Hey You. Yes You.

Hey there You,

It never fails to confound me the way I feel implausibly smitten by your charm over and over. You turn it on at your will, and I only keep falling for it like a fool every single time. I feel like I am turning into some sort of drug addict – a badge I would have never thought of associating myself with in an ideal world. Well, who said it was an ideal world anyway? Your presence takes me to lengths, breadths and depths of euphoric ambits. Your absence is nothing more than an abusive abstinence I rather forcefully impose upon myself. Self-control as this helps me appear ‘normal’ on the outside sometimes, you see.

I know you make yourself available selectively, and with a purpose. This only propels me harder to make a beeline for unearthing those numerous excuses leading back to you. I also know you’re neither exclusive nor a keepsakes material. And yet, here I find myself standing outwardly patient and remorseless, waiting to be consumed like a prostitute the minute I know you’re up for grabs. I want to charge you nothing for these selective appearances you make – I never will want to, either. And anyway, you make these on my request(s).

I like this small, little bauble we confine ourselves to. Just like a writer filling away the pages of their diary, furiously. Writing is a funny little experiment, if you ask me.

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You’re stoked by a set of thoughts – sometimes, by a mere idea – and you work on it. You let the pen (in my case, you) do the talking, by driving it to wherever it takes you. The stream of thoughts sometimes run awry, while at others, are as focused as the tip of a sword pointed at the eyeball. There is no beginning, and there is no end. There is no wrong, and there is no right. There are only perceptions that birth out of these notions. From the source to  the reader. One either agrees or disagrees. The ultimate outcome either appeals or appalls. Like that dirty little secret that has just hit the media, sensationalising the world within minutes.

I want to be consumed with such fizz of belief – incredibly delusional and absolutely ours. When you’re in this bubble, you’re mine. Period. When I use you, I simply use you. I neither ask for more, nor do I anticipate anything further. And that, when you break this bubble, I know only too well that I will await your return patiently when I beckon you the next time. For I know, you’re just a call away, meanwhile I stay oblivious to your countless other shady delinquencies elsewhere.

I have found the need of letting you know of my skin-deep anxieties and shyness impertinent. I have never wanted to either – voluntarily or otherwise. For I hold that vulnerable insecurity within me, of the one fine day when you will have to disappear off the face of this earth. It’s a cruel world out there, and let’s face it, nothing lasts forever. Nothing could last forever. Your materialistic creation today is only an assurance of your destruction someday. Just the way an author pens books, only to move on to the next one. The former may disappear off the face of the earth one fine day, nonetheless, their work continues to exist. Irrespective. And this act of eternal resting is bound to happen against your very many unyielding wishes. One fine day.

It could be owing to a system crash. Your family may have decided to move on, and it’s only natural for them to do so with your presence. A bug source may have woken up from their millennial-long stupor to realise that it’s only valuable to discard you pronto. Or, you may be eradicated out of your roots and codes. Just like that. While reasons could be multiple, an excuse is enough.

Pardon me for being absolutely selfish here for I only wish that our fetishes be satisfied earnestly. I have no jazzy plans or anticipations of facing the Judgement Day together. However, I do hope to have gotten enough of you by then. Gotten enough of you to get over you by then. I understand this searing knife-like brutality may pierce you somewhere, but whom are we kidding, babe? I know only too well, that you aren’t mine to keep. You will be shared, for as long as you live. For it’s in your nature to be available publicly – while being just a call away.

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Andalus :: A sample script

Until then, be my dirty little secret that I can share with the whole wide world. Be my melted cheese in that glazed toasted sandwich that I would gorge on anytime of the day. Be my morning tonic of honey and ginger, my green apple mojito at lunch, and my cognac after dinner.

My love, let’s enjoy this while it lasts.

