Saturday, July 31, 2004

Eine Woche dans l'hopital.

My dad had a heart attack , and i was pretty much in the hospital for a week, except to come home to sleep and take my mom clothes and stuff. Now that he's back home and well, I can look back and retrospect. Actually, it was fun, this last week. I met so many of my relatives after some 6-7 years... and literally EVERYONE had come coz my dad is very liked and he's the last person anyone would expect to fall sick. I discovered that i actually liked one aunt and uncle and a couple of my cousins, and these stayed with me the whole time, and we spent many happy hours bitching, fooling around and making my mom laugh. And yeah, now I know Apollo like the back of my hand, and all the parking attendants are my friends and so are the cafeteria guys and now i have many short story ideas, so im gonna give everything to finish the first one tonight.
ps - pardon my franzoideutsch, or allemancais. i ve forgotten all my french, and am not very profiecient yet in german either, hence the mix up.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004


wrote some analysis of the next edition of my story myself (coz no one else would) but it vanished mysteriously before i could post it.
it more or less goes like
"Why didnt she feel thrilled to the tips of her toes on seeing him, why didnt her heart flutter like a butterfly when she saw him smile and wave and quicken his steps towards her? Where has all the romance gone to? "
- i dont know what its supposed to sounds like, but sounds gaudy and millsandboonish. and that ist nicht gut.
"After half an hour, when she had eaten the dinner her mother had made in her destined career as a cook and maid for her busy husband and unsympathetic daughter (She could count on one hand the times that the daughter hadn't frowned after one glance at the dining table) she felt things could be worse. "
- whew!! tiresome. cut it short, woman!!!
thats enough. now to answer mr kanjus unnikrishnan, if u click on the title of the post below (Published writers...) , it will take you to the site where your book "Coffee stains on camel tea cup" is showcased. so that makes you a published writer full of fart (just like sharat, not the published bit, the other bit) and u still havent sent the whole story.
and, btw, he gave me ur name and the link for ur book voluntarily long ago, but i didnt think u were the same person and author till last night. So you can now with a free copnscience go play with his t... whatever..

Monday, July 19, 2004

Published writers shouldnt sound depressed

kanjus unnikrishnan, send me the whole story.

Sunday, July 18, 2004


When she saw him, she couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment. Why didnt she feel thrilled to the tips of her toes on seeing him, why didnt her heart flutter like a butterfly when she saw him smile and wave and quicken his steps towards her? Where has all the romance gone to?

He spent about 5 mins with her mulling over the hideously expensive clothes (fancy buttons, no buttons, fancy straps, no straps, shimmery hardly there material, hardly there), before she steered him to where the swim wear lay. Pick one, he said. She thought the one in white would flatter her. He picked it up and rubbed the material between his thumb and index fingers right between the leg holes. As he did this, he looked at her and smiled. He had really kind eyes, so his look and smile didnt really go with his action. It made her feel a bit funny, like you would feel while watching a perfectly turned out gentleman digging his nose while opening the door for you.
After promising to go swimming with him from 'next monday', she started home. By the time she reached home, she decided to ignore his calls. It made her feel a little relieved, and very sad. And very tired.

Her mother was fluttering near the door when she came home.
Where did you go, why are you so late?
I told you I was going to meet Yamini to have coffee. I was only gone for two hours.
Why do you have to go out to have coffee? As if theres no coffee at home.

She wished she could scream till all the panes in all the windows in all the city shattered and all the parents in all the city went deaf. After half an hour, when she had eaten the dinner her mother had made in her destined career as a cook and maid for her busy husband and unsympathetic daughter (She could count on one hand the times that the daughter hadn't frowned after one glance at the dining table) she felt things could be worse. Her father could have been her mother. If her mother drove her to the wall, her father would have driven her over and under it. Thank god he works 20 hours a day 7 days a week. She hated those rare sundays that he stayed home the whole day. He spent his free time at home, arranging and rearranging pens and magazines on the coffeetable, bellowing instructions to minions on the phone (2 phones), peeping into the monitor every ten minutes if she was on the internet, asking her who what when why where before she went out and calling her every one hour to tell her to get home before "It gets dark." And yes, picking his nose.

It never ceased to amaze her that they could find completion and happiness in each other. But then, their definition of happiness and completion were very different from hers. Her mother felt she was complete because she was married, married to a husband with a decent amount of money, married to a man who didnt smoke or drink or cheat on her, and was still married. Her father felt complete because he was a man, married a pretty girl his parents chose for him, married a girl who gave him a child and managed the house with whatever he earned. They felt complete because they got exactly what they expected out of life. Nothing more, nothing much less.
They definied happiness as a state of no sorrow. If no one important died, no financial disaster occured, if they could buy a house and a car and have babies, they were happy. The word love did not exist in their beings. After getting used to each other, after so many years of marriage, they were extremely comfortable with each other, and agreed on everything when it came to their daughter. Which was to disagree with and disapprove most things she said or did.

