Death

I hereby solemnly pronounce Fluid Vortex to be dead. I don't guarantee any eternal peace. You are now dead and may you try not to haunt.

You now have a new avatar. You now have a new purpose.

You now have more colour and more purpose. The black hole is dead.

Mystery boy

I had a crush on him the first time I ever saw him. He is sitting in front of me right now. He is sitting with another Indian girl. They are working on problem sets, I assume.

He is very cute. I really like the way he moves his fingers. I like the way his hair falls on his forehead. I like his lips. I like the way he chews gum. I like looking at him. I don't know what his name is. I've never spoken to him.

The first time I ever saw him was in my flight from from Colombo to London. He took the same flight as I did from Madras to Colombo. Madras boy he was... It was a passing glance. But it really was during the immigration wait that I got a good look at him. He was standing in front of me. He was talking to another girl, standing in front of him. She was a student too. I caught snatches of their conversation. They'd worked together before apparently. Everyone knows everyone in Madras, anyway.

I just kept looking at him. I didn't know he was going to be at LSE as well. I thought he was proper 'Peter' as we urban Tams like to put it.

But I see him all the time these days. In the library lift, at the Plaza cafe, while waiting for Hare Krishna food, around the Old Theatre, while running up the stairs for lectures at the NAB, hanging around the Peacock theatre, randomly on the road... I see him everywhere. He knows me and I know him. Sometimes we give each other a miniscule smile. But we've never spoken. We never will. I just think he is cute. This is just another college crush :)

Crowning glory - Julie Andrews today...

A really long way from Mary Poppins but as elegant and graceful as ever. She can make every girl who looks at her feel like a princess. Julie Andrews should be a staple diet for every girl child. I've made sure my little sister has been over-'boozed' with Julie Andrews.

When Julie Andrews sings, you want to believe and you want to slip into her magical land of perfection. A world where Prince Charmings actually do exist. Where Lochinvars come riding on steeds of steel...

But the sad reality of life as Kr says, "They keep saying the right person will come along, but I think mine got hit by a truck!" :-o

Right now, I'd rather take refuge in the comfort that Julie Andrews offers rather than the seething pain of Kr's reality check!

Yeh meri kahaani...

Seven years is a long time. But it still seems like the first time I ever met M. We can still laugh for no reason and we can still talk for hours about nothing at all. When I first saw him, he was drunk. I can't seem to remember who his girlfriend was back then. He was with Sush, I guess. Can't really say. It was party night at Dublin, Park Sheraton. Priti had to lie to my father to get me out of home. Ha! Fun it was :) Pri and Shriki were seeing each other back then. I was only 18. Pri was given the task of 'taking care' of me. That's when we bumped into M. Shriki and M went to MCC. M was Shriki's junior or something like that. A long long night of head-banging it was. Ah! What joy, M had long hair back then. Not the corporate conformist he is today. He wore wooden jewellery and vegetable print shirts and of course, had red (long) hair.

Today, well-hidden under his corporate pinstripes, only his tattoo remains reminiscent of those old days. Far off in a Nungambakam cafe, we'd talk about the great mysteries of life. We still do. In these years, we've moved to different cities and countries, fallen in love, had our hearts broken, found jobs, lost them, made mistakes, messed up terribly, did well, shared our successes, laughed at our failures, lost loved ones, gone incognito, re-emerged... the list is endless...

The first thing I did after returning to India from London was to visit him in a different city. He bought me flowers, bought me food and drink at Ruby Tuesday, told me stories that made me laugh and convinced me that it was a fantastic idea to get my belly-button pierced from a random road wallah in Commercial street :-o My friend is the most awesome in the world :)

There is probably nothing that can make me forget all my cares and worries like a good telephone conversation with M. Like they say, everything becomes so much more funnier when you are with your best friend. Yes, it does :)

Today, I just received a message on facebook and I couldn't stop laughing for five whole minutes. I am posting it here because I want to come back to it some day, look at it and laugh again. No, I don't bookmark anything!

Subject: will call u tonight

"oh my dear... With each moment, I m realising that at the end of the day, am just a ridiculous narrow minded mallu who is very possessive and who helplessly loves his girl beyond words... Pray tell me, which of the above characteristics is the faulty one? I am broad minded most of the time but if my ego comes into play then all is lost... And ego has now got a brain of its own... Come and goes as it pleases... I need u to broaden my mind beyond the horizon and help me lock it down there.... Pls..."

Feed the birds...

Growing up all by myself on Herculean oil tankers and coal carriers meant that I often had to find escape routes into more palatable banalities that deserved a little girl mostly dressed in purple polka dresses and abnormally large hats. As I write this, reminiscing about events that rewind back to over a decade and a half, I still wear a purple jumper, purple tights and a purple scarf. A look at my fingernails suggest that it probably needs a manicure - but I can see the ugly remains of my once beauteous purple gloss polish. The colour of royalty they say. It is a notion that was deeply rooted in my psyche by a mother who wore purple on her wedding day.

Though not much was understood by my fickle mind back then, it comforted my juvenile thoughts to slip into chimeran states as often as possible. Somewhere between the Pacific and the Indian ocean, around the land of the Kookaburra, where the Occident and the Orient was trying to define its boundaries, on the shores of some Australian port-city, my father showed me the magic of Mary Poppins.

Feed the birds... Tuppence a bag...

As awestruck as I was by her bottomless bag, my skepticism prevented me from entering the realm that I my father was struggling so hard to push me into. He wanted me to indulge in those childish fantasies. To enjoy, to lose myself... But I questioned. I didn't believe Mary Poppins could do magic. I knew something was wrong. The only thing that really fascinated me about the movie was 'Super-cali-fragilistic-expiali-doscious'. I did really believe my father when he told me that it was the longest word in the English language. We repeated it together until I committed it to memory as he took his evening walk on the 'monkey island'. That was the highest level on the ship. The SOS lights were off. I always had a mad desire to convince someone to turn them on. Very rarely, on lonely oceans, when there weren't any other vessels visible on the radar, the captain would permit the SOS lights to be turned on. It would drive me wild with joy. This particular day, the wind was unleashing its full fury. I always thought that it would carry me away one day. I remembered to behave. I didn't want to become like Thumbelina. There was nothing but black sea as far as our eyes could search.

The dark visuals of the old woman feeding the birds would haunt me. At that age, surrealism meant just that I had to sit through it. It also meant that I was a part of it. It made me queasy. It made me shift on my seat. But I'd calmly sit through it. It was just another phase that I'd have to pass before hitting brighter areas. I knew the sequences by heart. I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I'd watch it everyday. I would wait for the dark scenes. I'd sit through it.

A spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down...

Last year when I finally bought the DVD, I still knew all the lines from memory. But every time I watch Julie Andrews sing croon 'Step in Time', I learn something new. How could I have missed it after all these years of watching the film at least a hundred times?

My mother, I believed had the most beautiful handwriting in the world. I distinctly remember her red cursive writing on the video casette label. It was all capitals. Red felt pen. It was as though Mary Poppins descended from the skies holding her parrot umbrella to write my video cassette label. It fit the fairy tale. It was a dark fairy tale according to me.

if I didn't tell her
I could leave today
California Dreamin'
on such a winter's day

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey...

I've been out for a walk... On a winter's day...

I'd be safe and warm if I was in LA

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

Stopped into a church... I've passed a long way... Well I got down on my knees

Well I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray...

You know the preacher likes the cold...

And he knows i am goin' to stay...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

(Float)

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

If I didn't tell her... I could leave today...

California dreamin' on such a winter's day...

Never a dull moment...

Sometimes pensive, sometimes jubilant. Sometimes tender. Sometimes demanding. Sometimes beautiful. Other times scary. Sometimes whimsical. Sometimes mature. There's never a dull moment in the life of PS. Just like Wong Kar Wai's Faye Wong. There are spaces that need cleaning up and PS does it without letting anyone know. Only loud music supports her.






if I didn't tell her
I could leave today
California Dreamin'
on such a winter's day

HATES VOICEMAIL

VOICE MAIL IS EVIL and people who have them on their phones are EVILER, EVILEST. I don't like Voice mail and I don't like speaking to stupid recorded voices, how much ever I adore the voice x-(

Voice mail should be sent to hell and fried in a kadai full of boiling oil. Whoever discovered Voice mail should be made to hang upside down.

Evenstar

I am posting a lot of music. Music I like. Evenstar is one of those classics. The immortal love of Aragon and Arwen if so beautifully expressed in just one verse of pure poetry. I tried learning Elvish, but I didn't have the discipline. With my first salary in Bangalore, I bought the extended DVD version of the LOTR. I've spent entire days watching the movie over and over again. Each of the three parts of the movie runs four hours long.

My ex-husband made me listen to Evenstar before we married. He owned the extended DVD set. It was more out of vengeance than anything else that I bought the LOTR box set. But, I managed to form a bond with the beautiful storyline and especially Aragon and Arwen's painful love story.

Evenstar means other things to me today than it did three years ago. It means poetry. Just pure poetry. Nothing more. Nothing less.





This is what it means...

Ú i vethed...
This is not the end...

nâ i onnad.
It is the beginning.

Si boe ú-dhannathach
You cannot falter now

Ae ú-esteliach nad —
If you trust nothing else

Estelio han —
Trust this —

estelio veleth.
Trust love.

In transition...

Today has been such a horrible day. I can't remember the last time I spent the entire day in bed because I was sick. Hmmm... actually I do. I had my period that day. It can't seem to remember what day of the week it was. I spent the entire day in bed. I lost count of the ticking minutes. The sun rose and set. I lay there. All by myself. It hurt like nothing else. I was weak. Couldn't move. I opened the door for my maid at some point.

I cocooned in my matchbox mezzanine. The tiny window threw in dancing shadows of light and shade. I slipped between the conscious and the unconscious. Darkness and light. My stomach growled - Both in pain and in hunger. My legs grew stiff from lack of movement.

He came to visit me in the evening, after work. He brought a packet of maggi with him. He made me eat it. I wanted him to stay. He left. The maggi wouldn't stay either. I threw it all up right after he left.

Another phone fight later I shrunk under my blanket. The sun broke my slumber. It was a bright day outside. The pain had evaporated. It was time to be part of the grind again.

More Cat Power - Love this commercial

i still hate her. more than ever before.

Death Class update - Lent Term Week 3

I totally didn't listen to a single word Prof. Allen talked about today. Today's class was on Refugees, UNHCR, Int'l mandates, Ogata and many many genocides. From studying philosophy to Int'l law is a little problematic for me. Scary also :( But right now, I just like to stare at the gory visuals on his power point. It is easier to leave out the information. I don't like dying people.

Sea of Love - Cat Power

I am sad. I can't seem to sleep. Disappointment sweeps over my numb body...

Into shards of splintered glass, he tossed...

Her hopes glaring bright

Fragile, mellow, she shrinks

Choking disappointment, unrequited dreams.

She stares into nothingness

A sigh, sadness.

Brushes back her lone imaginary tear

She walks on.

Come with me
My love
To the sea
The sea of love

I want to tell you
how much
I love you

Do you remember
When we met
That's the day
I knew you were my pet

I wanna tell you
how much
I love you

And one more horse shoots its foot

Now, this is a bit too much. I mean, what's with everyone? Or is it just me? Suddenly everyone I know is entering into psychedelic nuptial bliss. And when that happens, they don't seem to be able remember anything / anyone / anyelse around them anymore. It is as though they are rapid-waltzing in the darkness, hurtling themselves towards the light-at-the-end of the ruthless marriage tunnel. They constantly gloat and exude about this one other person they are soon going to be nuptial-ing with. Everything else, material and otherwise, disintegrates away into fine dust and disappears into oblivion. It is quite often in recent times that I've found myself stuck in this Utopian conversation syndrome. And when that happens, all I can think of is the ever-faithful triple chocolate chip muffin that I could use to wash away this doughnut effect.

It is too sweet for me to handle. I've never liked doughnuts. I have never seen a point in it - ever. What's good about so much sweetness anyway? So sweet that it nauseates. This blind-waltz talk holds a similar effect to me. I am a cynical bitch. That's what I am. No denying that.

But maybe I am just being cynical because I look at myself outside normal. Like I am on a different plateau. Like I was destined for different things. I don't fit the stereotype. I am different. I don't do normal things. Maybe I do 'abnormal' things? I ask myself sometimes. I don't conform - but conforming is a sweet thing to do. It is comfortable to conform. It is what everyone should do. To conform. That is what life is about. To be accepted and to conform.

But, I did conform. Then she threw me away and told me, "Yes, you conformed but because you conformed, I, the mega-life-bitch am going to make it all the more difficult for you. Go figure."

And so I slid down the steep slope on a wooden sledge. I tried to overtake the avalanche, but it buried me right beneath. The snow has melted now. I am standing. But will I be the last woman standing?

