Recently, I have been coming across a lot of '55 Fiction', which involves telling a story in just 55 words or less. I thought it was impossible, at first, because I'm the kind of writer who likes lots of relevant description. But I decided to try it out and surprised myself by coming up with something good enough, according to my standards, at least. And of course, the central theme is love, as usual. :P
From now on, every Friday will be a 55-Fiction Friday. Because I really need to practice writing tight and concise prose, which is exactly what this genre demands.
So here goes 55 Fiction #1:
He gaped at her, horrified. The girl who had claimed to have loved him for years. Unrequitedly. She had at last found her way into his arms, where he held her. Dumbstruck.
‘I love you,’ she whispered one last time, before her body went limp. Thanks to the bullet she had just taken for him.
Writer's Block
She opened the blank word document and stared. Why did the cursor have to blink that way? Distractingly. Threateningly. Like some sort of emergency signal, silently screaming at her: I'm here! I'm here! TYPE! She posed her hands on the keyboard, thinking hard, ready to punch at the keys the moment a good idea struck. But all she really did was notice how the wall clock at her side seemed to tick in perfect sync with the cursor on the blank screen. Oh hell, she thought, sitting back in her chair once again. 'Focus!' she silently commanded her brain, yet again. She needed to write a story. A good story, at that. But she had been sitting there for over two hours now and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Except a couple of discarded draft emails and empty chocolate wrappers strewn over the desk.
Chocolate was her stimulant of choice. It got the inspiration flowing whenever she was stuck for words, something that happened ironically often, considering that she was a writer and was expected to sprout perfect sentences in much the same way as software engineers were expected to be geeky and bespectacled. Or accountants were expected to do rapid calculations in their mind, no matter how overwhelming the numbers. She sighed and shook her head, trying to clear it. She shouldn't be thinking of accountants; they kind of disturbed her. Well, not all accountants, just one in particular. And he did not just disturb her, he seemed to have taken over her life and not even realized it.
Her eyes wandered to the cell phone that lay amid the purple chocolate wrappers. Silent. Still no call; not even a message. Were accountants really such busy people that they couldn't spare ONE short phone call in over a week? They were definitely not so financially deprived, so lack of time could be the only reason he hadn't called. "OR," a condescending voice in her head piped up, "perhaps he just doesn't WANT to call you. Maybe he's busy with all his GIRLFRIENDS; he IS quite the Ladies' Man after all." She chastised the voice to shut up and bit her lip in frustration. Please call, she silently prayed, eying the cell phone as a vision of his beautiful face filled her mind. Please, it would make me so happy to hear your voice, if only for a minute or two...
The silence prevailed, except for the irritating tick-tock of the clock, still in tune with the patronizing blink-blink of the cursor on the screen. She wondered again if she should call him instead, or send the email she had typed and discarded so many times in the past two hours. But she stopped herself. She was not about to come across as a desperate psycho freak who constantly needed attention. She had made that mistake too many times before. And smart people learnt from their mistakes. At least, that's what everyone said.
She resisted the urge to yell in frustration. Or to start throwing about random objects and make a mess of her room, like people did in movies when overcome with a fit of hysteria. This was no movie, it was her messed-up reality. How could she have let this happen again? She had promised herself: never again, at least not in a very long time, would she fall. Or even slip. And yet here she was once again, pat bang in the middle of it: the messy, confounding, slow-poison-like, obliterating depths of attraction. "Fatal attraction", she had learnt the hard way why they called it that.
It had taken her a long time to dig out of its dense undergrowth and make her way to the safety of the top branches of the tree, where she had been sitting with her head tilted upwards, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze, free and happy. Until he had come along and enticed her, talked her into sneaking a glance at the glorious view that spread out far below them. She had resisted at first, tried to ignore him, but the temptation had soon become irresistible. And before she knew it, she had risked a peak which had turned into a stare as the height transfixed her, and then she had been dizzy and lost all balance to free-fall. Down, down, down.
Or perhaps this tree analogy wasn't quite accurate. Perhaps it had been more like she had just swum out to the safety of the shore after a long time of getting tossed around in the current, and had at long last basked in the sunshine and breeze, free and happy, when he had come along like a mighty tidal wave and swept over her. Sucking her back into the mighty swirling waters, which she hadn't quite learnt how to stay afloat in yet. Which she felt she would NEVER quite learn how to stay afloat in, never mind swim through skillfully.
She sighed again, feeling listless. She needed to write - she HAD to - she had a deadline to meet, and she didn't even have a starting line for the story yet. The clock ticked on; the cursor blinked on; the phone remained silent, amid the purple chocolate wrappers, and she had nothing in her mind except a growing sense of defeating futility. Did he have any idea that, thanks to him, she couldn't work, couldn't focus at all? While he sat somewhere doing his mental maths or tapping at a calculator or whatever it was that accountants did, she sat here feeling intimidated by a little blinking black line on a fiberglass screen and waiting anxiously for his call, hoping for it, NEEDING it.
No wonder they called her insecure, all the earlier fish she had frolicked with in The Sea. No wonder she tried so hard to stay nice and dry on the shore, enjoying the view, yet failed every time. To end up like this: frazzled and on-edge, in a constant state of apprehension. For a call that she knew very well would not come. Because boys did not keep their promises. At least not to her.
*Disclaimer: The above is a purely fictional piece of prose, not to be confused in any way with my own life or mind. I also apologize for centering so much of my writing around love and rejection and the like but it is what I write best about so please bear with me. I'll try write more varied and interesting things when I grow into a better writer, promise. And I, for one, certainly do keep my promises. :)
Chocolate was her stimulant of choice. It got the inspiration flowing whenever she was stuck for words, something that happened ironically often, considering that she was a writer and was expected to sprout perfect sentences in much the same way as software engineers were expected to be geeky and bespectacled. Or accountants were expected to do rapid calculations in their mind, no matter how overwhelming the numbers. She sighed and shook her head, trying to clear it. She shouldn't be thinking of accountants; they kind of disturbed her. Well, not all accountants, just one in particular. And he did not just disturb her, he seemed to have taken over her life and not even realized it.
Her eyes wandered to the cell phone that lay amid the purple chocolate wrappers. Silent. Still no call; not even a message. Were accountants really such busy people that they couldn't spare ONE short phone call in over a week? They were definitely not so financially deprived, so lack of time could be the only reason he hadn't called. "OR," a condescending voice in her head piped up, "perhaps he just doesn't WANT to call you. Maybe he's busy with all his GIRLFRIENDS; he IS quite the Ladies' Man after all." She chastised the voice to shut up and bit her lip in frustration. Please call, she silently prayed, eying the cell phone as a vision of his beautiful face filled her mind. Please, it would make me so happy to hear your voice, if only for a minute or two...
The silence prevailed, except for the irritating tick-tock of the clock, still in tune with the patronizing blink-blink of the cursor on the screen. She wondered again if she should call him instead, or send the email she had typed and discarded so many times in the past two hours. But she stopped herself. She was not about to come across as a desperate psycho freak who constantly needed attention. She had made that mistake too many times before. And smart people learnt from their mistakes. At least, that's what everyone said.
