A day comes when you have
more yesterdays than tomorrows
More memories than dreams
More tales to tell than lessons to learn
More miles travelled than miles to go
More groans of pain than moans of pleasure
More limp than lilt in the gait
More pain than gain
More wakeful fog than restful sleep-MPN
It has been a while. Quite a while. Yes, yes, I was asleep on the job for WAY too long. Well, the phase of a quarter of a cent, isn’t exactly a sunny Sunday well spent. With half of my friends beginning their journeys as other peoples’ better halves and the other half of them still looking to keep their balance after draining half after half, I’m just like standing here looking at myself in a mirror, half crouching, half cringing, debating whether my size is half of that of a cow’s or half of that of a hippo’s. Sigh, life’s criminal laughs at all the halves!
Anyway, my fragmentary life aside, I wanted to restart this space with something that I read quite some time back. A poem, written by my uncle, who is a full time cardiothoracic surgeon, a part time poet, a pastime techie buff and an all time goddamn genius! Contrary to how I have described my at present half-and-half-pizza life, this poem is an absolutely stirring and emotionally deep rendition of a soul who had seen all the halves and quarters that life has had to offer, dealt with all the odds and evens, seen adding turmoil and multiplying happiness, expressed deducted feelings and divided emotions and in conclusion, departing the world without regrets and as a whole. A soul that was remembered in death, forgotten in life.
In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people’s home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you’re young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm! -Woody Allen
Imagine saving the best for the last. Imagine oblivion. Imagine bliss.
Because life is what we make of it.
A genuinely humane note about and by a person whose wings spread far beyond the realms of vastitude. Please click on the link above to read the note that I am definitive would tug at your heartstrings. Apsara Reddy, you are a whole new definition of ‘truly inspiring’.
Nut jobs for friends who make 4 am gibbering, spiffy trash talking and facebook whoring feel generously sane, family members you want to disown and run away from and kids, well, I’d be damned to think that I’m the grown up with them smart imps around. But the *face palm* incidents, when you think back and live it all, is nothing less than gut-busting. Living yesterday, once more.
After an exceptionally random discussion about cows, D and me at 2 am were arguing about the sounds of the cow, excerpts are as follows (found its way immediately into my tweets):
D: Yea, they ‘moo’ babe.
Me: It actually, technically sounds more like ‘mmmaaaaaaoooo’ (I just had to do that and wake up the poor souls sleeping in the next room peacefully counting sheep in their dreams)
D: Ok, I wana say something.
D: The cow says, ‘I like to moo it, moo it!’
Me: I some how successfully missed having a heart stroke after listening to this.
Scene: A bunch of my girls and me, chilling at the park. A girl with massive football boobs walks past us.
V: What the?!
Me: Ok, now that’s giving me a complex.
H: I wonder if she custom makes her bra with the company.
V: Yea, she probably uses Amman TRY tmt bars to make her under-wire ones.
Well, that SO did it for the day!
Rapid fire mokkai sessions with uncle after a particularly filling meal. I remember my sister rubbing my tummy and saying ‘you are not laughing, Buddha.’
Uncle: What is the ‘mint without the hole’?
Uncle: What is the fastest mail?
Uncle: What do you call a phone that does not run properly?
Me: Feigns tummy ache and dashes to the loo vowing never to step out from it…in another gazillion years.
Some time ago, a small kid, a cute kid, comes over and asks for the time,
AwwCuteKid: Akka, what’s the time?
Me: I’m not wearing a watch, sorry.
AwwCuteKid: Then it’s time for you to buy a new watch.
Me: Why, oh GOD WHY?!
Random conversation with the neighbour’s kid. These kids, ITellYou!
SmartyPantKid: You have a colour TV akka?
Me: Yes, why?
SmartyPantKid: What colour is it?
Me: And that’s how I died. Finally.
Phases, a chapter leading on, continuum and sometimes, metamorphism. A visit to the wilderness is never far behind, for life cannot forever be a sunny Sunday picnic under the gulmohar tree. And a compelling point of convergence of the mind and heart see the scenes for what they really are, a suspended reality.
