Tearing Up The Page

At this moment I am deleting you from me. But then again, rubbing you off would not make me forget the lessons I have learned from you. And it pains me to see you now, because you would never be able to measure up to what you lost.

Welcome to your new life my love. You are welcome to it.

I cannot rub the page out of my life. But I can tear it. Because tearing it off is more violent and destructive and at this moment I feel the ruination running through my veins. I would like to eat you up and ingest you. But then again, you shall think that is too much of my passion and you are too afraid of me anyway.

So Run Away. Run Run as fast as you can. Because I won't follow. Not this time. Not this time.

Conversing with You

Me: its different when you start a story
but now we are ending it.
isn't it painful when a story ends? when the end is thrust upon you?
i dont know whether i am prepared to say it is over or not. but there's nothing more painful to end something.

You: nope it gives a few system bots to make a procession or a party to remember the dead soul and thus kill time in the process..

Me: not the literal, but the figurative death
would we ever come to terms with the concept of end?
its so... final.

You: there is no end ..

Me: but there is. there is. every moment is an end in itself. dont you hate it when you end like that?

You: nope there is no end ..you will soon be born again and then grinding again ..

Me: i dont know. but that birth wont be this
that me wont be this one
i want to not end this human life that i am. but there is no way to immortalize me
i am ending every moment i stay here
You: your life is a movie nothing more..
you are acting under the hope of your dreams and happiness which you will never find ..

Me: I am nothing. Less than nothing. And dreams.

The Bhardikt ij IN

Kolkata's Green!

Being Private About It

Evidently, I was wrong when I assumed men liked privacy. It seems, when you, the soul of sobriety that you are, do not touch their fingers in public, make them bristle with anger and shake with rage. They claim revenge, and call you names, and think that the love is gone. One even went so far as to say ---

"I think I am pregnant."

Me: But I thought we used all forms of protections, especially the verbal ones!

Him: I know, but it seems that I am.

I was mortified. "Am I the father?", I asked him.

Him: I'm not sure yet.

Me: What? You've been sleeping around!! Kultaaa!!!

And this is the reason why men can be tedious, boring, annoying, but still adorable.

ABC's

I am so in love with this song. I can nearly feel the insane rhythms to my bones. It is almost a relief to note that there are others who love love love this song too. This one's dedicated to my darling peep.

Check out the youtube link


Here's the lyrics too.

ABC's - Knaan feat Chubb Rock

Bundle up my whole style is so cold
I glow like old guys who go bald
My flow got no front in the vocal
Your flow got no button its so old

I don't mean to sound like a showboat
But it's true my persona's no joke
I stepped into some kinda portal
I'm legend and sometimes I'm noble

I'm from the most risky zone - oh
No place is more shifty global
More pistols, Russian revolvers
We shootin' all that is normal

But it ain't just because we want to
We ain't got nowhere we can run to
Somebody please press the undo
They only teach us the things that guns do

Chorus
They don't teach us the ABCs
We play on the hard concrete
All we got is life on the streets
All we got is life on the streets
(repeat)

(Chubb Rock)
Rock, you know my era
B-boy seasoning, salt -n- pepa
Grown and sexy, come with the extra
Crushed up linen, fly like sess-a
This type brew I gave it birth
Now it's time again to give it a verse
Jamaican born, not a fan of the ganja
______ Brooklyn to Somalia
And it goes in the background
Playa, that is my sound
The green doesn't symbolize I made it on the top
Pioneer legend, and they call me Mr. Rock
No B word or N word, I don't need those words (no)
Respect for hers
The game dried up, so we come with the grease
Leadin' ya right and treatin' ya right, so peace

Chorus

Superman is known by the locals
As this dude who's so fly it's global
Attitude that came outta struggle
Destitute but I make it hopeful

You real, but my real is tenfold
My real'll make yours a rental
Gangsta if at ease, essential
Fight with guns or utensils

So bold nothin's confidential
Breakfast was not continental
And lunch could not compliment all
We still become competent souls

These streets ain't paved with no gold
Matter fact someone stole the light bulb
Nobody fat enough for lypo
They don't teach us to read and write, so...

Time flies like an arrow

Fruit flies like bananas.

Doesn't Saying Sorry Help?

I don't know. I just tried it. It does not work apparently.

It is still not alright. How can I make it better? How can I make it better? I ask myself over and over again.

Oh no, oh no ohno.... I will lose another friend. I cannot lose another friend. I cannot. It is going to be too much for me to bear it this time. How can I breathe? I cannot breathe now... I cannot breathe if I lose you. But don't you know you are a part of me now, and parts of me cannot be broken apart like that?

Don't break me. Don't break me.

Just. Please. Don't.

I've Just Had A Shop Day.

And I'm BUSHED with capital everything.

Enclosing Comment

"Wouldn't the world be great if we could all have what we deserved? But then, you deserve a slap and I deserve chocolates. And both of us are getting exactly what we deserve."

