The Penultimate

I kinda realise I am awake. Damn that wasn't supposed to happen. My mobile buzzes joyfully near my ear, on the bedside table on which the P.G Wodehouse gets to sleep in late. I wake up and blink a little. I do have to get up. The alarm is pleasantly irritating.

I leg it to the bathroom with those famous green tiles. I look at that scary mug of mine in those a.m. hours, when it looks like the personification of "disfigured". The toothpaste doesn't do much to help me when it lazily slides off my brush and onto the sink. Double damn.

Navigating my way to the dining space I look at the bowl of "whatever" that looks back at me. A clear white stream flows from the milk jug. I mix and mash the substance assuming it to be edible. Amazingly enough, it is. A banana follows and disappears.

Now where are those clothes of mine? An expedition into my cupboard yields satisfactory results in the form of all I need. I gather the piles of clothing and make my way to the bathroom. Spending some time with my favourite green tiles, I come out after a while. Next stage in this morning comes in the form of looking presentable. I fight for a while with that entagled mass that crowns my coconut and emerge victorius with that rowdy mass tamed into a rubber band. I walk and get into my shoes; they slide silently without protest.

I take the stairs down. I walk silently contemplating on why the road was not made wider so that we pedestrians could walk peacefully. My thought process does not yield satisfactory results. At the end of the lane are many other kids who don a uniform I have seen a lot of offlate.

I get pissed off yet again because the driver asks us to come at 7:28 and he himself comes at 7:40. The dogs nearby seem more than awake at this hour and lovingly come and press their nose to my hand as if trying to understand my sorrow of going to school (yet again).

The bus does roll in at 7:40, content that it has done a good turn by actually showing up. My bag begin to annoy my back at this point, so I am glad to see it apart from anything else.

I reconcile myself to the fact that I will have to go to school now and that little bit of hope dies. I sit and my school begins. 

I don't give, you don't take

Rhyme scheme's fake

Lie awake

Much is at stake.

Verses made up to date

Rhyme scheme's fake

Laugh's a little late

Tears on my fate

Irrelevant poems I make.

Your lips I taste

Another birthday cake

Your lips I taste

Passion I create

You I do hate

Damn I've become vampire bait

Rebellion, bite the nape

The indefinate wait

Carrying the odd weight

                                                             Irrelevant poems I make.

Served on a plate

Stained glass breaks

Bit, swallowed, ate

That crazy creaky gate

Stained glass breaks

1 or 10? Rate

Seventeen blind dates

The white slate

I'm still doing great.

The devil's advocate

Presidential candidate

Found and lost faith

"I'm agnostic, mate"

Music-maker wears jade  

Irrelevant poems I make.

Note- Dragons are legal pets. Ceros says "hi".

A peaceful evening. I lean against the railing or the veranda. I gaze out at the millions of things happening without, things perceptible to the eye, things imperceptible to the eye. I gaze up and down.

I see a funeral procession. Another death, another ending, another sense of emptiness, another loss.

I can hear prayers in the background. Prayers for the living and prayers for the dead. Prayers for the dying. It fills me with a sense of calm.

I shut my eyes. Tears stream down my face and I listen to the wind howling in my ears. It cries too. I don't cry because I want to. I have nothing to cry about. I am made to cry. Tears which are not mine, caress my cheeks.

Prayers and the wind mix together and create a music of sorts.

The bearers shed tears. They move along silently. An ocassional cry emerges from them, loud and clear.

They pass slowly, leaving a new world in their wake. New lives arise where ever they pass along. I smile to myself. Life's oxymora.

The processsion wears grey. They don't choose white, nor do they don black. They strike a balance, compromise, become grey. The colour of sorrow.

They pass by. Slow and steady. Going, going, gone.

I still look on till the phone call interrupts my thoughts. I pick it up.

'Hey' I say.

'Hey what's wrong? You sound odd' she says immediately.

'No nothing. A storm just passed away.'

The Storm

Snow white skin.

Orange stocking

Perched seductively.

Redhead.

Smokes.

Hot.

Found everywhere.

Cheap.

Cigarette

High.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Requirement for some.

Beautiful.

Heels

Classy.

Night.

Party.

Formal.

Martinis and Champagne.

Tuxedos.

