Witching Hour

Somewhere after I've slept,
Somewhere before it's light.
They are coming to get me.

Night after night,
Everyone I know.
I could run,
If that's what I want.
I could think-
that it's only clothes.
Washed and soiled
But well-
It's everyone I know.

They say,
Don't be afraid.
They say,
It's only us.
They say,
Have a drink of water.
Listen to music.
Scratchy and calming.
And then,
When you are okay-
We'll come get you.

Socks. And sweatshirts.
Undiluted worry.
Navy blue blankets.
You think it works.
It's not a matter of how,
It's a matter of when.

On a washing line,
In open fields of rye,
Life-less and determined,
Dead and alive.
Night after night,
They seek their revenge.
Best served cold.

Somewhere after I've slept,
Somewhere before it's light.
The night is young,
They will find me.
It's not the monsters in my head.
It's Everyone I Know.

At the back of my commerce text, Oct 11, '08.

Come by this evening,
And we'll figure it out.
Some wine, possibly.
Some leftover stew.
Get a shoe horn along.
My feet hurt.
Heels are such a bummer.
I'd ask you to rub my feet,
But that's a little demeaning,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
And a movie sounds good.
You know, I'll sleep.
We'd rather go dancing.
You wear a bow tie.
We'll dance in the dark.
But that's a little revealing,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
You look mighty nice.
Where have you been?
Not the bar again,
And without me too.
Is that a smirk?
You're being condescending,
Come by this evening.

Come by this evening,
I have been waiting
You cheat, I saw you.
She looks like you'd like her,
And in my pizza place.
You'd lean over and whisper,
and you stole my seasoning.
Come by this evening.

Oh what an evening,
Dinner was good too.
You turned a little green.
Are you fine love,
Not really no.The peas, oh the peas.
It's wasabi, sweetheart.
Really?
No, it's poison, you know me.
Really? Yes?
Oh dear, are you dead?
My, my. What a shame.

Maybe

If you entered and bothered to look right, you'd notice. They were a well worn pair of leather slippers. Fake leather, by the look of them. They were old and characterless. He wore them when he went for his lunch break. Other times, they sat on the shelf. Given his beer belly and aching back, shoes were reserved only for trips outdoor. Sometimes we'd hear him walk back from the bathrooms, the fake leather clapping against the stone floor. He'd painstakingly bend over, pick them up and put them in the shoes rack. We'd turn away- when he'd sit on the stool for a brief moment, panting. It was a painful sight.

The boys would borrow the slippers sometimes- to run across the street to get photocopies, too bored to get their feet into their converse sneakers. They'd use the slippers to kill a stray roach, in his absence. Last year, I spilled a vat of fevicol on those slippers. S and I went mad washing them, "He'll kill us" we told each other, giggling like children left alone in a pool. He never found out, obviously.

At his funeral, the polished shoes on his feet seemed alien. While people feverishly clasped their hands together in prayer- they lowered the casket into the ground and as the emotions attained palpable proportions- I thought of his slippers.

Sitting meekly on the shelf far away, completely unaware that from now on- they'd be just that.
Slippers and no more. And in a month, maybe lesser- someone would pick them up, neatly wrap them in a bag- sob for a bit- while the others patted each other sympathetically, and put them away. In the dark cupboard which smells of old paint.

Catharsis.

Some cry, some sleep. I make lists.

Since, i am feeling spiteful right now anyway, here's a list of things I hate.

1. Eggplant.
2. Rickshaw drivers refusing to go where you want to.
3. People folding my papers.carelessly.
4. Not getting through to people's phones.
5. People not answering phones.
6. PMS.
7. Getting wet in the rain on my way to college.
8. Phone battery low.
9. People saying "whatever" to dismiss you.
10. Crows.
11. Children who wail.in public places.
12. Liking one out of 10 things in a clothes store,
and not getting your size.
13. Bad hair days.
14. Getting cuts on fingertips.
15. Airports.
16. Computer shutting itself down.
17. Thursdays.
18. Sundays.
19. People leaving.
20. Person in front of me walking slowly.
21. Deliberate brutal honesty at wrong times.
22. People backing out on me.
23. Tender coconut ice cream.
24. Coconut in general.
25. Power cuts.
26. Plain warm milk.
27. Advice from people,when you've not asked for it.
28. People inviting themselves into conversations.
29. Prussian blue.
30. The cover of the earphones falling off. Hence, pokey earphones.

