The love letter of a mild schizophrenic.

“No, it’s you. You make me miss you, like a person who’s just missed his flight, regretting his decision to linger over his morning coffee to think about his children.
You make me uncomfortable, like the tiny ball of threads at the edge of my socks; the more I scrunch my toes, the more it exists.
You make me feel like a traveller without an umbrella stranded in pouring rain and I’ve never enjoyed the rain, don’t you know that already?
You make me think like an addict on the lookout for new ways to get a fix for just one last time before I bid you goodbye.

But I keep coming back because;

You make me feel alive, like a dog that’s finally found the ball, like an adult who stumbles across a piece of her past that makes her feel as if her life has been worthwhile. Funny, how a single fragment of nostalgia can validate the past, when the past is where it stems from, how a thread from the days gone by is all that’s required to tie up the jigsaw that’s been baffling us since time began. A single piece of insignificance attains massive proportions of importance once we realise how slyly it has been evading our conscious minds. It has always been right there- under the dining table, or on the window sill, against the wall, under my nose and I didn’t look at it with the right question in my mind.
Will you be mine? No? It is quite all right. Not everything is for me to possess, especially not something that drenches me so completely and at the same time makes me feel icky about being so transparent.

You make me feel transparent, yes, like a window that has been washed and re – washed by someone with OCD. You make me feel transparent like a piece of polished glass that was meant to be a mirror,  but someone just forgot to put the layer of silver behind it and now, here I am, purposeless and letting everything pass through me, letting you see everything I feel and sense everything I watch. Am I over thinking?

Love is painful, like a hair thin needle passing through the tips of my finger all the way into my heart and with each beat, I die a little more with the pain knowing all the same, that if it doesn’t beat, I’d die anyway. So, I love you anyway. Now that I think of it, I’ve always been able to bear more pain than you. You’ve been weak on numerous occasions, turning to me for comfort and a cup of warm coffee with extra froth. You couldn’t even drink the coffee hot!

No, I wasn’t asking the right question earlier. It should not be whether you’d be mine. Instead, why should I be yours? I’ll tell you. When I was a little girl, I never did bite my nails or pick my nose. As I grew older, I didn’t smoke cigarettes and didn’t do drugs. I didn’t even rebel a lot. I just fell for you and you became my habit. You are the bad habit my mother had warned me against on the last day of high school. This is what I derive pleasure from. You. And that’s why I’ll be yours, that’s all. You’re my imagination. MY imagination. My IMAGINATION. You’re all mine to be with.”

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Artwork: Christine Wu

Little Miss Muppet.

I miss you like a war veteran misses his limb, torn off and roughly patched, before the rescue team could arrive, or before he could even rise from unconsciousness. And now, he feels the phantom pain of loss every fucking night and just wishes he had known that this would be his fate. He wishes he had known so that he could have avoided the war altogether, not for a lack of patriotism but for the love for self. I wish I had known, so that I could have stopped before I fell for you.

I miss you like a the little girl who lost her teddy in the earthquake. She knows it’s around her, stuck underneath a huge block of concrete. She’s too afraid too explore alone, and no one helps her, least of all the teddy. Not a sign, no shout for help. It just sits there in the debris watching her eyes well up. Everyone thinks I cry because I’m weak but they don’t know how bloody strong the ones who lose are.

I miss you like a traveller misses the extra water she forgot to carry. With parched lips and cracked skin on her hands; each drop reminding her of how she wouldn’t live if she didn’t drink it, then again she would not live if she did. It’s like living with a rationed supply of what’s absolutely necessary. I had a finite supply of you, and the more I consumed the better I lived, the lesser we loved.

I miss you like an author misses ink when he’s finally got the idea that he’d been waiting for for months. The thoughts come pouring out of his mind with no where to assemble them, so he memorises them, word by word, paragraph by paragraph, repeating it to himself while searching for his quill and ink pot. I memorised your movements, your face, the lines around your lips when you smiled, the touch of your hand and the warmth from your body, but I can’t find the ink, I just, for the love of God, can’t.

And I’m afraid I’ll forget, and that with time you will become a vague memory of something that caused me pain, like a nagging in-grown nail that one learns to live with. We should not be this banal.

We were meant for greatness, like the war the veteran fought. We were meant to grow up together, like the child and her teddy. We were meant to be the thing of novels and fairy tales. We were, I swear.

