As her teeth trailed down the taut skin of his neck, she could feel his jagged pulse beating to the conga of his heart. Her hapless brain registered that her thirst for him was mirrored by his, even as he straddled her intimately against the window.
20 May 2015
19 May 2015
WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
I wasn’t going to post today, I was going to work on collating the 300 lists that I have made for 25-by-25, 30-by-30, and 101-by-1001 which I started writing probably a year ago. But the overdose of poop/potty-related posts in and around the blogger world (I read four poop-related posts in two days, gotta be a record of some sort) and an incident in the office washroom have prodded me to posting this.
18 May 2015
Monday Musings #1
I must confess (if you haven't heard me harp about it yet) that I hate Mondays. So considering how foul-mouthed and foul-mooded and foul-just-about-everything I am on Mondays, I thought getting some perspective would be good for the soul. Starting this, what will hopefully be, a series on the blog.
16 May 2015
Don't Date a Girl....
14 May 2015
Ma.
She bathed him lovingly.
She warmed a bit of silky oil between her palms. A leg was flailing in the air, she caught hold of it and rubbed the oil in, starting from his fleshy thigh to the tips of his pink toes. Her hands flattened against his cute, round tummy as she worked her way up to his tiny shoulder blades and then to the tips of his tiny fingers. She caught hold of one finger and put it in her mouth, so soft, so succulent. She looked into his eyes while the baby looked back at his mother, his big, round, midnight blue eyes staring back at her with vague recognition.
She stuck her elbow in the bath water to check the temperature and opened the tap a wee bit to cool it off. Then she slid him into the bath, she got lucky with this one, he loved the water. He proceeded to spend three quarters of the next hour splashing his bathwater around and gurgling with happiness while his mother soaped up a lather on his little body and shampooed his downy hair… she worked away till he was squeaky clean, and then some.
It was just as she was reached for the warm Turkish towel that she felt the clouds blacken. It sent her into a tizzy of panic. Her husband was away, her mother had gone back home and the neighbors were at work – soshe prayed… first for strength, then for mercy. She wrapped him up and laid him down on the bed – he was not too pleased at being taken out of the bath but welcomed the warmth.
The clouds gathered some more, blackened some more till her motor skills were impaired by the hate she felt. The Chinese dagger they bought from the curio shops near the Great Wall reminded her of a memory, a happy memory, a memory unmarred by......bawling filth. A memory in which she was the centre of her husband’s world, second to none. A memory in which she didn't have to share him with anything. Especially not this... thing.
Then it became simply convenient to slowly sink the dagger into its soft flesh, piercing skin layer by layer, one swift yet soft movement. It cried out at first in shock. Then, when the blade was deep enough, only gurgles flowed out of its mouth. She laughed, so different from mocking laughs from you were in the tub, aren’t they?
As another memory broke through the clouds flitting in and out of her mind, she remembered the first time she had nursed him. But by then the bright vermilion of blood had already left a stain on the sheets that wouldn't be easy to wash away.
What have I done?
***
P.S: Postpartum psychosis is very real. Get help.
P.P.S: Linking to Three Word Wednesday
She warmed a bit of silky oil between her palms. A leg was flailing in the air, she caught hold of it and rubbed the oil in, starting from his fleshy thigh to the tips of his pink toes. Her hands flattened against his cute, round tummy as she worked her way up to his tiny shoulder blades and then to the tips of his tiny fingers. She caught hold of one finger and put it in her mouth, so soft, so succulent. She looked into his eyes while the baby looked back at his mother, his big, round, midnight blue eyes staring back at her with vague recognition.
She stuck her elbow in the bath water to check the temperature and opened the tap a wee bit to cool it off. Then she slid him into the bath, she got lucky with this one, he loved the water. He proceeded to spend three quarters of the next hour splashing his bathwater around and gurgling with happiness while his mother soaped up a lather on his little body and shampooed his downy hair… she worked away till he was squeaky clean, and then some.
