I return after a long hiatus...

For those of you who were wondering, I wasn't in a coma or anything. A few people did ask why I'd stopped blogging, and my answer was this- because I didn't have anything good to say about the world. It didn't take long for one of them to point out that I hardly ever have anything good to say about the world, life, love, people etc. He went on to say that he prefers me when I'm at my bitter, sarcastic best. So I thought I'd do the honors and drop by Blurry pages.

There have been no drastic developments in my life that merit writing about. I hope the rekindling of blurry pages will in turn, rekindle my zest for life, and the ability to marvel at the most mundane of things.

My dogs, Cuddles and Pooch send their regards to all readers. I regret to announce that Cuddles has been categorized as a 'senior pet'(she is almost 8, which translates into 56 doggy years apparently), as well as being deemed grossly over-weight. I've tried my best to put her on some sort of diet, but whenever I'm not around, she manages to woo whoever is in the kitchen with her glassy stare and thumping tail and they (poor suckers) generally fall for it. Pooch, being of the same age is also a senior pet, though he is plagued by dental dilemmas rather than weight fluctuations. During his heydays, he used to prowl around the neighborhood garbage cans and needless to say, he's paying for it now. One can only sympathize and draw unkind parallels to philandering husbands who were sniffing at garbage in their heydays, only to settle into a (comfortable?) routine with their grossly over-weight female counterparts as soon as they trip and fall over the threshold into the 'senior citizen' category.

P.S: The sudden realization that my parents are of the same age as Cuddles and Pooch, (being in the vicinity of 56 themselves) has hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Am I doomed to spend the rest of my days being the care-taker to all things old and overweight at the Jeremiah household?

P.P.S: I forgot to mention my ancient grandmother. She isn't overweight though, au contraire, she's light as a feather in springtime weather.

Soul mate...

You are a name wound within my fist
I carry your destiny, your very soul
A prism of glass, where colors twist
And quiver, evolve to transparent gold

You're a force I reckon with, as I must
To hold your storm, and steer your flight
So your path is strewn with pretty stardust
So your hands will cup their full delight

You are a sliver of underwater, new
I lay down pebbles, and watch your swifts
You wash the wind, drink of grass's dew
I swallow the rain, the earth, I shift

You are a mountain goat that wants to play
I teach you to yearn after faraway moors
The sky is a knife, its blade of grey
I turn it to red, of evening lure

You are my wind-chased daffodil
I hasten to lift your sun-smile brow
I weep when you cradle my heart, until
We bury each other in the valley below

A Children's Day Lesson

I spent the whole of yesterday in the company of little people who somehow managed to make me feel small.

Being Children's day, I was invited to be a guest at a grand competition for kids from all across India and the neighboring countries. Contrary to my usual practice of turning such things down, I agreed, and I'm glad I did.

Are kids just getting smarter with each passing decade? How can that be? The world is getting to be a worse place to live in, what with the global warming, and the holes in the sky, and excessive pollution, and the harmful pesticides in crops and blah blah blah...well, that should result in dumb, lethargic children who are doomed to fail or die early.

But happily, that is as far from the truth as is possible. Those kids were 'out there' to say the least. I remember myself at the age of 15- bashful, an introvert, terribly lacking in confidence despite the fact that I had some accomplishments in music and I was a very good student. Still, I could never bring myself to announce those facts to an audience of strangers. But oh, those kids seemed to have no such qualms.

'They are very confident, aren't they? Some of them, too confident even!' Thus spoke the judge on my left. I had to nod my head in agreement. Thankfully, there were a couple of bashful kids as well, who turned out to be extremely talented and smart, and that provided some comfort to my 15 yr old self's bruised ego.

Talent aside, what made some of them really special was their level of awareness and empathy. The work that some of them had done was truly amazing- raising funds for cancer, working with HIV+ children, sponsoring the education of Dalit girls in a remote Nepali tribe... The passion, the drive, the belief that they could, in their own way, change the world, all that seemed remotely familiar to me. And then I realized, with a pang of guilt, that all my awareness and empathy had dissipated with age.

Why is it that most of us morph into such self-obsessed adults? Why does the need to do something entirely unselfish for someone else gradually diminish as we grow older? Is it because we 'grow up' and realize that the world would only exploit such kindness? Or is it because we have failed to 'grow up' at all?

