Let's Do It.

Let's do it? 

Let's do it. 

Why? What's so funny?

It's nothing you've not seen before. It's nothing we haven't done before. 

Then why can't we do it right now because I want to? 

Why does it have to be such a secret?
Oh of course
We can only do it when the lights are out, when the neighbours are quiet, when the dog is fucking asleep! 

I am your dirty little secret 

I could tarnish that little 'perfect boyfriend' image you have going on for you
No going 'I'll take you to the candy shop' on my ass, huh? Doesn't work for you? No?
Only going at it under the garb of alcohol mostly? That's your move? Yes?
It's not particularly fun being a mistress; but I guess that's not the point.
Not that I know what the point it.

Sudden Realization #7

'Tip Tip Barsa Paani' song video makes me horny sometimes.
Like, right now.

Fucking Up.

What is it about fucking up that makes it so easy? We all do it almost out of habit. At one moment, we have all that we thought we wanted. Even if it isn't, it's satisfactory. It gives us happiness.
And then what do we do? We go ahead and fuck it up. We fuck it up really bad.
Of course, we always want everything we do in life should be just like in the movies. Only there aren't any retakes in real life just like in the movies. You can't undo in life, man! And what a tragedy that is. So we go ahead and fall in love. Real love at that. You can tell it's true. There is such little truth in the world that you know one when you see one.
And then what do we do? We go ahead and fuck it up. We fuck it up really bad.

We hurt the people important to us. We feel stupid and lost and oh so sorry. We can barely justify it. We have this recurring pain in the general heart area. We realize that you don't die of a heartbreak, you just wish you did. We put everything we love on stake for what, one may wonder. For the sake of pleasure? Happiness? Thrill?

I think we do it because we are basically horrible people.

We go ahead and fuck it up. We fuck it up really bad.

Horrible people tend to fuck up more than the rest.

This Is Where You and I Meet.

Change is a constant. And so is sorrow.

This is me.
Same blog, different url.
I missed you, oh anonymity.

Sudden Realization # 6

I don't think I can ever have the patience to be with someone who does not understand my relationship with alcohol.
Life is hard enough anyway.

GOING Going gone...

Best Friend : How come your blog doesn't have a post of your homecoming? Is it now only reserved for men and alcohol?

___________________________________________________________

HaHaHa... that. Also, I didn't have internet access on my last day in Bombay and this week in Delhi has been beautifully busy. I'm leaving tomorrow morning after a very very eventful and an extremely fulfilling week in Delhi. To add to the drama  in my life that has notched up since the time I set foot in the Mumbai Airport last Saturday, Balasaheb Thackray passed away yesterday. My neighborhood in Bombay is apparently not at its peaceful best. However, my very posh South Bombay college isn't the most lenient with attendance. So tomorrow I'm going to land in the 'dream city' and hope that I'm not stoned by strange men.
I also hope that I get stoned tomorrow.. but that's another story.

In other news, I've planned to cook tomorrow night. For Him.

I've said this once and I'm saying this again... Only this time with much more authority;

Bambai Meri Jaan, Be Nice!

Sudden Realization # 5

I'm having whiskey with water now.

Primarily because seemingly that's all I can afford.

It's funny how money can determine your preferences.

Last month, someone had told me that I shouldn't have my alcohol with Coke. It ruins the taste apparently. Neat, on the rocks or with water, he said. I'd appreciate it more, he said.

It's his birthday today. If I remember to call him during the day, I must tell him of my finances. 

And their impact on my alcohol consumption.

Mr. Butterfly.

There's a butterfly in my tummy, it seems
He's being a little crazy
No one knows what's in his head
That crazy little thing
He tells me of some sweet dreams
Dreams that seem better than reality
Dreams woven out of stardust
But I can't go any further I think
As I tiptoe across unknown paths
I can hear some song d'amour
I listen to it carelessly; I also hear a story
I don't know how the story begins
Or how it ends
I may soon be becoming someone else's person
For a season only perhaps 
Or perhaps, for one season too many
Who knows?
I bet Mr.Butterfly does.



I miss you, my beautiful Delhi Winters.  


  

Sing Song.

It was 2010  I remember, when you fell in love with me.
It was 2010 I remember, when I was madly in love with someone else.
It was 2010 I remember, Delhi was shining in one of its glorious winters.
It was 2010 I remember, when we'd get stoned at eight in the morning.
It was 2010 I remember, when I heard you play your guitar.
It was 2010 I remember, when you sung me 'Love Me Tender'.
It was 2010 I remember, when I couldn't stop smiling.
It was 2010 I remember, when I actually contemplated between you and him.
It was 2010 I remember, when he beat me up.
It was 2011 I remember, when you started disappearing on me; slowly but surely.
It is 2012 now.
I'm thinking of you tonight.
I wonder where you are.
I wonder how you're doing.
I wonder if you're singing the same song to someone else.

Guess who's birthday it is today???? :D D: D: D :D :D :D
*jumps up and down and shakes her booty*

Rendezvous.

So you go to your terrace
For your post dinner smoke
And you're startled to see there
Not one, but two blokes
Then one things leads to another
Somehow you all end up drunk
Some laughs, flirting, stupidities
But no one's touching your junk
You go back home so happy
Smiling like a fucking fool
Thinking, for only a second,
That not each man is a tool
You  remember their names
You vaguely remember their faces too
But what a fun night it was
What a great rendezvous
How are there so many 'stories', you wonder
In a life so mundanely bourgeois
Anyway, you're just happy about one thing
That unlike other nights, you were wearing a bra.

iQuit?

I love smoking, I do. But do I need it? Perhaps not. Apart from the very rare bouts of  'need to smoke because I ate too much' or 'i'd smoke instead, lest I say something horrible to you because you are ugly', I never really need it I believe. Except, for when I am being faaaabulouuuss (for want of a better word). Look at any black and white movie, everyone is smoking. Smoking is glamourous and I'd like to believe I'm a fairly glamourous person. Could that night at the balcony be equally thrilling if there weren't smoke signals passed between him and I? Wouldn't the silver outfit look a little incomplete with just a glass in one hand and no smoke in the other? Could the long conversations be the same without the Marlboros dangling from everyone's fingers? Of course, the sincerity of the post coital fag can't be ignored. And what about the thrill of sneaking a smoke at the most unnatural moments and places? Bumming cigarettes off friend's dad's collections, going to the loo and then making one another believe that it isn't smelling of the smoke thaat bad, collecting cigarette butts of the expensive ones we smoked.. too much is coming back to me now. And that's the point, smoking has witnessed too much of our lives. In that moment of rebellion against the father figure, we smoked; in that moment of love with the boy we wanted to travel the world with, we smoked... It can't be explained, but it is liberating. And of course, glamourous!