It was just as she was reached for the warm Turkish towel that she felt the clouds blacken. It sent her into a tizzy of panic. Her husband was away, her mother had gone back home and the neighbors were at work – soshe prayed… first for strength, then for mercy. She wrapped him up and laid him down on the bed – he was not too pleased at being taken out of the bath but welcomed the warmth.
The clouds gathered some more, blackened some more till her motor skills were impaired by the hate she felt. The Chinese dagger they bought from the curio shops near the Great Wall reminded her of a memory, a happy memory, a memory unmarred by......bawling filth. A memory in which she was the centre of her husband’s world, second to none. A memory in which she didn't have to share him with anything. Especially not this... thing.
Then it became simply convenient to slowly sink the dagger into its soft flesh, piercing skin layer by layer, one swift yet soft movement. It cried out at first in shock. Then, when the blade was deep enough, only gurgles flowed out of its mouth. She laughed, so different from mocking laughs from you were in the tub, aren’t they?
As another memory broke through the clouds flitting in and out of her mind, she remembered the first time she had nursed him. But by then the bright vermilion of blood had already left a stain on the sheets that wouldn't be easy to wash away.
What have I done?
***
P.S: Postpartum psychosis is very real. Get help.
P.P.S: Linking to Three Word Wednesday
7 May 2015
Smoke.
The hauntingly compeling memories of her swirl around me.
We grew up together - neighbours at five, friends at ten, lovers at fifteen, and soul mates at twenty five. With her by my side, I never needed much else. Struggles and sadness came and went, but nothing seemed too much to handle, for at the end of the day, I had her to go back home to. Friends flitted in and out of our lives, family was constant but distant, other suitors few and far between. Everything started and ended in the other, for us.
We weren’t physically very attached - I didn’t feel the need to intertwine my fingers with her long, sensitive ones, or feel the warmth of her skin, the slightly pepperminty breath she blew my way playfully, or twist the locks of her long tresses absently. I didn’t hug her for a second more than deemed appropriate by propriety, nor did I smile my hungry smiles at her too often. Our long, lingering kisses were always secreted away from the world. Not that we were ashamed of anything, we simply liked the comfortable niche we had made for ourselves, our world within the world where nothing, no one, marred the perfection we perfected from having eternity together.
But our souls - our souls were stitched together. Like I needed her to be able to breathe. Like my presence was her elixir of life. Like we both had one leg each and had to hold on to each other to be able to stand up straight. The benefits of knowing each other through all stages of change, I could complete her sentences and she could predict my impulsive moods. I stocked the fridge with the kale chips she loved, while she picked up Rebecca once every three months from the library, never questioning why I loved the book so much.
There are couples in love, in relationships, in marriages. And then there was us.
We argued over something silly - I didn’t like the cats getting inside the bed covers while she wouldn’t stop sneaking them in. For warmth, she said. For cuddles, she said. Voices were raised quickly enough, though. What started as a silly argument ended up as a splatter of questions on the blank white kitchen walls that shook the very foundations of our relationship, of our bond. She blurted out that she felt trapped. I recoiled instantly. That brought pity to her eyes which made me recoil even more. I lost control over my tongue and the words that came out aren’t words that ever will be erased, from my memory or hers.
A week later, she kissed me one last time before she packed her owl clock and paisley-printed spoon. And she took the long meandering path out of the house, to the bus stop. And onward.
What I applaud myself and her over, when the pain subsides for a bit, is for having known when to end things, for not having dragged it out. Like the clean swipe of a new knife that severs with medical accuracy.
Now, I’m walking down the aisle of a church I have never been in before, in a dress that is uncomfortable and unbecoming of me, with people I have never seen before in my life surrounding me, to marry a man I do not love. The memories of her linger in my being, the taste of her full lips, the crook of her heady smile, the stubborn fringe of hair, the quiet little winter snores, the warmth of her fingers, the fart jokes only we could find funny, the love in her eyes.
The memories lingered in my head as my lips repeated my wedding vows after the minister.
