the crystal

 

sometimes i wonder if

what is in front of me

is

what is behind me.

It is strange to get back to words. It seems as though I have trouble weaving them together. I have realized how much I miss words. The real world has seemed to ensnare me. It is ridiculous to say that it is the real world. Because it is not. Realer than this, I had thought. Now, however, it seems that this is a better world. I am still not sure if it is real or not. Whether or not it is real, it is somewhere I truly belong. It is as though I am coming home after a long time. The question is the problem- how long am I going to stay here? What is going to be my identity?   It is night time here. In this real world. Trouble is- it is a theatre. An outdoor theatre. I could see the stars above me if I truly wanted. If I truly wanted to raise my head and look up. If only I had the guts to leave home now. Just to step out and come back. But I am afraid, perhaps, I won’t return. This world has been difficult, I must say. It has been long since I have sat in the darkness, a pillow on my lap, and putting words to life.   The Crystal lies on the top shelf of my cupboard, undisturbed. Unperturbed. The last two years of my life have disappeared the way sweat is absorbed by a handkerchief. The two years have been long. Painful. Busy. Enlightening. It worries me, though, just as it worries many others that in an attempt to reach this enlightenment, I forgot coming home. To touch base. At this point, a faint smile takes shape on my face, and I think I know why. Theories, philosophies and beliefs sound fabulous; acting has always been my weakness. The irony is unavoidable as I wait for the lights to shine on my face and begin.   A lot has changed and some things are overwhelmingly the same. Lonely among millions, for example. I think it is something I choose, actually, as opposed to the world being evil and doing this to me. Perhaps the reason why things, events and people have seemed strange is because the choice was taken away from me. Or to be fair, I never chose what was best for me. This has been troublesome.   Amidst the syncopated disharmony of Bharatnatyam dancers, actors, directors, 70s music and the silence of the starry night, I lay on this sleeping bag now, a pillow resting below my head and my eyes fixed on the screen that lights up my face. There is no one comfortable position among the millions. The skin to skin interaction does not affect me as I lie away from the costume-ated artists.   Old memories strike back as the stars gaze at me. Songs remind me of nostalgia, something I had not forgotten, but chosen to ignore for a long time. On this hill, with the occasional power cuts, the ‘unable to connect to wireless network’ internet, I feel a part of my own world. I remember, at an interview, I had boldly declared that my favourite word was solitude. Some things don’t change after all.

 

 

She carefully took her green cloth-bag out of her leather purse. The bag was interesting. It was simple and soft. It could bend and it could fit anywhere if it was empty. But it was not. It contained something special—very special. The simple green bag had this strange power that made my mother do strange things.

 The last time I saw it was when she was telling me about her achievements. She was happy as her uncountable possessions came out of that green cloth bag. She removed her ever-so-valuable old, gold chain. She smiled and she told me about her savings. I joked with her and asked her in a very assertive way that after all, everything in the green bag belonged to me. She chuckled and perhaps laughed at my pretentious naïveté. She told me that she couldn’t give all of it to me but I would have to share it with my sister. I felt a pang of jealousy run through me even though I knew she would say this. Perhaps, just the fact that she explicitly told me what I was expecting, made me feel strange. Now that I think of it, I don’t know if it was even jealousy. The reason I think this incident was strange is because of the incident that follows.

This time, she was crying. (She pretended that she wasn’t crying but her white-on-red eyeballs forced her to shut up.) Her achievements didn’t seem to pride her. Her leather purse was just an outside, superficial mask that she carried around. It looked tough and rich. Inside, though, rested the true riches. The treasure in her green bag was what was truly worth eyeing. The bag was soft and simple—almost poor looking. There was a failed attempt to make the bag look stylish by giving it some kind of frills at the bottom. However, the simplicity of the bag was inevitable. This seemed like the truth. The green cloth bag was the truth. She held the bag in her small hands and tried to keep it back where it belonged. Before she kept it in its actual place, I was asked to leave.

I wondered if I’ll ever own that green cloth-bag, my green cloth-bag.

