So I went out for post-dinner caffeination with the Offender and Pink tonight. While we sat there with our two coffees (my coffee isn’t really my coffee, as Pink says), we described to her our brilliant dinner.

“So guess what we had for dinner.”
“What?”
“Chorizo, bacon, ham, sausages and prawn. Nothing else. Just that.”* 
“Why can’t you guys eat some vegetables?” she asked.
To which the Offender simply said, “Coffee is like a vegetable, right?”

Sometimes, I’m really glad about my choices of friends.

* Note: It was brilliant.

I am SO high right now.

WWHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

Okay, I needed to get that out of my system. I’ve been bouncing off the walls all evening. Why, you ask? Well, today I spent a small part of the evening speaking to my best friend from school.

This is important. Those of you who know me, know how terrible I am at keeping in touch; I’m talking mind-numbingly, earth-shatteringly bad. So, after school, as with most of my friends (except those that lived around me), I fell out of touch when we got to college. We spoke a few times a year (I remember a year when we literally only spoke to each other on our birthdays), discussing girlfriends and the like, making vague plans to meet, which obviously never happened.

He’s been in the States for a while, and recently, I’d been trying to in touch with him, to tell him something I’d much rather say in person. Anyway, that wasn’t meant to be, and I told him over a ping that I hoped he’d see soon and respond to.

And respond he did. By calling me. Clear across the globe. We skyped for a bit, but his connection was wonky. So he called me, from his cellphone, in the United States of America. And that shit costs money. So I said I’d only talk to him for a couple of minutes. And then we talked for half an hour (no, seriously. 29 minutes and 22 seconds. That shit costs money).

And it felt farking brilliant. Through the call and since, I’ve been hopping around the house with this mad grin on my face (it’s still here, 6 hours later). Since then, I’ve been drowning in this ridiculously superawesomebrilliantastic ocean of nostalgia. I’m stuck in, and never want to get out of, a never ending stream of elocution competitions (we were both good, he more so than I) and self-made comics (I seem to remember him doing all the work, yet somehow it was our comic) and English periods and ohgod.

And, as my conversations with him in recent times have made clear, I know he will read this. So anna, here’s a few things just for you:

- I hope I talk to you at least a couple of times a week.
- I’m dead serious about helping with the ideas you said you needed.
- The Li’l Lady has informed me that enough is enough and she simply HAS to meet you now that she’s heard so much about you (I cannot believe that because of my idiocy, you’ve never actually met her, in ALL these years).
- I feel like you should know about her, too, so I’m going to bore you to death talking about her.
- You talked about moving back here after your course is done. If that happens, I’m going to hope fervently that you stay here, in Bombay, and I’d want to have you over all the time, because…
- Like an idiot, I’ve only just realised how much I miss having you around.

It’s now three am, and I’m still wide awake, too excited to sleep, and still with a stupid smile plastered on my face. So all you people sleep, I’m going to be going WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! in my head a little while longer.

Red

It started with crayons. She’d use up the one colour and ask for a new box. Then her toothbrush. Pillows. Wallpaper. Schoolbag. Lunchbox.

Then her wardrobe. Shoes. Dresses. Lipstick.

At ten, she found a razor. Her mother screamed when she found her, but she grinned. “So much red!” she squealed.

 

(Ssh. Secretly taking part in this 55 fiction thing.)

Inside a writer’s bedroom, late at night

A book on the side table. Novel. Towel drying in the corner. Clothes piled carelessly…

This stinks.

Dust swirls in untraceable patterns on the floor, pushed around by the breeze the fan cuts through the cold air. It has settled on every surface, almost becoming a living breathing entity with a life of its own.

Wow. That was possibly even worse.

The thing that stinks the most about being a writer isn’t the lack of money, or the apparent subconscious necessity to live in appropriate squalor, or the fact that at parties, you’re the one standing off to a side, sipping a beer by yourself, profiling, drawing character maps, gaining inspifuckingration, when you could instead be using your ceaseless wit to impress one of the more geeky looking girls the jocks aren’t going for (ones that you might actually have a chance with), or the fact that the only reason you’re not is a crippling case of l’esprit d’escalier, or even the realisation that ‘English teacher’ is probably your best bet professionally.