Cold

I can feel a cold building up. Vit C doesn't seem to help. Need a stronger doze :( I hate Cetzine. It always made me feel drowsy in Class 12 when I had chronic wheezing and bronchitis.

I think I am feeling drowsy now. But why am I feeling drowsy now, 12 hours after taking the pill?

Cold go away. I find it weird that in the land of politeness people find it perfectly acceptable to blow their noses in public. Especially annoys me when people do it at the library, during a lecture or in other otherwise quiet spaces.

My answer to them: Go die.

Saki says...

Note to job aspirants: If you list Wordpress under 'Programming Languages' on your resume, we clearly will not hire you at @webchutney

lolness!

The first time I ever met Saki, he called me a bitch. What an ass. If someone needs therapy, it has to be him. Being high or apologising doesn't negate these things.

I don't like him and he doesn't like me, quite clearly. But I don't think Saki can like anyone.

Srisai talking about some of his friends...

they r palams... and they r not in ur league of thinking

and konjam geeky

konjam=unbearable

I couldn't stop laughing for a whole minute.

Just another blogpost

I was going to write about Kr. But I don't think I want to anymore. I've lost flow. Kr is an awesome person. She is so much like me in so many ways. She is a super-woman, though she will never really agree to that claim. She is a dreamer and passionate about life. I also recall that Kav said the same thing about me. Kav thinks I am passionate. I don't know what she meant by that though. I never bothered to ask her. Sometimes I want to try and be like her, like Kr. But through our very close friendship, she did make me realise that I am in fact like her.

She stopped talking to me one fine day. I still don't know why and she doesn't remember why... But it was perhaps the most painful period of my adolescent life. Was it 6 months or 8 months? Or perhaps more? I can't seem to remember the time period. I could handle rejection more easily back then. I was sad alright, but I also changed my place in class. I refused to sit with her anymore. I gelled right into the new group I sat with. They invited me to go watch Anacondas Red Orchid with them. I was surprised that they wanted to go watch a film with me. They were the arrogant show-off gang in class. We became friends slowly. Rash, Pakki and I even did Salsa class together. That's the only thing I miss about Chennai - Koki and Ro's salsa classes.

When I made Spinderella, they all pitched right in. Mahi and Aksh even visited home 'just to see how I was doing and if things were going well with my shoot.' Well, I still think they wanted a slice of the pizza lunch that I was offering them for them helping out :) Ash wasn't particular about pizza, but wanted me to buy her gillete blue to shave her legs. It makes me smile to think that a razor worth Rs. 35 assumed such pivotal importance in our lives back then. But Kr didn't even bother to ask me what I was doing. She didn't want to know. We were in fight mode. But I didn't want to know what she was doing either. I didn't even want to look at her face. There was only hate.

But, it was only death that managed to wipe that hate away. I won't name him here - I have erased him from my memory. It is like he never existed. It is like those long conversations never really happened. Just like his casual references to suicide that no one took seriously. Those hours have evaporated. Those thoughts are dead. He is dead. I don't think of him these days. It has been a long time since I thought of him.

But the first time I spoke to Kr in a really long time was to tell her about his death. The hate disappeared miraculously. He was dear to both of us.

But it also created a barrier, I suppose. The hate disappeared, but there was silence. It killed a part of 'us'. Things have never been the same since.

I am not one of those people who think that college was the best thing that ever happened to them. It wasn't for me certainly. Lots of ego-clashes, confidence-ripping (but building also), identity-crisis, bullying - I had it all. But it was all for good. 'Character building', as they say.

I am what I am today because of my experiences.

I am what I am today because of all the trials, tribulations, failures and witnessing I have done in my life. Not because of the good things that have happened to me.

Sometimes I feel that many people I speak to lack perspective because of the fairly stable life they've had. Being judgemental is human. Everybody makes judgements all the time. But the manifestations that these judgements make is what really matters.

I am going through a metamorphosis right now. From crouching in the dark, to sunbathing on the beach. Somewhere, I will hit middle ground. I will be good. Will emerge beautiful.

Sometimes absence is required to feel a person's presence more intensely

- line from Antaheen

excerpt from Kr's blog post

As I lay there on the tank, stargazing, for probably the thousandth time, I convinced myself that it's OK to sometimes not live one-day-at-a-time and look forward to what tomorrow will bring. Its OK to want to assume that the knight in the shining armour is actually just around the corner, and that now is the perhaps the best time to go our explore the beautiful world. Travel, read, learn how to bake, learn some pottery, write more often (for pleasure I mean), sing, learn how to play the flute and guitar, krav maga, next level in spanish, flirt (p.s. if i find the guy interesting AND good looking enough)

I am eating now. but promise- will write later

On a sultry summer night...

Anirudh. I asked him to sing his favourite song to me. He sang this song to me. I was slightly drunk. We sang until 2 am that night. I remember waking up K's new flat mate. He was bewildered to see a woman wake him up. It was hilarious. We sang The Beatles and even California Dreaming. He is so divine on his guitar. I'd say Anirudh's version is actually better than Paolo Nutini's version. He is also one of the sweetest people I know.

I didn't want to go home that night. One more fight. I was angry, sad and fed-up. I wanted a girls night out. C, T and I went to play Question Mark at The Beach. I bumped into K there. I decided I didn't want to go back home. K asked me to come over for an after-party and told me I could crash. K has always been super-nice to me. The first time I ever went to Bangalore - for the AOL job interview, he gave me a place to stay. He always had a place for me to crash. After all we just live 10 minutes apart. I didn't exploit his company though. I ran from it, rather.

I didn't talk to K so much after a while. I was petrified. He liked me. He was serious. I started avoiding him. I didn't take his calls. I didn't reply to his texts. I would talk to him once in a while and tell him I wasn't avoiding him or anything. Only that I was just too busy. I always felt really bad doing it to this really nice guy. He was right in a way when he told me that (even nice) girls like me do things to hurt nice guys like him. I am in complete agreement with him. Except, I always denied the fact that I was avoiding him. I just pretended to be very busy.

When I think back now, I don't know what it was in K that didn't draw me towards him. He is like the perfect recipe. Any girl would die to have him. He is well read, very intelligent, has good musical tastes, is extremely respectful, writes like a pro, absolutely loves his job, follows his passion, has a super-cool mom, very considerate - a perfect gentleman, so to say. There is nothing about K not to like. Every mother should raise her son like IB did.

There was no chemistry. I felt bad all the time about avoiding him.