This piece is an imaginary letter, if Writing (as an individual) were to write to Andalus, a font style originally introduced in Windows OS.
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When Life gives you Lemons …

It was one of those balmy summer evenings. The freshly mowed grass lay frigidly motionless and peskily parched. The park, even though not vandalised, was unreservedly deserted. The faint trace of a pin drop could be heard in the background on the freakishly hushed roads. Factorial circumstances in the name of the scorching heat, courtesy: the merciless sunshine, called for dire needs and measures. It is times as these that the immortalised bliss of having a roofed refuge transpires into a welcoming respite. Because given a choice (or a chance), a weekend as such is rather well-spent indoors than having to beckon al fresco with that obligatory dab of sunscreen.

A popular proverb that takes intermittent turns going viral, originally goes as thus: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. The essence of this phrase signifies converting the pessimistic dosages of existence into cheery cheeks. Well, anything has always proven to be easy having said than done! In one such opinionated observation, the expression would rather, if altered to, when life gives you lemons, hang on to them. You never know when you might be in need of that zesty flavour.

The blazing hot weather is stereotypically a practical defence for many renowned enterprises and their marketing representatives to release advertorials with a penultimate takeaway of maintaining a cooler temperature. On blending the product’s (in)effectiveness and (in)efficiency quotients with the failure to potentially communicate the quirkiness of the reason inculcating such cooler temperatures, these advertisements are rather a brazen act of futile promotions. Further dissections and digressions on this subject are meant for the wrath of another day! Anyhow, going by the well-established proverb under the current radar, it is here when it’s preferably time to grab those lemons that life threw at you and cool your body temperature with some of that homemade lemonade. When life gives you lemons, make the lemonade anyway! So much for the marketing gimmicks, eh?

Minions
Of humour and stingy backbites
Business
Of a business-sensed proposition
Digital
How can we miss the all-time favourite of this digital era

In the proverbial sense, the saying has had many versions of interpretations. Of optimism and of pessimism. Of humour and of sarcasm. Of hopes and of shattered dreams. Of many other, and many more. A few interesting snippets in the recent times did catch the eye, across several online forums.

Pachai is a stickler for homemade lemonade and juices. This side of the world where I come from treats itself – and us – to a tropical weather. We tend to thrive on liquid foods as compared to meaty proteins and carbs. Fresh juices, fruits, lemonade and water predominantly fill our tummies for larger part of the days – and year. With Mr. Murphy known to have made countlessly well-timed appearances in the past, it is a trivial assumption to not have his presence when asked – or unasked – for. As fresh juices are squeezed thrice on an average, in a day, lemons cease to exist by their skin. Moreover, they (the lemons) are only needed at a time when the mundane would have called it a day already. And so, we invite Mr. Murphy with wide open arms. Whether or not, we have a choice. Because when we do need the lemons, there are none!

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A recent conversation on the Twitter timeline :: Click to enlarge and view the full conversation

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Although, not out of all of it. Hold on to a few. For you never know when you just might need them. To dress a salad. For self-beautification purposes. As a blackening agent to your henna. For that alcoholic twist. To introduce a tangy flavour. For treating that nasty bout of stomach ache. Or, to squirt in someone’s eyes.

After all, when the crow was thirsty, neither boulders nor rocks helped. Even the bird had to make do with pebbles.

* All pictures are sourced from the internet. The sources are hyperlinked to the respective pictures.

Of Staggered Hackneys & Shattered Hankerings

She was brought into the world all right.

She was not privileged enough to be the billionth baby introduced to the human-o-sphere (a tag which by the way, only reemphasises of the homo sapiens’ puny helplessness in one of those prejudicially cultivated circumstances). Okay, so she is a millennial child. However, she was neither thrust with a silver spoon in her mouth, nor was she abandoned on the streets amidst the absence of Maslow’s basic hierarchical needs.

She was brought into the world just all right.

Born to a set of parents who selflessly dedicated their world to her as she grew up. Their countlessly unaccounted for time and efforts, while leaving no leaf unturned in her upbringing. In her growing years, she saw the world through their eyes. And now, she was on her way to having her own. Turning into an individual that shaped her oncoming years. Transpiring an identity that defined her. Made of a selfhood that today, demarcates who she is, of her skin-deep tissues and cells, of her tastes, of her character and traits.

