Apparent Talent

That cobwebed easel in the corner,

The guitar that sits collecting dust,

Shears that lay abandoned in the mud,

she looks at them one by one

with eyes of want.

A talent, an apparent one,

the one to show off,

the one to celebrate,

to win laurels and all that.

She want one, one of those,

She sits on the floor,

staring at each of them,

wondering if they'll ever talk back.

She stops, picks up a pen and

writes her feelings off. 

PS : Thanks, M and Vishesh for making sure I write. 

The stranger in the car

It was probably the first time in ages that she sat so close to him. They were cramped up in the back seat of the car with his grown up son. She looked at him  lovingly and they were soon deep in conversation. He was totally out of this equation. Slowly, he saw, she grew tired and her eyes began to droop. He hadn't seen her so tired in a really long time, he actually hadn't noticed her at all in a really long time.
Soon, as he was lost in thought about the years gone ago by, he suddenly realised that she was fast asleep. Her head on his shoulder, something she hadn't done in long time. He realised how a lot of things hadn't happened in a long time. Her face looked different, of course. Her eyes, the same. The calm that face showed when she was asleep, the same.

It felt like he knew her forever and for her, it really was forever, he chuckled.

When did they stop talking like they used to? When did they grow apart? He couldn't pinpoint a day or a time that it happened. It just did. All he knew was that today, she was a stranger.

She suddenly woke up, looked at him with surprise at the way he was looking at her and said with a chuckle, "Sorry, dad."

Yes, she was a stranger who he had raised.

Lucky 13 - Part 3

‘Sex, Drugs and Rock-and-Roll’ – That’s how I define the last eight years of my life. I had an introduction to alcohol at 16, drugs at 17 and women at 18. I’ve gone to the darkest places one can imagine; borrowing money I could never repay and stealing things I didn’t need just so that drugs could flow through my veins. Even during Colonel’s funeral, I was lying in some alleyway with a needle stuck in my skin. If it weren’t for my connections in the department, no one would’ve even considered giving me a try.

Jason gets off his laptop, and is met with the disapproving look in his father’s eyes. The near 25-year old didn’t wait for another moment, pleading his case to his father, who looked happy but his son knew he was anything but.

“Dad, it’s been over a year since I touched any of my vices, and I plan to never go back that route. It’s been quite a struggle but I feel like I finally have some control over my life. Of course, Becky has been helping me get through all of this. She’s the one who gave me the push I needed to join the police department. It’s where you spent your final few days working, so it’s fitting. I want you to be proud”.

As Jason plays back, in his head, what all he just said, he moves his hand towards a photograph placed on the shelf, right in front of a large group of books. He picks it up and slowly stretches his arm, so the picture is at a proper arms-length from him, and right in his eye line. Spending a brief moment staring at the picture, he murmurs – “I wish you had seen this side of me. I wanted to make you proud”.

As soon as he finished his statement, he heard a familiar voice at the foot of the room. Turning around with a bright smile on his face, he let go of the sad tone his voice had earlier. Becky was the only person who meant something to Jason. She was a neighbour, but was closer than any family he had. While everyone else had given up on him, she reminded him that his life mattered. He was in love with her since the first time he saw her, but never found himself capable of asking her out.

“Oh, you are already up, and here I was perfecting my ‘Wake Up, Poop-head’ chant”, the tall, pale, ginger figure of Becky laughed walking towards Jason. “Whom were you talking to this time – your mom or Mr. Leigh?”, she asked genuinely curious to know. This had happened numerous times before; every time Jason was in trouble or took a step ahead in life, he would talk to his parents as if they were standing alongside him.

“I will never understand why you refer to my dad as ‘Mr. Leigh’, when you are very comfortable referring to mom as ‘mom’”. Jason already knew the answer, being constantly reminded by Becky’s father to call him ‘Mr. Harvey’ because he took part in the Civil War re-enactment from time-to-time.