Linking to Three Word Wednesday
1 May 2015
Wistful Thinking
"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep." The pine cones that plop down from the trees crunch under my feet, the delightful mess that is the forest floor smells so familiar, so warm, yet so mysterious. The tall trees cast shadows so melancholic, it is a place that the sun’s rays have managed to only sliver through. But. It is not a sad place, it is a calm place, a place with leaves that always drip from the incessant rains. Not downpours, just showers, showers that are gentle and kind and refreshing, cleansing, even. Just enough to remind you what fresh feels like, smells like.
The indiscernible path meandering through the trees is visible only to the sharpest of eyes. But I pick my way through it easily, for I know every twist, every break, and every turn like the face that stares back at me in the mirror. The forest clears just a bit, a wee bit to make way for the house. A delight crafted over a decade out of wood and love and sweat and laughs and broken nails. I push the door open, the holly you hung last Christmas is still there, still green. That’s what I love most, I think, the suspension of time in this place. Like nothing ever changes, like nothing ever will.
The deliciousness of vanilla fills every nook and cranny, assaulting my senses in the best possible way. You always wonder how, not a cake in the house, yet the warm, pastry-like aura hangs in the air, all.the.time. I know the secret, I smile to myself, I have taken my obsession with it too far – vanilla body wash, vanilla body mist, vanilla body butter… not to mention the vanilla tea lights, the vanilla essence, the vanilla incense. Also, the vanilla sachets hidden under the pillows. And the couch cushions. And the curtains. Haha, you will never know why we always smelling warm, and inviting, and comfortable, and rich, and just. so. damn. yumm.
Ah, the couch. That damn couch will be the undoing of me. Of all my resolutions to get things done. It… envelops me. That’s it! That’s what it does. It envelops me in a warm embrace, that is not too tight to be confining, not too lose to be impersonal, just the right amount of squeeze. I slide into the embrace and tuck my cold toes under myself, the window is open, I like the nip in the air, the petrichor that mingles with my vanilla. And you let me leave it open despite the sniffles because you have noticed the restlessness that creeps over me when it is not.
The soft knit of the coverlet flutters onto my lap, vintage colors, as mellow as freshly-churned butter. My book is right there. My fingers graze the spine, my eyes graze the black and white cover art, my soul smells the timeless fragrance of the pages. The owl bookmark is lifted right out, I’m surprised I finished 200 pages last night before I drifted off. I read a few words, my mind goes back to recall the story, and then cuts out everything else in the world except the warm hand that reaches out from the other couch. Absently, I take the hot chocolate proffered. Absently, I take a sip and let it burn my tongue. Absently, I intertwine my fingers with yours as I lose myself to the delights of Sherlock’s adventures.
P.S: This is where I want to be. May, please take me here. Please?
The indiscernible path meandering through the trees is visible only to the sharpest of eyes. But I pick my way through it easily, for I know every twist, every break, and every turn like the face that stares back at me in the mirror. The forest clears just a bit, a wee bit to make way for the house. A delight crafted over a decade out of wood and love and sweat and laughs and broken nails. I push the door open, the holly you hung last Christmas is still there, still green. That’s what I love most, I think, the suspension of time in this place. Like nothing ever changes, like nothing ever will.
The deliciousness of vanilla fills every nook and cranny, assaulting my senses in the best possible way. You always wonder how, not a cake in the house, yet the warm, pastry-like aura hangs in the air, all.the.time. I know the secret, I smile to myself, I have taken my obsession with it too far – vanilla body wash, vanilla body mist, vanilla body butter… not to mention the vanilla tea lights, the vanilla essence, the vanilla incense. Also, the vanilla sachets hidden under the pillows. And the couch cushions. And the curtains. Haha, you will never know why we always smelling warm, and inviting, and comfortable, and rich, and just. so. damn. yumm.
Ah, the couch. That damn couch will be the undoing of me. Of all my resolutions to get things done. It… envelops me. That’s it! That’s what it does. It envelops me in a warm embrace, that is not too tight to be confining, not too lose to be impersonal, just the right amount of squeeze. I slide into the embrace and tuck my cold toes under myself, the window is open, I like the nip in the air, the petrichor that mingles with my vanilla. And you let me leave it open despite the sniffles because you have noticed the restlessness that creeps over me when it is not.
