My 2nd New Year blog

well.. a happy new year to u all..

lets all hope this one works out..

Dream

Awake. I had a start. The heart's beating wildly. It'll take a little time to settle. Meanwhile, why did I get up? I wasn't having a dream, I would remember. They're generally vivid. The curtains are apart though, maybe there was a light outside.

It seems dark enough. I doubt it's beyond 3am right now. Wait, no. I came in at 2. Oh, and then, ah, there she is. Well, didn't think she'd be here again. She'll be out by first light. She always does leave before I wake. I do remember tonight though, that's almost a first.

I guess I must draw the curtains. No, too lazy. The moonlight does make a very dramatic pattern on the wall. It's interesting the little things you are willing to pay attention to when you want to distract yourself from the pain. Did I take my medicine tonight? God, I hope so.

There are cars outside. I guess it must be closer to 4 then. I really must sleep. That won't be too difficult. It's easy to wander in your mind. It's just when the pain obscures the thoughts that it's difficult.

In fact its one of my favorite pleasures; falling off to sleep. The feeling of weightlessness and senselessness just before the sleep takes over your mind. It's a wonderful place where emotions and feelings have no place. There's no guilt there, I love that. I hate that I have to long for it most nights. That's where she comes in I guess. I put an arm around her, like so. Yes, the warmth helps.

Eyes shut now, let my mind go.

Sunshine.

I guess I want to be happy tonight.

The dreams seep into his sleep like a mist through the forest. His dreams of sunshine could only last that long. Those are the ones your consciousness makes up to help you drift into a slumber. Once the dreams took hold of him, there was no sunshine. A slight drizzle perhaps. A gloomy cloud and countenance. He was in a hurry too. Was it one of those dreams where he misses the train? No. The pain never allowed easy dreams.

He was on one though now, a train. The landscape rapidly changing around him. In his hand, a bunch of roses. Red. He thought. It was a favorite habit of his. Thinking about colors in his dreams. He never thought it possible to see any then. Roses though, why?

He looked around him. He was in a second class compartment. The people came to his notice just then. Not that they were noticeable. They were all around and yet nowhere. It was as if he were indifferent to them and yet acutely aware of every nuance of their existence. They weren't significant. Not to this plot.

The landscape became darker and bleaker. The trees began to blur with the sky leaving a feeling of melting colors. Distances were dissolving. They seemed not to exist.

Then there was no train, no trees, and no people. He was by himself, the roses starting to wilt. He noticed the edges of the petals turning a dark brown. Yes, colors existed. So did smells. A sharp smell of formaldehyde hit him like a truck. Staggering slightly against the pungent blow, he tried to orient himself.

There was a grave. Oh, I'm dreaming of her. A crack running through it though. Right down the middle. He calmly bent down on one knee, and placed the now dead roses near the grave stone, the crack in the earth not bothering him in the least. He ran his hand along the crack, fingering the loose earth tenderly like a lover's back. He bent down, taking his face near the earth, lips just millimeters away. Turning his head, he listened with his ear to the ground.

Heartbeat. Steady heartbeat. Slow, rhythmic heartbeat. Lulling him into safety, into sleep. Getting faster. Almost imperceptible that, but its growing faster. The beats growing louder and faster by the second. Then the breathing. The shallow forced breathing. A lover's breath, faster and harder with every passing second. Closer, closer, so close he could feel it on his cheek.

Awake. Damn the girl. Her face is almost on top of mine. Have to gently push her away. What's that smell? Can you have smells left over from dreams? She's not her though. No, she could never be. I would be at peace with her. But the smell. And she's cold. Her feet are like ice. No, it must be the air conditioning acting up again. Why doesn't she just pull the blanket? Now I have to hold a stiff piece of ice. She's rigid too.

No, I think I'm dreaming. Dreams and waking are just merging now. That happens. Right? Yes, just dreaming. Just dreaming.

No! This is getting weird. I can feel the damp. The moist earth is invading the sheets. Please, just dream. I can feel the slimy mud between my toes. Something climbing up my calves. Cold wet tendrils creeping up like ivy on a wall. I can just shake them off can't I? If I could move. Please, just dream.

