Archive for August, 2013

Sarah McLachlan is a singer with conscience. I have lived the quater of my life, and nothing even comes close to inspiring the shit out me more than this video, here. Watch it, just don’t listen.


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You see, I am the generation that last played on the streets, and the first to dial-up the internet. Now I am in this instagram age, and hey if appreciation is also a form of being thankful, I guess instagram is a grace of sorts. But I’d still be and do that guy who still says grace. 

He is the one who got away.

I used to work the morning-breakfast shifts at my college’s dinning commons. And he’d always come by, men make small talk to cashiers, girls are nice too, and others just want to get their business done, but this guy would just smile. And not that I want to pick you up later kinda smile, or even a check me out kinda smile, or oh! right now I have girlfriend so I can’t make a move on you kinda smile, he didn’t smile at me like that because he was out of my league. Yet, the kind of smile, that just one human gives to another, a pure and simple smile. The first time this guy came to get breakfast, my eyes followed him till where he sat, it must have been an off-peak hour. I found him there, in front of his breakfast. 

Then he looked at it and smiled, folded his hands, closed his eyes and silently said grace! He said grace! I wanted to point it out to everyone!! I found out I was the solo witness of what he just did.

Grace, something I had never seen on a college campus. Maybe they did it when they all gathered in their christan groups over at the spirituality center, but I really doubt their intentions. Most of them came hungover to the commons, and the majority never made it to breakfast. The jocks, yes, they all came brimming with energy and two breakfasts each. They also came with the regular girl-fans who came to dotte on them.

But, this guy, had just said grace! Even though I am not a christan, I know what it means to be thankful for the food on your plate. A million people go hungry each day, a million more sleep hungry everyday. He had my heart and soul, this one. He just didn’t do it to show it to anyone (parents, church etc) but he did it even on low crowd days, and high walk in days. He did it regardless of where he was sitting. Sometimes I would catch him getting coffee at the library cafe, grabbing a quick bite, he would still say his grace. 

Some cosmic play lead me to have an anthropology class with him the next semester. What were the chances, especially in a school of over 40,000 pupils.
He always sat in the middle, he hardly missed class, and being the culture buff I am, neither did I. I was in so much awe with this guy, I would sit somewhere with my friends at the back of his head. He was so pure and pristine. On my bad days, I just had to come to class and look at his face and be assured that there was a lot of good still left around. But they say, the devil and the good both reside in the same room. I were too, soon distracted. A guy who wore leather and sat in that one corner, on that one seat, soon caught my eye or maybe I caught his. To say the least, he made his moves, and I got distracted. 

I never saw the guy who said grace after that semester, I saw too much of the leather lad, but the guy who was good when nobody was looking, a guy who despite being drop-dead gorgeous wasn’t girl crazy. The guy who made it to breakfast in the morning, and gym in the evening without fail. I lost him. He was gone. 

I truly did. The guy who said grace. 


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It was August 15th, I too stood up in praise and honor of my motherland when they sang the national anthem at the Red Fort, New Delhi. You see, the delusional me thought I were too celebrating the 67th anniversary of India’s independence. 

I think I wasn’t but my father, my brother were. So were my guy-friends. About my girlfriends, aunts, mothers, sisters, you ask? 

Ahhh no. You see we have been told “look pretty, not too pretty. Work but don’t be adventurous” we have been hushed for wearing comfortable clothings around our own house, steered towards our rooms when man-servants came by. As if the skin of our thighs are an invitation. We are told, prevention is better than cure. Who said the pardaa system was dead? We have been cat-called and made eyes at, sometimes in poshest colonies and right infront of our parents. 

India is only half independent. Today it is again a woman journalist, raped by five men, at 5 bloody pm? how do five men go on a single girl? What kind of animalism is this? How do they not have any mercy? And are there no whores left on GB road? 

How do we talk about culture abroad and how do our “elders” ask us, and put all the burden thereof of preserving the traditions on a girl’s tender shoulders. How she is the honor of the family. Bad character is like a “kalank” (mark) on your forehead, once you get it, you can never wash it off. They are told thus by their own family members. 

A rape in India is called “izzat lootna” it more or less means the girl is not honorable anymore.  If you are not a virgin, you are not honorable anymore. If you were raped, you are not honorable anymore. You are impure, damaged goods. First, should be your last. They are told. We are told. So much emphasize is put on a damn virginity that women not only break down physically and emotionally because of the incidence of rape, an added social stigma also ruins them bit by bit. 

Why would I tell them if I were raped?