Of course your lips get dark, but you will find a pair of smoker lips to kiss. Or a pair of lips that love you for you. Of course, girls shouldn't smoke because of pregnancy issues, but then who needs more kids in this already noisy and dirty world? Of course, even the packs tell you that smoking kills, but then so does walking on the streets of Bombay.

I decided to quit day before. I am not quite sure of my reasons. But I have only smoked one cigarette since. I guess I'm cutting down then. But in the moments that demand the air to get smoky, I am sloowllyyy going to release enormous amounts of smoke from my nose and mouth, not to show off like I tend to do about my drinking capacity ''that's pretty good for a girl'', but to expose the little private achievements of a young girl, who at one time or the other, walked around in fake jewelry, makeup and high heels on a morning at home; with a toothpick in her hand that posed as a cigarette.

...When I am being faaaabulouuuss (for want of a better word).

You get twenty five whole years to ''grow up',' and I get just two decades. It hardly seems fair.

Honesty.

It's funny how nobody else thinks honesty is selfish. 

If I screw up real  bad, then being honest about it is going to free me off the guilt.. clear my conscience... the works. However, it is going to hurt everyone else involved. I am trying to protect them by nor revealing the truth.
I've always been on my high 'i-never-lie' horse when in fact I've often held back.
They say it's equally bad.

All I'm saying is that having people close to you bear the brunt of your actions by virtue of truth. hardly seems fair.

I don't know what I'm saying. I hardly do now.

Holding Hands and Other Redundancies.

The sudden hugs from the back when she is pretending to sulk about something silly he said. The 2am 'I think I miss you' call, when in fact they hung up at 1am. His sudden disappearing for a few hours just to tease her. And sometimes just the sitting together quietly with his arm in hers. Setting the sun by the lake. Then making the moon appear at night. The wandering through Mumbai streets at the heart of midnight. The speechless listening. The having his breath drop on her ears. Her hesitation in throwing around "I Love You" like chewing gum wrappers to him. The realization, however subconscious, that it might mean something more than she'd have liked. The smiling foolishly over text messages. The staying up late at night to talk about nothing whatsoever. The extra cigarettes she smokes just to make him stay longer. The sudden urges to touch him. The bites on his arms that she affectionately brands him with. The feeling she gets of being owned; not by force. The feeling that's so strong that it almost makes her believe in the redundant 'human' concept of marriage, however fleetingly.

Not Her Marriage, Though.

That's just not happening.

It all feels hugely stupid to her. Stupid, to say the least.

Nevertheless, It's all happening after a long long time. Maybe that just makes it nicer.

Sudden Realization # 4

The thing about always doing whatever the fuck you believe in regardless of what they told you is that you can't quit.
Even when that's all you may want to do.

"Chest"

I met this guy on my second day in Mumbai. Such a beautiful boy he is. An extremely good-looking North Indian boy. I stress on North Indian because you knew it as soon as you laid eyes on him.. Punjabi boy, joint family, chest out when he walks, fairer than milk, redundant tattoo.. the works! Let's call him chest.

I took chest to a bar. Chest told me of his family. The mother who loves chest, the father who is seemingly very strict, the overprotective brother, the grandfather whose death crushed chest. The doting grandfather whom chest still can't imagine life without. The only one in the family who ever expected good things out of chest. The man who wanted his lovely grandson to become the next Sachin Tendulkar. Chest obliged. Went for practice. Chest started off as wanting to prove the world wrong and keep chest's grandfather's word. Chest needed everyone to know that he was capable of much much more.

Chest told me all that over one drink too many.

So after a week of 'rigorous' practice, chest quit.

Chest told his grandfather that chest can't because chest doesn't want to get tanned.

Chest's grandfather died a month later.

I choked on my drink too.
We made out later that night.
We don't talk anymore for obscure reasons.

I think chest killed his grandfather.

Mosquitoes and Mush.

Don't you just hate it when a fucking mosquito form Mumbai gives you Malaria?
Don't you just love it when because of that you get to take your first flight out to Delhi and indulge in a whole lot of mush?

I'm feeling much better now, yes. It's time to go back soon.

And I just realized I have 101 followers. Ah the misguided youth...

Popsicle :*.

"There is this Swift by my car.
A girl in the front seat- her leg is up on the dashboard, her seat is peechhe and she's smoking...

You sure you aren't in Delhi?"

:')

Cool Thoughts.

I had all these cool thoughts in my head about 8 odd minutes back. Thoughts that were cool enough to make me get out of bed, take my fucking laptop out of my fucking bag, insert the fucking inapprriaate looking (and soundingg!!) dongle and go onto blogger. Only, Facebook was the furst tab I opened. And Facebook does that... takes away your thoughts. All of them.

So the few thoughts that I hd some time ago I must put down. Because it's my blog! and I can do the fuck I want to!!! Not use pucntuation! Noo.. I like punctuation. Anyway, for my putting down purposes, im gonaa use that cool bullet thng. Yay

•  I love sSalman Khan. Soo hot. The one time I tried to get onto a fucking moving local train here, I got hurt so bad it still pains. And here is Mr.Khan.. fucking getting onto a flying plane. Oh Swooooooooon.
• For the above to make sense you must watch Ek Tha Tiger/ And wait till the end of the credit roll because that's when Mahshallllah happens. And the Universe knows how much I love that song.
• I can't sleep! It's 6:48 A-fuckin-M right now! And it's the 20th of Augst! Ive been up since 10am 19th August. There's been intoxication and bad food and lots of conversation. LOTS! But now I cant sleep. Im suddenly typing with such efficientcy/ Efficiency is a fuckin tough word. 
• Pangs of hunger have hit at the beginning of this point.
• eid mubarak 
• i really must sleep
• i fucking facebook wall-ed sanam khanna today. RIGHT NOW! this moent needs to go down history. it has for me.
• ugly people should go fuck themselves. 
• thats not politically correct. 
• but it's true. mean, yes. but true. people should look nice all the time. most of the time. or be realllllllllyyyyy interesting... you know/.? the type that's all dark deep and upto cool shit that u dont understand. 
• oh my god. im bloggin like trishi. she blogs sporadically when shes drunk. i like it. she should blog more often.
• nihaaaaaariiikaa! if you're reading this, bastard woman calll meeee!!!
• SO many zigzag red lines under so mnay words. 
• Pawai Lake kicks Marine Drive's ASS! Seaface at Warli does too. Basically, Marine Drive is like CLubbing. YOU're really excited till you get there. When u gt there, it's too crowded for you to dance like a slut. Sigh.
• it's SEVEN! 
• SEVENNNNNNN !!!
  I just smoked a menthol. Who the fuck smokes Menthol? Icky peopem smke menthol. The kinds that like to hold your hand. ICKY.
• I curse so much here. and abuse. not even fucking funny. and in my mouth, Hindi and marathi have a fucking abusive baby. baby's not ugly though. we know how we feel about ugly people.

