Spirito Libero

Positively puzzled

2012-01-06T01:14:00.001+05:30

Nothing is ever enough,

No happiness can be complete.

There's a chip in my teacup,

A crack in my kettle,

But a somehow...

there's a smile on my mug.

The smoking gun

2011-12-28T02:22:00.000+05:30

Opinionated waltzed into the room.

He never made it back out.

If you hadn't

2011-12-11T23:02:00.001+05:30

I'd still be

waiting atop that bridge

for someone to stop me.

Let's...

2011-11-11T02:38:00.004+05:30

Make time for each other,

Smile more often,

Hope together,

Wander the streets hand in hand,

Forget that the sun must set,

Remember that we'll wake up in each other's arms,

And also that the time in between,

will be spent dreaming those wonderful dreams -

together.

The story of Mr Weed and Knock-kneed

2011-08-31T13:59:00.002+05:30

When I first met you,

I looked on with scorn.

You, it would seem, were typical.

Then we spoke -

just a little at first.

And after, more and more.

Veils dropped,

Judgements disintergrated,

A journey began.

We drank root beer by the sea,

We discussed Blyton as the waves lapped our feet.

You were Jack, I'd be Nora, we decided.

When I was broken, you fixed as best as you could.

Today you're miles away, but I hear your voice, I read your words,

And I say - it's my turn now.

Yes, we're always right

2011-07-28T01:46:00.001+05:30

You simply cannot
tell a grown man
what to do.

Instead you must
let him go out into the world
and make his own mistakes

While you wait patiently
for his return - flowers in hand
in exchange for your suppressed 'I told you so'.

Missing you...

2011-07-01T00:00:00.004+05:30

Makes it too hard.

So no, I haven't condoled.

Nor called.

Then...

2011-06-30T23:58:00.002+05:30

... I see you,

And the way you look at me,

And everything is right again.

Solutions

2011-06-22T23:18:00.002+05:30

The words dried up.

The character

flung himself off the cliff,

allowing the swelling tides to consume,

drown,

the idea forever.

Rain poem

2011-04-06T17:45:00.001+05:30

Two little girls, rainsoaked,
laugh at the clouds.
"There's a rainbow,"
the bigger one points.
The little one nods eagerly
but is sad.
"Aren't rainbows cradles in the sky?"
Through the drops, she cannot see
What she is meant to.
Then the clouds part
And they race across the wet earth
Into mother's arms.

Shades of night

2011-04-06T17:42:00.000+05:30

When sweet changes colour,
Brown turns red, purple.
White pearls bite into flesh,
Till a scream.

Cuddle turns to crushing,
No longer just gasping for air,
Clawing and rasping,
Fighting to swirl into the other.

Sweet nothings become more urgent,
"C'mere bitch," you say
Before kissing the life -
Into me.

Then, two spent bodies,
Tangled together violently,
Rest, immovable,
Till dawn breaks. Wakes.

Insomnia

2011-04-06T17:41:00.000+05:30

Lids heavy with sleep,
Immersed in thoughts so deep,
Of when Somnus
Will carry me to you.

Colours

2011-04-06T17:40:00.000+05:30

Expecting parched browns,
Rain's surprise
Coloured my eyes green.

Audiences

2011-04-06T17:39:00.000+05:30

Eyebrows raised,
Questions asked.
Even poets
Have family.

Drifters

2011-04-06T17:38:00.000+05:30

Wind.
Leaves once on a branch,
Now scattered.

Memories of man & motorcycle

2010-04-17T19:02:00.005+05:30

My earliest memories of a motorcycle are from when I was so small that I probably oughtn't even remember this. I'd sit on the dining table at home, with a clear view out the front door, watching and listening, waiting for the silence of a sleepy Bangalore dusk to be disturbed by the dull yet penetrating sound of my Dad's Rajdoot 175. But in my Dad's hands (sorry Pa), the Rajdoot was merely a commuter. It took my uncle's skilled motorcycling to transform that commuter into one heck of a bike. The man was magic with machines, and I remember sitting behind him, plump little arms clasped across his waist, legs still too short to reach the rear footpegs, hanging on for dear life as he got his knee down, corner after corner on our ride from home to wherever else we were going. He'd even do that when riding a Luna. To be honest summer holidays weren't summer holidays unless I was hanging on, grin plastered across my face, two pigtails flying in the wind as he wrung the throttle and gave it all he'd got.

My uncle had tried his hand at dirt track racing, motocross and all that. He'd even done some stunting on motorcycles. At least I assume it was that, because somewhere, in some family album, I have seen a photograph of him jumping a Yezdi off a ramp, the bike midair, a good five feet clear of the ground. But it was him on the Rajdoot that stands out the most distinctly in my head, probably because of the sheer transformation the bike underwent with him at the handlebars.

A few years ago though, after having the bike in my family for 23 years, father dearest gave it away (he'd been advised to give up riding following a somewhat serious ankle surgery). I still can't believe he gave it away, but to cut the long rant, that is threatening to burst forth, short, all attempts to track down the bike met with deadends. It'd been sent to the scrap heap is all we finally managed to find out.

Then my uncle passed on, far too early.

I miss both. Perhaps in different ways and to different degrees, but miss them, I certainly do. I never got to ride the Rajdoot, with my uncle looking on, and giving me tips, and I never got to get him to teach me how to get my knee down on that, or any other bike. What I am determined to do though, is get myself a Rajdoot, somehow, from somewhere. And I'll make it my way, unconventional, to match the personality of one heck of a man. I've zeroed in on the perfect chap to help me build this bike, he's even said he'll only work on it when I'm around, so that I can be as much a part of the process as I want to be. Of course, there's still the bike itself that I need to find. What I do know is the bike will have a name, it will be named after my uncle. And believe it or not, his name was Raju (short for Rajeev). Raju getting his knee down on a Rajdoot. The very thought makes me smile, every time.

'Twas Christmas Eve

2009-12-26T19:09:00.004+05:30

Lights bright,
Golden glows
And warmth grows.

The elusive little onion

2009-08-31T15:01:00.001+05:30

What is it about food that is so reassuring and comforting? It provides more than just relief to hunger, more than mere satiety. Well, it is said that home is not merely a place, but a person you go back to. Similarly, food is not just about the flavours that meet each other in your mouth, flirt on your tongue, before sneaking off down your throat to canoodle in some dark recess of the stomach. It is about the rich bank of recollections that these combined flavours manage to stir up – the sights, scents, and feelings that well up inside you, until, combined together, it all comes to a wonderful climax.