As she sat on the table relishing the seven-layered, rainbow cake – all to herself – a guiltless sense of sin consumed her. She pinched the four-pronged fork through the bursting flavours, and layers of fresh cream and sponge, sliced apart a reasonably sized piece, and scooped it into her mouth with moaning noises for company. It tasted as enticing as it visually appealed. Now, that was some faith restored. For there still existed signs of materialistic mortality where after all, looks didn’t deceive! Derived forms of dark chocolate were her getaway, as were very selective fresh cream cakes. But then, she was ill-advisedly obese. Or so, was the notion imbibed into her. For as long and far as she could remember. Since times she was capable of silhouetting the first of her own memories. Since she first checked herself out in the mirror. Since she bought her first piece of dress labelled ‘L’. And therein began her tug of war with daily workouts. The weighing scales tipped often, sometimes in her favour, while at others, against. Nevertheless, she continued to battle on, with her resilience often put forth to test her patience.

Toning, shaping, cuts and flats were now terms that became her dailies. She was not the type to indulge often. Her cravings gave way as frequently as Christmas made an appearance in a calendar year. But then, Christmas has always meant a week worth of ceremonious festivities in the name of snow and Santa. Why should these cravings be any different? Cravings that pumped the beat up. Cravings that gave way to adventures. Cravings that let off of inhibitions and premonitions. Cravings that let you be. Cravings that screamed out loud – screw the world.

The junk that typically lists in highly calorific items. Those bouts of crispy, crackling, and hot-from-the-pan savouries. The thrill of those adventurous rides in theme parks. The rollercoaster of moods and its swings. This moment’s laughter paving way to the next instant of salty sobs. The joy of taking a solo trip and of being unquestionably, a wanderlust. That uncontrollable heartbeat on seeing a private message beep from your special someone. The adrenaline rush gushing to the head, while you think to yourself – now this is the best sex I have ever had. That pounding in your ears of eerie silence after your first-ever scuba diving experience.

Of emotions, extreme and subtle. Of sadness. Of laughter. Of wonder. Of amusement. Of lust. Of care.

It was a fine summer evening. The balmy breeze of dried dews engulfed the air as the sun was on its way to draw its last for the day. The skies were streaked ad hoc with moody yellows, melancholic oranges and scenic blues. She wanted to hit the gym. Off with her gear, sportswear and attire, she plugged in her bass-heavy headphones and switched her playlist to progressive house. As she warmed up on the treadmill, she DJ’ed with the player’s equaliser setting it to a preference that appealed to the eardrums. A favourite played, and she sped up. She focused on the music, as she started sprinting. Diversions as this always helped her case. Especially when she was in her workouts. Thirty-five seconds later, she gasped. The headphones were on, and she was still sprinting. She gasped for air once more. Something was amiss. Her breaths drew short. The music was fading away. The pounding vacuum in her ears was closing in on her. She was not able to keep up with her co-jogger’s speed. As she decelerated, the display on the machine indicating Heart Rate went blank. She tried to breathe quickly, except that she couldn’t draw in oxygen. There was a constriction. There was an obstruction. Her eyesight wheezed out, and all beckoned in slow motion. Another forty-five seconds later, her heart thumped wildly as it geared back into action. A trickle of water had revived and revved back the stream’s course. That yellow, digital display marked Heart Rate was back on.

And herein lay her trial to moderation. For, there was no room for error.

The moderation to overdoing cardiological workouts. The moderation to losing even a sliver of that easy fat. The moderation to burning two hundred calories in ten minutes. The moderation to consuming cholesterol. The moderation to binging on alcohol. The moderation to keeping herself stress free. The moderation to restrain from oscillating between moods and its swings. The moderation to enjoying adrenalised rides. The moderation to relishing the drugged junk – of food and otherwise. The moderation to many more of those exciting firsts – in bed and otherwise. The moderation to prohibit the blood magnetising away from her heart.