Micro amraK

If you lie still,
and listen hard.
You'll hear it.

Sometimes I hear it,
in your voice.

Don't change the subject.
And ramble.
About work.About hate.

Movies. And mountains.
And therapy, and support.
You are undeserving.

Speed dial 3.
Back of notebooks.
Off the back of my hand.
Off the top of my head.

And there you died on me.
Battery low.
Don't lie,now.

On Sunday evenings.
When the beer is over,
And the folks have left.
You'll hear it too.
Alone.

The Sunday that never is

Factors that make a perfect Sunday:

[ The Reader should keep in mind, that these factors follow the ceteris paribus rule (Cēterīs paribus is a Latin phrase, literally translated as "with other things the same," or "all other things being equal or held constant." It is commonly rendered in English as "all other things being equal." A prediction, or a statement about causal or logical connections between two states of affairs, is qualified by ceteris paribus in order to acknowledge, and to rule out, the possibility of other factors that could override the relationship between the antecedent and the consequent.) Which means that one cannot declare the following list void- by quoting reasons like " But no sunday is perfect because Monday follows." or " I just don't like Sundays." Personal biases, occurence of unforseen unpleasant events on aforementioned day or boredom is the reader's worry. ]

The writer sheepishly agrees that there is no such thing as a perfect Sunday. like there is no such thing as a perfect man. :)

Factors that make a perfect Sunday:
1.Sleep: Waking up really late to the smell of buttered toast or freshly brewed tea.
2.Newspapers: Untouched copy of the Sunday Times- fresh and uncreased, complete with the glossy pages.
3.Weather: Either the breezy monsoon time-right before it rains. Or Windy,cool days with watery sunlight filtering though.
4. Food: Sunday meals can be made perfect by cooking/eating a personal favorite. Like butter paneer, or chicken keema. Avoiding mushrooms is mandatory!
5. Dessert: Easy. Favorite flavour of icecream, or just a bar of chocolate without having to share it with anyone.
6. TV: Sunday usually means FRIENDS marathon- all afternoon. Can be made better by watching with other FRIENDS lovers, and hence discussing favourite episodes or interesting trivia.
7. Munchies: Chips and dips, popcorn, marie biscuits and chocolate sauce, monaco and cheese, those yummy unhealthy fried things. Taste best when consumed hurriedly and mindlessly while doing 6.
8. Plans: Sunday plans are the best sort. Casual, with people of consequence. Watching a match at a friend's place, board game afternoon, manically playing PS3 games, driving around the city, watching some play ( if it pleases you) or cycling. It is important to note- if they are house plans, make sure it's NOT your house.More enjoyable when you don't have to cater to filling other peoples' glasses!
9. Conversation: Sunday is especially NOT the day to make conversation. You do that all week anyway. Unless it is to people you want to talk to. In that case- use your phone without worrying about the bill. And if you do that all week anyway too, don't make an exception today. do it anyway.
10. Sport: Sunday afternoons, when everyone is sleeping, is the perfect time to play cricket and make a racket. Shout your loudest. Play your best. Variations of playing other games are obviously welcome. like football when it rains.
11. Books: Avoid reading very heavy stuff. Stick to Calvin and Hobbes. Actually, read whatever pleases you. It's Sunday.
12. Study :Are you mad? avoid it like the bloody plague.
13. Cleaning: If cleaning makes you happy. You're free all day. Your room is a garbage dump. Do the needful.
14. Creative pursuits: Write,paint,click,stitch,sing. Actually don't. they qualify as work.
15. Drink: The ultimate solution/incentive to most things. Head to a nearby bar. Get drunk out of your senses, or pleasantly high-whatever works. That way- the rest of the Sunday is a happy place.

Clear?