So, when away from home, I finally begin craving onion sambhar, it’s not just any onion sambhar that I want, but the specific onion sambhar that is made at home, with much love and affection, by my mother. The very thought makes my mouth water. I don’t yearn only for the final act of sitting down at the dining table with my family, and tucking into steaming hot jeera samba rice onto which my mother spoons ample amounts of spicy sambhar. There is more to it, much more… And it all begins with a stroll to the market.

My mother generally chooses to combine her evening walk with a trip to the vegetable market. She waits till it is around twilight, and there is plenty of Bangalore breeze to accompany her on her ramble. Now that I live away from home, I never get the opportunity to go with her, and I must confess that I often would feel far too lazy to make the effort, even when I was living at home. However, on the rare occasion when I did, more often than not prompted rather selfishly by some errand that I had to run along the way, I always enjoyed the trip. Vegetable vendors with their carts all lined up together, the warm glow of gaslights being cast on the fresh produce. Tomatoes, all plump and juicy on one cart, some a rather peaky shade of green on another. Mounds and mounds of potatoes that would make my stomach rumble and make me immediately look around and see if there were good bhindis at a nearby cart, so we could make aloo bhindi, a fried affair that borrowed some spice from freshly ground peppercorns. Bundles of pudina, methi and various forms of spinach, which, if good enough, would mean Mum would make her special ‘green rice’. It served as a menu card, and was far more appealing to the eye than plain typed word.

If I remember right, the vendor who sold the small, bright-pink sambhar onions, was a tall, well-built chappie with a mustache that made him look somewhat like Veerappan. Polite fellow he was. He would always exchange pleasantries with my mother, before handing her the steel measuring vessel into which we’d toss ingredients for the night’s meal. He wielded a rather mean looking chopper too, with which he could cut the most imposing of yams down to size, allowing us to buy just the amount we wanted, right down to the gram. And he’d always remember the change that was owed either way, sometimes substituting two rupees with a sprig of kari patha or a fistful of green chillies.

Shopping dispensed with, we’d head home, mum retreating to the kitchen and me curling up with a book, only occasionally lending a hand. Sometimes though, I would end up leaning on the door, watching as my mother cut, chopped, stirred and fried with the consummate ease of one who loves cooking and serving a good meal.

Preparing the onion sambhar was not too taxing an affair, once you got the tiny shallots peeled that is. All you needed to do after that was add the right amount of dal and water to a pressure cooker, put in a tomato – quartered, half a teaspoon of turmeric, and one teaspoon of oil. Then add the peeled onions, each one is roughly the size of a marble, and put the lid on the cooker. Three whistles later, the dal will have cooked well, the tomato will have blended in with his surroundings, and the onions too will have turned a wonderful translucent shade, ready to simply melt in your mouth.

The trick to preparing good sambhar, according to my mother at least, is to add the sambhar powder at the very end, well after the rest of it has been cooked. Too much boiling and the flavour tends to abscond. So, add the amount of powder you need to half a cup of boiling hot water, and whisk well with a fork, so there are no lumps in it. Once the liquid is smooth, add it to the cooked dal and give it a quick stir. This is then followed by the tadka of jeera, mustard, kari patha and garlic. Mum’s work done, it is time for me to set the table. Dinnertime is family time.

Away from home, I have often made sambhar. It is easy enough, especially as I am armed with Mother’s special homemade sambhar powder – the recipe is a secret – with all sorts of vegetables added in, from lauki to bhindi and mixed vegetables. A strictly indoors-only weekend, with the Mumbai monsoons wreaking havoc outside can be vastly improved for a homesick Bangalorean, with a meal of sambhar rice, followed by curd and pickle. But, of all the vegetables that I have swilled and simmered into a vessel of sambhar, it is the sambhar onion has always eluded me in this city. It is time for a trip back home, and a stroll to the market with my mother to keep a tryst with our trusty vegetable vendor. I can already taste the meal.

Stick figure ships out

2009-07-09T16:03:00.002+05:30

I have been called many things in my life, however, as a five-foot-five incher who weighs in at round about fifty kilograms, something that I’d never been called is fat. Of course, that was before I was privileged enough to meet a living legend.

This being my very first encounter with a living legend, I suppose I was a tad taken aback. You see I’d always imagined legends to be rather substantial blokes, beefy, so to speak. You know the sort that would storm in with a few claps of thunder and some bolts of lightning. Or, if the elements wouldn’t be party to their advent, perhaps there’d be a drum roll, or a big blinking neon sign that said ‘Legend coming through’. So, when a sweet looking stick figure sidled up to me and, by way of introduction, inadvertently insulted my intelligence (later stating quite airily “How was I supposed to know you were smart?”) I had no idea that this was a rather momentous err… moment.

Nonetheless, once I’d made his acquaintance, I soon realised that legends came in all shapes and sizes, and more often than not, had a propensity to take digs at everything around them.

This legendary little chap was vastly entertaining. He was a one-stick-figure comedy show, and he’d have us all in splits. Of course this was hardly the reason he was renowned, there were other things to which he owed his fame and the adulation he received when he drove through obscure parts of the country. See, it’s like this. You give the little guy a car and he’s likely to drive it more miles on one tank of gas than anyone else is. And you toss him a scrap of food and he’ll manage to run on that for longer than most human beings can. Frugal sipper is what he is and what he makes the cars he drives!

But if you thought the little living legend would be content with that, you’re wrong. Flight fuel is pretty darned expensive, so I’ve heard (I’ve never actually been out shopping for the stuff myself), and some fuel efficient piloting would go a long way in conserving them natural resources. Not to worry, the Legendary Stick Figure is already on it. He’s shipping out soon enough and taking his talents to greater heights. What are we going to do for fun around here now? *sniff*

But hang on... does this mean I’m thin again?

*flick*

History

2009-06-08T14:35:00.001+05:30

When a juvenile past attempts to repeat itself,
Grab a hold of the present,
And walk into the future.

Clan-des-tine

2009-06-01T15:16:00.004+05:30

Whispered words in the dark.
Secret smiles,
Exchanged
In bright sunlight.