She resisted the urge to yell in frustration. Or to start throwing about random objects and make a mess of her room, like people did in movies when overcome with a fit of hysteria. This was no movie, it was her messed-up reality. How could she have let this happen again? She had promised herself: never again, at least not in a very long time, would she fall. Or even slip. And yet here she was once again, pat bang in the middle of it: the messy, confounding, slow-poison-like, obliterating depths of attraction. "Fatal attraction", she had learnt the hard way why they called it that.
It had taken her a long time to dig out of its dense undergrowth and make her way to the safety of the top branches of the tree, where she had been sitting with her head tilted upwards, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze, free and happy. Until he had come along and enticed her, talked her into sneaking a glance at the glorious view that spread out far below them. She had resisted at first, tried to ignore him, but the temptation had soon become irresistible. And before she knew it, she had risked a peak which had turned into a stare as the height transfixed her, and then she had been dizzy and lost all balance to free-fall. Down, down, down.
Or perhaps this tree analogy wasn't quite accurate. Perhaps it had been more like she had just swum out to the safety of the shore after a long time of getting tossed around in the current, and had at long last basked in the sunshine and breeze, free and happy, when he had come along like a mighty tidal wave and swept over her. Sucking her back into the mighty swirling waters, which she hadn't quite learnt how to stay afloat in yet. Which she felt she would NEVER quite learn how to stay afloat in, never mind swim through skillfully.
She sighed again, feeling listless. She needed to write - she HAD to - she had a deadline to meet, and she didn't even have a starting line for the story yet. The clock ticked on; the cursor blinked on; the phone remained silent, amid the purple chocolate wrappers, and she had nothing in her mind except a growing sense of defeating futility. Did he have any idea that, thanks to him, she couldn't work, couldn't focus at all? While he sat somewhere doing his mental maths or tapping at a calculator or whatever it was that accountants did, she sat here feeling intimidated by a little blinking black line on a fiberglass screen and waiting anxiously for his call, hoping for it, NEEDING it.
No wonder they called her insecure, all the earlier fish she had frolicked with in The Sea. No wonder she tried so hard to stay nice and dry on the shore, enjoying the view, yet failed every time. To end up like this: frazzled and on-edge, in a constant state of apprehension. For a call that she knew very well would not come. Because boys did not keep their promises. At least not to her.
*Disclaimer: The above is a purely fictional piece of prose, not to be confused in any way with my own life or mind. I also apologize for centering so much of my writing around love and rejection and the like but it is what I write best about so please bear with me. I'll try write more varied and interesting things when I grow into a better writer, promise. And I, for one, certainly do keep my promises. :)
My Name is Khan... and it is just a name.
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
(-from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet)
No wonder Shakespeare is a literary great. After all, what exactly IS in a name apart from the fact that it is merely something that makes it easier for us to be differentiated from other people for purposes of identification and communication? Beyond this basic level, names almost always cause divides or insult or trouble - varying kinds and degrees of it.
For instance, the names we have given to various races, religions, castes or classes, what do they do apart from divide us and create differences? Differences that then lead to prejudices and discrimination and discord. And generalizations, of course. "You are 'so-and-so' (black/white/brown/muslim/christian/sikh/hindu/jew/aethist/Indian/Pakistani/Americam/etc), hence you are '_____'(any common stereotype of said 'so-and-so')"
It's not surprising then that Asperger's-afflicted Rizwan Khan, who is mentally incapable of understanding the differentiating tags that we the 'normal' people are so used to using, sets out on a journey to prove that yes, his name is Khan (that's Kkhhaan - mind you - from the epiglottis) and yes, he is a Muslim, but no, he is NOT a terrorist.
Karan Johar's latest film may be a tad over-the-top, perhaps even more than just a tad, and it may lack utter real-world relevance, but it is a story worth your time nonetheless, if only for the simplistic principal premise that it relies upon and broadcasts to viewers: there are only good people and bad people; there is no other worthy means of differentiation between people. Of course, you may argue that nothing is ever black or white; there are only shades of grey - and indeed it's true - but in any particular situation, you either choose the 'good' path or the 'bad', and that choice is what makes all the difference and defines who you are and what you stand for.
Rizwan Khan chooses to marry the woman he loves - so what if she addresses her God by a different name and prays to Him in a different way? And so what if our hero's brother insists that the woman is a Hindu and very different from a Muslim? Rizwan cannot see the difference - his Asperger's does not allow him to - and perhaps we too would be happier and less conflicted if we had the same disorder. How blissful (and constructive) it would be to view things with such crystal clear logic without the disorienting tints of emotion and deeper understanding that color our so-called 'normal' perceptions?
My Name is Khan is a touching movie: it strikes an emotional chord, maybe because of the lead character who, through Shahrukh Khan's impeccable performance, immediately has us empathizing with him, maybe because of the sensitive nature of the plot that grasps and holds on to our attention firmly, or maybe just because a film can't go wrong when creative greats like Karan Johar, SRK, and Kajol all team up for it.
It also nudges those brain cells into action and pushes you into thinking about the world and its inhabitants in a grossly simplistic manner. Honestly, haven't we oursleves given birth to the devastating political and social conflicts plaguing our existence today? From Israel-Palestine to India-Pakistan; from US-Afghanistan to the repeated bomb blasts and attempted blasts across the world, every problem is in the name of religion or nationality or something equally label-related. Is it all really worth it? I think not.
Of course, there will be lots of people who disagree; who don't think things can be so lucidly simplified to the bare essentials, who don't believe in the concept of an idealistic world, who want to fight for what they feel is 'right' - which could vary from their religion or their point of view. There will also be lots of critics of the film, who will label it as yet another post 9/11 flick with too much repetition and not much substance, who will put down the film maker and the actors and everyone involved without so much as stopping for a moment to appreciate the tremendous amount of careful thought and hard work and good intent that obviosly goes into any piece of creative expression. The pessimists will always be there, to say that nothing will change, to repeatedly declare that all efforts for peace and harmony will only go in vain, to callously assert that our world is way beyond repair now, to do anything at all but hope or pray or believe in the power of goodness and love.
But to all those people, all I say is this: 'Hum honge kamyaab ek din..' Indeed, "we shall overcome". Eventually. Just like Rizwan and Mandira do.
By any other name would smell as sweet."
(-from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet)
No wonder Shakespeare is a literary great. After all, what exactly IS in a name apart from the fact that it is merely something that makes it easier for us to be differentiated from other people for purposes of identification and communication? Beyond this basic level, names almost always cause divides or insult or trouble - varying kinds and degrees of it.
For instance, the names we have given to various races, religions, castes or classes, what do they do apart from divide us and create differences? Differences that then lead to prejudices and discrimination and discord. And generalizations, of course. "You are 'so-and-so' (black/white/brown/muslim/christian/sikh/hindu/jew/aethist/Indian/Pakistani/Americam/etc), hence you are '_____'(any common stereotype of said 'so-and-so')"
It's not surprising then that Asperger's-afflicted Rizwan Khan, who is mentally incapable of understanding the differentiating tags that we the 'normal' people are so used to using, sets out on a journey to prove that yes, his name is Khan (that's Kkhhaan - mind you - from the epiglottis) and yes, he is a Muslim, but no, he is NOT a terrorist.
