April 16, 2014

Alternatively, if you could stop time. Make it slow down interminably so that you could savor each happy-delicious-moment to its fullest, before its gone.

That would be a kinda-sorta-very-cool super-power as well.


April 14, 2014

Once upon a time, somebody asked me if I could have any super-hero ability I wanted, which one would I choose, and why. At the time - I remember we were walking down a cold-rainy-path - I had no real answer. Today I know. For my super-power, I would want the ability to disappear at will. Picture, if you will, a mix between the Harry-Potter-esque invisibility clock and a Hiro-Nakamura-teleportation ability. To close my eyes, screw up my nose and snap my fingers twice and *poof* I'm gone. Far-far-away where no one can find me, until I'm ready to be found.

That would be kinda cool.

I think. 

April 12, 2014

I spent a few hours today, reading what I wrote. Yesterday, a few months ago, a few years, a lifetime. So much to say, nothing really said. For those of you who traveled with me on my narcissistic journey, thank you for the company. And a curious-question, what keeps you here? Why do you share my catharsis?

April 9, 2014

He turns to me in the night, my husband, opens his eyes and looks into mine.
It's over, he says. they're all dead.
Who is, I ask?
Everyone, he says. They all died in the Zombie attack.
Us too? I wonder.
No, we survived.
How? I ask.
We escaped in the truck.
What truck? I ask.
The truck, he says, that I'm going to buy you.
And then he proceeds to hold me tight and go right back to sleep.

Marriage, most certainly, has its moments.


November 26, 2013

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away–
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break,
and–Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose
at the hopeless gate of your heart–
Open to me
For I will show you the places
Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e. e. cummings

November 25, 2013

"You should write, first of all, to please yourself. You shouldn't care a damn about anybody else at all. But writing can't be a way of life - the important part of writing is living. You have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it."

- Doris Lessing

November 24, 2013

Is it just me, or does this happen to everyone? This, that when everything inside is screaming to be heard, words will not comply? This, that when the panic-rises-to-a-crazy-boiling-point and everything seems topsy-turvy-stupid-within the only expression that seems to make sense is a big-wide-smile. Because, my loves, someone once told me that 'every time you smile - someone will fall in love'. And you think that the very least you can do is play eternal-cupid for someone else. Says the Rat, in her heartwarming (and ego-bruising) pep-talk kal, the only thing that distinguishes me from all-the-other-people-out-there-who-will-live-and-die and I have fulfilled an Angelina-Jolie-esque criterion for meaningful-existence, I have been of some use. Says she (and Jolie) that life being what it is, the only question your maker might ask of you when you're up there standing que at the pearly-gates-of-what-have-you is what use were you to the world (in general). What did you do, someone-out-there will demand, that justifies your existence to begin with. And if you don't have an answer, we speculate, then you may just be sent back to this world as a bug - or a dengue-macchar - who has but one purpose: to travel to the Philippines and infect S (remember my love, that the dengue you fear so very much is actually a little bug's salvation) and then to die knowing that the usefulness to the world has expired. N, once told me that in her past life she had been an executioner. You know them people who pull the plug and smile while the person-in-front-of-them-chokes-to-death-and-stuff. I wonder, sometimes, what my past life was all about. There was one Halloween-y moment when I thought that I might have been born a black-cat-in-Egypt. Which, you must admit, would probably have been a good life back in the day when the kali-billi was a creature of worship (and not the bugger you avoid in the road lest it cross your path and completely ruin your day). But upon reflection (some) it occurs to me that in a life before this perhaps I was a caterpillar. A little-green-worm snuggled up in a little leaf waiting for that painfully-beautiful moment in which life's purpose was achieved and it emerged from the cocoon as a butterfly. It also occurs to me that maybe it was right in the middle of the cataclysmic-change that the inevitable happened and I found myself at the pearly-gates completely unfulfilled and not-yet-a-butterfly. Perhaps that was the moment when I was sent back (not having been of much use in life number one), to try (once again) to achieve the metamorphosis-denied.

November 22, 2013

I will begrudge you only,
the broken dreams.
Everything else,
is quid-pro-quo.

November 21, 2013

"A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking."
- Steven Wright

November 18, 2013

Illustration courtesy the truly awesome Bandra Girl! :)

It's no wonder he seeks out Lex Luthor every chance he gets, this Super (last name, Man). Everyone else thinks it's because he wants to be a hero-very-badly and perhaps a little bit of it is. I'm sure rescuing people from burning buildings, preventing meteors from descending to this world and generally preventing the onset from global apocalypse are worthy byproducts of everything Super does. And the thing is, it's not like he doesn't like feeling useful. Frankly, it chuffs his ego, and every now and again he does allow himself an indulgent pat-on-the-back for a job well done. But the truth (which is a super-secret) is that that's not why Super seeks out Mr. Luthor.

Instead, he has a funny-selfish-reason to do so. Truth is, Super craves the Kryptonite. What? Say you. How is that possible? Isn't Kryptonite the substance that makes Super, not-so-Super? Isn't it the element that could cause him to chemically self-destruct? It's that the weapon that our-good-friend-Lex always keeps up his sleeve to facilitate the ready (and inevitable) escape? Yes, it most certainly is.

The thing about people - you and I included - is that we are perverse creatures. Just because something makes us hurt doesn't prevent us from wanting it with every fiber of our being. They say, of children when they teach child-psychology is that if you want your child not to seek out the fire, have him/her experience what its like to be burned. The memory of that pain will be enough to have said child running in the opposite direction every time they see a flame. Good text-book philosophy, that. And maybe it works on most children. But Super and I, we're a different breed, I think. I can't say about Mr. Man (because that may be presumptuous) but every time I see fire, I find myself more fascinated than afraid. Like the fatal draw of a tempestuous ocean, the crackling majesty of a multicolored flame is as attractive to me as it is to not-too-intelligent-moth-species. And while I know exactly what it feels like to be burned I also long to feel some of that glorious heat, particularly when some part of me is just-so-awfully-cold. And that is why I sit a little-too-close to bonfires. And run my fingers through a candle-flame and let my skin singe-just-a-little-bit with running wax just before it cools.

But enough about me. Let's talk about Super (as is the point of this post), and his shameful secret that I understand only by virtue of being a member of the Super-Fraternity (or is it Sorority, or Frasority perhaps?)

Far from hating the substance that debilitates his abilities, Super has a deep, undying love for it. I know what you are thinking. You are remembering all the many scenes that you and I have seen where Super finds himself crippled and writhing in agony, helpless to help the masses because of one tiny crystal that seeks to destroy his soul. You remember those moments of Superhuman bravery when Super finally removes the devastating element from his person, throws it far-far away, regains his prowess and moves on to heroically save the day. But have you ever thought what goes on in Super's head when he finally finds himself in Kryptonite embrace? Have you ever thought to consider the pleasure-pain that he might be in where he longs to make this sweet-torture go on even as he screams to have it stop? Have you ever thought that more than anything else in this universe Kryptonite is what Super craves?

Because, my loves, the truth is that no matter how Super, Super may be he is at the end of the day one of us. And as creatures of perversity, Super and I (and you, perhaps) know that at the end of the day we are willing to bear pain. And we are willing to suffer. And we are willing to fight demons. And we are willing to give up our souls. For the simple, timeless, absolute pleasure of finally being able to let down our defenses, and - for a short, miserable but infinitely fulfilling time - feel utterly, and completely, oh-so-excitingly human.