 

  

 

She made terrible mistakes; sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously. Her biggest mistake was that she was stubborn. Now, that caused her to be argumentative or inexpressive. She was born a baby, just like everybody else, and would cry if she was hungry, angry or sad. Then suddenly something happened and under the influence of the culture that honors sacrifices, she was taught to contain herself. Her facial features such as her bloodshot eyes or her silent frown or a massive flow of tears from her eyes would give away her hunger, anger or glum. Over the course of a few years, she rapidly moved up the ladder of maturity. She started to believe that some things are better unsaid [completely contrary to the argumentative nature that was building up in her]. She realized that she ran away from relationships and emotions. Something definitely bothered her about them. As though she just needed someone to confirm it, she was told that. How many people are you going to avoid? If need be, she answered, everyone. There was something that made her appear callous in regard to emotions of other people, and their requests to ‘just say it’. Calculations. ‘Look before you leap.’ Think.

Yet, she made terrible mistakes. Unfortunately her obstinacy was reinforced because of her terrible mistakes she made. She thought that people would not comprehend her even if she expressed herself; those who are worth it, will understand without those explanations. She was proved wrong. There are some people who are worth it [‘it’ being an abstraction of a kind that refers to nothing in particular] but still don’t understand. What do you do then? Do you let them be and decide that they are not worth it? But then, you just said that they are worth it. Toss and toss; the ball seemed to go from one court to the other in a fraction of a millisecond. [I wonder how her thought process could formulate such thoughts in this little time. Perhaps, the neurons spark in different areas of the brain that multitasks.]  Her hand stopped and grew stiff when she had to console someone. She also wonders why it is easy with some people she does not care about, or if she cares about them, there is a different feeling. Because of this stubbornness of hers, because of the consequential argumentative and inexpressive nature of hers, she made mistakes, terrible mistakes.  

as i sit here thinking about how long it has been when i have put my thoughts down in a very informal way on some external object. no paper. no computer. thoughts that are personal to me. and thoughts that are not limited to perhaps a book, article or journal. just free thoughts. that wander everywhere. in an around the gray area. those neurons that spark..perhaps they reach infinity because they don't seem to stop. not that i want them to.

 

it is time to make certain decisions. always is. every second, we make the decision. like writing the next letter and ending with a fullstop. now. but some decisions are not that easy to make. but they are necessary. i look beyond myself and in that attempt completely lose myself. strange.

 

 

sigh. i welcome myself back to this space.

 

