Being Someone Else

I’m thinking of something interesting to say. Something that would be worthy of THE First Line. You know.. something in the vein of “Call me Ishmael”. But well, let’s be honest, you can’t call me Ishmael. I am but me- a sub quality beta version of me. Call me D 1.0. And maybe, someday, I’ll progress to a 1S and then a 2, and then a 2GS.. (No, I’m not an Apple fangirl. Yes, Mac Book IS orgasmic. Please draw your own conclusions). 

I am 29. On the cusp of the great milestone of three-oh. But it seems like I’ve been around much, much longer. It’s the same roads, the same house, the same people. Infact, even the same stories in the newspaper. Seems like the world remains constant while I count the days going by. It’s raining outside- I’m thinking of something poetic to say. The dither of the rain, brings to fore the glorious emeralds against the graying skies. Pffbbt. Atleast the cars look cleaner.

Today is the 10,778th day of my life. I looked it up online. Ten thousand. whoa. I spent the 10,777th day listening to the Banana Song. Productive, I must say. 10,778th is not turning out to be much different so far. I have checked my mails, worked a bit, took a few calls, read my daily dose of blogs, took some more calls and will now head home. Meanwhile, Kim Kardashian may (or may not. Though possibly, may.) capitalize on her daughter North West’s photographs & Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson may (Or possibly may not) be getting back together again. And Zooey Deschanel (Really, mom and dad of Zooey, really- that name?) is a closet feminist. (On second thoughts, I take that Really back. Really, Kim and Kanye, Really? North West?)

Anyways, it’s 4:12 PM. My cup of coffee is all done and the dreary work day is coming to end in 48 minutes. *Sigh* 47 now.

You know what my life could’ve been?

I think about that everyday. Something other than me. SomeONE other than me. Who am I? Are you sure you wanna know? (I know. I know. Spiderman.) (What's with that stupid theme song anyways- And yeah, I cracked that joke before it even came on the Big Bang Theory- so sue me motherf***ers). 

I could’ve been a model (if only I were a little bit taller. Ok. A lot taller.) (Yeah, I asked- you can’t get that surgically corrected) - glamorous, jet setting ways of the world. But beauty has such a harsh price to pay. OR I could own hotels. Too much work. Own spas? Naaah. Restaurants? hmmmmm. Write stuff? well... Critique stuff? Now... Critique Spas? Whoa. Why did I not have this conversation with myself sooner?

But let's think big. What COULD I be if I were not me?

If I Were a Megalomaniac Ne'er do good villain 

The scope is IMMENSE. Trust me, you have never had it so good till you have tried pure unadulterated evil. Mwahahahaha. Too much? um okay. later then.

Lets explore the lifestyle... Money. Check. 'Munition. Check. Mansions. Check. Minions. Check. Molls. Check. Too many Ms. Check Check fucking check.

Sounds good eh? I can totally imagine a villa at Nariman Point with killer dogs (Called Dobby and Bobby... and I'll throw in a Tiger too). Elaborate driveway, fountain included. With hefty bodyguards on the side holding AK47s. You sit on a gilded throne with pretty ladies serving you grapes. The lap of luxury that is your house, is fully equipped to make your dreams come true, complete with a tahakhana, and a maut ka kuan (with bonus sharks- muft muft muft). Of course, on the first floor one of the rooms will be perpetually occupied with a damsel in distress who will be cheap to keep since she will anyways refuse all food and water you will serve her (imagine how much bachat!). 

You'll have a study with hidden tijauris hidden behind elaborate paintings of hot looking women (or Playboy centrefolds  - one can't possibly expect villains to be well versed in fine art... Imagine, yeh Monet ek khokhey ki hai boss. Duh). And in those tijauris will be the soney ke biscoot, *rubbing hands gleefully*. And what could ideally be a good space to keep books, we could effectively utilise in hosting rangeen shaams in which the aforementioned damsel in distress will groove to the latest item song to save her lover's life whom you would have killed anyways. Mwahahahahah. (Yup. Works this time)

Risk to life and limb you ask? Hmmm... Greatly reduced if you can deal with undercover policewallahs pretending to be you. Keep the kanoon in your pocket. Take some lessons from the Sand Mafia- really works. And that imaandaar officer? Uska kaam tamaam kar do.

To sum it up,

Quality of Life- 10/10

Fun at Work: 10/10

Life Span: 7/10 

Swaggah- 8/10

If I were a cowboy. No. A gunfighter. NO. Clint Eastwood.