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The countdown never ends, will college?

The countdown that I had started on my phone on a widget is on its last 60 days or lesser and I have a feeling that this will never really end. Once college ends, once I finish this final freaking year, I will be a doctor. Yes, I’ll have a year of internship left and my Masters and my PhD, but college does indeed end.

When college for you is a major KLPD like it was for me, one has to be glad. But am I really…glad? Not really. I never liked college but I like what I had to study. I had academic orgasms but the people quotient was a big let down and I had to fake it more than once. The fest is an apology for a fest. The administration only improved in the last two years. I’ve seen things be unfair and ignored. I’ve seen things be fair yet questioned. I’ve seen court cases and arrests. I’ve seen friends turn into strangers. I’ve seen flatmates turning into foes and when I said that the people factor was a let down, I wasn’t exaggerating. I haven’t touched alcohol in more than a year while at college and whilst that is a big yay for my parents, it isn’t for me. They say, no good story starts with roti-sabji and that’s all I had to eat in burdwan.
I’ve transgressed from no salwar kameez to an almirah full of them.

I’ve grown as a person and have been in contact with people who have terrible birth deformities. I’ve touched them, made them take their pills, assisted in operations and heard of one die. It takes a toll on you, cancer. Even if it is someone you haven’t known for more than a month, it shakes you down when he dies after a seemingly successful and radical surgery. I hadn’t assisted that particular case since I am junior but I knew of it.

College has shown me terrible lows. I’ve learned to trust more and have more faith rather than be guarded and expect treatment like that of a queen. It has been humbling. From travelling everywhere in a car to battling it out in the rains in the local town service buses, from never having to think twice before changing clothes to actually cleaning the bathroom myself…

But I’ve seen highs too, like everyone else. The usual impromptu outings, laughing our asses off prior to vivas and crying with my head on the room mate’s shoulder when I screwed them up. There are innumerable moments that I have collected unknowingly.
The ear injury, watching football matches, seeing Chelsea win against Bayern, seeing India win against Pakistan, surprise visits to a friends home for food, staying up all night to concoct a revenge against my roomies jerk ex-boyfriend, going out on photo walks, stealing shoes from the rude landlord and throwing them into a gutter. Ah, we were evil.

Friends came, and friends fell out. It hurts to know that I will walk out of college with a group of friends I can count on a single hand and not more, given that we were once the biggest group in college. But then again, I found a good handful.

The interb year will be a year full of more discoveries. My interest in the subject, what I’m really good at and more unplanned visits.
But this countdown that I’ve started, won’t ever end. It’ll start again  because college for me never really began. I am yet to fail a test. I am yet to get caught doing something that I’m not supposed to. I’m yet to be looked down upon. I’m yet to be reprimanded for not adhering to the rules. College has been… loose. There were no rules. There was nothing to break. Everything was… accepted. I was at home. I had professors who have loved me, thought of me so highly that they referred me to their friends’ son for marriage (oopsie). I’ve been loved and adored and placed on on a pedestal after winning the IDA competition at the National level. The letter of appreciation is still there on the college notice board and I feel surreal each time I see it.
Why? Cause when I had walked into this college it was a little better than a shanty. To have seen it grow from merely a cement structure to a full fledged hospital where I’ve become what I will be. I had never once thought that there would be someone representing this college at a national level. I had never once expected to have been supported with as much gusto as I was. Professors allowed me to take their Thesis reports and not just those from my college but from various colleges in the city. Everyone rooted for me, and when I held that trophy in my hand, everybody suddenly knew that Burdwan Dental College exists. This is probably the first time I’ve publically named my college. I hadn’t yet because I wasn’t really proud of it. But hey, I’ve done enough. Toppers of the university are from here. 😀

Having stepped into a college in capris and keetos and rebuked by the seniors, I will walk out wearing a saree and heels.  A lot has changed in the last four years. From the length of my hair to the girth of my waist haha. Seriously, I’ve become a more grounded person. Could college have been better? Yes. Do I want to redo one bit of it? No.

I’ve had my heart stolen, broken, manhandled, mangled, trampled and then rebuilt again. I’ve had torrid fights and hot tears flowing down my cheeks. I’ve lost my bag, notes and probably a few more things that I don’t even know of yet. I’ve had joyous nights which passed in a haze, I’ve had days which refused to end and evenings which have been beautiful. I’ve had conversations and basically, a college life we all have.

