Random thoughts...

When I moved out of my house a year back, I packed a few dresses, kitchen utensils, and a few essentials...All that fit into two small bags...When I got onto the waiting bus, the conductor grabbed my baggage and effortlessly shoved them under a seat. 20 years of existence packed into just two bags. I strangely felt offended. For a minute it seemed like I was the one being shoved.

It also fetched me the revelation that; all I ever owned was in those bags. I felt eerily buoyant. I felt there was nothing to hold me back, except maybe a pair of bags. I immediately text messaged my silver-lining to one of my friends, who asked me to stop the drama..., and the same friend, just a few days before, said he wanted to get rid of all his belongings and carry only a pair of bags, before he left India for good. With the beach sand dancing to the music of the waves at my feet, I could only muster a weak smile. How things you say come right back to you :)

It would be nice to leave the world beholden to nothing.

Unrelated thought: I am listening to Cliff Richard's 'Theme for a dream', and it sounds exactly like 'pal pal pal' from Munnabhai MBBS 2. Disgusting!!!

The sound of music...

My iPod usually decides my mood for the day. Sometimes it is the guttural John Denver with his 'You fill up my senses', or BJ and her classic Bharathiyar song 'Suttum vizhi chudaar dhaan kannama'. On other days it is ARR's 'Luka Chuppi' or my new found favorite astapathi, 'Rathisukasaare'.

But today started with the racy 'Nakka Mukka'. :)... Please listen to understand how it feels to get jerked out of sleep!! It admonishes you for being in bed and gives you an inferiority complex with its speed. Phew!! I even got tired after watching this song on TV once.

And true to this fast paced number, it has been a crazy day :)

I voted...

I voted I voted I voted... :)

I voted for the first time in my life!!!
I saw anxious party cadres along the streets encouraging everyone to vote.
I observed burly policemen flashing mean looks inside the polling booths.
I waited under the scorching sun to have the first glimpse of an EVM.
I felt triumphant when I heard the beep of the machine after I voted.
The beep of democracy.
The beep of a bright Indian future.
The beep I was responsible for.

For the first time ever, I am proud of the dirty black mark on my index finger.
Let us make our voice count. Let us vote.

A Splendid Sunday

(Note: This was written last week. Due to time constraints and an impossible workload, here it goes…late by a week :) )

• Woke up only at 7.30 A.M.
• Watched the morning news interspersed with Tamil songs, sad VJs, and of course a hot cuppa coffee.
• Missed home and therefore coined the term ‘home-sounds’. (Home-sounds include Dad furiously devouring the newspaper. You can actually hear the segmenting of news into ‘Ignore’, ‘Bah’ and ‘Yay! Comics’ inside his brain, strains of humming from the bro-in-loo, mom’s kitchen clatter, and my own unheard complaints about the monopolization of newspapers by the male population in the house.)
• Hummed Kishore Kumar and made breakfast.
• Ate what I made (which was not what I intended to make), with Frank McCourt giving me company.
• Cleaned out cupboard amidst roomie snores and iPod songs. Found Rahul Nambiar's autograph safely tucked in between books. Removed creases and tucked it back again in between books.
• Made Rasam with Oregano seasoning I saved from Pizza corner. Roomie christened it Italian Rasam.
• Went for a play titled 'The Pregnant King' by Theatre Nisha that resulted in pointless discussions about the concepts tackled by the play, and of course tea and chutney sandwiches at dear ol' Yusuf's.
• Had yummy dinner at Bessy with a bunch of chatterboxes who refused to shut up even for a minute.
• Returned to hostel, tired, but content.

A splendid Sunday indeed…

For this is what we do...

"For this is what we do. Put one foot forward and then the other. Lift our eyes to the snarl and smile of the world once more. Think. Act. feel. Add our little consequence to the tides of good and evil that flood and drain the world. Drag our shadowed crosses into the hope of another night. Push our brave hearts into the promise of a new day. With love: the passionate search for truth other than our own. With longing: the pure, ineffable yearning to be saved. For so long as fate keeps waiting, we live on. God help us. God forgive us. We live on."
- Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts.

And thus ends Shantaram, undoubtedly one of the best books I have read. It is of the kind that grips you until the very end and makes you feel upset when it is over. It bubbles with enthusiasm, despairs in search of life, preaches philosophy, destructs conformist premises, dilutes beliefs, and finally ends in hope.

India, as one of my friends, D, said ‘is the only country foolish enough to glorify and cherish convicts". Shantaram pretty much proves that point.

I enjoy

• Examining my fingers after a long bath. The fading wrinkles on the fingers effortlessly forward me to the way they would permanently look in future.
• Watching the languid bus depot from my bedroom window, enjoying the breeze playing on my hair, till I feel a tinge of pain on my nose after pressing it too hard against the iron grills.
• The irrepressible tears that come out involuntarily after listening to 'Kwaja mere kwaja' from Jodha Akbar and BJ's ' Bhavayaami Gopalabalam' set in the Yemen Kalyani raaga.
• The relief and gratefulness for the first serve of food on a grumbling empty stomach.
• Taking a quiet walk from Bessy to Adyar any day, any time.
• The divinity of a roadside makeshift temple.
• The references that I unconsciously make to my own life while reading a book.
• Lethargically turning my head in response to the wave of fresh cool air in the office atrium.
• Walking home through the chaos and confusion of a busy road.
• Nostalgia when shopping at Nilgiris that plays Kishore Kumar songs on a full blast.
• Loneliness at the relative quiet of my apartment after I shut the door.
• Brimming tears after spicy Sāmbhar at the Murugan Idly shop.
• Heaviness after crushed expectations.
  I enjoy :)

A killer instinct

I shuddered when I saw blood. Dripping nonchalantly from the table to the white marble floors in a haunting rhythm...I saw blood.

Reaching for the end of my duppata, draped neatly around my neck, I covered the velvety spots that were becoming bigger by the minute. The knife that had effortlessly cut the veins looked at me accusingly.

The cotton cloth soon lapped up the blood in a parasite-like frenzy and asked for more. Shivering and afraid, I rushed to the nearest wash. As the first stream of cold water hit my wrists, a surge of pain traveled across my body and I arched in agony. Sweat, tears, water and blood filled the wash, creating arbitrary patterns on the smooth ceramic.

Willing the flow to stop, I opened the tap to its fullest. I could suddenly feel my knees going weak. I clutched the wash tightly to steady myself. The ceramic gave way and I caught hold of the stairway banister just in time to cushion my fall. I looked back at her.

She was still sitting where I had left her. It had hurt me. Didn’t it hurt her too? It made me retch. Didn’t she feel like throwing up? When I cut my wrists I screamed. Didn’t it wound her too? How would I know? She didn’t say a thing. I could feel the knife as it cut my hand. Didn’t she feel it too? Why didn’t she tell me if it hurt her? Her eyes that were perpetually set in a meek surrender looked at me even now. A spurt of anger surmounted me. Why couldn’t she react? Why didn’t she protest? Why didn’t she shout? Why on earth did she have to be so good? Even when the knife drew meticulous lines of precision across her neck, she didn’t tell me a thing.

How could she tell me? I had gagged her before I killed.