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.

Rollercoaster ride

That roller coaster ride,
making my stomach churn.
I want to get off.
STOP IT, I scream.
The voice caught in my throat.
I get dizzy. The ride goes on.
I can't take it. STOP it.
Sweat pours down.
I hear the happy screams of others.
Why can't I enjoy it?
Someday, I will get used to it all.
The ups won't be so up anymore,
Nor will the downs be so down.
Someday, I will get used to this,
This roller coaster ride called life.

My sweet friend wrote a poem and this is what I replied with. :)

That is the only thing I can say for now. Started with aerobics and I am going to die.

An un-ending wait

I waited. I waited. I waited. Anxiously. For the very first time in our 3-year old relationship, I had realized she was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

Today was special. Today was when I was going to ask her hand in marriage. Today we would finally be one. Realistically.
She told me she would be late. She told me we would go out for dinner. She told me she would be back. Really.

I waited. I waited. I waited. Anxiously.
I wanted her to say yes. I wanted to spend my life with her. I wanted her to be mine. Lovely.
She told me she would be late. She told me we would go out for dinner. She told me she would be back. Really.

Post-blast.

The city came to a stand-still. The city broke down. The city went boom. Literally.
I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t contact her. I couldn’t breathe. Worried.
She told me she would be late. She told me we would go out for dinner. She told me she would be back. Really.

I was shaken. I was scared. I cried. Broken.
The phone kept ringing. The phone stopped ringing. The phone-call never came. Destroyed.
She told me she would be late. She told me we would go out for dinner. She told me she would be back. Really.

I needed a hug. I needed a kiss. I needed her. Want.
9 seconds passed. 9 minutes passed. 9 hours passed. Crazy.
She told me she would be late. She told me we would go out for dinner. She told me she would be back. Really.

..But she never came.

Leaving life behind.

It is not easy to leave your life behind. Well, is it possible to leave your life behind? It follows you into the dark and into the light, never leaving you till your very last breath.

One year ago, I was jubilant to my life behind in Mumbai to start another one in Chennai. That was one year ago. Once again, today, I am packing again to leave all of this behind for that.

Adios Mumbai. I will back, soon enough.

Love.
Me.

Ps: This post promised to be so much but I just can't face it right now. 

Tired.

Everyone seems to be achieving something or the other. I try to take on something fun, something I have always wanted to do and yet I seem to fail. It is crazy. It is difficult to break old habits.

I think it is something I lack. Maybe a gene or something. I can't do anything against biology, can I now?

Some one find a pill that will reverse these effects? I am tired. 

My Hero.

He just lay there.

He was never around much. But he retired soon. And then, I literally grew up with him. The more I think about him, the lesser I know. I remember him pacing up and down, all day long. He had so much energy.

Hence, it hurts just to see him lay there.

Tubes for fluids to go in. Tubes for fluids to come out. Body failing.

He worked too hard. His job required him to on his feet for 14-16hours a  day. He overworked.

Today, those legs have failed him. Walking himself to the bathroom is a task.

Where is my hero? Where is the man who taught me what patience and calm mind can achieve if only you are persistent? Where is that fighting spirit?

"Last week, I wasn't sure if he would pull through, but the improvement showed in the past 2 days gives me hope." The doctor interrupted my thoughts.

There, he was. My hero. Still fighting. Only now for life.

Stay strong. 

Lucky 13 Part 2.

Wheee. The brother returns with part 2. Time to give him atleast a new tab on the blog, I think. You can find all of his work on this blog here. 

Find part 1 here.

“You have got to be kidding me, Gwen! Seriously, why can’t you just get off the phone and answer the door for once?”

Forcing her feet to make loud thuds signaling her anger about her room-mate’s laziness, Sarah Dawson comes down the stairs. She sneaked in a quick glance at the mirror, followed by tying up the last few loose hair-strands. She didn’t know who was at the door, but that wouldn’t stop her from looking her best.