So no, the people weren’t as bad, in hindsight and in conclusion. The mass of them, yes.. but the ones who helped me build the memories, irrespective of whether they’re still my friends or not, were a good bunch. 🙂

A really mediocre post.

I found a dried rose in a really old diary of mine, the one I had in class 10. I can’t recall who it was from, cause I clearly remember not receiving any roses from the boyfriend I had at that time. And besides, I am not a very red rose person. I’m not a rose person at all.

I found a tattered piece of paper with a poem on it. It’s not written by me and it isn’t written by any of my friends but it is a poetry on friendship. And I can’t recollect who’s handwriting that is. (Yes it is handwritten so it had got to be from before the computers over took our pages)

I also found my old book of Idioms. I have my favourite ones dog eared and some are even underlined. And the book right beside it (The Fountainhead) also had similar underlined paragraphs. There was a time when I found idioms beautiful and that made the base for me to appreciate complicated sentences. No, actually, helped me understand the beauty of simplexity.
Simplexity is a word made of complexity and simplicity. There’s also a book by the same name.

It is amazing how I’ve grown and how people around me have come and gone. There once was a person who was important enough for me to have saved the rose he had given to me in a dary and now, I can’t even remember who it is from. There once was a friend who thought me worthy of poetry and now she’s lost to the new memories I’ve created. There was once a time where my mother bought books for idioms and now, she watches me read Rebecca and Shantaram.

Contentment comes from within and the family plays a huge role in it. By family, I don’t just mean parents and siblings but also the few close friends you have. I’m blessed with more than a few such friends apart from the loving family. I mean, my grand father just sent me a text stating how proud he is of having me as his grand daughter, and my mother is coming all the way to Burdwan to see me off for the teeny test I have, not because it is a test but because she has a holiday and she’s free, and my grand mother asks me if I’m pooping alright and another one sends me food from the other side of the street! I have friends who’re there for me no matter what and I have a flatmate who agrees to delay his date to collect something for me from home (a letter for college, beat that).

And who knows, even there people might get shelved into a folder in memory and gather dust until one day, where future me, finds a blog post written about them while rummaging through older ones. Or, I come across a note scribbled on my phone. Or a random message.

Sigh. 🙂

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Post Break-up Syndrome.

The world seems to be collapsing around you while you desperately try holding onto whatever you can lay your hands on- his favourite band, his favourite poem, the book he last dog-eared or the perfume you never really liked. You look around your room and spot his nail cutter on your dressing table or you look at an advertisement you had both laughed at, together, and then it happens- you feel a rush of tears stinging your eyes, your cheeks go warm and you repent your decision of ending things with him.
He wasn’t that bad after all, was he? All he wanted was for you to cut your hair or grow your nails. All you had complained of was him being an hour late sometimes and surely that can be worked out. All the differences and reasons for the ‘premature’ termination of your relationship begin to seem superfluous and frankly, childish. There is nothing a glass of wine and good conversation cannot sort out, is there? This is the Post Break-up Syndrome.  It is characterised by reckless dating, excessive drinking, excessive shopping, stalking your ex boyfriends, a high sugar diet, self-doubt, prolonged sleeping hours, regret, irritation, reading break-up quotations online, understanding song lyrics and most of all, the need to get back.

So, you call your best friend and ask her if the haste made waste, if the dog pooped early, if…okay, I am out of metaphors. Simply put, you ask her if you were wrong. She will not give you advice but hear you out while you figure out your own mess and while talking to her, and in turn talking to yourself, you hear the reasons out loud and you realise that the decision was in fact right. A difficult choice to live with, but a correct one indeed.

So how does one get over a significant other? You can delete his number, block him on facebook and hide the photographs. You can remove his physical presence from your life, you can pretend that he doesn’t exist and all of this will go on perfectly fine till that one day where you suddenly listen to a song you both danced to, or an old message in you inbox that got ignored while you were on a deleting spree or the news of him dating someone else reaches you. The world will be a perfectly rotating spheroid TILL THAT DAY, after which all his ticks and non-sensical habit will make sense. You will see that you’ve grown and have matured enough to accept the mistakes he had made 7 months back and you will ache to get him back but it is too late. He has moved on, probably as painstakingly as you have (or may be not) and he won the break-up game.

