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Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Storm before the Calm

The rain outside drowned in the silence within. She felt the drops of water trace slow paths down her body, carving a sculpture in their own might, her clothes sticking to her drenched skin, protecting her, torturing her, slowly. She could hear the clouds rumbling in some far off world. She could hear her heart beat, her raspy breath, her dress moving against her skin. She could hear him.

Not a word had been said.

She cast a glance at him. Drenched, he stood in a corner, half in the shadow of the solitary bulb flickering threateningly in the middle of the broken down shelter. She saw the light reflected in his tormented face, his lips, his eyes. His eyes. The distant hollow seas, once stormed with emotion, distant, and calm. He blew out the last of his smoke from the degraded cigarette and tossed it in a corner, the smoke lingering around, in a futile attempt to hang on. The silence was thick, omnipresent, welcome.

Their eyes met.

Gently, she reached out to him, and placed her shivering hand on his chest. Drops of water from his skin followed her fingers, making their way across before she could stop them. The thumping of his heart drowned out the last of the silence, as she felt herself pulled into his arms, shivering uncontrollably as his warmth permeated her cold skin. She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes. The world she believed in, had ceased to exist. All that lived was that moment, that touch, that oneness, that safety. That moment, when they realized they were no longer alone. That touch, to complete what their souls had known long ago…to complete each other, to be one, together, in each other’s arms. His hands were strong but gentle. His lips were probing, searching against her skin for a home once dreamt of. His skin amalgamated into hers, burning its way into hers, one, the way it was meant to be.

The storm that ensued put the rain to shame, as they spent the night in each other’s arms, clinging on to a hope they hadn’t known existed till then.

As the first rays of the sun shone through, their eyes met. His eyes. The seas tormented by the storm within, the calm long gone, hope struggling its way through.

She felt her skin, bruised, thriving, burning with the memories of the night before. She felt him within her, inside her, consuming her every breath. She knew then that she was his, completely, with the very last breath in her body. She saw him tip his head in her direction, and step out in the sun.

Life as she knew it, had cruelly altered its course.

And not a word had been said.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Why most Bloggers are anti-social nervous wrecks and plain cardboard crazy

It’s because we lead highly strenuous nerve-wracking lives, that’s why. Don’t believe me? Let me walk you through it, my little na├»ve one.

To begin with, we end up looking at this whole world as a blogging opportunity. Are you talking to me, and did you say something really stupid? Blog post. Did my shoe heel just break on the most important day of my life? Blog post. Did I just drop ketchup all over myself but can pass it off as a story about my annoying colleague? Blog post. Did I just have a dream that progressed in bullet points? Hell ya, blog post! It sounds dreamy, but somewhere along the line, it can get a little tiring. Specially when you start leading a life that is either so boring, or so amazing, that you have nothing to write about anymore. Nothing that you can make fun of, share with the world, laugh about, or even worse, crib about wittily. The amount of pressure that your blog puts on the life you lead, sheesh, don’t even get me started on it.

And then there’s the constant need to be funny. You know, because no one wants to read a depressing blog. Or even a happy blog. So if you cry, cry in a funny way, and if you’re happy, make sure you’re clutzy-happy, or your readers just won’t like you. Especially when there are a gazillion funnier blogs out there in the world. And crazier. Let’s not forget crazier.

And the next point will be best understood by people working in Sales. Not just any people, but those crazy ones, you know? The ones who check up on their regional teams every hour to find out the number of special anti-pimple soaps sold in the last sixty minutes, and have a n ongoing trend analysis in their heads. That’s what Blogger Stats does to you every time you put a post up. It drives you just that crazy. Where you wonder where each hit on your blog came from, whether the person actually read the post, whether it’s been shared on Stumble Upon or Digg, whether it was the correct time of the day to post, and whether they actually liked it enough to follow you or even better, comment. And just like it takes all the willpower in the world to not just go ahead and buy out the whole stock of anti-pimple soaps yourself just to make your numbers look good, well, we have to go through the will power test of not tracking your own page views, and commenting on your own blog anonymously. It’s pure torture I tell you. Of course all bloggers will also tell you that they write for themselves, and it doesn't really matter whether people read and whether they like you. You know, just like the sales numbers on the anti-pimple soap don't really matter. The soap was actually introduced to help mankind and its skin issues. Because it makes the FMCG company feel good about itself, and sleep peacefully at the end of the day.

