la la la land

Okay so I started taking guitar classes for about a month now. I am a slow learner, being 23 and unskilled with my hands (in most cases, if you know what I mean). Terrible jokes apart, along with my musical knowledge growing, I have also tried my hand at writing some lyrics. So here they are.

If there are any readers out there, feel free to comment. Maybe a Soundcloud page may come up! :)

Leap of Faith

I know its not easy,
to give up all you have,
to chase down an idea,
to try to get to nowhere,

I know its not easy,
to give yourself to someone,
to give it everything you got,
and get nothing in return

(c) Would you take,
 the leap of faith,
 would you still play,
 when your losing

 Would you be there,
 lay your heart bare,
 or will you walk away,
 into the dark.

I am a shadow warrior,
I walk the lonely path,
I want to fly higher
Don't want to make it back

I look behind my shoulder,
and I see you waiting there,
watching time go slowly,
frozen in my stare

(c) Would you take
 the leap of faith
 would you still play,
 when your losing

 Would you be there,
 to hold my hand,
 or would you let me go
 into the dark!

(b)  I know, its asking too much
      I know, I want too much,
      But I want you so bad,
      do you still want me too?

(C)

Lone walker (tweaked by Aditya Ghante)

I walk down,
Into a lonely town,
the demons flash by,
I.m all alone,

Weren't you just there
A minute ago?
I look behind and
I'm still all alone

I think hard
of how I let you down
and now I'm here,
All on my own

(c)             But I feel alive,
                 feel free to smile,
                 free to die,
                 feel free to cry.
                 I feel blessed,
                 I feel messed,
                 I must confess,
                 I feel possessed.
   
A weight is lifted,
off my troubled shoulders,
We couldn't hold us together,
any more.

A fire's burning,
in my heart as I keep running,
and my head, it keeps spinning,
and I.m done

(c)

(b)  I'm here,
      at the crossroads,
      waiting,
      for a sign.
      Now I see,
      that's its never,
      coming....

Shadows,
of my past echo,
and the sun comes,
then they fade away.

Lana and her games

“I’m fucking crazy, but I’m free.” So says Lana Del Ray. She also says so many more beautiful things and croons them too, in her honey soaked smoky, dark, rich voice. Things that make me want to do things to her. And I’m almost 95% sure I’m straight.

I think about her lyrics. There was a phase few months ago when I used to listen to her songs every single day. Now, I’m a little more old school: Nirvana, RHCP, Pearl Jam, GnR, Soundgarden, Radiohead (Yeah, Yeah I'm a 90's girl. Call me mainstream! I won't get offended). But I guess a part of me missed her. My Lana, the songstress who spoke of freedom, of living fast and dying young. I watched a nine minute video of the song “Ride” today. It was perfect- melancholy, bittersweet, glamorizing a life of wanderlust; and thought about liberty, about true freedom.

Is it true that the one who has a home, is never free? I have long yearned for the freedom of the open road. Especially after leaving college and returning back to my hometown, where nothing happens. Problems are small and their solutions are mundane. Shopping and spending hard earned Dinars on fancy, “culinary” adventures are our subsistence. No alcohol, certainly no Mary Jane and no unknown destinations. I am sure that there are people out there right now saying, “Yes, bro! I get you.” But just like a wanderer might never know the comfort of her own hearth, a person with a home will never know the peace of leaving it all behind and driving off into the sunset. The feel of the wind whipping through my hair, the warm rays of the sun warming my back, sitting next to a man gunning down the huge engine of a vintage Mustang as I play with his hair and kiss his neck, not knowing where we are going, not knowing whether we would check into a seedy motel or just spend the night in each other’s arms under the twinkling stars! I crave for these things, however fantastical or even cliché they may be.

Lana tells me, “Maybe you should just leave home”. Forget about Master’s, forget the job, just take out the thousand or so dollars worth of savings you have and catch the next flight to anywhere. Maybe I should be out there somewhere: Bali or Ibiza, hitchhiking to the next country from there on. Maybe I should write a book about all the partying and the travelling; the trials and tribulations; the survival on the only thing saffordable- potato chips and coca colas; the bartending, waitressing, nanny-ing; the many, many men of all colors and sizes; the Lucys and the Jeffrys and the Marias and my times with them. Maybe I should complete this manuscript and go; not like a damp squib, but in an explosion- a drug overdose in a nightclub or a strangulation in the hands of a handsome, manic lover.