But that’s what popular belief says; that the one who dates first is the winner. I do not agree- I believe that the one who ends up happiest is the winner. Yes, there will be hiccups in getting over him (for god’s sake you loved him once upon a fairytale time ago) and you will question the choices you made. Yes, there might be a chance that ending it was a mistake, you probably should have waited a day or two more, maybe just maybe things would have turned around.

And then you will read something. Something so life-changing that you feel happy and light, like cotton. You’re a reader and he was not. You sing in the shower while he just, showered. You asked philosophical questions and answered them with candy-floss analogies while his dream interview is with Smith and Wesson. You looked at the stars, he saw the dark, dark sky. And then, you call your best friend again, to share your epiphany and she calmly makes you understand that two halves make a whole. That, while you focussed on the stars and he looked at their background, while you read all the time, he read the newspaper (and that’s the point where you make a face and disagree- newspaper is not reading duh!).
Then, once your BFF is done explaining to you why opposites attract, you say just a few sentences to her and she knows that you’ve won the argument-

I need a man who knows what poetry is, how beautifully one sentence flows into another. I need a man who carries a handkerchief with him, not to wipe off my tears but to clean the ketchup that I accidentally dropped on his shirt. I need a man who reads out Beethoven to me, instead of making me listen to his symphonies. I need a man who can make me lose an argument. I need a man who shuts me up by kissing me. I need a man who understands my fascination with House. MD. I need a man whose words seem like a song, whose voice makes me tingle. I don’t get that in him, sweetheart. I get a lot of other things, but not these. I can put in a handkerchief in his pocket and make him watch sitcoms but can I make him feel the beauty of Haiku? Can I make him stir his soul like a good book stirs mine? I am incapable, not him.

Till the time you reach an epiphany, the post break-up syndrome continues.

-All the best, I hope this helped. And if it did not, boo hoo, just start to not care and you’ll soon find another jerk who’ll also leave you 🙂

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Why the new year turned out to be happy after all.

The first words that I have said to anyone, be it my domestic help or my best friend, in  the last few days have been- Hey, happy new year! But then, what is truly so amazing about this year, or for any such beginning for that matter? Almost a week into 2013, it is turning out to be exactly like last year, maybe just a little more grown up. So what makes 2013 MY year? How am I going to let this year define my life? This is definitely not going to be a post on my achievements from last year or the mishaps from the past. This is not going to be about how i grow as a person this year or how my life will change because of what I eat.

The new year is really never good. The partying made my back ache and my neck cramp. I danced like a mad-woman and my hair was knotted and tussled. It is even worse for those who follow the drink-puke-pass out-drink cycle the next day, thanks to the hangover. Why o why do they say that the new year is good, or happy? January first, for most people is a haze of aspirin and missed calls.

This New Year party thingumajimmy that we all participate in was the best I have ever had till date but the days that preceded it made it what it was. It wasn’t all sun-shine and stars, trust me; there were tears and waiting in  the sun for your boyfriend to turn up, and there were last-minute panic phone calls to your girlfriends about what to wear and then ultimately looking stunning! Trust me when I say this- I had not expected the new year to be this great. Oh! and there was almost a break-up that was on the cards, but that dint happen thankfully.

My blog has hit 9,000+ hits already and it is not even a year old. I have already typed an application for an award to the Indian Dental Association for topping my college. I did not break up with my boyfriend, and we look so hot together. I have the best pals in the world. My parents just booked another apartment in another city. And life looks sunny! The last month two weeks were probably the most fun two weeks in the history of my life (minus the days in Thailand, of course) but this was so much fun!

My cousin, who is studying the US (so proud) wrote to me about how his friends ‘love’ my blog. Thank you, people. *big shout out*. Oh. And the drummer of ‘p a r i k r a m a’ messaged me himself AND gave me his number. I probably shouldnt be bragging about it but sc-o-o-o-o-reeee! And even better- he praised this blog and I quote ‘Very inspired writing’.

