that, a stressful day spent doing nothing.

Finally boss arrives and sends me to go hunt today’s newspapers n various magazines to get ideas for stories I could do. Three newspapers. All in Bengali. Ouch. After which photographer decides to take a picture of my eyes for random story on sleeplessness. Ok not so random then. Remember, story on insomnia. Weird looking eyes that are meant to look tired, with slightly misshapen eyebrows. Mine. After which I was made to call up all sorts of people related to a story idea. Said people were unfortunately were “unreachable” and were not around to answer my questions.

Oh yes and no cigarettes smoked. All smokers at work stand outside the office building and light up, n for now am just too scared to do so with them. What if they just turn around and scream “you new person, you, how dare you stand with us experienced journalists when you have not even covered/filed a story?” or you know give me one of those scary glowering looks.

Scary place this. HR people obviously do not know of a concept called induction. Which is why I walk around the whole blasted building like a very awed and fascinated looking tourist on a sight seeing trip.

So yes, very eventful and tiring day today. Yawn.

Update: pics of eyes did not come out today. gah. might on sunday. or maybe they 'll see what the eyebrow lady sees n reject it because of wierd looking eyebrows

2007-04-14T10:56:00.000+05:30

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

2007-04-08T20:09:00.000+05:30

Sundays are my days for getting fed by people I think. Like last Sunday P cooked awesome lunch n all I did was sit around pretty n not lift finger. Today I landed at Soda’s place who also cooked me lunch n we gorged on all kinds of comfort food… which included everything from salami n chocolates to alu bhaja. And acquired new pair of really cool roman sandals type shoes… and ooh I love the way they look , except that I have no where to wear them to, no hot date where I can wear pretty shoes n show off nice pedicured feet. Sigh

So am no more sniffling to…

uff i really need to read less chick lit

2007-04-07T13:20:00.000+05:30

I feel stupid and contagious. sigh.

2007-03-29T09:31:00.000+05:30

I never thought I’d say this, but am tired of talking. I don’t want to talk about clothes, or my hair or my skin or about how other “badly other people seem to write”. Am sorry but I don’t give damn. Am tired of not seeing movies because I know no-one I can watch it with. And am tired of considering watching movies alone( i havent actually been driven to actually do that yet), or worse having to watch it with parents. I want my life back. I want college back.

2007-03-25T22:05:00.000+05:30

Was going through my diary today. It’s been long since I’ve actually headed in the general direction of my study table. So hadn’t done the what-did-I-do-this-day-of-the-week-thing. Besides discovering that I haven’t written in that diary for 3 months and ten days I discovered another pertinent fact. That the only times when I’m readable is when I'm either very angry, or very depressed or very very infatuated. Now isn’t that strange? The normal me bores me. Hah, even I don’t find myself interesting. May be am not so vain after all. Or am just very very boring. Sigh. All an effect of the blahs, this.

2007-03-23T10:42:00.000+05:30

I have the blahs. Not the blues, although there is that too, just the blahs. I feel stuck and nothing seems to be helping. Not pep talks, not the company, not books, not music, not sugar loaded cookies. Sigh. Not even whining and sighing. Blah…

2007-03-21T21:11:00.000+05:30

hehehe

2007-02-24T20:34:00.000+05:30

cringe cringe cringe. screw your eyes shut and maybe the world will not matter.

2007-02-17T09:57:00.000+05:30

Isn’t it sad that in all these years I haven’t learned to take myself less seriously? God I need to lighten up. Thankfully though, the people I have embarrassed myself in front of aren’t people I will see anymore of after this week expires. What fun. And what a relief.

2007-02-04T21:35:00.000+05:30

It’s fascinating how everyone’s feelings and experiences are always bigger than yours. Every one has been more depressed than you. Been angrier than you, with greater reasons to be so. Done cooler things than you. Been lonelier than you. Hell even had worse cramps than you.

If you are twenty one (and a half) and lonely and a little scared that you will never never be not lonely…It doesn’t mater because you are just twenty one.

What I don’t understand I this…how does the possibility that you might not be lonely at say, twenty six, make you feel better now?