Lana is still singing as I gaze up from my laptop and look around my room. The old photo of a Hindu deity, Balaji, hanging up, my messy clothes and messy desk which remain disorganized until mom clears it up, an old TV that has been replaced by a newer model but is still being preserved, a shelf chock a block full of albums- pictures shot when film was not "so vintage", thousands of pictures of my sister and I, laughing and gleeful, the pages heavy with the weight of all the years gone by.

So, is this concept of freedom just hype, created by the music and film industries to achieve some sort of hitherto unknown but insidious purpose? Are people meant to run wild and free? Or does society and its standards prevail in the end, forcing us all to eventually settle down and start a family, buy a house and lay down our roots? Can we survive on love, fresh vibes and good feelings alone? I finally realize that question is not “Can we?” The question is “Will we?”

The time is 3.08 and I realize I’m lightly dozing, listening to Lana, dreaming of her, and some charming raggedy blonde man who looks like Kurt Cobain and he’s introducing me to Tony Montana. Then I realize that I have to fucking to go work in less than five hours.

To be or not to be----- (posted a few months too late :-P )

Alright, I know the title is pretty cliched. But it was something I was thinking about for a while........ OK! For the last ten minutes! Last night I was watching SNL with my sister, a die-hard fan of the show. Personally, I feel that SNL disappoints me because I expect so much, much more from the people involved in it. But then again, it's hard to reinvent yourself 35 years in a row, and this is another conversation altogether.

Anyway, I was watching the infamous episode where Ashlee Simpson was revealed to be a lip-syncher (oh the horrors!). Yes, I know I'm ten years too late and this is old news. I mean even my favorite singer ever, Lana Del Ray, sucked during her live performance. But I noticed something in the Ashlee Affair, that most gossip rags did not talk about. And why would they! The international humiliation of a young celebrity is a GOLD MINE and when your busy making money, you tend not to notice the little things happening around you.

So, it went like this. The "singer" did her little, retarded dance on the stage prepping to blow us away with her "amazing" talent, when a track playing a song she had already performed began to play. She didn't even bother to save face but just hopped around, looking a little more retarded and walked off stage. This is what we all know. However, what I noticed, was actually the part that fascinated me much more than this idiocy. As the drummer opened, he heard the wrong chord and stopped. The bassist, however, picked a chord and continued. Eventually the lead guitarist joined and drummer got his beat back. In the ten seconds that went by, the celebrity guest, had walked off stage, but the music continued. And guess what! It was actually good. The musicians were befuddled for a bit, but recovered and continued, actually enjoying themselves, in all likelihood because Ashlee made such a complete ARSE of herself. They continued, confidently and displaying more professionalism than the person who was supposed to perform.

So, what's my point? I guess it's the fact that you need to do more than sell a few thousand albums to be a singer, the fact the being a celebrity and being an artist are two so very different things. I suppose the fact that the spotlight, the fame, the interviews and awards really don't mean anything, if your not honest to yourself.
Everyone wants to be a star! People in our country leave their homes and come to Bombay, because they want to be "heroes/heroines". But no body wants to become an actor. I myself want to be a writer, but the fact that Stephanie Meyer and Nicholas Sparks are best selling authors and "50 Shades of Grey" is a bestselling book makes me feel that I would rather write like this- fragmented prose in Word Documents in my office computer, random scribbles in notebooks and of course my blogs, planetoids in the Milky Way of cyber space. I would rather be good than be seen. Of course, one might argue that to be critiqued upon, to receive opinions which may help me improve, I should be seen, I should be heard. I should be stripped down, broken down and put back together, better and stronger. But in today's hyper-connected world, where people speak through tweets rather than face to face and news/gossip spreads faster than chicken pox among fourth graders, honesty is a commodity that's in rather short supply and it doesn't take much to sell your soul in exchange for well, anything.

I spent many days craving talent. I used to look at people who were good at something, particularly the arts, be it musicians, singers, writers or actors (not dancers, because I have two left feet) and wish that I could be blessed like them and have what they have, something that sets them apart from the rest, elevated to another plane of existence, almost. I used dream of alternate realities: one where I'm singing in front of thousand people and not throwing up, or one where I am wearing a white cashmere pullover, bobbed hair and signing copies of my book at a Barnes and Nobles. I still crave to be talented, and wouldn't mind being famous either. But I would rather be the anonymous wonder, who keeps everyone guessing, the sought after one who people don't know where to seek, rather than a fame whore with a bald chihuahua!

