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Nouvelle Vague's "Ever Fallen in Love" will always remind me of VPV and our second ad together. Come to think of it, there was a tiny bit of flirting going on, I'll admit it DG. Entirely harmless though. I really get my kicks from difficult people.

2010, more than any year, has been a year of false starts. I had a feeling, I was poised for so many things wonderful, but I think I just let them all go. Easy come. Easy go.

I keep bumping into people in Calcutta I think I know. I've seen them somewhere, like maybe when I was in college, or in Facebook Albums of popular kids. And I'm certain they wouldn't remember - even though we may have spoken a couple of times. Isn't that horrible? They either think I'm a huge snob, or a little weird in any case. I hate being that way.

I'm planning to spend my new year's eve in a way I used to when I was a kid. Watching TV. Maybe add a couple of movies and alcohol in for good measure. Confession: it totally sucks being the only single person in a room full of not single people. I mean, I'm okay with the way it is - but I hate the post 12 o'clock kiss awkwardness. I'd really, really rather watch a movie.

I think I miss someone, a little more than I thought I would. I didn't think my moment of epiphany would happen in the can, with an Archie comic in my hand. Actually no. That's exactly how it should have happened, and it did. Either way, fuck. It's too tragic. I'll start becoming like Supriya debi in Meghe Dhaka Tara, screaming "Dada ami baachte chai!" with the camera swish panning around insanely around the mountains. I don't want to get TB and become a martyr. Please, please no.

I have some nice new clothes now, a watch, fake but cute sunglasses, lots of books and a shit load of films. If I only lost some weight, I think I'd be fairly happy. And I just had a beach vacation. With swimming. That's always good. The winter's been nice so far, although I strangely long for a bit of the Delhi cold. I have Body Shop Body Butter - strawberry at that - which is something I've wanted forever. I have been smoke free for 9 days and counting. I wake up late. I'm not working. Life's okay, no?

Have a happy new year everyone. It might just work out okay.

New York is cold, but I like where I'm living, there's music on Clinton Street all through the evening

Today I had my last cigarette in a cold alley in Park Street by myself. I don't why, but it bothered me. The day started out well enough. I woke up early, was unusually chirpy. But as the day wore on, I started feeling this slight dread at the pit of my stomach. I kept thinking of myself in the pictures taken during my brother's wedding and wondered who that strange, ridiculously happy person was. She looked nothing like how I felt - which was, and is, something exactly the opposite.

Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat played on loop inside my head all through the day. Even in the morning when the light looked fantastic and it was cold and beautiful. Then in the evening, when I walked down from Xavier's to the other side of Park Street, it was like someone cranked the volume way, way up.

I took out my guitar after ages today. I played the same old tunes I always play on any guitar, because I think, that's all I know, and that's all I'll ever be able to play. I feel sorry for the guitar. It should have belonged to someone else. Someone who wanted to be a rockstar. Or someone with a little more enthusiasm.

God, what a bloody waste of a day. What a waste of a life.

God Bless the Pretty Things

I like this album. I really do. Not because I want to like it, but I like it. It's electro-poppy and not in a bad 80s way. Okay, maybe it's a little reminiscent of the Pet Shop Boys and David Bowie, but they're cool, right? Sometimes? Anyway, how does it matter?

The lads broke all sales records in the UK, yet again. Second fastest selling album of all time in the UK (don't believe me, Google it). And they'd do that even if the album was crap. Which most TT loyalists say it is. It's not ballad-y and sweet and grand - which is typically Take That. It's edgy and raw, experimental and kind of angry but without really being pretentious, which I like. It has a lot of Robbie (who doesn't really sound as good as he once did), and Mark (who has a scary voice, quite honestly), but when they come together, they kind of make it work. Gary, surprisingly has taken a backseat - but I think he's too smart to really become a wallflower. I was watching the documentary, Look Back don't Stare (which I recommend very very strongly), and you know this album wouldn't have happened without the genius of Gary Barlow and Stuart Price. The dude made the album happen, and his leadership skills have certainly improved from the last time Robbie was around.

Their hitmaker is probably going to be The Flood, the first single that they chose to release. The video is cheesy and weird - but the song is pretty epic. Great dance beats and I dare you not to hum neurotically days after you hear it. The chorus nails it - the rest of it is well, meh. Mark and Robbie get to vent a lot - political, personal turmoil all spews out in SOS and Kidz - both pretty intense, catchy tracks. You'll never believe you are listening to Take That if you hear Happy Now or even Pretty Things for that matter. Raspy, trippy, Scissor Sister-ish even. Fucking wow. But the best song is undoubtedly Eight Letters, a ballad sung by Gary (who else?) and written by Robbie - probably the best track in the album. It's clearly autobiographical, very poignant - and the fact that Gary sings it (and he sings it very very well) makes it even more special. I'll admit I've missed Gary's voice in the album, because he is a stronger singer - and can hold a tune better - but still, it's good to see the group pulling their own weights for a change. The result is a quirky, original album, not dominated by one theme or mood or voice. It's deliciously unpredictable and has Fuck You written all over it. They don't care - these five are making music after a long time, and actually enjoying it for a change.

The house is empty, like after a robbery. There’s some random, melancholy music playing on my laptop. I’m figuring out i-tunes finally.

I’m thinking about what a genius you were at 20, the same time I was 20, and not quite all there.

I guess I am a little jealous.

I am stuck here, with my borrowed wisdom and mediocre talents. And double fucking chin.

And you…you are not.

Calcutta is getting wintry. It’ll soon be time for Nivea and oranges. And more tea and cigarettes.

I am afraid of sticking to memories like cling film. And becoming fungusy and smelly. I am afraid of getting stuck. To people, to places, to a conversation, to a fantasy, to a deeply saddening thought, to the A minor chord.

What are you doing now? Do I pop up sometimes in your memories? Do I say hello? Do you remember my name?

I miss being funny. Maybe it’s the music I listen to now.

OH MY GOD, I am not filmy enough.

Halfway through the sangeet script I was thinking of character development and consistency. Furk.

But I have seen a LOT of Hindi movies in my time. And a whole lot of crappy ones as well. I mean, summer holidays duh. I should be able to do better right? Sigh.

I haven't had a cigarette since I landed in Cal (and those milds just don't count).

There's a really cheesy song I love listening to now - She's only happy in the sun. It's so pretty.

This beer bottle design is so perfect.

My god I am FAT. These clothes used to be so loose. Fuckfuckfuck. FUCK. I just don't say it enough. FUCK.

Don't Bogart that joint

Hendrix, Roger McGuinn, discovering new songs, long distance phone calls, clambering nephews, strange new light fixes, new mirrors, AC, kitchen smells, old test papers, internet for free.

I want to have a hot affair in Cal. I cannot have not loved in my own city, right?

I wish I had some company for the Film Fest.

Today I was in my brother’s room (in Cal) and I suddenly saw that the wall which had this poster of a 60s pin up babe leaning against a convertible, was bare. His computer, which seemed very state of the art three or four years ago, seemed a little lonely. Not a whole lot had changed in his room actually. Bits of him were still there. I imagined that boy in his Bermudas and faded T-shirts, watching football on TV and playing games on the comp, reading his crime thrillers and obsessing about cars. I really don’t think a whole lot has changed, but that missing poster – it bothered me for some reason. Like the time he walked in late for a World Cup match because his fiancé took too much time at a store buying grocery. I saw a side of him I never knew. He bit the bullet, he behaved extremely maturely. A part of me was happy for his new found grown upness, but for most part I was scared. I was losing my loopy, short tempered best friend to a girl who was nothing like us and my brother was losing all the things that made him, him.