There was red and yellow everywhere. A chaotic buzz. There were people gushing to and fro and trying to carry crying men and women. Some were on their mobile phones contacting a local authority, or a hospital, or the first person on their phonebook. The crowd seemed to increase by the second. There were frantic voices, screaming, perhaps exercising their lungs to the fullest, to decrease the crowd. There was red and yellow everywhere. She stood there incognizant of the unwanted. She wasn’t personally involved in that situation—an accident, if you like. She just happened to pass by while coming back from the grocery market. The last time she checked in the mirror, she was dressed in a red skirt that ended just below her knees, a plain white top with little fake diamonds around the neckline and a white scarf. She looked at the collapsed train. A passer-by waited for a gasp from her, fearing that she would die otherwise. She didn’t know what the gasp was for but she gasped and cursed the public transport system in Maseru. In the mirror she had checked before, she also remembered how her face was well made up and smiling. Right now, you could say that she was extremely pale and her hair didn’t know where to belong just like the half dead bodies being lifted by humane strangers, not knowing where they belonged, just like her, not knowing where she belonged. She stood there to watch. She had never, never in the history of her 23 year old life seen a terrible accident like this. She suddenly realized that her grocery bag was not in her hands. She looked away from the scene for the first time to divert her attention to the grocery bag. Now, it depends what you define as scene. The scene of the dead bodies was inescapable. The scene of the mayhem was omnipresent. The scene was something in her mind that we would not know. Her grocery bags were between her feet, a trick she learned at the airport to take care of her luggage while working on something else. She wondered what made her hand so heavy. It was the wrist watch with a leather belt. It showed quarter past eight. The seconds hand ticked as if to reiterate that her time was passing. She stood still, watching the hand go to one and then five seconds later, to two. Then somebody bumped into her—said something in a foreign tongue—and left. She had two choices, she decided. Either she could carry on with her own life that waited for her—which included many files and papers or two, she could help the semi-dead people to get to where they belonged. A tough decision to make. She didn’t have to make her decision. A white man approached her and asked her if he could have her scarf to use to cover a wound of a man. She was confused a little because of the heavy British accent. After comprehending the sign of his finger pointing at her scarf, she took off her scarf instantaneously and gave it to him. When she thought about how expensive that scarf was, she cursed herself to have such frivolous thoughts when thousands were waiting for her to save their lives. So she decided to leave her paperwork for the time-being as much as she will have to face the dire consequences. Her job, her morals told her was to help the severely injured, thrashed in blood all over their bodies. Since she was there, she was doing what she was doing. If she was at home and watched this on a news channel, she would have shrugged and decided to continue her work. Perhaps, after she completed her research in Maseru and her PhD, she would donate some money to the victims of this accident. She asked the white man in her broken English what the cause of the accident was. The British man was sweating and his sleeves were rolled up. His shirt had a patch of blood on his chest. He was breathing fast and amidst his breaths, he told her it was a bomb blast instigated by a radical political party. She nodded and tried to keep up with the man’s pace. She could hear men and women screaming and children crying. There was red and yellow everywhere. She spotted a little child being consoled by a crying father who was covered in blood and had a woman on his lap, asleep. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to scream at the thought of being forced into entering the scene. If the white man hadn’t asked for her scarf, she could have gone off to do her job, her life. She rationalised that if she screamed, it wouldn’t help. She would be just another one in the crowd. Nothing extraordinary. She thought about what she would have done when she went home, prepared herself and the food she bought for the special somebody who was going to visit her, all the way from a different continent; she would decorate her apartment—a small apartment with air-conditioning and yellow lamps. Yellow lamps. She saw the yellow lamps lit on the street. Red and yellow. Her neck turned from side to side. She was going crazy. The lamps on the street appeared like a line in front of her eyes. She gained control of herself. She stopped. She looked below and saw a sight she didn’t want to see. She screamed and spat. The crowd seemed to ignore her. She had lost the white man. She carried a little crying baby covered in red liquid to the ambulance. She wiped his tears. There was a momentary silence in her mind. In her scene. She engulfed herself in the havoc again and stopped to look at a woman who was screaming with pain—almost paroxysmal. She held her kicking legs, and a fat, old man threw his hat away and held the raging woman’s hands. They both carried the screaming woman to the ambulance and the fat old man left without acknowledging her. Perhaps he left to get other such woman to where they belonged. There was a sense of urgency emerging at the rate of almost one million urgency unit per nanosecond. Our protagonist was lost in the scene once more. Her head spun from the pandemonium. She spotted white skin. Her feet rushed towards it and she stood there staring. The white man and a black man were carrying a still body on the stretcher. Their faces and hands were both red. Red and yellow. The body on the stretcher was wearing a white shirt with red distorted flowers—flowers that were skewed. Perhaps an imitation of roses. She could see skin under the torn black cloth of his pants. She looked at the body and she froze. Tears rolled down her face and she screamed. The white man carrying the body put the stretcher down. She knelt to look closely at the body. She started crying loudly. She was crying like the father consoling the little child. No. She was crying like the child who had nowhere to go. She felt as though she had just been kicked in the stomach. She looked at the dead body closely. She stopped for a second. Her right hand touched the face of the body and she began to cry again. The white man asked her something in his strong British accent. She just noticed the inflection in his voice that told her it was a question. The crowd had increased and the dead body could wait. The other semi-dead bodies perhaps didn’t need the white man anymore. Perhaps, she did. In her scene. She touched the dead body’s heart, tried to listen to it. Nothing. She touched the wrist and—nothing. She kissed the lips of the dead body and screamed something in the dead man’s ear. What she said, is unknown to us. She said something in a language only he understood. The dead man. He was alone. She was alone. She had always been alone. She would never be able to know why this dead man decided to come early, without her knowledge. Her special somebody. Perhaps he had told their story to someone on the train. A stranger. She would never know. Perhaps he had written her a letter and it hadn’t reached yet. She would wait. The thought of yellow lamps and air-conditioning disgusted her. The white man knelt down next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. What would she have done if the white man hadn’t taken her scarf? She would have waited, waited for yellow lamps.

When an electron is shared among two atoms, it affects the polarity of the compound. the magnitude of the charge is measured by coulombs. in a non-polar compound such as Cl and CL, it is probably a 50-50 sharing. however, due to the loop structure (like the p-orbital), it probably stabilizes each Cl atom as it travels on the orbit.

