It's strange how much I like burnt food. It's stranger when I find myself scrapping the bottom of the wok to salvage the burnt, the disfigured. And then promptly pop them in my mouth.

Yappy Noo Eeyar!

My dear friend Patricia Fermazi, sent along the most beautiful new year wish my way :)

"happy new year Ms. Mangalore. I hope this year love is everywhere and we both find courage for it this time around. huggs"

Here's hoping 2012 is filled with everything worthwhile and that we are at peace with ourselves and with the world. Cheers! *clinks glass*

Unread.

“Why do you look at me with those eyes?” He asks.

She blinks and questions back “What eyes?”

She quickly flips through pages, whole chapters and lands at something more appropriate to be read.

“Imploring, begging. Hurtful, accusing, questioning….I..I don’t know. It’s many things. Many things at a moment’s notice. I don’t get it and it disturbs me”

She starts writing another story, a joke perhaps. Full of mirth, good cheer and nonchalance. All la-la-la, sunshine and rainbows.

She laughs. “You are so dramatic. You know, you should star in a soap”

“You…you…just.” A pause. So pregnant, it threatens to give birth to more. More hideous offsprings, growing alarmingly bigger and bigger, fed on spoonfuls of accusations, doubts and anxieties.

All caught embarrassingly in a mucky, coital embrace.

Abort it. Now.

Desperately, she scratches at the pages, writing furiously. Some story ought to surface, regurgitate its way out of the tired bowels of the past. Something. Anything.

“See? Now you look distracted. What are you looking at the ceiling for?” he says.

With fluttering lids, she writes another story. Of a butterfly she saw in the park. How beautiful it was, red, yellow, blue gliding like a ballerina in the air. She omits the part about how she saw only its tattered wings, how it flew in jerks, how it sputtered and reeled, a taint on its graceful kind.

Keep it happy, she told herself.

The tattered wing part must have sneaked its way in. Frantically, he mumbles something and leaves.

She writes the last chapter, following him with those imploring, begging, hurtful, accusing, questioning eyes.

She closes the book. She slams it shut. Tight.

And then she binds it with every taught nerve in the iris, hurling it into the black hole of the pupil.

That’s another book he’ll never read.

When.

Feet never touched ground
On that grass of endless summer
Where eternal youth lay spread,
Gathering the sun into its body
Filling its lungs with memories.
See now.
Now there it lies
Framed in a sepia snapshot
Full-bodied, blood red
drunk with sun and laughter
Now it materializes
Gleaming, shimmering
on cold winter nights
A carnal reminder of all that we were
Of all that we could be.
And of feet that knew how to fly.

Charge.

Franklin, they say found it in a metal key

tied to a kite in a storm-filled sky.

Faraday sought it in wires and motors

Volta ferreted it in plates of shiny metals

Edison encased it in bulbs and what-nots.

Such fools, these great men.

Such tiresome workers, these wise men.

If only they knew

that electricity is found

Not in science and laborious calculations

Not by math or funny looking equations.

But in the locking of lovers lips.

For what can be more electric than a kiss?

Feeling like...

Someone's given my heart a warm, tight hug and let the blood rush all over :)

Blood Sacrifice

Blood red sprouts hang from green stems, like trickling down from a pricked finger. Bent down by a torrential downpour, water slashing this way and that. Experimenting, like it couldn’t make up its mind which lashing out would cause the most pain.

He walked, drenched in viscous maroon rain, making a gentle crunching sound. The gravel soothed the sole of his bare feet, like nature digging its rough fingers in for a deep tissue massage. He revered nature and it rewarded him in its strange little ways. He unloosed his tongue and felt the raindrops sink into every pore. He drank it up gratefully, this holy water from the heavens. The maroon robes clung to him, afraid to let go. They whimpered and clung tighter as the rain grew violent. The drops played a tap-tap-tap on his shorn head and he laughed at their juvenile composition. He wagged a finger at them playfully and laughed louder, letting the child within resurface for air. They took the cue and quickly drowned in the gaping hole between his teeth and he gulped them down. They were now somewhere inside him, caught in the labyrinths and voids within, making that tap-tap-tap with his blood.

He then plucked the blood red sprouts and breathed them in. They carried in their heart the scent of their agony, sweet and sacrificial. He carried them gently, his precious load. They would find themselves at the feet of a sleepy-eyed man-god, sitting still age after age, even as the walls crumble around him. Who would watch serenely, without emotion as the blood drained out of them. And there they would lie, till another rain, another time would obliterate their existence. They would have no more memories of their being then, just a faint sense of something red and alive trickling out.

"She was considered timid and morose. Only in the country, her skin tanned by the sun and her belly full of ripe fruit, running through the fields with Pedro Tercero, was she smiling and happy. Her mother said that that was the real Blanca, and that the other one, the one back in the city, was a Blanca in hibernation."