He’s happy though, I think. And it’s just me, who’s somehow stuck at 16 - in awe of her older, much cooler brother - refusing to let go of an image of a person who’s just moved on, naturally. I’m losing my partner in crime, and it seems to be happening at a time, when all these little partnerships I have reveled in, are slowly, but surely crumbling or fading. Maybe they just morph into a different kind of partnership, a different kind of love. You probably never stop being close. But you also probably never get to be the same. And I miss that. I’m just sentimental I suppose.

I watched a wonderful episode of Glee today. I am a sucker for underdogs.

Khair Chhodo

So yesterday I had work and it was fine when I was working, not so fine when I wasn't. I have realized over time that I am not much of a lover of festivals. I mean, look at it - this Diwali thing - people making noise, people littering, people wasting energy - somehow, I'm not cool with it. I just don't like it. I don't like most of these celebrations, and I don't know, maybe I'm being a Scrooge or something, but if you think about it, you'll know what I mean.

Maybe it's a once in a year thing, but it's so wasteful and pointless! And I don't know. I think that attack on Ravan and the Lankans was kind of racially motivated. It's like America vs any small oil rich country.

Anyway. I was in a mood yesterday. I don't quite know why. I wish I could stay back at the studio all night instead of going back home.

My editor is a man-child-khoo-kid. Let me elaborate - and I'm sure you've seen this kind a lot:

30 something, unmarried.

Long hair, maybe a beard.

Wears quarter pants, expensive sneakers and rocker/black Tees.

Smokes a lot of pot

Listens to electronica

Collects toys

Talks a lot. About drugs, music, parties, gambling, women - all the things which make him cool.

Has an opinion on everything

Is friends with anyone who matters

Drops names

Loves the sound of his own voice

Sarcastic, talks down to his assistants

Says "fuck" and its derivatives a lot

Gives a rat ass about clients/agencies - people in positions of authority

Always has a party to go to

Probably loves comic books

Probably watches a lot of indie films

Does that Bappi Lahiri talk with friends on the phone

Was/is in a band

I can't help it. He's such a type. But he was generous with his stash, so I don't care. He's late though for his booking. Not that I have anywhere to go. Khair chhodo.

I love that phrase. "Khair chhodo". What does "khair" mean? Anyway? I am in love with it.

When P told me about Professor Lal, we both know what popped into our heads. That song. That silly little song we made up. How sadly ironic. Then I remembered this brilliant lecture on Ode to a Nightingale - which somehow stuck. I remember so little of the recent past. So it's nice. He left me with something nice to remember. Anyway, this isn't an eulogy or anything. It's just, I don't know - a mixture of regret and sadness. Rest in peace Professor.

Today it's Diwali here in Bombay, Kali Pujo back home. I lit fourteen diyas at home yesterday and did all the things Ma would have liked me to do. I bought some flowers and made a little alpona of sorts in front of the door. Then there was a terrific storm, but none of the diyas died, which was sort of miraculous. There was no-one at home, so I did all this mostly for myself. Then I smoked a j and watched Lie to Me. At 12.30 they called me in for some edit job, which I was relieved to go to, because I wanted to be alone. I like travelling through the empty streets at night. I quite like watching the night folk - homeless people, construction workers, prostitutes - I don't know why exactly though. I just enjoy the wind in my face, and thinking.

I think I'm slowly but surely morphing into a strange old city bird. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning and see some booze lying around in the kitchen, I feel like having it with my oat bites. Sometimes I do. Okay, not with the oats, but just. In the evenings I like sitting with a smoke and some Coke Studio or How I Met Your Mother (depending on my mood and internet connectivity) and just being there in the dim lights and quiet space. I don't like talking anymore. I like listening sometimes, but mostly not. I'm a selfish and happy. Or sad. Either way, it's my thing.

Contradictory to whatever I am saying, this has been a long garrulous post. Okbye.

Meanwhile...

I have decided to recreate 2005/2007. I loved 19/21.

I also love David Bowie and The Rolling Stones all over again.

I have rejoined Postcrossing. Now I need stamps.

I wish Someplace Else wasn't an yuppie filled blechfest now, because if it's 2005, I need to go.

I want to go for a film festival and a live concert.

I want to go to Goa too.

I want to jam again. Did you know I rocked a mike at a karaoke bar recently? Honest to god. I was awesome.

I have a new antivirus one day before the old one expires. Tookul.

I need new jeans.

I am going to start dressing like a sexy plus sized woman. There's no use pretending being normal and dowdy anymore.

I wish I had more gay guy friends. They are generally great to hang with. I like all the ones I have.

I went to Toto's last night with a friend and had some lovely gin and tonic (can I buy a Schweppes factory?) and did some mutual eye flirting with some cute dude. I am not as old as I think I am sometimes.

Today I walked in half an hour late to work and they didn't tell me anything, because we've mutually decided not to give a fuck anymore. Woohoo.

Okay now I am hungry. Need coffee.

WP: following is a primordial action

me: nah

WP: esp, if its for a pair of ass

me: haha

WP: oh cummon

you know you re gonna meet hi,

him

dont make it heavy by thinking you wont see him again

fucken hell you will

and cut the hell and there you go

Dude. You have to come back and get on my time again. It's just not fucken fair.

I am a poor wayfaring stranger

While journeying through this world of woe;
And there's no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright land to which I go.

Or so I think. Anyway. I've been feeling a winter, as good as you can feel a winter here in Bombay, lurking around somewhere. The leaves are browning, the dogs are dusty and the mosquitoes have declared war. It'll be weird not coming back to this office again. But honestly, it doesn't matter. It's just another goodbye in a whole list of goodbyes.

Anyway. I have a cold that has been with me since the 15th of October. It should seriously go now. Also, I haven't been doing much for the wedding. I think I should get to it now.

Does anyone even read this anymore?

You know what? I have come to realise that, I like my job very much. I like the running around, the long sweaty shoots, the long nights of putting it all together..... I like it. I like it very, very much and I'm stronger for it. It's just the waiting I don't like. The rest, I can deal with.

But for now, I am pretty excited about going home. Doing a rediscovery thing et al. Travel. Be a little more health conscious. Listen to more electronica, which I am slowly really starting to like. Gate crash the Scorsese thing next door. Finish all the books and films I've been hoarding. Find new people to hang with in Cal. Shoot a short. Find a nice boy to make out with. Haha. And the wedding. Oh yes, the wedding.

Okay now I must enjoy my free Sunday. Bye.

Bejeche Gache Kokhon, sheh telephone

I didn’t go to work today. Partly because I was sick, partly because I didn’t give a damn. Anyway, I am alone at home in skimpy clothes listening to Bhindeshi Tara and Ferari Mon and Mon Re in loop.

This has been a bluesy Pujo. I don’t really miss anything, feel anything. Maybe I miss being a kid, but that’s about it. I know being in Calcutta wouldn’t change anything. If anything, it would make me sadder, because I’d think of how wonderful it all used to be. I also have a horrible cold which doesn’t allow me to taste anything or smoke anything. What a complete waste.
I miss the language. When I listen to Anindyo Chattapadhya’s lyrics, I remember the language and it’s comforting and also depressing.

Amar raat jaga tara

(My star, who lies awake at night)

Tomar akaash chhoya bari

(Your home touches the skies)

Aami payi na chhute tomaye

(I cannot reach up to you)

Amar akla lage bhari

(And I feel very lonely)

Okay that was a horrible translation. So much is lost. Sigh.

Doesn't sneezing give you a high?

So I am randomly sneezing now and listening to Paban Das Baul - only this one awesome song, which somehow, I get the feeling, nobody else likes.

I forgot to mention it here, but I sort of put in my papers (again!) - and it was scary but liberating. And not in a way where I wash my hands off all responsibility, but in a way where I really take a leap of faith and do wonderful things. I'm excited. But who knows these things, right?

I came home early today and watched two completely differently movies. Before that I saw HWIM, and I loved this episode because it was about New York, and to me, New York is like Bombay. But never mind all that.

The first one was 17 Again and the second one A Serious Man.

