The Silence..& The Lamps

      I wind up this long weekend on an eerie note by nearly watching two back to back horror movies. Nearly watching is the art of watching a horror movie sans the spooky parts and yet mysteriously ending up getting shivers down ones spine. There are a few non-negotiable particulars that have to be followed before I concede to watching or letting others watch one. For e.g. the TV remote shall be in my possession at all times, after the movie any room that I am occupying shall be lit throughout the night (may extend to several nights that follow) etc.

Finally this is how I nearly watch it-

• Before the movie begins I make sure I am armed with a pillow.
• I read the synopsis of the movie so that I can gauge the scenes which bear startling movements or gory portrayals.
• When the movie opens with the names of the cast I boldly endorse turning off all the lights in the room.
• I am never away from my pillow; it is clutched onto at all times.
• I watch the parts which have been shot in broad daylight and are outdoor scenes.
• Any haunting music that gets to a decibel higher than what my nerves can withstand is to be silenced. Mute ON.
•  I give it a safe 45 seconds before I turn the volume on. If the plight remains unchanged, the TV remains on mute.
• If none of these soothe those already harassed nerves, all the lights go on.
• The rest of the movie, basically the spooky bits, is spent with the pillow pressed against my face and my fingers stuffed in my ears and teasing the rest of the audience with inquiries about the on-going.
• When the movie ends, I am as pale as a sheet although I have yet to figure out what exactly scares the wits out of me in this entire episode.

The Uninvited and Mama were today's picks. And also this 2 min video on ghosts and  lamps.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUQhNGEu2KA

The lamps have been turned on and kept so because the lady happens to catch an uncanny silhouette while snuggling into her bed. Sounds oddly familiar haa! Out of these, the ghostly piece I happened to miss as I was busy cuddling my pillow. I managed to catch the sinister lamp flickering though.

So now I am really at my wit's end trying to figure out what scares me more and whether I should or should not be keeping the lamp switched on in my room! Booooohooooo :'-(

Rainbow Chasing!

     Picking up the threads of my previous post on unearthing treasures that were consigned to the oblivion by me at some point of time in the past, one of the relics was a stack of these brightly hued, vibrant and dainty paper bags that I had bought on my last trip to the United States way back in 2007. I had purchased them at a dollar-shop around the time of my return. The intention was to use them as a pouch that would hold my gifts to my family and friends; essentially goodie-bags. However while sifting through the assortment, I happened to deliberately bag a few tepid ones and a couple of extremely eye-catchy pieces. The former lot, characteristically the lesser endowed ones, served the purpose for which they had been bought. They were these delightful little gift-bags that no one was partial to nor interested in, completely eclipsed by the main objects of allurement that lay within. As for the latter lot, which you see here in the picture, buying them was an act of pure self-indulgence, to cater to one of my considerable whims.

      My quirk here is that I have an idiosyncratic penchant for anything colorful, bordering on the nutty. Anything that has an array of colors on it and serves to be a pleasing and harmonious blend to my eye is a definite addition to my shopping cart. I cannot get myself to part from such colorful gift bags or the likes. I buy random water paints even though the same colors can be achieved by mixing the ones I already possess. The bottles are disrobed by peeling off the stickers so that the colors appear bold (pun unintended). They are then organized in a meticulous manner; color-coded in the literal sense. I can only bring myself around to opening those bottles by assuaging my stingy sensibilities with scintillating visions of the form they would take on a canvas or a paper.

      Thankfully this proclivity does not extend to my wardrobe. When it comes to picking my garb, I set aside my partiality for the vivid and fixate on being natty, dressed to the nines. Occasionally I let the fondness overshadow my better judgement and I find myself refreshing my closet with florals. But that's about where I draw the line.

      Since I have now veered the crux of the write up from lost treasures to my fetish for colors in particular, this post shall probably do justice to the poem below.

Hear The Hues Hum

A rainbow is nature's illustration of looking on the brighter side,

A symbol of optimism, a bridge on which hopes ride.

It comes to light on the days that are dank and grey,

When the sun peeps smilingly out of the clouds and lends a helping ray.

