tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077192786890981792024-03-05T13:07:59.890-08:00iBlah!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-37611529176784814922012-03-11T12:38:00.000-07:002012-08-29T07:24:57.298-07:00High Rises!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlH6BvnuM8l321SbqRdegFGc2bNLwzlRT_EI40CrAngllaogBzUczZwhTrOgiOznzZgtHnK2xFx59AcTqMkJCqmeOmTJkRCM_foUhjLwGxwaOOHTxZvo4aPH_oynRx4swYYXafINCqqEIE/s1600/398956_10150627320981925_656291924_9305000_1182762570_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="268" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlH6BvnuM8l321SbqRdegFGc2bNLwzlRT_EI40CrAngllaogBzUczZwhTrOgiOznzZgtHnK2xFx59AcTqMkJCqmeOmTJkRCM_foUhjLwGxwaOOHTxZvo4aPH_oynRx4swYYXafINCqqEIE/s400/398956_10150627320981925_656291924_9305000_1182762570_n.jpg" /></a></div>
Fast forwarding and freezing time, existing and non-existing, approving and disapproving the life around, stand high rises. Watching and looking away when needed, scorning and sighing, sometimes duh-ing, sometimes uh-oh-ing they stand, silent witnesses to strange lives. In the 1Cs, the sort-of-abandoned parents of the guy who recently moved in with his family, try to reason their daughter-in-law’s indifference as ‘mood swings,’ fighting back tears. And in the 2As a clichéd loner-painer pseudo artist, shedding all pretenses, laughs his guts out watching a gross comedy movie. In the 2Ds, a petite girl burns her regret over conveniently forgetting her 85 year old grandpa at native, as she smokes a 74 mm something to 20 mm. Meanwhile in the 3Es an oh-so-sophisticated, tissue silk Kurta - clad beautiful woman in late forties makes a fuss about the scallops of the warm, fluffy dark chocolate cocoa cake being uneven, on her daughter’s birthday. And the frail, shabby looking servant of her, happily counts the possibilities of taking it home for her son who has never seen anything like this before. In the 4Cs a rebel, badass girl hangs around in the living room for another half an hour hoping, maybe, just maybe her father would consider at least talking to her if not cuddling like he does with her sister. At the same time in the 5Bs a nice, hardworking man dreadfully looks at the stacked pile of car, house, education- loan reminders and due bills as his son nags him for a software needed to play FIFA 2011. In the 6Fs an insomniac, trying-too-hard, wannabe copywriter writes this. While in the 7As a happily married chick and another happily married hunk together cheat on their partners for no reason. Perhaps to figure out what’s this so called infidelity? In the 8Bs an MBA guy, after his usual session of weed, listens to ‘lukka chuppi’, all homesick, missing his amma back at home. When in the 8Hs a cute little boy is engrossed in his homework or pretends so, when he overhears the never ending argument of his parents. In the 9Cs a family man feels terrible as he has to take off the next day for a long business trip, leaving his wife and daughter alone and climbs the stairs to terrace to find relief in his daily star gazing. Meantime in the 9Es a couple falling out of love, after trying all things possible from daily visits to beauty salons to incredibly expensive gifts, finally smile at each other. In the 10Ds a middle-aged, childless couple host a Barbie Birthday Party at their place just to watch the innocent buttercups giggling and playing. And in the 11As a divorcee boss opens up to his colleague, ‘I haven’t had sex in a long time. I'm horny!’ while the colleague lets out a carefully-thought out ‘I understand’. In the 11Gs a wife, caught in the negotiables and nonnegotiables of married life thinks why every relationship has to end up in bed. At the same moment in the 12As a married, urbane corporate guy and his 12 years younger colleague sit close half naked, shivering in the cold of the night after exchanging bodily fluids, or to put it nicely, after making love in the balcony, wondering if it was sex or love and look across at the faraway speeding train in a much comfortable silence. Nodding and raising eyebrows at many other zillion lives, sometimes surprised, sometimes taken aback, most of the times numb, never feeling for anything or anyone, as mere spectators to these bizarre lives, stand highrises. Good that they can’t talk!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-65771883557414681812012-03-09T03:00:00.001-08:002012-03-26T22:40:16.849-07:00Phew!Having chanced upon that inevitable question, that every morning ‘what do I wear’ crisis, she kept on staring at her wardrobe of a zillion ‘I’ll wear it when I slim down’ dresses. As she was digging for gold in her nose, she came across a white cotton noodle strap dress. The only obstacle that stood between her and that pretty dress was the dense underarms hair she’s been affectionately growing. So she decided against it and settled for her usual checkered shirt and hydrophobic jeans. She’s meeting him today. After almost 4 years. Despite his relentless insistence, she chose a restaurant for their meeting, not his or her apartment. And when it’s a restaurant, a restaurant in Kerala in particular, chances are, a smoochin-woochin session is highly unlikely to trigger. So that’s taken care of. For some reason unknown, she was not feeling up to it. And seeing herself in the mirror, she was certain even he wouldn’t feel like doing it. Her kohl has lost its charm, her boobs started sagging and her curves were getting straightened. She remembered those times when she wished if he had just fondled her hair rather than fiddling with her round, delicate boobs. Not that she never liked the latter. She was under the wrong impression that at 19, she’s too young for it. But she knew if he had to choose between her and her boobs, on any given day he would go for her boobs. What better could she expect from a man 12 years elder? It was either that tiny brown mole on her left boob, just below the armpit or the green veins that were distinctly visible through her wheatish skin, like skeleton fork ferns through water, under the yellowish light in his bedroom, which got him obsessed. She also remembered that moist April night she spent wondering, while traces of him dripping down through her thighs, if the ‘I love you’ he whispered as he entered her for the first and last time was just booze talk or the fact.<br /><br />She’s been told that she tastes like revolution, told who, she doesn’t remember. Was it him?<br /> <br /><em>I, the author would like to intervene here. It was him, undoubtedly. She remembers it too. She clearly doesn’t seem like a girl who fools around with various men; I think she’s just trying to be hep. Thanks to the onslaught of Cosmopolitan and MTV, these days, girls think it’s sooow cooohl to make out with random guys and be this loose, I-can-get-whatever-I-want kinda girl. Wish they knew what they’re doing.</em><br /> <br />And he, he was the guy every mom warned their daughters about while seconds later, they would be seen shamelessly flirting with him. She wanted to know if it was love or sex. She was young and thought it was alcohol, weeds & Enrique Iglesias. Surprisingly it wasn’t any of them. Neither was it the secrecy of their relationship nor the you-and-me-against-the-whole-world feeling. Not even the pleasure of snatching away someone else’s belonging or the pride of winning over a ladies’ man. It was pure, unadulterated love for she loved his wife and kid too and wanted them to have the happily ever after end. Moreover, it was that pic of him on his laptop, anxiously waiting outside Labour Room, being the typical family man, which got her addicted to him. It should’ve been that hazy evening when he stormed out of the conference room after a meeting, only to return 5 seconds later to tell her “I’m flirting with you, if you don’t like it temme, I wouldn’t then” in front of their G.M & every staff present there, leaving her pale and frozen. But strange, it wasn’t. Perhaps, <br /><br /><em>Perhaps is a word too posh for her, but I’m still using it.</em><br /><br />Perhaps, it is just the fact that apart from the men in her family, he is the only man she’s seen without salt-rimmed patches of dried-up perspiration in the underarm regions of his shirts & t-shirts. Perhaps.<br /><br /><em>Yea, that is it. It can’t be love for all I know. Duh! Pure unadulterated love it seems!</em><br /> <br />The fact that in 6 months old relationship, they’ve gotten physical only thrice, left her even more confused. They frequented coffee shops, restaurants and pubs but never bed.<br /><br />And all the 3 times, it was ‘talk more, do less’ making out. He would make her laugh with ‘It’s too hot in here or is it you’ kinda corny pickup lines. They would sit in his balcony, with a pint of vodka, her head leaning softly on his chest, his left arm wrapped close around that 24 inch waist of hers. The second night was spent mostly watching India vs. Australia Cricket Live, sitting on his couch, coochie cooing and canoodling during commercials.<br /><br /><em>Yep, heard me right. Only during commercials! Talk about well charted out lovemaking.</em><br /><br />She vividly remembers the next morning, when he was feeling lazy to wake up and made her curl up with him, pulling her close and tugging her, girly chocolate hand in ruggedly masculine hand. Never had she felt so contented, so happy before as she stroked those short hair strands on his hand, her eyes wide open. His wife and son were away for months and still just 3 nights? Maybe it’s because she wasn’t particularly pretty or hot to turn him on so much. Hadn’t it been for her multi-ethnic looks, she could’ve been easily mistaken for just another face in the crowd, which she isn’t anyway. Heck, she wasn’t even half as beautiful as his wife. And on one occasion, having spotted his wife’s stilettos and expensive lingerie she could tell how pretty she is.<br /><br /><em>FYI, she has an acquired skill to determine one’s beauty from their intimate belongings.