tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7956056503618850972024-03-12T15:35:35.352-07:00Therapy and TheatrePsychologist James Pennebaker once said that whatever the form, it's most helpful to mental healing when the words create a meaningful story. Such a story can move someone from the event, through insight and toward acceptance or a solution. "There has to be growth. There has to be change. Otherwise, it's not therapy. It's theatre."
Well, my blog is about both. It's my space, my vent. My catharsis. It helps me resolve. It helps me build chaos. This is where I am. With you.Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-56525033241590392022012-03-27T04:41:00.002-07:002012-03-27T05:01:09.701-07:00My 100th Post: I Open at the Close<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--cs32WvzdWU/T3GryEPXq8I/AAAAAAAAANw/0PwBBJoj-m0/s1600/hope.jpg"><img style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--cs32WvzdWU/T3GryEPXq8I/AAAAAAAAANw/0PwBBJoj-m0/s400/hope.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724545477984627650" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span >Early in the morning, when the alarm rings like a wheezing nun,</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >I wake up and hasten to hold on to my dream,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >There is a hope, that it was important.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >That I saw you.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >And I liked it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >When the fog sneaks up on me,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >When the door in my room creaks open, something threatens to wake me up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >This time, for real.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >I fast.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Food makes it worse.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >It’s almost as unforgivable as survival.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The race.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >When I walk down the road with my eyes downcast,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The occasional chirp of a bird and the lemony leaves above,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Breathe to me, and whisper,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >“Keep walking”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >I glance at my mobile,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span ><st1:place st="on">Battery</st1:place> low. Late o’ clock. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >“Faster. Faster!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Dad? Is that you?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The auto jerks the goosebump away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >I forgot your touch again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Lost in the cold winter breeze.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The auto swerves right.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Your smile. Your eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The ones that never reached me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >The ones I craved.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Craved.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >And craved some more.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Do you know why I crave crabmeat late on a Sunday night?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Do you know why I must taste octopus when no one else wants to?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Do you know why I must always crave?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >Because you don’t crave me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >And maybe, you never did. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >And because you don’t want to be loved.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span >You don’t want to be loved by me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-60254171183936660752012-01-17T21:46:00.001-08:002012-01-17T22:07:28.905-08:00The Price Is Right<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Barney, I think. Yeah.. Barney.. from "How I Met Your Mother" talked on and on about this show for consumers all over America who tried to win themselves fancy presents and trips by guessing the correct price of a product.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I often find myself guessing tax amounts nowadays. In my mind, the precise moment when the tax on a McDonald's Fillet-o-Fish makes the price edge over a hundred bucks.. is played out like a cartoon. I imagine Huckleberry Hound with a sad, droopy face pushing his sleigh up the tip of a snowy cone of a mountain and </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">barely</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> going over the edge with a gasp and an "Oh dear!". From then onwards, it's all downhill. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Menucards. Price tags. Overcoats that cost Rs. 2999.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Annoying, no?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Bring out the OCD in me. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">But a number helps. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Rarely has a waiter come over with a bill that made me cry. I have never asked that fellow with a red-capped poker-face to sit down and reconsider. I have never pleaded. We don't joke with waiters. We don't expect them to joke with us. There's something inhuman about it. Don't they do their work already because of all the waiting? </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I could never shut my ears to that stealthy breath that whispers ever so quietly, "Just tell me what to do."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">And then, one day, life sends you a bill for all the changes that you ordered. No numbers. But the payment can kill you with its authenticity. You wish life were a waiter that day. You wish you could say, "Please.. I am not carrying cash today. Can you send someone with me to nearest ATM?" or "I.. I never do this. I don't know why my card is blocked. Who on earth would block it? Am I not the protagonist here?" </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The decision is final. And the steel can hurt like hell. Nothing changes on that poker face. And you feel like a foolish mirror. Obeying. Yeah. The only thing worse than waiting. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">So many voices. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Please? Please don't take him away? Not him, please?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Anything! Anything in exchange."