2007-02-03T21:29:00.000+05:30

And That's It

2007-02-03T21:22:00.000+05:30

and more...

2007-02-03T21:13:00.000+05:30

Top three songs that work better than chamomile tea.

2007-02-03T21:06:00.000+05:30

Grrrr. People stay away. Do not talk to me. Do not smile. Do not expect conversation. And for gods sake shut up about the weather. I don’t want to know about your boyfriend. Or your girlfriend. Or about the pressure you are facing at work. Or about your god damn hair fall problem.

Or about your cheery perfect life. Or about how you think the skies are blue and the weather perfect (yes especially that. Shut up about the weather. Ok?) actually I don’t want to know anything about you. Yes you. What are you staring at? What makes you confide in me so? Do I look like a shrink to you? Huh huh huh ?

I think am going to lock self up in the bathroom ad cry some more.

PMS has fucked my brain. Have been alternating between the previous two states all day.

2007-01-28T19:48:00.000+05:30

song's been playing in my head for an entire week.

2007-01-24T20:33:00.000+05:30

Aaargh. The gods are conspiring. And trying to put me in place for admitting to being vain (coz lets face it I’ve been vain for long. And wasn’t punished before.).

Have acquired hideous looking clot in left eye. Which isn’t infected as yet. But optometrist says it might get so if I wear lenses. Which means that I have to wear glasses to work for two god damned weeks. And did I say when my glasses were made? Circa 2001. Yes, very fashionable. Lenses as thick as bottle glass. Immensely flattering. Very good for the self esteem. I love being the Indian female answer to Drew Carrey

And of course what is even better is how the standard of small talk has improved after I started wearing my glasses. In my pre glasses day it was “god it’s so cold. How come you’re wearing sleeveless *insert piece of clothing* . Are you not cold?

Post glasses: “you have glasses? I didnt know. God you look soooooooo different.”

Yes people, please do tell me what kind a geek I look like. Am down on bended knees asking you to please please please tell me how “the spectacle-look does not suit me”.

Am made of sterner stuff I think. I shall not give in and spend all the money I have left on new pair of glasses. I shall resist. This too shall pass. Or so I tell myself.

Thank god for small mercies though. At least there is no-one in Calcutta who I’d really need to pretty self up for. Sigh. (hush. I just forgot. Tis conspiracy time. No no no. no mercies. There is nothing to be thankful for)

2007-01-18T21:42:00.000+05:30

the only song that I can make a pretense at playing on the guitar. (just the bass by the way) one of the songs without which girl bonding with S is incomplete. the song that reminds me of her. and of how we used to be. miss you.

2007-01-18T12:35:00.001+05:30

Mirror Mirror…

Have never quite thought of myself as vain. I figured that I was quite balanced. Healthy sense of self esteem. Occasional bouts of feeling like shit. But mostly, quite balanced. Until yesterday.

Girl talk with S (this be different S) made me realize me that we women, (or well just the two of us, then) are ridiculously vain. And it’s not a conscious sense of vanity. It’s just there vaguely, at the back of my head. Like on a good hair day. With that slight shampoo smell. The scrunchy/band never stays on. Every five minutes a strand of hair must be tucked in behind the ears. Or be twisted around a finger. And if no-one’s watching be sniffed at. Does it still smell of shampoo? Eww… no smells of cigarettes now. And the funny bit? I don’t even know am doing it. And won’t know until you actually point it out to me.

Or the day when you wearing a particularly nice shade of lip gloss. Granted it doesn’t stay on for two long. But it doesn’t actually require “blending” every five minutes. You know what I mean don’t you? That discreet way you press your lips together to supposedly blend lipstick in?

Or the n number of times you press the tip of you fingers to the corners of your eyes just to check if the kajal has smudged or not.

And god help me on the days am wearing nice earrings. am accused being overtly partial to earrings. But what can I do? they're so pretty!(Bought a pair yesterday too. Bronze-ish. Really pretty!)