</em><br /> <br />And the photographs of his wife only stood testimony to this skill. If at all anything turned him on, it was her petite body. On the first two nights, she remembered, he had to go to loo to jack off, since she din’t want to do it and he din’t want to force her. But on the third night, when she decided after a lot of thinking, she’ll do it for they’ve decided it’s their last meeting, nothing could stop him. A lot of things would’ve stopped her, but fortunately or unfortunately she was high from a few pegs of vodka. Her constant gut feeling that he’s just using her for one, thanks to all the assholes from her past who mistreated her. Another was her strong suspicion that he’s dating multiple women. With all those women throwing themselves at him, chances were more and she din’t want to be just one among many. She wanted to be the only one. Well, apart from his wife. And every time she confronted him with her doubts, he laughed it off saying “I can have any girl I want, but you, you are different, I like you a lot” and for some reason she din’t find it satisfactory. She was looking for signs. Signs that are self-explanatory, but never found any. However none of these stopped her. Partly because he she was high, predominantly because she loved him. She thought it would be an extreme loss, if she din’t know him entirely, if they din’t become one entity, at least once.<br /><br /><em>I think I might throw up. Yuck. She was too Harlequin or Mills & Boons that way. But thankfully, not Yash Raj.</em><br /> <br />Later that night before hitting bed, they talked a lot. He patted her flat tummy and told her to eat well. At that moment, she hated herself for calling him continuously when he was at the railway station to see off his wife and son, and for making him pick the call and plead “Please, I’m with my wife”. And when he slid off to deep sleep, she had mixed feelings, of happiness, of loss, of things she couldn’t identify. She felt void. Something that was there in her tight grip was slipping away. To an unreachable distance. She wanted to be away from this plastic surface she keeps on scratching without ever finding anything underneath. Her thoughts went 3 hours back. His eyes widened upon seeing her bare, up close, as if he couldn’t believe behind that boyish exterior she was hiding so much, so much of curves and turns and so much of femininity. Oven hot kisses were planted all over her, leaving no inch unkissed. And it was still burning all over. At that instant, she slowly took off his left hand resting on her bare belly. And noticed that a few lucky charms on her copper hip chain were missing, along with the black thread anklet worn on her right leg which has oxidized silver coffee bean shaped beads with tiny multicolored glass beads intertwined. She panicked, what if his wife finds them when she comes back. She wanted to search, but since he’s sleeping, din’t want to turn on the light. <br /><br /><em>*Yawn yawn* She did find her anklet next morning, but couldn’t find those lucky charms. And his wife never found them. Enough? Now can we get back to the present?</em><br /><br />If her smell-sensing abilities served her right, he used to smell of Calvin Klein Escape. He smells different now, a Hugo Boss sorta fragrance. It reminded her that, early in the morning when she took shower with shea butter shower gel and vanilla bathing salt and carefully applied cocoa butter moisturizer allover her body after shower she wanted him to remember her for that smell, forever. Except for the smell, he hasn’t changed one bit in 4 years. His eyes dazzling the shit out of her. Nose up in the air. His moves, oozing confidence, full-on-attitude with a hunky-dory aura, shouting style and hotness written all over him. The right juxtaposition of sophistication and ease. Never at a loss of words, never watching his words. Just that his unmistakable Hindi was making its way into the conversation unconsciously at indefinite intervals. Well dressed to the core, as always. The picture of his wardrobe of tweed jackets, plaid shirts, Jack Spade chinos, textured & striped ties, grey sport coats, GAP t-shirts, silver tie clips, jumpers, suede shoes and designer cufflinks came to her mind. It was his years in different continents and countries that inherited him such a drool-worthy wardrobe. She would’ve stood for at least an hour in awe at the sight of it.<br /><br /><em>P.S: She is more into stripes and checks than polka dots and florals. As a child, unlike others, the first thing she donned was her dad’s blazer, not her mom’s saree. So you can imagine.</em><br /> <br />As he greeted her with a hug, she din’t experience the much expected chill. No heartbeats marathon either. Neither butterflies in the stomach nor weakness at the knees. She was happy to see that he still ogles women and stops his car every now and then for people waiting to cross the road. When they sat down for lunch he told her she hasn’t changed much. His exact words were “ I was expecting worse. Why can’t you take care of your skin. You are a girl. Girls are supposed to dress up….yada yada…” To which she replied “I’ve put on Kohl” accompanied by a sheepish grin. He had a wide smile and remarked “ You still sound like a little girl”. She likes it when he talks like this. When he sounds concerned and she being his little girl. She even considered the possibility of her dressing down being a deliberate attempt to hear him talking this way. At times, she’s naughty like that. Once, when she was having Cornetto, in her usual self-absorbed, savaged way, eyes closed, chocolate cream smeared around her lips, watching her, he had a hard time<br /><br /><em>Pardon the pun.</em><br /><br />holding himself back from kissing her. Knowing what’s happening to him, she transformed her Cornetto-consuming to an undeniably suggestive art making ‘uuuhmmm’ ‘aaah’ sounds.<br /><br /><em>Why am I even talking about this???* Shrugging shoulders*</em><br /><br />Her biggest fear was seeing the strongest, manliest and coolest of men being vulnerable because she might lose herself to them. Irrecoverably. She’s seen them being vulnerable for cars, bikes, games, gadgets, new books and mostly for love. And this guy, to put it in her way, wasn’t even the ‘V’ of vulnerable. Probably that’s what made her fall for him lickety split.<br /><br /><em>Don’t mind. I’m just showing off a new word I learnt.</em><br /><br />He was talking about his plans to set up a new business and how, despite living under one roof, he and his wife used to act like total strangers and how they’re living in two different cities abroad now to save their marriage. That left her wondering if happy family is the funniest of all paradoxes. He was humming to a Bollywood song the restaurant played, which she can’t recollect now. She has never seen the walls, the décor or the people of the places they’ve hung out. Because love had made her so weak, even to lift her gaze and look beyond him. Her eyes locked with his, her gaze froze on him and her soul lost to him, this is how it was.<br /><br /><em>Jesus H. Christ. Please pass me the gun. I’d rather shoot myself than putting up with all these mush.</em><br /> <br />But now, after years she could look through him, look beyond him. She saw the floral wallpaper, the pregnant woman lunching with her in laws sitting behind them, vibrant plastic plates and a Quentin Tarantino movie<br /><br /><em>Again, showing off my extensive movie knowledge.</em><br /><br />being telecasted by HBO on the LED TV in the corner. Before long, he confessed “I like you a lot”. She just looked at him; saddened by the fact that she couldn’t say the same. He insisted “If there’s anything you don’t like about me, tell it frankly”, “Yea, I don’t like you sextalking to me” blurted out she, as if she would’ve choked to death if she hadn’t said that. “There she goes again”, he had his infamous lopsided smile when he said this and added ‘”You can’t stop me from having sexual thoughts about you”.<br /><br /><em>Actually I added it, not him. Lifted this dialogue from my favourite movie ‘Holy Smoke’. Thought it will suit the character. Let him keep it, the dialogue, ohkhay?</em><br /><br />Maybe it was him talking about his divorce plans, about abandoning his wife and 7 year old son. Or in spite of his years in Cochin, asking if there is a Zara Store in Cochin,<br /><br /><em>Zara Store in Cochin. My ass!</em><br /><br />for he wanted to get something like the black Zara shirt he was wearing. Or it can even be his different fragrance. But as she submerged her teeth in the cheddar cheese, engrossed in the taste of the burger, out of hunger or disinterest, while not listening to him, she realized, much to her relief or disappointment, she is yet to figure out which, that she’s gotten over him. That’s when she looked down on every microsecond she battled when he crossed her mind. On every sad, break up song she listened to. On every sip of alcohol she difficultly gulped. On every bite of Lays and every grain of rice she hogged on with zero appetite. On every cigarette she smoked in the hopes of looking like a post modern Pareekutty aka lovelorn Romeo. Unsuccessfully of course. And all other movie clichés she hated but happened to do unwillingly in order to get over him. Who would’ve known it was this easy? That was so fast. Phew!<br /><br /><em>I repeat. Belch. Phew!