JInx

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

Oh well, another one of my conquest.

Rhyming.

The page quivers in silence,
Angry scratches pour in
Astounding is the way I rape defile the purity
Of the fine white planes.

These words are maudlin
Written on my body and
Angst pouring in the finer tip
Of the revolting pen.

Strangely enough
It feels like the purgatory is
Waiting for the emotions and memories
To connect midnight with desires stirred once

Yes, now, yes, now, now
The page is torn in half
And the ink congeals
On the superficial words
The ink glares back at me
Unwilling to admit the perpetration it has committed.

I stare at the paper.
Fool! Fool! Fool! Betrayer!

Yapping Along...

Dear Readers,

This is a post on disclaimers incidents. It is indeed well in the second decade of the new millennium and my blog remains happily overwhelmed by random acts of violence, passionate proclamations and insulting usage of Americanized English which Firefox seems to allow solo (Actually, the technically challenged part of me is too lazy to switch from Eng US to Eng UK because I want to keep my spellings correct and American... and because I hate seeing the red alert underlining my summarised when I write it that way). I don't know why, but the red seem to censure my act, and so I stand chastened by a browser. I wish I'd switched to Google Chrome (YES SAPTARSHI, I DID, BUT I LIKE MY OLD FAITHFUL BECAUSE I CAN DOWNLOAD VIDEOS BETTER HERE).

A few days or a lifetime ago, I was walking down JUDE with a jar of chocolate paste and hapless victims who were willing to be my guinea pigs. It had interesting results.

And then another day I decided to go for a walk with Saptarshi and Arka and talked our heads off about food. I love it when I can talk heads off about something I really like and can talk to someone about it.

I realize that I do not speak/talk inside my house, except for giving instructions or screaming insults.

I decided to cook up the perfect batch of Chocolate paste the other day. It finally gor right after three tries. All volunteers are hereby thanked.

The new year woke me up with a bang, literally. At ten in the morning some idiots were setting up a "milan mancha" (Honestly, as if they've never seen each other or hurled abuse and garbage on them!!) and started playing "Aye mere vatan ke Logo" and such. I, deluded for a second, said, "Happy Independence Day??" Sayani apparently replied: "Gandu!" and promptly turned over and snored some more.

Catering is fun. Pablo, I am thankful to you for making me realize there is YET another job I can easily take up (of course I am doing it on the sly, but still... a full time job!! )

I gave Dhruva a surprise. He was. Very much.

Despite knowing everything and doing so much, I have realized something this year. This blog is about me. Me. Me. I. I. And its going to be this way. As long as I feel like.

And here are a few trivial piece of nothing that you learnt about me today.

By the by, American English does not recognize LEARNT (which they spell LEARNED) and recognises FUCK. Just an observation.

Happy New Year

And I adore love you Adam Lambert.

A Thing of Beauty

They say, you can never be too rich or too skinny.

Or, can you?

I remember a friend of mine telling me that she wanted to be slimmer because someone she knew thought that slimmer people looked smart.

I ask... what is the quotient of smartness in comparison to body weight? One of the most incredible women I have ever met in my life weighs way over average but still manages to make people's head turn when she walks in... not because of her body, but because of a pair of eyes and a face that can literally impose and command... like in the battles lost and won once upon a time.

Most men I have met have agreed that so-called "HOT" is actually very temporary a phase which soon phases out. Like the moment, it wears off once the person in question opens her respective mouth.

Beauty... is a mere myth, quickly lost in the haze of the person.

I consistently see women growing overweight in a vicious circle of self-denial. The whole I-AM-FAT-BUT-I-SHALL-DIET-BUT-TOMORROW is not something that is healthy. You see, after nearly ten years of failed attempts at DIETING, I realized that thats bull. There is no such thing. All I had to do was eat right.

But what was right? What was right for me might not be so for someone else. For example, eating a lot in the morning, and consistently slow down as the day progresses works wonders on me, but might not on someone else.

So what to do??

I have a vague feeling that we women are never satisfied with the way we look. I do not know even ONE woman who is *perfectly* happy with the way she looks, and that is scary. The condition of women to be "a thing of beauty" has led us to objectify and imitate what we *supposedly* do not possess. Yet the myth of being PRETTY leads us on a rat race of being on the *lookers* list.

What list? Who Determines them? How do we determine what is the best look for a woman?

I do not think that there are any *correct* answer here. All I want to think is that as long as we are not physically harming ourselves, we can be, like the proverbial Bacardi, what we want to be, and with my blessings, too.

Mandakini

Of course, this might sound like a post on the 80s. It is not, though my formative years were shaded with the voluptuous heroine, famed for her beautiful white face, with pink smudges all over. She was supposed to be the image of distinct prettiness, and kaka thought she was the prettiest girl in the world.

No wonder I did not like her much.