byebye

or as trishi ends it,

que sera sera

i hope i spelled it right. i misss you trishi. but most imprtantly, your fucking showerrr!
Kiss.

88 days to go...

When I miss her too much I actually stalk her Facebook profile like some deranged ex boyfriend.
Not too much seems to be up with her; at least not socially.
Makes me think she must miss me like mad.
A lot is up with me apparently; at least socially.
And yet I miss her like mad.

88 more days to survive till I see her again.
And then I'll live for a bit. When I'd be in her arms as she'd be in mine.
Till the end of eternity, if not more.

If this isn't love, what is?
I love her.
I surprise myself at how much I do.

I sit down to write most nights. 

But I can't seem to. 

No thought is relevant enough.

No idea is sustained for too long.

But there's something different about tonight I guess. Because I have managed to type a few redundant sentences. And it's been some hours since my alcohol consumption hence I know this isn't drunk writing. Yet, it's equally scattered. 

So much has changed suddenly that it doesn't even affect me as much anymore. Best Friend had once told me a long time back that as much as I crib and bitch about them and claim to hate them, men would always be a part of my life. And a major part, at that. Best Friends have this annoying habit of knowing things about you before you're ready to acknowledge them for yourselves.
Anyhow, I've met some very interesting men here. Men that have seen the forbidden corners of my Paying Guest room, ever so sneakily; men who have sent me hot pictures of me; men who have paid some rather hefty alcohol bills; men who have stayed up with me all night talking about how communication in this world is shallow now; men who've sipped red wine with me as we smoked joints in the rain at a certain Pune balcony; men who have taken me for looong drives to the end of the Mumbai city only to be walked in on by cops... I hope I'm not leaving too many out. But basically, men who have been nice. And interesting.

And the ones who haven't been, I don't think too much of them.
I'm too young to.
I'm old enough to not.

I have no thoughts here. But I need to quit blaming the city. I don't even think I'm completely homesick just yet. Of course, I miss the food back home. But that's only because people here apparently don't hold taste in  very high regard. They eat for the sake of eating. Even I would I guess, if I had to get on top of other people in the locals every day on my way  to work and back and sweat on one another. Good food becomes an obstacle then. So they just make every thing smell the same here - of Garam Masala! - and eat it as they pretend to know the difference. Also, people don't hug here. They're all side hug-ey and fist bump-ey and well, generally sweaty. So I can't blame them for that too. Bomblasts and Malaria are to Mumbai what Rapes and Money are to Delhi... redundant and perfunctory. So okay, Delhi has counterparts. I parallel Malaria with Money not only for the common letter but for the fact that Delhi has money. Yes, I rub it in at every chance I get.
I'm popular here. But I was back home too. As I would be wherever I go. I'm sufficiently funny, averagely smart, pretty slutty, compulsively chatty, regular smoker and an alcoholic... like, why won't I make friends? I missed two days of college because I almost had Malaria (or so I thought!), and my bastard phone wouldn't stop buzzing about how bored everyone was getting without me. Yes! I'm a glorified class jester! Sue me! But the class jester gets in on the secret parties, so Screw You!


Speaking of Malaria, Mumbai has made my path collide with a very very cute Doctor; whom I'd totally go to visit again if it wasn't for the bloody long waiting line. We were totally flirting too in my big tshirt and pyajamas. Or was it just me? Or was it just that I was under medication? Whatever the case, cute doc. Notice how I don't throw around 'Bombay' anymore. I call it Mumbai now. For political reasons, of course. I'm not sure what they are but. Enlighten me, someone?


Oh! and the work I have here! The overdose of assignments is going to be the end of me, you'd think. I did too. But then came my fifty million household chores. Home here is where the household chores are, apparently. The heart thing is clearly a lie!

I HAVE NO THOUGHTS HERE.

Wadupp?

Apologies for the drunken stupor
But my hair looks nice right now
And I seem to have had one too many
And Ive released most of what was to be released
Alcohol hardly seems sinful now...


It's beautiiiful
With every bottle you open, you open up a little with it too
And what a joy that is
As you mistress around with friends or foes
And chat up everyone you come across
It's happiness
It's the closest you come to happiness in days...


You speak to lovers back in Delhi
Oh! My beautiful beautiful city of love.. where art thou?
And you moan to them
And breathe heavy
You wonder if this is what doing it over the phone feels like
You're sure not...


You wonder about the guy on your to-do list
You wonder why he manhandles you
Not that you mind
But you know  it's because for him, you're his 'bro'
SO for you, it'd be hot passion
For him, incest...


I need to think of more things! Or receive an education! Or smoke a cigarette on my terrace and sleep as I try not to throw up!
yeah.. the last one sounds just about right...


Apologies for the drunken stupor...

Nerd.

"I think ... after some thought, this one is apt for you. you need not change your cover. just know that this is something I think fits you. like totally ...

well, on the surface, this picture when I made it in paint was just a random creation but when I thought about it, it is you. you are the babe, the diva everyone loves to be around. yet, if one observes carefully there is a lot of blue in the picture. blue i.e. sadness. now you can deny it all you want but somewhere you try very hard to cover your depth as a human being.

its almost compulsive in a way "

Meanwhile in Bombay...