The finer points of balance

2009-04-01T17:55:00.002+05:30

I first met Wheelie Lad on the day of a taxi strike. With no transport, options of watering holes were cut down a fair amount, and we had no choice but to go to the only one that was walking-distance away. Wheelie Lad was reticent to meet me. He even declared to our mutual friend, The Giant Ponytail, that he was in no mood to "face" anybody. But he was tricked into showing up at the watering hole, where, after the initial perfunctory greeting he resolutely ignored me. At least he attempted it, but I had orders to try and draw him out of his shell, which I followed to the best of my abilities.

Perhaps what made it easier for us to talk was the fact that The Giant Ponytail, was engaged in a rather absorbing discussion (about what, I know not) with another friend, The Crab, who was sitting next to him. Never having met anyone like The Crab before, Wheelie Lad helped talk me through the idiosyncrasies of the biped hexaped. It was required. A conversation with The Crab was enough to befuddle most people the first time around, and ours went like this:

Crab: So, do you listen to music?
Me: Yes
Crab: What music?
Me: Lots of stuff
Crab: Alice in Chains
Me: Sometimes
Crab: Slayer?
Me: No
Crab: Gutworm?
Me: No
Crab: Soul Demise?
Me: No

- Two-minute pause -

Crab: So, do you listen to music?

I'd like to think Wheelie Lad warmed up to me after that, our very first encounter. Then on, we'd drag him along with us, ignoring all his "I'm tired"s and "There's too much work to do"s. When he'd get bored he'd focus on his cellphone, watching stunt videos and messaging people, only work-related he declared. We didn't believe him.

Wheelie Lad was called so because of his sole ambition to reach the balance point on his Pulsar 180. He'd ride a good two hours out of the city every Sunday, practice wheelies, and come back tired, and closer, hopefully, to that elusive balance point.

When much coaxing The Giant Ponytail did not result in a bike trip, Wheelie Lad and I were disappointed. Wheelie Lad himself went on about how I ought to have seen this and that and the other and reprimanded The Giant Ponytail for not having taken me anywhere. The Giant Ponytail tersely replied that Wheelie Lad could take me instead. Stoppie. Wheelie Lad was now saddled with the task of taking me on my very first bike trip.

Come the day of the trip and I dragged myself out of bed and, miraculously, was ready on time.
Jacket. Check.
Helmet. Check.
Daft grin on face. Check.
Tinted visor to hide daft grin. Check.
I was good to go.

We set out, with Wheelie Lad riding. Speed was kept in check because of a stern warning that The Giant Ponytail had issued. We stopped and took in splendid vistas, paused for grub, tackled corners nicely and rode the distance in amicable silence. An hour was spent looking out at a valley and swapping stories.

Wheelie Lad managed to let his guard down when I was the only one around. Perhaps it was the scenery, and the peace and quiet that inspired the exchange of confidences, but it was nice. I told him about a house and dog that weren't mine, but were, and he told me about a black car that wasn't his, but was his. By the time we got back, there wasn't an ounce of doubt in my mind, that Wheelie Lad and I were firm friends.

It's strange though. Wheelie Lad seems to have wisdom aplenty on offer when it comes to my life. "Our paths may be rocky but it's the destination that is important," he once told me, on a day that I needed to hear it the most that too. But in his quest for balance, Wheelie Lad seems not to notice so many things. Stubbornness does that to you. Popping a wheelie might be an activity, but it's also a state of existence. It's a metaphor of sorts, and it's the finer points of balance that Wheelie Lad needs to understand. He's much more than just Wheelie Lad, even if he can't see it yet.

Seaside walks and fairy-light talks

2009-03-12T17:12:00.002+05:30

Twilight. Sea breeze wafting inland. Two slender young ladies walk along the promenade, glad to have each other for company.
“I can’t believe we weren’t friends through three years of college,” the slenderer of the two says to her friend, with a smile.
“I can’t believe we’re the same people,” the other replies.

* * *

Pitch dark, there’s a chill in the air, and four somewhat scruffy girls walk along a narrow road. They pause at a lake. Opine loudly about the state of the world. Each of them is in activist mode. These four scruffy girls, believe, and believe that is all they’ll be.

* * *

The sound of traffic is forgiven because the sea crashes gently against the rocks. The wind gets stronger. It causes one of their shawls to flutter; it catches the other’s skirt, Monroe-like. They laugh, gently. They still opine, but softly, calmly. There is now brevity to their statements.

* * *

There was an unsuccessful attempt at whipping up some spaghetti with tomato sauce. There was pani puri and seafood festivals. There were midnight snacks at Mocha before long walks on the beach.

* * *

They’ve walked a good long way. Talking, exchanging confidences, the kilometre-long stretch of footpath seems to disappear beneath dainty slipper-clad feet. They work up an appetite.

* * *

There was a time when one of them flopped down on a table-top, slept for a good twenty minutes and the other escorted her home. Then there was a time when the roles were reversed. This time, the other lolled around, babbled incessantly, and was quite groggy, while the first made sure she got home.

* * *

It’s no-longer half-light. The sun has set completely. But they still walk for there is much to be said. There are questions they don’t ask simply because they know that the other will tell them, soon enough.

* * *

There were sleepovers where each would clutch a pillow and tell the other about what had transpired in the days they hadn’t met. Talk would revolve around likes, dislikes, main squeezes, scratches that appeared without catfights and more, while they sipped wine in a room warmed by the glow of fairy-lights.

* * *

The moon is out, giving the sea a delicious glow. Things have come a full circle. They turn around and look at the point they began their walk. It is now far away. Far away, like the things they’ve left behind, like the lives they used to lead, like the people they used to be. A large wave crashes into the breakwaters, spraying them. They laugh, glad to have come so far in each other’s company.

Doze daze

2009-03-05T15:53:00.002+05:30

When Somnus walked through the door
And settled down heavily,
On everything,
There were yawns, creaks, sighs.

Progress grabbed his coat and fled the room,
The armchair squeaked,
The cushion settled down into the cozy nook,
The cotton fluff yawned and felt airy and dreamy.

A spider crawling along the wall,
Looked at the web he'd just spun.
It stretched and then curled up like a little hammock
And he crawled in, happy to be cocooned.

From active to passive,
From action to stillness,
From motion to a grinding halt,
Things froze.

Somewhere, far across the earth,
The wheels of change were turning,
The sun was burning bright,
Things were happening.

For now,
Everything in the little chamber between Left Ear and Right Ear,
Slept.
A deep still slumber.

