Evil things and all

Luke: ‘There isn’t anything like family to screw up a marriage’

Lorelai: ‘Well in my case, there isn’t anything like family to screw up a family’

Between running around from film to film, venue to venue and from cheerfully waking up in the morning to grumpily entering the home a half hour before midnight, I stumbled upon the source of all human tragedy in life, family. People are miserable because of family. Either because they can’t stand them or because they love them to bits, so much so that they have to smother you with their love and couldn’t care any lesser for your life and its various demands on you. I had to juggle between 2 sets of worlds and deal with the tragedies in it by creating 2 sets of lies, just to be able to do something that I wanted to do.  I wanted to attend the Film Festival this year, absorb whatever little I was capable of and write about it like a mad woman.

Attend, I did. Write, I tried to but for reasons not entirely because of me, I couldn’t write much. I was tired from all the excuses I had to make, the lies I had to lie to try and manage the 2 different worlds that I live in to keep the people in it from tearing their hair out and mine.  Now that I think about it, I am sure that at one point those 2 worlds merged. And that’s when trouble began.  Maybe my boyfriend and I were able to manage without fights for so long because for 8 years I was able to keep him away from the world that was occupied by Emily and Richard. It was easy because he made no demands. But he is beginning to speak the language of the Gilmores now and that scares me.

I am 25 and I work. I am an adult. I don’t have to lie to attend the Film Festival. I shouldn’t have to micromanage my life and the people in it if they cannot deal with what I want to do with my time. I shouldn’t have had to miss a day of the film festival to go and nurse an upset boyfriend’s hurt feelings.  I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for missing my mother’s birthday cake cutting. For one week, I wanted to watch movies, talk about it and write about it. I wanted to stay back as late as I bloody wanted to on all those nights and not rush home like a mad woman, fearing a teary eyed mother, full of blackmail and menace.

I shouldn’t have to explain this to anybody. I love my life here, I love my job, and I love what I am doing right now. I shouldn’t be made to leave all of what I love and go someplace far away just to be away from these people. Why am I ranting when I can say screw you and continue doing the shit that I am doing anyway?  A 500 word post later too, I still feel screwed. I look at women, my age and younger, living lives their way and I want that.  I don’t know these women all too well but nothing stops me from constantly stalking them on twitter and face book and blogger.

So when I feel insanely jealous about the free lives that they are living, I feel better when I see that most of my friends from school and college are either married or getting married or have kids or are getting pregnant. It is sad and evil, I know. But you have no idea how great it feels to return home at 11:30 in the night after having watched 5 kickass movies one after another, battled a hundred different questions about the movies, asked them out loud, got laughed at, had conversations about the movies with people who know this stuff, made mental notes about how to write only to find out that that guy who sat in the fifth bench and was very rarely nice to you is married. And he is 25. Yes, I am an evil person, making judgments and everything, but what the hell, I am 25 too and not married so I get to gloat. Hee haww!


This and that…

I often dream of returning to an empty home after a day well spent at work and with friends. I yearn to listen to the sound of my own footsteps on stairs that I have not had the time to scrub. As I dig into my bag to look for keys, the fact that nobody is waiting for me inside except the silence of my living room and the slow trickle of a leaky tap at my washbasin, makes me smile. I like not having to share this feeling with anyone. I like knowing that all the stuff I left behind in the hurry burry of the morning are in the exact same places, just as I had left them. I like knowing that I have the whole evening for myself. I like taking long hot showers and trying hard not to think about anything. I like that I can walk around in my home with nothing but a slip and shorts. The tea is a little too hot today so I leave it alone for sometime only to forget about it later. Now I am too busy trying to look for a song on YouTube. The one that an old friend who doesn’t talk to me anymore had made me listen to 100 times. I find it but quickly lose interest so I try to write for some time. It is hard sometimes and harder some other times. I keep looking at the empty page thinking of all the things that I should say, that I remembered I would say but I still cannot write. I am too happy to write. So I stop writing. But I dream of writing every day.

Why can’t I write every day? I mean, is it that difficult? Some days, yes. No matter how much I want to write, eventually the persistence of the stupid blinking cursor overpowers my desire to put words together and I give up and go watch Gilmore Girls or something. And then there is this other problem, a more serious one. Just when I am about to write, my stalker ego comes alive and I start reading other people’s writing like a woman possessed. I am simply obsessed with writers and their blogs and their lives. I have a humongous capacity to stalk writing. And then after I have finished reading their stuff and have nourished my envy enough (which I enjoy) I feel miserable (which I do not enjoy) and then I just stop writing.