It took us about 10 minutes to get to your house. I remember nothing of those 10 minutes. Strangely, none of this panicked me. When Jo stopped the car in front of your house, I calmly walked out and strolled over to your big brown door. I used the spare key to open it, like I had several times in the past. By this time, I was silently weeping. Not because I was shattered. Not because I was hoping against the odds. Just because. You were lying on the sofa, your wrists spewing blood. Jo darted from behind me to call a doctor. I just sat down next to you, and hoped that you were at peace. I think at some point, the doctor came. And shook his head in regret. It was fake beyond belief. It didn't matter to him that you were dead.
I know you've been through a lot,off late. Stuff that you didn't tell me. Stuff that you scribbled on sheets of paper, which you later threw away. Stuff.
You used to call me Tori. You never told me why.
I am sorry that something troubled you enough that you slit your wrists.
I have an instinct about these things, bang on.
I just knew that something had happened, and I had Jo drive me over.
It's awful that you're dead.
But your clarity of thought never failed you. So I guess if you killed yourself, you must have had your reasons.

Umbrella Hands

He has meticulous hands- the sort you can trust. And as I watch them grip a long black umbrella, I feel myself holding my breath. Almost as if with the opening of the umbrella, something will change. He smiles at me, says something in Bengali. Given my American childhood- I don't quite understand it. "Do you want to go with him?" Ammu asks, speaking slowly. "Maybe." I say and walk up to him. He holds out his index finger, and I grip it. "Be good." My father says. I frown. I am not quite sure I like him as much as I like Ammu.

We walk under the black umbrella. It's not raining much, but Baba is worried that my protected American head will catch a cold. Baba is my mother's father.This is the first time I am meeting him. It is also my first trip to India. "So what do you learn at school?" He asks me. His English is difficult to understand. " Writing." I say. "Do you want to be a writer, Koko?" I can't understand him. He repeats his question. I nod. "I have written a poem. But it is at home." I say. He smiles. "I wanted to be a writer once." He says, gripping my shoulder. "But then I became a doctor."
"In America, you can do both." I say proudly.

We turn onto a street with a large temple. By now it begins to rain heavily. "You aren't wet,are you?" He asks,pulling me closer in, making sure the big black umbrella is shielding me.
"I am good." I say. "Do you live alone,Baba?" I ask. "Yes. But I have friends." He says, grinning. And while we are having this demure conversation, the big black umbrella turns upside down.

In my 8 year old mind- this is a premonition. So despite myself, I begin to cry. Baba, who is evidently more fun loving than I had granted him to be, begins to laugh. It is clear ringing laughter, that I will come to remember even several years later on lonely afternoons in America.
"It is only an umbrella Koko. We can set it straight." He says, trying to get it back to normal. I cling to him, barely reaching his waist. I am howling, convinced that something terrible will happen. I never quite got the logic of it, but I was eight, and in a country that wasn't mine. I had never seen so many people on one street. He fixes the umbrella but by now we're drenched.

"Ice-cream?" he asks me. I shake my head no. He asks why, but for me the evening is ruined as are my new shoes. "Want to go home?" I agree. We walk home- the culprit umbrella tucked under his arm, wetting the side of shirt. I make a bee-line for my room- not wanting to talk to my father or Ammu. Baba and Ammu are having a discussion in rapid Bengali. I hear my name, more than once. An hour later- after I have sulked enough-Baba walks up and sits next to me. I concentrate even harder on the jigsaw puzzle pieces.

" I have a gift for you." He says. I like the way he doesn't make his voice fake cheerful, which Ammu does every time I am upset. "What is it?"I ask without looking up. He hands me an old notebook. It is covered in newspaper.

I flip it open. Some of the pages are filled, handwritten in ink. "Keep it. It's mine.It was written in a long time ago. Maybe when you go home, you can write in it."He says. "Can I write about the time,when we got wet in front of the temple here?" " Sure. But I thought it upset you." "Yeah, but it is my India memory of you,Baba." He smiles and interlocks his fingers, and says a string of things in Bengali. "What?" I ask. But he just shakes his head.

So much prettier, in yellow light.

" You look pretty tonight.."

"Really?"

"Yeah, your hair looks perfect!"

" It's the yellow light. Everyone looks pretty in yellow light."

" Enough with the modesty,already."

