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Sunday, July 26, 2015

Of Life & Passion



It’s been a weird week, and an even weirder weekend. And not even the good kind of weird. I spent the week feeling sick, and the weekend in bed, literally sleeping more than 16 of my last 24 hours. Something just doesn’t seem right y’all.

And the time that I am awake, has been spent in a stupor of a crazy headache, along with that annoying thing of randomly hearing my heartbeat in my head. Oh ya, that’s a thing now. I’ll go into THAT some other time.

But the reason the stupor doesn’t seem to be lifting is because there are a gazillion questions which are buzzing around in my head. You know the kind that haunted us during our quarter life crisis? But I’m supposed to be way past that damned landmark crisis by now.

So what the hell, head?!

What are you passionate about?

It’s one of those questions that has haunted me my entire life, I now feel. It’s been asked by some very close people. One had actually said to me, the fact that there is nothing that I am so passionate about, that I would care enough to be weighed down by, means I have nothing to hold on to, and no reason to stay. And that’s scary.

Heck, it even led to a tattoo one day.

But the simple fact is, what are you passionate about?!

People swear by soccer, by cooking, music, or dance, things they can escape to, things they escape for.

Sure, I love a lot of things, but not all the time, not all day.
Even my blog is about anything and everything all the time. I can’t think of a better representation of my life than that!

But does that make me completely disconnected and abnormal, or just like every second person, so completely normal?

And I’m not sure which answer, is worse.


So tell me, what are you passionate about?


Sunday, May 10, 2015

A Minute


She tapped her feet impatiently, and looked at the clock. Time, was of essence. Precision, even more so. Their life worked like clockwork, day after day. Routine was their source of comfort. Obsession, people called it. Attention to detail, to time.

But then she found out, what she wasn’t supposed to. About the other woman. His other life. And chaos seeped in.

She looked at the clock. One minute to seven.

A minute.

That’s all that was left to her plan.
In a minute, he would walk in, as he did every day.
In a minute, he would find her lying on the floor, in a pool of her blood.
Semi-conscious, ideally.

He would run to their medical box, kept in the cupboard in the study. It was well stocked with all the necessary items, of that, she had made sure. His surgical skills would kick in, and he would be working on her wrists, even as he dialed for help.

With clammy hands, she looked at the clock, as the minute hand silently slid into place.
The knife she held in her right hand worked with surgical precision, and with one sharp movement, she cried out, looking down at the crimson trail now forming down her arm.

She smiled, as she heard the click of the door, and footsteps. He would be reminded of where his heart truly lay, and would finally leave her. And come back home.

Downstairs, he entered their living room, and paused.

Did he leave the light in his office on? Or did he switch it off?

Cursing under his breath, he turned and headed towards his car, knowing he wouldn’t sleep a minute that night otherwise.

“Stupid minute details!”

This post is part of the A Word A Week Challenge.(Week 2: Minute)

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Again.




She woke up with a start, in exactly the same way she had each night recently. 

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she became faintly aware of a sticky weight on her waist. And then she felt it, the rough hand resting against her skin, the owner blissfully asleep, unaware of the torment building at his touch. She gingerly lifted his arm and slipped out from under it. Grabbing her dress off the floor, she quickly tip toed out of the unknown room, making sure not to turn and see his face. 
Another day. 
Another man. 
Another instance of clouded judgment.
Taking a deep breath, she walked out into the starry night.



This post is part of the A Word A Week Challenge.(Week 1: Cloud)

Monday, April 27, 2015

A Word A Week

So it's Monday, and it's time to give out the word for the week! But being the generous awesome person that I am (Ya, I know, totally awesome Monday mood I'm in), I'm giving out all the words for the month. So go ahead and plan and do whatever you want with them!

Happy Creating People!!!!


P.S., If you have no clue what I'm talking about, suggest reading this, and the rules given below:


Thursday, April 23, 2015

It's Challenge Time!!!!

So this has to be one of my laziest and most un-creative (is that even a word?!) patches ever! It has been forever since I’ve written, or felt like writing anything. And while it’s so easy to blame all the duties of life post marriage for lack of time, the simple fact is, me being the lazy person that I am, barely have any of these duties, and have an amazing hubby who does more than his share. And his share includes comforting me after I reach home drenched in sweat cursing the Mumbai gods and traffic and distance and everything under the sun.