Free spirit

2009-01-05T12:19:00.000+05:30

Free spirits want the rush of wind,
Free spirits want the whole earth,
Free spirits want to run wild,
And flee their place of birth.

Free spirits want no shackles,
Free spirits want no chains,
Free spirits want to dance
To a far off piper’s refrains.

Free spirits want to taste the sky,
Free spirits want to soar.
Free spirits want to swim the sea
Not daunted by its roar.

Free spirits want that summit,
Free spirits want life,
Free spirits want its battle scars,
Free spirits must thrive.

Free spirits want adventure,
Free spirits want the rain.
Free spirits want other free spirits
Who are made of the same grain.

Free spirits want to gulp the air,
There’s a good deal free spirits desire,
Free spirits want to burn burn burn,
Like a raging forest fire.

Free spirits want to be the ash
And also the ember before,
Free spirits will always want want want,
And keep on wanting more.

Rumble, grumble and more gastronomic musings

2008-12-16T19:27:00.003+05:30

Rumble? It’s what my stomach does when I’m hungry.
Grumble? It’s what I do when I don’t get food on time.
Gastronomic musings? Well, that’s what this is. These words, as I type them, all the while ignoring the rumble in my stomach, suppressing the grumble that’s welling up within me, are gastronomic musings.

I have a new found appreciation for food. Actually, that isn’t true. I’ve always appreciated food. However, I haven’t often expressed that appreciation. Now that I’m away from mother dear’s home-cooked meals, now that there isn’t anyone to offer me home-made oatmeal cookies and milk in the middle of the night, I have taken to gushing over them mouth watering dishes that I manage to sink my teeth (and braces) into every now and then.

Over the past few months I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s food and then there’s food. One type is what you eat to sustain yourself. It’s mechanical. You eat because you have to and if you don’t then you’ll be in a pretty pickle later. (Pickle… Mmmm… But more on that afterwards… I must focus.) The other kind is food that you eat because it’s an experience: finding a place to eat, choosing the food, waiting eagerly as the smells waft your way from the kitchen and the sounds of chopping and stir frying make their way through the kitchen doors. And based on the type of food, there’s eating and then there’s eating.

Most of the eating that I do here is mechanical. I eat because I need to quell the rumbling, and distract my mind long enough for me to actually manage to get some work done. It’s the eating that I love though and it is this eating that this city has provided me with aplenty.

The first place that I absolutely fell in love with in Bombay was Theobromas. The sign hanging outside the tiny little café said ‘the food of the gods’ and a couple of bites into a friend’s chocolate fudge cake (what I ordered was sadly not too good, owing to the fact that I was misled by some extra flowery language in the menu card which has led me to conclude that the best way to order is to go, look at what you think you’d like to try and then pick that) and I was convinced that they were not lying. It was confectionery manna from chocolate heaven and I was in love. For the next couple of weeks, no trip that side of town was complete without a stop by the little shop so that I could stick my greedy little paws into some pastry or the other. It was here that I discovered that it was indeed possible to consistently bake cheesecake perfectly. I had always believed that the pursuit of perfection, in the matter of cheesecake at least, was one of life’s many unattainables. However, these people have got it right - consistently perfect cheesecake, all the time!

While dessert does come first with me, at least post Theo’s, the main course is just as important. One sleepy holiday, I lugged a bunch of lazy friends out their house (ignoring plaintive cries of needing more time to play flight simulator games) on a quest to find this one particular restaurant that I’d heard ever so much about. I’d been told that it was one of those places that simply must be visited. The fact that there was a possibility of it shutting down only strengthened my resolve that I simply had to find it, come what may. When we finally found Britannia, which is what the restaurant was called, I found it was as old school as I’d expected. ‘Twas an old ramshackle building, the large double-door entrance wide open, high ceiling with creaky fans suspended from wooden beams. If I’m not mistaken, the person who took our order was one of the owners. He must have been in his eighties, quite easily, and he trotted (yes, he did indeed trot, it might have been slightly laboured, but trot he did) over to our table with a pen and pad in hand. I knew what I was having, I’d heard so much about it from a co-worker who could barely keep himself from drooling as he described it to me. I was having the berry pulaav. There is some magic in them sour berries that they sprinkle over that pulaav, there is. As I’m typing these words out, I think I need a drool bib myself, make that bucket, that’s how good it was.

Speaking of drool (unpleasant as it might be) I was drooling my heart out at rally cars and Toshi Arai at the Asia-Pacific Rally Championship in Malaysia. At long last the mother ship had called me and I was out there, covering the rally live. All that activity, having to rush from rally stage to rally stage, get as many photographs as possible, rush to interview drivers and then make it to the media room in time to collect copies of the official timings for the day, made me very tired and as a result, very hungry. So, it was no surprise that at 2am we’d call room service and order dubiously named dishes (like Mee Mamak), oblivious to the possibility that it might be completely unpalatable. A friend and I, who found that we were severely under-dressed for absolutely any nice-looking establishment in Johor Bahru, decided to try some authentic street food for dinner one night. We walked around the block several times trying to decide where to eat. We finally found a place with yellow chairs that seemed like it would offer decent possibilities. After chatting with the owner for a while, we ended up ordering steamed rice, a spicy prawn gravy and a bland but delicious green vegetable (I still can’t figure out what it was, sort of a cross between leeks and asparagus). We were floored, the street-side food was so much better than the food at the five-star hotel. I liked Malaysia – it offered me new experiences, great friends and good food, which is quite simply all that I want from life.

Now, I’m afraid this blogpost must end, otherwise I run the risk of losing a few bites out of a co-worker’s sumptuous lunch box. Yum!

Sometimes...

2008-11-12T14:14:00.004+05:30

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.
Bitter leftovers of a spent past,
Faint echoes of words exchanged,
Fast fading memories of a once warm touch.

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.
Glimpses down a path that might have been traversed,
The hollow sound of promises that could have been kept,
The knowledge of the could haves and would haves that simply were not.

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.
The knowledge that what's been lost cannot be found,
The knowledge that what's been broken cannot be fixed,
The knowledge that what once was, will never again be.

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.
A tear trickles down to meet a quivering lip,
Fists clenched in silent yearning,
Breaths - short, rasping, difficult.

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.
The white flag of no regrets,
A reminder that it was time well spent,
A reminder of just how much it meant.

Sometimes,
All we have left is pain.

