One of those…

Pehla Nasha is one of those songs that gives you that nice/fond/nervous feeling inside. Everything about that song just comes together so well. The womans voice compliments a frolicking Ayesha Jhulka in my head and the guys voice is just fits former hotness, Aamir Khan undoing is tie and riding that cycle. The song is so um, innocent and the lyrics are really sweet. Everyone I know from the ditzy to the cynical to the sophisticated to the downright stupid, likes this song.

“Usne baat ki, kuch aisey dhang sey,

Sapney dey gayaa woh hazaaron rang key,

Reh jaaoo jaisey mein haar key,

Aur chumey woh mujhe pyaar sey”

Frikkin sigh man! Such cute lyrics.

I need to get cooler and fast.

I made a learning today…

Nothing’s ever permanent. The ultimate cliché, sure. But boy does it fucking hurt!

I have the moral compass of a twig and there’s not a day I forget that. What I do tend to neglect is that I’m not the only one. For as long as I can remember I’ve always berated myself for being weak, for always being the one of shallower emotions, for always being the one that felt the least. And as it goes with growing up, I’ve come o realize that this just isn’t true. No one’s exempt from that need to sustain him/herself no matter what the means. And yet, when you find that people are as weak as yourself it’s a horribly frightening feeling. As a person, I tend to draw hope from the goodness and genuineness of others. That’s always what I tell myself, “Not everyone’s like you.” And that’d make me feel better. And now, it’s just gone. Things change and people change and they all change us. If for the better, only time will tell.

quick and painful

Today, this minute I know what it feels like to have your life as you knew it slip away as you watch stupidly, unable to do much about it – somewhat paralysed by the knowledge that you set this ball in motion. When did this happen? Like this massive wave, when you just began to learn to jump over waves and got slightly complacent in the water, this massive wave just took you completely by surprise and completely off your feet. You’re dragged underwater and for those horrifying split seconds you’re thrashing manically for some sort of footing or help.Im wedged in between those seconds right now. I’m shuttling between these two options: Did i just make the worst mistake of my life and what am i going to do now? Nice, huh? I don’t know what just happened, I was so happy. Two weeks is all it took to wipe out two years of a wonderful relationship. Suddenly we’re both psyched with doubt about something we were so sure we wanted for the rest of our lives, just two weeks ago. It’s like a mini death.

Im listening to a beautiful song called ‘Waiting for my real life to begin’ by Colin Hay.

Sigh..

I’ve been trying to write for a while with no luck whatsoever. It’s annoying when good ideas run right smack into you at just the times you can’t do diddly about them. eg. when I’m onthe treadmill, when I’m plastered against the wall of the train with my nose somehow having landed up in some woman’s armpit. I mean, really. But when will they refuse stubbornly to come to mind? When I’m sitting at the comp for hours on end, when I’m in an empty train ready with a notebook and pen or when I’m on the pot. Friggin’ sigh!

But yesterday was different, I had an idea for a story about a man who lives in mortal fear of Taxi drivers because one of them got his father killed. Okay so it sounds like horse shit, but then ‘the show about nothing’ also sounds like horse shit and it turned out to be the awesomeness that is Seinfeld. See, there’s hope for my Taxi driver story yet.

So we were lying in bed, V and me, and I was telling him about it and he was hmming away distractedly. Then when I asked if he could think of a better angle on it, he said “What about 45 degrees?” (He really doesn’t know how lucky he is that I still keep him) (I joke) So that got me upset and I felt like killing him. In his defense, I narrated my story to him in the voice of a three year old so he would figure I was joking and if it turned out to be crappy he’d still think i was joking and therefore not concentrate on exactly how uninspiring my thoughts can sometimes be. Then when he actually did take it like the joke I pretended it was, I got miffed (I’m lucky he still keeps me) Anyway then he babied me and my ego booboos were all better. I can be really weepy and pathetic sometimes, it’s gross.

So all said, I’m still going to stick to the idea and flesh it out. Then if it absolutely sucks, I’ll dump it. For now the taxi-driver phobic man it is.

The curious incident of the dog in the night time.

So we’ve moved to our new house, the mater and I with canine in tow. I have to say, it wasn’t as uprooting and oh I-feel-ever-so-displaced like. In fact, from day one, it’s been great. I’ve gotten quite into the groove of things which means I’m now leaving for places an hour and a half earlier than I used to  and I’m doing a fair amount of jostling for a train seat in the first class ladies compartment. I haven’t quite made it to the “Where’re you getting down? I call your seat” stage yet.

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Digression – Why does the first class have a seating provision for just about 15 women? To which Vahishta answered rather indignantly, “Dude there are TWO first class compartments *mental rolling of eyes happened though he denies it vehemently*” Yes, so that’s 30. That still seems horribly inadequate for the horde of women that scramble in like frantic pigs, daily. Yes, yes it’s reflective of the country’s population’s genderwise distribution but it’s really hard to keep that in mind when you’re fighting to stay on the skyfacing side of the train and get a seat so you don’t have to stand all the way to the back of beyond.