He couldn't shake this off. Not this dream. The cold tendrils took over his body in the form of cold sweat. There was fear now. A freezing hand gripped his heart. Memories flooded his senses. Not dreams now. These were images he'd seen. He'd feared.

The images flashed across his mind. Her body, naked and glistening in the tub. The moonlight marking the patterns of the blinds across her stomach. Within the mosaic of light and shade, he made out the tracks of blood. The already thickening stream trickling from above. The roses fell from his hand as he saw the gaping wound in her neck. Her head hung limply sideways over her shoulder and her long hair obscured almost half the side of her body.

His knees gave way almost the same moment he retched all over the cold, gleaming tiles. He heard somebody shut a door somewhere in the house and that spurred him into action. The rest was a blur of police sirens and the cold steel of the morgue.

Why did he have to keep remembering that time? His dreams seemed to be monopolized, his pain exploited. She'd died. In pain definitely, in fear decidedly, maybe she felt some pleasure. Maybe.

He'd loved her. Adored her beyond reason and hope. But she'd left. She wasn't the one who now lived with tortured images constantly in her head. Not the one who carved her initials over and over again till the wood splintered. Not the one who feared sleep. Feared dreams. Not the one who constantly needed a buzz, a haze, anything that would obscure the present.

He'd loved her. The love had soured though, curdled with resentment till a deep seated hatred had overtaken his heart. A wave of revulsion swept through his senses. The smell permeated through the room again and he felt sick to his stomach. He hated all that was a part of him now. All that now made up his life. The girls. He hated them now for making him need them. The smell why is it here?? She's cold too.

Those days all over again. She'll always be there. She'll always haunt me. She's here! She's here again!

Rising from her cracked grave. Bringing a chill I've never known before. I haven't felt this cold before. Its like my innards are crystallizing. Honing my pain to a sharp point. To the blade of a knife. A thin razor edge. A razor edge of hurt, of anger. An overwhelming urge to lash out, to squeeze.

Her cold rigid throat. Her slit throat. My fingers could wrap around it easily. Then all that's needed is a gentle, yet insistent pressure.

I slowly increase the force. She feels it. Her mouth open. Eyes wide in fright. And then the body arches, and the hands reach up to mine. Thin fingers cannot compare to my hold. The legs are thrashing now and the eyes have panic in them.

The panic slowly resolves into resignation as my force increases. Insistent. And then she gives up. She's limp all over again.

The cold retreats, the warmth envelopes me.

Relax. Just dream.

He woke up finally late that morning. The open curtains allowing a noonday sun to blaze into the bedroom. He was perplexed. She was still there. She always left by first light. She was still there this day. He shook and shook her.

And then he saw his fingerprints on her neck. They had turned purple.

war

Grey the day is and black the night will be,
Shades of despair tinge the world now,
Laughter dried up and there's no harmony,
They wait just for the end now.

Memory shows colors of bright oranges and red,
A shadow of hope flickers within the breast,
The living wonder and now pity the dead,
For their mind is filled with glory and fest.

Memory betrays them to the core,
It is cruel and twisted and treacherous,
For what they remember will wait for them never more,
For they themselves grow murderous.

Grey is their countenance and fey is their mind,
As they bring daggers to each others hearts,
For the lack of colors brought things to a bind,
For the pain needed to be spread, to be torn apart.

Art or something like it

What is art? What does it mean to be creative? To be expressive? To capture the soul, the essence of a moment?

I doubt these answers lie within any cortex of the brain. They are not answerable through logical analysis or rationalizing. Yet all of us know these answers. They are as tangible as the taste of salt in the air near the sea. They are as indescribable, as enticing and as invigorating. I think they lie within the heart, or more likely the soul. There is a little jolt of pleasure one feels when one sees an object of true beauty. A brief but very certain moment of recognition, when one understands what the artist conveys. If the artist is good enough, this moment can last a lifetime and within it capture a deep understanding of ourseleves.

A timeless masterpiece of art is a thing of wonder. We all know life can be tremendously beautiful. Whether it be the moors at twilight, the Sahyadris at evensong or a beautiful lady captured in a moment of mysterious laughter. These are things we as lay people see everyday and appreciate to the best of our abilities. The thoughts that pass through our mind are preserved and treasured. Some of us go far enough to encase them in words, song or image. Some of us manage to convey that moment of wonder well enough for people to appreciate and share our understanding.