The soft knit of the coverlet flutters onto my lap, vintage colors, as mellow as freshly-churned butter. My book is right there. My fingers graze the spine, my eyes graze the black and white cover art, my soul smells the timeless fragrance of the pages. The owl bookmark is lifted right out, I’m surprised I finished 200 pages last night before I drifted off. I read a few words, my mind goes back to recall the story, and then cuts out everything else in the world except the warm hand that reaches out from the other couch. Absently, I take the hot chocolate proffered. Absently, I take a sip and let it burn my tongue. Absently, I intertwine my fingers with yours as I lose myself to the delights of Sherlock’s adventures.
P.S: This is where I want to be. May, please take me here. Please?
28 Apr 2015
Dear...
...firang in the theatre,
I’m SORRY I walked in late, I really am. It wasn’t on purpose that I missed the first 45 minutes of Avengers (not out of my mind)... I’m also not a brat, much as you’d like to think that.
My dear Bangalore’s weather decide to crap on my plans, and despite being a big fan of the rains, I do not relish getting drenched to the bone, having my dress stick to my skin, leaving puddles of water in my wake, and sitting in a theatre with centralized air-conditioning. Had I taken a chance, you’d have found it difficult to hear RDJ being cocky over my chattering teeth, aren’t you glad I spared you that?
What I’m trying to say is that I don’t relish walking over your toes to get to my seat or blocking your view of Thor, even for a second, I understand the pleasures of eye candy as thoroughly as any other girl, I swear. So you can stop glaring at me and bitching about me to your friend (you realize I understand English, right?). I promise not to do it ever again to anyone, will you promise not to be so judgmental?
Good talk.
I’m SORRY I walked in late, I really am. It wasn’t on purpose that I missed the first 45 minutes of Avengers (not out of my mind)... I’m also not a brat, much as you’d like to think that.
My dear Bangalore’s weather decide to crap on my plans, and despite being a big fan of the rains, I do not relish getting drenched to the bone, having my dress stick to my skin, leaving puddles of water in my wake, and sitting in a theatre with centralized air-conditioning. Had I taken a chance, you’d have found it difficult to hear RDJ being cocky over my chattering teeth, aren’t you glad I spared you that?
What I’m trying to say is that I don’t relish walking over your toes to get to my seat or blocking your view of Thor, even for a second, I understand the pleasures of eye candy as thoroughly as any other girl, I swear. So you can stop glaring at me and bitching about me to your friend (you realize I understand English, right?). I promise not to do it ever again to anyone, will you promise not to be so judgmental?
Good talk.
27 Apr 2015
hues, tints, tones, and shades.
 |
| PC |
The blazing red of the sun saying au revoir for the day, making me thank God for ending the day.
The muted red of my nail tips, already chipping, pitfalls of having a basin full of vessels.
The bright red of Maybelline’s Pure Reds, counteracting the pixie-ness of my hair cut.
The cheery red of my favorite shirt, that I reserve for tortuous Mondays.
The earthy red of the soil that coats the underside of my bellies,
bringing a smile to my face, the impending rains.
The dirty red of graffiti on my phone cover, reminding of the sweetiepie who gifted it to me.
The sharp red of my hair flicks, as sharp as the statement I’m trying to make.
The fiery red of bell peppers, that is strangely misleading.
The streaked red of my eyes that mirror the blues of a typical Monday I feel inside.
The rich red of the kumkum on my friend’s forehead.
The happy red of her choor(d)e, that tinkle merrily, distracting me from my Mining Equipment file.
The fake red of the ketchup I push away at lunch.
The deep red of the drop of blood that my cat elicits during a play session.
The worn-out red of the carpet, trodden under the feet of a hundred people.
The angry red I see when I spy typos.
The clean red of my bedsheets as I sink into them, willing the week to disappear into the long weekend.
22 Apr 2015
Death by Chocolate. No, quite literally.
So this is one of the (many, many) lets-laugh-at-PV jokes that people told at my farewell in the last company. This is my version and the correct version, don’t let anybody else tell you otherwise.