And the epiphany de jour!

A friend introduced me to this ambient, instrumental band the other day. It’s called Explosions in the Sky, and I’m honestly surprised that I hadn't heard of them earlier. Then again, they are heavily featured in several TV shows, as Wikipedia cared to inform me, and I’m sure we all have heard a snatch of some of their stuff. Anyway, quoting Wikipedia again, they specialize in music that is cathartic to the listener. While this may not ring true with everyone, it was definitely music with a distinct positive-ness in its tone and melody, and to me, it ended up giving me an epiphany rather than become a means of catharsis.

True epiphanies are often rare. Yes, we all have our moments of unparalleled genius; usually while in the shower. These are inevitably lost in the deluge of other thoughts that pass through our brain every minute, every hour, which are mostly regarding what’s for lunch (or dinner). But there are moments when people stumble upon something really great. Maybe a struggling musician finally discovers the perfect riff when he is languidly strumming his guitar late at night. Maybe an entrepreneur decides to add a customized perfume as freebie to a gift basket. And maybe an everyday man finds the perfect way to put a smile on his kids’ faces. It all comes down to that one thought, the moment of clarity and understanding, which is more self sympathetic than inspirational, which solves the mystery of why life is the way it is. In most cases, we tend to forget these moments within an hour tops and get back to our old state, but somewhere in the back of our minds, that thought, the catalyst for change has registered.

So I watching the song “First breath after a coma” by Explosions in the Sky, that evening. It was the first song I heard, and I was already “ready to get my mind blown”. The music was beautiful- complex, yet simple enough to identify with, calm, peaceful and reassuring. The video was that of a beautiful daylight sky. The blue was a delicious pleasant shade, seen only on the brightest and most gorgeous winter days, and peppered with wisps of pure white cottony clouds. It was breathtaking and I kept watching. About a minute later, I found myself to be restless. I was waiting for something to happen. After all, the name of the band was “Explosions in the sky”, so where are the fireworks, I asked. Nothing happened. The anticipation grew and grew and reached a fever pitch. I was actually perturbed at why I wasn't seeing people running (I don’t know why, but the perfect music video in my head, always features people running!) or birds flying. So, two and half minutes into the video, and I was still staring at the sky, feeling a little bit angry now, and even a bit cheated, when I realized the beauty of it all.

All of us are constantly waiting for something to happen. We lead our lives every day, hoping that something epic may occur which will make our day exciting. We wake up in the morning praying that the big guy upstairs will create a moment of serendipity in our lives, and things will change immediately. In fact, we are so busy waiting for the extraordinary, that we don’t realize that life has passed us by. 2013 is winding to a close, and I still am in the same place I was a year ago, waiting for answers, waiting for inspiration. With hearts filled with a deep seated feeling of discontent and regret about the things we could have done, or even should have done, all we do is live a life where we are always waiting for a glorious future to knock at our door and sweep us away from a past cluttered with perceived mistakes. This waiting consumes us to such an extent, that we forget to enjoy the life we are currently leading. Who am I? What’s my purpose? What am I passionate about? What do I love? We would be lying to ourselves if we say that we do not ask ourselves these questions.  Yes, there are a definitely a few among us, who have gone beyond waiting to actually doing. These are the people we should seek inspiration from. But most of us just spend our lives like the fairy tale princess, Sleeping Beauty, living life inertly and waiting for the handsome prince to kiss away our mundane existence.