</em>Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-65929017770199723832012-03-08T18:57:00.000-08:002012-03-26T22:43:02.122-07:00Freeze.She wore her hair different today. Nothing great. She’s let her hair down and tucked two hair strands from each side in the back. Hmm, a little less of a mess! Oh she’s put on flowers too. And that too jasmine! So unlike her. It’s evening and the jasmines are already wilted & gone. But so what, they are still flowers! Her thick silky smoky brown hair makes it look like milk chocolate & vanilla toppings on a hard chocolate cake. Sweat drops emerged from her armpit , started running down her midriff. As her boney, cocoa coloured, lean frame tilted to left when she walked swiftly, a tiny, vibrant, bangle shop in the right corner caught her eye. Her thick lashed, deep set, brown eyes twinkled at the very sight of those kaleidoscopic glass bangles. Not that she loves bangles or anything feminine for that matter. Just that it’s her wedding tomorrow. But don’t ask her anything about the guy. She’s as clueless about him as she’s about the stink coming from her worn-out green bandhani saree. But then from tomorrow on, she might have a room with a door all for herself and this stranger. Even better, she might get to use a loo with a door. A door. ‘Door’ in quotes. Now that’s going to be heaven, being able to do the most private of basic needs without having to look around, without discomfort or fear. Who knows, the guy will be nice to her. Or he’ll be a maachod. Whatever. She’s a hardcore optimistic. A smile took place from the corners of her lips spread to her face. Her eyes twinkled brighter. So did her smile. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FREEZE.</span><br />The boy in blue shorts held on to the green glass pebbles in his hand. Close. His black Bata shoes snorkeled in the slush pool formed after morning rain. He thought what maa is going to say when she sees his dirty shoes. Oh this day is too good to think of maa and her tantrums. I just want to think about Chuski, he thought. Kala Khatta Chuski! The mere thought of that purplish black syrup on ice slush, with a squeeze of lime and a pinch of masala made him slurrrrrrrrrrrrp. Woooh! Enough to forget Sharmeen maam’s grumpy face, principal’s gyaan and peon’s gaali. But not enough to forget the strawberry scented eraser Debby gave him, the Ben 10 magic pencil Chotu had and the Rugby match his team won today. Lalalala, it’s all lalalala today. Wait, wait. A Chuskiwallah there. His tiny hand went inside his left pocket in search of 5 rupee coins. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FREEZE.</span><br />The old man strode past the busy market. He’s a capturer. No. He doesn’t capture hearts, nor is he a photographer who captures moments. He captures worries. As if his own worries aren’t enough. He seeks out miseries & woes. Or is it the other way around? They seek him out? Misery man he is, for sure. And whether or not he could keep up with the pace of the city, this city has been his everything. He feels a deep sense of belonging in every nook and cranny of this place as he wanders about. He searched for worried faces all over the market. A lot, today. He scrutinized all of it. His heart ached wanting to own the worries and pain he’s spotted on those faces. The depth and volume of it made him shudder. A sudden surge of joy took form inside him that he almost forgot why did he come to market. He toyed with every possible reason he could find. Got it, he wanted to get something for Khush, his pet mouse, his one and only living companion back home. If only you can call a 29 sq. ft. space with an asbestos sheet roof, Shankar Cements bag and a few wooden pieces put together, a home! But then in a city perpetually crunched for space, 29 sq. ft. is a luxury, isn’t it? Come to think of it, such an irony to call a mouse who lives there Khush! Gets me laughing. Now the question is from where will he get food with no money. He’s got a plan. Go to grocers, hang around till the crowd gets bigger, steal a handful of rice grains from the opened sack outside. That will do, he rushed. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FREEZE.</span><br />The curly head just stood there. Looks like she’s waiting for someone. Her thick mane of hair adds charm to the beautiful, sharp face. The red ‘bus kya?’ t shirt she got from Attic is still wet. And so is her psychedelic dhoti pants. She rewinded the whole day in her mind. The long walk in the drizzle was the best part of the day. Except for the getting t shirt wet part. Her body bent forward and trembled a little, while her heartbeat almost stopped beating because of the cold. She started getting pins and needles in her feet from standing a long time. “Where the hell is Prateik? What the fuck is he doing? Why can’t that SOB call and inform that he’ll be late” prevailed her mind. Can’t blame her though. She’s been waiting for more than 2 hours. If Prateik shows up now, she’ll beat him so much that he will be better off as chaatwala’s paani.LOL. The thought of Prateik in Paanipuri made her LOL. Offo! All her anger just went down with that LOL! Sad. Forget it. Where’s she gonna take him tonight. Leopold Café, then Firangi Paani. Ekdum jhakaas. She took her BB from her cloth bag. Speed-dialled 2. 1 is her dad’s no., not Prateik’s.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FREEZE.</span><br />BAAAM!<br />EXPLOSION!<br />6:55 pm, 13th July 2011. <br />Opera House neighbourhoods, Mumbai.<br />THE END.<br />Happy or sad, it’s THE END!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-34573365131996987062012-03-07T23:11:00.000-08:002012-03-26T22:45:10.201-07:00B***OLOGY.30, is the beginning,<br />32, is still in process,<br />34, is the standard,<br />36, is a cliché,<br />38, is a prayer answered,<br />40, must be silicone.<br /> <br />A, when 16,<br />A+, a year later.<br />B, is a low expectation<br />C, gives a <span style="font-style:italic;">hard</span> time,<br />D, gets things done<br />And E, my dears, is a myth.<br /> <br />Rounded for some.<br />Pointed for some others.<br />A pair for all.<br /> <br />Firm when young.<br />Gravity-defying firm for a few.<br />Saggy for a lot.<br />Touching-knees-saggy for the most.<br /> <br />Pokies in the chill<br />Turns everything on,<br />Whatever the colour,<br />Eyes gleam in Technicolour.<br />Or in an unknown vigour?<br />For it’s never a labour,<br />But always an honour.<br />At times a favour,<br />A favour so major.<br />Don’t you wanna censor<br />Based on your flavour?<br />Or you just wanna savour?<br />And be a mere spectator?<br />Wearing Ray-Ban Aviator,<br />Like a museum curator<br />Watching out a visitor.<br /> <br />Valleys so close,<br />Or valleys so apart,<br />The landscape, it does<br />Look fantabulous pals.<br /> <br />Ms. Anderson makes<br />A living out of it.<br />Ms. Leone wins<br />Hearts with it.<br />They say flaunt it,<br />If you have it.<br /> <br />The big does wonders<br />Say advertisers,<br />But can beggars<br />Ever be choosers?<br /> <br />Shaky on Indian roads.<br />Bumpy in an Ape.<br />Jumpy at zero support.<br />Nevertheless, things are never in place.<br /> <br />Life sure gives some<br />Lemons and some, melons.<br />Even oranges, apples, papayas<br />Grapes, pears and kiwis.<br />However even the perfect<br />Will have one defect.<br />A lot you expect,<br />But they hardly have any effect.<br /> <br />Owner’s pride, it sure is.<br />Neighbour’s envy? undoubtedly.<br />(Quoting that epic baseline)<br />And every man’s obsession.<br /> <br />* Written strictly from a sexist point of view for the pleasure of the pervert in me. No offense ladies.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-35661444147024198442012-03-06T10:47:00.000-08:002012-04-21T03:51:38.748-07:00THE SMIRKJust as when she was turning the corner, she heard them teasing her. And the smirk widened. She didn’t see the world through her eyes, but through her smirk. And the world just saw the smirk. Occasionally when a smile appeared on her face too, it seemed like a less defiant variation of the smirk. The smirk conquered unseen provinces she was scared of and owned unknown terrains she was dreaming of. It wanted to cross all the lines and so did she. It encountered obstacles and ran into walls. A <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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part of her she knew never existed was awakened by the smirk. Besides, it decided everything. Held her head high. In all probability, the smirk chose her more than she chose the smirk. But then she stayed true to herself, choosing who she is. She knows so much more, for the smirk cleared everything that was foggy and overshadowed. She always has a way, a way of her own. Nothing or nobody stood in her way. Perhaps the smirk was blindfolding her. And even on the longest and most intricate night, she never laid awake, the smirk was her sleeping pill. It was obvious that the smirk was watching out her dreams, never letting any nightmare in.<br /> <br />Mellowed, she never was, not even by the raging sun or still night. As much as she loved being alone, the smirk hated stranding her. She made her way through the worst crowd. Men didn’t dare being in close proximity to her, even when required. The smirk kept them at a distance. Their attempts to strike a conversation also went down the drain. The smirk was so disturbing that they left the conversation in the middle, like a receiver hanging loose from the telephone. The smirk silenced every bad mouth, lowered every raised eyebrow and straightened every frowned forehead. They called her mad when she walked through estranged roads at midnight. And through highways where no woman dared set foot. Each footstep faster and more certain than the previous. Isolated or not, it never made any difference to her. The smirk made them insecure. Each time, when she gets on the late night bus crammed with men, they make a conscious yet successful effort not to brush past her, for reasons they haven’t understood yet. And once she grabs a window seat, quietly combing through the local newspaper and, looking out of the window every now and then, almost every man secretly stare at her, wanting and envying her free spirit. Reminding yet another movie cliché, that’s when the breeze falls on her face, gently blowing her hair, and the twinkle in her eyes sparked with a rebellious twinge, makes a sudden visit, making her face radiate with an unusual power. The power of knowing probably.