As I watched those kids strut their stuff, I suddenly grew anxious. I wanted to tell them, don't let the world get to you! It's a cold, hard, cynical place, but don't let that change you! People you love will hurt you, friends you trust will desert you, money will evade you when you most need it, courage will be inaccessible when you most require it... but don't let that kill your beautiful spirit!

Then I remembered, that kind of thing happened to me all the time. And I used to be so scornful of those preachy adults, who tried to teach me about the world. Because in my mind, I could do no wrong, the world was mine for the taking. I had everything on my side- youth, ambition, dreams, talent. How could I possibly fail at anything that I set my mind on doing?

I hadn't counted on the fact that maybe those adults weren't just preaching after all. I hadn't counted on the fact that being good at what you do and having a good heart, is nowhere near good enough. I hadn't counted on the fact that the world doesn't give a damn about good intentions. And I hadn't counted on the fact that the world really doesn't give a damn about anyone, including me.

But how can you say all that to a child, bright-eyed and glowing with success after having won the competition?

The rain that falls...

The world has been scrubbed clean today. Everything green stands out in defiance to the blanket of gray-dominated sky.

There is still the after-math to deal with - over-flowing potholes, flooded lanes, rain-sodden clothes that couldn't be saved in time, the occasional accidental electrocution, tell-tale mud splatters, spells of darkness, televisions blanking out, roofs that cave in, doors that can't keep the water out, mosquito colonies reinstating their supreme power, spineless umbrellas, truant school-kids sailing their ill-fated paper boats while determinedly dodging their over-worked mothers' repeated calls to come in...

It's poignant somehow, this ritual of rain. The way it falls, regardless of who or what it might be drenching, as oblivious to the spurts of joie de vivre as to the desecration of things, places, people...

It makes us fall in love, it makes us long for comfort in cocoa, it turns us into children again, it erodes our sense of permanence...

And it always, always makes me yearn... for what, I don't yet know.

When Time stands still

It's amazing how heavy one feels when one has a lot of time on one's hands. As if Time itself were a physical burden to bear, like a large, uncomfortable stack of iron rods, poking and protruding and generally causing one a great state of distress.

Alright. I'll quit being deliberately obtuse about it and grudgingly admit that the 'one' in question is none other than yours truly.

I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Either I've suddenly been possessed by an alien form of maniac energy, or I simply have too many hours to do too little. And if that weren't bad enough, I'm also turning into a borderline insomniac.

If anyone out there is taking the effort to be concerned, don't be. It's just one of my many phases, like the waxing and waning of the moon. I must be 'this' in order to also be 'that' at some later point in time.

So then, if I know all of this already, why am I so perturbed? Because it's typical of me. Any other saner person would find pleasurable activities to occupy themselves with. But no, I couldn't possibly do that. It's probably a remnant of some homework-related guilt-complex I've been harboring since my childhood.

Sigh...And I'm supposed to be having the time of my life, since I'm an unattached twenty-something and what not. Whatever.

Moral of the story- when Time stands still, don't try to keep up with it.

In search of quiet

Last evening, I made the effort of trudging up the stairs to my terrace, with Cuddles and Pooch hot on my heels in pursuit. I wandered around aimlessly, while they lounged in contentment, sniffing occasionally at whichever scents the night breeze carried in its wake.

The world was lit up in a haze of neon signs, humble tube lights and the glow of a half-moon. Alas, there was no silence. The hum of distant traffic made it clear that however hard I tried to escape the reality of my city-bred life, it was, in effect, impossible.

We stayed there a while, the three of us, each contemplative, lost in thought, they, with their tongues moist and lolling, I, with my heart hanging out.

It was nice while it lasted.

Man from Galilee

Wisdom is its own enemy
Courage has much to fear
And I, helpless stranger
Grope along my way

A pose of self-righteousness
Never did become me
I watch the buds of my flaws
Flourish in their flower-bed

There is much to be ashamed of
So little time to repent
I wish I had a melting heart
To carry me away

There are aliens in silence
Whispers in mist and dew
And yet, so very few
That know my name

Call to me now, I beg you
Shroud my face, and how
Will you count the silver
When I’m gone?

There is strength in weakness
And so I fall, again
If only to show you
I’m human too.