I was crashing at K's. And Ani was his neighbour. I didn't think much of Ani when I first met him. He was this quiet guy who sat in a corner drinking his beer. K introduced his as his neighbour.

When Ani started playing 'Loving you', I momentarily fell in love with him. I have never felt attracted towards guys younger to me. But I was having a crush :) He stood next to me while singing. His fingers nonchalantly played on his guitar frets. They were magic. He looked into my eyes and sang. Just gentleman to lady. Nothing more, nothing less.

I remember looping the song at work the next day.

A couple of months later, at the stroke of midnight, Ani played Happy Birthday on his guitar for me. There was a random chocolate rum ball in the fridge. I cut it along with K's room mate. I can't remember his name but we shared our birthdays. I'd made pasta that night, they all liked it.

Following the birthday song, he played 'Loving you'. He knew I loved it when he played the song. It was my little birthday gift. We went to the terrace. I got totally drunk that night. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to do that. I didn't cry after drinking like I had done for a whole year. I laughed a lot and sang a lot. He played the song more than once for me. I was depressed again. But, the song made me smile. He even made up his own song for me, about how awesome I was. Ani used to conjure up songs all the time. It was like he just made it out of thin air. It was fascinating. Random lyrics and random chords. It blended perfectly well.

He was a nice guy. We went to Peco's later and had dosa-chicken.

I haven't spoken to him in a bit. I don't know why.

Who mythologises journalists? Musings from death class.

Prof. Tim Allen:

"Other journalists. Most journalists want to be journalists only because they see other journalists in extraordinary places in extraordinary circumstances. Journalists have mixed motives. One news media is keen to undermine the other.

Media are never politically neutral. Media do not exist outside the political and social world they describe. Media are manipulated."

My head spins. I feel dizzy. I feel guilty. I feel like I don't deserve to be sitting here.

"Those images about suffering that don't come from the media, don't exist. Media, and in particular news media, are highly contingent. Political space is important for them. News stories have to be dramatic to capture the audience. You can't tell the reality of what is going on in Uganda in 15 minutes. Gatekeepers: There will often be an editor whose career depends on the market share he or she can capture through that story. Even if you have a good story, it is difficult to get it out often."

"It is difficult to get to where the real action is happening. The only way to do it is to actually have a real working relationship with either an NGO or the government."

Isn't this exactly the conflict I was facing? The NGOs weren't happy. I didn't want to associate myself with any government agencies. I was manipulating. I was carefully assessing. I was accused of not being neutral. I was constantly monitored. Was I wrong? I tried to do right. Was I using them innocents? Yes, I was. Was I trying to do them any good? I would like to thinks so. But it didn't materialise to that, did it? It won't do them any good in their life time though.

"In Biafra things changed because of the way media used the information they had. Fredrick Forsythe used his media knowledge to push stories from a Biafran perspective to the media. He quit BBC and joined the rebels. "

"Do you believe in life before death? - Christian Aid publicity showing a black baby in the womb. Interestingly, the visual used was not that of an African baby, but that of a Norwegian baby. The shot footage did not match the mood of the commercial. They had to purchase footage and tint it."

Is this wrong? Haven't I done this before? Multiple times. Prof. Allen clearly seems think it is wrong. But, is it sometimes ok to be wrong for the greater good? Are principles so important? Or is it just a western ideal, all this talk about 'doing the right thing'? Is it ok to manipulate for the greater good? After all, no one else could find out and it gave the exact same desired effect.

"When you see images of a starving baby. Someone has set it up for a camera. But does this really explain the situation? How far does this stretch one's imagination? Kevin Carter didn't feed that baby. He let it die."

But what Prof. Allen didn't tell the class was that Carter, the Pulitzer prize winner, later committed suicide. I can relate to him. But journalists can't save everyone, can they? I didn't give that woman any money. She is probably dead by now. But I didn't give her any money. It is the question of ethics, some say. If I give money to one, I am not being just. I can't give money to an entire village. I don the hat of a professional, a journalist. I have no moral obligation to save the lives of people I am writing about, to perhaps earn my own bread. But is that kind of detachment possible. I spent hours talking about this. I discussed it with a number of close journalist friends. I lied to some of them. I told them I gave her money. And to others I didn't. I told them I didn't. Could I have saved her? It wasn't too much money. Two thousand rupees was what I spent on my shoes when I returned.

I feel something bad spreading between my stomach and throat. I can't describe the feeling. It is a bad feeling. It is a physical manifestation of guilt. But why should I feel guilty? I didn't do anything wrong. I was just doing my job. I feel goosebumps. The dilemma persists. How does one tackle difficult questions such as these?

Am I a bad person? Did I fail in my responsibility? Did I abandon humanity?

Can Indian girls have STIs? Sure, why not?

At Quad Cafe:

Fluid Vortex taps away manically on her mac

NHS Lady in blue campaign jacket: Sorry to interrupt, but we are running a campaign on Chlamydia awareness. We are handing out free Chlamydia tests and you could win an iPod Touch if you are lucky. All you have to do is pee in the pot and return it to us.

Fluid Vortex: Umm...

NHS Lady in blue campaign jacket: I don't know if you know much about Chlamydia. It will only take a minute...

Fluid Vortex: Actually I am not sexually active.

NHS Lady in blue campaign jacket: Oh! (What? How is that even possible? / Go get a life / I have a rocking sex life, you suck / Oh! sorry I asked you. You have brown skin. I am turning colour blind these days). Well OK you should be alright then.

Moves to the next table. Two bewildered Indian looking guys listen to her speak.

Has a fantasy...

Millenium Bridge, London

Don't wanna miss a thing... - Aerosmith

Lying close to you
Feeling your heart beating
And I'm wondering what you're dreaming
Wondering if it's me you're seeing
Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we're together
And I just wanna stay with you
In this moment forever, forever and ever

I don't wanna miss one smile
I don't wanna miss one kiss
Well, I just wanna be with you
Right here with you, just like this
I just wanna hold you close
Feel your heart so close to mine
And stay here in this moment
For all the rest of time

Stoppage.

It feels so good to be able to write again. I feel so free. It is as though I've been released into fresh air from a vacuum dungeon. It feels like having wings again. It feels like being in touch with my inner-self again. It feels like expression. I stopped painting as well. I wonder if I will be able to paint now. When I left India my mom asked me if I wanted to take my art kit with me. I told her I didn't. I gave my entire collection to my sister. She was delighted. For years, I forbade her from as much as laying a finger on art material. I'd get wild if she went near the art cupboard. I would buy her new stuff, but would never share my material with her.