They did not understand how they could have produced this creature. That went out of its way to disobey them. they did not understand why she wasnt happy staying at home, learning how to cook, wearing pleasing salwaar kameezes and sarees, and looking forward to getting married to an Engineer settled in the USA. Mostly, they didnt understand why she wanted to Buy so many books, when there were perfectly good lending libraries all over town. Or why she wanted to Spend a 1000 rupees on a handbag, when her mother bought 3 for the same price and even gifted one to her sister, or why she wanted to learn french or have boys for friends.
(to be cont'd)

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Wah Wah Wah

I won't lie, I was asked by a friend to read your fledgling short story, and comment on the same;............
.......without being asked to shut shop.I could swear I hear the world crying, "Please!Mercy."

(the full comment is the second one under the post titled "lernen deutsche bitte')

oh man, i didnt understand half the stuff Mr Anonymous wrote. well, pls do tell me who you are. one thing i did understand is that.... i thought i was cynical... Mr Anonymous is grandfather of cynicism.

Anyways , i dont agree with u that my posts make better reading than the story. but i do agree with the let the pen fly thingy. anyways, im going to namma uuru bengaluuru tomorrow early in the morning, so i shall stop here, and continue when i get back on monday.

pls do send me something uve written Mr Anonymous. I promise i won't comment on it.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004


Pretty enjoyable, most of your work seem to stem entirely from yourself and your experiences (just an observation). I keep seeing you, as i read what you've written. I know you won't post whatever u wrote before, but is there any chance you might publish some of your old work ?

- 362

P.S Kings of all the possible brands ?

WELL, since my mysterious friend 362 and another friend requested old works of moi, im seriously considering obliging. ill do that once i know where im going with my story. coz that decision is vital to acknowledging whether i can move on and write more for the rest of my life... or if i should give up...

anyways, heres my own analysis of the 700 words.

1) plot. theres no progressive action (actually its still to early. only 700 words. so ill let that be).
2) Mono character. Mono lougue. no dialogue. no spoken words. just narrative. a trifle tiresome.
3) no colour in descriptions. VITAL VITAL VITAL IS COLOUR.
4) lugubrious sentiments for a young woman, and a little too judgemental and assfaced to be likable. (but thats the character's characteristics!!!!!)
5) too much mindscape description. actually thats ok, but theres too little landscape description. read stephen king to find balance.

aside- is 362's remark about seeing too much of the writer in her works a snide comment? well author is forced to acknowledge that the same thought has been nagging her since the time she started to write. Author finds herself incapable of dreaming up characterisations alien to her nature. Which is why she has stuck to confessional poetry till now. Well.... the 700 words is a start of something fictional... if one doesnt consider the author's brilliant story for 7 yr olds called "Woof and Poof". and about the kings.... well that bit is definitely fiction coz author has changed brands very often and doesnt smoke kings currently. and author wishes to remind snooty yuppie NY friend 362 that this is bharatmahan where kings is no.1 brand.


She stared intently into the mirror. Probably half an inch. But sparse. Sniffed gingerly, nose turned down sideways. No need deo. The stuff stinks anyways. She lowered her arm and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans. Too young. Naah. Probably old one digs it. That thought sent a small ripple of distaste just under her skin that went almost unnoticed what with her general feeling of complacency about the entire situation.

The afternoon sun beat mercilessly upon her head like a drunken schedule caste husband. She felt listless as she walked toward the autorickshaw stand. The heat always made her feel so. Give me freezing cold anyday, she muttered, upperlip to lowerlip. Not that I'd know what any temperature below 28 C feels like, she added with a wry half chuckle.

The autorichskaw was just a paper overhead and paper underfoot. Hot salty wind burned away at delicate forearms from either open side. Felt like sitting in a cardboard box that was crumpling under the pressure of the fist crushing it from all around. Her attention though, was diverted from her browning forearms by the godlight. Yes, it looked like godlight, surreal to the point of being mystic, the light streaming from the most unlikely of places, a place one's imagination can't even stumble at, the one being in an auto behind an auto driver. The Godlight, from where she sat, was streaming from the hole in the autodriver's left earlobe. The Sun was up at 60' in the front slanting its rays through the cheap glass, maybe plastic of the auto. The bulky dark form of the man in front of her steering the three legged vehicle was blocking the dazzling light effectively, but a strong, sinous ray got through. Through the dark lumping form, through all his darkness, streaming through the 1 mm pierced hole in his earlobe. Still the goosebumps refused to rise.