Perchance

2008-10-31T14:52:00.001+05:30

Why,
does the possibility of something slipping from our grasp
tomorrow,
Stop us from holding it firm in our clasp
today?

Gone with the grey

2008-10-06T16:14:00.000+05:30

I have always maintained that I am not a complicated person. I say yes when I mean yes and no when I mean no. If I’m confused, I think about things for a while and when I have some clarity of thought, I act. If I’m still confused, I let things remain as they are, mull over it for a little while and make sure that I act only when I’m ready/sure/lucid.

You’d think that with a system like this in place I’d manage to avoid complicated situations. You’d think it would be easy to ensure I didn’t get stuck in grey areas. But no. The universe has ceased to be black and white now. Stumbling through all the grey I seem to have lost a lot. I’ve lost the energy to do all the things that I love to do, unfortunately one of those things is write.

I hadn’t been able to figure out why I’d stopped writing all of a sudden. Not one scribble on a scrap of paper, not a click on the keyboard. I’d been avoiding thinking about it in fact, saying to myself that I was far too busy or tired to write. However, all of a sudden, I found a co-worker standing right next to me asking me why I hadn’t been writing. “Has it all dried up?” he asked. I grinned and shrugged my shoulders – it’s my standard reaction to situations I cannot deal with/questions I cannot answer at the time.

On the way back home by train that day, I was forced to think about it. Why hadn’t I been writing? It appears that trains have that effect on me, they always make me think of all the things that I’ve been trying so hard to block out. Station One passed by, I told myself I was too busy. Station Two passed by, I told myself that I was still suffering from withdrawal symptoms for my computer back home. Station Three passed by, I said it was because I wasn’t home anymore, I missed my city and my life. At Station Four I’d decided I’d just been distracted. By the time I got off at Station Five, I knew exactly what had been distracting me – I was enveloped in grey.

I know that I’ve always had a short attention span, my mind wanders quickly, but of late I haven’t been lapsing into my day dreaming sessions while looking out the window, which told me that something was amiss indeed. Being in a constant state of distraction is no good – especially for someone like me. And this grey area had me shrugging and grinning a whole lot – meaning I hadn’t a clue what I’d do about it.

The weekend passed fairly well. For the most part. I spent Saturday lounging around on a friend’s couch watching a teen flick on the telly. Then, I did some book shopping before returning to an empty house (not mine) and dog (not mine). And that’s when it all came apart. What was I doing in this city? Why was I here? My family, my friends, everybody that I really cared about was back home. My life was still there, and I was here, at twenty, trying to be a grown up, work, take care of myself and deal with grey areas.

Sunday, I woke up late, read, fed the fish (not mine). It was most annoying, especially as I detest the very idea of keeping fish in an aquarium. Seeing as the finned things only have a two-minute long memory span, they forget they’re in a confined space every two minutes, and whack right into the glass, which leaves them stunned for a while. All in all, it’s not pleasant. Besides, you can’t play fetch with a fish anyway. That aside, I cooked, ate and felt better, stronger. I knew what I had to do – filter out the grey areas.

It sounded simple enough – get rid of the grey. Actually doing it is hard. But my mind’s made up. It is most essential for me to go back to doing the things that I love to do, and if the grey prevents that, the grey is bad.

So, I’m cutting it all out. Now on, if it’s not black or white, I’m making the universe toss it out. No more grey, I say. And I articulate (yes, I do mean articulate, vocalise) a sigh of relief.

Sigh.

Old writing

2008-09-22T17:56:00.003+05:30

I decided to re-post some old pieces that I'd taken off my blog ages ago.

TUNES FROM A GREEN GLASS BOTTLE
You're the long, winding road home,
You're the feelings that I cannot guage,
You're the brush strokes that paint my moods,
You're the paper cut at the end of each page.

You're the circle I cannot leave,
You're the green glass bottle through which I see,
You're the gap to the ground with every jump,
You're what makes me, me.

You're the freefall into black and white,
You're the colour amidst all the grey,
You're the clang of a spoon against porcelain,
You're the disappointment at the end of the day.

You're the glint of light on metal,
You're the book signing that I may never go to,
You're the tune I'm constantly humming,
You're more than you're likely to know.

You're the newsprint I hope will never fade,
You're the future that might disappear,
You're the constant calm in my mind,
Even though you are not here.

(Tunes.... was written at a workshop conducted by Lemn Sissay)

TEARING THROUGH THE WEB
The fly spread its wings,
Silvery wisps of thread hanging from them.
Slowly, then faster,
With a beating motion, it took flight.

Behind it,
Torn and fluttering gently in the breeze,
The spider web hung.

CANVASSED IDEA
The blue merged into the red,
Blotting out the hint of yellow
That had been brushed on with care.

The colours swirled,
Ignored the path set out by the brush,
Swooshing contrarily.

Then,
The canvas came alive,
With voices of the spectrum.

LOCKS
Keeping things out
Or letting things in,
With the turn of a key
And a click.

BREAK...
The lingering scent,
Once comforting.
Now striving,
To tear through it.

Ebbing
Soon,
The last leaf will fall.
Who'll notice it's gone?

Untitled
Straining fingers
Try to grasp
An elusive idea.

Blinded by fogs of reason
And rules of logic
The palms remain empty

Forever clutched
In fury
In frustration.

Whirling about in a haze
Of what could be and should be
But what I cannot do.

Tangled with my foe.
I wish to part the mist
I wish to see.

Interaction
Good or bad,
People experiences always
Make me want to stay home.

Unfolding
Squirted in the mouth,
The tang of sour lemon
Lets words run free.

JOURNEYING
There was no choice but to beat
The sweltering heat
With steaming masala chai.

Written reason

2008-09-22T15:16:00.001+05:30

There are things that make you write and there are things that you need to write. Writing is not always about a reader, sometimes it is cathartic. You write because you need to get words out of your system. That the words might convey something specific to someone who chances upon that piece of writing is incidental.

It was for this reason that I found myself scribbling away on hotel stationery a few days ago. It was cold, hotel room air-conditioners are always set too high for my liking. I was extremely sleepy and tired, but time and again I’d just about drift off only to find myself wide awake the next minute, with the feeling that there was something I ought to be doing, saying, conveying to someone.

It doesn’t matter what happens to the sheets of paper that have been written on, it doesn’t matter if anyone reads it or not, I feel lighter. The writing hasn’t solved anything. Sometimes things that are broken cannot be fixed. Maybe they simply aren’t meant to be.

