Samarkand Sweetheart

The death of a bicycle.

It has broken "peddles" and the basket is gone, the victim of your stunt rides, the bearer of your school bag, the dragged burst tyres and the faded metal gray finish. In blood, wounds, sun, rain and sports days, what stayed with me was this bicycle. When I proudly picked it, saw it being assembled and rode it to school everyday I infested a coating of the soul on it. Some bond was made on 11th of November. Some far memory such as Samarkand cold sprang up when you proudly chanted away how it is daily bruised now. I see the glare and guilt inducing stare. I know I am your culprit my dear Devil in red letters.You stand in the courtyard like everyday, just a little more worn, rusted, feasted upon by my brother. My mate in ruins, sharer of my grandpa's hopes and the most comfortable seat in scorching afternoons, I leave you at the mercy/non-mercy of the brother. Sorry.

Wanted urgently!!

Standing on a fleeting train is the most fun a girl can have in the absence of a camera. I was comiing back on the train via Launda-Meeraj route. It was so liberating that it could untangle knotted life strands in seconds. I saw the most beautiful Ghats that I see all the time. Then, I decided. I want to work for 8 months a year, for the rest 4, I will travel, eat, cook, click, meet and pass the self through shredding machines of popular culture, collect various whoa artefacts and be happy. All this sounded really fun until I realised I would not like to do it alone. But, I am very particular as to who I may not want along. But, I really want someone, girl/boy to come on this journey by trains, buses, planes, feet,cycles, rain, sun,night, day etc.I do not have too much patience and bag packing is not required for this stuff. So, just whisper if you wanna come along. I ll buzz you when I run away. Something very motorcycle diaries minus the life changing,world improving ambitions.

Blame it on the Black Star

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

I get on the train and I just stand about now that I don't think of you
I keep falling over I keep passing out when I see a face like you
What am I coming to?
I'm gonna melt down

I can't help being anal. I ain't bossy but I have compulsive ticks.
Blame it all on me. But, return. Actually, return so that I can show you the new me. Then, I ain't interested.

Anna Belle Switchfoot Mahogany

Oh bab-ey! She bangs-she bangs-she moves-she moves! I am happy! I am so happy I could not describe. This is one of the Phew-hah's. Sunday and a pink braid in my hair with a fish at the end is fascinating. I so feel like a little chicken with pink attire. I feel nice. I hate stalkers. I genuinely do, because I do not like unknown unintelligent, possibly unattractive guys texting me. Rebuke the racism but Mals repel as well. I slept at a stretch for 16 hours again. Actually I have become so comfortable with my circadian rhythms that I have set them at 18th December, 7:30 p.m. That is the time I start journey to station. Until then all time will be spent in waking sleeping. Ooh! I love manipulating! I love letting out sly secrets of informal enemies. I love being a prick and then flashing the winner smile. And, I don't get my roommate's obsession with maturity. That's okay. I think all teenagers tend to be obsessed with such stuff.
We have this exemplary ranting about Anne Frank's livid teen experiences during WW in our psycho text. All in our time is war and there is no love in times of cholera. Then abey the demotivator barks: There is no question of my existence.
Now its me. I need to rely on my collective imagination powered by social fantasies. I have a very powerful visual imagination but a weak hand to realise the same. There are tiny pixies pink and purple caught in a glass globe. Pixies inherently, inertly carry out thoughts, dreams and impulses. I want such a pixie in the pit of my stomach for, I wish to be unattainable, the wanted, the desired, the comet on whose tail you can ride. Right now it may sound all vague passion boredom anarchy comic book that all kids prey on but trust me, in is a truth there:

There exists nothing in this world beyond what I want to see, the way I want to see it and the influence exerted due to my social contracts in the store room. I so originally say this (snigger):
Look inside. There is nothing outside. Ooh! I feel a high when I say this. Similar high as when I eat Rajma rice or self-made Pulao. I cook really good Pulao. Do you know you get wine for Rs 23 a bottle. Yummy wine.

