every day i live in fear of someone asking me the simple question "what perfume are you wearing?" i either duck my head and pretend not to have heard the question at all or i look blankly and pretend i have forgotten it's name. this blasted thing is going to see me dragged to the hr bitch one of these days and heavens help me, there's worse fate yet if the khaki and the navy and the charcoal dorks think i'm coming on to them collectively.
my new perfume's called:
that breathtaking moment when the heart stands still.

i've been having very morbidly fascinating dreams lately. the latest seems to be series - a story unfolding in my dreamscape.
i woke up very sad the other day and when i tried to figure out why, i remembered that dead people had to wanted to talk to me desperately. their desperation was still almost palpable. i knew they were dead. i knew they wanted to talk to me. but they couldn't. i couldn't understand what they were saying. but they seemed to be very sad. and i was sad for them.
probably because i couldn't stop thinking about it, i dreamt of a conversation with these same dead people again. except, i couldn't remember what it was about and had a feeling that even in my dream i knew i'd not be able to recall it, once i get out of the dream.
but i want to.
it is strange to be waiting for an unknown moment, for a largely unknown state of mind, for unknown, unalive people, for a conversation to happen about an unknown topic. but at the moment, it seems eerily urgent.

i have thrown up seventeen times. S said "she's feeling slightly nauseous".

oxy has put herself in a position where she has to choose between being a good friend and being a good person and both choices yield damage. major damage. what is scary that it is a pretty black and white situation with just one logical option. yet, oxyacetelyne thought there is a choice to be made here.
this one slip is going to be a heartbreaking mistake.
no matter how i look at it, i can't help feeling like a base person.

for all of three and a half days this week, i got to live in my yellow submarine. coming back to surface is something i didn't like, i hadn't quite anticipated the extent of which. but i did come away a little richer, knowing my friends - old and new - better, knowing how strong they are. i also came back with reinforcements for my long-held belief in what goes towards building my own yellow submarine.
mine differs from yours, yours differs from the next person's, but it is very necessary that you have your own submarine and refuse to let it go. even when it hurts to fight for it. even when it hurts people you are fighting for. it is very strange, but the only people who you can hurt are the people you care for. the chaff doesn't matter. you don't need to convince the chaff, you don't need to win them over, you don't need to agonise over being heard and understood. the heartache is meant only for people whose hearts you care for. but you still have to do it, don't you?
for, a life without an yellow submarine is surely not worth living.

colours of the day : pink, yellow and grey, sunny, green, KFC red, white, grey, steel grey, black.
i watched the clouds closing in, the rains coming to a distant hill, sending the storm our way and then lashing rains coming out of nowhere. the first raindrops of the season on an upturned face, feeling the wetness on the tips of your fingers, piercing rain that soaks through your skin like mini-shafts of happiness - could you have enough of it?

the tiger came again last night. not the dusty, tan sort of tiger, but a bright lemon yellow and jet black one, much like the ones that used to be on the cover of camel water colours. it had come into the house and i tried to shoo it away with some gardening tool and when it backed into the staircase, we shut the door and called the police. the irritating policeman (with a moustache) refused to believe that a tiger could come into a house in the city and i was extremely frustrated. for i could also sense how unbelievable it was, but it had happened.
then i don't remember much, but i was in my (another) white and dark blue and darkwood house with a big kitchen and glass windows and a garden. i knew if i went out through the door i'd get to the backyard which overlooks the sea. but i had to give them water first. it was very sunny oustide.
i woke up feeling terribly tired today.

it's not funny. i am dying. how can this cause so much mirth amongst so many different people? if i die, i'll come back and haunt everyone with a vengeance, i swear. today i produced multicoloured snot, copius enough to equal in snot-litres the yearly per capita water usage of some of those strife-ridden angsty ghetto-teenager type african nation.
and my mind indeed is dead. my body craves vegetable soup. like vegetables. not two-legged, four-legged, multi-legged, multi-boned creatures. vegetables. despite my attempts at reasoning, my recalcitrant body tried to drown itself in hot slimy liquid with green, orange, yellow and limp botanical exhibits, half of which i couldn't identify. there was some mushroom, some baby corn and something that looked pale green and ribbed and crunchy to eat in it too.
but before i log off and die (with fanfare, i don't think i'm the quiet, classy exit sort today) tell me what is the difference between mind and soul?

i have fever, backache, blocked nose, sore throat, a/an yearning to be a prima donna and order about everyone in a feeble voice and see their faces light up to see they can provide me with the slightest comfort like fluffy pillows and jimmy nail numbers and something drippy and cheesy.
instead i was made to do a story ideas session with the toad who's conveniently taking time off and going to nether ends of the world with everyone and everything including the tadpole's stuffed toy.
i was also made to drink warm milk and handed out a pill that i know has an expiry date marked 2006 and told not to be paranoid.
i have a good mind to throw a tantrum. if only my throat didn't hurt so.
i am a poor baby. i am a poor little baby. oh i am soooo sick (like ill, not that kind of sick) and suffering so much. i want fawning attention, cloying sympathy, a new rubic's cube and mtv to show that sania badnam number once more.

i am tired of stonewalling people. so now i am stonewalling my blog.

my mother tried her best, but...

You Are 84% Spoiled

You are a total spoiled brat, and you're probably proud of it. You always get want you want - even if you have to whine to get it.