It’s strange – the idea that whatever happens, happens for a reason. It’s just hard to believe that the ultimate reason behind something could be that it was meant to be the trigger behind an insignificant piece of writing, on an insignificant blog.

Coping

2008-09-22T10:38:00.000+05:30

Metaphorically knee-broken,
You tell yourself
That pain is good for art.

Of wandering, cats and wandering-cats

2008-08-18T16:53:00.002+05:30

It’s true. I’m neglecting my work for the moment. I’m blaming it on the cat this time, instead of my attention span that has been accused of being short or my mind which has a tendency to wander. It’s the cat at work – a kitten really, a skinny waif of a kitten – that’s causing me to be neglectful. She’s been christened Jeep for the moment, after some off-road adventures she’s recently suffered in an engine compartment. For the time being she’s nestled in a cardboard box. Correction, I just checked, it’s the crook of a co-worker’s arm, that’s where she’s nestled. The cardboard box contains a half-empty bowl of milk, forgotten, much like the work that I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I’ve been itching to get to a keyboard and type, I’ve been feeling an acute need to ‘punch the keys’, so I’m sitting here, hopefully doing Forrester proud.

I had a three-day weekend, and I told myself I’d write. So what if I didn’t have a computer, I’d scrawl and scribble away, I’d put pen to paper and actually write. I didn’t. I did what I do so often and oh so proficiently, I procrastinated on day one, day two and day three.

Now that I think about it, this is my third cat encounter this week, aside from Mackerel in Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I’m still reading (procrastination will be the death of me). On Saturday when I was drifting through Colaba, to quell wanderlust, I saw three fat cats. Nice striped ones, ones that looked like they’d been living off the fat of the land, ones that dined at the doorsteps of Colaba’s finest restaurants every single day. Perched on different rungs of the same ladder, they were sagely cleaning their faces with their paws. I paws-ed to look at them for a while – wise-looking fat cats make me happy.

My second cat encounter was later-on that very day. I was sitting on Marine Drive with a friend who had the most wonderful by-the-sea music on her phone. It was far too early for the sun to set, but I was switching my gaze between it (foolishly hoping it would sink into the horizon prematurely) and some crabs that were scuttling sideways on the rocks nearby. Soon, I caught sight of a surly cat slinking his way down the rocks. He had a big head, that cat did. Perhaps it would be more accurate if I said he had a rather skinny build, which is what made his noggin look so big. I think he owed his surliness to the fact that he hadn’t been living off the fat of the land, his gaunt structure was testament to the fact. He prowled around for a while before disappearing behind some rocks. When he finally reappeared I was convinced he looked twice as surly as he did to begin with. Cecilia was the song playing on the cell-phone. As Suggs crooned “…I’m begging you please to come home…” I watched surly cat disappear into the distance. No one was hoping he’d come home. Surly cat made me sad.

And this, today, my third cat encounter. Co-worker A found Jeep in the engine compartment of one of the office cars. Co-worker B, who’d had the car for a few days, claimed the cat was his. Well, the kitten was transported back to the office, where Co-worker B declared it wasn’t his missing feline friend after all. After the kitty was given her fill of milk, it was necessary that we get her out of the office, lest we find ourselves tossed out unceremoniously. We set out on a mission to find the rest of her family. Cat One nearly chewed her up and spat her out. Cat Two padded away without so much as giving Jeep a second glance. After fifteen minutes, there wasn’t much that we could do. There was only one course of action left – abandon Jeep. So we set her down in the building’s parking lot, where she promptly began to attack a left-front tyre. After cautioning the driver to be careful when he drove off we made our way back to the building. When we were nearly inside, we turned around to take one last look at Jeep. No Jeep in sight, instead we saw an irate driver wielding a broom and shouting for us to come back. Jeep had found another engine compartment to nap in. We fled.

Ten minutes later from the safe confines of our office, we peeped out the window to see a somewhat flustered crowd around the car (now with its hood open). A Jeep that fits in the engine compartment of a car. There’s a first. Jeep cat just left me puzzled.

I’m done with my cat tales, but I’m still distracted, I’m afraid the wanderlust is not all gone. My mind is on a flight of fancy, traipsing around, prowling like a nomadic cat.

Adjusting focus, I move from what I’m typing on the screen, outwards, to my desk itself. There’s a postcard with Lemn Sissay on it pinned on the soft-board to the left of the screen. There’s a poster of Michael Schumacher to the right. Distracted, I’m caught in between, staring at my computer screen, running out of keys to punch.

2008-07-15T14:42:00.000+05:30

Eeeep!
That's it. The whole all. Maybe this city isn't good for my writing.

THE TENANT

2008-03-31T18:05:00.003+05:30

I tried pushing him a little. I had to, I simply had to make room for myself on the couch. He nudged me back, and sprawled out, occupying all the place he could, and then some more.

I sighed as I looked at him. Getting him out of my life would be near impossible, and I had a feeling Hypocrisy would only leave when he wanted to.

...THE COOKIE CRUMBLES

2007-09-05T17:45:00.000+05:30

After months of convincing himself that it would always be out of reach, it finally became available.

AND THEN IT DAWNED...

2007-07-31T17:33:00.000+05:30

Past the uphill path,
Strewn with brambles,
The glimpse of a brand new day.

MR SPRUCE

2007-06-15T19:16:00.000+05:30

His first name was odd, but suited him well. Nifty.

He could have been the town troubadour, or the owner of the New York Yankees, but he was Nifty.

EASIER SAID THAN DONE...

2007-06-03T22:31:00.000+05:30

Decision is hard to be around. He always expects me to see things through.

Indecision is quite the opposite - laid back and fun - I wish he'd move back home.

THE BOUNDARY BLOTTER OUTER!

2007-05-04T23:00:00.000+05:30

Big-For-My-Boots had a horrible habit - he simply could not leave well enough alone. No matter what the situation was and whether you wanted him around or not, he'd be there, and eager to help out! And in the process, you can be sure, that things would get well and truly botched up.

So well-established was his reputation that people believed Big-For-My-Boots could create a tumultuous storm out of nothing but sunlight.

He could never stop himself from crossing the line. He simply blotted out all boundaries.

One wondered whether it was he who was too big for his boots, or whether his proverbial boots were simply too big. So big that they simply could not help crossing the line?