It’s not the fact that you’re going to spend entire nights awake, staring at a blank piece of paper or a blinking cursor, waiting for inspiration to creep up on you and slit your throat like an assassin in the dark, or even the fact that half of everything you read will fill you with the insufferable hope that you can do so much better (I mean, come on! A monkey probably could), and the other half will leave you wondering why you didn’t pay more attention in science class and become a doctor or a fucking scumbag lawyer like everyone else in school, all of whom are going to give you that pathetic smile, that sympathetic simper at the reunion, telling you politely that they thought you’d become a senator or something important while secretly laughing at you in their heads and applauding their own life choices.

It’s not even the raging spirals, when you slip over the edge into alcoholism, hoping you’ll write something sad enough to make Nietzsche cry, or when you start popping pills, snorting powder, shooting up, hoping for a trip that shows you something amazing, some universal truth so powerful, nations of people will look up to you for wisdom and guidance, or that low sinking feeling in your gut every time you’re at a rock concert and you see with blinding clarity that these sixteen year-olds are probably better writers now than you will ever be.

And it’s not the cynics, the haters, the spouses who hope telling you gently that it’s not that good will someday snap you out of this stupor and make you get a real job, one that actually puts money on the table. It’s not the publishers, telling you that it’s just not the kind of story that they’re looking for right now, or that some of the themes are too bold and if you could please tone them down a little, maybe they could do something, or that it’s a great story, it really is, but they just can’t seem to find a way to market it that’ll ensure sales that will cover the cost of actually printing it, or even editors who think they know your ideas, your stories, your characters better than you and tell you what to do, what to write, to the point where you have to look really, really hard to recognize even the slightest part of the text as yours.

No. It’s none of that. The thing that stinks the most about being a writer is that someday, you will write something truly magical, truly special, take one look at it, and tell yourself it’s crap.

When you're blind-sided

Yes, I'm at work. No, A1, this is not the post you're looking for. This is me trying to screw my head on straight. I need to think a little, and to think, I need to stop thinking for a bit. I don't know if that makes sense. So instead of thinking of something to write about, I'm going to tell you an obscure story that just popped into my head. I don't know where it came from, just that it's here in my head right now.

This dates back a few years, when I was still in college. I was participating in some or the other college festival (I forget which, at this time, and the objective here is not to think too much), and the event was a combination of a treasure hunt, a murder mystery and an elocution. (Muduu, were you with me for this event? My brain has gone all fuzzy.)

Anyway, the point is, you had to go running around for clues; after this, they gave you information about a crime and you had to decide who the killer was; and then in the last round, one of the team members had to present the story as a newsreader talking about a solved crime. Ours was the first team to finish the treasure hunt (I pride my skills with puzzles and running), and we sat down with the story. As we hashed out the details of the story and applied the clues that we found in the treasure hunt, we realised all the facts seemed to point towards one particular person being the killer. But we wanted to be sure that we had the right guy (those of you who know me know how thorough I like to be with some things. Like grammar, for instance). So we went over the details again. Same result, but something didn't quite fit. And you know what happens to me when something doesn't quite fit.

We went over it again and again (did I mention we were the first ones done with the treasure hunt? We had extra time to solve the crime). And that's when we found it. I don't remember the specifics of it, but there was one little detail that didn't sit with the rest of the incriminating information. Most teams discarded it as bad data, but we went to the organisers with it, telling them that the person that the data was incriminating could not possibly have committed the crime. They were a little taken aback, but refused to admit the mistake (from an organiser's point of view, I can still somehow bring myself to understand this), and told us to make what we could of the data we had.

So we did. While everyone else presented how the case has been solved and the guilty person apprehended, our team's newsreader read out the report of how circumstantial evidence was being used to hold an innocent man guilty. The last round was judged by some special guest, who had, of course, been briefed about the case and told that one person was guilty. Needless to say, we didn't win that event (this, I don't understand. After we had broken their facts and proved our case, we should have been the winners if they wanted to maintain the illusion that it wasn't a mistake). But we walked out of there happy. The scorecard didn't show it, but we bested what was possibly a couple of weeks of an LA team's work that day, in less than an hour.

I don't know why I'm posting this, or even why it's in my head. But there, I got it out. Now, back to work. Hmm. Pleasant distraction. And a mildly clearer head. I like.

Depression

It's an odd thing, really. I bought her that chocolate she likes so much, that Rum n' Raisins one. Because I figured, you know, feel-good hormones and all that.