Are You Spoiled?

and this is not the reason why i am up till two in the morning. i just can't sleep.

confused.
it's a matter of order that i stonewall (at times, only very infrequently). if i do not stonewall, then i wriggle out of the conversation. if i do not wriggle out, then i give out the wrong impression and determinedly neutralise and distance myself.
however, when it has the desired effect, why do i end up being the unhappy party?
but that apart, vacation rocks. i think i've found my life's calling. i want to be unemployed.

georgie peorgie pudding and pie,
kissed the girls and made them cry

i was subjected to another one of those personality thingummies. and this rhyme has been playing in my head in a loop. snigger, snigger, snigger.

while i am not in the mood to ascribe any particular state of mind to myself, the following brought it as close to mellow as it could get under the present circumstances:
i ate crabs and didn't get allergies. yet.
i got a white linen tunic top that's fabulous and sets off my silver clutch to perfection. (FYI, clutch is a kind of wallet that women carry). *
i went and watched a movie. i was fed lemon butter masala corn too. however,when that mandatory idiot with irritatingly loud ringtone and louder voice simply had to take a call from whichever pathetic lifeform cares to socialise with him, i was not allowed to throw the cup or the spoon at him.** but i elbowed someone in the gut, so it all sort of balances out.

*i need new shoes. shiny silver slingbacks or matte ballet flats with the neat strap and mini-bow around ankle?
** it was quite interesting to see a friend remove his own cup and spoon with such speed and then grab mine before i could turn and for good measure, sweep up S' discarded cup as well and deposit it all on the aisle. under three seconds flat.

the toad and i had so far had a relationship that parallels a bad marriage just days before the D word has crept in. one where neither party are energized enough to call it a day. yet they fantasise about other people. wonder how life would have been if they hadn't met the other. and think. of options.
he lies. i fall for it. sometimes i see that he's lying yet i ignore it. he breaks promises, i hope there will be a next time. sometimes he keeps promises, i couldn't care less. it's an emotional drain, trying to believe one day it'll all be better. just when i reach breaking point, it does get better. and then he does an about turn with the speed of lightning.
today was the pits. i was tempted to pack it in then and there, but settled for a week off (it was a rare treat to hear him plead), wished minor disaster and major discomfort on the new bitch and walked away.
toad needs to exit my life. pronto.
is a good boss a myth?

if karma were on my speed dial 2 (#1 would obviously be shiraz for chicken biriyani) then i'd just call for a casual chat and promise to exchange my synthx Cd for something else and make him do the following to these people:
first caller today: make him listen to himself for 24 hours, non-stop and if he wants a break he gets a 3-hr detention with himesh plugged in his ears.
taxiwallah: nothing drastic, but needs a lesson so as to remember not to be so eager to please and return the loose change down to the exact rupee, just when one is spoiling for a fight
fatman: make him smell his socks, t-shirt, and general self and bottle the whiff and spray over him every half hour; consider full body waxing ( his body-hair is so lush that they have their own dandruff)
chipmunk: take away his speakers and watch him shrivel; gag and duct-tape him to the chair for four hours each day for two months
new bitch: wrap in a blanket, beat with rubber hose, administer forty pages of derrida each day and put her in the bihar polls
panwallah: heaps of money, bevy of women, any three cars of his choice and any six dreams of his coming true
random fuschia woman at three in the afternoon: two years of mandatory dressing in monochromes, make eat a large carton of charminar or some such strong stuff without water if facial expression directed at smoking junta is repeated
toad: there's nothing i can do. he's a toad. he has to live with himself. that should be enough by itself

B gave me a stepehn king. i read it. grew uncomfortable. read some more. then decided against getting out of the bed to switch off the light, because the clothesline outside on the terrace seemed too close, and there was an owl i'd never seen before. couldn't sleep with the lights on my eyes. so perversely, read on some more till i finished the library police. closed pages, turned turtle. what do you think caught my eyes? not one, not two, but three overdue books from the library - i can't find my card, it's 30 days overdue and my membership ran out on 9th march. and i lost the fourth one and can't remember what it was. mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
i wanted to think if there are any famous last words i'd like to tap on, but my inner whines are too strong to be ignored. so know what bothers me before the library police come - it's frikkin' baking outside; i have to go to work and deal with retards till ten tonight; the bloody marketing idiots have stopped supply on normal silk cuts so the bat shit purple ones catch on; S slyly gave me the a dvd marked 300 and it only has the audio track on it, i mean WTF; i am hungry; i have nothing to wear; i have to buy a thoughtful gift and birthday cake; i haven't had coffee in eight days, i can't get more than 2 cigarettes a day; i have to take a shower that's scalding hot; i have to make my bed; i have been banned by the local dvd rentalwallah; i am late and i hate 90% of the people i interact with on a daily basis. some days, i hate all of them. particularly the ones with less facial hair than me.

have you seen people disintegrate piece by piece? have you seen people give up bit by bit, every minute? have you seen them lose what's left of the human they once were, in a constant, gradual process that never reverses? have you seen people lose their last shred of sanity? have you seen people abandoning the last touch with love? have you wondered whether there's a difference between the person and the personality dying? have you waited, watching on, wondering when it'll be your turn to join the ranks?
there's book out on the sale racks, dwelves on how many people will cry when you die. have you ever wondered about the answer? have you ever wished and wished it would be a null set, so you don't have to be so watchful, so vigilant, so guilty all the time?

what is the right way - do you express your fears for someone you love or do you express your hopes for them? why does it all seem like the wrong answer no matter how carefully you think it over?

i need new clothes, new shoes and those metallic bags, two weeks off from work, a windfall gain in six figures, a decline in temperatures by at least seven degrees and several things more that i decline to post here.