It's been okay here. So far so good I guess. Travelling is a bitch though. And hence I was taking cabs to college these past couple of days. I think that's one of the reasons no one in my class accepted me with open arm- because I was that girl from Delhi who cabbed it between Dadar and CST everyday because she was too cool for a local. But I am too cool for it! I don't see how having men sweating all over you is exciting. Well, it is... but not in the Bombay Local way. However, I take the trains now. I pick up new boys every night who drop me back home. True Story.
Not random boys. Boys staying close to my house as to walk me back and get me out of the traumas of the feeling of being touched by sweating men. But speaking of men sweating all over you, Bombay is winning in the 'action' department. I would  like to believe it's because of my drop dead gorgeous looks, but it could have a little to do with how frustrating it is to live here for everyone. Not sexually frustrating; survival-frustrating. 

I'm cooking, cleaning, washing, the works! None of that I mind. My flatmates are really the nicest people. I have people in Bombay that I love. I have made some cool friends too who seem to be fond of me. None in my class though. I'm meeting so many people each day- old and new. But it gets lonely here. And no amount of smoking on my beautiful beautiful terrace (very la 'Wake Up Sid') makes it any better. I miss my mom. Home is where mom is, I feel. And my people. I feel shy reading emails from the girl I love. I get conceited when lovers from Delhi claim they miss me, almost perfunctorily. I don't think I'm really missing anyone yet. But I think about them a lot. I think about Delhi a lot. Delhi- the land of delicious food, cheap alcohol and easier commuting. Everyone walks here! To everywhere! They're going to fucking walk to the moon one day! I don't do walks. I'm from Delhi, remember?

In other news, I've already been to the Police Station once in the middle of a night of drunken debauchery and have had one happy accidents too many around my under-wired brasserie- but I'd just put it under 'beginner's luck'; the latter, I mean. The alcohol intake has been more than the food. And with my cab rides and regular alcohol, I would soon zero down to no food at all it seems.
It's been a little more than a week   since I've been here. A few days ago had I gotten to write this, it would've been filled with frustrations pouring all over it. From everything to the names of this place (Kandivalli, Warli (pronouced Varli!), Borivali, Bandra, Bandstand, Banchod...!), to the lack of basic culinary experience to the surprise rains that make you think twice about wearing coloured bras... but now I think I've already made peace with it. And if not, I know I'm on a quick way to it...

The terrace makes it better.

Word.

Emraan Hashmi.

I really like Emraan Hashmi. And I just realized that maybe I always have. 

I like his type : Underrated and highly average.

He's so chill. He just comes and kisses a little bit. Makes out even, if he feels like. Does his bit and moves on. Doesn't create a fuss over anything. He's laid back. He dances pretty okay too. He isn't fat or hairy. Sex is not alwaysss on his mind because he's getting enough. Of course, he kisses rather well you can tell. He's a good father, I hear. Married his childhood sweetheart or some such. He's so chill.

He really is the ideal man.

My ideal man.

Whatever happened to the good old days when the internet was used for porn? Now it's used for jerks like you and I who sit around wanting to correct each other's grammar. 

So I'm going to go youtube raunchy videos of my stud-muffin-hunk. 

You.

One never seriously thinks of leaving one's city. I don't think I ever did. Seriously.We sit around and talk about moving to another city and living on our own, Without anyone. Without the simple pleasure of sneaking in your father's alcohol in your own room and drinking to sleep; without the comforts of the familiar...

There's my entire life until this point right here; and then there's you.

You, whom I can't tell of my leaving. 

You, with your beautiful hands and strong arms. You, with your ability to listen even when you didn't understand. You, with your thinning hairline and smirk smiles. You, with your oblique jokes and direct possessiveness. You, with your sharp memory of all our moments and conversations. You, and the way you'd just look at me; through me. You, and me under those dingy spots we called ours. 

You, with your fucking complacency! 

You, whom I can't tell of my leaving.

Because you'd never say what I'd want you to say. You'd not breakdown and tell me not to go. You won't be shocked or even surprised. Just mundane. You'd not look me in the eye. Somewhere through your second cigarette you'd say something like 'Mat Ja Waise. What'll you do there?"; and that would be it. And just like that we'd begin. Or end. Without any introduction whatsoever. With us, there never can be one, perhaps. No labels, they say. Never like the popular karaoke songs... more like the one you hum without even realizing. The songs in your head. Not that I don't love it that way. You know me enough to know that I do! But just this once, I don't know why, I need you to get dramatic! Lots of pomp and show... tell me you'd always think of me and how I'd probably leave a huge void in your life. But you won't. You'd just sit there with all knowing faces and tones, convinced that things are going to be the same when I get back. And more importantly, that the time away doesn't even count. We'd find other things to do.
Other people to do.

Your complacency is beginning to get annoying!

You, with your fucking complacency!

You'd think this might be the alcohol in me; but I have a feeling it's you.

The Secret.

"Just sit here with me, by my side. You don't have to say nothing, just smile."


Maybe I will.

iWrite. Part Deux.

Leaving the city you've lived in for two decades is weird. Leaving it for slum city is strange. 

It's not easy anyway; specially when everyone around you is behaving like you're some celebrity who is getting married off and moving to the States (read: random madhuri Dixit reference). I have to to leave behind all these friends who won't be there physically to deal with my regular drama. I'd probably even lose touch with most. I'd have to live in a non-ac room. And have to share it with an unknown soul. Who, probably won't be from Delhi either. I'd walk out of my house and no man would be staring at my boobs like they were his friends. I'd never be certain that I'd get my work done with cleavage flashing and a little extra cash.  No chance encounter with a familiar 'autowallah' who'd take me to my destination. And no autos altogether because of the skyrocketing prices and general discourse of maniacal traffic. What would I do without all this botanical beauty that I'm so used to? And my parlour lady! Sigh. How I'd miss her! The quickest, most efficient (and also painless, might I add) lady on the planet. Sigh sigh sigh. And to live sans any parks? The horror!! No park facilities for play, work, pleasure, joint rolling etc. Nobody showing off because they don't even have a corridor in their matchbox sized homes is going to claustrophobic. And what is this shit I hear about alcohol permits in Bombay???  And top it all, Bombay has no winters. So there is no mist that hides all its ugliness. Hardly anyone would give a tiny rat's ass when (and if) we reach a club (in time) and dance slutty through the night. 

The one who notices would probably be from Delhi. And him and I are getting it on then.

That's the plan.

Ugh. I think the above however dramatic was a little therapeutic. 

Yes, I'm moving to Bombay for my post grad. And yes, I'm not going to eliminate the possibilities of all the fun I'm going to have. 

I leave on the 30th of this month.

Bombay, be nice.

And if the post offended/bored you , too bad.

