I'm very jealous of all the people whose friends bake them a birthday cake with gems on top of them. I will be spending mine at home, watching television.

I'm too polite to even blatantly demand a birthday cake.

I have friends at college for whom the Plague ranks just a little above birthdays. Even if it didn't, celebrating definitely ranks alongside the Plague.

I don't have new clothes for the day. All family/family friends shall be busy.

I know it's bad to demand attention on my birthday. Can't help it. Maybe I'll go explore Delhi on my very own. :]

Signing Out,
Cheery Cherry



I believe I have come to the point of my blogging life, where it is time for me to honour the tradition of publishing 'Hazaaron Khwaishen Aisi'. It is how I feel today, like a thousand dreams have come banging their passionate hands on my door. One by one, they too shall be fulfilled.

There are times when the writer's block seems all too real and then when I know I'm simply avoiding my own self. However, every time it happens I have one source of comfort. There exist the chronicles of a mind much like my own out in the blogosphere, one that convinced me that it would not be a futile exercise. Once in a dreary while, I read through it all and know there is still much to say.

It is never to late in life to discover the joy of something, said Father once. I have found one in travelling by the inimitable auto rickshaw, or auto as we like to call it. For one, the beauty of its colouring never fails to make me smile. Who would have dreamed up a yellow topped, green bodied, blue cushioned and red interior-ed vehicle like this? The coming of the November rains in Delhi only add to that pleasure.

It's worth the money they charge. Tiny drops of water sneaking their way on to your cheeks while your open hair billows in the cool breeze. Somewhere in the back of your thoughts, an old tune plays out on the cracked gramophone of old memories. It's the perfect time for a blanket around the feet and a cup of warm tea in hand, waiting for the right shade of red to blush upon ones nose. I hope the early morning mist and Jack Frost come soon. It's a good time to be in love.

Signing Out,
The Grin Without The Girl


Back. In Techincolour.

And when we're tired of clicking important, artistic or interesting photographs with our DSLR's, we'll resort to profile picture photography. This was taken right after I returned from IIT-Kanpur. It's my last year on college and so I can't go back there again. I wonder why I didn't attend these fests for two whole years. Probably wasn't confident enough to try. That's all changing now. :] I've had fun being away. It was happier coming back, though.
Kanpur. Train rides. Laughing into the night. Love. Tight squeezes. No sleep. Headbanging. Bad jokes. Competitions. To and Fro. SAC. LHC. Food. Laughing. Photography. Dance. Music. Headbanging. Hugs. Packing. Unpacking. Late night walks. Sleepy stupors. More food. Clapping. Head scratching. Nautanki, poori poori. Anagrams. Spelling Bee's. Headbanging. More packing. Staying awake. Fighting for the bathroom. Falling in love. New friends. Old friends. Tic Tacs. Everything.
And then I went strolling off to this little place in the middle of Delhi's slums called Kathputli Colony. Nobody in their right mind ventures in there, I've been told. I don't think I've ever been in my right mind to start with. The place is full of abject poverty and terrible living conditions. Still, I don't think I've seen little children smiling so hard or being unconcerned about their situation in life. In turn, it makes you feel a little less jaded. More human, possibly. I think I'll go back there. I'll take some nice colourful books with me. And some old clothes that don't fit me anymore. Some old toys and games too. Maybe I'll be a little less selfish then.

Signing Out,



I really, really miss lugging around that injuresmywrists-won'tfocusproperly-mistedover macro lens everywhere. I miss the way it felt in my hands, the way it made me feel so complete and awesome. The way we both fell in love, while bonding over the camera. I miss tucking it in to sleep for that one week after taking photos of the moon every night.

I can't stop being morbid over having purchased a new phone. I swear, it's beautiful and a darling and everything. But I *loved* my old phone. It had style, class and grace. I almost feel like I've gone and replaced Humphrey Bogart with Colin Firth. First loves, N73 and Bogart. Every day, since it's been gone (not gone, it's on the table), I think about the wonderful times we had. Then I put on Casablanca and When Harry Met Sally and have a lovely night.