 

things like these amuse me. :]

 

 

this is very very extremely generalized. doesn't imply ALL of us are like that. and don't worry i am just reassembling my bubble.

 

 

in this country of suppression of emotions--especially when it comes to SEXUAL emotions, people seek a way to ''bond'' with others through an innocent countenance. so what happens is that, in a crowded area people enjoy the fact that they are close to so many other people of let's just say, variety. men who cannot afford a regular sex worker opt to travel by buses and trains that are WAYY too crowded because that is the only place where women are willing to let them touch them because it is ''accidental''. actually, trains in india forbid that to an extent merely because of hte 'ladies compartment' that the ladies prefer to travel by. however, the ladies in the general compartment are the ones who are subject to that. obviously, not blaming hte men entirely because the ladies don't mind it either. the funny thing is some of the heterosexual people don't mind the VERY close touch of some other person of hte same sex because sexuality doesn't matter. the mere fact that someone is touching them is so pleasing. now, this is the theory..SEX is taboo. people cannot touch their other half in public because of how it is viewed in the society. teenagers for example are forbidden to have a relationship, let alone sex. period. after marriage, it is compulsary. some of the men have just slept with ONE woman [if htey are lucky] in their entire life and had many fantasies about many other women.. in quest of that 'variety'. now where else or how else can they get someone [not counting incest] to touch them without the existence of hte over populated buses or trains. [does that explain the population density of hte country? ] crowded places like buses where they are standing and a stranger woman is sitting works. sometimes.. even collapsing on to the woman 'by mistake' is okay [some obviously slap the men..but...]. without forcing the woman, they can get many things acheived. sigh. but hey, the women are no less. it is okay for others to touch them as much as tehy want as long as it is subtle even for the woman herself to realize. heres the problem. i cannot be in the same scenario. i cannot stand it. my bubble is WAYY too big for a crowded bus. the thought of having a man or a woman touching me without my consent is just not within my imaginable limit. i need my space. i need the men to stand a few feet away from me because i don't want them to subtlely enjoy themselves while i sit there..suffering..pretending to be unaware..regretting the presence. neither do i want the women to gain a sense of 'comfort' or whatever they might find in touching another woman by throwing themselves on me. i don't care if they do it to each other but when it comes to my bubble, very few people can pop it. *mumbles..* all those extra marital affairs that go on on buses. and the partners at home don't even have the slightest clue.

it is so peculiar and interesting that men holding hands with men in bombay is totally fine but a man and a woman is not okay. the hawaldaars will come and tell them to not be ''all over each other''. but homosexuality is viewed as such a BAD thing. just ironic. but thats something else.

 

this is about invading personal space. about popping the bubble.

i fell in love with her as soon as i saw her. she is amazing. i could adopt her. i loved her so much. slums weren't what she deserved. she deserves to be a princess.

 

 

 

 

steal my thoughts
and make them yours.
search all over my body.
kiss each and every scar you find.

 

do your magic,
and let it rain again.
let my eyes speak for you.
read it, baby, read my mind.

 

 

 

if you could always hear me,

you would hear me now.

 

you would hear me when i whispered

te quiero mucho.

 

if you could always hear me,

you would hear me thinking...

 

you would hear me think

how do i die here while he dies?

 

if you could always hear me,

you would hear my silent prayers.

 

you would hear me pray,

oh God, make miracles happen.

 

---

illusions are meant to deceive you.

 

let them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

if nobody tells me that they are illusions, that will be my reality. i'll just run away from those who want to shatter my dreams.

irony.

 

 

run away? HA.

three of us sat on my bed--discussing literature--Beloved. a common story that we all shared apart from being at one place at one given time. our lives are different--very differnt. from three different parts o the world, we sat there--shortening each and every route. but what went inside each mind--no third person could guess. i know what i was thinking about--a series of complex notions simplified by two words. and it would solve what i was thinking about. i wasn't sure if i would want to do that when i was completely conscious. implement those two words. discussing the superficial and abstract ideas of a literary piece was secondary. what the other two thought about, i wouldn't know.i could guess. but if the guess was right or wrong, i wouldn't know. sleep engulfed one. a conversation outside the room seemed to interest the other. nobody minded the deviation from the central topic of discussion--merely becauase there is so much more. thoughts do matter. and without them, our stories wouldn't have coincided. beloved. hehe.