<br /> <br />The smirk was intimidating, for men in particular. Because that smirk came from knowing. Knowing men too well. She knew every curve of her body well and exactly which make them go haywire. She knew all the imaginables and unimaginables they would do. She knew all the permutations and combinations they would try. Moreover she knew the beast in them and even better, when the beast got the better of them. They thought they were unleashing the animal in them and she knew they were leashed inside this animality. They thought they were being strong, manly & brave and she knew they were being weak, kittens & chicken shits. The only feeling she could recognize she has towards them is pity. The pity that came from knowing. And knowledge indeed is power. She knows that too well now.<br /> <br /> <br />3 weeks ago<br /> <br />No longer does she know fear. They thought they took a lot from her. But the truth was they couldn’t take anything and only she knew it. The wounds were too fresh, the pain too strong. Still nothing could change her and she never lost herself. She was supposed to feel grey or blue but all she could feel was sunshine yellow and kelly green. The smirk wouldn’t let her break down. Nor it would let peace and hope slip away. She didn’t even have to start over because nothing had ended for her in the first place. At that point, she turned it around and grew, reaching another, higher level. As she was lying motionless on the river bank, she thought of what happened a few hours ago.<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It seemed as if she stepped out of her body and was watching what was happening, not able to do anything about it. All she was thinking was that they could take her body, but she would not let them take her soul! She did not feel a thing. When one of them first started penetrating her she could feel him, but the more and longer he was inside of her the less she felt him. She just shut down. It felt like an outer body experience. As the four of them took turns doing everything possible, just before she collapsed, her pleas gave way to something else, as if she had a sudden moment of enlightenment. That’s when the smirk was born on her virgin lips. <br /> </span><br />Meet her.<br />http://ibnlive.in.com/news/bengali-girl-gangraped-in-kannur/215441-60-116.htmlTessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-46328388492130979122012-02-27T06:09:00.005-08:002012-02-27T06:25:05.080-08:00RivalsSuppression and I were rivals<br />Or so I thought;<br />Since that summer which felt<br />More like spring<br />While striving to<br />Suppress a laugh that<br />Escaped my mouth,<br />The hem of my t-shirt<br />Stuffed into my mouth,<br />Amidst an otherwise serious<br />Family prayer; as the laugh<br />Inconsiderately spread to<br />My 6 brothers & sisters<br />Like a nuclear chain reaction<br />And burst into a bellylaugh.<br />But years later,<br />On those seldom visits to<br />My grandpa and his<br />Then-companion Mr. Parkinson<br />Tears rushing to<br />Roll down my cheeks,<br />Breaking the queue <br />And Code of Conduct;<br />I feared if suppression<br />Was getting the better of me.<br />And upon hearing the <br />News of his death<br />Unknowingly checking on my <br />Phone for Facebook updates<br />With trembling hands<br />Instead of calling my sister<br />I was almost sure that<br />I was losing out to suppression.<br />But as I kiss my grandpa’s<br />Cold, dead forehead<br />Chewing away the pain; <br />With an Orbit White,<br />The pain; of loss and a million<br />Indistinct things, coupled<br />With a sinking, heavy heart<br />Maintaining a behaviour<br />Appropriate for a funeral<br />And a chilled out exterior<br />Gazing at the white Carnations,<br />Chrysanthemums, Gerberas <br />Gypsophilas & Asters in his coffin<br />It looks like we’ve come to terms<br />Suppression and I.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-57839912402519416312012-02-26T04:32:00.000-08:002012-09-14T07:35:12.765-07:00The ReturnJuggling with the libidos of a few men, her hipbones just did what any pair of hipbones would do. It continued its existence, an existence less threatening and more meaningful than of a cleavage. On long, salty, sweaty afternoons, while making uncomplicated love coupled with practiced responses to her boyfriends, who would come without delay and leave in less than a week’s time, much like her menstrual cycle, she would look in the mirror, all the while. She was adamant about looking in the mirror to see her lovely pair of hipbones and how it gleamed with each golden ray of sun that filtered through white supernet curtains with velvet self printed polka dots. But then this habit only led to more troubles as her boyfriends were too inexperienced to find a position in which they can enter her and she can look at the mirror reflection of her hipbones, both simultaneously. So she stayed a virgin. Technically. They called her a narcissist. She din’t even bother to look it up at dictionary.com. She would just lie in bed, in her vibrant Lovable bras and printed PJs, face tilted to the right, chin up, eyes closed, her arms thrown backwards, her long torso stretched even longer, her midriff forming the perfect curve and her hips moving to left and right in a slow rhythm, resonating to the song of the breeze. Whoever had managed to get a glimpse of this sight was never heard to have recovered. Their lips and their breath alike longed for the feel of her hipbones. But she just wouldn’t let them. In the early hours of the night, she would make tender rather passionate love to her hipbones under soft cotton Portico bed sheets. On coffee scented, noisy evenings, while pretending to have clever conversations about obscure things over decaffeinated espressos with unsuitable men, her hands would go down under the restaurant table, in search of her hipbones. For her, nothing was as self assuring as touching her hipbones. Those days, she survived only on decaffeinated espressos. An espresso in the morning, another at noon along with a hot dog or burger and two or three in the evening. This routine made her grow thinner and so her hipbones more prominent. Little did she know that the more prominent her hipbones became, the stronger her rebelliousness grew. They were intertwined, the hipbones & her rebelliousness, like fingers of young lovers and inseparable like two peas in a pod. Back then, the only thing she was at peace with, was her body, or to be exact, her hipbones. The hipbones defined her. She got so obsessed with it that she spent all her money on buying funky hipchains and oxidized silver waist bands. Those were the only accessories she used to wear. Whenever she got time, she made hipchains with black thread, beads, coins and other trinkets. Also, she made it a point that she wore only string thongs in order to save her hipbones from the mediocrity of oversized, ugly undies. It turned out that it wasn’t just men but a couple of women, nuns who ran the college she joined to be precise, were also affected by her hipbones. In the 2nd year of graduation, when those holy penguins came up with a rule that <i>every student must cover her behind</i>, she would daringly walk around in collar neck t shirts shorter than a cheer girl’s skirt and faded, torn jeans. Since low rise jeans wasn’t popular and so unavailable in those parts of the country, she would wear size 30 jeans when her actual size was 26 and she would wear it so low that it wouldn’t leave anything much to the curiosity of onlookers. Apart from their prayers, a white cotton Levis belt was the only thing that kept her jeans from falling off. Hair up in a ponytail, with a skin tone so much of an aquaphobic, she, sporting a cross pendant and a blackish gray Diesel sling bag hung over her left shoulder and across her body with badges that say ‘Heartbreaker’, ‘Boys R Toys’ pinned on them, would walk around in front of those holy penguins, unnecessarily lifting arms every now and then, pretending to catch dragonflies that never existed, revealing a smokin’ pair of hipbones. Nothing in this universe would come close to the charm of the naughty smile and the can’t-get-past-my attitude twinkle in her eyes then, upon seeing the angry, crimson faces of those nuns. They hated her hipbones more than her guts. It made guest appearances in their nightmares and sometimes even played the lead role. The hipbones made babies with their conventionalities & prejudices. Even long after they kicked her out of the hostel, under various charges including ‘provocative dressing’, her hipbones continued to appear in their nightmares. Less frequently, of course. But while she was busy making lemonades with all the lemons life gave, she forgot all about rebelliousness & decaffeinated espressos and eventually about her hipbones too. Years later on a bleary-eyed, yawny morning when she woke up at her workplace, after proof checking print ads for the new account pitch till 3 am, looking herself in the mirror, out of the blue, she remembered all about her hipbones. And as she ran her fingers down, to feel the hipbones, for self assurance as usual, she realized those were lost in life’s rat race, leaving no traces. Daily battles, ego, indolence and responsibilities among many other things formed thick layers over her hipbones. She couldn’t feel them anymore. That’s when she decided to live life, not letting life live her. She got back to decaffeinated espressos and everything else. Now her hipbones are making a return. But looks like not her rebelliousness.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-69856058636393309122012-01-03T02:29:00.000-08:002012-01-03T02:30:19.527-08:00The cold.As the days draw in,<br />And nights get longer,<br />When life seems<br />Impossible; <br />To an extend,<br />Has it ever<br />Occurred to you<br />That the cold<br />Making its way<br />Into your bones,<br />Faster<br />And more painful<br />Than a sharp knife<br />Cutting through <br />Fresh baby-soft skin, <br />Is not exactly the cold<br />But memories from<br />A distant past, a past<br />Long forgotten<br />You pretend, <br />But hopelessly<br />Etched in your mind<br />In real, forever.