C'mon- have you seen those eyebrows? Who wouldn't wanna be Clint Eastwood! I mean- really...that swagger, that baritone, that height (ok yeah- I'm pretty sensitive about that)- He's got THE WHOLE F***ING PACKAGE! And you are asking if I really wanna be him? What you have to ask yourself is, do I feel lucky? Well do ya', punk?

Quality of Life- 6/10

Fun at Work- 9/10

Life Span- 10/10  *he'll outlive us all*

Swaggah- 100/10 *deal with it*

If I were Moby Dick. *giggle*

I was planning to think up a great literary character, but we all know where I was going with that Ishmael reference, right? Moby Dick it is. And yes, it makes me giggle every frigging time. But really- you can't go wrong here. Let me tell you why.

The whole book, all gazillion words of it are about the search for a white sperm whale- not just ANY whale- MOBY DICK (whose given name was Mobius Richard. Don't giggle. Really. Actually, no.). So there is this sailor, who lost his appendage to an attack by this one whale and since then has this blatant need for vengeance. So he wants to find this.. this monster and spear the shit out of this dude. We, however, forget one small fact. Its one F***ing Whale in the middle of a F***ing Ocean! And how do we know if it's THE whale? I mean it ain't no skinhead with a swastika tattooed on its forehead. But we know what it looks like, D.. Yeah? It looks like every other god-damned white sperm whale in the whole god-damned universe!

Hence, my point, safest job ever- be the friggin whale that they write a book about that turns into an all time American Classic. And the fun part is *Spoiler Alert* you don't even get to die. In fact, you kill all the friggin buggers out to get you. Every last one of em. Except of course Ishmael. Who'd have written the book otherwise?

Quality of Life: 9/10

Fun at Work: 9/10

Life Span: 10/10

Swaggah: I'm the king of the ocean, bitches. Don't you swaggah me!

If I were Manmohan Singh

*silence*

Nuff said.

If I were a zombie

Hmm... Hmmmm

hmmm

Zombie.

Hmmm.

Actually, come to think of it... that may not be such a bad deal after all. I mean, I'd be dead. Like what could be worse? And brains are apparently a delicacy- that you enjoy in full measure- full of proteins and other such fascinating nutritious things. Low on fat. Weight is no longer a problem. In fact, no body issues. No waxing shit and no PMS. You call it death. I call it utopia. Pot-a-to. Po-tah-to.

Risk to life and limb may be a concern, but just because you are eating brains doesn't mean you don't have any. Be a zombie. Don't be stupid. There is safety in numbers. And don't lead. Follow. Do not come within 100 meters of a double barreled rifle. Do not go making friends with strange humans. This is as good as you are ever going to look- no trips required to the nearest drugstore (where there WILL be humans- coz they need to eat. And you don't). Brains are nice. But try being vegan. It gives you better skin. (More glow) (And it's not love. It's Dove. Pfffbbt)

Quality of Life: 5/10

Fun at Work: 7/10

Life Span: 5/10

Swaggah: 2/10

If I were Tulsi (you know.. from Kyunki...) Or Parvati Or Kusssuum Or Any woman unfortunate enough to star in any soap on hindi television as a bahu

So actually it'd not be that bad, if you think of it. I mean, I'd have all the jewellery in the world and the makeup- seriously- they are caked! I wouldn't have to worry about money or 9 to 5 of work. Husband will be out of the picture pretty much during the whole show and it'll just be us girls- you know, saasoo ma, baa, nanad, jethaani etcetera. Fun shall be had, gossip shall be shared, eyebrows- strike that- eyebrow- shall be raised, sinister music played in the background, a whole bunch of tumney yeh kiya- nahin maine yeh nahin kiya- ye usney kiya- bahooo, humaare ghar mein log aisi baatein nahin kartey- and naaaahiiiiin(s)!!!!. Thaalis shall fall and Ramu kaka shall come clean the mess and Rohan baba will miss school and before you know it, the serial will move forward twenty years, with zero upgrade in technology, fashion or storyline. And Rohan baba has now grown up and likes the evil zamindaar ki laundi jiski shaadi has been fixed with tehsildaar's son, but then they run away and the evil stepbrother brings them back and ends up marrying the girl himself. Then he goes and gets power of attorney to take over the kaarobaar. Baba dies of the sadmaa not bardaashting and dies a slow painful- 2 episode covering- death. And then 2 more episodes for the funeral- and yeh tumney kiya- nahin yeh maine nahin kiya- phew- sum toto- I kill the evil step son, win the TRP war, gain twice my weight and enter politics.

