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!!!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
5 deadly sins...
Friday, July 27, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)