Mystique. Maverick. Me.

I am: Always different. Never the same.

Pet peeves: Wet bathrooms, chauvinists (of all kinds, shapes and sizes), ignoramus idiots and serious fashion disasters

Colour I feel like the most now: White – a mélange of them all, with blue predominating over the rest. Confusing eh? My depressed self is utmost prominent now.

My biggest fear: That I'll wake up one day knowing too well that no one, no where is even bothered to know if I am awake, alive.

I’d rather be dead than: Be married right now. Or even engaged. Now is it just me or are the men to be blamed?

I secretly enjoy: Being Christina Francis.
Being woken up, fed, taken care of, doted on.
Being my parents’ daughter.
Doing what I want to when I want to.
Being all that I am, all that I’m not.

I loathe: Being Christina Francis. It ain't easy, ain't funny, ain't always pretty.

My full circle: Myself, My work, Papa, Mumma, Willi (very much), Love and home… Order changes depending on my mood. A place for everything / everyone else is subject to availability of time, inclination, place...

I feel like a: Vacation. White beach, designer rags, spa treatments and retail therapy optional.

If I could, I would: Get in touch with Willi; ask him what went wrong, try to bring him back home, try getting life back on track for us all.

Someday I’d want to: Write a book. Own a spa boutique. Have two kids with a nice man.

I know I will: Travel the world. Be content. Meet success. Stay gorgeous :).

Keep watchin’ this space to see how fast things change...

I still wonder…

I wonder if you are sitting up there somewhere
And feeling helpless
when you can’t seem to say
that you still care.

I wonder if you think ever of me
Wonder if you can still see me
I wonder if the fireworks in the sky,
The flowers, the music make you miss me…

I wonder if you talk aloud too
In the hope that I will somehow hear
I wonder if you scream out my name
And burst out in tears, cos you know it’s a waste…

Custard apples, coffee and cream
chocolate brownies and those million dreams
I still wonder if you remember them all
And if you too regret this mighty fall…

I wonder if you too pine to tell me
All those things that make you bleed from within
I wonder if you have any friends up there
Who’ll tell you that someday we’ll meet again

I hope you are safe
wherever you are
And I pray that someday
You will try and move on.

Live it up in Leeds

Picturesque country sides that spell peace, upmarket city scapes vibrant with life and historical landmarks that take you back in time — Yorkshire offers you all this and more. And Leeds, located at the very heart of UK, is truly the gateway to this land of breathtaking moorlands, spectacular cliffs, bustling market towns and hip night life. What struck me first about Leeds was how seamlessly the idyllic countryside beauty blended with the cosmopolitan skylines, making this the perfect place for a city break.

What unfolds before you is a city unlike any other, alive with energy, brimming with culture and packed with attractions. yet its natural beauty remains untouched by the cruel hands of urbanisation. Also known as UK’s short-break capital, Leeds is a compact town, with traffic-free shopping zones, quirky eateries and magnificent Victorian architecture that leaves one spell-bound. Easily accessible from heathrow, London you could either choose to fly down or travel via coach (a better option if you want to enjoy the breathtaking beauty of the country side). Once in Leeds you wouldn’t really need to set aside money for travelling around the city, as almost everything is easily explored by foot. And it’s worth the walk as you wouldn’t want to miss out any of the streets, squares or corners studded with Victorian grandiose.

The Towns Hall at Leeds is one fine example as is the Victoria Quarter. One of the must-see places in Leeds, VQ was once a narrow alley filled with butcher shops. But what get to see today is a super stylish shopper’s haven with a string arcades housing high end designer boutiques. Talking of retail therapy, it’s something that you can’t have enough of. Walk along Briggate, the main shopping street, and be spoilt for choice when it comes to designer labels and household names in high fashion and lifestyle. Also explore the nearby Vicar Lane, Lands Lane and the Queen’s and Thornton’s Arcades that offer independent boutiques and quirky stores that showcase works of local talents. And when your tired feet and wallets need some rest, you could hop into one of the many cosmopolitan cafes or pubs for a quick bite, truly out of this world.

You could wind up your retail therapy with a visit to the Corn Exchange, which is a fine example of Yorkshire’s humble agricultural past and its uber chic urban present. And if you are a serious bargain hunter, Kirkgate Market, Europe’s largest indoor market with more than 800 traders, is where you must head. Shopping is serious business at Leeds, so make sure you set aside a whole day, if not more, to indulge yourself. Just make sure you plan your day early. as everything in Leeds winds up as early as 4 or 5 pm.