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-35463655950629832622012-01-03T02:24:00.000-08:002012-01-21T02:01:17.738-08:00Serious Acquisition Syndrome.It was a usual day, like any other day. The sky was blue, the sun shone and the breeze stank. I was on my way to collect the freelance-work pay cheque which seemed like it never existed in the first place. And unlike other days, I hopped into a <span style="font-style:italic;">via M.G Road </span>bus to North. I <span style="font-style:italic;">had </span> to get into this bus. The first thing I do after grabbing a seat is to let my mind wander here and there. That day was no different. And while my mind was wandering into wholly unrealistic and highly entertaining fantasies, I somehow <span style="font-style:italic;"> had</span> to spot this ‘winter sale’ board hung up on the front door of Mochi, the shoe shop. Ten seconds later, I was happily browsing their sandals section. From twenty feet away I felt the jolt you get when you first lay eyes on the gladiator sandals you know will shortly be yours. At that point, I conveniently lost count of how many pairs of sandals I own. I sprang towards them like a lioness on an antelope. I’m a sucker for gladiator sandals and this one was so my type, so gypsy-like. The serious, take-home material.<br /> <br />“These”. I waved the copper brown sandals at a salesman. “Size 5”.<br /> <br />As he glided off, I glanced at the Rs. 1499/- price tag. Ouch. That hurt. I thought of the ignored electricity, water & internet bills stacked on my table. I’d already swiped Appa’s card five times this month. Or had it been six?<br /> <br />When the salesman returned, I wrestled with myself. Maybe I shouldn’t try them on. I could get attached. But they<span style="font-style:italic;"> were</span> awe-fuckin-some.<br />“They’re twenty per cent off”. He said.<br />“Naice.” I grinned as I reached for the box. God did love me.<br />I swiped <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> card for a change. Got a text. Hmm Axis Bank is pretty fast.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Your a/c 33985061 is debited Rs. 1200 on 2011-12-28. A/c balance is Rs. 98.00.</span><br /> I hate this. There should be ATMs for 10 rupee notes and 1 rupee coins.<br />And I <span style="font-style:italic;">had</span> to buy it, even when I was deep-neck broke. Blame it all on my serious acquisition syndrome.<br /> <br /> <br />Twenty minutes later I doubted God’s love as I was standing in the North bus stop, chanting abuses in my mind to the guy who was effortlessly making up excuses for not paying me. That’s when it struck me that I have practically no money left for the bus fare. I frantically searched my pockets and bag, while maintaining a carefree aura. Not even a single coin. I was sure. Jeffrey-Dean-Morgan-is-a-hot-piece-of-ass sure. Or more deep-fried-frog-legs-are-the-way-to-go sure.<br /> <br />I took my phone. Dialed my friend.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> <br />Your account balance is too low to make a call.</span> Announced the Airtel girl.<br />Ha! Temme something new biatch.<br /> <br />I couldn’t believe it. I was sure I’d recharged yesterday. Hadn’t I? I recalled that morning call I gave my BFF and the bitching-giggling- whining( exactly in that order) session that lasted for almost an hour.<br /> <br />Panic. No, don’t panic. I frowned. Panicky. Sweaty.<br />I tried to calculate the distance from where I’m standing to my home. I’m usually dumb at math but not now. Almost 5 kilometers. Pause. I’ll have to walk 5 kilometers. I froze. And my jaw hit the floor just like that.<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Disclaimer</span>: ‘I’, unfortunately denote the writer.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-50377787557525198342012-01-03T02:20:00.000-08:002012-08-29T08:12:12.543-07:00An unusual love story.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O0bIzRNNM1_tlt7HmlJBwUQUUah3noYBP3TR8F0Xf8VCiNgvYPYB5gOaaI7702yNOKUT2h7ZkPNkweoB2OZfHocWm7EEpWS4qnpi7FRZeZv_rQJvfW2xXwbujzLAvVWdZWyHAowAB4jL/s1600/554334_10150677899836925_656291924_9467018_1182767879_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="321" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O0bIzRNNM1_tlt7HmlJBwUQUUah3noYBP3TR8F0Xf8VCiNgvYPYB5gOaaI7702yNOKUT2h7ZkPNkweoB2OZfHocWm7EEpWS4qnpi7FRZeZv_rQJvfW2xXwbujzLAvVWdZWyHAowAB4jL/s400/554334_10150677899836925_656291924_9467018_1182767879_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-weight:bold;">He.</span><br />Quite often you find yourself in the trauma of deciding whether it's his Clooney-esque eye crinkles or the lopsided smile that is sexier. Just as when you are about to settle for his smile, you notice his salt n’ pepper hair. And that’s when you finally decide some things are better left undecided. But then there are days when he walks around with his hair and moustache so black, that you’d wonder if he reproduced the Pantone black in exact colour percentages. This happens only once in a while when his petite, younger looking pretty wife insists on coloring his hair. Speaking of his wife, she at times gets pissed off when the otherwise religious husband of hers, sits on the couch with his accounts book during the family prayer, trying to tally numbers. But most of the times, he makes her blush with his poor, innocent jokes or the way he takes credit for the delicious food prepared by her. And sometimes by helping her with the dishes. But it is when he happily spends a sunday at the general hospital with the security guard of their apartments, who met with an accident, she finds herself falling in love with him. All over again. Probably for the nth time.<br /> <br />Most likely to be seen running around, knocking on every apartment door, collecting funds for the family of the garbage man who passed away or for the security guard at the hospital, he sometimes goes to great lengths with the whole 'helping others thingy'. And no wonder, the residents, especially the stingy ones flee at the very sight of him, and for those who find it hard to make both ends meet, he’s a nightmare. Every single time the doorbell rings, their hearts pound and during month ends in a particularly faster pace and there are times when they won’t even open the door. Because if it’s him at the door it has to be for some monetary help and nobody, almost nobody can say no to him, seeing him striving to make things better, not for him, but for others, bringing Jesus Christ’s ‘Good Samaritan’ to life, by all means. And if at all someone appreciates him, he cringes and says <span style="font-style:italic;">' these are the duties of the ‘General Secretary’ of the residents' association'</span>. He might not have realized this, but all his life he’s been living for others. Back in the 80’s too, when he was in the U.S., as seen in photographs, resembling Michael Caine a lot, a dorky yet sexier version of him, with thick glasses & yellowish brown shades, wavy hair and 12” inch bellbottoms, he was the same. Not even when his 23 year old, nutty-fruity daughter complains <span style="font-style:italic;">“daddy gives everything to everyone”</span> does he realize or is even aware of his truly selfless existence.<br /> <br />Not too often you come across people like him, who, despite a busy schedule, finds time to go on evening walks with his son, an annoyingly handsome 27 year old chap, discussing his career and love life, pausing in between to get a Coke from Bread World. And to ask his rebel, still goody-two-shoes daughter when she comes home late <span style="font-style:italic;">“in which part of the world were you today?”</span>, pulling her legs, or even better, to drop her wherever she wants in mornings on the way to work in his blue Maruti Omni while carefully driving in an uncomfortable silence. And to get chocolates for his 15 year old, tomboy, couldn’t-care-less daughter who accompanies him after work all the way from the gate till his door, carrying his briefcase. Once he’s home he just dumps his stuff, making the room messy, drapes a lungi and rushes to the kitchen. And starts making his signature ‘aval nanachathu’ aka brown rice flakes sweetened with jaggery & grated coconut or ‘dosa’. Neither the overt sweetness of ‘aval’ nor the hardness of ‘dosa' stops anyone from having it, not even his elder daughter who finds daddy’s dosas extremely hard. Partly because of hunger but mostly because she knows <span style="font-style:italic;">"daddy might feel bad if you tell him it’s hard"</span>. And boy she’s so damn right, even at the slightest mention of the hardness of his dosas, he gets upset, that ever-present smile slowly fading from his face and you will be so fascinated to find at 55, this man can be so vulnerable, yet so irresistible.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">She.</span><br />Uhm, she… she likes to stay out of the picture and watch his life perfectly falling into place. Told you it’s an unusual love story.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-17192820657450317452011-10-14T02:37:00.000-07:002011-10-17T06:30:57.407-07:00PostersSo what if you dunno Photoshop or Illustrator! You can still make kick butt posters as long as you have PhotoScape, flickr & dafont.com! ;)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB20xB927DP-eXovQY67poqBhyphenhyphen6As_IewLGVszSxVwkn3oqy7DhIfNO8nUFnbsnWwqp7X8aLXRzXclA2SPqL8FtqzDWIlWePs3UmIPLj-sMUvgKYavWWJQG8mEMBJIvXuY38w0pIMSnVxF/s1600/Sum_Pleiades_Dec_2007_4_x_10_mins_each_2x2_RGB_ps_1_low.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB20xB927DP-eXovQY67poqBhyphenhyphen6As_IewLGVszSxVwkn3oqy7DhIfNO8nUFnbsnWwqp7X8aLXRzXclA2SPqL8FtqzDWIlWePs3UmIPLj-sMUvgKYavWWJQG8mEMBJIvXuY38w0pIMSnVxF/s400/Sum_Pleiades_Dec_2007_4_x_10_mins_each_2x2_RGB_ps_1_low.