They say, for police officers, knowing justice is being served is good enough, but not for the new-age detective. It’s not only about finding the criminals, but also looking good while doing it. But today was something extra special – it was Sarah’s first day as a homicide detective. Obviously, she wasn’t the most experienced officer out there, but with a series of unsolved murders and a serial-killer out on the loose, exceptions had to be made, new recruits had to be brought in. She had traded in her faded, worn out patrol uniform for off-the-rack suits – reminiscent to a “rags to riches” story. She had never considered herself to be poor, and let’s face it, even the top detectives don’t get to have all the luxuries in the world, but this was about earning respect. Sarah had worked her way up, from the bottom. Law-enforcement seminars, self-defense classes, weapons workshops and slogging it out in the real world, she had done it all. Although she was a small fish in a very big tank, full of people telling her she was too pretty to be in the police, too nice. Surrounded by so much of negativity, there was never a moment where she gave up hope. A life-long dream was finally going to come true today.

As the door-bell rang again, her thoughts were brought to a screeching halt, and on opening the door, Sarah hoped she could just disappear of the face of the planet. Between the young, vibrant and energetic Sarah and the equally vibrant and colourful spring morning, stood her aunt - Michelle Rose. Michelle and Rose – both words have such a tender, beautiful feel to them. When you put them together, you can imagine feminine grace and the capability of painting such a pretty picture. Sarah’s aunt though, was the complete opposite. A tall, bulky woman, dressed in a black “Metallica” t-shirt and cargo shorts, Aunty Michelle was a professional wrestler in the old days, under the name ‘Monster Mama’. Hitting her early fifties, it would still take more than one Sarah to take her down – and that’s exactly why Sarah sighed loudly. If only her aunt was the petite figure that her name portrayed, she would’ve simply run over her and deal with the consequences later.

Sarah had a pretty simple way of behaving with people, and there were no exceptions – If you are nice to me, I’m nice to you. If you are not, I do not care. Every time she considered joining the forces as a fresh graduate, and after every promotion, it was the same ritual. Her aunt tried persuading her to find something better to do in her life. She told her how this life wasn’t for her, but coming from a successful woman in a heavily male-dominated industry, Sarah never paid heed to any of her advice. She expected another anger-filled tirade from Michelle, which usually ended with the niece demanding that her aunt leave immediately and never show her face ever again, but evidently, it didn’t ever work.

This time, the young detective was prepared. She sat through dinner last night, thinking of all that she would say to her aunt as her she bursts up into flames like every other occasion. With a curled up fist, solid as a rock, the very confident Sarah was waiting to pounce on her aunt with a barrage of her own; ready to go to war. But after a brief, yet intense stare, something unimaginable happened. As Sarah gave her eyes momentary rest with a quick blink, the near 6-foot tall Michelle was on her knees. The smirk and arrogance replaced with a meek, exhausted look.

“Please, Sarah, please don’t ruin your life. Get out while there’s still time”.

Sarah was quick to reply, without any emotion or distress, “After years of trying to force me, you’ve finally found a more innovative way, but that doesn’t mean its going to work.”

“Sarah, darling, if you keep going along this path, you’ll open doors which have to be kept closed. All those secrets have to be kept untouched. Otherwise, your life will be ruined”.

“What secrets are you talking about? How can my life be any more ruined than it is right now? I have no family – my dad’s dead, and my mother is spending the rest of her life in prison for killing him”.

long lost -2.

Find part one here

Even though, he was wide awake now, the voices were no different. They still sounded like they were coming from far away. And everything seemed to go on in slow motion. Her lips moved mouthing words but it was like the tv was on mute. Her lips. Those lips. Her hair. Nothing had changed. She hadn't.

Wait she had. They had. Nothing was the same. She had moved on. He remembered all the fights. All the mistakes. The ones he made, the ones he was hurt by. Of how she had changed. Of how she blamed him for everything and then, one day, just disappeared.

He respected her wishes. He had promised her that he would never question her.

"No questions?" he heard her ask.

"I've a few," he replied.