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"No! You know nothing. You're just a messenger! It's MY story. You're just the listener. You should just nod your head!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">You want to sit life down and embrace it. You want life to bring back </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">yourself </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">to you. What you used to be when you thought that's all you are. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Funny thing, though. You can't say no, not now. You've changed irreversibly. And you don't know how to turn it back. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">How many of us are still there? In the restaurant.. hugging the waiter. Pleading. Begging. Crying. </span><br /><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-68315993410631542242011-11-15T10:12:00.000-08:002011-11-15T10:28:14.595-08:00"Slowly sinking, wasting...crumbling like pastries"<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kN8rhlWxSJ0/TsKu7hcc2yI/AAAAAAAAANk/4PejtmaRrQ0/s1600/ed%2Bsheeran.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 96px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kN8rhlWxSJ0/TsKu7hcc2yI/AAAAAAAAANk/4PejtmaRrQ0/s400/ed%2Bsheeran.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675290818053462818" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You can't slap a tear and turn it into a smile.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >That eagle that casts a shadow on that tree that looks like a can of worms.. it doesn't mean a thing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >There's no one to go back to.<br />No friends.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >No family.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You can't erase that from reality, anyway. That you went back in order to be with them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >They used to have those sums in Maths back in school.. a bus/car/bicycle would travel far and wide and come back to the same point in some hypothetical joke which would light up those braces and the teething youth hiding behind them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Displacement = 0. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >That's not gonna happen if you can help it now, would it?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I used to sit like that.<br />My face in my palms. My eyes out of focus. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Blinking always helped. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Each time my eyes closed, it felt like the end of a tunnel. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The kohl helps. It doesn't let the tears roll over and take the leap. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Dilli Haat. That day when I just sat on the round whats-its-name beneath the tree and stunned myself. </span></div><div> </div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-67875725791893540852011-10-19T04:07:00.000-07:002011-10-19T04:19:43.434-07:00Shine<span class="Apple-style-span" >Stop shining.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >If you shine, I'll have to close my eyes. And I'll miss you. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >This image of you, burnt in my brain... this image.. it's fading.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Your face isn't yellow orange anymore.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >With every sweep of a broom outside... with every turn of the ceiling fan, with every note of Alexandre Desplat's music, I feel the unfeeling. The numbness in my eyes.. the tears that are lashing like angry waves against my brain.. the memories that are trying to shatter into smithereens.<br />Life becomes a pregnant pause when the music ends on YouTube and the only other sound in the room is my breath. I mistake it for disgust. It escapes me. If only I could, too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yesterday, therapy seemed too expensive... as if almost a luxury. Sadness... a hobby. Closure... an exercise, an amusement. Like drawing or pottery or woodwork. An activity. Something that gets you a remark. On days like those, you grow restless when you see young boys with red eyes, waiting in a hospital queue. You want to click photos and erase the redness on the computer. Paint. Photoshop. Whatever. Make it a pure black again.<br />Shining eyes.<br />With light trapped in them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Trapped. Yes.</span></div><div><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-58661577856718105772011-10-14T03:11:00.000-07:002011-10-14T03:20:18.474-07:00Mirror, Mirror on the Wall<span class="Apple-style-span" >Stop.<br />Don't you know I need to talk?<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Need to be?<br />Hello?<br />You sound... forget it..<br />No, don't.<br />At least, I don't want to be the one reminding you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Or maybe I do?<br />Hang on. Hang on a moment.<br />What's with the accent?<br />Are you.. are you mad at me?<br />I need to be near you. And I need to talk to myself while I talk to you.<br />Be still. How else will I talk?<br />I see myself. I see myself in you.<br />Funny how I never knew what it means. That you're like water, passing me by.<br />You're so much like the sea. And I'm so scared that if I breathe you in, I'll be all heavy.<br />And you won't let me go.<br />Do you promise you won't?</span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-54250670767974559162011-08-21T21:29:00.000-07:002011-08-21T21:47:33.947-07:00Waiting<span class="Apple-style-span" >What about the love between Voldemort and his horcruxes? Draco, Crabbe and Goyle? Can I write without remembering what I wrote?</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wish I could.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I bet I could.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >My soul shrinks and expands as I look all around myself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You bring me space and I bring you time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You bring me echoes.
<br />I'm just a wall.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >In a world, where people grow wings, I tell myself that I've grown roots. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I know you're waiting for me, like Death. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The very first time I saw you, I knew.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You and me.
