Friday, April 27, 2007


Look mommy... I got tagged!

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.

Left knee... playing hide-n-seek... crawling around parked cars... the sharp edge of a number plate sliced my not-so-tender hide.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
A huge map of the world... hung by daddy dearest for reasons known best to him... a framed image of a 4-year-old Anki splashing around in the Deeng nadi... another framed image of my late grandfather... seriously... shall I even go on with this boring list... the walls are bland but da crib aint'...

3. What does your phone look like?
Scratched black Nokia 62 something something... bah

4. What music do you listen to?
Bhojpuri rock

5. What is your current desktop picture?
This random fashion portrait

6. What do you want more than anything right now?

The red nano!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
I believe in everybody's freedom to be gay/bi-sexual/curious... but I don't believe in marriage... so where does that leave me?

8. What time were you born?
8:24 am... not that I see why anybody would want to know that unless you are my astrologer... in that case I am mithun rashi... garn mushak... gotra Bharadwaj... oh stop reading you fools.

9. Are your parents still together?
Finally they are... phewww

10. What are you listening to?
Diary of Jane (acoustic) by Breaking Benjamin

11. Do you get scared of the dark?

12. The last person to make you cry?

13. What is your favorite perfume/cologne?
Err.. PP said I should write Euphoria by CK to look all cool you know... but no puffs for me... except something called Jaipur that I use when I wear a sari... only countless assorted and colourful deos picked up at airports... but ooooooooooh... Deep Blue on men turns me on!

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Brown eyes... till they almost seem golden like whiskey and they split into little specks of green visible only to me.

15. Do you like pain killers?
No jee... I only like the Killers.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Not shy... too proud

17. Favorite pizza topping?
Pasta is my thing... not pizza... but I guess lots of extra sausages will do.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Oh baby that pasta with loads and loads and loads of bacon at Big Chill.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
Sigh*... blog does not boast of anonymous status... besides speculation should only be reserved for the futures market and so maybe you should short sell 60,000 pounds of pork... it will surely make your broker mad.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
Sigh*... blog does not boast of anonymous status... but who the hell do you think caused Justin and Cameron to split!

Well... Scout already tagged Big Eyed Fish (happy!) and Blow... so incase Arvind, Renovatio, Dude and Vibhanshu happen to see this... consider yourself to be the not-so-lucky ones.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


I am not cribbing or trying to prove that I am the Queen of Sheba, but I was called aunty!!!
This Killers syndrome is getting to me. First a tiny little dumb-head kid starts making cute faces at me, to which his dad turns around and looks at me, only to say...

"Say hello to aunty."
Ya right, look to the right, the wifey is the aunty not me.

And then, I screeched my car to a halt and did not run-over two school going jocks (read idiots) crossing the road with their eyes shut, only to hear them politely say,
"Sorry aunty."
Should have just run them over. What breed of aunties wear skinny jeans... not to mention I was dating your kind a year ago.

I simply refuse to grow up. Come what may, no one can make me a year older or younger anymore. I know it’s my disoriented karma teaching me a lesson. Eversince I have accepted that my karmic wheel is spinning towards evil town, I have been on a cleansing trip. As part of renunciation and revival plan, I shall publicly accept my past sins and face the music hoping all along it’s not Buddha Lounge.

I am not a particularly bad person. It’s not like I have killed someone except maybe that one dead dog I ran over, but it was dead and I was drunk which left neither of us with any means of escaping. Ok, I have committed more than my fair share of lustful sins given there is no love, only lust baby! but atleast gluttony can be safely restricted to demanding extra nuts and chocolate sauce for my hot chocolate fudge. Fine I am greedy, but only when I had to share Maggi noodles with my brother, which forced me to spit in my larger portion thus preventing any forms of rebellion or protests in the name of equality, liberty and fraternity. Pride is no sin and should be bought to the notice of the Vatican since they take pride in their catholic notions as well, and I don’t know the rest of the deadly sins, so you will all agree that I am a good person with an acceptable number of chinks in the armour.

But yes, I have committed some grave acts of treachery, burglary and well that’s it.