She looked at him and gulped. She knew the moment she had heard about his band performing that this would happen. She couldn't escape. Not like she had the last time.

She took a deep breath and said, "Go ahead."

He looked at her and asked, "Why us? And why now?"

His band mates looked at in surprise. One of them just started to protest, when she held her hand. He had to start laughing. She always hated being interrupted or protected. 'Talk to the hand' was something she always said.

Looking straight at him, she said, "Because I have always believed in you."

His heart sank and he felt the same thing he had felt years ago.

Review of Bru Cafe World, Juhu, Mumbai

Disclaimer : This is my first review. Be kind.

On 14th June, Friend and me decided to enter dripping wet into the Bru world cafe, Juhu. Located prominently close to Shiv Sagar opposite Ramada Plaza, it is not very easy to miss this place.

On entering, the place has a refreshing ambiance compared to the cafe chains we are used to. The place has 2 levels. The upper level is very dainty with just 3 tables. It has been decorated with interesting posters of coffee facts and books. I suppose they encourage sitting there and drinking coffee for a long time while reading (Ah, the dream) One of the best things in the decor was the wall art in the bathroom. It was refreshing to see a cafe give importance to the way a bathroom looks (and hence, hopefully the effectiveness with which it functions)

 This place has a lot of posters like this.

A part of the books on the shelves.

The menu looks to be a good mix of international blends, house blends, teas, smoothies. They also have interesting menu of desserts, that I must try someday soon.Things I am looking forward to try : Black pepper cheesecake, Choco Mocha cake, Tiramisu cappuccino, Basil Pesto bell pepper wrap and caramel cappuccino.

The staff were friendly but seemed a little clueless about the menu. When the friend asked about the french press, it took him a few probing questions to understand what we meant. They however were quick to recommend the Chicken Nizami Roll when asked. Their uniforms are smart and add to the charm of the place. Overall, better training could help this place.

Pricing seemed a little expensive for the international blends compared to other cafes but everything seemed pretty decently priced. After having an Americano, a roasted hazelnut cappuccino and chicken nazim roll cost us less than Rs. 250. Not bad, I say.

Getting to the specifics, I had the roasted hazelnut cappuccino and it was pretty nice. A very subtle flavour but a tad too sweet for me (but then, it is me) Friend had the Americano and said it was decent, he had better and worse. Nothing to brag about. The Nazim Roll was recommended for good measure. Not too heavy but delicious and quantity just about right for one person.

The review in less than 140 characters (for my awesome twitter feed): #review Bru cafe world, Juhu is refreshing in terms of decor and some items of the menu but the training of the staff might mar the cafe.

Lucky 13 Part 1.

Disclaimer : This has been written my brother, Akash. If you like this work more than mine and you tell him so, he might consider making a blog of his own. Till then, he shall leech off my space.

“Believe me, I had nothing to do with it.”, he shouted out. The bright lights make his pupils dilate, and still, the lights pierce his eyes. Moving his head up for a breath of fresh air, he can’t help but wonder whether “karma” had done him in. His lungs cannot take another dip into the icy cold water, but the San Francisco Police Department officials wanted answers. 34-year old, business tycoon, Roy Jefferson has had many visits to the SFPD office – on charges of fraud, extortion and even solicitation, but always managed to hide behind the best legal team money could buy. The large abundance of green paper in his back pocket had made him quite a few friends in the Police Department itself, but this was one deal, neither his money nor his shrewd business mind could get him out of. Found over his wife’s body, with her blond locks and blood all over his hands, he was caught red-handed. An anonymous 911 call had cost him dear. His lawyers tried their best to get their employer out of the mess he had gotten himself in, and in reality, it was extremely easy for the ‘Cutting-Edge Realty’ owner to entice the district police force with a not-so-hefty depression in his bank account, but with the global media fixated to their TV screens and gunning for Allison Jefferson’s killer, the police couldn’t afford any bribery allegations.