" No it's true."

" Either way, you look pretty."

"You forgot to say 'tonight' "

" What are you so edgy about?"

"I am not edgy"

"What do you want me to say? That you're the prettiest girl I know!?"

"Don't say anything. I want to go home."

"You just got here."

" I don't want to sit around, watching you fake-flatter me."

"Okay- go. We'll plan dinner for a day, when you're not all PMS"

" You're lousy company, don't blame it on me."

" And you're not pretty, for the record."

"Now, who's all PMS?"

" Are you pushing me to break up with you?"

"You're going to wait for me to push you?
Are you that tame?"

" No I'm not. I want to break up with you?"

" Really?"

" No."

" Then, why did you say it?"

"Are you crying?"

" Are you crazy?"

" You look pretty. Not just tonight."

" Liar."

"Honest. And it's not the yellow light."

Quick

It was a majestic oak wood desk. A laptop flashed pictures of, evidently, good times. White sand slipped through a quaint looking hour glass. A china mug held expensive looking pens. The desk was uncomfortably neat- except for a plate, with a half-eaten pecan pie.

He lay motionless on the floor, nearby. The corners of his mouth turning white, just a little bit. Clearly, his childhood nut allergy had gotten the better of him.

Watered down

We sit on Kooki's terrace. Six of us, I think. I can't tell for sure, it's pretty dark. There's a rustle and glass breaking. Someone curses. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me. I am leaning against the wall. Somewhere to my right, a phone rings. And Deep's face is illuminated momentarily with cellphone light. He slurs slightly, and rubs his forehead. It is his mother,evidently. Evidently, he is also lying to her. I look up.At a distance, the sky is lit up with fireworks. Someone is getting married. Or a cricket match is won. I think it's the marriage. I stand up, and my ears buzz a little. I walk cautiously to the other side, trying not to step on to feet and cans and broken glass. My phone rings. It flashes A's name. I cut it, and try not to think of her. I don't think I need this right now. I hear my name being called. I turn- I am being offered a plastic glass. I am not sure what it holds. I sip, it's a strange concoction- probably Kooki's idea. A seasoned drinker- he likes his drinks to be full of surprises. I down it, and stare hard- trying to digest the potent liquid. Kooki laughs- through the darkness even, he can see my raised eyebrows. Or maybe he is plain high. I walk to the edge, and lean against the rail.I look 7 floors down. It's pitch dark. I hear some one cussing. A generous exchange of four lettered words, in several languages occurs. My phone rings- it's her again. I pick it up. Her voice is deadpan. The truth potion from the plastic glass hits my head- very slowly. I am leaning over the railing. There's silence again. She is asking me something.I pay no attention.
"I cheated on you" I say.
And while, supposedly, her nonchalant world tears apart, or so I believe-
I lean even further and throw up into the darkness.
And far away, the sky is lit up with yet another marriage celebrating electric green firework.

Of small strokes, and large cokes.

A while ago, on an unsuspecting Tuesday afternoon- after an innocent economics extra lecture, I figured I was worried. I don't know what I want to do in life, i have no clue about the status of my scores, my friends aren't really pleased with my lack of time to spend with them, and more often than not I end up sleeping disgruntled.
I walked down and sat through a perfect 30 minutes watching my friends audition for a band and i enjoyed myself thoroughly.
The bit that followed was tiring.and upsetting. While somewhere not very far from where i was, my friend sobbed over the increasing pressure of cultural activities- I stood at a window in LR 52 and cried at the confusion in my life. And while KT tried to assure me how it's all going to be okay- I cried some more at what an awful person i was. And while the people behind me wondered what was wrong, another friend not too far away again, toyed with the idea of backing out of a committee because she was denied a deserving post. Life, a lot of times, is a bitch.
I left college alone- after a long time. Usually, i travel with friends. sometimes it's some one's car. Today everyone had their own plans- Malhar, binge drinking, a date. My phone had died, the battery was upset too. I had no company, no music, and nothing to read. Unless i wanted to spend the last bit of my brilliant day reading labour unions and monopolistic competition. On a admittedly geeky note, that wouldn't have been so bad.
At the station, I ran into you. You were heading home and looked like a mess yourself. But hell knows why, you offered to buy me a burger. At this point, I should tell you I am a die-hard foodie. Offer me a brownie when I am crying blood, and in minutes I cheer up. So as the rain splashed on the glass windows of Mcdonalds in an ironically movie-like manner, you told me over fries and mayo how you'd just gotten dumped. As a mark of extreme empathy, I offered you my coke. You grinned, and did a very innocent variant of the bottoms up. And like a true friend bought me another large coke.
If my days had colours, I'd call this one a bottle green. You're really wary about it, and it's seemingly uneventful. But sometimes, unlike yourself you pick up the bottle green sweatshirt at the back of the store, never wear it, but remove it once in a while, and are very glad you own it.
And when there's enough sleep or alcohol overpowering you, you admit that you don't mind the bottle green so much.