This was about three months into my very first job (in the aforementioned company) and my dear TL, Manjeet Singh, decided to have lunch with his all-girls team :P (I’m already laughing at how this sounds to the outsider and how far from the truth that impression is, but I’m not going to correct the impression because I like being mean to Manjeeta. Heehee. Hopefully, he will never read his or I’m going to get thwacked). Lunch is at a pub, I didn’t know what to order (yes, a girl from the semi-village took some time to learn how to order. Go on, laugh at me.) Conversation is strained with my friend because I stood her up and I wasn’t really on chatting terms with the rest of the team (yes, I was chronically socially awkward. Still am, a lot of times). Needless to say, the exercise was one of extreme discomfort on my part and stomach cramps did nothing to alleviate the situation.
Till somebody said ‘dessert’.
I jumped at the chance but unfortunately, no one else did because a) they had ordered sensibly and b) they had ordered sensibly. At my downcast face, my friend said she’d shared dessert with me and I didn’t wait for her to ask twice (which in hindsight, I should have).
The innocuous-looking item on the menu turning out to be half a pound of chocolate cake, the moment it turned the corner and headed towards our table, I knew I was in trouble. BUT I was comforted by the fact that my friend was going to share it.
Everyone was suitably impressed by the space I’d left for dessert in my stomach, including Manjeeta, and I smiled and waved and took a couple of bites of the cake. Bits of chocolate heaven, no doubt about it. Things were quite okay till my dear friend decided she’d had enough, after only three tiny bites. I was aghast, how was I going to eat all that cake by myself?!! (no, the thought of having it packed in a doggie bag and taking it home to eat later when I would have actually enjoyed it did not cross my extremely intelligent (please get the sarcasm) mind)
So I hitched up my pants, rolled up my sleeves and slogged through the whole damn half a pound cake.
Needless to say the last bite was the last ever bite of chocolate cake I’ve taken since (not really, but dramatic effect is necessary no?). Needless to say I was just about holding it together till I got home and cried out chocolate cake.
Needless to say, learn how to say no before you let chocolate cake be the death of you.
Or just ask for a damn doggie bag.
This was about three months into my very first job (in the aforementioned company) and my dear TL, Manjeet Singh, decided to have lunch with his all-girls team :P (I’m already laughing at how this sounds to the outsider and how far from the truth that impression is, but I’m not going to correct the impression because I like being mean to Manjeeta. Heehee. Hopefully, he will never read his or I’m going to get thwacked). Lunch is at a pub, I didn’t know what to order (yes, a girl from the semi-village took some time to learn how to order. Go on, laugh at me.) Conversation is strained with my friend because I stood her up and I wasn’t really on chatting terms with the rest of the team (yes, I was chronically socially awkward. Still am, a lot of times). Needless to say, the exercise was one of extreme discomfort on my part and stomach cramps did nothing to alleviate the situation.
Till somebody said ‘dessert’.
I jumped at the chance but unfortunately, no one else did because a) they had ordered sensibly and b) they had ordered sensibly. At my downcast face, my friend said she’d shared dessert with me and I didn’t wait for her to ask twice (which in hindsight, I should have).
The innocuous-looking item on the menu turning out to be half a pound of chocolate cake, the moment it turned the corner and headed towards our table, I knew I was in trouble. BUT I was comforted by the fact that my friend was going to share it.
Everyone was suitably impressed by the space I’d left for dessert in my stomach, including Manjeeta, and I smiled and waved and took a couple of bites of the cake. Bits of chocolate heaven, no doubt about it. Things were quite okay till my dear friend decided she’d had enough, after only three tiny bites. I was aghast, how was I going to eat all that cake by myself?!! (no, the thought of having it packed in a doggie bag and taking it home to eat later when I would have actually enjoyed it did not cross my extremely intelligent (please get the sarcasm) mind)
So I hitched up my pants, rolled up my sleeves and slogged through the whole damn half a pound cake.
Needless to say the last bite was the last ever bite of chocolate cake I’ve taken since (not really, but dramatic effect is necessary no?). Needless to say I was just about holding it together till I got home and cried out chocolate cake.
Needless to say, learn how to say no before you let chocolate cake be the death of you.