You can’t get examined by a obgyn or a gyno without being asked weird questions and given judgmental looks. The two-finger test is all easy to tell whether you have kept the honor of your family alive. You cannot ask your own mother that you want to get tested for HIV or STDs, because the first question always is, “what? have you crossed your limits?” And even though you live in a fear that diseases could grow inside you, untreated, but you must not offend your family. You go to far off hospital. For STD screenings, and HIV testings, HIV testing is something you can’t even trust, so you never get tested. You must go to another city, however small, for an abortion, be left under a maid to be tended by, so nobody you know gets to know you have blackened your face and let down your family. You must not enter the kitchen while on your period(in conservative homes) and not at all the temple. For you are impure, while on your period. What god differentiates thus?

When you sit with a guy friend you have known for years, in his car, you might as well start muttering the hanuman-chelesa under your breath. Because these men, of this nation are a fearless breed, they feel they are entitled. They can openly threaten you with remarks such as “uth waa lui gaa” (I will get you abducted) in the middle of a classroom in one of the most reputed schools in the country, and nobody says a thing. You cannot pass a crowded bus without being molested in this country. 

India has let down its women so severely, we are exhausted. It is pointless to even talk, follow or sign petitions all the same. It fetches nothing. Nothing at all. 


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If somebody tells you, you are in love. First and foremost, do not believe them. People only want to manifest the ideas they so dearly hold close to their hearts. It could be a friend’s father at brunch, seeminlgy wise, who wants to believe that you are the girlfriend to his son-a smarter choice to him. Believe him not, for he probably just wants a more proper and culturally intuned lady you seem on the table that particular day, next to his real slightly awkward girlfriend. He knows not all the facts. He knows not his own son. And he definitely knows not you. 

Do not believe a server, or a woman on the street, or even a guy you date for these people are secretly vouching for any kind of love. For these people are just being treated to a flake of your life, they know you not. Know for yourself, whether it is really love? People ever so often will confuse attention, passion and the need and security for both and call it all Love. Love in its zenith is more than that. Love is never an obsession. It can never be. If it smells like obsession, it probably is passion confused for love. Love is not love letters, or even blog posts. Because writing is indeed a form of eroticism, it takes as much out of you as does a hungry fucker, or to be polite a hungry lover.

Do not trust a writer when he writes to you, for the a person with a bent for creative literature approaches the task of writing a love letter with an excitation of the spirit surpassing anything in the realm of pure eroticism. A writer shall anticipate it for hours, he or she will enlarge on the anecdotes, dotte you with rounding off pledges of love and the grandeur of love. Trust them not. It is not love, a person with a bent for literature is nobody else, but someone looking for love in their pages. He is just a storyteller, who cannot sometimes sperate himself from the story. Hey, they may have a lyrical control over their prose, and convince you that they are indeed head over heals, but more often than not they have no control on what they do to themselves.

Shake the rice, first out of your shoes and then out of their’s, and save them the very many mentally exhausting hours they will induce upon themselves. They are nothing but hopeless people who do this time and again, be the bigger one and serate them not into but out of their self-weaved story. It maybe tempting to see these souls suffer, or be on their hands and knees for you. I mean what kind of human being would want to pass that, that kind of dedication can make you feel like almighty himself. It is almost like deflowering a virgin, they will hold on for dear love.  

Understand a writer can terribly fall in love, it is in their nature, understand a woman who dotte over those fiction characters in romantic novels, or chick flicks are all the same. The latter in inflicted with expectations, and the former is just obsessed with creating a love story on paper, which is as lethal as it gets. Understand that the linen of your bed, is maybe far less appealing to the former than her own pen and paper, or now days her keyboard. 

Hold their arms with both of your hands if you have to, shake them very hard, make them look you into your eyes. Ask them, then to invision a life with you, and I suggest that you do the same. Mind you, do this after shaking them real hard. Then watch for their pupils to dilate. No, don’t stand in a dimly lit room! Stand in a sunny one. Or a well lit one, if you live in Greenland. Ask yourself, how do you think of them?

Does it just involve fantasies, and as cliched as it may sound, do they fill your heart with a warm fuzzy feeling. They can’t be doing it all one-sided. You have to be giving them warm fuzzies for them to reciprocate. I don’t think one sided love ever existed, maybe one sided passion, one sided obsession. But love lives where two tango. It takes two to tango. 

Love is not a spare key, or left-overs or even cooking together, holding a conversation. I will explain later what it is, when it really happens. a true love story is never finished. Again, thats what a writer said, and those are story weaving people. Nothing they say, should be believed. Get a brain scan, ask for medical advice. 

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It’s a baby girl!