And as if all this was not enough, blogging can be rather taxing on your personal life. To begin with, people actually pester you to feature in your posts at most times, as had happened with my old blog here. But then it turns out, they’re not very happy when you actually do write about them, because you by chance ended up mentioning the stitches they got on their bum recently. Hey, I tell it like I see it! Well not literally, I didn’t actually see the stitched up bum. Oh well. And then sometimes, to escape from public scrutiny, you blog anonymously…which gives you an initial high, knowing you can write whatever you want without it getting traced back to you…but eventually switching in and out of the gazillion different profiles just drives you crazy enough to end up in a mental asylum with a Multiple Personality Disorder. And when that happens, the friend with the bum-stitches will not really volunteer to help.

So you see, it really is difficult to be a blogger, and it’s a hobby that requires grit, determination and will power.
Oh, and someone just pointed out that you need to be a talented writer to blog.
Hmmm.
Nah!

Thursday, October 13, 2011

When Life is a Reality Show

I just spent an entire day in bed. It wasn’t just lack of good health, though that was the main reason. It was also to quite an extent a lack of will. I’m not sure why. I think I had nothing to look forward to in the day, till evening. So it somehow never occurred to me to actually get out of bed till evening. Don’t ask me why, even if your mouth just fell open, that’s just how it was.


Except, when evening came, I realized what I’d been looking forward to wasn’t happening after all.
And then it hit me.
Harder than the crazy freak lightening outside my window.
I just wasted my entire day.
And I will never get it back.

I got out of bed, still in a bit of shock, and headed straight to the shower. I needed it. I needed to clear out the sudden avalanche of thoughts that had hit me when I was least expecting them.  And in those fifteen minutes in the shower, I went through a quick recap of life, just the way it is.

I am twenty four years old, and don’t necessarily have a lot to show for it.
I am anti social, to say the least, at the most important of times.
I currently live a life hidden from most people
I’m currently not in love with my job, circumstantial as that may be, and suddenly treat it as something I have to do, to get that sum of money that pays the rent at the end of the month. Because you see, one day eventually, I’ll be a writer, and I’ll sit somewhere on a beach or in the mountains writing my next novel, being at home, naturally decently rich, and just enjoying the company of my family.

Reality check. I have a job that is nowhere close to me one day being a writer. I’m not even trained to be a writer. I don’t even write that well, and the term is simply a self proclamation. I have one blog which I killed, one blog that is struggling to live, and one blog that will never see the light of day under my name.

Don’t get me wrong, I am wonderfully happy right now. But because of something completely different. In fact, I am so happy, that it overshadows any circumstantial crap that happens, a job not going well, a blog not being followed, a story never told. There is no self pity. Because right now, I consider myself luckier than I’ve ever been in my life, happier than I’ve ever been in my life, with a clear thought of one thing that I know for a fact I’ll devote my life to, if allowed.

There is no self pity. But I think perhaps I’ve forgotten to care about some aspects of my life. Or maybe worse, I’ve actually gone a stage beyond self pity, and into a land where I’ve just learnt to ignore them altogether. Because you see, one day I’ll be a writer, with the love of my life, and it just won’t matter anymore that I didn’t manage to finish my project on time and got my first bad rating.

Maybe I need to get back to reality.
Maybe I need to get out of bed.
And do something.

P.S. The evening plan is finally happening after all, and I can't stop smiling. But, either way, I’m glad I got out of bed. Before I get into some real trouble. Like get thrown out of that thing that pays the rent at the end of the month.