Or just ask for a damn doggie bag.
 |
| Over. And Out. |
20 Apr 2015
10 Things You Really Don't Need To Know About Me
Been a long time since I TMI-ed you guys. So here goes nothing.
10> I cannot, CANNOT stand public washrooms. I’d rather hold it in, get UTI and die than tinkle in most public washrooms.
9> The thought of sharing my toothbrush and books with ANYONE makes me want to hurl.
8> I seem to have developed an obsession for all things owlish in the last few years.
7> I am probably the best non-practicing fashion follower ever. As in, I like looking up trends, shades, makeup, hemlines, and whatnot, but retract into being a semi-tomboy in real life. Zero effort goes into picking out my clothes for the day/have a basic skin care routine with products I've used since high school.
6> I hate the heat/summer. I HATE it. I HATE IT SO VERY MUCH. Indian summers are the bane of my existence, clearly I was born in the wrong part of the world.
I love the cold: lower the temperature, the better. I’m in the best of moods when I’m drenched to the bone from riding in the rain or my toes and fingertips are going numb in the cold.
5> I've never been a grammar Nazi; I’ve always made up words whenever I wanted to, chosen a very conversational style of writing, set an informal tone. But I've become 10x more conscious of my own casual writing and that of others since I started editing. My old posts end up making me cringe. Talk about letting a job dictate terms.
6> Considering my obsession with chocolate and related things, it is easy to assume that I have a sweet tooth – I don’t. I don’t like most Indian sweets except Chikki and Ras Malai and sometimes, a stray Doodh Peda.
5> Rice-hater, yo! Only rice I will put in my mouth is Ma’s pulao. Roti-lover all the way!
4> Vegetarian by choice for more than a decade now, and proud of it (despite all the ghas-phoos jokes). My family and friends hate me for it though, I’m sure, what with having to cook both vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes for every meal.
3> Not great at it but I love cooking, love shopping for cooking and love reading up recipes.
2> Sucker for photos. I can browse Pinterest for days together and then some.
1> Not a morning person. At all. Never been, never will be, have stopped trying. I envy all those people who can get anything except <brushing, bathing, pulling on a tee and jeans (God help me if I have to work in an org that has a dress code), and running out of the door> done in the mornings. I snooze all the way from 6.00 am to 8.00 am. Doesn’t matter if I’m woken up every eight minutes by my phone, I’ll still rebel and stay in bed just to prove a point. To who, I don’t know.
10> I cannot, CANNOT stand public washrooms. I’d rather hold it in, get UTI and die than tinkle in most public washrooms.
9> The thought of sharing my toothbrush and books with ANYONE makes me want to hurl.
8> I seem to have developed an obsession for all things owlish in the last few years.
7> I am probably the best non-practicing fashion follower ever. As in, I like looking up trends, shades, makeup, hemlines, and whatnot, but retract into being a semi-tomboy in real life. Zero effort goes into picking out my clothes for the day/have a basic skin care routine with products I've used since high school.
6> I hate the heat/summer. I HATE it. I HATE IT SO VERY MUCH. Indian summers are the bane of my existence, clearly I was born in the wrong part of the world.
I love the cold: lower the temperature, the better. I’m in the best of moods when I’m drenched to the bone from riding in the rain or my toes and fingertips are going numb in the cold.
5> I've never been a grammar Nazi; I’ve always made up words whenever I wanted to, chosen a very conversational style of writing, set an informal tone. But I've become 10x more conscious of my own casual writing and that of others since I started editing. My old posts end up making me cringe. Talk about letting a job dictate terms.
6> Considering my obsession with chocolate and related things, it is easy to assume that I have a sweet tooth – I don’t. I don’t like most Indian sweets except Chikki and Ras Malai and sometimes, a stray Doodh Peda.
5> Rice-hater, yo! Only rice I will put in my mouth is Ma’s pulao. Roti-lover all the way!
4> Vegetarian by choice for more than a decade now, and proud of it (despite all the ghas-phoos jokes). My family and friends hate me for it though, I’m sure, what with having to cook both vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes for every meal.
3> Not great at it but I love cooking, love shopping for cooking and love reading up recipes.