She smiled sadly and said, "Not enough rum."

There, I fixed it.

Somehow, he managed to park the car straight. He got out, swaying like an axe-worn tree that couldn't quite decide if it was ready to topple yet. Held an arm out and steadied himself against the wall.

Bucket.
Water.
Cloth.

must get rid of. little pink bits. light is busted. fuck it.

He giggled a little. Cried a lot.

Thankfully, he made it to the commode before ritually throwing up, following which, he collapsed into bed with one shoe still on.

Breakfast was silent as usual. He cleared his throat and hid behind a glass of orange juice.

"So, um, Ma. I may have been a little drunk last night."

Your childhood will haunt you. Forever.

Even when he's 40 years old, in a perfectly empty bus, a man will shy away from a seat marked 'Ladies'.

Why?

Because he still remembers the taunt, "What, are you a girl or something?"

Orange clutched the robes of grey. Said, "You won't stop me anymore."

Morning broke.

My Calvin Moment

The most surprising thing was that she was cold to the touch.

Dark as unpolished onyx, she loomed over me, her features seeming to harden even further as she scrutinized me. I placed her at over 40 cycles, but with her kind, it's hard to tell.

She flitted gracelessly to the counter, rummaging through her supplies. Returning with what she needed, she began buzzing her instructions at me. And when her chitinous flesh came into contact with the skin on my forearm, the most surprising thing was that it was cold.

Sticking in the needle and drawing the blood only took about five seconds. She was good at her job, I'll give her that.

But she was cold.

Silver Linings

Fifteen minutes after my tweet saying I was having a bad day:

There are no words that adequately describe what I'm feeling for this man right about now.

Of overcoming Fear

I've been terrified of picking up Pratchett for a while. As with any author that everyone unanimously says is fabulous, I'm terrified that I, quite simply, will not understand the writing.

So understand my trepidation as I pick up Small Gods. And on the very first page, this happens:

Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.

The tortoise is a ground living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.

And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger.

And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap...

And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground, but five hundred feet from it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle.

And then the eagle lets go.

*sigh*
I'm sold, Terry.

The New Guy

This new gig isn't so bad.

I mean, what do I have to do? Just sit here? Look interested as these rich motherfuckers walk past once every hour or so?

What time is it? Fuck. Seven clusterfucking hours to go.

Yeah, I'm smiling at you, but I'm not going to put in the effort. Fuck you. And your prissy little car, too. Go fuck the tailpipe, jerk-off. The least the bunch of you twerps could have done was get me more than a little hut at the end of nowhere. The fuck do you expect me to do here, huh? I got two plastic chairs and a fucking phone that doesn't dial out.

What time is it? Aaargh! Five more hours of this shit. I swear I'm going to shoot someone.

Oh, fuck. Look at the legs on her. Walking around like a little slut. She knows exactly what she's doing to me, the little bitch. I see the way she glances at me and whispers to her little friends. No, you little cunt, I have eyes just for you. Yeah, walk away with that ass swaying at me just like that. Fuck yeah.

What time is it? Oh, yes.

Yay! The most exciting part of my fucked up job! There, it's closed. You feel all cozy and snug now? Not afraid anymore? Can you sleep now? Motherfucking pussies.

What time is it? Oh, fuck it.

Why's she out here at this time? Why's she looking at me like that? Why the fuck is she dressed like that? Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She's calling me. She's fucking calling me! With one finger! Oh, I'm going to make you do things with that fucking finger, you tease! Yeah, go behind that wall there. Yeah. Sit on that ledge just like that. I like it out here in the dark. You do too, don't you, bitch? What's that noise? Shut up, bitch. Aaargh! What's that light?

Wha..? What time is it? What's that noise? Fuck.

Yeah, I'm coming. Hold on! Quit fucking honking, will you? There, it's open. No, wait! Stop! Which house, jackass? Oh, you're the secretary? Sorry, sir. Mohan, sir. Yes, sir. 9.30 am, sir.

What time is it?

Fuck.

Fun Week

Headache, check.

Nose blocked so bad you could barely breathe, keeping you up ALL of last night, check.

Said blocked nose deciding to run like a leaky tap this morning, check.

One snot-soaked handkerchief, check.

Cumulative lack of sleep over the past four days, check.