A Tale of two Doggies

The past week has been a bit of a scare. Pooch and cuddles, the most adorable members of our admittedly dysfunctional nuclear family took ill all of a sudden and spent the better half of Tuesday night throwing up.

Wednesday morning saw us glancing anxiously at the clock in the hall, waiting for it to announce the arrival of 10 a.m. the magical hour when our family vet opened her doors to the canine world. A half hour later, our driver returned with dogs in tow. They had been diagnosed with a fever, and a part of the blame was laid on the pest-control guy who'd turned up the previous day and exorcised our house. Unfortunately, the exorcism seemed to have greatly affected the canine spirits happily in residence, despite the fact that they were stowed away safely.

Pooch spent the day in misery, whimpering and restless, while Cuddles watched on, her tail thumping haplessly every now and then. I played nurse and hand-fed them a few marie biscuits mashed up in cold water which they dutifully licked off my fingers and duly brought up ten minutes later.

When evening came, I was sure that another visit to the vet was in order. The dogs were packed into an auto(our only car having gone to the service station), accompanied by the driver and myself. We patiently waited our turn, while Cuddles and Pooch, sickness or no sickness, felt the need to bark at dogs triple their size. The owners of the dogs whiled away the waiting period by discussing various dietary habits and ailments. A large labrador retriever was at the vet on account of him having eaten a large portion of biriyani. The owner of a sad-looking german shepherd tut-tutted away at this admission, and chided the owner. Biriyani, he said, should only be given in minute quantities, just for the 'smell'. I thought it best to refrain from participating too deeply in the conversation, and luckily, our turn came up next.

Cuddles, little manipulator that she is, managed to wriggle out of her collar nad leash and waddled off in the opposite direction. She has a phobia of needles, and is generally a very nervous little darling. Visits to the vet are second on her list of things to be terrified of, topped only by diwali crackers.

We managed to grab, collar and leash her, this time, a bit more tightly. She walked to the door with an air of resignation akin to the sentiments of those walking to the gallows. Pooch seemed glad to see the vet. She, at least, understood his pain. I stood around, and at an opportune moment, pointed out to her that he kept crying and licking his uh, organ of manhood. I suggested that his pain might not be entirely due to the fever and the pest-control man.

The vet, a woman(thankfully), sighed, and called me around to show me poor Pooch's obviously sore organ. It looked as though he had tried to mate with a bramble bush. She then rubbed him down with an ointment, administered an injection for pain relief, and all too soon, it was Cuddles' turn.

Cuddles made one last halfhearted attempt to escape the clutches of the vet, but she was no match for the 3 of us. In one swift movement, she was on the table, and the vet was marveling yet again that a nervous dog such as she could have given birth to, and nursed not 2 or 3, but 9 pups, and manage to survive the ordeal. I had to agree with her, while I patted my poor darling's spotted ears, and tried to distract her as the vet sneaked an injection in.

It was with much relief that the dogs and I departed. We decided to walk back home. Cuddles was trotting along so fast, poor Pooch could hardly keep up with her. Thankfully, they spent the night in recovery, and I'm happy to say they were a pair of healthy and voraciously hungry dogs the next morning.

This morning though, Pooch was missing at breakfast. Like every member of the male species, he has failed to learn his lesson, and has gone back to his philandering ways, sore organ notwithstanding. I shudder to think of what might be in store next.

An insight into the artistic temperament

I have just been re-reading Vikram Seth's 'An Equal Music' for the third or fourth, or possibly even fifth time. I haven't attempted to read any of his other works, but this novel of his, I truly love. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine, probably chosen because I am a musician and hence less likely to skim over the descriptive passages as people so often do.

I am all for re-reading books. The very first time I take up a book, I'm too greedy to savor it. I just want to gobble up passages whole, devour the chapters that hold me back from getting to the all important closure. I cannot, for the life of me, read simply to relax. My moods are always determined by the novel or novels I'm reading at the time. Woe is suggestible me!

But then again, isn't a work of creation supposed to 'affect' one? Are we not allowed to stop and think and question? To me at least, any work of art that doesn't somehow 'affect', is a failure, because it has failed to move, to elicit an emotional response.

