Bonjour, Bonsoir, and Seriously Starstruck on the Promenade

SwatKat and I headed for a half day to Pondicherry. It was purely official, much in contrast to my usual Pondy sojourns-she was receiving her carte de sejour (I don't even know if it's the correct one but I just had to use that phrase somewhere). At this moment she is in the process of fulfilling her most heartfelt dream: Paris.

So, we set forth enveloped in a sort of afternoon calmness. The AC temperature was just right. Someone else was driving. Her mum was chaperoning us. The drive was smooth, the snacks just adequate enough, and Pondy was before us even before we knew it.


Ahhh Pondy in August, Pondy in the evening, Pondy in the breeze and amidst clouds and amidst a sense of bliss both around and within. There was just something in the air. Something I had experienced only once before here, during my first (conscious) visit to the town-the relaxed vibe, the living history in the colonial facades, and the sea, oh the glorious sea. And since SwatKat was looking at these things properly for the first time, I saw them all anew as well.

Passepartout (heh!) in her hand, her gorgeously addictive DSLR in mine, we prepared ourselves to wander. After drooling over three cuddling puppies on the pavement, I was determined to show her the famed cafe, the one with the impeccable service (Refer previous post 'December '10-January '11 Part One: Funny').

A bunch of tourists popped out of a cab in front of us. The group included one tall friendly looking young man whom I exchanged a vague smile with. After walking ten steps, SwatKat squeals and informs me that that was Kunal Kapoor.

Now everyone who's seen Rang De Basanti has crushed on (guilty as charged) the handsome and talented actor who plays a sensitive, sweet artist. Some straight boys I know too. But there's more to Kunal Kapoor in my perspective. From what I've seen and read, he seems to me the Real Thing-humble and genuine. I also heard he flies planes. So, he's cool. But not just for that. My serious obsession has been with the song 'Chinnamma Chilkamma'. As you know, I'm half-Telugu and fully uninitiated with Andhra music save a few ancient songs my father makes me seek out and of course the power-packed, masaledaar 'Ringa Ringa' (NOT the Hindi version). But 'Chinnamma Chilkamma' introduced me to the coolness of (half my) roots. It has verve. It has attitude. It has SWAG. And thus embodies the very essence of my ideal item number in my head. The kind I want to dance to on my birthday in my drawing room to scores of imaginary screaming fans. And my Mum.

So naturally the performer in said song is one to be saluted, fake badness and all.

Anyway, back to Pondicherry. SwatKat and I are walking about near the rocky beach, on the pavement, she trying to convince me that that was Kunal Kapoor and I, without my glasses, insisting on sure proof. When one wanders without glasses, one routinely waves at the wrong people or ignores the right ones. (Bipasha Basu shares this syndrome-the non-glasses wearing. She believes in imagining people to be more beautiful than they actually are. So, I'm in good company). Hence, I was for a moment doubtful that we would have gone and said "Hi, Kunal" to Ishant Sharma or something. (Not that they really look alike, but you know what I mean).

After a lot of pacing and debating (and some intermittent photo taking. The boardwalk looked BREATHTAKING-all golden hued and glorious) we found our feet shifting towards where Kunal Kapoor was. He was finally standing alone and not surrounded by the gang of all hep, cool, totally intimidating people. Mumbling a few hellos, me going "We're fans", we got our picture taken (by his considerate friend). We had a conversation, er, okay, four deep meaningful lines, about the weather, Pondy, his reason for being there, his hair, etc. Whew.

The picture has turned out pretty sad. He's not smiling, my eyes are closed, SwatKat could look better. But it's not about that.

When your heart wants to do something and your mind goes "Umm...Ah...Well..You see...", just go do it. Stop thinking sometimes. You could lose a moment.

The service was great at the cafe. Amazing. SwatKat took a million brilliant pictures of me and I was in photo heaven too-her, the yellow walls, the sea, snap, snap, snap. The ride back was one of high-ness, heartfelt conversation, lots of music-fueled discussions and bittersweet feelings of saying goodbye to someone you've grown addicted to because they jump into your reclusive life and fill it with noise, nonsense, beauty and love, love, simple love.

The height of achievement would be to look over your shoulder at the end of each day and simply say, "I lived". You squeezed the honey or the lemon juice out of the big mixed up fruit that is life. You maximised it. Your hair wasn't perfect but you danced. You made a big red balloon of your heart and set it free to fly across the blue skies. Now. Now. Only now matters. No regrets of the past and only hopes from future.

So I'll tell Kunal Kapoor about my fondness for 'Chinnamma Chilkamma' next time. Heehee.

Un Momento

There's a vaguely-coloured butterfly air-skipping out in the verendah in the sopoforic heat.
My Mum finds a pair of binoculars and peers at me from across the room. I love her when she's off-centre.
My father's TV's on and comments blare about Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's body language at a recent press conference. My father watches blissfully, his own commentary running in his mind which he will soon disclose to me. I can always count on him to update me when am not in the mood for the newspaper.
There are friends on my phone, friends in my email, friends loving, liking, friends I don't need right away but who comfort by simply existing. Nusaa, hello :)
Right now, I'm checking out Jamie Woon on youtube. I say 'Night Air' is my song, dark and delicate but you know what? Daytime isn't so bad.

In Memoriam: The Girl with the Pearl Smile

There was this girl we all knew. Or at least we thought we did. She was sweetness and light, sugar and spice, all things nice. Really. She drove the boys crazy with her feminine charm and glam all the while seeming like she had no clue about it. Girls just loved her and wanted to protect and mother her. She had this big kind heart-rarely speaking an ill word about anyone. She had a depth and sensibility and a disapproval of shallowness that wasn't instantly obvious. She danced, she sang-the sweetest voice you would ever hear. She had these big innocent eyes, soft cascading long hair and dewy skin. She made you think of early spring - pastels, soft winds and summer on its way. She loved the sensitive heroes of new Hindi cinema, loved songs 'Stereo Love', 'Tera Hone Laga Hoon', and 'With You'. She loved love.

Evidently, she had a winter within her too. She kept to herself, storing thoughts and feelings in inner lockers for not even her closest friends to know. People would reach out but she was private. Her emotions and her thoughts were her own. She would spend time with her friends, hours over coffee, music, movies, jokes, celebrity gossip. She would listen and soak in those of others' but no one get any closer to her. She had intense romantic thoughts, posted messages and pondered over life-openly, yet solitarily. Each one of us has an inaccessible zone, right? An area cordoned off from public viewing. We shouldn't be intrusive. We stuck our heads around the corner, hollered offers of being right there in case she needed us and backed off. And suddenly, when we weren't looking, she just upped and left. Without a clue. Without a warning. Leaving us questioning our own values formed on privacy, friendship. Retracing our steps to before that fateful night. Hadn't we tried? How close was too close? Could we have 'saved' her?

Questions, hypothetical, rhetorical questions ring out. In the company of friends and also when we're alone. Thinking back to times when we've all felt helpless and sad in the bottom of the well. Times when we've wanted to hurt ourselves physically and hurt those around us emotionally, just because we have so much heavy sorrow that we cannot lift out of our hearts. Times when friends have consciously or inadvertently stuck out a hand and pulled us back into the blindingly beautiful life-this form that we're supposed to fill out, living through the boxes, filling in the blanks and maybe drawing in the margins, too.

