White Walkers and Pokemon



It is 6:00 am on a Sunday morning. The thought of a long, free day is making me stretch my arms behind and smile. I don’t remember much of what happened last night. I remember watching Austenland on Romedy now. I remember the Mushroom soup and Hot Chocolate at Glen’s and the good Old Monk at K. I remember tissue papers on which N and I wrote down who is playing whom in the groupa version of Karan Arjun and Sairat and Game of Thrones.

M wanted to be the baby and Manjule in Sairat. He wants to be everything. N held my ear sweetly and congratulated me for my Selvaraghavan piece. After we recovered from the laughing fit and teasing her mercilessly, M decided he was Shea and the Night King and Ramsay Bolton. I tried burning him with my eyes but he kept laughing. I gave up when he started imitating a white walker. Namsies is Jamie Lannister and Archie. N is Mamta Kulkarni and the Scorpion chick. This ended with some Whitney Houston love even as people around our table started giving us bitch looks.

I woke at 3:00 this morning knowing that I had to write. It makes me happy to have this Sunday. The possibilities are endless. It’s nice to hear the day breaking before I can see it. The stupid birds and the stupid dogs are up. The sun is up, I can’t see it but the daylight has washed the whole sky. It is cold, the door is thrown open and I am cocooned in my blue rug.

I am yet to finish the women in pub piece. I am convinced that I’ll be unhappy for the rest of my life if I give up on that piece. I had to abandon Ferrante because leaping to her immediately after Atwood was a bad idea. I am now reading ‘The Illicit of Happiness of other People.’ I am through 120 pages in two days, which is more than what I have achieved since college began. I’m waiting to finish it today.

It’s drizzling now and I wish I could drink some of that smooth Hot Chocolate from yesterday. Everyone’s going gaga over that Pokemon go game. Students aimlessly walked around the department yesterday. I wanted to slipper them. Idiots. I can’t deal with another addiction now, at this point.

I have to watch a long documentary on civil war for class tomorrow. There are DVD’s that must be returned, restaurants that must be eaten at, and clothes to be given for alteration this week and all I can think of is the growing list of movies and plays I haven’t watched and Brahman Naman which is now on Netflix

For now, I’m going to deep breathe the fuck out of this Sunday 🙂




Another Sunday

I went to sleep over at N’s last night. The plan was ripe and had vaguely been discussed over the phone in the midst of all knowing giggles. ‘I’ll bring wine, we’ll write.’ I didn’t bring wine and we wrote a little. The place had changed a lot from the last time I was there. The tiles were cooler and the walls were whiter than I remember. The couch was soft and warm, she’d been sitting there. We sat at the table for a little while and I opened the many drafts I’d saved. I added a sentence to each of these drafts and closed them all. Later N and I showed each other what we’d been writing over the week.

Her new one is about a girl who has to stay home because of a fever and then when she goes back to school – the boy she had a crush on has fallen for her friend. Mine was about a boy who works in a college canteen. He is very curious about the order of nature and refuses to accept that it’s just chance that makes people get a leg piece from the big boulder of chicken biryani he scoops from.

We talked about college, swimming, and sarees. We decided that it’s time I wore one. I mentioned Heteroglossia. I didn’t even know that I remembered the word. When I’d learnt all about it in M.A, I thought it’d be one of those words that would escape me and then years later when I’m explaining it to somebody, I would remember the meaning but not the word. It would have to be googled. But last night, it just popped out of my mouth – as if it had been sitting there all evening, waiting to come out.

At 12:15, N gave me her copy of Electric Feather – a book of erotic stories. The cover is off-white and the spine is a dark purple. On the front, there is a picture of the same book hidden under a pillow – its purple spine shamelessly showing from the gap between pillow and the bed. My eyes are already heavy when I start reading it. I have to read a page over and over again because each time I read it, I realize that I haven’t read it at all. At 12:45 I give up and snuggle under the circle warmth of the rug.

In the morning, we eat Idli and Vada. We make plans to go out. We don’t consider writing just then. When we talk about going to Glen’s, I can picture us there. I have already picked out the table we are going to sit at, and the soup I’m going to order. We stop at Health & Glow for a while and I gather the courage to pick up exotic shampoos in fruity colored bottles. At the counter, my courage skims and becomes a thin line of what ifs. I return the exotic shampoos and buy the more comforting Pantene.