A monochromatic beam of white light, all bleak and cold,

Enmeshes with a droplet and metamorphoses to colors, seven-fold.

The fusillade of colors build castles in the air fashioning a paradise,

Glumness makes way for hope, love and happiness in every guise.

Each of the seven colors has a story of it's own to serenade,

And together they burst into a song that makes every woe in the world fade.

Violet sings about the child in us, our locked away identity part,

 It also speaks of the mysterious, our affairs close to the heart.

Indigo is a caring one filled with tenderness and sympathy,

The sensitive being that it is, it cries out for peace and harmony.

Blue is the stable one, smart, trustworthy and powerful,

It keeps its calm during thunderstorms and never loses its cool.

Green gratifies Mother Earth by being the lush and resplendent one,

It restores nature's balance, at times keeps us away from the burning sun.

Yellow spreads happiness, hope and cheer with its warmth and energy,

Its optimism knows no bounds, it is the epitome of positive synergy.

Orange talks about the things we are thirsty for, about youth and wealth,

It also symbolizes longevity, endurance, a ripe old age and health.

Red, being the messenger of love, is the one that takes a bow,

Filled with passion, love conquers all, no matter who, where, when or how!

Together do they come to remind us that of blessedness there is no dearth,

So the next time you see a rainbow, be grateful, for there is heaven on earth.

Hide And Seek

      A severe cold in the head and a dash at spring cleaning consumed the better part of my weekend. But I am now richer by a myriad of relics. Though richer wouldn't be correct technically since I appear to have owned them for ages. However they have only just been identified to have been denizens of the house I live in (I am sure some are squatters; I don't remember letting them in or acquiescing their stay) and are now accounted for and also because I am literally rolling in them, I shall say that I am indeed richer.

      So I have them neatly assorted and packed into cartons. Yes, I needed cartons but don't judge me. They appear to have colonized and settled themselves in every nook and corner of the house. Going by their sheer number, I think they might have reproduced. More than one item appears to be similar to another with only an iota of a difference here and there, maybe in colour or so. I have strong suspicions of some being clones too; there is absolutely no difference in anyway whatsoever between a few. So finally as the weekend comes to a close, I have five huge crates lined up in my hallway. I have labelled them as 'Need Them', 'Don't Need Them Anymore', 'Never Needed Them In The 1st Place', 'Surely Never Ever Seen Before' (the squatters) and 'Duplicates, Triplicates and so on...' (Clones and Offspring).

      I am yet to decide what should be done with the stuff in the last four crates. The 'Need Them' crate however needs some thorough rummaging soon. The items within are mainly the ones that you were in desperate need of, one fine day in the past. And you remember putting it away in some place safe so that when the fine day finally arrives you have it at hand. And yet even after hunting assiduously for hours, it manages to keep itself away from your keen, determined eyes. Those camouflaged elements will only reveal themselves when you are running like a headless chicken, hunting the next time for a completely unconnected item or while you are on a cleaning spree. It's spooky almost as if the items possess the art of shape-shifting.

      But now that I am poorer by four cartons (Paradoxical I know but I finally ended up with only one 'Need Them' carton) of goodies (they will shape-shift to the stuff I need, aka goodies, on their way out) and have the free space to replenish, it's time for a binge. It's going to be a ransacking weekend next, to compensate for the drudge that this weekend brought me. My mantra? Umm.. "Shop till you drop".... Drop the balance in your account by a whopping figure! :-)

Evanescent Evenings

      The evening is a dreary one, not saying boo. Then someone switches the fan on and its isochronal whir ratifies the monotonousness with a paradoxical alacrity that I find unnerving. Such evenings fill my mind with convoluted thoughts, most of them depressing in nature. To unravel those thoughts and bring myself back to my cheery self is like loosening the Gordian knot. And like Alexander the Great, the knot (my train of thoughts) has to be cut (short) rather than untied.

