Of Childhood.

Yes, it is that time of the year again, when I reflect on ‘the life and times of’- yours truly. As the years pass by one thing is clear; present is always the toughest. The past seems a lot easier looking back. And presently you are thinking, “well the future is bound to be easy because your working so hard for it to be that way…”. Put yourself in your younger self’s shoes and all of your new found wisdom will tell you, “…this isn’t tough, wait till you see what the future holds!” So twisted, isn’t it?

Sigh.

At the end of the day you selectively modify and sort your memory. Make the good times happier,  the bad ones a lot less sad and omit the sad ones altogether. So that one day when you look back, the hazy past buffers you from the ever-so-testing present and the scary uncertainties of the future.

Although present is such a bitch, we all still find a way to keep us going… and it’s not just the thoughts of a better future… it is our ability to go to the child we all hold inside (I mean relying solely on the  future is a pretty dodgy strategy). The child helps forget rationality and loose our self for that moment in carefree and liberated existence. It is that innocence that keeps me going, it gives me the courage to face the present in it’s true colours and helps me dream of a fantastic future.

Life would be a cotton candy if I never grew up!

One Fine Day…

I make LONG journeys to and from work (two hours each way). At first the journey seemed interesting- the English countryside looked immensely beautiful… and then began the horrid winters and with it began my horror journeys. By then I literally knew every tree en route to work. It does not take a long time for things to get mundane and become annoyingly boring-the crying children on the bus, the musty smelling old people, the loud music playing young people… it was all too much to take. But this is not a crib-fest blogpost.

Today on my way to work I was noticing things that I had never seen before… definitely not on this everyday trip anyway. Countryside spotted with white sheep is just as common as the birds and the bees. Today along side all the usual sights were more delightful ones; I saw a deer wandering about in a field, saw rabbits scampering about for food, saw bushes covered with tiny white flowers, saw neatly cut haystacks lying picturesque in a field.

All this wonderfulness made me feel warm and romantic, more importantly it made my daily horrors vanish away.

One fine day…

Paris, je t’aime…

I had A LOT of expectations from Paris… as far back as I can remember I’ve always wanted to be there, and here was my chance to be there with all the beauty that is Paris. Paris, I’ve discovered is everything everyone says it is… and it is so much more that no one can say in so many, in any words really. All the romanticism that surrounds Paris is so rightly justified… It’s the romance in the air, in the art, in the streets, in the food, in the language, and in all the sights that surround and fill you up with a sense of glamour and grandiosity.

One look at Tour Eiffel from the Jardin du Trocadero (at any time of the day/night) left me breathless and in utter and complete awe; the first time I stood at the Jardin des Tuileres and saw the lit up and glittering Champs-Elysees straight to the Arc de Triomphe; the first time I stepped into Louvre or the Palais de Versailles; the sheer sight of this glorious city from the steps outside Sacre Coeur; walking along Seine… I felt overwhelmed by it all.

All my time there I felt consumed by everything I saw, every French word I heard, every French sentence I tried to construct, every French sign I read, every cafe with tiny chairs and tinier tables reminded me of what I expected of Paris and it delivered to the T. With H by my side I always knew Paris was going to be gorgeous!

It’s been the hardest thing to shake off Paris’ charm! Cannot wait to go back and do all the things I missed doing this time around… Paris, je t’aime!

Of Quirky England! #1

England is where cricket was born and football is worshipped. India, I confess I do not know what sport was born here, probably chess (?), but cricket is most definitely an addition to our many Gods. As a highly skilled migrant from India, cricket jargon came with the crib, I had no say in the matter whatsoever, you see, but football, well, not so much. Now that I have established how I met MANY cricket fanatics, football fanatics was a first for me when I landed here.

It is easy to spot a football freak in England. It is still easier to find if there is a match going on at a stadium near you. A clear indication of whether there is a Hull City match at KC Stadium (or anywhere else for that matter) is the bee-like appearance of old and young, yellow and black striped T-shirts swarming the city pubs. And while all these bees sit in front of a beaming light-box (more like light-planks, now that all pubs have super-sized flat screen televisions), sipping frothy, fermented nectar from pint-glasses – frankly, it felt odd walking in the opposite direction away from the bustle and into the arcades, where shops were getting progressively emptier as the match got increasingly interesting! Good for me!

What made me ponder over this apis phenonmenon was the difference I noticed in the sports watchers’ cultures. In India, streets clear out as people head home hoping to watch the Indian cricket team win the day’s match, for a change. While India headed home, England came on to the streets into the pubs in support of an equally appalling football side.

P.S.: A disclaimer is in order, I do not watch sports obsessively, I would not watch it all if there was a film (any film) on television. I know what you are thinking, I’m not judging anyone and you shouldn’t either!

Of THE Anniversary.

Dedicated to the H!

Rascal Flatts – This Everyday Love
Keith Urban – Better Half
Kelly Clarkson – My Life Would Suck Without You
Keith Urban – Making Memories of Us
Carrie Underwood – That’s Where It Is
Plain White T’s – 1,2,3,4

Love…

Of Death.