Quality of Life: 9/10

Fun at Work: 10/10

Life Span: Ha! Really?

Swaggah: Hard to do in those designer saaris. But alas, I abla nari. I sacrifice.

(In Dedication to Twilight running on my TV set right now) If I were a Vampire

I mean- you gotta admit- those vampires are one good lookin' bunch. Yeah, little emaciated, but dude- that hair. Just for that. And of course that immortality shit. 

But they actually have the wussiest ways to die- Like, really. Garlic. Ew. Holy Water. How uninspiring. Staked with a cross. uh. Silver Bullet. Yeeeeeaaah- that's ok. Not to mention you can't enter a place till you are invited and that coffin sleepy thing is just downright creepy. 

On the plus side though. The looks. And well...actually thats that. The whole body issue thing would be the same as zombie. And then there is some debate about the clairvoyance/ speed superpowers things- what can I say? I'm not a believer. But a werewolf? Bring it on. Team Taylor, FTW.

Quality of Life: 5/10

Fun at Work: 5/10

Life Span: Sigh

Swaggah: 0/10 *morose little buggers*

If I were a Weeping Angel

For any Whovian out there, you know what I’m talking about. Daleks look like cute little R2D2s in comparison.

For non- Whovians, who are wondering what a Whovian is in the first place, Weeping Angels are the funnest, creepiest (one-of) villians appearing on Dr. Who. I know i know- we covered villians already- but really these- are different sorts. And you’ll get why.

Now I happen to like angels. I mean, who doesn’t! But these angels, these angels are like, really really sad (they are weeping. duh.) And they look like this:

Which is pretty tame...unless, you blink. 

Yeah. You heard it right. You blink, and this happens:

I know. I too get the heeby jeebies. But yeah, if I gotta be a nemesis, this is the best formula- look as cute as a button and then kill those motherf***ers!

Quality of Life: 6/10

Fun at Work: 8/10

Life Span: 6/10

Swaggah: *what swag?*

Sigh. This was fun. But the road is long and something something and I gotta be somewhere n stuff.

Of Feelings and Such....

I think today I encountered the most existential question I've faced in a long long time....

Is it better to be a zombie?

No emotions. Check

No hurt. Check

Single minded (pun intended) focus. Check

Fashion sense not required. Check

Limited vocabulary. Check

Ergo- sense of humor not required. Check. 

No familial equations...so no relatives. Check. Check. 

Nobody asking you to get married. Check. 

Or have babies. Check. 

No bad hair days. Check. 

No Monday mornings. Hell yeah!

You eating brains vs brains eating you. Check check f***ing check

Note: What happens when the zombies don't get brains to eat? They are already dead right? Damn. 

Immortality. Check. 

Sigh. Totally better to be a zombie. Patient zero, anyone? 

Avengers: The Questions

So.... Didn't Thor end with a loss of connection between Asgard and earth? Exactly how did he reach earth to form Avenger then? And then, Hulk (smash!) is out of control one moment and completely in control the next? How does that work, really? How, I ask...How?

Places I Gotta Visit: Jamaica

Concerning Words...

Music can bring up some amazing memories....there are haunting melodies and then there are words.

I wanted this post to be about lyrics..but the more I write, the more I want to talk about Helen Keller. She couldn't hear, speak or talk. That was her world.

What was her world? Are you sad if you don't know what you are feeling is sad? There were no words. Never before have I felt gratitude so intense than when imagining my life through her lens.

“Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.”

I was reading her book- The Story of My Life...and when she talks about her discovery of language, my heart burst open. Literally. Like there was blood spatter everywhere.

Ok. Figuratively. But it did.

We take our words for granted. Our language for granted. Our thoughts for granted. Not knowing how much to be utterly grateful for. I remember reading this quote somewhere that says (in a nutshell) say whatever you want, but you can't say anything other than who you are. Made me wonder who I am and what words am I using. What am I reinforcing? By saying that I'm sad, am I acknowledging the truth or reinforcing it? And if I then say that I'm happy instead, am I just living in denial? Sometimes, I just want to take my brains out and stomp on them just to make them feel what it's like. This mental stomping. A mishmash of tapping and paso doble. 

