Part I: Weddings and other scary things

like eye goop.

Get dragged out of bed by hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later), half a sock in tow, been told the light will go at 8:00 p.m; it is 07:30, need to select clothes, then need to press clothes, fast.  Should wash face too. Should. It is too cold to wash face. Don’t. Take tissue, rub face vigorously with moisturizer to wipe dirt and tw0-day old mascara which is frighteningly stuck at all the wrong places around the eyes (the corners, the tips etc.), eyes feel wide shut, open them, try again. Been told by brother that face is fat and nothing looks good, also been told to wear girly clothes to look like girl, nonchalantly agree to looking like girl, get black shirt out, no shalwar or pajama to go with it, get black jeans out, they would have to do, shirt is long, will hide jeans, no one would know it is jeans, triumph at spark of brilliance, mentally thump back.

Face looks clean after moisturizer rub, hate make-up, hide from mum who will force make-up, wait for lights to go so she does not see the no-make face, crunch up and play hair to give messy look, love  that best about self. Don clothes before anybody sees, is relieved when light goes, apply lots and lots and lots of kajal, been told eyes are beautiful, should emphasize.

Rush, rush, rush to the wedding venue, hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) looks sweetly murderous when she can finally see face, berates for lack of make-up and messy hair, does not see jeans, triumph once again at spark of brilliance, could be brand ambassa(dress) of such jeans- think inwardly- tell mum there is no make-up in bag, do not like lying, tell her that camera man is upon us and now leaving, what is point?, no-make-up-face is already on record, she shrugs, tells in so many words t0 not-fuck-off anywhere because there is a long journey to embark upon, throws us both in a throng of glittery, shiny women with painted faces, hahahhah, faces look so big can imagine someone playing ball with them, tons of make-up must make faces weigh, well, tons- giggles at self , is so funny- pastes fake smile on face, big enough to look like smile, small enough to not show teeth, do not like teeth, teeth are ugly….  fake smile is slipping, hold onto it like would a rein of a marching horse or the stump of a wriggly camel… something is in eye, twitch replaces smile… still say hello-how-are-you–you-look-so-nice–doesn’t-she-mum?–oh-you-have-a-baby-too–so-beautiful–do-come-to-our-house-sometime–no-we-are-still-living-there–hahaha-no-do-not-want-to-get-married-now–hahahah-no-want-to-study–hahaha-yes-please-do-tell-if-you-find-a-nice-guy-for-me (so I stay faaaaar away from him, say inwardly)–yes-cannot-stay-young-forever-you-are-right– yes-digital-clock-is-ticking–yes-yes-yes-yes…..

Steer self away from one to have similar conversation with another, hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) smiles, she appreciates acquiesce- will take revenge from her soon-, oh, it is time to go see the bride now, is it?

 

Read Part II: Weddings and other scary things

Unwriting, a sequel

He has a memory of a pick’s.

Pick, you know, like a drink pick or a cocktail pick, that small thin stick which we use to pick small eatables from? Pieces of cucumber perhaps or watermelon…

Alright, I know picks are things and things do not have memory.. unless of course if you are counting memory cards, mobile phones, sim cards, computers…(so I was wrong, things do have memory)…. Lets just say, picks are things which have no memory. You know how you pick something with a pick and put it in your mouth and that’s that?- that is the end of its very existence. Maybe it had been lying on a tray for a really, really long time but apart from that, this pick or picks in general are short-lived and terminal.

So you see why I say his memory is like a pick’s? I could have said his memory is like that of a gold fish but that would have defeated the entire purpose of telling something in a round about way, going this-away and that-away without really getting to the point, using a word so many times it starts to p(r)ick at you;  so much so that even when the word is not being used, it seems like it is and thereby, convincing all of the unfortunate one-or-two readers that you have to stop being them (readers, that is).

The point is, and it is a universal fact (I use the word ‘fact’ very loosely because I really don’t think it is scientifically proven or even tested for that matter but if it were… ) that it is awfully irritating when people forget things which mean something to you and you told them repeatedly about it and they still manage to forget. And you, instead of taking it out at them, decide to write about it in the most bizarre fashion that your mind could whip up at that moment, and continue writing.