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664452902719696738" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2kNmn-Udjx8qm_wrep2lUDpW7pAwXYohhQxwBSWqA2V05ZMsVxuTqUgMn7HD7XmHHMhKmVPJaqWPbmNLvWHaFItvP_K4NnEjuS33CYZhEk9ENjI6w-3zTWwlJVpoBPUEFAu6fVSD5ArL/s1600/205827_10150268555156925_656291924_7851248_6914497_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2kNmn-Udjx8qm_wrep2lUDpW7pAwXYohhQxwBSWqA2V05ZMsVxuTqUgMn7HD7XmHHMhKmVPJaqWPbmNLvWHaFItvP_K4NnEjuS33CYZhEk9ENjI6w-3zTWwlJVpoBPUEFAu6fVSD5ArL/s400/205827_10150268555156925_656291924_7851248_6914497_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663325748984324242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_5LEWLIShCuyoZWj5Up933KgQrCfKP5w0OOzKPX61aFTJ-vUI-Efh9ntG0_qQylcBOPX6UmxSwEYw0Ls-LskjPfPn6ENaAKEREvFqTxz7KlXUij1KQrnvuo9OTj_CLbsW24hW93wry9v/s1600/284829_10150242192646925_656291924_7581922_1180233_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_5LEWLIShCuyoZWj5Up933KgQrCfKP5w0OOzKPX61aFTJ-vUI-Efh9ntG0_qQylcBOPX6UmxSwEYw0Ls-LskjPfPn6ENaAKEREvFqTxz7KlXUij1KQrnvuo9OTj_CLbsW24hW93wry9v/s400/284829_10150242192646925_656291924_7581922_1180233_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663281316790435746" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1w0rOmUJBEX6tBxP-4iP22QV9acPrWhhTryEWyN5CRjTqT_8Juwlz1X2_aKNXseBxZkg616lfNqTJLgtJ4Nt6O8ctCjFq3uVr2cyoURz5mOAgY365L8tSNH8MRTnsC33Na5m72xz8cwL/s1600/270774_10150231820651925_656291924_7485923_12196_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 397px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfk5NsxZstTu6cK5e5rW_SMQa50qLoD7w8UxECWhXSfjGwhRgoVM-0KGZ49L3WG3pkgQOVklb_N3HddLyAW2d7qzWEohxt-PtGXjEHr2HaDLC3GOde8_aJVig3ifBzVno9DO6wL_pgU4fW/s400/260182_10150206691006925_656291924_7302671_3150584_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663281139640109890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-e1S9SK4LyBtqhA17DbHXFZ3SSh9cEdha-94ZvnsyVZYQ-Kf1kNBqyBvzM2sKmQ48jh6pr-kG9EiLWinu4-EC8g7u0yzScDx2wYHO3GMTXQ1Yif3sVwztpE6uB_N2m3yHMlj7qI8bTWZ/s1600/255732_10150207458096925_656291924_7309213_2376140_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-e1S9SK4LyBtqhA17DbHXFZ3SSh9cEdha-94ZvnsyVZYQ-Kf1kNBqyBvzM2sKmQ48jh6pr-kG9EiLWinu4-EC8g7u0yzScDx2wYHO3GMTXQ1Yif3sVwztpE6uB_N2m3yHMlj7qI8bTWZ/s400/255732_10150207458096925_656291924_7309213_2376140_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663281134090486754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlVigk7jcc8/TpgELRcC0mI/AAAAAAAAA10/wgVoW3juxpo/s1600/255647_10150212216781925_656291924_7353008_5068293_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlVigk7jcc8/TpgELRcC0mI/AAAAAAAAA10/wgVoW3juxpo/s400/255647_10150212216781925_656291924_7353008_5068293_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663281123124499042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBflR3Y_2P2Qim9Ru-yrfmWwAgcGKqVTQhMnDVC9X55BHsyJisg8hJzMMdrKCTLPca0JNjZqDKbE-5SG0b_2jKiimkeGQCNSAgrRpmueg_YpzmR6uGi8GoPRLg31GFb8oDRByyFS-4Ovub/s1600/253730_10150207458121925_656291924_7309214_4523263_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBflR3Y_2P2Qim9Ru-yrfmWwAgcGKqVTQhMnDVC9X55BHsyJisg8hJzMMdrKCTLPca0JNjZqDKbE-5SG0b_2jKiimkeGQCNSAgrRpmueg_YpzmR6uGi8GoPRLg31GFb8oDRByyFS-4Ovub/s400/253730_10150207458121925_656291924_7309214_4523263_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663281120178819922" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoOtBgvWo9EMGAd3Y9ZFr2ZmF6Zd3YqGrn328yDwgiiHOdk1h99oNoflo9ThXGg40x6x6hweuV4F-BTwIlgq197C_evzNTKP9Si4cXyb_YpIWaJ8_wWL0RZTw9YuLzQvmkWBJklI5dRp1/s1600/249949_10150206508891925_656291924_7300999_2078944_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoOtBgvWo9EMGAd3Y9ZFr2ZmF6Zd3YqGrn328yDwgiiHOdk1h99oNoflo9ThXGg40x6x6hweuV4F-BTwIlgq197C_evzNTKP9Si4cXyb_YpIWaJ8_wWL0RZTw9YuLzQvmkWBJklI5dRp1/s400/249949_10150206508891925_656291924_7300999_2078944_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663280498587829938" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrWBb6AmUwrQmnOGzh2Lm56-KmZmG3knZmL00ty8Mq9jUqupERkT5pnct0Pnf5wFWmd7TUVUP1iHm0hLDvlcBBSpvBGVyt5GYofzsTHtIF3x-imuJSyaPrAstB2SysrNYw8gxkOVYDW8v/s1600/248728_10150206508926925_656291924_7301000_6267194_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrWBb6AmUwrQmnOGzh2Lm56-KmZmG3knZmL00ty8Mq9jUqupERkT5pnct0Pnf5wFWmd7TUVUP1iHm0hLDvlcBBSpvBGVyt5GYofzsTHtIF3x-imuJSyaPrAstB2SysrNYw8gxkOVYDW8v/s400/248728_10150206508926925_656291924_7301000_6267194_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663280487323529522" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt07jIeC6cFzpvrr_KXQbM1P7lgeuxYuMsdW1ONsXJjMSC539Ba-gmfUvb2qhE4zPkYctdnWDSzKgXqUBrUnvtt6TPLBY7of2c-wsRhulsKYS9HYq5CXvaxWES6gYZRHx81p-IDuWSQ613/s1600/247590_10150206690751925_656291924_7302669_2699497_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt07jIeC6cFzpvrr_KXQbM1P7lgeuxYuMsdW1ONsXJjMSC539Ba-gmfUvb2qhE4zPkYctdnWDSzKgXqUBrUnvtt6TPLBY7of2c-wsRhulsKYS9HYq5CXvaxWES6gYZRHx81p-IDuWSQ613/s400/247590_10150206690751925_656291924_7302669_2699497_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663280486161251330" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pq7OoORYbVs/TpgDllNtgQI/AAAAAAAAA08/LWzFFJZdmWI/s1600/246849_10150206508821925_656291924_7300998_5782453_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pq7OoORYbVs/TpgDllNtgQI/AAAAAAAAA08/LWzFFJZdmWI/s400/246849_10150206508821925_656291924_7300998_5782453_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663280475598061826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nKJELqL_pMR4SEwUF39XJz_ceFnaGojpaCNB-VcG4gOZ2jLLv7ekoqi1qiSMyUxhmCoDc9AmfEurypxAC8l0gA7rUzgwrWz0BX8HQyYVFPofQKyDktIVZxA_g6me_LoMLDeNl8RmXtmk/s1600/242524_10150206507901925_656291924_7300987_1196865_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nKJELqL_pMR4SEwUF39XJz_ceFnaGojpaCNB-VcG4gOZ2jLLv7ekoqi1qiSMyUxhmCoDc9AmfEurypxAC8l0gA7rUzgwrWz0BX8HQyYVFPofQKyDktIVZxA_g6me_LoMLDeNl8RmXtmk/s400/242524_10150206507901925_656291924_7300987_1196865_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663280472769404210" /></a>Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-25426561847923008662011-02-17T22:51:00.001-08:002011-10-14T23:06:52.186-07:00Silly Him!Finally it happened. He was scared. All his life he’s never known fear. He would just sit on top of the tallest buildings and look down. He’s never felt dizzy. Sometimes when it’s too cold he would put his hands in to the fire or even take burning coal with bare hands and keep it close to his heart. He’s never felt the heat even when his hands are burnt. Sometimes when it’s too hot he would just get in to refrigerator and lock himself up in the spine-chilling coldness for hours. Until he gets bored. Really bored. Then he would come out and take a nap. But never, never has he felt cold. No sight of blood or awful wounds would make him feel sick. He would spend the nights in lone islands and graveyards where dead silence takes over everything else. No zombies, no eerie bats or no creepy sound of beetles would make him stop or even turn his head. On some rare nights he would be sleeping and snoring away to glory. One fine morning, after a night of sound sleep, it happened. He was scared. It was a deep, gripping fear. It was only because he couldn’t light his cigarette. Of all the things, cigarette. Since when, he doesn’t remember, but he’s never been seen without a cigarette ever in his life. It was the only thing that kept him going, against all odds and solitude. He tried, tried and tried only in vain. How can it happen, he thought. The sweat slowly appeared on his face, his hands got clammy and he got cold feet. He got nightmares and jumped off the bed without even sleeping a wink. He din’t even go out of his room, he was so frightened to death that he was even afraid of his own shadow. It’s been days since he lit the cigarette. He felt like sitting on thorns. He turned pale as death and was shivering in his shoes. He got dark circles around his eyes and his hair was turning grey. His blood ran cold, teeth chattered and even breath stopped. Finally he was knocked out. And woke up after three days. When he woke up the first thing he did was, to try lighting cigarette and good gracious all these days, he’d been holding it upside down. It struck him only this morning and he was laughing his guts out. Till his stomach hurt. He lit his cigarette and before taking a puff, said to himself “Anyway, I’ve laughed for the first time ever in my life!” Silly him!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-22984108932036246752010-11-23T23:03:00.000-08:002011-10-14T23:08:44.168-07:00iBlue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWBgx7I5Ynm_Ss9U3d1zWlgXQM-F7Z80cGBQR9j5t4hkkg6XKt4sW7y1QADVvS_MEKEUAK7eNf_s1FUpgKeUVTh7N7-Atpedvf56akq85uVHpOXKCc7maPvGIkuuvaf6GUxQxIqdziWok/s1600/Picture1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 382px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWBgx7I5Ynm_Ss9U3d1zWlgXQM-F7Z80cGBQR9j5t4hkkg6XKt4sW7y1QADVvS_MEKEUAK7eNf_s1FUpgKeUVTh7N7-Atpedvf56akq85uVHpOXKCc7maPvGIkuuvaf6GUxQxIqdziWok/s400/Picture1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543038812106715570" /></a><br /><br />I see blue. Deep blue. Pensive blue.<br /><br />Oh forget!!! I'm drowning in the Pacific!!!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-48488649363694875862010-09-27T00:19:00.000-07:002011-10-14T02:57:55.440-07:00iUnderstandFake once told me<br /><br />"I'm exhausted"<br /><br />"I'm abused"<br /><br />"Explain", I said<br /><br />It took me to busy streets<br /><br />Where hundreds fake smiles<br /><br />To cubicled workplaces<br /><br />Where thousands fake know-it-all<br /><br />To crowd-flowing parks <br /><br />Where millions fake love<br /><br />To cozy, dim lit bedrooms<br /><br />Where zillions fake orgasm<br /><br />And at last to a mirror<br /><br />Where I saw myself faking strong<br /><br />I nodded "Fake you must be really exhausted!"Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-48262242374504932222010-09-11T05:38:00.000-07:002011-10-14T02:58:30.498-07:00iPenThings we lost in the fire;<br /><br />Those weren't just things,<br /><br />The fluorescence we're born with,<br /><br />The first rays of sunlight<br /><br />Breaking through the blinds,<br /><br />Wide, hearty smiles or<br /><br />The aversion to half smiles,<br /><br />Intense eyes, <br /><br />Never-judging looks,<br /><br />The comfortable silence,<br /><br />Pictures of innocence,<br /><br />Pillowtalks in the dark,<br /><br />Tears after shooting the squirrel,<br /><br />'Accept the good' notes,<br /><br />Coldstone icecreams,<br /><br />Heated up kisses of God,<br /><br />Evergreen toys,<br /><br />Chases to happiness,<br /><br />A loss that can't be lost again<br /><br />But what we've left<br /><br />Is only hope, that believes<br /><br />The fire was paid to clear<br /><br />The mess made by rain<br /><br />Leaving nothing,<br /><br />Lightening everything.<br /><br />And we still had each other.<br /><br />* Based on one of my fav movies - Things we lost in the fireTessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-54966091741622722302010-08-30T06:51:00.000-07:002011-10-14T06:19:57.359-07:00iPossessivePossessive love;<br /><br />Staring at those admiring gazes at him<br /><br />Cursing those sweet nothings to him<br /><br />Massacring every one around him<br /><br />Falls on his forehead<br /><br />Disguised as kisses<br /><br />Then to his lips<br /><br />Lighting his heart <br /><br />Burning the Amazon in his armpits<br /><br />Making its way to<br /><br />His insane love<br /><br />In a rage<br /><br />Rests back<br /><br />In my heart.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-50393664852374094962010-08-17T02:17:00.000-07:002013-05-28T07:21:37.300-07:00Overestimating<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
