Saturday, 7 February 2015
Saturday, 31 January 2015
2. Mop the floor.
3. Dust the windows. (switch places with 1.)
5. More laundry.
7. Google recipes
8. No.6 (non-veg)
9. Learn a new dance move. (YouTube dance lessons)
10. Learn the lyrics of the song that I'm hooked on.
11. Sing->Record->Send it to a poor soul in need of salvation.
12. Watch Tim Burton animations. Corpse Bride with couple of chocolates and chips and a box of tissue first.
13. Make daily journal entries.
17. Write mails to real people. And imaginary letters to E.T.
Not liking the Missus life at all. #missforlife #lostmymindwheniwentimaginaryjoggingataparknearalakewithoutanymonsterlivinginit #hashtagsarenotmything
Wednesday, 22 October 2014
So I decided in the bus, I'll take the earphones off and speak to my co-passenger. And I did. It didn't take me hours of courage and mentally rehearsing conversations, took me few moments. And I am glad I did. For the lady though at first asked me a question in my language was apparently not from my state, I wouldn't have learned that had I ignored her after smiling and telling her that her stop is two stops after mine. I bade her bye and got off the bus with a smile, which is unusual because I always hate getting off there, because I hate college.
On my way home, I took the regular shortcut which was now a piece of land overgrown with plants, a mini forest in the making. My nostrils were being haunted by the strong smell of sambhar coming from a house's kitchen nearby. It was an aroma first, slowly it grew into an odour I had to escape. I smelled sambhar everywhere, though it was raining lightly it had not the smell of rain but sambhar. And something told me that at home we were having sambhar for lunch. I couldn't tell if I was angry to find Sambhar in the pressure cooker or happy my prediction was right.
My grandmother gladly announced they had made sambhar and I could eat a hearty lunch. But I disappointed her saying I wanted idli with it. All the smell and sight of sambhar has made me crave idli. Now I can't have sambhar without idli.
I can't remember what I was going to write in this blog, it surely was something interesting and I had to write about it. I forgot. I'm getting old.
Thursday, 3 July 2014
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
Why am I writing this I do not know, should I be writing this I do not know. I'm going to write it anyway.
For a loved one to die is one thing, to be reason of their death is a whole different league.
There are nights where all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry, nights that I crave for comfort and cuddles. Tonight is one of those nights.
It amazes me that I still feel the need to be consoled, comforted and cured of nightmares and demons. I've come to learn the only person who can help us feel better is ourselves. And I just read somewhere that it has to be done with utmost compassion. Be kind to yourself.
I think I'm going to babble nonstop. I came across a blog written in tribute for a total stranger, a son, brother, husband, father and an amazing friend and human who touched lives of many, left behind memories for each of them to cherish. Is forty even an age to die? But God knows better. Why else would accidents happen all over the world, robbing wombs, leaving behind widows and orphans?
Death, fascinates me. I wish I could have a heart to heart with Azrael (the angel of death, he's my favorite angel btw. But since last night I have developed a fear for him. A silly fear. I'm scared that he'd be near a soul I love and I wouldn't even sense his presence, not till he's snatched the soul away) ask him about death, how it feels like to be at the giving end and if he knows what it feels like to be at the receiving end to be the one dying.
Reminds me of the lesson we learned in English the title of which went something like "I'm not afraid to die, if we can all die together". No it isn't death most people are afraid of, it is the pain to be endured to be lived with for the rest of their lives after the loss of a loved one.
Thursday, 26 June 2014
I looked at the picture that hung on the wall, covered by cobwebs. It is of a middle-aged woman, pleasant faced and plump. Not fat, plump. The kind you would hug over and over again. I've hugged her repeatedly, thought of her as my teddy bear, then hated having hugged her and sometimes regretted not having hugged her enough.
She is my mother. I look nothing like her, except for the nose and the dimple on the right cheek we share nothing. She was beautiful. You would hear yourself say MashaAllah to yourself each time you see her smile or hear her talk or sing in that heart-melting voice of hers. Praising the Creator for adding more beauty in our house in the form of our mother. And because of all this and more we believed our father too was madly in love with her. And she in love with him. For he too was a specimen of beauty and perfection, with his well built physique and deep blue eyes. We all knew that our aunts envied mother, look at their balding husbands with a paunch and look at our father, still young at sturdy even at 45.
To the outside world we were the perfect family. Happy parents, happy children. It was that way for us, till one day mother disappeared. All that remained of her at our home was that picture on the wall of our room, and few old clothes, and books she read a long long time ago. Also a handwritten note addressed to us, her daughters which an older aunt of ours had taken and gotten rid of.
We heard people talk ill of her, the same tongues who praised and thanked her, now didn't want to miss a single chance to slander. "You could identify such women right away. They're unbelievably beautiful, full of life and lust, they don't give up on their hunger and thirst too easily, marrying them off won't help. Having children don't save them either. Poor him, what did he do to deserve a slut like her. We should get him married soon." I bit my lips, my hands till it bled to stop me from crying, whereas my older sisters cried to their hearts' content. The aunts consoled them but they said they were more worried for me, seems I've become a stone, the tragedy has affected me so badly that I can't even cry. My eyes shone with anger each time they offered their sympathies, it was them I had a problem with.
And I knew the relatives will convince father to remarry. "He needs a wife. A good, loyal, virtuous wife to cope with this stress and sadness" they said. I ran around our room, like a caged wild animal, yelling. My sisters seem to agree with father's remarriage. "Cope with shame. Not sadness. The girls need a mother too. Hell, we don't. Screw them." I screamed. I stopped when I heard somebody violently knocking at the door.
"Clean-up" was what my father's sister called it. What she meant was free the house and us of whatever remained of mother in here and inside us. I threw a tantrum when she collected our albums in a pile, poured kerosene and set fire, our parents' wedding album was the last to burn. I felt my insides burn, the taste of charcoal in my mouth, smoke filling my airways, I choked. I wanted to pull my aunt's hair and kick her legs. But what I did was wondrous. With each photo that turned ashes she sang how my mother was a woman full of filth inside out, abandoning her children to be in the arms of another man. She cursed her, swore and I took a step or two closer. True that I wanted to pull her hair but my hands were closed. I punched her in the face. Twice. I had bloody knuckles that I refused to wash till my father threatened me to.
Since then, nobody tried to remove anything from anywhere. And each time they saw me fist my right hand they shielded their noses with both palms and kept a safe distance. They still stuck to blaming mother for the incident, the tragedy made me a violent person. A motherless monster. Many aunts volunteered to tame me, teach me how to behave. Father had other plans.
Monday, 16 June 2014
You need to smile more often, bigger.
Eat more cookies, cupcakes, cream pastries. Less coffee.
Stop listening to sad songs.
Sing happy, and dance to it.
Go to the zoo. Throw popcorn at the monkeys.
Watch Twilight, and other lovestories that does the heart and mind good. You'll find hope.
Have faith in the Avengers. Especially, the Hulk.
Avoid watching Titanic when it comes on TV.
Stop eating cookie dough.
Deactivate your facebook. Keep whatsapp though. Never be disloyal to Mark Zuckerburg.
Keep silent about your firstworld problems. Like Ryan Higa says, shut the full cup.