So yes, I am utilizing my phase of non-writing by writing about nothing. Perhaps my next post will be on my passionate love affair with punctuation marks; semi-colon in particular or on full stops alone and their significance in the world of running sentences, running lives- thronged with confusing emotions, bombarded with dizzying information, lost between the apprehension of death and the obvious disillusionment with life, unhinged, unsettling, flustered, befuddled foolishness…

Related articles

• It’s a full-stop. Not a gunshot. (coloringinthedark.wordpress.com)

Unwriting

Does one have to be a writer to have writer’s block?

Sit down. Be quiet. Don’t whine. Open word document. A fresh A4 page. Choose font to suit mood. Drop idea. Stick with Times New Roman. Move cursor to the top of the page. Prepare to write…. Prepare to write…

Stare. Stare. Stare.  Let fingers hover over the keyboard. Feel inspired. Feel very, very motivated to write. Mentally take your hand inside your head and rummage through looking for an idea. A figment of an idea perhaps?

Leave it. Get up and go for a long walk. How long can the mind remain blank? There must be some point when it stops being blank and throw over a nugget of idea, a simple thought, a sentence.. a word… an idea of a word?

Things are so topsy turvy, they are turvy-topsy. I feel I have a lot to talk about but I cannot quite form the right words. So instead I am writing about the state of non-writing.

How can it be writer’s block if I am writing? It is like selective amnesia, really. I have selective writer’s block. The mind refuses to produce bouts of ideas for what I want to write about and only words of frustration make sense and tumble out…

Then perhaps stop. Then perhaps sit back and decide not-to-write rather than to-write. Maybe the mind works like Thing 1 and Thing 2 from ‘The cat in the hat’. Order them something and they would guarantee doing the opposite. Maybe the mind is engineered to go as far away from things you are concentrating too much on, maybe it is lazy and exhausts easy.

So here it is. This is me stopping and unwriting. Lets see if it works. And soon.

Related articles

• “Listening to Writer’s Block” by Joshua J. Mark (writersparty.com)
• They make Drano for that, don’t they? (studenteventsblog.wordpress.com)
• Unclogging this writer’s block (myrandomlittleblog.wordpress.com)

Of hearts, loyalty and trust

Scratch that

Of Friends

I was always a bit of a hermit; easily confused for arrogance, my weariness or neglect rather, to socialize and make friends deluded all but me. Which brings me to how: I was always, always, always looking for me-time.

I was always looking to get away even with that limited number of friends who I loved and trusted and who loved and trusted me – and I shouldn’t take this from them- who bore me, who tolerated me, who took care of my mood swings and childish attitudes and complaints and my constant whining about everywhatever and laughed at all my jokes which laced with sarcasm. I would vanish off for hours without telling anybody; sometimes go hide in the computer lab, just to be alone. I would deliberately walk around the entire place, in the rain with my phone turned off (freshmen year comes to mind!). Funny how I always wanted me-time then.

Funny how I do not want it anymore

I had a flair for drama. I thought me-time was all deep and dark and mysterious and broody and sexy. It was maybe something I did not do deliberately, but I know I did. I wanted to wallow in the darkest moments of self-loathing and self-despair, I did not want to share, I did not want to sit and talk, I wanted to run away, far, far away. When I did talk to someone, it was  always a relief but – and although I don’t think I am a masochist- I never voluntarily talked. I would brood. And brood. And brood. And my idea of funny was dark cynicism which essentially threw stones at the world for just be-ing.

Oh don’t get me wrong. I still throw figurative stones at the world for being but I have come to accept it and I constantly find myself berating the old-me for being such a pain in the freaking arse! I find myself craving for the happy lull of friends around laughing at the fart-sound the couch made when someone sat on it- simply that. I find myself craving to reach out and put my arm around their shoulder in half-a-hug, laughing at something. I find myself needing someone who can sit infront of me so I can be negative and cynical and sarcastic and between all that, a little wise, a little funny, a little insolent. 