<br />Hang on. :)</span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-25116502050362786472011-07-02T03:00:00.000-07:002011-07-02T03:05:37.215-07:00Why Do We Talk?<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You don't have answers to the questions I haven't asked you. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You don't have answers anyway.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But I do know one thing...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >If I cry "Bully!", you'll cry "Bystander!"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'll say I wanted to belong to you and your world.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You'll say I let you be, let you get away with all that you did. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I can't say yes. I can't say no. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Maybe I'm talking AT you. I was talking and you.. well you just happened to be there... you know what I mean?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Happens all the time. </span></div><div><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-88805560163328124362011-06-03T01:40:00.000-07:002011-06-03T02:15:21.045-07:00Glitterature<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MAQ9rP7uc2s/Teil30Po7_I/AAAAAAAAANc/iZNDGc0PLYI/s1600/Edward_Cullen_in_the_sunlight_by_sprite_peeves.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MAQ9rP7uc2s/Teil30Po7_I/AAAAAAAAANc/iZNDGc0PLYI/s400/Edward_Cullen_in_the_sunlight_by_sprite_peeves.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613919313852952562" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ten years of Potter are about to come to an end.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Some are old faithfuls, like the trio playing Harry, Ron and Hermione, of course. Some, like Robert Pattinson have moved on to.. er.. shinier prospects.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Over the past couple of weeks, the phenomenon of Potterphiles lashing out at Cullen's clan ("Toilet", Ed"Weird" and "Squid"ward being just a few examples) has seen a crescendo of emotions and true to hollywood background scores inside my head. Initially, I laughed at every poster that admonished Rob Pattz and his vampire state of mind. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >With time, however, I have begun to see the franchise as a series for breathless adolescents and sleepless fanged people. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >On the verge of turning indifferent, I decided to finally acknowledge it's presence in my life and treat it as a much-disliked but hard to miss chapter in my syllabus. (And yes, I still teach in a school). </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And this is what I would like to observe about shiny things in general, with some help from "How I Met Your Mother":</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The more I connect with people, the more they seem to shine. The more polished they seem to be. Squeaky clean. And I see myself reflected in them. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I am more of a matte finish girl. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Fish and women get attracted to shiny things, says Barney Stinson. I don't know about fish but I think I do because anything that's shiny is attractive because of the image of myself in it. Who doesn't love to look at themselves, right?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >As for Edward Cullen (aforementioned vampire), he shines like an engagement ring in sunlight. Not that he wants to. For the record, Edward also dislikes Jacob Black's perennial public display of brawn and is known to have reacted, poker-face, "Doesn't he own a shirt?" </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >P.S.: Jacob is also shiny, but probably that's just sweat. Sorry, not important. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-3063039688238720742011-05-25T04:36:00.000-07:002011-05-25T04:56:58.413-07:00I'm Too Young For This Shit<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UfMpipmOMWU/TdzucM5i1EI/AAAAAAAAANQ/a18neRoDzH4/s1600/mp-roger-murtaugh.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UfMpipmOMWU/TdzucM5i1EI/AAAAAAAAANQ/a18neRoDzH4/s400/mp-roger-murtaugh.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610621404063126594" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ted Mosby (of How I Met Your Mother) seems to believe in a list of all the stuff he thinks he's too old for. On the show, he and his friends call it The Murtaugh List, after the role Danny Glover played in the Lethal Weapon series.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Well I'm gonna go with stuff I don't understand. Transcending categories of "couldn't", "wouldn't" and "shouldn't", I'm just gonna settle for "don't".</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yes, I don't think I can understand this stuff. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >1. Words like Forever and Never.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >2. Definitions - like "friend", "relative", "love", "happiness", "success" etc.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >3. "Time". Beat it nerd. Go watch someone else bat their eyelids. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >4. People who say they "found" themselves. If they WERE hiding till now, what's to say they won't fall back again?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >5. The use of Comparatives and Superlatives. I don't think they'll ever come up with something like "Superlative Psychology". What's that again? "I'm the best and f*** the rest"? You're really gonna go with that?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >6. Answering "why?" satisfactorily. Can't be done. Trust me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >7. Trust. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >8. Me. </span></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-70299310619592181922011-05-23T06:44:00.000-07:002011-05-23T07:24:34.437-07:00Sustainable Development: Can Tata Photon help?<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0E-YwnvEdak/Tdpt93ZnFaI/AAAAAAAAANI/FLb52xMS5NE/s1600/riya.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0E-YwnvEdak/Tdpt93ZnFaI/AAAAAAAAANI/FLb52xMS5NE/s400/riya.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609917195454191010" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I didn't mean to be hesitant about naming this post. But I never really thought I would have such an official sounding post either.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The thing is, over the last couple of months or so, people around me can't stop talking about recycling. Reusable waste. Like? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >Nek Chand's Rock Garden in Chandigarh. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >Last year's hard-bound exercise books being piled onto the floor at the school where I teach.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >My grandfather's car, with its sensitive wipers raised like canine hackles when the rains come unannounced. Someone washes it everyday and gets paid for it. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Himalayan Village at Sonapani, an eco-friendly resort. Solar panels for sale at the small local shop on the way back to the Kathgodam Railway Station. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ravi Gulati, our fellow camper at Sonapani and co-founder of the NGO, Manzil, and his presentation titled "The Story of Stuff". </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >A sudden dearth of plastic bags all around me, except the khaarbooja waale bhaiya (fruit vendor) near my house. (Yes, I was happy he had a carry-bag.. so sue me.)</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >Endless Rituporno Ghosh Bong movies with names like Utsab (Festival), Noukadubi (Boatwreck), Abohomaan (The Flow) where someone or the other must face the herculean task of getting over a slowpoke and involve the audience in the long, arduous entrails of the entire process of "moving on". </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" >An ex-colleague, talking about my ex-company and x amounts of barley. Read beer. </span></li></ol><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >But that's not the point now, is it? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The point is, I desire of becoming a person who has no emotional excesses and simply moves around randomly like a gas molecule. It strikes me as odd now that scenes from movies that my parents called classics seldom have the impact on me that they promised. It strikes me as odd that when I talk to someone who once held a special place in my heart, unknown to myself, I skip details and forget to mention events which I cannot deny to be important in my life. I remember them the moment I hang up. And yet, something tells me that I hadn't forgotten in the first place and that it was simply, a well organised conversation. Nothing I would regret later. No loose ends. No way back? Maybe.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Now I call that cleaning up my act. I will allow myself a moment's envy of my cousins who have a full-fledged flaming episode of OCD that they can recognise and report. Washing helps. Cleaning my clothes, my room, my floor. Realising that I have far too many blacks in my wardrobe and wearing yellow to work with perfect nonchalance. Relying on melons for dinner. A colourful shirt for a dazzling summer. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Knowing that I can provoke without regret. I can offer myself for company without letting my passive-aggressive tendencies take over. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I can sustain this. I can turn the page. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Somewhere, something I read in Linda Goodman's description of the Capricorn woman comes back and haunts me. Apparently, this woman can look into the eyes of a frog and see a beautiful prince instead. Funny how Ms. Goodman skipped the steps that led her to this. Like Annie Lennox sings.. there's an open door in my room.. and it didn't just get there by itself. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You know?</span></div><div> </div></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-10351795138962565402011-05-16T08:23:00.000-07:002011-05-16T08:34:58.096-07:00Summertime..and the Living is Easy..<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_iQUUqoh9us/TdFD9Ir844I/AAAAAAAAANA/amYd68edg0E/s1600/Eyes%2Bon%2BFire.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_iQUUqoh9us/TdFD9Ir844I/AAAAAAAAANA/amYd68edg0E/s400/Eyes%2Bon%2BFire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607337728635888514" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This Summer, they should know about this flame inside. This gigantic tongue of fire inside that destroys what it tastes. You should make it run. Make it chase something. Watch as it spreads in a circle and dances like the devil. You should watch when it takes over. Applaud. This fire chases the good in me. It chases all that is happy, contented. My memories run like refugees, spilling the past over in small threads and crumbles. The fugitive prays for the rain. I don’t have the rain in me yet. You see the skin running dry, droughtlike. Nothing works on that parched terrain.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fire reigns inside. This is the fire I inherited. And I need the slimy and the unctuous. To survive. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Why would you put it out? Something so primal. So bright. Let it flee. Create a burning desire and then destroy it the moment it takes shape. Let it scorch the vessels you so lovingly build with your earth and your water. Let it burn. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was born of fire. The light. The chaos. The screams for mercy. The heat of emotions. I couldn’t last in a suit. I couldn’t behave myself. Because I couldn’t fight the fire even if you forced me to. Fire smells like home.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-75290289359940565752011-04-19T02:19:00.000-07:002011-04-19T02:36:31.153-07:00Hanging Up<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lGxZMLQePm4/Ta1XgmZR_ZI/AAAAAAAAAM4/aD_j9zSOVt4/s1600/bored_goat_by_smilingdragon-d34tmxi.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lGxZMLQePm4/Ta1XgmZR_ZI/AAAAAAAAAM4/aD_j9zSOVt4/s400/bored_goat_by_smilingdragon-d34tmxi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597226129465408914" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I don't know why the title makes me think of scenes from disaster movies like 2012 and Vertical Limit. Jerking spiders with crooked legs, dangling off threads of silk. And for some reason, a doe-eyed student with thin, Voldemort-like fingers. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >What do I say to that? The dry spell is inexplicable. And anyway, I find myself explaining too much these days. My address, my career, my weight, my food habits, my generation, my hairstyle, my wardrobe, my silence, somebody else's words, my absence, my affinity towards my neighbours, my fevers, my redness, my blacks, my lights, my journeys, my Facebook status messages, my irregularities, my strangeness, my familiarities. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My need to stop.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My need NOT to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >All in the name of impact. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And this, when I'm in between two trips to the same place. Sonapani.. one. Sonapani.. two. Someone's counting the milestones on my road to boredom. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A brief spurt of activity inside. Me with my curls. Twists and turns. Poker-faced, I do my job. I make meaning, even with my eyes closed. Dreaming. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >People. People. People. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Is that all there is to it?