JInx

I met my Mado today. She was given a ring.

Oh well, another one of my conquest.

Dream a Little...

I found my first diary today. It came from an era when I was a child... and I wrote down my dreams.

On a strange turn of thoughts, I decided to write down my present dreams.

I could not write them... the pen scrolled down meaningless letters that never made sense to me.

Closure

It says, life always brings you to a full circle. When I was a little girl with ambitions to become a dog trainer someday, I dreamt of swanning inside the premises of my school with all the teachers staring at the exceptionally well-behaved dogs accompanying me. In class VIII, somewhere in the midst of Deepika Ma'am's class, the dogs got transformed to humans. My teacher told me to be strong and pursue my dreams. And I dreamt of reading storybooks all my life, and explain the stories to people.

I didn't even know when my storybooks were exchanged for the heavier tomes of commercial gains. I choked myself in them. Whatever was new to me got lost in the heavy dullness of mathematical precision. I wanted to close my eyes and fade far away.

Then came the time when I reacted. I refused to continue my miseries further and decided to do what I wanted to do. Xavier's was my saviour. The enormous halls enclosed me in their safety and I got lost in the thousands of books I began to sample. I was poorer than a church mouse and loved it. It seemed like a whirlwind, the three years I spent there. JU was surreal and I was bemused and dazed for being suddenly thrown into a world where work beckoned.

And so I worked.

And then came a time when I moved back. I got a call and I was going back to school.

Only this time, when I pass a student, he says, "good morning ma'am."

My teachers, the severe critics of my childhood, sing praises and welcome me with open arms.

I am 25. I just went back to school. Its changed, yes. So have I. And now I can finally look at the days of my life in school without cringing in fear or shock. Now I accept it.

I'm tired, awake, and terrified.


I cannot sleep. When I sleep my nightmares wake me.

Randomly Mine...

He dies everynight in the darkened room,

His breath stifled by my unheard moans,

He dies every night with his silence,

He dies in shades of grey and muted tones.

* * *

I am the one

Who strangled your dry voice in the dead of the night

Against my pillow where you lay

Your short spiky hair pinning my pillow with their strength

As I pushed you,

Your strong arms flailing,

Your male lips gasping, I do not know

Whether it was ecstasy you felt,

Or your voice screamed for mercy as I dealt you with the denial

Of your breath.

Dated.

Delusion and dreams. That is what is there. But its all about existence. Maybe existence is a dream. Or a delusion. Or maybe its a certainty. I am pretty non-committal that way.

Speaking of delusions, I believe randomness is delusion's hold to sanctity and sanity. What say you?

You believe otherwise. Or you might not.

I got tagged. Quite unsuspectingly by This Person. I was quite innocuously going through blog after blog when I read the post and fell for the game. Damn the GHM (Georgette Heyer Man).

I fell in love with Georgette Heyer when I was a wee lass of 14. My friend Ria was an addict, and she got me hooked by providing me my first one, called The Spanish Bride. Needless to say, I was quite charmed by Juana and Harry, and from then on, went through them like a warm knife through butter. It took me to college street when I was in Class X. I would go with 10 rupees in my pocket, roam around, get myself dirty with the grime coated books that the book seller would try to sell me at 15 rupees but I would staunchly stick to 7 (because the return bus ticket cost 3 rupees). In the end, I would go home, the proud owner of one book.

One book led to two, three... and soon I realized that I was gathering quite a collection.

Anyway, back to my story about the GHM. I fell in love with Vidal, the young Marquis of Devil's Cub. I was enamoured by this bad boy simply because I have a thing for a smattering of goodness in roguery. Tom Jones was my type, Byron was my type, Mickey Rourke was my type. I always had the dream of charming a bad boy to fall for me. Of taming a tough guy.

God, I sound like the blurb of a Mills and Boon. But then again, its my Mills and Boon. I read them too. The more outrageous the better. It reminds me of those impossibly scary teen age when I was nothing but a mass of quaking nerves, waiting on the threshold of adulthood with bated breath, waiting... watching people all around her fall in love, and be "happily ever after"(or so they thought then) and waiting.

I still wait. I know he will come. Some day.