Maybe we aren't supposed to leave our friends be. Maybe we're meant to grab them, shake them, make them believe that life is worth living for-that no matter what happens, however humiliating, frustrating, depressing, if they just lean on us a bit longer, it'll be okay. The clouds won't part and the fog won't lift immediately, but just wait it out and see. Fight those dark forces who don't deserve a nanosecond of your time and see. There's so much ache out there, but there's so much thrill too.

Our 'Golden Girl' has gone away. When she was here, she taught us about beauty and grace. With her passing, perhaps, we should learn to not hold back. To love and be loved, to hold hands, hold out and hold on.

Yercaud

Yercaud, with friends, was to me all about loungy days spent cuddled up under quilts in my friend Princess's getaway home. Watching hours and hours of my (former) classmates's closet addiction-Korean soaps and movies. I am now a veteran of the over the top drama and high school romance of 'Boys over Flowers'. Yercaud was also all about food-proper scheduled nourishing homecooked meals that I (who are utterly accustomed to eating dinner out a minimum of three days a week or no dinner at all) found extreme hard work. Yes, unwinding was the theme of this holiday. The treks, the late night girlie conversations, the drives up and down silver lanes that seemed to vanish into misty oblivion, the endless photographs taken-all these fringed around the central activity of a lot of eat, sleep and not-so-well-deserved R 'n' R time.


An initial group of 8 of us began the getaway-from-it-all at our friend's colonial age home nestled within a sprawling estate. The sloping roofs of her house, the lived-in and personalised rooms of her and her family all added to the irreplicable hillstation charm that I've always romanticised about. The group later waned to four of us in Princess's gorgeous place-dreamily pretty with delicate curtains, cosy beds, pampering with food, and endless time and space. That's when it began raining. And we left the modern world behind. No TV, no phone battery, no electricity. Slowly my camera battery died out too. We preserved the laptop charge for intermittent midnight doses of Gu Jun Pyo's badboy attractiveness in 'Boys over Flowers'.


You know about my cravings for rain, right? Yercaud was a scene out of 'Raavan', the mist engulfing the quiet quaint hilltop town into poetry and mystery. I just HAD to take a solitary walk with an umbrella. How you perceive a place varies dramatically based on the presence of company or not. Maybe by myself I'd have some poetic, brilliant flashes of original thought. I wanted to figure out what my real perceptions were of this dreamlike setting at a time in my life free from errands or activities. My thoughts should be profound, not racked by longing for anything more because this was exactly what I'd been dreaming of for the longest time.

Or maybe that wasn't the point. Silence was easy and it just became me, like the Starsailor song.

Felicitations are in order

Happy birthday to the patron saint, benefactor and conspirator of this blog.


Happy birthday to the person who's a million miles away and whose presence is a few micrometres far.


Happy birthday to this boy who's my girl who's my kid who's my spoilt little brat brother and motherhen older sister rolled into one infuriatingly essential mix. Like Ayurvedic kashayams. Like Bio Wine. Good for health, president-award winning (scholarship winning in this case) but makes you nauseous, high, giddy yet convinced that you've been nutrient-injected at the same time.

Happy birthday to the prince whom the world is in love with, whose mind the world is curious to swipe the thoughts of and whose locked diary I am. (YES! Locked!)

Happy birthday to the best dressed, most groomed man I personally know. (I haven't met Shahid/Shah Rukh/Ranbir yet. And yes, I must confess, to the satisfaction of Drama Queen A and to the glee of His Highness, you do bear a slight resemblance to all three. Grrrr.)

Happy birthday to the cheriest, localest, shadiest character I am most my street self with. My personal clown and accomplice (especially in spying on fellow clowns. Cough, cough: Aeroplane)

Happy birthday to the person whose made me cry and made me laugh, made me happy and loved and hated and appreciated and venerated and never, ever, ever bored.

Happy birthday to the the friend in beads, the friend who heeds, the friend for whom I'm greed(y), the friend who I beat, the friend who used to eat, the friend in need, a friend truly truly indeed.

Happy birthday to you, K, always and forever.

"We always have today"

Dec'10- Jan '11- Part Two: LOVE

This post is long overdue (one month and 5 days to be exact). This post is owed to a lot of people, important people, including myself. (I can see K rolling his eyes at my narcissism).

It has not always been my dream to go to Bombay. It has been my dream to go there and celebrate in style, imbibe the Bollywood that I love. But it had been my dream for some time, owing to a long 9 year gap, to go on an aeroplane. Yes, I live in a metro. Yes to a lot of other questions. But I just hadn't been on a plane in 9 years since I flew to Delhi to see my cousins and a lot of Mughal history.

I had been ambivalent to the much-venerated spirit of Bombay, its comparisons to NYC, the horrors of 'Slumdog Millionaire' and the exotic quality of its neighbourhoods: Juhu, Bandra, Versova, Tardeo (learnt from an early exposure to MTV India and repeated filled in forms to Virgin Records in the hope of winning free Cheb Mami or Sting cassettes). I knew I would go there one day but not on what terms. My aunt and cousin invited me over but plans didn't materialise. Travelling had become scant and even my trip to Andhra in September had been a highlight of my year, a chance to celebrate Bunny's sister's engagement AND to explore my roots.

Last June, K forgot my birthday. But of course, in usual K style, he more than made up for it (even though I'd forgotten that he'd forgotten-his Mum reminded me) by firstly making my holiday extra-special by coming to his college hometown and then by giving me a gift so huge in more ways than one, in ways material and emotional. His birthday present to me was plane tickets to Bombay and a warm hospitable welcome from his London friends, the much-talked about but rarely-seen Soulgirl and Cupcake.

We set off on the early morning of the 29th, bleary and blurry-eyed, literally falling drunk due to an absolute lack of sleep. My fault, the previous night Mum, Kesh and I had stayed awake to witness my extremely haphazard and unusually disorganised packing. We met K's friend P, who also commented on my drunkenness as I stumbled through security (but I relished every minute of the intrusiveness). We got on the plane, me delighting in the movies and wide collection of music, eventually settling on guess what? Disney classics (Example: 'We Are Siamese')

I got the window seat, yay, thanks to P's thoughtfulness and barely 2 hours later, little Lego structures began to take shape before my now-alert eyes. This was a city of building blocks, much unlike the near-airport area of Chennai that's characterised by hillocks and green.

At the airport, we were greeted by these incredibly glamorous divas holding signs indicated at poking fun at K. I was all smiles, intruding upon their obviously personal bonds and memories. Aaargh what was I doing here : sleep-deprived, lumbering, unfamiliar, woozy. What soothed me was the girls' immediate warmth and effort at including me-and also their consistent pointing out of celebrity homes (Salman Khan, Farhan Akhtar, Rekha, Arjun Rampal..). My heart gave a huge smile when I spotted the word: MANNAT. Shah Rukh means something to every Indian and he means a dreamer who made his dreams come true to me. To see his home, Mannat was the physical representation of that.