      By cutting short I mean not talking about these terrifying, distressing ruminations. Verbalizing acts as a catalyst; it somehow gives it a stamp of factual approval. As long as I do not speak of it, it shall remain in a latent state. By keeping the thoughts to myself, I am decelerating the inevitable, slowing down time itself. Those poignant thoughts are hoodwinked into questioning their own subsistence. The sentimental shall see this as solecism, the practical shall see it as escapism. But for the time being, I emerge the subjugator! Time to play some music, break the tedium and go back to being my sprightly self. Ta-da!! :-)

Utterly Pixtitious!

IN SEARCH OF A SMILE

A few years ago one quiet morning, 
Nature lured me into it's heart, 
I kept walking midst daffodils and bluebells, 
Trailing absently into the thicket's deepest part.

I looked around what made a pretty picture,
The copious colors in a sylvan setting,
It was then that I noticed it's pristine beauty,
Which a string of words could never limn.

So far into the woods had it drawn me,
That I lost track of the time,
It was the setting sun that warned me,
That darkness was in line.

I began tracing my footsteps back,
I had hardly covered much,
When the night set in and everything went black,
I would have to find my way by touch.

I looked around for a place to rest,
My feet had gone all numb,
I settled myself at the foot of a tree,
where I was left to twiddle my thumbs.

I realized that silence had engulfed,
The forest had turned taciturn,
And not a sound from a single soul,
Yet I could feel the presence of someone.

I could feel the hairs stand on my back,
I turned to look around my tree,
With two laughing eyes and an impish smile,
I caught a face peering back at me.

"Oh, Don't be afraid", it said, prancing along,
And made itself home next to me,
Talking as if one, in every corner, can be found,
Introduced itself as a mere pixie.

While I was left totally bereft of speech,
Wondering if this were a dream,
The pixie, whose name was Shia, it said,
Had words trip out its mouth in full stream.

Unfazed by my lack of response,
It spoke of genies and nymphs,
Making me look around for my ruby slippers,
For sure I was down in Alice's province.

But as it kept chattering,
I felt the fears melt away bit by bit,
For its exuberance was infectious,
Soon I was warming up to it.

It spoke about a magical glade,
Where happiness prevailed,
It had been taken there by a kindly elf,
And promised that forever it could stay.

I had never seen a face light up,
The way that Shia's did,
Each time it mentioned the elf or it's friends,
The eyes shone behind batting eyelids.

We ended up talking through the night,
About all things, this and that,
I felt sorry when the rising sun announced,
It was time to start walking back.

As I bid my new friend a sad goodbye,
It asked me not to pull a long face,
That life was short and the pleasures it held too many,
In this happy world, a frown held no place.

And so that became my maxim,
I followed it religiously,
Smiling away even during trying times, 
Spreading happiness and glee.

A while ago I found myself,
Following the same sylvan trail,

But what must I find, instead of a radiant face,

Looking fixedly was one heartbroken and frail.

It had changed beyond recognition,
There was no smile in its eyes,
It's cheeks were tear-stained, it refused to speak,
Just broke into anguished cries.

When finally it did calm down enough,
To make more than inarticulate sounds,
It told me how its world had gone topsy-turvy,
Beyond unimaginable bounds.

It spoke about friends leaving,
And the elf was no more kind,
How misunderstandings and fights had taken over,
And how hurt had infected its own mind.

It had started to hate everything around,
Anger had made itself at home,
It was being called selfish and uncaring,
Even a callous being by some.

If only it knew what went wrong,
It had always wanted the best for everyone,

It was more than just willing to do anything,

To get every mistake of its, undone.

I sat by it watching helplessly,

Cry out for its perfect past,

I knew it would fix things if only it knew,

The reason for the shadow cast.

That had once looked upon the world,

with eyes filled with happiness and mischief,

Would never again smile through those long lashes,

Just shed silent tears of helplessness and grief.

But now I remember Shia's very own words,

"Goodness is ubiquitous; kindness dwells in every place"

So I am wondering if you could help me return the lost smile,

That had once adorned my friend's cherubic face.

Confessions Of A Remorseful Granddaughter

Two apogeal moods make me want to write. It doesn't matter if the scrawl makes a good writeup or is a mumbo jumbo of disconnected words that I have spewed on the paper thus advertising the state of my mind. But jubilation and distress do bring out the essayist in me.