Anyway, watch this and enjoy.

Bitten.

I discovered their existence rather early in my life. I've been an ardent fan. 'Love Bites' we called them back in the day. We weren't cool enough to give 'Hickeys' yet.

Love Bites. Love sure does.

Hickeys brand you.

Hickeys are memorabilia.

Hickeys remind you of 'what had been'.

Hickeys keep  record for some hours.

Hickeys keep record for some days even.

Hickeys make people know of your whereabouts.

Hickeys remind you  of your whereabouts.

Hickeys may disappoint parents.

Hickeys may be credited to insect bites for some.

Hickeys are good for you.

Hickeys are proof that you've been loved well;

Even where no love existed at all...

In memory of Bombay, Part Deux.

Romance.

"There's nothing romantic about the romantics"

Sudden Realization # 3

That is one reality I've accepted... My wonder years are over. Soon I'd be complaining about old-age and greying hair.

iWrite.

I'm still left with a major portion of my toughest exam this year. When's the exam, you ask? Tomorrow morning at 9. At 23:11, I wonder how much five minutes of blogging will take away from my anyway redundant studying plan.

I went to Bombay for a a Post Grad interview immediately after my last exam and returned yesterday. The interview sucked, by the way. Anyway, the trip was really like a loong sleepover of sorts. I met people and had seemingly a really great day. I have grown up fancying Bombay. I knew I'd love it without any introduction even. However, I don't. I hate that place!

Bombay is ugly, overcrowded, dirty and so fuckin' poor. And the traffic! The motherfuckin' traaafffiiccc!! On my way back from the airport, I was actually going to tell my cab driver to stop the cab somewhere so that I could lie down on the Delhi roads and make some sweet love to it. Bombay made me cry. For no good reason. It can't be the traffic alone. After really long did I cry with such intensity. The worst part however iss, that the water taps haven't completely stopped in Delhi either. This better be PMS or I'm blaming my parents for all my miseries.

We live like kings in Delhi even in our poverty, someone once said to me. Delhi serves everything on a platter to everyone. Of course, there's familiarity of all these years and personal connections. But apart from that, Delhi is easy. If you don't want to rush, you can be laid back as fuck. You can always get someone else to do the work for you. Bus, Metro, Auto, Car- you'd find your footing somewhere and not be bogged down by the weight and sweat of 800 passengers in one square inch. If you don't wanna go clubbing, you go karaoke. If you can't afford the cool bar in Saket, there'll always be a cheaper alternative in a humble abode near your place. Which will also have ac, might I add. Unlike Bombay.

Of course nightlife rocks in Bombay apparently because the entire evening goes in commuting. I would need all pubs open till early morning too if I needed 3 hours to get from any point to any point. Of course, the city never sleeps because it's always stuck in traffic! 

It may be because perhaps I am too much of a Delhiite apparently to survive a Bombay. And to think I had never thought ot myself that way before. Delhi tends to spoil you. Bombay doesn't give scope for your way of life; it's the city's way. You either embody the ''spirit'' of Bombay and be it or well, just never fit in.

Sigh.

Oh. It's 23:21.

This was going to be a distraction post from all the studying that I don't understand. Why is it a Bombay v/s Dehi debate, I have no idea.
Needs.Happiness.And.Drugs.

Sudden Realization # 2

According to Best Friend's budgeting skills, I need a minimum of 30 grand in the month of June to fulfill all my basic shopping requirements. Sigh.

Mum should settle for 15 at least.

The Girl With The Sports Shoes.

I once met a girl
In this crazy ass world
Who was brighter than sunshine
And who was looking for a sign
A sign of true love she looked for
She knew she'd find it for sure
But that's not the reason for this note
And here's hoping she finds her love boat
The one thing I'd never forget she told me
Because it was so fascinating to be
Is that she loved wearing shoes at all times
With them she could fight all crimes
When things would go wrong, as they will
When life would be at a pathetic standstill
She would run.. run away to glory
Not look back and never be sorry
And to run she'd need her sports shoes
Too go wherever she would choose
In all her adventures her feet would be protected
And everything would be just as she expected.

Ze Shoes.

I don't think she'd even remember telling me any of this this. But you know? How somethings just stay with you for no good reason.
"Shoes are important. Kuchh ganda hua toh kahin pe bhi bhaag sakte ho. You won't slip if you have the right shoes on"

"Hello... I love you... Won't you tell me your name?"

Affected. That's the word.

How often does one meet someone who leaves one so affected? 

It makes me mad. A mere three and a half hours.. four tops! Am I really that gullible? That impressionable? But I am losing control. It's like he has captured every inch of my thoughts - or at least, most of my thoughts. The way he just looked me in the eye and spoke every so smoothly, like a muslin cloth running between fingers. In a baritone like no other he expressed everything so matter of fact-ly. Things you're not supposed to say... especially to a person you've just met. But he did. And he didn't need no intoxication for that. It was all him. And me, you ask? I just sat there alternating from unease, discomfort, shyness and pure awe. He was something else. He is something else. And he is not even an acquaintance. And he never could be a friend. Why is this happening? And to think that he's gone on living his life all the same without probably a single thought about me! It's frustrating. More so, because it's not sexual. I just need  him to look me in the eye and to talk to me every day for the rest of my life, I think. Or better still, just hear him talk while I bat my eyelids and sheepishly draw his attention to my rather endowed cleavage. BUT NONE OF THAT IS HAPPENING!

I'm never seeing him again. And Facebook is an especial failure when it comes to 'finding a friend' based solely on his first name.

So Fuckin' Affected!

Get.Out.Of.My.Head.Lover.

Get-Over-Yourself Guy.

" PPS: I must mention in passing. My days here have been enlivened with the spirited presence of Priyam who for all practical purposes is the Coolest person in class. She drips awesome and yes I will miss her when she goes to that wannabe heaven they call Xaviers(please start playing time of your life by green day). Also I will sorely miss someone reminding me that I need to get over myself and also wondering whether I have friends. You and your Joie de vivre will be missed WOMAN! Now you have maximum coverage in this short note. Happy?"

Even the annoying ones make me smile sometimes.

Lots!

Qba. Q-bad?

"Q is Qomplicated only!"

"K is Komplicated too!"

Toast.

I feel especially hot today. Not the kind where I burn up given the fucking Delhi weather but the kind where I really believe I must get some because 'whoaaa!! what a hottie I am!'.