2> Sucker for photos. I can browse Pinterest for days together and then some.
1> Not a morning person. At all. Never been, never will be, have stopped trying. I envy all those people who can get anything except <brushing, bathing, pulling on a tee and jeans (God help me if I have to work in an org that has a dress code), and running out of the door> done in the mornings. I snooze all the way from 6.00 am to 8.00 am. Doesn’t matter if I’m woken up every eight minutes by my phone, I’ll still rebel and stay in bed just to prove a point. To who, I don’t know.
P.S: Inspired by Kelly :)
P.S.S: I wanted to add some randomness to my About Me page. Hence, the post.
P.P.S.S: If you want to take it up as a tag, you are most welcome to! Leave your links in the comments :)
P.P.P.S.S: Linking this to Alley's Open Slather
P.S.S: I wanted to add some randomness to my About Me page. Hence, the post.
P.P.S.S: If you want to take it up as a tag, you are most welcome to! Leave your links in the comments :)
P.P.P.S.S: Linking this to Alley's Open Slather
16 Apr 2015
Semi-life-update-sort-of-not-really
So clearly, the A-Z Challenge is shot to hell and back – don't worry, I've slapped myself for taking it up right in the same month I joined a new job and also, lost my laptop. I couldn't even schedule posts to cheat and get through the challenge but I did write a few posts. I guess I'll just put them up at random.
Y'all know how obsessed I was with chocolates. I named my blog after it, for heavens’ sake.
You read it right. I said was. Before anything else, let me tell you I didn’t give up on my one true love by choice. It was fate. Fate always has the last say, clearly.
You know the worst thing that can happen to a person who loves chocolates? Diabetes. No, don't panic, I don't have diabetes. Yet. That was just for effect. You know the second worst thing that can happen to a person who loves chocolates? I do. It is that current thing that runs through your teeth when you try to crunch ice cubes? Yeah. That. I get that when I eat Twix bars. Just when I thought life couldn't get any crueller.
There lies buried in the annals of life my love story with chocolate. I don't even know who I am anymore.
P.S: Clearly, today is lets-step-up-the-drama-on-tiny-insignificant-things day. And withdrawal-symptoms day. Did anybody miss my disconnected randomness? :P
Y'all know how obsessed I was with chocolates. I named my blog after it, for heavens’ sake.
You read it right. I said was. Before anything else, let me tell you I didn’t give up on my one true love by choice. It was fate. Fate always has the last say, clearly.
You know the worst thing that can happen to a person who loves chocolates? Diabetes. No, don't panic, I don't have diabetes. Yet. That was just for effect. You know the second worst thing that can happen to a person who loves chocolates? I do. It is that current thing that runs through your teeth when you try to crunch ice cubes? Yeah. That. I get that when I eat Twix bars. Just when I thought life couldn't get any crueller.
There lies buried in the annals of life my love story with chocolate. I don't even know who I am anymore.
P.S: Clearly, today is lets-step-up-the-drama-on-tiny-insignificant-things day. And withdrawal-symptoms day. Did anybody miss my disconnected randomness? :P
P.P.S: Who else loves House? Put your hands in the air and say wooohoooo :D
8 Apr 2015
Hot Chocolate in a Cuddle Cup
You and me.
Sitting across each other.
You scarfing down the chicken supreme.
With a side of crunchy wedges and creamy mayo.
And talking non-stop about who did what and when.
No heed paid to the crunch of each wedge or the crisp of each bite.
Me listening. And nodding. And digesting words and meanings and names.
And learning. And listening some more.
With a mug of tepid chocolate.
And a side of packaged brown sugar, stained in a corner, half torn.
But swirling around in a cuddle cup.
Just the right fit for my palms.
Just like you are, in my life.
You, who I became a listener for.
P.S: Chocolate Room in Koramangala had 'cuddle cups' of hot chocolate. Chocolate se mera rishta purana hai so, needless to say, a big epiphany happened around it, one fine evening.