Marveling the fact that I had made such a profound observation, I continued watching, feeling slightly happier and less sorry for myself. This is when I stumbled upon another epiphany. Wow, a double bonanza, I thought to myself as I began to ponder about yet another peculiar characteristic of us, people. As I was watching the video, patterns started to emerge from the clouds. Now, all of us can definitely relate to the time we used to spend as children watching the clouds and trying to find shapes in them. Now, the ever evolving sky where the clouds are buffeted by the winds, by itself, is a source of metaphors galore, but we will keep that for another time. So, as I watched, I saw several things including what looked like a pig wearing a party hat. I was looking out for patterns, yes, but to see this while listening to moving music and pondering on weighty topics, was less than ideal. This simply will not do, I said to myself and tried to find other patterns. I strained to find a face or something like a large banyan tree, but the pattern of the pig was most visible, followed by what looked like a man-eating crocodile. Needless to say, I was disappointed, as I searched harder and harder. And right there, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Apart from waiting for life to happen, waiting for a sign or chance, we humans are always searching for patterns. We look so hard for meanings, answers, structure and even predictability, that we are ready to find them were none exist. In fact, we force of ourselves to accept situations with some arbitrary reasoning, giving ourselves excuses for things we are afraid of facing. Acceptance of situations is sometimes harder than struggle, and most of us are content with using any flawed logic in order to avoid what could possibly be a hurtful, but necessary truth. While it is true, that on the grandest scale of things, nothing is truly random and that there has to be a scheme to result in such perfection we call the universe, real life can be random. Isn't it better to leave some things unexplained, rather than to force out a meaning out of nothing, to try to give some semblance of reason to a situation? Most of us, (or may be just I) over think, over feel and let any stressful situation overwhelm us, but always under act. Using our time trying to think of five different possible reasons why a bad thing happened is much easier than finding even one active solution to make it go away. This is the bitter truth and this is possibly one of the humanity’s biggest flaws. Along with shoulder pads in suits and men’s harem pants!

As the song progressed that evening, I closed my eyes and firmly told myself to stop thinking about the pig. I told myself to stop looking for something to happen or something to be there, ever present behind the veil, and just enjoy the music. It was a conscious effort but it paid off. I was lost in the soft strums of the guitar, the steady reassuring rhythm and the melody that eventually lifted my spirit and gave me a sense of solace. Perhaps, that is what catharsis really is: the feeling that, in the end everything will be all right. At the risk of quoting Om Shanti Om, (that spoof movie actually did offer a wealth of wisdom in the form of corny dialogues) which was itself inspired by a quote from John Lennon, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not end”.  And in the end, I thought I saw vague picture in the clouds, which resembled a mother hugging her son. So perhaps, it is true, in the end everything simply has to fall into place and that all of us simply will end up happy; not a possibility, but a certainty. Life can definitely be a dream, rather The Dream, but only when we learn to live it.

Find me if you want to! :-)

So, we bloggers know one thing: Blogging is tougher than it looks. Mostly because we all are a bunch of lazy assholes, who can log in to watch Devious Maids ( NOT ME, I SWEAR), but do not catalogue our day to day life cos' EVERYONE is dying to read it :-P. So, managing multiple blogs must surely be much more difficult than say, managing people, or even rodents.

Anyway, ending the much contrived attempt at sarcasm and humour, I am just providing a few links where you guys ( if there are any readers) can find me. One is my old blog: from my early college days, which provide a glimpse into the person I was. The latest offering is a co-authored blog where I am attempting literary revolution. Just kidding! :-)

So find me, Rashmi Rajshekhar at:

http://rashmisrandomthoughts.wordpress.com/
http://vani-allofme.blogspot.com/
http://librabalance.wordpress.com/

A Manipal tribute (Yes, this is a periodically occurring thing)

This article is dedicated to those special people who have made an eternal, everlasting impact on my soul. In particular, my best friend and confidante, who has been with me through so many of the below mentioned events, that they are her memories, as much as they are mine. Babe, I found your letter, the one you sent me last year for my birthday: I miss you like crazy, every day and every night. Love always!!!!

“Associate yourself with great people. Maybe their greatness will rub off, and inspire you to also become great.” My dad used to keep telling me, hoping that his daughter may also become great one day. Ah, the ambitions of parents: benign but the yearning is so evident! Here, I will interject the famous Hindi stock dialogue, “mera beta (beti) khandaan ka naam roshan karega(gi)”.

I’ve gone past the stage where I feel guilty about not bringing laurels to my family name, but somewhere deep down I feel disquieted. Cleaning is an activity that brings back a lot of things: lost T-shirts, photographs, dust bunnies and heaps and heaps of nostalgia and introspection. I was cleaning my room today and I came across a few old certificates, my sister’s medals and a few cups I had won at local competitions. While I can’t say that I was a star, or even that I achieved a lot. But I had made an honest effort to participate, to shine, to be somebody. I can’t recall any such thing in college. I did participate in a few things, yes! And did pretty decently at them too. But, it was really nothing to write home about.

The beauty of the whole thing is that, this doesn't bother me at all. Sure, mom and pop would have loved a few more certificates, probably a blurb or two in the Times of India, but then again, all wishes don’t come true. In fact, when I think about college, I can’t remember distinct events like exams (oh the horror), fests or rallies.