This novel, in particular, might be titled 'An Equal music', but truly, it revolves around an unequal love. One must be an artist to fully appreciate the sentiments involved, because it's true, artists fall in love differently from the rest of the world. I'm not talking about 'entertainers' like Madonna, or the film stars of our generation. I mean, quite specifically, serious musicians, creators of art, people who are immensely moved by beauty.

When I was a moody teenager, I'd been forced to accompany my mother to some store, and I was looking around aimlessly(something I still do), when an elderly gentlemen came up to me and inquired as to whether I was an artist of some sort. Startled, I didn't know what to say to him, because at the tender age of 13, I still hadn't figured out that the arts were in fact my true calling. My mother, as always, butted in to the rescue. She gushed on about how I played the piano and was a very talented singer who did a lot of stage shows and sang with a few choirs, while I stood by, too embarrassed to even look the gentleman in the eye. When I finally worked up the courage to face him, he was smiling, a very knowing smile, and said he thought as much, because I had an artistic temperament.

The rest of the day passed in a sort of glorious haze. I felt so privileged to have been singled out as one who possessed an 'artistic temperament'. I wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but oh, it sounded so exotic! The next day at school, I caught up with my English teacher (I was always a favorite of my English teachers, so I got away with such things) and told her the story of the gentleman who had decreed that I had an artistic temperament. I then asked her to elaborate, fully prepared for a truckload of wonderful adjectives. Instead she smiled at me, the same knowing smile, and explained an artistic temperament as being prone to bouts of moodiness, periods of brooding and depression, in short, just being a temperamental and volatile person.

To say that I was disappointed would be putting it too mildly, and like any other thirteen year old, I brooded over the judgement passed until time took its course, as with all else.

Many years have passed since then, and I can now smile at how stupid and gullible I was at the time. But that old gentleman was amazingly accurate in his prediction. Whether I like it or not, I have been bestowed with an artistic temperament. Yes, it makes life terribly difficult for me and the people I love. But it's also what brings out the sensitivity in a person, the quality most essential to any artist, and it is that quality that aids one in creation.

Anyone who wants to know what goes on in the minds of artists should read 'An Equal Music'. Like any memorable love story, the romance is twisted and contorted and of course, unrequited. But the fact that this love story is set against the rich tapestry of classical music is where its allure lies, at least for me.

I've probably waxed far too eloquent already. No, I don't get a commission for every copy that gets sold. Its just a very fine example of Indian English writing, and I love it and so I'm telling the whole world about it.

End of story.

Of kollu and kids that refuse to grow up

The past week has been one of 'kollus' and not much else. Not that I'm complaining. I, like the rest of the population, enjoy an evening of dressing up, cooing at doll displays and partaking of some yum traditional food.

In fact, it's so much fun, I wonder that we don't do it more often. As little girls, we hosted tea parties, clinking our empty, down-sized cups and saucers, and toasting to the long lives of our lifeless playmates and imaginary friends. And then of course, adulthood comes and bites us in the ass and life just stops being as enjoyable.

I read somewhere that adults should learn to curtail the 'child' within, or the world would be over-populated with obstinate, tantrum-throwing individuals, all wanting their own way, and not being able to hide behind the excuse of being an adorable little thing. And I thought to myself, this article has come a bit late. Most of the 'privileged' adults already behave in exactly that fashion. They have it all- looks, money, and the gift of being able to charm the whole world. It's almost as if they're mocking all the people who try to live good and honest and never seem to reap the benefits of either.

As for me, I don't know if it's possible to strike a balance between being as innocent as a child while having the good judgement and maturity of an adult. I've never come across anyone who's managed to pull it off. And let's face it, more often than not, we think typical adults are BORING. We'd rather hang out with impetuous, impulsive people who're wrong about things more often than they're right.

Looking back, I see that I've made a rather grand deviation from kollu. But it's a sunday morning, and I demand to be excused for any deviations or allegations I may have made in the course of this blog post. Besides, my concentration has all but evaporated and all I can think about is the delectable dosa I had last night at the kollu...ummm, 4 dosas actually. Blame it on the appetite of the child within!

I look for God in quiet places

I spent the weekend with God.

Alright, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. God is everywhere, right? And then again, what kind of proof do I have that GOD chose to spend the weekend with ME?

The simple fact is that my family decided it was time to go on a little pilgrimage, and I happened to trudge along. Though, to be fair, it was I who planted the idea in their minds. But that's just what I do- throw a wild card in their muddled midst, and then stand back and observe from a safe distance, as if I were watching tear gas envelope a mob.

