Of Pin Cushions and Hearts

My breathing is constricted and my heart is cold. I have known all along, so why is my breathing constricted and my heart cold? It is late afternoon and the hunger that had been building inside me since 10 in the morning has now demised tragically. I rejected a momo lunch, a rash decision influenced by emotional unstability which i will regret later, but the point is, that's how upset I am.
Oh crap! I'm tearing up now.

The chill has spread to the pit of my stomach and filled the void in there, and my fingers have turned a strange hue of blue. The same blue that tints the face of the dead. The screen is blurring before me, and lines are merging into the other. I have been disturbed by the obvious, a silent truth we knew. But the truth is made of stuff so potent, the effect of which is catalysed when voiced and then life is white. A red stain seeps onto the pristine canvas, as a thousand pins puncture my heart.


Three days later.


My fingers have regained their colour and the pit of my stomach is warm and replete. My heart now feels like a frozen hunk of lamb with puncture marks that ache every time I sigh and a slight yellowing that comes with every aging bruise. I have now touched a comfortable numbness and it's good. Well, it is not a place i would voluntarily want to be in, but it's good.

The feeling is almost baptismal, not in the religious admission of Jesus Christ as God kind of way, but in a metaphorical sense. Relinquishment of the old life I knew and acceptance of a new life I have to know. So after a few too many angsty songs and regaining conrol over my lachrymal tendencies I can say with confidence, "I'm all over it now, I can't say how glad I am about that."

Blackjack

21 years old, educated, gainfully employed, fully recovered from one failed relationship and dabbling in several others. I am not gloating, but I have to say, I love my life!

Musings of my Manic Mind - Part I

I laughed as I stabbed you in the back
I watched as you lay bleeding black
My hands now coloured, my lips blue
I fall on my knees and say a prayer for you
Eternal rest grant unto him o Lord
And let perpetual light shine upon him
I look to the heavens searching for an answer
Dejected I turn and in silence embrace her.

A bitch, a liar, a tramp, a whore,
An angel, his sweetheart, his lover and more,
I stabbed I watched him die, my hands are stained,
All the waters of Neptune cannot wash it away.

I laughed as I stabbed you in the back,
I watched as you lay bleeding black
I turned to go I close the door
My step it faltered as I shed a tear
Turning to my Lady I called out to her
Crying, sobbing and wailing I swore
Smiling I slipped my hand in my pocket
Gleaming blood and glistening steel my knife was secure.

Haagen Dazs can buy Happiness

The cookies and cream softness merged with my tongue and did the tango with my buds, my palette smeared with the creamy colours of off-white speckled with deep brown bits of cookie. Was it an Oreo? Or Nestle? Or maybe it was the chocolatey goodness of some very exotic Belgian cocoa. Eyes closed, my lips were pursed to lock in the warmth of the frozen milk that flooded my mouth. The steel glinted viciously as it dug into the tub a second time creating a second crater and the spoon found its way back into my mouth carrying a majestic little blob of heaven.
My weapon of cream destruction found another victim, this time a virgin tub filled with the goodness of strawberries and cream. 'ATTACK' signaled my brain, and my hand moved forth in a swift, streamlined motion that cleaved the thick air that seemed to protect the untouched tub.
Scoop. Savour. Swallow.
My tongue sang praises in my honour, and my brain froze in sweet, sweet orgasmic delight. The ever so slightly sour tang of the fruit blended with whole milk assailed my senses and showed me ecstasy in close quarters.
"Hagen Dazs....." whispered my senses with a little sigh; my shoulders slouched easing my edgy nerves who until now were under the strain of deadlines and unwritten copies.
"Six hundred and fifty rupees!" the shriek sounded groggy to my intoxicated ears. "Six hundred and fifty rupees!" another shriek reiterated, this time I heard it, loud and shrieky. My eyes awake, my brain followed suit. "Six hundred and fifty rupees!" I heard myself shriek. For less than half litre of heaven frozen and sold in little tubs, a tub that carried a sin more delicious and potent than the forbidden apple there was a price, an obscene one.
The package was delivered to the office by two PR agents, who were shamelessly whoring this Mata Hari in an effort to get rave reviews in the weeks' Saturday supplement. My senses which were still reeling in the bliss I fed myself quickly found their bearings and the edginess that was temporarily lifted found its rightful place again, in my neck and nerves.
The happiness I knew fifteen seconds back still lingered like a forgotten lover, and I smiled. The reality of the price tag soured the smile. The old fool who said money can't buy happiness was definitely poor. Today in decadence I found happiness, in the expensive taste of indulgence I was content. Money brought for me happiness, a happiness I cannot afford.

