See you on the other side

It’s time to move ... from here, to here.

Drop by anytime...

India!!

One hour away from the twenty20 finals and I still can’t believe we made it there. I had little doubt we’d even make it close to the semis - I thought the team was all wrong, the itinerary was claustrophobic, the bowling was weak, the fielding was lost, the board was asleep, and there was no coach. Enough reason to believe it was a lost cause. And yet, despite all of the above, and more, here we are. So win or lose today, I won’t crib. For a change I have no reason too.

Sing along ...

Dor.mp3

A little bit of motivation

Once a week she rewards herself for being good. First she watches the needle on her scale fall to numbers she has long since forgotten, and then she allows herself one luxury - a small slab of dark chocolate. She peels the wrapper off slowly; the rustling paper makes sounds of poetry. The taste of chocolate bursts out, lodging itself in every corner of the room; she will hunt for each wisp over the coming week, it's how she gets along. Slowly, she takes a bite. And floats away. On a fat white cloud. Drifting above the world, she sees all its wonders. When she finds a rainbow in the way, she hops off her cloud and slides down the seven colours. The wind dancing in her hair, down she goes towards her pot of gold.

Spooky the cat

This is Spooky, the landlord’s cat. She has a normal pet type name, but I can’t remember it. I always call her Spooky. Because she is.

For some weird reason she prefers our yard to the landlord’s. They have a lovely garden; it's full of flowers, and fruits and birds. They even have a special cat area built for her, in case she gets locked out in the rains. And of course they like her.

Our yard is still new. It's still growing, which means it's just a bit of grass and a few flowers. It doesn't fit the bill of a fun hang out place for a cat. But Spooky is here everyday. The garden is right outside my study. And Spooky is always in my yard. So I spend most of my afternoons staring at her. I don’t think she likes me very much. Or the flowers. Or the grass. She keeps attacking the flowers. She snalrs at the grass. And if she spots me at the window, she flays her paws and brandishes her little pointy teeth, and makes weird scary sounds.

She is always lurking around, looking like she'd love a fight. Some afternoons I see her just jumping around, looking mad. She used to bring a friend along, till a while back. But not anymore. Either he ditched her, or she's killed him. Killed him makes more sense. Like I said, she is spooky.

Pretty, no?

I am such a sucker for pastel buildings and cobbled streets.

In other terrifying news ...

Ajit Agarkar is in South Africa for the 20-20 world cup.

*shudder shudder*

So Remember:

• Keep all heavy objects as far away from the couch as possible. Remember, Agarkar will not buy you a new TV set.

• Keep your fingers (and fingernails) away from your eyes, hair and veins. Gouged eyes are hard to replace, and Agarkar will not help you find new hair. He doesn’t care for torn veins either.

• If you’re pregnant: Woman Please! Don’t do this to your unborn child! And more importantly don't you know the wee baby will make you pay for it during labour.

• If you have kids - Protect them. Shield them. There is time to save them yet!

• If you have a weak heart, this will be considered as a suicide attempt, and that is a criminal offence.

• Visit your doctor before the game. Get a prescription for sedatives. Ask the doctor to get one too.

• Practice before the game. Watch reruns of the England series.

• Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

• If all else fails blame the ISI. Or Bush. Or the Left. Or Salman Khan.
  

People of India unite in therapy.

Update: Zimbabwe just beat Australia! Zimbabwe!! I love it! I love it! I love it!

Labels

Every weekend she sits through torturous boy-seeing sessions. It’s so ironic; if she met different men every week out of free will, she’d be labelled a slut.

Sleepless nights

Anita hasn’t enjoyed a goodnight’s sleep for over a week now, and it’s beginning to show. The circles beneath her eyes are a dull black. And she is becoming as whiney as the baby. She hadn’t bargained for this. She knew babies were hard work, but she didn’t realize it would affect her so much. Anita is just 26. Her career is just about taking off, and a baby has no place in her life right now. And yet here he is. She has to admit, when he isn’t crying, he is a heartbreaker. There are times when he gurgles his little gooey smile at her and she just melts. But right now it’s a different story. She tries to ignore him sometimes, but he makes sure it’s not for long; sooner rather than later he forces her out of her slumber and demands some attention. At her wits end, she has even called her mother for some advice, but all she offered was, “darling, babies can get like that.” Right. She loves the boy to bits, but he is taking a toll on her. There is only one thing left to do now. She jumps off her bed; she calls her broker. “Hiten bhai - Bandra, one BHK, and no children, only old neighbours.”

Patches

Every Thursday she gathers all the papers and magazines from the week and settles down on the floor. Sitting cross legged she diligently flips through each and every one. When something catches her eye, she stops and carefully cuts it out. Once she’s been through the entire stack, she pulls out her big sketch book, and pastes all her little bits into it; trying to piece together a perfect life.

A morning fix

The coffee kettle goes off in the kitchen and she stumbles over to make a mug. She needs her morning caffeine kick before she can bother with anything else. It has been a ritual - in the corners of her head she knows addiction is more the word, since she was in the ninth grade; that was the first time she was allowed to drink as much coffee as she wanted. She also has a favourite mug. When she is at home, she can’t have her coffee in any other mug. Any other mug and her mind starts playing tricks on her. Too much sugar. Too milky. Not enough coffee. Too cold. And once that stream of thought erupts, her day, predictably, goes rolling down the hill at an excruciatingly slow pace. Of course she will be the first to admit that a perfect cup of coffee doesn’t mean the perfect day. Hell no. But good coffee in the morning helps her get through the day knowing not everything in her long tiring day is going to be crap. And at night she can reflect on the day and say, well at least the coffee was good. It’s her way of dealing with things. She adds her one cube of sugar; it tinkles against the cold walls of the mug before crashing into the bottom. A little bit of milk goes in, leaving a sloppy white trail at the side. She rummages for a spoon. When she finds one, she shoves it into the dark brown jar; the force of it expels a small coffee cloud above the jar. Three spoons of coffee and some boiling water, and there it is. The aroma of fresh coffee fills up her mood. She takes a sip and as the bitter warmth rushes down her throat, a small content voice in her head asks, how bad can it get?

And then there were 3 more :)

From a recent holiday ...




adding to this lot :)