Becky walks into the kitchen, and Jason follows. She had been preparing breakfast for him almost everyday, so it was nothing more than a daily routine. Those two months when she was out of state were as hard on him, as they were on her. She couldn’t wait to get back to him, and he couldn’t wait for something other than McDonalds and Burger King. Out of practice, Jason is almost at his seat awaiting his food, only to be stopped in his tracks. “No, no! There’s no time. You can have your breakfast on the way, in the car. You are expected at the shooting range in twenty minutes. I'm driving you there."

Why Criminology?

The BFF (who is meeting me in person after 5 years) pointed out that I don't blog as much as I used to. Put it on twitter and I got a prompt asking why I study what I do.

Now, if that doesn't spring me into writing mode, nothing will.

My interest in Criminology happened because 1. It sounded cool. 2. I got to leave home to be closer a particular someone. A year and a half later, it still is damn cool and the particular someone is nowhere to be seen.

What has changed is my interest in the subject and how it fits in perfectly with everything I have always wanted to achieve. It is a perfect mix of practical and research options. Not only that it lets me feel like a superhero. Preventing crime and sending the offenders to jail and all of that without wearing my panties over my jeans.

It exposes to me to so many issues of the real world that it has burst my comfortable bubble. It makes me sensitive and aware.

There's this subject in particular called Victimology that I have my mind on. It is awesome. (Yes, I use that adjective a lot) There is such a lack of awareness in this field. The offenders have a lot rights. There is a minimum standard rules that have be adhered when it comes to prisoners but there is nothing like that for victims. Indian law too looks at victims as mere PW1 or public witness number 1. There isn't any special consideration given.

While the accused can avail of a number of schemes and things, what does the victim get?

For all that and more, I love Criminology. Yay.


(This took so much effort to write. I must write often. I need to get into the habit.)

I have a dream

I have a dream. It is far fetched and totally possible. If only, I had enough money. Will you fund me?

I have always been intrigued by the idea of a non profit company. An industry that does good without relying on outside sources of money. Studying criminology has only strengthened this aspiration. And now, it has more form and shape than ever. (Of course, there is still a long way to go)

The idea is to start a prison industry. No, that is not a place where prisons are manufactured. Rather, an industry that functions within the prison. Yes, there are already many of those already. But this goes one step further. Not only, are they trained and given employment within the prison but when they get out, a similar set up outside gives them the same job for a period of a year. They are given accommodation and a job. It will function as a half way house. They have training, they have a job for a year.

Once the year is up, they are "let go" into the world with a letter of recommendation and experience. They are ready to fight this cruel world.

What this industry will do is a big question and that is yet to be answered. But if I have so come so far with this, I hope I will go all the way....

What do you think?

Dowry

It all started with a simple question. A simple question that was meant to kill time during a presentation which I was severely under prepared for.

I had to present on dowry laws in India. 20 minutes later, I asked the class comprising of 15 boys and 3 girls, would you ask for dowry. Silence.

Okay. "Would you accept it if it was given willingly?"

Most guys said they would.

This wasn't as disturbing as what was to come next. I asked the girls if they would walk out if the guy asked for dowry at the last moment. Only 1 of the 3 said that she would walk away. The other two would actually through the wedding. These are smart women doing that PG and no less than criminology and yet, they would adhere to a social norm so devious.

It is disturbing to think that people actually have to put thought into whether they would accept/give dowry. Why? Why do men think they are so incompetent to support themselves and their families on their own merit? Why do women associate their worth on the money that they are given in a day and age where women work, earn and fend for themselves?

This is probably because (as my prof pointed out) we leave most of the decisions pertaining to marriage to the parents. We accept our families to accumulate wealth for us and hand it down once they are gone. We live in a society where we decide our worth on money earned for us by someone else. WHY?

Imagine a marriage that begins on demands, rather it is based on it. Where does it end? First it is a car, then a flat, then a bigger car, this much gold, this and that. When does it stop?