And then there are some that can bring that wonder right into our lives. They can capture that breathtaking moment with such vividity and clarity that they bring to us and our souls the very moment of life they entrapped. We live through them. We love through them. We discover parts of our lives through them.

Our understanding and interpretation varies. The relevance of these images varies from person to person. The note that is struck within the soul varies. But we know when we see these true works of art. We know they are beyond interpretations and understandings. They stand alone as expressions that touch our lives. They mysteriously change something within ourseleves just a little. A little tweak that leaves us the better to have seen, the better to have experienced.

The fact that a stroke of paint, a block of marble can influence us so profoundly. It may be evidence for a facet of humanity that cannot be explained by biochemistry. That cannot be predicted or determined by genes. That in itself, makes us free.

A bottle of Prozac (TM ,Regd whtever)

First up, if anyone noticed, there was a long hiatus on this blog. Dunno why, guess I just didnt want to write. Anyhow, if anyone missed it, I'm back.

This was not supposed to be a post, rather a private letter to a private friend. But then I thought about it. This is probably the happiest letter I have ever written. And anyhow, why only do things am comfortable with? How about openness for a change. How about letting it all hang. Letting me be me in front of more than just myself.

So this being my one outlet, here I am.

Weird things had been happning lately in my life. Things that made me feel guilty, small, scared and very badly hurt. Things that made me question fundamental things about myself. My neediness, my weakness and my loyaty. Stuff that I am ashamed to say I didnt handle very well. That cost me a few tears and maybe a frienship. But the same stuff was instrumental in making me now the happiest I have ever been . Happy sounds like a small silly word. But believe me, you feel the true calm happiness can bring and the lightness it gives to your soul. It brings a smile involuntarily to your lips. A spring in your step. Makes you sing RHCP while walking down Chesterfield hallways at the top your voice. It makes you jubilant when you have missed an assignment deadline.

Now I know that if you are actually reading this post, you must be wondering what amazing thing happened to me. Lottery winnings? an engagement ring? Well to tell you the truth, nothing like that happened. Nothing physically happed to me. What did happen was that I changed. No one but I can tell you that, but I changed. Something very basic got rewired within me.

I found something strong within me. I am happy because I found friends and I am jubilant beause I realised my happiness does not depend on them. My smiles are no longer in debt of the people I love, neither are my fears. They no longer make me, I make myself.

I found a happiness that was my own. Something I have never felt before in my life. My heart used to skip for a phone call, for an email. But never for my own prospects. Never for my own ambitions.

I have found both. I have found I have possiblities. A little late at 24 I suppose. I know I will now go further, higher, and be stronger. (was that just the Olympic slogan?? no... I dont think I put in faster)

I love my friends. Old and new alike. I never thought I would make new friends. I was happy with what I had. Never thought I could get close to anyone again, or that anyone would get close to me. It works both ways. But I realised that people are just that. People. They are the same and it takes time to understand that. It took me time to accept them and in the process I have now accepted me. This time it didnt take me long phone conversations, approvals, validation or compliments. It did take some advice but more than anything it took me.

I am now dangerouly close to loving myself. This is what it must feel like on a bottle of Prozac!

Narcissa is me

Aditi, meaning free, unbound. Boundless heaven as compared with the finite earth. A Vedic goddess representing the primeval generator of all that emanated. The eternal space of the boundless whole, the unfathomable depth signifying the veil over the unknown.

The Rig Veda describes her a the mother of all gods; it is named Devamatri, mother of all gods, or Swabhavat, that which exists by itself. She is frequently implored for blessing children and cattle, for protection and forgiveness.

In the Yajur Veda, Aditi is addressed as the supporter of the sky, the sustainer of the earth, the sovereign of this world, and the wife of Vishnu.

Aditi gave birth to 8 Adityas of whom the 8th one, Martand is the present Sun of the present solar system. Besides being the goddess who mothered 8 Sun gods, she even represents Prithvi, the mother earth, Vach, the goddess of speech who articulates speech into creative impulse, she is also identified with Akasha, the all-perading substratum of all manifestation, and with Nirvana, liberation.