27-year retired veteran in the force, mother of two and regarded as the best female law enforcement officer in the country, Melinda Thomas had managed to reach her bed, after pretty much not knowing what sleep was for the three decades that went by, and as soon as she shut her eyes, her phone started ringing. “Sweet Home Alabama” was an appropriate ring-tone for Thomas as she was born, brought up and even served the force in her home state, before an obsession with a serial killer earned her a transfer twelve years ago to Illinois, from where she retired last year. This obsession had ruined her marriage, her social life, almost her career and, definitely, her life. Her daughters had no time to call an absentee mother – an absentee even when living in the same house, her mother had passed away without having her only daughter read her eulogy because she was busy running down a wild goose hunt and her ex-husband who found himself alone on all his vacation, her police years had been difficult for everyone around Melinda. With no friends and a dreadfully distant family, she spent her, now free, Saturday nights and Sunday Mornings watching Alfred Hitchcock classics or getting her old case files out of the closet and attempting to catch the one-man who got away. So, when Roy Jefferson was found over his wife’s lifeless body, the SFPD knew who to call, because of her reputation around the law enforcement circles - The woman who had dedicated her life to finding this man, and failed. Thomas had been in this same position the last time four bodies had been found in her state of Alabama, same M.O., in the span of two weeks

.

Alistair Lee – 40-year old, Male, Caucasian, investment banker. Amanda Johnson – 22-year old, Female, African-American, waitress. Andrew Peterson – 8-year old, Male, Caucasian. Anna Petrov – 32-year old, Female, Russian Immigrant, Housewife. Different ages, different social circles, different ethnicities and all of them had no enemies. Then, what got all of them killed? They all couldn’t have been in the wrong place, at the wrong time & killed using the same M.O., all in a matter of ‘thirteen’ days. The figure of 13 days can easily be mistaken for 2 weeks, but not when it comes to this serial-killer. The police departments across the country have a compartment in their file cabinet dedicated to who the media termed as the ‘Lucky 13 killer’.

Family secret

Dear you,


It is difficult to pick up the pieces, isn't it? Especially since the person who always seemed to make things better is the one who has broken us? Glass, you see, is a very weird to make a heart out of. What was God thinking? It is strong, no doubt. But something strong makes it weak. And once it does break, it never recovers. It remains weak and susceptible throughout. Yet we love. Knowing very well, how it going to be. That we might get hurt. Yet we love. Do you know why?

I have family secret to tell you. I discovered sometime back and I think it is time to share. We are special people. Not special like the special Olympics. But special like we don't have normal hearts. Some hearts are made of glass and some of bone. Hence, they break and become vulnerable. We have hearts of metal. Strong but meltable. They melt under the right conditions. But once we build it back, it becomes strong. With each hit, it becomes stronger.

And hence, we love fearlessly. Because we know that nothing can break us. We get stronger, here now. Just stronger. But we always do remain stupid in love. :D


(Written for the cousin)

Breathe

Walls come in closer,
Slowly but surely.
Walls close in slowly,
Inch by inch, creeping in.
No way to escape,
No door in sight.
Then comes a point when you realise,
With a sudden with a lightning jolt,
That there is nothing you can do,
Except breathe.

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Accept.

When you want to hold on and yet let go,
When you want to let go and yet hold on,
When you don't know anymore,
what to pray for and what to wish for.
When there isn't an answer and
only one question : here or there?
When everything revolves around that,
that which you want to escape.
Escape,you did, temporarily,
Only to have the guilt.
Leave it all behind,
Fight,
For what?
When believes are challenged
And there is nothing you can really do.
Except accept.

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Corruption in India

Tomorrow is my paper on financial crime and I have questions that we have discussed over and over in class and I wonder what others here think about it.

1. Do you think corruption is culture sensitive?
1.1 If yes, then has corruption become a part of the Indian culture?
2. Does religion have anything to do with corruption? I don't mean a particular religion being more corrupt but rather a religious person being more corrupt than a non- religious?
2.1 Is religion just a cover for our black/dirty money? Think Tirupati and the crores spent there.
3. Would increasing the salaries of our public servants solve the problem of corruption? Are they underpaid? Is that the cause of our corruption?
4. What is the best solution for corruption?
5. Can corruption ever be totally and completely eradicated?