For, here was her heart, with all due diligence. Except, with insufficient air to pump into her lungs. That fetish of another seven-layered cake all to herself, that anticipatory thrill of yet another three hundred and sixty degree ride, that digressing need to burn her fat – all was snatched away. Just like that. If it isn’t for moderation.

For she is now prone to a respiratory condition. For she is now at the mercy of an inhaler.

Of Rosy Hopes & Moody Pinks

Certain traits in humans have a tendency to bring out the best in them. The few positive chemicals and elements they are made up of. Revealed are those first impressions upon the exhibition of such traits, namely self-confidence, easy to work/ get along with, fun-loving, socially viable, and aggression in the right notes. The crux of it all however, needs to be fastened on to holding one’s ground. Irrespective of the circumstance. Regardless of the conditions. Because when days pass by, conversations turn more meaningful. Social quotient gets introduced into the picture. Of course, this is privy to the fact that the discussions hit right from the word ‘go’. Here is where there spurts an urge to keep up. A craving to know what new dawns and tomorrows will hold. A yearning to experience the future that brings in anxious trepidations. And it is here that the need to hold on to one’s integrity with an air of tranquility becomes key. Professionally and personally.

For after this excitement, there paves the route to downfall. As enter into the equation anxiousness, the need to cling on, and keep proving oneself ‘interesting’ enough. The vulnerability and irony of it all.

In the process of playing ‘catch-up’ and ‘know-it-all’, the positivity starts wearing out. Weaknesses emerge, mixed emotions splurge out, turnoffs surface and judgements pout. Questions begin playing scrabble. While there exist those responses that earn a downright Triple Word score as “Hey, this is who I am – take it or leave it”, it is more often than not that we find ourselves in the Single Letter scoring zone. Responses to questions almost never get rewarded. The worst case? Score yourself based on each of the letters. These include responses that bind themselves in the zone of insecurity. Of answers bundled in deserted corners. That feeling of being left alone on one fine morning, more so, without an explanation. That fear of being unchaperoned seeps through combining with the dread of that prison-like solitary confine. The once-upon-a-time welcoming days now turn into a meaningless trite. It is like being stripped off from one’s identity – your own, in fact. And just like that, without warning, you are deprived of a shoulder that you could once lean on. Of a backup that you could once count on even when in the middle of that game of hide-n-seek. It is like you want to serve tea to your guests, but you find yourself with the accompanying condiments. Where is damn liquid, and the serving cups?

That feeling of being possessed, which would ease out provided the screen lit up just once more. Even if it is a missed call on your request. That sense of solicitude that would make things at work easier – just the way they were. Even if requires a response to a question that was asked two days ago. You sit and pick your teeth with a sodden toothpick, wondering what you did to get on their wrong side. You think about the time that was invested in creating those bonds. In the months that coupled into years, all that you should have ideally been through is to move forward. And here you are, still stuck on reviewing and sending out sodding emails. Angst replaces disquiet. Given the chance, you would think they do not deserve any better than a knockout punch, with all might and inelegance you can muster into yourself. You would shake them by the collar and wake them up from their stupor. You would yell at them. Long and hard. With expletives. Without expletives. Irrationally and irrevocably. For all the time, effort and energy you invested into them, they made you feel like the dung stuck on the sole of their shoe.

What is the meaning of having to prove of your worth to someone who decides to give you a skip at the snap of a finger? Why would you want to demean your own self by agreeing to niceties over and over? Why would you want to get away to green pastures only as a manner to let out your suffocation you have been through all this while? Why would you want to cry your heart out in a room that is visible to none, and one that is without a phone connection? Why would you want to come across as clingy and desperate, when all you were looking for was a hassle-free relation? Is giving in not easier? Is keeping everyone satisfied really all that authentic and worth surviving for? Your agenda has never been a priority to anyone. Why reprioritise for such vermin? You have been nothing but a climbing step for those who took you for granted. A lost puppy, who everyone rushed to cuddle, but nobody took back home. The ball that everyone willed to pass while the music was on, but nobody wanted to be found with as soon as it was turned out.