A Smattering of Sundays

I don’t like Sundays. Yeah, it’s a holiday and there are more colored pages in the newspaper- but apart from that what’s the draw? Honestly, I think it’s the most overrated day in the week. All the movies from the back of beyond of the film industry play on TV on Sunday, and once the crosswords have been solved and Sudoku has been mulled over (and never solved. Numbers nauseate me.);the Sunday begins to drag. I engage myself in several useless pursuits- the forty thousand networking sites I am a part of ensure that. If I am not playing Scrabulous ( scrabble for those who choose to burn their calories clicking on a mouse as opposed to moving tiles on a board) or looking at pictures of someone from my Math class posing next to a fountain on Facebook- I’m sleeping. By late afternoon, I am all cooped up from being home all day, my parents take enthusiastic trips to supermarkets- and get me to cheer up by bringing home pop-corn packets and juice- but it’s almost never my flavor.

When my sister was still here, and hadn’t turned into a crazy workaholic American- we’d spend the afternoon watching re-runs of FRIENDS. And almost always- we’d get into a discussion about favorite parts in the sitcom, followed by favorite lines from movies, followed by favorite lines in books- followed by favorite books- and usually rounded off with a smattering of funny quotes from our favorite books and movies .Necessarily in that order. I like the word smattering. It makes me think of warm boiled corn and homemade butter. I don’t know why, but it’s always corn and butter.Now, my afternoons (obviously after I have finished my share of the above mentioned useless pursuits) involve talking on the phone (it’s usually Tandon.) I think I am going to take a minute here to mention what a special person Tandon is. Apart from being a bomb of sunshine on Sunday afternoons- she usually is the protagonist of all the crazy tales I tell and re-tell in social settings. But more on that later. Yeah so it’s the phone- or it’s the newspaper (colored and glossy Bombay Times) or it’s usually some college work that was assigned several weeks ago.Or it’s just pottering around- making to-do lists on fancy stationery, or doodling on the edges of notebooks. For the record, I always make triangles.

So, on one such Sunday evening- Tandon (you will see shortly why she is who she is.) who happened to be in my house decided that she wants to make us an omelette. I conveniently pulled out of this exciting plan. I am not very big on flipping omelettes. She made a huge fuss of chopping onions- and snipping peppers to the right size. It saw its end pretty soon- when Tandon (who can handle only up to 3 eggs) burnt our majestic four egg omlette because she blanked out in the part when you are supposed to flip it. So we had charcoal mustard and ketchup (with just the right taste of burnt eggs) for dinner with lots of juice to run down the aforementioned dinner. By the end we had a sink full of blackened utensils, a broken glass, and a slightly upset looking dining table to clean up. We didn’t say anything good about the eggs- lest the tiny black burnt pieces get insulted. I am going to be off eggs for a while- and Tandon is going to prove her cooking mettle several times till we let her cook for us. But you know what, we may not make the best dinners- but we usually scrape a story to tell. And unfortunately not too many people can pride themselves on that.

