Some things that make me smile on a dull day
1. Old Malayalam music
2. ting-a-ling of the chime against the wind
3. Warmth of my worn-out blanket
4. A Wodehouse (because nothing bad ever happens in a Wodehouse land)
5. Smell of fresh coffee from the kitchen
6. Smell of crayons
7. Feel of shampooed hair
8. Sound of a message in the Phone
9. Old photographs
10. Cold water on warm skin
11. Smell of fresh Kajal
12. Crushed ice in lemonade
13. Single beam of sunlight falling on the bed
14. Laundered linen
15. Mom :)
Most of my friends would say I missed the most important one- food. It was conscious.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Someday a year ago, I got a call from my friend Ans asking me if I could help her friend with a short story. “The topic is- The man by the lake,” she said tensely. “You have to help,” she insisted, “It is for a friend and she said she can not think of anything to write!”
Firstly I could not see any logic in asking a student pursuing her MBA to write a short story. “What an oxymoron!” I thought.
Next, I was thinking out aloud, “What kind of a topic is this?!”
I still thought I should help and pen down a few words. For the next 30 minutes I was drowning myself in a weird array of thoughts. I did not realize that I was getting carried away by some strange wind of imagination. I pounded on the keyboard like it was an assignment with a deadline. When I thought I was sufficiently satisfied with the introduction, I re-read and realized this was a little too psychologically-inclined for an MBA grad. I raised my doubt with Ans and buzzed her online, “err… is it ok if it is a little…say… psychological sorts?”
“Relax with the heavy words. Jus send the draft of the intro across and we’ll tell you,” she said chirpily.
I sent it. It took them a while but she replied on the online chat. “:( no Vinaya. We can’t take this!”
Ans’ friend wrote that story on her own and passed the assignment (I presume).
I still feel bad about this story that hangs by its intro and is yet to be completed.
“It was the kind of evening I had dreaded since my return to my ancestral cottage at Wellington – chilly, dark and pregnant with the strong stench of death. I would have stayed back in the less dreary cottage if it was not for her promise. We had not met in a year and I was surprised to find a note awaiting me at the backdoor in the morning. It said “Wait by the lake”. No initial was needed. I could discern that handwriting in the darkest hour of the day. It was Alice.
Alice and I never loved each other. We could not look at each other and not feel a strange sense of hatred brimming over. We were never friends. But when I lost my family in a burn-out, the only person I cried to, was her. Alice knows my pains more than my own self and that is why I hate her. I hate her for knowing me so well. I hate to look at her when I am in pain, for when I do, I feel like my eyes had been yearning to tell her my darkest secrets all this while. It felt like the minute our eyes locked in contact, they would pour out to her what she needed to know.”
Firstly I could not see any logic in asking a student pursuing her MBA to write a short story. “What an oxymoron!” I thought.
Next, I was thinking out aloud, “What kind of a topic is this?!”
I still thought I should help and pen down a few words. For the next 30 minutes I was drowning myself in a weird array of thoughts. I did not realize that I was getting carried away by some strange wind of imagination. I pounded on the keyboard like it was an assignment with a deadline. When I thought I was sufficiently satisfied with the introduction, I re-read and realized this was a little too psychologically-inclined for an MBA grad. I raised my doubt with Ans and buzzed her online, “err… is it ok if it is a little…say… psychological sorts?”
“Relax with the heavy words. Jus send the draft of the intro across and we’ll tell you,” she said chirpily.
I sent it. It took them a while but she replied on the online chat. “:( no Vinaya. We can’t take this!”
Ans’ friend wrote that story on her own and passed the assignment (I presume).
I still feel bad about this story that hangs by its intro and is yet to be completed.
“It was the kind of evening I had dreaded since my return to my ancestral cottage at Wellington – chilly, dark and pregnant with the strong stench of death. I would have stayed back in the less dreary cottage if it was not for her promise. We had not met in a year and I was surprised to find a note awaiting me at the backdoor in the morning. It said “Wait by the lake”. No initial was needed. I could discern that handwriting in the darkest hour of the day. It was Alice.
Alice and I never loved each other. We could not look at each other and not feel a strange sense of hatred brimming over. We were never friends. But when I lost my family in a burn-out, the only person I cried to, was her. Alice knows my pains more than my own self and that is why I hate her. I hate her for knowing me so well. I hate to look at her when I am in pain, for when I do, I feel like my eyes had been yearning to tell her my darkest secrets all this while. It felt like the minute our eyes locked in contact, they would pour out to her what she needed to know.”
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Life's nothing but a sail
They say you don’t start living till you are 20. I disagree. I think life has been quite a sail so far and I’m (just) 22. A good friend living alone far far away admitted that he buzzed me on Gtalk everyday for his daily dose of entertainment. “I don’t have a life. At least you seem to be having your share of fun,” he smirked. Well I thought of the things that have happened to me in life last night, and I came up with a few.