</span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-43723867187005684242011-02-05T22:04:00.000-08:002011-02-05T23:01:43.377-08:00Why Love is Blind<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A professor once told me that there are two ways in which you can interview someone.. as a miner digging deep in search of facts and truths and lies and as a traveller, floating by, in search of a story.. nothing else. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I used to think there's a bifurcation possible; that one can be either of the two and that one MUST choose.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But I think it's really 'me' vs. 'everyone else' now. When I tell my own story, I flow. I create. I remember what I need to and want to and forget all the rest. I travel without a map or a planner. I travel for the sake of travelling, illuminating each and every corner of my being. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But when I listen to another, I feel like I'm stretching. I don't know that topography. I don't know the weather there. And I want to be safe. So I ask questions that have 'right' and 'wrong' answers. In other words, I find excuses for not travelling. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm both a miner and a traveller. What you bring out in me depends on how I see you, therefore. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's a bit like the Sun and the Moon really. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >At night, you don't mind travelling to the realms of the impossible. Dreaming. Believing. Taking leaps of faith. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But it's daylight that exhausts you. You open your eyes. You begin to see the loopholes. The crevices. The obstacles. The 'not-worth-it's. Suddenly, everything has a name. They catch you red-handed because the light shines and they KNOW it's you.. they KNOW it's red. And they THINK they know what it means. Yes, memories of the night hiss below the surface as they let the past interfere with the present. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >What would you not do to be sure?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Maybe. Perhaps. Wonderful, wonderful words. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Why do you want to see everything? What about the sense of touch? Why can't you feel? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-44450124879742353052011-02-05T03:06:00.000-08:002011-02-05T03:32:23.057-08:00What If God Were One Of Us?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TU007a8xzXI/AAAAAAAAAMw/P_c6zHE-g3A/s1600/Jesse%2BOwens.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 360px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TU007a8xzXI/AAAAAAAAAMw/P_c6zHE-g3A/s400/Jesse%2BOwens.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570166509578341746" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They named her after Durga, the Goddess with ten hands and a reputation that makes her uniquely Bong, or so I believe.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >There's something distinctly hazel about how she makes me feel as I walk into the classroom. It's a bit like her hair and her eyes could very well have been black, but she holds them back.. so much so that they fade to brown. Uncertain whether to declare themselves.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Her earrings make me nervous. Rings, that remind me of my childhood.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Thin rings of gold which glitter in the afternoon sun and threaten with how pure she claims to be. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I used to think she's stuffy and organised to a fault. I used to wish she left her seat more, danced more, ran and never stopped. That was before I came to know about the divorce. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Blink and miss. A quiet end to her surname on those immaculate, laminated brown paper covers. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I could think that it's rude of her to sternly push away a classmate who wanted to ask me a question (about how Sports transformed Jesse Owens' life).. just because <i>she</i> had got to me first. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I could scold her or make a moral out of the episode and bore her to death. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I chose to laugh instead. So that I'm with her, on her wavelength.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And so that she laughs too. </span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-40987677813240327782011-01-20T04:05:00.000-08:002011-01-20T04:40:05.210-08:00Man. Machine. Madness.<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >When a book costs you less than 50 rupees, you better believe that it's a classic. And a portal through time missed by the bungee-jumping yahoos all around you, ironically. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The other day I picked up 3 beauties inside the campus:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >1. "Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy" by David D. Burns, M.D. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >2. "The Perfect Vehicle: What is it about Motorcycles?" by Melissa Holbrook Pierson</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >3. "Theory Z: How American Business can meet The Japanese Challenge" by William G. Ouchi</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Walking back home, three words cropped up in my consciousness as I trudged along, panting. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Man. Machine. Madness." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I liked their rhythm. They compensated the lack of soundtrack music quite well. And for a moment I forgave Hans Zimmer for not winning a Golden Globe this year for Inception in the "original score" category, despite tracks like "Time".</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But that's not the point. 3 books. 3 words. Which is which? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You'd think I wouldn't begin reading if this wasn't sorted out. :) </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Strange how my fingers solved it for me. It doesn't get better than Motorcycles. Because, like the author says, if you're travelling at that speed on a Motorcycle, you want to be seen. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-28164143849439930742011-01-15T21:55:00.000-08:002011-01-15T22:05:30.726-08:00Celebrating Darkness<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A travelling womb. Hysteria. The fear that this thing between you and me is a mirror. Acquiring. Losing. Sending messages to a mobile phone that chooses to be switched off. Hiding when people aren't seeking you. Trying to find words that hack away at this silence all around us and within us. Two stories. Intertwined. Parallel. The snail and the bird. A patchwork. Tomorrow, the colours might change their names. Their significance. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Over and over and over again. Let it burn out. </span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-42136874360052324402011-01-06T05:08:00.000-08:002011-01-06T05:31:12.454-08:00Bum Buttery Flit Fluttery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSXD5rRJrPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/WGuiRH_FUgI/s1600/ukulele-wahine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 339px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSXD5rRJrPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/WGuiRH_FUgI/s400/ukulele-wahine.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559064710693367026" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Seriously. I mean there's apparently something known as "The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain." I don't think the ukulele is a British instrument. Or maybe the name isn't British but the instrument is masquerading in Britain as something else.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Anyway, it's not bad when you play Greek stuff on it. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Youtube throws up a track called "Misirlou" when you run a search. Apparently it's good for a Jewish wedding as well as for belly dancing. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >(Although I think my ears are hot mainly because of the untimely white rum. French Toast in white rum. Not a bad prescription when the mercury jammed at 3.7 and dipped no further. Uncomfortably, uncomfortably numb.) </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You know I finally figured out why I don't like getting photographed. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'd much rather be a bird in the "loverly spring" and fly away. Not a parachute that has to float down. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A photograph doesn't let you travel. Or scratch your itch. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-72554511457645558692011-01-05T05:32:00.000-08:002011-01-05T05:58:39.152-08:00Did I Hide Too Well?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSR42r6qItI/AAAAAAAAAMc/cLznWqnLSZ4/s1600/mark%2Band%2Bcallie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSR42r6qItI/AAAAAAAAAMc/cLznWqnLSZ4/s400/mark%2Band%2Bcallie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558700720979059410" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Nokia Xpressmusic Mobile Handset jars my senses. I am blocking friends on Facebook. I'm too scared to close my eyes. Feelings lurk behind the paintings in art galleries. They don't speak to me any more. I have been pretending that I have Writer's Block. Everytime my mobile stirs, I hold my breath. I don't want to walk. I don't want to climb. I don't want to shout. I can barely speak.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I don't want to go to a gym anymore. I got my hair straightened. I can cook you a meal. My hands are soft again.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm a girl. I'm a girl. I'm a girl.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I can learn.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I can try.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >You can teach me.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'll watch you play. I just asked the score. That's all.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'll hold on. I'll work on the brakes. I'll smile, not just inside. I promise to bleed when you cut me. I lent you my silence. Please don't give it back. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We're neighbours. In my mind.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm sorry I closed the door.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm sorry. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We were like Mark and Callie, remember? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-11110756052493999452011-01-04T07:33:00.000-08:002011-01-04T07:51:37.751-08:00Hunting. Gathering.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSNA5aF1xKI/AAAAAAAAAMU/LMz0gwTyors/s1600/black%2Bpepper%2Btuna.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSNA5aF1xKI/AAAAAAAAAMU/LMz0gwTyors/s400/black%2Bpepper%2Btuna.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558357720105862306" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Can I put that in my CV? "I hunt and I gather"? Doesn't it show androgyny at work or something? (My birthchart says I have equal masculine and feminine influences anyway).</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Or should it be in my Facebook status...somewhere...someday...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The other thing is I tried incorporating "purr" into the words to make it sound like a feline fetish but I got nothing. Made a couple of sandwiches. A lazy lunch as the mercury continues to drop. A cup of "Lean Tea" went quite well with it.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh and you don't need a can opener. </span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-14196499452061894402011-01-02T05:22:00.000-08:002011-01-04T07:21:31.999-08:00It Was The Song, Wasn't It?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSM6eQ1KsKI/AAAAAAAAAMM/ROHZ6g2RPtM/s1600/Sample04.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TSM6eQ1KsKI/AAAAAAAAAMM/ROHZ6g2RPtM/s400/Sample04.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558350656693776546" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It all started when I walked into the turkey being chopped. I managed to glide out without letting the emotion spill over, but when I returned, I saw birdfeet and birdnails - teeny tiny ones. Strewn on the kitchen floor - almost like <i>my own nails</i> - after one of my hasty encounters with the nailcutter. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I pushed it back.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But a couple of nights ago, when I was at this Winter Jazz Fest at the India Habitat Centre, listening to a Cinematic Jazz track named "Losing Control" from the movie named "Ratatouille", I kept thinking of a sickle or a kitchen knife, making sudden contact with my knuckles, my fingers, my skin. Hacking at me. Continuously. It didn't help when I dug my fingers deep into the recesses of my overcoat pockets. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh God I don't think I can continue this. </span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-20897098892821924842010-12-04T20:40:00.000-08:002010-12-04T21:37:42.606-08:00A Stitch In Time...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TPsk9KketZI/AAAAAAAAAMA/SGxCmQZI5zI/s1600/hermione%2Braised%2Bhand.