The Espresso Addict

She was 27, and at home.

She stood in front of the mirror, naked. She looked at her breasts. This was the biggest they had ever been. But she knew that they were going to get bigger. She stared at herself for a long while before she ran her right hand across the entire area of her belly, from just above her abdomen, all the way down to its lower end. It looked bloated and the bump had begun to show through her clothes now. She was five months pregnant, and had just received her scans from her gynecologist. She had dreaded this moment would come right from when she turned into a teenager. And 15 years later, she still wasn’t prepared for it.

“You are going to have a healthy and beautiful baby girl. You just have to keep eating healthy, and get good sleep and sufficient exercise, just like…

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She is the first woman of your life, and as much as I love my sweet momma, and as much as how she loves and adores and cares about me-come what may. There are a few things this woman does to me as a daughter that will cost me some really expensive shrink office hours. And not just me, all women when young or older give their daughter’s either healthy body images or skewed body images. 

My friend told me, her mother asks her to be on a 500 calorie all apple diet! She would literally snatch her food when she hit her twenties and regularly ask her to show her her stomach to see if she was getting fat or not. Even when they are far off, they ask us to do this over skype! I certainly disdain the day I helped her with that iPad. Her mother’s thing is being skinny at all costs, for god’s sake the woman looks like a scare crow without makeup, and runs some 10 miles everyday at over 50.

My momma’s thing is staying wrinkle free, the woman hardly has shown any signs of aging as far as her skin goes. Sometimes when she see’s a particular picture of me smiling wide, she is rude enough to point out that such behavior will cause me laugh lines, crow eyes and I should certainly pray that I am inheriting her side of the skin. “Smile with your eyes, let your smile light up your eyes, but don’t do the scurching thing. All these sunshine vomiting girls will be very sorry in a few years”, says my momma to me. All throughout my childhood I have seen a very hot version of her. As if that didn’t give me enough issues, she just keeps piling on to them. “Stay away from men who smoke they are bad for your skin” 

Other women I know infect their daughters with their other insecurities, for example my grandma made sure all her daughters made sure their husbands danced to their wits. Or a girl I know, knows how to be prim and proper at all times. How never to loose face, never to accept defeat, how to always seem busier than you are. All because her momma told her so. 

Some of us also have a bitchy contest with our mothers at some point in our life. We have a love-hate relationship with them, given that these creatures love us the most on any given day, but they seriously rub off on us too. You can fairly gauge a girl on how her mother is or what is her relationship with her mother. Momma issues do exist too. 

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149,760 minutes

what have i done in these 149,760 minutes.i have had my life take a 360 on me. I have let it happen too. i have tried hard to make it work, and realized its not something to be worked on, i may have even broken my heart so severely, i may have even written a suicide note and mid-way thru I may have realized how beautiful my life is. i may have then rented la vita e bella, a beautiful life, eat pray love, heard countless songs, loved dr. cox , loved jd, loved elliot. been asked by my daddy what punishment am i giving myself, been told that i love myself less than he loves me, and for the first time found myself at loss of words.

what have i done in these 149,760 minutes, i have cried maybe rivers, burnt bridges, crossed and burnt them shore to shore. i have understood and then lost most of my friends. i could never get how a humble me could piss soo many people off, how me being down to earth would actually irritate them. how me being back makes me a slut-whore-whatever. i didn’t know someone could go 6 weeks without doing anything. i didn’t know how much I loved my momma. i didn’t know how to felt to be in love with your parents all over again.

I didn’t know to me, nothing really matters but me. I have been welcomed to the wild wild jungle, and I understand how sever life really is. what have i learnt in my last 149,760 minutes, thats 104 days approximately. I have learnt people like politically correct, over correct. I am scared to loose myself. There is a growing sense of calm and also an alarm inside me. I have felt stuck, and I have experienced too much momentum. I have learnt it is becoming more and more easy to discard people, and not look back. I have also learnt that extended family is something you can’t get rid of, as much as you want. They are the true frenomies. I have learnt its much easier to live alone than with people. I have found trapped smiling people. I have meet people with a zest for life that surpases mine with not even 1/10th of what I have. I have meet people who have made this odd compromise with life, btw these people were there in my life all along. i just see it all now. I find human relationships as for what they truly are, obligations and expectations, that keep you chained to the pursuit of material things. these last 149,760 minutes makes me crave me more, makes me want to find myself even more severely than ever before. makes me want to take this adventure. makes me want to forever travel, makes me never want to settle, makes me want to be a hopeless drifter. they have suffocated me beyond belief, they have made me want to run away. these minutes have made me seen the true point of it all.

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