The irony of growing up is that you really want to be growing down. You dislike long dupattas (while you made saris out of them in youth), you want to cut your hair shorter and shorter (while longer hair was your ultimate dream as a child)… But I digress.

What I want to say is: I miss my friends. Yes, given that some of them are busy, some moved on, one turned out to be talking behind my back and then denying it (typical of so many girls!), the oldest one “cannot do this anymore” and the more recent one ”cannot do this anymore” either; I don’t know if I miss these friends or just miss friends, period.  

I guess I miss the innocence that friends bring with them; the sense of -in retrospect- gullibility that you can trust them, love them, be loyal to them and they will do all of that in return. I miss the ease with which you can rely on them, just call or message or mail and take up with them where you last left off- even if it was months back or just a day, not to forget their absolute acquiesce of your attitude and your odd sense of social etiquette including but not limited to, eating with your mouth wide open in sophisticated restaurants and talking to salesmen in a very fake but impressive british accent…

I always thought friendship, like love was about sacrifice. Doing things for your friends, being things to your friends… but sometimes I find myself thinking, maybe like all other things in the world, friendship is about selfishness, no different. You are friends for yourself, not the other person. You want more than give, you put conditions and time stamps on your feelings and you are constantly measuring, calculating, counting what you did and what they did and how they disappointed you.. never the other way around. What a scary thought that is.

… So if there were those who ”cannot do this anymore”, maybe it was my fault afterall.

 

 

 

This blog is ofcourse dedicated to F, Y and M.A; always and forever, there :)

Picture credit: beautifulineverything.com

Of late nights, cigarettes and tea

Back in college, every night was a late night, spent sometimes in an air-conditioned computer lab pretending to study or  sitting under a tree, on a wooden bench, pondering over the philosophy of existence, with a malbaro light hanging onto dear life from the two nimbly forefingers which would otherwise be pointing people out and laughing at their immature, obviously juvenile behavior at such a time of the night… Whether or not they were climbing a tree like a monkey is another story…

…criticism of the other and tolerance for, went queerly hand in hand here…

… also went, overdosing on tea, not drugs, sometimes falling asleep on the said bench, unawares, sometimes falling asleep with head onto a friend’s lap, amidst discussions into the epistemological approach towards modernity and post modernism or the loopholes in Descartes‘ ontological argument on the nature of God…forgetting in the morning who had the better argument but does that matter really?

Actually, back in college, every night was an early morning. We wouldn’t get tired of cup of tea after cup of tea till the head started to hum happily, singing songs of spring, asserting that sleep was something you did when you were done with life. We weren’t. And to proof the tea-effect right, we would roam round and round and round the campus, watching the miracles of nature unfold as we roamed: huddle of girls and boys sitting on the grass by the pavement playing hopscotch, sticks and stones or sometimes simultaneously singing out-of-tune lullabies to each other and giggling mischievously (even the boys!)

… another group sitting in a dark corner, cult-worshiping, head bobbing, lap thumping while one of them (the clear leader) plays the guitar with a passion reminiscent of the Zeppelin days, covering songs the likes of Pink Floyd and Coldplay (but, I never heard anyone play Meatloaf, what a pity!) … yet another corner has a couple, a literal ‘couple’ of angry birds demonstrating their anger at each other- rather civilly- by throwing dirty stares at one another, the female bird is the stare-master, hands down… and ofcourse, in contrast to these birds who are in dire need of anger management are the very familiar, the very beloved, love birds unashamedly, unabashedly canoodling away in broad moon-light….

…not to forget, lying squat in the middle of the road, on a speed breaker, a girl; spreadeagled, enjoying the view of the sky while one or two of her friends sit by her side, waiting for the stunt to be over and her philosophical bubble to burst so they could all go have a cup of tea…yet another one…miracles of nature indeed.

And the night goes past like that, without any care or worry. The research paper that had to be written will be written, the project report that had to be analyzed will be analyzed, between tea cups upon tea cups and an occasional indulgence of an extra puff, all the work will be done because the night, my friends is still young and shall remain so…