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Aanyway back to the title related issue. Doggimo has been having trouble adjusting to new house which is much much bigger than the former hole-in-the-wall he knew so well as home. So he’s been running into things, getting lost in either the mother’s room or mine or one of the bathrooms. Just the other day he ran straight into the concrete edge of the bathroom’s doorframe and yowled like a maniac. He sported a huge bump on his snout the rest of the day. Last night, the howling wind interspersed with the buzzing of humongous mosquitoes (a suburban phenomenon much like SUV convoys are a townside phenomenon) must’ve got to him because when the mother woke up sometime in the middle of the night, he was wrapped tight from head to paw in a rather warm flannel bedsheet and when she looked a little further from him, there I was in the foetal position, stiff from the cold. But that’s not the curious incident, it’s just that she thought he died. Trying to stay calm, we then drew back the bedsheet and found that he was not in fact dead and actually quite crabby. We went back to sleep feeling a little foolish.

Er, yea that’s it. 

 

Look at him! Can you blame us for the alarm?

Don’t think just do.

When we were little we imagined with bright eyes the kind of people we’d grow up to be. I was going to be tall and goodlooking and rich and famous. And incredibly well dressed. I’d definitely have a large house with a husband that then looked uncannily like Ken doll. So many nights I’d turned happily in my sleep with the sound of throngs of cheering fans screaming my name while I belted out songs, taking notes that Mariah could only hope to. The parents would be there too, all small and grey and proud.

Nothing turned out that way. Nothing at all except maybe the height. I’m grew decently tall. Most of the other dreams fell by the way. My life turned out to be so scarily far from perfect.
I was horribly introverted. I had issues with intimacy and a filthy temper. At just 16 I’d already been through a year of intense depression. I had asthmatic attacks, one after the other. I couldn’t walk a flight of steps without stopping to catch my breath. Incidentally it was a pretty good representation of what I was feeling inside. I remember hoping I wouldn’t wake up the next morning. I’d make the parents cry and hate themselves for having to try not to hate me. My father in particular, had no idea when his grinning monkey had tured into this hurtful monster. I started pointing fingers in all the wrong directions.

Then one day everything changed. Just as suddenly I was feeling better. I found people I liked that liked me. I began waking up to the niceness in my life. I began looking at the parents with the regard they’d always deserved. I began looking at myself with regard. This was new. The asthma disappeared. My father died one day out of the blue. But it was the right time I think. You know how some people talk about wanting to freeze a perfect moment in time? I think that’s what happens when you die at a happy stage in your life. The father did and that’s why till date I haven’t mourned. I never felt like it. I found love by flimsy chance. Love that changed me so much.

Cut to the present and I’m thinking about forecasting the things I want and where and who I want to be another 5 years from now. But I’m not going to. I’ve decided to play it by ear. I have tentative plans, sure but I don’t want to map my life out, be sitting up one night in 2011 weeping about how nothing turned out the way I’d imagined. I don’t think I could balance any more regret on the large pile I already have stacked.

I don’t want to think, just want to do, what makes me happy, what makes the handful of people I’m close to happy. After all making it to the long term goal is made up of several short term wins.

I have an almost passionate belief in Karma. So much so, that alot of times I take it for granted and don’t ‘fight’ the fight I should or could fight. Such has been the performance of Karma in my life. It has never failed me. In fact I’m having one of those unravelly moments right now. At the risk of sounding completely outdated, justice is such a soothing balm when you’ve been smarting for a while

Hi Mum,

Did you get the cheque? Okay, stupid question. If you’re reading this, you did. I’ll send the next one a month from now. It isn’t going as well this time, Mum. The money’s not good and the job couldn’t be less exciting. I know, I know Mum, I shouldn’t complain and just be happy that Jesus let any of this happen at all. And I am grateful, I think. But I can’t help wondering Mum, just sometimes, I allow myself to. You know how it is, with work and all. At the end of the day by the time I’m done scrubbing decks and wheedling a few dollars off every little job I can find, I’m too tired. Every muscle in my body is sore and I can just about stagger back to my cabin and flop down in bed. Don’t feel bad or anything Mum, these are days I actually look forward to. It’s the days off, that are hard. I’ll have a few beers with the boys and head on down to the pier. I’ll shop for some post cards and smile at a pretty thing and then bam! it just happens. This stupid stupid mind of mine just won’t give up Mum. The useless what if’s and the more futile then’s. Mum could my life really have been the way I dream now, if I’d have just done that little bit differently?! That doesn’t seem right. I don’t get it, I just don’t. What about second chances Mum? Every fucking person goes on about second chances? Where’s mine? Hmm? What the hell was Jesus doing the night I lost us our money? What? What?! What the hell were you doing? You were at your rallies and prayer meets, that’s where you were. Asking God to do your dirty work, not letting your pious hands get dirty. Do you even know where I am, Mum? Do you?! I could be sitting on a beat up bench in Galveston or a sidewalk in Jamaica, that smells of piss, penning this letter, while strangers walk by wondering what it is that’s making a grown man cry. You know what I’m wondering Mum? I’m wondering about you, what you’re doing, whether your knees are giving you trouble again, whether you got a haircut, whether you’ve grown more wrinkles since the last time I saw you. Don’t cry Mum, I know you are, but just don’t. It’ll be okay. I’ll make a bunch of money and come back one day, you, Skippy and I, we’ll live well. I’ll buy us a nice home and a car. I’ll take you both on long drives to bandstand and then we’ll drive all the way back and have KRustom ice cream. Skippy’s still crazy about their peach flavour isn’t she? I couldn’t bear it if she wasn’t Mum, I just couldn’t. I’m missing everything, everything! I feel like I’m outside here, while my life’s playing itself out, there.You know what happened yesterday? My bosun, he said “You’re doing it all wrong, son, you need more practice with your knots” He called me son Mum, it’s been so long since I heard that word. I miss your ’Shunnoo’ and your ‘Baba’ and all those other stupid names. I know you can’t write to me because I’ve left no address, but if, not if, when I return I’ll expect a pile of unsent letters, Mum. Do that for me, okay? I’m so sorry about this fucked up letter, I don’t want to make you miserable, I just want you to know that I’m still alive and still feeling and still thinking of you. The last time we spoke you asked if I was drinking and smoking and sleeping about? That was cold, Mum. You couldn’t ask me if I was reading or praying or working out? What is it about me that always makes you think I’m upto no good? I do pray Mum, I pray a lot. I pray for you and Skip and for just one chance to see you again. You know what I’ll do, Mum? I’ll hug you both and tell you I love you and that I’ve missed you both and that I’ll never leave again. But until then, use the money I sent you okay? Don’t walk anymore, take a cab.