1. Shoplifted a toy truck
2. Got the same earring hole pierced thrice (and its still not managed to stay)
3. Slapped someone
4. Got slapped
5. Brought people together (who never stuck on)
6. Played cupid
7. Played anti-cupid
8. Played vamp
9. Cursed with all my heart
10. Hated women who loved my men (this one I’m not particularly proud of)
11. Hated men who loved my women just to hurt them in the end
12. Almost broke an ignorant long-distance couple up (which finally ended in the boy flying down to India to salvage his love)
13. Watched porn
14. Encouraged porn among men (favourable solution to reduce rape; another is legalised prostitution)
15. Taught children; held their hands
16. Spoke back to a frustrated malayali man whose remark was of the effect: “oh, breasts that look ready”
17. Lost friends; gained friends; learnt horrifying secrets about friends
18. Kept secrets
19. Spilled secrets
20. Been in love
Ah well. Top 20 in my long list!
1. Shoplifted a toy truck
2. Got the same earring hole pierced thrice (and its still not managed to stay)
3. Slapped someone
4. Got slapped
5. Brought people together (who never stuck on)
6. Played cupid
7. Played anti-cupid
8. Played vamp
9. Cursed with all my heart
10. Hated women who loved my men (this one I’m not particularly proud of)
11. Hated men who loved my women just to hurt them in the end
12. Almost broke an ignorant long-distance couple up (which finally ended in the boy flying down to India to salvage his love)
13. Watched porn
14. Encouraged porn among men (favourable solution to reduce rape; another is legalised prostitution)
15. Taught children; held their hands
16. Spoke back to a frustrated malayali man whose remark was of the effect: “oh, breasts that look ready”
17. Lost friends; gained friends; learnt horrifying secrets about friends
18. Kept secrets
19. Spilled secrets
20. Been in love
Ah well. Top 20 in my long list!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A letter to a best friend
To my dearest: mistakes of life
You have been a best friend. A good friend is one who stays with the other through thick and thin. Thanks, for you have done that and more. Even when I didn’t want you in life, you never left my side. Even when I cried and shouted, “leave me alone!” you paid no heed and stuck around. Thanks.
You took so many forms when you spoke to me. First, you were that kid in the orphanage I went to at 6. You smiled at me from the other side of the gate, asked me with genuine concern if I was alright after a fall, and I ignored you. Then you turned into my mother who I lied to at 17. I cried that day. I begged you to leave me. However, the friend that you are, you kept yourself at bay. You were him who I hurt. You were him who hurt me. You walked in and out of my life so many times.
I don’t recognize you anymore. I think you are me now. I don’t see you anymore.
Thanks for being there, friend. Sometimes I wish you would just get lost.
Me/ You
You have been a best friend. A good friend is one who stays with the other through thick and thin. Thanks, for you have done that and more. Even when I didn’t want you in life, you never left my side. Even when I cried and shouted, “leave me alone!” you paid no heed and stuck around. Thanks.
You took so many forms when you spoke to me. First, you were that kid in the orphanage I went to at 6. You smiled at me from the other side of the gate, asked me with genuine concern if I was alright after a fall, and I ignored you. Then you turned into my mother who I lied to at 17. I cried that day. I begged you to leave me. However, the friend that you are, you kept yourself at bay. You were him who I hurt. You were him who hurt me. You walked in and out of my life so many times.
I don’t recognize you anymore. I think you are me now. I don’t see you anymore.
Thanks for being there, friend. Sometimes I wish you would just get lost.
Me/ You
Saturday, May 1, 2010
One for old times' sake
Dipping out of dad’s Log Book of Oceans for a bit, this blog is dedicated to a trace of guilt that lingers still.
I spent a night with my oldest best friend. We spoke all night. She was lying next to me, chatting and laughing, and for a minute I felt like a 14-year-old again.
Right after that moment, I missed her. Dearly. The pang was strongest in the following instant. I missed the girl of 14 that she was; I missed the girl of 14 that I was.
I missed the thoughtless phone conversations, the mindless wanderings. I missed the way we made up love stories for each other, how we understood without any attempt to hide a smirk when the other insisted: “This time it is love”. I missed how we listened to each word uttered by the other as though it meant the world to us; how we planned slumber parties knowing all along that it will never happen. I missed how she missed me on all those class trips, how she brought back that moorthi of Ganpathi every time saying: “Nothing can make you happier”. I missed her calling me up when she wanted to cry; I missed her wanting me to call her when I was down.
I woke up in the morning and saw her lying next to me. Ignorant to what I was thinking. Unaware of how much I missed her; how much I missed myself.
I spent a night with my oldest best friend. We spoke all night. She was lying next to me, chatting and laughing, and for a minute I felt like a 14-year-old again.
Right after that moment, I missed her. Dearly. The pang was strongest in the following instant. I missed the girl of 14 that she was; I missed the girl of 14 that I was.
I missed the thoughtless phone conversations, the mindless wanderings. I missed the way we made up love stories for each other, how we understood without any attempt to hide a smirk when the other insisted: “This time it is love”. I missed how we listened to each word uttered by the other as though it meant the world to us; how we planned slumber parties knowing all along that it will never happen. I missed how she missed me on all those class trips, how she brought back that moorthi of Ganpathi every time saying: “Nothing can make you happier”. I missed her calling me up when she wanted to cry; I missed her wanting me to call her when I was down.
I woke up in the morning and saw her lying next to me. Ignorant to what I was thinking. Unaware of how much I missed her; how much I missed myself.
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