Trust

“Trust me.”, he said smiling, spreading his arms. “I’ll catch you.”

Taking in the fresh air with one final deep breath, she stepped off the ledge, smiling down at his angelic face. Wind whipping her face, her smile faltered slightly, then froze as she saw him, still smiling, calmly step aside, and watch her fall.

Check-mate

Wiping her tears, he opened her hand, and placed the white king and the black queen. “To remind us, we’re different, but will always be, on the same board.”

Years later, she held the pieces, tears flowing freely.

He never mentioned, it may be the same board, but the game could never be won, together.

Colour Scope

You see your fingers move across your keyboard, the rhythmic tapping noise a constant of a background score that life seems to grow around. It’s one of those moments where the whole world around you seems to move faster than it should, that you feel like reaching out and holding on to the cinema reel, and make it pause, slow down, take a break, somehow.

And yet, as you lift your fingers, you look at them with amazement and realise they move slower than life, like a step by step relay of each moment, each movement, where each nerve and each heartbeat pulsates through your very being, in no hurry, like it’s going to be, forever.

So you stay here, stuck, in this amalgamation of time frames that refuse to merge, yet exist all the same, putting together each day, the same as the last, the same as the not-so-promising tomorrow, a mirage of being, a constant.

In black and white.

First Impressions

She scowled at the boy alternating between his loud ShahRukh impersonations and checking his hair’s reflection, and thought, “Rowdy twerp”

He raised his eyebrows at the disapproving look from the girl buried in her Ayn Rand and thought, “Pretentious snob.”

Years later, their wedding invite read, “Love was never meant to be, at first sight.”

What’s Up!

Well, a lot, not all of which I can mention here. But enough to make me happy enough to settle down with a comfortable case of writer’s block. You know, the kind where there’s so much happening that you just can’t decide what to write, and how, so well, you don’t.

But here’s a tiny summary, you know, just to get over the block and hopefully onto figuring out more artistic ways of killing people. Pardon the disconnected randomness.

Zara has now joined Aldo in my brands’ hit-list. While Aldo pissed me off with bad shoe quality (My Lajpat Nagar roadside shoe store gives me shoes that last longer for 1/10^th the price) and pathetic service, Zara is on its way to being a very close contender, with a white shirt that tore every place it stretched. I-kid-you-not. More on this when it hopefully gets back from the much mysterious quality check. After blaming my ironing capabilities, of course.

While London seemed as crowded as Sarojini Nagar, I realised it’s easy to fall in love with it if you have a willing friend to walk around with in the middle of the night along the Thames. A very willing friend, in fact, who will force you to walk even when you’re practically blind in one eye, till you somehow manage to stumble on a very flat pavement multiple times and establish that you’re just too old for 24 hours of staying awake now. But, despite getting close to being almost toe-less and turning into a pirate with an eye patch, I shall forever be grateful to the friend for pushing me enough, or I may have always remembered London with a crinkled nose and too many heads.

On a slightly different note, people in UK are surprisingly happy. Specially so in the little town near Wales where I put up. I can’t ever imagine smiling so much at seeing an auditor, really. But then again, I can’t imagine leaving for home at 4.30 PM and having a half day on Friday.

On a completely different note, I was very very disappointed that nobody asked me “Ma’am, would you like a cup of tea?” in a highly accented fake British accent. Bleh.

But I did finally have scones and clotted cream. I’m still not sure what to make of them. Except wonder at Enid Blyton’s choice of tea time snacks.

My birthday was one hotch-potch twenty four hours where nothing, and I mean nothing went as per my wish. But everything, and I mean everything, was perfect thanks to the huge amount of effort and love put in by someone who cared.

And an e-mail at midnight from someone who I like to believe is my blogging soul mate, who somehow always manages to know just how to cheer me up, even when she doesn’t actually know me at all. When actually, she knows me so well.

I’ve realised that sari shops can leave me blinded and bruised. Literally. The majentas and shiny stones… My eyes just weren’t meant for them. And some of the Dilli wali aunties fighting for the last pieces on sale... My body type definitely wasn’t meant for them.

And most importantly, I’ve learnt that life doesn’t work as per the theories we make up along the way. Whether it’s life in Mumbai, our good luck charms, our negotiations with that bitch called Karma, or the Chopsuey theory…some things are meant to change, or meant to be understood better, as we finally grow up. Except, we never really do stop growing up, do we?

Oh! And I managed to cross off some more items from my Wish-List!

P.S. I really haven’t managed to come up with any innovative ways to kill people lately. You guys. Help!

P.P.S. So much that I’d like to tell and can’t. But one day, soon! :)             

Bad boys and a few good men.

Disclaimer: This post might be girlier than usual. So not apologetic about it though. Simply warning.

Women are weird weird complicated creatures. And I pity all the men (and some other women) who have to spend their lives deciphering this eternal mysterious code.

