On Holiday !

If I wrote a book made of just many many paragraphs of maybe 4to5 lines and named it interludes without beginnings would it make good table conversation?

Would you agree that the above isn't the greatest opening line ?
Would you stay, if you disagreed instead?

Or would my answers be answered by a question?

I don't tweet. And what I have to say is too long for a status and I hate saturating thoughts to 160 characters.
Words need more freedom.

Unless their absence provided for more.

I'm listening to Flashing Lights by Kanye West and its astonishing where a song can take you.
I'm bobbing my head in a dimly lit hostel room and also simultaneously chasing down a cab from ruwi to home.

All of this logic and sense in connection thrown upon you in a world full of opposite things.

And as for the title, as Billy Joe Armstrong cries out in Holiday, what could be a better war cry ? Than to ensure holiday. For one or for the other.

I shall leave you be now.

-
V

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Now reading : And The Mountains Echoed - Khaled Hosseini
Now listening to : Holiday - Green Day

Where We Go After The Fall

Im praying you find this. Like I prayed I'd one day find you. 
I've always wondered what I'd say if I saw you again. If you'd remember me. If you'd remember us. 
I like to hope you would. 
But I also know it'll never happen. 
There's a man I met in China who told me he lights a lamp everyday in front of a photo of his dead wife. That he strikes a bell like any Buddhist does for a God. 
But he wanted me to know that he didn't worship her like he did when she was alive. But that he's grateful she's watching over him. 
I wish I'd known then what to say. 
Something impressive like I could've if you'd been sitting beside me. 

I wish we'd been to Bali. With a couple of journals and souls open to nearly anything. Maybe rented a motorcycle and seen more sunsets than we could have been bothered to count. 
Do you remember that conversation we had about how someone remembers somebody. As a smell, as a taste, as a sight, as a sound or whatever they may fathom. 
I always thought I was a sight oriented person. They eyes to your nose, if I may. 
But maybe we skipped something important. What if you love(d) the person you were remembering? Do the counts increase? 
I certainly do wish I had bottled perfumes of how you smelled on some days. But Im sure I can do without them. 
I think its the small things I hold on to most dearly. That favourite shoe. Your terrible spelling. Your choice of food at that place we'd usually end up at. 
The marks of a dog-eared page on forgotten novels. Those small sticky notes on my laptop screen every morning. 
Droplets of water flowing from you to me from a night in the rain. 

I wish I could ask you now, what you'd like for dinner. I wish I could bring icecream home tonight and not find it tomorrow.
I wish I could roll one, for two tonight. 

I wish you too would be startled by the sound of our son crying now. 

I like to believe that out of all the people in the world, you'd know best that words sometimes don't suffice. 
But there's a diaper that needs changing now. 

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I wrote this out of slight boredom. But I think Im happy with the result. 

The context of the story is left to the reader, ultimately. She could have gone somewhere close and the writer could have over-reacted. Or she could have gone somewhere so far, she possibly couldn't reply if she wanted to. 

I wish I could write a reply to this eventually, to complete the conversation. But its often hard to write as a woman. Or atleast through the words of a woman whose reply would be worth reading. 

Im on a week's (maybe longer) break at Muscat. I think that should be update enough haha

-
V
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Now Listening : Futures - Zero 7 and Nights Introlude - Nightmares on Wax
Now Reading : Nothing 
Now Feeling : Disconnected

Officer, My House Is On Fire

Normal things do not happen. 

Maybe you've never heard that sentence before because you weren't really wanting to. But now, you have. And whether you believe in it or not, it has affected you. Like a grain in the beach or a pimple on a teenager, it may be inconsequential, but it is indeed a difference. 

I spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle helping someone fix their electronic devices over the phone. 

I could write scandals on what people microwave. 

And vacuum cleaners really do find all the "dirt".

I've never seen shooting stars. But even if I did, I doubt I'd remember them. 

These are not the first words I spoke to the man now in my house. But they were the words I wanted to scream. 

I noticed he wore an impeccably clean suit. And I've never seen shoes that shined as much as his did. 
And his smile. Like he wasn't even there. 

"Please repeat exactly what you told the police, ma'am", he said. 

And I did. I told him that I got back from the grocers. And my hall was missing its TV. That photo of the scenery that I've never liked was torn. 

There was a fire but the sprinklers weren't on. 

It smelt like freshly popped popcorn and if my house weren't on fire, I'd have found some butter. 

But, there you go, my house was on fire.

I'm not crazy, you know. I thought I was, and I take a pill every night to make sure the tantrums don't happen. The result is that my mind processes emotions with a lag. 

Like an old computer game. 

It took a while for the shock to kick in and see that there was what would classify as an UFO inside my house. 

"Can I ask you a personal question, officer?"

"That's already a personal question, ma'am. But yes, you may."

"Have you wondered if everything is just a joke? That we are the end results of someone's poor sense of humour?"

I remember running down to call the landlord and then dialed 911. But I come back to my house to find it like I should have found it any other day, when I'm back from the grocers. 

I've never upturned my house. I've never moved and I've never packed. But that day I rummaged through my house like a man with a full bladder outside a pay-per-use toilet. (Yes, they exist)

The policeman only asked if I was regularly taking my pills. 