It’s not vanity really. May be its just that I like being a girl. Or may be the ugly duckling phase has left its scars. So am overcompensating by telling self that look am duckling no more. Or may be am just very restless. Must always fiddle. (bleh now I sound like a pre-pubescent)

What bothers me is this. Is it just me? Am I really that vain? And if I am, should I not be more bothered? And why am I still fiddling with that silver jhumka then? And what makes me smile when the bangles jingle while am tapping away at my key-board.
(And please note the bangle thing isn’t as theatric as it sounds. It isn’t exactly bollywood heroine-esq chanak-chanak. This is more subtle. You can barely hear it. Even the person beside me can barely hear it. It’s true. Seriously! You can’t.

2007-01-04T21:56:00.000+05:30

OF CHOCOLATE CAKES AND WONKY OVENS

There is this amazing recipe for chocolate cake that I got from S. It’s the nicest yummiest cake ever. In fact it’s perfect. Except that the perfect cake requires a perfect oven and an eggbeater. You can obviously make the batter manually but till date the cake hasn’t quite turned out as perfect as it did on S’s oven and with S’s egg beater. And so every time I get cravings for that special chocolate cake, I deprive myself saying that I’ll make me the perfect cake once I get that eggbeater, and a better non wonky oven.

Though the times I have actually given into cake cravings and baked me cake it hasn’t turned out that bad. Just less than perfect.

And so there I was dreaming about cake, not baking cake, depriving self of cake. And today was hit by moment of epiphany. I realized that the only person who was really bothered about whether the cake is perfect or not is me. Every one else, including S, quite like my cake.

Moral of the story? Don’t wait for the perfect cake. Enjoy yours. Don’t deprive yourself because it’s not spongy enough or because you have to scrape of the 1 mm thick burnt bits.

So there. I have said it all. This is my story and am sticking to it. Not only am I sticking to it, am also going to tell my future grandchildren this story. Even if they roll their eyes and change the topic. Some day they’ll realize that the perfect cake is not worth waiting for. The eggbeater might not ever happen. Your oven, like mine, might always be stuck on 200 degree centigrade. Or not. But do you really want to wait that long to find out?

Take my advice. Don’t.

2006-12-30T16:22:00.000+05:30

Your Pickup Line Is

You look so hot that you must be real reason for global warming.

The Magical Pick Up Line Generator

the question is... would it work? hmmm...

2006-12-30T15:58:00.000+05:30

You Are a Trifle

No doubt, you have many intricate layers. But deep down, you're a little squishy.

What Holiday Food Are You?

tee hee!

2006-12-30T09:26:00.000+05:30

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go.

Emily Dickinson.

2006-12-28T21:41:00.000+05:30

There will be a time when you’ll have come to terms with it all. The despair that lurks behind that enforced optimism won’t bother you anymore. Like the child who grows up and learns to walk to the bathroom at night without switching all the lights on. Gives me hope, this.

2006-12-27T16:35:00.000+05:30

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy

In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh.
You may end up insane, but you'll have fun on the way to the asylum.

Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

2006-12-24T14:21:00.000+05:30

And there I was, looking contentedly out of the window, the winter sun on my arm and face, still warm in the afterglow…and then it hit me. What if? What if it doesn’t turn out according to plan? What if all I’ll ever be, all I’ll have…is this?

The only thing that makes the present tolerable now is the possibility of a future, the possibility that it will all get better, bigger. I console myself saying that this can’t be me, this can’t be it. That somehow I’m probably meant for something better. But what if I’m not?

2006-12-16T22:03:00.000+05:30

OF REPRESSION AND WHAT NOT...

Wouldn’t it be nice if one day you could walk up to that guy who’s totally oblivious to you and say, “You know what? I really don’t like you at all, and even if I’m currently acting like I do, I will get over it soon. And soon I shall be thinner, with flawless skin and perfect hair, and way hotter than I am now. And then I wont have time of day for you.” No? Too juvenile?

Yeah that’s what I thought too. The only thing that gets me by these days?... That soon there will be a time when I shall move on and obsess about someone else. Yes please don’t judge me. It’s true. I live my life from one, one sided crush to another. What was that again? At 21? Yes at 21? What are you goggling at? Am pretty sure there are other 21-year-old s like me somewhere. Yes, other than on reality TV shows called Can’t Get a Date.

