Talk

It's an empty existence without an excess of words. How soon my world has changed, becoming an acceptable facsimile of the dreaded time with Big Brother.

Still, nothing cuts deeper than being quiet. There is plenty to say and even more to be heard. But the needle sticks, the throat becomes dry and little that is furiously thought of, ever leaves the sanctuary of my mind. Indeed, it is a trial to withdraw from the clutches of a nightmare and dispel it simply as a bad dream.

To become sad, then angry when silenced. After all that, simply indifferent. One day, they shall find me slumped over, having passed away from the inability to hold myriad worlds in the heart and mind. And in such a death, I will have said everything I could have wanted to. Perhaps then, if only for sake of knowing what happened, these expressions of being will be well acknowledged.

#Lesson for the day: Talk, I'll listen.

Of Being

The Japanese have a concept known as "Mono No Aware". It means that one is aware of the transience of live and the nature of all other things. One is wistful about it, doing little to stem the flow or hasten it unduly so. A kind of bemused melancholy, if you will. If you've seen Bill Murray in the film Lost in Translation, you'll know what I'm talking about.

As I watch him on the screen, I can understand what he is thinking. I feel the same. I want to run out on the street, screaming at the top of my lungs. Walk up to those who cause unnecessary emotional upheaval in life and beat the motherloving crap out of them. Shake up somebody hard till their head falls off. Be visceral for once in life, instead of whimsical or rational. Either way, I understand why he does the things he does. 

#Lesson for today: Internalizing is not the best way of them all.

People Who Save The Night

Kings of Leon suit the night very well. As do Gerald and James.
And then there's always Wilde, Austen and the Bronte sisters.

I like it here.

Isolated, noisy and yet so quiet.

I like being invisible.

To everybody.

Khoya khoya chaand, khula aasmaan.
Aankhon mein saari raat jayegi.
Tumko bhi kaise neend aayegi?

Sigh. I miss Andy. She needs to get back home soon.

She's this intangible bit of my life, which I miss so much without realizing. My daily diet and exercise isn't as rewarding if she doesn't praise me for it. I constantly think something I've forgotten something quite important if we haven't had a single conversation all day. I know I miss her so but I can spend the whole day without being unhappy but it just won't feel right.

Even though I've not really talked to you since a week, I'm okay. But I'm not truly OK. The days don't feel like they should without you.

#Lesson for today: Friends like these.

Oxford, I have some new words

Fashion Gremlin. (n) - A female, who in her attempts to become a fashionista has mutated into an abomination.

Dorkess. (n) - A female 'dork' who becomes a sex goddess in bed while retaining affable dork nature.

Render. (verb) - A process commonly associated with computers that can drive even the most patient of saints to the brink of madness.

Voluntary Boobage. (n) - The prices of showing off cleavage in a manner that is provocative and yet looks accidental.

Ain. (adj) - The state of mind when anything, anything at all, feels out of place. Understood worldwide as a sign of 'Something Is Wrong'.

Salary. (n) - The imaginary promise of being paid an adequate sum in lieu of daily labour. Often made by employers to employees in order to entice them. Not to be confused with Daily Wages. Often a source of major frustration. (See Also - Myth, Legend, Fairytale, Fable.)

#Lesson for Today: Give me a damn salary, else your files will never render. Ain.

To answer a question posed to me, I say: "Yes, I'm scared. I'm terrified out of my mind, most days."

But then again, what am I scared of?

I'm scared that all the patches that held life together so far - best friends, school/college, workaholism - have disappeared and life threatens to fall apart any moment now. I'm scared that I've lost my way and finding it again it becoming an endless cycle of making mistakes.

I'm scared that if I leave the city that is driving me to slow madness, it will sound the death knell for the facade of parental harmony since a separation - if not worse - looms on the horizon. I'm scared that when I leave, no matter for how short a duration of time, it will affect the life of my dog. The one being on this planet who I have loved more than all else. I'm scared that I may just love him enough to give up on everything - a better job, a better city to live in and perhaps a better life.

I'm scared of the way I break down over small things these days, I'm not the emotionally stable person I used to be. In the hours that I look up at the fan, the lack of faith in my decisions and judgements from family is starting to make me feel the same.