My art material was precious to me. My faber-castle pencils. Once my sister took my 2H pencil. She was perhaps 7 years old. She didn't just take it, she sharpened it. I went totally berserk. I yelled at my mom for allowing her to meddle with my stuff. She didn't understand the importance of not sharpening pencils. I had carefully shaved it to suit the piece I was working on. It had the exact blunt that was needed. The first ever lesson one learns at art school is the right technique to sharpen one's pencils. My pencil was ruined by my sister's whimsical obsession with wanting to sharpen every pencil she ever laid her hands on. These things mattered to me back then. Expression was the most important aspect of my life. It still is. It stopped in between - but when it did, other people's expression became important to me. I stopped associating myself with people who couldn't express freely. Those people scared me. They still do. But I am not as phobic anymore. I respect them. But, in essence, I was scared of myself because I just stopped expressing.

Suddenly, I was unable to do it. I didn't even try. I built a stone wall around me. It all stopped. I often visualised myself trying to break the stone wall. It was always the same tight stone wall that surrounded me. In other variations, it would stand in front of me. I had something in my hand. Some sort of weapon. I couldn't say what it was - but I always failed. I never could break the wall. These are visualisations that popped up when I tried to express or was put in a position where I had to get in touch with myself. It became tougher and tougher. I bought a blue city when I moved to a new city. It remained empty. I moved to another city a year later. It still remained empty. I slowly started coming to terms with reality. Earlier, I just brushed it off as insignificant. I told myself that I was busy.

For two years, I tried to express, or perhaps didn't try. I don't know. But, for two years, I stopped all expression. I was scared of expression. Of violation.

I stopped art. I stopped music. I stopped writing. The expression came to a stand still.

I turned sceptical. When I did express, it was for work. When look back now, a lot of my work shows undertones of anger and emptiness. Of course, my readers would never be able to figure that out, but I understand my vocabulary and language usage better than anyone else.

But it is all rushing to me again. I wish I had a sketch book and my pencils. Maybe I would be able to express through art again. I wish I had my oil pastels. My oils. I want to smell linseed oil and turpentine again. I want a dirty palette and a colourful canvas again. Or do I not? Will I be overwhelmed? I am not going to buy anything. I know this is just a fantasy. If I start again, I know I am going to have to blurt out at first. It might never settle. I might never have that seamless flow of thought. Will my brush listen to my thoughts? Can I translate my thoughts into expression? On canvas?

Maybe I should stick with writing for now. I shouldn't be over ambitious. I should keep art and music for later. I took my keyboard to Bangalore from Chennai. I hoped to be able to play it. I never did. I tried at regular intervals. It was as though my keyboard yelled in pain every time I touch it...

I don't know... It is a relief I can write... at least I have a part of myself back.

There is just one person who is responsible for this. And I think I am falling in love with his ability to give me wings. I feel exhilarated. It feels so unfair to even put it in such a plain manner, but I feel free. I feel beautiful from within. I feel like I matter to someone and that is a very important thing for someone like me. There was a point in time, immediately after my marriage broke, when my mother made me stand in front of the mirror everyday and repeat to myself that I was beautiful, smart, intelligent and a nice human being. My self-esteem hit such a rockbottom that I was unable to come to terms with my own feelings and hence express it.

Today, I can write. Being in touch with my feelings has been an integral part of growing up for me. Now, I feel like I've slowly started unravelling a brand new me. A me that I have been hiding under a shroud all these days. I feel nice about myself again and that is a big personal achievement for me.

For me, being in touch with my feelings means doesn't just mean expression. It means allowing myself to respect my thoughts and emotions enough to express them fearlessly. And only if one is in touch with themselves can they feel, understand and make an emotional connect with another person. To be so contented and connected with oneself that it becomes possible to admit another person into their horizon. To give and to receive. To share and to cherish together. It is a scary thought. But I am not scared anymore to be in touch with those scary thoughts. I just have one thing to say to this wonderful warm person - Gracias.

The story of how my heart almost disintegrated and my mind almost fell into the Cooum river as I multitasked

And no - there are romantic allusions here. Certainly not. I really meant that. I understood the meaning to the pharse, 'ran like a crazy woman' today. Yes, I am terrible with deadlines. Only last week I remember telling my therapist that I never missed a deadline. Yes, it still holds good thankfully. But, I didn't really tell her the part that usually preceeds it. I don't think it'll make her too happy.

My mac, my precious mac - my mac that never lets me down, and google video that is never supposed to not work, somehow found out that I have an essay deadline. This is some sort of conspiracy, I am sure. Some sort of conspiracy to make me get a heart attack. So here goes...

9:00 am - Wow! I love my essay. Hmm... let me do word count...
9:15 am - Umm... it'll be fine...
9:20 am - I am not the editor I thought I was. How the hell am I going to manage this? Jeez this is 700 words longer than the word limit :-o

9:45 am - Still frantically cutting down
10:00 am - Time to restructure my essay. I am going to remove half of the analysis.

10:30 - Yayy! It is exactly within the word limit! I am so awesome :) :) Mood: Listening to new Bollywood song!


I have finished editing my essay and it is 10:30 am. I decide to take a break.

I just have to add bibliography, format and print off my paper :) :)

11.00pm - Beginning bibiliography. I just need to finish the bibliography, format my essay, add the cover sheet, print and submit Mood: Happy - yayy!
1:00pm - Messed up referencing - changing all the the numbers Mood: Hmm... All izz well...? Or maybe not :-o

1:30 pm - Shit! Google books has taken offline the book from which I've taken the quotation of my central argument - FUCK FOUCAULT!

1:50 pm - SHIT SHIT SHIT - I can't reference it!

2:00 pm - Found reference on Google Scholar Mood: Happy -can now finish Bibliography, format, add cover sheet, print and submit - I have 2 more hours - easy peasy.
2:30 pm - This is taking a long time - why did I not reference my work properly! I need notes for my notes - I can't find the page number, I can't find the publisher, I can't find anything. Damn I am going blind!

3:00 pm - Done with bibliography. Oh but I forgot to attach the video clips that I have analysed.

3:05 pm - Ok, I am done with the essay. I just have to find the links. I'll add it and I will be done.

3:10 pm - Let me check the rules for submission. Oh! they need two printed copies and one to be uploaded online... no problem...
3:15 pm - Open office acting weird. Oops - did it actually hang?

3:20 pm - Ok let me find the links - Oh they are here... but damn... Safari just crashed!