Han so where was I again? Old school crushes. So I found this guy on orkut. The guy who I thought was the one. The one who’d make my knees go weak at 14. The cute guy in ze maths tuitions. And twas so sad. I mean I had obsessed about it forever. How he’d suddenly come across me on one of my good hair days (at 21. not 15. Good hair days didn’t exist until I was 18) (Why is good hair day important? Coz there must be one last toss of silky hair before you walk away) and here he was with a nice artsy looking-out of-window pic and it didn’t bother me. I mean I couldn’t even be bothered to orkut-stalk the guy. (Yes, well except for reading all his scraps the first time. But that’s it. You get it, don’t you? Just once. No psychotic following of conversations from one scrap book to another!!)

Sigh. What was depressing about this bit? It reminded me that am getting old. Even crushes are not the same anymore. Where is ze drama? The magic. The tee-hee school girly giggling?

Or it’s the men probably. Something wrong with all of them. Yep that’s what it is. Or is just the Calcutta variety?

2006-12-12T11:49:00.000+05:30

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"Goodbye. I am leaving because I am bored."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

2006-12-11T21:10:00.000+05:30

Small world they say. And i've said so too. Countless times. It always amazes me though. How everything goes round a corner or maybe another and comes back to where it started. A neat little circle it all is.

The random blogger who was on a friends's friend's blogroll turns out to be the one he is hitting on.
And I remember thinking, Gosh, I like this blog.
Gosh, she is so me.

Gosh, she has something that's mine.

2006-12-10T20:30:00.000+05:30

WHATEVER...

I must be dead i think. Or very very numb. And thats not the God-my-life-is-so-depressing-am-protecting-myself-by-going-numb kind of numbness.

Its the normal garden variety numbness. Or the not-so-garden-variety numbness. At least everyone around me still seems to feel. The women at work who are having love come arranged marriages. (yes i kid you not, concept exists)

Tis concept where your parents pick techie-working-in-blue-chip-company-with-brilliant-prospects for nice little convented homely girl.
And the two decide to fall conveniently in love and call each other shona and have very dramatic fights during lunch time. Post lunch time they cry on their PCs, then fix their make up and get back to work.

Even those women who are pining away for their ex fiances who they met via ****** matrimonial. Pining has such a lot of drama attached to it. There is no such great drama in my life.

But i digress. This is not about them. This is about me. And how i don't feel anymore. I dont laugh. Or cry. OR, yes, get this, get angry. I dont have the energy to react anymore. Or to develop an opinion. Or if i actually have one, i am not bothered enough to actually to state it.

Tis the worst form of evil methinks.

2006-11-21T15:35:00.000+05:30

HEART, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!

Emily Dickinson.

sigh!

2006-11-15T16:58:00.000+05:30

The one you try to keep in place, slips and calmly walks away. Plastic doesnt stick too long. And am running out of glue.

2006-11-11T11:16:00.000+05:30

Jaded Working Person Number N. and so those glasses broke.

2006-11-05T12:28:00.000+05:30

so am working woman now. and in a while too, I'll get bored of it all and will be the Jaded Working Person who just wants to go back to college. but not now.

for now its fun dressing ethnic every day. and wearing make up. (yus yus, I wear make up to work, all subtle n pretty). and buying the morning newspaper before I board the bus, and feeling like grown up important person. like those pretend games we'd play as kids. as if it isnt my life but someone else's.

am the youngest at work, and its fun, because everyone has assumed that the rookie/ new-recruit-fresh-out-of-college must be flatterd and encouraged. so i gladly soak in all compliments about how brilliant i am and how i am apparently, doing realy well. and ooooh the office lunch. yum.

It's all supposed to be a stop-gap before I move on to a post grad course, and obviously I shouldn't like it as much as I do. but gosh its such fun!!