Little Black Dress (LBD)

I can see silence 

My bathroom floor

Irrelevant posts are slowly becoming a habit with me. I do not like using my grey cells too much so expecting people, who even decided to view my blog, to use much of their would be just ehtically wrong. Provided I have ethics. Or else, just wrong.

Mindless posts are of course something else. I have begun one and you, dearest reader are with me still. Hence in an effort to do some bit of good in my life and for mental peace and rest and relaxation this post is dedicated to my bathroom floor and what that poor thing has to go through in general.And no I'm not trying to fool you. It is dedicated to the bathroom floor.

Incidentally, pointless posts have a ambiguous beginning like this one.

My bathroom floor is an irreplacable part of my life. It dons square tiles of hues of green, patterened like oil paints put in water. Each tile has a side of 20.6 cm and I did check so it is an authentic number. I have long stared at these tiles whilst doing activities apart from the obvious like taking the clothes out to dry or brushing my teeth in the morning. Though while brushing my eyes are generally occupied by staring at my reflection which more often than not looks like a hazy picture of "whassat thing?".

One shouldn't really write this much in tiny fonts. Makes you want to hurl something at the writer just because s/he has written something to annoy you. How successful am I in that noble endeavour? I am deviating from the point again and I thank the heavens above that you, reader are not in close proximity.

My bathroom floor, yeah that one which we all love and which exists in the millions of "pukka" houses in cities, town etc. is an indispensable part of our life. Mine undergoes a lot of trials and tribulations on a daily basis.

Here it is again

1) It is used to the washing machine doing it's daily jig and walking ahead even though it's not suuposed to, thus leaving marks and dragging itself over the bathroom floor. Yes my washing machine does move. Ask it how it does it. It is still a mystery to me. But there you have it. Then to open the door one would have to be a size zero to push through the door and drag the bulk of a machine back to its place just to see the scars left of the poor floors face. My heart goes out to it.

2) It also serves as a respite for your feet after making them go through absolute torture a cause de putting your feet out in the heat intentionally or otherwise. The floor always welcomes you with a cold which reminds you of friends that once were warm and now are like you bathroom tiles.

3)The floor is also the one that has to suffer various blemishes throughout the day thanks to the dirt my feet collect and insist on leaving on the bathroom floor. The moment the floor is washed I have the inexplicable desire or some vague reasons to walk into the bathroom and leave my brown pug marks all over its beautiful,clean face, then groan and retreat leaving more marks. Then I do try (very intelligently that too) to step on dry areas. Later of course I do wash my feet and clean the floor again.

4) It various groves and niches are the alleys and byways for a dozen nearly microscopic bugs if I pay attention. Sometimes a cockroach and his family do come to visit causing my sibling to call in the troops (in the form if a bottle of "Baygon" which try as she might, will not be aimed properly and kill eveything in the vicinity apart from the bug in itself). The troops have little or no effect on the bug and it stares contendedly as she tries her very best to vanquish the so-called "evil".

Don't you pity my bathroom floor? I sure do. My heart goes out to the poor thing now and again when I realise I am responsible for yet another of the things that plagues it so. But we still have managed to live in harmony for these years and will hope to live so for years to come. With bright hopes for the future I sign off on behalf of myself and my bathroom floor whose tale had to be told.

Look into this space another day for yet another "Mindless posts from above and beyond"

Synonyms:

Love - Chocolates, Smile, Warmth, Ironed clothes, Rain,Wet Mud, Puddles.

Hate - Bitter Gourd, Cleaning up, 6:00 am, headache, pain, noise.

                      Music - Love, Life, All.

                           Laugh - Rare, Pleasant, Soft, Music,Welcome

               Numbers - Infinity, Logic, Mathematics, Building blocks.

                                                                                      Sleep - Infinity, Rest, Requirement, Bed.

                                Letter - Paper, Pen, Candlelight, Secret, Seal.

Antonyms:

                Colour x B/W       

                                                                                          Insanity x Boring

                      Tears x Drought

                                                                           Beauty x Beast

Thence you stand my beautiful one

A form given to beauty

Beauty wrought in cold stone

Beauty mine and mine own

Divine one

Thou sit in my Garden of Love

Lips kissed by silence

Time wraps thee in her garment

Changes you once this

Once that.

Beauty, thou art beyond perception

Hath no one seen your actual form?

Beauty thou art beautiful

Thou art not for us then.