17 Again reminded me of Never Been Kissed (which for some reason is a cult favourite - okay, our cult). I always thought I'd be irritated by Zac Efron because he just seems like the sort who'd do back flips if you asked him to do his homework, but he wasn't. He was quite nice and he danced only twice I think. And I love Matthew Perry, so I thought what the heck. I really liked it. It was goofy and warm and quite watchable.

The Coen brothers are awesome. I've loved all their movies. But I'm not sure what exactly to make of A Serious Man. I couldn't help wondering if they were really being clever or pretending to be. It was engaging. It was dark. It was funny. The acting was superb. The cinematography, production design - all of it awesome. But...you know...I'm just. not. sure. Maybe that's the point. Who knows?

shob diye jar

shob kere nao

Tar to prane shoy na

Tomar dil ki doya hoy na?

Today is Mahalaya. I heard it on Youtube. Wow.

I miss being a kid during this time. Somehow, Pujo always reminds me of the best of times as a kid. Even though I know nostalgia distorts everything. Let it.

I'm listening to Hey There Delilah on loop, and I can't help thinking - I wish I had heard this when I was younger, in college. It's so full of hope.

Today I'm walking around with a fake gold medal. Today I'm happy you remember me. Today I'm thinking of pushing all boundaries. Today I am in denial like all the rest.

A thousand miles seems pretty far

But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way

Good Morning

It's nice this morning. My plant Georgina is getting a bit of sun, I've just finished the papers and coffee. I had a lovely dinner last night with Baba, B, N, S and D and that's all I want really. Nice dinner, nice company, a little bit of wine. I am not the working sort. Unless...

A told me to write a script in two days and give it to him. Which is kind of much, because a) he's already written his own script for the same film and b) my brain, despite being happy of late, still writes from a dark, dark place. So, I don't know, but I will give it a shot. This kind of work is happy.

My baby film is demanding. I love it to bits, but fuck, it's a screamer. I need it to go to sleep now. I need the fizz to settle.

It feels weird to say this, but I finally feel settled in. Like I did in Bangalore. I know it's temporary, and this feeling will be shattered with the next missed deadline or fuckup at work, but I feel calmer about being here. Maybe it has to do with the fact that quit plans are ahead. Maybe its because I finally worked on something where I felt I needed. Maybe its because D's in town and we cook together more often and have re-done up our home. For what it's worth, I'm happy. Even if it isn't all there tomorrow.

I'm looking forward to travel. Loads of it. Soonly.

Are you worried about the verdict today?

So today was a generally awesome day. In fact, the past few days have been just that.

I had a wonderful shoot after ages, and I think a lot of that had to do with hormones. This was such an eye candy shoot. Then post has been surprisingly lenient. I've hardly had to go, and that's cool. D and I have been re-doing up our house, listening to a lot of music all day, and spending money we cannot afford to spend. Chinese bulbs, funky book shelves, a plant and a trunk which we just spray painted red - our house is an art project. I love our house. I do. I do. It's our child.

Now it's 2, I am drinking some old rum, I'm not exactly sure why and am still happy. Oh and I also have Return of the Dark Knight to read. Sigh. Please don't be a shitty day tomorrow.

I don't feel like blogging anymore, because I have a notebook. It allows me to be as sentimental, as stupid as I want to be. Besides, I lose my train of thought these days. I think when I'm sitting in an auto or climbing stairs. But apart from that, I don't think much.

Today, I was standing in the stairwell thinking, how all this seems like a part of some lazy story I once wrote. The Chinese bulbs were going crazy outside, fuchsia, yellow, blue and green. Drums. Chants. Noise. I wasn't celebrating anything. I didn't have a single story to tell, to sell, to chew upon. I felt so terribly boring and unattractive for five really long seconds. And then I climbed the rest of the floors and let the yellow warmth of my house take care of me.

I'll talk to you later. When I have a story to tell.

Oh fuck, I have so many bills to pay. I wish I didn't have to worry about bills. Anyway.

I just saw the Rihanna-Eminem video - the one with Meghan Fox. It's a little bit of a turn on, I am very disappointed to say. What is it about abusive relationships that get you so, I don't know, charged? What is it? Not enough drama in our regular lives? Make up sex? Raw, honest brutality? What? Why is Street Car so hot? Why is Stanley, who in all honesty, is an absolute prick, so fucking attractive? I hate that we have turned out be such weak, insecure, women characters with such low self esteem, low self worth.

I wish when I looked into the mirror, I didn't feel so disgusted by what I saw every time. I wish I could embrace myself with all my flaws, with all my physical anomalies and be content. Why don't you join a gym, do yoga, eat right - they ask. I don't know - maybe like all lazy human beings, I'm waiting for a miracle to happen. Maybe one morning I just wake up, free of cellulite and unwanted body hair and a feeling of complete fuckallness. Laziness, I read somewhere, is a disease. Do we get drugs for it? Miracle drugs?

Sigh. Anyway. I need a miracle worker right now to sort out my bills. This kind of responsibility fucking sucks.

Oh you are so hot. And I am so not scandalized. But yes, I have a gigantic arse and can be very shy. Heehee.

So strange, this fevered meeting. This little wine sipping and talking about this relentless city. Thank you, that was nice. Let’s do it again some other time.
Now if only I wasn’t constantly thinking, 'I need to do my upper lips'. Fuck.
Haha.

Ah, how brilliant. I am sitting in a dark, empty office, popping bubble wrap, waiting for some tapes to come in and Elliot Smith is warbling on. At first it felt a little sad, but now I am slowly getting used to the idea.

It's only ten, but why does it feel so late?

I love my coping mechanism. After a wave of craving (food, drugs, alcohol), I calm down, listen to music, read a magazine, browse through a website and begin to dream all over again. What’s the worst that can happen? Everyone I love will be hacked to death. Yeah, that’s pretty rough. Or how about I become a paraplegic? Yeah, pretty goddamned awful too. I lose my job. Meh. I’ll find another.
In case I do, I think I’ll be absolutely fine.
For now, I am listening to Lou Reed on a very bad set of ear phones (my brand new cool ones I suspect, have been stolen). I feel pretty darned good for a Tuesday morning and I am looking forward to the movie I am going to watch on my laptop when I go home. I’m a little drunk with freedom.
Is it weird that I don’t care?

Just so that you know

Directions, Driving and Math

I have realised something over time: If you don't understand directions, can't drive very well and do not know math, you career is probably going to suck big time, especially if you have one similar to mine. It starts with math of course. You know (or in all likelihood you don't) how in class everyone would have figured out that problem on the board, but you were still trying to get there - and they would just move on to the next sum? For a while you'd struggle; leave that sum, move onto the next one, but you were already too late, so you've fucked up this one as well. Eventually you just give up and pretend to scrawl, looking out of the window, making shapes with clouds.

Driving. Well, its a big one. Not knowing how to drive can really get in you in trouble. You're always depending on someone else for a ride, and during an emergency you are useless because even if you have a car, you wouldn't know how to use it.

And directions. You don't get left, right, baju, parallel, upar, niche - nothing. I personally, only know roads because of landmarks. Very Hansel and Gretel. If someone took away the breadcrumbs, I'd totally end up at the witch's house.

And yeah, having a boyfriend. That's another thing you should have. Good, bad, ugly doesn't matter. As long as you have one. It makes a world of a difference.

My career sucks. I need to do something about this.