I can’t wait anymore to have a specific state of mind to be able to write. I am not saying that I am going to be disciplined and have a time to write and all; god knows the plan will fall flat on its ass even before it takes off. But I think I am getting closer to finding the space between reading and writing.  Something interesting is happening to my reading. I am now reading Tibor Fischer’s ‘Under the Frog’. And I am noticing a pattern in the way in which I am reading these days.

I am paying attention to words. In that, when I was reading ‘Em and the Big Hoom’, I was confused about what I should be paying attention to; the words or the story or the characters and what they say or to just read and get done with the book. Now I am a little more focused on the words. I like watching them grow into a story. I am particularly interested in trying to understand why the writer used a word as opposed to so many others. I am paying attention to adjectives, to details and just the whole idea of writing.

I just stopped to read what I had written so far, which now I am thinking was a mistake because it is crazy how I started to write about some far away home and then skipped to writing and reading. What do I do with myself?

Lorelai Gilmore

I don’t know if there is any sense to watching same old episodes from Gilmore Girls over and over again, every day in fact. I do it when I have pressing deadlines to meet, when I am sick, when I am low, when I need inspiration, when I feel that I want to leave the planet and interestingly, even when I am really happy. Lorelai Gilmore takes me back to the show again and again. And this has very little to do with the color of her eyes and her cute tops.

I want to be this woman. This incredibly independent, sensitive yet gutsy, committed not to fall back into the comfortable life that her parents promise and striving hard to make the most of wherever it is that life has got her to -kind of woman.

I didn’t like watching her when she was miserable. Like when Luke kept her away from a part of his life and she went nuts. But that’s only because she reminded me that she is human after all. She may have the bluest eyes, a humongous capacity to consume coffee, the ability to come up with a dozen comebacks even when you are trying to figure out the first one, the strength to give her daughter the space and the right to make her own mistakes, the courage to stand up to her parents even when they are at their most vulnerable point. She can be all of these and still be believable to me.

I was 16 when I first watched it. I don’t remember much of what I watched back then but when I finally learned how to download stuff off the internet, which was when I was 20, Gilmore Girls was the first thing I downloaded. Watching Lorelai Gilmore on screen after 4 years brought me a sense of direction. I have always taken dumb things like these seriously; movies, characters, their relationships, their desires and tragedies.

What Gilmore Girls provides me with apart from direction is some kind of choice to be either like Lorelai or Rory (Lorelai’s daughter) or both. Rory’s relationship with academia always appealed to me. Lorelai’s relationship with herself and how she always knows what she wants thrilled me to bits. So there are days when I choose to be Rory and days when I whine about why I am not like Lorelai Gilmore.

It’s the crazy things that the woman does that crack me up and also get me to seriously think. Like when Rory was frantically looking for her bracelet and Lorelai is helping her. She finds her grandmother’s pen under the sofa. But Lorelai insists on letting the pen lie there simply because it ‘makes life interesting’.

Lorelai’s now there- now gone relationship with her mother is also something that I relate to, at a very beautiful level. She tries half heartedly to repair this ugliness but as she puts it, when she talks, all her mother hears is ‘blah blah blah, ginger’.

I have fallen awfully behind sometimes with the show’s pace and have felt miserable when I couldn’t catch the pop culture references that both Lorelai and Rory throw at each other. Much of my watching this show therefore was constantly interrupted by pausing and then googling to find out who some singer is or what the word ‘schnickelfritz’ means and other weird things like that.

Needless to say I did learn a great deal from the show. Things I’ve obviously forgotten now but after a point the whole pausing and googling thing became really interesting and has only made me more curious.

The show also has characters that will become your mortal enemies simply because they are that irritating. Taylor, the town mayor for instance is a conventional man whose interests in developing the town don’t just stop at its infrastructure. He is also bothered by the people and their lifestyles and the kinds of songs that the town troubadour sings and the shapes and sizes of fruits that grow in the town.