External hard drive. Oh Baby. Thank you for coming into my life and turning it upside down.

I pledge eternal devotion to laptop. As terrible and hot as it may get on summer nights, it's stood by me in times of much need. And allowed me to download everything the American networks don't broadcast in India. And been my salvation when Star World got cut from the cable plan and left me Bones-less. It does everything I ask of it and never shuts down even after having being hung for three hours so that I don't lose my unsaved work. It loves me so much that it never once objects to being taken in the metro and being subjected in-(human?) abuse by the crowd. We still love, even after I dropped it onto the road.

And finally, dearest-oneandonly-youbelongwithme DSLR. The sexiest Canon 450D in the world. My one, my true. The ray of sunshine in my otherwise even weathered life. I cannot profess in words how much I heart you. I can only profess by clicking all the 40,000 photographs you are deemed capable of and proving to the world that you still have the ability to click more. Not to mention, have your name published in ever photography journal in this world.

-insert future famous photograph-
[Captioned: Antara with childhood sweetheart and camera, Marcello]

Signing Out,
Beating Heart Melodies


You Know I Gave You My Heart - II

And this is how we shall beat the Monday Morning Blues.

Signing Out,

You Know I Gave You My Heart

It doesn't matter how much life sucks.
It doesn't matter whatever crap happens.
It doesn't matter what I can't have.
It doesn't matter that Sundays are goddamn boring.
It doesn't matter that the one person I want to talk to the most is offline.
It doesn't matter that everybody is busy or asleep.
It doesn't matter.

I have the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy to read, watch and listen.

That's all that really counts, I guess.

Signing Out,
H2G2 Happy.


Blogpost Random

I really need to go book shopping. I seem to be forgetting what the new book smell smells like! :(

I'd have to find a whole new identity if I forget anything about my love for books. Isn't that scary? But I just read all my James Herriots and Dick Francis together in a major marathon, so I feel better. No shit, that's 32 books. With horses, cows, dogs, cats, veterinary surgeons and murderous intentions. I wish real life had this kind of drama. Nope, real life just has people you can't understand no matter how much you try.

I'm becoming addicted to the sound of the camera shutter. Both in my DSLR and camera phone. I figured this out on my way back home when I was getting really excited about it getting dark so that I could get some pretty night shots in the auto. And when I fished Marcello (DSLR's have names!) out of his bag and randomly started clicking the road home while trying to balance my life and various other bags while in the rickshaw. I got really nice shots though.

This is a shot from inside the auto at like, 7.30 in the night. I like staying late in college. I'm usually the last one out.

This is in college. This building is a fully functioning Video & Audio studio built for our course. This also makes us snobs.

This is the sky in college at around 4.35 when I am bored of listening to my radio feature.

This is the part of the college that is really pretty.

This is the road outside my home when it's just rained and the dog won't pee.

Signing Out,



This poster is mine. All mine.
Hanging up in my room!
Where I can grin at it all the time!




So you know about all those people in the film industry known as 'Scriptwriters'?. It's kinda safe to assume I may not be able to become one of them for a very long time. Short attention spans aside, under my supervision almost dialogues will twist into a conversation that has nothing to do with the actual script 'cept maybe wanting to make the characters a little (ok, completely) schizophrenic/delusional/paranoid (you get the hint.)

Like today, my friend and I (let's call her N) were typing a script and I wrote out this particular dialogue:

Me: "Tumhari bahon mein main ek jahan paa lunga, aisa lagta hai."
N: What, uske boobs?
N: Yeah, like Boobistan.
Me: Or Boobsville.
N: Boobie Central.
Me: Ruby Boobie. Boobistan ka WOW.

Then we laughed like maniacs for a while.

N: Who'll be the mayor?
Me: Pamela Anderson. You just HAVE to stare at hers. They are so in your face.
N: Okayyyy.
Me: And this will be the official dance of Boobistan.
*Starts every single cheap-ass Bollywood dance step ever. And I mean, ever*
N: *Laughing* And the official song will be 'Choli ke peeche kya hai, chunari ke neeche?"
Me: Seriously. Boobistan. Boob-nagar. Mera mehBoob aaya hai. I don't think our character is messed up. It's just us.