So I decided it’s time to do something about this lazy patch. This blog has been my life for way too long to give up on it so easily. So here’s what I plan to do. I’m starting two challenges. Challenges for myself, and challenges for any of you who choose to indulge and jump in on them. I’ll make it fun, I promise!

Challenge 1: A Word A Week



This isn’t anything new, and I was inspired largely by FatMumSlim’s A Photo A Day challenge. So this is how it works:
  • Every month I’ll make a list of random words, one for every week of the month.
  • The challenge starts with a new word every dreary Monday morning.
  • And then you have a week to do whatever you want with that word. A blog, a story, a musing, a poem, a photograph, a sketch, there’s no restriction. Use the word directly, or contort it to mean whatever you want it to. One word, every week.
  • Just mark me on whichever medium you display it or give a link to, on Facebook or Instagram…whatever suits you, so I can keep track of who all are taking the challenge.

And if anyone apart from me actually takes this up, well, let’s compete :D

No, I don’t have a prize for you, whatever the hell happened to creative satisfaction!! Hmph!! But I will throw in a pretty cool badge to put up on your site :D

Challenge 2: The Non-Cookery Challenge



Now before getting married, I made it super clear to A that I don’t cook, and I have no plans to start any time soon. Then he was sweet enough to move to Mumbai for me, away from all his mum and my mum’s yum food. So out of feeling rather generous I promised him I’ll cook for him once a week, every weekend, just to keep his tummy happy. Because come on, cooking every Sunday isn’t really that big a deal now is it?

But as time went on, weekends seemed more useful to sleep in, and tummies were happy hogging on shawarmas from the various conveniently located Andheri joints, even if our pockets turned a little weepy.

And yesterday after long, I actually felt like cooking for the poor starved boy. No, I still don’t end up making daal makhni and butter chicken for him, but something is better than nothing, right, even if it’s continental?!

So here’s the next challenge. Cook one dish every week. Whether it’s just an appetizer or a dessert, as long as it's something in the kitchen made by your own hands. And while I know too many people around me who are experts and actually cook every day and I would love for them to participate, I’d especially love it if you’re one of those people like me, who doesn’t cook, and struggles, and needs a push to do it more often.

So this one has no restriction on what to cook or how. Just cook. Once a week, any time, take a pic, and tag me. You want to just put a pic with a title, go ahead. You want to share your horrifying / awesome experience, I’d love to hear it! You want to be generous enough to share the recipe of your creation, well, you truly are selfless!!

I’m doing this because publicly failing to cook might motivate me more than ignoring my husband’s pain filled hungry eyes (I’m good at not wearing my specs / contacts and ignoring faces).

So PLEASE join me, motivate me, and bloody help me cook!

Totally looking forward to seeing stuff!
And hopefully creating some stuff myself!

Will keep updating FB / Instagram with details.


Challenge Accepted!

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

I am a Delhi girl and I don’t want to go back.


This weekend, I went to watch NH10 in the theatre. For those of you who may not have heard of the movie, it’s a story about a Gurgaon couple on a road trip somewhere further on in Haryana, who en-route get entangled in an honor killing case, where the goons turn on them for meddling. They spend the rest of the movie running for their lives. It’s violent, its brutal, it’s fascinating and it’s scary. It’s a good movie, in more ways than one.

We watched the movie, and then walked into McD for a quick snack. And as I sat there, staring at my unsatisfactory Chicken Mc. Grill, I cried. In the middle of Mc Donalds. A very crowded Mc. Donalds.

Just to put things in perspective, I don’t cry for movies usually. I was laughing at the end of Kal Ho Na Ho as Shah Rukh Khan half ran half heart attacked across the city of New York to make sure true love finds a way (Like, hello, cab much?). And I also am not the type to get scared by gore.

But this one, it hit home. Not because it was that scary, but because it was just too realistic. It was something, that if you have been born and brought up in Delhi, you would’ve experienced, a little too much.

No, I haven’t intervened in an honour killing case.

But if you’re any Delhi girl, who hasn’t spent her life being chauffeured and protected, and only visiting malls, you’ll find scenes in that movie a little too close to your reality than you’d like.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Delhi. It's by far one of the most beautiful cities ever, with its food, its history, its monuments, its open spaces, huge houses, and roads that go on forever. It has the concept of balconies and terraces and bedrooms that can fit more than just a bed for God’s sake! And contrary to popular belief, it also has some awesome people.