The church of Velankanni, near Nagapattinam, is considered to be among the holiest shrines of Mary, Mother of God, well, actually, Mother of Jesus. So that's where we went. Velankanni constitutes a huge chunk of my childhood memories and associations, because that trip was the closest thing to a family vacation we had all those years, and even now. I remember every single thing- the beach, the walk to Our Lady's tank, the many colored rosaries I used to fall in love with and beg my mother to buy, the shops selling candles, garlands, little kids not much older than me at the time selling stickers of the divine Lady, and of course, the church.

I have to admit, that church is something special. Entirely white, it rises out of the otherwise drab and dreary landscape, spiraling toward heaven. It demands that anyone in the vicinity must stop and gaze, at least in awe, if not in devotion. I loved to gaze upon it at the unearthly hour that I used to be woken up in order to be in time for the first mass at 5 30 a.m. With eyes full of sleep, I'd walk alongside my father, a leftover chill hanging about the air, and always, my first glimpse of the church against a patch of open sky was the thing that shook me completely out of slumber.

But that was as a child. I grew up, and turned into someone who didn't feel particularly spiritual in the presence of hordes of people, praying rather fanatically. I hate to say it, but the truth was, for a lot of people around me, religion was more of a social obligation than an actual connection with God. And I couldn't do that. So I looked for God elsewhere. I looked for God in quiet places.

Still, I took the plunge this year, because I desperately wanted to feel something, any kind of connection with God at all. The crowds suffocated me, still, I bore it. I watched as my parents knelt down and prayed. It was the most sincere I've ever seen them. I watched my grandmother with tears in her eyes, and I had to look away, to wonder at my own inability to feel.

And just when I began to wonder if this was a wasted effort, it was 5 30 a.m. all over again. And as always, I had to stop and stare. Of course, there were loud speakers blaring prayers and all around me, people were getting off overnight buses, drinking scalding hot cups of coffee on the roadside and hurrying toward the church, the sea sand managed to wriggle its way into the insides of my toes, I had to keep my kurta from flapping around and pulling a Monroe on me.

But just for a moment, all those distractions ceased to exist. The sky, still dark everywhere else, was magically open just above the church spire. There were no bells clanging yet, so they hung still in the distance. And the church itself, the focal point of the masses milling around, its huge compound gates thrown wide open to anyone who cared to enter. Anyone at all, who wanted to say to God, 'hear me out please'.

And so I entered those gates. In that moment of quiet, I decided to go looking for God.

YOU

This is what I think of when I miss you
Marbles, with specks of gold, and always
A white flower just off the middle
Milk too sweet, but hot enough
That I have to slurp it up
A place I've never been to
A song I've never heard
But they tug at my heart anyway

This could get sentimental
And you do hate a show
I'm afraid I might not make it
To the next verse, when tricks
And old bones make a garland
Of my memories, mostly of you
And the garden hose comes flying out
On a whim, just to drench me

This is what I'm afraid of when you're invisible
Blankets, and white shirts, too starched
Phoney ghosts and starless nights
The tip of the threshold I trip over
Shapes that you used to be, dancing over me
Water, gurgling, and the hum of refrigerators
Everything still, and everything alive
Wispy curtains and whiter clouds

And the smell of darkness

Ode to pilgrim

The floor is crawling with my demons
And the shadows are like chalk-print
On the doors

I know my feet make no sound
Yet I gasp and stumble
At the threshold of fear

There ought to be lamps, lit
And quivering,
With their shaky promise of deliverance

I sleep with a dream-catcher
Over my head, Maman
But it is not you


The air is aching with tenderness, soured
It seems such a waste
To grieve

But who are we then?
Who shrink from ghosts
And people, alike

We do not know the beginning
Of our own names
And it is not fair

To place the burden of blame
On the quiet one who hates
To cry in the dark

One flu over this nest as well

I've had a traumatic week of sniffles and non-stop coughathons. It wasn't a pretty sight, good god no.

Of course, I had to explain to all and sundry that it was just the flu and not THE flu. After a point, it got to be quite exasperating. I mean, they should've figured it out themselves- no one, absolutely no one, is going to be taking phone calls while simultaneously entertaining a near-death situation.