In conversations about this on twitter, two important points came up. Pooja tells me that a highly educated girl would need an equally or more qualified boy and hence, has to pay more dowry.

Somehow this goes against what I would have believed to be the reason for the custom of dowry to have begun. The other point that came up was made by Suraj who rightly says that it now just tickles down to the fact that people want to show off. It is just an excuse to show the world their spending capacity.

A marriage, a union of two people and in most cases, of two families that can be so special and precious is being sold in market like any other commodity. Pooja tells me they is actually a term called going rate used for grooms.

Well, the way things are going, the husband mall might not be that far away.

If you want to know more about dowry laws in India. Read this.

Thank you, Girish and Aditya for actually making me write this and not die like a rant's death on twitter.

Being opinionated is different from being insensitive.

Let me ask this simple question : What is that you care about? Deeply or superficially?
I am glad that you like to voice your opinion about any thing and everything and quite frankly, that is probably one of the reasons I do like you but then, there are day like today when I wonder if you just plain inconsiderate and insensitive.
I cannot decide if there is something wrong with being either of those two.
Is there something wrong with not standing up for anything? I believe in Human rights, Animal rights, Gay rights and whatever other rights you can find but is there something called rights of inconsiderate?
If I were one of those people, I would say that I would pray for your soul.

If only she could talk...

Ever since I was little, life has been weird. I felt like the neglected child. Both of us did. My twin sister and I. My earliest memories are being flat and wondering what we were doing there. I was relieved to know that she felt the same. Useless.

Things started changing as soon as we hit puberty. We started getting a lot of attention. Men couldn't get their eyes off us. Sometimes their hands too. Some were slapped and some others kneed. A few were allowed to proceed further. And boy, did that feel good.

Things only got better from there. Well at least in terms of the fun we starting having. It was comforting to know that all the attention was on us. We felt important.

We were a team. We would do everything and I mean everything together. It was awesome to lay there in bed, look at each other and then look at the guy look at us. Indecisive of who he wanted first. Or how he could have both of us together. There were men who would bite, there were the ones that sucked, the ones that gently caressed. We loved the way we moved in unison and also the way perked up together.

We were inseparable. Until the day that one stupid man said that he preferred her over me. I mean she was my identical twin. I could look into the mirror and really not tell us apart. But he did. He preferred her over me. But she would not go on a single date without me. She refused to even go to bed with him without me. Could you believe how weird that was for me? Once in a while I would get a pity squeeze here and there and that would be it. I didn't want it but well, what could I do? Emotionally and maybe even physically, we were pretty much like Siamese twins. I wonder what it would feel to be alone, independent. Without her.

In a way, I suppose I got my wish. She was taken away from me. I saw the butcher's knife come toward her and snatch her away. I wanted to scream and I did. Every inch of me was screaming bloody Mary and I was afraid, oh so afraid. I often wonder what happened. Was it me wishing her away that did this?

I have wrinkled and I no more feel perky and maybe it was because I was alone. Men didn't look at me the way they looked at us. Maybe she was the prettier one or it was the package deal. Twins, the fantasy of every man. There was a sympathetic fuck that loved me the way I was, alone but it was felt incomplete. Her place left a void.  She was replaced with some weird silicone filled cup that didn't even move, forget move in unison like we did. It wasn't her. Years later, I gathered the courage and wondered what had gone wrong. I heard someone say breast cancer one day and finally managed to put two and two together. That's what took her away.

Is the world too big or too small?

Is the world too big for me to hide from things and people I want to avoid?
Or is the world too small that I will keep bumping into people time and again?
Sometimes, giving the chance to reconcile, giving a second chance to what might could have been. Or is plain huge for people to disappear and leave you with regrets and what ifs?

I am unsure if I should believe in 6 degrees of separation or not. But maybe, if I saw some of you later, sometime in my life, I wouldn't feel the way I do right now. And for good measure.