Sigh. Anyways, going back to Helen Keller. She was one smart woman. And she writes so well. This gift...gift to put your words exactly like so...that makes complete and utter sense. That tells you so succinctly, so precisely, that this was the thought that would forever define that particular experience. And no other. Like every time I stand on a roof top, near the edge, I can't help but quote Gaiman- for he stole my thoughts perfectly- I'm not scared that I'd fall....I'm scared that I'll want to jump. For that's what it feels like. That subtle itch that wants me to fly. Just fly. And just for those precious few seconds know my true nature. 

I'm not the one for fancy words, or detailed prose. Yet as simple it may be, Vikram Seth in all his glory or Rumi with his heart (all heart...his writing is all heart) is something that reels me in and keeps me there. On the tenterhooks, waiting for the sky to fall and this illusion to shatter. That this feeling will go away and will be replaced by the reality. I can feel it now...like part exhilaration and part numbness. Like meditation... 

I'm not sure how to end this. This commentary on thoughts and words. I'm not even sure how it came about...but here's a lovely thought by Ms Keller to hold me by...

“I wonder what becomes of lost opportunities? Perhaps our guardian angel gathers them up as we drop them, and will give them back to us in the beautiful sometime when we have grown wiser, and learned how to use them rightly.”

Sigh. Beautiful sometime. You see? Sigh. What words....

Love this new App....

Still I Rise: Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Chromatic Aberration

Red. 

Like when the sun sets, you know, and for that one moment, the sky turns into this molten mix of red, orange, blue and purple? That red. And it's all I see- that bare tree, covered in red. In the midst of all the greenery around it, it's browns and red set it apart- standing out among the crowd. As the bus heads closer to it, I can make out the flowers- as big as my hands. 

Grey. A bird shoots past my window, and all of a sudden, my gaze is drawn to the sky- the scatter of the birds...drawn towards the pavement littered with seeds.Smoothly landing down to the ground, only to effortlessly lift off again. 

Brown. A child runs through the flock, scattering the pigeons. His smile taking over his dark face, a face full of unbridled joy...a joy that makes him forget the cold or the lack of his clothes. Close by, his mother washes the utensils, her dupatta niftily caught between her teeth. Orange. A contrast against her dark sun burnt skin. I see it fall out of her mouth as she looks up and calls out to her son. He shakes his head and continues frolicking... running across the road with reckless abandon as only people his age have the confidence to do.

The bus stops at the red light. This couple on the scooter...it's evident they've been fighting. Pink. Her tender face is flushed with the color, her eyes shining brightly with unshed tears. She looks around...anywhere but at him. He, who sits ignorant of the turmoil in her heart, facing onwards...and she, facing sideways. Her hands gripping her purse tightly, her body stiff and unbending to avoid contact. She turns and smiles at something... something in the car adjacent to her. One chubby little fist appears in my vision.

The light changes. The bus chugs on, it's mind number pitter patter restored. I close my eyes a bit..If I squint, I can make out a flurry of colors- blue, red, green, white- with my unfocused eyes. Like a camera, you know, if you keep the shutter open.

Yellow. The pale high walls keeping the secrets safe. We are there already. 

I run my hand through my hair and get off the bus. Green. I take my slippers off and walk through the grass. It is still wet from the morning dew. The soles of my feet stirring, as if with new found life. With each step, the ground seems to be reaching up, as if wrapping my feet in its roots, making me stay a little longer. The breeze is light as it rustles my hair. Blue. The color of the sky almost unreal.

Khaki. He's covered from head to toe in it, pride emanating from his stance. I catch his eye...Hazel eyes meet hazel eyes. Unsure, unhinged. He looks the same as the day he was born. Brown. His short hair. Wheat. His skin. Grey. His first scar. Gold. His mother's chain. My gaze breaks as I'm escorted up the stairs. Gentle hands, praying lips, fluttering eyes. It's put around my neck. I can feel the rough fibres lightly scraping my skin. 

Black. They've covered my face with a cloth. I can hear my own breath, my heartbeat in my ears, the blood coursing through my veins. Somebody coughs. I can hear them shuffling. I hear the thud as the plank beneath me gives way to empty air.

White.

Staying Current :)

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now.
Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
- Sylvia Plath

The Year that Will Be...

Fearless and Adventurous.

Of courage and daring. And doing things anyways.
Of truth and love. Even with self. Absolutely with self.
Of being. Just being.
And happiness. Not letting go of a single opportunity to smile. And smile I shall. :) through and through.