But calling it a code is a bit warped to begin with, isn’t it? It gives the impression that there is some underlying logic to what we do, something complex, but crack-able, no? But what if there is absolutely no code? What if we just are, random?

Let’s take the simplest and most comprehensive example. Our choice in men.

Oh wait. There’s nothing simple about that.

So here’s a discussion between me and A recently about the omnipresent Game of Thrones.

Me: Oh my god, I can’t believe Jaime went back to save her!

A: See, I told you you’ll have a change of heart about him by the end of this season.

Me: Hmm. Wait. What?

A: He’s turned nice.

Me: But I liked him bad!

And that, dear friends, is the issue.

Be it Jaime Lannister, or Lost’s Sawyer (by the way, don’t they look uncannily similar?!?), McSteamy or even The Mummy’s Mummy, they’re weirdly hotter than the Rob Starks, Doctors, McDreamys and Mummy Slayers, aren’t they? Well, maybe my examples are a bit warped, but seriously, why did Olivia Newton John fall for the bad bad T Bird John Travolta in the original high school chick flick (Grease people, seriously, go watch some movies that originated before Die Hard! Or at least watch it to see John Travolta sing and dance)?

Okay fine. Why was Tom Cruise so hot in Top Gun? Or Val Kilmer in The Saint? Or Robert Downey Jr. in well, all his movies?!

Because they’re intrinsically screwed up and bad.

And the thought of being the one thing in the world that a Bad Boy turns good for, is somehow the sexiest thing in the world.

At least on paper.

In reality, it’s plain stupid.

And we should hit all the writers on their heads who don’t really get that. Why the hell did Carrie Bradshaw choose Big over Eiden? The guy who made her cry ALL the time, over the guy who was ready to give her the world?

Why did Blaire Waldorf choose the guy who sold her in exchange of a building, left her stranded at the airport (even if it was next to his private jet) before a vacation, over, well, a well mannered Prince?

Because they’re stupid y’all.

Good guys are difficult to come by. Very very difficult. And the worst part is, we don’t take them seriously when they do. Because, wait, you’ll actually make me your highest priority?! Over your bike, car and ego? Unreal.

What?? You’ll pick me up? Go away you anti-feminist.

You’ll actually understand my need for a career? Even think of leaving your life behind for me? Stop lying to get into my pants.

Respect? You respect me?? Seriously?

Oh, but that guy, that guy will treat me like shit and not be respectful, and for him, I’ll turn into a psycho stalker and pledge my life.

Screwed up, we are, at times.

Or. We grow up. And realize just how lucky we are.

And learn what happiness really is.

Finally.

Heart-broken

The tears ran freely, as she struggled to face reality, stranded alone in the dark street. She still couldn't believe it. After all the trust, loyalty, and time she had invested. To be betrayed suddenly, and so painfully.

With a final heartbroken sob, she let go of her beloved broken heel, and hobbled back home.

The Perfect Marriage

She inhaled sharply, remembering the feel of his touch, their last few fleeting moments of togetherness. A sad smile played on her lips, imagining him on his train at this moment. Instinctively, she reached out and patted her husband comfortingly, who grunted in his sleep and turned over on the bed, next to her.

That Awkward Moment...

You know something isn’t quite right, when your life is made up of a few too many of these!

That awkward moment…

When you realize your pink shirt is identical to that of your male senior’s.

When you feel uncomfortable with someone staring at you, and realize it’s probably because you were staring at them.

When your colleagues are making fun of blogs, and you’re left wondering if they know you have one too.

When you laughingly call someone you dislike baldie, and then notice the receding hairline of your audience.

When your drunk friend tells your CA boss, just how much you detest CAs.

When you send a bitchy text mistakenly to the person you were bitching about.

When you realize all you dislike are currently in your dream company and job.

When you wear heels to an office without carpeting, and sound like a carpenter went to town on the floors.

When the two people your parents find on marriage portals are people you knew already.

When your glass of unfinished and leaking Pepsi gets wedged between a stranger’s back and seat, while emptying your food tray at McDonalds.

When you realize you have no truly satisfactory answer to “Why did you join this company?!”

When someone you constantly ignore, asks you why you won’t accept their FB request.

When you realize you grew up without a pimple on your face, and suddenly now, at the time of your quarter life crisis, can play connect the dots on your cheeks.

When you realize you’re the only one who has no clue what the songs and dialogues of Janasheen were.

When autocorrect turns ‘Prem Aggan’ to ‘Premium Aggan’

When you tell a musician you’re indifferent to music.

When you’re constantly kicking the table leg while thinking, and realize it’s not the table.

When you realize, that life itself seems to be turning into one big awkward moment.

6 Feet Under

The calm breeze slightly brushed against her black dress, as she pulled the lever, slowly lowering his casket into the ground. A final tear escaped the corner of her eye, as she saw him look up at her from his grave, accusation writ in his eyes, the pulse on his neck beating a steady rhythm.