Karan Johar's latest film may be a tad over-the-top, perhaps even more than just a tad, and it may lack utter real-world relevance, but it is a story worth your time nonetheless, if only for the simplistic principal premise that it relies upon and broadcasts to viewers: there are only good people and bad people; there is no other worthy means of differentiation between people. Of course, you may argue that nothing is ever black or white; there are only shades of grey - and indeed it's true - but in any particular situation, you either choose the 'good' path or the 'bad', and that choice is what makes all the difference and defines who you are and what you stand for.
Rizwan Khan chooses to marry the woman he loves - so what if she addresses her God by a different name and prays to Him in a different way? And so what if our hero's brother insists that the woman is a Hindu and very different from a Muslim? Rizwan cannot see the difference - his Asperger's does not allow him to - and perhaps we too would be happier and less conflicted if we had the same disorder. How blissful (and constructive) it would be to view things with such crystal clear logic without the disorienting tints of emotion and deeper understanding that color our so-called 'normal' perceptions?
My Name is Khan is a touching movie: it strikes an emotional chord, maybe because of the lead character who, through Shahrukh Khan's impeccable performance, immediately has us empathizing with him, maybe because of the sensitive nature of the plot that grasps and holds on to our attention firmly, or maybe just because a film can't go wrong when creative greats like Karan Johar, SRK, and Kajol all team up for it.
It also nudges those brain cells into action and pushes you into thinking about the world and its inhabitants in a grossly simplistic manner. Honestly, haven't we oursleves given birth to the devastating political and social conflicts plaguing our existence today? From Israel-Palestine to India-Pakistan; from US-Afghanistan to the repeated bomb blasts and attempted blasts across the world, every problem is in the name of religion or nationality or something equally label-related. Is it all really worth it? I think not.
Of course, there will be lots of people who disagree; who don't think things can be so lucidly simplified to the bare essentials, who don't believe in the concept of an idealistic world, who want to fight for what they feel is 'right' - which could vary from their religion or their point of view. There will also be lots of critics of the film, who will label it as yet another post 9/11 flick with too much repetition and not much substance, who will put down the film maker and the actors and everyone involved without so much as stopping for a moment to appreciate the tremendous amount of careful thought and hard work and good intent that obviosly goes into any piece of creative expression. The pessimists will always be there, to say that nothing will change, to repeatedly declare that all efforts for peace and harmony will only go in vain, to callously assert that our world is way beyond repair now, to do anything at all but hope or pray or believe in the power of goodness and love.
But to all those people, all I say is this: 'Hum honge kamyaab ek din..' Indeed, "we shall overcome". Eventually. Just like Rizwan and Mandira do.
Nighttime Neurosis
Thoughts. A raging avalanche of them. They buzzed around in her head continuously; forming, revolving, dissipating into nothing, blurring into each other, stirring up a rampant cacophony of emotion within her that was impossible to bear, or make sense of.
She hated it. She wanted to clutch her head in agony and force it to stop whirring. She wanted silence, a long, tranquil silence that would for once just let her be. But nothing she did could help. It was all right during the day, when she had her work and her books and her computer to keep occupied. She could even flip on the television and tune out of her mind completely, instead engrossing herself in the charming lyrics of the songs she loved, or the fascinating lives of the characters on screen. But when the day faded away and the last light had been put out in the house as everyone turned in, there was no escape.
They thronged then, her thoughts. Like devotees to a holy shrine; like desperate druggies to a rave party; pushing, shoving, jostling for space, unmindful of the stampede they created. They are conflicting and complex, overwhelming, confusing, menacing, mocking. They are deep and dark and loud; taunting, daunting, haunting, each clamoring to be heard over the others, ultimately forcing her into a sort of petrified trance, where, oblivious to all sensation, she can hear each and every one of them play out, she can perceive the interconnections between them, the way they mingle with each other and collectively snigger at her, torment her, torture her, hurt her. Until she can take it no longer and the tears leak out, one at a time first, but soon growing into hot torrents of saltwater that gush out unendingly, streaking her face, rolling onto and moistening the pillow that she clutches close, as if clinging on for dear life.
She thinks a lot about it, life. About how maliciously hilarious it is. Simple, yet posing to be so complex. Like chemistry. She mulls over how people are like the elements, each unique, yet somehow relative to the others, continually mingling and bonding and reacting to form the compounds that they termed relationships. Some of the compounds are simple, some more complex, some intricate chains, some useful, some indispensable, some toxic, some waste. There is always pandemonium, with endothermic and exothermic reactions taking place all the time, disturbing the equilibrium that is so difficult to maintain. No one is at rest. They are all eager to keep going. Each person is a type – an ion or catalyst or free radical, ready to react.
She thinks of how fickle they could be, people and their relationships. The bonds could break anytime, just as easily as they formed, sometimes of their own accord, sometimes through effect of external factors, like time and other people. She thinks of the bonds in her own life, the existing ones and the severed ones, the old ones and the worn ones, the time-tested and the faulty ones, the ones she tries so desperately to forge but can’t, the ones she wants to hold onto so dearly but shan’t, the ones she needs so desperately but mustn’t. They form a complicated web, the people and relationships in her life. A web she is trapped and entangled in, struggling to find a way out but failing. Helpless. Perhaps she will remain trapped, even more so, till death comes to the rescue.
She thinks quite a bit about that too, death. About how tragically mystical it is. Inevitable, yet posing to be so avoidable. Like an accident. She thinks of the people that she has lost to the ‘accident’. They are not many, but they were all so special, so integral to her existence. She wonders if perhaps they are right there with her, in the pressing, foreboding darkness. Perhaps their spirits surround her, watching silently as she struggles and ponders and tries to comes to terms with the complexities and ironies and contradictions and hypocrisies of the world she lives in. She can imagine her grandma, perched beside her on the bed, tenderly laying a hand upon her forehand and telling her to hush, for it will all be just fine in the end; she has no need to worry and fret. She can see her aunt too, her face alight and smiling, the way it had been before the cancer struck. ‘You don’t need to change yourself for anything, darling,’ her aunt would say. ‘We love you just the way you are.’
‘But he doesn’t.’ she thinks, her heart wrenching in angst. ‘He doesn’t love me.’ Images of the dead are replaced by his. How she aches for him. If only she could convince him, how much she cares, how much she needs him. If only she could throw her arms around him and beg him to listen to her, to believe her when she vows that she loves him more than anyone ever could. That she will love him forever and cannot live without him.
The sobs intensify, choking her up. She can’t breathe. It just hurts so much. Life. And death. Her thoughts return to the latter. She thinks of the friend she had lost, at an age where she didn’t even understand the gravity of loss. Why had her friend died so young? Surely, nothing could make up for such horrific injustice? How could God be so cruel? Why could he be so cruel and get away with it? WHY. The question bounces around her head like a sneering poltergeist hell bent on torturing her.
