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sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away.

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When you are happy the happy songs make sense.
You like the beats, the drum roll and the bass. 
Sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away. At-least for now =)
I am not jumping-on-a-trampoline happy. 
No, I am not in the most ‘perfect’ stage of my personal or work life. I could do with a better paying job, a lean-toned body, but that’s only so much wishing can do. I know I can do with a lot of things different; but, I am in a place where I know that I couldn’t have done without the things I have now. 
Maybe, that’s what quiet satisfaction is (no, I have not given up on controlling things, yet) It is just that, I don’t have difficulty sleeping and my mornings are nicer, crisp almost. 
The broody, intense, passionate man with Jesus hair and song in his fingers is absent. I have instead a tall-ish, lank-ish, goofy man, who always smiles when he looks at me, hums a song when he is happy. He doesn’t make me weak in my loins with his looks; but yes, his embrace is my spot, in everywher…

connect.

We do things that keep us connected. My husband reads the newspaper, even if he gets only 10mins to do so, while he brushes his teeth;  I cook, even if I do that in the only 'free' time I have aside from the working and traveling-to-work hours. It keeps us connected, connected to our homes and thus to our mothers, while we make a home of our own.

The Shadow

What is a memory? Who is a memory?

I have a lot of memories, I think of myself a storehouse of memories. I have filled my head with nuances, looks, songs, letters, words and even sighs. The sight of that man walking towards me with his shampooed jesus hair,eyes only on me, smiling. Those fingers pricking the guitar strings to my song;the same song he refused to sing lest he couldn't do justice to it. The sight of that man who looks at me as I run across the airport terminal to hug him tight as the entire terminal looks with awe at that grief stricken girl and sheepishly smiling boy. The reflections on all those mirrors are memories, those smiles are memories, those tears are memories.

No, you are not a memory if you are still here. If  you are a memory, you are not present; you have ceased to be a certain someone/something and thus transformed into a warm memory.

If I am here, I am not a warm memory, I am your present.

Or maybe I never was.

'The Gatekeeper put away his blade. …

this and that

I am vella again. Between jobs again.
.............
I was at my mother's place last week. After two years of my marriage I went there for an official 'aanto' (gujarati for visiting your 'maika') I could manage to stay there a week, then I shortened my trip and came back 'home'. Let me make this clear, i don't hate my parents; no one in his/her right mind hates his/her parents. They are gentle folk, just like my husband is. My mother is a tad stifling that's all. She has this habit of curbing people, non intended of-course,but yes the curbing does happen. She is the person who would open the caterpillar's cocoon for it, when she sees him struggling.

My impromptu packing of bags made my father call me to get my hormones checked – 'beta, that causes mood swings and depression'! Alright.

The constant need to run. Run away and escape makes me feel nauseous.
..............
Tamasha was engrossing.

Among-st all the subtlety the least talked about wa…

Words, oh words.

From this experience, I understood the danger of focusing only on what isn't there. What if I came to the end of my life and realized that I'd spent every day watching for a man who would never come to me? What an unbearable sorrow it would be, to realize I'd never really tasted the things I'd eaten, or seen the places I'd been, because I'd thought of nothing but the Chairman even while my life was drifting away from me. And yet if I drew my thoughts back from him, what life would I have? I would be like a dancer who had practiced since childhood for a performance she would never give.”
-Memories of a Geisha, Arthur Golden

Waiting is atypical. When you’ve waited a long time, the loneliness, the pertinent absence, becomes almost a part of you; a part of your everyday life. It ceases to matter anymore if the wait is leading you to something or it is just what it is, a wait. You’ve waited so long for your Chairman, that even when he comes he doesn’t suffice. Waite…

Restlessness

Chapter 1|Control
I like a clean house. Everything kept in its designated place, appropriate or otherwise. I am a cleanliness freak. Yes.
No. I am a control freak. I like to control everything around me, a lesson learnt from the past, where I simply allowed things to happen. Today, I want to know what is where; how and why it got there. Everything I have ever lost has cost me sleepless nights.
If I break something, I should be the one to blame, not otherwise. If I lose someone I should know I had it coming.
I am a human after all, there is only so much I can do. Of course , there are days when I let go, only if  very briefly, where I let the winds blow stuff away, sitting there appreciating the fury that is so much stronger than I am.
There are some days when Che decides to take over and mess everything up, I get defensive and try and take things in my hand, these are days when I fight with him, following him and picking up stuff after him. I hardly ever lose, but I like him winning more…

absolution

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I always thought I will die on the road, hit by a truck/jeep when crossing the road. Then I have this recurring nightmare, where I fall off the stairs, it almost always wakes me up; and since it wakes me up, I don’t really see me dying that way, maybe thoroughly injuring myself, turning me into a vegetable (which is worse than ultimate death).
But as you grow older life dawns on you as scares, you open for yourself different avenues. Then your mortality stares in your face and you do not take death as something you joke about.
 Death is absolute, life gives you chances, every day.

too much ado about nothing =)

I should have kept on writing. 
I took up a pen and found an old notebook, it had my husband’s scribbling on it. I think he abandoned it unknowingly. You know, like so many things in life we pick up, thinking we need them, but just, very simply end up abandoning them without too much thought, as a matter of fact not even realizing that, that something has been left astray somewhere. See now, I am really writing, I am philosophizing over a notebook which my husband bought and left after filling in a few pages. . 
We live on the 16th floor of a new building. It further down a major arterial road and is frontal to a very busy, very tiny road. The building is so badly planned acoustically, that you can actually hear every single vehicle that passes by. Sometimes fights break out in the nearby slum when inebriated men lash out at one another, possibly hurling abuses at one another they actually want to hurl at themselves. I also hear dogs barking in the night, howling. Why do they bark so f…