We reached Soulgirl's cosy and exquisite apartment and were greeted with even more warmth and homelike affection from her mother, sister and household help. Plied with food, plumbing and soon a bed, I was soon recharged to an extent. All set to watch the culmination of the girls' four month long dance rehearsals as part of a dance troupe.

Now I love dance and watching dance too but I was not prepared for the show that I was to witness. Through a repertoire of 'Apologize', 'Behene De', 'Teri Deewani' and numerous other favourites, I sat spellbound, not wanting the show to end. Soulgirl and Cupcake are outstanding performers, each with their own unique, distinctive style and stage presence. I was completely blown away by Soulgirl's onstage electricity, not just her obvious talent and training but her sheer alive face. Her whirling like a dervish at the end of 'Teri Deewani' was nothing that I had ever seen and that too, live. To top it all, I was reduced to silent tears at a beautiful, breathtaking portrayal of the Sufi classic 'Chhaap Tilak...' by a Kathak dancer. I was touched, transported and moved beyond physicality at the utter divine love represented in that piece.

The days that followed were choc-a-bloc with activities and outings that our hosts had planned. While K and I struggled with the slow waning of tablets' after effects, we let ourselves go with the flow at the sights, sounds and very air of Bombay, this City of frenetic activity, of dreams of commercial life. What I had expected and what I experienced was very different. The air was the crisp, nostalgic air of winter sunshine and a year winding down. The place was quaint, charming, gorgeous Bandra, which to me is now synonymous with Soulgirl and Cupcake and their affection. They took us to the shopping streets of Colaba where our eyes took in the array of wares; to the most melting-in-mouth Mediterranean food (finally got rid of the taste of the inedible mezze I had here) at Moshe's, to the best Thai ever at Lemongrass, to Italian at Basilico. I want to eat that all over again.

To my delight, Bombay is composed of a lot of long drives. And someone else doing the driving! Soulgirl is as music-obsessed and invited me to play some from my phone. So we listened to Rabbi while driving down the awe-inspiring Sea Link. I took in Bombay's skyline while listening to what always reminded me of Delhi music.

New Year's eve was at a friend's farmhouse (the Bombay version of Chennai beach houses? Oh wait, they have beaches there too. And somehow, much more sea). K and I were the usual clowns, traipsing around, doing push ups, ending up fully clothed with the rest in the pool and finally freezing to insanity. In the morning, we discussed careers and how I could no longer be a rockstar. Or so he thinks.

New Year's Day was supposed to be spent with my aunt and cousin but they were recovering from the previous night so in the night we went to K's dream destination: Aer where we took in 30+ storey views of the sparkling lights of a Bombay New Year's Night. We then went to someplace I liked more: Trilogy where I danced danced danced absolutely sober and absolutely high on music. I loved that DJ and would've told him so if my brand new heels weren't all twisted out of shape and I had to dance barefoot.

But Bombay to me wasn't clubs, food or the Ambanis' 800 million dollar bombproof, Domino's encased building. Bombay to me is the precious multi-hued Arabian Sea sunsets I witnessed from Soulgirl's gorgeous living room window, in absolute silence, with my best friend and also with people I had known for 2 days and yet felt like home. Bombay to me is me and K waving at Arjun Rampal's apartment building to tell people we waved at the actor himself. Bombay to me is getting the best blowdry ever-one that lasted-with new friends I felt I'd known forever and with an old friend who loves me so much that he took a million pictures of it from all angles. Bombay to me was the excitement me and K felt at the semi-cobblestoned roads of Bandra and Pali Hill.

Bombay is a million myriad moments, postcard worthy pictures (once Photoshopped of course), a zillion unstoppable K and me giggles triggered by single word memories, dozens and dozens of girl hugs from the most beautiful girls I've ever seen because they're stunning inside and out, the warmest welcome, care and maternal pampering from Soulgirl's parents, the total invasion of space and worktime that we did to Soulgirl's amazingly talented and instantly likeable writer sister (who gifted me a book that's automatically become one of my friends- 'The Shadow of the Wind' by Julian Carax, oops Carlos Ruiz Zafón) by occupying her and Soulgirl's heavenly room, the many phone calls I made to my cool aunt saying, yes I get what you meant about this city...

So, to me, Bombay was love. Is love.

December '10: Part One - FUNNY

The Young Man and the Sea (ah, I am so clever)

It's been almost precisely two weeks since I was in the most magical city (Bombay) so far of my travels (okay, jostling with Delhi for the no.1 spot). Two weeks since I soaked in the pleasure of wandering around a beautiful airport all by myself (only my second flight in nine years and that too, my first solo one). Two weeks since I got back home, hungover on the love and excitement and friendship that characterised the last two weeks of my December 2010. The culmination of a year of not much external change, not much internal work but still a good year, nonetheless. A nice well-rounded year ending in a ten. A year like that's got to be utilised.

There's so much that needs to be said. I haven't written in ages. I've broken a self-made rule-to write in my travel journal. And that's a rule that was kept even when I went to Pondicherry three years ago with a bunch of raucous friends. That's a rule I broke when I went to Pondicherry at the end of last year with a bunch of even more raucous friends. Can I help not writing? We stayed at a fancy, luxurious hotel thanks to Aeroplane pulling strings yet we spent nearly 70% of our time wandering the streets of the French Quarter, begging for food. Really, there is no dearth of restaurants as anyone who has visited Pondicherry might know. There is authentic French food and wine, you can smell the croissants, the cheesecake, the brownies. But sacre bleu! (corny is my style) You cannot have them.

Sample this:

We go to a cafe. K and I catch a whiff of the brownies and decide that this is it. We have to have this now or we will not leave the place. And the place is delectable in itself, ocean spray hitting our face. We're ravenous, the others not so much but we tempt them into brownies, brownies and cheesecake and whatever else is on this long, scrumptiously described menu. We go to the counter which is empty. No, table service only. We saunter back, used to the French Loaf's and the Hot Breads of our world. Okay, this won't take time.

Only..

There is only one waiter (despite the presence of other staff members behind the counter). He serves only ONE table..in entirety. From menu-giving to table-clearing. And no other table. There are nine such tables. We wait. And wait. AND REALLY WAIT. Drama Queen A begins cursing and LOUDLY. We flee in fear of our future food being poisoned.

We search some more for lunch. It's dinner time. At one point, K and I, our senses shutting down due to lack of nourishment, gallop in one last burst of energy, screaming thanks, towards a brightly lit building. Drama Queen A cracks up in the background when we upon closer inspection discover that the mirage is a boutique. Necklaces we cannot eat.

At ten in the night after a hearty meal at a good restaurant (me, the sole vegetarian did not exactly enjoy it. The canneloni was an explosion of spinach and tomato sauce and little else. But I'll applaud it for not being the dosa covered, YES DOSA-COVERED, attempt that it once was in a new Chennai restaurant. But still, the best canneloni I've had was in Little Italy, Nungambakkam, Chennai.). In a display of steadfast resolve, K dismays the gang by announcing his renewed commitment to The Place. We find an auto driver-and Pondy auto drivers are nice, especially if you compare them to waiters, actually then anyone's nice-and drive him nuts by making him drive in circles till we find the place again.