Empty Rooms

I don’t think I’ll ever fully fathom how lonely an empty room feels. Not like the way my parents do. Maybe if you have kids you should have them ten years apart or something. Or ensure when they’re grown up you adopt a few more. I think being a parent is akin to having a job. Just like you don’t know what to do when you retire from your job, you don’t know what to do when your kids are all grown up and don’t need you like they once did. Could I live with something like that? I don’t know. It’s scary, having kids.
I no longer feel the same excitement about shifting homes like I did once upon a time. I don’t think I ever liked it much, but now I don’t even have the energy to protest. I just think of this horribly muddled up future and then zone out. I don’t want to think. It’s too goddamn heavy.
Leaving home this time, I feel a huge, huge void. Like something is changing forever. My brother’s not here, I’m not here, and there is this huge, lonely house with things accumulated for 30 years, maybe more, not knowing what to do with itself.
I also know when I leave this time, I’ll be leaving behind a tradition with a friend. I won’t meet him anymore. I won’t see him anymore. Not in this city. Not in such innocent dreaminess. It’s the end of something glorious, and I know it. Next time, we’ll all be expats, with noisy children and strange spouses. So weird, so weird.

I feel as blue as a whale. Heh.

One more time, for a few seconds

Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.

Aug 7, 2006


Tonight, today, at one o one am, I need to talk to you. And only you. On Gtalk. A year ago. I need to talk to you and make you read my old horrible writing and I need you to pay attention. I need to wake up to your hello and I need to go to sleep with your goodnight. But then I ran into you one day and you were a phantom shopping for groceries and listening to old cassettes.

I had no answer today when they asked. What have I been doing for the past 3 years? I don’t know, I’m stuck. Despite the superhuman overhauling. Despite the rude, loud moving on. I am stuck to a moment which was all a big, fat lie.

Crossfire

Okay, maybe its a little twisted, but 3 things -
1) what. a. song
2) Brandon Flowers (oh yes he does)
3) Every woman at some point of time or the other likes to rescue a man.

Okay, so maybe not every woman, but I'm sure many do. But most men don't like being rescued much, which is why this video kind of makes me smile.

I can't write now because I'm not writing very well. So later.

Marshall's Magazine and India's obsession with Death

Two completely unrelated stories, but my morning headlines nevertheless.

Remember that utterly wonderful episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshall had to come home every time, ahem, he had to "read a magazine"? Yeah so I went home today to "read a magazine" in the middle of the day, simply because...I can. My house is like 5 minutes away, so I indulge in its nearness once in a while. Besides, I absolutely HATE using the office loo for magazine reading purposes, for reasons similar to Marshall's: They ALL know what you've been doing! I get squeamish about things like that :P

Note to self: Cut down on the drinking and fast food on weekdays. Phew.

Now for story number two (no puns intended). I don't get it with India's obsession with models committing suicide. How lonely life on the fast lane is, how young independent women with fading good looks are prone to depression et al et al. I get it. It's sad. But why and how is that your newspaper headline for the past fucking week? Even Bhopal didn't get that kind of coverage! Our obsession with glamour and death is sickening. Their excuse? It sells baby. We're all feeding off this meaty little sad love story. Wait, did I just see Madhur Bhandarkar sitting in a corner gloating?

Itchy feet. Need to do something new. Bored. Designing. Eating too much. Not good signs these. HAVE to travel. This is not school. Or college. Or University. There's no fixed time to leave. I can leave if I want to right? Right.

I miss...certain things. I miss Cal in bits and pieces. I miss being 19. I miss playing guitar. I miss FS classes in that big, dark, gloomy room. I miss being a student.

I think my shorts are too short. And I got splashed in the rain while walking to work today. There's no point bathing in Bombay.

I had a horrible dream where a lot of people died. Death is a leit motif in my dreams.

Maska Pao is my maska maroing blog. See it.

I am bored at work. Like seriously bored. And I do this every morning drama thing in the loo while showering - where I tackle with an imaginary situation - and now it's gone out of control. Like the drama's become too intense, and it's effecting my reality. Issues. Sigh.

There's a guy at work listening to Bryan Adams and Bon Jovi. Like intensely. And I know all the words. Sigh.

New project coming up. But I feel distracted.

Okbye.

I cannot do parties. I cannot. I get bored at them. And I can't make an effort to make them interesting. I'm a thrill freeloader, not a provider. I can only entertain if I really like you, and/or you may have seen in me in my underwear at some point of time in my life. So yeah.
I've been missing college of late, and so decided to call over some old friends from the old school. And I was happy, because we made excellent happy drunks and generally got along. But I think an hour into this intermingling of two very different crowds, I started getting angsty. There was this weird vibe and I just wanted them to leave so that everyone could relax. I like all of them. But you just shouldn't mix friends. No-one is a potato.
I miss the college fun. It was simpler. It was within a routine. It was speckled with exams and serious shit. Life now is like La Dolce Vita. Absofuckinglutely out of control. I am an old, serious woman of routine and method. Push me out of the line and I'm like Mrs. Thurlow. Don't disorient me if you can help it. I have a library personality.

I am so crazy bored right now. Of Bombay, of work, of the sameness. I need to travel somewhere. But work is like a leech. I can't let go, without them letting go of me. Dratz.

Today is a very wallflowery day. I am sitting in office, with no work, a bit of jazz, a lot of rain, feeling a little pretentious. My umbrella upturned twice while walking to work today so I'm a little damp. And no-one is talking to me at work, even if I ask a question. Okay, maybe I'm mumbling a little and talking to no-one in particular, but it's like I'm in an empty room or something.

Yesterday I watched Woody Allen's Sweet and Lowdown. Very La Strada. Very nice.

My dogs are going away. :(
It's sucky.
It's very, very sucky.

I was rude to K, and he probably deserved it a little, but I feel bad about it. You know, there's no point holding grudges and being a mean bitch, because what if he dies or something? Then I'll feel like a heel all my life.
What I wanted to tell him though was how life was suddenly topsy turvy for a bit, and I wanted a little perspective. But fuck that.

Anyway. My foot is fucked. I walk with a limp now. Like an old woman. This is so uncool.

I walked all the way home from work yesterday (it's not a big deal though - just 15 mins away it is) through the pouring rain, because no auto would stop. It was a good healthy downpour and I got thoroughly wet, but how wonderful. Yes, the wading through miserable muck bit isn't as exhilarating as it used to be when I was 10, and yes there were concerns about the clothes drying and the laptop getting wet...but hey. It's monsoon. I love monsoon.

I need my Glee fix, I'm going mad. I can't download anything in office anymore, because I keep getting caught. Life sucks without TV shows to go home to. I am aware of how sad that sounds, but it's my happy thing. So shut. Up.

Everyone "chills" in Bombay. So whaddya wanna do? Let's just chill. So what are you doing? Oh nothing, chilling. Stoppit ya. Jusstoppitwhatthefuck. Stop saying that all the fucken time! Let's not chill. Let's NOT.

Speaking of. I've been doing too much of this chilling thing. Eating, drinking, smoking/up. Bah. Humbug. Enough already. I'm bored of chilling. I'm bored of the Bombay culture. Work hard. Party harder. Fuck that. I want to not party hard. I want to read a book. I want to watch a movie. ON MY LAPTOP. I don't want people in my space. Is that so bad?

Good news. It's raining. Sometimes. There is some hope for this city.

My colleague N thinks that I am a lesbian. Others too. What is it? The short hair? The lack of a boyfriend? The amazing women around me all the time? Hmmm. So what about it?
A couple of months ago, I was at the edit studio and I met this woman. I was sitting on the steps of the cafeteria, smoking, when I noticed her. I couldn't stop looking, not because she was unduly attractive, but because she looked EXACTLY like me, maybe 15 years later.
She had short, not so nice hair, a pretty unshapely body, big glasses, and was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans (me too that day). She was carrying a jhola and had a nose pin. Hmm. She sees me smoking and asks, so you can smoke here? And I'm like, duh, obviously. Ok I didn't say that. But I just nodded my head.
So she sits by me, lights up and we're both smoking in silence, when I don't know why, I become morbidly curious about her. I do what I never do. I extend my hand and say, hi, I'm engee. And she jumps at the opportunity to befriend me (maybe she was thinking the same?). So we get talking, and she has this semi-breakdown where she rants about men, smoking and general mid-life crisis shit. And I'm like fuck, is it me? Why is she telling me all this? So after a while of listening to her, I decide to go back to work - but I can sense she wants this to continue. I shake hands again (!!) and walk off like a cowboy into the sunset. Like this total stud.
I think I have brilliant lesbian potential. I can be such a cocky chyut of a man.