On our way to Glen’s, we decide to be adventurous and go instead to Café Mezzuna.We’d heard enough about its dessert platter. The glorious Cheesecake – Crème brûlée – Chocolate Mousse – Pannacotta combo. Mezzuna is in a basement but looks a lot like a rooftop coffee shop. We order us some chicken and barely soup, bassa fish, coffee and creme brulee.

N and I can comfortably sit with each other in silence. Now and then, she will suddenly burst into a string of laughs and then nod as if in agreement with herself.

I had started reading the electric feather. This time, I picked a story by Paromita Vohra called Tourists. It’s about two people whose fondness for chocolates and their livid attractions for each other take them back in time to 1977 Andaman & Nicobar. And here they discover that in this strange house, nobody can see them or hear them. Like a Bollywood movie, the plot thickens and thickens, often only interrupted by gorgeous sex scenes. They fuck like bunnies all over the house. It’s a perfect sex getaway. And then I giggled joyously when I read that one morning they wake up to find Indira Gandhi in their bedroom. She of course, cannot hear them or see their naked, exhausted bodies. This was the best sex story I’d read in a long, long time.

My Sunday took off to a great start. On my way back home I had to buy a new helmet because somebody robbed my old one. It was only when I was nearing home that I realised that this new one was awfully tight and left me with a throbbing headache when I finally removed it.

Anyway, I had a sudden desire to watch old TV shows so I spent the rest of the evening downloading Bewitched and watching the movie adaptation. If all my Sundays this year can promise to be this fulfilling, I don’t mind dying next year.

Oh free Sunday

It’s 5:00 in the evening. I’m sitting at my desktop with both the terrace doors wide open. It’s windy outside. I had an epiphany when I was finishing my chai and so I decided to make a blog post out of it. Today’s possibly the freest Sunday I’m going to have in a long time –  until far, far November.

College has reopened and much as I am still hungover from the month long vacation, I am really excited about this semester. I have always had a school-girl fascination with new beginnings no matter how much I hated the endings. When college closed for vacation this April, I thought I’d roll on the floor and cry when it reopened in June. Turns out, I am a romantic like that. Nothing can make me hate my job. Nothing can make me hate my desk at work. And one month is enough to make me miss having a job and waking up to it every single day.

Image Credits – http://www.relatably.com

I remember having an epiphany at Meta this year. Something about spaces having more meaning than people and how Meta has gone beyond people. Similar feelings are happening off for my job also. It is coming around to mean a lot more than it did a couple of months ago. It has gone beyond people and maybe even beyond me.

In other news, I’ve discovered a great way to blackmail myself into writing. I’d already bought The Private Life of Mrs. Sharma on Kindle when I was just finishing Cat’s Eye. And I told myself not to start reading it unless I finished writing about Cat’s EyeThis was especially hard because I was dying to read TPLOMS. I read an extract and it made me giggle and fall about everywhere. I felt threatened in those four long days it took me to finish writing about Cat’s Eye. 

It’s a sick thing to do but I am not complaining. I’m bearing the sweet fruits now, aren’t I? Spent the whole afternoon giggling under my bed sheet, reading TPLOMS. 

I’m also back to watching New Girl. Ransacked Seasons 4 and 5 in three days – also got suspiciously teary-eyed at Schmidt and Cece’s wedding. Damn you, Jessica Day. I love you more and more with each passing episode.

Image Credits – pinterest.com

I don’t really care about the epiphany I had when I began writing this post anymore. What was it anyway? That today’s probably the freest Sunday I’m going to have? That’s alright. I am going to bed with Mrs. Sharma and Jessica Day tonight so it’s totes worth it 🙂

Over and out

It is difficult to admit to yourself when you fall out of love. There aren’t signs nor symbols to tell you when you do, unlike when you are in love where every tear drop is out of feeling lucky and blessed, every smile is a play of memory and desire and every morning is a prayer. Here on the other side, there is a void now which is slowly beginning to fill with everything you don’t say to each other. A pause that appears more than once in a conversation; it twitches and you want nothing more than to wrap it up and put it in your pocket; to let it out only when it is healthier and is sure to inspire thoughtfulness and shared smiles.