What I do remember though, are incidents, people and the moments we shared together. Spending a good part of two years around amazing musicians didn't teach me any music at all. But, it did teach about the happiness of sitting in dark, murky, typical boy apartment, surrounding by the sweet tendrils of marijuana smoke and getting lost in guitar riffs and drum rolls. Despite dating a drummer, I could never learn the names of all the drums, but I still remember screaming his name out in a war like chant as he played his heart out. I never managed to make social connections and “network” like how the smart people used to, but I remember endless nights of chilling at THE college bar (to beat all college bars), hopelessly drunk and happily chatting with each and every Tom, Dick and Harry, I came across.

College really is the experience one only understands after graduating. Every song, every drink, every brand of cheap whiskey or rum, every road sign can be associated with some memory. Even hoardings, posters on buses, buses themselves, tell some sort of story about me- about my life and the person I was, in some ways, the person I want to be. Chop Suey by System of a Down, reminds me of the first person I thought I “loved” with disastrous results while Vat 69 reminds of the CRAZY marathon party we had at my apartment thanks to my literary partner in crime bringing his friend’s two liter bottle of the above mentioned whiskey over just for fun. House music, 3 AM joints, stuffed chicken egg burger with 2 Kings, “Naag and Naagayin”, raw Maggi, Easter hangovers and Glow in the Dark parties- these words may mean nothing to most people, but I can associate them with some of my fondest memories.

The list is literally endless. And at the end of the day, it is precisely that. To an outsider, I probably don’t have much to show for. Some even have asked, “What did you do those four years?” I don’t have a satisfactory answer: no recommendations, no certificates or awards. All I have are memories- friendships, heartbreaks, elation and misery! A bittersweet mix of things that has made me the person I am right now. Did I learn anything or leave a mark? Well, if not on paper, I hope I did so on those special people’s hearts, just like they have on mine. 

sometimes

sometimes, unexpectedly, when you think that you don't care about something anymore, it hits you like a bullet and lingers. tonight, i strangely miss him. i yearn for his touch, and his kiss and his arms around me.

it should be ok tomorrow.

my fone

I am not ready.

I bought a new phone but I am not entirely sure about how to set it up. I am scared, I will mess stuff up, as usual. I am not ready for this phone, this responsibility, the job of caring for it and looking after it; this accountability that comes with paying a hefty sum for an electronic device.

I am not ready for life, or grad school, or marriage or kids, or dealing with the fact that time is precious and every moment is slipping away like water held in cupped hands, slowly draining, spiraling away till its nothing but an empty void. I cant even set up a phone, how can I deal with life!!!

I suppose I am over thinking this, aren't I

let's go to the mall...... not really!

I was at my friendly, neighborhood H&M a few days ago. Something did not feel quite right. Apart from my usual gripes about not living in a cooler place, not being rich enough, or pretty enough, or anything enough, there was an odd, ominous feeling in the air- an insidious presence of something that could merely be sensed, not even felt. It hung like a big, dark, grey cloud, lingering and sapping me of the already elusive positive vibes.

Not my usual shopping scene.

Techno music blared from the speakers. Well, a mix of techno, house, EDM and trance. It seemed more like a party scene than a store. I remember how we used to lock ourselves up in the trial room for hours (minutes) and dance (move awkwardly) in front of the mirror. Something was discordant about this music today. It was good, yes. It took me to another place- a life I used to know and love, a life that was slowly becoming my past, moving further and further away as every day passed by. The music was good technically, but something felt wrong. I felt like I was stuck in a ironically hilarious horror movie, where the main characters resign to the impending apocalypse. People were milling about around the store, buying clothes. Buying and buying and buying. There must have been a million different articles in there that day. shirts, tops, shoes, suspenders, make up, nail polish, glitter scrunchies, bikinis.... it was truly something I had never stopped to think about until that evening. I used to ponder, and talk (albeit a bit pretentiously) a lot of consumerism, but I never felt it like I did that day. Huge factories, sprawling cramped sweat shops, all over the world, churning out billions and trillions of articles for the "consumer"- the glassy eyed, heavily made up (or intentionally under dressed bed-headed) girl, who bought another black top, and another one, and a pink skirt, despite owning about twenty five black tops.

