across the universe

She first realised she was dead when she heard the sound.

Someone was clapping.

Even before her eyes opened her mind registered everything. No one had clapped in front of her for ages.

Not in the hospital room, where she lay with 16 bones in her body broken.

Not in her job, where she worked eight hours straight with only a lunch break.

Not in her marriage, that ended two years back.

The last time someone clapped so loudly was when she was 15 and dancing.

The red top, the black skirt, the red shoes with the small white socks.

Her partner, in black pants and a blue shirt, and a black tie.

They were laughing and spinning, their faces flushed with all the dancing, and the excitement, and the warmth of the heater in that cold winter evening.

The music was blasting out of a two in one, and the man sang about dancing in the dark.

They looked at each other and laughed when the song stopped. Out of breath and slightly giddy. But he didn’t let go off her hand, and the minute the next song started, they jumped right in.

Laughing and spinning again. This time she couldn’t even remember what the song was, all she could remember was the way her legs moved, her hands crossed, her feet slithered and bumped and tapped. And it felt like they were one.

That’s when she heard the clapping. All the people around, clapping, like they could feel it too.

Like they knew, she was free. Never to be trapped, never to caught, never to be beaten.

Now as the nurse unplugged the monitor that had fallen silent. As she removed the clipboard that hung at the foot the bed. As she picked up the sheet to cover bed number 12's face, she noticed the smile.

A tiny smile on a dead face.

Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

lyrics @ the beatles. picture @ http://www.ehow.com

greetings!

still life

You and i

Drowning

I can’t reach you

The doubts in your head

The sadness in your eyes

Dragging you

Away from me

The wounds in my heart

The tears in my eyes

Pulling me under

I can’t breathe

I can’t taste the salt on my face anymore

I can’t see the light

I can’t tell if that’s your hand

Looking for mine

If it’s just an illusion

As my lungs burst

And my heart

Stops.

It’s true. You learn it the hard way, through tears before you sleep, through tears when you wake up, through tears when you stop to breathe, that sometimes love just aint enough.

picture @ http://www.d-yee.com

my business is your business

First, don’t blame me. Blame this guy, he started it.

Second, if you’re about to eat or generally belong to that strange community of people who are squeamish when it comes to crap and pee tales, kindly exit left of stage. Go read amitabh bachchan’s weirdo blog.

Now to get to the point, with great relish.

Years back, I went on my first trek to Nepal. Of course I knew nothing about trekking. And like a lot of people thought reading the Lonely Planet was enough preparation for traipsing along the kali gandaki and walking from an altitude of 827m (pokhara) to...freaking hell...hold your breath 3800m (muktinath).

Anyway, to cut a long and sorry story short, I realised trekking was a misleading word. They should call it breaking. Like I’m going to break down and cry when I have to climb 300 steps cut into the mountain. Or my knees are going to break and roll off the next time I’m skidding downhill while the raging river waits gleefully underfoot.

Or my nerves are shot and at breaking point. Or give me a break, I’ll never say I want to go climbing again.

Yeah, I think let’s go breaking to Nepal kind of sums up my trip.

But here’s the interesting bit. While you’re wandering spaced out, battling to breathe as you endlessly climb uphill, you realise that bathrooms are the last thing you care about.

Of course they don’t exist. Not just on the trail. But also in the tiny villages.

Yes, some have electricity, and music playing, and hot soup, and of course some good stuff to smoke. But bathrooms, chances are they have one bathroom for the village. And of course unless you’re in the habit of waking up really early, it’s probably lot easier, for your eyes and your nose, to just duck behind some bushes on the trail.

So one day, after a very early lunch of dal bhaat, which in itself is such a huge luxury at that altitude, we’re getting ready to set off again.

We have a large, large hill to climb through the late morning and afternoon.

Perhaps it is the sight of that hill, perhaps it is the hot dal bhaat, but I feel some movement in the lower abdomen. I tell everyone that I have to potty before we leave. Just then the other girl in our trekking party says she can feel it too, and maybe we should go together.

By now we’ve reached a stage in our relationship where we can amicably sit next to each other in the open and do potty while chatting about inconsequential stuff.

So we set out to find a bush or a rock we can duck behind. But there’s nothing. All trekking paths seem to converge here. There’s deep gorge on one side, and a steep mountain slope on the other.

In the meantime, the dal and the bhaat are sending urgent signals to every part of the body. We have to potty now.

Just then we spot an abandoned house set against the slope. We scramble up. There’s a clearing in front of the house where we can squat while the house can hide us from all the trekkers below.

Oh, what a relief. We blink back tears of delight, and sit down to do our business, and are politely discussing how Mick Jagger probably came down this same trail, when the door of the abandoned cottage flies open and a man steps out.