Along with him there are other characters who have challenged my abilities as a watcher. There was a time when I had no patience to deal with Taylor and the Town Troubadour’s songs so I would just forward them. It took me 5 years of watching and watching again to appreciate the carnivalesque setting that is ‘Star’s hollow’ (fictional town near Connecticut, U.S where the show is based)

I’m not sure if I like this show a lot because it has helped me discover myself. Not because I discover myself every evening and then forget it in 2 hours. But because everytime something changes in my life and I get all nervous, ‘Gilmore girls’ does not soothe me. It makes me look at the characters differently, which brings me to look at things in a whole new perspective. There was a time when I simply could not understand Rory’s feelings for Jess but now I do.

The only complaint I have about this show is that it makes a very vague attempt at bringing Lorelai’s past to the audience. There has only been one episode and that too in bits of 2 min footage on Lorelai’s life before she got pregnant and right after she does. It left me with more questions than anything else. How did Lorelai finally leave her parents’ for instance?

Maybe it’s good that some part of this woman’s adolescence still remains a mystery. Maybe that’s also why I keep going back to the show. To learn more about Lorelai Gilmore.






I feel gripped by some sense of responsibility every time I write my blog. This doesn’t happen when I write in my journal. I think I know why this happens. What is annoying is why I’m not able to shake that feeling off. I shouldn’t be feeling responsible. I wish I were a more carefree writer. I wish I wrote here more often. I wish I was a better planner. College reopens in 4 days and I haven’t done anything that I had vowed I would. Planning my writing schedule, my classes, my reading, my money, my budget. Nothing.

This is my 2 complaint here and the millionth, in general.

Anyway, I feel really calm today. Apart from carrying a good trip hangover, I’m mildly excited about completing one year at work. I still have trouble believing I work where I do. I feel recklessly under-confident when I keep telling myself that I bagged my dream job. I don’t think I’ll ever feel super confident. Anyway, I cannot wait to get back to work, even if it means I cannot laze around in bed after waking up, even if it means I cannot drink on weekdays.

I just wish I could make more of all the liberties I have given myself. I want to be more connected to the outer world. I have this pathetic tendency to take my feelings too seriously and keep swirling and melting in them until something new happens. I want to think more, imagine less. I want to write more and plan about writing, less. I want to look around and be better at routes and directions. For that to happen I seriously need to yank my earphones off and look outside while I travel. I need to take the bus more often. I need to look more carefully, listen more carefully and register all these so I can write better.


Days like these

Days like these, I just want to curl up and die. These bouts of curling up and dying are usually preceded by long inspections of blogs and writing which goes on with much gusto. It’s when I begin reading mine that I want to fling myself off the window.

Nothing happened, no one said anything. I just want to hide from my memories. From things I have said so far, from embarrassments, from my judgments of people, from the me from 7 years before and also the me from yesterday. And to pick a Sunday to do all of this is such a shame!

When I turn to writing to get rid of this slimy feeling, I end up reading my old posts and want to throw up all over myself.

It’s sad on so many different levels. Just when I’m about to recover from this depressing blahness, I begin to review my behavior, online and otherwise throughout the week and it kills me to not have found a place already where I can pelt my head.

This is a rant. Now I don’t know what to say so I’m Just going to sleep.

Pah. This sucks.

Why can’t I write?

Never Mind

Cumbersomeness always reminds me of cucumber. You know in the way my sister thinks she looks like Abhishek Bachchan if she screws her face up really hard? Also pretty much the way my cook resembles Lauren Graham. This post is meaningless, more or less as meaningless as my previous ones.

Have you ever wondered why people do that? Criticize themselves before other people do? What is the point? Is it something along the lines of “Ha! I knew that and I said it much before you did so your observation is as pointless as my post?”

Why do we have to be so defensive all the time? Let me rephrase it. Why do I have to be so defensive all the time? I do not know what letting go entails seeing as how I have never once successfully let gone.  Of people and their madness, their criticisms, their accusations, their judgments, their actions, their nuisance, their assumptions.

More than my inability to let go, what’s astounding to me is the way other people do let go; and effortlessly so. Nothing bothers them. For a long time I believed that they pretend to be all unfettered but deep inside they are pulling their hair out. But now I am beginning to think that that may not be true. They don’t have to pretend. They just are unbothered about the list of things that I seem to be married to.

How do they do this? Cheerful, never defensive, always knowing what to say or do when people talk crap about them, to them. How?

Maybe they are not so attached to themselves. Or maybe they are too attached to themselves. Whatever. I forget why I started to write this so never mind.