THE DOTTY DETECTIVE

2007-04-17T17:06:00.000+05:30

Inconspicuous thought he was very clever indeed.

He had worn a trench coat, like he'd seen all good detectives in the movies do. He had also worn a broad-brimmed felt hat, pulled low over his eyes. He had tailed his suspect in what he thought was a truly stealthy manner.

Too bad that it was broad daylight and a man dressed so, on a crowded street, stuck out like a sore thumb.

They'd nailed him. He sat there bound and gagged wondering how on earth they knew it was him? He just couldn't figure it out.

After all he had meticulously tried to live up to his name.

MAN'S BEST FRIEND

2007-04-07T17:42:00.000+05:30

Straining against his master's leash,
The glossy Irish Setter,
Is eager to befriend me.

WHO CAN DEFINE "PERFECT" ANYWAY?

2007-03-30T18:58:00.000+05:30

Flawh Less sat; smug and self-satisfied. Content with his moderate success, his floppy hair, and what he thought was a charming smile.

Fooh Lee Flawhd on the other hand believed in his own superior intellect. That he was gangly and awkward he was well aware; but it was he who was going places.

TURNING DOWN THE TATTOO

2007-03-25T21:22:00.000+05:30

He sat in the chair, nervously watching the needle of the tattoo gun vibrating, now a quarter of an inch away from his forearm. He wondered how he could get out of it.

It was ironic. The word he had chosen for his tattoo was, "ESCAPIST".

THE CHEAPSIDE CHAUFFEUR

2007-03-19T22:04:00.000+05:30

Frivolity put a long, silk-stockinged, high-heeled foot out of the door of her Rolls Royce.

With a rustle of silk, swoosh of satin, and whiff of perfume, the rest of her was out too.

The door slammed shut.

Within the car, her driver relaxed, tossed his hat onto the seat next to him, and drove home to the cheaper side of town.

WORDY WOES

2007-03-19T21:47:00.000+05:30

In the movie 'Finding Forrester', a bit of helpful advice that young Jamaal Wallace is given, is to "punch the keys". Punching the keys it seems, unleashes your creativity. Punching the keys can channelize all the words that you have pent up within you, into beautiful sentences that people will want to read.
But how can I punch the keys? - My hands are tied – metaphorically.

There are so many things that I want to write about, but can’t. Either because I wait too long and the idea dissolves into oblivion. Or because the words simply won’t come out the way I want them to. With a mind of its own, ‘with’ firmly fixes itself as the foremost word in my sentence, quite unmindful of the fact that I want it further down. While ‘begrimed’, a word that I’ve wanted to use for ages, simply refuses to stray my way.

The grammar book reposing on the shelf next to me grins wickedly, waiting to point out every error that I have made. The dictionary mocks me for not knowing more than one-fourth of its contents.

But I struggle against my wordy woes....

I punch the keys.

=)

2007-03-13T17:32:00.000+05:30

Sitting idle in a hotel lobby.
Things look up -
- Niceness walks through the door.

What's in a name?

2007-03-03T19:59:00.000+05:30

"I'm Soh-lee," said the Chinaman.
"Sorry for what?" I asked, a little puzzled.
"No...No...." he hastily replied. "I am Soh Lee Tyood."
I welcomed him with open arms!

THE NAMEPLATE

2007-03-03T18:40:00.000+05:30

'Opin Yoneit Id' said the name plate in big gold letters. I stood there for a while debating whether or not to go in. Bracing myself, I raised my hand to knock and noticed to my disgust, that my knuckles were white and I was trembling a little. I ignored this. I had to. I knew why I was there, and what I had to do. I knocked.

"Enter," I heard a voice say. It was a presumptuous, self-satisfied voice that I knew only too well. A voice that never failed to piss me off.
I entered.

The room was hazy with cigar smoke. It was a special brand smuggled through customs all the way from Cuba. I knew because I had been told often enough.
A careless wave of the hand indicated the seat in which I was supposed to sit. I sat. The chair squeaked. My jeans against the leather resulted in an embarrassing sound.

"What is it?"
That damned voice again.
"I have something for you," I said.
I rummaged in my bag, gripped the small but heavy package, lifted it out and placed it on the desk. I unwrapped it with care, glad for the cloth that it was wrapped in, which thankfully absorbed the tell-tale signs of my nervousness from my palms.

Seeing the contents, the face across the desk fell. Disappointment was written all over it. It was either something too common or too unimportant. The expression said it all – failure yet again.

The noise deafened me. I saw no point staying there any longer. I slowly put everything back in my bag, and got up to leave. I shut the door quietly behind me and walked down the corridor, turning back just once, the glint of light on the gold-lettered name plate catching my eye.

I hadn’t failed. That I knew, for it wasn’t the gun that was meant to be the present, but the single lead bullet, which was now lodged firmly in bloody cardiac muscle. I wondered whether the smell of gun powder would be decipherable from the atmosphere that was already laced heavily with that vile cigar smoke. But it didn’t matter anymore. He was dead.

I left the building for the final time, this once not bogged down with opinions that I didn’t want.

WHOOPSIE!

2007-02-18T20:07:00.001+05:30

If embarrassing moments break the ice, then I must be the best ice breaker in town!

Really, as far as first impressions go, this one must have sucked. But then again I can’t be blamed; glass doors can be incredibly deceptive...

...

2007-02-12T23:20:00.000+05:30

I sat alone,
Just me,
Only my thoughts to keep me company.

I sat alone,
Just me,
Who says alone, is the same as lonely?

I read a book.
Thought a while,
The silence around me made me smile.

I sketched a little.
Just smudges on the page.
Disappointment I’ve learned to accept with age.

I wrote.
Just senseless words...

So again, I sit alone.
Just me,
Only my thoughts to keep me company.

WHY?

2007-01-27T23:02:00.000+05:30

"How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people..."

- Albert Einstein.

These words from Einstein's essay "The world as i see it" strike me as remarkably true. We know that we exist for other people. One simply cannot be selfish enough to think that the only person one exists for, is oneself. Our actions directly or indirectly affect other people, whether we like it or not. We do not know what it is that we are meant to do here, but we know that whatever we do must be done keeping others in mind.

A world where people are not aware of this, would be a terrible one. The vague knowledge of this perhaps preserves the shreds of humanity left in the world. This we must be thankful for.

SOMEDAY...