But that's just how we are, aren't we? We love to get into a tizzy about some new fiasco or threat of impending doom, while the real demons work their doomsday voodoo on us every single day, and we're either too stupid or slovenly to wake up and smell the goddamn coffee.

As much fun as it's bound to be, making up this 'FOR REAL- DEMONS AT LARGE' list, I shall pass, mostly because I've still got the flu hangover and incessant bouts of coughing and blowing my nose in order to regain my fundamental right to breathe has put me in a rather foul mood.

But oh well, I'm not one to start something and get no where with it. Lets take, for example, the issue of drainage. Unlike the charming ditty in 'My fair Lady', the rain over here falls mainly in the drain. Every year, we pray for the rains to come, and when they do, we pray even harder for them to stop. That's got to be confusing for you-know-who up there. And yet, precious little is done about it. Every year, at least one little boy loses his life to an open man-hole, and countless others get electrocuted while walking to work, or school or just to the grocery store around the corner to pick up whatever water-logged vegetables are available for the evening meal. But hey, as long as it's not contagious, right?

Of course, my sympathies go out to all those who succumbed to the fatal flu. They probably didn't even know they had it until it was too late. And the rest of us can breathe a sigh of relief, at least until the next monster rears its ugly head.

As for me, sometime in the vicinity of 3 a.m. I shall be forced to grope in the dark for my trusty old friend Vicks Vaporub, and upon finding it, I shall sniff and snort its oh-so-heavenly-goodness like a coke addict until the waves of menthol carry me over safely to the dawn.

The Magic Recipe

If anyone were to ever ask me for a sure-fire cure to anything, I'd say 'WORK'!!

I kid you not, ever since I've gone back to work, life just seems like an endless day-dream... Every morning, while on my way, I cannot thank God enough for my oh-so-beautiful life. Of course, once at work, I'm dealt the usual dose of stress, performance-anxiety, dead-lines, fumbling with lines, untimely hunger pangs, post-lunch snooze cravings and so on. But oh, the sweet surrender of a hard day's night !

I suppose the age-old adage does hold sway- an idle mind is a devil's workshop. I wonder why no one from our generation comes up with little pearls of wisdom? Maybe it's because everything that needs to be thought through, analyzed and philosophized has already been through the grind, with the possible exception of euthanasia and the origins of homosexuality.

As a child, I wanted to do everything and be everyone, all at once. It could possibly be interpreted as an identity complex, but I'd like to dismiss it as a severe case of misplaced enthusiasm. That was of course before I came across another old gem- jack of trades and king of none. I'd be damned if I wasn't going to be the king/queen of something!

Still, I do sometimes wish life was narrowed down to just a few good choices, instead of our minds being constantly infiltrated by seemingly endless choices- a few good, some questionable, and a whole lot of unnecessary ones. Apparently, it's been proven that people make wiser and needless to say, quicker choices when faced with a limited number of them. And if we, as adults are facing a dilemma in this respect, I wonder what the average kid out there must feel like.

Although, what really intrigues me, is what a kid with the picture-perfect life must feel like. Take for example, someone who's been in the news lately- the adorable off-spring of the best looking couple in the world, Shiloh. I really do wonder what it must feel like to wake up to beautiful mom Jolie and big strong dad Pitt every single day and to be shielded from all that is ugly in this world. And as she grows up, will she become obsessed with the mirror on the wall, or will she blossom into one of those few blessed individuals who are so beautiful, it goes deeper than their level of awareness, while the rest of the world gapes on?

Does Shiloh ever feel like the world is a mean, unfair place? Does she ever wish she was someone else? Does she wish her hair wasn't so perfectly blonde? Has she ever needed to throw a tantrum to get what she wants? Will she ever need to worry about being judged by her peers?

Of course, I have the answers to none of the above questions. As for the rest of the not-so-obviously-lucky kids out there, I hope and pray that life doesn't turn out half bad. But really, it depends on just two things, whether or not you want to make a difference, and whether or not you want to do it right.

Ironic isn't it, that the intricacies of life can be boiled and simmered down to just that?