7 things I wish were true.

(edited : Thanks Kris for pointing the error in the title. I should consider getting a proof reader for my blog posts)


1. Live and let live.
2. Being drunk and doing things is fun.
3. Even if people don't understand you, they can be your friends.
4. As you do, so shall you reap.
5. People always learn from their mistakes.
6. Every event has some meaning attached to it. It all is part of a grand scheme.
7. Everyone gets their happy ending.

Matter part- 1.

"Matter.
Red matter.
Red gooey matter.
Splattered all over.
A man, this time.
With the look of disbelief, fear and disdain all together.
His gaping jaw. The bullet hole through it. He was dead, just like the others.

I woke up, once again. It doesn't surprise me anymore nor does it affect me. I have learnt to live with it. Everyone tells me the same thing. The previous few therapists, my friends or whatever is left of them, It was a message from my past. My past that I know nothing of.

I do remember my first such dream. It was when I was 12. It had me all trembling and unable to sleep. Not that I was or I am much of a sleeper. It was infrequent but now, it has become a daily thing. I can't be bothered anymore. I am done.

It is almost 6am.

I went through the normalcy of the day. Heading first for a bath, then getting ready and making my way to college. These dreams don't matter to me any more. They just don't."

She completes her rant. Her eyes hollow and tired.

"So why are you here?" he asked with a calm and soothing voice that made her kind of weak in her knees. She stopped looking at the floor and looked up.

"Because, well, my last therapist, Dr. Larry couldn't see me anymore and if I don't talk talk about it, I feel like, I don't know, I will explode. Better out than in, eh?"

She likes the way he smiles at her lame attempt at humour. She breathes in deeply.

"What do you want to achieve from therapy?"

"I have stopped having expectations. From therapy. And myself. When I went to my first therapist, I thought the dreams would go away. But here, I am 6 therapists later and no solution. If nothing, the problem is worse. The dreams are more graphic, more detailed. I couldn't see their faces, earlier you know. Now, I can. I can. I know who they are."

"You do?" She can sense the surprise in his eyes. She can feel his gaze on her. Once again, she meets his gaze.

"I know they are people. I feel like I know them."

"Do you know what hypnosis does?"

"I have read about it in my Psychology class and well. Dr. Larry told me about it."

Both of them remained silent for the next 10 seconds, then, he took a deep breath and went on to explain how hypnosis taps into that part of the brain that wasn't accessible by the conscious and alert mind and if these dreams were being caused by something in the past then, she would have an answer.

Having an answer is better than having nothing at all. Would that make these dreams go away, she wondered. Almost instinctively, he answered,

"Knowing the cause helps you deal with the issues, the dormant issues. Your mind is trying to tell you something by the way of dreams and we are here to figure out what that is."

I don't mind coming here everyday if only I get to see this face, she thought.

"Have you understood it? Let me find you something to read for the next session when we start the process."

The smile he flashed next stayed with her the whole evening while she fixed dinner, while she took her long bath and finally fell asleep.

Open letter to whoever wants to read.

Dear Hipster- chick with a weary world view,

I am a Mumbai girl living in Chennai for the past 1.5 years. I read a post about Dally boys written by what I assume (because I just couldn't finish reading it) a South Indian girl. To bring it to the notice of that girl, things aren't exactly peachy in your side of the country.

I relate more to boys and always have. Maybe it is their calm nature or the fact that most boys don't give a flying fuck about what you think. But what is it with these Chennai girls?

1. If you sit in the girls' side of the bus (oh yea, an entire side reserved for women), you'll see that most women have the same exact hairstyle with the malipoo. Chennai is where fashion comes to die.
2. Polyester salwar kameez in Chennai weather. Enough said.
3. Chennai girls are known for their long flowy skirts come rain or shine, they do their part in keeping the roads of Chennai clean.
4. For a matriarchal family, they do give too much importance to their boyfriends. A girl in my class was asked by her boyfriend not to talk to any other boy in the class and since, she didn't listen, he joined the same course a year later.
5. Chennai is where feminism and hippie culture meet because no woman knows what it is to wax or thread.