We march in, triumphant. We have outwitted the crowds, by appearing at an opportune time for dessert. There is a plethora of staff milling about, actually smiling, hey are our eyes deceiving us, smiling. We plonk down, expecting royal treatment for the persistence we have displayed. Yes, we are from Madras. The capital of this state. You'd better treat us good. Oh sheesh, you're a Union Territory. Anyway, we wait. We don't want to get up and give up the hard-won table.

Butterfly finally has the bright idea to go check where our waiter is. She is duly informed (at 10.30) that there is no service till 11.15 because the staff is eating. Then WHO are these guys standing around? They're staff. But they gotta eat. Then why aren't they eating? Apparently, they are. Only we can't see it.

Butterfly: We'll just give you the money. Please can you just open this glass case, right here, yes the one in front of my nose and hand me a brownie, I'm not even asking for a plate..or a spoon. Just a brownie.
Staff: Table service only.
We hesitate to inform Drama Queen A of this latest development.

Finally, a couple of the staff members look at us (and Butterfly's steely glint) with laughing eyes and hand over a couple of brownies and a cheesecake. I beg for chocolate sauce. We get plates. But we have to go pick up the cutlery ourselves from the wash.

We go back to the table, disbelieving of our eventual success. We dig into the cheesecake, salvation is near...

Let's just say the brownie was alright.

The food story continued (in less dramatic and more dismal form) across the town. There was a well-known restaurant where the best food was a heap of French that I doused in my requisite lashing of pepper and a minuscle serving of cheese Garlic bread. Perhaps the most fruitful food discovery was at the bus station on the way back (after a dramatic bus searching escapade where :

1) the first bus home that we found smelled of someone's lost battle with motion sickness and it was indeed the reason why it smelled. The fact that it had been drowned with numerous buckets of water did nothing to eradicate the smell.

2) Aeroplane and Drama Queen A had a showdown in usual fashion, almost reminiscent of their old college fight where Drama Queen A mocked Aeroplane for not being able to see without his glasses while driving and he furiously took them off (while driving with K, me and a terrified classmate) to prove her wrong. Later, he revealed he saw only blinking lights. This time, they patched up rapidly, in usual fashion,

3) at a local eatery (AC! Deluxe!) which could've been Aminjikarai. I guess if you count the waitress making eyes at K and Aeroplane and ignoring the three women as good service, this was tops.

But the find was this: a chocolate bar. That's what this post is named after, FUNNY-the not so popular twin of Munch, the chocolate bar. The same purple and yellow colour scheme, a similar only a slightly, er, more mature taste, as compared to Munch. This was right before the long ride back where in a quest to counter the AC's faulty airconditioning, we engaged in a series of activities that resulted in

1) Aeroplane freezing and wrapping himself with my stole and ending up looking like a renegade Jordanian prince
2) Butterfly stuffing the vent with a stolen paper place mat from the deluxe Aminjikarai-esque restaurant
3) Drama Queen A stuffing her ears with the latest dirty Simbhu movie song, alternating with my all time favourite 'Ring Ringa' (oh my ethnicity!)
4) K dosed up on "Hypernacs" and collapsed on my shoulder

5) Me choking in the heat jumped out when the bus driver took a break and bought the first cool drink I could see. The Limca was a close relative of phenyl and cheapskate that I am, I tried to make Butterfly and myself finish it off. I think it's still in my fridge if it hasn't been used to swab the house.

The rest of the trip was certainly memorable : I finally got to cycle around the cobbled streets of the French Quarter (don't ask about finding the cycles and also about my cycle. Its lack of a bell was compensated by the telltale grind of its chains that warned passersby of a hurtling, tiny vehicle with a yellowclad individual clasping on for dear life). The hotel was lovely (I wish I'd eaten more of the breakfast), there was this elderly family on a bench opposite the Promenade that warmed my heart, the Casablanca I do want to visit again, with more time on my hands, the friends were funny, funny, FUN!

Clearly, age has not diminished our propensity for stupid, repetitive jokes, sleepless high endless giggles and lowly, often slapstick humour in general. It seemed like the universe gave us quite some fodder for that one day and a half.

I'm really really good, thanks

A blank page. A white Christmas. A new year of unseen possibility, of unknown schemes. An open canvas of a future where nothing and everything is written. I fold my arms behind my head and lie down in the grass.


I've been overcome by a delicious blankness over the past ten days or so. Perhaps it's the on and off cold that's stalking me (and half of Chennai's population) Perhaps it's the chilly breeze that's so unfamiliar and helplessly addictive to this tropical place. The floor's too cold for bare feet and the limbs automatically reach for cover. Snuggle up, sleep, dream, sleep.


It's a pleasant blankness. It's a blankness that welcomes good old friends entering the inviolate channel flipping/Hindi movie dissing/celebrity gossiping/dreamy philosophy talking zone. It's a blankness that's ever ready for a movie. It's a blankness that includes time for the gym, college, but devotes a lot of time to lack of thought. Isn't that the aim of meditation? And here it is: free. I'm quiet, but I'm okay. I've never been this okay in such a long time- a neutral state is much preferred actually instead of the super "I got the power" high. Friends question my lack of (usual) existentialism, why am I not "what-am-I-gonna-do". I should be. Friends berate my lack of go, my wastefulness. Is it that bad to let go and just be content for a change? I'm not saying I'm ecstatic at my level of accomplishment but is it okay if I don't feel too bad that I'm not the Secretary-General of the United Nations?


Maybe it's the cough syrup talking.


But seriously, I think it's more to do with the weather. When it gets this way in Madras, 90's A. R. Rahman Tamil songs begin playing in the background (and some new ones, maybe 'Marudaani' and 'Hosanna'). The tamed sun sprinkles its light through swaying leaves. My collection of big baggy plaid shirts come out to perform their role as 'home jackets'. The window suddenly begins to receive a lot of my undivided attention. Time pauses, looks at its shoulder back at me, as if to wonder why the humans aren't catching up in their usual frenzied stress mode. I wave lazily back. You go on ahead. I'll stop, take stock. Not because I want to make a New Year's resolution. But because I don't.

...And then life gives you a break

So after a long, therapeutic, post-midnight conversation with my positive conscience (A.K.A. Jhinks) I regained a fresh perspective on what this studying process actually means to me. She gave me pointers on what I'd forgotten-doing something for the love of it. And she's the right person to do so because the real reason I'm doing this course and enjoying a second chance at collegehood and knowledge-acquisition is the fact that she told me to accompany her to admissions last year and then overslept, thus making me go on my own and buying an application I didn't intend to. The story is longer and funnier but does not really belong here at this moment. Let's catalogue that under LIFE'S SECRET SMILES or GOING WITH THE FLOW. Or maybe just DESTINY.

Anyway, so Jhinks told me that it was absaaloootellyyyy (that sounds more like me) okayyyy to spend three hours on a page..just as long as I committed myself to every word on that page. Sai Baba, my Mum and others have all extolled on putting your best into what you're supposed to do at that moment. And also, God helps those who help themselves. I've always been all for that (as it distracts me from the looming questions) But I guess I needed a reminder. And last night, in that semi-conscious, giggly state that comes from sleep deprivation and a long rollercoaster conversation with your best friend since you were ten, I was coached into no more stress, no more million distractions (How I Met Your Mother, iTunes, or Diwali get togethers) only steely, slow, steady, studious state of mindedness (AhAA!)