I spent the evening today sitting on my window sill alternating between reading a Japanese best-seller and watching the sun's rays permeate through gloomy cinereal clouds (I call these 'Fingers of God'). I am quite a deliberate reader; I hardly ever set an unfinished book aside even if it means reading through the night into the wee hours of morning. But today there was a whiff of melancholy in the air that let my mind go woolgathering. So absently was I perusing the pages that I had to sometimes stop, go back a line or two and read them again because the words had gone past unregistered.

Then all of a sudden this small passage managed to grab my attention. And so pertinently could I relate to this passage, especially to the last line about the granddaughter being an uncaring brat, that my eyes were stung with tears; tears of guilt and remorse. The smiling face of my grandmother danced in front of my watery eyes; the smile never leaving that face when I was being a pesky tyke. Of late I have moved from being that to being a rude, quick-tempered and an impatient granddaughter, but she remains the same adoring grandmother with the same smile embellishing her face and speaking volumes about her unconditional love.


My grandmother, numbering eighty summers, is a patient of Dementia and has the memory span of a goldfish. Her intelligence now is that of a child and with a toothless grin and vacant eyes, she resembles one too. She finds pleasures in mundane things like collecting baubles and trinkets such as hairpins and stowing them away in a little plastic container away from what she assumes to be prying eyes. She shows them off to some and lends them to no one. Her house, which has been her home since the time she got married and came to stay in Bombay in the 50s, is now a labyrinth. She has to discover her way about the house every single time; the topography taking a new shape each day in her mind. She keeps asking about the same things over and over and insists she has the memory of an elephant. A quarrel with my grandfather is always on the cards.

Yet of one thing, she needs no prompting; that I am her baby. I have been her baby ever since she first laid eyes on the newborn me; first born of her only daughter. Nothing really changed there when my mum met with an accident and was left bed-ridden for more than a year when I was just 3 months old; its still the same now when I am past 30. It was not as if she was in her prime youth then or in the best of health. But the untiring hours and efforts that she put in to raise me makes me picture her as one. At an age when people hang up their boots and enjoy their retired lives having done raising their offspring and seeing them settled, my grandmother was starting all over again.

I was difficult as a child, perhaps being weaned away from a mother at a time when we should have been inseparable, left its marks. Each day around midnight I would start howling and continue for hours together, sometimes through the night. Nothing could turn those wails to soblets or quietude. But at the very hint of a whimper there would be my grandmother ready to rock me, sing to me, walk me around the garden. And she would lay me down on my crib only after making sure that fatigue had taken over the insecurity and I had fallen asleep. As a child of working parents, my school going years were also spent in my grandparents' company. My grandmother, having studied in a convent herself, was my tutor throughout. I never had to resort to tution or classes; each day she would make sure to wind up the household chores before I returned from school so that I get her undivided attention be it in studies or as idle company. At an age when I should have been the one taking care of her frail aged being, she was tending to me in sickness (When I fall ill it always does reach the pinnacle of the disease and then curves down towards recovery) spending sleepless nights in a row. And I can go on and on about this and the likes. 

But today, and for quite some time now, I have been rude to this lady whom I owe my entire identity to. And all because her mind has gone fuzzy from a disease that is eating her memories away. And that she is trying real hard to at least grasp things whilst standing at the periphery of our real world and stringing together the exiguous remembrances by packing the void spaces with figments of her imagination. Today I find her incessant inquisition getting on my nerves, her off-the-wall reasoning to be vexatious and her ramblings to be unworthy of an audience or an antiphon. And today when she is the child who needs to be pampered, coddled, cosseted, listened to and loved beyond reason and condition, I, who should be first in line to try and repay an infinitesimal part of the debt, appear to be walking away. I shout, rant and scream at her which on most days she digests with the same smile though a tad dismal. Sometimes she quietly gets up and walks away muttering an apology. On rare occasions when perhaps her fortitude cracks at having the apple of her eye treat her with far less patience than she deserves and as an encumbrance, does a teardrop or two form in those forlorn eyes and roll down those wrinkled frail cheeks. But she brushes them aside just as she has been brushing aside every insolence of mine for the past how may months now. And each time it has left me feeling guilty and extremely ashen-faced, in a pool of tears! :'-(

P.S: My grandfather has an equal role in nurturing me. I am what I am today because of both my grandparents. But this post is dedicated to my grandmother specifically because of the passage from the book. I shall be writing a separate post on my Popshu (as I lovingly call him). I am working on keeping a rein on that irritable persona of mine for they mean the world to me and I do love them, a lotttttttt!!!!!

