The Return

Juggling 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 every student must cover her behind, 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.

The cold.

As the days draw in,
And nights get longer,
When life seems
Impossible;
To an extend,
Has it ever
Occurred to you
That the cold
Making its way
Into your bones,
Faster
And more painful
Than a sharp knife
Cutting through
Fresh baby-soft skin,
Is not exactly the cold
But memories from
A distant past, a past
Long forgotten
You pretend,
But hopelessly
Etched in your mind
In real, forever.

Serious 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 via M.G Road bus to North. I had 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 had 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.

“These”. I waved the copper brown sandals at a salesman. “Size 5”.

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?

When the salesman returned, I wrestled with myself. Maybe I shouldn’t try them on. I could get attached. But they were awe-fuckin-some.
“They’re twenty per cent off”. He said.
“Naice.” I grinned as I reached for the box. God did love me.
I swiped my card for a change. Got a text. Hmm Axis Bank is pretty fast.
Your a/c 33985061 is debited Rs. 1200 on 2011-12-28. A/c balance is Rs. 98.00.
I hate this. There should be ATMs for 10 rupee notes and 1 rupee coins.
And I had to buy it, even when I was deep-neck broke. Blame it all on my serious acquisition syndrome.


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.

I took my phone. Dialed my friend.

Your account balance is too low to make a call. Announced the Airtel girl.
Ha! Temme something new biatch.

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.

Panic. No, don’t panic. I frowned. Panicky. Sweaty.
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.

Disclaimer: ‘I’, unfortunately denote the writer.

An unusual love story.

He.
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.

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 ' these are the duties of the ‘General Secretary’ of the residents' association'. 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 “daddy gives everything to everyone” does he realize or is even aware of his truly selfless existence.

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 “in which part of the world were you today?”, 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 "daddy might feel bad if you tell him it’s hard". 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.

She.
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.

Posters

So what if you dunno Photoshop or Illustrator! You can still make kick butt posters as long as you have PhotoScape, flickr & dafont.com! ;)

Silly 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!

iBlue

I see blue. Deep blue. Pensive blue.

Oh forget!!! I'm drowning in the Pacific!!!