Either way, I'm toast.

It's been a while since I felt this way. Just generally most days have been the kind where you just want to mope around in tiny denim shorts and over sized t-shirts. And probably eat toast. I could easily credit it to all the approaching exams and my general disregard for each one of them. I wish I get through Bombay though. And all the people I like follow me there. Any help on accommodations would help. But it's not like I'm getting through. Of course, there are the Universities exams; which they should just sack given the general disinterest among one and all. But I don't make the rules. If only, I did. 

I am all cynical about everything. At least for the coming two months. I have actually completely thrown my idea of sexing my way to the top. I don't think it'll work out like it does in my head. Also, I don't think I'm winning a lottery; at least not any time soon. I still know I'd have my own nice house though. Again, not any time soon. But today isn't about complaining. 

Today is about feeling hot. And acknowledging your huge lips!

Today is about not giving a fuck.

Today is about being a couch potato.

Today is about harmless flirting with cuties.

Today is about potentially getting laid.

Today is about feeling hot...

like a yummy buttered warm toast.

Toast.

Such a cute word, that!

Vam Bam.

"You wanna get drunk on the exam day? We should, I feel"

"AFTER yeah. I could...
*pause*
I am verifying because someone had suggested the same but had actually meant before"

Arrogant Bastard.

"People like you don't change. You're still the same. You have the same eyes..
you were the naughty little puppy dog eyes...
only now you're the puppy dog eyes with pouty lips."

Secret Lovers.

Eyes light up when you look at them

It needs will power to keep your hands off them

You can't be all over each other

You can tell your people are looking at you.

You'd talk through the night anticipating the next day's meeting

But you can only go as far as mild brushing of the elbows

You can't even sit too close

You can tell  your people are looking at you.

But you know what you feel and it's as true as true gets

There's such little truth in the world that you know one when you see one

So you take days off every now and then, to get away 

You know? 'Cause you can tell your people are looking at you

And then  it's just you and them and everyone aside

You pretend to be all grown up and do all that you can't among others

It's your special time and you don't give a fuck if they put the spotlight on you

Because you can tell that none of your people are looking at you

Because they can't no more

It's your time to shine

And then you realize

That maybe

It's no great love until it's truly truly precious

And that

Perhaps

It's not truly precious until it's a well kept secret.

Sudden Realization # 1

All I have ever really wanted is for something/someone to make me as happy as Kuch Kuch Hota Hai does.

Balloons.

India Gate was the pretend-like-everything's-alright-in-the-family venue for most of her childhood. Only, there was probably little pretense back then; at least on her part. In retrospect maybe years later, she realizes how she was probably the glue keeping the miserable family of four together, who needed to pathologically ignore their feelings in order to survive. At least two out of them had to. She would often credit her happiness to her weak memory. She had this magical filter since the day she was born wherein she could easily forget everything she didn't want to remember. What a blessing that was! Is. But sometimes in the little tug of war between magic and memory, memory wins. Sometimes.

"I want a balloon", she said.

"It'll burst. No point.", he said. 

That was that.

I want a few balloons strung together for my birthday. 

I wish October comes soon enough - 19th October. Everything makes sense then.

This Is Where You and I Meet.

A room. A room lit only by television. Reeking of smoke. I wonder what mum would have to say when she returns. One drink down. Post coital. Pizza crave-ey. Cold leftover pizza. My shoulder hurts. Pizza just reminded me of someone. Haha. Makes me smile. Makes me want to draw. I think my biggest regret in life is that I can't draw. I'm irrationally and unbelievably jealous of everyone who can draw. Well. This blog wasn't supposed to be like this. Not that I know what it was supposed to be. Not that I ever know what anything is supposed to be. But, it should probably be about pouring my heart out. 

But what do you know? There's only so much my heart has. Or maybe I don't have a heart. Or an ambition.

Cry.

cry for things you can't say. and sometimes, for things you don't even know you can feel.

To The Stars.

I woke up to the feeling of his leg between mine. Pressing. Painful enough to wake me up, gentle enough to not scare me. Gently throbbing. What a beautiful feeling to wake up to! I had barely opened my eyes when I felt his tender lips on mine. His tongue forcing my mouth open wide and venturing the insides; I moaned in his mouth. Almost immediately he started to work his way down. It felt like he knew the molds of my shoulders like his own. He then reached for my skirt and lifted it- just a tiny wee bit though. We both took a moment then to catch breath, I think. I lay their in my polka dotted underwear that were only slightly exposed because of the skirt lift. Of course he could tell I was wet. It was complete with my scent. I thought it was rather complimenting to him. Then the air filled with movements- furious movements as he pulled my underwear down and off my toes and threw them in the vicinity of my purple lace brasserie. As I  prepared for him to enter me, he caught me by surprise. He leaned in and started with licking the inner of my thighs. Gulp. I was moaning so hard my throat was becoming  fucking dry. I started to lose control of me and my mind as he proceeded. I pushed his mouth further in with one hand as I couldnt help but bite my other. Then he slid one finger in me... and then another. With that, it was almost as if I had to throw my head back and curse the motherfucker, lest I might die. He was thrusting. One harder than the previous. I was just about managing between arching my back and biting the fuck out of my lower lip. The third finger was most definitely the final blow. I wanted to scream my guts out. But my breath kept getting caught in my throat. 

And then, somewhere between my endless breaths, groans and shivers, just like that, I was off to the stars.

.

We are all slaves. The sooner we come to terms with it, the better.

There probably isn't a better future awaiting us. There probably isn't a real stairway to heaven.  We are probably never going to be ab le to do what we truly truly think we deserve to do. We are probably not made for greater things. Our lips are probably too fucking huge. Our boobs are probably going to weigh us down to death eventually. The friends we swear by would probably get over us. No, our attendance in college would probably not be enough. We'd probably have nothing to do this year. There probably won't be enough money on us for  us to splurge like we do. 

We'd probably smell bad too. 

We probably won't die in our sleep.

This is probably the best it can get.

Yes, the worst things in life are also free.

Sym-Pathetic.

Sympathy for you? Never. Sympathy is for wusses.
You're a stud and all.
You deserve love and all.

You've been an influence on me, yes.
A strong one, yes. A bad one, yes.
You of course saw it as a good deed throughout.
Influencing me was your charity.
And charity does begin at home; or so I've been told.
It's all way back in the past now; or so I've been told.

Past, recent past, present, near future, distant future, future...whatever.