She wishes they would reach out from the dark and embrace her; the ghosts that she imagines lurk around her. She wishes they would pull her into their midst and envelop her in the tranquil nothingness of their world, where she could float around untroubled, at last free from the misery, the endless turmoil that God puts her through day in day out.
The sobs rack her body; she struggles to smother them, heaving with sorrow. Oh, why must she think so much? Why must she so relentlessly relive a past she has long made her peace with but which refuses to let her be? Why must the future play hide and seek with her, dancing before her tantalizingly yet disappearing with a laugh the moment she reaches out to clinch it in her fingers? Why can’t she be at peace, like all the other people around her, who sleep soundlessly, lost in pleasant dreams of their secret desires? People who will rise the next morning and go about their work as usual, forgetting everything about the night that has passed, looking forward to the night that will come when they can once again escape into their blissful, sinful unconscious.
She would do anything for their kind of delightful slumber to take over her the minute she lay her head down every night. But it never does, no matter how drained she is. It takes its own sweet time, coming slow and steady, only after her thoughts finally tire of their psychedelic sound and light show and settle down within her, leaving her exhausted and pained and begging for respite. It is only when she has not one ounce of energy left that sleep at last washes over her, bringing quietude to her weary soul, making her body go lax and letting the tears run dry.
But it is temporary, the respite. The ordeal will start all over again tomorrow when the sunshine filters into her room and startles her awake well before she is quite ready or refreshed. The thoughts will resume their dizzying rumba, her heart will sink like an overloaded raft, the tears will flow like flooding rivers, the struggle will continue. In a vicious cycle.
Perhaps she needs a psychiatrist. That is what they would certainly tell her, whomever she dared to confide in about her nighttime neurosis. 'Psychologist', she would correct. 'It's a neurosis not psychosis.' They would not know the difference, nor care to try and understand it. But she knows the difference, all too well. She has read about it, and about what happens to her too. And she knows that a psychologist will do her no good. After all, she is one herself.
She hated it. She wanted to clutch her head in agony and force it to stop whirring. She wanted silence, a long, tranquil silence that would for once just let her be. But nothing she did could help. It was all right during the day, when she had her work and her books and her computer to keep occupied. She could even flip on the television and tune out of her mind completely, instead engrossing herself in the charming lyrics of the songs she loved, or the fascinating lives of the characters on screen. But when the day faded away and the last light had been put out in the house as everyone turned in, there was no escape.
They thronged then, her thoughts. Like devotees to a holy shrine; like desperate druggies to a rave party; pushing, shoving, jostling for space, unmindful of the stampede they created. They are conflicting and complex, overwhelming, confusing, menacing, mocking. They are deep and dark and loud; taunting, daunting, haunting, each clamoring to be heard over the others, ultimately forcing her into a sort of petrified trance, where, oblivious to all sensation, she can hear each and every one of them play out, she can perceive the interconnections between them, the way they mingle with each other and collectively snigger at her, torment her, torture her, hurt her. Until she can take it no longer and the tears leak out, one at a time first, but soon growing into hot torrents of saltwater that gush out unendingly, streaking her face, rolling onto and moistening the pillow that she clutches close, as if clinging on for dear life.
She thinks a lot about it, life. About how maliciously hilarious it is. Simple, yet posing to be so complex. Like chemistry. She mulls over how people are like the elements, each unique, yet somehow relative to the others, continually mingling and bonding and reacting to form the compounds that they termed relationships. Some of the compounds are simple, some more complex, some intricate chains, some useful, some indispensable, some toxic, some waste. There is always pandemonium, with endothermic and exothermic reactions taking place all the time, disturbing the equilibrium that is so difficult to maintain. No one is at rest. They are all eager to keep going. Each person is a type – an ion or catalyst or free radical, ready to react.
She thinks of how fickle they could be, people and their relationships. The bonds could break anytime, just as easily as they formed, sometimes of their own accord, sometimes through effect of external factors, like time and other people. She thinks of the bonds in her own life, the existing ones and the severed ones, the old ones and the worn ones, the time-tested and the faulty ones, the ones she tries so desperately to forge but can’t, the ones she wants to hold onto so dearly but shan’t, the ones she needs so desperately but mustn’t. They form a complicated web, the people and relationships in her life. A web she is trapped and entangled in, struggling to find a way out but failing. Helpless. Perhaps she will remain trapped, even more so, till death comes to the rescue.
She thinks quite a bit about that too, death. About how tragically mystical it is. Inevitable, yet posing to be so avoidable. Like an accident. She thinks of the people that she has lost to the ‘accident’. They are not many, but they were all so special, so integral to her existence. She wonders if perhaps they are right there with her, in the pressing, foreboding darkness. Perhaps their spirits surround her, watching silently as she struggles and ponders and tries to comes to terms with the complexities and ironies and contradictions and hypocrisies of the world she lives in. She can imagine her grandma, perched beside her on the bed, tenderly laying a hand upon her forehand and telling her to hush, for it will all be just fine in the end; she has no need to worry and fret. She can see her aunt too, her face alight and smiling, the way it had been before the cancer struck. ‘You don’t need to change yourself for anything, darling,’ her aunt would say. ‘We love you just the way you are.’
‘But he doesn’t.’ she thinks, her heart wrenching in angst. ‘He doesn’t love me.’ Images of the dead are replaced by his. How she aches for him. If only she could convince him, how much she cares, how much she needs him. If only she could throw her arms around him and beg him to listen to her, to believe her when she vows that she loves him more than anyone ever could. That she will love him forever and cannot live without him.
The sobs intensify, choking her up. She can’t breathe. It just hurts so much. Life. And death. Her thoughts return to the latter. She thinks of the friend she had lost, at an age where she didn’t even understand the gravity of loss. Why had her friend died so young? Surely, nothing could make up for such horrific injustice? How could God be so cruel? Why could he be so cruel and get away with it? WHY. The question bounces around her head like a sneering poltergeist hell bent on torturing her.
She wishes they would reach out from the dark and embrace her; the ghosts that she imagines lurk around her. She wishes they would pull her into their midst and envelop her in the tranquil nothingness of their world, where she could float around untroubled, at last free from the misery, the endless turmoil that God puts her through day in day out.
The sobs rack her body; she struggles to smother them, heaving with sorrow. Oh, why must she think so much? Why must she so relentlessly relive a past she has long made her peace with but which refuses to let her be? Why must the future play hide and seek with her, dancing before her tantalizingly yet disappearing with a laugh the moment she reaches out to clinch it in her fingers? Why can’t she be at peace, like all the other people around her, who sleep soundlessly, lost in pleasant dreams of their secret desires? People who will rise the next morning and go about their work as usual, forgetting everything about the night that has passed, looking forward to the night that will come when they can once again escape into their blissful, sinful unconscious.