Commandeering life the way it is supposed to be, my heart goes out to this person, charting from a crowned teen, an awkward newcomer, a resilient performer, a woman in love and now, a devoted mother and an un-yeilding fighter oblivious to the heavy duty blunder we call our media . Here’s to Aishwarya Rai Bachchan , a woman of style and steel.
A flourishing waistline is not news, shutter-bug folk, it is life, deal with it. Because healthy is how we term it, meaty is how we roll and happy is how we are. Period. Go figure.
‘Oh, the matches are fixed yaar!’, ‘ That player was dropped. I wonder for how much?’, ‘If the finals are in Chennai? then Chennai will surely win. What nonsense!’. OK! Like, SERIOUSLY!
No, I am not whining and yes, my dormant site had to be revived sooner or later but this grouse that has started doing its absurd rounds lately on every platform possible has got me thinking, the other eight teams win, they call it their knack but when CSK does the same, they literally get a whip crack. Agreed, we did have a gnarled, bumpy set of league matches but hey, we did score and we SO did win a few crucial matches like bosses! Now, where did you give your grand entry Miss. Kismet? If only you had a mouth to explain stuff. Luck favoured CSK by letting DC win, MSD has all the luck in the world and luck is the sole term that CSK swears by, yea..yea, apparently you think we are a bunch of bloopers randomly picked and formed into a group in the name of cricket who just happened to be a part of all the five qualifier tables, been in one semi-final by accident, chanced upon 4 finals and it was just a simple case of wheel-of-fortune that we ended up with the trophies…oh wait, twice in a row, right? Some credit please, amigos? If we fixed stuff we wouldn’t be hanging by a thread in the play-offs table’s last spot now, would we? If we dealt, others would have been dealing too. Simple as a dot. And the whole ruck muck of us being unfair contenders in the play-offs. Ok, now, you leave me no choice but to demand some credit here! How come you don’t target your ever so favourite EPLs the same way? Ok, I wouldn’t want to go there. Really. But, if prediction becomes the game, a whole world known as co-incidence would be non-existent. Supporters gonna support, haters gonna hate but loyalists remain. One track minds and their ill-timed pessimistic juice oozes, I have to say, are very unbecoming and why bring the spirit of the game into it?
No fair, letting Lady Luck have all the gravy and leave us with mere morsels. Common, she has a say when she’s full as a python. Why thrust obesity on her? And yes, it is obvious I am on Chennai’s side, being a true-blue Madrasi growing up in a town where a cricket match was witnessed with rapt attention regardless of the teams and hell, the SUN, where the family’s boys would rather watch a repeat telecast of a 1994 match and still clap hands for a sixer they knew was due in the next two minutes and where her dad would emotionally choke with an unfeigned childlike smile being a spectator of an ecstatic national win, my heart and every part that it pumps blood into are fastened to this land and everything about it. Concrete to commitment and unswerving in love. It gives me not only joy to talk proud of my team’s achievements on a Facebook page or a twit turf but something beyond that, a sense of being truly exultant, kind of like that moment you just WANT to be animated on purpose to tick your friend/neighbour off.
Being expressive is one, not caring about the effect it particularly brings on a person or people as a whole is something else. I may think it is sad to see a good portion of people doing exactly that but on the other hand, freedom of expression deserves its due respect. Every team has done its utmost best, in attempting to beat the odds to tread victory and I must say, all the teams put together have done the game proud, superlative. Hence, the credit, equally divided among all would go to every single team, a true winner in spirit and soul. I do not put any team down nor can you find me giving up on mine, I am an Indian after all and what do us brothers and sisters traditionally do most of the time? Well, I’d like to call it Jolly Fisticuffs.It would justifiably be forgotten in time for the next to crop up keeping the balance good to go. Sigh, who would like an everyday dosage of idli anyway?
Chennai, it thumps its way to glory. Luck on our side? Now, who is going to have to complain about that anyway?! No luck? Well, it just keeps thumping, and if necessary, harder but never to stall and never to deter, accepting and respecting the due ramifications. Yes, we are aggressive. Yes, we are high-spirited. Oh yes, we so totally are a bunch of fire balls. Never to cease, never to flicker, we roar our way transcending boundaries, stimulated, leaving its spark. Not because we aspire to but we deserve to.
CSK, well, Chennai, truly a way of life. My de facto way of life, thankyouverymuch.