My brother and Mr. Mahajan here made me get my lazy arse back to the laptop and type-type-type. And thanks, to all of you too! Your praises make me write better, lyk rlly mks me wryt bttr. (laugh if you got the joke)

I remember, on Christmas Eve, my friends and I stood in queue (we broke in) and fought really hard to get into the Church and it was totally worth it. I cry every time I step into a Church and that night, while the Priest blessed me in His name, tears flowed down my cheeks and onto my tee and then to my jeans. I was overwhelmed by everything I felt and everything that was blessed unto me and everyone I had met. I cried because I felt blessed more than anything else I felt.

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I remember crying my eyes out when I saw my friends acting like a couple before me. I missed S so much I couldn’t help but cry. I felt like  a limb was being torn away from me. Everytime the couple held hands, a part of me ached. And then we met and there were smiles and tears and jokes and going out and hatred and discoveries and love and all that shizz!

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I remember laughing like a kid while playing Taboo with all my friends then throwing Santa caps in the air, followed by Shisha and then dancing in the winter chill, it was all worth it. Drinking a peg or two of whiskey and the holding on for my dear life while swaying my head to dance numbers for 6 straight hours without rest. I have never dont this and I never exercise so my body was shocked to do that much work with so much attitude in that much time! 😛

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All in all, this year is off to a good start. The praises for my blog and the praises for my photography have made me happy. I found a boyfriend who is an idiot and loves me like one. I found new friends who’re dating my best friends. My best friend finally had her first kiss. I understood how mature we are all becoming and how childish we still are going to be. I love my parents and my grandparents.

Happy New Year to all of you. Continue to de-tangle (or mess it up even further) with me !

Memoirs of a Memory with a Song.

Don’t you just detest it when a perfectly brilliant song is ruined because some jack-ass halfway around the globe decided to make a memory with you precisely when that song was playing and then BAM! three months later he isn’t there and the perfectly brilliant song is pooped. Yknow, there are categories of songs- the mediocre, the good and then, there are the brilliant.

The mediocre are the ones which find their way into your playlist because
– someone gave them to you via bluetooth
-a dude shared his playlist with you to get you to listen to grunge rock
-a break up
-PMS
-by mistake
-really sad sitcoms which make you think ‘wow that song is brilliant’ and then you download it and listen to it on repeat for 567 hours and then, by the end of it you are ready to puke.
-initially a brilliant track which slips to the mediocre because of *surprise surprise* the MEMORIES.

The good ones are good primarily because they are cult classics, I mean, Pink Floyd will never become mediocre because a d-bag decided to ruin it for you. NO! You always come back to life after Pink Floyd, literally. And then is John Mayer and Coldplay and ABBA (and ronan keating). And Death Cab For Cutie (at least some of their songs. I don’t know why they decided to sing for Twilight- the Meet me on the equinox). Some songs never die. I mean, yeah whatever some guy might ruin one or two of those ‘classic’ songs but forgive them. They know not what it means to dance to ‘I will follow you into the dark’. Word of advice, limit these classics to those you know will NOT let you down. Ever. EVER. Like best friends or parents or children. That way, no one can ruin good songs for you. 🙂

^that is a really cute rendition of I Have A Dream, ABBA. Watch it :’)

Then come the brilliant ones. These are comprised mainly by The biggies themselves, each of us have our personal favourites and I wont name mine but you would which songs figure in your list of brilliant, wouldn’t you? The ones which you always listen to, anytime all the time. Like I could listen to Fix You for-evvvver and never get tired of it and I would not let anyone ruin that song for me. No one is allowed to dedicate it to me. No one is allowed to expect it from me. This is MY song. and will remain so because it is too precious for me. The words are too personal. If this song is dedicated to me by someone I love and then he breaks my heart (or whatever) then these very words will prick me and make me bleed. So I wont let anyone burst my bubble. And if you really love me, you wont dedicate this to me.
You could, however, dedicate a ‘Baara maheene mein baara tareeko se’ to me because that song is already hopeless. It means all that you want a love song to and then too it doesn’t stand a chance of getting ruined with a memory because the song already is at the lowest level of music. Seriously. LOWEST.

^Don’t watch this if you aren’t ‘READY’

Now, it isn’t just sad memories that attach themselves to songs. there are songs to which you have joys and birthdays related to. There are songs which make you smile no matter what. there are those songs to which you danced on your first night stay or the song you sang to your BFF after the epic fight or a song you dedicated to your mom on mother’s day. Some songs become good from the mediocre scale because of the memories so never underestimate those underdogs, you!

