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.