And then I wake up, all set to delve into neutrality and the laws of warfare (after being distracted by Obama's rather fulfilling session with St. Xavier's students in Mumbai. "India has risen"-that should bury yesterday's disappointment. Whatever it is, I felt redeemed watching the interaction) and hello, Cyclone Jal (a creative name or what?) is heading our way. I go check my abandoned phone and find a barrage of missed calls and expectant messages. Holiday or not? Exam postponed or what? An hour later, we were sure. It's kinda like a damp, chilly Diwali present.

So I'm taking a few hours off to myself. Gotta clear out the week's worth of empty water bottles from this room, wipe the smudgy spectactles with my special lint-free blue cloth, burn a CD of funny songs (Action Replayy! Stupid and hilarious! Just the way I love it. Akshay Kumar is classically comical and it's nice to see Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan act goofy) and then get back to focusedness.

Aaaaaaaaah!

No, I'm not at the dentist's. That is just mine and Numbi Jim's (and probably a lot of you out there) way of expressing outmost internal chaos/excitement/adrenalineness. I will be using the emotion a lot in the following text so those prone to incurable irritability and other disorders, reading is not recommended:

So much has been happening, so please excuse me for not writing. While most of it must be academic/freelance work-related/a consequence of October birthdays, I think my reluctance or laziness to write has been primarily because of much too much self-analysis, life lessons and policy formulation. I've been wondering how much of all these fragmented thoughts are worth documenting and how much of it is embarrassing/silly/unoriginal but hey, this blog's seen worse. And I am just post-recovery of 'Eat Pray Love' (Aaaaaah! the book! the book! ONLY the book!) and I feel like giving Elizabeth Gilbert a huge hug for being who she is and talking the way she does. (These days I seem to be finding a lot of female role models and sources of inspiration) So let me freewheel here.

K is gonna be here! Here! Aaaaaaaah! Okay, in two months and for barely ten days but still! I am so proud of that crazy smart savvy loony who's ruling London city while being so true to himself. I can't believe it's going to be almost one and a half years since I saw him, kicked him and laughed till I cried with him last. I am a bit worried that things could have changed. But like someone said, (I think it was Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan in 'You Are Here'), if everyone changes at the same time then somehow everything will stay the same. You know? We do our little turns simultaneously and end up at 360. Hopefully. We all love that old friend who knows us so scarily well-the shiny, the beige and the hideously fluorescent yellow. We crave their company for understanding without explanations. And yet, we want to show them our newness, to comment on our new wardrobe additions, our new analyses of life and growing up, our new crushes (which are ohhhh-so-different from our old ones. Note: Being sarcastic here). We want them to say those same old phrases in these completely new situations. Maybe we should just ditch the cardboard cutout we've been carrying around in their absence and welcome a new friend whom you have the privilege of not needing to impress.

So, that's been on my mind for quite some time. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the cardboard cutouts. They say what you want them to say. And they're always by your side on the long lonely drives.

Aaaaaaaah! Scratch that! I want the real thing!

But have I changed a lot in the past year? I've gone back to my childhood self-dependency. I've unexpectedly found a group of seriously talented, intelligent and unabashedly childlike funny girls at school. I've become more participatory (that's the best way I can describe it). I've learnt old lessons in a more permanent form. And I think I'm finally learning that trying to achieve a daily state of jubilation is not as helpful as a good dose of calmness.

Anyway, back to reality: let's talk about 'Ugly Betty'. (see how real I can get?). The series finale just aired here today. And I am finding it so hard to let go of Betty, Marc, Amanda, Hilda, etc. Even though it ended so hurriedly and unjustifiably. Aaaaaaaa(rg)h.

As my dear friend V said, I tend to blog during my exams. Unfortunately that's the case. I guess I have a persecution complex. I don't mean in the real sense. I just tend to get down to things when I'm pursued. In this case, the looming reality of exams beginning on Wednesday. Yes, this sem is almost done (and then I have only one more! Aaaaaaaah!) and I will have to bid farewell to two of my most favourite subjects in this course: American Foreign Policy (Sniff. Nixon) and Ethnicity, Culture and International Relations (Identity crises. Just what I love) My postponement from the real world is ending and a draft notice has been sent. But somehow, I'm less paranoid than last time. Despite my favourite stationery store's owner questioning me about lack of commitment to advertising (or anything in particular) while I indulged myself in some Reynold's 045 pens (they are seriously awesome. Especially the purple one). I hope none of my teachers, friends' parents, future spouses (spice?) and employers (I think it should be in reverse order) are reading this. In my defense, I need more time. I am quite a Jill of a Few Trades now. I know that I can be quite a workaholic but the problem is, I can be a workaholic in something I'm not even passionate about. So I don't want to cheat myself. Nevertheless, let us wait till April till we open this particular can of worms. Allow me my second teenagehood-where TV shows ending are the biggest tragedies.

Ahh.

Inspired!

I have a new addiction. No, don't be misled by the above picture (that's a weakness, not an addiction) And unlike my last year's fix (*cough cough* people.com), this one doesn't make me ashamed to declare it.

It's Garance Doré!


Maybe I'm one of the last people to catch up on this deliciously delightful photoblogger but over the past few days, I've been hooked to her stunning pictures of amazing people, bright as sunshine writing and generally fabulous vibe.


Forget that I am in the throes of wrestling with my dissertation proposal, a couple of tons of freelance work, myriad college stuff and haven't seen the gym in three days (I need my cardio fix!) Forget that the girls Garance captures through her covetable lenseye are uniformly lithe and of the sparkling skin, vivid hair variety. Forget that I need a midnight bath. Forget that she's in Australia, Paris, London, Corsica (Corsica! New place on destination wishlist). Forget that I am in my minuscle computer room, listening to the mind-numbing 'Stop' by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and struggling with the adorable paperclip that Belle got me from the U.S. It's shaped like a thumbs-up but it doesn't exactly hold together my Yahia H.Zoubir's article on the stalemate in Western Sahara.


I just mentioned Middle East Policy Journal and Garance Doré in the same paragraph. That's probably a first.


So, what I'm trying to say is that as of this week I have learnt that even if you think you're drowning, laugh like a maniac and admire the pretty scales of fish. Chances are you'll stay afloat, swimming slowly but surely to the shore. And you would have contributed one less negative vibe to the Universe.


Too new-agey? Sorry, I'm reading 'The Power'.


So, thanks to Garance, I am going to resume proper picture taking and living life outside the little boxes of my to do list. There's no bigger thrill right now than drawing thick black tick marks next to each item but the weeks are just flying by and I should be giving out more hugs, bursting forth with more laughs and indulging in some good TV.

Which is why I took a break and watched what I could of the VMA's.

Even small fish in small ponds have to swim fast

The past few days (and next few more) have been a flurry of activities and also thoughts about activities. I love my life like this. No time to breathe or think. But I think it's time I put sleep back on the priority list. The lack of it does me no good in Entrepreneurial Development class.