When I say I'm pea-brained,<br />
Could it be that<br />
I'm overestimating the size of peas?Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-60330381241696714522010-08-13T05:17:00.000-07:002011-10-19T23:19:56.466-07:00iPoemWho breaks butterflies on a wheel?<br /><br />Who kills ants drowning in a milkshake?<br /><br />Who burns trees caught in a fire?<br /><br />Who poisons the breastmilk for a baby?<br /><br />Who shoots at an injured soldier?<br /><br />Who freezes ice?<br /><br />Who kindles the sun?<br /><br />Who darkens the night?<br /><br />Who fakes facade?<br /><br />Who begins the end?<br /><br />He does.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-54500267077433955852010-08-07T07:33:00.001-07:002011-10-14T23:08:23.058-07:00iMalebashExactly when you start getting over your male disgust and the estrogen-Vs-testosterone attacks, some pervert flaunts his elephant-trumpet-like rather yucky device and you get back to the same old "world-is-better-off-without-men" mode. Full on. But then, you think again. Think twice. Who will drive the cars and repair the gadgets fool? Oright. Let the men stay. But not with those i-respect-you-woman-i-stand up-whenever-i see-you device. And all those women who think you are gonna miss the "aaaah-oooh"s and "oh god oh god"s, FYI, fortunately or unfortunately the same God you call out has created you different from men. Unlike them you can do without sex. And if you are so desperate, tada heard about vibrators? OK OK I understand you're on a saving spree. Cucumbers and candles baby! If you are so so desperate!<br /><br />Enough said! So the world is about men,creepy men who are so desperate. Desperate for you-know-what!!! And the way they walk, with arms casually swinging back and forth back and forth...Hey, don't think evil it's not like they're trying to touch your assets or something. You know they are very innocent people who are so laid back and contented that they just swing their arms while walking.Back and forth. Back and forth. And you regret for not learning gymnastics and badly wish for a MJ-like flexible body! If you are planning to spend on dance classes or something, give that money to charity because daily walks through our crowded footpaths can make you flexible enough even to win a competition . These "footpath men" can often become the epitomes of desperateness . You can't imagine this kind of desperateness that they don't leave out even my embarrassingly-flat ass! Pity them. Pity them.<br /><br />Even worser are those hunchbacked appachans who can't even stand on their own, who can't even remember their names but who never forget to shake that out-of-shape(not pun intended OK)device with shivering hands whenever they see a female! You are left with no choices then because whatever you tell them, chances are they won't hear anything. So just HELL with them. The fun part is the absolute shock on the face of those middle aged lechers when you tell him "Chetta I've seen bigger" when they show their sausage. Seen it or not is another question.Nobody's business. But this definitely leaves them humiliated. And who wants to miss the chance of humiliating a sleazebag! Oh that word reminds me of the rickdrivers who get the nature's oops hormone's call ("the testicalls" gal)as soon as a girl gets in and shamelessly answers "the call" till you get down. And how i love that look on his face when you give a thums up and say "Chetta nice shake but too hard, make sure no one falls from the rick!" So big,bad, ugly,small,short,long,shaved ,unshaved( When they show it right in front of your eyes, how much ever you try not to look, the details get into your head) this sausage fest, horizontally proportional to Earth's gravity, seem to follow you everywhere that makes you wonder if you're living in Penisylvania!Lol!<br /><br />The next set of shitheads are those who pass gross comments upon every chance they get.The kinds who would sing "Hey ya I see you walking through the street, hey ya why won't you strip all your clothes, hey ya i got to tell how horny i feel oh baby you're the only p**** for me, hey ya i wanna get closer to you, hey you i need to get a good f*** ....." and so on. And those who compliments my b***s, "BAKRA! These are the apples I shoplifted from More you fool! Considering the price hike can you blame me for it?" I'm sure this reaction leaves them tongue tied.<br /><br />Then comes the spanking-the-monkeys or rubbing-the-rubbish kinds. On your back undoubtedly. The best answer for them is every girl's best buddy, hair claw. Safety pins, needles and pepper sprays are passé. It all gave way to hair claws. Even the lowest maintenance girl would walk around with a hair claw so when that clever dick rubs on you, why wait, give him a real bang! Put it on his oh-so-hard thing and hear him scream his throat out! May be he'll never be able to put his popstick into use! What's more exciting than this! This is the right kind of retaliation those jackasses deserve. Ain't it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4j57xb7MfTTTibYOPJcZJXWKiZ6Lvdx9wT4lnFw1XNVK_sNJ0GtKiiu1Gxg2pFfEzsVQw083IQXQAENYy3MtJIclDOT_eJvvWM7LUjHSxok3uQJHcGNPN6A1uWFn7d4rjMTlKvSyylf7/s1600/51X1YRXZBYL._SL500_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4j57xb7MfTTTibYOPJcZJXWKiZ6Lvdx9wT4lnFw1XNVK_sNJ0GtKiiu1Gxg2pFfEzsVQw083IQXQAENYy3MtJIclDOT_eJvvWM7LUjHSxok3uQJHcGNPN6A1uWFn7d4rjMTlKvSyylf7/s400/51X1YRXZBYL._SL500_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504509123885490418" /></a><br />(These are the exact kind of claws needed)<br /><br />All these and more, you still don't think it's high time to ban those DJs aka Dick Jockeys!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-61162645326753590352010-08-03T06:02:00.000-07:002011-10-14T23:07:29.935-07:00iBottledupI bottled up. Pheelings. Thank yous. Welcomes. That's so nice of yous. So sweets. How are yous. Nice meeting yous. I like yous. You are greats. You rocks. Good lucks. Good mornings. Good evenings. Good nights. Good byes. Never-say-goodbyes. Had breakfasts. Had lunchs. Had dinners. Have foods. Take cares. Don't crys. It's all rights. I will pray for yous. I will do anything for yous. I wanna be friends with yous. I will never forget yous. You mean so much to mes. No matter what happens I will be with yous. I should be your one and only best friends. I don't want you to get close to anyone elses. You make a difference in my lifes. I miss yous. Why are you not talking to mes. Why din't you call mes. Why are you doing this to mes. I love yous. I hate yous. You are so fakes. You sucks. I'd rather eat shit than being friends with yous. You are a douche bags. You fame whores. You brand sluts. Don't be so fussy biatchs.Shut the fuck ups. To hell with the drama queens. OK OK now don't play Mother Theresa when you are obviously a tramps. My face is up there you assholes. Jesus Christ! you make wanna rip down your faces. Hare Ram Hare Krishna, you walk around so Sati-Savitri but you are such a hoes. Man if you are so horny put your dick in a toasters. F words. LOLs. LMAOs. ROTFLs. Tears. Tears of joy. Tear drop buckets. Pains. And sufferings. Pains in the ass. Pain holes. Pleasures. Pleasure moments. Pleasure modes. Senses failures. Sensitive grenades. Fancy schmancies. Faith hills. Hopes. Hopes in hell. Hopeless devotions. Care bear hugs. Careless moves. Carefree laughters. Anger issues. Happiness in cans. Joy jellies. Passion fruits. Love bombs. Love brownies. Love bruises. Crush jobs. Fling blings. Shame sticks. Shameless shits. Confused cherries. Turbulence. Disturbances. Disturbed seconds. Rage volcanoes.Warm beers. Crazy crackers. Fire bellies. Flaming showers. Hot ices. Deep blues. Emotional diarrheas. Quick fixes. Smart answers. Strong arms. Soul cancers.Cheesy delights. Mushy biscuits. Smile lines. Big time 'J's. Tilted heads. Dropped jaws. Turned heads. Skipped heartbeats. Goosebumps.Weakness at the knees.Sparkle in the eyes. Everything is bottled and sealed. I thought. Let it all out. Let the bottle open. But will it open? Never ever. Ever never. And I've put on numbness. Numb face. The bottle remains sealed. And everything still remains bottled.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-90076505731588901062010-06-28T23:01:00.000-07:002013-05-28T07:22:17.305-07:00Oops!There’s some of you in me.<br />
There’s some of me in you.<br />
In that case, aren't we<br />
Incomplete without each other?<br />
Nay, in that case, aren't you<br />
being too mushy?<br />