funky-dory

Well well..can't think of a clever blog entry, so i am going to go all narcissistic.
1. I love spongebob sqaurepants.
2. I have a fetish for socks. coloured ones.
3.I own hairclips in all the possible colours.
4. I love giving people notes on coloured paper.
5. I don't eat fish,eggplant,peaches or figs.
6. I don't like it when people fold my sheets of paper in half.
7. I have come to like Indian Classical Music.
8. I laugh a lot.mostly at you.
9. A lot of people call me by my last name.
10. I don't like coconut water or sugarcane juice.
11. I am a BIG BIG foodie.
12. I am extremely sarcastic.
13. I paint my nails black more often than not.
14. I give gadgets names.mostly other peoples' gadgets.
15. I study Japanese and it intrigues me beyond belief.
16. Before I die, i want to live in Japan, paraglide, publish a book and host a stand up comedy show.
17. I love my college more than other people love theirs.
18. I have a sister, who is clever and pretty and sometimes gives me a complex. Other times i pull her toe.
19. I depend on a select few people to make it through my day.
20. I want to meet Rohinton Mistry.
21. I don't litter and won't let you either.
22. I have curly hair on good days.other days i have hair.
23. My ring tone is the theme song to spongebob sqarepants.
24. I adore Barney from How I Met Your Mother.
25. I worry a lot. About losing people.
26. I am not good with kids.
27. I am not an atheist. I am agnostic.
28. Consequentially, i don't pray. I hope a lot though.
29. I will soon learn to drive.
30. I cry myself to sleep on a few days.
31. I have read To Kill a Mockingbird thrice.
32. I make fun of people. I am not sadistic.
33. I used to think that I am strong.
34. I don't really mind it if you don't like me.
35. I want to major Economics.
36. I say the word random a lot.a lot.
37. I like mountains.
38. I have a thing for funky stationery.
39. I write a lot. for myself. and talk a lot.to myself. aloud.
40. I fall often. Usually while climbing down staircases.

Chai and a few dosas

Theirs was a successful marriage.45 years and a few odd months. And when he sat in his rocking chair on dark evenings, that's what pulled him through. The thought of his wife coming home and making him a cup of tea. Watery and a tad too sweet- but some things just grow on you. Their only son was in Chennai. They lived in a small house in Mumbai, a blessing considering his failing eyesight and her weak back. He retired after a brilliant yet uneventful 30 years in a bank. His wife was the most respected teacher in a school nearby, and when she retired they had about 20 tearful children lining up in front of their house. With not much else to do with their time, they argued with each other. About inane things- like the news reader on TV or the rip on his old nightshirt. Sometimes he overslept in the afternoon and would wake up to find his wife watching documentaries on the polar bears or something just as inconsequential. But then at their age, everything was inconsequential. Sometimes he cooked, most times she did. On rare occasions they went to a nearby eat out and ate overpriced dosas amidst collegiate chaos. He smiled to himself thinking of how she would make him total the marks on the answer papers she'd check at school. Or how she'd worry about the seemingly heavy bags her students lugged to school.

And he realised how close they were, or how much she meant to him, when she decided to make a trip to her sister's place in Pune. She insisted she go alone, she'd manage it, she said. And the past few days he found himself aching for her tea, her presence and her constant nagging about his weight. It struck him that 45 years isn't forever- but it's close enough.

Burnt crust.

Who would have thunk?

She wrote him letters,

He sent her flowers and candy. Sometimes. By speed post.

She read the sports section of the news paper to please him,

He pretended to be impressed when she knew the cricket score.

She cried softly when he went for dinner with another woman. But she didn't own him, did she?

He stopped going for dinner with other women, to please her. He liked being owned.

She cooked pasta because he liked it.

He moved cities so he could eat her pasta.

She invited him over sometimes. They'd watch a movie. Maybe two.

He always brought along a bottle of wine. Red.

She proposed to him, on a bended knee.

He turned red, wished he'd done it first but said a vehement yes.

On their two month anniversary,

She made him a deep chocolate cake and laid out the crystal ware.

He died in a car crash.

She screamed, smashed the crystal ware and threw away the cake.

She never made pasta again.

Six years later,

She was making pasta, with hot bubbling guilt.

And when her husband handed her the sports section,

She threw it away. She already knew the cricket score.

Who would have thunk?