A happy ending.

It's a shame, really.

How can two people who are this bound by history and pain not get one.

They at least deserve an ending.. happy or sad. But no end, here.

It goes on. Monotonously and uncomprehendingly.

Could it be because we have seen each other through a lot?

I, for one, have seen your faith and beliefs turn into dust after 9 drinks too many. 

You, for one, have seen mine collapse much sooner.

You're extremely accepting of my long overdue waxing appointments.

Like I am of your lack of articulation and participation. 

But does that alone, among some other things, give you the right to expect?

The right to merge the lines of non familial relationships with me?

The right to call us something that we aren't. We aren't for a long long time now.

You know it just as much as I do. 

It's all way back in the past now; or so I've been told.
Past, recent past, present, near future, distant future, future...whatever.

I don't even know where I'm going with this. 

It's not like I'm writing here the things I would tell you someday.

I don't even know what to tell you. Or me. Or us.

After seven years and a hell lot of people later, how is it that we share this uneasy little bond-thing?

It's unfair. Even you are.

Am I supposed to be sympathetic?

Sympathy for you? Never. Sympathy is for wusses.
You're a stud and all.
You deserve love and all.

2nd of April. Then and Now.

On the second of April last year, I drank lots and India won the Cricket World Cup.
On the second of April this year, I drank lots and I kissed the woman of my dreams.
It's funny what alcohol can do to make magic!

Today is not the second of April anymore.
Today is the third of April.
Today my University Exam Date Sheet is out.
And it's nothing like kissing the woman of my dreams.


Maybe I need more alcohol in me to make it through...
You know? 'Cause it makes magic and all...

Obsessed.

You don't have to love me...
throw me, bite me, hurt me
push me, fuck me, abuse me
look at my ugly face and spit on it in anger
or ignore me when I am talking to you, ever so deliberately
make remarks about my soul, if you will
cheat on me just to tick me off
be out to get me, lie or deceive... it hardly matters...
You don't have to love me...

You don't have to hate me...
hug me, kiss me, love me
catch me, fuck me, forgive me
dream about you, I and us to sleep
light up at the mention of my name like it's your favourite in the world
tell me superficial things about my beauty like you mean them
you could get intimidated by my presence sometimes
or let me notice you noticing me, every time you do
feel blessed just to be a tiny part of my fragile attention span... it hardly matters...
You don't have to hate me...


Either way, I need you to be obsessed with me.

"Muchos Besos."

I remember the summer of  2010 clearly because that's when best friend and I decided to get all fancy and take up Spanish. What a riot that was! As usual, I didn't understand jackshit in class but had a lot of fun. 

I like stranger people.

Given the summer break period where parties never end and an excruciatingly early Spanish class time slot, I have walked in on my entire class late, hungover, stinking of  previous nights' misjudgements, swollen lips and some such. And then I would almost embarrass the fuck out of best friend as I would make my way through the class to place my cute ass on the seat next to best friend's. Haha. The shit I put her through... I think she did, in fact, wear a t-shirt that said 'I'm with degenerate' on some days. No, I kid.

I hope.

That was a good summer. Best Friend, I, McD breakfasts, metro rides and so much love :)

I like Spanish- it's less cliche than French and much easier than Mandarin. Obviously, given my bad behaviour in most of my classes, I learnt very little of it...

Muey Bien. Muchas Gracia. Muchos Besos ...

Muchos Besos means Many Kisses. I think. Or something pretty damn close to it.

We are in so deep into our post modernist/traumatic/other fancy 'movements' angst, rebellion and sex. 

Ever wondered whatever happened to just kissing? Pure unadulterated kissing. Like, how we started out in the first place. At places we were probably meant to kiss and those that were forbidden to us. Dingy parking lots, cars, behind classrooms, parents' rooms, in the movies, against the wall, against each other...

Just kissing.

Ever wondered?

I don't think I did. Until now.

And then he happened. 

Eeeeeeeeee :D

Is it completely ridickulous to keep someone around for just kissing?

Bah! I probably put the 'dick' in ridickulous. And spell like a retard.

Words To Live By.

 "...Khana toh kutte bhi khaate hain...
Insaan bano..
Sharaab piyo..."

That's What He Said.

"I don't usually get this attracted to girls your age. You're something else."

You were something else too. Not necessarily in a good way.
You make my heart struggle to break out of the damn rib cage.
Not necessarily in a good way.
Ugh!

And one would think it's been too long since 'us'. Or at least, long enough. Why am I putting us in quotes? Ew.
Fuck You, Man!
 

On Weather. And Love.

It is so hot already. Not the spring-kind hot, no sir!
The kind that makes you re-shcedule all your day plans to night in your quest to avoid the heat. The kind that makes the re-shceduling a fail because nights are equally hot. The kind when you can't have a blanket over you all night, lest you want to melt with sweat. The kind when you can't not have a blanket over you all night, lest the mosquitoes carry you away.

Either way, I am toast.

I loathe summers with all my heart and more. I don't tolerate them voluntarily anywhere else but in Goa probably. That too because of the divine relief of the waters there. Summers shouldn't exist. But if at all they must, they must must must follow Spring. Spring sets base. It's transitional. You mourn the demise of the winters, but your hair doesn't act up already. You get your legs waxed regularly for tiny lowers, only to team them with warmish tops. You don't sweat. I don't sweat.

But I do now!

This is rather awkward because apparently New Delhi doesn't know it's supposed to be spring right now. It was 11 degrees just the other day and bam! now it's over 30 !!
Whatever happened to the middle time? When both team-summer and team-winter find a common season to coexist without calling  one another names for their seasonal preferences.

Co-existence is key.

Like, love.

Or whatever the hell they call it these days. Your first time, or one of the first few times is all love-like. And trusting. Filled with butterflies in the stomach, not heat in the loins. When you blush and your cheeks colour; and sexual innuendos is a very rare cause of that. You write poems in love and wait for stolen glances across rooms. You are so happy. And even when you are not, you somehow think you deserve the pain and suffering you go through. It all seems worth it.
You're in love, remember?

And then that gets over for miscellaneous reasons.

And bam! You go from 11 degrees to over 30 so quickly that is spins your head. You become incapable of emotion. You become incapable of trusting. You become incapable of sustaining a relationship without fucking it up the fear of fucking it up.

Before you know it, you are your cynical best and an absolute joy to be around all the fucking time?