The Moth Effect

It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wings

can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.

-Chaos Theory (The Butterfly Effect)

It has been observed that something as soft as the sound of a moth's fluttering

can make one attain, the otherwise unachievable, a speed approaching that of light.

                                                   -Me

Yes, I am petrified of moths, or for that matter anything that has wings (barring mosquitoes and house flies; God sure was a little lenient there). And they in turn adore me. I am a moth magnet; if you ever see a whisper of moths away from any source of light, chances are that I am around. As absurd as it sounds, I have even been paid a visit once by what I believe to be an Atlas moth. Not that I stayed back to exchange pleasantries or study its taxonomy, on the contrary, I didn't even catch a glimpse of it, so fast did I bolt out of my bedroom. But the magnified swishing sound of its batting wings conjured up images of everything that fit the bill and an Atlas was all that the search engine of my mind returned. Although indigenous to Asia (mainly south-east), it is found in the heart of the tropical forests. How one ended up touring the concrete jungle and paying me a visit beats me though. My guess is that the moths have a society gathering of their own and I must have been the topic in one of their symposiums (She is one of a kind. You must go visit her. The acrobatics that she performs at a lightening speed when she comes face to face with even the tiniest of our species is a spectacle worth dying for. And the bigger you are the better. LOL! ). Well they definitely end up having the last laugh. 

Talking of mass gathering of moths, there is one such every year at the onset of monsoon. Thankfully this one isn't restricted to my territory; you can find them swarming everyplace (Now that the words are in front of me it does sound totally absurd considering there is no refuge place that I can make a break for). So large are they in number that my neighbours, who own a house that is tiled in sparkling whites all over the exterior, appear to have redecorated the whole of it in blacks and browns. Not an inch of white is seen, au contraire it appears to have been generously coated twice! This occurs for a day or two, which means I have to place myself under house arrest. No one is allowed to venture close to any window let alone open one. All is well and good if I am already under a lock and key, safe inside the comfort of my house when this phenomenon occurs. But since the moths do not follow the sun calendar or mark the dates of their alien infestation in advance, I lose the vantage point of being prepared for the attack. A couple of years ago I had to spend the entire night trapped in my car because millions of moths had decided to give me company at my place and literally made themselves at home, some even raiding my fridge (How they let themselves in is a question the answer of which I wouldn't care to find out).

A kindred soul, while exchanging notes and sympathies, mentioned an embarrassing situation that had cropped up while the whole family was at the dinner table. A moth decided to join in on the festivities and seated itself on her shoulder to probably scrutinize the items being served on the table. All of a sudden there were plates flying and the food was everywhere including the walls and her father-in-law's being. My friend had hurled the plates of food blindly and rushed outside the room in a twinkling of an eyelid before others could even have the time to get themselves out of her way. When an hour later, on being vouched by every member of her family that the manner less, gate-crashing moth had indeed been driven away, she entered the room, her father-in-law quietly and lovingly pointed out that plates were meant to be eaten out of and not thrown across rooms; maybe she had mistaken it for a Frisbee!

"The moths wont eat you" or "It is more afraid of you than you are of it" are few of the numerous elucidating observations that I get from brave mortals. Out of these, of the first observation, I am quite in agreement with though it does nothing to allay my fears. On the second one however, I beg to differ. I am sure the moths thoroughly enjoy the joke when they hear the lionhearted trying to talk sense into me (believing it to be true). I, on the other hand, do not find it rib-tickling in the least. I definitely prefer snakes, scorpions and other crawling creeps to these flighty fellas. And those tickled pink by my faintheartedness, beware, I own a pet snake! ;) 

I Need Those Ruby Slippers!!

