My flab… don’t hurt it’s feelings.

25 Jul

Call them love handles, not tyres. Complement it on it’s cute roundness once in a while. Admire it’s softness. Don’t tell it that it looks fat when it’s wearing something it likes. Don’t keep telling me to get rid of it. Poor thing. What did it do to you? Let it be.

Yesterday…

9 Jun

The narrow road I walk through everyday is the same today too; the same old bougainvilleas, silver oaks, the stray dogs with permanent resident status, the spot where the garbage is piled, cars parked in every free space available, and the only thing that displays any change is the lone jacaranda tree. The flowers are shedding now. And I wonder if I’ll ever stop walking through this road. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get a new life. Routine is something that always made me apprehensive. I’ve always been scared of being stuck in the same place and going trough the same old life and finally I end up doing that just the same.

Ah well!

7 Mar

You know that feeling, When you get premonition of impending doom, when you know that anything that can go wrong will go wrong from now on and to reinforce this feeling, you feel like something is gnawing at your guts? Then you realize that you are just hungry. Food does solve most of the problems of this world.

Stupidity is a funny thing. The thought that it can be an obsession is even funnier. Take the case of the girl who has this compulsion to do stupid things. She knows what she’s saying or doing is utter bullshit. She has a clear idea of what she should have said or done even while in the act. Still she goes ahead and acts stupid. This could be the reason why she hesitates to talk to people now. Or it could be that she has run out of subjects since she decided not to talk about herself.

Stupidity is sometimes a blessing though; especially if you are lazy. You can just pretend that you didn’t understand the indirect remarks about your behavior, completely ignore the veiled insults, be clueless when someone is giving hints about what you should be doing. You don’t have to deal with anything until is put directly to you. Confrontation is not meant for the indolent. You can’t just listen when somebody tells you to stop being immature and irresponsible. What do they know? They don’t realize that your immature behavior does help you make people do things the way you want it done.

It helps to put a wall between you and life. You become just a spectator. Life becomes quality entertainment staged just for your pleasure. What you should not do is stupid things like getting attached to things or places or getting addicted to people. Life is best enjoyed covered in a fog. It does seem beautiful when viewed from the rear end of a fag.

And then it rained.

25 Feb

I stood there staring at the house. I could see myself in there, surrounded by people I thought I loved, caught up in a life that was perfect or seemed perfect from where I stood. If I squinted, I could see the frayed edges. I could see that things were arranged beautifully but most of it was out of place and I could see that the people who surrounded me where the same person with different faces; the same person I painted with different brushes. I looked a lot less happy in midst of all the perfection than the piece of me standing outside in the chaos. The stood there wondering why it was so as the world passed me by. I saw the world around me in a haze. All I could focus on was the house and the people in it. I heard my name called out from the haze. I heard life threatening me that it’ll go on without me if I don’t go with it now. Then it rained and all the white paint was washed off revealing years of accumulated moss and mud under and I was standing in the house looking at the girl standing on the road wondering why she was happier than me.

Domesticaly handicapped.

14 Feb

I’ve found a place… again, moved in… again and I’m all sett…. May be I should not use that word anymore. It sort of jinxes it all the time. Well the place is a bit shady, a bit cramped and all that and want to say that in spite of all that I love this place but won’t because I’m still scared that I’ll jinx it.

It’s one of those one bedroom, kitchen and living setups with yellow and bright orange paint. It ain’t that bad once your eyes get used to the fluorescent colour. You have to be a bit careful if you taller that 5’4″; the ceiling fan is so low, it might chop of a limb. As of now all I have as furniture are two folding chairs on which people heavier than 50kgs are not allowed to sit. The worst thing is that I’ve got no washing machine. My unwashed laundry has grown enough to be used as a step ladder and an attempt to do so resulted in a very painful sprain.

Domestic accidents are aplenty, starting from falling off of tall places, cuts and scrapes on all appendages, burns by acid to inhalation of toxic fumes. I’m considering putting a bio-hazard warning on my door, what with all the new strains of mold I’ve been cultivating in my dishes. Did you know that curd will grow cute hairy things in four days and bread will turn a bright green if kept in a box for a week?