Psychologically Aditi is the supreme and infinite consciousness.

I had to put this on my blog, cos well who else would put it up. I dont know how much a name influences a person, or makes any difference in the way anyone looks at them. But I do know one thing. It makes me feel special to know what my name represents. I like thinking that the utterance of my name evokes images that are powerful and limitless. Being free, unbound and limitless, thats what I am supposed to represent. I doubt am even a fraction of a milimeter down that road, but it does give me a road to set upon.

Disregard

200 lives, gone. 200 families destroyed. In a city like Mumbai, that's not really a horrific statistic. Here people die every day. On the streets, in their homes, in hospital rooms. 200 more. Why is it significant?

Is it because it happened so fast, in a matter of minutes? Is it because it was so terrifyingly random, (it couldve been you or me you know) ? Or is it because there seems no purpose, or seen in another way, the purpose is so unconnected with the people who died.

I still do not know who is accused of this, who did it and for what. I still cannot fathom many things about this incident. It has gotten me thinking more than anything about the disregard for human life. Both by the terrorists, and by us.

I wonder who exactly has benefitted by this ( i know very well who is scarred). What did they get out of it? Was it to scare us? Was it to bully us? Was it to test out their new timers?

I was not even in town when it happened. And yet the incident has upset me deeply. In 93 I lauded the Mumbai spirit of getting back on their feet and off to work. Now I hope it takes some time to reflect, to mourn and then to fortify.

The spreading of terror is course a tactic that has borne results in many areas around the globe. But in Mumbai, I have not yet understood what ends the 93 bombings met and have not understood what the purpose is now. I thought terrorists wanted their cause to be known. Then again, maybe I'm just ill-informed.

The bombings last tuesday have made an impression on me. Snapped something within me. I think it had to do with faith in good. I never thought things like these could happen without provocation. Please help me understand how those 200 people provoked the terrorists.

I know a lot of people back home are targetting particular communities over this. I personally believe that is a childish thing to do. Unless the person you accuse has had anything to do personally with the bombings, accusing them based on their religion is selfish since you just wish to satisfy your desire of placing blame.

I admire us Mumbaikars when we say we are not scared. But I hope we start learning to fortify ourseleves, our lives. I hope to god, the people who govern us take sensible action not just inflammatory talks. Because we can excuse our citizens for being scared of terrorists, but how will we live if they start getting scared of their politicians.

Bombay

I was mid air on my way to the US when it happened in bombay...

I don't know what to say...

Angry... Worried... Helpless... that's all

Together

Waking up today I had the curious sensation of not just being me anymore. I felt part of a collective being, part of a collection of humanity that was avidly awaiting of all things, a football match. Football in its essence is one of the only sports that is such a global binder. It is togetherness like we never knew.

Even if your country did not qualify for the World Cup finals, and aprobably never will in your lifetime, you still see kids all around you wearing Ronaldo tee shirts and Zinedine Zidane smiles. It is infectious enthusiasm at its best, it is collective emotion at its peak.

The World Cup, be it cricket or football, the Olympics, be them winter or summer and Wimbledon, are all examples of a cornucopia of human drama without its usual dull banal qualities. They are the arenas where the stardust of dreams and the biting dust of anguish can be revelled in by everyone.

Our everyday lives are private and nameless. Though we all have our own private dramatic situations these are hardly shared across the globe. Over these tournaments we connect. Without realizing and without thinking about it, we know that its not merely a game. It's a reflection of our lives.

I love football. I love it not only for the brilliant skills on display and the great qualities of the game. I also love it for the handsome men who get dripping wet in the rain and play on. The awesome men, who pour their lives into creating a sort of magic I cannot even start understanding. The awesome men who open themseleves up to millions, who show every single emotion to me and who make me adore them.

I cannot wait to watch tonite. Germany v/s Argentina, stuff worthy of the finals. I am waiting to soak it all in. And in the process, lose myself within the millions of people, who alongwith me will experience delight, anguish and witness victory tonite.

Go Argentina!!... erm.... Go Germany!!... erm... I just dont know!!