Given a shot at time travel, teleportation and space travel (I would need a medley of all three) the place I would really love to end up would be between the pages of a Georgette Heyer novel! Amidst powders and patches, carriages and phaetons, waltzing away in cambric and muslin, wooed by Dukes or (and ;) ) Marquis, away from this humdrum life into a world of fun and romance. Albeit the chauvinism and regimentation inflicted on the ladies of quality in the name of delicacy and gentility are big put-offs, I find solace in the reasoning that I would never let myself be subjected to such tyranny, just like some of her protagonists.
On days when i feel under the weather, I make myself some strong coffee with a smidgen of milk, pick up one of her novels and curl up on the sofa under dim lights (just about enough to aid my reading) with soft music playing in the background. Today is one such day as I put my feet up with one of my favourites; The Convenient Marriage. The hero, Rule (Drool ;) ) is my teenage crush and comes second in my list, overshadowed only by the incomparable Mr. Darcy from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

That's about enough for today. I am itching to get back to my book and, sorry to say, finding you a trifle de trop! Au Revoir! :)

Touchwood!

They Say I Have A Perfect Life

As a baby screaming, putting up a fight,

Had aged granny rock her through the night,

Singing her lullabies, crooning and humming,

Tirelessly till the wee hours of every morning.

As a toddler spending evenings at the park,

Growing tired and cranky after setting up a lark,

Into the tired arms of old grandpa, would she leap,

He would carry her home every day and kiss her to sleep.

When procrastination during her school-going years,

Brought in a lot of tantrums and a bucketful of tears,

Dad, after a few cutting words, would hurry,

To make sure she was saved from her teacher's fury. 

Though frightful and lanky, she grew to be as a teen,

Comforting words always made her feel like a queen,

When grown-ups would remark sadly, "What a pitiable sight",

Mom's indifference to her appearance made everything seem right.

With listless mousy hair and a crooked nose,

Patchy reddened skin and bushy eyebrows,

Yet her baby sister often greeted her with cries,

Of "Oh my God! You sure are a sight for sore eyes".

She became every teacher's darling,

With her impish smile and a demeanour so appealing,

In studies she had aces, her best friends were her books,

People said it was God's way of apologizing for her looks.

Soon her close friends numbered quite a few,

They poured into her ears about things they came to rue,

She became their confidante, their advisory in chief,

To date hers is the shoulder they look for in their grief.

Now in her thirties, yet she can boast,

Of being daddy's l'il princess and loved by most,

"I am my gramps' baby, the apple of their eyes,

God, let it always be so", she prays every day, in grateful cries.

Hope

Two look between the same bars,

One sees mud, the other sees stars.

                                                    -Frederick Langbridge

I am struggling with an amateur-writer's block so decided to do a guest post today.

Back in 2000, some sixty-odd poems featured in a book published by a small time local publisher. These poems were written impromptu by children, aged six to sixteen, as a part of a Children's day programme. My sister, a Class IX student then, had to choose from the topics The Steps, A Bridge and The Sky. She chose The Steps. And what follows, is a chef-d'oeuvre by a 14-year old (Biased huh? Well, it's my baby sister I am talking about :) ).

INFIRM STEPS

Step by step the fawn moved forward,

It was an effort to stand, alright,

The doe urged it to step onward,

With shivering legs it stood upright.

It's innocent eyes looked upon the world,

The green meadows and the clear stream,

Across the brook, the bridge was curled,

It was as good as a dream.

It's steps were slow and trembling,

The fawn did need some persuasion,

It tried hard to support itself but kept falling,

But, in the end, it sure did reach it's destination.

Soon it's steps will be faster,

It shall learn to take care of itself,

To protect itself from the hunters,

And to be strong like the doe herself.

                                                                          -Nivedita Rao

Lose Your Tongue??