And that's when things went a little out of hand.

Signing Out,
Boobistan :D


Star Child

Poetic justice, poetic hubris, poetic license;
Anything poetic, is you.
When the stars come calling down on earth
You shall be their first, their last, their only.
And when they define love; the word heart
You shall have been their only reason.

All that is melodious, has sprung from you;
You are the truth, the bittersweet symphony.
All that is worth it's weight in gold, is you;
You are the passion, the glowing epiphany.
When the worlds will die and the bluebirds sing,
I shall see you your face; the comfort of your words.

A wonder, a wistful firefly, a sugar magnolia.
A world unto yourself.

Happy Birthday Deboleena



Even though I'm a dog person, I absolutely wuv cats. That smug look, the graceful walk, the self satisfied expressions. And all of this because they can meowr. I kid you not, the art of meowing is what makes cats the way they are.

I know this because I spent the whole of last night, the morning and some part of today evening meowr-ing to myself. First a low pitched hesitant meowr. Then a more verbal sleepy one. And when I was sure neither Mother nor the neighbours had woken up at the noise, a loud demanding rolling the R's waala purr. It's a wonder nobody came and scratched my chin, the way I was carrying on. But the fun it affords you is worth the funny looks people give when you randomly mew in front of them.

Signing Out,
My Pizza Is Here.



I went to the Red Fort this time. I can quite imagine the parade of horses and elephants walking through the walls, while courtesans and musicians waited for them at the arched gateways. It wasn't so hard, to see the throngs of people coming to the Diwan-e-Aam, while the emperors sat majestically on thrones of the most beautiful marble. It was easy to stand under the vaulted ceilings and turn around and around slowly, like trying to turn back time. It was the easiest to imagine why someone might come here one fine day and go back convinced they used to be a member of the royal families that lived here once. Sometimes, life is just easier through the camera lens.

Especially so when it's raining so hard that not even an umbrella can fully keep you safe and dry, so you leave it behind with gay abandon and run around everywhere.

Meena Bazaar. The yellow-y tones of comfort.

Pigeons and Old Monuments. Together Forever.

In-laid marble makes me positively giddy. *sigh*

(I just love Bokeh. Whattodo?)

There were also a LOT of bats at this place called Agrasen ke Baoli, where I shall attempt to shoot a murder mystery. =)

Signing Out,
Delhi Tripper


That Kind Of

Do you ever believe that if you shut your eyes hard, close your ears and think hard enough, you'll be in a different land when you wake up?

It's been that kind of night.

Suddenly, maintaining friendships seems more of a task, a chore. One does not need to hear the same each week. I know that it would so much better and easier to not devote energies to introspecting and changing. After all, one is quite loved for the way they have always been. I knows that I should not give up on friends, however one is very tempted to. I have apologized so many times for crimes I never knew I had committed, yet one perseveres. I realize that sooner or later, I will lose all my patience and scream till nothing matters anymore, yet something stops me. Anger has never suited one's countenance.

It's been that kind of night.

I feel no anger, no rage. I feel melancholic. I wish to curl up in the comfort of my blanket and listen to Julie London till the first rays of the dawn hit my face and the dog comes up to awaken me. I wish to sing and paint for a while, without wondering what I am doing with life. I wish this would all just end.

It's been that kind of night.

Signing Out,
It's Been That Kind of Post.



I now has me a poppy coloured umbrella with a ninja on it.

You can die of jealousy now.

Food Would Make Everything Better

If I could get an army of cooks, or just one cook for every kind of cuisine. (oh wait, that would make an army.)

Anyway, If I could have a bunch of nice culinary-minded people cooking for me each day without grumbling or asking for money, I would never ever bother with the world again and this blog would turn into an adventure story of my everyday meals. With photographs, since my darlingest Mommy finally came through and made me the proud momma of a Canon 450D, also known as a DSLR and Marcello to his family, friends and girlfriend Basanti.