2006-10-20T20:48:00.000+05:30

she thought she was pretty good at the grin-and-bear-it thing. and that she had it covered pretty well. no one told her otherwise, poor her.

so there she was, confessing all to strangers with half an ear, falling apart at innocent comments, so wrapped up in her own that she'd forgotten how to be a friend, and yet deluded enough to believe that she was holding up fine.

And she was too. when on her own that is. it's the relating-to-her-self-via-other-people bit that got to her. like that silly riddle they'd play in school. how do you make this line smaller without using an eraser? simple. just draw a bigger line beside it.

it's all gone now. thankfully. it's been neatly mended. and what was falling apart is whole again. hallelujah!

2006-10-12T12:45:00.000+05:30

umbrellas, methinks, should be bright and cheery. it should add colour to the normally gloomy rainy day. i mean there is something so... well...appealing about colourful umbrellas isnt there? no? what are you trying to say? that you never put any thought in you choice of raingear?

anyway, so where was i? yes brightly coloured umbrellas. i quite like them. except for today. my umbrella is a very pretty darkish (also very bright) pink.
and i was wearing something red. and had a red bag. with a pink umbrella (yes i know i've said this before. i tend to get repetetive under stressful conditions) and there was this huge gang school kids (boys! so what if they were adoloscents. and i'm old enough to not be bothered). and it just occurred to me (and of course to other people present at the scene) that i looked something like an advertisement for, ahem, a certain kind of contraceptive.

oh, the humiliation of it all. my boring black chattri. am never deserting you again. sigh!

2006-10-09T11:49:00.000+05:30

JANE DOE

the thing that had mattered to her most, then, was that it was real . 'S' was real . Here was one person who didnt see her for what she was maybe, but at least he saw her. She'd be out with him, all giddy, flushed and happy and all she could think then was, "yay i'm a couple too". It wasn't inside her head anymore. There were real fights, real tears ( oh well, at least real reasons to cry about), real conversations( so what if it involved her explaining how Robin Cook wasnt science fiction).

She doesnt miss him now that he's gone. No really. She doesnt.
What she doesnt like is that she's back inside her head again. Back to one-sided relationships. One-sided conversations.
One-sided fights with people who don't know her. Back to invisibility.

2006-09-27T08:36:00.000+05:30

Of Shrinking Aims And Violets

Have never been a big fan of stretch targets. Hate the concept. As if the actual target (if you have one that is) isnt hard enough already , matters must be made more complicated by setting goal thats even further away! Well thats not me.

Had decided from pretty early on, not to want too much from life. And so far this policy had worked pretty well. Dont expect too much. Dont actually get too much. But thats alright. Its all good.

Figured the same should work for college. Set very very achievable goal And I might even "get" more than I asked for. I did actually. In more ways than one.

And of violets.
Am not soul-of-party. Am not star material(which is okay, really) But have never exactly been the wallflower either. Too much attention is unnerving. But none at all(!!!) is even more so.
I dont exist. Never did.

2006-09-27T08:28:00.000+05:30

Stayed up all night and all we talked about was her and him. And how it won't work . And how she misses him. And how nice it is to be held. Just held.

No moping I'd thought. No using guy as crutch because i know it wont work. But oh must it always work? What's so wrong if it doesnt?

2006-09-22T21:34:00.000+05:30

Clouds appear free of care
And carefree drift away.
But the carefree mind is not to be found
To find it, first stop looking around.

Wang An Shih

pujo asche. yay! will mope no more.

2006-09-17T14:23:00.000+05:30

the worst bit about this wallowing-in-self-pity-my-cup-runneth-over thing? am not fun anymore. i used to be fun before (err i dunno...i think i was. was i?) used to be capable of conversation/shared laughter/giggly-schoolgirl-bonding . i wasnt whiny before. i wasnt someone you'd roll your eyes at and say "god! snap out of it already!" and thats another thing. everyone's too kind to say so. why? what the fuck do they think i'll do?

2006-09-15T21:41:00.000+05:30

count my blessings, i will . there is a lot to be thankful for. like the fact that the waistline has gone back to the 8th std waistline. its actually two sizes smaller!! yippeee!!!