Don't worry.it's bound to be okay

Don't sweat about it. Everything is bound to finally be your way,eventually.
The people you like will finally realise your worth,like you understood theirs.
The people you don't will quit crossing paths with you.
There will be a day when you'll wear your favorite clothes,and NO it won't rain, and your classes will get cancelled, and you'll laugh a lot,and won't feel upset about anything.
You will feel loved,cared for and adored.
You will get that ocassional A+
You will get your Integration right.or atleast close to right.
Your exams will be over before you know it.
You will turn red with suppressed laughter in the middle of a dead-serious lecture when you think of the madness that you did in the previous day's break.
The trains will be empty.
Your notes will eventually be complete,your room clean and your phone balance high.
Someone unexpected will call/message you and make you feel special.
You will not fight with your friend over something inane.
Don't worry it's bound to be okay.

" I am leaving!"
"Are you threatening me?"
She grabbed her bag and started walking towards the door."Are you threatening me,Maya?" He yelled.She turned behind and said, " Till a few days back, I would have said yes. But the point is, every time, it fills me with hope that you'll ask me to stop. To wait. To not go. But that never happens, and in the end I stop, and not go, even if you don't say a thing."
"You're an attention seeking brat,Maya. The beginnings of a tantrum and Daddy dearest will buy you the world." He sneered, and lit a cigarette.
" How dare you say that? What have you given this relationship, Sam? Cold mornings? Bitter arguments?Uncomfortable dinner-table conversations? What should I be grateful for? For the nights when I DON'T cry myself to sleep?For the mornings when you say Good Morning without sarcasm?For the times when you are ready to cut up your heart and place it on a platter for others, but brush me aside?"
The last line seemed to hit a nerve."Don't say that. You are only talking about the worst of times. We have our good times,we do."
"Sam, we have the most amazing times together and that is why, I am willing to fight for us. That is why every time I threaten to leave, I turn behind and come right back in.What do you want to do, Sam.Tell me.Do you want to fight for us, or do you want to turn over to the other side and smoke it all up?"
"I don't know."He said, indifference dripping off every word.
" Then when you do know, give me a call. We'll figure it out."
She turned behind and started walking towards the door,again. "You're leaving?"He said, his voice giving away nothing. " Yes. Either way, i am going to get hurt. At least this way, I'll get hurt on my own terms."
She opened the door and walked out, closing it with a soft thud.

Thursday

November 22,2007.

Be Assured

I will get up extra early every morning so I can chat with Ma.
I will not send impulsive messages. If I'm upset I will not react.
I will buy Dobby his gifts.
I will enjoy the stress while it lasts.
I will not say negative things.
I will laugh, and laugh till my sides hurt.
I will think of worse things, if anything feels bad.
I will not snap at people unless they really deserve it.
I will not cry myself to sleep, even if I'm super stressed and dying.
I will not let other people know how much their words/actions hurt me.
I will stick to my priorities.
I will call Snoopy everyday before 11.45 pm
I will stop borrowing pencils from friends.
I will remember to carry paper.
I will not think negative as much as possible.
I will be strong through all this.
I will love what I'm doing and remember that I am capable of doing it well.
I will not cry myself to sleep.
I will not beg.
never.
I will not take shit. Or I'll take some, if its worth it.
I will not give shit.
I will not cry myself to sleep.

oh.and yeah.

Things I liked aboout my day:
1.Got up on time.Didn't feel like a zombie.
2.Fun meeting.
3.Good time at CCD.Laughed a lot.Made scary faces.Talked incessant shit.You know, the usual.
4.Survived Japanese Class.
5.Randomly saw sister in the new CCD.Ran in, to say hi.that made me smile :)
6.Ate yummy egg thing for dinner.

Things I didn't like about my day:
1.Crowded train.Water bottle fell out.
2.Horribly painful stomach cramps.
3.The cane chair in CCD has white ants.And they bite.
4.Exhaustion.No water.No medicine.
5.Stupid autorickshaw drivers who are pricey.
6.Dumb rain that came when i was trudging home in my pain.
7.Packed bus.No breathing space.
8.Ending day without sorting differences.
9.Stupid reminder that everyone is going to go away soon.okay,not everyone.but almost (MY) everyone
10.Immense blah-ness and some more cramps.yay.the joy!