Lonely Cloud

Lonely cloud
Drifting in and out of blue sky
Say hello to me
I'm just as lonely as you
Drifting in and out
Of the hours

What's the secret
Of your complacence
No anxiety in your glide
Wish I could slide
To the same song you're singing
But it's so soft
I can hardly hear it

Lonely cloud
Playing hide-and-seek with night sky
I just saw you tumble over the moon
If I were granted a boon
I would ask
For just one moment
To feel as beautiful
As you.

Back in the Race!

O la !

This morning, I worked up the courage to re-join the gym for the nth time. I stayed on the treadmill through two power-cuts, each of which caused me to experience a sensation akin to those experienced during minor earthquakes. Still, I stayed, I fought it out when my tummy cramped, and only left when I noticed the streams of sweat oozing out of the man on my left. It just became too icky after that.

I'd originally planned to re-join the gym last morning. But the day went by in a daze of indecision- which gym to join? Should I just do yoga? Do I need a personal trainer? Maybe I should go jogging on the beach instead... Tumultuous thoughts that lead to nowhere. Finally, when evening came, I felt particularly disgusted with my state of lethargy, which was only aggravated by my consumption of 3 mouth-watering and also fat-provoking Indian sweets. So I picked up my bag with my chequebook stowed away in it, and stepped out the door. When I informed my driver of the destination, he looked at me incredulously and asked why I would join the gym when I never ever go. This thoughtless (but true) remark of his broke my spirit and I trudged back upstairs, mumbling something about the traffic and half-heartedly promising myself that I'd accomplish what I'd set out to do on the morrow.

And voila! I actually did, despite the sniggers from my driver, and the long-standing joke of my mother's that I love donating money to gyms across the city. I returned home from my 45 minute expedition to the sweat factory feeling exhilarated with the endorphin rush. The rush lasted precisly 10 minutes, after which my limbs gave way, and rendered me handicapped.

I know I'm going to feel impossibly hungry owing to my mini-workout. I know my thighs are going to feel like God carved them out of lead. I know that no amount of stretching is going to soothe the ache in parts of my body that I tend to forget even exist when I'm not exercising. I know I'll chide myself for not switching to yoga and staying in shape the painless way. I know I'll curse my gene pool, my metabolism, my sweet tooth, my super-not-model body type, in short everything about me that's not perfect.

Someone recently told me that I don't know what I want, I only know what I don't want. It made me think that maybe I get around to doing things the roundabout way, but who cares, as long as things get done eventually.

But for now, I'm pretty sure of what I don't want- I don't want to be the one left behind while the rest of the world moves on to a better place. So I'm warming up and getting back in the race. I'm going to run my extra mile, even if it's only on a treadmill.

Swooper Trooper

I spent sunday evening with one of my oldest friends, slurping juice and laughing over nothing particularly funny. It felt so familiar and so damn good to not have to think before speaking, to not have to be afraid of being judged by what one says or does.

I came across this quote of Elizabeth Taylor's recently, in an old issue of the Reader's Digest, and her words rang so true to my ears - you know who your friends are when you're involved in a scandal.

Now a lot of people might never have the opportunity to star in a scandal. And perhaps, they lose out on the true test of friendship, but what the hell, nothing is worth being involved in a scandal. And then some people might say that money is the true test of friendship. But I beg to differ on that, because I know a lot of people who don't mind having friends who are poorer. And I know some people who thrive on being around friends who aren't as 'loaded' as they are, maybe because it boosts their own sense of self-worth. And of course, when a friend is in the doldrums financially, it must make a person feel so good to be able to swoop in with a cheque to the rescue.

But how or what does one do to help someone who is knee-deep in scandal? How does one support a friend when the whole of society, or the city, or the nation, or even the whole world is damning the person in question?

There is a beautiful story narrated in the bible, where Jesus addresses an angry mob thus- let he who has committed no sin cast the first stone. That line speaks for itself, really, no explanation required. Of course, Jesus was one hell of a public speaker.

I've noticed that a lot of people don't like to get their hands dirty, unless it's mud-slinging someone else. Which is fair enough. But that only applies to the REST of the world, not to YOUR OWN world a.k.a immediate family and friends.

In a perfect world, family and friends would swoop in like eagles, their well-tended feathers shielding your defenseless, weather-beaten self, until the rest of the big bad ugly world found something else to distract itself with. And then of course, that warm cozy circle could take the liberty of tearing you to shreds with their opinions, and shake you silly till you wake up and smell the coffee. But that's okay, because you'll need to hear it from someone anyway.