She would do anything for their kind of delightful slumber to take over her the minute she lay her head down every night. But it never does, no matter how drained she is. It takes its own sweet time, coming slow and steady, only after her thoughts finally tire of their psychedelic sound and light show and settle down within her, leaving her exhausted and pained and begging for respite. It is only when she has not one ounce of energy left that sleep at last washes over her, bringing quietude to her weary soul, making her body go lax and letting the tears run dry.
But it is temporary, the respite. The ordeal will start all over again tomorrow when the sunshine filters into her room and startles her awake well before she is quite ready or refreshed. The thoughts will resume their dizzying rumba, her heart will sink like an overloaded raft, the tears will flow like flooding rivers, the struggle will continue. In a vicious cycle.
Perhaps she needs a psychiatrist. That is what they would certainly tell her, whomever she dared to confide in about her nighttime neurosis. 'Psychologist', she would correct. 'It's a neurosis not psychosis.' They would not know the difference, nor care to try and understand it. But she knows the difference, all too well. She has read about it, and about what happens to her too. And she knows that a psychologist will do her no good. After all, she is one herself.
Randoms!
1. I've crossed 100 posts now! Unbelievable, isn't it? That's why I changed the template after so long...it was like a sort of celebration for crossing that century mark! I love the colorful fuchsia-pink look of the blog now. It's very me! I've also added new widgets, including a list of my best scribbles (Eternally Sempiternal) - check them out for a taste of my BEST writing. (So far.) Oh, and while you're at it, read the 'More About Me' page too! (IF you're at all interested in knowing more about me, that is.) Ok,ok, I'll quit the self-promotion now. Moving on..
2. Did you know that The Roadies this year have gone to Kenya? For the uninitiated, The Roadies are contestants on this insanely popular adventure reality show on MTV India. I used to be a huge fan once, but kind of grew out of it after the last season. Anyway, they've gone to KENYA this time around! Nairobi and Mombasa are on Indian TV! Like OH MY GOD, I was so excited when I tuned in and saw Maasai dancers and heard Swahili on MTV India. Memories galore came rushing back! I miss Kenya, even if I don't particularly love it.
3. I am FINALLY watching My Name is Khan this Saturday. Hopefully, that is. If i get tickets. I'm dying to see Valentine's Day too, but alas, it's not showing here in Ahmedabad. Ugh. And on Sunday is a reunion at college - should be fun. In fact, it'll be double fun considering that I'll be going out after over a month of being trapped in the house with my foot in a cast! Freedom, once again. Yippeeee!
4. I have just discovered that I am rubbish at writing short stories. I have been struggling with one for days and it's just not turning out right. I don't even WANT to write it but it's an assignment so I HAVE to. And I can already foresee all the criticism my tutor is going to send back to me. :( Someone, please teach me how to write good short stories. Any advice will be most deeply appreciated. I am in fact writing this post as an excuse to put off working on the short story. But I guess I really should get back to it. So this is it for now. Next 'proper' post coming soon...
2. Did you know that The Roadies this year have gone to Kenya? For the uninitiated, The Roadies are contestants on this insanely popular adventure reality show on MTV India. I used to be a huge fan once, but kind of grew out of it after the last season. Anyway, they've gone to KENYA this time around! Nairobi and Mombasa are on Indian TV! Like OH MY GOD, I was so excited when I tuned in and saw Maasai dancers and heard Swahili on MTV India. Memories galore came rushing back! I miss Kenya, even if I don't particularly love it.
3. I am FINALLY watching My Name is Khan this Saturday. Hopefully, that is. If i get tickets. I'm dying to see Valentine's Day too, but alas, it's not showing here in Ahmedabad. Ugh. And on Sunday is a reunion at college - should be fun. In fact, it'll be double fun considering that I'll be going out after over a month of being trapped in the house with my foot in a cast! Freedom, once again. Yippeeee!
4. I have just discovered that I am rubbish at writing short stories. I have been struggling with one for days and it's just not turning out right. I don't even WANT to write it but it's an assignment so I HAVE to. And I can already foresee all the criticism my tutor is going to send back to me. :( Someone, please teach me how to write good short stories. Any advice will be most deeply appreciated. I am in fact writing this post as an excuse to put off working on the short story. But I guess I really should get back to it. So this is it for now. Next 'proper' post coming soon...
A vicious cycle in the making?
Only I can somehow get myself into ridiculous, pitiable situations akin to this:
Be upset because of person 1 --> have person 2 cheer me up and make me happy happy --> let person 2 know that they are real special and brought the smile back to my face --> get emotionally attached to person 2 --> have person 2 suddenly go cold and distant --> end up angry and upset again because of person 2, who, ironically, is the same person who had made me happy in the first place --> get cheered by person 1 who, ironically, is the same person who upset me in the first place.
Ugh.
THIS is why I am an introvert.- People just mess me up too much.
Seriously.
Be upset because of person 1 --> have person 2 cheer me up and make me happy happy --> let person 2 know that they are real special and brought the smile back to my face --> get emotionally attached to person 2 --> have person 2 suddenly go cold and distant --> end up angry and upset again because of person 2, who, ironically, is the same person who had made me happy in the first place --> get cheered by person 1 who, ironically, is the same person who upset me in the first place.
Ugh.
THIS is why I am an introvert.- People just mess me up too much.
Seriously.
Valentine’s Whine
After the overdose of love in the last post, here comes some more... (It IS the season of mush, after all!)
I've never quite cared about Valentine’s Day. At least, not for the last couple of years after repeatedly facing the irony of feeling nothing but disappointed and loveless on this much coveted ‘day of love’. I’ve never had a ‘valentine’ and seriously wonder whether I’ll ever have one before I end up getting married (not that I intend to tread down that path anytime soon. Shudder!). I mean, what’s a girl got to do to attract some little bit of care and affection from at least one guy from the millions out there? Or rather, let me alter that question: What’s a girl got to do that does not involve: (a) being model-slim, (b) having flawless skin or hair, or expressive eyes or a sexy voice, (c) wearing clothes that show off her body and make everyone sit up and take notice. Why can’t just being a sweet, loving person suffice to have another sweet, loving person care for you? Yes, I know I sound incredibly whiny but I warned you about that in the title of this post itself. I am quite fed up of being surrounded by love and not having some for myself. (Just to clarify; I’m talking strictly about the romantic variety of it here, considering that its V- day tomorrow and all.) In fact, it would not be wrong to say that I’m quite jealous of people who are in relationships. And no, I don’t see anything WRONG as such about being jealous, because after all, it is a perfectly natural emotion that everyone experiences from time to time. Mine tends to peak at this point in the year when everywhere I look, there’s just love, love, and more love. Why can’t I have a small bit for myself too? I mean, I have so much love to give; just nobody to give it to. Which is, for lack of a better word, just plain sad.