Oops, I am.<br />Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-10996426050378767062010-05-23T06:48:00.000-07:002011-10-14T23:10:09.247-07:00iFreed!Give me freedom. Not the freedom to kill the masses. Not the freedom to sleep around with every one. Not the freedom to loot people. The freedom to be myself. The freedom to be unkempt. The freedom to wear torn and worn out clothes. The freedom to keep my hair messy. The freedom not to do my privates. The freedom to get loads of tattoos done. The freedom to lie down on the floor. The freedom to fart loud. The freedom to nose prick at work. The freedom to drool while sleeping. The freedom to sweat like a priest in a playground and stink like a poop-eating pig. The freedom to suck the chocolate ice cream cone till I have had enough. The freedom to lick my fingers after a happy meal. The freedom to talk to strangers. The freedom to say " I do" when asked if I booze. The freedom not to keep up to the curfews. The freedom to cry watching even "American Pie". The freedom to be a hardcore emo. The freedom to live penniless. The freedom to be schizophrenic. The freedom to wear the rainbow colours all at once. The freedom not to be smart. The freedom not to get things done by taking advantage of others. The freedom not to butter up. The freedom not to get buttered up. The freedom not to do sweet talking. The freedom not to ass lick. The freedom not to follow any etikutti oops etiquette. The freedom to unbelong.The freedom to speak what I believe. The freedom to talk nonsense. The freedom not to make any sense at all. The freedom to hold his hands in public. The freedom to smooch him before brushing teeth. The freedom to coochie coo (to a certain extend or read cuddle)in public. The freedom to love like never before. The freedom not to bow my head before anyone. The freedom to have an ego twice my size. The freedom to be imperfect. The freedom to be insane. The freedom to get drenched in rain and walk around in wet clothes. The freedom not to give a damn to people who stare. The freedom to ogle. The freedom to lust after chicks while not changing the orientation.The freedom to be called a half crack or even a total crack. The freedom not to go to funerals. The freedom not to fake praying. The freedom not to go to church. The freedom to ask forgiveness for looking at Jesus Christ's torso. The freedom to be human. And the freedom to write for myself, not for others. The freedom to write for pleasure, not for a living.<br /><br />Take my money, if any. Take my name, even though it is bad. Take my love, well not him. But give me freedom. I will give up all the fortunes I have. I will kill myself. But don't take away my freedom for all I have is freedom at the end of the day. But remember, you can't take away my freedom. Because I am slaved to freedom.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-8801768405381970592010-04-16T22:00:00.000-07:002011-10-14T23:09:40.705-07:00iKatticaran, iMushy, uEnvyI suggest u dnt read dis unless u r a Katticaran n a close cuz of mine coz chances r eithr u wud get way too J or wud thnk ts al fictitious.<br />Wel ts dedicatd 2 ma cuz bro Thommy. M heck as sure hes nt gona read t n dat givs me 1 hell of a reason 2 rite dis! U knw he hates mush (bah! hu dsn!)Evry1's bestest of best childhud memories r spent wd cuzins, mine too! N ours s a lil betta dan evry1! (no ts not d usu ive-got-d-best-of-al braggin)We 8 wr d tiny tots of d family n I bein d tallest (yes u heard me right!ts past k) usd 2 boss arnd which nevah turnd out successful. Of course Kuru hus hz 5 mnths elder 2 me outdid me n dis Herculean task. But nevah ws he a bully! (in case he reads dis m savin maslf 4m d trble of gettin kicked n d ass) lol!I ws d most xcitd bt hols coz I hated studies xams n stuff (wel t ws obvious n ma marksheets too) so I usd 2 count evry single day n skool n luk 4wd 2 hols n wen hols begin d series of foncals strts "wen u kumn?" "u kum hr 1st" - d curtain raiser of unlimitd fun, infinite fites, d ohh-so-painful bruises n injuries n at the end of evrythn, nevah-endin headache 4 elders! Major fites usd 2 happen ovah Monopoly coz evry1 wud want 2 win n so wud hide money undr sofa, pockets n evn inside uhh yuck (not me ;))undies! Business, Snake n Ladder,Ludo, Chess, Checkers, Bowlin n d stupid outdoor games lyk Hide n Seek. (n dat xplains y v kattis r jacks of al trades n masters of sum!)Badminton, Cricket, Football n wot not! (if nly bein d referee/commentator counts) Rollerskatin, skiddin, bicycle stunt practices n our own inventions lyk CID, adventure trip, watchn ppl games. All these activities n u can imagine d kinda business v usd 2 giv Bandaid n Hansoplast! Not 2 mention d gud business our parents usd 2 giv Tiger Balm n Moov! D frequent rides on Activa, Kuru n I learnin ridin, Marine Drive rounds @ l8 nite clad n al-of-us-can-fit-in2-one shorts n tees, Pick n Mix cravin, toddy(read alcohol)-smitten dayz, frog legs, frog legs n more frog legs, d bitchin/gossippin session sittin on trees, d shy talks abt adolescence, abt wearin weirdlukin inners n abt d voice dat sounds lyk scratchin sandpaper on wood, pullin legs ovah flings, crushes n luvletters (no wondr ma lega hav bkum too long ;)), d girlie talks wd Anu, messin up Anu,Maya, Treasa's Kanji Curry game, d boys wearin our frocks n accessories n doin a 'chanthupottu'pose...man I stil rembr evry single bit of t n luv t 2 d core! God mst hav been v jealous.(wel u cnt blame him too hu wdn get jealous watchin al d fun n frolic v usd 2 hav!), Kuru n Thommy movd 2 Chennai. gosh hw much I usd 2 hate Chennai those dayz n heck I stil hate d place! Wat usd 2 b d last wrd n joy ended up mas d most painful thng! Hols! I usd 2 feel empty, void. Ma hols wr bkumin d wrst dayz of ma lyf. Thanx 2 Orkut n d odr virtual world innovations, v cud keep in touch. We update each odr wd d l8st n evrythn, ahem! Evn d forbidden secrets of luvlyf! I strtd wd Thommy rt? Yea he ws online 2de n ws tellin his l8st saga of fallin 4m bike! U hav no idea hw crazy hes abt bikes. Lets get bak 2 wat I ws sayin dis <span style="font-weight:bold;">Thommy ws n is ma PIC n wen d gal he luvs askd him whom al she has 2 impress 4m our family, Thommy's quick reply ws "trs dis sis n f she sez no i wd evn end our rltnshp" n wen he tol me dis I ws lyk..ma heartbeat wudve won a marathon outta xcitemnt..."Tessa dnt get xcitd hes lyin" but in heart of ma heart I knew he isnt! Temme wer in d hell (obviously not n hell) or on Earth do u c a bro lyk dat! 4get havin sm1 lyk him I bet u wdn hav evn seen sm1 lyk Thommy! N 2nite aftr al d chat he texts me while txtn his gal! c hu n d whole wrld wd dare keep his gal waitin dat too 4 jz a cuz sis? <span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>(Thommy's gal, u r so darn lucky 2 hav him!)God I cnt be nemor contented!If u dun envyin me lemme conclude. M dedicatin dis 2 al these Kattis hu make a big fat diffrnce in ma lyf.<br /><br />Kiran Katticaran aka Thommy<br />Nithin Katticaran aka Kuru<br />Tony George Katticaran aka Dundu<br />Kuruvilla Katticaran aka KunjiKuru<br />Treasa Anitha Katticaran aka Anu<br />Maya George Katticaran aka hmm lol!<br />Treasa Katticaran aka Treasa<br />(For a few seconds I thot m ritin FB nots n cud tag al of u ;))<br />Luv ya,<br />Tessa George Katticaran aka DPG<br />Despite d gr8 heritage n name of ma family I nevah usd 2 b proud of bein a Katticaran I wdn evn say m a Katticaran undr ne circumstances bt I cnt help bein proud of t nw coz of these wondrful Katticaran creatures! So hr i go................ iKatticaran.uKatticaran.vRock!Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-68411264411077509232010-04-13T02:05:00.000-07:002011-10-17T23:32:56.054-07:00iXhaustedEversince i strtd oglin (nw u knw ts loooooong bak) ppl hav been tellin me 2 blog. Blog!Blog! but bt wat!n dey say "u can blog bt nethn under d sun"! hw can u! u can nly rite stuff u knw rt?n u rite bt friends n dey say u r a phony pal kummon u luv em n daz xactly y u r frnz! u rite bt luv... "ohh u guys r 2gdr?", "u evah did dat?" U R DEAD! wat if d guy ditches u? wat if t dsn wrk out...dey neva gona leave u. u r wd ur husband n kids dey kum n ask "isn he d guy u bloggd bt?"Man i swear dey love peace! evn on ur funeral these peacemakers wil b talkin thngs lyk "she ws wd him n thngs hapnd she married dis guy" Such ppl make evn a "Tessa George Katticaran" resurrect! u rite bt sexuality! OMG ! u dnt wana die a normal death???u r attacked 4m al sides by these so-called "culture preservers" n b4 u knw t ul b branded a slut! nw i knw y most of ma frndz blog bt sky,earth,fire,blue,green,yellow n so on under names like 'Obfuscated Ostrich'(no offence), 'Pervasive Poop' ,'Unaccustomed Underwear' (wateva heck these mean!) n al!but i wanted a name dat dus justice 2 maslf! i cdn kum up wd nethn better dan 'badass literally'! i used 2 b a badass n clg bt nw d mirror testifies d fact dat i hav such a bad ass! u c 4 urslf! m sure ud b surprised 2 knw tr aint a more suitable name! i rite bt ma lyf,ma likes n dislikes, ma guy (evn if m sure hes gona kill me 4 dat), ma body, ma sexuality...basically ts al bt me -d badass.so b4 eyebrows r raised, foreheads r frowned, moral police bombards wd "bhartiya nari-gone-western" dramas (as if i giv a damn ;)) lemme go blah blah blah.Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307719278689098179.post-28968060262777681552010-04-11T23:48:00.000-07:002011-10-14T23:10:48.459-07:00iCrapThere's no power n I live in a hole. Not a stinkin hole, a real smokin hole. A hole full of chicks. Not d chicks hu lay eggs, d chicks hum u luv 2 hav in bed. A bed made of feather. Not d feather on hat, d feather of a sparrow. A blue sparrow. Not d blue u feel, d colour blue. D colour of d sky. Not d cloudy sky, d clear sky. As clear as crystal. Not d shiny crystal, d pure crystal. As pure as rain. Not d acid rain, d rain 4m heaven.D high heaven. Not d skyscrapin high, d highest high. As highest as God. Not d God u worship, d God u luv. Luv givs evrythn. Not evrythn evrythn. Still there's no power n I live in a hole. Not a stinkin hole, a real smokin hole. A hole ......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Tessa George Katticaranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07335912270050003481noreply@blogger.com1