One sigh of relief can be breathed: the 'Fresher's Party' is over and successful (my definition: people participated, got entertained and were fed. Oh we were within budget! I'm not such a hopeless accountant after all). The song went fine and in the video, I don't look as clowny as I thought I did and don't sound toooo terribly awful, if I say so myself. My first duty as Class Rep is done and all thanks to improvisations and makeshift arrangements by my fellow, er, fellows. A big shout out to all 26 of you. I really love you all.

Next. Very enthusiastically, my hand shot up in the air last week for more assignments than I remember. So, tomorrow I will be doing a presentation on US dominance and Revolution in Military Affairs. And though I'm having to sort through a MOUNTAIN of information, I'm actually enjoying it. I always did like talk of power. Word of the day: psychotechnology.
As if that weren't enough, my thirst for movies doesn't abate during times of hecticness. Watched 'A Serious Man' last night. At first, my reaction was of extreme discomfort (I loved the beginning bit with the Polish couple and the dybukk) because I dislike watching central characters have their lives fall apart as they watch on helpless (personal fears about lack of assertiveness, maybe?) I began to appreciate the story's progression, the dark humour (especially the Rabbis) and just when I got hooked back into the film, the end completely repulsed me. I guess I'm still looking for the next 'Inception' (it's been less than a week; must be patient) to blow me away.
Yeah, so I'm going to see 'Udaan' today. An Anurag Kashyap production, it's earning rave reviews. Bunny wants to see it bad. And well, it's a coming of age story. But hello! All coming of age stories are about boys. The only one that I've seen featuring a female lead was 'Thirteen'. And I didn't come of age that way so erm, not so relateable. Guess I'm going to have to make my own ode to the girls of Generation X. Before we grow so old that I forget.

And also! It's Jhinker's birthday tomorrow (we're one month apart) and I have to do something special. Instead, I was highly crabby (had a sore throat and sleep deprivation) with her on the phone last night and I feel horrible about it. God, please make me a better human being. Atleast for tomorrow.

And lastly, the picture above is dedicated to all the illustrious members of the Therapy playlist on my iTunes. In particular, Bif Naked ('Rich and Filthy'), Scissor Sisters ('Take Your Mama Out'), Coldplay ('Life in Technicolour II'), The Belle Stars ('Iko Iko' from 'The Hangover' soundtrack), good old JT ('LoveStoned/I Think She Knows') and of course, Beck ('Loser' and for just being Beck).

Because you get me through. Because you make me happy.

Besant Nagar Bond-age

I am a small-time adventurer. My favourite pastime may be making destination lists with my college benchmates (who squint at me for adding Mongolia to the list). I collect pictures of Tunisia's blue and white architecture. I dwell in Oran/Marseille through my ears. I envision Thai beaches ever so often, especially after viewing and listening to Laya Project.
But since I AS OF NOW bound by time, space, resource and societal constrictions, I make a break for it whenever and however I can. Owing to limited travel opportunities, I tended to crave for a more accessible utopia. I found this in the form of Besant Nagar and its beach.
For non-Chennaiites, Besant Nagar is a posh, sea-bordering area in the South of Chennai. Its beach is clean (thanks to several initiatives such as ROB-Reclaim Our Beaches), it has restaurants a plenty and it is somehow so much more tempting and happening and inviting than dear old Marina. Sorry, Marina. Maybe it's just 'cause you're too familiar.
During the week, I had begun this ruse of scaring my mother by threatening to drive off to Besant Nagar while in the midst of errands. I was in desperate need of a long drive, now that I have reconciled to the fact that if I want my long drive I must do it myself. I was so in the mood and this less-explored destination was calling out to me. Little did I know how these teasing words of mine would cause life itself to play a little trick on me...
Saturday was declared Besant Nagar day. A friend was to perform in a concert at hip venue known as Spaces, bang opposite the beach. Benchmates designated me as the driver of the evening and a plan was quickly formed. A plan surprisingly long overdue seeing as we've never hung out besides going straight somewhere before or after college.
Friday came. Bored and restless, I kidnapped Jhinks and Mum and we set off somewhere, anywhere. Guess where we headed? Down the Marina beach road, past the fishermen's nets, random goats (so many goats), annoying number of speedbreakers and numerous rowdy drivers. And we ended up guess where? We also ate at this pirate-themed restaurant.
Saturday. Long drive. First time to Besant Nagar in the daytime. We waited till our friend finished performing and ran across to the beach, me literally running like the world was after me, sand sinking under my black Converse style shoes, legs leaping, feeling so free, while 'Free fallin' by John Mayer played on my phone in my pocket.
Sunday. Mothers' cool friends, Jhinks and I. Total ladies evening. We went shopping to Madras Terrace House, this uber-cool kitschy Madras culture type boutique/cafe/art exhibition centre. We're a philosophical bunch, ever ready to toast to newness and rebirth and we were high on that feeling. Guess where I took us? This time we actually sat on the beach wall. They ate kulfi, Jhinks and I talked about boys and girls and unbeachy, unliberating things so much in contrast to the salt-soaked air. The crowd was immense but somehow I didn't mind. But I felt restless. Tired. Feet aching though all I'd been doing was alternating foot from pedal to pedal. I wanted to close my eyes. I guess my saturation had taken place.Getting back to the North was all I wanted to do.
I will go back. I will run more on the beach and I will play frisbee or shoot balloons or fly a kite (oh wait that's no longer allowed). But I will no longer yearn to do so.
And for that freedom from yearning that I am eternally grateful to the universal forces that conspire around me.

Familiar Stranger

There is something to be said about learning to tolerate your own company. I'm one of those not sooo social people (oft called self-absorbed by PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT THE TERM MEANS. You know who you are, K). I guess you could say being an only child I'm not so influenced or dependent on other people for entertainment. Of course, as with everything else I've learnt in 22 years, life makes you contradict yourself. Repeatedly. Case in point: I tend to avoid clubs/pubs/excessive smoke-filled and claustrophobic spaces. My idea of socialising involves a long drive, conversation and excessive laughter. But 3 days after my birthday? I found myself totally sober, dancing like a maniac (I LOVE to dance) with my undergrad buddies in a packed disco. My eyes closed, an imaginary spotlight on my head and a sense of absolute abandonment. Innocent, spontaneous fun. Of course, Sean Kingston helped.

So, when I used to say I love being alone and self-sufficient, it was ironic because secretly I envied huge families especially those with many siblings ( I always always wanted a big brother and my dream came true in the form of this amaaaazzziiing human being whom I call Bunny. The fact that he now has a girlfriend, Sunshine whom I absolutely adore makes my own constructed family picture complete) I basically came to the conclusion that you shouldn't say you hate something or someone because you will end up doing exactly that with exactly them. Life is unpredictable and beautifully so.

Well, anyway, recently I was put to the test. I have become addicted to human company thanks to my delightfully demanding friends. I felt as if I would drown in my own thoughts if left alone for a second. But I was put in a situation where my friends all went home and I was supposed to wait for my Mum at a certain shop. Sleep-deprived and wandering mind, it was just me and my car in a parking lot.

The thoughts came, like arrows from different directions but I stayed put. My music was in my ears, soothing me into the semi-conscious delirium that I know so well. But my mind was still awake, valiant against the onslaught of self-doubt, unfulfilled yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows. The window was down, I was alone ( a girl!) in an unknown place. But I didn't care.