I received my first rose way back in the second grade. I don’t think it was on Valentine’s Day and, at that time, I really didn’t care either. It was the age when receiving attention from the opposite sex was a major reason to be ridiculed and definitely not something a girl would actually want. So it’s no surprise that the six-year-old me completely freaked out when a classmate (who, in retrospect, was quite the cutie but whose name is forever unknown to me) left a big, beautiful yellow rose and a little piece of note paper with a sweet message printed on it in my ‘tray’. (Every student had a plastic tray labelled with their names in which we kept our artwork at the back of the classroom). It was early morning and nobody else had arrived at school yet so I could clearly see him eyeing me cautiously as I contemplated the mementos at a complete loss as to what to do with them. I was utterly embarrassed and the only thing I could think of was how I definitely did not want anyone to ever find out about this unexpected development. (I was teased so much as it was; I couldn’t stand the thought of facing more ridicule) So I acted on impulse and did the meanest, most horrible thing I’ve probably ever done in my entire life. I crumpled up the note and threw it with the flower into the bin. Right in front of his eyes. To date, I can’t believe I was capable of so blatantly hurting someone and feeling no remorse for it. But I was just a kid, so I suppose it’s pardonable, but somehow, the sheer lack of romance that’s plagued my life ever since makes me feel like I’m still being punished for that one little innocent misdeed. That rose remains the only blossom – yellow or otherwise – that I have ever received from a guy. Actually, it’s the only thing, period, that I’ve ever received from a guy.
During the later school years, my girl friends and I would exchange roses on V-day, just to make each other feel special, and once someone brought me a rose for no apparent reason just because she thought of me the first thing in the morning. It was a touching gesture, but doesn’t quite make up for the fact that out of the long string of crushes I’ve been through – some downright stupid, some short-lived, some not actually crushes but made out to be by silly friends looking for a way to pull my leg, and some too serious to be considered just crushes – not one has ever made any positive progress at all.
After years of being wished a happy valentine’s day by my girl pals – which is really sweet but not quite the real thing – this year, I’ve actually been really, really, sincerely, wishing that if only... someone special could come along. If only, something nice could blossom on the love front in my life, things would be so great! But I don’t have my hopes up because it is usually the very things I want really bad that never quite materialise or turn out right. At a deeper level, the mature me knows that I’m being stupid and that it will happen when it’s meant to and will be all for the better, but I can’t help feeling just a wee bit tired of having to wait so very long.
The song I’m humming this V-Day– from the millions of songs out there that have been written about glorious love is from one of my favourite Hindi movies, Jab We Met, and goes: ‘Aaoge jab tum saajna...angana phool khilenge...barse ga saavan jhoom jhoom ke...do dil aise milenge...’
Happy Valentine’s Day people! Don’t let my slightly cynical views below get to you. (It’s an article I wrote a long time back but never got around to publishing, so here goes...)
Love, a word that’s probably been defined more times than any other yet remains the least understood.
The popular American poet, Robert Frost called it ‘the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired’; Nicholas Sparks, in his novel, A Walk to Remember, has compared it to the wind, saying it may not be seen but it can be felt; others have likened it to a ‘drug’, ‘the closest thing we have to magic’, ‘an exploding cigar we readily smoke and, my personal favourite, ‘the heartbeat that no cardiologist has ever heard.’ Even God Himself has something to say about the L-word, mentioning it several times in the Bible, for example: ‘Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. (Corinthians 13:7-8)
But surely no one has said that love is equal to the value of the diamond you gift your beloved, or the sophistication of the cell-phone you buy them, or the lavishness of the honeymoon you plan. Yes, extravagance does express your undying love, but even when your bank balance is dwindling and your credit cards are maxed out? After all, you can’t survive on love and fresh air, and come to think of it, even the latter is scarcely available today which makes it all the more difficult!
Every year, when the much (over?) hyped ‘day of love’ comes around, a gazillion ‘special offers’ beckon, everywhere you look? Whether its flowers, jewellery, dinners, soft-toys, lingerie, gadgets, or even the most unromantic of groceries and supplies, everything seems to have a reduced price or some other tempting offer, just for the sake of love. But take a closer look –if it's possible through those rose-tinted glasses – and you might just notice that there isn’t in fact any major difference between the ‘special offer’ and the regular ad that runs every day but you don’t notice because of the absence of the over-generous sprinkling of pink and red love hearts and cute cartoon cupids and messages so cheesy and over-used that they’ve become impossible to digest.
Take for instance, the age-old claim that jewellers have learned to use to the fullest of their advantage: ‘diamonds are forever’ – implying that you ought to buy your ladylove that exorbitantly priced stone and prove that your love too is ‘forever’. Well, what if the diamond gets lost accidentally, maybe gets flushed down a toilet, does that mean your love goes with it, down the drain into some stinking gutter?’ And by the way, diamonds really aren't forever. Chemically speaking, every substance undergoes spontaneous decomposition, so, after millions of years, that diamond is undoubtedly going to turn to carbon. See? I’m even improving your general knowledge! (Which is perhaps already enriched but probably doesn't come in handy in matters of the heart.)
Traditionally, Valentine’s Day was celebrated by exchanging hand-written love notes known as Valentines, along with a bit of confectionary. According to popular legend, the festival of love began to be celebrated in memory of the Roman Saint Valentine, who suffered martyrdom at the hands of Emperor Claudius II, after he was found promoting love by secretly marrying young couples. Today, it’s love itself that’s dying a slow death with the way we’ve insulted the Saint’s memory by commercializing what was once a simple, beautiful, and meaningful tradition.
What’s even more disturbing is how children too have been dragged into observing the ritual. Childhood is hardly a time to build romantic relationships, so why have schools begun encouraging the sending and receiving of valentines? Kids who once used to ask their parents for money for candy or toys are still doing the same – but with the intention of gifting it to that cutie they’ve got their eye on. Aren’t we taking away the innocence of childhood by exposing them to romantic ideas so prematurely, which is leading them to discover their sexuality at alarmingly early ages? I was lost for words when my nine year old cousin confessed she ‘had a crush’ on a boy in her summer camp. A boy who was two years younger and three inches shorter than her. When I was nine years old, I hated boys. So did all the other girls in my class. In fact, it was considered a ‘punishment’ to be made to sit beside one in class. And today, girls of younger and younger ages are vying for boys' affections.
It's become a sort of ‘punishment' to not receive a Valentine. So much so that singles have started buying themselves special gifts, some on the pretext of celebrating the single life, others to make ex-partners or current-love interests jealous.
You’d think there’s a competition among women with regards to how novel a gift their man gets them and amongst men with regards to who will come up with the more creative yet classy gift idea. Whatever way you look at it, it’s the businessmen who’re laughing all the way to the bank, while reckless spending in the name of love leads ordinary people to depression and stress-related disorders when the bills and bank statements pour in.
But really, does any of the extravagance equal the simple charm of a touching self-composed, hand-written love note accompanied with a single red rose. Isn’t a sincere ‘I love you’ with a warm hug or passionate kiss deeper, more special, more meaningful than a room full of heart-shaped balloons and a huge card bought by the recommendation of the store-owner (who, by the way, is only interested in getting you to the take the most expensive one, regardless of what you want to convey.) Isn’t a few minutes of quality time alone everyday more valuable than just one day of professing your ‘undying love’ while you’re too busy the rest of the year to so much as have a quiet meal together? And what are you busy doing? Earning money for that luxury home for the one you love, or the dream holiday or a brand new car? It’s like the future prospect of showing your love is preventing you from actually ‘loving’ in the now.