P.P.S: Since food poisoning constitutes as extenuating circumstances, I shall continue the A-Z challenge like I didn't miss any posts/days at all :P
P.P.S.S: The office system admin found out I was on Blogger too much and decided to block all "Personal Websites". So much for that. -_-
1 Apr 2015
Anamika
I saw her sitting on one of our office chairs, quiet but not shyly so, wearing a maroon red saree and waiting for someone to say something while we were all busy getting photos taken in the pantry. The new girl who joined long after the last slew of hiring.
What I didn’t know at that time was that she suspected that the saree-wearing might be a prank and was carrying an extra salwar in her bag. Who would be that prepared? Who would have their head screwed on that well on their first day at a new job? Not me!
I didn’t think we’d be friends, for we are different types. Today, a year and a half later, this girl has made her way into my ‘people-I-need-regular-doses-of’ list. And that list is a very short one, I tell you, what with all the trusting and breaking of the heart that seems to have happened in my life.
They say it is in the small gestures. And this girl is an embodiment of that. She is the only one who will make me a whole entire vegetable lasagne so that I’ll also enjoy the occasion as much as those who are hogging on the beef lasagne. She is the only one who will stay up late before her last day at the office to write notes and make small, little gifts for every single person in her team. She is the one who will remember that I’m carsick almost all the time and keep asking me if I’m okay. And she is like that with everyone. Which is why, she is unanimously the most loved person in whichever room she happens to be in.
Though she is like my sweet, mousy Indutty from college in a lot of ways, Anamika Sudhir is only about a hundred times stronger, both physically and in mind. She is intelligent in a way that will make you eat your hat. She is never afraid of a challenge, drives like a F-1 driver, always takes care of herself and the people she cares about and is never one to back down.
So much more to her than just these few sentences but this will have to do.
I don’t know whether I admire her more or love her more, for this one never ceases to amaze.
I thank Flipkart for having brought her into my life, one of my biggest wins at that office.
30 Mar 2015
How to Overuse the Word 'Strange'.
So here I am, sitting in a strange office, at a strange desk, on a strange computer with a strange keyboard, opening a strange browser (that does not know me or have my passwords stored) and trying to find my favourite font to type with on a strange version of MS Office – they call it my new job.
Fancy title. Fancy pay. But nothing is familiar. Nothing is comfortable. I cannot even lean back in my chair without wondering if people are judging the newbie for relaxing too much. I haven’t been the newbie in almost three years.
I keep Whatsapping (because the new place is too upscale for G-talk-_-) some of my Bangalore family (who I used to call colleagues) in my Bangalore home (which I used to call the Flipkart office) and wondering if they are finding it strange that I didn’t show up late and go up to the cafeteria for brunch with them. I’m wondering if everyone is getting their work done, despite not having to send articles to me for audit.
I miss the familiarity the most. The kind that comes with having spent every last day of your three-year-old career in a single office. Every fifth minute I ask myself why I did it – chuck up the most comfortable job ever in the history of corporate jobs. But I guess I’ll get the answer only once I see the number of zeroes in my new payslip.
Till then, I’ll try and figure out the quirks of this strange keyboard and ask Chrome to store each password of mine, painstakingly.
Fancy title. Fancy pay. But nothing is familiar. Nothing is comfortable. I cannot even lean back in my chair without wondering if people are judging the newbie for relaxing too much. I haven’t been the newbie in almost three years.
I keep Whatsapping (because the new place is too upscale for G-talk-_-) some of my Bangalore family (who I used to call colleagues) in my Bangalore home (which I used to call the Flipkart office) and wondering if they are finding it strange that I didn’t show up late and go up to the cafeteria for brunch with them. I’m wondering if everyone is getting their work done, despite not having to send articles to me for audit.
I miss the familiarity the most. The kind that comes with having spent every last day of your three-year-old career in a single office. Every fifth minute I ask myself why I did it – chuck up the most comfortable job ever in the history of corporate jobs. But I guess I’ll get the answer only once I see the number of zeroes in my new payslip.
Till then, I’ll try and figure out the quirks of this strange keyboard and ask Chrome to store each password of mine, painstakingly.
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| This is how I WISH my new desk looked like. Lets see if I can make it happen :P |
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