So I was coming back from work the other day and suddenly found my driver on his knees beside my car. Curious, I went in to see exactly why was he prostrate, and realized that this little, tiny black critter was under the damn car. The lights made it impossible for me to understand the species of my intended, but I brought it down to a cat or a puppy.

However, long moments of coaxing followed, followed by cajoling, and ultimately insults and poking. To no avail. The "dear, sweet thing" as my driver claimed, refused to exit.

Frustrated to no end, I exclaimed: "Dhur Nyaka Mondakini, Bero!!" ("Just get out, you pretentious Mondakini!" Yes, I know. Translation does not work here, does it??)

Wonder of wonder, miracle, miracle.

She came out.

So after that, I generally found her at my doorstep, which is quite a distance from her litter. She's the runt of the group, detested by her mum. So of course, I sometimes feed her.

Okay, I feed her quite often...

And I realized she likes my shoes. I am now the owner of three pairs of torn strappy slippers, thanks to a mouthful of busy teeth which loves nipping at me, going underfoot, and generally following me like the proverbial lamb of Mary (Which, if Mary was wise, she should have used to make a mean profit at the slaughterhouse). She also has become the light of my students' lives, who love having her with them, and brings her biscuits. Once the runt, she's become quite an expert manipulator. Even my personal mum falls for her. Dyammit.

Which is a problem. Of course, she is after my life. I am gracefully bearing it.

A song with no name for lack of imagination

janish janish janish. I love you.

just toldyou because I feel so confused and tired and I dont know maybe if my life wasn't going down the drains like it is now

I would not be sniffing and crying in front of the comp right now trying to picture your face in my mind's eye, and just feeling helpless. s****ms****m isn't it just a drearypainful thing to be helpless, knowing there's no one just no one who's out there to save you?

and yes, rescue syndrome is on.

but I can't help stop the visions of paradise. why why whyandwhy am i feeling like this i dont know. just tell me that i am not alone i am not alone feeling lonely and pained because the man i love is showing me pictures of another woman in throes of an orgasm.

I cant i canticant take this. dont ask me where the pain is going.

I dont know but i will probably go mad if i haven't already. tell me just tell me that i am not alone. i cant get no happiness re. no happiness. keno jani na keno jani na.


In the years to come, this shall be a memory too.

As a Friend said...

I walk like I am on a hunt. Its intimidating to unsuspecting males/females.

This is the same woman who once told me she considers her body to be a burden sometimes. With its millions of problem.

I looked in the mirror today and found those extra curves in my butt and around my waist and on my arms. I realized that I don't mind them.

When I was growing up, my body was one of the most mysterious things I knew. Far from unraveling and exploring it, I shied away from the mirror, covered myself in clothes far too large for my body, and put on glasses. I greased my hair with coconut oil, and refused to feel pretty. Too miserable in my own gloom, I used to think I was unlovable and that was the way it was going to be. Thanks to the upper body that refused to subside. Or the lower body that never seemed to get "right".

I grew up under the shadow of my mother. Literally.

The family unanimously agreed on her prettiness. She was the very beautiful woman. I used to think so too. My mother was, and probably always shall remain, the most beautiful woman I know.

But I never found her to be the most incredibly attractive woman. Strangely enough, the definition of a firm cheekbone attracted me far more than the delicate turn of an eyebrow, and the strength in a staunch pair of shoulders made me feel more happy than a submissive pair of downcast eyes. I grew up to stare at my self in the mirror, squaring my shoulders, lifting my chin, and walking on straight, without an apology for being who I was. All beginning at age 15 when I realized I needed to be proud, and not ashamed of what I was and who I was.

And thus began the walk. I still walk, shoulders squared, straight, without apology. I know that my body has thousands of problems in it, fitness and otherwise, but I somehow realize that they are all mine.

And I am quite proud of it.

Mixing logic

Ever thought what does it take to mix with the rest of the world?

This post should have been named mucous. What with all the hacking cough and slimy nostrils, The Panu is sick with it all. However, The Sister still rises. Over and over again through the night, and comes to plague her hapless Older One with seemingly endless question that end with Hentai.

Beastly Tales...

She is in the mists somewhere. In this darkness which she calls her home, her mind and her body mingles together in the cold rain that falls through the night. The moon is hidden there... in the darkness nothing is visible, so the sound of the rain falling hits the ear with a dull dripping prolonged note that has been stretched too long, trilling and tripping on its way.

She stares at this darkness that permeates parts of her. But parts of her refuse to be in the dark. They spread out, run out, the colours of the night barely hide the mad glints of her eyes, white as snow, still and terribly still as they focus on the prey that lurks in the darkness.

Slowly she moves through the mists, the darkness often cuts through to reveal the pale gleam of a ring, or the flash of feral teeth.

Slowly, and slowly she closes on her prey. She nears and nears and nears.

And then she pauses.

For there the Julychildren sat, staring at the laptop first, then suddenly looking up and an impish grin spread as they quietly closed the lid of the computer and ordered a glass of Appletini.

And hence ended the morbid tale that never was.