Signing Out,



My blogger friends are much more glorious, funny, confused, intelligent and interesting than most of my real life friends. Its true. I spend a disproportionate amount of time memorizing your life history over theirs.

Or maybe having a blog makes life better.

Whatever it is, Happy Friendships Day y'all.

Thank you for keeping me sane. Especially you. (Cheh, you know who you are)

Signing Out,
Bloggy Happy.



Because nothing one says can fully describe the feeling of being herded like cattle in narrow lanes, while still being of free mind and will. Of having forgotten the road and yet not being lost. Of having found calm in the midst of chaos.

Maybe a photograph would help.

Signing Out,


Just One Plizz?

I want a pretty orangish-yellowish-reddish lamp to hang up in my room and swirl and cast shadows on my face when I try to do anything. I want to go off to the French Cameroons and retrace every single step Gerald Durrell took so that I can finally find my way in this world. I want to be thin and pretty and demented and embarrass my friends on the sidewalk and still make someone look at me and want to know more. I want to be a nicer person who doesn't think so much and doesn't become quite so dramatic for no reason at all. I want to be able to weather any storm that comes my way and become stronger every time something bad or undeserved happens.

I want.
I want.
I want.
I W-A-N-T.

But nobody really believes me when I say it.

Signing Out,
The Girl Who Didn't Cry Wolf Yet Is Not Believed.


He is scared of the rain water, more so of thunderstorms. It has become a task, to get him to step out in the drizzle. He growls at the curtains and looks dazed for most part. He has taken up gently barking at my sleeping figure in the early hours of the twilight. He has for most part, made me feel demented.

And they thought Betty was the mother of an idiot boy.

Signing Out,
Demented Doggie Lover


No Kidding

You know that West Delhi don't give no shit about anything that world does when you find it easier to get an auto on the days when the whole of the public transportation of the city is supposedly crippled by a Bharat Bandh. And when the local MLA tells you to not worry, nobody really cares about the price rise in this part of the city.

Signing Out,
Proud West Delhite.


Football Talk

I am heading into the wrong career. I should be a commentator for football. Why? Because I am exceptionally good and funny at it.

It all started late last night, at a sleepover. Best Friend was deprived of tv viewing pleasures at home and badgered us to tell her about Messi's playing and whenever Argentina scores. Hell, we didn't just tell her, we re-defined the world of commentary altogether. Maradonna gave us such happy times, with all his nail biting, armpit hugging and coach straddling. He also kissed and ass patted the players when they came out of the field. Almost God to Kinda Creepy in 5 seconds flat, that. Demichelis, who we believed scored only for the pleasure for us being able to read his name without his hair interfering, was our absolute favourite. 'Argentinian Long Haired Dude', we called him. I am crushing over Tzorvas's Zeus impersonation and telling his teammates where they should be scoring.

We were also exceptionally fond of -
Veron a.k.a Main Bald Dude
Rodriguez a.k.a Argentinian Dude
Maxi Rodriguez a.k.a. The Other Rodriguez
D. Milito a.k.a. Dude Getting Sucker Punched
Otamendi a.k.a. Throws Ball At Veron's Head Dude

We didn't leave out the Greek Squad either. No way, Papastathopoulos we loved you, Greek Dude With Fun Name.
There was also the Greek Long Haired Dude.
The Greek Dude Who Shrugs
The Greek Dude Who Keeps Tripping
The Greek Dude Who Keeps Running For Life

And nothing beats commentary like "Argentina in possession. Dude to Dude. Dude to Veron. Veron to Messi. Messi twirling in circles. Messi prima ballerina. Messi to Dude. Dude to somewhere in the middle of the field."

Also, I'm pretty sure the Argentina squad was under the impression that the Greek squad was transparent. Nothing else can explain the number of times they tried to kick the ball right through their stomachs.

Signing Out,
Super Commentator



I want to fill up my room with wallpaper of beautiful red poppies. It's not even funny, how obsessed I am with poppies and poppy wallpaper and poppy coloured umbrellas.