Thou art not for us, who seek true beauty

The ones which see beautiful

Not in thy statue form

But in the Garden that hath surround you.

Beauty thou art beautiful

But not in mine eyes henceforth.

Ask a chef what s/he considers the most difficult dish to cook, s/he might name multiple dishes. I used to look on in wonderment at the name  and the level of difficulty of making them till I met with my nemesis- Maggi.

It was a nice,cool evening during those days when I was 12ish when mom first mentioned to me of this grave handicap of mine- my absolute inability to cook anything to save my life. Everything has to begin with something so I decided to start with what is said to be the easiest to make-Maggi. At that point of time of course I had no clue as to what the future held for me namely, endless pots of burnt, watery and pasty maggi.

Making Maggi is not easy. The instructions given may make it seem like child's play but alas this is life and nothing is as it seems. Particularly Maggi.

Now you must be wondering what is the point of this mindless post. But my dear readers I do not want you to go through all the trials and tribulations one has to go through to make the perfect Maggi.

Yes in this case perfection is attainable.

(Sorry had gone for a Maggi breakfast, the aftertaste lingers)       

Initially when I began I had not only Maggi but a multitude of other noodles owing to the fact that Maggi is not readily available in the Middle East and when it is, there are better noodles to compete. Those noodles were easier to make. But the war between Maggi and me continued.

Holding a Maggi packet I could feel it mocking me.

'Victory cannot be yours' it used to say. I used to take it in my stride. Stupid Dimp Maggi.

I had discussion on this matter with various others-some who had mastered the art of the perfect maggi, some in the initial stages. After hours of extensive and exhausting Maggi making, I could initially only create the watery or exceedingly dry verion or a completely non-consumable version (bleh!).

In the last four-five years I have striven for Maggi perfection and I am glad to notify that I had to an extent made the perfect "Maggi". The secret (ehem!) lies in the water content. and the amount you cook (Known facts but repeated nevertheless). But the real secret is love (that's the kind of cr*p they tell you about making delicious food, wonder if it is true). Also the hunger. The best Maggi is made when you are hungry, and by really I mean really, truely (naturally when you don't feel hugry you'll make something that is, err, not nice)

Thus now I enjoy making Maggi, because everytime I break the cakes into four parts and immerse them in boiling water I know that I have I have achieved a kind of small victory ^_^

After all, what is life without violence, the joy of immersing Maggi in boiling water and Maggi itself?

The night beckons

I want to see the stars. I escape to be alone, I escape to see the stars.

Perched upon my pedestal in the dark on the terrace, the wind caresses my hair and face but I look expectantly at the sky to see stars. 

Children singing in the school, look like ghosts walking in front of the endless church beside. They distract me temporarily. 

So does the endless stream of traffic. No peace here either. Not absolute peace that is. The shake of the head indicates a slight disappointment. But the joy and freedom one feels alone cannot be marred by these slight disturbances. 

Somewhere close by someone is watching a football match. I can only see the fact that it is a football match. No sound. Only pictures moving behind a window of that stupid group of flats which tend to put on their most powerful light only when there is a power cut. There is no power cut or load shedding, as it is commonly called, today. So there is plenty of light.

You can't see stars in the city.

रात की रानी

Trees all around rustle softly as if laughing. Laughing why? I can't see stars. That's why.

I looks expectantly at the sky. It's turned royal blue with smudges of purple. Clouds of course. Bearers of rain. But not one single star lights the sky.

A lone aeroplane travels from one end of my field of view to another. My eyes follow it, estimating how long it takes to travel from one end to the other. Not much.

You can hear the train too. There are railway tracks nearby. "Lifelines of India" as they are called. Here it just gives that familiar toot and waits expectantly for the passengers to file in. But all of this is oblivious to me. I cannot see the station. I only imagine. My eyes return to scavenge the skies. 

I don't carry a watch upstairs. No. I take the cellphone. Why? I don't know. Maybe I get less disturbed when the timeteller is in my pocket and not on my wrist. I do loves watches though. I don't like cellphones.

Why don't I look for the moon? Amavasya. New moon. No moon.

No space to lie back on my pedestal. 
I stand up. The sense of freedom is overwhelming even though it is momentary. 

Mom calls. Dinner I guess. I shut the door to my world. 

You really can't see stars in the city.