Luke.

     They sat on the marble periphery that went around the marble statue that faced the marble-stone church. George’ scuffed canvas shoes made a squeaking sound every time his foot brushed against the grey flagstones as he swung his legs. A habit that Mary found very annoying. “I guess it’s true what they say Georgie-boy, we’re no different than kids”, she’d quip, staring pointedly at his guilty legs. Mary wore Mary- Janes, soft black felt with finely cushioned soles. She kept the little joke from the others. Her pencil legs that didn’t even reach the ground made sufficient material for their daily guffawing. Francis snorted unceremoniously and droplets of snot flew out his nose and onto his hands that were facedown on his thighs. He promptly wiped them on his pant leg and continued to grin. Mary looked at Francis and politely pointed to her left nostril, indicating that he still had a little snot wedged there. He picked it out deftly with his index finger and thumb, smeared it, then rolled it and flicked it away. Noone was embarrassed because they were all used to Francis’ relentless sinusitis and his less that stately manners. Through all of this Ligouri remained impassive. It didn’t matter what the others said, the stories they told or even when they made fun of him. “Ligouri Ligouri, let us see your pigouri/stigouri/figouri” Uproarious laughter would follow, especially for the last one. George would double over, first with mirth, followed quickly by racking coughs and Mary would smile amused, slapping his back helpfully while wiping Francis’ mucousy spray off her palms. But Ligouri never cracked a smile and his eyes stayed empty. He was “a goner”, like Francis put it, ” anytime now”. Not to his face of course. They all had a feeling he disliked them and if they’d known him better, they’d know how right they were.

     The clock struck seven and they rose naturally, first George, then Francis and they turned inward and helped Mary down. Ligouri was already ahead, wordlessly making his way up the flat white asphalt steps of the church. The others shook their heads and began towards there. Mary latched arms with George and Francis latched arms with her and together they hobbled as a group, grumbling about aches and pains, about Ligouri’s lack of regard and Francis’ rubber slippers slapped along noisily but with rhythm. It was a spectacle really and had earned it’s committed set of daily onlookers. And right then as always, the church knell sounded and the choir began to sing.

They lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling. His hands behind his head, her hands, one on her stomach and the back of the other resting on his chest. There was, needless to say, low light with shadows on the wall, just like every other story that begins this way. Except this one is different because no two loves can be the same. They are so unlike each other. She comes from money, he didn’t, he knows that family matters, she doesn’t agree. They have both suffered equal and opposite trauma. He listens to Jazz, she loves Eminem. They smile faintly in the dark, again, like couples that lie next to each other, staring at the ceiling do. Both wonder how it all came to be, knowing it doesn’t really matter. They’re next to each other and everything is okay. Still staring upward she says in a whisper, little above the drone of the fan, “ You make me visit the hardest places in my life and feel like I can make my peace and move on. You understand me like no one ever could. I think it comes with being witness to my life and not just having heard it like a story” He smiles removing his left arm from under his head and gathering her close to him. “ I know baby”. “So what do I do for you?” she asks, deadpan. She turns toward him to try and figure out what he’s thinking, not wholly prepared for his eyes, like limpid pools. “You give me this. Us. Right here. I’m so alone in my life without you.” He looks her in the eye and she swallows, overawed. She leans into him and places her body against his, stroking the fine greys sprouting along his chin. This would be perfect if only the terror they felt inside would go away.

      The landline rings. She leans across him, picks up and listens for a bit. “No dude, I don’t feel like partying tonight. I’m staying home only, I promised my Dad I’d have dinner with him. You guys go ahead” A shadow passes over his face. She replaces the receiver, throws on her nightie and teases, “Come on lazy poke, dinner awaits”