She wanted to laugh at herself, but it seemed such an effort. The feeling of lethargy was overwhelming. She hoped she didnt do anything bizarre, like falling asleep or yawning in his face when she met him. Why was she meeting him? Did she really think he wanted to buy her a swimsuit because it was a nice gesture? Did she really think he wanted to teach her to swim because he felt that swimming is a good exercise and everybody should learn it? No she didnt. She knew exactly what he wanted, and that was exactly what she had expected from the beginning. Swimming was an adequate excuse, and teaching her how to swim would provide ample opportunity to touch, fondle, grab, etc. Oh, and rooms were available in the same club. And he wanted to buy her a swimsuit because he thought it would be kinky, the choosing, speculating, imagining her in styles, colours, maybe even peeping in the dressing room for a quivery nod of approval.

She smiled. Her contorted reflection in the driver's mirror smiled back uglily. One of her constant sources of amusement was to look at strangers as she caught them staring at her, and imagine how shocked they would be if they really knew what all she was upto. Another source of entertainment was to imagine how her parents would react if they knew. They would probably not recognise her if they saw her with a cigarette in her hand. They wouldnt be able to even imagine that their daughter smoked. Female promiscuity was a known even if disapproved of concept. But a female smoking was unthinkable, unimaginable. That reminded her that she had to get rid of the empty Kings pack from her handbag.

The auto charged through the streets like a knight in shining armour, all steel and sound and fury. Enemies from all sides scattered in the wake of the all conquering hero. Their blasts of righteous annoyance at being humbled scraped at her trembling eardrums. She stuffed a finger into her right ear, which had started throbbing. The posh grey tones of the department store was stylishly letting in the suckers through slick automatic doors. Middle aged women badly dressed and brightly lipsticked were consiously picking out clothes that made them look classy to other badly dressed brightly lipsticked middle aged women in the store. Slightly smarter women, and some men, with a studied casual air about them were glancing at displays lazily, as if shopping in a big store didn't make them nervous.


Looks like annie has taken mercy on less poetically inclined people like me and put in this poem. I guess now even i can start to write poems and find the poet in me thnx to found poetry.

hah! you never know what inspires whom to become what all! To borrow a line from Tagore, "Now my cup is full."

Monday, July 05, 2004


The Public demands that I post some of my old poems. (proof- check the comment on the bikini post). this is disheartening. public knows poet is unhappening and unprolific and uninspiring and generally worrrssst. but poet refuses to regurgitate her old poems (ITS ACCEPTING DEFEAT).

anyways, im writing my first wholesome shortstory. 700 words down. 3000 odd to go. all await with bated breath for it. The subject is S-C-A-N-D-A-L-O-U-S. so there...


friend of mine said she really wanted to leave a comment on the blog, but didnt coz she didnt think she could say anything intellectual to suit the blog!!! Brrrrrrrr..... what can I say?
Poetry is not intimidating. Shouldnt be intimidating
AND EVEN SHAKESPEARE WAS NO 1 on the bestseller list in his times coz he wrote SLAPSTICK. which we now consider as great art.

oh yeah, i have to mention something soothingly mundane to bring the blog down from the branches. I got 2nd best marks in german class in the first test of my course. yaaay... i got 89 on 100 and was taken aback to to learn that the paavam dude who never opened his mouth in class got 98/100. i mean... its a language for chrissakes. how can anyone get 98 in it? then i learnt he's an iitan. ah ha, alle ist clair now. i used be friends with some iitans myself. about 10 of them. all of them wrote GRE and all of them knew the meaning of EVERY SINGLE WORD in the vocab list. and i can guarantee that the GRE vocab list is a deadly monster developed in secret labs under the desert sands in Nevada, USA by the govt of USA to leech out the braincells of all smart 3rd world kids.

anyways, iitians dont belong to the earth. 8 of the 10 ppl i knew got something like 3390/3400 or something like that in their GRE. sheeeesh!
anyways, i topped among the non iitans in class. he he

Saturday, July 03, 2004


oh my! After opening my blog twice everyday and getting disheartened everytime seeing not 1 comment, im doing flipflops in the air now after receiving a mail from my old prof. She READ my posts, SENT her poems for MY perusal, and also GAVE SUGGESTIONS for posts!
heres a stanza from a poem she sent me..

The touch, the smell and the sound
You talk about…
Let me tell you…
I have lost the fragrance in it and for me
For days to come…
Unless you are the moon
Or hold the sky….

- Sashikala Gurpur-Murphy.

I quoted this particular stanza because I identify with it, with the concept. Let me see how id write it if i wanted to express the same idea...

I wish your touch would send shivers
running down my spine
Leave quivers across my lips and
fingertips tingling as they leave your skin.

I dream an aching dream where
i sink in your musky fragrance
and your face looks a thousand times better.

In hazy afternoons, as my eyes swim drunkenly,
they weave a simple design- you hold up the sky
and im ur blissful slave, you are the moon
as I look up.

Afternoons are brief,
long are hot summer nights
when the real you
is bearing down on me,
rushing breath in my ear,
sticky fingers in my hair,
your gaze melting the man in my eyes
as I look up at you