It takes longer to dress up now, you pick clothes you don’t find interesting. When you turn back at your door and see the light and warmth in the curtains and the slow, rhythmic rising of fumes from incense sticks, you sigh and hang on to the hope of another Sunday, when all of this will be yours to touch and feel.

You go to familiar places, hoping it will rekindle forgotten desires, now abandoned in limbos – neither here nor there. The walk from the parking lot to the escalator is the hope for a good day. Then you say something, he says something else. Your face freezes in an expression you know he detests but it’s too late to think of what he detests and loves. Or perhaps you don’t care. Within a minute, the promise of a good day goes grinning by, and all you can do is stand there and wait to finish your thought, the fight.

A warped sense of pity and gratitude beckons you to walk along with him and force conversations on him, like squeezing an empty tube for that last remaining blob of toothpaste. But all you get is a set of grunts to match your ridiculous questions. You are only checking to see if the day still has potential, and then in that little distance between discomfort and accusation, you will know.

As you stand in silence on the escalator, you wonder if it always took you so long to get to the fourth floor. It seems as though another floor has been added because it really is taking you longer than usual to get there. Ringing echoes of laughter and memories of stories that you once inflicted on this escalator, this mall whisper behind you as you finally reach that dreaded fourth floor. And then a faint feeling of loveless coma whacks your face and you are left wondering if you just fell out of love.

Two pairs of hands are lifelessly sprawled on the table – they look yellow and tired. Every movement the hand makes is a battle between a desire to end the bickering, yet to not want to reach out and grasp his hand. The food arrives and you feel relief raining all over your insides. Hours later you are fighting the urge to push his weight off your chest while your face appears to be as calm as the moon. Every touch is a memory that your uncle left burnt on your thighs, hips and breasts. You go through with it and wait for it to end. It ends and you go home.

Blazer blues

I have this whole lousy thing going on at work. Effing dress code. Not that I don’t enjoy not having to wear awful sarees. I am wearing formals so I am glad. I was bloody lazy to go hunting for a blazer so went to Jabong.com and ordered an ok looking blazer. It was delivered today. Online shopping sucks. The blazer has no collar. Summer jacket it seems.

It’s 12:01 now. Seven minutes ago, I was rereading my blog. Again. Something that I’m doing a lot these days. It’s not funny how my urges to do crazy things keep changing. A few days ago, I was considering deleting my presence off of the internet. When I told this to Maggi last evening he said that soon when I reread my blog, I will be surprised because I won’t want to kill myself. Something like that happened this morning. I read the ‘Fudge’ post and wasn’t embarrassed like I would have been. And that’s enormous for me. I didn’t feel like patting myself on the back and going all swoon. I was just happy because I didn’t want to hide my face.

In other news, my bouts of depression keep returning like waves, bigger and stronger. Last evening, when I was at PC, I felt lonely. I don’t usually feel the need for company, especially not when I’m at PC. But last evening I just felt sad and useless. I didn’t know where my life was going and what I wanted from it. Today, I want Sushi, so I am good.

This morning, I was feeling less pathetic about myself. I hung around like a goat and cleaned for a bit. I am a lot better now. I just keep having sushi cravings is all. It’s Sunday today. I wish all of it were mine. I don’t want to go out. I’m ranting now so I am going to stop. 

D – Damn

All of today went in watching the entire season 2 of Girls. You know, I loved Gilmore Girls and New girl and now I am just as crazy about Girls. I love how not perfect all of these characters are. I love Shoshanna even though she is married to and has babies with the word ‘Like’. So much so that it keeps multiplying after every second word she uses. I like how they are not in love with each other all the time, just the way friends are in real life, not in love with you every second of the day. I like that Hannah is just as real as her OCD is and Marnie, just as dramatic as her clothes and eyelashes.

My favourite so far is Jessa because she is an uncomplicated person, the way we all want to be. But I also love that, she isn’t as uncomplicated as we all knew she won’t be. She has her problems which is when she runs away.