A friend recently posted on a social networking site that whilst her stay in London, she had often been commended for her excellent command over the English language. Or so she thought the first few times. What sang a different tune was the look of incredulity that went with each such praise. It was more on the lines of a condescending "Oh! Some Indians do speak English and surprisingly one that can be discerned by an Englishman". She blames Danny Boyle for this sciolism;  I however beg to differ.

Stereotyping an Indian with bad English and a worse accent isn't Danny Boyle's brain child. Nor is it contempo. That 'Slumdog Millionaire' went on to win a few Oscars definitely expanded the coverage area of the myopic masses, but it's still our very own superciliousness we use to mask our ineptitude that fuels the fire; that combined with a mule like egotistical obstinacy of "Who, in the bloody hell, cares". Besides its quite à la mode to smack in a few expletives, trim the words while writing (who was the Smart Alec who brought in vowels; we already have a tough time striking off the consonants, thank you!) and call the very correct English speaking Indians, elitists.

"Look at the French or the German" is what they say, the argument being that these countries are doing quite well without embracing the English language. What they fail to see is that the French or the German do not flock American and British embassies wanting to flee their motherland in search of better prospects. A colleague of mine with some such aspiration was running late with some deliverable and thought it prudent to drop an apology note to the client. The result; the client was left wondering if he was at the receiving end of an apology or if an apology was actually being demanded of him. The email ran a full circle of escalations and ended up in boss' inbox. The next day I was allocated an additional task; reviewing all his emails before they were sent out. And for the next three months I ended up, not reviewing, but actually writing all his emails.

Though, I too, do not number among the people who can converse effortlessly in English, I do try and put in the effort to be one such. I welcome constructive criticism and find people correcting me to be prolific; sentiments I share with just a handful of my friends. Not long ago a friend and I were lamenting about how ironically we are the ones ridiculed when we bring in a word in our conversations that did not come out of the Balbharatis of our times and about how people kept murdering the language persistently. One example of sheer lassitude towards being correct, that we both found awfully annoying was the persistent mix-up of words like Lose and Loose. ("I need to loose these extra pounds!!!" What you really need to do dear, is to loosen your belt or drop the extra 'O' that you have been so generous with!!) We agreed that we might be prejudiced but feel a certain kinship when we come across people who speak normal, correct English. Also something akin to relief.

I have stopped taking upon myself, the job of correcting people (I have ruffled quite a few feathers there in the past), but I do so with a few dear friends of mine who I know would rather have me set it right for them, than being corrected at a professional level (a cute friend of mine resorts to the dictionary and beamingly tells me so, when she stumbles upon a new word in any of my chats or emails). I, in turn, have a couple of friends whom I idolize, who never have second thoughts about correcting my erreurs. I join in on the mirth of the rest when I am made a butt of the many jokes, all the while silently scanning the room to see if any kindred soul exists who shares the jest in it's true spirit. Very rarely do my eyes meet one such pair, but when they do, they share a silent, private laugh. And voila!! it's no longer boaring. Oink Oink!! :)

As You Wish, My 'Darr'ling!

So Mr He-who-must-not-be-named called. Not one of those social calls enquiring if all is well and checking if I still fit the bill to number among his friends, but rather a post-haste call from a soul whose sensibilities appeared to have been severely wounded. Reason, his being referred to as 'He-who-must-not-be-named' in my first post. "What difference does it make?" I asked him. Ten to one, the only people to ever read this blog would be him and me. Maybe my sister, who is quite fond of reading, might show an interest in a post or two, if she ever manages to drag herself away from that office of hers. And the husband, if I ever write one which features Man Utd., football, sports or gizmos as the keyword(s). But my reach for an audience just about ends there.

"You could have left it at 'A friend'" he argued. "And I would have if you hadn't echoed on about remaining incognito. What's with the secrecy anyway?", I asked. But he went on the defensive and  mumbled something non-committal about being shy and wanting to make sure and some such blah blah! To which the devil in me prompted me to say, "Oh!, you are afraid of your wife." (I was just messing with him; his wife is one of the sweetest persons to walk this earth and is sure to have a hearty laugh at her husband's expense if I am ever able to extend my audience to include her). And so we were back to dagger-drawing!