Khaled's voice soared like the only way Khaled's ('Hada Raykoum') voice can. I listened. I focused on the outlines of an olive green plant reaching toward the bland, colourless sky. I focused on that sky, so unyielding, impenetrable, that mute witness. I fell asleep, arms folded, seat kicked back, regardless of the world.

In between the contradictions, in betweent the extremities, I meet myself, an ever-changing familiar stranger. Someone I don't know very well and I don't think I'll ever know. Someone I can fall in love with intensely and immensely and someone I could completely abandon if I found someone else.

And after years of pushing and pulling, struggles beneath the skin, I have finally encountered someone I can tolerate. Someone I can live with.

And Happy Saturday to You Too

Today I am much better reconciled to life. My life. Perhaps it is because it is Saturday: less of man and machine on the road (the city even looks cleaner!), the thought of one and a half days of weekend stretch before me temptingly, the thought of hanging out with an ancient (in terms of friendship length) 'friend'/almost sister/partner in self-deprecating hilarity Jhinkers for lunch. Perhaps it's because I did make an effort and dressed better (be proud, K!), albeit a little A/W 2009 than sweltering-still-feels-like-May-Madras. But ha! Guess what? It rained (or drizzled. I was asleep) last night and I woke up to cloud cover on this glorious, glorious day. Not that that helps the heat, but it sure helps my mood. Anyway, my amaaaaziiiing (seriously, it's like my dream workplace/industry: world music but that's not the only reason I adore it..looong list) internship office is air conditioned and brightly coloured. So with thoughts of the above image in mind (courtesy:365tweexcore.tumblr.com I think) I am reconciled to my life. And I wish you all the love and colour in the world.

Aïcha

Here's to a song that has not changed my life. A song that has not opened my eyes. A song that has not been an inspiration.

But a song that speaks to me because it is so much part of me.

I was probably in school when I heard it for the first time. This was much after its original recording. The singer's vocal adeptness and the passion in his voice captivated me (as it still does). I had no idea what he was singing about. I did not know French at the time. The song to me then was a getting-over-a-crush song, a moving-on-in-life song, an empowering yet understated musical experience in its compactness.
By coincidence, I saw a video by a Danish cross-cultural band named Outlandish (I love this band, more on that later). The same song, similar feeling. Isam Bachiri (I love this gentleman) sang in my language but that was not what hit me. Outlandish seemed to absorb the very same thing I did from the song.
First year of college. Naive and eccentric, I auditioned for my department's rock band. I didn't listen to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. I listened to Algerian-French rai and other things no one had heard of or cared about. I was eighteen years old and yet to understand the relationship I share with music (a scale of upliftment, therapy and catharsis) but I knew honesty to myself even then. So I sang this song. I got in.

'Ragging' in the 'Fresher's Party'. My punishment was not all that humiliating. I was called to sing in front of 200-odd unfamiliar faces, unfriendly acquaintances, semi-friendly freshers, teachers and rowdy seniors. Same song. The noisy crowd grew silent and began to clap in time to the beat. People and later close friends would call me by the name of the song.

The song didn't change my life. It didn't bring my great tidings. I didn't enjoy the experience with the band, despite the fact that at the concert we sang a song with words I wrote. I didn't win a multi-million dollar singing deal with Barclay Records. I didn't go on some cross-cultural, multi-linguistic talent show and win fame and glory. But it brought me friends. It brought me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Of feeling that I could do something I loved and do it right. If only for once. If only forever.

The song is within me. It represents my...not love, love's too weak a word. My respectful adoration for music and one of the few times music rewarded me back. Music allowed me to sing this song, perfectly or imperfectly, but with all my heart and soul. As my best friend K says about me, "She sings the song as if she created it". But I sing it more as if it were created for me. And this, without knowing what a word of it meant. Now, with a deeper knowledge of French and a fresher, wisened but no less romantic perspective of life, my relationship with the song is renewed and yet remains ever alive, ever sweet. And my heart smiles ever the same way. When I hear those chords. When I hear the first two words. When I hear Khaled's voice soar.

Comme si j'n'existais pas/As if I don't exist
Elle est passee a côte de moi/She was passing by me
Sans un regard, Reine de Sabbat/With no regard, the Queen of Sheeba
J'ai dit, Aïcha, prends, tout est pour toi/I said, Aicha, take this, all of it is for you

Voici, les perles, les bijoux/Here, the pearls, the jewels,
Aussi, l'or autour de ton cou/Also the gold around your neck
Les fruits, bien murs au gout de miel/The fruits, well ripe with the taste of honey
Ma vie, Aïcha si tu m'aimes/And my life, Aïcha if you love me!

J'irai a ton souffle nous mene/I will go where your breath leads me,
Dans les pays d'ivoire et d'ebene/In the countries of ivory and ebony
J'effacerai tes larmes, tes peines/I will erase your tears, your sorrows
Rien n'est trop beau pour une si belle/Nothing is too beautifull for a girl so beautiful

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïsha, Aïsha don't go
Aïcha, Aïcha, regarde-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, look at me
Aïcha, Aïcha, reponds-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, answer me

Je dirai les mots des poemes/I would say the words, the poems
Je jouerai les musiques du ciel/I would play the music of the sky
Je prendrai les rayons du soleil/I would take the rays of the sun
Pour eclairer tes yeux de reine/to light up your dreamy eyes

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïcha, Aïcha, don't go
Elle a dit, garde tes tresors/She said, "Keep your treasures.
Moi, je vaux mieux que tout ca/Me, I'm worth more than that.
Des barreaux forts, des barreaux meme en or/Bars are still bars even if made of gold.
Je veux les memes droits que toi/I want the same rights as you
Et du respect pour chaque jour/and respect for each day,
Moi je ne veux que de l'amour/Me, I want only love."

Nbrik Aïcha ou nmout allik/I want you, Aïcha and I love you to death
'Hhadi kisat hayaty oua habbi/You are master of my life and my love
Inti omri oua inti hayati/You are my years and my life
Tmanit niich maake ghir inti/I hope to live with you, only you

[Lyrics and Translation Courtesy: http://www.arabicmusictranslation.com/2007/05/cheb-khaled-aisha-aicha.html]

A Letter to Time

Dear Time,

I've been meaning to write. Well, it's kinda your fault I couldn't. I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I guess I could've written rather than spent so much time thinking. What a waste of...er, you.

I hope I'm not interrupting your busy schedule. Who am I kidding? Nobody can interrupt you (hmm, idea for a sci-fi movie) but I've been meaning to well, not exactly, complain, but question your breakneck speed and the lifestyle you lead, trampling on petunias and tripping over plastic toys. Stress is a killer, you know.

Time, listen. I'm not pointing fingers or assigning blame or anything, so just relax. But I'd like you to refer back 365 days in your diary (or if that's a problem, my diary) and I'd like you to tell me if life then was fact or fiction. Is who I am or whom I speak to or what I do now the markers of reality and does it completely negate what existed before, a week or a month of in this case, a year past?

Okay, okay, don't laugh. I know you and Forever broke up long ago. Adam and Eve told me how you guys were so close.