Death. Whether it is the death of a dear-one, death of a neighbour, death on the daily news or your own death; it is one definite certainty that defies all uncertainties life unrelentingly presents. It is as much someone’s fault as the earthquakes. I vaguely remember reading somewhere; “Death is not the end of life, it is a part of it”. Death remains; within or without life. Death is a reminder of existence or the lack there of, I am not entirely sure where I stand on the issue. It is one median we are offered which casts aside all barriers of human creation. Death does not stop life nor does it begin one. All it does is, probably, define nothingness and singularity.

“By living our lives, we nurture death. It is only one of the truths we have to learn in this lifetime, but no truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure the sorrow of losing a loved-one. All we can do is see the sorrow through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sadness that comes to us without warning.”

Of Poetry.

Unfortunately I cannot find the video I mentioned in the previous post, but here are the lyrics.

Take That – Said It All.

When the tears fall away
And there’s no conversation
There’s nothing left to break
That’s not already broken
You’re staring into space
And every inch of silence
Been standing here for days and days

In the sudden light of day
The weight of expectation
Hurt begins to fade
As you find a new direction
Been talking here for days and days and days

All of the miles of words we’ve spoken
All of the lines that got away
Didn’t we take the time to say them all?

Said it all
Nothing to say at all
Nothing to say that matters
Haven`t we heard enough?

Said it all
Nothing to say at all
Nothing to say that matters
Haven`t we said it all?

The lyrics are awfully profound, don’t you think? The video is great too (if you find it anywhere, or there is always the rare chance you catch it on the tele).

Of Landmarks (?).

The run up to the weekend is going to be highly emotional and extremely reflective. It is as if I am clinging onto every last bit of it before everything ‘young’ loses complete tangibilty. I have become very sensitive to every little change that asserts itself upon me declaring the imminent arrival of the landmarking moment in my silly little life.

Things that ordinarily would mean nothing, suddenly have grave importance. For example, I got worked up about cutting pineapples. I have lived independently for a while, as in not just breathing and eating and brushing my teeth on my own, but cooking up storms, cleaning loos and doing grown-up things by myself. Even so, there were certain things that only Mumma did for me. Insignificant things really, but they were always done by Mumma (for no particular reason) and doing any of those things by myself, now, means losing that partial dependence on my childhood forever. Today was my first time cutting pineapple, and as silly as that may sound, I felt like I lost a big chunk of my carefree childishness. I want to hold on tight to my child-likeness, the problem though is that I am clutching the life out of it. Should I let it slip away easily or hold on to whatever I can? There is always that dilemma.

Completely unrelated and yet this a result of my upcoming BIG weekend… I was watching this new video with clowns in it, and although clowns never really struck any chord with me ever before, I felt incredibly sad watching them. Clowns never made me rofl, but this experience of feeling sorrow was a first. Maybe it was the song, maybe it was their faces, but I realized how plastering paint can hide a ton of sadness, how much it can mask away into anonymity.

Amongst other things that are affecting my disposition, here is a quote so appropriate, it makes me wince every time I read it:

“Time’s running out to do something bizzare. Sometime around 25, bizzare becomes…immature” ~ Bridget Fonda, Singles

Of Reflections And Revelations.

I look at the mirror hoping I could look into it, because all I can see on the surface is pother of a human being. Maybe it’s best that I don’t look inside and find a person who is becoming disgruntled and obsessively turning into a taciturn. Is that shying away from the reality? No. It’s choosing to carry on and amending things on the way rather than getting stuck on the same inanity every, single day. It is a task to get through one day at a time. I hate it when people like to live their lives as it comes; one day at a time. It drives me insane. Probably it’s the simplest thing to do therefore making it impossible for me to fathom.

The more I think about where I am in life and what I am doing, an image comes to mind. And it haunts me. It vexes me. And the more I analyze it the more apt it gets. I feel like a donkey slogging after a dangling carrot; a pejorative life in the making. Sadly, I have come to a point where the carrot doesn’t look enticing enough and I still have to slog after it. Blah!

Now I want a carrot cake when it seems I don’t deserve the carrot in the first instance! Blah!

Of Shortest Stories.

I am currently experimenting with writing short stories. I am no good at writing anything beyond 5 pages in a Word document, so I looked around if anyone wrote stories shorter than mine. To much delight, I found one page stories and then I began thinking if shorter stories could be told? Maybe in one line of a page?! I tried my hand at a few and these two here, are my favourites…

Story 1:

He saw. He ran. He was shot.

Story 2:

Alone again. He died inside her.

What I absolutely loved about writing these one line stories was they were open to interpretations; to each his own. It is entirely up to your imagination what you want to make of the situation in the story, how you want to visualize it, in what light you want to see it; what you read in the story is only for you. I have more reasons to be fond of these one-line stories… the prequel and sequel takes care of itself in the unsaid. It is structurally abstract.

I thought it was a great experiment to exercise for those writing cells. Do you have any one line stories? Let me know…