Gone were the days when you would enter a beautiful shop, touch the soft, velvety cashmere, inhale the lovely "new clothes" aroma of brand new crisply folded cotton T-shirts. Sometimes, I feel like one of the zombie brigade, aimlessly walking around stores, picking up things without experiencing the thrill of acquiring something new, simply buying because "it was an irresistible sale". Then I realize, that most things in life have gone, or will go stale. From conversations to clothing, from movies to outings; life is slowly going from technicolor to sepia, fading like an aging carpet. Perhaps, this is a sign of aging, becoming a adult, the person who is actually nothing like you: not even a reflection of yourself in a spotty glass. Growing up has never been so disillusioning as it is in this decade. Let alone finding something to live for, there is nothing really to die for. We just exist all of us, zombies, actually more like souls wandering the Fields of Asphodel, lost, lonely and mirthless.

I went to the other mall the other day. Another day, another H&M, another track playing in the background and another black top at an "irresistible" price. A blue dress here and a pink shirt there and a wonderful blue top that fit me like a glove, practically perfect. Everything turned sunnier. Lights grew brighter and sounds of laughter rang about. I was filled with the rush of triumph of getting a pretty outfit for a steal. I suppose that is both the curse and the convenience of possessing the human mind. The smallest pleasures act as a placebo, a cushion that push the ugly reality to the back of our minds, to some secret corner, at least for a while. Finding an outfit (especially when you're fat), eating a delicious meal on the street, talking to some one after a long time and regaling in the stories of our past: these things give us the hope, the impetus to get up and get through the day, despite knowing how pointless existence is.

I am thinking of buying a new phone sometime soon. I think the dose of "positive vibes" should last for about a month. :)

Trapped in a bubble.

You are three thousand miles away.
You are three billion miles away,
add a trillion.
Sinew and skin grew over the part of me that you took when you left.
I still see your face sometimes,
but its through a mist,
morning dew drops,
melancholy winter fog,
haze of marijuana smoke.
You are still there,
but you're not.
And I watch you from far away and smile,
as we exist on two parallel planes of existence.

You are three thousand miles away,
or was it three thousand light years.
There is something different about you,
something new, something changed.
You are another you,
not my "you".
I am different too,
and the world is different too.
And we are clutching at straws,
clinging on to abstract notions.
of us.

I see people through a pane of glass sometimes.
Solid, tangible people,
yet through a heat haze,
a shimmer around their edges.
I am with them and yet, I am without them.
I am with me, and in me.
I see people through a sheet of clear, falling water.
Not a ripple on the surface,
just calm,
beams of yellow sunshine,
creating a rainbow like aura around the people on the other side.
I wonder whether I'm the one standing outside a giant glass bubble,
and watching them,
Or whether its really me,
trapped in a bubble,
trapped in a bubble.

A critical analysis of a coffee shop writer.

A writer in a coffee shop! Could there be a bigger cliche? Coffee is not the best inspiration to bring out the Kerouac or the Tennyson in you. Especially if your Starbucks at Starbucks is not as good as your Starbucks from another store. Then again, the taste was not my primary concern. I was very curious to know if people were looking at me. As the line grew longer, my craving for attention and the guilt that went along with it grew proportionally. Some part of me, however hard I try to deny it, lives for others. I felt like the character in some crappy, low-rated single season dramedy.

I saw myself as a writer. Correction, I liked to see myself as a writer. But like my dreams, my work was also limited and simultaneously limiting. God! I wished there was a shot of whiskey in my coffee. Even some cheap booze from my college days past, DSP black, Royal Stag or Blender's Pride, would do. I have wanted to be a writer for a while now, but i never quite knew what to write. Maybe, it's because my ideas are too specific or my thoughts are too limited. Maybe it's because i liked to see myself as a tragic heroine, when there was nothing really tragic about me. There was no inspiration, no story to build on and no cause to live for. Wannabe-hipster-centre-of-the-universe wasn't helping either. But then again, when do movies work in real life.

I wish I had a story! Something people would want to read. Something that would influence the world in some way! Positive or Negative. I wish I had climbed a mountain or slept with a C-lister. But that was not me. "Me" was normal, so fucking normal. "Me" was placid, mechanical, almost revoltingly so. "Me" was not crazy anymore. Not extraordinary. Not special. Barely Mediocre.