It's not that I want to live in the past. I told you, I concluded that fourteen is so not where I want to be. I love my life. But this is what I ask, do YOU really have the right to choose who stays in my life and who doesn't? I mean, come on, I have it right here in my diary, the truest words spoken by a dearest friend. Sweet words, adorable words by an adorable person. The feelings are the same (atleast on this end), the warmth of the memories ever fresh and as delightful as freshly baked bread or newly ground coffee. But the SMSes are down in a book while the phone is long discarded. The incidents are in a sliding drawer in my head, not in front of me. The places still exist but the people to go to them with? I'm again saying its not all your fault, (your brother Distance has more to do with this but I hate talking to him) but could you be less like an IT raid and more like a gently bubbling stream? Hello, that's what they used to call you. What did the digital age do to you? Or were you always like this and it takes growing up to figure you out...?

I don't want to go back. No, siree. But I'd like a refund. I'd like there to be less photos and more real-life. I'd like my best friend to be in front of me and not in a book. He did exist and I want him to prove you, Time wrong.

Stop chuckling.

Love,

Me

Soundtracking

Everything is better with a song playing in the background.
When you're driving with your shades on (in Chennai, we call it 'coolers', machi) and listening to Moby, it's a heist movie.
When it's 'Bad' by U2, your life is changing. This is the plot point before the climax, the moment when epiphany arrives, when you, the protagonist set forth on the path that opens up in tune to this song.
When it's 'Agatha' by Rachid Taha, you see cherry blossoms and late winter smells and sights befitting a hilltop town (even when you're on Nungambakkam High Road on a desert-hot Tuesday forenoon.)
When it's 'Summer Moon' by Bob Sinclair, it's the most magical nightclub, neon pinks and purples amidst tropical flowers and all the glamour in the world even if you're dancing in the privacy of your room. Sure, it helps if you're eyes are closed. 'Forever' by Chris Brown takes that moment to the next level.
When it's 'Bittersweet Symphony' (OH when it's 'Bittersweet Symphony') by The Verve, you are the coolest dude(ette) on the planet, your walk a rockstar's, the world succumbing to your nonchalant magnetism as you stride through traffic.
When an A.R Rahman song plays, it's raining in Chennai and you're back in your first year of college when college love was something you knew would happen because the trees, the flowers, the breeze were all rooting for your heart (even though history proved otherwise).
When it's 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls, you and your best friend are panthers, marching down the sidewalk and the whole world wants us or wants to be us.

A song on my 'Therapy' playlist (Beck's 'Timebomb' is guaranteed to pump me up. I'm a rockstar screaming into an imaginary microphone. I'm a superstar (Michael's 'The Way You Make Me Feel'-oh this one is an instant-feel good factor). I'm the star of an action flick ('Alice' by Moby or 'Deep' by Nine Inch Nails). I'm a head bopping, hip hop devotee ('Jump Around' by House of Pain). I'm a clown, belting out 'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen at the top of my lungs.
For those of us (me?) who think life is a movie, the movie is incomplete without and made to order, perfectly fitting song playing in our heads, if not in the background. A crush becomes a love song that when listened to years later, will evoke exactly the same wave of feelings and the same smell of that season when it happened. Any song or album for that matter. 'Made in Medina' will remind me of my drawing room where I walked around while learning chemical equations during my tenth standard board exams. 'La Valse' and other Faudel songs will take my back to the stories and characters I spun from my imagination during a pure, precious time in my adolescence which I wish I could relive, when I lived my creations, allowing myself to be wrapped in a surreal world that was so real to me.
Well, I guess things haven't changed that much. Reality still deserves a background score, according to me. Thank you, Ipod. Thank you, musicians and artistes all over the world, for giving me music for moments.

Those other three words

It's really easy to love, trust me. Easy to say it also (well, most times). But to like someone? To actually genuinely like them? Not so easy and not so common.
A very good friend of mine I'll call MC (one of the select few people I really like) and I were talking about this phenomenon. That led me to think about the differences between love and liking.
I'm a person who's all about love, by the way. I send forth hugs and love through text messages, emails and in person. Friends, family, teachers and family of friends. Love comes easy, thanks to my inheritance of loving parents and a very demonstrative mother who shares love and kindness to all. I'm not as generous as her, being an inhabitant of a (porous) bubble. But I get it when people say "love makes the world go around".
I also get it when people say "love is blind". Because it is. That's when you ignore the flaws, you glorify the specks of brilliance. And when a cloud shows up, you get mad. You feel cheated.
But when you like someone, you know the flaws. You appreciate the talents, the charm and the goodness, but in a detached, objective way. There's no gush of love and no rush of sentiment. This person's good and you want to get to know them better, want them in your life.

When I mean love, I mean love in all its forms-affection for a newfound friend that ebbs and flows, a crush, a romantic relationship...any relationship.

Like begins to coexist with love. But like can't fluctuate. Like is steady, anchoring. Like is the solid cake base of the chocolate souffle. Love is immediate but like grows. It doesn't bubble up but it builds. Love's the flamboyant one while like is quieter, deeper and creeps up on you when you least expect it.

And that's the stuff great friendship is made of. Here's to you, MC.

Happy Birthday

Today is a special person's birthday, one of the few people left at my age (like me) who do get excited about 'trivial' things like birthdays. One of the few special people who made sure to make mine extra special even though:
they ended up making themselves sick for hyping over my 21st birthday dress,
they ensured my 19th birthday went cake-free by clubbing it with an emotional someone else's, and they helped me organise my 20th with A, B and C lists of guests and eventually leaving out a lot of nice people I feel ashamed to mention my 2oth party to.

Sigh, good times.

Well, here's to that special person, more a princess than a prince because he is pampered and loved as much as one. Here's to the birthday boy who's living it up all the way across the world and still living life as large as can be. Winning hearts the world over (ha ha I can actually say that now) and stressing about party organisation the same old way. The same way he still thinks that a crisp white shirt is the key to instant glam (true) and the same way he thinks he's Blair Waldorf (false).

Always invoking the same hilarity in me, whether he's face to face or an image on a computer screen. Making me believe in 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Being aware of my life's little events and mentally jotting them down so as to tell him later. Taking photos of my wardrobe selections to prove that I'm not as nerdy as he thinks. Mentally arguing with him in my head when I can hear him berating me for not being more adventurous in life. Mentally slapping him for calling my love life a Thar Desert. Making me understand the meaning of 'I'll be there for you' where 'there' is metaphysical and yet as vital.

Calling me a hundred times to discuss the Oscars and being the only one I know who gets as excited as I do about the glam parade and the debate over deserving actors versus eye candy. Calling me at 4 am from London and telling others I'm his 4 am friend, whether I'm awake or not. Calling again the next day at 2 am, hoping I'm awake and us then having a two hour conversation, officially anointing me The 4 Am Friend. Being such wholesome best friend (momentarily erase the ego clashes), the perfect best friend-one that you can show off as aesthetically appealing and at the same time surprisingly possessing durability and top quality. Making me jealous of all the numerous people he'll charm all over the world despite him being ever so desi and fussy and regimented, what with his daily routines that are so so so secretive. Adding spice to my life, whether actually or vicariously.

Getting my heart to get a taste of world travel because right now an important part of it is residing in London.

Haha! Gotcha! You can't get cornier than that. Have an awesome birthday.