And that nothing I do is good enough for anybody. I don't give good enough advice, I don't dispel loneliness well enough, I don't socialize enough, I don't stay at home enough, I don't love my dog enough, I don't care about friends enough, I don't sleep enough, I don't listen to your advice enough, I don't become a doormat enough.

I suppose I'm just scared of how scared I've become.

#Lesson for today - This, is the real horror movie.

Birthday Boo's

One fine day you'll wake up to realize that you've spent close to 10 months in a year without being able to celebrate the birthday of the people you love.

Because birthdays are special. The week leading up to the day, when you must provide a list of places considered treat-worthy. The rummaging about gift-ideas, since you simply must gift something ridiculous with something useful. And usually it is the useful part that is hard to find. There is the nightly conference about whom to invite and whom to snub and how to do so cunningly enough.

There is a complete descent into the stage of a 13 year old schoolgirl, for most part, where you tease the friends with incessant yet unhelpful hints about the endless 'maybe-maybenot' bits of their unplanned day. The giggling, cracking jokes, pretending to be absolutely mindless little adolescents. The rites of passage, declaring that everybody needs to groom a little, for there shall be photographs.

But as opposed as I am to change, it is their nature to. The years fall away and suddenly you wake up, confirm addresses and order a gift online. Even with the three days you spend agonizing over the design, colour, size, etc are rendered impersonal by the delivery boy who shows up instead of you. Photos are meant to be looked at days later, not on the way home and laughing with your arms entangled and seemingly drunk. They tend to be out celebrating, sadly enough, without you.

I wish I was there getting somewhat high with you, funny boy.
I wish I was there to see that silly smile on your face, dearest.
I wish I could see you opening the gift we spent ages planning, you idiot.
I wish I could tease you all day and talk to you about total perspective vortexs, love.
I wish I could show you that birthdays could be a fun day, crazy kid.
I wish I could be there, holding you, through the day, hon.
I wish I could be rocking out with you in a mosh pit, my dodo.
I wish I could have all of you right by my side, when my day rolls around.

#Lesson for the day: I wish I was Marvin, without all the depression.

Of thankful thoughts

I'm grateful to a lot of things in life but more than all of them, for now, I'm grateful to be loved by him.

I'm thankful for the beauty of the posters and letters, reminding me that old-fashioned romance lives on. That his presence made me stop wanting to get drunk. I'm thankful he helped me believe a little more in myself and try harder to become the person I want to be.

I'm thankful our memories turn themselves into sepia-tinted showreels, moving in slow-motion, where the sound of our laughter echoes throughout and the light naturally makes us look ecstatic. That between is a divide of distance, not of barriers we chose to construct.

I'm thankful I can say all of this to him and he'll listen. That he'll forgive me for being a jackass and a hypocrite. That I can, for better or for worse, be there for him. I'm thankful I let him see me cry and that he did the same.

I'm thankful he is the person he is.

Lesson for today: I'm thankful to be his.

Food is my religion

At some point in every fat girl's life, she is told that her existence faces an imminent threat from the afore mentioned fat. At this point, you are made to swear on all you hold sacred (including potato chips) that you will stop indulging your lovin' for unhealthy foodstuff (including potato chips). For a while, scared by the revelation that your extra kilograms may do worse than just ruin your dreams of shopping at UCB and Zara, you actually make the effort to stop eating crap (including potato chips). This, is a big fuckin' mistake. It will, lead to disaster.

I went cold turkey, quitting chocolates, chips, candy, various other junk food-esque items and chole bature in the same day. Now, for a girl who has probably been comfort eating since she was 9 years old, giving up the very foundation of content leads to a considerable amount of emotional and existential angst. This translates into many unfortunate incidents. It starts off by becoming hormonal. Not the usual PMS hormonal, but oh-my-fuck-this-is-adolesence-all-over-again hormonal. It's the maa-behen-nani-dadi of PMS. And to add some more fun to it, you don't even realize it's because you've suddenly corrected your skewed body systems.

Then, you start becoming moody, since movies aren't the same without chocolate and nothing is what is used to be without potato chips. Even Arrested Development fails to cheer me up. Frasier still does, but damnit, I want my potato chips.