To-do list descending into the seventh circle of Hell, check.

Boy, it's going to be creamy buckets of awesomeness this week, isn't it?

Times have changed

Jack was running late, as usual. Throwing on a Batman tee and a pair of ripped jeans, he ran to the bus stand.

Waiting for his bus, he bumped into Andy. Andy wore a simple shirt, trousers and a watery grin. They exchanged pleasantries, deciding when to catch up for drinks with the boys. And as their respective buses arrived, they went their separate ways.

Jack to his office, and Andy to college.

Connoiseur

Dude, you HAVE to taste the cold coffee today. It’s awesome.

I take a long look at the glass mug with a straw sticking out of it.

Not. A. Chance. The colour is too light for the coffee to be strong. If it’s not strong, chances are it’s not good.

No, no! It’s bitter! Really good. Try it.

I take the mug and sip lightly. Savour the combination of flavours.

You idiot. The bitter taste in your ‘cold coffee’ is the juice that was last served in that mug.

I walk away as he sips the coffee again, disbelievingly.

And behind my back, I hear a groan as he realizes I’m right.

Goodbye

Friday was our last day at the Worli office. Where the average workday consisted of three parts talk, two parts gossip, one part serious work, one part PriyankaBalls (no, don’t ask me to explain) and about five parts elaborate pranks. A place of tropical canteens (see pic).

The wonderful place where an unrecognized, practically faceless team got a room to themselves. A room where we let the rest of the office be damned, and did what we liked. A room that we will sorely miss, seated in a row of cubicles.

On our last day, we sat in that room for over an hour, just talking. Not about work, not about anything in particular. And when it came time to leave, we dawdled. None of us realised how strongly we felt about that room till that minute.

I was looking at my phone as we walked out of the building for the last time. As I reached the gate, I got a wi-fi notification that broke my heart.

Disconnected.

'I Hate Mumbai Indians' and other assorted stories

'Most anyone who knows me over the past three years knows how much I hate the 'Mumbai Indians'. The name itself is a double whammy. First, it murders the name of my city. Then it claims to be a bunch of Indians, casually ignoring the fact that one each of the opening batsmen and bowlers are Sri Lankan. And that logo. *throws up*

Excuse me. Sorry about that. Anyhoo, last night, I was in a bar, meeting The Shrew and The Little Lady. This particular watering hole, popular amongst The People, was playing the match, and most were in attendance on a Wednesday night just for this reason. As the evening wore on and the spirits began to settle well and truly in bloodstreams across the room, the spirits of some of these MI (I can't even stand to write the full name) supporters began to soar, and they to become more more vocal with their support. Every time those blasted MI batsmen managed to get the ball past the boundary line, they'd cheer. This was more than I could bear on a quiet evening out with friends. This. Was. The. Proverbial. Sparta.

In the calm before the storm that was to be the next ball, I yelled, "Come on Jumbo!" Two people, thus far hiding their faces in their beer mugs in corners of the bar, afraid to show their true colours, saw their leader and yelled their support for their new champion. Said bowler ambled up to the crease, swung his arm and let loose. A telepath in the room may have, at this point, passed out from the sheer weight of prayers for a boundary.

The ball sailed through the air, flighted. The batsman misread it and swung wildly, knocking the ball straight up in the sky. Having just issued my challenge, with the surge of adrenaline and testosterone still coursing through my veins, I raised my voice in an emphatic cheer, joined in by my two I'm-too-scared-to-stand-up-for-what-I-truly-believe-in-without-a-strong-leader-type-to-show-me-how supporters. The sphere was now on its descent, gracefully parting the air before it, heading straight for the waiting hands of one of the Non-MI kids on the field. Projecting all the confidence I could safely muster without busting every electrical fuse in that room, I crossed my fingers behind my back.

The boy caught it. As one, my heartless supporters and I turned around, cheering loudly. Inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things, but loud for the three of us, anyway. By the time we were finished, we turned to smile (read: gloat) at the crowd behind us. Only to find them grinning back at us. I faltered. Hesitantly, I turned back to the television. Only to see the umpire framed gloriously on screen, one arm held out beside him. And then they erupted. Jumping in their seats, their yells much louder than ours. Jeering, leering, hooting. Defeated, I turned back to my glass.

And I grinned. I don't care either way. But those people there, when they go home, or meet their friends, they have a story to tell.