‘The living moment is everything,’ said the acclaimed English writer, D.H Lawrence. Keeping that in mind, maybe it’s high time we stopped obsessing over novel (read expensive) ways of impressing that special someone and paid more attention to the little things that matter. Cancel that dinner at the swankiest five-star and cook together instead; don’t reach for the biggest, brightest greeting card out there but write something original instead; make an effort to express those three magical words more often and make your love endure. Yes, even longer (and stronger) than the Kohinoor!
I've never quite cared about Valentine’s Day. At least, not for the last couple of years after repeatedly facing the irony of feeling nothing but disappointed and loveless on this much coveted ‘day of love’. I’ve never had a ‘valentine’ and seriously wonder whether I’ll ever have one before I end up getting married (not that I intend to tread down that path anytime soon. Shudder!). I mean, what’s a girl got to do to attract some little bit of care and affection from at least one guy from the millions out there? Or rather, let me alter that question: What’s a girl got to do that does not involve: (a) being model-slim, (b) having flawless skin or hair, or expressive eyes or a sexy voice, (c) wearing clothes that show off her body and make everyone sit up and take notice. Why can’t just being a sweet, loving person suffice to have another sweet, loving person care for you? Yes, I know I sound incredibly whiny but I warned you about that in the title of this post itself. I am quite fed up of being surrounded by love and not having some for myself. (Just to clarify; I’m talking strictly about the romantic variety of it here, considering that its V- day tomorrow and all.) In fact, it would not be wrong to say that I’m quite jealous of people who are in relationships. And no, I don’t see anything WRONG as such about being jealous, because after all, it is a perfectly natural emotion that everyone experiences from time to time. Mine tends to peak at this point in the year when everywhere I look, there’s just love, love, and more love. Why can’t I have a small bit for myself too? I mean, I have so much love to give; just nobody to give it to. Which is, for lack of a better word, just plain sad.
I received my first rose way back in the second grade. I don’t think it was on Valentine’s Day and, at that time, I really didn’t care either. It was the age when receiving attention from the opposite sex was a major reason to be ridiculed and definitely not something a girl would actually want. So it’s no surprise that the six-year-old me completely freaked out when a classmate (who, in retrospect, was quite the cutie but whose name is forever unknown to me) left a big, beautiful yellow rose and a little piece of note paper with a sweet message printed on it in my ‘tray’. (Every student had a plastic tray labelled with their names in which we kept our artwork at the back of the classroom). It was early morning and nobody else had arrived at school yet so I could clearly see him eyeing me cautiously as I contemplated the mementos at a complete loss as to what to do with them. I was utterly embarrassed and the only thing I could think of was how I definitely did not want anyone to ever find out about this unexpected development. (I was teased so much as it was; I couldn’t stand the thought of facing more ridicule) So I acted on impulse and did the meanest, most horrible thing I’ve probably ever done in my entire life. I crumpled up the note and threw it with the flower into the bin. Right in front of his eyes. To date, I can’t believe I was capable of so blatantly hurting someone and feeling no remorse for it. But I was just a kid, so I suppose it’s pardonable, but somehow, the sheer lack of romance that’s plagued my life ever since makes me feel like I’m still being punished for that one little innocent misdeed. That rose remains the only blossom – yellow or otherwise – that I have ever received from a guy. Actually, it’s the only thing, period, that I’ve ever received from a guy.
During the later school years, my girl friends and I would exchange roses on V-day, just to make each other feel special, and once someone brought me a rose for no apparent reason just because she thought of me the first thing in the morning. It was a touching gesture, but doesn’t quite make up for the fact that out of the long string of crushes I’ve been through – some downright stupid, some short-lived, some not actually crushes but made out to be by silly friends looking for a way to pull my leg, and some too serious to be considered just crushes – not one has ever made any positive progress at all.
After years of being wished a happy valentine’s day by my girl pals – which is really sweet but not quite the real thing – this year, I’ve actually been really, really, sincerely, wishing that if only... someone special could come along. If only, something nice could blossom on the love front in my life, things would be so great! But I don’t have my hopes up because it is usually the very things I want really bad that never quite materialise or turn out right. At a deeper level, the mature me knows that I’m being stupid and that it will happen when it’s meant to and will be all for the better, but I can’t help feeling just a wee bit tired of having to wait so very long.
The song I’m humming this V-Day– from the millions of songs out there that have been written about glorious love is from one of my favourite Hindi movies, Jab We Met, and goes: ‘Aaoge jab tum saajna...angana phool khilenge...barse ga saavan jhoom jhoom ke...do dil aise milenge...’
Happy Valentine’s Day people! Don’t let my slightly cynical views below get to you. (It’s an article I wrote a long time back but never got around to publishing, so here goes...)
Love, a word that’s probably been defined more times than any other yet remains the least understood.
The popular American poet, Robert Frost called it ‘the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired’; Nicholas Sparks, in his novel, A Walk to Remember, has compared it to the wind, saying it may not be seen but it can be felt; others have likened it to a ‘drug’, ‘the closest thing we have to magic’, ‘an exploding cigar we readily smoke and, my personal favourite, ‘the heartbeat that no cardiologist has ever heard.’ Even God Himself has something to say about the L-word, mentioning it several times in the Bible, for example: ‘Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. (Corinthians 13:7-8)
But surely no one has said that love is equal to the value of the diamond you gift your beloved, or the sophistication of the cell-phone you buy them, or the lavishness of the honeymoon you plan. Yes, extravagance does express your undying love, but even when your bank balance is dwindling and your credit cards are maxed out? After all, you can’t survive on love and fresh air, and come to think of it, even the latter is scarcely available today which makes it all the more difficult!
Every year, when the much (over?) hyped ‘day of love’ comes around, a gazillion ‘special offers’ beckon, everywhere you look? Whether its flowers, jewellery, dinners, soft-toys, lingerie, gadgets, or even the most unromantic of groceries and supplies, everything seems to have a reduced price or some other tempting offer, just for the sake of love. But take a closer look –if it's possible through those rose-tinted glasses – and you might just notice that there isn’t in fact any major difference between the ‘special offer’ and the regular ad that runs every day but you don’t notice because of the absence of the over-generous sprinkling of pink and red love hearts and cute cartoon cupids and messages so cheesy and over-used that they’ve become impossible to digest.
Take for instance, the age-old claim that jewellers have learned to use to the fullest of their advantage: ‘diamonds are forever’ – implying that you ought to buy your ladylove that exorbitantly priced stone and prove that your love too is ‘forever’. Well, what if the diamond gets lost accidentally, maybe gets flushed down a toilet, does that mean your love goes with it, down the drain into some stinking gutter?’ And by the way, diamonds really aren't forever. Chemically speaking, every substance undergoes spontaneous decomposition, so, after millions of years, that diamond is undoubtedly going to turn to carbon. See? I’m even improving your general knowledge! (Which is perhaps already enriched but probably doesn't come in handy in matters of the heart.)