Let me know what you think. I will try and compile replies in a post soon along with what I think.

10 days to home.

Yes, finally, officially, the countdown begins to go home. FOR TWO WHOLE MONTHS. Wheeee.

My tickets are booked for 27th night. And I have an exam till 5pm on 27th so I have go to uni with all my baggage. That is not going to be fun. Well, that means I have to start packing now. Because there is just so much to take. I don't know what to take and what to leave behind.

Arrrgh. Home beckons. Just have to get through this final hurdle of exams and then, Bbay, here I come. Wheeee!

Breakfree

That feeling when you crib and crib to your parents for something you want.
That feeling when you know you deserve something but just can't have it.
That feeling when you are down and beaten.
That feeling when you know you deserve better.
That feeling when you know your boss is  a douche.
That feeling when you know you could make things right.
That feeling when you decide to makes things right.
That feeling when you break free and decide to fly.

The girl with the book.

"It has been a while since I have been here," he said.
"I see," she replied, not looking up from the book she was reading, knowing very well where all this was going.
"It is loud in here, isn't it?" he asked, not giving up.
"What do you expect in a pub?"
"I definitely wasn't expecting a girl to be reading."
"We are quite persuasive, aren't we?"
"I would call myself, hopeful. As as Hume says, 'A propensity to hope and joy is real riches; one to fear and sorrow real poverty.'"
She smiled, as she put down her book.

(Boy o boy, I am a little rusty with the writing bit)

Written for 3WW : Loud, Persuasive, Riches.

Home is where the heart is and my heart belongs to you, Bombay!

The sights and sounds that make home. I don't love Bombay because it is the "city of dreams" or the "city that never sleeps" but because it is home. Simple as that.

The dust, the heat, the traffic and above all, the hordes of people all that make this city special. I don't know why so people come here but I do know why I find it so difficult to leave. Family and friends.

Independence is one thing but the idea of everything taking care of itself is awesome. The someone to run to each day or of hot dinner waiting for you, I yearn for while I'm away.

School friends, college friends, twitter friends, just friends (origin unknown). Meeting all of them in just a week is impossible. I've to break someone's heart each time. (Pompous eh?) I keep saying I'll be back for 2 months (summer break). But I doubt I'll meet them then as well. I will have an internship that might require me to be running around the city. But everything is just an excuse. I just don't want to miss this comfort when I am away. 


People don't understand the reason for me to choose the window seat in the aircraft. The reason is simple. That first sight of my city. Those lights, blinding lights. Just the feeling of I am home. Where everything is familiar and everything is mine.

Today, once again I pack my bag. Wondering if I can reschedule my ticket, I know I'll be back soon finding every small excuse. Because I leave my heart here.

Bloggers unite.

Seen Marley and me? 101 dalmatians? And the best (worst?) of them all, Hachiko?

Even if you haven't, you won't dispute with the fact that dogs are man's best friend. It is sad that the one true living being that would actually do anything for you, gets 0 respect and love from you.

I love dogs. I do. I think there are the best things all planet on Earth. The most genuine and loving. So it breaks my heart that I can't do anything for them. Not much until I have my own money and house.

But now, I have the perfect opportunity. Mumbai Twestival is organizing a meet up. It is on 24th of March. This year we are supporting Welfare of Street Dogs. I can truly vouch for their work. Brilliant and awesome. Read about them, here. If you want to help, let me know. On Fb, on twitter, anywhere.