 

 

 

 

When the lover sends a coded message, how much fun it is to lie down and decode it. You think about his style of writing..what he would write..why he would write it. You recognize the handwriting so well that you know the difference between 'U' and 'V' despite the fact that they look so alike when he writes them. He forgets to put the little line on 'O' to make it 'Q'. He spells awkward akward. And you still know what he means because you have worked it out. The code. And you smile.

 

 

Roses and kisses,

Rain and candles--

and champagne..

If it all happened tonight,

It would be lovers' night.

---

 

Save Tonight

 

 

 

 

 

 

India holds so many opportunities for me.. I was not aware. I always thought of some aspects of Indian culture causing the deterioration of hte country. A week in the city of Ahmednagar gave me another perspective. Partially. I visited brothels and had a chance to interact with some of the sex workers. One thing I was very impressed by was that a woman who is respected within the community of sex workers was given a high ranking as a sex worker. A practicing sex worker who teaches other prostitutes about ways to improve their lives is called a peer educator. She attends regular sessions to first be educated by a field officer and then makes that trust that all prostitutes need. Works.

 

Arranged marriage was another aspect of Indian culture that I am not sure I can totally support. I don't quite know anyone, who had an arranged marriage, extremely satisfied and happy with their married relationship. In a village called Hirve Bazaar, the concept of arranged marriage still exists. The people do not deviate from their culture, however, use their common senses to improve the situation of hte married couples in the village. The rule now is that the couple has to test for HIV/AIDS before marriage [at the time of proposal]. This ensures that people are not contracting HIV/AIDS and increasing the number of people being infected by producing children. I was very impressed.

 

The village Hirve Bazaar was the epitome of development or potential development in India. They developed their land in a water shed and received aid from the government for further enhancing the program. They are hard-core socialists and their education system is mind-blowing. The children are actually doing what htey are supposed to do at their age. "Heads, shoulders, knees and toes.." for the first graders. hehe. I found that really cute. Their water, they claim is cleaner than Bisleri. I drank it and it was, for sure PURE. The water is not wasted as it is used for the plants by direct sewage systems. It is as though an ancient civilization which was sooo developed. I was really impressed.

 

The toilets weren't as comfortable as I would have imagined..but hey.. I should stop complaining.

 

---

I've got mail! I can't open it before the 21st. I can't wait. hehe.

The other day, there was a little girl who followed me around streets of Bombay wanting chocolate. She was dressed in ragged clothes with shabby hair and she was begging for some chocolate. She was about to die but I pulled her away from the street full of moving cars. She saw the chocolate in my hand and she wanted it. My heart melted like the chocolate would if I held it tight in my warm hands. Then, my principle struck me. Despite the fact that she wanted chocolate and not money, I was and I still am totally against begging. My heart wanted to cry for the little girl and I wanted to give her the chocolate that I would share with a bunch of people who could afford any damn chocolate on the planet. But, my mind reminded me...she should know begging is not the way. How would she know that? Now, that I think of it, HOW on earth would she know that? I walked away without giving her any of my chocolate and she didn't stop begging. If I had explained to her, maybe that would have helped. But I walked away like a terrible bitch who was selfish and heartless. Begging is not the way, I know. But she doesn't. Not unless someone TELLS her. Sigh.

 

So the next day, I bought two hairclips [that I will never wear...] on a train from another little girl who knew begging wasn't the way. I paid her how much she wanted. I stepped out of the train, with a sigh of relief...but not quite.

 

I feel so terrible. I even ate the chocolates I had bought. YUCK.

I'll use those hairclips. :) I will.

---

She works.

