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.

The Rain God Is A Sadistic Bastard

Look, buddy.

You want to rain down on me? Go right ahead. You want to fucking drench me, then you bloody well do it. I enjoy that shit.

But if you stop halfway and say, "Thanks, I'm done," one more time, I will break my foot off up in your ass.

Slow Decay

He stumbled a little. The pain in his foot had been growing.

He sat down on a bench and took off the shoe. The sock was sticky at the big toe. Gingerly, he pulled it off to find a rather large hole at the end of his toe. Later, he remembered thinking how remarkably little blood there was for something of that sort.

He turned his foot around to get a better view. That's when he saw the maggot inside his toe, eating away at his flesh. He woke up screaming.

He could still feel it, inside his toe. Quickly, he pulled up his foot to check. Nothing. Sleep didn't come back to him for a very long time.

He felt it on the bus, going to college. Frantically, he pulled his shoe off to check again. Nothing. 'Get a grip,' he told himself, pulling his windcheater on and stepping into the rain.

Through three classes, he paid rapt attention, willing himself to concentrate on anything else. His friends found it odd that he was so quiet.

In his head, he was screaming.

Why I Don't Go To McDonald's Anymore

1. A burger that used to cost me 55 bucks (all inclusive) now comes for close to 80 (+ taxes).
2. I like to eat a full meal. Ronald's food leaves me hungry half an hour later. This fact is simply horrific in light of point 1.
3. It has people that wave their heads and mouth the words to 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.
But far more importantly,
4. It plays songs like 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.

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.

Flight

She looked around herself. At the clouds. The ground so far below. She stretched out an arm. Flexed her fingers and felt the wisps of cloud trailing between them. 'Cold,' she thought. 'And tingly...' She shivered a little. She hadn't realised how cold this would be. Reaching out, she traced the edge of another cloud. Then swooping, pirouetting, drawing lazy circles through the air, she flew. The sensation was unbelievable. The freedom. The beautiful feeling of detachment. She pulled to a stop and swirled on the spot, arms stretched out on either side. A feeling of warmth began to spread through her as she climbed, soaring, above the clouds. If she were someone else, she'd have whooped in delight.

For another moment, she stared longingly out the window. Then head bent, she continued to sketch.

(Found this lying in my drafts since October 2008. It was practically finished.)

Facebook: Helping You Define Your Sense Of Self

Dear Jhayu,

Your friends have voted on your strengths and weaknesses:

STRENGTHS:
best friend
most trustworthy
person with the best sense of humour

WEAKNESSES:
most absentee
best room-mate

Best room-mate? That’s my weakness? I don't even have a room-mate!

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.

Workout

They planned to work out together. ''If you don't want me to be fat, I'm not going to let you grow a paunch,'' she said to him.

''Kickboxing! Or sparring!'' he said excitedly. ''You can try taking me down.'' She disagreed. Said she didn't want him kicking the tar out her physically as well. Apparently, he did that enough verbally. It took three weeks of convincing. Very persuasive convincing, at that. Finally, as a compromise, she agreed to try it out once.

The kickboxing lasted exactly three minutes. They sparred every morning.

The Devil & The Deep Sea

Every morning, my parents wage a war. An epic battle with one simple aim. Waking me. They take it in turns. One is effective but lazy, the other persistent as hell.

Mom's modus operandi is simple. Yell 'Get up' / 'Utho' or some other derivative of the same in her loud, scary, kindergarten-teacher voice.

Unfortunately, this appeals to the eternally-eight-year-old in me. Yes, that stubborn, never-do-what-you're-told eight-year-old. And I stay under the sheets, stuff my head under a pillow, only to have her repeat the cycle till I groggily tumble out of bed.

Dad, on the other hand, comes and sits on the bed next to me. Gives me a back massage. While I'm still half asleep, he asks (and I'm sure he's perfectly aware this is the best time to get an answer out of me) what's happening with me.

And somewhere, completely casually, he'll slip in one of those scary questions; the kind that are hard-wired to set off alarm bells ringing in your head. Questions like 'How much money is in your bank account?' And suddenly, my eyes are wide open, my mind completely alert. Somehow, I deflect his question and shoo him away. But I'll be damned if I can go back to sleep after that.

I'm not sure which I prefer.

Dogs

It is a terrifying sight to see wild dogs fighting. They scrabble around, pawing furiously, snarling, snapping, scratching. And as you watch, the words 'animal instincts' take on an entirely new meaning.

And yet, there is something perversely beautiful about it.

Something in the way these filth-covered, bloodied, bruised beasts throw themselves at each other. Twisting, writhing. Lunging for the other's throat, looking to rip out the jugular. With every last fiber of their being.

And you could gather a crowd, throw stones, even beat them with sticks. But they will ignore you.

Because the fight isn't over till one of them is dead.