I do not. Need. This.

My steady, staid life is happy. Happy with its manageable roller coaster-ness. I have been working for over a year now. And I’m finally at peace with it. I do not need you to mess this up with your whirlwind ways.

Over-reacting. Our new ad looks wonderful. I'm semi-proud of it. :)

Funny thing. Here I go on about the lack of men and opportunities, but when they're right there, I don't know what to do with them.

Please. Don’t. Leave. Me. Lonely. Dear. City.

Like a bunch of silverfish caught in a net, the city shimmers busily beneath me. I want to take a giant hand and catch all these uneven lights and crush them. I want to be God.

I watch numbly as the milk boils over. It sounds like sudden rain when it does that. I quickly shut off the gas when I see it spilling on to the counter. I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain like crazy.

I search for stories in the newspapers. In the city section. In the technology section. I make up a story of a lonely man in Japan who invents a talking robot and programmes it to be his friend. Then I don’t know what really happens. Something about almost falling in love with a girl from another country. All my stories are essentially unrequited love stories.

The house is completely empty. The curtains look dirty and need washing. The laundry basket’s overflowing. There are these strange flat worm-like creatures camouflaged within flakes of peeling paint on the walls. I don’t like them one bit. They look like flattened lizard shit. I don’t like them because they pretend not to be there and no-one knows exactly what they do. They are sly and ugly.

When I take a bath, I notice a pigeon staring at me with its red unblinking eyes from the window. Do I fascinate you mister Pigeon? You’re about the only one. I shoo it away.

Work is strangely empty as well. The dog has come inside to enjoy the air conditioning. She lies curled up in a corner by the stairs like a Danish pastry, dreaming and twitching intermittently.

I don’t want to think today. I want to go home by six and watch Grey’s Anatomy with Maggi and mustard. I want to revel in the drama of other people I don’t know and will hopefully never know.

It’s hot, so I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt is weird, because it has these weird air bumps in strange places. Like I have a huge wart there. I remember in school, this girl who used to sit in front of me had these air bubbles at the back of her uniform and I would be fascinated by them. I’d wonder if she had a warty back, or whether it was just air. But I was too afraid to touch it. What if it really was a wart? Maybe people are thinking the same about me now. But I’m pretty sure they haven’t noticed. I’m contemplating my second cup of coffee. I smoke too much and I drink too much these days. It’s beginning to show on my face. I should quit.

There is a Murakami book I just don’t seem to be getting over with. I’ve read three quarters of it and just can’t do the rest. My life seems more and more like that book. A string of useless everyday trivia strung together by surreal imagery and verse. But it really is just trivia at the end of it. At least initially.

The past few weeks, so many things have happened. But when I try to recollect these thoughts, they don’t seem like much. When I repeat these stories, I feel myself drowning in the drone of my own voice. It’s so bland. It’s like trying to sell a rabbit in the hat trick in Vegas. I hear other people’s stories instead. And I forget I ever had one in the first place.

Right now I’m bored of writing this.

I am bushed, but semi happy. Semi because the drill's not over yet. But so far, so good. Can't jinx what has already happened right?

I want to eat some ice cream. Some lovely vanilla with chocolate sauce.

Big ad coming up. Extremely superstitious, so not going to blabber about it.

Happily, I have a fair amount of responsibility this time, but man, it is SO easy to fuck up. Fingers crossed.

I have to pay rent this month, and I'm looking at my account now and it's quite abysmal. I need to do a little something on the side. Money, or the lack thereof is my little drama.

Also, there's no fun cooking just for yourself. I haven't replenished my grocery for more than a week now. There was some bread lying in the fridge for a while, and I decided to make something with it, but wait, what's that blue stuff around the edges? Whatever it was - it was enough to kill my appetite completely.

And remember how when you were in school and sometimes forgot to take out your tiffin box? You know, inevitably the days you had some bits left over? Yeah. So I did that a lot. And some things haven't changed. I decided to be healthy etc, and took some fruit in a little tiffin box, but decided not to eat a few stray grapes. And a week later - voila! I have my own little vineyard in there.

Sigh. I hate spoiled food.

Anyway. What's this news about Keanu Reeves hooking up with Charlize Theron? I love Keanu Reeves. I want to smoke him up.

I am SUCH a homebody.

Dogs are amazing. One little lick and your world is suddenly a better place.

Yesterday was fun. B came over, later we went out for wine and spoke and spoke and spoke. Then D and friends got a projector and we all watched the match on it in our own house. My house is a source of constant joy and happiness. I don't wish to speak too soon, but it makes up for a lot of shit that happens most of the time.

I have a new haircut, and post it, I feel happier and lighter.

This Angst must End

I'm sorry. Do I whine too much? Here's something positive.

At the brink of maybe losing my job (ignore me, it's probably my persecution complex), I feel wonderfully good about a few things (okay, I'm lying, but I'm also trying).

I want to travel once more. Give up worrying about money, recognition and all that bullshit, and do what I really love. Travel. Take pictures. Write. Draw. Re-learn my guitar.

Well, it's stupid and everything, now that I am in Bombay, with job, with possible prospects, a nice house - but maybe there are no possible prospects. Maybe there isn't that perfect job. Everywhere you go, you're bound to find fake people, bound to find a group you just can't fit into, bound to find people who are more talented, more precious. Everything you cannot cope with, is your problem alone. Your personality deficit.

Like now. I'm in a room full of perfectly wonderful people. Interesting, talented, friendly, well travelled - and yet. Here I am. Nose buried in my laptop, typing contrived bull. Before this, I was reading an e-comic. Sigh, there's no room for temperamental artists, and I am, unfortunately no artist either. My artistic inclinations, if any, are pedestrian. I'm not original, not hardworking and not particularly sharp. I say I'm a wallflower. That's because I let myself be one. Oh wait. Whine territory. I will stop right here.

So tell me, what if you left something important, for what you feel is a better life, a better way, and find yourself winding up in a terrible terrible place? What if all the chances you took were stupid and frivolous and not worth it? What if you were just being complacent and arrogant? What if you spend loads and loads of money only to find you've not only ruined yourself but also others? When you take a chance, do you ever, entirely take it alone?

I could leave it all. I could quit. I could sink into fleeting pleasures and temporary loves.

But for what?

Oh, do not ask, "What is it"?
Let us go and make our visit.

I feel fat with discontent. It’s like, when I breathe, I get fatter, sadder and more and more annoyed. I’m walking a plank sweetheart. Did you not notice my chin quiver, when I told you it wasn’t poetry? I’m not a poet. I don’t get turned on by the squalour and madness. I need a nice room, a job that pays well, good food, good skin, great hair, a pretty boy with a hot bike – you know. I’m not your mother. I can’t love you unconditionally and make you hot rotis every time you’re hungry. I’m not your keeper. I’m not. I’m not.
I’m a girl, who is not a clown, not always. I’m not the one you turn to when you falter. Not all the time. I’m not funny. I’m not wise. I’m a stupid girl in a stupid novel written by another stupid girl. I need to be taken care of every once in a while. I need to be looked at appreciatively. I need to be important to you or to someone else, sometimes.

Yes, it’s all about the attention, the pat on the back, the perfect ad moments, the tadas and the glowing hums. It’s fleeting, it’s superficial it’s vain, but it’s IMPORTANT. Indulge me. Sometimes. I need it.

Maybe it’s the drugs. My moods are as fickle as a house of cards. I love you I hate you I’m leaving I can’t live without you. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

I didn’t come to you to crib. I didn’t come to cry. I didn’t come for anything.