— Isabel Allende (The House of the Spirits)

Bare your feet

One of the things I resent most about being 'civilized' is having to wear shoes. It is a necessity of course, but there's no better feeling than the freedom of bare feet. Being close to earth, grounded. Feeling every texture mother earth is gracious enough to present us with.

The grainy, grittiness of mud.

The scrunchy, tickly feel of sand.

The once-viscous, once-light, foamy feel of water.

The plush, spongy softness of grass.

I wish our shoes were made of these textures :)

I've got to stop oscillating like this. Insanely happy one day, terribly blue the next. God help me.

This morning

Spangles of light stream through. A bottle with a single white flower and a sprightly twig of shiny green leaves cast their shadow on the wall. And everything is suffused with a warm, ethereal glow. It takes so little to be truly happy...

12 days of Ladakh

I've known you even before I was formed
I've walked your paths before time
Barefooted, I've trudged through the veins
that course through your heart
And I've felt
the rough of your earth, the touch of your weathered skin.

I remember how you called me out in dreams
Slicing through the clouds and piercing my soul
You whispered through the silence and took me into your womb

And I came.

I now stand, maroon-robed and shorn head
Gazing into your vast emptiness, listening to your wordlessness
Trying in vain to gather into me every bit of you
And wondering if i'll meet God, hidden in the folds of your breast.

Clouds so low they pull a hood of shadows over the mountains

Fluttering prayer flags

Surreal contrasts

The beautiful people and the children, happy and ever-content despite the harsh life

Clear spaces and blue, blue skies. The intermingling colours of Pangong Tso, pristine, pure.

Ancient religions and traditions nestled between the mountains of the gods

Remembering & wanting to forget

For my very own, for every tear, for every faith, for every act of courage.

For serenity. For peace.

WhatEwah!

Found this random article while browsing today. And at 2 a.m. when your mind is unclogged of sounds and outside influence, it makes me wonder even more at the 'Amreekans'.

'Whatever' so totally tops most annoying word poll

By MICHAEL HILL, Associated Press Writer – Wed Oct 7, 3:25 pm ET

Americans are totally annoyed by the use of "whatever" in conversations.
The popular slacker term of indifference was found "most annoying in conversation" by 47 percent of Americans surveyed in a Marist College poll released Wednesday.
"Whatever" easily beat out "you know," which especially grated a quarter of respondents. The other annoying contenders were "anyway" (at 7 percent), "it is what it is" (11 percent) and "at the end of the day" (2 percent).
"Whatever" — pronounced "WHAT'-ehv-errr" when exasperated — is an expression with staying power. Immortalized in song by Nirvana ("oh well, whatever, nevermind") in 1991, popularized by the Valley girls in "Clueless" later that decade, it is still commonly used, often by younger people.
It can be an all-purpose argument-ender or a signal of apathy. And it can really be annoying. The poll found "whatever" to be consistently disliked by Americans regardless of their race, gender, age, income or where they live.
"It doesn't surprise me because 'whatever' is in a special class, probably," said Michael Adams, author of "Slang: The People's Poetry" and an associate professor of English at Indiana University. "It's a word that — and it depends how a speaker uses it — can suggest dismissiveness."
Adams, who was not involved in the poll and is not annoyed by "whatever," points out that its use is not always negative. It also can be used in place of other, neutral phrases that have fallen out of favor, like "six of one, half dozen of the other," he said.
But the negative connotation might explain why "whatever" was judged more annoying than the ever-popular "you know," which was recently given a public workout by Caroline Kennedy during her flirtation with the New York U.S. Senate seat vacated by Hillary Rodham Clinton. "You know," Adams notes, is a way for speakers to seek assent from others.
Pollsters at the Poughkeepsie, N.Y. college surveyed 938 U.S. adults by telephone Aug. 3-Aug 6. The margin of error is 3.2 percentage points. The five choices included were chosen by people at the poll discussing what popular words and phrases might be considered especially annoying, said spokeswoman Mary Azzoli.

*********************************************************************************

938 US adults actually pondered over the 'most annoying word' when questioned over the telephone? Or when questioned, did they just roll their eyes and say "Whatevah, man!" and slam the phone? And that by default became the most annoying word?
Now, How about questioning 938 US adults what they really thought about the war? How about waking them up in the middle of the night with the shrill ring of the telephone, and asking them if they thought about it at all? Would the response then be "Whatever"? Or would there be genuine concern by a country that has therapy for a phenomenon called 'shopping stress'? Would there be, if any an answer at all?

So, like, you know....Whatever.