After a few weeks of this hell, where you feel happy, then sad, then suicidal, then homicidal then everything and homicidal, the doctor who has ruined your life so far says, "You need to stay away from Pasta." By now, your emotions are no longer complacent viewers, content with their hoard of potato chips. You rebel. Potato chips are purchased on the sly, chocolate is gained from ill-conceived means and By God, you eat pasta till you WANT to stay away from it.

Amidst all of this, you see that your body has reacted well to the lack of mind-altering substances and has shed some weight. You start questioning your decision to take up potato chips again. This is where it all falls apart. This is when you become depressed, irritable, sleepy, unable to focus and the whole schebang. At some point, you will find yourself wandering aimlessly at a metro station while not knowing where you're supposed to go.

Contrary to what you may believe, this has nothing to do with anything but your brain telling you that it cannot function solely on human sympathy and what not. It needs potato chips and you can't negotiate on that fact. So after months of agonizing, I ended up at Indian Coffee House, had my Dosa, Lemon Squash and Chips. I read a book. Then I came back home and ate some more food. And today, I happily munched on potato chips with Dahi. And tonight I went full glutton, without any regret.

The end result is a very satisfied Lemon Girl who feels very emotionally balanced at the moment.

And then I figured the Four P's of my happiness: Pineapples, Pasta, Potato chips and Lemon Boi (whose name starts with P and shall hopefully keep me well stocked with the other three.)

#Lesson for today: Food is my religion, do not make me fuck around with or I will turn into a fanatic fundamentalist and Fruit Ninja your ass off.

How I survived four hours in traffic and learnt I was allergic to chilli sauce

I live in Delhi. Good ol' Nayi Dilli, the city where Mirza Ghalib found inspiration. He must be thanking his stars to not be alive today. Delhi got absolutely fucked by the monsoon today and as is tradition, the drainage system pretty much fell apart. And then, to top it all off, I got stuck in the traffic for four hours.

Yes, count that. F-O-U-R.

I'm not even trying to exaggerate here, I swear to the sweet lord. I left home at 10:23 AM and I reached my office at 2:27 PM. And I ain't talking about Indian Stretchable Time here. Somewhere at the far end of the seven flyovers I must cross to get to office (which is an hour on a normal traffic-y day), a pipe had burst because of the heavy rains. The MCD is anyway perpetually confused about how Delhi functions and the rain sends them into a nervous breakdown.

So yes, I spent four hours inside my car. To top it all off, the car flooded. Yes, it flooded. Water sneaked in from some goddarn where and filled up my darling car till my feet were soaked through and I had no idea where anything was. While I was devising a plan to get rid of it all, the car decides this would a good time to show me how it can skid across the road and almost ram itself into a pedestrian's face.

No, I'm just messing with you. I can barely drive a cycle straight and need a driver and the car was flooded only about 3 inches.

In spite of this obviously scarring experience, I was in a chirpy mood when I got to office. Mostly because nobody else had shown up and I lounged about till 5 while abusing the internet. At which point I figured I should eat something. I power-walked to the market, where I figured I'll get a slightly spicy roll, just for the heck of it. I usually am somewhat sensitive to spice, but since I'm currently dead on the inside, I couldn't care less. Bad idea.

I have a slight cut on my lip from where a grossly negligent parlour-woman slashed through with her thread. My lips usually burn for a bit if I get spice right on them. And today being the precious fucker it was, the chilli sauce hit the cut point blank. The next seven minutes were spent gazing wonderously at my face in the mirror as my lip swelled up to five times it's regular size. And made me look like I was wearing whore-red lipstick. All in all, I'm apparently allergic to chilli sauce.

#Lesson for today: Days like this, be glad you made it back home with your body parts all intact.

Ode

To A Dear Friend,

15 years and we're still grinning at each other doing silly happy things.
15 years and we're still giddy with delight at each other's Hello's.
15 years and we're still bickering over whose Mum makes better food.
15 years and we're still sorting out our problems every night, one day at a time.
15 years and we're still make-believing that Wonderland exists.
15 years and we're still friends.
15 years later, I'll look back and let you know that we'll be strong for 15 years more.