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TPsk9KketZI/AAAAAAAAAMA/SGxCmQZI5zI/s400/hermione%2Braised%2Bhand.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547067999264880018" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've been scrolling up and down. Feeling like my fingers are hovering over the concluding paragraph of a curious tale.. just like the golden snitch.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've been 15 for a while now. Sometimes, that was too old. Sometimes, not old enough. I'm teaching people how to be... well, how to BE. I'm cautious..lest they turn into me. (It's so easy to BECOME. The rise of street theatre makes me panic. Deception is everywhere. The stage is all around me now. Who controls the make-up guy?) </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Unbelievable. I just fooled myself into dreaming up an apocalypse. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I chant his name sometimes, like a sigh, like a gasp when I roll my eyes. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I believe I came back to school because my childhood has hurt me.. my school didn't see me.. and I've been denied my album of happy memories. This was part of the plan. </span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-6256367840514515962010-11-15T05:42:00.000-08:002010-11-15T06:08:10.014-08:00Paawani<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TOE9xRVDNyI/AAAAAAAAAL4/l1yq795GjM8/s1600/blog%2BDiary%2Bof%2Ba%2BWimpy%2BKid.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TOE9xRVDNyI/AAAAAAAAAL4/l1yq795GjM8/s400/blog%2BDiary%2Bof%2Ba%2BWimpy%2BKid.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539776933316998946" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Some days... you don't need to think of a title for your blog. The images give your memory a gentle nudge and you comply.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Paawani Trivedi is a Seventh Grade student. Well she's more than that. Paawani is literally the pure one. She is that flickering tongue of bonfire that sometimes leaps majestically in air and mesmerises us. Somewhere beyond her dreamy eyes, there is a warmth that draws close to me when I cross the threshold and enter the room. She glides and conjures many a charm bubble. They aren't gaudy, bejewelled ones. They are all faintly yellow, glowing dimly like the gentle, benign truth. We don't talk much. We don't need to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The totem?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Well it started months ago when I read the first in the series of "The Diary of a Wimpy Kid". I liked it and asked for the sequel. It wasn't with her and I prepared myself for a long wait. Holidays came and went. A new term began. Somewhere, like every relationship, the insecurities crept into the one that I shared with them. I realised that I'm not new anymore. What if they got bored and didn't love me?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Why did they shout in class one day and why did I leave, broken and hollow? What snapped? I don't know. It felt like a break-up. They apologised, got punished and doodled for me. They wanted to be forgiven. I wasn't even sure they knew what they had done.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But the day I came back, there she stood with the sequel in her hand. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Some days ago, I missed out on classes for 3 days in a row. I wasn't well. I was depressed. And very, very preoccupied. When I came back, there she was again. Book in hand. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I took it this time. It's more than just a book. It's her secret... and it has healing powers.</span></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-87910072024269231222010-10-21T05:47:00.000-07:002010-10-21T05:58:57.679-07:00The Gold Rush<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TMA4QDt9mxI/AAAAAAAAALw/-cHW-7Lh310/s1600/blog+Nilgai.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 351px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TMA4QDt9mxI/AAAAAAAAALw/-cHW-7Lh310/s400/blog+Nilgai.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530482190938118930" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So I was a little depressed because I missed out on watching Chaplin's "The Gold Rush" at the India Habitat Centre today. But when I went out for a walk... lo and behold! There he was... the Nilgai! The Nilgai isn't a "blue cow" is it? Don't know. The JNU Campus does boast a lot about its flora and fauna...and this one, right here, ambled across the road and into the bushes as a scooter, a cycle and I came to a halt, adjusting our pace to his. They said he's a loner. Doesn't come in your way if you let him be. Not a bad companion when you have a cup of hot ginger tea to get through and a parent-teacher's meeting the next day to worry about. Are there any proverbs that say anything about Nilgai sightings bringing you luck? There should be.</span></div><div><div><br /></div></div>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-81539601810183755492010-10-19T09:37:00.000-07:002010-10-19T09:44:39.387-07:00The Great Depression<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TL3KabexesI/AAAAAAAAALo/Bz1t7XpXyjU/s1600/blog+Paulette+Goddard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TL3KabexesI/AAAAAAAAALo/Bz1t7XpXyjU/s400/blog+Paulette+Goddard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529798472883075778" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Tonight, it was Chaplin's "Modern Times" at the India Habitat Centre and the turn of the gamine, Ellen Peterson, played by Paulette Goddard.</span></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Paulette Goddard</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" > (June 3, 1910 – April 23, 1990) was an American </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Film" title="Film" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >film</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theatre" title="Theatre" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >theatre</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > actress. A former child </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Model_(person)" title="Model (person)" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >fashion model</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > and in several </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Broadway_theatre" title="Broadway theatre" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Broadway</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > productions as </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ziegfeld_Follies" title="Ziegfeld Follies" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ziegfeld Girl</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >, she was a major star