I see my relationship with sex changing with every T.V show I am watching. I can see how I’m moving away from cringing,every time I watch somebody on the show cheating on somebody to watching with curious interest. I throw in a goofy smile and start slapping my thighs sometimes if I’m completely floored.

I remember a time when sex on TV shows would make me feel unfulfilled in certain ways because they wouldn’t show you the whole damn thing. Gilmore Girls especially because not one god damn sex scene! With Girls, I love how casually they treat it. And how often they show it. Everybody is having full nude sex with everybody else. And they are doing it so much that I am afraid I will become asexual if I keep watching this show.

Even so, I love what this Dunham woman is doing on this show with nakedness. And because there’s so much of it, I think she’s doing her bit to make the world a better place to live in, by normalizing something as natural as nakedness. If you see too much of something, there’s no way in hell you’ll be curious about it. I think this is the best way to teach school kids some good sex-ed. Get them to figure out torrent and start downloading TV shows and movies from across the globe. If I haven’t already told you how much I love you, Pirate bay, I am telling you now. I love you. I think you are doing a great service to people.

Also, Jessa is on my list now.

I like her nonchalance when it comes to sex, relationships and even friendships for that matter. She travels, has lots of sex with lots of men and women and doesn’t care about things that don’t make her happy. I could almost hear my alter-ego sigh when she shrugged a man off, three seconds after having crazy monkey sex with him.

I’ve been a wreck this week. All because I’ve been spending all my time and energy on thinking about relationships. Romantic ones, non romantic ones, familial ones etc. I think I need to watch more T.V shows and read and write when I am home. It would save me a lot of drama. Also, a lot of my work gets done when I am not fighting with anybody. A lot more enlightenment comes my way when I am watching TV shows.

P.S: Where the fuck did my Sunday go?

F – Fudge

Choultries are depressing in the evenings. Disorderly empty chairs, echoes of laughing relatives bouncing off lazy white walls, broken flowers; water spilled here and there from water fights between running cousins, goodbyes and wishes hanging in the air, the feeling that the last few remaining people on the earth are pulling away, going far away from you.

It just screams emptiness, like my Sunday evenings back when I was in school. Dad watching the news; me, sprawled on the living room floor doing homework and the only ritual I most enjoyed throughout my school – Packing my bag, arranging books according to size, emptying my pencil pouch, cleaning it and then putting everything back again. It was how I coped with having to welcome Monday. I remember the sinking feeling of familiarity and consistent family time that exploded every Sunday.The news, its ads, the songs, the anchor’s dead voice, mom’s walking in and out of the hall bringing food for dad. When I think of it now, it brings an onslaught of tired whys and hows followed by 2 never mores.

It felt like I was living somebody else’s Sunday evening, on borrowed time, in borrowed space. It was not mine, it could never be mine unless I was older enough to do what I wanted to with my Sundays.

I’m old enough today. But there’s always a but.

When I am getting dressed to see you, a vast nothingness of forgotten Sundays opens up and I look at it with an almost bored desire to not be there but still be there. Sometimes, I don’t want you as much as I want you. Some other times, I think of what it would be like to have a whole Sunday for myself, without having to share it with anyone and I smile. Sometimes, I think of having too many Sundays for myself and the promise of solitude thrills me just as much as it scares me. Eventually, the fear of missing you and wanting what I could have had, but can’t now is what holds me back.

Every time, I turn cold, the memory of your laugh makes me warm. The 101 names you have given me on account of various celebratory accidents, the slowness in your movements when you sleep, the rare outbursts of affection that you show me only in my imagination, the languages you have invented and the songs you sing, the words you distort and change to fit your mouth, the way you laugh when you see people fall, the way you won’t stop laughing when I fall; your face and its creases, your hand and its raw warmth, the tightness in your chest and your hugs, the way you caress my head when I weep in your arms.

These are only some of the things that hold me back from going ahead and having at all the Sundays myself. What brings cold logic to the warm, faint beating in my heart and the voice of your laugh is the Choultry; its ugly dullness. It’s how I will be if I am with you.