 

 

 

 

 

Its raining lightly as you sip coffee. There are people of different shades of skin and hair and eyes talking about several different things in several different languages. You end up speaking English, talking to those you don’t know so well, about important things; things you wouldn’t talk about to just random people. You talk about religion; you talk about war; you talk about abstract things like love and hate; you tell stories from your past. Finally you enter this packed room and you know it is too small. Then, you enter this tiny, little corner. You get disgusted at first. Then you take care of the bed a little…the bed that has a little stuffed animal on the side. Then you undress in the tiny space of yours, almost extremely private. You shove the clothes in the laundry bag. Already a sign of procrastination. You enter the warm blanket despite the fan running in circles above your head. It is as though it is trying to hypnotize you. That tiny place now seems cozy under the blanket. But you wonder why there is light. There is a book that lies on your desk, far away but you don’t want to read it now. You are too tired because of what you had seen today. Children of all sizes and shapes who deserve so much but their fate denies them that. You question whether you are here to change their fate. You know, all you can do is help. Perhaps, help them smile. You suddenly spot a Maggi wrapper carelessly thrown on your floor. You can’t remember when the last time you cooked noodles was.  Finally you turn off the lights and close your eyes. You think about the life around you. Things that walk, things that crawl and things that buzz. Images flash by your mind about what you did today—the children, the spicy, colorful food, random numbers and equations from the white board, the computer screen…and then you return to oblivion. A sudden pang reminds you to set the alarm for tomorrow. You set it at 6:30 and then reschedule the shower to sometime in the evening if you are lucky enough. So you reset the alarm to 7:00 so that you can get to breakfast and sip coffee once more when it is raining. (Sur)real, isn’t it?

Just before midnight, I have realized I need to wake up early tomorrow to finish some chores. Therefore, I’ve retired to bed.

 

Rewind x2

 

I went to a restaurant with my sister and my mother trying to explain both of them that they were mistaken. I failed merely because they don’t like my ‘over-smart’ diplomatic attitude and want me to take sides. Sigh. I ordered a burger with cheese and was happy…probably because an internal music kept me distracted from their heated up conversation. I was singing, “There’s a place in your heart and I know that it is love…” unfortunately or fortunately, I didn’t remember the next line. It did irritate me.

 

Rewind x4

 

I told my mother that it was his duty to pick my sister up from wherever she was as long as he was given allowance for the overtime and enough time to fill his stomach. It was his duty, as a driver to reach the airport on time to pick my dad up. It was his duty to inform my mother that I had already gone home. He deserved to be fired. I didn’t tell her that. My mom had walked out of the car when my driver said, “Abhi kidhar khana khayega mai? Abhi Aanchal ko leke aayega toh airport 11 baje pahuchega. Chalega saab ko?” That was it to piss anybody off. If it was 8:30 and he was given one hour to have dinner and pick her up at 9:30 and then go to the airport, he should be there BEFORE 10:30 [the time he was told to be there]. My mom told him to go directly to the airport and take his own sweet time to have dinner as long as he was there no later than 10:30. “Kyunki aap abhi Aanchal ko lene jaayega toh khana kaise khayega? Aur phir saab gussa karega. Aanchal ko laane ki koi jaroorat nahi hai.” We chose curtains and reached where my sister was to be picked up from. The driver was there. He was asked to hurry to the airport.

 

Rewind x6

 

I crossed the road and asked the Airtel shop guy about a latest scheme that I was interested in. he had no idea. He kept me waiting wihle he inquired but to my surprise and relief, I got a call on my phone [with a broken video card, which means there is no display, which therefore means that I don’t know who’s calling me until I answer the phone]. Finally he told me about the latest scheme and I decided my mom didn’t need Rs. 1500 for Airtel to Airtel as “free” talktime. She told the driver to have dinner while we chose curtains.

 

Rewind x8

 

I sat in a rickshaw with the rain splashing my jeans and the annoying leather like cloth on the sides o the rickshaw had started to annoy me when I saw the rickshaw-wallah looking at me through he rear view mirror. I wondered why the mirror was showing him [which mean that he could see me]. Grr. I got home and saw the door locked. Looked of the key at all the pre-decided hiding places. Bad luck. I thanked all the gods and goddesses of the religions of the world for giving me a decent memory when it came to memorizing numbers because first, I don’t know the god/goddess of numbers and second, I couldn’t SEE the phonebook. Then I decided I didn’t want to thank all the gods and goddesses of the religions of the world. Tried mom. “The Airtel customer you are trying to call, is currently out of service…” [I don’t understand why they are women with interesting voices and why not men with some sexy voice although the ratio of men to women in India is higher. I suppose it is just because of that. They please the male callers which are obviously more than the female callers since the ratio of men to women in India is higher.] Tried sister. “Craaaazzyyyyy Froggg…Craazyyyyy frogggg…beep beep beep.” [I don’t understand why she wants to waste her money for pathetic caller tunes. What’s wrong with normal tring tring? I could have used up that money to send SIX international text messages!] Tried driver. Finally. He told me that my mom had come to the place I was, to pick me up. [*Bangs head on the nearest wall.*] I sat in the verandah on the rocking chair and it stormed. It rained. And it felt good. As soon as the door opened, I popped a pill for a threatening flu and left again to choose curtains.