Things you can do :

1. Donate : Go to http://bit.ly/givemumbai
2. Come for the event. Details on our fb page soon. (Click on it)
3. Get us some sponsors.
4. Blog about it and win prizes. (Read about it here)
5. Follow us on twitter @mumtwestival
6. Like our fb page.
7. Spread the word like wildfire. (There are prizes to be won)

It is crazy that some people when I asked to help out, they said that they rather help the 2 legged creatures than the 4 legged. My immediate response is why? Who are we to decide that humans are more deserving of help? I get it, you don't want to help. I can't force you. Dogs aren't a cause you feel strongly about. Fine. But more deserving is what pisses me off. Truly. Crazily.

road to recovery

That thing that you just can't let go of. That piece of cloth, that book, that piece of paper, that stub of a ticket. Pieces and glimpses of the past that you hold onto.

Things that you can't let go of. Ideas that occupy your mind. Dreams that flood your thoughts. Memories that possess you. How worthy of your present are they? How worthy of your time today are they?

Wonder why I am thinking of it but I just am. The slideshow in my head is not yet fixed and it throws up images in seeming weird chronological order. It jumps from an era to another and the feelings that it brings with it are just as poignant and vivid as they were at that point in time.

Things that happened years ago. The disgust that I felt, the pain I experienced, everything is the same. It just feels like I am watching someone's pain and I am empathizing. It ain't me. It is someone else.  I can only imagine that this is what the road of recovery looks like. This road has the most sucky scenery.

Multitask much?

At this precise moment, I have my notes open, I have the cricket match on, I have twitter on, I am chatting with a friend via text messages and with another via BBM. I think there might be a lag of a second or 2 in my response time, otherwise, I am really good at multitasking.

Soon 3g shall be common in India and if the reliance Ad is to be believed, I will be able to "mix my worlds". For a compulsive multitasker like me, it is good news eh?

Now, that just makes me wonder. I was writing an exam that day. 2 hr long. The idea of not doing anything but writing an answer after another is scary. I need to be constantly bombarded with information. I need multiple things to need my attention. I strive on such chaos. In the exam hall, I sing to myself to keep me distracted. I make plans in my head and sometimes, even have conversations. (Yeah, I might be schizo)

But I wonder if it is just me. It is something that I do because of my habits (hence, I can change it) or is it my personality (Will need hard work but changable) or do many of us face this (still changable but a lot of changes will have to be made). What do you think? What is it?

Pain is addictive

An old acrostic. (What is an acrostic? Read this)

Part of me, it is now.

An indestructible part,

Indifferent, I have become,

Nonetheless, to your presence.

I am no longer me.

Slave to pain, the feeling of being alive.

Alive from the passive death.

Death, the slow death from the pain

Death, unlike the death of my happiness.

It is not unlike the blood flowing from a

Cut on my arm. Painful. But

Therapeutic. It screams aloud,

I'm alive. Unlike my broken heart

Veins throb. I revel in 

Elixir of life: Pain.

Self injury is a serious issue. Read this first hand account.

Ranting no. god knows what.

Adjusting and being assertive. Both serve different purposes and we have to behave in different ways depending on the situation.

I have learnt this the bitter way that I am assertive, almost bordering on being aggressive with a few and there are times that I am a total pushover. That is it, I say. I do as I want and I shall compromise when I want.

If you are not adjusting, neither shall I be because I can bend but not if I think that I will break. Enough.

Dearest parents.

Dearest parents of children of any age,

Please read this with an open mind and though you might not agree with me, I bet your children do.

1. Your child is not stupid. (S)He has a brain and it functions really well.

2. Your child is not a robot. (S)he doesn’t work on batteries and hence, you cannot control her/him.

3. Your child is perceptive and knows you better than you know her/him.

4. Your child is an individual. Please learn to respect her/his individuality

 

Today I was a part of a seminar that spoke about the role of parents in imparting value education to children. I can’t believe the things that I heard. Parents were talking of kids being deviant because of excessive use of mobile phones? Like, serious? That is why you call your child a deviant?

Not, was the concept of deviance pretty weird, the definition of value too was misconstrued. Apparently, wearing a sari to a college reunion shows how valued you are. So, I kill people, I bribe my way to the top, I drive drunk and maybe I steal but if I wear a sari, I have my values in place.