of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paramount_Studio" title="Paramount Studio" class="mw-redirect" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Paramount Studio</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > in the 1940s. She was married to several notable men, including </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Chaplin" title="Charlie Chaplin" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Charlie Chaplin</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burgess_Meredith" title="Burgess Meredith" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Burgess Meredith</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erich_Maria_Remarque" title="Erich Maria Remarque" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Erich Maria Remarque</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >. Goddard was nominated for an </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Academy_Award_for_Best_Supporting_Actress" title="Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > for her performance in </span><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/So_Proudly_We_Hail!" title="So Proudly We Hail!" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >So Proudly We Hail!</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" > (1943).</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I don't like her. At all. Must be the unbearable lightness of being. Flaky, fickle, feisty, frivolous, pseudofeminine air sign.</span></span></div></b></span>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-795605650361885097.post-59081509037275658472010-10-19T03:12:00.000-07:002010-10-19T03:25:07.492-07:00"Yes, I Can See Now"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TL1xQrSgHPI/AAAAAAAAALg/5f6JQ35siJo/s1600/blog+Virginia+Cherrill.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HEbX7CQ711M/TL1xQrSgHPI/AAAAAAAAALg/5f6JQ35siJo/s400/blog+Virginia+Cherrill.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529700448793009394" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; "><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0.4em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><b>I<span class="Apple-style-span" > saw her last night at the India Habitat Centre. Not in person. In the movie "City Lights". I liked her there so I ran a Google search on her and this is what Wikipedia had to say, among other things...</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0.4em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Virginia Cherrill</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" > (April 12, 1908 - November 14, 1996) was an </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States" title="United States" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >American</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > actress best known for her role as the blind flower girl in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Chaplin" title="Charlie Chaplin" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Charlie Chaplin</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >'s </span><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_Lights" title="City Lights" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >City Lights</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" > (1931). Due to marrying an English earl in the 1940s, she is also known as </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Virginia Child-Villiers, Countess of Jersey</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" >.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0.4em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Virginia Cherrill was born on a farm in rural </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carthage,_Illinois" title="Carthage, Illinois" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Carthage</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illinois" title="Illinois" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Illinois</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >, to James E. and Blanche (</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" >née</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" > Wilcox) Cherrill. She was a Chicago society girl with no thoughts of a film career when she went to Hollywood for a visit and met </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Chaplin" title="Charlie Chaplin" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Charlie Chaplin</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > when he sat next to her at a boxing match. He had failed to find the girl he wanted for his film but decided she would do and cast her in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" >City Lights</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" > in which she gave the performance for which she is remembered, although her working relationship with Chaplin on the film was often strained. As indicated in the documentary </span><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unknown_Chaplin" title="Unknown Chaplin" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Unknown Chaplin</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" >, Cherrill was in fact fired from the film at one point and Chaplin planned to refilm all her scenes with </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgia_Hale" title="Georgia Hale" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Georgia Hale</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" >, but ultimately realized too much money had already been spent on the picture; as Cherrill recalls in the documentary, close friend </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marion_Davies" title="Marion Davies" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Marion Davies</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" > suggested Cherrill hold out for more money when Chaplin asked her to return to the film, and she did."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0.4em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There's a point in the movie at which Chaplin steals some money so that the girl can pay her rent and get her eyes operated on. When she eventually gets her eyesight back and recognizes Chaplin as her benefactor, she says, to an apprehensive Chaplin, "Yes, I Can See Now". Reading about her real life relationship with Chaplin, I felt so deflated. I don't know if they really had a strained relationship or if this helps in some way to heighten the curiosity about their chemistry. Does reading about it help me conclude that she looks bad-tempered in the photograph above? Is it the reason I chose this snap of hers from all the others on the internet? </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0.4em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p></span>Full of Nargleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06029982311483538646noreply@blogger.com0