Signing Out,


It is the nature of summer holidays to bore one to the point of becoming a part-time hypochondriac. Really. One spent much of a beautiful Sunday obsessing over the possibility of a broken sternum and rib cage, which is slowly trying to puncture lung and heart instead of doing something constructive. One spent much of last week trying to explain to father that her clavicle was indeed broken and she was incapacitated because of it.

One knows much of the online medical dictionary well enough to look learned in the matters of broken bones and torn ligaments. One is also realizing that she has a terribly low pain threshold, along with a flair for the dramatically exaggerated. This happens to magically transform the slightest twinge into the starting symptoms of paralysis and dying nerves. One has been told that she is probably just lazy and fat. One begs to differ, for her anxiety and stress are exercise enough and the fat is simply an illusion to keep the lechers at bay.

One also tends to digress frequently.

Signing Out,
My Pelvis Is Breaking


One day, I will become
A painting, preferably a Warhol or a work of graffiti
Hung on a wall with imperfect angles
And brush strokes that no one can fully understand
And all the secrets, all the lies
All the fallacies, all the cries
Shall be mine to witness
Shall be mine to share.


Chapter 2

“You’ll come back when it’s over,
No need to say goodbye”

Three days had passed since the e-mail incident and she had still not read the whole thing. Whether this was because of the sheer length of the correspondence or the haphazardly written language, I leave to you to discern at will.

She was currently browsing through the pile of flyers and junk mail that had created its own living space on the counter before her. The Captain was reluctant about throwing out pieces of paper and she had long suspected it was because he obviously wanted to save the environment. Seeing him use the papers to wipe his hands after a particularly oily meal had the effect of both disillusioning her in the slightest and stare at him with her eyebrow raised, a talent that the Captain had been trying to learn.

While circling discount deals and bonus offers that were not quite as obvious in their advantage as they could have been, a small beeping fluorescent pink light caught her eye. It was the mater calling. Father never called. He simply sent one word texts that required her to actually pick up the phone and confirm which one of the defined uses of the words he was referring to. Mater had yet to pick up this idea and she was glad of that.

Mother usually wanted to know if she had found a suitable boy to marry by the next auspicious date of the coming month. In spite of the great lengths that she had gone to explain to her kith and mainly her kin that her love interests were mostly fictional or dead, Mother kept her hopes up.

“Because every man in the world does want Lady Obvious for his wife”, she said to the imaginary conversationalist in her mind. For the first time, he had no sarcastic quote to reply back with.

The fact that she was basing all her hopes on a daughter that did not want to reconcile to the well-established homosexuality of Oscar Wilde, said a lot about her enthusiasm and optimism. It said even more about her daughter, which is best left unsaid for now.

Picking up the phone, she replied in her softest tone lest her mother think she would strain her voice. After the conversation ended, she picked up her bag and decided to lock up the office for the day. Captain Obvious was not back yet, but she grown used to him not arriving at the given date because they airport security didn’t look in the obvious places to hide a bomb.

Lady Obvious liked the sound of the lock clicking into place when she turned the key. It made a pseudo-musical sound that Brian Eno would appreciate, she always thought. Turning away toward the hallway, she stopped for a second to check her hair in the mirror. The next thing she knew, her hair was in a tangled mess.

Trapdoors were the last thing she expected to step on in the middle of a busy business complex. Not that she was in one, but it didn’t keep her from setting certain expectations. As she brushed of pieces of lint, spider-web and dust bunnies from her arms, it occurred to her that she might be in some kind of trouble. After all, nobody would ever construct a trapdoor to nowhere for the heck of it.

Signing Out,
To Be Continued


Chapter 1

“We wear our scarves just like a noose,
But not because we want eternal sleep”

Captain Obvious was having a tough day at the office. His dry cleaner had payed no heed to his admonitions, the maid couldn’t care less for his obvious places to look for socks and Rosie O’Donnell’s kid had just dropped a major bomb on the sensibilities of the world at large. Her 19 year old son had gotten someone pregnant. Ordinarily, this would have solicited simply an e-mail from his side, but it had turned out that the ‘someone’ in question was 44 years old and was obviously trying to give child rearing a last shot before menopause hit her straight on.