I still carry around a pint of guilt since the day I pretended to not be home, while my Mathematics tutor stood outside in the scathing sun. I figured that since mother dearest is not there, I can shamelessly ignore the door bell for 5 minutes and he will leave. But, just my luck, this man represented the epitome of patience and was determined to introduce me to imaginary numbers that hot April afternoon. So he relentlessly kept ringing the doorbell for 40 minutes. There was noway I could continue sleeping which was the sole reason behind ignoring the doorbell and the prospect of mother returning and exposing my hoax made it worse and so I decided that if caught I can always pretend to have accidentally consumed a bottle of vinegar and passed out. Finally, the tutor, who had travelled far and wide in the unforgiving Delhi summer sun, left, only to return the next day for another torturous class extended to a 2-hour long irrational number's marathon. Might I add that these hours of mis-education were interspersed with me having to watch my tutor dig his ears and roll the semi-solid green sebaceous lubricant he managed to extract into tiny balls or chapattis and swallow it.

I feel guiltier for cheating an innocent hard-working ice cream man, nine years ago, when I knowingly ran up a credit of 32 rupees. He blindly trusted regular customers like me and never saw those 32 rupees as my family shifted out the next day to a new locality. I hope he forgave the orange-candy addict which might help me balance my bad karma.

And finally, the crime of the 90s decade – I never returned several books (ok...Archie comics) belonging to the neighbourhood library. When the librarian, the friendly Mr. Lepcha with a very misplaced sense of authority decided to harass me by demanding the 170 rupees fine and the lost books, I was left with no choice but to plan a shameful yet crafty act of vandalism. So while Lepcha was busy flushing out miscreants pretending to play hide-n-seek in the library, I stole the library register and tore out the page assigned to the Sharma family. But Lepcha was not as dense as I assumed him to be, and as he chased me through badminton courts, the auditorium, a park, breaking through gossipy aunty club, the evidence was chewed and digested and Lepcha's dignity forced him to forget the incident.

Do come back for the next instalment -- crimes of passion.

Saturday, April 21, 2007


as i lay there playing dead
time infested bleeding scars
being watched by millions
who traveled across the dunes
deserts of nothingness
breeze so morose
the chants getting stronger
"Wake up! Wake up!"
I raise myself to peer
only to shudder at the magnitude
of pleasure everybody derived
when I lay there playing dead but did not die

- PP

Wednesday, April 18, 2007


“But... where do I... yes that street …. no… uh….”

Her white shirt, drenched in the sweat of her fear, stuck to her back like a charm and sent frigid chills down her spine. She was winning the chase and those unknown faces, haunting her could not find her in the labyrinth of streets and shops. If only she knew where this place was, she could emerge from the maddening maze of the crowded chaotic colony of lamas, children, pebbles, all swimming together in a blurry of fantasy unknown.

“ You can’t emerge.”

Another unknown voice bellowing from nowhere confirmed her fears.

“Look around… they will keep coming.”

“But… who?”

“Everyone selling ornaments… red ornaments”

One narrow path branched into four more, each proliferating into hundreds, maybe thousands. Each lined with vapid smiles of lamas draped in red robes, selling ornaments from centuries ago.

Saturday, April 14, 2007


and they all lost the key
hidden in the clay of tomorrow
waiting to be found forever

broken to not be without
sorrows for religion amiss
and how they all lost her key


destiny became euphoric miracles
jasmine smells and his legend
escaping dark rains with severe miles
love surrenders to bathe him clean

Tomorrow comes and so does desire
never told them so but was too clever
wine and tales with her beautiful smiles
and emptiness inside to burn the nights

He loved her solitude but not enough
to stop growing and wiping them clean
voices screamed pretty victory Alex
while he buried his key

Monday, April 09, 2007


Lately a passing remark made by a dear friend of mine has left me distraught and remorseful.

My blissful and generally joyful existence received a rude shock when PP said,

"... waiting on some beautiful boy you from old ways...
... the song reminds me of you"

The fact that I will sell my brand new pair of awesome denims to see the Killers perform this very song, has left me feeling worse eversince this harmless comment was directed at me.

The profound nature of such remarks perhaps escapes the orator itself, but it haunts the audience throughout the weekend and the alcohol-washed blood stream makes you believe that you have indeed become the song.

And so I can't believe I can be a song called "when you were young" ... errr... 21 is still considered young in certain not-so-civilised parts of the world.

Perhaps it means, that I will never date Jesus ... or that I will marry a fifty year old Mexican and serve tequilas to American outlaws.

And this takes me back to the age I first believed...

I could be a song.

At thirteen it was "heaven". Why? I was the girl who used to say goodnight to a Leonardo di Capricorn's poster... what do you expect?