P.P (post post... hehehe... i'm clever) - I received an email from someone who likes to be called 'cool dude' saying, that he loves my words and wants to live in them forever..... hehehehe... i am touched... but with a guy who calls himself 'cool dude' I dont think I can put too much faith in his compliments.... I can just imagine my friends saying his line to me and then adding... "hah hah!.. nooot!"

An Ode to The Sahyadris

Green heart. Whispering winds. Bird song.
Calming waters. Cooling earth.
Caressed by light. Golden sun.
Peace.

Weird

I have been tagged... and that in the blogging world is as good as receiving a royal dictate... so not wiling to run the risk of offense.. i shall now write a list of 6 weird things about me.

1. When I walk on a tiled surface (floor, pavement) I always walk in the squares... I will do my utmost humanly possible not to step on the lines... I cant ever remember not having this freakish habit... dun ask

2. I will only shell pea pods from the reverse side (I apologize that I did not warn you my dear reader that this list might just be midnumbingly boring :D). Anyhow, peas should only be removed from their shells from the other side than all human beings I have witnessed shelling peas have been doing. Its a habit, and its weird. Makes the list.

3. I smell books. And I love the old book smell. The first thing I do when I get any book is smell it. Endearing or gross?? You decide.

4. I get very badly distracted if there is more than one person talking to me. I cannot, (and at this point I believe I will die of this disease), understand you when you are talking, if there is a train running behind you, another dude shouting or even if you're cellfone rings.

5. (we're getting close to the end!) I read the paper back to front. ALWAYS! any paper! I will only start it from the sports page.

6. I have a fetish for old , decaying things. Yellowed paper postcards, stamps, money, anything. I love it. All antiques are adored by me.

That be it... are my weirdnesses within normal human parameters, or am I weird enough to be a green, bug eyed alien?... lemme know.

My hate list

Even though I havent been tagged by anyone, I thought doing this hate list thing might make me feel a bit better. I've never been a person to use the word 'hate' for anything, but I think its about time I started feling strongly about things. So without any further ado lets delve into my "hate" list.

I hate that children nowadays know what oral sex is.

I hate and would like to murder any person who has violated a child.

I hate that I'm never decisive enough to make people, especially my parents, trust me.

I hate running out of books to read.

I hate that I can never voice my true opinion of people to their faces.

I hate that I'm never in control of my own life.

I hate people who cut my sentences off and dont ever bother to listen.

I hate being alone in the afternoon.

I hate being in a crowded place at night.

I hate being told that I dont know anything, believe me I know I dont know anything.

I hate people who refuse to learn.

I hate people who refuse to help themseleves.

I hate loud music, I hate fast cars and I hate any combination of the two.

I hate that I'm not close to my parents.

I hate that I cant write anything remotely funny.

I hate that I think that people dont respect me.

I hate that I'm needy at times.

I hate that I'm away from Bombay, and I hate that in this sentence I cant replace the word Bombay with 'my family'.

I hate that there are many times I hate myself.

I hate that there's never a time when I'm a priority to myself.

Oh yeh, and I hate Kareena Kapoor.

I think that's it for now. Thanks for lasting through it if you have, I know comments for this cant talk about my writing skills :) .... but hey, lemme know if any of you guys hate anything on my list, then we can be 'hate buddies'

To the eternity of laughter

“Jeeves,” I said at the breakfast table, “I’ve got spots on my chest.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“I don’t like them.”
“A very understandable prejudice, sir. Might I inquire if they itch?”
“Sort of.”
“I would not advocate scratching them.”
“I disagree with you. You have to take a firm line with spots…”
-The Catnappers

Pelham Grenville Wodehouse never did take a firm line with anything he wrote. In fact his writing had the smooth, languid flow of honey. The lines rolling luxuriously from his characters’ tongues and the laughter rising spontaneously to our lips.

Discovering Wodehouse for me was the beginning of many a lazy afternoon and many an endless train journey spent delightfully in his company. I fell in love with many of his characters, Bertie, the well meaning idiot, Jeeves, the soul of sagacity, Lord Emsworth, the darling amongst all fictional earls and of course Uncle Fred the sprightliest and jolliest of old men.