*rolls eyes*

too young to die, too old to believe in promises...

Whatever happened to spring, man?

Weird.

People grow up. They change. It's rather funny. You go through each day in all its monotony, cursing it for being so mundane. You go through each day just as the previous one; acknowledging no change whatsoever. And then you look back. And it hits you that you've come a long way since u started out. It's a strange thing, change. For better or for worse, we never know what is changing or why. Then one day you look back trying to figure out how you got here. And it hits you that you've lived all this time, consciously or otherwise, trying to escape your past in some way or the other.

Have you succeeded? 

Debatable.

People. It's always been about people with me. Institutes, places, vacations, time in my life; it's all been extremely people-specific for me. I've always maintained how I'm not deserving of most of the love, adulation and popularity that people bestow on me ever so generously. In fact, I'm not particularly proud of my treatment of a lottttt of people in my past. I call it my past specifically because I'd like to believe that I've evolved a little and am not mean to people unless I truly believe that they deserve it.
Or when I don't like their face.
But that's the thing about people. Or at least about most of the people I know. They're too nice.
They love too much.
Another thing about these people I talk about, they pop up from time to time. With the same amount of love and adulation in their hearts. Regardless of how I may have treated them once upon a time. Regardless of my behaviour with them that I may not be particularly proud of. And what that does to my heart, you wonder? It unsettles it. It makes me restless. Anxious, even.

I can't focus now.
Who are these weird people man?
Why can't they just hate me like normal people would do?
Why can't they stop pretending that we've shared some great fun times in the past?
Because, we didn't. We never have!

Weird.

#InOtherNews

In other news, I have a Twitter Account now which I absolutely don't know how to work. Any help regarding it would be appreciated. Especially, if someone could tell me the objective of the damn venture.

As cocky as it sounds, follow me :)
Even if it is only to tell me, what the fuck is up on it.
#Clueless.

^Seee! Im learning.

Takes My Heart Awayyyyy...

The truth in every single word!
Enjoy!
:)

Blog Whore.

That's the thing about Facebook...
When you have it in your life, your blog doesn't read of your 'lack of life'.
When you have it in your life, you have something to do for infinite hours each time you switch on your laptop.
When you have it in your life, you don't become a blog whore.

I'm scared I'd be blogging every hour of my life if the same persists. At least on the days I'm home.
Like today.

It's Such Great February Weather...

So it just struck me...

That maybe I should trick an old man into marrying me.
A rich old man.
And then live with him in his mansion till he dies.
And even after that, continue to live there. Without him.

So it just struck me...

That all of us would drift apart in our respective worlds eventually.
And even though we talk of marriage as a catastrophe now,
most of us would end up giving in to familial/societal pressures.
And not with old men with infertile dicks and huge apartments.
But with nice men... who'd get us. Our dreams and aspirations.
And would laugh with us.
And would satisfy us in bed. But not think about sex all the fucking time.
And would  know how to articulate in impeccable English.
The kind of men Tee and I talk about all the time!
Maybe they don't exist.
And then, for some strange reason, Goa came to my mind.

So it just struck me...

That all men hit on you in Goa. Even cab drivers or men from Philippines.
That was someee night. Makes me laugh even now.
But I can't live in Goa. You know? Sustained living. But it's my favourite getaway.
Drink at any point of the day without being judged.
Chill with the girls under the stars laughing till your insides hurt.
Celebrate your freedom in every sense of the word.

Where else is the air this much fun? It takes you in.
Each day is like the big blue sky there. Yup. The day is like the sky.
Infinite. Sublime.
There's the burning sea water. And it melts you.
It melts you and your ever so profound teen spirit everyone seems to talk about!
And you're always in a mood.
To do something.

Anything you're not supposed to.

It just struck me...

Delhi is getting monotonous.
So is growing up, if you ask me.
If it wasn't for such great February weather...

!@#$%^&*

It's almost midnight and I sit in a very very dirty room wearing, what I call 'the first signs of winters ending', borrowed boxers and t-shirt. It's also a reminder of a long overdue leg-waxing appointment. But that's another story.

I write this not to make a point but to kill time. When you are five days into having deactivated your Facebook account, you realize that Facebook takes away a lot of your time, yes. However, the bigger realization is that you probably didn't need as much time in the first place. Especially, if you're like me. 

Ive never really been into Superheroes, per se. But they have this kind of novelty, you know? So it's always great to think that you're like some Superhero too; at least at some points in your life. And then life happens and reality strikes and you realize that you're no Superhero; just plain old Garfield.

And I'm Garfield.

And hence I don't need all this time off Facebook. I just want to eat and sleep.

And drink and smoke and dance and have sex.

But Garfield sex, you know?

I just have one problem with Facebook - The stalker-hood it is! I go out, I sneeze, I come back home and log in- there's a picture of me sneezing on my profile! Ugh. It was consuming my entire life! And telling me I know way too many people or have one dress too less or repetitive makeup or Bah! I don't know. It's frustrating. And over 2500 pictures of you tagged by other people just does it.

So ya. I'm off. 

Not for good, though. It's just a little break.

It's like an ex flame you can't ever get rid of for too long. Im just saying.

I can't believe how much I've typed already. And most of it doesn't even make sense. Like, it makes sense to me because I've written it. Completely original ideas. Wow! I think I got this smart dating. I think you should date people wayyyyyy out of your league. Preferably older. And then let them teach you a thing or two. And then you break up. Because they're out of your league, remember? But not a messy break up. Then you move on. Don't worry about dying along. Because, believe it or not, you are never fucking alone! EVER. Even when you might want to be.
I think I write better on my laptop than on paper. Haha. Imagine! This is my better. I'm no writer. I thought I was a while ago. But then I realized I write just like I talk. And then sometimes I write giving away more than what I may have desired. That's not really a sign of a great writer, now is it?

See! All this time at hand! So much to do! But I would much rather Garfield around and blog about absolutely nothing!

Speaking of blogging about absolutely nothing, my blog turned two on the 13th of this month. Haha. Two years of my unpremeditated blabber about 'sex, parties, alcohol and friends'. 

"Girls your age talk about love and feelings"

"I talk about love. I love sex, parties, alcohol and my friends!!"

And of course I couldn't care less. And I forgot all about it until yesterday. Because I know I'm not a writer no more. The bigger question, however, is that if I ever was?

Now I'm bored and I'm out of smokes.
I miss my brother.

Goodnight.