Turns out the abandoned cottage is not an abandoned cottage.

The man is in a rage. And can I blame him. Two women shitting on his doorstep.

He gesticulates wilding and yells away. We just look up in shock and then start laughing helplessly.

There is no turning back now. We can hardly hop our way out of this. The man after a minute of rage realises the same thing and stomps off.

We do our business quickly, and leave. Without even a thank you note.

And ya, PS: I never went back to catch up with him.

Tomorrow: the best cake in the world. how to keep a relationship going. And the most fantastic music from the early 80’s. Yeah baby.

fat chance i have

I’m going to join a gym.

The last time I did that, I just donated ten thousand bucks to the down the drain fund.

This gym is supposed to be very good. Bipasha, Ranbir, Imran, Deepika go there.

And that’s really not helping me. Because they probably invest more in liposuction and tucks than on their gym membership. Yeah, yeah I know. Grapes are sour and all that, but really dude, just take a look at Bip’s chest. It has grown over the years. And no, I don’t think it’s just “bacchi badi ho gayi” growth.

Damn. Why doesn’t it happen to me?

Anyway, sorry to digress. So now the point is what on earth am I going to wear to the gym. The yoga place I used to go to was full of auntyji’s except for a few driver -gadi -lana-ladies. The auntjis wore salwaar kameezs and the driver gadi lana ladies wore track pants with matching T-shirts and solid diamond rings.

I doubt if Bipasha comes to the gym in an old salwaar kameez.

I have nice tracks. Not the furry ones with Bebe on the ass. But really neat black reeboks. And I have a cupboard full of old faded T-shirts.

But I’m worried. I don’t have a glossy shiny pony tail. I don’t have Brazilian work out gear. And I don’t have Mac make up for the gym.

They might think I’m the woman who comes to dust the place.

Such weighty issues on my mind.

On the other hand, let me tell you about airport. This new band. They played a debut show at Del Italia. And they are brilliant. All Hindi stuff mainly, but the singer Arijit Dutta has a voice that’s so groovy.

You remember things like train journeys, playing cards with friends, sitting in a bus and watching the rain, being deliriously in love when he sings. He hits the sweet spot, that boy.

I’m a groupie, in grubby track pants.

follow you into the dark

All the times he leaned over and hugged me

All the times he woke me up, covered with kisses

I never knew how many times

Till he stopped.

sigh.

A introduced me to death cab for cutie. I’ve loved them ever since. Even though at times i find them over sentimental. But then I think, what the hell dude, there are times I need over sentimental.

So if you feel the same way, I’d like to introduce you to I will follow you into the dark. If you are going through any shit, it’s guaranteed to make you cry. And I find that huge hiccupping sobs usually leave you feeling pretty good about yourself.

And, while I would slot Twilight the movie into accidental comedy classification. I am blown by the soundtrack of New Moon. Maybe it’s because there’s another awesomely sappy song by Death Cab for Cutie there.

Here’s Meet Me on The Equinox. At the moment it rocks my socks folks.

what ya?

I learnt to jive.

I had Richie Valen and Shakin Stevens in a loop on my Ipod.

I could twist, turn, shake and sing along.

And I hoped that I’d get invited to lots of Christmas parties.

It’s the 4^th of December. And I have nada.

Will someone please please invite me? I promise not to drink up all the booze or the punch or whatever it is you serve.

And will not eat more than one helping. Even if there’s cake soaked in rum.

And I will dance. To La Bamba, This Ole House, Peggy Sue, Jailhouse Rock, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, Do you Love Me, Summertime Blues...

Just invite me okay. If it helps I can even get my own bottle of rum.

just figured that someone landed on my page while searching for bhabhi ji. sure, this is what i always wanted. be the landing ground for pimply pervs.

some stoop. some fall.

How is Milind Soman still so hot?

*sigh. Dreamy sigh*

By the way, did anyone read the nationwide survey on women’s preferences on male facial hair?

It made front page news on the Times Of India. The Newspaper of India. Those magnificent people who gave us Lead India and Teach India.

Well, the front page article went on to state how women in India prefer clean shaven men, by a huge number. No smooches for mooches. The most we’d like is neat stubble.

Now, I was wondering why it made front page news. I mean it is a bit strange isn’t it. Then I thought maybe this year they’re doing Beard India.

But it turns out that they are much more devious than that. Because a day later the front page of the Mumbai Times carries a huge promotional bit on the launch of a new Gillette Razor. And two wannabe actress types are going around convincing men to shave because women like them chikna.

Aah. The penny drops.

The Times Of India is doing what they do best.

Selling out.

Anyway, that apart, this post took me the longest time to type. I fell off the bed and twisted my arm. And typing with the left arm is still okay. Try scooping a fried egg with it.

Some sympathy would be nice though.