3:25 pm - I am now talking to my computer. Breathing heavily. Safari has reopened but the video won't buffer! I can't find the time code :-o without that my essay won't be assessed.
Ok, I still need to format - Double line space... hmm...

3.30 pm - Shit - the images have moved away from the table. It looks haywire now. Ctrl Z, Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z Ctrl Z CRASH! Still buffering...

3:35 pm - Hyperventilating - Talking to God - Ok I am still going to have to do page numbers. I can't figure out how to add continuous page numbers. I've filled in the cover sheet. But I don't know how to add it. I don't want the cover sheet to be numbered. The online version shouldn't have the cover sheet. I don't know how to remove just one page. I am going insane. My heart is pounding. I have a deadline. Am I going to die? Can I get a heart attack and hence an extension?
Video still buffering... restarting browser...

3:40 pm Hand written page numbers! But a continuous table won't let me add any page numbers. Do some golmaal. Put page number inside table :-o
Different browser... video still buffering...

3:45 pm - Uploading soft copy on moodle. Oops! Wait - that's not the right format for the file name. What's the right format? Find Handbook buried under pile of other books. Add right format. Turning on printer -It usually doesn't work. But this time, it did. I must've done something good to someone - My Karma was good.
Video not available!!!!!! Refresh - Damn! Crash again! FUCK MAC! FUCK STEVE JOBS!

3:46pm - Video playing. Wait, I still need to find the bit I need to time code for.
3:47pm - wrong part of the clip. moving cursor - wrong again. moving cursor - wrong again.
3:48 pm - I make up my own time code. Hey wait, it is playing
3:49 pm - Found it! Awesome - Exhilarated! I won't move the cursor now. What if it stops. In the middle of going mad, I watched the whole two minute clip of Arvind Swamy and Pankaj Kapoor talk about terrorism.

3:50 pm - Shit the the formatting is all wrong - ODT to printer is assfucking my essay. There is nothing I can do now. Strike wrong numbers with pencil and write right numbers.
3:51 - Quickly wearing jeans and tee as the printer prints. Wear shoes - no socks. I haven't even combed my hair. I haven't showered.
3:52 pm - Stapler? Stapler? SHIT! - Ok found stapler.
3:53 pm - keys card - SPRINT - LIFT! THE BANE OF MY LIFE. Lift stops in 3 different floors before it can take me to the ground floor.

3:55 pm - on reception clock. SHIT it usually takes me 15 mins to walk. I am running already.

3:55 pm onwards - RUNNING ON ROAD. Tourists staring. RUN RUN. Breathless. Stop. Walk super fast.

4:00 pm - That's what the clock at the pub says. I am not that far now. But I still need to walk.

I can't remember the rest. I remember almost tripping, escaping being run over by two cars as I crossed Lincoln's Inn Fields and feeling an intense pain in my chest. It is burning now. I am breathless. I think I am going to die.

4:04 pm - Corridor empty. Oh I can see people outside the door. Oh but I am not as bad as them. I've already pinned the cover sheet. Good work.

I find Erin. Erin... Oh Erin... she flashes a super-happy smile and says. "Hey! You alright?". I nod. I am dazed. I am 4 minutes late. Is she going to penalize me? No? Yes?

Erin is still smiling. I guess not. YAYYYYYYYY!

Ok... It's over now. But I can't believe it is over. I am still tensed. I walk down St. Clement's open the door and take in fresh air. I feel a burning ache in my chest. It is unberable. Suddenly I realise I haven't showered. I don't feel good at all.

I stand there... taking in the fresh air. It feels like someone gave me a pair of glasses. Suddenly everything is clearer. I can see other students walking, talking, laughing. They've all been through this, I tell myself.

Ok, it's done now. What next? What next? What next?

Hmm... we'll see... I need water. But of course, whoever designed LSE always thought living in a desert was his idea of a vacation. No water fountains in sight.

Sigh... I'll go to the library. I go in. It feels like home. But it feels like responibility.
My friend pings me online. I tell him about the disastrous day I've had so far. He then tells me a story about how he realised he had 3 assignments due the next day at 11pm one night. But that was exactly when he happened to have been playing with a rubber band (he always does). That day, the rubber band hit his room mate's eye. It was serious stuff. They had to rush her to the hospital immediately. He didn't return until 4am that morning.

He still had 3 assignments to do. They were worth 30% his final grade. Mine was worth a whole 100%.

I tell him about writing the page numbers with pencil. He laughs at me.

He overslept that morning, he said. Woke up at 10:30 and somehow managed to finish his assignments by 4:30 pm. His deadline was at 5.00pm.

25 mins by bus + 10 mins by walk to South Ken Imperial campus. He ran, just like me, he said :) He hadn't showered either :) My spirits are high now :)

When he finally reached campus it was very very late. There was still time to print his assignment out and hand it in. But that's when he realised that he didn't have his icard! No icard = no printing in British universities.

He pulled a few loose sheets from the printer tray and hand wrote the entire assignment (from memory) I am guessing, with the only pencil he had - atleast only my page numbers were in pencil :)

It was 5pm. He still had 2 assignments to complete. He was late.

He got penalised. 10% for late submission and 10% for presentation :P

But he managed a distinction and two merits. He told me that it was the subject matter that was important. Not the decoration. I want to believe him.

He cleared his degree with a distinction and got into a graduate scheme with a multinational.

As I write this post sitting in the LSE library, my classmate stands next to me - printing out readings. I ask her about her essay. She told me that she uploaded it at 3:59pm and rushed to submit it after that.

"It could've been a very good essay. If only I had finished it." She cut down 1000 words in the last 15 mins she said. I always thought this Norwegian girl was super-smart. I was a little surprised to hear this from her. I feel better. :)

Mein aur meri tanhayee...

This is so beautiful...

Chocolate intake vs. Essay deadline :-o

Twilight thoughts

It is 4:23 am. I am looking at 60 screenshots taken from approximately 5 minutes of film footage. It feels like my undergraduate days. It feels good to analyse film in this detail again. I haven't done it in a long time. In the last two years, I've analysed film commercially. For money. It was work. Now I am back to analysing film in its entirety. It feels good. I also realise how much I've been omitting in terms of analysis when I reviewed films commercially. How my thought process still needs to go a long way. I feel good writing this essay. There is so much work to be done...

Like Robert Frost said,

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

What is all this education worth? Will I be able to make something worthwhile out of it? It scares me. I am accountable to the world. I have been given an opportunity and hence I feel accountable to my country. I was one of the few chosen ones. I feel like I have to shoulder the expectations of the entire nation. I fear I will let them down.

