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.