Even anger kicks in late. That's a good thing, most of the time. 

Suddenly, the policeman gets a call, and he takes a long meaningful look at me. The look a goat would give you before you slaughter it. I shall never understand what it meant. 

But I never heard from him again, and here you are. 

He took a sip of the mint tea that I don't remember making and said, 

" I do not like repeating myself so listen hard. And listen well. There are things in our existence, things smaller than your paycheck and larger than my imagination that exist side by side with us. Sometimes as the beggar you see who never ages. Sometimes as the mall employee who always knows where what is. 

Some times as a protector. And sometimes, not. 

It is my genuine desire to stroke your face, take you somewhere fancy and celebrate you for the crazy person that you're not. But alas, I don't have the clearance. 

You will not remember me after this. Neither will you remember the Incident. I'm only a cleanup, making sure you told no one else. 

I wish you well and hope that you always wait a second before you open a door."

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

I close the door but I know not who visited. 

I wonder, though, if there's some popcorn in the house. 

____________________________________________________________________

I'd like to think that you've missed seeing my words on your screen. And I shall further go on to apologize that I've begun writing more but I lose opinion on what to post here. 

I wrote this story as a small reminder that our belief or disbelief doesn't affect a phenomenon's existence.

It may continue to exist or it may have never existed at all. 

If you hands find themselves holding a book called Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman, read a story called Closing Time. You may like it.

And how the hell is it half past March already?

-

V

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Now Reading : Fragile Things - Neil Gaiman

Now Listening : Jeena Isi Ka Naam Hai - Anari

The 4th Movement (Glitch Mob Remix) - Krazy Baldhead

Now Feeling : Bored.

Cloud Storage

What must it feel like to be a memory?
To be stored somewhere, dormant, impotent for an undisclosed and unimaginably infinite amount of time.
To possess the ability to instill nearly any possible cocktail of emotions in somebody.

Come to think of it, we're all memories in a way, already. Where even digitally captured moments can soon turn us to into old dusty photographs. Where we may soon be referred to as someone's better half, someone's father, someone's dear friend.
We live in a cynical world that allows us to partially but still peacefully exist in oblivion and then catches us by the throat and calls us to do our memory-related duties.
But in the very sense of dualism that only you and I may be able to comprehend, we are also, not, memories now.
All that surrounds us, all that we choose to surround ourselves with, the faces we see, faces we choose to love, the faces we unknowingly and uncontrollably admire, are all happening now.
The memories you call upon now and all the related thought processes are all happening now.
Do you not think of that as a good thing?

Im in that extraordinary place where everything is special, and nothing is.
Where nothing is invisible but not everything is entirely visible.
And yes, that makes perfect sense.

I can only hope, that memory or not, I have a good time.

You can carry on now.
-
V

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Although I wrote this only sometime back, they are collected feelings of late today morning and the after-effects of watching The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, which I liked.
As for the title, keeping in mind the content of the piece, is like my pun on how we store memories now.

Now Reading : Darkly Dreaming Dexter - Jeff Lindsay
Now Listening : Again - Archive
                         Red Dust - Zero 7
Now Feeling: Pretty damn good man.

Insanity Can Be Updated

I am in a semi-good mood, so if things seem extra happy, try and not shudder.
I took a trip to Bangalore and I had a good time. A good good time. I think I deserved the break and if what I got there is what I deserved then Im all good with that.
I write this instead of the first piece in a series that I had an idea for. But looking back on it I think its going to have to see the pages of my journal first, before I push my thought-child into the deep scary cyber-blue.
Its something I'd call Sundays with Mythili. Its about 2 people who don't know each other but try to tolerate one another, weekly. The title is inspired by a book I read by an author called Mitch Albom and Mythili is the first female name that popped into my mother's head. Any and all ideas that you'd dare give me, are welcome.

I'd like to start writing more fiction. Id like to make believable and equally unbelievable things merely beautiful, through the medium of my words. If thats a legitimately ok thing to do.

As for the title, I'd like you to picture yourself walking through an empty neighbourhood late at night. Not empty relating to people but empty here *points to your head*. Imagine if that entire junction of roads, mortar and cement were inhabited by the darkest members of your subconscious. Windows would shut as you walk past them. And cat eyes glistening under moonlight wouldn't be sources of fear but infinitesimal rays of sanity. Your lips would dry from the chill of all the lies you occur like chants. And your eyes would constantly adjust to the increasing darkness.
I'd like you to stop walking now. And look around. Look around and find that among all the insanity and craze. And acknowledge that things can indeed be darker. Look at the moonlight diffusing through the wastes of the night and realize that your own insanity can continue to grow. Continue to manifest into something a lot more than an occasional retreat. It could turn into who you really are.
And if you don't find that scary, then I think I'd find you scary. I'd probably have a good time with you and everything, but I'd be scared of you nevertheless.


I recently went to a pub where Baiju Dharmajan performed. I thought I'd never see him perform the songs of Motherjane before I breathe my last but it feels great to check something off my bucket list.


Until next time
-
V
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Now Listening : Two - Ratatat
Now Reading : The Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri
Now Feeling : OK