To explore Leeds beyond the shopping arcades, you could begin with the Royal armouries Museum. Be prepared to travel back in time and re-live some historical moments with the over 8,000 exhibits and costumed re-enactments here. In fact Yorkshire is heaven for history and heritage lovers. At the Abbey House and Kirkstall Abbey, you can wander through the streets of an erstwhile Victorian city and take a peek into how the monks lived back then. My favourite though was the breathtking Harewood House, the country house of the Queen’s cousin, Earl of Harewood, which seemed like a walk through the pages of a Victorian era novel. There are forts and castles galore, but if the need of the hour is to feel some grass below your feet, around Leeds you will find an array of parks, gardens and even an odd farm.

The Ikley Moor, Otley Chevin, Golden Acre Park and Roundhay Prak are all a hop-skip-an jump away from the city centre. However, a must-see of these would be the York Gate Garden, a one acre garden tucked away behind an ancient church in Adel. Created by the spencer family, this garden is a stunning example of the 20th century garden design — a large garden within which are several smaller ones, each with a theme of its own. This one truly, is a green feast for the eyes.

If all that breathtaking beauty was overwhelming, you could chill out with a drink in one the nighspots — there’s always something to suit every taste, budget and interest. Leeds is not just a city, it’s an experience. Live it, love it.

Ente Kathakali – My Mystic Masquerade

The bright yellow lights on the stage faded out and soft, somber music set the mood for something magnanimous. And magnanimous it was. My first tryst with a live Kathakali performance with a mind that was thinking, (as a child I remember wondering what the fuss was about. And my not-so-artsy mum couldn’t do much to explain) And at the cost of sounding like an intellectual snob, I must confess, I loved it.

Kathakali is said to be the oldest form of dance drama not just in my land Kerala. Google says it was probably the oldest in the world. But on second thoughts, there wasn’t anything ancient or anything I couldn’t “identify” with in the dance drama that I saw. Papa was more skeptical. He said it was “outdated”. He, who is 30 years older than I, couldn’t sit through the painfully slow performance!

Then how is it that this masquerade of dance, drama, religion, culture, and poetry appealed so much to me? Why did I “identify” with the green-faced, crown-headed, long haired, large butted character on the stage so much, that I actually walked up to the artiste who hid behind the masque to congratulate him? The man was pleased. His eyes shone with some kind of weird gratitude when I told him I was bowled by his grace. He smiled a warm, real smile and said, “THANG YOU”. Sans his pink painted face, red twisted mouth, and large black eyes with which he emoted so well, he looked more human. More approachable. More real. But I liked the older green noble man. The masked face was something my masked existence could identify easily with. The mask which I wore on with élan everyday like a second skin. Skin which had grown on me.

Sometimes I am the green-faced noble soul transporting my audience into an enchanted world. I tell stories with my eyes, which they believe. I prance around like a victor, they accept me. I pretend that I am a powerhouse of prowess, they are fooled. I am the empress with innumerous powers and they worship me. I pretend to be strong everyday, making them think I emerged out without a single scar. I secretly wish it wasn’t any mask. I secretly wish they knew just because I don’t scream, it doesn’t mean I don’t hurt.

When I am the seductress, the perfect woman, the perfect daughter, the perfect lover – I have the pink faced, glowing, and polished-to-perfection mask on. It’s pretty. It’s true. It’s the closest answer to me. It’s shocked, it’s hurt, it can love, it can lie, yet, it is every bit a beauty.

At other times I am the wicked women, the ashura, they would say in ancient terminology. My black, kholed eyed, my red luscious lips entice you to a trap. What I am today, I am not tomorrow. What you see is not what you get. What you believe is not what’s true. I rule the world of make-belief and make it almost true for you. That’s on the stage of life. If I were on the stage on drama, the deep black on my face, the red cheek bones and the elongated black eyes would give it all away. Sadly for my audiences, the world is no stage, and life, no play.

Life is in the finer details

Who said life's short...? It seems sometimes like an unending song. Then again, who said it's long. Look, my day's over like this.

5.30 am: Unearthly hour. Unearthly me. Woke up with an uncommon morning urge to answer nature’s call. Ugghh… so much for treating dry skin with increased intake of fluids. And I am wide awake. Not being used to seeing the twilight often I decide to sleep again…

And I slip into my favorite place – the world of dreams.

6.00: Mom and dad and me. And Willi. On something that looks like a cross between a buggy and a cycle rickshaw. Me at the wheel. Or whatever. Everyone else sits perkily behind the almost nonexistent. Dreams I tell you…

7.00: We are still traveling. Only this time there are a whole lot of relatives who I really wish were dead. They are making my cute little buggy, now red and rust, look out of shape. They are heavy. But I pedal along.