But somehow, there is this other thing, this mentality, of some other people you encounter rather often. It’s the mentality of the man who makes orgasmic noises at you while touching his crotch as you walk past him on the road. The mentality of the man who presses into you while standing closer than need be on the DTC bus. The mentality of the man who slowed down his car in the middle of a desolate road and called out to you to offer a ride in broad daylight, as you hurriedly walked home from school. But more than anything else, it’s the mentality of the men who snigger and giggle when they see you being eve teased in a bus, or turn away, or condemn you for speaking up.

Speaking up…Delhi girls are learning to do that, slowly but surely. It’s becoming a way of life now, isn’t it? Being alert, pulling up men for misbehaving, taking them to the police station, irrespective of the crap the police might say to you. It isn’t the easiest thing to do, nor at a lot of times the safest, but girls learn young and they learn fast. How to survive in the city. It’s something that you grow up with, it’s natural adaptation. And it isn’t something that you notice or even pay attention to. Until you move out.

Maybe you think I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’ve had worse experiences than you. But I somewhat doubt it. I know too many friends who have been chased by goons in bigger cars while driving, cajoled by guys in a jeep while they rode a cycle rickshaw back to our hostel, had creeping hands that seemed to belong to nobody in crowded metros and buses, and been humiliated for speaking up. And this is when I and all my friends have led very normal and average lives.

I moved to Mumbai a few years ago. It’s a brutal city, not one known to be nice to visitors. It takes the theory of survival of the fittest to heart, and really knows how to kick your ass specially in your bad days. And it isn’t by far a very safe city. But… it’s safer than Delhi. I take public transport home after dark. Heck, I stay out alone after dark. And it doesn’t petrify me. Even if I’m not yet ready to completely throw away my pepper spray, it is now tucked away in a darker corner of my purse.

My point is, this city made me realize that there was something wrong with my Delhi way of life. I don’t HAVE to try and make it home before dark. I don’t HAVE to keep looking over my shoulder if I go clubbing. I don’t HAVE to assume every guy out there is a potential rapist. There is a better way of life, a normal way of life. And all this I realized from the not completely safe city of Mumbai. Imagine the learnings if I had moved to Singapore instead!

I am a Delhi girl, and one day I intend to move back. My family is there, and being far from them is a punishing routine in itself.

I am a Delhi girl, and one day I intend to move back.

But when I think of returning to a life of being scared of the dark, and half the city’s population…

I really, really, don’t want to.


Thursday, February 26, 2015

Of feminists and Idiots



As I write this, I am seething. And that is probably not the best mood to be writing in. Or maybe it is. Because you see, I’m not the beyond-anger-type-irrational seething. I haven’t felt this calm in ages. And I’m seething.

Because this topic keeps coming up, and somehow has come up a few too many times recently. I’ve written on it before, and yet, here I find myself writing all over again. Because you see, a gazillion posts wouldn’t be enough on this topic.

I’m so tired of this debate, of people debating without a single clue in the world, of everyone having to take one side or the other, of people pointing fingers, and saying in almost a disgusting way, feminist.

When the hell did this become a bad thing? When did this become something to be ashamed of? When did this become an insult?
Maybe it’s time to take a step back, and think, why this is being said.
I’m not really sure people know what feminism is. I’m definitely no expert on the matter, but these are my views.

Feminism is not the same as being anti-men.
It isn’t about jumping and pointing fingers at all men around you.
It isn’t about proving that women are better than men.
It’s about equality.
It’s about being given a choice.
Feminists don’t judge women for being a housewife and raising kids. As long as they choose to.
They don’t say you shouldn’t let men wipe you off your feet. As long as that’s what you like.
And it definitely doesn’t tell you that you deserve a seat on a bus more than a man, it just says you have an equal right to it.
It doesn’t look down on chivalry, on homemakers, on the gender, on ANY gender.
It simply fights for you to have a choice.
An equal choice.

And then people say things like, “Arre, you toh will bring your feminist crap into this discussion.”

And then, at that moment, more than anything, I feel like punching you.
Not because you’re a man. Or a woman.
Simply because you don’t understand.

Feminism isn’t just for me. Or just for women. It’s for every bloody human being on this planet.
And if you think otherwise.

You really really just don’t understand.


Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Pointed.



She walked home slowly, leisurely, her bare feet barely noticing the sticky tar and muck of the road. The wind slowly caressed her hair, reminding her of his hands, just a few moments earlier. Just before he sniggered at the idea of her career, and kissed her on the forehead.
She smiled as she lovingly adored her favourite red stiletto dangling from her hand, then felt a twinge of sadness at spoiling the pair.

Maybe she shouldn’t have left the other one stuck in his neck.


Monday, December 15, 2014

An Open Letter to The Girl With The Broken Heart



Today, you don’t feel like getting out of the bed. And it doesn’t look like you’ll feel like it tomorrow, or the day after. And you know what, you really wont.

He really was The One, wasn’t he? You spent years of your life on him, all those years when other guys were hitting on you, but you were just his, because it was true love, because he was the one you were meant to be with. And now, he’s gone.

And you’ve tried. You’ve tried playing hardball. You’ve begged. You’ve promised to go to the end of the world to change yourself and make everything exactly the way he would want. Just so he would come back. And your world would be the same again.

But instead here you are. In a world where getting out of bed is a task. Where the thought of moving even a millimeter without him seems like something so impossible, something you can’t imagine having ever done on your own. Alone.

And you begin to question yourself. It must’ve been something you did. Why else would he leave? You weren’t good enough. It has to be you.

And you remember all the good times. All the amazing times. Those memories etched in your brains, never to be found again. And that place where your heart is, there’s an ache, a dull heavy ache, ebbing away the last of your energy and will, making you wish everything would just stop. But your heart does the only thing it knows how, it keeps beating, dully, achingly, painfully.

But while you stay snuggled in bed, your pillow soaked with tears, just for a moment, try to reach past all those happy memories and pull out a few of those repressed ones that you refuse to remember. You know, the one where he shouted at you and said things that no amount of love can actually justify? The one where he promised to be with you forever, and walked away the next day. The one where he asked you to change, and refused to do so himself. The one which you’re too embarrassed to tell even your friends about, because you know they’ll judge you for still sticking around.

But you know what, there will be a day, months maybe years from now, when you’ll judge yourself, for sticking around. And that, will be a good day. But for that day to happen, you need to get up now, get out of bed, and go on and live your life. YOUR life. The one about YOU, without the need of another human being in it to make it good. I could say stuff like the right guy is out there, and you’ll find someone else. And you probably will. But of all the things you may choose to believe in, please believe in this instead:

If he was the one, you wouldn’t have anything to hide from your friends.
If he was the one, he wouldn’t have left you here in your bed, crying, questioning yourself.
If he was the one, he’d never leave you hanging.
If he was the one, he would be here, right now, with you.

I’m not saying relationships are easy, and that you’ll meet Prince Charming who will just be so perfect in every way, that you’ll live happily ever after. You will have to work on any relationship. But just how much, is something you need to decide.

I’ll end by simple words of advice given to me by a dear friend years ago, way too early for their time. If you don’t wake up every day feeling happy because of who you’re with, because of who you are, then there’s something really wrong with your relationship.

If you’re hoping to live a life with him, always with the feeling of hadness, then there’s something very wrong with the relationship.

So get up, get out of bed, and go get through the day.
It will be tough. So will tomorrow, and the day after.
But eventually, it will become easy, and then natural.
And you’ll look back, and judge yourself for staying in bed, crying, over someone who really wasn’t the one.
And you'll laugh.
Believe me.


Love,
Your Non-Judgemental Friend.


Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Of Blah-ness & Life

I know, I’ve been gone a long long time from my blog. And I’ve definitely not come back with a way to kill someone in 55 words. Weirdly. Even though I wouldn’t mind killing quite a few in my head.
But of course I come back in the most blah mood on the planet, in the midst of a sudden onset of an existential crisis.
And believe me, I hate both the things mentioned above.
Because they’re both absolutely the opposite of being happy. Of being satisfied. Of just, being.
And they’re both bloody related.
Just when I’d stopped cribbing. Like. Who would’ve thought.
So I guess I’ll try channeling that energy into something better, perhaps more creative, like you know, killing someone in words, as always.
Bleh.
In other news, we saw Gone Girl (loved it!), and I think A is now a little more convincingly scared of what I might one day do to him. I’d feel bad if it weren’t so much fun. Really.
Until next time!
Blah.


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