I have always felt I was born to do different things. Greater things. I knew this when I was as young as three years old. I stood first in the first ever examination I faced in my life. I have a very hazy memory of my grandfather telling me that I would accomplish things that nobody else would. I believed in him then and I believe in him now. He still says the same thing.

Today, 21 years later, I could be closer to doing that. But uncertainty clouds my head. I feel the pressure. Pressure from myself. I wonder whether I will be able to cope up with it all. I want to give back to my country. For giving me this opportunity. For educating me. For giving me all these experiences in my life.

I want to feel as optimistic as I do today when I am faced with doubt. When I am faced with all the trials and tribulations that I know I will soon face. I need the strength.

My friend wrote a blog after reading Nisha Susan's article about the really horrible stereotypical Indian man. Scary as it may seem, I actually know a lot of those men who expect their moms to buy their underwear. *Shudder* My own ex-husband was one of them. His mom monitored everything from his socks to his underwear. She stocked them in excess every time Primark held a discount sale. Of course, I was expected to take over that role, but the story of the over-possessive mother-in-law is another story for another day. Not that I ever fancied keeping anyone's personal wardrobe. Though I might reconsider if it perhaps involved the likes of JLo. Wow! how cool it'd be to shop for JLo's underwear. Hmm... now I am thinking :P Back in college, there was a certain phase when the first thing we ever discussed when we got to class at 8 in the morning was the colour of our bras. This perfectly coincided with the roll call every morning.

I discovered the joys of lingerie shopping in college. I still like colours in my lingerie drawer. I totally believe in the lame belief that your bra colour can shape your mood. I really liked the purple lace one my friend had back in college. I should get a purple one of these days. I got purple stone-studded bra straps for Happy New Year. It needs a purple bra to complement it. Hmm... As far as bras are concerned, this year is pretty dull. I have no earning to splurge on these little luxuries. There was one purple satin bra that I really really wanted to buy before coming here. Actually, long before I even decided I was going to come here. But it cost 800 bucks. I told myself that I didn't need to spend an extra £10 on a single piece of undergarment even before coming to this country. My mom persuaded me to spend the same amount on half a dozen basic black cotton bras instead. I did. And I am thankful to her for that suggestion. I now do my laundry only once in 2 weeks. When I run out of my underwear :P It really is bliss. Yes, I am materialistic. I want to own all the nice bras in the world like every other girl.

But coming back to the men, it really is weird that some Indian men think that it is acceptable to allow their mothers or wives do underwear management for them.

But that said, the liberated Indian woman is just another mirage like the liberated Indian man. If the liberated Indian man drinks at posh pubs and slaps his spaghetti strap tee clad wife, like Nisha Susan suggests, it also means that this Mandira Bedi woman thinks it is perfectly acceptable to have her husband slap her. I mean, we might be modern, work in call centres and speak with fake American accents, but hey, we need to 'preserve' our tradition and of course, ever woman worth her salt wants to be the modern satya savitri. I, of course, am not worth any salt or even pepper for that matter. They want to be a fine balance of the east and west. Just like the Chicken Tikka pizza that Pizza Hut serves these days.

As tempted as I am to bring in concepts of Identity and Globalization here, I am not going to. Ulrich Beck, Roger Silverstone, John Tomlison, Arjun Appadurai and so many others have tried to theorize this very phenomenon in their illustrious works. I am no one, of course.

This post is not to rant about how horrible it is that most Indian men think they are this god-person's gift to mankind. This is about how many urban Indian women are caught in this conflict of identities. They can't decide whether they want to be, quite literally, loose or tight. Technically, you are supposed to be tight but with just the right amount of loose. This 'right' amount is a lethal concoction. You could easily become a promiscuous bitch if you don't get the brew right. Either that, or you get branded by the cooler guys as a 'homely behenji'. But, in popular opinion, it is better to be 'behenji' than the 'bitch'. I am definitely not the 'behenji', even though I got called that a few times for wearing salwar-kameez to my 'coolest company to work for in India' office. Yes those mad mud-bloods were what made that place 'cool' in the first place.

Not being a 'behenji' myself, It is a little difficult for me to describe what these emotional clumsy Indian women are like. In other news, I think salwar kameez is awesome and I told the mud-bloods to go die. They didn't listen to me. They are all still alive and kicking. Some of them are now married to other salwar kameez clad women: some quite cool and the others not quite so.

I've been trying to for sometime now to describe the emotionally clumsy Indian woman. Instead, I've been talking about my wardrobe. But it isn't all that bad. I still haven't put down here my insatiable obsession for shoes. But one day I will own my own a pair of Manolo Blahniks and no it isn't a crime against humanity at all. They are all going to die anyway.

The ECIW (Emotionally clumsy Indian woman) however thinks that it is sacrilege to own a pair of Manolo Blahniks. But of course, only if she has to buy it from her own salary. She expects her poor unsuspecting husband (I am not using the word 'partner' here like I usually do. I'll say why a little later) to buy it for her, of course. It doesn't matter how much money she is making. She is after all a woman. She will never offer to pay the bills after a meal. She will never hold the door for her man. She will even walk one step behind to make sure that the door is opened and chair pulled out for her. And in the event that this doesn't happen, she is going to throw a fit and it will be a horrible one. It will be about how she is 'not cared for', not 'loved' or I don't know what nonsense.

Since I can't capture ECIW phenomena convincingly, I am going to instead describe women I know who are ECIWs themselves. But I am too bored to continue writing right now. And hence. Maybe I'll write it some other time.

There is a boy I like

He's nice. I like him. I seem to have lost all previous memory of him. I've know him for a while now. For a long time actually. I never took notice of him back then. He was invisible to me really. He was just another person in the crowd. Some random person who drove a car, just like I was this random person who drove a not-so-random scooter.

I liked my scooter. It was a silver Activa. I didn't really like the way it looked. I bought it because someone told me that it was a good scooter to have in terms of mileage and a few other technical things that I don't really understand. My father did a market analysis like he always does and then he decided that this was the best I could get. I lost the keys to my scooter way too often. I still liked my scooter. It made me happy. Sometimes in the night, I would ride it without my helmet. I always felt like one of those scooty ad models when the wind made my hair fly. It is a good feeling.

I lose keys. I lose them all the time. I have tried to tell myself that losing keys doesn't make anyone a bad person. I try to keep them careful. But I've lost way too many keys in my life now. After a while, I started keeping spare keys. I don't keep spare keys anymore. In this new country, getting a replacement key costs only as much as keeping a spare key. I checked the same day I arrived.