Next, quite a few teenage years have blanked out. I have no idea why? But the one song I can remember is "Drops of Jupiter", which ended up becoming my password and is probably still to some ancient mail ids I don't remember even exist.

At sixteen it was "Stop crying your heart out" which got me through calculus and brilliantly boring summer vacations spent figuring out the number of A's I could visualise within the geometrical shapes that comprised iron-grills in the basement's skylight.

At seventeen came "Yellow" -- the one song I truly believed was secretly written for me, for I was destined for greatness and the song was to celebrate my most glorious moment as well as play at my funeral. Who knew the invitee list mourning at my funeral will change within the next three years, and so will the song. Atleast I was no longer killing houseflies in the basement, rather splattering 32 mosquitoes all over a single yellow wall in my room, till the parents decided to poison me with All-out and white-wash the wall.

And then came, "Run" at eighteen; the last year of my life when I could proudly boast of possessing more depth than the Mariana trench and the word pussy was still an adorable reference to members of the cat family. I would sit for hours and imagine what the music video must be like, and then I just got down to imagining my own versions, till I saw the real one, only to realise, my version was better.

Then there were some brief interruptions in the form of "Broken wings", " Goodnight kiss", "Supergirl" and "So sick", but none could be worthy of becoming myself.

If at all "when you were young" were to take the honours, then I'd rather go deaf.

Its April.
Summer is here.
The harmless remark is eating up my insides.

At twenty-one, I am no song.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Where goes?

goes on

day by day

on and on

days to years

goes on

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


I must have gone crazy or maybe I'm my own worst nightmare, but my playlist has Justin Timberlake and Ne-Yo giving The Killers and Snow Patrol company. It's not my fault if Justin managed to hire the best songwriters, composers, designers and Scarlett Johansson!!! I am as vulnerable to pop culture as I am to influenza.

I spent the previous week marooned in a Middle Eastern desert sleeping and eating and pondering and musing, which is where the problem really lies. But I learnt some basic truths of life and humanity and junk food, the most important one being that eventhough this blog is about my notions -- they hardly find a mention.

My experiment with manual focus

So the unfortunate internet surfer who has navigated himself to reach here will now know why I started writing this blog?

And the perfectly boring answer is, "I gotta write somewhere since there is no more journalism school left to attend". It was a stupid experiment meant to cure my insomnia and seasonal unemployment. And today, I have realised that there better be some notions peculiar to the narcissist author of this webpage, or else put on adsense and make 5 cents every year.

It turns out I have slightly dented my dislike for personal posts and I will enlighten strangers with the ethereal and enigmatic view of the world I acquired lying on several beds and this one was conjured floating on an oil bed.

Bush's experiment with exported democracy

Popular culture manages to invade you without prejudice or offence and I so I have decided to blame the recent addition of subcutaneous lipid cells to my baa-deee, on my misled sympathy for dethroned pop princesses aka Miss Spears. I have resolved to not watch movies without subtitles as Syriana felt like it felt when the Egyptian carpet seller was talking to me over tea or shaeee! Anyway I got a fake crystal Egyptian artefact to show for my multicultural experience.

Also that the pack of potato chips will bloat up to the size of a pillow at 37,000 meters above mother Earth and there is no way you can burst it open without risking a bomb scare. I realised I should not tamper with bloated potato chips or fate and let the friendly airline crew assign me any seat they want; else you end up sitting behind two extremely gorgeous masterpieces sculpted by the creator and not between them. However, next I realised that gorgeous Arabian hot-boys are masters at the art of flirting through the gaps between seats and seducing girls off airplanes into their city without that stupid little piece of paper called a visa. And soon enough I realised the absence of that piece of stamped paper, but not without inviting everyone behind us in the aisle to give me the dirtiest look previously reserved for George Bush, so much so that one fine gentleman tripped on his robe during the designated dirty look exercise. And the thing that everyone knows but denies, has finally hit me -- money buys happiness. But it comes with a disclaimer: ignorance has to be added to the recipe and there is no end to your joys. Shucks, once again I am resigned to a lifetime of discontent.

My notion of freedom

So I am way off the point here (wasn't this about Justin?), but its my first attempt at writing something that is not prose or poetry, fiction or fact, but then again this place was always an experiment and here is another one for no one to judge or disregard.

I might get better at it since I still have my viciousness intact as sometimes I revisit my real self, the one that I proudly claim to be a sold-out pathetic shadow of, and so I will write what was meant for this place and not my thoughts.

My view from the window