He grabbed his coat, super-hero outfit and the frequent flier miles that every airline in the world had gifted to the company to keep him from stating the obvious dangers of air travel on television. They were useful in his overseas adventures, he’d reasoned. The first compromise of the two he would make in his career as a hero.

As he ran down the stairs, a sense of foreboding came over him. But they didn’t name him Captain Obvious for nothing. He shrugged it off to the memory of the airline food and terrible foot space that was to plague him for the next few days. This time, he should have paid closer attention since it was soon to become even more obvious than it already was that always referring to the obvious was not the best way to live.

Taking a feather from this particular hat, I state the not-so-obvious: This is not his story.

Our story begins with a young woman of twenty, a gem, simply waiting to be discovered. With skin as soft as silk, manners of a fine lady and a tendency to come of as something of an enigma in her own voiceovers. It wasn’t hard to imagine her wearing a cape, trawling across the deserts of the Sahara as she brought joy and peace to weary travellers and their animals. At the moment, however, she lounged in her chair in the offices of Captain Obvious & Co, she pondered upon the latest escapade that had sent her boss tearing out in such a hurry. His job was tedious, letting the entire world know what was so totally obvious. He nearly had a fit, when he heard that Rosie O’Donnell’s 19 year old kid had gotten his 44 year old lover pregnant. But I digress.

Our story begins with the heroine of all heroines, the love of all lovers and the beat that sent a million hearts in a flurry. Our story starts with a young woman of twenty.

She was a woman of many names. She wasn’t particularly famous or infamous. People simply found the name to be a handful to pronounce while being funny or drunk. Over the years, they had resorted to simpler four letter names.

Of course now, her efforts were towards writing a speech for Captain Obvious while he tried to put some much needed sense in the minds of those who worked in Hollywood. After all, she said to herself, “How does a 19 year old even meet a 44 year old woman in the first place?” There were no hotspots that came to mind, nor were there any get togethers that plunged the opposite ends of the hormone spectrum together.

“Just another day at the office”, she commented to no one in particular.

She had no lover in her life and rumours were beginning to spread that the Captain may have a thing for her. As much as he wanted to believe them, she knew the Captain needed somebody ambiguous in his life. Too much obviousness is as obvious, poison for a relationship. It was a summer internship run far too long and now she was taking time to come out of the comfort zone. The work suited her nature and the food in the downstairs mess was the best she’d had in years. She was a great second-in-command, about as efficient in pointing out the obvious flaws in the new Marks & Spencer mark-ups as the Captain was. On the days that the Captain was ill, she stepped into the shoes of Lady Obvious.

“Catchy”, she thought “but no competition to Lady GaGa.”

And with that thought, the protagonist of our story slowly fell asleep, only to be awakened rudely in some twenty minutes and forty three seconds by an e-mail. As the loud warning went off, she cursed the very day the postman went out of fashion. Then remembering the number of times she could have been caught in the middle of the shower vs. postman situation she reconsidered her curse and decided that she would rather have the MJ era back.

Signing Out,
To Be Continued



And one of these days it'll rain real hard
your eyes will fill up, you'll drown
even though you're standing on land.

And one of these days you'll fall down
a swirling hole that makes you feel jaded
even though you're just a new born babe.

Learn to steal a few heavens from angels
live like a floating seed for a while.
Be the poppy seed of the one you desire
opium for those who'll be addicted to you.

Signing Out,



I now have somebody on the blog to entertain you when I'm not posting.

Introducing.. Weismuller Puck

He'll be sitting just by the side, a little to the lower part of the blog. Click around if you don't see him. He's adorable, I promise.

Signing Out,
Have Fun


8 Step Process To Effectively Piss Off Inner Nerd

Step 1: Refuse to acknowledge the existence of notes from which you had planned to study.

Step 2: Open Allie's Blog and read through all 186 of her long posts.

Step 3: Reflect on the lack of lyrics in the song Beera from Raavan and then promise to pledge your eternal love to Mani Ratnam for bringing back good Bollywood music.