But this post is not about my inability to manage the small nuances of life. This post is not about, in my mom's words how 'careless' I am , but this post is about this boy I like.

I am listening to Lounge Piranha's 'Ebb' as I write this. I like them. I think Abhi is awesome. I've never seen anything like Abhi's Enfield in my life before. Ever. It was the most haggard awesome thing. But I still like my Activa more. I used to talk to him a lot. I don't talk to him anymore. I don't know why. He used to call me Principesa. It is the Spanish word for Princess.

I would like to go watch live music with this boy I like. Maybe Lounge Piranha. I don't know much about his musical tastes yet. But I don't really care. I just want him to be with me when I listen to music I like. It doesn't matter to me whether he likes it or not. He could perhaps pretend to like it.

I try to sometimes think why I like this boy. I can't seem to come up with a plausible explanation. I think I see in him so many different shades of my father. All the traits that I respect in my dad at least. And then, he passed my FEDAR test. Maybe that's why. I sometimes think I like him because I tell myself 'he has potential'. I don't know exactly what I mean when I talk about 'potential'. Maybe it means 'potential' to 'think' and 'discern'. A quality that a major percentage of the Indian male population seem to lack.

I think this boy likes me too. I can never be sure of it. He says he likes me but I don't really know what he means by that. I want him to like me. We all want to be liked.

But I didn't want him to like me last year. I didn't care. I was even almost sure he'd think I was headstrong and obstinate. Haughty and proud. Distant and indifferent. Like I was to him. I didn't want to be associated with any of those 'soulless' software engineer types. For some reason I believe that software engineers have no soul. They are like steel robots with a big hole in their chest. The soul dwells in the chest in my version. It could dwell in the leg in someone else's version.

I always thought it was funny that he drove a car to this impoverished locality we worked in. I always thought it was insensitive. I didn't think much else of this person. Sometimes I would think that his Tamil was funny. I still think it is. But now I also think it is very cute. Maybe I won't find it cute after sometime. Maybe I will find it annoying. Maybe I will become indifferent to it. Maybe I will still find it cute after however long it takes for the butterflies to disappear.

I don't know.

I don't know anything. I thought I was done with all the mush for sometime. I didn't want anything else anymore. I just want to be. It is a little like going against my ideology. What's with liking steely software engineers, anyway?

But this one is nice. He makes me feel good for reasons beyond my little head can comprehend. I remember looking at him the other day. I was just waking up. He was already ready for work. He smiled and asked me something. It went over my head. I replied to his question. But in my head I was only thinking about how nice he looked in formals. He left. I spent a long time in bed pondering. I asked myself if I liked him. I told myself that I shouldn't.

It was dark. I was sleeping. I suddenly opened my eyes. My fingers were clutching something. His fingers. We weren't supposed to be touching each other. It felt beautiful. It felt warm. It felt like heaven. I felt my fingers lock around his. It was involuntary. It took only a few seconds for me to transcend from reverie to wide-awake. I was trying to figure out how my fingers got where they were. I couldn't recall anything. My fingers were still locked in his. Only a few micro-seconds. But they were there. I was horrified. I quickly pulled away. My fingers were now in my own body space. They weren't in his. There were butterflies in my stomach. But a feeling of intense shame swept over me. I was trying to figure out if he was really sleeping or pretending to be asleep. I couldn't say. I lay there. Very quiet. My heart was beating very loudly. Maybe he heard it beat. A feeling of intense guilt racked my insides. I felt horrible. I felt like my body was responding faster than my head and mind. I didn't like finding myself like that. It made me uncomfortable. Eventually I let it pass. I slept.

It was dark again. I was careful this time. I turned to the other side to make sure nothing I didn't want to happen, happened. I slept. And I woke up. Just like the previous night. I wasn't facing him this time. But I was close to him. I could feel his breath. I could feel that he had moved close to me. I told myself to ignore it. But I knew I liked it. I wanted to turn the other way and hold him. But I didn't dare move. I stayed still. He stirred in his sleep. My heart skipped a beat. He came closer. His hand brushed against my thigh. The edge of his arm rested on the edge of my leg for about a minute. I don't know if it was involuntary but I could say he was being drawn to me. Then he turned to the other side. I couldn't sleep for a long time. I was trying to evaluate what I was feeling in my head.

I told myself that we were only friends. I shouldn't think unnecessary things.

I don't know when exactly I started falling for this person. Right now I feel really drawn to him. I think about him all the time. Nobody has ever quite made me feel the way this boy does. I write now again. And it is because of him. It is such a relief. He makes me feel comfortable, in control and maybe perhaps, even safe. It is not very often that a man can make a woman feel safe and good about herself. This person can make me feel that. I like him and at this point in time, all I want to do is bask in the glow of his warmth.

I want him to hold me, cherish me and maybe perhaps even love me. But I also admonish myself when these thoughts cross my mind. I tell myself that I am different and that all these emotional niceties are for other people. I tell myself that I am somehow not entitled to these things and hence instruct myself not to expect anything. I tell myself not to get too involved. I tell myself not to get hurt. I tell myself that this person is going to just leave one day and then it will be back to square one. I fear that I won't be able to write anymore the day that happens. When he leaves. I worry about the day it will happen. I tell myself that I am a stupid naive teenager. I tell myself that I don't respect myself enough for doing this to myself. I ask myself why I am building up these expectations? I will myself to get bored of this whole thing. I want him to break my heart today. I want him to be nasty to me now. I want him to spare me of that painful eventuality. I just want to date random guys I don't like. I feel trapped now. I don't want to be with this guy I like so much. I don't have the strength. I just want to be with all those other men who have nothing in common with me. I want to be able to hide behind the facade once again. I don't know how to add the accent. Ok let me see... It is not fa-kk-aad. It is fassaaadd? Nobody should be allowed to use that word wrong. I learnt this word first when I was 13. Sidney Sheldon used this word in his description about Rhys Williams. I want to be able to be plastic once again. I don't want to be human. I don't want to show him my sensitive side. I am going to let him walk over it one day. Maybe this boy is a bit like Rhys Williams and that is why I like him. But he isn't as evil, for sure.

And yet, I feel elated to just receive a text message from him. I feel exhilarated when he says something nice. I feel like I am in seventh heaven. I feel like I am doing one of those dangerous rope tricks. I feel like I am going to fall down any minute and he won't be there to hold me. I'll fall on the cold hard floor and get bruised. And then, it would take a long time to recuperate.

Ok I don't want to write about it anymore.