Traditionally, Valentine’s Day was celebrated by exchanging hand-written love notes known as Valentines, along with a bit of confectionary. According to popular legend, the festival of love began to be celebrated in memory of the Roman Saint Valentine, who suffered martyrdom at the hands of Emperor Claudius II, after he was found promoting love by secretly marrying young couples. Today, it’s love itself that’s dying a slow death with the way we’ve insulted the Saint’s memory by commercializing what was once a simple, beautiful, and meaningful tradition.
What’s even more disturbing is how children too have been dragged into observing the ritual. Childhood is hardly a time to build romantic relationships, so why have schools begun encouraging the sending and receiving of valentines? Kids who once used to ask their parents for money for candy or toys are still doing the same – but with the intention of gifting it to that cutie they’ve got their eye on. Aren’t we taking away the innocence of childhood by exposing them to romantic ideas so prematurely, which is leading them to discover their sexuality at alarmingly early ages? I was lost for words when my nine year old cousin confessed she ‘had a crush’ on a boy in her summer camp. A boy who was two years younger and three inches shorter than her. When I was nine years old, I hated boys. So did all the other girls in my class. In fact, it was considered a ‘punishment’ to be made to sit beside one in class. And today, girls of younger and younger ages are vying for boys' affections.
It's become a sort of ‘punishment' to not receive a Valentine. So much so that singles have started buying themselves special gifts, some on the pretext of celebrating the single life, others to make ex-partners or current-love interests jealous.
You’d think there’s a competition among women with regards to how novel a gift their man gets them and amongst men with regards to who will come up with the more creative yet classy gift idea. Whatever way you look at it, it’s the businessmen who’re laughing all the way to the bank, while reckless spending in the name of love leads ordinary people to depression and stress-related disorders when the bills and bank statements pour in.
But really, does any of the extravagance equal the simple charm of a touching self-composed, hand-written love note accompanied with a single red rose. Isn’t a sincere ‘I love you’ with a warm hug or passionate kiss deeper, more special, more meaningful than a room full of heart-shaped balloons and a huge card bought by the recommendation of the store-owner (who, by the way, is only interested in getting you to the take the most expensive one, regardless of what you want to convey.) Isn’t a few minutes of quality time alone everyday more valuable than just one day of professing your ‘undying love’ while you’re too busy the rest of the year to so much as have a quiet meal together? And what are you busy doing? Earning money for that luxury home for the one you love, or the dream holiday or a brand new car? It’s like the future prospect of showing your love is preventing you from actually ‘loving’ in the now.
‘The living moment is everything,’ said the acclaimed English writer, D.H Lawrence. Keeping that in mind, maybe it’s high time we stopped obsessing over novel (read expensive) ways of impressing that special someone and paid more attention to the little things that matter. Cancel that dinner at the swankiest five-star and cook together instead; don’t reach for the biggest, brightest greeting card out there but write something original instead; make an effort to express those three magical words more often and make your love endure. Yes, even longer (and stronger) than the Kohinoor!
Love is. . .timeless.
Today has been a day of memories and nostalgia. Somehow, it's been filled with moments that have reminded me of times gone by and have put a smile on my face. It started right in the morning when I logged into Facebook and saw a link that someone had posted. It was about a comic series that used to appear in the Daily Nation newspaper back in Kenya and I used to read now and then. The comic strip is called 'Love Is..' by Kim Casali, and on following the link, I found some of the cutest cartoons which I decided to save and post here.
Do visit GoComics for more!
Do visit GoComics for more!
An ending is just a new beginning
Last day of work. A part of me is delighted – I finally get to focus on writing and completing my Writers Bureau course. But another part is kind of upset. I have always been bad with endings/goodbyes. Not that this is really an ending; I plan to join back in a couple of months, but then I’ll be working with different clients, and will probably never hear from my current clients again. Which makes me feel weird. Even if I have known them all on a purely professional basis, somehow working on something as significant as their applications for higher study forms a strange kind of bond. I have come to know each one of their backgrounds, opinions, thought-patterns, personalities, and – most importantly – their dreams and ambitions. I have in fact been viewed as some sort of catalyst towards achieving these dreams, what with being responsible for editing their application essays in the best possible way to maximize their chances of getting an admit from their dream school. Many of them have already got the admit, or an interview call, and the appreciation they express for my services is so gratifying, a hundred times more valuable than the monetary rewards of the job. And I am not exaggerating.
Over the past few months, since I started working, I have come to know at least fifty different people; interacted with them at length; provided guidance and advice, worked hard to strengthen their applications, even sincerely hoped that they get the positive reply they want from the university of their choice. They have unknowingly made me smile many times, by trusting my opinion so staunchly, by lauding my capabilities so earnestly. They have become a part of my world and I will always remember each one of them, silently wishing them the best in their endeavors. And I feel sure that I will live on in their memories too, especially as they go on to achieve the very ambitions I helped them write about.
I will also miss my colleagues, and most dearly my boss, all of whom I only know through their voices. A lot of them are people I would make great friends with. Professional life has opened up a whole different world for me: I met so many people, learned so much, grew so much. It’s hard to believe that the timid girl who was petrified of talking to people lest she utter something stupid can now confidently call up complete strangers, introduce herself, and progress to lengthy discussions about their life and work. All without feeling the least bit self-conscious. My editing skills have also greatly sharpened up; I could spot grammatical and spelling errors in my sleep now, and I’m not even joking. All in all, the working life has been a great experience. Stressing of course, taxing as hell at times, but still very interesting, enriching, and enjoyable.
It’s time to take a break now, and try my hand at realizing my own dreams. I don’t know what the year ahead holds in store, but I’m going to give it my very best shot. And leave the rest up to God/fate/destiny.
Goodbye routine job. Hello writing dreams.
Over the past few months, since I started working, I have come to know at least fifty different people; interacted with them at length; provided guidance and advice, worked hard to strengthen their applications, even sincerely hoped that they get the positive reply they want from the university of their choice. They have unknowingly made me smile many times, by trusting my opinion so staunchly, by lauding my capabilities so earnestly. They have become a part of my world and I will always remember each one of them, silently wishing them the best in their endeavors. And I feel sure that I will live on in their memories too, especially as they go on to achieve the very ambitions I helped them write about.
I will also miss my colleagues, and most dearly my boss, all of whom I only know through their voices. A lot of them are people I would make great friends with. Professional life has opened up a whole different world for me: I met so many people, learned so much, grew so much. It’s hard to believe that the timid girl who was petrified of talking to people lest she utter something stupid can now confidently call up complete strangers, introduce herself, and progress to lengthy discussions about their life and work. All without feeling the least bit self-conscious. My editing skills have also greatly sharpened up; I could spot grammatical and spelling errors in my sleep now, and I’m not even joking. All in all, the working life has been a great experience. Stressing of course, taxing as hell at times, but still very interesting, enriching, and enjoyable.
It’s time to take a break now, and try my hand at realizing my own dreams. I don’t know what the year ahead holds in store, but I’m going to give it my very best shot. And leave the rest up to God/fate/destiny.
Goodbye routine job. Hello writing dreams.
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