If you are wanting heaven, you only are dying

This is like a random thought after what will decidedly follow in the next post. I was feeling extremely low and cry-ey last night. I wanted to desperately shout aloud and tell people what I feel, the bouts of being unloved, unfed on attention and the lack of work to do drives me crazy. So, I was wondering why I feel so pulled and tugged. It is because I leave unfinished dialogues in every place, because I want to return or exist in all those places. Then, I realised that I can appreciate work done only by a few people. The rest, I cannot trust to do it the way I expect. That is why I end up doing it all and feel so tired. Twenty hours of sleep is not enough then. And thus came the title which is a gujarati proverb actually, roughly conveying that unless you yourself do the work, you cannot get the experiential pleasure of it. This is what I kept on thinking the whole time in the rickshaw back home. I love rickshaws. Until an oldie from a wagon-R kept staring and following my rick. Back to work, stare, howl, or just close eyes and ignore... I am too tired to protest.

Same holds true on my contemplations on culture studies and other critical theory on society. I realise that most of them who engage too much end up being miserable because: a) they efface the personal naivete or glint of prejudices/preferences in the race to be politically correct and b) they get nicely trained into problematising everything in life. So, what happens is, happiness becomes an illusion(not that illusion is bad) and sadistic pleasure by digging into others' research papers becomes primary. Prize? Plagiarized paper!!! Hence, after all I may not sacrifice my life to academic conquests and revert to public relations(=psychology)because if you are wanting heaven, you only have to die! :)

When you fall for the morning microphone

Mornings of paranoia and sudden conscious smiles.
Jubilant when you get little niches to dive in for secure unwatched blushing. Almost wading with the mainstream current and nodding furiously because I hardly even can hear what is being spoken. It is not awe, trust me. It is true love progressing through various stages of all three components: intimacy, passion and committment, except that all this is not mutual and is a fragment of my white board only. Gosh, he is here again, skin swelling and expressions as fluid as flagellum suddenly crystallized. Fake jubilant smile again. Agent M, all clear sir!(What am I, Lizzy Mcguire or some pink shoe? Slap me someone!) Then gradually the shutter fly releases little clothbags of of exalt, all buttoned up. Again radar sense proximity. Please tell me, what is this unidentified walking microphone doing to me since four years, off and on? Then, the villain, all pink bubble gum and agent is all tight again. Victim of inside jokes, heart fluttering like a shaken aspen leaf. Remind oneself, silence is golden. Act grumpy. Don't think of demanding attention...

Why I think women can't attain Nirvana:

Because they menstruate
Because they have maternal instincts (basic instincts!)
Because they tend to confuse sex with love
Because they have a penchant to carefully document every gaze and stare
Because they yearn to make an even better "aloo ki sabji" every single night
Because 1)either they are obsessed with male acceptance or 2) they can hardly take earnest male attention on face
Because they too, like men, believe that a woman should have less hair

Disclaimer:
More to come... Please add if you want. This is not a stereotyping competition, it is (as the label suggests,a a mere rant because this woman here knows all of this and can still not get over it)

Why I look down upon people

Well, I can't be more frank. The quotes that you see in newspapers are hardly ever spoken by those smiling faces with beautiful smiles. It is me, the psst-you might wan to say this-helpful but hassled reporter behind. Similarly, the enthusiastic sound bytes on radio that you hear and all those witty slogans and cheesy smartass lines that make you guffaw are rarely uttered by those squeaks. It is me, the sunburnt-deadline bound-tout savant jock who knows that it is beyond you and your spontaneous intellect/creativity to come up with such interesting things. Almost like a film director, everytime, I first visualize and then like some outcast Parajanov, I resign to fate accepting that nobody smart and funny roams the streets in daylight. So, I write a script. What to make people say. Done. Go, explain, street actors, brilliant work. Some can't even do that much. So? What happens when no girl can speak on cricket? Its me, I modulate-change pitch-package and its done. All this just affects in one way, I lose more and more interest in the queerness of people on streets and in media's "fun work".

The diary of a tired worker

It was hot, burning. I am singed and my face is red. The morning was spent in cold dungeon office setup like a lost puppy or a mole lurking in silent sound proof corridors, all red and green and locked and beeping. Shrilly women and men with the best sounding voices ever made me think what I would do for a month. Again the sinking feeling in the stomach of mine about corporate creativity and how I become a dumbass the moment I am hit by such waves of confident professional setups. Day got better. Evening even more assuring. Hopefully I should sail through. The burden of watchful ears is horrible. Hate to let em down.

In between, on the train

Running amok

Stones are walking backwards by me
Cars are bumping into me all along
I seem to pull the rain so down
The yellow hat can't fly back up again
Sandal shape invaded by my toes
The road is gathered more and more
Like a seven meter sari and my greed for all its ends
Running tunes are grabbed by me
Poor notes are chewed out helpless
As the clothes are hurled into bags
Their peace is disturbed by all my drone
Even the last of laughs is not spared
They are all pasted with glue to my lips
The chair swivels under my bum's weight
All the mint washed down in my belly
So many missed rings are buzzed to lure
But the answers are never picked by me
The world seems spinning and riveting
Off and even out of bounds
Wonders comes to the back of mind
When I realize
I am restless and my hands
Are unscrewing the well fit globe.

When Grandpa died

This comes in light of the developmental psychology paper that I have just passed. I read in the textbook yesterday that widowhood can be one of the most horrifying and crippling experiences.So, I was reminiscing about my maternal grandpa's death. I have no memory whatsoever of any pain associated with it though I knew him for more than ten years. All I remember is weird cut up fragments like me skating at home and my mum telling me that he is dead, the next day my grandma and hundred other people sitting quietly in white clothes making a spectacle of something sad, my mum weeping at every instance his name was mentioned. In fact, I made a heroic deal out of his death at school and felt some pleasure out of being in some special experience. This is all. Then, dispassionately I shifted my gaze to grandma wondering how she must be feeling at the time of his death. How ever could she let him go? How could she even see him breathe his last and shrink to four feet of body just like that? I probably would cut my own nerves and die with him. That got me to think what would I do if i were so deeply in love. Probably I would fall sick everytime my partner fell sick and be ready enough to die the moment I felt the other one is gonna die. I just cannot imagine death, bereavement and then as my textbook says:
First disbelief, then preoccupation with mental images of the dead loved one and then final resolution back to reality

Death and experiences of dead ones are not a drug that I can return after a trip. Is everybody so persistent on remembering dead ones or disbelieving the truth? My mum goes helping the needy in his memory but what does she really feel about the person she has lost? What am I, a super glue attached person or does everyone feel remorse on death so much?