Step 4: Get a sugar rush at 2 in the night and feel the sudden urge to order both the Fat Free Express and Nicer Dicer from TV.

Step 5: Plan an elaborate system to learn all notes within three hours and promptly forget all about it as you fall asleep

Step 6: Wake all pumped up, realize it is just 9 AM and go back to sleep till 11ish.

Step 7: Sometime post noon, berate Inner Nerd for not telling you to study sooner over a plate of hot Maggi.

Step 8: Write blog post about process because Inner Nerd has given up on you.

Signing Out,
Desperately Seeking Inner Nerd

P.S. Lack of Inner Nerd has created need to listen to The Doors.



It happened just a while ago, maybe a day or so back.

For the first time in a long time, life seemed fine. Not perfect, just about okay. Like it belonged in this time and place. Not in some parallel universe or in a void inside somebody's imagination. Like it would be natural to pick up the phone, see some random message and smile at it. Not be snide or whimsical.

For a while there, I was tempted to have an expression that said things were moving on, not too happy nor too sad. For a bit, it was really confusing. I guess I'm not used to feeling just right. A little messed up, sometimes a little out of line, that used to be me.

You wouldn't have had to do much to get on my good side, just a friendly smile and wave. Or a wink and a nod. Or maybe just a simple, 'Hey, smile. You're with me.'

But you didn't.

I guess, you never knew me as well as I'd hoped you did.

Signing Out,
Just Okay

(P.S. Semi-autobiographical musing, this)


On Cynicism

Cynicism stems from
Days of waiting and waiting
For something good,
something brilliant to happen
And ending up
A swollen ear.


What I like most about exams are the hourly epiphanies regarding exactly why one should study the whole year long and not in the last three days.

What I like even more is how they vanish into the thinnest of air five seconds post exiting the exam hall.


Tagged by The Other A. I still love ya, honey.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?
Took a trip with friends

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Not a single one of them. Hah!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

4. Did anyone close to you die?

5. What places did you visit?

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
Security, night-stays and a sense of being somewhere.

7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Birthday. Revelations and a lot of re-thinking.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Not changing a thing about myself.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Good judgement for just a day.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Four days in a hospital bed.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Oscar Wilde. *sigh*

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Really? People do that sort of thing?

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and/or depressed?
Everybody I know. I suppose the same could be said for them.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Books, Food.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Work, I think

16. What song will always remind you of 2009?
The Call, Regina Spektor

17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
Much, much happier. Free, safe, understood.

18. Thinner or fatter?
Teh same.

19. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Spoken up, explored, loved.

20. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Letting it be, helping out.

21. How will you be spending Christmas?
I don't know.

22. Did you fall in love in 2009?
So many times, I can't even count.

23. How many one-night stands?

24. What was your favourite TV programme?

CSI. Dead people, go figure.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
So many, it's hard to keep count.

26. What was the best book you read?
The Omnivore's Dilemma. Got me over McD's.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Regina Spektor, The Hungarian Orchestra, Yann Tiersen, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

28. What did you want and get?
People to love

29. What did you want and not get?
Somebody to love (Do wives count?)

30. What was your favourite film of last year?

I don't know.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Went into a flurry of revelations, 19

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Amending the law - making stupidity illegal.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?

34. What kept you sane?
Nupur, Andy.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Abhay Deol?

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
I've given up on.

37. Who did you miss?

I wouldn't wanna say. I've been ignoring them.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Priyanka. Anyday.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.
There is no such thing as a part-time friend.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

"Come into my world, I gotta show, show, show you"


Rambling Shambles

Promise me, we'll be like this. Forever. Eating candy on the street and laughing over spilt milk. With paint one one foot and missing on the other. Playing, shouting, snug and happy. Sad one moment, smiling like fools the other.

Colours, papers, printers, magazines, staple pins. Heavy laptops. Insane rooftops. Friends & Foes. You & Me. Cecily & Gwen. Porcelain tiles at our dream homes, dreams we make believe to be true. 