'Pulp'...and just that

Pulp

Definition: any soft or soggy mass; "She pounded it to a pulp"

The last week was filled with hugely hyped movies/books for me. And i found myself asking "So what's all the fuss about?" It made me momentarily wonder if I was too 'dumb' to 'appreciate the finer points'. But then, I'm not one for intelligence that needs to concord with the rest of the world…just to fit in smugly :P

The first of my woes was 'Pulp Fiction'. I had heard so much about it being a cult movie, so many friends raved about it and gave me an accusing "You haven't watched it yet?!!? You ought to be dead!" kind of feel...I almost felt obliged to watch. Or be relegated to being the scum of the universe.

Five minutes into the movie and I was thinking how blissful it was being the scum. At least I wouldn't have been subjected to this. WHAT THE HELL WAS THE MOVIE (*!!@#$$%&**!) ALL ABOUT? It was like listening to somebody indulging in all the talk they never got to talk about, because people just weren't interested. I can take that in a book, but a movie??? I was biting my knuckles to stop myself from yelling "Aw C'mon, what's the story??!!?" (yes…I need a STORY). I didn't even find the dialogues funny (somebody droning on about a cheese burger...really???). I'm suspecting the only reason it got popular was for the uninhibited language.



Which brings me to 'The world according to Garp'. I won't slam the book as much as I did the movie. But again, I wondered what the fuss was all about. It had its moments...some bits i really liked, some that made me ponder, some that made me laugh. But for the majority of the book, it was nothing more than a recounting of male fantasies (despite its pseudo-dominant theme of feminism).

After that week of sex and violence, I snuggle up to my (safe) copy of ‘Mill on the floss’ and inject a dose of DDLJ into my system. And with a blueberry cheesecake for company (:), I’m purged of the last week’s excesses.

Of trash & moving

I can't believe how callous some people can be. With a LOT of effort, I was clearing up the last of the trash in the house before moving to another place (this is my 3rd house in 2009, by the way). I had dumped all of the heavy stuff at my doorway, so that I could drag it all to the chute.

When I was done with the house, I stepped out to find that somebody had happily clubbed their trash with mine! (oh, the joys of communal living…). I was furious…what did they expect, that I lug their trash as well?? Couldn’t they do it themselves?? All these question-rounds later, I still threw all the trash – theirs and mine. I couldn’t bear to have it lying around. I lugged all of it, making 4 rounds up and down (yes…I’m a chronic garbage collector). I came back thinking…would I ever do that? I somehow knew I wouldn’t…

It may be a small thing, but still…to me, it shows a lack of sensitivity and respect. Oh well...

As an aside, I was quite proud of myself during the 3rd exodus. Daddy’s li’l girl who couldn’t cross the street without holding his hand (even till high school!) packed all her stuff, hired a couple of pathans for the moving and set up the new place – all by myself. The 1st 2 times I had friends who helped me out while I stood like a helpless puppy and followed orders. This time around, I kept fretting how I would do it with my friends being away. But lo & behold! The good Lord shows you that you are capable of much more than you know and gives you the strength to do it. And I suddenly felt thankful for those years that I’ve spent away from the protected and loving environs of my home – or else I would have remained the same delicate, fragile person bursting into tears at the slightest challenge.
I’ve never worked this hard in my life, made so many decisions, or carried so much (esp. in 40 degree heat!) and the satisfaction was immense. I looked like a burnt pygmy at the end of it all, but it was worth it.

I adore my new, cozy li’l home and I have this smug smile on my face. There! I did it dad!

Rest in Peace, MJ...hopefully.

I hope we let you live in your death. I hope we let you be the child you've always wanted to be. I hope we stop dissecting your life. I hope we realize how music mourns your loss. I hope, finally we let you rest in peace.

Why so serious?

I'm bored. I'm so bored, it's unbelievable. I don't remember ever being so bored in my life. I find a seriousness creeping in, a lethargy, a 'I-don't-care-what-happens' settling in like a curling-up cat. I don't want to feel like this, but I'm too bored to even try. I find people, places uninteresting...I find my mind drifting when someone's talking. I find talk boring...it's the usual, the mundane. All I want to do is snuggle up in bed with a good book and doze off peacefully, somewhere in between it's pages.

People drive me nuts and I can't understand why humans love to complicate their lives. I'm bored of their constant whining, of perceived threats, of advices doled out, of illogical reasonings. I'm bored that there's nobody here who likes to share long silences with me...and not feel the need to puncture every silence with a word.

I'm bored that I'm bored.

I'm bored that my job doesn't excite me anymore. That it's become just another means to make money. I'm bored to the depths of my being.

And now I'm too bored to write.

I miss...

Unending coffee table conversations.
Mindless laughter, uncontrollable giggles.

Jumping fences.
Familiar faces.

The company of good human beings who occasionally bitch :)

But tomorrow...

“But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,
barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.”

- William Collins