Recommendation of the week

"To admit that Breakfast at Tiffany's is one of your favourite films, these days, is to out yourself as the emotional and intellectual equivalent of a cupcake."

I absolutely love the way this writer has written about 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'. Well written and an interesting take. Read the article on Guardian.co.uk here

Enjoy.

Random Musings

Isn't there something riveting about the phrase 'Random Musings'

It was hard to believe that after years of experience, most of it terrible, I could still get so affected by those little things that lie on the periphery of love. Why did he disappear into thin air? What did I do? Should I message him? Should I call him? Should I write a blogpost about it? At one level, it is a very easy choice. I really don't care about being alone. Really. No, the grapes aren't sour. I have tasted them (No pun intended) They are lusciously sweet. What I miss is honesty. A bit of transparency.

My mind is interestingly complicated enough; I can't attempt to read someone else's and vice versa. I say things like how they are, on my side atleast. And like a friend said today, "Human egos are overated." Yes. I am in this for a short while and I don't feel the need to hide when I am happy or when I am sad or when I am confused or when I am hysterical. I don't particularly enjoy being scared. If I am so cautious and confused, it is all because of experiences, most of which have been terrible, like I said. Not that I am complaining. Not at all.

Even if it is normal, I will find a way to make it slightly weird. I do over think. I do panic early. But I settle down quickly too. That is who I am. I still am crazy. I still am romantic. I still am hopeful. I am a bit bottled up. But that is because I have the potential to be a genie. I am so proud of anyone who is out there with their feelings, hearts tucked up beautifully on their sleeves. Hearts are meant for that. Not to be wrapped under layers of secrecy. Hearts want to feel, they want to be felt. They want fresh air. Mystery is over-rated, (unless its for a better purpose). Not when you are starting a story. Or even vaguely attempting to. And I am not even remotely interested if there is no hint of a story, however short-lived. It cannot be that difficult. Make an effort.

I am absolutely in love with these words by a lovely lady: "These are feelings, man. Feelings must be felt. And expressed. It leads to better productivity. It unleashes creativity. It protects the ozone layer. And ultimately contributes to better sex lives." Natasha Badhwar.

The most perfect day

It was a few days before this Christmas
I was dressed up in anticipation of a new love story
In a pink cardigan
The substitute of red, for the day
Colored eyes
Stood on the edge, all through the train ride
Hair flowing against the wind
She had a walking stick in her hand
Far way, she was climbing up the steps
Feeling each step with the bottom of the stick
A young boy came like a true stranger
He looked just like a long lost friendship
Held her hand
No questions were asked
He dropped her where the road was flat again
I thought this was the perfect day
It was
But there was more
A little girl stepped on my ugly green painted toes
I didnt even feel a thing
It was like the usual carelessness
Of someone you fell in love with too soon
But then she turned back
Oh man, she was an angel
She gave me the most magical smile and said sorry
Me, who barely ever smiles at strangers
Can you imagine how perfect the day was
I smiled at her, like I would just take her in my arms
And kiss her cheeks with all the love left inside of me
She got down at a station
Turned back and smiled at me,again
I felt like a bunch of flowers in a lover's hands
I did not know who to thank for such a wonderful morning
And then he forgot to call in the night
And I couldn't help but smile
It wasn't even ironical anymore
It was the most perfect day

Thank you Mr Dylan for this song

My mother's daughter

After forgetting most of my mother's birthdays, I told her today that she dare not forget my birthday tomorrow. She laughed and said that 'You are forgetting something. I gave birth to someone on this day, so may be its a bigger day for me than its for you.' And I realized that it indeed must be a big day for her.

Thanks to stupid Freud and his Oedipus complex, I have always blindly loved my father. Even if I am angry at him, I call up my mother and bitch about him or worse, vent out my anger at her. However, I will be 27 tomorrow and I realized that even though my father dominates a lot of practical aspects of my life, emotionally, I am my mother's daughter.

Actually, me, my mother and my maternal grandmother- we form a sort of a circle. One is a typical Rajasthani woman, with her obsession with colour yellow, who has stayed in Jaipur all her life with her gorgeous husband and four kids; another shifted her roots to an alien and monstrous big city to move in with her husband and a new strange family and another one who moved from one metro to another in her twenties, to start a new chapter in her life (if not a new life altogether). But all three of us are just the same. Wild, resolute, stubborn, loving, crazy, rebellious, sweet, honest, liars, impulsive, emotional, manic depressives, addicts, rooted, free, lonely, attached, mothers, daughters.

A lot of things have been passed on to me by these women as a legacy and some of them I have imbibed and snatched from my mother over the years. Her metamorphosis into this immensely powerful and independent woman, her blind faiths, her lost of innocence, her fall to a child like state, and then her grand rise from ashes like a phoenix, have been the most inspiring things in my life.

While my father has taught me the value of hard work, principles, innovations, good health and savings accounts, my mother has taught me how to actually live and more importantly, how to really love, and all this, without ever preaching anything. This 27th birthday is most definitely dedicated to my mother.

Deja vu

Each layer was slowly coming off,
Like the slow death of an era.
It was a moment of nothingness,
I could not even talk about it,
How do you fill nothingness into words.
The empty sentences dragged on,
Danced in front of me,
Mocking me.
It was like a deja vu,
Of a badly lit night,
Whose dawn I am still waiting for.
It could even be a nightmare
Where I am slowly degenerating,
Hoping that someone would wake me up.
Feels like a block of ice,
Eaten alive by sunshine,
If its reality,
Then I can wake up.
The clock has rusted off however,
The time we crossed is a universe now.
And the lump in my throat is now stuck forever,
Drinking moonlight to gulp it down,
But then again, if its a nightmare,
Moon is always far away from my reach.