Dust all up in my hair, tan lines on my feet and a funny sensation in my ear. Watch the sunset watch the sun watch the crows crying out for water. A soft breeze brings back reality. Make a joke will you, I didn't call to hear the static. Calls to just hear your voice. 


What The ...

My blog refuses to let me reply on my own comments :-|

Till I figure this out, replies for the last post~

@ Sugar: Haha! That's the best advice I've had in ages.

@ Sherry: Yes, we are becoming rather confused when asked to describe personality.

The idea of being so unpredictable even to self is undoubtedly engaging. I'll be having some fun with this now.

Signing Out,
Utterly Butterly Confused!



What I really like about my life and personality is that I can fit it into many different compartments and then make it come together as a whole, almost effortlessly.

Kesha singing Tik Tok makes me want to dance as much as Vivaldi's Autumn. Facebook is as important to me as closeted time with a book and cold mango juice. xkcd, cyanide & happiness and manga make great comic material as much as Wilde does. I live for classics like Dr. Strangelove & Monty Python yet Amy Poehler and Tina Fey still drive me to hysterical fits of giggles. I can be full of in-house witty anecdotes and still subscribe to the popular MTV-humour (I am currently looking forward to the next episode of [V] Dare To Date). Also, Abhay Deol & John Cusack are as beloved as Chandler Bing & the-whole-of-Hollywoods-chocolate-boy-camp.

Desperate Housewives vs. The History Channel, Big Uhhhhhhh. Bihari Hinglish-Gujrati vs. The Queen's English, you got me.

Now, back to the point of this wonderfully self-indulgent post. I was pondering upon why this dichtomy in my personality. And then it struck me. Having been stuck in school and college for a period of time with people who wouldn't exactly appreciate such eccentricities, I always pretended to like the popular stuff.

At some point of time, I just started liking both sides of the coin. To this date, it confounds me which side rules my personality. Which part determines the friends I make? Which part makes me truly who I am? What really makes for my Purple Brains?

Signing Out,


Promise, Fulfilled.

Because of her & her.

Signing Out,
Insanely Happy



Surprisingly enough, it's newspaper articles, set among two pages of tenders and quotes that make a person realize how old a soul they really are. It's in the one word monologue of old & new movies that let them know they will stay true to their country forever. And then, it's in the yellowed pages of library books about to be thrown out that you finally learn the true definition of hope.

I still want a maruti 800 over any other new car in the market (excluding the Camaro. Who doesn't want a Camaro?). Nano's and VW's Bug aside, the maruti strikes me as the perfect vehicle. Smart, efficient and let's face it, you won't be getting that bad a lecture if you break a headlight or two.

It hurt somewhere, really hard when they announced they won't be manufacturing the Bajaj scooters any more. I spent so many of my formative years on the back of my dad's scooter, that it felt like Bajaj simply took away that simple pleasure from so many generations of kids to come.

Watching Awara and Swades makes me cry, every single time. And even though I'm not out of the country, they pull at my heart so much that I feel like launching into every single social service initiative there is. Even when two of them take up all the time I can afford.

And then, while still cross at people who throw out books just because their pages are frail and crinkly around the edges, you look at a mirror. Not just any other mirror, mind you. One that is as much human as you'll ever be and reflects every single movement while staring deep into your eyes. And for the first time, your own aura bounces back at you, making you reel with a mix of emotions so pure, that you feel like crying, laughing, dancing at the same time.

You're an old soul, attached to notions that lived well before your time and people you'll only ever imagine. I am a silly, somewhat bumbling soul too, running back into time when others simply forge ahead.

All for a glorious memory of a memory.

Signing Out,
Old & Eccentric



After all the time she spent maintaining a countenance of goodness and calm, she realized that it was never worth the trouble.
After all the days she wished nothing but ill on those who had saddened her heart, she realized there was neither love nor glory to be found.
After all the times she tried to understand what was so special about other friendships, she realized the true value of the few yet perfect ones she had cultivated.
And finally, after all the times she'd wondered all this aloud, she realized that ultimately life does go on.

Signing Out,



I have to get specs.

Signing Out,