I don’t feel comfortable in my body anymore. Even when I was very fat, I never felt as though I was not in my own body. It was my doing. My tub of lard. Mine. I could fix it. I could mend it. But now, I can’t control it. I don’t connect with it. I can’t run it the way I want to. Every pore has a mind of its own, and I just sit and observe it making one mistake after another. I’m full of self loathing, self denial. I’ve never felt so physically disconnected from myself. If you meet me, understand that it’s only a fourth of me. I don’t like my sluggish, weepy mind much either.

I wish I could be that clown girl for a bit. The bright eyed, happy but wise clown with rose tinted glasses.

“Why are you so angry with the world?” remember you asked once? I’m angry with me, fish. I’m very angry with me. And I miss your voice. I miss your nearness. Only you are not you. And you are definitely not mine.

I hate that. There must be one that's mine. Why must they all be like my body?

HELLO. ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING? ARE YOU WATCHING? WATCH CLOSELY BECAUSE IT'S JUST GOING TO GET TRICKIER FROM NOW ON. I hope the caps help.

Yesterday was such a group shag thing. :-S

So Gwyneth Paltrow has this blog called Goop, which everyone apparently hates and finds very annoying, because she bitches too much, is too skinny and believes in meditation. God, America can never stop being a high school. Neither can we apparently. Anyway, so a few things:
A) I have a feeling my blog is becoming very morose and Goopy, so I should probably do something about it.
B) I have found some pretty awesome detox recipes in it, but I don’t think I’ll ever get all those cool ingredients she talks about (like Miso paste)
C) I also feel Goopy, because nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll just go and eat some worms. Hehe.

Yesterday I accidentally stumbled upon something I shouldn't have. And now words keep ringing inside my head making me feel like shit. But it's okay. I wrote myself a cheer up letter and told myself I'm wonderful. It didn't really work, but at least I didn't cry like a baby in front of all those editors. Sometimes you need to do things for yourself. Like order flowers and chocolate cake. I should be getting to work, but I feel like smoking a sunshine joint and chilling about in my shorts and tees. It's hot and stupid outside. Blech.

So I was going through these old word documents, which if RAM could gather dust, would be gathering dust. And they are stupid and funny and sad all at once, but at that time it seemed very profound and significant. It was my Mr. Big phase I suppose. So here's what I wrote when I was 22, and it made me smile somewhat today, because it seemed kind of prophetic. Here -

Suddenly, when you’re twenty-one, full of urban angst and an overdose of Beat lit and empty idealism, you run into a wise-eyed, weathered, cynical face – out of a Steinbeck novel or something. Peeping out of those weary, almost extinguished eyes are the smouldering remains of a Jimmy Dean and you think… this is it – your fairy tale romance. A year of random conversations, tea, cigarette butts and a couple of dusty rides together you realise your time is up, you’re no longer twenty one, and he has never really been yours. You curse time, fate, an empty tin on the street – anything you can find. Then you reason, you pacify, you console yourself. It was a wild thing you wanted. What would you do with it anyway? Plant it in a tiny ceramic pot – nourish it, weed it, clip it, prune it – what? So you understand and try to fill up the blank, empty spaces of your life with meaningless things. With work insincere and devoid of profundity. There’s no truth in anything you say or do. You are just a paper doll.
You think, while bathing, while pretending to listen to a mundane lecture – I’ll join the Peace Corps. I’ll travel, I’ll take pictures, I’ll meet people. I’ll put myself in difficult situations. I’m too comfortable, I’m too lethargic. I need a goal, a motivation, a raison d’etre. I need to make a difference. Then, after all that talk with yourself, you wind up making the same mistakes you made before and say the same damn things over and over again.
You’re going nowhere with your life. And on warm, sultry afternoons – a cigarette dangling from your lips – nauseating you slightly, you wish for your fairy tale romance once again. You reproach yourself. Sentimental fool. Naïve. So naïve. But it’s a comfort nonetheless. It’s a bittersweet thought you like to play with. Your Jimmy Dean is no longer the same, but a glorious celebrity in your head. The motor-biker, the idealist, the underdog, the champion of truth and justice. You forget all his silliness, all his manipulations, all his wayward ways. You only remember the best parts – and you just don’t care.
Maybe, you wonder, half romantic, half practical – maybe, there’ll be someone else. Maybe there’ll be a better distraction, a replacement for this overcooked fantasy. You never once consider yourself – your beauty – your strengths – your powers. You don’t believe in yourself – just phantom fairy tale romances.
Suddenly you’re almost twenty three. And you’re still not done, going in circles and being foolish and juvenile.
Ah well. You’ll live.

---
Oh wait. I think I posted this one before somewhere else. Nevermind.
Anyway, so I just got over with this horrid shoot and I'm so happy it's over. Now I just want to sit at post and download movies. Hehe.
Oh and FYI, there's this somewhat cute guy I have come to know, who's done all these cool things, which I would drool over had I been younger, but now it's just not happening. I mean, on paper, he's yum enough - but then, where are all those effing fireworks? Sigh. I HAVE grown old.

I'm a resilient chick. I've always thought so. But then again, maybe I'm not. I cannot cope with this. I am, as you said, naive and stupid, although those weren't exactly your words. I should be able to deal with mistakes, with little spurts of hostile behaviour, but I am finding that exceedingly hard. I feel like I'm back in class 3, with the smarty pant bitches looking down their noses at me and complaining to the teacher. The teacher is also a bitch, and listens only to the smarty pant bitches. And then there's me, glowing with stupidity and embarrassment, standing there with my pants down, and averting everybody's gaze.
I don't fit. I just don't fit. And I don't even love it anymore.
Maybe I am Daddy's spoilt little Princess who should stay in her giant Ivory tower and gaze upon the blithering mess below. Why did I even think of being a part of it? I should be a part of the Mad Men era, a Stepford Wife, a part of the decoration.
I am inept at handling this. I can't fight anymore.

I have Into the Woods on loop, which may not be good because it is morbid as hell.
LSD was very trippy and I came out feeling very involved, and it's been a while.
My thoughts are either bullet points or a tangled mesh of rubber bands.
Now, as you can see, they are bullet points, only I wouldn't actually put the points because it's just too science examish.
I am not innocent, just so that you know. Even I am fakepoetjaded and cynical and miserable and listen to electronica and funk and write very tortured verse. Maybe not entirely, but I am very not inncocent and definitely fakepoet.
Don't ask me if I like my job, because I don't know.
Two people made me laugh without really realising how profoundly funny they were when they said what they said. Like, I'm still smiling about it.
Nouvelle Vague is one of my favouritest discoveries. I love.
I'm hoping you know by now where to place the bullets.
My Coreldraw just expired, and I feel terrible. I practically stole it from my previous office - and Corel was one of the few reasons why that old job was useful. I need to make a wedding card for my brother. And I need Coreldraw.
I have also lost my favourite red bandana and my prevention of screw ups diary. I lose things a lot, but these losses leave me pretty devastated. Like if I ever lost my purple jacket, I might just throw myself off a building.
I am sssssick of auditioning people.
They beat the dog at work because he bit some people. :(

And of course Henry the horse dances the waltz

Remember that awesome tumbling music that follows? Yeah, that's the awesome music that's my background score now - and honestly? It's not so awesome. What a circus, WHAT A BLOODY CIRCUS.

Beautiful, as always

I was trying to make my fingers bleed while playing the guitar. Because that shows dedication. Obviously.
What I was doing unconsciously though, was keeping my poor little heart locked up very tight in its cage of ribs.
I was looking for my kicks in those mad eyes. The only eyes I liked to stare at because they were so beautiful. Eyes I denied loving, because it seemed at that time, such a bourgeois thing to do. Falling in love. I never fell in love.
The only time I felt alive or in love was when wheels moved beneath me. I’d forget which city, which life, which lie I was leading. I’d dream freely. I could be anywhere. And I always hoped you’d be there too. Always. Someone I could share my report card and fake gold medals with. You’d laugh. You’d be dismissive. You’d be jealous. But you’d be there. Pervasive. Difficult to ignore. You’d be there. And you strangely, are.
And you're beautiful, as always. I hope you know that.