P.P.S. I just realised I called this blog Life Unlimited, and I spent my whole day in bed. Now I'm just plain ashamed.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Because sometimes, there is no choice

Right now, at this moment, as I half sit-half lie down on my bed, I am absolutely completely exhausted.

Reason?

Well, remember how I was supposed to register my lease at the far end of the world and the landlady didn’t turn up, and so my day got wasted? Well, she did turn up today. And Mumbai is sweat-like-a-pig hot in October.

Also, remember how I was supposed to clean my room last week, and I put it off till Sunday? Umm… well, that didn’t happen either. Until today, when every possession of mine decided to revolt and hid in random corners of the room forcing me to finally clean it.

And apparently I put off the grocery shopping a little too much as well. I had this gem of a realization when I saw my maid cleaning the toilet with the laundry detergent today.

So, well, it’s been a slightly tiring day. (Enough that I just typed embarrassing instead of tiring. Which is weird, cuz it was anything but an embarrassing day, rarity as that might be.)

But, really this post is about my dirty room, which is now so clean that I am looking at it like a proud mum who’s kid just came fourth in the weird lemon and spoon race at Sport’s Day (what was with those races anyway?! I once took part in a plait race… a hearty applause for anyone who can correctly guess what that is. Anyone?)

To fully be able to understand my emotional outburst you might want to see how dirty my room actually was:

Yes, I live here.


Wait, a close-up might convince you of my hazardous situation just a bit more.

Some things cannot be explained via captions

Don't ask me how. I really don't know.

At this stage let me point out that I am NOT a 24 year old bachelor who drinks beer and sits on yesterday’s pizza, and wonders if it’s time for his weekly shower.
I happen to be a lady.
The fairer, and supposedly cleaner sex.
Oh well.

Now since at the moment I feel like a rather super hot cleanliness goddess, and since it’s been some time since I wrote in bullet points, here are some of my tips for cleaning your room:
  • Plan and time your cleaning excursion carefully. It takes surprisingly lesser time to empty your cupboard on the bed, as compared to stuffing it all back in.
  • Be prepared to be pleasantly surprised. You know that ear ring you couldn’t find, the watch that your dad gifted you, your new pair of slippers, and the chocolate you only half ate…it’s all there, somewhere. Well, maybe the pleasantness might be slightly subjective in the last case.
  • Be a brat. And I am not kidding about this one. There’s a reason your cupboard won’t shut, and there’s stuff spilt everywhere. You have way too much of it. Dispose, dispose, dispose! Because simply put, you never really will have anything to wear when you need it, so might as well not have anything to wear in your clean and less populated cupboard.
  • And when I say dispose, it includes your holey underwear. I don’t care if it’s great for ventilation!
  • There will come a point in your cleaning saga, somewhere an hour into the excursion, when everything is out on the bed, and the room looks ten times worse than when you had started, when every muscle in your body will ache, and your mind will throw only one thought your way…”Give up! No one will know…” DO NOT LISTEN TO YOUR HEAD. My solution? Tell someone who’s about to visit you that you’re going to clean up your room. Then someone will know.
  • Keep a bug spray handy.
  • A bottle of Glucon-D never hurt anyone.
  • Do not attempt to write a blog post after it.
  • In times of panic, remember, there is always the bed box and the top of your cupboard
  • And of course, going forward just keep your room clean so you don’t have to go through the above melodrama ever again.
  • Hahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!! Sorry, just couldn’t get through that one with a straight face.
  • Find a flatmate who's a cleanliness freak
  • Ask your mum to visit more often
  • Or at least take pics of your clean room. No one ever believes you otherwise. Specially next week, when you try to convince them just how clean your room once was.

And this is how clean my room is right now. And my cupboard shuts!

Am I awesome or am I awesome?!?!

Well, usually there’s a pretty blue rug there as well, but my bottle of Pepsi happened to explode on it yesterday, so it’s out of action for some time.
Yes, I like rugs in my room.
I am a lady, after all. And a lady has pretty rugs in her room.
No, it’s not pink.
Hmph.

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