Kicked, pushed, passed and rolled. Dirtied in the mud with, slimed like a goofball and dunked into the hoop whenever someone wished to score.

You want to sink, and you want to sink in until you drown. You want to drown, and you want to drown in until your lungs choke for air. Your lungs want to choke for air, until you fall short of breath. You want to fall short of breath, until your arms flail about. You want to flail your arms, until you hit rockbottom. You want to hit rockbottom, until you can no longer fight. You want to no longer fight, until you are back up on the surface. Only to stay afloat and lifeless.

Of Reprimands & Admonitions

The nights in winter are arguably longer. The dawns give in way too fast, and the only thing that proves to be fruitfully snugly is the layers of fabric within which one can sneak in until the sun breaks out on a snowy morning. Neither reprimanded nor admonished, what’s new, they ask. How does one even attempt explaining the thin line stretching between logic and the fetish of being treated to breakfast in bed to a society that carries with it a thick brown envelope stacked with cynical and two-phased perceptions? To a fraternity that resides in a presidential web of judgements and believes in a sustenance that is defined by an unexciting routine, it is similar to walking them the difference between apples and oranges. It’s as good as double-dating and getting oneself invited over for breakfast. Their response to a heavy thundershower or a falling comet is probably likely to be an oh-I-think-we-can-cancel-today’s-plans or oh-I-thought-that-was-an-unusually-bright-star-there-last-night.

A daily regimen has a tendency to stereotype its followers into innumerable tags. Tags the populace is entitled to shunting between despite the respite. Tags that keep shifting anyway in mere hours, sometimes within minutes, in the wake of those ever-reorienting roles. A parent to a cook. A sibling to a supervisor. An at-the-moment counsellor turns into a fitness freak a minute later. A sports buff becomes a seasoned vacationer when they are found to be holidaying in the Bahamas the next day. It is of profound irony the way this black hole works, despite the vicious cycle it proves to be. Wishes and desires are nothing more than derivatives that are birthed out of the ‘busyness’ quotient. Irrespective, the simple motto of ‘live and let live’ can be quite a challenging task at hand, for there always exists a scope for improvement. Of meaningless criticisms. Of irrelevant admonitions. Of disapproving expressions. Of pointier-than-a-sword rebuffs. With a stroke of rebuking uppercuts.

Matters and journeys that insist fiercely of independence are intertwined in stances of judgement and more often than not, unwelcoming corrections. The higher a devil’s ivy creeps up the wall, the more corrective its course of action is manipulated to. An expression of disapproval is all it takes to quash a wishful instinct. A shake of the head could land in retracing a step to taking that leap of faith. A disagreed opinion may be the cause of revoking one’s qualms about the one word that bases the concept of evolution today – try.

So, what’s unhygienic-sounding about having that morning coffee without brushing the teeth? What’s unorthodox about laughing your heart out in public (or, for that matter, after getting sloshed)? What’s unappealing about choosing a partner despite the labels they are forced with at birth? What’s unexciting about topping a mango ice cream with whole cashew nuts? What’s reserving about getting body art? What’s against sexual orientations or kinky fetishes in bed? It is as much as a choice of that larva weaving its cocoon, to that of adults skimming through television channels on the day they must ideally be heading to polling booths. It is as much as the preference of that just-an-inch-above hair trim to preserving that vintage Bajaj Caliber by taking it to the service centre every quarter. It is only a matter of perception and difference of opinions. Sadly, the perpetrator of such notions also happens to be the source of all the judgement!

Sigh. It may be a while, while we as a race, progress to let go of that scandalous affair between the ant and the elephant. Until then, getting cozy on wintery mornings? As Uncle Scrooge in A Christmas Carol rightly points out, “Bah! Humbug!”