7.30: Dreams again -- Ammachi, my granny, is also on board now. Mom reminds her that I ought to be her best grandchild. I pedal along. Only Willi knows how difficult it is for me as we pedal downhill, then uphill. Downhill again. Papa sits stiff. He is uneasy about the whole trip and doesn’t think much of my maneuvering skills. He is silent.

7.45: Bebe calling. I pick up. “I am upset. I am lonely”. Did I actually say that? “Close off those small, small eyes and go to sleep,” he says. I listen. Hang up. Back to sleep.

8.00: I stop. He suggests the others get down and walk across, as though he read my mind. (Well, he was like that often.) They get down while both of us continue to pedal. He holds the handle now, and I hold his hand. I feel safe. The weird feeling of safety I always got when I was on the bike with him.

8.30: We cross the road. Reach a mosambi juice bandi, where papa is buying everyone fresh juice. (a figment from last nights juice story I worked on, I reckon). I wanted a milkshake, but then settle for juice.

Back to senses. I hear mom rattling away about what to do and what not to do. They are chasing Shadow now. Prema is “squeaking” something. I struggle to open my eyes… still longing spend some more time with Willi, albeit it my dreams. “8.30” the clock seems to scream at me…!!! Time flies.

9.00 am: Back to dreams. Now it’s shopping. A niche boutique. White shoes in patent leather. White peep-toes with a red bow. A white cloth bag that looks like a shoe… Why white? No clue.

9.30: Bebe calling. I ignore.

9.30: Papa wakes me up gently.

10 am: Dreams again. Distorted imagery this time, I don’t remember much of this part usually once I am done with brushing my teeth.

10.15: Hot tea, Hyderabad Chronicle and Haneef-related small talk with papa. From property to politics, we dwell on his fave subjects for a while, over bread and omelette.

11.30: I am ready. After trying on three different pairs of clothes. Out of the house with papa finally. And guess what? The dream comes true. Papa sits perkily in the car and then he stiffens. Some side-seat driving later, he is upset. He doesn’t trust my maneuvering skills.

12.00: Pinging. On three tabs at a time with Prabs, Sheets and Priety – lots of room for goss. Me de-stressed.

12.45: Hear a mallu song in English. Hilarious. Forward it to likeminded contacts

1.00: Lunch at Gav’s. I hate his post nicotine patch avatar. Aloof; rude, indifferent. I hated lunch to0. My fave Fish curry in a sweet new avatar. Yuck!

2.00: day dreaming

3.00 pretending

4.00 Blogging.

BORED ALREADY. deciding on whether or not to catch Cash first day, first show.


Pet peeve: Throbbing finger tips. I must stop four-finger typing.
On my mind: Cash. Am I dressed enuf for PVR?
On my lips: Oh ri kanchi… asoka. Don’t ask me why!

5 deadly sins...

Pouring rain, a boring office cube; a painfully bright computer screen; throbbing finger tips courtesy keyboard pounding, a denim-clad bitch who is all snooty when she imagines she’s hot; piles and piles of rubbish on the desk that reads ‘work’ and boring bald-headed bachelors who call up to strike conversations with non existent brains! Usually these things prompt me to write -- Anything — an elegy, a scrap on orkut, or even a “to do or not to do” list. But today I simply gave up and decided that a day in the life of a journalist is anything but glamourous!

I am either frustrated or bored. The latter more likely. And you know what the worst crime is in the cool-as-a-cucumber-world of Christina? Boring her further. Shedding all my well rehearsed pretenses, polished-to-perfection manner and oh so beautiful masks, here I come clean. All my imaginary readers, if you are a part of my real world, and you identify with the truth that follows, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you…

Five signs that I am SUPER bored:

I reply to everything in monosyllables. I’m a wordsmith… I thrive on them. It’s not often you will find yourself talking and me listening. Well, I do listen, but I also pep up the conversation with my own dose of gyan, pinches of humour, and a whole lot of animated expressions. (My way of spicing up your drab conversations!). So if you ever hear me say “yes”, “No”, whatever, maybe, perhaps, well, sure, ok; that just means you have bored me beyond repair! At least for the moment. What you should do? Buzz off!

I ask you about random things... like your ex-girlfriend’s cellulite issues or your ugly pet who was on heat! I mean, if I bring up things about which I couldn’t care less, you know I am not one bit into the monologues you are so painstakingly delivering (after much thought in your head I am sure). Leave me alone. Get back after a while. If I am still like that, get the point! Your way too BORING.

Sigh! Sigh! Sigh! If that’s the only response you get from me, buddy, don’t even try. You are boring me not matter how hard you try to impress.

What else? Aur bolo…? And…? So…? You should temme…? If that’s what you hear from me, then you haven’t inspired me enough. I want you to speak and get over with it. Remedy? If you know I like you, suggest something fun to do. If you know you are trying and I am feigning ignorance… let me be.