My earliest memory of sneaking into a girl’s bag dates back to 1995. I lived in Shimoga then. I remember the house very well. I was taken there by my mother in an ambassador car from mangalore. I was disappointed the first time I was introduced to the house because this house wasn’t a Duplex, just like the previous couple of houses. Not Duplex. I had a strange fixation with Duplex houses ever since I had watched it being repeated in many Hindi movies. Mr. India, Hum aapke Hain Kaun? and Hum Hain Rahi Pyaar ke. I wanted a room of my own and I wanted it on the first floor.

This did come true, to which I will get to, not anytime soon.

The house in Shimoga was on the ground floor. It opened to an unusually long Veranda and cut right into an even longer hall. There were three bedrooms. Gran slept with us, in the children’s room, while grandpa occupied the bed in what was supposed to be Dad’s office. Mom and dad were in the room on the farthest corner of the hall.

My sister and I were always late to school. And this was shocking for most because our school, Educare Academy was on the next street. We were ALWAYS late and owing to that, I hadn’t the faintest clue what our school anthem was, never having had to sing it. I had a depressing time in this school, I didn’t have any friends. And this makes me sad now. I think it had something to do with my tardiness and the fact that I failed. A lot. But dad’s influence made sure that a lot of teachers were my friends (read: they had my best interests at heart).

This girl Rashmi was the class topper. She was fair of skin, rosy lipped bitch, popular and really cute. Her competitor was this boy called Ashish whom I was madly and deeply in love with. Naturally, Rashmi became my nemesis. She was probably the defining moment of all my forthcoming obsessions with women I wanted to become like.I was fascinated with her. To make it worse, rumors had it that she had blood cancer, which of course turned out to be bull shit. Nevertheless, the news of her impending death made her seem all the more desirable to me.

On Children’s day, the boys and girls were supposed to wear color dress and dance with each other. Rashmi and Ashish danced. Burnt my ass. I danced with some loser who made me cry. He broke all the nice beads on my frock.

This one time, during P.T hour we were made to play a match of running race against the boys. What’s up with this school? Why are they doing this to kids? Setting up boys and girls against each other in small budget remakes of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak scenarios? Anyway, Rashmi and Ashish were captains. They had become good friends after the dance I guess. I remember running for the damn race and falling on my round and heavy face. My head was always too big for my body. I had skinned my knee caps  I stood resolutely in some corner, not crying but hungrily eyeing the puppy friendship those two shared.

That was my first taste of envy. I took excuse from the teacher and walked back to the classroom alone, defeated. I sat in Rashmi’s spot and wondered how life would be if I were her. I saw the board from Rashmi’s eyes, the rest of the class and most importantly I tried to see myself from where she sits. I wondered if she knew I existed. I saw her bag and was immediately aroused by the thought of taking a look at all of its contents. I wanted to see if I can recreate what existed in her life so as to make myself as awesome as her.

I didn’t find anything of interest except the mickey mouse souvenir from Disney land that she would constantly tempt the class with to keep them quiet, Class monitor, as she also was. I considered stealing it. I even took it to my bench but then I chickened out. I was already in a lot of trouble. I returned her mickey mouse and closed my eyes for a bit on her bench.

I remember going to her house once. It was a Duplex house and I fell harder. I saw that she had a room of her own, on the first floor. I remember having cursed her for living my dream. I don’t remember much of what happened later. I moved to a different city and therefore to different girls and their bags and to boys who liked them.

The second time I tried peeking into a girl’s bag was when I was a little older, in 1998. I was in Belgaum, in St. Joseph’s School. It was an all girls’ convent. I had friends here but I was, as usual a second fiddle to a pair of best friends. That, to my annoyance, seemed to follow me even to my college days. Her name was Gaana. I couldn’t really peep into her bag because that freak always carried it with her. But I did fancy her.

Hell, most girls in my class fancied her. One even went to the extent of imitating the way she sits and got told off for doing it by another girl. I felt bad for this mimic. I cursed her stupidity. It was something that I did too, undercover of course and she had to go and do it openly. Because of that stupid wretch I couldn’t imitate Gaana for 2 weeks.

Many girls have come and gone since then. The one in my life right now is super awesome. But it’s funny how my mind brought back those 2 shapes I thought I had forgotten. And now I am wondering where Ashish went. And now I am beginning to think I never was madly and deeply in love with him.