According to the woman presenting, (And here, I shall quote her exact words), “Recent studies show that 45% of children in the age group of 12-17 have had alcohol, at least once. What is more surprising is that girls TOO have a drink.”

This another parent (father) stands up and says, “The major problem here, is that we are bad role models for our kids. (I agree) We drink and smoke in front of them and we expect them not to. (Again, I agree) Whatever you want to do, do it 5 km away from your house (SAY WHAAAT?) My job doesn’t let me quit drinking and smoking. (He is a cigarette and alcohol tester/taster?) So I don’t do any of those in front of my children.”

Well, good for you, sir because your kids will probably never do the same in front of you and you shall die an ignorant man.

Seriously, what twisted concept is this? Children are NOT stupid. We know when to approach our parents when we want something. We know how to sense their moods. Hell, my 2 yr. old cousin can do that, so imagine what your 10-yr. old can figure out.

I am 22. And till today, my greatest fear is to let my dad down. But I know for a fact that if I screw up (And God knows, I do that a lot), he may be disappointed in me for a while, but it doesn’t change his love and affection for me. And that gives me the courage to approach him when I am in trouble. It is scary to tell him but yet reassuring. He might not fix it but he will definitely understand.

Also, (almost) every child is rebellious. Sometimes it is a phase and sometimes a characteristic. But we all like to try out things. Most children have tried a smoke and a drink. That doesn’t change their value system. It is in this rebellious phase that kids need the trust and faith of the parents. Otherwise, the child is going to one scared individual, unable to take any kind of risk.

Last thing, (I suppose and hope) every parent wants the child to be independent and not get swayed by peer pressure. This independence, most often starts by the kid challenging your authority. The moment your child asks you why does he have to follow your orders, that is the day to celebrate. That day, he shuns all external control and becomes an individual. How you react to it will decide whether your child shall think for himself or be under external control throughout his life.

I am very glad that I attend this seminar, I would have never been able to appreciate my dad and my grandparents.

Letting Go!

Some days, she wished she could let go.

Jump in the deep blue ocean and just let go.

Why is it so difficult to follow the rules?

I would hardly call myself, a rule follower. But I am not stupid. If something is for my benefit, I will do it, irrespective of whether it is rule or law. I wear a helmet while riding my scooty. I carry it around almost everywhere I go even though it is a mild convenience. I wear it even when my friend rides it and I sit behind. Hey, just because she is riding doesn't mean I can't get hurt.

But whenever I do so, my classmates make weird jokes of how I wear a helmet when I am riding just a scooty. I mean, come on. Thankfully, I don't know enough Tamil to get the jokes and have a head upon my shoulders to know how to switch things off. But I get it. I know why people are careless, even though they know better. I know why they choose to gamble than be safe. I know.

No title

I knew I shouldn't have done it. When every cell of my body was wanting to go the other way, I still went ahead. I didn't listen to my instincts and look where it has got me. It is easy for me to cut people out. But this hurts, like it has never hurt before. Who knew I could get hurt? Why did I trust? When I could see all the signs, when it frustrated me so much right from the start, why did I still go ahead with it? Why did I expect otherwise? Why did I think it would not go the way I had thought? I definitely didn't think it would end this way. I thought I was being cynical, the crazy one, the one that thought too much, when all I got in return was affection. I thought I was the one that couldn't adjust, the one that couldn't bring myself to feel the same way. This is all my fault. I knew it right from the beginning and still went ahead it. How could I have let myself flow with these stupid feelings? Never again. Never ever again will I be so vulnerable.

You know what sucks? That I know that this is exactly what is going on in your head and I can do absolutely nothing about it. I know you too well. I know you well enough to know that staying away from you and letting you think all this is probably for your best. But everytime I pass by that road, I see the places that we went to, I think of you and us. It probably is never meant to be but the fact that you think all that was a lie hurts a lot. I hope you never read this. I hope you know how I feel. Because in your anger is your healing.