Lolita, Lost and Found

When I was 16 years old I was prompted to think by a 32 year old stranger, and out of my tender, yet unspoiled mind came ideas and thoughts that surprised me and intrigued him. I was listening, learning, responding intelligently and asking all the correct questions. This I know with a certainty that is so absolute, because I got his attention. The interest he showed in me became the confidence that was missing in my life until then and all the pimply pre-pubescent boys with their barely there facial hair, caught in between adolescence and puberty that my peers showed interest in failed to spark anything in me. I was already burning with opinions that mattered and emotions that was beyond any of them.
I reveled in the interest he clothed me with and I reciprocated. We talked about the weather and religion and books and politics. I sponged in every word he said and he became my Bible. When this respect became attraction I don’t know. But I was undeniably attracted to this stranger, this stranger who taught me to seek, and taught me to question, this stranger who I had never seen. I found in me an intelligence I never knew I was capable of, and in between all this I discovered a power that could ruin a life.
That intellectual affair never ended, it became a dormant part of my secret past. A surreptitious flicker and gone again. In the time he went my growth stagnated, and my mind ceased to explore. I had forgotten the beauty of words strung together in a dance so seductive, I never remembered the pleasure I found in the banter of a counter culturalist, and I had hidden from me what had become my essence.
He is getting married.
Five years later I found my missing whole in an instant message and it was reduced to rust in another. When we talk my mind flashes back and I am 16 again. But a 16 year old whose voice is laced with languor and words supported by a confidence she mastered over the years. He reads the change in my tone and my choice of words. I concur. The evolution is apparent, but it will never be sufficient. “You’re still too young for me,” and just like that it was broken.
Five years back I fell in love, a premature love beyond my years, one that a 16 year old grown up understood

Goddamn Vodafone and their stupid pug perfect campaigns

When I left home to come to Delhi never did I fathom the tragedy that was about to alter the very fundamentals of my life.

Life as I knew it had died. Suffocated by the carpeted floors and summoning bells of the bureaucracy. I would wait listlessly for the time I could leave the house. The heat would sear my skin but the freedom to run, shout or even talk above 5 decibels thrilled me and allowed me to continue the life I had left off, waiting but not forgotten, at the entrance of No.3, The President’s Estate.

As I turn the circle that hails the edifice, the hands go for my pipes and an avalanche of a million tiny pebbles of fear automatically land-slide in the pit of my stomach. I can feel every constriction in my throat in between the futile attempts I make to desperately find the air that eludes me.

I enter the antechamber, and the folded hand greeting of a man, two score older than me ensure that the supply of blood has been cut off to the capillaries in my chest. I make my way into the house, and the carpeted floor muffles any sound that might have helped shatter the silence that seems to have permanently damaged my auditory organs. Over-stuffed furniture, upholstered in bitchy beige silk welcome me with a smugness that made me want to set her on fire.

The only being in that house that seems to share the same joi de vivre and enthusiasm for life as me, or in the entire household shows any excitement of my being there is Ruby, the pet pug, who I highly suspect feeds on Gatorade and Snicker bars (if this is true, her affections for me don’t count). If you thought the Energiser bunnies were annoying, she is a thousand of them encased in pug’s clothing, and she loves me. She follows me around, jumps into my bed, licks my face when I’m sleeping, and nibbles at my toes under the dinner table.

I hate her! I hate the feeling her teeth leave when she gnaws at my shins, I hate the wetness of her nose, I hate the sound of her perpetual panting, and the pinkness of her tongue that can’t find any place inside her mouth. I hate the warmth of her body, and her excitement when she runs around in circles trying to snap off her tail.

I envy her! I envy the fact that she pants louder than the decibel level maintained for speech inside the house, I envy that a twig can entertain her for at least four hours, I envy that she can run around the house not giving a damn that someone might think of her as uncouth, and most of all I envy the fact that she doesn’t need to feel judged when she picks up the wrong fork to eat dessert.

Everything about her sends me into an almost post partum-esque tizzy. She means well, she does, and it’s not her fault. “It’s not you Rube, it’s me.”