I sat there musing. I wondered if I used sadness as a tool to feel better about myself. These tears welled up,but not falling made me feel almost like a martyr. Or so. I thought. In a sea of laughing, faking, well dressed people, there was me- plain, fat and utterly unremarkable. Perhaps, this act of writing in a coffee shop made people look at me and say, "Oh so Intellectual!" Perhaps, all this was just another shameless ploy to be noticed and feel important. I suppose the truth is that people don't notice you until you have already done something; not even when your crying for help, languishing, visibly drowning in your own problems.

I suppose the truth is that the more we try for attention, admiration, love or what ever name one may give it, the less likely we are to find it. Man is species obsessed with sensation. It only notices what is happening at that  moment. What is big! What is loud! What is popular! things may be happening for years, but people only notice it is hugely sensational, blared out from the rooftops or "if everyone else is doing it". Perhaps, the goal must be to fight you inner demons long enough until you either die fighting or emerge victorious. People belonging to both categories attain eternal glory, while those who "put up with it" vanish into the pages of history. After all, only we can crawl out of the ditches we dig ourselves. In the end, I realize that we have to fight each day, struggle to get past each day despite the mistake we make, despite the regrets we face and despite the haunting memories of our past. Fighting to live is the only thing we can do. Now, how we fight, is what brings us that fame, that glory.

I got up and threw my coffee cup into the bin. Today, they claim to be using fair trade coffee beans and recycled paper, but we all know that these global business are essentially cut-throat and overwhelmingly capitalist. But we succumb to the temptation. Or perhaps we don't care anymore. I felt a sense of pride, along with the myriad of other emotions in my head. I had had epiphanies of epic proportions. I was so one my way, I thought naively. Soon, my name will be on the cover of a book, I thought, even more naively. It took all of about five minutes for the coffee induced high to come down. I was back to square one, with my thoughts, opinions, prejudices and petty pain. The truth is that, I am but one in a sea of billions- billions of people having the same self confidence related issues, regrets about procrastination and inactivity and obvious heartaches. So, its just me and my average thoughts and pains. I realized one thing though- the pain kept me alive. The pain gave me motivation and on rare occasions, purpose. Perhaps, I should learn to live this pain, and moreover love this pain. It may not only humanize me, but also produce a "person" out of me.

morning blues

She appraised herself in the mirror- gave herself a long once-over. She has started the day well enough: woken up earlier than usual, deciding against a shower as her hair still looked glossy from last night's shampoo and hot water treatment. She wore a sunny yellow kurta, no, mango yellow. She felt happy, looking at the bright colour. After all spring was coming. So with a new outfit, new shoes and a new positive attitude, she went to check herself once before leaving for work.

In the mirror though, she realized she was dreadfully misinformed. Her yellow top was bulging. A roll of fat clearly discernible under her obscenely large chest, dark and hard pimples on the sides of her face, the bags under eyes. She looked around. Her dresser was falling apart; the drawers so badly jammed that they could not be pulled out, weighed down by years of worthless unwanted shit. Her shoe rack was broken, the doors hanging on its hinges, covered with dust. Her high spirits were dampened. It was like she was viewing the world through a kaleidoscope filled with broken glass and dirt and pebbles and old, yellowing paper. She reached downstairs and got out of the lift of her building. The lift door started stuttering and faltering as usual, and her dad gave the door an almighty shove. Even the lift was crying of old age. The world was crumbling around her. It her like a slap on the face in the bristling cold.

She waited for the traffic to clear so she could get to work on time. She had made an effort to leave early yet she was stuck. Stuck. glued, adhered. She watched her contemporaries everyday, growing and moving. She watched them as they worked interesting jobs, got masters degrees, partied, travelled, chilled, got married. And there she was, stuck hard to one place, living each day over and over, the same day again and again. She closed her eyes and saw herself walking through a wasteland, dragging her legs across the withered, burnt soil, kicking up dust and trudging in silence. The wanderer came across some magnificent ruins, a vast city that had gone to waste and become nothing more than a mass of relics. She ran scared but realized that she was back to the same place after a while. Back among the ruins and promises of grandeur.

She realized that in order to get back to the land of the living, she would need to break free. But she also knew that to break free, one would have to be extremely talented or extremely brave. Or perhaps be someone who had nothing to lose, but everything to gain. She wondered what she would have to lose to get there. A single tear contemplated leaving her eye, as she started ahead into the mundane traffic blankly, fixed on the white numberplate on a Prado up ahead, while her ears reverberated with a silent scream.