Though I have a soft spot for the Blanding Castle series and the Jeeves and Wooster series, I have never failed to enjoy the other Drones, Mulliner and golf stories. P.G Wodehouse has never been less than prolific. With more than 80 novels over a long period of time, it is amazing that the author has preserved such quality and such a fan base.

The remarkable thing about Wodehouse is the apparent eternity of his novel. I mean, I find it amazing that a book written in 1906 is being enjoyed so much and by so many in 2006. You may say however, that that is true of many authors, what about Shakespeare, Dickens, Conan Doyle, Christie. Well that is true, good writing leaves legacies and just to be mentioned in that league is enough evidence of his greatness. But in the case of Wodehouse, his longevity is more remarkable because of the otherwise ephemeral nature of humor. Humor is very topical at best and its nature generally shifts in time from raucous to polite to vulgar to witty. Wodehouse’s style of farcical humor has stood the test of time. And that in itself is a huge testimonial to this man.

To label Wodehousian literature as just funny, however will be a misnomer again. There is much subtlety and great complexity in a Wodehouse plot. There is a way to test this. Read any Wodehouse novel and then try and explain its plot to someone in your own words succinctly. It can’t be done! That will make you realize the layers and complex weaving of his stories.

Wodehouse is also one of the best sources for quotes. Random sentences taken from his work are just as funny as the whole.

It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn't. Ring for Jeeves (1953)

I personally adore this man for just making me smile. To be lost in his work is to find peace. To be transported to an idyllic world where it all comes right in the end. Where insurmountable difficulties are surpassed, where laughter cures all and a good nature and a jolly disposition will guarantee you happiness.

I owe much of my fascination for the written word to him. I owe much of my admiration for the English language to the impeccability of his prose. I owe him a lot of happiness and I owe him many a belly laugh. I know that I am not the only one who is grateful that P.G Wodehouse lived and wrote.

So here’s to great literature and great writing. And here’s to the eternity of laughter

Of Science and Art

I had one of my first brain storming sessions at a class yesterday... my new classes are in the management stream and a lot different from my usual mineralogy or paleontology classes.... we were discussing yesterday the ways of scientific thought and the utilization of such protocol in dispute resolution in a corporate situation...

Basically everyone talked about how rigid scientific thought is and how there is a lot of protocol involved when someone talks of techniques in science... so in those terms the body of scientific knowledge is something you can depend completely upon, since its been subject to so much rigor and review....

One of our flock was talking abt how scientific knowledge is pristine and reliable... I guess I wouldn't go so far with defending it... in my opinion there are many limitations on scientific knowledge and the only good thing abt it is that it has gone through a lot of testing and critiques and is probably our best way of looking at things..

But to say science is the ultimate truth is folly... first of all there is no such thing as an impartial observer... every thing observed is always changed in some way or the other by the observer... any phenomenon observed is always filtered into consciousness through the filter of a theory... for e.g. you cannot observe the effects of gravity if you do not filter the observation through your existing knowledge about gravity....

All these things are inherent problems in science and one can never objectively assess the universe because one is part of the universe and is limited by one's sensory perceptions...

The fact however remains that though scientific knowledge can never reveal the ultimate truth, it is still our best and most objective way of structuring and utilizing data...

The conversation went on to how a scientist is therefore limited in his/her perception of the arts.... and I would like to contest that view too....

It is true that a scientist learns how to perceive data in a very rigid form and learns to automatically structure it and analyze patterns... but it is also true that a scientist is at the basis a human being....

Being human endows upon us the gifts of intuition and an appreciation for beauty... it then doesn't matter if you are a scientist...

Art is a way of equaling the ground for us... any person can appreciate the intricacies of a painting or be enraptured by the beauty of a piece of literature... art pulls at heart strings that remind us that our humanity is much more than just being highly evolved intelligent mammals... it tugs at strings that are more universal and more enmeshed within our beings than we realize...

I love sitting in museums and feel surrounded by talent and beauty and inspiration... it gives me an opportunity to get in touch with a different part of my being

I mean, sitting by the riverside need not remind me just of the ongoing fluvial processes that are giving rise to the geomorphology of the land, but I am also able to just appreciate the beauty, the soul of nature, which though compelling when filtered through the rigors of scientific knowledge, is also equally compelling when just viewed as a holistic, aesthetic experience.

my city!!... my mumbai!!!