2006-09-21T14:02:00.000+05:30

Of late, I have seem to have been talking to people about my favourite painting quite a lot. And that got me thinking. Why do we have a “favourite” anything? For me at least, all of my favourite things are favourites because they mean something to me. Of course there are things that I just like for no particular reason, and then there are those other things...

My favourite painting is Van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace at Night. The painting itself is so beautiful. It shows us the scene of a tiny sidewalk cafe at night. There is a big yellow lantern hanging from the sloping roof, throwing a warm yellow light everywhere. There are a few people sitting at the tables. There is a waiter serving them. The street is a cobble stone street. There are a few people crossing the street. The sky is a lovely blue and there are a few stars. You can see houses all down the cobble stone street. From each of those houses there is the warm glow of light coming through the windows.

The best part about the painting, is that the cafe still exists in Arles, France. It has been renamed Cafe Van Gogh.

Someday, I plan on going to the Cafe Van Gogh, and sitting outside, and sipping a cup of coffee. And then I will know that of all the things that I want to achieve, maybe I have managed to do some of it - just a little bit of it.

The reason I’m writing this, is so that I don’t forget. This is very high up on my “To Do” list. I cannot afford to forget.

MICHAEL SCHUMACHER FOREVER

2006-09-11T20:38:00.000+05:30

If you are a Michael Schumacher fan, if you are a Ferrari fan, and if you are a fan of Formula One, 10th September 2006 will be a day that you can never forget. Michael Schumacher claimed a brilliant victory at the home of the Tifosi – Monza. It was what happened after the race however that will forever be etched in our memories. Schumacher’s emotional announcement that he would retire at the end of the season.

As an F1 fan born into the Schumacher era, it is difficult for me to fathom Formula One without him. I remember the first time that I ever saw him pump his fists in the air after a race win for Benetton, the first victory leap that I ever saw, the first time I saw him conduct the Italian national anthem for Ferrari, the first Driver’s Title that he won at Ferrari. And the four that he won after that. Sure I remember Adelaide in ’94, and Jerez in ’97, but you know what I would not have it any other way. He said it himself, “It has been an exceptional, really exceptional time. What motorsport in more than 30 years has given to me... I really loved every single moment of the good and the bad ones...those ones that make life special.”
And he is right. We loved every single moment too – the good, the bad and the ones that make life special.

What more can we ask of Michael Schumacher? He has broken every record there is. He has given so much to motor sport. He has inspired young children world over to become racers and Formula One journalists. He has accomplished everything that he possibly can, and set records that astound the world. He deserves to rest after such a phenomenal career.

Damon Hill, Jacques Villeneuve and even Fernando Alonso might have won Driver’s Titles, but there is a lot more to being a World Champion than that. Here’s to Michael Schumacher – a World Champion in the truest sense.

Of Weddings

2006-08-16T19:07:00.000+05:30

Driving down any street in Bangalore, practically any time of the year, you are bound to see boards all done up with flowers, proudly announcing “Murugesh weds Shanti”. Well if there’s one thing Bangaloreans seem to be doing a lot of, it’s getting married! Invariably we end up attending at least one wedding a month. If we cannot get out of those infernal affairs that is.

The process of actually sitting through the wedding is a trying affair to say the least! No one in the hall seems to care that there are two people being joined in “holy matrimony” on the stage up there, save a few anxious family members, the pundit, and the couple themselves. Everyone else is there to see who has turned up in better clothes than they themselves are wearing, gossip about whose child did better in his MBA exam, and whether it is true that so and so’s son has got a job offer from some firm in the US! And then there are those friendly old uncles who roam around the hall, shaking hands with unsuspecting strangers, and saying things like “Oh! You look a lot different than when I last saw you."
When it’s your turn, you smile and nod until they go away, convinced that you have never seen them before in your life, and pretty sure that won’t again!

The wedding halls are more often than not jam packed, and even if you are the good Samaritan, willing to break your date with the sandman and watch the proceedings, you will not be able to, because of the rows and rows of silk saris with zari borders, of every hue (enough to put the rainbow to shame), that accosts the eye! The wedding hall doesn’t really appeal to your other senses as well. Intermingled with traces of oxygen, are the smells of burning karpura, cheap air freshener hurriedly sprayed the night before, wilting malli poos, and most unfortunately that all pervading smell of sweat! Your ears too are tormented no end with the sound of the shehnai or nadaswaram; and the constant chatter that makes sure that you cannot doze off and meet Morpheus try as hard as you may!

Then, comes the queue to wish the bride and groom –the “happily ever after” bit; it seems never-ending. You shamefacedly clutch the hand made paper envelope, into which you thoughtfully shoved money, considerately thinking that you would allow the bride and groom to buy whatever they liked. However as you wait in line, you feel awfully outdone, by the people standing behind you and in front of you, both of whom are bearing extra large, brightly wrapped gift boxes. When you are finally done with presenting them with their wedding present rather meekly, thanks to the aforementioned people with the large gift boxes, you think its time to leave at last. But no! It is not to be! You have forgotten the all important wedding photo that must be gotten out of the way; incidentally the photographer seems to feel the same way about you, and so he sees to it that you are pushed and shoved to the very corner of the frame, where if you are lucky, one solitary sleeve of yours will be able to grace the picture.

After your gruelling day, you at last proceed to the dining hall, to build up on strength, thanks to the harrowing experience which has left you zapped. Well, you sit and wait. First, for the plantain leaf to be set down in front of you and then the gastronomic in you causes your mind to take flight, and you dream of the servings of sumptuous Indian food. But it never turns out quite as you had planned. The bhatres come around serving the food with a vengeance, apparently determined to drench you in sambar! The howling child next to you spoils the, shall we call it, ambience. His mother sitting next to him takes a helping of everything the bhatres serve, but finishes none of it, and complains about the taste of everything. The man sitting across from you has his jewel encrusted navratna rings now fully encrusted with food as well. And his bearded face, is about as far as you have to go to find a menu. But the ultimate wake up call is the tremendously loud burp he lets out n the middle of his meal, after which he continues eating as if nothing had happened despite the sternest of glares that you manage to administer!

Once it is all done, it is with relief that you walk out of the wedding hall, into the some what refreshing air of Namma Bengalooru. With firm resolve you decide that you will RSVP the next time, and not attend one of these energy zapping events again. But at the back of your head, a little voice tells you that your firm resolve will only last until you find the next invite in your mailbox!