On an unrelated to women but more about South Indian spellings (Since you want to talk about Delhi English), why can't you spell like the rest of the world does? Why do you sprinkle "h" on everything and insisted on pronouncing it even when h is mute (eg. honest is not hornest.)

Actually this is where it ends for me. Because your mornings maybe be broken but so is your world view. You might be from anywhere in South India or India, if you can't adjust to a city, leave. I stuck with Chennai and probably was the best thing ever.

(With loads of credit to Niranjan- @nichtEinheit)

Broken smile

You there, laughing to yourself,
Yes, you, with sparkles in your eyes
And a laugh so infectious.
Pray, tell me,
what is it that amuses you.
That makes your face gleam.
Pray, tell me,
for finding a reason to smile
has been killing me.

It seems days have gone by,
Or, time has stood still.
A moment there,
and now, here,
with nothing at all in between.
Time has elapsed,
of that I am sure.
How and how much,
I know not.

My laugh is broken
My smile is gone.
Attempts are futile
to get them fixed.
Lost is the humor.
Missing the fun.
Something is gone.
I yearn for it.
Find it.
Return it to me.
Pray, tell me,
Where has my glee gone?

PS: Futile attempt. 

23.

It happened a few hours before my birthday and I felt betrayed. There is only so much you can do, after that you have to sit back and watch the drama unfold and then, maybe do some damage control. You can't control the storm water from coming into your house. You can't control people or their will. And you can't control your emotions. If you do feel betrayal, you do. But what you do with it, is important.

So that something that happened made me feel weird in the stomach almost all night long. In between the phone calls and the skype calls, I had that nagging feeling and that is not how I wanted to feel on my bday. And then, when I woke up in the morning, realisation dawned. This was the best gift I could have asked. I deserved this kick on my butt. I know whom to trust and what to expect from them. Better now, than later. Better today, surrounded by family and friends, then tomorrow when left to my own devices.

Happy Birthday, Me. Happy 23. Happy Realisation.

Time to make some new resolutions?

The lure of alcohol

He was never a man of words. He just couldn't find himself to say what he wanted. He had lived all his life like that. His wife got him somehow. Him, his silence and his anger. Everything. He lost her. He felt dumb and trapped again.

This silence was killing him. Slowly but surely. He decided he had to take matters into his own hands or else he would lose her. He had accepted the death of his wife but losing her would be something that his conscience would not let him live with.

He picked up the phone. Put it down again. Took a sip of beer and called again. Yeah, just a sip of beer would do. Put the phone down again. One bottle down. Soon, he would be drunk. No, calling her drunk would just be wrong. He called.

She picked up, "Hey, what's up? Where are you?"

He answered, "In my hotel room"

"Where? In which city?"

"Delhi"

"Is it hot? Raining? It is crazy hot here"

"Do you drink?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I prefer whiskey but with the pocket money I get I can only afford rum and the occasional vodka. Why do you ask?"

"Ok. Remind me to buy you a nice bottle of single malt when you are back."

"Are you serious? How drunk are you?"

"Do I have to be drunk?"

"Ok. Maybe not. What do you want in return?"

"Nothing. Why do you ask so many questions you want it or not?"

"Okay. Okay. Don't act all grumpy. But don't forget this."

"Hmmm. Did you go to college today?"

"Yep. Had the most boring class but well, internship begins tomorrow so I can be busy all the time. Plans to come here soon?"

"Not for a while atleast."

"Okay. I think I need to rush for dinner now. Talk to you later?"

"Fine. But call home."

"Yep. Will do, dad. Bye."

Maybe, this wasn't so hard after all. He could do this more often and maybe without alcohol or the lure of it.