Tear out those doodled pages and horrid poetry

Sometimes, wouldn't that be wonderful? There'd be absolutely no bad blood, no bad memories, no muckiness. If you erased me, I'd erase you too. I'm certain you'd erase me first. I'm more Joel than Clementine just so that you know.
"Why aren't you anywhere?". Because you erased me fish.

So, wassup

I have lost all my bills. I think. I don't know, it sucks. My money disappears like magic.
My shoot was unexpectedly fun. You'll see it soon. Although, it isn't really that wonderful. It's just about okay.
I have my place now, but I haven't really moved out yet. Eventually, eventually.
The Oscars came and went. I kept remembering how cool it was last year, with the loadshedding et al. And not even a peep from T. Thank god for S.
My computer is full of little bugs. I need to clean it up damn soon.

I'm so ANNOYED. I'm full of nicotine and bad blood. I wish I wasn't such a small fry.

I had the worst trip ever this Holi. There were two of me and I knew another language. Then I had to come to office, mid-high and work all night. It was a very long trip.
I go out of town tomorrow for a shoot. I am excited, but sigh, it’s a veritable minefield.
Come let’s all get hot.

BH

Today I got to meet a director I always kind of wanted to meet. I wasn’t superbly excited or disappointed as such – but it felt a bit surreal, just being there in his room, jotting down notes and looking at all the cool posters on his wall.
For some weird reason I remembered this day my grandfather and I were in his Toyota - he was driving, I was in the front seat, and I said quite petulantly that, it was AmitA Bachchan, not AmitaBH Bachchan. Somehow the BH felt kind of unnecessary. Like a nose seemed unnecessary when you were drawing a face, because it would make it look ugly.
I found it strange and sweet and funny and sad that I should be sitting there, writing notes with a poker face, when all I wanted to do was be crazy happy and do a jig and tell my grandfather, D, look where I am, look where I am – look where I’m sitting and trying to keep a straight face. But I am not awestruck. I’m as petulant and snobbish and sceptical as I was as a 4 year old. But still, D, I wish I could tell you – you’d get it.

Barter

I'll give you brownie points and pinking shears if you can teach me how to whistle with my fingers and find the guy in the white car, I promise.

I'll bake bread and cakes and cookies for you every Monday if you teach me how to play chess, do advanced calculus and help me park a car.
I'll give you a deep tissue massage every day if you play guitar with me every day during the evening and not get bored of my lame efforts at the end of it.

I'll knit you a sweater if you promise to fold the laundered clothes and keep them in the cupboard.

I'll let you play any card of your choice if you can make me quit smoking without being judgmental.

I'll be nice if you are nice.

I'll be kind if you are kind.

I'll play if you play.

Let's bury the ghosts, next to the graves of our goldfish and childhood memorabilia. Don't ever come back. Don't call out in the dark, don't talk, don't watch as I ruin my life with every cigarette ashing.

My books are ordinary, my music ordinary, my films, my things, my clothes are all ordinary. Generic. Populist. Un-quirky. I'm staid, boring, domestic. I won't tell you brilliant things. I will butter your toast and flick television channels, wearing my cucumber face pack and floral dressing gowns.

I won't storm and brood and break things, I will decay like a dead rat. I will browse the internet for grandma's tales, because I won't remember any.

I will be lazy and negative, while you'll be fiery and brilliant. I will watch you light up minds, lives, thrill, charm, hypnotize. I will dig my nails into old leather couches and blink at ugly tubelights. I'll be jealous, proud and happy all at once. But I'll leave you like I've left every fascination.

I'm a sloppy leaver. I'm not as clean and efficient as I'd like to be. I'm sorry.

As long as the wheels are rolling, I'm happy.
So today, I woke at 4 and went to Poona. Not Poona really, but about 40 kms off Poona, in a little village. We had to check out some fort. It was a beautiful abandoned fort, nestled as always amidst dead grass, crumbly pebbles and crazy heat. It felt right, being there.

When I'm trekking, I'm usually very slow - but I'm also very alert. It's like my brain is doing some very serious math - which stone to step on, which path not to take, are there snakes here (FYI, there was one today, about half arm's length)...so it's good. I like it when my brain's working for a change. I was however, thoroughly unprepared for the trek - wearing of all things, a bright red patiala and floaters. It get's crazier. While coming down (shamefully holding on to my location guy because I was slipping all over the place), the two other guys up ahead start waving frantically at us. "Laal rang! Laal rang!" they exclaim. We take a closer look, and there are a horde of bulls standing right at the base of the hill, staring at my red patiala'd (and also red bandana'd) existence. I slip off my bandana, but what to do about the pjs man? So yeah, we take a rockier route and avoid being tragically impaled by the bull gang and finally reach our scorching hot Innova. It was kind of fun :)

On our way back, we chanced upon another abandoned fort, which was not on a hill or anything, but in the middle of a bustling village, it's old grey walls on the outside bearing a garish little Lux Cozy ad. From the outside it looked like a smaller neglected cousin of Shanivar Wada. Inside, there were broken walls and berry trees and tumbleweed and overgrown shrubs - and a house. The most gorgeous house ever. Broken, dilapidated, vandalized, but utterly beautiful - lit by sudden shafts of sunlight. The empty rooms bore a tragic yet resilient look - the same kind of quality that would attract a man to a woman, or a woman to a man. Kind of sad-hot. I fell in love.

But soon enough, we were heading back to Bombay. Needless to say, the wheels stopped rolling.

Something freaky happened as well. The old rusty radar suddenly came to life. Long distance heartache? Nope. Not anymore. Just a faint little beep in the distance.

Apple Pie

When something goes away, all that you can hold on to are the sentiments. The tastes and smells which you know will never come back. The feeling of once belonging, the once excitement, the once let's go. My comfort zone from first and second sem. My happy place to go to whenever. My old, quirky little hippie with tattooed peace signs and Buddha heads. You have totally broken my heart by going away.
Can you ever get your groove back, German Bakery?

I prefer the vampires to the poker faces at work.
I pass by this banyan tree near work and touch its dangling roots and really believe that they transfer some kind of one second magic in my fingers. If I keep touching the roots everyday for a while, I'll have enough magic in my fingers to make a leaf quiver.
I now know why 'Luck by Chance' was made - because casting people is tragicomic. The film industry is tragicomic.
My engeesenses are working over time - detecting strange vibes at work. You think I'm going to get fired? Gulp.
I got my meagre wages today. I always extract my pound of flesh by downloading stuff from office. I do it without regret. Haha.
I hate fucking technology on days like this.

Editors are crazy people who live in dark air conditioned rooms and probably get burnt to a crisp if they step into the sun. If you are a vampire, you could seriously consider becoming an editor.
I've been living in Prime Focus for the past week doing jobs of some vague unidentifiable nature and figuring out the secret life of vampires.

If you haven't read Kuzhali Manickavel yet, I suggest you do. But if you're boring and straighlaced and had a generally unimaginative childhood, you won't enjoy it much.

Industry secret - Genelia D'Souza (whose first name reminds me of the word 'genetalia') doesn't really have good skin. The soap doesn't really work. Neither does the make up. It's only the online magic tricks which make her look so beautiful. But I'm sure you already knew that.

I have very hairy arms. Must wax. I also have very short hair and a big head with quadruple chins. Am secretly glad am a part of the vampire brigade and never have to step out into the sun.
I absolutely love this. I'm drooling on it.

I'm at this point where I don't feel like blogging anymore. I have nothing interesting to share, and all I seem to do is whine. I'm bored of me.