Oh! waning etymology of envy

I was just wondering sitting in the graphic novel class. We were doing the "work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction". I had just returned from a big brawl and very surprisingly could feign anger, loss and other stuff so easily that by the end of the act I was actually moved. I always knew I could act. Grin. Then, while we were all pondering on where art exactly is, whether in the object out there in the real world which is inaccesible to us, or in the process of seeing and perceiving it or when a finished piece of art is set out for infinite reading(reading means consumption) and the author is dead. In all this it simply struck me that what I had to say is completely logical and there is no reason why I should be hesitant or scared. But, I actually was. That apart, I was also thinking about the "realism in the idea of life". It is strange. We make grand plans, most of us nurture a particular dream about what we want to be at the end of all the activity in life. That is when the primary doctor, engineer, pilot thing starts. Later, it becomes more pragmatic as well as the hospital of underperformance. Negotiations and settling for the best available. Eventually by college, chuck the we, I speak for myself, though unfinished; choices are more limited, at least practically. And here I am, sitting in the luxury of another bunch of choices until next year. It is like everytime decisions just happen and the time in between is spent doing nothing definite which will result in the next decision. I never feel empowered in making a decision. And at this point I realise that (pardon the melodrama), life is actually walking past, uncontrollably and taking me along where I have not even thought of.
To put it simply, the more I live, the more it looks like a common anti-climax. I just sit there everyday hoping, dreaming, wishing and to a certain extent very assuredly saying to myself, "I am different and something unusual is gonna strike me any moment. Anything. A calamity, an award, a relation, a position. Anything." But somehow it never seems to happen. And then, I feel, maybe its too early to think so and the next moment I feel, maybe later I will just regret it.
Then, I also go to such ridiculous heights of thought where I desperately hope that some editor or publisher or Rhodes' descendant comes across my blog and takes interest in my writing. Then I will have a yellow mug with coffee, an olive green t-shirt, purple cushions, a huge window with rain lashing outside and I will be writing something that is gonna change my life.
Strange enough unconsciously I become something that a lot of people envy(here envy means a positive desire to possess) and that a lot of people fear, regret, detest etc. But, I never end up becoming what I ideally dream of since childhood.

Whatever people say I am, that's what I am not

I adore Arctic Monkeys. Just simply love them. Few days have passed sleepless and full immersed in photo taking. I will soon upload few pictures of bored classmates and Bangalore by bulblight. I am super excited to return home in a week. Can't believe time flies so fast. Sigh. This line put up just points that counter affects all. You, me and the reason for me not to be you and consciously keep trying to become me. I read that interesting bit on how I am but need to discover and become me in order to realise the full potential of being.

Intolerance and smugness

I detest being snubbed. I can take your little bouts of depression and silence(No, this is not for you, relax)(There are too many at the receiving end). But please, do not expect me to make you feel better. I also fear being read and discussed through this blog, perhaps one of the side effects of more readers coming in. I believe family has obtained access too. I will leave the key in the door only and always forget to put it in the bathroom. I will not eat my Daal with lot of water in it. i like smaller rotis and I abhor half boiled potatoes. Don't even dare confront me on this just because you can read what I feel. I am so sleepy all the time and correct! I am not even bothered in listening to why your boyfriend doesn't get along with you. It surely causes me itch why you choose to associate with those whom we by mutual consensus despise. Also, I would love to murder you for having lent that prized book of mine to she-who-must-be-lynched-to-her-last-cell. Finally, don't ever in your life give me shit like " you can do everything", "you could not go wrong", "how did you forget this?" etc. also no positive motivation: you are a good, smart, young, pretty, CUTE(1,117 times) girl. I am not a fucking mental patient. also, i study psychology. So, these techniques of reward, reinforcement, motivation etc are futile. on the other hand, all tests show I suck at social skill domains. So, all I can do is read and eat. Vegetate. Dare you even comment on any of my orkut names, facebook status...

Buddhism on Sinarest

To anyone wondering who or what Sinarest is, Sinarest, Oflox and similar things are medicines. They make you dizzy, your stomach churns, body burns and you hang between sleep and sore, inflammated nasal tract. This feverish flu has just been too much. Wednesday morning I was in a really bad shape. I think it was 102 degrees, the fever. I could hardly wake up. The night was spent in fighting mosquitoes under the noisy fan and missing mummy. No one at this point of time bothered to check on me. To think in retrospect, who would? Who had the obligation to check on my health in this city? No real kith kin around. Morning, generous compassionate roommate came and resurrected me from mouth of death. Night was started with burning body, nerve pull and sore throat. Took Metacin, risking liver failure and resorted to reading the apt book of the hour: "An End to Suffering"(Pankaj Mishra). Just chumma coincidence. Suffering inflicted many people of the world at the sametime. What better than a 300 page solution? Night continued alone. Sleep eloped in fever. All tolerance that the book was filling in, trickled by dawn. Then morning, noon, evening after good care came questions of being purposive and goal oriented. When someone else throws light on it I realise how out of line I am. So easily strayed.Since then delirious mumblings of happy death have reduced. Courtsey Sinarest. I get so annoyed when I don't get reply to mails. Nowadays 100 messages are also left unspent. Self respect rules lessons are on.