The Yash List

So, these are a set of songs that will forever be imprinted in my mind as a symbol of a friend of mine, and one of the most unique people I know. Although you might know him, but feel his old soul and his free spirit through these songs.

1) Arriving Somewhere But Not Here- Porcupine Tree
2) Zephyretta- Them Clones
3) Fire- Kasabian
4) I Need to Feel Loved- Reflekt
5) The Organ Donor- DJ Shadow
6) Paradise- Coldplay
7) Life in Technicolor- Coldplay
8) Hallelujah- Miles Kennedy and Slash (acoustic)
9) Hallelujah- Karsh Kale and Warren Mendonca

Enjoy the bliss and feel the tranquility :)

Community (Dont worry, I'm not earning anything out of this)

I recently told my friend Vani to quit watching stupid drama shows and watch this sitcom called Community. Although it admittedly may not be her thing, its still one of the best sitcoms on the air, and probably all sitcoms ever. In my list, this includes 30 Rock, The New Normal, Arrested Development, Scrubs and even my favourite show, Californication (Oh you GODLESS HEDONIST, you! :P ) For those who have not seen or heard of it, its the story of a rag tag group of misfits at the world's worst community college ever. Don't let this undermine the awesomeness of it. Innovative storylines, great acting, some truly unbelievable concepts including spoofs of every genre of movies possible and more, and some amount of tripping balls, its a show that takes every existing concept of tv and movies and gives it a whole new dimension. But what I like the most about it, is that one just falls in love with the characters ( I know people say this about all shows, but I feel bad for people who relate to Ted Mosby) and lose yourself in it. Testing the limits of imagination, the show just acts as a portal to a whole different world- an idea about how each and everyone of us, live in a different universe, in our head.

Over the top declaration of love? You bet! Will die off slowly to be replaced by the next surrealistic offering? Hope not! But recommended show for everyone? Absolutely. :)

Thoughts About Love

(This may seem more of a saga than a poem, but bear with me readers)

He loved her.
He loved her without judgement,
without fear and without restraint.
He loved her,
with a love as pure as sunlight,
morning rays,
streaming through the leaves in a silent forest.
He loved her without demand,
without expectations,
without consideration or reservations.
He lost himself in her.
He lived her and breathed her.
She lived in his best thoughts,
in his hard work,
in his crushing disappointment,
hapless pain,
and again in his hope.
She was his reason,
to live and to grow.
He loved her.
It was merely that simple.

She wished she could love him,
purely,
just love and nothing else.
She wished she could love
without wanting to be loved in return.
She wished she could put aside her ego.
She wished she could shatter the delusions,
of what it should be.
She called him discontented,
but perhaps it had always been her.
Wishing for more and hoping for different,
but too proud to admit it.
She wish she had expected less from others,
and more from herself.
She wished she was more confident,
less double guessing and more sure-footed
about her dreams and the way she felt about him.
She wished she had given and given,
untill she nothing left to give.
She wished she could have been different,
then maybe things would have been different.

They sat together,
she and him,
She told him,
she wished she loved her man,
the way he loved his woman.
Ironically though, both were alone.
The selfless one and the egoist,
the romantic dreamer and the pragmatist.
Sometimes, it felt like they were alone,
in a bubble of grief,
looking at the world outside,
of what could have been,
through a colourful veneer of soap and water.
They were alone together,
a similar frequency of loneliness resonating,
often drowned out by work, alcohol, friends, television,
anything they could indulge in,
anything that would take the pain way.
His loss,
her guilt.
She and him,
alone together,
high on grief and enjoying the catharsis of life.
Sitting through endless nights,
just waiting for the sun to rise.

Start

In my mind, while I'm writing this, I'm triumphantly playing "I'm coming home, I'm coming home. Tell the world I'm coming." Well actually I'm listening to some crazy ass EDM that's got me feeling all violent and aggressive. But, I can visualize images of myself swearing a flowy white dress and riding a fierce white horse (shadowfax :P). Bit over dramatic for the event, considering that its just me writing a blog post. But after almost a year long gap, it does feel different. Perhaps, even hopeful. Maybe it will get me out my horrible funk and enable me to do something with my life. Well, it would be nice if its a start at any rate.

Anyhow, I'm back. And I hope I can write. And I hope that whatever I write impacts someone, somewhere out there, over the rainbow. I hope its a fresh start.