But those 'friends' who stay on the other side of the cliff, who refuse to swoop in and prefer instead to watch from a safe distance while you struggle to overcome the demons at your door-step, well, you're better off without them.

And to think I had this bolt of enlightenment while chatting with my friend over a tall glass of pomegranate juice sans sucre, well, I guess it says a lot about which side of the cliff he's perched on.

He qualifies as a Grade A Swooper in my book.

Playing Truant from Life

Someone I know has run away, disappeared off the face of the earth.

Well, if that strikes you as funny or tragic, so be it. But me, I'm just plain livid.

I mean, come on, we're all grown ups here, or at least we do our best to adhere to the accepted adult standards of behavior. So what then does one do when a fully grown male decides to up and out?

I for one, took the only logical course of action possible. I carried on with life as always. Why should I worry about someone who wants me to worry about them? That would be giving in, caving, and I refuse to cave. No way. So I had myself a merry little weekend, did all the usual things, paid extra attention to my dogs who have been exceptionally adorable over the past few days. My mom made chocolate fudge and I helped her clear the vessel, which is to say, I pretty much licked it clean. I re-read some old books, having run out of fresh reading material. I pondered the mysteries of life, specifically MY life, which is not really a weekend deal, since I do it on an everyday basis.

As bedtime approached, I took out my blanket and pillow and laid my weary self down. And thats when it happened, all the suppressed panic and worry just surged up into my mouth and I couldn't breathe. It only lasted a couple of minutes. But it was enough.

I know that this day will pass as just another manic monday, with all its trademark twists and turns and nasty surprises that jump at me from every which corner. And I shall handle it all with my trademark cynicism and smoldering sarcasm and occasional bouts of panic. And soon enough, the sun will set on my frown.

I only dread what comes later.

Beauty Queen, Dancing Queen

Two things happened to me recently- I was asked to be a judge at a local beauty pageant, and I tried to sit through a local stage version of 'Mamma Mia'.

It wasn't all bad. But it wasn't all good either.

Alright then. Lets start with the good stuff. Being a judge entitled me to a free trip(if only for a day) to the city of Colombo. I'm always up for visiting places I've never been. And Colombo was a pleasant surprise. I half-expected to have a rifle up my nose on arrival, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, I was greeted by row after row of duty-free all kinda liquors.

Now the contest was another thing altogether. I am not big on beauty pageants, never have been. But this one happened to be in honor of renewing ties between India and her tear-drop neighbor, and I am definitely big on causes. It makes me feel useful in these difficult times.

Unfortunately, the 'cause' did nothing to alleviate the 'effect' the beauty queens had on me. I was bored, and apparently, it showed. A photographer came up to me afterward and told me in the nicest way possible how much he enjoyed taking pictures of my many bored expressions. Still, I did the best I could, and awarded brownie points to the only girl onstage who had a brain, and thankfully she happened to win. That made me feel pretty pleased, though not half as pleased as when I found the complimentary marzipan in my hotel room.

And then of course, the other thing. The thing I brought upon myself- voluntarily appearing at a performance of 'Mamma Mia'.

Truth be told, I'm no Abba fan. I used to listen to some of their songs as a child, but the only song I ever liked was 'Dancing Queen', maybe because it's tinged with the slightest hint of bittersweet, teenage melancholia. And I could most certainly connect to that. Mamma Mia the musical, on the other hand, was not something I could connect with, try as I did. It had nothing to do with the singing or the dancing and I wasn't even put off by the not-so-great acting.

Nope, the whole damn thing was just too happy.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I've gotten so cynical that I can't sit back and pretend to know the words to all the Abba songs, while successfully ignoring the wishy-washy everything else. Whatever it was, I just couldn't do it, and had to leave half-way. I was left with no choice, it was like a jar of happy squash had exploded in the theatre and the smell was getting too sickeningly sweet.

Now you might think I'm trying to establish a connection between the beauty queens and the dancing queens, but I'm not. They are two different kinds of queens, and should never be compared, much less discussed in the same breath. The only common factor is me and the fact that I happened to have an over-dose of both in the span of one week.

Luckily, I survived with all my cynicism intact. As for the jar of happy, and the local belles, well, the city of Chennai is big enough for us all to co-exist.