But this banter got me thinking about such a fate that, though escaped this friend of mine, has turned sour quite a few friendships. Take for example, a friend's wife has barred him from staying in touch with any of his fifteen friends because she had ego issues with one within the group!! So much so that he does not attend their weddings or even extend his best wishes in any form or even respond to any invitation or message. Another friend's wife, on her very introduction with the gang, misconstrued the light hearted teasing between childhood friends to be of a demeaning nature. It's been a couple of years now and the group has moved on from waiting for them to join, to hearing their next-in-line excuse to wriggle out of a get-together! Another friend narrowly escaped a lifetime of having his friends picked and shopped for him after a 'It's either them or me' episode (He dumped 'them' but broke off with her after more than a year of servitude). I don't think he shall ever hear the end of it from 'them'. But the one case that takes the shine out of all is a friend's husband refusing to ever meet her office colleagues and ordering her to keep a distance because they 'weren't nice' and he didn't like the 'whole lot'. (Dude, you really need to at least talk to, if not meet folks, before you announce your grim prognosis)

I don't understand the thought that prevents one from adopting one's spouse's buddies. Does it crop from wanting to show an upper hand or is it plain insecurity stemming from the fact that the buddies have had a head start to being a part of his or her life? Whatever the reason be, I for one, am extremely fortunate to have my 'Yours, Mine & Ours' view, a spousal blessing. And we are both thankful for two sets of wonderful friends, their spouses and their little ones! Love you all!

P.S.: And if I know anything of my friend He-who-must-not-be-named, I am sure to receive a 'Howler' by the morning post! ;)

'Tall' Tales

I know I am a late entrant into the blogging world. It has been so with me forever, in everything that I have done in the past. When I took to Orkut, the world had moved on to Facebook. When I created my facebook account, Twitter became the rage (I stopped there; it would have been pointless to join Twitter ;) ), when I bought a laptop, people were talking about tablets! But it's been a while since I wrote anything that could adorn a blog spot. 'A while' too would be playing down the time frame; eons would place it aptly considering that, except for my last piece of literary stint, the rest of my work lies on yellowed fragments of ruled papers torn from long-exercise notebooks.

A friend egged me on to digitising my endeavours. He-who-must-not-be-named, happened to stumble upon a poem (the only one I have as a soft-copy) that I had penned for my husband (my fiancé then) and found it worthy of a place better than the 'Sent Items' of my inbox. When informed that the rest of my work was lying in some old tin box hidden away in the recesses of my two-storeyed, not so well-maintained house, he quite caustically enquired if I was saving it to be found posthumous, secretly hoping to outshine Ann Frank! So here I start by posting the very same, starry eyed, mushy and childish poem that I had written circa 2006.

TALL TALES



The beauty enticing, my eyes devour,

As I softly sail away from the shore,

Trying to grasp horizon's outstretched hand,

Leaving behind white sanded land.

A tear trickles, I wonder why,

A moment so rejoicing has made me cry,

But as I watch the sky hugging the sea,

Truth dawns, it is because of 'He'.

Memories I cherish, the ones so sweet,

Shall remain my companions till the time we meet,

To smile, to laugh, to live I shall strive,

Without my friend, the love of my life.

Supportive and compassionate he has always been,

A sturdy mask, behind lies a child unseen,

This side of his, he reveals only to a few,

As a companion he is the best gift God could give.

Accruing wealth, a dollar, a cent, a dime,

I keep counting days biding my time,

I hope to God this year just flies past,

As they say "All bad things, for long, do not last".

I wait for the moment, when his arms find me again,

Pretension I shall leave behind, a smile I shall never feign,

The glitter in my eyes shall say it all,

When my gaze shall behold a guy who calls himself tall.

This poem I dedicate to that particular 'He',

I wonder if any of this makes sense to thee,

I have tried to pen my feelings untold,

In a manner that seems to be ages old.

This is where my brain refuses to budge,

Now the entire poem to me sounds like fudge,

But I hope this does bring in his eye, a glint,

So with this I finally end my literary stint.