 

Rewind x10

 

I walked out of the building, in the rain to hail a rickshaw. My bag tried to cover my head as I hurried towards an empty rickshaw. A stranger came next to me…a man who looked in his 20s and said, “Hi!” I thought it was a friend of mine but wasn’t able to recognize him cause it was raining and he had a raincoat on. So I said, “Hi!”. Then he went ahead and said something I couldn’t decipher because of the rain and the traffic. I just could hear his last two words—“too good” with the “too good” gesture. I asked him “What?” obviously realizing by now he is not someone I know. He told me, through his gestures, “Nevermind” and rain ahead to the bus-stop. Weird.

 

Rewind x12

 

If light is an electromagnetic wave, but travels in a straight line, how can it be a wave? There are electric and magnetic fields. Light doesn’t travel like a wave…up and down. It is not a particle. Why is the sky blue? Because red light scatters the most…we have a dysfunctional eye…myopia…my myopia. If white light is polychromatic, what does c represent? The mean of the spectrum, yellow light based on the frequency has a velocity. That is the velocity of light. Average.

 

Rewind x14

 

People constantly compliment me on my bracelet. I a actually very proud of it. The conversations are usually like this.

 

X: Wow, nice bracelet!

Me: Thanks. [*smiles so much and almost blushes*]

X: Suits you.

Me: Hehe. Really? [*smiles harder*]

X: Yeah [pause] Doesn’t it get black?

Me: Oh no, it’s silver. [then I realize how cocky it would have sounded. So I add] I got it as a present.

X: Ooh, present? For what?

Me: Ahem. Birthday present. [*still smiling wistfully*]

X: Wow, who gave it to you?

Me: Hehe. Ahem. Someone…

And then I distract them with something else. Usually.

Today this happened.

 

Rewind x16

 

Are you sure Australia comes in the rest of the world and not S.E Asia? Calls to S.E Asia= Rs. 4.99 per minute. But if Australia is in the rest of the world, the rate is Rs. 18.00 per minute. How much does Nokia 6255 cost? Why only LG and Nokia are available? What if…?

 

Rewind x18

 

Café Coffee Day and Mocha’s seems to be one of the most famous hanging out places since there is no Starbucks. Café latte was good enough to keep my throat calm. I met a friend of mine after about 6 months. We tried to eat bhel but it was closed. So we went back to CCD and ordered a chicken sandwich. Nirvana and Creed were requested. But Michael Jackson was also played, “There’s a place in your heart and I know that it is love…” I looked for a mini- rickshaw [toy] to send it to some people but didn’t find it and ended up getting distracted with headphones [with microphones]. I typed an SMS…a sweet , wistful one but realized I didn’t have enough credit on my card [I stole my sister’s phone]. The message remained unsent. But the message remained. At least.

 

Rewind x20

 

I wanted to send a text message. Sigh. When they say that one realizes the true value of someone when they are gone, they are right. But nobody has gone…I hope.

 

Rewind x22

 

I was sitting in the car listening to Aerosmith singing ‘I don’t wanna miss a thing’ and smiled. I saw all of the people on the road were frowning. It was so interesting to see them all expressing so much with their frowns. I saw a mother, frowning, carrying her baby, frowning. I saw school children with so much tension on their faces. I saw old men smoking bidis and frowning. I was getting used to those frowns when I saw someone walking alone…thinking…probably nostalgic and smiling. He had a closed umbrella in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other. He smiled and shook his head. [I felt like candid camera]. Reminded me of me. I was sitting in the car listening to Aerosmith singing ‘I don’t wanna miss a thing’ and smiled.

Rewind x24

 

I wiped my bathroom before I showered in it. Phew.