^Like this one, that I’d love to sing- fights or no fights, we are stuck with each other Pie. Oh, Happy Birthday! 😀

But getting back to the sad stuff (because sad things always appeal more, sadists we are),
I missed out one more category of songs. they are the happy songs which mean nothing. Or sad ones, the blues, which say absolutely nothing to you. Yknow, the kind to which you were introduced to because someone dedicated them to you. The conversation goes like:
Random person who knows you- ‘Hey, this is a nice song and I, in my right senses dedicate this absolutely nonchalant piece of music to you!’
You- ‘Oh, alright gracious man/woman/person, I shall listen to it right away’
And then you and that person become really good friends, lovers, pals, siblings, online facebook open relationship partners, whatever, and slowly you drift away BUT the song still remains on your iPod/Walkman/Really awesome phone like SGIII. And while you’re on a long journey the song begins to play and you remember that friendship (or affair) and just…smile. No bitterness, no joy either but just a memory that does not affect your emotion.
Like, right now, I am listening to ‘Addicted’ by Enrique. No, don’t judge me it is a really nice song okay, whatever. And  this song has become rotten by all the so-called dedication but still it has managed to remain on my playlist and I have no memory associated with it whatsoever. None!

So, lesson to be learnt is just one:

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.

Don’t fight the memories and don’t fight the world from making them for you. If some guy, in his mushy weakness dedicates ‘Perfect two’ by Auburn to you, just smile and listen to the song. And then, remember the song. Memories are a part of life. We wouldn’t stay up at night if it wasnt for those wretched memories and future-planning. Happy or sad, songs and memories are intricate and you can’t argue over the fact that a little bit of heartache makes the songs even more beautiful, ’cause lets face it- even though you categorise them as mediocre because of the sourness attached to them, they are still there on your playlist, aren’t they?

Let life play itself out. 🙂

A final treat for you-

-entangle.

Unexpectedly good days!

I’ve successfully given two of the three exams! And good news, they end on 21st which means ONE full week of vacation without mommy at home. Yabadabadooooooooo! Although I wont do nothing wrong, but still this feeling is unparalleled. To celebrate this achievement of freedom from 3 whole subjects for a few weeks atleast, my roomates and I went out to watch Ishaqzaade.
Oh, review? I’ll tell you the story in a few words- slap, marry, sex, revenge, dead mom, political rivalry with hindu-musalman spats, apology, marry (again), sex (again), love, kill each other. Story is bleh. Parineeti Chopra is mind blowing. Arjun Kapoor is oh well, I hated his character so I guess his aim to portrat a sick jerk paid off too. I like the title track and that’s about it. I want to watch Ek Tha Tiger nowwwwww!

After the movie, a tub of popcorn and a glass of Georgia cold coffee later, we realised we hadn’t catered for dinner so we headed for our favourite Roll shop. Trust me, there is no better Roll place than Calcutta (or burdwan okayfineiknow). And there, I saw this family, hindi speaking, fairer than the average bong and strangely exuding Army vibes. The lady was asking for a sweet shop to taste ‘mishti doi’ and I, being the ever helpful and ever talkative soul that I am, dove in to guide them to my favourite mithai joint in Burdwan. And then, I asked- where are you from? And out came the response I love to hear- We’re from Pune and uncle here, is posted in Burdwan. And I went Woooooooah! Army people! Yay yay!
You would not understand the kin-ship I felt and the feeling of oneness and belongingness that I had in me while talking to them. With us army people, it’s like everyone knows everyone and everyone has this unique bond to the ONE soul institution- NDA. Within minutes, we were talking about Pune and Khadakwasla and NDA and when Dad was commissioned, when uncle was commissioned, where their son is studying, what aunty does. We even found a mutual friend in the NCC, jadavpur branch and life was suddenly good again. I realised that no matter what, no matter where I go, what I do, how I end up..this tag, this label is something that I would bear proudly and this tag will make me feel at home at all costs. Noone will understand the feeling of walking into an Army Officer’s Institute in any part of the country and knowing that you shall be treated with utmost care. Fort William, while I wait there every weekend for my car, still makes me smile. There is something special about being involved with the ‘fauj’ and being a fauji ‘beti’. Only in there will I be known as Bhatta!