The past few days have been immeresed in coincidences where I either read about mumbai, meet someone from mumbai, come across a particularly great blog on mumbai or am acutely reminded of my friends who are in mumbai.... as you can see i got mumbai on my mind!!!

When I left mumbai (and yes, I do call it mumbai and not bombay... just that way cos as a maharashtrian have been used to calling it mumbai since i was a kid)... anyway... when I left mumbai I did realise that it would be the one thing I miss. I was just about to get my own freedom so I knew my family would not be missed as much as everyone expects it to be. However, I found out a few new painful things two months into my stay here.

One, I did miss my family. Not really just one person, but just the feeling of family, the feeling of being surrounded by people who have seen you grow and understand how you are who you are... not necessarily approve, but at least understand.

Two, I missed mumbai. Like hell.

OMG! the pain is visceral! I miss its vibrant days, I miss its colours, its smells. I miss its dirty muck filled puddles. I miss bandra east, it was so peaceful, it was like a piece of heaven grafted onto mumbai's body. The heavy, still afternoons, the green rain tree just outside my window, the crows that would come to visit and sit on the balcony talking to me.

I miss the smell of the sea. The mist in the air when you approached juhu beach from the side gullies. I miss golas, consumed with avarice sitting at the katta of our favorite golawaala. I miss being addressed as baby by my dhobi. I miss my panipuriwala. I miss panipuri!!!! I miss swastik sandwichwala in santa cruz!!! I could do a blog dedicated to u dude!!

I miss catching my local every morning. I miss hating the crowds. I miss flying train!!! I miss the walk from marine lines station to xavier's. I miss the 5 rupee book shop. I miss khau galli! I miss stray puppies!!!!!! sooo much!!!!

I miss the woods. I miss philosophizing sitting on the stone benches. I miss coming to college in the morning and going straight up to the mess for breakfast, taking so much time that we eventually never made it to class. I miss burmese toast!!!!

I miss the booksellers at fountain, but then everyone in mumbai misses you now, (note: we need public outrage against their removal!) I miss crossword and oxford..

I miss jug suraiya and swaminathan on sundays. I miss leos and mondies on weekdays! I miss getting wet walking down marine drive. I miss doing lukkhagiri at gateway. I miss sneaking off and seeing every new movie. I miss sterling, regal, eros, new empire, and all those new multiplex thingies in the suburbs! I miss G7!!!!

I miss elaichi chai in that chaiwala's glass! I hate not being able to say "cutting" to the white boy at the counter here who takes my order for darjeeling tea.

I miss bandstand. I miss kayani's, bastani's. I miss asiatic library. I miss the ranicha baug!! I miss the smell of warm earth moistened by the first rain. I miss raincoats.

I miss rover.

I miss rickshaws! oh god I miss rickshaws!

I miss friends. All of them. Each and every one. It sucks that I am here and not down there shotuing my head off with glee and celebrating with beer, cos my good friend adriel just got engaged!!.. god.. I miss you so much

I have made my decision and here I am for better or worse. I may not go back for good. I will visit, but I dont know whether it will be forever. Wherever I go, I will always sense a distance from my real home. I will come to enjoy another city am sure, understand her and live in peace there, but my heart will remain with my mumbai.

The New Year's blog

Well... was a year I don ever want to go through again. Never. It began by me getting punished for nothing by strangers, consisted of me being held hostage by my own mind and ended by showing me an end to the most precious thing I've ever had.

It showed me an end or it lead me to a beginning. I realize now that that is a choice I must make for myself. We create our own defeats and failures. But in making that statement, I realize that I also imply that we create our own hope and our own victories. By showing me darkness, its brought my attention towards light. By making me realize my weaknesses, its shown me where to improve. By driving me to depression its shown me the necessity of a smile.

All it hasn't given me is the strength. I need to find that myself. I need to seek that out from where its hiding. I hope I can do that. I hope I am strong. I wish I could do more than hope.

However well or badly your year has gone, I hope for you all that the new one is something we will not regret.

The tequila is downed, the friends are gone, now I have just hope.