Overdue

This one almost didn't make it. While I've been busy existing (not living), a pang of embarrassment hits me every now and then - "When will I post something on the blog?". Earlier, it was followed by a feeble admission and some hope- "Soon.". With time, this was replaced by an irritated query- "What purpose does it serve?". Not unreasonable, to ask that of myself. After all, there not any audience to speak of. And I have well admitted that some of the most intense thoughts I have come and go before they are put on paper. So what does blogging accomplish for me?
The closest answer that comes to me is- this is a form of self-expression, and while its presence may not encourage a great discourse or achieve any literary feat, its absence suggests a silence. Not just a lack of words, but a lack of thoughts?

Bibliophilia

“Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind.”

- Jeanette Winterson

On Taste

“What nobody tells people who are beginners - and I really wish someone had told this to me . . . is that all of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, and it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase. They quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know it’s normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

- Ira Glass

Silence of the words

I am writing this because I can't stand to see the emptiness here. The neglect.
I wonder why I only write inside my head now. I think, but I don't give myself time to write them down, the impatient thoughts, and I don't see any difference anymore. Thinking it is writing it.
I do this with people as well. I have imaginary conversations as and when I need to talk. I'm not going crazy. I just know them well enough to know exactly what they are going to say. Or maybe, I am afraid they have changed and will have a different point of view?
My biggest beef with facebook, is that my phone bills are so very low.
What if I embark on this experiment - I call every one of them, and see how long it is until we reach the awkward pause. I let it hang now, I let it be visible, I don't try to hush away its existence with a nonchalant 'and what else?'. The awkward pause is my admonishment.

Today

  

The shock has worn off and that momentary, incandescent fury is fading into disappointment and bitterness. Missed opportunities.

'What if I had.....?' That perpetual question, useless to brood over, but persistent in its torture. And I know I will find some fault, some missing piece in my actions if I look hard enough.

For all the prayers (however irreligiously offered), every silent whispered wish (so many times everyday) there is not even the slightest hint of a happy ending in the future. Forget about a happy ending for now, what I’m really missing is a happy beginning. I keep analysing everything that happens around me, trying to convince myself that even the not-so-good events will ultimately be succeeded by the happiest. Trying to find connections where none exist. These cruel coincidences rattle me. Because I know, to be very honest, that there is no other meaning to them. No hidden messages or signs from above. My life is just the product of what I do and what I choose not to. Any outside influence that is acknowledged will have played its part only through mischief. There is no divine providence, and no Felix Felicis.

I need a win, I really do.

Possibilities. That is all I would have had on my plate if you had let it happen. And of course I could have never come to know of it, but my own curiosity is to blame, and I now know that which gives me only pain. And unanswered questions. About missed opportunities....

"For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to the children; and - by some sad, strange irony - it does not bind us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not with gratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos and much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy."

- Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster

The Unexpected Guest

A lizard has crept into my kitchen sink. Seriously. And it refuses to vacate the premises. It is tiny and dark with a pattern of concentric white dots running down its tail. I let the tap water run at full force, but it perched unconcerned at the rim of my favourite cooking bowl (I use it for everything from boiling rice, to cooking veggies, preparing Maggi, pasta, pulav, soup, rasam etc.) I threw a plate that hit the sink with a resounding crash, but all I got of this exercise was a glimpse of the beady-eyed beauty as it disappeared further into unknown depths of another unlucky utensil. I told myself to ‘man up’ and get rid of it somehow, but no success. I’m now going to sleep on it and hope that tomorrow morning as I step into the kitchen to prepare tea, I am greeted by solitude. And not by lizard poop. Yes, I can hear you making a mental note never to eat at my place again. :’(

Meanwhile, I’ve been condemned to eating out at all times, which mind you is no fun when you’re alone. Try going to a nice restaurant and asking for a ‘table for one’. Quite apart from anything else, it’s just depressing. And there’s always a couple, lurking nearby, mocking you (and always the standard format, pretty girl – fat guy). So I have to lump it and eat at Hotel Saravana Bhavan.

This is not the first time, though, that some creepy crawly has attempted to interfere with my lazy style of home running. The first adversaries I encountered when I moved in were red ants. They took over my life. Starting with a packet of biscuits and the pack of rubber-bands, they moved on to other articles of their interest, infiltrated my packets of Maggi, macaroni, wheat flour, arhar daal, soup, rice, salt and samosas. I would see them delicately moving along in a distinct line now here and now there, eventually invading my dreams where they feasted on me. There are bulky lines drawn outside the cupboards with the anti-roach chalk now, for that is what keeps them at bay.

This package of lizards and red ants has been present in every house I’ve rented in Chennai. The lizards of course are multi-hued and in many sizes, they don’t just keep to the walls, they scramble across the floor. There are the flying cockroaches too, don’t you just love those?

The best encounter however was perhaps a year and a half ago, when I woke up groggy a Saturday morning to see the maid standing outside the kitchen pointing helplessly in stunned outrage. The offending party, it transpired, was a pair of debauched lizards, busily ‘at it’ on the kitchen floor. Stifling a mad urge to giggle, I very composedly drove away the salacious couple, much to the relief of the lady. I am a gentleman after all.