The good news is that I’m getting better at cooking. Most of the stuff I cook these days are fairly edible and surprisingly people I forced it on managed to stay out of the hospital. A percentage of stuff I put in the pan still keep bouncing off to another dimension three feet around my stove but I put extra to compensate for that now. Funny how all those extra chillies materialize in my food. Asked my next door neighbor for dinner the other day and he put on this funny face and slinked off quietly.

The place still needs a lot of fixing up and decorating and all that which considering the fact that I’m a very industrious person, will get done in another five light years. But tell you what, I love this place even without any furniture or decorations. Oops! I’ve jinxed it, haven’t I?

Books, the fog and the hot tea.

8 Feb

I confess that I do touch books and smell them and plant kisses on them when no one is looking. I feel this immense pleasure when I’m in a book store. I feel like getting a bunch of guns and kidnapping all them books and keep them for myself. I imagine myself in a deserted beach with all those books. I dream of them stacked up in my future home. OK! My name is Lakshmi and I’m a bookaholic.

When I was a kid, I used to eat books, no seriously! I would read a book a hundred times so that the book will disintegrate and slowly disappear. I blame my parents. They exposed me to books when I was too young to handle it. It started with Enid Blyton (Like most of the little girls of that age) then Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys and other such stuff plus the silly classics that we had at home. I read Anna Karenina when I was too young to understand what it was all about and thought it was more like one of those Mills & Boon love triangles. Well I still think it’s exactly that.

I was obsessed with reading from childhood but the obsession with books started when I started buying them on my own. I went from a person who made a book look like a dilapidated bio-hazard with tons of food residue smeared on it, to a person who read a book with out leaving a finger print on them. Long gone were the days of cracked spines, dirty covers, missing jackets, dog eared pages and such atrocities. I had fallen head over heels in love with books.

I think the madness crossed the limits the day I picked up The Cyclone by Miguel Asturias from the secondhand shop. I handled that book like it was a thousand year old manuscript that was worth millions of bucks and almost cried when a part of the cover started to tear off. I knew that I’ll love that book even before I read it because it was about fourty years old and it belonged to A.Muttiah once upon a time( I have no idea who this A.Muttiah is but I do like him a lot and I may be even a bit in love with him.)

I am inseparable from my books now. I associate books with the things I love the most, like the rain and a hot cup of tea. Give me a window to sit next to, a cup of hot tea and a good book on a rainy day, and you’ll see the happiest person you’ve ever met. So here I sit, in the fog with my hot cup of tea reading tales about my timber loving avian friend blowing up stuff with seven sticks of dynamite.

Home is where the butt is right now.

24 Nov

Stability is my middle name. It started when I was 18. I moved out to a hostel which was 3 hours from my home. Just far away so that I can be on my own but still run home whenever I wanted. The railway station became my second home and auto wallahs my best friends. It seemed like one third of my time was spend in transit. Half of my things where at home and half at the hostel. At a place where almost everything you had was shared, the sense of ownership, even for the space I occupied started to vanish. And after four years, I emerged out of that jungle, a loud mouthed, bad mannered filthy pig who quite enjoyed being just that.

Then I came to Bangalore then back home then again to Bangalore then back home then again… wait! I think I’ve lost track now. So my life had been spread all over three hostels (kicked out of one) and three house in the last three years ( Plus half a dozen temporary parking spaces). I have no idea where half of my stuff are and have stopped calling a lot of it my stuff. So now I have about four places that I still keep calling home even if I don’t live there anymore. When I say home, friends tend to ask which one. Somewhere along the road the word home lost it’s meaning for me. It’s just a place where I spent a lot of time. So now I miss having a place where I belong to. Somewhere I could walk in and do the “Ah! Home finally” accompanied with a happy contended sigh.

So the hunt goes on. There must be a little place somewhere that is meant for me. Till then home is this sinister looking couch I’m sitting on right now which definitely has got alien farms residing in between the cushions.