Happy 2013 me! And Lord knows it'll be happy, you lucky dope, you!

A Rant. Not Much.

I don't remember much of my school days. In fact, there was probably nothing memorable about them at all. I went through it all in a daze of naivete, in my own little world, head in books, feet on clouds.

From what I hear now, I was blessed.

Yesterday, I read Amanda Palmer's blog that introduced me to Amanda Todd. My heart broke. BROKE. And then, today morning, the ghastly news about the Ohio Twitter Rape thing. In light of what's happening in our country- this seems right on par. And yet I realize...

Actually, I don't.

I don't get the judgments. I don't get the hatred. And I don't get this bullying.

For what? If you feel compassion for the rapist, feel it. There's nothing wrong with it. But why does compassion for one turn into hatred for the other? Is it because in each of those five men, you see yourself reflecting? Or is it to justify to your loved ones that you won't be able to save them when the time comes? What is it about human nature that makes us feel better after making someone feel worse? Slut. It's so easy to call someone that. To brand them. That does not replace the word 'human' though. Same feelings. Same life. I remember the saying- Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but words shall never hurt me. Sometimes, they hurt more.

I heard that the girl in the DPS MMS scandal had to relocate to USA to get away from everything. I wish the boys, who had perpetrated that crime against her, would also HAVE to relocate. I wish that everyone who circulated that clip for their or others' amusement, when they see their mothers and their sisters and maybe tomorrow, their daughters, they realize, if at least for a second, realize what they did and repent.

I'm not a commodity. To be given away by my father, protected by my brother and handed over to a husband. Sometimes I feel like never entering a kitchen- not because I can't cook- but just to spite the macho men on TV these days who proudly say that it is where I belong. I don't even know if I want to marry.

I see it. I hear it. I ignore it. I keep my car doors locked. I shy away from arguing with louts. I look down and walk fast. I don't enter crowds. Not even at temples. I SMS my parents the cab details when I get in. And I talk with them on the phone to let the driver know that they know. I'm not on Facebook. I am loathe to put any of my photos online because I know that they may be misused. Friends or not. I don't go for late night shows. I don't go partying. I don't go clubbing and I always try to get home before sun down.

I also don't curse- because I've realized that at the receiving end of most curses is a woman. Even when you curse a man.

Who am I to judge though? I've done it too. And not just to women. To friends and foes. Whomsoever it was, I'm sorry. I truly am.

So, to all people- men and women- like Baba Ramdev and Asaram Ji- may you be blessed with a woman's perspective in some other life. Till then, it's just tilting at the windmills.

Warm Bodies

“I would like to end it here. How nice if I could edit my own life. If I could halt in the middle of a sentence and put it all to rest in a drawer somewhere, consummate my amnesia and forget all the things that have happened, are happening, and are about to happen. Shut my eyes and go to sleep happy.”

I remember this one day a few months back. I was at my home in Bangalore, alone, in my balcony. I had just finished talking to my folks. It was dusk and raining lightly. I remember breathing in that beautiful rainy scent, feeling the light breeze on my face and sighing. And as I sat on the parapet, I remember thinking- This. This is how my life should be. Perfect. Happy. Content. And if I could pause my life here, at this point. I'd be done.

“You should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. Memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident.”

And somehow, memory of that night is still fresh in my mind. Because I decided. I decided that night, that tomorrow, come what may, I'll remember this. This perfect moment. And smile. That decision has kept me in good stead thus far.

Isn't it amazing when an author takes your thoughts and describes it perfectly on the page in front of you?

I never thought I would be waxing eloquent about a book on a 'Zombie' romance. I mean, I can quote 1984, or Metamorphosis or Murakami, even Lord of the Rings, (and I admit, at times, Harry Potter), but really, a zombie romance? I thought all they did was grunt and groan 'Brrrrrrraaaaaaiiiiiinsss' (Atleast that's what Plant Vs Zombies would have me believe) and did I not spend hours- yes, hours- mercilessly (ok- not mercilessly) killing zombies in that very game? (Just so that I could take the screenshot of the last winning screen and send the same to Suds to showcase my ultimate zombie killing prowess). In fact, to be honest, I'm not even done reading that book- Yup- I'm like, half way through. But its got me thinking. Thinking, pausing, pondering, & going back...

Maybe I'll write more when I'm done...