You say something, I smile. A half smile. That just means I am wearing my mask of politeness sheerly out of force of habit. Long pauses in between words, coupled with a smile, just means I wish you were dead. Unless of course you are a bit of Richard Gere, John Abraham, SRK, P.G.Woodehouse, and… you get the picture… all packed into one!!!

Omen

I have been a spectator of late. A watcher. Standing alone, aloof, maintaining a minutes of life. While I stand in silence and observe, my mind breaks free. It runs as though there are no boundaries. I let it go and it flies — and indeed there are no shackles, I discovered.

There is no time frame, no space constraints. No confines of boundaries, religion, cultures, morals... nothing that stops it; except itself. My mind just runs, sometimes hops... grazes faces, both familiar and not so familiar. Stops to laugh at this and drags along when something saddens it... As it skips along, briefly touching this part of life or that, I get a glimpse of life itself. An Osho technique, I later learnt.

There I see a bright summer morning. We are dressing up, Willie and Me. Rather quick, all for the wafers that early birds get at the Sunday school or "sundesschool" as we called it. And suddenly I see us walking back home. Holding hands. Chasing each other. Tripping over this or that. We are tired and sluggish. Our round little tummies full with syrupy Rasna and sweet-salty biscuits, a VBS treat. We spot a cool verandah of a small house and sit their briefly. I make it a point to lift my frock and sit. I love the feel of the cool, hard stone on the back of my skinny thighs. We sit like that for a while. Half relaxed; half embarrassed; half shameless. “It’s so cool...” is all that we know.

Cut. Black out. In my mind. Now I see us running back to watch Jungle Book. Or was it Shaktiman? An old black and white TV. A thick black cable with naked copper-wired tip. If it’s pushed into the socket we will get to watch Shaktiman for sure. Without the grainy, shaky screen. But the catch is to keep it stuck there! It always falls. So while he prays for a clear quality, I stand on my toes, holding the wire and pressing it into the socket. I look over the screen to catch a diagonal glimpse of Mukesh Khanna twirling and zooming across the screen ‘as Shaktiman, in Shaktiman. We stand that way for 30 minutes. Or more. Or less. Willie in front of the TV perched on the fridge. And me behind, holding the wire intact. This till we discovered the use of cello tape. Or did we?

Vague. Memory fades out. Fade in. Another scene.

He’s asleep. Finally. We just had a huge fight. I called him names. He pinched me. I punched him. Or vice-versa. I don’t know. But I know it was for the supposedly cooler side of the bed. Near the window. It was my side. Now he wanted to sleep there. I wouldn’t let him. “Poda Patti,” I spat at him. We roll over each other. We cry. He wins. And he falls asleep heady with the victory. I wait for him to sleep. Then as usual I roll him onto the middle of the cot, wait for “my side” to “cool” off again. I get on to my “rightful” side of the bed gloating over my final (smart) victory.

But I don’t fall asleep. I let my mind wander again (it’s a childhood habit). My eyes fall on him. His round face, little eyes and tiny little nose. My brother. My little brother. Asleep like a baby. My breath is short suddenly. My heart, heavy. No, no, it’s not guilt. It’s fear, a weird fear that grips me. Is he alive? Is he breathing? No? I watch his chest closely. My eyes move down to his little tummy, swollen with the heavy dinner he just had. Is it moving up and down like it should if one is breathing? No? Tears well in my eyes for fear. I can’t see, so I can’t be too sure. I lift my trembling hands, hold it near his nose. “Pappara muuk”. Flat for some strange reason. But cute. I feel warm breath on my little finger. I am relieved. Tears are wiped. He is not dead.

Fast forward. He lies there still. Asleep? In a glass box. Freezer, they said. I didn’t want to use the word. His flat nose was still flat. More handsome this time. Below that were stubs of his sprouting mustache, which he had shaved off just a day ago. They would never sprout again?

It was his chin that I didn’t like... there was something black on it. Like beard, in a weird fashion. Scraped skin, they said. I thought it looked funny. I didn’t like the look of his eyes either. Closed though they were. They looked empty. Sullen. It was not his eyes. Not his face too, I remember insisting. He looked helpless. Grief hung heavy over him. Over me.

Is he alive? Is he breathing? No? I watch his chest closely. I don’t like the look of it... My eyes move down to his tummy, still strong from the crunches he used to do everyday. Is it moving up and down like it should if one is breathing? No? Tears well in my eyes for fear. I can’t see, so I can’t be too sure. I lifted my trembling fingers to reach his nose. But I couldn’t. They had shut him up in a glass box. Freezer, they said. I still don’t like to use the word.