And while walking back, I was explaining all of this to my roomie. Trying to make her understand maybe t percent of what I was feeling- the joy and elation of knowing that there is a CSD, the happiness to know that an ‘uncle’ is around and is bound by responsibility to take care of me during distress. Ah! Inexplicable to those unaware of the Army Life :’)
I happened to mention one of my friends of long ago studying in the IMA, Dehradun to be a fauji. Lets call him a ‘Noun’. And while eating the Rolls that we got packed, my phone rang with an unknown number. The man on the other side said that apparently, my phone number had been scratched on a seat of some bus with my name..some crap. I thanked him for informing me and hung up. 10 minutes later, another unknown number. I picked up the phone, hesitantly, ab kya ho gaya? On the other side was a guy, decent voice, english speaking and did I mention decent? That kept me from hanging up. He asked me to ‘guess’ who he is. Annnnnnnnd guess what!!?? NOUN had called.

Noun! After almost 5 years. I spoke about him TODAY. To my roomie. And TODAY itself he called! Wowowowowowow! And we spoke and caught up. And we pulled each other’s legs and joked. And exchanged phone numbers. Life was good, again.

And incidents like these, moments like these make me go on. It’s wonderful, the life army has given me. It’s amazing, the number of friends and ‘nouns’ I have met because of my dad’s profession. I salute these men. And I am so so happy to be a part of this.

-sometimes, life just untangles itself for you. ❤

Synaptic plasticity

Let me give you the background to this post first. I’m on an SBSTC bus, non-ac if you really care. I have gulal on my face. I am as sleepy as one can get and i’m standing and travelling because the great people of this country decided to shut down bus services temporarily. I’m sneezing like a mad woman and all those who’re sitting are looking up at me. But none of them are getting up.

Well not that i expect anyone too, but still- the world moves on hope, eh?
Arsenal kept me up last night. I must say, it was a brilliant match, its a pity that they lost on aggregate. And I lost my sleep. And I had early morning classes so I couldnt atch up on the sleep. Not even on the bus -.-
*sneeze*

  #nowplaying Pungi. Heard it?

Anyway, about the title of the post. Do you know what a synapse is? Well you should cuz you have passed class 7 science, haven’t you?
In my Pharmacology class today, the professor went on and on about antidepressants. And like one of my previous posts, I actually felt like gobbling down a billion of them and then finally hope to feel satiated enough to not sulk. In one of those rare moments where I wasnt blindly writing what he was saying I heard this term- synaptic plasticity.

It struck me today that the first thing I remember about my childhood is when I was in class II. Blame childhood amnesia but I just fail to recall stuff before that. Do you remember infantile details of your life? I feel that it’s the longest drunken haze I’ve ever been in. I mean honestly, I dont have any option but to completely believe what i’m told about ‘mera bachpan’

Hmph.

Memories.
Details.
Intricacies.
Photographs; an escape into memories long forgotten.

Synaptic plasticity.

It means memories.
It means Memory. What is your first ever?

They loved each other, still.

The sadness encumbers,
The atmosphere poisoned.
The moments blurred,
The time consumed.

He sipped on his drink,
Neat Vodka, iced.
The walls closed in,
He curled up, sobbing.

He shouldn’t have done it,
Never should have let go.
He messed up.
He knew it as a fact.

The soft, winter touches,
The warm nights sigh.
The silken brown hair,
Her luscious lips so red.

The names she called him,
And the words that annoyed.
The love she offered,
The ‘break’ he gifted.


He shouldn’t have done it,
Never broken her heart.
For it was his own,
The heart that he killed.

The songs she sung,
The lullabies he hummed.
The games they played,
The foreplay on bed.

He missed it so much,
But now she was gone.
She did what she should have,
Moved ahead, moved on.

He repented it now.
But what’s done is done.
She was broken inside,
Her heart, torn apart.

The giggles, the snuffles,
The tickles and ruffles.
The goodnight kisses and loves each morn,
Alas.. this goodbye lasts forever.

But how was he to know,
She loved him still?
How was he to know
They could be together, still?

She lamented her loss,
He cried her death.
They lived for each other,
Who was to tell them?

The last dance, the last wink.
The final wave, that lonely tear.
It’s all in vain, they know not that.
They lived their death all day, each day.

How would they know,
They loved each other still?

They both took their lives,
With each other’s name on their lip.


My heart’s a scar- here we are, there you are/ Mellow tone