I haven't taken out my camera in months. And whatever pictures are there, are all facebooky and lame. I have unfinished books, unread books, incomplete drawings, half written stories and so many of these little things that used to excite me - left alone just like that. It's not like work is that crazy. It's not like I have a whole lot to do. It's just that I don't do things anymore. I feel vapid and inarticulate.

"There is a marvelous peace in not publishing ... I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure."

J.D. Salinger was 91, and has said his final fuck off to life.

Crazy Heart

The Weary Kind - Ryan Bingham

Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your body aches…
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesn’t forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your lovers won’t kiss…
It’s too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world
Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing lose

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zelvaxvTaUk&feature=related

Why did we have loadshedding?

When I was a kid, and everytime there was a loadshedding, I was told its Jyoti Babu's doing. To him then I suppose I owe all those haat pakha mombati evenings, where we'd sit in the north end of the house, Dada's room usually - and get whatever little bit of cool breeze we could. We'd wait all night for the lights to come back, so that we could sleep peacefully - but somedays, especially summer days, it just wouldn't happen, and we'd fall asleep listening to Ma's patient stories and the whoop whoop whoop of the haat pakha.
I wondered why the lights went everyday, systematically, for such a long time. Ma, Baba, or maybe it was Dadabulo who told me that, we lost power everyday for some time so that the poor people can get electricity. Our electricity? Our electricity. So it seemed like a very intricately wired process that Jyoti Babu had managed to organise. I considered it. So Shanti didi gets electricity when we don't? Y-yes, something like that. So it didn't seem that bad. Shanti didi barely ever had electricity in her house afterall.
Communism made easy. Jyoti Dadu - copybook, cult. We all knew him - whether we liked him or hated him. I stuck millions of pins into his Voodoo doll inside my head everytime there was a loadshedding. But I don't think it made much of a difference.

Excerpt from conversation with Bombay adfilmvallahs:
Me: Dude, Jyoti Basu died.
Ad guy 1: Who's Jyoti Basu?
Me: Uh...
(Ad guy 1 gets call - so fuck JB)
Ad guy 2: Oh yeah, he's that politican, na?
Me: Uh, yes.
Ad guy 2: Yeah, yeah - he was sick or something na...(fiddles with phone)
Me: Hmm. Yeah, so let's just edit, ya?

Sigh.

Haha

It's been more than a year since I've loved anybody to distraction.
Then I remember - N's little helping hand -
A woman and her boyfriend are out having a few drinks.
While they're sitting there having a good time together, she starts
talking about this really great new drink.
The more she talks about it, the more excited she gets, and starts
trying to talk her boyfriend into having one.
After a while he gives in and lets her order the drink for him.
The bartender brings the drink and puts the following items on the bar:
1 A salt shaker,
2 A shot of Baileys,
3 A shot of lime juice.
The boyfriend looks at the items quizzically and the woman explains.
‘First you put a bit of the salt on your tongue, next you drink the
shot of Baileys and hold it in your mouth, and finally you drink the
lime juice.’
So, the boyfriend, trying to go along and please her, goes for it.
He puts the salt on his tongue........salty but OK.
He drinks the shot of Baileys and holds it in his mouth........smooth,
rich, cool, very pleasant. He thinks........this is OK.
Finally he picks up the lime juice and drinks it.
1. In one second the sharp lime taste hits...
2. At two seconds the Baileys curdles.....
3. At three seconds the salty, curdled taste & mucous-like consistency hits.....
4. At four seconds it feels as if he has a mouth full of nasty snot.
This triggers his gag reflex, but being manly, and not wanting to
disappoint his girlfriend, he swallows the now foul tasting drink.
When he finally chokes it down he turns to his girlfriend, and says,
Jesus what do you call that drink?'
She smiles widely at him and says, 'Blow Job Revenge."

Thank you. :)

Mumble

So when you levitate to superstardom, drop me a line. Drop me a very long line from so, so high up. I promise to fling back something at you as well. Like a postcard with my drawings and ridiculous Haiku.
If you can cut through zombie talk, zombie smiles and zombie casual touch, then surely we'll manage.
There's this leather couch at work. It's yellow and half eaten by the dogs (there are two). The stuffing's out and flaps of leather stick out helplessly. I love sitting on it and I want to tear the stray flaps. And chew on them maybe - but that would be a little drastic so early into this job.
There's a tubelight which is always left on in office. Even during the day. I hate it. I hate tube lights. I hate waste of electricity.
Today there's an eclipse. I wish I could see it, but I don't have the necessary eye protection.
Yesterday I went to a restaurant. As always I had to fill out the feedback form. I wrote my name, my husband's name - or rather what I always imagine it to be - and what I do. I wrote another profession (junior copywriter, would you believe?) and it was nice. It was right.

I am listening to you, but I’m not really listening. I am there, but not really. Sorry. I wish I could be. I wish I could really mean what I am saying, because damn it, I say good things. I say the right things. But I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. I feel pain and humiliation and rejection. But I don’t feel acceptance and love and warmth. I support you uncompromisingly. Seemingly uncompromisingly. But I don’t invest any real emotions into my support. I’m not real. I’m so, so far from reality.
I wish I were making sense. Later perhaps.

I am good. I am fine. I am absolutely great. I'm that cockroach from Wall-E. Trust. Me.

Bombay is incorrigibly sexy. It isn't sensual like Cal. But it sure is sexy.
I am of course, a fish out of water here. I'm big and ungainly and awkward. I speak softly and slowly and stammer ridiculously at times (I have authority issues). I don't ask people for their numbers or "mingle" much. I do the usual bit. And I'm friendly within limits. But I can't do the sexy cool thing. I will of course have to work with my inadequacies. I can't be sexy cool overnight now, can I? And I'm not particularly keen on attempting this sexy cool thing either. I'll just have to figure something out I suppose.
I'm two shoots old, and it was nice enough I suppose. I should be more excited, but I'm not there yet. I constantly question my life choices. Maybe this wasn't it? Maybe it is too early to tell? I don't know.
I like to read. I like to write. I like to watch films. I like to travel. But why do I want to become a filmmaker? I used to know, I think - but I don't anymore.
The people at work are usually nice. But I can't help feeling that, I'm gate crashing.

Today my phone battery is low, balance tottering on zero, work uncertain and definitely a fat day. Fuckety fuck.

New

Hello New Year. How are you? Firstly, I would have to say, you look pretty neat. 2010. And you're nice to say. Twozeroonezero. Twenty ten. I ushered you in, in a pretty happy state of mind, not feeling inadequate or incomplete like I usually do. I missed seeing the blue moon because some boy got drunk and fell down the stairs. I think he's okay now and I'm not particularly upset. Beginning of the year, I am happy. I am the same weight as I was in the beginning of 2009, which was a lot, but then I had lost it by April-ish and put it all back post September. But it's okay. I'm not fussy.
I feel well rested. I have many books to read, films to watch and lots of work to do. Which is always good. My love life, twenty ten, is dismal as usual. But only on paper, only statistically. I am surprisingly happy at my present state of being. It's uncomplicated, and I don't feel piny or whiny. In the room the men come and go, talking of Michelangelo. It's all good.
I started the year with a Bergman movie - Winter Light. The one in the faith trilogy I hadn't seen. It was accompanied by left over pizza and bit of coke. I love junk food and intelligent cinema. I revel in it.
Anyway, so I was watching that extra indie film with the DVD, Intermezzo I think it was called - an interview with the then 83 year old Bergman. The man had in him more passion than a 17 year old. I am so smitten.
So 2010, I will pause here. My movie marathon continues and must go and get happy. I wish you all the best. I hope you are peaceful and tolerant. I hope you are exciting and warm. I hope you are lucky and fun. I will do my best to make you memorable and cool. See you tomorrow.
Love,
Engee.